Apausha stared with apprehension at the long, slender diplomatic carrier which was the Alliance Prime Minister's flagship. It was an unusual vessel, with protrusions trailing out of the nose that reminded him of the whiskers of a bottom-feeding fish. At first glance it appeared to be an unarmed civilian vessel, but he'd heard rumors about the ship's firepower when some malefactor had found out the ship was far from defenseless.
“They’re hailing us,” Hanuud said. “They want us to dock on the starboard side.”
“Line it up,” Apausha said to Wajid. “I’ll go check on our cargo.”
The two men looked at each other, only the twitch of their tail communicating they found fault with his orders. Lower ranking Sata’an lizards weren’t paid to think about the morality of what they were doing, but unless they wanted to make a break for the uncharted territories, an act subject to the death penalty if they were caught by the bounty hunters, there was nothing they could do about it.
Apausha had filed a complaint. What else was he supposed to do? Condemn his wife and their unborn eggs to be thrown out in the street as had happened to him after his father had surrendered his ship to the Alliance?
The thought passed between them and was rejected. Nobody would risk execution for a group of alien women they didn’t even know. It wasn’t like they were genetically compatible as mates. If that were the case, they could scoot out beyond where the pirates lived and find some uninhabited jungle world to start their own colony.
“I made my report,” Apausha eyed his crewmates with discomfort. “The rest is in our god's hands, Shay’tan be praised.”
The three of them gesticulated the prayer-sign of respect to their emperor and god, then buckled down and prepared to dock. Wajid began counting down his docking procedures, firing the impulse engines to tweak their trajectory and slow the ship down as it approached. Hanuud choked out the awkward Galactic Standard words with the Prince of Tyre’s radioman, an uneasy dialogue exchanged between ships from opposing empires that did not trust the ship they were docking with would not double-cross them. Apausha moved to the main cargo hold, where the thirty unfortunate human females they'd just smuggled to the Alliance infidels were detained.
“Put these on and cover your heads,” Apausha said in broken Kemet. Through the door he passed simplified (in other words, cheap) versions of Sata'an bridal tunics through the door. “Cover your heads so you don’t draw the attention of the wrong Angelics.”
One of the women spoke the primitive Earth language he spoke a few words of, Kemet. She relayed his instructions to the others, who then broke it down amongst themselves according to who spoke who else's language, but they had fifteen in this batch with strange Asiatic features who didn’t speak any Earth language he could communicate with. He had no way to tell them that, no matter what happened, they must not act willfully or they would draw the attention of Lucifer.
That brick which had grown heavier in his stomach the closer they had come to their destination twisted and made him feel as though he might throw up. What was he supposed to say to the unfortunate creatures? That the Alliance barbarians would cull out their numbers and turn some of them over to Lucifer to be brutally taken against their will without, he suspected, even the farce of a marriage ceremony?
Shay’tan didn’t give Sata’anic females any choice about who they married, but by the time a male such as himself was gifted a wife, if he ever earned the privilege at all, the females were treated with such awe that a guy would lay down his life for his wife and hatchlings. That was how he felt about his wife, Marina. She had not wanted to marry him, but he had won her over.
That warm feeling he always developed whenever he thought of his wife made him forget what he was doing for a moment and smile. His protruding fangs earned a squeak of fear from the human females. As soon as this delivery was done, he'd earned some shore leave. He intended to rotate back to Hades-11 so he could be home in time to see the clutch of seven precious eggs Marina sat on right now hatch!
"Sorry," Apausha gave a sheepish apology. "I meant no disrespect."
The women twittered in fear as he shut them back into the cargo hold. At least this batch had been given time to acclimate to his species in the crude female finishing academy Hudhafah had set up to teach them about their role as a female of the Sata'an Empire. They were all fine women who hadn’t given him any difficulties during the trip. Perhaps it would be easier if they had given them trouble?
Apausha leaned his forehead against the cold metal which faced the exterior hull of the ship. He flit his tongue up to caress his eyelids, an instinctive gesture to relieve stress, relishing the gentle touch of the forked barbs caressing his lids. How could they do this to these poor women after everything he had seen? He stepped back and stared at the Prince of Tyre looming in the portal. What it symbolized was as terrifying as a Tokoloshe dreadnought.
He placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head.
“Emperor Shay’tan,” Apausha prayed. “I’m just a little nobody soldier in your armies, but this isn’t right. I know you would never stand for this or you wouldn't ask us to outfit these women with Sata’an bridal dresses before you handed them over to the Angelics. Please, your Eminence. If you want me to do something differently than just hand them over, give me a sign?”
He gestured to his forehead, lips and heart, “Shay’tan be praised.”
The Angelic ship drew closer as Wasid began firing the impulse thrusters to slow their approach so they could coast into docking position. If not for Marina, he would order Hanuud and Wasid to get the hell out of here and hightail it to the uncharted territories. Thirty human females, three Sata’an males. They couldn’t begat offspring upon such wives, heck, he didn’t even know if they were anatomically … Shay’tan be praised … he was a married man! Wipe such impure thoughts about a female who was not his wife from his mind! But maybe they could say their own marriage vows and it would not be a sin to take them to wife? Ten wives each?
“Marina,” Apausha said to himself. “What a magnificent first-wife you would make to rule such a harem.”
There was no way to smuggle a female out of the Hades cluster. Many had tried and died for their efforts. Oh! What to do? He had no choice but to follow Ba'al Zebub's orders! He would not abandon his beloved Marina. Not for ten wives. Not for fifty! He moved back into the cockpit and buckled himself in, counting off the docking procedure so Wasid could guide the Peykaap in.
“Sir?” Hanuud said. “We’ve got an Alpha-One priority call from the SRN Chinosia. Admiral Musab has ordered us to hightail it for Sata’an territory immediately.”
“What?” Apausha asked.
“Admiral Musab says the Sata’an Secret Services wants to question you,” Hannud said. “Sir!”
The three of them looked at each other, all having the same thought. Normally questioning by the Sata’an Secret Service was a terrifying prospect, leading to long prison terms or to be simply 'disappeared.' But in this instance, it had been him who had filed the complaint. Either Ba'al Zebub wanted to be rid of him because he'd questioned a superior officer? Or … he'd asked for a sign … could it be?
“Shay’tan be praised!” Apausha made the prayer gesture. “Turn this ship around and get us the Haven out of here!”
Wasid punched the buttons to begin firing up the larger hyper drive which sat at the back of the shuttle like the abdomen of a firefly, glowing bright for all the galaxy to see as they prepared to run. Hanuud spoke soothing placations into the radio, trying to buy them a few seconds for the engines to warm back up.
“Peykaap, Peykaap, this is the Prince of Tyre,” the Alliance communications officer’s voice rose as he realized the Peykaap was moving away from the Alliance flagship instead of closer to it. “You are breaking docking formation!”
“Prince of Tyre, this is the Peykaap,” the high-strung Hanuud called into the radio, forcing himself to sound calmer than he really was. “Apologies, sir. One of our inertial dampeners i
s misfiring. We’re coming in too fast. We’re going to circle around to expend some of our excess velocity and then come in for another run.”
“That is a negative, Peykaap,” the Alliance radio officer said. “You are to dock with this ship now. We will grab you with grappling hooks to make sure you don’t overshoot.”
Apausha grabbed the radio out of Hanuud’s hands.
“That is a negative, Prince of Tyre,” Apausha crossed his claws as he did something Sata’an lizard soldiers were never supposed to do … lie through his fangs. “We are on a collision course with your fuselage. We are coming in too fast. Let us circle around and come in from the other side.”
“That is a negative, Peykaap,” the Alliance radio man growled. “I don’t know what the hell that encoded message was you just received, but you will dock with this ship and unload your cargo or you will be fired upon.”
“Shit!” Hanuud shouted, bouncing up and down in his seat, his skinny tail swishing back and forth like a serpent. “What do we do now, sir?”
“Chinosia … Chinosia,” Apausha shifted channels to a secure one. “This is the SMM Peykaap. The Prince of Tyre won't let us to break docking procedures. What do we do, Sir? This is Alliance territory!”
A hollow-sounding thud sounded on the outer hull on the side facing the Prince of Tyre, followed immediately by a second thud. They were thrown off balance as the ship was yanked back in the opposite direction of the trajectory they’d just fired to get the Haven out of here.
“They’ve got grappling hooks on us, Sir!” Hanuud shouted. His voice was squeaky with panic.
“Chinosia … Chinosia … they’ve got grappling hooks on us!" Apausha clenched his claws around the microphone. "What do we do?”
“I’m on full impulse power,” Wajid shoved the impulse throttle as far back as it would go. “What in Haven are they using to hold onto us?”
The ship lurched, unable to break away, and began to be reeled towards the Prince of Tyre like a deep sea fish fighting a fishhook which had been sunk into its jaw.
“You have been ordered by none other than Emperor Shay’tan himself to get the Haven out of there and get your tails back to Hades-6!” the Sata’an naval vessel shouted. The radio man then added, “Shay’tan got your report. Do not deliver the cargo!”
“Shay’tan be praised!” Apausha whooped for joy. “Our god has answered our prayers! Wajid … fire the hyperdrives.”
“We can’t jump this close to another ship!” Wajid shouted. “The Prince of Tyre will be toast.”
“Not my problem!” Apausha said. In his mind he added ‘Alliance demons!’ “We’ve got ladies desirous of real husbands, and we get to be their knights in shining armor!”
“Yes, Sir!” Wasid shouted and grabbed the second, larger set of handles which controlled the hyper drive with his meaty claws. Either the Prince of Tyre would let go … or it would have that entire section of the fuselage ripped off when the overwhelming force of a hyper drive punching through the time-space continuum to travel faster than the speed of light created ships in two different dimensions at the same time.
The ship bucked forward like a reptilian steed at the starting gate and then stopped, throwing the three men forward. Apausha hit his head against the control panel, not having expected the ship to suddenly stop like that, and momentarily saw stars.
“Peykaap … Peykaap,” the SRN Chinosia screamed into the radio. “What in Haven are you doing? Get out of there!”
Hanuud’s gold-green eyes were scared as he called into the radio, “mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the SMM Peykaap, we are under attack by an Alliance ship!”
The Peykaap banged into the fuselage of the Prince of Tyre and scraped along its length until the exit hatch lined up with the entrance to the bigger ship. Two sets of instructions shouted out of two different channels on the radio, the first from their own empire ordering them to get the Haven out of there, the second from the Prince of Tyre ordering them to stand down or they would be fired upon.
“What do we do?” Wajid asked.
Apausha already knew the answer to that question. His father had died nobly, or that was what his mother had said, fighting until he could not win and then surrendering long enough for his mother to escape with her clutch of eggs before fighting the Alliance barbarians to the death. But it hadn’t prevented Shay’tan from seizing his father’s assets and splitting up his family, sending his two sister-mothers to live with more deserving husbands with his half-siblings and his own mother to live with a new, much lower-ranking father. It hadn’t been a bad life, but no matter where he went, the other lizards knew his father had disgraced himself by not ramming the Alliance command carrier with all of them on board and it had impaired his career prospects. He’d rather die than do that to Marina and their unborn hatchlings.
“When I said I wanted to help these human women, your Eminence,” Apausha shouted into the air, “I didn’t mean that I wanted to die! Do you think maybe you could fix that part as well?”
“Peykaap, Peykaap,” the Alliance radioman ordered. “You are hereby being boarded for a routine health and safety inspection. Lay down your weapons and you won’t be harmed.”
Crap. They were in Alliance territory. The Prince of Tyre was within its rights under intergalactic law to conduct such a health, safety and welfare inspection. They did it all the time to bust Shay’tan's chops … and Shay'tan to them.
On the other channel, the Chinosia shouted at them to break away and get the Haven out of there. To disobey would mean a court martial.
The sound of sobbing from the cargo hold made the decision for him. The Alliance would be within their rights to fire upon him if they refused to submit, the exact same way the Chinosia would be within its rights to fire upon an Alliance ship which refused to submit for inspection if they were only a few light years over the border. Hashem's bushy eyebrows!
“Stand down,” Apausha ordered. “Radio the Chinosia and tell them we have no choice unless they wish to cross the Sata’an-Alliance border and fire upon the Alliance ship. I take full responsibility for this disgraceful incident, may Shay’tan forgive us.”
He lay down his weapon. He would fight, but these women’s fate had been sealed the moment he had chosen not to put that report directly on General Hudhafah’s desk and instead taken the coward's route of relaying the complaint indirectly to the Sata’an Secret Service. His god had answered his prayers. It had just come too late.
Wasib powered down the engines while Hanuud rushed to the hatch to let the Alliance inspectors inside before they cut through on their own with a laser-torch. The infidels came in, pulse rifles armed, and made them kneel down on the deck with their hands above their heads. The two cold-eyed goons he’d seen guarding Lucifer’s door the last time they were here moved towards the cargo hold, by now familiar with the inside of his ship.
Ba'al Zebub! Cursed by thy name! This is what happened when good lizards sold their soul to the Alliance devils!
“What do we have here, little lizards?” a smooth voice spoke in fluent Sata'anic language as the dirty-winged Angelic entered the hatch. “Why run away when all we want is to collect our cargo?”
On the outside, Chief of Staff Zepar appeared to be every bit the pencil pusher, from the slight paunch around his middle, a rarity amongst a species genetically engineered to remain fit, to his white wings that had dirt-beige speckles running through the feathers as if somebody had driven past and splashed them with a mud puddle. He was blonde, of course. All Angelics were. But amongst a species that tended to run towards beauty, Zepar was the kind of Angelic you would look at and say 'meh.' Either that, or overlook him completely, which Apausha suspected was what he wanted. On the inside, however, the slimy bastard was ruthless.
Zepar sniffed the air and gave him a knowing smirk as though he could read Apausha's thoughts. “Why Lieutenant Apausha, I am hurt. And to think we prepared a feast in your honor.”
“There’s only thirty, Sir,” o
ne of the two cold-eyed goons said. Pruflas was his name, Apausha recalled. Nearly seven-and-a-half feet of rock solid muscle and a neck as thick as a tree trunk.
“Thirty?” Zepar gave Apausha an icy stare. “There was supposed to be three hundred in this batch! Not thirty! What in Hades is Ba'al Zebub trying to pull?”
Tiny icycles of fear tinkled through Apausha's scales. Zepar dropped all pretense of being Lucifer's obsequious assistant and came to stand in front of Apausha, giving him a most un-Angelic like sniff. He grabbed Apausha under the jaw and forced him to make eye contact.
"Where are my other females?" Zepar hissed in a voice far more serpentine than any lizard man. Those malignant blue eyes stared into his as though Zepar could see right into his mind. Zepar sniffed Apausha again, his eyes rolling back into his head as his nostrils flared to inhale the scent. Apausha resisted the irrational urge to taste the air to see if he'd forgotten his underarm deodorant this morning.
"Ba'al Zebub only authorized shipment of thirty, Sir," Apausha said. He forced his tongue to stay in his mouth and not taste the scent of fear as the goons herded the thirty terrified women out of the cargo hold.
Zepar began to laugh.
"Ba'al Zebub did no such thing," Zepar gave him a sharp grin that reminded Apuasha of deep-sea, blind, carnivorous fish. "I wonder … what will Ba'al Zebub do when he realizes you double crossed him?"
Zepar closed his eyes to savor their scent and moved his mouth as if he could taste their fear. Since when did Angelics sniff like that? Sure, Sata'an lizards tasted for pheromones with their forked tongues all the time, but he'd never heard of Angelics doing it. Zepar pointed towards the hatch of that led to the Prince of Tyre and called to the two goons.
"Mortali vas est super cuius retro via deterioratus," Zepar spoke in a language Apausha had never heard before. "Deum nostrum ieiunus est. Praeparate tres fortissimis enim sacrificium."
Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 57
