I keep the piece of metal hidden in one closed fist. They obviously remember all the kicking and scratching I did when they hauled me out of the escape pod, because as soon as I am out of the cage, both of my arms are pinned painfully together, bones grinding as the alien’s long-fingered hand closes around them both. I can feel cold talons in place of nails and cannot stop myself from shuddering. Another one, this one taller and leaner, passes over a pair of cuffs, which are surely meant for my wrists. The piece of metal I’ve stolen from the wall is sharp enough to punch through skin (human skin anyway), but it is also thin enough to pick a lock, so long as the cuffs they use are fairly primitive. I’m far better at stealing, and consequently at picking locks, than I am at fighting, particularly when outnumbered and outgunned. I make a conscious decision not to fight as my hands are cuffed together, thankfully in front of me. The alien who passed them over grips me briefly by the chin, looking me up and down in a manner that leaves me feeling filthy. His fingers never stray from my face, holding it steady, but the feeling stays behind all the same.
“Keep her in the dress,” he tells the others. “The white makes her look innocent.”
I gather a mouthful of spit and launch it at his face, but he doesn’t seem bothered. He laughs as he releases me and nods toward the door. “The spirited ones sometimes sell for more,” he comments.
One of the aliens, one of the slavers, grips me beneath the arm, and leads me stumbling from the ship. It’s late afternoon, heading toward evening, on whatever planet this is. They mentioned both Gorda-6 and X-24, but I’m leaning toward the latter. The landing zone they shove me into is familiar. I’ve been here at least a dozen times with Lukas and the other members of the gang to unload the take on our jobs to willing buyers. Jackson and I would usually spend the day watching the ships take off and fly in, sometimes slipping into the marketplace long enough to browse through the various stalls and trinkets. I always made certain to steer him clear of particular parts of it though. These particular parts are where we seem to be headed.
I keep my head down, though a bound human in attire such as mine draws plenty of stares. On a planet like X-24, there is no use whatsoever calling for help. Sure, there are plenty of people, even plenty of criminals, who disagree with slavery and slavers, but that doesn’t mean I can find any help. People here tend to adopt a ‘live and let live’ policy when it comes to fellow lawbreakers. If you harassed everyone whose brand of evil you disagreed with, you would have no one left to sell to or buy from.
My fingers find the keyhole of the cuffs as I am steered through the crowd, most of whom give my intimidating captors a fairly wide berth. I slip the skinny piece of metal down and do my best to slot it into place, trying to keep my movements small so as not to draw attention to them. There is no guarantee that it will work, but at least I will have tried something. They seem pretty low tech as far as handcuffs go, and though I could perhaps pull my wrist through, I am afraid of the damage I might do to my hand in the process. If it hurt to do so, I doubt I would be able to keep quiet.
What happens to the makeshift lockpick is my own fault. It is more difficult than one would think to focus on minute turns of my fingers and wrist, in addition to the crush of people around me, the arms that hold me, and the stairs they have begun to lead me up without my notice. I trip, flimsy shoe catching between two stairs. The slaver at my back, his grip still firm on my arm, steadies me before I can hit the ground, but as he jerks me back to my feet, my grip on the piece of metal loosens and it clatters between the stairs, lost in the darkness below.
The aliens have hearing that surpasses my human ears, and even the leader, walking at the back of the pack, seems to hear the noise. He pulls up beside of me, looking down, as though he can see the glint of silver in the black.
“Spirited,” he says again with what might be a chuckle, and urges the others on.
It is only as we crest the top of the rickety, wooden staircase that I realize just what we are approaching. It is an auction stage. I imagined that this was where we were going; I’ve seen such places in the darker corners of the marketplace before, here as well as on other lawless planets, but I always went out of my way to keep my distance from such activities. I knew this was where I was headed, but my fingers had been crossed for a longer walk. My hands are both empty without the lockpick, and I find myself forming the fingers of both into tightly clenched fists, nails leaving imprints in my palms.
There are more aliens gathered around the stage than I can count, and a much smaller number atop it. I am the only human that I can see; the others are a wide variety of species, some of whom I am not in the least bit familiar with. My translator struggles to keep up with the myriad of spoken languages within earshot, but a few words filter through, namely the prices being called out regarding the alien currently on display. Though I’m not an expert at determining alien gender at a glance, there seems to be a disproportionately high number of females as opposed to males, which somehow makes the situation all the more disturbing.
My captors chat with yet another alien who seems to be running the auction. His species is one of the few that I can name—Xzerg, famous for their brutality. They sign a few electronic forms that project outward from a holographic clipboard of sorts, and then, unceremoniously, I am left on the stage without their company, as they go to mingle and drink in the crowd below. Apparently, they’ve seen fit to celebrate in advance whatever price I will win them. Spitefully, I hope it is abysmally low.
My first thought is of running, but the line of waiting slaves I am pushed into is well guarded, in addition to the other guards I can see waiting around the stage perimeter. I used to be fast, even in the realm of other thieves, but a job two years ago ended with a blaster shot that severed some rather important muscles in my right leg. Thanks to advanced medicine, I’ve gotten rid of the limp, but I’ve never quite managed to restore it to full strength, and as a result, most of the jobs I do for the Red Novas center on stealth more than speed.
There’s no point in running, just like there’s no point in fighting. I’ll have to rely on brains in place of brawn. At this point, being sold seems inevitable. Though the thought of it has my stomach in knots, my breath heaving too fast in my lungs, but I am not completely without hope. The crowd of buyers is probably filled with just as much stupidity as intelligence. I’ll just cross my fingers that I get one of the former, who may be easy to lose in the crowd or else to convince of my helplessness.
This will not have a bad ending. I’ll figure out something, just like always.
I hope.
4
Mathios
Still cloaked, I catch up to them just after they dock. It takes me no time at all to find a hidden space for my own ship. Being a member of law enforcement comes with its own perks, and even outside of my own sector, I have more authority than the average civilian. My ship secure, blasters hooked to each hip, I step onto the landing dock and follow the Kandalun slavers at what I deem to be the optimal distance. Close enough that my sharp eyesight will not lose them, and far enough away that I can more easily blend in with the crowd. It is a difficult feat for a Velorian in any situation, but I have taken care to remove my badge and dress in armor more suited to a mercenary than an officer of any sort. I slip into a slight crouch to make my height less intimidating as well, and keep a careless look on my face instead of an observant one. I watch them weave through the stalls and vendors and the crowds gathered in front of each one.
The woman in the dress is being tugged along roughly, tripping over her long skirts several times as she goes. I lose track of them only once, as they take a turn that I miss, but I find them quickly again, before the panic at abandoning this woman to such a terrible fate can even set in.
I follow the conversation about the auction rather than the group themselves, confident that there isn’t more than one of the sickening events occurring at once. As I do, I find myself irritated with my earlier thoughts. This isn’t a rescu
e. The woman I mean to locate is hardly an innocent, and this is less about saving her than it is gaining information on the rest of her group. With any luck, she’ll be grateful enough for the assistance to offer it freely. I wonder what the reason is for her separation from the other Red Novas. Perhaps she had a falling out with the others, and they left her behind. Or perhaps their ship had been attacked by a rival gang, and she sealed herself into an escape pod to escape the carnage. Whatever her story, I find slavery reprehensible. I will feel far better about the woman’s fate if this ends with her in prison as opposed to enslavement, regardless of any information she trades me.
“You been around the corner yet?” I hear the exchange as I walk. “Really nice women up for auction today. Prettier than the usual stock.”
I feel a stirring of unease and anger that I cannot fight back. Slavery has always bothered me to a great degree, as I imagine it does other law enforcement officials, but over the years, I have learned to shove my personal feelings down, to remain objective as I complete a mission no matter what awful sights I see. But this is different; the thought of this woman being treated in such a manner makes my blood boil. I have no idea what is going on within me, but my dragon form—what some Velorians call their true form—is fighting to break free, roaring in indignation at being held captive within the cage of my humanoid bones. I do my best to slow my breathing, to make the anger dissipate even as ice frosts my hands and the air breathed from my nostrils turns to cold steam. I cannot allow this to happen now. It would start an all-out battle with every alien in the marketplace and, though there is a good chance I would come out on top, there is no guarantee I will be able to rein the beast in once more and turn back into myself.
Since the Xzerg wars, we Velorians do our best to keep from shifting unless the situation allows no other options. In the wars, such unbridled destruction had been an asset that eventually brought us the victory we sought, but these days, such indiscriminate devastation is no longer called for. Unmated Velorian dragons are always violent and always undiscerning, though there are those who have some measure of control. Takkan might one of the few who can say that of himself. My own true form though, is easily the most volatile, least controlled dragon I can think of.
As I walk around the mentioned corner, the anger slowly ebbing, control returning, I cannot help but recall the damage I did the last time I thoughtlessly shifted. It is the wrong time for such thoughts. It is impossible for me to visualize the memory without falling into it headlong and feeling the same fear and guilt I felt during the incident itself.
Strong emotions only make an unplanned shift more likely, and I resolve to keep such thoughts locked down until this job is complete. Usually, I can keep such thoughts—and consequently the urge to shift—back without much trouble, but just now it is more difficult than normal. I look at the variety of cruelty and indifference occurring around me and conclude that it is likely because holding back the dragon means ignoring the problems here, and letting the scum in the marketplace live is its own type of indifference.
I will speak to Takkan. When this job is complete, perhaps the prince can put together a task force to dismantle slavery when it sneaks so insidiously within the sectors of the galaxy we are meant to guard.
The auction stage looms in front of me, and from what I see, it appears that I have located it just in time. The woman in the dress, Anna, is next in line. Her hands are bound behind her back, and her feet have been chained together as well, with a locking chain that connects both ankles. This still allows to her stand and walk a bit, though it is more of an awkward limp than anything resembling a normal stride. She struggles against the chains that restrict her movement, and though I cannot tell if this is done in fear or in defiance, I find myself admiring the fire in her gaze. Her turn comes. One of the guards drags her roughly to the center of the stage, as the alien who was sold off before her is pulled away by his buyer. My eyes follow him for a moment, watching with a sinking feeling the utter defeat in the slump of his shoulders, and wishing I had the means to assist them all right now.
Anna is nowhere close to such a state. She holds her chin up high and spits curses at the guard that drags her, through the gag that distorts her speech. There is only one bruise on her that I can see. It is so new that it hasn’t had a chance to darken into a blue or a black, but I can see that her lower lip is swollen, perhaps cut on the inside, from a blow that made it catch on her teeth. She was smart to stop fighting in her current situation; with her hands and feet bound and so many enemies surrounding her, it could only lead to more bruises.
The guard calls out for bids, and a few low prices are called out, steadily growing higher. The conversation around me calls forth my dragon again.
“Beautiful,” one says.
Another shrugs. “Humans don’t do much for me. They’re so … squishy.”
The first shrugs. “Maybe so, but look at her eyes, the way she stands. They said she’s newly captured, and from the look of her, she isn’t anywhere close to broken. It would be more difficult, but all the more satisfying to do so myself.”
Claws sprout from my fingertips, longer than the talons of any great bird of prey. I feel the air around me grow impossibly cold. The closest members of the watching crowd shift nervously, a few moving away, eyes carefully down to avoid drawing my attention. Comments and whispers reach my ears, but only one word manages to filter through. “Velorian,” repeated a dozen times as people step away, as hands check for the presence of faithful blasters. As more numbers are called out, I close my eyes tight, take deep, slow breaths of the super-cooled air I have generated, and will my dragon to remain where it is. Just this once, I think, feeling my heartbeat in my skull. Just for now.
Please.
It seems to listen. I feel the monster recede, just enough that my thoughts can function like they should. It is still there, waiting for the opportunity to emerge, but for now, I seem to have warned it off. The numbers stop coming, meaning they have reached, or have almost reached, the limits of this particular crowd’s capabilities. My chance has arrived.
I lift a hand just slightly. I already stand at least a head taller than most of the crowd, so it is easy to call attention to myself. The number I call out is not astronomical, but it eclipses the last bid. The eyes of everyone in the crowd turn from the woman back to me; the whispers of ‘Velorian’ increase in venom and in frequency. The auctioneer calls out a higher number, waits for the crowd to answer. There is only quiet, and I feel a sense of rising relief. I have to tell myself that none of this is for the sole purpose of saving the human woman. She is simply a part of the gang and thus my last chance to get information on the Red Novas before I give up hope of catching their trail. Though I tell myself this steadfastly, a larger part of myself already knows that I will destroy half of this planet in an icy, draconian rage if this woman falls into the hands of someone with dark intentions.
“Sold!” the auctioneer says, plainly pleased with the final price. The rest of the crowd grumbles, eyeing me as I begin to make my way to the stage.
I feel a sense of relief that is perhaps misplaced, and my dragon has already begun to relax. The woman meets my eyes as I approach her, the blue there still blazing with hatred, and I feel the sharp tug toward her yet again. It is another thing that cannot be ignored.
5
Anna
The guard releases the chains on my ankles. They’ve only been on and locked for a maximum of fifteen minutes, but already being freed of their weight seems liberating. I cannot imagine having to wear such a thing for any longer. My shoulders already ache from the position of my hands stuck in place. When the alien, my buyer, reaches the stage, he does not gesture for these to be removed. He does not make small talk with the guard in charge of handing me over, but rather opts to simply hand him the money. As the guard counts it skeptically, plainly unsure, I take a moment to look this alien over.
My … what? Master? Owner? I shudder. Whatever he is, he b
ought me.
I am not sure if I recognize the species. He is tall, and thick with cultivated muscle. A waist that tapers in, and solid, sturdy limbs. I cannot help but feel a bit intimidated by him standing next to me. Despite my resolve to show no fear, I find myself taking a cautious step away from him. The glimpses I get of his skin show a vibrant, icy blue, and what look like long spines. As he turns away from the guard, having paid him whatever is owed to my captors and the establishment, a few others standing too close have to move out of the way of his tail. He grabs me by the upper arm without so much as truly looking at me, and pulls me from the stage into the crowd. It isn’t until his cool skin is pressed against me that I feel the first spark of panic. If I don’t get out of this now, I may not have another chance. There is no way to know where he is taking me, and I am very conscious of the fact that not all ships have escape pods.
When he does speak, all he says is this: “I’m looking forward to breaking your spirit myself.”
His voice is matter-of-fact rather than taunting or cruel, but that doesn’t make the words any less disturbing. The Velorian keeps one hand around my left arm; his grip is firm, but not so hard as to hurt. When the slavers dragged me to the auction block, they held me so tightly that I could almost feel the bruises rising to the surface of my skin, the blood in my veins pulsing painfully against their fingers.
We are headed toward the landing docks, as I suspected. This gives me less time than I would have were he dragging me somewhere planetside.
Primal Planet Guardian_A Science Fiction Alien Romance Page 3
