Claimed by the Alien Mercenary: A Sci-Fi Alien Romance (Zalaryn Raiders Book 3)

by Viki Storm

  The Imperator thoughtfully narrows his eyes for a moment, then nods his head magnanimously—as if he is the one conferring a great privilege. “Very well,” the Imperator says. “Guards! Escort her to my royal bedchambers and have her bathed and powdered. Have my healer prepare a potency draught for this eve. I shall behold my new human soon enough—and she shall feel the might of the Fendan seed as it’s sown deep within her womb.”

  The guardsmen come to take me, their long limbs moving like they’re made of rubber, their long, drawn faces twisted up into a sneer. These fiends are supposed to be my escort and guard?

  I didn’t realize how safe I felt with Ayvinx until I see the two Snarlaqs ambling towards me.

  Ayvinx clears his throat, a gesture that’s so oddly human, I realize how bereft of human culture the last few days have been. “Honorable Imperator,” Ayvinx says. “Would you do me the honor of exchanging a word in private please? I’ve traveled long distances and faced many hardships to speak with your Eminence.”

  “Of course,” the Fendan says, and waddles towards Ayvinx, who’s standing apart from the crowd of swordsmen.

  The Snarlaq guards each put a hand around my arm. Their grip is gentle—their fingers coil around my muscles like a delicate sea snake. They begin to walk and I turn my head to look at Ayvinx and the Imperator, but they’re in the shadows and hidden from view.

  I can hear their low whispers. The choice phrases I can hear are ‘virginity,’ ‘prize,’ and ‘wait’.

  “Stop!” the Imperator cries out. The guardsmen halt at once, turning an about-face so fast my head spins more than just a little.

  “Yes, my liege?” one of the guardsmen says. His head is bowed, waiting for the command. But not me—I look the Imperator straight in the eye.

  “My new friend here has a marvelous idea! Take this female to the Octal Tower instead. Make sure a guard is posted at all times.” The Octal Tower? That’s gotta be better than the royal bedchamber, right?

  “Of course, my liege,” the guardsman, Ha’an, says. His face is a blank slate—as if he’s used to witnessing Fendan displays of lust and excess.

  “Listen close, brave Fendan warriors,” the Imperator says. He’s bellowing, his voice deep and clear as a bell. “We face an onslaught of foes—Kraxx and rogue Zalaryns united in sole purpose. Getting our minerals. Enslaving our people. Destroying our way of life. We must fight for our planet. We must fight for our families. We must fight for our homes.”

  The courtiers shout their approval, but they don’t look like they could protect a used handkerchief.

  “It will not be easy,” the Imperator says, quieting them down again. “We’ll face frightening foes, but we must stand brave and true. To encourage my best fighters, I’ll offer you this as a just reward: whoever slays the most enemies on the battlefield will earn the right to claim this female’s virginity and sow his seed in her womb.” The Imperator pauses to catch his breath. Apparently, he’s worked himself up into a frenzy giving such a rousing speech.

  Did he just say that he’s offering my virginity as a prize for the warrior who kills the most Kraxx? Maybe this is a good thing—because I don’t think any of these round little aliens could kill any Kraxx.

  Then again—if no one kills any Kraxx, then the Kraxx will kill us.

  “It is a royal decree,” the Imperator continues. “I’m offering up a member of my own personal harem. My own pure and untouched human female. Whoever slays the most foes will claim her virginity. But let that not discourage the rest of you—for whoever kills at least one enemy on the battlefield will earn one night with her!”

  I look in stunned horror at the Imperator. It was disgusting enough when I thought I just had to lie with him. Now I’m going to have to lie with untold numbers of these Fendans? Any Fendan who slays one foe earns the right to thrust inside me? My body is going to be degraded over, and over, and over again by any violent little alien who has taken another’s life.

  Ayvinx stands next to the Imperator, a smug smile on his face.

  And that’s when I realize everything: this was all a set-up.

  Ayvinx has played me for a fool.

  “Strike fast,” I yell, “His knees are undefended.” I’m training a batch of officers, each hand-picked by the Imperator for their bravery, physical strength and loyalty. Each Fendan I train will, in turn, train their own smaller contingent of foot soldiers.

  The two Fendans that are sparring, Vhorwig and Vortha, have improved greatly since I started training them two days ago.

  Now, they each have the skill of a seven-year-old Zalaryn.

  “What?” Vortha gapes at me, looking up from his sword. Vhorwig bares his teeth and lets out a warcry, then brings down his training sword with all his force on poor Vortha’s shoulder. The Fendan lets out a pitiful moan as he drops onto the grass, as if he was just struck by a real sword.

  Fendan swords, at least, are better than I envisioned. They’re imbued with an electrical charger in the hilt, so that whenever an opponent is struck, they’re given a deep charge of electrical current through their body. A good blow can kill an opponent instantly—and they don’t even need to aim that well.

  Vhorwig is grinning that dopey grin of his, as if he just accomplished something to be proud of.

  “It’s no victory to strike your partner when he’s engaged in conversation with his teacher,” I say. Not adding the fact that Vortha foolishly took his eyes off his opponent.

  “The way I see it,” Vhorwig says, “I’m standing and he’s on the ground. That’s victory.” Sweat drips from his face—and, judging by the smell, it drips from other, more secret regions too.

  “Perhaps,” I say, not wanting to discourage the Fendans from their violent tendencies. Those qizo mines aren’t going to be kept safe with polite recriminations. “On the battlefield there’s no such thing as a ‘cheap shot’—but when training with your brothers-in-arms it is another matter.”

  “You told him to take out my knees,” Vhorwig protests. He’s got a group of three cronies who are as dim-witted and brutal as he. On Zalaryx, lads like this are whipped into shape properly at such a young age that their most egotistical and selfish urges are purged before they have their first major growth spurt. But these Fendans have had twenty or thirty years of coddling and spoiling to ruin them. No way am I going to train them out of it in a few weeks.

  “Because you left them unguarded,” I say. “And you still leave them unguarded.” I sweep my anankah behind my back, twirling it in my hand so that I’ll strike with the blunt end, and I give him a modest whack on the knee. He winces in pain and starts hopping around on one foot, his bulbous nose going up and down as he does so.

  “You bastard,” he spits.

  “Stop hopping,” I tell him. “I barely hit you. You look like a maiden who stepped on a thorn while in the meadow picking posies.”

  “You’re not even trying to train us,” Vhorwig says. He looks around at his comrades, trying to get their support. Most divert their eyes and start to study their feet, but a few others nod their heads in agreement—those globulous noses bobbing up and down as they nod.

  “The void take me if I’m not,” I protest—and I already know the next words out of his mouth. I’ll have little defense against them—not because his accusation is true, but because wounded pride usually seeks a handy excuse and this one will serve as well as any.

  “You aren’t training us because you want to be the one to get the most kills on the battlefield. You want to be the one to fuck that little red cunt up in her tower bedroom.” More nods from the discouraged Fendans.

  I knew that stunt of mine would have consequences—but when the Imperator gave the command that Jula be taken away and prepared to accept his seed, I couldn’t take it. The thought of her pure and frail body underneath that sweaty, fat creature was too much to bear.

  I got her into this situation—it’s up to me to get her out of it. But I might have made things worse.

 
Telling the Imperator to offer her virginity as a prize to the most decorated warrior was the only thing I could think of to stall and buy her some time. I didn’t know that the Imperator would put his own perverted spin on things, and let a countless parade of Fendan warriors have their way with her after the battle.

  Void help me—Xalax needs to send reinforcements. I can’t do this alone.

  “You are wrong,” I say. “The only thing I want is for the soil at the foot of your mines to be soaked with the black ichor of dead Kraxx bodies.”

  “Yeah,” Vhorwig says. “Sure. We all see the way you look at her.”

  “She’s a fine specimen, no doubt,” I say, “and I’ll gladly take my pleasure of her, should I win the right. However, it will bring me much, much more earthly joy to keep my head attached to my shoulders—something not likely to happen if the Kraxx invade and claim your qizo mines.”

  I know that no logic will prevail. The lads are angry and disappointed at their own lack of military prowess. They don’t want to confront their own weakness. They will sleep easier on their featherbeds and silken pillows if they think that they’re being ill-trained on purpose.

  “We’ll just see who wins that right,” Vhorwig says, “because I can guarantee it’s not going to be you.” He storms off, his three little lackeys following him.

  “The rest of you,” I say, “take a break. Meet back after your meal—and don’t eat too much!” The damned Fendans gorge themselves every meal. No wonder they can’t get anything done. When you fill your belly to the point of nausea three times a day, you hardly have any wits left about you. The idea of eating one meal a day is abhorrent to them, as is the idea of eating until only three-quarters full. They need to eat until they are five-quarters full every void-loving time.

  They disperse—some of them grumbling as they shuffle away. Let them, I think. Despite what Vhorwig says, I’m trying my damnedest to train them. I would love to climb the steps to Jula’s tower bedroom and rip that makeshift robe off of her—to once again see her smooth pale skin, and that wild thatch of ginger hair between her legs. Oh yes, I’d like that a lot. And even though I probably will be the warrior to slay the most foes on the battlefield, I wouldn’t take my pleasure of her. Not like that.

  Not as a payment for some bloody deed.

  I must train these Fendans, because even if Xalax does send reinforcements, it won’t be enough—not unless the Fendan army can pull its own not-inconsiderable weight.

  It’s not like we’ve got the Green Ghost Army to help us defeat Noxu.

  There’s just me.

  - - -

  I wipe my mouth and excuse myself. After the stunt defending the protein farm with Droka, it’s hard for me to think the same way about the white, savory protein blocks that Zalaryns consume as their primary food. The protein blocks are an extraction of pure protein and lipids—harvested from the squirming grubs of a species of giant, tunneling coleoptroid. But as gruesome as those things are, I’d rather eat them in block form than feast like the Fendans do.

  They eat meat at every meal—and it’s always slathered in a thick, decadent sauce. And they don’t just eat one dish. Each meal has two or three food items, all prepared in sweet or savory sauces, fried crispy or roasted over an open flame. The time and effort put into each meal is astounding. No wonder they stuff themselves—it would be a waste to go through all that effort for a few quick bites.

  I feel sluggish and logy, as if my wits were coated in the same sweet sauce as my meat cutlets. All I want to do is take a nap.

  I need to work this off. I know if I sit down and relax for even a minute, I’ll be snoring before long. I thank the palace chef, a lowly Snarlaq female whose rotund belly looks bizarre on the long, stretched Snarlaq frame. I wander the palace corridors until I find the stairs. I tell myself it’s to help my digestion—not because I’m trying to find the path to Jula’s tower bedroom.

  I wander around the palace, marveling at the carved statues and framed artwork that decorate the hallways. So much wasted energy, I think. Or maybe it’s an excess of free time. Their comfort and wealth affords the Fendans leisure time to pursue ultimately fruitless tasks like sculpting and painting—and eating. One of the paintings on the wall is a detailed map of this sector of the galaxy. I stop to look at it for a while. I like to look at maps for some reason—maybe to see the whole vast mess of life and civilization laid out in such a simple, orderly fashion.

  I study the names of the stars and the planets that orbit them. Maybe when all this is over, and I’ve cleared my debt with Gunga, I’ll set out for one of these planets. I should have known better to borrow money from that cutthroat bastard, but at the time it seemed like there was no other choice. How fast a small gambling debt spirals out of control. All it takes is a little compound interest and your ‘reasonable’ gambling debt starts growing exponentially.

  And at that point—once that line of credit is opened—it’s so easy to borrow more. After all, when you owe a shipload of coin, might as well owe a shipload plus a hundred more. Especially when spending time in the gambling dens or pleasure houses are your only spot of fun in a bleak life ruled by debt. Play a few rounds of blackstone or podlk, take a female up to bed—and just have Gunga put it on your tab.

  That life. What a miserable fucking existence. Once this debt is cleared, I’m gone. I need to start over somewhere new, without all the baggage of my past.

  Where Jula can start somewhere new.

  I meant it when I said I’d help her escape. It would be easy enough to get her out of the Fendan palace. These Fendans are so opulent—they have so much—that they’re not too concerned with security protocols. Why bother locking doors when you have excess of everything you need?

  As if right on cue, I see Jula coming around the corner. She’s carrying something large and probably heavy, but I can’t tell what it is. She’s walking fast—too fast with such a large parcel in her arms. I start to jog a little to help her, and I hear the bastards coming down the corridor behind her.

  “That’s okay,” one of them says. “If you don’t want me to help you carry the boxes, I’ll just carry you.” I know that petulant voice from earlier in the training yard. It’s Vhorwig—and judging by the goading voice I hear echoing down the hall, one of his cronies too. Vhorwig bends down low and scoops Jula up in his arms. I’m quite surprised he’s able to lift her, especially with the awkward bundle she carries in her arms.

  “Let me down,” Jula says, kicking her feet. Vhorwig’s crony is a Fendan I recognize as Varnar. All these damned Fendans; I learned at lunch today that the V their names all start with is a patronymic, meaning ‘son of.’ As she kicks her legs, Varnar takes the parcel from Jula’s arms and then Vhorwig is able to reposition her, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He’s so short that her feet can almost touch the floor, but he’s holding Jula tightly and she can’t get free—although she struggles nevertheless.

  In the shuffle, the robe Jula wears is pulled up quite high on the backs of her thighs, revealing the lower crest of her buttocks. Just an inch higher and those bastards will be treated to a view of her sex—the lips pressed together and sticking out from between her legs.

  “Set her down at once,” I say, my voice echoing in the corridor. My command is enough to stop the scoundrels in their tracks. They stare up at me with wide, fearful eyes—but as soon as he registers that it’s me, Vhorwig’s sneaky smile spreads again.

  “We’re just helping the lady here,” he says. He gives her rump a playful slap to emphasize the point. I want to remove the first bone from each of his fingers for that slight. Then he woofs a gasp of air as Jula kicks him hard in the guts. I’m proud of that one—she’s a fighter, no matter what. Jula truly embodies the warrior spirit—unlike these pampered Fendan louts.

  I should put a sword in her hands and have her in the training yard with the rest of us.

  “Hold on there,” Varlar says and grabs her ankles. “That’s not nice. We
’re just trying to help.”

  I see his fat little hand rise up to caress her calf… Then trail upwards even higher.

  I pull my anankah from my belt and before his fingers can snake higher than her knee, I give him a whack across the forearm. Not hard enough to break the bone, but I can already see the blood pooling in a dark, black bruise.

  “Wait,” Vhorwig says, that smug smile gloriously absent. Before he can finish his thought, I jab my weapon into his stomach. He winces and doubles over—giving me the opportunity to take Jula from his arms and sling her over my own shoulder. Taking her away from him feels like the most natural thing in the world—like she was mine all along.

  I notice with some measure of pride that Jula doesn’t kick and struggle in my arms. She merely rests slung over my shoulder, waiting for me to set her down. And I do. I grab her waist and slide her down gently, relishing the way my hands fit over Jula’s curves—as if they were made exactly the right size for my hands.

  The second she’s down, however, Jula is all spitfire and rage. She screams at Vhorwig: “I’m given leave by her majesty Queen Empress Woreena herself—sent on a personal errand for the Queen!”

  “You should not walk these halls unescorted,” I say. There are a lot of dark corners, a lot of empty rooms—any one of them serving well enough for a knave to pull her aside and ravage her.

  “I should,” she counters. “The Imperator himself said that no one would be stupid enough to insult a member of his own Royal Harem. I’m sad to say it of the honorable ruler, but he was wrong.”

  I realize that I’m grinding my teeth—and not wholly because Vhorwig and Varnar were giving her a hard time. I doubt the two louts were going to do anything more than give her a little pinch on the rump.

  It’s Jula’s words that haunt me: A member of the Royal Harem.