by Cathryn Cade
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cyborg Pleasure
The Space Madam’s Warrior
The LodeStar Series, Book 6
Cathryn Cade
Windtree Press
Beaverton, OR
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2016 by Cathryn Cade
Cover by Leah Kaye Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission from the author or Windtree Press, except brief quotations in critical reviews or articles. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of text, please contact author or publisher.
Contact Info: http://www.cathryncade.com
Or windtreepress.com
Windtree Press
Beaverton, Oregon
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com
Cyborg Pleasure; the Space Madam’s Warrior
LodeStar Series, Book 6
Cathryn Cade. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 9781943601882
DEDICATION
To All of
YOU
Readers Who Make
Sci Fi Romance
So Much Fun
To
Write!
BLURB
In space, there are even more ways to lose your lover
She lost everything ...
Ilya Mondas once lived her dream—life with a band of space gypsies, the freedom to use her tech savvy to wreak mayhem on pirates and slavers, and most of all her big, soft-spoken warrior Var, who adored her. Then she lost him, and the life she loved.
She'll do anything to get it all back ...
Now on her own, she must take over The Pleasure Palace, a ragtag space-station casino, home to hookers, gamblers and rogues. But one or all of them want her dead, and they have the monsters to do it—human-cyborg gladiators, created for the illegal fight ring hidden deep in the center of her new home. Where the biggest, baddest cyborg of all looks eerily like her dead husband.
But can she trust him again?
Author's Note: The LodeStar Series books build on each other, and are meant to be read pretty much in order.
CYBORG PLEASURE takes place immediately after the end of CAPTIVE OF PLEASURE. To get acquainted with Var & Ilya and understand what drives her in this story, please read CAPTIVE first. You'll be glad you did.
CHAPTER ONE
Five Galactic Common Years ago ...
It was a cruddy little bar on Quol-Ray Station, a refueling stop mid-way between Earth II and Pangaea, also on the shipping lanes to Serpentia and points between.
Ilya meant to stay only long enough to earn credits to get to another planet. Could be Pangaea, or even Serpentia, although she wasn't keen on what she'd seen of their deserts or the wildlife, which seemed either to scuttle on lots of legs or slither—all having nasty bites.
Frontiera sounded the best, but it was a long-ass way from Earth II. To get there in under a galactic month, a being had to be wealthy enough to own a big star cruiser or to book passage on one of the big space cruise ships.
Ilya was definitely not wealthy—she owned the clothes on her back and just enough credit to eat for a few more days, if she subsisted on protein tubes.
She sure as hells couldn't afford passage on a cruise ship, even one of the cut-rate variety. To get off this station, she'd have to work her way on a freighter. She wasn't keen on this, as most of the freighter crews who passed through Quol-Ray were rough, dirty and looked at her like they either wanted to devour her or rape her.
At least on station there were hired security guards. There were also public places to duck into until any pursuers lost interest. On a ship, with a job to fulfill, this might not work.
But to stay on Quol-Ray station, she had to eat and find somewhere safe to sleep, so she needed work. The list of job openings listed on the station's holoboards was short—cooking, cleaning or refueling space craft.
She knew nothing about cooking, or refueling space craft, so this left cleaning. The only listing for this was cleaning the communal crew dorms—hells to the no, as this would make her vulnerable to being dragged into one of the private cubbies and raped.
The other cleaning job was in a bar.
Standing in the Serpent's Tooth bar, which opened onto one of the concourses, Ilya decided the place wasn't too bad. The decor was garish green and gold, shabby from constant use, and the faux wood bar was worn, but the smells from the tiny kitchen were savory, and the patrons seemed mostly amiable.
The place needed cleaning, for sure. Like most of the corridors and common rooms on the station, it smelled of unwashed bodies, stale fried foods and spilled ale—not to mention the stench that emanated from the lav units when the drunks forgot to run the cryo-cleanse cycle after use.
But, the dorms and common rooms of the crèche where she’d grown up hadn't smelled any better, and New Seattle's air was a miasma of pollution and dank ocean shores. Here, the air was at least recycled through carbons and cryocleansers.
The bar owner, a slim, hard-eyed Serpentian with flame-red hair, more cosmetics than Ilya had ever seen on one being, and a laser on the belt of her low-cut, skin-tight body-suit, looked Ilya over and sighed.
“I need someone who can clean and serve. I suppose you'll do until I find someone better. I hope you have a decent body under those ugly clothes, 'cause you're gonna have to show it. Sex sells drinks.”
It was on the tip of Ilya's tongue to say she didn't have a sexy body, but she managed to bite her tongue. She was hungry enough to finish the half-eaten snacks left by patrons on a dirty table, so she'd dress however she had to, and do what she had to do.
In the tiny back room between cases of stored alcohol and legals, she stripped off her baggy clothing and wriggled into the tiny, electric green body-suit the bar owner had tossed her.
She looked down at herself dubiously. The thing bared pieces of her that hadn't seen daylight since ever. In her opinion, she looked like an unripe gremel fruit someone had sampled and thrown back, green and skinny and half-peeled.
And unlike Naalia's sleek coiffure, her own hair was a tangle of small braids that flopped over her face. The braids were the only way to control the fine mass of her streaky blonde hair, other than shaving her head, which she wasn't about to do—then she'd really look l
ike a peeled gremel.
Ilya squared her shoulders and strode back out into the bar. So she wasn't the sexiest female to grace this floating hunk of junk metal—she'd be the toughest, instead.
She stepped boldly behind the bar and began serving up drinks to the patrons. She made sure they paid, too. She watched Naalia and emulated her. Soon her pace was as fast as her new boss' and by the end of the night, even faster.
By the time her shift ended, Naalia, the Serpentian, eyed her and nodded. “You're a quick learner—only screwed up three drink orders, and gave one guy double the limit of legals. Not bad for your first shift. You're hired. Since there's no shopping here, you can keep what you're wearing. I'll give you a few more of my old things, and some cosmetics. You sex up, you'll sell more drinks. You sell more, I'll pay you more. You wanna whore on the side, don't do it on my time. You steal from me, I'll hurt you and toss your body off this floating hellhole. No one around here would say a word. Are we clear?”
The woman was as scary in her own way as the crèche directress. Ilya nodded. “I need a place to sleep.”
“You can sleep in the back. Just don't bother my mawwr. She keeps the rats and roaches away—mostly.”
* * *
A year later, Ilya was still there. Dressed first in Naalia's brief, stretchy castoffs and then later in her own garments bought off a traveling clothier, she helped the flamboyant redhead attract enough customers to make the bar profitable. Ilya had credit of her own—not a lot, because the rent and food here were both jacked up as high as possible—and a tiny room of her own near the bar.
Her savings also remained small because she liked to buy tech. Small pieces, often in poor repair. The one skill set she'd gotten out of her schooling was working and repairing tech. She had a locked cubby in her room with a variety of toys, most of which could also be used as weapons if she chose.
And on nights like these, she chose to use them. The bar was crammed with crew from a freighter bound for Earth II, a table of InterGalactic Space Forces Academy grads in their brilliant red flight-suits, and a few other beings.
The bar itself was lined with singles, mostly intent on imbibing as much alcohol and legal stims or tranqs as fast as they could.
One huge human loomed in the corner at Ilya's end of the bar, shoulders nearly broad as the bar counter. He silently sipped his ale, face in shadow under his brimmed cap. Ilya was pretty sure he was watching her, but she had little attention to spare, with the IGSF reds leaning over the bar and grinning at her, attempting to flirt with her as she worked. She did her best to ignore them as she mixed, stirred, loaded and unloaded the hovertrays that zipped drinks and snacks out to patrons at the tables.
“Hey, pretty, why don't you let me take you back to my room,” one of the boys offered, leaning in her way as Ilya reached for an empty beaker on the bar. “I'll show you my big flight controller.”
His friend brayed with laughter, and shoved him out of the way. “Maybe big, but he doesn't know what to do with it. Me—the ladies all juice for my stick.”
Ilya paused, eying them from under her hair, which she'd braided to get it out of her face and caught up in a loose clip. “I'll pass, thanks. How about if you boys go sit and have another drink, instead? Blue stars, right?”
When they instead renewed their offers, this time even more rudely, she reached up to apparently fluff her hair. A small sparkle issued from her palm, then another. Electricity crackled before their faces. Both the young men straightened with a jerk, their eyes wide, mouths open, slapping at their faces and hair as if beset by stingers.
“Back. Off.” Ilya repeated. “Unless you want more?” She held up her hand, revealing the clear packet attached to the base of her finger, lights sparkling inside.
“That's illegal tech,” one of the youths protested, his face reddening nearly to match his uniform. “You better watch it, bitch. We're going to be officers of the IGSF.”
“Yeah? Come back when you make rank—I'll be scared then.” She zinged him again for the insult—this time on the lip.
With a yelp, he and his friend dove for the entrance of the bar, stumbling over a pair of Bartians in their haste. The foul smell of affronted Bartian filled the air, and the bar patrons groaned or howled, covering their faces.
“You get those boys' credits before you ran them off?” Naalia demanded, grabbing the fumigator wand from beneath the bar. She aimed it outward, and super-oxygenated scent streamed out, neutralizing the Bartians' sulfurous stench with faux citrus.
“'Course I did.” Ilya finished filling another hovertray and sent it sailing across the bar.
A deep chuckle rumbled from the end of the bar, an utterly engaging sound that Ilya felt clear down inside her. She turned. The big man's teeth gleamed beneath the shadow of his hat brim. As if compelled, she walked to him and braced her hands on the bar, tipping her head to peer at his shadowed face.
“Something funny, big guy?” she asked. Quark, her voice was all ... throaty. She didn't do flirtatious—or hadn't since she left school. She hadn't been any good at it then. Now she didn't have to be—she received multiple offers every shift, and all she had to do if she wanted a sex partner was nod her head.
He reached up with one huge, calloused hand and pushed his hat up, revealing a square, tanned face as rugged as a slab of plascrete, and a pair of twinkling eyes the blue of a clear sky.
“Just enjoying watching a pretty female take care of herself.” His voice was as deep as that laugh had promised.
She tossed her head, braids flying. “Damn straight. Been taking care of myself for a long time. Nobody messes with me.” Double-quark, now she was preening for him. If she didn't get a firm grip on herself, she'd be offering to show him more tech tricks—naked.
But instead of replying, his face went fierce and tight, and he lunged forward, one long arm shooting out to grab her. Ilya had no time to react before he yanked her toward him, head and torso over the bar, legs dangling in midair. Her face was crammed in the hollow of his massive shoulder, her mouth full of his collar, his masculine scent filling her nostrils. Shit, she'd been wrong about him.
He smelled really, really good—for a rezzed rapist, or whatever he was. This stray thought raced through her mind, followed by alarm and then fury. She opened her mouth to demand he let her go but glass smashed behind her, and his voice rumbled through her ear as he yelled over her head.
“You throw anything else at her, boy, and I'll pull that fancy uniform up over your head so far you'll kiss your own balls.”
“Out!” Naalia shrieked behind Ilya. “All reds, out—or the big guy won't have to touch you, I'll wreck you myself.”
Ilya managed to twist within his grasp just enough to see the two cadet grads had returned, along with more of their kind. And all of them looked angry. The one Ilya had zapped stood at the bar, sneering at her rescuer.
A heavy ale mug lay on the floor behind the bar in a pungent puddle of smashed Serpentian fire glass. Oh, hells, he'd thrown an ale at her.
The big guy had snatched her out of the way, and the missile had instead struck Naalia's prized souvenir bottle of Serpentian fire whiskey. That was gonna cost Ilya to replace.
And she was so going to take the inconvenience out on the quarker who'd started it all. Pissant reds, thinking they were God's gift to females.
Ilya struggled. “Let me go. Need to help.”
Her rescuer set her on her feet, but pressed a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Stay, mighty mite. Let me and your boss handle this.”
Before Ilya had recovered from the shock of a male being protective toward her, he surged to his feet, taller than the other men and twice as broad. He moved to confront the red uniforms fronting the bar. “Sure this is worth it, boys?” he rumbled. “You end up in the grids here, not gonna look good to whoever's commissioning new officers.”
“No one messes with red.” Ilya's earlier admirers were now glowering at her and the big man. “She disrespected the uniform.”
“Seems to me you disrespected a lady,” the big man returned. “She asked you to stop, offered you another drink. You should've listened.”
“Lady, huh. She's just a station whore who'd be lucky to have one of us touch her.”
The big guy was done talking. He reached out, grabbed the mouthy red by the front of his uniform, picked him up and tossed him—hard—back into the ranks of his comrades.
They went down like pins in a holopitch, taking a table and its occupants with them. These happened to be Serpentians, who made their displeasure known in a physical way.
Several of the reds and other bar patrons joined in, throwing punches, kicks and anything else they could get their hands or paws on.
The mouthy red disappeared in a tangle of bodies, but five of his comrades surged forward to wreak vengeance on the big man.
Ilya vaulted up onto the bar, balancing between the empty drink mugs, ready to toss a flasher into their midst and break them up.
But the big guy shook off three of them with seeming ease and grabbed the other two, thunking their heads together before tossing them aside. Ilya gave a whoop of appreciation and then ducked as a hovertray sailed past her head. It landed with a crash behind her, and she winced. More breakage—there went the rest of her savings.
Time to end this. She pulled her comlink from her belt and keyed in a short code, then pressed a link.
“Cease all physical contact,” thundered a voice over the grunts, thumps and cries of pain from the fight. “This is the Quol-Ray Port Authority. Cease or be placed under arrest.”
This got the attention of several of the brawlers, off-duty space crew, who looked about guiltily for the station guards on their hovercycles. The grids were an extremely unpleasant place to spend time—brutally cold, incredibly loud and stinking of the bodily excretions of drunks, not to mention the hefty fines it took to get out.
But since the reds answered to a different authority, Ilya keyed another code.
