by Anna Carven
The General really is a freak of nature.
“I will purchase some gloves. I did not think.” He sounds almost apologetic. I’m floored. Is such a thing even possible? Big Bad seems like the kind of guy who wouldn’t apologize even if he accidentally ran over your pet dog twice. He beckons to me. “Come.”
We turn and trudge off into the howling wind, Tarak setting a fast pace, making a straight path through swarms of workers and passengers.
He doesn’t have to worry about bumping into anyone, because they all take one look at him and get out of the way. Sometimes it pays to be big, tall and Kordolian.
I scurry after him, sticking close, because his large frame blocks the wind a little. I pull the hood over my hair, bracing against the chill.
We leave the docking area and enter a large building with high, vaulted ceilings. It’s huge, seemingly endless. I can’t see where it ends. The roof of the place is completely transparent, revealing the starry sky above. There’s a bustle about this place, and what hits me at first is the sound. It’s the buzz that comes from thousands of voices in conversation. It’s deafening.
This must be the Trader’s Market.
The space is awash with faint blue light, and we pass stalls and shops of all kinds, too numerous to count.
It’s a galactic mega-mall on steroids. If I had credits to spare, I could eat, sleep and die happy here.
Even more fascinating than the enticing shops, with their exotic wares, are the aliens. There are races from all planets here. I spot Veronians, Kordolians, feathered Avein, tentacled Ordoon, and others that I don’t recognize. There are scaly grey and black guys with glowing blue eyes and legless guys that go around on small, single-person hover-transports.
This place is blowing my mind.
But there’s no time to stop and stare, because Tarak is barreling through the crowds at light-speed, and I’m flat out keeping up with him.
All I can do is follow. I try to keep focused, fixating on his broad shoulders to stop from going into sensory overload. The sights, sounds and smells of the Trader’s Market are completely overwhelming.
I don’t know where the hell we’re going, but all I can do right now is trust him, even if he’s a devious, sneaky male who deflects all my questions with his damn sexiness.
Seriously, how did he pull off that little move back there on the freighter? Did he learn that at his fancy Kordolian sex academy?
How to distract a female and get into her pants in less than thirty seconds, 101.
He’s totally shameless.
I try to get annoyed over it, but I can’t help but smile underneath my scarf, because it was so insanely good. Tarak is a dangerous operator, in more ways than one.
But I am going to get answers out of him, one way or another.
I have questions he needs to answer. Such as: where are we going? Why the secrecy? And when does he plan on returning me to my home sector?
And there’s a bigger dilemma. What in Jupiter’s name am I going to do about this male? He’s overbearing, obnoxious and he still doesn’t want to tell me anything, much to my irritation. But then he goes and says shit like I am your servant, like some gallant knight from ancient times, making me go all weak at the knees.
Dissipating my anger in an instant.
Damn him!
I hate to say it, but I am officially flustered. And that doesn’t happen very often.
Tarak
We pass through the Trader’s Market, making for the Upper Entrance. Abbey is close behind me. In her fur coat and scarf, she’s inconspicuous, just another household servant following her master, the way I’ve instructed her.
She doesn’t like to be cast in that role, even if it’s only for show. Oh, she detests it.
From her, I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Perhaps I pushed her a little too far, back on the Veronian freighter. But she needs to understand how things are on Kythia. Kordolians are the masters. All other races are servants.
The reality however, is that I would never force her into that role. Subservience is not something I desire in a mate.
As we pass through the large gates of the Upper Entrance, I spot the type of shop I’m looking for. I turn, motioning for her to follow.
The attendant, a Veronian, leaps up as I approach. As I am Kordolian, he probably considers me a walking source of endless credits.
“Eternal greetings, esteemed Master,” he begins, but I cut him off by making a slicing motion with my hand. I have no time for flowery pleasantries.
“Five finger gloves,” I snap. “Show me your range.”
“C-certainly, Master.” He presses a button and a drawer opens, revealing a range of gloves. Some sparkle with jeweled embroidery. Others have ridiculous frills around the openings. Who would wear such impractical things? Actually, I can think of a few idiots who might. “Would you desire a certain type of embellishment? We have monogrammed varieties of all the Noble Houses if you-”
“I’ll take those.” I point to a pair of small black gloves made from flexible material. They look warm, and they will fit her.
The attendant lifts them out of the display case. He stares at my hands, then looks at the gloves. “Are these a gift, or-”
“Too many questions, Veronian.” I pass him a credit chip. He bows and starts to mutter an apology, but I’m already exiting the shop. “Keep the change,” I tell him, as we disappear back into the crowd.
“Are you always this mean to those little guys?” Abbey mutters the question under her breath, but I’m able to hear her just fine, my ears twitching.
Mean? I’m not sure what she means, so I don’t say anything. Instead, I pass the gloves to her, holding them out behind me as we cross the threshold of the Trader’s Market.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, brushing her fingers against my palm as she takes them. They’re cold, like ice.
Humans are fragile, indeed.
We pass into the pleasure sector, an unsanctioned area the High Council turns a blind eye to. It’s probably because so many of their Nobles frequent the area. A muffled sound of disbelief escapes my female as a troupe of barely dressed Kordolian males passes by.
Pleasure workers, or pleasure seekers? It’s hard to tell these days.
The throughway is lined with all types of establishments, both Kordolian and otherwise. There are brightly colored signs and lights above some, while others are discreet, not even bearing a name. Pulsing music surrounds us, and the intoxicating scent of smoked Khafa leaf lingers in the air. At the front of some of the entrances, gaudily dressed males and females of all species stand, their faces painted with bright colors. They call out to passers by, trying to lure them in.
An Ordoon female sidles up to me, her black tentacles flickering in and out of voluminous skirts. “Ye in the market for some tentacle girls, esteemed Master?” She speaks Kordolian with a rough, lisping accent. I wave her away in irritation as we move past.
In the pleasure sector, all tastes and fetishes are catered for.
“And we have come to this place because why?” Abbey’s voice is laced with suspicion. I can almost feel her accusing gaze burning into me from behind. “Don’t tell me your ‘unofficial business’ is to visit a brothel.”
“I know it is strange, but be patient.” I stop as we come to a storefront with a nondescript black door. Amongst the noise and activity and bright colors of the other establishments, I almost missed it. But it’s the place I remember. After pressing my hand to the identification panel, it slides open instantly.
We descend down a steep flight of stairs into darkness. Abbey’s footsteps slow behind me, and I glance back to see her tracing one hand along the wall, supporting herself.
I forgot. Humans don’t see well in the dark.
Like all Kordolians, I can see perfectly in darkness.
I pull the dark-vision goggles from a hidden pocket in my robe. They’re the same ones the Veronians and other light-dwelling species use on Kythi
a. “These will help you see.”
She takes them in her gloved hand. “You know, I must be awfully trusting or terribly stupid to follow you down a dark, hidden passageway in a red light district. But believe it or not, I trust you. If you wanted to sell me or harm me or do anything dodgy, you would have done so already, right, General?”
She’s babbling again. Talking too much.
Ah. She is nervous.
I take her hand into mine, stealing a moment in the darkness. “Do not worry,” I whisper. “This will be brief. We are here to acquire a means of transportation, as unlikely as that might seem.”
“Okay.” Underneath the hood, her eyes widen in surprise. I am also mildly surprised. Because for once, she doesn’t question me. She pushes her hood back momentarily, putting on the dark-vision goggles. Her pale skin glows in the darkness and I lean in, brushing my lips against her forehead. I can’t wait to tear all those layers off her.
Things of beauty should not be hidden. But on Kythia, there is no choice. She is Human, and vulnerable to the cold.
I lead her down the stairs and into a cavernous entrance hall that is surprisingly luxurious. My feet sink into plush carpet underfoot, and there are ornate Jentian multiglass lights hanging from the ceiling, giving off a muted glow that is refracted into thousands of tiny glowing shapes that dance across the walls. Various cushions and soft padded recliners are placed around the space.
Abbey is silent beside me, but I know her well enough by now. She’s taking in the detail, analyzing, making her own conclusions. I do not need to tell her much, because she is as observant as ever.
From behind a curtain, a Kordolian male appears, wearing only silver metal ornaments. He is lean and waif-like, and his artificially curled hair is a lurid shade of blue. A intricate garment fashioned from silvermetal covers his nether regions, leaving little to the imagination. His ears hold multiple piercings and there is a delicate, jeweled chain hanging from his nose, connected to one earlobe.
Beside me, Abbey lets out a soft choking sound.
I am inclined to agree. I try to avoid the pleasure sector at all costs, but every time I come back, it feels as if the fashions have become more outlandish; more ridiculous.
The male standing before us is a Sensi, a pleasure worker. Or pleasure expert, as they prefer to call themselves.
His clientele are mostly male, but the occasional Kordolian female may be entertained, as the Sensi claim to be skilled in the rarer types of pleasure, whatever that means.
“Eternal greetings, good Sir.” He greets me in Kordolian, his yellow eyes roaming over me in a way I don’t like. He gives me a suggestive wink. If I weren’t trying to keep things low-key, I might strangle him for that. “Master Berad has registered your entry and is waiting.” He does that ridiculous Imperial bow, the one I detest. “I see you have brought your servant. It may wait here in the anteroom until you have concluded your business. Please, this way.”
I look back at Abbey. She’s standing rigidly, her fists clenched. She’s not liking this at all.
I would like to offer her some placating words, but that would draw suspicion. I can’t bring her in to see Berad, because that would attract even more suspicion. So instead, I point to a recliner. “Servant, sit. Wait until I return.”
She’s still wearing the dark-vision goggles, but I can feel her icy glare upon me.
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel a sense of unease. I don’t understand how this small female can make me feel such things. I have killed thousands of Xargek and other hostile alien enemies. I have been instrumental in colonizing planets and have been recognized by Emperor Ilhan as a war hero. My body is near indestructible, a consequence of being the lone survivor of the notorious First Generation Enhancement Trials.
So why do I care about her opinion of me? Why does she suddenly seem so intimidating standing there bundled up in her Szkazajik fur and scarf?
This Human never ceases to surprise.
Strange, beautiful creature.
I do not know what to make of this, so I turn and follow the Sensi. “See to it that my servant is not disturbed,” I order, leaving her in the antechamber. She is clever enough not to argue.
A flicker of anxiety over her wellbeing enters my mind. Again, it’s strange to have such thoughts. I push them away. Never mind. She will be fine. No Kordolian in their right mind would dare bother the servant of another House.
Abbey
Okay, I get it. Tarak is keeping up this master-servant act because he doesn’t want to draw suspicion. Still, it grates on my nerves. I sigh and lean back against the wall. I’m sitting on an upholstered divan type thing, wondering what the hell kind of business Tarak has in a place like this.
He doesn’t seem the type to go and indulge in the sort of thing that this establishment offers.
I should know. He demonstrated his uh, desires, not too long ago, back there in the Veronian freighter.
I close my eyes for a moment, secure in my disguise. The fact that Kythia’s so bloody cold is a hidden blessing. It allows me to conceal my Human-ness and avoid the scrutiny of these predatory Kordolians.
Well, all predatory Kordolians except for one.
That particular Kordolian is currently going to talk to a guy about Jupiter-knows-what, leaving me to sit and ponder in this blinged-out waiting room. That particular Kordolian is driving me crazy, in ways both good and bad.
A metallic jingling sound echoes through the room, and I see the mostly naked male escort, or whatever he is, slinking back from wherever he’s taken Tarak.
He looks at me with his unsettling yellow eyes and says something in Kordolian.
I ignore him. I can’t understand what he’s saying, and my dad always told me not to talk to strangers, especially if they’re dressed in only a metallic, embroidered loincloth thingy and piercings. Loads of piercings.
He gives me the creeps.
He says something again. I stare back at him, not moving an inch. I want to tell him I don’t know, don’t care, don’t want to have anything to do with him, but he’s still giving me that look.
I’m getting the same stalkerish vibe I got from that pervert scientist onboard the Fleet Station.
Seriously, what is it with Kordolians and this psycho mentality? I wonder if it has something to do with their shortage of females.
Ol’ Gilded Loins sidles up to me, his skinny, hairless body gleaming under the surreal fractured light that dances across the room. “A female,” he says, switching to Universal, his voice soft and lilting. “We do not get many of your kind here, even amongst servants.” He leans in close and takes a deep breath. “But your scent is strange. What are you? Veronian? Lamidu? Ka’aran?”
I don’t even know what half those are. I ignore him, pretending not to understand.
“Your Master must be quite attached to you. He keeps you quite close. Are you his favorite toy?”
Under the big, fluffy coat, my hand goes to the dagger strapped to my thigh. Just in case.
“Why don’t we take a peek under the scarf? Don’t worry, little female, I won’t harm you. I’m just curious, that’s all.” He smells weird. Kinda like dishwashing soap. Is that a Kordolian attempt at perfume?
He reaches for my hood, intending to pull it back.
You know what? Before, I didn’t know if I’d be able to stab someone, but now, I’ve changed my mind.
I flick out the dagger, bringing it up to Gilded Loins’ neck. “My Master will be very upset if he learns you’ve dared touch me. You saw him. What exactly do you think he’s capable of?”
Seriously? Is this escort on drugs? Anyone with half a brain would take one look at Tarak and make sensible decisions, even if they didn’t know who he was. Decisions that wouldn’t involve shortening one’s lifespan. Some guys just have that ‘look-at-me-the-wrong-way-and-certain-death-awaits’ vibe going on. Tarak’s one of those guys.
The thought seems to be a sobering one for the escort, because he f
reezes, his silvery skin turning pale. So it seems at least a fragment of sense exists somewhere in that crazy blue-haired head of his.
The fact that I’ve got a blade pressed against his neck seems to aid his decision making process.
He withdraws, offering me a hasty, half-assed bow. “I apologize. It’s the hormones. Sometimes I have trouble controlling the urges. Please do not tell him about this.” His tone has gone from self-assured smugness to wimpy whining.
“I’ll think about it.” I shrug, slipping the knife back into its sheath. For a race that’s supposedly so fearsome and intimidating, these Kordolians aren’t living up to the reputation. Well, apart from you-know-who. But half of them seem to be freaking idiots.
And to think I once wondered whether they’d all be like Tarak and his crew.
My hunch was correct. Tarak is different to these guys. He stands out, without even realizing it. I noticed it when we were going through the Trader’s Market. It became even more obvious once we got to the pleasure district.
No matter how much he tries to blend in, he can’t help it. It’s in the way he stands. It’s in the way he walks with graceful economy, each movement purposeful and without waste. It’s in the way he looks and acts military, even when he’s wearing plain clothes. Armor or not, he stands like a General and gives orders like a General. He makes even the simple act of shopping sound like he’s issuing battle commands.
If we had more time, I’d teach him a thing or two about blending in.
He’s always alert, scanning the crowds, watching the exits, looking for the first sign of danger.
I guess he can’t help it. It’s the way he was wired. And I do rather like him that way.
He’s bossy but dependable, ruthless but considerate, hard-as-nails but deeply sensual. A walking contradiction.
He’s protective as hell; terrifyingly so.
Gilded Loins doesn’t realize it, but I’ve just done him a massive favor.
