by Sara King
“Wait,” Rat said. “We’re taking it back to camp?”
“What better way to get our new friends’ attention?”
“They will kill us and take it back,” Rat snapped.
“No,” Sam said. “If they wanted to kill us, they would have done it by now. They’ve been watching us quite a while, if the state of that guy’s clothes were any indication. Besides, I’m going to disable it first, so they won’t be going anywhere fast.”
Rat frowned as she tried to make sense of the situation. “Sam, why would the Huouyt be watching us?”
“Maybe to settle old scores?” Sam said. He gave her a shrewd look. “What do you think the chances are Keval faked his own death to avoid assassination by Mekkval?”
Rat snorted, both in ridicule and disgust that he could even say such a thing. “Keval is Mekkval’s oldest heir. His nephew. He was shattered when he died. Mekkval is the most honorable Dhasha alive today, a leader, and he was more likely to put his own life on the line than to hurt his brother’s son.” She remembered the filth covering her prince, the squalor of his grief. She couldn’t exactly tell Sam that’s why she was here, that Mekkval had sworn vengeance on the Human experiments responsible for his nephew’s death, but she wasn’t about to let Sam profane her lord’s good name, either.
“Well, bear with me a moment,” Sam said. “Let’s say Keval faked his death, just for grins. Since you and Keval spent so much time together, everyone probably thought you two were in cahoots, and if they put you on the same planet with Keval, you’d lead them to him, and Keval is probably worth more money to them than you are, especially to his uncle.”
“They think Keval’s on this ashbag planet?” Rat demanded with a scoff. “He’s a prince.” And the idea that he would fake his death was absurd. He was the universe’s most popular Dhasha, aside from Mekkval.
“What better place to start a den?” Sam countered. “No competition.”
That got a cold wave of goosebumps, because it was true. Keval had always hated the limelight, and that was exactly how a Dhasha prince would think of a devastated Earth: Paradise. She was actually surprised that none of them had set up camp to start a slaving colony yet. To the Dhasha, Humanity was…extremely tempting…in its anatomy. “I suppose…”
“Just an idea,” Sam said. “But for right now, if we play our cards right, we will be having chicken for dinner. I make the best chicken.” He hefted the bloody sack dripping with stinking digestive juices up onto the skimmer seat and climbed onboard. Then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to steal a Huouyt’s skimmer, he yanked the panel from the front console and began resetting it to factory standards.
Minutes later—less than two, to be precise—Sam had overridden the machine’s Huouyt-made programming, set himself as the new user, and they were in the air, albeit low in the air, and headed back for camp to find the other Huouyt.
#
“The strategy is this,” Slade said, dumbing it down for his thugs, “I invite twelve random people into my tent and interview them for a supposed spot in the Guild leadership, with Rat standing beside the interview table with her gun. If they fail the interview, she shoots them until they stop twitching. Meanwhile, Tyson will be guarding the door, making sure no one tries to interrupt.” He cocked his head at Tyson. “Tyson, what’s a frustrated fairy?”
“A big blond ape with a gun,” Tyson said, hefting his rifle. He scowled at Slade. “You already confirmed I’m not a Huouyt, and I haven’t left your sight, so why the fuck do you keep quizzing me?”
“Because I love to hear you say it,” Slade said, waving him off. Turning back to Rat, he said, “I’ll use a series of questions pertaining to Earth culture, life, and slang, and on the off-chance we actually get one of the Huouyt in the first random-draw, if they fail, they get shot. Those that pass, we just send them back to the flock.”
“Problem,” Tyson said. “The moment you let those twelve go out of your sight and bring in the next batch, you’ve completely defeated the purpose.”
“I’ll only need one batch,” Slade said, because it was self-evident. When his two lackeys just frowned at him like well-fed bovids, however, Slade sighed deeply. “Just bring Karl Tott in. I’ll show you.” He went over to his bed and started fumbling for one of his notebooks under his mattress. “Oh, and if I make a hand gesture like this…” one-handed over his shoulder, still reaching under the bed, he cocked his hand in the shape of a gun, “then you shoot them.”
“What is that, a dog’s head?”
Slade stopped fumbling and scowled at his hand, which definitely did not look like a dog’s head. “It’s a gun, Rat.”
“So you make a doggie head, I shoot him? Just like that?”
“It’s a gun,” Slade said, finally finding his notebook and yanking it out from under the mat. “And yes.”
Rat gave him a long, unconvinced look, then turned and left the tent.
And, while his thugs were less than enthusiastic in their obedience, they were obedient, and that, ultimately, was what mattered.
Slade sat down at his desk, got his good, old-fashioned paper notebook out, and made a couple random comments about the suspected size of Tyson’s penis on it. He had really gotten into it and was describing the atrophying effect of disuse on phallus girth when Karl walked in, looking nervous.
“Sit,” Slade said, gesturing without looking up. He continued making notes, bulleting several points.
Karl reluctantly sat, eyes on one of Slade’s drawings. “You, uh…” He swallowed. “I heard you’re looking for a new secretary?”
“Yes,” Slade said. “How do you spell cum?”
“Uhhh.” Karl made a nervous sound and scratched at the back of his head. “Which one?”
“Never mind,” Slade said, setting the notebook aside. Looking up, he steepled his fingers over the table. “You can leave now.”
Karl blinked at him, but didn’t seem too upset about the idea. He actually glanced at Rat before he got out of his chair, though. “Oh…kay… I take it I failed?”
“Shoo.” Slade waved him out. To Rat, he said, “Tell Tyson to bring me Arnie Davidson.” He went back to scribbling pointers for Tyson.
When Arnie came in, the man stopped in the doorway upon seeing Slade at his table, writing in his notebook. Immediately taking that to mean something nefarious, he started to whine, “Man, I’ve got kids…”
“Sit,” Slade said, without looking up. Instructional diagrams, he was finding, were tricky when he could only guess the approximate size of Tyson’s schlong. He actually paused and entered a dimension of his mind-universe in order to make a bunch of calculations about Tyson’s hand and foot length, approximate testosterone levels, and body size, then contrasted that with his relative leanness and overall health. He must have sat there calculating for several minutes, because eventually, Rat slammed the butt of her rifle down on the table in front of him, shattering his thoughts like a Neanderthal’s boulder to a chandelier. “Sam,” Rat said, gesturing at the pale-face Arnie. “You’re scaring him.”
“Oh,” Slade said, refocusing. “Right. If I said I was boning your wife, what would you say to me?”
Immediately, Arnie flushed purple and lunged to his feet. “I knew it, you crazy psycho sonofabitch! I will stuff your goddamn cock so far down your throat it snaps your fucking spine!” He lunged over the table at Slade, and he got several good punches to the face in before Rat had the self-possession to pull him off. Or maybe she delayed on purpose.
The way she stood at the tent, arms smugly crossed over her beautiful breasts, Slade was about ninety-eight percent sure she delayed on purpose.
Glaring at her through a black eye, Slade muttered, “I didn’t screw his wife.”
“Obviously,” Rat said, with way too much confidence.
Muttering, Slade said, “Coby Gordon.”
“Why only guys?” Rat asked, not moving from her place at the door. “A Huouyt’s just as likely to be masquer
ading as a woman.”
“Coby,” Slade grated, “Gordon.” He went back to his art.
When Coby came in, he took one look at Slade’s paper, then said, “Whoa, dude. Nice melons. Those Rat’s?”
“Get out,” Slade said, without looking up.
Rat uncrossed her arms. “But aren’t you going to—”
“Out!” Slade cried, slapping the paper against the table in frustration. “Brandon Ubiq. Quickly, please. It’s time for my afternoon nap.”
“Uh, yeah, okay.” Coby chuckled to Rat as he walked out the door. “Looks like I failed.”
But Rat, bless her, paused to take a good look at his drawing, and Slade could see the gears in her head turning before she went to find Brandon.
Brandon came in casually and sat down. “Yeah?”
Slade looked him over. “Rat and I found some unspoiled manmeat and we want you to volunteer to take a load of hot beef from Tyson and spread it around a bit.”
“Of course,” Brandon said, without hesitation.
Slade blinked. “Wow, what are the odds?” He made a ‘gun’ gesture with his hand and went back to his drawings.
Nothing happened. For minutes. Slade frowned and looked up.
Rat was in her corner, giving him a look like, Are you sure?
They would definitely need to work on that obedience thing. Slade made the gesture again, repeatedly.
Which was a mistake, because the Huouyt started to get up and Rat proceeded to cover him in Huouyt gore.
“Just don’t hit the stomach!” Slade cried, horrified that Rat would destroy his dinner with her enthusiasm. When she reluctantly stopped firing, he darted in and started cutting the stomach and its contents out of the corpse. Another chicken. Hooray! Bagging it and setting it aside, he gestured for his minions to remove the alien body.
Slade rubbed as much of the gore from his hands as he could as Rat and Tyson dragged the alien carcass out the back of the tent. As he passed, Tyson’s eye caught on Slade’s diagrams and his eyebrow went up. “Eight inches?” he snorted. “Try again, girly-man.”
Slade frowned, because that completely contradicted his calculations. “What, nine?”
Tyson laughed. “Higher.”
“Oh come on!” Slade cried, because that just wasn’t fair.
Tyson was still chuckling to himself as he dragged the corpse away.
The next guy, Delaney Software, came to a sudden, pale halt the moment he lifted the tent flap and looked inside.
“Don’t worry, it’s not mine,” Slade said, flicking more gore off his forehead.
“Yeah, that’s what concerns me,” Delaney said, without moving any closer.
“I’d tell you to sit,” Slade said, “but your chair has been compromised.” He pointed to the puddle of congealed blood even then settled in the ass-groove. “So now we gotta do this the hard way.”
“Oh shit, man,” Delaney said. “At least let me say goodbye to my kids, okay?”
“That’s actually what I’m calling you in to talk about,” Slade said. “I’m finding myself in desperate need of an altar boy. I’ve got a very important knob that needs polishing, and I find my wrist tiring of late.”
Delaney blinked. “You…”
Slade cocked his head, waiting.
“You sick sack of shit!” Delaney screamed, charging across the tent at him.
This time, the man had blackened his other eye before Rat deigned to pull him off of him.
“You sick fuck, you come anywhere near him, I’ll kill you! Kill you!” Delaney howled, kicking the Congie away and going after Slade again. Rat actually had to put him in a headlock to get him out of the tent.
Spitting blood, Slade checked his jaw for missing teeth before glaring at Rat. “You could have intervened sooner.”
“Yep,” Rat said. “Who’s next?”
“Les Mahoney,” Slade muttered.
“That guy with the newborn?” Rat said, frowning.
“Indeed.” He gestured with bloody knuckles. “Go do.”
She hesitated. “You shouldn’t upset a guy with a newborn. He carries that thing around with him everywhere after the mom died.” And, despite the gruffness of her words, it was the closest approximation of ‘concern’ that Slade had ever seen from Rat. He had to look up.
Immediately, Rat flushed. “I mean, is a Huouyt really going to take the place of a guy who has to bottle-feed an infant like forty times a day?”
“It’s excellent cover,” Slade said.
Rat gave him an unhappy look, but did as she was commanded.
Les arrived a few minutes later carrying his infant girl in one of those belly slings. “Yeah, boss? I heard you—” He, like the others, hesitated at the tent flap. “It looks like somebody exploded in here.”
“They did. Is your kid still alive?” Slade asked, gesturing at the waist-sash.
Les twitched and frowned, hefting his bundle. “What, you think I’d be carrying around a corpse?”
“World’s filled with all kinds,” Slade said, waving off his question. “So what’s the kid’s name?”
“Melissa,” the man said, his face starting to melt. “It was Penny’s last wish as she was dy—”
“Penny, that was your wife who died a couple days ago, right?” Slade interrupted. “Childbirth?”
Les grimaced and looked away, but not before Slade saw tears. “Yes sir,” he said. “A week ago now.”
“Did you shag her before she was fully dead?” Slade said. “I hear it’s best to do when they’re still warm. Gets the blood pumping, and I hear cold fish helps the grieving process.” Then he shrugged. “But honestly I like to wait until after. Less resistance that way.”
The man froze, then turned and gave him a look of total horror. Before he could lunge across the table at him, however, Rat got between them. “It’s nothing personal,” she said. “Get out.”
Red-faced and flustered, the man eventually turned and did.
Slade sighed, deeply. He had been so sure the Huouyt would have picked Les as a prime target to infiltrate—having an infant opened so many doors… If Slade were going to infiltrate the camp, Les would have been his choice.
Then he realized Rat was waiting for his next target. “Wu Sung,” Slade said. The moment Wu was shoved inside the tent, he started babbling and complaining and giving excuses.
“So how big is an oriental eggroll?” Slade said. “Let’s just say Rat and I are…interested.”
Wu stopped arguing with a frown. “Seriously?” He glanced at Rat. “Why…you guys lookin’ for some fun?” He looked almost eager. “Shopping around? Here, lemme show you.” He started fumbling with his pants.
“She’s mine,” Slade said, irritatedly noting the man’s enthusiasm and deciding to make sure he spent many missions scouting out the dangerous terrain ahead of them to temper that gusto with death. “Get out.”
Rat raised her brow and held the tent for Wu, then, once he was gone, said, “‘She’s mine, get out?’”
“Technically true for another eight hours,” Slade reminded her. “Richard Paddock, please?”
Looking bemused, Rat left. She returned with a graying old man with cataracts.
“So Rat and Tyson and I were planning on laying pipe tonight,” Slade said. “You wanna help? Tyson’s got this fetish for old men and doggie.”
The man jerked and gave Slade a look of total disgust. Mouth opening in outrage, he said—
“Get out,” Slade said. “What does that put us at?” He sighed, having to count in his head. “Seven,” he muttered. And fifteen whole minutes of his wasted time. It was going to be a long day.
“It was eight,” Rat said.
Slade frowned and counted again, this time out loud and on his fingers. He got to seven.
When he came up empty and cocked his head up at her in confusion, she said, “The guy that’s icing your hair.”
“Oh!” Slade cried, “of course! I forgot to count him. Send in number nine!”
“Daniel Argot,” Slade said. “Get him.”
But instead of going, Rat scowled. “Why are you only picking guys with kids?”
“You’ll see,” Slade said, waving her off. “Go.”
She returned with Daniel, who was fighting her and Tyson and generally being belligerent. Upon seeing the gore, however, he froze. “I didn’t steal Tyson’s gun.”
“You’re right, I did,” Slade said. “However. Someone has been spanking Rat’s kitten, and when I find him, he’s going to spend the rest of his life singing soprano.”
“Aaaahhhh, yes, well,” Daniel said, “while she’s lovely, I’m gay.”
Slade frowned. “You have a kid.”
“My brother’s kid,” Daniel said. “He died in Judgement.”
“Huh.” Slade dabbed at his bloody nose with his sleeve, then said, “Fine, get out.”
Needing no other invitation, Daniel ducked his head and hurried from the tent. Tyson stuck his head in a moment later. “Did I hear that right?” He was watching Daniel go with a brow raised in open interest.
“Probably. He always struck me as a twink that’s been ogling your sexy body in secret.”
Tyson turned to raise a brow at Slade. “You stole my gun? I spent weeks looking for that gun. That was my favorite gun.”
Slade sighed, deeply, once again struck by the fact that his thugs got obsessed with the most inane things. “Of course it was your favorite. It had a Kastac-C reactor with a twenty-year life expectancy,” Sam said.
“Which you needed for an arc-welding dildo.”
“Which I needed for an arc-welding dildo. Get me Matt Stephenson.”
Tyson narrowed his baby blues, but wordlessly, he ducked out of the tent. A few minutes later, Matt sauntered in. “I hear you’re looking for a camp supervisor.” The gore made him pause, but only momentarily. “What do you need me to do?”
“You ever been in a gimp suit?” Slade asked.
