by John Bowers
Locked into a small cabin with three other captive women, Ursula Negus was asleep, unaware of the docking. For forty-three days she’d been through the ordeal of a lifetime, shackled to a rack, servicing crewmen. The hours were long, the activity brutal, and when she was allowed to rest she slept like the dead.
The first she was aware they had arrived was when two Sirians noisily entered the cabin.
"Okay, sleepin' beauties!" one of them bellowed, "rise and shine!!"
All four women jerked awake, misery in their eyes. One of the men leaned over Ursula and reached for the E-cuff that bound her to the rack.
"Please," she begged, still groggy. "I haven't had enough sleep yet."
"Relax, Feddie, this ain't a love call. We've docked and you're gittin' off."
She frowned and blinked, her mouth dry as sand. "Docked where?"
"Home, honey! We're at Sirius 1. The SE is waitin' for you."
The four women were hauled to their feet, their arms re-cuffed behind their backs, and shoved out into a companionway. Women from other cabins were herded in to join them, twenty-four in all. A junior-grade counted heads, checking them against a manifest. When he was satisfied, he nodded.
"This way."
Four men accompanied them toward the airlock. Ursula shuffled along helplessly, her skin crawling. The other women looked like hell, and she was sure she did, too. Six weeks of sexual slavery had sapped her energy, leaving her weak and queasy.
A docking shuttle carried the females away from the destroyer. Ursula was seated by a porthole, and managed a glimpse of the ship as it fell away behind. She couldn’t see the space station, but did get a look at the planet below, just a curving smudge of brown and blue.
Sirius.
The SE officer who met them on the station was a woman. Thin, wiry, sunburned. Shriveled, Ursula thought. Ugly.
The prisoners were forced to line up and stand at a semblance of attention. Ursula was in the front row, and watched the woman with a sense of resignation. The Sirian woman went down the line, demanding name, age, unit, and other details. All the prisoners were military; one or two were defiant, but their treatment aboard the destroyer had left the rest sickened, debilitated.
The SE woman reached Ursula and peered at the prisoner manifest from the destroyer.
"Name, rank, and unit."
"Ursula Negus, Captain, in transit."
"Unit?" the woman said again, and looked up. She froze, her shriveled eyes widening in surprise. "Are you a Vegan?"
Ursula blinked. "Ursula Negus," she repeated, "Captain, in transit."
Her head rocked as the woman hit her hard; tears sprang to her eyes, her ears rang. Rage shot through her, and she flexed her fists, but the E-cuffs jolted her with electricity, and she staggered.
"I as’t you a question, goddammit! Are you Vegan?"
Ursula panted from the pain, managed to stand straight again, and swallowed.
"Ursula Negus, Capt —"
The next blow knocked her to the deck. The woman stood over her, trembling with hatred.
"I ain't gonna fuck with you, bitch! Are you a Vegan, or not?"
Weakly, Ursula shook her head. If she admitted to being Vegan, her next stop would be a slave market.
"Get up."
She tried to stand, but her head swam. The woman kicked her.
"I said get up, slut!"
With some effort, Ursula stumbled to her feet. The other prisoners watched in helpless sympathy, unable to assist. When she was upright again, the SE woman was right back in her face.
"Let's get this straight," she hissed. "I can get you DNA tested, and then I'll know for sure. Vegans have imprints in their blood from genetic engineering, so if you're lying, we'll know. And I won't be your friend any more. Do we understand each other?"
Ursula trembled as tears of rage slid down her cheeks. She nodded briefly.
"Are you Vegan?"
"My parents were Vegan," she said hoarsely. "But I'm a citizen of the Federation."
"Where were you born?"
"Uruguay," she lied.
"Where the hell is Oo-doo-whatever?"
"Terra. South American continent."
The woman stared at her for ten seconds, not ready to believe her, unable to prove otherwise.
"I don't like Vegans," she said finally. "Sluts, every one of them. Whores, just like their heathen goddess So-Fee-Uh."
Ursula stood silent.
"We have special uses for Vegans," the woman went on. "You look a little old for the slave market, but you'd be real popular in a boot camp. Or maybe a high school sex lab." She smiled for the first time, a bitter, evil grin. "How'd you like that, Vegan? Spend your days in a classroom with teenage boys crawlin' all over you?”
Ursula closed her eyes and shuddered. The Sirian woman laughed and moved on to the next prisoner.
Ursula had no idea what to expect next. After twenty minutes, the SE woman led her prisoners through the main concourse of the station, where they received stares and snickers from soldiers and spacemen, then locked them in a general-purpose dormitory and left them there. Everyone was still wearing E-cuffs, so getting any rest was difficult, and no sanitation facilities were available.
Ursula lay on her side on a bunk and tried to sleep. Several women sobbed quietly, but she was too exhausted to cry. They remained there for fifteen hours, with nothing to eat or drink.
When the door finally opened again, three men in blue utilities entered, carrying small leather whips no longer than a swagger stick. The first had a stripe on his arm, apparently some kind of rank designation. He wrinkled his nose and almost gagged.
"God damn it!" he choked.
The room smelled like a latrine. He fanned the air as if it would make a difference, and looked around angrily at the women huddled on the bunks. They stared back in humiliation.
"Fucking goddamn Feddie whores!" he shouted. "Yew all smell like shit!" He snapped his whip across the woman nearest him, drawing a scream. "On yewr feet, bitch! All of yew, git up! Let's go, let's go! On yewr feet! Yew make me sick!"
Ursula was standing before he reached her, but he swung at her anyway. She ducked, taking the blow across her shoulder. It stung like hell, but left no mark.
The women stumbled out of the dormitory and down a series of corridors until they reached a shower. The men removed the E-cuffs and shoved their charges toward the steaming spray.
"Get naked!" Stripe ordered. "Put yewr clothes in that chute right there." He pointed. "Anybody need a toilet —" He pointed again. "— right there. Yew got five minutes! Shit 'n shower! Git to it!"
He actually gave them almost fifteen minutes. Ursula stayed under the water until she was ordered out, grateful for her first shower in more than a week. When the Sirian forced them out of the shower they stood under hot air blowers for a few seconds to dry off.
"That's it!" Stripe shouted. "Let's go, we ain't got all day!"
The women huddled naked before him. He looked at them as if they held no interest for him.
"What about some clothing?" Ursula dared ask.
He spun and laid the whip across her face. She gasped in agony.
"Get this straight, slut! When I want yewr advice, I'll beat it outta yew! We clear? Keep yewr fuckin' mouth shut and do what yew're told! Now outside! Let's move it!"
They were paraded back through the main concourse, totally nude. This time they heard whistles and rude comments. A ten-minute march brought them to a room that looked like a combination sickbay and salon. Six examining racks stood side by side, and each woman was given a brief exam to determine the state of her health.
Ursula sat with her head encapsulated in a scanning device while the medic, a man about her own age, monitored the equipment. He ran other scans across her body, drew blood and skin samples, then pulled the equipment away and stood back to look at her. After a moment's critical study, he moved in again and began to examine her with his hands.
Ursula's jaw clenched at his
touch, for this was no ordinary medical exam. His hands lingered on her like a lover's, and she turned her face away, grinding her teeth.
"Hey!" Stripe appeared beside her, a restraining hand on the medic. "Knock it off! These are SE prisoners. None of yewr bullshit!"
The medic looked annoyed, but released the restraints and pointed to another woman. "Next!"
From the examination rack, Ursula was taken across the room and placed in a chair. Two men moved in on her, one from each side, and went to work.
It was over in twenty minutes.
When they finished, she looked as if she'd just stepped out of a Vegan cosmetic salon. Her hair, nails, and face had been transformed into something glamorous. The men were very good, she decided when she got a glimpse of herself in a mirror. They'd overdone it a little, using more makeup than Ursula ever did, overemphasizing the colors and skin tones, but still — she hadn't looked so good in years.
As the other prisoners emerged from the treatment one by one, Ursula was amazed. Several had been rather plain girls, but now they sparkled. Most had never looked this good, ever.
And then, with a sinking sensation, it hit her.
Goddess! she thought. We all look like whores!
An hour later Ursula and her companions were taken to what would prove to be the final stop of the day. Although the equipment was slightly foreign to her, Ursula recognized it as a hypnotech lab. She’d been inside three others — the first shortly after she enlisted in the Space Force, the others at each ten-year anniversary. She found herself strapped into a treatment chair, arms and thighs securely bound.
Once again, the technician was a man.
He stood over her for a moment, studying her. He was young, late twenties, and unattractive. Skinny, balding, no visible chin. She avoided his eyes as he gazed at her nude body.
"Have you ever been hypnoed?" he asked after a moment's inspection.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Five or six years ago."
"Which treatments did you get?"
Several, actually, but she wasn't about to tell him what kind of conditioning the Federation gave its gunners.
"To prevent pregnancy," she said.
"Anything else?"
"That's all they told me."
Without warning, he manipulated the controls on the chair until her thighs were spread open, revealing everything she had. The tech dropped his pants and stepped between her legs, bending over her with his intent undeniably clear. She gasped and twisted her face away, her entire body going rigid. Her heart pounded in sickening horror.
He stopped, backed away, and pulled up his pants.
"Just wanted to test your reaction," he said.
Ursula let out her breath, closed her eyes, and began to tremble. The tech reached for another switch, and Ursula's head was suddenly bathed in a dim light. Something was injected into her arm, and she began to drift…
She had no idea how long it was. Ten minutes, an hour, two days — no idea. She came out of the trance and blinked, feeling the same tingling recovery sensation she remembered from her previous hypno treatments. The same tech was still there, studying her carefully.
She met his eyes briefly, then looked away. He was still ugly.
"By the way," he said quietly, "my name is George."
So what? she didn’t say.
He released the straps around her thighs, then her arms, and finally removed the strap around her stomach. She took a deep breath, tried to sit up, but he put a hand on her shoulder.
"Not yet," he said.
He stepped in front of her, reached for his belt, and dropped his pants again. He stood there for five seconds, letting her see what he had. She blinked, licked her lips, and felt her heart began to pound. He leaned over her, reached for her face with his lips, and laid his hands on her full breasts. Ursula felt a surge in her chest, her blood racing. Her breath came in short gasps, and she began to tremble.
"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh, my god!"
Raw animal lust coursed through her. She grabbed him around the neck, drawing him against her, kissing him feverishly. He entered her quickly, and she clung to him with all her strength, locking her legs around him to keep him inside.
"Ohh!" she cried. "Oh, George!"
Camp Hope, Missibama, Sirius 1
Robert Landon stood on the parapet of the inner wall at Camp Hope and gazed across the fields in the twilight. Miles of crops surrounded the camp in every direction. This was farming country, flat and treeless, and the smell of agriculture filled his nostrils. Planting would begin in a few days. Landon looked forward to that, because it made his job easier; during growing season, POWs were used for farm labor, which kept the men occupied.
As the dusk faded to full darkness, Landon saw strobe lights approaching from the north. He recognized them as the hovervan that transported prisoners from the fleet base to the camp. He turned and made his way to the steps leading down from the parapet.
Landon was waiting as the shuttle settled between the outer wall and the forcefence. The hatch slid open and a Confederate guard stepped down, followed by one man in Federation uniform, then another guard. Only one prisoner.
He looked scared.
The guards removed his E-cuffs and opened the inner gate. He walked through, looking around in bewilderment, rubbing his wrists.
"Welcome to Camp Hope," Landon said, stepping in front of him. "I'm Colonel Landon. Who are you?"
The prisoner pulled himself erect and snapped off a salute. Landon pulled his arm down.
"Don't do that," he said. "Makes the Confederates nervous. What's your name?"
"Daniels, sir. Second Lieutenant Garth Daniels."
Landon took in the uniform. "Fighter pilot?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you a transfer, or did they just catch you?"
"Got me about a week ago, sir," Daniels admitted unhappily. "Routine combat patrol. I got ambushed, lost all power. The Sirians must've had a ship nearby, or some kind of base. They sent out a rescue boat and took my gunner and me prisoner."
"Where's your gunner?"
"No idea, sir. They took us on board some kind of ship and I never saw her again."
Landon nodded. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Sometime yesterday."
"Well, you came to the right place. This isn't exactly paradise, but the food isn't too bad. Let's fix you up."
Landon led him toward the mess hall.
"Tell me, what's the latest news about the Fighter Queen?"
Chapter 5
Friday, 26 July, 0239 (PCC) — UFF Anwar Sadat, in orbit, Vega 3
The fighters of ZF-117 approached the carrier in a disorganized gaggle, strung out across several thousand miles of orbital space. UFF Anwar Sadat cruised leisurely in a parking orbit, covered by a dozen destroyers and four cruisers, its sole function to provide a launching platform for the dozens of fighters that daily stormed the surface of the planet below.
Vega 3 had been under assault for thirteen months, but the ground troops had only landed in March. The vast Southern Plain had already been captured, but most of the defenders were Vegans fighting under the umbrella of the Confederacy, and were every bit as tough as their predecessors, the Vegan Guard, had been when Sirius invaded in 0195.
Onja Kvoorik sat trembling in her gun turret, gazing at the big hole above her head where a cannon shell had ripped away most of her targeting equipment and destroyed her airtight integrity. Happily, the shell hadn't exploded until after it exited the turret, or she'd be hamburger, but unhappily, it should never have come through at all. If her pressure suit had been ripped, she'd have died when they climbed out of the atmosphere.
Her pilot, Lt. McLeod, was about to receive a new asshole as soon as they landed. Onja was trembling not from fear, but fury.
"Sadat Control, Hypercat. Request permission to come aboard."
"Hypercat, Sadat Control. The tunnel is clear, you are cleared for recovery."
Onja listened to the SpectraWav chatter, holding her anger in check until recovery was complete. You didn't interrupt when a pilot was talking to the controller, because it could get you killed.
The PulsarFighter was a living organism around her, wounded but still viable. She'd unloaded all her ordnance on the target, then the Vegan fighters had jumped them. Her autocannon was empty, her laser mount shot to hell, but the rockets had got them clear and the ion drive was still working.
Any battle you could walk away from …
"Hypercat, Sadat Control. Recovery in twenty seconds. Kill your thrust now."
"Roger."
Onja tensed. She couldn't help it. The most dangerous part of spacecraft operations was recovery; the landing tunnel was only eighty feet wide, and if anything at all went wrong in the last few seconds, they would scrape you off the side of the carrier with a stick and a spoon.
"Ten seconds, Hypercat. Begin retro-thrust now."
She closed her eyes and gripped the overhead panic bar. She felt the braking thrust as the nose jets fired, then felt the tractor beams take hold, slowing the fighter as it plunged deep into the landing tunnel. McLeod fired his full array of nose jets and the fighter seemed to stagger as it lost forward momentum. Suddenly the gear banged against the deck and the PF sat rocking; McLeod shut down his jets and began to taxi toward the lift that would lower them to the hangar deck.
Onja was still staring at the holes above her head when the fighter rolled off the lift, blood surging through her veins. She waited while McLeod shut down all systems, heard him crawl out of the cockpit, and then he activated her turret hatch.
"We're down, Onja. You all right in there?"
He stuck a gloved hand in to give her an assist, and she took it, letting him guide her through the hatch onto the wing root. He already had his helmet off, and was watching her expectantly, a trace of guilt in his eyes. She jumped down off the wing and regained her balance, then struggled with the locking ring of her own helmet. By the time she tugged it off, he'd joined her on the deck, still waiting for her judgment.
Onja turned to face him squarely, her feet planted.
"What is your fucking problem, Rodney!" she demanded. "Didn't I tell you? Didn't I?"
