Stripped

by Stoke, Christina

  “Yes, sir,” I manage to respond, in what I imagine hopefully is a crisp military fashion. The task is already done, but the Captain doesn’t need that explained to him, wasting his valuable time. It simply needs to be done when he needs it, and the how and the when are not important.

  “Good.” He turns his deliberative gaze once again to face the entire Shadow squad, but especially turning to the pilots who are preparing to risk their lives again in thirty short minutes. We’re all sitting in one of the pilots briefing rooms aboard the Eclipse, and the Captain wastes no time as he explains the operations details, giving the pilots their orders.

  “Tet-base-5 was a small colony extracting reactive ore from the crater moon, MM2,” Captain Boa explains as he points to the fluorescent green digital star map beside him.

  The screen changes showing a closer view of the lone moon, MM2. We all know that a Mac-5 force destroyed it two weeks into the war and it had remained all but forgotten since.

  “Last week, ‘Spy Eye,’ doing a routine five-thousand mile sweep, picked up a warble near MM2. Now the World American Federation wants the Air Space Rangers to go in and take a closer look.”

  The digital screen flips again, zooming in on a closer planet display. I watch the luminous lime-green light strike the edges of Captain Boa’s hard-angled jaw as he steps up to the projection to pinpoint a particular spot. Rigid and relentless with a jaw like that, I imagine.

  “Here. This is where you will concentrate your sweep in and around the old Tet-base-5 extracting sites.” Captain Boa straightens his broad shoulders, centering his intense blue eyes on all six of his pilots. “This is a quick one, pilots. Just take your pictures and run. Any questions?”

  The silence at these moments always leaves me with a bleak feeling. It’s never just in and out with these aliens. Never.

  “All right.” Captain Boa glances at his watch. “Fifteen minutes to Skitter ready,” he announces sharply.

  On the way out of the tactic briefing room, Lt. Logan stops me with her hand closing briefly on my arm. So, I naturally move with her hand's light pressure a little to the side of the corridor. “I got a letter from that guy.” She looks somber.

  I would smile, but she seems so uncomfortable already, so I hold it back. Lt. Di, “The Reaper,” Logan is a twenty-two-year-old Variant female. She's one of only a dozen that I know of onboard the Eclipse. Captain Boa is one also. It’s quite a testament really that either of them is here, because the normal womb born society doesn't trust genetically altered humans. Possibly, trust was not quite the right word for the differences felt on both sides, but it is the nicest one I've been able to think of so far.

  “Bo, wanted to write you,” I say. It is a simple answer and it’s true. Bo is a friend of mine from back on Earth. He is an attractive nineteen-year-old Variant male, attractive like all Variants are. Because he's a Variant, he has no family, and I thought . . . no I knew he had to be lonely, besides the war has hit everyone hard.

  “Yeah.” Di is a nice looking younger woman with short brown hair and deep gray eyes. “But I’ve never gotten a letter before, Rousseau . . . What do I do?”

  I smile then, easing the puzzled lines on Di’s face. I guess it's my age or perhaps my quietness, but people talk to me. Di has never had a mother, probably never had a boyfriend.

  “Just tape him a message.” I’ve found Variants can be perplexed about the simplest of human things, as though certain things have never existed or are completely alien. But then of course, for them they are. “You don’t have to write,” I continue on, bravely placing my hand on Di’s shoulder. “Just say a couple short things. He loves those ancient movies like you do, so there is something you can talk about. Then, send it to him and see what happens. Maybe he’ll write you back.”

  Di appears a bit hopeful, in a confused sort of way. “Think so?” she mutters.

  “Yes, I do.” I look over Di's shoulder and I see a wide black shoulder, then my eyes lift to Captain Boa’s face. Di doesn’t see him as she says, “Goodbye,” to me and she continues to walk past me.

  Captain Boa has the kind of face that makes me look twice. Oh, be honest, three or four times. Every woman has her own idea about what’s attractive and Captain Boa is it for me. His face is mature and ruggedly masculine. It’s an exacting face with crinkles at the corners of his indigo colored eyes. Those eyes intensely offset by his silver hair cut close to the scalp, just enough to lie down, while his physique is built with trained military muscle, which is powerfully projected beneath his black flight suit.

  I blush . . . damn it, as the Captain’s gaze sweeps me and I inevitably lower my eyelashes. How could I blush? He must have heard what I was saying to Di. At least he had to hear parts of it, before I knew he was behind us.

  Thank god, he just walks past me without a word.

  Chapter Two

  “Captain Boa.”

  I nod absently at the fleeting acknowledgment of my name by a passing Tactical Commander. My mind is elsewhere.

  Really, I’m hoping that my outward appearance didn't show any of my inward reactions a few seconds earlier. Considering this was not the first time I’ve noticed Rousseau has the largest and firmest set of breasts on a military woman I've ever seen. I suppose what literally irritates me about her is the fact she's not genuine military.

  We are in the middle of a tough war, and we are losing. There are those of us in the regular military who are trying, with everything we have, to hold things together and we do not need ill-trained reservists underfoot. They are just one more thing to worry about, one more individual I must try to keep alive. Just like the young pilots I've recently been assigned to. Too young.

  I don’t have time to worry about it . . . or them. I never have before and I can’t now. This is my job. Fighting and killing, no emotion involved. I need the distance. It’s always been that way for me, no family to care about, even if I knew how. I’m a Variant, genetically altered. No true mother, father, sister, or brother. Marriage and family had sounded good once and I tried it like a natural person would. Didn’t work. They told me it wouldn’t.

  I’ve got to loosen up, but the tension is binding my shoulder muscles. Damn, I'm always tense before a takeoff and it just gets worse until my pilots get back to the Eclipse. It was much easier when I was the one going out on the missions. That’s what I’m trained for. Fighting. Being in the thick of battle, making things happen and winning. Making sure everybody comes back. Except for that last time. My squadron the Dragoons flying into hell, and when it was all over I was the only one that survived.

  They had been the swiftest squadron in the Air Space Rangers. A legend, really. Too damned much of a legend. Everyone, myself included, pinning our hopes, actually our inflated egos, on the Dragoons. Even after the four squadrons sent in before the Dragoons were wiped out. Still, we all thought . . . But being the best didn’t help against the aliens from hell, and now that I fully realize the aliens' superiority, it scares the hell out of me.

  It really unsettled me to lose my squadron. Literally, made me furious. It still does. But these new kids, these young pilots have got something. Something better and more intuitive than the old Dragoons had. Possibly, that's why I have unnerving feelings of caring. Caring about six young pilots whom, for better or worse, and for the first time in my life, look up to me.

  “Captain Boa, is your team ready?” Commander Grady’s voice sounds suddenly through my headset link.

  “Yes, sir,” I reply, glancing at my technicians Midnight, Ghost, and Private Rousseau sitting ready in the setup room. Then, I turned my gaze out the thick buffer glass to the six pilots locked down in their Skitter fighters and I nod. All six of my pilots give me the thumbs up.

  “Ready!” I announce sharply, and then I give the order to drop them.

  Twelve hours later, I sip my scotch in the Com-Bar on level three. But they are all still alive.

  Four of them are playing a classic air hockey game behind where I'm st
anding at the bar. Two more are laughing as they stand by an old-fashioned jukebox in the corner. Ghost and Midnight are here. Rousseau never comes to the bar.

  Still, they all seek her out at different times and places. Like old friends with their secrets and problems. I know they do it. I’m interested that she's there for them with her quiet ways. If I think about it at all, I’d assume it was our age. Rousseau and I are older, nearly the same age, in our later thirty's. For single moments, a couple of times, I’ve envied her their confidences. Something's been happening to me. It's crazy feelings I’ve never had before, and I wish the hell it would stop. Before I . . .

  “I heard you flew with the Dragoons.” It's a woman’s husky voice near my shoulder. I don’t move. Instead, I sip my scotch, and then with measured stiffness, I turned to see my newest pilot, Audrey Lipton. She is twenty, if a day, with brunette hair and coppery-brown eyes, sultry like Rousseau's, but that’s where the comparison ends. She was assigned to my squad three days ago as the seventh man alternate.

  “Yes.” My voice is low, just as she sidles closer, touching my elbow with the soft edge of her breast as she takes a sip from her drink.

  “It’s an honor to meet one of Hell’s Dragoons. Wow.”

  Wow? I cannot believe this. This is not happening.

  “I was wondering, Captain . . . um, have you ever tried one of the Comp-space pods aboard the Eclipse?”

  I am simmering now. That's the only word for it. The only activity Comp-pods are used for, besides evacuation, is for sex. Two people naked . . . alone, on a carrier that's hard to find "alone" space in. The only reason a woman would mention a Comp-pod to a man was for one motive.

  “I credited a couple hours in the broadside Comp-pod and I thought you might want to join me,” Audrey purrs in a sultry voice.

  I cannot believe this. I’m an officer, and it insults me that another womb born female is looking for thrills with a Variant male. Damn, I’m her superior and I deserve more respect.

  “Hey, Captain Boa, Wraith is leaving us!” Lt. Clay, “Night Hawk,” Boggs calls from behind me. “Come be my partner, huh?”

  I can only see red then, as I slam my drink down on the bar. Extremely pleased that it splashes on Audrey. Then, I stand military straight, tight, and severe. This is what I gain for being a “buddy” I think furiously as I turn, and the wave of my anger goes outward, straightening all of my pilots to attention around the air hockey table.

  “I am not,” I utter through clenched teeth, stalking up to Night Hawk. “Your buddy. I am not your pal!” Then, I stalk around Night Hawk. “We will not be playing goody softball in front of your goody-goody home when this is over!” I turn then, stiff and rigid. “I’m here for one thing, people, and that's to fight! Not play babysitter to a bunch of wet behind the ears kids!”

  I turn then, and begin stalking away, and as I do, I glare directly at Audrey, withering her with my intense glare. Oh yeah, that little Barbie doll got my message as I see her gulp, and then I smash through the Com-Bar’s swinging doors. My palms make slapping sounds as the doors swing free and hit the opposite wall.

  I am definitely not watching where I'm going as I get to the end of the short corridor and proceed to slam around the corner.

  Thud...

  “Ooof!” I plow right into Rousseau.

  “C-Captain,” she gasps.

  I am unfortunately holding her to my chest with my hands on her arms to keep us both from falling. Damn, interesting. Her hands are clutched into my flight suit at my waist and on my shoulder. Every corpulent inch of her oversized breasts are squashed into my upper rib cage, and I’m steaming, still angry . . . and now with something else.

  Yes, damn it. It is definitely something else.

  Chapter Three

  “Rousseau.”

  Oh god, it’s Captain Boa. My eyes must pop wide as I take entirely too long to realize I need to step away from him. Only, I’m caught in his gaze, actually looking at him fully in the face. His normally strict dark blue eyes are shimmering they are so intense. I’d make a good guess he's very angry, but he's trying to control it. At me? I mean hell; he's the one that nearly trampled me!

  “Are you going to punch me, Private Rousseau?” Captain Boa is nearly smiling. However, it's somewhat hard to tell if it's a smile, because just his fuller bottom lip stretches upward a bit, making it appear rusty and painful.

  I know I look surprised as I finally push away from him. But we’re still very close. “Of course not, sir,” I mutter.

  “I could see for a moment that you wanted to.”

  I blink at him, and then we both hear the low mutter of a man’s voice, “Fuck, she should get a real born man. It’s sick you know.”

  I'm turning around, ready to launch a defense, before I even think. Only, Captain Boa grasps my upper arm again. His hand is broad, but his grip is gentle. “Leave it,” he orders, sounding suddenly weary of a heavy burden.

  But I’m impish, truly I am. Though I can’t speak to him casually or barely even look at him, my nature is well . . . it’s mine. “Captain, this is just because I couldn't do it the sixth time in a row, isn’t it?” I exclaim. “Please, give me another chance, sir!”

  The badly mannered man and his partner stumble just before reaching the turn in the tight corridor that will take them from our view. I know they heard. And I know what they thought. Time to get the heck out of here!

  “But I will get that Stat-Dar to work completely, without any glitches next time,” I finish in a mumble, and then I salute, while peeking up at Captain Boa’s glittering blue eyes. Thank goodness, he allows me a hasty retreat without any more comment.

  I wonder that night as I lay on my stiff cot, in the five by five cabin I call my own aboard the Eclipse . . . what Captain Boa had been angry about. I’m helpless not to think about him. Especially, lying alone in my cot at night. I think any woman who gets down to her bra and panties in bed at night can’t help but think about the men that really turn them on. Only, I never did before. Then, I daydreamed about nameless and faceless heroes. Perhaps, an actor every now and then, but mostly I just dreamed about the qualities I wanted on my faceless nighttime lover.

  Now though, I have a face and an incredible body to go with it. I’ve seen Captain Boa in just his sleeveless tee shirt and he has a magnificent, can’t take your eyes away, chest. The layers of sinew across the broad expanse make mouth-watering hills and tight valleys and his biceps bulge with pronounced muscles.

  The image of him, of his body, of his face, stirs me relentlessly and my sex swells making its demands known. The need curls and pulsates through my thighs and into my belly. I cannot deny it, I can only moan at the throbbing of my pussy and deeper inside where the walls hunger for attention and leak desire. Frantically, and to the shout of my yearnings, my fingers steal beneath the lace band of my panties, down between my legs. Then, I roughly jab the tender aching crease of my pussy. I'm not a gentle lover, but experienced in the loneliness of this demand as I delve my fingers between the hot sticky lips. Searching for that engorged bud I know is jutting toward my visions of Captain Boa.

  I gasp. Not knowing his name, I moan, “Captain.” Then I mewl again like a porno star in heat, and pant, “Captain,” once more with long drawn out vowels of lust. My bra rasps the blood-tight tips of my nipples and I yank the offending garment down, freeing those needy points with an aroused moan. My fingers scrape my clit in circles, pressing hard, as my other fingers pinch my budded nipples and I undulate my hips as though I'm being fucked by a rough man. I can still feel Captain Boa’s tough upper rib cage against by breasts. Praying in my senseless arousal that he could feel my nipples had gone puckered at just being close to him.

  My legs collapse open and my back arches as I fantasize about him touching me. My fingers are sopping wet as I rub my clitoris harder, and I reach my other fingers downward to stuff inside my vagina as though I'm being fucked hard. My vagina is burning and juicy and I get three fingers plowed inside m
e, then out, then plunged back inside, to my humping hips. I never used to be this sexual, but he makes me wild thinking about him.

  “Oh! Oh!”

  God. I spread my legs further, straight upward in a wide V. Opening myself completely, imagining him seeing me here, like a slut dripping wet and ready. What would be his favorite position to fuck my cunt? I only think that word when I get really horny, and my lust makes me slutty. I want it from behind and being a Variant, his cock would be inhumanly long and thick. I could barely take his mass inside me, because I’m so much smaller and I haven’t had sex much.

  “Ah! Ah!” I bend my knees to my chest, imagining him taking me this way. Pounding into me, hard and long, then I climax in quivering bursts, as I stifle my scream. “Captain!”

  I’m panting now, trying to catch my breath, but as satiated as a woman can be with her nighttime dream lover.

  If only he . . .

  Chapter Four

  “Ry, it is midnight.” I turn my head looking down at the automated inch-high holographic image. The image is the likeness of some busty blond model, most likely long dead. The image’s voice is softly feminine with a husky quality though. “Ry, it is midnight.” It won’t stop, until I answer. “Right,” I mutter and the holo-image blinks out.

  Twenty-four hundred hours, and I’m lying stretched out and naked on my bunk, trying to read Sun Tzu’s, The Art of War, with a hard cock. I tilt my head back. The images of her will not leave me. The reasons and the culprit for this lust are Rousseau, and it's provoking the hell out of me. She is just another womb-born female. Womb-born like my ex-wife and the ultimate reason we are no longer together. Not again.

  I slap my hand over my cock, near angrily curling my fingers around the thickness. I can feel the heat and hard rigidness against my fingers and palm. Just my hand’s grip and the firm squeeze of my fingers, are giving me instant pleasure.