Taking His Captive

by Viki Storm

  “Let the time of one hour begin…” the Boss proclaims over the loudspeaker. “Now.”

  The Blade begins to swing back and forth, and the first slice is surprisingly gentle, like a whisper in the dark. But I’m not foolish enough to think that this is the worst of it.

  The worst of it is my left leg. I keep my knee locked, remembering somewhere that locking your knees can cause you to faint but knowing that it’s my only hope to keep standing.

  Or maybe this is stupid.

  Maybe trying to outlast The Blade is letting them win.

  I’m outmatched. And I know it. So maybe I shouldn’t even try.

  Squirming and screaming and relenting and sitting down at minute thirty-three, that is not victory over these assholes.

  Maybe I should just sit down right now with a smile on my face. One slice and it will be over with, total time on the clock fifteen seconds.

  Yes, I think.

  These fuckers are not going to have the satisfaction.

  “Fuck it,” I yell to the crowd. “I didn’t need my leg that much anyway!”

  There is a roar of applause from my fellow humans, and I feel a surge of hope in my chest. Yes, this is the right move. Better to end this now, on my own terms, while I have strength in my bones and a spirit still unbroken.

  But right as I am about to sit down, the comm speakers blare out: “STOP THE BLADE!”

  And while the overseers are cruel, they are just as obedient as the human workers when the Boss gives an order.

  I sit down on the chair, but the blade stops immediately.

  My eyes sting as the two Trogii lead me through the Corva coil assembly room. The caustic chemicals are not even the worst of it. There’s about a thousand humans huddled together, and the lack of dedication to their personal hygiene is apparent.

  Corva coils are an essential component for all spacecraft that fly beyond light speed, so I assumed their manufacture would be a sophisticated, high-tech endeavor. I imagined this factory would be state-of-the-art, a gleaming white clean-room with robotic arms and engineers in lab coats. The humans working here are little more than beasts dressed in rags, the smell of fear radiating off of them in waves more potent than either the manufacturing chemicals or unwashed skin.

  The girl must be here. The one I was sent for.

  “That’s her,” one of the Trogii says. He’s pointing at the huddled mass of humans, and it takes me a moment to realize that all the workstations are unmanned, the tables and chairs empty, unused coils and wires littering the surfaces. I didn’t notice the empty workstations because I’m distracted by the smell of fear. It’s assaulting my sensory pads in thick, yellow waves.

  Something is going on. Something bad.

  “Where?” I ask. He points again, but this time I track his finger and see what he’s pointing at. There is a female at the front of the crowd. No, it’s not a crowd—it’s an audience. She wears a filthy rag around her torso, but her long legs are bare. She’s trussed up in some primitive contraption—a wooden frame with pulleys, harnesses and… a blade?

  “What sort of factory are you running here?” I can’t help but ask. Slavery is not in the Zalaryn tradition, so it’s hard for me to understand the system the Trogii have in place.

  “One of the slaves took up arms against an overseer,” he casually explains.

  Well, that I can understand. Order and rank are fundamental to any smoothly run organization.

  Except this female is tiny and more than half-starved. It should be beneath the dignity of the Trogii to acknowledge her transgression. The equine does not demand retribution on the insectoid that bites it—it merely brushes it away, the insectoid being unworthy of more effort than that. What possible harm could she do with a weapon?

  “You fear a feeble, scrawny female?” I ask. “I never knew the Trogii were such a skittish race.”

  “We fear nothing,” he says, the jowls of his wide, fat face jiggling with indignation. “But we do not tolerate insubordination.” I let it go.

  “She’s number 07526?” I ask.

  “The very same,” the Trogii responds.

  Normally, I wouldn’t be risking my ass over one measly human, but this measly human is supposed to know everything about her father’s anti-Rulmek plot. Supposedly, Pior’s daughter, also known as Worker Number 07526, is the key to stopping the Rulmek, the Guuklar—all of the fell races involved in the fleshtrade. They’re a scourge on the sector, a threat to the stability and colonization efforts that the Zalaryns have been fighting for for generations.

  Much of our population was wiped out generations ago when a Sickness rendered the majority of our females sterile and deformed. A cure was found, but it’s taken us a long time to recover. We are building our numbers back up and have recently started to colonize suitable planets. One of which, Lekyo Prime, is the home to a new Zalaryn colony. We’re sharing it with a human settlement, which is fine with me, so long as the humans don’t try to intermingle with us—and so long as they realize that the Zalaryns are the superior power and respect our advanced technology and intellect.

  The Rulmek have been threatening to invade Lekyo Prime, and we thought we dispensed with their largest host… until we received a message from the Guuklar warlord informing us of his imminent arrival and plans to take captives from our planet.

  And this human female, daughter of the rebel leader, the one tied up and ready to be punished for insubordination, is our only chance to stop it.

  It’s hard to believe that she holds the knowledge that will help us. After all, she was stupid enough to take up arms against the Trogii—what valuable knowledge could one so stupid possess?

  “If she’s 07526,” I say, “then get her down from there. She belongs to me now.”

  “She doesn’t belong to you until you hand over the coin,” the Trogii responds. But he takes out his comm device and quickly speaks into it, using the Trogii language that I can only partially understand.

  A voice on the loudspeaker announces that the punishment is to stop; the human is going to be sold. The sooner I can get off this damned planet, the better. It’s an eerie place, nothing but factories belching smoke and chemical gasses. No thriving cities, no geographical landmarks, just rocks and industry. It must be a miserable place to live—and not just for the human slaves who work in the factories.

  The Trogii march me right up to the front of the crowd, and I try my best not to gape at the condition of the humans. I know humans are primitives, but this is ridiculous. Half of them aren’t wearing shoes, for the love of the Void.

  Then I see the female captive up close. Her dark hair is matted and pasted to her skull with sweat and oil, there are thick black smudges of fatigue under her eyes, and her hip bones jut awkwardly underneath the sallow skin. Blood is starting to coagulate from a wound on her leg.

  She has not a whit of the aura of desperation and defeat of the others huddled in the crowd.

  She’s standing tall and proud, despite being bound up in the Trogii torture device. Like she’s not even here, undergoing such brutal treatment. Like she’s somehow been able to retain her dignity despite all this madness.

  That’s when I realize it. When I sense it.

  She’s got strength. Raw power.

  And if there’s one thing a Zalaryn responds to, it’s power.

  “Unharness her now,” I command. The sight of such a magnificent creature in a state of humiliation and torment makes my blood boil. “Be quick about it, you brutes. She needs medical treatment and a hot meal. You should be sickened by the condition of your slaves.”

  “What business is it of yours how we treat our slaves?” one of the Trogii grunts at me.

  “It’s my business because I’m paying good coin for one. She’s not your slave anymore, she’s mine.”

  And as soon as I say it, I realize that it’s true.

  This female—this human—is mine. I want her more than anything else I’ve ever wanted. Something inside me is kindl
ing at the thought of having her, touching her, protecting her. Scooping her up and holding her tight.

  They free her and she takes a tentative, wobbly step forward, but her knees buckle instantly. With one quick move, I reach out and grab her. I only intended to keep her from falling, but my body responded without my brain’s consent. I pull her close to me, wrapping my arms around her frail body. “You’re safe now,” I whisper in her ear, speaking what I hope is her language.

  I reach into my waist pouch and withdraw the agreed-upon sum, foisting it into the warty hand of the nearest Trogii. “Here,” I say. “This concludes our business.”

  I’ve never wanted to leave somewhere as badly as I want to leave this factory. And not just because of the chemicals or the smell or the deplorable condition in which the slaves are kept.

  I want to leave with her.

  I push the feelings away: admiration of her strength, wanting to protect her, wanting to murder the cretins who are mistreating her.

  I need to be able to concentrate and get out of here. These feelings, they can’t be for the human. It’s probably just the feeling of my mission about to be completed.

  She’s mine, I’d thought. My mission objective—and I’m not leaving without her.

  All those other thoughts… well, I’ll just chalk that up to eagerness to get her and use her knowledge to keep our settlement on Lekyo Prime safe.

  I lift her up, surprised again at how little she weighs. I carry her down the factory floor, the filthy retinue of humans eying us with a mixture of disbelief and fear.

  We’re at the door, just a few centimeters away from freedom, when it bursts open so fast that I almost don’t have time to back away from it.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” says another Trogii, but he’s speaking in a weird accent that I can’t place, plus his tunic is dyed a vibrant yellow, and his feet are wrapped in shoes of authentic leather.

  “Oh?” I ask.

  “My foolish associates seem to have forgotten that this particular human is not for sale.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “I already paid for her.”

  “She’s 07526,” he says. “Not for sale. We don’t technically own her. We’re merely leasing her services. I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to select another female. We have other fine specimens. Please now, follow me to our administrative quarters and I can pull their records for you—”

  “I don’t care what number she is,” I say. I pull her a little closer with one hand and put the other hand on the end of my weapon. “She’s mine.”

  The Trogii takes a tentative step towards me, his garish yellow garments flowing about his stocky legs. “I apologize for the mix-up,” he says again.

  “You can apologize twenty more times,” I say, “but it makes no difference. This female is coming with me. I bought her. I own her.”

  “Alas,” he says. “She is not for sale.”

  “That makes no difference to me,” I say. I sense danger, that this administrator is stalling for time until his muscle can arrive. I flip the switch on my anankah and pull it from my belt. I point it at the Trogii but do not deploy a blastwave. Yet. “We’ll be leaving now.”

  I set the female down in case I need to fight. “Can you walk?” I ask her. She understands me, because she says that she can. We leave through the door, brushing past the Trogii in the yellow garments. She’s got a pronounced limp, most likely an injury from that cruel contraption. I will need to tend to her wounds before we travel to Lekyo Prime.

  We make our way down the corridor, and I’m not surprised to be greeted by four stout Trogii decked-out in armor plates and with particle blasters in their hands.

  “Female,” I whisper in her ear. “Before I risk a war with these Trogii, tell me your father’s name.”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Stop right there,” one of the Trogii says, his particle blaster leveled straight at my chest. One twitch of his finger on the trigger and the atoms of my heart and lungs will be rearranged into a nice new pattern on the floor.

  “Your father’s name?” I repeat. I want to be sure I have the correct female before I start a blood feud between the Trogii and Zalaryns.

  “Pior,” she whispers. Her voice is soft, but there is no weakness in it. No fear.

  “Very well,” I say. I point my anankah at the Trogii bruisers and send a blastwave strong enough to bowl all four of them over. They grunt in surprise and humiliation, but I know they won’t be down long; I didn’t have my weapon charged high enough to kill them.

  I don’t want to engage with the Trogii any more than I have to. My priority is getting out of here with my human. Sweet Void, why do I keep thinking about her like that? She’s my mission target. I can’t go on some elaborate crusade against the Trogii. I have to think about Lekyo Prime and all the newly arrived Zalaryn settlers.

  And my human.

  Did he say that he just bought me? That he owns me?

  I mean, I should be happy. Or at least relieved. I don’t have to get my leg sliced off one inch at a time, but now some other alien bastard shows up and… I’m his? What’s with these bastards, thinking they can just trade me around?

  Little does this jerk know that the second his back is turned, I’m out of here.

  We take off in his small ship, but almost as soon as we’re out of orbit, he sets the autopilot and tells me to get into the escape pod.

  “Didn’t we just escape?” I ask.

  “Human, there’s no time for questions,” he replies. “Eat this while we take off. Only one or two bites, otherwise your stomach will reject it. And you’ll be cleaning up vomit in zero-gravity.” Great, some violent alien brute just bought me (or stole me, depending on the perspective)—and he’s rude, too. He hands me a small white block. It’s oily to the touch, but I don’t hesitate a second before I take a bite. It’s slightly savory but otherwise flavorless. Still, it’s the best thing I’ve had in months, since the slaves were given our quarterly ration of dried fruit.

  “Okay, alien,” I retort through a mouthful of his protein bar. I recognize him as a Zalaryn, but I won’t give him the respect of the proper name of his race. “But you just bought me, then stole me—and you needed to know my father’s name? What in the hell is going on? Can I relax a little?”

  “You should never relax. Not in this Universe.”

  “Then we’re headed into another firefight?” I ask.

  “That was no firefight back there,” he says. I try to study his face, to see if it’s full of masculine bravado or if he is really just that big of a brute—but he senses my stare and shoots me a look that makes me lower my eyes immediately. There’s something about him, like he’s a mass of unrefined power. Like a corvium crystal before it’s processed into its metallic form of Corva. A speck of corvium crystal is highly volatile, corrosive and toxic. It’s of little use to anyone in that form. But after it’s refined into Corva, it’s stable and a form of pure energy, ready to serve the needs of any advanced civilization.

  So what is he? The corvium or the Corva?

  “At least tell me why you asked me my father’s name?” I ask. My heart is full of hope, though I know it’s foolish. Every day and night for months, that was the idea that kept me going: Dad will send someone. But time went by and no one came.

  Until this guy. Alien. Whatever. He almost looks human, except for that dark reddish skin. And the bald head with those bumps. I think they’re some sensory receptors. But I know that he’s no human. He’s an alien, and I’ve had enough dealings with aliens to know not to trust them.

  “Did he send you?” I let myself ask.

  “In a way,” the Zalaryn says. “Enough talk. I will explain everything when we’re safe.” He unlatches his harness, and I follow suit. He initializes the escape pod and opens the hatch.

  “We’re not safe now?” I ask.

  “In this Universe,” he says, “no one is ever safe. You should know that by now. Get in.”

  I ho
bble over to the escape pod, and the pain in my leg is even worse now that I’ve had a chance to sit a while and stiffen up. I wince as I climb inside the small hatch, and he follows me.

  Now that my adrenaline levels are back down to normal (or at least as normal as possible, considering I’ve just been taken by yet another alien) I am keenly aware that I’m half-naked. My pants were stripped off before my time with The Blade, and my shirt is a threadbare swath of muslin that I wrap around my breasts to keep them supported during the day. I have—had—a coat, but I shed that at my worktable earlier in the day when it became too hot in the factory. The end of the muslin wrap untucked itself during our escape, and I could only hastily tuck it back underneath, but it’s been loose and shifting out of place the entire time. I need to take it off and re-wrap it properly, but I’m definitely not doing that in the close confines of the escape pod.

  I sit down in the pod and buckle my harness, hoping to get some coverage from the straps. I look at the alien and he’s eying me, staring at my body with an intense, almost predatory look in his eyes. Covetousness, perhaps. Hunger. He looks the way I’d look at a piece of fire-broiled meat if it was set in front of me right now. Stay away, that look says, mine.

  I suppose I am his now. He bought me. Stole me. Rescued me. One or the other—it doesn’t really matter what you call it.

  He takes a long breath in through his mouth and then sits down. When his mouth was open, I saw that he’s got an extra set of canine teeth top and bottom, further adding to his predatory, covetous look. I should be scared, but somehow I’m not. It’s not the relief of escaping the Trogii or The Blade. It’s just… I don’t know what it is, but even though he’s gruff and leering and just took me captive, I know he’s not going to hurt me.

  He could. Either now or when we land, he could easily overpower me, tear off the last flimsy rags that cover my body and take his pleasure with me. He could thoroughly use every opening on my body to satisfy his lust and leave me gaping and filled with seed.

  Maybe I’m naïve. But somehow I don’t think so. The primal instinct inside me that’s attuned to danger is not picking up any bad signals from him. And I’ve been around enough evil pricks lately to have fine-tuned that danger instinct to pinpoint precision.