CHAPTER 1 - TOAR
Nothing quite like being marched down the hallway by a squad of elite Pryok’tel slavers to put a dampener on your day. Shame, especially since up until now, I was otherwise having a fantastic time aboard the Oarthecan Space Services Navy (OSSN) Grolthon’s Spear.
It’s my sixth, and by all appearances, last day aboard the Spear, and even though during this time I was both a patient recovering from a near-fatal plasma blast and a prisoner in custody for breaking the Oarthecan Decree, I felt like I’d been on a bit of a holiday, really. It’s a misery that it’s come to an end the way it has—we were scheduled to arrive home tomorrow, but that’s all gone up in smoke.
Was looking forward to seeing my Dad, I was. He’d managed, under his authority as the High Baron Grithrawr XXI, to send me a personal message, which, due to my previous conviction in getting the Baron Thursk killed, is technically against the law. However, Dad’s not used to having his will thwarted, and I suspect that my near-death experience bought him the leverage he needed to bend the rules.
The message was genuinely kindly, if somewhat stern, which is a good summation of my baron-father in general. Though he is looking forward to me being home, Dad’s not entirely pleased with my recent escapades. Have the feeling he’s going to be far less pleased with my current ones, however.
Pity about all this, especially since I’m in a much better place health-wise than when I first arrived on the Spear, entirely due to the excellent care of my doctor, Yozthren Letherclan—or due to his penchant for unnecessary needles, Dr. Pokey, if he’s cared for you long enough. I hope he’s all right; it’s been a horrid morning for everyone aboard the Spear, and I’m worried, to a rage, about what these sireless Pryok’tel ghouls have planned for us.
Under Dr. Pokey’s vigilant eye (and still quite talented hands, but that’s just between him and me), I’ve all but made a full recovery from a rifle-shot that burned a fist-sized hole in my left side, just above my hip. I’ve had an intestine graft and a freshly cloned gallbladder installed, and according to yesterday’s medical exam, both have set up shop like they’ve always been there.
And while my two vaporised kidneys and damaged liver were still on my list of things to get sorted, Dr. Pokey told me there’s no desperate need for those, as my remaining two kidneys are handling things well enough and my liver’s at just under eighty percent. An incredible recovery, Dr. Pokey remarked, but it all seems a bit of a waste now.
As for my arrest for having broken the Oarthecan Decree that prevents contact between Oarth and human males (which I most thoroughly, and enjoyably, accomplished)—well, thanks to the kindness of Derrarvral Henthrothsire, captain of the Grolthon’s Spear, that’s been more of a formality than an actuality. Never even saw the brig, so kind he’s been to me.
The Decree, put in place to prevent contact with a human male’s permanent and lethally-charged Allure (that they have no control over, either), is one that is not to be trifled with, yet trifled with it I did: about a week ago, I’d rescued said human male, the incredibly handsome, wondrously intelligent and terrifically brave Rowland Hale, after his ship had been destroyed during a Pryok’tel raid. I then made the decision to help Rowland recover both his kidnapped crew and a stolen VEILLED system, which, had it fallen into the hands of the Pryok’tel, would have resulted in them learning how to turn their ships invisible.
Normally, the punishment for breaking the Decree is essentially life-time imprisonment and being permanently exiled from your family. So far, I’ve only been charged with breaking the Decree, and there’s quite a lot of mitigating circumstances that might save me from being convicted: my meeting Rowland was under an act of mercy, and our subsequent adventure not only prevented the VEILLED technology from being harvested, but also resulted in the rescue of his crew and twenty Oarth. Importantly, two of the rescued Oarth were barons, and one was an embercoat drone, our red-furred cousins who up until that rescue were thought to have been driven to extinction.
So instead of being sent to the brig for my crime, Derrar gave me the Spear’s guest suite, the one that’s usually reserved for high-ranking dignitaries. While not as fine as the Spear’s barons’ quarters, my room was nevertheless quite on the luxurious side. Tastefully decorated and wonderfully spacious, with good, sensible Oarthecan architecture throughout—curved walls, flowing lines, and not a sharp corner in sight.
On my first night, I discovered that I could stand fully upright, even on my tippy-toes, and still have excellent clearance for my head, which was a treat I’d not enjoyed on a spacecraft for quite some time. That, and my sleeping pit was so large and lush that I could stretch out entirely and not even reach the sides, and sink down deep for a proper sleep. Ah, I’ll miss that, for certain—the Pryok’tel don’t deem us Oarth worthy of proper rest, let alone proper bedding—it’s the cold floor for us drones, if we manage to survive ‘till bedtime, that is.
At this particular moment, I’m being led down the hallways of the Grolthon’s Spear by my nose via a sturdy metal chain that’s attached to a muzzle I’ve been forced to wear, and with the other end in the hands of the lead Pryok’tel raider. It’s not your typical muzzle, like the one you’d use to train a sharp-toothed cretralth, but a custom-built one the Pryok’tel designed specifically for us drones. It’s a full metal casing that fits round our heads and tightly over our nose and mouth, preventing us from using our sharp teeth as weapons, but that’s not the worst of it.
See, on the inside of the muzzle, there’s a series of semi-sharp spikes that dig painfully into our sensitive noses, so that every time that sireless corpsefucker pulls one end of the chain, those spikes bite into my tender skin, and I’m forced to comply with his directions, lest I end up with my nose gouged. He pulls on it for fun, of course—I’m keeping up with their quick pace down the hall, but he jerks the chain just to show who’s in charge. I have memorised the face of Chain-Holder; I will rip his nose off first before I kill him.
This isn’t my only restraint, mind you—my hands are shackled behind my back, high up, by a pair of gravity distortion manacles, encasing my arms up to the elbows, and preventing me from using my claws. It’s good that my busted shoulder has been fixed, but even now, I can feel the strain on where the injury was—my arms are nearly in the centre of my back, hoisted and held with no chance of escape—the stronger I pull on the shackles, the higher the distortion becomes, welding my arms together as the gravity increases.
The most embarrassing part of all this is that all I’m wearing is a set of ugly, loose-fitting, beige recovery scrubs. It’s the only clothes I had in my room, as my former Lurcaster’s Claw captain’s outfit was too damaged to salvage, and, well, even if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t’ve been allowed to wear it—was fired from my post, after all. Fact is, as hideous as they are, these scrubs have been rather useful, since I’ve been needing to undress frequently for my medical appointments, but they’re quite, uh, ‘flowy’, and a bit revealing, depending on how I sit.
As we make a fast pace to whatever Eternal-forsaken place the Pryok’tel are taking me to, I’ve got time to both survey my surroundings and think about the rubbish timing these triple-mouthed sire-spitters seem to luck out on. We were just one Under dive from Vor, the Oarthecan home system, and there’s no way the Pryok’tel would ever risk such a braz…
Chain-Holder gives the muzzle-chain a good yank, and the nasty interior spikes dig in viciously, causing me to grunt in pain and surprise. Apparently, I’m not moving fast enough for his liking. Pardon me, you blood-soaked devourer of children, if I’m not entirely thrilled to be following you. I had slowed, of course, to scan around, looking for a weapon, or a chance to escape, or at the very least an indication as to why the Grolthon’s Spear was taken over so quickly after we were boarded. I suspect the reason I’m not seeing any signs of battle has a lot to do with how they captured me.
*****
Their attack happened about an hour ago, before the shift-change to the ‘day-crew’, when most of the Spear’s personnel were still sleeping, myself included. Nothing quite like being woken from a lovely dream by the blaring alarm of ‘All hands brace! Incoming breach-wave!’ I’d bolted upright out of my pit, as the years of training I’ve had as a Navy officer instilled in me, and had about five seconds before we were rocked as that wave crashed into us.
My experience further told me that if the Spear was being affected by a breach-wave, then the ship that just dived in was a massive vessel, and it was breaching directly in our vicinity. The Grolthon’s Spear is a war-frigate, properly armed and armoured, and there’s only one ship I know that has the mass to affect us with its wake—a blightharpy, the scourge of the Pryok’tel Armada.
Blightharpies are planet-destroyer class war vessels, the pinnacle of armed ships in the triple-mouths’ fleet. They outclass our own warmongers in every way: firepower, Under dive capabilities, armour, crew—all of it; we’ve got nothing that can compete on a one-to-one basis. They carry a full contingent of their short-range attack vessels—scarabs, we call them—and their crew numbers over a thousand.
Planet-destroyer is not an exaggeration—blightharpies are heavily armed with anti-matter warheads, hyper-proton energy weapons, particle cannons and gravity-warping ordinance. Given enough time, they can literally tear planets apart from orbit.
Before I left the OSSN, we knew of only three blightharpies in existence: the Ul’tek-shar, the Hketh’this, and the Sheth-sa’khal, the last of which was destroyed by a joint flotilla of nine OSSN warmongers led by half of the Nurcillices Honour Flight, a battle that I was a part of some forty years ago while serving aboard our capital ship, the Star of Oartheca. To this day, there is a contingent of our best warmongers that constantly patrol Vor, just in case one of these blightharpies decides to go and make trouble for us. Great Eternal Oarth help us if both ever showed up.
While we’d managed to destroy the Sheth-sa’khal that day, we’ve no chance of replicating that here—a victory like that cannot be repeated with just one frigate and a plucky attitude, and so the corresponding ship-wide alert to prepare for emergency dive was exactly the order I’d have given were I in the captain’s seat. I wasn’t though, I was in my pit, in my starkers no less, and all I could do was just brace for our dive.
Which never came. Instead, the blightharpy’s opening attack hit us like the fist of the Eternal Himself. This bombardment was immediately followed by three short blares over the comms channel—signalling our hull had been breached, and we were being boarded. That meant escape was now impossible—a breached ship cannot generate an Under dive portal (well, not safely, at any rate) and our only course of action was to stand and fight, which—and I mean this only in the most cold-hearted practical sense—likely meant our collective deaths. One thing us Oarth have in common with the Pryok’tel is that we both fight to the death, at least when facing off against the other. We cannot win against this blightharpy, but we’ll take as many of them with us as we’re able to, that’s for certain, as surrender is out of the question.
Unfortunately, the Pryok’tel are master slavers, well-practised at capturing their prey alive, when they want to. I’m certain that the first hard jolt we received, just after their breach, was caused by one of their ‘ticks’ - a specially designed boarding vessel, literally shaped like a harpoon, that launches at a devastating speed, directly into the sides of their victim’s ship. The tip of the tick is made from reinforced titano-plating, and the raiding party is kept safely in the rear of the vessel, armed and at the ready. Once the tick pierces the victim ship’s hull, out pour the raiders, with carnage following in their wake.
There’s few defences against a tick—you can try shooting it down before it hits, which is a tricky shot even when you know it’s coming. A skilled pilot can move the ship in time, causing the tick to miss—it has no navigation capabilities, but you need distance and time to pull off a manoeuvre like that, and we’ve neither of those. Heavy ship-plating can offer some protection, but given the blightharpy breached at near point-blank range, there isn’t any amount of armour-plating that can block a tick’s strike from that distance.
And so there I was, trapped in my quarters, knowing that we were being raided and not being able to do a thing about it. The one caveat is that during my stay aboard the Grolthon’s Spear my door was locked, from the outside, whenever I was alone, just to give at least a token nod to the fact I was under arrest. No weapons, either, save for my own sharp fangs and sturdy claws, and the strength I can put behind those when it’s needed.
Since my room is sound-proof, I couldn’t hear whatever was happening outside my doors—the only sign that we were under attack was the constant triple-blare of the alarm, signalling the combat was still active. That alarm cut out about twenty minutes later—and I thought for sure we’d be getting an announcement that we’d repelled the invasion party, but no such welcome news came. That’s when the real worry hit—cutting the inter-system comms can only be done directly from engineering, or by way of a bridge command. Either of those options spelled out how bad a day this was going to be.
I prepared myself, facing the door, ready to tear the head off the first Pryok’tel raider that stepped inside, but that never happened. The door just slid open on its own, showing the hallway, eerily lit by pale emergency lighting.
Immediately, I smelled plasma weapon discharge—the scent heavy in the air, indicating there’d been a recent firefight. But no blood, either Oarth or Pryok’tel, nor the smell of burned fur or flesh. I found that odd and a bit disturbing—one of the things I count on to tell me the state of a battle is the smells that accompany it—and bodies, living or otherwise, smell strongly.
I did smell my fellow crewmen, their various personal scents drifting on the air, like they always do, but no Pryok’tel. Their vaguely citrusy, bromine-tinted stench is unmistakable, and it was completely absent from the air. It could be their raiding gear was containing their aroma—they wear near jet black, single piece bodysuits that seal them in, then heavy armour over top of that. But surely we’ve injured at least one of them, enough to break the armour and expose the soft bits inside?
No, according to my nose at least, and that was as confusing as it was disheartening. Cautiously, I stepped out into the hall, sniffing along the way, but still only getting the same scent-hits as I was before—the crew of the Grolthon’s Spear, but no needle-mouths. The hallway was empty of either crew or raiders, and there were no obvious signs of a fight—the walls were undamaged, all the lights were dimmed but still functioning; Eternal, the floors were still clean. What was going on?
I saw it, then, down the hallway, at the intersection, travelling perpendicular to me. A small, floating orb of some kind—mechanical, for certain, about half the size of a dulian and hovering about three-quarters of the way up from the ground. Covered in a black metallic sheen, it had one large, front-facing ‘eye’ that looked like it was a camera, along with a small series of blinking yellow lights on its top and bottom, and a short antenna sprouting upwards from its back.
I froze in place, studying this horrid little robot I’d never seen before, wondering what in the blazes could it be, when suddenly it turned that camera-eye towards me, and I instantly knew whatever it was, it did not bode well for me. I turned away immediately, wanting to head in the opposite direction as fast as possible before that thing caught sight of me.
But I’d no sooner finished turning around when I discovered I was near face-to-face with another orb, identical to the first, and floating a hand’s breath from my face. My eyes bugged, and I splayed my fingers wide, meaning to swat this thing into oblivion, when I saw some mechanical iris deep inside its camera eye expand and then …
A flash. Immediate confusion. Light-headedness. A low, awful, vibrating sound. I felt myself falling backwards, like my bell had been rung by a solid punch, only there’d been no physical impact. I was conscious just as I hit the ground, seeing that floating orb hover over me, turning its eye in my direction again. Another flash, then blackness.
I felt unkind hands over me, distant voices, low and mean-sounding. Couldn’t make out words, but the tone alone told me they were Pryok’tel. Something being forced over my mouth, and then I’m rolled onto my stomach, my limp arms yanked painfully behind my back, then upwards. A few seconds passed, and then a voice spitting the foul Pryok’tel language at me.
‘Get up, beast.’
A searing pain erupted across my nose, so intense my eyes bolted open, and all dizziness fled before it. That’s when I saw the chain leading from my nose right into the foul hands of a Pryok’tel Sub-Secundus, his expression a mixture of boredom and disgust. Were it not for the fact three of his fellow cannibal colleagues were all pointing stun-rifles at me, I’d have barrelled into the chain-holding baronspite and crushed the life out of him against the wall.
Thankfully, my common sense prevailed—those stun-rifles fire a wicked electrical bolt into their victims, and I couldn’t really see the benefit of getting shocked into unconsciousness again—those rifles don’t always work the way they’re intended to, either, sometimes frying their victims to death instead. I figured it was better to comply, and soon—patience is not a common trait amongst Pryok’tel.
*****
That brings me to where I am now. With no choice but to obey, I stood, and we were off down to wherever we’re headed, which, based on the path we’re taking, is leading us towards the Secondary Cargo Bay. I’m still scanning the halls as best I can, looking for clues, for an escape, for help—but no luck on any of those fronts—and this damn muzzle is blocking my sense of smell, not making my search any easier.
Not seen any bodies, which is a mixed blessing—the Pryok’tel take the concept of ‘no man left behind’ to its most awful conclusion, after all—until, when we turn a corner, I see a suncoat lieutenant slumped against the side of a wall, and then a woodcoat cadet, lying face-up, a little further down the hall.
They’re both alive from what I can tell, as we pass by them—unconscious, it appears, and no signs of visible injury—I guess they met their own floating robot orbs. My Pryok’tel escorts pay the crewmen no heed, stepping around or over them, and a violent jerk on my chain ensures I’m not able to stop to assist these two men—wherever we’re headed, the Pryok’tel want us to be there, and now.
We find more of the Spear’s crew the further we progress—it appears we’re nearing the source of the tick’s initial breach point, and I’m immensely proud that now I start seeing some Pryok’tel corpses, well and properly killed. But that’s odd—the Pryok’tel collect all bodies, including their own, but these have just been left here to befoul the Spear’s halls. There’s been no effort to retrieve any of these people, Oarth or Pryok’tel. Perhaps there’s not been a chance to, but it’s still disturbingly unusual—Pryok’tel are famed for their speed in harvesting.
Eventually, we arrive at the Secondary Cargo Bay, and my day does not appear like it’s going to improve as I’m led inside. The first horror to assault my eyes is that of Captain Derrar, bound by gravity clamps to a cargo crate, and sat upright. He’s been badly beaten—his poor, handsome face a rough mess of injuries—his right eye’s been boxed hard, swollen shut, and he bleeds from a cut above it, and his torn left ear looks as wretchedly painful. He too has been made to wear a drone-muzzle, and as his one good eye, a rich blue with crackling dark rims, finds me, his shoulders slump with defeat.
Beside Derrar, a Secundus sits, casually pointing a plasma pistol at his head. She has an astute, assessing look as she sees me enter the room, and makes a quick glance down to the touchpad she’s holding in her other hand. Her uniform, a light blue colour, denotes that she’s administrative personnel, as opposed to the dark mossy green of the combat personnel escorting me. Make no mistake though—she is a Secundus, and is more than capable—and likely as willing—to blow Derrar’s head off without a second thought.
The next thing I notice is that there’s a lot of Oarth in the room—more than thirty of us, and we’ve got three things in common: we’re all bound, we’ve all got weapons pointed at us, and we’re all stormcoats. All of us; not one shade of fur outside the range of grey, apart from the warm brown of Derrar.
I meet the eyes of Dr. Yoz and we both silently assess each other; he appears none too worse for wear, though his normally tidy medical officer’s uniform’s been torn and scuffed, and his pewter-grey fur, which he’s always keen to keep neatly presented, is now all messed and jumbled, which is likely annoying him.
The look he gives me, his intelligent green eyes filled with worry, tells me that he’s relieved to know I’m alright, but not happy to see me. I’m sure none of us are pleased we’ve all been assembled like this; separated out, specifically by our coat colour, which seems an ill omen. Pryok’tel have their uses for men according to the colour of our fur, with woodcoats, stormcoats and snowcoats all being designated for slave labour, and suncoats and nightcoats having uses too grim to mention when dealing with cannibals—but that there’s only us stormcoats here means these Pryok’tel ghouls have something else in mind for us today. What that is will undoubtedly not be in our favour.
My reunion with Dr. Yoz is cut short when Chain-Holder steps in front of my view, yanking my chain so that I’m forced to face him. I meet the dark, dull rust of his contemptuous eyes. He’s young for a Pryok’tel male—there’s an unscathed quality about his face, the faded orange hue of his skin seems too fresh and clear, but it’s his eyes that really snitch that he’s inexperienced; those rust-coloured irises are too shifty, too impatient, as he looks me over.
There is something about him that seems familiar, though—I’ve seen enough of these child-eaters to recognise individual faces, and the features of this fiend ring a distant memory bell, but before I can contemplate further, he speaks, his voice rich with the typical arrogance they reserve for us.
‘Pay attention,’ he orders, showing me the first rows of his needle-sharp teeth as he barks at me. Pryok’tel have three versions of their mouths, and depending on their mood or activity, the mouth is either a single slit, a wide gash, or a giant ballooned nest of fangs. Right now, this boy’s between his first and second mouth, trying to intimidate me. He’s failing.
‘You’re to be asked a series of questions, and you’re to answer them immediately, and truthfully. To do this, your restraint will be removed. Make any attempt to fight, or flee, and we open fire on your crew. Lie, or keep silent, and it’s the same outcome. This is your only warning. If you want to disobey, please feel welcome to. We owe you some deaths.’
He gives one last hard, short jerk on my chain, before asking:
‘You understand, yog-thi?’ This Pryok’telish word means someone who is too liberal with their sexual activities, and there’s no translation for that concept in Oarthecan—my Universal Translator makes a half-hearted attempt (‘man who dens too much’), but as I speak Pryok’telish fluently, I still understand his poor insult. I hold back from scowling; Pryok’tel are a too-sensitive lot, and he’s looking for an excuse, so best not to give him one. I nod instead.
Chain-Holder signals one of his raider companions, who steps behind me, and after a moment of fiddling with the locking mechanism, the muzzle releases, and is removed. The smell of my own blood is the first thing that greets me; those spikes have left me a nasty token of remembrance, one that will make itself known each time I sniff for the next few days.
The man whose face I’ll one day chew off nods his head in the direction of the Secundus, and she regards me with the classic Pryok’tel impatience. Her pistol rises though, and now points directly at Derrar’s skull. He and I exchange looks; I hope the one I give him tells him that everything will be all right, though we both know it won’t be. I can’t make out his expression too well, it’s too buried by his injuries, but I like to think he gave me the same one in return.
‘Name and rank,’ the Secundus demands, coldly. She regards me with ever-increasing irritation.
‘Toar Grithrawrscion. Civilian.’ I give my legal baronsname, instead of the one I have in my heart—Halesire—but I won’t think more on that right now. I’ll not bring the sweet memory of Rowland into this awful moment, though it would provide me much-needed comfort.
One of her arched eyebrows rises, and she turns her head to the former chain-holder, exchanging some hidden message with a glance. That’s not good.
Her cruel eyes regard me again. ‘Our records indicate Toar Grithrawrscion is captain of the stolen mining station Hyr’set-lonoss, which was embarrassingly renamed to the Lurcaster’s Claw. Did you fail to understand what the Sub-Secundus just explained about lying? Clarify your statement—are you Toar Grithrawrscion, captain of the Lurcaster’s Claw?’
‘No, I’m no longer the Claw’s captain,’ I state. I want to pay her back for her jibe about the Claw’s proper name, but Derrar’s temple is less than a handsbreadth from the barrel of her plasma pistol, and she looks like the type that has a too-casual trigger finger. ‘I’m a civilian now.’ No need to let them know I was fired. Less they know, and all.
She contemplates my statement, and then turns to address Derrar. ‘Verify. Is this man who he says he is?’
Derrar tries for an apologetic look, I think. I don’t know who’s hurt him as badly as he has been, and so I resolve that every needle-mouth in this room will receive equal comeuppance for what they’ve done to my dear Derrar. We’ve been flirting, in a casual, friendly manner, during my short stay, but I was of two minds on whether or not to invite him to my den—it’s complicated, my feelings on asking him, but at least it’s nothing to do with him physically—he’s truly handsome, our Derrar is, and even more kindly—we get on quite well. He’s done so much for me these past few days, it’d be an honour to spend an evening and some, sharing pleasure. But it’s a tricky situation, denning with another, especially since Rowland is constantly on my mind, and in my heart.
These thoughts vanish from my head when I see the Secundus jab the barrel of her pistol against Derrar’s skull, prompting him to answer, now. He relents and nods his head. Identity verified. The Secundus exchanges another look with Chain-Holder, then nods, pressing a button on her touchpad and making the following announcement, which is piped through the Spear’s ship-wide comms.
‘Asset acquired. Execute Phase One finalisation.’
I’ve got a split moment to process that awful and confusing statement, and voice a protest against it, but instead, my muzzle is forced back on me. I’m near to risking a struggle, but the Secundus just keeps her pistol levelled at Derrar, and that forces me into compliance. Soon those foul spikes go back against the tenderised flesh of my nose, and Chain-Holder and his team shove me, to be led out of the room. I turn my head to get one last look at my friends, Derrar and Yoz, and see that the remaining Pryok’tel troops in the room are all raising their rifles, pointing them at my bound stormcoat brethren. It’s going to be an execution. A purge. Eternal Oarth, please spare us!
He spares me, alone, as I’m taken out of the room before I can see the awfulness that will befall my kin, the door sliding shut, silencing the fate of the fine crew of the Spear. Another painful chain pull has me racing with the four butchers, back down the hall, further along from the way we came.
The turns and twists of the Spear’s corridors tell me that we’re on our way to the Primary cargo bay, and there are increasing signs of interior battle-damage as we progress: plasma blast-marks, yellow blood and more than one dead Pryok’tel are to be seen, but no Oarth corpses, at least. We do pass more unconscious Spear crew-members, and noting that none of them are stormcoats, I come to a grim realisation.
Me. This entire raid was to find me. But why? Well, I suppose that’s obvious enough: revenge. I did, after all, take part in the capture of a Pryok’tel vulture-class patrol vessel, and participated in the subsequent destruction of said vessel’s entire crew; sixty-some-odd foul cannibals met their fate at Rowland’s and my hands. Or rather, at their own hands, in a sense: clever Rowland found a way to hack their ship’s systems, disintegrating the entire Pryok’tel crew using their own ship-wide cleaning routines, sterilising all organic matter that wasn’t shielded, which Rowland ensured was only the two of us, plus some fellow Oarth and Rowland’s crew, stored in hypno-stasis. I find myself smiling at this memory, even as I’m being dragged by the nose down the hallway.
But my fond memories of such a heroic victory are dispelled the instant my captors and I step into the Primary Cargo Bay: here I see the ugly, brutal tick vessel, having breached the side of the Spear’s hull, its bow smashed and damaged but its purpose served. Emergency shielding is holding back the vacuum of space from the wound, and the raiding party the tick was carrying has set up full shop here, lowering the Spear’s cargo bay doors to allow another vessel to board. Seeing what this second vessel is, my heart sinks: in Pryok’telish, they call it a vut’ur, but us Oarth call it a ‘flea’.
The simplest way to describe this flea is a chair strapped to two oversized Under drives; basically, a super low-mass vessel with disproportionally large Under drives, allowing it to dive massive distances with fast recharge times, but at the expense of anything that resembles safety. The crew cabin welded to these drives is barely habitable, having only rudimentary life-support, navigation, communication and minimal propulsion. There’s no weapons, no interstellar engines, no real armour nor shielding, no gravity plating, and definitely nothing that will resemble comfort in the interior of this windowless metal tube.
But wherever we’re going, we’ll get there in record time—these little death-traps are used to race across the galaxy, not sparing the whip. That’s why we call them fleas—they’re small, dangerous and can cover incredible distances in a single bound. And far too easily squished. If I wasn’t nervous before, I’m most certainly now.
I get no time to dwell on my worries though, as they force me up the flea’s makeshift gangplank. As I’m brought inside, my eyes bulge at two of the passengers already on board, and though Chain-Holder gives me a vicious yank, forcing my head away from these passengers, their identities are unmistakable in the quick glance I was afforded—they are the two barons we rescued.
I didn’t get to meet them in person, what with me recovering from my injuries and they, from what Derrar explained to me, being highly untrusting of us. Derrar did provide a description of them of course, at length, given their natural beauty, and from that description, I can see that these two are most definitely the barons Rowland and I rescued when we captured the vulture.
One is a nightcoat, like my former baron and father of my children, the Baron Cralren IV, only this gorgeous one is from the southern region of their home continent, so his hair is a soft black instead of the glossy ink the father of my children has, and where Cralren has the lushest bronze tone to his skin, this one is fair, close to Rowland in colour, perhaps a shade or two more pale. Ravishing, at a word, even with the split second I was able to see him.
The second is a suncoat and could be the twin of another suncoat baron I knew, the Baron Thursk. Blond as the sun is bright, this incredible beauty has the same luscious umber tones to his skin, and his sharply angled features are so like the Baron Thursk’s that I wonder if the two of them were related. They must come from the same section on the suncoat continent—Western Suncoat, the land of great thinkers, inventors and practitioners of some of the most erotic and sensuous arts known to Oarth, some of which were taught to me during my training to be a sire. The tongue trick I showed Rowland, where you wrap your tongue down and around the length of your partner’s cock, then hum deeply, is a classic Western Suncoat technique—it is called the Harmony of Rapture for a reason, as I can attest.
Not that I’ve got a chance to confirm their backgrounds, however, as I’m led towards the rear of the metallic tube that’s pretending to be a vessel. I’m correct about its interior—the cold metal shell has little more than a cockpit, some benches lining the walls, where the barons are sat, floor plating and a small, enclosed area that likely contains their head.
I’m led pass this to the very back, through a sealing hatch and into a small access corridor, leading to the engine room. I’m then forced to my knees, as my muzzle chain is fed through a floor grate, then pulled taut so that my head is dragged to the ground, my arse up in the air like I’m about to be rogered something fierce. Which I am, figuratively speaking only, of course—the Pryok’tel are many foul things but rapists are not among them—at least, not where Oarth are concerned, as far as I know.
‘Asset secured, begin departure phase,’ the chain holding baronspite orders, and after a moment, hails his lead vessel, the blightharpy. ‘Ul’tek-shar, mission Phase One successful. All assets obtained. Proceeding to Phase Two.’
‘Confirmed. Proceeding to Phase Two,’ a voice over his suit’s comms system responds.
Since my face is currently pressed to the floor, I can’t really see what’s happening next, but it’s easy enough to guess—I hear the flea’s engines start, and soon enough, we are departing the Spear. It’s a moment or so more before I feel weightlessness set in, as we leave the Spear’s artificial gravity sphere, and are in open space. This flea has no gravity plating of its own, which reduces its mass significantly, allowing for those incredible dives it’s famous for, but my arm restraints do have a gravity field, so I’m not sent drifting upwards to the ceiling.
There are more commands exchanged between Chain-Holder and the flea’s pilot, as we prepare for the first Under dive to wherever we’re heading, which I’m fairly certain is Pryok’tel space. The borders of the Hegemony are sixty-seven lightyears from Vor, our home system, and while I’m not sure exactly of this flea’s dive capabilities, it wouldn’t surprise me if we hit those borders in a couple of days’ time. It’s going to be a long trip, regardless of the actual amount of time it takes.
As I hear the flea’s Under drives begin to spool, I’m left to contemplate exactly how I can make our travel time work to my advantage, trying to form a plan of escape. Doesn’t look good for me, honestly, but I find my thoughts return to Rowland, and how he showed me that nothing’s impossible, if you care enough, if you refuse to give in. Rowland, my brave, bold and beautiful baron, managed a victory under similarly dark circumstances, and I can too—granted, I don’t have a gigantic brain and a cybernetically augmented body, but I’m not entirely without abilities of my own.
I’ve got sharp teeth and even sharper claws, which although currently not available for usage, are still in my arsenal. I’ve got brawn and a stout heart, and a lot of experience in fighting the Pryok’tel: there’s only five of them on board; Chain-Holder, his entourage, and the pilot, and while they’ve all got plasma-weapons and stun-guns, I won’t let that stop me from trying to make an escape attempt. And there’s two barons on board, who may turn out to be allies—we’re Oarth, after all, and the blood of our people is thick.
Even if it means I die in the attempt, I’ll escape these triple-mouthed scions of the damned. There’s no choice in that matter for me—I’ll not become a slave, I’ll not comply with whatever purpose these bloody ghouls have for me. I’ll die fighting them sooner than live serving them.
And there’s Derrar to avenge, and my fellow stormcoats, likely all dead now, what with the Pryok’tel having found what they came for: me. Poor Dr. Yoz; he’s done so much for me, these past few days. What an awful way for him to be rewarded for all his hard work, fixing me up so well.
I’ll put that hard work to good use, I will. I’ll get out of these restraints. I’ll tear this raiding party apart. Not sure how, just yet, but Eternal mark my words, those Pryok’tel will all die for what they’ve done today.
Every. Single. One.
