The Short Sexual History of Coora, a Slave by Olga Anastasia

The Short Sexual History of Coora – A Slave.Olga’s note:

Stephenie Meyer, author of the Twilight novels, wrote a short story retold from the viewpoint of a minor character, someone who walks into the scene of one of her novels and is almost immediately killed.

In my stories, at least the ones so far, the first-person viewpoints of characters in my Aghara-Penthay shave all been women on special missions, or women captured to order, which means they’ve been missing out on the experience of a more regular slave – someone unlucky caught as part of a raid, an insignificant victim among many other women, someone processed, and sold.

In my story ‘Queen of the Sex Slaves’, during the faction leader’s council meeting, Ajeedie briefly witnesses an alien female being raped and then strangled by Monad. We never learnt her name, but she had one, and she had a life. Her name was Coora, and this is her story.

1 – Alarm

I’m not sure if the unexpected deep booming noise wakes me even before the sudden alarm call of the ship’s klaxon begins. But somehow I instantly pass from being asleep to being alert, my heart immediately racing with the adrenaline compulsion to flight. Trindii, in the other bunk, has woken just as suddenly as I have, and she is already sitting up rubbing her eyes. We hear another boom. It is a deep sound, a noise like thunder that reverberates right through the hull, and then we hear a distance crackling. Our beds shake as though there’s an earthquake. There are more signs that something is amiss. I realize the ship’s engines are straining with effort, instead of making their usual relaxed shush.

“Coora,” says Trindii, “What was that noise?”

“That second one sounded almost like a blaster cannon,” I reply, puzzled, and seeing her eyes widen with panic, I try to project a calmness I don’t feel. “But I’m sure I’m wrong.” And yet, I wonder, if I’m wrong why is the emergency claxon is still sounding, it’s rise and fall repeating over and over?

“Coora!” Trindii squeaks, when there’s another bass thumping sound. She has one of the highest soprano voices I’ve ever known, and when she’s anxious, it pushes her pitch up to even higher registers. Trindii has been my best friend since the first days of us studying together, and I love her like a sister, but I have to admit she’s hopeless in a crisis.

“Get dressed, now,” I order, and I swing my long legs out my bunk. The floor is cold on my bare feet.

But Trindii continues to sit there, with her bed sheet clutched to her chest, as though that will help if there is a raid.

“What are we supposed to do after that?” she wails.

I fight down my frustration at her. I have no better idea than she does, but just dithering will make me get scared too. Like most travelers I paid scant attention to the safety briefing when we boarded this transport. How should I know where to assemble? But there are over two thousand souls on this ship. Judging by the additional noise I’m tuning into, most of those are streaming by our door, so the solution is easy.

“Let’s get dressed,” I say, trying to adopt a tone of firm reassurance. “We’ll follow the crowd.”

Trindii looks hesitant, but finally, thank the Gods, she begins to move.

The floor is cold, but our cabin, one of the cheaper ones close to the engine deck, is hot from its proximity to the gravity drives, so we both slept only in underwear.

Trindii, a human, has the body shape that would be described as voluptuous. She’s no doubt destined to turn to fat in later life, but for now, her pleasingly rounded figure is at its nubile best – big appealing eyes, and some of the largest breasts I’ve seen on a young woman. She’s at the peak of her life’s appeal to men. Her skin is tight with youth, a deep brown color, and it’s free from the least blemish.

In our cramped cabin a large proportion of one wall is filled with the mirror, and in it, I cannot avoid glancing at my own image, and considering the implications of what I see.

The reflection shows someone much like a human female in her figure, only my skin has a blue-green iridescent shimmer. My eyes are completely black – our species never evolved irises and sclera. And the most dramatic difference between myself and someone like Trindii, is that instead of possessing hair like a human or many other humanoid species, protruding from my scalp are thick tubes of flesh, a bit like giant dreadlocks coated in my same shimmering skin.

They’re known as ‘scorns’ in the language of my world. Women of my species cover their scorns on our homeworld, for they are as clear a sexual characteristic as breasts. Males do not develop them. Young girls have small stubs, and then as we mature their scorns grow rapidly, reaching their longest – down to our thighs – in our early twenties at the peak of our fertility. As a woman progresses through her adulthood they gradually shorten, but still remain for life – only withdrawing back to shoulder-length in the oldest women in society.

I reach for my dress, a garment which hugs my figure flatteringly, but still covers me from neck to ankle. As most of the galaxy is unaware of the significance of scorns, I quickly abandoned the head covering once I was offworld. I felt prudish compared to the human females merrily flaunting their heads, and even after a couple of years out in the universe, it still gives me a private thrill to behave so scandalously, when no-one around me knows I’m walking round in a state that’s our culture’s equivalent of half-naked.

Another concussion reverberates through the ship – the worst yet. For an instant the artificial gravity fails, silence falls, and the lights flicker as I’m weightless. Then normality is restored, including the unending call of the claxon.

The glitch ramps Trindii’s anxiety up further.

“This flight should be safe, Coora,” she says. “Who could attack something this size? And we’re deep in Republic space.”

Neither of us want to acknowledge the answer.

I can hear a man’s voice getting louder as he moves nearer along the corridor, ordering passengers like a drill sergeant. He pounds on each door he passes.

“Everyone out their cabins! All passengers must assemble in the entertainment hall. Captains orders. Everyone out! All passengers assemble in the entertainment hall.” The volume reaches is peak as he passes us, and gradually fades as he moves away.

I fasten my dress around me while Trindii forces her short legs into tight black shorts. My garment opens at my left side, the fabric just wide enough to wrap around me, and once it’s in place, it is meant to be secured with a series of buckles. I start with the buckles under my arm, and work downwards. It’s tight about my bust – I too have a full chest for a young woman, although I’ll never compete with Trindii’s twin balloons.

“Maybe we’re in an uncharted asteroid field?” I say while I secure the fastenings over the feminine flare of my hip. There’s another concussion. Again, the lights flicker, and the gravity fails for a moment. Neither of us believe my optimistic words. If we were being damaged by asteroids we’d slow down, and they’d muster us as the lifepods. But the entertainment hall is in the center of the ship, and the engines are firing fit to burst. No. We’re trying to outrun something.

Trindii pulls a tight shirt over her head, the cut high enough that it bares the skin of her belly. Not just her belly – it barely fits around her chest. She doesn’t mind flaunting what she’s got, that girl. My people, the Dystyr, are rather more conservative. Show our figures, yes. Skin, no. However, although I’ve fastened my dress as far as mid-thigh, I leave the remaining buckles flashing my shins, to allow better freedom of movement. I pull on some soft ankle boots, ones with only a low heel. Footwear designed for comfort rather than beauty.

“Ready, Trindii?” I ask when she’s pulled on some pumps, and with a nod from her we activate the door and emerge into the corridor.

Outside it’s crowded with people, all of them headed in the same direction, and we can only progress at the speed of the slowest. A diverse cross section of the galaxy is represented, spread by age, sex, and species. I see two aliens who must come from a methane world, and need respirators.

Trindii takes my hand in hers so we don’t lose each other. Her flesh feels warm.

It’s loud in here – everyone is talking nervously.

“Is it pirates?” an old woman in front says to her companion in a scratching voice. “Gods, don’t let it be pirates from Aghara-Penthay.”

“I survived a pirate raid near Coboron 6, once,” a man says. “You never forget that sound. I tell you – those are raider blaster cannons.”

Another jolt comes without warning, and the ship shakes like we’re in an earthquake. I’m thrown against the side of the corridor, hurting my shoulder. I hear the engines stutter for a moment.

The crowd moves a little faster.

Once we reach the entertainment hall, there’s enough room for us all to spread out and pick up our pace. Rows of seats face a stage. It’s configured for a much bigger crowd than the current ship’s compliment. I’m expecting to see crew on the stage already prepared to explain what’s going on, but there’s no-one here yet.

I recognize a few members of our class and we move towards them. There are nearly two hundred of us on this trip – final year university students of galactic politics, all of us being taken to Republic Prime to see the senate in action. With the exception of a few mature students, most of us are in our early twenties, by the standard galactic reckoning. Studying at Capital University on Iniver Four is, for most of us, our first time living away from our homeworlds.