“Coora,” a male voice calls my name. I know who it is before I turn around.
Jurong. I made the mistake in my freshman year of being warm to him. As an alien arriving at a largely human institution, I wasn’t sure I’d fit in, and I was anxious to make friends. I needed someone to talk to. But he hoped my interest in him was of a different kind, and by the time I told him that was never going to happen, the damage had been done.
He’s smart enough to keep just on the right side of becoming a full-blown stalker, so I can’t make a complaint to anyone without it sounding hysterical: “What’s wrong with someone helping you out?” – that kind of thing. But he’s worked his way relentlessly into membership of my circle of friends, and since then, it’s been pretty hard to go anywhere without Jurong showing up.
“Jurong – what do you think is going on?” Trindii asks him, as a machine gun rattle of smaller thuds vibrate the ship. We have space to spread out, but she’s standing so near me her shoulder presses on my upper arm. One of the reasons I like Trindii so much is she’s always been an understanding ally on the Jurong situation. We go to a club, he’s there, and even if she’s tired or wants to go with a guy, she’ll never abandon me to him.
“Everything points to a pirate attack,” he says gravely, “Even though we’re in Republic territory.” He’s answering her, but his eyes are only on me. “Don’t be afraid Coora – I’ll protect you,” he adds, but when he says it he’s looking me up and down with that longing, hungry look that reminds me that pirates aren’t the universe’s only predators.
I wish I was better at handling this kind of male attention. I don’t want to sound immodest, but for as long as I can remember I’ve been considered exceptionally attractive. On my homeworld, I even helped pay for my college fees with some modelling work – an activity which I found very boring, but lucrative. Once I left home and mixed with the humans, I soon found they thought me equally beautiful, but with no one suitable for reciprocating, I’ve remained inexperienced, and a virgin.
I’m tall for a female, and my face is almost perfectly symmetrical, with soft feminine features and high cheekbones. My body shape declares my ripe femininity as blatantly as my scorns – I have wide childbearing hips, and my breasts are large in relation to my narrow waist and slim frame. From an era before it was appropriate, I’ve always drawn the predatory stares of men.
“Yes, I’ll protect you, Coora,” Jurong repeats as his gaze drops to my chest.
Jurong is a good-looking guy, for a human. Part of the tragedy of our relationship is that instead of wasting his efforts in a fruitless pursuit of me, he could have had his pick of the human females. Our college course has a lot more women than men. But while some human males like Jurong might lust for Dystyr females, we don’t reciprocate for human men. Dystyr women might be similar enough to human females that their males assume our tastes are the same, but Dystyr men are much larger – eight feet tall being an average male. Furthermore, our men have prominent bulges on their foreheads which the human men lack, and once you’re conditioned to like a certain look, well that’s that.
Dystyr do not reproduce by forming pair bonds, like the humans. Males struggle for dominance, and our fittest are rewarded by mating with many women. Thus, our males are highly territorial, and in our pre-history, they evolved to mark their boundaries with a pungent smelling urine. The fragrance conveys the virility and strength of the male.
Now we’re civilized, it’s not like our guys still pee in the corners of our homes, but one can’t undo genetics, and for us females, smell is an important factor. I fully comprehend this concept is gross to the humans who focus on the visual, but to Dystyr women – well, inhaling a high-quality version of that musk is quite a turn on. Stores discreetly sell bottles of the stuff as an aid for women masturbating. So for poor Jurong with his human height and smell – no dice.
The hall is getting busy now. It’s so loud with conversation that it’s difficult to hear the continuing strikes on the ship, but we can still feel them through the floor. All our class seem to have found each other, attracting more and more mass like we’re a planet forming.
A woman in an officer’s uniform steps onto the stage. She must be wearing a microphone, because I hear the sound of her clearing her throat amplified a hundredfold.
“Passengers,” she greets us as the crowd falls to sudden silence, “I am Oshia Trondo, first officer of the Moons of Odaron. The captain sends his apologies, but he needs to remain on the bridge dealing with the situation you’ve all noticed.”
“As you might have surmised, the ship is currently under attack by a pirate vessel. But you are in no danger, so we ask…”
“Where are they from?” interrupts a man at the front of the crowd.
Trondo hesitates, and then she says, “They are raiders from Aghara-Penthay.”
Trindii is one of the passengers, mostly women, who immediately scream. I’m silent, but otherwise little better – terror grips me also, and for a moment I think I’ll faint. The Slavers? The Slavers of Aghara-Penthay are attacking this transport? Gods help us all if they succeed.
“Silence!” barks the officer with as much authority as she can, but she still has to repeat herself. “Silence!”
The initial panic subsides slightly, but the crowd remain too fearful to be entirely calm.
“A distress call has been sent to Republic Prime and the fleet are converging on us even now. Although this transport has little armament, its shields are very strong. These ships are built to run, and hold out until rescue arrives. All the same, for your safety, I ask you to remain here, as far as possible from the outer hull. And do not attempt to make for the lifepods, unless the ship does fall. In a lifepod, you will be easily captured.”
Captured… I look around, as many, many of the women, are doing. I’m feeling very aware that I’m female. We all know what it means to be female, and captured by Aghara-Penthay.
“How many women are on this ship?” a man calls. He sounds hostile.
Trondo consults a note.
“One thousand, two hundred and forty-seven adult females. Nine hundred and sixty-three adult males. Non-binary species – two hundred and…”
“That’s too many women!” heckles the man angrily, as though he blames Trondo personally for the ratio. She flinches.
Asshole. There’s no need to be mean – as a woman, she must be scared too. Trondo is approaching her middle years, but she still holds a certain elegant beauty, and that means she will be thinking about the same fate every other remotely desirable female in this hall is fearing. The specialty of the Slavers of Aghara-Penthay – the business that’s made their fortune, is trading their women captives to meet the sexual desires of the galaxy’s men. There are no free women on Aghara-Penthay – to be female on their world is to automatically be a slave. Uncaptured women, i.e. those such as I, still free in the rest of the galaxy, are referred to by the Slavers using the vulgar title “cunts”. That’s all we are in their eyes. Cunts. The place between our legs is the only thing that matters. It’s us women who have the right to be emotional. Not the jerkoff saying there’s too many of us on board.
“What do you expect us to do?” Trondo retaliates, as pissed off as I am. “It’s not as though we can just hand over every attractive woman on the ship.”
“Why not?” he calls back. “The idea gets my vote.”
There’s angry muttering, mostly directed at him, but the seed of the idea that others might be saved has been planted now. The Slavers take some male slaves, but not many. The old, and most of the men on this ship, will die if the raiders make it on board. Sometimes fallen vessels hand over their women, and then the rest are be spared.
“They won’t break down the ship’s defenses before the Republic arrive,” Trondo rebukes. “And then you, Sir, will regret making such a suggestion.”
But she’s barely finished her sentence before there’s an even deeper boom then, caused by something vast knocking against the hull, and the sound carries even to here. The ship lurches again. At first there are a few screams, but then everyone stops to listen for clues, and so we all hear the engines cut out completely. I hadn’t realized how constant the noise of them was until it’s gone. In the sudden quiet more women scream, filling the silence.
“Are there any weapons on this ship?” another man, more politely, is asking Trondo.
“Not many,” she replies, and the fear is blooming in her voice now. “A few blasters on the bridge, but that’s all. These ships rely on being too big and too fast to attack. We shouldn’t need weapons.”
“The engines just quit, ma’am. We need weapons now,” someone says.
The ship’s public address system bursts into life, so sudden and so loud it makes me jump.
“This is the Captain of the Moons of Odaron. Slavers from Aghara-Penthay are boarding the ship. We can no longer hold them off, so our guidance has changed. All passengers and crew must make for the lifepods. Evacuate! Evacuate! Your Gods be with you. I wish you all good…” but before he can finish, his voice is cut off with a sound like a blast. If there’s any more broadcast after that, the announcement is drowned over the deafening cries of the passengers.
The Slavers of Aghara-Penthay are raiding the ship.
2 – Flight
Blind panic has taken over. I start screaming. Everyone is screaming. What are we to do? I couldn’t bear being caught alive, but I don’t want to die. People begin to flee, and instinctively I start to run with them, but I fly aimlessly, changing direction and then changing again. Our chances of evading the pirates in lifepods are little better than our chances on the ship, but just waiting here to be caught is intolerable. I have to try something.
I’m not half way to the exit from the hall when a blaster bolt, a real blaster bolt, zips over my head, causing panic as it smashes the ceiling and rains debris down on the fleeing masses. I’ve seen blasters on screen many times, but in all my life I’ve never actually been in the presence of a weapon discharging before. Only moments later, a grey-haired woman next to me falls, and in her torso I see a blackened smoking hole.
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