* Trigger Warning*

 

This is not a children’s book.

 

It is also not the book to jump into the series to start reading. Read the others first, before ever touching this one.

 

The main topic of this story is about the casualties of brutal war and slavery. The main character endures sexual violence and torture, which changes her mental outlook as well as affects her emotional well-being. These events are critical to her character development for book 11 as she is never quite the same, which is why I cannot skip over it. I have used clinical language as much as possible, and focused on the characters' reactions to this torture and twisting of mindset. However, I cannot guarantee in the end what may or may not be disturbing, as I have been struggling with this edit over several years, finding it harder and harder to have an objective opinion. So, if you have been traumatized by such things, it may be best to read the summaries only and skip reading this book in its entirety. I did my best, but I have decided that while writing this, it may have warped my brain. 

 

The most triggering chapter will be 10 - 20. That's when things get truly rough. 

 

Best of luck.

 

The Author

Story Summary Full of Spoilers

For those people who don't want to read the details, but want to be clued into this grim section of the series, this is for you.

 

 

 

Brief Summary:

Book 10 contains the year-long captivity of Zormna Clendar while simultaneously showing the struggles of Jafarr Zeldar who is searching for her. Zormna is raped, and Jafarr suffers the same pain she endures due to their special connection as the last Tarrn and the Leader-of-Many.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Longer Summary with Spoilers:

At the end of book 9, Queen Zormna Clendar Tarrn had been snatched off her ship by the Th’sans during the battle and is sold to an influential and powerful Th’san as property. Understanding who she is, the Th’sans take precautions against her capacity as a trained soldier by implanting a device in her skull built to cause debilitating cramps in her gut whenever she attempts to escape or disobey her ‘Master’. While her Master trains her to become a ‘lap girl’—which is a personal sex slave—her Master uses psychological manipulation such as pain aversion and safety association, forcing her to endure constant molestation and eventually painful, daily rape.

Unable to cope with the routine assaults on her body and her loss of autonomy, Zormna enters a disassociated mental state, barely keeping out of Stockholm syndrome. Throughout her captivity, she struggles constantly to find ways of escape, which includes learning the language of her captors. She never entirely succeeds in escaping on her own, and eventually she gives into despair and her life as a slave.

Running parallel to this story, is the account of Jafarr Zeldar who is prevented from chasing after their queen to rescue her and is taken back to their home world against his will—mostly due to political reasons, as despite being the queen’s personal bodyguard, he is also the elected president of their world nation. He fights the bureaucracy of his people so that he can go back into space to recover her while enduring the same pain that is inflicted on Zormna while in captivity through his seer gifts and connection to her. He uses everything in his means to search for her during the continued war against the Th’sans. Through Jafarr’s programs in space, he ends up driving the Th’sans into a terror.

To counter it, the Th’san military seeks out the stolen queen, intending to use her against her own people. But by removing her from her safe captivity, they bring Zormna back into the battle where, by a narrow chance, Jafarr crosses paths with the Th’sans keeping Zormna captive. Jafarr, with a team, recovers Zormna and has her returned to her home world safely. But she is now is damaged physically, mentally, and emotionally. Throughout the story, the only thing that keeps Zormna sane is the hope of rescue by Jafarr.

 

Caught Off Guard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One:

 

 “He who fears all snares falls into none.”—Plubius Syrus—

 

 

 

“No!” Jafarr Zeldar screamed, throwing himself at the view screen displaying Queen Zormna’s ship floating empty in space battle outside. His face as pale as death, he could feel the emptiness of her being taken away from him.

Alea Salvar, the head of their fleet and Zeta District trembled with disbelief as the enemy fleets of the Th’san Empire quickly retreated mid-battle—taking the newly captured Arrassian queen with them. Devastated, he rose from his command post, shouting at the Avers at the navigation sensor controls, “Trace those ships!”

They all scrambled to obey, but in their stricken expressions everyone knew that the task was impossible. The Th’sans had too many ships, each retreating to different parts of the galaxy through space folding. Their headstrong, impetuous queen was gone.

Jafarr tore himself off the view screen, bolting out of the command bridge to the first door. Too stunned to move, all the Arrassian military officers on the command bridge watched him run. However, they could all guess where he was going. Despite being their elected president, the young man was, first and foremost, the queen’s personal friend and bodyguard. So, he only had one thing on his mind, and that was to go after their queen.

He charged down the narrow halls of the Arrassian command ship, seeking the most direct route to the first docking bay. It was his fault, his mind shouted at him. He should have gone directly after her when she had pulled that stupid prank with her experimental space-folding pin. He had known in his gut that this sort of thing would happen that day if she went out to battle, regardless of how amazing a pilot she was. It was his duty—it was his life to keep her safe. He couldn’t lose her after all this, not in the middle of the war against the Th’sans. Not now! Their people were counting on them to finish this struggle to free their humanity from that empire! She was counting on him to be there for her. Yet his heart crumbled, as he could feel her get farther and farther away from him, stuck within the Th’san spacecraft that had snatched her.

Crowds of soldiers parted as he ran by, each watching the Arrassian president rush breathlessly through the ship. Echoes of ‘stop him’ slowly followed after him. Most watched, bemused.

Then a few did try to stop him. Their mistake. Besides not realizing that the only person who had ever been able to stop Jafarr Zeldar was the one who had just been kidnapped, Jafarr was in such a fury that he threw off any and all attempts to lay hands on him. Several well-trained Surface Patrol officers were left strewn in his wake.

But the calls over the communications relays preceded him. When he reached the docking bay, sweaty and angry, his scars livid against his flushed face, the workers in the bay braced themselves, not sure what he would do. Even when calm, he intimidated them. His gaze pierced souls even on a good day. So, the approach of the midnight-haired half-seer class undercity man nearly had them shaking. And though he was no trained Surface Patrol officer, they all knew he had once been the leader of the rebellion of Arras and the most formidable fighter the Surface Patrol had ever met. Almost all of them exchanged glances in trepidation.

When Jafarr reached the top landing near the docking bay, instead of running down the steps which were now blockaded with a pack of officers on duty, he leapt over the guardrail, jumping eight feet down to the ground. He tumbled before rising up back to his feet at a run, not at all winded. Jafarr continued at his mad pace toward the first shuttle he saw.

Standing in his way, pistol up and grim determination in his liquid blue eyes under his red hair, Alea Salvar blocked him, having arrived instantaneously from the bridge before Jafarr, via their new transportation system. “Go back, Mr. President.”

Alea Salvar was not a tall man, though he was skilled and strong as any well-trained Surface Patrol officer, even at nineteen. More, actually. To become Zeta leader, he had risen above the average soldier to a level that everyone knew was not a bureaucratic position. Zeta Leader was the elite position every skilled pilot hoped to earn. And though he was the son of the Kevin, the head of the entire Surface Patrol, he had definitely earned his rank. The redhead was killer at martial arts, flying, and (more importantly at the current second) marksmanship. Their previous Zeta leader had been even better. But his predecessor had been the Zormna, long before she had found out that she was royalty.

That second, Jafarr’s dislike for the peevish, and often jealous, head of Zeta increased ten-fold. Jafarr’s fathomless dark eyes flickered on the weapon. “Let me pass! If you have any love for Zormna, you will let me pass!”

Alea Salvar flinched but held his ground, as Zormna had been his best friend since childhood. “I will fire, Mr. President.”

Jafarr merely narrowed his glare at the Surface Patrol Alea. Salvar only called Jafarr Mr. President when his respect for Jafarr’s political position outweighed all his other feelings of distaste and jealousy towards Jafarr Zeldar’s friendship with the queen.

Fact was, since Zormna’s stay on Earth, the midnight-haired rogue had replaced Salvar as Zormna’s best and most trusted friend. Actually more. Though Salvar hated to admit it, his relationship with Zormna had always been more of a brother-sister thing, which was not what he wanted. Her friendship with Jafarr was something else entirely. Not romantic either, but Jafarr and Zormna had a connection that neither one could explain. Intimate but not carnal. It was beyond friendship. This fact Salvar hated. Yet Jafarr Zeldar was the elected president and there was no getting around it.

But Jafarr really only had one thought on his mind. He ran for the shuttle.

Salvar’s finger twitched on the trigger.

But that was enough.

The young president tumbled backward, hitting the ground with a boom.

Everyone ran up—some in panic as their militaryleader had shot their president. Eyes rolled back, their president lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious. They checked his pulse first, then for broken bones. He was breathing and his heart was beating. Several shot Alea Salvar severe looks—even though he had merely stunned the president.

Whispers rippled through the gathering soldiers while Alea Salvar ordered the president to be picked up and carried to the cargo hold of the nearest shuttle to be transported immediately back to Arras. The president had to be stopped, and so he stopped him, some said to justify the act. Jafarr might have been able to fight Alea Salvar hand to hand and beat him, but Salvar was not foolish enough to allow him the chance.

Alea Salvar had no remorse in his voice when he directed the officers to make sure their president was securely locked in the cargo hold. “He’s resourceful, so keep an eye on him as you take him back to Arras.”

Exchanging looks, the Surface Patrol officers hesitated only a moment before they complied.

Of course, they had to stop their president. He had lost his mind, and was not thinking about Arras—only about their queen whom they knew he was devoted to. But they could not lose their president and their queen in the same day. It would be a blow so heavy that it would destroy the morale of the troops during that crucial time in the war.

They needed their figureheads.

 

Zormna blinked her green eyes, staring at her new surroundings. For a second, she lost sense of herself.

One moment, she was flying in her ship back to their flagship after Jafarr’s emphatic begging over Communications for her to come back. His voice had struck her with guilt that maybe she had not been so wise. Hearing him, she finally realized that he was right, and it was a good idea to retreat. However, even as she was submitting to his pleadings and flying back, an intensely chilled sensation had wrapped around her and pulled her as if through a straw. Then just as abruptly, she fell against a cold, grinding, mesh of steel weave floor—one which she had only encountered once before. Her knees crashed to the floor at the complete loss of her seat. It took a few seconds to register indeed that she was no longer in her cockpit, but was now sitting inside a gigantic echoing hall not of human construction.

Panting in shock, Zormna groped the ground. It was metal entirely, resonating with the sound of heavy, approaching footfalls.

Furious, Zormna tore off her helmet and threw it at the first pair of silky-covered legs that came up to her. Her short fiery blonde hair flew up, obscuring her vison momentarily as she heard the helmet bounce off the approaching Th’san, then clatter with an echo across the metal. Backing up, groping her shoulder for her experimental space-folding pin so she could quickly return to Salvar’s lead ship, she found nothing. Her shoulder was bare. Then she remembered. She had put it on Jafarr as a prank.

So stupid.

Zormna Clendar Tarrn closed her eyes with the briefest cringe. She had stupidly removed her quickest way out for a stupid joke.

The approaching Th’sans surrounded her with the intent to seize their new acquisition. It was surreal being among them again, hearing them hissing and clucking in their bizarre language. She lifted her eyes to their hulking forms. Again, seeing them up close once more made her want to recoil. They were hardly humanoid—if humanoid meant bipedal. Most were bird-like, if one envisioned a bird wearing pants and robes. But Zormna had no intention of investigating the scene, or contemplating this further. Escape was her only plan.

As these beasts reached toward her, hissing and clucking with a sound much like a chicken that had swallowed a snake and couldn’t decide which voice to use, Zormna grabbed for her side arm, which was happily still there. Drawing it, Zormna rammed herself against the raptor legs behind her, expertly sweeping her own leg under the Th’san and knocking it down. She fired on two others as she tumbled onto her feet again, searching for either a ship to steal, or an exit to take her to one. Snatching up her helmet, intending to at least find an airlock, she ran. She had escaped these monsters before, after all. She could do it again.

But the other Th’sans pursued, grabbing for her gun.  

One got hold of it. But she just climbed up its huge body and hoisted herself onto its shoulders. She promptly stomped on its head. Jerking her weapon out of its long-clawed grip, she flipped over these giants’ heads, landing deftly out into the open part of the bay. In the back of her head, she thanked her Surface Patrol martial arts training, which Jafarr had encouraged her to continue even after she had become queen.

Springing up as fast as her sprightly legs could carry her, Zormna darted towards a promising exit.

The Th’sans still standing chased after her with enormous strides, surrounding her once again to block her escape. It felt like racing an ostrich. She shot the ones directly in her way. She kicked the others in crucial places, plowing her way through the enemy. Zormna would have been out the door and into the rest of the ship to find yet another spacecraft or evacuation pod to take her back into space, but one well-aimed shot was all it took to stop her.

She collapsed, falling face-first into the hard floor.

The Th’sans checked her pulse, then turned her over with a foot. Her enervated body flopped like a doll. Oddly, she could still hear them, though, not entirely unconscious.

Not dead. She was not wanted dead.

As the Th’san soldiers argued over the damage the unconscious human female solider had caused, the others lifted her off the ground and inspected her body carefully.

“Odos,” one hissed.

“Xumzoa,” another murmured with a guttural gurgle. Its birdish eyes dilated as it inspected her body. Several of their colleagues weaved their heads back and forward, side to side in pleasure. “Su fobo klo’kkz od woazz vzzuk.” Pleased, they ignored the growls from their subordinates.

Yet the soldiers grumbled like angry fowl, shooting her deadly looks. Three of their soldiers were dead. Four others were wounded with burns, along with broken noses, broken collarbones and other excruciating contusions which she had caused. Glaring at her tiny form as their commanders carted the tiny losing-conscious human away while marveling over how such a small thing could do so much damage, they were not ignorant of who she was. Every one of the soldiers had recognized her on sight. Their entire army had been trained with the intent not to kill her if they ever saw her again, but to capture her, as she was already claimed by the higher-ups of the Th’san Empire with a particular punishment for the human queen in mind. After all, she had once humiliated them in their own courts and they wanted her to suffer. Death was too easy.

They hefted her surprisingly heavy body out of the huge hall into a smaller adjacent hall where their shipment canisters were stored for their human captives. Already a few of them were occupied. But she would bring them enormous amounts of money in the slave markets—for she was not only an important enemy, but also a beauty and therefore highly valuable.

 

And that was where she woke. The slave markets.

Zormna blinked her blurry eyes and shook her head. She attempted to stretch, but when she tried, she found her hands stuck behind her back, attached at the wrists. They somehow fitted into the padding under and around her, like she was a machine part in protective foam for shipping. She realized that she was inside something with very little room to move—a dark cylindrical something that was vaguely familiar. She had been some sort of container like this before, but it was impossible to focus her thoughts to remember it.

No, she remembered. It was coming back like a nightmare. Long over a year ago, she had been packed into a similar canister when the Th’sans had snatched her from her homeworld the first time the Th’sans had made contact. It was how the Th’sans transported all their human slaves. This canister had the same stifling smell. Claustrophobically so. And now she was trapped, again.

She did not have long to contemplate her situation. The top of the canister slid open, allowing in fresh air. A shadowy outline of a nonhuman face peered in at her, blinking wide, glassy, amber eyes that had hardly any white in them. The shape of its pupil was goatish. A bluish beast with humanoid symmetry to its face, craned its long bird-like neck and called behind itself with a hissing cluck. Another alien face then stared down at her, one of those more familiar Th’san beasts with the scaly skin and elongated cranium that had yellow and red plumage sprouting from its scalp. He was much larger than the bluish one. It reached in with a smirk at her.

As the Th’san (which she presumed to be a male) lifted her out of the canister, sounds rushed to her ears, echoing from some place larger. Following the noise, her eyes set on an enormous curtain beyond the huge Th’san who was lifting her from the container. Her head felt as heavy a sack of flour. It was a struggle to hold it up. But as her eyes blearily took in her surroundings, Zormna saw what appeared to her to be the back of a conventional stage. There were ropes, curtains and stacks of things that, if she hadn’t known any better, she would have taken as props for The King and I. But they were not props. She got a better look as her eyes regained some focus, and realized they were many empty canisters like the one she had just been taken from. Some had been stacked neatly in rows, but the majority of them were lying about like beer cans as if they had just been emptied at a party and there was no time to organize them.

The Th’san carried Zormna like a rag doll up to the humongous curtain. He parted the breach in the huge clothe and stepped through, bringing Zormna into a bright light, again akin to a stage like a spotlight. Zormna eyes blinked at the light, blinded by the brightness and the extraordinary glittering from the noisy crowd below.

It took a long time for her eyes to adjust. It took even longer for Zormna to realize that she had been drugged and the spinning sensation in her head was not just because she had been stunned with a laser. She was unable keep her head upright. And even more so, she could hardly stand when they set her on her feet. The Th’san that had brought her out to the front of this bright place held her upright, her arms dangling over his hulking bicep. Her head lolled on his shoulder. His pungent cologne was overwhelming but she couldn’t push away from it to breathe because she had no energy to even lift her head let alone close her fingers around something.

Garbled hissing filled her ears now. Zormna sedately glanced up at those creatures onstage with her. Another of those common Th’sans approached the one who had carried her, moving his mouth as if speaking, though she did not comprehend him. He reached over to her and unfastened the straps on her boots, slipping them off her feet. Zormna wished to kick—tried to kick—but she couldn’t even raise her foot to swing it. The Th’san had taken her other boot and stripped her of her socks. Her bare feet felt hardly cold. In fact, the air was musty, sultry, with odd-smelling sweat. Air circulated from above, but it wasn’t a cooling breeze. So groggy, Zormna might have fallen back to sleep. Yet the other Th’san proceeded to unsnap the collar to her uniform.

She woke enough to protest, hardly able to push at his hands to stop him, though she tried. The one holding her, helped remove her uniform. He stood Zormna up so they could pull her sleeves off her shoulders and down her arms. They exclaimed the moment their eyes took in her regulation peach undersuit, which covered her from her shoulders to her calves. One of the Th’sans laughed like a chicken clucking and gargling at the same time. Both fingered the undersuit, contemplating what to do with it.

Somehow, they managed to take the sleeves of her uniform off her arms without detaching the cuffs that bound her wrists together. They pulled the suit down then off her legs, turning it right side out again when it was completely peeled off. Zormna vaguely wondered if they were going to sell her uniform too. Her head swam. So much, that she found herself collapsing to her knees. For some reason, the first Th’san had let her go for a second. The moment he felt her drop, he caught her with his enormous hand and lifted her up again.

The second Th’san returned and proceeded to pull the undersuit off Zormna’s right shoulder.

Zormna jerked violently away from him, letting out a shriek.

Both Th’sans stared with widening eyes, halting their work on her. But after a moment they continued to undress her.

And she persisted at fighting them, clawing at the hand to keep her sleeve over her right shoulder—a knee-jerk reaction of a Tarrn not easily lost. He had succeeded in extracting her arm from her short sleeve though, and he was starting with the other side when the Th’san holding her up gasped and pointed at her right shoulder—though he did more pointing at the string of the necklace which had broken out of the clips whch held it to her collar around her neck.

He tugged on the necklace string.

Zormna grabbed it immediately with both her hands, clenching, with her fingernails digging into his thick skin. Pulling back, it took all that she was able to muster under the influence of the lulling drug to fight him. But it wasn’t enough. He yanked the necklace out of her hands and stared at the medallion that he had extracted out of her suit. Zormna tried to get it back, but it was a lost cause. Her strength gave way. She collapsed into the large hands of the two Th’san captors. Though she was not unconscious, her ability to understand what was happening diminished considerably.

The Th’sans marveled and talked over her brand mark and necklace. She didn’t understand the sounds they were making were gasps of awe as these creatures realized whom they held in their arms. Nor did she understand or feel their reverent touches as they replaced her sleeve on her shoulder and let her medallion remain hanging around her neck. What Zormna did see, after several minutes of lying there in the Th’san’s grasp, was the enormity of the crowd beyond the foot of the stage, and it terrified her.

It was such a view. All types of Th’sans from the thirteen-world conglomerate were there. The variety was astounding. Only once has she had seen a sample of their kind, but that had been during her first abduction when she had been put on trial for the human species. Viewing them again filled her with the same revulsion. And worse, guilt.

Some of their shapes she recognized from files in the Zeta district archives. Captured invaders from the past. Secrets that had been so hush that Zormna had not even told Jafarr about them. Only the Zeta leaders and the Kevin knew….

But she was queen. She should have told Jafarr and the others. She should have told Alea Arden at least. Honestly, what difference did it make now if he knew?

Among those she recognized were the ones with elongated skulls and gigantic, broad chests. One in the crowd was absolutely enormous, towering above the rest like Goliath. Its leathery skin was brown as the bark of a maple tree. Its thick sinewy neck turned only at the top near his head, and his chest seemed wide as the inside of a rowboat. Most of the Th’sans in the crowd were much smaller, more human-like in body frame, except for their raptor legs. But these had longer, kinked necks—like they had huge Adam’s-apples or their necks were just broken somewhere, with a hunch in their shoulders. A few varieties of Th’san were bald-headed. But that was where their similarities with humans ended. Her mind immediately labeled them ‘chicken-turkey people’ as their birdish eyes and fleshy combs and waddles made her think of Thanksgiving dinner. And their noses were flat to nonexistent. Most had no ears that she could recognize. Much of their heads were covered in soft fine feathers. There was a wide variety of them in many colors, like one would find in a bird shop selling parakeets. In the blur of her eyes, she saw a lot of leathery yellow and orange. The bald orange ones had lumpy knobs rimming their crowns like mushroom polyps.

The rest were far from human—including their raptor-legs which to her eyes seemed to be hinged backwards. And looking at them made her wonder about the Darwinian notion of evolution. If dinosaurs had not been made extinct but ended up ruling the Earth, these probably would have been the prominent life form. Birdish hips, clawed feet, feathers—lots of feathers—scaly skin along with thin amphibious skin, all in the same room. A number had feathery elbows and stumpy arms, as if they had once actually had been ostriches. These had primate-like mouths, though, with jutting, omnivorous teeth, canines, and soft thick lips. Most of their eyes were huge, rounded. Many of their irises were glassy with reptilian features. Others had bulbous eyes, like that of fish, with elongated faces and puckered mouths. Fact was, there were so many different types of Th’san, Zormna wondered if the drug they had loaded into her had was actually causing hallucinations. Because she could have sworn one of them was just a giant frog in clothes.

Their clothes seemed to be the only thing they had in common, besides their language. They all hissed and clucked while dressed in the fanciest bejeweled attire thoroughly embellished with ornate embroidery. Flounces over layered flounces. Their clothes bordered on wasteful decadence. Including tassels, beading, and fringe. Some of the Th’sans were enveloped in heaps of fabric and accessories which rivaled the ancient French aristocrat. She could tell who was important by how much they wore, and how flashy it was.

The two Th’sans who were handling her carried Zormna her to the forefront of the stage as another pair hauled a different human off it to his new owner. It was a sad-looking Aloean man, naked, who looked so despairing when they met eyes. The Th’sans unloading the canisters handed her to the Th’san with a booming voice who apparently was running the show.

The large Th’san with the voice took Zormna by the back of her neck and held her up for the crowd to see, propping her on her feet against his leg. He clucked out something that made her ears ring. Was he naming a price? The whole idea of being sold made Zormna’s blood chill, and it brought her back to consciousness. Perhaps it was also because the influence of the drug was wearing off. With every hiss, gurgle, and cluck the Th’san made, indignation swelled within her.

Her thoughts started to formulate into a plan of escape, the first step being to survey her surroundings. The room was spacious and crowded, but there were visible exits, some not far off.

The Th’san continued to name prices—or perhaps he was just describing her. Zormna really didn’t know. She only assumed. He had fingered the fiery twists and curls of her hair and had run his hand across her snow-white cheek, gesturing to her emerald green eyes. He had even lifted up her medallion and tugged on the neckline of her undersuit as if he were showing off the wares, the perks so to speak, for buying her. As he did, Zormna cautiously assessed her surroundings more, struggling to think clearly. There were doors behind the crowds where Th’sans freely came and went, which seemed to be the exits. She was sure there might be exits back stage, but she had a feeling they were better guarded.

As the beast proceeded with the sale, her strength increased, along with every hissing word he spoke.

Cries came out from the crowd, calling prices no doubt. One call came from a huge thick brown beast with the rowboat-wide chest. Another came from a waddle faced Th’san that looked like he ran a galley in a coal mine. His utilitarian clothes were of tough leather smudged with black ash from use. He had goggles and a whip. Another Th’san called for his piece of her—a plumed common one with feathers of bright yellow and red on his long head. He wore fancy silks, with jewels on his chest. And another in the back upped the price. He was a birdish type with an ape-like mouth on top of his long white feathery neck which he craned as he cooed at her. His plumage reminded her of a secretary bird, though. The first one then raised the price considerably, indicated by sounds that murmured though the crowd.

Zormna’s interest in the auction waned as she worked to implement her scheme for escape. She had let herself hang weakly then pretended to fall forward as the entire thing went on. The barker reached down to catch her, but Zormna dropped quickly under his feet then rolled underneath his legs to get out of his reach. As the barker struggled to recover her with hissing explanations, the audience gasped, watching her. He was saying something, most likely reminding them not to be alarmed. But the crowd continued to gasp, until those others on the stage noticed what she was intentionally doing.

Taking her chance, Zormna dived toward the front of the stage, pulling her arms under her body to the front—scrunching in her legs. Then she leapt off the stage.

A yelp passed through the crowd as Zormna tromped on top of several Th’san’s faces, making bounding jumps on top of them to get to the nearest door at the side of the hall, which she had decided was the quickest way out.

At first, the barker was too stunned to move. He just gaped after her. But he quickly recovered with a bellow to his assistants—his eyes fixing widely on the escaping human.

Several in the crowd reached out to grab her, to stop her. But it was like a classroom of children chasing a squirrel. It caused chaos, especially when Zormna moved quick as an imp, flipping overhead, kicking away clawed hands, even using them to her advantage as vaults while twisting wrists and bruising skulls and arms. This chaos would have continued to her advantage had not the more experienced Th’sans converged, most of them in soldier uniform or slaver garb, scrambling to reclaim the tiny prize before she could get to the door. They threw nets into the air.

Zormna dodged two, knocked away one, and grabbed a ring of another before using it like a slingshot to toss her farther across the hall near the exit. She was almost out.

Unfortunately, her strength had not entirely returned to her as she had hoped. Had her route been clear to the door, she could have been out and down the hall before they caught up with her—but this hall was packed and well-watched. There were just too many of them. A fourth and fifth net flew up, then two arms grabbed her ankles while she attempted to leap closer to freedom. They yanked her down into the many grasping hands below her with a clawing thump. Struggling, kicking, she fought back—yet her energy was spent.

And that was it.

She was carried her back to the stage where they forcefully held her so she could not move this time. Exhausted, feeling the drugs course through her even now, Zormna writhed against her captors’ enormous hands.

The slave market barker once again raised the question of price. All glassy Th’san eyes on her, the buyers in the crowd looked her over with full comprehension of her vicious nature. At least that was what her faces said. Many of them trembled, realized that this was a queen they were auctioning… and not the kind that sat back on a throne. A warrior queen. However, the miners and dirty slavers called in with their bids again, gazing at her with cruel intent. None of the respectable Th’sans in fine clothes offered a bid now—except one.

One of the original bidders, the white birdish Th’san with the interested stare, kept with his bid, fighting for her even to the last. In the end it was between him and the mining slaver in leather. They called out bids for the captured human queen, prices rising. But finally, the white one won the bid.

What the Th’san paid for her was insubstantial compared to his interest in her. Zormna could barely see his face, due to the drug. It obscured her vision with pain. That Th’san gave a solid command to the auctioneer, of which, of course, Zormna understood none of it. Her head was swimming, and the Th’san language sounded like a zoo filled with chickens, turkeys, and snakes and gargling people with sore throats. What she did understand was that she had been sold. Someone had bought her. Not that she recognized or respected such a thing, but that she hated it.

The Th’sans lifted her off the ground directly, obeying the wealthily-dressed white, crane-necked Th’san with the secretary bird plumage. They carried her backstage and forced her writhing body back into her transport capsule. Though Zormna pushed against their arms and the metal casing they were cramming her into, it really was a waste of energy. They were so much larger and stronger, spiders versus the fly. As they packed her into the canister, another common Th’san joined them, yanking her suit down for an unobstructed surface, and pressed a cold metal device against her bare shoulder. A sharp painful pop stabbed her in the arm, followed by a swelling sensation of utter numbness.

Immediately, her will slid from brain. Her strength failed her, oozing through her so that only her farthest side from her affected arm could fight. Then that too grew still, and her eyes closed.

 

With a jolt, Zormna opened her eyes briefly. Whether she was awake or asleep, she could not tell. But a searing hot pain had shot into her temple on the right side of her head, sending a shudder throughout her entire body. She panted hard. The side of her skull continued to burn inside, but Zormna could not move. Instead, something pushed her head aside so that her left temple was exposed. Soon that half of her head also was burning with pain. Her legs convulsed with wrenching agony. Soon even her stomach clenched up, reacting violently—though nothing but dry heaves came out.

Again, a numbness shot into her, though it was more like the numbness of Novocain that made her feel as if her body parts had swelled up and refused to exist except as gelatin. Intermingled with the sleepy weakness and the pain in her stomach, her entire body felt as if it were turning into mush and dissolving into nothingness, a sensation more horrible than the pain. And then, at last, she felt nothing at all.

 

New Home

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two:

 

“A thing when heard, remembered, strikes less keen on the spectator’s mind than when it’s seen.”

Horace (Ars Poetica 8 BC)—

 

 

Zormna woke, blinking while lying on a huge bed. Sheer drapes of white and blue crepe hung from a canopy and stretched over like a mosquito net in several elaborate layers, glittering. Jewels dangled in them, catching the light. The bed itself was firm and blanket-less, though there was one long pillow lying across the end of it, resting under her head. An embroidered design hinting at reptilian snake trails and peculiarly shaped flowers repeated within the aquamarine fabric. It smelled of camphor.

Abruptly, she sat up. But unexpected weight at the sides of her head, like a brace or a helmet strapped on, drew head back down dizzily. She dropped back onto the pillow then slipped off it to the mattress. Zormna put her hands on the sides of her head to brace against the throbbing in her skull, reaching to rub her temples—yet she touched metal. Immediately, Zormna jerked her hands off.

Once more, carefully, she touched the sides of her head again to feel this ‘helmet’ that weighed so heavy, pressing so tightly against her temples. Under her fingers, she detected the width and breadth of only two metallic pieces, each attached to the sides of her face in some way, and nothing more. Not as large as she had first suspected, both pieces under her fingers only felt about three inches long each, shaped akin to boomerangs, the bend centering in her temples. The top extended just above the corner of her brow and the bottom behind her cheekbones along the sides of her face. Nothing appeared to be holding them there except for the pinching tightness in her skin—though it felt like it was holding on to her deeper than that.

Jerking her fingers back again, Zormna’s heart pounded. It couldn’t be real, Zormna thought. It just couldn’t.

Attempting to sit up and take the metal thing off, Zormna pried gently on lip of the metal plate on one side to lift it from her skin. A sharp pain ripped from that temple.

The world tipped. Or rather, she did, falling back against the bed.

Dizzy. Grief swelled over her. Her usual confidence that she could fix this this one thing evaporated the second the truth had become entirely clear—the metal plate was not attached to her skin, but her skull. She was not wearing them. Whatever they were, they were physically part of her.

This was not happening. This was not happening, she thought.

Furious, Zormna tried once again to pry the metal piece off, digging her fingernails under the edge where it touched her skin. That sharp pain immediately zipped down her temples and through her neck, stinging the rest of her nervous system.

Releasing it, Zormna panted against the bed, tears streaming from her eyes. Gritting her teeth in agony, she tried once more to dislodge the two metal plates from where they were anchored. Shots of pain ran down to her stomach and through her arms.

Moaning, she wept. But she was still determined to take them off. If they could put them in, she could rip them out. Zormna dug her fingernails under the lip of one of them again to try one more time, harder. And she probably would have succeeded in ripping them out—if it were not for two enormous, scaly hands which quickly grabbed her tiny aching fingers, wrenching them from the metal plates on her head where she was now bleeding.

Zormna blinked once, clearing her eyes of tears. Her eyes lifted up, taking in the bright, velvety-jade belt that was in front of her. It had the appearance of a sash or cummerbund, only it was so large that, for a moment, she thought a huge throw pillow had suddenly been propped upon the bed. It took her a moment to realize that she was staring at one large person’s middle. She lifted her eyes higher, following her own arms to the hands that restrained her. She saw long ivory-like claws and scaly pinkish green skin. Going higher, Zormna stared up into the face of a Th’san—the common type. His enormous reptilian green eyes stared back at her with concern.

She strained to extract her hands out of the meaty clawed-fingers which held her up. Taking in her captor more, trying to assess his weaknesses for an escape, she realized that he was a formidable Th’san of prodigious build. His demeanor much like one of the judges that had presided at her so-called trial over a year ago. He stood over her, observing her silently like a bird would a worm it was about to pluck out of the ground.

Up until now, she had never really taken the time to observe the Th’sans. She had been too eager to get away from them at the time. And though they had taken two Th’sans in captivity back on Arras and she had interacted with them, this one seemed distinctive. Singular. Uncommon. Like all the common types, this one was a giant with a crest of feathers on top of his head in the shades of yellow and red. A ribbing of gills extended under his jawline near the back of his long neck under where human ears would have been. His own ears had a shape Zormna could not quite comprehend. They were up high within his plumage, like mini volcanoes, though in the location of horns if he had been a goat. Unlike their two captives, this one seemed to be someone important. Their captives had been just hapless soldiers whose ship she had hijacked. This Th’san was dressed in the finest embroidered attire of silks, brocades, and fabulously designed satin. He was undoubtedly wealthy. Just from the stitchery and quality of material he was wearing, she could tell. Pearls were sewn into his suit, along with bits of gold and silver beads that Zormna knew had to be real. Apparently, he was someone of incredible power and influence.

The white Th’san who had bought her at the slave market did not seem to be in the room. Perhaps she had been sold again. Or, she figured, the white one was a procurer.

This Th’san gazed silently at her. Regarding each other for a long silent moment, Zormna began to read the meaning behind this hulking Th’san’s face. Not only did his clothes show her he was wealthy, he also had a manner about him of the sort of person who was used to others regarding him with admiration and honor. But the way he looked at her made her skin crawl. There was a lustful look in his crocodilian eyes. The essence of his masculine stare raked over her figure with… of all things…. enjoyment.

She recoiled.

It was one thing being leered at by human men—which was bad enough—but it was entirely vile coming from a creature of another species.

Her initial reaction would have been to punch him in the gut and knee him in the groin, but his enormous hand gripped her arms rather tightly, and punching was currently not possible. She couldn’t reach. Not from that angle. Besides, he was huge. In fact, he was without a doubt the largest person she had ever encountered. If they stood next to each other, her head probably barely reached past his waist. And worse, she currently had no balance whatsoever, which was key to taking down adversaries larger than her… as brute strength was entirely to his advantage.

The enormous Th’san pulled her off the bed like a doll dragged by a child. She had no choice but to go with him. He spoke to her, but it sounded like a lot of hissing, spitting, and blabbering. Zormna couldn’t make out anything out of it. So, clearly, he did not speak Aloean.

He let go of one of her hands and urged her with his free hand look across the room.

Zormna attempted to pull out of his grip with her other hand, but not wholeheartedly. It did not feel like it wouldn’t make a difference what she did in that current moment. She was captive, and she did not know where she was. Besides, that giant looked like he probably could pick her up by the scruff of her suit and toss her about like a tiny dog.

Her suit.

Giving up her fight with his grip for a second, she stared down at her peach undersuit. Of course, her uniform was gone—but normally slaves were put into plain tunics which were as shapeless as pillowcases. That was what had happened to her last time. They had even stripped of her medallion back then, though Jafarr had gotten it back. Yet even her medallion swung from her neck like a pendulum, still there. This was not usual treatment.

A shiver of peculiar comfort swept through her, followed by confusion.

She tried to add it up. No tunic. Her own under clothing and even medallion with her. And though she still felt absolutely naked without her full uniform as her undersuit was skin-tight, she wondered what was going on. They didn’t put the shock collar around her neck, nor the cuffs on her ankles and wrists like last time either. She had been sold, right? She was wearing some kind of head implants. So, there was no way she was in this Th’san’s home as a guest. If she were, she would have been given back her uniform, or at least some kind of clothing on par with Th’san custom. Besides, logically, they surely would have made her into a slave or military prisoner of some kind. That was what Th’sans did to humans. But obviously, as she looked around at her surroundings once more, she was in neither military facility nor a mine. Mines did not have huge beds with soft pillows and fancy curtains. And military prisons weren’t fancy. This place was…. Her eyes widened as she took in her environment again. The comfortable airy room was a neat, though minimalistic, living space. It was a home.

It made no sense. Why would the Th’sans take her of all people to a home? Had they not realized whom they had captured?

The Th’san giant called into an open, yet narrow, doorway which was right across from the end of the bed, his words coming out in a snaky type speech which gargled something with a hiss. In answer, she heard the sound of the familiar cold slap of bare feet against tile coming closer from another room as if someone was running to them. In two seconds, a curvaceous Aloean woman with orange-brown skin appeared in the doorway. She was in the expected slave’s tunic, looking quite healthy and clean. A head taller than Zormna, with copious tufts of wavy brown hair fluffing down to her shoulders almost like fleece, her deep brown eyes fixed first on the Th’san yet snatched looks at Zormna. Immediately she began bowing and scraping before the formidable beast with all humility of someone who was only valued as a tool. Stepping to this slave, while dragging Zormna along, the Th’san handed Zormna’s captive wrist to the slave woman’s hands. And in turn, the slave woman, who looked about forty or so by Zormna’s guesses, bowed to Zormna. She gently kissed Zormna’s hand.

Zormna blinked as shivers ran up her skin.

Over her head, the Th’san spoke in a guttural collection of hisses and clucks when the woman let Zormna’s hand go. Zormna staggered back, falling against the Th’sans ostrich-like legs without meaning to, but she had lost her balance.

Zormna moaned inside. Her balance…. Blast it. Those implants in her skull had ruined her most critically needed defense tool. How could a soldier function without balance? Hand-to-hand combat was out of the question now.

The huge creature swiftly braced her up with his enormous hand, which could cradle her scalp like a heavy hat, holding her there the same time as restraining her. As he did this, the woman slave bowed to him with her eyes fixed on him. Then she spoke. “The Master wishes that I teach you.”

She had said it in the thickest Aloean accent Zormna had ever heard—so much that Zormna almost didn’t understand her.

The woman peered carefully at Zormna as she repeated the words again. “The Master wishes that I teach you.” She paused, angling her head to meet Zormna’s gaze, though she also drew back as if intimidated by her eyes. “Do you understand?”

Zormna blinked again. Her head swam. She was feeling faint. The strain of the metal pieces in her head combined with this disturbingly achy-gut sensation, coupled with nausea, made her wish to lean back, but she flinched away from the Th’san’s legs.

“Master wishes that I teach you,” the woman said again, her eyes desperately peeking up at the large Th’san standing over them. “Do you understand me? Do you speak Aloean at all?”

Detecting terror in the woman’s voice, Zormna forcibly shook herself out of her dizziness. “I understand Aloean. I’m just feeling lightheaded,” Zormna replied, trying not to lean into the hand that held her up. “Who is this master that I should care?”

The woman drew in a breath. Peeking up in clear hopes the Th’san had not understood Zormna’s words, she almost answered. Unfortunately for her, the Th’san could discern tone. He demanded an answer in his snaky speech. Distressed, the slave replied. Her own rendition of Th’san gurgled and hissed, but a factor which Zormna could not place was missing—perhaps tenor, resonance, or the amount of air used, or throatiness. It caught Zormna’s attention long enough to keep her focused—before she briefly blacked out and dropped onto the giant’s dinosaur feet. Catching her barely, the Th’san lifted her upright again, speaking back to the woman. He then nudged his slave to speak to Zormna.

So, Zormna painfully thought as she struggled to remain upright, this woman was to be our translator. It was just as well that they had one.

The woman bowed once more to Zormna. “The Master says you must learn the commands.”

Commands? Zormna blinked, losing focus again. Commands. Of course. She was a slave after all. They merely let her keep her own clothes… or part of her own clothes anyway. She missed her uniform. The air was chilly. She shivered.

The Th’san’s voice from above barked something like a hiss and a cluck.

“This means come,” the woman said.

The Th’san said it again.

“Come,” the woman repeated like a teacher.

Zormna rolled her eyes and jerked away from the monster the woman called Master. Instead of coming, though, she managed to walk across to the near wall where she leaned against for balance.

The Th’san said the command again.

The woman said nothing, however she motioned with her eyes that Zormna had better go to the Th’san.

But Zormna had no inclination to obey any commands. She remained at the wall, glowering at him.

The Th’san made his command again, his reptilian green eyes narrowing on his slave like a snake as he waited for Zormna’s compliance. Zormna still refused to play his game. She glared at him, immobile.

Then, unprovoked, the giant swung down and struck the woman slave. The slave yelped, staggering to keep on her feet.

Leaping from the wall straight to the woman’s side, Zormna growled up at the Th’san. “You didn’t need to hit her!”

But the woman lifted her eyes from the floor with a mournful gaze. “He did. As long as you do not obey, he will beat me, since I did not teach you well.”

The Th’san gave his command to come again.

Zormna automatically put herself between the Th’san and the woman to shield her.

The beast’s mouth spread smugly across his reptilian like face, as his judging eyes spoke for him. He grabbed Zormna, wrenching her out of the way.

Her bare feet slid across the tile as he struck the Aloean slave once more across the face. Zormna struggled in his grip, unable to break free to attack him. Had she not been so dizzy, she would have twisted in his grip, ripped out and clocked him in the temple with her heel. But she could hardly manage to stand. And worse, the pain in her stomach was making her nauseous. She was on the verge of vomiting.

Then he let Zormna go.

He gave his command to come once again.

Glaring at him from her spot on the floor, Zormna saw him reach out to hit the slave once more.

“No!” Zormna jumped forward to stop him.

Grabbing her, he held her back with his enormous hands. Zormna collapsed to the ground, helplessly watching the hard blow smack across the woman’s face for a third time.

Straightening up, the Th’san gave his command again to come.

Zormna whimpered on the floor. She realized that he was not going to stop hitting that woman until she obeyed.

He raised his hand to hit the woman once more.

In wretched hate for him, Zormna pushed off the ground, clenching her teeth as she stood on her wobbly legs… and walked over to him.

A broad reptilian smile spread on his huge face. The Th’san stayed his hand, leaving his slave in peace. Patting Zormna on her head for obeying, he then nodded to the slave, allowing her time to get back on her feet. Zormna watched in guilty grief. It took a moment, but the woman rose once more, straightening up before bowing humbly before her master again, waiting for his command.

He made another sound. A different one.

“That means go,” the woman said, her eyes lifting to Zormna, begging for her to obey.

Zormna blinked back tears, staring back at the woman who would receive blows for her disobedience.

He said it again.

“Go,” the woman said.

It was dirty. And unfair. Somehow, he knew it was worse. He knew she cared.

Bowing miserably to the Master’s will, Zormna obeyed. She went.

Definitely not a guest.

She was a slave.

And so went her ‘education’. That morning she learned the commands to come and go, to sleep and to rise, to bathe and to get something, and to call him Master whenever she addressed him—mostly to say in Th’san, ‘Yes Master’ which was required. The worst part of it was that the servant was frequently beaten for more than just her defiance, but also her mistakes. If Zormna forgot which hiss and cluck meant what, he hit the woman. Utterly heart-wrenching, unjust, and decidedly cruel, Zormna wished she had the strength to kick his butt and render him unconscious while they escaped. However, she had no choice but to do the best she could to obey—for the woman’s sake. Also, when Zormna grew angry and showed it, the woman was also beaten. The Master called it insolence and would tolerate none of it. And the slave begged Zormna to control her temper. It became clear that someone other than herself would suffer if she did anything contrary to the Master’s will—which, Zormna realized, showed this Th’san knew whom he had bought and clearly understood her character.  

Once the Master was satisfied with her lessons in obeying Th’san commands, he excused the servant, then showed Zormna around the room— specifically the places she had to use on her own as his personal servant. One of the prime spots he took her to was the wash area. It was situated directly next to a curtained archway which in the glare of the bright light had to be outside somewhere. If she had the strength, Zormna would have run out right then. However, she could barely keep her balance just walking. Running would be disastrous. So, she looked at the washroom.

The wash area was connected directly to the room and was mainly a recessed bath with tile walls and huge bottles of probably oils or soaps. There was a spout for water, peculiarly shaped handles, and no showerhead to speak of. Glancing at the bottles again, Zormna assumed they had only baths—her future morning duty requiring her to bathe him, according to the slave. Just the thought made her feel sick.

She looked around for a sink, but did not see one. Then she eyed around for a toilet, hoping it also wasn’t in the bath. And honestly, she needed to use it, if possible.

As if reading her mind, the Master went to the wall at the right of the bath and grabbed what looked to Zormna like the door to a laundry chute. He pulled it out like a filing cabinet drawer. Zormna stared, eyes wider on the shape of the thing, which now looked a bit like a cross between a saddle and a urinal, with a wide hole in the center of the seat. And to think she had thought American toilets were weird…. This thing, she would have to straddle while facing the wall.

Zormna glanced up at the Th’san in mortification. Did they seriously do their business in the open?

She looked to the outside again, thinking about holding it until she found a better place to relieve herself. Yet, the Master picked her up and set her on the seat, expecting her to use it that very moment. Her legs dangled off like a child’s. It was humiliating. And she really hadn’t needed to go that very second, she would have hopped down. However, she undid her undersuit under the eye of that Th’san and let go of everything she had been holding in for the past hour.

Her eyes looked around for toilet paper.

The Th’san pointed at then slid up a switch on the toilet. Automatically, a jet of cold water gushed over everything sitting over the hole on the seat, causing her to almost fall off, if he had not caught her and held her there. After it, a gust of air dried her off. It was so disturbing, that he tightened his grip on her and held her onto the seat until it finished. Zormna never wanted to poop again.

Once he helped her down, the Th’san called Master looked self-satisfied, as if he had just had a very successful day in training a prize collie to poop in the right place. With Zormna in tow, he took them both back to his enormous bed and sat down there, tucking his raptor legs under himself exactly like a roosting bird did. He drew back the sheer curtains, hooking them to the posts of the bed while he hauled Zormna onto his rather short lap and large toe knuckles. If anyone had seen them, it would have looked not unlike a contortionist playing with a rather large rag doll. Zormna felt as steady as a rag doll. Keeping her achy head up was tiresome. However, she disliked leaning against the creature holding her, so she did anything she could to show her defiance at being a captive that would not get a slave of his beaten.

The servant returned to the room carrying an enormous tray stacked with plates and bowls of food, leaving it next to the door on the desk to the right of it. That was when Zormna realized that the woman had barely entered the room before. She had always lingered near the doorway, always retreating to the doorway. She didn’t even come into the room now. It made no sense. Didn’t this Th’san use her before? Who cleaned his room then? Another slave maybe? He certainly didn’t. A person who owned slaves wouldn’t.

A hissy-bark came from the Master, one that meant ‘bring that thing here.’ He meant the command for her and not the slave.

The complete absurdity of the situation flooded Zormna with indignation. But she had to control her temper or the woman would get beaten. Yet Zormna glared at the floor and her own knees, grumbling in her mind that this huge hulking monster three times her size and probably four times her strength wanted her—a dizzy, nauseated, unbalanced being who could not even reach as far he could let alone carry as much as he could—to wait on him? However, peeking at the servant who watched her, waiting for punishment in case Zormna failed, she didn’t risk to disobey.

The temptation to kick that Th’san in the knees when she hopped down had to be restrained. Frustrated, Zormna walked over to the food tray, exchanging one more look with the servant who looked grateful for Zormna’s quick obedience. But of course, she would have to play nice for the time being—at least until she could escape.

Zormna picked up the tray.

As she carried it, she peered over all the fragrantly elaborate dishes at the smug expression on the Master’s face. His glassy eyes shone with grand pleasure, his chin up, revealing the mottled patterns in his scaly skin underneath his neck. Fury etched deeper into her own face, causing her green eyes to brighten like fire. Her usually pale face flushed red against her golden hair—which for some reason made him smile more rather than get angry and call it insolence. However, just as she was about to cross the room with this heavy unstable weight, a fit of dizziness swept over her.

Her knees buckled. Collapsing to the cold tile, Zormna dropped everything.

Her forehead smacked against the hard floor. Through the throbbing of her skull, she could hear the tray clatter with a hollow gong as a bowl cracked and another shattered. Hot soup had sloshed around her left arm in a thick, aromatic puddle. The platter had sailed across the hard tile and struck the far wall with another metallic *wong*.

Thinking of the woman and what might happen to her because of the mishap, Zormna struggled to get up. Pushing off the floor, everything ached. But her head was now throbbing. And in her ears, she heard a roaring that kept her imbalanced. One hand set in the soup. She slipped. Zormna almost went out of consciousness as she struck the floor a second time. Only the touch of the Master’s clammy skin against her cheek and the metal plate in her temple roused her. Washed in a wave of revulsion, Zormna pulled her arms and legs into fetal position, recoiling from him.

His hisses and burbles over her head expressed a dismay she could hear—as if he were saying, “What? You flinch at me? I am your master.”

Still Zormna pulled back from him, her mind swimming once more into consciousness.

The giant had lifted her off the floor without her knowing it. He had also picked up the empty food tray. Stroking her face, he burbled and hissed with squawks of birdlike affection, which confused her. What game was he playing? Surely, she was his new slave. And yet, his behavior toward her was way too gentle. He beat the other slave to inflict emotional pain on her but not physical. And what did it matter if she fell down? Didn’t Th’sans think humans were nothing but trash? And why did he care that she recoiled from him? He was master, and she was slave, right? What did her opinion matter? In her delirium, logic prodded that this wasn’t the usual treatment for a prisoner of war. Something peculiar was going on.

As the Th’san carefully lay Zormna on the bed, gently resting her head on the pillow, the Aloean slave returned with a new food tray. From her helpless position, Zormna watched the woman return once more to clean the spilled mess. The servant did it quietly and quickly then turned to go. Zormna attempted to sit up but failed, unable to support her dizzy head. “Wait! Are you coming back?”

Glancing once at the Master who currently sat next to Zormna like a towering hulk watching her intently, the woman bowed to Zormna. “Tomorrow.”

Zormna lowered her bed back to the bed.

As the woman left the room, the Master lifted Zormna off the bed and cradled her like a baby in his arms. He sat her up, adjusting her head then attempted to hand feed-her. Moaning out loud, Zormna shifted her face away, pushing his hands off.

He emitted a grunt of disappointment. But he did not call for the slave to be beaten as Zormna had begun to think he would do. Instead, he resigned to hand her the food so she could feed herself.

Admittedly, she was hungry, and there was no point trying to escape on an empty stomach.

The first thing he had given her was this organic ball of… Zormna really didn’t know what it was, though she bit into it, as foreign food had to be at least tried first. There were seeds in it, but it had a gummy center that tasted like bean paste. It was about the size of a walnut. She ate it all. He also handed her a scoop of bread which he demonstrated that she could use to eat the soup. The soup was also full of seeds as well as green leafy vegetables. The Th’san broke his crusty bread into chunks and dipped it in the sauce to absorb the moisture, chewing contentedly. Mimicking him, Zormna started to wonder how long it had been since she last ate, because she was famished and didn’t realize it until she had started eating.

The spices in the soup were peculiar. Not amazing. She didn’t really like it or hate it. All Zormna could think was that it mostly tasted like Chinese food gone bad. Some of it was tasty though.

Then the Master passed her the pieces of fruit.

Admittedly, Zormna clutched the fruit and stared at it. It was unlike any fruit she had ever eaten on Earth, and Zormna was rather fond of Earth fruit. Especially the citrus. This fruit had a peculiar smell. Not bad, but different. It was more like an apple in texture, but when she took a bite, she found the flavor resembled a kiwi. She ate more, savoring the taste and texture. It had a grape-ishness about it in the center which startled her—a little gelatinous. And the skin had a grape kind of feel to it. The Master gave her one more, which Zormna happily ate.

Once she had finished with the soup and the fruit, he handed her a bowl-sized ceramic goblet to drink from. It was slippery in her palms after the juice. Yet sniffing the contents, a vapor ran up her nose and she recoiled. The odor she recognized. Whatever it was, it was fermented—an alcohol. Strictly anti-alcohol as any Arrassian, Zormna pushed the goblet away, refusing to drink from it.

The Th’san let out a low displeased gurgle. Pushing it up to her lips again, he almost pinched Zormna’s nose to make her open her mouth. Angrily, Zormna shoved the goblet away with her foot with the intent to tip it over and dump out the contents—regardless of the work it would cause the slave and possibly anger the Th’san. Her healthy liver was more important. At least if he ordered the slave back, she’d have an interpreter who could argue her point. Besides, getting drunk would remove all her defenses. And then what would happen?

But the Th’san caught the goblet up before the contents could spill. Frowning at her, he set it out of her reach. Hissing something which she was sure was annoyance at her behavior, he went back to eating himself, yet he did not force her more. Zormna expected more of a fight. Instead, he finished off the platter and the dishes aside, his eyes staring at her while sighing as though he thought she was being ridiculous. It rippled through Zormna’s mind once again that this was not the behavior of a real slave owner. Or rather, she wasn’t a real slave. There was a distinct difference in how he treated her versus the way he had treated the other slave.

Once he finished licking his lips after his meal, the Master rose from the bed and set the tray back on the desk near the door. He returned to the bed and sat next to Zormna, his eyes raking once more across her in a way that made her insides twist into knots—that familiar stare of a man seeing what he liked. It wasn’t the look she would have expected from a creature of another species either. An alien ought to at least see her as some kind of foreign animal. Her heart thundered, a primal terror taking over as his eyes stroked her figure, the vestige gills on his neck rippling as if he were breathing through them. They were even changing color, flushing red. He leaned closer to her, resting his hand on her thigh. Then it slid up her leg.

Yelping, practically jumping from the mattress, Zormna pushed away from him. But in doing so, she skidded right off the bed and tumbled to the floor.

The Master stood to his full height and emitted a duck sound which uncannily sounded like laughter. His eyes were shining in birdish amusement.

Indignant, Zormna felt as if a prank had just been pulled on her. What was this beast’s deal anyway? What did he just try to do?

In his laughter, the Th’san called out in his squawky way to get the servant again—or so Zormna had thought as he had called in the direction of the doorway. But instead of the older woman coming to get beaten for her ‘insolence’, a woman nearer Zormna’s age arrived. This one also came in the typical slave’s white tunic and was also wearing an electric collar. Zormna registered this with a nasty feeling. Two slaves now in the customary slave attire. Where was hers? If they had the time to insert machinery into her skull, then they had ample time to change her clothes into the customary slave garb.

 The new woman bowed to the Master then peered around the sheer bed curtains at Zormna on the floor. With halting movements, the young woman crossed the speckled tile, stopping a yard away from Zormna. She lowered her head in a bow to her. Then she crouched down to help Zormna up.

“You are still a maiden then?” the young woman asked in lighter accented Aloean.

Dizzy, taking the outstretched hand, Zormna allowed herself be pulled to her feet while her eyes fixed upon the woman’s purple irises and rich wavy hair, wondering at her. “What are you asking?”

The young woman bowed so that her head dipped just below Zormna’s. She stood about a foot taller than her also. “You have no lover?”

Pulling back, Zormna flushed deep red. She shook her head fiercely, glaring back up at the Th’san who was listening in expectantly, though clearly he did not understand Aloean. “I am unmarried.”

The young woman bowed again, respect in her eyes as she turned, translating Zormna’s words to the Master.

That hulking Th’san grinned, satisfied with that answer. He then spoke, hissing and gibbering something with a nod for the woman to translate back to Zormna. Obediently, the slave bowed to him and said to Zormna, “So then you fear a man.”

Zormna flushed stiffly, squaring her shoulders. “I am afraid of no one!”

The Th’san reacted with that duck-like laughter. He then spoke rapidly and waited to be translated.

The woman bowed. “The Master says you are a silly liar, or you would not have fallen off the bed just now.”

Bristling, Zormna’s ears burned in embarrassment. “Where I come from, civilized men do not take advantage of a woman, especially one in weakness. He is five times my size and triple my height. And he’s a different species for pity’s sake! The very idea is disgusting! I demand he take these implants off of me and let me go.”

The servant blanched. Peeking up at the Th’san who had been patiently watching Zormna’s speech with interest, she hesitated to translate. “I cannot say that.”

Zormna scowled, pointing up at the Th’san. “You tell him,” she said. “You tell him. And if he beats you for it, he is a blasted coward and barbarian. A monster.”

The Th’san’s neck stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he watched the exchange, understanding her tone well enough. His lips thinning, he hissed and clucked impatiently for the translation.

Trembling, the Aloean woman’s shoulders hunched into herself. She painfully translated Zormna’s words. Her Th’san did not sound at all like the older woman’s, but somehow the Master understood it because he shot a heavy displeased glance at Zormna. Raising to his full monolithic height, the Th’san spoke deliberately, with thought, to the young woman, dictating what she had to say. The woman nodded low, her shoulders sinking more as she turned toward Zormna again. “The Master is not pleased with your disrespectful words. He reminds you that you owe him your life.”

Of all the….

Disgusted, Zormna opened her mouth.

But the woman prevented her in a louder warning tone, “Also the Master says that the head plates cannot be removed, that to do so would kill you. Those plates are only reserved for the dangerous ones. And you, as he has seen, are dangerous.”

Pulling back, Zormna peeked at him. “Then he knows who I am.”

The slave didn’t even need to speak to the Master on that one. She gravely nodded. “You are Zoama, Odos queen and pilot.”

So. That question was answered. Zormna closed her eyes. She had to reach inside her gut for courage, since she had not felt such intimidation in a long time. But when she opened her eyes again and faced the Th’san giant who fully intent on oppressing her, she said, “I am Alea—Queen Zormna Clendar Tarrn, and I will not be bullied by monsters. My people are coming for me. It is better for you to let me go now—”

A hearty, wry laugh from the Th’san interrupted her. He then begged the question from the slave woman, perhaps for exact wording. The slave answered apprehensively, repeating what Zormna was saying while Zormna’s cheeks burned hot, her chest heaving indignantly.

The Th’san laughed more. Turning his glassy green-slitted eyes heavily on Zormna, he said directly to her, “Kthz Kthdbup zhzozss Zoama thoash buthz….”

The hissing was lost on her of course—but the sound of it and his facial expression made a clear enough impression that Zormna almost didn’t need it translated. He was negating all her assertions while emphasizing his dominance.

“The Master says no one is coming. He is your master and you must submit,” the slave translated plainly.

Zormna’s jaw stiffened with indignation. The muscles in her neck tightened and her spine lifted her chest. “I will not. He is not my master. I am a free Arrassian!”

The slave woman paled. Peeking once more to the Master, she hesitated, but the Th’san impatiently snarled for the interpretation. Quavering, she obeyed.

As she spoke, his expression changed to amusement once again. The Th’san immediately began to stalk around the bed.

Automatically, Zormna recoiled toward the far wall in spite of her pride. The hulking Th’san came uncomfortably close, easily resting his huge hand on her head. The weight of it pressed like a lead-lined baseball mitt, molding against her scalp as he fingered her rumpled curls. Zormna shuddered. She automatically closed her eyes as his huge face drew closer to hers. And he spoke. The sound he made came with caressing hisses that once again intended to be affectionate. Zormna heard the girl at her side translate: “You are mine, and this is our domain. Your dragon eyes have earned you this honor. Do not dishonor your lips with foul speech, but appreciate your good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” Zormna’s green eyes flashed open. Anger surged through her again. She jerked out from under his huge hand, backing away. “Being here is not good fortune. I may be captive, but am not your property! You are NOT my master! Jafarr will come for me! You hear? I am the Zeta…” She clenched her teeth in frustration. Old habits… “Ugh! I am a queen! I serve only the Creator and my people! Not you.”

Yet he only chuckled in his clucky duck way, his tone revealing his sentiment that she was delusional. And as he rose to his full monstrous height again, listened to her protests in translation, he spoke frankly.

The Aloean translated: “The Master says you are delirious because you are tired. You are not thinking clearly. He says to look about you. No one is coming for you. No one can.”

But Zormna continued to scowl at him with rebellious, stubborn defiance. Though, one nagging voice echoed his words in the back of her skull. No one is coming. No one can. Honestly, she had no clue where she was currently. Among thirteen different worlds, not counting the subworlds she had heard the Th’sans had governed, she could easily be hidden from her people and never found. How could anyone come for her? Her army didn’t have the tech to trace where stolen pilots had been taken yet. It was one of several projects that she had been working on, but would no longer be able to finish. For a heavy moment, despair grabbed at her, dragging her toward darkness. Except… there was still Jafarr.

“Jafarr will come for me.” Zormna squared her shoulders, lifting her chest and chin once more. “He will find me.”

In birdlike discontent, the Master shook his head—not needing the translation. Her body language spoke volumes. He repeated plainly in understandable Th’san now, “You are mine.”

Those hisses she knew as well as she knew the sounds of the commands he had drilled into her head. He had said them enough.

“I am not,” she replied in Arrassian this time.

The room became quite still then. Giant towering over tiny Arrassian captive, both remained without bending.

But finally, the Th’san sighed as a man who had just seen his oversight, and it was too late to correct it—or rather he knew it would be difficult to correct. He dismissed the woman servant.

Bowing, she left the room. He hadn’t beaten her for Zormna’s ‘insolence’. So, something else was definitely at play here. She was his ‘property’ and yet… not the same as the house slaves.

Once more alone with the hulking giant who declared ownership of her, Zormna inched away. Surprisingly, her self-proclaimed Master merely nodded at her and walked to the gaping sunlit archway at the back of the room, allowing her freedom of movement. He stood there in the archway, gazing out in silence. It was too bright for Zormna to make out what was actually there, but him standing there was like an open invitation to look. It had been difficult to gaze at that bright light, actually. She had been averting her eyes from it the entire time, as it was mostly a blinding blur. Rubbing her eyes Zormna realized that on top of her dizziness, she had been unable to focus her eyes well. There was so much pressure in her skull that she had only been focusing on the near things, such as the room immediately around her. Things in shadows. However, now her curiosity was piqued.

The Th’san stared out, his eyes pensively gazing at… well, she didn’t know actually. So Zormna looked, yet did not move from where she stood.

Just outside the door was some kind of yard—what the British would call a garden, though it had a tropical feel to it. It was huge and came right to the archway tile, marked with paving stones and pebbles in a path from the doorway. The open archway itself was a light shade of terracotta, bordering on white stucco. The inside arch was lined with patterned tile and phosphorescent light stripping, which Zormna found peculiar as the light was currently off, as were the lights in the room. The light fixtures in the room had been peculiar crystalline looking things dangling from the ceiling, but Zormna could not recognize any switch for them. Yet looking back out at the garden archway, Zormna realized there was no door. Just sheer curtains. The Master lifted one curtain to a hook, sighing as he stood in the gap. Beyond him, she caught the full view of the garden. It was breathtaking.

One bush was covered in peculiarly formed lilies and small flowers, starting at the roots. Light reflected off of water somewhere beyond that, but that was all she could from her present position. He lingered in the doorway, pensive in as he gazed out, but then he glanced at her, a grin crooking on his combination bird and humanoid face.

Zormna didn’t like how amused he got when looking at her. She recoiled.

But he only grinned more and motioned with his hand for her to come to look out the door, if she wanted.

Her jaw tightened. Zormna remained where she was.  

Shooting her a tired look, he then gave the command to come.

Peeking once to the door where the slaves had come from, thinking of the woman who would get beaten if she disobeyed, Zormna huffily walked to the archway. However, she stopped at the other side of the arch, opposite him, pushing aside the curtain to step past it. It didn’t do well to ignore an opportunity to get a lay of the place. She could find escape routes. She just needed to look like she wasn’t looking for them. With her view unobstructed, Zormna gazed out into the garden.

She drew in a breath.

Absolutely breathtaking.

Regardless of what she thought about Th’sans and their business treating with human beings like cattle, they could make a garden that would make the Japanese weep with envy.  

Enclosed by three walls and the house, the yard was filled with flowers and plants of such a wide variety, properly cultivated with no proper lawn to speak of though there was soft green ground cover in spots. Stepping stones of the cleanest rock created a path from the doorway through the garden in a meandering Zen-like trail. It looked as though it has been scrubbed daily for the Master’s feet. On the left stood a high wall made entirely of perfectly quarried stone with no mortar, reaching up to seven feet—like those South American megaliths, only smaller. Creeping vines and wire trellises were draped with dangling plants shaped like upside-down bonnets with plumed feathers. In the far corner, stood a tree with fat smooth boughs and enormous waxy leaves, reaching the height of thirty feet at least. A tuft of flowers stuck out at the top of the tree. Leafy-shaped blossoms not unlike poinsettias grew throughout the tree with those same yellow tufts sticking out the center of them. At the base of the tree, orchids of orange, peach, and white grew along with small blossoms on long stalks much like miniature white roses, except these were brilliantly ruffled and dotted with flecks of blue.

Deep in front of all those flowers sat a pool of clear water, which was edged in cut stone, wood platforms, and decorated tile. The tile formed a flat space large enough for a small human to lay upon but too small for a Th’san to use except as a step to sit upon and dangle his feet into the pool. The pool at its deepest was probably enough to immerse a grown Th’san standing upright. All plants had been cut back from that pond with only a flat landing, probably for the Th’san feet to rest on.

Flowers filled the back of the garden, concealing nearly half of the stone wall behind it. To the right, stood a smaller wall of six feet or so, made of patterned gray brick. In it, Zormna noticed a stained wooden gate the height of the wall, which Zormna was sure the Th’san would have easily been able to see right over, though she never would be able to. A stubby palm tree grew in front of it a few feet. The stone path led to the gate. The gate itself had a lock which looked secure.

It was a beautiful yard, large enough for private enjoyment and the like. But the tops of the walls were flat. No pikes. No razor wire. Nothing that constituted as a security measure that Zormna could see. And that was promising.

The Th’san smiled down at her with a motion to Zormna that she could enter the garden if she wished, burbling and hissing with a magnanimous grin. Zormna resisted the urge to be stubborn, despite how she hated this Th’san, and she stepped into it. As she went in, looking around more, mostly seeking escape routes, she though it was unusual to be offered even the minutest freedom when in all logical circumstances she was to be a slave to this huge monster. She walked to the pool, gazing in to see how deep it really was and if water flowed into it by any kind of large pipe. Then she walked toward the tree with the poinsettia flowers, making her way through the low flowers while trying not to crush any one of them as she went. Zormna stroked the tree’s bark with her fingertips, wondering about slippage in case she needed to climb it. It was smooth and not sticky except in cut-off places where it has been pruned and the amber sap was healing the wounds like oozing blood. The lowest branches were within her reach. She reached up to see if she could climb it, peeking back once to see if the Th’san would stop her. But he merely watched her with an amused expression akin to an owner watching his puppy play with a rubber mouse. So, she heaved herself up into the branches and climbed.

Zormna climbed high, mostly to get a good view of the area. In fact, she soon got too high in the tree for the Th’san’s comfort. His head perked when she continued to go higher. His eyes widening, he quickly strode over to the base of the tree, calling for her to come to him. He used the command word.

She had to obey or else.

But his voice was oddly filled with concern that she might hurt herself rather than that she might escape. But she did not go down just yet. From her vantage point, she could see that the tree branches didn’t safely reach the top left wall which ran along the road. And as for the outside of the back wall, there was a nasty drop down into a marshy chasm which seemed to be over fifty feet—nothing she could survive without seriously hurting herself. As for the other side of the left wall, it extended to a whitish dirt-and-rock road, possibly a causeway. But since she couldn’t reach that by the tree, she would have to scale that wall itself.

The Master called again, adamant she get down.

Zormna knew if she didn’t climb down then, he would call for the slave to punish her. So, she went down.

When she descended a few feet to where she would jump to the ground, Zormna dropped from the tree and landed near her Th’san captor’s feet like a cat. His startled eyes and gaping stare was reward enough for doing it.

She wanted to scare him. He had to be frightened of her so that when she did escape, he would refrain from trying to recover her himself. Fear knocked out logic after all. And he was much bigger than her.

But he got over his shock rather quickly and marched over to where she crouched in the flowers. Grabbing her up by her waist, he carried her back into the room, thrusting her directly onto the bed. It wasn’t exactly the result she was aiming for. In fact, his glare chastised her. And his hissing bellow called back the young servant who had been there before.

A little breathless, the slave woman patiently listened to the Master as he garbled and hissed his complaints. The Aloean’s eyes grew wide, gazing from Zormna to him and back again in complete astonishment. She quickly bowed to the Master then turned to Zormna. “The Master begs you not to jump out of that tree again. You could have killed yourself, or broken your legs, or mangled your face.”

Zormna rolled her eyes wearily.

“Say you will not,” the woman insisted.

“No.” Zormna scowled. “I will do nothing of the kind. Why should he care if I get hurt? I’m his slave, aren’t I?”

The woman stared in genuine surprise at this remark and repeated it to her master. The Th’san in turn heaved out a weary sigh then grabbed a hold of Zormna’s wrist.

Angry, defiant, and certainly regaining her balance and strength—if only a little—Zormna jerked out of his hold.

The claws on his fingers scratched down her wrist, creating huge welts. In one place the scratch bled.

Both the Th’san and the Aloean servant gaped at her.

Scowling back, Zormna clutched her arm. What was a scratch anyway?

With a garbled sound like he was choking, the Th’san nudged for the slave to translate. Which the woman did while shaking with horror at what she had just witnessed Zormna do. “Have you no regard for your own safety? You are bleeding.”

Zormna glanced at her own wrist with a brief shrug, pulling away from the Th’san. “I don’t care. I want my freedom.”

Turning her eyes sadly to the Th’san again, the woman translated. He, in turn, sighed with a tone of pity. He clucked gravely. And it was translated. “The Master says: then I will care for you as you do not.”

Groaning, Zormna flushed with both confusion and indignation. What right did he have to talk like that?

Once more the woman slave was excused.

What happened next, confused Zormna even more. The Th’san fetched what looked like a first aid kit. Then he sat her upon his bed and treated her scratched wrist, wrapping it in a bandage. As he did this, he cooed at her like a child cooed to a sick pet whimpering in fear. It was a stark contrast to when she had been in that prison over a year ago. The guards had laughed when she got scratched. They mocked her when her shock collar had burned a ring around her neck. They had said it was a sign that she was a weak and inferior creature. But this Th’san, he treated her like… Zormna didn’t know what. But it was like he didn’t want her to get hurt—ever.

After he wrapped and bandaged her arm, the huge Th’san settled to putting the room to rights and nearly ignored his new captive entirely. When done, he picked up a flat pad of machinery which appeared to be a common flat computer pad, which he commenced to write on using a stylus.

 Again, one did not just ignore a servant after… well, he introduced her to a garden, fed her, made brief advances on her, teased her, and bullied her into following blunt commands. Had he no more expectations beyond that? What was his game? What was really going on?

Massaging her forehead, Zormna thought hard. What she really had to do was find a way out. The Th’san’s motives and plans were in the end irrelevant to that. And seeing that she was left to her own devices, at least on the surface, Zormna figured she might as well explore the space in which she was in—and to do it subtlety. From her position, she could see the room had three doors, one canopy style bed, a desk and drawer set up on one side of the room, a bath area, and a bed. It was minimalistic at best. She didn’t see any books, or what could be a book. No knickknacks. No paintings or photographs anywhere. There weren’t even any indoor plants. There were a few electrical type panels in the walls, though.

Zormna carefully slid off the bed, sliding past the sheer curtains to meander about the room. Growing accustomed to the weight of the head plates now, her dizzy spells were getting less. And while the Th’san was busy, sitting on a low velvety seat at the end of his bed, working with his pad and stylus, he did not interfere with her movement. He chirped and hissed to himself, appearing not to notice her, but she didn’t doubt that he was watching her all the same.

She crossed the room to inspect the bathroom, or so she pretended. But gazing at it, she felt a shudder, remembering what the first slave had taught her about her duty to help her new master bathe his back, something she hoped to avoid when she escaped. She glanced at the bottles of oils and soaps that filled the top ledge along the bath, taller than a lamp stand some of them. They would be filled with slippery contents, and therefore useful if she needed to create a booby trap while she escaped. The recessed space reeked of perfume and mint.

Walking along the wall to the right of the bath, Zormna came to the narrow doorway the servants had come from and poked her head in.

A shock of unbearable pain riveted straight into her stomach.

Teetering back into the room, the pain immediately stopped. 

Zormna tried to gather herself. What had just happened? Staring at the open yet narrow doorway, she took a breath. What was it she had just experienced? There was only one way she knew to find out. She stuck her head through the doorway once more.

Again, pain shot through her body directly to her stomach. It came so sharply, that she collapsed to her knees where she stood, clenching her sides to hold herself in. Once Zormna crawled back again from the doorway, the pain ceased.

Blinking in horror at the open door, Zormna reached her arm through the doorway, testing it again to see exactly how bad it was. So far, nothing. So then she straightened up, and attempted to go through feet first. This time she could feel the pain coming on as half her body was through. She scooted back into the room before the pain got too much. Her eyes shot to the other two doorways. There had been no pain going into the garden, but she had to double check a suspicion she had to make sure she was right.  

Getting onto her feet, Zormna immediately marched to the garden opening. She stuck her arm out, then stepped out. Nothing happened. So, it wasn’t because her master was with her. But what about the other doorway?

Immediately, she marched across the room to the opposite archway where she would see a wide passage. There were no curtains in this wide opening at all, but it seemed more like a common path, perhaps to the rest of house. As she passed him, the Th’san calmly lifted his eyes to watch her. He set down the stylus in his hands, but did not move from his seat.

Zormna stepped once beyond the archway.

Exactly as she had feared, the pain came instantly. It felt as if large nails were being driven into her stomach. Zormna dropped onto her rump from the shock of it, clutching across her gut. She scooted on her backside to get out of the front hall.

The Master did not move, but stared at her, mildly waiting to see what she would do next.

What should she do next? Should she just accept this? Zormna hated being defeated. She always worked to never be. It only ever happened to her a few times in her life. She usually could figure her way out of trouble, circumventing those things which tried to hold her back. And even then, if her mind could not find a solution, she always had been able to fight her way out. From the angle she was at, she could tell this hallway led somewhere, hopefully outside. From her view in the tree, the house did not seem to extend far in that direction. All she would have to do is get through this passage and she could be out. She had to try it. She had to know if there was chance for an escape—but she did it cautiously. This time she stepped in with only one foot.

Unfortunately, once more the pain returned. Zormna cried out in agony. The worst of it was that it struck her to the core, crippling her. Jerking out, Zormna angrily whipped around, casting a glare at the Th’san she was forced to call Master.

His large crocodilian eyes gazed back, his mouth thin with amusement.  

This was intolerable. She had to escape.

Zormna tromped across the room and out the garden archway this time. Dashing quickly to the left wall that divided the yard from the gravel-covered road she had seen from the tree, she reached for a gap between the stone blocks to climb over. But the very moment her fingers touched the wall, the resurgence of pain ruptured through her gut and squeezed her stomach like a vise.

Recoiling with a cry, tears of despair crested in her eyes. Zormna clutched herself against the pain, panting hard. She stared at the wall, dropping in the middle of a bed of red crocuses. Weeping, she hugged her stomach with a shudder. There was no way out. She closed her eyes, nearly blacking out.

Zormna did not even feel the large hands of the Master pick her up and take her back into the room until he placed her back upon the bed. Opening her eyes, wiping away the tears that blinded her, she saw him casually go back to where he had been sitting just minutes before. He picked up the stylus to continue his work as if nothing had happened at all.

Of course.

He had known all along that she would not be able to get out. He did know who she was, and everything had been set up to keep her.

On that giant mattress, curling in a ball of misery, rocking herself, Zormna realized the truth. She was trapped.

Don’t You Know?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three:

 

“Ignore reality. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

From ‘Don’t You Think’ by Natalie Imbruglia

 

 

The rest of the first day in Th’san captivity nearly vaporized from Zormna’s conscious thoughts. She remained weeping on the Master’s bed, emotionally and physically wiped out while hugging herself with the gut wish that it was only a nightmare. She dared not open her eyes to find that it was real.

But it was real. She knew it. She could not pretend it wasn’t.

It was a terrifying reality. So awful, that Zormna choked within herself. Her undefeatable pride would have dragged her miserable soul to fight at all costs if she had any hope to escape on her own—but there was no hope. She was a pragmatist, besides. They had weakened her physically by removing her balance and caged her with pain. The Th’sans had learned from their mistakes with her the first time. They truly thought of everything.

Her Th’san Master seemed to content to think so too. He had continued his work without a word while she sobbed, allowing her to come to terms with her captivity. No mocking. No shouting. He just left her alone. And when he finished his work, he stood up and placed his flat computer and stylus onto the desk. He glanced over at her. His posture as he leaned back against his desk was like someone admiring a new car or an expensive piece of art he had just purchased—sort of. His alien eyes caressed over her contours while a simple grin spread on his lips. Zormna had quit shaking by that time. Her sobs had transformed into despairing sniffles. And though her eyes were inflamed, that only made her irises look greener. Her face was flushed as she rested her head on the pillow, but she held her hands over her face to hide her shame at crying. She had always been embarrassed by it. She only uttered one word—Jafarr.

Where was he? She could not feel him out for some reason. Normally she carried with her a warm sensation of him nearby, even if they were not in the same room. All those times in battle when she went out and he was praying for her safety, she felt him. Now, nothing. Was it punishment for not listening to him when he warned her not to go to war? Yet she knew Jafarr wouldn’t withhold himself like that. He would be going mad looking for her. He would be using every means within his power to find her—especially his seer gifts. 

The Th’san’s smile fell at her spoken word though. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the sound of the word but not comprehending the meaning. He could only detect that it meant something significant to his possession. For some reason it tainted his satisfaction.

 

When the sun was high and the air was much warmer, the servants brought in trays of food. Zormna had remained on the bed all that time, still in fetal position, pretending she didn’t hear the trays clank on the desk next to the narrow door. Her master, however, made a chirruping sound then nudged her with his hissing chicken noise that meant “Go get that thing and bring it here.”

Zormna sat up from the pillow, peevishly blinking back tears while thinking he was crazy for wanting a repeat of what had happened last time. She doubted she had enough balance. But the giant birdish, dinosaur thing perched patiently on the velvet-covered bench at the end of the bed like a chicken roosting, gazing at her expectantly. Apparently, he was an optimist.

Sliding her legs across the mattress toward the floor, Zormna mentally grumbled to herself. She didn’t want the servant beaten for her disobedience, but never in her entire life had she given in to a bully. Never. Not while in military school as a child. Not in the high school in America where people thought she was an Irish immigrant[1]. Not even when the FBI had stolen three days of her life away during a brief kidnapping. She fought back all those times. But this Th’san… he fought dirty. All her former bullies attacked her directly. Yet somehow, he had figure her out. Though, Zormna realized as she slid her feet off the edge of the bed to the floor, it probably was not this particular Th’san who had figured her out, but rather the Th’sans as a group knew that as a queen who had waged war to free a people she hardly knew, she was most likely to have a soft heart if one got hurt because of her.

 Wiping her eyes dry with the side of her hand, Zormna padded barefoot across the room. She was not as dizzy this time but she was exhausted. The residual pains in her stomach from her attempts to escape wore her out, and she really did not feel up to playing servant for a giant. But because she currently did not have a choice, Zormna lifted the tray from off the desk and carried it as best as she could over the tile to the expectant Master. Her eyes glared over the bowls and plates at him, raising the tray for him to take it from her.  

Such a pleased grin spread on his loathsome alien face. He chuckled in that clucky sort of way, taking the tray from her hands as if it had weighed nothing. He moved it to the side of the bench then gestured to her to come.

As he had not given a verbal command, Zormna scowled at him, stepping back to the bed with the intent to resume her miserable position there.

He didn’t let her. Plucking her off the ground by the waist, the Th’san drew her back to the bench. Zormna weakly kicked out to fight him, but she wasn’t actually trying. She knew now that if she hurt him without a way to escape soon after he was incapacitated, someone would probably come along to check in on him and she would still be trapped. Then someone else would get beaten to torment her—or even worse might happen to her. Besides, his huge hands were large enough to grab around the width of her torso, and his claw-like fingernails so sharp that she didn’t want them to dig into her skin on reflex.

He set her on the tops of his stumpy lap, holding her like one would a wriggling puppy. He then attempted to spoon-feed her again.

Pushing his hand back from her face, Zormna protested. “No! For pity’s sake! I’m an adult!”

Not like he understood her at all… and he didn’t stop trying to feed her either. His giant hands shoved bits of fish and cooked brownish meat against her closed lips. The meat had a rank smell, a burnt hair stink barely masked by the strong spice in the sauce. It looked partially raw besides. They served it almost oozing.

She turned her head, taking the protesting infant’s way out of eating what she didn’t want. And like with a baby, the juices dripped down and smeared all over her face, also falling onto her lap.

Struggling for several long minutes in numerous attempts to feed her, the Master finally gave up. He let her drop to the floor. Zormna backed away toward the bed again. Besides, the meal didn’t look that appetizing anyway. There was no fruit—only meat and mushrooms and some spongy stuff that reminded Zormna of tofu, which, when she had been in America she thought was entirely disgusting. Wiping the gravy off her sticky face with her wrist, she retreated to the side of the bed. He huffed and shook his hand in that finger-gun L-shaped gesture which Zormna remembered seeing back in the prison on Aloea. His expression was easily readable. He was annoyed. However, without making any more deal about it, he silently stabbed the meat with a long two-tined fork, and stuffed the piece into his mouth, murmuring with enjoyment. Zormna faintly wondered if he was just feigning it like a parent did when trying to con a child into loving broccoli.

With no desire to linger, staggering farther back from the Th’san, Zormna examined the damage to her suit. The dark meat juice smeared across her arm in a long stripe. She sniffed it with a cringe. It had that brownish coagulated blood color to it which Zormna suspected probably was part blood. She wiped it off, or at least attempted to, onto her undersuit leg as there were no napkins handy—but all it did was stain the cloth with a miserable brownish-red smear. And spread it more on her arm, making her look like a person in a slasher movie.

What a pain.

And the Th’san chuckled.

Zormna lifted her eyes narrowly at him. Amusement shone in his speckled, crocodilian green eyes as he gazed down on her. He seemed to enjoy watching her, tracking her movements in the same way someone followed a kitten playing. Yet his gaze continued to make her flesh crawl… because there was also that stalker element to his stare.

He set the empty tray back on the desk when he finished his meal. Almost immediately, one of the slaves arrived to take the tray away.

The Th’san stopped that slave before she left, saying something Zormna did not recognize. It was a command. And by the looks on the woman’s face, his request was out of the normal routine.

 The slave’s eyes widened with a peek to Zormna. But then she bowed low as she said, “Sokh, Xoathqok,” which Zormna knew meant “Yes, Master” as it was one of the phrases she had been taught. Zormna half expected the woman to return with more food for his enormous stomach. However, not soon after, another, different slave arrived—a third one.

This slave was a youngish woman with a bright orange face, almost like a pumpkin, yet speckled with white and brown freckles across her cheeks and forehead. She had a wavy thick growth of brown hair, tied back with fraying cloth strips. The woman stood a mite shorter than the last two women, and she was definitely a decade older than the previous servant, but for some reason Zormna got the impression that she was less wise than the other two and perhaps the least-liked servant. The Master spoke tersely to this woman, his eyes sharp as one saying ‘my eye is on you’. She bowed ceremoniously low as she stiffly begged his command.

The Th’san commanded something, pointing at Zormna with his wrist, flicking his fingers up at his new acquisition—apparently their pointing gesture. This new slave followed his hand gesture like a spaniel pointed to pheasants in the bushes, her eyes setting on Zormna heavily. Amusement fluttered through her gaze, in and out—but she responded to her master with a mere nod. Then like that spaniel, the woman promptly marched across the room to Zormna as though she would fetch her. She briskly bowed to her. Thing was, unlike the other two slaves, this woman was irreverent—even a little smug in her posture. 

“I am here to teach you cleaning duty.” The woman’s deep amber eyes flashed her amusement again, her gaze raking over Zormna’s tiny body with so much judgement. Her eyes said so much, rather expressive really. She had formed her opinion of her master’s new captive and found Zormna a joke.

Zormna had backed up against the bed, cringing. And though she didn’t want to judge someone on a look, Zormna automatically didn’t like this person.

“You do speak Aloean, don’t you?” the woman asked, so much attitude in her tone.

Zormna scowled. “As much as I care to.”

The woman grinned broader, as if she found Zormna’s attitude delightful. “Good. Then you can listen. The Master understands almost none, so I can talk freely to you. And if you nod, he will think I am instructing you.” Then without any more explanation, the woman walked over to the wall that opened into the bath.

Zormna rolled her eyes but nodded, understanding this woman’s game immediately. The woman saw an opportunity she had not had before and she was taking it for as long as it lasted.

Watching them, the Master seemed content with how things were going so far. And feeling so, he wandered into the garden for personal reverie, or whatever, since Zormna really couldn’t see where he had gone exactly. He was out of her line of sight while she was stuck following a chattering Aloean slave. And boy, could that Aloean talk….

“My name is Niilwa Gwaqua. I clean the wives’ quarters.” Taking out a bucket from a cupboard while lifting the wooden steps to the entrance of the spacious tiled bath, the woman spoke conversationally without any real need for response. Zormna noticed inside the small, low cupboard behind the lifted steps, all sorts of cleaning supplies, including recognizable scrubbers and pails. “Most of the women who work under Master Governor Xochzong aren’t allowed to talk to each other, so I may be the last human you will ever speak to in this house. That is unless, of course, other masters bring their own lap girls with them.”

Xochzong. Zormna blinked, registering that alien word. She got a name for her Th’san captor finally. The woman was at least informative in a roundabout way. Zormna watched her fill the buckets at a spigot which she pulled from the wall next to the retractable toilet. The woman just continued to chatter in a low voice about the fact that she often missed the sound of a human voice that she would talk to herself, though that even was forbidden. And she rambled wherever her thoughts took her. Currently she was still complaining about the ban on talk between the slaves.

“…Unless of course, you are singing. The Master loves the sound of human singing.” Niilwa laughed, smiling.

“I don’t sing,” Zormna muttered, wondering if Niilwa was going to mention something pertinent. She hated idle chatter and she’d rather hear floor washing instructions rather than this drivel.

“Hum?” Niilwa replied with a smirk, her eyes shining with mockery.

Zormna flatly met her gaze. “I can’t carry a tune. Satisfied?”

But that only made Niilwa snicker more. However, she quickly covered her mouth in case it carried outside. She leaned nearer, whispering, “It does not matter if I am satisfied, only the Master. I am sure he will take it hard that you can’t sing, but then with your exotic coloring and perfect figure… Well, you’ll satisfy him enough in other ways. I daresay he’ll forget it.”

The same terror that had made her fall off the bed earlier that morning when the Th’san had touched her leg ripped through her. Zormna followed Niilwa more closely.

“What do you mean? Why should my eyes matter to him, let alone my coloring and figure? I’m just new slave, right?” Zormna asked, watching the woman demonstrate how high the water was to go into the bucket and how much soap to go with it—a perfect pantomime for the Master.

Niilwa laughed, snatching up a rag and dunking it in the water. “Don’t you know?”

Zormna blinked at her. Her face flushed, feeling hot.

Laughing more, the slave smugly gazed at Zormna, her eyes speaking the words her mouth vocalized: “Then you are a fool.”

Niilwa lifted the bucket and motioned for Zormna to follow her. “What matters is that you must please the Master,” she said. “This floor must be cleaned every day within an hour during holy time, and you must not speak a word during that time. If you do, you must start over. Also, if anyone treads on your floor during that time, you must start over. It is that tedious, and that simple.”

The woman set the bucket on the floor near the front entryway and started to clean, beginning with the entrance, but not going into the foyer, which Zormna could not enter anyway. Perhaps Niilwa knew about it. “Get on your knees, or he will dismiss me early and get the ugly cook.”

Shaking her head with a clenched jaw, Zormna crouched next to the woman. Sometimes the worst people had all the information. Apparently, Niilwa could answer a few questions. If only she wasn’t so arrogant about it.

“Cleaning is really simple,” Niilwa said. “You just need a damp, slightly soapy rag—see? Then you just wipe the floor. Th’sans are so meticulous that they don’t ever step into dirt, let alone track it in like human children. Of course, Th’san children have to be trained. But after five years, they follow suit like the rest of them.”

Zormna glanced about this room. The space, she realized, belonged to only the one Th’san. The rest of Niilwa’s previous chatter returned to the forefront of Zormna’s mind. “You had said ‘wife’s quarters’. Where are her quarters?”

Niilwa laughed at her again with mocking eyes. “What a simple girl! Wives. The Master has three wives. Their quarters are far from here. And rightly so, for their children would surely make a mess of this room if they entered it. Only upon invitation can anyone enter the Master’s domain. Only what belongs here is allowed here, you see.”

Zormna blinked. “You mean he has more than one wife?”

“Th’sans do.” The woman smirked at her. “But then I hear those primitive Parthans also have multiple wives.”

Making a face, Zormna pulled back from the woman in protest. “Not all of them! Most just have one, if they get married at all.”

Niilwa leaned back to take a good look at Zormna, her smugness not so strong. “Perhaps you are not a fool.”

The tone of her voice was now annoying Zormna to the point that she had to resist the urge to grab the bucket and dump it on Niilwa’s head. It was a childish urge, but all the same that woman was such a condescending chatterbox.

The Aloean slave then immediately changed the subject to gossip about the other servants, which Zormna found more grating. The entire time, she used rude names for the others. One was too fat. The other one too bucktoothed. She hated the smell of this elderly one. Then she mentioned one who had her tongue cut out of her mouth for talking to others too much. “…Which is why I only talk to myself, and why you had better take advantage of your time with me now before you no longer see any of us, as you will be very busy servicing the Master yourself.”

“Why is that?” Zormna asked, disliking how Niilwa said that.

Leaning on her elbow, the woman smirked with another mocking gaze at Zormna. “Don’t you know?”

This phrase was beginning to wear on Zormna also.

“Of course, he would never cut out your tongue. He wouldn’t harm a single hair on your head.” Niilwa continued as if her remark settled it. “He cherishes every inch of you.”

A shudder went through Zormna this time. “Why?”  

“Don’t you know?” Laughing, Niilwa shook her head, enjoying this way too much.

Scowling, Zormna resisted the rising urge to throttle her. “I wouldn’t ask if I knew, now would I?”

Niilwa only laughed. “Definitely a fool then.”

Rising to her feet, Zormna had had it. If there was ever a servant who deserved to be smacked around, it was Niilwa. Zormna started to storm away.

Following her with her eyes, first with amusement, then with alarm, Niilwa yipped. “Don’t get up! The Master will think you are upset and send me away. Then what will you do?”

“Perhaps I will learn from the ‘ugly’ woman—after he beats you,” Zormna snarled back. “She wasn’t a smug little creep who made fun of me.”

Niilwa grabbed Zormna’s arm. Pulling to make her to sit down, she squeaked desperately, “I have to at least tell you about the last part. Let me tell you about the last part. Then you can sulk all you want like an ignorant baby.”

Jerking away, Zormna kicked at her to make her let go. “You are a selfish, inconsiderate person, and I won’t endure your stupid prattle anymore.”

She headed to the garden archway, intending for the Th’san to see her not at work

—Which sent the woman into reeling panic. Niilwa sprang after her, grabbing Zormna’s ankle as if she could drag her back. Zormna would have kicked her off, but the face of that orange-headed Aloean stared up with such terror that Zormna hesitated. Pleading, perhaps for mercy on her life, Niilwa hissed to keep from being overheard by the Master, “I am sorry. I am sorry. I only wanted to talk freely. You have no idea how stifling it gets listening to nothing but yourself, and no one hearing you. Please stay. Please.”

It was a selfish ‘sorry,’ which didn’t impress Zormna much. Niilwa was only sorry that she could get in trouble rather than that she had been a completely self-absorbed and insensitive prick. Zormna considered the Aloean for a moment, wondering how much she ought to forgive this woman. Prick or not, the Aloean was still a slave. She clearly had bad manners. She probably was never really loved. It was even likely that all this smugness was actually a cover for a broken soul. And Niilwa looked so pitiful and miserable that despite her general dislike for the woman, Zormna could not bear to add to another’s suffering.

Zormna knelt back down. “Alright, but no more of this ‘I thought you knew’ blabber. I want answers.”

The woman pulled back, barely nodding.

Zormna said, making sure their eyes met, “I want you to tell me what’s going on. Why am I in this secluded part of the house—clearly away from the rest of the household? And why do you keep saying that Th’san wouldn’t harm me? I know he hasn’t directly hurt me, but logically speaking, I am his slave, right? He bought me at that horrid market, right? These implants in my head are to keep me from running, right? I have been given instruction in washing him and bringing food to him. And you’re teaching me to wash his floor for pity’s sake. Why is it that he won’t harm me like he would you, or the others?”

The woman gaped. “Then you really don’t know.”

Zormna glared at her.

Ducking her head, Niilwa answered, trying not to meet Zormna’s eyes, “If you have not figured it out then, I would not want to be the one to tell you. You’ll hate me.”

Another harsh look from Zormna, her eyes saying she hated Niilwa already, sent Niilwa shrinking back.

Niilwa said aloud while dumping the water in the pull-out toilet drain and putting away the bucket, “When you finish with the floor you must take a bath in the steel tub and wash yourself. When you are done, you put the tub back in the bathing cupboard and that is it.”

“Tell me, Niilwa.” Zormna grabbed the woman by the wrist before the slave could shut the cupboard doors, prepared to twist it to get her answers. “Does it have to do with who I am?”

Confused, Niilwa frowned, kicking the doors shut with her heel. “Who you are?”

Zormna moaned. So, neither the other slaves nor the Master had said anything about that to her. Niilwa most likely annoyed them all. But unfortunately for her, she had guessed wrong.

“It is more like what you are.” Niilwa snorted with renewed smugness, glancing Zormna up and down.

Zormna flinched. She didn’t like where this was leading.

“It is shameful—but you should know that though you must serve the Master, you are not a servant in this house,” Niilwa said, her voice leading Zormna on. Then she lifted her head with a haughty toss of her hair, surveying Zormna’s figure again like all the girls who had been jealous of her at high school because the boys always stared at her. “You are a bed pet. A lap girl.”

All the blood rushed out of Zormna’s face. She felt faint. And she let go of Niilwa. She had heard that term only once before. And the description of what that was, she did not like thinking about it.

Niilwa beamed. Gloated, really—proud that she had now gotten the better of a ‘competitor’. She thrust out her chest and squared her shoulders while marching to the servants’ door. “See. You did know.”

The slave trotted out of the room without another triumphant word at Zormna’s expense.

Still blinking from what she had just heard, Zormna felt nauseous. A lap girl.

Over a year ago, way back when she had first encountered the Th’sans—kidnapped from home directly after her sixteenth birthday party where a presumed Th’san had been a gatecrasher with a guest—she had ended up in a prison where she met a girl named Asai who had explained to her everything she knew about Th’sans. In her captivity then, Asai had been a gift. Asai’s people had been fighting the Th’sans for several hundred years, so they knew a lot. Asai was the one who had given Zormna the crash course in Aloean, while they both spoke Ancient. As for what Asai had told her about the Th’sans, the things Asai had told her about them still made Zormna cringe in disgust. They were a degenerate people. But what Niilwa had said, that Zormna had been purchased to be a lap girl, made her want to puke.  

That conversation with Asai pulled to the forefront of her memory. At the time, Asai was telling her about the crimes of the Th’san Empire. Asai had said, “Some captured humans serve the Th’sans as pets when they’re young and cute. But I think they’re the saddest of all the slaves. When these girls hit puberty, they are trained to become lap girls…. Petted, adored, and frequently raped.”

The last two words resonated in Zormna’s skull now.

Frequently raped.

Raped.

 Zormna felt her knees quake. That was just not possible. Her. Raped. Frequently.

She had to escape now.

Yet as she looked at the doorways, Zormna knew there was no way out. Not yet. Those implants in her skull prevented escape. Plain and simple.

The entire concept of lap girl made no sense to Zormna anyway. But back then, Asai had assured her that Th’sans at their core were greedy, brutal, and lustful. Perverse. They wanted to control everything, and they used whatever practices they could to accomplish their total dominion over everything they set their eyes on. Asai had called them depraved monsters. Rapists. But bestiality? Regardless that they were both bipeds, they were not the same species. It would be like a human getting their jollies off their pets. It was disgusting. It was abuse. It made no logical sense—especially since (according to Asai) Th’sans ‘breeds’ didn’t intermix in their empire. Real life was not a sci-fi TV show. It was not a cartoon. Real genetics didn’t work that way. Simple as that.

Of course, she knew humans at their worst were just as bad, Zormna grimly recalled. Decadence knew no bounds, and some humans did get their jollies off their pets. She had gone down that internet rabbit hole on accident once and had to wash her eyes out, then watch a cheerful movie afterwards to get those gross images out of her head. If a perversion could be imagined, it happened somewhere in the universe, even on Earth. And that meant a giant Th’san could and would stoop to using their human slaves to provide them all sorts of pleasure.

Zormna covered her mouth, trying not to gag from the thought. It made her sick just thinking about it. In fact, Zormna rushed to the toilet, jerking it open while once more resisting the urge to throw up.

Her mind swam over it. Asai had said the Th’sans would not target her because she was too dangerous. It was like seeking out a ferocious Rottweiler for a little ‘action’. Totally insane.

But Asai had been wrong. Looking around at her new luxurious home where she was free to roam within the confines of the walls like a favored dog (including the gardens), how the Th’san petted her, held her, tried to touch her, and carefully checked to make sure she was not hurting herself; she knew she was at least in ‘pet’ status. The head implants were like a shock collar for a dog. Or an RFID chip.

But what about the rest?

Such a nasty feeling sunk into her gut. She would be a dangerous pet, she rationalized. Maybe she was a trophy. Dangerous animals could be trophies, right?

And yet…

She had recognized the look in the Th’san’s eyes when he sized up her shape, stared at her eyes, and stroked her hair. And the way he had tried to run his hand up her leg, his concern for scratching her skin, how he would not beat her but hurt someone else, how he always put her on the bed or close to him on his lap—clearly he had every intention to make her accustomed to his touch. Niilwa believed Zormna had been bought to become his lap girl with no hint of becoming a trophy. Had Niilwa been told that was Zormna’s purpose? Or was it just that woman’s guess?

Lifting her fingers to the plates stuck into her skull, feeling the smooth curve of them, Zormna shuddered. The head implants were not just a shock collar. She had seen those. She had worn one once—and broken it. These implants were not removable. And she doubted she could break these as easily as her collar when at the prison years back. The implants were preventive measures that would make certain she could not escape the yard or house. It had also messed with her balance so that she could not properly fight back. Wondering what else the Th’san had planned, Zormna trembled.

The desperate surge of panic swelled over her again, screaming that she needed to escape now.

Jafarr had been pounding on the door of his compartment for hours, unable to dislodge it at any angle while shouting at the pilots. They did not respond. Since the moment he had awoken, he had been trying to escape. Furious at such traitorous treatment, he was even more furious that they had stopped him from saving their own queen. A thousand conspiracy theories rushed through his mind as he thumped against the metal cargo hold for any loose panel, while in the back of his mind where he always connected with Zormna, he could hear her weeping, calling his name. Wherever she was, she was in despair. But he just sending the only message he could—she needed to escape because he was currently stuck.

He could feel the shuttle walls get colder from traveling in space, not going directly home but perhaps weaving out of the battlefield with determined deliberation. He knew they were taking him back to Arras. Because if they weren’t… well, his conspiracy theory mind shouted that Alea Salvar was taking this opportunity to get rid of him for good. Yet, his despairing logical mind told him the Alea of Zeta district was acting for the ‘common good’ of Arras. Times like these, Jafarr hated being the elected president. He was Zormna’s bodyguard first, no matter what anybody else said.

“You let me out! If you have any love for your queen, you’ll let me out!” Jafarr bellowed hoarsely as he banged with all his weight against the cargo door. There was no way out. Cargo closets were not built to store people, and there were no inside catches to maneuver and release. They were built to be airtight and watertight. And he only had so much air as well. He was feeling light-headed. But he never quit pounding on the door.

The Alea flying the shuttle sighed and steered the craft onward.

“Now?” the copilot addressed him with a mournful sigh.

The pilot nodded. “Now.”

The copilot pressed the button on the control screen and braced himself. The pilot did the same.

In the cargo space, Jafarr felt as if his insides were suddenly frozen and his entire body was being shoved through a pinhole. He screamed, not in pain but fury. He knew that feeling well enough. They were folding space. They weren’t going back.

The same cold tightness jerked him straight into a balmy, baking sense of wideness. The cargo door was hot to the touch, as well as the floor and his own clothes. Jafarr kneeled in the low space, panting and sweating. He wiped his forehead and cheeks as he resumed shouting at the pilots. He could taste the salt in his tears as they dripped into the edges of his mouth.

“Let me out!” His broken cry continued from the closet.

The pilot wiped across his eyes, also pretending to be removing only sweat.

 

The shuttle landed in the Zeta district bay on Arras. The pilot and copilot closed their eyes and sighed. The latter rose up and opened the shuttle hatch. He stepped out, greeting the already prepared group of military escorts summoned to handle their distraught and frenzy-minded president. Alea Salvar was always thorough. The other sat in his seat as he gazed back at the cargo door. The sound of the president’s thumping on the door was weaker, more miserable and begging. The solider turned his head and wiped his eyes again, regaining his composure. One could not be weak when delivering a sentence, and they were delivering one dreadful sentence to President Jafarr. Confinement.

“Sir?” They went back to the cargo door together and opened it.

Jafarr fell out, red-faced and red-eyed. His grief and his anger intermingled when he glared up at the pilots. A security officer stood with him.

He rushed to his feet with a look that could kill. “Take me back! Take me back at once!”

The pilot sadly shook his head.

“We have been ordered to take you straight to the Council Hall,” the security officer informed him.

Jafarr’s jaw tightened. “Zormna isn’t in the Council Hall! She’s out there!” He pointed out at the docking bay doors.

The security officer bowed politely, heaving a reluctant sigh. “Be that as it may, you have been summoned back to the Council Hall.”

Jafarr did not budge. “You will return me to the battle NOW.”

“If you do not come willingly, we have been authorized to use force,” the security officer continued, respectfully.

Going ashen, glancing to the others within the room, Jafarr murmured, “Authorized? Who authorized this? Salvar? I don’t answer to Alea Salvar! I am the president for pity’s sake!” He drew up his height indignantly—and justly so.

“Vice President Orrlar and the Kevin both wish to see you at once, along with the council representatives,” the Surface Patrol officer continued in his respectful tone.

The young president stood aback. It had become quickly political—which to him felt wrong. And worse, he had never wanted to be president of their world nation to begin with. He had only done it for Zormna when everyone else had voted him into office.

“My duty is to Queen Zormna. I must go and retrieve her immediately. Don’t you see that?” Jafarr growled back. “She is in pain!”

The soldier’s expression was sympathetic, and sorrowful, but he did not back down. “I must insist that you come with us now, President Jafarr. I would prefer that you come without resistance—with dignity at least. But if we must take you by force, we will.”

Quickly considering all his options, Jafarr glowered at the one officer come to force him to the council meeting. He glanced at the pilot. Yet his eyes snuck looks to the nearest shuttles and other space craft. Most of his escape routes from his rebellion days had long been cleared out. And there was nearly a platoon of men outside the shuttle door, waiting as if upon orders to forcefully take the president—conscious or unconscious. It had the flavor of a political coup. But he knew he was currently outmaneuvered. He would have to make his escape later, as at present the odds were not in his favor.

“Take me,” Jafarr grumbled.

The security officer solemnly led the president to the door. Jafarr stopped in the doorway. He gazed out at the uniformed men who waited for him.

His stomach sank more at the view. He would have to be even sneakier in his escape, as he didn’t think these soldiers would clear out as soon as he left. And worse, he could feel he was going even further from Zormna because of it. Neither of them had their freedom anymore. Zormna had been taken prisoner by the Th’sans, and he was captive by his own people.

He descended shuttle steps to the main floor of the docking bay, pushed along into the throng of security officers who waited for him at the foot of the shuttle. The guards parted for him, enveloping him so that he was within the center of their company like a piece of food swallowed by an amoeba. Immediately, the farthest of the group set off to escort him to the Council Hall.

It was noised abroad—across Arras and Earth—that the President of Arras was taken home in the middle of the war for his own protection. Video projections of his return recorded by the media in the uppercity of Arras were shown across both worlds, and even Aloea among the soldiers, assuring the citizens that the Arrassian leader was safe—this news given the same time they were informed that Arrassian queen had bene taken captive mid-battle by the Th’sans. Jafarr’s grieving face was on nearly every single video screen. His pale complexion under his midnight mop of hair hanging in front of his bloodshot eyes supplied to everyone the solemn devoted visage the Arrassians came to expect from him. The people of Earth wondered at it, as they still distrusted the man whom most media outlets painted as a scoundrel. But only a few viewers knew exactly what he was really going through. Friends and close acquaintances of Jafarr and Zormna worried, as they had never seen Jafarr Zeldar in worse shape.  

At the same time, quiet rumors that Alea Salvar wept alone in his chambers in the war zone, grief-stricken over the loss of his childhood friend, rippled through the ranks. And publicly, in a moving speech to their troops he vowed to find their queen as Jafarr had attempted to do when he saw her empty ship floating in space—to search for her in proxy of the Leader-of-Many whom Jafarr was.

The queen was not dead, the news reports said. Captive. The president was sure of it when he faced the council. And likewise, he remained determined to find her himself. He demanded it.

But the citizens wouldn’t allow it, the Council of Representatives stated. They couldn’t lose their president like they lost their queen. They refused to.

 

“But if I had left then, I would have had a chance to find her! Taking me back here has ruined everything! Can’t you see that?” President Jafarr bellowed at the Council members, grasping the table before them as he snarled at the other leaders of his nation.

But the Council maintained their dignity, gazing at someone who, in their eyes, had lost his reason.

The leader of the entire Arrassian military, the Kevin, addressed their president forcefully and plainly, “President Jafarr, Alea Salvar—and all the Aleas at the battle—say that they couldn’t trace the ship that took her. They don’t even know which one she was on. And may we remind you that the Th’san Empire is enormous—thirteen home planets, not counting the smaller ones they have under their thumb.”

Jafarr glowered at the Kevin with personal dislike. As far as he was concerned, the Kevin was just as bad as Alea Salvar. He knew the man disliked him for a number of personal reasons—the first of which had to do with his own son Salvar who was a suitor and dear friend of their queen. But the main reason was political. They had different ideas about how a government should be run. The Kevin was a traditionalist. Jafarr most definitely was not. It had been extremely difficult to get the Kevin’s cooperation during the revolution, and it had been even more difficult to get his cooperation afterward. The only reason the Kevin had ever cooperated with Jafarr was because of Zormna. Zormna had always been the Kevin’s soft spot—perhaps his only soft spot. And privately, the Kevin had always seen Jafarr as a scalawag.

“I would search every one of those thirteen planets if necessary to find Zormna,” Jafarr replied with added conviction to the crowd.

Alea Arden, the head of Alpha district and one of Jafarr’s usual supporters, raised his cool blue eyes with honest admiration, then glanced to his superior to observe if this moved the Kevin at all. Not that he expected much.

But the Kevin’s expression remained cold.

The head Alpha Alea sighed. It was just as expected. Of the Surface Patrol, perhaps only he and Jafarr’s friend, Anzer Dzhon, approved of Jafarr Zeldar personally. But then, they were all Undercity boys. The rest of the Patrol held Jafarr’s criminal record against him. Never mind that Jafarr’s history as an old rebel was exactly why they were free from the former government now. Old prejudices left a bad taste in most Surface Patrol officers’ mouths, which they could not quite spit out. It was a good thing President Jafarr had other friends in high places. Alea Arden looked to one.

Vice President Orrlar shook his head at their young president. “The thing is, Jafarr, the people want you here. Zormna is lost—”

“Only if we leave her lost!” Jafarr turned on him, desperately anxious. He could feel a strange sharp pain shoot through him, which was why he was gripping the table. The pain was making him sweat. His stomach hurt. His head felt oddly heavy. He was beginning to find it difficult to focus his eyes.

Orrlar shook his head again, reaffirming what he had said. “It is too late, Jafarr. Can’t you see that?”

Jafarr recoiled, shaking his head, trying not to show he was in pain. “Zormna is captive, not dead.”

The vice president conceded with a nod. “That she is. And she will be until we are able to retrieve her.”

Protesting, Jafarr opened his mouth.

“But,” Orrlar continued, not letting Jafarr utter another word. “That time is not now. Even if you think you can sneak around the galaxy, you don’t have the ability all by yourself to free her. You must see that.”

Jafarr closed his mouth. His dark eyes fixed into a glare so deep, a few in the council felt as if he was seeing into their darkest, most selfish motivations, leaving any and all of their past transgressions bare. The only thing he cared about was that Zormna was in pain somewhere. He could feel it.

Yet Orrlar continued his lecture at the young man as if his stare had no effect on him—and perhaps it didn’t. “You must also see that the people here need you. They can’t lose both of their leaders at once. You must understand this, Jafarr.”

Dropping his gaze, Jafarr stared at the desk. Her words echoed in his head, used against him. His people needed him, especially now that their queen was gone. Queen Zormna had said it herself before she left on that fateful battle, that they could not afford to lose a queen and their president at the same time—even though she had said it in jest. Her words were merely meant to keep him from following her out into the battle, an instinct he felt now that he should not have suppressed. Bowing his head, he whispered through his teeth, “Alright.”

There was no way to escape to go after her from this particular place anyway. He would have to figure out another way to find her. Rushing into space was stupid. He had to plan and pack supplies. No one else was going to help him, after all.

Every member of the Council relaxed his or her shoulders, made easy by his words. They sighed with glances to one another, leaning back in their high-backed seats.

“But Alea Salvar must promise me that he won’t give up searching for her,” Jafarr declared, turning his eyes directly onto the Kevin in a deadly stare.

The Kevin stiffened. Yet, with a sharp nod, challenging Jafarr’s accusatory glare, he replied, “That he will.”

Bowing with visible defeat to the council, Jafarr stepped back then desolately allowed himself be escorted out of the room.

His guards, who watched him dutifully to make sure he did not attempt an escape—as Jafarr was a famed escape artist—escorted him all the way back to his overlarge quarters in the uppercity, straight to his apartment where they watched him go in. They stood watch at the doors.

Alone, Jafarr stared at the ceiling. He always hated that cavernous room. It was too fancy for likes of an undercity-raised man like himself. Thing was, he had once put an escape route into the ceiling for occasions such as these. He just hoped the Patrol had forgotten about it. They had found it a couple years back when Zormna had used it to sneak off to Earth.

Getting a stool, Jafarr climbed onto it and pushed up a ceiling panel, sliding it to the side in the narrow crawlspace. Yet as soon as it was out of the way, Jafarr spotted the electronic security grid above it.

Of course.

Huffing, Jafarr hopped off the stool, staring at his blocked exit. Of course, they did not forget. The Surface Patrol was obsessive about security measures.

Looking about his room again, Jafarr sighed with pain. His head felt heavy again. Clutching his forehead, Jafarr sat down on the stool. His stupid presidential suite had now become his prison. And though he had once broken out of prison and into one several times, it would take a while for him to figure this particular one out for an escape. And worse, the knowledge that the quarters next door no longer contained that hotheaded blonde who had irritated him not many years before tore at him. His greatest ally. His confidant. His reason for living… Gone.

He dropped his head in his hands and sobbed.

 

[1] She had been hiding from people who wanted her dead. Read book 1 for further details.

The Lesser Gods

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four:

 

“That what such people miscall their religion, is a vent for their bad-humors and arrogance.”

—Charles Dickens—

 

 

Her first afternoon in her Th’san Master’s home was as miserable as the morning. Zormna had cleaned the floor exactly as Niilwa had shown her then bathed as ordered, if only to clean off that wretched meat sauce which had smeared up her arm and face and was even stuck in her hair. The tub for her bath was just big enough to sit in.

The Master came in while she was mid-washing.

Zormna ducked under the water, covering her bare skin.

When he saw her hide under the water, his eyes widened with amusement. He burst into duck laughter, though it sounded a bit more like geese honking this time.

Zormna sank deeper under the water. A nasty exposed sensation crawled over her. She felt incredibly vulnerable—especially knowing what he had bought her for. Her eyes shot to her undersuit which was out of reach.

Before she could stop him, the Master picked her undersuit off the step where she had set it aside. He held it up, his eyes taking in the meat stain on the leg. His head wove around as he examined it, bird-like in amusement while emitting a throaty chuckling noise. Perhaps it was his way of shaking his head. He carried the suit to the desk and set it on top, pulling open a deep drawer. From out from it, the Th’san sorted through what looked like fabric—extracting a filmy green see-through cloth-thing which really couldn’t be called clothes since it would not have covered a thing if she put it on. Its shape was weirdly useless, yet like a dress in a way with glittering snake decorations on both sides, giving the barest impression of scales. He put this on the desk next to her undersuit. Sorting through the drawer more, he extracted a green silky something that had a satin-like shine to it. He placed that on the desk with the other one. Peeking with a smile at Zormna, he pushed the filthy undersuit to the edge of the desk near the door while taking the other two garments off. He carried both new articles of ‘clothing’ back to where Zormna was bathing and set them both on the step where she had left her undersuit.

This clinched it. No white slave tunic. Zormna had honestly hoped for one. She had hoped that Niilwa was wrong. But what he had set down did not look like anything a slave wore. Neither looked like much cloth either.

Zormna ducked back under the water as he came nearer. Peering down at her, he chuckled while eying her exposed skin. Turning from her, he bawked and hissed a command into the slaves’ doorway. Almost immediately the second woman slave rushed to the door and picked the undersuit off the desk. She bowed once to the Master and then to Zormna.

“Wait!” Zormna cried out. Water splashed as she did not quite climb out, still hiding under the water while covering herself with her arm. She reached out with the other. “Where are you taking that?”

The servant bowed to her again and whispered. “Washing.”

Zormna sighed and slid back into the tub, wondering if that were true.

The Master watched her intently, clucking to himself with little chuckles that made Zormna think he thought her struggle for modesty was amusing. She ducked back into the water again, attempting to bury herself. But the soap bubbles were vanishing.

Of course, she could not stay there forever. She was starting to wrinkle, besides. And yet as she looked around, the only towel-like thing was inside the bathroom, which was about ten steps away (or one brazen leap) from the tub in the nude. Glancing up at the Th’san and his watchful, glassy eyes which were waiting for what she would do, she knew that the Th’san did not think of her like one would a cute kitten or a pet iguana. The very term lap girl described what he wanted out of her. It was sickening.

Zormna ducked deeper under the water. The prospect of staying forever in the tub was looking to be her only choice, though she knew she was being silly about it. She would have to move sooner or later.  

But the Th’san decided not to wait. With a gurgle of amusement, he marched over to the bathroom and picked up the towel. He glanced at her with that leering smirk. Taking a step from the tub, with every intention to forcing her to stand to get it, he dangled it high above her.

The indignity of it. Zormna clenched her fists under the water. He deserved to have that smile knocked off his face. However, as a pragmatist, Zormna settled for springing out of the water and snatching the towel from him.

Or at least she tried to.

It was awkward, as she brought one arm across her chest as the other hand grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her body in a spin. Unfortunately, she landed one foot on the wet tile, then slipped. Sliding, Zormna grasped his pant legs to keep from cracking her own skull on the ground. The towel almost fell off. But not for nothing, Zormna was a gymnast. She made a tuck and roll, tumbling until she came up sitting, wrapping the towel quickly around her bare skin like a blanket.

The Master let out a boisterous laugh, akin to a goose gargling and choking, waving his hands in the most peculiar contortion—an O shape. Apparently, it was a perfect show for him. Zormna probably would have thought he was choking if it weren’t for the amused gleam in his glassy eyes.

Getting to her feet again, Zormna indignantly tied the towel around her like a toga.

Keeping to the instructions of the irritatingly talkative slave Niilwa, Zormna promptly emptied the metal tub into the garden. She noticed the impressed amusement of the Th’san as he watched her finish the task perfectly. And as she slid the tub under the bathroom steps just as she had been instructed, he smiled like an owner pleased with his trained pet.

By this time Zormna really wished she could bite him.

But getting dressed was priority. Peering over what he had laid out for her, Zormna lifted each item off the step where he had left them. Zormna examined the first one. Flimsy cloth, poison green and silky, she felt it then checked out the length. It was so-called dress was made out of silk, the finest silk Zormna had ever seen, but the cut of it was loose and thin, like a chemise. No underwear. Just the chemise. It didn’t even come to her knees. And the bodice was skimpy. The neck was shaped in some kind of deep V, which dipped so low that she would not just give the world a cleavage show, but also hung so loosely that she might as well have gone topless. As for the back, it dipped all the way down so that her entire back except for her rear end would be bare. Flinching, recoiling away from it, Zormna dropped the dress as if it were covered in lice.

Genuine surprise widened on the Master’s face. He blinked his huge eyes at her then walked to the rejected so-called dress, picking it up. He held it up to her body to demonstrate that it fit her.

Zormna shrank back from it, cringing. It was one thing being forced to wear a dress—which she had always despised—but quite another to wear a peepshow gown. Her towel gave her more coverage.

Frowning, the Th’san walked back to the drawer. He fished around the contents again, this time taking out a bright red silky thing. He lifted it up to show it to her. Another dress, a tiny bit longer with a higher back, it still was sleeveless with thin cord straps. But not even a Hollywood starlet or music artist would wear that on the red carpet. The top was too loose. Nothing would make it stay on without that Hollywood sticky tape, which she definitely would not be provided.

Closing her eyes, Zormna wondered if she’d have to wear that towel forever, because she really doubted that she would ever see her undersuit again.

The Th’san smirked in disappointment at her reaction. He took out three more ‘dresses’ from the drawer, each one about the same length and shape—sexy, loose chemise things meant to be easily removed. The last one was an almost knee length, peach-colored chemise with a higher back and spaghetti straps—not as modest as the red one. But the Master took a fancy to it, holding up to her while peering at Zormna to say it suited her best… which most likely it did. Peach was her best color, which she would admit.

He took hold of her wrist.

Zormna shot him an upward look of panic as he attempted to pry her arms away from her towel so he could dress her as he would a doll.

Shrieking, Zormna jerked back.

The Th’san sighed and tried again, gently.

But she recoiled, clutching the towel for dear life.

Yet having none of it, as Zormna edged away from the dress, heading toward the arch to go into the garden, the Th’san emitted a grunt and grabbed the back of her towel. With one strong yank, he whipped it off her like spinning a top with a removable cord.

Towel gone, Zormna shrieked, covering herself with her arms. She fled into the curtains for cover.

Unfortunately, the curtains were sheer, and there were no blankets on the bed to hide in. The Th’san tossed the peach dress onto the mattress for her put on, carrying the towel to the servants’ doorway to be taken away for washing.

It was so utterly mortifying. With no choice, unless she wanted to walk around naked, Zormna grabbed the dress and pulled it on.

It was not her size.

As the straps rested on her shoulders, the gown itself hung larger than her tiny body, obviously built for an Aloean and not an Arrassian. It made her feel naked. So much, that Zormna ducked behind the bed and tied the straps so that they were shorter and would keep the dress on her when she moved. It still hardly covered more than a bathing suit, but it was better than nothing.

Hot-faced, she peeked up after fixing the thing, and saw the Master smiling at her.

She scowled back at him.

Yet without another thought, the beast walked over to the bed and picked up the sheer cloth with the snake on it and held it out to her with a nod. Zormna stared at it. It didn’t give any kind of cover. Thing was entirely sheer with a front and back the same length, though the sides were held together with a series of fabric strips reminiscent of a ribcage. A singular slithering snake with their tongues sticking out at the top were on both sides with no indication of which was front or back. Glittery embroidered patterns covered it in green lame thread. Apparently, it was to go over the dress.

The Master attempted to dress her again, taking up her arms by the wrists to slip the green thing over her head. However, this time she did not fight him. Zormna sulked, thinking what was the point anyway? She hadn’t found an escape route yet, and she decided not to give up her search. It was best to play along to make him less watchful.

He adjusted the dress on her shoulders until it hung evenly over her chest. He fingered her medallion, which Zormna automatically jerked out of his hand. He shook his head at it, regarding it with disdain. Apparently, he thought it was ugly.

 Once he was satisfied with the fit of her clothes, the Master pulled Zormna by the arm to his desk where he lifted her up and sat her on the top with legs dangling. He searched through the drawers for something else, pushing aside the contents. Zormna half expected him to dig out makeup. But instead, he took out bandages. Zormna had taken off the other bandages while bathing. Tutting at the scratches in her wrist, he examined the swelling. It had already gone down and only the one cut was left. It hardly required a bandage. However, apparently for that beast, one meager scratch warranted minor mummification—which was what he did to her arm after smearing a yellowish balm over it, probably iodine.

During the wrapping, he tutted at the cut and clucked the same noises that Zormna took for chastisement, much like an owner would do to his favorite hurt pet that had intentionally stuck his head into a thorn bush and got scratched on the nose. He cradled her wrist with unusual care. And though his touch was especially tender, instead of giving Zormna the comfort he had clearly intended, she shuddered. Seriously, Niilwa had not lied. He was dressing her up. He was keeping her pristine. And he was touching like he wanted her to associate tenderness and kindness with him. He was aiming at her falling into Stockholm syndrome.

Zormna closed her eyes, mentally kicking herself. Why hadn’t she listened to Jafarr yesterday? His intuition never failed. He was a gifted seer for pity’s sake. And he always had her best interest in mind. Why had she been so blasted dismissive?

Was it yesterday? She wondered, her mind drifting as the Th’san bound her scratches. It could still be later that very same day, right? Or maybe she had been unconscious for longer. Yet whenever Zormna closed her eyes, she could almost hear Jafarr weeping, even accusing himself for not chasing after her when he had the chance. He was also cursing Salvar for stopping him. Zormna knew Salvar would be thinking about duty first, and that only made sense. Jafarr’s warm voice echoed in her mind, as she could feel him reaching out to find her. She had to help him find her.

But how? She didn’t even know where she was. She only knew the name of the Th’san who had purchased her.

Opening her eyes, fixing them on the giant beast who was now stroking her shoulder, feeling her skin as one would to feel the fur of a soft puppy. He especially stroked the brand mark on her right shoulder. Zormna stiffened, jerking away from him with a dirty look.

He stroked her head next, chuckling at his unruly pet. Yet the Th’san gently lifted her down from the desk, keeping hold on hold on her arm as he then he turned toward the garden door, dragging Zormna along as he went to it. His strides were enormous. Just to keep up, Zormna had to trot.

When they went out the archway, Zormna expected some other kind of instruction—weeding the garden, maybe? Though that didn’t seem likely. Not in that dress. Maybe he intended to give her a tour of the rest of the house. But that notion fled when her eyes took in the three, incredibly tall and elegant Th’sans standing on the stone path. They looked very different from her Master. And in an instant, Zormna realized that she had really only seen male Th’sans up until then. These were females.

Or rather, they were hens.

Dazzling creatures, their appearances were startlingly more human-like. They still had the bird legs and toes, reptilian eyes and feathers where humans would have hair, but they also had breasts—which implied that they produced milk like mammals did. But the most human thing about them was that, like humans, the female was more beautiful than the male, which was counter to evolutionary logic as most female birds were plain and their males were the ones with the fancy feathers. And further, the way the females were dressed was much like how a human female dressed when she wanted the physical attention of a man—rather skanky. Their gowns were Hollywood-level, red-carpet peep-show skank—even skimpier than Zormna’s chemise. Oh, they were made out of the best materials, covered in jewelry, but their breasts were almost entirely exposed, displayed like a badge of honor. And how those hens showed them off—Zormna comprehended that this was perhaps why Th’san males were attracted to human females. They probably really liked the buxom bosomed ones.

Zormna pulled an arm over her chest to cover her cleavage, feeling really self-conscious now. Though she was not overlarge, men did have the habit of staring at her chest—something which had always been annoying.

The eldest of the female Th’sans maintained the most dignified gaze as she peered down on Zormna. Her huge bird eyes were intimidating. Her feathery plumage was a bright crimson red and sunshine yellow, arranged in a style what Zormna assumed was fashionable for their kind. A heavy jeweled cap rested on her crown with feather tufts sticking out between the gaps in pretty arrangements. Precious stones dangled from the cap and her clothes, which were wrought with ornate silk embroidery. Studded with jewels like the Master’s suit, draping garlands of beads and stones hung around her svelte bird neck. Her bodice especially had a peculiarly evocative cut, revealing the woman’s ample cleavage. Designers at the Oscars would not have done better with their peepshow clothes. This hen had on a tail-like bustle which fluffed out from the top of her rear end with the slit in the skirt front side running up the full length of her birdish leg. Apparently, that was all she was wearing.

A chill ran up through Zormna that her Master even felt. He glanced down at her just a moment. Asai hadn’t been kidding about the degree depravity in this people. Only music stars and hookers wore less on Earth. Why didn’t these women wear pants? Not even underwear?

The other two females were just as elaborately dressed as the oldest, their birdish bustles flashy and ample. But Zormna could tell by the degree of jewelry they wore that they were inferiors to the first regal hen. Their ornaments were less fine and fewer in amount. The elder of the pair maintained a smug expression on her pretty-yet-weird face, at least, that was Zormna’s guess. It was how the hen held her plumed head. She also seemed to be several years younger than the eldest wife, which Zormna took as commentary on the scumminess of her Master not being able to handle monogamy. The hen’s dress was also incredibly revealing, though she was bustier than the older hen, possibly because the eldest one was beyond childbearing age. Though, accounting for the young one she was holding to her shoulder, maybe it was because the second hen was lactating. The infant Th’san was the size of a five-year-old human—the first child Th’san Zormna had ever seen, and honestly, she thought it was an ugly thing. Its head was covered in fluffy down-like feathers which extended down its bare back to the base of its spine. It was naked in its mother’s arms, peering at Zormna while sucking on its fingers. And though she stared at it, Zormna couldn’t actually tell if it was a boy or a girl. As it was a different species, she wasn’t sure how to distinguish that yet.

And lastly, the youngest wife maintained the least agreeable expression of them all. Zormna supposed that in Th’san standards she must have been beautiful, though something about her face made Zormna think of all those plastic supermodels that she had seen in magazines on Earth who did not quite seem real. The youngest female’s glassy eyes were wide amber, and proud. Her plumage was styled like the eldest hen, probably mimicking her. But her dress was the most revealing. High slits in her skirt ran along the front of her legs all the way up to her waist. The flap hung long in the front, barely covering her, and a wide fluffy train dragged in the back. She also showed more cleavage than the other two, her top threatening to fall off. Furthermore, she wore strong florid perfume and bright makeup.

Zormna could tell this hen loathed her. The other two apparently had long learned that their husband had a short attention span. And since it was allowable in their culture for him to take a lap girl, they had accepted it… though neither of them liked it.

The Th’san Master drew Zormna in front of him and presented her to the three hens. The eldest wife gazed down at Zormna from her dignified height with disdain. But she gave that same glance to the Master as if she wanted to slap him. It was obvious that she did not approve of her husband owning a lap girl. That hen spoke to the Master with clips and bites as she hissed at him. Their speech went back and forth for several minutes as the other two hens stood by silently in support of her, their eyes slowing turning from their husband to her. Zormna didn’t need to know the language to know what was being said. She saw it in their mannerisms and tone. The Master spoke with factual declaration. The wife replied with expressions of disapproval yet also grim resignation. And while they conversed longer, the other two hens shared a look.

Immediately they swooped down on Zormna.

Zormna stepped back but was trapped between the Master’s legs and them, not able to walk away as he still had a hold on her. The two hens fingered her hair, peered into her eyes, and ran their fingernails across her white skin without actually scratching her. But it came close. Faint trails were left on her skin. They really just wanted to claw her to death for usurping their husband’s favor. Zormna trembled, though she did not move, peeking up at the Master. Four against one was not fair, and each of their claws were like knives which she would not be able to disarm from them.

The eldest wife sharply hissed at them both, clucking with an authoritative snap. Immediately both hens stopped touching Zormna. Hissing, they cast their husband’s new acquisition sullen looks.

With authority, the eldest wife leaned near Zormna, taking their place. Peering at her husband’s new property with her glassy emerald green eyes, she reached out to Zormna’s face, gently tilting her chin to stare into Zormna’s irises like she was examining the quality of color in them. She lingered there for a while, her clawed hands resting on Zormna’s head. One quick move with those claws, and she could be dead, Zormna realized. She fingered Zormna’s hair, twisting the curls in her claws with curious fancy. Then she touched the bandaged wrist. Looking up once, the hen inquired of her husband with a cluck.

The Master answered back, hissing and clucking in his deep throaty way as his eyes dryly glanced down on Zormna.

The hen peered back at Zormna, this time taking in the human’s young yet stoic face. Zormna was determined not to look frightened or hostile, though she was feeling both as she was still getting nowhere in her search for an escape. To keep from staring into those enormous animal-like eyes, Zormna focused her gaze on the hen’s pinkish scaly forehead. Clucking lightly, the hen gracefully rose back to her intimidating height, angling her neck when she turned to address her husband once more. She flung an arm in Zormna’s direction, hissed, clucked, and burbled in a higher, yet older voice than the chattering cheeping the other hens. They had been making snippety-type gossip during the entire visit which Zormna didn’t need interpretation for either. They had nothing pleasant to say.  

Her Master answered back, but this time Zormna caught something of his speech that she understood in a linguistic sense. “Thuz hush uk ssuk Zoamo.”

“Zoamo.” The hen repeated and looked down at her.

Zormna lost the little coloring in her face. It wasn’t the first time she had heard that word. She realized that was her name in Th’san. Zoamo. Zormna supposed then that they possibly couldn’t pronounce R’s. Aloeans didn’t have any in their language, and many Th’sans could at least speak that language. He really did know whom he had bought. But was that all? Did he have any real intelligence on her besides her name and political positon?

She peered up at the hen to see if she could give her some clues. Sure enough, a dark expression had replaced the earlier solemn accepting one on the hen’s face. The eldest wife spoke rapidly, possibly in a warning tone. She shook her clawed fingers at the Master as if what he was doing was terribly wrong, or at least very, very dangerous.

Of course, I’m dangerous, she thought. She was the queen of Arras. The entire Arrassian army might swoop down on their heads. And he knew that. Clearly, she did too. But was that really what they were talking about? Assumptions had a way of backfiring. It could have been a simple argument about how small she was, or to that effect. It could have been a moral argument about having a lap girl—as the idea really was repugnant.

Her Master put on an expression of smug disbelief. He waved away all warnings his wife was giving him like a skeptic, and soon the argument ended. The hen stood back. Yet she didn’t look crushed at having her words disregarded. Rather, she stood like someone who has had her say and was done. It made Zormna think her second guess was more accurate. A woman concerned about safety would not back off as quickly.

The Master laid a hand on Zormna’s head and pulled on her arm for her to look up at him. And though Zormna still wondered what the argument was really about, she lifted her eyes up, bored. The Master read her expression, snorted, then knelt down so he could face her eye to eye. Like a boa constrictor, his large heavy arm kept her from moving, not quite yet strangling her. With an air of secret sharing, he pointed to the hens with his flicking hand. Then he spoke in rapid Th’san, gesturing to himself. She didn’t need the explanation. Zormna already knew they were his three wives. Niilwa had been a big enough chatterbox to help her figure that out. Still, Zormna sighed and nodded, rolling her eyes to show she had understood a long time ago.

The hens reacted.

While the eldest wife chortled in amusement at Zormna, the youngest wife snapped out in lizard language with an ugly face, spit flying from her lips. The middle one huffed, merely irritated. Zormna could tell by the Master’s deep annoyed remark back at them that the language the youngest hen used had been on the crude side.

The youngest retreated from him, pressing her lips together into a thin line. Then all three wives straightened up together.

Without further ado, the Master lifted Zormna off the ground, wrapping his arms around her legs while resting her in the crook of his arm like one would a small child. He rested his other hand largely on her back, claws just barely tickling her skin like the spread of a giant spider. Zormna would have squirmed like cat unwillingly caught up, but his claws on her bare back prevented her from making any quick movements. She had to save her energy for when it really mattered.

He carried her toward the side of the house where a small palm tree stood at the right of the doorway. Behind it, he took her up a set of stairs, going toward the roof. The wives followed him. Nitty chatter hissed behind them sounding like little snakes attacking chickens, the two younger wives gone back to their bitter commentary. Zormna could see them over the Master’s shoulder peering up with loathing in their dinosaur eyes, while the eldest wife maintained her silence, walking with resigned dignity just in front of them. Their gazes were accusatory, savage on Zormna. Which Zormna thought was utterly unfair. Why were they getting jealous of the captured ‘pet’ rather than mad at the captor? She would be more than happy to go if they would just let her free. She didn’t want their husband. Couldn’t they understand that? Yet the complaints grew louder from the two youngest the further up they went. After they ascended the steps about half-way to the roof, the youngest two moaned loud, making such a hen-yard ruckus that the Master halted. Gurgling low, his arms tightened around Zormna when he turned around and hissed out like he would bite their heads off.

They immediately went silent.

He turned back around and continued upward. Yet their jealous glares persisted on her, even up to the roof.

The view up top was something else. Better than in the tree. From that vantage point, it was like they were standing on the crest of the world with everything rolling down from that home. Her view reminded her of a MiddleEastern or Greek town with plaster white buildings, flat roofs and wide-open sky of light blue, dotted here and there with the tops of swaying palms and foreign green trees intermixed with rising colored smoke. And the music that she had heard distantly on the air was more resonant up above. It was a music akin to woodwinds and something else which Zormna did not recognize at all. It was hypnotizing and jarring at the same time. She would have taken in the scene longer had her Master allowed her, but he carried her directly across the roof to a central location where there was table. This drew her attention to her immediate surroundings.

Now was not the time for sightseeing anyway, Zormna reminded herself. Finding escape routes was.

First thing she noticed was that the roof was larger than she had expected. And flat. The Master set her directly on a small dark wooden table which was set in the center of the roof. He placed her feet on it and let go, leaving her to stand. That second Zormna attempted to hop down to make escape to anywhere that wasn’t in the confines of the house. But the Master clamped her to that spot by her ankles with his hands. His eyes lifted up sharply on her with a command that she had not learned yet, but she gathered enough that it meant stay.

Stay? With such a perfect launching point for escape? Was he stupid or mad?

Unfortunately, stay was all she could do while he held her feet down to the table. And the wives gathered around the table on the other three sides, taking positon.

Zormna’s heart raced. Something weird was going on.

All of them stared down at the ground in a slightly hunched position, encircling her. The Master himself was looking at the ground, still holding onto Zormna’s ankles in case she tried to run for it. It gave Zormna an ominous feeling she didn’t like.

A deep rumble came from his voice. The Master recited something in a rhythmic chant, swaying his body to the rhythm. The hens pounded their fists on the tabletop with the beat, their feathers fluffing up as they repeated his words. Their postures reminded Zormna of an aboriginal dance.

Zormna’s heart thumped harder in her chest. The notion that they were performing some ritual, a ritual she did not want to be a part of but somehow was the center, settled in her brain. Not good. This was not good. With her hands, she pressed on the Th’san’s head and shoulders to get out of his grasp—but he gripped tighter around her ankles with every attempt on her part to get free. Huffing, she bent over to pry his fingers off of her ankles. But as she did, Zormna discovered the sad fact that her tiny fingers really had no power against his enormous meaty grip. She might as well had been wearing leg irons. She was stuck to the end of the ritual.

That tabletop ritual lasted three minutes, the hens’ bodies rising in the weirdest dance. They fluffed out the loose parts of their gowns as if they were tail feathers and wings. They craned their necks and stuck out their tailless rear-ends. As they danced, the Th’san Master lifted Zormna up from the table by her calves and chanted, marching in a straight line from the table to a small fancy shrine that was directly behind him. If Zormna had wanted, she could have sat on the top of his head—but somehow the claws in his powerful grip reminded her that any offensive movement might encourage a knee jerk reaction to dig his claws into her legs—intended or not. And worse, the implants were making her dizzy again.

When they reached the shrine, the Master placed her down on the soft cushion in front of it. Her eyes fixed on a gold-and-jewel encrusted frog the size of a bulldog right in front of her. The idol was sitting on an inlaid jade lily pad in the center of the shrine. Candles and lily-shaped electric lanterns glowed around it as incense of with a tingly odor burned yellow smoke in trays shaped like dragonflies and fish which were sitting at the doors. It was like sniffing mentholated chrysanthemums.

Her Master forced her into kneeling position as all three wives kowtowed on ground just behind them. The Master himself was kneeling, still holding Zormna’s legs so that she could not run or even kick him—both she wanted to do desperately while the Th’san chanted some sort of rote prayer, and again, when he forced her to bow to the golden idol in front of her.

A scream practically burst from her chest. His enormous hand quickly clamped over her mouth, almost covering her nose so that she could hardly breathe. The Master’s chants continued in her ears even as Zormna struggled to wrench free. She tried to bite his hand, and succeeded in getting a finger. He yanked back his hand, then smacked her sharply on the top of her head—just enough to chasten, but not enough to actually hurt.

Soon the Master lifted Zormna again, holding her by her calves while chanting that same hissing thing he had said when they walked to the ornate frog. The entire group followed him, even across the roof to the other shrine at the far length of the house. During that longer walk, twice the distance, Zormna had enough time to figure out that she wasn’t getting anywhere with her fighting. Already she could see the Th’sans were going to present her next to a gold-and-jade encrusted sea turtle.

The incense at the doors of this shrine burned on brass seashell plates leaving orange clouds of vapors that smelled of cinnamon. There were glowing bubble lamps and fronds of glass seaweed decorating the insides of this shrine. The velvet pillow here was blue.

He placed Zormna on this pillow and forced her to her knees again, chanting a similar rote prayer, once more shoving her head down in an oppressive bow. Scowling, Zormna tried to scream again, but the Master anticipated this. He clamped his hand over her mouth once more. Her muffled screams were enough though to ruin the mood he was trying to create though. He also made sure to keep her jaw closed.

One of the wives snickered.

He lifted Zormna once again, taking her to the center table where she was placed for perhaps another ritual. Zormna tried to hop off, slipping one of her legs out of the Master’s grasp—yet the eldest wife grabbed her free foot and pulled it back to the tabletop.

Zormna flashed an angry glare at her. “You bloody pigeon—”

But the hen’s countenance was turned down as if in prayer. And the second wife slapped Zormna’s mouth to silence her.

Again, the Master Th’san chanted. This time it was short.

They lifted Zormna once more, only this time they took her north, or so she guessed anyway. She ended up at the fanciest little shine on a bright red pillow. Zormna glowered at that pillow, not wishing to face some other Th’san god that they would make her bow to. It was bad enough bowing to a frog and a turtle. The Th’san Master pushed her to her knees where she came face to face with a ruby-encrusted statue of a winged dragon, one with huge bright emeralds for eyes. Its tongue was gold, and its claws were in undoubtedly ivory. For a fleeting second, she wondered about that coincidental depiction, as it was strikingly like dragons from medieval European mythology. The incense burning here stung her eyes, reeking strongly of sulfur. Incense dangled from trays shaped like crystals, and the lights inside the house were globes of fire and frosty crystals shaped as clouds.

She coughed from the sulfur smell. The Master clamped her mouth closed again, but that only made Zormna cough into his hand. He chanted while he forced her to bow to this figurine—a struggle she fought with renewed strength as there was something demonic about this dragon, something that frightening her so much more than that ridiculous golden frog.

The Th’san lifted her again and carried her from the shrine, chanting as he lifted her, passing the table in the center and placing her again onto a purple cushion in front of another idol. This idol was a snake. The snake was encrusted with emeralds. Its eyes were rubies, the exact opposite of the dragon. Rank incense burned gray smoke from pots of earthenware. And lights around the snake were in the shape of mushrooms.

When he had completed the chant, the Master carried her once more off the cushion and took her back to the middle table. There, all four Th’sans bowed together, still chanting in that bizarre hissing and clucking way. The hens thumped on the table in rhythm in that weird dance again while the Master held her ankles in a firm grip. The chant stopped after three more tedious minutes.

All three hens straightened up, birdlike in their posture.

The two youngest glared at Zormna as before, but all three hens removed a piece of jewelry from their own plumage and placed them in Zormna’s hair. Nearly every piece slipped out, as Zormna’s hair was not the same texture as theirs, but light. And as such, the eldest hen took care to wind Zormna’s fine hair into a bun then secure the hair with her pin. The other two were not so diligent. When the youngest’s hair jewel fell out, she clucked with delight. The second wife held a similar look, but she glanced at her husband who was peering sharply at the pair of them. Sullenly, she picked her piece off the table, copying the eldest wife. It took a jab from the eldest to get the youngest wife to comply. She had plucked up the jewel and was ready to reaffix her jewelry to herself. Yet jostled, the youngest wife shot Zormna an extremely dirty look, reluctant to part with her bauble.

Zormna just stood there, swaying with exhaustion, not sure if it was the weight from the implants were getting to her again or that it was the result of jet lag. Though with all the forceful head bowing, her neck was aching. And the stink of all the incense was making her stomach turn.

With a hiss, the youngest Th’san wife peevishly jammed her jewelry piece onto Zormna’s scalp then turned away, lifting her stubby nose in the air. Zormna rubbed her scalp with the intent to remove all the pieces of jewelry from it—yet the eldest wife pushed Zormna’s hands away from her work, connecting the pieces together so they hung on like a miniature cap.

Zormna shot her a dirty look.

After delivering his youngest wife reproving looks, the Master gazed on Zormna with satisfaction, his gills rippling. They were even changing color, flushing pink and getting deeper toward red. He let go of her calves with one hand and rested it on the side of her head. Then he put the other hand on the other side so that Zormna was now held by her head and forced to stare into the giant beast’s enormous eyes. Nightmarish images from every monster film Todd McLenna had ever taken her to or insisted that she watch at home with him came back to her. His mouth was not quite big enough to swallow her face, but if he took a bite, he certainly would make off with a chunk. Zormna closed her eyes as he pulled her face forward, hoping he wasn’t hungry.

“Uth shoa o wu.” The Master’s lips made contact with her forehead.

Zormna fainted.

 

It had been too much. It had just been way too much for her to take in. Zormna comprehended his language without knowing it. In that ritual he had declared that she was his. It was official—at least in his mind.

Up until then, she was still barely coming to grips with the idea that she had been purchased to be his lap girl. But here she was, the survivor of a completely serious, entirely religious ritual—not unlike a marriage, though she was absolutely sure she was not actually married to him. Thing was, religion was something Zormna had been starting to take seriously since Jafarr had begun teaching her to speak and read Ancient Arrassian. They had been delving into ancient scripture together. He was opening her mind to things of a more faith-based nature, which he understood very well and she had never been able to come to grips with. And though she did not understand the Th’san religion, she did comprehend the that she had undgone a ceremony. It was simply too much.

Zormna awoke in the hulking huge arms of the Th’san Master carrying her down the steps from the roof. Terror coursed down her limbs. Springing up right out of the Th’san’s arms, Zormna leapt into the flowerbed filled with spongy ferns and mud.

The wives yelped.

The Master bellowed as he shoved his way down the steps after her. But surprisingly, Zormna had not lost her sense of balance when hitting the ground. She tried to scramble over the low brick wall to escape the main yard. But the very second she touched the wall, her insides clenched and twisted with sharp pains. Grabbing her ribs, she collapsed to her knees.

So stupid. She had completely forgotten that the garden fences had some kind of electronic trigger connected to and the implants in her head. Falling quickly away from the wall, relief came almost instantly. Gathering strength from that, she stood up again, looking for another way out. There just had to be away out.

The wives yelped, following on the heels of the Master who marched across the yard on his long legs towards Zormna. Behind him, the hens watched as one would a prize show dog who had exposed its true nature as a wolf, snarling at them. As he got nearer to grab her, Zormna dodged for the tree. He chased right on her tail, missing her by inches when she climbed up the boughs. Zormna expected him to climb after her… but he just stared up, propping his hands on his hips with all the dismay of an annoyed owner.

 Staring down at the group, Zormna caught her breath and assessed her situation once more. She knew that she had to get out of that garden or she was seriously screwed. And though she had thought she had tried every escape route, there was still one left that had come to her attention.

Peering out over the heads of the four grown Th’sans, she climbed up higher in the tree, measuring the distance with her eyes. Then, with a leap from the branches over their heads, making a terrifying arch to the ground behind them she landed with a tumble and roll, breaking into a run as soon as she could land back on her feet.

The hens screamed, horrified at what she had just done. But the Master bellowed with a different kind of upset. He called after her in an aggravated tone the word come over and over.

Zormna heeded none of it. She sprinted for the stairs which led to the roof. The roof would be her way out and nothing was in her path. Passing the palm tree, Zormna threw herself onto the first three steps, prepared to scale to the top of the house then leap over to the other side to escape.

The moment her feet hit the stone, a tremor shot up her legs and grabbed her stomach like iron claws. She could not run another step. Collapsing against the stone, the impossibility of it toppled Zormna more than the shock of the pain. Zormna’s mind screamed at her as she struggled to move higher. It couldn’t be possible. They had just walked up those steps.

Yet as the Master marched up to her, setting his sharp scaly hands around her, she recalled that she hadn’t placed a foot on the roof at all. He had carried her the entire time.

The reality of it landed on Zormna harder. She rocked herself on the painful ledge, sobbing. There really was no way out. As she pushed his hands away, regardless of the pain, he wrapped his hands around her to lift her up. But she wanted him to go away. She didn’t want to be his possession. And she most seriously didn’t want to be his lap girl. Tears mingled with the sweat that dripped into her eyes as his hands lifted her off the step despite all her efforts. The pain immediately stopped when he pulled her into his arms and clutched her to his chest like a baby needing comfort after a long horrific nightmare.

“No!” Zormna screamed again, struggling to get out of his cradling embrace.

But the Master clenched her tighter to his chest, leaving no room for escape—even as much as Zormna clawed him with her fingernails like a kitten trapped in a child’s arms. But her fingernails hardly left a mark. His skin was too tough.

He took her back to his room.

The wives followed them in.

The Master took Zormna to the bed where he immediately placed Zormna down. The moment he set her on the mattress, Zormna jumped up. Breathing hard, fists clenched, Zormna prepared for a fight. The wives watched off to the side

The Master brushed his clawed hand against her cheek, moving her hair from her face.

She slapped it away.

He leaned nearer, reaching for her again as if he would kiss her.

Zormna shoved him back, stepping farther from him.

He huffed, seizing her by the shoulders and pulling her back to him. Zormna tried to kick him, but it was about as effectual as a two-year-old kicking at his parent; perhaps a little bruising, but nothing that bothered him. Once more he tried to kiss her, though she pushed at his face to get him off. And when he attempted to bring her down against the bed with him, she shrieked, and wriggled out, kicking away from him. A reproving gaze fixed in his eyes as she backed away from him.

Nearby, the wives’ faces revealed several emotions. The youngest hen stood viciously triumphant watching Zormna’s defiance, yet peevish that the Master still insisted in bringing Zormna into his bed. The second stared at Zormna in disbelief, as if it never occurred to her that this human might refuse her husband. But the eldest watched Zormna with an expression of serene knowing. There was even a minor look of pity in her eye.

The Master shook his head and spoke to Zormna as if she understood his language. He was direct and matter-of-fact. But she didn’t care what he was saying. The outcome of this situation was the same whatever he said. She was trapped, but she wasn’t going to play along with his goal to make her his lap girl.

And he was going to rape her.

Overwhelmed with grief, Zormna recoiled from them, bursting into terrified tears. The tears just kept coming. Despite how she hated crying, especially in front of others, despair had dug into her chest, and it could not be rooted out. She. Was. Trapped. And he was too strong. He would have his way. And worse, when she closed her eyes, all she could see and hear were the despairing sobs of Jafarr beating his own chest for not being at her side to stop her capture. …For not being able to get to her. …For being trapped himself. Zormna collapsed to her knees and bawled, pounding on the mattress in anger at feeling so weak.

The Th’sans stared. She could feel the weight of their stares, then stopped being conscious of them altogether, except to realize that they did not seem to understand. She was something alien to them. Maybe Th’sans didn’t cry. But she didn’t care. Misery enveloped her.

The Master hissed something to his wives.

They bowed to him. Each hen left the room back through the garden entrance.

Once the wives were gone, the Th’san sat on the bed next to Zormna. He stroked his hand down her back as one would pet an animal.

Her head popped up and she pushed away from him in terror. His gaze was no longer lustful, though, but rather curious if not a little pitying. Recoiling, Zormna slid away from him.

Normally the Th’san would have chuckled at her human response, but even he seemed to be weary of the fight. His alien eyes watched her gravely, reassessing things, quite possibly. Somehow her reaction no longer amused him, and he didn’t seem likely to put forth any more advances in that moment. It was odd, really. At least it meant he wasn’t and out-and-out rapist.

 

The slaves brought in the dinner tray many hours later. By that time Zormna had fallen asleep, either from exhaustion, jet lag, or sheer stress. In the time she slept, the Th’san had busied himself with work somewhere not far away. When the meal arrived, he nudged her awake.  

This time, however, he did not make her carry the tray to him. She probably looked too weak to stand. And though the Master attempted to hand feed her again, she met him with the same resistance as before. Dismayed, he set the tray between them and let her take what she wanted. Zormna wasn’t interested in the food, though she was starving. It was mostly bread and soup anyway. Both were weird. She had to choke most of it down because her stomach was burning a hole inside, but there was bean paste in the bread and squid in the soup. It made her gag.

After the meal, the Master allowed Zormna flee to the bed. She was still groggy. Yet, Zormna decided to sit up the remainder of the evening, keeping an eye on the Th’san as he worked. Without a way to escape, she dreaded the coming night. Besides, the moment she had gone unconscious, she dreamed she was in Jafarr’s apartment on Arras. He was sobbing like his heart would break. Never had she ever heard him cry like that before. He had always been strong for her. He was the one who let her cry. It filled her with pain to hear his strong voice tremble on her behalf, and there was nothing she could do to help him. She could feel his heart breaking. If it was just a dream, it was a nightmare that wouldn’t go away. Her chest burned with shame watching him, because she knew it was all her fault.

The Master concluded his business at sunset. He placed his computer pad down on his desk and rubbed his eyes. With a glance back at Zormna who was now holding her knees to her chest, keeping her eyes from closing in sleep, he shook his head then walked into the narrow doorway. At the side, from a closet Zormna had not noticed, he extracted a robe and returned to the room, in which he proceeded to undress.

Zormna blinked open her eyes immediately. Just as quickly, she buried her face in her knees, covering her eyes so she wouldn’t have to witness any naked body parts.

A familiar chuckle came from his side of the room, but Zormna refused to peek, even to ease her curiosity. She didn’t even know when he was done until he climbed onto the bed. The mattress bent from his weight. He reached over to hold her. But the moment Zormna felt the proximity of his hand reach for her, she leapt off the bed and staggered back towards the velvet seat where he had been sitting all day.

The Master stared at her with surprise. He beckoned her to come to him.

Zormna refused. Would he beat someone over it? She didn’t want to find out. Instead, she climbed onto the velvet bench at the end of the bed, which was more than enough bed for her, and curled up there. She kept one eye open to see if the giant beast would come after her or if he would call a slave and punish them for her refusal to lie with him.

The Th’san glared at her first but then he shook it off. Zormna had thought that he would have taken her into his bed immediately after her refusal, forcefully like he had done everything else that day. She had expected to have to fight him off. In a way, she wanted a fight. She could handle a fight—even an unfair one. Her anger would be justified then. But instead, he shook his head and lay back down. Zormna wondered what he was waiting for. But he just went to sleep.

This left Zormna feeling entirely confused.

Zormna blinked, peered up at him again, just to make sure this was not a trick. It probably was. He was probably waiting until she was unconscious, and then he would pin her to the bench and rape her. Not taking that chance, Zormna intended to sleep with one eye open. And she prayed for Jafarr to be given strength, because her captivity was not his fault.   

Lessons of Pain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five:

 

“Learning without thought is a labor lost; thought without learning is perilous.”

—Confucius—

 

 

 

Jafarr sat hunched at his desk, spinning his stylus over his thumb with his forefinger and middle finger staring at the end of the writing tablet. He didn’t even notice the door open or Alea Arden step into the room. The head of the Alpha district looked down at the miserable young man and frowned. He walked up to the desk and leaned over to see what their president had been writing, but the scrawls on the computer tablet were brief and half-formed.

“You didn’t get far,” Arden murmured with a retreating glance at the spinning stylus in Jafarr’s hand.

Jafarr looked up, blinked, then sat up and rubbed his eyes. “No. There isn’t much to write anyway.”

Alea Arden nodded then leaned against the table, looking at the writing pad again. “What were you trying to write?”

Shaking his head, Jafarr pinched between his red puffy eyes. He sighed. “Nothing.” He gazed up at the Surface Patrol officer. “I was attempting to be presidential. That’s what they want, right?”

Nodding sadly, Alea Arden sighed also. He gazed over Jafarr’s red eyes and gray face then let out another sigh. “You don’t look like you slept well.”

The president’s face darkened. “How can I? With Zormna stolen, taken to who knows where, I won’t be sleeping ever again.” He closed his eyes, clenching the stylus in his hand. “I can hear her crying when I close my eyes.”

Palely, Alea Arden hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

Jafarr drew in a long breath. He shook his head and took three more long breaths. When he felt confident that he held his composure, he looked at Alea Arden and said, “They won’t budge will they? I’m stuck here. Aren’t I?”

Shamefaced with the knowledge that the council wouldn’t change their minds, Alea Arden nodded.

Jafarr leaned back on the table putting his head in his hands, covering his face. He had tried every way out, but he was under constant guard.

“The people…” Alea Arden paused. “The people were officially informed last night about what happened.”

Looking up, “Officially?” Jafarr mournfully chuckled. “What did they officially say?”

Alea Arden recognized the cynical glint in Jafarr’s expression and nodded once. “Officially, Zormna is captive—”

“They admitted that?” Jafarr broke in, more than surprised.

Alea Aden nodded again. “Had to. There was no way to change it to make it sound less, less….” He frowned. “The people already know. Even if we didn’t tell the truth, they would know.”

“And?” Jafarr pressed for the rest, still angry that he was not allowed to speak to the people himself.

Nodding as was due, Alea Arden continued with a deepening frown. “And they have been told you were returned to Arras for your protection.”

With a huff, Jafarr dropped his chin on his hand, slumping back over the desk. He picked up his stylus and started spinning it again.

It was difficult for Alea Arden not to feel pity as he gazed down at Jafarr. Those thoughts of pity and consolation flitted in and out of his mind and occasionally brushed his lips, but he never said any one of them. Jafarr never reacted well to remarks of pity, and he certainly didn’t want to hear anything that gave no solution to his predicament. He was a descendent rebels—and the only successful one after ten thousand years. Deep down, rebellion was his nature.

“What do you intend to do?” Alea Arden at last asked.

Looking up off his chin, Jafarr shrugged. “Brood.”

Choking on an inappropriate laugh that tried to escape, Alea Arden nodded, then bowed politely to the definitely-brooding man before him.

“If you see Alea Salvar anytime within the next year, tell him I want a word with him.” Jafarr said that with a glare, clenching his fists. His stylus was jammed against the table now, bent at the tip.

Alea Arden bowed again. “Yes, Mr. President.”

Jafarr nodded with that same glare as he watched Alea Arden step back through his office door into the corridor. The door closed and he was left alone again with in the room.

Alone.

He felt alone now.

It was strange, really. Even in his childhood he had never felt that alone.

Zormna’s cries had stopped somewhere in the middle of the night, perhaps from exhaustion. He just couldn’t tell from whose. His or hers. He felt nothing now except despair. Not even tears came, only darkness and emptiness—and a question. Where was Zormna?

Where was she? She wasn’t in her ship’s quarters. That bed was firm and narrow. This one felt soft and fuzzy under her cheek and the skin along her arm. It wasn’t in her old house in Pennington. That bed was large and warm with many comforters and pillows and blankets. This one was narrow and blanket-less. It wasn’t her given accommodations in the uppercity either. No. This bed was entirely different—large, holding its shape, yet firm. But somehow, something inside her made Zormna did not want to open her eyes to find out where she really was. Nightmares told her she was not where she wanted to be, and she just wanted it to all go away.

Something a little soft, yet rough brushed her cheek. It touched her again, moving her hair from off her neck. It felt cold and steely like scales. Zormna shuddered.

It touched her cheek again.

Her eyes jerked open. Immediately, she tumbled off the bench to the hard tile floor. Staring up at the terribly recognizable Th’san room with the Master standing over her in his long silky bed robe, Zormna groaned inside with pain. His head was cocked to the side and a dismayed expression settled on his face. He gurgled sadly and rubbed his forehead. He said something in his hissy-clucky language, but it was entirely lost on her.

Reaching down, the Master picked Zormna off the floor, standing her upright.

This made her feel dizzy. The weight of the head implants still threw her balance off, and being touched by this behemoth did not help any. Zormna pushed to get out of his arms, fleeing to the bench for better support. However, it was no used. The Master pulled her from it by the back of her skimpy silky dress, dragging her toward the bath. As her eyes fixed on the huge bath, a shudder ran through her again. She remembered the day before and all the instruction she had been given. As his slave, it was her job to wash him.

Zormna looked up at the Master while his enormous hands lifted her off the ground and set her on the steps near the large bath door. He nodded forcefully to her with a glare not to move as he reached to undo his robe ties. At once, Zormna slapped her hands over her eyes.

The Th’san made a sound that probably was a laugh, though it had more of a duck/goose noise to it. His hand patted heavily on her head, causing her stoop without her meaning to. Zormna didn’t uncover her face until she felt the silky robe he wore fall on top of her, hearing her Master command in his language the word Qwom, which meant take in Th’san—one of the many words she had been trained to recognize the day before.

Lifting the silky robe off her head to peek out, Zormna saw his bare leg standing before her, still not in the bath. She shuddered and shut her eyes tight again, until something occurred to her. She opened her eyes in a stare at his bare belly then crotch. He had no genitals—at least not as far as she comprehended them. He was… flat. Kind of like an alligator.

The Th’san laughed once more, burbling with amusement as she stared at him, wondering how in the world they reproduced. But then he reached down and shoved Zormna to get moving with his robe. Zormna nearly fell off the step, but she staggered and stood up, bewildered.

Of course. He was a different species. Not even mammalian. But a male that size with no recognizable parts and having a child? It made no sense. Especially since his wives had breasts, she had expected regular man parts. She stumbled her way to the desk near the servants’ door as best as she could, all the while hearing the Master laughing at her and again louder when she bumped into the desk.

Pulling the silky robe off her head, Zormna placed it on the desk then peeked back where the Master was, hoping he had gone into the bath. He still wasn’t. He was just standing there near the door and laughing at her while looking too amused. When naked, she could see his legs better. They were indeed like one of those bird-leg dinosaurs. His thighs were a little shorter than his calves, while the rest of his leg, from what would be the ankle or heel on her before getting to her toes, was a long lean length of birdish leg followed by large clawed feet. She watched him go about morning business, including use the toilet—urinating from the small opening that she had seen in his pelvis which she had mistaken for a belly button.

Pink with embarrassment that she was staring at naked humanoid relieving himself, Zormna closed her eyes, then looked to the floor to avoid seeing him. Yet her mind now reeled over the Half-Th’sans she had met in her first captivity—a genetically impossible mix between human females and Th’san males. They were indeed proof that Th’sans had impregnated human women somehow—different species or not. But looking at him, how did they do it?

“Shuk!” he ordered with a gurgle.

That meant come. She had heard it all day, before.

She hesitated.

The Master’s eyes narrowed on her, but Zormna did not see it, her eyes averted. The silence spoke it though. The gurgle in the Master’s throat lowered in tone, a sound that usually preceded an angry command. “Zoamo! Shuk!”

Zormna shuddered.

Her Master gurgled angrily and his voice lowered even deeper. She then heard the Master pad across the hard tile floor towards her. She fell back against the desk near the door.

“So’omo! Shuk!” He shouted.

So’omo was a word Zormna had heard only a few times. She didn’t know it. It had not been taught to her. Zormna braced against his grasp, but it never came. Instead, she heard the padding of bare human feet from the servants’ hall, and she opened her eyes.

Her Master stood at the door with a furious glare that made his head feathers stand on end. He was no longer naked but hastily wrapped in the bath towel, what he was intending to hide, she had no clue. There was nothing to see. The padding of bare feet from the hall halted at the door, and Zormna looked up. She recognized the first servant bowing at the Master’s feet.

“Tho vos duz shuk!” he hissed at the woman.

The servant’s eyes immediately fell on Zormna. Given no time for explanation, the Master swung at the servant with his bare hands.

“No!” Zormna jumped at the Master to pull away his hands. With one grab though, the Master held Zormna back, and he continued to beat on the woman.

Unlike the day before, Zormna’s balance was entirely with her now. Rage swelled over her.

“No!” Zormna screamed again, ripping out of his hold. His claws scratched down her arms as she tore away, but she hardly felt it when she threw herself onto his back and rammed her elbow into his spine.

The huge beast dropped with a thundering thump to the floor, his bare skin slapping the tile.

Panting, Zormna knelt on top of him with a furious glare at his naked back and plumed head. Then she looked to the servant. “Go. Go now.”

But the woman merely clung to the wall, mouth open in horror. “What have you done?”

“Escape,” Zormna said, pointing for her to go. She stood up, purposely stepping on the Master’s head. “Get out of here.”

But the woman shuddered, eyes wide. She fell back from Zormna, shaking her head. “What have you done? You hurt the Master.”

“He was beating you,” Zormna protested, taken aback at the slave’s incapacity to understand she was rescued. “I couldn’t let him—”

But the Master groaned and pushed heavily off the floor.

Zormna jumped back, bracing her feet in a defensive position to fight. Though her arm stung from the cuts, she hardly noticed the blood that dripped down it, splattering drops on the tile as she put herself between the woman and the Master. “Get out while you can,” Zormna called to the woman again.

But the slave only hung her head, remaining in the doorway as though she were fused to the wall and floor.

With his eyes lifting savagely onto Zormna, the Master rose up on one knee. “Uth shoa kungkoa.”[1]

He stood to his full height, his deep hisses sending shudders into her back and arms. Her chest heaved. Fear returned to her, digging into her stomach. Even if she beat him, there was no escape. Yet she did not want him to beat the servant for any refusal she made to his commands. She would force him to face her and her alone. Clenching her fists tighter as sweat increased in her palms and down her back.

The Master maintained his glare on her. But then his expression turned introspective, which was a little more frightening for Zormna to witness for some reason. His eyes analyzed her stance, her fists, her glare, and the blood that dripped from the cuts on her arm which were already darkening crustily to heal the wound. But he instead of coming at her or the slave, the Master’s lips thinned as he walked to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and picked out a small plastic-looking device on a chain about as large as an old mp3 player. Lifting it, he pressed the middle of the device.

That same moment, Zormna felt as if someone had rammed a screwdriver into her gut and twisted it. It was the same exact pain as when she had touched the garden wall. The strength in her legs failed her. She dropped to the floor clutching her stomach where she rocked herself. However, no amount of movement or pressure would alleviate the pain. It just twisted, tightened, burned, and drilled tighter and tighter inside her as if someone were now drilling a hole into her gut using a rusty drill bit and would not stop.

Her ears were ringing.

From the doorway, she heard the slave weeping. Zormna thought for a minute that the Master was beating her again, but when she peeked up through the pain, she saw the woman was entirely unharmed, staring at her, watching her.

The Master stood off to the side of the servant’s doorway, also watching with folded arms. His face glared reprovingly at her like a chastening dog-keeper.

Returning the look, Zormna shuddered with clenched teeth.

The pain twisted even deeper into her stomach. She clenched her arms in tighter around herself, but it did nothing to relieve the pain. “Agh!” She cried out, sobbing.

The Master rose up from the wall, lifting the small device again. She saw him press the center once more. Immediately Zormna’s stomach felt as though the drill unwound the flesh inside, releasing the searing knot in the center of her stomach. Sweat beaded on her forehead, drizzling down her neck and back. She looked up at the Master, still holding her aching stomach, panting.

“O’boazh xoash’ssu o, xoa uth fobo shoa lo’woazzz’thbong,” the Master said in his burbles.

The slave interpreted, her voice coming through the buzzing in Zormna’s ears. “If you attack him again, he says, you will be punished.”

At least it was no longer the slave getting hurt, Zormna thought as she sobbed in herself with another shudder. Her sobs fell into moans as she remained in fetal position. The sound of the Master’s feet padded across the floor to where she stayed crouched. His clawed hands lifted her off the tile. Again, he carried her to the bath opening like he would a disobedient pet. Zormna did not hear the woman leave, but they were alone when she unclenched herself to allow the Master wipe and bind her newly bleeding arm. He clucked at her, shaking his head while hissing to her as one would to a child. Once he finished binding her wounds, again he took off his towel for the bath. Zormna whimpered there on the step, closing her eyes and clutching the tile at the bath entrance. The Master did not chuckle this time. He commanded her as he did before.

“Shuk.”

Crying, Zormna crawled on her hands and slid over the tile towards the bath. It was either that or pain. And though she would rather take the pain than have someone else suffer, she didn’t want the pain either.

She shuddered as she slid across the tile to where the Master knelt naked next to the bath, hissing and pointing to valves, buckets, cups, and vials, expecting her to prepare his bath for him. She didn’t understand a word of what he said, but she followed his gestures trying to keep her eyes on the fixtures and not the bare hulking body next to her. It just felt too weird even if he was another species. Eventually she would see what his male part was like, and that would be the worst.

The first valve was for the water. Zormna pulled on it, letting a hot steamy flow out of the long fancy porcelain spout shaped like a snake. The Master leaned over the edge and swished his fingers in the rising flood while smiling with satisfaction. He was constantly watching Zormna as she sulkily picked up the glass container a little larger than yet similarly shaped as a two-liter soda bottle which he had pointed to. She had to use both hands to lift it off the edge of the bath shelf then pry the glass stopper out of the top, twisting it to dislodge it before tipping the contents into the bath water. It drizzled slowly, giving off the odor of a fruit Zormna did not recognize.

Leaning over again, the Master hefted the bottle back up to the shelf, smirking at Zormna as he watched her face go red when her eyes passed over his bare chest and naked arm. She turned her eyes away. The beast seemed flattered by it, which really bugged her. She was bright red by the time she finished filling the tub, in spite of her attempts to keep her composure. His stares unsettled her more than his nakedness anyway.   

It was a relief when the Master finally climbed into the bath under the layer of soap and foam, yet she was thrown into a sulky dismay once again when he ordered her to scrub his back—another one of the commands she had learned the previous day. She didn’t want any more pain. But she didn’t want to bathe him either. Weighing the pros and cons, Zormna grudgingly climbed onto the shelf at the edge of the bath, glowering at him. She grabbed a huge encyclopedia sized scrub brush and the piece of soap her Master had pointed to then crawled toward his back to start washing.

The Master let out a laugh. He snatched up Zormna, yanking her into the water with him. She tried to fight him off without getting him too angry, but he stripped off the green filmy overdress and tossed it to the floor outside the bath. Then he started to peel off her other dress.

With a shriek, Zormna dropped the brush, grabbing onto the dress with both hands to keep it on.

That only made him laugh more.

“No! No! No!” Holding the wet thing over chest, shaking her head and screaming, Zormna desperately clung to the fabric.

But what was her hands and muscle strength to a beast twice her size and muscle mass? The Th’san lifted the garment off her, while attempting to pry it out of her tiny fingers. The dress tore in her hands. The friction of the fabric burned against her palms, leaving them raw.

Stripped of her one protection, Zormna immediately grabbed the towel that lay on the bath step, throwing it around her like a toga. She wrapped it with hard knots in it before the Master would be able to undress her again, which he might try.

But he didn’t even try. He laughed.

He laughed so hard that the water sloshed.

Entirely amused at her attempts to stay modest, he shook his head then handed her the scrub brush again. His eyes said it didn’t matter how hard she tried to stay clothed… in the end he would use her for what he had bought her for.

That sent one of many shudders through her. Indignantly pressing against the bathroom wall as the Th’san watched her with continued amusement, Zormna’s chest heaved and she tied her last knot, defying him as long as she could. He was not going to degrade her. She would not let him make her into a lap girl. And she vowed it, no matter what pain she would have to go through.

He shoved the brush more firmly into her hand and gestured to the soap. Tugging on her towel for her to get back to work, he called once again for her to wash him.

Oh, how she wished to refuse. Oh, how she wished to pounce on him, break his neck, drown him in the water—anything than be stuck with him in that frothy bath. But, weighing the possibility that he was more than prepared to put her into pain, as he now wore that pain causing device around his neck, Zormna decided it was currently best to play along.

Slipping down the ledge into the water again, the towel soaked up water quickly, weighing heavily. She slid around his large form to his back where, with irritation, she spread soap on the scrub brush, leaned on his back with one arm, and applied it to his back with a pressing scrub up his spine.

“Mux’uz.” He snatched her wrist with the brush, lightly slapping it.

She didn’t know that word. But considering the context, Zormna put less pressure on the brush when she scrubbed his back.

A teethy, satisfied smile, spread on his face as his large eyes closed in satisfaction and comfort. It took everything in her not to attempt to drown him right there.

Space seemed vaster that day.

Fathomless.

Measureless.

Incomprehensible.

Endless.

And where was his precious Zormna Clendar in it?

The head of the Zeta district stood in the command room alone, thinking, waiting, hating himself for letting her slip out of reach. Like President Jafarr, it was killing him. But unlike that singular-minded President Jafarr, Alea Salvar could not neglect his station and duties, even a second. He could not be caught up in emotion to abandon everything in search for his one loved and favorite individual no matter how much he wanted to. He was not full of reckless abandon. He was not less devoted. He wasn’t—he told himself.

The head of Zeta district and the human fleets against the Th’sans had no time to cry. So why was he crying now?

He had to stick to her plan. But he had no way of finding their queen, not without abandoning the war. They could not leave Aloea defenseless, and they certainly could not let the Th’san Empire continue to hold human slaves. Queen Zormna made that clear when she started the war. It was the one thing that motivated all the individuals from Arras and Earth to go into space and fight. They were not fighting for her. They were fighting for human freedom. If they pulled back now, the Th’sans would take over everything—Arras, Earth and Aloea of course. Those on Earth were not prepared to take on the Th’sans full force. Not in the slightest.

He sighed heavily, squared his shoulders up and wiped his eyes. No. It was war. It was time to fight, not to weep. If the Th’sans knew what they held, they would take care not to harm her. For if they did hurt her, they would unleash Arrassian fury like the never knew—because Arrassians had never forgotten how to make the kind of war that had destroyed their world.  

Bathing left Zormna wrinkled and sore—that is, bathing him. Her towel toga was soaked and heavy. After getting his own towel to dry off, the Master put on a marvelous blue silk pair of trousers. It was the first compliment Zormna was glad to give him if he ever asked it. She was even gladder he wore a matching silk shirt that covered his immense chest, though it did not cover his huge arms. He dressed himself—another relief for Zormna who had sat sopping wet on the bath steps hiding her face when he had shameless climbed out of the bath in front of her, smelling sweet from perfume and dripping on the floor. And she had to endure his mocking laugher up until he announced in Th’san while chuckling that he was done. Her face was completely red when she finally looked. And he grinned, flattered by it.

Just as the Master pulled on his long coat of silk and reached for his other overcoat made of tougher cloth, the old servant brought the food tray to the room. The slave bowed without looking at him, leaving the tray on the desk.

“Zzonth zu susus thoamth,” the Master commanded with a glance at Zormna. It was a command she knew. Bring that thing here.

Scowling, Zormna stood up and walked barefoot to the desk, dripping puddles all over the floor. She picked up the tray, carrying it from the desk near the servants’ door over to the bench at the end of the bed where the Master usually ate. His large crocodile eyes rested mirthfully on her, watching the puddle of water form around her as she stood with the food holding a dejected expression on her face.

Taking the tray from her hands with a chuckle, the Th’san placed it on the soft seat. Zormna wished to turn away, but she already knew he would insist on feeding her. So, she stood there, waiting for how he would handle that. However, he softly laughed with a shake of his head and took hold of her arm to turn her. She wondered if he intended to pick her up, wet and all, but instead of lifting her, Zormna found he was undoing the wet knots in her towel, or at least attempting to. She tried to jerk out of his hold, but his claws already clung to the towel, making it already a losing battle. He quickly stripped her of her only cover. The second his hand was off her, Zormna dived once again behind the bed curtains.

Of course, this made the Master laugh. He was enjoying this immensely.

Clucking some kind of remark she didn’t get but was somehow meant to explain something, he reached out for her to pick her up to feed her as she was. But Zormna dived around the bed, making distance between them while still hiding her bare skin from his view. This was humiliating.

 He clucked in a tisking kind of way, chasing after her with a jump over the mattress.

Zormna dashed round the banister one way then the other as he continued to reach out for her. Twice she dodged before the Master lunged across it to snatch her. To defend herself, Zormna leapt back to get out of his long reach—unfortunately leaping caused the feeling of imbalance in her head to return making her dizzy. She fell.

She clutched her skull, curling into a ball.

The Th’san stood over her and picked her off the floor, saying something she of course did not understand. Yet too terrified of what he intended to do to her, she struggled to get out of his hold. He gripped her tighter—so much that she could feel the tips of his claws lightly poke into her skin. Curling into herself away from them, she trembled. Her mind raced. She would have to fight him off no matter what. That was what she had vowed.

But instead of forcing her to the bed and climbing on top of her as she had expected, he set her on the bench next to the food, then he walked across the room to the bath hook and picked up his silk sleeping robe, carrying it back to her. He dropped it over her shivering bare body.

Zormna opened her eyes. She looked up at once at the Master. He gazed down on her, his eyes benevolently sympathetic in that caring tender way. A way that—

Zormna shook her head. What was she thinking? What was she seeing? She wrapped the robe around her tightly and glared up at the Master again. Though he had just given back her dignity, he still had every intention of turning her into a lap girl.

The Master busied himself with breakfast. Taking out the long tiny forks for eating the fruit and bread, he set the tray where they both could reach it. It was peculiar sensation she had at that moment. Zormna shuddered, wondering at his game. Maybe… maybe he gave her back her dignity and allowed her to keep her medallion because she was a queen. Despite their disdain for humanity, treating them as tools to be used, it was likely they did respect royalty.

She looked up at him again. The Master poked the fruit with the tines and lifted one to his mouth. He then stopped and looked down at her, offering the piece to her. It disarmed her, the gentle way he handled her. So, thinking maybe it was best for now to play along, she opened her mouth and for once let him feed her.

 

The hours of the morning moved differently than the day before. The Master walked into the garden after breakfast, and Zormna sat on the bench in his robe, dazed and wondering what she was truly in for. She was starting to feel more like a prized purebred pet that he just wanted to own rather than a fetish object to satisfy his lusts. And though that was a relief, being a piece of property still incensed her.

Zormna would have stayed thinking on this bench all day had not the horns Niilwa talked about the day before blown, and the reality of her slavery returned. Sulkily, Zormna slid off the bench, her thoughts dashed on the wet and dirty tile. She looked at the floor where her blood still lay in drops. The Master had done nothing to clean up such as a human would have done for his own home.

No, she had been mistaken about him. He was just playing a mental game with her. Easing her into things. Th’sans were not stupid. Putting herself into his shoes, thinking about his motives and what he wanted ultimately in the end… and knowing that he knew who she was while guessing what he suspected about her personality, she realized that he was going about this slavery business rather carefully. He had a plan, possibly an ideal he was aiming for. He wanted something from her but he wasn’t going to just take it. If he tried to take it, he knew she would fight with her entire soul against him. Indeed, this Th’san was a smart one.

The Master walked into the room without a word and stepped over to her. He handed her a dry bath towel then tugged on the robe she was wearing. Obviously, he did not want to sully his nice silk clothing in the work of a slave.

Zormna took the towel with a scowl, allowing him to retrieve the robe. She said nothing. It wasn’t allowed within the hour and she didn’t want a slave or herself to be punished.

He left as silently as he had come, back to the garden.

Zormna followed him to the door, watching him go to the right-side fence where there was a gate, passing through it. With a sigh, she returned to the room.

The cleaning things for this ritual were where she had left them. The job was simple enough to do. And since Zormna had done her share of cleaning when she had been punished in the Surface Patrol as a cadet for pranks and whatnot, this kind of cleaning would be easy in comparison. Getting straight to work, as there was nothing else she could do until she found an escape route, Zormna filled the water, applied the soap, and loaded up the rags. The washing itself took no time, and the horns sounded again during her ritual bath in the tin tub, post-cleaning.

Relieved of her forced silence, Zormna murmured ad dipped lower under the water. “Thank heaven.”

 

The Master did not return to the room until long after Zormna had put the tub away, re-robed in the towel. She had looked around the garden to see if he was anywhere in there. But he was still somewhere else in the house or perhaps in the other yard over. When he did come back, Zormna had tested every wall just to make doubly sure there was no way out. Part of the wall in the back was difficult to get to, as it was behind a heap of vines and shrubbery which scratched her with thorns—though she tried. When he returned to the yard, she had been reaching behind a trellis covered in purplish flower with curling tendrils among shamrock-like leaves.

“Zoama! Shuk!” In his tone was annoyance, perhaps that she was standing in the mud in his towel.

Moaning, Zormna turned with hanging shoulders then trudged through the plants to him. He grabbed her wrists when she reached him, pointing at the scratches.

Zormna rolled her eyes.

But he dragged her to the pond, dunked her feet in the water to wash them off, then dried them with the towel. After that, he dragged her back to the room, this time tossing her another chemise to wear—the red one from the day before.

He didn’t give her privacy to change.  

Ducking behind the bed so he could not see her, Zormna pulled on the dress as quickly as possible, adjusting the straps to this one also. The servant had already taken the shredded peach gown.

As soon as she was dressed, the Master walked out into the garden with a satisfied nod, leaving her alone.

It was weird. Left to her own devices once more, Zormna stared about herself. She half expected him to be lurking around a corner spying on her, but when she peeked out into the garden, she saw the Master sitting on a wicker like stool in the garden, enjoying the sunlight while also doing some sort of digital work on his flat computer pad. He didn’t act like he was pretending either. It was more like a dog owner who had simply gone back to daily stuff, leaving his pet to herself.

So, left to herself, Zormna explored the room again.

This time she tugged on drawers. All of them were locked. They didn’t have keyholes, so Zormna suspected some kind of digital key he was carrying or some kind of genetic touch key, which was nearly the same thing. She would have to find a way around that. She found light switches, finally, and played with those for a bit before inspecting what cupboards and drawers she could open. All cleaning closets and drawers opened for her. She also pawed around the bed, searching for anything unique about it, such as mechanical equipment, ventilation, or just an empty compartment. But it was nothing more than an ordinary box frame with a rather bland yet heavy mattress which she could lift with effort. Her inspection of the room ended quickly, resulting with nothing useful—not even electrical outlets… which was weird. Every appliance seemed to be automated and connected to the building or the furniture, and that included drinking water, which she found by pressing a wall panel higher up over the toilet. She had to stand on tiptoes to reach the panel, but she could get to it easily when she climbed up the bath steps and leaned against the wall. But in the end, the room was utilitarian dull with the silence of a tomb. There wasn’t even something like a TV or music player. Not even a book.

It was so mind-numbingly boring that she ventured outside despite that he was there and would be watching her. The Master had not moved from his seat in the garden, working steadily on the computer pad. She didn’t know exactly what he was doing, and at that point she didn’t care. The only thing on her mind was to find a better way out of her predicament.

So, meandering back toward the thorny bushes, Zormna was about to continue her search for gaps in the wall—yet peeking back to the Master, she thought she had better make a game of it. She poked her head into the bushes, smelling the flowers… pretending to be amazed by it all.

Actually, in a way she was. The garden itself was not very big, but the enormous number of plants inside it made interesting exploration, especially for an Arrassian bred woman who had not really seen plant life at all until she came to Earth. After dodging around the thorny trellis, and keeping her feet from the mud which had annoyed her Master earlier, she eventually ended up at the poinsettia-like tree which towered over everything. Thinking to herself, Zormna decided that was the best place to see what she had to work with.  

Climbing up it to look around, though not as high as the last time, Zormna noticed the Master watching her from below. And for the sake of not ending up with another set of bandages wrapped on her arm for only a few scratches, she hung on a limb in a safer location to make sure the Th’san could see her in a way that he would not get nervous. He smiled to himself and continued his work, glancing up every now and then to make sure she didn’t go up any higher.

Of course, the skimpy dress was a pain to climb in. The straps slipped. She stepped on the hem once. Zormna had to tie the back straps together to prevent the dress from falling off, actually, as it hardly fit her. She was glad the Master wasn’t sitting right underneath the tree, as she didn’t want to give him more of a peep show than he already got.

Zormna settled on a middle branch where she could peer over the wall that ran along the road. With a similar vantage point as on the roof, except for a few branches in the way, she gazed over the neighborhood beyond the home. When on the roof, she didn’t have time to entirely take in the view. The ceremony had distracted her. But she could see the house was definitely at the top of a hill. Everything fell down from the Master’s home and sloped around it in a circle. In the lanes outside the walls, there were gardens of lilies that surrounded them on both sides. All plants and trees were inside yards. The roads, from what she could see, were plain thoroughfares that did not look paved at all. Through unfocused eyes, the city appeared white and green like mossy boulders. Gazing across the Master’s property as she did the day before, Zormna began to comprehend where she was.

A shiver ran through her.

She glanced down at the Th’san again. He single-mindedly worked on his computer pad, peeking up at her once or twice with a pleased smile, but always returning again to his work with a serious expression.

Zormna gazed out over the city once more.

Ships flew over it in a clean blue sky with feathery clouds. Caravans and hovering litters and fancy markets filled the city below with the highest sort of technology, while plain spackled-plaster outsides to walls and domes made it all uniform in a curvaceous sort of way. But this home was in the center of it all at the top of the hill.

This Th’san was someone important.

 

[1] You are vicious.

Visitors

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six:

 

“Vulgar people take huge delight in the faults and follies of great men.” –Schopnenhaur—

 

 

 

“Thoath’thozh Xum Xochzong! Uth th*oamth?” A deep throaty voice hissed from inside the Master’s chambers.

Zormna looked down from her perch in the tree to see where the voice came from. Her Master, however, stood up and strode out of the garden, back into his room, stepping precisely on the clean garden stones. He didn’t track in a bit of dirt, much to his credit. Zormna, however, took that opportunity to jump out of the tree without him seeing, and walked softly over the ground. Her feet brought dirt and soil with her onto the washed steppingstones in front of the door.

The large visitor looked right at her then clucked, pointing Zormna out. His hisses were lost on Zormna, but her Master flushed and scratched the back of his neck as if he were explaining a poorly trained dog.

Mildly amused, the visitor condescended to pat his friend on the shoulder to assure him with his clucks and trills that the situation was not hopeless and she would be changed.

Zormna rolled her eyes and turned to go back into the garden.

“Your feet are dirty,” the Th’san visitor said in clear spoken Aloean.

Zormna halted. With a suspicious lurch, she turned and looked at him.

He was an even larger Th’san, same species as the Master. Compared to her Master, he was particularly stocky whereas her Master was merely healthy. The plumes on his head were trimmed a little, perhaps out of vanity or to control a slight fluffy condition of down that she could see gathering behind is ears that was possibly not considered masculine. Some of it looked dyed. He was older than her Master by several years, in fact. Quite probably he was an elder of Th’sans. With the condescending air he maintained, he could possibly be her Master’s father. However, they didn’t look related, or that was how she guessed it anyway. Zormna took an instant dislike to this creature. His entire being sneered.

“At least my soul isn’t,” Zormna briskly replied.

This new Th’san laughed. It wasn’t a kind sort of laugh or the friendly amused duck laugh her Master had. It was one of those deep sinister throaty laughs one always reads about and sees in movies but never wants to hear in real life. It was brief and quiet and said everything he thought.

Her Master angled his head and inquired, hissing to the visitor to know what she had said.

The other Th’san replied with eyebrow lifting, nose turning, smug response that sounded almost like a cackle. Zormna glared at him then turned around to reenter the garden.

“Come back in. Your master wishes to talk to you,” the other Th’san said, letting his smug voice carry with a triumphant lilt.

Zormna stopped and clenched her fists. However, denying her Master already terrified her. The memory pain from the machine was still quite fresh. She turned around again. Glaring at the visitor, Zormna walked back to the edge of the doorway then stopped.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” the haughty Th’san asked in his oily Aloean. The way he spoke it, rather fluently in fact, only solidified Zormna’s distaste for him.

“I cleaned the floor. I don’t want to clean it again,” Zormna replied with a scowl.

The Th’san exploded into a laugh and translated to her Master.

Her Master nodded with pleasure, adding something back with personal pride as he spoke. The other chuckled. His surveying glance raked over Zormna as he remarked back to her Master in a sort of hiss that made her Master blush. His vestigial gills rippled hormonally, flushing with some color. Zormna glared at him, feeling sick. It was like watching people discussing porn in code words. She knew what they were saying was foul, she just didn’t know exactly.

“What? You disapprove of our conversation? Do you know the holy language of Th’san?” He laughed.

Zormna’s glare deepened. “I don’t need to know a language to know when I am being insulted.”

Not so haughty, the visitor’s laugh softened as he fixed his stare on her now, regarding her for a second.

Zormna continued. “If you are going to insult me, do it to my face.”

With a smirk, the Th’san visitor turned toward his friend and translated once again.

The Master turned his crocodile eyes on Zormna with a degree of sadness. He heavily sighed. In a low hissing cluck while probably relating his problems to his friend, he nodded and then shook his head without taking his eyes off her.

The other Th’san nodded commiserating, patting his friend once again. He then turned toward Zormna, shaking his head as he chastened her with his stares. “He says you are entirely willful. That is not a good feminine trait.”

Zormna rolled her eyes, turning to go.

“Which you obviously don’t regard in the proper manner, even for a human,” the Th’san added, his voice raising.

She turned back. “Proper manner? If you are talking about Aloean customs, then you forget that I am not an Aloean. I am an Arrassian. And Arrassian women don’t have to obey the whims of others.” Then stepping closer, yet not into the room, with a deeper glare, Zormna added, “Besides, I’m a prisoner of war. A soldier. If you expect me to just roll over and play dead, you’ve got another thing coming. And so does he.” Then she turned her eye on her Master. “And you tell him for me. My people are coming for me, no matter what he says.”

With a mocking laugh, the Th’san translated her—with added commentary or course.

Frowning like an annoyed person stuck in a perpetual argument, her Master related back something that made the Th’san guest laugh more.

“He says you told him yesterday. And look—who has come?” the guest said waving about as if Zormna expected ships to fall out of the sky that very second.

The pettiness of it was worth an eye roll. Zormna huffed and pivoted toward the garden once more to go back to the tree.

Her Master called out. It was to her this time, not the guest. She stopped.

“He says there is no point to fight this. You are his. He owns you.” The Th’san sounded so assured and matter-of-fact when he said this.

Zormna clenched her fists again and shook her head. “No. No one owns me.”

Such a mocking laugh erupted from his chest as he followed her into the garden.

“Can you leave?” He laughed louder. “You are his. Accept that fact.”

Hands trembling in anger, Zormna clenched her fists even tighter as she spoke through her teeth. “No. This is only temporary.”

But he would not let this alone. That Th’san followed right after her and placed his hand on her shoulder to stop her just as she reached the edge of the pond, breathing down upon her head like an exhaust hose. “You are his property.”

“No!” Zormna shouted, grabbing his wrist. In two seconds, she stepped back, and with the oldest technique, grabbed his wrist, and threw this giant over her shoulder into the middle of the garden pond. He sank heavily among the lilies with an enormous splash. When he surfaced, he clawed his way out of the water to the side, sopping wet and choking on mud as he tried to figure out what had just happened to him. Zormna stepped back toward a near wicker seat, nursing yet another scratch where his claws had grazed her shoulder.

The Master dashed into the garden, mouth agape at his tiny lap girl and more at his ‘poor damaged friend’.

Zormna raised her chest indignantly, squaring her shoulders as she turned back from the garden towards the Master’s room. “Get yourself out, you overgrown canary.”

Grabbing for the edge of the pond, the Th’san stranger splashed and sputtered. It took a few minutes for him to catch his own breath and gather his bearings, but by that time Zormna had reached the room and was wiping off her feet with the old damp towel on the bath steps. From the garden door, she could hear his angry hisses with a certain smug satisfaction. Yet she glanced once or twice to see what her Master would do. His eyes were on his guest as the soaked Th’san pulled himself out of the pond, yet he stood back from him on the clean rocks speaking calmly as if his guest should have expected Zormna to act violently.

Zormna almost laughed—but she saw her Master quickly lift his glassy eyes to her with such a reproving glare that she knew meant he would punish her later. She shrank back. Her eyes looked for an escape route again, this time at the ceiling. Unfortunately, it looked solid, almost like stone.

The Th’san visitor dragged himself completely out of the water, stomping over the ground as his clothes dripped muddily on everything. “You should treat your betters with more respect.”

Zormna rose to her full height of five feet and glared up at him, meeting him at the doorway to prevent him from ruining her floor. “Well, if I ever find someone that meets that category, then I’ll do that.”

He didn’t quite understand. His puffed-up chest showed he felt he had gotten the better of her, but his gaze on Zormna’s smirk morphed into confusion. “What are…?” Then his expression altered once again as he thought more about her retort. Especially as she set her hand to her hip with an are-you-stupid look

“Why you little….” He hissed at her as he pushed in and dripped on her once spotless floor. “You are nothing more than a human wretch. Do you know who I am?”

Zormna rolled her eyes, backing away from him. “Do I care?”

He reached out to slap her.

He never made contact, though. Her Master caught his hand, forming a disapproving gesture by shaking his other hand by holding his forefinger and thumb out like an L. The Master said something to his guest, hissing and clucking in his way.

For a brief moment, the Th’san visitor listened, gazing quizzically at first. But then he glanced back at Zormna with a quieter sort of regard, his lizard like eyes widening. “You’re an expensive human wretch. He just told me you are the queen of Odos. Is that true?

“It is pronounced Arras,” Zormna bit back, bristling

But that only made the Th’san visitor laugh.

Zormna scowled, wishing to kick him back into the pond. Unfortunately, they were too far away from it.

“Then you are in luck,” that Th’san said with a gloat. “You are owned by one of the most influential Th’san lords in the Empire, one fitting for your human rank. Your master is Master Governor Xochzong of the Northern Provenance.”

Glancing sharply at the Master, Zormna regarded him for a second. “Of what planet?”

The visiting Th’san laughed. “Doazhoax of course. The home world.”

Zormna blinked. She didn’t know the Th’san worlds, but clearly it was the original home of the common Th’san species. When she could manage it, she would have to find a way to tell Jafarr. If he met right people on Aloea, it might help him find her as currently escape on her own was not an option.

The visitor shook out his dripping head feathers, cursing in Th’san while fluffing everything out as he tried to get the mucky water off. Most of his feathers stuck out in mangled directions, as clearly he was not waterfowl. His glares were less haughty than before, though. Zormna presumed it was because either she had put him in his place, or more likely that it was because he now understood who she was and the risk he had taken in touching her. She was unable to tell for sure as he no longer spoke in Aloean to her, but kept his remarks to the Master in their own language as he undressed next to the bath. Zormna would have fled into the garden again had her Master not grabbed her by the arm and held her where she was with the command to get the bath ready.

“I am not washing him,” Zormna snapped, trying to pull away.

The visitor snarled back with the foulest look, “I would not want you to.”

But the Master still nudged her to the bath, and she peevishly filled the large tub with soap and water as she had in the morning.

Hissing and gesturing toward Zormna every so often as he removed his silky garments and placed them on the bath rack near the door, the guest got into a heated debate with her Master, which sounded no such much as an argument but more like an inquiry to a severe problem which needed to be solved. When he removed his shirt, Zormna discovered that his broadness wasn’t because he as well built but because he was fat. His fat packed around him evenly, but built on his hips and arms the most. When he started to strip off his pants, Zormna turned her face away and climbed out of the bath with the intent to flee to the garden again. Whether he had man parts or not, she didn’t want to see another male alien naked.

The Master let her, shooting her a peevish look that warned her punishment would still be inflicted for her behavior earlier.

After his bath, the visitor stayed for several hours, wearing the Master’s robe and eating the Master’s lunch—Zormna’s portion actually. Though she was forced to serve them, she refused to eat the meat, which was the same slimy burnt-hair-stinky stuff they served the day before. There was very little else on that platter that she could stand. A piece of fruit, perhaps. But he ate that too. Unfortunately, he also stayed until the evening. He and the Master talked together in businesslike tones, though when she spied on them from the garden Zormna notice that the Master talked more like he was giving orders while his guest took notes and nodded. Zormna peeked in only once during the visit to see if she could sneak into the bath area to use the toilet—she wasn’t able to and had decided to find a convenient bush instead, washing her hands in the pond. And she didn’t return again until the sun started lowering in the sky and the daytime moon had set. By moonset, the Master called her inside to bring him dinner.

She obediently came as she was honestly starving. Her stomach had been making noises the past two hours and felt like it was eating the inside of her gut. She wiped her feet off at the bath door again and stepped across the tile floor to the desk where the meal tray sat. Thankfully, it was the same kind of meal as the day before, something she could eat. Lifting the tray off the table, she sulkily carried it across the room to where the two Th’sans waited for her on the bench. The guest’s chin had lifted to its haughty level once more, surveying her while she dutifully carried the overlarge tray. For a second, she was tempted to spill the meal on the visitor just to banish that look, but she didn’t want him to stay and gloat over her longer than he already had. He was back in his dry, clean clothes once more, apparently cleaned by the other servants. She handed the tray to the Master, realizing the visitor was most likely going to eat her dinner also. She turned to go to the garden again.

The Master caught her wrist, keeping her from leaving.

Chills ran up her arms. Turning her eyes up to the Th’san who owned her, she trembled. On his face was a reproving glare. He hissed something then clucked at her.

“You haven’t eaten. You will destroy your health,” the visitor translated.

“I’m not hungry,” Zormna replied just as her stomach fatefully growled.

That Th’san smirked, watching her face flush a dark pink.

“You spoil my appetite,” she snapped.

The oily old Th’san’s smirk fell to a glare.

Begging for a translation, Zormna’s Master tugged on her arm to pull her closer. He lifted her onto his lap. That made her shiver even more. He had not punished her yet, after all. It was still coming.

His visitor replied back to the Master with a level of distaste then added a hissing remark her Master just shrugged at. However, as they talked, the Master held out food for her to eat, and because she was starving, Zormna ate it.

It amused their guest.

As dinner progressed, Zormna on the Master’s lap and the guest chatted with him. It was an animated conversation entirely in their hissing, clucking, gargling language involving lots of demonstrative hand gestures, duck-laughing and the guest’s incapability of keeping his hands to himself. Their guest had a tendency to pat the Master on the chest, rub his shoulder with an arm around his back, and put his large clawed hand on Zormna’s knee, stroking up her thigh. As she shoved his scaly hand away from copping a feel, the Master did not seem to notice but took it as if such behavior were normal. The guest only twice tried to feed her, but Zormna snapped at his hand as a dog would and growled just as angrily when he got too close.

Her Master laughed this time, waggling a finger at him.

But this did not change the visitor’s behavior much. His eyes raked lustfully over her as if he wanted to do a great deal more to her than rub her leg. Only when Zormna finally decided she had had enough and refused food to show she was full, did her Master allow her to slide off his lap and escape back into the garden.

 Zormna took that time to keep as far from the visitor as possible. At least in the garden she could regain the illusion of solitude.

The Master and guest continued to converse with fond chatter as Zormna wandered over to the pond then hiked up her skirts to dip her feet in the water on the edge. Their alien noise sent shivers through her with the surreal comprehension that this would be the sound of the new normal if she did not find a way to escape the yard.

She had been thinking about it for a while, looking around her unusual prison for resources which would get her over the wall without her actually touching it. Tree branches she could break and use as a ladder to scale the wall. Vines she could lash together to make rope for the same reason. Angles from which she could run, jump, and vault over the wall if necessary. Even stones she could remove and stack to make stairs. She had seen no surveillance cameras that she could figure—though she would not be surprised if there were some in the yard that she just didn’t recognize. And yet another notion occurred to her as she had been calculating all this. She thought: what if inside that room and in the yard was in fact the only place that she would not feel pain? What if the function of the implants in fact were being repressed by being in close proximity to a thing like an electronic leash rather than like a shock collar for crossing or touching a forbidden thing? If that were indeed the case, there truly was no way out. She had to make sure. She had to test all of it. But she had to test it when the Master was not around.

She sat down on the wooden platform, thinking about it more. Closing her eyes, she dropped her feet into the water, thinking and thinking yet finding no solution. After a while, she got weary of it, and started to think about anything other than where she was. It was giving her a headache. So, she started to think of better places to be. She thought of Earth where she had been freer than she ever had been in life. She thought of her home… which while sloshing her feet in the pond made her think of better ways to bring more water there. This pond was smaller than the Pennington High swimming pool by half, and it felt pleasantly cool to her skin. It looked deep. As her mind went back to Earth and the swimming pool at Pennington High, it led her to think about Jafarr and how he had mocked her when she was first learning to swim. She had never admitted it back then, but she thought Jafarr looked rather strapping in a swimming suit, even if it exposed all the scars on his skin from when he had been tortured in prison. Those scars, in her mind, only made him look stronger. And thinking about that, Zormna felt out for him, not doubting how out-of-his-mind with worry he had to be right now. It must have been at least two days since her capture—and she had a feeling he was no longer out at war. But… she could not quite feel him.

She shook her head and sighed heavily. Her heart ached, thinking about the grief she had caused him. Peering up at the darkening sky, there were two new moons in the sky. One was bright yellow, much like Venus would look had it been up close and the size of Earth’s moon. She could see craters though—that and poisonous clouds. The other moon was smaller and darker, probably made of volcanic rock and ash. The sky itself was changing colors from red to deep purple until it grew into night black. The stars and galactic arm formations were also foreign, though there were so many of them. Zormna didn’t recognize one constellation.

Gazing down at the water and the deepening reflection in it, Zormna kicked her feet, making the water ripple. She was half tempted to just dip in for a swim, but that would mean getting her already thin dress wet, and she didn’t want to do anything like that with either Th’san around. It might give them ideas. 

She peered back at the house, petulantly thinking, ‘When was that visitor going to leave?’ It was one thing being captive, but quite another feeling captive. He made her feel her situation excruciatingly. The light was still on in the Master’s room. Zormna could still hear the hisses of their conversation, rising, lowering, clucking, and garbling with friendly cadence. She kicked the water again then withdrew her feet from the pond. The air was getting chilly against her wet skin, and she was honestly tired. The day here felt longer, more hours—or quite possibly it was simply due to the head implants making her head ache. Taking another look at the glowing doorway of the Master’s room, Zormna stood up and tugged down her skirts so they would cover what it could of her cold legs. If she had to be honest about the entire deal, captivity was boring.

Zormna stared into the darkness, pulling her arms into herself for warmth as she sat down against the wicker stool where her Master sat that morning. Gazing lazily at the garden wall covered in crawling vine and peculiar lilies for what seemed nearly an hour, her eyes got heavier and heavier until a sound in the thorn bushes startled her awake. She jerked upright before she could fall off the wicker stool.

Quickly looking toward the sound, Zormna rubbed her eyes and blinked. Out from the thorny vine section of the far garden wall, crawled a small furry creature with big eyes and large bare hands with six fingers on each wide hand. And right behind it came another and another and another—several of them, each about two to three feet tall. She could not see more than their glowing eyes and general shape in the shadows. And where had they come from? She could not exactly say except that their appearance now exposed a prospect of possible escape.

One stepped into the moonlight, followed by three others. They set their large eyes on her almost immediately. Their faces were covered in thick mottled hair, shortest around the eyes and mouth which smiled with a wide set of flat teeth. Their noses were small black pug things set in between their eyes but shaped like a baby’s, upturned and knobby. They had ears like dogs’ though, floppy when relaxed but then pert and turning like rabbit’s ears when disturbed. Their hands were much like human hands; tanned, calloused and stained with green as if they had been pulling weeds. Their feet were also these narrow doggish things with pads and paws with claws. To her eyes, they looked like a science experiment gone wrong.

As they came forward, walking upright much like a kangaroo did, hopping more than anything yet without a tail, Zormna noticed they wore rags tied about their waists. And clothes meant they were not mere animals. They were intelligent.

And they were clearly not Th’san.

Gazing at her, one of the creatures tilted its head like a curious cat did and muttered something like ‘Beeble’. Zormna didn’t move, watching them approach.

Their eyes regarded her critically and cautiously as one hopped nearer. It also said, “Beeble.”

Zormna blinked at it. They blinked their large watching eyes also, their lashes long fine things. A third joined them. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. It was a regular herd.

“Beeble?” one of the small furry creatures said again, approaching her carefully.

Zormna swallowed and leaned back from it. “How…?”

Jumping, it clapped its hands with delight. “Bee, bee bee!”

The others automatically joined in, leaping and laughing in their funny high-pitched way. The funny way almost made Zormna laugh, as they sounded peculiarly sentient. It wasn’t like dog barking or ape grunting. But then they swarmed around her, beebling and yipping excitedly, enough that she jumped up from where she was sitting with the inclination to flee. Yet instead of clawing her and biting her like those innocent-looking herd-like creatures going savage in all those bad sci-fi movies she had seen with Brian Henderson and his friends, these merely patted her with their oddly large hands. And looking into their doe eyes and at their flat teeth, hearing their childlike laughter as they patted her as a little child would to something it was exploring, her fear dropped away. This wasn’t a movie after all. In fact, examining their dull shovel-like fingernails and flat teeth through their grins, she could see they had just eaten some plants. The green was still stuck in their teeth like cooked spinach sometimes got when she ate it. Herbivores.

“Beeble!” One happily screeched.

Startled, Zormna laughed.

They jumped and cheered some more.

“Xus kk thuv’uss!” The Master’s voice briskly came from the doorway in a shout.

Recoiling, the Beebles immediately quieted down, scattering quickly into the plants. They left Zormna alone. She sadly watched them go about their business.

Her eyes went back to the vine wall where they had come from. That morning when she had been exploring, she had been near there among the thorns. It was likely they got in through the equivalent of a doggy door, camouflaged by the vine cover. And that meant a way out. She wondered if she ought to try it now, or wait for a better moment.

But the Master stepped out into the yard, calling for her to come inside. And that ended that thought.

Looking to the door, Zormna saw the visitor was still there. He stood in the doorway with his smug expression fixed on his face. Her glare resting on that other Th’san, Zormna huffed to herself over an opportunity lost. She headed back to the Master.

“Beeble!”

Zormna turned, looking down.

A small one of those furry creatures tugged on the hem of her dress, chewing the grass in its mouth as it lifted up a flower to her. It was a white lily with its end bitten off. Zormna glanced around the dark yard. The ‘Beebles’ had not gone, but were tending the garden, eating the long plants. One was washing the steppingstones with water taken from the pond. It was using its own clothes as a rag. These were the gardeners. They were why the garden was so clean. These were definitely not mere animals—because the garden was impeccable.

She took the flower, an upsurge of tears welling in her eyes. She choked out a “Thanks.”

“Zoamo,” the Master called again, urging her to come him.

The Beeble cringed as did she, both of them looking over to the giant beast whom they were in servitude to. The Beeble ducked away, hopping back to its herd.

 Zormna bowed her head and sighed once more, cradling the lily in her hand while trying not to cry, as these Th’sans were definitely beasts. But she walked directly to him as commanded.

As she approached, the visitor duck-laughed in his oily way. “So, human. Did you play in the dirt with the ground diggers?”

It took everything to withhold the snarl she felt toward the visitor, allowing the Master pick her up and carry her to the bath, where he set her down to wipe off her dirty feet. Her Master said nothing, glancing only at his visitor and gesturing while he cleaned her feet.

The smug guest’s smirk increased. Yet, he walked toward the opposite door which Zormna had decided was the house entrance. He said something in Th’san to the Master with a bow, possibly respectful parting words. Yet his eyes raked over Zormna with one more lecherous glance as he walked out of the room, the ripple of his gills freaking her out, as she realized that meant he was aroused. When she could no longer hear his foot falls, she closed her eyes and exhaled with relief that he was gone.

Her Master chuckled, finishing her feet—amused by the entire interaction.

As soon as her feet were clean, the Master took Zormna to bed. Or tried to. Just like the night before, the moment after he set her on the mattress, the moment he let go, Zormna fled off with a jump to the bench at the end of it.

He sat on the mattress, staring at her solidly. Rising, he shook his head and marched back to the bench, yanking her off. He set her back on the bed.

The second he let go, she was off again, this time on the opposite side of the bed as the Master. She didn’t care matter what he bought her for. She was not going to cooperate. Come pain. Come hell. She was not going to do what he wanted.

The Th’san dived after her—and she ran from him.

“Zoamo! Shuk!” He demanded.

Zormna shook her head. She half-feared that he would call in the servant and beat that woman until she submitted to him—because Zormna dreaded the possibility that she would have to make the decision between letting him harm someone else due to her insistence at retaining her personal physical integrity.

However, the Master didn’t call for the woman slave. He seemed determined to handle this himself. He chased after her—jumping over the bed to catch her. But Zormna leapt away then flipped back and aside like she would have in any combat situation, and he just couldn’t get hold of her.

“Zoama! Shuk!” He called after her, pointing to the ground where he was.

She shook her head, clenching her teeth and her fists, waiting for the wrestle or the pain.

He ran at her again, crossing the ground faster in one stride than she could on her tiny legs—cornering her against two walls. But that didn’t help him really. Zormna pushed off the walls and used him as a vault to flip over his head. His eyes and head tracked her as she made her arch over him and landed back in the center of the room. Almost in awe yet too frustrated to feel it completely, he shook his head at her.

But Zormna braced for another attack, feet spread with one foot ahead of the other and apart, hands into fists.

Taking in her fighting stance with his crocodilian eyes, the Master did not come at her this time—which showed he was wise. Instead, he continued to shake his head at her, walking over to his desk while muttering something to himself. Her eyes followed him carefully. She watched him pick up one of his computer pieces out of a drawer she had not been able to open. He lifted his gismo on the chain up to it. Zormna half expected her stomach to twist up in punishment for defying him, but it didn’t happen. Not even a little lurch. But he did do something to it. The Master merely glanced at her, satisfied yet sorrowful, and then he walked into the hallway closet to get his robe.

She doubted that he had given up. It was more likely he had merely changed tack. But what was his new plan? As a soldier, she knew he had to have some kind of contingency plan when his first attempts failed to get the result he wanted. And since she did not want him to succeed, that just meant she had to remain vigilant.

He undressed, pulled on his robe and strolled to his light switch to shut it off. She watched him climb onto his large bed where he laid down, leaving Zormna standing in the middle of the room. Watching her, he called once more, beckoning with his hands, but no longer ordering her.

Change of tack indeed.

Persuasion instead of commands? That didn’t quite feel right. And Zormna, of course, did not budge.

Eventually he put down his head on his pillow and closed his eyes for sleep. And that was it. He rolled over once, twitched once or twice, but he stayed where he was.

Walking slowly across the room to the bench at the end of the bed, Zormna climbed on it, still watching him. After sneaking one more look to make sure he would not come after her, Zormna snuggled down against the soft cushion, wishing for a blanket. But she still slept with one eye open.

“What’s wrong?” Alzdar Demmon asked, peering over his lunch at Jafarr who was rubbing his stomach, pushing away the soup he had been eating. They had arranged to meet at their favorite little restaurant in the Surface Gate, getting special permission for the President to go out without his usual ‘bodyguards’—as if bodyguards had ever been usual for him. What they got was permission for Jafarr to be with Alzdar with his security detail not standing so smotheringly close to him. They were no so much worried about his safety as him sneaking off, which bothered both friends.

“What isn’t wrong, Al?” Jafarr muttered, wincing once.

Alzdar frowned. “You need to eat.”

Jafarr glanced bitterly at his old friend, taking in the concern in Alzdar’s cool blue eyes which peered from under his sandy blonde hair. “What? Are you my father?”

Alzdar frowned still, making his usually serene expression turn irritated. “Your father would have wanted you to eat, and stop moping.”

Jafarr scowled at him.

Neither of them spoke for some time. The sound of friendly conversation at other tables in their favorite eating establishment seemed as subdued as both men felt. Perhaps it was because the loss of their queen hurt national morale. It was on all of their minds, and nothing seemed to replace it.

Jafarr kneaded his stomach again.

Letting out a sigh with a thinking glance at the ceiling, Alzdar strove for some way to reach Jafarr before the guy plummeted deeper into depression. He had been tasked, after all, to rescue his best friend for the sake of nation. Alzdar, of course said he would do it for the sake of his friend—forget the nation. He knew how much losing Zormna eviscerated Jafarr’s soul.

An idea came to him. His eyes brightened with a look to Jafarr. “Want to play a game of Pronuk? Get your mind off?”

Jafarr heavily shook his head. “Won’t do. Zormna and I played Pronuk together.” He put his head down on the table. In fact, he and Zormna had played it together whenever the both of them wanted to escape the stresses of their jobs. It only reminded him more of her and what he had failed to do.

Exhaling heavily, Alzdar shook his head. “Yeah, I forgot.”

The silence swallowed them again.

“Perhaps if we went to the museum—you know, get in some history?” Alzdar smiled hopefully. “You can quote the history book to me and sound like the curator.”

Jafarr kneaded his stomach again. “Zormna’s painting is there.”

Though it really was hard to get away from thinking about their queen, even a second, Alzdar hated this part of Jafarr’s personality. His friend rarely let go of a thing once his mind was set on it. And now that she was gone, Zormna Clendar seemed to be everywhere. Closing his eyes, cringing, Alzdar made one last suggestion. “We could go to the Kerzep Dance Hall. I don’t think you went there with her, did you?”

Jafarr looked up at him sharply. “Al, just forget it. Do I look like I feel like dancing?” Jafarr shook his head and placed it back on the table. “I lost her.”

The tall blond Arrassian sighed as he leaned nearer to his best friend. “They’ll find her. Alea Salvar is just as tenacious as you, and he—”

Jafarr picked up the bowl of soup and threw it. Chunks of bread and thick uneaten pieces in the gravy splattered all over the floor of the eatery and on several shocked individuals. “Forget Alea Salvar! If it weren’t for him, I’d be out there getting her out of that!”

All the chatter in the room went still. Besides his shouting, a number of the customers in that restaurant were Surface Patrol officers—not the fighting kind but administrative, yet Surface Patrol officers all the same. Hearing the Zeta district leader’s name slandered never went over well. But then they recognized Jafarr, seeing him looking wretched over the loss of their queen, and they half-forgave him. The other half of them wanted to shoot back a number of words which they felt he deserved.

Shuddering, Jafarr clenched his stomach, cringing in pain. “What’s wrong with me?”

Alzdar just stared. Honestly, he didn’t know. And he wasn’t sure what Jafarr was exactly asking either. Which part?

Zormna shuddered when she felt the touch of her Master’s hand against the small of her back. Her stomach clenched in pain as daylight streamed into the room. She had cramping in her stomach all night. Not the sharp twisting pain she had before, but a low ache as if she as a minor stomachache or unseasonable menstrual cramps. She could barely sleep through the night.

“Zoamo, shuk.” The Master peeled off his sleeping robe and walked naked to the bath. Still no sign of man parts, but then an alligator had no visible man parts either, and those creatures were huge.

She groaned and flopped back on the bench, whimpering into the velvet. Was this to be her life every day until her soldiers came for her? Was this his new tack to subdue her?

“Zoama.” Her Master’s warning came, his voice dipping low.

She didn’t wait for the third call. Zormna slid off the bench and walked to the large open bath.

Pain and Jealousy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven:

 

“When the belly with bad pains doth swell, it matters naught what else goes well.” –Sadi—

 

 

It seemed a right insult that time continue to move on for both Jafarr and Zormna. During the day, Jafarr was forced to keep busy with administrative details, always under guard. He always had a deep stomachache in the morning that went away only just after lunch. He didn’t sleep well, but he no longer heard Zormna crying… though, there were times near morning when he thought he heard her whimper and moan in pain. He could not quite make a mental connection with her stronger than that. His afternoons were dull, spending most of them listening to complaints as well as arguments over details about where to direct government money or what to do about political disputes among foreign emissaries.

By the third week, people from Earth were asking how the war was going, and they were asking Jafarr rather than the military leaders. He sat in the council office listening to the complaints from the Australian ambassador, but the man’s words seemed to be floating past his ears and hitting the wall. Jafarr grimaced once or twice during the conversation, though he cleared it off as if he were merely having indigestion. It was eleven twenty am.

“…And what of the ground troops we sent? Didn’t your commander Kevin say Aloea was under human hands again? Do they need Australian citizens now to fight your war? The planet is secure, isn’t it?” the nicely dressed man demanded with a proper, more British-like accent than the Australian cockney, glaring down on Jafarr who was many years younger than him. He gazed upon Jafarr with disdain as clearly, he thought Jafarr childishly inexperienced.

Jafarr pinched his forehead, enduring both the physical pain and the mental one. “Mr. Ambassador, as you said, the Kevin has spoken with you about this. Perhaps you should still speak to him. I have been kept out of this war for three weeks now. If I were in it, things would be different.”

“Are you, or are you not the president?” the ambassador said, talking down to Jafarr with a step closer to the desk than was comfortable for both Jafarr and his bodyguard. “The Commander in Chief? Hmm?”

Jafarr winced again. He rubbed his stomach and also put his hand on his forehead as a headache was coming. “Arrassian political structure is a little different than your political structure. Queen Zormna was Commander in Chief—”

“But you are the president. Isn’t that still second to her? Can’t you do something?” the Australian Ambassador impatiently demanded.

Jafarr shook his head. Sweat dripped down from his forehead. He wiped it off, his hands shaking. “No. The Kevin is next under her. I am only in charge of internal Arrassian politics. I tend to the people. Not outer wars.”

He cringed again, the pain getting stronger.

“President!” One of his bodyguards rushed over to him.

Jafarr had gone even paler than normal. Holding his stomach, he fell back into his chair painting. “They’re getting worse.”

The Australian ambassador got swept aside as the presidential bodyguards immediately gathered close to brace up Jafarr. Staggering back, first appalled then later more surprised, the ambassador watched them prop the Arrassian president to help him stand. He got out of their way. Together, the guards helped Jafarr walk out of the room, passing by all the others who had come to see him with the intent to complain. All eyes were on him when the guards eventually carried him out of the hall. Cursing to himself, the Australian ambassador muttered with a shaking head that President Jafarr didn’t look that bad when they started talking that morning.

 

“Are you feeling faint?” the doctor asked, pressing the cold scanner akin to a stethoscope against Jafarr’s bare stomach.

“No,” Jafarr murmured listlessly. “But my head hurts. I can’t focus.”

Jafarr’s friends, Alzdar along with Presidential Aide Eergvin Dolvar with Alea Arden and Seer Banden Asol, were standing against the walls as the doctor examined him. Their faces equally hung with looks of deep concern for their valued leader.

“Are you sleeping at all?” the doctor asked.

Jafarr shook his head. “Only during the early part of the night. In the later half near morning, the pains come and wake me up.”

“And when is that?” The doctor shifted the instrument and listened, twiddling a knob on the gauge attached to it.

Closing his eyes, Jafarr replied, “Around four, four fifteen.”

The doctor nodded and hmm’ed then moved the instrument again. “Breathe.”

Jafarr drew in a long breath and let it out.

“Again.”

He took another one, wearily peeking at Alzdar to gauge how worried his friend really was. Alzdar was leaning against a table, crossing his arms, with one hand pressed against mouth. His brows were knit together as he watched Jafarr. Eergvin was watching him in a similar manner, gnawing on his thumbnail.

“Are you seeing any visions?” Sir Banden asked.

The doctor shook his head. “That is irrelevant to—”

But Jafarr nodded.

Halting, the doctor looked up. He cricked his head a little and blinked his eyes at the seer record keeper first then at Jafarr. He slowly watched the expressions of all those that knew their young leader. Each one of them drew in knowing breaths. He listened, looking to Jafarr again.

“Sometimes early at night when I close my eyes,” Jafarr murmured, trying not to moan as his gut still ached.

Taking in a breath, Alzdar’s hand dropped, as his mouth opened.

Only a very few knew Jafarr was gifted with strong seer abilities. They had witnessed his gifts on various occasions, and each time his visions had significant meaning to his duty as the last Tarrn’s personal bodyguard, named in prophecy. But this wasn’t the first time they underestimated the importance of his prophesied position as the ‘Leader-of-Many’. He was, in fact, their only connection to their lost queen.

Eergvin took a step closer. “What do you see?”

Closing his eyes again, Jafarr tried to recall it, drawing up an image. “I see… a very different place than I expected she’d end up. I see two moons. I see an archway that opens into a garden, kind of like a Mediterranean stucco archway. Tile. A pond with lots of plants… It’s inside a beautiful garden—kind of like those Japanese gardens, only no wooden walkways. And there is this one big tree like a giant poinsettia.”

“Why would he dream about a garden?” Alea Arden whispered to the seer who shook his head. He glanced towards the other men who knew Jafarr better. Alzdar’s and Eergvin’s eyes watched Jafarr as they listened intently, leaning in and nodding—waiting for some important detail which Jafarr in all his natural genius would miraculously divulge that would save their queen.

“Is that where Zormna is?” Alzdar asked. “This garden?”

Alea Arden looked anxiously to him. “He can see where Zormna might be?”

The three others nodded.

Pulling back, the doctor stared at Jafarr, too stunned to voice his honest doubt. He and Alea Arden exchanged surprised glances as Jafarr lowered his head with tightly closed eyes, trying to view Zormna across space. So far, he could not see her specifically. It was more like he was seeing through her. But he wasn’t sure.  

“I don’t know if that is where Zormna is,” Jafarr murmured. “Possibly. I feel her, but…” Tears cracked from his eyes. He tried to fight them off, wiping them quickly away.

“But a garden…” Alzdar sighed with a shrug, trying to look on the bright side. “Well at least Zormna isn’t locked in a galley or one of those mines we’ve heard of. She should at least be happy—”

“She’s not happy, Al,” Jafarr retorted, looking to him. He grasped his sides with crossed arms. “She’s in a lot of pain. I think I’m feeling what she is feeling, and it is getting worse every time.”

Alzdar went ashen, cringing.

“Feeling her pain?” Eergvin murmured. That did not sound good to any of them…. Especially since secretly those that knew her best believed that Zormna had a high tolerance for pain. And though Alzdar and Eergvin knew Jafarr could handle a lot, Jafarr had had enough of his fair share of pain that neither of them thought it right that Jafarr had to endure more.

“Indigestion?” Alea Arden scratched his head, hoping that was all it was.

The doctor shook his head, finally able to give an educated opinion on the subject. “It is not indigestion, whatever it is.”

Jafarr rolled his eyes with a huff. “Not for me.” Then he stared at the floor. “But maybe not for her either. It lasts a little longer than eight hours each time.”

“A work shift?” Alzdar puzzled.

Meeting his gaze, Jafarr shot back, “Or how long a person sleeps.”

Alea Arden cringed. “Sleeps? But… she gets nightmares. Not stomach aches.”

“I know.” Jafarr nodded. He then shook his head, massaging his stomach. “The thing is, these pains are a lot like those first intense attacks I had at the beginning. They start in the same place at least. Some kind of torture… or punishment. It feels like punishment, though I don’t know why they last eight hours.”

“Coercion?” Alea Arden suggested with a shrug.

They looked to him. That was likely.

Jafarr nodded. “Maybe. But what for? I know Zormna is stubborn. But this is the wrong tack. The more painful it gets, I know the more she will fight. She’s dreadfully strong-willed.”

“Which is a good thing,” Alzdar said.

“Yeah…” Jafarr murmured, thinking on that. “Good.”

“It also lets you know she is alive.” Alzdar patted Jafarr on the shoulder.

“I would know if she were dead without seeing any visions.” Shaking his head, Jafarr slid off the table. The major pains had finally ceased. The doctor handed him his shirt with a brief glance at all scars which covered Jafarr’s back—proof he was no stranger to pain. Jafarr took his shirt and dressed, also grabbing his jacket.

But Alea Arden continued to shake his head while Jafarr prepared to leave. He looked up at Jafarr first then pinched the ridge between his eyebrows. “Sorry. Perhaps I missed this one. But how is it that he can feel her pain over billions of miles of space? How is it he can feel and see where she is at all? Even if he is half Seer Class—no Seer Class man that I know of can do that.”

Jafarr merely shrugged then jerked on his jacket, adjusting the collar once done. He didn’t want to get into it. He was too tired to explain things, even if he liked the head of Alpha district and was one of the few Surface Patrol officers he had friendly relations with.

Yet as Jafarr fastened the zipper together at the bottom, Sir Banden cast him a serious look then walked over to Alea Arden, tugging the Alpha district aside with a nod toward their young president. “You know that he is the Leader-of-Many that was prophesied to protect the last Tarrn. He has a connection with the queen that is unlike that of other seers.”

Jafarr was now pulling on his shoes, though still wincing from the lessening aches in his sides. He glanced up at the head record keeper, in his eyes, weariness.

Squinting, Alea Arden peered at Jafarr, trying to see it.

Jafarr only sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, clenching the mop of bangs with another wince of pain before letting go.

“How?” Arden asked with his usual skepticism. He was fond of Jafarr, but mostly saw the undercity rebel in him, fond of his Zeldar lineage. Seer dealings were not quite in his realm of expertise. Seers to him always were these mysterious recluses—but Jafarr was one of the people. When he noticed Sir Banden’s reproving glare, he added, “Ok, ok. I know the prophecy will be fulfilled and everything. And I know I don’t get the details—but I’m asking, how? How is it that he is so connected to her that he can feel how she feels? The only stories I know that are anything close to that are about mothers and their children far across the world, and those are eerie.”

“They are eerie, aren’t they,” Alzdar murmured, passing by to join Jafarr.

Eergvin stepped next to Alea Arden with a nod in agreement, lingering back. He had his own feelings on the subject, but he wanted to hear it from a true seer firsthand—especially from this generation’s record keeper.

Casting them both chastening looks, Sir Banden explained, “They are the same.”

Overhearing that, Jafarr flushed. He rose and headed to the door, leaving Alzdar—or trying to. He never liked being the center of a discussion while standing there. It made him feel like a scientific specimen. Besides, his connection with Zormna was even more personal than he dared admit—even to friends.

Alea Arden watched after him. “They aren’t of the same blood, are they?”

“Tarrns and Zeldars are related,” Eergvin murmured to himself as if considering it, though he gestured for Alzdar to hurry after Jafarr in case their president grew faint or had a cramp again.

Alzdar nodded with a sigh and headed toward the door, though he wasn’t sure Jafarr wanted him around at the moment. Jafarr looked like he wanted to be alone.

“There are other connections that bind people besides blood, Alea Arden.” Sir Banden followed Jafarr with his eyes as Alzdar reached him. Jafarr waved Al off, telling Alzdar he was fine as he briskly marched away. “More powerful too.”

Weary and worried, Alzdar sighed, but stepped back from the head seer. He turned with a look to Eergvin. Jafarr walked quickly into the hall, hurrying out their sight. Eergvin impatiently gestured for Alzdar to follow Jafarr anyway.

Throwing up his hands, Alzdar turned and dashed after his best friend.

“Connections,” Alea Arden muttered aloud as he watched the young men go, smirking. “I understand only a few connections. I’m an undercity man. I understand undercity men.”

Eergvin lifted his eyebrows with a look of light amusement. He followed Alzdar toward the door at a slower walk. The doctor was cleaning up the examination room, gesturing for them to leave also. He had other patients after all.

“I get you and Alzdar Demmon,” Alea Arden continued, strolling to the door. “And I understand Queen Zormna to some extent because of her Surface Patrol upbringing, but I just don’t get Jafarr Zeldar. I like him, but I don’t get him. Too much seer about him. No offense.” He looked to Sir Banden when he said that last part.

As they walked together out of the hall the Seer class man sighed, yet nodded at the head of Alpha district. Alea Arden was through and through an undercity soldier recruit with ambition as well as a good heart. He wasn’t the kind of man who meditated on spiritual things, though. He was more of a strategist as well as public relations kind of man… the sort that focused on human motive more than anything else. The higher realm of spirit, as the Seers called it, was a mystery to him.

Sir Banden replied solemnly, “That is one kind of connection, but even Seer Class men don’t completely understand President Jafarr. Too much undercity in him.”

That elicited a chuckle from the head of Alpha.

“But that is not the connection he and our queen have,” Sir Banden added as he walked through the door. He nodded to the doctor who was still putting away his instruments.

“Nah. It really isn’t, is it?” Eergvin nodded to the doctor also, joining Alea Arden next to a bulletin board which digitally displayed the first signs of the Arrassian bone disease in English for foreigners, giving precautionary instruction in multiple languages. The bare hall was mostly empty. Two nurses rushed past while on task, but that was it.

“But they are alike, aren’t they?” Alea Arden wondered out loud. “I see it in her. She’s always been… I don’t know how to describe it. It was like she had a second sense. She reacted faster than others as if she could predict outcomes. I don’t know, like… like there were times she could almost read what I was thinking. I think that is what gave her hand to hand combat an advantage. She could read her foe well. Jafarr is like that too.”

The others nodded in full agreement. Jafarr was indeed a lot like Zormna in many respects. In fact, at their core, they were essentially the same. They resonated with one another. They noticed it when a comment was made in a conversation, that they seemed to understand it with the same sense, and they often exchanged wordless looks, almost as private jokes. It was enviously beautiful at times—and in other moments, terrifying. Side by side, they were like two halves of a whole—which for some reason upset a lot of people within their society who desperately strove to keep them separate, while it made others invent romantic fantasies about them being together.

As the three men passed through the hall and down the elevator to the main floor, they found Alzdar standing at the front desk looking like someone had kicked him in the shins and run off with his shirt—a little embarrassed and annoyed. Jafarr’s guards were also there, communicating in their hand-held devices to keep a sharp eye out for the president who was ‘loose’.

Of course, Jafarr was gone. He had been trying to escape since he arrived on the planet, and he was one of the best escape artists they knew.

Alzdar turned when he heard their footsteps, mostly looking to Eergvin. “I’m sorry. I lost him. I guess he just wanted to be alone.”

“You lost him?” Eergvin groaned loud, glancing the room as if he could spot Jafarr actually hiding in a doorway, but he gave that up quick enough. He had a feeling Alzdar had purposely ‘lost’ Jafarr. He added it up all too well. The friends had schemed it so Jafarr could lose his security guards—probably so Jafarr could sneak back to the war, though it wouldn’t work. The entire Patrol was sealed off so that nothing could get into the docking bays—not even ex-rebel Jafarr Zeldar.

“You know he slips off quietly when he wants to,” Alzdar protested. It looked almost genuine. “He lost me. Ok?”

Eergvin said for the benefit of his frustrated guards, “Alzdar, I think we shouldn’t be leaving him alone. You need to be a better friend to him.”

Rising to his full height, Alzdar stared down on his elder. “Jafarr doesn’t like being hounded. Following him everywhere isn’t exactly going to help him much.” He shot a dirty look to the guards this time.

They cast one back at him.

“A president needs a bodyguard, though,” murmured Alea Arden, not quite picking up their other unspoken conversation. He wasn’t dense. He just didn’t think like they did.

“He is not in a good mental state right now,” Eergvin snapped at Alzdar with equal irritation, inclined to shove Alzdar out the door to find Jafarr at all costs—or least pretended to. “He lost Zormna. And you know that she means to him, even if he won’t admit it. I’m afraid he’ll do something drastic.”

“Jafarr is not like that, Eerg.” Alzdar moaned, wondering if there was a half-truth to Eergvin’s words.  

But he wasn’t the only one who latched onto what Eergvin had said. Alea Arden snatched a hold of Eergvin’s shirt, pulling him over. “What does she mean to him besides being the queen?”

For a moment Eergvin’s face froze in a laugh. It didn’t come out though. He just stared at Arden, blinking twice. “Do you have to ask?”

Alzdar even chuckled, averting his gaze, though he nudged Eergvin before he rushed off to ‘find’ Jafarr. Yet he paused, lingering.

Eergvin shook his head, yanking his shirt out of Alea Arden’s grip then gently pushed him away for some space. “Jafarr and Zormna spent a lot of time together on Partha. We’ve watched them.”

“Watched them do what?” Alea Arden asked, flustering.

Alzdar lifted a hand. “I’ve known Jafarr since we were kids. He was my best friend. We did everything together. We had no secrets.” Then he laughed. “But when he started to guard Zormna, to do his prophetic duty, it all changed.”

A shadow of confused jealousy passed over Alea Arden’s face as has eyes narrowed darkly. After all, he and Zormna were close comrades with a particularly special relationship of their own. But even he had felt a shift when Jafarr finally became friendly to Zormna Clendar rather than adversarial.

“I’m not jealous or anything,” Alzdar added, realizing that Alea Arden might not take the complete truth well, withholding some crucial details. “Jafarr always did things on his own. And I know what cause he has been doing it for and everything—but Zormna is his best friend now, and it has nothing to do with duty.” Alzdar looked at the floor. “It’s been this way for nearly three years. And I don’t regret it. I just….”

“You just miss him.” Alea Arden said, his expression lightening. He liked this narrative better than the one most people hinted at going on between Zormna and Jafarr. He patted Alzdar on the back. “Same here. I miss Zormna.”

They started walking again. Eergvin gave up trying to make Alzdar find Jafarr. He was probably long gone by then. Alzdar held his head down, cramming his hands into his pockets.

“Scrapes, I miss Alea Zormna,” Alea Arden repeated with emotion. “I remember when she first came to the Patrol. She was a cute but shy kid, you know? And way too smart for her own good. And then she grew up into a cocky smart aleck that kept getting into trouble. I was so proud of her when she made Alea.”

He gazed ahead dreamily then sighed.

“Then that little kid became a beautiful woman, and suddenly the Kevin decided to bust up our unspoken alliance and hide her away.” Alea Arden sighed once more, glancing once at Alzdar. “It has never been the same since.”

Eergvin smirked at Alzdar also. Alzdar exchanged a similar look with Eergvin, nodding. Their eyes shared a thought which Alea Arden noticed.

Alea Arden said, “Don’t you two assume that I don’t know what you are thinking. I’m not one of those smitten idiots who had fallen for her simply because of the way she looks. She was good friend, and she confided in me. And though she was Alea Salvar’s friend longer more than mine, she trusted me in a way that I could feel she valued my opinion. And, yeah… I admit it, liked her more the older and more mature she got. I mean what man would I be if I did not notice a drop-dead gorgeous woman who looked at me like that? What man isn’t attracted after seeing her?”

Alzdar chuckled, ducking his head down a little as he, like many, had crushed on Zormna a little. But he had always seen her as a ‘look but don’t touch’ kind of gal—mostly because she would have broken his wrist and thrown him if he had laid a finger on her. Yet, peeking at Arden, chuckled more he said, “I heard she had a crush on you once when she was just a cadet.”

Nodding slowly, Alea Arden seemed dazed as he recalled that. “She was just a kid then….”

Eergvin said, “But weren’t you on the suitor list for the queen?”

Ducking his head sheepishly, Alea Arden blushed with a shrug. “Brief insanity? I know. I know. I’m ten years her senior, but she is without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever known. And she’s smart. And at the time, eligible. Was it bad to try a possibility? I haven’t married yet, and we did get along so well—”

This time Alzdar laughed out loud. He wished Jafarr would think like that. Alea Arden had more guts in this situation… or rather, more realistically the head Alea had less opposition.

They stepped onto the open causeway, all three thinking about Arden’s last statement.

“She really is a beauty.” Eergvin agreed in a murmur. “If I knew I had a chance, that she might… you know—I’d try for it. But she’s… yeah. Not the romantic type. I think it would take an extraordinary man to win her heart—or some guy who could stand up to her and not get his butt kicked.”

Arden gave a small shrug with a smile. “I know a few who could do that… the last part. But, uh, I don’t think that would win her heart.”

Nodding, Alzdar agreed. Yet his smile slipped off, thinking back to Jafarr. His eyes lifted toward the sky panels as he began to worry again about the one person who really did understand Zormna, and whom he thought was her destined match.

“Jafarr is going out of his mind. I don’t think his stomach cramps are going to ease up at all either.” Alzdar closed his eyes, thinking hard on it. “If it is Zormna’s pain that he is really feeling, Jafarr is not going to get better. She’s been captive for more than a week—and something nasty is happening to her. And knowing Jafarr, he is not going to rest tonight or any night until he gets her back, regardless of the pain he may or may not be feeling.”

The other men looked at him, unable to answer.

“Problem is,” Alea Arden said, with a knowing look to them. “No one is going to let him leave Arras. I know he is trying to break out now. That’s why he ‘snuck off’. But he’ll be apprehended before he ever even gets to the docking bays, and they will take him back under house arrest.”

“Not without a fight,” Alzdar murmured.

“And your best solider, the only one who had ever been able to catch him,” Eergvin reminded, “Is currently the one in captivity whom he is looking for.”

“I know.” Alea Arden nodded, painfully chuckling. “But the Kevin gave orders for all solders to stun him on sight if they ever see him anywhere in the Patrol. And you should be aware that you going to the Surface Gate is borderline on that. Besides, all the outer doors are in lockdown mode.”

“You could let him out,” Alzdar suggested.

This time Alea Arden truly laughed, shaking his head. “No, I couldn’t. And he knows it. I would be court-martialed and branded a traitor to Arras if I did.”

“What about to the queen?” Eergvin asked.

Arden sighed. “Unfortunately, while our queen is gone, I answer to the Kevin.”

“No loyalty to the president then, I take it?” Eergvin said.

Arden met his gaze sharply. “Look. I feel bad for him. But his authority is only on Arras and for internal lawmaking—not over the military. And he is going to be stuck right here, whether we like it or not.”

Night was over. Presently, Zormna’s stomach pain ceased. She felt sore like she always did afterward, but the clenched knots in her muscles were made and she would have to knead them out with her knuckles for a while for them to completely go away. Since that second night when her master adjusted something on the machine, she had not slept well. Since it only happened at night, she assumed it was punishment for refusing to sleep in the bed with him.

But there were ways around the pain, ways to reduce its intensity. If she walked the floor and didn’t sleep, the pain was low and minor. But that meant she didn’t sleep except in naps during the day. At night, she often grew so exhausted that she fell asleep on the bench at the end of the bed when she couldn’t stand it. But then true pain set in. If she lay on the floor or out in the garden, the pain was horrible. She found this out the fourth night. If she lay on the bench, it was minor at first but then grew gradually as she slept until it left her insides aching horribly, forcing her to get up. The only place she felt no pain was when she leaned on the Master’s bed. Indeed, it was like a leash, tethering her to him.

Zormna slept on the bench. There was no way she was getting in that bed with that perverse beast.

Consequently, the Master made no more efforts to force her to sleep in the bed with him. However, every night he placed her on the bed with him reaffirming his expectations, and every night she would flee to the bench. It had become routine. But that morning, her insides twisted so much while she lay with stomach clenched, aching and trembling, that she wished he would just give up. The pain only really stopped when the Master picked her up.

Most other mornings, she jumped out of his arms like an uncooperative cat, but currently she was too weak to fight his huge arms and large hands. Too tired. He lifted her and carried her to the bathroom. He turned the taps himself, gathered a handful of warm water and splashed it on her. Zormna sputtered, spitting out the soapy water as she wriggled in his grasp.

Chuckling, he picked her up. He then unceremoniously dropped her into the large water-filled tub. With a foamy splash, Zormna soon surfaced, gasping for air in the swishing soap. The bath foam flooding over the edges like little tidal waves she would later have to mop up.

Zormna scowled at it and him, not appreciating the extra work.

The Master then stripped and climbed in with her.

Scrambling so she wouldn’t be sat on by a naked giant birdish man, Zormna fled to the side of the bath, clinging to the spout as the water dripped over her face. Her curls pulled down into her eyes, flattening against her skin in reddish gold streaks. The Master didn’t seem to care what he did around her, except to reinforce that he was the master and she his property. He handed her the scrub brush and commanded her to bathe him.

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you,” Zormna muttered, trying not to slip on the bath tile and drown. She tugged up her wet dress to cover herself as best as she could. It was always so slippery in there, with a danger of drowning.

She lifted the brush and soap bar, sloshing through the foam towards his back. She slipped once and fell right back into the water. With a gentle lift from his giant hand, she got up again, clinging to the soap while she braced herself against his back so she wouldn’t slip again. He gurgled to himself, enjoying that. It didn’t give her any pleasure hearing that gurgle most days. She didn’t want to get his hopes up that she was playing into his schemes.

She washed his back.

That was how the first wife saw them when she silently entered the room from the garden.

Zormna saw her first. The Master was too occupied with the fragrant soaps he was massaging into his feathers.

Elegantly dressed in a silk gown with a blue overdress this time, one which that would have made Hollywood red carpet starlets cry with envy, the hen carried an air of sensuality about her—most likely with the intent to draw her husband away from his new obsession for at least a moment, or longer. Her gown was incredibly evocative. In her feather crest, she had an arrangement of small, jeweled clips. Strings of precious stone hung from her lean neck. The hen cast a disdainful glance toward Zormna before she turned her attention on her husband, patiently waiting for him to become aware of her.

On the sight of the hen, Zormna lowered her brush and stopped scrubbing.

“Kusdoa!” the Master commanded the moment he felt the exfoliating stop. That meant wash.

Deciding not to upset him, she continued with her scrubbing, glancing apprehensively at the wife. That’s when he finally looked back.

Meeting the gaze of his wife, the Master perked up with mildly curious surprise. Apparently, this was not a common visit.

The two Th’sans went into a conversation, which with all its hissing, clucking, and chirruping in the bizarre gurgling way they had, Zormna felt like she was visiting a zoo. Only a few times did she comprehend a word—and it was a command from the Master to wash his head plumage and another to scrub his neck. Zormna obeyed, only insomuch that she was too tired to argue the point out that feather washing was usually his job. She had to sit on the rim of the bath to reach his head and ladle water with this scooper he usually used on himself. Eventually the head wife gestured at her using two fingers and flinging her hand, saying something garbled as she tugged on Zormna’s completely soaked dress.

Instinctively Zormna jerked back. But the Master waved the wife away in an irritated tone, hissing and clucking apologetically about… Zormna wasn’t sure what about. Was it his annoyance at the dresses getting treated poorly or something else? She didn’t care actually. She just wasn’t going to bathe naked with him.

The wife erupted into a duck laugh.

The sound caused Zormna to stop washing his neck and stare. On the hen’s face was such an amused and even an almost pleased smile at her husband’s property. Reaching out, the wife patted Zormna on her wet head as if to say ‘good girl’ to a dog.

The Master frowned at this—a bit like he was sulking. His clucking hiss chastised his wife for something. Zormna could only recognize the sentiment in the tone. However, the hen stood taller, too pleased to care. She clucked and nodded then promptly left the room the way she had come, her legs trotting away like a bird’s. Of course, when the hen was gone, the Master took hold of Zormna and peeled her dress straight off.

Zormna shrieked, clinging to the cloth to keep it on—but it was too late. He flung the thing out of the bath and far from her reach.

Diving under the water for cover, as the towel was not within reach, Zormna hid herself from him. That is until he ordered her to finish washing him.

Indignantly, Zormna resisted the urge to kick him—something to remove his now-pleased expression off his face. With a glare at the Master while covering herself with her arms, Zormna picked up the brush, slid past him under the water and went back to scrubbing his neck. Her skin shivered as his scaly skin touched hers when she needed to lean against him for balance. With him, she always felt just one step away from danger. And though that skimpy dress had hardly covered her as well as a bathing suit, she felt even more vulnerable without it.

Yet she vowed to drown him if he tried anything in the bath—damn the consequences. Prison was better than what could happen.

 

It was habit now for Zormna to wear his bed robe in the mornings after the bath. The Master apparently enjoyed that. She figured he was probably hoping she would associate his smell on the robes with security and intimacy—which she didn’t. She simply did not want to run around naked, and he would not give her a new dress until after the ritual floor scrubbing. It was annoying because his robes were way too big for her. She had to wrap them around her body and hitch them up to walk.

Thing was, she also got into the habit of taking naps on the Master’s bed after breakfast when he did his morning work and just before she had to clean the floor. Most mornings she was groggy.

When the cleaning horns rang, the Master claimed his robe and she had to grab the bath towel to wear as she cleaned the floor. Scrubbing this already clean floor was easy enough. It took very little effort. Zormna’s thoughts frequently wandered when she wiped the tile off. At times she nodded off during the cleaning and woke herself only to finish the floor and take her bath. She was wet nearly half the morning—another annoying thing. Zormna had once tried to skip the ritual bath, but when the Master saw her, he shook his head, grabbed her, and forcefully bathed her himself—an experience she was unable to escape and did not want to repeat.  

Staring at the floor under her this morning, Zormna closed her eyes and nodded. She was just so tired. No real sleep, but there was no way she was going to sleep in the Master’s bed that night either. No way, no matter how much pain he inflicted on her. She clenched her teeth.

The cleaning horn blew.

The floor was nearly done, and Zormna moved to finish scrubbing, but stopped at a set of large Th’san feet. She stared at them.

They were not her Master’s feet. These were a different, lighter shade of scales, with long narrow toes, decorative claws, and ankle jewelry. But Zormna then followed the tracks those feet made across her nice clean floor—and she was not done. The ritual called for the floor to be cleaned completely before anyone tread on it. If not, then it must be cleaned again.

Zormna stood up briskly, trembling with fury. Her eyes whipped up, taking in the haughty face of the third wife. The hen’s large glassy eyes glared venomously on Zormna as if she were the filthiest thing underfoot… along with a trace of jealousy. Bristling, Zormna struggled to contain herself while the hen waited for what her husband’s new acquisition would do. But birds did not get catty, Zormna reminded herself. They pecked you to death.

This wife had come in a fancy gown covered in shimmery beading and a plunging V neck that dipped so far below her cleavage where her navel would have been if she had one (No Th’san had one apparently as they were egg-hatched). Beaded silver and amber chains held the front from flying open entirely. Clearly that hen had come to entice the Master for some sort of intimate rendezvous also. Yet the wife waited, watching Zormna down her flat nose to see how Zormna would react.

Thing was, had Zormna been Home and not restrained by those implants… well, Zormna had never put up with harassment as a child. So, she had to fight down all her natural reflexes to clobber this nasty bird. It helped to remind herself that it was never worth the hassle to deal with jealous females…

Turning, Zormna walked back to the bath area to gather more water for the floor. She filled the bucket again and added the soap. It was as heavy as before. And as tired as she already was, Zormna heaved the bucket back to the first place she started scrubbing. On her hands and knees, she began to clean the floor once again.

Smugly, the hen huffed with a hiss, haughtily tramping out to the garden.

Zormna shook her head as she wiped the floor. It was just more garbage that she had to endure. Catty—or in this case hen-pecking—squabbles were just par the course.

She was nearly done a half an hour later. Nearly—but then that same hen tramped across the floor with a haughty laugh, purposely tracking in dirt from the garden as she passed through to the servants’ hall where she had first come from.

Anger surged though Zormna. Twisting the rag in her hands, imagining it was that hen’s neck, Zormna chucked it to the floor and stomped her foot. She wanted to curse.

Tromping back to the bathing area, Zormna dragged her bucket to the spout and refilled it again. By this time, she was stewing inside with all the curses she wanted to shout at that flashy, prissy, bird-fish-lizard-whatever woman who chose to pick on her rather than take the stupid issue up with her philandering husband in the first place. It wasn’t like she wanted to be there! Oh! She wanted to scream it out. But instead, she groaned, keeping it behind her closed lips. It wasn’t that she cared about the Th’sans’ religious rituals—but she could feel the Master watching her from the garden doorway and she just didn’t know if she could bear more stomach pain. What she didn’t see was how amused he was at how well she kept to her task, while also how she wrung the rag more violently with clenched jaws.

It took fifteen minutes for Zormna to complete the entire floor, another three to fill the tub sufficiently to climb into. Tossing the towel to the nearby steps, Zormna dropped under the warm water, scrubbing off the floor muck and soap. Enjoying the heat of the water, she relaxed, closing her eyes. With her hands, she massaged her sore muscles, especially her palms.

Something heavy shoved her head under the water. Barely enough breath in her, Zormna tore at the side of the tin bath, ducking out from under the clawed hand as it attempted to wrap around her hair to keep her under. It would not let go. Digging in with her fingernails, Zormna bit down hard on a finger.

The hand ripped out of the water, releasing her. Just as she fought to get her head above water for air, an oily sort of goop fell on top of her head. Spluttering, pulling up on the metal sides of the tub, Zormna wiped her hand over her face to clear her mouth for breathing as she gasped. It felt sticky, clinging in strings from her skin and hair to her hand. It was almost impossible to wipe it out of her eyes so she could see, but it reeked, sending strong fumes up her nostrils. Thinning the goop with the water from the other side of the bath, she finally managed to open an eye to see. Her hands and arms were covered in black much like thick ink or tar, though it smelled a little like molasses mixed in rubbing alcohol. And through the hollow wet sound in her ears covered in this slime, an amused chirrup mixed with duck laughter echoed over her head. The sound drew her eyes upward.

The third wife laughed stood haughtily over her. Cupped in one of her large bejeweled claws was a small dark bottle. One of the fingers on her other hand was bleeding with human teeth marks. 

“That’s it!” Zormna sprang out of bath, pouncing up on the hen’s chest. Her goop-covered hands seized tufts of the fancied-up feathers, pulling them out of the woman’s head.

The hen squawked. 

“Zoama!” the Master shouted rushing in.

But Zormna had already dug her fingers into the hen’s scalp. With a leap over the giant creature’s shoulders, still holding on while propelling her weight, she threw the enormous hen to the floor. Spinning around to crush the hen’s throat into the ground with her heel, Zormna swung up her leg.

Her stomach lurched with stabbing pain before she could bring her leg down. Zormna dropped backward, clutching her stomach while falling to her knees as the pain twisted tighter than she had felt in weeks.

The Master tromped to them like a Jurassic dinosaur on the hunt, hissing something as his third wife gibbered and shrieked on the ground, trying to collect herself with even more hurts than just a bite. She was blubbering as she climbed off the floor. Her sobs from the horror of the attack rose as she shook off the black goo that had transferred from Zormna to her. The black stain from Zormna’s imprint was now all over her, the ground itself like a huge Rorschach ink blot. The Master seized Zormna by her sticky, blackened hair, and pulled her far from his wife.

Then the pain stopped.

Panting, Zormna could still hear the hen’s bird-like shrieks through her ringing ears. After checking over his wife for more severe damage than a bumped head and a human bite, the Master gingerly lifted Zormna with at least amount of touching and carried her into the garden as a cartoon caveman would have his catch. With a fling, he tossed her into the pond.

The water was sharp when she struck it. Cold. Submerging her once more where she could not breathe. Zormna clawed her way to the surface. With a gasp, coughing up water, Zormna pawed her way to the shallow rocks at the pond edge where she leaned against the stones, gasping. The oily black stuff was nearly gone, washed away among the pond algae so at least now she could see—but what she did see was the Master wiping his black stained hands on the towel, shaking his L gesture at the third wife who had followed him out into the yard with an irritated hiss. He then pointed at the black-stained floor inside.

Zormna moaned. Smear marks covered half of it. “My floor.”

She sunk back into the pond with a sob.

The Master went back into the house and did not return to the garden until the third wife had gone. With such deep disapproval in his crocodilian eyes, he halted at the edge of the pond where he glowered down on Zormna. He garbled out some sort of sharp chastisement, which of course she understood only the tone of it. He was angry with her. What she had done was unacceptable. She treaded water under the lilies to cover herself,f as the tone of his hisses and clucks savagely clawed into her ears. But then he briskly turned and walked back towards his room, carefully stepping over and around the black stains on the floor. Zormna waited to see if he would come back with another towel, but of course he didn’t. She had just attacked his wife. It was surprising that he had not left that pain inducing machine on longer.

Yet her eyes trailed to the floor again. Cringing, knowing she would have to still clean up the floor after all that, Zormna eventually crawled out of the pool. She squeezed out her pond scummy hair into the plants, shaking off the greenish damp that now covered her skin, then crept carefully over the washed stones to the door, peering around to make sure he wasn’t there, as she was naked and mortified enough.

The room was thankfully empty.

It was not the first time her Master had gone for a long period of time in the day, and Zormna hoped it was one of those occasions because she didn’t want him to walk in on her in such a state. Glancing at the black splotches on the floor then at the tub, she scowled. It would be more just to make that stupid hen clean it up; but Zormna shot that thought out of her head immediately, as it would also be more just to never own a slave in the first place. And the job would still have to be done, or a servant would be beaten in her place. Zormna knew it. So, heaving up the bucket, Zormna took it again to the bath spigot and filled it with water to clean the floor once again. She quickly rinsed off her skin and hair when done. And as soon as she could dress, she did—taking the one available gown from the only drawer that would open for her.

The Master did not return until late for dinner. Lunch had not been delivered—which Zormna really didn’t eat anyway—and Zormna had spent the entire day alone. Of course, she didn’t mind it in the least, because she could take advantage of the bed without being interrupted. As for punishment, as he went to bed without speaking to her, Zormna realized that his absence and lack of lunch had been the punishment. She decided not to let him know it was more of a reward.

 

Days soon went by fast, faster than Zormna wanted them to because it meant her people still had not found her. She still didn’t sleep. The Master had somehow seen to that. Also, the third wife didn’t come into the Master’s chambers anymore. Perhaps she had learned that dangerous pets could bite.

However, one night the Master did not sleep in his own chambers, but left after dinner, leaving Zormna alone. Zormna had waited for him to return, thinking that possibly it was another kind of trick to get her to sleep in his bed, but he didn’t come back the entire night. She did not see him until morning when he arrived to wake her for his bath. The Th’san appeared refreshed and chipper, and unusually energetic. Zormna guessed then that he had spent the evening with his wives—which honestly was more fitting than him waiting for her to fall in bed with him.

Of course, their bath that morning was the usual fiasco. And that day, he went outside the home to work. He left Zormna alone in the room the rest of the day, perhaps an extension of her ‘punishment’, though Zormna didn’t care. His times away from her also answered a question she had about his machine and the pain she was experiencing. It had nothing to do with his proximity and everything to do with her choice in sleeping location. So, she wasn’t so much tethered to him, but to the bed itself.

He returned for dinner, and that night he slept in his usual bed and she on her bench—or at least she tried to. The pain had grown worse each successive night. Usually, she curled herself into a ball on the soft velvet and wept, unable to sleep, but this night her groans had woken the Master and made him get up. He came over and picked her off the bench.

The second he lifted her in his arms, came instant relief.

Zormna would have snuggled against his chest had she not quickly come to her senses. Out of her grogginess, she scrambled to get out of his arms, dropping to the floor.

His glassy green eyes watched her as she fled him.

Standing with trembling legs on the floor, her fists clenched as she waited to fight him off, she shuddered in the chilly light of the double moons.

With such heavy dismay, he heaved a deep gurgling breath and turned once more back toward his large, entirely comfortable-looking bed, climbing onto it. He laid down again, returning to sleep.

Zormna whimpered, standing there as she watched him. She loosened her fists.

But she could not give in, no matter what.

Miserably, she staggered back across the floor to the bench and climbed back on it, shuddering wretchedly as she rolled into a tight ball once more.

His ‘escape attempts’ had never been what his watchers assumed. Jafarr had added it up better than they had longer before they did. There was no point escaping into space to find their queen if he was regularly incapacitated with stomach cramps—and escaping without supplies or a star map was even more foolish. Instead, he had been escaping for solitude while packing for his eventual return to the war. All he had to do was get his vice president, Orrlar Aflov, to declare he was unfit for office and have Orrlar take over as president. Unfortunately, Orrlar was a difficult man to convince, as he believed that duty would bind Jafarr to Arras, and all his advisors liked keeping him in the presidential position as a figurehead. Jafarr was disappointed that Orrlar didn’t know him as well as he had previously thought. The man actually thought he could control him.

Currently Jafarr was curled into a ball, shuddering and shivering in his apartment even though the room was warm. The doctor was there with Alzdar and Alzdar’s father Larran Demmon. 

“He’s getting worse.” Shaking his head, the doctor handed Alzdar a bottle of something. “Make him drink this. It doesn’t taste good, but it will prevent ulcers from forming inside his stomach.”

Alzdar nodded, receiving the medication on behalf of Jafarr.

The doctor departed soon after, closing the door behind him as it was late and he was tired.

Alzdar and Mr. Demmon gazed down on Jafarr who still groaned, holding to the sides of his stomach across his pajamas.

“You heard him, Jafarr?” Alzdar asked. He was there because Orrlar had ordered him to keep an eye on his friend. His father was there because Orrlar didn’t entirely trust Alzdar not to sneak Jafarr out to the undercity.

Jafarr nodded, looking up from his bed and trying to grin. “Yeah. Tastes bad.”

Alzdar laughed weakly, struggling to keep in good humor for Jafarr’s sake. But then he came closer. “It will end soon, right?”

Moaning, Jafarr shook his head. He panted as he answered. “Not until eleven.”

“Ok.” Alzdar set the bottle next to the bed.

“Al?” Jafarr called up, wincing.

Leaning close, Alzdar said, “I haven’t gone.”

Jafarr gasped then nodded. “Do you think…?” Another spasm of pain whipped through him. When it subsided, he chuckled out, “Do you think Zormna has a high tolerance for pain?”

For a second Alzdar just stared at him. He then sat on the floor, laughing with tears next to Jafarr’s bed, nodding heavily. “I don’t know. Probably.”

“I think she does.” Jafarr then cringed, breathing hard with clenched teeth. “Zormna’s willfulness…” He laughed. “I can feel it. She’s choosing to hurt.”

Alzdar closed his eyes. It pained him to see Jafarr like this. He knew Jafarr was trying not to cry.

Jafarr said. “If only I didn’t have to feel it too.”

Mr. Demmon glanced to his son who lifted his eyes to him, exchanging looks.

Jafarr winced with a grimace again. “Don’t worry. I’ve had worse.”

Lifting his eyebrows, Alzdar glanced once more to his father. The worst they knew Jafarr had gone through was having the most of the skin on his back seared off with a hot stick during a heavy beating in prison. Jafarr had some cracked ribs from that experience, as well as severe third-degree burns. If he was making that comparison, they wondered how bad it really was. Because back then, it had nearly killed him.

Meetings

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight:

 

“The greater part of fatigue from which we suffer is of mental origin;

in fact exhaustion of purely physical origin is rare.”

—J.A. Hadfield (psychiatrist)—

 

 

 

 

On a morning not longer than a month from her capture, Zormna ached all over as her monthly menstrual cycle had also kicked in, delayed after so much stress.

The Master was not happy when he saw blood dripping down her leg onto the nice clean floor. The stain in her clothes offended him. The stain on the bench offended him. All of this because Th’sans did not wear underwear and apparently their women did not deal with a monthly blood flow. She wondered what they did deal with. Did they lay eggs like chickens?

He carried her at arm’s length and forced her onto the toilet to wash it all out—but it kept coming despite his measures. He shouted at her, telling her to stop it. Yet gazing wanly at him, Zormna sighed. He just didn’t understand that humans didn’t work that way, and Zormna could not explain it to him. Eventually, he sent for one of the servants to deal with her, to reason with her defiance.

Hardly amused when they arrived, listening to him shout at them for bleeding without permission—as if she were purposely peeing everywhere—Zormna gazed wanly at them as an understanding passed between her and his Aloean slaves. They sighed. Under his disapproving glares, with patient humility, once they heard the entire problem, they asked for permission to go back to their quarters to get something for his new acquisition. When they returned, they brought a pair of diaper-like rags for Zormna to wear.

The Master stared as they held them up and explained the menstrual cycle to him. His reptilian eyes went wide. Looking like a scared yet fascinated little boy, he listened about the human phenomenon. Again, he didn’t understand why Zormna could not hold it in like she did with the rest of her bodily fluids, but they assured him that it was simply something she had no control over and only had to be cleaned up and disposed of.

Zormna was grateful for the rags. She thanked the women profusely for them. When they left his chambers, the Master just stared at her like she had kept an appalling secret from him. He was disgusted. In fact, he became physically ill when he watched Zormna clean the first saturated crimson rag out then hang on a tree branch outside to dry in the sun Luckily, the servants had provided her with a few to change into. And when she went to sleep on the bench with a mildly damp, yet clean one, she could not tell if her increasing cramps were menstrual or from the machine.

The pain from the machine was also getting worse. Each night Zormna spent in agony and each morning she had less and less energy. But it was not the Master who woke her the next morning. It was the first wife.  

The first wife was gazing at her sleeping there with an increased sense of smug pity, though she nudged Zormna with the sharpened claw of her long forefinger. Zormna jerked up, startled to see this huge hen’s large glassy eyes staring at her. Yet without taking offense in the slightest, the hen merely lifted Zormna’s chin and hissed a remark to her husband, who in turn climbed out of bed as he hissed and clucked something back which sounded disgruntled. He then stripped for his bath.

Zormna moaned when she saw him, knowing what she had to do, and fell back against the bench.

Enjoying her reaction, the hen emitted a dignified goose-laugh, brushing Zormna’s hair from her face. Defiant pride even lifted the woman’s chin—proud of Zormna, though, which was new.

“Zoamo, shuk!” the Master called, peevishly

Zormna slid off the bench with yet another moan. It was another horrible day. She just hoped her menstrual fluid would not make the bathwater pink, or he would freak out again. The Th’san just did not handle blood well.

She didn’t get very far, though. The first wife grabbed hold of her arm, rather gently for a Th’san, and dragged her back. Unable to go further, Zormna turned to look at her. When the hen let go, she lifted up something she had brought. It was small, a little dingy with stripes and old Th’san patterns on them that reminded Zormna of snails and curly snakes. It was made of towel cloth. It was strange whatever it was. Yet the wife was clucking in an amused way when she watched Zormna’s puzzled expression. She held it up to Zormna’s body then handed it to her.

Zormna’s eyes widened. It was a bathing suit—literally for bathing. Lifting her eyes to the hen, she gazed up with a grateful smile. She would have hugged her, but somehow, she knew that to embrace a human was below the Th’san’s dignity and she didn’t want to press the issue—so Zormna settled for a polite bow. “Thank you.”

The first wife lifted her chin and smiled. She then nodded smugly at her husband, who yelled again, “Zoamo! Shuk!”

And shuk, Zormna did, but not after a visit to the toilet, then taking off her silky gown behind the bed where he couldn’t see her while she dressed in the simply made bathing suit the Master’s wife had provided for her. Perhaps it was Zormna’s insistence on keeping dressed that had impressed the hen. Or that she was refusing to sleep with him that did it. Either that or it was the wife’s way at getting back at her husband for acquiring a lap girl in the first place. Helping the lap girl defy him was the best revenge.

The Master rolled his eyes when he saw Zormna in her new suit and muttered to himself when he realized the gift his wife gave. However, Zormna was perfectly happy—at least for that second.

 

After lunch, the Master changed from his regular attire into a special robe Zormna had not seen before. Most of the Master’s clothes were kept in a drawer under the bed which she had been unable to open. Only the long stuff was in the hall closet. He had several and none wrinkled. Like many of the other outfits he had, this suit coat had jewels sewn into it, but this one also had shiny coins dangling from it. Perched on his bed, Zormna watched him preen his feathers with an ivory comb then peer into a small mirror to vainly check his scaly skin for blemishes. As he did this, she settled more on the bed for a nap as she had become accustomed—which was fine since he usually sat on the bench to do his work giving them plenty of space apart.

He glanced at her, smirking as Zormna drifted between sleep and awake. He always did that. Zormna kept an eye on him also. It was best to know where he was so she could see him coming in case he chose that moment to finally assault her. That’s what Zormna told herself anyway. Sometimes she nodded off on the bed in the daytime, and he let her. He seemed to like to see her sleeping there—there and only there.

At around one o’clock—though Zormna really didn’t know what time it was anymore—a sweet, high owl hooting sort of sound echoed from the foyer. She leaned up from the pillow where she lay, somehow having fallen asleep while watching the Master touch up with some cream on his face, and peered over to the doorway, trembling with an increasing fear that their loathsome visitor had come back.

The guest entered.

It wasn’t him. Standing in the doorway, shaking hands and pecking the Master on the cheek, was a peculiar looking humanoid creature of a kind she had seen maybe twice before. It was one of those yellow chicken-like Th’sans. It had a bald head and a draping reddish comb and waddle. He wore billowing butter-white robes, no doubt meant to show off his wealth. On his face was a wide grin that gurgled with a laugh. Standing behind him were two Aloean women. The women stood tall and busty in gowns fit for Vegas show girls preparing for a serious striptease. Their light orangish skin and rich, rolling brown hair offset the color of their garish bejeweled and feathery clothes.

Zormna swallowed, withdrawing in a stare from them. These were the first lap girls she had seen in real life. The visitor had brought them with him, and the impression they gave made Zormna cringe within. Their gaze was on their owner and only him, as if he were the center of their universe. That gave Zormna the creeps. Worse, their Vegas-level gowns of fine sheer silks, flowing sheer skirts that bustled out the back with jewels and chains of gold and silver were shaped just-so that any male would be able to freely ogle the curves and contours of their body with very little interference. Most of it was see-through anyway. Ribbons tied back part of their wavy hair along with jeweled nets, as it flowed down their backs. They were eye-candy.

Her Master motioned for his guest and pets to come inside. Recoiling on the Master’s bed, Zormna watched while the stranger’s eyes gaze familiarly on the room until they fell directly on her, her Master’s new acquisition.

“Ah!” the visitor said rather like a human in Aloean, “Yous have a gel!”

Zormna blinked and shrank back more, slipping off the bed to the other side while the Th’san approached. The visitor was amused as he watched her retreat. He then cooed to her as if he could call her over to him like an animal.

Her Master immediately gave the shaking L-hand ‘no’ gesture and warned the visitor away from Zormna with a trail of tense words. The waddle-faced Th’san looked taken aback as he listened. Then he pulled back his hand from Zormna as if she were a Doberman pincer and he had only just noticed. He frowned with a sigh, waving one hand toward his girls who were now staring at Zormna with wide eyes and fluttering glances. Their faces were flushed with either excitement or curiosity, but not fear.

Zormna’s Master nodded and cocked his head with a shrug, hissing and clucking while, flicking his hands towards the girls that came with his friend. With those words, the fancy dressed visitor immediately looked relieved. He then flicked his hands towards his girls, talking to them.

They bowed, giggled then skipped as they fled to the garden.

Zormna’s master also nodded to her, turning from his friend. “Xus.”

Zormna knew that meant go, and she was glad to, except she felt sorry she couldn’t finish her nap.

Taking her own sweet time, Zormna strolled to the back archway. The visitor quite happily watched, with her Master still giving her looks for her to leave. She did. Turning, Zormna stepped into the garden, being careful to walk on the clean stones. It had become a newly formed habit to keep her feet clean as much as possible. She was tired of washing her feet every time she went out into the garden, in spite of her frequent enjoyable visits with the Beebles. They weren’t out now though, and it was just her.

Hearing the light giggles of female humans, she looked up and grimaced.

The two women slaves blinked at her when she crossed into the garden. One of them laughed with delight, clapping her hands like a schoolgirl in a mocking cheer. “The mistress has come!”

Zormna blushed with a shudder. Shaking her head, she strode off the rocks toward the pond, replying in her long unused Aloean, “I am no mistress.”

The other lap girl laughed, kicking her feet in the pond to splash the water. She hiked up her skirts to show off the full length of her slender orange legs. Zormna scowled at her shamelessly giddy behavior. But her dark looks made no dent in the woman.

“We know who you are!” the second lap girl said.

Zormna shuddered again with a cringing glance at that woman. Girls like this always annoyed her. Besides, would this Aloean actually know who she was? “Who?”

The woman giggled as she splashed more water. “The most wanted human lap girl since this side of Morning Festival. All the men that come to our lord’s house talk about you.”

Blinking, Zormna leaned back. “Lord?”

The women giggled. Zormna wished with pain that she would stop.

“Our lord.” The second lap girl said. “His holy born name is Lord Governor Voaszz Xuthoazz’th.”

Zormna blinked again when she said the name. And she wondered. “Can you two speak Th’san?”

The women giggled again, flashing their hair and their jewels and their cleavage as if it ought to matter to Zormna. It really was a sickening display. It was as if they thought their owner was watching them show off his gifts to them for their ‘service’.

The first lap girl nodded. “I can—a little. We understand more than we can speak. You will too when you are all trained. Then you will be initiated and accepted. You are young yet, and he may give you time until you are fully grown to accept you into the service. Your master has always seemed a decent Th’sang.”

She seemed to be the smarter one. Slower of speech, maybe. But over the years, Zormna had learned to value those who withheld prattle.

The second lap girl giggled more. She also seemed to enjoy flashing her jewels—and her breasts. She was a little too proud of them actually. Zormna felt like gagging.

The first lap girl sidled closer to Zormna and stroked her hair, drawing her fingers inside Zormna’s curls. “How does your hair do this? How did it get so colorful?”

Zormna pulled away. “I was born that way. How did your eyes get so purple?” she added sarcastically.

The lap girl shrugged. “I was about to say that about your eyes.” She leaned close. “The masters love green eyes. They prize it in their own wives. He must adore your eyes.”

Not what Zormna wanted to hear. She felt nauseous and averted her eyes to the ground. “Just great.”

The woman nodded happily. “You are lucky if you are naturally born that way. But what is the matter with your skin? Why are you so white?”

Looking back in a stare, Zormna nearly laughed. It came out automatically, sounding just like Niilwa. “You don’t know?”

That lap girl frowned. Retreating from her, finally understanding Zormna’s regard for her as an idiot, she muttered, “Untrained lap girls are always mean.”

Withdrawing farther, she dropped on the edge of the pond in what looked almost like a pout, only it seemed more real.

Shame washed over Zormna. She had been cruel. She ought not to blame those girls raised in that dreadful situation. They had no control over it. Wading over to her, Zormna sighed apologetically, angling her head to peer into the woman’s face. “Hey… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way.”

The girl wiped her eyes, averting her gaze.

“Have you been captive all your life?” Zormna asked, trying to mend things. It really was thoughtless of her to forget she had come to free people like this, not to torment them.

Lifting her damp eyes, the lap girl looked up and nodded. “Yes. I don’t remember anything else.”

Aghast, Zormna murmured, “Not anything? Not even your parents?”

The other lap girl had gotten bored when no one was paying attention to her. No longer laughing, she now leaned over to hear their conversation.

The first lap girl shook her head at Zormna. “No.” A tear almost formed, but she smiled and blinked it away. “But my job is to please our lord and no one else. I am too old for parents. Who remembers them? I was purchased long ago.”

Hearing that, Zormna cringed. Purchased long ago… It was sickening. She could also see what the woman would not admit—lap girls were not allowed to look unhappy, even if she felt it. It admitted to an open comprehension that their situation was wrong, which Zormna understood probably would have gotten her punished. She knew well enough now that the Th’sans believed it was their right to do whatever they pleased to all those people who were beneath them. Yet gazing at the girl, Zormna could see they had no implants in their skulls, and no shock collars around their necks. She wondered how ordinary lap girls were punished when they did not please their owners. Were they beaten where bruises could not be seen? She had barely any hidden flesh, so that was not likely.

Sighing, Zormna stood up to her full, yet short height. She extended her hand to the woman. The woman didn’t know what to do with it, but Zormna half expected that, as it was Earth custom. Zormna took the lap girl’s hand in a tender grip then clasped it with her other hand.

“My name is Zormna Clendar, and I am an Arrassian. My people are all as pale and fair as I. And I also was separated from my parents when I very young. But I am here to—” She stiffened, realizing that she could not finish the statement which she had so boldly told others before and during the war—that she was the prophesied savior of her people. Of their people, really. She knew now that the Aloeans were included in that prophecy. They were her responsibility. She had to free them. And yet, looking about herself, she was just as helpless. What hope could she give them?

Zormna sighed and shook her head, resolving not to give up. “Hope is coming. You don’t have to be a lap girl forever.”

The woman’s reaction surprised Zormna. Tears quickly formed in the woman’s eyes. She blinked at Zormna then burst into tears.

Immediately, the other woman panicked. Hissing with terror at her companion, she snapped, “Clean your face before your eyes go ugly and puffy! Our lord must not see you like this!”

Dropping Zormna’s hands as if they were covered in infectious boils, the first woman plunged her hands into the pond to scoop up some water. She used it to thoroughly wash her face.

Zormna stepped back.

Brainwashed, the pair of them.

Groaning at their stupidity, Zormna shook her head. She had had enough. She turned to climb the tree—anything to leave the silly duo. Lap girls were just so….

The second lap girl followed her, stamping angrily after her with hisses at Zormna. “How dare you make her cry! The lord won’t like that at all. She’ll get all splotchy and ugly, and he won’t like that at all.”

“Heaven forbid that should happen,” Zormna said before heaving herself up into the branches

The lap girl scowled, wagging a finger at her. “I know you. I know you.”

Zormna climbed even higher, pulling on her skirt when it snagged on a branch so it wouldn’t tear.

The woman followed her up, though not far, savaging biting out every word. “You are wicked. You are a bad girl. I heard about you. You hurt a master!”

Halting, Zormna turned round and dropped back out of the tree.

The woman stumbled back, startled, though the condemnation in her eyes had not gone.

“Oh, I’ve done more than hurt a Th’san,” Zormna said, planting her feet firmly in the ground. “I’ve killed hundreds in battle. I started the war against them. And they will regret ever taking me into captivity. When I’m done, there won’t be any masters or slaves.”

That lap girl’s eyes quickly widened, clutching the tree behind her. With a loud screech, she scrambled away from Zormna as one would a wildcat chasing after her. She went straight back into the Master’s room. Zormna could hear her wails as she made weird Th’sanish protests combined with noises that might have been Aloean. The wench was probably hiding behind the ruffles and flounces in her owner’s fancy gown—but Zormna didn’t care to look. She just returned to the tree and climbed up the branches again. She didn’t have to deal with stupid people while in the tree.

After several minutes, the Master walked out into the yard, shaking his hand at her with the L-formed fingers. She knew he was irritated with her. He called for her to climb down, saying “Shuk.”

Peevishly, Zormna wished to drop out of the tree, but she descended slowly until she was on the ground again. Then she slowly walked up to where he stood on the paving stone. The other waddle-faced Th’san stared at her like she was a naughty dog who had nipped after his kitty. His lap girl clutched the fabric of his waist, hiding behind him exactly as Zormna had imagined.

Gazing politely up at her Master (something she probably would have done to Mr. McLenna back when he lectured her about her sneaking off with Jafarr to Florida), she waited for his angry words. But it was the other Th’san who spoke.

“Bad! Say bad!” His Aloean accent was almost unintelligible, his vocabulary clearly limited. It made him sound ridiculous.

Zormna blinked dryly at him. They had to be kidding.

Her Master, however, shook his fingers at her again then pointed sharply for her to go inside. With a roll of her eyes, Zormna bowed obediently and went. It was just as well. The two idiot women were boring anyway, and there was nothing she could do to reverse their brainwashing in her present situation. Besides, she honestly wanted to go back to her nap. She had hoped to nap in the tree, but the bed was better.

She walked back across the stones to the bath and wiped her dirty feet. Before she went to the bed, she peeked once out the doorway to see where the Master would go with his guest. The Master, however, did not return to the room and neither did the guest. Perhaps he thought it was punishment to leave her alone. She didn’t know. When it seemed obvious the Master and his friend were going to wander the garden for a while with the two play-toys-for-girls, Zormna climbed back on the huge bed and lay back down on the pillow to rest, if only for a second, hoping she would not leave a stain.

 

She didn’t know when she had fallen asleep. But she was sure where she had last been was not where she was now.

Alone.

It was a familiar room.

Zormna recognized it vaguely. She had seen it in dreams before—dreams where she had felt safe… safe to be herself and was allowed to be vulnerable. Dreams where she met one of her ancestors—Zeldar Tarrn—who was also the common ancestor of Jafarr, his namesake. Dreams where she and Jafarr had some of their most intimate arguments, where she had learned long before she knew it in waking life that Jafarr was deeply connected to her—bound to her even. Dreams where she was being prepared for this future. The first time she had seen the room in waking life, was at the end of the revolution—and it was not like it was in the dream, full of horrible bolted down chairs and thick carpet which had covered the dark marble floor. In the dream, the room had always been pristine—like now. The old Great Council chamber.

“Zormna?” She heard the voice she had been aching to hear.

She quickly turned around.

Jafarr stood next to a pillar wearing pajamas. A sore, anxious expression was on his face.

She could barely breathe. “Jafarr?”

Zormna staggered to catch herself. Then she ran toward him.

Jafarr ran to embrace her.

Yet before either one could reach the other, the air around them began to feel thick, slowing them down. It was like running through heavy glue, only she could still breathe. They reached for one another, pressing against the thick emptiness until it would no longer allow them through.

She could see him. There was no distortion as there would be with glass or plastic, but she could not push beyond to touch him. 

“You’re too far away,” he sobbed. His eyes were full of tears, as he stretched to reach her.

She blinked back her own with pain as she pushed harder against the invisible partition. “But we’re in this room… like,” she paused. “Like before.”

Hundreds of dreams swelled back to the forefront of her memory. Dreams she had had ages ago before she had ever gone to Earth. They had not just been in her mind. The room was not imaginary. They had shared them. And Zormna had told no one about them. Perhaps only Alzdar knew of their secret rendezvous.

“Zormna,” Jafarr said answering her thoughts. “You know we have been here before. But it has been a while.”

She wiped her eyes and her wet cheeks, nodding.

“This is our safe place,” he said, pressing harder against the force that held them apart.

Zormna shook her head, leaning against the invisible barrier. It could hold her up as easily as a wall. She had hoped pure gravity could pull her through. “Why can’t I reach you now? I had punched you in those dreams. We could touch then.”

Jafarr leaned against the invisible wall also, pushing harder—but as he did, his image seemed to fade like a ghost. “You are so far away, and they won’t let me leave Arras.”

He then winced, rubbing his stomach.

“You’re hurt.” She hadn’t noticed it until then. He was clutching his stomach the same way she was.

Jafarr shrugged and pushed more forcibly against the invisible barrier. And so did she. It caved in some, putting them only inches apart. “It’s nothing. You’re the one that is hurt.”

Zormna looked down at the overdone bandages on her arm. “Oh, that. It’s just a scratch.”

“You sound like Mercutio.” Jafarr painfully laughed. His laugh echoed hollowly. His form was fading more, like a hologram. “It’s not that. I can feel your pain. But where are you? Can you tell me?”

She closed her eyes, remembering the planet’s name. “Doazhoax.” Zormna opened her eyes to then pertly retort that she could handle the pain—but he was gone. “Jafarr?”

Her voice echoed in the room.

“Jafarr?”

Tears poured down her cheeks. She dropped to her knees, finally falling forward.

“Jafarr!”

 

The cold touch of her Master’s scaly hand woke her up. Her Master frowned at her, leaning over her on the bed. Behind him, the visitor shook his head with his two girls clinging to his sides, both gazing with pity at her.

Zormna scowled, wiped her tearing eyes and turned away from them toward the pillow.

She could feel the Master’s weight on the bed lessen as he rose. The two Th’san male voices soon came from the entrance hall. The sun was not even low yet. It was still day. She had perhaps only slept but a few minutes. Had it been a dream? Or had it been real. She so wanted it to be real.

Sitting up, Zormna wiped her eyes again. Her Master came back alone, still casting reproving glances at her as he removed his fancy coat and neatly folded it to tuck away for another important visitor. He then leaned over her on the bed while shaking his two fingers at her again. Hissing and clucking chastising words, he also muttered one word she thought she recognized—Zhufod.

Jafarr’s misty eyes regained focus. Rivulets of tears dried on his cheeks, though his eyes were still full of water.

Sir Banden waited pensively. “Well, did you make contact with her?”

Jafarr swallowed then nodded. “Yes.”

Sir Banden’s young helper Rannen Yiiaz, also Jafarr’s cousin on his mother’s side, leaned near to peer into Jafarr’s glazed eyes. With a backward glance at Sir Banden who was waiting for Jafarr to say something, he nodded.

“Well?” Sir Banden persisted, frowning mostly to himself as he was the only other one in the room who understood how seer gifts affected those who had them.

Jafarr closed his eyes, recalling what he could, as such dreams eventually grew fuzzy. “We met in the place we always do.”

The head Seer Class record keeper nodded, urging him on.

“We haven’t met there in years.” Jafarr shook his head, setting his hand to his forehead as he had developed a headache. “She asked if it was real.”

“But what did she say?” his cousin asked.

Jafarr opened his eyes and sighed. They weren’t going to be happy with the truth. And the truth was, he could not reach her with his gift for very long. And he knew he would not be able to do it often, or might not even be able to reach her that way again. It killed his brain. It wasn’t just the distance. Something was keeping them apart. Something—a powerful force—had stopped him. Just as he knew it was vital that he get in contact with her, as he was deeply connected to her pain—he also knew the same force telling him to reach out to Zormna was the same one holding him back.

“We didn’t say anything useful. She’s bandaged.” He laughed sadly. “She said it was just a scratch, but she understates things.”

Swallowing, Jafarr closed his eyes again. She was like half a mummy on her arms.

He said, “I couldn’t keep contact. I tried, but I couldn’t. She tried to tell me where she was, but I got yanked back. But it starts with a ‘dough-’ sound.”

The two seers somehow knew Jafarr was not saying everything, as his connection with Zormna was deeply personal. And yet, they could feel Jafarr had told them what they needed to know. Both men closed their eyes and nodded.

 

Pain.

She opened her eyes and sat up from her fetal position on the bench to get up and pace the floor again. She had to do something to ease the pain. Walking seemed to be the only thing that helped lately. Lying down never did.

Zormna paced the floor then walked to the garden door. She knew that if she stepped out at night she would hurt more. Her Master had figured out that she would rather sleep on the platform next to the pond or in the tree than in his bed, so he somehow made it so her legs ached whenever she stepped even an inch outside. She was stuck in the room. She was stuck hurting. Zormna definitely had a great endurance against pain. It was perhaps a result of so many nightmares and upset stomachs as a child when she first came into the Surface Patrol. She was used to it. But this pain was so much more than that. In fact, at times she felt like she was dying. But walking helped.

Looking out the garden door, Zormna stared at the two moons hanging in the sky and the surrounding foreign stars. On occasion, she had tried to find the star of her homeworld. When she grew too tired to stand, Zormna always walked back to the bench. But she didn’t want to go this night. She just hurt. It just hurt. She was aching for relief.

Turning though, Zormna staggered back to the bench at the end of the Master’s bed. Her legs ached trying to hold her up. She felt dizzy and weak. Zormna leaned against the edge of the Master’s bed to strengthen her, just a little.

Immediately all the knots in her stomach released. The pain vaporized. And the bed was soft.

Her knees nearly collapsed, but Zormna leaned on that bed just to rest. Just a little longer….

 

She awoke with the touch of her Master’s hand against her cheek. Zormna blinked and rubbed her eyes, flinching away as she looked up. The Master smiled down on her, cooing something, gurgling in back of his throat with pleasure as his gills rippled. Rubbing her eyes again, Zormna realized where she was leaning. She wasn’t lying down exactly. But she had fallen asleep, half standing, half leaning on the end of the Master’s bed.

A shudder ran through her.

Zormna staggered to stand, but the Master didn’t seem to notice her struggle as he walked to the bath, calling to her in his entirely pleased way.

Bleary-eyed, she scowled at him.

Still, she followed, padding directly to the bath door. Standing on tiptoe, Zormna pulled down her now dry bathing suit off the towel bar as the Master turned the taps and added the soap to his taste. He had given up on making Zormna do it. The bottles were just too large for her to handle. His preoccupation with that task always gave Zormna sufficient time to dress into her bathing suit without feeling self-conscious.

The day began once again.

Family

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nine:

 

“The goodness of the mother is written in the gaiety of the child.”—Victor Hugo—

 

 

 

Pain made time go slowly. Jafarr no longer spent mornings working. He couldn’t. The pain was too much now. He also did not spend it in the presidential quarters. Under doctor’s orders, Jafarr was taken to his grandfather’s home in the Seer Quarter of the Arrassian city, which was a racially homogenous (with dark-haired and dark-eyed people) sector and culturally different than most of the other Arrassians. Since his problem was in fact seer related, the doctor recommended the seers take care of him. Admitting with complete honesty, the doctor explained that did not have a clue what else he could do.

Jafarr was hardly fond of his grandfather. They had been estranged since before he was born. After all, the man had disowned Jafarr’s mother for marrying his father, and only recently did Jafarr even know he had extended family at all. His grandfather was a solemn, doubting old man with thinning gray hair and gimlet eyes. The man had little confidence in prophecy and seer gifts, which was perhaps why he and his daughter had been so estranged. She had been the exact opposite—full of faith and even gifted with visions—and Jafarr took after his mother in both respects.

As it was, Jafarr swallowed the wretched-tasting stomach medicine once the pains started, and he sat up, rocking himself in his grandfather’s living room until nearly noon which was usually when the pain ceased, leaving only an aching pre-ulcerous residue that required more medicine. This internal attack was often times more than he could take. And when the pain became almost unbearable, suddenly it would ease up and calm. It ebbed and flowed like that rather than wrenching him and twisting his stomach constantly. One morning it was absolutely horrible, and then it stopped entirely. But that sent Jafarr into a panic, so much that he sought the only help he knew.

“You said yourself you would know if she was dead. Be happy she’s not in pain.” Sir Banden shook his head after listening to Jafarr from the moment he stepped into the record keeper’s hall.

Frowning, Jafarr retorted, “It’s not that. It’s why it had stopped. I’m worried.”

Sir Banden nodded, waiting. Sometimes Jafarr taxed his patience. “About what? If she isn’t dead or being tortured, what is there to worry about?”

Though the head record keeper, Sir Banden was only two years his senior, which at times annoyed Jafarr because he really wanted someone long-experienced to talk to, someone wise, and not just someone who was gifted. Shaking his head, Jafarr backed to a nearby chair and sat down with disappointment. “Come on, there are worse things than pain and death.”

“What do you mean?” Sir Banden’s brow contorted, his dark blue eyes searching Jafarr’s face.

Jafarr placed his head in his hands. “Zormna is extremely willful, but she can’t endure forever. She is captive. The enemy must know who she is. But the visions I have of where she is doesn’t look like a prison. There are plants. A room. A clean place. I… I don’t know exactly where, but it isn’t in a cage. Thing is, what I know of the Th’sans, what our intelligence has gathered on them from Aloea… Sir Banden, she is… she is in an extremely bad situation, despite how nice it looks. I believe they are using torture to coerce her into doing something she is entirely against. Sharing secrets? Maybe. But I suspect… I’m afraid… No, I’m terrified that whenever the torture stops, she is giving into something that, that, that… that will tear her inside out. It is a power play. Zormna is being badly hurt in more ways than one. And she is starting to give in… because she is human. And no one can endure that much pain if they have a choice for relief.”

“You think she is giving in?” Sir Banden murmured, trying to envision was Jafarr was describing.

Jafarr cringed, and nodded. “I can’t blame her, honestly. We all imagine ourselves strong, that if we were in such a circumstance we would not give in; but the pain gets so bad, that sometimes I want to die. But I am afraid that her giving in will actually damage her soul.”

Sir Banden’s face color grew a little sick, imagining what Jafarr meant. “Let’s hope not.”

The low horn blew. Zormna wiped the sweat from off her forehead, finishing the last of the cleaning with a smile at her handiwork.

It was rather clean. Besides it being good hard work, something to keep her from going entirely mad because of her new lazy lifestyle, Zormna did take pride in how nice the room was because of something she did. Cleaning up, she replaced the bucket under the stairs and filled the tub so she could have her ritual bath and complete the process. Then she could speak again. Then she could relax.

The Master entered the room just as she had climbed into the tub. He stepped quickly past her and picked up the bath towel. She watched him as he walked up to her tub and knelt down next to it so that he was face to face with her. Zormna didn’t know what had gotten into him that morning, because she wasn’t so tired to need help, but he plunged his hands into her bathwater, took hold of her hand and the bath rag and started to wash her briskly.

Yipping, she struggled to pull away—but these days she has no energy, and he was, of course, much larger and stronger. With the fight easily lost, he washed her until he thought her sufficiently clean and she felt thoroughly molested. Then the Master tromped over to the desk and pulled out a new dress for her to wear. Zormna had about seven outfits now which he rotated through. All were alike in that they were skimpy thin silky things with spaghetti straps and bodices that barely covered her chest and insufficiently covered her thighs. He did have the straps adjusted for her though, so that she no longer had to tie them. But this new dress was entirely different. He held it up and called to her. “Zoamo, shuk!”

Sulkily, Zormna got out of the bath, snatching the sopping towel next to the tub to cover herself despite how he had just scrubbed every bit of her. Dripping, she crossed her newly clean floor. She reached up for the new outfit so she could dress, but the Master shot her a weary, impatient look. He snatched off Zormna’s bath towel and dressed her himself before she could protest or fight back.

Apparently, she had been moving too slowly.

Perhaps she was. Zormna was so tired she could have fainted. As he pulled her arms through the large side holes of this new garment, straightening the broad front of the dress over her chest, she leaned against his arm. She couldn’t sleep at all the night before, and she had refused to lean on the Master’s bed again even for a second, afraid she might start to associate his bed with relief.

As he tugged the skirt down toward her knees, she noticed that the dress was indeed made of sturdier cloth, like wool almost. It was perhaps hand woven. It was thickly opaque and actually hid her cleavage unlike her usual dresses. And the shape of it was rather dull. Rectangular with little stitching. Tan in color with thick straps allowing for a head hole while holding the front to the back, it had a plain design of stripes across it made by thicker yarn. The sides, however, only connected at her hips and waist before opening again in gaping slashes down her legs. If she stooped or moved her arms away from her sides, anyone could see straight through the side and have clear view of her breasts. Zormna drew in her arms to her sides to cover herself, tugging closed the sides of the skirt also. The Master hardly noticed, patting her head with satisfaction. A different kind of modest, yet not.

Straight away, the Master took Zormna by the hand and led her out into the garden. They turned to the right just a few steps outside. When they neared the roof stairs, Zormna recoiled—but the Master passed the stairs and came to the garden wall. There was a gate in the wall. She had seen it before of course, but could not touch it any more than she could touch the wall. The Master pushed the gate open with an oddly shaped key that seemed to unlock it at the top. The key was metal, but flat like a doorstopper. Holding it in his hand, the Master tucked it away in the pocket of his greatcoat, still dragging Zormna behind him as he would a rag doll. They stepped through the gate into a lesser garden. As they did, Zormna’s stomach lurched. But then it passed away. Her heart raced, thinking about how it worked. That meant that all she really needed was to find a way past the wall on any side to get out. She wasn’t tethered to the room after all. Escape was actually possible.

But as she was thinking this, her eyes took in the garden she was now in, one which she had only seen a portion of from the tree. She drew in a quick breath. Of a different character than the garden space she was used to, as it was mostly lawn with trees along the walls, she also saw young Th’sans.

High-pitched giggles of the clucky-ducky kind echoed across the lawn, drawing her eyes to them. Near a wide archway stood fifteen young Th’sans with similar birdish builds to the Master, yet with awkward gangly bodies. Several of them were taller than Zormna. All of them were dressed in fancy jewel-studded attire, though the youngest ones wore the tougher fabric in colors brighter than Zormna’s new dress. The head feathers on the youngest ones were the fluffiest, and less colorful even than the adults—vestiges of natural camouflage. Their clothing was gendered. The boys wore pantsuits with small shirt-sized filmy over hangings like the snake overdress Zormna had worn that one time, while the girls wore dresses cut similar to the dress Zormna was wearing except much more modest. The sides to their dresses were covered. The girls also wore silky overdresses. The immature females were mostly flat-chested. But the eldest girl looked as if she was of age to be a mother if chance came to it. But her cleavage was modestly covered—which made sense for a stable society that wanted to protect their young from risky behaviors. The division between child and adult was clear.

Zormna shrank back from the children, pulling for the Master to let go of her arm. But he didn’t let go. He hung tight as he led her onward, placing her in front of his children for them to see… which, on the whole confused her. Did this mean that she was just a pet after all? Did that mean he had no intention of using her as a lap girl in the end? It didn’t make sense, after all, for a father to present the object of a sexual fetish for his children to get acquainted with. Zormna desperately hoped this was the case.

“O wu fof shulzof ushush, Zoamo.” He pushed her closer towards the children with a happy nudge, one that nearly knocked her over. Zormna staggered to keep on her feet with a wish to flee—but she was already too tired. Her knees were prepared to collapse under her.

The young Th’sans surrounded her immediately as eager children did when presented with a new pet. They hissed and clucked and gibbered in the strangest excited voices. Zormna thought possibly they were getting ready to eat her—but they pawed her instead, fingering her hair, touching her skin, caressing her head and back. She writhed under their scaly hands, recoiling as she tried to get herself out of the circle of children but without succeeding. After finally hearing calls which sounded like they were from the first wife, breaking over their chattering noise, all the children scattered.

Zormna looked up then toward the house. Sitting on a covered porch in peculiarly-shaped wicker chairs alongside a handful of more children, she saw all three wives. The pitying glances of the first wife were both comforting and irritating. After all, she gazed at Zormna from a reclined position in her summer seat, happily comfortable with her life. She was dressed in a fine burgundy gown adorned with glittering pearls which draped in her head plumage like a queen. In her hand was a tall drink. And in her eyes was smug superiority. Of course, it wasn’t just pity the hen was expressing. It was also pleasure and gratitude that she was not a pathetic human like Zormna. And behind that high-minded Th’san gaze, Zormna could also hear the heavy clucks from the mature throats of the other wives who disapproved of Zormna’s existence. The youngest practically flinched at the sight of her.

This drained her, making her feel even more wretched and tired. She fell back against her Master’s legs, wishing to go back to her room and that bed to sleep. What was the point in her being there anyway?

Yet placing a protective hand on her shoulder, the Master spoke to all those in the garden, helping Zormna maintain her balance. Zormna was too tired to try and understand their hisses, gurgles, and clucks, so she contented herself with just not falling over. Her Master’s legs were warm and strangely comforting to lean against. She just swayed there, lids heavily sliding down as she fought to keep them open. His hand steadied her, partially holding her.

Zormna didn’t know what happened next, but when her consciousness returned, she found she was sitting in the Master’s arms, curled against his chest like a baby. They were both still in that garden. Part of her would have fallen back asleep, but his deep laugh and the thump-thump of his heart woke her from her stupor. Zormna turned weakly to get out of that cradled position to see why he was laughing.

Other sounds returned to her ears. She sat up. The sound of children playing grew clearer. Her ears had been ringing.

She looked in that direction.

On the lawn, the children were throwing croquet-like balls at similar heavy balls on the grass. Their duck-like laughter resonated within the confines of the yard and woke her further. They clapped the loudest when a ball hit another. And they picked up the balls that collided, taking them back to their standing place. Their heads moved and bobbed around akin to birds pecking for grain, and it was such an odd sight that Zormna just stared. It all felt like a surreal dream.

Not all of them were playing that game, though. Near them on the porch, the eldest children were playing a different game, most of them posturing with a dignified way of holding their birdish heads, or at least trying to look dignified. This game involved flat colored sticks that were similar to tongue depressors. Symbols which Zormna did not recognize were painted on the sticks. As they played, the children drew sticks from their siblings’ hands like a game of Old Maid. The rise and fall of triumph and disappointment in their birdish-snake prattle filled the porch. She watched that for a while in fuzzy-headed curiosity, vaguely trying to figure out how the rules worked.

But eventually Zormna’s attention widened to the entire porch where the wives were cheeping with hisses among themselves with hen-like gossip. For a tiny second, Zormna felt as though she were Scarlet O’Hara from Gone with the Wind sitting on a front porch of a southern mansion in the old United States. The hens were sipping a bright pink liquid out of long fluted glasses full of crushed ice, fluttering ribbed fans that looked like fish fins rather than oriental folding fans. Her eyes drew to the fans, in her mental haze. Each fan was decorated with stylized flowers and birds with that weird squiggly snail-impressionistic writing. Closer still, her consciousness allowed her to reorient her mind to her immediate location, which was cuddled in her Master’s arms, while he lounged in a large wicker chair in the center of the porch archway. He was leaning back with a satisfied expression on his face as if saying all was right with the world.   

Zormna shuddered. She squirmed to get out.

The Master looked down at her and gurgled something.

The wives turned to look. The two younger hens cast dirty glances, and some of the older children turned to stare at her.

With all those glassy bird eyes on her, Zormna’s first impulse was to make an ugly face back at them all. But she didn’t act on it. She was too tired. Her head was entirely dizzy from lack of sleep and her body ached from everything else. But she had no desire to get comfortable with being in her Master’s arms. Zormna tried to sit up.

Tried.

And failed.

Never had sitting up been so arduous. It was like fighting a strong wind. Zormna fell back twice against the Master’s chest, wishing she wasn’t so dizzy.

The first wife hissed something with a cluck. It sounded acerbic, critical of either her or him.

The Master bobbed his head on his long neck and hissed back an explanation, patting Zormna’s thigh tenderly. Of course, being patted there sent a shiver through her body, giving her plenty of motivation to move. Zormna finally managed to slide out of his arms and down onto the tile mosaic floor at her feet. She didn’t fall over this time. Yes, she was still dizzy, but less so once she drew herself up to control her balance. She had no desire to remain in that giant’s reach in case he decided to keep rubbing her thigh.

Her Master leaned toward her but did not drag her back to him as she initially expected. He just watched her like a person watched a new puppy run about when let loose—careful in case she wanted to dig up the flowerbeds. Zormna had no intention of digging up any flowerbeds, but perhaps he was concerned about his children. After all, she had attacked him, one of his wives, and a houseguest already.

The third wife stood up and called to the children playing with the balls in her clucky hissing sort of way. The group of children playing with the balls abruptly ceased. Their eyes all turned on Zormna. All of them gave her a wide berth when she walked forward onto the lawn. That is, except one child. This one stood about three feet tall but toddled around like it was only three years old. Its mouth was in a smiling shape, or at least Zormna thought it was smiling. And it was holding a heavy ball in its two hands. It toddled toward Zormna, carrying the ball and grinning at her.

Zormna stopped right there, watching the child as it approached her. It held the heavy ball out to her, clucking a word over and over again. “Qwom! Qwom!”

It seemed determined to give her the ball.

Everyone’s breath sucked in as they watched her and the child. Zormna blinked blearily at it then lifted her pale hand to receive the ball. The child Th’san placed the ball into her hands. It dropped a few inches when she got it, weighing about as much as a shotput. To keep it from dropping on her toe, Zormna clutched the heavy ball to her chest, staring at the child who was now pulling on the hem of her dress to urge her forward.

So, forward she went. Watching the pure innocence of the child as it spoke Th’san in the simplest way, she was disarmed.

“Loa! Loa!” the child commanded. It kept flinging its arms as if it wanted her to throw the ball and join in their game—though clearly its brothers and sisters did not want her at all to be involved. They were staring at her with almost rabid reptilian eyes, like the hated the very sight of her.

But of course, they did.

She was not a pet. Kids don’t get angry when their dads bring home pets. Quite the reverse.

So, Zormna only looked at the little one, avoiding their deadly stares. They were being polite, but they definitely did not want her there.

Mostly dazed, figuring she’ll put in her one toss then walk away from those rabid alien kids, Zormna shrugged then tossed the ball across the grass toward the balls the children had been throwing. The ball struck ground then immediately clanked against the hard metal of two balls.

The sound echoed in the yard.

The faces of the older children who were playing flushed, especially on their cheeks where their skin was fleshier and less scaly. The vertical slits in their birdish, crocodilian eyes thinned to sharp lines at her like they wanted to peck her eyes out. Instinctively, Zormna pulled back.

Yet across the lawn, they all heard the Master laugh. All heads turned. He then hissed at the children words which, of course, Zormna did not understand at all.

Their head feathers stiffened, bristling. They shot her sharp accusatory looks, yet backed from her.

Their father rose from his wicker chair and walked over to them, parting the cluster of his brood when he reached their group. He bent over to the grass and picked up the ball Zormna had tossed, then also the two balls it had hit. He handed the heavy balls to Zormna with a few clucks and hisses.

The moment they were in her hands, she dropped one, barely missing her foot. She clutched the other two to her chest, wondering what was happening.

The Master made a gesture, commanding the children with a hiss to continue while he stayed behind Zormna.

Zormna dropped the other balls, stepping back so they would not strike her feet. Massaging her forehead, Zormna cringed. Was he really supporting her in this silly game? What was the point of it?

However, the eldest child of the group nodded to his father then tossed his heavy ball at the ball collection on the grass to continue the game. He missed the ball he was aiming for and said something severe in his language. Zormna could tell, because the others chastened him and his father shot him look.

The next child then threw her ball. She hit one and gleefully picked up both, taking them back to her place.

The next one seriously swung his ball and hit another, taking it with him. Then he threw his second ball that he had held in reserve, but this time he missed.

A few others took their turns—some missing, some hitting. Then all of them stared at Zormna again.

Zormna stepped back, bumping into the Master’s legs. But he leaned over, picked up one of her heavy balls and set it in her hands. She looked at the ball and then up at him.

He smiled, nudging her to play.

She didn’t like the feeling she got when he smiled at her like that, especially when his gills flushed. It made her flesh crawl. Yet, Zormna exhaled as she lowered her eyes and looked at the other players.

They all watched her narrowly except for that innocent one.

In spite of her weakness, Zormna smirked, thinking: So, they wanted her to play, hmm? Fine. She would play.

Eying the few balls left in the grass, Zormna weighed the ball in her hands. Unlike her first toss, Zormna threw this one exactly where she wanted it to go. It clanked against three balls.

The older children playing groaned with glares at her as if they would bite a chunk out of her skin.

Zormna repressed her triumphant grin and merely walked across the grass to pick up the three balls and the ball she had thrown. They were heavy to carry, and she dropped one on the way back, but she managed to take them back to her stash. After that, she looked at the child who should go next.

That child hissed at her with bared teeth, pointing to the balls at Zormna’s feet with its two fingers. All of them did, rather impatiently in fact. Had she missed something?

The Master bent over and picked up another ball.

Zormna looked up at him while she watched him place it into her hand, beckoning her to throw it.

Blinking rather stupidly, Zormna gazed around the circle of children. They all expected her to throw it. Shrugging, she weighed the ball in her hands, looked at the remaining balls on the playing field, and tossed it once more exactly where she wanted to hit. It thudded against another ball.

Again, the older children moaned.

There were only two balls left in play, and Zormna hoped she wouldn’t have to play again as they really looked like they wanted to kill her. The older children were giving her deadly glares now with their crocodile slit eyes, though the younger children blinked at her in amazement. On top of that, the children who were not playing had stopped their stick game to watch. Their curiosity was all over their faces, taking in her size with terse skepticism.

The Master lifted her third ball and placed it in her hands. Tired of it all, Zormna wanted to quit the game. But she had a feeling they would make her play until one of them was the victor—and she didn’t want to play that long.

Stepping back, Zormna took aim. And she tossed the ball.

Clank. Clank.

It hit the first ball and ricocheted off it and struck the second one also. The game was over. There were no more balls in play.

If the children had been glaring at her before, their bird stares had gone full velociraptor. They were going to eat her alive. Yet, the Master laughed and clucked something with a hiss while heartily patting his children on their backs and then Zormna on the head. He turned to walk back to his wicker seat on the porch, leaving Zormna there probably to play another game.  

Of course, that was a ridiculous idea. She followed after him, way too tired to heave up another ball.

Zormna saw the flying ball coming at her from the corner of her eye. Ducking back from them in an old handball move, she caught it with her open hand before it could hit the side of her head. She lowered the heavy ball, peering hard at the Master’s kids as they bristled, feathers stiffening on the tops of their heads. One of the children had thrown it at her. Half-aching to throw it back, Zormna successfully resisted the urge and merely dropped it at her feet. With a turn, she continued her retreat to the patio, keeping one eye out for other unwanted missiles.

The second one she caught almost too late. It came from somewhere else in the crowd of children and grazed her cheek, leaving a mark before she could jump out of the way. The Master had just barely reached his seat when it happened. He stood up and shouted something in the angry voice Zormna knew all too well.

Throwing the ball hard into the ground this time as blood dribbled down her cheek, Zormna glared back at them, yet turned still to go.

She was ready for the third one.

Zormna flipped out of its way. Aimed not for her head but for her back, she caught it as if it were a handball for the game of pronuk. The weight of it smacked her palm so harshly that it stung.

The older children were now swearing Th’san curses at her, picking up other balls to chuck at her.

Zormna braced herself, dodging the fourth and the fifth ball. She would have avoided the sixth ball had it not been for the sudden dizzy spell that sent her reeling to the grass.

That ball didn’t hit her though. She expected it to. It would have possibly broken her leg had it struck her—but it didn’t even touch her.

Zormna opened her eyes and looked up into the dark shadow her Master made in the grass. He crouched protectively over her like a giant, barking words at his children that only angry fathers seemed to make. In her hazy eyesight, she saw the children—expressly the older ones who had been chucking the metal game balls at her—stare shamefaced at the ground and their feet.

What happened next, Zormna wasn’t entirely sure. She was too wiped out. The Master had picked her up, and briskly carried her back through the garden wall. That much she recalled. But the rest sort of faded as her consciousness vanished. Her head once again dropped against his chest.

 

Zormna awoke on the Master’s bed. Her face felt strangely tight, wrapped up like a mummy over a certain part of her face. She was also alone. No Master in sight. However, when she slid off the bed and wandered into the garden just to make sure he was truly gone, she heard laughter coming from the garden over the wall, and one deep Th’san male voice was with them.

She had a feeling he would spend the rest of the day with them, which meant freedom for her. Taking this opportunity, with a hop, Zormna fled back to the Master’s room and happily climbed back on the Master’s bed and fell blissfully into much needed sleep.

“You look better,” Jafarr’s grandfather said, gazing at Jafarr as he sipped soup with his cousins and uncle at the large table which was covered in several traditional Seer class dishes.

Jafarr sighed but said nothing.

Durrn Yiiaz, his uncle, looked down at his bowl then took a breath. Gazing up at Grandfather Yiiaz, he said, “The Festival is coming up. I hear Sir Grren is going to head the uppercity events committee this year. He’s planning to have a feast in the Great Hall like last year on Name Day. We’re planning on inviting all the foreign dignitaries to it. You know, give them a taste of Arrassian culture.” He looked to Jafarr. “We might need some presidential input on the Festival plans. Um, Jafarr…” He paused to see if his nephew was listening.

Jafarr was staring at his soup, nodding off a little. His eyes flickered upon hearing his name, and he looked up to his uncle.

Nodding to himself, his uncle continued. “Do you think you could preside at this dinner?”

Almost laughing, Jafarr rubbed his eyes. “Possibly. If it isn’t in the morning.”

His grandfather huffed, picking up a bread bun.

But his uncle Durrn nodded. “We can plan for that.”

“Are we doing anything for the Day of Adaral?” his grandfather asked.

Rannen cringed, glancing at Jafarr who had stiffened.

Durrn nodded to his father with a smile. “Yes. Sir Grren is having a morning feast like usual in the record hall. Sir Banden had already ordered the decorations. We’ve all been invited.”

His younger cousins, Zara and Errd Yiiaz, laughed and clapped gleefully. Zara tugged on Jafarr’s arm. “You’re coming, right? You can’t let a stomachache stop you from missing first Adaral morning, can you?”

“We’re having flower cakes and cookies! They don’t have them anywhere else in the city. Only seers do, and you’ve never celebrated with us yet,” Errd said with excitement.

But Jafarr’s lips had gone white. He turned to his uncle and asked, “The day of Adaral is soon?”

His uncle and older cousin Rannen nodded.

Jafarr closed his eyes with a listless sigh. He dropped against the table. “That’s Zormna’s birthday.”

They all went silent.

“She’ll be eighteen,” he murmured.

His uncle leaned toward him, resting a consoling hand on his arm. “Then celebrate with us—that she’s still alive, having lived eighteen years… and will live longer.”

Such pain filled Jafarr’s fathomless eyes as he responded, “But what kind of life is she having in captivity? Over eight hours of torture… and it seems to be getting longer each time.”

Grandfather Yiiaz stood up with a grunt, shaking his head as he left the table.

Jafarr closed his eyes and resigned himself to eating his soup. A stinging itch on the side of his face caused him to scratch, and for a faint moment his cheek felt like it got cut. He touched it, then looked at his hand, expecting to see blood. But of course, there was none.

Eighteen years old to the day, and she didn’t even know. On Earth, Zormna would have been a legal adult—something she had accomplished on Arras ages ago through a testing system their former government had used to weed out threats to their regime. It was also the agreed time when that ridiculous royal advisory council could once more make her see those many suitors on that list to urge her to marry one of them. But on the Th’san home world in her Master’s chambers, her age was of no consequence. She was his property, as he wanted her.

Well, almost.

Zormna still kept to the bench at the end of his bed nights, enduring considerable pain. And because of that, during the day she was undeniably weak and useless. His methods for getting what he wanted was breaking her, but at the cost of her usefulness. She had no strength to scrub his back now during the morning bath, though she tried. She couldn’t carry the food tray for meals anymore. The pans and bowls were just too heavy for her lack of energy. Zormna also couldn’t wash the floor as fast as he wanted her to. And in the end when she finished, he bathed her because she moved too slowly for his patience. She could hardly stand now. At nights, she couldn’t even get up to walk off the pain. That was why she finally gave in. She was no longer strong enough to fight.

It started on one of those horrible nights when her stomach twisted into knots with her arms and legs clenched to herself in fetal position, shuddering from the ache. The Master awoke. He climbed out of bed, walked over to where she lay, regarded her for a second, and then he picked her up. He took her back to his bed, warming her with his body heat while he wrapped his arms around her in a comforting hold. Zormna awoke from his touch, but she had no energy to fight him off. It was as simple as that.

And when Zormna awoke the next morning in his arms. She was still too weak to scramble out, too weak to remove his hand from her thigh. So, she just lay there, waiting for him to get up for his morning bath because that was what he always did. It seemed to take forever. So long in fact, that she nodded off again in her exhaustion. He woke her for the bath as usual.

The Master seemed silently pleased with himself that morning, but he didn’t press it. He continued that day as he always had, going about his business, sometimes receiving guests while Zormna was dizzy with a sensation of jet lag for all those nights she could hardly sleep. Not much had changed besides. After floor cleaning, he came in as usual and bathed her as Zormna was still too slow for his sensitivities. She had no energy to fight him, and the ordeal was over quicker when she didn’t. It made her feel sick to her stomach, though, having his hands all over her.

But when he called her in from the garden for bed, Zormna returned to her bench. She couldn’t just give up. She had to be stronger. However, he retrieved her in the middle of the night when she had begun to cry from stomach cramps, and she did not fight him. She couldn’t. Not anymore.

This was their routine for the next five days. Zormna struggled to maintain her autonomy, but on the sixth evening after finally recovering much of her energy and having a semblance of day where she was mostly awake, when he went to bed that night Zormna whimpered at the doorway to the garden, knowing the pain would only get worse. And she knew he would take her from the bench again and again, bringing much desired relief. But she vowed… Zormna told herself. She had vowed to herself to never give in to him. Vowed. Yet everything in her (except for the distant yearning to be back on Arras with Jafarr) screamed for her to just join her Master in his bed and give up the battle.  

The Master gazed at her expectantly. His eyes watched her linger in the garden doorway, not going to the bench or to him as he wished. But he waited for her.

Then he extended his arm to beckon her to come to him.

Tears crested her cheeks. They rolled down from her eyes and dripped off her chin. All she could do was cry silently, cringing within herself as she took a step and then another.

She walked again to the bench, yet stood between it and the Master’s bed. Chest heaving, Zormna stared at her two options then closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her face. She was unable to move. It seemed an eternity as she wept there. Eventually her knees buckled as pain came just from standing rather than going into his bed like he wanted.

Her Master waited patiently, watching her

Her mind went over her options again. Pain and exhaustion—or degrading herself into a groveling, vapid-minded slave. Pain came at night unless she was with him—and that was simply a fact of her new life.  

Zormna dropped against the end of the Master’s bed and sobbed.

As his huge hands picked her up and patted her weeping head, she bawled even harder. The Master carried her into his bed and lay down, holding her tiny body close to him with his large hands.

And somehow, she fell asleep.

Hope and Promises

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten:

 

“Men do not die from overwork. They die from dissipation and worry.”

—Charles Evans Hughes former Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court—

 

 

Zormna felt ashamed that she had given in, but once she had succumbed to his wishes that she sleep in his bed, just so she could keep the pain away, she couldn’t return to her old habits anymore. Obedience meant peace. It meant no pain. She came when the Master called her. She left when he said to. She brought what he wanted, and she climbed to his bed every night to play teddy bear for him while he slept—hoping that was all it would ever be.

It was only a hope though, because occasionally he also got excited when her skin touched his. While in bed, his heart frequently pounded like primal drums over her head as she listened to him breathe. His breathing often got heavier. And now that she lay with him without resisting, he also liked to stroke her skin in ways that set shivers down into her bones. He often rested his large hand on her thigh and stomach as they slept. He had yet to attempt anything more than that, though.

However, now that she regularly slept in his bed at night, visitors came much more frequently. The Master apparently took her sleeping alongside him as a sign that she was finally ‘house trained’, and therefore not a threat to guests—which was mostly true. She wasn’t likely to attack a guest again, knowing the severe punishment that would come if she did.

Among the peculiar dignitaries from foreign places who now came in and out of his home, Zormna saw many species of Th’san. During their visits, usually the Master sat her on his lap, stroking her head and shoulders like one would a favored cat. His sharp claws frequently tickled her skin, which alone kept her from escaping out of his grasp. One false move and she could get scratched.

The Master also had many friends. She listened daily to their gurgled-hissed conversations with an increased curiosity. And as each day went on and each new stranger showed up, she observed much about the Th’san Empire as a whole. The first thing that stood out to her was how they were a materialistic culture, one which loved extravagant fashion, fancy jewelry, and gossip. She didn’t understand the gossip. But the rest was obvious.

A few regulars frequently visited the Master. It took some time, but Zormna had begun to recognize particular Th’sans after their third or fourth visits. Telling the Th’sans apart, especially of the same species, had been difficult. It was often like trying to tell the difference between one crocodile and another, or one bird and another. Mostly she knew them by the lap girls they had brought with them and the selection of clothing they wore. Some had a distinct style. Zormna would not have cared much about any of this except that one of the Master’s most frequent visitors had begun to affect how the Master handled her. For starters, the Master seemed to be taking pointers from him on how to manage her. Her Master started to do things differently after his visits. He’d kiss her along her neck, holding her in ways that did not allow her to slip out so easily, forcing her to endure it. So, when the visitor came around the next time around, Zormna paid attention to what he was telling her Master, mostly so she could prepare a counter defense. Not that she understood his words, but she tried to.

The Master’s instructive friend was this white feathered, long-necked, and fancily dressed, birdish creature of a different Th’san species than himself. His kind did not come often, though she had seen this particular Th’san visit on occasion before during the time when she had not been sleeping in the Master’s bed. This Th’san always came dressed in flouncy layers of expensive fabric with such a coloring and silhouette that reminded her of an egret or a secretary bird, as his neck was longer and his skin was definitely pale. The downy feathers that crested its head and back were that sort of white also, while his mouth was almost beak-like, yet fleshy. He was wealthy. Zormna assumed he was the same rank as her Master, possibly an influential governor of a large area of his world or something in that order because of the way they talked together like equals. The Master listened to him intently. Yet after a number of his visits, Zormna began to wonder if maybe he was just incredibly rich and influential in another way. A powerful businessman. He wore several of rings, and his clothes were remarkably fine, whereas her Master (though a powerful political dignitary) really wasn’t flashy. But like the Master, this Th’san didn’t really speak Aloean. He knew a handful of words at best.

Thing was, every time that particular Th’san visited, he brought with him two or three lap girls to make his trip more comfortable. That’s what his lap girls said anyway, when in irritation Zormna had asked why they were there again invading her garden where she had been resting. Since he was such a frequent visitor, his lap girls were always invading her garden, sent there to keep them out of the way while ‘the masters’ spoke—told to ‘go play’ like pet puppies. Unfortunately, whenever they ‘played’, they brought a heap of catty, petty noise with them. After several of these frequent invasions, Zormna learned that this Th’san owned about twelve lap girls. New ones showed up with him every time he visited, as if he were showing them off to her Master as proof he was an expert with lap girls.

Normally, Zormna would have been thrilled to have contact with humans, except that every one of his lap girls had minds like jelly. Utterly vapid. They always talked about the stupidest things, such as the gifts their master showered them with or things of that ilk, while mocking her plain chemises, which honestly, she did not care about in the least. For some dumb reason they talked nonstop of the sparkly things and shimmery sheer fabric with gemstones he gave them—never mind that they were practically naked in their peekaboo clothes, having no care that their bare flesh was constantly on display. They didn’t care one iota what happened outside their master’s wants, so it was practically impossible to get from them any outside news about the war. And worse, they were catty, especially towards her whom they viciously eyed, like her hair and eyes were something to be offended by—because they didn’t have what she had, apparently. Petty, jealous, vicious things—they were the very female types Zormna had purposely avoided in high school, the ones who would have clawed her to death for being ‘too pretty’.

So, of course when that particular visitor showed up after lunch one day with another pair of scantily-clad slaves, Zormna groaned inside. On that particular day, the crane-like Th’san greeted the Master in ritual, bobbing his head similar to an ostrich as he called into the room. The two with him this time were an especially annoying duo, and particularly spiteful whenever they invaded her garden. Currently, the duo was gazing into the room behind their elegant owner. With grief, watching their entry into the Master’s chambers from her vantage point on the bed, Zormna hoped they would be sent straight to the garden.

Oddly, this time around, these two women seemed anxious. Their rich violet eyes glanced about the room in apprehension while hanging to their master’s white coattails. The visitor said something to them in Th’san, gesturing to the Master’s bed.

Zormna sat up. This was bad news. Change always seemed to be.

The two lap girls hurried quickly to the bed with sharp eyes turned on her, who sat up even more, backing away from them. They took seats on the edge in wait, a first, and watching undoubtedly for their master’s command. But to do what?

Zormna automatically scooted away from them.

The Master looked up from his work at the bench while Zormna retreated further from the women. She slid off the bed. Thinking about going into the garden to get away from them, Zormna watched the visitor watch her. His glassy lizard like eyes tracked her as she retreated to the garden doorway. Surprisingly, the Master paid her no mind as she slipped away. Instead, acknowledging his guest, the Master scooted the bench into a different position so that it stood to side of the bed, setting it at an angle where he promptly sat back down on it as if he were about to watch a movie projected on the wall. Not that he ever did that. Th’sans didn’t really have TV as a form of entertainment—at least not as far as she knew. There was possibly an entertainment room in the house that she was not aware of. Yet Zormna was not aware of a movie industry either. In her short time within a Th’san home, they seemed a more physical sort of culture rather than voyeuristic. But perhaps they were a ‘No TV in a bedroom’ kind of people. He didn’t spend all his time in his chambers after all.

Zormna lingered in the doorway for a moment, ducking into the curtains while watching him. Afterall, this was not the norm. And with a brief, thoughtful glance toward her, the Master finally waved for Zormna to go into the garden if she wished. With permission, Zormna peevishly fled. Her personal space had been overtaken after all. Yes, it was a petty thing to get huffy about, but she had very little left. Her sanity was already barely hanging by a thread.

Wandering toward the pond under the warm and sunny sky, thinking about practicing some gymnastics while the Master had guests, Zormna eventually selected a patch on the grass she could use. Now that she was getting sleep at night, she had energy for exercise. Besides, she was sure the two lap girls would eventually come out into the garden and harass her, so she might as well take advantage of what free time she had.

Zormna plopped down on the grass and started into deep stretches.

It really had been a while. She could feel it in her muscles. They were tight and weak. Zormna then worked on back bends, ensuring that she had not lost her flexibility. Flexibility was important, especially if she wanted to continue her martial arts. Especially if she wanted to escape.

Yes…. Escape. Despite all her failures, she had never quit looking for ways out of the house and garden. Zormna had once tried crawling through the Beeble door—but that was a miserable failure. Just pushing on the swinging flap that would let her into the Beebles’ private yard caused an electric pain to shoot up through her arm to her gut. And she had the same trouble with the side gate. She had tried all the walls numerous times. There just wasn’t a way out—not without flying over.

While bending, stretching her stomach muscles and arms with her thoughts searching alternative ways over the wall without touching it, the strangest noises came out from the bedroom doorway.

Zormna halted, angling her head to listen.

What sounded like a combination of bird song, a seal barking, and a woman’s voice going through shoddy vocal scales echoed out from the house. Th’san were such a bizarre bunch. The noise didn’t sound like any music she knew, but then she was unfamiliar with all the kinds of music Th’sans made. On most days, she heard faint echoes of music from the city, even from other parts of the house, which was like a combination of sitar playing, chimes, and whooping bird calls, just not from the Master’s room. The thing was, if this was singing, it was lousy. It didn’t just lack a tune, it sounded like Jurassic Park dinosaurs calling to one another.

After several minutes of hearing this weird noise, Zormna finally came out of the bend with a flip and wandered to the archway to see what was really going on. She peered into the room through the curtains. Taking in the immediate vicinity first, she saw her Master perched in the same place on the bench like a bird watching whatever his guest was performing. His back was to her. Not interesting. So, her eyes lifted further to see what the performance was.

For starters, the guest and his gals were not facing the Master, but the back wall—and why in the world would anyone sing to the back wall? Secondly, the sound did not improve one iota being closer to it. With no curtains or wall in the way to mute a possible harmony, the noise still had absolutely no melody. In fact, it was all animal. Brutish. And the scene before her eyes was so bizarre. It took several minutes to comprehend it.

And what was she seeing? Something weird. The guest was naked, just in his white feathers and skin. He had a weird body too.

Now, she knew Th’sans were not a modest people. Guests had openly undone their pants and peed in the Master’s facilities during visits, right in front of her and him. Yet this one sort of ‘butt-danced’ in front of the end of the bed, rocking on his extra-long and bony ostrich-like legs with the appearance of a plucked heron. He didn’t have a tail or anything, but a human-like derriere—which was not a pleasant sight. Without all his fancy flounces covering his bare back and buttocks, he appeared rather goofy. Zormna could see his robes and ruffles were folded on the bench next to the Master. However, when she took in the rest of the scene, it all clicked together. The sounds, his white feathery butt, him facing the bed in his bare animalistic glory—and pinned under him with her legs up and apart, his hips rhythmically meeting hers, was one of his lap girls.

Zormna jumped out of the doorway, slapping her back against the outside wall. She hyperventilated.

They were doing that on her bed?

Why her bed? Was that bed more comfortable or something?

As she stared blankly over the garden, Zormna’s mind went into overdrive, piecing more together. The other lap girl had also been in the room. She was nearby, doing nothing but patiently watching. And her Master… he was just sitting there watching them. Why would a regular visitor come to use their bed like this and have her Master sit and watch? Was this the Th’san version of porn? The Master certainly was enjoying it. His gills had been rippling in excitement, flushed red.

But that did not add up. They had tech for pity’s sake. They could make videos.

The answer quickly came to her with a tremor, a lurch in her gut. The Master wasn’t just watching. He was observing. The only thing he lacked was a note pad.

Acid rose in Zormna’s throat. She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth. She should have known better. Of course, he hadn’t given up. Quite the reverse. He was learning how to do it with a human. He had triumphed when he had finally been able to get her to sleep in the bed with him. Now she was no longer able to sleep outside it—psychologically or physically. She just could not handle it anymore. But this meant she was on schedule for the next stage toward his ultimate end goal to lead her into willing sexual service. Lap girls were willing participants, that was one thing she had learned from meeting so many.

From inside the room, a disturbing throaty noise erupted along with the woman’s alarming gasps.  

Zormna’s stomach heaved. Sliding down the wall into a crouch, trembling, she rocked herself back and forth, hugging her arms close. What was she going to do? What was she going to do? She couldn’t let this happen to her. She could not let it go that far. She had to get out. Now.

But as she looked up at the garden walls, at all the stairs and plant life, desperately pulling out of her brain scenarios in which she could finally get over the wall and run for it, Zormna knew there was not one place that she had not tried.

She was trapped, and they were going to make her do that with her Master.

The sounds in the room lulled into quiet. Th’san conversation started up. Hearing it, Zormna now really wished she understood their language. She needed that advantage. She could only guess that the visitor was saying something important to her Master. Or perhaps just something in the way of advice which would remove her freedom even more. She needed to know how to counteract it. Clutching her head, her fingers dug into her scalp as she struggled once more to think of something she could do.

It got even quieter now. No conversation. Crawling on her knees, Zormna peeked into the room again. She had to see what they were up to.

Unfortunately, it was bad timing. The other lap girl was now under him, different position. Nausea swelled up Zormna’s throat.

Slapping a hand over her mouth, Zormna crawled backward, back outside. She crawled straight to the pond, dunking her head in to wash her eyes out. When she surfaced for air, the brutish mating sounds from indoors rose. Zormna slapped her hands over her ears and rushed into the bushes where she could not hear it so well, sobbing. Her mind reeled. What could she do? What could she do? They were going to do that to her.

There was nothing. She was trapped. Trapped.

It took a great deal to regain control of her panic. Carefully, sniffling, Zormna took her fingers out of ears. The grotesque noises were gone. Th’san chatter had started again. As their voices rose and fell with clucks and hisses, the visitor’s two lap girls entered the garden. She watched them through the plants as they went to the pond, both limping a little from the ordeal, but chatting together as if what had happened in there had been nothing but a peck on the cheek and a pat on the head.

Peeking to see if the Master was going to summon her for her turn, hoping he wouldn’t, as she was not up for a fight, Zormna quickly rushed up to the women. At that moment, the pair was admiring the white blossoms on the water. Both lap girls turned when they saw her, their eyes critically saying ‘So that’s where you were.’

To keep outside the earshot of the Th’sans, Zormna whispered earnestly, feeling ill still, “Are you all right? I heard… I saw what was happening in there!”

Their amethyst eyes gazed wanly at her in judgement. She recognized the look. They thought she was a simpleton. “Yes? And? What did you think you were purchased for?”

“Trophy?” Zormna shrugged painfully, not really believing it.

Their laughter filled her ears with filthily smug mockery. “Trophy? Please! A lap girl is supposed to satisfy her master in every way. Unbedded lap girls are always so silly.”

‘Unbedded’? A shudder whipped through Zormna. She went pale. “Silly? Do you have any idea who I am?”

Their empty gazes showed it neither mattered to them, nor did they feel the need to care.

“I’m the queen of the Arrassian people!” Zormna clawed at the metal plates fused to her skull. “Look at the implants in my head, for pity’s sake. I’m dangerous. Besides, when my people find me—”

Exchanging amused glances, they laughed even more.

“When they find me,” Zormna bit out through her teeth, a fury surging with heat through her, “My Master will suffer for everything he has put me through. Jafarr will see to it.”

Yet they still snickered.

One of them replied, “The Th’sans are all-powerful. No one has ever defeated their empire.”

Furious, Zormna felt sick. It was an effort not to vomit. “We will.”

They laughed again, though a degree of sorrow slipped through their mirth as they said, “You are too proud. Every people they have conquered have thought that, until they also were subdued. Look at the Ba-Ba. They were once a people not unlike ours. They had cities. They had traveled outworld in trade. They also challenged the empire and lost. You wouldn’t know it by looking at them now.”

Ba-Ba? Flinching, it took a second to realize they were talking about those furry, animal-like plant eaters—what she called Beebles. They had been an advanced species? It never would have occurred to her… but now she felt so dumb. She had always had assumed they were simple tribal sort of beings, aboriginal, with a language of a kind, but not advanced. But traveling outworld? Them? That was further than Earth had accomplished—though admittedly her own military had been squashing Earth space programs for generations, so that was not a good yardstick.

“You must comprehend your situation,” the lap girl further explained as if with compassion. “No one is going to rescue you. This is your life now. Accepting it and learning to love what you can enjoy in it will be the difference between being miserable and being happy. You must choose to find the happiness.”

“Happy?” Zormna stared at them, increasingly nauseous. These women were crazy.

The lap girls sighed even more, exchanging looks. “I know that sounds impossible right now for a simpleton like you. But you must do whatever you can to make it endurable.”

Jerking back, Zormna stiffened. They were calling her a simpleton?

Yet as that lap girl’s words irritated her, a creepy thought sank into her brain. She had to ask…. “Is it your master’s hobby to perform these instruction periods for other Th’sans?”

Their eyebrows raised, exchanging surprised looks that she understood. And because of that, their eyes examined her a little more carefully. The one talked down to her less. “Not a hobby at all. He’s invested in making sure the masters are satisfied with their lap girls, and that the lap girls are thoroughly trained. His business relies upon the satisfaction of their purchases.”

Purchases? His business? Her mind whipped back to when she had first been captured. It was hazy from the drug she had been under, but she could recall the slave market and the crowds there. She recalled one white crane-like Th’san who had bought her, the one who had put the implants in her head. Was this the same one?

Indignation swelled over Zormna. She had been mistaken entirely. The nasty bird was a slave trader and not one of the Masters political friends. Her body shook. “Really? And is it your job to make me feel good about being raped?”

Once more the pair sighed with disappointment in her mental capacity. “No. But, we feel it our duty to make life easier for the others who are unnecessarily suffering.”

“Unnecessarily suffering? Rape is unnecessary suffering!” Zormna screamed at them, the indignity of those past months welling over her, the terror of her future filling her. “This entire slave trade is unnecessary suffering!”

Her voice carried. Their masters looked out at them.

Seeing them, Zormna stiffened.

But the Th’sans merely looked. However, his eyes watched her intently, making sure she would not attack the other lap girls.

“Look, resistance causes pain and damage during coitus,” the lap girl explained in an almost sing-song tone as if it was part of shtick she had to regularly perform for her master’s victims. “If you quit resisting and relax, it won’t hurt half as much. And eventually your body will adjust, and you will not get damaged. Besides, when you entirely embrace him without fighting, the pain leaves and pleasure like you cannot possibly imagine fills you so that…” She heaved a hormonal breath, letting her words drift off as she wordlessly stared into space.

“No way.” Zormna murmured in horror. The lap girl actually meant this part. Acid rose in Zormna’s throat. She was going vomit now. It was just so sickening.

But they nodded in earnest to her, very cheerleader-like.

“The beginning might not be fun, but learn to enjoy the pleasurable parts,” the first one said in confidence. “You will be surprised how much pleasure will come. And if you help him attain all that he needs to be satisfied, you will be happy in your new life.”

Her body was shaking. Zormna stepped away from them. Until now, she could not see how the Th’sans had been able make their lap girls so mindlessly attached to them. They were being used and abused after all. But now it was painfully obvious. In their trauma, these women had learned to find pleasure in whatever it was that their owners did to them. They reinterpreted their pain as pleasure. It was much like Stockholm syndrome.

She got as far away from them as possible. Retreating to the tree, Zormna searched once again for a way out while the two lap girls played near the pond, enjoying their captivity like trained dogs.

It was an hour later when their visitor called for his lap girls and departed. The Master came out into the garden around the same time and watched Zormna carefully, gesturing for her to get out of the tree, as he didn’t want her to fall. Reluctantly, she did, but kept her eyes fixed on him while she descended through the branches.  

That night, Zormna braced herself for a fight. While the Master’s sharp claws tickled along her skin as he stroked his fingers through her hair and down her side, he kissed once into her neck, then lower into her cleavage. But he made no attempt at mimicking the ‘lesson of the day’. But she could not sleep well after that.

 

Unfortunately, that particular visitor came back the very next day and with a different pair of lap girls. Zormna had just finished floor cleaning when they arrived, and she had barely put away the bathing tin. As they stepped in and he hailed her Master who was in the garden, Zormna ducked toward the door to escape into the garden.

The Master caught her before she could get out.

He hefted Zormna off her feet, holding her in one arm while with his other hand, he scooted the bench to the same spot as the day before. Her Master restrained Zormna on his lap with both clawed hands, making sure she could not wriggle out as he sat down. The same time, the visitor spoke to his lap girls with soft birdish clucks and hisses. This new pair eyed Zormna funny, especially watching how she struggled for escape. One sighed and said to her, “We are to translate for your benefit.”

Translate? Zormna peered up to the white crane Th’san who was now talking to the Master with one hawkish eye on her. His clucks and hisses had a didactic quality to it which she recognized as instructive. Shivers ran down Zormna’s arms, rippling also through her legs. She pulled them inward, guessing all too well the subject matter. They were now moving on to the next stage of her ‘training’.

“It is very simple,” the nearest of the lap girls explained in Aloean with and increasing gaze of smugness toward their squirming captive. “Your duty as a lap girl is to please your Master in all ways possible. And we will show you how.”

 Zormna shuddered, closing her eyes as dread filled her. She tried harder to shove out of the Master’s clutching hands to get him to let her go, but he only tightened his grip. He was making her stay.

Smirks curled on their full lips of those two lap girls. They exchanged glances, their eyes flickering with private enjoyment.

Then their master, with an elegant gesture of his long flouncy, feathery arm, began his lesson. His words sounded like a chicken and a snake getting into an argument, though his face was that of someone conveying wisdom. As he proceeded, the lap girls translated. However, unlike the previous two who had been there, they did not use academic speech. In fact, they did not even use common speech in a frank manner as one human ought to do for another in such a situation. Rather, the lap girl described in over-the-top, graphic and unsparing language, the very manner in which her Master would strip her of her virginity with his hands. She took care to elaborate on how it would feel, painting it vividly in Zormna’s brain.

Automatically, Zormna pulled her legs closed together, body shaking. Her lips went pale.

And they continued with their translation, grinning brightly with delight as if they were relating something cheerful rather than something crude and brutal.

The entire lesson seemed surreal. Their master orated in utterly matter-of-fact intonation as he spoke to her Master who O-gestured while he obediently listened. Yet the words from the lap girls remained explicit, if not pornographic in detail. It was a bit like listening to Stacey Price again, that one cheerleader back at Pennington who loved innuendo and dirty jokes, mostly to see whom she could make blush. It was the one thing Zormna had hated about Stacey, though these women were much worse. From their graphic translation, she could see in her head the vile things that would be done to her in the name of progressing ‘their union’.

Wrapping her arms around her stomach, Zormna pulled her legs in and rocked herself, hyperventilating. Both Th’sans stared at her, eyes widening with birdlike surprise. Her Master said something to his instructor, his eyes welling with concern.

Pausing his lecture, casting a critical glance at Zormna with a question to his lap girls, the visitor merely waved a feathery finger and continued on as if that sort of thing happened all the time. Apparently, all lap girls panicked upon this instruction. Or perhaps those two women had expressed that Zormna was merely super sensitive. She didn’t know what they were saying, really.

Thing was, as the visitor resumed his lesson, his lap girls hid snickers. Their cold purple and amber eyes mocked her with each word they said. They made it clear that she would not escape painful rape at all. And not only that, rape was only the beginning. They made it clear that Th’sans were kinky and would do all sorts of things to her. This sent Zormna into a deep terror.

While the visitor engaged the Master’s questions, one of the lap girls poked fun at Zormna, standing near so she could stare down on her. “What a naïve little virgin.”

“I know. What did she think it was going to be like?” the other hissed. Her lips formed into a lewd smirk. “And she is so tiny. It is really going to kill when he thrusts in his—”

Zormna slapped he hands over her ears, humming to block it out.

“Oh, especially from one of his kind, since it is all…” She made an odd, whirly hand gesture. They smothered giggles.

The Th’sans didn’t notice, too involved in their question-and-answer moment.

Zormna nearly peed herself, shaking. It was really going to happen. The question was simply ‘when’.

 

That night when the Master took Zormna into the bed, wrapping her in his arms as he slept—still not doing anything more than holding her like a pet—Zormna had nightmares. In the dream, he turned into a velociraptor from Jurassic Park who, while in bed, grabbed her with his claws and violently raped her with a monstrous appendage. Then the dinosaur-him in the dream opened its jaws and took a huge bite out of her shoulder.

Zormna lurched out of her sleep, screaming with a push and a kick out from the Master’s arms. She pushed so far that she fell off to the floor, covered in scratches from his claws.

He woke, startled. Peering over the edge of the bed, confused, he stared down at her on the floor. Seeing she was in enormous pain, especially from floor contact, he reached down and heaved her back up onto the bed. As he did, her mind still in the dream. She bit him.

“Zoama!” He slapped his large hand over most of her face, hissing for her to be quiet then stared at her teeth marks in his other hand.

She whimpered as the beast rocked her in his arms, hissing to calm her. But neither of them could sleep for the rest of the night—at least not soundly.

Zormna was still trembling in the morning, and the Master inspected the teeth marks in his wrist again. She had broken his skin in one place. The rest was heavily bruised. He also looked at the scratches she had gotten. During breakfast, he eyed her carefully as he treated her cuts, yet did not call a servant to punish yet. Perhaps he knew it had been involuntary.

Both were out of sorts when his visitor returned for another training session that afternoon. The Master’s own wound had been wrapped and treated with a liniment by one of his wives who had gloated over the damage. He presented both his wounds and Zormna’s to his guest when he arrived, clearly asking if this was normal.

The ‘teacher’ peered at Zormna with mild confusion, his neck doing that weird craning bird thing as he examined her. His response, however, came out off-hand and dismissive.

The Master did not look too satisfied by that.

The lap girls, however, exchanged simpering looks. One winked at Zormna as if to say the upcoming lesson for that day would be a doozy and she ought to brace herself.

As the Master was instructed in the nature of human sexuality and adapting it to Th’san needs, this pair of lap girls continued with the same timbre of lewd mockery as the previous pair, each detail explicit and gratuitous, as if on purpose. With each graphic verbal picture they painted for her ears, Zormna cringed and recoiled—so much that one lap girl called her a feeble little baby, then said, “It is time for you to grow up and accept your life as a woman.”

“As a woman?” Zormna growled back at her, already pale with dread. “This has zero to do with being a woman! You’re talking about being a whore!”

Both women’s cheeks darkened to a deeper orange. Their eyes flared angrily. Up until now, none of her protests had made a dent in them. They had mocked her, tormented her, and savagely belittled her. Glaring at her now, they squared their shoulders, lifting their breasts and chins indignantly, if not with loathing.

Zormna scowled back. Though their eyes said they would claw her face out, they did not know whom they were dealing with.

Incremental changes occurred between her and her Master as each of these lessons continued. Nothing dramatic. The Master kissed her a lot more and put his hands on her upper thighs, as if to getting her accustomed to them being there. As for the lessons, they shifted from mere verbal conveyance of information to demonstrations.

Zormna did everything she could not get out of watching the demonstrations. During the first one, she attempted to escape into the garden, but failed. The Master caught her and pulled her to the bench where there was no safe way to fight back. So, she closed her eyes, covering her face with her hands. The Master tightened his grip, shifting her to a spot between his feet where he pinned her between his thighs. He grasped her wrists the same moment she had tried to push against his knees to break free, pulling them away from her face and head. They would force her to watch this. 

Zormna crammed her eyes shut.

Unfortunately, she could not close her ears.

“This is starter positon one,” the near lap girl translated, nearly giggling.

The lap girl on the bed exaggerated her gasps and moans as the Th’san proceeded with whatever copulation technique he was trying to show her and the Master. The Th’san emitted those raptor grunts again.

Straining to pull her hands from her Master’s grip to cover her ears, Zormna began a loud “La la la!” like a child to block the noise. It didn’t work. She could still hear the lewd noises made between them, and the Master slapped a huge hand over her mouth to quiet her. Each grunt and moan from the bed churned up acid in her throat. Zormna gagged.

Vomit came up.

Yelping, her Master jumped off the bench. Her vomit splattered through his fingers and over his sleeve. Unexpectedly freed, Zormna opened her eyes as she stumbled to the floor, clutching at her mouth, feeling the acid rising in her throat again. Yet her gaze landed on the guest and his slave who had lurched to a halt together in compromising positions.

She retched again, coughing up partially digested lunch and stomach acid. It splattered all over her dress and the floor she had cleaned not too long ago.

Staggering away from it, cursing loud snaky clucks, the Master heaved Zormna straight to the toilet in a quick stride and put her face in it to catch anything else that might come out.

“So’omo! Hak’ko! Shuk!” he called out to the servants, stripping Zormna’s soiled dress straight off of her.

Two servants came in almost immediately, one which Zormna recognized through her blurry vision as she vomited again. Both saw her standing there naked, green-faced, shaking, with vomit dribbling from her mouth. Then their eyes took in the mess near the bed, then the rest of the scene. Speedily, they gathered up the mop and water and cleaned up the acrid spillage. They also took away the Master’s soiled coat and her dress.

As Zormna clutched the toilet seat, nauseous, yet covering her bare essentials, the Master tossed Zormna her bathing suit, huffing irritably to himself.

The teacher, pulling on his clothes again, stepped around the two servants as they cleaned. He hissed to the Master then his lap girls. Zormna watched as they exchanged several words. Once more, the tone of her Master begged to know if this was normal. First the new nightmares, then the bite, then this. Even the expert, hearing him, reacted as if he genuinely was surprised. As he made a comment or two in the doorway about it, Zormna noticed the servants who were cleaning up peeking at her in approval. Yet they left without a word.

The Master watched her carefully, deeply concerned.

 

Unfortunately, the ‘teacher’ returned two days later with another pair of lap girls, resuming the demonstrations. It was just was bad. Nothing really changed except her Master had prepared for the possibility of her vomiting again. He had bowl ready and her clothes had been changed into her bathing suit. Clearly, they believed she was doing it either as a form of protest or it was just an emotional hurdle they had to get over.

Zormna fainted twice that day while being forced to watch the ‘demonstrations’, especially as it looked painful for the woman. This time, her Master revived her with cold water and a strong bitter drink. His clucking and hissing begged again from his teacher if this was normal. She could tell from his tone that the white Th’san once again reassured her Master that this was indeed normal initial shock, which would eventually pass. Zormna, however, noticed the malicious grins of his lap girls scoffing at her distress.

And they did not let up.

Each duo of visiting lap girls teased her relentlessly about her naïveté. They mocked her inexperience. And whenever she was triggered by anything, suffering a visceral reaction, they laughed heartily—which was frequently. The worst part was that these lessons were often three times a week.  

When they finally left off demonstrations and returned to discussion once more, things did not improve. The lap girls clearly relished translating the more critical if not terrifying topics in the worst way. It occurred to Zormna during one of these ‘lessons’ that those lap girls were not naturally crude, but were doing this on purpose to torment her.

One particular lesson pushed her to the edge. The Master was being taught how to recognize when intercourse or handling has been too rough on his property—or as they put it—how much bleeding was too much. They talked of when her Master needed to increase or decrease the use of the mating balm which was for her ‘comfort’ for when he raped her. But when the teacher’s lap girls described in graphic, gruesome detail what the biological, sexual interaction between Master and human lap girl would do to her internal organs, Zormna finally lost it.

“Stop it!” Zormna jumped to her feet.

Surprised, her Master quickly grabbed her, pulling her away from the lap girls and his guest. He had been somewhat relaxed during some of the lessons since the demonstrations had ended as she had finally accepted she was unable to avoid them.

Smirking back at her, the lap girls watched the Master pet Zormna to calm her down. He loosened his grip as soon as she had settled again on his lap.

And they resumed translating. Their wicked eyes on her, their wicked words described the future violence upon her body, painting the most grotesque image in her head.

“I said stop it!” Zormna push against the Master’s claws to get at them. It was bad enough that she was going to be raped. She didn’t need this explicit prelude.

The visitor made a chirruping noise indicating a question, turning his birdish head toward his lap girls. Even he could not dismiss her now.

Yet that duo of spiteful human pets spouted out in their version of clucky hisses something that transformed the expression on that Th’san’s face from worried to appeased.

Watching their expressions shift from sweet and innocent to conniving, petty, and catty, Zormna realized they were lying to their master.

She stiffened.

Zormna’s Master instinctively pulled her deeper into his arms to restrain her.

And the lesson resumed.

Once more this duo of wretched little translators continued their pornographic version of whatever it was their master was saying. It enraged Zormna that they were perpetuating this verbal onslaught, working to terrify her.

“I said stop!” Zormna’s voice cracked at shrieking pitch. It was too much. They had to be silenced.

But the lap girls just tittered at her.

Zormna wrenched through her Master’s grip.

Springing on the nearest lap girl, her fingers grasped the other by her hair. She yanked that one down to the floor, shoving both offending wretches off her bed to the tile.  

Both Th’sans jumped up. But before either could stop her, Zormna wrenched both women’s heads from the floor only to ram them back down against it again, hard. She did it again, bashing noses and foreheads against the tile—until the sharp gut-gouging pain of the machine forced her to stop.

Immediately, Zormna let go of their hair, collapsing on her knees in between the sobbing slaves. She clutched her stomach where the pain dug in.

Such a noise roared up around her. She could hear it through the ringing in her ears. Those two lap girls wailed like a pair of cats, crawling in terror away from her. There were other noises. Her Master was shouting. So was the ‘teacher’. It practically echoed. Only the ringing in her ears due to the pain muted it, while the machine kept her immobile.

But then, just as abruptly, the pain quit. The Master had turned off the machine.

Panting, Zormna opened her eyes and realized that she was in the Master’s arms again, restrained once more on his lap. It was so peculiar that she had not felt it. But she was sitting up. The ringing in her ears persisted, though, and the ache remained.

To her right, a tender Aloean voice broke through it all, asking her with genuine concern, “Why did you attack them?”

It took a moment to straighten up. Wiping tears from her eyes, Zormna lifted her gaze to the slave who had previously been beaten for her disobedience. With a hasty look to the Master, horror rushed through Zormna. He was watching her carefully, his eyes inspecting her face. It was possible he would punish this slave if she did not answer right. So Zormna said, “They would not stop.”

Puzzled, the slave peeked nervously to the Master also. “Stop what?”

With another panicked glance to the Master, yet still disgusted with those two lap girls, Zormna replied, “The things they said to me are not repeatable.”

The slave paled, peeked to the lap girls then translated to the Master.

Upon her words, blinking his huge bird eyes at Zormna, the Master almost laughed. He asked a question and the slave translated to her. “Was it the topic that disturbed you?”

“I knew the topic.” Zormna moaned with a roll of her eyes. “But I don’t need a detailed description of how sex works. Like I told him the first day, I am not doing it!”

It took everything for the servant to mask her amused smile. She translated Zormna’s response with utmost humility to the Master.

Zormna watched the Master press his hand to his forehead, massaging along the line of his feather crest with a glance to the white Th’san. His expression said, “You see what I have to deal with?”

“But did you have to attack them?” the slave whispered to Zormna, thoroughly amused, and fondly so. So’omo looked likely to hug her.

Squaring her shoulders, straightening up in the Master’s lap as she realized with relief that the slave was just there for translation, Zormna bit out, “They were being disgusting.”

The Master nudged So’omo for translation.

Raising her eyebrows, the slave translated.

This time the Master looked to the lap girls. They visibly shrank away from him yet shot the slave a dirty look of betrayal. They garbled out an excuse to their owner. While listening to the chatter between them, the slave translated to Zormna. “They were only calling you a virgin. That is not shameful.”

“Only? ONLY? They were doing way more than that! It was beyond lewd!” Zormna snapped in exasperation. “The words they used when they could have been clinical… language that… unrepeatable! And they wouldn’t stop.”

After that was translated to the Master, though they had known what Zormna had said, the visiting lap girls shot back a retort in Th’san to their master.

“They say you called them whores.” Though, the slave remained privately amused.

Had she called them names? Zormna could not remember. And for that matter, she didn’t care. “That’s because they are whores.” Rolling her eyes, Zormna then added, lifting her chin. “Remind him who I am. I am a queen—not his private play thing. And I don’t care for what intent he had purchased me. I am a captive of war. And I was raised a soldier.”

The lap girls paled, hearing her. Had they not known that? Or had they not understood?  They still glowered at her.

Yet as the slave translated her words, the Master gazed silently on Zormna, shaking his head.

His guest cringed. She could tell he had reserved some fear about that very thing. As the one who had purchased her at the slave market and had sold her to her Master, he knew very well who and what she was.

“And if I have to kick their teeth in to shut them up for talking like common whores, I will,” Zormna added, her eyes fixed angrily on them.

The women pulled back.

And the servant translated that as well, watching them.

The teacher exchanged one look with the Master along with a few words. He hastily departed after that, perhaps rethinking the lessons.

Almost directly, her Master pulled Zormna aside to wrap the scratches she had gained from escaping his grip, clucking irritably at her.

 

Regrettably, that was not the last of the lessons, despite Zormna’s hope that the ‘teacher’ had, with wisdom, given up. A week later, that white crane slave trader returned, this time with a different pair of lap girls who had been duly instructed to not antagonize the one they were translating for. He pointed directly to Zormna’s head plates to remind them that she a naturally violent creature.

They obeyed strictly, keeping a fair distance from her—at least out of arms’ reach. And for good reason. Zormna found out later that she had broken the nose of one of those nasty lap girls and split the lip of the other, bruising their faces thoroughly. Every one of his other ‘pets’ saw what she had done and did not want the same to happen to them.

Unfortunately, despite how academic and clinical the pair translated the remainder of the lessons, they continued to describe things which filled Zormna with dread. Much of it was for instruction, explaining how to care for male Th’san hygiene, his libido, and other related topics. Zormna threw up and hyperventilated just a little bit less.

One of his final visits, the visitor brought a large case of products to sell to her Master. He definitely was invested in making Th’sans happy with their lap girls while earning a fortune doing it. Their instructor turned out to be an extremely savvy businessman who was frankly proud of his merchandise. He set his products out on the desk for the Master to examine as he went into his clucky-hissy spiel. Seizing Zormna by the wrist before she could escape into the garden to avoid this part, the Master heaved her up into his arms while he gazed over what had been brought.

The first item their guest showed off was a claw file kit, used for smoothing down and dulling all sharp finger claws so her Master could stroke his property’s bare skin with without scratching her. He had been petting her before, but carefully due to his sharp claws which he kept buffed and trimmed, but always regrew. But now, their guest ordered his lap girls to instruct Zormna on how to file down her own Master’s claws into nubs and buff them so he could truly touch her without harm. This would be part of the new daily routine in the morning, just after bath—her duty to care for his hygiene.

Keeping their distance from Zormna, the lap girls taught her how to file each claw, demonstrating on one of his claws while the salesman showed off his other wares. Zormna then was set at the Master’s feet as he pulled up the bench to sit. Sullenly, forced to handle one sharp claw at a time, she filed each one so that they were more like round smooth ends—not particularly attractive Th’san-wise, but safe to stroke, if not rub against soft human skin. The women made sure she had filed them right, checking her work on each claw to make certain Zormna understood how important it was she do this correctly. It was this or scratches, they said, eying the scratch on her arm from day she had attacked their fellow lap girls. And they added, so she understood, the claw filing’s main purpose was to help avoid unnecessary damage when he pleasured her.

Damage.

Zormna’s mind lingered on that—never mind that they tried to emphasize that he would be pleasuring her. What pleasure was there in molestation and rape?

She gazed up at the Th’san who owned her. Her heart raced. He could seriously harm her if she did not get away soon. He might not see the blood or scars, but she would feel it. And she most definitely did not want to lose her virginity to an alien.

Over her head, while she continued file down his claws on orders, the visitor handed the Master a jar of some kind of cream or jelly. The lap girls whispered that it was a numbing balm which was to be used internally on her as a treatment to make actual intercourse easier since they were biologically incompatible—especially his species of Th’san. It was going to hurt.

Zormna shuddered, her eyes on that jar. Him having it would mean he would be more proactive to reach his goals. But what if she got rid of it? What if he could not find it? What would that do? Would he go ahead anyway, or would it stall him until he got another container of balm?

Then the visitor brought out from his luggage peculiarly shaped pillows for the bed. They were bright and held form like they were made from memory foam. Their shapes hinted at their function, but Zormna did not want to actively imagine it.

Then he lifted out a shiny wooden box. Opening it, he showed the Master what looked to Zormna like the largest set of pan pipes she had ever seen—yet neon green and made out of some kind of firm foam. A seat cushion perhaps? A massage tool for the back, maybe? A foot massager? One end of the set was as long as from her wrist to the tip of her fingers, but the largest end was from fingertips to her elbow. And their thicknesses increased as well. A squeaky toy xylophone? It was a ‘gradual set’, the lap girls whispered, though they did not explain what those pipes had to do with anything, unless it was some kind of party gift like a kinky toy.

Zormna noticed another box, smaller like a ring box, but was unable to see the contents. The lap girls did not explain either what it was. Perhaps it was just for the Master.

When the white crane Th’san left for the day, the Master collected all the items and stored them away in one of his locked closets next to the bath where he kept his towels. He peeked at her as he shut the door, his eyes planning so much.

 

That night the Master stroked her inner thigh, savoring on the feel of it with his new-nubby fingertips, slowly drifting up to her crotch. A scream ripped out of Zormna’s throat the moment his fingers reached it. She clawed away to the edge of the mattress where she grabbed the edge and stared down to the floor… where she could not go. Horror filled her body. She instinctively lurched away.

The Master easily dragged her back to him. She clawed the sheets as he drew her to his body, cluck-chuckling while feeling up her leg again and further. This time he did not let go as he groped between her legs. She pulled at his hand, but was unable to make him stop. He went further. She yelped as he rendered her virginity to a technicality. As he deeply violated her for his pleasure, she sobbed into the mattress, still trying to dislodge his giant hand without success. It hurt.

He continued to violate her for several minutes, enjoying the feel of property at last. The worst part—as she helplessly endured the manual rape in despair, it felt exactly as the lap girls had described—especially the pain. It made her feel filthy—though logically he was the filthy one for doing this to her.

When he finally tired of feeling her up and testing out his newly rounded claws, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his body as he had before. He nodded to sleep without a care.

Her crotch throbbed. So did one breast, which he had also squeezed and groped. She trembled in his arms. Her mind had frozen down to one thought—this was only the start.

Zormna wept into the mattress.

 

In the morning, the sun shone into the room. It woke Zormna with its light. She breathed softly and shifted on the mattress. Immediately she felt a twinge of pain, a rawness between her legs she had never experienced before. It was worse than menstrual cramps. The previous night came back to her consciousness, shooting up her with a shock. Her body trembled.

With quaking hands, Zormna shifted, sitting up enough to check the damage her Master had done to her. There was blood on the mattress. Some of it stained her chemise. There were no bruises or scratches. But she was tender and raw in all the wrong places.

Trembling, Zormna looked quickly to her Master who continued to sleep contentedly on the bed. He was sure to do it to her again, now that the lessons were officially over. She wondered how fast he would force his agenda on her. She barely remembered the lessons, as she had willfully blocked them out—but she guessed he would continue to molest her until he just decided to fully rape her. She was not sure what would lead into that, but she hoped to delay it for as long as she could.

A few minutes later, the Master finally sat up. He yawned his large reptilian jaws, his deep green eyes batting out sleep. Yet when he looked down to her, his eyes also spotted the blood that stained his sheets. He grimaced, making that hissy grunt when he was annoyed. However, he smiled with a lust-filled look to Zormna whose eyes were puffy and nose stuffy from crying.

As one going about his cheerful day, he lifted her in his arms, and called out to the servants to clean up the mess. It took barely a few minutes for them to arrive, long enough for the Master to heave Zormna up and to the bath. While the servants were rushing to his room to carry out their duty, he turned the nozzles and pulled off her clothes so they could begin the day. She shivered, feeling like a captive animal. The entire thing was warped. As the servants went about their work examining the bloodstain and exchanging the top layer of the mattress for a clean one, Zormna flushed with shame, averting her gaze from them as they pretended they could not see her. They knew what had happened.

The Master still made her wash him, despite how shaken she was. It was his way of saying ‘This is just the new normal. Get used to it’. She did her duty as despair swept over her again.

Once they were both clean and dressed, the Master took her and waited for his breakfast to arrive. Yet as she sat on his lap as usual, instead of his previous pet-like treatment of her where he stroked her hair as one would a cat, he seized her in one of the secure holds the instructor had taught him and put his hand between her legs again.

Zormna wriggled, grabbed his sleeve, pulled and pushed at him, struggling to squirm off—to no avail. Her raw flesh stung as he assaulted her. By the time the food was finally brought in, she was heavily panting through tears. The moment he saw the food, he retracted his hand and set her down to her feet with an order to fetch the tray.

Everything in her revolted. Zormna swayed there, stunned at the audacity of the command. She could barely stand enough as it was after what he had just done. Zormna’s legs shook. Her knees felt weak. Her crotch ached. Yet he stared back expectantly, waiting for her to obey.

Zormna turned her eyes on him, shaking. She wanted to scream. And yet her mind already told her the outcome of that. A servant might pay dearly for it. One might even pay for her delay. It was unjust, but Zormna staggered across the floor, going on muscle memory for the tray, the indignity of it all coursing through her.

Satisfied, the Master got up and washed his hands.

Her fingers clenched around the rim of the tray. That overwhelming desire to scream and chuck that full tray of food at him resurged, yet she restrained it. It took all she could to lift up the tray and carry it back to her Master without throwing a fit.

Pleased with her performance, he took it from her then immediately pulled her onto his lap before she could get away. Thankfully, he did not grope her while they were eating. However, the moment the meal was over and he let her loose, she ran out into the garden, sobbing.

Regular morning continued as usual. He strolled into the other yards during the floor washing, keeping to the tradition.

Things seemed to take their old patterns. She went into floor washing, still achy. Yet when she finished, as soon as the horns blew and she was putting away the wash basin, fully clothed in a fresh chemise, he stepped into the doorway with his eyes resting predatorily on her. His gills were fluttering, taking on a reddish tinge. The slits of his eyes dilated as he viewed her tiny, vulnerable body. It was like he did not want to be apart from her long anymore. He had an appetite that he wanted satisfied. She trembled, seeing it. She knew what it all meant. He was aroused.

Despite all that, he went straight to business, allowing her to take a nap on the bed from exhaustion. During the course of his work, his eyes frequently drifted towards her with that lustful look. She did not see most of it, being in and out of consciousness due to an increasing depression. But after a few more minutes of work, he finally called her to him.

Conditioned to obey, she automatically came. But she instantly regretted it. As soon as he hefted her into his lap, his hand was between her legs again.

She pulled and pried at his wrists, struggling to make him stop as he worked to guarantee she was not a virgin. It lasted enough time to cause her body heat to rise, and affect her breathing so that her throat grew sore. Only then did he seem satisfied.

As soon as he let go, Zormna ran into the garden—this time plunging feet down into pond until the water engulfed her completely. Underwater, all she could think was ‘let me drown’. He was going to keep molesting her. He wasn’t going to stop. Yet her air grew short and self-preservation forced her back up to the surface, gasping.

She floated in the pond, her tears indistinguishable from the water running off her face from her soaked curls. Her mind reasoned that she had to escape, not kill herself. She was being too dramatic. Swimming to the pond’s edging stones, she leaned against them, her mind frozen. But she remained in the water for some time. He was not such a fan of getting in that pond water, so it gave her some safety. She stayed in the garden the rest of the morning, keeping as far from the Master as possible.

When he called for her at lunch, she hesitated.

A warning tone came into his voice the second time he called for her. Hearing it, Zormna obeyed, but kept herself arm’s length from him.

His eyes settled heavily on her wet hair and her damp clothes, judgement in his glare. But as usual, he ordered her to get the food, and she obeyed. However, she tried to sneak off from having to sit on his lap during the meal. It didn’t work. He snatched her up, pulled her onto his lap, and fed her as usual. As she ate, dread filled her gut more than food. She hardly had an appetite. He was sure to molest her again. And she got her proof when he kissed her neck, sliding one hand into her dress top. He was still eating.

She tried to pull his hands off her breasts, to pinch his writs with her fingernails to make him stop, but it was no use. She momentarily considered vomiting on him to make him stop. However, she hardly had anything in her stomach to begin with, and she needed her strength. When he once more released her after manhandling her now chafing breasts, she returned to the garden, sure there would be a repeat attack at dinner.

Near dinner time, when he called for her, she ran from him and hid in the plants. It made him laugh, initially. However, when she did not come, he bristled and marched back into the room, calling for the servant.

Hearing the So’omo’s pained cries, Zormna ran into the room. The woman cowered at the Master’s feet, bleeding with a blackened eye and several other bruises. He struck her repeatedly, hissing words Zormna did not understand. 

Horrified, Zormna rushed up and threw herself at his feet, begging him to stop.

He paused, chest heaving, fist raised, his eyes dilated on her.

“You have to obey,” the servant begged, trembling with desperate eyes on Zormna. “He won’t stop until you agree to submit to him for all things.” The servant closed her eyes, the purplish bruise on her face swelling. “I understand why you run… but I am begging you…”

Zormna trembled. The woman’s left eye was swelling shut. It was growing black, purple, and bleeding on one side with a cut. Zormna would not put it past the Master to even kill her and then start beating another servant until she finally submitted to molestation without a fight. It was wrong. It was so wrong. But what else was she to do? No matter what she did, someone would suffer—either her or them. She would be violated in the worst ways to satisfy his lusts, or they would be beaten to death. But she had to make a choice. It was unfair and cruel—because it really wasn’t a choice.

“Ok. I won’t run anymore.” Zormna’s voice trembled. She placed her body between his stayed hand and the servant, watching his eyes track her carefully. “Sax, Xoathqok.[1]”

The Master’s hand rested heavily on her head. His fingers then caressed down the side of her face. She trembled as he touched her. Then he went down further, feeling her breasts with pleasure, watching her reaction, waiting for her to fight back. He was testing her resolve, dammit. Though she flinched as he did this, trembling, she did not step away. And despite her desire to pull his hands off of her and take the offensive, she did not. She had to endure for the servants’ sake.

Pleased, the Master dismissed the servant, lifting Zormna into his arms with satisfaction. He carried Zormna to the bed where he laid her down, pushing her legs apart so he could once more take advantage of her. And though it was hell, she did not fight back.

And that was just the first day.

More of the same shameless handling occurred on day two—only this time Zormna did not run or pull away at all. She endured it.

Then day three.

And then all the days that followed.

Zormna cried most of the time when he molested her. But after more than a week of this, the servants no longer needed to change the sheets due to blood. She had healed enough, adjusting to this new life pattern which made her body feel hot, sore, and strange. It numbed her mind. Perhaps it was shock, she mentally considered in the moments her brain was working.

That Th’san slave trainer visited the following week to check on the Master’s progress. They had a whispered discussion, which, considering how little she understood their language, seemed quite silly. But he had taken the Master aside and talked seriously. During their discussion, she felt their eyes on her. Zormna trembled, just watching them. Something in their whispers told her that her training as a lap girl was not even near finished. She knew they were manipulating her emotionally and mentally. She just didn’t know what would come next. Or how soon. But this turned out to be the last visit from that slave trader for a while. She could feel it. He had taught her Master all he needed to know, for now.

Since the Master had established his molestation routine, the kinds of visitors who came-and-went had shifted a degree. Though Zormna had barely paid much attention to the various Th’sans that regularly visited her Master during this time, she did notice a pattern that affected how the Master would handle her that day, all in regards to his guests. Some were friends. Others were purely business, ranging from the political to trade issues. She could tell if one of them was a friend by their clothing, usually. They wore fancier outfits with flamboyant ruffs and layers and gaudy jewelry. They also regularly brought their favorite lap girls with them. The business-type usually wore plainer, business-like outfits—something in the lines and reduced excesses which she had found characteristic to Th’sans. When friends were there, he liked to have her with him. He molested her a great deal during these visits as if he were merely petting her head, often chatting happily with them as he did it. They acted as if this kind of behavior was the accepted norm—and it probably was. Yet during the business visits, those guests did not want her around at all when the discussed matters with the Master; so, the Master always sent her into the garden to keep her out of way. All in all, Zormna liked it when the business guests came. Their visits gave her a reprieve from her Master’s assaults, no matter how brief.

The Master often knew ahead of time who was coming. In the morning, he frequently sent her out before his business guests even arrived. She liked that.

However, out of curiosity, Zormna once got in a peek at one of those business-Th’sans, just to see what kind of Th’san he was. From his clothing she guessed he was some important military general or judge. His suit had that sort of crisp regimented appearance that just screamed “I command and people obey”. She would have gotten a better look at the Th’san had her Master not caught her peeking inside the doorway. The moment he spotted her, he ordered her further into the garden. She scurried away before he could decide to take her disobedience out on a servant.

Days came and went, full of much of the same thing. They became weeks.

In who-knew-how-many weeks since he began to seriously molest her, Zormna had been sent into the garden at the expectation of such a business Th’san’s arrival. She had long learned to stay away from the garden door—currently deciding to sit out near the pond as she coped with intense menstrual cramps. She had secretly celebrated the arrival of her period. That morning the Master had discovered it when he thought to pleasure himself with her before breakfast. The moment he saw the blood on his fingers, the Master gagged. He nearly dropped her, running to the water spigot to wash it off. Zormna watched with vindictive enjoyment from the floor where he had set her down as he rigorously scrubbed his hands for several minutes. He hated human blood, especially feminine blood. The smell disgusted him. He had always despised her periods, grumbling every time they had come around. After he had washed, when saw that some of her blood had gotten onto his clothes and hers, he stripped, himself and her, shrieking for the servants to take their garments away. It was hilarious watching him freak out over it. And when he saw her snicker, he grabbed her and put her on the toilet as if he could end her period in one fell swoop. But he would remember soon enough that it would take about a week for her bloody flow to cease. As such, happily, this meant he would not be messing with her for at least five to seven days—a blessed reprieve.

Yet the peace she received from this wonderful separation was disturbed when she heard the idle laughter and prattle of women. Zormna looked to the garden door where she saw a gaggle of lap girls skip into the garden.

Her brows knit together, confused. Wasn’t their visitor supposed to be here on business? It was unusual for such a guest to bring lap girls. And lap girls were so annoying.  This group had about four of them, and all of them were dressed—if dressed could be the word to describe them—in strategically draped ropes of glittering precious stones and very little, sheer cloth. The moment this group spotted her, they giggled stupidly, and rushed to the pond with an ignorant sort of glee as if seeing a cute little kitten they wanted to play with. Apparently they had never heard of her or been there before.

Three of the gaggle, who were dragging over the fourth with them to the water, surrounded Zormna with exhaustingly stupid chatter. She would have climbed into the tree to get away, but she was just too tired to exert the effort. They pawed her with curiosity, eying her pale skin while sticking their fingers in the curls of her fiery hair as if they had never seen the like before—which probably they hadn’t. Feeling utterly smothered, Zormna resisted the urge to push them off. They were more like little children—entirely ignoring her personal space.

  “You are so beautiful,” the nearest lap girl piped up with a high airy voice Zormna would have expected from a cheap TV show of a kinky, if not ditzy character. “Does your hair feel warm on your head? It looks like fire.”

It was ridiculous.

Glancing toward the bedroom archway, ignoring the woman whose nearly bare breasts were almost in her face, Zormna tried to catch a glimpse of the Master’s guest—just this once. Inside the Master’s chambers, she saw a green-skinned Th’san with a stubby crane-like neck. A crown of red and blue feathers crested his head. He stood not far from the doorway, glancing to the garden and his property to make sure they settled in fine. His attire was tastefully wealthy. He wore narrow, simple white robes with filigree trim along the edge of his hems and cuffs. His extravagance, apparently, was in the number of lap girls he owned and the sheer amount of jewelry that adorned them. She wondered what kind of business he was in. Maybe it was jewelry. He could also be a slave trader for all she knew. He had kinkier tastes in the adornment of his lap girls—worse than most she had seen.

The mindless lap girls each reached in to stroke her curls, their hands all over her head and shoulders. Getting extremely claustrophobic, Zormna popped up from the pond-edge stone she was sitting on and shrugged them off, stepping away from them. They stared at her, confused. Two still strove to get in one more pet of her hair.

Hoping for a tiny bit of intelligence in their conversation since there was no way to shut such lap girls up once they started talking, she asked, “Who is your master?”

The dominant one of the group, a curvy woman draped in nothing but strings of white and blue stones said, “Oh, he is honorable Master Governor Xoazz Suss’th. Praise be his generous hand!”

Zormna blinked at her, resisting the urge to moan. They would not take to that well and the visit would go nasty. Lap girls to this degree brainwashed were often extremely attached to their abusers. It was difficult enough to avert her eyes from the naked parts of her skin. The lap girl had too much of that.

A rather sulky laugh came from the farthest lap girl who, Zormna realized, had left her alone. Zormna perked up. Such a sound was refreshingly odd. Equally adorned in nothing but chains of precious stones and a thin bum skirt of fluffed sheer fabric, this lap girl had the manner of someone akin to how she, Zormna, had been feeling for ages. This woman scowled. It was an honest scowl. Genuine. It wasn’t a jealous or petty like those usual scowls she got from visiting lap girls. The look in this woman’s eyes was defiant—no still defiant. It occurred to Zormna that this woman had to be a recent acquisition of this Th’san—a new slave. The lap girl sat there with her legs tightly closed, her arms strategically shielding view of her bare breasts. A shiver went through Zormna. This woman was how she used to be before her Master had broken her.

Struggling to keep from being sarcastic, as her sarcasm often upset visiting lap girls, Zormna asked this one in curious Aloean, “You don’t agree?” She wondered how long it would take for this woman to be broken.

Irritated, the lap girl muttered in Ancient Arrassian to herself, “I hate all Th’sans.”

A shock of energy whipped through Zormna. Hastily climbing out of the water, Zormna rushed up to this captive, exclaiming in the same language, “You can speak Ancient!” After being stifled with nothing but Th’san and Aloean, Zormna almost hugged her, but resisted, seeing how guarded this woman was with her space. “How do you know Ancient?”

The expression on this woman’s face shifted from bitterness to wary surprise. She leaned away from Zormna, eying her up, skeptical of Zormna’s enthusiasm. She peevishly replied, “I’m a pirate. All pirates know Ancient. We preserve the language.”

“I can’t believe it,” Zormna murmured as relief swept over her. Here was an intelligent woman. A grin spread wide across her face, tears cresting her eyes as she restrained once more the urge to hug the once Pirate. “How did you end up captive? And a lap girl of all things?”

“I was caught. Ok?” The Pirate captive frowned, eyeing Zormna more, maintaining her arms over her bare chest. “As for me being a lap girl—I can’t help the way I look. Th’sans are perverted monsters. And I’m not strong enough to fight him off.”

But that was also her. Another shiver went through Zormna. With a cringe, she nodded, leaning backward against a trellis covered in vines. She massaged her forehead. They were both stuck in the same mess. It would be great if they could get out together.

Zormna looked to the walls of her garden, thinking. She doubted they would hold this woman in. She had no collar nor implants. If this Pirate could help her over the wall, they could both escape.

“Who are you?” the Pirate gal asked. There was just a degree less cynicism in her voice as her eyes took in Zormna’s curiously pale skin and non-Aloean hair color more, slowly adding up that she was not quite like them. Her eyes flickered on the mark on Zormna’s shoulder and the medallion she wore. “And why are you a lap girl?”

Dropping down next to her, her mind still thinking of a possible escape plan, Zormna replied, “Like you said, I can’t help the way I look.” She knew her appearance was the reason the Th’san had bought her to be a lap girl and she had not ended up in a mine which she could have probably escaped. And even now as she asked herself how far would two half-naked lap girls get on the rocky Th’san street before they were caught again, she explained wearily, “I’m Alea Zormna Clendar Tarrn, an Arrassian Surface Patrol officer. The Th’sans stole me off my ship during battle, and I haven’t been able to get away since—though believe me, I’ve tried.” She touched the implants on the sides of her head.

The captive Pirate gal’s dark eyes widened upon her. The woman pulled back, really staring at her, the medallion and shoulder scar again, and drew in a breath. “You’re the Tarrn?”

Shivers went through Zormna. She had forgotten. The Pirates knew about Tarrns. And this one gazed expectantly at her.

Zormna closed her eyes, cringing. What a pathetic sight she must be. She was supposed to be the hope of her people. However, Zormna nodded to the captive Pirate. It was wrong to lie. She was the Tarrn.

The Pirate girl collapsed at Zormna’s feet, shaking. With tears, she scrambled onto her knees, crawling before Zormna who pulled back in horror. The Pirate woman lowered her bejeweled head into the bright yellow fluted flowers in devoted obeisance which caused Zormna to slip backward off her seat—almost into the pond. Grabbing the stone, regaining her balance before she could drop into the water, Zormna quickly pulled at the woman. “Get up! Get up! Don’t bow at me! I hate that!”

The other lap girls stared, sapphire and amethyst eyes widening on the both of them.  

However, lifting her face, the captive Pirate openly wept with the widest grin, looking likely to hug Zormna now. “No. You are our queen. You’ve come to save us. I swear my undying devotion to you!”

What could she do? This was humiliating. Pulling the lap girl by her arms, Zormna heaved her onto her feet. “Well, stop that. I don’t like it from my people, and it is useless here while I’m captive.”

Looking around, first at the yard then at Zormna, the Pirate gal continued to keep her head low, almost in fear of standing higher than her—which Zormna could not help being so short. She exclaimed, “But why are you captive? Didn’t you have a protector?” Her joyful smile contorted quickly into disquiet. “Weren’t they supposed to keep you safe?”

A deep guilt stabbed Zormna. What could she say but confess the truth? “It’s my fault I was captured. I didn’t listen to my protector when he told me not to go into battle.”

“But you can get away, right?” The Pirate woman still gazed on her with hope, her eyes shining with tears as she grinned wider. “You’re just waiting, right, for the opportune moment?”

Oh, what misplaced faith. Zormna inwardly groaned, wishing that were true. If only there were a way out. Already she had given up her recent whimsical idea that two half naked human slaves could get over the walls and escape barefoot together on that gravel road to steal a Th’san space craft. Honestly. How would that actually work? 

Zormna looked to the garden wall again. She also glanced at the other three lap girls who were struggling to understand the discourse between her and the Pirate. Though Ancient and Aloean were similar, it was like Greek and English being similar. There were a few words here and there that maybe they understood.

 Lifting the curls away from the sides of her face, Zormna pointed to the machinery fused into her temples to her skull once more. “I can’t.”

All their eyes set on the implants. Though the three lap girls did not quite know what they meant, the Pirate woman did. Coming close, the Pirate examined the Th’san tech, also taking in the faint scars that encircled Zormna’s neck, the yellowish patches on her cheek from where the ball had scraped, and other old scars. Her eyes raked over Zormna with solid regard as she said, “You fought him though. Even with those implants in your head, you fought him. Most of the men can’t even do that. Not even Pirates.”

Yet Zormna closed her eyes, shaking her head. “But I lost. He’s already gone as far as…” Zormna breathed hard, still feeling the chafing in her crotch where he had heavily molested her that morning and got a load of smelly blood and menstrual tissue for his efforts. “And I am afraid that I won’t be able to…” She choked up again, clenching her teeth.

The other lap girls gazed silently on Zormna. There was pity in their gaze, but not for the same reason the Pirate came up to her with comprehending tears. The Pirate woman whispered, “No matter what happens, your protector will come for you. You are still the chosen one. Have hope.”

Hope? A shiver of warmth rippled over Zormna as she gazed on this Pirate. Was there still hope? How could she be regarded as a strong chosen leader after being brought so low? For that matter, she knew how much lower the Master intended to take her. He was going to abuse her until she became as mindless and obedient as these naked and staring lap girls who were in her yard.

Yet the Pirate turned and explained everything to the other lap girls in Aloean—most especially expressing her hope and joy that she was seeing prophecy fulfilled in her day. And in dramatic conclusion, she said, “…The Creator has brought his chosen here so that we can be rescued. And her protector will not stop until she and all of us are freed!”

Shivers whipped through Zormna.

Of course the Pirate woman was right. She couldn’t give up hope. Maybe there was reason for all this. Besides, Jafarr would not let her stay captive, even if he were captive himself. He would find a way to reach her. He was a blasted escape artist and a gifted seer for pity’s sake. He would find a way and come for her. There was hope.

Jafarr’s mood had plummeted since the Month of Adaral. Since the eight-hour pains had stopped, the doctor said he could return to his duties. He didn’t need to stay with his relations anymore. All the seers recommended he simply go back to work. But what was there to go back to? Politics? Dealing with foreign complaints? Internal construction, and explaining why the war was not ending? Jafarr hated it all. Besides, he had only agreed to become President because of Zormna. Worse, he could feel the distance between him and Zormna had grown larger once the pain quit. It was like their connection had fled. He woke every morning in the presidential suit in the uppercity feeling empty. 

The Arrassian president walked moodily about the capitol offices, dealt with politics with a grim stare. He sat with his friends in an abysmal funk whenever they visited. And something else was happening which he could not explain. Occasionally he felt like his skin was crawling with… something. It made him incredibly uncomfortable. He inspected his bed and clothes for bugs or for a rash on his skin, but there was nothing. Those who worked with him hinted that it was most likely psychological as he was stir-crazy with depression, but Jafarr wasn’t so sure.

The only thing that drew him out of his funk was whenever he got a snatch of news from the front—any good news. But news from the front of the war had not improved much. The war was now at a standstill. In fact, a rumor reached his ears that Alea Salvar had returned from the front—already the third month since Zormna’s capture—home to report to his father the Kevin. The very second Jafarr heard about it, he demanded to see him.

His demands were denied.

So he snuck out. He had to confront Alea Salvar himself.

He got stopped at the Alpha district gates.

The gatekeeper at Alpha district had been strictly ordered by the Kevin to keep Jafarr out while Alea Salvar was there—never mind that the entire Surface Patrol had been off limits to Jafarr for the past three months to keep him away from the ships. And though they had been successful in keeping their president on the planet, Jafarr had already busted in twice during his house arrest—once to visit Alea Arden who had been kept busy with training new recruits. The second time to borrow something from one of Arden’s tech labs. The soldiers in the Patrol (except for Arden) were only aware of the first time. The fact that he had escaped his guards thoroughly irritated the gate guard, Anzer Tellovii—who knew Jafarr better than half of the Surface Patrol, but only because of Zormna.

“I told you,” Anzer Tellovii said watching the Surface Patrol guards restrain their president from entering the facility, secretly hoping they would be enough as Jafarr was famous for his strength and fighting skill. “I can’t let you in. The Kevin has forbidden it.”

Fed up, jerking back, Jafarr scowled at him. “Fine! Then I’ll get in another way!”

He turned and stomped angrily from the entrance. None of the Surface Patrol officers wanted to follow him, but protocol said they had to contact his bodyguards and escort the president back to his quarters if no one else was available. A pair marched after him.

Well ahead of them, Jafarr left-turned the corner, getting quickly out of their sight. They did not rush up in time to see him sprint to a place in the wall, open it, and slip into the gap. Not all rebellion operations and escape routes had been dismantled after the revolution was over as they had presumed. Jafarr had made sure not all of them had been revealed to the Surface Patrol—just in case.

From there, Jafarr had to do much climbing and crawling to get where he was heading. Several times he paused to listen to the voices below to make sure he was going in the right direction. He stopped once or twice then crawled into an airshaft that was just wide enough to slide in where he shimmied up a ways until he could climb out into another level.

Now the voices were above him.

From here, Jafarr continued to crawl through age-old dirt and dust until he finally came to the grate he wanted, which was just over his head. Prying his fingers underneath, he pulled the metal air grate down, scraping his fingers and straining against the weight. He stuck his head into the open area. It was an empty classroom. The air grate sat just behind the last desk in the back of the room where ancient maps of Arras leaned, rolled up against the wall.

Pushing his way up and out of the air vent, he then fitted the air grate back into place to keep it hidden. Standing up, Jafarr attempted to dust off the dirt his suit collected, but it really was a losing battle. His cheeks and forehead were coated in grime, a combined accumulation of ordinary dust and the rusty desert oxide of the outer canyon sand. When he shook his head, the dust formed little clouds around him, falling onto his dirty shoulders. He heaved a sigh, thinking over his options before walking resignedly to the door. There, he hesitated. Drawing in a breath, realizing he was horribly out of practice with all the sneaking about, Jafarr squared his shoulders and prepared to act like he belonged in the Surface Patrol. Otherwise people would notice he didn’t.

Young cadets stared at him the moment he stepped out of the room. Most of them were very young, maybe ten years old at the oldest, five at the youngest. All of them were lined up for classes. An aver led each class, acting as an aid for the teacher during the lessons. Most of the students stared open-mouthed at him.

Jafarr nodded to the students as if he belonged there, trying not to feel conspicuous. Then he bent toward the eldest of the group. “Uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Kevin’s office is? I got lost.”

The child blinked at him.

“Is it somewhere down the hall? Not far?” Jafarr noticed their blank looks. He gazed hesitantly at the aver who stood at the head of the line of ten-year-olds. He scratched his head.

“President Jafarr?” the aver said, leaning near to him.

Jafarr’s face grew redder. He nodded, clearing his throat. “I just want to see the Kevin.”

“He’s the president!” The children started whispering to one another.

Moaning, Jafarr nodded. His shoulders hung, raising his hands to placate them. “Yes, yes…. Where is the Kevin’s office?”

All of the cadets pointed immediately in the same direction.

Nodding, Jafarr laughed. “Thank you.” And he turned to go, weaving out from the lines of children.

The aver at the head of the procession called after him. “Turn right after you pass three halls. Then turn left. It is written on the door.”

Jafarr nodded again and smiled. “Thank you again.”

They all waved and chattered excitedly thrilled they that got to meet the President.

He walked hastily down the corridor, quickly passing other classes of students and even a few instructors who turned and gaped at the sight of him deep in Alpha district. But none tried to stop him. When he turned down the left corridor, just a few feet away from the Kevin’s door, another instructor turned at the sight of him, his eye raking over his dusty suit and dark hair from the back. He made chase. “What are you doing here? This is a restricted section to civilians.”

Jafarr hurried on, going straight to the Kevin’s door. He paid no attention to the soldier.

That is, until the instructor pounced on him.

Throwing him off, Jafarr shove the instructor to far wall and pointed at him. “Don’t stop me.”

The teacher—an alea, Jafarr could now see—attempted to grab his jacket front, but when he lifted his eyed to Jafarr’s face, the alea abruptly fell back. “President Jafarr? What are you…? How did you…? You can’t….”

Shaking his head, Jafarr turned back around to open the Kevin’s office door.

“No! Wait! The Kevin’s orders!” the alea cried out.

Jafarr pulled out a small device he had been carrying in his pocket and slapped to door access panel with it. Normally, the panel merely signaled to the Kevin someone was outside, and he had to let the one outside in—unless of course he was inputting his own code. But the machine bypassed that, opening the doors automatically.

The Kevin lifted his eyes when the door opened, his back straightening in surprise. He was at his desk, his eyes taking in the two individuals in the doorway. He recognized the Surface Patrol officer first.

“Alea Sholda, didn’t I tell you I was busy? And who is—?”

But then Jafarr marched in.

He immediately popped out of his chair. “How dare—!”

Jafarr, however, was looking for Alea Salvar and no one else—ignoring the Kevin. Sure enough, the young Zeta leader was in the room. Alea Salvar’s eyes widened as Jafarr marched straight to him, seizing him by his suit front and slammed him against the wall. “How dare you return without her!”

“Didn’t I order you to keep him out?” the Kevin bellowed to whomever else was in the room.

“It looks like he crawled in here, Kevin. We didn’t let him in. Look at him.” Alea Arden replied dryly—also in the room.

“I ought to pound your head in,” Jafarr snarled through his teeth, shoving Alea Salvar harder into the wall.

Salvar seethed back but was surprised that he was unable to dislodge himself. They had never physically fought one another before. Salvar had always assumed he was the stronger one with all his training, but now… he resisted the urge to use more extreme measures to free himself. The President, after all, was still an important figurehead—and Zormna would never forgive him if he ‘broke’ Jafarr.

“Put my son down,” the Kevin ordered. 

Jafarr shoved Salvar one more time against the wall then let go, turning toward the Kevin. “Perhaps it is you I should be furious with. You’re the one keeping me here like a prisoner. At least your kid wants to find Zormna, or at least I think he does.” He shot a foul look back at Alea Salvar who was now rubbing his neck and scowling.

 “I’m sick of waiting,” Jafarr snapped toward the Kevin. “It has been three months. Zormna cannot escape on her own. It is not like last time. She’s trapped.”

Glowering back like a thundercloud, the Kevin did not reply. He sat back down in his chair, his breath heaving with the same stubborn resignation as always.

Alea Arden, whom Jafarr noticed was standing to the side watching him with sympathy, stayed out of the argument. Jafarr had already had words with him anyway. Arden was the type who generally practiced within the bounds of the military. He sympathized with rebels, but he wasn’t one himself.

Seething, Jafarr’s eyes fixed heavily on the Kevin. “Are you just going to sit and do nothing?”

Shaking his head with that authoritative tilt in his chair, majestically resting his elbows on his desk, the Kevin replied, “We are doing all we can to—”

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!” tossing up his hands if he had been thrown a rotted orange to eat, Jafarr shouted. “You’re sitting here in your desk discussing war politics. I was out there when she was captured! I could have done something!”

Yet a mere huffy sigh preceded the Kevin’s response. “Alea Salvar acted in the best—”

“In the best what? Interests of our people?” Growing hotter with indignation, Jafarr resisted the urge to strangle the military bureaucrat. He was just too comfortable there in that chair. “I’ve heard that one already. Give me a better lie.”

The Kevin rose out of his seat, squaring his broad shoulders. “That’s disrespect! My son saved your life!”

“My life?” Jafarr pounded on the desk, in substitution for the Kevin’s face which he actually wanted to smash. “Who cares? What about Zormna? I don’t care about my life! I was supposed to protect her, and he prevented me! I’m not a stinking president! I was her bodyguard!”

The Kevin’s neck remained stiff, jaw clenched.

Then Jafarr rounded on Salvar. “And what are you doing about her now? Huh? Are you looking for her? Huh?” He grabbed a hold of Alea Salvar’s suit again. “Where is Zormna?”

But Alea Salvar would not put up with that this time. He seized Jafarr’s wrists, twisted them and threw their president to the floor.

Jafarr was only stunned for a second. He curse aloud, quickly hopping to his feet as the head of Zeta then braced for a real fight. It had been long time coming. Jafarr turned to face him, fists clenching.

Yet Alea Arden seized Salvar from behind, holding him back in a lock. “No. You have no idea what he has already gone through.”

Jafarr held off, his eye on Arden.

“What he’s gone through?” Salvar jerked from Alea Arden’s grip, bristling with offense as he rounded on the head of Alpha. “While he’s been resting here, we’ve been fighting a war!” He stalked to other side of the room, far from Jafarr Zeldar who followed him like a riled tiger yet maintained his distance for the sake of Alea Arden whom Jafarr respected.

“Resting….” Jafarr muttered through his teeth. He shook his head. It was insult to injury. “I had no idea you thought captivity was resting.”

“I’ve been through more than I want to mention. And we have been looking for Zormna.” Alea Salvar snarled. “But we still know nothing about our enemy! The Aloeans are no help! We have nothing to go on! I came back so we could regroup! This lull give us time to do that!”

Lull? Jafarr felt no lull. The soldiers were just tired. And though he understood that, he also knew that human nature itself needed real motivation to keep going or they would give up out of sheer desire for comfort. They would become complacent to the point of allowing slavery to continue. He had to drive the war back into full thrust against those lousy Th’sans. Otherwise, they would lose Zormna forever. He realized now that he was not dealing with reasonable people at all here, no matter how they saw themselves. They did not understand what was at risk. And he had to get to Zormna before it was too late.

Jafarr glanced at the Kevin and then at Alea Salvar. How could he possibly get into their minds to let him do what he had to do? Then glancing more kindly at Alea Arden who was uncomfortably stuck between both sides, intending, no doubt to play referee between them for the sake of peace. His mind was still open to reason.

Jafarr nodded to himself and stepped back toward the Kevin’s desk. “I have a proposition, then, if you really think you are doing all that you can.” Yet his gaze turned back toward Alea Salvar and the Kevin both. “And if I really have to be stuck here ‘resting’ while you go out playing war…”

Salvar’s scowl twisted furiously at him.

“…then how about I give you three more months.”

“What?” Alea Salvar blinked. He glanced to his father, not sure he had heard Jafarr correctly.

Alea Arden raised his eyebrows, thinking the same thing.

Yet Jafarr nodded, thinking on what he had to do. “You heard right. I’ll give you three more months to search for Zormna. Prove to me you actually care about her.”

Salvar’s chest heaved. Indignation filled him. Good.

For good measure, Jafarr squared his shoulders, standing as a president ought, eying the pair of them in such a way that sent a tremor through all in the room, as he said, “And if you fail to find her in those three months—you have to let me go back out to look for her myself.”

Automatically, the politically-minded Kevin shook his head. “No. No, no, no. Nothing doing. The People won’t allow it.”

The People? Jafarr was sick of the Kevin telling him what ‘the People’ would and would not allow. He doubted the Kevin even knew. The only reason they invoked ‘the People’ was that as President he had sworn to do the People’s bidding and he had fought for them in the rebellion.

Jafarr thumped his fist against the desk. “If you don’t agree to this, I will make your life a living hell. And don’t you think I can’t. I’ll steal a ship and go myself if I have to!”

The Kevin’s mouth popped open.

“Don’t think I haven’t already figured out a way.” Jafarr pointed at the Kevin. “I’ve broken into the Patrol compound dozens of times. And you know I’ve broken in and out of prison—so you won’t succeed in locking me up. And if you try to stop me, remember that Zormna was the only one ever able to do so.”

Alea Salvar peeked to his father. The Kevin restrained a tremor. Even Alea Arden stood as if a shiver had gone down his back.

“The only reason I haven’t gone yet is that I still believe in Arras. And if I wasn’t the damn President, I’d be gone already.” Jafarr looked each of them in the eye. “Don’t force me to choose between my people and my queen. Though I love my people, she comes first. I was born to protect her. I was destined to find her and bring her out of obscurity. And I am not going to let her stay captive. So is it a deal or not?”

Their faces quietly asked if it was deal Jafarr was even asking. It was more like a challenge.

“Three months?” The Kevin bowed his head, scratching at something on the desk, thinking. Finally, he nodded.  

“What?” Alea Salvar flushed. He marched quickly to the Kevin. “You’re not going to agree to this, are you?”

Peeking darkly at the dirty, yet formidable Jafarr who, as always, stared back with those fathomless eyes which could see beyond the walls of that room, the Kevin frowned, restraining his natural instinct toward distrust. There was so much about their President that he had been at odds with since the beginning. The Kevin had known Jafarr briefly and poorly. Their interactions had nearly always been abrasive. And facts he did know were from his criminal record. The Kevin had always thought Jafarr was a base scalawag, regardless of his Zeldar ancestry.

Weighing all this in his mind, he also knew of Jafarr’s enduring endless capacity to fight with bare threads and still succeed against a vastly more powerful enemy. As the President had said, he knew Jafarr had broken in and out of ISIC (their prison), so they couldn’t actually lock him up anywhere. And he also knew the man was everlastingly devoted to Zormna and would never just sit back and let others act for him if he could do something. Further, he knew the only thing that truly had stopped Jafarr from escaping into space in the past was his reported medical condition. But now that Jafarr was feeling much better, he could make good on his argument.

Bowing to Jafarr, the Kevin sighed. “Deal.”

Jafarr breathed easier. He could see the Kevin now understood—at least enough to get him where he needed to be.

However, Alea Arden looked mildly puzzled, yet abundantly relieved.

Displeased, but ever dignified as the head of Zeta, Alea Salvar grumbled, “Fine. In three months, if we haven’t found Zormna and this war has not turned around, I’ll let you lead the war yourself—you egotist.”

Egotist? Jafarr wanted to slap him. He was sick of Salvar projecting his own self onto him. The redheaded solider was always so savagely jealous of him and had always been in the way of him doing his duty to Zormna. Yet he had to keep civil. Jafarr nodded, dust still shaking from his hair. He then bowed per custom, dismissing himself.

Alea Sholda had been standing in the open doorway the entire time, watching it all. His eyes followed the young president as dust continued to fall from his clothes and hair, leaving a light trail behind him as he went out. Peeking after Jafarr, he then he turned to Alea Arden, whispering. “Does he know how to go out?”

Alea Arden shrugged, somewhat dazed as if he had been staring at the sun. “He got in.”

The Surface Patrol instructor shook his head, quickly leaving the room to aid the President if needs be, shutting the door behind him.  

Alea Salvar turned immediately onto his father, his gaze savage.

The Kevin bowed as he sat down, knowing his son’s thoughts without him saying them. “You’d better do some desperate searching in the next three months.”

Shooting Alea Arden a sharp look as the man was restraining a smirk, Alea Salvar nodded bitterly.

 

[1] “Yes, Master.”

Fights Won and Lost

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven:

 

“Often does hatred hurt itself.”—Tolkien—

 

 

Zormna awoke, startled by the early rising of her Master and glanced groggily at the garden archway. The sun had not risen yet, and she flopped her head back onto the pillow.

The Master, however, stood up to meet someone standing in the doorway, wrapping his bed robe around himself tighter to cover his bare body. Both Th’sans were talking in such quick hisses that Zormna awoke again and looked up at the Th’sans conversing in the darkness. The one that came wore a kind of uniform Zormna had only seen once or twice when she was first captured. He had to be a soldier.

The sight of a soldier woke her dormant curiosity. Zormna leaned on her arm now and watched them, straining to hear the words they said, attempting to discern some pattern that might make their noise intelligible. But it was all hisses and clucks, and she really was tired.

Zormna fell back against the pillow and waited for the Master to return to bed. It unsettled her. In fact, it unsettled that she found it unsettling to have him gone at night, like missing a leg suddenly, or an arm. Her eyes drooped lower and lower, and soon the lull of their voices put her back to sleep.

 

The morning sun woke Zormna. She stretched, feeling the warm air around her. Her arms reached up and out, flopping into the empty space next to her.

Zormna sat up at once. He was gone.

Glancing about the room, Zormna noticed that the Master’s bed robe hung next to the bath where it usually did when he dressed. Sliding out of bed, she crossed to the bath and looked in. The bottom of the tub was damp, but barely. Turning, Zormna walked next to the garden entrance. Distant music played from a neighboring house down the hill. Insects fluttered over the flower-and-palm-filled yard, stirred only by the light breeze that blew over the wall with a scent of cinnamon and coriander. No one was there.

Hearing a clinking sound from behind, Zormna turned quickly. But it was only the old slave setting the breakfast tray on the desk. The woman turned to leave without a word as she always did.

Zormna sprinted barefoot to the servants’ doorway to stop her. “Wait!”

The woman halted and regarded her for a careful second as the servants had long become silent around her. They hardly ever looked at her now.

“Where is the Master?” Zormna asked, keeping out of the servants’ hallway to avoid pain.

The woman bowed approvingly at Zormna’s polite address toward the Th’san who owned her. Speaking quietly, she said, “He is gone on urgent business.”

Zormna didn’t know why that made her stomach sink. She should have been happy to be free of his groping hands and damp tongue. Instead, she felt a low ache inside her abdomen that she just couldn’t explain.

She nodded to the woman and allowed her to go. In a daze, Zormna stumbled back toward the bed and sat down.

For the next three days, the Master did not return.

Alone the longest stretch the Th’san had ever left her, Zormna went about the routine the Master had given her. She didn’t know why. He was not there to punish her if she didn’t wash the already perfectly clean floor. He certainly couldn’t stop her if she decided to run amok and tear apart his computers, a thought Zormna would have had just a few months ago when she was trying to open his drawers to look for tools to help her escape. She was terrified that he would walk in during the middle of her attempt to break into the thing, so she had abandoned it and had gone outside instead. As such, she spent most of her time in the garden, either climbing the tree, swimming in the pond, or meandering among the ferns. Though, occasionally she played with the Beebles when the sun got low in the sky and they came to do the gardening.

She had felt ashamed that she had not considered them a people before those lap girls had pointed it out. To make up for it, she had been trying to learn the Beeble (or Ba-Ba) language. Unfortunately, she had started to wonder if their language was in fact more sign-language, as their sounds seemed more emotional rather than content intense. She just didn’t understand it. Funnily enough, the Beebles, when they saw that she was making an effort to communicate with them, clapped and grinned and pressed her faces against her skin, nuzzling her, utterly pleased. They did everything to encourage her, making sounds and pointing to things while urging her to mimic them. These evenings ended as soon as the night pains started and the Beebles headed back to their ‘kennel’. Nightly, Zormna hastily went indoors and climbed quickly onto the bed, falling asleep alone while wondering feebly when the Master would come back.

When the fourth day dawned with no Master in sight, after her ritual bath (thoroughly enjoying her solitary wash as it meant she had physical autonomy again), Zormna walked into the garden where she plucked several of the small daisy-like flowers off the lush bush, assembling a chain which Jennifer McLenna once showed her. It was an easy way to pass time. While sliding a stem into one she had slit with her thumbnail, making something like a buttonhole, her empty thoughts drifted to peaceful times—specifically to that one summer in that quiet American suburb where she had lived with Jennifer and her family. That summer, after sports camp, they had spent a lot of time outside of the house hiking in the hills on the edge of Pennington Heights, mostly to get out from under the critical eye of Jennifer’s parents and away from the obviously spying FBI. Even with Jennifer’s boyfriend Kevin around, they picked wildflowers, collected pinecones, and just… lived. It had been so simple then. That summer had been a time without too many complications, a brief moment between all the paranoia and chaos caused by the FBI and her maddeningly pressing future as presumed queen and savior of her people. Jafarr had kept his distance then. They had barely even been friends. Zormna sighed and split the stem to the next flower to tuck in to the chain, wishing he was with her now.

“Zoama, shuk!”

The Master’s voice sent a shock through her system. Zormna trembled and looked up. There he was, standing in the back doorway, wearing his traveling coat, looking giant next to the plants. It felt like ages since she had last seen him. He seemed more imposing somehow. More formidable. His green slit eyes took her in, raking over the scene before him. His gills rippled with pleasure to see her.

The daisy chain slipped out of her fingers as she hastily stood up. But her legs didn’t move. She felt frozen, almost unable to breathe. A mixture of emotions swamped over her, the main one being total shock. Sensing her astonishment with some amusement, the Master walked across the washed stones to her and bent over, picking up the daisy chain. He smirked at it, then set it on Zormna’s head. Admiring her in it a moment, he then wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off the grass so she was pressed against his hefty chest. She could feel his heart pound underneath her. His familiar musky scent overwhelmed her. She was shocked to find it pleasant.

Her heart beat against her ribs. She was not sure if it was out of panic, or (she hated to admit it) relief—if not joy, like a little dog happy to see its owner. Zormna trembled more because of that. The greatest shock was the realization that he had most definitely succeeded in manipulating her emotions despite her revulsion toward the beast. She had thought she had been strong against him, but now… now she knew she was wrong. Was this what it meant to be owned?

Patting her comfortingly, the Master took Zormna back into the room to the bath entrance to wash her feet. Zormna continued to tremble under this realization, but she could not take her eyes off of the huge hulking beast whose presence gave her disturbing comfort. It was practically Pavlovian. It was a horrifying thought that she had actually missed him and was somehow relieved he was back.

The Master smiled then kissed her lightly on the forehead… then on her neck as his hands stroked down her back. The sharp tips of his claws tickled her skin with unintentional threat. They needed to be filed.

Zormna closed her eyes. Tears fell from them as his hands roved, especially as she had become morbidly accustomed to it.

 

Almost immediately after his return, visitors came in again and business resumed. In the time between, the Master visited his family, spending a few hours with his wives and children while also reasserting his dominance with his human property once his claws were filed down. The last part, Zormna had not missed.

Zormna noticed a slight shift in the kinds of Th’sans who came to visit the Master after this day. More recently, most of her Master’s visitors had only to do with business rather than pleasure. And further, Zormna noticed the majority of these business guests were different than the ones from before—something about the quality of their suits. They were plainer dressed. Probably not even businessmen. These Th’sans also had nervous mannerisms. They were not so much anxious as intense, the same way some people in the middlecity were before the revolution, how they used to watch all their words in the terror they might say the wrong thing and be accused of acting against the government. These Th’sans also appeared to be more aware of who she was. As a consequence, they desired she not be present during their conversations, even though the Master made it clear she did not understand the language. Zormna realized then that she was what made them nervous.

However, his nervous visitors were not entirely wrong about her and listening in. Though she did not understand the Th’san language as a whole, the sounds they made had finally had begun to fall into recognizable, comprehensible patterns in her ears, sticking in her thoughts with meaning. Despite all the clucking, guttural spitting, and hissing, the Th’san language was easier to differentiate than Beeble-tongue. After all the months with various Th’san dignitaries, teachers, and possibly salesmen talking over her head, the hisses no longer sounded like just snake hisses, but had gained a certain identifiable rhythm which had inflection and even pronunciation. They became words. Most of the words she still did not know—but Zormna picked up certain verbs, mostly stemming from her slave training. Her basic vocabulary from the first day of: shuk—which meant ‘come’; fuzz—which means ‘go’; xu’uosh—which meant ‘sleep’; qwom—which meant ‘take’; dd’koa—which means ‘rise’ or ‘arise’, as in ‘wake up’; kusdoa—which means ‘wash’; zzonth zu susus th*oamth which meant ‘bring that thing here’ (though he usually said only ‘klo’kkzz zu’ which was just ‘bring that’; Sokh, Xoathqok—which meant ‘Yes, Master’; Odos—which meant ‘Arras’. All of that had been expanded to include: tho’uth (who), shoa (what), loak (no), mux’uz (gently), and uth shoa o wu (you are mine). On top of that, now she could tell when they were talking about females. They always said uhsh after mentioning a female such as the Master’s wives or herself. The word for males, she did not know yet.

As soon as Zormna had begun to recognize more question words, actual conversations fell into shape, sounding something like: “Huss thuss kwass what?” Sometimes she heard: “Woman hiss burble zazz who?” All of this was because his friends had been big talkers.

But for the most part the language was still a snakey-chicken mess, despite how she strove to pick up more. Usually, her language acquisition came in small bursts of clarity.

Such as this warm morning, just before noon.

Zormna was sitting on the Master’s bed in boredom, tying knots in the dangling hem of the canopy curtains while listening to the garbled speech of a fat friend she had seen before a number of times. This friend always brought his tall leggy lap girl who usually wore her braided brown hair long down her bare back and stared around with marvelously crystal blue eyes, but had a mind as interesting as tapioca. Zormna was merely glad the lap girl wasn’t antagonistic. The woman hardly talked anyway, spending most of the time massaging her master’s back and doing whatever else to make him feel comfortable—which didn’t really make Zormna comfortable at all since the lap girl wore heaps of jewelry and nothing else. Zormna also didn’t like how her Master eyed that lap girl up then peeked at Zormna with ‘artistic’ consideration. Her chemises were skimpy enough.

During the visit, the Master and his guest were laughing together over something. His fat friend kept leering at her—which caused Zormna to want to keep her distance from him, tugging up her thin top to cover her cleavage. The guest carried most of their conversation. He was recounting some sort of offer to her Master. Most of the time her Master laughed, shaking his hand in that L-shaped ‘no’ gesture. In response, the visiting Th’san flicked his hand over toward Zormna rather flippantly, hissing something like, “Uth wuh woman chux bring when uth go.”

Blinking, Zormna shivered. She understood that one.

Her Master cynically glanced at her, making the same L-shaped ‘no’ gesture, hissing out some sort of excuse using the word woman several times. So… it was a debate. And it involved her. They continued this conversation with gestures toward her and toward the other Th’san’s lap girl, forcing her Master to retort with some sort of embarrassment. His gills were rustling. He was flustered. With every glance her way and his contemplative expression, she could see that her Master was slowly giving in to whatever proposal his friend was making. Though Zormna could have asked the other lap girl what her Master and the friend were talking about, she really didn’t want to ask the silly-yet-beautiful lap girl for a translation.

After the guest parted company at the door, despite returning to his work, her Master spent the rest of the day silently deliberating over their conversation, peeking at her. His brooding stare sent such an awful sense of foreboding through her. Where had that Th’san wanted him to take her? Some kind of…. Her mind froze. She could not conceive of where he would take her. She had not left the house since the day of her arrival.

 His glances and silent peeks at her continued even to that evening when night moon rose along with the darkness and business hours had ended. By then, the Master undressed and beckoned Zormna in from the garden to come to bed. “Zoamo, shuk!”

Stalling as long as she could to put off the nightly ordeal with her Master, Zormna hesitated. She had been hanging around the pond with the happily chewing, large-handed Beebles who were teaching her gestures about the flowers and the moon, coupled with a melodic tonal noise they were making. She had been struggling to mimic the Beeble language for the past hour. They were eagerly encouraging at her progress, though she didn’t think she was making any progress at all. Nothing stuck in her brain anyway. Yet with another look to him, she waved to the Beebles to say good night.

As she walked over the grass from the deeper garden, she wondered about the remarks of those crude lap girls had said about the Beebles, pondering how advanced of a civilization the Beebles could have possibly been. Maybe they had invested their time in biotechnology, considering their use as gardeners. Or maybe their culture had been so decimated by the Th’sans that their knowledge had eventually been lost and these people were now ignorant of their ancient legacy. It only took a couple generations for that to happen. She had seen it in the history of humankind when Arras populated the Earth. Of course, that had been the purpose back then, to keep people ignorant so that would not cause another world disaster.

Wiping her feet on the grass then on the towel near the door, Zormna peered up at the large and patiently-gazing Th’san as he towered over her in his silky bed robe. He opened his arms, waving her forward to join him.

Sighing resignedly, Zormna hung her head and dragged her feet over to him to be picked up. However, this night the Master crouched down on one knee so that he was face to face with her. He did not often do that.

She staggered back.

Touching her face, the Master grasped her chin then held it in an examining sort of way. She shivered. She almost jerked away, but his other hand rested on the small of her back, keeping her from running despite her promise to him. It was still an automatic instinct. Besides, some of his claws were still sharp, as he only required her to file down three of them on each hand now. As he tilted her chin, peering at burn the scars on her neck, for a second, Zormna thought he might try to bite her like the monsters in her dreams. Instead, she felt his claw trace along the scars which she had gotten from the electrical sting collar way back during her first captivity by the Th’sans—the one she had escaped when she was barely sixteen.

As he touched her, Zormna’s breath grew heavy. Her heart raced. Whenever he did something new, she freaked. It usually meant he was taking another step closer to his end goal to make her full-service lap girl, which she did not want to hasten at all.

Swallowing the rising saliva in her throat as the tickle of his claws touched her cheek next, the Master tipped her head to the other side, stroking the vestiges of the scrape where the heavy ball had once peeled off some skin. The abrasion was practically gone. Of course, because Zormna didn’t tan, it had left no real mark. Pulling at her arms next, the Master examined where his claw scratches had once been, including the most recent one that had been made when she attacked the teacher’s lap girls. That one was gone as well, healed quickly enough. It annoyed her how obsessed he was with her scars. What did it matter? Besides, the feel of his claws over them unsettled her—as if he were aching to open the cuts again. For the briefest of seconds, she had to fight the instinct to yank away from him.

But the Master ceased inspecting her skin and smiled at her. He patted Zormna on her head and finally picked her off the floor as he normally would. Placing her on the bed, he reached over to the luminous switch and extinguished the lights in the room. When crawling alongside her, he wrapped his enormous arm around his tiny human pet and rested his head on the pillow to sleep, pulling her body against him for some personal pleasure, pushing her legs apart to play with his favorite thing. Zormna wept in her pillow as she endured it, wondering where Jafarr was.

Jafarr lurched out of his sleep, panting. He had been having one of his nasty, repeating dreams of a giant spider crawling down his stomach and attacking groin. Only in this dream, the spider turned into an enormous clawed hand. It sent a shock through his system.

He looked at the clock. It was four in the morning.

In his mind’s eye, he could see a dark wall and the bolster of a canopy-like bed. His most recent dreams had involved creepy crawly sensations, and uncomfortable, disturbing pressure at his crotch that made him want to run to the bathroom and throw up. Such nasty dreams were usually preceded by a view of a foreign night sky with two moons, a garden with flowers and plants which were crawling with furry animals which to him seemed like miniature sasquatches with huge eyes, yet with six-fingered hands and kangaroo back legs. He had fond feelings for these creatures for some reason. The smiled at him and were actually kind of cute. Faces you could nuzzle. But a dread always loomed overhead, and he flinched whenever he heard a peculiar word-sound like a snake and chicken speaking together to say ‘shuck’. In his head, he knew it meant something like ‘come here’. In those moments, he would black out from that dream world, unable to see what was going on, and he only returned when he was lying behind large silken curtains which apparently kept the bugs out of the bed area. And then the nightmare would start.

 Even now, like a phantom, he could feel a huge hulking arm weigh him down, though he was sitting upright. And the worst part was that crawly sensation in his pants was definitely not the cause of bugs in his bed.

A despair that was not his own swept over him.

He heard weeping.

He looked around the room and shuddered.

His mind added it all up with horror. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t attacking him. And it wasn’t a spider.

“Oh… no. Zormna….” Closing his eyes, grief swelled over him. Jafarr prayed, begging for her safety, reaching out to her in spirit. “Hear me, please. I will find you. I promise.”

Zormna drew in a deep breath, waking the following morning. For a brief moment, she felt as if Jafarr had just barely left her with a hug to tell her to hang on a little longer. She looked around herself, still in the same bed as the Master, and yet, her mind somehow felt awake for the first time in ages.

Lying there under the weight of the Master’s arm, still sore where he had handled her last night, she gazed about at the sunlight streaming in the room from the doorway. Yes, she was still the captive of a depraved monster who would continue to molest her. Yes, she would still have to scrub his back once he woke up, and file his claws. And she still had to wash the floor and take her ritual bath. And yes, his hands would still be all over her during the day and night, stroking her in deeply disturbing ways which she had to endure—unless she wanted his other slaves to get beaten. Despite all her military training in self-defense, the emotional blackmail of the hostage situation with his slaves was effective in getting the Master want he wanted from her. And yet as he rose, and she followed him with the start of that new day, Zormna decided the fight was not over yet.

Seeing the world in this new frame of mind, Zormna understood one thing. She still had options. And as the day commenced, she began to formulate a new way of strategizing her escape. Though she had long returned to her exercise routine whenever she could get a chance to be in the garden, Zormna decided that it was time to resume her martial arts training. She felt so out of shape. Out of practice. How could she possibly escape when she was inflexible and intolerant of pain? It was a simple fact that she had to train all over again. Not just for the physicality of it. Retraining would give her a small sense of self-mastery, as these days she was no longer a sovereign entity but a thoroughly abused and used toy.

The Master noticed the change in her outlook that evening when he called her to bed. His eyes raked critically over Zormna when she obeyed his call, as she was no longer shaking from fear. Rather a sullen expression had returned to her face. And though she still obediently climbed into the bed with him, not resisting his demands upon her body, he felt a difference in the tenseness of her muscles when he groped her. Noticeably, it took longer for her to react in the way that he wished. He gurgled in annoyance, and he got more aggressive in his efforts, for spite.

 

Three days since her mental awakening, the Master closed his business early and called Zormna in from the garden. At the time she had been drawing designs in the dirt with a stiff reed, thinking of the layout of the city which she could see from her tree in case she got out of the yard. She wiped the schematic away before she went in, wondering what new mortifying thing he had intended to do to her.

He picked her up at the door and washed her feet, which for this time of the day was out of the ordinary. He then exchanged her usual chemise for a new and incredibly elegant silvery-blue dress, one which draped in the front off her shoulders and hung similarly in the back, though lower. It had a lot more fabric than her usual chemises. In the rear, it had the ruffled bustle which reminded her of a Vegas showgirl’s dress—very much a Th’san female style meant to mimic the long tail birds of their kind must have had anciently. To crown it off, he placed on top of her head a circlet of tiny crystals wired delicately together, pulling some of her curls over it to hold it in. It was the fanciest she had ever been.

All of it felt heavy. The circlet weighed too much on her head, and annoyed her as it tugged on the hairs in her scalp and tangled in her curls. It probably looked good, though Zormna did not care. Some of the crystals dangled across her forehead and drew curls in her line of sight, which was obnoxious. Zormna hated that sort of thing—jewels, things that obstructed her vision, frilly stuff in general. She would have just gone back to the garden and taken it off, but the Master had also latched binder cuffs around her ankles, then put similar cuffs around her wrists—the type that locked together if she moved too fast. She knew they did that only because they were the same restraints she had worn the first time the Th’sans had taken her captive. It was strange now that he would cuff her.

Was somebody important coming over? A king maybe? An emperor?

But then a notion came into her head. There was no reason for binder cuffs if they stayed home, was there? The machine was enough to keep her under control. And where could she run but the garden? The only logical conclusion was that they were going out.

Out.

She had never been out.

She had seen ‘out’, craved to be ‘out’, but until now, the Master never dared take her out.

Excitement rushed through her. Opportunity. This was an opportunity.

Zormna looked up to the Master as he exchanged his regular attire for one of his fancier robes. Yes. They were going out. The question was, to where? Maybe he intended to visit a friend, and he thought she was ready to come along. Did he think she was that tamed?

As soon as he finished his primping, he smiled at his human pet. “Zoamo, uth shoa xumzoa.”

She only understood her name of course, but the Master didn’t seem to care. He strode across the tile with a degree of boldness, psyching himself up. She could tell he was uneasy when he picked her off the bed and carried her to the front threshold of the house. Zormna held her stomach, bracing against the expected shock for being in that section of the house. But it didn’t come.

But of course, it didn’t come, Zormna chided herself as they passed through the foyer into a narrow, arched hallway, going directly to yet another doorway—this one actually with doors that slid apart. It didn’t hurt simply because he was carrying her, just like on the stairs leading to the roof.

So… her mind went over this fact. Contact with the barrier was most likely key to the pain. And yes, proximity, but only if she was alone. What, then, did it take to get through the hallway without any pain? Would it work if she simply managed to make a pair of shoes out of plant leaves or old rags? Th’sans did not wear shoes; so, was that the key? If she could just walk out of there with shoes on, then escape was ridiculously possible. However, she did not discount the other more likely possibility was that she could only enter that space with him. Her eyes tracked to the machine controller the Master wore around his neck as he parted the outer doors. He took a breath, tightening his grip on her before taking that one step outside. It probably wasn’t him at all, but the machine that was the problem. Shoes and the machine could probably do it. She had to steal it.

He held her tighter, practically clenching her to his body while emerging from the house onto a beautifully tiled platform much like a balcony, yet with one open side like some sort of pier. All her plotting evaporated upon taking in the view.

Underneath them, running around the house was a narrow canal full of pond plants such as lilies and cattails with peculiar white plumes on the top, much like a miniature castle moat. About five feet beyond that was chalk-white gravel which constituted the road. Lifting her eyes to the entire street, Zormna could see most of the gravel road was void of any rolling vehicles, quiet as a suburb in the US—though there were a few passing flying ones. Fact was, the gravel was pristine. It was more of a space than a road, really. Beyond the ‘road’, Zormna could see the other fancy-yet-plain-white houses with flat roofs, high walls, and lush gardens that she had viewed from the tree, forming the city.

The Master carried her to the open edge of the landing, where awaited a vehicle of the most peculiar shape. The top was flat for the most part, with a rimmed canopy on top—clearly to be ridden on like a palanquin. It had curtains, pillow, pillars, and even a small table for tea or a meal while they traveled. Below the flat area of the vehicle, Zormna noticed a rounded hanging driver’s compartment, the shielded metal frame painted the same color as the sand on the road, obviously meant to blend in with it. Inside the compartment sat a middle-aged looking Th’san of no great rank. He had a kink in his birdish neck and his scalp seemed to be molting. The driver peered up his great yellow-flecked eyes at the Master, waiting for them to board.

The Master boldly stepped off their porch onto the platform, carrying her. The platform lowered a little from his weight but steadied once the Master sat down against the cushions. He didn’t let go of Zormna even slightly but held her tightly to his chest until he could place her in the crook of his narrow lap under the firm bind of his enormous arm. Almost as soon as he sat down, the vehicle started to drift away from the house. It floated, making a low hum, drifting barely faster than a striding pace over the wide dusty roadway. It took them down the hill into the city proper. The entire setup was utterly impractical. The blasted thing was extremely showy if not silly. The wind elegantly blew the curtains as the craft went along. Wisely, the large pillows along the rim were tied to the canopy posts which were strong enough to be leaned against. One good kick would have easily sent a pillow off otherwise. And as she settled in his lap, Zormna noticed on small table in the center of their ride was indeed a tea service with a plate full of something the Master called guk’ka’oa, which reminded Zormna of pulled pork sandwiches. The entire arrangement was entirely ridiculous. They were more exposed than John F. Kennedy in Texas. Only the wealthy could be that stupid. Then again, maybe her Master had nothing to fear from the people around him.

Now that she really was outside and they were taking their time, Zormna opened her gaze at the world around her. Her eyes widened on the passing scenery. Admittedly, she was awed, especially as they flew down and down the wide road into the depths of the city, the sounds of that world surrounding her. The panoramic view she took in first, much clearer than her view from the tree. In the distance, on the edge of the city, she noticed trees, green and lush like a jungle covering low hills. Closer still were domed white and pastel stucco homes and flat-roofed houses near yellow and green farmland. Closer still were walled houses and gardens of small size, all of them circling around the top of the hill where the Master’s house stood. His home was indeed the center of it all.

Among the houses, pillars of colored smoke lifted several feet into the sky before dissipating in the wind. Zormna could smell the incense and spices, all sacrifices to the lesser gods. The air had always tasted as if someone had dashed cinnamon on it, adding a hint of lemon oil.

But closest yet, just beyond the curtains along the roads they traveled down, her eyes rested on what she had not been able to see from her tree in the garden, the marshy trenches which ran along most of the house walls. They were filled with plant life, similar to the placement of hedges in an American suburb. Yet, trudging within the muck among the weeds and colorful lilies, she saw human slaves.

All this time, they had been there and she had never seen them. Men, women, and children hefted loads in reed baskets on their worn mucky backs. Some were handing vegetables to house slaves from their gutters, wiping their sweat-and-grime-coated brows, rubbing their sore calloused hands. Many of these slaves were scarred, red and purple with ridges of bruises. Their eyes were glassy with despair. They had teeth missing and rotted out. Matted hair. Bandaged hands. White chapped lips. Sunburned skin. And all wore collars and binder cuffs.

Her mouth went dry. Zormna clenched her fists as her body went rigid. How could she have been so ignorant of this? It was not just slaves working in houses. Here were more slaves who needed to be free. These truly were suffering.

Her Master must have felt her stiffen because he started to caress her. The crystals jangled on her head as his claws clinked against the circlet. Light reflected off of it, hitting against sheer curtains like fairy glitter. But this only made Zormna shudder. Everything Asai had told her was true. But what could she do about it. She too was captive, with no escape.

Many human heads looked up as their vehicle flew by. So did the heads of their masters, Th’sans in sturdier, more utilitarian clothing brandishing whips and electric prods; though she also saw a few were well-dressed homeowners like her Master. Calls and waves followed them as they traveled by, like friends welcoming a happy philanthropist. Her fists tightened. It was sickening and surreal. With the beating heart of the Master-governor of this whole rotten business on that world pounding just above her left ear, her skin crawled. For a moment she had urge to push away and dive off the platform.

But it was a fleeting thought. The Master’s grip on her was tight, not allowing her any room to move. Besides, she could feel the shape of the control machine for her implants through his shirt near his heart. He could incapacitate her and capture her again. And then she would be in for a lot of pain. For that matter, another slave would probably would get beaten for her disobedience.

Yet another notion occurred to her. If she could just get that lousy machine, he would not be able to hurt her. Then she could run. She was sure she could escape once on foot. She could even steal a ship. She had done it before.

Deciding not to waste this opportunity, Zormna leaned closer to the Master’s chest, thinking hard on how to get the machine. A plan formulated easily enough. It wasn’t a fun one, but it would probably work. And better still, she was outside the walls of her garden, so escape would be a lot easier once she had it.

Swallowing the sense of moral dignity she knew she would have to throw out to do this, especially since she was not usually a manipulative person, Zormna rested her hand tenderly on the edge of the huge beast’s stomach where she knew, from her training by those dirty-mouthed lap girls, would stimulate him toward arousal.

A tremor lurched through the Master’s body. His gills rippled, a sure sign he was stirred. Wondering remotely if she should back down from the idea because arousing this particular male filled her with terror, Zormna took a breath. But she didn’t stop, knowing that her Master would allow her to move from his tight grip if she excited him—and she would be able to reach what she wanted. Swallowing her nerves, Zormna reached up with her other hand and gently touched his neck then leaned close to him as if to caress his vestigial gills, something the lap girls said would also excite him and was considered ‘flirting’ in the Th’san sense. She touched him specifically on the frilly part of his neck, which was now flushing red. Again, another shiver of excitement ran through him.

Impassioned, he pulled her around to face him, smiling with surprise that she seemed to ‘want’ him. Breathing hungrily, he lifted her onto his lap and spread her legs so she could straddle his waist. He lifted up her short skirt, reaching quickly for his own waistband to unfasten the buttons to his pants.

Zormna’s breathing grew shallow, knowing she was playing a dangerous game. His hands hastily undid the top button to the front of his pants, going for the next one. The same time, her fingers went near his collar as she stroked his gills to keep him stimulated and distracted. They felt warm in her hands, pulsing with his heartbeat. She glanced up to make sure she was grabbing the right thing she wanted and not the shirt collar. Touching the cord the machine hung on, Zormna attempted to slip her fingers under it to get a solid grip so when she ripped it off and ran for it, she wouldn’t drop the thing.

The cord rolled in her fingers. She wound it close to her palm.

His enormous hand grabbed her wrist. Drawing her hand down, he tisked in his low clucky voice—a sound she knew well enough. “Mu xssthbong, Zoamo.”

Clenching her wrist tighter though not enough to crush it, he put her hand back into her lap. He forcefully turned her back around while still tutting at her with a sigh of enormous disappointment. His excitement ebbed, especially as he gazed down at her petulant expression. He shifted the machine around his neck so that it hung away from Zormna’s reach.

Dropping her onto his lap while he hooked up the two buttons on his pants again, Zormna sulked the rest of the way to where they were going.

The vehicle took them down into various areas of commerce and activity. Zormna hardly looked at any of it, feeling her lost opportunity excruciatingly. As they went in further, this place had a more pungent smell of sweat, roasting meat, and bitter spices, which enveloped them. They slowed down to a crawl when they came to an open-air market with a huge blue speckled tent not far off.

The crowds parted for the Master, watching and waving at him while Zormna glared at the ground, scowling especially at her bare leg and the etched technological manacle on her ankle. Just looking at it, she felt so stupid. It had been a faulty plan to begin with. Even if she had gotten the machine, she would not have been able to run anyway. The ankle cuffs would have latched together and stopped her. She had forgotten about them in her desperation. Her Master really had thought of everything.

The vehicle pulled up to a high landing. Almost immediately, the Master rose from his cushions, heaving her into his arms as he stepped onto a boardwalk of polished red-stained wood. Her Master craned his head, searching around the area for a familiar face. Within the hubbub of the marketplace, a joyful cry split into the air, followed by the sound of rushing clawed feet. Zormna turned her head as best as she could in the circumstances, spotted the source, and huffed.

That fat persuasive Th’san who had come to their home only two days before stood at a wide draping doorway to the tent with open arms, grinning. He had another lap girl along with the first one. This new one looked rather young, younger than Zormna even. She had that doe-eyed teen look about her. Both women were a little more modestly clothed this time—actually wearing cloth under all those jewels, though just barely. The lap girl pulled shyly away from both Zormna and the Master when the Master approached, akin to a kitten who was not quite a new pet but was unaccustomed to strangers.

The two Th’sans greeted each other like brothers, patting each other largely on the back. Zormna had ended up sandwiched in the middle of them, almost forgotten that he had brought her though the Master held her tight. Laughing, gurgling in their disgusting way, together, both Th’sans strolled to the entryway of the covered tent.

The other two lap girls followed their master dutifully. Just watching those women act like two trained puppies made her sick to her stomach. They weren’t wearing shock collars or ankle cuffs. And they obviously didn’t have head implants. They could run away, for pity’s sake. Zormna felt like screaming at them: “What’s the matter with you?” If she had not been cuffed or technologically restrained, she would have bolted the moment the Master’s head was turned. Did they not understand at all that they were being abused?

Something in her gut said: Most likely, not. Or they had forgotten when they had reconciled that this was their lot in life. Zormna did not want to end up like that. But she could do nothing except sulk in the Master’s arms as he carried her like a baby over his shoulder.

The huge blue tent was cool and shady with the strong musky scent of feathers and sweat. And the sound within had the echoing tumult of a circus audience or a boxing arena. It was enough to draw Zormna’s eyes down into the bottom of the darkness to see where they had taken her. Currently, most of her view was blocked and she had to shift her body to see, as well as adjust her eyes to the darkness.

In the dim light, her Master and his friend traveled along the top of a large spectator-filled arena which dipped down towards a lit area in the bottom like a bowl. This explained the high entrance. In that lit space, Zormna saw some sort of fight was going on. The sound of duck-like cheers occupied most of the arena, though the sound came out like a mass of clucking, hissing, and spitting. All sorts of Th’sans were there, though most were the common type with red and white feather crests. Her view over the Master’s shoulder wasn’t good enough to catch who was fighting, though the atmosphere reminded her of the pro-wrestling she had seen on TV back on Earth. It had the same feel. The lighting was similar.

The two Th’san friends edged along the rim together then went down the arena steps into the watching crowd, greeting the other spectators jovially with large hisses and clucks. Some even rose up at the sight of the Master and bowed. When most spotted Zormna in his arms, they blinked their large glassy, reptilian eyes and made that pointing gesture with the flick to inquire about her. In response, the Master lifted Zormna up and turned her around so that the other Th’sans could admire her, even touch her—perhaps to satisfy their curiosity. And they took advantage of it too. Nudging her head to peer at her face, examine her green eyes, and fondle her hair. Some stroked her legs and arms enough to make her to push their hands off and snap at a few fingers with her teeth. Of course, Zormna didn’t fight them in the way she would have a month ago. Their claws were not such safe nubs as her Master’s. Besides, her eyes glanced back at the pain-causing machine held firmly in her Master’s hand, clearly prepared to deliver pain in case she chose to attack—even if she was wearing those ankle cuffs.

This ordeal took a while, but eventually they settled onto a bench where the Master drew Zormna onto his birdish lap, holding her there with one hand as he stroked her hair and shoulders with the other. Chills rippled down her skin from the sheer casualness of it. His friend sent one lap girl to his back to make him comfortable as watched the fight, lifting the other onto his lap. And as her Master turned his eyes to the fight below, his friend followed suit, cheering.

Her Master’s claws absentmindedly tickled her skin while he enjoyed his entertainment. Zormna averted her eyes to the ceiling, trembling as she feared he would molest her in public too. After a moment, her eyes trailed down to the rest of the area. She figured they would be there for a while. Some sports had a way of dragging on, and she figured it would help keep her mind occupied.

From her vantage point, Zormna had an incredible view of the fighting arena. Way down at the bottom, stood a corral type fence that encircled a dirt floor with an energy field made to keep the fighters in. Inside the corral, two muscular human males dressed in rags were beating on each other with their bare fists. Both were bloody. Bits of rag and trash were scattered along the edge of the ring, bringing to mind the image of a cock fight.

Zormna’s heart sank. She covered her mouth with her hands. All she could think was: This is what our strong men had been reduced to? Cock fighting? It was nasty ironic—bird folk running cock-fights with humans.

Her Master moved his hand under her skirt. Zormna clenched her hands against his legs. While straining against yet another intrusive grope, her heart thudded into her stomach as she watched the men down there. She lifted her eyes back to the arena, taking in the Th’sans in attendance. Her Master and his friend were not the only ones with lap girls there. Over half the crowd had one or two with them. Most were half-naked, soothing their masters like fond pets. Gazing back down at the fighters below, she thought, Of course, if the Th’sans would take the human women that they found desirable and turned them into bed pets, what else would they do to the males of the species that they found most impressive? Asai had told her about it, yet she hadn’t quite understood. The Th’sans saw humans as nothing more than animals to use for their pleasure just as so many cruel humans had done to other species. For a second, she felt as if she were back in the era of William Wilberforce of England, with all the Th’sans much like the British of his day abusing the ‘animals’ in their custody. Or that Jack London novel, White Fang, except the humans here were the fighting dogs, reduced to indulging the consumers of a barbaric entertainment.

One of the men down in the ring collapsed, struck down by his opponent. He struggled to rise but was unable to. His face had been pulverized, bloody. His arm twisted in an inhumane shape, clearly broken. The bloody victor raised his hands and growled in the same way Zormna had seen professional wrestlers do on TV—only this this wasn’t acting. The man had almost killed his opponent.

Down below, a Th’san in a long royal blue robe crossed into the ring on stilt-like shoes calling to the crowd as the champion fighter let out a victory cry. Dust kicked up with each clop-clop over the dry earth of the arena. The Th’san in blue hissed and clucked and bellowed something awful as if to encourage the human toward the utter decimation of his own kind. All around her, the Th’sans cheered and wagged their hands, making a circle with the fingers—including her Master. That meant yes, about whatever… though she was finding it difficult to care as the Master felt her up with his other hand. She was panting hard.

Two plain-clothed Th’sans dragged the wounded human out. Then two new fighters entered the ring while the victor strutted through a different corral door into the dark underneath chambers.

And a new fight started.

Zormna closed her eyes, unable to watch them attack each other.

During the first two fights, her Master had been content to grope her in his lap, enjoying the brutal entertainment. Yet Th’sans at his side peered toward him with a cluck-hiss around the third match, gesturing at Zormna who endured. Whatever they were saying, the Master acquiesced with a shrug, then lifted Zormna off his lap and to his back, giving her the command to massage it.

Swaying there on her own two feet again in the space right behind him, she was utterly surprised at being free from manhandling. For a moment, she had the impulse to run.

Yet, it was but a moment.

Logic, and those tight ankle cuffs, reminded her it was futile to run. She was in the center of Th’san-crowded stadium seating. She knew those cuffs worked. And he had the machine in a safe, easy-to-reach place. And since running would only cause trouble for her, she dug the heels of her palms into his shoulder blades where her Master got the sorest, massaging his back. But as she put her muscles into easing his, his sheer height blocking her view of the match below, Zormna counted herself lucky that she no longer had a clear view of the brutality.

“This is your first fight, isn’t it?” an older, smiling, light brown haired lap girl to her right said.

Blinking, dizzy, Zormna looked at her. This woman was dressed in revealing layers of sheer fabric of pinks and purples, and flashy jewelry. She had a motherly grin on her face which made her seem somewhere in her forties. It made Zormna wonder how long this woman had been a slave.

And behind her, Zormna took in another view of the scene—a row of bare orange flesh, glitter, long brown hair, and sheer cloth, lap girls all behind their masters, chatting cheerily among themselves as if they were having the time of their lives. Some of these lap girls even cheered on the fights.

Acid rose in Zormna’s throat.    

Unable to produce anything else but a sour nod for the woman, Zormna rubbed harder into her Master’s most common sore spot just behind his neck. He gurgled in enjoyment. Had she not been cuffed, she would strangled him—at least, she would have in her earlier past. It had only been a thought which passed also.

“You’re still in training, aren’t you?” the woman added, licking her lips so they were damp.

Rolling her eyes, Zormna didn’t say anything. What was the point?

“Yes, you are. I can tell. The new ones are always a little sulky.” The lap girl smiled. “But don’t worry. Once you are entirely bed-trained, things will be different.”

Zormna flushed, hating that reminder, as all lap girls said that. “I don’t want to be bed-trained.”

The woman laughed. “No one does when they go through it. But it comes that way, none-the-less. You’ll see. It gets much better. Simply learn to enjoy the pleasurable sensations when they come to you.”

Zormna really wanted to vomit now. Was that a phrase they memorized? A lap girl adage?

Unfortunately, the woman continued to jabber as if nothing would give her more pleasure than to talk the day away while women of her own species were being molested and their men beating each other to death nearby. The sound of both was making Zormna incredibly nauseous. She had to hold it down. If she vomited on the Master’s coat, he might not forgive her. He’d probably beat So’omo when they got home.

Another cheer of winning-and-defeat bounced off the tent ceiling.

“Oh, newcomers,” the woman excitedly exclaimed, peering over her owner’s shoulder to see.

As much as she hated the fighting, Zormna’s curiosity got the better of her and she also peered down into the ring, standing on her tiptoes to see over her Master’s giant shoulder. In the sandy, lit ring, a shorter, paler man had stepped in—one with familiarly long platinum blond hair which was tied back into a ponytail while his scraggly golden beard looked as if he had shaved it with a dull chinked knife.

Her stomach dropped.

She knew him.

He was shirtless, a ragged cloth tied around his waist to gird himself up. He looked like walking death. Smeared with dirt, he had scars from whip marks, and bruises of all different colors on his skin—so different from the last time she had seen him.

Dural Korad.

Breathless, Zormna choked on yet another urge to puke, dropping her hands from her Master’s back. She ducked behind the Master. Burning guilt ran down her throat. It was her fault—Korad being there. She had forgotten all about him. About them. She had forgotten the banished High Class entirely when they had gone out to war—but of course the Th’sans would have enslave them the first moment they could. It was her fault the Banished were captive.

The ex-People’s Military officer who had harassed her and Jafarr when they were still kids flipped his filthy hair with his old vanity and raised his arm in the air for the crowd to show he was ready to kill—a far cry from the pompous High Class man that he was. A cheer erupted from the Th’sans, like they would a favorite boxer, watching him strut around the dirt corral.

In agony, wracked with guilt, Zormna collapsed against her Master’s back, dryly sobbing.

This was a life she would not even wish on her enemies, but she had forgotten them. She was the worst. So self-focused. Why had she not remembered and sent troops to the world they had banished the High Class to? She should have done that first before even going to Aloea.

Feeling the massage cease, her Master turned to see what was up. His large eyes quizzically took in her grief. Glancing below, his eyes narrowed on the pale ragged fighter there. He looked once more at her, thinking. Dural Korad was waiting for his opponent, grinding his filthy feet into the dirt, with his fists clenched.

Her Master leaned aside to his friend. “Tho ush vuth tho uz.”

That fat Th’san glanced back at Zormna then peered at the man in the ring while Dural Korad met his opponent—a meaty Aloean taller than him by a foot, and thicker. They were now wrestling, pounding into each other. Zormna tried to shake off her overwhelming grief and guilt to continue to do her duty to her Master, but she could hardly hold herself up. She knew the Th’sans were talking about her, but had no idea what they were saying. The Master’s words were mostly incomprehensible except for ush. Woman.

And as the fight continued below, Zormna kept her eyes off it up until a loud groan and thud echoed in the arena. Several Th’sans burst into cheers.

Quickly, Zormna peeked up, wiping her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The champion let out a primal roar, raising his fists into the air. And it was Dural Korad.

She sighed, almost laughing her tears. She should have expected this outcome. Regardless of how large and muscular those Aloeans appeared, they were soft doughboys compared to dense Arrassians. And against a trained soldier of the People’s Military such as Dural Korad who had intimidated and killed people for a living—that Aloean hadn’t stood a chance.

Bloody-nosed and bruised, Dural Korad raised his triumphant gaze on the crowd of Th’sans letting out a different victory cry in pure hate-filled Arrassian. “COME DOWN HERE YOU MOTHER-LOVING SONS OF ROACHES, AND I’LL DO THE SAME TO YOU!”

And the ignorant crowd cheered him.

Zormna stared, stunned. He was still so arrogant. His arrogance had not reduced one iota despite his captivity. Yet ironically, in their vanity over language, the Th’sans didn’t know the difference between his curses and a victory cry. All of it was pathetic.

“What a fool,” Zormna muttered in Arrassian with disgust. “What is he even doing? He’s their toy—nothing to be proud of. Once a PM, always an idiot.”

Looking to her again with a loud, annoyed huff, the Master reached over his shoulder and pulled her into his lap, peering at her inquiringly. With a hissy cluck to a nearby Th’san, he turned Zormna around to face their seatmate.

That one nodded to her Master, then said in fluent Aloean, “What is it you are saying? Your master wants to know.”

Recoiling against her Master’s chest, Zormna pressed her lips together.

But the Th’san redirected his gaze down at Dural Korad who continued shouting Arrassian epithets at them all, calling them rotten flea pus, stinking piles of excrement, and (of course) overgrown chickens. That fool certainly always had a way of expressing himself.

“What is he saying?” the Th’san asked, poking Zormna with his claw.

She coughed over a laugh, peeking once more to the Dural, wiping her nose. “You don’t really want to know.”

But that was the wrong thing to say. The Th’san drew in a breath and indignantly rose to his feet. He called to the game master.

Zormna jerked away, ducking into her Master’s robes to hide. Stunned, her Master wrapped his arms around her, calling to the Th’san for a translation. Yet his seatmate did not stop gesturing toward Dural Korad, shouting his objections until he got a response.

An outcry rippled around them as the Th’san’s objections roused the Th’san game master, who snapped at the owner of the ex-People’s Military officer, gesturing up into the stands toward Zormna and her Master with several sharp remarks. The game master seemed to choke in recognition of the Master whose chin lifted in affront alongside others in the stand.

Below, Korad’s owner hissed and clucked back something, then looked up to where the game master had indicated. His eyes rested on Master Xochzong who had pulled Zormna out of his coat, not allowing her to hide. In fact, it was more like he was holding her up as proof that the language from below had truly been understood.

Zormna stiffened, shaking.

The owner’s face flushed deep red when his eyes took her in. He quickly prostrated himself before the Master in a low, apologetic bow.

However, Dural Korad also looked up. He wiped his bloody nose as it congealed in the cracks, his ice blue eyes rising with loathing over the sea of Th’san faces. They were quickly drawn to Zormna who really stood out like a fire in a heap of darkness.

She shrank against her Master’s chest, wishing to climb over him and conceal herself behind his back again.

Korad recognized her immediately.  

“YOU FOUL FLEA OF A TARRN!” Spit flew from Korad’s mouth. He pointed his dirty pale finger at her, advancing to the edge of the arena, halting before the containment field. “CAUGHT IN YOUR OWN MISERABLE TRAP! HA! HOW DO YOU LIKE IT? I’D LIKE TO RIP YOU APART, PIECE BY PIECE!”

The crowd murmured hisses. Their birdish eyes turned from the spectacle below to the Master Governor above holding up his most precious and dangerous property.

Yet the Master stared dourly at the human fighter in the arena for a full minute before he deliberately turned Zormna so he could see her face as Korad non-stop cursed at her. Zormna’s lips had gone white. Her skin was nearly ash gray, but with every curse in Arrassian shouted up, she grew rigid. Her teeth set into a clench as his abusive language continued. He really had not changed one iota—that hated man. His words got to her.

Pushing around from her Master, Zormna finally shouted back in Arrassian, “Shut up Korad! I didn’t know the Th’sans were here! Ok?”

The crowd hushed.

From down below, the ex-PM laughed. The sound came from his gut, his weary and pitiless gaze returning every bit of loathing on her. “DID NOT KNOW? YOU WERE THE BLOODY ZETA DISTRICT LEADER IN CHARGE OF ALL DEEP SPACE SURVELLANCE AND SPECIAL PROJECTS! YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN!”

Zormna blanched.

“I KNOW ZETA KEPT INFORMATION SECRET FROM THE GOVERNMENT!” He screamed. “YOU KNEW OTHER ALIEN SPECIES WERE OUT HERE! AND YOU STILL BANISHED US INTO THEIR HANDS!”

Guilt swept through her again. He was right. What she had known as Zeta leader had been a sworn secret. The existence of other alien species…. All true. Only the Kevins and previous Zeta officers in special projects knew the secret—though it was widely discussed on Earth as a conspiracy theory. She hadn’t even told Jafarr. This was why she felt guilty now—since she had always played that Darren Asher’s alien obsession was a joke not to be taken seriously. The reasoning at the time had been that she was simply following policy—to keep the public from panicking. However, she had to say something to this fool now. “We did not know there was an empire this large and dangerous, Korad! We just knew there were aliens out there. We didn’t know they were in this territory. It wasn’t on purpose!”

His icy eyes chastised her, understanding her admittance well enough as a soldier. “Does it matter now?” He laughed piteously again, his eyes raking over her, especially the skimpy slave attire. “I see you are a lap girl. Fitting really. I hope he rips your insides every time he rapes you. I hope you get pregnant with his spawn, and your own child kills you from the inside. But honestly, I just wish I could be the one to do it to you.”

“Yeah?” Zormna flushed angrily, pushing against her Master’s hands as he tried to restrain her. “I’d still kick your head off before you could try! Just like I did before!”

The Master struggled with difficulty to restrain her from getting out to pounce on Dural Korad right then, as that creep deserved a kick in the teeth. He had only gotten worse under slavery. In sheer panic, the Master looked for some kind of translation—though none was to be had as she and Korad were speaking Arrassian.

That’s when an odd look came into Dural Korad’s eye. A twisted grin pulled across his lips. He turned briskly toward his owner, speaking what little Th’san he knew. “O klo kk kukoash ush tho.”

A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd, though Zormna did not understand a jot. Zormna’s Master reflexively clenched her tighter to him. There was no wriggling out now for escape or to attack the arrogant Dural.

But her Master’s friend duck-laughed, all of his doubt obvious on his birdish face. He shook his L-shaped ‘no’ fingers to the game master. Yet others of the crowd were making that circle sign. ‘Yes’, but to what? The crowd seemed entirely intrigued by whatever the battle-worn, blustering Arrassian captive was saying. They wanted it.

“What did he say?” Zormna muttered in Aloean, turning to her Master’s friend.

Dural Korad yelled up to the stands, “Zormna! O klo kk kukoash Zormna!” He laughed again, haughty in all his dingy rags. It was amazing that even now he held his head like an aristocrat. “I want to fight you Zormna.”

She blinked. That was what he was saying? It was too absurd. She had beaten him ages ago when she was twelve and he had been twice her age. Her training had simply been better than his.

Her Master clutched her even tighter to his chest. It started to hurt, almost difficult to breathe. And yet the very absurdity of the challenge made Zormna laugh.

Her laugh caught the attention of her Master’s friend. He turned, staring at her towards a gape. He dropped his ‘no’ fingers. “You can fight?”

“Better than him,” Zormna replied way too smugly. It really was absurd. She was more than capable of taking on Dural Korad. She had improved since the last time she had humiliated him. The main reason Dural Korad hated her so much was because she had humiliated him when she was so young.

Pulling her down into his lap, her Master clamped onto her wrists, forbidding her to even think about moving. She could hear his booming heart over her ear.

All the Th’sans around them stared. They all listened as the Aloean-speaking Th’san repeated to the Master what she had just said, his own eyes examining her face as he reached to her and tapped her implants, peering at them in open inquiry.

The Master answered back briefly as if this conversation was out of the question.

The friend’s bird eyes opened wide in alarm. And for that matter so did the lap girl who stood behind him and the one who had been resting between his legs. Both lap girls gawked up at her in horror.

“You attacked a Th’san lord?”

Zormna peered up at the lap girl she had been talking to earlier. She was peering over her master’s shoulder. With a dry gaze, she nodded.

Dural Korad’s challenge continued to issue in their ears, along with more dirty curses at her and them both. With each word, Zormna cringed, not really wanting to be the one to shut him up.

A debate arose around her like a bunch of hens stirred up. Her Master let go of Zormna with one hand to give those around him a furious ‘no’ shake. Of course, he wouldn’t want her down there. Any fight would lead her to getting bruised, even if she won. And he didn’t want his possession damaged. Besides, he had no curiosity over her ability. He knew she was able to throw people larger than her. She had done it to him, never mind the others. In fact, as he restrained her, she realized it was more like he didn’t want to let her loose. She was, after all, still resisting her training. He didn’t want to empower her.

Many of the Th’sans crowded around their party now, all of them attempting to get a better look at the tiny human who was only half their height and smaller than even the women slaves they had brought. Several rose to their feet around them. The crowd debated together like a barnyard of chickens and snakes, their clucks, gurgles and hisses taking all sorts of tones in an attempt to convince her Master to let her go into the ring. And though she had been bold in her arguments back at Dural Korad, she secretly hoped her Master would put his foot down and leave the tent altogether. The ex-People’s Military officer looked murderous. And quite possibly he had learned some new moves in the arena. Besides, she was out of practice.

But a resigned sigh eventually escaped her Master’s lips, one she was familiar with.

Zormna lifted her eyes to his face. That tired acquiescing expression she had seen on him when he spoke with his first wife settled there. The pushover was giving in.

Releasing Zormna, her Master took out a small flat key from his pocket and undid her wrist and ankle cuffs. That felt great. For a lightning second, Zormna looked to the machine on his neck—or where it had been because it was now in his hand. He had thought of everything, of course. He knew she would try to escape at the first moment she was free.

Then he lifted off the crystal net from her head, the same time he spoke to the game operators who had ascended the steps to him. They were watching him and her. Up close, she saw the game masters more clearly as her Master untangled her hair from the hat. The game masters were smeared with peculiar rosy coloring, like makeup. Their eyes were lined in a bright glittery something, their feathers particularly trimmed, and they smelled oddly of camphor. They clucked back to him, nodding responsibly. She wondered how much of that was for show. After all, it wasn’t that responsible to send a woman her size against a grown man in a battle arena—never mind what they did not know about her.

Breathing steadily, her ears ringing in shock, Zormna glanced down at the man below who was still cursing at her and the Th’sans around her. Dural Korad grinned triumphantly, watching them trade her fancy garb for the slave rags with intense relish, his eyes especially stroking her bare contours as she tried to cover her naked skin. He flashed her a lustful smile. Her Master tucked her silver blue dress into his lap so it would not get dirty. He received one of the ragged tunics the gamers sent up for her to wear, perhaps one taken off of a dead fighter. Fresh blood stained it. He pulled it on her.

Then the Master lifted her medallion from off her neck.

Zormna reached after it, panic shooting through her. But he slapped her hands down and wrapped the chain around his wrist, gesturing with the machine in his hand to remind her of her place. Cringing, she closed her eyes. He would take it, with or without knowing the value of the piece in his hands. He just knew that she valued it with passionate attachment.

There was a warning in his birdish eyes as he spoke to the game operators while he adjusted the rags around her waist, resigned to let her go. As he wrapped another long scrap over her breasts in an X and looped around her neck a bit like a bikini top so she could move comfortably, his voice took on a tone of threat toward those game operators not to let her escape. Conversely, his look on her said she had better not get hurt. He had gently touched her scars with his claws. Then he drew her to his chest, heavily embracing her, though his hands stroked down her back as if to say he wanted to feel her over once more before saying good-bye. Reluctantly, he placed her arm directly into the game operators’ hands, making sure they enclosed her arm in a firm grip.

They seized one arm each, holding her in the center and took their descent, leading Zormna down the steep dark stairs to the lighted ring. Each step was higher than a two-foot drop.

A peculiar sense of freedom lifted inside Zormna while walking with the game operators down those wooden steps in her bare feet. She knew she ought to be feeling like they were taking her to her doom. After all, she was a Tarrn going to face the PM who had threatened to kill her for years, even before he found out she was the enemy he was looking for all that time. But she was not in her fenced yard, without those binding cuffs, and she was walking away from the Master. Also, the game operators did not drag her down the step, but walked at her pace, peering at her tiny yet muscular frame, possibly assessing how much she was worth in a battle. The eyes of the Th’san crowd stared at her in silence at first, but then hisses and clucks broke out between them, most likely taking bets considering the overeager way they raised strange-shaped coinage and digital devices.  

When they reached the edge of the arena, the game master spoke to her in Aloean. “You win when he can no longer stand. You are allowed to kill him, but you must not touch the ring walls.”

Zormna knew that much. She had been in a similar confining field before. That containment field was painful if not deadly. She nodded.

“Your master will be compensated if you die or are hurt,” the Th’san said with a generous nod.

She shot him a dirty look, disgusted that he would even think that she would care about compensation for her Master if she died. However, with a huff, she nodded again.

The energy field went off. He pushed Zormna into the ring. It was on again the moment she had passed the corral fence. When this happened, she heard a hissing gasp through the crowd. Within the spotlights on the dirt, facing Dural Korad who was already prepared for his attack, she stood like a child in comparison. She was shorter by half a foot. Several Th’sans turned to her Master with hasty whispers and hisses of extreme apology, especially from his friend.

But the Master shook his hand ‘no’ and motioned towards the arena for them to watch, stern confidence in his crocodile eyes.

The arena stank of sweat and human excrement. She almost gagged from the reek. But Dural Korad dived at Zormna as soon as took her second step, cursing at her.

Dodging, she swung a kick to his back. The momentum sent him reeling straight to the ground—where he skidded flat across the rough gritty earth, filling the scrapes in his skin with dirt.

Grasping the dirt within his hands, he flung it at Zormna to blind her. But she saw him grab it and had flipped away, toward the other side of the ring, closing her eyes as the shower of grit rained on her. He dived at her, reaching for her leg or her arm to throw her off balance. But she was still faster than he was, and dodged. Despite all his time fighting in the Th’san rings, it still had not prepared him enough against the superior training she had in the Surface Patrol. And as she defected and redirected his attacks, she realized with relief that she wasn’t rusty after all.

That feeling gave her a thrill.

Zormna flipped once more out of reach, landing well-balanced in the center of the ring.

The watching Th’sans heartily cheered, their duck cries rising around them with a sound that made her feel as if she were in the center of barnyard pond being descended upon by migrating birds who were attacking the chickens for some reason.

Yet above, the Master clenched his fists with his eyes fixed on his possession, saying nothing at all. His friends around him burst into excited clucks and hoots, amazed at what his lap girl could do. However, they also peeked to him nervously, since he was not cheering.

Once, Dural Korad got a hold of Zormna’s neck with the intention to snap it. The Th’sans ooh-ed, waiting for the deathblow.

Yet she threw him off before he could get a tight grip, breaking his hold. When he fell, he crashed against the security field.

His body rebounded from off the energy with a booming shock, flying heavily to the dirt. His back sizzled as he strained to get up, pushing off the earth to get back into the fight. But Zormna would not let him get up for another round to attack. She pounced on his back as she did when apprehending an escaping prisoner, pinning the ex-People’s Military officer to the ground. Applying proper pressure at the select nerve point, pain subdued him into paralysis.

Hissing into his ear, she said, “No Tarrn will die today, Korad. I may be the last, but I am not going to roll over for you.”

“You rolled over for them!” He choked and spat, straining against the piercing shots of agony as she pressed on a crucial nerve. “It’s your fault we’re stuck here! I’ll kill you! I’LL KILL YOU!”

Though guilt swept through her, Zormna did not loosen her grip. She whispered before she applied more pressure near the back of his neck to keep him still. “It may be my fault, but you won’t kill me. I’ll free you. Just not today.”

She struck Dural Korad with a well-aimed blow to his skull.

His head thudded with weight against the ground. His arms and legs went limp. Zormna waited, checking for certain that he was out cold but not dead. His pulse was still there. Once sure, she climbed off of him, standing up.

The arena went silent. All Th’san eyes watched the small human queen stare stoic-faced across the dirt at them as she walked toward the gate to be let out, dusty but unscathed.

Dural Korad’s owner leapt over the corral fence the moment the field went down. He dived to his property like a man who had just lost his wallet. Zormna passed him with a look up at her Master in the stands. There she halted, her eyes saying to him: This is who I am. Now you know what you are really dealing with. It would be wise to let me go before I am pushed too far.

Her Master gazed down on her, clutching her medallion with a glance to the blue clothes he had dressed her in. His eyes flickered with clear understanding, as if he could see a queen as well as a powerful adversary. But his hand stroked the machine he was holding to remind her that didn’t matter anyway. Queen or not, she was his property.

Zormna ducked her gaze, cringing bitterly as shivers went through her. Nothing really had changed. Her eyes searched for the game master to let her out of the arena. In the end, she was still captive. And she wanted her medallion back.

The owner of Dural Korad cried out, dragging his limp human man from the ring. The heads of the watching Th’sans turned as he did, and their voices rose. When Zormna climbed on the corral fence to be let out, the game operator stared at her.

“You didn’t kill him.” His voice revealed his surprise, especially after all the epithets Korad had shouted at her.

“Of course not.” Zormna nodded briskly, annoyed. “Why should I kill him?”

The game operator laughed in that haughty Th’san way. “He wanted to kill you.”

Zormna sighed, letting a mirthless smile escape. “He has always wanted to kill me. I didn’t kill him then, and I won’t kill him now. I am civilized.”

The Th’san blinked at her, not quite comprehending her meaning.

The Master was calling for his lap girl to be sent up to him.

The game operator nodded, reaching out to take Zormna from the ring.

But the moment he did this, the crowd erupted into loud hisses and clucks. All of them shook their ‘no’ gesture as if the idea were absurd to let the game end there. He regarded Zormna with a glance-over for barely a minute. With a shrug, he pushed her back into the ring.

Zormna toppled onto her rump into the dirt, startled. The moment before she could get to her feet, the energy field snapped back on.

Angrily, Zormna hopped up with a stamp of her foot. “Let me out! I’ve had my fight!”

From above, her Master was also shouting at him, but what, Zormna did not know. What she did know was that huge human hands suddenly wrapped around her waist, squeezing her with uncommon strength.

Gasping, Zormna twisted around enough to jam her elbow into the face of her new attacker. This time blood issued.

Her attacker staggered back, letting loose just a little—just enough for Zormna to slip out of his grasp. Once she made distance between him, she recognized the attacker. It was one of the triumphant men from the earlier matches. Undoubtedly, he was stronger than Dural Korad, and he was certainly larger, but he looked stupider. That was another thing she could say for her own people, even the ones she hated—they were smart. And this big idiot went straight after her as if the fight was all that mattered. She wondered what he had been told—to kill her? Or he would be allowed to rape her if he knocked her out? He seemed that kind of motivated. His eyes were filled with lust. She was forced to take him out.

This fight went a little longer than the one with Korad. Though this brute was stupider than Korad, he was larger, with a layer of fat preventing her access to a crucial nerve. Knocking him off balance and striking him in the right place at the side of his head to render him unconscious was her only resort. A chokehold would take too long.

It worked.

She immediately staggered toward the ring’s energy barrier, calling to be let out. The cheers were explosive now. The duck cries, goose honks, and guttural clucks were thunderous in her ears as the field shut down—but not on her side. It opened the opposite to where she stood, letting in two more fighters without even removing the big lump she had just knocked down.

Pale, Zormna stared at their physiques. These new ones were leaner and quicker. Probably smarter. Zormna nodded to herself, realizing she had to play dirty.

The newcomers stared at first, then attacked as if they had also been promised they could rape her if they got her on the ground. They didn’t seem to want to hurt her, but they looked vaguely aware of what she could do. So of course, they underestimated her at first.

The crowd cheered as she spring-boarded over one, kicked in the groin of the other, then rolled over his crouched and groaning body to slam down the first man with her arm with a pile driver. After a few more teeth rattling moves, Zormna stood panting with clenched and bruised fists as the two men collapsed into themselves with injured ribs, damaged gonads, and sore heads reeling.

Then those game masters let three men in.

Upon seeing those men enter the ring, all three staring at her with some kind of comprehension of what they had to do, though amazed that she was so tiny, Zormna staggered back just to keep her feet. “Ah, come on!”

Her Master’s shouts boomed hoarsely over the cries of the frenzied crowd. She knew he was demanding they give her back to him. Oh, how she wished they would, as the three men rushed at her together. The last time she fought this many men at once, they were teenage wrestlers who were more freaked about fighting a cheerleader than losing to one. But these men had no such reservations. They wanted their prize, which looking at the excitement in their eyes was probably her. In her first defense and attack, she acquired a long bloody scrape on her calf. But then Zormna ended up only facing two—the other knocked unconscious with a swift kick to his temple.

One of the men, huge like the man after Dural Korad, swung his fist near her, missing intentionally though she dodged it well enough. As he passed to the side, she heard three words: “We can escape.”

Zormna blinked, but she did not hesitate. She vaulted over him. Was it possible? Or was it a trick? It was dangerous to trust people in circumstances like these.

The man met her eyes with tiniest of nods, stepping out of the way as the other fighter attacked her to pull her to the ground. Defending herself from the second man with several deflecting arm blocks, Zormna sprang out of reach and took a deep breath, preparing to improvise with a possible ally.

As the other man swung out at her with a grab to mangle her throat, the large one immediately struck for her. Yet as he did, the large one intentionally fell against the attacker. Both dropped in a lump. Her conspirator pretended to be knocked out as he completely incapacitated the other.

Amazed, Zormna distanced herself from their bodies. He was definitely an ally. Had he not been, she would have most likely lost that fight. She could take on a handful of unskilled fighters—but truly skilled combatants would have had their way with her.

Zormna whipped around in wait for more fighters. Most likely they would send in four monster thugs next. She hoped her ally would help her against them.

But the Master had tromped down the stands on his long legs, cursing at the game operator who was already eagerly calling for new fighters like an addict. Panting heavily, Zormna watched the ensuing argument. Sweat dribbled down into her eyes. She wiped her bruised and drenched forehead with her wrist, and unclenched her fists. Her Master had finally put his foot down. They remembered that he was the Master Governor.

No more opponents came.

The energy field dropped for the plain-clothed Th’sans to drag off the defeated human fighters. Zormna stepped toward the corral edge to return to her Master.

Just as one Th’san climbed over the threshold, the conspiring fighter who had been faking it sprang up from the ground and pulled on Zormna’s arm. “Run!”

Impulsively whipping around, she ran with him—no binder cuffs to stop her.

They bounded over the corral to the far gap in the curtains, escaping out of the large tent doors into the open-air market where the sunlight nearly blinded her. Zormna followed the fighter’s dark silhouette at top speed over silty ground which slowly turned to gravel and strewn sawdust. Where he was taking her, she didn’t care. She was free. She was—

A piercing pain riveted through her stomach like a drill, shooting down her legs. Zormna collapsed.

Feeling her drop, the large fighter quickly heaved her off the ground to carry her.

“No,” Zormna gasped, unable to even make her legs move. “No, just go! Leave me or they’ll catch you.”

He wouldn’t let go, his amber eyes imploring at her. “But what about—?”

Zormna shook her head, panting while weighing heavier in his arms as she was unable to move. “I can’t… I can’t…. Just go. Just go… find my people and tell them—”

Agonizing over it, the man let her drop completely to the ground. He shook his head. “I can’t leave you. I heard them say you’re our queen. You’re the One come to save us.”

“Leave me. Be free. Tell Jafarr… tell him where I am.” Zormna moaned on her knees toward fetal position, jerking herself out of his hold, shoving his leg away to make him go. “Run.”

Looking back to where they heard the approaching Th’sans, the fighter finally released her. He fled into the thick of a team of slaves working in the mud, running without stopping. She had lost sight of him by the time her Master and the others caught up with her.

Her Master stood over her, clutching her medallion with the machine in his fist.

They did not stay for any other matches. The Master refastened Zormna’s wrist cuffs and ankle cuffs, but he did not relieve her pain. She remained curled tight in a ball as he carried her back to the transportation platform, her insides twisting. She barely heard his hissing chastisement. All sound mixed into one, and it was just as well. The Master wasn’t really speaking to her anyway but to the other Th’sans around him—and ferociously. His roar of anger, hissing at those from the fighting tent, only quit when he carried her back aboard the palanquin. Then the silence was deafening, except for her moans. It wasn’t until they returned home to the Master’s room that the pain stopped.

The Master dropped Zormna, rags and all, into the bath and turned on the water.

The water was freezing. The entire bottom of the bath was soon coated in mud as she sat there hating her life. The Master stripped her, scrubbing out all the dirt that had caked on during the fight. He rinsed her three times before he found her satisfactorily clean. But then he left her in the bath, glaring at her as he stripped off his own clothes for robes to go to bed, not even bothering to wrap her wounds.

Zormna sat in the bathwater, shivering from the old pain and from the new cold. Up until then her Master had never been harsh, but then she had never succeeded in getting away before. Possibly for the first time he truly realized how much of a threat she was to him. Clearly it frightened him. But she shivered and stayed in the cold bath—as he terrified her.

It was dark when the Master came to fetch her. He lifted her by her forearm, trying not to get wet, and he threw the bath towel on her. Zormna clasped it, still shivering as she stood there. He still looked peevish, muttering in Th’san to himself. When he crawled into bed, he did not call her. And Zormna did not come. She stood in the towel near the bath, trembling dumbly. When it grew late, Zormna sat on the bath step shaking.

The pain surged up her legs and ran through her whole body once the first hour started, but she didn’t want to move. It increased the second hour, and she began to whimper. Zormna stood up and dropped the towel. Trembling, she walked to the desk where her dresses were kept. Only her silver dress was in there. She pulled it on with unsteady fingers, but she didn’t move from that spot, staring at the Master’s bed once more.

The pain grew even worse. She whimpered as she staggered toward the bed and stopped near the edge, but she didn’t climb on. She sobbed instead, leaning against the mattress, trembling and weeping and cursing. The one foe she could not beat—and he lay asleep, unconcerned while waiting for her to climb into his arms.

Feasts and Formalities

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve:

 

“The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”—Mahatma Gandi—

 

 

Jafarr rubbed his stomach and swallowed another tablespoon full of medicine. It tasted horrible as usual. He had not had such painful bouts in a long while, but this one was the worst yet. It hit just after he had gone to bed, and it lasted until nearly seven o’clock. By then it was only a dull ache that tied his leg muscles in knots. He had no dreams, but the pain was just as bad as a nightmare. Something had happened to Zormna, and he could not focus the rest of that day.

With the deal in effect, Jafarr had put more focus in his work and in keeping the peace while he planned his return to war. Rumor had it among some that he had given up looking for Zormna. But that was slander, and those who knew him shouted down such an idea. Conversely, within the Patrol, rumors of the deal he made with the Kevin had spread to every corner. Most knew he was just biding his time until he would have access to a ship so he could go out to find Zormna himself without bodyguards following him.

His friends knew the complete truth.

In Jafarr’s off hours, he worked with Alea Arden on a project Zormna and the Alpha leader once fancied would revolutionize space travel. Zormna had advanced it during the war, but had not finished it. The Kevin still disapproved of the project, except it kept Jafarr busy and therefore out of his hair—sort of. The young man visited the Alpha district more frequently, but to see Alea Arden rather than the Kevin. It was also Alea Arden’s project after all. What few knew besides his close friends was that Jafarr was just as skilled with machines as Zormna, if not better. She had worked with machines for the fun of it, the sheer joy of discovery. But Jafarr never made anything without a good reason. Many knew he was extraordinarily intelligent and fairly sneaky, so when his friends noticed Jafarr fiddling with tiny machine parts, the old revolutionaries wondered what the young man was plotting.

Jafarr leaned over his desk and picked up one of the gadgets he was working on. It was small, the size of a thumbtack, though more in the shape of a Surface Patrol rank identification pin. He split it in two parts, working on the insides. The front was smooth, undecorated. He turned it over to the open side, setting it under the light where he had a magnifying glass to examine the microchip which was connected to a thin crystal disk, perfectly sliced and lodged inside.

Meticulously examining all his connections, making sure they were secure and that all the moving parts worked properly, he then inspected the other half which had a similar crystal and chip system. He added a micro coil along with a few other pieces that would forcibly separate the parts inside like a spring. Picking up the front piece, he affixed it on the back, carefully sliding it over as a cover. From here he plucked up a quick sealing glue, turned the piece over onto its face then dabbed a drop of the glue onto the back of the tiny machine. With narrow tweezers to hold the next piece under the magnifying glass, he placed it gently on the button-sized gizmo so that it stuck evenly, tapping it to make it lay flat. This piece had four small prongs that stuck out like a crown or a snap. He set it aside to dry. Then he took up another of the tiny gizmos and started again.

The office door slid open without him noticing, or so the entering person assumed at first. Jafarr appeared entirely focused on his small bits and pieces, putting together a pile of these miniscule button things with prongs.

“A new project?” Orrlar Aflov’s voice came, the older man peering over Jafarr’s shoulder.

Jafarr smirked, not looking up. “You can say that.”

His old mentor and current vice president sat down next to him. “I heard you had a relapse. Do you want to talk about it?”

Continuing to work without looking up, Jafarr replied, “Not really.”

Orrlar nodded then sighed. He then peeked over at the tiny circular collection. “Making buttons?”

Jafarr smirked again. He looked up. “I could.”

Nodding, Orrlar rose from his seat. “Care to let me in on it?” His tone was chastising.

Jafarr frowned. He put down the tiny gizmo he was affixing a back to. “The Kevin knows.”

The vice president laughed. “I’m not going to snitch on you, if that is what you are thinking.”

Nodding as he picked up the small piece again, Jafarr replied, “It is for when I go back into space.”

Orrlar held his breath.

“I figure in about two months I should have enough for my operation to go underway,” Jafarr continued. “Alea Arden is working on his end to ready the ships. And my part is these—which is simple, since Zormna already had the plans, and she already did all the hard work. I just had to work out the bugs.”

When Jafarr mentioned Zormna, his body tensed. But it seemed to clear the despair saying her name, and Jafarr was more determined for it.

Orrlar sat back down again. “What is this for?”

Jafarr smiled.

Zormna woke, lying on the Master’s bed, pulled into his arms. How she got there, she didn’t know. Her natural instinct made her want to push out, but her heart felt too weak so she stayed there. She was trapped, helpless, useless and dominated. Her previous hope had gone.

The Master awoke then began his day like always, preparing for bath and calling Zormna to get out of bed and scrub his back. His expression was changed, however. From his usual calm and self-possessed demeanor, his face had grown sterner, more commanding. And as he undressed then climbed inside the water, Zormna did not dare disobey. He looked angry.

Zormna noticed that he was wearing her medallion. It hung around his neck, dangling just around the bottom edge of his gills. As Zormna climbed in the water and washed him, she stared at it longingly. When he dried off and dressed, Zormna watched him tuck it under his shirt, along with the pain machine. She could see the lump under his shirt when he ate breakfast. She stared at it while he molested her afterwards. When it was time to wash the floor and the horns blew, Zormna gazed longingly at it when he walked into the garden. And when he returned to scrub her down in her ritual bath, she reached toward his chest to touch the medallion.

He pulled away, shaking his ‘no’ fingers at her.

Zormna dropped back into the water, weeping. She had worn that medallion all her life. To be without it had so utterly unsettled her that she truly felt lost. Being stripped of it was like being stripped of everything.

But he merely finished her bath, rubbed her down with a towel and gave her a new dress to wear. This one was pink with an unbearably low cut in the top and shorter in the skirt with slits to her waist on both sides. It hardly covered her rear and none of her back. As soon as she was ‘dressed’, he sat down on the bench to conduct business.

Everything went back into routine. Regular dignitaries and visitors came and went, though Zormna lingered near the curtains of the bed staring longingly at the string of her medallion chain. She clutched across her stomach, holding herself miserably as she watched him.

When the day ended and the Master called her to bed, Zormna came with no fight. She wrapped her arms around his neck to catch a hold of the string to her necklace when he pulled her into bed with him, however, he quickly pried her hands off and tisked reproachfully. She would have sulked, but instead she pined.

“Please can I have it?” she cried out in Aloean. She didn’t know enough Th’san language to beg for it. She didn’t know the word for please, though she did know the word for give. “Oakk!”

He smirked that lizard face at her, his sharp teeth shining as his eyes gazed darkly on her. Shaking his L-shaped ‘no’ fingers, he then snuggled down tighter with her. Within his hisses and clucking, she knew that he was going to keep her medallion from then on—showing her more firmly that he was master as he molested her most private spaces.

Zormna sobbed into the mattress, enduring the assault. “Jafarr….”

Her Master growled, tightening his hold on her as he pressed her against the mattress to keep her from wriggling out. She pried at his fingers to get him not be so rough, saying “mux’uz” which she had learned meant ‘gentle’. But he handled her more forcefully to remind her who was Master, his gills rippling. She drew in a gasp.

Jafarr lurched out of his sleep. The clock read four twenty-three am. Zormna had called him. He just heard it as if she were in the room. He looked around his room once expecting to see her there. For a glimmer of a second, he did, lying in the bed with her, shuddering under invisible torture which he soon felt.

“Zormna.” He reached out to her.

Her ghostly image reached for him. But she vanished before their fingers could touch.

Jafarr pawed the bare mattress, panting as that awful sensation in his groin returned.

Her mind numbly buzzed since she no longer had her medallion. However, her dream of Jafarr had been so vivid, for a second, she thought she had been in his room on Arras, in his bed with him. His dark blue eyes had stared desperately at her as he reached for her. She had grabbed for him, but he had vanished in her fingers. She could think of nothing else since.

Friends and businessmen came and went that day and the next. Thankfully, Zormna was able to escape the Master’s groping hands during the long visits of dignitaries, diplomats, and soldiers, spending most of her time in the garden with relative peace. Mostly, she tried to make it inconvenient for the Master to call her inside between visitors to reduce the amount of molestation she had to endure. It didn’t always work. When his friends came over, which was frequent, the Master always wanted her on his lap for his perverse entertainment.

But as things had gone back to the normal rhythms, Zormna returned to her training whenever free in the garden, dedicating herself more to it. Her fight in the arena had made her acutely aware that it would be devastating for her if she lost her skills or strength. She could not afford to be lazy.

The only problem was, the weather was getting hotter and it was cooler indoors. The air conditioning in the building came through a small piping system in the ceiling out of small ports which made the room rather comfortable. Also, being so pale, she instinctively had to stay in the shade to avoid sunburn. Worse, the heat made her so sleepy. The sounds of buzzing insects around her created a kind white noise which tended to lull her thoughts and leave her feeling lethargic.

Actually, there was another thing which interfered with her ability to carry out her exercise and martial arts routines. With each extended guest visit, she also had to deal with the various different lap girls who invaded her garden.

Honestly, Zormna did not like other lap girls. They were either stupid or catty—mean-girl sluts in many ways. She hardly ever met one that did not attempt to start up a ridiculous conversation about vapid things like jewelry or breast size. Most lap girls were generally petty, and some of them had rather crude mouths. In fact, they had a savage jealously among them toward each other—a culture of comparisons that they regularly engaged in. It was despicable. But really, the main reason she hated them coming into her garden was because they were loud, larger than her, and more numerous. They disturbed her peace and took over her space. Whenever they invaded her garden, she fled to the trees where she found a nook to rest in for a nap. She wasn’t allowed to beat them up, after all. And she was always glad when they left.

Daily, the sun grew hotter. Lacy-winged flies swarmed over the pond near dusk. In these warm evenings, Zormna would watch the Beebles chase them down and eat them. It was startling and yet also fascinating. The Beebles also gave her garlands to wear, dancing about her when the two moons rose. Zormna had grown fond of them. Often invited in their frolic, she played with them frequently. In the beginning, she had stroked their fur with trepidation as she did not know if it would offend them or not—yet they smiled and leaned into her hand as a cat would, ‘beebling’ in song. Their fur was soft, curling like hair. She wished she understood what they were singing about. To her ears it sounded like that funny little ‘Blue’ song from American 90’s pop music that Jafarr played when he was in a funny mood, the one about the blue little man in a blue little house. “Blue ba, daba dee ba…” or something like that. One thing she had finally figured was that they spoke a tonal language, a tiny bit like Korean. Though, there were also tonal clicks that reminded her of an African language she had heard about. Unfortunately, this made their language difficult for her to follow as she was essentially tone deaf.

It annoyed her.

Funnily enough, the Beebles didn’t seem to mind at all. They cheerily sang to her that Blue-like song, happy that she was at least trying to talk to them. Perhaps she was the only one who had ever treated them like people.

On evenings such as these, the Master liked to watch her. He would come out, sit on the rocks near the pond or stand in the doorway, smiling in an adoring way, his slit pupils dilating on her. Whenever she caught sight of him, she shuddered—especially when his eyes got like that. That meant he was aroused. And when his gills started to rustle, that meant she was in trouble. Not the kind of trouble where he was angered, but the kind that meant she had to avoid his gaze at all costs—because if she didn’t, he would see that she knew he was there. And if he saw that she knew he was there, he would immediately call her in or pick her up to take her indoors. And when that happened, all evening freedom would end and the nightly ordeal would begin.

And it had become a regular ordeal. Zormna had long detested the feel of his fingers stroking over her skin, accompanied by the wet, gritty touch of his tongue and rougher, stiff mouth as he inflicted his affection on her. He liked to lick her, especially her breasts. She wondered if it was the salt of her sweat that he liked, or maybe he was just kinky. He could entirely suck her face off with that mouth if he wanted. He could bite a huge chunk out of her. It was one of her most frequent nightmares, actually. And the rest… the worst part… being so often violated, she was getting used to always being sore. All she could do was endure it.

When the days had become almost baking hot and the Master started to wear loose sleeveless shirts and short pants, his sweaty touch even more unbearable as they slept together in bed—at the crack of dawn one morning, a long blow of horns echoed across the entire city. But it was too early for cleaning hour. Zormna opened one eye in confusion before rolling over to go back to sleep. The Master arose from the bed, however, and left her lying alone, bewildered and groggy in the dent he left empty. She watched him walk to the garden door in his bed robe, going out at such an early hour.

Rubbing her eyes, Zormna shook her head then flopped back onto the pillow. It was too early, and he didn’t call her to the bath. So, she did not bother to join him.

The Master did not return at all until floor washing time, long past breakfast which had been oddly set only for her. He waited at the door as Zormna scrubbed the floor extra fast for his impatient stares. When she was done, he stepped in to bathe Zormna. He was still wearing his bed robe. However, that morning, he didn’t toss her one of her usual dresses to wear. He gave her that rough dress she had worn when she had visited the children. He ordered her to put it on quickly.

Doing as she was told, more than happy to be ‘fully’ dressed for once, Zormna wondered at his own preening. The Master bathed himself, refusing to have her join him at all—which was fine with her. He washed his own back then smeared himself with pungent perfume so powerful that Zormna pinched her nose and ducked into the garden to breathe. When he clothed himself, he pulled on an outfit flashier than any other getup that he owned, full of shiny tropical colors. It included a hat that had jewels and pieces of gold hanging from it. He draped jewels from his neck and from his feathers. He also removed Zormna’s medallion from his neck.

Zormna’s heart leapt when she saw it.

But, despite her hopes, the Master did not give it back to her. He walked over to the wall and opened what Zormna had mistaken for a thermostat. It had a panel she had not been able to open. But once he opened it with a code, she saw it was in fact a small compartment—something like a wall safe. Eying his tiny lap girl superiorly, the Master placed her medallion inside, then shut the door. It automatically locked.

In long strides, the Master strutted straight out to the garden. Zormna followed after him a few steps, watching him go up the stairs to the roof—which was where she guessed he had been all morning. Up above, she watched him greet his wives who were also ornately garbed—each one in draping jewels, crowns of extra feathers and stones and nearly sheer clothing which Zormna found almost obscene. She also heard the voices of the children, and then the voices of strangers and friends. It was surprising she had not heard their footfalls on the ceiling. For a slight second, Zormna wondered at the construction of the home—but only just. What drew more of her attention was the activity above. It appeared to be some kind of celebration. A big one. Maybe it was a holiday.

A warm shiver ran over her. Holidays were busy times. That meant he would be gone longer than his usual daytime duration.

She was assuredly alone.

Turning—hopefully not too obviously gleeful—Zormna walked back into the Master’s room. She went directly to the desk, climbing up to the computerized safe above it and tapped on the mechanism. It beeped and printed something in the Th’san writing across a small screen which she had earlier taken as a temperature gauge. Unfortunately, she was unable to read any of it. She could barely comprehend the spoken language, forget this polypy scrawl. Briefly chastening herself for not trying harder to learn their barnyard gibberish, Zormna wondered if there was a way around this.

Pressing her lips together in thought, Zormna glanced around at the desk, really examining it now. The drawers themselves were a complex machine which she had yet to pry open due to a lack of tools. The Master never left things lying around, but had locked closets and drawers for everything. Most were either thumbprint touch coded, or some other kind of lock system which she could not break easily—yet. But there had to be a way to get tools to maneuver around it. There had to be a way to pry open the safe, retrieve her medallion, then pry open the panels to the drawers to crawl out of the Master’s chambers to an exit of some kind. She was sure they accessed some kind of dumbwaiter systems as the machine supplied fresh clothes daily without the servants needing to bring anything except food to the room.

With a frown, Zormna climbed off the desk and pulled open the only drawer that would budge for her—the one that held her dresses. It had a simple push catch. This one was empty, though and just large enough to hold one item of clothing. The way it moved, however, showed it had a fair number of gears with shifting boxes connected to it. And on the sides, she could see the space below where things were either stored or shipped into the room. She also noticed that if she reached in her arm, she could squeeze it over the sides of this drawer into the adjoining compartment. Feeling for a catch, Zormna pressed everything that felt like one. The drawer next to it popped open.

Pulling that one out, Zormna sorted through the contents. This one was filled with scrolls and papers—something she had not expected—as well as peculiar writing utensils which looked like dental picks. Zormna extracted those and set them on the table. She also found a pair of something like scissors and a—

A clinking noise sounded next to her.

Zormna jerked up her head.

The older slave who usually brought their food was just placing the lunch tray on the edge. The portion was indeed small, just for one, which gave Zormna more encouragement. However, the expression on the woman’s face did not.

“What are you doing?” The woman gasped, eyes wide.

Zormna swallowed then took a breath. “Searching for something. What are you doing?”

Such a reply made the slave blush. She quickly fled back into the corridor. It wasn’t a slave’s place to question—which Zormna’s remark had reminded her. Zormna only hoped she would not fink to the Master.

Zormna continued her search, digging among only a few small bits of things, but nothing else was really useful. Sighing as she closed the drawer, Zormna picked up her food tray and took it to the bench. She sat and ate, thinking while stabbing her meal with those long-pronged forks they used, but she only touched the bread and fruit. As usual, she left the slimy meat alone. It always looked deeply suspicious. And that slight burnt hair smell made her skin crawl. Fingering the fork in her hand, she skewered another bit of fruit. Sucking on the tines, Zormna stared at the metal placidly. But then her eyes widened.

Lifting the strong sharp fork out of her mouth to examine it, Zormna smiled. “Perfect.”

Zormna abandoned her meal at once. Scrambling back onto the desk, she pried open the front panel to the safe with the pronged fork. The tines bent, but she managed to get the panel off, exposing a wiring and chip network. She stared at it then chuckled. It was almost on Earth level tech, not what she had expected. She prodded through it, tracing the wiring with her fingers without touching them while her mind went over what she knew about electrical connections.

Tinkering in machines had always been a hobby. It was also handy when she felt mischievous. Zormna never had a machine she could not understand or manipulate to get what she wanted. And with the safe, she discovered as she prodded through it, was the simplest of machines in comparison to the many computer networks she had broken into as a child. A manual safe would have been a better defense against her. After only a little tinkering, the small safe door popped open. And there it sat. Her medallion, resting among other things he apparently treasured.

Zormna smiled, taking her medallion out. Hugging it to her chest, she breathed free. Now she just had to figure out how to escape from the room. She didn’t think the drawer panels were going to be as easy as the safe.

Her first order of business was to hide the medallion. She did not want it in a place where the Master could find it, and yet, she needed it near her. Her mind went over what he would and would not touch. Immediately, her eyes set on her bath suit. It was now full of little holes, still holding together, but like a rag. Strips were hanging off of it. The hem on one side was nearly torn off. Grabbing that, Zormna pulled and tore the length of that strip, practically tying it around the medallion like sachet, letting the longs ends hang like belt straps. Slipping it under her dress, where her bra line would have been, she wrapped it around herself and tied the ends together. She tucked in her dress around it so the cloth was no longer swinging loose to her bodice, creating modesty. It was a win-win. She had always hated that her dresses barely covered her breasts. Now they could. She had invented a cheap bra. The best part, the medallion thumped comfortingly against her chest where it always had. Of course, she would have to wear it lower to hide it from the Master, around her waist so her dress could conceal it, but today, she kept it close to her heart.

 

The festivities dragged well into the night. Zormna mostly expected her Master to come in at bedtime, stinking drunk—but he never came. The Beebles were nervous that evening and hardly played. They just did their gardening. When she went in for the night alone as the party continued to rage above, it took forever for her to fall asleep. Fitfully, she slept, feeling strange to be alone and unmolested. And in the morning, she awoke, looking around for the hulking figure, seeing none.

He never came in.

The Master did not come in for bath, nor did he come after floor washing. The celebrating on the roof pounded up again on the ceiling above her by noon, with music and who knows what else. The music was familiar, though her Master never played any. She had heard the kind from other parts of the house. This was something else though, not quite like anything she had heard on Earth. Not even sitar music. It had a piccolo-ish woodwind sound to it. No strings. Lots of humming, thrumming, and perhaps Tibetan monk-sort of chanting-ness about it. And drums. The beat was danceable. And there were cymbals. But the tune wasn’t exactly catchy like one would expect. Not that those Th’sans above weren’t singing to it, but that Zormna could not figure it out. She weakly wondered if maybe her music expert, Jafarr, could. There wasn’t an instrument he couldn’t play as far as she knew.

Her mind went to that dream again. She could almost smell him. His fathomless eyes gazed at her with worry, and longing. They had felt so close that she could have touched him.

A loud crescendo shook her out of her thoughts.

Listening to the noise, Zormna walked out into the garden. It was after lunch for her and she was curious. She wanted a peek at the festivities. That and she had failed miserably in her attempts to pry open the drawers. She needed a break. She had been searching all over it for screws to unscrew—but everything seemed bolted in permanently, locked in a manner she was not familiar with. Her fork was entirely bent out of shape, and she had caused enough obvious scrapes across the front to hide from the Master. It was time to give it up, for now.

Stepping into the lilies, Zormna peered up on tip-toe at the roof. From that angle, she could only see a few adult heads. Occasionally a Th’san passed by the edge railing, laughing loudly. The sound was like hooting goose rather than a duck. Probably another species. It amazed Zormna how she had become so accustomed to the sound though. But because she could not see much, Zormna walked over to the tree in the garden and climbed up for a better view.

As she was climbing, her mind nagged at her. It was possible that this would anger her Master. The fact that she was not invited or dragged up to be included in this celebration made Zormna wonder if she was perhaps looking into something exclusively Th’san—like a holy private ceremony or rite thing. Brian Henderson occasionally had talked of things that were so sacred in his church that people just didn’t talk about it outside of holy places. This could be the same. Yet Zormna climbed anyway to the highest point in the tree that she could manage without falling, hoping to see what had taken the Th’san from his regular daily business.

Once she settled on a strong bough, she pushed the leaves apart. From her new vantage point, gazing over the yard to the roof, she saw more than what was occurring on her roof, but also on the roofs all over the city. Upon every roof in the city, Th’sans gathered around huge tables covered in food of all kinds, so much more variety than Zormna ever seen on their trays during their regular meals. It was a feast. The Th’sans everywhere around her were in the fanciest clothes imaginable, singing long jovial anthems which resonated over the entire city. In fact, they all seemed to be singing the same song together. It could have been a ceremony, but Zormna was not so sure now. Her eyes widened on the entire scene. She leaned back, taking it all in.

Within the feast on her roof, Zormna recognized many of the Th’sans with her Master—friends, neighbors, perverse visitors… including the one she had thrown into the pond not long after she had first been captured. The white crane teacher was also there. The only thing different was this time they were entirely without their lap girls. In fact, no humans were visible. At. All.

Zormna peered toward the swampy road gutters. All slave activity in them was gone. It was as if humans did not exist on that world at all, slaves or otherwise.

Were they holed up? Or had they given a break for once?

Yet thinking on this, she shook her head. The Beebles were still working, and the servant was still bringing her food. The cleaning horns also still blew, so someone was still performing that ritual.

The wives were serving the food at the feast, and not just the Master’s wives, but others as well—beautifully frocked hens dressed in luxuriant gowns. The children ran about the flat rooftop, dodging around tables and huge pillows, in and out of incense clouds, laughing and throwing at each other small pieces of what looked like dice from a role-playing game. It made Zormna think of the time when Mindy McLenna had gotten in a fight with her brother Andrew and was throwing the pieces of Monopoly at him. This entire event was like a summer Christmas. She watched gift-giving, hugs from relatives, vast decorations of garlanded vines and flowers and colored lights, except it was all done in the view of neighbors so that it was more like a citywide party. Possibly it was a global party. Zormna wondered if they were also celebrating this in space. Had the war paused, if only for a day? Was there a minor retreat? Had her people noticed? Because she didn’t remember such a pause before. Did Th’san soldiers get breaks?

As Zormna watched them celebrate, an odd feeling settled in her gut. She had been with the Th’sans for a long time now, but this was the first holiday-like celebration that she recognized. She started to wonder if there had been others but she had not noticed. Maybe when he left on trips? Even more, she wished she knew their language so she could understand what was going on. Though she was still convinced they were depraved beasts, they seemed so human right now.

The Th’sans celebrated all that day. And Zormna watched them in days that followed, climbing up to the tree occasionally to see if any of the festivities had altered or if the Master was going to return soon.

In the meantime, she had finally managed to pry off a panel to the desk—only to find out that it merely sorted out a prearranged collection of items in a slot system inside the desk and there was no passage to another floor in the house, at least not one below. So, it was not a dumbwaiter delivery system as she had assumed. She had always assumed there was a cellar to the place, considering how high up the room was from the road—but if there were a basement or cellar, Zormna finally decided it was not connected to the Master’s room. Looking at how this drawer slot system worked, she figured there was a connection to the hallway on the other side. Unfortunately, she did not have the tools to remove the machinery enabling her to crawl through—at least not yet. Zormna had put back the panel, but she had disabled its locking mechanism for future access.

With the Master gone, Zormna found herself pacing the room and the yard. She tried exercising to keep her mind busy, but it didn’t seem to help. Zormna hated to admit it, but with the Master gone up top all the time, she felt uneasy. She kept waiting for the Master to come back and catch her in an escape. If that wasn’t bad enough, it was also difficult to sleep. She was restless. She kept waking at night. The bed was hauntingly empty. And the noise of the party carried on late, keeping her up besides. This was why she kept returning to the tree to watch them, she told herself.

In the mornings, she noticed the Th’sans slept on cushions around the tables, fanning themselves and lolling about with filled stomachs and drool on their chins. By midday they feasted and played different games, gambling usually with peculiarly shaped coins that Zormna assumed to be gold. And at night, they sang and danced and ate. And they did all this, all day, never leaving the roof except perhaps to take care of private bodily matters. They even bathed on the roof with zero modesty. It made her wonder why they even bothered with clothes if modesty did not matter to them.

A couple times the Master noticed her in the tree, watching them. He had given her a stern look—but he had made no move to order her out of it. Apparently, they were not supposed to leave the festivities, or possibly even to talk to their slaves. But from the look in his eye, Zormna knew he would most likely punish her for spying on them once the celebration was over.

When night fell on the fourth evening of festivities, and Zormna had grown weary of watching her Master and his family enjoying themselves, she climbed out of the tree, sliding down the bark to the ground. She settled on a rock and dipped her feet into the pond, cooling them. She thought about going for a swim. The pond was large enough, and she was feeling mucky from sweat. Yet before Zormna could drop in, she noticed the Beebles come out for their usual gardening. She attempted a hello, which sounded a bit like: beeAH bal, turning up like a question.

Most went about their work without a word. They were not their usual chattering selves, but they had been subdued the duration of the festivities anyway. Yet this day, they came out quiet, hairy faces drooping. Their glassy animal eyes were wet with tears. They barely even noticed Zormna except to say ‘beeble’ timidly and start their garden grooming.

She shuddered. Something was seriously wrong. She could feel it in her gut. They usually greeted her like little fan children, swarming her with fuzzy hugs and cheerful ‘beebling’ with gifts of bitten-off flowers and comforting touches. Wading along the edge of the pond, listening to their low solemn hum, she recognized a warm, grieving tone—almost a tune to counter the noise above. The party sounds on the roof rose, cheering almost. The chorus of Th’san cheers above brought back the feeling Zormna had when she had been in the arena. The cacophony of animal enjoyment was almost brutal and made her cringe. The Beebles moaned at the clamor, going louder—nearly monkish. Zormna half expected them to chorus up in a Gregorian chant.

Then one Beeble howled.

Another cheer came from the roof in reaction to the cry the Beebles made. Zormna looked up at the rooftop. Up above, peering down over the rim, the heads of eager Th’san children gazed into the garden. Their crocodile eyes shone like glass, reflecting the string of lights around the party area. One of them pointed at her and laughed, hissing back over his shoulder to someone else.

The Beebles moaned louder in mournful harmony, and another broke into a howl. Its low voice swooped and went high in such a sad way that it yanked hard onto Zormna’s gut and almost induced her to cry. Zormna gazed at them again with wonder.

Overhead, the Th’san children’s goose-laughter echoed down, practically mocking them. The children clapped and waved their fingers in that O gesture, calling for others to come and look. Something they liked was happening. Something they thought was really amusing—but it gave Zormna the sensation of seeing a group of children tying tin cans to the back of a dog’s tail, then throwing rocks at it. As more heads peered over the roof rail, including the Master’s, Zormna recoiled in disgust. Her Master looked dreadfully drunk, tottering while wiping meat juice from his mouth with an overlarge napkin. In his other hand was a mammoth drumstick, big enough to be venison. He bit into it and chewed, watching the Beebles with mocking pleasure.

Another Beeble howled, sending chills up Zormna’s spine.

The crowd on the roof hooted. The Beeble howling only increased, and soon the Beebles stopped working altogether. All of their voices bayed in chorus much like a deep throaty slave song from the old American South, each Beeble staring mournfully into the sky, their arms hanging miserably at their sides, so much that their knuckles were scraping the ground.

She could feel it. And though she did not really understand their language, Zormna knew something dreadful had happened. The Beebles were most definitely mourning.

But why were the Th’sans cheering? Why did this give them so much blasted pleasure?

Peering up at the roof again where the Th’sans laughed and ate, Zormna clenched her teeth. She was missing something. There was something she did not understand that the Beebles did, something which they were grieving. Most of the partygoers above had retreated back to the tables where she could no longer see them, including her Master. But this question was now driving her mad. She had to find out the answer.

Turning once more to the tree, Zormna climbed up the branches to have a look. She had to get to her safest perch so her Master couldn’t see her spying on him. She hooked her foot in a crux of two branches, parted leaves while grabbing the thinner trunk. Her other foot bent, and she leaned on a knee upon a higher branch. And she gazed out. Peering through the large tree leaves, taking in the lit tables and the bright decorations once more, she searched for what was upsetting the Beebles—something which would upset them. As she examined the scene, her eyes almost immediately fixed on the new course of food that was being served on the main table. It was different from the other dishes Zormna had seen the days before. The drippy slimy sauce she recognized. The smell was unmistakable as it wafted on the air. It was that awful slimy meat dish that was sometimes served for lunch—the one she detested from the very smell of it. On the tray it was still nearly whole. The carved animal still had some of its parts attached. She could make out the ribs and the meat joint where the leg had been broken off by her Master. It also still had the head.

Her stomach lurched.

Its dull baked eyes stared blankly at the moon, its once furry face skinned. At first sight, it looked like a charred human child—except for its floppy dog-like ears.

Zormna vomited over the tree branch.

As soon as she could stop retching, she quickly climbed down to the ground. The Beebles were still howling miserably at the sky, their funeral song lifting with their sorrow. Her stomach hurt. Zormna stumbled over the ground, slipping in among them, taking in their glassy eyes and floppy ears. One of their own was gone. He was the main dish.

It was the worst. It almost made her want to never eat meat again.

Zormna bent to the ground and picked up a handful of mud near the pond. Rubbing it between her hands, she then trailed it down her face in the traditional Arrassian manner for mourning, making tracks down from her eyes. Her low somber song started off key, but the tune floated up to tops of the roofs as she wept with them.

Th’san heads up top turned.

 

Em ranen’om neem meez’o d neem trii emes ll’abor Dors,

Na’tan nee mazh odihan ee ta’er’ej za’en O’res.

Em rannen’om nees kar’mel laz’ak oomas ee ll’abor shan’al.

Einrras conch’narr sois’ova’ova ee Om za rras reinnendel.

 

Her Master walked to the edge of the roof and peered down. His green eyes narrowed on her. But Zormna did not care. Let him condemn her. Let him dare punish her when he returned. She remained encircled by the Beebles, weeping and staring at the stars—her off key singing rising upwards, as she had lost a friend that night.

Jafarr woke with that old song in his ears: “We wish you peace with you to our great Father, where you may rest and be his. We wish your family long memory and great love. Never ending happiness, and death is now impossible.”

Who had died? Jafarr lay back down and tried to close his eyes to see. But all he saw were two moons in a dark sky. Two moons, the sound of soulful howling, and Zormna’s singing. He knew it was her, because it was out of key, yet it was still haunting. And so sad.

“I’m here with you,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes and sang the words with them, hoping she would hear him.

 

Feasting days lasted an entire week. But Zormna had stopped watching after the Beeble had been eaten and she had heard Jafarr’s song. His song had calmed her. It was like he had wrapped his arms around her, hugging her. She was able to sleep at night, no longer restless. She also no longer had the stomach for their partying, freed from that nervous interest.

It was after floor-washing when the Master returned. Zormna had already finished her bath and put away the tub. She was at the moment pushing around the bath bottles in configurations on the floor tiles like chess pieces, just thinking. He walked sprightly into the room, grinning to himself with contentment as he gazed about the place.

Hearing him, she looked up, startled, and accidentally tipped over a bottle of blue soap which spilled onto the clean floor. Righting the bottle, Zormna grumbled then she scrambled up to the bath to get a rag to clean it up.

The Master surveyed the room with deep pleasure, nodding happily to himself. He was obviously impressed at how clean it still was in spite of leaving his dangerous bed pet alone for a full week. She could have trashed the place. He walked over to Zormna and patted her on the head as he gave her the O sign with his hand, shaking it. His gills rippled upon the sight of her.

Zormna turned away to ignore his praise. The very prospect of sharing her bed again made her sick. It had been nice not being groped all the time. That sort of freedom, she realized, would not come again for a long while. And as for her escape route, she still had not managed it.

His eyes flickered with annoyance, narrowing to slits. She was clearly not as receptive as he had hoped. But the Master wouldn’t allow her to ignore him. As soon as she had wiped up the floor, he snatched Zormna up off the ground and pulled her close to look at her. Holding her chin, he tilted her head to peer into her eyes.

Her emerald eyes flashed angrily. But when they fixed on his large glassy stare, her defiant gaze quickly vanished as shivers ran through her. Trembling, she waited for him to punish her for spying on him during the festivities. It was only inevitable.

Yet he did not press the machine. Instead, he merely inspected her, reacquainting himself with his property as he always did when he was gone longer than a day. Her heart thumped heavily in her chest the second his claws touched her skin. She shivered all over again as his pointy tips ran through her hair, feeling her scalp, fingering her curls. His hands ran across her chin, touching her dimples then fingering the cleft that divided it. His claws were sharp and had not been filed down in week, so it was like being inspected with a knife. When he touched her neck, she shuddered. But he clasped her tighter so she could not move.

Zormna shoved away his claws, pushing his hand off as hard as she could as she flicked the claw tips up.

His eyes widened with an intake of breath. His pupils then narrowed to slits. He peered at her darkly.

She shuddered under the heavy weight of his gaze, clenching her jaw defiantly. But that had no effect. The Master set his gigantic hand on her head, holding her still as he pulled her close against his body to reassert who was master.

His gills rippled with pleasure. Straining against the pressure while his sharp claws tickled across her skin like they would dig in if she tried to push him off again, she breathed hard. His near heart thumped heavily in her ears, the beat growing even stronger as a rise shot through her body, a sensation she had not had to deal with for a week. She quivered.

What was she going to do? He still had that vile machine. His eyes said he wanted to pin her to the ground that second and finish the job. He had the means and the power to. He had already molested her so thoroughly that technically she had not been a virgin for while now. His hands had literally been everywhere he could reach… and she felt ashamed. As a soldier, she was angry with herself for failing to defend her integrity. As a woman, it made her feel entirely helpless—something she despised.

But the Master let go and walked away, leaving her breasts sore and her ears ringing.

 

That afternoon the Master stepped back into business, though when he sat down he insisted that Zormna file down and buff the tips of his claws. Apparently, he missed violating her.

Visitors came and went. And he puttered around on his computer pad again. He was intensely fixated on it, so it had to have been important, probably week-old work he had to catch up on. Happily free from him, Zormna had fled to the garden.

After exercise on the low plant life, she arranged the broken flowers left by the Beebles from their mourning, setting them on the stones and poking them with a stick as she went again over all her options for escape. One of the nights when the Beebles had gone back to their pen, she had tried the Beeble hatch one more time. The Beebles themselves even attempted to help her in—but that route ended up being too small for to get through. She had to slide in through on her stomach. The problem was, the moment she touched the stone at around doorway, her gut would clench up in agony. So that escape route was out.

As for the way through the desk cupboards, it still needed to be cleared. The problem was that she had to find a better tool to pry apart the machinery that was in the way, most of which involved gears and bolts and heavy parts.

Then, of course, there was her shoe project… the pair she figured she could make to see if it was just contact with the floor that was stopping her from just walking out of there. Though she understood gears and machinery, she wasn’t exactly a crafty person. Art was not her thing, or rather she had undervalued things such as weaving and whatnot and had little experience with it; but Zormna figured if anyone knew how to make sandals out of plant leaves, it would be the Beebles. If only she could ask them with words. She would try to demonstrate that night, hoping they knew what shoes were. Th’sans never wore shoes, and Beebles also went around the garden barefoot, as did she.

“Xuzuz!” A high feminine voice echoed from over the garden fence. “Xuzuz! O shuk lo uth wu bungwuz!”

Zormna glanced up. The wives didn’t usually visit—not since the youngest one had dumped ink on her and she had fought back. The Master always came to them.

The garden gate opened.

But it wasn’t one of the wives stepping through, but a young Th’san female who stood just as tall as the wives. It could have been a new wife, though Zormna doubted it. There was something familiar about her. Zormna had a feeling she had seen her before. Although clearly mature, this hen was not as physically well-endowed as the wives, and her dress was plain, much like Zormna’s present one, except the sides of this hen’s dress were sewn up modestly to cover her. Her feathered head, however, was trimmed fashionably for a Th’san. She looked pretty. It occurred to Zormna that she was probably the Master’s child, a thought which Zormna found unsettling as this hen did not look all that different in age than her.

The young hen noticed Zormna at once and smiled brightly at her. Closing the gate quickly, probably to keep Zormna in, the hen then called out again. “Xuzuz! Uth shoa oamth?”

The Master’s voice came from inside. “Choa?”

The hen smiled at Zormna once more as she strode past her into the Master’s room.

“Xuzuz,” the hen began again, speaking hastily this time so it all sounded like hissing and gurgling. Zormna caught only a few words—the usual: woman, go, come, give, etc. The conversation was unintelligible.

Soon after, the Master walked out into the garden with the young hen at his side. He put his arm around the young hen’s shoulder and gazed at her lovingly if not protectively.

Zormna blinked. She was right. It was his daughter, possibly the eldest. Xuzuz wasn’t his name. His name was Xochzong. Though Nilwa had been the first to tell her, it mostly sunk in as all his visitors addressed him by it. No, Xuzuz clearly meant father. New word. She could add it to the few in her head.

The Master spoke, shaking his O gesture as he nudged his daughter toward Zormna.

Zormna sat up immediately. What was he doing?

The huge young hen crouched down in front of her, touching Zormna’s hair, twisting it in her fingers and laughing. Zormna wanted to pull back, but she could tell the Master would be angry if she did, and he would probably punish her for it.

Turning back toward her father, the nubile hen said something. What she said, Zormna didn’t comprehend, but the Master’s words she somehow did. His voice gurgled permission. Permission for what, Zormna did not know.

Laughingly, the hen unexpectedly picked Zormna off the ground and carried her like a pet, directly to the pond. The Master followed them, meeting Zormna’s confused stare with a firm warning glare. That, she also understood. Mr. McLenna had given her similar glares hundreds of times when she had gone off with Jennifer to someplace. Some things needed no translation. If she hurt his daughter, he’d kill her.

Zormna wondered for just a second if that would be a way to strike at him. But then she really did not want to die—and he probably would not kill her as much make life excruciatingly painful.

As soon as she perched down on the bench at the edge of the pond, the Master’s daughter placed Zormna on her lap. The young hen ran her clawed fingers through Zormna’s hair, much heavier than the way the Master stroked her. The petting ran down her scalp and back with inconvenient enthusiasm. But at least it was just petting. In fact, the hen seemed delighted at the softness of Zormna’s arms and skin the way a child would at a furry bunny. She cooed at Zormna in the way a socialite would a toy dog.

Disgusted, Zormna attempted to leave the hen’s lap. Yet as she looked up, she caught the Master’s warning glares. His eyes meeting hers, she quit struggling and put up with it instead. It was probably how cats truly felt.

The Master watched them for over an hour before he left the garden to return to work, confident that his pet would not ‘bite or scratch’ his child. Admittedly, it was strange being regaled back to the status of ‘pet’ again after so much lusty abuse. The daughter liked playing with Zormna’s hair the most. She relished making knots in it then combing them out again, which oddly reminded Zormna of when the youngest Henderson girls had insisted she play ‘princesses’ with them. The Master’s daughter enjoyed twisting Zormna’s curls in her fingers, forming ringlets around her head. A beauty salon could not have made such perfect curls. The hen giggled like a chicken as she talked, clucking and hissing happily as if Zormna could understand her words. She pulled flowers off of the bushes, tucking them in Zormna’s hair only to shake them out again, laughing at the effect.

It was late in the evening when the young hen finally stopped—possibly only to go in for dinner. She picked Zormna up and carried her back into the Master’s room, setting Zormna on the floor near her father’s feet. The Master looked at his daughter expectantly, clearly asking her how it went. Zormna watched the hen titter while expressing her delight and then say something else which unfortunately Zormna did not understand.

The Master smiled and waved his O gesture. The hen threw her arms around him, hugging him once. She then patted Zormna on the head before skipping out of the room and back to the garden.

The Master smiled down on Zormna, rubbing his hand on her head while cooing at her as he would a favorite collie. Zormna endured that also as she sat on the edge of the bed with continued confusion. When he let go, she sighed, watching him return to his work. She scratched her own sore scalp with another sigh. If there were more days like that, she was not sure she’d have energy to handle them.

What People Call Romance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Thirteen:

 

“Virtue is the chiefest beauty of the mind, the noblest ornament of humankind.

Virtue is our safeguard and our guiding star that stirs up reason when our senses err.”

—Sampler in Newfoundland—

 

 

As much as Zormna had hoped the daughter’s visit was only a fluke like the third wife’s visit to attack with ink in the bath had been, it was not so. The daughter returned the next afternoon—and for that matter, all the afternoons following that—mostly to play with Zormna’s hair… which Zormna found entirely odd. The second day, the daughter brought hair things: combs made out of ivory and silver, ribbons of many colors, and ornate clips and picks. She also put around Zormna’s neck a thin collar which, it turned out, Zormna could not remove once it was latched on. It was snug, almost choking. It had an electronic tether which made it so Zormna could not go too far from her whenever the Th’song hen wanted to play with her.

She had been leashed.

The Master never used it, though Zormna was now stuck wearing it all the time. The daughter wore a wrist band which she activated whenever she visited so that Zormna had to come to her, or the collar band would tighten like a choker and pull her in. Zormna hated it.

At times when the Master was home, the daughter had them sit by the pond. But when he was gone on business, which was more frequent than not these days, as something had come up which required him to visit various sites around the world, the hen carried Zormna in her arms then climbed upon the wall that overlooked the road, sitting on it—which surprised Zormna as she was sure it was the last place the Master wanted her to be. After all, it was just a drop to the road. Though she might hit the reed moat first, it was a leap to freedom, basically.

The first time the daughter did this, setting Zormna directly on the wall, it caused Zormna’s stomach to wrench. Stabbed with such pain, Zormna nearly fell off and was choked by the tether. The Master’s daughter didn’t seem to notice, though she caught Zormna when she dropped. Possibly she didn’t recognize Zormna was hurting, because Zormna often became rigid when she touched her.

But of course, Zormna stiffened under her touch, as her claws were all sharp, and one wrong move would cut her. Truthfully, Zormna would have leapt off the wall if it the daughter had not put on her that stupid tether. It was a painful place to be, stuck on that hen’s lap with her insides twisting up nearly all afternoon while the hen’s incessant chatter about who-knows-what rattled on in her ears until the daughter finally left for dinner.

That evening Zormna sought to find a way to break the collar. It had almost choked her, and she was bruised from it. She also tried to show the Master who merely loosened it and shook his finger at her as if it was her fault and not his daughter’s. Since that incident, Zormna sought (and found) a way to break the choker’s tether but pretended it was still working. After all, it wasn’t that different from the shock collar which had been put on her when she had first encountered the Th’sans. She merely put grease from the food she ate onto certain nodes until the mechanism itself shorted out with a shock. It burned her neck a little, but it was worth it.

The second time the hen took her onto the wall, Zormna struggled to fight it. The daughter, however, clamped her clawed hands on her new toy and happily carried her back, placing her in her tiny lap this time so Zormna could not flee. On her lap, there was a great deal less pain—which she should have predicted considering her experiences with the front passageway and the stairs to the roof. The proximity still made her stomach hurt, but she was no longer sweating bullets or curling into herself with stomach cramps. Rather, she got a dull ache.

The daughter also talked nonstop.

At first the hen’s incessant girlish prattle—hissing and clucking all the time—was intensely irritating. It grated against Zormna’s nerves so much that she ached to hear anything but Th’san. In fact, it drove her to learn the Beeble lingo much quicker, mostly to counter the clucking in her head. However, the daughter’s prattle after a short time transformed into a background noise that she just could not shut off, forcing her to get used to it.

The Master’s daughter would talk about everything. The sky, pointing to it. The dirty earth, waving at it. Complaining about it. The road and the people on it were her favorite subjects. Zormna didn’t understand much of what was said of course—not at first. It was just hisses and clucks to her ears. Besides, the Th’san hen spoke it too fast. Zormna still only knew a handful of words. But unlike the Beeble language, Th’san wasn’t tonal… and as the young hen continued to rattle on, Zormna soon recognized patterns.

After a while, the annoying unremitting chatter from the Master’s daughter ended up being a blessing in disguise. As the Master’s daughter talked to her day by day, nearly every afternoon, pointing at strangers and laughing at their attire or guessing where they were from, the puzzle of the Th’san language understandingly became less enigmatic. In fact, it was handing Zormna exactly what she needed. Undeniably, after a particularly meaningful conversation the daughter had with a passerby, the language unfolded in front of Zormna’s human ears with layers of meaning, and her comprehension finally latched on.

That significant and life-changing conversation had been quite simple. It had been an argument, essentially. A particularly irate elderly hen had been passing by the house, saw the daughter, then Zormna, and marched straight up to them both on her skinny wrinkled bird legs. Gathering up her layered skirts, the woman used all the words Zormna already knew, and introduced to her to so many more as she snapped at the daughter about how the Master Governor’s daughter ought not to be sitting on the wall with her father’s lap girl. And the daughter impertinently defended herself. A fifth of their words were ones Zormna knew well, but she easily guessed the meaning of the others out of the elderly’s hen-pecking tone and sharp critical eyes and gestures. Better still, after the elderly hen tromped off, Zormna picked up more—because once the hen was gone, the daughter griped over the unfairness of that elderly person complaining about her behavior, as if that old hen had no right to say such things to her. In that conversation alone, Zormna picked up five hundred new words in context. And retained them.

In the consecutive weeks, the rest of the language fell into Zormna’s brain in an avalanche. On the days when they sat in the garden and the daughter chatted to herself and her new plaything, Zormna learned words about plants and the house. She picked up the wives’ names and what they did all day. The eldest wife was called XussShass. The other two were Klik’xuss and XassThakka. The daughter was called Shofof’zzz. Zormna didn’t know what they meant, but that did not matter. What did matter was that she learned where they slept and ate and where the children lived—which was in fact in a separate wing on a lower part of the manor house. The Master visited them daily when Zormna cleaned the floor for a morning ritual in their garden and on occasion when they expressed the need for personal time alone with him. In fact, through the daughter, Zormna learned about their rivalries and petty competitions for the Master’s affection. She also learned that male Th’sans really didn’t spend that much time with the females except sexually. The hens did not actually have ‘suffrage’ or ‘social equality’, but lived in parallel circles as the cocks.

Shofof’zzz tittered over the sibling rivalry also. There were favorites in the family, and she wasn’t it. But Shofof’zzz was flippant about it because her father favored her out of all the daughters… at least because she was the eldest. He had a son he favored more who was currently out in the war. Shofof’zzz talked about how, if she were in charge of the house, she would run it in a different way than her mother. In addition, Zormna learned that the house was so huge that she had only ever seen an eighth of it. She had been correct in assuming there were other floors below the view of the roof top and garden. The Master actually lived on the second level. Their slaves lived in the basement, below ground as she had also guessed—and apparently, they had more than just the few women servants Zormna had seen. They owned a number of men, and the household also had a live-in slave manager who made sure the humans and the Beebles were locked in at night. Zormna was the only one with implants in her skull, but the daughter described her as ko’aokak—‘tamed’.

Zormna decided not to spoil her fantasies.

The daughter also talked a lot about the recent festivities. Zormna only understood a small bit of that, though she picked up names of things such as foods and games and the like. Shofof’zzz compared it with a couple other holidays, which apparently had come and gone. Zormna guessed they had occurred on the days when she had assumed her Master was gone on business rather than just with the family. There was only one rooftop festival apparently. The day the children threw the heavy colored game balls at her had been another holiday. Evidently, the family ‘pet’ had been allowed to attend that one.

Zormna also discovered where the Master went when he did go away on business—often to other planets, though mostly to different provinces in their world. Shofof’zzz mentioned the names of worlds and vehicles off-hand, so that slowly (well, perhaps slowly for Zormna who had always been a quick linguistic learner) she learned to understand comprehensive Th’san… which was actually pronounced Th’song.

Suffice it to say, on the days they sat on the wall, Zormna learned Th’song language much faster. It also helped when she heard other Th’song’quo[1] speak. And she took advantage of that ever since.

But also, during all this, and the reason the daughter was there using her in the first place, she learned the Master’s daughter loved a boy—in more bird terms, a ‘young cock’. He was from the southern provenance of the Th’san home world. Zormna found their romance almost cliché, as a typical teenage movie love story, mostly. He was the guy on the ‘wrong side of the tracks’, and she was the rich man’s daughter. They had met in an open market where she was buying silks for her future housekeeping (the equivalent to a hope chest) while she was among her girlfriends. He was dashing—handsome for a Th’san. But she had been forbidden to see him once her parents found out about their affection for each other.

Thing was, like most teenagers who think they are in love, they were tenacious. They had been meeting in various clandestine places, and he was of the habit of walking by her home to see if he could catch a glimpse of her. During the holidays, she and he had come up with a way in which they could meet. Her father’s garden ran along the road, unlike the other gardens, and her father would soon be regularly in and out on business now that his lap girl was mostly bed-trained. If she could sneak into his yard when the Master was gone, they would have a private place to meet. They just needed a signal to let him know the Governor was out of the home. The scheme was very simple.

As luck would have it, her father had complained during the holiday that he was concerned about his lap girl training would be derailed with him coming and going so much on business. His lap girl needed consistent watching—as was obvious when she climbed the tree to watch the festivities, but also due to her near escape at the fight arena. His lap girl needed someone to rein her in. Seizing the opportunity, the daughter had volunteered with a requested favor so she could be in his yard. The father had been slightly suspicious, but then later agreed after he saw that Zormna had trashed his cupboards in ‘an attempt to hack into them’ during that last holiday.

The scheme worked perfectly for the daughter. And the signal for her lover was simple. If he saw her on the wall, then they had an opportunity to get together. He did not have to deviate from his usual walk, even. If she was there, they would chat until they were both sure he could climb over the wall and into the garden for more privacy, or if he had to leave.

Of course, the daughter needed a reason to be on the garden wall. That was where Zormna came in. It was why the daughter had volunteered while at the same time asking her father if she could play with his pet who had ‘such beautiful hair’.

She didn’t want a pet to play with. She didn’t care squat for Zormna’s hair either. Human hair came off too easily and tangled too much, she complained. It was all a pretense so she would make the conversations between her and her lover seem legitimate. Everyone who saw them talking together also saw Zormna, the father’s lap girl, sitting there, allowing herself to be groomed and fondled in utter peevish boredom. If such a meeting between those two were not allowed by her father, then they certainly would not have the audacity to do it in front of the Master’s bed pet—Shofof’zzz had rationalized. Of course, they didn’t tell Zormna this. The lovers didn’t talk to her at all when they had their trysts. But the Arrassian queen-made-into-a-pet figured it all out by herself, and kept silent. After all, it gave her what she was aiming for as well—progress towards freedom.

One day when the Master had gone to the city of Kungzzo to regulate a little trade dispute, the young Th’san lover was late in arriving. Atop the wall as usual, Shofof’zzz sighed and craned her neck to see if he was coming and clucked with a gurgle, tying a horribly done bun on the back of Zormna’s head. Zormna already had three ponytails sticking out at weird angles, and her curls were looking frizzy from so much handling. But she preferred her hair being manhandled rather than what the Master did to her.

“Where is he?” the daughter murmured, gurgling in the back of her throat.

Zormna had also discovered that the gurgling Th’sans made had nothing to do with the words. Gurgles expressed emotion. Th’sans gurgled at different pitches when they were content and when they were unhappy. When angry, they spoke low and gutty. When happy, they cooed.

“He is late,” the daughter clucked again. She pulled out the ribbon in Zormna’s hair and started to untie the other ribbons that held the ponytails. But when she removed the last ribbon, yanking them out of Zormna’s head with a few hairs attached, her boyfriend’s head bobbed up from below the hill, his red and golden feather crest crisp and well preened. He wore his usual dusty brown-weave jacket and his thick-soled traveling shoes. Th’sans didn’t often wear shoes, let alone walk long distances, so this alone made him stand out. He did not wave. It would have been too suspicious. He took his time so that he would still appear as a passerby.

“Why hello,” he said when he just reached them, his gills rippling.

Shofof’zzz’s leg hung over the wall, making it so Zormna was sitting more on the wall than the daughter’s tiny lap than she liked. The pain crept up Zormna’s stomach, causing her throat to go dry from panting.

“Hello, sir,” the Master’s daughter replied with a glitter in her eye, her own gills fluttering. “How are your travels?” Her manner was the usual polite greeting to a stranger.

He smiled, nodding his head like a bird, “Very well, thank you lady.”

Shofof’zzz tried to hide her grin. “Do you have far to go? Or can you spare news?”

Zormna rolled her eyes and rubbed her sore scalp. She had heard this conversation a thousand times. It was always the same: ‘Can you spare news?’—the daughter would ask. ‘I could do with a rest,’—he would reply. Sometimes Zormna wished they would quit with the stupid games and elope.

“I could do with a rest,” he said on cue.

The daughter smiled at him as they began their chat, both peeking around to make sure it was safe. If it was, he was likely to climb over the wall into the yard.

“And how are things at home?” Shofof’zzz asked, smiling at him dearly with a hold around Zormna’s waist. She gripped Zormna tightly so her father’s lap girl could not get away to retreat to the house (something she had done once, alarming the daughter as it meant the collar was broken and her leash useless). Of course, the couple always switched their conversations to the weather and politics whenever passersby came their way. Often times Zormna wondered how stupid these two lovers thought everyone was to think they were not involved. It was obvious.

He shrugged in that birdish way. “Well, you know the South. My father wants me to join the war and help the soldiers vukko those humans that have taken Th’song space, but I already told him I wasn’t going to get involved in that.”

Zormna turned her head to listen better. Finally, she was hearing news on the war. Shofof’zzz didn’t like talking about it, but it was all Zormna really wanted to know about.

The daughter frowned a little at him. “What is wrong with fighting nobly? My mother-brother is a soldier.”

A mother-brother was a brother from the same mother, a cultural detail Zormna had recently learned. Within the Th’sans’ polygamous relationships, family was a little messy, especially because they also got very loose during that feast week and they accounted for their ‘illegitimate’ children as ‘gift-children’. So, in keeping track of their brood, the Th’sans had more family name terms than most humans did. Shofof’zzz’s mother-brother was the favorite son. Zormna glanced at the daughter with a smirk, glad to be an only child.

Her boyfriend nodded. “I know. I’ve met him, and that’s good for him. But it isn’t for me. War and death…” He shook his head. “Fighting humans. You know there is a quo’zzz with fighting humans. We have been warned.”

Blinking, Zormna listened more intently.

Shofof’zzz shook her head. “Don’t tell me that old hen’s story? I’ve heard it before.”

I haven’t—thought Zormna, listening as if her head would break if she didn’t learn more. The term quo’zzz Zormna guessed to mean something like danger or curse. The pain in her stomach increased. The daughter had loosed her grip and Zormna was leaning against the wall now, but she didn’t care. This was real news.

Shofof’zzz’s beau seemed to think his girlfriend hadn’t heard it enough and shook his ‘no’ fingers at her, making the L sign. “No, no, Shofof’zzz. If you don’t believe it then you don’t understand it.”

The hen lifted her head as she laughed. “My mother says that soath is nothing but a bunch of nonsense. The sunset coming to destroy us…. Ridiculous. What can one human do against our vast and powerful empire?”

Chills ran through Zormna. The sunset? Coming to destroy them? This was the Th’san soath—legend, belief, story? She might have thought it was the pain from touching the wall, but a swelling electric feeling flowed from her chest and ran over her entire body, soothing it almost. The Th’san word for sun was mo. The word for down was zoa. They were saying mo zoa. But could possibly…?

The Th’san lover frowned. “You never take the higher sussoass seriously. Are you going to wallow in the lesser gods forever? I’m telling you. It will offend the Creator to fight his children. He has not left them defenseless. Will our lesser gods protect us from Him and She whom He will send?”

Shofof’zzz glared at him, her glassy bird eyes narrowing into reptilian slits. She yanked Zormna forward and hung her on his side of the wall, yet not letting go, just a drop away from freedom. “Is that so? Well, her name is Zoamo. Is she the one who is going to destroy our empire?”

The pain from touching the wall wracked through Zormna’s entire body. As she gazed down at the drop which could land her in freedom, if only briefly, she shuddered. Neighbors were always watching, however. And she knew that if she made a free fall, tumbling down into the muck so she would not break anything, then sprang up into a run across the sharp white gravel in her bare feet—they would be able to catch her before she could get to any place safe. The daughter and her lover were vigilant watching her, besides. Not that she wasn’t able to fight them, but that she was still unarmed, barely dressed. And really, that thoroughfare’s rock paving looked like it’d mercilessly cut up the bottoms of her feet. In fact, as she stared at the gravel, she was sure the man who had escaped the arena could not have gone far on it. He would have had to take another escape route to get away.

Shofof’zzz laughed, heaving Zormna back into her lap, clutching her father’s lap girl to her chest with a haughty look to her lover. “The humans are weak. Our gods are not lesser gods. It is a lie that humans are the Creator’s children. And if you are going to talk like this then you can just leave.”

Her lover looked a half about to, but his eyes rested on Zormna. He had hardly ever looked at her before except to remark how rare she was. But now as his eyes fixed more intently on her face, pupils dilating widely while raking over her entire figure next, especially the paleness of her skin, his expression grew thoughtful, lastly fixing his eyes on Zormna’s tangled red and gold curls. He hissed, “Her name is Zoamo?”

The Master’s daughter nodded firmly, still clenching Zormna like a prize.

“Does her name mean sunset in her language?” he pressed, intently curious.

Zormna blinked again. Her name did mean sunset—sort of. Zormna in the old language meant dusk—meaning the time when sun set. Her people had always believed it was the perfect name for the last of the Tarrns, the prophesied leader at the change of times. But Na Zor were the words for sunset in Arrassian, or literally down sun.

Both of Th’sans were peering at her now like craning herons, examining her appearance, especially Zormna’s fiery hair which often made people think of the setting sun.

“Does she understand Th’song?” the hen’s beau asked, narrowing his eyes on Zormna as he stared.

The daughter shrugged, for the first time, curious.

“She knows commands, but I’ve never heard her speak.” Shofof’zzz then paused. “She sang with the Ba Ba during the feast when they do the howling. But I don’t know. I hear she can talk some of the Ba Ba language. But humans are like that. They can never just settle on one language.”

Flinching, Zormna realized with disgust that eating an entire Beeble was traditional for them during the feast. She tried not to react, but it came automatically.

“I think she does understand,” the boyfriend said, his eyes widening. “Look at her expression. It is unusually intelligent for a lap girl.”

Shofof’zzz blinked like a bird on that thought, murmuring to herself words which were probably advice from her father about Zormna. “Be careful. She is sly…”

“What kind is she? Just a captive? She doesn’t look Aloean,” he asked. “Too pale. In fact, I’ve never seen one white like her except those xo’kokzzath ones who are all white with pink eyes. But her eyes are dragon green.”

The daughter shrugged. “I don’t know. He never really said. Something about being of high blood.”

Her lover blinked at her, impressed.

“Father bought her sixteen turns ago,” she said. “She’s still in training though. Father says she is still a xoak dangerous, and I must be careful not to startle her or make her angry. As she is still untrained, she does not have complete control of her x’mmoa’quo yet. And she is strong. Sh’mung. In fact, I saw her win a rock game against my other-brothers and mother-brothers, and she was weakened then from willfulness. And I also heard she had attacked XassThakka, the third wife, and a guest. And Father says she almost escaped in the arenas where she had been called down to fight by one savage Odos. He wouldn’t tell me any more about how she did that though…. Just that, she might bite if I get too rough.”

It was the first time the couple had spoken about her. This was what the Th’sans were saying? He only said that she was ‘high blood’?

“Really? This little thing?” the Th’san lover asked, reaching out to finger Zormna’s leg.

Zormna jerked it away.

“But look how pale she is? Did she live in a mine before your father bought her?”

Shofof’zzz shook her ‘no’ fingers. “Oh, no. She’s a space captive. He says they took her from space. From the war.”

The daughter’s beau closed his mouth. “She’s not a Pirate. I’ve seen those. They wear lots of jewels in their clothes and on their orange skin. And she is so white. Like glass.”

Shofof’zzz still shrugged. “No, she came with no jewels. She had an ugly necklace, but Father took that and locked it away. He says she won’t go far from it, though he doesn’t know why. The thing is hideous.” Then she rubbed Zormna’s right shoulder. “Oh! But she has this.”

The hen shoved Zormna’s bare right shoulder around so her boyfriend could see. The circular brand mark was still as plain as ever, though perhaps a sore from being traced by the daughter’s claw. Shofof’zzz had been fascinated with it from the first day and had practically outlined it with another scratch before her father finally made her stop touching it, which was a good thing too. The daughter was not as careful with her claws. She had a difficult time gauging scratch-risk.

Her boyfriend’s eyes opened wide. He looked again at Zormna, who was cringing in pain as she was touching the wall again.

“Oh, my…” He gasped. His eyes flickered to his girlfriend’s face. “Shofof’zzz, don’t you know what that mark is?”

She shook her head. “No. You?”

He shook his O gesture. “Yes.” He then swallowed. “She’s an Odos.”

Shofof’zzz regarded Zormna for a minute but unconcerned like. “Yeah, I suppose so. So what?”

“That’s where all the humans originally come from. Odos.” Her boyfriend looked a degree dismayed by his girlfriend’s ignorance.

The daughter didn’t seem to care. Why would she?

However, Zormna leaned in, listening.

He peered at Zormna again. “She is an Odos human, named Zoama with a symbol that looks like the setting sun on her shoulder.”

Shofof’zzz shook her O gesture rather irritably. “So…?”

The boyfriend groaned. “Sometimes you are so stupid, Shofof’zzz. You are holding a duk’ko’oth Odos. Only one kind of Odos has a duk like that—royalty. The girl in your lap is of the highest blood. How did your father get one?”

Zormna flushed and turned to look away.

Shofof’zzz rolled her eyes as if to say: “Duh, my father is a governor of our world.”

 “She understands!” He exclaimed. “Look! She knows!”

The Master’s daughter pulled Zormna closer, turning her so that they were nearly nose to nose. “How did father catch you?”

Zormna clenched her fists.

“See! Look at her hands! She understands us!” he exclaimed. “Make her speak.”

Zormna turned with a glare at him, fed up. “I not trained Ba Ba.”

Both gawped at her. Her Th’san was babyish, but it was clear. It took a while for them to recover. But when they did, they hissed their words urgently.

“How long have you understood the holy language?” the boyfriend indignantly demanded.

Making a face at him, wincing from pain, mostly because the daughter had dropped her on the wall, Zormna said, “Do it matter?”

They both flushed together.

“You… you… you… aren’t telling her father about us, are you?” the boyfriend gasped, looking nearly sick with horror.

The daughter shrieked. Her clawed hands slapped over her open mouth. She grabbed and held Zormna at arm’s length, almost shaking her.

Zormna nearly laughed. “What for? If I do, Master no would let girl in garden and I no learn your Th’song.”

Both of them regarded her extremely carefully, as one would when discovering the gun they were holding was not a toy, was actually loaded, and the safety was off.

“Are you royal Odos?” he asked.

Zormna shrugged, thinking over what he had said. Finally, she replied, said, “Yes.”

She turned as if to jump from the wall into the yard, but Shofof’zzz clawed hands tightened around Zormna’s forearms. Zormna could not afford scratches, but she wanted off the painful wall.

“How did Father catch you?” the hen demanded.

Zormna glared at the daughter, still trying to push from her arms, though not making that much of an effort. She was still trapped, after all. “He no catch. I go war. I fly. I no listen to Jafarr…” Zormna frowned, thinking of him as she lowered her eyes with shame. “Soldier catch. Bad trick.” She then looked at the hen. “Your father—he buy from white Th’song. They do bad thing to me.” Zormna touched the implants in her head. “Many bad thing…. I can no go.” Clenching her teeth, Zormna silently shuddered on the wall, still held by the child of the Th’san who owned her and regularly molested her, murmuring low, “But I is sunset. And be on wall hurt me. Let me off.”

Both of them stared hard, but they did not let her go. In fact, the daughter quickly pulled Zormna onto her lap, wrapping her arms tighter around her father’s property to make sure Zormna could not escape… realizing quite possibly that she was the only one who really was between Zormna and freedom—though that was not exactly true. However, she had figured out Zormna’s collar was broken, so there was no tether to leash her.

Huffily, Zormna drew her arms to herself and stared at the ground, lifting her feet off the stone to avoid the pain. The daughter really was a dim-minded thing. Her father would not have left her alone with his dangerous property if such an easy escape were possible.

Shofof’zzz’s boyfriend stepped away from the wall. He took a great heaving breath as he hiked his load back onto his shoulders. His mind appeared to reevaluate everything in that moment from his love affair to his moral stance on the universe. Turning his eyes back to his lover, he said, “Shofof’zzz, take care of this one and don’t lose her. You are holding Th’song lives in your hands as we speak.”

Without another word of explanation, the romantic lover continued his walk down the road. The daughter stared after him until he was out of sight.

Once gone, she quickly hopped off the wall back into the garden, carrying Zormna to the pond. Eying Zormna over again more introspectively, examining Zormna’s brand mark once again in uncharacteristic silence, she was uncomfortable.

As for Zormna, she had been left with a lot to think about. After all, this wasn’t the first time she had heard an ancient prophecy about her. But this revelation was entirely unexpected. How was it possible to have a prophecy cross over from another species on another world? Was it actually about her? Was this part of the Endless War in the Arrassian Prophecies? And if so, what did she have to do? Or for that matter, what could she do from her present situation? She wished she had Jafarr there to explain things. He knew the prophecy intimately. He was of that kind of mind. Spiritual.

But a nastier thought crept into Zormna’s thoughts, saying: Was this entire captivity punishment from the Father of all souls for not doing enough before the Th’san war? Had she failed to fulfill her people’s prophecy? She could have handled all of this better. She could have prepared better. She could have briefed the Surface Patrol more thoroughly on what she did know about the various alien species they had encountered the moment she had become queen. After all, Dural Korad was right—she had once been Zeta leader, privy to secrets that even her own government had not been aware of—secrets which she had not even revealed to Jafarr though she should have. Or as queen, she could have ordered Salvar to have revealed them. It had been a big mistake, and all her fault.

It’s not your fault, a whisper came to her, akin to Jafarr’s voice. It’s your destiny. The bad must come with the good.

Zormna shuddered, wondering once again why it had to be her. Why couldn’t the One the prophecy talked about be someone else?

The Master’s daughter said nothing about that afternoon to her father when he returned from business around the time the sun was just touching the clouds above the trees. He happily took Zormna from his daughter’s arms and placed the Arrassian queen upon his bed to prepare for dinner. Shofof’zzz said nothing of the Th’song language Zormna had spoken, giving the tiny human the eye as she headed toward the garden fence. The daughter’s glance warned her father’s pet to not mention anything to her father about anything. Zormna merely blinked at her, then she smiled and nodded.

Relieved, and a degree startled at the mutual understanding between them, Shofof’zzz went back to her part of the house.

Yet as she watched the hen go, Zormna thought, ‘Like I’d be that stupid.’

 

The Master did not always leave on business, and the daughter only came in the afternoon. When the daughter did come and the Master was home, Zormna happily came to her without a word and just let the hen chat to herself while playing with her ‘pet’. Zormna pretended the collar worked and stayed close to her. It was better than sitting with the Master and his roving hands while he talked to guests. It was also interesting to Zormna that when the daughter was around, the Master treated her more like a pet… as if his child’s presence invoked a sliver of moral conscience in him. But Shofof’zzz never stayed long if she could not sit on the wall. And after an hour, she usually set Zormna back on her own two feet to run free while she left her father’s garden. It seemed she only stayed long enough to see if her father was intending to go out that day. Unfortunately for Zormna, almost as soon as the Master was sure his daughter was gone, he would call Zormna in so he could pleasure himself with her… sometimes forcefully to remind Zormna what she was really there for.

Since Zormna had begun to acquire Th’song in her language repertoire, Zormna conscientiously decided to do whatever she could to learn as much as she could. So, on the days the Master stayed home and business came to him, despite the risk, Zormna chose to spend more time in the bedchamber, if he let her. She often lounged on the bed, pretending to nap just so she could pick up his Th’song.

Unfortunately, being in the bedchamber was risky, as often he would want her on his lap to pleasure himself while he chatted with his friendly guests. Really, there was no way of getting out being molested by him anyway. It was what he had planned for her. The issue was more about when he would choose to do it, and the duration. Being indoors to listen was a nasty compromise in which Zormna risked losing her autonomy as well as her peace. But now that she understood a large chunk of the Th’song language, she wanted to listen to as much intelligent conversation as possible.

That is…  she used this strategy to listen to conversations until their most recent visitor presented a book as a gift, and handed it to the Master—one in a recognizable format that Zormna could indeed call a book—including hard covers, a spine, and rectangular pages. Upon receiving it from the guest, the Master set the book on the bed next to Zormna.

Curious, Zormna picked it up and pulled it across the mattress to her as the two Th’sans conversed. The Master watched her with amusement while the guest inquiringly asked if the book was safe with her.

“It will be fine. She’s bored. Have no fear,” the Master replied.

Sliding it closer, Zormna lifted open the cover, examining it. About as large as a coffee table book, it mostly contained pictures which were a combination of artistic renderings and photo-realistic images of the northern territory, including animals, though there was also some writing, which seemed to run right to left. As she listened to the Master and his guest chat, she peered at the peculiar attire of the mountain Th’songs in the pictures. They wore shoes with spikes on them to dig into to the rocks, among other things. Vaguely wondering about the people there while her eyes peeked up once at the guest, Zormna overheard them mostly talk about finance and trade.

The giver of the book, it turned out, was the governor of Ssod, a province in the far north of the world. He was a lean Th’song of that species with dark red downy feathers on his head—the northern style—handsome in his own right. The governor of Ssod talked of little except the economics of shong herding and the like. Shong, she could see from the pictures, were these goat-like creatures. They had deer-like antlers and extremely bushy white coats of long thick wool. They reminded her more of sheep than goats, though. Or rather, alpacas with how the hair hung. Perhaps the only other difference between these and sheep were that these animals were entirely omnivorous, like a tufted deer. The images in the book showed that they ate bugs and small rodents, catching them with their long tongues, while also eating the weed on the mountains. Zormna thought about that as he talked, possibly talking about tourism, though she was not sure. She had eaten shong meat, and she wondered guiltily if they had a language. All she knew was that shong was tasty.

As the guest was departing, the Northern Th’song expressed a few admiring words with a lecherous gaze her way, “Your lap girl is quite qoqoamsuh for such a tiny thing. How is bedding her? She looks delicious.”

“She has not been bedded yet,” the Master replied with a weary glance. “She’s still in training, and I would not speak that way in her th*oavv. She understands enough words to know when we are talking about her, and I don’t want to make her xoaf’kk.”

“But you’ve had her for a while now,” the visitor murmured in amazement. “What could possibly make her xoaf’kk? I would have bedded her on the first day.”

“And zhumkuch her?” the Master said with a wry look. “No. I want her to grow into it. She is not an ordinary lap girl, Bo’kkazz. Her mind is not as soft as that of an Uloang, and she’s clearly too small for bedding at this xok’kok.”

“She’s not Uloang?”

“No. She is Odos.”

“Odos! You jest! I thought all Odos captives were ugly lokdiss’futh th’bang things. Underground dwellers.”

“I hear indeed they live underground, but it is not their native home,” the Master said. “They are xomload, though. This is why they are so small and so pale.”

“Will she get any bigger?” the northerner asked, eying Zormna who silently watched him from the bed.

The Master shook his head. “No. This is her zuch size, I do believe….”

They continued their chat out into the front foyer.

Zormna shuddered, mentally noting that ‘zuch’ had to mean ‘adult’. Either way, this did not bode well. The words “…at this xok’kok.” Echoed in her ears. It verified that the worst was still to come.

The Master returned, glancing at her once before going back to his previous work.

As for the book, because it was larger than a coffee table book, Zormna had to keep it on the bed and lie down on her belly to read it. When it was dinner time, the Master took it from the bed and set it on the desk, patting it. “Here. It’s yours. Just don’t let it touch the floor.”

He knew she understood most of that. He had taught her several of those words during initial training. But he was giving the book to her? Then again, he knew she was bored. ‘And what harm would a picture book be to his training?’ she was sure he thought. It was a peculiar sort of kindness. Zormna didn’t trust it.

In the days after, Zormna regularly took out the book to ‘read’, privately picking up language she would not have otherwise gathered while the Master chatted with his guests. She admired the snowcapped mountains and goat-like animals in every photograph. She mostly overheard talk about local problems of those in their province, yet also absorbing conversation about trade, culture, and petty political squabbles between different planetary areas. In fact, since her Master noticed that she liked the book, he allowed also her to look at others which he owned—all which had pictures—taking out a few from a hidden library in the house and leaving them on the desk for her amusement. She was allowed to look at them whenever she wanted to—mostly because it kept her close by so he could touch her. She knew it. It was a bit of a dirty compromise. But for her, it allowed her to pretend to be occupied with the book while picking up more language, and it was a better cover than just sleeping on the bed. There was only so much pretend sleep that she could do.

One afternoon after the eastern governor left, the Master turned and gazed at Zormna on the bed as she was turning the pages in the book. The gills on his neck rippled, just taking in her bare skin. She was wearing one of her lower-backed dresses with the spaghetti straps that hung around her neck. The skirt flap just barely covered her rear. His eyes traced where Zormna had altered the dress with the rag strap from her bath suit, the one that recently ran across her back, sometimes at her waist, other times where her bra strap would have been. As usual, her top was tucked into it, keeping the loose cloth close to her body to fully cover her breasts as the dresses barely did. He chuckled at the thing, mightily amused at her vigilant modesty despite how he undid all her efforts on a daily basis.

But of course, the strap was not what he thought it was. That was where Zormna had tied her medallion. And since it served a dual purpose, it was perfect camouflage. He had suspected nothing. He had never opened the safe again as far as she knew.

Trying to ignore his lustful stare, Zormna turned the next page to the book, peering at the photograph of the low valley where large wooden houses were built on stilts, ornately carved and painted with the four Th’song gods climbing up each pole. The caption below the picture was written in a curly swirl that dragged in a line like a snail. In fact, some of the words just looked like slugs with knobby polyps on them and dashes and dots. There were enough patterns that she could tell it was writing and not just decoration, but it was unintelligible to the writing patterns she knew. She was also sure the Master’s daughter would not help her learn to read as well.

“Zoamo, it is time to put it away. We must eat,” the Master said with the hope that she had picked up more Th’song than the ordinary commands. She did use a few more words than before, but had always kept them brief and broken on purpose. However, by this time, everyday Th’song words were no longer a mystery. The Master spoke in a calm unaffected manner for a Th’song. Her initial impression of him had been correct. The Master was (by Th’song standards) a respectable person of modest humor and manner. He was not as proud as half of his guests, but he was extremely opinionated. Zormna still didn’t understand half of his conversations though. He spoke on a higher level with a more refined vocabulary than his daughter. The daughter did not talk so much about politics or business, so it took more guessing for Zormna to figure out what the Master was saying most of the time. Of course, he was not the talkative sort anyway. He never was. And those he spoke to knew the context in which he was using. Naturally, she never got an explanation, as he did not actually believe she had learned much Th’song at all.

Zormna pretended not to understand him now. It was safer that way.

The Master shook his head, seeing her lack of response.

“Zoamo, come.” He resorted to his old commands. There was a degree of dismay in his voice.

Zormna slipped off the bed, closing the book, and walked over to her Master. He smiled at her and lifted her off the ground, placing her on his lap and pushed her legs apart to entertain himself with her. She hated having his hand up her skirt, and she squirmed to let him know, but there was no getting out of it. He did not talk much as he manually violated her. He just breathed heavy while groping her. As soon as the servants brought dinner, he released her back to her feet to bring the meal over for them, going off to wash his hands.

The servants averted their eyes from her as she staggered to get the trays. On occasion, Zormna wondered if the servants understood what she was sacrificing for them, or even if they knew she was allowing it to happen to spare them. When she hefted the tray up and brought it over to where the Master waited for her, she tried not to look at his dilated bird-eyes which indicated he was not quite done with her yet.

 She let him feed her—except for the meat, which she knew now was Beeble flesh. Undoubtedly his cooks bought the meat from a market as all his gardeners were intact and oblivious to his daily dinners. But on the night of the festival, the Th’songs had eaten a fat Beeble whom Zormna had been familiar with. He had been older and taller than most of the others. Zormna had liked him because of his funny nature. He had given her a lily once, smiling shyly at her before putting on a hoppy dance to cheer her up. But the Th’songs had killed, roasted, and eaten him. Perhaps they had been fattening him up for that very purpose. And watching the others as they worked in the garden, she could tell they were starting to fatten up a few more, perhaps for the next year’s feast.

When she refused as usual to take a bite of this meat, which had always smelled like burned hair, her Master huffed in disgust. He put the long, pronged fork down. “Really, Zoamo, it tastes good. Why do you turn down some of the best food?”

He didn’t expect an answer. He merely was venting his frustration.

After dinner, Zormna fled to the garden for some peace with the Beebles. He let her. They greeted her that evening and played around her while also working. Most of the time they sang their language to her, trying to teach her to understand them. One of them was teaching her how to weave reeds into a small wreath while another was draping a flower chain on her head. She had learned the word for flower (bo-a, which sounded more like a bird cry, starting low then going up), and water (wa, which started up and went down and sounded a bit like a baby cry). She had finally caught on to their name for her, which sounded like a high tongue click and a ‘ba’ sound swooping down. She didn’t know what it meant, though she would not discount that it probably meant ‘sun going down’. She could, however, understand their emotions. She could almost feel them, like they were sending their feelings to her through their song. They were sorry for her. They wanted to help if they could. They were also happy to be with her. And, oddly, she could tell that they saw her as hope—much in the same way Jafarr gave her hope. She didn’t understand why since she was just as trapped as they were. But often, they were just there to comfort her, understanding that she was enduring something horrible.  

After three hours with the Beebles, the Master finally called her in.

Zormna hated this part of the night—having to leave the peaceful kind creatures for the beast who would never leave her alone. But, since it was the only way to keep the peace and protect the others in the house, she came to him as he commanded.

Still draped in the flowers and a woven necklace, she left the garden to enter the shining doorway where the Master stood like a grinning giant. That flutter in his gills and wide dilated eyes meant he would not let her sleep for a while that night. He would have his fun. Zormna flushed and looked away, hoping it would not hurt too much. He was not always gentle with his hands when he violated her, especially recently. I was like he was trying to invoke a visceral reaction from her, one which her body and mind refused to supply.

Remaining inside the doorway, with a chuckle, he picked the flowers out of her hair, dropping them on the ground, gurgling with every pluck. As he removed them, he ran his fingers through her curls again, stroking it while savoring the feel. His large hands forcibly massaged her skin, claws curling away so as not to harm her, though the tips of the first three fingers were rounded, safe nubs. She reflexively shuddered, enduring it as she always did.

Fingering her curls with pure pleasure, her Master took up the Beeble-woven necklace next and removed it from her neck. He also dropped that on the floor. Zormna looked down at her knees and then stared up at his large chest, too close for her to be reasonably comfortable, waiting for the inevitable assault. He was taking his time, enjoying it more than usual.

She trembled again when the Master lifted her up and took her into bed with him, mentally praying that his handling would not go on for too long that night, praying she had filed his claws sufficiently that they would not scratch her, that there would be no internal bleeding. He laid her down as he climbed heavily next to her on the mattress, slipping his hand under her skirt as usual. She endured the assault.

It went the usual course. The Master was obsessed with licking her skin, especially her chest. His mouth was all over her front. She hated it. Besides humiliating, his tongue slobber felt disgusting. Usually, if she tugged on his head feathers, he would eventually desist and remember sucking on her skin discolored it with hickeys. His licking and huge slobbering maw on her chest caused her to shake, as it felt like one step away from eating her. But this time when she pulled on his feathers, he did not stop. He persisted, savoring her taste. Pushing against his forehead, she tried to pull his face off, trying not to anger him too much but to relay that it terrified her that might bite down as he had in her nightmares. But instead of stopping, he shifted his long bird legs and feet up around her body, shoving her upper arms into the mattress so she could no longer grab his head—and continued his orifical exploration of her flesh.  

It was the worst.

But then he grew impassioned. He seized her ankles with his hands and wrestled her against the mattress to get in closer, assaulting her private spaces even more aggressively. Zormna internally moaned. She was going to be really raw in the morning.

He came up for a breath with a lustful stare in his wide, dilated eyes, crouching over her exactly as he had in her nightmares. She trembled as his weight was upon her. Was he actually going to eat her? He hovered over her much akin to a bird of prey pinning carrion in his claws to feast upon. Their gazes met while she tried to catch her breath, trembling in hope that he was almost done. He smiled with the oddest look in his eyes, still rigorously molesting her down below. Yet… his hands were both holding her ankles.

And the invasive assault inside grew worse.

He was not using his hands anymore.

He was raping her for real now.

And the pressure inside was moving, alive, and digging deeper. Pain coiled into her gut like a drill as if to occupy every tiny space inside her lower cavity.

“Jafarr!” Zormna shrieked from pain.

She struggled to get out from underneath the Master, but he was too heavy. Spots formed in front of her eyes as his assault dug even deeper into her, pulsing. Zormna could hardly move her legs. Her muscles cramped. She struggled to draw her legs towards her chest to press her feet against his face to dislodge him. But his grip on her ankles prevented her, and whatever he was using felt like it was barbed with tiny thorns, making it too painful to push it out.

“Jafarr!” She nearly blacked out from the internal assault, clinging to her one hope.

But how could he help her? Even if he could hear her with his gift, Jafarr was across space light years away. She could hardly reach him enough as it was.

She was about to give into despair, to be owned and abused by her Master when Jafarr’s voice floated into her head. “There is a more powerful hope to turn to. Just ask Him.”

Immediately she knew whom this more powerful hope was. And though she believed in a supreme Creator which the Arrassian faith was devoted to, she had always felt intimidated when it came to addressing that Creator in any form of prayer. Jafarr was the spiritual one, not her. The Surface Patrol had raised her so far from the Seer Class to protect her—the natural consequence being she knew too little of the faith. Besides, she thought to herself as her Master continued to rape her, so many lap girls suffered constant assault and probably begged the Creator daily for it to end when it never did. Why would He make an exception for her?

Zormna gasped, sobbing as the as the internal assault continued. This was to be her new life.

Yet she heard Jafarr say it again. “I cannot reach you, but there is one who can. Just ask.”

“Strav’ra? Dors!” Zormna called out. “Maisa’kai al’m.[2]”

Almost immediately, the deep and painful thrusting stopped.

The Master’s slimy lips lifted off her shivering skin as she trembled from the agonizing pressure inside her. He raised his heavy weight off her torso, sitting up. One of his hands moved to her bare stomach, touching it—then her medallion.

“This…” His dilated eyes fixed on her sweat covered, pain-wrought face. “How did you get this?” He yanked apart the cord which she had hid the under her rib-line. The cord ripped against her skin with a burn as it tore away.

Zormna automatically strained to reach for it, though his feet still held her arms down. “Ein! Sa za al’s![3]”

He shook his no fingers.

The Master sat up. As the Master indignantly climbed off her shaking naked body, she felt a horrid sensation as if her insides were tearing out. As he rose from the bed, she saw the insanely huge fleshy thing he had been trying to force into her lower cavity, it now coiling back inside him.

Clutching at the shreds of her dress top to quickly pull it over naked chest, trembling, Zormna watched him cross the floor to the safe. Her insides throbbed. Her crotch seared. She could feel blood oozing out from between her legs.

The Master punched in the code, but the safe door did not open.

He tried again, but it did not budge. After the third and fourth time, he cursed and turned around growling low. “You… you… you broke my safe! How did you get it out?”

Throwing the chain to her medallion around his neck, he glared rather bewilderedly at her, yet determined to solve the problem at once. He summoned a repair worker that very night.

Less than an hour later, the repair worker (who had come at what was probably the least convenient time for the worker) prodded and poked the machinery, murmuring to himself. Zormna sat on the bed, her legs tightly closed, with her arms around her aching abdomen, rocking while listening to the conversation without saying a word.

The repairman shook his head. “I can’t figure it. You’ve got some professional thief meddling with this machine. Your safe is one of the best. Top quality.”

If she were not so shaken up about what the Master had just done to her, what she had failed to stop, Zormna would have laughed. Her crotch and insides still felt like he had shoved a scorching rod inside her. She had checked to see if she was indeed bleeding, and she was a little—but not as much as she had expected. Mostly she was raw and throbbing. She listened wordlessly, restraining herself from giving away that she understood and had been listening in on private conversations to get news from the outside. The Master would be furious if he knew.

The Master nodded wearily. “Yes, yes, that was what all the salesmen said. But can’t you open it? Find out if anything else was stolen?”

Scratching his head, the repairman shrugged. “Well… I’ll see what I can do.”

It took almost three hours for the repairman to get the safe open, and he laughed at himself when he did. “So simple! Genius! Why didn’t I see it?”

“After three hours, you had better not be serious,” the Master replied, looking extremely tired.

Zormna was leaning against one of the bedposts to prop herself up. Though she was drowsy, she feared the Master would return to bed to finish what he had started the moment the repairman was gone.

The repairman smiled abashedly. “Your thief is very, very clever. He knows machines.”

The Master glanced back at Zormna.

“Look here.”

And the Master did look, rather irritably, yet curious.

Pointing to the wiring mechanism, the repairman said, “You see that? That is the best work of an electronic hacker. He bypassed your security system and set it up for easy opening.” The repairman then smiled. “Look.”

He closed the safe cover and turned to the keypad. He pressed one key and held it. The safe popped open.

The Master’s eyes widened.

“It’s genius really,” the repairman said again. “Did he steal everything?”

Excluding Zormna’s medallion, the Master could see the contents of the safe were intact. Zormna recognized her Master’s dark yet surprised stare.

Zormna shrank against the curtains. Why had she been so stupid? She should have taken his other stuff and buried it in the yard to make it look like a thief had been there. But it was obvious to all but the repairman that Zormna had hacked her way into his safe and stolen back her medallion.

“Thank you,” the Master said bowing to the repairman. “It seems I will have to find a better safe for my valuables.”

The repairman picked up his things with a shrug. “Good luck finding one. Yours was the best. And if your thief ever came back, I have no doubt he could break into anything you set up. That burglar can get into anything. How he bypassed the security to get in here is a mystery also. Your house system is perfect.”

The Master saw him to the door. When he had gone, the Master turned and walked back to his captive who recoiled on his bed in terror. He had all night, and she was trapped—as the repairman did say, the house security system was perfect.

“You sneaky thing. I didn’t know you could do that.” He grabbed Zormna’s arm and jerked her to him. She whimpered, struggling to pull away, anything to get away from those groping hands and another rape. But he held her head with his huge hand, reminding her who was Master.

“What other secrets are you hiding?” he asked, shaking her. He didn’t expect an answer from her, and she gave none. He watched her fearful eyes, hissing out, “I have purchased a queen and a beauty. I have bought a soldier. I knew that the first day. And you are also a fighter of great strength and skill, and that I had not expected even when you threw my friend in the water. But a mechanical genius?” He gave his ‘no’ gesture. “It seems a bit too much. It must have been luck.”

Zormna trembled, leaning as far as she could from his huge face.

“And you won’t willingly accept me yet.” He pulled her against his body, tilting her head so he could stare better into it. “Other lap girls would have given in months ago and enjoyed it. It is as if the devil is on your side.” With a tremble, he whispered, “Are you really what they say? Did I really buy disaster and take her into my bed?”

He stood silently for a moment, holding her tighter.

“Maybe.”

Jafarr knelt, weeping at the side of his bed. He didn’t know what had happened to Zormna. He couldn’t see it, no matter how much he tried to. But he had a few guesses. And though the fierce and splitting pressure inside his body was gone, a faint burning sensation had replaced it. A new form of torture, possibly? The attack had been gone for three hours now, but he prayed just as long for her protection, and stayed on his knees begging long after. Keep her safe. Keep her safe.

Was she safe?

He closed his eyes and tried to see again. This time Jafarr finally could make out the sheer curtains of that dreaded bed and the outside arch that looked on into a garden with a sky that had two moons. He could no longer hear Zormna’s voice. She was no longer crying. But he could feel her despair.

And a feeling in his heart told him more pain was still to come. It had only been delayed.

 

[1] Plural form of ‘Th’song’.

[2] Creator? Father! Help me!

[3] No, that is mine!

Things Said

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen:

 

“Be wiser than other people, if you can; but do not tell them so.”—Lord Chesterfield—

 

 

The Master kept the medallion on him and planned to have his safe replaced the next day. He muttered as he rose from bed that it was still too early to ‘mate’ with Zormna. Not that he didn’t want to. Oh, definitely did. He was tired of the slow training to make her accustom to sexual stimulation. He wanted satisfaction for himself, but he grumbled that it wasn’t the right time. She wasn’t ready, he complained. Zormna doubted he was talking about her being physically ready, as she would never be. Her insides were beyond raw from his assault the night before, throbbing even now. She could hardly walk that morning. It was more likely he believed her mind was not ready to accept it all—and he wanted to own her mind more than anything.

As such, the Master took her from the bed that morning, checking the sheets for bleeding—and there was some. His expression grew contemplative as he eyed her. With decision, he carried her in one arm and went to the closet, bringing out the green pipe set the white Th’san had sold to him. He set the box on the tile near the bath. As he called for the servants to change the bed sheets so it could be cleared of blood, he heaved Zormna upon the bench, laying her on her back. She was so exhausted, she just did it. He held her down with one hand so she could not squirm off. Not that she intended to. She was too disoriented to move. Too achy from the rape. Her mind had gone over and over that thing had tried to force into her and how much it hurt.

Yet as she lay there, she watched him fiddle with the green pipe set. He separated from the end of the row the shortest pipe which was about as long as her hand from her fingertip to her wrist, with the width of a flute. It seemed a rather odd time to play music. Yet as she stared at it, she could see it had no holes to make music, but rather odd bumps around it. Further, as he handled it, she realized once again that it was not plastic or metal, but a firm sort of foam.

So, it was not a musical instrument.

When the servants came in, Zormna looked to them as they carried in fresh bedsheets.

She heard something click.

Zormna looked back to the Master. He held the green foam thing in his hand, which was now attached to an extension piece, like a handle. For a moment, she thought it was a lint roller—though that did not make any sense either. In the movement he fetched the balm and smeared it all over the green pipe, was when she realized what it was for.

Panicking, Zormna tried to roll off the bench to get away. The Master grabbed her by the waist and held her down again, pushing her legs apart. The servants jumped the moment she yelped.

Shaking, Zormna closed her eyes, gripping the bench on both sides as the Master rigorously used the tool inside her. She hyperventilated as the rod made contact with her sore flesh. As he continued to apply the cool gel to her aching insides, a numbness came with the cooling, bringing also a tingling sensation. Her panic subsided—and then was gone, as all that pain was going away. She felt so much better. Zormna sighed, relaxing into the treatment. It was such wonderfully unexpected relief. No more burning. No more throbbing. He continued to apply it inside her, getting all the sore spots. And the more he treated her, the better it felt. In seconds, the burning rawness left entirely.  

Zormna lay there, enjoying it.  

The Master should have stopped then. Yet, he continued to work the tool as if he needed to get every depth, nook and cranny—as if he hadn’t already. Zormna decided to go with it, as this the first nice thing he had ever done for her. It did not feel like a molestation. This was medicine.

However, a new sensation came as he continued the treatment, one Zormna had not expected. The tingle spread, rushing up from her abdomen and over her chest. Her face grew hot. In fact, it felt good. It felt so good. It drew up inside her sensations she never fathomed before. Her breathing went heavier. Her ears started to ring. Her heart thumped harder and harder in her chest. And while he continued the treatment, her fingers and arms began to tingle. Her breathing grew even heavier as a pleasurable sensation swelled up inside her. Then out nowhere, a rise of she-didn’t-know-what shot through her entire body. Zormna arched her back, letting out a loud gasp. Embarrassingly, liquid came out of her. That’s when he stopped.

Horrified, Zormna stared at the ceiling wondering what just happened. Thing was, she could hardly move now, laying there, pain free, yet panting. The sound in the room had muted in her ears. Zormna could barely hear the footfalls of the servants taking away the stained sheets and soiled rags. And that feeling… it was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. It was intense, yet not pain. It was acute something. Euphoric. Was this what the lap girls had been talking about? Was this what they were so addicted to? Was this why they were so willing to ‘service’ their masters?

His gills rustled. The Master let her go with a satisfied smile.

It freaked her out.

Zormna lay there, stunned, as he cleaned up the green tool at the bath, rinsing it off and drying it. As he put the tool back in the case, then returned the case and balm their cupboard, servants came back and cleaned up the wet mess she had made at the end of the bench. Their eyes raked over her with pity, while some with judgement. It didn’t seem fair. She was enduring this abuse for their sakes.

Eventually, sound slowly came back to her ears like waves of water washing against them. Shaking, fingers trembling, Zormna was able to put her hand on her belly to see if it was still there. It felt entirely numb from her waist to her crotch, the balm having done its job. Yet under her hand, her belly was indeed there. However, the skin of her stomach could hardly detect her fingers. Everything inside felt like jelly.

Now she knew what the balm was for. It was to ease the pain, as what he was doing to her was unnatural. As for the euphoria, Zormna wondered if it was the balm that caused it or the treatment, or both combined together. But she also knew euphoria always had a price tag. What had been traded? What had it cost her?

With a shudder, Zormna finally mustered the strength to sit up. Her head spun. One thing she did know—she had been raped and a foreign object had been used on her. As soon as she regained feeling in her upper legs, she slid off the bench and ran to the toilet to have her insides washed out. She climbed up and sat there, leaning her forehead against the wall… and sobbed. What would Jafarr say? Would he comfort her, telling her it was not her fault? Or would he be ashamed of her? As that last one felt… good.

“Zoama, shuk!” the Master called her to the bath.

Trembling, she turned her head, forehead still against the wall, looking over at him with dread. She knew there would be no deviation from his plan to make her full-service lap girl. He was going to rape her again and again, and again, and life would carry on as if it were normal. He would just treat her in between rapes until she got used to the abuse, or numb to it… or wanted it.

She shook her head at him. “No.”

His eyes narrowed on her. “Zoama?”

Zormna cringed, hearing the warning gurgle in his voice. But seriously, what had been worse—the pain from the machine or him raping her the previous night? Enduring the machine seemed better. At least then she still had her integrity.

“Shuk!”

She recoiled, closing her eyes, staying where she was.

“So’omo! Shuk!”

Zormna’s heart jumped.

So’omo. He was calling for So’omo? No.

She quickly slipped off the toilet, rushing to her Master, prostrating herself at his feet. She had forgotten so damn easily that he would beat So’omo for her disobedience. It wasn’t just the machine she was dealing with. Nobody else should to suffer for her fights.

“I’m sorry… Xuss’omo.” She begged him not to beat the slave for her defiance.

The Master gazed heavily down on her with dark critical eyes. Regarding his property silently for a minute, he waited for So’omo to arrive. And when the servant woman, So’omo, came and saw Zormna on the ground in obeisance, he hesitated—watching Zormna still.

“You can go,” he finally said to So’omo after another long, dangerous minute, dismissing the slave. Turning, he then called Zormna into the bath.

She quickly obeyed. She had to.

They returned to morning routine.

While things went back to the same old rhythm, the numbness lingered. Even while the Master molested her when waiting for breakfast, she could no longer feel it. He could get nothing out of her—no reaction. He muttered at it, unhappy that she had lost sensitivity. In fact, he seemed to sulk for a while—which privately amused her. That treatment really was a boon. Around lunch time, she could hardly feel it when he put his hands between her legs and tried once more to get a rise out of her. It took more than half the day before the numbness in her lower half eventually dispelled. When it had that afternoon, Zormna was left with a throbbing sensation inside her lower half, yet no more burning pain. The numbness wore off entirely around nightfall. By then her lower half was sensitive again to touch. The Master discovered it during dinner pleasuring, heaving a gurgle of relief when her body reacted as it always did to his molestation.

That evening, as she wept under his usual evening manual assault in bed, he murmured between sucking kisses against her skin, “How funny it is that you should be so strong and dangerous, and yet so fragile.”

Her body had been shaking in terrified anticipation for the moment when he would force his alien phallus into her into again. However, instead of trying to have sex with her again, he eventually was satisfied and settled down as the nights before, holding her close against his body while he slept. But she could not sleep. She kept waiting for him to change his mind. She figured he would try to sneak his phallus into her when she was unconscious. Yet he never did.

After the bath the following morning, while she was wringing out her damp bathing suit to hang it up to dry, wrapped in a towel, she saw the Master once more go to that closet and remove the green tool set and balm. A shiver ran down her, watching him carry both and set them on the edge of the damp bath. As he assembled the handle with the smallest green rod, she froze. He then called to her, beckoning her to the bench.

She was hardly sore. She didn’t need another treatment. The previous one had worked wonders. Yet the expression on his face made it clear that he would not tolerate a ‘no’. Thinking on it, as it hadn’t hurt when he had done it, she figured why refuse? Quite the reverse, actually. It had helped her. It had felt great besides. In fact, it scared her how great it had felt. The only reason Zormna hesitated was the fact that she knew it was just another way to molest her. He was sticking a foreign object into her, for pity’s sake.

But she was not allowed to tell him ‘no’. He would beat So’omo. Zormna’s legs shook as she walked to him to obey.

Seeing that she was compliant, the Master heaved her onto the bench and made her lie down, spreading her legs. Zormna closed her eyes. She averted her gaze to the ceiling, flinching when he put it in.

“Relax,” he whispered, working the tool as if he was seeking any sore flesh that might still exist, though he did not think she understood. “This will make future coitus easier.”

Easier? She hated that word now. She did not want to be ‘easy’. She was already panting as he worked on her insides. Her mind swam, unable to focus as the treatment made her thoughts go foggy. All she could think was what did he mean by easier? Easier for him? Or for her? And how? Because this treatment clearly was not just to numb her. She could feel as he applied the gel to her inner parts that he was changing something inside of her. Almost deepening her, if that were possible. Also, the way he did it was utterly arousing. It felt so good, surprisingly so. And even as she had this thought, her body once again went through a strong, if not convulsive, reaction which she just did not comprehend. It was the same as the day before—not quite pain, but also not a familiar pleasure. He did not stop until her body was shaking, ears ringing and head buzzing and her breathing deep and heavy. Euphoria returning.

He extracted the tool to clean up, caressing his hand along her bare leg with pleasure. He grinned with the kind of satisfaction she only ever saw when he was truly pleased.

Damn. What had he done to her? And… and… why did she want more? Why did she like it so much? Zormna felt ashamed, but it was intoxicating. Nothing had ever felt that good before.

The Master from then on added morning treatment to the daily regime.

As it was new to them both, there were a few mishaps and miscalculations which the Master had to adjust for. To begin with, her numbness usually died at around the same time each day, late in the afternoon. The Master did not like that, but Zormna did. It made her daily molestations bearable. No more chafing. She simply could not feel when he manhandled her, and that was a gift. However, the drawback to that was that in the morning she was unable to tell when she needed to pee. All sensitivity was gone. Zormna had wet herself a few times before she realized it was happening. The first time it happened, the Master was shocked and chastised her. But after a few more times, the Master realized it was the gel dosage that had caused the extreme numbness. As such, he made her use the toilet every morning before treatment, and he lowered the gel dosage so that she was only numb half the morning.

The morning treatment affected Zormna a lot more than just physically. She knew it was messing with her head also. She could tell, because it turned her frame of mind in directions she had never thought in before. Zormna’s mind had always been task-focused, chaste in a practical way. She never daydreamed about boys or romance. And even when she had crushed on Alea Arden when younger, it was more admiration of his character and skills rather than sexual. To put it bluntly, she wasn’t one to think of phallic images—before. But now she could not get them out of her head. As her Master treated her, she also noticed after few days of using the small tool, he shifted to a larger size, getting her accustomed to the thickness and length of that one. The second one was longer than her hand and as thick as a Christmas wrapping tube. A few days later, he went up again another size. It was just a bit longer, and now as thick as… well, it put real human male appendages to mind, and caused her to blush, as it made her think of Jafarr and just wonder….

She also noticed the thicker and longer the tool got, the stronger her reaction to the treatment, and the more pleasure she felt. …And the more she wanted it. When he used the tools on her, he always made sure the entire length could fit inside her before moving up a size, so he was definitely stretching her insides somehow. She could feel it in the discomfort of her internal organs. He stuck with that last one for a while, until she grew accustomed to it, then he shifted up once more.

Though Zormna did not want to think about it, logically, it occurred to her now what the tools did, how they were supposed to help coitus to be ‘easier’. Fact was, they were biologically incompatible as ‘mates’. Somehow this treatment was to make the space inside her large enough so that when he finally fit his enormous alien phallus inside her, he would have less trouble and it would most likely be less painful. But he also did it so she would ‘enjoy’ having sex with him. Zormna wondered if that was even possible. Not just the disgusting supposition that she would enjoy being raped regularly by him—but that a human body only stretched so much. And she was small for a human besides. He was going to damage her if he hadn’t already. She was surprised she was not hurting more than just a bit of pressure and chafing.

Zormna had peeked at the set one day after intense treatment. They were barely a third of the way through the tools, each one gradually bigger and thicker than the previous ones. Her breath caught in her throat, eying them. Undoubtedly, he intended to use them all on her until the largest one could entirely fit inside her. Perhaps that one was the size of his phallus. She had not quite gotten a good look at his male appendage when he had raped her. It had been dark. She wasn’t even sure what the shape of it was anyway except that it was not smooth. It wasn’t like a human’s. The lap girls had said something about it, but she had mentally blocked it out back then. But that last rod in the green set was as long as her forearm and nearly as thick. She trembled, eying it. She then looked at her numb belly, mentally measuring its length. There was no way that could fit in her safely. She knew enough biology to see that. Her cervix would have to be breached—which was unnatural—and her other organs shoved aside. Its tip would poke under her ribs for pity’s sake. She would die from internal bruising if not bleeding.

And the more the treatment continued day after day, Zormna felt ashamed of herself. She felt trashy. She felt trashy because what he was doing to her was bringing her beyond pleasure. It was mind-shatteringly addictive. Each day she pretended reluctance as she spread her legs for him, but really she looked forward to the treatment and enjoyed it. But she didn’t want him to know that he had found out how to make her desire him. And she did not want to desire him.

Addiction was a nasty thing.

The desire was real. It nagged at her like a hunger.

As she did not want to become vapidly sex-obsessed, like those lap girls, Zormna searched for things to distract her mind from it. She did not want to think about how this new treatment made her feel. So, to keep her mind in order, to compartmentalize the tumultuous sensations that were taking over her thoughts, Zormna decided to focus on stealing back her medallion, as well as formulate an escape plan. If she could get out of this situation, away from him, she could get away from this new and disturbing appetite which she did not want to have.

Unfortunately, the Master kept that pain machine and her medallion with him, always within his reach and out of hers. He wore both tucked into his shirts. Though, her medallion occasionally was brought out as a topic of discussion for visitors, as he was wearing it and they thought it weird if not ugly. He had to explain that it was hers and it was safer around his neck than in a safe—both true. Waiting for her opportunity to retrieve it, Zormna listened and watched.

Her first few attempts were while endeavoring to please the Master with a back massage. Unfortunately, he had a great memory and was not a fool. The moment she finally was able to get her hands on the chains to both the medallion and the machine, the Master caught her wrists and pulled her in.

Kissing her neck, nibbling the edge, he hissed into her ears, “Sneaky Odos. I know that game. You’ve tried that already.”

Then with another kiss to her neck, he promptly banished her to the garden.

Zormna swore under her breath as she crossed the grass. Before all this, she would have counted being banished from the bedroom a win, as that meant she would be unmolested for a least a few hours. But as she had failed to get her medallion back, she had to try something else. He really wasn’t stupid.  

Shofof’zzz showed up about a week after the rape—her absence, Zormna had not mentally registered until she did show up. Zormna guessed that she had been temporarily banished from the yard so she could not distract Zormna during the addition of morning treatment to her training. Now that she was used to the balm treatment, apparently the daughter had been allowed back in. The daughter complained when Zormna was not very responsive, no longer in the mood to humor her, hanging limp in her arms. Shofof’zzz hissed in her ear, “You’re being no fun. Stop it.”

Turning, peeking once to the Master, Zormna replied with the tiniest hiss, “I will make a deal with you. If you get my medallion from your father, I will do whatever you want.”

The young hen peered at her, then rolled her glassy eyes. “The thing was ugly anyway. What do you want it back for?”

Zormna clenched her teeth, wishing this hen wasn’t so selfish. “It is mine.”

Snorting, the hen shook her feathery frock and made a ‘no’ gesture as she considered it. “Nope. I don’t think so. I’ve already told him it is ugly. He would ask questions then figure out you can speak if I asked for it. And that would end everything.”

Which was probably true. Peeking to the Master again, Zormna let it go. She would just find another way to get her medallion back.

 

Two weeks later, the Master once more felt it was safe to go away on business. He left the planet that time, heading off to one of the Th’san thirteen home worlds. He had been called over about something having to do with trade and a Pirate problem. He departed in the afternoon and probably would not come back that night. The daughter was already there, and she waved good-bye when he stepped out of the home to his transport ship outside. Then the daughter and Zormna watched him leave from over the wall.

He had taken the medallion with him. Zormna hoped he would come back with it. She was terrified he wouldn’t. She was terrified he would trade it away or store it in some place equivalent to a Swiss vault.

Glancing at Zormna, Shofof’zzz smiled.

Zormna rolled her eyes.

They would be sitting on the wall.

 

When he came up the hill, the boyfriend gazed hopefully to see if Shofof’zzz was there, and his eyes lit up the second he saw her. It had been a while since they had last gotten together. The Master’s daughter shamelessly tossed her head and stuck her full chest out, holding Zormna to her lap as usual. Zormna just sat there and sulked, wishing she didn’t have to be a participant in all of this.

They would not stop talking sweetly to each other. He wanted to take the daughter to the south so they could go sailing on this lake near his home. She wanted them to sneak off and go to the forest to collect mushrooms, a forbidden act apparently because both of them blushed. Then he climbed over the wall into the garden, sure no one was watching.

They got to it right away, no longer wasting time with words. While they took off their clothes, Zormna waded away from them as usual, going through the white and yellow lilies to the far edge of the pond where she would not be there to watch the pair going at it in the grass.

However, for the first time, her curiosity got the better of her. She wanted to see what her Master had inflicted on her, what she would have to deal with—the Th’san phallus. So, she hunkered down in some shrubbery to watch them go at it. As Kothss’o advanced on Shofof’zzz in a birdish mating dance, Zormna nearly fell back into the mud when his coiled out of his pee hole. It was nothing human-like. Corkscrew-shaped, fleshy and writhing, it was longer than she had expected, with a texture like that of a sea cucumber, knobby with little bristles, not smooth at all, and deepening with red color as it engorged. Zormna stared with sickening fascination. Mentally, she could still feel inside when the Master had forced his into her. Grating and prickly. She barely caught sight of the tip before Kothss’o mounted onto Shofof’zzz’s lifted-up rear, but it had looked forked or pointed. Stunned, grossly fascinated, Zormna continued to watch as they deeply engaged in mating. But when they made animal sounds together, she had reached her limit. Zormna fled to the far end of the garden and plugged her ears. Mentally, she could still feel her Master raping her.

On the far side of the garden, Zormna distracted her mind with her new plans for escape. She figured all this time she had been thinking backwards about the home’s security system. Clearly there were two parts to it. She figured it operated a bit like perimeter fence and a shock collar. There was nothing she could do about her implants, but there had to be some kind of security box in the building she could shut off to at least destroy the perimeter fence. Then her implants would not matter a speck. She could pass the barriers. If the Master was going to be out that evening, she could look for it.

The idea had inadvertently come from the repair worker when he had mentioned the safe was top-of-the-line and she had easily cracked it. Her only chance was if the system access panel was in the Master’s room like the safe had been. But—and she had to be realistic about this—it was more likely set up in another part of the house which she could never visit. However, not ready to give up, Zormna considered an alternative. What if she shorted the house’s power system? Tripped a breaker. She had done that to a building before in an escape once. Would that shut it off? Or did it have a separate power system? A battery system, just in case? One thing to her was certain, she had not searched out every avenue in the locked desk—so she knew there were possibilities that still existed in that room. She just needed to dig into every machine to get to it. That only required tools and time.

“And how is our little bed pet today? Has the Master bedded you yet?” the beau called to her, breaking into her thoughts while straightening his clothes, buttoning up his pants. The couple was finally heading back to the wall, preparing for him to go.

Zormna flushed with an acid look at him, glowering over the pond flowers, wondering how long their tryst had taken.  

“Really! Kothss’o, you make mention of that in front of me?” Shofof’zzz said with an angry flush, affronted at the very idea.

Her boyfriend bowed apologetically to her, then climbed up to the wall, yet not over it yet, as he was not quite ready to depart from his lover. “I didn’t mean to offend you, darling, but that is what a lap girl is for. When the wives are awaiting a new one, the Master must relieve himself somehow. And isn’t the second wife expecting a hatchling?”

Zormna’s fists tightened. Was that what they told the women as an excuse for buying lap girls? Or just what they told the children? Zormna had never really thought Th’sans had a moral standard regarding marital loyalty, not from what she had seen.

“Kothss’o. How can you talk so? Father has her as a prize. He told us so. She is only for show. She is too small to be a real lap girl. Look at her.” The daughter flicked her fingers toward Zormna, still flushed from talking about a taboo subject. “Besides, Father has gotten on without a lap girl all these years. What you are saying is an old cock’s tale. They say that so they can get away with wife betrayal.” There was an edge to her voice, warning him that she would not tolerate that either.

Her boyfriend flushed and wisely changed the subject, which of course was the weather. They talked about how it might rain the next day, and nothing further was said. Zormna was a little surprised, though, that the daughter didn’t know her father had every intention of using his lap girl exactly as her boyfriend had said. In a way, Shofof’zzz’s faith in her father’s virtue was sweet and sad at the same time.

 

It did rain the next day. The Master was still gone on business, and the daughter did not come to play with Zormna’s hair. This gave Zormna lots of freedom to work on her plan. But after a fruitless search all over the room—in every drawer, shelf, and cupboard that Zormna could reach and break open, even tapping the walls for hollow spots for a security access panel or even a way out through the mechanism to wherever her dresses were being sent into the drawers—Zormna resigned herself with lying on the huge bed in defeat. Turning the pages of the book from the northern provenance, she stared grimly at the pictures while telling stories to herself in Arrassian just so she could hear her own language. The pictures often reminded her of the tale of mythical Jarr the Great who lived near mountains long ago in ancient Arras, similar to the mountains she saw in the pictures.

“…Once Jarr had crossed the Tur, he came to a land of low steppes called the Yeks. There he looked for food, and water, and—”

Something klunked next to the servant’s door. Zormna turned to nod to the old servant. But it wasn’t the old servant. It was Niilwa, smirking at her.

“Lonely are you?” Niilwa said, her eyes laughing.

Zormna sat up.  

“That dress is quite evocative. I see now why the Master keeps you to himself.” Niilwa strolled into the room nonchalantly. Normally other servants never entered the Master’s chambers unless commanded to, but it seemed that Niilwa didn’t fear the Master’s anger quite as much as the others. Either that or she knew he was gone, and he would never know she had been there. …Not unless Zormna said something, and she knew Zormna wouldn’t.

“Normally, I hear, lap girls also serve as playthings for children. The boys specifically, if you know what I mean.” The slave laughed pettily, eying Zormna over. “Well, the plain girls do anyway. The prettier they are, the more the Masters keep their pets to themselves.”

Zormna glared at her, leaning back on the bed. Some company she was glad to be without. Zormna hoped this one would leave.

Niilwa sauntered over to the bed then peered over Zormna’s shoulder. “Ah, a picture book. How cute.”

Pulling back farther, Zormna demanded, “What are you doing here? Where is So’omo?”

Laughing, she patted Zormna on the head like she would a simpleton. “The old woman is sick. So, I get to visit you.”

Zormna knocked Niilwa’s hand off of her. “Well, you brought the tray, so go.”

The slave gaped at her, dramatically appalled. “Go? I would think you’d be lonely cooped up in this room by the rain. The Master’s daughter isn’t coming.”

“I know,” Zormna said without interest, turning back toward the book.

Niilwa shook her head. “The Master will be gone for weeks…. Don’t you know?”

Zormna had heard something like that the day before from Shofof’zzz, but her stomach clenched all the same. Her face must have shown worry because Niilwa practically laughed with a triumphant air.

“He’s got you. You’re his now. I can see it in your eyes. He’s bedded you.” Niilwa snickered as if it were the best joke of the century. “That Th’song owns you completely now.”

Zormna leapt off the bed, accidentally knocking the book to the floor. She grabbed the front of Niilwa’s white slave’s tunic, twisting it so that it enclosed around the woman’s throat. “He does not!”

Niilwa gasped for air, unable to keep her feet.

Seeing her white face, Zormna let go, staring at her hands and at what she almost did to the stupid slave.

“You’re a violent one,” Niilwa wheezed, struggling to get away to the servant’s door where she took shelter, panting.

Though Zormna seethed with enough anger to tear Niilwa’s head off, she merely bent over to pick up the book off the floor. She dusted the cover off and checked to see if it was in any way damaged.

Niilwa watched her, regaining her smirk. “Yeah… he owns you. How did it feel?”

Infuriated, Zormna tromped over to the servant’s door.

Niilwa yipped, darting out before she could get there. Clenching the doorframe with a shiver of pain as just touching it was bad, Zormna shouted after her, “Come here again and I’ll bust your head open!”

Niilwa didn’t come to bring the dinner tray. The second servant girl did. When that girl arrived, she looked at Zormna who was fingering the mechanical devices in the desk again, doing nothing really except exploring. Zormna had hoped, after some thought, that maybe the security system had been hidden in a secret compartment in the desk, one that she had overlooked. The slave’s gaze was uncertain on her, watching—but she said nothing and left just as quietly.

 

After three days straight with the Master gone, his trip threatened to last a week, according to his daughter when she came visiting. He had called ahead and said so. The rain had cleared after the third day, and Shofof’zzz returned to the garden to sit on the wall with Zormna.

The roads were muddy. It was doubtful a Th’san would trudge through such sludge, and it worried the Master’s daughter who waited for her lover, craning her neck. She was about ready to give up and hop off the wall with Zormna when she saw his sweaty head bob up from the hill, his traveling clogs stained with chalky white mud.

“Your feet are a disgrace!” Shofof’zzz declared, fluttering her eye-lashes.

Her boyfriend smiled abashedly. “I’d walk through mud for you.”

She blushed and pulled Zormna higher up on her lap, clutching her father’s human a bit too tight. Zormna merely grunted and handled it. It really was the least of pains she had to endure.

The couple talked for just a few minutes. It was way too conspicuous for a muddy Th’san to stand there and talk to her in this way; and both sadly parted when neighbor peeked over their walls while shaking their heads. Zormna watched them, picturing the magazine headlines, if they had any—Master Governor’s Daughter’s Secret Romance! Five Page Spread Tell All Story! The funny thing was, the neighbors didn’t really seem to care if they were having a love tryst. Zormna wondered if such romantic exploits were the norm in Th’san society. Did all daughters have secret lovers? Was that how people got engaged? It seemed likely. They had such a twisted view on relationships.

When the mud dried up two days later, they returned to the wall. Shofof’zzz watched as always, craning her neck to see if Kothss’o would come.

“Where is he, Zoamo? Why is he so late?” Shofof’zzz asked the human pet sitting, intensely bored, in her lap.

“Why ask me? I do not know?” Zormna muttered, tired of being there. Her Th’song had mightily improved since they held regular conversations. And they had had so many conversations on the wall when the Master was away that Zormna’s vocabulary and grammar had solidly established as naturally functional, though limited. Zormna had been asking the kinds of questions which she believed the daughter would be interested in enough to answer—things about the Th’san people themselves rather than their politics. Th’san girls were not much different from human girls when it came to the types of topics that intrigued them, and Zormna could manipulate a conversation.

But right now, Shofof’zzz shook Zormna as she would a little dog. “Naughty! You shouldn’t talk to me like that. My father is your Master, and don’t you forget it.”

Zormna rolled her eyes with a sulk. “How can I forget it? I have these rotten implants in my head that remind me all the time.”

“You sneaky little human….” A deep Th’san male voice broke from behind them in the yard.

The Master’s daughter nearly fell off the wall. Her eyes whipped to her father who stood in the garden archway staring at the pair of them. Zormna shrank back inside the hen’s arms. She was in trouble.

“Shofof’zzz!” He growled. “What are you doing on the wall with my lap girl?”

The daughter scrambled off of the wall into the garden, carrying Zormna with her. Zormna’s heart thumped like a loose animal in her chest. The Master looked outraged.

“And you.” His crocodile eyes fixed on Zormna, his pupils slitting thin. “You can speak Th’song?”

Zormna swallowed, unable to take her eyes off his livid face. She nodded, barely.

“Why of all the…” The Master almost laughed, bitterly. “Of course. You wouldn’t tell me you could speak. You are just a sly little sneak.”

Indignant, Zormna wriggled out of Shofof’zzz’s sharp grip and stomped onto her own two feet, her hands trembling. “I am not a little sneak. I have done no sneaking, you—”

But taking in the Master’s ruffling gills, reddening face, and clenched teeth stole away her nerve. She stumbled back against Shofof’zzz’s bird legs. His disapproval was clear. She was definitely in trouble.

“You have been pretending you didn’t know the holy language,” the Master growled down at her. “That makes you a sneak,”

Zormna clenched her fists. Drawing courage, she retorted in her defense, “Sneak? I am a captive! You are holding me against my will, and you’ve done things to me that—”

“Feel free to walk away then.” Lifting his head up, the Th’san waved his arms as if to shoo her. “I won’t stop you.”

“Liar.” Zormna grabbed at the metal pieces attached to her skull, tears watering down her face. “I cannot leave because of these, and you know it. ‘Feel free’….”

The daughter stared in panic from one face to the other. Perhaps no one had ever called her father a liar before or had spoken so sarcastically.

The Master’s expression turned serene as he crocodile-smiled at her, but not kindly. “The truly desperate would leave. Wild animals chew off their own legs to escape a trap. You nearly ripped the implants out of your skull when you were first brought here.”

A low ache returned to Zormna’s stomach, in Pavlovian-level terror. His voice had been in a deep gurgle of warning. Severe gut pain always followed such a sound. Her eyes flickered in search for the machine.

The Master marched up to her and pulled her from his daughter to come with him. Zormna resisted, but not by much. She trembled when he drew her close. Crouching with his face right in hers, he whispered low. “I have questions. You have answers.”

Zormna swallowed. Her heart thumped brutally in her chest.

The Master placed his hand on her head and rubbed it in affection for his dangerous pet. Zormna closed her eyes and shook, dryly sobbing.

Turning back once toward his daughter, the Master drew Zormna further into his bedchamber as he said, “You will never be with Zoama while I am gone from now on. I don’t know what you were doing, but you were causing my possession pain, and that will not be tolerated.”

Shofof’zzz sorrowfully lowered her head and turned to the garden gate. She let herself out.

Not long after she left, the Master dragged Zormna inside and stood her in front of his work desk.

“How did you do that?” he asked, pointing to the safe.

Zormna blinked, not quite believing he had not noticed any other tampering there. He was probably tackling one thing at a time. “Oh. That. That was easy.”

His eyes widened on her.

“Your safe is basic security computer,” she explained, as it was no big deal. “It did not even have a third of the codes a Surface Patrol computer has, and I have broken into those a thousand times. You should have stuck to the old manual combination kind.”

He stumbled through a laugh at her shameless brag. Indeed, his amusement at hearing her true thoughts vocalized, as well as her attitude made him delighted if not relieved that she understood his words. He was most likely relieved that he no longer needed a translator.

“I don’t believe it.” He shook his ‘no’ fingers. “It was easy to break into my high security, high tech safe? A woman human cannot possibly be that smart.”

 Zormna bristled. “You think you know so much. Fine. Do not believe it. It’s your ignorance. But just so you know, Th’song systems are so easy compared to Arrassian technology. High tech? Pfft! How else do you think I escaped from that space station under the noses of all your soldiers, in deep space? It was so easy.”

No matter how true (the tech part, as the escape itself had been exhausting, if not nerve-wracking), this brag was a big mistake. The Master seized her arms in his meaty hands and heaved her off her feet. Zormna recoiled from him as he hung her two feet off the ground with an almost shake, trembling.

“If you’re so smart, then why don’t you escape from here?” he hissed.

She swallowed, eyes fixed on his. She whispered. “I am working on it.”

The Master dropped her.

Zormna thudded against the floor, bouncing on the tile and bruising her rear if not also her tailbone. It was the first time he had directly harmed her. He looked back at the safe, then at all the damage she had caused ransacking his drawers. Then he peered at the tiny Arrassian queen who was on the floor rubbing her backside. “I bet you are….”

It was some time before the Master spoke again. He went to work, unpacking his travel bag from his trip. In the silence, he stared at Zormna several times, but she did not bother getting up off the floor. She just sat there, feeling dejected. Stripped of her last defense mechanism, there was no way she could pretend to be ignorant of what was going on now. There was no chance for spying.

Her Master finally said, “You listened in on my business, didn’t you?”

Zormna nodded feebly. Then she made the O gesture Th’sans used.

He rubbed his chin, contemplating this turn of events more. His hand stroked the machine and Zormna’s medallion a number of times. Each time Zormna braced herself for pain, but he didn’t press the machine.

The Master lifted the medallion off of his chest, holding it up yet out of reach. “Why do you want this?”

Zormna sat up. “Will you give it to me?”

He frowned at her. “Why do you want it?”

Tears filled her eyes. “It’s mine.”

He shook his head, letting it drop back to his chest then turned to go to the desk.

Zormna scrambled onto her feet to follow him. “Please give it to me.”

“No.”

Breathing hard, tears fell from her eyes more fully. He looked back, watching the change in her with increased curiosity.

“Please. Please. Please give it back. My mother gave it to me.” Zormna wept, clinging now to his pants leg. She hated begging. But he had reduced her to this. “Please.”

He crouched down, tugging up her chin with the side of his claw. “Why do you want it?”

“My mother,” Zormna wept. “She gave it to me.”

The Master smirked. “Why should you care about one ugly trinket your mother gave you?”

“It is not a trinket! She gave it to me before she died! It is all I have left of her.” Zormna continued through tears.

The Master’s smirk changed to a thoughtful, pitying gaze. “And your father?”

Zormna trembled, still clinging to his pants. “He is dead. He was killed with my mother when I was very young.”

The Th’san rested his enormous hand on Zormna’s head, the weight of it chilling. She sobbed, still begging without words. She felt his hand come off her head and the string of her necklace fall around her neck. Zormna looked up. She had her medallion. He had given it back.

Her Master stood up, smiling with enormous pity in his eyes. Zormna stared up, disbelieving what just happened.

She clutched the circular metal in her hands. “Thank you.”

The Master turned again and walked back to his bed.

 

Near night, Zormna sat quietly, still clutching her medallion to her chest. The Master had gone to visit his wives and children for a few hours. When he returned, he had no business the rest of the day except on his computer pad, which he worked silently on until the evening, leaving her alone in that time. During dinner, he said little to Zormna, and only near bedtime did he speak.

“No, Zoama. You cannot enter my bed tonight.”

Zormna blinked, stepping back from him as he undressed. “Why not?” She couldn’t believe she was actually saying that, but the aches in her legs were already creeping towards her body.

“You were bad. You kept things from me,” the Master said.

Zormna went ashen. She hadn’t slept outside the bed for months. She could not conceive of it now. “Please do not punish me like this! Use the machine if you have to, but do not make it a punishment to keep me out of your bed. I can’t… I can’t…”

The Master delivered his serene birdish smile as he turned off the light. His voice went low. “No. It is a privilege to share a bed with me. It is a privilege to mate with me. You have lost that privilege, Zoamo.”

Zormna collapsed to her knees with a groan. How utterly evil he was being. She knew why he was doing this. She knew how psychology worked. He was reinforcing with her that security came with obedience and obeisance to him. Unfortunately, she was already broken. The pain had already started and she knew she could not endure it. The Master was composed as he lay down. The bed looked safe and comfortable. He had made her desire to never be separate from him—never mind that he intended to do to her in the future.

With desperation, Zormna scrambled to get onto the bed, just a corner of it. But the Master shoved her off with his foot with the command to go. She tried again, but he forced her off once more. Zormna did not dare a third time. She collapsed to her knees weeping, begging for him to let her in his bed.

She had fallen this low. Her misery was complete as it tore at her. Niilwa was right. She was his. The Master owned her. She didn’t belong to herself anymore. She was lost without a people. She was lost without a hope.

But one—which came quickly to mind.

“Jafarr.”

The Master grumbled and rolled over.

Alea Salvar sought for President Jafarr, heading to the ship’s seer hall to argue over a few reassignments in his crew—as the President was not in his room when the Alea had searched for him. The seer hall was usually where Jafarr went when he was trying to clear his head after creepy dreams or when he was in pain. And since it was a scheduled night shift, it was the predictable place to go.

President Jafarr had only been back in space a week. When he had arrived, Alea Salvar was bitterly reluctant to let the President take over his operations—because despite all his best efforts, he had not been able to find Zormna in the three months given him. President Jafarr had called his attitude ‘sulking’ and said it was childish.

They had immediately gotten into an argument over that.

However, an agreement was an agreement, and he, Alea Salvar Desbah, was a man of honor.

And yet, oddly enough, President Jafarr did not take over the space fleets as he had initially demanded three months previous. He allowed Alea Salvar continue to hold command of the fleets, but he requested for command of a portion of the fleet for his own search-and-rescue operations. He intended to work separately from Salvar to hunt down the queen and all others stuck in similar circumstances. Basically, his crew would go about freeing the slaves. Then Jafarr had outlined for Salvar the details of his operation.

Salvar had to admit, they were perfectly calculated. But of course, they would be. Jafarr Zeldar was brilliant. Jafarr had succeeded his predecessor as the leader of the rebellion at sixteen years of age, and was elected President of their nation at eighteen. This was merely proof of why Jafarr had led the only successful revolution where all his predecessors had failed. But he also fought dirty—no respect for combat rules at all. Jafarr’s plans consisted of subterfuge and sabotage with weapons Jafarr himself had devised and Salvar had not seen the like of before—not since Zormna has been in Zeta at least.

When Alea Salvar marched into the seer hall, it was dark and almost impossible to make out people in the shadows, but Jafarr almost always sat in front of the enclosed seer fire, so he looked there first. Presently, Jafarr was in fetal position on the floor, head bowed, praying through the pain. Salvar considered Jafarr’s abnormal health problems a major irritant. A sick man did not belong in battle.

Initially crossing the floor with care, Alea Salvar’s thoughts bristled with indignation at the punk—especially at how pious Jafarr seemed at the moment. For a punk from the undercity, it was just weird. Always seeking the seer way, always looking for answers in ancient scripture, Jafarr’s half-seer side was annoying.

“What are you doing?” Alea Salvar demanded wearily, standing over him.

“Praying,” Jafarr responded, his voice muted as he did not lift up at all to look at him.

“You still believe in this?” Disgusted swelled within the head of Zeta. Salvar bristled cynically, expressing something he had been wishing to shout for some time. Like Zormna, he did not spend much time contemplating spiritual things. Though, unlike Zormna, he considered much of it superfluous. “How can a just Creator allow what has happened to our queen?”

Jafarr opened his eyes and peered up at him. His teeth were clenched from pain. “What do you mean? What does justice have to do with any of this? We went to war, knowing the risks. Death and captivity are part of it. So is torture in cruel societies. And the Th’sans are cruel.”

“But she is our queen! Answer to prophecy, right? The restorer of our people for whom we have waited for over ten thousand years.” Alea Salvar advanced on Jafarr with the desire to throttle him, yet he kept his hands off the man as he was the president. “The Creator delivered her to us.”

“And how does that make her an exception?” Jafarr asked, rising slowly, his arms clutching his stomach. “I hate to believe this, but maybe this is what she has to go through to restore our people.”

Salvar slapped Jafarr across the face. “Don’t you say that! You have no idea what they could be doing to her!”

“I have a very clear idea,” Jafarr replied through his teeth, holding his stomach tighter as he leaned back from Salvar with a glower. The slap was not necessary. He was already in enough pain.

Alea Salvar went white. Because, of course, so did he. But he didn’t want anything to happen to the woman he loved and was desperate to protect. He had heard enough about Th’sans to know what vile things they were capable of. “How in the universe would going through this kind of torture be in the plan of the Creator?” he uttered, hardly able to.

He could see Jafarr painfully shrug. “Motivation?”

Salvar stared at him, mouth open.

“Knowing Zormna, if we ever get her back, with her understanding entirely what the captives were going through, she would not want it to happen to anyone else,” Jafarr murmured. He had begun rocking himself again, cringing. “It was how the war got started in the first place.”

Alea Salvar shuddered. “But Zormna…”

Jafarr nodded. “I know. Which is why I am doing everything I can to get her back.”

Alea Salvar nodded, finally truly agreeing. Then he said, “What is wrong with you anyway?”

Rolling his dark eyes, Jafarr moaned. Then he explained what he figured everyone should have already told Alea Salvar six months previous… especially the psychic connection he had with Zormna.

Hearing him, paling, Alea Salvar rushed out of there and quickly expedited the selection for Jafarr’s fleet, letting him choose the best soldiers and anyone else who had no qualms with fighting dirty. Once he realized the pain Jafarr was feeling was in fact Zormna’s, Alea Salvar knew he had to do everything in his power to help the man he despised to get her back.

After the long night of gut-twisting agony, the Master picked Zormna up from where she was trembling and rocking herself with a prayer on her lips, and he put her on the bed. He lowered his face so they met eye to eye. “You understand now. Deception is not acceptable. I will not tolerate any misbehavior from you.”

Wearily, Zormna nodded. Then she made the O gesture with her hand so he understood.

“After cleaning, you will be allowed to rest on the bed,” he said. “I have one guest today, but you will be allowed to sleep while he is here. But you must not shirk your duty to me. Understand?”

Zormna nodded.

“Good.” He then kissed her forehead, stroking her hair as his vestigial gills fluttered. “Now get the bath ready.”

Because he knew she understood his speech, he had not used the usual command. It startled her as her feet went forward on autopilot. Her life had shifted again. Truly, her one last defense was gone.

Though she was groggy, Zormna followed the regular morning routine: bath, treatment, then breakfast. Her face was still flushed from treatment when she finally sat on his knee during feeding, though this time he asked her what foods she liked the most.

It startled her. Not just him talking to her as a person, but sounding interested in what she had to say, even if it was only about food.

She told him the truth. “I like most of the fruits and vegetables, and the breads. They’re good.”

“What about the meat at lunch?” he inquired, his neck craning curiously. “It the best—”

“It is a Ba-ba,” she replied shortly, trying not to sound too contrary in case it upset him, though she was angry thinking about it.

He smirked at her. “So? It isn’t human.”

Her eyes sharply lifted to his face. “Have you ever eaten a human?”

The Master shrugged, not really caring. “Not that our people do, but the Tho’skko consider it a delicacy.”

It made her sick. Zormna recoiled, with the desire to escape into the garden—but the Master held her tight onto his lap so there was no running.

“You eat other meat,” he retorted with continued amusement.

Through a moan, she answered, “Yeah… which makes me think about becoming a…” She didn’t know the precise word in Th’song. Cringing, she talked around it, “…an exclusive plant eater.”

He laughed. “Can humans actually do that?”

“Yes,” she retorted indignantly. “The word is vegetarian in English. My people don’t really eat that way as our food is… uh, I don’t know the Th’song word. Machine put-together. Machine-changed. Not in natural shape. Much done to it to change. Whatever…. But we call people like that kazel’cha’raee. Many humans on Partha are vegetarians.”

The Master laughed more. “Is that your intent? To eat only plants from now on? Because I don’t see how you can maintain your health just eating plants. Even the Ba-ba eat meat.”

Zormna stared at him. He was most likely telling the truth. They had teeth like omnivores. The probably ate at diet similar to humans. And she knew she had seen them eat a few insects they had caught.

“I just won’t eat Ba-ba,” she muttered. “I talk to them. It’s not right.”

“Then stop talking to them,” he whispered with a chuckle.

Disgusted, Zormna glowered up at him.

“It is very simple,” he said. “Ba-ba are not Th’song.”

“And neither am I,” she replied.

He stroked his hand down her hair, smiling. Then he rested a hand on her breast, slipping it under the cloth to play with it. “No. You are not. But you are not Ba-ba either. You are better.”

She shook her head, wishing he would stop touching her there. It made her feel funny. “I don’t believe that.”

The Master chuckled, surprised in his amusement. His fingers tickled down her cleavage, his eyes dilating on her with enjoyment.

Zormna persisted as she endured him feeling up her torso. “One of the lap girls who came to the garden said the Ba-ba used to be a people not that different from mine. That they were conquered by the Th’song Empire and put into slavery the same way the Aloeans were. Tell me if that is true. Because they don’t act like simple herd animals. They act like a people.”

He slid her off his lap, setting Zormna onto her feet so that she could face him, which was a relief to her breasts. His eyes were gravely serious as he peered into her face. “You are not just asking this out of curiosity, are you? Speaking as the Master Governor of this world, what is your intent with this question?”

Though she was abused, conquered, captive, and debased—her chest throbbing from his handling—Zormna squared her shoulders as best as she could in her old militaristic fashion, and replied, “Speaking as Queen of the Arrassian people, and representative, if not guardian of the human race, I intend to do whatever I can to rescue the downtrodden—even if that includes helping a species entirely different from my own.”

The Master peered at her for a long moment at the morbid absurdity of her statement, considering the reality that she was his property and she was in no shape to do what she had just said. Then he laughed. His duck laugh was so mocking. He patted her on the head. “You are incredibly xomm’okk.”

“Xomm’okk?” Zormna didn’t know that one.

Leaning down, he kissed her forehead, then along her neck, stroking his large hand down her backside. “Xomm’okk… Your thinking is not real. Dream too much.”

Delusional.

“There is an entire fleet looking for me,” Zormna reminded him, resisting her instinct to jerk back, as his hands remained on her rear. “Soldiers who have been with me since I was a child. And they are extremely loyal.”

He stiffened. That, he knew, was not an exaggeration. The Master let go, rising to his full height, peering down at her. “No one has defeated the Th’song Empire.”

He then went to get his work pad and stylus, mood broken.

“Yet,” Zormna said as he walked away, glad she had offended him enough to get him to leave her alone.

Halting, he looked back to her. “No. Never.”

The cleaning horns blew. It was a good thing too, as Zormna thought words that would have angered him if she had said it out loud. “There was a first time for everything.”

 

Zormna had nearly fallen asleep while cleaning. She had nodded off in the tin bath tub, waking only when the Master found her and washed her so she could finish up and put things away. She stumbled when she emptied the tub, put everything in their cupboards and drawers, and got dressed. The Master enjoyed watching her as she struggled to dress herself before she finally made it to the bed and fell asleep.

His guest came and went as she snoozed.

The Master later woke her for lunch and kept her awake the rest of the afternoon, first with questions about Dural Korad whom she had fought in the arena and whom he had been curious about since. How had she known him? And why did he hate her? It was surreal for her to explain modern and ancient politics as well as a ten-thousand-year-old hate to a creature who was training her to be his ‘pet-mistress’. It intrigued him, though, to learn that she had only recently risen to power and was the last of her kind. When he found out that she had lived on Earth for a short time, he was enthralled. He had many questions about Earth, which she answered with care. She did not want the Th’sans setting their sights on it, let alone thinking they were military pushovers. In fact, she made sure he knew Earthlings were beyond mentally and physically prepared to defend their planet, even making entertainment about the possibility of destroying invading aliens.

But the one thing that fascinated him the most was her military training. He just could not imagine a woman in the military at all, not in any position including secretarial or nursing. Th’sans just didn’t do that. They didn’t even have midwives, as the hens laid eggs.

“It is bewildering that your people would put females in such a dangerous position,” he murmured while absentmindedly stroking his hand down her legs. “Don’t your people understand how precious females are?”

Zormna shrugged, ignoring (with some success) the skin of his palm rubbing up her thigh. She was raised military. Not being a soldier felt peculiar to her. She didn’t know what to do with herself most days. She missed her projects. She missed being mentally stimulated.

“Are you not sad that you do not have children?” he asked her, his hand pausing mid-stroke.

With a face full of cringe, Zormna shook her head. “I am still too young for that.”

He stared at her, his eyes dilating. Then he peered up and down her fully-developed body, even tugging at her bodice to peer in. “You don’t look it.”

Moaning, Zormna shook her head more, wishing he would stop. She had constantly wished he had seen her more as an animal than a sex object, but there was no chance of that now. “No. You don’t understand. Having children is not even thought about by most women until they hit their twenties at least. And even that is considered young for the professional crowd. And I…” She stared into space, even as he started stroking along her leg again, his hand soon drifting inside her skirt, parting her legs. “How long have I been captive? Am I eighteen now?”

Chuckling, pulling her closer in his lap, the Master did not see how that was relevant. Zormna wondered, as he molested her, if Th’san women were even allowed to go into the work force, or if they never obtained any form of suffrage. Though Zormna had never considered herself a feminist, as they always seemed bitter and spiteful towards men, she had lived a life where opportunity was equally afforded to both sexes. The military had been a meritocracy. If you earned the rank, you got the rank. And no one complained about it—because if you did, that was considered insubordination.

“I think your people have peculiar priorities,” he said, breathing down her neck, then licking it as he worked to stir her up.

Panting as he manually violated her, she shot him a dirty look. Th’san priorities were worse.

Soon another guest came, a more military-looking one with two assistants, unexpected. Letting her go as they would not want her present, the Master sent her stumbling into the garden and went to wash his hands.

 

That evening after dinner and time with the Beebles who were thinning the small blue flowers along the edge of the stonework and making flower crowns with them, the Master called her in for bed. Even though he could talk with her now, Zormna knew he had every intention to continue using her the way he always had. His gills were fluttering in anticipation, blood rushing to them.

She dragged her feet to the room to submit to his will. The moment she climbed upon the bed, he took her into his arms and started kissing her, pushing her legs apart to have his way with her. She didn’t like it, but it was her life now. After a while, it grew even more passionate, more aggressive and intrusive—so much that it became too much for her to bear in silence.

She emitted a moan.

Jafarr was having a strange nightmare. For some odd reason, the story or Sherrizade from Arabian Nights came had come to him, drawing up an image in his mind. It was surreal, as the story was merely something he had read in English class back in America, a story recommended to him by a teacher. Forgettable, for the most part. In his dream he was in the sultan’s chambers on his bed—but the sultan was a giant Th’san and not a Middle Easterner. And oddly, he was Sherrizade in the dream. He, as a she, was barely dressed in an outfit he would not even want Zormna to wear no matter how beautiful she was. It was degrading. Also, no words could persuade the sultan away from his desires. Jafarr could hear alien words in his mind, words which he somehow could comprehend. And the dream him was in some way speaking in a desperate female voice that was worryingly familiar as he was being manipulated into having sex. “No. Please stop! I—”

“You begged to be in my bed,” the giant ‘sultan’ breathily answered, working to get ‘his own’ from his property in the most egregious manner. “This is what it means to be in my bed.”

“But—” Jafarr heard him-as-Sherrizade gasp. Shivers went down his body from heavy manhandling. That moment he recognized her voice. He wasn’t Sherrizade.

“It is a privilege to mate with me.” The sultan had completely become a Th’san now, one of those lizard-faced red-and-yellow feather-headed beasts with green birdish eyes. Some horrid, coiled, fleshy tail-like thing was snaking about his thighs. The beast breathed out heavily between large wet sucking kisses on his… no—her neck—and then the beast moved further downwards, struggling against her legs, which she obviously was refusing to open wider for him. His hissing, clucking voice said, “If you do not desire it, you can leave the bed and sleep out there. It is your choice.”

“No!” Jafarr shouted out, trying to push the dream apparition off of him-who-was-her—but he couldn’t. It was just a ghost of a person. And the dream started to fade. “Zormna!”

Her sobbing increased as the assault on her body grew more intense. She begged for reason, eyes in horror on that ‘tail’. “I’m too small. It hurts. You will hurt yourself also.”

Her voice echoed distantly, going more distant. A nasty internal sensation in his groin made his stomach spasm. Horrified, Jafarr could feel everything. What was happening to him was insanely obscene.

“Nonsense,” that monster said as he now forced her legs up rather than apart to get at the same space. “The teacher has thoroughly…”

Jafarr woke with a lurch. The most disturbing sensation of something crooked and spiky snaked up inside him, compounding into one. Some rough, high-pressured, if not barbed coil, stabbed deeper and deeper into his gut, worse than last time. He grabbed his stomach, curling into a ball, cringing as the pain burrowed in even deeper. With this living thing he had mistaken for a tail digging up inside him, Jafarr tried to make sense of the dream. Sherrizade and the sultan had become Zormna and that Th’san who had been torturing her, keeping her captive. And he was sure it was real. Jafarr’s head was still heavy with dreaming—and worse, he could hear the spoken words of that beast breathing over him as it was raping her.

“…trained me so that neither of us will be harmed.” And the splitting internal pressure increased, going deeper. He could feel it gouging inside, under his navel, where it definitely did not belong. Clenching his teeth, Jafarr prayed with all his soul for Zormna to be spared—just like last time.

Though he did not expect it, in response, a soft sorrowful feeling settled on his head as if a hand rested there to comfort him. And the gentlest voice whispered in the back of his mind, ‘I wish I could, but it is necessary that she takes the difficult path.’

“Let me take her pain then,” Jafarr begged, tears streaming down his face as the assault on his gut killed inside.

It was as if the heavens sighed when he heard the reply. ‘You already are.’

Left with that, Jafarr did not know what to do. He could still hear the voice of that monster, though it seemed to come through a breathy echo while the torturous digging in his gut deepened and throbbed as if a new passage was being made to reach his liver. His thighs cramped.

“It would be a lot easier on you if you relaxed and enjoyed me,” that Th’san said to Zormna far away where Jafarr could not rescue her.

Anger surged through him. Jafarr could feel the last scrap of Zormna’s sanity scream within her. ‘Relax? RELAX?’ She didn’t want to have sex with that beast at all. And it was torture. She was sure The Th’san was damaging her in ways that… well, she didn’t know what. And hearing her inward scream, Jafarr wished he was there to kill that beast.

The pain began to overwhelm him, as it was getting worse for her. It felt as if his insides were going to explode from the pressure of what that alien was cramming into her, though nothing physically was happening to him at all. Then it got even more severe. Her excruciating thoughts reached out to him, pleading with him to find her and get her out. Jafarr tried to tell her he was working on it—but then he felt a wave of self-hate which Jafarr did not understand. Zormna was not like that. She begged his forgiveness for… he was not sure exactly. Not at first.

Yet something in her gave in. A muscle relaxed, no longer resisting the beast. And the beast took advantage of that.

Jafarr screamed out—his insides unable to bear the intense increase of internal pressure.

All at once the pain cut off. Gone.

Alone in his room—dream vanished completely, connection gone entirely, Jafarr clutched his throbbing stomach. But nothing else was left. Panting in agony, Jafarr stared into the dark room—then deeper, reaching into space for Zormna, trying to reach out for her. But it was as if a door had slammed on them both.

Bedded

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fifteen:

 

 “To do injustice is more disgraceful than to suffer it.” –Plato

 

 

 

 

Everything her lower half throbbed when Zormna awoke the next morning. She could hardly sit up when the Master rose from the bed. Oddly, she couldn’t quite remember what had happened the night before. Attempting to recall it, she remembered the Master starting his nightly routine. It got intense, and then… here she was. It was morning, and she felt severely raw in her nether regions and achy up to her navel. She could recall a vague agony and an overwhelming heat, but the rest was just not there. That chunk of memory was gone. However, when she moved to slide off the bed to follow her Master to the bath as usual, she found walking surprisingly painful. Her legs ached, especially her inner thighs.

It clicked in her brain, adding it up.

Of course. He had to have raped her again. She didn’t remember it, but… she could feel it in every step she took from the bed, from her legs to her abdominals and gut. It had been worse than the previous one too.

Her Master was downright cheerful of course, calling her to hurry into the bath as he filled it with water. It was physically difficult to obey that call. Yet too numb in the mind and too weak in the spirit, Zormna did the best she could to change clothes and climb into the scented water with him as nothing else had changed. The Master made her wash him as usual without a word about the night before.

As Zormna waded through the soapy water to the scrub brush and soap, mustering up her strength to wash his back, he hummed cheerfully to himself. It was mortifying, really. She knew why he was so blasted cheerful. He had finally gotten what he had wanted out of her. He had won. She had lost.

An upsurge of rage swept through Zormna. For a moment, it took everything to restrain the furious impulse to bash him over the head with the scrub brush and drown him. But that wave passed—because she wouldn’t have succeeded anyway. Her hands and arms ached too much. They felt as if she had recently bench-pressed a heavy weight. Undoubtedly him. Logically, she knew he could easily defeat her and rape her again right there in the bath if he wanted. He could drown her.

She did what she had to do.

Once sufficiently washed, the Master cheerily dried them both off, enjoying his passive property as he continued on their usual morning routine. When he laid her down and opened her legs for her daily treatment, he upped the morning dosage of gel and chose a longer tool. Zormna averted her eyes, hoping for the usual relief. Yet it did not go the regular course. The moment he inserted the tool to treat her sore insides, an intense memory from the night before ripped into her consciousness.

Zormna lurched up in horror. She could feel it now, what he had done. Bursting into loud sobs, Zormna hyperventilated. He continued to treat the damage he had inflicted on her, trying to be thorough, but it did not get any better. And when he finished, she was entirely shuddering, though now numb. He cleaned up the tools, glancing at her unusual reaction with wrinkled brows.

She lay there on the bench, staring at the ceiling as the previous night had come back with clarity. How he had overpowered her. How she had given in. And the incomprehensible pain he had thrust inside her. She was unable to move for several minutes—not just physically, but also emotionally.

But then she heard the Master’s call to fetch breakfast.

She had to obey.

Life was unrelenting. There would be no break for her. Zormna shakily slid off the bench to the floor to obey the Master, crossing the room on pure muscle memory. She fetched the tray, he hiked her onto his lap, and they ate breakfast with hardly a word. He made no demands for conversation at least. He didn’t even bother to touch her as he normally would have—possibly comprehending that she was in no mental state to deal with much interaction, though it was also likely those questions the day before had been merely out of minor curiosity and was not establishing any sort of change in their relationship. Of course, her mind was so fractured that she was not inclined hold a conversation with the beast who had raped her anyway.

Once breakfast was done, the Master cleaned up and went to visit his family for whatever that morning ritual required. Zormna watched him with loathing and fear. Not long after, the horns blew.  

Zormna mindlessly went on autopilot. She cleaned the floor without a word. And when she took her ritual bath, she felt mentally numb. He came in a little earlier than usual, drying her off with examining peeks at her face and body, mostly to see if he had bruised her—considering how achy and lethargic she was. But instead of handing her the usual chemise from the drawer, the Master went to the hall closet where he took out a fluffy white dress which (to Zormna’s eyes) appeared to have been stolen from a Vegas showgirl. It had that sort of silhouette.

She stared at it, swaying on her feet. Like a showgirl’s dress, it had a huge fluffy tail made of sheer cloth layers and bling, contrasted with an absolutely tiny covering for her chest and torso. Unlike a showgirl’s dress, this was not a leotard or glorified bikini. It was more like a tube top, made of layers of sheer rolling cloth.

He pulled it on her, adjusting it to see if it fit right. She was so small in comparison to Aloean women, that it had been a clear struggle for him to find something in her size. But this one hung on by a strap around her neck, loosely skimming her bare skin while giving her the silhouette of a white peacock or one of those white cranes with the froofy tails. It was heavy and cumbersome in the back, immodestly pulling down the skirt. She gazed down at herself in it, noticing that it hardly concealed anything. The bodice itself was sheer. It was more like thin frosting over her pale bare skin, making her look like a white harpy from Greek myths—an image the Master relished once he stepped back to admire her—bare breasts and all. She colored, wishing his eyes would not dilate on her like that. His gills were starting to flush, rustling.

The worst part was that he was not finished. Next, he took out loops and clusters of spangley jewelry and draped it over and about her. He arranged a gemstone imbedded headdress particularly among her curls, twisting them to give her a nearly Greek statue effect. He draped long necklaces around her neck so they fell to her navel. He clipped on shiny studded armbands and ankle cuffs, adding to the white like stars among clouds. Once bejeweled, he stepped back to admire his work of art.

“Smile,” he said, patting her on the head. “You did well last night. You earned this.”

He then nudged her toward the yard.

Dizzy, burdened, Zormna stumbled two steps toward the garden stones while he turned with satisfaction toward his bench, taking his computer pad to conduct digital business as usual. 

And that was it.

Fancy fluff for clothes and heavy-pinching, useless jewelry as a reward for enduring painful sex that she had zero desire to remember and thankfully had mostly blocked out again. Inside, she felt dead. But her slow feet took her into the garden. What else was there to do?  

The scent of spice on the air and the light clouds in the blue sky left her with a surreal frame of mind as her thoughts drifted toward nothing. Her body still ached, but it was now only in her arms and legs as the internal treatment had done its job. So she meandered with no real destination through the plants, while absentmindedly rubbing her numbed belly. Zormna felt sick to her stomach. Despite how the treatment had made all the raw pain go away, a new sensation had formed from her crotch into her abdomen. She felt… hollow. It disturbed her. It was not normal.

Had they said something during training about this? …Those nasty lap girls. She struggled to recall as she had forgotten their grotesque instruction on purpose. But logically speaking, there had to have been damage. He was of a different species. There was a good reason cross-species mating was taboo among most sentient species, besides being utterly disgusting. The odd thing was, though she had bled a little, she had expected more damage. Tearing or something. But there had been none. Zero.

What had those lap girls said?

It took a while to recall. Zormna remembered something about her body adjusting to her Master. It had been such a disgusting thought that she had banished it immediately at the time. But now, she wondered. Her lower half felt emptied. Carved out. This sensation would have freaked her out more if her emotions had not also gone numb. It was weird to her. Her last outburst of feeling seemed like an eternity ago, though it had been just that morning. Oddly, in a way she appreciated it, as this allowed her to analytically assess her situation and prepare for her predictable future.

So… she was officially ‘bedded’ now. And considering the pattern her training had already taken, she reasoned within herself that he would most likely continue to ‘bed’ her until she was used to it just like he had molested her until it felt commonplace. And then what? What did he have planned next?

Gazing to the sky, Zormna felt dead inside.

What could she do? She did not want to live like this. Her eyes took in the yard for the thousandth time, noting every escape attempt she had ever tried—every hole in the wall, every gap in the system. Not one had led to a way out. Did she have any other options left?

Fighting the Master off was no longer possible. That blasted machine, her head implants, and utter emotional blackmail had nullified all of her military training. So, he owned her. He entirely owned her. It was an awful fact, but she had to recognize it. And since this was his end goal all along, and current escape was impossible, she had no choice but to adapt to ease the burden of pain that he would continue to inflict upon her.

But that realization invoked heavy despair. It dumped down like thick honey over all her insides, filling the gaps of her thoughts with a drowning sensation. Zormna collapsed into tears. He owned her. And he would keep raping her. And there was no escape.

There is Jafarr, a tiny voice said from the back of her mind as she drew in a breath between sobs. He could still hear her. He was still searching. He wasn’t giving up.

But he was far, far away and could do nothing to help her, the despair in her moaned out, dragging her back down again. He was probably trapped himself, stuck on Arras. And their special connection for some reason had become erratic and unstable. She could feel it. It wasn’t just the enormous distance. Something was holding her back from reaching him. Something was preventing her from telling him where she was so he could find her and free her.  

Anger surged up inside. Why was he being stopped? Why was she being prevented?

Frustrated, angry, Zormna kicked the ground and swore. But as she did that, she immediately went bent into her old military routine for venting anger and stress, which was fight practice fundamentals. One pose, a kick, and then… OW. And, she had stepped on that long fluffy tail. Those jewels scratched and snagged into the filmy cloth. Another spread-leg squat, preparing for kick two… and OW…. She groaned. Her thighs killed.

That was it. Stretching came first. She dropped onto the grass to stretch her muscles. She kicked away that stupid fluffy tail, almost tripping on it again.

Zormna swore as she reached for her toes, grabbing the bottoms of her feet in a bend as the jewelry pinched with the realization that she would most likely to be in a state of perpetual soreness from now on. As a fighter and gymnast, she was glad she knew exactly how to stretch her leg muscles to remove the aches in them. She realized peevishly that she had to increase her flexibility, as he was going to be putting a lot of pressure on her inner thighs from now on. Yet as she stretched, then rose for her exercises, the long layered tail to the dress got in the way again. She almost fell on her face.

 The thing was ridiculous! Zormna yanked on it. Easily trod upon and entirely obnoxious, why in the world would anyone think of to wear such a thing? As for those absurd necklaces, they choked her when she made quick movements. The bracelets scratched and pinched. It was stupid.

Peeking cautiously toward the open doorway to see if the Master was watching—and he wasn’t—Zormna picked all the dangling jewelry off and chucked it aside in the grass. She stretched, feeling her range of movement. Instant relief.

Zormna grabbed a good hold of the long fluffy skirt next, looking for seams she could tear along; but the base was one long cloth, the other layers attached to it. Despite being sheer, the cloth did not tear easily, but stretched. After pulling and tugging, Zormna swore at it. She looked at her sore and throbbing hands. They were red. Apparently he only bought her the best froofy stuff. Frustrated, she tied one big knot in it so at least it was no longer underfoot. But it was heavy, so it didn’t really stay out of the way, and made sitting awkward. So even then, it was hopeless.

Hopeless.

It really was.

Her mind froze on that thought.

Hopeless. The Master had won. She had lost everything. Her former life. Her people. Her peace of mind. Her virginity. Her sanctity. Her integrity. Everything.  

Zormna collapsed against the grass again, sobbing. Her despair swallowed her completely.

 

“Zoama, shuk! It is lunch time. Come in.” The Master’s voice carried out into the yard.

Zormna had no idea how long she had been crying in the grass. Her nose was stuffy and her head felt clogged. Yet tremors shot down her arms and back the second she heard the Master call. He said come. She had to come. And yet she had no desire to go. He would just keep molesting her. But he would hurt others if she didn’t come. It took all her strength to push off the grass and walk back inside to the monster who had destroyed her. She had to do it.

The moment she stepped through the archway into the room, the Master’s eyes widened on her. “What have you done?” He advanced on her, grabbing, and turning her. He tugged on the knot she had made in the dress, undoing it. She felt the weight of the cloth as it the end of the tail hit the floor. Then he looked her over, peevishly searching more. “This is the finest clothing! And look what you did with it! And what did you do with the jewelry? Where is it all?”

Zormna wordlessly pointed to the garden. What was the point in speaking? Her words changed nothing.

Muttering under his breath, he stormed out and fetched all it from the yard. Taking it all back inside, he carried it straight to the bath spigot where he cleaned it all of it off, shaking away dirt and bugs. They were still damp when he strung them on her again. “You should take better care of your things.”

Her things? Zormna stared wearily at him. Was really anything hers? It was property. She was property. His personal play thing. He had dressed her up and undressed her. Washed her. Slept with her like a stuffed toy. He frequently played with her body parts as if they were fun little buttons to turn her on and off. And he had raped her. Besides, what did she care about jewels? What did he expect to get out of it? Did he think she would get excited and eagerly beg to have sex with him because of a shiny bauble?

As soon as she was covered up in jewels again as he saw fit, he sent her with a swat on her butt to fetch the food tray. Zormna shot him a dirty look, stumbling forward. But nothing really changed. Everything continued as always—mild irritant forgotten. And not long after the trays and bowls were taken away, guests arrived, almost like clockwork.

“Xochzhong!” Three fancy-dressed business associates cried out upon entering the room. Their eyes set on her immediately, and their grins widened in celebration, vestigial gills fluttering. “Success we see! Congratulations!”

Bobbing his head with pride as well as humility, the Master set Zormna before them to be admired. He prodded her chin to lift up. The echoes of their praise at his success rang distantly in her ears as her mind drifted, overwhelmed by the scents of their musky perfumes and the noise of their reptilian-bird chatter as they pawed her. She took it without protest. There was no point anyway. She could not escape it.

Eventually, after sufficient fondling, his guests settled down into pulled-out chairs, exchanging niceties and small talk while the Master took a seat on the end of his bed, and ordered her to massage him as he talked with them.

And she obeyed.

It was a surreal sensation going about her duties on autopilot after all that had happened to her. Her thoughts had melted, as muscle memory took over. And it pleased the Master.

The rest of the day passed in a mental haze. It was same routine anyway. She didn’t even need to think about it. Guests came and went. She ‘entertained’ the Master on command, following the routine like a programmed robot because it was all she had. And as the hours went by with business associates arriving, some finally insisting she go outside where she wandered freely about the garden as she always had done, only in the next moment to be called in so the Master could show her off to other guests, then later left to nap on the bed when she got tired.

The day finished with her outside as usual with the Beebles. When they came out of their door, they greeted her, patting her hand and petting her knowingly. But she was subdued. A number of them set flowers in her hair while they gardened as the sun lowered and night moons rose. The Beebles stroked her face with their large hands, running fingers down their own faces from their eyes, mimicking tear tracks as they sang their ‘Blue’ songs, though these were more like lullabies of sympathy. Sitting among them, she wished she understood them more than ever. She wanted someone to talk to who would be on her side. A friend to consult.

Then the Master called her in.

A shot of terror went through Zormna. He would want to ‘mate’ with her again. She peed herself.

Staring at the skirts of her damp dress, Zormna quaked more. He was going to be angry.

“Zoama, shuk!”

The Beebles murmured around her, patting her, some even howling in mourning for her.

“Zoama?” His voice raised to warning pitch.

Zormna quickly rose, knowing someone was going to incur his wrath either way. Her dress now smelled like urine. But without any other choice, Zormna dragged her feet to the room.

He detected the smell almost immediately, moaning. “You didn’t…”

“I’m sorry.” Zormna ducked her head.

Huffing, the Master lifted her off the ground and carried her at arm’s length to the bath, setting her in. He muttered, “He said this might happen…”

She let him undress her without a struggle, removing all the jewelry she hated anyway. She shivered when he took off her soaked gown, tossing it to the servants’ doorway. He put her in the bath and turned on the water, taking up the sponge to wipe down her legs. He poured scented soap on them.

“You have to keep control over yourself,” he chastened her, looking her in the eye. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

Zormna did not respond. She had everything to be afraid of. It wasn’t like morning treatment. There was no upside to what he was about to do to her. Both times he tried to achieve coitus, it killed. And he would continue to attempt physical union, believing he was bestowing a gift upon her.  

He washed her, continuing to mutter. “You cannot lie to me and say you don’t get any pleasure from our time together.”

“I don’t,” Zormna whispered, shaking.

“Ha!” He duck-laughed. “Then why does your heart race when I touch you? You’re excitement is obvious.”

“I’m not excited. I’m terrified,” Zormna said through her teeth, keeping her eyes on the bath tile.

He shook his head, wiping down her inner legs once more then draining the shallow bathwater. “Oh? Then explain to me the love moans you make, especially during morning treatment?”

Zormna colored. She averted her eyes from him as she lied, “It’s just the gel. It takes the pain away. Relief. What you do to me… your hands, your…” she colored. “…it hurts.”

He considered that only for a second. “That’s only because you are yet a virgin. It will get easier with practice.”

She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t want more ‘practice’, even though she knew he was going to do it to her anyway.

Without another word, he lifted her into the towel and quickly dried her off. Soon after, he carried her to the bed where he immediately laid her down and went into his ‘lovemaking’ routine. Zormna tried not to struggle, knowing that tense muscles would only make it hurt more. Her mind disconnected as he assaulted her body—except to fall into a state of self-loathing for allowing it happen. The pain consumed her. She couldn’t even tell when he had finished violating her or how long the ordeal had been. He merely readjusted her weak legs and arms on the bed, cuddling her tiny abused body closer to his with satisfaction.

Her splintered thoughts drifted like pieces of dust on the air as her lower cavity throbbed. The booming of his heart and his hot satisfied breathing sounded just above her ear. And when she woke the next morning, bleeding a little, the day simply repeated.

And it repeated the next day.

And the day after.

Including her peeing in terror at the prospect of enduring another evening of rape. The Master grew annoyed by it. He was even more annoyed that it was an involuntary reaction and therefore not easily controlled. After she had peed herself the third night in a row, he called her to use the toilet before going out into the garden to at least lessen the pressure on her bladder to reduce the possibility. It mostly worked.

Barely over a week into this routine, one morning while she was in the middle of scrubbing his chest during the bath, the Master took hold of her, heaved her up against the tile, and raped her there. When he finally pulled his coil out, satisfied, he merely kissed her as ‘reward’, then once more forced her to finish bathing him. Zormna could barely stand, almost slipping into the frothy bath as her lower half throbbed. She had to lean against him to keep upright. Bewildered, still shaking, Zormna wondered what had come over him.

The after-bath morning treatment went long that morning. Zormna allowed herself to enjoy it as the bath attack had left her rattled. He gazed with pleasure on her as he manipulated the tool, listening to the sounds she made as relief came. Then the day continued.

But the Master seemed to be in a mood that day. Sometime later that morning after the cleaning, yet before lunch when she was napping on the bed on her belly, she woke to an awful, heavy, plunging sensation into her most violated space. She was barely able to look back to the Master who had mounted her rear, despoiling her. When he finally retracted his coil from her insides, tugging her fluffy skirt down once more to cover her bare rear, everything under her abdomen utterly throbbed. Thankfully, the morning treatment had made her mostly numb so she had only felt the intense pressure from it and not the internal scraping she had gotten in the bath.

And that night, he still wanted to have sex. Not allowed to say no, her legs ached as she endured the assault. She lay exhausted in his arms afterward, hoping that day was an anomaly and not a pattern of what was to come from now on.

But it was no anomaly. He took her up again in the bath the following morning, and forced her legs open for another pounding in the water. Worse, he had been more handsy than usual during a guest’s visit, and not long after the guest departed, he took her to the bed for another full union.

It seemed from then on, from day to day, whenever the mood seized him, the Master took advantage of his lap girl for a quick hard one or an arduous deep-digging one. There wasn’t even a consistent pattern except for the morning bath assaults which he seemed to enjoy the most—their new ‘morning conjugal’ routine, he called it. She could at least prepare herself for those. But as for the rest of the day, his attacks were not predictable at all. She could be in the garden, trying to avoid contact with him when he got in the mood. Or she could be barely cleaning up from floor washing. He often forced her to stop whatever she was doing to satisfy his immediate lusts. Her sheer dress did not help either. Being so sheer, he got aroused easily just looking at her. Sometimes he just mounted her rear without warning. Zormna had to brace herself until it was over. Unfortunately, most encounters were not brief. It often got so intense that it felt as if he was trying to dig a passage through her gut to her heart.

Zormna was in constant throbbing pain now. It was as if the gut-pain machine had been made to prepare her to handle it. The worst part was that he sometimes raped her three times a day, as if he could not get enough sex. One day, he had mounted her five times, counting during the bath—only breaking for meals. She had hated that day. Her body never quite recovered from it either. Her internal organs felt bruised.

The bedroom had long changed from the quiet work space it had been. Now it was filled with his dinosaur grunts and her sobbing moans as well as smells of bodily fluid. Zormna was just glad the balm did its job.

Despite how much she had hated them, what those lap girls had told her had not been a lie—from the pain to the treatment. The treatment did make it easier to endure his assaults. It was a lubricant as well as a healer. She was sure the repeated rape would have been ten times more painful without it, especially considering the differences in their size and biology, never mind the frequency he used her. Seeing Kothoss’s youthful phallus had not prepared her enough for her Master’s. Besides being much bigger than Kothoss’s, even when not engorged, it was covered in rough spiny bumps and barbs that bent only one way. If she tried to get away while he forced it in her, the barbs would catch into her flesh, pulling in and hanging on. If she did not want to have her insides lacerated, she had to let him finish what he started. Only when he was done violating her, satisfied enough so that it would dis-engorge, would it slide out without harm. She was getting sick of seeing it all the time, never mind enduring it.

Being almost perpetually under sexual assault, Zormna’s mind went numb. She could hardly focus on more than the robotic things her body had been trained to do. Autopilot. Sometimes the only reason she ate was because the Master fed her at meal time, sometimes quite literally putting the food into her mouth and urging her to chew. And she was sleeping most of the time, exhausted after repeated abuse. The only conscious thing she still had was her war against her ridiculous new wardrobe. She hated all of it and persistently took off the jewelry the Master bestowed on her. She regularly dropped all of it into the grass outside like trash, though sometimes she dropped it in the pond to lose it. She had even found ways to shred the tails to her dresses with sharp rocks, ripping off the parts that got in her way.

The Master finally blew his top when he saw the wreck she had made to her latest sheer gown of iridescent purple green. She had finally figured out how to shred the length of the tail so it was now a stubby bush at her bum and nothing more.

“What have you done? And the jewels! Why do you keep throwing them away!? I had to get those Ba-Ba to fetch the ones you left in the pond!” He growled at Zormna for umpteenth time, rearranging the jewels that had fetched back on her with spite, scowling at the stub of the dress tail. “Answer me, or So’omo will be punished.”

Only because of the threat, Zormna replied, and without energy, “I hate jewelry, and I’ve never liked dresses.”

The Master’s feathers ruffled. His skin flushed under his scales as his paradigm once more had been violated. He angrily waved at her medallion. “What about that ugly thing?”

Zormna fingered her medallion which she had frequently clung onto in times of deepest despair. “That’s not jewelry. That’s my heritage.”

He didn’t understand, of course. She could see it in his glassy eyes. And he didn’t really care anyway. It was her defiant disregard for his gifts that bothered him. He truly had thought he was giving her something she would love.

Yet calmly eying over her mostly bare curvature, the Master remarked with a degree of smugness, “If you do not want to wear the dresses, you don’t have to. Go without. I don’t mind seeing your nude body all day. It is quite lovely. Just don’t damage the dresses. They were for your comfort. But you must wear the jewelry at all times, or someone will be punished. No decent lap girl goes about without jewels.”

Those words knocked her a bit out of her stupor. No clothes and only jewelry? Zormna colored as her mind played that out, unconsciously covering her breasts and crotch, though really it was silly. The gowns were already sheer. But walking around entirely nude was unacceptable. Even the sheer dresses were better than nothing, she thought. She may have to endure perpetual rape, but she was no whore. However, considering So’omo and the others stuck in the middle of her battle, knowing this fight would not end well for her, she muttered, “Fine.”

Yet Zormna was more angry than amenable when she had agreed, shaken from the stupor enough to consciously think again. She stopped altering the dresses and she wore the stupid jewelry, loathing them both. She would just have to adapt.

And the Master was content.

The day right after that argument, the Master had invited over some important friends so he could show her off. The Master took great pleasure in displaying Zormna in front of his various guests as he was prodigiously proud of his tamed pet and the progress he had made with her. She was the most beautifully adorned lap girl they had ever seen, they all dutifully said. Striking to look at. Almost all of his guests freely leered at her new sheer attire and strategically-placed jewelry—placed not to hide anything, but to accentuate his favorite features. Their leers made her skin crawl. Yet one friend jealously pointed out that she didn’t look cheerful enough.

“A truly trained lap girl eagerly services her Master,” that particularly snotty Th’san said, lifting his birdish snout.

Which was true. She had encountered enough of them.

The remark caused her Master’s gills to color with embarrassment. However, he responded, “Well… she is still in training. Just barely bedded, you know.” Which was also true. “Not until we have fully mated will she be entirely complying.”

Some of them nodded in commiseration, acting as though her behavior was a disappointing, yet temporary condition. A phase. Full mating would be a game changer, one of them suggested while patting the Master’s shoulder.

Zormna vaguely wondered on that as his guests pawed her over, admiring her bare flesh. She had already given up things she never would have imagined. She could feel herself become like those mindless lap girls, not quite adoring the Master, but no longer resisting him. Would it only be a matter of time before she worshipped him the way they did? She shuddered at the thought.

And what was that other thing he had said? They had not ‘fully mated’? She knew her body had taken all it could. He had been damaging her enough with his thing. There was nothing more than he could do to her… unless there was something she had missed. She had honestly blocked out everything the instructor’s lap girls had told her because they had been way too grotesque. But now she wondered… what more did it involve? She shuddered. Did he have an extra organ or something? He was an alien after all. But she also thought about how he was now using the fatter and longer green tools for treatment, past midway in the set, already beyond human lengths. He was prepping her for more of him, most likely. He had gone up another size recently. So, maybe he was larger yet and had more to inflict upon her.

But then the Master added, “Also, you must remember, she had once been a soldier. It takes a great deal more to conquer one of those.”

A visible shudder whipped through Zormna, which the guests noticed. She hated how the Master described what he was doing as ‘conquering’ her. Unfortunately, it was disgustingly apt.

Their bird eyes flickered with enjoyment. Her reaction was a sign she was not entirely dead inside. Zormna wanted to leave the room then, but she didn’t dare to offend the Master. All while they shamelessly pawed her over, remarking how changed she was from the rigid musculature she had when they had first seen her, they joyously reveled over how their friend Xochzong had brought down the ‘Odos’ queen who had defied and threatened their Empire’s High Council.

Her eyes flickered to them. So, they knew who she was.

As they examined her with their hands, it occurred to her that these particular Th’sans probably had been among those at her trial back when she was barely sixteen, back during her first kidnapping by the Th’san Empire. That meant these loathsome beasts most likely came to see her humbled.

“She’s softer to the touch,” one said, groping her arms and derriere, reveling in that she flinched. “More mature, also.”

“She’s more feminine now,” the other said, running his claws through her curls. “Her hair’s longer, more fitting for a woman.”

Zormna colored, averting her eyes while flinching on instinct but not pulling away in case her Master got angry with her. She hated this.

They duck laughed, reveling in it.

And when they cheerfully ended that visit, on the way out the door they commended her Master on his excellent pet management.

Such a grin of pleasure was on the Master’s face when he lingered in the doorway, bidding them a good journey. Once they were gone, he crossed the room to his tamed property who was sitting on the bed where he had left her and kissed her on the neck, whispering in her ear, “Good girl.”

Zormna closed her eyes. All of it had been mortifying.

She replayed in her head that trial from over two years ago when she had been kidnapped. Remembering how one of them had tried to cut her with a knife to prove the inferiority of the human species, and how she had disarmed and incapacitated him in front of all those Th’sans. And how trapped she had been then, yet in fit of rage she had thrown that knife at their Empire’s emblem, and had split the thing in half. Back then, she had challenged those Th’san leaders, declaring that she would do the same to their empire.

Thinking on it now, it had been a brash, foolish move. She should have played stupid, weaker, so they would underestimate her. But she had been so furious at being kidnapped and treated with such contempt that it had been knee-jerk. And when she had escaped under their noses, it only made their humiliation worse. Clearly those Th’sans had wanted to crush her for it. No mines for her. No prison for her. She would be demeaned and owned, lowered into sex service. And seeing them leave the house with such amusement on their faces, she knew they were reveling in the knowledge that they had succeeded. She had been reduced to this by one of their own.

The Master pushed her back on the bed, spreading her legs to ‘reward’ her.

 

“Beloved,” the eldest wife, XussShass, craned her neck into the room from the servant’s doorway a few minutes after. “Are your guests gone? I was hoping we could…” The elegant hen’s glassy bird eyes widened on the pair of them in action. She pulled back with a bird-like squawk.

The Master looked up from his passionate ‘reward’. Zormna panted in pain underneath him, her belly swelling from its occupation. She stared in horror at her unnaturally swollen belly as he fixed his gaze on his wife.

The Master bawked angrily, “You can’t just barge in here!”

His wife’s feathers fluffed in affront. The hen’s spine straightened with her chest and chin up high. “I can’t? I can’t? I came here because you have not been coming around these past few days! You are barely with us in the morning. And now I see why! I was right! We’ve been supplanted by this… trash!” She flung out a feathery arm at his pinned-down captive who was having her own crisis. Mid-intercourse ought not to make a woman look and feel three months pregnant. Zormna felt a lot pressure on her bladder right then. If he did not get off her soon, she was going to pee on him—and then he really would be angry.

Staring up at the gauze curtains, their angry voices echoing through Zormna’s ringing ears, it felt utterly unjust. She was a prisoner. Didn’t the hen remember that? Didn’t she recall that his captive human had been fighting the Master’s advances this entire time? The hen had made her that bathing suit, for pity’s sake, to support her resistance. Didn’t she see that her husband’s lap girl didn’t want this? That the tiny human female he was violating had no choice? She was being raped. It wasn’t a blasted love affair!

The Master retracted his phallic coil from within his human property, and climbed off of her to argue with his wife. Left on the bed, trying to recover, Zormna overhead the Th’sans’ shouts at each other increase. She got the gist, too worn out for the words. He was angry that he could not do what he wanted with his own property, and the hen was furious that he had purchased a lap girl in the first place. Zormna knew it wasn’t going to end well for her—forget him. He was one of their own. They would excuse him. Maybe divorce was not allowed.

As Zormna lay there recovering, her mind pointed out that the first wife being in the Master’s chambers was odd to begin with. Wives did not visit husbands. Husbands visited wives. That was Th’san custom. Zormna had learned that much from Shofof’zzz. Though they occasionally happened, the hens’ visits had always been rare. The eldest wife, XussShass, was usually too dignified to personally solicit her husband like the younger hens did. Too proper. And the others had not come into the Master’s chambers since the day Zormna had attacked the youngest one. So the eldest hen being here was proof things were not well between husband and wives.

“…BUT WE’RE YOUR WIVES! IT ISN’T EVEN NATURAL WHAT YOU ARE DOING WITH THAT DIRT WALKER!” the hen shrieked, advancing on the bed where Zormna lay.

Zormna lurched back from the hen. She was in total agreement with the sentiment, of course, but the hen looked like she would tear Zormna apart rather than her husband.

“Know your place, hen!” the Master shot back, getting her way, “I am the cock of this house! Not you! Besides, Klik’xuss is with an egg, which I must not disturb. You are long past laying, and XassThakka did me a great dishonor when she encouraged Shofof’zzz to secretly rendezvous with that southerner inside my yard. Shofof’zzz could have been with egg because of XassThakka! So, no. I had no desire to visit any one of you when Zoama’s training is going so well.”

The hen hissed at him. Whipping dramatically around, she stormed off on her long legs, her sweeping frock and feathers trailing behind her.

Zormna watched as the Master walked back to the bed, cursing loud. She didn’t know most of the curse words he used as they were not in his usual lexicon. But he also didn’t go back to raping her. Instead, he grabbed his clothes and pulled them back on.

Laying there, Zormna tugged her skirt down with relief.

But for the rest of the day he was in a foul mood. And it only got worse.

Because the Master was not molesting her, Zormna returned to the garden to ease her aches by soaking in the pond and stretching her muscles. The Master found work to do, grumbling the entire time. Apparently he felt a strain of guilt. Either he was not in the mood for pleasure anymore, or he actually took his wife’s chastisement to heart. Zormna hoped for both, but doubted the latter.

Not long after she had gone into the garden, into the room marched the other two wives, both of them squawking mad.

“Is it true?” the youngest wife, XassThakka, bit out. “You’ve been bedding that thing? YOUR PET?”

“You said she was just a trophy,” snapped the second wife, Klik’xuss. “You were only keeping her for the Council, you said! To break her.”

Zormna perked up at this. So, she had guessed right. Th’sans really were a degenerate lot.

The Master rose from his seat. “That is how you break them.”

“XussShass caught you pleasuring yourself with her!” Klik’xuss protested. “That is more than breaking!”

“Shouldn’t you be with your egg?” the Master replied darkly.

“XussShass is with it!” Klik’xuss squawked back. “Now answer us! Are you really mating with that tiny human?”

He huffed, clenching his teeth and shaking his head. He wasn’t making the L gesture, so he was not denying it.

“Answer me!” the hen clucked. The other one stood behind her, waving her O fingers.

Turning his reptilian gaze on her, he said with heavy meaning, “That is what they are for.”

Both hens balked, feathers rustling. But they turned their glares out the open door at Zormna who had been watching in the garden. She climbed out of the pond with increasing terror that they were going to go after her. She was not allowed to defend herself, which was utterly unfair right now.

“She seduced you,” XassThakka murmured.

Halting her retreat with disgust, Zormna glared back at the hen. Of course they would blame her and not their rapist husband. This was beyond unfair. It was utterly unjust! Of course they would be tribal about it, forget logic and the facts. He was a Th’san and she was human. They did not see her as anything but an enemy.

“Don’t you make that face at me!” XassThakka shouted at her. “You filthy animal! You vok’k xuzz oath’k! You little whore!”

The Master leaned near his wives and said, “She understands you, you know.”

Shooting him a terse look, XassThakka marched into the yard, her fellow wife following after. Zormna sprang from the pond and dashed back toward the tree.

“You understand Th’song now? You filthy ung’koak! You hideous little rat! You ugly beast! You stinking crawling kloak’qua! You husband thief!”

Klik’xuss grabbed XassThakka’s arm, pulling the irrational hen from Zormna. “XassThakka, have some sense! Remember what she did to you last time? She’s a beast.”

“The beast has stolen our husband!” XassThakka bit back, but pulled away from Zormna, finally remembering.

Zormna remained behind the tree, shaking. She could see the Master’s eyes watching her carefully, seeing if she would act against his wives and prepared to punish her.

Thankfully, both wives turned toward him instead. However, in place of shouting at him, they pressed up against the Master and whispered into his ears, stroking his gills in a manner Zormna understood perfectly well. Together, they led him away from the room, undoubtedly to their chambers for what Zormna assumed was personal intimate attention. It was so stupid. Zormna stayed in her hiding spot, watching until she was sure they were not going to come back. Then she went back into her stretches. In the back of her mind, Zormna wondered if this new turn of events might be a boon and curb his desire for her. Maybe he would only rape her once a day from now on. She doubted he would stop altogether.

The Master did not return until the evening, after dinner. And he did not seem as interested in pleasuring himself with her as he usually did. That is, he was just tired, and physically satisfied. Unfortunately, he resumed with her ‘training’ when he passionately raped her in the bath the following morning.

Nothing really changed for Zormna. She was still expected to oblige his lusts the moment he made to reach for her. And despite his wives’ objections to him pleasuring himself with his pet, he continued to rape her regularly. He just visited his wives as well. It occurred to Zormna in the course of the following weeks, as the Master continued to inflict his lusts on her—that he and his wives must have come to some kind of compromise, something which pleased them enough to allow him to continue his plans with his pet. She did not know what it was, though—only that they did not return to his chambers, and he began to spend a particular portion of his mornings after the bath and her treatment somewhere else in the house beyond the time of floor washing, most likely with him satisfying their lusts.

This entire confrontation, though, did turn out to be a gift after all. Despite still enduring the Master’s lusts for her, the rapes were now fewer. It allowed Zormna once more to regain some sense of self. Her thoughts had been shaken out of the recesses of her mind where they had taken shelter during her ordeal of nearly perpetual rape. Her emotions also returned.

Zormna liked that she could think and feel again—but the downside was that as her emotions returned, grief overwhelmed most of the others like a bomb. It came upon her in explosive bursts, usually when she sat alone in the garden after a heavy morning treatment. Guilt returned along with the grief. It tortured her and twisted her thoughts.

She mostly felt guilty about enjoying the morning treatments which had long passed from being something that gave her relief and more as something which she looked forward to daily, craved, and enjoyed. She was utterly addicted.  It was the only pleasure she got out of any contact with the Master, and she savored it as he altered and stimulated her lower cavity with the tools. Problem was, once the buzz from her latest orgasm cleared, her mind told her all of it was wrong. Like with any addiction with a high, after recovering from those nirvanic treatments of her lower cavity, Zormna hit a low. It wasn’t so much chemical as a plummeting sense of guilt for enjoying the abuse. In these lows, she started to wish for death.

She felt dirty.

It was like Dural Korad was there, accusing her, screaming all those epithets at her from the arena, telling her what a loathsome creature she was. And she ought to die. This side of her mind reasoned that if she killed herself, her Master could no longer hurt her—and he would have no reason to beat the servants for her choices.

It made sense to her tortured mind.

But not very long.

These thoughts only lasted until Jafarr came to mind. And immediately a greater guilt swept through her. There were times she could sense Jafarr. She wondered if he was still psychically connected to her. Sometimes she could hear him crying, and she wondered if she was making him cry. Did he know what was happening to her? Did he know what she was thinking? She did not want to hurt him, but she wanted the pain to stop. Would her suicide kill him also? Or would it just devastate him, leaving him in the universe alone. Did she really want to do that to him?

That thought kept her from ever trying for death. Jafarr already had a crappy enough life. Executed mother. Killed father. Dead girlfriend. Lots of dead comrades from the rebellion. He’d been tortured in prison for pity’s sake. She had seen the scars. He did not need more grief. She could not do that to him.

Depression swelled around her more as things just continued on the same trajectory.

And it did continue on. All the bad stuff.

Another problem with mentally and emotionally reentering the world was that Zormna’s mind didn’t always block out the intensely painful moments during rape. The more mentally conscious she became, the more she remembered. In fact, it was mind-bending that she had, in a way, gotten used to his regular assaults. She didn’t always pass out from overwhelm when the pain got intense. Every touch and word and slobbery kiss, every plunging stab inside her lower half was becoming indelibly carved into her brain as if it was to be part of her forever identity. The pain seemed to engrave itself permanently against her spine and pelvis as stretchmarks were now webbing over her stomach.

One morning in who knows how many weeks since she had become officially bedded, the Master finally left the home to go on business. The second he was gone, Zormna escaped the room she had come to loathe, especially now that it smelled of certain bodily fluids. Of course, she could only escape to the garden and up the tree. The house slaves had been ordered to come in to give the room a thorough cleaning and change the sheets besides—and Zormna did not want to be in there while Niilwa gloated over her, as she was among them.

“Oh… It smells like being owned in here!” Niilwa’s voice pitched up as Zormna pulled herself up into the branches.

“Be silent!” another slave snapped at her.

“What? Who except you cares?” Niilwa snapped back too loudly.

Zormna hesitated on a branch, her fingers tightening on one higher up, resisting the urge to jump down and beat in that smug woman’s face.

“She has taken a lot of pain to protect So’omo.”

“That only makes her a fool.”

Zormna heard what sounded like a slap. She hung on for a second more, then climbed higher. It was a bad idea to the in the middle of their fight. When the slaves fought, they did not shout. Their voices got low to keep their masters out of it, and it sounded to Zormna that Niilwa was taking a beating.

“Now be silent,” someone’s voice drifted out into the yard. “She’s your savior.”

“She’s a stinking slave like the rest of us!” Niilwa snarled out. But the remainder of the conversation ended, either because Zormna could no longer hear, now atop the tree, or because the other slaves physically shut Niilwa up.

It was pathetic. All of them. Her. Niilwa was not wrong. They were all trapped.

Gazing out over the city, watching the spiced smoke rise above to the sky from the four alters to the lesser gods—the gods that condoned the Th’sans’ hedonistic lifestyle, probably even encouraged it—Zormna felt an upsurge of loathing toward their entire species. She wasn’t generally a hateful person, and she usually didn’t believe in meddling in another’s religious philosophy—but if there ever was a reason to condemn a culture, Zormna knew she had one. No religion, no culture had the right to give allowance for the destruction of the sanctity and peace of another people. Period. It was like that saying Brian Henderson often quoted: ‘The right to swing your fist ends at the other person’s nose’, and her life had been involuntarily sacrificed on the altars of these lesser gods. But they were not her gods.

Shaking that feeling off, her eyes lifted to the roads and pale stone buildings, wondering if escape really was just a dream. The air was dry. Small dust devils whipped around the lanes when ships flew by. The humans in the muck never even looked up, covered more and more in layers of dust and grime under the lilies. The muck itself made it so you could hardly see them. Her eyes followed the ships, tracking them to the edge of the city where larger ships rose from a distant platform, shooting into the sky, and some toward space.

That was the way out. She just had to get to that space platform. Her heart thumped with such excruciating yearning, watching the spacecraft come and go. If she could just get there, she could escape on one. She had done it before.

Looking to the garden wall where it stood between her and freedom, her mind calculated how she could get out and reach it. And as she stared at the wall, Zormna realized with a funny feeling that she could get over it now, with ease. She could get out and escape this nightmare with a jump up top and over. The Master’s daughter in her ignorance had given her more than just language. She made her able to endure the pain of contact with her cage. She could touch the wall if needed.

And yet, Zormna asked herself in more practical thinking: How far could she truly get on that road? She was barefoot. Her Master had no shoes to steal. Her leaf shoe plan had turned out to be a lot more work than she had anticipated, as she was not craftsy. And, of course, the road was covered in sharp gravel—perhaps purposefully so to keep humans from running with their tender feet. And though she could and would force herself to run over sharp gravel to get away, Zormna wondered how long it would take before her some Th’san caught up with her and dragged her back.

That was when her mind drifted to the fighter who had escaped from the blue speckled tent. Had he gotten away? Or had he been caught? He must have seen a way to escape which she had not. He had been extremely confident it was possible. He had to have had a plan. He did not seem stupid. Closing her eyes, Zormna thought over his options then. One thought occurred to her.

Peering down at the slaves going about in the muck under lilies, a thought occurred to her. She realized something that she had first taken as insult. Visiting Th’sans always said that all humans looked alike to them. But in the muck they were so marvelously dirty, almost indistinguishable from one another. As she watched the slaves laboring below the notice of so many Th’sans as part of the muck, such an idea came into her head. It kindled a tiny spark in her chest. She had part of a plan.

Hope returned.

Swaying there in the boughs, Zormna could not disbelieve possibilities even with the odds against her. Jafarr had taught her that. He was not the type to give up—not ever. With all the garbage he have lived through, she knew he would not ever give up looking for her either. And she could still feel him searching for her, praying she would hold on a little longer.

Zormna gazed toward the skies, feeling out for him. “Jafarr?”

She sighed as she gazed at the road beyond the wall. She had to conquer that first. She could not climb over just yet. After all, the neighbors were watching. She needed camouflage. And that ship landing was a fair distance away.

A familiar young Th’san head bobbed from the low part of the lane she was staring at. He peered up at the wall to see if Shofof’zzz was there. His expression fell when he saw it was empty. Oddly, Zormna felt sorry for the foolish cock and shook her head.

“She can’t come back to the garden,” Zormna called over the wall from the tree.

The boyfriend looked up. Seeing the human in the tree and recognizing her, especially her clothes as a ‘bedded’ lap girl, he sighed and nodded. He continued his walk down that road, perhaps the last time he would go that way.

The Heir

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen:

 

“The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.”

—Scottish Author John Buchan—

 

 

Wrapped in her Master’s arms and kept warm only by them, Zormna awoke earlier than she had intended. The days had suddenly become brisk, and it seemed that Th’sans didn’t believe in blankets about as much as they didn’t believe in doors or giving cold lap girls thick fuzzy things to wear because they were freezing. Most nights she didn’t even wear clothes. The Master always took off her fancy gowns so they would not get damaged at night when he used her for his pleasure. Sheer silk tore easily, he said. And one night her jewelry has scratched her when he got a little too forceful while he was raping her. He didn’t like seeing her bleed or scar. The other pain he was inflicting didn’t matter. He was always convinced whatever sort of noise she made while he satisfied his lusts was due to enjoyment rather than gasps against the relentless torture he was inflicting on her insides. Of course, she figured the real reason he gave her nothing for warmth was that he wanted her to snuggle against his body of her own free will. It was all part of the manipulation game he was playing. He wanted her to want him.

She breathed again in the morning dark, her eyes flickering open with another shiver. This time she leaned close to the Master for body warmth. It was shameless. But these days the Master wore a long bed robe and an extra shirt when he slept, using her as a heater as well as a lover. And he was her only heat. Zormna nearly nodded off again once snuggled against his warm leathery skin, but when she blinked once more at the dim space before her, she saw an unfamiliar Th’san face staring too close to hers, leering in a lustful way.

She screamed.

“Zoamo!” the Master mumbled, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Quiet! It’s still night.”

Breathed heavily through her nostrils, Zormna’s stare fixed on the Th’san face in front of her. It grinned. Then it leaned back from her before walking across the room towards the desk. The Master unclamped her mouth and cooed at her to keep still, absently stroking her head.

“But there’s a stranger,” she whispered.

The Master sat up with a jerk, clasping Zormna to him while wrapping her inside his robes with him. Once he looked across the room, open-eyed, he relaxed.

“Good morning, Father,” the Th’san at his desk said, looking highly amused.

“Here and here,” Jafarr said, pointing at the newly-created star chart. “These planets have two moons. I want you to search them first.”

The Arrassian pilot gaped at him. “We can’t search a whole world for her, Mr. President. They’re too big.”

Jafarr nodded. “I know. I know. But a person like Zormna does not exist somewhere without making waves. She will make herself easy to find if she can. And knowing Zormna, she can do nearly anything.”

The pilot nodded.

“The plan is: evacuate what slaves you can, as much as you can. This isn’t like bombing a city. We’re not doing that. But if Zormna is out there, we can find her.” Jafarr sighed with a nod to himself while rubbing his abdomen against the frequent pulsing cramps he had been having for over a month. “We will find her.”

Zormna automatically disliked the Master’s son. He was everything she hated in a male, regardless of species. He was brawny and cocky, supposedly handsome for a Th’san, though she could not see it as he was still a bird-legged lizard-faced thing with fishy gills. And he was cruel, giving the impression of a guy who enjoying pulling the legs off of spiders. It was in his tone, his mannerisms, his attitude, and in his topics of conversation. And he didn’t take after his father at all, who at least had some standards. But his father admired him, blind to his faults—the beloved son. She also didn’t think him very intelligent. His conversation didn’t sound intelligent anyway. If he had been one of her soldiers, she would have given him the worst work detail, just because he seemed like a raunchy slacker. She had an overwhelming if not instinctive desire to castrate him where he stood.

The son talked about the war right off, which in front of her usually would have been an off-limits topic. Her Master had generally made it his policy to keep everything about the war away from her ears, believing it woke the soldier in her. But then, the son didn’t really talk about the battles.

“And Xuzz’thong said, ‘General, I didn’t know that was your daughter’.” He burst out laughing, not quite taking his eyes off Zormna. The way his glassy bird eyes were speaking volumes about what he wanted to do to her while raking over her bare skin made her flesh crawl.

The Master laughed at the joke, but then raised his brow. “Speaking of lovers, have you heard your mother-sister has a lover?”

Zormna perked up her ears, wondering how much he knew about Kathss’ah. She had said nothing about him, never betraying the daughter’s confidence… though the father never bothered to ask her either.

The son laughed, “Ah! Is she developed yet? I knew Shofof’zzz would draw in the cocks.”

The father nodded. “Yes, yes…. But he is a southerner.”

Right…. he knew that much. Zormna slouched back on the bed, tugging the Master’s robes around her, wondering if the cock had come around to ‘court’ Shofof’zzz another way. She had a feeling it wasn’t just a fling for him. Maybe they were thinking of eloping after all. 

The Master really didn’t bother climbing out of bed, and Zormna was too cold to attempt to leave her Master’s side despite his son’s leers at her bare skin.

His son nodded sagely. “A southerner?”

The father shook his O fingers.

“Is he handsome?” his son asked. “Wealthy?”

Zormna wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but her Master abruptly sat up and took her up in his arms to absentmindedly pet her.

“I haven’t seen him,” the Master replied, his voice going low. He held her to his chest, the beating of his heart lulling her back to sleep, though his barely blunt claw-tips tickled across her skin. She had become so accustomed to this. In many ways it had become difficult to sleep without it. “But your mother thinks he is scalawag.”

“Ah,” the son said.

The conversation changed again. The Master asked about his son’s playfellows. And in that line of thinking, Zormna mused over the use of that word… because for some reason Th’sans did not have a word for friend. Rather, they called their acquaintances by how they knew them. They also, strangely, didn’t have a word for enemy either. Zormna was never fond of this neutral ground. It felt wishy-washy—false. But in their language, among the young, the closest name for a friend was playfellow. Among the old, the word was timefellow—someone you spent time with. They also had a word similar to comrade, as in comrade-in-work.  The closest word to enemy was them, and it was considered impolite to use the third person plural pronoun too much. As it was, she overheard the eldest son say he was on leave, visiting his home with his playfellows.

Zormna fell asleep mid-conversation. But she heard a whisper that kept her slightly awake.

“Father, I know I have been gone long, but when did you acquire this sweet find? I thought you were so backward. No disrespect. But did you not swear to Mother you would not get a lap girl?”

Her ears did not deceive her when she heard her Master’s hisses before falling from consciousness. He kept her warm in his robes, and she was lulling away fast. “My boy, I said to your mother I would not get a lap girl unless she was extraordinary. And my boy, she is.”

The boy’s voice faded, but she heard him. “Can I have…?”

But what, she didn’t hear.

“Over here!” shouted one of the crew. “Look at this!”

Their small raiding party had landed in a dark city full of arching buildings and flat-topped houses painted blue, though many of their downtown buildings were glass. Night covered most of the dim planet with deep shadows, the streetlights themselves not that bright, as if the locals did not like to illuminate their world much. The planet itself was a little further from their sun, getting much of their heat from the nearby gas giant. Their crew had landed quietly in the center of this city while their louder raiding parties attacked the homes, stealing away as many slaves as could run. Not efficient or thorough, but often effective.

“What is it?” called over another in their crew.

“Get President Jafarr Zeldar,” the first man shouted back. “He has to see this.”

Jafarr was on the main ship, as the crew was worried about his health. He continued to have frequent stomach cramps, and couldn’t always walk, so they refused to let him go down planet-side in case his cramps got worse.

They sent a communication up.

Jafarr arrived on their shuttle via folding pad, walking off without any difficulty, though he was fully armed and peering around at the shadows for Th’sans when he arrived. “What did you need me for?”

They directed him into the metal and glass building which was shaped a bit like the Beijing sports stadium, looking like a huge bird’s nest. As he went in, they directed him to where the first man was waiting. That man pointed to the glass walls… or rather at the display cases in the walls.

“We didn’t detect it when above the city, but once we got ground level I noticed a high concentration of human life signatures in this area,” the man said.

Jafarr stared in at the cases and what was on the other side of the plexi-like-glass. He drew in a breath.

Human children. In some of these display cases were two or three children, about the age of three or four, barely clothed if clothed at all. Others contained each an older singular child. All of them were sleeping on soft bare floors. Tiny lights ringed the floors of each compartment, which had both air holes cut in the glass and intensely wired security to their doors. A basin of water and a basin with dry food sat in the corners of each cell near the doors like those in a kennel. There was even low bin set down for excrement.

Putting a hand over his mouth, Jafarr felt sick.

“What is this place?” the soldier asked. “A prison?”

Jafarr shook his head. “It’s a pet shop.”

The soldier stared at him. “What?”

Going to the nearest glass case, watching the child sleeping there, Jafarr clenched his teeth, wishing to smash something.

“What do you mean, pet shop?” the soldier asked.

“We need to get them all out of here.” Jafarr looked around for some way to get into the back doors to free the children. “Breaking the glass would probably cut them, and we need to move fast before the Th’sans know we’re here.”

Shaking his head, the soldier gestured to another and called into his helmet com for information.

Jafarr rushed along the wall, searching for a door. He eventually found one, but it was alarmed.

Whispering, the soldier asked, “Do you think our queen is in one of these?”

Hardly even looking at the cells, Jafarr shook his head, digging into the control panel to rewire the security system. “No. She was bought long ago. She’s in a private home.”

The soldier stepped back, looking put out. “Then why are we—?”

Jafarr whipped around, teeth grinding, “Because these people matter too.” He kicked the ground, grumbling while going back to the control panel. “And Queen Zormna would want them out.”

The soldier backed away, nodding.

Closing his eyes, Jafarr cringed as he braced himself before connecting the final set of wires. “The alarms are going to go off no matter what I do here, so we only have a few seconds to grab the kids and run back to the ship. So, get your men into position. They need to kick in the main doors and shoot off the locks to the cells.”

Nodding, the soldier passed the message along. The raiding crew hastily got into position.

“These kids will be really confused. They might even bite you,” Jafarr said.

Staring at him, the soldier gasped. “What?”

Grimly nodding, Jafarr said, “I told you. This is a pet shop. And we are stealing them.”

And he connected the wires.

His door popped open. A shrieking alarm went off.

Zormna woke alone in the middle of the bed, wrapped in the Master’s bed robe. Both Master and son were gone. Though surprised she did not feel him leave her, she was curious about where the Master had gone. She didn’t want to see the son again.

She slid out of the bed and carried the robe to the bath to hang it, peering in to see if the Master had bathed without her. As goosebumps went up her bare skin from the cold air, she saw the bath was wet. It smelled freshly of perfume. Zormna smiled at that and pulled her bathing suit off the peg, glad to skip his usual morning hanky-panky. She did a sort of jig and quickly pulled on the ragged, holey suit. It was still preferable to work in it when she had to wash the floor. It was the one time she felt clothed in the day. Pulling up the last part over her shoulder, Zormna took in a deep breath to get ready for the morning.

“You are awfully short, even for a human.”

She yipped, jumping back from the servants’ doorway where the voice came from.

“And jumpy too.” It was the son. Looming over her, he walked toward her, keeping his large leering eyes on her as his birdish neck craned to examine her. For some reason, he felt more alien than his father. HIs vestigial gills fluttered, which unfortunately meant he was severely aroused. “What sort of human are you?”

Zormna swallowed as she backed toward the garden.

“Father says you can speak and understand Th’song, so don’t play dumb with me,” he said, taking a step nearer.

She bumped into the wall then looked out of the corner of her eye for a way to escape. “If your father told you that, then you should also know what sort of human I am.” Her voice shook in spite of herself.

The son laughed. “Smart-mouthed… and in a second language too. Impressive. Father says you are unusually cunning. You broke into his safe even.”

Her former anger seeped in her as she gazed hard at this beast. A lot of her past feelings of spite welled over her. He wasn’t the Master after all. “Oh, I can do more than that. Th’song is not my second language either. It is my fifth.” Her voice no longer shook.

But that did not seem to impress him. He lifted his pompous bird neck with such haughty attitude. “Yes, I hear humans have a great deal too many languages. Rather disorganized if you ask me.” He walked around Zormna as he peered down at her. “You are pale and small. You must be an Odos.”

Zormna lifted her chin firmly. “Arrassra.”

He laughed. “Use that primitive language? Th’song is much more advanced.”

It was Zormna’s turn to laugh. “Yeah sure, hissing and clucking like a bunch of snakes and chickens. I learned your language in less than three months. It was not that hard.”

That raked against his pride. He reached out to grab her. But the Master came in just then, and he hastily backed off from her, acting coolly as before. “Back from work, Father?”

The Master waved his O fingers and then glanced sharply at Zormna who had visibly shrunk away from his son. “You be careful of her. She is sly and tends to rile up the blood of the untempered. I could see you were angry.”

The son bowed apologetically. “Sorry, Father. She insulted the Th’song language. Said she learned it in a month.”

The son’s lie irritated her, but the Master regarded Zormna for a second, looking at her in her cleaning attire. “Probably. Come here Zoamo. It is time for your treatment.”

The son almost choked. “You’re not serious father? She couldn’t have!”

The Master shrugged then changed the subject. “How long will you be on leave, Xumkozzz?”

Zormna walked up to the Master with a wary look on his son. She climbed onto the bench where she settled down to get comfortable. The Master brought out the tools, selecting the one from the middle of the set that they had been recently using. As he opened the jar and applied the gel to the tool, the odor stirred excitement in her gut. Zormna braced herself for treatment, wishing they were alone. Unfortunately, that was not going to happen. The son’s gills fluttered with pleasure, watching his father insert it and go to work on her. It was humiliating. How could she enjoy it with him watching?

“Oh, for a few weeks,” the son voice came as a distant echo over her head as the Master generously treated her aching insides. Zormna averted her eyes from the son, especially when the treatment aroused her more. Her toes curled. Her back arched. The best part was coming.

“Can I try?” the son asked after she involuntarily gasped during climax.

“No,” his father said, concentrating on making sure she was getting the full deal which would ensure her to come back for more. “You’ll just hurt her.”

Zormna was glad he had told his son ‘no’. Especially when the Master finally extracted it, finding blood on the tool. He stared at it in horror. He quickly looked to Zormna who was trembling, hot and flushed. “Are you hurt? The handle didn’t break through and scratch you, did it?” He examined the tool to make doubly sure.

Struggling to sit up and look at it, Zormna took in deep breaths until she finally managed to say, “It’s probably just my time of the month. It’s been a while since the last one.”

The Master stared his alien eyes at her and it as he added up the number of weeks since the last time she had her period, then sighed. “Of course. Humans bleed a lot.”

He then lifted Zormna directly to the toilet to wash her insides out to then dress in her menstruation rag. She was glad her period had come. It had been late, probably due to stress. But the delay had made her worry that she had become pregnant—though biologically that should be impossible. Afterward, the Master clothed her in a deep red gown meant to hide any blood stains, sending for the servants to scrub the end of the bench where some blood had dripped. He quickly sent Zormna into the garden soon after, as he didn’t like to handle her when she was on her period. The son frowned with disappointment.

When the horns blew, Zormna returned to the room. The Master and the son strolled into the garden together, continuing their conversation about a crazy bet his son had made with the froggish type Th’san called a Bwod. “…But don’t you know you can’t beat Bwods in that? They have pouches in their necks. They can store food there for months. You should have required them to swallow everything and not pocket anything….”

Zormna ducked her head, trying to ignore the son’s leers as he went out.

The cleaning ritual took the same amount of time as always, and when she finished, Zormna set up her bath like always, though the Master did not come in to wash. He was too busy with his son. When she was inside the tub mid washing, the Master and son stood over her.

“How can a small thing like that be developed so well?” the son asked.

Zormna yipped, covering herself.

Yet the Master merely walked by with a laugh. “Why so self-conscious? He saw you naked when he arrived.”

Zormna still sank under the water. The son gazed over her like he wanted to have a piece of her. She shrank from his view as best as possible under the circumstances.

“Come, Zoamo,” the Master called. “Get dressed. We’ll have guests today.”

Zormna masked a cringe. She’d rather stay underwater with that idiot son around. However, disobedience was not an option. Zormna rose up and climbed out the tub, closing her eyes as she grabbed for the bath towel. It was silly but she did not want to see that cock lusting after her. The son got there first, laughing. He jerked the towel out of her reach.

Towel gone, Zormna opened her eyes, the glare from it flashing hot green at him. This was getting insufferable.

“Quit playing with her, Son,” the Master said, casually amid his work. He hardly even looked her way, expecting things to sort out on their own.

However, the son did not stop teasing. The fool dangled the towel over Zormna’s head, trying to make her jump for it. But Zormna merely shot him a caustic look and walked right up to him. Calmly, she stuck out her hand. “Give it here.”

The Master smirked with a side glance at her for using a commanding voice, especially while naked. Yet he went to get a dress for her to wear. She hadn’t talked like that in a while. It amused him… which it shouldn’t have.

The son, however, sneered at her, enjoying this. “Take it from me.”

Staring steely at him, Zormna bowed. Stupidity was one of Zormna’s pet peeves. And perhaps even the Master was not so quick to realize the danger of his son’s challenge. He did, however, recognize the tone in his lap girl’s voice when she said, “As you wish.”

“No!” The Master shouted, turning not quite fast enough.

Zormna had already leapt, kicking first to the cock’s stomach then his face, rebounding over his arm with a quick snatch of the towel.

The son staggered back and fell against the garden archway, towel-less and dazed, but none-the-worse in spite of what she could have done…. What she had done in the past.

“Zoamo!” The Master tromped over to her as she wrapped the towel around herself. In one clawed hand, he clutched her fancy beaded gown almost as if he would shred it.

Zormna shrank from him to the floor in her well-won towel. “He dared me.”

The Master could have hit her, but he stopped with a huff. She doubted he took her words into account. Rather, he did not want to leave a mark. He walked to his son instead, checking the young Th’san’s face. “Did she hurt you?”

The son gripped his head where she had kicked him, staring at her, too stunned. “How did…?”

The father sighed, seeing no bruises or cuts. “I should have warned you. She was once a soldier. You should not tease her.” And with a significant glare in her direction, the Master added, “And she will be punished.”

Zormna shuddered. He never would consider her side. And worse, delayed punishment meant only one thing. She would be without a bed that night. Honestly, she didn’t want a return of that old, sharp pain. But at least a servant was not going to be beaten.

Four-twelve a.m.

Jafarr moaned, looking at the clock. He sat up, clutching his stomach. The others in the room were sleeping soundly. He knew he would have to leave or he would wake the others with his moans. The pain was always the worst when it started at four a.m. The eight-hour bout of stomach pain never came predictably, but at times it was a comfort to feel, because it somehow meant that Zormna was still fighting her captors.

He did not bother to change out of his pajamas, or even pull on a robe. Jafarr opened the door and walked down the busy corridor to get to the nearest seer hall. The ship did not sleep, even though he did. War in space did not sleep. Soldiers in uniforms ran down corridors to their shifts, and others walked. He was half tempted to peek in on the children they had rescued earlier to see how they were adjusting. They hadn’t been able to get them all, but they had snatched most of the lower floor before the Th’sans charged in on counterattack. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t go back or track down another ‘pet shop’, now that they knew what to look for.

As he made his way toward the seer hall, he passed the recruits from Earth that were taking a break from fighting. He overheard them speak in their various home languages, counting their losses as they bound each other’s wounds. Some told jokes and reminisced about food they missed that the Arrassian ship could not provide. Many heads turned when they saw him shuffling by in his pajamas. He cringed as the pain grew stronger.

“…Yeah, I heard that too.” One man whispered just in earshot.

“And they say he feels when she’s in pain,” a pilot from South Africa said. They had recruits from everywhere, but Jafarr only understood the English conversations.

He staggered by their door, breathing hard. The pain was severe that night. Leaning against the wall as the pain worsened, Jafarr almost collapsed. Several of the pilots sprang up at once. They ran over to where he was struggling to remain upright, staring into his ashy face and white lips.

“Sir? Do you need help to get back to your quarters?” a pilot in his late thirties asked, bending over him. Others propped Jafarr under their arms, helping him stand.

Jafarr shook his head. “No, seer hall… take me to the seer hall.”

They all exchanged glances, whispering. “He’s half seer. Maybe he wants to pray or something.”

Another objected. “He needs to see a doctor.”

Jafarr shook his head. “The doctor can’t do anything. The seer hall, please.”

“He’s delirious. We should go to the doctor.”

“He said the seer hall.”

“He said the doctor couldn’t do anything.”

“Are you crazy? Look at him. He’s having a seizure.”

“That’s not a seizure.”

“You have to wait out a seizure anyway.”

“A doctor can give him medicine.”

They group bickered between both the doctor’s office and the seer hall, the crowd thickening around him as the rumble of English conversation grew.

“What is it? Is someone hurt?” voices out of the circle called in.

“It’s the Martian president. He’s sick.”

“Martian pres—?” A voice broke from behind. That soldier pressed forward through the crowd, shoving to get to Jafarr, who was now too much in pain to move. “Jeff! Jeff! Streigle!”

“Jeff what?”

“Look at his eyes.” Men murmured.

Jafarr didn’t even know he had lost focus, staring blankly up at the ceiling. For a moment, he could see the bedroom Zormna was in—the dark canopy, the moonlight from the doorway, and the hulking, loathsome beast in the shadows pretending to sleep. He could hear her crying, begging for mercy. It was not something he wanted to hear. He wanted her to be strong, but the pain was killing him. It was killing her.

“Jeff!” The voice came clearer now. “Oh, my gosh! What are you…? Take him to the doctors! What are you all just standing for?” The familiar voice came again.

“No, doctor,” Jafarr moaned. “Seer hall.” He did not see the face, but he knew the voice. “Brian… seer hall.”

The crowd murmured over it. Jafarr barely heard anything because of the pain. But he did hear one thing. “You heard him! Seer hall! Now!”

Jafarr smiled in spite of everything else. A friend had come.  

“Please, Master.” In tears, Zormna begged, her body violently shaking as the pain seemed much worse than normal. She clung to the end of the bed near him. “Please let me in. I am sorry. I should not have done it. I should not have taken the dare. I am sorry.”

She dropped to the floor. It was too much.

“I am sorry.”

Zormna felt as if she would die. She could not move for the pain. She could not stand to walk it off. She could not fight it. And he would not relieve her.

As she began to give into despair, Zormna vaguely saw the Master’s feet standing before her. He bent down and lifted her off the ground, holding her against his chest with a hissing whisper near her ear. “You will never disobey me or fight or harm any of my family again. Understand?”

Zormna nodded, trembling as she clung to his chest.

“And you must do your part from now on to progress our union,” he said. “No more of this sulky, passive submitting. You must play the bed games I want, and cheerfully entertain me from now on.”

She nodded. It did not matter to her what she was agreeing to. She just wanted the agony to stop.

He carried her back into his bed and held her close to his body until the spasms ceased.

Jafarr stopped convulsing, his breathing slowed and his glassy eyes regained focus, but he grieved.

“It was too much,” he murmured.

His old friend from high school in America, ‘Airman’ Brian Henderson, looked down at him, sitting in the dark room illuminated only by a small fire in the contained chamber. They had laid the young Arrassian president on the floor. There was no furniture in the seer hall, only people meditating as they knelt.

“Jeff?” Brian whispered.

Jafarr closed his eyes hard then opened them again. He sighed before he sat up with effort, looking at the floor. “They’ve broken her. The Creator could not spare her at all.”

Brian closed his mouth, swallowing his questions. Though he had heard the rumor that his old friend was on the same ship as he was, he had not seen Jafarr since Zormna had been taken. Gazing at Jafarr now, he did not even look a shadow of the determined, easygoing person he had known back in high school. This important political figure lay there as one whose his entire world had been ripped from him—which, considering his intimately deep friendship with Zormna, was true. Brian rested his hand on Jafarr’s shoulder, not a very acceptable Arrassian gesture, he knew—but Jafarr understood it.

“Jeff,” Brian said with confidence. “You’ll find her.”

Jafarr closed his eyes. “I just hope it’s soon.”

Hesitating, Brian asked, “Do you really… you know, feel her pain? What she’s going through? I heard a rumor…”

Nodding, Jafarr sighed. “Yeah.”

Brain sat down and stared at him. “…But why? I don’t understand it. What purpose…  If God really is doing this—then what purpose would it serve?”

Turning his gaze to Brian, considering him for a moment as he knew Brian really did believe in the existence of a God (though it was a little different than his understand of the Creator the Arrassians knew), Jafarr replied in sincerity, “For me to show others what she is going through? To motivate them not to quit?”

“But for you? You can hardly stand.” Brian shook his head. “I know you want to get her out of that. If it didn’t debilitate you, you’d be hunting her down yourself—and get her away with total success.”

Jafarr closed his eyes and chuckled weakly, as his friend’s confidence in him was flattering. “I know.”

Brian stared at him for a minute, taking in Jafarr’s grief and pain. “So then why?”

Sighing, Jafarr said, “I am not meant to go at it on my own. The Creator doesn’t want me to.”

Groaning, Brian squatted next to him. “But how do you know that?”

It was painful to hear Brian say that. Smirking ruefully at his good friend, Jafarr patted Brian’s cheek. “Come on… This, coming from you? I know you pray and believe in answers to prayer.”

Brian stared at the floor. His expression was grim if not a bit despairing. Jafarr could see the war had given him a crisis of faith which had unsettled his sense of the universe. It was in Brian’s eyes that he just could not wrap his mind around the intense cruelty of the enemy or why such evil had been allowed to happen in the first place. 

“Or once did.” Jafarr nudged him.

“I still pray,” Brian murmured, cringing. “It’s just…”

Sighing again, Jafarr nodded. “You just don’t like hearing the answers you get? Like… ‘No’. And ‘Not yet’?”

Brian cringed more. It wasn’t exactly that, but close.  

“I hate those answers too,” Jafarr said. “But, as much as I hate them, I’ve learned something from them.”

“And what’s that?” Brian’s eyes bore into him, watching the pain flicker through Jafarr’s eyes. There was a lot of grief and even anger in Brian’s expression.

“That I am not out here to just get Zormna back,” Jafarr explained, even to himself. “And until we commit to freeing all the people the Th’sans have enslaved, truly, she will stay in captivity.”

Zormna sat on the toilet, subdued, the next day in another dark red dress with several layers to her fluffy skirt to hide her menstrual rag. The red dress served as a reminder to the Master not to touch her when he got the urge. Her bloody flow was frighteningly heavy that second day and had stained the bed. The servants had to change the bed cover and bring in a new one. They also aired out the mattress after scrubbing the blood out with cold water and soap. The Master would not let her bathe with him at all that morning. He had sat her almost immediately on the toilet to rinse herself out until most of the blood flow stopped, and she could put on her rag without it soaking up quickly. As she sat there, Zormna morosely thought the idea was a joke, but he would not listen when she explained that it would not stop as quickly as that. As a result, she sat on the toilet the entire morning.

Her mind mulled over it. He wasn’t entirely wrong. She was not having her usual period. Normally her flow lasted about five to seven days. And though the first three days were usually heavy, they had never been as heavy as this. Of course, this was before she had been regularly raped with an incompatible alien phallus. She knew she was being damaged, but the treatment had numbed it. But she could tell it was not the kind of damage that caused real internal bleeding. If she were bleeding from damaged organs, she would not just be feeling aches and only aches. She would be coughing up blood or having serious cramps, constant burning, regular bleeding, bad swelling or something. An infection. Pus. A smelly discharge. But she had none of that. She usually had minor bleeding along with dulled pain in her organs as if they were being shoved aside. That was all.

So why was flow so heavy now? Was it because her usually discharge had been delayed due to stress? Or something worse? The only identifiable changes in her body since he began to regularly rape her were these small, spidery stretch marks on her belly where it swelled up when he crammed his phallus into her—something that should not happen anyway. Her abs regularly got sore. She peed a lot more frequently, and passing bowel was uncomfortable. Adding it all up, as someone who did not favor biology as a science but wasn’t ignorant of how it worked, the only conclusion she could make was that her cervix had been compromised.

For a while, she had been trying to figure out how he had been fitting his enormous phallus into her and why her belly swelled. The human vaginal canal was only so many inches long and his phallus clearly surpassed that in length and girth. The pressure inside had also eased somewhat as if something widened as well as opened. These days, sex with him wasn’t as excruciating. It felt like he was stretching something that could stretch… like a womb, which was built to stretch for pregnancy. So logically, her cervix must have been breached, opened by her Master in some way and kept open for his phallus to enter that space. But that would also mean his phallus was regularly rubbing up against her uterus walls—three times a day, damaging any accumulation of a uterine lining—right? This would explain a heavy vaginal bleed, but not the late bleed. Come to think of it, she should have been bleeding all along. Had some built up? All this was not how human sex worked—at least not when the woman was healthy. She was surprised it did not hurt more.

Zormna leaned her forehead against the wall as she sat on the toilet seat, feeling lightheaded while thinking about it. Her suspicions wracked through her so much that she was shaking. She hoped she was wrong. If she was right, he had destroyed any chance of her ever having a child. And for the first time ever, she realized she wanted one… just someday, with the right man. Her mind flitted briefly to Jafarr, shocked at herself for thinking it.

While she sat there in this state, the eldest wife, XussShass, wandered into the room. Upon seeing her, Zormna flinched. The eldest hen’s visits had always been rare, but these days her visits did not bode well for her. The elegant hen’s glassy bird eyes narrowed on Zormna as she stepped through the servants’ door into the Master’s chambers. Her cold looks bitterly accused Zormna of failing to fend off her husband’s advances as if it were her fault for being raped.

“Weak after all…” the wife muttered, her eyes sharply taking in Zormna’s new red peekaboo gown and draping jewelry. Zormna was sure that if the hen had been one of younger wives, she would have clawed at her dress, ripped off her jewelry, and torn her hair—not quite daring to actually hurt her as it would anger the Master.

“Where is he?” XussShass asked, fully aware Zormna understood their language.

Lifting her head from the tile, Zormna merely pointed.

Marching in that direction on her slim bird feet, the hen chirruped, “You are suffering because you are keeping him to yourself.”

“You can have him. I don’t want him,” Zormna murmured at the wall.

XussShass stiffened, halting in the doorway. Her glassy birdish eyes widened with surprise. Her feathers ruffled. Yet too proud to argue with the small suffering lap girl, the hen quickly marched into the yard.

Zormna eventually cleaned up, sure there was nothing else she could do, and wrapped on her menstrual rag. Adjusting her dress, she stalled going outside. She didn’t quite want to go into the yard because the wife was there with that lousy cock son of hers. But before she could make a move in that direction, the Master returned, his wife briskly at his side. His disapproving gaze settled heavily on Zormna, almost as if it were his claws. Zormna cowered.

With her chin even higher now, the hen marched past to the door, smugly returning to her wing of the house, job accomplished—or to that effect. The son either was still in the garden or had left it some other way. Zormna could not tell from her vantage point and did not dare to look in case he was peering in with mockery.

“Do I need to remind you that you promised to be cheerful?” the Master asked. A deep censorious gurgle came from the base of his throat.

Blinking fearfully at him, Zormna shook her head. “No. I… I am lightheaded. I lost a lot of blood, and I was not thinking.”

He leaned down to meet her gaze, resting his huge hand on her head. “Nice excuse.”

Shuddering, Zormna averted her eyes, trying not to get caught in his gaze, trying not to pee down her leg.

“Don’t ever speak to my wife like that again,” he hissed.

Nodding, Zormna kept her eyes to the floor.

He then walked back out to the garden.

Zormna didn’t know why, but a feeling surged through her, and she chased after her Master into the garden. The son was thankfully nowhere in it—though with one searching look, she saw he had passed through the side gate into the adjoining yard. His plumage was barely visible over the fence. Speaking out, Zormna said something that had been on her mind for a while, “But you should visit your wives more often.”

The Master turned around, craning his neck. His crocodile eyes inspected her sharply. “Are you giving me advice?”

Steeling up her strength, Zormna endeavored to square her shoulders as she replied with grief, “I know what I promised. And I will do as you wish, as much as you wish…. But by playing all those games that you want, it will most likely make your wives extremely resentful, more than they already are. It is a female thing.”

His pupils dilated, his thoughts lingering on her words. She was, after all, not just any human. And not just an extraordinarily beautiful one either. She was intelligent in a degree that unsettled him, a former soldier, and, of course, a queen.

“And one day when you are gone on business,” Zormna continued, getting out one of her greatest worries. “One of them might, in her jealousy, come in at night while I am asleep and attempt to kill me.” She let the word attempt to linger in his thoughts before continuing. “And then what? If they succeed, I will be gone. And you will have wasted a lot of…” she hated this thought, but knew it was along Th’san lines of logic and she had to speak some kind of reason into him that he comprehended, something that would give him pain, “…time and money.” She didn’t vocalize that she would be forced to harm her attacker if she was pushed to self-defense. He needed to remember on his own that she was dangerous ‘by nature’.

The Master stared. His reptilian gaze grew more thoughtful, especially scrutinizing how well she understood his thinking.

“For my sake and yours, have some foresight and spend more time with your wives.” Zormna’s voice begged. She would have dropped to her knees if it would have helped, but she had finally learned that he did not regard any being who physically lowered themselves as worth listening to. Begging was beneath Th’sans, apparently. Physically low creatures, according to Th’san philosophy, were ignorant filth. Standing upright while speaking her mind would garner his respect. It would also remind him of who she was.

His eyes looked toward the distance in thought.

“I won’t be able to please you this week anyway,” Zormna added, stepping back from him. “You know how long it takes for me to cycle, so—”

“Why waste this time waiting for your blood to stop?” the Master finished her sentence, smirking keenly at her. “You just want to be left alone.”

“Most human females do this time of month,” Zormna muttered, knowing he just thought she was being sly. “It would sensible.”

Critically narrowing his crocodile eyes on her, the Master bent down, lowering his head to her level, which only happened when he wanted her to hear him well. “Don’t expect me to forget your promise after I am done visiting my wives tonight. Once your cycle is over, you will play the games, cheerfully.”

The games. Zormna was already sorry she had agreed to them. She had simply lost mind in her desperation to get back into bed so the pain would stop. And to be honest, she really did not know how to play them anyway, and she never had wanted to know. During the lessons months ago, most of the demonstrations focused on the games. But she had been covering her face and had vomited too much to remember them. The only thing she remembered was that it was the lap girl who entertained the Master during the game. And the games were, for lack of a better word, kinky. Thus, her automatic vomit back then.

“I know you are afraid of the games,” he whispered, stroking Zormna’s cheek then running his claws through her curls. “But I will make it fun for you. I promise.”

She closed her eyes. It would only be fun for him. For her, it would be beyond humiliating. She would have to throw out every bit of her integrity to do it with him. She would have to play the whore.

“We’ll get to use the special pillows now,” he announced, grinning while rising to his full stature. He trotted off to the garden again, cheerfully thinking about his future fun.

Zormna followed him slowly, shivers going up her arms. Yet she eventually left him and went to the pond… just to get away.

She dropped down in dejection and laid down on her stomach. Was she really going to do it? Yes, she had agreed, but…. Closing her eyes, Zormna rubbed her forehead, thinking. Was there a way to get out of it? She could always tell the truth and say she could not recall how to play the games.

But her logical mind said the Master would only insist on re-teaching her himself, then demand she do it. She stared morosely at the pool of water. It was chilly with dried lily pods full of seeds floating on the water. She flicked one, watching the ripples. There were so many ripples to her choices. She had made so many poor ones. And they had effects. She had been driven by pain, by fear, by blackmail, and even sometimes by utter guilty pleasure. Her pride had put her in this situation to begin with. If only she had not put that pin on Jafarr. If only she had not gone into battle. If only she had disclosed what Zeta District knew about other alien species out there. If only… If only. If only. She had said ‘yes’ to something she should have said ‘no’ to. Now she wondered how much more damage her Master would do to her during the games. And worse… how much Jafarr might hate her for giving in like this. Jafarr was a man of upstanding virtue after all. Spiritually minded. All his respect for her would be lost.

She flicked another dried lily. How she was supposed to do all of this cheerfully? The Master had unrealistic expectations. And she was no actress. All she really wanted was to be back home, to be back with Jafarr.

Staring over the water, Zormna fantasized about escaping again. Her shoe project had been a dud. She had made and hid a pair of leaf woven shoes with the help of the Beebles who were keen on her getting out as much as she was. And on a day the Master had gone away for business, she had tested the shoes. Utter failure. The moment she had stepped into the front hallway, she collapsed in agony. She had to crawl back into the room. It did confirm an abysmal theory—she had to be in the passage with her Master carrying her to go through it. And that was that.

As for the security box, she was certain it wasn’t in that room at all but in another part of the house. And since she was utterly unable to leave that part of the house, that ended that.

The Master had also noticed the scratches in the desk panels where she had pried them open. When he had demanded what she had done to them, she openly admitted she was looking for another way out. That same evening he had called in So’omo then the other servants to find out how Zormna had done it. As he beat them with his open clawed hands, he had immobilized Zormna with the machine so she could not stop him. Then he called in a professional who replaced the damaged panels, and added extra parts welded into it which she could not break through anymore. Afterward, he had all things Zormna could use as tools removed from the room. He would not even let her use a pronged fork at meals anymore.

But Zormna’s mind teased her with: ‘But you can always get over the wall now. The daughter made it easy.’ She huffed to herself. Even if she got out, there was nowhere to go on foot. The rocky road was the main barrier to true escape. She could not run far or fast on sharp gravel. And sneaking through the mud channels from the house would take too long. She needed a fast way out.

Zormna’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a handful of young Th’san cocks who came into the yard, strutting their stuff in the doorway. For a second, Zormna felt like she was staring at a collection of young roosters. The son was among them, leading them in. All were dressed in minor-ranking military uniform. These cocks were mostly their species of Th’san, though one was this green feathered creature whom Zormna had taken an instant dislike to. That one spoke crudely and with a layer of contempt for anything not him. An absolute narcissist. He thought he was ‘all that’. She had overheard him first. They did not see her yet.

Perhaps with ill-timing, the son’s playfellows had showed up the same moment a foreign dignitary had arrived, and all of them were currently in the house. The cacophony of chicken-yard conversation echoed out the doorway and was shifting toward her in the yard as clearly that space was not big enough for all of them.

From her pond vantage point, Zormna watched the bizarre clash between this generation gap of Th’sans, but then quickly ducked deeper into the plants to keep out of direct view. It all felt like trouble. Besides, she didn’t want to watch the Master juggle between the brash stupidity of his son and the other cocks, and the proud dignity of the foreign politician, no matter how absurd it would be.

“She’s small,” the voice of one cock said, coming out from the bedroom doorway, his eyes finding her. “But I bet she’s soft…”

Zormna stiffened. She looked immediately for escape routes.

Three of the cocks had decided to come out back, strutting like birds. The son and his other three pals were still inside, half-insulting the dignitary with their arrogance, imagining it was wit. The Master’s face was rigid and warm as he struggled to tone down their impertinent remarks with a too much haste. She almost felt embarrassed for him.

Almost.

Honestly, he kind of deserved it, raising an idiot like his son.

One of the three cocks in the garden cooed at her, waving his hands to call her to come as if she were some kind of stupid animal. Zormna rose, muscles tensing. Zormna wondered if these soldiers had been pilots she had fought in space. She was now wishing she had blasted them into bits.

“Don’t be frightened,” the one cooed and hissed, still beckoning.

Zormna would have retorted, “Don’t be inane”—but she still didn’t know the Th’san word for inane—that, and she was frightened. She had learned quickly enough that Th’san youth were extremely horny and lacked a certain degree of self-restraint that the adults had—which was saying something. She backed toward the tree, knowing she was not allowed to fight them.

“You better catch her before she climbs up the tree. I hear humans can do that,” the other said.

“Let’s circle her. Cut her off,” the one replied.

They encircled her quickly, but Zormna did not panic. For one, the Master could not see her currently. So, she sprang at the first one that reached for her, knocking away his groping hands with a leap onto his shoulders. Using the shoulders as a vault (a trick she had learned ages ago when she was a Surface Patrol cadet during fight training), Zormna flipped up to the nearest branch in the tree and hung on. The two cocks laughed at the one she had vaulted off of.

They jumped to catch her ankles or the tail of her dress. However, she mounted higher into the branches and climbed the tree until she sat on the highest, safest perch. And there she stayed.

The cocks attempted to climb the tree at first, but strangely, they lacked the climbing skill that was so innate in human beings. It was surprising, but they could not get any higher than a few feet. For some reason, their legs were bent all wrong for climbing, they were too heavy, or their upper arms did not have as enough strength to counter it. It put Zormna in mind of a talking animated tyrannosaur with stubby arms struggling to reach his prey and failing because of his big head. She almost laughed.

“Just wait,” one of them said with a lustful gurgle. “She can’t stay up there forever.”

“Oh, yes she can,” the Master replied with gratified amusement. Zormna could not tell what amused him more: that she was trapped up in a tree or that these punks couldn’t catch her. For some reason it felt like the latter. He sounded proud of her. “Quit teasing my lap girl.”

His son’s playfellows grew sulky, yet they retreated back to the bedroom where their other fellows were, glancing back longingly at the tiny human in the tree.

“Climb down, Zoamo. Don’t jump,” her Master ordered.

Zormna sighed, but immediately did as he commanded, carefully descending the boughs—the slow way by her standards. She liked swinging down from branch to branch, but her Master disapproved of that as it calloused her hands, caused slivers, and allowed for the possibility of her scraping herself. Of course, she did it all the time when he was not in the garden to witness her.

When her feet were on the ground, the Master called her over to where he stood with the foreign dignitary. His guest was one of those extremely thin feathery types with an almost entirely birdish body. Its neck was unusually long, longer than the white crane-like Th’san. And because of his exceptionally lean frame, he compensated by wearing many layers of robes with flounces and ruffles. The Master’s guest looked a bit like a seventeenth century French noble but dressed in a girl’s gown and wearing an extra layered tatted-lace skirt over his shoulders to add volume. His sleeves were billowy, fatter at the bottom than at the top, with swaying scented tassels of many colors and ribbons of varying sizes. His bodice reminded Zormna of a corset, tight and lean with reptilian patterns in the cloth weave. However, with all that finery, his head was bald. He must have been old, as around his eyes were sagging wrinkled bags, and he had jowls hanging under sunken cheeks. He almost looked like he was melting under the weight of his clothing. He had no gills like her Master did.

“So,” the foreign dignitary hissed smoothly in Th’san, “This is your human?”

The Master nodded.

The elderly Th’san visitor circled Zormna to examine her, taking in not so much her in her jeweled attire as her alone as if his gaze could strip her of her clothing. He asked her, “Do you know the noble language?”

Months ago, Zormna would have made a wisecrack as she found nothing noble in hissing and clucking the ‘the noble language’—but she merely nodded. The Master grinned with pleasure.

“Good,” said the visitor. “I hate having to explain things in Uloang. My throat gets all chapped and tired forming all those wretched vowels.” He circled her once more, giving her the impression that his kind had descended from vultures. “What is your age?”

Zormna blinked. No Th’san had ever cared. Or asked. Not even her Master. She hesitated, as she had to think about it. “I am… I am eighteen years according to Queen Zormna’s reckoning.”

Genuinely curious, the Th’san gazed at her quizzically. “Queen Zoamo’s reckoning? What is that?”

She gazed back at him, startled once more. Most of the Th’san guests asked her stupid questions—usually about her body and hair—talking down to her. And though on rare occasions her Master asked personal questions relating to an event, even he never cared to learn about anything in depth regarding her people. This Th’san seemed startlingly inquisitive. And polite in his way.

She said with a truly polite bow, “It is the measurement of time on Partha. Given a twenty-four-hour day, sixty minutes per hour, and sixty seconds per minute within a three-hundred-and-sixty-five-day year calendar, having an extra day added every four years—I am approximately eighteen years old according to this system. I am nine according to the Arrassian year.”

The guest turned to the Master with, angling back his birdish head, impressed. “You said she was intelligent—but this, I never expected.” Then he turned toward Zormna again who was annoyed that he thought the peak of human intelligence was basic math. “Tell me, tell me. Can you sing?”

Disappointed, Zormna sighed. This question was more along the usual lines. Her face flushed as she averted her eyes. “Not on key.”

The Master laughed and shook his O fingers. He was enjoying her honesty. He had tried to get her to sing for him a few times before realizing the flat notes she was hitting were not the true notes to the songs she was attempting.

His friend smugly grinned, patting his belly with satisfaction. He laughed. “I told you! Intellect does not lend sweetness. Nothing compares to my Mowo.”

Zormna blinked up at him. “Mowo?”

She didn’t mean to say it out loud. It was a name, but it also sounded like a word that she knew, though she was not sure of the exact meaning. Both of them heard her and laughed. The guest nodded with a benign smile.

“Yes. My golden beauty,” he said. “I have the only other golden-haired lap girl in existence. I had the only one until your master purchased you. He has been bragging about you every time he has visited. You have given him great pleasure, so I had to come and see you for myself.”

He then laughed, watching Zormna’s expression change from bewilderment to understanding with a degree of disgust which she tried to hide too late. It was the same old thing after all. Th’sans enjoyed this comparative game with their lap girls—grooming them, showing them off, and bragging about them. She had even heard of contests some Th’sans held with prizes. It was kind of like a cross between a Miss America pageant and a dog show, except for a few blatantly disgusting details. Miss America was allowed to wear some clothes, and dog owners did not brag over how much sexual pleasure they got out of their pets.

“You are what I thought. Odos have the reputation for being as cold as their planet. But you are fire and ice. The setting sun is a fitting name for you.” The dignitary then grinned warmly. “But my Mowo is warm and welcoming, like the dawn. Her name fits her well, don’t you think?”

He turned to the Master with a grin, no longer talking to Zormna. He got what he wanted out of her, and she was a nonentity again. Property.

The Master did not look so pleased with the comparison, but he gazed at Zormna, noticing that her expression had turned introspective. Her thoughts shifting from the nasty beauty pageant analogy to that name again—Mowo—recalling now why it had been familiar. It was Th’san for the word dawn. The thing was, it reminded her of an Arrassian word for dawn—Malia—which was also a common woman’s name among her people the same as Zormna. The fact that Zormna and Malia did not sound that different in Th’san—Zoama and Mowo—gave her chills. Zormna wondered when Mowo (or Malia) had been captured. She had to have been another pilot from her fleet.

Her Master’s words broke her thoughts a bit. “Well, you’ve owned Mowo for many years, and she was trained while young. My Zoamo was wild when I purchased her, and she is still in training. But she has a soft heart.”

Zormna blinked. The visitor had Mowo for many years? So… she wasn’t a pilot from her fleet after all.

But the rest of the conversation was nonsense. She watched the two Th’sans banter lightly about who had the better human pet. Soft heart. It surprised her that her Master thought that about her. What had she done to give that impression? During her captivity she had attacked him, a wife of his, his son, and a guest… among other people.

And her mind went back to Mowo. Aloeans weren’t blonde at all. She had heard of only one who was, and that was the Pirate King. Back at the girls’ prison on Aloea during her first captivity, her first captors had pretended she was his daughter to hide her true origins among the captive Aloeans.

The other Th’san laughed. “Soft heart? Possibly. Except she’s a soldier. You said so yourself.”

The Master flushed. “All the better to conquer. I think it is a great challenge.”

Zormna made a face and turned to leave. This was something she did not want to hear. She was standing right there for pity’s sake. It was humiliating, as unfortunately it was also true.

“Stay, Zoamo,” the Master said.

Zormna lurched to a halt, cringing.

“And mine is more obedient,” the other laughed, watching the expression on her face. “And more cheerful.”

The Master glared silently and then looked at Zormna who sighed in wait to see when she could go, attempting her ‘cheerful’ face. She didn’t want to upset him more than she already had. He grinned again. “Mine is more playful.”

Zormna blinked and looked at him. Playful? Not yet. Not the way he wanted her to be.

But then he said, “It is a delight to see what she can make from flowers of the garden.”

Oh, thought Zormna, the daisy chains. Her mind wandered, and she sighed. He was probably thinking playful on animal terms, with the Beebles. Th’sans used words like playful with a different sense of nuance. Their humor and teasing wasn’t in their terms described as playful as it was jolly. And for some reason they separated the two meanings from the word fun, which meant something nearer to pleasure rather than the good clean fun many humans knew. Plainly put, they would not have understood Arrassian humor at all.

“Mine is larger, easier to handle,” the other bragged.

The Master smirked. “Mine is cleverer.”

“Mine is softer.”

“Is she really though? Mine is also rather soft. I enjoy her softness immensely. Incredibly pliable. And mine is also healthier than yours. Mine is extremely gymnastic, and can bend to accommodate me very well, no training required.”

Zormna wanted to plug her ears. It always went back to sex. It made her feel sick.

His guest did not care for that remark either. He looked down at Zormna. The visitor seemed to be thinking hard for a fitting comeback. He then smiled and gazed toward the Master. “Mine is happy. And she pleasures me intensely.”

Zormna shot the Master a wry look and thought, ‘He got you there.’ And yet his dismayed, if not a little defeated, gaze on her bore down like a heavy weight, making her feel (of all things) ashamed of herself for not providing an equal amount of pleasure as that other lap girl had. It was an illogical and mentally frustrating moment for her, because the last thing she truly wanted was to play into this stupid Th’san competition.

“Well, she’s not entirely trained yet….” The Master started with his usual excuse to guests. “But I am also getting a great deal of pleasure out of her, as she is extremely flexible. She has been growing into it. She enjoys morning treatment immensely.”

Something compelled Zormna to interrupt him, looking to the other Th’san. “Are you sure she is happy, or is she only pretending because you want it?”

The Master blinked his eyes into crocodilian slits, his mouth pursing, puzzled. The other one did too, inspecting her. Perhaps her remark was stepping beyond her bounds, too impertinent considering her situation. Of course, that man’s lap girl wasn’t truly happy. Zormna had not met one that was. Even the mindless ones who talked all day about their dresses and jewelry were just making the best with what they had. Most had fragile minds. They just as easily cried as laughed. They often did both at the same time.

“She is happy,” the guest indignantly replied. “I ask her, and she says so.”

“Then she lies.” Zormna’s bright eyes flickered as she said this. For a brief second both Th’sans recalled whom they were speaking to.

Queen Zormna blinked her dark green eyes at them, then turned, walking back to the pond—though her Master did not dismiss her.

He also didn’t call her back.

For that one moment, she was herself again.

Zormna overheard the guest say after a deep inhale and exhale, “Mine is more obedient, and graceful.”

Sitting back down at the edge of the pond which those cocks had abandoned, going back to flicking the dried lilies off their stalks and watching them flutter down to the rippling water, Zormna glared at her bejeweled reflection in the water.

She was still trapped.

The Master replied, “Indeed. But mine is more valuable. And look at her. Brilliant in beauty, in sharpness, and understanding. A rare human. And I have truly enjoyed bedding her. Her training is coming along well. She is close. I am nearing full joining.” He then frowned. “Yet I am afraid it will take a lot longer to eliminate the warrior in her.”

His guest nodded and patted his friend consolingly.

Opportunity Strikes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seventeen:

 

“Tomorrow is Now.” —HoJo—

 

 

Zormna lay on the bare bed, her Master gone early to the foreign dignitary’s home, after taking her advice and visiting his wives once more. She wrapped herself up in his bed robe for warmth, glad she didn’t have to submit to his pleasures for at least a few days. The Master had not left out any new clothes for her though (he rarely did the days when he was gone), so she remained in his robe for as long as he could and washed what she had rather than leaving it out to be taken by the servants. On top of that, the son was happily gone with his friends to another city to wreak havoc on his friend’s home and probably their lap girl, considering how their minds worked. She was safe, and she was alone.

The old servant was well, and that morning had dropped off the breakfast tray, bowing politely to Zormna when she climbed out of bed.

“Glad you’re back,” Zormna said just before the woman turned out of sight.

She caught a glimmer of the woman’s smile as that servant left, but as usual not a word passed her lips.

Stretching, Zormna walked across the room and picked up the breakfast tray. She carried it back to the bench at the end of the bed where she climbed up. Old habits.

Dangling one foot off of the bench—it hardly reached the floor, it so outsized her—she munched on the fruit and bread, thinking about nothing in particular. The sound of the wind and the distant echoes of feet crossing far rooms in the house had a soothing effect on the emptiness that washed over her whenever the Master left. Some of the feet thumping were distant. That was how it usually was. But some of it grew nearer, and seemed to be coming nearer still by the second. And the Master did not make that sort of noise when he walked.

Instinctively, Zormna slid off the back of the bench, clenching one of the fruits in her hand. Seconds after, several lanky uniformed Th’san cocks boldly breached the servants’ doorway, entering in the room as if they had the right to it.

 “Ah! Alone?” the Master’s son said with a leering smirk, his reptilian eyes fixing on her. “And you should be off your bloody flow by now.”

Zormna backed toward the garden arch.

“Why are you going, Odos?” One of his playfellows laughed, striding straight for her.

Zormna grabbed the hem of the robe in her fists and bolted for the tree. There was no time to get her dress from the day before.

They chased after her.

Though they had longer legs, she was faster—and soon out of reach.

The cocks cursed at the base of the tree, catcalling and cooing for her to come down, but of course Zormna hung on for dear life to the topmost branch again. They prowled at the bottom, duck-laughing.

“Go away!” Zormna yelled down, tying the robe around her to free her hands more.

“Ah! She speaks!” one of the cocks on military leave shouted. “I thought I heard a rumor she might.”

She glared at them with loathing. “Go away!”

“Is that all she knows?” one of the cocks asked the Master’s son.

The heir shrugged with a duck-laugh. “Nah, I think she knows a couple curses.”

Zormna rolled her eyes and tightened her grip on the tree. “Morons.”

They didn’t leave her alone until around lunchtime when they got hungry. But when Zormna climbed down the tree, she saw they were in the Master’s room eating her lunch, especially relishing the Beeble meat.

They were tenacious. And clearly, they did not expect to lose. When they spotted her on the ground, they sprinted back into the garden—but all too late to catch her. Zormna had not moved far from the tree at all.

When it got close to dinnertime, Zormna’s arms ached. But still not letting go of the trunk, Zormna climbed a little lower to rest on a stronger branch to relieve her arms. She nodded off there for a little nap. They were not able to climb up to get her anyway.

“Doesn’t she get tired?” One of the yawning cocks below complained.

“Come on Xumkozzz, Ssoazzk’s father’s lap girl is more fun to play with. She’s easier to catch,” his playfellows said, sounding equally irritable and tired.

“But this one’s more challenging,” the Master’s son, Xumkozzz, said, pointing at Zormna. So much vindictive spite was in his voice. Intense vanity really. She knew he took insult to the fact that she was not giving him what he thought he had right to due to being the firstborn of her Master.

But his fellow soldiers on leave groaned.

One at last pointed out the obvious. “But she won’t just come out of that tree, and we can’t get her out. The creature is too fast.” He then shook his ‘no’ fingers. “Unless you are going to take an individual flier and burn up your father’s garden to get her—which your father will see—I suggest you give up and go with us. I’m going to Ssoazzk’s.”

The others waved their O fingers in agreement.

Xumkozzz sighed and joined. “Alright, to Ssoazzk’s.”

Zormna did not climb out of the tree until she saw all seven of their individual flying vehicles (which they had parked just over the garden wall on the road) zipping off down into the city. Still, she cautiously crept back into the room, checking behind corners carefully to make sure it wasn’t a trick. It took almost fifteen minutes for her to feel absolutely safe again.

 

The Master’s trip was only supposed to be for two days, but it had stretched into four. While the Master was gone, the cocks came and visited at odd hours, often creeping into his chambers to surprise Zormna. Happily, if not a little strangely, they never came during floor washing. Possibly, they respected the ritual, but Zormna figured it was more likely that they were not that bright and did not think about how vulnerable she was in that hour. They often came during meals, which Zormna soon took into the garden to eat so that she could be near the tree. They never waited as long as they did that one day. Usually, they gave up after fifteen minutes and terrorized the house slaves. Often Zormna heard Niilwa screech. Zormna actually felt sorry for her.  

The morning of the fifth day, Zormna woke early. It was her usual practice since the cocks liked to ambush her. She stretched under the Master’s robe, leaning over to where the Master usually lay. Her arm thumped against a huge body. For a brief moment her heart leapt. The Master had come home. But just as suddenly, her heart sank as an arm went around her, feeling her up with full-clawed hands. An unfamiliar fleshy coil hastily snaked between the back of her legs, digging around to find home inside her. 

Shrieking, Zormna thrust her elbow into her assailant’s gut, wrenching away from him. She jumped out of bed to get out of reach. With his open pants revealing a nasty view of his gnarly, pulsing and dripping coil, the Master’s son glared spikes at her, rubbing his chest where she had struck him.

“You little wretch. Don’t you know you’re mine,” he hissed.

Zormna staggered away, shifting to the right side of the room. He was between her and the garden door, though not exactly. There was a large enough gap she might be able to run through before he could reach her. But she had nothing on but the Master’s robe to protect her. Her dress from the other day hung near the bath, drip-drying. Shaking her head, she said, “No. You don’t own me.”

The Master’s son put on his leering smirk, sliding across the bed to the end to put himself more between her and her exit, preparing to pounce on her again to finish what he had started. “But my father does, and I’m his heir.”

A shiver went through her. She had to break her promise to the Master. There was no way she was going to just lie down for his son and take his abuse. Bracing herself, quickly assessing her options as he advanced on her, Zormna cherished one fact—the machine wasn’t there. It could not be used against her.

Dramatically waving his arms about the room, the heir declared as he shifted closer to the bath so she could not slip past that way, “I inherit all of this. The house. The governorship. You.”

A shudder ran through her. Zormna doubted that last part, but he intended to make it so. She backed from him, clenching her fists as her eyes assessed the negative space, especially gap between his head and the ceiling. He was tall. His reach was long. And he was a soldier. He was probably armed. He was more dangerous than the other Th’sans she had been up against, despite being a fool… or perhaps more because of it. She had to tip him off balance some way. She knew one way, which was risky. With biting tone, she said, “Then I pity the people of this world who inherit you for a governor.”

The heir’s leer surged up into hate, his face flushing under the green. He didn’t just want to rape her now. He wanted to destroy her.

The Master’s son dived at her—exactly as she was hoping. The moment he crouched forward dive at her, blindly enraged with arms out to seize her in any way, she sprang up in a leap, using him as a vault. Pushing off his back and flipping over into the garden doorway, Zormna gave herself a running start to the tree.

Yet she hardly made it into the garden before two of the son’s playfellows sprang out from the sides of the door, grabbing at her. Their claws grazed her skin. Ducking, dodging, she dived at one and knocked him off his bird feet, tossing him against the other, using the momentum of his fall. Both tumbled in a heap, bird eyes wide in disbelieving shock that a tiny human had just bested them. Fueled on pure adrenalin and revulsion, Zormna sped on to the tree, bleeding from where they had scratched her.

As she rushed to the tree, three more, genuinely startled and lazy young cocks, rose out of the plants where they had been lounging near the pond. Their pants buttons were undone, also physically prepared for gang rape. All three stood in her way, eying what she had done to the previous three. Yet they advanced.

Calculating the distance to the tree, visually marking her foes, Zormna hastily looked around the yard for something to use as a weapon. There were stones in the walk, dried plant stalks, and a loose cobble—but not much else. Swooping up a rock from the ground as she rushed toward the tree, Zormna dived through the legs of one Th’san, skidding through and twisted around before popping up again—chucking the rock at one of them. It struck him right between his large glassy eyes, sending him thumping down to the earth like a sack of sand. Sprinting back on her feet with two foes left, she charged at the one directly in her way—kicking her heel into his dangling phallic coil, ramming it back into his ‘tender cavity’ where she knew it would hurt. Predictably, that cock collapsed to the ground, clutching himself in agony.

One right on her heels, two disentangling themselves from their heap, and the Master’s son emerging from the house, Zormna faced the one that mattered. But he was staring horrified at the blood that ran down their unconscious comrade’s forehead, unable to comprehend what he had just seen. With him distracted, she dived out dive from his reach, and leap up into the branches for refuge, grabbing a low branch to get herself to safety.

A giant clawed hand seized her ankle. Another seized the end of the Master’s robe. He jerked on both, pulling downward.

Zormna lurched, one hand losing grip on the branch. She was slipping.

“I got her!”

Hanging on with both hands, digging her fingernails into the branch, Zormna feverishly kicked her heel into the Th’san’s wrist. But it was not enough. The robe was pulling her down. Desperate, she let go of one hand, just enough to have the robe slip off her loose arm and shoulder. She grabbed the branch again with her bare arm, pulling up while goose pimples ran up her bare skin. She kicked again at his wrist again.

In the chilly air, there was an audible crack as the robe fluttered off her, hanging on only one of her shoulders.

The Th’san screamed a bird yelp. His grip loosened just enough for her to rip her leg from his grasp. Bloody grooves cut down her ankle to her heel. She let go of the branch with her other arm and allowed the robe to fall off entirely as she escaped into the tree. The cock clutched his broken wrist against his chest, his cries echoing underneath her as the robe fluttered down into the plants below. Zormna scrambled higher into the boughs with nothing but the leaves for protection.

“She broke his wrist!” One of the cocks exclaimed, running to him on bird feet.

“Well, look what she did to Mozzz! He’s out cold!”

“Is he dead?” another of them cried out hysterically.

The Master’s son tromped up to the tree over the flowers in the garden, his loathing burning in his eyes as his playmates checked the wounded.

“He’s breathing,” one reported, turning his savage bird-eyes up at Zormna who watched them from her safe perch.

One of the cocks turned with a hiss at her. He drew a pistol from his side.

“Kloak’zzzz, what’s that for?” another cock asked him carefully, craning his long neck to the side.

“I’m going to shoot her down,” the Th’san said.

Zormna climbed even higher, wildly searching around for another way out as he looked serious, and the Master was not around to interfere. Despite her military training, there were some things nearly impossible to dodge—well-aimed gun-fire being one of them.

The Master’s son desperately shook his head, his eyes widening with panic. Sweat sprouted on his scaly skin as he reached for the weapon to stop him. “No, No. She’s my father’s. If she gets visibly hurt, he’ll kill me.”

Visibly hurt. Zormna noted his word choice as she continued to scout out her options.

The other Th’san glowered at the Master’s son as if the very idea of protecting his father’s property was betrayal. “Xumkozzz, she broke Zhang’s arm. She nearly killed Mozzz. Are you going to let a human get away with that?”

The Master’s son seemed to go pale. The damn fool was he just as much of a social pushover as his father, apparently. Zormna watched as he swayed, stuck between problems. He really was an idiot. He was going to be stupid about it. It was only a matter of when.

“Ok, but only use stun,” he said, “and try to catch her so nothing breaks.”

This was bad. Idiotic, lust-filled males were worse than brilliant strategists. Strategists thought about consequences. Idiots didn’t.

Zormna searched around more furiously for some way to escape. She looked to the roof, to the bedchamber, to the other garden—and then her eyes fixed on the road over the wall. The Th’san soldiers’ individual flying vehicles were parked there again—like a gift. Who needed shoes when she could fly?

The angry cock nodded at the son. “And if she gets hurt, we’ll just say she jumped out of the tree. Your father did say she liked doing that.”

He took aim.

Zormna swung behind the tree trunk just in time. The hot plasma discharge scorched the nearby leaves barely a foot away.

“I said, stun!” the son shouted at him, scared and exasperated.

“My mistake,” the armed cock said with a flip of a switch, though she doubted he meant it. He wanted her dead. Stupid people really were the worst.

 The second shot grazed the nearby limb more like blast of electricity, rippling up the branches. It was less hot yet still dangerous, as it would make her fall and possibly break her back. The tree swayed under her weight. Her skin tingled as it dissipated past and across her arm. She knew he wouldn’t miss the third time. His eyes had fixed on her.

Taking her one chance, Zormna leapt out from the tree just as he fired at her. It zipped by to where she had just been, grazing past her leg. Yet she landed cat-like onto the ground right behind the youths.

Whipping around, he fired again.

But she bounded up to the top of the wall as the shot struck ground. Her hands, upon contact with the barrier in a gymnastic vault, rippled up with volleys of pain that ran straight along her arms into her shoulders. Before it could reach her gut to cripple her, Zormna pushed off and over the wall into the road, landing onto the gravel near the vehicles. 

The uninjured cocks dashed to the wall, climbing up it a notch to peer over. Kloak’zzz’s shot at her, but the bad angle ruined his aim. Zormna had already climbed onto one vehicle and pried off the control panel to hot-wire it.

Another plasma shot grazed past her shoulder.

“She won’t get far,” one of the cocks declared. He ran from the wall to the Master’s bedchamber to go through it to the road.

The others pursued after him, rushing straight through the room, then the long foyer to get to their vehicles. They jumped down into the road. However, by that time, Zormna had the motor running. The controls were simple enough to understand. She quickly zipped into the street, soaring away from the house like a falcon. As he shot plasma pulses after her, Zormna dodging easily, in her element.

The cocks stared after her distant and decreasing figure, which was growing even more so, each going sickly at the realization of what had occurred—though one ran to his vehicle to make chase.

Staggering, visibly faint, the Master’s son murmured. “My father is going to kill me.”

“No, he won’t,” Kloak’zzz, with the pistol, brusquely hurried to his flying vehicle and climbed on. Peevishly starting it up, he declared, “That human could not possibly get far on a vehicle built for a Th’san.”

The others nodded and joined him.

“We’ll catch her.”

 

But the only problem this particular tiny human had with a vehicle built for a Th’san was that her legs were a mite too short to manipulate some of the floor controls. She had to hop to get to them. And though Zormna wished she had clothes on because the wind was freezing, she felt like she had come home. Th’san arrogance, she reveled to herself as she escaped, was always their undoing.

She zipped through the Th’san traffic like a mad woman, her hair whipping from her face with such exhilarating freedom. She knew exactly where she was going. Zormna had watched those spaceships come and go from the planet too many times. And after gazing at the lay of the city from atop that tree long enough, she already had a plan set in her mind.

However, her plan had one big flaw, which she was fully aware of. She was a human—a naked human—steering a Th’san vehicle—which was the fishiest thing in a Th’san city. It was like a pet dog hijacking a car. It just didn’t happen.

“Stop or we will fire!” Th’san law enforcement vehicles buzzed the message into her vehicles’ communications relay.

Zormna went faster, stretching her leg to reach the accelerator. The police vehicles also flew faster to match her speed, shooting at her this time. Utterly in her element as a pilot of the Zeta district, she expertly zipped and swerved. Zormna reveled in it. This kind of laser fire she could dodge. She pressed the accelerator again, giving the machine its full capacity. As much as these Th’sans could physically keep up with her speed on a straight road, Zormna took the crooked roads and skimmed just barely against the walls, scraping against the stucco-covered stone, chipping off huge gashes of the decorative clay. One police vehicle attempted to match her speed and turns—but he crashed into a wall, taking out two others with him that had slowed down in the chase. The wiser ones behind them slowed to a more reasonable speed and followed the damage Zormna left in her wake. Others rose over the streets to get a more bird’s eye view.

It seemed as if the entire police force had come down upon her, but that didn’t throw off Zormna’s nerve at all. It only made her more determined. She had practically crossed half the city on that large single-person vehicle, free and flying, and that alone gave her all the energy she needed to make the rest of the distance. Twice she outmaneuvered them, sending law vehicles crashing into their own buildings in attempts to match her, but she also saw the approaching flashing lights and blaring sirens in front of her. She didn’t know the complete damage in her wake or trail she was leaving. What she did know was that they were trying to head her off. And if that happened, she would never get off the planet. Zormna swallowed, thinking of her remaining options. Times like this, she had to go for something desperate.

 

The cocks from the Master’s home caught up with the law enforcement where they inquired after the slave that had stolen their military single Th’san vehicle. They could not follow farther though. Within the weave of the city streets, gaping at the damage the stolen vehicle had made, the police trailed after her craft, examining the scars on the walls, the crashed law vehicles, and the grazed stucco. As the Th’san soldiers on leave went with them, the Master’s son related their version of the events to the police, though it was nothing more than an incredible lie about her attacking them. As a half-truth, it was convincing. After all, they had evidence, even asking for the police to send emergency help to the Master Governor’s home where two comrades were wounded.

But the cocks stuck to the trail of havoc and damage to get to the end of it. Her ship had burned up most of the streets and cracked several walls. Unsightly gashes pointed the way to where she had gone, and they heard the calls of the police ahead moving to stop her. As they neared where they assumed the police had cornered the escaped lap girl, they hurried to claim the Master’s property to cover their indiscretions. But when they arrived, they discovered a fiery wreckage.

In such an abrupt end, the individual flying vehicle was smashed and smoldering on the damaged road, destroyed in a head-on impact against a rock-solid wall in a main thoroughfare.

Staggering on his long birdish legs, the Master’s son moaned deep in his gut, going miserably pale as his eyes took in the smoldering remains. “My father is going to kill me.”

 

Law enforcement agents greeted Master Governor Xochzong at the spaceport on the edge of the city where his shuttle had just landed at the conclusion of a tiring, yet important, trip. They saluted him, which did not happen often except at formal occasions. Their formal greeting and solemn expressions startled him a great deal as they quickly informed him of the tragedy, supplying him with the details of the improbable, yet real, events. Then they escorted him to their station where he met his son and his son’s playfellows who all stood wringing their hands, their heads heavy on their necks, feathered crests drooping and shoulders bent, each one averting his eyes. He added up a few things with just a glance.

“What happened?” the Master demanded with bite, his voice gurgling low. “I was just informed that my lap girl is dead, committed suicide while stealing an individual military flight vehicle. Is that true?”

His son lifted his eyes from an already anguished face. “We don’t know what got into her. We were just teasing, and she leapt over the wall and—”

“YOU PARKED YOUR INDIVIDUAL FLYING VEHICLES WHERE SHE COULD SEE THEM? WHERE SHE COULD REACH THEM? DIDN’T I TELL YOU SHE USED TO BE A PILOT?” The Master spat those words in a fury. He then lifted the small machine that he wore around his neck, glancing at it. A light on it glowed. The screen pulsed with the beat of her heart. Exhaling, he shook his head then showed it to his son. “Lucky for you, I have this. My lap girl is not dead.”

The son’s eyes opened wide. He stared at the machine.

“She is no fool, though YOU may be,” the Master added, spitting.

He pressed the center of the machine with his thumb. The light flashed faster, and so did the beat to the pulse, which jerked violently in reaction.

He turned to a police officer. “Take me to the crash site. We’ll start there. She can’t get far. She’ll be in too much pain.”

 

And Zormna was. She had been crawling in the muck and the mud in a stolen tunic, with a rag on her head to cover her bright hair. She didn’t care how dirty she got as long as she made it to the landing platform to steal a spacecraft. Zormna was almost in sight of it when the drilling pain started. It mercilessly pierced her insides—the machine on maximum. She almost shrieked in agony but quickly jammed the muddy piece of tunic in her mouth, biting on it to stop from giving herself away. Her eyes watered, crawling the rest of the distance a best she could muster. Zormna tightened her arms across her stomach. If she could get out of the range of the machine, she figured, the pain might stop.   

But Zormna collapsed somewhere under the landing platform, unable to move further. And that was where the Master found her, curled in a shaking, muddy, ragged ball. The machine, it turned out, also had a homing device—a brilliant feature for keeping track the Arrassian queen who had ‘miraculously’ escaped captivity before. The Th’san Empire’s council had insisted on it. The Master was now glad they had.

“Hold him, just hold him!” The doctor in the med facility called to the attendants and soldiers who had brought the Arrassian president in.

Alea Salvar stood back near the door, jaw hanging open at sight of the violently shaking man. “What’s wrong with him?”

The doctor gripped Jafarr with one hand, bracing him so he could inject a relaxant into Jafarr’s arm. “It’s a condition. Seer related.”

“It won’t… work.” Jafarr gasped on top of the medical table. “I’m… not… the one… in pain.”

His friends and fellow soldiers held him firmly, staring at him. “He’s delirious.”

“Zormna.” Jafarr gasped, his back arching.

Alea Salvar stepped forward. “What about her?”

“She’s—” Jafarr groaned.

“It’s not taking effect,” the doctor called out.

“Give him another one!” Anzer Dzhon cried, holding his friend’s shoulders in his arms to keep him from convulsing.

The doctor shook his head and stepped back. “Another one will kill him. His blood is filled already.” He turned with a sigh, unable to do anything else.

“Can’t you do anything?” Dzhon exclaimed, desperate.

“Zormna!” Jafarr yelled out again, losing focus in that room. He could feel himself crushed in the arms of that monster, unable to get away.  

Alea Salvar shook his head, eyes ringed red, face long and pale. “Is she really feeling that?”

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Hold on, Jeff,” Brian Henderson whispered in his friend’s ear, also glancing at Dzhon as he braced Jafarr’s other side.

Jafarr convulsed, groaning again and moaning.

“There has got to be something you can do!” Anzer Dzhon bawled out with tears on his face and not caring how it looked.

The doctor shook his head.

Jafarr screamed again as if a searing hot iron had been shoved into his gut. Then he suddenly stopped moving, arms hanging limp, head lolled back.

“Jeff!” Brian gasped, clutching him with a shake.

“No! No!” Dzhon yelled, gripping his friend also, feeling him over to find a pulse.

Alea Salvar watched, devastated standing there, though not so much for Jafarr. He fully understood that Jafarr was only a reflection of what Zormna was going through.

Rushing close, the doctor felt Jafarr’s wrist. He waited, listening. Then he breathed heavily in relief.  

“He’s not dead. It’s over. The drugs just took effect.” The doctor peered over the limp man as his friends pulled off of him. “He’ll be out for a while.”

The Master dropped her muddy limp body into the garden pond. Zormna came up spluttering, still clenching her cramping stomach while looking far less mud-covered, though the pond was no longer crystal clear.

“You disobeyed me, and you harmed two of my son’s playfellows!” the Master bellowed at her once her head rose from the water. Spit flew from his mouth, his face pale with anger. The son and fellow cocks were standing back near the bedroom opening, keeping out of the scene yet watching with interest. “You will not be allowed in bed for a week! Do you hear me?”

Dropping soggily against the pond stones, arms wrapped around her sodden head, Zormna burst into tears. She had been so close to being out of that Th’san’s reach. But her fury kept her up. “They were trying to kill me!” she shouted, pointing her mucky hand at the boy soldiers.

“Silence!” the Master bellowed. His eyes were thin slits, his teeth exposed.

Zormna shrank into the pool, fearing he would go full velociraptor on her. One thing she knew—there was no justice for a slave. She was an un-person.

“Such disobedience and lies will not be tolerated,” the Master hissed venomously.

“It’s no lie,” Zormna protested again. Despite it all, she had to defend herself. Rising from the pool, still gripping across her pained stomach, she snapped back, “Look at the tree. They burned it with their guns trying to kill me.”

Yet the Master did not even glance to where she pointed. Instead, he snarled as he towered over his bare, defenseless property, who, despite all his training, was still defiant.

“Look at my leg, if you won’t look at the tree,” Zormna snapped, sticking her wounded leg out. The scratches were considerable. All were covered in crusted blood which streaked down to her heel from the grooves cut in it.

His eyes did take in her leg.

He paled.

He then turned toward the cocks.

They recoiled guiltily in the doorway. Some realized now what a bad idea it had been to go after the lap girl of the Master Governor.

With a calculating glance at Zormna again and then up at the tree, the Master silently examined the evidence. The burn from the plasma fire was still there. Yet he shook his L ‘no’ fingers. “What would make them that angry?”

Zormna swallowed. Her mouth hung open. “Don’t you care? They nearly killed me! I had to escape.”

But looking at him, she knew he would not take her side, not in front of her at least. He had to take his son’s side for the sake of Th’san pride—his stinking hubris.

The Master glared at her. “You overreacted.”

“He was raping me,” Zormna said, retreating back toward the tree, shivering. Her tears had long gone. “They were all going to rape me. Don’t I…?” It was painful to say this, as she hated it. “Don’t I only belong to you?”

“You should have let them,” the Master coldly replied with an uplifted chin.

Those words knocked the breath out of her. Zormna stared as though he had struck her with his claws.

That was how it was. The bed pet. The human toy. It didn’t matter. It was just manipulation. What he was trying to create…. The Master kept her for his pleasure, and he didn’t care what happened as long as her pretty face and flesh didn’t get scarred and that she pleasured him at will. She was property. That’s all.

“No,” Zormna breathed out, staring at this alien whom she despised.

The Master walked to her.

She shrank away. She hadn’t done that in months, but she no longer felt any attachment.

“No!” she shrieked, retreating toward the tree again.

“Come, Zoamo,” he commanded.

Zormna shook her head fiercely. “No! I would rather die first. And I will kick the crap out of you if you lay a finger on So’omo!”

The Master lurched as though he had been slapped. He certainly appeared as if he would slap her. He marched forward to seize his human pet.

Zormna fled, scrambling for the tree.

But he wouldn’t let her. The Master took out the machine and pressed the button again. Zormna immediately collapsed on the stones. She was unable to run.

The huge Th’san picked her off the ground and carried her back toward his bedroom door, but even then Zormna writhed in spite of the pain, kicking and screaming.

“No! No! Let go! Let go of me!”

Uneasily watching him, the cocks parted as the Master carried her to the full bath he had intended for himself. He dropped Zormna in. She was still wearing that stolen slave tunic, making the bath now sodden with mud, and pretty much ruined. Zormna spluttered up with a mouthful of soap, spitting it out as she pawed the tile to resurface. As he tore those rags off and chucked them into the garden, she continued to fight against his hands while writhing under pain. But her attacks were without strength. Zormna trembled bitterly, weeping loud, “Jafarr! Na’tan za neem?[1]” as the Master scrubbed her down.

He scrubbed harder, shoving her head underwater in a wave of fury, silencing her. Zormna soon came up gasping, clinging to the edge of the bath for air. It seemed as if nothing could get worse than that moment. Scrubbing all the grime and dirt out of her skin and scalp, the Master vented his frustration with tight teeth and incomprehensible grumbles. And when he drained the tub, he threw the towel at her, pulling her out of the bath. The cocks watched the Master take charge, but said nothing, as his fury on his human pet could easily turn on them. They could feel it.

At last, he tossed his stripped, damp bed pet onto his bed, and he pressed the machine button to relieve the pain. Zormna thumped wetly against the mattress, clutching her stomach with a moan.

But then the Master turned upon the cocks. “Get out, and do not come back to my chambers. You have spoiled months of training—and I now have to salvage your mess.”

Zormna blinked up from the bed, shivering, covering herself.

The cocks trembled. As a shame-faced group, they turned together, dragging their feet toward the front exit.

“You got what you deserved. I think the harm she caused to you is not punishment enough. Out!” The Master pointed the way.

Though the son looked abashed as he walked slowly out of his father’s room, the others fled with haste.

When the Master turned back around, Zormna shuddered. She waited for him to do something, anything—to push her off the bed and make her beg for her entrance, to beat her maybe.

No, he wouldn’t beat her—he would use the machine again. That was more likely.

But if he called in So’omo, that was it. She would bite him, strangle him with the bed curtains, if possible. Then she could just get over the wall again, with the machine in her hands. She could go on the run, find another way off the planet. There had to be other space ports.

But he just glared at her, turned to the bath, filled it again, stripped and bathed himself from the mud he had contracted from holding her. Watching him, Zormna braced herself for what he intended to do to punish her, her body shaking from the cold. Once clean, silently, he came out of the bath. He dressed warmly for bed, throwing on a clean bed robe—as he could not find the other one (the cocks had hid it as it was evidence of what they had done)—and an extra gown for warmth. He crawled into the bed next to Zormna while she waited for him to push her off, or something.

He gazed down on her with those huge speckled green reptilian eyes. Wrapping his enormous arm around her, pulling Zormna close against his body, he opened his robes to accommodate her as he had done every night before his son’s visit. He whispered into her ear as he lay down with her, caressing her head and shoulders, “I will protect you.”

A shudder ran through her body. Emotionally wiped out, Zormna lay unmoving against her Master’s skin as he once more pulled her back into the world of physical addiction, manipulating her hormones with fervent kisses and gentle stroking hands. Nothing had changed. It was as if she had never escaped at all.

 

[1] Where are you?

He’s Coming

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eighteen:

 

“Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.”—Eleanor Roosevelt—

 

 

“Who is this Zhufod?” the Master asked the next morning in the middle of the bath not long after their morning coitus.

Zormna had been silent that entire morning, too subdued to respond, even when he had raped her. She stopped scrubbing and stared at her Master’s back.

“It is a name you say, isn’t it?” the Master asked.

She resumed scrubbing, trying not to cry. Just mentioning Jafarr’s name made her feel so guilty for not listening to him so long ago.

The Master turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Was he your lover?”

Zormna flushed and dropped the scrub brush in the water. She dived to retrieve it. Seeing this, the Master reached in and pulled her out of the water. He held her so she could not flee, setting her on his feet. “Tell me.”

Wiping the soap out of her eyes as well as the strands of hair as it curled in droopy ringlets around her flushed face, she looked away. Zormna attempted to pull out of his hold but it didn’t work. “He’s my… he’s my protector.”

The Master smirked. He shook his ‘no’ fingers. “And you say you don’t lie. He’s more than a protector. You have feelings for him, or you would not call for him so much.”

Zormna’s face flushed severely now, but she stared angrily into her Master’s eyes. “We don’t have that kind of relationship. We’re just….” She wanted to say friends, but there was no Th’san word for it. Timefellow didn’t fit, and neither did the word rival—not anymore.

He still laughed and let her go. “Just what? Playfellow? You sound like you’ve had to explain this several times. You couldn’t possibly be just playfellows.”

She was still red. Her ears were ringing. Her face grew increasingly hot.

“He’s my best—” She murmured. No, there was no way to describe her friendship with Jafarr to the Th’san. He was more than just an ally. He was her one hope. The one she had faith in. He was the one who pointed her to the Divine and helped her overcome all her vanities. He was the only one who saw her real self and truly talked to her like an equal. Jafarr was, for lack of a better explanation, the yang to her yin. She needed him.

Her Master sighed with a minor sense of relief. He motioned for Zormna to go back to scrubbing, handing her the scrub brush. Taking it from him, she worked on his back again.

“Tell me about him, this playfellow,” the Master commanded with a mild chuckle.

Zormna leaned against his back and scrubbed with one hand. She murmured in a low, melancholy voice, “He’s special. His eyes are like the depths of space. But they can pierce right into you, see your soul. And he’s tall for an Arrassian. Not as tall as his friend Alzdar who is practically a giant… but anyway, Jafarr doesn’t really need height to stand out.” She sighed and scrubbed, thinking about the one thing she missed most. “He’s brilliant and strong. Talented. And he’s given me more trouble than any man I’ve ever met.” A smile crossed her lips, almost seeing Jafarr’s face in her mind’s eye, feeling out for him. “He has a collection of scars of which I am a contributor, and he can match me in a good argument.”

The Master started gurgling low in his throat.

Thinking that she had neglected her scrubbing Zormna continued full force, no longer leaning against his back. “Anyway, he’s across the universe somewhere, looking for me. And he’ll find me.”

Clenching her wrist, the Master grabbed over his shoulder. He pulled Zormna back in front to face him. She did not look away. “You really believe that?”

Zormna stared toward the tile wall, feeling in the depths of her soul and across space for Jafarr Zeldar. She could almost feel him near, thinking about her. In fact, she felt his head perk up, sensing her. She nodded. “Yes. I know it.”

The Th’san laughed, but his voice was low. “Then you are a bigger fool than I thought.”

He rose and climbed out of the bath.

Zormna turned to follow after him, the sense of Jafarr’s presence reaching for her increasing. “You don’t know my… my bodyguard. He will find me.”

Drying himself with the towel, the Master peered down upon her disdainfully. “Is that so? How? He hasn’t done such a good job so far.”

She looked away for a second, wondering about it in spite of her confidence in her dear friend. She could almost hear Jafarr whisper, “Just hang on. I am coming.” Zormna looked up. “He just can. He’s born with a gift.”

That made the Master truly laugh. “A gift? Like what? Walking through walls? Reading minds?”

Zormna blinked then nodded. “He sees things.” She then smiled as she thought about it more, especially the time they had ditched school to go to Arizona because of visions he had, and their shared dreams—and how they had found the source of them. “He sees things over countless leagues. Over lightyears. His eyes are seeing eyes. He is of seer blood.” She then looked around herself with a swelling of peace. “I am sure he has seen the garden. He knows what this place looks like. He probably even knows what you look like.”

The Master’s smile vanished. “What?”

She smiled more, feeling more relieved and reassured than the entire miserable eight months. It was almost as if she could feel Jafarr wrap his arms around her, holding her tight.

“Yes, Jafarr’s half Seer Class. In fact, he sees better than regular seers. He gets visions. It’s his destiny to protect me.” She beamed now with confidence and pride in him, even sighing with tears of relief as she remembered this singular truth. “We’ve shared dreams. Our souls are connected.”

The deep gurgle of the Th’san awoke her to the stark reality of captivity. Jafarr’s comforting presence was ripped way. Zormna clutched her towel to her body, feeling that much colder.

“Seer Class?” He hissed. “Visions? Are you saying your lover is a seer?”

Zormna flushed again. “We didn’t do anything. He’s not my lover. We never—”

The Master grabbed a hold of her arms and shook her hard. “No. Whether you deny it or not, he is not just your protector or your playfellow. Maybe you have not yet mated together, as clearly, I am your first—but a woman does not repeatedly weep a man’s name, even a guard’s, unless she has some feelings for him—no matter how remote.”

He held her for several minutes, staring into her green eyes, looking at his own jealous reflection in them.

Zormna did not blink. She also didn’t deny his words. How could she? Every time she thought of Jafarr, she felt warm and stronger. Of course, she had feelings for him. She always had. They may not have been sexual… as she had never thought about anyone that way—not even Alea Arden whom she had crushed on as a child. But Jafarr understood her. He was the embodiment of hope.

“I thought so.” He let her go.

Zormna stumbled back to the bath steps.

Somehow the room gained an emptiness that both of them could feel and taste. The Master gazed bitterly at his human mistress, not seeing the woman he had tortured into submission, but the man behind her eyes that would indeed come if he could manage it, come and destroy him. Her confidence in Jafarr burned visibly in her gaze. And her faith in Jafarr was substantial, as if it were the only thing holding her up. As for her love—that flickered in and out, as the very thought was forbidden for her to contemplate.

“Come here for your treatment. Then get dressed,” the Master said, beckoning to her as he got out the kit. “And when floor washing is done, finish your bath fast. We have guests today.”

Zormna sighed, remembering reality. She obediently nodded and climbed onto the bench.

“Don’t you think he’s going at it a little hard,” Alea Brensk said to Anzer Dzhon as they walked down the corridor towards the space-fighter docking bay.

Dzhon shook his head. “Both of them have been going at it hard since Jafarr’s—sorry, President Jafarr’s last attack. He said he had a day vision of her giving him clues as to where she might be.”  

They turned a corner and entered the extremely busy hall.

“I also think they are doubling their efforts before Queen Zormna has to go through more pain.” Dzhon smirked. “I believe Alea Salvar was motivated when he saw Jafarr—uh, President Jafarr in one of his worst fits in the med. room.”

The Surface Patrol Alea shook his head. “Yeah, but these raids? It certainly is stirring the enemy up. I’ve never seen them fight so fiercely.”

Mirthlessly shrugging, Anzer Dzhon replied, “Yeah, well… I’m sure raiding their home planets isn’t a pleasant thing to happen to them. Think. If it happened to Arras, what would we do?”

“Of course.” Alea Brensk smirked. “But we’re not stupid enough to leave our home defenseless. This is war.”

Anzer Dzhon nodded.

The entire hall buzzed with work, taking in damaged ships and sending out repaired ones with fresh pilots. Half the pilots’ jobs were to defend their large ships, the other half was to attack the enemy. Both tasks left a great deal of wounded and many repairs. These two came to help with the repairs.

“What about his other tactics?” Alea Brensk asked, pulling on a stained repairman’s cover suit. “Don’t you think they are a little radical?”

Dzhon smirked while grabbing a suit also. “Of course, they are. But President Jafarr was once a rebel leader. Radical is his style.”

“No doubt, but aren’t they a mite risky?” the Alea pressed, shaking his head.

Nodding, the President’s friend pulled on his suit, fastening it. “Undoubtedly. But as you said, this is war.”

Shaking his head with weary doubt, the Alea did not reply.

Zormna heard the horns blow. She sighed, resting in the tub, thinking about what the Master had said about guests coming. On that thought, she heaved herself out. It would be the same old thing from him. He would go back to the same old stuff. Though he had not raped her the night before, everything else was the same. She wished once more she had gotten to that landing platform before her Master had returned to the world. She had been that close to a ship. Just a few more steps. It felt cruel to be so near to freedom and have it slip away. She did not want this life.

She went to towels and morosely dried herself off. Setting it aside, Zormna went to the closet where the gowns were kept and chose the darker one that felt, in her mind, less sheer. As she was pulling it on, the Master came in. He smiled at her then went to the upper shelf where he fetched the special pillows along with a couple items which she was not familiar with. One was electronic with a gelatinous, bristly knob on the end, which the Master flipped on the switch to test out to see if it had enough power. Immediately the knobby end vibrated, the gelatinous bristles wriggling wildly.

Zormna paled, staring at it.

Turning to her with a smile, the Master said, “We have an hour before guests arrive. Let’s play a game.”

Zormna stepped back, shaking her head. “No.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “Do I need to call So’omo?”

Clenching her teeth, Zormna advanced on him, growling. “No! We are NOT doing the games! And if you call in So’omo, I will bite you! I will bite your coil off.”

He pulled back, clutching the vibrator in his hand as if it were a shield.

In the hum of the machine, Zormna snarled out, “All the pleasure you would ever get from me will by force alone! I will NOT entertain you!”

“Now—” the Master balked, stunned at how she spoke to him.

“I no longer care what you think!” she snapped, “If it means suffering pain outside your bed, as punishment, then SO BE IT. I will NEVER forget that I am a war captive! A purchased slave! You might strip me of every dignity and rape me daily as some lousy retribution because I challenged your damned Empire, but I don’t care about my promise anymore! I made it before your son tried to lead a gang rape on me. And as far as I’m concerned, that invalidated my promise to you.”

Staring at her, the Master was beside himself, still clutching the humming vibrator. He then stared at it and turned it off. It took him a couple seconds to regain his composure. When he did, he said, “Fine.” He then eyed her up and said it again, “Fine. In that case…” He grabbed the top edge of her gown and stripped it off of her. Zormna almost fell over when it came off. “You will no longer wear these. The jewelry is enough for you.”

Zormna paled, eyes whipping the ridiculously filmy cloth which had at least given her a semblance of dignity.  

“Your dresses for the games,” he said, dangling the sheer cloth over her head.

Scowling at him, Zormna clenched her fists. But she had to take a stand. “Fine.”

He was about to hand the gown back, but she turned away from it.

For a moment there, the Master was stunned. Yet, he watched her put the jewels on over her naked body, lifting her chin stubbornly. She had made her decision. The Master shrugged, only slightly disappointed. She was naked, after all. And the rest was only a matter of time.

Zormna scowled at him, easily guessing what he was thinking. He was sure she would inevitably change her mind and service him in all ways possible.

And when his guests arrived, she covered herself with her hands and arms to keep visitors from ogling. They were impressed, they said to the Master as he took her up into his lap to listen to their conversation. He heartily molested her as they chatted, and she endured it. But at least she had not gone the route of whore. She had to hang on to some standards.

That afternoon, the Master called in professionals to fix the gaps in his home security, specifically the yard perimeter so that his lap girl could not escape again. He kept her in the bedroom while they worked within the yard. It took a couple hours. The rest of the work was done on the outside, taking up most of the afternoon. By that time, Zormna could wander into the garden to see—and test it. 

She looked up at the garden walls and sighed at the sight. The walls now had decorative-yet-dangerous pikes on them. There was no more chance to sit on that wall let alone vault over it. She went toward the wall to see how much they had changed the security. When not even a meter from it, a deep pain crept up her legs toward her gut. Zormna stepped back, shuddering. Staring at the wall, she reached out again, and the pain rippled through her. It felt ten times worse than before. Zormna had a feeling it would be the same at all forbidden exits.

From the other side of the wall, she overheard the workmen say something about where to put up the sign warning all citizens not to park their vehicles on that road. Zormna shuddered again. The Master really was not taking any chances at losing her.

That evening, the Master had taken to heart that she would bite him if he beat So’omo for her disobedience, so he left it alone. And despite the temptation to punish his lap girl by excluding her from their bed for her defiance, he had also decided against it. That would be more punishing to him anyway. Instead, he decided to enjoy the fact that his lap girl had chosen to be naked—and he took advantage of it from that day on. He touched her a lot more.

The Master sent Zormna out into the garden again the following morning. Visitors had come early, and rather urgently. The funny thing was, this one visitor was the Master’s friend, and he had brought his lap girl… so normally she would not have been sent away. When Zormna found herself banished, it felt peculiar.

A similar thing had happened the next day. His visitor was not anyone official. In fact, it was someone who had liked touching her whenever he came around. But this time he said something to the Master which made him send her out. In fact, Zormna noticed that the Master was sending her into the garden more frequently as the days progressed, as if there was a general conversation he did not want her to overhear. It annoyed her that he was keeping her from something that, clearly, she would want to know. But at the same time, it meant that she did not have to humor his lusts half as often as she had before. A blessing in disguise? She was not sure.

She did pick up on a few things, though. The rumor of her mad piloting skills had been a topic of conversation among the guests, which amused Zormna but irritated her Master. But no one was going to make the mistake of parking a vehicle in her sights again. However, she did not think she was being banished from the room over that.

Zormna also found out via house rumor that the Master’s son had gone back to war. A servant had whispered it to her with a wink. Since her escape and recovery, the son had been refused admittance into his father’s chambers, as his father put it, until he was mature enough to behave responsibly with a lap girl present. The Master blamed his son’s attack on hormones and youth, and left it at that. However, Zormna seriously felt overactive youthful hormones had little to do with it. Grown Th’sans who had visited clearly had wanted to do the same thing to her, leering at her, almost waiting for permission to have their turn with her. She had a feeling that Th’sans did share lap girls, and that might be in her future as well. It explained the Master’s initial flippancy about the young cocks’ attempt to gang rape her.

But now she was in the garden, banished.

As usual, Zormna kept herself occupied. After a handful of repetitions of her old martial arts exercises, her weighty jeweled chains and precious stones clinking against each other and her bare skin as she moved, Zormna sat in the garden making a lei with the new flowering blossoms which kept falling from the tree.

The tree had started to bloom once the coldest part of the season ended, large pink and red and white flowers in various sizes. The ones on the top of the tree were as big as Zormna’s hand, and the smallest ones that dangled from the low branches were as tiny as quarters. A strong sweet sort of aroma floated on the air from them, which Zormna savored. It was unlike any other scent she knew, calming her mind. It was one of the few joys she had left in life.

In taking the advice of the lap girls who had instructed her to find pleasure in what she could, Zormna reveled in these small things. The flowers. The garden. Swimming in her pond. The warm sunshine and fresh spicy air. The distant music from the homes nearby. The evening play with the Beebles. Even the large picture books the Master let her look at unmolested on the bed. Her joys just weren’t what the lap girls had advised her to take pleasure in—at least not entirely. Her addiction to the morning treatment remained as an utter guilty pleasure. But it was impossible to take pleasure in her Master raping her, no matter how much the pain had reduced from rape to rape. The very notion was insane. However, lifting up the lei she made, which turned out particularly long and beautiful, Zormna admired it. It that was something to be proud of. She wasn’t very crafty, so she was extremely pleased with it.

Zormna sighed and hung the flowers around her neck, looking at them and then turning her eyes skyward, glancing at the day moon. This moon was considerably smaller and closer than the two night-moons. Its face was more discernable. For a moment Zormna closed her eyes and imagined she was sitting on a bench on Earth in a tee shirt and shorts—remembering what it was like to be warm and clothed—enjoying a luau with Jennifer McLenna and friends. She imagined she smelled chicken and pork cooking, roasting on a grill rather than in a pit because it was illegal to dig a hole in Pennington Park. She could almost hear the laughter of Mindy and Andrew McLenna as they played on the swings nearby with the Henderson kids. And Jafarr… he would be laughing while carrying on with Brian Henderson and their buddies, making remarks just to rile her. Or he would be singing, playing a banjo or his ukulele—inventing silly lyrics in his amazing tenor.

Zormna smiled wistfully, remembering his voice. She loved Jafarr’s voice. She had never told him. She wondered if she would ever get the chance to. If she ever did, she would request him to sing and talk just so she could hear him.

Back on that morning when her Master asked about Jafarr with such jealousy, it had woken something in her that had been dormant. One of the most startling things Zormna had become aware of was the realization that if there ever had been a man with whom she wanted to be with in such an intimate way, it would have been Jafarr. She loved him. It wasn’t just his voice. He was precious to her. Her feelings for him may never had been passionate in an animal way, but there had always been an attraction between them—even when they had hated each other. He was a handsome man. Even his scars made him look strong. He was also a good man. Her expectations of him had always been high—higher than any man she knew. And the quality of man that he was, she had always admired. And more, in the multiple times when he could have taken advantage of her sexually back on Earth, when they were alone together on trips, at her house, or at his house, when she was distraught or off her guard and needed comfort—even when they had escaped together from their advisors when she had first become queen and desperately needed a friend—Jafarr had respected her. He never made any of the sexual advances others had made. He had also tried to protect her reputation back at Pennington High when people spread slander about her and him sleeping together. And she knew he wasn’t indifferent about her. She knew it. He had always been suppressing his personal feelings, putting duty first.

Loud voices from the Master’s room interrupted Zormna’s thoughts. She opened her eyes. The Master’s houseguests were without lap girls this time around. They had been serious-faced when they entered the room that morning. So much that her Master had sent her out immediately, skipping the floor washing. He never did that. She could almost hear what they were talking about. One bellowed and hissed so loudly. “…sky! I tell you… something! Well? How can we…?”

It really wasn’t clear. And now that her curiosity was piqued, Zormna wanted to hear what they had to say.

But the Master had been watching her through the doorway, peering out into the garden from time to time to make sure she did not sneak near the door to listen in. He had ordered her to keep in sight. And as much as Zormna wished to disobey just for a sliver of news, she didn’t dare to. He had discovered the best punishment was to be rough in sex then ‘forget’ to do her morning treatment. She got shakes and begged him for it by the end.

“Master Governor Xochzong,” one of his visitors yelled loud enough that it traveled into the garden. “If you don’t do something, they’ll be on your heads soon. And then you’ll lose your slaves and lap girl!”

Zormna blinked. They were all staring at her now. One pointed at her, his chest heaving in anger, his gills fluttering. Her Master had a disapproving frown on his face, but not at her.

“Keep your voice down, I don’t need her to hear,” he said, barely audible. “You forget who she is.”

But Zormna did hear, and her eyes sparkled as she looked at the sky again. “He’s coming.”

The he that was coming scrambled across the metal floor of an unfamiliar ship, dodging plasma fire. Jafarr turned to face it as he pressed his communications machine. “Are they all off yet?”

The machine bussed. << Almost. We have four to go. >>

Hot plasma struck the panel just behind him. He nodded to the other three that were with him, also pinned down in the corner by the hostile fire, listening to hisses and curses that sounded like gagging chickens.

“Get ready to set the charges,” he said, nodding to two of them.

The soldiers nodded back and pressed somewhat heavy circular machines against the wall, holding the knobs on the tops.

<< They’re all out, Big Z. >>

Jafarr smiled, hearing his old rebellion code name. He answered. “Get yourselves out of here. Three minutes.”

<< Gotcha! >> The communications machine replied.

“Set the charges and get out of here,” Jafarr ordered.

The one without a bomb pressed her small thumbtack-sized pin. They all felt as if an icy blast of cold air hit them. The other two twisted the knobs to the machines and pushed them. At once, all three Arrassians pressed the similar thumbtack sized pins on their chests, and three icy cold blasts of air sucked them all out from the ship.

The hostile fire continued until one Th’san soldier hissed back to the others, “Fof shulzof shoa fuzz’woabo! Oa xoad z zhux[1]?”

Another pounded on the walls as he searched the chamber. One birdish soldier reached over and pointed at the machines the humans had left behind. He stood up. “Shoa zu choa?[2]”

The second, shrugged. “O loak—[3]”

But what he didn’t know, he never got the chance to say. The machines exploded, and so did the ship.

The Master woke up with a start. It was still dark, but a thunderous roaring erupted outside, as sudden as an alarm. Zormna was not woken by the noise but by his abrupt movement which sent her tumbling out of bed, clinging to the mosquito curtains.

Hastily parting the curtains, the Master dashed out to the garden door and into the garden. He looked up at the early morning sky that was still hinting at dawn. The two night-moons were setting and the day moon had not quite appeared yet.

Zormna scratched her head as she tossed off the tangle of curtains, rolling onto the floor with a wince. The contact twinged. She grabbed his bed robe and pulled it over her bare skin for warmth, and looked around. It was still too early to be up. She crawled back onto the bed to get out of pain, yet she called to him, “What is it?”

The Master stared up, listening to the air. And that was all she could see in the darkness.

But the rumbling and the rushing noise increased, becoming familiar to Zormna ears, like an old familiar song. Though it sounded more like a terrible windstorm than a rainstorm, she recognized the noise of engines belonging to a 57-Vanger Transport Shuttle, the type used by emigration which she had worked among while in Alpha district. Her eyes opened wide with delight as her heart leapt with joy. They had come.

“Jafarr!” Zormna sprang through the curtains, jumping off the bed, ignoring the pain that shot up her legs the second her feet came in contact the tile. She scrambled out to the garden door with her eyes on the sky, straining to keep upright on her shaking legs as she saw the most beautiful sight. Arrassian spacecraft were coming down upon the city in clusters. Seeing all those familiar, beloved, wonderful silver white shapes with that cherished emblem of her own medallion painted in black on the doors and the undersides, Zormna laughed out and wept. They were all over, near and far. One landed a hop’s distance away from the garden wall on the gravelly thoroughfare just outside the yard.

Running for the wall that she knew she could not touch, Zormna shouted, screaming, prepared to pounce on the spikes if necessary to get to that ship.  “Jafarr! Al za tan! Trreg’kai al’m ves! En za Zormna![4]“

Before she could get to the wall, Zormna’s Master seized her and yanked her into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around her. He clamped one of his giant smothering hands over her mouth.

Wriggling and thrashing in his arms like a desperate fish, Zormna struggled harder than she ever had in months, even fighting the pain of the machine that was already in effect. Her gut twisted as if a hot poker had been shoved into the center of it. Of course, the Master would take no chances losing her now.

The Master bolted back into his house with his human prize, looking around his room with wide-eyed panic, thinking of what to do.  

Niilwa stood in the doorway of the slave’s hall, trembling as if to ask the Master for help. “What is happening?”

“Go back into your room! Lock the door!” the Master hissed.

“No! No!” Zormna yelled, managing to wriggle her face out from his smothering grip. “Run for it! You can get out! My people have come!”

The Master groped her face, trying desperately to shut her up without closing off her nose to breathe. But just hearing the people outside call in Aloean and Arrassian gave Zormna the strength to kick and scream.

Blinking, Niilwa walked further into the room, her amber eyes wide on Zormna. “Your people?”

Though overwhelmingly restrained, Zormna laughed for joy as tears washed down her cheeks, fighting the Master’s hand that was trying to find purchase somewhere over Zormna’s mouth. “Yes! Run!”

“No!” the Master ordered; his eyes wide. His skin ran cold, struggling with all his might to keep his precious prize still while seeing unable to stop another slave from escaping.

With a wicked smile at Zormna, Niilwa darted for the foyer. She always knew an opportunity when she saw it. The Master chased after her, his lap girl wriggling in one arm while he tried to grab for his slave. But Niilwa was out, screaming joyfully as she leapt off the front porch onto the sharp gravel to be rescued. Zormna had hindered him with all her wriggling. He had to use his bed robe to restrain her, wrapping it tight around Zormna like a burrito. Niilwa ran over the sharp gravel toward the spacecrafts where Zormna heard Arrassian voices answer her, beckoning her into the nearest shuttle.  

Both Master and wriggling captive saw it from the front doorway, him peering in horror at the scene while Zormna struggled to get loose again. Master shrank back into the foyer, carrying his prized possession with him.

But Zormna’s mind reeled with excitement. She had seen soldiers, her soldiers, armed with laser rifles and pistols, charging out of the shiny white shuttles, calling to the humans in Aloean to come and free themselves. It was a raid. And amazingly, the very ground seemed to rise to meet them. She had seen mobs of human slaves crawl out of the muck and jump out of high home doors towards the invading army. Somehow, these people had heard that this army would come to free them. This, apparently, was the gossip the Master had been keeping from her. Laughing and weeping, Zormna pushed and shoved against the robe and her Master’s arms to break free.

And yet, his grip was stronger than her ability to wriggle out.

He retreated further back into the house to his desk, opening another small locked compartment Zormna had not been able to pry ajar, apparently DNA touch activated. Reaching in, he drew out a pistol.

Seeing it, Zormna forcefully extracted an arm from the robe burrito and reached for it, kicking vainly at his stomach as the cruel pain in her gut increased. He easily extended the machine far out of her reach. And he pressed the machine up to the highest degree of pain to incapacitate her.

Wracking tremors whipped through Zormna’s limbs. It felt as if her gut were being screwed into the far wall. With a shriek, she curled into herself.

“Tar za ray henna’lak van tar!”[5] A human voice from outside called. Beautiful Arrassian words. Words from Home. Someone had heard her.

The Master also heard it and clutched wrapped-Zormna to his body, holding up the weapon in his hand, finger on the trigger. He slid back against the wall behind the front doorway, waiting. The outside commotion continued. Yet they both then heard the rhythmic thump of booted-feet—oh yes, blessed booted feet instead of the patter-and-scratch of clawed Th’san-scaled feet—echoing in the foyer and coming closer. The Master’s hand smothered over her face so she would not cry out. She could hardly breathe now.

The darkness of the early morning concealed them. Moonlight from the garden archway and the fainter reflected light from the front foyer illuminated the rest of the room with enough faint light that they could see the human-sized… No. Arrassian-sized silhouette enter, weapon first. His helmet covered his face, but would be giving him an infrared view of the room. He halted just short of the actual entrance, peering cautiously into the darkness of the chamber. He did not see them at first, but when he did, he yelled out in Aloean. “Set your slaves free or we’ll kill you.”

Zormna laughed in spite of her pain, smothered by the giant’s hand.

The soldier turned, pointing his weapon in the Master’s direction—but only too late.

The Master shot him. The plasma burst struck the soldier before he could even let off a shot

“No!” Zormna shrieked, kicking hard into the Master’s gut in spite of the twisting agony that tortured her.

The Master’s grip reflexively loosened when her heel rammed into his gonadic gap. She pushed out of her Master’s arms, tumbling out of the bed robe to the floor. On her hands and knees, Zormna crawled toward the soldier who had fallen.

Groaning, the Master chucked down the empty robe and snatched Zormna up like a naughty dog, wrapping her in his arms to restrain her—or tried to. Zormna writhed and kicked him, fighting. Adrenalin rushed through her, countering all of the agony she was undergoing as she tried to get to her fellow, struggling soldier who was barely wounded.

Outside, the tone of chaos altered. Amid the joyous rescue, entered the sounds of local law enforcers striking back. Dissonant Th’san squawks and hisses. Claws, and the roar of their flying vehicles. Raptor cries. Plasma fire. Human screams split the air, as echoing blasts of laser and plasma fire cracked around the Master’s home. The world around them rattled as the mêlée escalated, waking the entire neighborhood with the sounds of war.

“Thal’a Zormna?” The soldier in their front hall gasped, struggling to remain on his feet.

His voice. She knew it. Despite the huge burn in the side of his chest which seeped blood, the soldier held himself up, lifting his rifle to take aim again.

Zormna kneed her Master forcefully into the head this time.

The giant toppled, crashing into the wall behind him.

She tumbled to the floor, rolling onto her hands and knees, and once more struggled toward the helmeted soldier who had come to rescue her. The pain in her legs was so severe she was unable to walk. She had to drag herself.

He stumbled towards her, reaching out to lift her up to take her home.

But that surreal moment came with the familiar scraping-thump of Th’san feet which tore into the foyer. A flash of plasma fire struck her fellow Arrassian, in the stomach this time.

He collapsed. His laser rifle clattered to the ground.

Zormna let out a wail, scrambling toward the Arrassian soldier with the remainder of her strength. She would have snatched up his rifle and shot at his killers, but the Th’san who had shot him kicked the rifle away before she could even get to it. Kicking at the leg of the Th’san police officer who stood over them, Zormna cradled her wounded comrade’s head in her arm, ignoring everything else, sobbing in Arrassian. She grabbed the catches to her fellow soldier’s suit, ripping off his helmet. She knew his face immediately.  

 

“Lenn, you idiot. You were never that good at combat. What are you doing here alone?”

The fair-haired soldier gazed up at her, wheezing. But he laughed—especially when his eyes rested on her bare breasts. “I must be dreaming. You of all people… coming to me… naked.”

Zormna closed her eyes, sobbing. His blood was all over the foyer, spreading too heavily to survive if he was not treated soon and fast. And she had nothing but her own skin to press against the wound, though she tried with her bare hands.

He laughed painfully, not quite able to turn his eyes from her breasts. “I… I told… President Jafarr… I’d find you… first.” He swallowed, struggling to breathe. His breathing grew even more labored, choking as blood rose in his throat. He finally looked to her face.

“No. No. You can’t.” Zormna clung to his head with one arm, other hand still trying to stop the bleeding, weeping. “You’re too much of a jerk to die.”

“It is you…” He laughed, coughing up more blood. His eyes tracked to the armed Th’san looming over them. “She’s here! She’s here,” he wheezed out, trying to shout it, but it did not rise higher than a gasp. Looking to Zormna hopelessly, reaching toward her face with his trembling hand, Lenn clenched a curl of her hair. “You are… out of regulation… flymite. Hair… too long. And your uniform…” He eyed her bare breasts again. “I think… I should tell… Alea Sholda.”

Zormna wept harder. “Rat fink.” Her tears freely fell onto his face. Of all the people to find her, it had to be an old classmate from her cadet years whom she had never gotten along with.

“One thing… I want to tell you.” He gasped as the battle outside continued, though sounding less close.

Two other Th’san law enforcers marched into the room, one calling in to check on her Master, going inside. The other stared at Zormna but did not bother to touch her yet. The other policemen rushed to join the battle outside. When they could see that the human soldier was dying and the Governor’s lap girl unarmed, the other also went inside to look after the Master as well. They found him wiping the blood from a split in his lip, rising onto his feet. His crocodile eyes glared at his human property.

“Zormna… I was always… loyal… to you—when I knew… you were the One.” Anzer Lenn gasped again. His body began to convulse.

“No, no, don’t leave me here.” She bawled. Embracing his head and upper body, she felt his blood all over her hands. But she was unable to save him. “You can’t die. We have to leave together. You owe me for that stupid cheating scam. You framed me, you jerk. Stay alive.”

His face fixed into a mild smile as he breathed shallower, shaking only a little now. Zormna did not let go, even when she heard the call of retreat from her people and the sounds of booted feet running away. To leave one of her own was too horrible. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here….”

When the sounds of battle died down outside, the Master and the law officers attempted to pull them apart.

Screeching, Zormna clung madly to the dead soldier, shaking with a frosted gaze at Anzer Lenn’s limp body. It took everything to pry them apart. They had to tear his uniform from her fingers. Shreds of the tough manmade suit ripped, pieces still in her hands.

Not even picking the man up, the law enforcers dragged Anzer Lenn out of the foyer by his foot.

Zormna shrieked after them, entirely in Arrassian. “Ein! Ein! Dav’kai o’rem zada!”[6] Then in Th’san, “Give him back to me you stupid chickens!”

She pushed from her Master, somehow managing it against the torture from the machine, too emotionally riled for the physical agony to stop her just yet. However, the Master seized Zormna by her arms and dragged her back into the room, clutching her to his chest, despite her fellow officer’s blood on her. He carried her straight to the bath and threw her in it with peevish disgust that she had dared fight him after all this time. She tumbled on it with a thump against the tile and then popped back to her feet despite the continuous gut pain which should have crippled her. Her eyes fixed on him with loathing.

The humming of the Arrassians ships in the sky rose once more. And she knew what that meant.

Zormna jumped out of the bath, dashing to the garden again.

“Ein!” She shouted at the sky. They were leaving. Her people were leaving.

But the noise vanished, as did the ships in one quick fold, drifting off with the morning wind. Soon they were entirely gone.

Zormna gaped at the empty expanse in the sky.

Left.

She collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

Then the pain took over.

Zormna curled into herself, rocking.

Gazing down on her, disgusted, her Master eventually picked her up, and carried her back into the room. Bath at the bath, he washed the blood off her, dried her off, then dropped her once more on his bed, though he was half inclined to leave her on the floor for his troubles. Then he turned off the machine.

The pain ceased. Zormna’s tight muscles released. Only the aches were left. She rolled over on her back and stared up at him. Her Master was sitting on the edge of the bed, nursing his bloody swollen lip where she had struck him.

Putting a hand over her face, Zormna closed her eyes.

“I certainly hope that was your Zhufod who died there,” he said.  

Sitting up, Zormna jumped at him with clenched fists, pounding painfully into his chest—not with any real force though.

Stunned, especially as she still had fight in her, the Master took those childish blows until he caught her wrist, yanking her hands down.

“Shut up! Shut up!” She sobbed, shaking as her trained fear of angering him resurfaced. “It was my classmate!”

The Master blinked dryly at her. “A playfellow?”

Shaking her head, dropping limply against him, Zormna whispered with no energy, “No. But I was raised with him. We were children together.”

His hands stroked down her back, petting her to calm her.

“You are where you belong, Zoama,” he whispered. Then ever-so-gently, he pulled her onto his lap, nibbling into her neck as he began to molest her once more. “You are mine. And I will let no one else have you.”

 

[1] “The humans are gone! How did they get out?”

[2] “What is that?”

[3] “I don’t—”

[4] “Jafarr! I’m here! Get me out! It’s Zormna!”

[5] There’s a human in there!

[6] “No! No! Give him back!”

Owned

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Nineteen:

 

“Patience with God is Faith. Patience with oneself is Hope. Patience with others is Love.” —Anon—

 

 

 

“President, come now. You’ll want to hear this,” a Surface Patrol officer Jafarr was slightly familiar with called to him. Jafarr had been sitting in his strategy room planning another raid on a Th’san ship. But he left the maps and roughly sketched plans of enemy ships on the table. Parting from the soldiers he had been working with, he gave them a quick nod, rubbing his stomach where it still hurt from the convulsions of his last attack. It had been rather acute that time around.

“Carry on without me,” Jafarr said, leaving immediately with the officer.

They marched down the hall and into another corridor, taking the lift down to the shuttle-docking bay where they had been collecting the shuttles from the planetary raids.

“You said for us to ask around the evacuees about Queen Zormna?” the soldier started.

Jafarr nodded, quickening his pace. His heart rabbited with hope.

“Yeah, well, this should interest you.” They turned to a smaller room where doctors were treating the newly freed human slaves. Many were toothless and muck-covered, weak and crippled, in dire need of medical attention. Others were startlingly healthy and dressed in clean clothes, in the infirmary merely to receive inoculations against Arrassian diseases. Some (all of them women) were dressed like they belonged in a show in Reno, or a brothel. Some of them had to be given robes just so their nakedness would not distract others.

“Here they are,” the officer said.

Jafarr turned eagerly to see what the soldier had found.

In the far end of the room, sat two of these show-girl type women, long and leggy in their fancy studded gowns. They were embarrassingly scanty. Both women were fantastically beautiful Aloeans with gorgeous hair and evocative curves. One of them obviously loved to flaunt her curves, sticking out her particularly voluptuous chest to be admired.

He walked over to them, trying out his learned Aloean. “Hello.”

One nodded shyly to him. The one proud of her breasts stuck them out more so he could admire them as well. Jafarr wondered if they understood his Aloean, so he repeated himself. “Hello.”

They responded the same.

“They’re not altogether there,” the Surface Patrol officer whispered into Jafarr’s ear, pointing to his own head.

Jafarr nodded.

Turning towards the two women again, Jafarr sat across from them on the edge of an unused hospital bed. He watched them as they received their shots from the doctors. The quiet one appeared to be the more intelligent one. She accepted help politely but said barely more than ‘thank you.’ The other just flashed her provocative body at everyone, annoying the other women in the room, and for that matter disturbing the men who were trying to keep their heads on straight while they worked. The Surface Patrol officer who had summoned Jafarr waited until the doctor finished with that girl, pulling out the last needle.

“There. Now get something to drink over there and lie down,” the doctor instructed them.

The woman nodded and obeyed.

The Surface Patrol officer nodded too, but to Jafarr.

He understood. Following the freed women to where they had been directed to go, Jafarr ventured his question. “I hear you two know about the woman we are looking for.”

Both women blinked at him, taking in his face and eyes. The flashy one glanced sharply at the shy one.

“Woman?” the flashy one asked, sticking her chest out as if she wanted Jafarr to touch it.

The Surface Patrol officer rolled his eyes. “Yes, remember, the woman you told me about, the one with golden hair and pale skin?”

The flashy one grimaced with a disgusted flinch then stuck her nose into the air.

The shy one, however, nodded, venturing a smile. “She told me I wouldn’t have to be a lap girl forever.” Happy tears formed in her eyes. “And she was right.”

Jafarr leaned nearer to her. “Where is she? Zormna. That’s her name, right?”

The quiet woman shrugged as she wiped her cheeks with the tips of her fingers. “I don’t remember.”

He immediately felt exhausted. Jafarr gripped the shy woman’s hands in his. “You have got to remember. Where did you see Zormna—the girl with the golden hair?”

The flashy one huffed. “Which one? There are two.”

Jafarr looked at her. “Two? Both with green eyes?”

That woman nodded, sticking her chest closer to his face and tugging up her nearly sheer skirt to expose more of her leg.

The women in the room groaned, though the doctor pulled the woman’s skirt back over her bare thigh.

Shooting the doctor a dirty look, the flashy woman hiked her skirt up again, leaning closer to Jafarr.

“Yes,” she said in her most seductive way. “Both have green eyes and golden hair. But one has a terrible temper and a naughty mouth.”

Jafarr pushed her arm’s distance from him with one hand. “That would be Zormna. Where is she?”

She leaned away from Jafarr. “You are as naughty as she is. Can’t you see I am a woman?”

Irritably, Jafarr shook his head with a glower much akin to Zormna’s. “The only woman I am interested in right now is the woman I am seeking. Now tell me where you saw her.”

Recoiling from him, that woman made a face like she had just eaten a toad.

“She is the lap girl of Master Governor Xochzong of the world of Doazhoax. He is the governor of the Northern Provenance,” the shy one said.

Hope rising, Jafarr turned quickly to her. She was definitely the smart one. “Could you identify it on a star chart?”

Sadly, shaking her head, the lap girl replied, “No. I only know it because our Lord Governor Voaszz Xuththoazz’th often mentioned it. Liisa wouldn’t know. She is too busy pleasing the Master to care about humans other than herself.”

The flashy woman stopped showing off her cleavage, dropping her shoulders down in a huff. “Lolla! What a horrid thing to say! The Masters are our lives! I don’t know why you dragged me here, but I want to go back.” She automatically plunged into melodramatic weeping. Her shoulders slumped and her body drooped in a way that shouted ‘pity me’.

The smarter, quieter one continued to shake her head. When she spoke, it was solid, though soft. “We are not going back. I will not be a bed pet for a Th’song ever again.”

Jafarr shuddered. “Bed pet?”

Turning towards Jafarr as she watched him go sickly pale, the lap girl nodded. “Yes. Your woman is also a lap girl. She shares the bed of Master Governor Xochzong, though she wasn’t fully trained when we met her many xoam’ssuk ago. Yet I am sure she has been since. It had been a long while. She had a dangerous temper then. I heard she threw a Th’song master into her own garden pool.”

Jafarr put his hand over his face. “Zormna….”

“How long ago was that?” the Surface Patrol officer asked, relieved at this clear confirmation of their queen. None of these people seemed capable of throwing their slave masters—emotionally, physically, or otherwise.

Sighing, the quiet one replied, “Very many xoam’suuk ago, uh, months ago. A year for some worlds.”

Jafarr felt likely to be sick. He had avoided describing the other pain he had been experiencing for months to others except for Alea Salvar. He had not wanted what he had deeply suspected to be true. Now he knew it was. All his dreams had been real. Zormna was being repeatedly and brutally raped.

 

“So, where is Doazhoax?” Alea Salvar asked Jafarr as they both stood in the strategy room.

Jafarr pulled up five planetary charts on the grid.

“One of these. It is a home world. That’s one thing the women could tell me. We’ve already been to it apparently. We need to search among the refugees to find which one it was.” He then shook his head. “Somehow, we missed her. She would have gotten on a ship if she could.”

“What are you saying?” Alea Salvar asked, eyes narrowing on him.

Closing his eyes, Jafarr thought. “Do remember when I had my last severe pain attack?”

Alea Salvar nodded tersely. “Yes. It was in the middle of a raid. You really should have taken your attacks into account when you left.”

Jafarr scowled at him. “I did. All I had to do was press the pin to be sent back here, and it worked.”

They glared at each other for a moment. Jafarr shook it off.

“The point is, it didn’t last very long.” Jafarr looked to the table covered in maps and strategies. “It lasted just a bit less than the length of time it takes to raid a city for slaves.”

Alea Salvar’s cynical expression switched to a hopeful one.

Jafarr nodded.

“They were holding her back so she couldn’t get away.” He pointed to the five maps. “We raided those planets that day at around that hour. Among those people, one has got to be someone who knows about Zormna.”

Alea Salvar nodded. “So, we raid again?”

Thinking a moment, Jafarr then shook his head. “No. Search first. Raid next. We’ll get her.”

Both of them examined the five maps lying on screen, feeling their chests swell with hope.

In the weeks after the raid, the Master conducted business as usual. The only real difference was that he had fewer social visits and more business visitors, which meant Zormna spent most of her hours in the garden. Normally that would have given her relief, but she no longer felt adventurous or even slightly hopeful. The rescue had come and gone.

For days, her mind lingered on the death of Anzer Lenn. Her mind painfully recalled with a sort of irony how much of a creep he had been when they were both cadets together. It was sorely ironic to her that he had died in her arms, swearing loyalty to her—the same creep who had gotten her put in the brig on false charges of betting fraud. No one had believed her then. She had never been able to acquit herself. But she had never hated him enough to want him to die on some alien world and then be dragged off like a sack of garbage.

It made her think of Dural Korad and all the people she could have spared if she had simply shared with Jafarr all the Zeta district’s secret files on the alien races that they had been aware of for millennia. Since her encounter with Dural Korad, she had long felt that she had deserved to be punished for all those who had suffered because of her inaction when she had become queen. She could have declassified everything then. She had known hostile beings were out there. She could have pursued it when she had been Zeta Leader. But now it was too late, and people were dying because of her.

Her mind had also been on other things. Zormna wished she knew what was really going on in the war. She had tried to listen in to the visitors that came and went from the Master’s house, despite her Master’s orders not to. And what she had learned confused her. These erratic world raids, which she had overheard more about as days went by, were not Alea Salvar’s style in the slightest. It was not how he thought or how the Surface Patrol usually worked. He was a dutiful soldier and all that, but he operated by the rules of combat. Of course, it put to mind whose style it was. The rebellion did not play by rules. And they had a long history of using raids to attack their enemy.

So, did that mean Jafarr had returned to battle? Had they actually let him continue in the war? She had never been sure. That didn’t seem like the actions of the Patrol either. She knew they had taken him out of the fray and brought him back to Arras for his protection. She could sense it. But clearly Jafarr wasn’t there anymore. And clearly, he was not working alone.

Zormna laid down on the dewy grass, thinking about that.

Gazing at the flowers growing around her head and the clear sky where she could see one of the day moons, Zormna mentally calculated how long she had left as a captive. She could tell her time was numbered, but she was not sure about the direction. The future events were not too hard to predict. Salvar would fight to the bitter end. The battles would get worse, nastier, as they tried to find her. At the same time, the Th’sans would become more brutal, calculating ways to dishearten their foes. The Th’sans would adapt, using every method to crush their human spirit. That was their nature. And Zormna was sure the leaders of the Th’san Empire would eventually come to this world for her, as the human spirit was nearly impossible to crush… and they believed in the ‘head of the snake’ philosophy when it came to war tactics.

Some of the Th’sans already had come to convince the Master that they should take her and use her against her own people—stoic and bitter-looking beasts. They had made her Master anxious, anxious that he might lose her as he knew she would never betray her own. A queen who would endure the worst for a slave she barely knew was like that. And during those visits, she had been put under uncomfortable inspection. The Th’sans never really had gotten over that moment she had publicly humiliated their Grand Council. It miffed them that a tiny human female, which they had kidnapped and put on trial when she was still young, had damaged a relic of their empire and threatened them. It still burned in their memories with ignominy. And apparently, the Master raping her daily did not seem sufficient humiliation to them anymore. They wanted her to submit to them in all things, and they believed she was not crushed enough in spirit.

Knowing the cruelty the Th’sans were capable of, Zormna figured one day, most likely in the near future, those Th’san leaders would eventually take her from her Master before her people could get close enough to rescue her. After that… Zormna shuddered to think what was in store for her. Knowing the way they thought, they would probably gang-rape her as some form of dominance assertion. The Th’san military would in all likelihood torture her next, or at the same time. They would torture her for information and torture her just for the fun of it. And when they were done torturing her, especially when they finally realized she would not give them what they wanted, they would kill her—probably in the most horrific way imaginable. They wanted her to suffer. That was the only thing she knew for certain. They would probably even film it and use it as military propaganda to encourage their troops, or watch it for pure enjoyment. For all she knew, they would roast her alive then eat her like a Beeble, serving her up at one of their feasts. And then they would gloat to her people about what they did to her—maybe even give them her skull and a femur as proof.

And that would be their final mistake.

Jafarr would slaughter them. Salvar would help him. So would everyone else. They would scorch Th’san worlds to ash. Go nuclear, quite literally. The war would become a genocide.

It was a bad deal either way. Everyone would lose.

Of course, Zormna mused, trying to shake off that nasty thought—if Jafarr was still out in the war, perhaps the war would end faster than even the Th’sans could conceive. Jafarr was a wild card. He could catch them off guard. Jafarr had means that few understood, including her own people.

She trembled. There it was again. Hope.

Chuckling painfully, Zormna wished he would come soon. She felt like a shell of herself—especially her lower half in a more literal sense. Since the day her first raped her and the beginning of her daily treatments, the Master had indelibly changed her internal feminine physiology to suit his desires. And emotionally, she was a wreck. She didn’t know how she was still alive. Hollowed out in heart and body, the emptiness within her seemed stretched more day by day. She had long lost control of her life. And her hope for rescue seemed like a fantasy. She had even begun to wonder if Jafarr was real or just someone she had dreamed up in the midst of trauma.

“Zoama,” the Master called into the garden.

Her heart automatically leapt in Pavlovian anticipation. Zormna’s breathing increasing with the bodily desire to obey her Master while her mind continued to revolt in self-loathing over what she had become. Yet, she got up slowly, her mind still in charge, if only a little. And in the back of her skull, one of the songs from Jafarr’s favorite musical on Earth played out: “Don’t they know they’re making love to one already dead?” She wished now that she had actually sat down and watched that musical with him to know what it was about rather than scoffing at it and his taste for widely different music genres. Currently, she felt more like the walking dead, but she doubted the musical had been about zombies.

She rose up to do the Master’s will—or in most cases, have his will done on her. And yet, as she waded through the flowers back toward the house, another thought slid through her mind. Niilwa had gotten away. And that fighter in the ring, he had escaped. She had done some good despite all the damage she had caused from her blind neglect as a Zeta leader.

Perhaps this is what it took to find out the truth. Perhaps this was just the way it had to be. Zormna remembered the time period right after they had freed Aloea, not long before her second capture. Her armies had been talking about pulling out and maintaining territory. They were losing incentive. Human nature was like that, inherently self-preserving and lazy. Clearly, they needed some kind of motivation to push them onward to free all the captives. Maybe she had to become the reason. Maybe she had to die for it.

Besides, Zeta had, with the Surface Patrol, defended the Earth and their own world dutifully for centuries. So even if she died, even if all this suffering would lead to that, her people would still finish what she had started—if only out of revenge. Humans were also notoriously vengeful with long memories of past ills which they rarely forgave. She had always thought it was a fault, until now.

Zormna arrived at the door on autopilot.

“Zoamo.” The Master’s voice sent all feelings of that hope right out of her as he beckoned her toward him with that self-assured smile of conqueror. “It is time.”

Confused, hanging back in the doorway rather than going in further, Zormna watched as he dug through his desk. He extracted a dress from the drawer. This one was different than all the others. Though he had enjoyed dressing her in various scanty outfits and jewelry he had purchased for her, this one had an odd sense of ceremony about it—and actually would cover her a bit.

 She stared at it. Flashy, not frilly, and skimpy in a peculiarly elegant way, this dress was sparkling poison green like a jungle snake—not silk, but soft scale-like see-through layers that glittered in the sunlight. It was a lot like that thin filmy green thing she had been forced to wear when she had first met the wives, only this one was more substantial. The silhouette of it, as he held it up to her, reminded her of a shed snake skin. The front was cut with very little fabric—if it could even be called fabric. It was more like a tiny beadwork of scales. There was no back to it, like most of her old dresses. The lower skirt was slit up both sides with the back flap attached to the front only at the hips on each side. The back flap was a straight piece which would probably extend from her waist to her ankles, leaving the rest bare. As for the front, the head of the ‘snake’ had open jaws, shaped to barely cover her breasts, extending down in narrow section over her belly. Hollywood starlets scarcely wore less. Diamonds and emeralds dangled from the sides of the middle strip, looping around to attach both sides like a ribcage, though at the top, thin straps encrusted with rubies held the ‘bodice’ up.

“For you,” he said, holding it out. 

Zormna stared at it, especially since this outfit looked more complicated than her former showgirl dresses. “Why?”

“Because,” he patted her curls, which had grown past her shoulders, hanging in sweeping, fiery ringlets all around her face, “It is time to complete our union the proper way.”

On cue, the wives entered the room, carrying vials of oil, perfume, and grooming combs. With a shudder, Zormna looked at them, following their procession with her head as they bird-walked around her—chanting with a peculiar birdish dance. They were also in similar ceremonial gowns, though theirs were more elaborate, as she was clearly not a ‘wife’ and was not intended to become an equal to them. However, she recognized a religious ceremony when she saw one. Still shivering, Zormna lifted her head toward her Master who grinned with pleasure.

The wives’ chant made sense now. It was the same chant as when they pounded the tables and took her to the idols on the roof the day she was first purchased. It had an eerier intonation now that she understood the words. They stabbed her to the core.

 

His, his, we give and accept

His, his, we clean and accept.

His, his, we claim and accept.

His, his, we join and accept.

 

It was most definitely a ritual.

What could she do? Zormna’s heart thudded in her chest, yet she was unable to move. The Master’s gaze was upon her, and that immobilized her ability to think—like a snake peering down a frog. It was his will that she do this. He wanted it, and so she had to want it too… even though she really didn’t. She didn’t want to be ceremonially initiated as her Master’s mistress under the auspices of the lesser gods. She wanted nothing to do with those lesser gods, whom, as far as she was concerned, were demons (real or imaginary) who had misled the Th’sans away from the truth. Unfortunately, she could not fight her Master either. She didn’t have the strength anymore.

Closing her eyes, Zormna prayed silently for help as he prepared for the ceremony. In truth, she knew what this ceremony meant. When he had first bought her, he had intended to initiate her then—taking her by brute force. Of course, he had changed tack since—consulted with the white crane slaver who had sold her to him—which to his benefit had been wise, but for her had been the beginning of the end. She was unable to save herself now. She could not resist him.

The wives circled her, going in dance. Her Master lifted her off the floor, swaying with the same thrumming beat. Zormna opened her eyes as she felt him carry her back into the garden and up to the roof. The wives followed, bringing the oils and perfumes as they continued to chant. Zormna’s ears had begun to ring in anticipation. Her heart thundered. Her breathing grew heavier. But she did not fight or run. She knew there was no escape.

Where the table had once been over a year ago, an ornate bath stood in its place. It was carved, inlaid with stones and ivory, held up by four legs with the images of the lesser gods supporting it. The Master placed Zormna directly into the bath, which was already filled with steaming water. And while strutting in dance, he stripped off her jewels and slung them over his shoulder, chanting, “Away with the old. Bring and clean for new.”

The wives circled her also, dancing and chanting with a rhythm that marched with her thumping heart. “Away with the old. Bring and clean for new. Away with the old. Bring and clean for new.”

They circled four times, the first wife dipping a long-handled cup into the water and pouring it on Zormna’s head, chanting, “With this water wash away the past.”

Zormna closed her eyes. The warm water ran over her face as she quietly cried, wishing, praying for a way out. It would be brilliant if Jafarr showed up right then to take her out of there.

The second wife circled and did the same as the first, though stiffly. The third also circled but dumped the water on Zormna’s head angrily, splashing the ground with such irreverence that the Master glared at that wife then turned away.

As the water ritual ended, all three hens proceeded to wash Zormna, scrubbing her scalp and her skin until it smarted, massaging in sweet oil and perfume. The odor was utterly pungent. It overwhelmed Zormna to the point that she leaned several times over the edge of the bath, gasping for air. The youngest wife pushed Zormna’s face back in with a snide huff. Alone with them, Zormna looked up quickly to see where the Master had gone. Her heart was already racing with trained separation anxiety. The eldest hen silently pointed. Her expression remained grim with grieved acceptance over the affair. The Master was occupied with another ritual at one of the rooftop shrines, burning incense at each shrine then washing his hands in scented oil mixed with water. The Master dried his hands on a towel after each washing, saying, “No more handling filthy things.”

Zormna blinked and leaned back in the water. This was it. She had to accept that this was her life from now on. It was like a marriage, but weird. Yet she wondered, did such a ritual really count if the other participant had been coerced? Some religions were like that. They did not account for everyone’s desire (or lack thereof) to participate. She was an un-person in Th’san society. Her vote didn’t count.

The time the ceremony took, now felt like nothing. Neither fast nor slow. Zormna just sat in the tub, numbly bearing the washing. She thought of nothing. She wanted to feel nothing. The deadening of her heart and spirit was nearly complete—except….

“Jafarr.” Zormna whispered to herself, feeling out in her mind to him, hoping he would hear her and save her. Even now, somehow, she could feel him answer: “I will find you. I know it is terrible, but hold on just a little longer. I am coming.”

The Master returned to the bath carrying a luxuriously large and soft towel. He smiled benevolently at his tiny human plaything. Zormna stood up when he came, as he expected her. Wrapping the towel around her, he said nothing.

The wives drained the bath. The Master carried Zormna to the idols to complete the ceremony. She silently cried, though the Master was unable to tell if the wetness on her cheeks were tears or just residual dampness from her dripping hair. They bowed to the idols, setting Zormna upon each cushion as before. But she did not struggle this time. There was no use for it. There was no escape.

“May the gods smile upon this offering.” They chanted and bowed.

When they finished the rounds to the shrines, the Master brought Zormna back to the center of the roof, placing Zormna’s feet on a soft green mat. They all stood around her. As the Master removed the towel and proceeded to clothe her in the green ceremonial dress, he recited a thrumming song.

The wives circled again in a dance, chanting: “Accept, accept, accept.”

Zormna shuddered as she closed her eyes, thinking, “Forgive me. Jafarr, forgive me.”

The wives combed out her curls with their carved ivory hair picks, twisting her curls into spirals to let hang against her pale cheeks. The first wife placed a dazzlingly jade-and-silver studded cap on Zormna’s head, affixing it so it would not slip off. The second wife brushed light pink dust onto Zormna’s cheeks with a fluffy brush to make her appear flushed. The third took sweet smelling, evocative balm and rubbed it perhaps a bit too firmly into Zormna’s chest, scraping her nails against the Arrassian royal medallion that still hung around Zormna’s neck.

The sound of the clanking metal drew Zormna’s eyes downward. It was the only thing of the past she had left, the last connection to who she was. Everything else, from her strength to her virginity was gone. Even her pride.

The Master gave a benevolent smile and fingered the medallion as he would a cute childish thing. “This will forever be yours.”

The rooftop ritual was over. They never spoke freely during one.

Zormna swallowed, waiting for what would happen next. Would the ritual continue on the table like a human sacrifice, or would it move indoors like last time?

Her question was soon answered when the Master lifted her off the table and carried her down the stairs to the garden in his dance. They went into the Master’s chambers, and the wives followed. The wives were watching him more than her, altering their dance with a fair amount of bird-like twerking. Unlike last time, everyone was on board and ceremoniously getting into the ritual. Zormna averted her eyes from them with a skin-crawling tremor, wondering if they were going to stay to watch him finish their official ‘union’.

The Master gently placed Zormna on the bed among the special pillows, which apparently, he had set out when she had been in the garden, laying her in them to make her comfortable. He adjusted her legs apart and lifted back so they were propped to easily receive him. She trembled, but did not move. In the past she would have run, but she had long been trained to accept his wishes and endure whatever he inflicted on her—not that it made her any less terrified. She knew what he was about to do to her would be excruciating.

The rest of the ritual merged like a blur in front of her eyes. As he undressed from the ceremonial robe and into a luxurious bed robe which matched her dress, Zormna’s heart pounded. Her blood rose into her ears, muting most of the sound in the room. His wives had switched from chanting to a peculiar birdish hissing song with sultry undertones. It was almost hypnotic. The Master danced among them, weaving about his wives in some kind of birdlike mating dance. He made bizarre cooing and gurgling noises, rubbed up against them before he finally advanced onto the bed where she lay. His eyes were dilated on her, his vestigial gills fluffing.

He climbed onto the mattress, swaying over her in birdish ways, his head swinging on his neck, weaving back and forth on his shoulders. It was not too different from a snake charming its meal. His throat thrummed, the color in his pink gills deepening toward a darker shade of red. Zormna’s heart thundered in her chest from sheer terrified anticipation. Averting her eyes to the canopy over the bed so she would not have to watch his phallus snake out from his abdominal cavity as he advanced on her, her legs trembled, anticipating the deep inner pain.

“Jafarr,” Zormna cried one last time, gasping with a sob as he adjusted her legs comfortably around him. She knew this was the end.

The Master stopped mid-foreplay, pulling back from kissing the hollow of her neck. “You mention him on this day?”

Zormna knew he was angry, yet no solid argument could spill from her lips. She wanted Jafarr to rescue her. But she went silent, breathing heavily and closed her eyes.

The Master watched her lay there in anticipation. Then he said, “Open your eyes. You must join me while facing me, or the ceremony must be done again.”

Cringing, trembling, Zormna opened her eyes, trying to maintain her view on his chest and not lower.

Satisfied, he started his lovemaking once more, shifting her dress out of the way.

As she felt him enter her, deep and quick, Zormna arched her back, letting out a scream. Heat enveloped every piece of her as pain and pressure increased within her lower half beyond anything she had ever endured before. She could feel her belly swell outward, stretching her skin more than ever. But then, something new happened. She felt something fleshy and alive latch down below, sucking up against her so it was impossible to separate from him. And it moved, stroking her erogenous zones while also slathering on some sort of slimy juice which gave her the same exact tingling sensation as the balm. It felt startlingly good. With a ripple of stimulating strokes causing her to breathe harder as his coil pulsed deeper into her, her ears ringing, the sensation ripped her into deep orgasm.

This was full mating. And damn… it was better than morning treatment. She did not want it to stop.

The smell of her Master filled her nostrils as her inner cavity pulsed to an overwhelmingly degree which she was not sure if she loved or hated—yet the sensation of acute pleasure grew explosive. Her legs were shaking. She clung onto him for more.

In the distance, she could hear the hens warble, going louder with each second of this intense conjoining, bringing with it a surge of she-didn’t-know-what which whipped through her muscles and nerves, keeping her barely connected to the real world. Though, she could hardly see beyond his chest and roving mouth, she clung to him as the sensations overwhelmed her. Yet she felt like she was watching someone else go through bodily invasion rather than being the one invaded. Dreamlike, horrifyingly so, it was brutal—especially because she was no longer herself, but him also. Something synched. They moaned out together with pleasure. They clung to one another as if they wanted to literally become one creature. Their hearts beat together. They breathed together. It was awful and wonderful at the same time. No wonder the lap girls wanted their masters so badly. They had not lied to her. It was mind-blowing.

Time slowed. Sound muted more. In her ears, his guttural dinosaur cries stabbed, drawing out her own exclamations as if dragged by his claws. And with them, the wives’ chanting had become distant echoes, like calls from a far-off mountain. Blood rushed to the tips of her fingers and toes, paralyzing her. Zormna could barely feel her muscles which ached under the strain of his weight as his coil pulsed deeper and deeper into her as if to make sure they could never separate again—and part of her never wanted to be separated. This heavy internal beating seemed to last forever. And just when her mind started to slip back into her body under the brutal pressure of this internal assault, an intense rush yanked her straight up into the very ecstasy those other lap girls had described.

It was nothing she could have anticipated. Way, way better than morning treatment. A thousand times.

Glorious.

But that word felt wrong. It was the wrong word. Inadequate in its scope. And inaccurate, considering how it conflicted with her other feelings. It was… triumphant, transcendent, agonizingly beautiful, and yet… hell. It was like reaching heaven and finding her torturer was god—and then loving him, wanting him to torture her more and harder and to never stop. He had made pain become pleasure. It felt so bad and yet oh so good at the same time.

Through her ringing ears, the Master trumpeted with such a sound she had never heard before. Exultant. Reptilian. Bird. And something else, which drew out her own voice which she could not restrain from the grand ecstasy of it—like a long and strong halleluiah. A flood of something mind-blowing washed into and through her, stimulating every nerve within her lower half, spreading to the rest of her body with desire. That flood extracted out of her something so incomprehensibly primal—a cry half between pain and severe enjoyment, so much that she felt like she had ripped out and sacrificed her own heart to it.

In the distance, the wives let out a similar call. Through her blurry vision, she saw them engage into a different dance, though to Zormna’s eyes they were a mere mirage.

Unfortunately, the fantastic rapture did not last.

Pain returned to her like a baby desperate to get out of her womb, as did reality. And it really hurt.

Zormna fell back against the bed with such a heavy earth-grounding thump that she felt as weak as jelly and uncomfortably constipated. The Master slumped heavily on top of her, nearly crushing her from his own exhaustion, putting more pressure on her inner thighs.

Turning her head to breathe, almost smothered by the weight of his sweaty chest, Zormna’s mind returned with acute comprehension. It was done. He was done. But what was that incredible thing that took her from pain? All of it. And why did it have to stop?

One word floated up. Insemination.

A shiver ran through Zormna as she tried to adjust to his crushing weight between her legs so it would not strain her ligaments. He had finally completed her training. As painful and nasty as it was to get to that point, he was finished—at least with the ritual. They would probably have sex like that from then on. A horrid part of her looked forward to it. She just hoped she wouldn’t get pregnant—if that was possible anymore. Though he had just put his sperm into her, something she had thought he had already done, by clearly hadn’t until now, she was sure he had caused plenty of damage to her inner cavity in this last act of sex. Probably tearing. She would be bleeding for certain this time. Internally bruised. Unfortunately, she could not tell because of the daily numbing treatment had severely reduced all internal sensations to the bare minimum. But if she did get pregnant, it wasn’t likely she would be able to carry the baby full term. A compromised cervix and an obliterated uterine lining would not be able to hold and nurture a child. His phallus had destroyed it. She was just too small and he—

“For Bukkozz,” he breathed, rising up with effort. Somehow, he had physically detached from her after climax, coiling back into himself. She had not even felt it. The Master took a few more breaths, kissed Zormna tenderly on the forehead as reward for enduring it all so well, but then his coil came out of him again, inserting back inside her to go for another, deeper round. He sounded wiped out himself as he panted over her, once more inflicting pain upon her internal organs as he worked to latch on below once again.

Bukkozz was the name of one of the four gods.

Agony eroded Zormna’s heart, as he worked to make their pelvises meet for the connection while he continued to snake in. He wasn’t done. The ritual probably required insemination four times at least—one for each god. But once was already way too much. Her body was so sore. Her insides felt entirely stretched to the limit. Everything below her ribs ached. Her legs were starting to cramp. But he was going to complete the ritual.

Bracing herself, Zormna only hoped that each time it got better, and once it was all finally over, he would generously treat her sore body with dollops of the numbing balm and let her rest from her duties for at least a day. The latter wasn’t likely—though considering how much effort he was currently straining to put into the second round of mating, he would most likely want a rest himself. Unfortunately, this time Zormna struggled to detach from the pain as he filled her insides with his pulsing coil, until that new organ finally latched on once more. At least the latching brought some pleasure as it lubricated and massaged her crotch. The good part would come again.

“Master Governor Xochzong, I must speak with you.” A distant voice broke through the lusty rhythm of the wives’ mating song and his lovemaking.

The household of wives turned to look at the Th’san standing in the doorway. Zormna saw him out of the corner of her eye through vision blurred by sweat and tears. It was unclear how much their visitor had witnessed of the union. She had a feeling he had been watching for a while but had only decided to speak up now.

Hot and sweaty, the Master jerked up from her with a fierce expression, spitting as he spoke. “Didn’t I say today was ritual day? I will not accept visitors!”

Panting heavily under the strain, Zormna hazily looked to the visitor. Her ears were ringing. She could hardly focus her eyes. And yet she recognized the color of the military uniform on this intruding Th’san. He was a fool if he thought he could just walk in and interrupt her Master. As Master Governor of that region, he had power to destroy the careers of many in the military.

The soldier shook his head. “I am sorry, but I must interrupt your pleasuring. This is important.”

The Master sat up, utterly perturbed. Zormna’s hands automatically pawed his chest to pull him back—to urge him to just finish it, give her that ecstasy again—but he gently kissed her fingers then painfully extracted himself from her.

Zormna pulled her legs in, curling up into fetal position as it felt like her insides had just been removed. She whimpered, sobbing. The pain was back.

Drawing his green robes over himself and growling while he climbed off the bed, the Master tromped over to the intruder as his pulsating phallus coiled back into his internal cavity. “Alright. Make it quick.”

“Uh, Master Governor, this concerns her.” The soldier pointed to Zormna who was now checking to see if she was bleeding. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.

Glancing back at her, the Master turned with a frown. “What is it? What do you need from my lap girl?”

The soldier walked past the Master to stand before the tiny abused lap girl. “Tell me. What are they doing? What are their plans?”

Zormna struggled to sit up, clutching her aching abdominals while tugging down the front flap to her dress to cover herself. Her eyes whipped to her Master. She had long stopped answering questions from visitors without his permission.

He nodded for her to speak.

“They who?” she croaked. Her throat was raw from so much heavy breathing.

The soldier swung his hand back to hit her. “Your people! Fool!”

The Master caught his wrist before it could make contact with her, jerking him away from his possession. “She has been here in my bed the entire time. How would she know that her people are doing?”

Though Zormna had to agree with that answer, her blood started to pump into her chest with renewed hope. Up until now, no visiting soldier ever addressed her, let alone wanted her around when he talked business with her Master. They had always sent her out. Always. Something had changed.

Hardly convinced, the soldier glared at her. “No, Master Governor. Even here she knows what they are doing.”

Zormna stared, confused, wondering what he meant.

“They can’t contact her,” the Master retorted with an appalled gasp.

“They can’t?” the soldier cynically countered. “Are you sure? They have other ways of contacting each other without technology. These are Odos. Survivors of apocalypse. Monsters.”

The Master merely shook his head at the sheer nonsense the soldier was spewing.

Monsters? Zormna would have laughed if she had heard the Th’sans call her this a year ago. But survivors, yes. Her people were phenomenal survivors. All humans were. Adaptation was one of humanity’s defining characteristics.

“They have been converging on this world, as if honing in on her. Their fleets are heading to this sector,” the soldier shouted, face flushing.

Zormna’s Master turned with a sharp look on her. She could see his mind working quickly.

And yet the soldier’s words brought a swelling of hope to Zormna. They were converging on this world. Their fleets were heading to this sector… A sighing, glazed smile rested on her lips. Zormna breathed deep. “Jafarr.”

In two steps, the Master snatched her off the bed, shaking her with a snarl. “Have you been speaking with them? With your seer boy?”

“No, Master. No.” Zormna shrank down in his large hands, cowering. “I haven’t spoken to him since….” She wondered. Did during the ceremony count as speaking to him? She was calling for him, and she had felt his answer. He was coming.

“You spoke to him?” His voice rose, leveling over her like thunder, shaking her harder.

Rattled, Zormna shook her head. “He comes to me my dreams sometimes. I sometimes hear him.”

The Master paled. “In your dreams?”

Zormna nodded. “Yes. Where we always meet.”

“How?” The Master stared more, raking over her as if this new revelation was beyond anything he had expected.

“We are connected,” Zormna said, everything in her aching. “It is his duty to protect me, given by the Creator himself. He feels my pain. We have shared dreams for years, even when he and I hated each other. I told you. He is special.”

The Master stopped shaking her. A thousand thoughts were passing behind his eyes. “Does he know anything else?”

Weeping, Zormna nodded, wishing he would let her go. Everything inside hurt, and now so did her arms and her shoulders. “The garden. He knows the garden, and possibly the moons. This room. I told you this before. He can see what I see. He is a seer.”

Turning toward the soldier while pulling his property tightly to his chest, the Master said in a low grave voice, “She told me he was coming for her. But honestly, I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Well,” the soldier frowned disapprovingly, “whoever is leading their army had changed tactics. We can’t predict their moves anymore, except this—they will be here next. They are after her.”

The Master’s eyes grew wide. He turned to his wives. “The children.”

The hens scattered. Each one rushed away, shooting deadly looks at Zormna who could hardly move within the crushing grip against her Master’s chest. Of course, the hens blamed her for everything. It was her fault this soldier had come. It was her fault their husband wanted to have her as a lap girl. It was her fault her people were now converging on their world to retrieve her. Her fault. And when this was over, they were sure to find a way to punish her if they could.

Nodded to himself, resolving his choices quickly, the Master said mostly to himself, “We’ll have to evacuate the city.”

“Prepare for a fight,” the soldier replied, his snake eyes sharply on Zormna as if he too thought the war was all her fault. Which in this case it really was. If she had not been so determined to free all human slaves, there would not have been a war. And their empire probably would have taken over Earth next—or at least tried to. Zormna was sure Earth nations would have nuked the Th’sans, having no qualms about it.

The Master nodded, carrying Zormna in his arms to the desk and opened a sealed computer panel that had been well-hid from her to access probably some kind of general communications message for the evacuation of his people. Zormna clung dumbly to her Master’s bed robe wondering where he would take them all. If they evacuated before Jafarr reached them, then possibly Jafarr would never find them. If she could contact Jafarr, reach out to warn him, she could help him follow her. Zormna only hoped that the soldier had come too late. She needed Jafarr to find them. This hell had gone on long enough.

“We want her,” the soldier said, following the Master to his workstation.

The Master turned from his computer terminal. “What?”

Bowing respectfully, the soldier made his request again. “Master Governor Xochzong, the fleet needs the information in her head. She used to be a soldier. She is their queen, so she knows the adversary intimately. Her knowledge will help us.”

“I won’t help you,” Zormna whispered. It was her first defiant remark since she refused to play the games weeks ago. And though it made her blood run cold to say it in the presence of her Master, it also felt good.

Both the soldier and the Master stared at her. The former looked likely to spit. The latter seemed appalled that she still had the strength to defy him.

“You’ll help us, or you will die,” the soldier bit out.

The Master opened his mouth to protest, but Zormna’s quiet determined whispers stopped him. “Then I will die. And they will destroy you.”

The soldier swung up his clawed hand.

The Master quickly pulled her out of the soldier’s reach before the Th’san could make contact. “Do not assume you can harm my property.”

“Your property,” the soldier seethed through his teeth with a snarl at the Master, “is their queen, and she is still poisonous.”

Still poisonous? Is that how the Th’sans had seen her all this time? Had she impressed their army that much? Again, she wondered what they thought of her Master training her for lap girl service all this time. Did they see him as brave or insane? Most likely both. But she was too tired to even see humor in their conversation. Zormna clung to her Master’s robes, breathing softly as a captured pet long subdued. And despite her declaration, she really didn’t want to die. Jafarr was coming for her. She wanted to meet him.

The two Th’sans glared at each other with low gurgles in the silenced of the Master’s chambers while the rest of the house echoed with panic, the sound came loudest from the servants’ hall as the wives ran around to collect their children. Heaving an irritated sigh, her Master broke the silence first, shaking his head.

“I will take her myself,” he said. “You will not remove her from me.”

“And she will aid us,” the soldier snarled with bite, his eyes fixing with such loathing on her. He turned with a militaristic pivot, marching toward the foyer to perhaps a waiting vehicle outside.

“Yes, she will.” The Master agreed. A deep gurgling rumble resonated in his voice, his eyes taking her in also. She could tell he was displeased with her behavior, especially with this news over her fleets converging on their world. And though Zormna trembled, ducking her head to his chest to avoid his commanding gaze, her heart thundered with excitement.  

Jafarr was coming.

 

They evacuated the women, children, and old men out of the city within the last hours of the day, traffic appallingly aggressive as they loaded into their vehicles. The Master’s wives fled north with his children. Zormna could hear the eldest daughter pining for her southern lover while the others trembled with horror at losing their house and all their nice things. But the Master did not join them. By the orders of the Imperial Army of Th’song, the Master took Zormna without even changing her from her ceremonial dress, bound wrist and ankle, and they were escorted by the soldier via military shuttle to the battleship that was orbiting near their planet. It was a quick trip, exhilarating for her being back on space craft. The moment they were aboard the large vessel, both dignitary and prisoner were stowed in a spacious suite on the spacecraft undoubtedly set up for political bigwigs. And yet while they boarded, Zormna caught the vicious stares of all the Th’sans aboard the ship. Each embittered soldier looked more inclined to torture her and lock her up in a brig than to allow her Master simply to carry her like a favored pet. But the thrill of being on space craft whipped through her.

As soon as they were situated in their private room, the Master exhaled. He did not look comfortable with space travel, something which surprised her considering all his business trips. In fact, he seemed a little nauseous. She had never really seen this side of him before. Nervous. Out of his element. Not in control… Though, the more she thought about it, he was like this when they had been at fighting arena way back. It had that same kind of feel. This wasn’t his scene.

But for herself, taking in all the machinery, the feel of the faux-gravity on her body, this was coming home. While the enormous war ship soared out of orbit and into general space, Zormna stared out the port hole at the stars. Her beloved stars. A shiver rippled through her with the sensation of sweet familiarity.

However, the Master quickly picked her up, and set her on his lap. He whispered as he held her close to him, “This is no place to continue the ceremony. But once this over, we will.”

Zormna closed her eyes, hoping that would never happen. She was back in space for pity’s sake. That put her one step closer to escape. One step closer to Jafarr. She was no longer bound by the walls of the Master’s home and garden. The only thing he had to restrain her was the machine and sheer terror of upsetting him.

Overhead lights flashed on with a ripple of yellow and green light. The intercom let off a high-pitched screech, then broke into digitally-generated speech. << Brace for folding. Brace for folding. Brace for folding. >>

The Master hastily carried her to a seat where he searched for restraints to keep from being jostle in the actual space jump. Reflexively, Zormna clung to her Master’s chest, remembering how awful the Th’san folding process was, much worse than in an Arrassian ship. It was not just the usual discomfort, but awful jostling. A soldier in attendance had to help Master arrange his seat belts, showing him how to lock them together. There was no such belt for Zormna of course, but her Master held her tight enough in his arms, absent-mindedly stroking her hair and twirling her curls with the tip of his claw in his nervousness. He kissed her once and hissed a gurgle to remind her once more that he had not forgotten his plans for that day.

Space folding initiated with a lurch.

The cold enveloped them all at once. Every being and object on the ship harshly went through a pinhole point and then just as abruptly all passengers were steaming hot and breathless, emerged on the other side. The Master gasped, clinging to Zormna in his own shock. But when he looked down at her, watching Zormna as she merely exhaled and shook out her curls so the wetness of her sweat would evaporate. His grip tightened. Feeling it, she lifted her gaze to his face. She immediately flinched at the almost accusatory glare, annoyed that she was so completely comfortable in this environment. She ducked her head between her shoulders.

In his glassy birdish eyes, she could see the gears in his mind work. He looked about the cabin, adding up how much of a bad idea it was to take her into space. It worried him. He wasn’t stupid. She could see his mind reliving the incident at the arena. She could see him calculating how easily he could lose her. And though there were guards everywhere, somehow, he felt they were not as reliable. His hand rested on the machine, just in case he needed to use it.

A highly-decorated Th’san soldier stepped into the room, crossing directly to the Master as soon as the heat in the cabin died. With a click of his clawed heels, the soldier bowed, leering dangerously at the small, still luxuriously dressed human who was clinging to her Master’s chest. He saw her eyes go to all entry areas, gaps in venting and machinery, and therefore possible exits. His gaze narrowed with comprehension. “Come, Master Governor Xochzong. Take her to the fighting bridge.”

Still breathless from space folding, her Master had a difficult time standing. It took a moment, but he undid his seat belt, getting to his feet while clutching Zormna tighter to him. He could easily see Zormna gaze yearningly at the technology around her and at escape routes. She felt electrified being surrounded by so much easy-to-manipulate tech. So many options….

“This is a bad idea…” her Master murmured. His eyes shot to the soldiers. “You had better make this quick. She should not be among military facilities.”

From the look in the soldiers’ eyes, it was clear they agreed—though perhaps not for the same reasons.

As soon as they arrived at the fighting bridge, rising up through a set of stairs from the bottom center, Zormna got such a view as she had never quite beheld. An enormous panoramic screen wrapped around the bridge like a bubble so they could see into space three hundred and sixty degrees. It was brilliant tech. Yet the screens buzzed in spots with glitches clearly caused by damage from prior battles. Wiring hung out of the ceiling from open panels which were being worked on by various Th’sans—though chunks were entirely broken off and burned. Much of the battle bridge was mid-repairs. The Master glanced around to the right and to the left, this way and that, taking in the extent of the damage with increasing dismay, obviously disappointed that all the reports that the war was going poorly were true. And all of this made Zormna’s heart thump with delight. The war had never stopped. The success of her people was beautiful.

“What happened?” the Master murmured.

“They’ve been here,” Zormna replied without meaning to, almost laughing for joy. Tears came to her eyes.

“Yes,” one soldier snapped with a bite, clearly furious at her existence—especially irritated that she could speak Th’san well. “They’ve been here. They nearly blew up the ship too, killing hundreds of Th’songs.”

Zormna stifled the snarky remark she would have made in any normal circumstance, pulling closer to her Master’s chest for protection. These soldiers would kill her if they could. And she had no weapons—yet. She eyed the ones on the soldiers nearby, wondering if they were code-locked, personalized or the general-use sort that anyone could grab. She hoped the latter.

“She recognizes her people’s handiwork,” the captain of the ship said with a low forbidding hiss, striding over to them. His piercing glare fixed on Zormna as if he would hammer her to the floor, straight through her chest. “But can she answer how they got on the ship? How we can block it?”

All Th’san eyes turned with savage inquiry on her.

Zormna trembled, clinging to her Master. They deeply, sincerely looked inclined to just rip her apart right there. She had to get a weapon soon and snatch the machine from the Master, or she would be in serious trouble.

But the Master exhaled with authority and pried her from him, especially from his clothes, holding her out like one would a naughty kitten, and turned her around to face the captain to answer him. He set her on a workstation chair without letting go. Zormna averted her eyes to the floor, especially under the weight of the Master’s disapproving gaze. It was like she was on trial again, only this time she actually felt guilty.

“Tell them,” the Master ordered.

Her hands grew damp. Zormna shrugged, speaking a little above a whisper, while eying the nearest gun at the hip of a guard. “How would I know? I’ve been yours for, I don’t know, a year or more?”

Faces like stone, the soldiers inched in. It made their guns closer too.

The captain pointed to the battle on the screens. Their ship was far enough from it to not be in the fray but still close enough to see a portion of the Arrassian fleet battling it out with their ships. One large craft a distance away started to explode as if something failed in the inside or reacted to volatile substances. Zipping in and out of these larger ships were little craft fashioned with such lovely familiarity that Zormna relaxed with a sigh, gazing longingly at the battle.

“Look at them fight.”

A soldier swung out and stuck her across the head. He nearly took the jeweled crown she was wearing off, along with part of her scalp.

Her Master caught Zormna before she could hit the floor, screaming at the soldier. It sounded nearly like Spielberg’s tyrannosaur. If she ever got out of this, she might tell him. However, Zormna clutched her head, pulling the jeweled ornamentation off, trying to separate it from her curls while the blood dribbled down from her hairline. It didn’t untangle. Hairs pulled out. Her ears were ringing too much for her to understand most of the argument, though if she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was in Jurassic Park.

“—Then make her tell us how they are getting on our ships!” the captain’s voice at last reached her clearly.

Panting hard, Zormna clung to her Master, pulling herself up with jeweled hat in her hand. “I told you. I don’t know.”

“Liar,” the Th’san captain hissed. “You know. Even if you don’t know, you know.”

Zormna blinked up at him, resisting the urge to throw the jewels in her hand at him. “That makes no sense.”

He swung up to slap her again, but the Master jerked her away, putting himself in between. He grabbed the jewels from her hand, restraining her. “You will not harm my lap girl!”

“Then exert your influence on her before we are forced to remove her from you and torture it out of her!” the captain shouted back.

Petulantly, the Master pulled Zormna aside, making sure she met his gaze, setting the jeweled netting back on her head, much to her annoyance. But his reptilian gaze cowed her. “You have to tell them.”

“I really don’t know,” Zormna explained, hunching down with a pathetic beg, knowing it was displeasing him. His voice had gone low with a gurgle that threatened in such a way that she knew if she disobeyed him further, she would have the worst stomach pain that night.

He held her arms tighter, eying her hard as if he could extract a different response.

“She has to know,” the captain hissed, his frustration in every clucking sound, realizing that perhaps she was telling the truth. “They get on without a noise. No ship. No radio line—”

Zormna burst into a laugh, quickly covering it with her hand.

The Th’san swung up to slap her, yet looked to the Master, hesitating.

Master leaned away from her, recognizing the incredulity in her voice. “Why did you find that funny?”

Ducking her head down, Zormna cringed. “Please, Master, you will be angry if I say.”

“I will be angry if you do not say,” he clucked.

Closing her eyes, Zormna hoped that her people would forgive her for sharing this one thing with the enemy. “Arrassians don’t transport with radio.”

“Because you are primitive,” the captain snarled.

Her eyes flashed open, glaring at him with proud if not savage indignation. “No. We don’t need the radio to transport. Our technology is much more advanced.”

Though this was not the first time her Master heard her talk like this, her renewed defiance, which he had clearly believed he had knocked out her, upset him. But instead of inflicting punishment on her, he shot a look at the soldiers—blaming them instead.   

“How dare you!” The captain yanked her from her Master, shaking her. “You are nothing more than a dirt walker! The Th’san are the holy people! You blaspheme the language by speaking such things with it!”

“They’re winning, aren’t they?” Zormna grinned despite offending everyone in the room and getting throttled. It was such a great feeling.

The Th’san threw her to the floor amid shouts from her Master.

Crumpling the moment she struck the mesh metal ground, Zormna moaned. Her legs had slid along the sharp no-skid edges, gouging scratches down them. Yet she chuckled to herself as she lay there, as this sort of abuse was more up to her speed—and hardly anything compared to the machine. She could fight against this.

“That is not the way to handle my lap girl!” the Master boomed, stomping quickly to her. He hoisted her up from the ground, cradling her gently yet tightly to his chest, checking for bruises while glaring at the scrapes on her legs and arms. “If you want information from her, you get it through me. You don’t know her psyche. Don’t you realize you can’t beat it out of her? She will never betray her people if you do that! It only builds up her resistance against you.”

Zormna shuddered, gazing palely at him. His anger took the breath out of her. Her limbs felt weak. It was terrible how well he knew her. It would have been better for her if these soldiers had taken her from her Master, because he was right. She would never openly betray her people—at least not intentionally.

Then, as if they were alone rather than surrounded by Th’san military, the Master sighed, rocking her close to his chest. He whispered with gurgles that all will be fine, that she was safe with him.

With a shiver, Zormna clung close out of conditioning. And the Th’sans watched her, mostly with skepticism, though the captain gazed with a little more intelligence in his eyes. Under her Master’s intense stare, Zormna’s mind weakened to cracking point as her body shifted against his in full submission. All was not fine, but she belonged to him. She could hardly deny him anything. The ritualistic joining had really messed her up. What he wanted must be obeyed. To do anything else was unthinkable. Her body was screaming for him to give her more of what he had started that morning, despite how it also ached. And that quashed all rebellious thought from her mind.

“Ask me what you want to know,” the Master said to them. The sound in her ears seemed to echo. His voice was all that mattered now.

The captain glared at the Master with an almost growl. “This is so ridiculous. But all right. Ask her if she knows a so-called superior way they could use to get onto our ships.”

Zormna heard his words and trembled. It was their best kept secret. Would the Th’sans be able to counter it if they knew how her people did it? And when the Master promptly spoke to her in his low and commanding voice, better worded, her limbs shook.  

“Zoamo, do you know of a way they may be using to enter our ships unnoticed?”

Of course, she knew. Clutching his suit front tighter in her fists, Zormna nodded with a sob.

“Well, what is it?” the captain asked impatiently.

Her Master nudged her to speak.

Sighing again with a hope that her people would forgive her, Zormna whispered, “I invented it. It was my invention.”

Pulling her back from him a degree, the Master peered into her face, blinking at her in astonishment. “You what?”

Zormna lowered her eyes so she would not have to look at him, whispering. “Our people were getting stolen from our ships. I had to stop it. So, I created a solution better than rotating radio frequencies. Your fleet figured that one out too easily. So, I made a quick emergency escape.”

The soldiers murmured over it. The captain stood as one floored, astonished beyond measure.

“An old project really,” Zormna murmured with pain and yet pride at her accomplishment. “I hadn’t perfected it quite yet at the time I was picked up, but it was almost ready. I had the perfect prototype. They must have—” She froze, gazing into space with wide eyes. Her memory went back to that prototype and what she had done with it. “Jafarr must have finished it.” Warm electricity ran through her. A grin spread across Zormna’s face, realizing she had given it to him. “Jafarr has been using it!”

“Zhufod?” The Master shook her. “Him again?”

Tears rolled down Zormna’s face. She laughed, feeling so relieved. “Of course! He will not stop until he finds me!”

Howling, the Master possessively clutched her to his chest with jealous passion. “No! He cannot have you! You are mine!”

Zormna did not fight him. Stuck in his meaty grip, she trembled instead with a swelling hope. Jafarr would never give up on her, even if the Master were to take her somewhere far away, even if that Th’san defiled her in every way imaginable, and even if she ended up pregnant with her Master’s spawn. Jafarr would come for her and rescue her.

“Who is this Zhufod?” the captain asked him, eying her up. His voice had grown tense with intellectual inquiry. Apparently, he thought this was more useful information than the previous facts.

The Master seethed through his teeth, hating the very existence of Jafarr. “Her guard, she says. One with seer gifts. But he will not have her. I will not let him!”

“A seer?” Several of the Th’san murmured, exchanging wary looks. Apparently, they believed in such things.

“She will cost you your life,” the captain snapped with loathing. “It would be better to have her killed and take another lap girl.”

Zormna’s heart thumped against her Master’s chest as she heard this. She wondered if he would. It did make logical sense. But the Master had spent over a year trying to break her down and tame her. She was more than a financial investment with him now. She was a passion project. He had barely started the ritual to make her officially one of his… whatever, mistress or something; and their union must have been as mind-blowing for him as it had been for her… though it was possible that was norm for his kind. So, it was no surprise that, defiantly, the Master clenched her possessively to him. She could tell just by the rhythm of his heart beat that he was determined to keep her no matter what—even if it meant his death. That didn’t make any logical sense, considering the risks. A larger, more docile lap girl would be easier to handle. Why did he want to keep her so badly?

Conversely, all the Th’sans in the room stared silently at the tiny human female as if to slay her right there would end the war. It was crazy Th’san logic. They really did not understand humans as well as they thought. Maybe martyrdom did not exist among Th’sans. Perhaps they thought she somehow held the universe in her trembling hands. Maybe they would eat her.

The battle beyond raged. Their view screens showing the explosions getting nearer and nearer. But this standstill of wills lasted hardly a minute—though they did not break it. Ship sirens shrieked about the battle deck. Lights immediately flashed.

“They’re on the ship! They’re on the ship!”

“They’ll come here!” The captain shouted to his soldiers. “Get ready!”

“Why here?” The Master lifted himself and his prized-possession up, looking around as if the humans would jump out on them like hordes of poisonous spiders.

Slapping Zormna on the head, the captain snapped. “Because she is here. They are attracted to human bodies. They come for the slaves, steal them, and then blow up the ship. They will not destroy the ship until they have her.”

“She is the only human on board, captain!” the second in command shouted. “They will not fail to blow it this time!”

“Evacuate the ship!” the captain called out.

Everyone scrambled as another high-pitched wail echoed in the halls.

Clutching Zormna to his chest, the Master ran out of the battle bridge, following the captain and ship’s crew to the escape pods. Almost in answer, the thumping of booted, human feet made chase. Voices in Aloean cried out, shouting for them to stop and give up the human.

“How is it they can tell where the human is?” the Master shouted to the captain.

The captain was hardly able to answer, though Zormna mumbled how into his chest. “Our sensors can read human heartbeat patterns, measure heat, volume, and density…” But no one really heard her over the cries for surrender and laser fire. She felt numb under the grip of his clawed arms, just listening to the battle and the beating of his heart. There was no way she could make a break for it anyway, even if she dared fight against her Master’s powerful grip and the machine. Any one of the Th’san soldiers would shoot her the moment she was free.

Instead, she watched her own soldiers in Surface Patrol green, purple, and silver uniforms race after her, alongside Earth men strapped in military black bullet proof vests. Most had helmets on, though some looked like plain-clothed rebel volunteers, those setting bombs in the room the Th’sans had just abandoned. Inside her heart, Zormna cheered them for continuing the fight, but she had no voice with her body so pressed against her Master. Except—

“Jafarr!” Zormna clawed up her Master’s shoulder. His grip held her too tight for her to truly get out from his arms, his claws keeping her there. She reached back to the man whose black hair was unmistakable among all the others setting bombs.

Jafarr lifted his head, his dark eyes going wide.

Immediately, Jafarr dashed from the raiding party, breaking through the soldiers firing upon the Th’sans fleeing to the escape pods, grabbing a Th’san weapon off of the floor. “Zormna!”

All the Arrassian heads lifted, seeing her. “Sha Thal’a[1]!”

The Master turned, squinting his eyes to see through the smoke and platoon of humans pursuing after them. But the Th’san soldiers with them pushed him onward and down the corridor to an open doorway. Jafarr bolted after them, shoving through the saboteurs and the Arrassian officers to get a clear aim at the Th’san that was carrying her way. Her sparkling green attire and snow-white skin was all he saw among their enemy, and he kept his eyes on that as he pushed through.

“Jafarr! Jafarr! Al za tan![2]” she cried out, sobbing and wriggling to get free.

“Shut her up or I will!” the captain hissed loudly at the Master.

The Master clamped his hand over Zormna’s mouth and pulled her back down against his chest to smother her into silence. In pursuit, the dark-haired human shouted back to her. His feet pounded through the crowd towards them like some wild animal in a leap to kill its prey.

“Zormna! Lodp’kai ane’m nee shakova Th’san[3]!” Jafarr’s voice cut through the noise of thumping feet and below the high-pitched siren and shriek of laser fire.

The bridge crew dived into the nearest escape pod, shoving the Master inside with his prized human. The other soldiers scrambled into the next pod. They snapped the door shut just before the humans reached them.

Even before they could take a seat, the Th’sans heard a harsh thump against the metal of their door. It repeated, pounding against it as if the human would tear the metal apart with his bare hands. Then they heard his hands scrape near the controls.

“He can open the door!” The Master shouted at the captain, his eyes nearly as big as saucers from horror. “Let’s go!”

The escape pod jettisoned into space.

The captain glared at the Master. “Don’t order me around again, Master Governor. Or I will kill you and your lap girl both.”

 

Jafarr turned the moment he heard the escape vehicle detach, dropping the wiring to the door. “Not this time.”

He pressed the tiny pin on his chest.

 

[1] The queen!

[2] I am here!

[3] Drop her you foul Th’san!

Recovery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty:

 

“Good things come to those who wait.”—Anon—

 

 

 

“I want a trace on those pods! Search for a human,” Jafarr shouted, running from the transport pad to the battle bridge.

Alea Salvar turned and glared at him. “We don’t have time to chase down every single one!”

“Zormna is in one of those!” Jafarr barked back, going to the computer interface himself.

The Zeta leader rushed to that computer, bellowing to the soldier manning the interface below. “Scan and trace those pods!”

The tiny individual ships disappeared one by one, folding space to who knew where. Both Jafarr and Salvar watched, gripping the machine panels before them. They waited. Jafarr turned, scouring the machine displays before him.

“Please tell me you have her,” Alea Salvar said, looking over at the sweaty determined-looking soldier.

The computer screen flashed and drew up several star charts, rotating and twisting until it settled on one.

“Got her!” Jafarr declared.

Without wasting a second, Jafarr turned to go back to the transport pad. Alea Salvar grabbed him. “Are you nuts? An individual can’t fold that far! Have a plan, for pity’s sake!”

Jafarr angled his head in a way that reminded Alea Salvar that the man once had been a rebel leader. “I have a plan. I have a troop already set up for this, just in case.”

Alea Salvar let go, heart thumping.

“You’ll need to take this ship over there, so you better alert the pilots out in battle to dock with another battleship,” Jafarr said, reaching to the wall control panel.

The Zeta leader nodded, turning. “Anzer Tlen, inform our fleet of our departure.”

“Yes, sir,” the anzer replied.

Jafarr nodded, pressed the panel and vanished in a flash of cold air.

 

The Master climbed out of the escape pod into the space station docking bay still clutching Zormna to him. She had gone silent since they folded space, wondering if Jafarr knew where they had escaped to. Hope overflowed every inch of her. Her eyes glittered with tears, knowing that he had found her and he would again, even while the Master carried her across the threshold of the bay into the familiar space station halls, bickering angrily over what to do with her now that the infamous Zhufod had seen her.

“Don’t you see? She is not worth throwing away your life! Your people cannot afford to lose you!” The captain had kept shouting for the Master to give her up so the military could use her to threaten the humans.

“She is mine!” the Master snapped back for the umpteenth time, furiously stubborn. His sinews and muscles were taut—clearly rattled of not utterly threatened over the abrupt appearance of the very one Zormna had predicted would find her, the one he knew she loved. “I didn’t even get to complete the entire union! After all that effort to train her, if your soldiers had waited just one moment longer… today was ritual day! I could have finished before we had taken to space. Everything is spoiled! How can I be satisfied now?”

The trained impulse to cling to the Master’s chest kept Zormna immobile, despite the increasing hope that Jafarr would save her from him. No. Not hope. She knew it. She could feel it. Jafarr was coming for her now. And yet she was unable run from her Master.

“Then have coitus with her now. Finish the ritual. I will give you an hour of pleasure. Then give her to us,” the captain declared with the intent to compromise. “We can use her to end this war.”

“Three hours would be more fitting, and she would be on loan. I’ll want her back, whole,” the Master said, already stroking Zormna’s head. Her hands balled into tighter fists, knowing what she would have to endure once the soldiers had her. Her prediction of her nasty future was coming true. Jafarr had a small window. Hopefully, he would get to her before they shipped her out again.

The captain snorted. “If you want her back that badly, I’ll allow two, and I will provide the room.”

“I must have a witness,” the Master said with frustrated insistence. “My wives are gone to the northern provenance—”

“I will witness,” the captain replied with a darker leer at Zormna, whose frame had begun to shake. His gills fluttered. Undoubtedly, he would enjoy watching the Master rape her.

Yet seeing Jafarr had split Zormna’s mind, waking part of it which had been dormant for a while. Currently, her mind and her body were bickering. Her body wanted one thing only since the ritual had given her that moment of utter euphoria, and her Master was going to fulfill that for her. But her mind was screaming at her body to kick the Master in the head and break the neck of the captain and run. A detached part her mind had her calmly watch it all like a robot, which was what the Master was handling when they hauled her away from the docking bay.

The captain led the Master to a simple room that was intensely familiar. Like stepping back in time to when she was sixteen at her first capture, it was exactly like the room in that space station they had locked her in, the one she had escaped from after the Th’sans had put her on trial. The gritty textured floor glittered dully, and the ceiling had its panels which she knew was full of gaps she could escape into. Her mind raced, wondering if they would leave her alone after the ritual to recuperate or if the soldiers would take her directly to some other place to torture her for military secrets. If Jafarr was coming for her, she wanted to meet him half way if possible—and that ceiling was looking like her only exit.

Her Master carried her directly to the bed. He laid her down on it. As he stripped off his pants, her mind went numb, knowing exactly now what to expect, though Zormna wondered how long it would take for him to inseminate her three more times. And would she be too exhausted after he was done to attempt an escape? She could hardly walk after the first time, and she was still sore. She needed to stop him, or at least delay him to give Jafarr more time.

He climbed on the bed over to her, spreading her legs to begin again.

“Please,” she whispered to him as he moved her skirt aside and climbed on top of her. “Please no.”

But without a word, he lifted her medallion to the side, his claws lightly stroking her skin with the same threatening feel as having a knife held to her neck. He went into that birdish neck dance, fitting into position.

She cried out, as he once more occupied her inner cavity to its limit, latching on. Time seemed to slow down. All the rhythms returned. All the passions and pain. The feeling of being no longer just herself but him as well overwhelmed her. All sounds in the room muted except for the thunder of his heart and their heavy breathing. As the pain inside consumed once more to insufferable proportions and the passions dragged out waves of orgasm, she became hyper aware of the echoes around her—which was very different from last time. The rest of her mind disconnected from reality to cope.

The door had snapped open. She could hear it roll and click to the side as she got hit with another hard wave of excruciating pleasure riding on her hijacked hormones.

“What are you doing here?” The captain’s voice came distantly under her Master’s reptilian grunts as he plunged deeper inside her. Zormna cried out with him, getting more in synch with his passions while her legs had begun to cramp. Everything intensified, including the waves of that surreal, unbearable euphoria from before.

She heard the patter of human-sounding feet, oddly not barefoot, but shod. She wondered where they got shoes. She also wondered if the slaves had been sent to cater to them after their long trip. Bad timing for them. The Th’sans would not like the interruption. She wanted to warn them before they got hurt.

“Get out, slave! We’re in the middle of something!” The captain’s shouts muffled under her Master’s mating song.

The door snapped shut.

Something from outside jostled the bed. The same time a shout of ejaculation finally erupted from her Master, bringing with it the anticipated inseminating flood. Swept up into the moment so hard, Zormna called out with him. As she whipped straight into that out-of-body euphoria again, the Master breathlessly lifted his head, cursing at the captain for interfering in the ritual. He had not yet pronounced which god that insemination was dedicated to, and he seemed angrier than ever.

Other voices answered him—but not the captain’s. Through her ringing ears, Zormna heard the slaves shout something in Aloean, but the sound was so far off, she could not comprehend what was being said. And the bed jostled more.

Her Master abruptly wrenched out of her—no doubt to beat the slaves for their interference. Lying on her back, immobilized from the mind-altering flood of excruciating ecstasy, Zormna breathed in and out, waiting for him to return to finish it. She felt absurdly hollow without him inside her. It was surreal. And as she lay there, trembling, the noise continued. All Zormna knew was that he had two more to go, but he first had to announce which god his second insemination was dedicated to. They were halfway done. She started to drop once more out of the euphoria. With that sensation, she anxiously wanted him to get on with it. She wanted desperately to return to that high.

But she also wanted Jafarr to find her. More, really. She wanted the military to underestimate her and neglect her so she could escape. But she did not dare to open her eyes—to avoid watching the slaves get beaten for their insolence. Or killed. Her ears were still ringing, so she could not tell what was going on exactly. The captain was shouting.

But then he stopped.

Was that laser fire?

Zormna shuddered, flinching with her eyes closed, wondering if the Master had killed him. The Master had been so angry at being interrupted before, and he definitely did not want the military to take her from him. She imagined for a moment that the Master would grab her and take her to one of the other worlds where he would either live as a fugitive, or—more likely—demand military protection while providing the Th’san army with the information they needed, while continuing to use her as always. And she would end up like all those other vapid, mindless lap girls who worshipped their masters. It made sense. She wanted him that badly now. And she didn’t.

Near despair, Zormna felt the weight on the bed shift toward her.

It wasn’t her Master coming to complete the ritual, though. It felt as if someone lighter was walking on the mattress toward her. Not a Th’san. Whoever it was quickly dropped to her side, yanked down the flap to her thin skirt, and pulled her upright, clutching her to his chest with human arms. “Zormna.”

Blinking away tears, Zormna opened her eyes.

That voice.

In front of her, those fathomless blue eyes from that pale, yet wonderfully scarred human face peered into her face with so much worry. His eyes inspected the plates set into her skull as he gently stroked her cheeks to revive her. It was like waking from a nightmare to blessed reality.

“Jafarr!” Zormna threw her arms around him, clinging tight.

 

He clutched her tighter, blinking back his own tears as his clear, wonderful Arrassian sounded in her ears. “I am so sorry I could not get to you sooner.”

The Master lay gasping on the floor as if he had just fallen there, his phallic coil retracting into its cavity. He was surrounded by several different humans, lifting laser pistols to shoot him. His eyes fixed on Jafarr with a howl. “Loak![1]”

Time resumed its regular pace then.

Jafarr pulled Zormna away from the large Th’san, holding her with one arm while aiming at the hulking beast with his laser. “You’re dead.”

Terror shot through Zormna. She clutched Jafarr’s side, shivering. “Please don’t!”

Jafarr stared at her as if she had gone insane. “What?”

“Give her to me, Jeff,” Zormna heard someone say in English in a familiar voice. She turned to see who it was. Immediately, she recognized her friend, Brian Henderson, among the rescuers. All of them were wearing a slave’s tunic but his was over a tee shirt and a pair of shorts. Brian beckoned to her, nodding that she would be ok with him. Behind him on the floor was the Th’san captain—entirely dead—his reptilian eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Jafarr nodded, gently urging Zormna to join Brian.

“Zoamo, uth* fuzz thz’wo loak,[2]” the Master called to her.

His words hit her like an electric shock. Zormna froze, unable to move.

Brian rushed to her, wrapping his arm around her as he pulled her away. “Come on, Zormna. It’s ok.”

Shaking her head, she panted hard as she answered him in English, “I can’t. I can’t….”

Dzhon, who seemed to come out from nowhere, shoved his weapon down into her Master’s side. “What did he do to her?”

Jafarr lifted his weapon once more to shoot the Master, this time aiming between his eyes. “What didn’t he do?”

“Don’t!” Zormna pushed from Brian, springing back to Jafarr. She pushed his weapon down, her hand on Jafarr’s. She felt as if her heart was ripping out of her chest. “Please, Jafarr. Don’t.”

The Master breathed freer, grinning at her. His voice went low into a gurgle as he spoke, reaching into her chest with firm hold on her will. “O wu uth* vos. Vos kk O sombong. Oa wu kkoakth Vuthoass skum, soasuth Oa.[3]”

But Zormna did not move from where she stood, despite his command to come to him and make her people put down their weapons. Jafarr’s presence had anchored her, giving her strength to resist. Temporarily, Jafarr had lowered his weapon, holding her hand. Peering into her face, he read her feelings. She could detect his gentle thoughts struggling desperately to understand her mind.

“She’s traumatized, Jeff,” Brian said. “I read about stuff like this. Hostages sometimes get messed in the head for—”

“This is not the same, Brian. He was raping her a few seconds ago!” Jafarr snapped. His desire to finish off her Master was all over his face. He turned Zormna’s head so she would look at him. “What is wrong? Why are you listening to that beast?”

“Zoamo, choa O sssung boaq,[4]” the Master called to her.

Zormna stiffened as if the Master had seized her. One of her soldiers jabbed his rifle hard into the Master’s side to shut him up.

She flinched as she wept, shaking. “I can’t do it. He won’t let me go.”

“Then let me kill him.” Jafarr stared at her straight in the eyes, desperately reading her. He could feel the fear whip through her, but for what he wasn’t sure.

She violently shook her head. “I think I would die if you did.”

Confused, he blinked at her, trying to read her. “He is the one who had been torturing you.”

Nodding, Zormna said, “He is my Master.”

Jafarr took her up into his arms, holding her tight. “No one is your master, Zormna. No one.”

But she quaked. Her logical mind screamed for her to let Jafarr kill the Master. But the rest of her, which was dominant, was immobilized in terror at the very idea.

“Let me kill him,” Dzhon said though his teeth. “Look what he’s done to her.”

“No.” Jafarr turned with a frown, realizing it would do Zormna more damage if they did. He could feel it—the cracks in her mind, the painful, insane attachment. “We need to go now. Leave him here. We’ll take Zormna and run.”

“Leave him alive?”

“Unfortunately,” Jafarr muttered.

“What if she can’t run??” another soldier asked, watching her.

Jafarr growled through his teeth. “Then we carry her.”

The Master snarled, watching her soldiers escort his lap girl away from him, taking her to the door. The fond friendship was evident, especially the Earthman with Jafarr, though the Master savagely took in her fond smiles at Dzhon as if he were a brother she had missed. Angry, anxious as he was losing his prize, the Master grabbed his machine hanging from his neck and pressed the button. “Loak, Zoamo! Uth* fuzz thz’wo loak![5]”

Goring pain bore into her gut. Zormna collapsed to her knees, clutching her abdomen.

But to the Master’s surprise, Jafarr also grabbed his stomach, cursing loud. He dropped on one knee with her. Whipping around with his arm across his gut, Jafarr stomped upright to where the Master lay. His eyes set on the machine flashing in the Th’san’s hand. Kicking the Th’san in the chest, Jafarr ripped it from his huge claws, immediately lifting the device to smash the machine into the wall.

“Wait!” Zormna cried out through her gut-wrenching pain. “Jafarr! Don’t break it! Just turn it off!”

Panting, he felt over the machine and pressed the button. But the pain only increased. Jafarr nearly dropped it.

Brian sprang to his side. Snatching the device up, Brian felt over the machine for the switch. It took two more tries to figure out the correct way to shut it off, but he finally succeeded.

“That is nasty!” Brian glared at the Th’san. “Why shouldn’t we break this thing?”

“I agree.” Jafarr groaned, pulling himself back to his height. He looked pale.

Panting, reaching out to him, Zormna pawed his face as she recovered, one arm still holding her stomach. “Because, if you break it, it could kill me. The Master told me so.”

“Scrapes.” Dzhon paced, repeating his grief yet again. “They’ve ruined you.”

Looking to him with begging eyes, and then again to Jafarr, tears dripped down Zormna’s face, falling off her chin. Hoping Jafarr would understand, she tried to send him the feelings which she could not put into words, her grief, her agony, her sheer terror and painful attachment.

“Fine, we leave him alive, and take this with us,” Jafarr spat out, though he shot the Th’san a look that said I’ll kill you later. Turning from the Th’san on the floor, he decidedly strung the machine around his neck. Jafarr motioned for the others in English for them to go.

Brian and Dzhon went straight to Zormna’s side to carry her away as the other soldier watched their back. As the four humans lifted the Th’san’s prize possession and carried her out of the room, Master Governor Xochzong howled after them. “Zoamo! O wu uth* vos! Uth* fuzz thz’wo loak O![6]”

Zormna stiffened as if she had been physically struck. They held her steady so she could not fall.

The next second, the door closed.

She looked back at it. Jafarr himself had locked it. He nodded to them all, especially to her. Divided from the Master, she was finally free.

Immediately they ran down the corridor, going a fair way while carrying her much of the distance. She was heavier than she looked—which was thinner and frailer than how she had been a year ago—not starved, but clearly out of shape for a trained soldier. Some muscles had atrophied. But Brian and Dzhon did not say a word about it. They were just glad she was alive.

“Where are we going?” Zormna asked once they had carried her down yet another empty passage.

“Docking bay,” Jafarr said, breathlessly. He looked to her anxious expression. “Can you run now?”

Zormna nodded, struggling to be let go. “I can run now. Is that how you got in? The docking bay?”

They set her onto her own feet. She ran with them, but she was not as fast as she used to. The ache in her crotch slowed her down considerably. Zormna realized too late that they should have also taken the balm off her Master—but she had no desire to go back for it now.

Jafarr shook his head, grasping her hand tightly and dragging her along with no plan to let go. “No. We had to abandon our shuttle as part of a diversionary tactic so we could board without the enemy suspecting we were here. We’re sure it has been destroyed. Alea Salvar’s battleship is under attack right now, waiting for us. So, we need to steal a ship.”

“You know, there are other ways to sneak off the ship,” Zormna said with a roll of her eyes, her old humor coming back if only a little bit. Hearing his voice speak with her real ears was the best music.

He laughed painfully and nodded.

They turned another corner. A pitchy mechanical whine lifted onto the air like a siren as the emergency strip lights flashed. The group looked to them and shook their heads, cringing.  

“We’ve been discovered,” the soldier with them said, running faster to get ahead with Brian who was acting as forward guard.

Jafarr nodded, sprinting after him with Zormna in tow. He would not let go of her hand.

“Can’t go that way,” Brian said in English, jumping back inside their corridor, the echoes of Th’san feet thundering through the corridor, resounding like war drums.

“We’re going to be pinned.” Dzhon pressed against the wall, preparing to kill all in their way to freedom.  

Jafarr narrowed his eyes at the scene and dug into his slave tunic. “Not if I can help it.”

Zormna saw him pull a small spherical something out of a pocket in the pair of shorts he was wearing underneath the stolen slave clothes. Squeezing it, he then tossed it into the forward hall. It thumped and rolled—and then exploded with a bright, stinging flash.

“Let’s go!” he cried, pulling Zormna with him.

Dzhon nodded with a snort. “Basic rebellion tactics. Use a bomb when all else fails.”

They ran through the debris and sparks then veered again in an off corridor. Once again, they entered the long hall towards the docking bay.

“Why don’t we just fold out of here?” Zormna shouted up to Jafarr. “I heard you’ve been using my project.”

Turning to tell her why, Jafarr was cut off by plasma fire which struck the far wall.

“Zzoth oa[7]!” The Th’san hisses from behind shot after them again.

“Oh, scrapes!” Jafarr ran faster, pulling her along to keep up. “We can’t fold out! We traded our pins for the slaves we took these clothes from. They’re off and we took their place. That’s how we found out where the Th’sans took you!”

Loud explosive fire shot in from behind, some barely grazing where they had just been. Most of it was too far to do much damage anyway, though their pursuers were advancing.

“Zoamo! Zzoth!” the Master’s booming Th’san voice shouted at them.

Zormna stumbled, clutching herself. Her legs refused to move forward.

“No!” Jafarr jumped to where she had fallen, dragging her up with them. He swept the rest of her legs into his arms, surprised how light she had become. She was trembling in his arms.

“I can’t….” She gasped, her limbs shaking too much, sure she was weighing him down. “Get out before they kill you.”

“Don’t be silly. I didn’t come all this way to lose you.” Jafarr took the Master’s machine from around his neck and slung it on her. Then he plucked off a pin from his chest. “We saved one for you.”

He set her down and pressed the pin to the corner of her green top so that it attached and clicked in. Immediately Zormna vanished from the hallway in a gust of cold air.

Those with him breather more easily. They shot Jafarr looks, asking why he had not done that earlier, though some suspected he just wanted to hold her.

“Alright! Now we can go faster!” Dzhon called back with a nod.

Nodding to him with a hidden painful cringe, Jafarr then dashed ahead into that hall. “Let’s run!”

The firing increased behind them. Most of it struck the bay entrance, missing the four men as they jumped inside. The rescue team ran to the first open Th’san craft, Dzhon already working the controls to start it. Though the seats were large, he quickly maneuvered the tech into action—as practiced on the stolen Th’san craft Zormna had brought back from before the war.

“The bay doors are closed!” Brian called to him in Arrassian. “How are we going to get out?”

“We’ll have to blast our way out,” the other soldier said.

Jafarr hopped out of the ship. “I’ll get the doors.”

He dashed towards the manual controls to the docking bay, which hung a bit too high for a human, especially an Arrassian—but Jafarr could tell from the configuration what they were. Taking a running jump, Jafarr leapt up, his hands catching on the large handle. It looked more like a fire alarm switch in for a public school in the US. With all his weight, he pulled it down, dropping to the floor once it hit the bottom.

The outside doors groaned. Pushing against the inside pressure and pulling to expose the chamber to outside space, they creaked apart with gears working. The atmosphere field abruptly snapped on.

“Get in! Get in!” Brian yelled at Jafarr from the hovering Th’san shuttle, the door to the craft still open.

Jafarr ran back towards them.

But the Th’sans fired on them. One laser shot struck Jafarr square in the back. He collapsed, tumbling to the side. 

“Jeff!” Brian shouted out, prepared to leap from the ship himself.

But the other soldier pulled him back in, pulling the door shut as Dzhon steered them out of the bay when the Th’sans charged in. “Stick to the plan!”

The shuttle door compressed as the shuttle shot into space, leaving the Arrassian president behind.

The squadron of Th’san soldiers gawped after the shuttle as it quickly joined the battle outside as though planning to help the Th’san fleet. Shaking their ‘no’ fingers, they turned and walked back to the limp human on the floor.

“Is he dead?” A soldier hissed.

With the point of his weapon, one of the Th’sans turned Jafarr over. He gurgled low, priming his weapon for a second shot. “No.”

“Should we kill him?” the other asked, also cocking his gun.

“No,” a heavier, thick voice of an important Th’san in military garb replied, crossing the room with Master Governor Xochzong who glared at the unconscious human. “That is one of their leaders. What did you call him? Zhufod?”

Master Governor Xochzong seethed through his teeth and grabbed Jafarr’s slave tunic, tearing it open at it to find his machine. And though he revealed a lot of unsettling scars on Jafarr’s bare skin, the machine was nowhere on his person. Indignant, the Master Governor stood to his full height. “Kill him.”

The military dignitary gave a cold laugh. “Jealous, are you? We’ll see if he is worth killing.” He gestured to a soldier. “You there. Wake him.”

The soldier reached out with his large hand and slapped across Jafarr’s face, leaving scratches.

As the blood trickled down, Jafarr blinked open his eyes then swore in Arrassian, lurching into consciousness.

The Th’san military figure set his foot on Jafarr’s chest, glaring down at him as he applied pressure. He spoke in Aloean.

 

“You have caused us a planet-load of trouble, Zhufod.”

Jafarr gasped, just trying to breathe.

“However, you are going to help us—if you wish to live,” the military Th’san said. “I know you. I remember you. The man who sees across space with those eyes. You will see for us.”

Gasping still, Jafarr winced, glancing once at Zormna’s former captor who glowered down at him with a whole lot of hate. But it could not have compared to how much Jafarr loathed him. That Th’san had repeatedly raped Zormna, tortured and humiliated her—the pain he had felt himself. If any Th’san deserved to die, it was him.

“Uz tho mol kk uz tho wu xom’quo xoad. Ohsod fobo owom uz tho lo buchzzoam,[8]” the military Th’san ordered his soldiers.

The Th’san released his foot, allowing his soldiers heave Jafarr up.

Drawing in a deep breath and looking around to assess his situation, Jafarr gained courage from the fact that he was still alive. The Th’san soldiers jerked him over to face their leader. As they did, Jafarr looked at him directly, lifted his chin, and said in decent Aloean, “If you think that I will help you, you are mistaken. I just came to get our queen. I don’t care what happens to me.”

The Th’san leader nodded to one of the soldiers. That solider punched Jafarr in the stomach. He doubled over.

“Don’t believe you are as strong as you think you are.” The Th’san threatened with a gloat. “Many stubborn human males cave in under torture.”

Jafarr laughed.

The soldier struck him again, this time across the face. Blood dribbled from his mouth.

“A day of this will break you,” the Th’san said. “And you will be weeping for us to stop.”

Lifting his eyes, Jafarr still smiled, panting. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

The military Th’san raised his own fist, staring at the face of a man who already had too many scars. A comprehension washed over the Th’san, realizing Jafarr was no stranger to pain. He wasn’t a weak Aloean.

“Zhufod,” Master Governor Xochzong said, slapping Jafarr himself. “Ssoam’ku wu o wu xumng’ko ush’dozzl! Ohdos mohdoazh’xum wu ssoas’om! Tho wu wuzu’oth shumushoang wu doxod! Uth* vozu kk b’uth’xsu[9]!”

“Ssoas’om?” The military Th’san gasped. “Uth* sssung vos uz thah oa wu koaduk’xum do?[10]”

Master Governor Xochzong shook his head. “Loak. Mung o vsss sssung woabo oa ssoas’xoal’quo.[11]”

The Th’san leader turned to Jafarr. “You and she are lovers?”

Jafarr rolled his eyes and shook his head. “That is none of your business!”

The soldier slugged him in the stomach again.

“Then why should I care you who think you are?” the military Th’san said, looking smug again.

Meeting his gaze, Jafarr replied, “Because I am a keeper of prophecies. I have been sent by the Creator to protect our queen so that she can fulfill all decrees against those that would harm my people. I am the Fist that stands by the side of the Setting Sun to crush you. I am Jafarr Zeldar.”

A hot gust of blew by. Jafarr blinked with a flicker of a glance behind the Th’sans that faced him. His smile solidified.

The Th’sans who comprehended him seemed to go pale. Only Master Governor Xochzong did not understand what he had said.

The military leader took a step back from Jafarr. “Kill him—quickly.”

Yet the Arrassian soldiers who had quietly folded into that space during all that ‘conversation’, kicked the weapons from their hands and shot them. The soldiers fell to the ground, stunned as the Arrassians were startlingly strong for their size. One Arrassian soldier shoved Master Governor Xochzong back as he grabbed Jafarr with a nod. They took the other Th’san soldiers down rather easily. One Arrassian soldier set something on the tunic next to Jafarr’s collarbone and signaled to the others with a nod.

Jafarr turned his head to face Master Governor Xochzong with a look that said, the next time I see you, I will kill you. But then he vanished within a puff of cold air. Soon, one by one, the other Arrassians did the same.

The surviving Th’sans rose and stared at Master Governor Xochzong.

Zormna blinked her eyes open, lying in a hospital bed. She had fainted the moment she had folded onto the Arrassian ship, overwhelmed with the awful feeling that she would never see Jafarr again—all while the medical team swarmed around her.

Looking over herself now, she saw that her glittering green ritual dress was gone, and she was wearing a hospital robe instead. Her stomach tightened immediately, her body jerking up with horror that she as alone in her bed. Her Master was not with her. The horror of it, her insides throbbing hollowly, washed over her until she turned and looked down.

Sitting on the floor with his head bowed and his sides bandaged, was Jafarr. Her Master’s machine was in his lap, cradled in his hands to make sure no one ever touched it again. Jafarr lifted his head at the sound of her bed creaking. She stared at his paler-than-usual face which had three new scratches across it, looking into his fathomless eyes when he turned his head, meeting her.

Tumbling off of her bed into his arms, Zormna burst into tears, shaking. “I was afraid you’d never find me.”

He pulled her closer, arms tight around her. “So was I. I am sorry it took so long.”

They closed their eyes, remaining embraced as the pair of them wept together. The barrier was gone.

Breathing, hearing him breathe, holding him, Zormna eventually opened her eyes and leaned back to look at him again. She peered at the crusted scratches across the side of his face, familiar marks. Jafarr reached up and touched the metal plates still stuck in her head. She flinched then pulled back, looking at the machine that had caused her so much pain and might still.

“I’ll never be free,” Zormna said, taking the device from Jafarr’s hand.

He smiled and closed her fingers around it. “You will be.”

“She most certainly will be,” Alea Salvar’s voice resounded irritably from the door.

Jafarr and Zormna pulled apart, both of them blushing.

Jafarr stood up, offering Zormna a hand to lift her to her feet. She took it, smiling abashedly at him then leaned close to her beloved rescuer.

“The doctors say they can remove the implants without doing any damage to you,” Alea Salvar said, crossing the floor then stepping between her and Jafarr, reaching out for a hug also.

Zormna hugged him, glad to be with her childhood friend again, yet glanced, perplexed, at Jafarr who nodded behind Salvar’s back. Though he made also a face at Salvar also because the guy had stepped on his foot and shoved him aside.

Others had also followed Salvar into the room, though Zormna didn’t see them yet. The Kevin filled the doorway with his solid presence. And behind him, came Alea Arden who more genially gazed on the scene. She was just savoring being back.

“You should be dizzy and have an upset stomach for a few weeks after they remove all that tech, but I’m sure you can handle it,” Alea Salvar continued brightly, releasing Zormna from his arms and sitting down on her bed. He pulled her down to sit beside him.

 With a dazed look to him and another peek to Jafarr, Zormna asked, “How is that possible? My Master said it would kill me to remove the implants.”

“Well…” Jafarr sidled past Alea Salvar and sat opposite Zormna on a nurse’s stool that was next to the bed. “…Considering the cheap level of Th’san technology, I’m sure that was an exaggeration.” He then smirked. “Perhaps if they tried to remove the implants you’d be killed. We’re using ten-thousand-year-old Arrassian technology.”

 Zormna smiled more broadly. Drawing in a breath of air, she laughed. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The air was stale—the familiar wonderful staleness of the Arrassian underground city. She was Home.

She dropped back against the bed and laughed until she cried. Both Jafarr and Salvar watched her without a word.

When she at last sat up, the strongest emotions spent, Zormna asked, turning to Salvar while wiping her eyes, “What about the rest of the war? There are still so many humans enslaved, and after what I’ve seen, I know there is still so much we have to do.”

Salvar glanced at Jafarr with a confirming look. “Uh, actually President Jafarr and I have been working on a strategy to remedy the slave question.”

Her eyes went wider. She looked to Jafarr, wiping her eyes more.

Jafarr gave a sheepish nod. “Yeah. Actually worked together. Shocking.”

Alea Salvar shot him such a dirty look—which was also so happily familiar.

The Kevin walked over to her and reached out to Zormna for a hug. She jumped up the moment she finally saw him, embracing him. He patted her head, trying to hold back his own tears. “Welcome back, Zormna.”

She wiped away the happy tears that were forming in her eyes again. “Thanks, Kevin.”

He smiled more broadly, pulling her away, as this behavior was below the dignity of a solider. “Are you ready to cut your mourning strands now? Your hair is so grown. It looks becoming that way. Proper for a queen. You look almost like the painting of ancient queen now.”

Jafarr made a face, groaning—almost the same time Zormna did.

Alea Salvar saw that and kicked Jafarr in the shins.

“Ow.” Jafarr shifted away to Zormna’s other side.

“Personally, I liked her regimental hair cut better,” Alea Arden announced, remaining in the doorway. “It fits her spunky personality.”

“Arden!” Zormna let go of the Kevin and ran over to him, embracing him in an unexpected hug—at least for him. They never had a hugging relationship, though they had always been good friends. He glanced over at Jafarr with wonder that she had lost her head a little. But Jafarr only smirked and shrugged, inching away from Salvar in case he tried to kick him again.

The Kevin cast the head of Alpha District a warning look, and Alea Arden nodded, breaking from Zormna’s embrace.

“Really,” the Kevin said, still shaking his head at Alea Arden as if he had taken advantage of Zormna. “I think now Queen Zormna might ponder more on her royal duties rather than running around foolishly. I think she has learned her lesson.”

“Her lesson?” Jafarr hopped forward as if he would tear the Kevin’s head off, but Alea Arden promptly got between them.

Arden shot Jafarr a careful look of exasperation and sympathy as he said, “I think what the Kevin is saying is that Zormna now understands how dangerous is for her specifically to go out to war.”  

Zormna hung her shoulders, nodding. “I get the message. No more battles for me. Or at least not for now.”

“Not for now? Zormna—” Alea Salvar stepped up.

Jafarr blocked him, hefting up his chin. “May I remind you that she is the queen, and your duty is to follow her?”

Alea Arden stepped back, glancing at the Kevin who appeared as upset as Alea Salvar. Arden nodded in agreement with Jafarr, though he did not speak.

The Kevin sighed, squared his shoulder and then nodded. “I will follow my queen’s will, but I do advise that she take into account her past mistakes—”

“You will not rub in her face her past mistakes,” Jafarr retorted, turning to him. “She is acutely aware of them. And I know she will be wiser in the future.”

Both men exchanged loathing looks, which Zormna could feel had increased since her captivity started. It was a shame. She wondered what had made it worse.

Alea Arden tipped his head in a bow and cleared his throat. “Well then… I need to return to duty. I am glad to see our queen safe on Arras. President Jafarr, continue to guard her. Good day.”

He turned on his heel and marched out of the room, though it looked to some that he was escaping the center of a fight. However, the Kevin also bowed to Zormna, delivering a hard glare to Jafarr before he also stepped out. “Be well, and don’t push yourself.”

That left Alea Salvar with them alone. He looked to Jafarr before bowing to Zormna. “All the same, please, don’t act so rashly anymore. We can’t bear to lose you again.”

Zormna nodded to her oldest friend, her eyes lingering on his face. To her eyes, Salvar seemed to have considerably aged since she last saw him. All his old boyishness was gone. He was fully a man now. It suited him, but it was also sad.

Turning, Salvar walked to the door yet paused darkly next to Jafarr. “Protect her this time.”

Jafarr nodded. It was perhaps the only kind of conversation they would have from then on.

Salvar dutifully left.

“Are you going back to battle?” Zormna asked, gazing up at Jafarr, feeling she would break if he left the room also.

He turned toward her, meeting her eyes, and shook his head. “No. My place is here. I’m your protector, Zormna. A lousy one, but your protector.”

Zormna sprang up, shaking her head frantically as she grasped his hands in hers. “No. No. You are not a lousy protector. I just didn’t listen when I should have. I was way too proud.” She clutched his hands close to her face and started to cry, bowing to him. “Forgive me?”

Jafarr fell to his knees, nearly collapsing towards her. “Zormna, don’t ever beg me. I swore I’d never leave you.”

She sobbed, unable to look up. “But do you forgive me? I gave in. I let him…”

Rising, he pulled her close and let her cry into his chest. “Of course, I forgive you. What happened was not your fault. Who could possibly fight against…?” He cringed, closing his eyes, remembering all the pain they had gone through, how severe it had been, the nature of it. “You were trapped. I am sure you did your best to… Don’t ever blame yourself for what that monster did to you. Ok?”

He wanted to say, I know what happened. I know how hard you fought. But he was not sure she could take that yet. Zormna looked fragile sitting there. Like a porcelain doll that had been dropped too many times and would shatter if dropped again. He wanted to say, I love you, but he was not allowed to speak those words to her. Not from his lips. Not from him. The doctors and nurses listening in would have a fit. There was so much more that he wanted to say besides, but all he could do was hold her as she cried in his arms. “I am here for you. No matter what.”

Feeling safe the first time in ages Zormna closed her eyes and embraced him, wishing he would never let go. 

 

[1] No!

[2] Zormna, you cannot go.

[3] You are mine. Now come to me. Order them to put back their weapons

[4] Zormna, do as I say

[5] No, Zormna, you cannot go!

[6] Zormna, you are mine! You cannot leave me!”

[7] Stop them!

[8] Get him onto his feet. We’re taking him for a trip,

[9] The thief of my lap girl! The Arrassian queen’s consort! Her personal guard! You ought to die!

[10] “Consort?” … “Are you saying he’s their king?”

[11] No. But I would say they were lovers.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.03.2023

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