“I thought Rape Runners weren’t… you know – interacted with, not before they’re caught in the contest,” whispers another woman, quieter now.
“Who’s she gonna complain to?” someone behind me whispers harshly. “They’re not supposed to mess with any captives until after processing, as the virgins fetch a higher price, but that didn’t stop them using all the ones they liked from the Moons of Odaron. Look at the mess they’ve made of the alien bitch there.”
I realize I’m the ‘alien bitch’ and look down to hide my face, automatically ashamed at the mess still caked on my thighs. Only hours ago, I wasn’t just an alien bitch. My name was Coora. Those who met me saw someone with a high-flying future as a political adviser, serving the Republic on some pleasant planet. I planned to mate with a suitable Dystyr male when it pleased me. Now I’m naked in front of strangers, on my way to Aghara-Penthay to be implanted and ruined. Strangers describe me in terms of being the alien bitch who got herself raped.
Up front, in spite of her inexperience, Donaya brings her captor to climax. The man’s disgusting sperm erupts in a small fountain – some of it landing on Donaya’s hands, and some of it spattering and dribbling down onto himself.
In response to a whispered order she wipes him clean, then grimacing, licks what’s left of the foul mess from her own hands.
That’s when, with a bump, we land.
Gods have mercy on me.
My sob comes without warning, and I’m not the only one who starts crying. The hold’s doors open with a mechanical grinding, and we’re hit by blinding sun and heat like a furnace.
“Out, slave girls,” orders a guard, while his colleagues move along the lines unclipping our collars. No longer linked in chains, weeping women shuffle uncertainly out into the scorching dry air. Gods, it’s hot on this planet. There’s not a cloud breaking the sky, and the sun beats down relentlessly.
The large landing platform where we find ourselves is hundreds of feet above the ground. It overhangs the structure underneath, so I can’t see what supports it. Surrounding us is a plain of oxide-red ground, completely barren. The arid landscape is not uniform – the plain is broken up by formations of rock, and distant mountains of the same uniform color shimmer in the heat haze. I can see something that looks like a city – a vast structure made of many ancient stone buildings merged together into one whole. Perhaps it is designed so the Slavers can move around without being exposed to the outside sun. I scan the panorama and wonder which area is The Zone, the hunting ground where the Slavers chase down Rape Runners like Donaya.
The raiders took such a large haul from the transport that at the end of the Mezzanine we were split across three shuttles. The other two do not land on this pad, and although I see another pad in the city, high on a stone tower, there are no ships on it. I don’t know where they went.
Trindii’s chain happened to be loaded on my shuttle. She looks terrible after a night in a cage with the men. She’s covered in bruises, and she’s limping. One of her lips is swollen and split, as though she’s been punched in the mouth.
All the same, I make for her, desperate for a last bit of comfort from someone who cares for me, before it’s too late. We hug, both of us weeping into each other’s shoulders. I’ve seen her nude before, but not had close physical contact. As we hug, I try not to feel ashamed that our breasts are pressing into each other.
With Trindii is another girl I know from college – Cliria – a willowy blonde human female. Some people you just don’t get on with, try as you might, and Cliria was one of those, for me. No matter how careful I was, she seemed to take things I said the wrong way, so I’d always be on my guard around her. But the Gods have destined us to stand naked together on the surface of Aghara-Penthay. On the course, Cliria seemed to think of herself as quite a catch. The Slavers seemed to agree. A forty-four is inked on the inside of her thigh, close to the vulva.
“You okay?” Trindii asks me, tenderly wiping my tear-streaked face.
“Not really,” is my only true answer. “Men took me to a room on the ship. They… well, you can guess. But you had it worse.”
“Split into groups, snatches!” interrupts the bellow of one of the guards. “Forty-five and over scores – stand there. Forty to forty-five – over by the comms box. The dregs – over there.”
“Good luck. Both of you,” I say to Trindii and Cliria, knowing shortly I’ll probably never see them again.
“Slave luck,” corrects Cliria. She means well, but my tears erupt again.
Slave luck is a phrase which originated here, that’s become well known enough to slip into the galactic vernacular. It seems pointless to wish someone good luck when they’re a sex slave. Their life already proves they’re not destined for good fortune. Slave luck means wishing someone the best outcome possible under horrific circumstances. An easy life with a kind master. Domestic duties instead of sexual service.
“Slave luck,” I think I as I wave Trindii farewell and pad over to the space indicated by the Slaver. We’ve been corralled close to the edge of the pad. There is no barrier between us and the gut-wrenching drop – common practice to avoid ships snagging landing gear. The same thirty-four women taken from the transport assemble in the high scoring area. Among them is Tana, the one with the fifty score taken in the raid.
“Your name is Tana?” I say quietly, not wanting to draw the attention and perhaps punishment of the guard. “I’m Coora.”
“The alien girl, they took away to rape on the ship?” she replies sympathetically.
“That was me,” I shamefully admit.
“I was in the cage next to yours,” she says.
I look hopelessly towards the Slaver settlement, across the void of empty air from our platform.
“We could throw ourselves off this pad…” I say softly. “End it, here.”
But I don’t really have it in me. And neither does she.
“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” says Tana. “Some slaves are rescued. The Republic has a whole sanctuary for them.”
“Follow me, slits!” interrupts one of the guards, and he leads the way into an opening where a flight of stone stairs leads down into a building. Accepting our fate, we pad docilely behind him, naked feet following booted ones. Another couple of Slaver men follow behind, but there is minimal supervision needed now we’re down on the planet’s surface. These new men are administrators, not warriors. For anyone with a vagina instead of a penis, there’s nowhere to run on this world.
Inside, it is like stepping from the modern to ancient galaxy. I’m padding down roughly hewn stone steps, that resemble the interior of a castle, rather than anything from my era. Only the bioluminescent lighting, or the occasional blink of comms or sensor panels, reveal the presence of tech.
At first there are windows – narrow slits without glass, as the protection from the climate is unnecessary on this world. But we work our way down and further into the building, and everything from then on is under artificial light. After several minutes we pause, in a wide hallway.