“Maybe we’re in an uncharted asteroid field?” I say while I secure the fastenings over the feminine flare of my hip. There’s another concussion. Again, the lights flicker, and the gravity fails for a moment. Neither of us believe my optimistic words. If we were being damaged by asteroids we’d slow down, and they’d muster us as the lifepods. But the entertainment hall is in the center of the ship, and the engines are firing fit to burst. No. We’re trying to outrun something.
Trindii pulls a tight shirt over her head, the cut high enough that it bares the skin of her belly. Not just her belly – it barely fits around her chest. She doesn’t mind flaunting what she’s got, that girl. My people, the Dystyr, are rather more conservative. Show our figures, yes. Skin, no. However, although I’ve fastened my dress as far as mid-thigh, I leave the remaining buckles flashing my shins, to allow better freedom of movement. I pull on some soft ankle boots, ones with only a low heel. Footwear designed for comfort rather than beauty.
“Ready, Trindii?” I ask when she’s pulled on some pumps, and with a nod from her we activate the door and emerge into the corridor.
Outside it’s crowded with people, all of them headed in the same direction, and we can only progress at the speed of the slowest. A diverse cross section of the galaxy is represented, spread by age, sex, and species. I see two aliens who must come from a methane world, and need respirators.
Trindii takes my hand in hers so we don’t lose each other. Her flesh feels warm.
It’s loud in here – everyone is talking nervously.
“Is it pirates?” an old woman in front says to her companion in a scratching voice. “Gods, don’t let it be pirates from Aghara-Penthay.”
“I survived a pirate raid near Coboron 6, once,” a man says. “You never forget that sound. I tell you – those are raider blaster cannons.”
Another jolt comes without warning, and the ship shakes like we’re in an earthquake. I’m thrown against the side of the corridor, hurting my shoulder. I hear the engines stutter for a moment.
The crowd moves a little faster.
Once we reach the entertainment hall, there’s enough room for us all to spread out and pick up our pace. Rows of seats face a stage. It’s configured for a much bigger crowd than the current ship’s compliment. I’m expecting to see crew on the stage already prepared to explain what’s going on, but there’s no-one here yet.
I recognize a few members of our class and we move towards them. There are nearly two hundred of us on this trip – final year university students of galactic politics, all of us being taken to Republic Prime to see the senate in action. With the exception of a few mature students, most of us are in our early twenties, by the standard galactic reckoning. Studying at Capital University on Iniver Four is, for most of us, our first time living away from our homeworlds.
“Coora,” a male voice calls my name. I know who it is before I turn around.
Jurong. I made the mistake in my freshman year of being warm to him. As an alien arriving at a largely human institution, I wasn’t sure I’d fit in, and I was anxious to make friends. I needed someone to talk to. But he hoped my interest in him was of a different kind, and by the time I told him that was never going to happen, the damage had been done.
He’s smart enough to keep just on the right side of becoming a full-blown stalker, so I can’t make a complaint to anyone without it sounding hysterical: “What’s wrong with someone helping you out?” – that kind of thing. But he’s worked his way relentlessly into membership of my circle of friends, and since then, it’s been pretty hard to go anywhere without Jurong showing up.
“Jurong – what do you think is going on?” Trindii asks him, as a machine gun rattle of smaller thuds vibrate the ship. We have space to spread out, but she’s standing so near me her shoulder presses on my upper arm. One of the reasons I like Trindii so much is she’s always been an understanding ally on the Jurong situation. We go to a club, he’s there, and even if she’s tired or wants to go with a guy, she’ll never abandon me to him.
“Everything points to a pirate attack,” he says gravely, “Even though we’re in Republic territory.” He’s answering her, but his eyes are only on me. “Don’t be afraid Coora – I’ll protect you,” he adds, but when he says it he’s looking me up and down with that longing, hungry look that reminds me that pirates aren’t the universe’s only predators.
I wish I was better at handling this kind of male attention. I don’t want to sound immodest, but for as long as I can remember I’ve been considered exceptionally attractive. On my homeworld, I even helped pay for my college fees with some modelling work – an activity which I found very boring, but lucrative. Once I left home and mixed with the humans, I soon found they thought me equally beautiful, but with no one suitable for reciprocating, I’ve remained inexperienced, and a virgin.
I’m tall for a female, and my face is almost perfectly symmetrical, with soft feminine features and high cheekbones. My body shape declares my ripe femininity as blatantly as my scorns – I have wide childbearing hips, and my breasts are large in relation to my narrow waist and slim frame. From an era before it was appropriate, I’ve always drawn the predatory stares of men.
“Yes, I’ll protect you, Coora,” Jurong repeats as his gaze drops to my chest.
Jurong is a good-looking guy, for a human. Part of the tragedy of our relationship is that instead of wasting his efforts in a fruitless pursuit of me, he could have had his pick of the human females. Our college course has a lot more women than men. But while some human males like Jurong might lust for Dystyr females, we don’t reciprocate for human men. Dystyr women might be similar enough to human females that their males assume our tastes are the same, but Dystyr men are much larger – eight feet tall being an average male. Furthermore, our men have prominent bulges on their foreheads which the human men lack, and once you’re conditioned to like a certain look, well that’s that.
Dystyr do not reproduce by forming pair bonds, like the humans. Males struggle for dominance, and our fittest are rewarded by mating with many women. Thus, our males are highly territorial, and in our pre-history, they evolved to mark their boundaries with a pungent smelling urine. The fragrance conveys the virility and strength of the male.
Now we’re civilized, it’s not like our guys still pee in the corners of our homes, but one can’t undo genetics, and for us females, smell is an important factor. I fully comprehend this concept is gross to the humans who focus on the visual, but to Dystyr women – well, inhaling a high-quality version of that musk is quite a turn on. Stores discreetly sell bottles of the stuff as an aid for women masturbating. So for poor Jurong with his human height and smell – no dice.
The hall is getting busy now. It’s so loud with conversation that it’s difficult to hear the continuing strikes on the ship, but we can still feel them through the floor. All our class seem to have found each other, attracting more and more mass like we’re a planet forming.