A woman in an officer’s uniform steps onto the stage. She must be wearing a microphone, because I hear the sound of her clearing her throat amplified a hundredfold.
“Passengers,” she greets us as the crowd falls to sudden silence, “I am Oshia Trondo, first officer of the Moons of Odaron. The captain sends his apologies, but he needs to remain on the bridge dealing with the situation you’ve all noticed.”
“As you might have surmised, the ship is currently under attack by a pirate vessel. But you are in no danger, so we ask…”
“Where are they from?” interrupts a man at the front of the crowd.
Trondo hesitates, and then she says, “They are raiders from Aghara-Penthay.”
Trindii is one of the passengers, mostly women, who immediately scream. I’m silent, but otherwise little better – terror grips me also, and for a moment I think I’ll faint. The Slavers? The Slavers of Aghara-Penthay are attacking this transport? Gods help us all if they succeed.
“Silence!” barks the officer with as much authority as she can, but she still has to repeat herself. “Silence!”
The initial panic subsides slightly, but the crowd remain too fearful to be entirely calm.
“A distress call has been sent to Republic Prime and the fleet are converging on us even now. Although this transport has little armament, its shields are very strong. These ships are built to run, and hold out until rescue arrives. All the same, for your safety, I ask you to remain here, as far as possible from the outer hull. And do not attempt to make for the lifepods, unless the ship does fall. In a lifepod, you will be easily captured.”
Captured… I look around, as many, many of the women, are doing. I’m feeling very aware that I’m female. We all know what it means to be female, and captured by Aghara-Penthay.
“How many women are on this ship?” a man calls. He sounds hostile.
Trondo consults a note.
“One thousand, two hundred and forty-seven adult females. Nine hundred and sixty-three adult males. Non-binary species – two hundred and…”
“That’s too many women!” heckles the man angrily, as though he blames Trondo personally for the ratio. She flinches.
Asshole. There’s no need to be mean – as a woman, she must be scared too. Trondo is approaching her middle years, but she still holds a certain elegant beauty, and that means she will be thinking about the same fate every other remotely desirable female in this hall is fearing. The specialty of the Slavers of Aghara-Penthay – the business that’s made their fortune, is trading their women captives to meet the sexual desires of the galaxy’s men. There are no free women on Aghara-Penthay – to be female on their world is to automatically be a slave. Uncaptured women, i.e. those such as I, still free in the rest of the galaxy, are referred to by the Slavers using the vulgar title “cunts”. That’s all we are in their eyes. Cunts. The place between our legs is the only thing that matters. It’s us women who have the right to be emotional. Not the jerkoff saying there’s too many of us on board.
“What do you expect us to do?” Trondo retaliates, as pissed off as I am. “It’s not as though we can just hand over every attractive woman on the ship.”
“Why not?” he calls back. “The idea gets my vote.”
There’s angry muttering, mostly directed at him, but the seed of the idea that others might be saved has been planted now. The Slavers take some male slaves, but not many. The old, and most of the men on this ship, will die if the raiders make it on board. Sometimes fallen vessels hand over their women, and then the rest are be spared.
“They won’t break down the ship’s defenses before the Republic arrive,” Trondo rebukes. “And then you, Sir, will regret making such a suggestion.”
But she’s barely finished her sentence before there’s an even deeper boom then, caused by something vast knocking against the hull, and the sound carries even to here. The ship lurches again. At first there are a few screams, but then everyone stops to listen for clues, and so we all hear the engines cut out completely. I hadn’t realized how constant the noise of them was until it’s gone. In the sudden quiet more women scream, filling the silence.
“Are there any weapons on this ship?” another man, more politely, is asking Trondo.
“Not many,” she replies, and the fear is blooming in her voice now. “A few blasters on the bridge, but that’s all. These ships rely on being too big and too fast to attack. We shouldn’t need weapons.”
“The engines just quit, ma’am. We need weapons now,” someone says.
The ship’s public address system bursts into life, so sudden and so loud it makes me jump.
“This is the Captain of the Moons of Odaron. Slavers from Aghara-Penthay are boarding the ship. We can no longer hold them off, so our guidance has changed. All passengers and crew must make for the lifepods. Evacuate! Evacuate! Your Gods be with you. I wish you all good…” but before he can finish, his voice is cut off with a sound like a blast. If there’s any more broadcast after that, the announcement is drowned over the deafening cries of the passengers.
The Slavers of Aghara-Penthay are raiding the ship.
2 – Flight
Blind panic has taken over. I start screaming. Everyone is screaming. What are we to do? I couldn’t bear being caught alive, but I don’t want to die. People begin to flee, and instinctively I start to run with them, but I fly aimlessly, changing direction and then changing again. Our chances of evading the pirates in lifepods are little better than our chances on the ship, but just waiting here to be caught is intolerable. I have to try something.
I’m not half way to the exit from the hall when a blaster bolt, a real blaster bolt, zips over my head, causing panic as it smashes the ceiling and rains debris down on the fleeing masses. I’ve seen blasters on screen many times, but in all my life I’ve never actually been in the presence of a weapon discharging before. Only moments later, a grey-haired woman next to me falls, and in her torso I see a blackened smoking hole.
I freeze, staring in horror at remans that moments before were a living, thinking, being. Someone grabs my hand and I’m pulled roughly towards one of the corridors.
“This way,” he says. It’s Jurong.
I don’t know how he’s managing to stay so calm when most are barely managing to control the hysteria. The fallen are suddenly lying around us everywhere. Where minutes ago there was order, I now have to step over corpses to reach the corridors. How can so many be gone already? But although the devastation presents superficially as chaos, I have enough wits remaining to confirm there is a method in the carnage. Younger women and the strongest and most handsome young men are the only ones being spared. They’re lying stunned – frozen there as inert as waxworks. Those of us with value as slaves. Everyone else is being killed.
I hurry after Jurong. I’m willing to go with anyone with a coherent plan to save me. The prospect of rape at the hands of the Slavers would be devastating. I’m a Dystyr. I left my homeworld before mating, and like most of us who go offworld, I’ve remained a virgin. I can’t be a sex slave. I can’t be a sex slave.