Queen of the Sex Slaves

Queen of the Sex Slaves

By Olga Anastasia

To my muse, E.O.M., who knows why.

1-Hub

She tried to evade them for years, but in the end, they finally caught her, Tisya Achoka, and they brought her here.

It is a fact widely agreed upon throughout the galaxy, that this place, the piratical slave traders’ planet of Aghara-Penthay is one of the best places in the universe to be male, and one of the worst to be female. Although the Slavers of Aghara-Penthay do deal in some male captives, such as for labor, for breeding stock, or for those who prefer men providing their sexual services, the Slavers made their fortune, and became infamous, for buying or capturing, training, and then selling desirable women.

Over the centuries, it has become enshrined in Slaver culture that women are only a commodity, and their laws have long dictated that a woman forfeits all her freedoms as soon as she sets foot on Slaver territory. Unless she has already been registered as a private slave and is accompanied by her male owner, just because she possesses a vagina instead of a penis, in their space she immediately becomes the property of the Slavers of Aghara-Penthay. She has become theirs to abuse and dispose of as they wish.

For many centuries, the Slavers have based their business on the planet below me – the oxide-red, barren desert planet of Aghara-Penthay. Slaver society is formed of a loose federation of factions, each led by a chief. Of course, only males can achieve citizenship of Aghara-Penthay society. As I’ve mentioned already, a woman is an object, and an object can no more be a citizen than could any other object purposed to provide gratification – a piece of pornography, or a sex toy, or a bed.

Outsiders are often interested to know how the male population is maintained. Let me reassure you than is not a problem, not on a world when every woman must do exactly as she’s told. Sufficient females are chosen to serve The Slavers as breeding stock, sustaining the majority of the planet’s population, and the rest of Aghara-Penthay’s male citizens are drawn from the many willing offworld volunteers, attracted to piracy by the prospect of access to more females than they could ever screw in a lifetime, and the potential of earning enough credit to retire to a world with a pleasant climate.

Throughout most of Slaver history, captive women were broken to their slavery by a combination of physical intimidation, mind-controlling pharmaceuticals, and torture. Escape attempts were frequent, and for those unable to flee, suicide was by far the most common cause of female Death.

No longer.

Within the last half-century, implantation has become the standard method of slave processing and control. Its invention advanced the Slavers’ fortunes exponentially. A chip is embedded deep into the woman’s brainstem, from where bioactive tendrils worm into the cortex, making the device impossible to remove without ripping away enough tissue to turn the implant’s victim into a vegetable. The chip emits EM radiation, configured to interfere with some of the electrical signals which relate to higher brain functions. There are too many options available as implant customization to list here, but all chips have certain common features, again enshrined in Slaver law. Firstly, the woman is compelled to follow any instruction, so long as it is spoken by a man, and secondly, she is prevented from taking her own life. For example, the man says, “stay there,” and she will say there. The man says, “fuck me,” and she will fuck him. She cannot even seek death as a means of escape, unless she is ordered to do so by her owner.

Tisya Achoka will have one of their implants in her skull by now. But not yet an implant that is fully primed, so she must obey all commands. No, there would be no sport in hunting women who simply came when you called. But the Slavers do implant all the Rape Runners, to prevent the suicides which used to occur when Runners knew capture was inevitable. Only if she is captured during the sport, will Tisya’s chip be fully primed. Complete obedience, just like that impelled on the regular slave stock, is the fate awaiting not the winner, but the Rape Run’s losers.

Once any captive woman is implanted, she will be also given the mark – a distinctive indelible swirling pattern that she’ll carry for life on her face. Tisya too will already have hers. A badge of quality identifying her as someone defeated, and processed by the Slavers. Any man who sees a woman so marked will know what it means. She is going to be obedient. She has been broken. She is shamed.

After processing, once women have their implant and mark, some of them are given further training – sexual behavior; serving food and drink; dancing; and other skills to increase their value. A few are retained and remain on the surface in the service of the Slavers. Most will be sent to The Hub, either to serve there, or be sold on to generate a profit.

Males who are not of Aghara-Penthay, i.e. not being citizen-members of one of the Slaver factions, are never permitted down to the planet’s surface. The Slavers contact offworlders and the rest of the galaxy via a vast, heavily defended space station orbiting the planet – The Hub – the place where I am now. All access on and off the red world itself goes via shuttles departing from The Hub, and boarding is strictly controlled. Only citizens and captive slaves may make the journey to the surface. No female takes that trip willingly. Once a woman is on the hot desert ground, she’s doomed. There’s no return to space until after her processing, when she’s ready for sale. Unmarked females are not permitted on the shuttles back to orbit. It’s another Slaver law.

Unlike the private planet’s surface, The Hub is welcoming to male outsiders. Offworld males may visit The Hub to buy or sell slaves, enjoy the brothels which cater for every taste and fetish, or simply visit to relax and drink. It has become one of the galaxy’s most popular tourist destinations for men. Of course, for female visitors The Hub is much less popular – visiting a place where one immediately becomes sexual property would not be most women’s first choice for a vacation, but some are curious, and still do make the journey with a carefully chosen escort. There is, for a few, a thrill to experiencing being briefly owned, and others are drawn by the excitement of danger, knowing themselves so close to such Horror and such despair.

The Slavers’ wealth has enabled them to gather a pirate fleet unrivalled in the galaxy, with the home base for their vast cruisers being the docking levels at The Hub. Such force means they’ve been able to flaunt their contempt for the civilized galaxy’s laws and its women with impunity. Easily the most famous expression of Aghara-Penthay’s merciless power is The Rape Run. Each year, the faction leaders contribute their most exceptional captives until ten of the galaxy’s most desirable women are assembled for participation in a degrading competition. These women are released into a vast crater on the planet surface – The Zone. Watched through hidden cameras by a galactic audience of trillions, they’re then hunted by the faction leaders. If a woman is caught, her captor rapes her, rapes her and rapes her, and broadcasts it for the entertainment of the universe. Afterwards, their implants are fully activated, and they are sold. Only the last woman to evade capture is released, traumatized and bearing the mark for life, but unviolated and with her free will intact.

Rape Runners must possess exceptional beauty, so models, athletes and dancers are always popular, but many are chosen as much for the message their capture sends to the galaxy’s female population. Political figures who advocate women’s rights, for example, are particularly poignant. Celebrities who become lauded as female role models also need to lock their doors at night. The Slavers sometimes enjoy taking a woman who seemed too well protected to capture. If they can catch her, then the message this sends out, is that all women should fear.

Thus, the religious leader Tisya Achoka, whose qualities ticked so many of those Slaver boxes, was always going to be at particular risk. The Djenerion Sect believe their Gods only favor virgin females, not males, favored with access to paradise and the secret knowledge of the divine, so only a virgin woman may become a Djenerion priestess. Gender inequality provokes hostility whichever way it aims, and thus many are opposed to the Sect, but Djenerion priestesses do have an undeniable gift of making eerily accurate prophesies. That’s why the Sect’s narrow privilege still draws a more diverse range of followers, with men and less-chaste women included among their believers. Even if someone sacrifices their virtue for bearing offspring or worldly pleasure, that doesn’t stop them seeking the reassurance that comes from knowing the future.

Tisya, the Sect’s leader, the current Djeneria, is undeniably an outstandingly beautiful woman. There are many men who will take pleasure watching Tisya Achoka participate as Rape Runner, and there will be a particularly sadistic thrill if she fails. For only virgin woman attain the brightest Djenerion afterlife. The audience know that according to Djenerion beliefs, consent-or-not, if she is penetrated, the universe will be sharing the moment when her paradise is torn from her.

But the Djenerion Sect are no fools, and they were not ignorant the danger arising from Tisya’s value as a prize. With Tisya being merely the latest of a long line of leaders targeted for The Rape Run, and Slavers by no means the only threat to the Sect, they formed an elite armored guard of warrior women – the Okhoron, devoted to protecting her. These pretty defenders were a blessing, but also a curse. Capturing a Runner who comes with a bevy of attractive consorts became even more appealing to Aghara-Penthay.

The entire Djenerion Sect has long been considered as a particularly convenient source of female slaves, for another belief states that an unforgivable act is taking one’s own life. A slave too terrified to kill herself needs to be less carefully monitored. However, although suicide is taboo in the Sect, murder is not an unforgivable act. Thus, the Sect declared very publicly that should the holy mouthpiece of the Gods – the Djeneria Tisya Achoka, ever come under threat, the Okhoron were ordered to execute her before she fell into male hands, and then shoot each other for the same reason. Better to die a virgin, and reach paradise early, than live a sex slave. They thought that this proclamation might be enough to deter the Slavers, and all pirates would come to consider any effort to seize her as futile, given the Djeneria would be terminated as soon as her peril became too great.

The Djeneria’s defenses are weakest during her frequent ceremonial visits away from the Djenerix homeworld. The Sect and the Okhoron have always been nervous of the risk of attack offworld, but in the end that wasn’t the circumstances of her abduction. It was just after she’d left a planet, and her protectors had relaxed their guard. Still deep inside Republic space, those women must have thought they were safe.

No one knows how Salarin, one of the notorious Slaver faction leaders, managed to smuggle a stun bomb onto the Djeneria’s actual flagship, but without warning the escort vessels detected an unmistakable EM burst, and then the flagship was left drifting and unresponsive in space. Immediately the Slavers struck, hyper speed gravity drives delivering pirate vessels as though emerging from nowhere. The escorts opened fire and closed around the inert flagship, and the battle was fierce, but there were just too many Slaver ships. Once the outcome was inevitable, the escorts switched to their emergency protocols, turning their fire on the flagship, but by then it was too late.

The galaxy perceived it as an impressive victory for Salarin. Despite all the effort the Sect made to protect her, even Tisya Achoka had been kidnapped, and taken to Aghara-Penthay destined for the Rape Run. Who next, if they can catch her? One of the president’s exquisitely pretty daughters, even? The universe sat transfixed at their screens.

Footage is always broadcast across the galaxy showing each Runner’s arrival and processing. Tisya looked ashen faced during her first presentation to the universe, when under heavy guard, and to the jeers of the crowd, she walked barefoot and humbled through The Hub, her hands chained together behind her. Tisya’s captors had stripped her original clothing as they do with all captives, and she had been provided only with an Aghara-Penthay slave wrap – a rectangular piece of silken fabric fastened under the left arm, humiliatingly revealing, and barely long enough to cover the sex organs.

The wrap is designed to be demeaning, and is as recognized across the galaxy as the slave mark. Wearing it, much of Tisya’s beauty was on show for the first time. However, even this meagre covering was envied by the Okhoron captured with her. They were forced to march naked in formation around her, performing in a cruel parody of their former role. Each one was a tall and healthy beauty, each has the same unnaturally pale skin and white blonde hair. The contrast of Tisya’s brunette in the middle of her entourage was all the greater, dark amongst their platinum.

The showing of so much exquisite flesh was too much temptation for the men on The Hub that day, and the warrior women’s beauty made the fate of Tisya’s escorts’ certain. Rape Runners remain unviolated until the contest, to maximize the impact of their moments of downfall, but there’s no need for such niceties with captive Okhoron. Some Okhoron females rivalled their leader’s allure, and the parade descended into a near-riot as the Slaver guards permitted the mass rape of Tisya’s escort, the broadcast of the outrage to the galactic audience showing a gratuitous close-up of each woman’s reaction, at the very moment she was denied access to her future paradise.

The group public disgrace was almost as brutal a blow to the Sect as each rape must have been a personal one to the victim. Divine foresight failed the Djenerion that day, and for their followers, trying to maintain belief in the Gods’ blessing must have been challenging when the immortal ones did not intervene to save even one woman’s virtue. And the Sect suffered a physical cost as well as a spiritual one. Nearly all the Okhoron were captured on that ship with Tisya.

A few were lucky. The council which leads the Djenerion, The Nine, wielding an authority almost as great as Tisya, happened to have been unnecessary for that visit by sheer luck, and the Sect leadership avoided being wiped out thanks to The Nine remaining in their shrine on the Djenerix homeworld. But they faced the task of rebuilding a humiliated religion from only regular members of the Sect and old or injured Okhoron females – those who stayed at home, or were assigned to the escort vessels. Even worse for The Nine, a new Djeneria can only be chosen at the death of her predecessor, so Tisya remains Djeneria, captive or not, and if she loses in the Rape Run, the Sect face decades of Humiliation with an implanted sex slave as their reigning “virgin” leader.

The Slavers knew all this, and they gloated.

Certainly then, in the eyes of the galaxy, a victory for Salarin and all the Slavers. But on Aghara-Penthay, the situation was more ambiguous. At first, the murmurs of discontent were nothing unusual. There is always tension between social groups when sentient beings are involved, and the alliances between the Slaver factions are no different. Disputes on Aghara-Penthay frequently become violent, as often men do fight when women are at stake. Only three years ago, a fifth faction leader, Leshan, was deposed shortly before that year’s Rape Run. And none of the current chiefs have been in post over a decade. Faction leaders must watch for threats from within their own faction, threats from rival leaders, and threats from the rest of the galaxy. One cannot be faint hearted and be a faction leader.

But for once, the discontent did not settle as easily as it normally does. Talk amongst the Slavers was that Salarin carelessly spent too many male lives just to capture one Runner. Valuable cruisers were lost in that battle. The severely damaged pirate cruiser from which I disembarked a few minutes ago, Virgin’s Nightmare, was for a while believed lost, and only limped home with its comms wiped out seven standard galactic days after Tisya’s capture.

It was the second time in a short period when a raid targeting one woman ended up having a high cost. The other one? The Republic finally decided to close its trimium mine on the dark, icy world of Cancis Rock, and move the inhabitants to a more pleasant and more secure location. Cancis Rock had only recently been converted from a prison into a refuge for rescued slave women. Benevolent guards protected them from themselves – from obeying orders from Aghara-Penthay to return; from exploitation by predatory males – while allowing those whose implants forced particular urges on them, masochists, for example, to safely sate their needs.

Recovering a large consignment of slaves was an appealing prospect for the Slavers, but among those women was one they sought above all. Melena de Santo, the former Republic colonel. Melena was captured for the Rape Run and violated brutally, before turning the tables and humiliating the Slavers in front of the whole galaxy, by escaping the Run along with the bounty hunter, Ja-Alixxe. The two women were condemned to be raped to death for their defiance, but so far, in spite of huge rewards, only Ja-Alixxe has been recaptured and paid the ultimate price for her escape. I saw the stream, when another slave – one from a species able to self-detonate, made Ja-Alixxe into a martyr, causing significant damage to The Hub in the process.

When Salarin received the intelligence of the slave women being secretly moved between sanctuaries, via some Republic agent who was in his pay, the Slavers moved to attacked with full half of their fleet.

Unfortunately, it was a trap. The Republic were waiting with even greater numbers, and inflicted such a defeat that it will take the Slavers years to recover. Anyone can receive fake intelligence, but it happened to be Salarin who was blamed. To make the ill-feeling worse, Salarin’s ships happened to suffer much lighter losses than the other faction leaders. He brought about a defeat, and gained ground over the other leaders at the same time.

It has not been a good year for Aghara-Penthay, or for the crew of Virgin’s Nightmare.

Today, there is only one unusual thing about the appearance of our group as we pass through the airlock and begin walking through The Hub. Passers-by see what they’re meant to see – males in typical Slaver dress – loose flowing shirts and desert color pants, with heavy work boots suitable for traversing the rocky surface down on Aghara-Penthay’s surface. That is normal. Those who we pass might casually note how each one of us has on the upper arm of our uniform the faction emblem of a Slaver clan. Salarin’s faction, in our case. Also normal. The one unusual element for Aghara-Penthay is our lack of Slaver, swagger. In a line we stumble on, seeming on the verge of exhaustion, each looking barely able to carry their heavy blaster weapon, and their regulation kit bag.

After returning from a deep space cruise, it is perhaps also slightly unusual that not one of us makes for one of the brothels to sate our desire. If one of us forgets to control their expression, someone in my team might even be spotted seeming to look with distaste at the slave women, naked or in wraps, buzzing around everywhere. But sexual lethargy too is not entirely unheard of, so if we are noticed, we draw no questions. There are enough slaves in captivity on the surface to satisfy everyone, and people will assume even the most libidinous appetite occasionally grows tired of constant, freely available, sex.

The date and time of our docking is only hours from the commencement of this year’s Rape Run, and the vast screens everywhere on The Hub are busily broadcasting saturation coverage. On one screen, I see the Runners waiting in fear in their holding pen, down below us on the planet. I glimpse Tisya herself huddled against the bare wall, knees drawn up as though she’s trying to be invisible.

I frown, my heavy brows dark.

Another monitor that I pass is replaying highlights of the launch show, where the Runners were subjected to a humiliating interview by the host, Wagner. Other screens cover each Runner’s backstory, provide her odds of success, and analyze her likely strategy. Ahead of me, I see Orteza pause when Tisya’s face again comes on a view screen – Orteza perhaps contemplating the collateral damage wrought on our lives, just because one woman was desired by Aghara-Penthay.

The lower level of The Hub where we disembarked is dedicated to the docking ring for Slaver pirate cruisers, and also to docking the tourist ships that bring groups of men and sometimes women on sex holidays. An upper level contains administration and facilities to manage The Hub’s defense. The main level of The Hub, the one that we’re half-way across now, is the mezzanine, a long strip containing the brothels, auction houses, hotels, stores, restaurants and bars that sate every desire of the visitors. One place in particular claims my attention. I’ve been trying not to notice it, and yet, as is the way with destiny, inevitably we pass it. The Palace of Roses. Owned by Salarin’s faction, one of the brothels configured to please men with a taste for torturing women. It’s as though a hand squeezes my heart. Here is where she finished up.

But I might crack if I look any longer. I focus ahead on our destination.

At one end of the mezzanine, beyond the tightest security controls on The Hub, is an area accessible only to Slavers and slaves. From here, small shuttles configured for short flights transport everything to and from the planet’s surface.

We become more watchful as we pass through the security checks, our fingers discreetly close to triggers in case there’s trouble, but we make it through the scans without incident. Those forged IDs were worth what we paid, then.

Waiting beyond the checkpoint we see a small group of naked women, joined by chains at their necks, destined for the next shuttle down to the surface. I count four of them. The faces of three are not yet marked – they must be fresh captives. Down there on the hot dry red surface of the planet, the new ones will inevitably be implanted, marked, and begin spending the rest of their lives serving the whims of their owners. The three fresh women are of indifferent quality – the one with the best breasts having a face that is too square; the prettiest features being on the girl who is short, and so on. But high quality or low, they are female, and therefore slave. They will inevitably be processed and sold.

Two of these women have learned a little of how to conduct themselves during their short time in captivity, and all stare down, not daring to make eye contact with anyone in Slaver uniform. But one still weeps quietly, probably contemplating that these are her last hours with free will. It is a mistake, for if her sniveling irritates the guards, she will be punished. A smarter companion elbows her in the ribs irritably.

A fourth female, the one whom I judge most desirable, stands slightly apart from the other group. Four is positioned in between the two Slaver guards, probably under their orders, so they might touch her if they wish. She has not been chained at the neck to the others, for she does not need restraint. Number four already has the swirling slave mark on her face. She will already have an implant in her brain stem, dissolving her will to resist male commands.

Just two men have been tasked as escorts for this sorry quartet, and they are only lightly armed. There is little need for weaponry when the women in their charge are defenseless, and have nowhere left to run. For a woman, making an escape from The Hub is nearly as unlikely as fleeing the surface, so females need minimal policing. The men are merely there to ensure that the fresh captures do not end themselves before getting to implantation.

“What’s her story?” I ask the escorts gruffly, indicating the marked one. It is unusual for marked females to be returned to the surface. Processed women are taken to The Hub to serve there, or most commonly are sold from there onwards, and it’s only the fresh captures need to travel to the ground.

“There’s a shortage in the breeding program,” shrugs the guard. “She’s to be inseminated.”

“There’s always a shortage in the breeding program,” I grumble, rubbing the unnatural-feeling growth of stubble on my chin. “They would rather sell females than maintain the population we need. The chiefs think only of credits.”

While I speak, I appraise the woman She’s a sensible choice. The girl is tall and strong. If her babies are male, they will become healthy and virile Slavers. Female offspring might also have value.

“Ajeedie”, one of my team interrupts from behind me, and a hand on my sleeve pulls me to the side. The voice speaking is low, masculine, but urgent, seeking a private conversation not meant for the ears of those guards. I turn. Of course, it is Norenda. The sharpest thorn in my side. When there’s dissent, it’s always Norenda, or Orteza.

“We can’t take the shuttle with these four, Ajeedie,” Norenda says. “There was nothing in the agreement about involving innocents.”

“If you want me on side, you will address me as Commander Ajeedie, Norenda,” I snap.

How many times do we have to repeat this? The rest of the team were bonded before I joined, and they didn’t like a stranger parachuted into the helm. Since the beginning, they’ve deliberately disrespected me, with petty acts like not using my title. Some commanders would make more effort to get troops on side, but I’m not one to be distracted from my goal, or give in to Norenda’s pestering just to curry favor. I dismissively answer: “We cannot risk a delay. It will attract too much attention and besides – the Run is about to begin.”

“Don’t be so pompous, or ridiculous,” Norenda retaliates. “Of course, we can wait a short time. How will that attract attention? We’re just off a long cruise, and it will be days before the Run is over. And what’s more natural than us taking time to hang around, have a few beers and look at the girls?”

“All of us will need to purge soon,” I hiss in a low voice. Purging overrides all. The Hub is kept to a comfortable temperature, unlike the boiling surface which awaits us below, but all the same I’m feeling faint, and underneath the layers I’m slick with sweat. The others will be in a similar state. “Don’t forget the local repair and processing crews will be on the ship soon. We must be down to the planet before anyone checks the manifests on Virgin’s Nightmare.”

“There are places we can purge on The Hub,” Norenda counters. “Every brothel has private rooms. But if we take this shuttle, then the women become our responsibility.”

Frustration is making Norenda’s voice creep louder and louder. I make a warning gesture.

I make a quick assessment of the guards and their naked charges, considering the lives we hold in our hands. There’s nothing there to change my mind. There are always victims, where slavery exists. The women’s future is miserable with us or without us.

“We are fighters, not slave handlers. I am not nursemaiding a gaggle of captives across the surface,” I insist. “What are we going to feed them? Besides, what if they find out our objective, and they turn against us? You know the risk of failure. They may prefer to side with our opposition.”

“We are fighters, Ajeedie, not murderers,” says Norenda. “If we take this shuttle, we spare them, and we offer them the choice if the situation changes.”

“Norenda, I know your taste. it is not a time to let a slave take your fancy. We work alone, and that’s an order.” I insist.

But Norenda makes a point of hefting that heavy blaster. And that overtly aggressive gesture finally is enough to draw the attention of one of the two escorts. Although for now, the escort still only goes as far as nudging his companion, suppressing a grin. Relations in the factions are fractious at best, and fights are not uncommon. So long as it doesn’t spill out into full disorder, violence would probably break the monotony of their day.

“And you might not be murderers, but I am,” I say menacingly.

But Norenda is not going to give in. “If what awaits us awaits us,” my subordinate declares too loudly, “then fuck your orders anyway Ajeedie.”

I must restore authority, but still put a lid on this situation.

“You!” I demand to Orteza, “Take that soldier’s weapon,” and to Norenda, “As for you – you’re on a charge for insubordination.”

I chose Orteza to exercise my will, intending to divide the pair and then conquer, but it doesn’t work.

“I’m with Norenda, and I think you’ll find we’ll be the ones making the call,” says Orteza. “Nobody wanted to follow you, Ajeedie. Everyone knows you’d never have been put in command if you weren’t the only option left. So don’t misunderstand us. We’ll let you play chief just enough to get you where you need to be on the surface, but don’t push us.”

“Too right.” Norenda smirks. “And Orteza makes a good point – why did you become the only option? When there’s some quiet time, and this is over, let’s talk about where you were when the battle was going on, Ajeedie.”

“Keep that up and when there’s some quiet time, I’ll spend it killing you both,” I say, “and I’ll enjoy it.” I flex my arms, and muscle ripples. I do not make idle threats. I could kill Norenda, if I wanted. I could kill Orteza. Diaz. Ak-Mancheen. Illyri. Ko. All of them. I have the skill, the reflexes. They could even be armed, and I could have nothing, and I’d still be the victor.

But I force myself to count to ten, swallowing my angry humiliation. Now I’m the one drawing attention. I delivered my death threat loud enough that the two guards overheard, but on Aghara-Penthay, that’s still not been menacing enough for them to lose their smile.

Unbeknown to them, I can read their body language easily, and I’m confident they will not intervene, so long as things don’t escalate. The smaller man is even relaxed enough that he begins groping the breasts of the breeder girl. She flinches at the first contact – even implanted women can’t always override defensive animal instincts, but then she remembers herself, and opens her body to him. He slaps her face anyway – to shock rather than to hurt her. A warning. I shrug, trying not to show any sympathy.

“Kill me if you must,” Norenda tells me. “But while I’m alive, we either take this shuttle and deal with the consequences, or we wait.”

“This is not over,” I warn them. What happens when we’re in private on the shuttle is a different matter to what happens in the public areas of The Hub, but for now it’s best I give in. To the obvious disappointment of the watching guards, I grunt, gesturing to the shuttle, and we board. I’m patient, and my hour will come. Those who are not in my team follow – slaves, escorts, and all, for better or for worse.

Orteza has paused, and is watching me closely.

“What made you so cold, Ajeedie? It takes more than one shipwreck to make someone that bitter.”

I’d prefer to let them think I’m a dick than tell them the truth. Our chances of success are thin enough, and there will be no satisfaction at the end of it. If they knew they’d be running already, not inviting the extra problem of a babysitting task.

“You don’t know what I’ve had to see, you don’t know what I’ve had to do,” I answer gruffly, then I steal a glance at the escorts. “And I’m about to add more crimes to my record.”

That is how things are left, as we board.

Adding crimes is just how it goes, too. Minutes later, I have made several more kills. Yeah, Orteza and Norenda might bluster, but they still leave the dirty work of doing that to me. Well, murdering takes my mind away from dealing with human resources issues.

The universe moves on. Somewhere out there in space, senior officers at Hub Control and Surface Control, will soon report to their superiors that our shuttle veered off course and crashed to ground somewhere in The Zone, with all on board lost. The destruction will be so complete I do not expect much effort will be made to aid us. In fact, I’m counting on it. Aghara-Penthay is a cruel world, and death and suffering here are quickly forgotten. My argument with my team proves how hard it is for real kinship to develop among those who must come here. I wonder briefly if anyone at all will mourn the occupants of shuttle AP-3142-Z, but seeing as one of those alleged victims is myself, I don’t have the luxury of time to ponder it for long.

2-Surface

Wreckage is spread over more than a square mile of the surface of Aghara-Penthay. Norenda did a good job, I must admit. The largest piece is no bigger than a human head, and all the debris has been incinerated to blackness by the fierce heat from the impact. When the rescue and salvage parties arrive, they will struggle even to identify how many were killed. Forget identifying individuals from this shattered mess. Good. But the rising smoke signposts the location of the crash, and the alarm will be raised by now. Not so good.

“We need to move,” I say, unnecessarily. All of us understand the dangers. “We can’t last long out in this heat, and they will soon be sending ships to check for survivors.”

I look to Orteza. As our group’s tech, Orteza has switched that showpiece blaster from The Hub for a screen, suspended from a shoulder strap for easy transport.

“Any lifesigns yet?”

Orteza studies the motion tracker, instinctively wiping a hand across that balding crown, as though this actually helps remove sweat. Gods, it’s hot here.

I wait anxiously. If the tracking device wasn’t damaged in the crash, it should show anything moving in The Zone, beginning from the size of an adult human. If it’s broken, we’re screwed.

“Good traces, Ajeedie. A high density of signals coming from The Zone center. That will be the Hunter groups. Scattered medium sized lifeforms elsewhere across The Zone. Runners, or native animals. Too many to tell. No sign of incoming ships yet.”

I nod.

“In that case we have a few minutes. Kit check, everyone.”

My group are at least sensible enough to follow that order, and everyone rummages through their Slaver kit bags, checking the functionality of equipment. I survey them, as they do their work. Seven of us. The plan was to keep an even number in case the worst happened, but my addition to the party messed that up. Another reason they resent me – I’m unlucky seven, the feared team total in many enlightened galactic superstitions. But here we are. Ajeedie – ranking officer and combat specialist. Norenda – pilot. Orteza – tech. Diaz – muscle. Ak-Mancheen – muscle. Illyri – pyrotechnics. Ko – medic. Those two Slaver escort guards, and the shuttle’s original crew, were cremated by the fiery wreck of the shuttle. Only the unlucky seven remain, the jinxed powers of our number already demonstrated by an obligation to our unwanted and dangerous new additions.

The group of women shuffle nervously, their bare feet sore now they’re on the stony ground of The Zone. They don’t understand what’s happening. They don’t understand why, as soon as the shuttle left The Hub and started to descend, the leader of a motley group of men butchered their escorts and the flight crew with terrifying efficiency, but chose to spare the slaves. They don’t understand why Norenda gently landed us on the surface, but then used a remote to take off and plough the shuttle into the rocky ground, at an impossible angle. They don’t understand why Slaver troops are acting so warily on the surface of their own world.

They wouldn’t guess the true reasons unless I showed them, but I can see their mental cogs whirring as they try to make assumptions anyway. The conclusion they’ll probably reach is that we spared them for the usual reasons that men keep women. I will not offer them any reassurance on this. They are slaves, and cannot be trusted, and it’s better for now that they look on us the way slave women usually look on male captors.

Having confirmed the readiness and functionality of my own kit, I look around. The floor of the vast crater which forms The Zone was pancake-flat in an era before recorded history, but over millions of years, nature has created sufficient variation on the surface to provide ample cover. Around me sharp outlines shimmer with the heat haze. A nearby outcrop of rock is dwarfed by the slopes of the more distant crater edge marking The Zone boundary, but the outcrop will be sufficient to our needs. It is honeycombed with entrances, and in those entrances there will be the precious shade.

“We hole up over there until nightfall.” I say, the deepness of my voice adding authority. “Let’s go. All of you – team: keep on the hard ground as much as possible, so you leave no footprints. Slaves – follow us.”

Without waiting for an answer, I begin to march, making the pace on point. My boots are practical for the stony terrain, even though the thick soles tend to crunch noisily on the gravel ground. The team fall into place behind me. At least seeing me doing that killing means their attitude has improved. The members of my squad watch me nervously now they know what I’m capable of.

Only the female with the slave mark is implanted and compelled to follow us, but the rest of the women trail docilely behind anyway. I suppose they have nothing else to do. Make a break for the sands, and they will find either more groups of men, or a cruel death alone in the desert. They do not complain. It must be painful for them stepping on sharp stones in bare feet, but that’s not my problem. It was Norenda’s stupid decision to keep them alive, so Norenda can choose how to deal with anyone who goes lame. Besides, in one specific way, those slaves are luckier than we are. Although there were no wraps on the shuttle for them to wear, at least while they’re naked, they’re not cooking alive under this sun.

During our short walk, the Rape Run year 4453 commences. Across the galaxy, the public will be busy choosing between live feeds of any Runner, or any of the four Hunters. Trillions of beings checking their favorites, and enjoying their victories or defeats. There will be sentient beings watching from almost every corner of the universe, with one exception. Here in The Zone, the broadcasts are blacked out with an EM shield, so neither Slaver nor Runner can gain an advantage of knowing the other’s tactics. All we are shown is the official broadcast with the face of Wagner, projected to vastness on a screen in the sky. Launching the competition, he reminds the Runners of the rules for women – they must call for the foul sperm-laden hydrating fluid every two hours, or visit one of the very few drinking pools and risk being trapped there. They may call for a flare if in distress, and a Hunter will be given their location. Finally, they must not cross the rim of the crater out of The Zone. Hunters have regulations too, but the only one Wagner mentions is they may not hunt between sunset and sunrise.

“Hydrate,” I order the team, and they obey. Our water bottles do not contain the sperm of a Rape Runner’s sponsors, but they are nearly as unpleasant, having been heated by the sun to a temperature as warm as a bath.

“Water the slaves as well,” I order.

Wagner vanishes from the sky. So, it’s begun. This very second, Hunter’s groups have started fanning out from the center of The Zone, in search of Runners. Runners will be making for somewhere they can evade detection, much as we’re doing. Each one of those women will be perpetually terrorized during her participation in the event – frightened to move, frightened to stay still, most frightened by imagining what will happen to her if she gets caught.

We have hydrated ourselves, but in the open furnace where we’ve landed, no amount of water is going to be enough. Ak-Mancheen, muscle, the biggest of us, stumbles, then goes face first down into the dirt. Ko, medic, rushes in to check vital signs. Ko’s diagnosis – nothing more serious than fainting from the heat, but where Ak-Mancheen has gone, soon there will be more. Our group can only resume with Ak-Mancheen leaning on Ko’s shoulder. Even I can’t help but smile wryly at them. Two motley scruffs together, one giant, one slight. A comically mis-sized pair if I ever saw one.

We’re in a sorry state by the time we reach the rocks. It is lucky that the outcrop is so ideal, because we don’t have reserves for a plan-B. There are hundreds of caves in this one feature. We quickly find a place that has a small, easily guarded entrance, and expands into a larger space within. Diaz and Ak-Mancheen sweep it for lifeforms and pronounce it safe.

“In,” I say.

The air inside the cave is almost as hot as outside, but it feels mercifully cooler anyway, just because the sun isn’t baking us alive. All the same, I’m still near fainting with heat, and I don’t need Ko’s anguished reminder “Ajeedie?” to know what must be done.

“Diaz, Ak-Mancheen, Illyri,” I say, “You three first. Find a cave and purge. Make sure you’re not followed.”

They are the logical choice. Diaz and Ak-Mancheen are carrying the heaviest loads, and as demonstrated, that makes them the most vulnerable to succumbing to the heat. Illyri is frailer than the others. The three of them don’t need asking twice, and have left us almost before I’ve finished my sentence.

“Orteza,” I continue, “Take Norenda to purge, once Diaz and Ak-Mancheen return. I’ll go last, with Ko.”

Orteza and Norenda have the closest friendship within the team, and I consider it a peace offering to permit them purging at the same time. Of course, they even have to disagree with that.

“Send Ko with Norenda,” Orteza counters, although with a more respectful tone than I’ve heard before. “Ko is delicate, and needs it more quickly. I can wait. And someone needs to keep an eye on you. We don’t want you massacring the women, the first moment we’re away.”

Fine, whatever. Perhaps when we’re alone and purging, I can kill Orteza. I shrug.

“As you wish,” I say. “Ko and Norenda – you’re next, then.”

With that agreed, we return to our mission objectives.

“Lifesigns?” I ask Orteza, who is once again concentrating on the motion tracker.

“Ships now at the wreck site. Slaver groups with the faction leaders identified. Dispersed across The Zone. Multiple individual signals. Too many to confirm any as Runners.”

“Monitor the Hunter closest to us,” I say. “We’ll begin after dark.”

“Ajeedie.” Orteza acknowledges with a nod.

I sit down, with my back against the wall of the cave, and close my eyes. Any movement only generates heat, and makes me more likely to collapse before the purge.

“Master?”

It is the girl with her face marked who interrupts me. She kneels in the dirt, naked, only inches away from me.

“Do you require any service? Master looks unwell.”

She looks at us and sees men, rapists, but her face is a picture of confused concern anyway. The implant in her skull, its biotech roots embedded deep into her brain, is fulfilling its program, and compelling her to prevent harm coming to men. She doesn’t understand what we’re doing here, and why we’ve been all-but ignoring our women, but she must still try to please anyway. When a slave is as pretty as her, many men would have forced themselves on her by now. Oh, for a normal life, like one of those men. On a whim, I reach out and touch her cheek, on the side where she’s marked as a slave. It is an intense experience, having such complete power over another being. I trace down her vulnerable throat to the swelling of her full breast, until I reach the nipple. I can see why she was chosen as breeding stock. She will produce healthy and attractive offspring.

The girl makes no attempt to evade my touch. In fact, she arches her back to present her chest more completely. She is one of those long-since broken. She has learnt there is no escape for her, and complete surrender is the best way to reduce her suffering.

“Where are you from?” I ask, withdrawing my hand, and clarify, “before becoming a slave?”

“Cuspix, Master,” she answers, a little uncertainly as though it was too long ago to remember. “In the Danaean Cluster.”

“I do not know it,” I say dismissively. “What were you before you were taken?”

“A medical officer, Master. In a merchant fleet.”

“Ah. Is that how you met the Slavers of Aghara-Penthay?”

“Yes, Master. I was officer on a passenger vessel. Our route was deep in Republic space where attack was unlikely, but a pirate found us anyway.”

She waits silently. Men don’t often wish to hear women talk for long, and an experienced slave does not elaborate unless ordered. But like many, I can’t help having a macabre fascination with those who have endured the horror. The other members of my squad still present have stopped to listen too.

“Tell me what it was like. Give me details.”

“The attack was terrifying. Brutal murder, and those who died were the lucky ones. The Slavers spared only the lives of the desirable women.”

“It is often that way.”

“I thought they’d preserve us intact for a while – virgin women have higher auction value – but the rapes began as soon as we were on the Slaver ship. Many of the suitable females ended themselves before they could be taken. But I preferred to live, even as a slave. I did not have the strength to terminate myself.”

“Sometimes it takes more courage to survive than to die.”

“I no longer remember,” admits the girl. “Now there is only existing to serve.”

I study her again. Suicide used to be a major issue amongst slave traders, but implantation ended that. A slave’s coding prevents them ending their own life. Not even that escape is possible for the victims of this world.

“I was one of those violated before we docked at The Hub,” she continues. “With the other women, I had to walk naked to the shuttle bay. I’m sure Master has seen these parades many times, but mine, I will never forget.”

“Mmm,” I say noncommittally.

“That was the last time I saw my best friend from the crew. I know not if she lives. I suppose it doesn’t matter. The rest of my story is a typical one, Master. I was processed. Given a little training. I was auctioned, and procured by a brothel on The Hub. I have served there, pleasing men, until the summons to function as a breeder.”

Her sexual slavery has gone on for long enough that she kneels instinctively with her thighs wide. Women are trained to do this – it pleases men to look at the genitals of females, and slave women, being no more than objects are permitted no modesty, but they say it takes a while to become second nature. I can see all the contours of her vulva, and the hood of her clitoris. She is hairless down there. Another common choice of the masters of female slaves. I look back up and see the girl is watching me.

I rest my head back against the rock wall of the cave, and close my eyes. Gods, it’s so hot.

“Master looks unwell,” repeats the girl.

She knows I was looking at her pussy, but there is not the least sign of rebuke, even in her expression. It irritates me for some reason that she is so accepting, so passive. Is there not one of these creatures with the will to resist – a figurehead for the millions of victims?

“What is your name?” I ask, a little snappily.

“Karmeena, Master,” she answers promptly.

“Well I’m fine, Karmeena,” I say dismissively, and she flinches. “Don’t ask me if I’m unwell again. Actually, I need to think. Leave me for now, and go see if the others need assistance.”

“Yes, Master,” she replies, and her compulsion to obey means she’s rising to her feet even before she begins speaking.

It’s not her fault, but the abject obedience that’s meant to please us makes her a risk. Karmeena shouldn’t be here, her or the other women. I’m not naturally heartless, but it would have been better to leave them in the shuttle, so they died in the crash. Norenda and Orteza’s mutiny to save them was understandably human, but foolish. After dark, we will begin our great work, and we will shatter the uneasy peace between the Slaver factions completely. I don’t wish to lose a precious fighter just to leave someone babysitting the women, but neither does a sensible force do its fighting with a gaggle of unarmed naked women alongside. The implanted female is particularly unpredictable. The coding of an implant defines a complicated hierarchy of authority, necessary to avoid the slave experiencing a mental breakdown in the event of receiving conflicting male commands. For now, she identifies me, the leader in faction uniform with a deep voice, as the one to please. But her compulsion to her hardware might mean that once battle is underway, or if she finds out the truth of our history, she will try to join our enemies instead of siding with us.

Perhaps even more dangerously, slave implants can be tracked. Other Slavers have hopefully assumed she was killed in the shuttle crash, but if they bother to check, they’ll discover she’s alive, and then her signal will lead them to us. That girl is a walking time bomb. There should be no more than four Slaver teams in The Zone – the Hunters – and a few admin staff. Four teams, not five.

Still, she is pretty, and who doesn’t instinctively wish to preserve beauty? I’m as guilty as the rest of them. Who doesn’t want to see a creature like her, vivacious and strong? I watch the muscles of her rump flex as she moves through the cave, admiring the way she has such a natural grace to her walk. Doesn’t she deserve the chance of life?

I spare a glance at the other women, the inferior fresh captures huddling together nervously. They are not implanted, but no doubt they expect we’re planning to amend that at the first opportunity. They are a danger in a different way, traumatized to the verge of panic by the early phases of captivity – no use to me. It is not surprising that one of them shrieks with fright when the almost deafening cry of a woman suddenly resonates through the cave, followed by the sound of Wagner’s mocking voice.

“Siilka Noneeva,” he tuts. “What’s going on here? Caught like this, when you won medal after medal for your performance in the water?”

As though magnetized, we move as one to the entrance to the cave to see where one of the vast screens has appeared in the sky. Even the slaves forget their place for a moment to come and watch.

I can only see the head and shoulders of the woman on the screen, but that’s enough to confirm that this Siilka a beauty. Her eyes are large and expressive, and her face is delicate – perfectly symmetrical, with high, fine, cheekbones. Her hair is jet black. Her skin is an unusual non-human blue-grey shade, with a pattern of mottling which suggests scales.

The scene being broadcast by the Slavers does not make sense at first. Siilka is flailing with her arms, and seems to be swimming through the solid sandy ground of Aghara-Penthay, as though the surface somehow liquified. But only temporarily so. The liquid sand she’s fallen into seems to thicken with every moment – an oil, then a syrup, then a gel. Wagner soon explains.

“Thy called you the galaxy’s most beautiful sportswoman, Siilka, they called you the supreme female athlete, but it turned out you weren’t fit enough to escape a Slaver trap.”

In the time it takes Wagner to say that, the liquid finishes setting completely. Siilka still squirms, but for the all the benefit she gets, she might as well have been set in concrete. She made the mistake of having her forearms below the surface as the trap fully solidified, and she looks like an amputee as she violently flails her upper body.

“Your life as a sportswoman is over. Your life as a sex slave has begun. But there is good news. It turns out you haven’t lost that affinity for fluids,” says Wagner, “especially cum.”

These witty words explain the next sequence – a montage of Siilka, naked on her back, strapped down to some form of bed, being repeatedly raped. The first man to take her is the faction leader, Lotho-Etsarra. He is considered the most handsome of the chiefs, but during a rape, his face is distorted by lust into a cruel rictus. A succession of other rapists follows – presumably his men. I do not recognize any of their faces. Sometimes Siilka pleads “no” to these attackers, but it makes no difference. The ending is always the same. Ejaculation, inside her, or sometimes over her face. Once she’s been ruined and soiled by the relentless degradations, and her face is dripping with slime, the last attacker urinates on her, in an ultimate expression of contempt.

I do not reveal any emotion witnessing the scene on the screen. I still have role to play. The unmarked women are looking at us as though in judgement, and we in Slaver uniforms would look strange if they showed sympathy. Over the course of a standard galactic year, hundreds of thousands, no, it must be millions, of rapes take place. Only the Rape Runners have the galaxy witness the first moment of defeat, but otherwise they are not special.

“Get back in under cover,” I order brusquely. “We don’t want to be seen.”

The girl Karmeena obeys immediately. The others linger a moment longer as Wagner’s broadcast finishes, but when I growl, they too move back into the shade. Useless creatures… This mercy towards them better not backfire on us. Karmeena is pretty, but we have work to do, and do not need an attractive implanted female for now. Godsdamn Norenda and Orteza. This is their fault. I just hope I’ll live long enough to make them pay for getting us in this situation, if their kindness comes back and bites us in the ass.

3 – Purge

It’s almost become torture for me by the time my turn comes, but I’m determined to prove I’m better at holding out than the others. So when Ko and Norenda return I make a point of delaying even longer, checking my equipment again. I’m hoping that Orteza comes to plea, but turns out I’m not the only one who can play tough. Orteza squats down and talks quietly to Karmeena, pretending not to have noticed it’s our time. Finally, I’m willing to call it a draw.

“I’m going to purge.” I announce to the group. “Orteza – get ready. You too. Norenda, you’re in charge here. Keep watch. Don’t let the slaves follow me. If a Runner gets close, let her see one of us, and she should steer clear. But sound the alarm if you see Hunters approaching.”

“Ajeedie,” Norenda acknowledges.

Back outside the sun hits me full force, and in spite of the need to show my strength, I reel with dizziness. A hand grasps my upper arm, supporting me. Orteza, thank you, for once. Perhaps you may live after all.

A derelict building is a few hundred yards away, which would offer more seclusion, but our need has become too urgent. A cave entrance is much closer, the red sandstone overhang creating a little shade.

We stumble only far enough inside to be sure we can’t be seen from across the gap, where the others are waiting. We’ve all seen bodies many times, and yet my team prefer to purge alone, as though there’s something shameful about the process.

First, I strip. Weapon, heavy combat boots, socks, jacket with Slaver insignia, desert combat pants, T shirt, are all discarded onto an untidy heap. We wear no underwear – another way to appear as though we’re like other Slavers. Naked, I stretch, flexing my large shoulders. The penis and testicles between my legs hang heavy, distracting me. So much trouble in the galaxy, all because males have these ugly things.

Almost like I’ve never seen mine before, I cup the genitals in the palm of my hand, feeling their warmth and weight.

Letting the junk drop, I look across to Orteza, who is now also nude, and showing a body shorter and wider than me. I’ve not seen that many men nude during my life, but I’ve come across enough to form some sense of what is average. Orteza’s diminutive height seems overcompensated with a ridiculously long penis that dangles halfway down the thighs.

The hair on my skull is dark and short – scruffy, but regulation. I reach up with both hands to this hair, specifically to where the growth stops at the nape of my neck. The flesh feels warm under my fingertips. Pressing firmly down on it, I begin to pull, stretching the surface gently, but steadily. The skin is configured to commence the purge only from there, and so it does, spreading from the base of my skull vertically up and down the spine as though I’ve unzipped a line along my flesh.

Underneath I am sweating profusely, even though my real skin is also naked. Once I’ve pulled the biosuit away over my crown, my true, long, unnaturally blonde hair reveals itself as so wet it looks as though I’ve been in a shower. I continue to pull the biosuit away, peeling it off my arms and down my torso, as though I’m doing nothing more than removing a wetsuit. Gradually the whole skin comes away, with the very last part of me exposed being my feet. Feeling the sharp stones of Aghara-Penthay for the first time on my body’s real soles, I straighten up.

I am tall for a female. Constant training has made my body comparatively muscular for my sex, but I’m nothing compared to male athletes, and wish as I might to appear masculine, my genes rule out any possibility of using physical fitness to obscure my gender without the biosuit. The breasts which curse me are full, unusually full for my frame. They earned me much teasing in my girlhood. Concealment of a rack like mine is usually impossible, even in loose clothing, when they sit so high and protrude forward as proudly as if they’re filled with helium. Compounding my woes, I have unusually prominent nipples that have proved difficult to disguise even with the thickest padding.

Down below, my sex is rounded, and the lips of my vulva are fleshy and prominent, however that does at least mean the curves can conceal the protruding folds of my clitoris.

So there I stand. I know that some men prefer the smaller, fragile woman like living dolls, but for those who favor healthy gene stock, I know to my cost that my appearance is of the kind considered exceptionally attractive. “Rape Run grade”, an asshole guy once labelled me, thinking I’d take it as a compliment.

I am Ajeedie, a “Rape Run grade” naked female standing on the surface of Aghara-Penthay. My sex – my breasts and that opening between my legs, mean I can only ever have the status of slave on this world, and to evade servitude I’m completely reliant on the bodysuit. Such dependence doesn’t stop me looking down with disapproval at the bundle of folded skin lying in the dirt. While the suits look entirely authentic and can also fool any of the Slavers’ gender scanners, and the voice modulator lowers my tone to a male register, they’re not perfect. They’re not porous enough for a hot climate, so we sweat unbearably inside them, and to avoid collapse from heat exhaustion, several times each day we must “purge”, giving our real skins the opportunity to breathe. Furthermore, although it is possible to urinate through the fake penis, passing solids is both difficult and unhygienic.

Orteza carefully holds her own bodysuit. Like most other women, she is shorter than me, and her breasts are less pneumatic, but her face would, I believe, be of the kind men considered attractive. At any rate, since my arrival on The Hub I’ve seen poorer specimens of womanhood that the Slavers were willing to take as their property. Her mixed heritage makes her unusual, with a slight upward slant to her dark eyes, a greenish skin tinge and her near-jet-black hair betraying the nonhuman strand woven through her DNA. Her true female form is softer than mine, and except for her chest, she is more rounded. Orteza has not endured the constant exercise regimes of Tisya’s elite guard, the Okhoron, so she lacks my muscle definition. Her eyes are very dark, and large – one of her better features, and her mouth is wide, giving her face a naturally sensual look.

We eye each other warily. The Djenerion Sect is an order of women, but we are a demure order, turning away from our mortal bodies to seek the enlightenment, and it is rare we are nude in the presence of another person. So even if I hadn’t discovered her sexual preference was for females, I would probably have felt uncomfortable baring myself before Orteza. But on this planet of Aghara-Penthay, women are defined only by our beauty, and by our value as sexual objects. It is impossible to forget our desirability while standing nude under the appraisal of another.

Like me, Orteza is dripping with sweat. She moves a hand automatically to her gleaming shoulder. “Don’t wipe the sweat away,” I tell her. “It will evaporate in the dry air, and so cool you more quickly.”

We have been at each other’s throats more or less since we boarded the captured Virgin’s Nightmare disguised our body suits. But naked, Orteza feels the same vulnerability I’m experiencing, and as women we’re instinctively drawn together against this land of horrors.

“I need to pee,” Orteza admits.

“I won’t look,” I reply. “I want to do my form.” I turn politely towards the cave opening, while she squats down on her haunches behind me in the shadows.

I adopt defensive posture four – body turned to the side, one leg ahead, knee bent as though making a fencing thrust, one leg stretched behind. Closing my eyes, I repeat the familiar cycle of blocks and attacks: Attackers zones one and seven, block and retaliate zone seven. Attackers zone three and nine. Block and eliminate zone nine.

The sound of Orteza’s urine stream is noisy. Perhaps that’s why she chooses to speak.

“Ajeedie – do you think we can reach her? Tisya?” Orteza asks. Her voice is high and scratchy. The body suits contain tech to modulate the vocal pitch, and it’s the first time I’ve heard how she really sounds.

Orteza was at the same mission briefing I attended, so she knows the answer almost as well as I do. But she’s seeking comfort and reassurance, rather than information.

Attackers zones two and six. Block six, block two.

“If we all survive tonight’s encounter, I think our chances are good. At least, our chances of reaching the Djeneria are good. As for what happens afterwards, and whether we leave the planet, that needs much more luck. And all this is assuming we find her before the Hunters. The Slavers will hopefully blame one faction leader being assassinated on his rivals. But if they’ve already degraded Tisya and she must be eliminated too – well, then our chances of escape are low. Slavers don’t destroy valuable merchandize. Our actions will give away that something else is occurring, and then they will hunt us down.”

“I wish we had a priestess with us,” Orteza complains. Not the first time I’ve heard this from my team. “I’d feel safer knowing there was someone with the foresight.”

“You know that’s not how the gift works,” I grumble. I stop the form exercises to massage my abdomen. My time of bleeding was not long before the mission began, and I still feel heavy with the aftermath of the cramps. My breasts feel heavy and ache, but I don’t want to rub them in front of Orteza.

“All the same, I’m nervous that no priestess would come with us,” she says. The strike team is drawn from lay members of The Sect, and myself – one of the few Okhoron bodyguards who wasn’t caught with our leader. “It suggests they don’t think we’ll succeed.”

“The priestesses say we will encounter her,” I say, squatting down on my bare haunches, to I look out the cave entrance, and hoping I don’t present my ass too obscenely to Orteza. “And they said what happens after is unclear,” I add. “That probably was the truth.”

“Priestesses don’t lie,” Orteza says defensively.

“Hmm,” I say.

“They don’t!” insists Orteza.

“They do not present false information, but they are capable of presenting information in a way which creates the wrong impression. I’ve seen it. But anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re not here for a theology debate. We will encounter her. We will save her, or we will end her.”

I reach up and pull the rope of my sweat-matted hair round, and squeeze it to try to ring out some of the liquid. My hair, one of the few vanities I permit myself, flows way down my back, and normally looks like a fetching curtain of gleaming alloy, but under the suit it’s only been a burden that’s added to the heat.

Orteza must be watching me do this, because she says, “You know if it wasn’t for that hair color, you’d look just like…”

“I know,” I cut her off.

Thankfully, she’s silent, so I can think.

To the cruel men of Aghara-Penthay, their interest in our Djeneria is only in her value and use as a sexual slave, and the message and humiliation her capture would deliver to The Sect, and to the women of the galaxy. The Slavers do not kill beautiful women. They break them.

But we in The Sect cannot accept a living Djeneria surviving in sexual slavery – shaming the Gods and The Sect for years to come. And so, the Djenerion’s leading council, The Nine, sent my team. The objective, they told them in the briefing, was simple. Find Tisya. If she’s still virgin, take her with us and attempt to leave using the same disguises that delivered us here. If it’s too late, kill her, so another Djeneria might be found. The Sect needed an experienced fighter in charge, and as one of the few Okhoron who wasn’t captured in the space battle for Tisya, I was persuaded to lead the mission. Well, for that reason, and the other reasons they gave me…

“How many have you killed?” Orteza blurts out. Her voice is faltering. “I mean… before those men on the shuttle.” I wonder if she’s been intimidated by watching the form. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You move like you read their minds.”

“I’ve killed enough,” I state simply.

“But women?” Orteza presses, “Could you kill Tisya?”

I think back to her voice: “The Elder God has found you suitable, Ajeedie.”

“I will kill her, if I must.”

“Even if that means the Slavers hunt us down?”

I stop and look round at her, rising to my feet. I don’t want to talk any more about this.

“I’ve killed women. I could kill you if you get in the way of the mission. Don’t give me a reason.”

Orteza seems to shrink, as though humbling herself. Unable to switch off the instinct for mutual appraisal, I notice that her nipples are abnormally large in relation to her average-sized breasts, and they’re an odd color – almost dark green. Alien genetics again.

“If we are going to get caught, do it cleanly,” she says, and it’s a plea. “A shot to the back of the head. Before I know it.”

“I promise,” I reply in a gentler tone than I’ve used before with her.

As I’ve mentioned, suicide is an unforgiveable act to members of the Djenerion Sect, but there is much less prohibition on murder. Our group was meant to contain even numbers, until The Nine added me. If escape from the surface becomes impossible, with only slavery ahead we will free each other from the horrors of life. Except that leaves us the problem of the last one.

“What are we going to do with the slaves? During the attack?” says Orteza.

It’s a mistake for her to mention the women. I can’t help snorting with derision, and Orteza’s reciprocal dark expression shows our truce has just ended.

“You have a nerve asking me that. Keeping them was your idea. You deal with them.”

“We couldn’t just let them die,” says Orteza.

“We could, and should. The implanted one is dangerous,” I say, with more conviction than I feel. I too had watched her in the cave, admired her, and asked if she deserved a chance at life. “What if they track her to us? What if she sides with her Masters? We cannot let her know that we’re really women.”

“But the three others have a chance at fighting for their freedom,” says Orteza. “They can help.”

“They’re good for nothing. Look at them, they’re scared out of their wits. They’re more likely to get us caught than to help us away from here. And what happens if we do succeed, and we survive long enough to make it to the rendezvous? You know it’s not permitted to take unmarked women off the planet’s surface. We should have let them die in the crash.”

Orteza stares at me very directly.

“Our Sect’s beliefs are life affirming. Something terrible must have happened to you, Ajeedie, to make you give up on all that.”

“Call it an Okhoron thing,” I say gruffly.

“No… I’ve met other Okhoron and they were warm. You’re dead behind the eyes.”

(A man’s voice: “A Rape Run grade piece of tail, you are”. And then the voice of Tisya: “The Elder God has found you suitable, Ajeedie.”)

Angrily I snatch up my bodysuit. Here on this cruel planet, I can no longer bear being a naked woman. I’d rather be melting than be exposed.

“It’s time to get back. We can’t be out of touch from the others for too long.”

She studies me for a moment, and looks as though she’s about to say more, but thankfully I’m able to silence her with a look, and we return to the others without more talking.

4 – Raid

As soon as the sun has set, we leave Ko at the cave guarding the women, and the remaining six of us start picking our way across the barren ground. She is most expendable in terms of this operation, having only limited combat ability. Also, if one of us is seriously wounded, we are unlikely to be able to deliver the injured woman off this world anyway. The bodysuits are fragile, and each of us knows that a damaged suit will lead to the indignity of the undisguised female abandoning it, and being forced to assume the role of our captive. For a wounded woman with a broken suit, a shot to the head might be the kindest solution.

Orteza is laden with the tech, and carries only a hand blaster fastened to her belt. Illyri also concentrates on equipment. Norenda, Diaz and Ak-Mancheen and myself are bearing the heavy weaponry. I look approvingly at my squad in their disguises – perhaps shorter than average for a group of men, but otherwise convincingly masculine, and appearing exceptionally seedy even for that sex. No one would ever know the truth.

Some of the ground in The Zone is sandy, but where we are now it’s stony underfoot, and it’s difficult to move in low light without making noise. We’re all supremely grateful for Orteza’s long range scanning to avoid danger. Without it, we’d all be even more nervous.

“Multiple lifesigns, two clicks” Orteza says. “Slaver group. Bearing 225, stationary. Also a single lifesign, stationary. Animal or female. Bearing 180. One click.”

“It could be a Runner,” says Norenda. “What if it’s Tisya? We could be on our way home tonight.”

“We could spend half the night hunting the desert, and even if it is a Runner, the odds are small a target would be her. Finding one of the other Runners would just attract attention. No – we need that Slaver tech first.”

The sky is cloudless, and above us, the myriad stars of the galaxy look peaceful. Aghara-Penthay has no moons to reflect light, so even after our eyes have adjusted it is still very dark. But the temperature is mercifully cool, so we’ll last until dawn before needing to purge. Ak-Mancheen is trying to lift the mood and says, “Nice night for a walk,” but then because she’s looking up, she sends a shower of stones skittering across the ground.

“Night vision,” I order curtly.

When we’re fifteen minutes into the march, Orteza identifies a new single lifeform, moving at the speed of running human. It will bisect our path about two hundred yards ahead.

“Cover!” I order, and we conceal ourselves in a nearby ruined building. Although Illyri watches through her goggles from the entrance, we don’t even get a visual to confirm the lifeform’s species.

“All clear,” I say after ten minutes, and we move out again.

The rules of The Rape Run state that the faction leaders and their teams must not move around or hunt at night. This isn’t for the Slaver’s benefit – it’s because men aren’t the only predators in the desert, and it’s too dangerous to encourage Runners to be fleeing during darkness. The audience prefer watching rapes, not fatalities. Hunters sometimes maintain a watch, however, and then pursue any Runners they spot with the return of daylight. So as we start drawing close to the Hunter encampment we move more cautiously, keeping always in cover and progressing from building to building. I have my team move following a wide arc, so we don’t approach in a straight line, leaving an easy trail to track to our origin. But even for those who take the utmost precautions The Zone has its hazards, and in one of these building shells only a quarter of a mile from our target, we nearly come undone.

“Someone’s been here recently,” says Norenda, puzzled. “A Runner, maybe. Look, there’s a ration pack. Food and water.”

The rations are on the floor, in a plastic case right in the middle of an otherwise empty room. The lid has even been left open to show the contents.

“That’s not a Runner’s rations,” Illyri says. “They only get sperm to drink, and they’re forced to eat that foul broth made for slaves. Maybe it’s for one of the admin teams?”

“Look, delicacies,” adds Norenda. She’s already reaching for the case when I understand.

“No!” I cry, diving for her knees to tackle her to the ground before she touches the treats, but it’s too late. The clang of metal is deafening against the almost silent night, as something huge plummets from the ceiling. The cage which has dropped from the roof fills half the room. The trap was designed to catch a lone Runner foolish enough to disturb the rations, firing when they’d naturally be in the center. It’s only sheer luck that none of our larger group was underneath the heavy ironwork.

But the trap did its work. Norenda and I are behind the bars. Orteza, Diaz, Ak-Mancheen and Illyri are free. Within a moment Illyri starts up, moaning in fear, the sound odd in a masculine voice, and I see I need to assert control before the whole team descends into panic.

“Stop that! Look for a winch mechanism,” I order. “There must be a way they use to lift it back up when they catch someone.” I add, “Now!”

Women search the room.

“It will have triggered an alarm,” whines Illyri, her modified voice still high and reedy. “Slavers will come.”

“It will,” I agree, “but remember there’s only the Hunter teams in The Zone right now, and they’re not allowed to move at night. As long as we get out the cage before dawn, we’re safe.”

Disguised behind a battered cover on the wall Norenda discovers a keypad, with a glowing LED betraying that it’s under power. We’re going to get nowhere using that without its code, however.

“Try to lift this edge of the cage,” I command next, pointing to the floor, and as one we strain against the heavy metalwork. Mercifully, it begins to shift. The trap is meant to catch a lone Rape Runner, and for that unlucky woman escape would be impossible. But with the whole team working we’re able to raise the bottom edge by six inches, leaving enough gap to escape underneath. But at a cost. Just from this small amount of exertion I feel myself cooking again inside the body suit. No matter. As long as we can escape. Norenda wriggles out first, while I support the lifting with the other women.

I want to keep proving my courage, my Okhoron superiority over the rest of them. Respect will be important later. So when it’s my turn I nonchalantly say, “Might as well take the treats as we’re here”, and ignoring Illyri’s cry of horror I remove the plastic case from the center of the room. The sensors are there, visible underneath, but they can only trigger the cage once. Hitting the ground, I crawl forward, boot camp style, under the metal cage, which is trembling despite my team’s combined effort.

“Good. Obscure our footprints, and then let’s continue,” I say with forced calm.

Illyri is still jittery after we’ve resumed, and the rest of the team are being affected by her anxiety. Every time someone accidentally kicks stones across the gravelly ground, women jump, scanning around with their weapons. We are irritable with each other.

“The trap was triggered,” Illyri is still moaning. “A Runner couldn’t have escaped from the cage. They will know that a group has been here. They will know there are others in The Zone.”

“That’s why I took this,” I say, waving the case of provisions. “They will think an animal activated the sensors. Something small enough to slip through the bars. So stop crying like a baby. No one will believe you’re male with that much bitching going on.”

That shuts her up. And the incident was perhaps even a good thing, for my team are more careful after that. We hike for thirty minutes encountering nothing, until we end up concealed in yet another ruin, peering through cavities in a building which, centuries ago, might have held windows. We’ve only been moving at a steady march, but it was enough that I’m drenched in sweat inside the bodysuit. It pools everywhere flesh presses against flesh – in between my breasts, which have to be squashed uncomfortably to make them appear like pectoral muscles, in the cleft of my ass, under my arms, everywhere.

Using night vision goggles I take in the scene. The precise location of each faction leader’s base camp in The Zone is kept secret, but I have watched enough footage of prior Rape Runs to be familiar with the layouts used by each leader, and I know whose camp lies only fifty yards in front of us.

“Lotho-Etsarra,” I say with distaste. Of all of the Faction leaders who we might meet to destroy, I’d hoped we’d come across Salarin first. Salarin the Sadist, the monster who haunts the nightmares of so many women. From this sorry nightmare, we could have done some good for the universe if we’d killed Salarin. But there’s always tomorrow.

“That means the one captive Runner is there,” Orteza says. “Siilka. A victim will bring extra men to the camp.”

She is correct. With the Slavers unable to hunt during darkness, they normally turn their attention to abusing their captives. Estimates by organizations which support the galaxy’s women claim a failed Rape Runner is violated by between ten and fifty men on her first night in captivity.

I consider leaving to look for Salarin’s camp. Tempting, but no.

“It cannot be helped,” I say. “There isn’t time to find another Hunter before dawn.”

“At least there’s no watch,” Diaz says with relief. Another good reason to choose this place.

I look around my team. Women disguised as men. Not one experienced warrior. I’m probably the only one who has killed before. We must act before their fears build. I need to be first to bring death upon this place, and once it’s irrevocably begun, they’ll have no choice but to follow.

“Ready equipment,” I order. “Let’s teach these fuckers a lesson. This is what we came to do.”

Most of my team check blasters, but Illyri takes something from her backpack – a metal oval which reminds me of a sports ball. I would expect such a device to have a glowing light, something to signify technology, but there is nothing.

“Remember, we’re looking for a pad. The Hunters are permitted almost no tech during The Run, so it’s probably the only device you’ll see. Our whole operation is impossible without that pad. Norenda, Orteza – search and clear the building on the left. Diaz, Ak-Mancheen – the right. I’ll take the center one alone. Illyri – you stay outside, in case anyone escapes the buildings, and mop up.”

They know our objectives already, but a reminder is never any harm. I try to sound more understanding.

“Listen – you’re all good and gentle people, but we must kill anyone who is not trapped in restraints. Even unbound slaves might be dangerous. The men will probably only have slave goads, because they’ll expect to be safe on their homeworld. I’m not expecting to face many fatal weapons. They don’t need them on the surface. But deadly or not, all the men must be eliminated, so no-one may follow us, and we can’t risk slaves being turned against us.”

There is an uncomfortable murmur – The Sect values life, but they know the necessity.

“Let’s do this. Ready?”

I give them one last moment, and then it begins.

“Activate the EMP Illyri. On my sign – three, two, one, mark.”

She hesitates for one last second, then squeezes the oval. To our perception, there is nothing. No noise, no light. We can only hope that the bomb has worked as intended, and the nearby cameras just went down. Unfortunately, during the Rape Run invisible cameras provide blanket coverage of each Runner, and each of the Hunters. There aren’t enough cameras to cover the entire Zone, but we must temporarily knock out the local ones before each encounter. The EMP weapon should hopefully do that.

“Go, go.”

Many people fear combat, but I’ve always found it a gloriously liberating release of tension. At last, there is for me no past, no future to think of, only the now of the mission. The ship, the cave, her voice, all those memories leave me. I even smile, as we move quickly across the ground, almost at a run. When we’re only yards away from the first building, and just as we’re separating into teams, the first man emerges from the doorway. He’s in the middle of rummaging with his pants, as though he’s just finished urinating. Or perhaps just finished raping someone. His unexpected arrival is actually good for us, because I’ve raised my blaster and killed him before the others have time to think. Rookies often hesitate faced with their first kill, and being led by example is always helpful.

I enter the doorway without pausing. The room is barely furnished, little more than a store with crates and provisions stacked up. Two men are inside, their Slaver uniforms disheveled and unkempt from a day’s foul labor. They look up as I enter, eyes widen when they see my blaster, and one is dead, another is dead, before they fully understood that this was their end.

“Dolork?” A male voice says, and from the next room he emerges. He just looks like another man, but he’s the one. Lotho-Etsarra, looking down in puzzlement at one of his prone troops. With my Okhoron speed I have the luxury of time to consider him. How many poor women have you violated, Lotho-Etsarra? Another victim added to your crimes only just now, wasn’t she? I can tell by your relaxed posture, and by the stench, you’ve had sex recently. Well, here’s one back for the women. With a surge of elation I aim, and deliberately use two shots to kill him – vaporizing the place between his legs, giving him just long enough to understand what he’s lost, then firing the fatal blast between his eyes before he’s hit the ground. Fuck you, Lotho-Etsarra. A woman just killed you! Rape me now!

Okhoron reflexes are in overdrive. From a third doorway behind to my left, I already sense another one of Lotho-Etsarra’s men approach. I turn while dropping, and raise my blaster. This one is actually armed, and reaching for his weapon, but he doesn’t do it fast enough to save him. Upright again, I make for the room from where the chief emerged.

I can hear growing sounds of men shouting, from directions close by and further away. They will know they’re under attack by now. Let’s hope the others are doing their jobs. There’s no return from here. Good. Fear us, fear women, for once in your lives.

The next room is the Slaver’s sleeping chamber, and in there I encounter the first female. Chained on her back, naked, ankles and wrists secured to the corners of the bed so she cannot protect herself, is the failed Rape Runner Siilka Noneeva. I’ve never seen a woman who looked so pathetic, so anguished, so completely broken. The ruin of her appearance is not enough to deter the male libido. Between her legs a man is fucking her, his combat pants round his knees, so I see his bare buttocks flexing as he thrusts deep within. Men are such animals! His sex drive is so strong that even with an incident occurring he risks his life to complete his pleasure. The shaft of his penis, which I can see during the withdrawal part of his stroke, is coated with a glistening slime of her sexual fluids.

I end him with a shot to the side of the head, so a spatter of red brains decorates the grubby wall and showers the girl. He slumps on Siilka, instantly inert. She screams.

I scan the room checking for other threats. It is clear. And on a stool, to my huge relief, I see discarded the object we’ve sought like it’s our holiest relic – the pad. Mission accomplished, but I will not take it yet – I should not encumber myself, not when I need two hands to get best results from the blaster. I briefly conceal it on the far side of the girl, who after gang rape and a bloodbath has lost her wits entirely, and is struggling hysterically underneath her assailant’s corpse.

The survival of all my team is more urgent than soothing the terrors of one failed Rape Runner, so I leave Siilka there in her chains and continue my sweep of the building. In the next room, I find a man crouched in terror in the corner, holding a goad between his legs to defend himself as though it’s some oversized electronic penis. Blocking my route to him is a naked female, her large breasts distracting for the angry red injuries across them. The side of her face carries the Slaver’s mark.

“Out of the way,” I order her. Compelled by her implant combined with my modulated voice she begins to move, but the man shrieks, “protect me” and overruled, she moves back to block my shot. Her face is a blend of emotions – fear, determination, and a plea – a plea to end this?

I hate to destroy an innocent, but there’s no choice. The primary owner coding will mean his command supersedes mine. I shoot her in the face, instantly, without a delay which would further her suffering. Again, blood and brains spatter everywhere. Lotho-Etsarra had it coming, but with the woman I allow myself a pause to respectfully mourn her, also letting the male anticipate what’s coming to him. I never knew anything of her life, but I still feel some sympathy.

Then I turn to him. He’s shaking almost uncontrollably.

“She didn’t have to die for you,” I state coldly. “You could have ordered her to retreat. It’s time for justice, brute!”

I kill him slowly, blasting his knees and working my way upwards, pulverizing every piece of him. Into each shot, I try to channel my hate for those men who have harmed vulnerable women. To begin with, his screams are deafening – let all males nearby hear and learn to fear Ajeedie. But soon he’s too far gone. Once there’s nothing but flesh, I leave this charnel house of a room, and continue. There are two more males in the building, but neither is armed with any weapon to present a real threat, and I’ve soon cleared the building. One has wet himself, hearing the approaching sounds from the executions.

I emerge into the starry night outside. Probably I should feel more, but I am empty with exhaustion. Illyri, shaking with fright and more disturbed by the screams than the men, raises her weapon, but recognizes me in time. In the open air, I contemplate going to assist the others who are still tidying up, but I decide to wait. With such amateur warriors, I’m more likely to get shot surprising my own side than to be helpful.

It’s a relief when all the others emerge alive. Ak-Mancheen has been hit with a goad, and holds one of her arms limp and numb, but that’s our only casualty. My team are jubilant with victory.

“Fuck you, Slavers!” Diaz crows.

“Do we have the pad?” Norenda asks. She has her head together more than the others.

“It’s in there, with the fallen Rape Runner,” I say, gesturing to the center building. “Everyone, keep watch for anyone attracted by the fight. I’ll go and fetch it. Get ready to pull out. We leave in five minutes.”

Back inside, the sight of me, apparently a male and one covered with gore, offers Siilka Noneeva little reassurance. She begins to scream and struggle.

“Stop panicking,” I say harshly. Carelessly, I roll the corpse off her body onto the floor, and I retrieve the pad from behind her. Then I look at her. It’s so strange to have a real Rape Runner – one of the galaxy’s most famous and beautiful women, so wholly in my power. Undeniably she’s stunning, even covered with human ruins. If I was a man, this is when I would take her.

The girl does not stop panicking. She’s too frightened to be coherent, and I realize I must shock her back to herself if we’re to have any dialogue. So without warning I reach between her thighs and cup her sex in the palm of my hand. Siilka gasps at that, tensing herself. Her abdomen sucks in as she inhales, and her chains clang as they go taut. My bodysuit is reducing my nerve sensitivity, but I can feel her organ is warm, and her nether lips are soft. No matter – it’s just a pussy.

My touch produces the desired effect. She quiets immediately, going rigid. Now she’s able to process what’s happening. If she thinks my interest in her is merely sexual, she can understand the threat.

“The killing is over.” I tell her, withdrawing my finger. “We cannot take you with us, they will track you, and we are a rogue Aghara-Penthay group, dissatisfied with our Faction Leaders. But other Slavers will be here soon. They will deal with you appropriately.”

Weakly Siilka lifts her head from the bed. Her expression is an appeal for kindness. Perhaps I’m the first male to show her the least consideration. It would be a mercy to kill her. I would give her that choice to live or die if I could, but her implant already prevents her seeking her own death, and she’d certainly refuse. More importantly, we are allegedly sowing discord between the factions, and it would be questioned why a rogue group would needlessly destroy a high value sample of flesh.

So having planted the lie which she will repeat when they come for her, I turn my back and abandon her.

I’m received like a champion by the team now I have the pad.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, “before the cameras are back up.”

In high spirits, we set off across the rocky ground, tracking a zigzag route to the cave, intended to deter trackers. Orteza scans for life signs, but nothing is moving, and we feel no threat. The women talk boisterously, sounding like a bachelor party through their modulated voices. Even I’m effected by the camaraderie.

We halt to eat some rations, and even some of the delicacies removed from the Slaver trap. Now we’re safe, that near miss with the cage is nothing more than a soldier’s anecdote. To wash the food down, we risk passing round a flask of alcohol.

Unlike many belief systems, the Djenerion Sect does not prohibit alcohol, or even the consumption of meat. Only dairy produce is taboo, and for practical reasons. Seeing as the Gods favor virgin females, lactating mothers of any species are therefore classed by them as the antithesis of the blessed, and dairy interferes with the gifts. I am like most Djenerion, raised to reject dairy, and I now find the concept of consuming milk or cheese repellant. Only the darker, dairy-free candies are appealing.

Back at the cave Ko is waiting anxiously for us, her male form (a particularly swarthy and rough specimen, even by our standards) rubbing its hands together nervously.

“Thank the gods you’re all alive” she says with relief as she counts us back in. Everyone else is correctly here. The marked slave, Karmeena, lurking behind her in the shadows. The three fresh captures, still secured together by their necks, remain at the back of the cave as they try to avoid our attention.

“Get working on this,” I say to Orteza, casually tossing her the pad. “Find me the Djeneria.”

“The Rape Runners chips don’t emit signals overnight,” Orteza says, unnecessarily. “It would be too easy to identify the popular ones, while they were resting. But I’ll get on it at first light.”

“In that case, you purge with someone first, then take the first rest,” I tell her. “I’ll take first watch. Illyri – you’re on guard with me.”

Orteza clutches the pad to her chest. Recovering it should signal the end of our confrontations with the Slavers, meaning the most challenging part of the mission is done. It’s going well. Too well. And I should be careful, seeing how the gods have never been on my side.

5- Missing

As the Rape Run grew in popularity, the Slavers developed more sophisticated means of maximizing the pleasure of the galactic audience. More pleasure meant more watchers. More watchers meant a higher profile for the Slavers. There were more visitors to The Hub. More credits were spent, and captives were sold.

One of the measures they introduced was a system reversing the traditional ability of a sports fan to support their favorite. Viewers were able to sponsor the Runner they most wished to see raped, and that woman would be given a handicap, increasing her chance of being caught. To shorten the Run, using this system, each Runner’s location is broadcast intermittently to a pad, one of which is in possession of the hunting faction leaders. The signal is anonymous – no more than: “There is a Runner at these coordinates”, but it works brilliantly. It makes it risky for a woman to remain long in the same place. Runners need to run, and in the open rather than hiding, they’re more vulnerable. The handicap system means that the most popular Runners have their locations broadcast more often. If a woman remains hidden in one location for too long, a Hunter can guess her identity, just from the frequency of the signal. But so long as Runners move and overlap their paths, the handicap only gives a modest increase to her risk of capture, and there remains the sporting element of luck and strategy.

Hunters are not permitted typical tech – life sign trackers – in The Zone. Combining a standard life tracker, i.e. technology constantly recording the positions of living creatures, combining that with a Hunter’s pad, would enable Hunters to lock onto each Runner. Cross referencing steady fixes with knowledge of the handicaps, individual Runners could easily be identified by their signal frequency. Which is precisely why a pad was so important to us. I go to rest leaving Orteza busily trying to synchronize the equipment. With luck, soon after first light, we will pinpoint Tisya’s position.

My first morning in The Zone begins when I am woken roughly, by someone shaking me.

“Ajeedie!” and then surprisingly, “Commander!”

Not good, then. It’s either bad news or someone feeling guilty, if they’re willingly using my title. I’m upright before I know it, and facing Ko.

“Commander – the sun’s up, and we’ve got incoming – Slaver group. We need to move. They’ll pass right across us in five minutes if we don’t relocate.”

I’m awake instantly, scrambling to my feet.

“Get everything ready,” I order.

“Everything’s loaded,” Ko says in a frightened voice. And I see it is. There’s a ring of faces, backpacks ready and waiting to be picked up. Even mine has been done for me. This preparation took some time. But something is amiss. The sunrays penetrating the cave entrance cast too steep a shadow for first light.

“How long after dawn is it?” I demand.

“An hour,” Ko says. She has an odd expression – like a schoolgirl who’s done wrong and is waiting to be found out. I look around.

“Why the hell didn’t you wake me before then?” I demand. “Let’s go.”

And then I notice it.

“Where’s Norenda?”

“Please Ajeedie, she made me let her go.”

“Ko? Where the fuck is Norenda?”

“She went to purge. Wanted to do it in private. She said she’d only be ten minutes, but that was before the sun was up.”

“What were you thinking? We purge in twos. Always in twos.” I notice the slaves are watching, puzzled. They’ve picked up on the verbal slip. Even in this crisis I have the sense to be cautious. “And what do you mean “she”? Norenda is a he, remember.”

I am told that the implant responds to male voice modulation, but in a pressure situation, it may be enough for the slaves to resist if they know we are women. The primary owner coding will mean they follow Slaver orders, rather than ours, if they manage to discover we’re females in disguise.

“It doesn’t matter now why Ko did it,” Orteza says. “We need to find Norenda, and get out of here.”

“At least you’re right on that,” I retort. “And I presume you’ll have something to do with the disappearance too. Ko doesn’t have the balls to do something this dumb on her own initiative. But let’s save ourselves first, and deal with the fallout later.”

“Ko is a he, remember, not her? His initiative,” Orteza fires back at me. A fair hit.

We abandon our cave, plotting a course perpendicular to the incoming Slaver team, and we make for a low peak that will offer us a good vantage point down to the flat floor of The Zone. There’s a breeze blowing this morning. It would be cooling on any other planet, but on Aghara-Penthay it’s like sitting under a huge hair dryer which kicks up dust and sand, getting grit in the eyes.

Even over the rising dust, to the north I can still make out a thicker a plume rising, where the band of men are approaching. We’re moving almost in a panic speed, but all the same our progress to the peak feels slow. The ground is hard, made of sharp stones and sand blasted rock, and it’s difficult for the barefoot slave women to walk. Again I curse the decision to bring them with us.

We reach cover – not timing it like a movie: it doesn’t happen like we’re cutting it so fine that there’s seconds to spare, but it’s dangerously close all the same. Squatting down in the cover of a natural wall of rocks, I cautiously peer over the top, my view magnified by the sniper scope of my weapon.

I count a group of ten men, riding on low hover platforms. They have scarves wrapped around their faces to protect them from the dust, so you can only see eyes. The insignia on their clothing identifies them as being of the late unlamented Lotho-Etsarra’s faction. It doesn’t take long to identify the commander – a male so tall and gangly that he perhaps has some alien genetics. I note they are not one of the Hunter groups looking for Rape Runners – I see no faction chief among them. This is bad news for us. If other Slaver troops are being permitted into The Zone, then that means they’re using them to look for the rogues. Us. Not good, but not as bad as what they have with them.

Two of the men in a line carry a long alloy bar propped across their shoulders. From this, is suspended a captive, bound at the wrist and ankle. She hangs face down, so her spine bends back in an uncomfortable curve.

Norenda’s bodysuit hangs halfway off her, as though she decided to push her overalls down to her waist during hot work. Her coffee-colored breasts droop low and heavy. She seems unconscious, but perhaps that is feigned, her attempt to escape the horror which soon will fall on her.

I grimace. Poor Norenda. We weren’t the best of friends, but any woman would feel sympathy for someone facing her future. She has doomed herself, the fool. All because she was ashamed to take a dump in front of someone else. She’ll be allowed no body secrets anymore. They will implant her – the quickest and most reliable means of interrogation. Then she will tell them everything. About our mission, about who we are, all of it. For now, the men bypass our cave, which means she can’t have talked to them yet. If she were under their control, they’d already be making for our sleeping place. But it’s inevitable she will talk. The Slavers of Aghara-Penthay are about to learn that a group of disguised women are in The Zone, and they’re making for the Djeneria, using a stolen pad.

Moving the stock of the blaster into my shoulder, I aim at her, and begin to control my breathing ready for taking the shot.

“Ajeedie, what are you doing?” Orteza says indignantly from next to me.

“I must kill her.”

“But then those men will find us!” Ko says in a panicked voice. “They’ll know where the shot came from.”

Yes, the blast will give away our position, and a firefight with these men is almost inevitable, but better than the certainty of Norenda talking, after which all hope is lost. Determinedly, I move the sight with her unconscious, topless form. The Slavers are almost in cover, approaching a canyon between the rocks, but I am ready.

“It’s worth the risk,” I state firmly.

As I begin to squeeze the trigger though someone knocks my weapon sharply upwards, raising the blaster almost to vertical. It is only down to a miracle that the weapon does not discharge, betraying our location.

“What in the three hells, Orteza?”

“That’s Norenda. You can’t just kill Norenda because she’s been caught.”

“I’m not killing her because she’s been caught. I’m killing her because of what they’ll do to her. They’ll implant her, and she’ll tell them everything she knows about our mission, and then they’ll come for the rest of us.”

The remainder of my team shift nervously from foot to foot.

“I’ll be humane. But it’s her or us. I have to…”

I turn back to the view from our hiding place and half raise the blaster, but the Slaver team are already in cover in the rocks.

I moan, as the reality of our predicament sinks in.

“Gods damn you all to The Nine. That’s it now, you fools,” I tell them. “We only have a few hours before they’ll know everything. Do you know what kind of things the Slavers do to women who dare to take them on? You’d better pray all they do is rape us.”

The fear begins to spread through the group.

“We need to abort, make for the rendezvous,” wails Ak-Mancheen.

“That won’t help, you know that,” I reply. “We can’t just hang around a landing pad for two days waiting for our ride. And as soon as Norenda talks, they’ll arrest the recovery team up on The Hub.”

“Then we steal a shuttle,” pleads Diaz.

“We’ll have to try,” I confirm, fighting the despair swelling inside me, “that’s our best choice now – but our most experienced pilot is currently dangling half-naked from that alloy pole.”

I’m not immune to the growing terror infecting everyone else. Gods help me, by sunset I’ll probably be dead or a sex slave. Wanting to take it out on someone, I round on Orteza. Let the group blame her.

“How could you block my shot. Your little crush has doomed us all,” I state. “I should have killed Norenda. Instead she will betray everyone.”

“Hope is not lost entirely, there’s the shuttle,” Orteza argues valiantly, but finally the others are on my side.

“Shut your hole, Orteza,” says Ko, and the others murmur agreement.

“What’s with you? You didn’t want Norenda to die either,” Orteza continues to protest.

“Of course not,” says Ko, “but one blast would be kinder than what’s going to happen to her, and then to all of us.”

“No! This can’t be real… What are we going to do?” moans Illyri.

“We try for hijacking a shuttle,” I say firmly, “but we can still make for the Djeneria first, if we go right now. As long as Orteza has cracked those IDs and done one job properly today, that is. But the second Norenda talks, the whole mission is lost. Rape Run or not, as soon as they know Tisya is our target, she’ll be guarded. I estimate we have a couple of hours at most to hunt the Djeneria. If we don’t have her by then, we must abandon her, make for the launch pads outside The Zone, and try to steal a shuttle or bluff our way up to The Hub.”

I’ve never seen a group of men look so frightened. But my team, in their bodysuits, nod assent, and I feel a moment of pride for the courage of these women. The slaves watch silently. Of course, they will have guessed the rest. They will know we are women. But does that mean our control over Karmeena has been lost, or will she follow my masculine modulated voice?

“Slaves, you know what we are?” I ask bluntly, “And therefore, why we haven’t violated you?”

They nod cautiously, Karmeena in her wrap, and the three nude fresh captures, chained at the neck.

“I need to check our control over your implant still works. Forgive me, but Karmeena, swallow one of those stones,” I order her, and she crouches and reaches to the dirt immediately, popping a small stone between her lips like it’s a sweet treat and gulping it back.

“Our voices still compel you, then?” I ask her.

“They tell us it’s to do with the pitch, Mas…” she hesitates, “Masters. It’s easier to call you that. But I warn you, I am Slaver property. If one of them calls me, you must destroy me. I am not safe.”

“Noted,” I reply. “And on that topic…” Are they ready to hear what I must say next? It must be told, all the same.

“To everyone – you’ve all understood now my team are all women here, women in male bodysuits. We are women of the Djenerion, on a mission to spare our leader from the degradation of the Rape Run. The most likely outcome is the Slavers will find us, as we try to complete our work.”

“My first message is to the women in my original team. I say that each of you must reconsider her own heart, and decide if you wish to die – fighting, or shot by one of your sisters, or if you’d prefer to be taken alive and live as an implanted sex slave, with a future like hers,” and I indicate Karmeena. “We will pause in one hour, and announce our answers. Your sisters will try to carry them out, if things turn out for the worst.”

I consider the other women captives, those not-yet implanted. Perhaps saving them was a good idea after all.

“To you fresh captures, you are not implanted and still have free will. Now you know the truth, you can choose to fight with us, or accompany us in the role of slaves. Our chance of escape is small now, but it is still a chance. The choice to die with your dignity, rather than spend your future serving Aghara-Penthay.”

I gesture to where the group took Norenda. In the canyons of rocks, the dust from the Slaver group has vanished.

“Think on it. But you must think while we move. We are in danger here,” I state. “Now, Orteza – it’s finally your moment. Where is the Djeneria?”

“I have her,” Orteza says, with some of the swagger already returning. By deflecting my blaster back there she’s doomed Norenda and probably us all, but she’s not cowed. The bitch annoys me so much. I vow that if I have chance, I will deal with her before this is over.

“Then let’s go,” I order, and as one we move.

6 – Choice.

Even with Slaver-grade tech, it takes a little while to edit rape footage. Each time a Runner is captured, the highlights of her downfall are broadcast for the entertainment of the galaxy, and shown on giant displays projected across The Zone.

Thus it is possible for us to look up in the sky and watch Baleria Acron, a brunette stunner, being violated by The Alien on a giant display, while the real living Alien strides around his camp a short distance ahead of us. Baleria was the host of one of the most popular game shows in the galaxy – Harem – where contestants win by building the largest group of simultaneous sexual partners from the galactic public. These participants must remain unaware they’re supporting cast in the show – Harem is a hidden camera program – but must be fully informed about any other partners – the entertainment deriving from how contestants persuade multiple individuals to be a willing member of someone’s harem. Sex usually involves the contestant with individuals, but sometimes there are groups. Of course, the orgies, shown in full, are the main erotic incentive for many viewers.

Famously chaste, Baleria lived by different rules to those in her show, and her sex life remained entirely private. The galactic media stalked her on each vacation, trying to catch an image of her with a partner, but she always outwitted them. Paraded for the Rape Run as all contestants are, it was a surprise to the universe when she wore a tag identifying that she wasn’t a virgin.

Baleria’s going to have a lot of partners from now on. Footage of her naked, her rather-flat chest squirming as she writhed in pain, suffering impalement on the giant penis of the Alien, will be enjoyed forevermore by perverts and sadists across the universe. Once Jackran-ad-aktar had his fill and she was left barely conscious, she was gang raped by others from his men.

“You’re sure Tisya’s in there?” I ask Orteza, ignoring the moans of sexual activity reverberating across the sky.

She nods, although from my rear view I barely see it when her head is only visible behind a ginormous backpack.

“Gods have mercy, the Alien has the Djeneria,” moans Illyri.

“Hey, why don’t you get someone else to take some of your kit?” I interrupt, complaining testily to Orteza. “One of the naked ones? You look ridiculous. And by noon you’ll be collapsing from carrying that in the heat.”

Frightened, Orteza has tried to reassure herself by arming against all eventualities. As well as the scanner pad and EMP devices, she has added a belt of grenades, a blast-proof vest, a heavy blaster, hydration fluids, and a first aid kit.

“If I start struggling, I’ll hand some of it over,” she insists.

On her head be it. But I pray she doesn’t collapse. Please gods, no more incidents thanks to my team’s foolishness. This mission has been an unending stream of own goals, scored thanks to the poor judgment of people like Orteza. We should never have spared the slaves. Norenda shouldn’t have gone on her own to take a crap. Orteza shouldn’t have protected Norenda from my shot. And then Tisya shouldn’t have got herself caught by The Alien only minutes before we would have reached her.

The only piece of good fortune we have is that the men ahead of us in The Alien’s camp don’t yet seem to be armed. Either the significance of Norenda hasn’t been understood yet, or word hasn’t reached Jackran-ad-aktar’s faction that an infiltration group are in The Zone, and are heading for the Djeneria. It’s only a matter of time, though. Then our leader will be guarded, by men with blaster weapons. While they protect Tisya, we will be hunted, and mercilessly destroyed or enslaved.

The eerie silence in The Zone belies the horror ahead. These peaceful minutes might be our last moments before chaos is permanently unleased, so I address the group.

“It is time,” I tell them. “We might not get another chance to talk, so each of you must tell us your choice, in case it goes wrong. It’s a simple decision. Death or captivity.”

“I choose to die,” Ak-Mancheen says firmly.

“I choose to die,” agrees one of the nude women captives. “They’ve raped me already. Anything is better than another man, touching me like that. Let me fight alongside you.”

“Me also,” says her friend. “I will fight until the end, if necessary.”

Diaz seems to be wavering, but she follows the others.

“I’d rather die,” she states quietly.

Ko is the first to take the other path.

“I choose slavery,” she says, and then in response to the discontented murmurings, explains. “Even implanted, there is hope. I might be rescued. I might have an owner who is kind to me. Death is final. Some slaves do have a future.”

“I’m with her, I choose slavery,” says Illyri. She was always closest to Ko, so that’s not surprising.

“I choose slavery,” says the third of the naked captives. “It’s just sex. It’s not so bad.”

She can’t know much about Aghara-Penthay yet, then. But seeing how she’s linked at the neck with women with blasters, it’s going to be impossible for the last one to avoid the firing line in the event of executions. Still, disillusioning her will only cause trouble. I nod.

“I often wish to die,” says the marked, implanted woman named Karmeena. “But I cannot end myself. And I cannot harm males. The control of my implant is absolute. I understand you are women dressed in male suits, and yet I hear and see you, and must serve your every command, as though you were men. The girl I once was would beg that you spare me more suffering, if it looks like I must return to my true masters.”

“Orteza?” I ask.

“I’m a virgin,” she says bravely, “and a lesbian. The prospect of a man inside me is repellant. Actually, I have a phobia of any form of penetration. I can’t even stand the feeling of a woman fingering me.”

She pauses.

“So there’s only one answer. I choose death.”

“So that’s all of us.” I state. “I think we’re ready. Can you give weapons to the women who want them. And then we’ll begin.”

“There’s still you, Ajeedie,” Orteza says pointedly. “Don’t put the rest of us through this confession and not participate yourself. I’ve seen you naked. You’d make a prize slave.”

I pause, and let myself reflect on a life of service to the Sect, on everything that bought me to that place, and of a destiny that seemed to inevitably deliver me to Aghara-Penthay. But it’s his voice that comes to me – “A Rape Run grade piece of tail, you are”.

“I too choose death,” I state firmly.

7 – Tisya.

The ground we’re crossing ramps down to a rockface – the cliff then climbing back to the flat level floor of The Zone, thus forming a depression where a series of ancient buildings shelter in the lee of the rocks. The buildings are identifiable as another of the hunting camps of the faction leaders, for in the open we can see the typical apparatus of slave hunting – cages, crosses, and devices of restraint.

We proceed across the ground at a leisurely walking pace, heading for the camp as though we’re meant to be there. It is common for there to be hangers-on and other male ne’er-do-wells in The Zone, men who make the most of the aftermath of the captures in order to rape Runners otherwise out of their purchasing ability. The camp guards are unlikely to notice a few more scavengers drifting in to enjoy the kill.

I order my team to act as such a group – low caste Slavers sniffing around the downfall of Baleria Acron, and once we’re nearby, we’re to commence the attack from point blank range. The naked ones, chained together at the neck, I order to hang back until the battle is over. I don’t doubt their commitment to escaping this hellhole, but someone needs to guard Karmeena, and the sight of armed female nudes will blow our cover immediately. The captives are an indirect help though, as their duties free Ko to join us for this attack, making up for the absent Norenda.

And thus it proceeds. Like the previous night, an EMP discreetly disables the cameras, and then I open the hostilities by blasting a Slaver from such close range that most of his upper body disappears, spread in a gory fan across the rocky ground of the zone. Excellent. It gives me great satisfaction each time I vaporize another Slaver man. Like the previous night, the Alien emerges before realizing the danger. He seems gigantic in real life – over seven feet tall and equally oversized in every dimension. Ready for his next act of perversion, he wears only a rectangle of cloth which hangs across his loins.

My team are battled-hardened after our first encounter, so the others follow my lead in the destruction more quickly than last time. Thus it happens that I am not the one who kills the faction leader this time, but that is fine – I detest The Alien no more than most males of Aghara-Penthay. All that matters is that he is dead, and a shared victory will strengthen our morale when things soon deteriorate.

Dead, Jackran-ad-aktar lies sprawled on his back, one of his arms twisted at an unnatural angle underneath him. His loincloth has slipped to the side, and I can see his infamous organ. Even limp, I can tell it’s simply colossal, and I’m unable to conceive the suffering a woman would feel if that thing were to penetrate her body. Suppressing a shudder, I move on.

As planned, we break up into groups and clear the buildings. Inside one, I drive out a man who has taken cover armed with a slave goad. He hides behind a doorway, but Okhoron instinct warns me there’s someone inside, and I react at supernatural speed, rolling into the room with weapon aimed. He too is quick though, and he manages to touch my shoulder with the goad as I blast a hole through him large enough that if I wished, I could slip my clenched fist straight through his chest and out his back.

The bodysuit offers me some protection, but the Slaver weapon still delivers an intense jolt of pain, and my arm is left tingling and useless in the aftermath. For a while I’m forced to heft my blaster mostly in one hand – a handicap that restricts my accuracy. In spite of this minor injury, again we are lucky, though. The cleansing is easy, and the naked captives follow as soon as they can see there’s no real men alive to give Karmeena a command.

“Where is Tisya?” I demand as we reassemble outside.

“In there,” says Diaz. I can tell from her body language she has chosen not to identify herself to our leader. Star-struck.

With my heart accelerated from more than the combat, I make my way inside, and everyone else follows me. I’d prefer they didn’t, but it can’t be helped. It’s natural for them to want to witness the culmination of the mission.

As we enter the room where she’s being held, I hear Orteza, who is closest behind me, moan at the sight of our leader.

One of the pieces of equipment inside here is a simple padded bench with a metal frame, much like the workout furniture found in the Okhoron gym. On her back, secured to this bench is Tisya, the Djeneria, and revered leader of our sect. She is naked. I’ve seen Tisya in states of undress before, but never naked like this. Her knees are spread, ankles bent back and secured either side of the bench, so she is forced to remain with her thighs open, vulva exposed, and I can see every detail of the private place between her legs. The hair she once had down there has been removed. This is a common treatment for Slaver captives. They have marked her face, as they do with all female prisoners processed on Aghara-Penthay. It softens her, making her look more beautiful. The mark is proof of the chip she carries. Rape Runners are not spared implantation and marking – it avoids the competitors escaping by suicide. Only the winner is spared the full activation of her implant, triggering a lifetime of servitude to men.

Other than the processing she’s suffered, Tisya is surprisingly undamaged. Unharmed.

I heard say that The Alien is unable to regain arousal for a significant time after mating, and that must be what’s happened here. If he’d used her, we’d be able to tell by the ruination between her legs. Tisya is being held in readiness for his pleasure later. Seeing our entrance, she thinks that time has come, and she becomes frightened. She struggles, trying futilely to retreat up the bench and away from us. She’s believes we’re a group of Slaver men, as she’s supposed to.

“Praise The Nine. They’ve not tainted her yet. Quick – someone look for the keys,” says Orteza, and then changes her mind. “No. I’ll go find them.”

“Holy Djeneria,” says Ak-Mancheen, deferential in the presence of the leader. “My name is Ak-Mancheen. Do not fear. We’re not men. We’re women. Women of the Sect. We’re here to rescue you.”

But the sight of us, dubious and dirty in our bodysuit, overrides the words. It’s too much for her to believe, and Tisya continues to try and get free. There hasn’t been a Runner successfully rescued for years. She probably thinks the words are a cruel trick.

Taking the direct approach, I’m already beginning to pull at the back of my neck, intent on teasing the suit away from my face. And then I’m unveiled, the real-me pouring sweat in the heat of Aghara-Penthay, as usual. My team wait quietly as I strip right down to the waist, my head and real chest exposed, much like Norenda after capture. The others let me take the lead. It’s natural that one of us would make some gesture in order to calm Tisya. They don’t know just how personal it is between us. They don’t know how much I want it to be me that Tisya sees. The true Ajeedie.

“You,” says Tisya, once I stand half-naked before her. “Ajeedie. The Nine always said our fates were connected. So, you’re the one whom the Gods sent to me.”

“I’ve found the keys, they were on the alien,” interrupts Orteza, bursting back into the room, and then she says “Oh!” at the sight of me in my topless finery, standing over the leader.

I’ve learned my lesson from what happened with Norenda. This time I won’t let one of the team stop me.

“Wait, Ajeedie,” says Tisya, who might have some inkling what’s coming, but I raise my blaster and shoot our unviolated leader full in the face, before she can finish her sentence. Even for the hardened soldier, the result is a bloody sight. Tisya’s brains spray in every direction. Ak-Mancheen, who was standing closest to the burst, stands frozen with shock. The Djeneria’s remains are spattered across her body.

Panic breaks out next, and I fire my blaster again, into the floor, to get their attention. I shout: “Everyone stand still,” and calm the team at the point of a blaster.

“What the fuck, Ajeedie?” cries Orteza. “What the literal fuck?”

“I just completed our mission,” I state simply.

She half raises her weapon at me, but I read more uncertainty from her than intent to fire, and after a moment she lowers it again.

“Orteza, you can lower your blaster down. We’ve done what we came to do here,” I say firmly. “We fight them – the Slavers – for ourselves now. Let’s get out The Zone make for the launch pads.”

The team are not going to let me go so easily.

“We were here to save her before violation if we could,” protests Illyri, voicing what they’re all probably thinking. “And she hadn’t been violated. Tisya was still a virgin.”

I should keep focused, but I can’t help rising to that.

“Tisya certainly wasn’t a virgin,” I say wryly. “I don’t know what surgery she had to restore her hymen, but she’d had more cocks in there than some professional whores. I’m surprised the Slavers didn’t find out before making her Run. And as for the idea of rescuing her alive, that’s only what you were told. We were never intended to bring Tisya back. I’m sorry – they told you that because The Nine did not trust you with the truth.”

“What truth?” asks Orteza, who has regained her equilibrium already.

“The truth that in fact, Tisya had become a cancer in the brain of the Sect. We were actually sent here by the inner circle to eliminate the Djeneria, so a new, unpolluted leader could be elected.”

“How is that even possible?” moans Diaz. “How can we not have known? She always seemed so… holy.”

“And what would you do, in the place of The Nine, knowing the Djeneria was a slut who’d thrown away her gift years ago? Tell all the followers? Risk the collapse of the whole Sect? No. When Tisya was taken by the Slavers, the chance to send an elimination team was seen as the Gods’ gift to the Djenerion. I would have believed The Nine betrayed her deliberately, if there hadn’t been so many of the Okhoron captured with her.”

Their body language tells me they are calming. Most are pacified by my words. Only Diaz is still under control of her emotions.

“We’ve been tricked,” she wails. “It was all for nothing.”

“No trick – what you did was essential for The Djenerion,” I insist. “And you will all have the gratitude of the Sect. But forget them for now. Our time to serve The Nine is complete. Now we’re allowed to focus on saving ourselves. So Orteza – pull yourself together, and plot us the fastest route out of The Zone away from the danger of the cameras, and then to a Slaver city. We’ll try to hijack a shuttle there.”

It will be a while before she has any trust in my command, but Orteza complies anyway.

“Tak-Aghara,” she says. “On foot, we’ll be there in four hours. Two hours to the edge of The Zone, and two to the settlement.”

The sun is high in the sky and I’m boiling alive, but I reinsert my arms into the bodysuit, as though it’s no more unusual than slipping on a sweater. I’m about to mold it over my face when I stop, and pull the biotech away again.

“Does anyone want to purge before we move? It might be your last chance for a couple of hours.”

“Do we have to do it next to that?” complains Orteza, indicating the remains of the leader.

In spite of the urgency, they can see it makes sense. Everyone is cooking in their suits, so with only a brief delay to switch rooms, we quickly strip, standing all together and revealed as women. Briefly we are one – a circle, with hands joined. Orteza, Diaz, Ko, Illyri, Ak-Mancheen, and the three nude captives, chained at the neck. Karmeena even removes her slave wrap, in a show of solidarity.

We look around at each other. It’s instinctive for women to appraise each other, and inspections are not meant to be predatory. But I’m never allowed to forget that my beauty is the kind considered exceptional. I’m used to the expressions of jealous awe, and I’m used to forcing myself to resist the urge to bashfully cover my privates with my arms. I wish I could relax, but when they watch me, I can’t stop anticipating the future. In a dire scenario where I’m captured before being able to end myself, my body will only make it worse when I’m nude. My nipples have a habit of stiffening when I’m self-conscious, and they’re typically erect now the group is purging – only drawing more of the women’s flickering glances to my full breasts.

It feels like the necessary exposure goes on forever, but there’s barely sufficient time to cool, before we’re forced to resume.

“Incoming,” Orteza warns. “Slaver group. Edge of my range, but moving fast. Coming right for us. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

This is how the end begins. “Coming right for us”. No coincidence. We’re being hunted. We dress as quickly as we can without descending into panic.

“Can we dress too?” one of them asks, fingering the bloodstained uniform of a corpse. “Unlike you girls, I hate being naked.”

“Not in anything dignified, unfortunately,” I say. “They’ll never let women on a shuttle in Slaver uniforms – you’ll need to look like slaves. So wraps only. There’s a few lying around in this bastard’s camp. We’ll worry about the marks later. But if you can find footwear to cross this rocky terrain it would help. We can ditch the boots before we reach any places where we meet other men.”

A distraction is good from the approaching horrors is good, so I focus on watching the captives cover themselves. They make an odd sight, their sensuous and revealing slave wraps counterpointing the heavy masculine combat boots. As for my team, we anxiously resume the guise of a ragtag band of male ne’er do wells. it would be a better tactic that we run naked, and don the suits at the last moment, but I’m prey to the same weaknesses as the others and don’t suggest the idea. I’d feel too vulnerable fleeing across the surface of Aghara-Penthay as a nude, desirable female.

“Let’s go people,” I say, and seeing so many on the verge of losing their minds to the terror I add. “Don’t give up hope. We might escape this, yet.”

So at a run, we start into the barren wilderness. Speed is currently more important than silence, so I don’t criticize the way that Orteza jingles, and her footfalls are heavy under her burden of kit. We are in more danger than ever, and yet now, there is a better feeling of freedom. I prefer fleeing to hunting for Tisya. We work for ourselves now, only ourselves. Orteza keeps one eye on the scanner so we can avoid threats. Shortly, two life signs cross ahead of our path, but we’re able to dodge them without seeing if they’re human or animal.

Her updates are helpful, but they do remind us of the precariousness of our situation.

“The group is at The Alien’s camp now. Life forms. Men,” she says.

This is to be expected.

“Norenda will have talked,” I gasp, breathless from exertion. “The Slavers will know everything of our mission, and of what we truly are. If we reach their settlements first, we have a chance of losing ourselves among the other Slavers. If they catch up before we get there, we’re doomed, and we must end ourselves.”

“What about the crew on The Hub?” says Ko. “Morine, Beana? We have to try to warn them.”

“They’re on their own now,” I say. “We won’t get a signal out while we’re in The Zone. We have to hope the evac team figure something is wrong before the Slavers find them.”

We resume the journey, our pace getting even faster. Too fast. My head is starting to swim under the burning sun, and it turns out I’m not the one feeling it most. Without warning, Illyri pitches face first into the dust. Reluctantly we expose our skins once again, and pause, bodysuits pushed only down to our thighs to save a little precious time. We hydrate.

We’ve completed three quarters of our journey when the next development occurs.

“They’re coming for us,” Orteza announces in a wavering voice. “The group from the camp is making right for us. High speed. Mounted on boards, or speeders, maybe.”

“Are we going to reach the settlement in time?” I ask.

“It’s going to be very close,” she says.

“Then let’s hurry.”

Everyone but Karmeena starts to jog again. The marked slave is behaving oddly. Instead of rushing with the rest of us, she has paused, and is rubbing her ear, while frowning, as though she’s been swimming and there’s water residue in there. Instinctively, we all slow, and wait. Her eyes seem to glaze, and before we know something serious is wrong it’s already too late. The slave moves towards Orteza in a sudden sprint.

“What’s the matter Karmeena?” Orteza asks, her guard down entirely.

“Karmeena, No! Someone, stop her!” I scream. Perhaps it’s the gift, but I’m the only one who seems to see what’s about to happen. I’m reaching for my blaster, but I’ve left it strapped across my back to make it easier to run – my turn to make a critical error. By the time I have my weapon ready, I can already see it will be over.

Karmeena snatches the pad from Orteza with one hand, and a grenade from Orteza’s belt with the other. Orteza, still too slow to realize we’ve just lost control of the implanted female, reflexively tries to hold onto the pad, the tracker still connected to it, but she doesn’t grip strongly enough to prevent Karmeena wrenching it away. The slave woman spins on her heel with the grace of a dancer, and as if in slow motion, I see the grenade pin begin its rolling fall to the ground.

Karmeena bounds away from my team, and towards the other captives. Move, bitches! I’m trying to scream. She can only hurt women, and even our suits are enough deterrent. But inert, they remain together, huddled and useless just as they were when we first saw them on The Hub. During the tussle I’ve have time to bring my blaster to bear, but if I shoot Karmeena now, the grenade will only drop when she’s nearer my own team. So I turn to protect myself from the blast, bellow “dive!” to anyone who’s listening, and sprawl in the dirt just as she leaps into the circle of women.

The detonation is thunderous. Dense grey smoke instantly obscures everything, and dust and unthinkable forms of matter rains down on us. My ears are ringing, and I can barely see through the abrasive mass of dust and grit. But already my brain is resuming processing, telling me I’m alive, and I’ve sustained no serious harm. Moments later I can begin making out the shadowy forms of the rest of my time. Orteza, who was closest to the blast, is on her back. Flaps of skin from her damaged bodysuit hang from her face, but the artificial skin seems to have helped protect her from more serious harm. Her eyes are open and she’s moving, trying to get to her feet.

When the dust clears enough to fully take in the blast site, the scene revealed is carnage. Of the slave women we rescued, the only trace remaining to evidence our mercy to them is one boot, still upright and holding the bloody stump of a female lower leg like it’s a vase presenting a rose. When Diaz sees it, she turns to vomit on the ground, and even Ko the medic looks ill.

“We need to keep running,” I urge my team as Ak-Mancheen and Ko help Orteza up. “We can’t wait to mourn. They probably heard the explosion on the other side of The Zone. Every Slaver in twenty miles will be on his way here now.”

“We’re gonna get caught,” Illyri is wailing. “They’re gonna rape us.”

She’s just standing there, inert. I want to slap her, but I try to sound calm.

“Not necessarily,” I counter, grinding my teeth. “More men in The Zone means more chance to blend in. But not if we’re found red-handed at ground zero. So pull yourselves together. We need to move.”

We have no pad left to us for detecting life-signs and warning us of approaching Slavers, so unfortunately the six survivors are now forced to progress cautiously, moving from cover to cover.

It’s getting difficult to keep the group under control. Diaz is moaning, “Karmeena, Karmeena,” over and over, until Ak-Mancheen says “shut the fuck up.” There were brief moments where we felt united, but camaraderie has begun disintegrating in the rising storm of fear overcoming each woman.

“But Karmeena was a human being,” whines Diaz. “I was speaking to her. And then she was nothing but that … that stump.”

“You said you’d rather die than be a slave,” Ko says cattily. “Still feeling that way?”

Apart from myself, Orteza seems to have retained the most level head.

“How did they manage to get her to do that?” Orteza says. Her voice sounds hoarse – dust inhaled from the explosion. Flap of her damaged bodysuit still hang down, and I can see stripes of her real flesh revealed in the openings. The suit is almost useless, but she’s still unwilling to expose herself entirely.

“Some kind of nano-drone. Like the ones they use for the cameras, only with a speaker. Norenda must have told the Slavers we had an implanted woman. They tracked her down.”

“They’re watching us? Now?” moans Diaz, her fear ramping back up.

“We should make sure they’re not. How many EMPs do we have left?” I ask Orteza.

“Two,” she answers.

“Fire one now,” I order. “Take out any cameras nearby.”

Like last time, there’s a click on the EMP bomb and nothing. We don’t even know if it was working. But now they’re onto us, it won’t keep cameras away for long. I gave the order more to calm Diaz, who is staring round with wide eyed paranoia.

“I thought implanted slaves couldn’t kill themselves,” complains Illyri as we resume.

“Not from their own free will,” answers Orteza. “But if they’re ordered by a man, they’ll do anything they’re asked.”

“But we look and sound like men. She could have stayed with us.”

I answer this time.

“Like I keep saying: there has to be a primary owner who can override others. Otherwise, men could just endlessly contradict each other. When contradictions happen too much, it triggers a kind-of mental collapse in the implant victim. Karmeena knew the Slavers were her primary owners, and not us.”

“It’s supposed to be impossible for an implanted slave to harm males as well,” argues Illyri.

“And she didn’t,” I say. “She pulled the pin and only took out the ones she could comprehend as women. Now stop talking and hurry up.”

And praise the Gods, just for a short while, she does.

8 – Donaya

People sometimes imagine the vast crater that makes up The Zone as being uniform in its geography. This is not the case. Some areas are pancake-flat ground, with almost no cover. There is a region being reclaimed by the desert, entirely comprising sand dunes. Large areas have barren hills, with cliffs, canyons, rocky slopes, and caves offering almost infinite cover.

The crater rim also has its variations. While much of it runs at a level height, a high peak straddles the rim at one point, and at the opposite side of the vast circle, is a region where the crater sides are missing entirely. With the gap providing the easiest logistical access to The Zone, it is here that the Slaver settlements begin.

Our pursuers will be expecting us to make straight for our only possible escape – through the settlements, so I have my team approach the destination in an elliptical path – longer, but safer. The route we follow takes us over a landscape like rumpled cloth, offering us plenty of hiding places, but making it difficult to see far. We must constantly send scouts to climb the slopes, and this means our progress is slowed further. Now we’re blind to approaching danger, we’re all nervous. I keep fingering the trigger of my blaster, visualizing a moment where men ambush us, and when I’ll have to point the barrel up into my skull and shoot.

It feels as though those Slaver troops are about to swarm over each rise at any moment, so I have to be ready to take the final steps. I can’t shake the sense of being watched – a prickling between the shoulder blades. But with no alternative but to proceed, we do so, and we seem to continue without further sign of life, until we reach a place where the broken ground abruptly ends and from our reconnaissance point among some fractured rocks we can finally see right to the edge of The Zone.

Through my binoculars I see a giant stone fortress, the ancient nature of the building a contrast to the high-tech equipment on its flat roof. At its top I see a shuttle lifting off, and I see it turning to show the unmistakable magnesium white burn of a gravity drive. My view across to the place of salvation shimmers with the heat. Smaller buildings cluster around the fortress. Slaver men mill around the base, where a large crawler is being loaded with a trailer of supplies. Concealment among them, escape maybe, it’s all just there in our sights. But between the fortress and our hiding place there is nothing. We must choose between crossing a full mile of open ground with no possibility of hiding ourselves, or trekking along the edge of the rocks until we reach the crater rim – easily half a day’s hike.

“Getting across there won’t be fun,” I say with distaste. “And we’re overdue purging. It’s going to be torture in this heat. Maybe we should find a cave. Undress and wait for sunset, and attempt it in the dark.”

“What about the ones following us?” complains Diaz. “It’s been too long without a sign of pursuit. They could be right on our tails.”

As though on cue, Diaz’s questioning is abruptly cut by a woman’s scream, loud, and coming from somewhere close enough that it makes me jump. I turn back to the vista across the flat plane in time to see a woman emerge from a canyon, only a hundred yards to my right. She is dressed in this year’s Rape Run costume – a glossy black catsuit, an outfit revealing for being so figure hugging, but yet concealing the skin from the ankle to the throat. High-heeled boots are made of matching material. In spite of the impracticality of moving on her stilettos, the Rape Runner, whom I know as Donaya Oshanka, is desperate enough that she tries to sprint in them across the open ground.

And right behind her, on a vehicle like a chariot which hovers a foot above the ground, follows one of the two most important surviving men on Aghara-Penthay, and the one I loathe above all. The faction leader Salarin. I’m filled with a hate so visceral I can taste it. There is Salarin, Salarin the torturer. Salarin the sadist. Salarin the rapist. Responsible for the barbaric fate of two of the most significant women in my life.

How many lives has he ruined? Donaya, the one seemingly destined as his next victim, is terrified, but that only makes the torturer enjoy himself more. The two other men riding with him on the chariot are joking with him. Members of his hunting retinue, probably. Salarin laughs. Close on the heels of the chariot two more of his men emerge from the canyon riding individual hover boards, and they fan out either side of the woman.

She screams again.

My heart wrenches with pity. She is lost now, and there is no chance for her even if she reaches cover, but she flees anyway, driven by animal instinct. The Hunter rides just behind her, following at a couple of yards distance. He could overtake her easily, but he chooses to prolong the moment of her capture. Salarin lets her continue to run while he readies a device unknown to me – a bundle of bright red cables dangling from a center connection like they’re the legs of some large spider. When he’s satisfied, he pitches this towards the ankles of the fleeing woman. Her legs are bound so fast I don’t see it, but I hear her shriek. I only see her go face first into the dirt, with her legs pinned tightly together by the winding coils of red.

Salarin stops and dismounts. His pace is leisurely.

Donaya Oshanka is one of the two most famous female news anchors in the galaxy. The other, Suseya Nirolara – a little younger, with a larger chest and a naturally sultry, more pouting expression, is perhaps even more in demand as a Rape Runner, but has been luckier in avoiding capture. A common witticism among the galaxy’s men is they want the steady Donaya for their wife and the fiery Suseya for their mistress. Given the two are being constantly compared, one would expect the women to be professional rivals, and the media try to create stories of a feud, but the more factual reports say they’re friends, maybe even intimate ones.

Aware that Donaya’s beauty is the key to her professional success, she’s not been afraid to use her assets to her advantage. The galactic data feeds have abounded with montages of her best lowest-cut tops, and modeling images of lingerie and swimwear. In her news anchor work, she manages just to avoid being overly revealing, and outside of her public persona she lives quietly. I believe she was married, but unless her husband is wealthy enough to buy a failed Rape Runner in the auction, he will now be in her past. Donaya is brunette, wearing her dark hair in long loose curls. Curls which are concealing the slave mark that every Rape Runner has branded on her face.

Two of Salarin’s men have Donaya back on her feet, each holding one of her arms. Her legs are still restrained though, pinned together at the ankle by the spider. She is struggling, but resistance doesn’t stop the Chief pulling down the zipper from her throat to navel, and casually pushing apart her suit. During my time training as a Djenerion acolyte I’ve seen my share of naked women, and she is exquisite. That will only make things worse for her. Salarin seems to appreciate what he can see too. With her chest exposed, he lazily tugs at her nipples, watching her response. Meanwhile, in spite of her resistance, his men strip the suit the rest of the way down off her body. The restraining device releases her ankles instantly, once they need to bare her shins. Naked, we see Donaya’s hips are rounded and feminine, and she has no hair to hide her sex – again the result of the treatment all Runners receive before the competition. Once she’s been stripped entirely nude, Salarin permits all of his men to grope her, roughly and intimately. We can hear their cruel laughter from our hiding place.

I’m half expecting to see the stark-naked Donaya violated there in the dust in front me. But that is not the nature of the Sadist. He likes torment before pleasure. So his men first force her arms into binders, locking her wrists together behind her back, and once she’s secured, they step back. Donaya is left her standing, her bound wrists preventing her concealing herself. We can see her, from head to toe. Salarin sends one of his retinue to the chariot, and from its back he unreels three fine cables. The free ends of these he walks with across to Donaya. His men close in on her again, blocking our view.

“What are they going to do to her?” Illyri whispers, horrified.

I have no answer, but somehow, when the men move away and we can see again, two of those cables remain, each attached to one of Donaya’s nipples. She’s saying something to them, begging desperately, and I catch flashes of her pleading tone carried on the hot breeze.

I don’t know the mechanism by which they then attach the final cable to her womanhood either – clamped, or perhaps even inserted, but it can’t be pleasant, for we can hear the cry of discomfort, and we see her double over with pain. And with that, they just walk away. I watch the men return to their vehicles, leaving Donaya with her arms behind her, looking down in helpless bewilderment at the accessories fixed to her naked body. If her hands were free, it might be trivial to release her organs, but her hands are not free.

“No!” several of us cry out in sympathy as Salarin’s chariot begins to move and we understand the men’s intent. When the lines first go taut, Donaya’s breasts are stretched out at such an unnatural angle I fear they’re going to be torn from her body. She’s jerked forwarded by her chest and she goes sprawling into the dirt, unable to break her fall while wearing those binders. The chariot stops and again I hear the men laughing uproariously. Oh yes, hilarious.

Donaya gets gingerly to her knees, and then her feet. Her front is scratched with dirt and filth already.

Knowing what’s coming, this time she’s already running after her captor as the chariot pulls away. Therefore the tension comes less suddenly, and she remains on her feet, although her legs kick wildly under the effort of making such unnatural speed. “Run!” “Run!” I can hear the men urging.

And thus it goes on. Under the burning sun of Aghara-Penthay, those clamped towlines force Donaya to run naked for their entertainment, the woman desperately trying to keep up behind Salarin’s chariot. He changes pace frequently, and weaves in circles and figures of eight, to make it harder for her to keep on her feet. Each time she goes down, there’s a burst of that sick laughter, the chariot stops, and she’s ordered back up. Before ten minutes have elapsed, she glistens with a sheen of sweat, and her sides are covered in scratches from the gravel.

While they’re abusing her, the sound builds of more vehicles approaching. We crouch lower in our vantage point as a large speeder emerges from the same canyon where Donaya was concealed. The numbers in the second group have doubled since our earlier encounter, more than twenty now, but there’s no mistaking the Slaver uniforms with the badge of Lotho-Etsarra’s faction. It’s the same men we saw holding Norenda. These are the ones who hunt for us, instead of for Runners.