Galactic Odyssey Ch. 01

I was staring out of my tiny cell on the third floor of the Justice Palace, and once again I couldn't sleep. Every night I gazed at the sky, illuminated by the eerie blue glow of the city's defense shield and the occasional flak fire. Small shock waves were rippling through the city each time the energy shield was hit by artillery shells or by bombs from intra-atmosphere fighter craft.

The palace was located on a hill at the northern end of the city, giving me a spectacular view of the planet's capital, spoiled only by the gallows that had been erected in the courtyard. Whether they were just for me or if some other unlucky sods would also have the pleasure, I didn't know. In any case, none of this helped much with my insomnia.

Fucking Mindats, I thought. This must be the most ridiculous reason in the galaxy to earn a goddamn death sentence.

*

"Where are we goin', boss?" I asked, but Morrison just grunted, and I knew better than to press for details. After all, keeping my mouth shut at the right moment was part of my job description.

After decades of flying solo, he had one day decided that he needed an assistant, and fresh out of jail for some bullshit formality, I had been lucky enough to land the gig. At first I thought he had hired me because of my skills as a pilot or cook, my loose morals, or maybe my indifference for the law, but in reality he just wanted a pretty young thing that he could fuck whenever he wanted.

At twenty-three, I was at least forty years younger than Morrisson, and he wasn't exactly my type -- or anyone else's for that matter. He was a fat, filthy alcoholic who had spent way too much time alone to be good company. But he was an awesome smuggler with nerves made of steel and an excellent network of contacts all over Ildaria, many of which I hoped to use to my own advantage one day.

Business was thriving, and as a result, my safe deposit box at the Ildarian National Bank was filling at an amazing pace. If war was good for business, then the full-out civil war on Ildaria was a dream come true for mercenaries, smugglers, and other lowlifes. In our case, we were running guns and ammo for various fractions, making sure people could protect themselves -- or settle scores with their neighbors. They all seemed to have legitimate grievances, and the situation was way too messy to keep track, so I didn't even try.

By my standards, life was good, and for the best paycheck of my life, I was willing to overlook certain indignities and less pleasurable aspects of our arrangement.

*

After another eventless cargo pickup on Ildaria, we were leaving orbit, heading for open space. Everything went according to the calculated flight plan, and we settled into our usual routine. I was kneeling at my designated place under the nav console, working on Morrison's cock for the second time that day when we received the call.

"This is Nova Control calling Mariah's Virtue. Cut your engines, and prepare to be boarded for inspection."

Morrison grabbed the mike. "Roger, Nova Control."

"Keep sucking, kid, everyone's been paid," he said, patting my head the way I hated it.

I slapped his hand away and let him feel some teeth before I continued my ministrations. Being boarded was not an everyday event, but it happened often enough. Ildarian authorities were notoriously corrupt -- usually they just wanted to renegotiate the bribe or extort a few bottles of Mandrovian whiskey. It was business as usual.

By the time the docking maneuver was complete, I had already swallowed my dose of cum and rinsed out my mouth with a sip of booze. I had even lubed up, just in case my ass would become part of the transaction, like it often did.

*

When the boarding party arrived at the bridge, I was seriously underwhelmed. It was just two guys in uniform, a sergeant and a young grunt carrying an assault blaster and a standard-issue contraband scanner. The rest were probably still sitting on their lazy asses and hadn't bothered to leave their shuttle. It wasn't a real inspection anyway.

Morrison and the sergeant shook hands.

"Checkov, old fag, how's it hangin'?"

"Same old, same old. Fucking rebels are on the move again, which means even up here things are turning to shit. We haven't had a proper supply run in a month, we're basically dry."

Morrisson grinned. "Don't worry, my friend, I got you covered. I've got a few bottles of whiskey with your name on it. For your young buddy, too, of course."

"Oh, he doesn't drink," said Checkov. "He says he needs to stay alert. Kids these days..."

"He doesn't drink?!" Morrison obviously needed a moment to process the information. How anyone could get through a day without a bottle of booze or two was beyond him.

"Yes, I don't drink," said the young guy. playing with the safety switch of his rifle and trying to sound tough. "I hope that's not a problem."

"Alright buddy, whatever. If you don't want my whiskey, you can tap that ass if you like," said Morrison, giving the mentioned ass a healthy slap. "Help yourself, she doesn't mind."

I didn't like being pimped out in such a casual way, but this, too, was business as usual. Smuggling was a man's world, and in certain situations I was expected to take one for the team. We were already behind our flight plan, and the sooner these guys left the ship, the better.

"Boss, you're an asshole," I said, but Morrisson just chuckled. He knew what I thought of him, and he couldn't care less.

"She looks like a lesbian," commented the trooper, and I could see where this farm boy's confusion might come from. Back then, I was wearing my hair short, in a style I jokingly called the "interstellar lesbian option number two."

Morrisson obviously had never considered the possibility. He gave me a long, hard look, then he shrugged. "Who cares, she's got three warm holes to fuck. Do you want her or not?"

"I'm standing right next to you, idiots," I said, shooting an angry glare at the lot. With guys like these, becoming a lesbian sounded like a plan worth considering.

Of course, the youngster didn't disappoint. Like any other straight guy I ever met, he wouldn't turn down free pussy. Evolution had built them this way.

"No, no, I'll take her."

"Now that's a relief," I said, well aware that horny grunts didn't understand sarcasm. "Come on, tough guy, let's get this over with."

Unwilling to waste even more of our precious time, I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my work overalls. There was nothing else to take off, I never bothered with wearing anything underneath -- certainly not a bra or panties. The bridge was as good a place as any, so I bent over the engineer's chair, boobs dangling, ass towards the youngster.

"Nice pair of tits," said Checkov, giving my right breast a squeeze until I shoved him away. "Hurry up, lad, I'll go next."

Despite my inviting pose, the young trooper just stood there and didn't move.

"What is it?" I asked, getting impatient. "Don't tell me you need foreplay."

"Can we... go somewhere more private, please?"

I rolled my eyes. That guy was acting like a teenage girl. Geez.

"Sure," I said with a shrug. "Follow me."

"Bring me a beer on your way back," I heard Morrisson yell after me, but I just gave him the finger. If he wanted a beer he would have to get off his fat ass and get it himself.

*

My cabin was just around the corner, and he followed me like a puppy. We entered the room, which was in serious disarray with clothes, left-over food, and other stuff covering every surface. The chaos had gotten so far out of hand that I was considering a move to a free cabin next door. I simply couldn't see myself cleaning up all this mess.

"I'm Dmitry," he said, as if we were on a date.

"Pleasure. Let's get going, I don't have all day."

He leaned his assault blaster against the wall and dropped the contraband scanner on my desk, on top of an old issue of Mercs Weekly that had already been there when I moved in.

"Do you deep-throat?" he asked, while pulling down his pants.

Deep-throat?! That thing of yours will barely trigger my gag reflex, I thought. But since I was aware of certain male sensibilities, I kept that comment to myself.

"Sure, pal. By the way, that's a gorgeous dick you got there, quite a treat for us girls."

He beamed, demonstrating once more that the concept of irony was completely lost on him.

"And what about anal?"

"Whatever you want, buddy. Now come over here, let me take care of you."

When I took him into my mouth, it didn't take long to get him hard. The guy wasn't very experienced, after a couple of minutes of sucking and softly massaging his balls, he was very close to cumming. But I had tasted enough spunk that day, so I stopped what I was doing and changed to a doggy position on the bed.

"You wanted anal, right? Come on, stick it in my ass."

He didn't need a second invitation and about a minute later, he shot his load up my rectum and collapsed on the bed next to me. When that dimwit tried to kiss my cheek, I decided it was time to wrap this up.

"Whoa, pal. Get dressed, cuddles are not part of the package."

I looked around the room, but couldn't find the plug I usually wore to stop the leakage, probably I had left it somewhere on the bridge. My ass wasn't as tight as it used to be, so I clenched it the best I could, trying not to make a mess on the deck. Next time when I had access to decent health care, some serious maintenance was in order. Both my back door and pussy were in desperate need of some tightening.

It didn't matter now, I wiped my ass with a pair of boxer shorts that a previous visitor had left on the floor and got dressed. I hoped the so-called boarding party would pick up their loot and get back to the shuttle.

No such luck though. The whole disaster started when my client picked up his scanner. Apparently, he hadn't turned it off, and now it had detected something. He looked at the reading and turned pale.

"Nova Station, we've got a code seven," he shouted into his comlink and pointed the rifle at me.

Checkov entered my cabin first, blaster drawn, with Morrisson a few steps behind. I had seen Morrisson handle some really sticky situations before without breaking a sweat, but this time, his world-class poker face showed some cracks.

The young grunt handed the scanner to Checkov. "Sergeant, look, they've got Mindats!"

I had no clue what was going on, but perceptive as I was, I sensed that for one reason or another, we were in deep, deep shit. I shoved the youngster's gun out of my face and turned to Morrisson for answers. One question in particular was on the top of my mind.

"Boss, what the hell is a Mindat?"

*

As I learned later, a Mindat was a small furry animal, roughly the size of a Trivarian hamster, which was almost extinct due to its aversion for sex and its incredibly bad genes. As far as I was concerned, an animal that was too stupid to fuck to save its own species deserved to die out -- but what do I know.

On Ildaria, Mindats were considered sacred and possessing one was a blessing that only the very rich could afford. There was an entire industry around these creatures to keep them in good health, and as a result their owners in good fortune.

On Aligma, on the other hand, they were considered a delicacy.

Unsurprisingly, there was a small but lucrative black market for trafficking these stupid animals. Some wanted them for luck, others preferred them medium rare. And even though Ildarians generally didn't agree on anything -- mind you, they had been trying to kill each other for more than ten years -- they were in full agreement that smuggling Mindats was a crime punishable by death.

None of which I knew at that point, of course.

Checkov was not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. While he was still trying to figure out the situation -- after all, he had been paid to look the other way -- Morrisson had already come to a conclusion. He decided it was time to cut his losses.

"This is how you thank me for hiring your lazy ass?" he shouted at me. It was obviously an act for the benefit of the troopers, but I was still completely clueless, standing there with a what-the-fuck look on my face.

The last thing I saw was Morrisson's fist approaching my temple. Then it was lights out.

*

When I came to, I had a splitting headache. I was lying on the floor in a small, windowless cell, cuffed hand and foot in a painful hogtie position. The cuffs were way too tight, my hands were swelling, and I had to pull my legs back to relieve some of the stress on my wrists.

That ugly old bastard! Finally, it dawned on me why he had hired me in the first place, and it sure as hell weren't my legendary cock sucking skills. He had needed someone on board to pin the blame on when shit hit the fan. That's why he hid his contraband in my cabin, to have a patsy and plausible deniability.

Gods, I thought. Why did I always end up in a mess like this?

*

After a few uncomfortable hours in my cell, I felt the telltale vibrations of a ship entering a planet's atmosphere. Unless I had missed a hyperspace jump while I was unconscious, it had to be Ildaria. There was no other planet in reach.

And I was right. When a couple of troopers undid the painful tie and dragged me outside, I could see Ildaria's capital in front of me. We had touched down on a landing pad at the Justice Palace at the northern part of the city.

Inside the palace, I was taken through the usual booking procedure. Nobody told me anything, I was scanned, stripped, showered, and put in chains, pretty much the same way like on other planets where I've had the pleasure. Experienced as I was, I drank some water from the shower and squatted down for a quick pee -- in prison you never knew when you'd get your next opportunity.

The restraints were fairly standard models designed for long-term wear, which means they were a lot more comfortable than the ones I had worn on the transport. With just thirty centimeters, the chain of the leg irons was a bit on the short side, but at least they weren't all that heavy.

As usual, the most annoying thing was the chain around my waist that served as an attachment point for the handcuffs behind my back. Prison guards across the galaxy loved it when their charges had to lap up food and water without the use of their hands. It was probably a fetish thing.

The only surprise was that they didn't use collars and leashes. Instead, they had poles with steel cables that they put around my neck, like they were used back on my home planet to capture street dogs.

With clinking chains and my naked boobs bouncing, I was led to a cell and locked in. It was a small, single person room with a cot, a squat toilet, a tap that activated when you got near it, and no other furniture. Unlike many cells I had spent time in, it was relatively clean and there was even a window to the prison courtyard. I vowed to write them a good review in my Traveler's Companion when I got out, with a few hints for future improvement.

Thanks to a lot of practice, I gracefully knelt down on the floor without tipping over and drank some water from the tap. Then I retreated to my cot, anxiously waiting for whatever was in store for me.

*

After a fitful night's sleep, my breakfast consisted of some gruel in a metal bowl that they slid through a hatch at the bottom of the cell door. It was bland, but I was really hungry, so I stuck my face in the bowl and lapped it all up. I licked everything clean -- you never knew when they decided to feed you next -- and washed my face under the tap.

Maybe twenty minutes later, the dog catchers with their poles opened the door to my cell. With two steel cables closed tightly around my neck, they led me to a room where a uniformed man was sitting at a desk. Another one was standing close by, he seemed to be his assistant.

When I read the name plate at the desk, my jaw dropped. It was Commander Mikhailov, Morrisson's business partner who was getting a cut for every delivery we made. The guy was a real multi-talent -- in addition to being a military commander and a crook, he was also the city's magistrate.

"That's the bitch we caught smuggling Mindats?" he asked his assistant.

"Yes, sir, that's her."

He looked me over as I was standing in front of him. Naked, chained, and with these idiotic poles keeping me in check.

"You know that Mindats are the most sacred beings in Ildarian culture, right? Smuggling them means you're going to hang. We don't make exceptions for anyone, and certainly not for off-world scum like you."

I looked at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "You're fucking with me. You want to kill me over this?"

My throat felt sore, and that had nothing to do with the steel cables. I had mentally prepared myself for another term of penal slavery -- five years maybe, ten at the most, which was a scary prospect in itself. But now I was in a full-scale panic, and the guards had to steady me. They coaxed me to my knees and pulled the steel loops tighter.

"I'm innocent, please! I didn't know. Morrison put them into my cabin so I would take the fall for it. I had nothing to do with this, I swear!"

Mikhailov ignored my desperate pleading and turned to the other guy. "What do we have on that bitch?"

"She's a foreigner, sir. We don't have a file on her."

"Can't you see the slave stamp, idiot?"

He pointed at my slave registration number, #THA-VBZR-7F51, which was tattooed above my pussy in black ink. Even though it was possible to remove the ink, it would reappear after a few days, courtesy of the nanites in my system.

The assistant used his data pad to scan the tattoo. Thanks to the number, he was able to download my information from the public slave register.

"I think you're right, sir," he said, which caused Mikhailov to groan. "According to the data, she's Cassidy Evangeline Anderson, a convicted drug dealer. Served two years of slavery and a few months here and there for theft, fraud, and prostitution without a license."

The commander leaned back in his chair. "Why would I believe a convicted criminal over Mr. Morrison, who is a true friend of the Ildarian republic?"

I sensed that this was a rhetorical question, so I kept my mouth shut.

He turned to his assistant. "Get her into interrogation, and see if Petrova is available. We'll get a confession, one way or another."

*

It turned out that Ms. Petrova was a very busy woman. She kept me standing all day in an interrogation room, hands cuffed above my head and the chain of my leg irons anchored to the floor. By the time she finally arrived, my wrists hurt like hell, and I was completely exhausted.

Despite the bad shape I was in, I took a good long look at my assigned torturer. She was a redheaded woman in her thirties, a bit taller than me, wearing a nurse's scrubs, rubber boots, and a plastic apron -- a detail which sent shivers down my spine. At first glance, she didn't look threatening, but I knew that looks could be deceiving -- after all, I didn't look like a criminal either.

"Your name's Cassidy?" she asked, quickly glancing at her clipboard.

"Yes, Ma'am," I croaked. I hadn't had any water since the early morning.

"Good. Just trying to avoid an embarrassing mixup. Sorry that you had to wait so long, I had sessions with resistance girls all day."

No worries, I thought, I had nothing better to do than hang around. But of course, I said nothing. I guessed that she probably wouldn't appreciate my humor, and I didn't want to start our relationship on the wrong foot.

After another look at the paperwork, she walked over to me and lifted my chin.

"Look," she said. "It's getting late. My boyfriend's making Segaya stew, and I'm looking forward to a nice meal and getting laid. You'll understand that I'd be seriously pissed if you ruined that for me. We got you red-handed for smuggling Mindats. That's an automatic death sentence, and nothing you say in this interrogation will change that. Save yourself the trouble and confess, then you'll be back in your cozy cell, and I can be home in time for dinner."