Reaver used her feet to kick my towel from my body, then ground her groin against my manhood. I didn’t know why I’d waited for so long—why I’d put it off. I took a moment to make sure we were aligned, then fell forward, both of us landing squarely on the firm mattress with a whoof of breath.
I pressed my lips to hers, and she wrapped one arm around my back. Her other hand cupped the back of my neck, holding me to her as if I might get away. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Meanwhile, I propped myself up with one arm as the other frantically tried to remove her pajama bottoms. She lifted her hips, twisted one way, then the other, trying to help for several seconds before turning her head to one side to speak.
“Just rip them off,” she breathed. I was happy to oblige.
Just as I’d hoped, she wasn’t wearing panties. I ran my hand over her mound. She’d trimmed the hair short, and I felt little more than soft flesh and her wetness. She lifted her hips to meet my hand. She was ready. I almost fell inside of her, both of us gasping in pleasure.
Chapter Five
Xeno ships were ugly, yet beautiful, much like the “modern” art I’d seen from Terra. Even I could splash paint on a piece of canvas and call it art, and most of the time that was all it would ever be. Yet there was something about the shape of the Xeno ships that made them elegant.
They were designed for space travel, and the Xeno possessed smaller fighters for engaging ground targets directly. Those small craft that we called “bug-fighters” or just “buggers” were all smooth lines, razor-sharp leading edges, and sleek. They cut through atmosphere like vibroblade swords, barely disturbing the clouds or making a sound.
The big ships, like the cruiser I was looking at, more resembled a squashed beetle that some four-year-old kid had tried to glue back together, not knowing what the the insect had looked like before it got stomped. Yet, somehow it was beautiful in its construction.
But the word “construction” wasn’t completely accurate, at least from what I’d gathered while talking to a scientist one evening over a few too many beers. Apparently, the Xeno didn’t build their ships—not the way we thought about building, anyway. Their ships were grown. First, they’d find a rock with the right mineral composition that was big enough for their purposes. Then they’d drill one or more holes into it, and one of their buggers would deposit an egg into the hole before they sealed the thing in. A few weeks later, a big horn-like thing would begin to grow from the sealed hole. A few weeks after that, and the whole rock was sometimes covered with twisting, spiny vines. Within six standard months, it would consume the rock. The Xeno would return and cut the vines away with their energy weapons. Inside would be another Xeno ship.
No two were exactly the same shape, even if they were the same size. Hell, we didn’t even know if they classified their ships like we did. But it was useful to designate them for our own purposes. As soon as our computers told us how many cubic meters of space the ship occupied, we knew what to call it.
The worst part of the Xeno ships—the part that made them ugliest—was the fact that so many of them had killed so many of us. It’s also what made this mission so satisfying. I’d command one of their cruisers, fly the thing right up their ass, and wipe out an entire planet full of them. If they had something resembling morale, it would be in the dumps for a long time. It was their own fault for picking a fight with a superior species. Humans were strong in revenge.
“Sir, we’ll be docking with the Xeno vessel soon,” the pilot said from a chair to my left. “Please strap in.”
We’d been on the shuttle for nearly an hour. The crew had parked the Xeno ship on the far side of the only gas giant in the system to keep it out of plain view of the uninitiated.
I turned to take my seat but caught something out of the corner of my eye. There was something familiar about this Xeno vessel. Something different. We were still pretty far away, so I turned to the right and checked the sensor array. Then, I saw it: weapon pods. They were unmistakable.
I counted at least 30, just on the starboard side of the ship. Each was 13 feet wide, hemispherical like a dome, and attached to the hull like dull, silver barnacles. These had been placed in strategic locations to ensure there were no blind spots on the vessel. Weapon pods meant gunners, and gunners meant I had a tactical officer. I’d get the rest of the details once I boarded. Nobody had all the details until then. The mission was too secret.
The engineers who’d worked on the ship had thought of everything, including some of the comforts of home. The vessel was studded with human weapons pods, which were normally used as quick battlefield replacements for damaged weapons systems on Federation ships. All the Federation Navy had to do was unbox one, weld it to the hull, and they were back in the fight. Should the need arise, I mused, I’ve got enough weapons to stand my ground. Maybe I’ll take-out a few buggers on my way out, too.
Because of safety regulations, even regarding probable-suicide missions, there were rows of dark polka-dots along the side of the ship: escape
