I try to correct our course to take us away from the ominous hulk, but the ship’s HUD reports that we’re already accelerating far beyond our engine’s capability to break free. We’re like a fish on a line; being slowly drawn toward that gaping, menacing, mouth-like abyss.
For the first time in my life, I’m at a loss at what to do. I’ve never been in such a hopeless situation before – utterly at a loss as the sinister ship’s tractor beam pulls us in. As the captain of the ship, I’m supposed to be in charge – supposed to be in control…
…but right now, I have no choice but to let go.
I finally release my hold on the controls, snarling as the full weight of the situation hits me.
It wasn’t meant to be this way! We were supposed to be rich after pulling off our last job.
Now, it looks like we’re going to be the opposite – prisoners, and totally at the mercy of whoever or whatever is in command of that sinister, unmarked ship.
2
Tasha
Our vessel is finally brought inside the gaping maw of the ship’s loading bay. The immense doors shut behind us with a menacing clunk.
The tractor beam continues to carry us across the landing bay – presumably to some spot large enough to place our ship.
I sit at the helm, watching my ship move without my touch on the controls.. The rational part of my brain knows that trying to fight the tractor beam of a behemoth ship like this would have been foolish – but it still doesn’t make me feel any better.
Likewise, trying to fire our weapons at this warship might have been as futile as throwing darts at the chitinous armor of a Scorp; but at least we would have been doing something...
But both actions would have been useless at best – or suicide at worst.
So, instead, we just have to sit there at our stations, helpless.
All our energy is diverted back to our shields, at least – even the power from our now useless engines. Breaking through our deflectors might be little more than an inconvenience to whoever commands this ship; but I’m certainly not planning to make it easy for them.
As we’re carried across the loading bay, I scan the innards of this ship that’s just gobbled us up.
My throat closes up.
It’s bad news. Really bad news.
There are two functioning Reavers resting in the loading bay – the assault class ship of the Aurelian Empire. Three more, in various states of repair, are being attended to by a triad of towering, marble-skinned aliens – the Aurelians themselves.
None of the aliens down below seem the least bit concerned that our vessel still has two functioning las-cannons at the ready; either of which could turn them into meat. The three towering aliens seem completely at ease, attending to the repairs of the battle-ravaged Reavers as if our captured vessel is no more threatening to them than a housefly. They’re practically ignoring us.
But if the Aurelians are treating us like we’re not a threat to them, it’s because we’re not. If there’s one thing I know about Aurelian warriors, it’s that they don’t bluff, and they don’t make idle threats.
“Keep the weapons offline,” I command the crew – knowing that any one of them might be so scared they’d try something desperate and foolish – like try to shoot our way out of this. “Don’t put a single percentage of power into them.”
A vessel like this will be scanning our energy signals – alerting them if we plan to fire up the engines and try and break out of the tractor beam, or if we start charging our weapons to begin shooting.
Either move would be suicide. Right now, our only chance of survival is to make sure these Aurelians don’t consider us a threat.
Fucking Aurelians!
I’ve done my best to avoid their species entirely during my three years as Captain of the Wayward Scythe – my battered, but trusty little ship.
I dealt with a triad of the fuckers once – and that was one time too many. They’d been Rogue Aurelians – exiles from the Aurelian Empire who’d accepted a lifetime of being hunted by Aurelian Law Enforcement in exchange for abandoning the Empire’s stringent rules and the promise of illicit profits.
I barely got out of that encounter with my life. Those three Rogue Aurelians had wanted more than just trade with me; they’d tried to force me into their harem.
Almost all Aurelians create harems – groups of human women they use as concubines. For the most part, these harems are filled with willing volunteers – but the collection of this Rogue Aurelian triad consisted of female slaves; forced to live serving the dominant aliens, whether they want to or not.
I almost became one of them – and I might not have escaped if Sawoot hadn’t come in, las-cannons blasting, and used the Wayward Scythe to chase the Rogue Aurelians off.
We still got the payment for that job – but perhaps equally valuable was the important lesson I’d learned: Never be foolish enough to deal with that sex-mad species again.
Aurelians are dangerous – as warriors, leaders, and even lovers. Their kind is known to lose control during sex – descending into a fabled ‘mating frenzy’ that transform the haughty, imperious creatures into mindless, rutting beasts.
Speaking of beasts – we’re now in the belly of that same beast; helpless prisoners of a different Aurelian triad.
As the Wayward Scythe is carried across the landing bay by the tractor beam, Sawoot points out through the tempered glass of the cockpit.
“Look at the markings on those Reavers.”
My eyes follow to where she’s pointing – and my throat tightens. There are no markings.
I turn to my first officer. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, but that’s understandable after being tossed around the cockpit during my evasive
