Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.07 AE
Neutral Zone: Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’
Lieutenant Apausha
Lt. Apausha
Lieutenant Apausha had smuggled many goods into Alliance territory, some of them even onto ships owned by business magnates, but this was the first time he'd ever rendezvoused with a flagship as magnificent as the Prince of Tyre. Even Ba'al Zebub's ornate flagship suffered in comparison to the sleek, white ship which looked like a slender ray of light with a pair of cat's whiskers on its nose-cone.
"That's one hell of a ship," Apausha's radioman and navigator Hanuud admired her out the viewing window. "Too bad we aren't stationed on such a beauty."
"What's wrong with the Peykaap?" his pilot Wajid patted the console of the smuggling vessel which had gotten them through more scrapes than they cared to reminisce about.
"Nothing," Apausha pushed down the bad feeling which rumbled way down in the pit of his stomach. "It's none of our business. Now let's make this drop-off and get the Haven out of here, Shay'tan be praised."
"Shay'tan be praised," his two crewmen repeated after him. They guided the Peykaap in to dock alongside the Alliance flagship. A disembodied sense of dread made his dorsal ridge stand on end. He'd just transported something from Sata'an-flagship to Alliance-flagship. Why in Haven was Lucifer even allowing them this close to his ship? It didn't make sense. These sorts of deals were supposed to be done by minions … not at the uppermost echelons of society. The entire thing stank.
He allowed his ship to be searched and his mean to be frisked for weapons before stepping on board the Prince of Tyre to speak to whoever they were supposed to hand off the cargo to. He was relieved to see it was not Lucifer himself, but some underling, though not by much.
“Chief of Staff Zepar,” Lieutenant Apausha greeted, recognizing him from the streaming video newsfeeds. “As you requested. Thirty human females. All in good health. Great care was taken to protect their modesty and transport them as humanely as possible.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” The dirty-winged Angelic rubbed his hands. “My crew will take care of them right away.”
“Thank you, Sir." Apausha tasted the air with his forked tongue and decided he didn't like the way Zepar smelled. He wasn't happy about turning the females over to a pair with such questionable morals. Every man in the Sata’an Empire had heard about the Alliance Prime Minister’s appetites … and the Chief of Staff who pimped him out like some prize stud stallion.
“Your ship is utilitarian." Zepar's voice was hypnotically reasonable. “Stay and rest a while. We have prepared a private room and a meal for you and your two crewmen.”
“Your hospitality shall be appreciated, Sir,” Apausha said with a bow.
Like … or dislike … he would take Zepar up on his offer. The Peykaap had been built for stealth, all engine and hidden compartments to hide contraband, not a lot of comfort for a living cargo. What little space had been available had been assigned to the females. His men could use a long, hot shower right about now, a luxury every shipboard Sata’an relished.
After a feast and long naps relishing the luxurious, if somewhat bland accommodations typical of Angelic spacecraft, they made their way back to their own ship. They were escorted, of course, but the Angelic guards were unfailingly polite. They'd just delivered thirty of the most precious cargo the Angelics needed. Since lower-ranking Sata’an males were as much cannon fodder in the eternal struggle for domination of the galaxy as the hybrid races, they were as weary of war as the hybrids were. Perhaps this whole free-trade business might turn out to be good for everyone?
Zepar come out of a room leading one of the females Apausha had delivered earlier. Two burly, cold-eyed Angelics guarded the door.
“Sir,” Apausha greeted.
Zepar glanced at them, hissed something in a language that was neither Galactic Standard nor one Apausha recognized to the two goons guarding the door, and shoved the female down the hall. It was the state of the woman, however, which would remain forever burned into Apausha's mind. The Sata’an bridal dress was ripped beyond recognition and she was nearly naked. The poor creature was bloodied and battered, with blood dripping down her legs from rough, probably forced sex. She'd been the feistiest one amongst their cargo, but now she had an empty, haunted look in her eyes, as though she were dead and her body just didn't know it yet.
Flitting his forked tongue to taste for pheromones, Apausha caught the scent of semen. In the room beyond, he could hear a second female begin to scream as someone roared like a ravenous beast. A disembodied sense of horror ran down his spine to the tip of his tail. The roar was so deep, so primal, it felt as though the ship itself shuddered with its power.
“Man … that’s just…” radioman Hanuud said.
“Wrong…” his pilot Wajid finished.
Their two Angelic escorts looked to the door as though they wished to intervene. The two cold-eyed goons standing on either side of it obviously outranked them. One Angelic stepped towards the door. The second grabbed his comrade by the arm and muttered something under his breath. The two goons none-too-subtly flexed their muscles, their eyes as ruthless as those of the worst Tokoloshe pirate. The implication was clear.
"Shay'tan protect us," both of his crewman whispered together, gesticulating to their foreheads, their lips in their hearts in an invocation to their emperor and god.
“Let’s get the Haven out of here…” Apausha shoved his men down the hall before Zepar realized they knew what was going on. He would speak to Ba'al Zebub about his reservations. The Sata’an were a lot of things, but this struck him as just … plain … evil.
Chapter 67