Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“This is as close as I dare get to the station. Our understanding of their long range sensors is still a little unreliable.”
Jonathan Dax tamped down his annoyance. He trusted that his first officer, Cleo, knew what she was doing, but, damn, he itched to get in closer and see what the hell was going on in this remote outpost of the Travian Empire.
Nothing good, of that he was sure. The Travian fuckers were as close to pure evil as his vast imagination could conjure up.
He’d been saying so since they’d first showed up waving their gigantic dicks around New World Colony Seven.
No matter that many of his people pointed to how the invaders hadn’t slaughtered all of the colonists, how the alien species couldn’t be so bad in the face of that limited mercy.
He’d always known there was more rot lurking beneath them than could be seen.
Finding the murdered crew of the transport ship Halo III hadn’t come as a surprise to him.
He kept his gaze fixed on the monitor in front of him.
The blinking light that represented Frey Bjorkson’s tracking chip at least confirmed that the boy still lived.
What God-awful misery the kid was living through, however, didn’t bear thinking about.
Every fiber of his body urged him to run his ship hot up to that pile of spinning junk in space, board it with guns blazing then get that poor kid out of there.
He snorted at his own foolishness. Yeah, like that would accomplish anything other than get his ship, crew and himself blown to pieces too small to see, even before they got within sight of the station.
Travians might underestimate human technology, but he didn’t underestimate theirs.
He had zero chance of rescuing the boy while he was on a station—or anywhere, probably.
That might change if the rumors he’d heard about some kind of alliance with Travian dissidents were true.
Christ, he couldn’t imagine any of those creatures being trustworthy or helpful.
Yet, people whispered that humans could soon gain help from unexpected quarters.
Besides, as much as Dax wanted to save poor Frey Bjorkson from a fate that was literally worse than death, it wasn’t his core mission.
It wasn’t his mission, period. Pure happenstance had caused the privateers Dax had been tracking to board Halo III to steal its minor cargo of foodstuff destined to help the beleaguered inhabitants of New World Colony Seven.
Dax had taken the initiative to obtain Frey’s tracking chip signature simply because he couldn’t stand the idea of yet one more human boy being forced into sexual slavery.
His superiors had told him to drop the matter, the same way they’d given up on rescuing all of the others.
But Dax had all of the trackers, the eleven boys still trapped on the Travian war ship, the one on a larger space station, and Frey here on this backwater one.
That the trackers still worked told him the Travians had never bothered to learn enough about their captives to even realize that all of the humans who’d left Earth had one embedded just below the surface of the skin of their wrist. It was how the command center back on Earth had monitored each of the colonists on their long journeys to their new homes.
They still contained a wealth of information about the physical wellbeing of each person.
The technician who’d passed the tracking signals along to Dax had told him that while they’d monitored the vital signs of the boys first captured for a short while, they’d stopped pretty quickly.
She said the boys were under such clear stress that it was horrible to watch it unfold, especially as there was no way to help them.
Dax didn’t monitor Frey that closely. He mostly kept up just enough of a signal to make sure the boy was still alive.
He didn’t want to know anything more than that, frankly.
He was a soldier, although he’d never seen battle per se.
He still was not easily rattled, his emotions kept under tight control.
And still he didn’t think he had the stomach to watch from afar as a kid got raped and tortured by a brutal alien.
He switched off the screen then sat back in his captain’s chair.
He inwardly rolled his eyes as he always did when he thought of how much authority had been given to him.
He was really just a shit-kicker kid from New World Colony One—a first generation space baby—with a fancy title and a whole lot of fire power.
He really hoped he’d get a chance to use some of it soon on these alien fuckers.
As if sensing his thoughts, Cleo turned her chair to stare at him. “We’re close, you know, although I’m still not sure that there’s going to be any way we can use this internal Travian thing to our advantage.”
Dax sighed and rested his head back. “I’m not sure, either, to be honest. It’s above my pay-grade. But the higher-ups say that with the Travians teetering on the brink of some kind of civil war, anything we can do to help it along will hopefully force them to abandon their occupation of Seven.”
Cleo raised her eyebrows. “Just so long as they don’t decide to nuke the whole thing from space once they leave.”
Dax sighed. “Yeah, there is that.”
Frey vacillated emotionally between irritation at being paraded through the station in his soiled clothing and a languid self-satisfaction that came from spending pleasurable time in bed with someone.
He’d read about this after-effect of sex and had dreamed of having the experience himself one day.
Of course, he’d never expected it to happen during his captivity, and his brain kept screaming at him to knock it the fuck off.
The blow job that had started the whole morning off had been Frey’s pathetic idea of showing his appreciation.
He’d wanted to thank his master in the only way he had for saving him from the worse alternative of becoming Arpell’s fuck toy again and for having his broken arm miraculously fixed.
He couldn’t believe when he’d woken that in the space of what had been hours—not even the days that human medicine would need—his arm was as good as new.
He hadn’t really made love to another man, either.
Rone, an alien slave master, had raped his ass, repeatedly, before making him get dressed again without a shower.
Hardly the stuff of romance stories. Frey could tell by the stiffness and stickiness of the seat of his pants that Rone had leaked his cum throughout the sleep cycle while spooning him.
He grimaced at the way the fabric clung to his skin and he resisted the urge to pick at it.
He must absolutely reek of Rone, which he supposed was the whole point.
The Travian, freshly washed and wearing new clothing not stained with remnants of his enemies, strode along with his head held high and a ‘fuck off’ look on his face.
Frey had no choice but to rush to keep up the pace so that his collar didn’t choke him.
And, that thought led him to remember what it had felt and tasted like when Rone had come in his mouth.
The salty, bitter cum didn’t make him as sick to his stomach as others’ had done.
Maybe he was just getting comfortable being used as two convenient holes.
Except that there was no ignoring the satisfying calm that colored everything else.
Sure, his hole ached still from the abrupt and relentless invasion.
But, Frey himself had contributed to that feeling because he’d bucked his body up to meet Rone’s thrusts, making the fucking harder and more vigorous than it would have been if he’d simply lain there and taken it.
For the first time, he’d truly participated in the claiming of his body.
He wanted to hate himself for it, yet his cock and balls also hung limply between his legs in a sleepy, happy state that came from being massaged and drained.
Was it so wrong that he could find pleasure within the horror show that his life had become?
Maybe. He really didn’t know anymore how he should feel, and he decided to stop worrying about it.
He did notice, however, that while in the past, he would have shrunk tight against the wall or his master to avoid the leering gaze of others, this time he stood taller.
He took a perverse pride in knowing that he smelled like Rone, that he belonged to someone fierce enough to have killed four of his kind all by himself.
Yeah, he was just a pet, but he was the pet of a fucking badass—a badass that nevertheless had taken the time to re-braid Frey’s hair into an even more elaborate style.
So, he held his head up high and didn’t allow anyone to cause him to cower.
He wasn’t surprised when Rone led him and Preen back into either the same or a similar watering hole and parked them over on a bench in the corner.
From their vantage point, they could see anyone coming into the place, and with his back to the wall, Rone couldn’t be attacked from behind.
By unspoken command, Frey took his usual place, kneeling beside Rone’s leg.
When a large palm descended on top of his head, he didn’t flinch or even resent it.
It was just the way things were now, and he was pathetically grateful that the most he had to worry about from his new master was the guy’s insatiable desire to touch his pet.