The Alien’s Wayward Girl (Galactic Discipline #9)
Chapter 1
Jendra
I had been dreading the field trip to Magisteria for months.
Not because I feared what I might find there—I had studied enough Magisterian history to know their patriarchal customs were archaic and absurd—but because I knew my classmates would embarrass themselves.
Worse, they would embarrass Hippolyta with their grasping ambition to become part of the Federation’s machinery at any price.
When the morning finally came, I walked up the ramp of the sleek transport vessel with my head held high, my bag clutched in one hand.
As the transport lifted off from Hippolyta City’s spaceport, the other eleven girls from my cohort chattered nervously or stared out the viewport at our beautiful planet receding below.
From my seat near the back I tried to ignore Brequa’s breathless excitement two rows ahead.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going,” she whispered to the girl beside her, loud enough for half the cabin to hear. “We’ve read so much about their culture, and their… you know, their leaders.”
Her seatmate tittered. Ah, yes, the Magisterian leaders: the royal house and their cronies, polygamous noblemen who found having both wives and concubines perfectly acceptable—ideal, even, as long as those wives and concubines went along with the Magisterian way.
I rolled my eyes and pulled out my datapad, determined to review my notes on Hippolytan governance models.
I would need every argument at my disposal if, as I had heard might happen, our overlords decided I had skills they needed and didn’t care to honor my own desires.
In that case, from what I had read, I would need to demonstrate that my value to Hippolyta—our separate and ‘almost equal’ world—would be greater than my value to the Federation as a whole.
It felt a bit arrogant, of course, to assume that the Magisterians would seize on my talents that way.
But my favorite teacher, Ms. Opalin, had warned me explicitly.
You need to be ready, she had told me. You have a mind practically designed for diplomacy.
They’ll try to convince you that you don’t understand yourself as well as you think you do.
Ms. Haspor, our chaperone, stood at the front of the cabin once we’d cleared Hippolyta’s atmosphere.
She represented the absolute opposite of Ms. Opalin as far as I could tell.
Ms. Haspor was a stern woman in her forties, her gray-streaked hair pulled back severely.
She had lived on Magisteria for a decade before returning to teach, which represented only the beginning of the things that made her suspect in my opinion.
“Girls,” she began, her voice cutting through the murmur of conversation. “I know some of you have… complicated feelings about this trip. But I want you to understand something from the outset: this is an opportunity. A privilege, even.”
I felt my jaw clench.
“I know you’ve studied Magisteria, either with Ms. Opalin or with me. It’s important that you have those lessons in mind today, however, and so I wish to review their most important points, in order to put you all—including Ms. Opalin’s students—in the proper frame of mind.”
She looked pointedly at me for a moment. Shit, I thought, I didn’t realize I’d developed a reputation. I had a moment’s dismay, but then a little thrill of hope rose in me—surely the Magisterians wouldn’t want a young woman with that kind of attitude.
Ms. Haspor’s eyes returned to the group as a whole as she continued.
“The history of Magisteria is the history of our modern galaxy,” she orated, as if addressing the Planetary Assembly.
“Three hundred years ago, miners on the world to which we’re traveling now discovered gravitium deposits deep beneath the surface.
Within fifty years, they had developed the gravitium drive—the technology that makes faster-than-light travel possible.
The Magisterian Federation grew from a single planet to a dominant interstellar power. ”
Mabola was taking notes, her amber eyes focused with that clinical intensity she brought to everything. She caught me watching and raised an eyebrow, as if challenging me to object to Ms. Haspor’s lecture.
“Of course, not everyone accepted Magisterian leadership willingly,” Ms. Haspor said.
“Our own Hippolyta represented a loyal opposition almost from the beginning of the Federation. More recently, the Vionian revolt nearly tore the Federation apart only a decade ago. But Magisteria’s control over gravitium production has allowed them—us, really, for Hippolyta is and always will be Magisteria’s sister world—to prevail.
Today, the Vionian Empire is no more than a stubborn, doomed resistance, and the Federation’s influence is unmatched. ”
“And their influence is what, exactly?” I heard myself ask. “Forcing half the population into submission?”
Ms. Haspor’s gaze found mine, sharp and disapproving.
“Their influence, Jendra, is what allows Hippolyta to exist as a sovereign world. Our leaders swore loyalty to the Magisterian crown in exchange for our autonomy. And part of that agreement includes this: young women from Hippolyta who prove their aptitude may enter the Magisterian military or civil service. Many have done so with great success.”
“Success at betraying everything Hippolyta stands for,” I muttered, but Ms. Haspor had already turned away.
The rest of the journey passed relatively quickly.
It was the first time in space for all of us, of course.
With the exception of our one jump, though, when the stars all changed in an instant, it didn’t seem to me much more diverting than a video.
When we made the jump and saw the bright white surface of Magisteria, covered with ice to a depth of two kilometers, even I had to admit to myself that the experience had a certain coolness—and then I winced at my mental pun.
As the transport began to descend, I listened to the increasingly nervous speculation from my classmates.
Brequa practically vibrated with anticipation.
Mabola remained coolly observant, occasionally jotting notes in her personal journal.
I spent the time mentally rehearsing every argument against Magisterian customs I had ever learned.
When I caught a glimpse of the hole in the ice that gave access to Magisteria’s spaceport, and the way it seemed to be getting larger with every passing second, my heart was pounding despite my determination to remain calm.
We filed off the transport into a gleaming corridor that smelled of recycled air, but purified and imbued with a pleasant, vegetal scent.
Two officials in crisp purple uniforms were waiting for us. Both men, naturally. The taller one consulted a datapad while the other surveyed us with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Welcome, girls of Hippolyta,” the tall one said. “You’re all looking lovely today. Ms. Haspor, they look like a fine group.”
Girls. Lovely. I gritted my teeth.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” our chaperone answered primly, her bright smile making me a little queasy.
“You know the way, Ms. Haspor,” the other man said. “Your tour will start in a few minutes, as soon as you have the girls prepared.”
Ms. Haspor led us through a maze of corridors that took us from the spaceport into what seemed an adjacent reception facility.
Everything seemed adorned with evidence of Magisterian pride: rich purple wallpaper and deep blue carpets seemed to extend into infinity.
To my surprise, Ms. Haspor led us into what seemed like a large coat room with benches along the walls and cubbies with hooks inside.
“Alright, girls, here’s the part I know you’re feeling a bit nervous about, if you’ve talked to older students about this field trip,” our chaperone told us. “You’re going to go ahead and remove your clothing and hang your things in the cubbies.”
I had indeed heard about this part of the field trip from older girls in my dormitory, but I had thought they were just trying to scare me. My heart pounded in my chest as I stared at Ms. Haspor.
“I know this seems unusual,” she continued, her tone matter-of-fact.
“But you need to understand that on Magisteria, women are only allowed to wear clothing when given permission by the man in charge of them. For the duration of this visit, you will experience what it would mean to join Magisterian society. A full sense of what that entails.”
Several of my classmates gasped. Brequa’s eyes went wide, but there was something in her expression that looked almost eager. Mabola simply tilted her head, as if filing this information away for later analysis.
I wanted to refuse. Every fiber of my Hippolytan upbringing screamed at me to protest, to demand our rights, to march right back onto that transport. But my voice seemed to have disappeared somewhere between my brain and my throat.
“Come now, girls,” Ms. Haspor said. “I know this is uncomfortable, but you’re all adults. You’ve had your wellness classes.”
Wellness classes. Yes, we’d had those. The dorm mothers had been kind but clinical about it all, teaching us about human sexuality and hygiene as if they were explaining how to operate a food synthesizer.
Bodies were biological systems. Reproduction was a natural function.
Everything had been so dispassionate, so careful, so safe.
But those classes hadn’t prepared me for this.
They hadn’t taught me how to feel about my own body—about the way it had changed over the past few years, developing curves and softness in places that still felt foreign to me.
I knew some of my classmates had figured out how to be comfortable with themselves.
I’d heard them at night in the dormitory, the quiet sounds they tried to muffle beneath their blankets.
I had tried it myself once, tentatively exploring, but I’d stopped almost immediately because of the pictures that came into my head.
Pictures I didn’t want to examine too closely. Pictures of… of strong hands and commanding voices and…
No. I pushed those thoughts away now, just as I had the night I’d let my fingers explore, down there between my thighs.
Around me, my classmates were beginning to comply. Brequa had already pulled her tunic over her head, giggling nervously as she folded it. Mabola moved with her usual efficiency, her movements precise and unhurried. Others followed, some blushing, some chattering to cover their embarrassment.
Nudity on Hippolyta wasn’t something we were supposed to be ashamed of, really…
but I didn’t think I was alone in feeling embarrassment about it anyway.
Especially since being nude, in the showers for instance, didn’t ever involve seeing boys naked.
I knew what it looked like, from the pictures in wellness class, the thing they had down there, and I knew what they did with it, with a woman, when she consented.
Hippolytan education to the age of nineteen, though, was single-sex, in order to minimize distraction, according to our teachers.
We would have our first chance to meet boys in two weeks, in fact.
As far as I could tell, none of us really knew how to feel about that—except that we all looked forward to it because it also meant that we had nearly finished school.
We would enter a transitional phase of life when we could choose among various internships all over the Hippolytan economy.
I had tentatively decided on an advocacy office, having won most of the debate and public speaking prizes at school over the past few years.
“Jendra,” I heard Ms. Haspor say behind me, “do we have a problem?”
I swallowed hard and turned to look over my shoulder at her.
“No, Ms. Haspor,” I told her, reaching for the hem of my tunic.
She nodded, her face wearing an understanding sort of expression.
I began to pull my tunic up, pushing away the unwelcome shiver that had gone through me at the sound of her words. Do we have a problem?
I swallowed again. If we had a problem, I couldn’t help wondering, what would happen then?
I pulled the tunic over my head, feeling the cool air of the facility touch my skin.
My fingers fumbled with the fastening of my pants, and I stepped out of them, folding them with unnecessary care to delay the inevitable.
The bra came next, and finally—my face burning—I slipped off my panties and placed them in the cubby with the rest of my simple Hippolytan clothing.
I stood there naked, my arms instinctively crossing over my breasts, acutely aware of every inch of exposed skin.
Around me, the other girls were in various states of undress, most of them giggling nervously or stealing glances at each other.
I tried hard not to do the same kind of furtive looking, but I couldn’t help it: I found myself noting who had the biggest breasts and even the most hair covering their pussies.
My face got hot as I realized I didn’t have nearly as much of that grownup thatch as Mabola did.
Then I noticed something that made my breath catch.
Ms. Haspor was unbuttoning her own tunic.
I watched, stunned, as our chaperone methodically removed her clothing with the same matter-of-fact efficiency she brought to everything. Within moments, she stood as naked as the rest of us, her magnificent, mature body somehow making the situation feel even more surreal.
I tried desperately not to stare, but Ms. Haspor’s swelling breasts and large nipples drew my eye inexorably, and…
I had to bite my lip when I saw that she had no hair between her thighs.
I could see the cleft of my chaperone’s pussy, as clearly as I could see Brequa’s, where it seemed hair hadn’t really started to grow.
Had Ms. Haspor removed hers? Had she shaved down there, or done something else to take away the fur? And… why?
I had the dismaying feeling that if I thought hard enough, I could figure it out. Thinking more about it, though, I told myself, was the last thing I wanted to do.