J McKenna: Slave Planet

“You all have pictures of Dr. Reyes and Lt. Commander Smith, but my advice is, look for the only good-looking women on the planet—from what I hear, these native gals are hairy as apes.” There was derisive laughter all around. “The Letanya reports both Reyes and Smith have Utes, so presumably we’ll be able to communicate with the people, who call themselves the Baktu . That’s what I’ll be doing—talking. You soldiers are to back me up. That’s it. I don’t want anyone to be quick on the trigger. All weapons will be set on stun. And no one fires his weapon unless I fire first, understand?”

There was reluctant nodding all around. A couple of them winked at their buddies and one showed his fingers were crossed.

Nystrom looked at his watch. “All right. We’re dropping down to a lower orbit and should be ready to go in about ten or fifteen minutes. If anyone has to take a leak, now’s the time.” He strode off the platform.

“All right, you heard the man, maggots! Let’s check those weapons. All must be kept in the safe position until you hear from me or the lieutenant. We don’t want to start an intergalactic war with these guys.”

The men—and a few women—milled around trying to hide their pre-raid jitters. Corporal John Sisco caught the eye of his friend, PFC Joe Henderson, and they eased away from the group.

“You think we’ll see any action?” Henderson asked his buddy.

Sisco shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the humanoids. They’re supposed to be big mother-fuckers. They could tear your arm off.”

“Is it true they keep women as slaves? On leashes?” Henderson’s eyes gave away his overactive imagination.

“Yep. That’s what I hear. Pretty cool, huh?” They guffawed together.

“Hell, instead of fighting ‘em, I may join ‘em.”

Across the room, quite a different conversation was taking place between Private Jane Emerson and her friend, PFC Luisa Rodriquez, two of the three female Marines aboard.

“I’d like to get one of slave-owning bastards in my sights,” Emerson was saying, “I’d blast him to hell.”

“Yeah, but I hear those big fuckers have cocks the size of firehoses. Be a shame to waste that.”

“Maybe we can find one for you to fuck before we shoot him.” They both laughed.

Soon, the ship was in position. The shuttle bays opened. The Marines stowed their weapons and strapped themselves into the jump seats. Sisco would pilot the first craft, Corporal Ben Asmor, the second.

“Listen up,” Nystrom said once the soldiers in the first shuttle had settled in. “We’re going to be landing just outside the village for maximum shock value. When we come to a stop, we want to come out strong and tight and secure a perimeter. Just like textbook, OK?”

“Yes, sir!” The men—and three women—shouted in unison.

“We’re not going to fuck this up, are we?”

“No, sir!”

“All right. Let’s go hunting for some lost lesbos!”

The shuttles were launched one after another into the silent vacuum of space. They turned and dipped down toward the planet below. The soldiers couldn’t see where they were going in the windowless aft section, so they just waited, staring at the walls or grinning at each other to show how brave they were.

Soon, the telltale buffeting began. Sisco adjusted his trim and rode it out as if he had done this a thousand times before. After several bumpy minutes, the craft broke through into blue sky and glided down. Sisco and Asmor extended the wings, increasing the glide coefficient. The ships fell uneventfully until they hit 25,000 feet, then encountered more turbulence. A soldier turned green and vomited quietly into a barf bag. Others hooted at him. In minutes, the turbulence ended and the crafts straightened out.

“Eight thousand, prepare for landing.” Sisco barked into the intercom. There wasn’t much the soldiers needed to do except hang on to their shoulder straps.

The twin crafts swooped in to picture-perfect landings, nearly side-by-side on the dusty plain less than a kilometer from the village. A donkey, strapped to a cart holding two men, brayed and reared up. The men jumped down from the cart and watched as the donkey fled in fear, dragging the cart behind it. They appeared stunned as the crafts slid to a stop not two hundred yards away.

As soon as the dust settled, the doors opened and strange men jumped out and surrounded the crafts. The humanoids knew they were outnumbered and outgunned and ran for their lives out into the plain, away from the village.

The soldiers watched them go but did nothing. Weapons tracked their movements across the plain.

“All right! Remember, I want all weapons on heavy stun only. You got that?” Everyone nodded reluctantly. “Jones, Emory, stay with the ships and monitor the radio! The rest of you maggots, follow me!” Baker barked.

Led by Lt. Nystrom, the remaining twelve men and women jogged east, toward the village. The heat baked down on the group. Loaded down with equipment, they were soon gasping, despite their extensive training in preparation for the mission. Six months in cyrosleep can take a lot out of a person.

When they reached the edge of the village, Nystrom stopped them and began deploying the soldiers with hand signals. The streets here were strangely deserted. Up ahead, the soldiers spotted some natives running away from them down the dusty avenues. The group split up according to strict deployment protocol—three peeled off and began to run around the village so they could approach from the south. Two more went left and two went right, to cover their flanks.

“Stay frosty, people. They’re inside watching us, you can be sure of that.” He punched the button on the radio. “Emory! You read me?”

“Roger, sir. Loud and clear.”

“We’re going in. Keep your eyes open.”

“Roger.”

They entered the village, guns up. Soldiers ran from dwelling to dwelling, watching for any movement. They had been told these natives had no sophisticated weapons, but they were taking no chances.

They approached the main square. There were a few dozen men and women there, milling around. Beyond them, Nystrom could see the three soldiers driving other natives from the south side of town into the square. The men wore animal skins as loincloths. They stood proudly, defiantly watching the soldiers. The Marines could see the narrow ridge on their foreheads and the flattened ears. Otherwise, they looked quite human. The women, cowering behind them, were all naked.

One of the soldiers whistled.

“Remember your orders,” Nystrom said evenly and pulled out his U.T. Fastening it around his neck, he strode toward the crowd.

“We come from Earth,” he said.

A man detached himself from the group. He was tall, nearly seven feet, and broad-shouldered. He easily towered over the six-foot-tall lieutenant. Nystrom held his ground, though he wanted to step back. He guessed this man weighed more than 300 pounds.

“Why are you here?” The humanoid said.

“We come for the Earth women,” Nystrom responded.

“They wish to stay,” the giant said.

“We’ll be the judge of that. Where are they?”

There was a sudden movement in the crowd. A figure was coming forward. All weapons immediately swiveled in that direction. Nystrom was the first to see that it was a woman. Short and dark, she was dressed in animal skins around her waist and breasts, and a thin leather collar around her neck. The lieutenant could also tell she was very pregnant.

She approached the soldiers, stopping to say a few words in that melodious language of the planet to the giant. Nystrom’s Ute registered it as, “I’ll take it from here, Klasdor .”

Nystrom frowned. The picture he had memorized flashed into his mind. “Lower your weapons, soldiers,” he ordered. Confused, the men complied.