Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 06 - Purrfect Plunder

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"BY TAO'S TONSILS -THE PIRATE ASKED. WHAT'S THIS?" They stood over an

unconscious creature sprawled on the floor. The captain replied, "That's a

HRal; they're only recently discovered.' "So what's it doing lying here in the

tunnel with its clothes ripped and no less than four itty-bitty breasts

exposed?" Before the captain could reply the pirate leader turned to one of

his men. "Get it- I mean, her," he ordered. "She'll come with us. This dull

merchanter doesn't appreciate exotic stash -but we'll make sure to provide a

nice exciting life for this kitty-cat woman!" SPACEWAYS #1 OF ALIEN

BONDAGE #2 CORUNDUM'S WOMAN #3 ESCAPE FROM MACHO #4 SATANA ENSLAVED #5 MASTER

OF MISFIT #6 PURRFECT PLUNDER #7 THE MANHUNTRESS #8 UNDER TWIN

stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by an electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording means or otherwise without prior written

permission of the publisher. Published simultaneously in the United States and

Canada by PBJ Books, Inc., formerly PEI Books, Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New

York, New York 10016. Printed in the United States of America. Library of

Congress Catalog Card Number: 82-80838. The poem Scarlet Hills Copyright (c)

1982 by Ann Morris; used by permission of the author. ISBN:

0-867-21148-2 First printing"September 1982. Second printing November

1982. Vast is a size, and size is a distance. Along the spaceways, time is a

measure of distance and events and lifetimes, and the spaceways are vast. The

crew of the spaceship Satana-Captain Hell-fire, First Mate Quindy, Janja,

Cinnabar, and Trafalgar-must have spent some two months-standard in the

marvelous self-sufficient city of Survival. As in the novel immediately

preceding this in the Spaceways saga, most of the events of this book take

place before, and during that time. Janja and company return in Spaceways #8,

month after next! A: All planets are not shown. B: Map is not to scale,

because of the vast distances between stars. SCARLET HILLS Alas, fair ones,

my time has come. I must depart your lovely home- Seek the bounds of this

galaxy To find what lies beyond. (chorus) Scarlet hills and amber

skies, Gentlebeings with loving eyes; All these I leave to search for a

dream That will cure the wand'rer in me. You say it must be glamorous For

those who travel out through space. You know not the dark, endless night Nor

the solitude we face. (reprise chorus) I know not of my journey's end Nor the

time nor toll it will have me spend. But 1 must see what I've never seen And

know what I've never known. Scarlet hills and amber skies, Gentlebeings with

loving eyes; All these I leave to search for a dream That will cure the

wand'rer in me. -Ann Morris 1 Anybody can be a hero. All it takes is a

fast-acting simpleton without enough sense to be scared. -Trafalgar Cuw The

fleet thundered up through the thin atmosphere of the unpeopled rallying

planet and into space. Giant carrier ships lumbered out of their parking

orbits to move into the fleet combat pattern. Inside, their hulls were

pregnant with deadly little attack craft ready for the close fighting they had

to anticipate. Only the foolish looked forward to it. The entire fleet swarmed

out in quest of the enemy. The nearly airless little planet's apparent size

diminished until it was a marble in the indigo domain of interstellar space,

and then only a disk of reflected light among the billions that cluttered the

spaceways. Spread out over hundreds of thousands of kloms, kilometers, the

fleet was a covey of wood-ticks in the immensity of the cosmos. The lead

formation was close-packed, with a mere five thousand kloms between the

streaking spacers. It was a gap that could be closed in a minute. Radio waves

emanating from the lead formation blanketed space along all three bands while

their crews waited tensely for contact with the enemy. Time seemed

to 11 12 move with incredible slowness. Time measured distances, and these

distances were incredibly great. On the ships' hulls, sensors and autogunnery

moved restlessly like live things. Their sensitive detector mechanisms sought

constantly for the telltale radioactive emissions of space-drive systems. The

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drive "signatures" of the fleet ships went unnoticed by the killer devices.

They were recognized and keyed out. The autoguns were programmed to commence

firing at the moment of detection. The enemy they sought was not known for

parleying or even bothering to offer surrender before attacking. Onboard

spacer Dauntless, Kenowa was thinking about how long it was going to be before

she got Captain Sword in bed again . . . and the autoguns went berserk. Those

on the other lead-craft flared at the same instant. Space was webbed by a

hellish network of neutron streams reaching out to detonate atomic nuclei in

their targets. Then brilliant lavender beams were stabbing back toward them,

even before the strange ships appeared onscreen. The heavy neutron cannon

sizzled into action, hurling bolts of pure energy at the approaching enemy.

DS, the guns were called. Defense Systemry, whether used defensively or

otherwise. The main fleet began converging on the area of contact. A herd of

elephants charging. Great engines raged with power. Enemy ships came swarming

out of the parsec abyss like killer sharks of space. Their deadly purplescent

beams stabbed out with deadly precision. The heavy guns of the fleet poured

back a hellfire barrage of neutrons. In flaming silent starbursts that

assaulted even combat-shielded eyes, the invaders began flashing into

oblivion. Nevertheless the enemy streamed into battle in numbers that seemed

ever to increase. Kenowa caught hell from Captain Sword (tall,

dark, 13 handsome) for not having donned her protective nitration lenses. As

she turned to race for her cabin, he slapped her backside, hard. The big woman

skipped and grinned without glancing back. She hadn't expected him to be able

to resist the moving effect of metallic white silkeen SpraYon, tight enough to

show a pimple. That was the reason she wore, unusually, a high-necked

bodyshirt with flowing sleeves. Kenowa knew herself, and she knew how to dress

for maximum effect. Gleaming pants tighter than skin and the barbican jut of

her overgenerous bosom were sufficient, without displaying bare

cleavage. "Plaining hell! We've shot hundreds of those sister-slicers out of

space and still they come on, and on! They're sure as hell bent on

conquest!" "Another woman-hunt," a rumbling voice said. Kenowa recognized the

voice of Captain Sword's aide and advisor, the very attractive Jonuta who was

technically his superior officer. She swallowed as she rushed into her cabin.

Absolutely luxurious, it was snuggled between the cabins of Sword and

Jonuta. While she searched for the combat shielding lenses she was supposed to

keep close at hand, the fleet slammed into battle. The awesome power of

neutron cannon tore a devastating path before it. The spacescape became a

flaring network of ravening force that turned its brooding indigo into a

kaleidoscope of blinding energy. Ghastly killer beams swept through the enemy

like a multi-bladed scythe that left gaping emptiness where alien craft had

been. Fleet and leadcraft alike combined their full firepower. The

fantastically destructive barrage decimated the enemy and swept back to

decimate it again. And again. It went on until space was swept clear of the

craft that had come beyond the vast collapstar called The Maelstrom. The

remnants of the enemy attack force continued 14 suicidal rushes at the fleet

spacers, but those few remaining aliens were rapidly wiped out of existence in

soundless eruptions. The awful weapons, a nice euphemism for guns called

"Defense Systemry," went silent. The last of the enemy spacers vanished in a

blaze of disrupted atoms. And just then Dauntless shuddered and lurched

violently. Kenowa was flung onto her satin-sheeted bed, and off it. "What the

vug-we're hit! Locate damage sector! Report, report!" "Just aft of Sector

Five, Captain. Starboard side." "That's my cabin! And Kenowa ran back there

for her damned combat shields!" Captain Sword whirled and raced in that

direction. (It was one of several ways in which the heroic captain-who looked

just like the co-star of The Masters of Survival, Akima Mars holomelodrama #3-

differed from Jonuta. Jonuta would first have seen to the safety of his

ship.) What Kenowa was hearing, meanwhile, was the hideous screechy sound of

the tearing of impervious materials. Plasteel and cyprium-monofilamental

hydrogen bonded at the electron level and stronger than steel. The

construction materials of spacecraft Dauntless. Slivers of it speared through

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the cabin as a section of the hull was torn away like ripped paper. And the

blizzard began. Every whiff of the cabin's air raced eagerly out in an attempt

to fill the unfillable vacuum. It incidentally tried to suck everything in the

cabin out with it. That included Kenowa, who heard the whistle of rushing air

but could not hear her own despairing cry. What would Akima Mars do in this

kind of situation? 15 Not die, surely, Kenowa thought, but knew that she

would. She began by blacking out. Death was not supposed to be like this.

There were more stories of what happened after death than there were

religions, and religions cluttered the planets all along the spaceways. The

lore depended on the planet and the god and the imagination of the local

priesthood and explicating computers. None of the stories resembled this. Just

to begin with, Kenowa was absolutely naked. She sat up on the hard deck and

tried not to whimper at sight of the great many-jointed metallic tentacles

that were coming at her. One arched up into the air like an impossibly large,

fleshless cobra. It must be staring, focusing an optic lens on her. The other

tentacle, thick as her calf, snaked around her bare body. I am not dead, she

thought. Then: But this is what a fate worse than death must be! She struggled

and may as well have saved her energy. She whimpered her uncontrollable fear

all the while she was lifted easily and removed from the cabin. She was borne

through a scene of destruction and carnage. Giving up her useless struggle,

she viewed the nightmare reality that Dauntless had become. She was too

stunned to react. Her captor was a totally unfamiliar machine mounted on a set

of tentacles that permitted it to move easily over obstacles-such as wreckage,

and bodies. Its convex dorsal surface sprouted another set of tentacles. Some

were equipped with the amber lenses that served it as eyes. Two of the other

four held her firmly captive. Exactly why one had to be crammed uncomfortably

between her upper thighs so that she "rode" erectly astride in a

ride-the-horsey pose, she could not imagine. The thing was obscenely abrading

her labia. Bloody remains of men lay scattered amid the wreck- 16 age the

machine crawled over with such spiderish ease. That created a great deal of

swaying, but her erect sitting posture was maintained, crotch and waist

grasped and her arms pressed to her sides. Her mechanical captor was taking

obvious care to keep its nude burden away from any dangerous projections. They

passed by and over many, on wrecked Dauntless. Now she saw other, similar

machines. She wondered why they bore only female captives. This is like being

in some Akima Mars mellerl They rounded a corner in the ship's tunnel and she

saw other captives being boosted through a ragged hole in the ship's side. No

air rushed out. Only then did Kenowa realize: she was without space helmet or

respirator! Yet she was alive, and breathing. This . . . thing's craft has to

be airlocked to poor dead Dauntless! She noted that every scrap of clothing

was wrested from each wailing woman before she vanished into that aperture

into the unknown. As Kenowa was brought to the opening, she again came alive.

In a panicky resistance she tore at the tentacles holding her. That

accomplished only the breaking of her nails and the abrading of fingertips.

She was squeezed a little more tightly and the other tentacle pressed up into

her crotch until her eyes bulged. Gasping, she was lifted through. Her gasps

changed in tone as the tentacles slid away and she felt other flexible arms

enfold her. "Ah! Ow! Damn it-you're squashing my warheads!" But her efforts to

loosen the tentacle that mashed both her breasts were as fruitless as her

previous attempts to escape. Admittedly, Kenowa was mostly breasts to the

bottom of her ribcage, and not long-waisted, either. Fighting wildly, she was

pulled into a small, dimly 17 lighted chamber. The light emanated as a glow

from every wall. It was an eerie blue-green. Then something sharp stabbed her

in the butt and she went limp in less than five seconds. Although she was

breathing normally enough and was entirely conscious, she had no control over

so much as a single muscle. She could not force any sort of sound from her

throat. She could not twitch a single finger-joint. She was not uncomfortable;

she was numb and barely aware. Like a sensuously molded sack of meal, she was

placed on what had to be a conveyor belt. Helplessly she was moved down a

tight little tunnel. Her eyes, unable to close, could see only the racing past

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of the tunnel's ceiling, about eight centimeters above her head. The tunnel

opened into another chamber. The belt's burden was lifted from it. Her naked

form hung lax in the tentacles. A faint trace of perfume teased her nostrils.

It was not hers. Her body was being arranged in a small niche in the wall. A

creche? A morgue-like slot? As she was pushed into it she was aware that she

was pressed firmly back against it and arranged in position: fiat on her back

with her arms close to her sides. The tentacular things were both neat and

mindful of the conservation of space. . . , A sliding hatch closed the opening

and she was in total darkness. There was nothing she could do and she knew it.

Her favorite form of entertainment was just such O-The-Poor-Girl mellers as

this. Eons ago, such a meller-drammer was called a bodice-ripper. Her name

should be Shanna or something equally exotic and feminine. She had

"read"-watched hundreds, several of them more than once or twice. Favorites

were those in which The Poor Girl had a title. Countess, or Baroness, or even

Princess or the more exotic Contessa or Marquisa. At 18 least "milady!" It

was just that Kenowa had never before tried one of the experiential kind, the

ones in which the viewer or "reader" was more than that. Those personal

involvement mellers were called expies or sensies, or more crudely, feelies. 7

wish this was one of those, she thought. Just fiction. At least ... 7 think 7

wish that! Well, she couldn't do anything about it. She wasn't Yasmina, or

Alexia, or Desiree. She was Kenowa, and she'd just have to ride it out, and

hope. Then even that thinking ended. Her thought processes were

neutralized. Although she was entirely aware of her nakedness and her

predicament if not what it was, she was unable to respond to it in any

emotional degree. The injection that had turned her muscles to soup had also

tran-quilized her. That was a mercy. Now time had no meaning. She lay in the

pitch-dark compartment, arrayed alongside other soundless helpless women like

so much stacked wood. Or like so many slabs of meat awaiting the butcher. Had

that ugly thought occurred to her, she would not have reacted in any way.

There was only the darkness, the odors and aromas of the other female bodies,

and the silent waiting in silence. She had no thought of intake or output;

food or the necessary evacuation of its residue. Was there food? Did she and

others evacuate or were they evacuated? She did not know. Perhaps. Kenowa was

the tree that fell in the woods. She did not know if there was sound or

not. All of them lay there, ranked and packed neatly, with the infinite

patience of the resigned, or the damned who could not care. Or the mindless.

They might as well have been carrots or cabbages or spacesuits. She did not

even wonder if she was breathing, because she did not think about that. The

alien ship hurtled through space. (She knew 19 that. How? She didn't wonder,

or question.) An alien craft of alien shape, carrying its cargo of meat.

Female Galactics to-what? Horror? Not a better life, surely. At incredible

velocity, the ship shot outward from the close-set suns of Galaxy center. It

was less than a fineline dot in the glittering magnificence of the star

fields. Outward it raced, flaming toward that odd starless vastness called the

Carnadyne Void. Onboard, minds functioned, but disconnected from their

experience. They did not experience it. They were just there. And on. Past

stars in red and orange and bluish and flaming yellow and blinding, marmoreal

white. Toward a gigantic red sun. In, in to one of its planets. (Kenowa could

not see this. She knew. It was as if she saw it. It did not occur to her to

think about how she could know. What was reality, anyhow? A word.) The giant

planet drew steadily nearer until its Jovian bulk hung ominously in the dark

clasp of space. The ship adjusted course, slightly. It flashed toward an

oblate sphere orbiting that mighty gray planet. Kenowa knew this without

knowing how she knew, or wondering. What was reality? Some said that reality

was a crutch for those who could not handle fantasy, or science fiction, or

the awareness of TGO. The ship entered the atmosphere with a whistling crash

and boom. (That disturbed no one onboard.) With unerring precision, it dropped

toward a fabulous system of spiring, aspiring structures linked by swirling

cruiseways at every height. Indifferently Kenowa's ears recorded the sound of

metal sliding against metal. The portal opened to admit dim light. Metallic

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tentacles curled about her nakedness without a hint of fondling or pleasure.

She was lifted out. She was carried a short distance before feeling the cool

surface of another conveyor belt. 20 On her back, she traveled rapidly along

another tight tunnel. Ha, she thought, or thought that she thought, They are

bringing me, Akima Mars, right into their stronghold! They will soon learn

what happens to those who kidnap the greatest secret agent along the

spaceways! At its end she was nudged off to slide down a small incline. That

unpleasantness did not instill panic. It was not even unpleasant. It just

happened. She came to a stop against the body of another woman, facing

her. They lay quietly, staring into each other's eyes without interest or

concern for the fact that their unclothed bodies were pressed together and

their lips were almost touching. Kenowa could feel the other's breathing,

breasts against her own. Kenowa hoped she enjoyed it. Not many people got to

press up against The Biggest Pair In The Universe. Time passed. How much

time? It didn't matter. Some minutes or some hours or some days-standard.

Surely not years, -standard or otherwise. Kenowa's mind wandered. She

remembered how she had met Captain Sword. She had walked into that bar in

Sopur on Terasaki. And there he was. Eyes like cracked eggs and a body going

to waste. Down and out in a backstreet bar on Terasaki, and him not a Terasak

at all. He was an addict, she could see that. The poor devil was on EF, she

could see that. She ordered a drink, a High Green, told a spaceman in worn

adjustaboots to slok off, crossed one spidermesh-stockinged leg over the other

and, waggling a laserbeam-thin heel idly, gazed thoughtfully at the

down-and-outer. Poor bug. Not a bad build, she saw. Could possibly be pretty

good looking, if he was got from under the eroflore that kept him happy inside

his head while it 21 consumed him. She wondered what he did to support his

habit. A man coudn't very well sell his body, could he-or rather rent it out,

one piece at a time? Surely not. "Say, me'n my friend got a bet on." She

turned her head leisurely toward that voice. Another spacefarer, L.S. only,

surely. A Bleaker, chest dagger and all, although his armored left glove was

tucked in his belt. He looked stupid and so did his grin. "You and a friend

have a bet on. Congratulations on having a friend." "Uh-" "Did either of you

bet on one-thirty-four E?" "Wha-?" Damn, this downer must've used his whole

vocabulary with his approach line! She turned her wrist, which made her chest

move and tighten, on that side. "That silly leer tells me you and your friend

were betting on me," she said. "Measurements, probably. I told you.

134E-64-100, top to bottom." "Muslah! I-I don' believe it!" She shrugged,

deliberately bouncing her over-abundance. "I don't give a vug, spacefarer.

That's the way I measure out, though. Back away. You touch that warhead you're

staring at and you'll have a major decision to make." She spoke casually, and

she was readier to move than he knew. "Wha-what's that s'poseta mean? What

decision?" "Whether to try to get another hand or go for a prosthetic." He

stared, and she met his gaze coolly. He dropped his hand to his side, then

self-consciously lifted it a little to hitch the thumb in his belt. "You-not

too friendly, are ya?" "Firm." "Ease back, Fard." That was another voice.

Another 22 man, moving along the bar behind her accoster. "They's only one

woman in the universe got those measurements. Can't you see, man? It's her. We

was bettin' on The Biggest Pair In The Universe." He looked at her. "Wasn't

we." She nodded. "Firm, spacefarer. Better pull him back a little. I need

space. Room to ... breathe." "Muslah! You-you're really her?" "You two boys

must've learned your grammar from an illiterate Franjese grat! Yes, I'm

she." "Muslah. Akima Mars! In the flesh! Right here on Terasaki!" She

shrugged. So she was Akima Mars. Who might he have thought, with this build

and these sexy clothes, walking so unconcernedly into a downer dive like this?

It was then that the EF addict started to yell. He got to her. However it was,

he got to her. She slid off the stool and went to him. He kept yelling. She

clamped a hand on the back of his neck and forced half her High Green down the

poor flainer's gullet. He gulped, his eyes bulged, he tried to yell some more,

coughed, gagged, made choking noises, and passed out. As expected. Alcohol

placidated an EF addict, fast. Not everyone knew that, but Akima Mars knew

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most everything. She had not, however, noticed this poor bug's worn old

go-bag. It was a master's bag, sure as she was alive and he was barely. She

had an idea that he had not stolen it, that this was his name printed on it:

Sword. Just a feeling. Akima Mars was like that. This poor down-and-outer

was-or had been-a spaceship's master, and here was his spacefarer's standard

personals container to prove it. "Muslah!" the Bleaker swore again, from

behind her. Way behind; he hadn't left the bar. "Akima Mars!" She bent and

scooped up the unconscious addict. 23 With Ms EF-wasted body in her arms, she

turned to face the pair of dolts. "Right," she said. "But you can call me

Kenowa." And, carrying Captain Sword, she walked out. She bore him straight to

her ship and locked him in the hold with a sealed waterjug-and-straw. He awoke

to the pains of nascent withdrawal and did a lot of yelling and banging about

and screaming for the next two days-Terasak. After that she had begun to nurse

him out of it, sometimes literally. Bringing him back. And that was how

Captain Sword had returned to the space-ways, as master; eventually master of

Dauntless. With him always was his savior, to whom he owed more than his life.

Akima M-no no. Kenowa. I am Kenowa, she thought with some firmness as she lay

naked, staring into the dull eyes of another woman and knowing her eyes were

just as dull. Kenowa. Not Akima Mars, and not The Biggest Pair In The

Universe. I must have been dreaming. True, that's more or less how I met

Sword, but . . . me? Akima Mars? No thanks. A hundred and three in the chest*

is entirely adequate and troublesome enough for me, thanks. So is Jonuta my

love-I mean, I mean Sword. I don't want to be any secret agent, masochistic or

otherwise! (Better that way than otherwise, but . . .) I-I . . . More time

wandered by and the tentacles returned. They lifted Kenowa away from the other

woman, who Kenowa noticed had The Biggest Pair In The Universe. The tentacles

placed her in a small, coffin-like container. An unpleasant comparison, but

she was incapable of any emotional response to that fact, or any * The

well-known measurements of hyperstar Setsuyo Puma, portrayer of the fictional

Akima Mars, were indeed as Kenowa remembered stating them in the bar:

53E-25-40, Old Style, at five feet, nine inches, Old Style (175 sems) in

height. If her bemazing measurements were artfully enhanced, Setsuyo Puma

wasn't telling, and neither was her agent, and no male cared, all along the

spaceways. 24 other. The lid was closed to herald the passage of another

timeless, lightless period. This time she spent a few months as odalisque in

the hhareem of Sheikh Jonuta, who used her a lot and punished her for the

slightest transgression. But that was all inside her head, of course. When the

container was opened, Kenowa felt herself lifted. She was borne into a small

chamber. The walls were a pale metallic green and studded with too many

strange, unpleasantly threatening objects that extended toward the room's

center. From opposite walls two tentacular extrusions hissed out. Softly

sheathed clamps at their tips found her wrists and fastened firmly to them.

(The machine that had brought her here meanwhile scuttled from the room. The

portal closed.) The wall extruded two more jointed metal arms that clamped

onto her ankles. The segmented arms glittered as they began to retract. Kenowa

felt the strain, and then she felt it even more in her chest. She was going to

be disjointed. That was bothersome, though not horrifying, and she couldn't

scream or anything anyhow. The movement stopped. She was held spread-eagle, in

the center of the alien chamber, in the middle of the air. She was dimly aware

of the sharp stab in her buttock. Awareness heightened at once as the induced

lethargy began to slide from body and mind. She began twisting her head

frantically, dark eyes wide with terror. Although she had been unable to react

to it at the time, her mind had recorded every minute of her experience. Now

it all flooded to the surface on a wave of fear that crested in her brain and

tore a cry of horror from her. She tried to struggle against the clamps that

held her 25 arms and legs so widely spread. After a time she gave up the fight

and whimpered at realization that she was a helpless prisoner. She seemed to

be surrounded by tentacles of varying sizes, all moving with that peculiar

hiss of their friction-less joints. Each was equipped with an optic lens or

set with some oddly-shaped instrument. Each looked unbearably sinister. Her

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skin, coppery tan, crawled at the approach of a host of fiendish-looking

devices. A cluster of small tentacles surrounded her head and grasped it

firmly. Her wig, a tall Terasaki coil, was long since gone. They knew her

secret. The tentacles were cold against her her bare head. Small filaments

plucked at her lips. She grunted an objection and clamped her mouth. She might

as well have tried to stop a spaceship's rise by standing on its hull. Her

jaws were pried apart. Her mouth was stretched inexorably until it was wide

open. A tentacular tip entered her mouth. She fought back her gagging

reaction. That thing moved around inside her mouth, leisurely examining every

tooth and tissue surface for what seemed hours. Her eyes filled with tears of

outrage and frustration when it began entering her throat. It did. Cold metal

slithered down her esophagus. The muscles of her stomach jerked spasmodically

as the device entered and squirmed about inside her. Then it was smoothly

withdrawn, triggering another clamping spasm deep inside her stomach. Warmer

now, the filamentous tentacle slithered out of her mouth. Instantly she was

coughing and drawing in shuddery gasps of air. And moaning at the

humiliation. "Who are you?" she demanded in outrage, almost in hysteria. She

fought it. "What-why are you doing this to me?" Her voice echoed hollowly in a

room of turquoise 26 metal. There was no reply. Tentacles probed her bared,

suspended body. "N-oh! No!" she cried, but ended in a gasp while some . . .

instrument probed between her buttocks. It ignored powerful anular muscles. It

breached her anus and slid down into her rectum. (A pressure at her vulva was

all she felt of the cup that attached itself there, reading reactions. Minute,

almost microscopic filaments were entering her skull.) That chilly invader

moved inside her, seemingly seeking her bowels, and she knew without pleasure

that her nipples were firming. The heat she felt was a flush spreading over

her cheeks. (Slender filaments were tracing the length of her legs, the

circumference of thighs and calves and ankles, scanning the joints of her

knees, while others performed identical measurements on her outstretched

arms.) The pressure of the covering cup left her crotch. She was aware of it

because of the sudden sensation of coolth there. She drew in a deep breath

when a twin-filamented device carefully parted those lower lips and probed

curiously at her clitoris. Instant lancets of pleasure zipped through her

belly. Her body glistened with a film of sweat and her breasts trembled with

quickened breathing. That swiftly she knew she had also gone wet inside. She

could not help her ecstatic moans and attempts to writhe, all of which was

crushingly demeaning. At the same time she experienced minute stabs in various

parts of her body. Needles were being inserted. They trailed fragile

filaments. Two long ones, almost invisible but for their glitter, easily

punctured the skin of her breasts. They slid in. Each probed carefully,

sinking deep. "Ah! Wh-oohhh!" Tiny vibrations had commenced to pulse from

each 27 needle. The seemingly planned pattern sent delicious tingles of

pleasure through every part of her body. (Ex-tending and extending, the

rearward probe was slithering steadily along the coils of her bowels, and it

did not hurt a bit. She felt only a little cramped. Within her vagina, the

twinned probes were joined by a dozen more. They banded together and swelled

to exert pressure in every direction. That, too, was far from

painful.) Delicate filaments hung now like a gossamer robe around her,

trailing from the many hair-slender needles inserted in her flesh. Still she

felt nothing that even approached pain. Only the ecstasy that vibrated from

the deeply penetrating points to spread through her system and drive

everything else from her staggering mind. (Which was being monitored and

scanned by nine needles thinner than hairs.) She made little complaining

sounds when the instrument was withdrawn from her clitoris, and then its

companions slithered out of her vagina. The mass of . them glistened wetly

from what she had experienced as erotic ministrations. Then she made a

high-voiced sound of helpless response to the larger object that pressed for

entrance there. She heard her demeaning pleas. Whether heeding or in

inexorable obedience to the command of whomever her captor was, the metal

object forced its way firmly and steadily into her. And more. It warmed. It

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seemed to fill her entire abdomen. It took on her own temperature of 37

degrees. The delirious response was beyond her ability to control. She was

totally conquered, by machinery. A metal slicer was ensconced well within her

stash and, in the most common euphemism along the spaceways, was slicing a

piece. Yet now that vernacular sounded unduly sinister and violent, while this

was beautiful. She was not being 28 sliced, or cut. Not literally. The totally

helpless and humiliatingly delighted subject was being machine-fucked, and by

a mechanical lover that constantly varied its temperature between 35 and 39

degrees C. Her whole body trembled as that inhuman lover began a rhythmic

shuttling. She trembled. She gasped. Her eyes rolled and she shrilled wild and

wordless sounds while the warmth in her belly fanned out to a furnace of

passion that shot up the scale to seemingly insurmountable heights. Then it

surmounted those limits and sought new ones. And all the while, slowly, the

needle withdrew from her bowels as, at the rate of two hundred times a minute,

the far larger probe plunged in and out of her adjacent channel. Its action

was accompanied now by obscene wet sounds. And by her cooing moans and vocal

sighs. Only when it seemed that her body could not withstand another second of

such exquisite sensual torture did her belly go nova. She exploded in a

massive orgasm that made her scream at the glory of it. Her brain had been

scanned. Adjustments were made. The face of Captain Sword loomed over hers.

Abruptly it changed to become the face of Jonuta- and the object planted so

deeply within her began extruding a filament to enter her cervix. The big

woman's spread-eagled body hung exhausted in the center of the turquoise

chamber. Her lips curved in a smile of gamic happiness. All of it had been

mechanical, all. And all of it formed the best and most erotic overload her

organism had ever experienced. A long, long pause while she drifted down from

that flash that had sent her soaring. The taut, supremely feminine body sagged

into complete relaxation. She felt that she had become only a puddle of used

liquid. Her universe was soft, and pink. Then it began again. 29 She felt the

needles begin to vibrate. They pulsed away deep inside her breasts to bring

her gradually higher and higher until she was flashing, reaching another peak

of absolute sexual pleasure that sang through her willingly imprisoned body

like a Wagnerian symphony. And again she collapsed, or would have but for the

padded metal bonds that held her spread so wide. And again there was the

pause, while she came down . . . The vaginal probe adjusted. It moved a scant

few sems, nuzzling. It entered her relaxed rearward channel. Her sphincter

might as well have been a puddle of warm wax. And it all began anew, and rose

and rose anew, and she soared and flashed and shrieked in climax all over

again. The sexual stimulation was applied anew. And again. And again until her

entire world became the alien chamber and her cybernetic lover and the

orgias-tic-orgastic pattern it forced her through, subjecting her sweating

flesh to sex and sex and more sex. The universe vanished in a haze of pink

while Kenowa floated on a soft warm pink sea of mindless ecstasy. MEANWHILE .

. . "Mayday! Red Rover! Mayday!" The appeal was carried out into the cosmos as

beams of light, calling out in code that shortened it to "C Y R! C! C Y R!"

The code was based on Erts, the Galactic language born centuries ago on the

planet called Urth and more latterly Homeworld. "CYR" meant Mayday! Red Rover!

to anyone who might hear it along the star-spattered parsecs. The signal was a

desperation appeal. It was directed at anyone and everyone. Everyone would not

receive 30 it. Someone might. Space was vast; vaster than millions, more vast

than billions. Never mind millions or billions of what; just the figures were

inconceivable to most. The coded signal streamed out from spaceship India

Spring in every direction and went on and on, riding beams of tightly-bound

light that rushed through the cosmos at 300,000 kloms per second (-standard).

It would streak through nine-and-a-half trillion kloms of space in a

year-ess. Such a velocity and distance would have been fantastic if it hadn't

been for the fact that they were meaningless. That distance might separate any

two given stars ... of the 340 billion stars in the Galaxy. This one, of many,

many galaxies. Theoretically the message from spacer India Spring would go on

forever, riding those beams of light. Except that the beams lost their

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coherency, their tightness, with increasing distance from their origin. And so

the message became incoherent too, in the other meaning of that word. Besides,

many of the message-freighted laser beams would, by chance, intersect the

position of suns. Stars. Such beams were swallowed by those mighty hydrogen

furnaces, at a gulp. Mayday! Red Rover! Mayday! In the language of the farers

along the spaceways, the words meant: "Help! I'm in trouble and beg help.

(I/we am/are) being boarded by unfriendly persons bent on no good. Help! I'm

in trouble and beg help!" In the star-flecked enormity that was space,

distress messages-called C! messages-were only occasionally received. They

were responded to even less frequently. Space was vast and ships were

expensive, and few, and the people in them were busy. The profit motive

continued strong, despite various experiments with societal forms that

encouraged and rewarded lack of industry. So Someone was in trouble, and

beaming out a 31 C! message. So there were a hundred billion Someones here

toward Galaxy Center, where stars were thick as sand on the beach of a

carbon-nitrogen planet. It was that very fact which made piracy possible, in

space. That, and the absence of a central government, for the concept of

interstellar empire was impossible to maintain as reality. Spaceship India

Spring had run afoul of a pirate. There were more than a few. Most were

competent spacefarers in good ships. In fact their spacers were usually better

and better equipped than those of their prey, merchanters. Often they were

better than policer craft. Nevertheless few pirates lasted long. The

occupation, like that of slaver, was a high-risk one. Perhaps it was true that

only idiots undertook either course along that path still called the outlaw

trail. Yet Harry, later Sir Henry Morgan, model for Sa-batini's Sea Hawk, had

been no idiot, not by a very long shot. Neither had the English "privateer"

Frank Drake. Neither was Captain Corundum an idiot, nor Quindy of Captain

Hellfire's Satana (there was some doubt about Captain Hellfire); or fat

Shieda, or Orohi-ko, or Captain Astrasia of Pentagram. The slaver was not an

idiot either, by a long broadside. And the slaver Jonuta, the Qalaran called

Captain Cautious, was one of the most brilliant ship-handlers and tacticians

along the spaceways. Perhaps the most brilliant. All that was entirely beside

the point to Captain Pentamahomet Ramzi of India Spring, and his crew and two

passengers. He was a smallish over-serious fiercely theistic man in the employ

of a cartel of nobles of Ghanj, and he was under attack. That was the problem

of Captain Pentamahomet Ramzi (who was more often called Moosejaw) and his

crew. One thing could be said in Cap'n Moosejaw's favor: he was too smart to

fight pirates. It was the problem of his passengers, too. Yet in a 32 way it

was a boon, however temporary, to his passenger HReenee. She was of HRalix,

the newly-discovered planet with a newly-discovered nonhunian-but-human-oid

race: the HRal. Despite her non-humanity and unique position both among

humankind in general and on the ship, HReenee of HRalix was in the process of

being raped by India Spring crewman Rathna PA32-4976m. Rathna was a homely but

homy smallbrain from Panish whose principal duty onboard was providing muscle

when it was needed. He was unduly proud of his biceps and chest, and of his 22

sems. Rathna was sure that every female lusted after him or would if only she

knew about his 22 sems. That is, the beautifully-built Rathna's slicer or

penis was an impressive twenty-two centimeters long in the erect state, which

was the only way HReenee had seen it. Not that she wanted to see it at

all. Rathna had torn enough of her garment, a clingy scarlet one-piece he was

sure had been chosen to excite him, to bare five of her breasts and was busy

cramming the first couple of centimeters of his best parts (which was

definitely true, in Rathna's case) into the sprawled alien. He grunted in

pleasure. The HRal were mammals, all right. And man oh man was she hot in

there! Then the emergency lights began flashing, red-blue red-blue, and the

Klaxon began hooting. Emergency. Emergency. All hands to emergency

stations. At that visual and aural alarm, Rathna froze and cursed his luck.

His dark visage rose to stare accusingly at the air, which was eerily changing

color every three seconds. While he was distracted, his victim wrenched one

hand free. Instantly it leaped at his face. Four fingers of the same length as

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the thumb, all with perfectly normal nails. Then one was far from

normal. 33 In mid-rush upward the middle finger extruded its slim curving

claw. That nasty natural weapon was the last of the paw-full of

extrusible-retractile talons once possessed by her remote, four-legged

ancestors back on HRalix. The HRal had long since evolved past that. The HRal

even ate some vegetables, now. The claw was slender but hard, and strong. Well

over a sem long, and needle-sharp. Rathna jerked his head back just in time.

His eyes were bulging in a combination of shock and natural fear. That reflex

movement saved his deepset dark eye (her target) and his big nose and lip-next

in line below her target-but gained him a gash all down his chest. Nine

centimeters long, that reddening furrow, and a full sem deep. He screeched and

struck at her, also losing his erection and sustaining another deep, thin

slash in his right forearm, which was muscularly meaty. (Rathna really was

beautifully built.) The Klaxon continued hoot-honking and the lights continued

their eerie strobing and poor Rathna was in bad trouble and knew it. Best he

kill this nasty tiger-bitch and get about bis shipboard business, welling

blood or no blood. At that moment spacer India Spring was jolted, and jerked

violently. Spacer India Spring was attacked, and hit. Everyone on board heard

the scary sounds: the groaning of the unipolymer called "plasteel" and

stronger-than-steel cyprium. While Rathna was working at getting himself

together-not literally; the coffinish container called ship-doc or daktari

would see to his cuts, later-his incredibly supple prey seemed to go all

liquid muscle. Powerful muscle. Knees slammed in under Rathna's buttocks as he

knelt between her legs. His eyes bulged wider and he was catapulted forward

over the sprawled native of HRalix. 34 As he went over, her talon tore another

scarlet gash in him. This one was down his mid-line, a half-sem deep. It

caught chest, stomach, and best parts. Rathna screamed. He crashed down beyond

her, partly on her, and he was in agony. Quicksilver sinuous, she suppled from

under him. She gave only one yellow-eyed glance at his upturned, bare, hairy,

tautly round backside. It was definitely tempting. Claws ran in and out of her

middle fingertips with the swiftness of a serpent's tongue. She chose not to

attack. Talons retracted, she half-bent, all flowing muscle as if without

bone, to hold her ruined garment up before her in red tatters. HReenee fled

the cargo hold where he had dragged her. She paused to slam the big plasteel

hatch. It snicked. Now it could be opened only from out here, in the ship's

corridor or "tunnel." Inside, Rathna lay gasping, holding himself and moaning,

crying a little and bleeding a lot. A second horribly jarring jolt made spacer

India Spring shudder and groan. The cargo shifted with various grating

groaning sounds. A 60 x 60 x 60 crate slid off the one beneath it and toppled.

It fell onto Rathna. The crate contained five thousand, seven hundred sixty

Qalaran ball-bearings. That ended Rathna's problems, and Rathna. The same

violent jolting shock-the locking onto India Spring of the attacking spacer,

piracy bent- hurled HReenee along the tunnel and into a safety stanchion

running along its wall. Never mind that the stanchion was padded; she flopped

and lay still, four breasts exposed. She had come a long way (and voluntarily)

to learn of the violence and venality of the people who called themselves

Galactics, descendants of the sons and daughters of Urth. Wherever that was.

Now she was doubly their victim. The attack proceeded. Feet tramped

past the 35 sprawled HRal, running. The second severe jolt had been the

pirate craft, traction-linking itself to India Spring. There was a lot of

shouting. Someone tripped a switch to restore the lighting to normalcy, but

the Klaxon was left to continue its raucous sounding. Now it was only a lonely

dog barking into the night, owned but not mastered. And Able Spacefarer Rathna

PA 32-4967m was not at his emergency post. (Near the captain, because of his

strength.) "I'll get that flainin' malingerin' sunuvabitch once we're outta

this," the Mate snarled, but he would be too late. Now and then, crime failed

to pay. "Red Rover," someone from the other ship said. The voice came in on

Captain Pentamahomet Ramzi's comm receiver, and he knew what was meant. The

sisterslicing thieves were going to come over: to board his ship. Resist and

it would be about the same as tangling with an army or Gri's priesthood, on

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摘要：

"BYTAO'STONSILS-THEPIRATEASKED.WHAT'STHIS?"Theystoodoveranunconsciouscreaturesprawledonthefloor.Thecaptainreplied,"That'saHRal;they'reonlyrecentlydiscovered.'"Sowhat'sitdoinglyinghereinthetunnelwithitsclothesrippedandnolessthanfouritty-bittybreastsexposed?"Beforethecaptaincouldreplythepirateleadertu...

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Andrew J. Offutt - Spaceways 06 - Purrfect Plunder

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