4. Thivoll

4

Thivoll

Their stench is the first thing I notice as I awaken.

My hands and paws are bound like I'm livestock and my head is pounding from whatever mixture they used to knock me unconscious. I try to move my body but it isn't responding. My eyelids are too heavy to lift and my breathing is labored.

From the squishing sounds they make as they move around me I can tell there are several of them.

The slick blobs are a complete plague on the known universe. Willing to do anything for credits, which they use to indulge in their taste for mind-altering substances and raping women of as many species as possible.

There is a depressingly large intergalactic demand for both and so their efforts to keep finding ever more exotic products and slaves are well-funded.

I still don't know how they captured me, aside from it being some sort of new drug cocktail. It shouldn't have worked, and it won't work for very long, but that doesn't really help me right now. One of my toes twitches and a wave of relief follows.

At least whatever it is isn't a permanent paralytic.

Their wet footfalls come closer and I'm overwhelmed by their acrid, musty odor. There are rustling sounds, then they start speaking. I learned enough of their language back when I still had hopes of joining the Sentinels that I can understand their gurgling.

"I don't like the look of his vitals. Move faster with the straps."

"If you want us to move faster, why don't you come help?"

"No . . . uh . . . I'll just keep monitoring him."

"Dried out old coward," one of them near me says in a low voice.

A sudden pain flares across my flank from something raking along me with enough force to tear the flesh under my protective layer of scales.

The scent of my blood fills the room. Through the burning throb I can feel something shift against my body. It must be a strap, which is confirmed when it starts tightening.

I continue to unsuccessfully urge life back into my limbs.

Too much more of this and it will trigger the rage that always lurks below the surface. While it might help burn through the rest of the chemical they used, it would also take away rational thought. I had better get myself out of this before my subconscious catches up to the fact that I'm trapped.

"Did you see that? Desiccated testicles! He just moved."

"His tail is contained. You'll be fine."

Another breath in and I can detect their fear.

They should be afraid. I'm going to rip out their Thela-cursed throats.

Just as soon as I get my body to respond. The sensation of every one of my claws extending from their sheathes is almost sexual. The rumble of my growl fills the room along with wet screeches of terror.

I must be right on the edge and try to pull myself back from it.

"We aren't equipped for this," one of them yells. "I'm not some disposable bot. I'm done with plans made by shriveled dung holes."

"No! Get him strapped."

"No amount of credits is worth this. Let me out to get a pistol, sand humper!"

"And have the captain kill us? He's worth too much. Get him in the chamber, you withered member."

I feel flecks of their slime flinging on my fur as they scramble around me and continue to hurl insults at each other.

There's another pain along my upper body and a strap starts to tighten around my shoulders. I force my eyes open. My vision is swimming, but I can make out the wide terrified eyes of a genali.

He is easily within range of my claws and although I am slow and stupid from the drug I'm still plenty fast enough to reach my bound hands forward and slice four gashes across his almost nonexistent throat. He lets go of the strap he was holding, his webbed hands darting up to try to contain the gushing torrent of gray blood.

He gurgles out a sound of disbelief and despair and a purr rumbles to life in my chest for a moment before reality reasserts itself.

The strap continues to tighten as the screams of the remaining slimes echo even more loudly off the slick white walls. Their impersonal aesthetic makes me as sick and enraged as it always has. Ever since I was old enough to research my sire's killers.

A nearly powerless species, but made strong by their seemingly endless numbers.

Like the swarms of insects that flow in undulating, deadly waves on my home planet: easy to squash alone or in pairs, but if you're caught without proper protection they'll pick your bones clean long before anyone can assist you.

I don't have easy access to any other slimes and my tail is held tight against me. It wriggles where it's wrapped multiple times around my waist, just above my sheathe. Another strap must be around it. I shakily lift my head, my mane disheveled enough to block one eye.

I can still make out another genali.

He must think he's out of range and obviously knows nothing about the way my people fight. Everyone focuses on our tails and teeth.

Few think of our paws.

I kick out my back legs. The claws that extend from just below the knob at the back of my knee rake across his soft, wet stomach. I roar an inarticulate battle cry as his entrails start to puddle on the floor and he sinks down to join them. He continues screaming, the wound fatal but one that leaves him with plenty of time to fear his impending death.

I feel a rush of satisfaction, but then I'm rising and not of my own will.

The straps cut into me as they take my weight, my flexible spine making it so my side is the last to leave the blood soaked floor. I still don't have enough control of my body to resist, let alone keep them from raising me up like a trussed up, limp bundle of fur.

The genali across the room at the controls is shaking violently. A puddle of liquid under him betrays the depths of his fear.

I roar at him, promising a violent end as soon as the rest of my paralysis lifts. Then I start to swing sideways, the movement spinning me away from him.

I see what I'm headed for and wriggle as much as I'm able, pulling my tied-together limbs back as far as I can in an attempt to slice through the straps.

They've cobbled together a cryogenic chamber large enough to hold me. It's one of the very few ways to trap our species, though even fewer have been able to force a male into one. Ironically, it works because we were the ones who designed them.

One of the most essential tools of our abandoned empire, now one of our few cages. Fitting.

This one looks like a death trap of hastily printed and assembled parts. Clearly they didn't expect to capture me and they plan to put me in an untested chamber.

I'm snarling in rage as the genali moves me above it.

The sight of it is enough to break the last vestige of control over the bubbling fury. It wipes away rational thought. The straps creak under my maddened flailing, but don't give way. My roar turns into a long cry of pure outrage.

I must escape or die trying and I'll kill anything that tries to stop me.

As I spit and thrash, one of my claws catches the strap around my flank. The bottom part of me crashes down into the unlined chamber, flares of pain darting through my rump and up my spine from the impact.

Then I drop all the way in with just a nanosecond between my fall and the glass sliding closed above me.

I try to escape but all I manage to do is leave long scores in the cover before the needles push between my scales and the hiss of the gasses start. I let out another roar, which is almost deafening in the small space.

Then . . . darkness.