3. THALIA

Itucked myself into the most remote corner of the cockpit I could manage. Which was basically any place that wasn’t directly under Prince Red’s chair, or crawling on top of him.

It was easy to crawl on him. Especially since that foam/paste/wrap he had put on my burned arm had killed the pain. Crawling on him was also unavoidable if I wanted to see anything going on. He was wedged into that chair. It was me that had to play highly mobile and squirmy little spoon.

Touching him blew my mind. My brain screamed keep your hands off the alien, you know how this ends! but I could not resist. He wasn’t clammy or moist or weirdly gross like stroking a trash bag full of eels or cuddling raw chicken. He was warm, and his scales were hard and sort of leathery at the same time they felt like metallic or crystal chips. Energy radiated off them. He was a big, warm, very dangerous and jagged rock that demanded I crawl all over him.

He’d already gotten the wrong idea once and gone for my hemline.

Ahane might be the nicest guy who ever saved a girl from certain doom (while also saving himself), but he was Gestalt, I was Human. The Greys had never been specific about what the Gestalt would do to me, but that was because the Gestalt was into horrific and pointless experimentation too repugnant even for the Greys to discuss.

The Greys didn’t delight in harming Humans (they didn’t delight in anything). To them it was all a necessary business, and if it caused the Human excruciating pain and deep trauma, that was a natural consequence of a larger situation.

A Grey can “tell” you one thing with telepathic words, but the words sit on top of a thought, and that thought has an aura or echo. It’s like someone talking to you while they’re standing in the doorway of a room, and behind them is a television. The person you’re talking to is always moving to block your view of the television because they’re watching really hardcore porn they’d rather you not know about. But you still hear sounds, tone, inflection, maybe even words or phrases. You see glimpses and flashes.

The Greys assigned to regular Human interactions got a detailed script. They’re the worst customer service agents in the universe, and no, you cannot speak to a manager. They stick to the script. They’re deadpan. Their minds are narrow, unadorned hallways and you get herded from one shitty end to the other while being told next window, please in a hallway with no windows.

But if you can get them off-script, and force them to contemplate their reaction, you get a look at the television.

That’s how I knew the Greys weren’t lying, exaggerating, or embellishing about the Gestalt.

I asked, “So which way are we headed? Do we even know what that blip is?”

“It may be a ship or a drone vessel. It is on course to somewhere and somewhere is better than nowhere.”

The ship’s smell had become dirty gas station during a lightening storm, but all I processed was cranberries. If I didn’t keep my head turned, all I did was gawk at Ahane and drink in the color and shine and texture. And when he spoke? It did things. That High Dialect was cathedral bells and wind chimes delivered straight from heaven’s own practice sessions.

He didn’t notice my gawking, and if he did, he didn’t seem to mind. If he hadn’t gotten used to people taking him in (and there was a lot to take in), too bad. Plain my ass. Translation error. Had to be a translation error. We’d have to discuss the meaning of plain.

If we lived that long. Which led to my next question. “So we follow the blip and then what?”

“That depends on what we find.” His scales rushed a dozen shades of sunlight and sunset and dawn.

I sat back and enjoyed the show.

My gut kept tellingme I didn’t need to be wary of Ahane, but my brain had been scrambled by Him so I did not trust myself to not fall for the first guy who didn’t treat my brain the way six-year-old me picked the pretzels out of party mix.

All my feelings could wait for when I was back on Earth. Or my impending death, which, given the growing thunderstorm-at-an-oil-refinery scent in the ship, was closer than Earth.

The little orange blip led us to another blip. This new blip was surrounded by a cluster of other little blips.

I crawled out of my huddle and onto Prince Red. “What is that? Did we just stumble on a fleet?”

Was He out there looking for me?

Icy realization stabbed into my brain like Grey fingers and I gasped and my heart pounded and my whole body froze in terror.

“No.” Ahane barely seemed to notice my death-grip on his neck and reached up to draw one claw over my hair. My soul froze even as my body shook hard enough to rattle my teeth. Cold sweat exploded from my pores.

Another thoughtless touch that sent needles of something through every nerve. He then drew his claws forward, lightly touching my ear, before turning his hand to point through the flight deck window. “There.”

I engaged my superior Human survival instincts, ignored the chaotic multi-faceted screaming in my brain, and tried to spot what he was talking about.

In space, all the stars are dots. The light from them is so faint it’s pinpricks in a blanket. Hours and hours of total, unending emptiness and darkness. Days of total emptiness. Eons of nothing.

But in the scattered-sugar sphere, the light he pointed out was a bit brighter than everything else. “That’s where we’re going?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s not a fleet of ships?”

“No. We’ve picked up its [no translation available]. It’s very faint.”

He must have meant some kind of transponder or something. “Will we make it there?”

“Yes.”

Despite the brightness of the dot, and how it came closer, it still took several hours for us to actually arrive at the dot. And once it stopped becoming a dot and became an actual thing…

“What the…” I crawled a little higher on Ahane.

No matter which way I twisted or turned, it did not make sense.

It was a truck stop. On a barren dark gray asteroid in the middle of space.

The asteroid was small enough that from here I could see both ends of its cigar-shape as shadowy points in the grim dark. It didn’t spin or tumble about. The only light was provided by dozens, maybe hundreds, of small lights dotting the structures and surface that created a network of shadows. A diffuse but distinct haze surrounded the asteroid.

The top had been flattened to accommodate several large, domed, tube-shaped structures made of something metallic in varying shades of whatever the fuck was cheapest. Metal grates criss-crossed one side of the asteroid like a weird boardwalk, and extended out into the abyss from the edge of the asteroid to provide ship parking. Strings of colorful lights decorated the outside of the tubes, providing illumination and shape in the otherwise abyssal dark.

Behind the tube were what appeared to be several smaller hangars made of battered, patched-up metal. One was attached to the main tube by a smaller tube, the other two appeared to be free-standing. And all the rest of the surface was a junkyard of ships, partial ships, and junk that had probably once been ships.

But the lack of illumination on that side meant it could also be the corpses of space dragons. I was guessing it was a junkyard. Might have been a graveyard.

Might have been both. This looked like the kind of place you didn’t ask what was in the loose meat sandwich.

Our little ship limped closer while the AI bleated urgently about deploying the ultra-final-no-I-mean-it-guys distress beacon. The lights became more distinct. Some of the lights blinked and flickered. There was even a huge illuminated sign stuck at the far edge of the asteroid by the docks and it blinked in varying shades of orange and pink with a big tacky arrow pointing to the buildings. It displayed a glyph my translator did not even acknowledge was language to be translated.

What did it say? Girls? Boys? Dancers? Clean Restrooms? Color Television? Free Long Distance?

My non-existent five bucks said that this place was not a mere simple stop for weary travelers and hungry drivers.

There were about a dozen battered-looking jalopy ships moored to the slips.

Pirates. Smugglers. Trafficking in goods and booty of all varieties.

And that was the best fucking news I’d had all day. They could traffic my booty right back to Earth.

I nudged Ahane. He seemed even more confused than I was, if the color of his scales was any indication. “What does that sign say?”

“Games, I think,” he translated. “It’s in a version of Gestalt Trader Common.”

“Trader Common?” I’d need this information if I was going to hitch a ride back to Earth. And avoid the Gestalt entirely, although it didn’t look like The Law spent much time out this way. Or at least code enforcement. That haze had to be bad for your lungs. Or whatever it was non-Humans had.

“Humans do not have a common language to conduct business?”

“No.”

“Then how does anything get done?”

“Some Humans learn multiple languages and get hired by other Humans to translate for them.”

“At no point did your species evolve a common language for at least trade and simple exchange? You still rely on individual translation by single sentients who may or may not be trustworthy?”

Before I’d had the translator stapled to my neurons, I’d believed Human auto-translation tech tools had gotten pretty decent. But compared to what the other side of the galaxy had? Hot garbage. “That’s how we do.”

“Do what?”

“Translate.”

“Why didn’t you say that?”

“I did?”

“…I’m beginning to understand how your species has never achieved any meaningful scientific progress,” he muttered.

Asshole. But hard to argue with that when I was the one riding his shoulder like a parrot and we were about to dock at an intergalactic pirate port full of (presumably) space pirates and space wenches. “So you think a dingy space truck stop/casino/junkyard out here in the literal middle of nowhere is progress. On Earth we’ve got standards for what we consider scientific progress, and this ain’t it.”

His scales flushed an assortment of shades that might have been stifled laughter or affronted dignity. “Shall we keep going until we find somewhere more to your tastes?”

“This will be sufficient,” I said primly.

The ship ahead of us turned towards the slips. A few seconds later, a low, steady ping started in the cabin. “Fuck, what now?”

“Landing guidance.” He did not sound especially confident that was what it was, but his guess was better than mine. He turned the ship towards the ping, and kept an eye on the display, which seemed to involve matching the ping to a few lines on the screen while the AI made further adjustments once it became clear we wanted to land.

Of course, the Greys would have outfitted their smuggle-shuttle with an auto-land system. Wouldn’t do to have the thing take out a dock.

A second ping, this one different, buzzed through the cabin, followed by a gravelly voice growling, “Docking isn’t free. We don’t do ten [NO TRANSLATION, UNIT OF TIME PRESUMED] here. Pay up.”

And here we were, fresh out of change for the meter.

Ahane’s scales washed assorted shades of the same feelings I was having. I nudged him again. “Just tell him it’s an emergency.”

“You want to show your throat?” Ahane grated. “You think this is the sort of place you’re going to get help?”

“I think it’s the kind of place where throwing a few fists might get something accomplished.”

“How does one throw a fist? Do your hands detach?”

“Pay up or get lost,” the voice grumbled.

Ahane’s scales splattered (from the inside) with spots of bright pink and gold. “[EXTREME PROFANITY], I’m the new cook. I’m not paying for the privilege of cooking in this dump.”

He was what now? I leaned farther over him so I could look at him fully and he could see my the fuck expression.

He did not seem to notice.

The guy on the other end growling at us engaged in a meaningful pause while he, too, attempted to understand what Ahane had just said. “I wasn’t told a new cook was on the way.”

“Not my problem. You have a lot of candidates for the job?” Ahane’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Because I’ll just be on my way and you can [extreme profanity] over this with the line of cooks behind me.”

The link closed.

“The new cook?” I blurted out. “What the hell? How did you know they needed a new cook?! What the fuck is this!”

I squirmed so far down his shoulder I had to brace myself with a hand on his thigh to give him the full-on what the ever loving fuck. “You knew this place was here? You knew where to look? What the fuck, Ahane!”

Ahane focused on me. “It was a bluff. I was hoping to create enough confusion for us to be allowed to dock for a brief while.”

“And when they realized you were full of shit?” I asked.

“Fight the existing cook for the spot.”

What kind of caveman interview process was that? Was that how you got a job in the Gestalt? Forget portfolio reviews, fitness tests, or design tests. Nope, your final interview was a fight to the death, winner takes home a paycheck.

With that in mind, my next question may have been a bit redundant. “Can you cook?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

A nod.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“Military.”

“I thought you said you were a mechanic.”

“Are Humans limited to just one skill?”

Asshole. I did not give in the urge to punch him in his armored abs. He wouldn’t have felt it anyway.

One of the slips lit up just under our noses. Hot damn. They were actually going to let us land.

A new ping hit the ship.

[DOCKING INITIATED]

The AI yanked the ship sideways. The motion tossed me over Ahane’s shoulder face-down into his lap.

My face met his crotch. Full force.

My shirt fell over my ass to complete the look.

The AI jockeyed the ship into position and something in the back made a BANG noise, and unless that was Ahane having a really weird telekinetic orgasm, it was probably something bad, because the whole ship started to shake and rattle.

Comms crackled to life and a gravelly voice, now muffled by the alien man-meat surrounding my head, said, “Arrival indicates two lifeforms. Your allocation is for one.”

My body wouldn’t move. Everything clenched and locked into place from awkward terror except for the pounding of my heart and the forced gulps of breathing survival obligated.

“I brought my assistant,” Ahane said, like he had Human pussy in his face and Human face in his crotch every day. “Not negotiable.”

“We don’t have air allocations for?—”

“Not negotiable.”

“All on you. Dock and report to the Site Master.”

The trouser submarine under my squished-up cheek was no longer soft. Ahane smelled like the most masculine cranberry holiday wine ever created.

I squirmed.

“Hold still,” Ahane said, his voice somehow still calm. “We’re landing and it’s too small for you to move.”

Nothing was too small about what was happening under my face. And maybe it was the pants, maybe it was the dick, but it sure as hell didn’t feel smooth….

I counted imaginary fluffy sheep bouncing over a fence. Every jolt and shift of the ship as it shuddered towards the slip shoved my face into different parts of his crotch or bounced my ass right under his chin and his breath moved over my slit.

“Almost there.” Waves of clench-thighed tension coursed off Ahane.

The ship shuddered, something beeped angrily, Ahane cursed, and we went crunch and then there was hissing, more snapping and crunching, and a violent CLUNK. It shoved my face even harder into his throbbing cock and balls. His gasp of breath hit my moist slit. My clit went yee-haw!

Was his cock pulsing? It was pulsing. And rock-hard. It was so hard it was trying to lift me off it like excuse me, ma’am, no touching the talent.

Ahane’s claws brushed my bare ass and back as he grabbed at my shirt hem and pulled it up, only for it to slide back over my ass again. He breathed a curse and grabbed at it again. His claw-tips made my skin prickle and every nerve fiber I had sparkled.

CLUNK

CHUG CHUG CHUG

BbrRRRRRRRRRRRR

The ship made a happy little chime noise. My translator informed me [DOCKING SUCCESSFUL].

We didn’t move for a few seconds.

“Hold still,” Ahane said hoarsely, “this is a tight fit.”

Ahane slid his tail between us. It inched downward until just under my breasts, and his hands closed over my hips and he lifted me. He slowly rotated me by bracing my top parts with his tail and pivoting my bottom parts around. My feet brushed the console, and I tucked into a smaller ball and squirmed the rest of the way across one knee until my knees hit the ground between the pilot’s chair and the console. Except I was trapped between his knees, and my face was still buried in Mount CockMore.

I looked up at him. My chin rotated against his cock. It was definitely hard, and definitely large, and definitely absolutely not smooth. It had lumps and bumps and ridges and was that a spike?

His scales burned a firetruck red at the tips while the cores were white hot. Gorgeous, and something told me it wasn’t an aroused shade, but utter life-altering mortification previously confined to the worst theoretical levels of high school hell.

The same levels of hell I currently occupied right along with him.

Short as I was, I couldn’t manage to squirm my way around either of his legs, stand up, or move backwards.

He was crammed in just as tight as I was.

Time to scale Mount CockMore.

Were greater levels of abject combined commingled humiliation possible?

I braced my hands above his rock-hard knees and slithered forward, dragging my breasts along him. His cock slid perfectly between them, his pants dragging along my skin, and my pussy quivered and he inhaled and froze, scales washing shades like drifting rose petals. I got to mid-abdomen and pushed forward again, dragging my own belly along him.

Weirdest lap dance ever.

“Lil help,” I rasped, not having the strength or leverage to untangle my legs from between his with my arms fully extended. His cock pulsed against my belly as all my weight rested square on him.

He jerked like a puppet and grabbed my arms, then in a moment of horror, realized he needed to grab my hips instead.

Oh for fuck’s sake…

“Just grab my ass,” I demanded.

His cock jerked and got even harder. He seized my ass, one cheek in each hand, and closed his grip with trembling restraint. He hefted me the rest of the way in one big frantic heave-ho.

“Oof!” His heft had lifted me so my knees were shoved on either side of his thighs and now my pussy was flat against his lower abs and the tip of his hungry cock fighting its way free of his pants. I lost my balance and ended up flat against his chest with my face in his neck.

His hands still held my ass and had my cheeks slightly spread. He’d frozen like that. And I was nose-deep in his neck, getting dizzy on a scent that screamed holiday movies are real life.

He slowly, methodically, moved his hands to the arms of the pilot chair. “Did I hurt you?”

It took a second to formulate a response through the stupor caused by his scent, colors, and body. Sensations. Were his neck scales soft? They were sort of little under his jaw. I touched the line of his neck and his scales washed shades of rose and gold.

Oh, wait. Right. “No, no, I’m fine.”

I wrangled my disobedient limbs and managed to slither off the side of the chair.

I scrunched backwards out of the cockpit into the small bay, heart beating crazy while my skin raced with goose pimples and panicked sweat soaked the small of my back and between my ass cheeks.

Ahane promptly unfolded himself from the chair. He turned around, cock shoved against his pants.

He stepped around/over me and went to the bay door. I ducked to avoid getting smacked with an erect alien cock-log.

“Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.” His voice sounded strangled.

“I’ve touched enough stuff over the last ten minutes.” My throat also didn’t want to work, and my body wanted me to touch one thing in particular. “I’m not touching a thing.”