The First Nova I See Tonight by Jason Kilgore (the false prince .txt) 📕

hands of one of the Pleiadeans pulled his wrists out and the handcuffs were clamped over them, behind his back. The door was unlocked, he was pulled out, and it was shut behind him with Yiorgos still inside.

As he was escorted out the door, Dirken looked back and saw the Ananak watching him leave, her gaze roaming down to his leather pants and back up to his eyes.

It was the look of a hunter who'd just lost her prey.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BLOODHAWK

Dirken's neck popped as the hulking Oranchian hit him across the face for the third time — a tight roundhouse.

This time blood flooded into his mouth from biting his tongue. He spat the blood out onto a metal floor that had dried blood of different colors from many such interrogations.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and dizziness and groaned. Every punch sent his body straining against the magnetic shackles and the rod he was bound to.

Dirken reminded himself that the trick to being beaten in the head was to exhale and go limp just before being struck. It's when you tighten up that you get hurt the worst. Except for the jaw. ALWAYS clench your jaw if you don't want to lose teeth or have a broken jawbone. One should tighten the abdomen, too, but for some reason these guys didn't bother aiming there.

Laughter. It came from the human pirate with the laser scar and British accent. The Pleiadeans, standing to either side of the dirty little room, had called him "Mom", but Dirken got the distinct impression that the word meant something very different in their language.

He opened his eyes again, trying to ignore the little pops of light from being hit. "Mom" pushed the massive, gray-skinned and hairless Oranchian aside using a billy club. The beast grunted, clearly annoyed he had to stop. He stood three meters tall, stunk like a Teslan skunk, and had weeping sores and pustules all over his body. The "Oran pox" hadn't missed this beastly creature, nor most of his kind. Dressed only in a sort of loincloth, his stone-like body rippled with muscle. Oranchians were only good for three things: ruffians, heavy labor, and porn. Their species' prodigious organ was the highlight of many of the xenophile porn vids he'd watched, usually paired with an actress, often human, who would seem far too fragile for such a joining.

"Come now, maggot," Mom said. "Don't make me have Grendel hit you again. That kind of entertainment is best saved for the gladiator pits where we'll sell you." He leaned down to eye level with Dirken and smiled, eyes sparkling, mouth full of rotting teeth. He poked Dirken's chest with the billy club. "Grendel's holdin' back, you see. If he really wanted to hit ya hard, he'd kill ya. The longer this goes, the harder he hits. So I'll ask ya again. What's the combination to that lovely safe of yours?"

He didn't answer. Running his tongue along his teeth, none were loose… yet.

Mom nodded to Grendel, and the Oranchian reared back to hit Dirken again.

"Okay, okay!" Dirken shouted. Grendel stopped, frowning. Dirken sputtered, "The combination is "E-A-T-M-E."

Mom listened intently, then gave a nod, smiled at his success, and started to turn toward the door. Then he stopped short, growled, and hit Dirken in the head with the billy club. "Very funny, maggot!"

Everything went black for a few moments, then stars popped in his vision again. Why is it always the head? he thought.

When it cleared up enough for him to see again, he realized he looking out the open door.  He saw in the room beyond a pirate with a laser cutter trying to cut through the safebox. Whatever the safe was made of, it was resisting even that.

Then a figure stepped in the way and entered the room. It took a moment more to focus as his vision seemed to swim again, then Dirken realized he was looking at an Aquarian centaur. He had four stern eyes over a broad nose. Wore a red beret that flopped to one side. Overlarge earlobes swept down onto cheek ridges. No hair, but rather tiny scales covered his green-tinged skin. He had long arms that ended in hands that had a dozen thin tentacles on each hand for digits. His torso sat upon a quadruped lower body, lion-like with clawed feet, but covered in larger scales and no tail. He wore bright red, leathery clothing crisscrossed with a couple of bandoleers and pouches, two blasters, a pulse rifle strapped to the back of his lower body, and a large sword sheathed next to it.

Dirken was pretty sure from his look that this was the pilot of the fightercraft, but this was confirmed when he heard his voice.

"Step aside, Mom," the centaur said, calmly.

"Aye, Cap'n," Mom replied, put his hand on his chest in salute, and backed away from Dirken and the centaur, as did the Pleiadeans.

The Oranchian whimpered, averted his gaze, and cowered in a corner.

The centaur moved forward with confident steps and smiled, showing his bright white, needle-like rows of teeth. An emaciated human woman in ratty black clothes walked behind him, shaved head downcast, holding a tablet with what looked like a spreadsheet on it. She wore a red metal collar. Slave, Dirken thought. She glanced up at him briefly. But instead of the defeated look that slaves everywhere had, her eyes focused on him with a note of recognition, then back down to the floor. But it wasn't her knowing eyes that attracted his attention the most, but rather the small, branded "A" on her wrist. He couldn't concentrate enough to remember where he'd seen it before.

The centaur gave his slave the slightest of nods and waved her away. She obeyed immediately and disappeared through the doorway.

Dirken winced against the pain pulsing through his head. "I'm guessing you're the 'Bloodhawk.' Funny, with a name like that, I thought you'd be avian, like a Corthian."

The Bloodhawk didn't answer