Page 1 of No Strings Attached

Prologue: FML

Violet was frozen inplace, looking up at the large, shimmering patch of empty sky hovering above the forest of evergreens. She had just made up her mind to stop gawking and start running—putting those expensive hiking sandals to good use—when she felt her feet lifting off the ground and started slowly ascending toward the shimmering patch.

Her first thought,fuck my life, was also her second…and her third.

One: Runts Do Shit Jobs

“Obviously, you get theshit duty as the newest arrival and the smallest.”

…

“Um, what?” Bahbi eventually asked. He had been looking into the bank of ten monitors, many of them pointed into the cage of an extremely terrifying, extremely alien creature. He had lost track of what Alved had been saying, though he had heard the condescension in his tone, and now saw Alved’s whiskers twitching in annoyance at his obvious distraction.

“Runts do shit jobs. Got it?” Alved spat in a patronizing tone.

“Sure, what else is new?” Bahbi said and shrugged, as his gaze returned to the monitors. Speaking without turning his head back to Alved’s frowning face, he asked, “What’s mine this time?” while thinkingplease don’t let it be in there, please don’t let it be in there, please don’t—

“Solo night cycle watch. Qlu has commanded us to keep it cold in there to keep those fuckers calm, except for the reptilian inthe first cage. That bastard has a heated pad for sleeping, but it’s kept just warm enough to keep him alive, so he never gets off it. We’re maintaining a 10-hour day and 12-hour night cycle on this asteroid, with night cycle kept 10 degrees colder.”

Bahbi tore his gaze from the screens back to Alved, “Will I need to go in there?” He couldn’t help glancing back at the monitor with the furry Garoxian and shuddering.

“Only if one those assholes looks like they’re doing something to hurt themselves or each other. Your one and only job is to protect Qlu’s investment until the auction. I’ll take you in there tomorrow and give you the lay of the land. Tonight, you can get your gear and rack issued, then start your duty tomorrow. I’m doing this overnight instead of you because we have the occupant of the last cage coming in. Tomorrow, show up here for your first overnight watch and don’t forget to wear your warm slops, or you’ll be fucking sorry for 12 miserable hours.”

With that, Alved turned away with a swish of his thick tail and Bahbi took it as a signal to leave the control room. He was almost at the door when Alved said “Hey!” and Bahbi turned back to him.

“You better get someone to show you how to use the shock sticks before you come back tomorrow.”

Two: Intergalactic Assholes

Violet knew unequivocally thather parents’ esoteric classic rock record collection had saved her life. Or at the very least, her sanity.

She came awake inside her stasis pod when she felt it move. For the first goddamn time in three weeks. Probably three weeks. It was impossible to know for sure when strapped into a motherfucking statis pod for what felt like all of recorded time. But she had counted her longest periods of sleep and was up to 45; assuming she slept for long periods twice a day, she guessed it had been three weeks. Also, she had gone through her entire mental catalog of Dylan, The Who, The Rolling Stones, Yes, Led Zeppelin, and Bowie, and was currently working her way through Pink Floyd.

The first several days had been so panic filled she had barely slept. Waking up after her abduction, strapped to a gel pad, with a respirator on and IVs, tubes up both her hoohah and wazoo,and closed up in a coffin-sized box…well, there had been panic. Lots of it.

Buried alive. Entombed. Unable to move even an inch. She’d thought her heart would explode.

But it had eventually dissipated, which was weird. Apparently, the body can’t just keep freaking out when it becomes obvious that the situation is ongoing, maybe even permanent. So, after a few days, her panic had transformed into fear, which she thought was a very legitimate response to having been motherfucking abducted by the motherfucking Greys while hiking in the motherfucking Olympic forest and kept in a motherfucking coffin.

That fear had led her to imagine all sorts of scenarios she might be in for, the least terrifying of which was being butchered and prepared for dinner. That sucked ass for sure, but it beat all the sex slavery scenarios by a wide margin. And really, those were the two most likely options, weren’t they? It wasn’t very probable that she had been grabbed and thrown into this box to serve as an honored representative of the planet Earth in some council of intergalactic assholes.

Given that—the unlikelihood of her serving as Ambassador Viandthe likelihood of her becoming just the wrapping around some very abused orifices—she had realized that she would probably have to find a way to kill herself if her death wasn’t automatically a part of whatever was in store for her. In the meantime, she had played her parents’ records in her head. Every note, every beat, every scratch on the vinyl. If she realized that she had forgotten any element, any track, any musical transition, she started over. She constructed stages, bands, orchestral sections, lines of backup singers in her mind and let ‘em rip, starting withHighway 61 Revisited.

Yeah, Vi, howdoesit feel?

And at some paradoxical mid-point in the interminable, unending, infinity of time, her fear had transformed into…what? Something like a small kernel of acceptance that her end was nigh surrounded by a nearly bottomless fury. Blackest rage. The kind that whispers,“Sure, I’ll die in the end, but I’ll take as many of you miserable sons of bitches with me as I can.”She was going to be the wrath of God.

Three: Call Me Trak

Bahbi grabbed the slopsthat were shoved at him by the snarling male across the counter. No one except Alved, who had to train him to be his relief, had greeted him or exchanged names, but Bahbi expected that since the whole facility was staffed by Trallians. His kind valued each other by position and size. As the smallest here, he was the least valued, even though none of the Trallians here were valued at all back home. If they had been, they wouldn’t be here.

But he was curious to learn the names of some of the Trallians around him, if only to see if any names ended in the “ee” sound which signified the runt of the litter. If any had that signifier, maybe it would be possible for him to make a friend. The first friend of his life.

Walking toward the rows of bunks, he saw they were stacked five bunks high in a cavern-style room that was about 30 feet high. Ten rows of five bunks meant there were 50 Trallian guards, assuming the asteroid was fully staffed. Trallians werethe only race he had seen so far among the staff, probably because they were cheap and easy to acquire. And, as typical, those Trallians hanging around in their bunks refused to look at him or acknowledge him; well, if no one talked to him today, he’d have to ask Alved tomorrow about the races on the station.

Still standing in place gazing up at the racks of beds, he heard, “Get to your bunk, runt!” as a rough hand shoved forward. Turning, five larger males stood in various postures of menace and amusement. Bahbi turned back toward the bunks to match the number sewn into his slops with the numbers posted to the bunks. He saw his at the top of the second to last row and started forward.

Climbing the ladder mounted to the side of the bunks, Bahbi reached the top and pulled himself on to the thin mattress. The frame of the bunks extended one level above and was ringed by hooks where he could hang his slops. Resting on his knees, he hung the gear up in a semi-circle, enclosing the exposed sides of his bunk to give the feel of a little sleeping compartment like the one he’d had back home. He left one section open by the ladder and one section open by his head, to keep from feeling too claustrophobic.

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