Author's Notes:
Happy Valentine's, everyone! Alright, I've had enough of this moe genre of "cute girls doing cute things"! To shake things up, I present "awesome women being completely badass", starring our favorite intergalactic, alien bounty hunter. Enjoy, HunieFans!
Simply Celeste
by Cypher DS
o
Pa na isho, how is this local star so bright?
I can feel my eyelids dragging as I haul my latest quarry down the shambling central road of Torvus-III's mining colony. I have long since tuned out his insectoid screeching and I've grown to ignore the stares of onlookers wondering why I am pulling a sentient being through the gravel like a blue-skinned pack animal.
Thoughts of blue… thoughts of blue…
There's a rock up ahead. I make sure my prey's head thunks across it, hoping the pain will shut his wretched mandibles for a micran. All I desire is to collect my reward and be done with this desert world of jagged mountains, dried-out canyons and endless, merciless sunlight.
S'kaba, why must they all conduct their business under this wretched, blinding daylight? Some days I think Tendricide produced the only nocturnal society in this entire blasted galaxy.
There are times when I am convinced my work as a bounty hunter does a service to the galaxy. Ridding star systems of dangerous criminals, bringing hope to the downtrodden. Then there are times such as these where not even thoughts of crystal blue skies, sparkling blue water and precious blue hair can sustain me.
I spot another rock and this time I jog over it.
I loathe these criminals and how predictable they are. I loathe how they struggle, I detest how they refuse to admit defeat with dignity.
More than anything, I despise the bargaining they attempt.
My latest capture is a Mantid from the Yar'pra system. At a glance, his appearance suggests a battle-hardened warrior: an exoskeleton of green, insectoid armor, bulbous eyes and clawed forearms ending in organic blades two cha in length. Those scythe-like digits could easily bisect me if not for the energy manacles I applied to lash his upper appendages behind his back. By all accounts, Mantids are a species to inspire terror.
In reality, Skulkz Da'Chan is as spineless and quivering as the jellied organs that fill his carapace.
Upon passing through the automated doors of the local law enforcement office – a white and sterile environment befitting a cleansing organization – my quarry realizes he has until the front desk to plea for his life.
"Please! They practice the death penalty in this system! Hand me in on another planet! Not here!"
"Be silent," I command. How is a creature that sobs and mewls so pathetically known as the Bloody Lover? "You murdered six sentient females after using them for intimacy." Taking his life was the minimum repayment.
"I'm only practicing my people's cultural beliefs! After we mate, you consume your lover's head and entrails to nourish the younglings-to-be!"
That statement stops me in my tracks. "I have researched your species, and it is the females who are meant to devour your male head."
Skulkz scoffs back with what I can only describe as 'sass'.
"Oh sure, fall back on the old cultural stereotypes! Maybe not all males are submissive little snacks, did you think about that?"
I merely continue dragging him towards the reception counter, so he switches tactics. "Whatever they're paying, I'll double – no, triple it! I can pay, I can pay!"
"Oh, you shall pay." Of that, I am certain.
As we approach the front desk, Skulkz begins flailing in earnest. In my frustration I've stepped too close and one of his bladed claws catches my abdomen. Wincing, I seize him by the back of the skull and bash his carapaced head into the wall – once, twice. Then I drag him to the receptionist's counter and slam his head down for an even third. The fight leaves his body, as does much of his consciousness.
The clerk glances up from his data pad. The elderly, antennae-sprouting Nemian is unfazed by my arrival, but the smear of fluids on his workspace leaves him less than impressed. A broom-like moustache snorts in my direction. From under my hood, I mop my brow and state my claim.
"I am collecting the bounty on the Bloody Lover."
The clerk swivels to his computer terminal. "Identification number?"
Beneath my hood, I scowl. While Torvus-III may be an isolated system, surely these outer territory colonists should recognize me on sight! I am wearing my signature combat uniform, am I not? A purple Gin-tak bodysuit with black armor? The telltale hood raised over my face, revealing only sickled horns and whips of silver hair? With a hint of indignation, I growl the terrible alias I have spent years cultivating, the grim title that has sent countless criminal syndicates into hiding.
"I am she who hunts her prey to the grave. I am the Koru-Shikai."
The clerk stares blankly. I try again.
"The Night Wraith?"
"Yeah, the system doesn't accept made up names. Identification number."
"Hunter 84627," I grumble.
"Thank you," he replies, and goes about accessing my profile with the hunter's guild. "All right, Number 84627, I've made a log of your capture. A sum of 21,000 datari will be transferred to your account. Please submit your retinal scan at the terminal for confirmation."
A robotic eye-sphere pops up from a compartment, but I ignore it. "Twenty one thousand? There has been a mistake. The Bloody Lover is valued at 30,000 datari."
"Twenty one thousand," the clerk chirps back, still in complete disinterest. "That's including guild fees, local system taxes, and a small penalty sum for in-house cleaning." His eyes scowl at Skulkz and the cranial fluid I've left puddling on his counter.
"Cleaning fees? This is outrageous!" From his resting spot on the desk, Skulkz rasps a final plea.
"40,000… I can pay… I can – GLAK!" Another head slam against the desk shuts him up. I turn to the officer.
"This is a gross violation of guild policy. When I speak to the local guild master, he will –"
"I am the local guild master," the officer replies, and a tap at his wrist-top computer flashes an ID hologram confirming that not only is he the system's guild representative, he is also the commander in chief of planetary security and chief judge of the Torvus-III courts.
Also the local barber.
"A small colony," I observe.
"A small colony," the magistrate nods back, "and we do not take kindly to off-worlders who act as though they are above our laws and customs. Now, Hunter 84627 –"
"The Koru-Shik-"
"Hunter 84627," he interrupts, "You can accept the offered reward or I can have you arrested for kidnapping and public assault. Make your decision quickly, because if you drip any further body fluids on my carpeting, I'll add a second cleaning fee."
I follow his glance to my mid-section, notice the gash left by Skulkz flailing claw, dark and damp against my uniform. A steady drip of blood is leaking through the fabric. I quickly press my palm against the wound and the pain begins to register.
The magistrate notes my delayed reaction.
"A creature in your line of work must have her methods of coping with pain, but for your information, nerve suppressors are banned substances on this world."
My mind whirrs in calculation. It was two megrons ago that I popped the flavored stick of anesthetic under my tongue. Unless I seek immediate treatment, it will take less than ten micrans for my body to fully appreciate the wound left by the Bloody Lover.
Growling, I submit to the retinal scan.
Before leaving, I seize Skulkz's cranium and give him a final parting slam. Now unconscious, his body slumps to the floor.
I hope he leaves a stain.
Exiting the station, my thoughts converge on a single objective. Pharmacy. I require a pharmacy.
Thankfully, this settlement is not so isolated that their storefronts would neglect the universal symbols and signage for medical dispensaries. I push my way through the automated doors and stumble down the aisles for gauze and disinfectant patches. The clerk – another Nemian with dangling antennae - is alarmed by my hurried snatching of supplies but relaxes when I dump my collection on his counter rather than absconding.
"Locate everything you needed?" he smiles, willfully blind to the blood pooling from my abdomen.
The fluid loss makes my eyes rove deliriously over his counter and my hand impulsively snatches a glucose supplement bar. I like the brand and after this debacle I have earned the small splurge.
"Add it on," I pant, opening the wrapper with my teeth and tearing into the synthetic treat like a starved beast.
"Of course, of course. Let's see… do have your house armband with you? No? No problem whatsoever, I can put this on account. What household do you volunteer with?"
Household? Volunteer? I slap my currency card on the counter. "I am paying in datari."
The clerk rears back as though I've offered him a severed arm. "Put that away," he hisses. "You know the rules: everything goes on account! If your household is granting you a stipend, that's their business, but I can't accept money from … from your kind."
My kind? Already delirious from the pain, my mind scrambles to identify what prejudiced group I might identify with. Bounty hunters? Off-worlders? Females? But before I can clarify these local customs, the automated door chimes with the entry of another customer, and my breath hitches.
Another Norai.
Blue skin, golden eyes and white hair framing a modest pair of horns. Cloven feet clack from beneath her brown skirt. That is where our resemblance ends. Where I am dressed for combat, this female conceals herself in the humblest and most threadbare of robes. Where my arms are knotted with muscle, this one is thin and frail; strong enough only to complete household chores. Her face bows, meek and submissive.
My eyes glower. Whereas my forearm is laced with battle scars, hers is branded with a mechanical, twelve-digit number, not unlike the inventory codes etched into the plating of a spaceship or a handgun. A serial number for tracking inventory.
This female is a clone, bred in illegal cloning vats for the sole purpose of being sold as a laborer.
She is also in a hurry, pushing her way to the counter with the urgency of a trained dog on its master's beck and call.
"Kosoko-kangai, Katan-da. The lady of the house requires these synthetic kloi oils." As she hands over the vials for purchase, she raises her forearm for inspection, flashing a black wristband engraved with the symbol of a local clan. The clerk - Katan - smiles kindly and logs her purchase, business as usual.
This scene – its utter normalcy. My pride refuses to abide it silently.
"Slavery of sentient beings is prohibited by the Galactic Confederacy!"
The pharmacist stares dumbfounded, but then his antennae light up in revelation. "Ahh, an off-worlder. I thought you were … but never mind. She's not a slave, though. She's been adopted into the Kotar household."
"As a domestic servant," I counter. "Without money or funds of her own." My tirade sends the pharmacist into a deep sigh.
"We are not a wealthy system. We abided by the slavery prohibition, released all of our stock… I mean, laborers," he corrects quickly, "but … well, you know how clones are – docile, eager to please, in desperate need of structure and command. We tried setting them loose, letting them start up their own households and businesses. It was a disaster. They couldn't think for themselves. And where were they supposed to go? This isn't a cold climate world; we can't all afford transport off-world."
His explanation falls on deaf and disgusted ears.
He thought I was a slave. He thought I was one of them.
"Purchased slaves, adopted servants – the names are meaningless! You've robbed them of their freedom, you've –"
The female coughs for attention. "P-pardon me," she stammers, "but I do need to return with my purchase. The lady of the house awaits. Friend, if you have lost your armband, my lady will kindly pay for your purchases as well. I … oh!"
The female wilts before the fury of my stare. So pathetic, so weak-willed. For the countless species of the Galactic Confederacy, these cloned effigies - grown from the genes of Norai harvested by poachers decades ago - are all they have ever known of my people. They are all they assume I can be.
"Kaba, you make me sick!"
Impulsively, my hand flies across the counter, swiping my medical pads to the floor. The single yelp from the female is delightfully vindicating.
Snarling, I flash my datari card across the pay-scanner. I'll settle account for the nutrient bar but I will not take his medical supplies.
I will not take their pity.
Weary and losing blood by the micran, I hobble in search of the only other business with universal signage.
The bar.
A few patrons glance my way when I stumble through the sheet-metal doors, but I am quickly forgotten in favor of their drinks and the on-stage performance. Interesting … besides fermented beverages, the establishment also offers female entertainment.
I pull up my hood and limp to a booth at the back of the dimly lit hall, far away from the other patrons and the dancers on stage flaunting their assets on the reduced-gravity platforms. The air reeks like Slovarian sheddings. I would feel little surprise to learn that the crunch under my hooves is dead skin and droppings. It is a disgusting establishment, but the beverages are cheap and no one takes umbrage when I seize fistfuls of cleaning rags from the servers to press against my blood-soaked side.
Ten standard micrans later, my body slumps back in the booth's artificial leather while two grimy bottles sit atop my table. I lean forward and pour the first into my glass. The cool water soothes my bitter throat. The second, I tip over into a dirty rag and press against my wound. The alcohol burns but it is an adequate disinfectant. Once I have confirmed that my wound has coagulated, I make a proper scan of my surroundings.
The patrons represent a variety of bipedal species from across the galaxy but the servers are - what shock - all Norai. The clones are male and female alike, all tottering around on their hooves like well-trained animals at the beck of their genetically-programmed obedience.
At least this establishment offers some opportunity for advancement. Many of the drinkers are off-world pilots or traders and they toss over monetary tips to the speediest of the servers, who nod thankfully and tuck the datari in their robes. I can only hope some of them have the self-interest to pocket the money rather than handing it over to the owner at the end of their shift.
The loudspeakers announce a new dancer upon the stage and my eyes light up. A Norai female, sashaying about in a visor, thin veils and little else.
Her movements are breathtaking.
The rhythmic flick of her hips, the shameless way she caresses her body and spins her thin coverings. Her horns, which loop a full two circles, are weighed down with beads and jewels that jingle and sing as she bobs her head.
I'm intrigued, to say the least.
I tap my currency card against the table's pay scanner, sending her a sizable tip. On her visor's tactical display, I can make out a flashing arrow indicating the direction of her most generous patron. She twists a final time for the audience, then saunters down one of the floating catwalks into the crowd to offer her investor a more generous view.
"Kos kan," she whispers, sweet and melodious. Enveloped in shadows, I nod back.
For a moment, all is bliss as she crawls forward onto my table to entertain, a desirous smile illuminating her face. I lean forward to offer her a drink and my hood slips away, revealing what I am.
Female.
She maintains her smile – admirable stage training – but the revulsion in her eyes is clear. She nods politely, then adjusts her dance to begin backtracking to the main stage. When she passes a fellow dancer, I can see the flick of her head in my direction and I can read the disgusted whisper on her lips:
"Sleiba."
Sometimes I wonder if my people's disgust for same-sex couplings runs throughout our very genes. I pour myself another shot of water, sulking until a new voice joins my table, 'tssking' at my sorry state.
"Rejected by a prostitute, and a cloned one too - bred and raised for submission. That must sting."
This patron, he's seen my face, identified my species. I'm too tired to explain myself, so I simply roll my eyes. "My household master would not appreciate me volunteering my time with you."
"Play-acting the role of a slave? Come now, we both know the Koru-Shikai answers to no master."
He knows my alias? My body shifts to high alert, but the minute I sit up, a laser pistol jams into the side of my skull. I curse myself for lowering my guard so foolishly.
Holding my body in place, I glance quickly at my assailant and my eyes fly open. The sight of a Cephalodrome is enough to revolt any species: fat-bellied, lard-stuffed slugs oozing across the galaxy on their slime-encrusted tails, four greedy, tentacled hands forever slithering into females' personal space, stalk-mounted eyes eternally leering as they smack their lecherous, greasy lips as though the galaxy is an open banquet to them.
I'm stunned because I recognize this Cephalodrome. The rough stubble beneath his mouth, the scar across his nostrils and that garish Bri-tan jacket in hideous neon orange and purple. There is only one Cephalodrome so high on his own ego to dress in such hideous fashion.
"Xerbo? Xerbo of the Sang-Xi syndicate?"
"In the flesh."
And lard, I think, wincing at his overpowering halitosis. "I collected your bounty five standard revolutions ago! You should be rotting in a Confederacy penal colony!"
"I should, and I am," Xerbo laughs. "I cloned myself!"
Only then do I notice the serial number on his upper-left tentacle and the computer implant at the base of his eyestalk. "Memory data-implants," I surmise. "The last, pathetic attempt of a creature whose body is doomed."
"Pathetic? Pah! At least my people didn't run me off my home world for sexual deviancy."
I change topic, gesturing with my head to his data implant. "So, how much do you remember?"
"Far enough that I remember what you did to my limbs!" Xerbo's weaponless tentacles lash the air, eager for vengeance. "Now move. The owner here is a friend of mine, so I'll do him the courtesy of not filthying his floor with your blood."
I stand obediently, and as I step from the booth I attempt to retrieve my bottle. Xerbo jams the gun between my shoulder blades.
"If I'm to be executed, then I will take my last drink."
"Move, Tendricite!" Xerbo pistol-whips me across the back of the head while a free tentacle snatches the bottle for himself. My skull is ringing but the painful display went as I planned. Exactly the distraction I required to key in a command on my wrist-top console.
Two micrans, I think.
Xerbo shoves me out a back service entrance. No one reacts to my hostage taking. After all, who would spare concern for a disobedient slave girl?
I chuckle. "What a pathetic master you are – raising a gun at your own slave."
Xerbo strikes my skull again, forcing me to my knee while he leers.
"You think you're so clever, don't you? I know you sent a signal through your wrist-top. I know you're stalling for time until your ship arrives, guns blazing. Look around you, Tendricite: we're in a narrow alleyway, not even room enough for a speeder, never mind a personal space vessel. You're wasting your time."
"All very true, but you are forgetting one crucial thing,"
"And that is?"
I grin.
"My ship's cognition is an idiot."
On cue, the alleyway explodes into brick and rubble.
A silver, sharp-nosed space vessel crashes its way into the narrow crevice, thrusters burning at top speed. Like a Tendricide rak-beast demolishing a path through icy mountains, the ship is unstoppable. Sickle-wings rake through the walls of the bar and neighbouring building as though they were merely fabric – bursting pipes, heaving rubble and sending up a tidal wave of concrete from the ground.
The Wraith's Wings - my ship, my mobile base and my partner in destruction.
Xerbo has time enough for a final squeal before the front nose of the Wraith plows him off his belly and throws him into the far wall like a gelatinous puss-bomb. I duck the worst of his splattered entrails, managing just a wet glob on my shoulder that I whip off immediately.
My ship's entry ramp falls off its hinges and Cogni pokes her robotic eye stalk out the entrance. "Kosoko kangai, Ki-Celeste. You requested evacuation?"
"You're late," I grumble to the AI construct, hopping over the strewn rubble.
"Local system speeding laws prohibit vessels from travelling faster than 50 cha per micran."
"Local system laws also prohibit vessels from parking inside business establishments," I counter. My hands gesture to the two buildings Cogni's ship body has decisively torn to rubble, to the screaming patrons fleeing for the exits like mindless insects.
Cogni drawls, lost in paradox. "Ohhh…"
"A stellar error," I assure her. "The service was horrendous."
Shaking her eye in a refresh loop, Cogni gestures towards the pink smear on the back wall. "Sooo, did we kill someone?"
"Just a clone," I shrug as I hop towards the ramp. "Get us into orbit and scrub this planet off the nav-com."
"We will not be welcome here again?"
"Not in a thousand revolutions," I confirm. Before boarding, I reflexively unclip the projector sphere on my belt and pose for a holo-pic, the rubble-strewn bar and Xerbo's slime serving as my backdrop. A fine reminder to never visit this backwater system, not even for thirty thousand datari.
Lastly, I sift through the rubble to collect my bottle. I bring the water to my lips like a long-lost lover.
Ah. How cruel.
It's the alcohol.
On board, I strip out of my damaged battle gear and lay on the medical stretcher to have my wound properly sealed. Or as properly as a half-faulty cognition can manage. More than anything, I desire to shower and scrub the filth and prejudice of Torvus-III from my memories but the Wraith's water reservoir has only ten seconds worth of liquid, and it is hot.
I take what I can get.
My mind is an echo chamber ringing with names: Koru-Shikai, Hunter 84627, Tendricite, sleiba, slave.
The noise is maddening.
I need to retreat, to find sanctuary.
"Cogni – plot a course for the Sol system. Fastest warp vector."
"Ki-Celeste, we are going to Earth?"
"Yes," I affirm, my mind already alight with visions of crystal blue skies, sparkling blue water and precious blue hair.
"We are going home."
So that's part one of my little Valentine's Day treat. Celeste has just endured the most terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. Is there someone on Earth who can toss a bit of 'comfort' to ease off her 'hurt'? Is this a sequel story to one of my prior romances? Stay tuned!
