The Sirius.
I've never been aboard one of the Empire's great warships. The sheer size of it intimidates me as the shuttle turns onto the approach vector we've been sent.
I can't help looking at the massive shapes of the cannons that bristle from every side. Two of them track us as we approach. For all that we're expected, no battleship commander ever takes chances.
The pilot takes the utmost care to dock as lightly as a landing butterfly. Imperial ships are valuable, and the punishment for damaging one is severe.
There's a pause, while security codes are exchanged. There will be MACOs behind the docking hatch, and if it's opened before the security clearances are finished they'll open fire at once, killing everyone on board.
Fortunately for us, there's no problem.
D'Argentine has come with me, as my commanding officer. His uniform is cleaner and smarter than I've ever seen it, his face pale. He told me last night that if I didn't do him credit he'd use my bowels for bunting, and he meant it.
The MACOs lower their weapons, but don't holster them. They form an open square around us, and we're marched off to a turbo-lift. We get in, and the small space means we're wedged tight. I breathe shallowly and try not to acknowledge panic.
I don't know how many floors we go up before the doors open again. The corridors are pristine. We turn smartly to the left, march perhaps fifty meters, and then stop in front of a double door. Four more MACOs are on guard here, and they run scanners over both of us, from the tops of our heads to the bottom of our soles. I have no doubt at all that if either of us were found to be wearing or carrying a single damn thing that wasn't regulation issue, both of us would die.
Again fortunately for us, neither of us is.
"Enter and wait," raps one of the guards. "You will not speak until you are spoken to."
The doors hiss open. There's a buzzing in my ears as I step smartly forward, d'Argentine one pace behind and to my right.
We're in what's obviously a guest suite. It's superbly fitted out, everything black and white and dazzling chrome; everything's so neat and tidy it makes your teeth ache just looking at it.
It's empty. Well, except for the gurney that's placed a couple of meters in from the doorway, and even the blanket lying across the guy on it is immaculately clean and perfectly placed. Its soft white surface outlines where the straps are holding him absolutely immobile.
I've no idea why he's so valuable. He doesn't look like anything much: a middle-age guy, graying fair hair, running a bit to seed. Looks a bit like a college professor or something. He's conscious, but he doesn't look aside or speak. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling, and now and again he swallows. He's been cleaned up and made presentable, but when we snap to a halt just short of him I can smell fear-sweat again.
There's a medical PADD lying on his chest. A quick glance down shows me the words IDENTITY CONFIRMED.
I don't know his name. I don't care. He's my ticket to wealth and fortune.
We wait a few minutes. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves. We don't know where they are, but there will be cameras trained on us. We were ordered to wait, so we wait.
The hiss of the door opposite opening almost startles me into stepping backwards. D'Argentine draws in a breath that sounds loud.
The guy who enters isn't tall. He's not even spectacularly built, though he's definitely toned. He's been in the shower – his dark hair's wet, and I catch a waft of spicy-scented shower gel. He's wearing a black silk dressing-gown belted at the waist and walks barefoot, prowling on the polished bare boards without a sound.
He stops directly opposite us, on the other side of the gurney. From the moment he walked in his wide gray gaze has been fixed on it, and not a muscle in his narrow, chiseled face moves as he takes in the words IDENTITY CONFIRMED.
Then his gaze lifts to me, and I'll be honest, I feel as if I'm going to piss myself as I take the full force of that cold, cruel malevolence.
Somehow I manage to hold the stare without my knees buckling or my bladder disgracing me, but I couldn't even start to explain what a relief it is when it drops me and travels to d'Argentine. You hear stories about stuff like demonic possession and I've always thought it was total bullshit, but if someone told me this guy was the devil I fucking well wouldn't laugh.
"Your names?" It's almost a shock that the voice is quiet and cultured, its accent English. I'd be less surprised if he hissed like a cobra.
D'Argentine seems to clear his throat of something. "Sergeant Gordon d'Argentine, General," he raps out. Then he introduces me, and says that I was the man who made the capture.
The gaze comes back to me. I'd give up all the reward money, I'd give up ten years of my life to be able to walk out of here and forget the abyssal gray depths of those eyes fixed on mine. "Honored to serve you, General," I manage to croak out.
Reed. It's General Reed himself. The alpha wolf, the head of the MACOs throughout the Empire. My knees feel like spaghetti.
The dressing-gown has a pocket on the right breast. From it he draws out a credit chip, and hands it to me.
Obviously you can't tell what it represents just by looking at it. But I can almost feel the wealth it promises as I close my fingers shakily around it, with a word of thanks, and slip it into my own pocket.
I expect us to be dismissed, but it doesn't happen. Instead he paces silently around the end of the gurney and walks behind d'Argentine. The faint rustling of the black silk is the only sound in the room apart from the prisoner's breathing, and it stops directly behind me.
Half a second later, his left arm's around my chest, his right hand across my face. His teeth sink into the muscles at the base of my neck, and hurt so badly it feels as if he's savaging me. I cry out in absolute panic. Pack instinct tells me to fall forward, abase myself, accept; if I resist he'll kill me. But his arm is holding me up, preventing me from falling, and the fingers of his hand on my face are crooked inward, ready to claw at my eyes and blind me.
With shock and fear I realize he's intensely aroused. I can feel his erection pressing against me, and if that's what he wants then that's what he will take.
Beside me, d'Argentine wisely doesn't move a muscle. His eyes stare straight ahead. Whatever happens to me, he'll stand there and let it happen.
The teeth withdraw. Languidly a tongue licks at the wounds, strokes up the side of my neck, while a sick, scared excitement starts to burn in the base of my belly as the imprisoning left hand slips downwards. I've never been penetrated before and I know it'll probably hurt a bit, especially at first, but the guys I've seen being humped seem to enjoy it okay; most of them ejaculate, with or without help. Madly I contemplate the blasphemy of splattering that pristine floor with come as General Malcolm Reed works himself off inside me, and wonder if it's an executable offense.
He releases me so suddenly and violently I almost stagger. I'm excited and frightened and I don't know what's going on, but I manage to steady myself against the sergeant's unmoving arm and return to rigid parade rest.
Black silk rustles again. He prowls out from behind me as if he's forgotten my existence. Then he puts one fingertip ever so lightly on the top edge of the immaculate white sheet.
"Leave us," he whispers, smiling down at the man beneath it. The guy moans, wordlessly, as if the sound is pulled out of him by force.
We don't need telling twice. We slam into the salute and do a perfectly drilled turn, and the double door opens to let us out.
The MACOs escort us to the shuttle and see us off the Sirius. Nobody speaks.
Back on the shuttle, without a word d'Argentine breaks out an emergency medical kit and applies antiseptic to my neck. It stings, but he doesn't break out any sutures – the bite must be shallow.
I think both of us are shaking. I know I am.
The rest of the troop are waiting aboard the York. The news has gone around. The galley staff have gone to town, and there are tables laden with food and drink. When d'Argentine and I walk in, there are whoops and howls; nobody is allowed to eat until the conquering hero has taken his place.
My nerves are still jangling as I walk to the seat of honor. My mind and body are both churning with fear, horror, desire. I don't want to know what happened to the guy on the gurney when we left. I don't want to know what will happen to him at some time in the future, though I'll guess he'll scream for death long before he gets it.
The wounds on my neck are still smarting.
There's a door to one side of the Mess Hall. Del Rey is standing guard over it, a smirk on his face.
We hunted successfully. We earned reward.
I don't see any point in delaying the fun. I glance over to him, and nod.
The food can wait.
The women are driven out into the midst of us. They already know what they're here for; they're naked and mad with fear.
Their screams merely excite us even more – they sound like wounded animals. We pull them down, pin them across the tables, on the floor, wherever they happen to fall. The sex starts, and the killing.
I force a pair of legs apart, and even as I thrust into the delicious yielding softness of the opening between them I remember the pressure of the general's cock against me. The thought of it ramming into me sends a surge of excitement thrilling through me. I already know as I start to fuck her that I won't last long. And nor will she. Beneath her jaw, at the top of her stretched neck, the beating carotid artery beckons irresistibly.
We hunt. We catch. We kill.
We are Pack.