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“Come in, HLS Starbreaker. Starbreaker, come in”
The radio embedded in my left ear buzzed angrily.
Incompetent twits. They know how to avoid that.
“This is HLS Starbreaker. Identify yourself.”
Finally. Fourth time’s the charm, I suppose.
“This is Lance Corporal Hivernale, Imperial Naval Intelligence Bureau. I am currently broadcasting from…”
A windowless dark room that smells faintly of sweat and
…
something else.
“...rebel territory. For caution, I will be speaking in Old Imperial.”
“Roger. Hold on, I’ll switch you over.”
I took the silence as an opportunity to scan my surroundings. The crack underneath the large door let just enough light into the room to illuminate the utter lack of furnishings. Floor-to-ceiling grey concrete, thick enough that I didn’t hear anything when I put an ear to the wall. The room wasn’t rocking back and forth, which meant I’d been taken either to dry land or a ship with excellent gyrostabilizers.
After another painful buzz — someone’s getting caned for that when I return — a new and more familiar voice, its usual enthusiasm channeled into a nervous respect.
My favorite protégé. Just who I wanted to hear.
“Syndaro speaking. Come in, Entropy-,” she began, before correcting herself.
“…Sir.”
The pleasant dissociation of the title washed over me for a moment. When I next spoke, my voice carried the icy clarity befitting an imperial Handler.
“Speak.”
“Sir, you’re alive! What are your coordinates? We’ll prepare a rescue immediately, I’m so glad-“
“No.”
“Sir?”
I spoke slowly, so she’d hang on to my every word. Whatever the consequences of my capture would be, they’d be easier to navigate with Syndaro as an asset rather than an obstacle. A thought flashed through my mind of another officer whispering in her ear, turning her against me.
“This is a rare opportunity to collect valuable intelligence, Private. I do not intend to squander it.”
Total silence. Not good enough. Snuff any doubt within her.
“Besides,” – pause for effect – “they’ll be expecting that. Better to wait and strike when their forces are otherwise occupied.”
When Syndaro spoke again, she was calmer.
“I understand, Sir. I- we shall await further instructions from You.”
“Excellent.”
“Our victory is inevitable. Hail the Empress!”
On instinct, I repeated the signoff and saluted. The radio clicked off, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Mercifully, there was no buzz.
The slight gnawing in my stomach led me to conclude it had been just under two days since my capture. I frowned and rubbed the back of my neck, piecing events together.
It had been a typical evening, with Hound polishing my boots and awkwardly attempting to make conversation while I fed her a practiced disinterest. A land animal at heart, this nightly ritual of ours kept Hound and I’s bond stable — no matter her ineptitude at the actual task. Due to the lower floors’ soundproofing, the boarding party of rebels that made it past our sentries took me entirely by surprise. Hound was gazing at my golden boot laces when a few wild-eyed degenerates in scuba gear barged into the office, pointing guns in my face and dripping saltwater on the wool carpet. Before I could do anything, Hound — green eyes burning — pounced, and one of the infiltrators opened fire. A rather ignoble end for the woman formerly known as rebel hero Emilia LaGarde. God, I wonder if the girl who did it is still here – wherever “here” is. The guilt must be devouring her.
Such losses were unfortunate, but I needed to focus on the task ahead. An interrogator would be coming by for me soon. Of this I was certain. Worse, without my cosmetics case and vanity, there was little preparation I could undertake for whatever mongrel I’d be facing.
Stick to your routine, Entropy.
To begin, I removed my peaked cap and brushed bare fingers over the comforting insignia. A golden crocodile with an eagle in its jaws — a reminder that predator and prey were flexible categories, and constant vigilance was essential if one was to remain on the correct side.
Next up: my coat. Regulation black, knee length, with gold accents around the shoulders and upper chest to project authority. Finding all the wrinkles to smooth out and detritus to brush off would have been difficult in proper lighting, let alone the near-darkness of the cell. Saltwater and sweat clung to the leather, an unpleasantness I had not endured since long ago. My mind drifted to days at the academy, how the other girls would make sure I failed inspection by defacing my coat while I slept. The superiors never cared that it was sabotage and not neglect — failure to adequately defend one’s property was reason enough for punishment.
They were correct then and they are correct now.
Hair presented an issue. Under ideal conditions, my scrupulously-maintained auburn curls ran well past my shoulders, but without a mirror I could only guess at their current state by touch. Disentangling the knots by hand was a slow and possibly-futile endeavor that I nevertheless pursued. After some time and effort I made progress, but several small clumps of eagle-brown hair had fallen to the floor. My jaw tensed. Hound would have earned a merciless beating for such mediocre work, but circumstances forced me to bear the indignity.
The smile I’d practiced hundreds of times came to me after a few tries. Too much, I can tell even without the mirror. Don’t let the corners of your eyes move.
Rifling through my pockets confirmed that the rebels had taken my sidearm, officer’s badge, lipstick and notebook. However, they’d evidently overlooked my gloves. Amateurs. They were real leather, dyed the color of an aged Bordeaux red, with a small metal stud I’d had added to the left thumb. I put them on and enjoyed feeling the warm interior envelop my fingers.
Newly relaxed, I hardened myself for the look down. My shirt, fatigues, and even my officers’ boots – regulation black, with less-than-regulation gold laces – were all shockingly intact. A few scrapes on the boots here and there, but nothing a bit of effort on my part couldn’t fix. Evidently, these rebels were inexperienced in the art of interrogation. Or perhaps simply unskilled.
Something else was bothering me, though. It was out of place. Of course it was. It would’ve been unreasonable to expect a piece of medical tape to hold up through this whole ordeal, really. I permitted myself a deep sigh, one of the few pleasures available to me in this rank cell. It didn’t help.
It doesn’t matter at the moment. Rebels care much less about these things than we do. Might even help establish familiarity. Let them think I am like them. They will see the truth soon enough.
I caught myself fiddling with my glove stud absentmindedly.
Perhaps I’ll finally be approved to get it fixed after I bring a rebel ship to high command on a platter.
Slowly, a smile crawled its way up my lips, towards my eyes. Sometimes, all that was required to achieve a goal was the simple willingness to take.
…
and patience.
The creak of the heavy door was the perfect alarm. In order to preserve my limited strength, I’d found the least dirty corner of the room to rest in – keeping my uniform on, of course, to be prepared for an attempted ambush. By the time my tormentor-to-be had shoved its way into the room and the fluorescent light had turned on, I was standing bolt upright — back straight, hands tucked away against my lumbar region. Just as I’d been taught. Never let a dog see you with your guard down.
“Wakey wakey, fascist bitch” the rebel said, its sarcastic baritone echoing off the walls.
It’ll eat you alive, and you’ll deserve it.
The specimen in front of me had a round face with a chin that came to a slight point. Swirls of ear-length golden hair bobbed slightly as it forced the door closed.
It began sizing me up, draped in its sorry excuse for a pilot’s uniform. Brown bomber jacket, green cargo pants, men’s sneakers. Its broad shoulders cut a physically imposing figure — in a slovenly, undisciplined way. I knew this type. Preferred them, actually.
“Oh-ho-ho,” it began, still in that awful sing-song – “an honest-to-gods imperial Handler? Sitting here? In our little out-of-the-way dungeon?”
Apollonian English, slight accent in the voice. Somewhere from western Gaia.
“So you’re the one that fucked up Em, huh? Funny. Thought you’d be… I dunno, scarier? taller?” the thing added.
“Did you now?” I asked in a bemused tone. “Why?”
It blew air through its nostrils by way of reply. Taking the initiative, I decided to break the growing silence between us.
“And who might you be?”
“Call me Vic. Most people do,” it said flatly.
Vic. As in Victim.
As Victim loomed over me, I noted the pitiful breast buds it was failing to hide underneath its clothes.
“Most people? Do you consider me in that category?," I prodded.
“No, I consider you in the category of ‘bitches lucky enough to fuck Emilia’ – even if you had to do all that shit to her head first.”
“She was much happier at my side, I think you’d find,” I said icily, sidestepping the more vulgar implications of Victim's words.
“Bullshit. Wasn’t like her to fall for someone like you."
What exactly it meant by that comment was immaterial compared to its tone of voice. Jealousy? Guilt?
“Someone like me?” I inquired with a soft laugh. High and clear, as practiced.
Victim shuffled around in place angrily and flared its nostrils. I continued on, curious where I could lead this.
“She was a better pilot under my guidance, you know. Once, she defeated an entire squad by herself" – admiration seeped into my voice. “It was at Pueblo Ridge, if you’ll recall. She'd have been a real asset to you, had you captured her alive."
Before I could choose my next words, Vic’s rage twisted into laughter. An ugly, awful sound, like a car failing to start.
Silence this beast. It does not respect you. Prove to it you are its bett—
“Oh man, nobody told me you Imperial tightasses were that stupid! Gods, that is too funny” – it wiped a tear away – “I know what happened on the raid, you dumbass! We all do! What, some rookie panics and ventilates dear sweet Emilia, everyone’s favorite angel-fucking-sweetheart? Did you really fucking believe that was an accident?”
It looked into my eyes and I shoved my feelings down where they belonged. Weakness was death.
“Standard policy, you dumb fuck,” it sputtered out between fits of laughter. “We know the drill – and besides, we don’t need your reheated leftovers anyways. Emilia was-”
For the briefest of moments, control slipped away from me. My entire body surged forward, towards this vile creature. Eyes burning with hatred, I–
“Play nice, dogfucker. Or you’ll be seeing Emilia real fuckin’ soon.”
With a flourish, Victim unzipped its bomber jacket to reveal the terrifying steel behemoth backing up its threat. There, cradling a slightly paunchy stomach, was a .50 cal five shot revolver tucked into its waistband. Snubnosed with a wooden grip, the weapon was large, beautiful, and cleaner than anything Victim was wearing. I stopped cold.
It could kill me right now and there’d be nothing I could do to stop it.
Of course it was armed, why wouldn’t it be? Still, the situation hadn’t changed. Baiting it had worked – I had found a win condition. Now it was just a matter of taking it. My face returned to its usual stone mask as Victim closed its jacket again.
Dogfucker.
“Gods,” — the creature that called itself Vic continued with glee — “we should be thanking whatever poor private put our girl down like that. You think we wanted that little science experiment back the way she used to be?”
Beneath its bravado, I caught a glimpse of something much deeper than jealousy or guilt. A loose thread of its psyche, begging for a firm hand. Patience. Not just yet.
“Hell, that useless cunt wasn’t half the pilot I am till you faggots got your hooks in. After you worked on her, though?”
Victim flashed two rows of off-white teeth.
“The last time we fought — yeah, I think Pueblo Ridge — she was almost good enough to land a hit on me.”
Still cackling like a hyena, Victim leaned in close. The gunpowder smell from its sidearm mingled with its awful cologne at this distance. Its pupils were slightly dilated.
“Almost.”
Face inches from my own, Victim jammed a finger into my chest. With considerable effort, I didn’t flinch.
“Altho, have to be honest” — an oddly long pause before it pulled its hand away — “part of me wishes I got to put that bitch in the ground myself.”
Stepping back and throwing its arms up for effect, Victim added: “since she’s been gone, there’s been a lot less competition for the girls in comms these days.”
It grabbed its sweaty crotch, evidently trying to impress me. Like a dog.
I’m only going to get weaker the longer I stay here. I need an angle.
The southern theater, where Pueblo Ridge was fought, was not a particularly important theater of the war for either side. It held no natural resources the empire could not source elsewhere and promised no significant strategic value for the rebels. As a result — and despite my numerous requests for enough ships and mechs to mount a naval blockade — both sides sent their best troops elsewhere. In the end, rebels and imperials alike fought here for one reason: neither side wanted to admit defeat. Despite their differences, our Empress and their “democratic” parliament shared a distaste for failure. I despised this posting, but Vic, like most pilots, clearly relished being the big fish in a small pond.
I can work with that.
“Yes, I do imagine they chose her over you,” — feign disinterest — “To my understanding, many rebels prefer women.”
There it was. That anxiety, creeping across its face. Wondering if I’m just being cruel or if the baggy clothes and five o’clock shadow means I genuinely can’t tell. Debating if it was worth correcting me and letting me know I’d gotten under its skin or if it was better to continue acting tough and letting it slide. I allowed it to stew for a while, with that expression of surprise and slight betrayal plastered on its face. It didn’t matter what it decided. The thread was in my grasp already, I simply had to pull.
“Emilia” — make your voice more sultry — “certainly did.”
Harder. This is your best chance. Subtlety is a luxury you don’t have right now.
“Did it disappoint you? Knowing you’d never have her?”
Meet its gaze. Pin it with your eyes. Arch your back more.
I forced a sickeningly seductive smile across my face and poured my gaze into those hazel irises.
“If you had truly wanted her — or any other pet of mine, for that matter — and she were here right now… you could have simply asked me.”
Victim froze in place, digesting the desire I was feeding it. Its fight was fading away as raw need crested like a wave.
Hands at my breast, I took my right glove off. A quick yank on each fingertip for an even glide, then a smooth pull to unsheath soft pale fingers.
“I would have said yes.”
A slight twitch in its eye. Another, less slight, between its legs.
My voice barely above a whisper, I added: “She would have, too.”
The first touch was always a crucial moment when breaking in a new hound. From the liquid starlight drug to keep them pliable to the amount of time you kept them in captivity, everything had to be perfectly choreographed. Absent any of that, all that remained was my willpower and this creature’s. I steeled myself for the leap of faith and extended my naked right hand. The air felt cool against my palm.
Out and upwards towards the chin. Two fingers across the jawline.
It met my touch with a shudder. Victim had gone oddly quiet, but I could read the struggle playing out across its constituent pieces. I’d seen this before, on Emilia and others like her. Thighs, neck, hands, cheeks, and crotch all told the same story: It was starstruck, intimidated, and aroused – hating its feelings yet succumbing to me regardless. For just a moment, I smiled wide enough to expose my teeth in full before snapping my jaw shut again.
Hold out your left hand. 70 degree upward angle to compensate for height.
“I wonder if you can still taste her.”
Halfway-glassy eyes blinked twice. Victim’s needy gaze moved from my face down towards my outstretched glove, the one I occasionally shoved down Emilia’s throat as a reward. I'd since washed them, of course, but it didn't need to know that.
Victim was standing on the cliff, looking over the edge. I had already jumped — now it was its turn. Cupping its chin, I guided its gaze towards the empty space between my fingers.
“You know what you want right now.”
It wasn’t a question. Just a statement of fact, followed by a command. The first and most important command, the one that would strip away its anxiety and leave something more honest in its wake.
“Take it.”
Victim leaned forward. Slowly, tentatively, like the first wolf to ever accept food from a human, it took two gloved digits into its mouth. I remained as motionless as the crocodile on my cap, allowing it get comfortable obeying me.
“Good boy,” I cooed.
I watched the words rip through its brain like wildfire. A pained whine trickled out of its otherwise-occupied throat.
And after punishment, absolution.
I pushed my fingers in deeper and Victim’s slick mouth stretched to welcome me eagerly. My right hand reached into its coat, fumbling through fur and fiber until it grasped steel.
You’ll never be a woman. But you can be a
“Good dog.”
Revolver in hand, I pulled back at lightning speed.
Four bullets in the chamber. Safety’s already off, not that I could fire it in here without deafening both of us anyways.
Vic’s eyes went wide, halfway waking up from its trance and realizing what had transpired. Saliva glistened on my red leather glove.
Running on predator instinct and little else, I directed Victim to the far corner of the room — not the one I’d slept in — and ordered it to strip. Without access to my usual workspace, tools, or time, this was going to take some improvising.
It stared at me, neither resisting nor complying. I repeated the command, and something in its demeanor shifted. Pupils darted around pitifully, looking for somewhere else to go. Finding none, its gaze returned to me. I saw the slow tide of acceptance in the way its shoulders slumped.
“Jacket first.”
“O-okay”
I could practically taste the quiver in the thing’s voice. All that bravado evaporated when a real woman told it what to do.
It took its jacket off and laid it on the floor where I pointed. The furred collar was already stained with enough machine oil that it couldn’t possibly get any dirtier.
“Shirt.”
Almost as if it was embarrassed, Victim began lifting a black turtleneck over its head. Snatching the garment out of its hands, I used it to wipe the saliva off my glove then threw it to the side like a dishrag.
“Turn around,” I ordered, finally resheathing my right hand.
Its tanned back had remarkably few scars, yet was littered with these abominable tattoos that looked like someone had drawn them with a pen. Names, animals, landscapes, and even a few numbers. Despite these scribbles, I could see the bulging veins on its upper arms. Mech pilots were usually in decent physical condition, but this one looked exceptionally strong — a point of pride for it, evidently.
I made a “hmm” noise for Victim to waste its mental energy interpreting. It meant nothing, I just needed it to get used to paying attention to everything I gave it.
I tucked the gun into the back of my waistband – such crude tools were no longer necessary – and moved in close. Despite the height difference, I could still reach under its shoulder and wrap a glove around its throat easily enough. Victim reeked of wood pulp and vodka.
“You drink too much.”
“S-sorry. I can stop,” Vic lied.
“Then do so.”
My free hand began an exploration of its sternum. Walking my fingers down to the spot where its two clavicles met, I pressed down gently and felt Victim swallow with my hands before I heard it. My coat brushed against the back of its knee as I slid my fingers from Victim’s neck towards its jawbone and pushed upwards greedily. A single bead of sweat crept down its forehead, rolling down the thing’s chin and between my fingers before disappearing down its chest.
Gingerly, I began circling the indent of its jugular notch with my thumb. Slowly at first, then faster. Victim went to yelp but I felt the twitch in its throat first and snuffed out the sound before it made its way to its lips.
“This is what you wanted.”
Victim, now knowing better than to try and talk with my hand at its windpipe, nodded weakly.
I walked around until I was in front of Vic, keeping my hand on its chin and forcing it to look up into the overhead light as my fingers moved towards its breasts. A full-length mirror was my usual preference for the next part, but this way would have to suffice.
“God, your chest is pathetic. Even for a boy.”
A whine of reluctant agreement.
“Mosquito bites, if that.”
Whatever rebel “doctor” is administering this thing’s hormone treatments should have been shot long ago for such malfeasance.
“This will need to be corrected. I’ll make arrangements.”
“Thank y-you, Sir,” Victim bleated in gratitude.
My hand brushed against its nipple and Victim gasped. As soon as it did, I clamped down like an ambush predator. The thumb stud dug into its pathetic excuse for a tit even harder the more it cried out. Victim instinctively brought an arm up to its chest in response to the pain.
“Hands down,” I ordered, leading its limb back to its side. Without me holding its head up, the thing slumped forward.
“Tongue out.”
The thing’s head lolled to the side before it complied. Leaning in awkwardly for a moment, I reached down and rifled through the pockets of its cargo pants until I found what I was looking for.
Dykes like this always carry a knife.
The switchblade’s dark plastic handle had a few scratches, but the pivot screw on which the blade anchored was in remarkably good condition. Standing upright again, my hand made its way back to Victim’s neck. There was a flinch when it saw my other hand flick the knife open. However, its tongue remained out. That usually takes a lot more conditioning. Interesting.
“You remained still. Good.”
Keeping my palm on Victim’s neck, I moved two fingers to scritch its chin. Once I registered its muscles relaxing in response to the positive stimulus, I pulled away.
The erect blade was sharp enough, with textured grooves along the spine and angry silver teeth of irregular serration running down the base of the edge. It wasn’t nearly as big as the ones I kept on the Starbreaker, but it would do.
Carefully, I teased the widest part of its tongue with the knife’s flat bevel, letting it feel – and taste – the steel’s texture.
Without a veterinarian on standby, I couldn’t injure this creature too badly. It doesn’t need to know that, though.
“Open wider, Mutt.”
As ordered, Victim’s lips parted for the blade. Pupils widened as I slid up its tongue, slowly invading its wet opening. I lingered at the edge for a moment, black knifetip just barely touching the roof of the mouth where the hard and soft palates met. Tears welled up in its eyes.
A dog is only truly yours when it no longer fights back. It cannot simply believe it deserves such treatment — it must be grateful for it.
I ran my free hand down its chin.
“What would happen” – I began, snuffing the earlier brightness out of my voice – “If you disobeyed my order to remain still?”
Too blissed out to understand my words, Victim’s breathing was heavy and its eyes had rolled back in its head. I repeated the question, slowly coaxing it back to the minimal brain function required to answer. Finally, the knife receded from its mouth and began resting comfortably under the protrusion of its adams apple instead.
“I-I wouldn’t, Sir.”
My free hand crept down its bare chest like a spider until I reached its belt, where the heat of its thing strained against cheap fabric.
“And what would happen if I were to flick my wrist right now?”
Vic’s lips and shoulders trembled. It started grinding against my palm like a rat in a trap.
“I would die, Sir.”
The knife flicked closed.
Before Victim even had a chance to register that it had done something wrong, my gloved hand fell across its cheek. Two more, then a second set of three for good measure.
“You didn’t stay still as ordered.”
Victim’s face flashed with a mixture of emotions that eventually faded into quiet understanding. I kept my hand cupped over its crotch, even closer than before, forcing it to actively deny itself the pleasure it so desperately yearned for. Only once its body had learned this lesson did I speak again.
“What do you say, mutt?”
“Sorry, Sir,” Victim offered.
“Try again.”
“T-thank you, Sir.”
Hearing its tone, I decided it was time. Time for the question upon which everything — Victim’s fate as well as my own — depended. There was no margin for error.
Deep breath in.
I have no heart.
Hold it.
I have no soul.
Exhale.
I am empty.
My voice cold enough to blot out the sun and freeze the water in Victim’s veins, I asked:
“What do you want?”
Victim was fighting to maintain its faculties, looking for any clue in my demeanor as to the right answer. I gave it nothing.
“To be a good dog?” Victim asked after a moment.
My boot heel came down on sneaker-clad toes with a crunch. A jagged howl escaped from Victim’s throat. I grabbed it by the chin and guided its gaze downward to meet mine.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
With a herculean effort, Victim mustered enough brainpower to think about the question a second time.
“T-t-to be useful?”
The instant it got the last word out, my fist connected with its stomach. Victim was stronger than me, but I was faster — not that it was defending itself anyways. A second blow doubled it over easily. One more to the iliotibial band and Victim fell to the ground, face-down, its arms crossed over its stomach and its gaze fixated on my boots. Staring back were those gold laces, coiled tightly around the boots’ leather tongue like a snake encircling its prey.
“Hands down.”
It complied with a whimper. We both knew exactly what was about to happen.
I threw a teasing boot-bite at Victim’s ribs to start, then made a hard thrust into its costal cartilage. Soft flesh stretched to welcome the intrusion of my stiff, inflexible leather.
Careful to angle away from the center, I jammed a boot into its sternum. The steel toe penetrated deep, greedily displacing folds of skin as it went further. More kicks to the side, writing a row of bruises across its back. Muscle contorted at each painful insertion.
“Roll over.”
Victim flopped onto its back almost automatically. Almost.
Gently, my heel began exploring its shoulder blade until it found the collarbone. I circled the tip for a while, varying speed and rhythm with only the thinnest layer of skin between boot and bone. Victim howled an intoxicated mix of pleasure and agony. Tears fell down its cheek before finally burying themselves into the welt of my boot.
Finally, I placed a sole onto Victim’s neck. Gently at first, but turning up the pressure like I was planting a seed into the earth of Victim’s eager flesh. I asked again, voice filling the room and burrowing into its brain.
“What do you want?”
The answer appeared on its face before the words left its lips. There was a beauty to the utter emptiness of those glassy eyes. After lifting my weight off its windpipe just enough to permit speech, my new dog answered.
“To obey You, Sir”
“Correct.”
The single word, spoken in a cotton-soft whisper, passed through Victim’s psyche like a hurricane and left a thousand pieces in its wake. A deafening howl emerged from its slick throat as Victim’s legs shook wildly. Ecstasy gradually receding, Victim lay on its back to catch its breath. I allowed it sit there for a few moments as it sputtered like a broken down car.
“Th-thank you, Sir”
Closing my eyes for a moment, I sank into myself. It was... over. Hungry, alone, my voice ragged and my clothes covered in sweat — I had done it. With nothing but will and wits, this creature was mine. I felt lighter. There was much work to be done, many plans to make, but all of that could wait a moment. The feeling of victory washed over me like a wave, cleansing me of weakness. I opened my eyes.
The thing’s jacket was still on the floor beneath it, stained with bootprints and blood. Half a dozen bruises and small cuts littered Victim’s upper body, and a wet spot had appeared over its crotch. I reached down to ruffle its hair.
“Good dog.”
Victim pressed its head into my hand hungrily, rubbing itself against my gloved palm and growling in pleasure.
Savoring my victory, I removed the gloves and brushed its cheek. Victim instantly melted at the touch. Just one last step.
“Would you like a treat now?”
With a screech somehow slower and more grinding than last time, the cell door opened. Ordinarily I despised interruptions in my work, but this time I was almost giddy at the prospect. To think, some sorry rebel mongrel was about to walk in and see her hero on the floor, begging an imperial Handler to choke it with its own gun. Oh it was too—
Before anyone entered, a slow clap began reverberating into the room from somewhere just outside the door. The rhythm was perfectly even, like a calm heartbeat.
What in the name of-
The source of this sound was a tall and rather frumpy-looking woman who strode confidently into the cell. She wore a too-long olive green overcoat, hand-sewn with an officers’ patch. Her box-blonde hair was chopped into a bob so uneven she’d probably done it herself.
Ridiculous creature.
The clapping continued for what felt like an eternity. Unsure what else to do, I let Victim continue forcing her tongue deeper into the gun barrel, exploring every centimeter of the steel orifice.
“Oh, this is too good,” – the officer sounded almost giddy – “Gods, I could just kiss whoever had this idea. Hey Marion, check this out. The little boot-pervert’s got Victoria suckin’ it!”
A second woman wrenched the door the rest of the way open and entered the room — nasty-looking rifle in hand — before stopping dead in her tracks and breaking out into high peals of laughter. With her fatigues and crew cut complimenting her stocky build, I assumed this henchwoman was Marion. Eventually, she regained her composure, turned to her companion and spoke with a buzzy voice.
“Didn’t think she’d play ball. Guess I owe you 20 bucks.”
“Course she was gonna,” said the officer, talking as if I wasn’t in the room. “Who could resist a face like Vic’s?”
They both giggled at that. Of all the reactions I’d prepared for, laughter was not one of them. Twice today this had happened, and I was determined not to be thrown off guard by such a cheap trick a second time. It was time to take charge of this situation, just as I always did.
I’ll return to the Starbreaker, new rebel ace in tow. Everything back the way it was.
Mustering my authority, I began issuing orders at a clipped pace — no, not issuing orders. The future had already come to pass. I was simply articulating it.
“My belongings will be returned to me. This creature and I will enter a dropship with a full tank of fuel and then you will guarantee us safe passage outside the range of your vessel’s anti-aircraft guns. At that point, I will allow this one here” — I gestured to Victim — “to return to your ship. Until then, she will be staying by my side.”
Victim had disentangled itself from the firearm, leaving a thin strand of saliva connecting its lower lip to the weapon’s front sight. In order to prevent any drool from staining my boot, I prodded it away using the gun.
Marion shot me a cock-eyed grin.
“Or what?,” she asked, her tone suddenly more serious.
In lieu of words, I pressed the revolver’s spittle-covered barrel to Victim’s forehead hard enough to leave an indent. It looked up at me, still in an utterly unresponsive stupor. Just to make my point, I pulled the hammer back and depressed the trigger an infinitesimal amount. Victim gazed at my boots longingly while I wondered how long it would take me to clean its brains out of them without Emilia.
She was a useful tool. That was all.
Marion turned to her comrade. “Sir?”
The tall one in the officer’s uniform reached into her pocket with two fingers and whipped out a wad of chewing gum. She quickly unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. Our eyes met, woman to mongrel, as we searched each other for signs of weakness. Finding none within me, she broke the silence first.
“Go ahead.”
A toothy grin appeared on the rebel officer’s face. A sickeningly human expression. I resolved to wipe that joy from her soul at the earliest possible convenience.
“Do it. You won’t,” the officer teased, not even looking at the gun.
She’s not bluffing. Best to throw her off balance, shake her sense of control. Hmm…
“Mutt”
Victim perked up eagerly.
No point in a tool you aren’t willing to break.
“Kill this one,” I ordered, with a quick gesture towards Marion. Then I waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
Wha-
Snoring at my feet.
Are you-
I looked down, dreading what I’d see — Victim curled up, using my boot as a pillow, a big dumb grin on its stupid mongrel face. I kicked its head away. Without stirring, Victim flopped to the side lazily.
Useless animal.
The rebel officer giggled like an amused parent.
“Wondered when the sedatives would finally win. Strong puppy, ain’t she?”
No. It is weak. Its weakness failed me.
“We mixed some of that — whaddaya call it — liquid starlight — into her food at dinner tonight. Along with some delayed-release sedatives, of course.”
“Those were just for fun, tho” Marion added, with a quick grin that told me she wasn't kidding.
Beyond thinking at this point, I gripped the revolver tight and aimed it at the officer’s chest, willing my hand not to shake.
“S-Stay,” I ordered.
She took a stride forward, still talking as if she didn’t even hear me.
“Y’see, we wanted her to bond to you, but we needed it to be real.”
Tame this creature. Or you will die here…
“Besides,” the vile excuse for a sentient being droned on–
…in a rebel jail, raped to death by mongrels….
I opted for a warning shot. It would gently graze her right ear.
…and you will deserve it.
I depressed the trigger.
“We figured you needed the handicap.”
Click.
No.
Again.
Click.
A third time.
Click.
Wild, panicked pulls, as if I could will the gun to fire through sheer force of repetition.
Click.
Click.
Clickclickclickclickclickcl–
I retraced my steps. I missed something. I must’ve. There was something I wasn’t seeing here. Something that would unlock this situation — if only I could remove emotion from the equation, then I’d be able to see it.
Panic must have slipped onto my face, because the rebel officer threw up her hands dramatically in a mock surrender, adopting a condescendingly reassuring tone.
“Relax, girlypop – seriously, you look tense, do you want some gum? – we’re not gonna kill you.”
A wrapped stick of gum emerged from the officer’s coat as she extended her hand towards me. My eyes darted from side to side. Marion was still standing in front of the door, and the officer was in front of me. With nowhere else to go, I stumbled backwards.
“Guess she doesn’t want any,” Marion snickered as the gum returned to the officer’s pocket.
“See, here’s the sitch,” the officer began. “The lab girlies managed to figure out some of this…” — she cocked her head towards the sleeping puppy at my feet — “…dog stuff, and so far we’re pretty happy with it. Our pilots are fighting better than ever. We’ve almost pushed imperial patrols out of this sector, even.”
The officer advanced towards me and I inched towards the wall. Her perfume smelled faintly of oranges.
“Vic here is one of our better pilots, but she has a tendency to chew through Handlers like a chainsaw through dogwood.”
She blew a bubble and time seemed to slow down. When it popped, I felt something deep in my soul do the same.
“She’s a bit of a handful — most pilot types are — and hey, we take all kinds, I don’t judge — whatever gets results, right? It just means not many people can keep up with her, y'know?"
A tear rolled down my cheek. I winced, and reset my mental counter from 371 to 0.
“When I heard the girls on the raid had captured a real imperial Handler, I figured,” – she paused and flicked her wrist — “hey, maybe we can…”
Gently, the officer rolled Victim’s sleeping body onto its back with her boot. Victim purred at the soft touch.
“Well, I think the results speak for themselves. Make sure to take good care of Vic. We got a war to win, y’know.”
Making no effort to conceal the predatory glint she'd had in her eyes since I started tearing up, Marion kept her rifle pointed squarely at my stomach. At least the gun wasn’t aimed at my head — at least they wanted to keep me alive. That was good.
No it isn’t. They should kill you right here. You're weak. You deserve it.
The long-winded officer cut the distance between us to mere inches, her breath now stronger than her perfume. I could see the chewing gum getting pounded into greyish pulp by her lipstick-stained incisors as she spoke.
Disgusting mongrel habit.
“Oh, by the way” — she added, all the mirth draining from her voice in an instant — “Vic’s performance is your responsibility now. If she slips, we’ll have to find another use for you instead.”
The officer winked and spat her chewing gum directly onto my boot, where it sent a chill from my now-tarnished laces up to my spine.
“Best keep ‘er happy, Entropy.”
The vague threat stuck in my mind, preventing any thoughts from taking shape. Every part of my body screamed at me to do something, anything. Instead, my mind went utterly blank. There was nothing. The world receded, this rebel officer with her stupid haircut swallowing the universe and me along with it.
How did she even know my name? You missed something, Entropy. You should have snuck out of the cell earlier, you should have broken Victim more thoroughly, you should have never allowed yourself to be captured in the first place. This is your fault.
Napping happily in the corner, utterly oblivious to her owner’s plight, Victim stretched its arms out and yawned. For a moment, the thought of simply charging the one with the rifle flashed through my mind. Death in service of Her Liege was surely more noble than whatever “another use” meant, surely.
No. A Handler does not allow herself to be slain by a beast.
The rebel officer, idyling fidgeting with a coat button, pursed and unpursed her lips. She wasn’t even looking at me. A silent, futile prayer pierced my brain.
May this be the last time I ever submit to a lesser being.
I nodded in acquiescence. The rebel officer spoke, and the weight of several days without food or a shower came crashing down on me all at once:
“Congratulations on your new dog, girlypop.”