Page 72 of Warped

“A depiction of what the warpers are giving your girlfriend, perhaps?”

Stanley just scowls and looks out the viewing port at the ship they are swiftly approaching. The small cockpit of their own military-grade vessel is feeling a little crowded at the moment. The big man, Lundgren, is in the pilot’s seat, manning the controls. Stanley and Mikkelson are huddled in behind him. The Psi-hound’s in the corner, rocking and humming in anticipation.

As for the women, they’re still in the main transport hold, keeping each other entertained. Their loud moaning can be heard even through the heavy metal door at the rear of the cockpit. Those sounds, coupled with the general intoxication of the Warp, are making Stanley’s cock ache like a bitch. Of course, the body armor he’s now wearing isn’t helping matters any.

The other three men are clad in similar armor, and Stanley can only assume they are experiencing the same discomfort as himself, but they’re doing a better job of hiding it.

Truth is, all four of them are feeling fairly relieved at the moment. They’ve located their quarry, their mission is nearly complete, and soon they’ll be reaping the rewards of that success.

For Stanley, that means his bosses aren’t going to off him.

For Mikkelson and Lundgren, promotions—plus a cut of the paydirt the Gaia Group will be making in the aftermath of Caldera’s destruction.

And as for the Psi-hound, he’ll be getting his own special doggy treat.

It makes Stanley’s stomach turn a little just thinking about what that treat will be, but whatever. That nosy little bitch Bianca deserves every moment of prolonged psychic rape that’s coming her way. Stanley just wishes he’d never gotten involved with that dumb broad in the first place.

An indicator light blinks on the control panel.

“Their scanners have picked us up,” says Lundgren from the pilot’s seat. “They know we’re coming.”

“How?” Stanley snaps. “We’re supposed to be cloaked.”

Mikkelson remains cool.

“Calm down, Stan. Doesn’t matter if they know. Couple of small-time Warp merchants and a stupid little space slut?” He pats the pistol strapped to the leg of his body armor. “They won’t stand a chance. Lundgren, bring us in closer so we can board them.”

The ship throttles forward.

Outside, partially silhouetted against the glowing, multi-colored seafoam of the Warp, the phallic merchant vessel grows larger, until it is filling the entire viewing port at the front of the cockpit. Stanley wishes they could just blast the damn thing to kingdom come, but unfortunately it’s not that simple.

Lundgren circles the larger craft until he finds what appears to be a hatch nestled between the two lobes of the gravitygenerators. He eases his own ship alongside, and there is a loudclunkas the starboard docking gear engages, magnetically locking the two Warpships together.

“Well done,” says Mikkelson. “Let’s move.”

The four men exit the cockpit and return to the hold. Mikkelson leads the way, followed by Stanley, then Lundgren, and finally the Psi-hound, hunched and chittering like a madman.

The three women they brought with them from the club are tangled together in the corner, a knot of undulating bodies—licking, fingering, grinding, coming. The sound and smell of their pleasuremaking nearly causes Stanley to forget what it is he’s supposed to be doing. Lundgren has to shove him forward to break him out of his trance.

Mikkelson opens the starboard hatch.

Normally, this action would reveal the void of space, or the Warp—both deadly propositions. The vacuum of space is unfriendly to the human body, but the Warp is downright hateful. Direct contact with the Warp, without the protective barrier of a Warpship, is enough to turn a sane man mad. And there are things out there—livingthings, for lack of a better word—that will happily dine on human flesh.

At least that’s what Stanley has heard. His knowledge of the matter is all second hand, and he’d like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

Thankfully, the ship Stanley and his colleagues are standing in is belayed to the larger merchant vessel, so when Mikkelson opens the starboard hatch, all that’s revealed is the hull of the largerspacecraft, and a second hatch which, if they can get it open, will offer them entry to the other ship.

Mikkelson turns to the Psi-hound. “Can you get this open?”

The Psi-hound moves forward and presses his fingers against the hatch like a doctor palpating a patient. The Psi-hound’s abilities are primarily telepathic in nature, but he has some limited telekinetic ability as well, especially when it comes to small, electronic devices. Once he manages to locate the switch on the other side of the hull, it is merely a matter of focusing his attention for a moment, and…

The hatch whisks open.

Lundgren shoulders the Psi-hound out of the way and plunges through the opening, his rifle sweeping the darkness. The beam from the flashlight mounted beneath the barrel licks the surfaces of the metal magna-crates stacked in neat little rows. Mikkelson is right behind him, pistol at the ready. Together, they make a sweep of the cargo hold, then they return to the hatch where Stanley and the Psi-hound are still waiting.

“This level is clear,” Mikkelson says. “They must be in another part of the ship. Let’s go.”

“Why do I have to come?” asks Stanley. “I’m just a businessman.”

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