Page 35 of Tamed By the Alien Warlord
The planet used to be an ore-rich mining colony. Then the mines ran dry, and Gur’s corporate sponsors vanished overnight. What’s left is a hollow husk filled with rusted shantytowns, sinkholes that used to be cities, and slums crawling with every form of scum known to the galaxy. There’s no government. No law. Just money, guns, and the people who wield them.
Perfect place for a black-market slave auction.
We go undercover.
Lanz wears leathers and a serrated blade that could cleave a hovercar. I wear a skin-tight crimson jumpsuit and a cruel smile. The outfit bares just enough skin to turn heads and hide my weapons.
The role? Sultry madame with a dangerous temper. And her pet Reaper bodyguard.
The disguise works because it’s barely a disguise at all.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into wearing this,” I mutter as we descend the rusted staircase into the auction compound.
Lanz doesn’t look at me. “You look like trouble.”
“Flattering.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Oh, come on. Admit it. You’re loving this.”
He grunts. “I’m loving imagining what I’ll do to the first bastard who touches you.”
We hit the main floor and it’s every dystopian nightmare I’ve ever filed in my reports. Open pits filled with shackled beings. Stages lit by flickering holos. The scent of smoke, sweat, and cruelty hangs thick in the air.
A hollowed-out stadium with auction lots in the bleachers. Patrons drift through rows of captives like they’re shopping for trinkets, sipping spiced wine and whispering price offers to their handlers.
The auctioneer is a slime-slicked insectoid with a voice like gravel and bile, announcing the condition and obedience levels of each lot like he’s selling house pets.
“Lot seventeen,” he hisses through the speaker system. “Female. Human. Young. Minor organ damage, but still fertile. Minimum bid: five bars.”
I bite my tongue until I taste blood.
Lanz sees it, moves closer. His presence is a wall of heat at my back.
“Steady,” I mutter. “We blow our cover, we lose everything.”
He grinds his teeth but nods.
We work the crowd. I flirt with slavers and sip something that tastes like poison. Lanz looms behind me like the world’s angriest statue.
The chemistry between us crackles. No one challenges us. No one even tries to outbid me.
That’s when I see him.
Dr. Nakamura. In his usual pristine coat, flanked by two mercs with grim faces and finger-twitchy trigger discipline.
He stops in front of a cage filled with drugged women in hospital gowns. He points. Nods. Speaks to a handler. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t have to.
He’s not here to observe.
He’s here to shop.
My stomach lurches.
Lanz’s growl vibrates the air. “I’ll gut him.”
“No.” I catch his arm. “Not yet. If we spook him now, we lose our shot at exposing the entire network. We need to know who he’s working with. Where he’s taking them.”
