Hunted By the Alien Pirate by Celia Kyle Page 0,31

which I endure without protest, though not without flinching.

I guess maybe they’re afraid I might try to throw myself off of the moving vehicle to my death. To be honest, if it weren’t for the fact that I know Montier will be coming for me, I might consider it. The life of the enslaved is a hard one and not likely to end well for me.

Although officially outlawed on most civilized planets, slavery still flourishes throughout the seamier and rougher parts of the galaxy. It is still tolerated on many planets in the League of Non-Aligned Races, as each sapient race has their own customs and traditions they hew to.

Slavery is also still an economic building block in the Helios Combine. And sadly, it is still allowed in the frontier, where established law from political entities capable of backing up their edicts with firepower is thin.

I’m not sure how long we travel, or what direction we go in. After about an hour or so, I feel the hover sled dropping altitude as we vector in for a landing.

Once we’re back on the ground, my captors free my ankles and then slip a noose around my throat before leading me like a dog on a leash. I’m glad for the hood at the moment, believe it or not. It would be rather humiliating to be seen like this.

I don’t know where I am, but I can hear the sounds of what seems a busy marketplace. A man with an Alzhon accent is hawking his guaranteed treatment for erectile dysfunction, which apparently involves powdered Kilgari horns. I have to shudder at that notion. Not only is there no way it would work, it’s downright cruel in concept. I try to reassure myself that in all likelihood the compound contains no such thing at all.

Smells reach my nostrils through the hood—exotic spices and sizzling meat being prepared for the consumption of the bazaar-goers. The turf beneath my feet seems muddy and slippery, and I stumble several times during the trek. Unfortunately, this causes me to choke as the noose slides shut on my throat, and I hastily scramble back to my feet—no mean feat without the use of my arms.

At last I’m taken into a cool environment, interior because I can no longer feel the wind. I stumble down a sloping decline, and at last they remove the hood.

I blink several times, realizing there’s not much light down here. Red clay walls, like in a pit, hem me in on all sides. A long metal bar has been anchored into the clay by multiple posts, and chained to it by their ankles is a line of women, most of them looking terrified, and all human. All but one looks to me with a mix of fear and curiosity as my wrists are freed and I’m added to the coffle.

“Sit down.” The one woman who does not react sits against the far end, holding her knees and rocking back and forth with her matted hair hanging in front of her face, obscuring her features.

I settle into my spot, looking at my fellow captives with a mix of pity and regret. Hopefully, when my rescue comes, these poor souls will be liberated as well.

One of the women, not much older than me with golden-brown skin, dares to speak once the guards leave us alone in the dark, fetid chamber.

“You look like a recent capture, not an import. Did they nab you on Perseus?”

I sigh and decide to tell the truth. What the hell? Got nothing to lose now, anyway.

“Well, my friends and I were framed as terrorists by a shadow cabinet in the IHC government and came to Perseus to investigate their evil machinations, but then we ran into Kraaj mercenaries who took me captive.”

She blinks in confusion and then apparently decides I’m pulling her leg.

“I was just asking,” she grumbles before falling into silence.

I shrug, though I suppose it is a rather outlandish story.

The door to our cell bangs open, and a Kraaj slaver throws a bundle of cloth at my feet.

“Get dressed.”

Then he leans his back against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, a slight smirk on his lips. Clearly he intends to watch the entire process.

I pick up the cloth and discover it’s a two-piece number, a pair of ludicrously short shorts—they might as well be panties—which are comprised of a thin, diaphanous black material, utterly see-through in all but the poorest light. The top is of a similar