Spthifius - Miranda Martin Page 0,1

galloping their way through my innards in a final clash. I’m nauseous. I can’t believe she wants me to do this.

“Well…” Kennedy says. “He’s sexy, in a really weird exotic kind of way.”

“You think?” I ask. “You want to volunteer?”

“No,” she laughs. “Not really.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Cora and Kiara both seem happy with their men,” she says.

“Happy for now, anyway,” I say. “but I don’t like having to do this. He acts like a man-child. He’s crude and his macho attitude is… ugh, gross.”

“But he’s sexy,” she says.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sexy overrides a lot,” she says. “Think how much worse it would be if he was ugly. Or grotesque. Oh, what if he has a weird cock?”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” I say.

“But what if? He’s alien, after all. What if he has… two? Or tentacles? Or he could have a really small one. Or a big one. Or maybe it curves. Or it could go sideways. I saw a documentary once about these Earth goats that their cock was like motorized. The guy was all bored while his dick hammered away. Which brings another point, how do you know if you’re compatible?”

“Are you having fun?” I ask, as if the grin on her face isn’t clear enough.

“I am, actually,” she says. “What about Xyron and Anzil? Do they have normal ones? Are they deformed? Think Cora or Kiara will tell us?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t, and I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“I bet he’s good with his tongue,” she says.

“Kennedy!” I exclaim, slamming the pot down.

“I do not have time to manage you two,” Vina says, interrupting our conversation. “Do your work or I report you both to Domina.”

“Yes, Vina,” we say together, bowing our heads to hide the eye rolls.

“She’s not that bad,” Kennedy whispers. “We could be dealing with all the stuff Cora talks about.”

Grimacing, I nod agreement.

“How did we get here?”

“We were captured by space pirates and sold into slavery,” Kennedy says, and only then do I realize I was using my out-loud voice.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Slaves. Great.”

And that’s the rub, isn’t it? I don’t want to do what Kiara is asking, but she’s right. Spthifius has been looking at me out of all the girls. God knows why, but I guess I’m the a-holes ‘type,’ for whatever that is worth. I’ve been flirting, sure, but I figured having some friends among the gladiators was good. None of it was serious and I sure as hell don’t want to fuck him.

Kiara has been our de facto ‘leader’ since we were sold, and she’s made the most headway on finding a way to get us free. This entire backwards, gladiator-oriented planet is against us, so it’s not going nearly as fast as any of us would like, but if I stand in the way, don’t play the part I’m being asked, we’ll get nowhere.

Damn it.

Kiara is a marine, and I’m pretty sure she ranked high. She’s got mad fighting skills and she’s smart, but she doesn’t know what she’s doing here any more than the rest of us. I can’t imagine she had some special training on what to do if you and all your fellows are captured and sold into slavery.

Why did it have to be Spthifius? There are a couple dozen gladiators and trainees out there; it could have been any one of them, but no, it’s him. He’s crude. Obnoxious. Full of himself. If we still had a computer and could look up the definition of asshole, his face would be right there next to it.

And he’s the one she wants me to ‘get close to,’ which I read as ‘seduce’ or ‘bang for information.’ What, am I suddenly a spy? I’m not someone special. I was a programmer on the generation ship, which isn’t nearly as glamorous as the old vids from Earth would make it seem.

We didn’t get to innovate anything new. Programmers on the generation ship were there to make sure that the existing code kept working. Our job was maintenance, not creation. The designers of the ship didn’t expect us to do anything new for generations. Stupid? Why yes, yes, it was.

I’m a geeky girl; I like coding. I like geek things. Spying? Dangerous activities like trying to attract the enemy to gather information? Not for me, nope. Leave that to… I don’t know, the Marines or the spies or anyone but me.

“You going to do it?” Kennedy asks.

There it is, the million-dollar question. Am