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Her name was Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn—Her Imperial Highness, Future Empress of Planet Ragnal and the Entirety of the Ragnal Empire, Including it’s Tributaries, Subject Worlds and Territories—and at that particular moment, her father was shouting at her. It wasn’t that Ashterra wasn’t used to her father being angry—that was a fairly common thing, in fact—but she couldn’t remember him ever being as angry as he was that day.

Garion Jeru’Garion Kirn IV—His Imperial Majesty, Emperor et al—looked angry enough to take a bite out of the metal bulkhead he was standing next to. He was a hulking, broad man, with sparse grey hair on his smooth face; the color of his hair made him look older than he was. He wore a gold band about his brow and thin garments of sand-brown and crimson silk, the sign of his station and colors of House Kirn.

“What you’ve done is selfish, foolish and irresponsible!” he said, slamming a fist against the aforementioned bulkhead for emphasis. “You should never have come here!”

Ashterra was weathering her father’s temper as best she could. She’d learned a few tricks over her nineteen years, but none of them were particularly effective that day. To tell the truth of it, she was tired of caring. “I knew you’d say no, so I took the initiative and came anyhow, Father. Aren’t you always telling me to be more assertive?”

“I’m also telling you to have more sense!” he countered, slamming the wall again. At the rate he was going, there was going to be a permanent, fist-size dent left behind.

Ashterra’s silver dress was flimsy and thin across her shoulders, more suited to an evening entertaining than sneaking onto a space cruiser. She also wore her jewelry—her tiara, her engagement ring, her mother’s gold chain necklace that she never took off—but those were just the bare essentials she always had with her. “Just let me know when you’re finished.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.” She turned her back on him, crossed the room, walking up to the wide window of the Captain’s quarters, some official or bureaucrat whose name she neither recalled nor cared about. The Firebrand was a leviathan of a battle cruiser intended to decisively win the ongoing war between the Empire and the Hastari Collective—a group of enemy planets inhabited by bestial, war-loving monsters. The conflict between empires had been going since before Ashterra was born, but the Firebrand was going to end it…or so she kept on hearing. So, it only made sense for Ashterra to shake off her protective detail and sneak onto the ship with her father on its maiden voyage. It wasn’t like he was ever going to let her do anything fun, so she’d make her own fun and give him a bit of a stick in his eye as well. A girl had to take a good time however she could find it.

The cruiser was in orbit above Ragnal itself, a planet of wide deserts painted with gold, white and crimson sands and thin, shallow oceans of salt and brine, streaked with long wisps of silver clouds. She stared at the huge orb, watching it slowly turn. “We both know what you’re going to do,” the Princess said, looking over a bare shoulder, blonde hair flipped back. “You’re going to lecture me about responsibility, about ‘putting the needs of the Empire above what I want,’ about how Mother would be so disappointed with the person I am now.”

He didn’t slam his fist into the wall again, but she could tell he’d thought about it; his face turned an unpleasant shade of purple. “Ashterra, do not bring your mother into this. I won’t allow it!”

“You never ‘allow’ me to do anything!” she said, finally turning around to face him, fists clenched at her sides. “All I wanted was a little adventure—to go see something new for a change, instead of living like a vagabond, constantly moving from palace to palace like…like old furniture, or something.”

“I see that you’re more than adequately cared for,” he said with a growl.

“I’m tired of being ‘cared for!’” she shot back. “Always afraid, always worrying, always looking over my shoulder—it’s miserable. If this is about what happened to Mother—”

Now he banged his fist into the wall hard enough to send some of the hanging decorations crashing to the floor; a wood-framed picture splintered and cracked when it landed on the floor, making her jump.

“Do not bring her up again, Ashterra,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “I won’t repeat myself.”

She took a breath, trying for a different approach. “What’s wrong with having a little fun for once?”

“Did Grendel Velo put you up to this?”

She laughed. “Of course he didn’t—not that I ever get to see him these days.” Grendel was the man who’d put that engagement ring on her hand, firstborn of House Velo, but she hadn’t seen her fiancé in months “So what? Why would it matter? Didn’t you ever do anything impulsive when you were younger?”

His back went stiff. “Not when the matter of the entire Imperium and its succession is at stake—I wasn’t an only child, don’t forget.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: the Line of Succession is too important to put at risk. When I go to somewhere dangerous, you are to stay in a safe place. This is something we have discussed at length, Ashterra.”

“Well, now it’s too late,” she said with a smirk of triumph. “You’re here, and I’m here. Can’t change that now! And it isn’t dangerous. You just worry too much.” She wrinkled her nose. “So, can we please just get on with your visit, or inspection, or whatever you’re here for?”

“We,” he said, taking a step closer, “will do nothing of the sort.” Another step, and his wide shoulders hunched as he leaned in closer. “You, Daughter, have had quite enough adventuring for one day.”

Ashterra took a half-step back, banged her heel on the wall under the window. She could imagine the cold vacuum of space on the other side of it. “But Father—”

“Enough.” Ashterra caught a whiff of something in the air, a familiar scent that she still couldn’t put a name to: it smelled of sweat, of sun-baked sand and duskberries—an old cologne that her father still wore because her mother once said she liked it. Her mother was dead, slagged by an assassin’s plasgun shot, but he still refused to wear anything else.

But it wasn’t just the smell of her father: it was his presence, the way he loomed over her. Terra felt a pressure inside her head, a willpower or consciousness that wasn’t hers; she fell against the chilled window behind her, fingernails scratching across its surface without sound.

His presence overwhelmed Ashterra—that was the only word that sufficed. Ragnal biology made it possible to affect the behavior or even thoughts of others. It was usually a passive, physiological response of the brain, a fight-or-flight reflex that influenced susceptible victims, but some Ragnalis could perform the act at will. Her father was one of the most powerful practitioners alive, and he was the latest in a long line of Emperors for that reason.

That power swelled in Ashterra’s head until she thought it might burst. She clutched at her temples with both hands, gasping for each breath, unable to tear her eyes away or even move as he stepped up so close that she could feel his body heat when he leaned over her. His grey eyes burned into her like nav-lights until she thought they might blind her. “You will stay in this room,” he said. The power of his voice set her swollen brain on fire; it was all she could do to keep breathing. She’d seen him use his power before, but for all her life he’d never used it on her. “You will stay in this room until I send for you,” he said. He leaned in closer; his breath was white fire on her cheeks. “Under no circumstance will you attempt to leave on your own. Understand?”

Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy, and they fluttered as she remembered to take a breath. She felt hot, all over, like she was burning from the inside out. The bubble swelling in her skull popped and vanished in a rush of heat. Suddenly, even her thin dress was too heavy, too constricting. She couldn’t speak, only nodded.

The Emperor straightened, wiped his hands on one another. Then, with a dismissive sniff, he turned and left the room.

Ashterra would’ve fallen to the floor if not for a nearby chair, which she grabbed and fell into. She panted for a moment, nauseous. Her upper lip felt wet; swiping a finger under her nose, she saw blood, but was too exhausted to care.

It was so, so simple to just lean back in the chair and close her eyes, to rest them for just a little while. She didn’t have anywhere to go, after all...

Ashterra woke to the sound of plasma fire striking the hull. She jerked awake, wiping away a line of drool on her chin as she looked around, trying to remember where she was. Dried blood was crusted in her upper lip, which she wiped away in a hurried, disgusted rush as her memories came rushing back.

Oh. Yes—the Firebrand, the argument with her Father, the way his eyes and his orders burned into her brain. Now she remembered. She felt flustered, anxious, worried, but didn’t even try to stand up. She’d been ordered to stay there, and she would obey.

The door opened and a man came in. Ashterra didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t say anything even as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

“Wait, what’s going on?” she said. “Did my father send you?”

“We need to go,” he said, pulling her out into the hall.

“No, I can’t! I have to—!” She tried protesting, fighting, pulling as hard as she could, but she was a small thing and the man’s strength was too much to fight against. Ashterra couldn’t physically fight him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t resist. “Wait! I—! No! Stop!” Ashterra put her foot down, literally stomping one slippered foot onto the floor. The power that compelled her back to the captain’s quarters was still in place, like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

“Princess—”

“No! Not another step until I get some answers,” she said, brushing a loose bit of dark golden hair back over her shoulder. The loose, billowing folds of her gown fluttered as she crossed both arms over her chest, scowling at the man trying to escort her.

The wide hallway running down the center of the Firebrand was a flurry of activity; the ship was either in the midst of a firefight or was under attack. She saw people running in both directions—soldiers; servants; pilots in jumpsuits, helmets under their arms—but no one stopped to ask if she needed any assistance, which Ashterra thought was rather rude. The deck of the ship rumbled and hummed under her feet. The hall lights were dimmed to a dusky-red glow, throwing long shadows everywhere, giving their surroundings a bloody, ghoulish tint.

The man leaned over her, looking especially intimidating in the ruddy light. “I’m under strict orders to—”

“Wait,” she said, cutting him off. “I know you.” Ashterra squinted, rifling through her memory. Moments later, she remembered: his name was Patronus Badul; she recalled him identifying himself to her once as a lieutenant, which likely made him the second- or third-ranking officer aboard the ship. It also meant he was likely to be a low-ranking nobleman’s son, at best. Ashterra was the Emperor’s daughter; she was engaged to the firstborn son of the second-most powerful noble family on Ragnal—she didn’t associate with men of lower birth.

Patronus had a long face, with angled cheekbones and a hooked nose; his eyebrows were especially thick, hairs sticking out like hedgehog quills. “We’ve run several battle simulations on the bridge,” he said, “and your father believes you may be in danger. I’m to put you on the fastest shuttle to get you away from here as quick as possible.”

“But—!”

“Now, please.” Taking a firm grip on her bare arm, Patronus moved Ashterra onwards by way of either leading or shoving her ahead of him, depending on how fast he wanted her to walk.

In seconds the door to the Captain quarters were out of sight. Her dress, already low-cut and coming loose in places, was nearly ready to slide off her shoulders, and she had to keep adjusting it as they hurried along, lest the man’s rude insistence on speed result in further embarrassment.

As they passed by wide windows with emergency shutters ready to snap into place in case of accidental rupture during the battle, she could spot some flashes of light and flickers of movements in the black ether of space: more plasma fire, tiny space-fighters darting between larger cruisers, and the light of two of the star system’s three suns far in the distance. But the Firebrand was the largest, grandest and most powerful ship in her father’s navy—surely she wasn’t in any real danger.

“Lieutenant!” Ashterra tried to wrench her arm from the man’s grip, but his fingers were like iron bands, and they crushed any further dissent from her with a gasp and a flash of pain. “You’re hurting me!”

“This way, Princess.” The man never raised his voice or sounded alarmed in the least, not even when the metal floor beneath their feet shuddered and shook. He made a hard left turn near the end of whatever hallway they were in, exiting into the ship’s hangar bay.

The room was immense, yawning like a cavern four or five stories high, with a wide opening that emptied out into nothingness. Repulsor technology provided shielding for the hangar, allowing ships to enter or exit as needed without requiring a set of bay doors. She watched a pair of fighters departing: the crescent-shaped ships lifting off from the cold, polished floor before they moved forward with surprising speed. The wum-wum-wum sound of their engines cut off as they entered the vacuum of space and were lost from sight in seconds. Ashterra noted that other fighters were waiting their turn to take off, since the battle outside showed no sign of slowing down—she didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.

Off to one side sat the civilian crafts, including the grand schooner she and her father had used to board the Firebrand earlier that day. It was the largest of all the ships in the hangar bay, meant to carry the Emperor, his officers, guards and attendants. It was a simple matter to insist on joining the company after her father was already on-board, and by the time he was told, they’d already taken off—there wouldn’t be time to take her back to the Imperial Palace and force her to disembark without missing the rendezvous, and Ashterra has resolved to enjoy the trip regardless of whether her father was angry or not.

But the question of if the inspection even happened was a mystery now. If they were being attacked, it meant that Hastar must’ve risked a daring, nigh-on suicidal attack run on the Firebrand, considering how deep inside Imperial Space the Hastari ships had to travel to reach Ragnal in the first place.

Lieutenant Badul led Ashterra down the row of civilian vessels, passing all of them without comment or explanation.

“Where are you taking me?” she said, again trying to break his grip, again having no luck. “Unhand me! If my father finds out—!”

The lieutenant took a step to one side, turned with a grace belying his long limbs and twisted her arm behind her back with such sudden force and violence that Ashterra was sure he would break it. When she opened her mouth to scream, he slapped his empty hand over it, smothering her cries. “When His Imperial Majesty hears that you insisted on making a scene, rather than following his instructions to quit the ship as quickly as possible, I pray that he has more patience than I do, Princess.” The naval officer spun her around, grabbing both arms, giving her a firm shake as the cruiser shook and shuddered under their feet. “I have no time to waste on your prattling. Now move your coddled ass!” Then he turned her around one last time and smacked her backside through the thin film of her gown. She yelped and hurried forward as instructed—her father’s orders were still burning in the back of her mind, but the Lieutenant had no patience and she had her own physical well-being to consider.

The small fighter he herded her towards had only one seat, and Ashterra nearly tripped over the hem of her dress as he forced her into it. “But I don’t know how to fly a fighting ship!” she protested.

“The flight computer’s already programmed for you. Now buckle up.” Lieutenant Badul leaned into the cockpit, pressing several buttons in quick succession. The holographic displays flickered and hummed with life as they started up, and she heard a loud hiss as the cockpit began to slide shut.

“But where am I going? Why aren’t you going with me?! Stop!”

The lieutenant stepped back as the cockpit clicked shut, sealing her into an airtight bubble with a hiss so loud it rattled her teeth. She heard the engines making that same wum-wum-wum noise as before.

“No!” she shrieked, pounding on the reinforced window. “I don’t know how to fly this thing! Help me!”

Lieutenant Badul stood ramrod-stiff as she took off. The look on his face was one of relief, she thought, before he hurried away.

The little craft jolted to life, rising slowly and turning towards the hangar opening, where the emptiness of the space was waiting. Ashterra, in a moment of terror and realization, grabbed for the straps she’d been instructed to pull on. She struggled with the buckle, and at how the leather pressed tight against the sides of her bare breasts, but managed to secure herself in place and the straps automatically tightened just before the ship moved forward, jerking her backwards with the sudden force of it. The sensation was so strong she almost couldn’t breathe for a moment as the hangar lights blurred in her vision, and then everything went black for a split second as the ship darted forward, entering the dark emptiness of space itself.

She could still hear the beeps and pulsing vibrations of the ship around her while inside her tiny air bubble, but beyond that was absolute silence. The flashes and brilliant lights of the battle exploded around her, but there was no sound to go with those lights, making it both detached and strangely terrifying at the same time. She saw the Firebrand behind her—immense, imposing, a gargantuan vessel, especially in comparison to the other ships firing on it, more than a dozen of them, at least. Down below them, the listing face of the planet Ragnal hung, huge and silent, with it’s yellow continents and small, pale blue oceans, ignorant of the battle in the heavens above it.

The Hastari Collective was the second largest commonwealth of worlds in all of civilized space, but still dwarfed by the Ragnal Empire, her father’s domain. Their ships were dark, a dusky red-hued metal flickering in the light of their signal lamps. The Firebrand’s bright, silver steel made it shine like a beacon in the blackness. She saw other Imperial ships approaching from the planet’s surface, but they raised themselves like sluggish behemoths, too slow to assist in the battle.

In spite of their superior numbers, it didn’t appear that the battle was going in Hastar’s favor: while the Firebrand had several dark patches of scored metal where the enemy plasma blasts had penetrated the cruiser’s shields, the other Hastari ships were flying through enormous pieces of debris made up of other ships that hadn’t survived the battle; other crimson vessels were listing to one side or floating away, powered down or too damaged to continue fighting.

Amidst the chaos, Ashterra saw smaller fighters—Ragnal crescents and Hastari triangles—darting about, engaged in private fights of two or four at a time. Two Ragnal space-fighters swooped from different directions and caught a Hastari ship in their crosshairs. There was no sound, and the crushing vacuum of space meant that the little fighter only showed a brief blossom of light as it’s air pocket exploded.

It seemed that the Firebrand was weathering the attack mostly unscathed, while the smaller Ragnal fighters were overwhelming the remaining Hastari ships. But if that was the case, why had her father insisted that she be flown away from the battle?

“Hello?” Ashterra looked for a communicator, a microphone or headset, anything she could use to speak to someone. She pressed every key she could on the computer display, but none of them did anything. Her little ship slowly sank towards the planet’s horizon, carrying her away from the firefight…but then, it picked up more speed and headed away from the planet, out into deep space again.

In the distance, she could spot the three stars—yellow Oronis and Ionis, and smaller, white Exeter, some distance from the other two. Called the Olborean Cluster, more popularly known as “Cluster Space,” the multi-star system contained the theee stars and dozens of planets that had been fought over for centuries. Beyond the furthest edge of the most isolated planet’s orbit was the Void: an empty, lifeless darkness that nothing and no one had ever ventured into and survived; the twinkling stars beyond it were impossible to reach with modern-day technology.

Ragnal and Hastar were the latest in a long line of multi-planetary kingdoms vying for control of the Cluster. Ragnal was winning that war, which started when Hastar made a surprise attack at Trion Prime, but that was before Terra was even born. Her father was a renowned hero in that battle, managing to beat back the Hastari menace. The war had continued ever since, and Hastar still refused to leave the forces of the Imperium in peace.

“What is going on?” she said, knowing no one could hear her. Ashterra whined, pressing her face into both hands. She hated herself for sneaking onto her father’s ship. She just wanted to go home.

As her vessel picked up more speed, the Princess took hold of the flight stick, but it was locked in place and refused to move—she’d have better luck changing the direction of a moon then she had of changing the ship’s direction. Perhaps if she’d paid better attention during flying lessons, she would’ve found a way to turn off the autopilot to the little shuttle and found a way to fly back. She screamed in frustration, banging her elbow against a hard corner, then she squeezed it tight and whimpered in pain.

She wished her Mother was there.

The lightless expanse of deeper space opened out before her while the glow of her home planet was fading behind her in the distance. Already, she could barely see anything left of her father’s cruisers or the plasma fire. Over her head, the Princess saw movement, or the absence of it—a shadow, a shape even darker than the immense twinkling of the stars about it.

Ashterra blinked.

The shadow moved.

It was coming for her.

“Help!” she screamed, knowing it was pointless, but refusing to stay silent. “Why won’t anyone help me?!”

The black shape swooped down below the stars, surrounding the Princess and her little ship. It swallowed them up, like a bird out of a nightmare, consuming her whole.

Ashterra screamed.

The stars went out. Ragnal went out.

Her little craft jerked to a stop. The engine died; the computer, as though puzzled for a moment, flickered and gave several quizzical beeping noises, then it also died. She was in complete blackness, unable to tell if her eyes were shut or open.

“…hello?” she whispered. Or shouted. Or sobbed. Ashterra couldn’t tell the difference—the silence around her was absolute.

There was a loud clank of a noise as something collided with the canopy above her cockpit. The computer beeped. A small message in tiny red letters flashed on the screen read BREECH several times before they disappeared, and the blackness returned.

“Don’t try to hold your breath.” It was a man’s voice coming out of a speaker above her head—deep, business-like, maybe a little bored.

“What? Who is that?! Who’s there?!”

Ashterra heard the sound of hissing and screamed, certain she was about to be sucked into the endless vacuum outside her ship, but nothing else happened. Her scream died a moment later, replaced by a momentary laugh of panic and relief when she could still breathe.

She wasn’t dead yet.

But Ashterra did smell something: a scent like something burning, strong and pungent, making her nose wrinkle. She wished she had on something thicker than a dressing gown, yet tried pressing some of its folds against her nose, heedless of how exposed her body might be in the dark. “What is that?” she called, coughing.

“Don’t try to hold your breath,” the voice repeated, sounding annoyed.

“Who—! Who are…?” Ashterra coughed, unable to say more. The smell of the stuff was overpowering and made her head swim. She blinked, rubbed her tired eyes, scowling. She couldn’t see anything.

The Void swept over her, and she was gone.

When Ashterra woke up, she was ecstatic to be waking up at all. She was also lying down on a metal grate; the bars were hard and dug into her flesh. Ragnal was a desert planet and a hot climate, and her thin dress was meant for comfort and to be free flowing, so she was shivering in seconds. There was darkness all around her, though not the darkness of deep space—she’d already be dead if she were exposed to that.

Pushing to her feet, Ashterra stepped forward and smashed face-first into an invisible wall of some kind. She cried out and fell backwards onto her ass again. The Princess whimpered at the impact, winced, rubbed her backside. Then, with a frown, she stood up again and ran her hands across the wall. It was clear and smooth, curving inwards and around her in a cylindrical manner. Ashterra could reach out with both arms and press her palms flat against each side. The walls were cool to the touch.

“What is this place?” she murmured to herself.

“It’s a decontamination chamber,” said a voice from over her head. She recognized it as the voice from before—the one who’d told her not to hold her breath.

Ashterra yelped and looked up, squinting into the black. She couldn’t see anything.

“Also known as a decon-tube.”

“Who’s there?! Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?”

“Your captor. You’re on my ship, because you’re supposed to be here.” The voice sounded amused. Or bored. If she had to guess, it was a man’s voice, but the harsh tone of the speaker’s modulator made it difficult to tell.

“Your ship? But I was… How did you find me? How did I get here?”

He said nothing.

Ashterra raised her chin, gave a sniff. She wouldn’t be content with the silent treatment. “Well, all right, then. Name your price.”

“Price?”

She blinked. “You obviously kidnapped me for ransom.” Or to make some kind of example out of her, but Ashterra saw no reason to suggest that. “If you’ve such skill and know-how to find and capture the Emperor’s daughter, your price must be very high, so I want to hear it. What are you prepared to demand from my father for my release?”

“You think I’m doing this because I want the Emperor’s money?” The voice snorted. “You must not think very much of me if you’re suggesting I want anything to do with the Empire.”

“You don’t?”

“Do you really think I’d tell you if I was?”

“And why not?” she said with a huff. “I’m valuable. The two most powerful and wealthy families in all of the Imperium would pay you to get me back. I could make you rich beyond your wildest imagination.”

There was no answer, but given the muffled sound she heard, Ashterra had the intuition that the speaker was laughing at her.

That pissed her off. “Let me out!”

“Or what? You’ll tell me more about how valuable you are?”

She pounded on the walls of the tube. The impacts were deep, melodious thrumming sounds, vibrating in her ears. “I said let me out, you beast! You can’t keep me in here!”

“Actually, I can,” the voice said. He was bored—somehow, that offended Ashterra even more than them laughing at her. “If you expect being a princess to impress me, I have some bad news for you.”

“Let! Me! Out!” she screamed, pounding the walls with both hands on each syllable, as if the force of her anger was enough to shatter them. No such disintegration occurred.

“However,” the speaker continued, “you’re also a Ragnal—I cant risk you using your mind tricks to try and escape.”

Ashterra blinked again, licked her lips. “I don’t know any mind—”

“Because of that,” the voice said, cutting her off, “I’m forced to take steps in how to handle you. Thus: the decon-tube.”

“Steps?” Ashterra frowned. “What steps?”

As she spoke, she heard a metallic clunk near her feet: a circular part of the metal grate swung open, yawning down into the darkness under her feet. Ashterra didn’t hold any illusions about trying to escape through it—she was slender enough, but the hole was barely larger than her head.

“Your dress, Princess.”

Ashterra turned around in a full circle, glaring into the darkness. “What about my dress? What do you expect me to do?”

“Take off your clothes and your jewelry, and drop all of it into the hole.”

“Never!” She clutched the thin slip of her gown to her chest, covering her breasts entirely with one arm; the other clenched a fist in the low cut fabric above the curve of her ass and hips. Ashterra never had much thought for modesty, but the idea of disrobing in front of a stranger—a confessed kidnapper!—simply because they demanded it made her burn with angry indignation. And who knew what other, silent onlookers might be watching? “I’d never consent to such a thing, you…you beast!”

There was a pause. Then the voice said: “Suit yourself.”

A bright light bloomed over Ashterra’s head. She looked up in surprise, and a torrent of hot water poured over her—she got a mouth- and nose-full of the stuff and gagged, bent over as she coughed it up, retching from the force of it. She was soaked in seconds, from the tips of her hair to the soles of her feet inside her sodden slippers. The water came down with such force that it nearly pushed her to her knees, and only the clasps of her dress at her wrists kept it from being sucked down the drain at all.

“Stop!” she cried. “Please!” She squinted into the blackness surrounding the decon-tube in vain, still unable to see anything. Water poured down the clear walls in wide rivulets, throwing back a distorted, ugly reflection of herself: bedraggled, pitiful, ashamed.

The voice said nothing.

“Alright, alright!” She unfastened the bands at both wrists and drew the soaked fabric over her head, throwing the soggy lump down the little hole intended for it. “Happy now?!”

“The slippers.” The voice was harder to hear with water in her ears.

With a growl, Ashterra pulled off her footwear and threw them down next, fuming. The water continued its torrential downpour. It wasn’t scalding, but was noticeably hot, more so than anything she might’ve enjoyed in one of the marble- and gold-inlaid showers at any of her father’s palaces. The Princess slicked back her wet hair, hanging in a long line down her tanned back, and glared with defiance at her unseen captor through the steam and darkness.

“Now, the jewelry. All of it.”

She cursed her captor, pulling off her tiara and dropping it down the hole; the white gemstones twinkled and flashed in the shower’s blinding light before dropping out of sight. Her gold armband went next, and it was too loud with the water crashing in her ears to hear if the metal ever found the hole’s bottom.

She almost hesitated when she pulled off her ring—it was given to her by Grendel, her betrothed, in a grand ceremony that most of Imperial Space had witnessed earlier that year. They were to be married soon, even though she hadn’t seen him in months. Now, it was just a gem-crusted trinket that she couldn’t pull off her hand fast enough. If Grendel loved her, surely he could afford to get her another ring.

When she grabbed her mother’s chain, Ashterra finally paused. It was made of pale, gold links contrasting on her sun-dark skin, but there was sentimental attachment to it. It was the one thing of her mother Alyana’s that she never took off. The thought of doing so now seemed wrong, even cruel.

“All of it,” the voice repeated. There was no anger or force in that tone, only the plain, inevitable expectation of obedience.

Ashterra didn’t know if one could drown in a shower, but she didn’t savor the idea of finding out. It was a choice of survival, and she shuddered from an impossibly-cold chill amidst the hot deluge as she unfastened the chain, pressed a quick kiss to it, and dropped it down into the hole. She wasn’t likely to see it ever again, but her mother would’ve wanted her to give it up—possessions could always be replaced.

“There!” she said, pushing up against the water until she stood on both feet again, defiant, refusing to cover herself. She was lithe and lean, inheriting her mother’s diminutive figure and round bust, which were heaving from hard, angry breathing, nipples out-thrust. It was fashionable on Ragnal for women to keep themselves smooth and hairless below the neck, and the Imperial Princess didn’t have so much as a freckle or tan line to be seen. “There, you bastard—like what you see? Kidnap a girl just so you can make her put on a show? Well—” She threw her arms out, refusing to be cowed “—here I am!”

The shower’s downpour quickly slowed to a trickle, and Ashterra’s reflection disappeared. She swiped a hand across the streaked wall in front of her, then lowered her arms to her sides; it felt foolish to keep staring into the dark beyond the walls of her prison, but what else could she do? Standing there in her skin, shivering in the steamy air was it’s own kind of humiliation, but she didn’t dare show weakness now—her station demanded of no less her. But it was more difficult when there wasn’t a face with which to define her tormentor.

The light flickered over her head again. Ashterra looked up, saw something slowly descending towards her from whatever hiding place had held it until now. She reached up, plucking a slender, rounded object out of the air.

When Ashterra recognized the thing for what it was she dropped it as though she’d grabbed the tail of a three-fanged snake. It fell to the grated floor where it rattled, slowly spinning to a stop. It was a force-collar, a metal device the width of two fingers, with the appearance of brushed silver. She’d seen many such collars worn by slaves in her father’s palaces: it affected the wearer’s mind by way of electrical signals transmitted into the brain-stem and cerebellum. It could control emotions, thoughts and desire, even physical sensations, all the better to influence a slave that wore one.

“Put on the collar.”

“Oh no,” she said, her voice a hollowed whisper. “No, no, a thousand times no.” If she put it on, whomever held a collar’s controller would have her on an invisible leash. Even if she ran—if she even had the ability to run—the controller would lead its holder right to her. Once she put that collar on, only the person coded to the controller could take it off.

Slavery had existed in Cluster Space for as long as memory lasted. It was predominantly foisted on unfortunate women, although men weren’t immune to forced bondage. Some even sold themselves into it for a time, for purposes of paying off debt; she’d heard stories of unwanted children being sold, or husbands and fathers surrendering themselves for the sake of their family’s survival.

Ashterra had never owed any slaves herself, which made this twist of fate all the more bitter. She pressed herself against the wall opposite the evil thing; even looking at it made her skin crawl. “You can’t ask me to put that on. I won’t!”

“Put on the collar.”

“Why?” Ashterra sank down to the floor, her naked body sliding against the invisible surface behind her. She shivered harder, arms curled tight around her knees, yet couldn’t take her eyes off of the metal device. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Put on the collar, Princess,” the voice repeated.

She shook her head, wanting to curl into a ball and disappear. “I can’t,” she said, then repeated it with a wail. “I can’t! You can’t ask me to wear that! Don’t you know what that can do to a person?” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from it. “I’ll forget who I am if I put that on,” she said, her voice fading into a moan.

“Quit your whining. You won’t forget who you are—I need you compliant, not comatose.”

There was a long moment of silence when all Ashterra could hear was her soft, panicked breathing.

The speaker overhead cracked into life again. “Do you know how a decon-tube works?”

She hesitated, shook her head.

“It’s a closed eco-system: once it’s sealed, nothing gets in or out. If something contained inside can’t be decontaminated, it gets jettisoned.”

Ashterra’s blood went cold. “Y-you mean—”

“Into deep space, yes.” The voice gave her a moment to contemplate that horrible fate. “Now quit wasting time and put on the collar.” For the first time, the unseen speaker didn’t sounded bored, or amused, or anything of the kind. The only emotion in that voice was an expectation of obedience: she could either follow orders, or be pitched out an airlock like last week’s waste.

It was a matter of survival. Ashterra might’ve thought herself too proud to sink to putting a collar on her own neck, but she didn’t want to die. Compared to death—to not-existing—was putting on a force-collar really the worser choice?

Trembling, swallowing past the burning lump in her throat, Ashterra reached out and picked up the force-collar. It was a single piece of metal open at one end, cool to the touch. The metal felt bendable, pliable, like she could wrench it apart or even break it in her hands. She could imagine it coming to life, coiling about her forearm before sinking its teeth into her wrist.

Not knowing what to expect, angry and terrified, Ashterra grit her teeth and pried the collar open wide enough to slide it onto her neck. She’d never seen a force-collar put on someone before, but the cool alloy slid over her skin with a prickling sensation, tightening around the curve of her throat until it sealed itself closed. Biting her lip to keep from whimpering, she cautiously probed at it with her fingertips. It was a single, smooth piece of steel now, with a wide, flattened piece pressed flush against her neck, just above the last bone of her spine.

“This isn’t happening,” she whispered, trembling more violently now. Squeezing her eyes tight, she repeated, over and over in her mind: I am Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn, I am Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn, I am Ashterra—

There was another loud clunk below and Ashterra scrambled up to her feet. She looked down, dreading what might come next, wondering if her captor had toyed with her so long just so he could eject her into space after all.

Instead, a low humming noise was followed by a warm breeze blowing upwards. It started slow but became a steady, almost pleasant sensation through her toes, up her bare legs, applying a pleasant pressure between her thighs and over her soft pussy. She broke out in goose flesh for a moment and her hair began to bristle and blow over her head. She was dry in moments, save for her thick blonde hair.

It was hard to enjoy the warm breeze with the distraction of the collar around her neck. Was she noticing it herself, or was she being forced to think about it? Why wasn’t she lying on the floor sobbing and screaming with fear? What was going to happen to her? She couldn’t even trust her own body or thoughts, and had no way to take the collar off—only her captor had that power now.

A few moments later, the flowing air stopped and died away. Ashterra thought about begging for mercy, or trying to talk her kidnapper into accepting any price for her freedom, no matter how high. Surely her father would pay it. Instead, she raised her hands, pressed them against the curved wall of her prison. “Please let me out.”

To her surprise, the tube walls slid upwards with a metallic sound and a loud hiss. The darkness fell away, and she could see her surroundings at last: a metal bulkhead was at her back, along with a sliding door taller than she was. The room she was in was small, square-shaped. There was a light shining through a wide window on the other side of the room. Beyond it she could see stars flickering, passing by swiftly and with great speed, seen and forgotten in the same moment.

Someone was watching her—a person, a living thing, seated on the other side of the wide portal. It, or presumably he, was dressed in black armor of a mismatched style, more likely worn for serviceability and protection rather than for comfort. He wore a low-crested helmet with a long, shallow visor across his eyes painted black, so that she couldn’t see them. He sat in the ship’s pilot seat, staring right at her.

Modesty wasn’t something Ashterra struggled with—she didn’t care about it, wasn’t used to feeling it or caring how little she wore. Ragnal was a hot place, so she dressed accordingly, when she had to dress at all. But this man was an off-worlder, a stranger to her customs. The unseen stare of that man woke up something…unwanted inside her. She felt shy, even timid, which was a feeling that she was unacquainted with. Ashterra did not care for it.

But she still felt compelled to cover herself—whether she could see his eyes or not, the imagined weight of them made her blush, and then she was angry at herself for blushing at all. One arm wrapped across her breasts, while she shoved the other hand between her legs. She felt ashamed, frightened, aroused and angry at all of those things. It was one thing to show bravery against an unseen foe. It was something else when they we’re staring her down.

“I want my dress back,” she said, then quickly added, “And my jewelry. Please.”

He didn’t respond. If not for the shift of his shoulders, she wouldn’t have believed he was even breathing.

Cringing inside, hating it, she forced herself to say the next word aloud, hoping it didn’t come out in a shudder. “…Master.”

“I’m not your Master, Princess.” The bulkhead separating them meant she still heard his voice through a speaker, but now it was quite identifiably male. It also sounded hard, deep, with a hint of a growl of some kind.

One of the cockpit displays flashed; she saw a series of letters and symbols fly across the screen, followed by a series of whirring, sputtering beeps.

“Shut up, Zip,” the man said, annoyance in his voice as he slapped his hand against the console.

The pilot turned in his chair towards her left to face the cockpit. She spotted dozens of buttons and flashing screens through the window.

“What’s a Zip?”

“Autopilot. Not important.”

“May I have my dress back? Please?”

“Denied,” he said. “Your Ragnal stink might still be on it.”

“I don’t have a stink!” she protested. He deserved to be whipped, nerve-stapled and quartered for treating her this way, for even talking to her in such a manner!

“Matter of opinion,” he answered. He flipped a switch and a small light turned on over to her left. A small cot was set into the wall with a single blanket made draped across it.

Torn between anger and her new, aggravating streak of modesty, Ashterra hurried over to the little bed and grabbed the blanket, pulling it around herself. It didn’t stink, yet still smelled…off to her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever owned or even touched something so simple and poorly made and fought against an instinctive urge to throw it away. Silent, not trusting herself to speak, the Princess was very aware at her lack of garments; her skin chafed at the blanket’s rough texture, her nipples ached, and her tender quim felt almost-painfully exposed.

“Isn’t there anything…better?”

“No.”

“Oh. I see.” It struck her then, the size of the room, the unadorned walls, the grate floor, the barely-serviceable bed: she was in a cell. This was her prison.

Ashterra took a seat on the bed before pushing back to the wall, making sure to stay covered, pulling her legs to her chest. She felt a strange mix of Void-cold and burning-hot, but she couldn’t do anything about that.

Her kidnapper turned in his chair, stood up and walked out of sight—she could hear his boots ringing on the metal floor. He didn’t announce where he was going, and she didn’t ask.

Resting her forehead against her knees, Ashterra shivered. Her emotions were a numb, congealed black core in her belly…or perhaps, that was just what the force-collar wanted her to feel.

Ashterra woke up drenched in sweat. The blanket over her body was so sticky with it that she kicked it away, gasping for air. Her nude body was slick all over. It felt stifling in her little cell, so much so that she arched her back, opened her mouth and gulped air like she was drowning.

She was also horny—sweet fuck, but was she horny.

The princess swiped both hands up over her sweaty face, reached up to clench handfuls of her hair. She grit her teeth, closed her eyes and tried to concentrate—that bastard was probably using the collar’s controller to manipulate her, using it to lull her to sleep then waking her up in such a lewd, wicked fashion.

I am Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn, I am Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn, I am Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn—

The air in Ashterra’s cramped cell on her bare skin did nothing to soothe her, regardless of how naked she was. Such a craving was in her, burning between her legs like an open flame, and if she didn’t satisfy it somehow she was going to faint. She rolled over to her side, away from the cell window, as if not seeing him meant she didn’t have to think about him. It didn’t work, but she tried to block him out, to block everything out.

As Imperial Princess and heiress to her father’s throne, Ashterra was taught a number of necessary, if brutal lessons about what life meant for someone of her high station. Her father was the most powerful man in the entire Cluster; his reputation reflected onto her, and his accomplishments were hers to bear. Threats to her life were everywhere—the Empire’s enemies were always watching her, waiting for the right time and a moment of weakness to strike. It was why her father insisted on keeping them both moving, never settling down in one of his palaces for very long. She knew that she might be kidnapped or imprisoned, might be tortured, might even be killed in the service of the Empire. She’d accepted that reality, as much as she could.

But nothing could’ve prepared her for a fate like this. She’d never even considered it as a possibility, not even in her darkest dreams. Now a force-collar was around her neck, and it was definitely affecting her—crawling into her mind, overpowering her senses, making her so hot she’d fuck anything that moved if she could.

If she ever got a hand on her captor, she’d smash in his helmeted head or pull it off and claw his eyes out.

Ashterra was so hot that she felt ready to faint. It was just like the power her father had used to overpower her senses, but there were differences: the smell was her own musk and sweat, and the pressure in her head was more of a ringing bell than a painful pressure, the hum of it vibrating in her ears until she could barely even think, much less concentrate.

She had to do something. Not knowing or caring if her kidnapper was watching now, she sat up in the tiny sleeping space and turned to face the window where he’d been watching her. Ashterra squeezed her eyes shut, uncertain if the moisture creeping down her cheeks and temple was from sweat, or tears. The trickling that came from between her legs, it was much easier to discern where that came from.

Whether compelled to do it or unable to resist the urge, Ashterra slid a hand down her belly, drawing hot lines across her sweaty flesh. Propping her thighs open, the Princess brushed a fingertip over the top of her smooth mound and bit down on the blanket to keep from crying out: the hot flesh was swollen and tender to the touch, yet the sting of her caress was nothing next to the surge of pleasure that swept up her belly and burst against the tips of her nipples.

Whimpering, squeezing out more moisture at the corner of her eyes, Ashterra swept a pair of fingers down the cleft of her pussy. She grabbed a handful of blanket and it stuffed into her mouth to muffle a deep, shaking moan. She’d never been so aroused in her life, and she still craved more. She had to have more, but she didn’t spot her captor through the window.

Touching her clit sent such a jolt of power and pleasure through Ashterra so that her eyes opened wide and she went rigid; she rolled one shoulder and took a slow, deep breath to cover her surprise. Every flick of her fingertip, every rolling motion of the hot little nub, every grinding touch and firm press made her feel so good it was impossible to stop. She wanted someone on top of her; she needed to be fucked more than she’d ever needed anything.

Ashterra came so hard her jaw clenched and she froze in place, body tightening, legs constricting. She pressed down hard on her pelvic bone, grinding her palm against her mound, savoring the sweet, burning pressure as her cunt spasmed and squeezed, her inner walls craving for a cock, or a finger, or anything. But it wasn’t enough. A finger wouldn’t be enough. Cumming just one time wasn’t good enough.

The stifling air and small confines of her cell were torture. If she could just get her hands on that man who’s locked her in it, she’d show him just what she was capable of, force-collar or not. Ashterra had a body that men would die for, kill each other for. First she’d wanted to hurt him. Now she just wanted him.

Throwing away the sodden blanket, Ashterra threw one leg over the edge of the little bunk, followed by the other in a flourish. The Princess sat up, blinking away more tears and sweat, hands on either side, curled tight, breasts thrust out in front; her nipples felt hard enough to cut the glass. That was when she saw him. He was back in his chair, still dressed in his armor, still wearing his helmet. But he was facing her. Watching her. He didn’t stand up, but he didn’t turn away, either.

Ashterra had his attention, and she didn’t intend to squander it. She felt possessed, turned into another creature, a lithe serpent in the midst of shedding its skin or a chrysalis splitting open. Staring at his visor, she bent forward, reaching for her ankles, slid her fingers up her smooth legs, across her knees, which she spread open so wide that her hip joints ached from the strain. Gathering her hair up, she rolled her hips forward and pulled her hair high over her head; her chin rose, head falling back, collared neck exposed.

She hated that collar. Or maybe she hated what it was doing to her. Was this his doing? Was he watching her? Was he enjoying her show? Wishing she could see his face, Ashterra closed her eyes and let her hair fall back across her shoulders. She pushed out her breasts even more, cupped them in her hands, raised them for him to see.

She was beautiful. Ashterra knew she was beautiful—women envied her, wanted to be her; men lusted after her, wanted her for themselves, would do anything to have her. Surely this man would be like all the others. The Princess licked her lips, boldly stared him down. All she was could be his, if he wanted her badly enough…and Ashterra wouldn’t be satisfied until he wanted her.

This was unlike anything she’d ever remembered doing in her entire life, but it felt right. It was what she wanted. She felt free, freer than she’d ever been as spoiled, cared-for royalty. She didn’t care if the collar was making her feel that way—she wanted the collar for that moment. She found that she loved it, needed more of the bravado or lust it gave to her.

Ashterra raised one breast towards her mouth. Imagining that she was staring at her captor right in the eye, she licked her nipple, squeezing her breast in her fingers. She wanted to hold it out for him, watch him fall to his knees and take it in his mouth.

He never moved. The man was a cipher, a totally blank slate that Ashterra couldn’t predict or read, but that wouldn’t stop her. Letting her breasts go, she slid her hands down over her moist, smooth belly, feeling the shallow heat of her fingernails slithering over her skin. They left warm trails behind, an invisible little tattoo she could feel throbbing in her flesh. They swept across her navel, over her lower belly, so close to her mound and wet cunt that she took a sobbing gasp of a breath when she forced herself not to touch it—instead, her hands slid across her outstretched thighs, over her knees, and she ended up bent at the waist, clutching her ankles again.

It felt deliciously, dangerously lewd as she rolled back and raised one leg in a long, fluid motion, resting her foot flat upon the bed beside her. Her head fell to the side as a dark curtain of golden hair fell over one bare shoulder. Her cunt was open, exposed; her innermost folds and aching clit were on display for him to see.

Raising one hand to her lips, she stuck out her tongue and slid the length of her finger across it, getting it good and wet, so much that it dripped onto her stomach. Staring him down, Ashterra reached down and caressed those sweet, gaping folds just for him. She was still wet from her first orgasm, and the wicked sound of her folds moving, sliding against each other were wonderfully loud as she stroked her clit, rolling it back and forth. Pleasure surged in her loins, rolling up in a bright, yellow wave through her belly, quivering behind her breasts. Her nipples ached, pulsing with her own heartbeat as she slid two fingers into her empty cunny, then leaned back on one arm while splaying her lower lips wide open, letting him see things she’d never shown to any other man. She imagined that wet hole pulsing, throbbing for him, begging him to fill her up.

Ashterra let her head fall back and moaned aloud—just for him, only for him. The entire known universe fell away, swept into the nameless Void beyond anything she’d ever known. All that existed now was the two of them.

She was his, if he wanted her. And Ashterra most definitely wanted him to want her.

There was a sweet spot deep in her center, the one that would break her and send her spiraling, a bundle of sweet nerves near the underside of her clit. Sitting back on the bed, Ashterra found the familiar place with her fingertip and began to stroke herself with eager, feverish speed. The room seemed even hotter, more stifling than before, and the only way to counteract the feeling was to finish, to show him how much she wanted him.

Mouth open, eyes half-lidded, beaded with sweat and half out of her mind with lust, Ashterra fingered herself for his visual pleasure. Pushing up with her toes, she spread her legs wide, arching her back, showing her wet pussy off for him. She stole a peek and saw his armored shoulders moving up and down, the sign that his breath was quickening and that her show was affecting him after all. She would have laughed if she could have—not in mockery, but in victory.

Fuck me, she whispered in her mind, as if he could read the words on one of his screens. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Teeth clenched, back arched, rolling her hips like a trained pleasure slut, Ashterra looked at that faceless mask and whimpered the words aloud: “Fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefucknefuckmefuuuuck!” The last syllable rose in octave until it was a scream as she came—her cunt shuddered and squeezed tight when the orgasm exploded in her chest, stealing her breath. Mouth open, gasping for air, she shook and fell to her side on the bed, curling up tight as the unnatural heat inside of her seemed to burst out of her pores.

The room stank of sweat and her own feminine scent; moisture coated her thighs and oozed onto her small cot. Her body shook as she rolled over away from the door, thrusting her ass back towards him; her tight holes glistened in the cockpit lights, showing him just how much she needed him. If she didn’t have his cock inside of her soon, she was going to die.

But he didn’t move.

Weakened from the power of her climax, but still needy, still desperate for him, Ashterra rolled to her feet and stumbled to the window. Pressing her moist breasts and aching nipples to the glass, she offered herself to him—surely he had to see her physical need. It was going to kill her if he didn’t give her relief!

“Maaaaaaaster,” she moaned, begging him.

“I’m not your Master, Princess,” he said. His tone was almost the same as before, but she heard a catch in it, the faintest hint of something, like he was out of breath. After her show, she certainly hoped that he was.

Ashterra blinked the sweat out of her eyes. “I need you,” she said. “Please. Just... Just one time—“

He pressed a button on his console, and the window between them turned black.

“No!” she screamed, pounding with both hands, but the whole room had gone dark, as black as the space his ship was flying through. “Please!” she said, hitting the darkened portal again and again. “Please! Don’t…don’t do this…”

Ashterra’s heart broke. She was blind, lost, helpless, collared, naked, and alone. Turning, sliding down the wall to the floor, she buried her hands in her face and wept.

For all her young life, Ashterra Alyana’Garion Kirn was accustomed to a pampered life of luxury. Now that was gone, and she didn’t expect her life would ever be the same again, if she even survived at all.

Still crying, the Princess groped her way in the dark back to her bed, found the edge of it, and pulled herself into it. She huddled in the corner, pulled the thin blanket over her head, closed her eyes, and wanted to die. But the heat in her flesh and the lust coiled in her belly lingered, and somehow, that was even worse than the death she’d been denied.

“Wake up, Princess.”

Ashterra started up, banged her head on the low ceiling. Crying out, she opened her eyes and squinted at the window, which was once more opaque and gave her a view of the armored man in the cockpit. He was focused on flying again, facing off to her left towards what she assumed was the front of the ship.

“What do you want?” she said, sitting upright with a grunt.

“Cranky, are we? You were talking differently not too long ago.”

“And you were enjoying the show—don’t try to lie.”

“Any man in the Cluster would’ve enjoyed that show, Princess.” He said it with an honest sort of inflection, without shame. “It’s true, what they say about you.”

“What? What do they say about me?” Ashterra stood up, swaying for a second, hand against the bulkhead. She wasn’t drenched with sweat anymore, but she felt weak, and still stank.

He didn’t answer.

“What do they say about me?” she repeated, stepping up to the window. Her attempt at seduction had failed, and he’d had plenty of time to see her naked if he wanted, so she didn’t bother to cover herself anymore. Let him look if he wanted—it was becoming annoyingly apparent that he didn’t seem interested in her at all.

“Not my place to educate you on that, Princess.” He took the flight stick in hand as they headed for the nearest planet looming before them in the distance. If she turned her head and pressed her breasts to the window again, she could see out the cockpit window.

The huge orb turning in the empty sky was crimson, with huge black mountains running in jagged crags all across the northernmost hemisphere. Further east, she saw huge storm clouds spinning in a grey and black spiral, passing over a dark ocean. She couldn’t see which of the three suns that particular planet spun around, so there was no telling where they were.

“What planet is that?”

“Bashoon.”

She frowned. “Wherever in the Imperium is that? I’ve never heard of such a place.”

For the first time since their unfortunate meeting, her captor chuckled. It tumbled from inside his helmet like a warm wave of sound, and she felt things in her belly and her cunt tingle when she heard it. “Some places aren’t made for the likes of you, Princess.”

“I—” Ashterra cut herself off. Taking a breath to settle her nerves, she scowled at him. “You’ve kidnapped me, put a force-collar on me, brought me to whatever backwater end of Cluster-Space this is and you keep calling me that. I’m not a princess anymore. I probably won’t even be alive for much longer!”

“You’re taking all of this remarkably well.”

“How else am I supposed to take it?!” she said, pounding one hand against the window in her anger. “At this point I’d almost rather you put me back in the decon-tube and flushed me out with the rest of your garbage.”

They were descending over the planet now, and the deep red of the northern continent began to bleed into other colors: dark reds and browns, strips of irradiated green and russet gold. She could spot bodies of water, dark blue or black from so high up. She heard static and electronic noises coming from the console, watched him press a series of buttons, saw colored messages of red, blue and white flicker across several computer screens and then fade away. If anyone was hailing him, he didn’t answer.

“Wait—this is a Corsair,” she said, eyes widening. Corsairs were less of a style of ship and more a class of their own—they didn’t respond to commonly-used communication frequencies, didn’t follow recognized shipping routes or answer Imperial acknowledgement requests. Corsairs didn’t swear allegiance to anyone: Imperial, Hastari, or otherwise. They followed no power but themselves. “This is a pirate ship,” she said. “You’re a pirate.”

He didn’t react, or even look at her. “Just a man trying to make a living, Princess. The Thrall is my ship; I made her what she is. We can’t all luck out because of who our father was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your father’s a murderous bastard, and if you’re smart, you’ll be more careful about who you talk to about him—plenty of people would’ve flushed you out of the airlock already if they knew who you really are.” He pressed more buttons on his console, slid down several levers as the ship decreased in speed. “Be thankful I’m not one of them.”

Ashterra tensed, immediately defensive, but she bit her tongue to keep from arguing with him—she was still his prisoner, after all. Still, she refused to stay completely silent. “I want my necklace back.” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “It was my mother’s. She…she’s dead. She gave it to me. It’s the only thing of hers I have left.” She licked her lips. “When she was killed, my father destroyed or threw away anything that reminded him of her.”

“Not my problem anymore,” he said. “Or yours, for that matter.”

“Please.” Maybe it was something in her voice, maybe it was the word itself, maybe it was something she couldn’t even guess at, but for the first time, she saw him pause, his hands hovering over his console. He finally turned, looking at her. Because of his helmet, his unseen eyes, it was impossible to detect any sense of emotion at all. Fully bared, stripped of possessions, faculty and everything else, with both hands on the windowpane, she stared at him, not daring to look away on the slimmest chance he might somehow relent.

That moment seemed to last for an age. Then he fell back in his chair. She heard him sigh, a metallic ring of a sound through the speaker. The man looked up at the low ceiling over his head, then went back to flying. They’d passed into the upper atmosphere by that time, and the sky was starting to turn a deep, coppery tint. “I’ll hold onto it,” he said. “For now.”

A hot surge of something like hope flared to life in her breast. “Oh, thank—”

That was a preview of The Captured Princess: A Tale of Domination in Deep Space. To read the rest purchase the book.

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