Galactic Odyssey Ch. 01

This woman was obviously an experienced professional and I couldn't argue with her logic. After at least eight hours on my feet, the prospect of going back to my cell without being put through the wringer was a powerful incentive. Based on previous experience, there was one thing I knew about torture: When someone gives you a chance to get out of it, you take it.

"Sounds good," I said with more bravado than I actually felt. "Where do I sign?"

"We'll record it on camera. I'll read the entire thing and you say 'I confess' - understood?"

I nodded. "Understood."

"Great. Maybe you're smarter than your rap sheet suggests."

She read out my confession, which had conveniently been prepared for me, so I didn't need to get creative. It was a long list of transgressions, starting with the stupid Mindats and many other crimes, none of which I had any memory of committing. And of course I had acted alone - Morrisson, Commander Mikhailov, and the other corrupt thugs were left out of the picture. I would have loved to take them down with me, but that was not in the cards. I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the return to my cozy cell.

"I confess," I said, after she had finished reading, knowing that I had just confirmed my death sentence.

Petrova was pleased with her work. "Very good, darling."

Before she walked out the door, she turned around. "One last thing. Your name's not really Andara Kale, right?"

"No, Ma'am," I admitted, because soon it wouldn't matter anyway.

She sighed.

"Oh, whatever, I'm not reopening the file now. I'll send someone to take you down."

That was the last I saw of her.

*

It took at least another hour until the guards appeared to escort me to my cell. They put me back in full restraints and dragged me through the corridors. I had missed breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but at least I could suck some water from the tap in my cell.

It was then when the stress was really getting to me. I collapsed on the bed and cried for a while. Usually, I was pretty tough and it took a lot to make me cry, but having a death sentence hanging over my head was a completely new experience. There was an old joke among criminals that proved to be true: your first death sentence really was the hardest.

*

The next morning, the sham military court was back in session. Since they already had my recorded confession - courtesy of Ms. Petrova - my presence had not been necessary and they delivered the sentence through the PA system. After some preliminaries, they finally got to the point.

"... and for your crimes, you are hereby sentenced to two hundred whip lashes, to be executed over the course of four weeks. At the end of that time, you will be hanged by the neck until dead. May the gods have mercy on your soul."

Until today, more than twenty years later, I can still remember every word of that announcement. It is impossible to describe the shock and the feeling of despair when you know that you're going to die. The finality of it hit me all at once and even though I knew it would be coming, a small part of me had been clinging to hope, thinking that somehow it might turn out okay. But it didn't.

I wailed, frantically pulling on my cuffs that were safely attached to the waist chain. It was unfair and heartbreaking, going down for crimes I hadn't even committed, all alone, at the end of the galaxy.

For the first time in years I thought about home. How I had been a wild, headstrong child with a thirst for life and adventure, unstoppable, never giving in, not listening to anyone, even though my parents and teachers had warned me that I would end up in prison, enslaved, or worse.

They had been right about everything.

*

After three weeks, one hundred and fifty lashes and countless more or less consentual fucks in my cell, my dumb luck was finally making its glorious comeback. From my window I could see the energy shield collapse, and for the first time, artillery shells were hitting the ground, leveling the city block by block.

When breakfast didn't arrive the next day, I knew that the guards had fled, leaving us prisoners to our fate. Later in the afternoon, there was a bit of shooting outside, but it didn't sound like major combat. Rebels took the palace and it wasn't long until I heard the sound of heavy combat boots outside my cell.

It was now or never. Get your act together, girl, give them the show of your life!

A young guy in military fatigues with an assault blaster on his shoulder opened the door. He had an athletic build, a military buzz cut and looked like he was barely out of his teens. This would be easy.

I looked at him with sad puppy eyes. "Praise to the gods! Please, get me out of here," I begged and even squeezed out a few fake tears. "My name's Jelena, I'm with the resistance."

He looked at me in shock. With the dark rings under my eyes, testament of my insomnia, and the shredded back I was the picture of pure misery.

"They wanted me to give up my group," I sobbed, like I had practiced. "They tortured me for weeks! And they raped me, again and again! Please, I'll do anything if you get me out of here. Anything!"

It wasn't a complete lie. In my book, the whippings definitely counted as torture, I just wasn't sure about the rapes. Sure, the guards had fucked me six ways to Sunday, but that was normal prison business and I hadn't really resisted. Considering that I was in for one of the most heinous crimes against Ildarian society, it hadn't been that bad. But then again, the finer points of ethics had never been my strong suit. Truth or not, the guy was seriously pissed and if any of the guards had been captured alive, they probably wouldn't be for long.

"Fucking bastards! But don't you worry, sister, you're safe now. I'll get you out of here."

What can I say? Men are suckers for a pretty girl with a sob story.

"Could you get me out of these chains, please?"

He tried a few keys on the keychain that he had lifted from the guards until he found one that fit. Moments later he had relieved me of my cuffs and for the first time in weeks I was able to use my hands again. I groaned and stretched my arms.

"Wait a sec," he said, opening his daypack. "I got something for your wounds."

After he had carefully coated my back with a military grade healing agent and pain killer, I felt better almost immediately. And believe it or not, he refused his well-deserved reward, even though I offered. Instead, he gave me a T-shirt that he had found and escorted me to the gates.

Who says chivalry is dead?

*

Outside, I came across one of the female guards who had been stupid enough to try and defend the palace. I took her boots which she didn't need anymore, but decided against taking the rest of her clothes. Wearing a Republican uniform was not a good idea when the city was teeming with rebels.

I quickly left before anyone could figure out that Jelena, the resistance fighter, was a figment of my imagination. My best bet at this point was hitching a ride at the space port nearby, five kilometers from my current location and with all the chaos going on in the city, I was confident that I could make it if I kept my head down. The heavy artillery fire raining down on parts of the capital made sure that nobody noticed a girl wearing nothing but boots and a baggy T-shirt.

It was a shame that I couldn't risk clearing out my safe deposit box though. The central bank was on the other side of town and even if I could get there, the rebels were probably looting the place already. The rest of my money was just as impossible to reach - duct taped inside a ventilation vent on board of the Mariah's Virtue. I had to get used to the idea that I wouldn't see any of it ever again.

*

Out of breath I arrived at the space port and snuck in without trouble. There was no security personnel around, they were probably busy saving their own hides. I knew the port well enough and made my way to the first landing pad where a Tungsten Mark VII interstellar freighter was just about to depart. The rusty old thing didn't inspire much confidence, but beggars can't be choosers. And with no money, I needed to rely on my charm to secure a ride off this rock.

"You're the captain of this fine vessel?" I asked the guy who was standing outside, closing the cargo hatch.

"What do you want?" he asked without turning around.

"I'm Evangeline, and I need a ride. Where are you going, skipper?"

"Zesta Station, but I don't take passengers."

"What a coincidence, that's exactly where I'm headed," I said, giving him my most radiant smile. In fact, any destination out of the system would do perfectly. "I'll work for the ride. I'm a very good cook."

"We already got a cook."

Oh well, it was worth a try. Time to play my ace.

"Do you gentlemen need a ship's whore?"

"Look, I'm not wasting my money on a whore. And now scoot, this shithole planet is getting crazier by the minute, I want to launch while I still can."

Giving up was not an option, so I pulled up the T-shirt, wiggling my boobs and softly stroking my pussy.

"See something you like, baby? I'm cheap, I work for room and board and I'm a three-hole slut. I'll make your dreams come true."

It was a cheesy, undignified pitch, even for me, but subtlety would have been wasted on this cargo hauler. I had only one shot and I needed to close the deal.

He was staring at my bouncy tits and scratched his head.

"I could audition," I offered. "I'm very, very good. Get your dick out, I bet I can get you off in less than two minutes."

Once again, the male part of the species didn't disappoint. The prospect of free young pussy on a three-month trip to Zesta - way too good to refuse.

"Alright, alright, get your ass on board. If you got any luggage, you better get it now, we're leaving in five minutes."

I grinned. "Nope, I don't. I like to travel light."

*

Goodbye, fuckers, I thought, when the ship lifted off some fifteen minutes later. You had your chance and you blew it. You won't be seeing this sexy ass any time soon.

On the trip, between keeping the eight man crew happy and helping out in the kitchen for some extra credits, I spent my time working out elaborate plans for revenge. If Morrisson thought he could frame me without any consequences, he was in for a surprise.

None of my plans were ever set in motion, however. Mikhailov had not survived the fall of the city and Morrisson, being a master of his craft, was nearly impossible to track down.

He ran out of road a couple of years later, before I could get to him. Evidently, not all clients were willing to accept that losing a shipment of illegal cargo was a normal business risk. After years on the run, he was shot dead by a bounty hunter in a seedy bar on Ragnar Station.

The hamster business had finally caught up with him.