Crossing an ankle over his knee, Arden played his role to perfection. “This is where you tell me, Mistress Drinta, how you wish to be treated in this interaction. Do I grovel? Is aggression more interesting to you? Threats? Negotiation could be amusing... for us both.”
Drinta sat tranquilly, mirroring a predator’s stillness. “The Tessan Authority finds your empire’s growth in power unsettling. Offering access to a warmongering species might complicate my comfort.”
“Your sisters have labeled you as an intergalactic felon, pretty Drinta. Your former piracy gave you an intriguing reputation. But decimating and systematically destroying the Uresa Quadrant...” Arden smiled, a beautiful thing on a face created to attract. “Now, the Tessan Authority wants your head in a box.”
“Perhaps I was a bit overzealous in my younger days.” Green shoulders shrugged, scales catching a trace of distant flashing light.
“And now you keep court here,” Arden agreed, fully aware of her blood-soaked history and the purposelessness of her previous violence. She had killed for the pleasure, simply because she could, taunting intergalactic governments to rise up and stop her. But it had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. With age came wisdom. Stealing Pax Station from the previous overseers had been her last great conquest. She would never give it up—not like the planets she’d brought to their knees and let slip away once she became bored. Here she was a god, controlling one of the most valuable resources in the galaxy—the byway—and its access that could slice across space in a matter of minutes.
Tolls made her rich, but she did not reinvest the money into her dilapidated space station. Arden could see she liked her mire just as it was.
For Drinta, it had never been a question of wealth; it was a desire for power. Pax was her trading floor—import, export, slaves, intelligence, contraband—everything was allowed so long as one paid the proper monetary homage.
“How many planets does he have now?” The hiss in her voice, how it stretched the words, was musical.
“Many...”
She smiled back, sharp teeth on display. “And your ships?”
“Are legion.”
“Legion.” The word rolled off Drinta’s tongue. “Pretty expression.”
Standing from his overly cushioned seat, Arden moved toward the energy barrier separating the Mistress’s plush balcony from the dingy venue. Club Swelter, the perfect example of the ancient human idea of sin, functioned as the nucleus of Pax. Far more than an entertainment spot, the hollowed out hive was infested: Dregs fondled the dancers as they made their trade. Smugglers, stocking up on whatever illicit item could be found, amused themselves as they negotiated. Unsavory mercenaries for hire drank, and fought, and pissed in the corners. Junkers came for the coin of hauling off garbage and dragging back the second-hand parts required to maintain the station’s life-support. The room was full of shouting voices who bartered and barked for what they were owed. But the most powerful in the station’s den of iniquity were the slavers. They were always there; they were always abundant, delivering or purchasing new stock and raking in the profits.
Pax slaves, though illegal in many cultures, were coveted—considered to be broken perfectly. The best.
How fantastic the livestock was, considering the venue.
Drinta neglected the upkeep of the station; decks clung by a tether. On a regular basis, pieces of Pax fell off, floating away to orbit amidst a disturbing asteroid belt of garbage. Everything was dim and dank… yet the slaves were lovely. Every species, every gender, anything one might want in the form of living pleasure made available for the right price—always tempting, always on display.
Throughout Swelter, exotic creatures danced, writhing on their platforms, some available for patrons to touch and handle as they pleased, shadowed just enough to make fucking appear somewhat mysterious. Enticing.
Drinta’s well-guarded balcony sat where she could easily enjoy the show—where her subjects could see her and never forget who was in charge. From the vantage, Arden took in the levels, surveying the debauchery. But it was not the nearest pleasure slaves, posing once they saw a guest of the Mistress look their way, who caught his attention. Golden eyes were drawn to one twisting her body in a distant swath of hanging red silk.
Painted limbs twirled, lean muscle manipulating her net in complicated figures.
The p
erformer climbed dangerously high on that crimson drape, the slave suspended over her audience where one slip up would culminate in a messy fall to her death. Yet, she projected serenity, power, the daring acrobat spinning so fast the world from her eyes must have been only a blur.
And down she went, a river of flesh rippling over blood red silk, spinning, falling, torsion mangling her showcase.
It was beautiful, her figures promising fulfillment or ruination in that frantic descent. A breath from the floor she froze, toes pointed, limbs free, holding on to the fabric with nothing but one coiled leg.
Drinta eased beside the high-ranking human, eager to see what might pique the interest of the Imperial emissary. She too found the swath of red silk and the frozen spider tangled in it.
Ahh, yes... a human female. How ordinary.
Each passing flash of light and the observers took what they needed from the scene: the sheen of sweat when the performer shifted, slipping out of her drape to display nudity save a few scraps of black and her collar. Tranquility radiated from her, the slave smoothing plum colored hair from her face.
Without warning, the slave stopped preening and leapt from her platform to race through the leering crowd. Her target, a mountain of muscular Axirlan, stood stolid awaiting her approach, arms crossed over his bare chest.
Like others of his species, the huge male did not emote. He did not return her exuberance or expression. Humanoid, skin silvery white, larger than all around him, he exuded innate strength—his peoples’ defining feature, something they broadcasted with little more than a ripple of movement.
The slave seemed undisturbed by the Axirlan’s mass, his cold expression, or the fact he could break her in half with little more than a flick of his wrist. She looked only to adore, falling to her knees at his feet, eager, glowing, and ready to please.
“How sweet. The female is offering affection to her keeper.” A small, amused curl came to sculpted angular lips, Drinta’s eyes shining at the display. “Just watch and see how well our slaves are trained.”