She had told him to arm himself. Need drew a deep breath and reached for his blaster…only to find the holster empty.
He looked down at himself, patting his belt and trousers in mounting horror. How could he have come unarmed?
Must have been so upset I forgot to grab my blaster!
Well, there was no helping it now. What else did he have?
Nothing in the cabin presented itself but then he caught another glimpse at the scenery outside. Growing at the base of the tall, thin trees were long strands of sword-grass—so named for its murderously sharp edges. Need knew at once that it might be his only hope.
Jumping out of the shuttle, he ran to pick some of the longer, thicker strands—as sharp as razors and as tough as iron bands.
It was the best he could do—it would have to be good enough.
Fifty-Five
“Now then, girlie, on the bed,” Drung ordered, the minute they got into the run-down cabin with warped wood paneling and a dirty, threadbare carpet on the floor. “No time like the present to begin breeding my heir into you!”
Lan’ara felt her throat go dry with horror.
“But…but don’t you want me to wash up first?” she asked, barely getting the words out. “Don’t you wish me to be clean before you…before you breed me, my Lord Drung?”
The appeasing tone and courteous words were a hold-over from her training—they came to her lips automatically as she tried desperately to think of a way out.
But the Trollox shook all three heads.
“Nah, girlie—I like my females dirty, so I do,” the middle head said, leering at her. “The dirtier the better, in fact!”
“But surely not dirty with the smell of another male!” Lan’ara exclaimed, thinking quickly. “Do you not wish me to wash the scent of Senator Pouncenblast off?”
“Hmmm…” Drung frowned, appearing to consider for a time. At last he frowned. “Don’t like the smell of another male on my female, so I don’t,” he finally declared. “Very well, girlie—you can have five moments to wash your private bits. Go in there.” He jerked his thick, sausage thumb at a door beside the bed. “Five moments, mind you—that’s all you get, so you do. So be quick about it!”
“Yes, of course. Thank you!” Lan’ara exclaimed and fled into the small room.
Once inside, she found it was a bathroom, just as she had thought. She looked around frantically, hoping for a way out.
But it was clear that Drung hand taken pains to make sure she couldn’t escape. There was a broad window in one wall which Lan’ara could easily have climbed through…if it hadn’t been boarded up. And since she didn’t have any kind of a pry-bar to get the nails out, there was no getting out that way.
She spent a moment gazing yearningly at the bright, tropical daylight shining through the cracks in the boards and then turned her attention to looking for something she could used to defend herself.
Or to end myself, she thought.
For she had decided in the shuttle that she would rather die than be taken by the Trollox—and she intended to follow through with that.
I’ll take my own life before I’ll be owned by him or any male ever again, she swore to herself.
And that was when she saw a faint gleam of silver in the corner of the small room.
It was hiding in the shadow of the rusty, dirt-encrusted tub and never would have been visible without the shaft of sunlight coming through the cracks in the boards. But it almost seemed as if the sunbeam was showing her the way.
Stooping, Lan’ara picked it up.
It was a plasti-steel razorblade. A sharp one too—she nicked the tip of her finger with it, picking it up, and her fingertip welled with blood. It must have fallen out of a personal shaver—maybe belonging to the last person who had stayed at the tumble-down beach cabin. Some happy vacationer who’d had no clue that the person who found what he had dropped would be fighting for her life.
Never mind that, now, Lan’ara told herself. You have it—you have your weapon.
Yes, she did. And she was going to use it—one way or another.
But let’s be honest, Lan’ara, whispered a little voice in her head. You can’t kill a nine-foot-tall Trollox with a two-inch-long razor blade—there’s just no way. The idea of using it as a weapon is ridiculous.
She picked it up and held it in her hand. It blinked like a little sliver of light—the sliver you see through a crack from a mostly closed door. And Lan’ara understood that, while it couldn’t be a weapon, it could be that for her—it could be a door. A way out of this situation once and for all.
She put the sharp tip to her wrist, poised over the blue bracelet of veins on the tender underside of her arm. Just a few swift moves—that was all it would take. Just a few painless slices and it would be all over.