Melody · Part 1

Melody · Part 1 (1/2)
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Even though she expected it, M’rerallie Clan Chumf winced when the grey metal wall suddenly appeared in front of her starfighter. She’d always found coming out of stasis to be a bit disconcerting.

Earlier, she and her cousin had set on a rich prize of a freighter, and two Commonwealth starfighters had come racing in to its rescue. One of them came straight at her, his quad autoblasters hammering her shields, and she threw her starfighter into a twisting turn while dropping her shield’s threshold to an insanely low two percent. Just in time: A final burst brought her shields below the ten percent that normally triggered stasis.

She flew a pure evasive pattern, trying to buy time for her shields to regenerate, but he stuck to her like a tick-seed in her fur. A deliberately low-power shot splashed against her depleted shields, and a familiar voice came over her comm.

“Give it up, Melody. I’ll stase you if I have to, but I’d rather not risk the leak-through and I don’t think you’d want to either.”

He was right, demons take him. A full-power hit would overload her shields, turning them into a stasis field – but not before the excess energy came through them to hit her.

“Code White,” she had sent back as she cut off her engines. Then, flipping open the protective cover, she had toggled a final surge through her shield generator, sending her starfighter into stasis.

Now she must be in a Commonwealth tender, in the ‘iron box’ used to thaw stasised fighters. Trying to blast her way out would not only be futile, but hissrush as the sarm would say: Both discourteous and dishonorable. She opened her canopy and began the process of surrender.

She removed her flight helmet and threw it over the side, then took a moment to rub the cramps from her ears. The vids undoubtedly trained on her would see a feline face with a broad nose and large green eyes, surrounded by the mane that most Narnow females possessed. Next over the side went her antique blaster, after first ejecting the power cells. After that, her boots, followed by the rest of her flight suit. She stretched, one hundred and fifty-two centimeters of nude feline, flicked her tail, and swung over the side of her starfighter to drop on the deck.

The air and the deck were warm, heated by the energies used to de-stasis her starfighter. She sauntered jauntily to the hatch, stopped when it opened before her, clasped her hands behind her neck, and took three careful steps into the next chamber before dropping to her knees.

Max Anders was waiting there. He was human, built on the same bipedal plan as the Narnow, but tailless and with nude skin rather than stripped fur. He had on the short pants and shirt that pilots and other spacers usually wore when the life support was running warm, and his heavy boots clumped on the deck as he stepped toward her.

The last time they had met, he had been the barefoot one, and she had worn the boots. Demons take it, if only she had zigged instead of zagged, their score would now be tied. As it was… “M’rerallie Clan Chumf,” said the voice she had last heard from the comm, “I offer you mirlivima. Do you request the Right of Stasis?”

“No,” she answered with equal formality. “I am mirlivima.” Under the Epsilon Conventions, she might have demanded to be put into stasis until the next prisoner exchange. But the Epsilon Conventions also recognized the custom of mirlivima. It had originated among the Narnow in their pre-spaceflight days, but the other species among the Sagittarian Pirates had long since adopted it: Humans, Sarm, Baylee, and all the others. More recently, the forces of the Orion Commonwealth had adopted it as well.

“Welcome aboard Tender 94, Melody,” Max went on less formally. He brought out a set of memory-leather straps, and she didn’t resist as he bound her, pinning her arms to her sides and binding her legs at knees and ankles. The straps were familiar – they had been made to her measurements a few years back. His man-scent was familiar too, and when he picked her up she tried to keep from breathing it too deeply. Not that it was unpleasant – quite the opposite. Demons take it, she didn’t care what the medicos said. There had to be pheromones in his scent. Why else would she feel that weakness in her knees, that fluttering in her belly, that craving for the sensation of his clever fingers in her fur?

Their first stop was at the shower. Melody admitted to herself that they both needed it after hours in the cockpit. She just didn’t want to be reasonable about it.

“You’re doing this to torture me,” she grumped. If she was grumpy, maybe she wouldn’t turn goopy on him.

“Torture?” Max raised an eyebrow at her. “I’ll be right in there with you. In fact…” He stepped into the deluge. “Not too hot, not too cold. Here.” His hands reached out to lift Melody off her feet and pull her into the shower with him.

“Nooo!” she moaned as the warm water drenched her. She squirmed, but memory-leather held her fast, and the shower’s safety-field kept her from falling.

“Oh come off it Melody. I know very well that you use the shower over on your own Amazon Princess.”

“Set to misting. I don’t let it soak me. You don’t have to worry about wet fur. Well, not as much as I do,” she amended.

“So we use shampoo, instead of soap. Like this.”

Warm water wasn’t so bad, Melody admitted privately to herself, once one got past the initial soaking. It was worth it to be clean again. She relaxed and leaned against Max as he lathered her. And if you’re going to go goopy on him anyway, what’s the problem with drinking in his scent?

Thirty minutes later, they entered the pilot’s lounge, clean and dressed. He was back in the day’s uniform: Boots, shorts, and short-sleeved shirt. She wore an even skimpier costume: Barefoot, with a Old Terran bikini of blue silk, Baylee dancing bells locked on her upper arms, on her ankles, and near the tip of her tail, and narnow slave-thimbles on her fingers. These last were silver cups set with synthetic gems that prevented her from extending her claws. Nor could she remove them: Fine chains ran from each fingertip to a bracelet locked around the wrist. They were splendidly barbaric, she thought as she wiggled her fingers to make the gems flash. Just the thing for an untamed mirlivima.

Two other pilots from Max’s squadron waited for them. “You already know Algigu,” Max said. The lean Juddoian looked up from his trilute and nodded a greeting. “And this is Lieutenant Te’oaarl Clan Tiyah,” Max indicated the male Narnow. “He joined us since your last visit. Terry, this is Melody clan Chumf, the pilot I picked up during yesterday’s patrol.”

“So you are the trouble-maker Max was telling us about.” Terry leered at her, human-style, then flicked his ears in amusement when she hissed at him. Max grinned as well.

“Don’t worry about him,” he said. “Terry is pair-bonded to Janet Tiyah-Dunn, the tender’s engineer. She’ll have his whiskers if he does more than look at another female.”

“Ah,” Melody said. “One of those. But…” she looked another question at the three Commonwealth pilots.

“Flight Officer Boronus transferred out some weeks back,” Algigu explained. “And Kim is currently entertaining your cousin Holly.”

“You must have missed it in the furball,” Max said, “but Holly managed to stase both my kid brother and the freighter you were chasing, I saw the Amazon Princess pick them up after you surrendered. We’d drifted in our personal fight, and I was too far out of position to stop them.”

“Fortunes of war,” Melody purred, giving him a grin. Max returned a rueful shrug in agreement. Her ancestors would have been shocked by her grin, but the strict segregationist policies of the old Terran Empire had ended centuries ago, along with the Empire itself. Now the different species lived together – grew up together – in both the Orion Commonwealth and among the Sagittarian Pirates. As a result, they adopted many of each other’s gestures.

It also meant that the concept of ‘species loyalty’ was as dead as old Terra itself. Loyalty was to ones planet, or to the Commonwealth or the Sagittarian Brethren as a whole. Melody did not expect any special sympathy, much less aid, from Terry, any more than Max’s little brother Kim would expect special treatment from the human members of the Amazon Princess. The very concept was something from bad historo-drama, and applying it to the present would be like equipping a modern starship with a coal-fired powerplant.

“Speaking of the fortunes of war,” Max said. He pulled a remote from a pocket and thumbed the illumination down, leaving Melody in a pool of light. “It’s time for you to dance.”

Melody expected this, of course. It was traditional for mirlivima to dance for her – or his – captor’s friends. In fact, Melody would have been insulted if Max didn’t call on her to dance. She was a good dancer, unlike, say, Max himself. Cousin Holly had snickered for weeks after that performance. So as Algigu began a tune on his trilute, Melody stretched, flicked her tail, and began to dance.

The dancing-bells she wore jangled prettily as she spun and gyrated, and the gems on her slave-thimbles flashed in the light. Algigu wove the dance tune as only a Juddoian could, making use of all three hands. The other two pilots kept time with applause sticks as her bare feet drummed on the decksole, then clattered them in an imitation of human-style applause when the dance ended. She panted heavily from the exertion, but tried to control her breathing when Max stepped over and scooped her up. She knew that she would succumb to his delicious scent eventually, but – not now, not yet. Oh? And why not?

A service-bot brought food and drink, and they all set to. Somehow, a memory-leather strap showed up as well, and Melody found herself in the crook of Max’s arm, eating dainties from his hand while her own were bound behind her.

Eventually, Terry and Algigu took their leave. “We have patrol to fly tomorrow morning,” Terry said.

“And datawork to fight before then,” Algigu added. “Sometimes I think the proper division of the universe is not between the Commonwealth and the Pirates, but between the pilots and the data-pushers.”

When the other two pilots were gone, Melody nipped at Max’s fingers. “So, you’re not completely tamed yet, are you?” Max said.

“I will never be completely tamed,” Melody answered. “If it weren’t for these,” she shrugged to indicate her bonds, “I would scratch you right now.” As a mirlivima she had to at least pretend to be dangerous.

“Then I’ll keep you tied until we get back to my quarters.” So saying, Max picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.

Back in his quarters, Max stripped Melody of bikini and bells. That was all right: Those things would only get in the way, in his bunk. He also removed the slave-thimbles, while leaving her wrists bound in the memory-leather. That was all right too: She could stretch her claws and pretend to be dangerous, and he would pretend along with her, but of course neither of them would actually hurt the other, or even offer insult. And so with her wrists bound to satisfy honor, she could relax and admire him.

Somewhere along the way, he had stripped off his own clothes. Melody admired his alien, male body as he propped her up with pillows and strapped her down, restraining her tail and fastening her ankles well apart. The feel of clever hands in her fur that promised more to come. The odd, tough-tender, nearly naked skin of his, that he displayed before her. The muscles under that skin, that possessed such uncanny endurance. She could exhaust herself against them, and they would continue to hold her, unflagging in their strength.

She breathed in his male scent and made herself face him. No doubt she would be mush before the night was over, but pride required that she not start out that way. Besides, there was that wicked glint in his round-pupiled eyes, as he turned from her to hunt through the draws of his tiny desk.

“Do you remember when you first fell mirlivima, and I asked you what you would do if the situation were reversed?” he asked.

“Yes.” Melody hoped that Max wouldn’t remember her answer. She squirmed in his bunk, but the memory-leather held her perfectly.

“And do you remember what you did when I finally fell mirlivima to you that last time?”

“Yes,” Melody answered more cautiously. It seemed as if Max did remember.

“Well then.” Max turned back to her, with a feather in his hand.

“You wouldn’t. Would you?”

Max sat on the bunk and applied the feather-tip to Melody’s naked left sole. “I need you tame before I can sleep tonight,” he explained. “This is one way of getting there.”

“Oh,” Melody said. She grimaced and squirmed as the feather traced lightly over her foot. “Oh, no, he… he-he,” she began to giggle. Her parents had had her feet declawed when she was a young kitten, so that she could wear shoes and boots like a civilized Narnow. And as a result her soles were soft and deliciously ticklish.

Max shifted and began to tickle her right foot with his fingers, while still applying the feather to her left foot. “Ticklish, are you?” he asked rhetorically. But Melody was laughing so hard, now, that she didn’t know if she could answer. Besides, she hated, really really hated, admitting just how much she enjoyed being tickled.

Max knew, however, judging from the confident way he went about the task. Possibly it was from the all the hints she had dropped, when they were together before. Or maybe her cousin Holly had told him. Or perhaps this was just a gentle revenge for all the tickling she and Holly had put him through, the one time when he had been her mirlivima.

Speculation ended when Max abandoned her left foot to impose a vigorous two-handed tickle on her right. Melody yowled with laughter, and thrashed wildly – and uselessly. The memory-leather straps held her perfectly helpless, as he switched back to tickling both feet at once. The sensation on her soles was impossibly, unbearably sweet, and secondary waves of pleasure washed up her legs and down her tail. “Ohh ho ho ho, ha, he he he,” she laughed.

At long last he stopped, letting her catch her breath, giving her a drink of water. “Are you tamed now, Melody?” he asked.

“I… yes. Mostly,” she answered. She wanted him to continue tickling her, but she wanted other things even more. And so she arched herself in blatant invitation.

He chuckled, and began running his fingers through her fur. Clever fingers, that brought a pleasure less intense but no less delightful. His blunt teeth nibbled at her with a delicacy no Narnow could match. His tongue teased her ears and her nipples, sending joyful shocks through her, and then he was in her. She tried to grip him, inside, and he laughed and kissed her, his arms around her. She squirmed, pulling happily against her bonds, as her helplessness added its own spice to the proceedings.

She yowled her pleasure, and he grunted his, grinning at her. As she knew would happen, the uncanny endurance of his human muscles left her exhausted in the end, blissfully limp with barely the energy to purr as he undid the straps binding her. He brought her back into his arms, cuddling her, and she fell asleep.

Late the next morning, she sat alone at his terminal and studied her claws. The new coat of pearl-white polish reminded her of her cousin. Holly had always teased her about having “the claws of a barbarian,” in contrast to Holly’s own blunted-and-polished set. But Max had insisted on giving her a manicure that morning, before he went off to fly his patrol, and now Melody’s claws were as civilized as her cousin’s.

It did make using the terminal more comfortable, she admitted to herself. Of course, the terminal was physically disconnected from the tender’s main network, leaving her access only to the recreation net, but she would see what was available.

If she had been a better tech, she might have reconnected the terminal and gotten into mischief – except for her collar. She touched the gold circlet Max had locked on her neck before beginning to trim her claws. It was a standard mirlivima collar, with a screamer-circuit that would go off if it sensed any funny business on her part. The collar didn’t include a stunner – that would have been a violation of the Epsilon Conventions – but the screamer circuit would alert the tender’s maintenance bots. They had stunners installed, since they doubled as part of the tender’s security system.

No, she’d be a good little kitten for the moment and see if there was anything new in the rec-net. There’d been a couple of decent games installed the last time she was here… But now an icon was flashing at her. She opened the text message.

[If you want out of that cabin, I have something to show you & ask you. Will you give your parole? — Janet Tiyah-Dunn]

Who? Oh yes, the tender’s Engineering Officer. Well, it might be interesting.

[Yes, I give my parole,] Melody messaged back. [– M’rerallie (Melody) Clan Chumf] the system added as her sig.

[OK, there in a few. — Janet Tiyah-Dunn] came back.

Melody sat back to wait. A parole given by text-message didn’t technically count, but violating it would still be hissrush, and therefore Not Done. Strange how the Sarm word expressed a Narnow concept better than any of the major Narnow languages.

“Clothes!” Melody suddenly said, standing up. She currently wore what Max insisted was an Old Terran kimono. Melody had her doubts, but in any case it was a pink-flowered silken wrap, suitable for the cabin – but not so suitable for visiting other parts of the ship.

The admittance tone sounded. “Enter!” Melody called as she continued to hunt for something to wear. The door admitted a human woman in an engineer’s uniform, holding up something bulky. A flight suit? Melody thought. That doesn’t make sense. Then she saw that it was a simulators flight suit, which wasn’t the same thing at all.

“I brought this for you,” the woman said. “I’m Janet Tiyah-Dunn, the woman in charge of the back end of this pile of rivets.”

“Melody Clan Chumf.” Melody accepted the flight suit.

“We’ve just installed four new simulators,” Janet explained, “Two Scoutships and two Gunfighters. I’m trying to get them dialed in, and I thought you might help.”

“All right,” Melody agreed. She began to put on the flight suit. Getting a simulator dialed in properly was scutwork, as far as pilots were concerned. But it was something that required a pilot’s assistance, and she was still a pilot even if sh

Melody · Part 1 (1/2)
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