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Athena Storm

Caged Property: A Dark SciFi Romance

Caged Property: A Dark SciFi Romance

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My family and I fled the Reapers.
We were caught.
My family is dead.

And I'm a trophy.


At first I was frantic to get free.
I've heard the stories of these monsters.
They pillage and plunder.
They kill everyone who opposes them.
And eat their victims.
But then, in that crowded pen.
In the midst of my fear.
I saw him. Llyron.

And my fear began to flee.

I was fascinated by the patterns on his skin.
I wanted to examine his eyes.
If I could look at him and not be threatened by his fury, I think I would enjoy it.

I'm still terrified.

But only because I can't guess at what he wants me for.
I've never had any experiences.
I'm not that kind of girl.

Except now I'm a toy.

A part of me loves it.
It's like a pressure.
Begging to be released.
It's an ache.
An itch that I haven't yet reached.

And that's when I realize.
This sick and twisted union is perfect for me.

We...are...perfect. For each other.

Caged Property explores a much darker and much more gritty Athenaverse than in other books. It's the fifth book in the Reaper's Pet series within the wider Athenaverse. Readers should be warned that the situations inside this book are of a much darker variety than other books in the Athenaverse and should exercise caution. All books share the same universe and feature a happily ever after.

Chapter 1 Look Inside

Chapter 1

Llyron

The tumultuous surface of Leora looks like the rampage of my soul. She hurls fury at herself, storms to rival that of the mighty Jupiter. He was thought to be a god by the ancient humans that could see it from their tiny green and blue home.

Leora’s storms cascade blue, green and yellow. The core of the planet is small and the majority of her is the thick gas which is so volatile it is constantly changing shape.

Like the planet Jupiter, Leora supports numerous moons that spin in her orbit. Because of her changeable atmosphere and heavy gravity, the moons often change the shape of their elipse. There is a small group of five in the net that seem to stick together, and we call them ‘The Paradox’.

They don’t orbit each other like natural moons. They change shape in a roughly triangular fashion, tugged by Leora itself. Within the paradox, we built our space station.

Homeless was forged by joining Ishana ships together. Even I can’t remember how many. Perhaps a hundred. After leaving my mother Mahri on the desert planet near Yakvo Spaceport that they called ‘Krystos’ all I sought to do was draw the Alliance, Coalition and their hapless dogs away.

Mahri and the elders had grown fatigued by the movements through space. They needed a solid core to join with, to meditate with. They need to be grounded, to literally be pulled to the ground by gravity. Nothing could match Oshara’s song, but the elders had to have a solid foundation. 

I was first-generation hybrid. I left mother there a few hundred years ago. Well. No one can be sure of the time frames, what with hyper jumps and cryo sleeps scattered through our lives. I know she held a great conference, putting down the law of no killing our own kind except for within the Rite of Challenge. As we evolved, we couldn’t keep the law, but it seems to be made anew now.

Now.

While Homeless tilts beneath my feet, the moons swing by. Since we came here the atmospheric conditions and the movement of the natural satellites have kept us hidden. Even though the station is huge it is quiet. I cannot hear another living creature anywhere near me as I stand on the helm, watching Leora turn nearby through the huge viewing windows.

I don’t know how many of us live here anymore. Perhaps about a hundred. I am quite sure there are no Ishana left, but one or two might be tucked away in little nests somewhere. The station is that big, we would never find them. As we get old—Ishana, Hybrid, Reaper—we get quiet and contemplative.

There are a few hybrids. I have a natural distaste for them, and I don’t know why. They are my own kind and yet they disgust me. They don’t smell right. They feel like enemies, even though they practically worship me. 

Ishana feel like something else altogether. Something I should worship.

And reapers? Well. They feel just like me. My brothers. 

A few live here. They eat and sleep, sometimes fight. They are too lazy to join pirates. The station is well stocked. We don’t want for anything here.

I’ve interrupted my usual experiments to come to the helm and play with the comms. Normally I’d be in my lab for at least half of the day cycle. My work, my passion, it’s becoming thin. Soon there will be nothing left to work with.

I promised mother I would save our race. I remember her soft, silver eyes as she stroked my cheek. She was so serene about everything, even the destruction of our planet. She knew there was no hope. It didn’t stop me trying.

Once we began to evolve into reapers, we began to die. Within the first few generations we changed. That was frightening, but we adjusted. Then, male babies outnumbered girls three to one… Then, the males started killing their mothers.

By that time, the genetic code was too corrupted. I tried every possible genetic combination. I used a lot of my own blood. I look more Ishana than reaper, my mother one of the great lost tribe and my father one of the first true reapers. I’m a perfect hybrid. If there is salvation, surely it is in me.

My fists clench on the console. I look down at the buttons and dials, not really seeing them. If I pound the fuck out of it like I want to, I’ll break it, then Homeless will never move again, perhaps fall into the storms of Leora. Maybe, that would be kinder. 

I have one sliver of hope. 

In recent days, the old radios have come to life. It’s so shocking I’m still having trouble believing it. Something that works on old Ishana tech and modified reaper systems has been picked up by Homeless. On this station we have at least fifty different comm receivers and transmitters. 

Most were deactivated when they joined the mainframe. From the outside, Homeless looks a bit like a spider with its legs out, ready to scuttle. As each new ship was attached, any important tech was transferred to this main console. Initially, we could communicate with the whole fleet. 

Then reapers started modding their ships. In essence, we became outdated. Their upgrades locked us out.

So, where do these whispers come from?

I turn up the nearest dial. I daren’t touch a control panel. She’s been locked into these coordinates for so long, she would probably blow if I tried to move her from the delicate clutch of the paradox.

“So, what did you get for dinner tonight?” A bright voice comes through the bursts of static. They’re speaking Standard, a bastard language. I know several and of them all, Standard is the most basic.

“Oh, you know Drogan has a thing for turkey. He actually found a few and I’m trying to raise them. Damn things are vicious! Nearly took my finger off.”

The other voice laughs. “They aren’t so bad. Have you got UV lights and something for them to scratch in?”

“I should have known you’d know everything about everything, Sybil.” You can almost hear that voice rolling its eyes.

“Hey guys.” Another voice comes online, soft and hesitant.

“Lana!” The other two women react with forced enthusiasm. I know how this conversation is going to go. I know how it always goes.

“How are you feeling?” Sybil asks kindly.

“Terrible.” Lana is gulping and crying. “It’s getting bigger. I can feel it. It’s sharp!”

“Calm down.” The female named Cerene speaks soothingly, yet with command. “You must remain calm. The baby will pick up on your feelings and become more war like—”

“How the fuck am I supposed to calm down! This thing is going to tear out of me!”

“Lana.” Sybil says quietly. “I’ve worked with the bone knitter and he says I’m doing really well and the baby is an acceptable size for a human to carry.”

“No guarantees.” Lana replies harshly. “We’re all fucking dead.”

“Drogan has hope.” Cerene tries to sound enthusiastic. “Llyron—”

“Llyron’s a goddamn legend! He’s not real! There is no fairy god father coming to save us! When are you going to get it?”

The women fall silent.

“There is the other option.” A new voice speaks up.

“Caroline.” Sybil greets the other woman warmly. “I didn’t know you were online.”

“Just listening.” She says softly. “We may be forced to—”

“No.” Says Sybil firmly.

“No!” Lana shrieks.

They’ve spoken about this before. The bone knitters thought if they performed a Caesarion at mid term they would save the mother and perhaps the child if they could incubate it. There was still a high chance of death for both.

Rage is rising in my blood that they know me, that anyone still knows me. I certainly didn’t advertise. My mother might have. To the rest of the reapers, I’m a story. The big savior. Yeah well, I gave that up about a hundred years ago. We’re dead and that’s all there is to it.

Except for this one possibility, one strand of hope.

Human women, pregnant to reapers.

I need them. I want to test their blood and the blood of their babies. Even if the women die, within a generation or so the human characteristics might make it possible for a hybrid or a reaper to bear their babies. Adding human blood to the mix might be the missing link.

I know of a total of five reaper females. They can bring reaper children to term without dying and birth them with ease. The thing is, they rarely get pregnant and usually only with sons. A lot of them have been raped hundreds of times. There is one here. She bore two sons in her hundred years. 

This final generation of purebred reapers would be our last dance, our curtain call. Hybrids can’t survive the birth. Ishana can’t survive the birth either, not that you can find any of them. There are not enough reaper females even if they could get pregnant regularly. We are doomed.

Except for this. I fully expect the women to die and I don’t really care about that. They are just genes, excellent vessels. It’s not them I need, it’s the babies inside them. I’m thinking generations ahead where I can use the human genes to manipulate our evolution.

To save us.

I lean down to the microphone and whisper across it. 

“You want me? Fucking well come and find me.”

I can leave hints across the internal linked system. One of those women was smart enough to link to the original crystal power cells which exist in every ship. Messages can be shared across great distances now. We’re deep in a bed of static at the moment, but the hints will filter through.

“Llyron.” I murmur my own name like a prayer. Then I start to send pictures of Leora and surrounding planets.

“Come to me.” This is the last chance to save our race. I have to take it, no matter the cost.

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