Monster

Chapter 1

Brama

 Heated winds buffet the dark Pyrtanium walls of my hilltop fortress with more grains of sand than there are stars in the Celestial Sea. This constant assault sculpted the walls into a pockmarked appearance, much akin to flesh mottled and bubbled by a searing flame.

Standing atop the highest tower of Blackfang Keep, my gaze sweeps over the sandy plains below, where the Makra hives sit in their hexagonal perfection. Our clan’s Dalsi—communal slaves—scuttle about deploying the sand shields. They seek not to protect the hardy Makra, for whom a minor sand squall has no terror, but the valuable honey within the hives. Sand ruins the texture, and worse, makes it ill suited for refinement into crystals which provide an astonishing cold fusion reaction to power Sykl clan ships.

Under my leadership, which I wrested from my former chief Kutr ten years ago, the clan has prospered. Our numbers of viable warriors has swollen to over ten thousand, the largest of all the clans on Kurse. The honey field and the endlessly malleable genetic structure of the Makra insect hordes have given us such a bounty that we only need raid for pleasure and profit, not to survive.

We even have a number of fertile Reaper females, just under a score. Thanks to the Birthsong sung by the Duun clan, our young do not commit matricide during the birthing process.

Yet the Reaper birth rate has ever been low regardless, and in order for our society to function most of the non-military tasks are handled by our slaves. Most of their number are chattel, born into servitude to us. It is all they have ever known, and it is said only a foolish Reaper treats his slaves poorly, for a starving and battered servant does a poor job indeed.

Neither do you brook any impertinence from their lips, however, It’s important that they remember their place. Serving the superior sapient species. Us.

We no longer have the hubris to call ourselves the Ishani, as we once did. These days we refer to ourselves by the  name those we prey upon have labeled us with; Reapers. They say we are violent, and they are right. They say we are cruel, and they understate. Many of our entertainments are found to be unpleasant by other sapient species, but they have little room to complain.

Once, we were luminous beings, with great wisdom and knowledge which we willingly shared with the other sapient races we encountered. The inquisitive Alzhon, the impertinent but sage Pi’Rell, even the endlessly ambitious humans had contact with us. They refer to us in the legends as ‘angels,’ which is a laughable concept at best.

But then the war came to our doorstep, and the Ishani split down the middle. Some backed the Ataxian Coalition, religious zealots whose massive hordes seek to spread the ‘endless love’ of their Goddess, by force. And the others backed the capitalist confederation of the Trident Alliance, who believe that they  must bring ‘freedom’ to all corners of the galaxy-=and by freedom, I mean freedom for their  massive intergalactic corporations to move in and deplete every last natural resource in the endless pursuit of profit.

Then there are the Helios Combine, who are even worse than the Alliance, who give lip service to morality. They have made life difficult for my Reaper kin who wander the stars.

Here on Kurse, we sought to preserve a bit of the Ishani way, but we have been inevitably shaped by the galaxy we live in. Few other then myself and some of the elders remember much of the Ishani any more. Our past greatness has been swallowed by the great maw of time.

So now I brood atop my tower, surveying how my clan has prospered, and don’t feel fulfilled or satisfied. This is not recapturing our former greatness. Six clans in competition with each other, though we adhere to the Accords: Reaper shall not Kill Reaper.

There are too few of us as it is.

“You are going to be late for your own summit, Master Brama.”

I stiffen, so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the approach of my chief steward Mieliki. Turning about, I face the wizened Alzhon, his red skin faded to dull pink. He is garbed in the black and gold of Clan Sykl, and bears an earring with my family sigil, a horned desert dragon. 

He’s served my family since before I was whelped, and is a chattel slave. Mei has never been free, and I’m not sure he would know what to do with himself if he were.

“Then let them wait. It’s good for the soul.” Nevertheless, I turn away from the brewing stand squall and stride inside the formidable walls of my fortress. My bedchamber sits atop this tower, and some might cringe as such an exposed sleeping space. After all, the four hundred flak cannon protecting my fortress might fail, assuming anything could get past the fleet in orbit.

But I prefer to ‘show my throat’ to my enemies, so to speak. By having my personal space so exposed and visible, I’m daring any challengers to make a play for me. So far none have.

They have seen me in battle.

“There’s no time to quote Pi’rell proverbs, Master,” Mei said, following  me into my bedchamber. The latest slave girl Mei has foisted upon me whimpers upon my arrival. I sneer down at her bleeding form and sigh. 

“Can you not find me better slaves to warm my bed, Mei?” I snapped. “I’m tired of the whimpering little waifs you keep foisting upon me. I want a worthy fur wrestling partner.”

“I do the best with what I have, Master,” Mei says stiffly. I allow him a great deal of familiarity I wouldn’t put up with from any of my other slaves. “Pickings have been slim of late.”

“Yes, but we’re about to address that, aren’t we?” I snicker and doff my robe and step into the golden sunk tub in the middle of the chamber. Several Alzhon females move forward, too aged to warm my bed, and wash my body.

Like my father before me, my skin is so deep indigo as to be black. The bone spurs which thrust out from my skin are blood red at the base, some of the smaller ones tapering into a white hue. At eight feet tall, the Alzhon women must strain to reach my shoulders and hairless scalp.

I don’t react when they clean my cock as well, because now is not the time for wench sport. Now is the time for the sweetest most difficult form of combat there is; diplomacy.

Maybe we’ll never reclaim our former greatness when we were known as Ishani, but perhaps we can at least take some measure of revenge. In blood.

After I’m clean, I step out of the tub and allow my slaves to towel me dry. Mei’s son Kel steps forward and uses a special tool to sharpen my most prominent spurs to a fine point. Then he applies an oil to them, while the Alzhon women do the same to my skin.

Only then do I don m y ceremonial armor, what the other sapients call class three. They believe it is too heavy for daily wear. They are weak.

Last, Mei offers me Thraxis, the battle stave I inherited from my father. It contains more than six thousand Makra eggs, suspended in a stasis field on the verge of hatching.

As an evolutionary response, Makra are deadly right out of the shell. We use them to weaken and demoralize our enemies before coming in for the kill.

Mei falls into step behind me as I stride down the circle stairs to the ground floor of the fortress. I don’t believe in weakening my limbs by using a lift or some technology to get me to my bedchamber more quickly.

The grand hall of my keep teems with the entourages brought along by the other five clan leaders. The leaders themselves sit at a great round table, marked like spokes on a wheel. The largest seat is painted red, unlike the others which are ebony in hue. That seat is reserved for me, as War Chief of the clans.

All converse ceases as I sweep into the room and stand before the throne. I cast my gaze about, and my lips spread in a toothy grin.

“My worthy bloodletters,” I say in a strong tone, which reverberates off the vaulted metal ceiling. “Welcome to my keep, and thank you for attending me on such short notice. I would like to acknowledge the presence of my fellow chieftains.”

“And so it is,” they answer in unison. I turn toward the leader of the Duun clan first, which is custom as they are keepers of the Birthsong and deserve the honor by default.

“Murl, great Chief, I honor you,” I said, closing my palm over my fist and bowing my head slightly, though not over much as is due my station.

The sapphire hued warrior to my left returned the gesture, a ghost of a smile at his lips. Murl has ever been somewhat cavalier, almost whimsical, an odd trait for a Reaper.  I turn to the next chief in turn, that of the Lyra clan.

“Faur, great chief, I honor  you—”

“Enough of this shit,” growls Dulz of the Phanu clan. I glare at the red skinned warrior, and he averts his gaze a bit. “I mean, why have you summoned us, War Chief?”

“Aye,” says Myzra of the Nilya clan. “We’ve not time for endless ceremony to fuel your gigantic ego, Brama. Just get to the point so we may return to our own lands.”

“Very well, Chief Myzra,” I said. “If we have degenerated to the point where ceremony has so little meaning, allow me to cut to the bone of the matter.”

I hold out my hand, and Mei places a spheroid holo emitter in it One press of my finger later, and the emitter activates, projecting an image of a Helios Combine merchant caravan. They time their superluminal jumps to coincide, believing strength in numbers will keep them safe from us.

Murmurs and converse erupt all over the chamber. Myzra snarls, bashing his fist on the table.

“Is this a jest, Brama? No clan could possibly pillage such a numerous and well defended prize.”

“You’re right,” I say flatly.

Myzra grows confused, his brow furrowing. I grin fiercely and hold my arms out to the whole room.

“No SINGLE clan,” I bellow. “No single clan could take this rich prize, who are mired in the badlands due to an ion storm. But we know how to ride the storms, do we not, my brethren? If we work together, all of us sending our fleets, we can take it. We can take it all. Supplies, raw materials, medicines, slaves, and the ships themselves.”

“You want us to donate blood and brethren for your glory?” Myrza sputters. “Your hubris knows no bounds.”

“Not for my glory, Myzra,” I snapped. “For OUR glory. I pledge to take only a single slave for myself. The rest of the booty shall be distributed among my people and yours dependent upon your contribution. Naturally those clans who donate more resources get a larger stake. Like the old days.”

“The old days are gone,” Myzra says weakly, but he can tell he’s lost the room. I can see the bloodlust rising in my people’s eyes. They want nothing  more than a chance to do what Reapers do best.

Hunt, prey, and survive. Soon the Helios combine will learn that mere numbers will not keep them safe from us. Nothing will.

I muse to myself that I’d best make certain I pick the best slave in the lot. Maybe she’ll prove to be a good fur wrestling partner.