Fortress
by Becca Abbott
Prologue
It was a good night to be in his quarters, the captain decided, shifting his rump forward on the sofa. Between his open legs, the whore knelt, busily sucking his cock, sending waves of warm pleasure through him. Outside, the night was wet and windy, an icy rain running in sheets down the windows. The captain remembered hearing once that as Amoi's atmosphere grew denser, there would be more rain, more storms. That was fine with him. As long as he had a warm room, food in his belly and a pretty slut between his legs, let it rain.
"Ahhh, that's it. Harder, you little fuck."
The pressure on his cock increased and he groaned in approval. Eyes narrowed to slits of pleasure, the captain rested them on the head bobbing at his groin. He smiled as the youth's facile tongue swept around the sensitive tip. The whore was good at what he did, but he got plenty of practice, being the only one on the base. Slender fingers caressed the captain's balls, then slid to massage beneath them. Academy-trained, a former pet, the base had been lucky to get such quality this far from Midas.
The captain felt the pressure in his gut build and he thrust upward, forcing himself down the whore's throat. He heard the young man choke and felt the spasm of muscles around his sex. Just a bit more...
A high screeching jerked him from his pleasurable haze. The alarm! Clumsily, he pushed back the whore and lurched to his feet, hauling up his pants, swaying dizzily. Stumbling across the room, he hit the communication control on the wall by the door. Whoever caused this trouble was going to pay for his blue balls. "What the hell is going on?" he shouted.
"Raiders!" came the panicked shout, tinny through the com's small speaker. "They're at the main ga..."
The room shook and the captain heard a thunderous roar. "Stay here!" he ordered the frightened whore. Snatching his weapon, he ran from the room. Men flooded into the corridor, shouting questions at him as he lumbered for the exit. They burst into the night to see leaping flames across the base in the general vicinity of the gatehouse.
"What the hell?" Waving the confused men to follow, the captain starting running down the lane, barking into his hand com as he went. "Tak? Bree? What the fuck's goin' on?"
"Riders, sir! Bikes! They're everywh... ack!"
Turning a corner, he heard gunfire and the roar of powerful engines. Out of the gloom and sleet they came, bikes, just as his corporal had said, dozens of them, ridden by armored men who leaned low to the side, guns spitting death as they swept forward. The captain watched one of his sergeants fall to the puddle-strewn concrete.
"Pull back!" he screamed, motioning to the nearest building. "In here!"
Firing madly and in panic, the captain and his men ran for shelter, but the raiders handled their bikes very well. They swooped in without hesitation, swinging around to block the lane, driving the police toward the infirmary. Across the base, another explosion near the transport hangars rocked the earth, making him stagger.
There was a sharp blow to his arm and he yelled in pain, his gun flying from his hand. He staggered and knew he'd been hit.
The bikes were all around them now, trapping the police against the infirmary wall. A red mist hung before his eyes and the thunder of engines filled his ears. Several of the riders dismounted and came forward, while the others sat stolidly in the downpour, rifles aimed squarely at the frightened police.
"Inside!" shouted one of the former, motioning with his gun to the door.
Cursing, the captain obeyed, stumbling into the building, hand pressed to his wounded shoulder. The raiders followed. In the small, shabby lobby, a frightened corporal huddled by his desk, pistol in shaking hands. At a glare from the leader of the brigands, he hastily dropped the weapon and raised his arms into the air.
The head raider sent his men fanning out around the room, opening doors and running off into the building. More of them pushed into the infirmary from outside to take the places of the first group. For all their rough look, they moved smoothly and with the confidence of men well-trained.
Furious, the captain stared at the leader. Ex-police, he guessed darkly, or high level syndicate muscle. The man pulled off his helmet and stared back with a hard smile. Black hair. Black eyes. There was no possible mistake. Mongrel!
Swallowing hard, the captain watched as the creature walked swiftly to the corporal's desk and tapped something into the computer there. "What do you want?" he spat. "Who the hell are you?"
"What are the passwords that open the ordnance vaults under this base?" the mongrel asked.
"Go to hell!"
"Been there," replied the mongrel with a curl of his lip He lifted his dark eyes to the trembling corporal, who shook his head, mute with terror.
"He don't know," snarled the captain. A mongrel! Shit! What the hell was the world coming to? He could see that the other raiders were normal men, citizens, although looking rather rougher and harder-bitten than most.
"He doesn't know and you won't tell me," said the mongrel. "Damn. That's too bad. It would be a lot easier on you to just tell me."
There were grins all around. The captain stared sullenly back as the mongrel left the desk and returned to face him. It irked the cop that the scum was taller than he was, that he had to look up into that surprisingly handsome face.
"There are two vaults," continued the mongrel conversationally. "We want what's in them, especially the K92's."
He knew! He knew about the secret store! K92's were grade 1 weapons, crowd-killers! The captain's blood ran cold. He tried to think, but the pain of his wounded shoulder was beginning to make his thoughts muzzy. "You ain't gettin' 'em," retorted the officer with a fine show of bravado. "As if I'd give a mongrel shit!"
The mongrel shrugged. "Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."
"You can torture me and you won't get 'em!"
That brought only laughter from the mongrel, who turned and settled back on the corner of the desk. A commotion by the door made the captain look around and he got his second shock. In the doorway, standing half a head taller than every man in the room and so beautiful it hurt the eyes, was a Blondie.
Struck dumb, the captain barely believed what he saw. The Blondie was dressed in leather and jean, a rifle slung across his back, more men following him. His hair was two-toned, bright golden blond to his shoulders and the rest of it as black as the mongrel's. Nor was this just any Blondie – oh, no. The captain had seen the top-secret communiques that had been recently sent to all the outlying police bases. This was the notorious renegade, Raoul Am, once Jupiter's breaker of minds.
"You!" choked the captain, and was profoundly afraid.
The Blondie answered only with a cursory glance before looking to the mongrel. "Guy?"
The mongrel shrugged. "He's not talking."
"Indeed." Raoul seemed bored.
"Traitorous bastard!" The captain spat on the floor by the Blondie's foot. Raoul didn't so much as blink.
"Very true," he agreed seriously, "but irrelevant. The passwords?"
"You can go to hell!"
Raoul took something from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. It was small enough to be concealed by his hand. "Hold him."
The captain started to struggle, swearing and screaming curses, his terror and rage so great that he barely felt the agony of his shoulder. The rebels subdued him without much effort, jeering at him and calling him names. Raoul lifted his hand. For that instant, the captain saw something in it, small and black. The Blondie pressed it against the side of his neck, then stepped back. For a second, nothing happened, then, inexorably, the wounded man's body grew heavy and his terror began to fall away. It seemed his heart was beating very fast, but he didn't care. His vision began to narrow until all he saw was the angel's face swimming above him.
"Now, captain," came the deep, patient voice. "What are the codes to the vaults?"