The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Space was an inky cauldron into which uncountable sugared stars had been cast, to float a few beats before they were inevitably sucked down into darkness.

Then a bright flash, a curvature of brilliant light, and suddenly the Nepenthe was there, solid, bulky, its antennae and bright yellow paint a defiant human gesture standing against the emptiness of space.

It failed to cheer Ling up.

They were close to Tilde Four, now, close enough to see it, but Ling didn’t want to face the planetoid and think about what it meant, so she kept looking at the ship that had just warped in, scanning the details of it, the little bits of personality that all Federacy ships had.

All those that were left.

She frowned; suddenly the Nepenthe was a too-solid reminder of why they were here.

Instead, she looked at her reflection in the porthole. East Asian Norm, mostly, her ancestors the usual human stew, genes carefully selected for generations to give her height, health, good teeth, good eyes. Her eyes were the dark brown color her parents had thought fashionable, her skin the same smooth golden fleshtone as theirs, but her hair was a very non-Asian ice-blonde and the only part of her heritage they had bought rather than gifted her from themselves.

“Could be worse. You could be over there,” the reflection next to her said.

Ling nodded. On board the Marshal Hui, they were the diplomats, the diplomatic staff, and the guards, like Ling and Suren. Over there, on the Nepenthe, were the volunteers.

The sacrifices.

She turned to face Suren, whose dark face showed the same glum resignation as her own. Where Ling was from Penyang, a mostly East Asian Norm world, Suren was from Anherabad, a South Asian Norm one. She had a strong nose, black hair and eyes, and deep teak skin, and at two meters two was only just shorter than Ling.

“How long until we are in orbit?” Ling asked.

Suren shrugged. “Can’t say. I’m sure the captain will want to be sure that everything is checked and crossed before we come anywhere near the Sthil.”

Ling looked back out the window. “Seen any of their ships?”

“No. Padesh is watching on a viewscreen, but she says even the long-range scopes haven’t yet picked any of them up.”

Ling nodded. And to the naked eye, they’d just be pinpricks of light, if that.

She looked at the Nepenthe again, and sank a little lower.

Five hundred people.

Volunteers.

The Sthil had moved into the galactic neighborhood a hundred years ago. The Federacy hadn’t paid much attention as this particular batch of xenos absorbed the worlds of several pre-space civilizations at the further reaches of the Federacy’s sphere of activity. They didn’t come near Federacy-claimed space, and they were far from the first xenos that humans had bumped into. The Federacy didn’t include any, but several large interstellar mostly-human and partly-human polities did. They were far away, they didn’t seek contact, and they didn’t do anything to anyone the Federacy cared about.

And at the time, the Federacy was at war.

It was an unfortunately common state of affairs—the rich worlds which the human diaspora had invested in colonizing and terraforming and which had banded together after the Collapse to form the Federacy were coveted on and off by human and xeno empires alike. Sometimes, that wealth had enabled the Federacy to see their assailants off, or to buy them off.

Other times, it was only the skillful playing off of one empire against another that maintained their precarious independence. It suited some of their neighbors to have a lesser power as a buffer state.

At the time the Sthil had first appeared, conquering those unimportant worlds well to antispinward, the Federacy was fighting the Kovian Empire—mostly humans—over several systems containing little more than asteroid belts. It had been a small war and it had dragged on, and by the time it was concluded (to neither sides’ satisfaction) the Sthil were well ensconced.

They had proven to be quiet neighbors, rebuffing attempts at contact but remaining out of Federacy space. They had been there for ninety-seven years now.

Then they had attacked, without warning or provocation.

Everyone could remember that first broadcast from Brisbane. The surprise and horror of President Clarke as he informed them that a xeno fleet had appeared in-system and launched orbital bombardment. The broadcast was suddenly cut short.

There were no more broadcasts from Brisbane.

Then there was Draerun, the other inhabited world in the Brisbane system.

It was a smaller world, only five million to Brisbane’s hundred thirty, but it was a hard world, a mining world, without Brisbane’s vulnerable surface population. And it was armed.

Despite Brisbane’s capitulation, and its own long-run unsustainability, Draerun had refused to surrender, and its position in the system had made it impossible to knock out its defenses easily.

The Sthil had kept at it, and for agonized months Draerun had sent out urgent pleas for help. Months during which the Federacy massed its navy and made its plans.

The last broadcast from Draerun was famous across all human worlds, Federacy or otherwise. First Councilor Navarre, her fiery red hair and unflinching gaze already a symbol of Federacy defiance, had been pleading with the Federacy government to send help for months, but she had never mentioned surrender. She did not mention it then.

“This is First Councilor Navarre, speaking to the free worlds of the Federacy. These must be my final words to you; we no longer have the power to shield the communications array.

“People of the Federacy, I will not spend this time asking again for rescue. I know it is coming; I know that you are timing it for the strongest chance of success. Our fleet is mighty and we have long centuries of experience in war. I ask only that you, citizens, rely on us, as we rely on you.

“When I look to the skies I expect our fleet at every moment, not from mere hope but from the iron certainty that our brothers and sisters will not give us up. Will never bend the knee and let us be taken, will never hesitate to avenge our losses.

“Even now, we await you; and when there is one last woman fighting in one last corner of our world, she will await you; and when we can no longer raise our arms, and the chains are placed on them, we will still know that Draerun will be ours again.

“Citizens of the Federacy, for now, I bid you farewell. I shall see you again at liberation.”

Every school child in the Federacy had memorized it; Councilor Navarre’s portrait hung in every church, every bar.

It was six weeks after that broadcast before the fleet was finally ready.

In the face of the unknown, the Federacy would use a strategy learned in long years of war. They gathered all available vessels, refitted and armed them as heavily as possible, and went to hit the Sthil with everything they had. No division of forces, no secondary targets. No premature sorties. The entire weight of the Federacy navy came as one, to impress upon the Sthil what foes they had made.

The Battle of Brisbane Star lasted just over twenty-eight standard hours.

At the end of it, the Federacy no longer had a navy.

Ling rapped at the door.

“Enter,” Li-Hwa said, and Ling pushed it open.

Li-Hwa was her boss, her charge, the senior diplomat from Penyang. Not a Councilor, or an Elected Member, or even a high official of any sort. Just high enough, really, to be able to represent Penyang at the negotiations. And brave enough to volunteer.

No one else had wanted to come.

Not after the Sthil made their demands.

For months after the battle there had been no reports from Brisbane, or Draerun, at all. Not a single spy probe returned. The free worlds lived in fear, knowing that a Sthil fleet might appear over any of them at any time. Long-neglected orbital defenses suddenly took the lion’s share of the budget; shipyards redoubled their efforts.

It all seemed like holding paper against the wind.

Then, just shy of a year later, to the Federacy’s surprise, the Sthil sent an envoy. A male Qth’pak, a member of a known xeno race, a race whose anatomy allowed for human speech. He came on a single ship, offering a peace conference. No reasons, no explanations, just an invitation, and a price.

Five hundred Federacy citizens, to be approved by the envoy ahead of time. No criminals or defectives. Representing each of the major Federacy worlds. To be handed over to the Sthil immediately prior to the conference.

Why they wanted five hundred when they had just conquered more than a hundred million, no one knew.

But the Federacy had only the skeleton of a navy.

They agreed.

“Shall we be there soon, do you think?” Li-Hwa asked her.

“We are there, my Lady.”

“Ah. Are the Sthil...?”

“No, my Lady,” Ling replied. “It is just us, so far.”

Li-Hwa nodded. She was shorter than Ling, her skin a touch darker, and her hair jet black. Older as well; she looked to be in her biological thirties, but Ling knew that she was at least ninety, and no rejuv treatment could mask the experience in her eyes.

She was why Ling had come. Li-Hwa had not insisted that any of her staff accompany her on what might easily be a suicide mission. Many of them had demurred. But Li-Hwa was worth preserving, and if Ling could take one step towards that goal she would think her life well spent.

Li-Hwa smiled gently. “I shall dress, then,” she said, “and pay my respects to the captain.”

“As you wish, my Lady. We will be ready.”

Ling turned to leave the cabin.

“Ling.”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Remember. They asked for this meeting. There must be a reason, something which presses upon them and has stayed their hand. You must believe that we have the strength to oppose them, even if that strength is only their own weakness. Do not surrender to despair.”

Ling pressed her heels together. “No, my Lady.”

“Very good. I shall make ready and then you shall accompany me to the bridge.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Ling stepped outside.

Tilde Four was an asteroid masquerading as a moon. The gas giant it orbited, named for the odd curvature of its radial bands, had been deemed worthy of study centuries ago. If anything came of the study, Ling had not heard of it. Since then the station had been maintained as an outpost in an otherwise empty area of space, the only human habitation for light years in any direction.

“Tilde Station, this is the Marshal Hui. Come in.”

The Marshal Hui was a Penyang vessel, and the captain was every inch Penyang Fleet. Square shouldered, serious, she kept her long hair in a tight queue. Her feet were planted in the center of the bridge as though she were bolted to the floor.

Ling was standing at the edge of the bridge, arms clasped behind her back, one pace behind Lady Li-Hwa. Flanking her on the other side was Li-Hwa’s other bodyguard, LiShen. The two guards looked very professional, crisp black uniforms, the stiff-backed bearing of much drill. It had been years since Ling and LiShen had left military service, but neither of them had lost an ounce of spit or a dab of polish. They gleamed, like lacquer.

There were other Federacy delegations on the bridge as well. The delegation from Anherabad was not there, but there were representatives from Ii Lao, Run-Ha-Lan, and Macon’s World, the latter including Albert Yount, the Federacy senator who was the head of the delegation.

The response came, the computer decrypted and certified it, and a dark, slim-faced man with a neat beard appeared on the screen.

“Marshal Hui, this is Tilde Station. Commander Inokwo speaking. It’s good to see you; I only wish it were under different circumstances.”

“Commander,” the captain said, stepping forward, “I am Captain Xu of the Marshal Hui. Have the Sthil contacted you?”

“No ma’am. We’ve heard nothing and seen no one except for the couriers with the directives the Ministry has sent.”

The captain nodded, and turned to Senator Yount. Yount cleared his throat.

“Well, good,” he said. “Things are set up?”

“Yes sir. We have our facilities prepared for you, and we have prepared the airlocks as specified by the Sthil.”

“Very good. We will begin shuttling diplomatic personnel down immediately, then,” Senator Yount said. He turned his head to look at the captain, who nodded curtly. Yount continued: “Our ships will remain in orbit.”

“Yes sir. We’re ready for you.”

“Captain!” one of the bridge crew blurted. All eyes turned to him.

“The Sthil,” the man said.

“They’re here.”

Imagination was an incredible thing, and Ling still believed it was limitless.

But seeing xeno ships always reminded her that the universe was more infinite still. Not even in her wildest fancies could she have envisioned the grown-ships of the Yikkathai, the spinning machines of the Faa Zhaa, the strangely furred moebius strips of the T.B.s. Until she saw them, she simply would never have even considered that a ship might look that way.

She had seen vid of Sthil ships, carried on courier rockets from Brisbane; strange collections of rounded protuberances. But to see the vast ship that had appeared on the secondary viewscreen, the strange muscular look of it... she was reminded again of just how much there was in Heaven and Earth.

“Captain,” the crewman said in a low voice, and the display was lit up with schematics, red and yellow lines and numbers superimposed on the alien vessel. For a moment they meant nothing to Ling, then she stifled a gasp.

The ship was huge.

It was almost thirty kilometers long. Bigger than the asteroid that Tilde Station sat on.

Thirty kilometers.

The entire bridge looked on it in silence.

“Sir,” Commander Inokwo said, “they are contacting me.”

“Very well,” Senator Yount said, nodding. The main vidscreen went blank.

Behind Li-Hwa, LiShen shot Ling a meaningful look. Ling shrugged just a hair.

Why could they possibly be interested in negotiating?

The volunteers on the Nepenthe were not the only sacrificial lambs.

Although large and decently armed, the Marshal Hui was hardly state of the art; not one of the new spacewar platforms lifting even now from Federacy dockyards but an old ship, used for the transport of dignitaries and for hosting diplomatic meetings. It had a storied history, the Marshal Hui—and was one of the only ships left that was sufficiently jump-tested to bring them to this meeting.

Those on board the Marshal Hui were all volunteers, the diplomats from Yount all the way down through the cleaning staff. The Sthil had struck Brisbane without provocation—who knew how they thought? Perhaps they would snatch up both ships.

As soon as the Sthil’s offer—or possibly, demand—had been disseminated, senior diplomats and politicians had scurried to become indispensable parts of other missions. There were many to choose from, for the Federacy was seeking aid in every possible corner. Frantic diplomatic envoys launched to the Yee’Kh’a Collective, Mohan Pradesh Free Space, the Iznir... even the Vael Syndicate.

Even the Kovian Empire.

No deals were yet being struck. Was it better to live as a vassal state of a known former adversary, than as a vassal state of the Sthil? What had happened to the inhabitants of Brisbane was unknown.

The Sthil could be eating people, for all they knew.

Much hinged on the outcome of this meeting. The Marshal Hui was heavily stocked with messenger drones, to be jumped back as any new information became available. If the Sthil were reasonable, perhaps the Federacy need not sell itself into bondage.

The delegates on the bridge waited, quietly, to find out.

The comm request came in a few moments later.

Suren and Padesh, along with Governor Jaraputra, had arrived on the bridge in the meantime. Ling gave Suren a look, and Suren’s mouth had tightened. Everyone watched the screen.

“It’s the Sthil ship, Captain,” the comms officer said.

“Put it on.”

A beautiful woman with flame red hair appeared on the screen.

There was a collective gasp.

Ling realized her mouth had come open.

The woman on the screen smiled.

“my Masters greet you,” she said, in a voice that had stirred billions.

“We have much to discuss.”