Title: Strange New Girls
Fandom: Enterprise. Pairing: Reed/f
Summary: Lieutenant Reed has a close encounter with those butterfly-eating tongue dancers. Takes place during the events of ‘Broken Bow, Part One’.
Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. “Enterprise” and the characters within are the property of Paramount and Viacom.
Warning: The following story contains graphic sex scenes. Do not read any further if this is likely to offend you.
Feedback to firstname.lastname@example.org. Archiving and downloading is welcome as long as you credit the author. Thanks to Sue and Steff for their beta work.
He said the Klingon had been there, so they followed the Ciimet to the bar. That was one thing that never changed, said Mayweather, spouting the assured knowledge of someone who’d been everywhere and done everything. Wherever you had spaceports there were places where travelers could seek ecstasy or oblivion with the minimal fuss or recrimination, working out the stress of the long hauls. Reed resisted asking the ensign whether he’d ever felt the need to render himself insensible in dimly lit dives with mind-altering chemicals.
Two women were dancing on stage, bodysuits radiant against the drab bar and dirty customers, their movements sensual without being risqué. Insects, some kind of butterfly-analogue, fluttered in the iridescent laserlight. As they watched, a dancer shot out an eight-inch tongue and caught one, snatching it back into her mouth. Reed could only stare, fascinated.
“Are those . . . real butterflies or some kind of holograms?”
“Would you like to meet them? I can arrange it,” said the Ciimet. His eyes had no apparent pupils, black holes in his mottled green face. A ‘facilitator’ he called himself; at least that was how the universal translator had interpreted it - he spoke in the Decii-Met trading language but there were 527 different sub-dialects. “So many offworlders come to Rigel Ten. In theory they all want the same things, but what one finds . . . pleasurable another finds repulsive. It is a matter of matching their needs to what is available. A difficult, sometimes dangerous task. Especially with a species as ill-tempered as the Klingons.” He pressed both hands to his chest, fingers splayed. “But one at which I excel.”
Reed wondered whether ‘facilitator’ should have been more accurately translated as ‘pimp’.
“Is this where you saw Klaang?” asked Mayweather.
“I’ll show you where but first, you should enjoy yourselves.”
“We should get going,” said Mayweather, with clear ‘we should get back to business’ overtones. Like the Ciimet, he’d mistaken Reed’s interest in the women.
But Reed hadn’t forgotten why they were here. “Did Klaang spend any time with them?” he asked, nodding towards the dancers.
“I encountered him upstairs on the chance plains, but yes. He was feeling . . . vigorous after his win.” He cocked his head slightly, eyes sliding back and forth between the two humans. “I normally try and match stronger mates to Klingons. They tend to damage their partners. But he saw them and insisted.”
“I want to talk to them.”
“Of course.” A knowing smile.
“Sir . . . ”
“Men like to boast to women,” said Reed quietly. “He might have said something. It’s worth a try.”
“Just remember, Dr Phlox said to avoid ‘intimate’ contact.”
“Oh very funny, Ensign.”
* * * * * *
They’d purchased a large amount of local currency, at what Reed suspected was a grossly unfavourable rate of exchange. He paid 300 rehls to the Ciimet, who warned that anything else Reed might want from the women would have to be negotiated with them.
“Take your time, sir,” Mayweather said with a grin, as he left with the Ciimet to check the gambling levels. The entry iris closed behind Reed, cutting off the noise from the outside as if by a switch.
Reed studied the room he was in. It was twice the size of his cabin on Enterprise, with no furniture that he could identify. The floor consisted of a spongy material that flowed over puzzling geometric shapes, cubes and cylinders and slanted platforms, continuing up the walls until it twisted together into an apex above his head. There was no apparent lumination source, the room radiating a soft orange hue.
Common sense told Reed there would be hidden security sensors. He was checking the walls when the entry dilated once more to let in the two dancers.
Without their bodysuits Reed could not have told them apart. One blue, the other a vivid shade of purple; the material adhered to them like a second skin – he could see the movement of their muscles beneath. Both women were the same height, with humanoid body structure and cranial ridges running back over the skull. The mouth and jaw appeared no different from any human female – how on Earth did they fit those tongues inside?
They said nothing, studying him with obsidian eyes. Reed cleared his throat nervously. Women had always been foreign to him, possessed of hidden mysteries and unfamiliar secrets. But these two were alien. For the first time the true meaning of the word struck him.
“Hello. I’m Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. From the planet Earth.”
“Uh . . . what are your names?”
The one in blue spoke, her voice seeming to echo faintly. Reed knew it was an effect caused by the translator, but it only enhanced her esoteric nature. “We are Cynese.”
“No, your names. How should I address you?”
“We are Cynese.” The other one now.
“Right,” he muttered. Perhaps they had no individual identity? Their movements on the stage had seemed unusually co-ordinated. Some kind of empathic bond? Reed wished he’d done better in his xeno-psych classes.
He showed them a hardcopy image of the Klingon. “I’m trying to trace the movements of this person. Have you ever seen him?”
Their eyes flicked down for half a second, returning at once to his face. “Yes.”
“When?” asked Reed, testing them.
“Seven days ago,” said the blue Cynese.
“He said his name was . . . Klaang,” said the other. “A conqueror of warriors and women.” There was a barely perceivable flicker of amusement between the two, as if sharing a silent joke.
So far so good. “You talked to him?”
“We communicated with him.”
“Regarding what, exactly?”
“Nothing was said between us.”
Great. Was the universal translator working properly, or had they simply misunderstood? They were speaking Rigellian, which was programmed into the UT, but with any language it was not just a matter of knowing the words, but their context as well. Did they understand ‘communicate’ the same way he did? Reed wished Hoshi were here, or Sub-Commander T’Pol. Hell, anyone but him.
‘Explore strange new worlds, they said. My first interstellar mission and I’m trying to talk to a couple of alien prostitutes in a sleazy bar trillions of miles from Earth. I hope my father never gets to hear about this.’
“Did you meet Klaang here . . . I mean, in this room?”
“He was brought to us here. As you were.”
“Did you see him outside this room?”
“That is not important.”
“It is to me,” said Reed testily.
“Your species is__”
“__new,” finished the other. “We have not encountered__”
“__your kind before.”
They were alternating their speech; it was confusing, more so than it should have been. He fumbled for his communicator, thinking to call Hoshi. “We’re new to this system. My species is__”
Reed spun round, startled, fully expecting to see Sub-Commander T’Pol there. It was the blue Cynese; he hadn’t even noticed her move behind him. She was close, studying his form with predatory fascination. Faster than Reed could react her tongue shot out, flickered over the hollow of his throat, tasting his sweat. He jumped back; felt himself restrained by the other Cynese. Her grip was gentle, with the impression of great strength held in reserve; the hidden menace of a building thunderstorm.
A hand caressed the front of his jumpsuit, the skin beneath reacting to her touch, nipples stiffening, goosebumps rising in concert with the passage of her fingertips. How long had he been aroused? It seemed obvious now, his erection straining against the zip-fastener, drawn by primal forces to the female before him, mocking his serious questions and Starfleet demeanor.
After three months survival training in the jungles of Malaya his team had been lifted out by VTOL and dumped into Kuala Lumpur still savage and unshaven, in the midst of lithe young girls in their short skirts and perfumed scent, ready smiles and flashing brown thighs and the onrush of sexual need urgent and compelling like the hunger of an addict . . .
Reed seized her hand, pushed it away from his groin. “I’m not here for that.”
“As you wish Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of the Planet Earth, however the need for diversity requires all species to pass on their genetic code to as wide a population as possible so for reasons of survival this need is hardwired into the nature of the seeding sex. The ability to travel to other worlds does not remove this urge, even though breeding with extraterrestrial species should be theoretically impossible – never-the-less the unusual similarities between so-called ‘humanoids’ suggest a common ancestry unlikely as this may seem. So the question is moot, wouldn’t you agree Malcolm? It should not prevent you from obeying your natural instincts in this case.”
Realising the lecturer was speaking to him, Reed started, knocking his data pad off the table . . .
Reed blinked, stammered. “What – what did you say?”
Cynese glanced at each other, amused. “We said nothing.”
. . . clattering onto the floor as they all turned to look at him, Illece particularly, the exotic daughter of the Kemestk ambassador. He’d been staring at the nipples stirring the front of her blouse, dozens of tiny strands alive with movement, especially when she was excited – his face burning with embarrassment now as she giggled along with her classmates . . .
Reed shook his head to clear it; the memories of adolescent lust pulling close like the air of the room. He seemed unable to focus, though other things were stark in their clarity – the blood pounding through his arteries and groin, the stifling confines of his uniform, the breasts exposed through the fading hues of Cynese’s bodysuits, blue and purple colour-shifting to match the skin, shifting back in rainbow patterns visible as bright afterimages of red, blue and indigo. The part of Reed’s mind that still functioned thought of military chameleon suits, the empathic derma-scales used by performance artists. His eyes were drawn irresistibly to the forbidden areas now open to his gaze; her vulva a multitude of acute petals, red and brilliant like chrysanthemum lilies. They stirred at his touch, wrapping gently around his fingers and pulling them inside. Slick fluid irrigated his hand, its scent a heady ambrosia, making his thoughts float apart from the erotic assault on his senses, from the clipped voice of his biowarfare instructor: “Use of psychotropic agents as a tool of war or population control . . . hallucinogenics or biologics designed to affect those parts of the brain that generate fear, anxiety, hatred, violence, or pleasure.”
They didn’t understand how to unzip his jumpsuit so Reed showed them, instruments and power cells spilling out as they experimented on his chest and thigh pockets, making high-pitched sounds that he realised were giggles and he joined in, laughing as they all struggled with the baffling intricacies of his bootlaces. And then Reed was lost in sensation as he arched into Cynese, crying out in pain and pleasure as their flesh became hot and cold and wet and warm and dry in turn, adjusting to his alien temperature, his strange biology. In mere seconds that seemed like hours they had mapped his body, sensing from his involuntary responses where the sensitive regions were, attacking them with an eagerness foreign to such a commercial coupling between strangers.
“The period leading up to the Eugenics Wars was a time of unparalleled moral absence in human society . . . the creation not only of superbeings like Khan Singh but also of genetically-created ‘untermenschen’, slave classes if you will . . . soldiers, ‘labour drones’, ‘pleasure units’ with enhanced neuro-tactile and empathic abilities . . . Starfleet has heard unconfirmed reports of entire slave species, custom-made to serve the needs of their masters . . .”
The pointed tip of a tongue danced around his anus, slipping inside. Instinctively he pulled away, the reaction pushing him further inside the Cynese beneath. Peristaltic bands tightened around his cock - he couldn’t move despite the overwhelming urge to thrust and her gripping sex drained his seed, his life forces, as Reed thrashed and tossed in his first or fifth or tenth orgasm, the release of his fluids a sweet, craven death.
Image an existence of genetically engineered servitude. The conditioned ecstasy and ingrained hatred of your work, to endlessly fight or labour or copulate and die at the whims of your Creators. Pleasure as a means of control, for the seduction of collaborators and placation of frustrated soldiers. But what happens to the soldier when the war comes to an end? What is your purpose when the Creators have no further use for you?
His penis was red and sore and limp. Their bodies flashing brilliant once more, red-blue-indigo as Cynese callously pushed him aside - he was of no further use to them now. They joined in a frenzy that made his own experience seem like mere foreplay and Reed was driven to masturbate over and over despite the pain.
Race memories of things he should not remember, events before his time. The destruction of New Delhi by nuclear fire and the march of armies on the African savannah. Tribes and cultures and entire nations obliterated or mingled together by deportation, ethnic cleansing, organised rape and enforced prostitution, divided once more by the bioharvesting viruses of their religious and political leaders. This is the story of hundreds of worlds - what is a mere soldier or whore against the tides of history, the ambition of dictators?
Consciousness was slow to return. No, not consciousness; Reed had not fallen asleep. More like . . . memory, that there was a world outside this room.
Sensation . . . of his parched mouth, the aching of ill-used muscles, a craving for moisture.
Awareness . . . that time was once again moving in its linear fashion.
“Bloody HELL!” Scrabbling, grabbing at his clothes and boots, personal items scattered haphazardly across the floor, nothing like his usual compulsive neatness. There was a moment of panic when he couldn’t find his EM-33; Reed’s career flashing before his eyes until he found the pistol lying beneath his singlet.
He winced as underwear was pulled over an aching crotch, his jumpsuit over abraded and sweat-grimed skin. ‘Need a shower. And a decontamination room. And a medical check-up. Strictly confidential of course . . . ’ Reed pulled on his boots and speed-laced them. Took a quick inventory as he refilled his pockets. ‘EM-33, holster, right hand side. Spare power cells, right upper arm pocket. Communicator, left jacket pocket. Bag of local currency . . . ’
Reed couldn’t remember paying the women but a large percentage of the rehls were missing. He knew better than to ask where it went.
‘First aid pack, right hand thigh pocket. Scanner, left upper chest pocket. Chronometer . . . ’
“Two hours? Oh SHIT!”
He stumbled for the entry iris, limbs uncoordinated, as if they were still getting used to this strange business of moving by themselves, no longer in ecstatic synchronisation with another body.
Turning at the entrance, Reed saw that Cynese were still locked together, eyes shut tight and bodies rigid, the muscles relaxing in infinitesimal stages. He wanted to say something, to try and gain some understanding of what had happened here. To cross the light-years between human and alien, male and female, soldier and concubine. But Reed knew that mere words couldn’t bridge that.
Ensign Mayweather was sitting with his back against the wall, bored, gazing at the ceiling. He rose to his feet as Reed stepped out of the iris, mouth twitching as he took in his superior’s disheveled appearance. There was no sign of the Ciimet.
“No-one upstairs seems to remember Klaang,” said Mayweather, trying to look into the room Reed had just exited. Reed moved to block his view until he felt the iris close behind him. “Apparently they get over five thousand customers a day through there. Did those women tell you anything?”
“No. Any word from the captain or Commander Tucker?”
“Nothing. I tried calling them fifteen minutes ago but I couldn’t get through. Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine!” said Reed. “Try them again.”
Making a half-hearted attempt to repress his grin, Mayweather flipped open his communicator. “Mayweather to Captain Archer.”
Crackling static, a burst of interference from a nearby power conduit, no response.
‘Communicator, left jacket pocket.’ A chirrup as Reed flipped it open. “Reed to Enterprise, comms check.”
“Captain, this is Mayweather. Come in.”
“This is Enterprise. Your signal is distorted but readable.”
“Enterprise, have you heard anything from the captain or Commander Tucker in the past . . . two hours?”
“Mayweather to Tucker, come in.”
“Commander Tucker requested a comms check at 1543 hours Shiptime. My last contact with the captain’s group was 57 minutes ago. Ensign Sato said they were on level nineteen. Do you want me to hail them, sir?”
“Yes, immediately. Notify me as soon as you contact them.” He snapped the communicator shut. Damn! How could he have been so bloody stupid?
“It’s probably just the comms on the blink again, sir,” said Mayweather. “We’re transmitting through God knows how many layers of concrete, steel, whatever. Should we head down to level nineteen?”
“No, they’ve probably moved on from there. We’ll go back to the shuttlepod and try the bioscanners.”
They took the elevator pad up to docking port three, the level indicators flashing incomprehensible symbols in red-blue-indigo. There was the usual awkwardness of an enclosed space, of two bodies in unwilling proximity.
“Well, what were they like?” asked Mayweather, breaking the silence.
“None of your damned business.”
The doors above them slid apart and they were lifted into the midst of driving snow, the sweat on Reed’s body chilling in an instant.