ONE

There were times Pericles would have happily killed his father, if not for the fact that regicide involved so much paperwork. This was one of those times. Here he was, waiting to be “announced” outside the great hall of the infamously fearsome warlord Antochus, and he couldn’t even enjoy it. And being “announced” was one of his favorite things about being royal. If one were to ask anyone in his retinue, they would all say being announced was his third favorite thing about being the crown prince of Tyre.^[1] . He liked it so much that he always thought of the word “announced” with quotation marks around it. There was something intensely satisfying about entering a room when you knew you already had everyone’s attention.

“Great Lord Antochus, fair Princess Lexa, lords and ladies of the Great Council,” he could hear the restrained voice saying through the impossibly large opened doors. The sounds of platters, glasses, and utensils formed a rhythm for the dancing shadows and liquid amber of torchlight drifting through the opening, as if carried by the aromas of roast beasts and root vegetables. These elements forewarned Pericles that he would be entering in the middle of their evening banquet. Good, he thought, hoping the famously contentious warlord would have had the opportunity to empty a couple of steins already. Pericles wished he had a couple of drinks in front of him right now. He surprised himself by realizing that he would even be willing to pay for them, if need be.

He furrowed his brow slightly, as an introspective stab made him aware that insecurity was an extremely rare feeling for him. He positively frowned when it occurred to him how insecure the act of introspection always made him feel. He was the crown prince of a relatively wealthy planet-state. He was handsome in that peculiar way square-jawed, chisel-nosed, golden-eyed, well-muscled men can be handsome. He had an easy laugh and a sort of glow emanating from him that made people want to be friends with him. His shock of hair had in it all the colors of a rocket’s flaming glow. Most of his days were spent in boozy celebrations, and he had never been accused of turning any celebrants away. Tyre was not known first and foremost for its military strength, but had instead earned a reputation as a planet peopled with good-natured drunks. The planet Tyre housed the finest wineries, staid and universally respected distilleries, and the most expertly-maintained breweries in the universe. His people are hardy, hard-working, and generously willing to share their products with anyone and everyone who cares to drop by. He himself had spent every summer since his thirteenth day of birth working in the vineyards and the hop fields, or in one of the royal facilities, learning the hard work and labor involved with producing that which he would not enjoy (openly, at least) until his fifteenth year.

Maybe insecurity wasn’t the right word for what he was feeling. Uncertainty was more like it. Sure, he had spent most of the journey carousing with the nonessential members of his ship’s crew, celebrating the purpose of the journey. They all knew his mission, and had treated the fourteen-day cruise to Antochus as if it were their prince’s traveling bachelor party. The past fortnight has consisted of debauchery and depravity the likes of which Pericles had not even dreamed in his nineteen years. This evening, they had entered the Antochan’s space sector. Pericles had left his crew to tidy up the ship’s deck and signal for shuttle-taxis to take the strippers back to their home planets. He calmly ate his Tyrian oats^[2], then bathed and dressed for his meeting. It wasn’t until Lexa’s name was spoken just now that his stomach had tied itself tighter than a quirrh’s neckband around a megridzol’s waist^[3]. That’s when it struck home just what the purpose of this visit really was.

Of course, everyone knows who Lexa is, and this was the source of Pericles’ anxieties. It is unlikely to find any intelligent, libidinous being in this end of the galaxy whose eyes don’t glaze over a little at the mention of her name. This was due, of course, to the holo-images of her that had been leaked into the solar net the year before. After all, anytime anyone creates a way to broadcast messages from one place to another, it is only a matter of time before someone becomes enterprising enough to use that method to distribute images of beautiful women fornicating. Pericles thought that if he were her father, he’d have been furious and demanded the holo-images be withdrawn. And if he had the kind of clout in this end of the galaxy that Antochus did, he’d be able to make that happen. But in actuality, Antochus seemed almost happy about the fame his daughter had received after the release of the pictures. This puzzled Pericles, but he thought that when one is in command of the most powerful armada in the known galaxy, salacious images of your daughter being released to the general public just isn’t something one wishes to expend resources over. And, to be fair, she was indescribably hot in that lacy little Brounian number.

Pericles tried to calm his thoughts as his introduction continued.

“Presenting His Royal Highness: son of the Great High Leader of the city-state of Tyre on the planet also called Tyre, he who led the revolt against and eventually demoralized the universally hated insectile creatures from Thrax’ inner ring by pointing out to their leader that – ahem – ‘Chicks just don’t like bugs’. I give you Pericles, Crown Prince of Tyre.”

As he entered the chamber, he had rather expected some sort of accolade. Maybe not a standing ovation or a trumpet fanfare, but certainly something more than bored grunts and a belch from one of the ladies at the banquet table to the left. In fact, the only two people in the room who were even paying attention to him were Antochus himself and Antochus’ daughter, seated on his right side. The warlord, who was far larger and hairier than Pericles had imagined, finished chewing whatever had produced the juices dripping down his chin as the newcomer stood at the far end of the chamber, just inside the open doors. He wiped his beard with a corner of the tablecloth as he waved for Pericles to approach.

“So, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Antochus asked. He bared his teeth in what could have been intended as a welcoming smile, but Pericles couldn’t help but feel like there was something more predatory in the leer.

“Your highness,” Pericles said with a bow, “my father, King of Tyre, has sent me with the hope of uniting the rich history and cultural vibrancy of Tyre with the powerful might of the house of Antochus. In short, your highness, I would most humbly ask for your daughter’s hand, as it is my understanding that she has not yet taken a groom.”

The silence was thick as a Falloquian meteor swarm. Everyone in the room had stopped eating and was watching intently. Pericles could feel dozens of sets of eyes boring into him from all directions. Antochus held his gaze for an impossibly long twelve ticks. Pericles held his head high and returned the unreadable look in Antochus’ eyes, all the while hoping that this larger-than-life person couldn’t see the sweat suddenly breaking out along his hairline. It took every effort he had not to steal a glance to the left at those smoky purple eyes that were burning into his peripheral vision. At one point, Pericles became painfully aware of Lexa’s movement to rearrange her skirts, revealing even more of her bronze legs. But he would not break contact with Antochus. Finally, the warlord looked to his daughter, and Pericles jumped on the opportunity to follow his gaze. She had a curious smile just barely etched at the corners of her mouth and there was something hungry in her eyes as she looked Pericles up and down. Sweat broke on his upper lip now and he felt a trickle work its way between his shoulder blades. Something unspoken passed between Antochus and Lexa, even without her breaking her stare at the prince.

“He’ll do,” was all she said.

As he struggled to keep his knees from buckling under him, Antochus rose from his seat. Every other seat in the chamber scraped back as the rest of the council stood. Only Lexa remained seated. Her lips parted slightly and her smile became more pronounced. Never once did she break eye contact with the increasingly flustered Pericles. Antochus stepped down from the dais and put a heavy hand on the prince’s shoulder. Something metal on his hand struck a bone that the boy hadn’t before realized was a part of his skeleton. He did his very best not to wince.

“Walk with me, son.” With that, the two men passed through a side door behind the table on the left side of the chamber and into a trophy room.

“You know, you’re far from the first to appear before me asking for my daughter’s hand,” he said.

“Sir, this comes as no surprise to me. The Princess is beyond beautiful, and an alliance with the mighty house of Antochus would benefit any planet in the known…”

“Beautiful? She’s a walking boner pill,” the gruff warlord interrupted with a throaty chuckle.

It took Pericles a moment to try to realize that the warlord was attempting to make a joke. His polite chuckle came out a bit more high-pitched than he would have liked. Antochus’ chest rumbled deeply as he laughed. Pericles hoped the man was laughing at his own jest.

“Might I ask what happened to those who came before me? Were they found unacceptable?”

“Oh, she liked them just fine,” Antochus said with a gleam in his eye. “Some of them she probably liked more than she will you.”

Pericles was unable to stifle his confusion.

“Then why…?” he asked, but the warlord had stopped in front of him, causing him to halt abruptly.

He turned and put his hands on both of Pericles’ shoulders, turned the young man to face him. His grizzled eyebrows pulled upward and he glanced toward the uppermost gallery of the trophy chamber. Pericles followed his gaze, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness near the ceiling. When they did, he fought to retain his sense of balance, to say nothing of the stomachful of Tyrian oats. The heads of at least a dozen young men held the uppermost tier of the trophy chamber. Antochus lifted his hands from the prince’s shoulders and turned away. Pericles, on the other hand, stood frozen, transfixed by the heads, their blank eyes forever staring into eternity.

“Are those…?” he choked out before his throat became too dry to say any more. Antochus strolled comfortably in a large circle around him.

“You see, my daughter and I have an arrangement. When her mother died several years ago, I reached a point where I realized no number of concubines would ever be able to be able to slake this warrior’s thirsts in the way that my lost queen had. I wasted more than three solar cycles and over five thousand concubines of half that many races, creeds, and at least eight genders in the pursuit of my lustful satisfactions. During those years, my daughter was growing into the very image of my lost queen. On the eve of her sixteenth year, she joined me in my chamber for the first time, and I found that her visage and form were far from all she had inherited from her mother.”

The room spun around Pericles, and the older man’s detailed descriptions of various acts the two of them had shared together fell into some dull, echoing place at the back of his mind.

“…I ask you, what kind of father would I be if I did not allow my little girl to explore new horizons from time to time?”

The irony of the question brought him back to a full awareness of his surroundings. Less than half of a tick after he sensed someone in the darkness behind him, he felt a crunching blow across the back of his skull. He sank to his knees and was crumpling to the floor as Antochus looked at him with what he could only describe as a sort of predatory kindness.

“Enjoy tonight, lad. Tomorrow, you will take your place in my little collection.”

A dull blackness folded over his vision and the last thing he saw were the decapitated heads which all seemed to be staring down at him. As he lost consciousness, he held a fleeting thought that maybe he shouldn’t complain about his own father so much.

TWO

He awoke in a luxurious bed chamber, tied hand and foot to the four posts of the bed. His clothing had been removed and a soft linen sheet had been thrown across his torso. Just as he began to strain at the ropes, the chamber door opened. Light spilled through from the passage beyond to silhouette the lovely Lexa’s luxuriously luscious body as she paused in the doorway. She was wearing a sheer floor-length shift which, in this light, left absolutely nothing to Pericles’ imagination. She allowed the door to close softly behind her and crossed to the bed, exaggerating the movement of her hips while she walked. Despite his plight, Pericles found it difficult to not ogle the ululating peaks and valleys of this woman. Wordlessly, letting her body do all the talking (and it clearly had a lot to say) she crossed the room to the bed. There she stood, appraising him with her eyes. With her left arm, she slid the sheet off him, eventually letting its own weight pull the silken fabric off the bed and to the floor. Her right hand was held behind her back. After one lingering look, she settled onto the bed beside him and slid one leg across Pericles’ body, settling herself heavily astride him. Just as he was about to say something, his tongue went dry at the sight of the knife she had been hiding behind her right hip. He lost sight of the blade as she leaned in close and placed it under his chin. Even more menacingly, her lush lips nearly pressed against his.

“There’s no need to talk, lover,” she whispered, her breath scented with something richly sweet. Their mouths were close enough that Pericles could feel her lower lip brush his as she spoke. She bucked her hips just the merest fraction of a switch then hesitated, her warmth passing through her thin garment. She sat up suddenly, raising the knife above her head. Pericles closed his eyes and held his breath. He felt her body weight shift forward as she lunged her arms downward.

Instead of pain or the warm flow of his own blood spilling, he felt his right arm retract slightly toward his body, the rope that had been pulling it tight suddenly slack. He opened an eye and looked up at Lexa.

“Wha-- What are you doing?” he stammered.

“I’m raising the stakes,” she said. “It used to be enough to know that these men I took to my bed would breathe their last the next day. It was intense, knowing that I was the last they would know of desire. The last couple of times, though…”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes clouding as she focused them on a spot just beside Pericles’ head yet a thousand parsecs beyond. As Pericles was debating whether the best use of his free hand would be as an all-out assault or a diversionary caress, she focused on him again. She twisted her hips slowly, grinding into him through her gown.

“But before I let you go, there’s no reason we couldn’t take advantage of our situation, is there?” she asked. A naked innocence had crept into her voice, which Pericles supposed would be fairly desirable under more optimal circumstances. Upon considering what he had recently learned of this woman’s sex life, he found her little-girl-asking-daddy-a-question tone to be nothing less than revolting. Unfortunately, his genitalia offered a bald-faced betrayal of his conscience as it began to respond to her ministrations with its own rapid acceptance.

“Wait a minute,” Pericles said, gritting his teeth in his attempt to will a halt of the blood he could feel eagerly rushing into his duplicitous member, “did you say you were going to let me go?”

Remaining astride him, she twisted her body around to cut the ropes holding down his legs, talking as she did. Pericles’ double-crossing protuberance tried desperately to make him take note of the amount of flexibility required to twist her body in such a way.

“The old man always gets so worked up after one of these escapades, but the last couple of times it hasn’t been the same. I think he senses it in me, and it’s affecting his performance. He’s a warrior. Killing is as much a part of foreplay as anything. So I got to thinking…”

She cut the rope holding Pericles’ other hand down, so he was completely free, except for her position atop him. She leaned forward, the knife still in her hand, until their torsos were entirely pressed against one another.

As some part of his brain registered the feel of her perfect breasts pressing against his chest, Pericles was sure that there was a voice that only he could hear coming from somewhere down low and between them saying, “See? Can you listen to what I’m telling you down here?!?”

“What if,” she continued, “he was able to go to war? His last big conflict was many cycles ago, and fighting and killing are what he loves best. Can you imagine the celebration he and I will enjoy once he’s invaded and conquered your drunken little planet?”

Pericles was about to respond when Lexa reached behind her and hitched her gown up as far as her hips. His mind became diverted by the warmth that was wrapping itself all around his midsection. The mutinous demands coming from his appendage instantly grew shrill and panicked.

Just as he felt a dark wave of desire rushing to sweep over the sandcastle of his ethos, Lexa pulled away from him and stood up. She looked down at him on the bed, her legs still straddling him. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back down with her foot. Her gown fell back down around her zaftig hips and thighs.

“Everyone from the Council and my father are sleeping under their libations, and I took care to drug every guard between here and the hangar dock where your ship and crew await.”

With a sudden movement, she raised the knife and sliced it across her shoulder and chest, spattering Pericles with her blood. The cut wasn’t deep enough to be mortal, but he knew it would be painful as it healed and would require many uncomfortable hot oil treatments to prevent scarring. He scrambled his legs out from under her and leaped from the bed even as she sank to her knees. The knife clattered to the floor on the far side of the bed. She rolled over and faced him.

“Congratulations, Prince,” she said with a serene smile. “You came here looking for a princess and now leave with something much more rare and impressive. The humble people of Tyre can now claim the glorious distinction of being at war with Antochus the Great.”

[1] The Prince’s number one favorite thing was not being expected to pay for his drinks. He was historically and frustratingly tight-lipped about the number two favorite thing, but some staffers in the Tyrian palace have observed that the prince only began referring to being “announced” as his number three favorite (as opposed to number two) shortly after the heated toilet seats were installed in the prince’s private chambers.

[2] Tyrian oats have the distinct property of fully and totally absorbing the alcohol in the bloodstream, thereby sobering even the most inebriated celebrant in the time it takes to eat a bowl of oatmeal. This effect is negated by the addition of sweeteners or even cinnamon, which most newly-sobered users consider to be a “real bummer, right?”. Many people, in their impairment, make the choice to eat it with cinnamon and sugar anyway, arguing that “sobriety is a small price to pay for a decent breakfast”.

[3] The editors offer the following extraterrestrial zoological lesson: The quirrh is a rodent-like creature indigenous to the third moon of the fifth planet from the star Sirius. It is small (5.6-13.5 inches) and furry (usually purple, though sometimes bright yellow with black spots which uniformly resemble a caricature of the highly pompadoured Bartleby Grosvenor, the celebrated concert flautist from Betelgeuse 7. No one has yet been able to determine an evolutionary reason for either the creature’s color scheme and/or markings). They have become regarded widely as something of a nuisance through their infestation of trade ships. The common megridzol, on the other hand, is nothing more than a big lump of mildly intelligent goo. The author is attempting humor here, in referencing the megridzol’s waist, as it is most often impossible to tell a megridzol’s top from its bottom, much less define enough contour in its body to locate a “waist”. In the editors’ collectively humble opinion this passage falls under the category of, “if you have to explain the metaphor, it’s not much of a metaphor”.