Dire Contingency
Copyright© 2025 by Snekguy
Chapter 45
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 45 - A disillusioned special forces group stages a violent insurrection, stealing experimental weapons from a Navy black site and using them to take over a remote colony. With help months away, the only person who is in a position to oppose them is Ruza – an old veteran of the Kerguela war. The planet is plunged into a brutal conflict, with local resistance groups hellbent on breaking the occupation.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Military War Science Fiction Aliens Space Oral Sex Petting Size Politics Slow Violence
DAY 69 – HADES – PETROVA
Ruza made his way to the landing pad, feeling the backwash from the shuttle’s engines pelt his mask and goggles with airborne sand. Garrison One was its usual hive of activity, a few passing Marines pausing to greet him on their way past, but this was not a military flight.
Petrova was waiting for him beside the open troop ramp, raising a prosthetic hand in greeting as he climbed the steps. He couldn’t hear her over the engines, so he followed her inside the bay, noting that there were some bags strapped to the wall above the rows of seats with cargo netting. She popped open the visor on her helmet, revealing her smiling face.
“Ready to go for a fly?”
“You are certain that you are rated to pilot a Leadbeater?” he asked, glancing past her to the cockpit warily.
“Sure am!” she chimed. “SWAR agents are trained to fly all kinds of craft. It’s not all that hard – the flight computer does most of the work for you. Go ahead and strap in!”
She made her way through the divider that separated the troop bay from the cockpit and climbed into one of the elevated seats, the sunlight fading as the ramp began to close. Ruza sat down in one of the chairs in the bay, adjusting it a little to suit his stature and strapping the harness across his chest.
Once he was secure, Petrova was cleared for takeoff, the engines making the deck beneath his paw pads rumble as the craft lifted off. He wondered where they were headed as they accelerated over the city, the engine noise now fading to a level where they could hold a conversation again.
“Where are we going?” Ruza asked. “I can think of no destination near the city that we cannot reach by foot or by truck.”
“I think you’re going to like it,” she replied cryptically. “It’s our third date, so I wanted to do something a little special.”
“Is there a cultural significance to the third date?” Ruza asked.
“Kind of,” she said – a non-answer.
“I am surprised that you were permitted to take a military craft on such a jaunt,” he continued.
“Well, they have more dropships than qualified pilots right now,” Petrova continued. “All of the cargo they needed has been moved down from the carrier, so other than a few taxi flights for VIPs, most of the dropships are just sitting idle. Besides, you know that Brenner wouldn’t say no to me.”
After only fifteen minutes, Ruza felt the craft begin to decelerate, but the lack of portholes meant that he couldn’t see where they were landing. Petrova brought the dropship to a hover, then he felt the gear make contact with the ground, the engines starting to wind down. Petrova hopped out of her seat and took off her helmet, holding it under her arm as she walked past him. With a press of a button, the troop ramp began to open, allowing warm air and bright light to flood inside.
“Watch your step up here,” Petrova warned as she headed out.
Ruza unstrapped and followed her into the sunlight, vertigo hitting him for a moment.
He was standing on the flat top of one of Hades’ large mesas, the rock formation jutting up from the ocean of sand like an island. It was huge – large enough that it would take him maybe ten minutes to walk from one side to the other, its sheer cliff walls making it impassable to anything but an aircraft. That explained the dropship ride. Above his head was the endless expanse of deep blue sky, the evening sun bearing down on him, and there was nothing but dunes on the horizon in almost every direction. He could see so far from such a height – maybe a hundred kilometers, atmospheric haze blurring the border where the land and sky met. The desert seemed to shimmer beneath the sun, creating the illusion that it was shifting and moving like water.
Ahead of him was the colony, its circular shape easily visible from such an angle. Like a giant, flat plate, its sprawl spread out from the base of the anchor. The white color of the prefabs made them shine like jewels, and the tether rose up to split the heavens in two, like some great deity had dragged a claw down the middle of a canvas to leave a thin trail of black.
“Thought you’d like it,” Petrova said, walking over to stand beside him. “I was wracking my brain trying to think of a way to one-up our picnic from the other day.”
“It is beautiful,” he marveled. “I have never seen such a sight before.”
“You can take off the rebreather,” she added with a gesture to his mask. “This high up, it’s much less dusty.”
“Perhaps we should have built our city atop this mesa,” Ruza mused as he slipped it off.
“We could put in an escalator,” she joked. “Just stay away from the edge, you hear? That drop has to be a couple of thousand feet. I brought everything we need to spend the night up here,” she added as she turned back to the ship.
“Spend the night?” Ruza repeated.
“Yeah!” she continued as she jogged up the ramp. “You’ll want to see the stars from up here, right? I brought food, sleeping bags, blankets – it’ll be great.”
“Alright,” he replied. There was a different energy to Petrova today. She seemed more assertive, somehow more sure of herself, as though she was enacting a plan whose outcome she already knew.
“Once it starts getting cold, we can just close up the troop bay and have ourselves a slumber party,” she called from within the bay. “Even you should have plenty of space in here.”
He meandered closer, watching her pull one of the duffel bags down from the cargo netting. She zipped it open and produced some padded fabric, unrolling a tightly-packed sleeping bag out onto the deck. Another rucksack contained food – both MREs and something in airtight containers that she must have prepared herself prior to the date.
“You hungry yet?” she asked as she peeked out from beneath the shadow of the bay.
“I could eat,” he replied.
“That doesn’t sound very Rask,” she chuckled as she fetched a few MREs and containers. “I can always tell when you’ve added a human phrase to your vocabulary wholesale.”
It was a little windy so high up, so they set up their picnic area in the shadow of the dropship, the craft shielding them. Petrova laid down her blanket and began to start their MRE meals cooking, activating chemical heaters and balancing the packets upright.
“Took a little doing, but I managed to find you one of these,” she said as she produced an MRE that was much larger than the rest. “Ortega had a handful of them in the carrier’s stores, likely left over from some prior deployment. They’re close to being out of date, but they should still be good.”
Ruza didn’t need to read the human markings on the plastic – he knew from its size alone that it was a ration formulated for Borealan auxiliaries. It had five times the calories of a human twenty-four-hour ration pack, and many times the protein.
“Thank you!” he marveled. “It had not even occurred to me to ask!”
“You’ve been pretty busy,” she replied, smiling as he used his claws to slice open the wrapper. “Besides, I’m not sure how safe it is for humans to eat this stuff. There’s a hell of a lot of sodium and saturated fat in there. I’d probably clog an artery.”
Inside were several meat dishes made from beef and pork, dried and salted jerky, and even a few dehydrated gourd slices from the homeworld. They were from Elysia – most Borealan products were – but their familiar taste had him smiling. He offered a slice to Petrova, and she took a tentative bite, rolling it around in her mouth experimentally.
“Huh,” she muttered once she had swallowed the morsel. “It kind of tastes like pumpkin – very fibrous. There’s no sweetness to it, but I suppose I should have expected that. If these are domesticated plants, they won’t have been bred for sweet flavors.”
“They grow in Elysian vineyards,” Ruza explained as he slotted another one into his mouth. “Parasitic vines that coil around some species of native tree produce these gourds, and they are harvested to be used in many kinds of cooking. They are much more flavorful fresh.”
“Still, it’s pretty cool to be able to taste one,” Petrova replied. “I didn’t expect to be eating Borealan food when I came out here. Oh, I found you something else,” she added as she reached for one of the plastic containers. She popped it open and passed it to him. Inside was a small square can, and Ruza lifted it up, inspecting it. “I couldn’t find any fish oil, but I did find you some oily fish. These are called sardines. They’re from Earth, and they’ll last practically forever as long as the seal isn’t broken. They’ve probably been sitting in someone’s pantry since the Syndicate days.”
Ruza hooked a curved claw around the pull tab and eased the can open, a delightful aroma emanating from within that set his mouth watering. Inside were perhaps a dozen tiny, silvery fish suspended in an oily sauce, a few flecks of green suggesting some kind of spice or herb. The heads and tails must have already been removed – he doubted whether Earth fish looked like this naturally. He tried one, spearing it on his claw and lifting it from the oil, his eyes widening as he chewed. Petrova laughed at his reaction as he went for another, having to pace himself so as not to finish the small morsels too quickly.
“I take it the sardines are a hit?” Petrova snickered as she watched him upend the empty can into his mouth. He would have cleaned it with his tongue, but the edges of the tin were rather sharp.
“A delicacy,” he replied, wiping his mouth on the back of his furry hand. “Thank you – they were delicious.”
“You’re pretty low maintenance if a can of sardines is all it takes to make you happy,” she added with a grin. “I’ll have to get you some mackerel, tuna, herring, anchovies. It all keeps practically forever, and it shouldn’t be hard to import once trade starts back up.”
“As I said, our lake was not very productive,” Ruza replied. “Fish was usually only eaten by those of high rank or on special occasions. Most often it was stolen from Elysian trade caravans...”
“Then you’ll be eating like a Patriarch.”
They continued their picnic, Petrova marveling at the quantity of food that Ruza was able to eat in a single sitting. Fresh meat had obviously been scarce throughout the occupation, and while the MRE meals were far from the height of culinary excellence, it had been some time since he had truly been able to end a meal with a full belly. No more small human portions – he could eat his fill.
Petrova had brought a bottle of the wine he’d gifted her, slowly making her way through it as the evening went on. Humans were known to have a tremendous resistance to the effects of alcohol, but Ruza had noted that Petrova seemed especially hardened against it.
She had brought him another gift – a savory dessert she called chips. They were made from the root vegetables the humans so favored, but they had been dusted with a salty, cheese-flavored powder. He was momentarily confused by the presence of what seemed to be a Borealan mascot on the packaging, but his cackling host insisted that it was some Earth animal. Even after he had devoured the bag, he spent several minutes cleaning said powder from his fur with his tongue, much to her amusement.
By the time the sun was setting and the stars were becoming visible, they were surrounded by empty packaging, the pair taking a minute to collect it all so as not to let the wind carry it away. The view of the colony from such a height was spectacular. From the ground, the city had what could generously be described as a utilitarian charm, but he would forgive anyone who referred to it as ugly. It was little more than a sprawl of prefabs, carbcrete structures, and industrial parks. At night, the light pollution created an ethereal glow that rose up into the sky, the golden light seeming to pool around the twinkling tether.
“It’s nice up here,” Petrova said, shuffling closer so that she could lean her head on his arm. “Just the two of us, nobody around to bother us for miles.”
“It was a very good idea for a date,” he replied.
They remained together for a while longer, watching the silver moon rise over the dunes until the temperature began to drop. So high up, it happened even faster, the sun’s absence sapping the air of all its warmth.
“You want to turn in?” Petrova asked.
She should have been sleepy, but Ruza sensed that her pulse was quickening. She might not realize it, but his senses were far more finely tuned than hers, and he could pick up the sound of her heartbeat even through her clothes. There was an energy to her – a nervousness warning him that sleep might not be the only thing on her mind. The third date had seemed to be of significance to her. Perhaps he would soon discover why.
They packed up all of their belongings and headed back inside the ship, Petrova keeping her back to him as she stowed the bags back behind the cargo netting. That done, she hit the switch that raised the ramp, the panel slowly sealing behind them. She turned her attention to the sleeping bags on the floor, piling a few more blankets and sheets on top of them to create a kind of messy nest, a scattering of pillows joining them. There was plenty of room – enough for two Krell to ride standing in the aisle, so there was more than enough space for the pair.
“There,” she muttered, stepping back to appraise her work. “You think that’s alright? I hope we have enough insulation from the deck. I’ll set the heating going,” she added, hurrying off to the cockpit before he could interject. “That should do it,” she declared as she returned to the troop bay. “It’ll be toasty and warm in here before too long. These things don’t lose much heat,” she added with a chuckle that came off somehow nervous. “Being that they’re designed for space and all.”
“It is ... cozy,” Ruza replied as he appraised the bay.
“You know something?” Petrova began, keeping the conversation moving. “I’ve slept in a Kodiak, I’ve slept in a Puma, and I’ve even slept in the back seat of a truck, but I’ve never spent the night in a dropship before. This’ll be a first.”
Ruza strode over to her, placing the back of his furry hand against her forehead. She gazed up at him, her cheeks flushed pink and her heart hammering.
“Are you well?” he asked. “You seem ... tense.”
“P-probably just the wine,” she stammered. “Now isn’t the time to be playing doctor...”
She moved over to one of the footlockers at the end of a row of seats – they were currently stowed to give them more space – and began to shed the warm flight jacket that she had been wearing over her suit. The dark fabric beneath it was form-fitting – tight in many places, adhering to her lithe frame like a glove. She kicked off her boots, exposing her prosthetic feet, the gentle whirring of servos becoming more audible.
Ruza was unsure of himself, not certain whether this was a display for his benefit or simply something mundane. Those in the Navy often lacked the propriety shown by civilians, where the co-ed environment of their ships and bases seldom left room for privacy. Once more, he mulled over the conversation he’d had with Amy about attraction.
Petrova was unlike Rask women in many ways, yet so like them in others. She was resilient and stubborn like a Rask, and there was much about her body that was comparable. Jarilans, Brokers, and Krell might be drastically different from the other species of the Coalition, but Humans and Borealans shared many outward similarities. Both had a mane of hair upon their heads, both had smooth skin in places, both had two arms, two legs, lips...
Her plantigrade legs and too-numerous fingers were strange, and human noses remained an oddity to him, but so much was similar. The subtle curve of her back, the way that her waist flared out into wide hips to create a familiar silhouette, the way that her chest and rump strained against her uniform – it was close enough to excite the same parts of his brain. He might have considered humans frail at one time. They seemed so small, so weak, less durable than even an adolescent Rask. None of those words could be used to describe Petrova. His preconceptions about humans had left him humbled more times than he cared to count, and the wound on his bicep from his last encounter with one had not yet fully healed.
She began to peel off the black suit, revealing more black fabric beneath it – a tank top and a pair of shorts. It contrasted with the light tone of her skin, drawing his eye, but his more analytical mind wandered to the pink scars where her prosthetics joined to her body. Like Fletcher, her arms were attached at the shoulder, likely anchored directly to the scapula for optimal support. It wasn’t hard to tell when such augmentations were the results of injury, and when they were artificial. The surgical scars were clean and symmetrical – inflicted with purpose.
Her legs were a little different, transitioning to black polymer about halfway down her thighs. The pelvic region was filled with important arteries, nerves, and other sensitive structures, so perhaps the SWAR surgeons deemed the area too risky to operate in. Petrova was an undercover agent, and her prosthetics had been designed to perfectly mimic the shape of their organic counterparts. In silhouette, it would be difficult to tell that she was augmented, and they would be practically invisible beneath clothing. This was not the first time that he had seen them, but this was a very different situation – a new context. To think that the person who was standing before him now was the same one he had once strapped to a chair out of an abundance of caution...
Petrova turned to meet his gaze, seeming momentarily flustered. She reached for her arm, starting to rub it absent-mindedly, the gesture also serving to block some of his view.
“You’re not going to sleep in that dusty jacket, are you?” she asked.
Realizing that she was asking him to disrobe, he shed the jacket, the pants following.
“How do you even find clothes that fit?” she marveled as she watched him strip down to a t-shirt and shorts. He went no further, matching Petrova’s state of dress.
“Some, I brought with me,” he replied. “Others, I had tailored.”
The tension in the rapidly warming troop bay could have been cut with a blade. Ruza was not so naive. He could guess the purpose of this secluded nest, and what he couldn’t guess, Petrova’s pumping heart and flushed cheeks could tell him. She even smelled subtly different, her body’s chemistry changing in ways she might not even be aware of, his sensitive nose easily able to detect it in the enclosed space.
What he didn’t know was how to proceed. An Alpha would command him, and a subordinate would expect instruction, but Petrova was neither of those things. Perhaps he had best err on the side of caution and wait for her to make the first move, as Amy had advised.
“Ruza,” she began, her prosthetic feet barely making a sound as she walked across the bedding to join him. “When we started dating, I asked you if you could be attracted to me. I meant as a human, as an amputee, and as ... me. We’re alone now – there’s nobody to disturb us, no crisis that can reach us here. We can go slow, take as long as we like ... if you want me.”
“You arranged all of this so that we could be alone,” he mused as he gazed down at her.
“Yes,” she admitted. “That makes it sound a lot less... romantic than I intended.”
“It tells me that you have given it great thought, and that you are certain,” Ruza replied. “I must warn you – I have not partaken in some time, and never with a human. I am... rusty, as they say.”
“I haven’t either,” Petrova replied, a hint of humor entering her tone now. “Somehow, just touching you makes me feel more than I ever did sharing a bunk with other agents on long voyages. We did it because we needed to, same way we needed to eat or sleep, not because it meant anything. The difference is like ... an MRE and a home-cooked bowl of stroganoff. This means something. I’ve never felt so self-conscious before,” she added with a nervous laugh. “How I look has never really mattered before tonight.”
“Intimacy is expected of all of us,” Ruza replied as he reached down to enclose her tiny hands in his. “It is a service to our Alphas, a way of determining social standing within the pack, and a means of seeking favor. I gave it up when I left my home, but this is something different. There is nothing that you want from me – nothing that I can give you other than companionship. It is simple and without pretense. Now that I know it exists, I find that I covet it.”
He leaned down, almost having to double over to reach her, Petrova standing on her toes to meet his kiss. The two remained joined together in their shared embrace for only a few moments, but it was both an answer to a burning question, and all the permission they needed to continue.
“Being coveted is pretty good,” Petrova said with a chuckle as they broke off. “I’ll take it.”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” Ruza muttered as he felt her prosthetic hands slip from his grasp, raising the hem of his shirt. Cool rubber and polymer brushed against his belly, lifting more fabric to expose him, the way that he tensed reflexively at her touch seeming to embolden her. She tested his muscles, tracing their contours, her digits following a few errant scars as she explored him.
“Feels like you’re hiding level four plates under here,” she mumbled. “It’s no wonder you can take such a beating. All these scars...”
“The majority are from bouts,” he explained. “My own kind. A few – Betelgeusians. Your fellow SWAR have added to the collection as of late.”
“I’ve had most of mine lasered off,” she replied. “Makes me look more normal. Except those where my prosthetics are anchored – not much point in removing those. If someone gets that far, my cover is already blown. Take it off,” she added.
Ruza did as she asked, lifting his shirt over his head to reveal his torso. It was much the same wherever her hands roamed, all tanned skin and faded scars. His right bicep was still bandaged, the deeper wound not yet fully healed.
“I know that you’re older than you look,” Petrova commented as she extended an arm to reach his chest. “The Jarries really did a number on you, didn’t they?”
“Their gene therapy had some positive side effects,” he explained. “In repairing the damaged DNA, they rejuvenated the healthy cells also. The effects of senescence were reversed.”
“You were de-aged, in simple terms,” she said. “Even if my brain wasn’t swimming in hormones right now, I don’t think I could puzzle out the implications of them being able to do that. One would think you’d waste away in low gravity.”
“We must take medication and exercise regularly to maintain our muscle mass,” he replied. “It is a routine that I have not been able to maintain under recent circumstances.”
“And he says that like I should be disappointed,” Petrova chuckled wryly. “Now I know where all that protein is going...”
He tensed again as she planted a lingering kiss on his stomach, her lips tangibly warm.
“I want to kiss you, but you’re so far away,” she said in a tone that betrayed her sordid intent. “Guess I’ll have to make do with whatever I can reach.”
Ruza felt those robotic fingers deftly unfasten a couple of buttons, then they hooked around the hem of his shorts, Petrova already eyeing the bulge beneath the fabric. She seemed more confident – more eager, much of her prior hesitation and nervousness evaporating now that she was certain of where they stood. She would not have gone to such lengths to plan this encounter if she hadn’t already decided where the night would lead them.
It was strange – contradictory to have her be so assertive, but to put his needs before her own. He wasn’t accustomed to such treatment, so he decided to let her take the lead.
Petrova dragged his shorts down, slowly sinking to her knees on the bedding, her stature putting her head level with his waist. She revealed more blonde fur as she went, seeming surprised by the sight. It was much the same as the sandy coat on his limbs and tail, concealing his loins.
“Okay!” she stammered, taking a moment to steady herself as she examined him. “First thing’s first when dealing with an unknown alien species – weapon check. I suppose I just...”
She delved her fingers into his fur, making him flinch as one hand brushed his sensitive sheath, the other feeling for his sack. She weighed his balls in her palm, cupping them gently, the surprise on her face bordering on alarm. It didn’t take much stimulation before his member began to slide free, some of her confusion receding as she watched its pink tip emerge. He knew enough about human anatomy to know that they lacked a sheath, and their male reproductive organs were always visible.
“Oh, there it is,” she mumbled as she watched it swell. “Please don’t be packing a twelve-inch barrel under there...”
She coaxed his shaft to full mast with a few gentle strokes of his sack, letting out an audible sigh of relief when it stopped growing, nine or ten inches of his glistening member pulsing in front of her face. It differed from that of a human in many ways, and he felt a pang of apprehension as he wondered what she might make of him. Instead of skin, it was covered in shining, pink flesh. Where a human shaft was smooth, his was peppered with small bumps – the remnants of what had once been keratinized spines, selected out many generations prior. Where a human glans was rounded and dull, his had more of a taper to it.
“Alright,” she began, giving him a nod of approval as she steeled herself. “This doesn’t look like it’s going to kill me. I can work with that.”
She took it in her hand, finding that she couldn’t quite close her fist around it, letting it throb between her fingers. That prosthetic could have torn it off, but she exerted only the gentlest of pressure.
“Sorry,” she stammered, her eyes flicking up to his face for a moment. “I guess hard plastic and metal doesn’t feel all that nice. These hands were made for killing, not loving.”
“Both require finesse,” he replied. “Your touch is gentle. Do not apologize.”
Encouraged, she began to stroke slowly, a tingle of pleasure ribboning through him. He could feel her testing him – gauging how tightly she should grip, and whether he enjoyed the texture of her polymer housing. In truth, being touched at all was flooding him with an unexpected kind of intoxication, leaving his head spinning. Had he really been celibate long enough to react so strongly? Every brush of her fingers was electric, every stroke chased by a surge of long-repressed hormones. For all his quiet meditation and his diligent self-control, she was making him feel like an untouched, clear-skinned novice again.
She moved a little closer, resting one hand against his thigh as she gripped the base of his shaft with the other, bringing its tip to her lips. He braced himself as she planted a kiss on his pink flesh, another stab of pleasure rocking him. Those soft, smooth lips crawled lower, and he realized that she was mapping him out – testing where he was most receptive.
The first stroke of her tongue almost made his knees buckle, the satin-smooth muscle sliding across his sensitive anatomy, gliding on a layer of her warm saliva. It was impossible for her not to notice his strong reaction, and her eyes flicked up to his face again, those lips curling into a knowing smile.
“I’ve seen you perform surgery on yourself without anesthetic, and you didn’t flinch like that,” she said with a smirk. “You’re kinda jumpy, Doc.”
When she returned to her task, she slid a couple of inches of his length into her mouth, its heat encompassing him. She was small, and her jaw was narrow, the fleshy lining of her cheeks cushioning him as his pulsing member lay atop her smooth tongue like a velvet pillow. Without barbs and sharp teeth, she was almost carefree in her handling of him, as though this was something wholly natural to her. He had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the bulkhead as her tongue made a lazy circle around his glans.
“You good?” she giggled, sliding him past her lips again. “Do you want to sit down, maybe?”
“Perhaps that would be wise,” he conceded. He took a moment to unfold one of the crash couches that was stowed on the wall, adjusting its height to suit him, then sat down. He parted his knees to let Petrova shuffle closer on the bedding, his position putting his lap at a convenient height for her. Taking his member in her hand again with an electric whir, she returned it to her mouth, his eyes following her pink lips as they stretched around his tapered head.
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