Chapter 8: Huntress

Schaffer slammed his hand down on the console, frustration overcoming him. He picked up the sheet of paper that he had been recording his findings on, checking his crude drawing of the control panel, what buttons he had been able to discern the functions of labeled in blue ink. Fortunately, the pens had thawed from their frozen state along with the rest of the building. Apparently, they still worked, and there had been plenty of paper sealed in airtight boxes in the storage room for him to write on.

The console was a mystery, however. Without proper documentation, he was beginning to doubt that he would ever gain control of the transmitter. He had found one new function, at least. As he had theorized upon first entering the outpost, there were AG field generators installed beneath the floor, the same gravity manipulators that were used on spaceships. He had managed to activate them and return the gravity within the confines of the base to Earth norm, one standard gravity, much to the confusion and amusement of the aliens. Runt had refused to step inside the building until Schaffer had taken her hand and led her inside, like a child refusing to sleep until its parent had checked under the bed for monsters. Zagza had propelled himself into the ceiling with one of his bounding steps, smashing one of the panels and covering himself in dust. It took them a while to adjust, they had no idea what gravity was after all, and he had no way to explain it to them. The relief on Schaffer’s aching joints and sore muscles was immediate, he had felt as if a fifty-pound rucksack had been removed from his shoulders. Finally, he would be able to concentrate on the task at hand without that distraction, once Yuka and Yura had stopped bouncing off the walls and shrieking with child-like glee of course.

The computer eluded him. Every time he felt that he was close to unraveling the mysteries of the strange console and its purpose-built operating system, something threw him off, sending him right back to square one again. There were labyrinthian menus and sub-menus full of commands that would control the innumerable servos and gyroscopes that made up the complex machinery of the satellite dish, along with a graphical interface that displayed base functions and status, but he couldn’t find any commands that would allow him to alter the data that the dish was sending. It was still operational and active, that much was sure. He had been able to locate animated graphs that tracked the incoming and outgoing bandwidth, along with the power draw of the transmitter, yet nothing to indicate what that data was or how to modify it. This was a spy station that had been erected with the express purpose of trawling Borealan networks for sensitive data, that much was known to him, so was it possible that even the personnel who had access to the computer itself might not have the necessary UNN clearance to view the data it transmitted?

It was a real head-scratcher, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was running out of time. The aliens had a limited stock of food, they couldn’t hang around forever. If he didn’t succeed in sending a distress signal soon, they might be forced to return to the longhouse. They could always come back later, but the journey seemed difficult even for them, and he didn’t have the language skills to explain why coming here was so important. They may not be willing to make a second attempt.

“Shoofa, food!”

Osha was calling him for dinner, and he blushed, remembering the previous night’s activities. She called again, her voice echoing through the halls of the base. He thought it best to abandon his venture for now and get a hot meal. He could use a break, and he was pretty hungry. He made his way to the kitchen, sulking somewhat due to his lack of progress. All of the ice in the base had melted now, the heating system was running at full capacity and keeping the interior at a constant, balmy temperature. The aliens seemed to love it, would they even want to return to their primitive longhouse after discovering the magic of central heating? Food was the more significant factor, however. They might not be able to hunt here, and if they didn’t hunt, they didn’t eat. Schaffer hadn’t seen Scarface for several days now. He wondered if she was roaming the tundra somewhere nearby, scouring the land for sources of nourishment.

The aliens couldn’t sit around the kitchen table, as it was far too small for them both in terms of surface area and height, so they contented themselves with preparing their meat on it and then retreating to other areas of the base to eat. They were rationing the food it seemed, holding off on their usual feasting for the duration of their stay in the base. Not that it mattered to Schaffer, as their portions were still copious by human standards. He took his share of the meat from Osha, placing it on a plate from one of the cupboards and starting to cut it into more sizable chunks with cutlery. This still fascinated the aliens, as their sharp, hooked claws meant that they had no use for eating utensils. All of the aliens had been warmer towards him since his ... encounter the previous night. Perhaps word had traveled that their human guest had finally taken part in their sordid rituals, or maybe they could smell the pheromones of their kin on his skin. Either way, even the members of the pack that he had not been formally introduced to were keen to get their hands on him now.

He didn’t mind it so much now, it felt ... good, welcome. As if sex had been some kind of initiation, they now seemed to consider him a true pack member and apparently fair game for unsolicited petting. He had decided to take the stick out of his ass and just go with it. He would surely be visited again tonight, and he felt a guilty excitement welling in his belly at the prospect as he chewed the oily meat. Did he really want to give up his newfound sense of belonging and easy access to what could only be described as mind-blowing sex in order to return to his mundane and frankly unfulfilling job on the Pinwheel?

He swallowed, banishing the thought from his mind. Worry about that later, right now just focus on getting access to the dish’s data stream. There would be time for hard choices and introspection when he actually had options available to him. He finished his meal quickly, eager to return to the computer console and resume his work, but paused for a moment on his way out to allow Osha to scratch his scalp.

He worked late into the night, making little progress. All of the aliens had retired to their respective piles by the time his eyes became itchy, and fatigue began to scratch at the back of his brain like a neglected dog begging to be let in. He stretched, yawning, and turned to make his way to the crew quarters. He was interrupted by a metallic clang of metal on metal and a draft of chill wind that blew through the corridor. Someone had opened the main door.

Curious, he changed direction, finding a bedraggled Scarface pushing the main door closed behind her as she waded through a drift of rapidly melting snow that had followed her in. She was wrapped in her white cloak, a shadow cast by the long hood obscuring her face. She started when she saw him, then relaxed.

She pulled back her cowl, appreciating the new heat of the base, and Schaffer saw that her fur was matted with ice. He beckoned for her to follow him, and after a moment of hesitation, she complied. She stumbled, clearly confused by the low gravity, taking a moment to get her footing. Schaffer knew where to find towels, gesturing for the alien to sit on a metal coffee table in the lounge area so that he could rub her down while she thawed. He set a kettle on the stove in the kitchen, they were electric and worked without a need for fuel, intending to heat some water enough for her to drink. He had no coffee or tea, although he was unsure if the alien would have appreciated such things anyway.

It didn’t take long for the water to warm, and he poured it into a cup, testing it with his finger before bringing it back to her. She sniffed it experimentally, it probably smelled of metal due to the likely rusty kettle and the poorly maintained piping, but she seemed happy to drink it. He took her cloak, placing it on a nearby chair, running the fluffy towel down her back and across her shoulders as she sat and sipped her beverage. The ice and snow that stuck to her fur in clumps was melting rapidly, but the liberal application of towels was preventing the cold water from soaking into her coat.

Scarface was leaner than the other aliens, there wasn’t much fat on her back and shoulders, the sinewy muscles that he felt under his hands as he dragged the towel across her body further illustrating that. Her fat deposits were mostly confined to her hips, butt, and breasts, which gave her a kind of pear-shaped figure. Where her insulation was thin, her musculature rose to the surface, lurking just beneath her white fluff. She was wearing a leather sling to cover her chest, along with the customary loincloth, tied around her waist like some kind of giant string bikini. She was peppered with scars, pink trails where the hair follicles had been damaged and could no longer grow. Her back was practically a tapestry of struggle and battle. Schaffer lacked the shared vocabulary to ask her where she had gotten them.

Her tail waved back and forth, trailing off the edge of the coffee table as Schaffer rubbed her down. She seemed to be enjoying the sensation, her eyes closed as she sagged forwards, remarkably relaxed for someone who always seemed to be on guard. He dried her hair, which unlike that of Osha and many of the other females who kept theirs long, had been tied up in a neat ponytail. He skirted her ears, remembering how Runt had reacted when he had stroked them, wondering if they might be considered an erogenous zone. He dried her arms, then moved down to her ribs and hips, a little apprehensive about skirting her chest and rear. Scarface wasn’t like the other aliens, she was far less social. He had never seen her join one of the piles before, not to sleep and not for any other reason. He didn’t know how she might react if his hands roamed beyond the acceptable boundaries, he might end up with his own scars, the alien equivalent of a slap to deter an overly friendly suitor. She intrigued him, however. She was mysterious, strong, and perpetually silent. Something about her just drew his attention. He remembered how they had fished together, the alien wrapping him under her long cloak and pulling him against her warm body, the first time that he had seen her express any kind of affection for anyone.

She broke his train of thought, tugging at the sleeve of his suit and looking back at him. Oh, she wanted him to dry her front, fair enough. He walked around to stand in front of her and started to dry her belly with the towel, the alien leaning back slightly to make it easier for him. It was equally peppered with scars, one especially large one that ran across her stomach looked as if it had very nearly disemboweled her. He could feel her abs flexing as he moved, responding to his touch, twin rows of hard muscle that protruded through her soft fat layer. They weren’t outwardly visible due to her fur, but they were powerful, honed by a lifetime of hunting and foraging in the high gravity.

She seemed confused by his avoidance of her breasts, gripping his wrist in her hand and moving the towel up to her chest. She had him dry her cleavage, the area that was not concealed by the sling. While there was nothing inherently sexual about the act, he couldn’t help but blush as her flesh gave way under his touch. She was not as excessively endowed as Osha had been, but her bust would have been the admiration of any human woman. She pushed out her boobs so that he might reach them more easily, and every time that he dabbed at them, they wobbled in their support. The aliens had not invented sports bras, after all, they had to make do with what they had. She breathed more heavily as he ran the towel over them, drying the tuft of fur on her chest, and he felt her eyes lingering on his warm cheeks as he tried to avoid her gaze. He moved down to her thighs, Scarface writhing slowly as he dried their sensitive inner surface. Was she enjoying this?

He looked up at her, daring to meet her gaze, finding her expression sultry and inviting. She opened her legs further as the table beneath her creaked under her weight, lowering a thumb and forefinger to pull loose the leather strings that held up her loincloth. Schaffer swallowed hard as it fell away, revealing a mound covered in delicate, white fluff. Her pink, puffy labia peeked out from beneath the fur, drawing his eyes. She lowered her fingers, parting them to be sure that Schaffer could see, a drip of clear moisture leaking free to pool on the surface of the table.

Damn it, he was still sore from the previous night, but the allure of her invitation was too much for him to refuse. He had a good idea of what she expected of him, and it was confirmed when he lowered his head towards her loins, gripping a handful of his hair in her fist and tugging him closer. She was rougher than Osha had been, less considerate, and it was exciting. He kneeled, resting his hands on her silken thighs, and she looked down at him with a lecherous expression. She tugged, pulling his hair, and he leaned closer to her.

She was so warm. The heat from her sex radiated outwards, he could feel it on his red cheeks. He sank his fingers into her inner thighs, her cushiony fat giving way to hard muscle, firm and taut. She loosed a drawn-out sigh, one of the few vocalizations that Schaffer had ever heard her make, then tugged at his hair again as if to urge him on. It hurt a little, but it tickled his scalp in a way that he liked. He felt oddly compliant, rubbing his cheek against her leg, breathing hot air on her swollen loins as they dripped strands of glistening fluid. Her fur was like velvet on his skin, and as he drew closer, the sweet smell of her musk filled his nose. Her womanly scent was stronger than that of Osha or Runt, with a hint of exertion and the aroma of fresh snow. Perhaps it was because of her semi-nomadic lifestyle or because she had just returned from the hunt, but the scent was deeply sexual, almost like honey with an underlying hint of salt. It drew him closer, like a bee to a flower, and before he knew what was happening his tongue was parting her lips.

Her grip on his hair grew stronger, as if she was afraid that he might escape from her grasp. She seethed with arousal as he explored her vulva, tracing the creases and folds of her organ with the tip of his tongue. He could feel her powerful muscles flexing beneath her fat as she squirmed, rolling her hips, grinding against his face as if seeking to drive him deeper. She was slippery, glistening, the sight of her exposed loins sending a familiar throb of excitement through Schaffer’s now aching erection. His member strained against his suit, struggling to break free as her excitement slid down his chin. She was sopping, her juices dampening the fluff around her crotch. It tasted salty and sour, oddly metallic, but he was too turned on to care. He mouthed and kissed, dragging the surface of his tongue across her flesh, making her twitch and buck. Her thighs quivered around his head as he flicked it across her protruding clitoris.

She was reacting more strongly than his skill level would suggest, he wasn’t exactly practiced. Was it something about his anatomy? The aliens had far longer and more powerful tongues than humans, they could probably reach deep inside their partners, but their course texture might make them less suited to such delicate work. Human tongues might be shorter, but they were smoother, too. Emboldened, Schaffer pressed her firm nub of flesh between his lips and sucked it into his mouth, teasing it with quick flurries. Both of her hands found purchase in his hair, her steely thighs crushing his head between them, Schaffer hoping that she retained enough self-control to avoid popping it like a ripe cherry. Scarface arched her spine, opening her mouth in a silent wail as her tail coiled around one of the table legs and Schaffer’s mouth was flooded with a fresh stream of her essence. It startled him, she was so wet, so slippery. It dripped from her loins in strings, clinging to her fur and linking his lips to hers in a sagging web.