If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, as an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. By clicking through and buying (anything book-related, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion. Remember though all of these submissions are from people willing to be associated with this blog. So if you’re trying to buy from people who don’t hate you, this is a good place to start.– SAH
FROM DAVE FREER, THE FIRST WINNER OF THE SPECIAL AWARD FOR YOUNG ADULT FICTION: Storm Dragon.
Winner of the First Special Prometheus Award for Young Adult Fiction 2026
Skut Harkkson hates Highpoint Station. He hates the concrete dome, the expensive food, the mean kids who know his father’s farm is three hundred miles away and that he can’t go home. He misses Faraway — real land, real tides, real work — and every day locked inside the settlement’s walls makes him feel like something important is dying.
Then he finds the storm-dragon.
The creature is tiny, half-dead, and furious — and somehow it talks directly into his head. Not words, exactly. Feelings. Hungry. Cold. Trust. Skut names it Snarky, hides it in his shirt, and starts sneaking outside the settlement’s walls to feed it. Which is how he ends up fishing the forbidden lower jetties with Podge Greene — the new kid who survived a planetary invasion at age ten and isn’t afraid of much. The two of them, with Snarky riding Skut’s shoulder and diving for fish, start to build something that looks almost like a life worth living.
But Vann’s World has three moons, tides that kill without warning, and predators that make Earth’s wildlife look like house pets. And none of that matters when the real threat arrives: a Ghat slaver ship, landing under false papers, loaded with soldiers who have done this to entire planets before.
Now Skut, Podge, and Snarky are outside the walls in the dark, with a handful of adults, two flechette pistols, a forklift, and a storm-dragon who generates five hundred volts and is willing to use them. The settlement is locked down. The hostages are running out of time. The VIP ship is landing in the morning — straight into a trap.
What follows is a boys’ adventure in the oldest, best sense: two kids who actually know things figure out how to win against people who should be unbeatable. Vann’s World is alive and deadly and extraordinary, and Skut and Podge understand it in ways the invaders never will.
Storm-Dragon is a standalone novel — fast-moving, funny in the right places, and built on the principle that boys who read voraciously deserve stories that don’t condescend to them.
FROM LEE ECKHARDT: NAUTILUS ISLAND: A Novel of Captain Nemo and the Nautilus
William Wordsworth said that every book is a separate world; this proves to be true when two teenagers are swept into an alternate universe where Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo is a living, breathing person. Aboard Nemo’s incredible Nautilus and fighting an invasion from still another universe, they voyage from the Pacific to the Atlantic and, finally, to the ultimate showdown with the enemy on the shores of Antarctica. For any fan of Verne’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas.
FROM SCOTT MCCREA: U.S. Marshal Ezra Flint: Double Flint: A Western Adventure (A U.S. Marshal Ezra Flint Western Book 12)
An exciting new Marshal Ezra Flint adventure from the pen of best-selling author Scott McCrea!
Marshal Ezra Flint is on the trail of mad-dog killer Spider Ames. When the two men trade bullets, Flint wings the wanted man who escapes, leaving behind his engraved Sharps rifle.
Flint rides into the town of Mossy Creek, which is still reeling from the latest Spider Ames outrage. When Marshal Hunter Robinson sees the engraved Sharps, he’s convinced the Ezra Flint is his man … and he won’t rest until Flint dangles from the end of a rope!
“…hard to put down. If you like good Western fiction, you will love this book.” – Roundup Magazine review of Hard as Flint
FROM K. W. ABBOTT: The Kestrel Veil Incident: A Military First Contact Science Fiction Novel (The Solmare Cycle Book 1)
The frontier was never empty.
Fresh from the Unified Fleet Authority Academy, Captain Calder Venn receives his first command: the ISV Kestrel Veil, a small scout ship assigned to a routine survey mission along the edge of explored space.The assignment should have been uneventful.
Instead, a single impossible sensor contact changes everything.
As the Kestrel Veil follows evidence that should not exist, Calder and his crew uncover signs that humanity’s oldest assumption may be catastrophically wrong. Beyond the borders Fleet has charted for generations lies not an empty galaxy, but a civilization that has been watching from the darkness all along.
Far from home and operating under strict protocols designed for a simpler universe, the crew must balance caution, curiosity, and survival while every observation carries the potential to reshape doctrine, diplomacy, and the future of humanity itself.
The Kestrel Veil Incident is the first novel in The Solmare Cycle, a military science fiction series blending first-contact mystery, realistic space operations, and institutional decision-making in the tradition of thoughtful, character-driven science fiction.
Perfect for readers who enjoy military science fiction, first-contact stories, and hard science fiction with a strong procedural focus.
FROM NATHAN C. BRINDLE: The Lion of God (Timelines Book 1)
John Wolff has been handed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Again.
He’s already saved the love of his life from an early death – thirty years after she died.
Now, a beautiful young woman, who is clearly his daughter, has appeared from the timeline branch where that same love of his life survived and married his counterpart.
She says they need his help fighting off invaders from the far future. Who, by the way, are looking for him. Why? Because they want the starship drive he and a friend invented, the precursor to their time machine. Problem is, in her timeline, it hasn’t been invented yet.
What man can resist a cry for help from his own daughter?
Particularly when the invaders think she’s a saint. Or possibly, a devil wearing saint’s clothing. And they’re looking for her, too.
Thus begins the Timelines Saga, and the story of the Lion of God.
FROM DALE COZORT: New Galveston Book 1: Operation Croatoan
In February 1939, with World War II looming, the US Navy held a massive naval exercise in the Caribbean, involving almost fifty thousand sailors and marines. President Franklin Roosevelt personally attended.
In this alternate history novel, the US of 1939 disappears at the peak of the exercise, along with the rest of the New World. In its place is a New World still inhabited only by Indians.
While the US remnants try to make a new home for themselves, Nazis, Fascists and Japanese Imperialists scheme with Aztecs and other Indian powers to take over the resource-rich and now nearly defenseless New World.
Nazi Germany pours resources into it’s navy and into an advanced new generation of cargo planes. By summer 1941, the Nazis are ready to move. A mysterious “Operation Croatoan” is at the core of their schemes. Milo Gentry and a handful of other Americans race to figure out what the Axis powers are up to and stop them.
FROM KAREN MYERS: Tales of Annwn – A Virginian in Elfland (The Hounds of Annwn Story Collections Book 1)
A Collection of Five Short Stories from The Hounds of Annwn.
The Call – A very young Rhian discovers her beast-sense and, with it, the call of a lost hound.
It’s not safe in the woods where cries for help can attract unwelcome attention, but two youngsters discover their courage in the teeth of necessity.
Under the Bough – Angharad hasn’t lived with anyone for hundreds of years, but now she is ready to tie the knot with George Talbot Traherne, the human who has entered the fae otherworld to serve as huntsman for the Wild Hunt. As soon as she can make up her mind, anyway.
George has been swept away by his new job and the people he has met, and by none more so than Angharad. But how can she value the short life of a human? And what will happen to her after he’s gone?
Night Hunt – When George Talbot Traherne goes night hunting for fox in Virginia, he learns about unworthy men from the old-timers drinking moonshine around the fire and makes his own choices.
Who could have anticipated that the same impulse that won him his old bluetick coonhound would lead him to his new wife and the hounds of Annwn? Every choice has a cost, he realizes, but never a regret.
Cariad – Luhedoc is off with his adopted nephew Benitoe to fetch horses for the Golden Cockerel Inn. He’s been reunited with his beloved Maëlys at last, but how can he fit into her capable life as an innkeeper? What use is he to her now, after all these years?
Luhedoc needs to relearn an important lesson about confidence.
The Empty Hills – George Talbot Traherne arranges a small tour of the local human world for his fae family and friends, hoping to share some of the sense of wonder he discovered when he encountered the fae otherworld.
He’s worried about discovery by other humans, but things don’t turn out quite the way he expects.
FROM JOHN BAILEY: Correspondent from Aurora (The Aurigan Conflict)
Warships are being built in secret.
The truth is being buried.
And one reporter may be the only man who can expose it.
When veteran Anglo correspondent Martin Hale is assigned to Aurora Prime, he expects censorship, surveillance, and carefully managed propaganda. What he discovers is far more dangerous. Beneath the gleaming towers of the Aurigan Directorate, citizens disappear without explanation, resistance networks operate in the shadows, and a massive military buildup threatens the fragile peace of human space.
As Hale digs deeper, he finds an unlikely ally in Elena Voss, an Aurigan archivist whose loyalty to family gradually draws her into a struggle she never intended to join. Together they uncover evidence that could alter the balance of power across dozens of star systems.
But the Directorate has its own defenders.
Colonel Lukas Renn, a cunning security officer with ambitions of his own, is determined to possess both the truth and the woman Hale has come to love. Above him stands Colonel Viktor Draeg, a relentless enforcer willing to sacrifice anyone to protect the regime.
Caught between spies, secret police, resistance fighters, and rival star nations, Hale must decide how much he is willing to risk for a story.
Because in a society built on lies, the truth is the most dangerous weapon of all.
Correspondent from Aurora combines classic wartime espionage, old-fashioned adventure, and sweeping science-fiction worldbuilding in a tale inspired by the great newspaper thrillers of the 1930s and 1940s.
FROM LEIGH KIMMEL: Love in the Time of Campaigning
As Frank Correra brings his family to a lunar settlement to get them away from a worsening political situation on Earth, he reminisces about how he and his wife met.
Frank had always dreamed of the skies. As a clone of an astronaut who subsequently became a US Senator, Frank thought he had a clear path ahead of him. But when it comes time to apply for the Air Force Academy, it is an election year. His ur-brother can’t promise a nomination until he’s won another term, and this year promises a hard race to run. When the other side puts up an ugly attack ad, can Frank find a way to discredit it before it destroys his ur-brother’s chance of re-election, and with it Frank’s slot at an Academy appointment?
A short story of the Grissom timeline.
Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.
So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.
We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.
If you have questions, feel free to to ask.
Your writing prompt this week is: slave.
According To Hoyt 
“I am not a slave to my coffee habit! I can give up my coffee any time that I choose to do so! But not right now.” ☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕☕
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Ah, but can you choose any time you choose? 😁
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“It’s easy to quit! I’ve done it lots of times!” 🤣
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Remember, o Readers, that you can be FORCE MULTIPLIERS!
After you read books, you can rate and review them!
Even short reviews are of aid to the writer, because sheer mass helps. (And if you really can’t review, still rate.)
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Heed the writer who cries in the darkness. Go forth, rate and review.
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I put the only review Witch’s Daughter got on Goodreads.
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Thank you. For some reason it’s selling super slow.
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Was looking for a magic link to purchase Witches Daughter on this site. Or do I just go to Amazon and do it there?
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Go to the links above and click on any of them to get to Amazon. Then search for it and buy. That way she gets the promo cut as well as the book.
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Cool! Ordered — should arrive Thursday!
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It’s in last week’s promo post!
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Thanks for the promos as always! And yes, I’m a slave to my coffeeeeeee…
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Elias the Lush they called him, and heavens was it not true. Never a morn without a drink to get him going, never an eve without sharing a pint at the Dog and Goblin, that hole with delusions of being a dive but not the character to manage it.
When the Egen came it was between drink and drunker for a wonder. Still upright, still moderately useful, as he’d like to say. It wasn’t a full on raid, not for a little town with hardly name, but a brace of longboats was enough. Would have been enough, save for Elias.
From his usual post by the apple orchard he came, a hollerin’ and a sounding the alarm fit to wake the dead. Dogs barked like mad, chickens stirred up some noise, and old widow Karns’ son took up the call. ‘Tweren’t long before the watch was raised, such as it was, but Elias would have none of it.
“Leave. Get the bairns and the women, take only what you can carry. To the caves and hide.”
And with that, he darted away. Only to return moments later with blade and spear, kettle pot helm and mail, moving like none had ever seen. Spine straight. Stride sure. Breath like a brewery, but not that it could affect him much anymore. Barefoot. Bared steel.
He sent the watch away, and none, not even the bearded Sergeant could sway him. To Corvas the Slave he lent his boots. As for why, he said only this.
“I’ll not be made a slave again. It’s not far where I’m going. The walk there won’t hurt these feet of mine none. You get along now and help keep these folks safe now, y’hear?”
When morning came the smell of smoke remained. Naught but ashes and fire warmed stones, the odd weapon or two and bones. Many more bones that there ought, by rights, have been.
The longships had left. The fields practically untouched. The Egen came. And when they left, they left their dead in a burned down town, their blades and mail and spears scattered in the ash and soot.
On the hill above the rebuilt town lies a monument. A simple one of chiseled stone. A battered mug. A notched spearhead. And an epitaph.
Here lies Elias the Lush. Fought the Egen, Fall of 877, year of the Rat.
To a stranger, little could be known. To those he saved, much.
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If his lord had done it, he had had no more choice than she had.
“Will Lord Thomas rebuke me?” said Katherine. “For letting you two chatter so softly?”
“I — I told him of my parents,” said Clara. “I do not know whether they will be pleased. With our marriage.”
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I succeeded. I met my quota of carved staffs for the day. Though my Slovian assistant was sick with a fever all day, laid up in the downstairs bedroom and I had to do all the work myself, I got it done, even if I had to sownd all day staving over a hot Slov.
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Rebecca looked up and down the Hall of Agriculture, comparing the other exhibits to the one she now stood before. “But why would’ve there been so much resistance to the Yates Picker? The McCormick Reaper was embraced with joy because it enabled a farmer to bring in his harvest so much faster and more economically, but the Picker was treated as an affront.”
The docent’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Actually there was a fair amount of initial resistance to the Reaper, especially among small farmers and the hired laborers who feared loss of harvest wages. But as the Reaper proved itself, many of those laborers ended up finding work in the factories that made the Reaper and other agricultural implements. The Civil War provided the final push for its adoption, since every man freed from hand-scything wheat was a man available for the Army. By contrast, the planter class who owned the cotton fields still measured their social status in terms of the labor they controlled, even if they no longer literally owned the people who worked their land.”
Rebecca considered that fact. “And when their resistance turned violent, it was the final straw for an Administration that had come into existence as the result of the second Presidential assassination in a decade. It’s a wonder the Federal response was no harsher. A Russian tsar or Turkish sultan probably would’ve eliminated the surviving elites of a rebellious region the first time around.”
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“We brought her here to tell us what the spell is,” said Master Hodge. “To keep her, silently dancing attendance on our quarrels about its nature when she could silence them in moments is folly so great that I wonder whether wiser wizards could manage the matter — more wisely.”
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Morning. It’s sick-call at the fundus.
To the first slacker in line, the vilicus says
Deflated, the slave salves his skin and heads for the stable.
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“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”
I slid out from under the drive housing in the cramped engine room. My assistant Boyd was three meters above me, leaning over the rail of the catwalk that spanned the narrow compartment. “What in the depths of Neptune makes you think that would work?”
“I didn’t say it would work,” he drawled in his distinctive Martian accent. “I merely asked if you had tried it.”
“It’s off now, you nitwit! You think I’d be elbow-deep in a live plasma conduit? I’ll turn it back on when I’m done.” Counting to ten did no good; I still wanted to wring his neck. “Now, did you slave the two input manifolds together like I asked you to do?”
“Yes, but that won’t work either.” He ambled off, leaving all the work to me.
Once I get this engine running again, I just might use Boyd as reaction mass.
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Some blessed persons bought 25 of my books today. I am truly grateful.
i am not a slave to coffee, however. I am a slave to She Who Must Be Obeyed, the bringer of coffee.
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“They’re not slaves. They are contract indentures.”
She looked earnest. Well, as earnest as someone doing a technicality-based deflection of obvious chattel slavery of actual live human beings could look. Which in her case was pretty earnest. It helped she was attractive, in a slaveholder-defending sort of way. Nice body, even for a lawyer.
I smiled my best stupid smile. ”Okay, so there’s a debt?” I asked.
”Right. Usually due with interest from the expense for transit to the colony, though some are due to transport fees from humanitarian transport from other colonies.”
Okay, so they were slave raiding other colonies out here. I made a note on my pad, ensuring it was still mirroring to the ship in orbit, and subtly rested my elbow on my sidearm in its holster inside my waistband. I also tapped the little innocuous icon at the top left of my pads screen, flagging an alert to the XO and forcing a manual mirror of the audio recording from my pad, about which I had neglected to inform the curvy young lady in front of me. Oops.
”And that debt is heritable?” I asked, keeping my best I-am-just-a-dweeb-researcher face mounted firmly on the front of my head.
”Yes, as long as the contract is not invalidated by our Supreme Court of Justice.”
Ah, so that’s a ‘never,’ I thought to myself, making another note. The innocuous icon at the top left changed to a different icon. The XO had apparently alerted the CO, and she’d heard enough, so the new icon was for “extraction QRF on drop” with a countdown. In 90 seconds a squad of Marines would be dropping by to fetch me for an appointment I’d apparently forgotten back on the ship. 89 seconds.
”Oh, look at the time, I’m, sorry, can we continue this at another time? You have been so helpful. I’d love if you could help me further with researching the legal structure behind this fascinating area of your law. But right now I have to go.” 60 seconds.
”Oh. Alright.” She stood, her curves all adjusting in a very distracting manner, and she smiled at me as I left. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lieutenant Vicks.” She really was very pretty.
‘Okay,’ I thought to myself as I moved across the lobby to the front entrance, ‘maybe I’ve been on this recontact cruise a bit too long with no shore leave. She’s a slaveholding planet’s archival lawyer. Just because she waggled her eyelashes at you…’
As I nonchalantly strolled out The large glass doors fronting the Grand Library I heard the twin-crack sonic boom of a landing craft, and then the roar of its thrusters overhead. The few locals in the area froze and looked up, shocked. I reached the parking lot as the first combat armored Marines fast roped down around me to secure the LZ, and the assault shuttle firmly landed just ahead of me, across three disabled parking spots. I made sure to grab my hat to keep it from blowing away.
”Lieutenant Vicks, Good afternoon, sir, authenticate Alpha Three,” said the first Marine, the rest paying attention to the surrounding gawking civilians and casually almost pointing their rifles in their direction.
”Staff Sergeant Bolostovich, good afternoon. I authenticate Whisky Five Seven.’
He nodded and gestured me up the ramp which had just dropped. The rest of the squad peeled back in behind me and we lifted.
”Forty seven seconds and we’re up, up and away!” came the female voice over the shuttle’s internal speakers. “Nice timing, Jimmy. Well executed, Staff Sergeant.”
I stepped up into the cockpit. The pilot on the left turned toward me, flashed me a big grin below her flight helmet visor, then went back to driving the bus. I put on a headset and strapped into the jump seat behind the right hand pilot. “Thanks for the pickup, Sue. I didn’t expect to need your help but I can see why the Skipper yanked me out. It’s bad — full-on generational chattel slavery, and they’ve pretty clearly been raiding other colonies out here for more.”
The pilot in the right seat, Ensign Ashley Roberts, said “ATC is shouting and screaming at us, but I’ve got no SAM tracking up on us yet.”
”Go Canyon,” said Sue, that is, Lieutenant Susan Garford, from the left seat. Ashley nodded and activated our ECM suite, and we jammed the heck out of all those ATC radars and any other radars in line of sight. After a moment the display in the center console reported that high above our ship had noted our jamming start up, and they had activated their much higher power Electronic Warfare suite to our own efforts, jamming surface radars across half the continent beneath us as well as most RF comms.
“We’ll be aboard in five minutes, Jimmy. And if the CO does not meet you at the flight deck lock I’m losing a bet.”
”She’s got the audio from my pad,” I said. “I don’t know what else I can give her, but thanks for the heads up.”
As the sky turned from blue to black outside the cockpit windows I kept thinking about the pretty lawyer who thought changing the words made generational slavery okay.
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Captain Appius looked at the pair of refugees. “Centurion,” he said. “You told me this pair had escaped from an Elven estate. Are the Elves are keeping slaves?”
“Well,” the centurion answered, “not tecknickly. The Elves pay ‘em, but not enough to live on, so they’re stuck where they are.”
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Damn! Spotted a typo! After-post editing is always the most thorough!
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The refugees were called In-Betweens: part elf, part man, rejected in Elven lands. “I must speak with them,” said Captain Appius.
“Could be a problem,” said the centurion. “They know you’re in charge, and they’re afraid you’ll send ‘em back.”
“Then tell them we shall not cooperate with their masters.”
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The interface was rough, and I could feel my Hecatoncheires software rewriting the programming for the various arms on the battlesuit. I groaned in frustration as I examined the ordinance loadout. The Civil Order Protectorate had the suit loaded for “insurrection suppression”-a fancy way of saying “kill anyone protesting in the bloodiest way possible.” The eight slave arms on the back were stuffed full of frag packs, beehive cannisters, anti-infantry plasmafausts, and all waiting to either be put into my waiting hands or fanned out in a blossom of death and gore.
Not a single anti-armor weapon on the suit, but the vehicle’s weapon box did have an anti-material rifle and it linked smoothly to my systems. Eight magazines of 20mm ammo went smoothly on the attachment points on the armor and I racked the slide. Thirty rounds of AP, sixty rounds of HE, first mag was HE. “Let’s go kill some motor city motherfuckers,” I hissed to myself and my implants twitched with the thrill of the upcoming hunt.
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[Note: There is a reason I must misspell ‘definse’.]
The judge addressed the jury. “Have you reached a verdict?”
One woman stood up. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“What is your verdict?”
“Guilty, Your Honor. Guilty on all counts. The verdict is unanimous.”
She turned to the definse attorney, the only man present other than the five accused. “Have you noted any grounds for appeal?”
He met her gaze steadily. “No, Your Honor. Not in the evidence and testimony, nor on any procedural grounds. The trial has been entirely fair and impartial.”
She nodded and banged her gavel. “Then this trial is concluded. The accused have been found guilty. We now move on to sentencing. Under Galt’s World law, slavery is a capital crime.”
One of the now-convicts jumped up and yelled, “We ain’t on Galt’s World! This here trial is a farce! You can’t just barge in here from five billion miles away and drag us into your kangaroo court!”
“Are you trying to say that we lack jurisdiction?” the judge inquired with a dangerous sweetness in her voice.
“Yeah, that’s right, you got no jurisdiction. This is Earth!”
Her voice turned hard. “Your argument might have some validity if there was one single government on this planet that could deal with the issue. Sadly, there is not. Too many politicians, judges and other government officials are compromised by bribery or blackmail into covering up and supporting this abomination.”
“Slavery is a multi-billion-dollar international racket, a veritable Who’s Who of the rich and depraved. Thousands of young women and girls are forced into slavery every year, as well as a few men and boys. We felt compelled to step in and do what we can — rescue some of the victims, and punish some of the perpetrators. It’s not much compared to the sheer scale of this scourge, but even a little good is better than none at all. Shall we review just one bit of testimony?”
A huge video screen lit up, showing a beautiful woman with long brown hair sitting in the witness box. The judge asked her, “Can you tell me what happened to you on May nineteenth, two thousand fifteen?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” She seemed to shrink into herself. “It was just a regular day. I was walking to the bus stop after class. A van stopped next to me, two big dudes jumped out, grabbed me, dragged me inside, shut the door and drove away. Took five seconds. Nobody noticed.” Her voice shook. “That made it so much worse. My life as I knew it was over, and nobody noticed.”
The image froze and the judge continued, “Three of you personally participated in that ‘cold snatch’ as you call it. You directly caused the four years of exploitation, abuse and torment she suffered before we got to her, and now you will face the consequences.” She glared at them. “You four were mere employees, with certain unsavory fringe benefits. You are sentenced to death for the crimes of slavery, torture and rape.”
They raised a clamor of protest but she simply gestured at several uniformed women standing near the jury box. “Take them away. Madame Guillotine awaits.”
Four women advanced, pulled the indicated prisoners from their seats and dragged them out through a door behind the bench. They struggled and fought back to no avail; the women overpowered them with ease.
She regarded the remaining convict. “They were just hired muscle, but you were in management. The evil you did extends far beyond your own actions. Simply executing you would not be sufficient. Your sentence will be a far more suitable one for your crimes. Take him away.”
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The prisoner awoke, confused and disoriented. It felt like he was sitting in a padded chair, naked. He opened his eyes to see a well-lit generic institutional room and a woman scowling at him. “Ready to start serving your sentence, scumbag?” He recognized her; one of the guards from the courtroom, now in civilian clothes.
He wanted to curse her, insult her, put her in her place, but for some reason the words wouldn’t connect to his mouth. In fact, he seemed to be paralyzed from the eyes down. He tried to get up and nothing happened. His whole body felt strange, somehow unfamiliar and yet fully occupying his consciousness.
Fortunately, she didn’t wait for a response. “I want to show you something.”
A naked girl appeared in front of him. He would have whistled if he could; she was stunning. About sixteen years old to his practiced eye, with a lovely face, long blonde hair shading to pink at the tips, big firm breasts, long legs, wide hips, slim waist…the very embodiment of feminine perfection. She’d sell for a lot. Something was wrong, though. She didn’t breathe. Frozen in place, like one frame of a movie.
The guard smirked. “I take it you like what you see? I hope so, because you’re gonna be seeing that for a long, long time.” She paused for a few seconds, then added, “That’s you.”
She did something and suddenly he could move. He raised a hand and saw slim, delicate fingers with long rainbow-painted nails. His shocked “What the fuck?” came out girly, breathy, almost seductive. He looked down at the same girl standing before him. “No, no, noooo…” he — she? wailed in despair.
The guard could hardly contain herself. “How do you like your new body? Our medical staff put in a lot of work, getting it just right. You’re even a virgin.”
“What did you do to me?” The panicked girl’s voice sounded all wrong in his/her ears.
“Just what it looks like. Turned you into a girl. Well, physically, anyway. We didn’t monkey with your nasty little brain. Inside there you’re still the same sadistic rapist you always were.”
He/she couldn’t respond, frozen with horror.
The guard pointed. “You’d better get dressed. Unless you want to face the world naked.”
Neatly folded clothes sat on another chair, with a lacy pink bra and panties on top. The panties were easy, but the rest…
“Fine,” the guard said impatiently. She fastened and adjusted the bra, put on the short skirt, wide belt, and the blouse that left his/her midriff bare, cut low enough to reveal a generous cleavage and lacy pink edges.
Knee-high stockings were next, then he/she regarded the high-heeled footwear with dismay. “Those are…”
She giggled malevolently. “That’s right, they’re fuck-me boots. Just what you need to complete the look. Put ‘em on yourself, or I will.”
Standing, and walking, on high heels turned out to be unexpectedly difficult. He/she felt precarious, constantly worried about stumbling.
“Have a look at yourself,” the guard said cheerfully. A mirror instantly replaced the girl’s still image.
He/she gasped. The reflection was incredibly sexy. If he/she still had the equipment, it would have risen to the occasion instantly. Even without it, there was a strange, tense sensation in about the same place.
“Done admiring yourself?” she asked briskly. “Let’s go.”
“Go…where?” he/she asked, confused.
“To serve your sentence.”
He/she got even more befuddled. “But…isn’t this…?”
The guard’s grin was shark-like. “Oh, no. That’s just preparation. Your sentence hasn’t even started yet.”
“Then…what…?”
“Haven’t you guessed? We’re going to hand you over to some of your former associates. You sold hundreds of girls into slavery. Now you get to experience it for yourself.”
Freaking out and screaming did no good at all. The guard was highly proficient at fighting, and strong enough to overpower his/her original body, much less a teenage girl. When another guard pointed a gun at him/her, he/she felt a sudden surge of terror, became docile and unable to resist.
Soon the first guard was driving him/her somewhere in a perfectly ordinary car. “The medicos did make one little mental change. They cranked your fear of death up to eleven. Wouldn’t do for you to cheat on your sentence by committing suicide. They made sure you can’t even think about killing yourself, or letting somebody else kill you.”
She stopped at a red light. “They also wired you for remote video and sound. Everything you see and hear, we will too. And record it all. We can even talk to you, if we ever want to. Like a little voice inside your head. Don’t worry, the devices are undetectable with any technology available on Earth.” She fixed him/her with a warning look. “Of course, if you were to tell the slavers about it, they’d kill you.”
The light turned green and she drove on. “You’re our secret spy. We’re going to use you to collect evidence, map out their underground networks, rescue victims and arrest slavers. Who knows, we might even get lucky, catch a few dirty politicians and judges in the act. Broadcasting their trials and executions would be really satisfying.”
They stopped behind a decrepit-looking building in a run-down part of town. “We’re here. Get out.”
They both got out and shut the doors. The guard drew her gun, but kept it pointed not quite at him/her. “Just for show,” she murmured reassuringly. “Try to look scared, though.”
“Not a problem,” he/she mumbled morosely.
The guard walked him/her to the building and waved at an artfully broken-looking security camera. In less than a minute the door was opened by a beefy man wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He/she recognized the type instantly: hired muscle. He looked both of them up and down, leering.
“Got a delivery,” she snapped. “Gonna let us in, or stand there all day with your tongue hangin’ out?”
The leer widened and he moved aside. “Do come in.”
He/she knew exactly what was in store, and didn’t have to fake looking meek, nervous and dejected.
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