Holdenthorpes
Chapter 1

Nestled in the warm darkness of a room lit only by old computer screens, Isabelle Holdenthorpe watched the numbers dance. Just ten years old, the spreadsheets were her sole obsession, for within their calculations lay the key to what she so desperately craved; an escape from her male siblings.
The door swung open, stinging her with a brilliant, blinding light, yet as the door closed once more she saw a familiar form crossing the room; ten years old like herself, with matching snow-white fur, Francesco Holdenthorpe trotted over to the desk and peered at the screens. “Watching the numbers again?”
Isabelle nodded, gesturing to one of the files with a casual wave. “figures from the cake-bakers. Do you see what's weird about this one?”
The boy's eyes narrowed, darting up and down the rows and columns as he struggled through the mystery. “Not really,” he confessed, eventually.
Isabelle directed him to another dataset. “Look at this one, then. See here? And here?”
Francesco's lips moved silently as he crunched the figures. “Raw material in... product out... I think I do! Here! All four bakers are receiving the same input, but this one isn't making cobalt like the others.”
“You should tell Father. He'll be impressed.”
Francesco's ears prickled at her tone. “You want me to tell him you found it, don't you?”
The girl nodded sheepishly. “I need him to realise I'm good for more than... being a house girl...” she crossed her arms protectively across her chest, fighting to keep the whimper out of her voice.
“Okay. I'll tell him,” Francesco vowed, giving his twin a brief pat on the knee. “I'll bet he'll be impressed.”
A week later, the Holdenthorpe children were summoned by their father to a grimy, run-down factory. The workers inside were clad in rubber suits and masks, with wet, fearful eyes staring from behind their goggles. Four Aspatrians, all bloodied and bruised, were kneeling in a line in the middle of the floor with paws bound behind their backs. Family guards stood watch with weapons drawn.
“Francesco, come here,” Father growled. As the boy crept forward, a laser pistol was thrust into his paws. “Time you became a man. These little scrotes were stealing from us. Teach these people what happens to those who steal from the Holdenthorpes.”
Taking the pistol in a two-handed grip, the boy aimed the barrel at the first male's head. He took in every tremble, every ragged breath, every subtle squirm as the drug-maker fought to remain stoic in the face of death.
“Well? What are you waiting for?”
At his father's words, Francesco's head snapped around. Attempting to appear confident, the boy waved the weapon at his assigned victim. “I want to savour the moment.”
“Savour on your own fucking time. Kill him.”
Nodding, Francesco took aim once more. “Please!” the dealer whimpered, “you don't have to kill us!”
“Do that again,” the boy commanded with a predatory grin. “Beg for mercy again.”
“Please-” the man's jaw disappeared in a flash of red as the pistol's sharp crack echoed around the room, making the workers startle. Slammed to the ground by the impact of the shot, he lay gasping and squirming, thin streaks of blood leaking from the cauterised remnants of his face, until two follow-up shots to the spine put him down.
“You need to work on your aim,” was Father's cold assessment. He nodded to the elder children, who each got their turn; Vlad pressed the pistol to the third fox's chest and put two through the heart. Peter put a single shot through the fourth male's eye from fifteen paces.
“Peter, give the weapon to the girl,” Father growled. The instruction caught the young man off-guard, but he complied all the same.
“Try not to fuck it up,” Peter sneered as he fell back in line with the other males.”
Her whole body shaking, Isabelle took the weapon in a two-paw grip as Francesco had. She cast a brief glance to her older siblings as she approached the final dealer; Franceso met her gaze and nodded; Vladimir's muzzle was locked in its permanent sneer of contempt; and Peter, the eldest, made eye contact before overtly peering at her crotch.
“Let's see-” Father's words were cut off by the crack of the pistol. The first shot hit the bound fox in the left pectoral, knocking him back and sideways. Isabelle put six more shots into him, burning fist-sized holes through his chest and abdomen. She would have shot him again, but the power cell was dry.
“My daughter has some bloodlust, it seems,” he chuckled. “Let's go. I think we've made our point.”
On the ride home, the twins conspired together. “I wasn't sure I could do it,” Francesco confessed, “but when he started begging it... it just... it made me feel powerful!”
“I wasn't sure I could do it either,” Isabelle agreed.
“What pushed you over the edge?”
Her eyes flicked briefly to Peter, but turned downward almost instantly. “I just imagined he was someone else.”

Ten years later, bathed by the warmth of Orion's star, a pair of snow-white Aspatrians lounged by a luxury pool as they worked. Dressed in matching outfits of palantine and gold, and attended to by an assortment of green-skinned slaves, the fox-like pair studied their datapads and conversed with the occasional visitor, almost lackadaisical in their matters and rarely deigning to look up from whatever they were reading. The sole exception was the male, who upon the arrival of a broad-shouldered otter deemed the visitor worthy of his gaze.
“How was the female?” Francesco asked with an almost-smile.
The otter adjusted his belt. “Those Orion girls are every bit as good as the stories claim. You should try one.”
“I don't breed outside of my species.”
“Or within their age bracket,” Isabelle snarked.
The otter took up position behind the lounging male, finding a seat that gave him a clear view of the pool. Ten minutes ticked by before they were joined by another visitor; a hulking saurian creature with a thick, scaled hide bearing a hundred battle scars. The guards that flanked the creature looked utterly superfluous. “Francesco Holdenthorpe?” the Drakonian asked.
It was the female who rose her head to answer. “You will speak to me. I am Isabelle Holdenthorpe.”
The large, raptor-like creature bared its teeth. “Is there some reason your brother does not speak for himself?”
“I do not speak because my sister made the arrangements in my name,” Francesco answered with a dismissive wave of his albino paw. “An occasional necessity, due to the nature of Aspatria.”
With a soft huff, Isabelle swung her feet to the floor and rose from the lounger, pad in hand. “In my paw I hold the contact details for thirty-three trading accounts, all of which are owned by shell companies that collectively control fifty-one-point-eight-six percent of Tong-Yi Engineering. I can, with the push of a button, approve your inside man's promotion to the board. Why would I do this, Ne'kal?”
The Drakonian bristled, clearly irritated by the Aspatrian's tone, but held her sizeable tongue. With a swift motion of her claw one of the lackeys approached, noting how the otter behind Francesco put a paw inside his robe. A small, unassuming box was placed into Isabelle's free paw. She studied the contents for a moment, smiled, and tapped her pad. “Congratulations, your candidate's promotion will be approved by end of trade next week. Now please, clear the pool so I can enjoy the sun before it sets.”
Harsh words went un-exchanged as the Drakonain stalked away, allowing Isabelle to focus on her brother. She offered the box with a proud grin. “We have the iso-chip, dear brother.”
“We should confirm its veracity,” he replied, waving forth the otter. “Come, Argus, we will retire to the ship.”
Their vessel was a fine ship by Aspatrian standards, in that it was not Aspatrian at all. It's long, softly-angled hull and jutting nacelles were clearly of Terran design, albeit an older model ship. The trio strode into the warm, comfortable interior of the vessel, paying no heed to the maroon-armoured guards that saluted them on their way to the central chamber. Accepting the offered chip, Argus slotted it into a waiting port on the circular console before placing his brown paw on a sensor and announcing clearly, “Argus Coal, Magenta-One-Six-Alpha.”
The console accepted his security clearance and gave him access to the terminal. Meanwhile, with the casualness of a man who was unaccustomed to limits on his behaviour, Francesco loosened his robe and opened his fly to let his soft member flop out. A naked, red-furred Aspatrian girl was sat nearby, barely seven years old. Upon seeing the male's genitalia she scurried over with a speed born of terror, and quickly took it into her maw to suckle upon.
“This'll be it,” Argus announced, and seconds later a video-feed appeared in the holodisplay. Clearly captured with a concealed camera, the lead character swayed in and out of focus as he spoke of predicted revenues, and how his personal wealth could be increased by underhanded means.
Francesco smiled for reasons that had nothing to do with the blowjob he was receiving. “That looks a lot like our old friend Erdmund Banovario.”
“It's definitely his voice,” Isabelle agreed. “I told you he was skimming off the top.”
“Top, sides, and bottom it sounds like,” Francesco added with a soft shudder in his breath. His paw grabbed the child's ear and twisted it sharply. “If I feel teeth again I will have them ripped out one by one!”
Rolling her eyes at her brother's antics, Isabelle gestured to the repeating vid-file. “If we might focus a little more on business? The man is obviously downplaying his holding's output so as not to pay the Grand Senator his due.”
Argus chuckled. “Going to tattle and take his holdings?”
“I would rather we use this leverage to have a look at his books ourselves,” Isabelle replied. “I've always been suspicious of the Banovario family; they came from nowhere, and yet have done so remarkably well for themselves. I suspect they're a proxy for an external power.”
A grin spread across Francesco's face. His paw nipped the slave-girl's nose twice, making her grimace. Not that he saw, nor would he cared if he had. Her suckling stopped, however, and instead she held his member still in her maw. “I assume my sister would rather they do business with us instead?”
“Naturally,” Isabelle nodded. Her smile hardened as a soft, watery sound echoed through the room, followed by a choking, gulping noise from the slave girl. She snorted in disgust. “Must you do that here and now?”
“It never hurts to remind a female of her proper place,” Francesco countered with a leery grin. He briefly glanced at the slave, licking his lips with sadistic pleasure at the silent tears rolling down her cheeks. “Good little toilet. Now suck me off and swallow.”
“Well, if you have no objections?” Isabelle gestured towards the front of the ship. Receiving a nod from her brother she clapped her paws twice and called out, “Helm, set course for Aspatria. Warp Six.”
Beside her, Francesco grunted his way through his climax, his teeth chattering softly as he shot his load into the back of the child-slave's throat. He pulled away, leaving a string of seed and saliva joining his crotch to the child's maw. “There. Now, I think a hot bath is in order. Argus, I have a task for you.”
The otter stepped over as Francesco gestured lazily to the kneeling child. “Remind this one what happens to little girls who don't suck properly.”
“Gladly,” the child shrieked as the otter grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and pulled her aloft. “What did you have in mind?”
“Just ruin the bitch. Make sure it hurts.”
Chuckling, Argus tossed the girl onto a nearby couch and pinned her down with one paw. “Well, we know how to make it hurt, don't we?” he asked the child as he stroked himself hard. Isabelle watched with a look of disinterest on her muzzle, while Francesco chuckled to himself all the while.
“I'm sorry!” the girl wailed. “I'll do better! I'll be good!”
“Oh we know you will!” Argus taunted as his hardened cock pressed against her anus. “And this is going to remind you why!”
He thrust hard, prompting a scream from the helpless youth. The otter pounded his victim hard, shaking the seat with every thrust while his claws gouged bloody streaks down her shoulders and back. Her crying turned to choking gasps as Argus' brutal assault knocked the air out of her lungs, leaving her weakened limbs flailing in futile desperation. When he finally finished and pulled out, the fox-girl collapsed on the deck and curled up in a ball, a thin trickle of blood leaking from her prolapsed rear.
Francesco crossed to the mute youth and pressed his foot firmly against her head. “Disappoint me again and your next punishment won't be so kind.”
Satisfied his lesson had been learned, Francesco waved for Argus to follow him and the pair retired to the living section. Isabelle stared down at the sobbing child for a time, an expression of idle curiosity on her features. The girl showed no signs of moving, with one paw curled around her head and the other shielding her ruined back passage. After chewing on her thoughts for a minute or two, Isabelle met the gaze of a maroon-clad male and beckoned him over. “Take my brother's fleshlight to medical and get her fixed. Oh, and have someone clean the mess Argus made.”
“I don't take orders from a female,” the red-brown fox snarled. He was one of the new recruits they'd taken on before leaving. The more experienced crew visibly recoiled away from him.
Isabelle's expression didn't so much as flicker as she turned to address the upstart servant. “You have two sons living the Razann district: Ioseph, aged four, and Viktor, aged five. Currently residing in Apartment three-oh-six of the West Wall tenement building with your woman, Jasline. She is glad you found work with such a well-connected family as mine, as it ensures your precious boys will be provided for. Not that you told either of them what you actually do; they are both under the misapprehension their father is some kind of folk-hero, bravely adventuring across the stars to put down the enemies of our people. You have a picture of them both in your security box, which you look at before each mission in case it's the last time you ever see them.”
Throughout the monologue, the guard's face had paled with every new detail, until he was as deathly white as Isabelle herself when she stopped. “M-my apologies, ma'am. I'll deal with the girl.”
“One other thing, before you do,” Isabelle's tone caused ice to form down the guard's spine. “If one of your children were to have a terrible accident, such as losing an eye, which one would you prefer it happen to?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Would you rather Ioseph be blinded, or Viktor?”
The guard's eyes scrunched closed in agony. His mouth opened and shut several times before a name finally croaked out. “Ioseph.”
“Thank you. Now tend to your duties. If your children should see you again, do pass on my family's warmest regards.”

A sleek, silver-grey shuttle plunged through the rust-red sky of Aspatria, banking round rolling storm fronts to angle towards the palatial estate of the Holdenthorpe family. The sky around the grand palace crackled with artificial lightning as the defensive shield sparked off in the storm, briefly filling the air above with a strobe of crimson. A pair of crude, yet undeniably deadly quad-turrets tracked the vessel's approach long after the clearance codes had been issued and accepted, returning to their resting station only as the vessel kissed the landing pad and descended into the armoured, subterranean hangar.
The twins approached the dark wooden doors to their father's study side by side, but it was Francesco who entered first. He walked slowly, with head bowled. Isabelle dropped to her hands and knees and crawled, her muzzle touching the floor and expression one of deliberate neutrality.
On every wall of the dark, smokey chamber hung portraits of the great men of the Holdenthorpe family, though none were larger or more prominent than the oil painting of the Great Senator, Francais Renacross. Even in private, it was unwise to show even the slightest disrespect to Aspatria's greatest citizen. The sharp tang of tobacco rose from a half-smoked cigar held in an aged, dark-grey paw, its occupant otherwise hidden by an ancient leather chair. Francesco bowed lower. “Father,” he said, his voice dripping with veneration.
“I trust your journey was profitable?” asked a voice like sandpaper. The cough that followed was harsh and wet. The old man took a long drag on the cigar to ease his breathing.
“We have acquired some interesting information, father. I believe we can use it to steal the assets of the-”
“Is this your enterprise, or hers?”
Francesco glanced at his prostrated sister. “It was Isabelle's dealings that obtained the information, and her idea to steal the Banovario assets.”
Neither twin was sure if their father's reaction was a laugh, or another cough. “Banovario's assets? You fuck about with small fry like that?”
From the floor, Isabelle dared speak up. “Father, we are sure he has off-world connections. It's the only thing that explains how the family grew in power so quickly.”
“Off-world! Off-world! Off-fucking-world!” the cigar waved angrily in the air. “All you ever fucking care about is what you can scrounge up out there! You should be focused on home!”
Francesco took a half-step forward. “We are, father. We pursue extra-planetary assets because they strengthen our position here. Despite what the propaganda reels claim, alien technology is often vastly superior to that produced natively. Through no fault of the Great Senator, of course. Clearly, through the ineptitude of our unworthy rivals.”
A pregnant silence followed. All eyes turned to the portrait of the red-fox above the fireplace, who gazed down at them with calm, regal authority. The cigar rose to a pair of unseen lips once more. “What do you expect to gain from this?”
“We-” Francesco began, but his father cut in sharply.
“I'm talking to the brain, not the bollocks.”
Isabelle dared raise her muzzle a few inches higher. “I don't know what assets we'll acquire off-world, but it will provide yet another revenue stream. As you taught us, it is never wise to keep all of one's cobalt in one purse. Longer term, we will be able to destabilise the Banovario family's finances and political position enough to justify a hostile takeover. For that to be successful, however, we'll need to be in position to act before anyone else can, and some 'kinetic diplomacy' may also be required. I would humbly suggest inquiring into the services of off-world mercenaries; I've heard promising things about a new group operating on the fringes of our space. I could entreat with them, if you wish?”
The twins listened to their father's laboured breathing for what felt like an eternity. “You already have, you duplicitous little bitch. I know all about the alien filth you've hired.”
A shiver of cold terror washed over the Aspatrian woman, who threw her face back against the threadbare carpet. She trembled there, waiting for whatever callous judgement her father would enact, but instead there followed only phlegm-laden coughing, wheezing, and then a deep, almost remorseful sigh. A gaunt, sallow muzzle finally emerged to scowl at them both through narrow, jaundiced eyes. “Look at her, Francesco. She plays at knowing her place, all the while making her own moves in the shadows. No, not shadows; in the light. Right in your fucking face. If she were a man I'd fear for my life right now. Do you know why, Francesco?”
“No, father,” the male heir answered, eyes forward and back ramrod straight.
The elder Holdenthorpe bared his yellow teeth. “No, you don't. I doubt you ever will.” He sank back into his chair and dismissed them with an uncaring wave. “Get on with Isabelle's plan. Come back with results.”
Isabelle finally rose from her submissive posture, though kept herself bowed and subdued until they were both safely out of the room. Francesco immediately turned toward his sister, a feral growl echoing from his throat. “What the fuck was that, Isabelle? You've been going behind our backs?”
“You've never had issue with me taking the initiative before.”
“In off-world matters, no. But this is Aspatria, Isabelle! You don't do business here!”
Isabelle's lips curled into a snarl, but before she could hurl her first barbed retort she saw something akin to concern in Francesco's eyes. Whether it was for her, or himself, or the family more broadly, Isabelle was unsure. But she paused and centred herself all the same. “You are correct, of course. I apologise.”
“Just remember your place, that's all,” Francesco's expression shifted from concern to playful in a heartbeat. “There is some business you can do here, though. Some I'd like you to attend to forthwith.”
Isabelle's reaction was instant, and blunt. “I am not your pimp.”
“Ah, but I'm not after any old whore. I want a disposable.”
The seemingly innocuous word made Isabelle break stride. Her ears flattened against her skull as she snarled out a contemptuous whisper. “You really are disgusting.”
“Says the woman who fucks outside her species,” Francesco shot back.
Once more, Isabelle found her head bowed; the unspoken threat of Francesco's words came from the myriad of social and cultural rules that bound the family, and females especially. “What sort of 'disposable' are you after?”
“Female, obviously. White fur if you can get, but not important. Young as you can find. Not too young though. Six, maybe?”
“Fine. Give me a day.” her cold words were delivered with a curt, professional nod. Inside, her mental gears shifted from personal contempt to professional indifference. She was a businesswoman, and this was nothing more than a necessary transaction to ensure the continued smooth operation of their endeavours.

Isabelle made herself watch, in the end. Argus attended the event with her, albeit for wholly different reasons; ostensibly there to protect Francesco, the male otter stood masturbating throughout the entire affair.
With practised indifference, Isabelle watched her brother violate the wretched youth she'd found for him. A young street urchin, one of a seemingly infinite number of orphans that littered the streets of Aspatria. The girl had clearly not led an easy life, and for a brief moment she imagined things might have changed for the better; Isabelle had fed her, bathed her, groomed and scented her fur. The seven year old girl had been gifted to her brother looking as fine and healthy as she could ever hope to be. She'd even smiled at him, perhaps imagining she was being adopted.
She wasn't smiling now.
A thick, black cord was wrapped around her neck, and Francesco held tight to both ends. The girl's eyes bulged, face turning blue, mouth wide in a silent scream as her weakened limbs flailed helplessly against the male. A cruel grin was plastered on his muzzle as he raped the youth, pulling the cord tighter with every thrust. Every so often he'd let it go slack for just a moment, giving the girl just enough time to take a single gulp of air before choking it out of her again. He'd held her on the brink of suffocation for fifteen minutes, and was clearly nearing release.
“That's it... almost...” a demonic glow lit the fox's eyes as he watched his victim squirm. Her pathetic pawing ceased, limbs dropping limp onto the bed. Her eyes took on a glassy sheen. A single, filthy whimper escaped Francesco's maw as the fox released his seed, letting the strangling cord go slack at last. The girl did not stir.
“That was a wonderful find, Isabelle,” Francesco purred. He calmly raised the girl's limp tail and used it to clean himself. “Dispose of it before it starts to stink.”
“What'll you do with it?” Argus asked with a note of genuine curiosity. His paw was covered in spunk.
Isabelle gave a half-shrug. “Incinerate her, obviously. There's a sizeable furnace on sub-level 2. Perfect place to dispose of a body.”
The otter raised an eyebrow at the woman's tone. His whiskers twitched as a grin of something akin to respect formed on his lips. “Me-ow! Kitty has claws! Gonna throw me in there for being a bad boy, Isabelle?”
She forced herself to smile. “Only when you stop being useful to us.”

Francesco and Argus had handled the Banovario clan. Securing their assets fell to Isabelle.
“The trail leads to Halkat,” she explained with a calm wave to a multi-screen display mounted on the wall of 'her' office. It officially belonged to Francesco, but he'd only ever used it to fuck the servant girls in peace. “On the surface, it looks like they were being contracted by Deep Core Extraction Enterprises, but I've done a little digging of my own. DCEE is headquartered here.”
She clicked a button and one of the screens changed from a rotating image of Halkat to a tiny storage unit, barely large enough to hold a hovercar. Francesco's brow furrowed. “This might sound foolish, but I recognise that unit.”
“That's because we use it as well,” Isabelle confirmed. “This little unit headquarters at least eight shell companies that I know of, and likely more besides. We own two of them.”
“So we have a rival company looking to secure Aspatrian assets through the Banovario family, operating through the same proxy portal we use?. Why not come to us directly?” Francesco asked.
“The same reason you fuck children, not grown men. We might fight back.”
“Ouch!” Argus laughed, slapping Francesco on the back just a tad too hard. “Bitch put you in your place!”
Francesco, pride clearly stung, offered fangs to both his guard and sister. “Let's have a little more respect, unless you wish to learn how well I can 'fight back' myself.”
With an impatient clearing of her throat, Isabelle regained her brother's focus. “Thus far, everything we know about the Banovario operation suggests this is about securing one corner of a trade triangle. There is no direct trade link between their industry on Aspatria and any operation on Halkat, but Banovario's mining communes provide rare-core metals for export. Following the supply chain, most of which are shells or a revolving door of fickle-trade agents, we eventually see it ends with the production and delivery of military-grade sensors, energy transfer units, shields, and starship armour-alloys.”
Francesco raised an imaginary toast to the screen. “Ah, the military-industrial complex! The ever faithful client!”
“Indeed, though this revelation is precisely why I wish to be cautious. We may be dealing with a government actor. As such, it is important we show all proper respect.”
“And be doubly cautious,” Francesco agreed. “What's your plan?”
“I'll work through proxies as best I can, but this won't be as simple as I first hoped. I suspect they sent an envoy here to Aspatria when setting up the deal, but that's unlikely to happen with us. We may need to come to them. That's where I need your help, Francesco. I need you to persuade father to let me stay on Halkat for a time.”
“How much time?”
Isabelle steeled herself. “Three to five years, depending on how well things go.”
Her brother's jaw dropped. “You are joking! We can't stay on Halkat that long! We'll be far too exposed!”
“There's no 'we', Francesco. I won't need you along. You can stay on Aspatria.”
“Isabelle, please! You know father would never let you go off alone for a month, let alone for years!”
“Maybe it's time you finally stepped up and made a man of yourself,” Isabelle answered with a curled lip. “This is necessary for the good of the family! This will ensure our prosperity and our dominance! If I can play my cards right this'll be far more than knocking out a minor rival; we could become the right-hand family to the Great Senator himself!”
An almost child-like look of awe crossed Francesco's face. “You truly think there's that much to gain?”
“I do. But only if you can make father believe it.”
Francesco gave a single, firm nod. “Alright. Proceed as if we have the all-clear. I will try- I will make father accept this deal.”
Hours passed. Isabelle worked until her eyes burned from fatigue, retiring for a dinner so late it was bordering on breakfast. She hadn't heard from her brother for hours; even his favourite bodyguard was completely absent. It was as if the pair had simply vanished from the estate... and for a moment, Isabelle wondered if that wasn't precisely what had happened. A cold chill ran through her as dark thoughts intruded on her attempts to settle for sleep. What if Francesco was no-longer deemed useful to the family? What would that mean for her? She knew all too well how easily a body could be disposed of by the Holdenthorpes...
At dawn the next day, with a lopsided grin and a breath that reeked of whisky, Francesco shook his sister awake. “Pack a bag, dear sister! You get to ride some scaly cocks!”
“What? You persuaded him?”
“I thought he was going to have me fucking shot, but yes! We're going to Halkat! You and me at first, but once you're set up you're staying there to run the show!”
Isabelle threw her arms around Francesco, hugging him tight. “You beautiful bastard!”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you too, sister!” he chuckled.

For three years, Isabelle lived the Halkat high-life. The moment her paws kissed the soil of the Karrian world she had a car waiting to collect her, and by that same evening she had been hired as an executive director of off-world asset management for Deliverance Solutions Inc. Her work revolved mostly around meetings – the largely pointless ones done in her spacious office, and the far more important ones done in fine restaurants or expensive retreats.
From her new ivory tower, Isabelle played a golden fiddle and the money danced to her tune. Her main goal was, of course, the usurpation of the Banovario family, but that was a long-term goal years in the unfurling; short-term, there was so much more money to be made! It was honestly insulting how easily it came to her, how simply drinking at the right bar, smiling at the right scaled male, and then riding on the right cock could open doors for her. After a single year she had inside-trading secrets on the biggest companies on Halkat, gambling on the stock market and winning big time and time again. A hefty sum had to be lost in kind to make her trades appear nothing more than good, if sometimes flawed market intuition, but the overall line was headed to the stars.
Three years of good times, of sending a steady stream of profit to assets both local and abroad, all ultimately trickling back home to Aspatria or to fund assets on behalf of the family elsewhere. Three years where Isabelle reached her zenith. Three years of waiting for the one true score.
Francesco was present, naturally. Isabelle could only imagine how much it must have hurt him not to have a fuck-toy aboard ship, for he was not so reckless as to bring a slave into Halkat space.
“Are you nervous, sister?” Francesco asked as he brushed her fur with a silver comb. His tone and motions were almost loving, though Isabelle doubted he was ever truly capable of such an emotion.
“Of course I'm nervous. We're on the eve of propelling the Holdenthorpe family to the highest echelons of power imaginable!”
Her passion made Francesco grin. “I am truly proud of you. Not just for what you've done for me, nor the family. As much as I hate to admit it, you've proven you never truly needed me. All we ever did was hold you back.”
She turned to meet his eye, a genuine warmth in her white-furred face. “That's kind of you to say, brother. Still, I could not have accomplished this much without you. I certainly won't forget who I stepped on when climbing the ladder.”
A soft cackle answered her, “nor where the bodies are buried, I imagine.”
“Obviously not! If I go down, I'm taking you with me!”
To her surprise, Francesco planted a gentle kiss upon her cheek. “I wouldn't have it any other way. Now, let's go make a killing!”
Dressed in the height of Halkat corporate attire, Isabelle and Francesco walked side by side through the wide, warmly lit avenues of the planetary capital. Great towers of glass and white-metal gleamed in the sunshine all around, while pristine hover-vehicles rose and fell in complex choreographies to deliver the best and brightest of the world to important business meetings or high-society events. It took all Isabelle's willpower not to wag her tail as they turned a corner and sighted a shining tower. It bore no outward name, but both Aspatrians knew what lay within.
“Lyros Conglomerate,” Francesco breathed with an almost religious reverence. “You were right all along, sister!”
“Oh yes, direct links to the Halkat military's largest provider. This-” she paused in her boasting, every strand of fur prickling at once.
“What is it?” Francesco followed her gaze to spy a seemingly innocuous Karrian sat on a bench nearby. The male seemed to be enjoying an early lunch, a half-eaten sandwich sat on top of his briefcase while he read a paperback novel.
“Code Eight!” she barked. Francesco reacted immediately, slapping the concealed communicator on his wrist.
“Sky-Nest! Emergency extract!”
Halkat vanished, replaced by the transporter room of their starship. “What the hell was that about?” Francesco demanded as they scurried to the main control room.
“The man on the bench was a plant!” she barked. “You think I'm stupid enough to go into something this big without a little forewarning? A bite out of the sandwich meant there was a trap!”
Confirming her words, the vessel shook violently. From the bridge came a panicked signal. “Sir! Halkat security just put a shot across our shields! They're demanding we surrender you both!”
“Get us out of system, maximum warp!” Francesco roared.
“I can't, sir! They've got a dampening field!”
A familiar otter strode out of the crew quarters. “Then get us out of the field, you fucking idiot!”
Phaser bursts chased the ship out of system, rocking the tiny vessel with every impact. Alert klaxons blared, and those crew not actively manning a key system stood around in mute terror as the battle unfurled. One especially hard jolt sent crew members sprawling and caused the primary lights to die. “Please tell me that wasn't main power!” Francesco wailed.
Argus snarled his answer, “Fuckers depolarised the starboard nacelle! We can't go to Warp now!”
Watching a tactical display on the main holo-table, a long and vulgar curse spilled from Francesco's lips. “There's another fucking Halkat ship coming in!”
“What the fuck are we meant to do now?” Isabelle snapped at her brother.
“I arranged for backup, Isabelle! I'm not stupid!” her brother shot back, his eyes briefly leaving the display to fix her with a venomous scowl.
“Then where is it? All I see are hostiles!” her paw waved at the display as more and more angry red icons appeared and began to close in on their vessel.
Argus snapped his claw up to one of them. “Look!”
Approaching them from their port-forward quarter, one of the ships had suddenly changed from hostile red to friendly green. The two Aspatrians burst out in relieved laughter as a communications link opened up to reveal the familiar sight of an Aspatrian muzzle. “This is Captain Casarre, what's your status?”
“We've lost Warp engines,” Francesco replied. “Shields are failing, and our armament is minimal. We need emergency beam out!”
Casarre nodded. “Make a hole in your forward shields and we'll get you all out.”
“Acknowledged!” With a nod, Francesco gave the order for Argus to make the hole. Mere seconds later, a trilling sound filled the room as blue-white light enveloped the two males at the command console. When it faded, they were gone.
Isabelle stared at the space they had occupied for a time, a tremble running through her body. She snapped her head towards the console once more. “Captain-” she began, but the communications line was closed. She threw herself at the operations station, assessing the readouts as best she could. As far as she knew, the hole in the shield was still there. Her trembling fingers punched the comms again. “Captain Casarre, beam me up! Casarre! Francesco! Answer me you worthless fucks!”
A single tonal chord drew her eyes back to the tactical overlay. The rescue ship had jumped to high Warp.
The remaining guards were all watching her, pale-muzzled and anxious. Isabelle straightened her back, combed the fur of her head back into place with her fingers, and took a few moments to steady her breathing. “Gentlemen, I do not intend to die here. We are going to be taken by the Halkat Fleet. If you are not prepared to face that fate, then you have five minutes to make peace with God and go to him.”
She returned her focus to the console, caring little for what her servants did with themselves.  “Bridge, cut engines!”
“Ma'am?” the nervous helmsman answered.
“I said cut engines!” she barked again. “We are lost, damn it!”
Closing the line, she paused only to confirm the ship's drives were powering down before opening a blanket channel to the approaching ships. “This is Isabelle Holdentorpe. We surrender. I repeat, we surrender.”
Mere minutes later, a Karrian strike team materialised in the chamber around her. She had not moved from the console, both paws pressed against its surface to make her unarmed state clear for all to see. A male grasped each wrist in turn and brought them behind her back. “Isabelle Holdenthorpe, you are under arrest!”
“I gathered that much,” she growled. From somewhere toward the aft of the ship there came the sound of a futile last stand, some of her servants clearly wishing for a warrior's end, but she never learned of the outcome. The transport beam enveloped her, and she was gone in a heartbeat.

The interview room was unfamiliar in its aura of professional calm. Isabelle had witnessed more interrogations than she cared to recall, and most had involved a great deal of torture before anyone even considered asking a question. It was almost surreal to be sat in a chair unrestrained, with her teeth and nails still attached. No-one had even made a cursory threat of rape or mutilation! She would have smiled, if not for the fact such an act would have made entirely the wrong impression.
“Your little stunt in orbit hardly helps your case, Miss Holdenthorpe,” the middle-aged Karrian officer began. He had a certain tiredness to his features, as if he'd been staring at a screen all night. “There might be some cultural misunderstanding at play, but here on Halkat beaming yourself off the streets and refusing an order to hold orbit is considered the sign of a guilty conscience. Not to mention a violation of orbital traffic protocols.”
“Forgive me, officer, but perhaps you are unfamiliar with how Aspatrian society operates?”
There was no warmth to his smile. “Playing the beaten little woman won't help you here, Miss Holdenthorpe. We know full well you were the brains behind multiple operations within your family.”
“I have done nothing illegal.”
“Really? Are you absolutely certain you want that to be your official statement?”
His eyes darted briefly to the mirror on the wall. Isabelle followed the glance with one of her own. Her ears drooped. “I request counsel.”
“I am your counsel,” the officer replied. “I've been pouring over your file for three days and I'm still not finished. There's no spin-doctor alive who could get you out of this.”
A single tear trickled down the woman's otherwise stony features. “I cannot be charged for any actions that took place outside of Halkat territory.”
“I know. Be thankful for that.” the Karrian slid a pad over to her. “These are the confessions of your crewmates. They paint a truly awful picture of you, Miss Holdenthorpe. The prosecuting office would like to slap you with multiple counts of kidnapping, trafficking, and rape of minors, to say nothing of all your financial dealings.”
Isabelle tried to answer, but her throat had sealed up. She bent over, paws gripping the table so hard her claws left indentations in the metal. In response, the officer's tone softened. “We can brush most of that aside. We know there's hard bias against Aspatrian females, and the simple fact your rescue ship left you behind says a great deal. Plus, there's no evidence we have any of these actions took place in our space. So, with a bit of cooperation, I think we can get all that stricken.”
“What do you want from me?” Her voice came out as a whisper.
“A full and total confession. Every inside trade, every fraudulent transaction, and as many names as you can give us as to who the clients were on the other end.”
Her sandpaper tongue rasped across desert-dry lips. “If... I give you my Halkat operations, what am I facing?”
The officer checked his notes. “We're predicting twenty five cycles. Six to twelve.” He paused, respectfully, to allow Isabelle to compose herself from the shock of the pronouncement. “I know that sounds apocalyptic, but it could be far, far worse. If you were slapped with every charge on the docket you'd-”
“I don't want to hear it!” she shrieked, covering her head as if expecting to be struck. “I can't! I can't!”
“Okay, Miss Holdenthorpe. Take a breath.” The officer paused, waiting calmly until the panic ceased. “Here's what we'll do. We have a holding room down the hall. We can keep you for seventy-two hours. The room is comfortable, and there's all the facilities you might need – bed, shower, toilet. We even have a holo; it's basically a cheap hotel room. You can take some time to come to terms with everything, alright? But once the seventy-two hours are up, prosecution has the right to begin hostile interrogation. If you want us to fight them, we can and we will. But I do not advise it. The evidence against you is overwhelming, Miss Holdenthorpe, and the longer this drags out the more they'll find. My colleagues won't like me saying this, but in your case I strongly advise a gallop-dump defence; hit them with a mass confession of guilt so big they won't bother checking you've confessed to it all. If we deliver that to the court before they can formally charge you, it will maximise the odds of you getting the most lenient sentence.”
A cold, hollow laugh echoed off the walls. “You call over a hundred years as a penitatas 'lenient'? I know what you do to those kids!”
“We are much kinder to children than you are, Miss Holdenthorpe.”
“I... I think I'd like to go to that room now.”
“Of course.”

The days that followed were a blur. Isabelle watched as someone else's paws typed out a confession, listened through someone else's ears to words she understood, but could not recall. Faces, places, it all blended into a dream-like trance, cumulating in cold, clinical cot surrounded by unknown machines, and a blinding light.
Shortly afterwards, a six year old Aspatrian girl stepped off a hoverbus. Her movements were hindered by the shackles she wore, which the escorting police officer removed. Around her were trees, from which came the myriad calls of unseen wildlife. Ahead were low, rustic looking buildings, and a flagpole whose banner fluttered in the breeze.
A Karrian male stood waiting for her. Beside him was a hovering drone-camera, but Isabelle's eyes were fixed firmly on the shameless bulge in his crotch. With the click of his stylus, the Karrian announced, “Good morning, Isabelle! My name is Mr Kal. Welcome to Camp Northrock!”