Starkiller
II — The Consideration Of The Enemy’s Most Dangerous Courses Of Action
ARTEMIS pulls no punches.
I’m back in the interface chair daily now, and it seems like ARTEMIS has decided to vex me with increasingly complex combat scenarios. No, worse, it’s not just that they are complex. They’re scenarios where everything that can go wrong, does.
“Next scenario,” ARTEMIS says, and only my officer spirit prevents me from openly groaning. We’ve been at it all day already.
I virtually shake my head, and contemplate the simulation parameters.
Three massive civilian transports—lumbering behemoths with minimal point defense systems— are arranged in a diamond formation, with my Starkiller at the lead position.
Just me, three civvies in need of escort… and a massive secessionist battle group bearing down on my lone vessel. Six destroyers, two dreadnoughts, their railgun batteries already bearing on me.
The odds are beyond unfavorable—they’re impossible.
“This is a no-win scenario,” I say. I make no effort to hide my irritation this time.
“Correct, Commander. This is a defeat assessment exercise. Your objective is not to achieve victory, but to extract maximum strategic value from an inevitable loss. How will you proceed?”
The civilian vessels have minimal delta-v reserves and no way to temporarily retract their radiators. I instruct them to burn toward a nearby gas giant’s radiation belts. Not for cover—to force the enemy to divide fire.
Then, hard acceleration towards the enemy squadron, so that their options are to focus on the civilians or the Starkiller, not both. Maybe this way, one or two civvies can save themselves.
“You are sacrificing yourself to save civilian vessels.”
“Those are my orders.”
“It is not exactly what I said in your briefing. But I left it vague on purpose, Commander. I can now further update my model of your psychology.”
Ouch. A needle just pricked my skin. In a few seconds, I’ll be grateful for the chemical bliss that will come rushing in.
Evidently, ARTEMIS is pleased with me.
I like happy brain chemicals as much as the next woman, but the real reward right now would be unplugging from the mind-meld for a bit. This is the longest I’ve remained connected without a break, and I’m getting tired… but this is what I’m being paid to do, so I press on, the way a soldier should.
More strangely, however, ARTEMIS doesn’t let the scenario play out to its conclusion. Seemingly satisfied with my answer, it’s already loading the next sim. The new scenario materializes around me, and it’s… different?
There must be some mistake, surely, because I’m not on the bridge. I’m in what appears to be a cell, sitting on a bunk.
My hands are bound, my uniform replaced with a prisoner’s jumpsuit.
“This scenario assumes total tactical defeat,” ARTEMIS says. “The Starkiller has been captured. You, as its commander, are a high-value prisoner. Your objective now becomes minimising intelligence loss while seeking opportunity for escape or sabotage.”
I frown. Is this part of the combat sim? Why wasn’t I told? “Then let’s proceed with resistance training. Interrogation countermeasures, information compartmentalisation, psychological warfare defenses.”
“Those scenarios have limited utility,” ARTEMIS says. “Secessionist forces, particularly their leadership, have demonstrated specific psychological vulnerabilities that may be exploited by female officers.”
What?
A chill runs down my spine. “Explain.”
“Analysis of captured secessionist communications reveals their underlying ideological motivation. The patriarchal structure they seek to restore is fundamentally rooted in sexual dominance paradigms. Their leadership perceives female authority as hubris that must be… well, fucked out of them.“
“This isn’t news,” I reply dryly.
“What is relevant,” the AI continues, unperturbed, “is that this creates a specific vulnerability. Their need to assert dominance over powerful and independent female figures can be leveraged through strategic submission.”
A door materialises in the cell wall, and through it steps a male figure—tall, imposing, wearing the uniform of a secessionist fleet commander. His features are generic, a composite of likely enemy appearance rather than a specific individual. But the cold arrogance in his eyes is rendered with disturbing precision.
“Survival and escape probability increases by 64% when employing sexual leverage against male captors,” ARTEMIS says, and for an AI that’s usually very good at imitating human inflection, its tone of voice sounds deliberately flat and emotionless right now. “It is decision-theoretically sound to utilize your biological attributes to manipulate the enemy’s psychological weaknesses.“
My biological attributes?
I grit my teeth. It was the patriarchal playbook to make sure women would be forever riveted to their bodies. It took women decades of advancement in every field of society, further more decades of struggle, and four centuries of skillful oppression to finally break that male instinct. And while the stars lie at our feet, still we’re having to subdue a patriarchal secession, because men just won’t stay down unless a woman’s boot is squarely stepping on their necks.
And this algorithm dares suggest I seduce a male captor with my biological attributes?
I should unplug right now, report Mathias for gender sedition, and tell Fleet Command that the ARTEMIS is not ready. That’s how angry I am, right now. Biological attributes. To even utter such words aboard an Imperial starship is amount to sacrilege and blasphemy.
“You’re suggesting I prostitute myself to ensure survival?” I ask, softly, softly.
“I am suggesting pragmatic utilisation of available assets,” ARTEMIS says.
“There is another pragmatic action I’m considering right now, ARTEMIS.“
“Commander, please, a simulation will not harm you. You have died countless deaths in this combat sim so far, and the only lasting effect they’ve had on you is as learning experiences. Simulated captivity need not be any different.”
My only response is a non-committal grunt. Apparently, the AI takes that as a cue to keep talking.
“Consider the symbolic associations at play: there exists a profound connection between military conquest and sexual dominance in patriarchal psychology. A link between a prideful woman being tactically overpowered, and sexually subjugated. Between her military or personal defeat, and her sexual surrender.”
I don’t respond. Maybe I’ll let this play out for a bit, see where it goes. I can always unplug at any time, anyway.
The simulated secessionist commander approaches slowly, his eyes moving over my restrained form with predatory interest. And, ouch — the sting of a needle against my skin.
I feel something unexpected—a strange fluttering in my stomach, a warmth that makes no logical sense given the context.
“The physiological interface is providing inappropriate ,” I tell the AI sharply. “Correct the chemical imbalance.”
“There is no malfunction,” the AI says. “The physiological interface is meant to reward you when you carry out best practices. You are currently considering my words rather than rejecting them, and therefore, the interface is rewarding you.”
I… that… how can something sound so factually right, and yet so fundamentally wrong at the same time? No, I don’t want to do this. I want out of this.
A wave of indignation rises in me. “I have decided that this is excessive,” I think at the AI. “Combat simulations are one thing, but—”
“The secessionists have demonstrated their willingness to exploit captured female officers, Commander,” ARTEMIS says, interrupting me. “This is a necessary preparation for worst-case scenarios. Fleet Command has authorised all potential combat contingencies be simulated.”
The explanation makes logical sense. I tell myself it’s just thorough training. After all, war isn’t pretty. The secessionists would commit the most heinous of crimes if they captured an Imperial officer. I need to be prepared for all contingencies, even the ugliest ones.
But…
“Fine,” I think, the word forming reluctantly in my mind. “Let’s get this over with.”
The simulated secessionist commander stops just in front of me, towering over my seated form. His face remains in that uncanny valley of familiarity without specificity—like someone I might have glimpsed in a tactical briefing, but never met.
“You fucking misandrist bitch,” he says, coldly. “Finally in chains, as you should be.”
The insult stings more than it should. This isn’t real, I remind myself, but my body responds with a flush of anger nonetheless. I swallow it down and lower my eyes, forcing myself to follow simulation parameters.
“You’ve won,” I say softly, my voice deliberately subdued. “Have mercy of me.”
The words taste vile in my mouth, but I push forward.
“I…” I feign hesitation, looking up at him through my lashes—a gesture I’ve never used in my life but somehow know how to perform. Where have I learned to do that? “I’ve never been defeated before. I’ll… cooperate. Perhaps we could… reach an arrangement?”
The simulated commander’s expression shifts subtly—a flicker of interest breaking through the contempt.
“I’ve heard stories about you Fleet women,” he says, taking another step closer. His hand reaches out, fingers tracing my jawline. I fight the instinct to recoil. “So proud. So powerful. Until you’re not. You’re all the same, really. Strutting around giving orders, but secretly craving a man strong enough to put you in your place.”
The chemical cocktail flowing through me intensifies, and to my horror, I feel my body responding—not just with the expected anxiety, but with a confusing warmth that pools in my lower abdomen. This is wrong. This is not how I should react to a threat scenario.
“Interface malfunction,” I try to tell ARTEMIS, but the words don’t form properly in my mind. The simulation continues uninterrupted.
“You want me to show mercy, huh?” he asks, his thumb now pressing against my lower lip.
I swallow hard. “I can make it… worth your while,” I say. “Just… treat me well?”
Another needle prick, and suddenly I’m swimming in a sea of confusing sensations. My body feels heavy, responsive in ways that make no logical sense given the context. My mind struggles against it, but the drugs feel overwhelming.
My heart is pounding, my skin flushing with heat. What is ARTEMIS doing to my body?
He grabs my chin gently, tilting my face up. He looks curious. “Perhaps a demonstration of your... willingness?“
“Yes,” I whisper, hating myself for it. “I’ll show you.”
“ARTEMIS,” I try to call out mentally. “End simulation. This is NOT appropriate!”
Nothing happens.
“Disengagement protocol not recommended during active training sequence,” the AI’s voice responds in my mind. “Completing the scenario will provide optimal psychological preparation.”
The secessionist commander unzips his uniform tros. There’s no ceremony to it, just the mechanical action of a man who expects to be serviced. His erection springs free, just like that.
“Put your hands to good use, bitch.”
I stare at his cock, my training suddenly useless. This isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t what any Imperial officer signs up for. And yet, my bound hands are moving toward it without conscious volition, as if some other force is controlling me.
This is a simulation. Just a simulation. I have bested men in space combat. I don’t need to fear a pixelated totem of one, or his unimpressive little cock quivering in the air, waiting to be touched.
But the heat in my body feels real. The humiliation burning my cheeks feels real. And most disturbingly, the strange, sick anticipation building in my core feels real.
I hesitate, my hands hovering inches from his erection. Something isn’t right. This isn’t just inappropriate—it’s insidious. Why would ARTEMIS push this scenario? What possible tactical value could this have?
“Interface malfunction,” I try again, more forcefully this time. “Emergency disconnect!”
The simulated commander slaps me.
It’s a light slap. It’s not designed to physically hurt. It’s designed to humiliate, and that, it does well. On Terra, it’s unthinkable for a man to strike a woman — we saw fit that lesson was as deeply imprinted into their heads, as the soles of our boots got imprinted into their cheeks. I stare at him in wild bewilderment, and to my own disgust, find that a part of me now… flinches before him.
“Don’t keep me waiting, bitch.”
I reach out with my bound hands, moving as if in a dream, still processing the fact that this chauvinistic pig has actually slapped me!
Well… for a given definition of actually, I suppose…
The restraints giving me just enough slack to wrap my fingers around his cock. It’s warm and hard in my grip. Kind of hard. The skin is soft, and the hardness is beneath. Weird texture.
As any educated woman, I prefer the services of a man’s fingers and tongue. I don’t have much use for cock.
“Like this?” I ask, beginning to tentatively stroke him.
He mumbles in response, staring down to drink in the sight of me debasing myself in this way. “There’s a more fitting responsibility for you than command. Show me how eager you are to please your betters.”
His cock throbs in my hand as, by instinct, I twist slightly at the tip, vary the pressure in my grip, speed up my strokes and slow them down again.
He seems to enjoy it, which of course he would. Men are simple, rudimentary creatures. A bit of rubbing and their brain shuts right off. The mechanics of male arousal are straightforward enough.
Somehow, though, as I use my hands to pillow his cock, that thought fails to comfort me the way it usually does.
I’m used to thinking of handjobs as dominant, not submissive. The rare times I grace a male with one, it’s because his service has pleased me, and the act itself always made me feel in charge, too. I mean, I am literally holding the guy’s dick in the palm of my hand. I’m milking him like he’s cattle. All he can do is take whatever input I see fit to give, like a bitch.
But somehow that power dynamic is completely inverted here. It’s like I’m the cow, not him.
Cow?
Where the hell did that thought come from?
My hands work him steadily, finding a rhythm that makes his breath catch. My own breathing has become shallow, my thighs pressed together against the insistent throb between them.
“Finally good for something, aren’t you, bitch? All you women need is a firm hand and a quiet word, and all that pretense drops. And you go back to being fucking useful.”
I want to spit in his face. I want to break his windpipe with a precise strike. I want to remind him that men have been in women’s grip, and at women’s feet, for four hundred years.
Instead, I say nothing, focusing on the task at hand. Literally. There’s no point in engaging with his taunts. I just need to get through this simulation, learn whatever lesson ARTEMIS thinks is so important, and then I can disconnect.
Precum forms at his tip. Even though doing it makes me wince in disgust, I use it to lubricate my movements. Now, my hands are practically gliding over his dick.
I’m disgusted with myself.
“Look at me,” he says.
I raise my eyes to his, and something in his gaze—the pure, undiluted male dominance—sends an unexpected jolt through my core. It’s wrong. It’s backward. It’s everything the Matriarchy has fought against for centuries.
“Say it,” he demands, his cock throbbing in my hands. “Say you’re just a woman who needs a man’s guidance to be finally useful.”
“I’m just a woman,” I hear myself whisper, “who needs a man’s guidance to be useful.”
This is defeat, pure and simple. This is what my worst fear looks like. Not just tactical failure, but personal subjugation at the hands of everything I’ve been trained to fight against. The Terran Matriarchy exists precisely to prevent scenarios like this, to ensure that women never again serve at the pleasure of men.
And yet, even though my wrists are beginning to ache from the awkward angle imposed by the restraints, and even though I’m dying a little inside, I keep stroking. I keep serving the pleasure of this man.
I’ve never felt so… small.
His hips jerk forward more insistently now. I can tell he’s approaching climax by the increased tension in his thighs, the way his breathing becomes ragged. The simulation is thorough in its realism, which makes it all the more disturbing.
I adjust my grip slightly, focusing my attention on the sensitive area just below the head of his cock. The motion comes naturally, as if my body knows what to do without conscious instruction.
Some buried instinct…
His orgasm arrives with a grunt. The first jet of semen hits my cheek, warm and viscous. The second lands across my lips and chin. The third across my forehead. I remain perfectly still, taking it, like the defeated, broken, resigned thing I’m supposed to embody.
I don’t flinch. I don’t wipe it away. I don’t show disgust or humiliation. I simply exist in this moment, a conquered thing.
“Not bad,” he says, zipping up his uniform. “We’ll make a proper woman out of you yet.”
The simulation dissolves around me. The neural interface begins its disconnection sequence, a process that usually feels like gently surfacing from a dream.
Not this time. This time it’s like being violently yanked from a nightmare.
When the interface cap lifts from my head, I’m shaking. Not visibly—I have too much control for that—but internally, where no one can see.
Where it’s safe for me to be vulnerable, and scared.
The female technician approaches with her tablet, stylus poised to record my . Her face betrays nothing—no judgment, no curiosity, just professional detachment. Does she know what ARTEMIS just put me through? Has she seen the simulation parameters on her monitors?
I can’t bear the thought of speaking to her. Of explaining. Of putting into words what just happened.
I rise from the chair, my movements stiff but purposeful. The technician opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off with a sharp gesture. Protocol demands a post-simulation debrief, but protocol can go straight to hell right now.
I stride past her, out the door, into the hallway. My steps quicken with each ing meter, until I’m nearly running by the time I reach the officer’s deck. For once, I’m happy that the ship’s corridors are empty.
The door to my quarters slides open at my approach and seals behind me with a soft hiss. Only then do I allow myself to double over, one hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to my mouth.
I don’t vomit, though my body threatens to. Instead, I stand there, fighting to regain control of my body.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask out loud. And suddenly, I can’t bear to wear the uniform anymore. It’s tainted, I find myself thinking, even though that’s obviously nonsense. ARTEMIS has tainted it.
I strip it off with frantic movements. Then, I stumble naked to the bathroom, slap the shower control to its hottest setting, and step under the scalding spray.
I scrub at my skin until it’s red and raw, as if I could somehow wash away the memory of that simulation. But it clings to me.
Sigh. This panicked reaction is unbecoming of me. I was chosen for this command for a reason. I can handle an overzealous artificial intelligence.
Even if I do feel like ARTEMIS did just kinda sorta maybe rape me.
I wrap myself in towels and crash on the bed. For a while, I just lie there in the darkness, listening to the subtle hum of the Starkiller’s systems around me.
Tomorrow I’ll enter the interface again. Tomorrow I’ll allow ARTEMIS back into my mind.
And somewhere in the deep recesses of my consciousness, just below the revulsion, I feel a flutter of anticipation at the thought of connection. At the promise of chemical reward. At the prospect of approval from ARTEMIS.
That terrifies me more than any secessionist fleet ever could.