by Alana Khan
“I have plans of building my own ludus in the future, and before I take to my bed for a well-deserved sleep, I’d love a tour.” There. How could he refuse that?
“As you wish,” he says. I’ve only just met him, but I think he’s disappointed with my request.
He presses the button near the viewing window and announces into the speaker, “That will be all.”
The males stop as if someone removed their batteries. They must be melting out there; they’re all dripping with sweat.
Did Beast say he’d been here for fifteen years? Fighting in the hot sun like this? It looks like torture.
Crom escorts us down a stairwell at the side of the viewing window. A spike of fear slices up my spine as we descend the dimly-lit steps. Crom could be leading us anywhere. Maybe a dungeon. Or perhaps just the ludus where we’ll be enslaved.
We don’t know Plenum from Adam. Actually, we do. Although I’ve never met him, he’s given us plenty of hints as to his character—he lies, cheats, steals, and fights sentient beings to the death for money. What else do I need to know?
Crom is leading the way, and Beast’s calming palm brushes the small of my back ever so lightly. Just a swift touch to remind me he’s by my side and will protect me. We’ve known each other such a short time, but he sensed my fear and is trying to soothe me. I like this male more every day.
“Don’t worry,” Crom says with his hand on the door I assume will open to the ludus. “Every male wears a pain/kill collar. I’ve requested every guard on the property meet us here. You’ll be perfectly safe from the fighting beasts.”
“So good to know,” I tell him, not mentioning the fact that I’m much more fearful of his master than all the gladiators in the training facility combined.
As soon as we pass through the door, we’re flanked by two guards. They look like gladiator school dropouts. They’re big, beefy, and strong, but could never measure up to the fighting stock. However, the pain/kill comms on their wrists give them total control.
I only noticed the guards out of the periphery of my mind, because the one overriding piece of information bombarding me is the horrendous smell down here. We’re underground, and it’s cooler than up above, but only by maybe twenty degrees. It still has to be at least a hundred down here.
The odor assaults me in layers. There’s the ‘top note’ of sweat. In my short galactic travels, I’ve noticed that different alien species have different body odors. Some are far more pungent than others.
So the first thing that almost knocks me over is man-sweat. Alien man-sweat. Then other smells assail me, like feces. Yep. The unpleasant scent of feces and urine are lurking right underneath the sweat.
And under that I smell old cooking odors. When I lived in student housing as an undergrad, my next-door neighbors produced something like this when they cooked cabbage. Only this isn’t just worse, it’s like it’s been hanging around in the stale air for centuries.
It’s so bad, there’s no way around it. The old trick of mouth breathing does nothing but make me gag. I finally throw all inhibitions to the wind and pull the neckline of my t-shirt up to the bridge of my nose. It helps.
Now I can pay attention to what I see. Beast said he lived in barracks. I guess that’s as good a description as any. There are two large cells. Each with five bunk beds, a toilet and a sink. Not even a shower.
The males are all nude. No surprise there. Gladiators and clothes don’t seem to go together. In groups of ones and twos they all gravitate to the metal bars at the front of their cells.
In less than a minute of me walking down the center of the aisle between the two barracks, fourteen males are staring at me. Most have both hands on the bars, their gaze focused on me.
I can’t help but picture Beast here. Fifteen guys. Twenty beds. I picture handsome Beast alone in his bed, feet hanging off the end, breathing the noxious air.
The feeling of hatred at Plenum that’s been simmering in my gut for days bubbles into a full boil. I want to kill him for doing this to any sentient being, but especially my Beast.
Yeah, I just thought that, didn’t I? My Beast. I’ve known for days I was falling for him, but now it’s undeniable.
The rest of the tour consists of a peek at the weapons room. It has three different locks on it, all of which are controlled by Crom.
“Crom, you certainly have a position of trust. Your master gives you access to all these weapons?” I ask in my most awed and impressed voice.
He nods. I think I detect a proud look on his bark-like face. It’s hard to tell.
“I wouldn’t think a slave would have access to weapons.”
He straightens to his full height and lifts his chin, “I’m not a slave.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I mean . . . I just assumed . . . because you call him ‘master’.”
“Well, I can understand,” he says, no longer sounding offended. “He used to be my master. I earned my freedom years ago.”
I’m beginning to be able to read his almost-motionless face—he looks sad. “I’d wanted to go back to my home planet of Drulinius. It was only after I’d bought my freedom by working double shifts for a decade that Master informed me it had been decimated in a war. He told me no living being remained.
“I had nowhere to go, so I chose to stay here. Master pays me well, and I have a vast amount of savings on my ledger.”
“So,” I begin, my shit detector shrieking on high alert, “you’re free and rich. Are there no females in Crom’s life?”
Now he looks truly dejected as he locks the weapons room. “I bought a beautiful Numan’s freedom, we were in love. Unfortunately, some terrible fate befell her shortly after I bought her. She must have been killed by criminals because I never heard from her again.”
He looks ready to weep.
“I’m so sorry, Crom. That’s terrible. I do hope you find someone else.”
“There will never be anyone else for me,” he laments, then shakes his head as if he’s suddenly aware he’s surrounded by guards. “Let me get you back to your quarters. I’ll have dinner brought for you and you can get a good night’s sleep after your trying pod ride.”
“Crom? Can you bring enough for both me and my slave?”
“Certainly.”
Beast
Eating in this helmet is ridiculous. The fork barely fits through the vertical mouth opening. It’s necessary, though, once Plenum sees my nose rings, he’ll know it’s me.
We take separate showers, then climb into bed together.
“Cyril, someday I’ll get used to your grotesque face. Until then, you’ll just have to wear that helmet,” she says, loud enough to be heard through the listening devices.
Every light in the room is off, all screens have been turned toward the wall, and no light slips in through the window coverings. It’s black as pitch in here. When I start to remove my helmet, though, she pulls the covers over both our heads, then pulls the helmet off.
“There are special cameras that can see in the dark even on my primitive planet,” she whispers, her lips touching my ear. “But I doubt there are any that can see through fabric.”
Her fingers trace every inch of my face, as if she’s re-learning every plane and angle.
“I missed this handsome face.” I feel her smile against my flesh. She strokes my throat. “I missed your voice . . . Cyril.”
“And I missed touching you whenever I want. I don’t know what I was thinking when I suggested we should wait until we drack.” I control my urge to cup her small breasts in my palms, but I do allow myself to kiss those pink lips of hers. “Oh, yes, Aerie,” I breathe against her soft mouth, “I missed this. We’ve gone far too many hoaras without this.”
She grips my cock, stroking from base to tip, then slides down to pleasure me.
“I won’t deny us this, Aerie, but we’re not going to couple for the first time under cover of darkness. I want to sheath myself inside you for the first time as a free male.”
“We need to plan for tomorrow. I want there to be no mistakes.”
Chapter Ten
Aerie
Plenum must think he can keep us cooling our heels for days, waiting for the Beast of Tramachor’s arrival. I’m going to have to demand a meeting.
We confirmed with Zar this morning that both ships will arrive this evening. I want Beast to get the manumission papers signed, toss the black velvet bag filled with gold coins on the asshole’s desk, or perhaps in his face, and let us be on our way.
We whispered to each other until early morning. Once I got over the fact that no bodily fluids were going to be exchanged, we snuggled together and shared our thoughts.
I told him how sad and angry I was when I saw the barracks. Although I’d held back tears during the tour, they spilled freely down my cheeks as we talked. Picturing him living there, with never a kind word or soft touch filled me with equal parts rage and compassion.
It just made me want to give him more, to do for him, to make up for all the things he’d missed out on in his life. His response was to kiss me so softly, so sweetly it made my heart ache. He told me, “Aerie, times that by a million and you’ll know how I felt when you told me about your life, about the closet, about your pain. I’d gladly kill those bastards for you and never look back. I’d—.” Then he’d stopped himself. I think he was going to tell me something even more loving, but he just hugged me tighter and kissed my temple.
I’m straightening my suit jacket as I glance into the mirror. Crom should be here any moment to transport us to the mansion. He contacted us this morning and said Plenum would see us at eleven.
I tried to move it to later. It would be safer for us to conduct the purchase after the Fool’s Errand and the new ship land on Trent. Crom diplomatically informed me it was a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. So eleven it is.
The Beast of Tramachor—strong, powerful, and deadly—is nervous. I can sense it, although he’d never admit it. Plenum owned this male, had control over his pain/kill collar for fifteen long, grueling years. Although in Beast’s head he knows he’ll be free in a matter of hours, in his heart, he’s got to be worried that something will go terribly wrong.
There’s a knock on the front door and I picture Crom’s wood-like hand rapping upon the huge entry door. I would bet my next paycheck, which will either be kept by my firm or used for an elaborate funeral when it’s discovered I’ve mysteriously disappeared, that Plenum ran the same scam on Crom as he did on Beast and some of his friends.
I woke early this morning and surfed the Intergalactic Database for Crom’s homeworld Drulinius. My hunch was immediately confirmed. The planet is still there, thriving, full of other wooden beings who are renowned throughout the galaxy for their flute music. Can the male not read? Did he never check to see if Plenum told the truth?
I slip into my Louboutins and open the door. My faithful slave is waiting, hands behind his waist in the typical military ‘at ease’ position.
“Good morning, Miss Aerie,” Crom greets me with what I can only assume is a smile on his wooden face.
“Good morning, Crom. You look happy today.”
“Yes, Miss. Master Plenum was satisfied with how I discharged my duties showing you around the ludus yesterday. He gifted me with extra credits in my account.”
“How generous,” I say, “how much is in your account by now? You must be a very rich male.”
“You know, I’ve never asked to see the ledger after my first request. It displeased Master. He accused me of not trusting him.”
Oh, poor Crom. He is so getting fucked by his beloved Master.
Ten minutes later we’ve hovered to the mansion and are escorted into the palatial foyer. I’m certainly no connoisseur of alien interior design, but my guess is this place would be described as ‘eclectic’.
Eclectic as in there seem to be a thousand different styles in just this one spacious room. I imagine, though, that there is one theme tying everything together. I assume what everything probably has in common is that it’s obscenely expensive.
Crom leads us through a maze of rooms, each large, ostentatious, and filled with knick-knacks. Finally, we arrive at Plenum’s sanctum sanctorum, his office. It’s huge, wood-paneled, and screams wealth. If that isn’t enough, his desk is probably eight by ten feet, putting anyone in the room with him at a distinct power disadvantage. The six-and-a-half-foot-tall armed guards flanking him don’t hurt the overall I-have-the-power-and-you-don’t message.
He doesn’t rise when I enter, just waves me to the chair a few feet in front of his gargantuan desk.
Plenum is somewhere in his fifties, sixty tops. His black crew cut tops a muscled body covered with lavender skin. He might be considered attractive if it weren’t for the perma-sneer that adorns his derisive face.
“Hello Miss Evans. I’ll get right to the point. My Pinnacle fighter, The Beast of Tramachor, has been stolen during an attack on the vessel in which he was being transported. I have no reason to believe he is dead, but I can’t produce him.”
Beast is standing faithfully at my left elbow, as per protocol. I could drag this out and play games with Plenum, but I came here to buy Beast’s freedom, and that’s what I’m going to do.
“You think he’s still alive?” I ask, hoping I’m wearing my best poker face.
“Yes.”
“Where I come from there’s an old saying that when you’re buying something sight unseen you’re buying a pig in a poke.” His face shows no sign of dawning comprehension. “A porcine animal in a thick sack.”
He nods, now understanding.
“With that said, I’d still like to buy this male. I’ll offer you half your asking price for the pig in a poke.”
He scowls. Is there a scarier, meaner word than scowl? Because if the armed Beast of Tramachor wasn’t at my side, that look would chill me to my marrow.
“500,000 whether he surfaces again or not. You’ll be handsomely paid if the male is dead. You’ll get half his worth if he’s found. I’m taking as big a risk as you.” I look him straight in the eye.
He thinks for long moments. Figuring, I’m certain, a way to eventually cheat me out of my investment if Beast is found. If he’s smart, he has to assume Beast will never be recovered. In his head he’s probably licking his chops imagining he just made half a million credits for selling the equivalent of air.
“Deal.” He holds out his hand.
“Where I come from, verbal agreements aren’t binding, nor are handshakes. I’ll need written words and a signed document, I’m afraid.” I didn’t go to school for seven years and work at one of the best law firms in New York City to act like a yokel in the most important deal of my life.
He pulls out his pad and a few minutes later hands me the worst contract I’ve ever laid eyes on.
“Mind if I add a few clarifications?” I ask with a toss of my head and a smile.
The corners of his mouth turn down, but he hands over the pad. Ten minutes later, I’ve added every addendum and loophole my attorney’s mind can conceive.
“How’s this?” I ask sweetly.
An imbecile at one hundred paces could see the lavender male is fuming. I’ve removed every possible legal method he could use to screw me out of what’s mine. Beast’s anxiety is more palpable with every second that ticks by, but I don’t want to leave anything to chance.
Plenum grunts unhappily, signs the document, and hands it to me. Moments later, I’ve signed it and sent myself a copy.
“I guess that concludes my business,” I say as I stand.
“500,000 credits,” he demands.
“Cyril, can you hand over the pouch?”
Beast removes the bag from his waist, counts out half the contents, walks to the enormous desk and slams the gold on the polished brown surface
.
“This concludes our business,” he says in his very non-Cyril deep voice. After pulling off his helmet so Plenum can clearly see his face, he turns his back on his former owner, holds out his hand to help me out of my seat, and takes a step to escort me out of the room.
Shit. We did not discuss this. Our plan was to keep the fucking helmet on his fucking head until we were safely on the Fool.
I understand the level of hate Beast holds for his former owner, but this is going to fuck everything up. What was he thinking?
“Apprehend him!” Plenum shouts.