by Corin Cain
Lucius holsters the hilt of his own Orb-Blade and turns to me.
“What did it look like?”
His eyes are uncharacteristically wide. Out of the three of them, Lucius is the one who always seemed the most difficult to push off kilter. I imagine he’d faced death so many times, he’d learned to laugh at it.
But he’s not laughing now. Seeing these three Aurelians react like this frightens me. They’re normally so composed – implacable, and fearless. Hell, I watched them cut the head off a Toad guard right here on this ship, unafraid of the consequences. They faced down that scarred Bullfrog who so desperately wanted to purchase me as if they had ice in their veins.
If these three warriors are worried, then Tessa and I should be terrified.
“Thin,” I describe the vessel we’d seen. “Expensive. It was flanked by at least a dozen attack ships. Whoever is inside it, they must be bloody well important.”
“Fuck!”
It’s Lucius’s voice.
“Another Finger. Another Gods-Cursed Finger, I know it. Oblog’s got a guest of honor – two Fingers of the King’s left hand.”
He turns to his battle-brothers.
“But what can it have to do with us? What should we do?”
I hate hearing this confident, cocky Aurelian sounding so uncertain.
Marcel sits down heavily at the table. His posture suggests he’s bearing the weight of the universe across his massive shoulders.
“You’re scaring her.” It’s Quint, his rusty voice barely audible. He gives me a long, lingering look. “Everything’s going to be okay, Jamie – I promise you. I’m getting you off this ship.”
It’s the most I’ve ever heard Quint speak all at once, and it’s the first assurance he’s given me. Before now he’d surveyed me almost like I was a housecat, and he has allergies.
But now I’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth – he professes to be as protective of me as Marcel and Lucius do.
I know it’s stupid, but I actually feel reassured by Quint’s words. I must clearly be important to him if he was willing to break his near permanent silence.
Then again, his words don’t change our circumstances. The five of us are trapped on a ship owned by one of the most terrible creatures in the universe, surrounded by scheming Toads and sadistic Bullfrogs.
Nevertheless – somehow – Quint’s words still reassure me.
Marcel and Lucius have stowed theirs, but Quint keeps the hilt of his Orb-Blade in his hand as he stands there – ready to activate it at a heartbeat’s notice.
“Why don’t we leave?” He suggests. “Our Reaver is halfway across the ship. We’ll have between fifteen seconds and a minute before the alarm is sounded – maybe more, if we’re lucky.” He tightens his grip on his Orb-Blade. “Then, we just cut our way through the Toads.”
Lucius shakes his head. “They could get hurt.”
He gestures towards Tessa and myself. As much as I want to tell him I can look after my own damned self, I know that isn’t true. Not here, in the heart of a Toad mothership.
While Quint’s plan sounds like suicide to me, I get the sense that if it was just the three of them, they’d be wading through an army of Toad and Bullfrogs already – leaving countless bodies in their wake.
However, with Tessa and I slowing the warriors down, who knows how far they’d get…
Marcel stands back up. There’s a sudden finality to his stance – the way he stands taller, with his shoulders wider. Whatever our course of action, he’s committed to it. The towering warrior turns to me, looking me up and down appraisingly.
“We don’t have time to plan a clean escape, so we’ll have to risk a dirty one. We must go to the meeting and see what they want. Are you willing to attend?”
I nod, swallowing dryly. There’s no use pretending. I’m scared, and I hear Tessa whimpering behind me.
“The Toads will expect you to look and act like slaves,” Marcel warns. “Act as you did when you were first captured.”
Act? Why would I need to act – I am a slave.
But as if reading my mind, Marcel explains:
“Now you have an air of… defiance to you.”
I actually feel proud when he tells me that. I guess I can feel the old me coming back. However, the old me would have been smart enough to play along – so I loosen my shoulders, slumping my head down and keeping my gaze locked towards the floor.
“Much better,” Marcel nods.
I can’t believe that it’s come to this – after all that Ling and I achieved, and all the slaves we’d rescued.
Now, my only instruction is to: Look and act like slaves.
The pleasure dress clings to my body, and my mind churns that sentence over and over. I don’t need to do much about the look – I’ve already achieved it. The question is: Can I maintain the submissive illusion of a slave? Or will the old me rebel against such indignity?
Another question looms ahead of that one, though:
What does the ‘Finger of the Toad King’ expect from the Aurelians? And why does he require us to be there? Me and Tessa?
What does Lord Oblog want from me?
6
Tessa reluctantly pulls the pleasure dress back over her head with shaking hands. Her make-shift toga has now returned to what it was before – just a pile of jumbled sheets on the immense bed.
Squirming uncomfortably, Tessa turns to me and looks me up and down, as if I’m about to be marched out in front of the judges at a beauty contest.
Then, with a tsk, she moves to stand behind me – running her fingers through my hair and working out what knots and tangles she can.
“We’re going to be okay,” Tessa mumbles as she works. “The Aurelians will look out for us.”
She’s nervous, but she truly believes that.
I wish I could say the same.
“They don’t know what they’re doing,” I complain. “I think they’re fresh out of their hundred years of service. I think they’re in over their heads.”
I finish my rant by sinking my teeth into my lip. Did I say too much? Hope is all Tessa has right now. I wouldn’t want to ruin that for her.
As if indicating that I had, Tessa’s hands stop for a moment. Then, after she takes a ragged breath, they start again.
Dammit, I shouldn’t have said what I did. She needs every scrap of hope she can cling onto right now.
“We have to trust them,” she insists.
I grit my teeth.
“Well, I guess we don’t have much of a choice.”
I look around – catching sight of myself in the mirror.
“Well,” I tut. “We’re in these bloody pleasure dresses. What more do you think we need to look like slaves?”
The sensation of Tessa’s fingers in my hair, and the never-ending stimulation of the pleasure dress, remain dormant in my anger. I cling to the fury – holding onto it lest I get swept away by a tidal wave of despair.
Suitably adorned, Tessa and I leave the bedroom together, and find the three Aurelians standing in the center of the living room waiting for us.
Long, white togas are draped across their massive shoulders, hanging across their huge bodies. It’s an outfit so familiar to me – from all those statues of Greeks and Romans in similar attire – and yet also so stiffly formal and alien.
The demeanor of the Aurelians has similarly shifted. Even Lucius doesn’t have the promise of a mocking smile on his full lips any longer. He’s standing stiffly, with his shoulders back – a world away from the man who was joking and flirting over breakfast.
The other thing these outfits do is accentuate the sheer size of the three looming warriors. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how fucking huge they are. Each of them stands well over seven-feet in height – which is easily over two feet on me – but it’s their width and bulks that really makes me shiver. These three warriors aren’t just bigger than human males, but their very muscle tissue is said to be stronger and more powerful
. Comparatively, inch-for-inch, they’re already far stronger than humans - and their lean, corded muscles have clearly evolved for just two core purposes: Fighting and fucking.
The Aurelians stand in alabaster white – exactly like those Old-Earth statues. Their skin was like marble, and the crisp, white linen of their togas matches their complexion perfectly. The only place in which these towering, white wraiths show a hint of contrast is at their waists; where the hilts of their Orb-Blades hang from corded, black belts.
There’s a rattle. Lucius and Marcel raise their wrists to reveal the degrading leashes we’d been attached to when the Toads had sold us.
But, if nothing else, it is the answer to my question back in the bedroom:
What else do we need to look the part of slaves?
Tessa straightens her spine – as if breathing in the courage to play this role. Then, she strides confidently past me – her hips rolling seductively. The sheer fabric of her pleasure dress clings obscenely to her feminine curves, showcasing her model-like figure. For a second, I even find a hot surge of jealousy firing through me; which burns hotter when she ducks her head to allow Lucius to leash her.
My lips can still conjure the taste of that man’s kiss – and as ridiculous as it seems, I feel anger that Tessa chose him to submit herself to.
Yet, Lucius never takes his eyes from me – even as he collars her. The entire time he’s affixing that collar around Tessa’s slender throat, he stares at me with monstrous, slate-grey eyes that are as compelling to me as a forgotten moon.
Marcel clears his throat, snapping my attention from Lucius’s hypnotic stare. Marcel nods, and then spares me the humiliation of commanding me to step forward. I know I must accept the collar around my neck, and submit to the role of slave – but at least he won’t articulate what it is I must do. I step up to the towering leader of the Aurelians and find myself unable to meet his gaze. Like a slave would, I keep my head low and my gaze fixated on the floor. I can’t even look at him as Marcel reaches down to affix my collar. His fingers graze my throat as he secures the collar around my neck, and I shiver at the heat of their contact.
And then, with a click, I’m linked to him. I’m his property – for all to see.
That’s when Marcel places a finger beneath my chin and raises my face to meet his gaze. He stares into my eyes, and nods reassuringly – filling me with more faith than any words would have done.
Then, he looks up to the room.
“Time to go.”
His voice has a snarl to it – but it’s not directed to any of us standing in the Aurelians’ living quarters. Instead, I feel the anger pouring from him and know it’s directed toward this ‘Lord Oblog’ dignitary – the ‘Finger’ of the Toad King and the same bastard who attacked my transport ship and condemned me to this terrifying ordeal.
I pause, though – raising my hand.
“I need my boots.”
It’s not me talking – it’s the old me. She talks through my lips, commandeering my voice – looking at the slime-encrusted combat boots I walked in here with, heaped beside the door. They were spared the garbage disposal, which tore my clothes to ribbons – just like they’ve survived the three life-or-death rescue missions I’ve worn them through. They’re good boots – boots that have walked me out of more tough situations than I’d like to count.
A good pair of boots is hard to find.
Marcel ignores me, leaving Tessa and I barefoot as he begins walking toward the door.
I’ve no choice but to follow him. I’ve got that collar around my throat – and I’m not sure Marcel would even notice the extra weight if he was forced to drag me along behind him.
As we approach the door, I reach out desperately for my boots – my fingertips almost grazing the leather. Before I can grab them, though, Marcel abruptly turns and hefts me right off the ground – holding me like a fireman might cradle a child as he pulls her out of a burning building.
I yelp with indignity as he lifts me.
“I will not allow my property to be sullied by Toad-scum,” the towering Aurelian sneers as he carries me. I feel so tiny in his massive, muscular arms – near weightless in his powerful grip. I know we need to present the illusion that Tessa and I are his slaves – but the way he talks to me makes me wonder if this veneer of possessiveness actually sinks deeper.
If Lord Oblog questions the Aurelians’ actions, it’ll be because the Toad dignitary knows the Aurelians aren’t loyal to his cause – the cause of profiteering, slavery, cruelty, and sadism.
But what are the Aurelians loyal to?
It’s not the Aurelian Empire – that much I already know. No Aurelian devoted to their Empire or Queen would work with a Toad. Neither would they smuggle shipments for the Priesthood – the faction stoking the fire of insurrection within the Empire. It’s the Priests who are dividing the Aurelian race – split between those Aurelians still loyal to Queen Jasmine, and those whose loyalty has been tainted by their desire to return to the Old Ways.
But I know Marcel and his battle-brothers aren’t loyal to the Priesthood, either – or they’d be believers in the Old Ways, too – and Marcel, or Lucius, or Quint would have claimed me by now, as they’d believe their right would be.
I shiver at the memory of Lucius’s huge bulk, and then imagine him forcing apart my protesting hands – his massive thighs spreading my legs open as I desperately tried, and failed, to keep them together.
It’s as if the pleasure dress can sense my conflicted thoughts – and the sentient fabric begins to tingle and tantalize me – stimulating every inch of my skin as I’m cradled in Marcel’s huge, powerful arms.
He strides through the doorway, out into the Toad-controlled areas of the ship. Tessa is in Lucius’s hands, behind me – carried in exactly the same way; like a weary child in the arms of an indulgent parent.
We’re carried effortlessly down the corridor. When we reach the corner, the last of the arid dryness in the air is drowned out by the humidity and moisture preferred by Toad-kind. As my breath becomes heavy, I start to miss the desert-like dryness of their quarters. The disgusting humidity clings to me like the embrace of a stranger.
At the end of the next corridor, Toads intercept us. After a quick glance at the towering warriors, they scurry away like frightened rats. They’re clearly terrified of the Aurelians.
Can you blame them? The way Marcel so casually lopped the head from one of them with his Orb-Blade – merely for ripping open my shirt – demonstrates that their nervousness is well-warranted.
Marcel ignores them, as if they pose no threat to his triad. He carries me further into the bowels of the enormous vessel – until we finally reach a wide hallway that ends abruptly in a huge pair of double doors, guarded by two looming Bullfrogs; each one at least eight-feet tall.
“No Orb-Weapons,” one of them grunts, glancing down at the hilts of the Orb-Blades that hang from the Aurelian’s belts.
Marcel pauses. His expression gives away nothing, but as I’m cradled in his arms, I can sense his brain whirring like a computer, trying to resolve this demand.
“We were ordered to wear formal dress,” he eventually retorts. “According to Aurelian protocol, such attire requires we carry our Orb-Weapons.” He pauses for effect. “Unless you wish to defy the orders of the Finger himself, that is?”
The Bullfrog pauses for a second, narrowing his big, glistening eyes. Then, he lifts one of his wiry arms, and places his communicator watch to his lips – murmuring into it secretively.
Seconds later, the two Bullfrogs step back, and the huge doors open. The guards usher us through – although the triad act as if they’re not even there as they stride past.
This is clearly Lord Oblog’s throne room itself. Marcel strides into the towering chamber with his spine straight and his head held high – but there’s a chorus of jeers and ugly chuckling as we enter.
A loud voice echoes across the room.
“Here they are! Our three Aurelia
ns – in their formal attire, with their formal Orb-Weapons hanging from their waist. But I would not fear the Orb-Blades of my well-trained Aurelians. See, Lord Qavar? How they lift up their so-called slaves? One wonders which is the owner, and which is the owned!”
Obscene laughter fills the room. In Marcel’s arms, I look around nervously and take in the cavernous chamber. The air heavy and laden with moisture. Bullfrogs circle the room, standing against the walls like vultures. For every two of them, I also count at least one Sentinel – those huge, dead-eyed robots that have earned the reputation of being the most powerful AI bodyguards money can buy. The Sentinels’ faces are utterly blank except for two bright, red lights that hone-in on any potential threats.
Threats like the Aurelians.
Marcel gently sets me down. There’s no murky water swilling across the floor of this throne room. The water is as clear as that of a tropical island – without even the tadpoles lurking in it.
I scan the room for any sight of that terrifying Bullfrog with the scar. If he’s in here, I’m in even more danger.
Thank the Gods, I don’t see him, though.
That small mercy is about all I have to thank the Gods for.
I wrap my arms around myself and shiver despite the heat. Turning to the center of the room, I take in the grotesque sight of Lord Oblog sprawling across his throne. He’s not how I’d expected one of the most powerful Toad dignitaries to be. Oblog is probably even shorter than me – but it’s hard to tell when he’s sitting down, because his quivering bulk seems to collapse in on itself like undercooked dough. Next to him, in a levitating chair that hovers at exactly the same height, is another Toad dignitary. This must be Lord Qavar
Two of the Toad King’s Fingers, gathered together on this mothership.
This can’t be good.
“One of your little slaves is looking at me – such impudence! You clearly haven’t had long to train her.” It’s Lord Qavar’s voice, gurgling with laughter as he derides the Aurelians. All around us, the room begins to echo his scornful mirth – with thirty sinister Bullfrogs soon joining Qavar in laughter.