ElyriasEcstasy

by Amber Jayne

  But he wasn’t in such a mood tonight. He actually felt affectionate toward the unlucky male.

  Rale had reached between them to take Aphael’s cock in his grip. The Toplux felt the blood beat heavily in his own member.

  “Please…” purred the gray-eyed male. “Please, let me suck it.”

  Aphael had rolled onto his back. The silky sheets were already tangled. Music from a pre-Black Ship Elyria streamed throughout the cavernous chamber. He smiled at his lover.

  “Get down there and put your mouth on it,” he said.

  Rale eagerly scrambled over his chest and stomach, settling between his opened legs. The first touch of lips caused Aphael to draw a sharp breath. He’d felt a coldness, but it was only that Rale’s mouth was already wet. Moist heat enclosed his swollen head. The tongue he’d already tasted now swirled over his crown, flicking deliberately across his slit. No doubt finding his first salty drizzle.

  Muscles loosened in Aphael’s shoulders. He looked down as those cinching lips descended his erect shaft. Wanting to see better, he reached to brush aside the shimmering black hair. He cupped Rale’s ear with his palm. The mouth sucked him down to the hilt.

  Then Rale’s head lifted. Dropped. Lifted. Dropped. The timeless cocksucking rhythm, as reliable as the thump of blood in one’s arteries. The young man maintained a perfect suction around Aphael’s cock. His tongue stayed active and eager. Aphael held Rale’s sides with his thighs.

  The head rose and did not descend again. A chill came, as of breath on a spit-slick cock.

  “Is it good?” Rale wanted—needed—to know. The urge to please was there to read in the hopeful cast of his eyes.

  Aphael gave his long dark hair a stroke. “It’s good,” he assured. But he didn’t feel like coming in the man’s mouth. Not tonight. Instead he shifted, pushed Rale over onto his back. Getting into position, he said, “Hook your feet over my shoulders.”

  Rale complied, eyes alight, taking the attitude the Toplux wanted.

  Aphael set his saliva-lubricated cock to the hole his lover was so enthusiastically offering to him. Rale’s cock lay thickly upon his belly.

  Hunched over the lithe, beautiful male, Aphael started stroking into him. Rale’s hole gripped him exquisitely. Fierce pleasure took hold of the Toplux. With each downward lunge he buried himself inside the younger man. Rale, for his part, writhed and groaned. His cock twitched on his firm stomach.

  Aphael fucked him harder now, increasing speed, slotting himself again and again into the inviting passage. The music he’d chosen soared higher and higher, coming to its culmination, a great eruption of sound. Horns blaring. Strings shrieking. Drums and cymbals crashing.

  Rale’s head whipped from side to side on the silken covers. His long black hair lashed, falling over his contorted face. Suddenly his gray eyes sprang wide and his cock jetted pearls of viscous white across his abdominals and chest.

  In that same instant Aphael’s excitement crested. He loosed his liquid ecstasy into the onetime Weapon’s ass. Spurt after spurt. He let out a cry that neatly accompanied the final climactic crescendo of the music, just before it went silent. The moment held, and held, then at last relented. Time resumed its normal pace.

  He disengaged himself and lay back languorously on the huge bed. A peaceful drowsiness came to him.

  After half a minute or so, he heard Rale sitting up. Aphael lazily slit open his eyes to see the young man looking about. Blinking. Confusion and fear taking slow hold of his lovely features.

  “Where is this?” Rale asked, looking down at Aphael Chav. He touched the residue on his chest, raised slick fingers and gazed at them perplexedly. “What’s happening here?”

  A recessed door had already opened on the far side of the expansive chamber and a pair of attendants were gliding quickly across the carpet. Aphael watched in disinterested fashion as they neatly collected Rale and led him out. The young male’s cycle had finished and a new one had started. They occurred as regularly as clockwork.

  The drugs they gave the Shadowflashes and Weapons were potentially dangerous. Those elite soldiers had to be in peak condition to do what they did. Thus, the enhancements. They also had to be controlled. That was why the doctors used narcotics as well, to keep the subjects addicted, keep them taking their doses without any complaint. But memory and dream suppression were key also. Those minds had to be governed.

  What, after all, could be more dangerous than one of those walking killing machines thinking for himself, acting on his own?

  Urna. Especially him. Considering the extraordinary circumstances of his childhood. He and Rune both, though the Shadowflash was still obediently taking his memory suppressors, so all reports indicated. What would happen, however, if Urna regained the recollections of his early youth? It would mean disaster.

  The Toplux watched as Rale was escorted out the door. The man’s peculiar state of memory failure had doubtlessly been caused by the drugs. Mistakes happened.

  Urna was a wholly different category of Weapon, however. He was the Weapon. The ultimate. Without him, and without his partner Rune, the Weapon/Shadowflash division wouldn’t even have existed. They had been the template, a duo linked in fantastical fashion, invested with amazing natural powers. So far the doctors and technicians had been unable to fully duplicate the abilities of the two, true. But it could, and would, be done. Eventually.

  So the leader of the Lux had been promised, again and again.

  He believed it could be achieved. He believed that one day he would have his army of Urnas and Runes, rather than the cadre of hopped-up pretenders that currently constituted the rest of the Shadowflash/Weapon program. Those others did a good job, granted. They slaughtered their share of Passengers and protected the salvage teams that went into the Unsafe to collect the resources of ancient Elyria. But Aphael wanted the best.

  And he wanted those best for that day when the Order of Maji finally rose against the Lux.

  Sleepily he drew the silk covers around himself. The search for Urna was proceeding. The Guard commanders had high hopes of success. But Aphael Chav didn’t live on hopes. Urna was his property. And he meant to reclaim him.

  At any cost.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Here,” Bongo said, grinning and pointing down the tunnel. “Here comes one now.”

  Urna, chilled by the underground dank, rose to his booted feet and squinted into the shadowy distance. He had been crouching on the litter-strewn platform for half an hour at least. He had barely believed what Bongo had said about this place. It wasn’t that he distrusted this man who’d engineered their escape. It was, rather, that what he said about the underground network sounded too fantastic to be true.

  An underground. A literal underground. Not just would-be revolutionaries agitating ineffectively against the might of the Lux. This, then—so Bongo claimed—was a means of movement throughout the Safe that the Guard knew nothing about.

  They had abandoned the repair van about ten miles outside of the town where Virge Temple had her laboratory. Bongo had then led Urna on foot over some rocky countryside, until they’d reached a spot screened entirely from view by a ring of ocher standing stones. There, Bongo had pried up a hatchway of rusted metal and the two men had descended flaking rungs. The air tasted stale and damp. Bongo had a lantern in his own pack of provisions and he’d lit it. It burned still, on the platform.

  Urna clearly saw the bead of light now. He heard the humming of something mechanical. A long tunnel passed this platform on one side. Earlier, Urna had looked both ways down it, unable to see where it led. Presumably, this was a route they could take, even if he had no real idea what this passageway was. Something very old, it looked like. Something forgotten.

  When he’d asked why they weren’t starting off along the strange tunnel, Bongo had given him a wry smile, green eyes sparkling in the lantern’s light. “We wait here. A transport will be along to collect us eventually.”

  And so Urna had waited, growing imp
atient but holding his tongue. Wherever they were, they seemed safe for the moment.

  Bongo picked up the lantern, swinging it back and forth out over the passage. The approaching light slowed and the mechanized whir changed pitch. Urna, fascinated, watched a vehicle of some sort come gliding into the open area where the platform lay. Glancing down, he saw metal rails on the floor of the tunnel. The transport was evidently riding on top of the twin ribbons. Those rails gleamed. The steel was new, or at least newer than anything else he’d seen in this old, crumbling underground so far.

  The vehicle was an open-air affair with three rows of seats. Only the front row was occupied. Urna looked past the bright lone light fixed to the nose of the sled-like contraption. He saw a face peering back at him. Rugged-looking, male, bearded. Wary eyes. With a final squeal the railed transport halted.

  Before Bongo could speak, the driver produced an old-looking, long-barreled pistol and leveled it at the two men on the platform. Urna was confident he could move fast enough to elude the shot. His reflexes and acute combative talents would allow him to make his leap the very instant the bearded man’s finger started to squeeze the gun’s trigger.

  Bongo, however, had no such reflexes.

  Nevertheless, the blond-haired man showed no fear. He merely smiled at the driver, still holding his lantern. “Let the grace of the Maji ease your troubles,” he said.

  The wary eyes regarded Bongo steadily a moment. Then, in gravelly tones, the man said, “The Order shows the way.”

  Order of the Maji again, Urna noted silently. Did these people really imagine they were some kind of appreciable force to counter the Order of the Lux? They were fucking crazy if they did.

  But the exchange seemed to ease the tension of the moment a bit. Probably just some ritual code sign, Urna guessed. The driver, though, still had his weapon aimed their way, eyes flicking back and forth between the two men. His gaze finally settled on Urna.

  “You,” he croaked. “Take a step forward, into the light.”

  Urna did so, aware of the firearm concealed in his coat. Were it his own pistol, the familiar one he’d taken into the Unsafe on so many missions, he felt sure he could draw and fire it accurately before this man could blink.

  “By the Farsafe!” gasped the bearded man in dramatic fashion, eyes springing wide.

  And in that same tiny increment of time Urna saw the finger move on the trigger, and instinct took him. He made his leap, nimble muscled body moving with a breathtaking speed and fluidity. He vaulted past Bongo, pivoted, soared and came down on the seat next to the driver, pinning the man’s hand and weapon tightly against the forward edge of the vehicle. He had crossed the dozen or so intervening feet as easily as a regular individual might take a single step.

  “Finger off the trigger,” Urna growled next to the man’s ear. “Or I’ll break this wrist.” He gave it a good squeeze for emphasis. Up close like this he didn’t even need his own gun. If need be he could snap this guy’s neck.

  “What the fuck are you doing!” Bongo yelped, voice echoing through the dim, man-made grotto. “Don’t hurt him!”

  Again with the call for leniency, thought Urna. Just like at the checkpoint, with that fat Guard.

  The bearded man, however, had complied, taking his finger from the pistol’s trigger. Urna snatched the long-barreled firearm away and tossed it onto the platform, where it skittered across the gritty floor a few feet past Bongo, who made no move to pick it up. It was an old weapon and not in very good repair, Urna judged in that quick instant.

  He took a step back from the transport’s driver, who gaped at him like he was still absorbing what had happened over the past few fast seconds.

  “You’re Urna.” Eyes remaining riveted on him, he went on, “Why are you with this—Lux Weapon?” His gruff voice was incredulous.

  The question, obviously, was meant for Bongo, who replied, “He has fled the Citadel. He’s AWOL. He no longer works for the Lux.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Not in so many words, exactly. No.”

  Again people were talking about him like he wasn’t present. Annoyed, Urna said, “That’s the truth. The Lux don’t own me anymore. I’m on my own. I’m free.”

  The bearded man regarded him a moment. Thoughts seemed to be skipping quickly behind his eyes. At last he said, “Might be true. Or you might be on a mission right now.”

  Urna barked a laugh. Even understanding this man’s suspicion, he was amused by his evident ignorance. If anybody were to try to infiltrate the revolutionary elements of the Safe (and presumably this man shared some kind of fellowship with Bongo; that blather about the Maji confirmed it), it would be the Guard undertaking that action, not the military. The Guard handled all domestic disturbances within the Safe. It was their jurisdiction, something they were very protective about.

  “I’m not on any mission. I’m not under anybody’s orders.” Urna nodded over a shoulder toward Bongo. “Ask my friend here about the Guard I wanted to shoot a while ago.”

  He waited while Bongo quickly related the story. The driver sagged back into his seat, shaking his head in wonder now. “So, Urna the Weapon has turned traitor. I like that.”

  Urna didn’t quite like the sound of that word. Traitor. But he supposed it applied.

  “We’re outbound,” Bongo said. “Trying to get as far from the Safe’s center as we can.”

  The driver nodded. “Hop in. I’m taking this thing some distance.”

  Urna climbed over onto the seats of the second row. Bongo retrieved the long-barreled pistol and stepped aboard. Urna watched as the driver set the weapon on the floor by his feet. He worked the controls set before him and the transport, humming anew, slipped off away into the yawning tunnel ahead. The ride was very smooth. The forward light showed the vaulted ceiling and gleamed on the metal rails.

  “What is this place?” Urna asked Bongo, who had settled next to him. The Weapon kept an eye on the driver, though he didn’t think the man was going to cause him any further trouble.

  “Ancient railway system,” Bongo said. “Parts of it have caved in but the rest is carefully maintained. There are crews that live down here, tending to it, keeping it functioning.”

  Urna shook his head, impressed, as they glided rapidly along. “I never knew this existed.”

  “Good. It’s supposed to be a secret.” Bongo suddenly yawned. He rubbed a knuckle into the corner of a green eye.

  Night had been falling when they’d made their descent into this strange, unsuspected underworld. Urna too felt the fatigue of recent events catching up to him. But that wasn’t all. His drug need was starting to gnaw again, cold tendrils of unease waking in his gut. With a hand that was just beginning to shake, he reached for the vials Virge Temple had given him. She’d explained what doses would keep off the worst of the withdrawal symptoms.

  Before he could reach the pocket, however, Bongo asked, “Feeling the bite again?”

  For some reason Urna felt a little twinge of embarrassment. Hell, it wasn’t his fault he was hooked on the dope. The goddamn military doctors had seen to that. Even so, when he replied, “Yeah,” his voice sounded small to his own ears.

  “I’ll do you up another spell,” Bongo said. He started rummaging in his pockets, no doubt looking for that weird piece of etched metal he’d used before.

  Despite that the peculiar little rite of earlier actually had seemed to alleviate his withdrawal pains, Urna remained dubious. Magic was a childish whimsy. Or, he presumed it was, not having any clear memories of how his own mind had functioned when he was a child.

  Then again, he wasn’t really all that anxious to try Virge’s drugs, was he? As benign as she’d claimed the substances were, he’d already had a lifetime of taking doses, from the start of his military career—which was another memory he couldn’t quite nail down.

  “Okay,” he said to Bongo. “Go ahead.”

  The male produced a different object than last time. This was a star-sh
aped thing, something that appeared to have been chipped out of a hunk of pink crystal. Its facets danced as Bongo turned it this way and that. He chanted all the while. Once again, Urna thought he detected words in amongst the intonations but couldn’t be sure.

  As before, his mind started to wander. He returned again to the beach, to that vision of the Farsafe, which was also, it seemed, the image captured in the photograph he’d found. That couldn’t be right, though. Could it? No. No, that was stupid. The Farsafe was a comforting myth. Just like the photo had meaning for him that it wouldn’t have for anyone else. The picture touched something deep inside him. Some lost memory. Or maybe just a buried longing that found its expression in that image of a child with his parents.

  A hand touched his thigh, fingers squeezing his flesh gently.

  Urna blinked. “What…?”

  “It’s done,” Bongo said. The crystal was no longer in his hand. He yawned again. “How do you feel?”

  Feeling for the drug craving, Urna found nothing. In truth, all he felt now was sleepy. He could barely keep his eyes open. “It’s…better,” he confessed, as surprised by the fact as last time Bongo had performed the odd little ceremony.

  He gave the Weapon’s leg another squeeze, then the hand dropped away and Bongo slouched on the seat, which was made of old cracked leather. “Good. I’m going to get some shuteye.”

  Urna too had slumped back, making himself comfortable. The rails hummed beneath them. The driver of this vehicle, he’d decided, was trustworthy. Before he could even say any final word to Bongo, his eyes had drifted shut and sleep was taking him into a tender, enveloping embrace.

  * * * * *

  He had no sense of time when he woke. Maybe it was something about being underground, without view of the sky, but that couldn’t be it. His quarters in the Weapon wing of the military compound at the Citadel hadn’t had any windows and he had never risen from sleep with this same strange disorientation. It was like time itself had left him behind, no longer subjecting him to its implacable flow. He couldn’t even have said at that moment how old he was.