She had learned that it was better to ask than to demand; she got cooperation that way, and not just reluctant submission.
“Coryn,” he said, still studying her.
“All right, Coryn. I doubt that you want to spend all your time in restraints. I'm prepared to let you loose once you understand how impossible it is for you to escape. Shall I go through the list of the precautions that we here at the Elite Women's Pleasure House take to make certain that our men remain in residence?”
“Let's hear it,” he said.
**
“So how was it that you ended up working for that rump office of the XYZ Imports in Laurentia, anyway?” Mel Jourda asked Peter Mackenzie. “And what was it that you did for them?”
The official meeting was over. Jillian and Lindy had gone to the Liaison Office to arrange for Sarah to have a date with the body-sculptor on RES, and to communicate with Janis at the Paxic Prime City Law Enforcement Office. The flyers which were to ferry the Eldest Witches of six of the Seven Circles back to their Strongholds had been delayed at the Port Maintenance; Texi who was in charge of transportation, said that they were dealing with a personnel issue of some kind. A number of the Circle Leaders had taken advantage of the unexpected free time in the city to go to do a bit of shopping. The women had been almost giddy with delight at the rare opportunity, even though they well knew that both the Port Security and the City Peacekeeping force were keeping anxious eyes on them.
Not all the Witches had gone shopping: Marlyss had taken advantage, with the Guru and the Greencat, of Jaime's offer to fly them and Dian to Ferhil Stones on his way back to the Institute, while Jerold had agreed to remain at the Liaison Office Official Residence for a day or two, in order to brief Lindy, Cameron and Sarah about his home world Yukoid, and to write, by hand, a letter to his relatives there. Clarisse had passed up on the shopping, and was now listening avidly to the conversation that the man from the Diplomatic Corps had initiated.
“They approached me,” Peter said, making a face. “They were in the process of setting up the branch in Laurentia, and I had just graduated from the local University with an engineering qualification in geophysics, and, naturally, was looking for employment. I couldn't quite understand why an Import/Export Company wanted a Geophysicist, but they countered that it was Engineering they were interested in, an answer which didn't make any more sense. A lot of things didn't seem to make much sense, but I could use the job, since I had, in my final year of school become engaged to Cara, and we were keen to get our lives settled. The XYZ Imports were offering a very competitive salary, so the truth is that I probably wasn't as inquisitive as I should have been.”
“Do you think that they knew something about your real identity, the identity you were unaware of, at the time?” Mel asked.
“Later, after the supposed omega-space accident, I came to believe that they must have known something. I remember one odd comment from one of the owners, when a couple of them dropped by at the office—if anyone can be said to be dropping by when they've come to Laurentia, Earth, from Mallora—to the effect that I certainly had to be capable of the engineering work they required, considering who my father was. My father, Carl Mackenzie, was not an Engineer, though he is a man of an excellent, delightful intellect. He was a Naturalist, worked with the Nature Preservation Initiatives of the Province, and spent a lot of time on the Nature Preserves of our area.”
Sarah, listening to this, had to grin.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, “that's how Cam and I managed to talk our way into the local Preserve quite regularly, even when we were without adult supervision. We would tell the Gatekeepers whose grandkids we were, smile brightly, and tell them how much we loved being outdoors in a natural setting. Just like Grandpa.”
“Yes, you laid on the Sarah charm,” said Cameron who was also present, with a shake of his head. “They fell for it every time. 'The fruit has not fallen far from the tree,' they would say, and let us through, complete with our back-packs, with the knives, matches, and all.”
Sarah giggled.
“It was so much fun,” she said.
“Sounds like your parents were remiss in their duties,” Peter said with a rueful shake of his head. “Cara and I probably thought that you were at your grandparents, and they thought that you were safe at home, while you were wandering through the city and the surrounding countryside. Pity you weren't more like your sister, Maris; the only trouble she ever got up to was messing around with your mother's make-up kit.”
The last comment drew an exasperated snort out of Sarah, and Witch Clarisse turned to Peter:
“So you were guilty of comparing Sarah unfavourably with her sister!” she admonished him. “You should have known better than to do that!”
“What? What did I do?” Peter asked, looking puzzled.
Clarisse shook her head.
“Now's not the time,” she said. “But let me catch you later, and explain a bit of the psychology of raising girls with healthy self-esteem, to you.”
Peter nodded, and Sarah noticed that Cameron was studying Clarisse curiously. Suddenly a thought struck her, as it obviously had Cameron, that Clarisse was romantically interested in their father. Cam nodded to Sarah, she recognized the gesture from their childhood; in this case it meant that he approved of Clarisse's interest. He had been in Laurentia with their father, and understood that the father had irrevocably lost their mother. There was room in Peter's life, and heart, for a new woman; why not Clarisse?
“So, perhaps the Forshies of the XYZ Company had, somewhere along the way got to know your biological father?” Mel Jourda asked Peter.
“Indeed.”
Peter looked around him, as if for someone.
“Anya went along on the shopping expedition,” Clarisse said, apparently guessing his concern. She grinned. “I hope that Nadina doesn't razz her too much. Nadina sometimes thinks that being an Elderly Witch gives her the right to criticize the behaviour of all the rest of us.”
“I understand from what Anya told me during the slavery days that she and my father were in the process of becoming estranged before I was born. Anya was appalled by the social order of the world to which Casey had brought her. He was barely aware of the social order—he was too busy taking advantage of the opportunity the Neotsarians had given him to study the properties of amartos, and figure out ways to increase the energy available from a single amarto. He had guessed at the potential of the Witches Stones as soon as he had learned what a Witch like Anya could do with hers, and when the two of them had left Kordea he had tried to interest Universities and Research Institutes in studying them, but had found no takers. Then he had met a man who claimed to be very interested in the possible uses that the Stones could be put to, and he had followed that man to Volgoid without a moment's hesitation.
“Anya had gone with him. There she had become pregnant, and had discovered what Casey and his benefactor expected from her. Serious pressure was put on her to comply with the others' wishes and it dawned on her that she was in an intolerable position, in fact, a slave. She had decided to escape. She wanted to save her child from slavery, although she realized, even then, that the Elites who were encouraging Casey's work had no intention of releasing their hold on her for good. She had had nobody to turn to for help.
“How she managed to do what she did, I really don't know. For one thing, she had to space travel while pregnant; she must have quieted my psychic screaming, somehow. Unborn children, as you know, handle omega-jumps very badly—which is why we've been able to keep Fiana here with us. For another, she made her way to Old Earth, and the quiet city of Laurentia, and hid me there for so many years. She never told me how she managed it, and she's not the sort of a person whom you can question about something that may well have involved breaking lots of rules and laws. In any case, by the time the Neotsarians caught up with her, she had given birth, and had given me away.
“When Cameron and I were dumped into the labs, Casey was dea
d, and she assumed that someone had done a fine piece of detective work to find me. Obviously it had taken them years to determine where she had birthed her baby, and what she had done with him.”
“You, I presume, had no idea of the Forshies', the owners of the XYZ Imports, connection to the Neotsarians?” Mel asked.
Peter shook his head.
“I guess that I should have smelled a rat when I got such a good job right out of school, and my employers encouraged me to fool around with intricate machinery. They really should have had me scouring the planet for interesting art and craft items to export to the Inner Worlds where, apparently, trinkets from the Old Earth were fashionable, and highly profitable. I was a fool enough to enjoy my good fortune, and a wonderful family life.
“If the Neotsarians were aware of my existence the whole time that I worked for XYZ Imports, they must have very patiently bided their time, before making their move.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Life in the Elite Women's Pleasure House quickly became a distasteful (at minimum) routine.
According to Keeper Ariane the place housed the most difficult of the male courtesans, the slaves who had refused to submissively become some individual women's sex-toys, meekly fitting into the women's households. She, and her Underkeepers pointed out at every opportunity that submission was really the best way to go, the easiest survival tactic available to the young men.
Coryn did not doubt that there was truth to these exhortations—only not where Evil Evella was concerned. Evella was a sadist, and kowtowing to her did not sate her; sometimes the other young men in the House, in low voices, and in areas considered by them to be safe from being electronically overheard, spoke of past compatriots who had returned from ministering to her requirements as corpses, or as good as such.
Coryn seemed to be the oldest inmate in the place; clearly, the Elite women liked their play pieces young. Of course young men were the easiest to manipulate and cow, besides being (if reasonably well treated) ready for sex more often, more quickly, even when the normal incentives were lacking. They could also better tolerate the performance enhancing drugs which the Keepers had on hand in abundance for those users of the service who preferred not to take their toys home.
Evil Evella was not one of those. She had a special room in the large house in which she and her husband Geoff lived—Coryn had been relieved to find out that the couple had no children to turn into future sadists—for her preferred sexual pursuits. She also had plenty of stone-faced guards who she relied on for her own safety whenever she transported her favourite toy from the Pleasure House to her home, and back again.
She had introduced him to the pharmacopoeia at her command the very first time she had brought him to her “play room”, as she called it. There was nothing in it that he had not known to exist; an alyen on Space Station RES was familiar with all the tricks of the trade. After all, there were times when he had to be functional even though he would rather not have been. (Like when his customer had been Evil Evella, and he had needed to concentrate on asking her the right questions while she had been performing subtle abuse on him.) Evella, however, was quick to inject him with one or more of the drugs as soon as she noted his lack of interest in her—and the lack of interest was there every time she brought him to her home—although she was careful to stay away from medications, herself. But then, she did not need them. Her drug of choice, apparently, was power-tripping sex.
The situation was far from healthy for Coryn. He came back to the Pleasure House seething with anger, aching from the restraints Evella liked to use, and from all the poking and prodding she liked to inflict upon his body. Ariane ministered to his hurts, kept him functional, as she put it. She encouraged him to use the exercise room to keep his body in shape, and to try to bleed off the anger and the frustration which were inevitable under the circumstances. At times he could sense Sarah mentally reaching for him, but he could not allow himself to respond to her; in that direction lay madness. During quiet moments, he occasionally wondered, with despair, whether he would be able to make love to Sarah again, if he ever got out of Evella's clutches. Perhaps his abused body would rebel even when caressed by the woman he loved.
He could not allow himself to think about such things. Not even during a restful moment on an outdoor bench, staring into the woods which surrounded the Pleasure House. He had come outside to try to clear from his head the dregs of the drugs which Evil Evella had injected him with the night before, hoping that breathing fresh air would help.
The treed area that he was staring into was patrolled by ferocious, large cats that were routinely underfed. The animals were the most important part of the security system which kept male slaves confined to the premises.
The other courtesans had spoken of a young boy who, after returning, via flyer, from Evil Evella's home, had climbed the fence into the woods one early morning. The Security men who looked after the cats had brought what was left of him to the House, later, and the inmates had been called in to take a look. The message had been clear; the only safe way out of the Pleasure House was in a flit or a flyer. And getting access to one of those, without the Elite women and their bodyguards being in control, would be difficult, at best.
A dozen of the men on the premises were short, wiry, muscular specimens who looked slightly different from the usual Terran stock, although Terrans varied so much in appearance that it was difficult to make a judgement. However, there was something about their facial features, the dark shade of the skin colour, and the texture of the hair, and even the natural grace of their bodies, that whispered to an expert observer like Coryn, of an alien origin. Having some Calligan ancestry himself, he was attuned to such things—he had been looking at a minor version of something akin, in the mirror, all his life. He had the tell-tale violet tinge in the blue of his eyes, and a hint of the same colour in his fair hair. Also, Calligan genetic inheritance appeared to draw out the recessive blond in the Terran stock, just as Kordean blood appeared to emphasize the black hair, white skin combination, for obscure reasons.
From where the Neotsarians had scooped the twelve he did not know, but by his estimation they had all settled into their Elite-deemed place more or less placidly—except for one man who seemed to be struggling. They all spoke good, Neotsarian-accented Standard which surprised him since they were all very young; either they had been in The Organization space since childhood, or they had learned the language incredibly fast.
They had all seemed a little wary of Coryn ever since he had arrived, but then, none of the inmates had been particularly friendly towards him, outside of some quick warnings, such as the one about the boy who had climbed the fence to be eaten by the cats. He had assumed that everyone was afraid to talk amongst themselves; the premises were monitored with spyware. However, this day, as Coryn sat on the outdoor bench, contemplating the cat-infested forest, he was approached by one of these dark, young men.
“You have some mind-speech?” the man asked, unexpectedly, in a low voice, and added: “The spy-ears don't do a very good job of picking up quiet voices from this bench, as long as we're facing the forest.”
Coryn sat very still but gave the man a sharp glance.
“Very little,” he answered the question, and abruptly had to fight down a torrent of emotion. “My Sarah, my beloved Sarah, is the expert at that.”
He realized that he had begun to shake, and the younger man lay a hand onto his arm. To his surprise the touch helped to calm him down a little; he was able to gain enough control to keep tears from flowing. There was no way he wanted to be seen crying—one of the Keepers would certainly gossip to Evil Evella, and she would gloat.
“This is harder for those who have formed bonds of love before they find themselves here,” his companion said. “One of us, Gamo, is in that position, too.”
“He's the one who seems to be struggling?” Coryn asked, glad that his voice sounded steady.
“Yes. Because we have the mind speech, and he has t
hat bond, he knows that he is broadcasting his pain to her. It is driving him insane, knowing that she is suffering with him, and he can do nothing about it.”
“Sarah and I have a strong bond, too, but I don't know how much she is picking up from me,” Coryn said. “I've been trying to keep the details from her, but she's probably getting at least some of my distress, and anger.”
“Is she very strong in psychic talents?” the young man asked. “Sometimes we can sense a female presence hovering about you, a loving presence. She knows that you are blocking her, and won't intrude, I don't think. Perhaps she understands that it would make it harder for you if she did.”
“She's very strong.” Coryn swallowed. Even with the steadying hand on his arm it was hard to speak of Sarah. “She is one of the Stone-workers, who enhance their ESP powers with amartos.”
“Ah, a Witch, then. And these oddly power-hungry people want her, right? To work, and enhance their machines.”
“Yes. That's why they kidnapped me. They want her to come looking for me, and plan to grab her when she does. I hope desperately that someone stops her from coming. I can bear my degradation, if I must, but for Sarah to be caught....”
He let his words trail off.
“Do you think that your people have some idea as to where you might be?” his companion then asked.
“They'll have guessed by now that the Neotsarians took me,” Coryn replied. “Whether or not they can find me is another question.”
“This Sarah, if you were willing to communicate with her, maybe she could pinpoint your location?”
He had been down this thought trail before, and it had foundered on his need to protect Sarah from becoming a tool of the Neotsarians. Now he stared at the thoughtful-looking young man and wondered if he hadn't—wasn't—missing something. It was certainly possible. He had not been particularly clear-headed since he had been captured. He had been injected with drugs regularly: first the sexual enhancers which made possible Evella's playtime, and, afterwards, the painkillers and speed-healers to negate at least some of the damage she had done. For all he knew there had been others.
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