Moro's Price

by M. Crane Hana

  Val fell back onto the bed, panting. “Moro. Damn,” he whispered, hips twitching as Moro tongued him clean.

  Moro rested his chin on Val’s thigh, looking up just as Val lifted his head. Wide, dazed gold eyes met his.

  I want this man, Moro realized. Every way I can possibly have him. But it’s too late. We don’t have enough time.

  Val’s fingers threaded through Moro’s tangled black hair. “We still need blood. And, er, more sex,” he said. At Moro’s arched eyebrow, Val grinned. “All right, all right, I’ll say it. Full penetration. Me, inside you.” At his words, his barely slaked penis twitched back to life. Val groaned, throwing his free arm over his face. “Cama save me, you may kill us both.”

  Moro remembered he’d tasted something more dangerous than a man’s spent pleasure. His hand went to his throat. Was death already burning through his flesh?

  Val seemed to recognize the fear. “It’s all right. Cama has accepted you as a candidate, not an attacker. Her symbionts will spread throughout your body while she judges you. Only then will you die or live.”

  Moro’s own stiff, neglected cock scraped painfully against his trousers as he untangled himself from Val’s fingers and stood up. He fought the urge to face away from Val as he stripped. “I, I n-need t-to cl-cl-clean up,” he said, newly aware of his own stink in comparison to Val’s cleanliness. Kott’s dried spunk and Bazo’s blood clung to Moro’s thighs. Moro’s cock was still sticky with his own forced issue, and the remains of Kott’s horrible mango candy. His hair reeked. How had Val managed to kiss him without retching?

  Val rolled on his side, watching Moro’s face. “You’re not so bad. We have time to do something about this,” he said, soft command in his voice as he reached for Moro’s erection.

  Moro froze. Bronze fingers closed around him. “Y-y-you d-d-don’t—”

  “Don’t have to do this?” Val whispered, smiling. “Don’t know what I’m doing? I know enough. You’re beautiful, and I’ll probably lose you tonight. So let me have this too.”

  Moro could no more have disobeyed Val’s voice and hands than he could have fought the collar’s conditioned urges.

  Val tugged him down to the bed and pushed him to lean back against the padded headboard. “The thing about dirt?” Val grabbed damp wipes from the table. “It cleans off.”

  Medics had always been impersonal on the occasions when Moro couldn’t attend himself. But Val dragged the wipes between and behind each testicle, fluttering and rolling his fingers along every ridge and crevice. He dug shielded fingertips into Moro’s foreskin, lifting, cleaning, caressing. He made a slippery tube of wipes and his curled hand and slid it up and down Moro’s thick shaft. When Moro groaned, hips thrusting, Val clenched a strong hand around the base of Moro’s cock until the blind urge faded a little.

  “Easy, easy,” Val said. “You’re so hungry, and we’re not even to the best part yet. Breathe.”

  As Moro tried to, Val snapped open a plastic packet. He squeezed the unscented lubricant over Moro from balls to cockhead in one pass and loosely gripped the head. Then his narrow, clever fingers tormented Moro in earnest.

  “Ah, there we go,” said Val, an edge creeping into his voice. “I’ve heard uncut men are much more sensitive. Guess it’s true.”

  By force of habit, Moro tried to keep his silence as long as he could. Val’s slick, bare fingers played with his slit, the folds of his foreskin, his swollen and throbbing glans. But only using fingers, and never lower on the shaft. Moro bit back a cry at a particularly wicked squeeze.

  “Let it out, Moro,” Val coaxed, his edge sharpening. “I want to hear you. I want to watch you writhe at my touch. So what if you stammer and shake? So what if you were a bondslave? Some bastard used you badly enough tonight to make you court death. And this will do it. So let go. Tell me when I’m doing something you like.”

  “A-all of-of-of it,” Moro gasped. Val bent his head toward Moro’s cock. Moro said, “N-no!” What if Val hadn’t scrubbed him enough? If Val tasted the corruption lingering on Moro’s skin?

  Val pulled away, gentling his fingers. His wide eyes focused on Moro’s face. “All right, I won’t. I’m probably not very good at it, anyway. How about this?” he asked, doubling the onslaught of his fingers.

  Moro let the last nine years fall into Val’s hands. He screamed grief and violation, shame and loneliness. Praises to gods he’d forgotten. Curses at Val for being so perfect, so late. His broken voice and warped pleasure mingled. Release swept through him like storm winds, clean as rain after a drought.

  Fifteen

  “I DON’T LIKE this, Terise. Too many factors we can’t control. Could you book one of the talk show hosts you like? That fellow Moore, perhaps?” asked Sardis, currently holding court in the Vaclav 17 security center on the first floor. A stylist had just finished tousling his previously immaculate hair. His charcoal silk suit was rumpled, an artistic coffee stain streaking the front.

  “Moore wouldn’t be sympathetic. The liberal channels will be,” said Terise. “We have to do this now, Lyton. Not two or three hours from now. Pull yourself together.”

  “I’m always together.” Sardis waved away the cosmetician after she finished creating glycerine tear tracks on his upper cheeks. When both Rio Sardis professionals had left the room, Sardis asked, “Who’s waiting out there?”

  “Reporters from all major news outlets,” said Terise. “You’re due outside in six minutes. Vilam found the vehicle twenty-five miles south of here, in the drug zone called Dream Alley. It was a float-cycle with no passengers. His team got it before it landed. Moro’s collar and robe were inside a cargo bin.”

  “But not Moro.”

  “Nor any sign of skin flakes or body oil. Moro was probably never on it.”

  “Is Vilam dusting it for fingerprints and gene samples?”

  Terise looked puzzled. “He said there aren’t any. Not clear ones, just smeary messes. He can’t read anything but traces of generic human DNA, damaged as if by high heat. There’s more. The cycle matches numbers with one of two stolen several hours ago from a dealership eighteen miles away in western Vaclav. The dealership’s security cameras were knocked off-line just before the theft. Both vehicle registration uplinks show they just vanished from the dealership. Their position almost immediately reappeared on top of Vaclav 18. Police had delayed tracking them, thinking the uplink data an error. The carafe was stolen at almost the same time, from a Rio Sardis company store up in the diplomatic district eight hundred miles away. No suspects.”

  “Cameras in that store?”

  “Yes. They went off-line for twenty seconds during the robbery. No one lingered around the display during open hours today or during the last month. But the carafe theft proves either Kott directed it or someone else knows the connection between Kott and Rio Sardis. My scans got nothing from Kott, by the way. His brain was fried, probably even before you killed him.”

  “By his new ‘master.’ Someone who can teleport,” said Lyton Sardis.

  The two were silent a worried moment. Rival League companies had leaked rumors of successful teleport technology, but Rio Sardis had never confirmed them. Terise shook her head. “We’ll sort this out. The Vaclav 18 jumpers were thugs working for a nightclub owner up north. We’re still trying to learn why they were on the roof. Or if they had anything to do with a minor explosion reported in this area about the same time as the cycle theft. Their DNA wasn’t on the cycle, either.”

  Sardis looked up. “But?”

  “Moro’s DNA showed in traces on the jumpers. He definitely killed and stripped them, so he has clothing. The second cycle vanished again. Not long after the last match ended, its uplink was disabled by someone who knew what to do.”

  Sardis grinned. “Our boy is showing some initiative, after all. I didn’t know Kott let him study electronics.”

  “Kott didn’t let him study anything but fighting, physical training, and sexual expertise,” said Terise. “He was forbidden
com-screens and books for any other information.”

  “Shortsighted,” said Sardis. “Moro’s mind is too important to atrophy further. He loves reading and learning. It might be a bargaining chip for his good behavior.”

  A lesser assistant motioned at the doorway. Sardis stood. “Terise, I want to know more about the maintenance walkway and gate up on the roof. Moro didn’t sabotage those or steal the cycles, so he had help before the match. Get Vaclav 18’s security pictures from all ground-level entrances, corridors, and roof access points from five hours before the match. Scrub Moro’s traces from the jumpers. I don’t want Cedar-Saba law enforcement involved. Somebody might ignore bribes and actually do their damned job. The jumpers may be the link to whoever helped Moro.”

  “Kott’s new master,” said Terise.

  “Find him, find out what he did and why, and neutralize him,” said Sardis, walking toward the door. Between one step and the next, the handsome, powerful director slumped his shoulders and became an anguished man on the verge of emotional collapse.

  Sixteen

  THE TELLER PUSHED the pile of credit chips back across the counter. “No need, Sero Hegen. Your bond has been paid off.”

  The medic stared at the pile. “The balance was five thousand credits. When was it paid?”

  “Fifteen minutes ago. It was part of a death-benefit package triggered automatically. Let’s see…” The teller’s expression, as professionally serene as her pale blue uniform, never wavered. Either she didn’t know about the debacle in Vaclav 17, or she didn’t care about arena gossip. “Here it is. Sero Michol Kott, of Kott Combat Incorporated. He’d been cyber enhanced. His augments recorded time of death, his wish not to be reembodied, and forwarded details to his executors, the law firm of Rowe Vermilion Singh. All his free employees received a two-thousand-credit bonus. All but one of his bonded employees had their bonds paid in full, with bonuses. As his former bondsman, a one-thousand-credit bonus is available to you. Would you like it paid out or invested, Sero Hegen?”

  “Er, paid. Does it say anything about the bonder not included in the benefit?”

  “Not at my level of access, Sero Hegen. The bond was held with another owner and rented to Sero Kott.”

  The man who’d walked into the bank as “Bond-Medic Hegen” became “Sero Adam Hegen” and another thousand credits richer. Hegen wasn’t his real name. But after so long, he tried not to even think of the man he’d been on Ventana.

  Walking out of Vaclav 16, Hegen noted the cameras and sound crews gathered around their individual newscasters on the black steps of Vaclav 17 across the east-west side street. Every street skirting the casino building was blocked by police transports. A vast dark-gray float-limousine bearing the platinum palm-tree logo of Rio Sardis occupied four prime parking spots just in front. Armed guards wearing the same heraldry stood waiting by the limo, keeping away journalists.

  Hegen was suddenly very glad he’d cleared out of Vaclav 17 quickly and not returned for any of his gear in Kott’s underground dormitories. Newly freed or not, Kott’s people were about to face the unnatural disaster of a furious Lyton Sardis. Forget the police. Sardis would be interrogating everyone personally.

  Michol Kott was dead. Moro Dalgleish was dead, fled, or captured. News crews stood by, as an already legendary arena match had developed into a spectacular scandal. Hegen had enough untraceable hard-credits to get off Cedar and go anywhere he wished. But the Rio Sardis limo reminded him it might not be safe to pick a nearby spaceport. The local aerial train stopped at a station just up the street. To reach it, Hegen had to detour several blocks or pass the news crews and Vaclav 17.

  He almost felt laser sights pinpointed on his back.

  Sardis would see the employee manifests. He’d know someone was missing. He might have already posted a bulletin with Hegen’s face on it.

  But as Hegen passed one of the crews, he recognized their female newscaster. She’d caused a ruckus recently while exposing a bondslaves’ union’s safety claims against corrupt factory managers. She didn’t mind making corporate enemies, and her company backed her.

  Hegen grinned and worked his way across to the Channel 98 crew.

  “Sera Deljou Shannon?” he asked before her crew could shove him aside.

  She looked up from adjusting the broadcast-com on her jacket lapel. “Yes? Who are you, Sero?”

  “I’m nobody important, Sera Shannon. But I was up there at the Golden Cage arena just now,” Hegen said. “Listen. Whatever you hear next from Lyton Sardis is likely ninety percent lies. Forget the Diamond, Kott, and whatever happened on Ventana. While Sardis is distracted by a pretty gladiator, ask him about his ex-wife and his involvement in Terra Prima.”

  “Just that?” she asked, motioning away her guards.

  “Just that. You might want to call your lawyers first, though.”

  Shannon grinned, showing strong white teeth. “I don’t suppose you’d stay for an interview, Sero…”

  Hegen shook his head. “I, however, do not have good lawyers, so I’m leaving the battle for those better equipped for it.”

  She laughed and let him leave instead of calling the police. Hegen was through the train-station checkpoint and on his way north before he realized he should turn his medic’s brown jacket inside out. It still had Kott’s company name embroidered in red letters on the right front pocket.

  Seventeen

  MORO EASED OFF the bed, still trembling from the aftershocks of the sweetest climax he’d had in years.

  Val murmured, “I could join you. Shower’s small, but I think we’d both fit.”

  Moro shook his head, scooping a handful of little plastic bottles off the table and a stiff, six-inch straw attached to a plastic ring. “N-n-no. Th-th-this is a-a S-S-Sting B-Burst.”

  Val looked away, the blush returning. Everywhere. “Take your time,” said Val, focusing on the holo remote he’d just found on the table. Before turning it on, Val efficiently shucked off the back plate and examined the interior. He reached blindly for his tech belt. Moro smiled, getting a more complete picture of his young lover’s aptitudes.

  Safely inside the frosted-plastic enclosure, Moro leaned against the tile wall and turned on the shower, glad he’d paid for unlimited hot water. The generous spray pattered over him. He drew one leg up to rest on an extruded, padded shelf. His bruised and aching body exposed, he threaded the Burst’s straw into his channel until it could go no deeper. Then he twisted the ring.

  A stiff foam laced with antiseptics, enzyme cleansers, painkillers, and astringents filled him. The uncomfortable pressure quickly built to outright pain as his sphincter was forced open from the inside. Biting back any sound, Moro waited another minute for the foam to harden almost to flesh texture. He grasped the ring more firmly. Head braced against the wall, he pulled out and down.

  It felt like his intestines were being torn out along with the solidified plug. It dragged backward over his prostate, reminding him of the sharp facets on Kott’s new cock-jewelry. Beyond all doubt Moro was damaged and vulnerable to infection. Were he still in the gladiators’ stable, he’d be confined to the infirmary, banned from all fighting and sexual service for two weeks or more.

  Now he was a field tilled for one lethal planting or another.

  Moro smiled coldly, letting the plug drop and dissolve into the hot water swirling down the drain.

  Another plastic pipette delivered a soothing gel to mask more of the ache inside him.

  He scrubbed his mouth twice and squandered four bottles of pine-scented soap before he judged himself clean enough for Val. Turning off the water, he saw flickering lights in the room. Soft instrumental music played, an ancient Earth harmony of flutes and harps. Moro opened the shower door just enough to grab a spun cellulose towel out of a chute on the near wall and peek out.

  Val leaned half-upright on his elbows, his back braced against the wedge pillow. He’d closed the remote and now scrolled through different holo scenes for the wall and ceiling
. First an isolated white sand beach, then a desert under silvery moonlight, a mountain meadow full of flowers, and a bedroom shimmering with gold and crystal. Finally, he chose a forest of dark conifers sighing with wind under an opal-clouded sunset. The nondescript little room felt like an intimate camp in the middle of a wilderness.

  Moro watched Val for a moment, afraid of the sudden, ridiculous fondness he felt. He couldn’t afford softer emotions, not this close to freedom. Val had obviously regarded this encounter as little more than satisfying an urge when he offered his bargain on the rooftop.

  What had changed?

  Val still wore his shredded outer clothing like a many-layered robe, and his erection thrust up in jaunty promise. He looked over, smiling. “I smelled pine trees,” he said as he watched Moro shamelessly. “I wanted to give you something better to look at.”

  Moro was looking at it, right now.

  Body modesty had been one of the first levels of virginity stripped by Sardis. Kott’s gladiators were as uninhibited as animals. Still, Moro hadn’t felt this exposed in years. It didn’t feel bad for once. As a mirror, Val had a knack for making Moro feel rare and wonderful.

  Grief tempered Moro’s affection. How would Val feel after Moro was dead? The young man cared too deeply about him for a spur-of-the-moment act of lust.

  “I-I-I’m s-s-s-sorry,” Moro said, wrapping his arms against his chest to keep them from shaking.

  “For what?”

  “F-f-for l-l-leaving y-you.”

  The owl’s eyes shuttered for a moment behind long gold lashes and then opened to glare back at him. “Cama says it’s what you want.” He tapped the remote absently, and the scenes flickered through their settings again. “I say you owe me a great lay.”

  Moro smiled, attacking the tangles in his stubborn hair. Combing it would take too long. He patted the loose, heavy mass slightly dryer instead.

  Wall and ceiling flickered once more. Val looked away from him. The classical music changed to a horrible, familiar beat.