Moro's Price

by M. Crane Hana

  Before he lost control completely, Moro twisted in his seat. He grabbed Val’s hips and pulled the youth into his lap, facing away from him. Val’s legs splayed around Moro’s thighs. Val’s toes couldn’t quite reach the floor, and Moro could tell the sudden vulnerability startled Val. And excited him.

  Moro flexed his hips against those tight, rounded buttocks, so Val felt the stiff cock between the fabric layers separating them. A promise. He meant to claim Val thoroughly. Just not here!

  Val groaned, tilting his head so Moro might nibble on his neck. Moro indulged that silent command for a moment, then caught his breath, and lifted Val off him and into an empty seat. Their arousal had to be completely obvious to anyone in the room. A quick glance told Moro most people were looking away. Moro kept a hand on Val’s shoulder.

  Val shifted closer.

  Moro pushed him back into the chair. “Valier Antonin ne’Cama,” he said just loud enough to be heard at the nearby tables. “You will n-not dishonor yourself, your parents, your people, nor me by acting like a public nuisance. Control yourself. Or I will do it for you.” Other than one stammer, his new voice held.

  Val looked up at Moro through golden lashes. The youth’s breathing actually sped up. It would be very easy to bend him backward over the table and drive them both to a clothed and messy release. In front of children, no less!

  Moro didn’t let go. In a lower voice only Val, Alys, and Cama could hear, he said, “Sometime soon, Valier, we’re going to discuss the differences between certain fantasies and certain realities. I’ll give you permission then, to ask me why I know some things if you answer why you think you know them too.”

  Moro shook from the effort of calming himself, but his sudden anger over Val’s heedless reactions helped. What could this beautiful, pampered youth possibly know about a bondslave’s life? What he’d seen in arena recordings? Was Val really no better than the Leopard or Bazo or any other man who’d become obsessed with Moro’s body?

  Val collected himself, blushing, and scooted his chair deeper under the table to hide his eagerness. “I’m sorry. I went a little insane when I woke up and you weren’t there. All I could think of was finding you.”

  The ambassador nodded silent approval at Moro. “What did you expect from Moro’s breakthrough, Valier? Everyone’s already on edge, and you’re channeling Cama more than the rest of us. And you have undoubtedly found your Knife.”

  Val gulped. “Is this what Mom deals with?”

  “All the time. We’ve made it work, her and Maitland and I, but it is difficult being away from home so long.”

  “You haven’t left me in six years,” said Val, staring up at her. “Do you, er, alone—”

  The ambassador chuckled. “How do you think? There’s some advantage to loving one of Cama’s strongest Vessels. We meet in dreams.”

  Moro, remembering his own experiences with Cama, hid a smile behind his glass. By now Val’s whole face—and neck, and probably a good deal more—were all one rich maroon blush.

  “Drink some water, Valier,” said the ambassador, shoving her plate over. “Eat. We need to talk, in a more private place. And then we need to get both of you off this mud ball, as fast as possible.”

  As Val pounced on the ambassador’s uneaten food, Moro watched the woman’s face. Her smoothly hidden unease matched the feeling Moro had sensed under Cama’s flirting. “Why?” Moro asked, tensing again. “Does Lyton know I’m here? He won’t stop looking for me. And he’ll make worlds of trouble for anyone sheltering me.”

  “Sardis is only one problem.” She sighed, looking around the room. “We can throw some of his claims out of gear rather easily. Rajiv!” she yelled, causing additional rattled cutlery among the quiet eaters. “Rajiv? You here?”

  An olive-skinned man not much taller than Val walked to the table. “Yes, Alys?” he asked, the mischief in his own dark eyes matching hers. His amber uniform coat bore a single red stripe down the left side of his chest. Over his heart, an embroidered amber and green lily blazed against the red fabric.

  “We have a problem,” said the ambassador, waving her hand at Moro and Val. “Fix it.”

  “Parliament will want a full ceremony in Sagana, in front of the throne,” he said.

  “They’ll get it, Rajiv. This has to happen now.”

  “What?” asked Val.

  “Hello, Valier,” the man said. “When I asked you to find a Camalian lover who could withstand your, ahem, intensity, I didn’t expect you to make one.”

  Val coughed, looking away from the newcomer.

  “Sero Dalgleish?” asked the man, offering his hand for a quick, firm grip. “I am Rajiv Fenti, this community’s Guide of Cama. We’re not a very religious folk, but we are more spiritual and philosophical than most outsiders credit. When people can’t work through their own emotional problems, Cama and I join forces to function as confessor, counselor, and sexual advisor, among other things. And I suspect Ambassador Antonin has called me as a legal witness.”

  “So let’s do this,” said the ambassador, banging a fist on the table for attention. “Listen up, people! We have at least ten adults present? Good!” she shouted, dragging Val upright as she stood.

  Rajiv’s hand urged Moro to stand as well.

  “Good morning, everyone!” The ambassador pitched her voice to fill the room. “Since enough of you were in the lobby last night to watch Valier’s newest method of sneaking in past curfew—” She waved down the laughter and applause. “It should be obvious he’s continued the proud Antonin tradition of lightning-quick courtship. Here is his intended, Moro Dalgleish. Cama has chosen this man in breakthrough and vouched for him. If we’re to get any peace from Valier, we know what we have to do, right?”

  Moro flinched as another wave of whoops, cheers, and whistles echoed in the wide room. It reminded him too much of the arena. Rajiv squeezed Moro’s hand, and then reached for Val’s.

  Val, still blushing, let his hand be transferred to Moro’s. He gave Moro a worried, shy smile.

  “Let them speak!” called the ambassador.

  Rajiv released his grip on them and stepped away.

  In the new silence, Val brought Moro’s hand to his lips in a soft kiss. “Moro?” he asked. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you about being my Knife, before. I wasn’t certain. It wasn’t as important as keeping you alive. But I can, now. Er, ask you, that is. Will you marry me?”

  Moro stared down at him. “To be yours instead of Lyton’s?” he asked. “You promised me I’d be a free man if I lived, belonging to myself and Cama. Not to an empire!”

  “We’re not much of an empire,” said Val to more laughter. “And I’d be just as much your husband, as you would be mine.”

  “Are you sure? I was a bonder,” Moro said. “I killed people. Or I let them—”

  “Only to stay alive and sane,” said Val, not releasing him. “Seems fairly sensible to me. I won’t be able to shock you or run over you or make you do anything you don’t want to do. And you certainly won’t tolerate my nonsense. You’ll make a great Knife. Will you marry me?”

  “I’m a nobody from some little moon no one’s ever heard of,” Moro continued. “I’ve got no family left and no rank—”

  “You’ve all the rank you need, Moro Dalgleish,” said Val, his golden eyes misting with happy tears. “Doesn’t matter. We found each other. You saved me; I saved you; we’re equal.”

  “What if I don’t love you? How can I? We just met, and I used you as an escape route!”

  Val grinned. “I proposed it first. It worked. I adore you. You already like me, at least a little. It’s now my job to court you shamelessly until you either fall in love with me, or kill me.”

  “Does that happen?”

  The prince’s smile tempered into a serious line, and he lifted his chin defiantly. “It’s a Knife’s job, if a Royal goes insane. Which I might, if you make me stand here much longer. For Cama’s sake, will you please marry me?”

  “Y-yes,
” said Moro, swept away again by those eyes.

  This time when he kissed Val, Moro barely heard the cafeteria crowd roaring happy affirmation.

  Thirty-Eight

  ZARIN BASRALI SETTLED into her accustomed seat, keeping her expression neutral as her coworkers groused about being expected to work on a Sunday. She mouthed along to their morning prayer. She didn’t bother reminding them they were a long time and a bloody long way away from the radioactive craters of Jerusalem on Old Earth. In Cedar-Saba’s mix of humanity, every day was somebody’s holy day.

  The security room door opened.

  Lyton Sardis glowered in the doorway. Did the man never sleep? He must run on starship fuel, not mere coffee. Instead of the austerely lustrous charcoal suit, he wore a medic’s plain brown uniform. His brown hair straggled out of its ties and across his cheeks, and his mouth was set in a thin, hard line as he alertly scanned the room.

  Basrali knew his vivid and dangerous sensuality was a smoke screen for an even deadlier mind.

  Dear God, thought Basrali. He knows something. And he’s coming over here!

  She heard cut-off fear in the interns’ voices as they abandoned prayer for looking busy. Swallowing her own nervousness, Basrali tried to appear calm as the director stopped behind the same chair Bill had used a few hours earlier.

  “Sera Basrali,” said Sardis. “Come with me now.”

  “Yes, Sero Sardis,” she said, gathering her portable screen and tugging her uniform sleeve over Bill’s bracelet.

  Sardis held the door for her and then closed it behind them. Out in the corridor, Basrali stared at several narrow float-sleds packed with equipment. Armed guards stood by the sleds. A visibly angry Terise Volker, also dressed in drab brown, fidgeted with one sled.

  The director’s warm hand fell on Basrali’s shoulder. She was amazed she didn’t faint. “Sera Basrali,” he said, moving in front of her, his dark-gray eyes searching her face for the subtle signs of lying. “Are you a member of Terra Prima?”

  “No, Director,” she said. Dr. Volker made a scornful sound behind her.

  “Do you have family and friends who would object to you taking a quick trip off-world?”

  “No, Director.”

  “Are you loyal to Rio Sardis?”

  “Yes, Director,” she answered with absolute truth.

  “Good,” he said, a new warmth in his smile. “I need a top-notch, rational security analyst on a classified venture. You will be compensated well for your expertise. You may say no without repercussion, now. But if you come with us I expect much from your outstanding loyalty and skill sets. You may be asked to perform and witness things that might conflict with your personal morality. I apologize in advance. What we are about to do may help save the entire human race from a dire threat.”

  “Director Sardis, I’d be honored to assist Rio Sardis in any way possible,” said Basrali, wondering how much of this scenario Vilam Volker Sardis had already extrapolated when he asked her to breakfast.

  “I thought so,” said Bill’s father, releasing Basrali’s shoulder. “You’re an orphan raised in the company crèche, no? And your personal name is Zarin? You are well named, golden Sera.”

  Basrali saluted, snapping to attention. “My family was Avestan. Persian. Engineers for Rio Sardis since it was founded. This company is my life, Director.”

  Thirty-Nine

  THE MORNING TRAIN was filled with sleepy workers chattering among themselves, blankly watching the news, or staring out at the sunlit steel and glass canyons of central Saba…until someone turned up the volume.

  “You’re watching Channel 15, home of Mark David Moore’s Timely Warnings at ten p.m. and two a.m. This just in from Manchester Station. The nuclear waste threat from the disaster three weeks ago has been alleviated by help from a surprising source. Manchester governor Tomar Mersedi confirmed he’d been in contact with Premier Roberto Chu of Cedar. He thanked the Cedar government for enlisting the aid of our galactic neighbors, the Sonta. What our viewers are about to see is exclusive footage of the Sonta not only halting the reactor fires but cleaning Manchester’s atmosphere.”

  Silence spread through the train cabin as a legend from humanity’s earliest days in space became real and settled like black fog over Manchester’s poisoned landscape.

  Forty

  TO THE COMMUNAL “let’s dress Moro” effort, someone contributed new shoes and socks, someone else a clean long-sleeved white shirt and a pair of black cotton trousers. It was all very informal for a man who’d apparently just married the empress’s son.

  Eventually Val pushed Moro onto a sofa in a private conference chamber, stripped the amber scraps from Moro’s hair, and combed out the knots. On the cushions beside Val, yet another unknown donor had placed nine tiny hair clips of unornamented black steel.

  “Those are too severe,” said Val. “Aunt Alys, may we borrow your fancy marriage clips?”

  “Your mother gave those to me,” said the ambassador. “What do you think, Moro?” When she held out a handful of elaborately worked gold clips, Moro couldn’t stop his instinctive shudder.

  “No. Please,” he said, not wanting to ruin an innocent gift with bad memories of Lyton’s and Kott’s ideas of jewelry. “Plain metal is good.”

  Alys grinned. “Knives think alike, I see.”

  MORO WAS GLAD Alys Antonin and several of her advisors were present. He couldn’t vouch for his control if left alone with Val. He hoped the other Camalians just thought Val was combing his hair.

  Either Val had good instincts or the youth was getting a private crash course from Cama. The comb dragged just a little too much on Moro’s scalp. Val tugged Moro’s hair almost too tightly as he separated and braided black tresses. As each steel clip went into place, the tingling relief from pressure startled Moro.

  He imagined deft bronze fingers setting a tiny steel clamp on his nipple or a fold of foreskin. Sometimes, at the right times, he didn’t object to pain. He suspected he’d let Val do any number of things to him.

  Including disguised foreplay in front of witnesses!

  The last steel clip went in place at the end of a single long black tail. Val’s hand remained on Moro’s shoulder. The door opened again.

  In stumbled a yawning man in brown medic’s garb. Moro glanced up at him and tensed.

  “Moro?” Val whispered.

  “Ah, Dr. Hegen,” said Alys. “Sorry for summoning you out of a well-deserved nap. What are you doing out of your shield-suit? We don’t want to endanger you.”

  “Can’t sleep in it. If I get sick from this Cama person, so be it. Is there coffee?” the man groaned. He hid a small sneeze in the crook of his elbow. “Damned flowers everywhere, not used to ’em anymore.” He reached for the fresh cup of coffee Alys held out. He closed his eyes at the first sip. “God, that’s good. I’ve missed my ship, anyway. Thought I’d stick around to see how our patient fares.” The man turned his lean, plain face toward Moro. “Well, Moro, you’re on your feet and the damned collar’s off. How do you feel?”

  “Dr. Hegen?” Moro asked. “How did you get here?”

  “After Vaclav 17 became a war zone, I ran,” said the medic, sitting down in a chair facing the sofa. “I brought in a Camalian family last night, just as you and the little lion here dropped through the roof. They were going to lose you, so I stepped in.”

  “Oh. T-thanks.” Moro took his cue from the other people in the room, who accepted Hegen as an ally. “You’ve never spoken more than three words at a time to me before, but you were always kind. Some of Kott’s medics weren’t.”

  Hegen studied Moro over the cup. “How much do you know of what happened last night, Moro?”

  “They say Michol’s dead. I took out two thugs attacking Val, and then we ran so that Val and I, well could—”

  “Initiate breakthrough?” Val offered, grinning.

  “We headed here. I blacked out on the way.”

  “You were failing, and your odd body chemistry wasn’t
helping. Same as after Vance.”

  Moro closed his eyes. “You pulled me back then too. Michol—or Lyton—must have paid a lot of money for your skill.”

  “Kott didn’t care what I knew as long as I kept you alive. I stayed the hell away from Lyton Sardis. Someone else paid me to find you four years ago and stick by you. They showed me what to do for you.”

  “Who?” asked Moro.

  “A cloaked man and his bodyguards. Rich enough to be easy with hard-credits. Always veiled. Used to getting their own way. I never dared ask names. He’d find me and ask after you. He warned me to run last night.”

  “Someone knew about me?” Moro stood up. “Knew, cared to keep me alive, and d-d-didn’t pull me out of that hellhole!” he shouted. “W-why?”

  The medic shook his head. “I had the same question, the second time we met. He said, ‘Steel screams on the anvil, but it cannot become a sword any other way.’”

  Val coaxed Moro down again and, for good measure, curled in his lap. Moro barely noticed anything beyond the soothing warmth of Val’s body. “Why?” Moro asked again.

  The ambassador and the medic shared a stern look.

  “You need to know about Ventana and your parents,” said Hegen.

  Forty-One

  VAL FELT MORO shiver under him. He held Moro’s arms tightly across his chest, the same way they’d traveled on the float-cycle, his hands gripping the trembling wrists. “I’m here. It’s all right,” Val whispered.

  “First off, lad,” said Hegen, nodding to Moro. “You don’t know me, but I know you. I’m a Ventana man, like you.”

  Moro sighed, going into the limp fatalism Val had learned to dread. “Then you must have a k-kill order for me. We don’t need to say why in front of these g-good people,” Moro said.