Moro's Price

by M. Crane Hana

  “Fair enough,” said Bill.

  “You’re this paranoid all the time, Sero Sardis?” asked Hegen as Aksenna stalked up the corridor.

  “Consider my parents, Doctor.”

  Seventy-Four

  ZARIN BASRALI FELT the ship shudder. Then the moment of vertigo that always heralded her personal reaction to M-space jumps.

  Bill Sardis had locked a second, more powerful locator somewhere on the ship’s rear. Hiding its signals in the warped background radiation of M-space had been easy. Fooling the ship’s automated security systems was trickier once they were back in normal space. No plot was foolproof as long as loyal Rio Sardis personnel manned the bridge. Someone might see past her misdirection.

  Now that the ship was, well, wherever they were, the locator signals should leave a trail right to their exit point. For an hour or two, maybe. If anyone was looking in the right direction, at the right wavelength.

  Basrali’s door began to open without warning. She buried her misnamed monitoring program in a boring systems-update menu. She switched the reader screen to an innocuous security publication, a magazine she’d be expected to study for industry news.

  “Sera Basrali, come with me,” said Terise Volker in the doorway, flanked by the same two goons who’d escorted Basrali into Lyton’s rape show in the cargo bay. “We’ll be landing shortly. I require your assistance.”

  Basrali stood, clipping her rolled-up reader to her belt and reaching for her jacket. Inside the ripped and repinned lining, several of Valier Antonin’s sneakier toys lurked, fully charged and waiting to be activated. She hoped no one would think to scan her now.

  No one did.

  They left the crew corridor behind, and Basrali allowed herself a little sightseeing she’d been too terrified to indulge in earlier.

  Basrali had heard rumors of Persepolis and its sister ship, Nineveh, luxurious couriers with armaments befitting gunships several times their size. While her bunk and cell had been nearly spartan, this corridor was sleek brushed steel inlaid at waist height with horizontal bands of translucent, tawny-veined white stone glowing in soft backlight. To the left of every closed steel door, the light fixtures were cast glass or luxury polymers, shaped like winged antelopes leaping from stylized palm trees. The glowing white antelopes wore collars of gold and lapis; the palm trunks were banded in gold and red carnelian. The carpets underfoot were subtle charcoal and platinum but knotted into complex ancient Persian designs.

  Through a half-open door, she caught a glimpse of dark-red curtains hung with bronze chains and tiny multicolored glass lamps. Brilliant carpets surrounded a carved bed heaped with scarlet pillows glinting with gold. A wedding bed. Then they were past, and she didn’t dare look back.

  Basrali knew one of Rio Sardis’s Terran Founders was descended from Persian royalty, from the ages before the Arabs swept northeastward in conquest. His star-faring descendants kept the claim, though their terraforming empire had quickly surpassed the worth of any little petroleum pasha of Old Earth. They’d also been Mazdayasna, worshippers of the greater light beyond fire and sun, before the Terra Prima influence crept in.

  At the Rio Sardis crèche, Basrali herself had celebrated the New Year at the planet’s spring equinox, lighting honey-smelling candles at a little fire shrine and wearing sun mirrors embroidered on her childish festival dresses. She’d sprinkled a few drops of clean water as purification before major undertakings. She’d stopped when she grew up, learning to blend into the current Terra Prima upper management of Rio Sardis. All her prayers were silent now.

  She might have been a crèche orphan, but she still thought of herself as Persian, and a proud servant of an ancient empire.

  As she walked down the corridor, Dr. Volker spoke without looking at Basrali. “I would not have blamed you if you had stayed in the cargo bay with Lyton. He and I have not been husband and wife for decades. Just the same, I appreciate your modesty, your refusal to trade your body for advantage. It is becoming. And unexpected in a crèche woman not reared among Terra Prima customs.”

  “I did not want to stay, Dr. Volker. I was afraid to speak up,” Basrali said. “Moro Dalgleish convinced the director to let me go.”

  “Did he?” Terise mused, more to herself. “He would never have dared, eight years ago. Eh, we wanted growth and got it. Sera Basrali, have you much experience with mind monitoring?”

  “We use it as routine security screening at certain Rio Sardis installations.”

  “Have you handled transferring consciousness via personality capture devices?”

  Basrali nodded. “All high-level Rio Sardis engineers and technicians are fitted with such devices in spinal arrays before going to dangerous job sites. If they suffer fatal trauma, our investigators can use the data to reconstruct the moments before death.”

  “And upload the deceased’s personality into a cybernetic brain and body?” Dr. Volker pressed.

  “Should their wills require.”

  They reached a cold, white-lit chamber smelling of antiseptics and ozone. Hover sleds awaited, fitted with energy cannons and cargo bins. One sled carried two flat gurneys behind the driver’s seat, each gurney festooned with unfolded restraint straps and metal and plastic cranial cages. Behind them Basrali recognized the bulky equipment needed to monitor and direct personality transfer. But there were no robotic bodies on hand to receive the unmoored minds!

  She looked around, puzzled.

  Dr. Volker gave a dry laugh. “You will find us rather beyond robots at this stage.”

  Seventy-Five

  VAL WOKE SLOWLY, first aware of thirst and a stronger garlic taste in his mouth. “Uh?” he asked. He had difficulty focusing on the dim cargo bay. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep in Moro’s arms.

  “I won’t say you ever get used to the taste,” said Moro’s calm voice nearby. “But at least now you’ll remember it. Lyton’s favorite knockout gas.”

  “Hnnnnh!” Val said, spitting out the taste.

  “Val,” said Moro. “Sera Basrali will give you a little water. She won’t hurt you. Don’t fight. You’re restrained.”

  Cool water dripped into Val’s mouth. In spite of his angry defiance, he welcomed it. The water tasted faintly of orange flower and lemon and washed away more of the drug.

  Cold, fresh air ruffled Val’s hair. Planetary air! He was clothed enough to cut most of the chill. His body was cinched to an upright support at ankle, waist, and chest. His arms were bound tightly to his sides. He couldn’t tell if the boots on his feet were his own.

  Cama was a faint, furious presence deep within him, buzzing like a horde of insects in a glass jar. He couldn’t reach her, but he felt her.

  His sight cleared a little more.

  The end of the cargo bay was open. The ramp slanted down into tangles of dry grass, showing dusty, dark purple in the ship’s lights. A dim, bluish-gray sky loomed over a rising vista of darker slopes and white cliffs. The faintly blue sunlight of a dawn or sunset struck at a low angle against the cliffs. The nearest ones were only a quarter mile away from Sardis’s ship.

  Portable lights shone on stands around a looming shape a few yards away from the ramp. The rough block of white stone was ten or eleven feet high, maybe eight across. The side facing the ship was unnaturally smooth. Val saw a strange, sinuous design carved into the stone.

  Just at the foot of the ramp, a folding table held a dark, flat object next to a stylus and writing pad with one sheet of white plastic clipped to it. Dense, dark print covered the thin sheet, but Val couldn’t read it from this distance and angle.

  He tried to turn his head and caught a glimpse of a similarly restrained Moro to Val’s left.

  “Eyes forward, Sero Antonin,” whispered Basrali on his right.

  He heard a soft click behind him. A cold metal surface nudged his left temple. A gun.

  “Moro,” said an unseen Lyton Sardis, somewhere to the right of Val’s locked gaze. “It is time. You will follow my orders? My men will keep
weapons trained on Valier Antonin and Zarin Basrali during every moment you are free. I would hate for any damage to befall them because of your disobedience.”

  “You have my word,” growled Moro slowly.

  “Your word, what?”

  “You have my word, Master,” said Moro. “To obey you in all things, at all times, and to yield unto you all that I am.”

  His voice was glorious, Val thought. Precise, melodic, and laced with such irony and fury it was a wonder Lyton didn’t shoot them all in that instant. Val felt like giggling. The urge was likely just leftover drugs.

  “Good,” said Lyton, his tone caressing. “Terise? Free him.”

  Cloth crinkled and metal clanged softly. Nude and calm, Moro walked into Val’s field of vision—and stopped, arms behind him in an almost military parade rest. His skin and relaxed genitals didn’t show the cold.

  “Get dressed, Moro,” said Lyton. “Terise will help you.”

  When the older woman stepped forward with a large bundle of black clothing and gear, Moro took it from her. Her hand lingered on his white-skinned wrist. Moro twisted his arm slightly, disengaging, and gave her a short, barely courteous bow. “I need no assistance, Sera Volker.”

  The gun pressed a little harder against Val’s skull. “Er, Moro?” he whispered.

  “I’ll do it, Master,” said Moro, not glancing at Val. “Myself.”

  At some signal from Lyton, Terise Volker moved back. Moro dropped the bundle on the cargo-bay floor. He dressed quickly in silken black trousers and a close-fitting tunic leaving his arms bare. Then a sleeveless black coat reinforced with dark metal scales, yet moving fluidly as thin leather. He drew on black socks and knee-high black boots garnished with empty knife sheaths. Empty sword belts and back scabbards came next. Half gloves left his fingers free; bracers covered his forearms with more armor and slots for small knives. At the last, Moro tied back his long hair in a tail with a narrow black scarf. He resumed his parade rest, motionless but for his hair and the scarf ends rippling in the breeze.

  “Very good,” said Lyton. “No cringing now. Kott taught you to show well, at least.” Lyton moved into Val’s view. He was dressed in the same black garb as Moro. His gloves were solid black and covered his hands completely. “We are about to become a legend. On the table is a document. Go read it.”

  “Yes, Master,” said Moro. His grace as he walked made Val nearly cry. Not once did he glance back at Val or Basrali. Under the lamplight, Moro quickly scanned the document.

  “Premier Roberto Chu of Cedar and Empress Liatana Antonin ne’Cama of Camonde will be our designated witnesses and recipients. I have already signed it. Is it everything I said it would be?” Lyton asked, joining Moro at the table.

  “It is, Master.”

  “Now sign it, with your full legal name.”

  “Yes, Master.” Moro took up the stylus. As he pressed it down on the printed white plastic, the tablet underneath lit up ghostly white. Moro paused.

  “It’s making an M-space connection with the other two copies,” said Lyton. “Sign!”

  “Yes, Master,” said Moro, penning a swift, long signature in the space left for his name. The tablet flashed brilliant white. In the blinking afterimages, Val thought he saw pale-gray designs under the dark print.

  Terise Volker made a disgusted noise in her throat.

  Lyton ignored her. “It’s validated and delivered. You are my heir.” He bent to examine the signature. “What’s this?”

  “My full legal name, Master,” Moro said, the smug grin in his voice never reaching his face. “Taimoro Aksenna Dalgleish Antonin.”

  “So the Camalians told you what tribe you are,” said Lyton, stepping closer to Moro. “That changes nothing.”

  “I know what I am, Master,” said Moro, not flinching as Lyton gripped his shoulder. “Human. And one of the Aksenna Sonta. Should cause some internal conflicts, not least with the crap you let Terise plug into me. Are you quite certain you want this body after all?”

  “Taimoro, you have no idea what you are,” said Lyton, laughing again. “You’re a dragon reared among sheep, and you don’t even know what your name means.” He leaned in, lips brushing near but not touching Moro’s.

  “Dr. Hegen said it meant ‘Beloved of the White Storm,’ Master,” Moro whispered.

  “A tale the Sonta tell to scare their children. But there’s truth behind it. A forgotten door and a forbidden key. Both mine now,” Lyton said, touching Moro’s cheek.

  Moro sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yes, Master.”

  “Yield to me, one last time.”

  “By my choice, Master,” said Moro, his black gaze finally darting to meet Val’s. “I yield.”

  Lyton cupped Moro’s chin in one hand, but did not attempt a kiss.

  What Lyton Sardis did, with gloved hands and clothed body alone, shredded Val’s self-respect. More so when he saw how eagerly Moro responded to Lyton’s hand trailing from shoulder to chest to groin. Or to Lyton’s hips, and their slow but demanding cadence as he frotted against Moro’s erection. Moro’s hands locked on Lyton’s shoulders, but he turned his face toward Val. Val wanted Moro’s surrender to be the damned collar’s fault. He wanted it to be some secret, clever message from Moro. Moro wasn’t fighting Lyton at all.

  Nine years a slave. A whore in black silk, one way or another. Trained and conditioned to react when his deepest triggers were activated. Could Moro ever be anything more?

  Lyton’s hand, not his mouth, found the spot behind Moro’s right ear. Sighing, Moro closed his eyes.

  Was he Val’s? Or did he belong to anyone who aroused him?

  Val nearly forgot the gun at his head in the gathering tension of his own lust: one part rage, one part jealousy, one part startled curiosity. He thought unwillingly of Lyton in Moro’s body. How would it feel to savor almost two hundred years of experience as it guided Moro’s flesh?

  Val remembered his hidden recordings of the Diamond’s arena victories…and his defeats. How many ways had the Diamond surrendered his body? Fighting, screaming, sullen, begging? He’d yielded willingly only once in public, when the DaSilva Leopard had spirited him away to the disappointed yells of the crowd.

  Val’s single glimpse of an apparently eager Diamond had been the treasure of his recordings, sweeter than the more brutal assaults. Now that Val had real memories of Moro, those holos seemed both clumsy and evil. But if Sardis got his way, Val guessed they’d appear innocent in comparison.

  Moro moaned aloud, sagging in Lyton’s arms. Val knew Moro had just climaxed. While clothed. From a man he hated.

  “Sshhh, Taimoro,” said Lyton, smiling. “Even without the collar’s aid, your body knows mine. I wish I had time and safety to fully enjoy you from the outside with your husband watching. Ah, look how you’ve rattled the poor boy. He’s had a glimpse of his future. Valier, my dear,” Lyton added, looking directly at Val, his gray eyes mocking. “I believe you mentioned a throne and a whip?”

  Val swallowed, hating the entire universe.

  Moro blinked, still looking at Val.

  Who, bound, silent, and furious, couldn’t hide the erection tenting his thick robe.

  Moro’s face was so blank Val could detect neither misery nor guilt.

  “Think of me, Taimoro,” Lyton coaxed, turning Moro’s face away from Val. “Touch the jade.”

  Moro’s right hand splayed over one of the artifacts. Val couldn’t see much but thought it changed shape.

  Lyton looked exultant. “As I thought, your body is the key. Anchored in flesh, like the Sonta emotional bindings for their Ksala. Think of me and your Valier. Together—”

  Moro touched the artifact’s black central well. He shuddered and pulled away. Lyton snarled. Forced Moro’s hand back. “Open it again!”

  Moro dropped to his knees. “No, Master.”

  The gun ground into Val’s temple, and he heard Basrali’s quick gasp of pain.

  “Open it,” said Lyton.

  “I can�
��t, Master,” said Moro, looking up with a tight grin. “I only bore your touch by thinking of Val. But the thought of you with him makes me ill.” He proved it, heaving up on Lyton’s black boots.

  Lyton backhanded Moro hard enough to send the kneeling man into the table. It spilled, artifacts and tablet flying into the grass with the overturned lamp. Lyton kicked next, aborting the kick when he apparently realized he’d feel it soon.

  “Taimoro,” Lyton said. “You can start by licking this off.”

  Sitting up, Moro smiled. “Show me how, Master?”

  Basrali cried out “Don’t!” as the gun moved under Val’s chin.

  Terise pushed the gunman away. “This is a petty waste of time. Lyton, clean yourself off and get on the damned transmitter table. Acton, put our Sonta boy on the receiver. Sera Basrali, draw blood from the Camalian,” the older doctor said. “I have hypo ampoules ready. Here.”

  Val and Basrali stared down at the four steel and glass ampoules in Terise Volker’s hands. “Er?” said Val, still delighting in Moro’s admission. He could only think of me!

  “Well, I’m not touching a Camalian,” snapped Terise. “As long as the shielding radiation holds over this part of Brightcliff, I want four blood samples that won’t combust outside the host’s body. I’ve already harvested from Moro. We’ll store the samples in the transport bubbles. Their shielding seems to block Moro’s blood’s rapid decomposition. They should work for the Antonin’s, too.”

  Basrali hitched up the robe sleeve as far as she could on Val’s left arm. “I’m sorry,” she said to Val. “This won’t hurt.”