by Opal Carew
That was when it came to life in my hand, the corkscrew stabbing out at me with no warning.
“Oh my God!” I gasped, feeling a line of fire slice across my cheek. I dropped the thing as a bolt of terror surged through me, and hopped back a step as though I’d seen a spider. Or something worse than a spider.
I expected the blue paperweight part of it to shatter but it didn’t—it bounced once and then lay there on the floor, retracting and stabbing the bloody metal corkscrew over and over as the soft, inviting tune played on and on, echoing eerily in the vast, dark room.
I waited for a long, breathless moment to see if the thing was going to grow legs and come skittering after me, but the stabbing motion appeared to be the only movement it was capable of. Well, that and the weird song, which now reminded me of the kind of music you hear in a horror movie when the doomed character opens an ancient, cursed puzzle box they’re supposed to leave strictly alone.
Anyway, it answered my question over whether the reddish brown stuff on the corkscrew end was rust or blood. I put my fingers to my cheeks and winced—it had really sliced the hell out of me! What a horrible device—who would invent something like that?
I wondered if it was a Vorn thing but somehow I doubted it. I didn’t know Sarden very well, but he struck me as a straight-forward kind of guy. If the rest of his people were anything like him, they wouldn’t invent a device so subtle. One that invited you to get closer and closer with its faint, tinkling music until you were within stabbing distance.
What about the Eloim then? I didn’t think so. To hear Sarden describe them, they sounded stuck up and priggish. This kind of weapon or whatever it was, would probably be considered crude.
Another thought occurred to me—maybe this was part of the medical equipment Sarden had gone to the spaceport to try and sell. That seemed most likely although I couldn’t imagine any medical exam that would require you to be suddenly jabbed in the face with a metal corkscrew. Another inch to the left or right and the damn thing would have burst my eardrum or popped my eye like a grape! Ugh!
Okay, enough messing with the equipment, I told myself. Sarden hadn’t been lying—it was dangerous. So from now on I was going to keep my hands strictly to myself and just try to get to that rectangle of light I saw at the end of the huge room.
I stepped carefully over the stabby-stabby corkscrew paperweight and picked my way carefully through the room, being extra careful not to touch a thing. Though I tried to blot it with my sleeve, blood was running down my cheek from the long, shallow scratch on my face. I really hoped I wasn’t going to need stitches—I was millions of miles away from the nearest E.R.
Shaking my head, I kept going.
Sarden
I didn’t know why, but I had a bad feeling as Al and I made our way back to the unattached males district. It’s a small area of synth-sex shops and delusion parlors that the Majoran peace keepers usually don’t bother to patrol. In contrast to the rest of Gallana, there were almost no females here and I could see why. The whole district was about males getting their most savage needs met without female interference.
Synthi-whores trolled the streets, crying their wares in cracked, mechanical voices. Cloning-mechs called that they could make the female of your dreams…and you could do anything you wanted to her.
Anything at all.
A male cloaked in a shadow-coat whispered to me from a dark alley, asking if I wanted any dream dust. Further down the dirty, rutted road another male offered me fantasy implants.
“See yourself as you want to be…live the life you cannot have in reality,” he rasped hoarsely, dangling the long, silvery synthec-worms which would burrow into a host’s eyeballs and attach to the optic nerves. While he lived—while they fed on him—they would send him the sweetest of visions, stimulating every part of the brain in turn even as they devoured his neural function. They would refuse to let go until he was effectively brain dead—a useless husk with nothing left to give. Then they could come slithering out of his skull and return to their master who would sell them to another fool wishing to escape from reality.
I passed them all by and kept on walking, keeping my head low as I looked for my destination—a bar the buyer had named. At last I found it.
Outside the bar—The Suck Hole—was a row of artificial mouths mounted on adjustable metal poles. The red lips gleamed obscenely and made sucking and kissing noises when I got close enough to trip their sensors.
“A credit a minute—best blow job this side of Endora Six, big boy,” one of the mouths said. I ignored it—public gratification holds no interest for me. And besides, who knew the last time those things had been cleaned? Like everything else in the unattached males district, they were dirty and disreputable.
Not everyone was as fastidious as me, though. Down the line, a male—a Xlexian by his greenish brown, mottled skin—stepped up to a mouth and slid a cred-card into the slot on the side.
“Mmm, give it to me, baby!” the mouth moaned and the Xlexian obliged by unfastening his trousers and shoving his engorged member between its lips.
Obscenely loud sucking sounds began as the mouth took him in. The Xlexian groaned and pumped his hips enthusiastically, oblivious to anyone watching his pleasure. I looked away, disgusted.
“He seems to be enjoying himself,” a voice remarked beside me.
I jerked around and found myself facing a tall male with smooth, even features. His skin was tan and didn’t change color—a sure sign that his lineage was closer to the Ancient Ones than mine—but I couldn’t immediately tell his people. His hair appeared to be a deep, Majoran blue, though it was hard to tell with my sepia-toned vision. Maybe a half-breed like myself then? He had a long, boney nose and a thin mouth—barely more than a slit, which was currently turned up in a sardonic smile.
“What does it matter?” I said, frowning. “It’s a common enough sight.”
“Not on Gallana,” he said, shifting. He was dressed in a long, black cloak that fell from his narrow shoulders and swirled around him as he moved. “This is the only place on this Gods-forsaken spaceport where a male can get a little peace and quiet away from the meddling of females.”
“You are sahjist?” The sahjists were a group of dispossessed males—mostly half or quarter Majorans that didn’t like the way their society was run. They refused to believe in the Goddess-hood of the Empress or the sovereignty of females in general. It went further than that for some of them, though. They said they only wanted equal rights for males but some of them, I knew, fucking hated females with every bone in their bodies. Those were the types—the radicals—you had to watch out for. Especially in a place like Gallana.
“Not a sahjist, exactly,” the male with the blue hair said. “But I don’t believe in letting females run your life. Of course, they have their uses…” he nodded at the row of sucking, artificial mouths where the Xlexian was just finishing. “But to claim they are superior or in some way divine, well…that’s just foolish. They ought to be kept in their place—preferably chained to a male’s bed. Am I right?”
He laughed heartily but I didn’t join in. Instead, I took a step away, looking around the district.
“You’d better keep your voice down,” I told him. “Expressing sentiments like that is liable to earn you a night in lock-down.”
The Peace Keepers don’t patrol the unattached males district often but when they do, you’d better look out. That’s when all the shady characters you meet on the street melt away and the dirty, rutted walkway is deserted. We were safe for now though—I could still see a cloning-mech trying to sell his services to a male dressed in a trawler pilot’s uniform.
“Anyone you want—any female that ever caught your eye but you couldn’t have her,” he was saying. “You can have her now—and do whatever you want with her. Doesn’t matter if she wants it or not—take what you want—what’s rightfully yours. It’s perfectly legal because you’ll own her. All it costs is a hundred creds and a small sampl
e of her DNA.”
The deal turned my stomach. The idea of treating a helpless female so harshly was repugnant to me—even if she was a clone. My thoughts must have shown on my face, though I tried to keep my expression impassive, because the male beside me spoke again.
“Forgive me. I see you don’t share my views,” he said smoothly.
“I’m Vorn. Half Vorn, anyway. We don’t believe in worshiping our females like the Gods-damned Majorans but we don’t mistreat them either,” I said harshly. As I spoke, I had a guilty flash of Zoe as I had left her, held tight by the Force-Locks and secured in her room. I pushed the image away irritably—locking her up for safe keeping had been necessary. There was nothing else I could do.
“Forgive me,” he said again. “Let us speak of more pleasant things, shall we? Such as the fascinating collection of Assimilation medical equipment I understand you have for sale?” Seeing my startled look he added, “I am Count Doloroso, collector of oddities. Your A.L. contacted me about your collection. You are Sarden de’Lagorn, are you not?”
“I am,” I said. “But I don’t intend to conduct business here. Let’s go inside and get a drink.”
In the dim interior of The Suck Hole we found a seat and Doloroso pressed the chipped call button for service.
A fembot waitress with long, matted blue hair and hugely inflated breasts tottered over.
“How can I service you?” she asked in an artificially seductive tone, batting her eyes—one of which had been blinded by an angry patron and still had the stump of a serving fork sticking out of its empty socket. “Would you care to try my pleasure holes?”
Lifting the tattered skirt she wore, she displayed a flat, fleshy pelvis with three vaginal slits—one in the center, between her legs where it should be, and two set above it, beside her hip bones. They formed a kind of obscene, inverted triangle.
“I am able to service all manner of species, not just the Twelve Peoples,” she reported mechanically. “Even three-shafted Yarons are welcome.”
“Thank you my dear, but we just want something to drink,” Doloroso said smoothly. “A pitcher of your finest Majoran ale, I think.” He looked at me. “Have you ever had it dirty?”
“No,” I said. “What’s that?”
“They bring the pitcher and drop a shot of Black Terbian Fire Brandy into it. It’s quite good.”
I shrugged. “Works for me.”
“Make it dirty,” Doloroso told the fembot. She nodded jerkily and tottered off. She returned shortly with a full pitcher of amber ale and a small glass filled with murky black liquid. Setting the tray down with erratic movements, she dropped the entire glass into the pitcher.
A small splash and tendrils of black began to infiltrate the amber. For some reason my stomach lurched uneasily and I thought of Zoe again. Was she all right?
Of course she’s all right—she’s safe, I told myself sternly. She can’t get out of those Force-Locks no matter what she does and she can’t get into any trouble locked in her room. She’s fine. Relax.
I tried to but the worried feeling kept nagging at my mind, even as I made the deal with the Count.
Zoe
Making my way through the crowded, dark room with only the dim light from the manacles to help me wasn’t easy. There were some areas where the large pieces of medical equipment were packed too tightly together to squeeze through so I had to find a way around. I went carefully, but as quickly as I could. Who knew when Sarden would be back? I wanted to be long gone by the time he got to my room and found I had done a disappearing act. Always, I kept my eyes trained on the pale golden rectangle of daylight outlining the door at the back.
Keep it up, Zoe—you can do it! You’re almost there, I told myself. Daylight and freedom are on the other side of that door. I hoped, anyway.
Finally, after what seemed like hours of fumbling through the darkness, I got to the end of the vast room and found myself standing in front of the door outlined in golden light.
Only it wasn’t a door.
When I stepped forward and waved the manacles at it, instead of whooshing open, the entire rectangle lit up. Rather than a door, I saw a tall tank, not unlike the vertical bathtubs in the bathrooms. The whole thing glowed with the pale, golden light I’d thought was sunlight and it was filled with some kind of clear yellow liquid.
The top part of the tank was empty, with just a few lazy bubbles rising to the surface. The bottom, however, had a layer of some kind of shiny black sludge.
“Great. Just great,” I said aloud, putting my hands on my hips so the manacles clanked. “Not a door at all.”
At the sound of my voice—or maybe it was the clinking of the manacles, I don’t know—the sludge at the bottom of the tank stirred. It had collected mostly in one corner and it billowed lazily in an invisible current, looking almost like a piece of black cloth. Or maybe…a tentacle?
I frowned, whatever it was, it wasn’t a door, which meant I had to keep searching. Damn it! My heart sank all the way down to my shoes—or would have if I’d been wearing any. Actually, my bare feet felt like ice from walking on the cold metal floor. Well, I could see the back wall by the deceptive yellowish glow of the tank. Maybe the best thing would be to go to it and start making my way around the perimeter of the room, feeling for an exit as I went.
Something stirred in the tank again—another faint billowing motion—and I felt something wet and warm touch my wounded cheek.
What the hell?
I jerked back involuntarily—it was almost as though someone with a very wet, cold mouth had just given me a sloppy kiss. I put my fingers to my face and they came away wet. But when I examined my fingertips in the faint glow of the manacles, all I saw was blood—the dripping must have been what caused the weird feeling on my cheek.
Well, crap—and here I’d thought it was beginning to clot over.
“Better get going, Zoe,” I told myself aloud. Sighing, I began to make my way around the tank, blotting my cheek carefully as I went. Was I ever going to stop bleeding? Maybe I really did need stitches although I had no idea where I would get them.
Just as I was right beside the tank, I saw something move from the corner of my eye. A flash of shiny obsidian that seemed to glimmer in the dimness like a black star.
Then something curled around my waist and I was yanked up into the air.
Sarden
“Tell me about your collection,” Doloroso said, taking a swig of his black infused ale. “Are the pictures your A.L. showed me accurate? He sent me only a few but what I saw intrigued me greatly.”
“Absolutely accurate,” I assured him. “I’ve had the lot for almost ten cycles now, stored in my hold. Never used any of it—it came with my ship when I won it.”
“Won it from who?” he wanted to know, taking another sip.
“Male by the name of Heir Misener,” I said, taking a drink myself. The ale was smooth but the Fire Brandy burned my mouth and sinuses fiercely. I liked it. “Science officer with the Assimilation before they were defeated.”
“And who says they were all defeated?” His eyes gleamed strangely. “Maybe they just went underground, waiting for a more opportune time to ah, emerge.”
I frowned at the idea. The Assimilation was an empire which started on the inner ring world of Sha-meth. The Sha-methians had worked hard to build a completely automated society. Predictably, their control systems had been given too much sentience and power and had taken over. These sentient systems downloaded themselves into the brains of the living occupants of Sha-meth and ran them like living corpses which they called “The Assimilated.” Their rise to power had happened with dizzying suddenness and in the ensuing conflict—called the War of Assimilation—they had nearly overthrown the current regime some fifty cycles earlier.
Led by the Majorans, the rest of the Twelve Peoples descended from the Ancient Ones had fought and died to keep them from taking the entire galaxy. Their soldiers were notoriously difficult to kill and impossible to sub
vert—some said due to the obedience chips implanted at the base of their skulls. Heir Misener, the old bastard I’d won my ship and the medical equipment from, had gotten his chip removed, shortly after the war’s end. He’d been able to think for himself—not too well, though, or he wouldn’t have bet his whole ship on a single hand of double-blind-Trill, but those were the breaks.
We had learned from the War of Assimilation and now all Artificial Life forms had built in controls which kept them from desiring power. But if the Assimilation had won, it would have been a different story—every sentient creature in the known galaxy would have been implanted with an obedience chip and we would have lost our free will forever.
“You better hope the Assimilation isn’t just waiting underground somewhere,” I told my buyer, frowning. “I sure as hell don’t want to be wearing an obedience chip—I wouldn’t think you would either.”
“Obedience is a small price to pay for a galaxy run with perfect order and precision. So the Assimilated used to say,” he remarked.
“They had fucking robots living in their skulls. They’d say anything they were told to say,” I pointed out. “Why are you so interested in the Assimilation anyway?”
He shrugged eloquently. “As I said, I am a collector of oddities. The War of Assimilation is an area of particular interest to me so I collect relics from it in my spare time to amuse myself.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, not completely convinced. There was something strange about this male—something I didn’t quite trust. His Majoran hair and smooth, light tan skin weren’t the only features that didn’t match. His scent was confused too—mixed up—almost as though he was two separate people. Of course, being only half Vorn, my sense of smell isn’t as strong as it could’ve been. But it was strong enough to let me know something wasn’t right with Count Doloroso.