She landed softly on the roof of a two-story building. A guard was below, leaning against the wall, seemingly dozing. She peered over the edge to judge the jump. It was high but nothing she couldn’t handle, she wouldn’t even need her antigrav.
The man heard the thud and opened tired eyes. He could not comprehend what he was seeing: a heavily muscled, semi-naked girl wearing a breastplate. He fumbled for his gun but she grabbed him by the throat with both hands, stretched his neck and then snapped it in one smooth movement. She could not believe how fragile and brittle these Terrans were and for a brief moment she held his lifeless body in her hands just to feel the weight of it, before letting it drop like a sack to the ground. She felt nothing. No remorse, no satisfaction.
The others joined her having dispatched their targets and she signalled for the equipment drone to descend. They went about their business quietly. This was to be a very different explosion, one designed to be heard and to shock all who might witness it. When they had finished they ran to a small hill beyond the compound to watch the fireworks, deliberately dropping the typical Pashtun hat, a pakol, as a false clue. She hit the ignition and the compound burst into a massive fireball that rose high into the sky. She crouched as the blast wave swept over them, nearly knocking her to the ground. Finally there were a series of after explosions and then they could hear the shouts of alarm from the nearby village. She used binoculars to survey the damage. There was still a lot of dust and smoke around but she could make out a substantial crater. There was nothing left of the compound.
She was trembling as she settled into the gel, her system struggling with conflicting thoughts and emotions. She was in a rage and it disgusted her. She had killed, taken a human life. She could still feel the dead weight of meat and bones, and deep down, a thrill. She had dominated and she was disgusted at how weak he had been. It was too easy. And yet she was also disgusted at the excitement she had felt. Had the thera even considered that at some deep level, all humans were brutes? Had they considered that going to war released a primal darkness? Even worse, she was aroused, her cortisol level screaming at her system to release the antidote. She instinctively reached to her cunt and roughly plunged two fingers in. The gel registered her stress level and began to inject sedatives and a mild ecstatic. She was not the only one. She turned to see a male defender fully erect to bursting, furiously stroking himself. The sight only aroused her further. She felt a sense of desperation and urgency. This was angry sex. The male defender ejaculated. They hadn’t jumped and were momentarily suspended in zero-g and his ejaculate sprayed out into the cabin where nano probes were already flitting about disposing of it. She thought it was the horniest thing she had ever seen and it took her over the edge. She moaned with release and the sedatives kicked in. She drifted into a semi-conscious state.
She was back on Eden, on the yacht with Aris, gently rocking on the ocean, fucking on the deck. A long, gentle fuck that was content with simple intimacy, with no need to rush to an orgasm. Her heart ached for her pretty boy. She longed for his touch. Yet, even though she could feel tears forming, her training told her that her system was being flushed with oxytocin, dopamine and serotonin and her mind was simply accessing memories to suit. Another memory came to the fore. She was sitting in the contemplation hall in the mountains, her mind clear and sharp. It was the first time she had slipped into the witness state, ataraxia, the point of perfect balance.
She had a vague memory of being helped out of the jumper by thera. She was tired, so tired. She woke on a gurney in a hospice on Eden. It was night and the unmistakable glow of Eros filtered through large, floor to ceiling windows. A thera appeared, alerted that she was awake by her guardian. He was still a preeb (just a few years younger than her), a very pretty preeb: perfumed, tall and lean, with dark almond eyes highlighted with mascara, luscious, curled, jet-black hair that fell to his shoulders in the Persian style, adorned with pierced ears and nipples, wrist and ankle bracelets, his immature genitals trussed invitingly in diamond encrusted, silver cock and ball rings. She thought he looked cute. Perhaps he had been selected because her profile said she liked pretty boys?
“What…?” she mumbled.
“Your stress levels were very high. We put you under for a period in theta. You experienced psychological trauma. You will need a period of reassimilation.”
“I’m sorry, who authorised…?”
“The justice will explain.”
“Goya?”
The screen above her gurney lit up with the image of justice Goya. “Hello magnus, how are you feeling?”
“Magnus?”
“Yes, your mission was a success, you’ve been promoted.”
She supposed she should have felt pleased, but she only felt cynicism. “A cheap reward, all part of the psychological healing process I suppose…”
The justice nodded in recognition of her candour. “In part, but it is mostly in recognition of your leadership skills.”
“A success?”
“Yes. It was very effective, both on a psychological and physical level. It was a major blow to their morale and their ability to wage a war. It has provided an important strategic breathing space. Along with other actions, your sabotage efforts have allowed us to go to the next stage.”
“Other efforts?”
Goya nodded but her tight smile indicated it was confidential.
“And I suppose you are going to tell me about my next mission?” She could feel her stress levels rise as she said it. The thera looked at his tablet, which had alerted him to a rise in cortisol.
“That would be a matter for the strategos, but at a guess there may be only one or two more. Others have been trained. No, we wish to relieve you of, shall we say, the destructive aspects of your skill set. We want to employ the constructive side.”
“As a stonemason?”
“Or temple builder. You have a choice of course, but if you agree it will involve returning to Earth on a more permanent basis.”
“Explain,” she said a little too abruptly.
“In acknowledgement of our assistance, the Buddhist Republic has conceded a significant section of the Gangetic plain. The region is degraded but plans are under way to undertake significant earthworks and building restoration…”
Cynthia sat up immediately. “The Gangetic plain, wasn’t that the area the Buddha…?”
“Yes. The person responsible for this idea is Tshentso Jayarama. She intends to restore Nalanda University and make it a centre for Terran and Edenoi cultural exchange. She considers it to have significant cultural and historical significance. In time it will become the major processing centre for operation rescue. It is where applicants will receive enhancement and training. This was the true purpose of your missions. To push the threat further back in order to secure the centre.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Rebuild Nalanda, restore it to its former glory.”
“Me, in charge?”
“Answering directly to Tshentso Jayarama. You don’t have to decide now. Take time off, extended R&R.”
Cynthia laid back down, her mind overwhelmed; trying to recall all she had heard about Earth’s first university.
“Oh, and one other thing, Aristophenes Smith has accepted a commission on Earth. He will help train Terrans in higher mathematics and game theory.”
She sat bolt upright. “You bitch, you deliberately left that to the last.”
The justice laughed. “Yes, that got your attention, didn’t it?”
The screen went blank.
“Can I get you anything?” the thera asked. “Are you hungry?”
She looked at the boy and felt a pang of desire. “I think I’m horny, are you trained in sexual therapy?”
He smiled and nodded as if it should have been obvious.
She gestured for him to come closer. “What is your name?”
“Jabril, Jabril Abu Shukra.”
“Well Jabril, that cock ring is rather fancy,
” she said as she reached out to touch it. He did not withdraw and allowed her to fondle him. She smiled as he became erect, his shaft and balls straining against the constriction of the rings. She ran the back of her finger up and down his shaft and spoke seductively, “you are very pretty Jabril, and from such an illustrious line - the Abu Shukra no less, a direct descendent of one of the Founder’s wives, Nour.”
“And you are a very strong and handsome hero,” he said in return. “I am here to please you, as a mark of gratitude. A gift if you like.”
“A consort, a sexual thera? Then come lie down and let me kiss you pretty one.”
He did as she requested and she wondered if pretty boys would always be her weakness. And yet, whilst this one was certainly delicious, she knew no one could replace Aris. A dark thought crossed her mind as she kissed the boy and gently squeezed his balls. Had she changed too much, crossed some dark threshold that would prevent a reunion with Aris? She had killed and a part of her had enjoyed it. Was she ruined in some cruel way? The boy was being deliberately passive, allowing her to fondle and kiss him. It would be so easy to kill this one too, a simple snap of the neck.
“Did you have a flashback?”
She shook her head as if she were dreaming. “What?”
“You will likely experience flashbacks of the moment you killed. It is normal, all part of the process of healing the trauma.”
She pushed him away, suddenly terrified. “I thought of killing you.”
“I understand. It is just your mind trying to resolve the tension…”
“But…?”
“I am not afraid of you. There was no risk. You only thought of acting, you did not act. We have taken precautions.”
“What precautions?”
He placed a calming hand on her leg. “I am not afraid of you. Over time the flashbacks will happen less often and become weaker. Shall I sing you a song? My voice has not yet broken and I have a good treble soprano voice. You will find it soothing.”
“I suppose you have thoroughly researched my profile and know which songs I like?” she asked cynically.
The boy smiled. Her question did not need to be answered. He began to sing a melancholy aria, one of her favourites. She sighed. She was no longer aroused; instead tears began to fall. It was grief at taking a life. The boy did not stop to comfort her. He had clearly wanted to trigger this response. He had known all along. It was her mistake to think he was a mere boy. He was a highly trained thera, an empath. She allowed herself to sob and he continued to sing, pulling the grief out of her as if it were a long thread.
123
Wakdar Daudzai Khan
He spat and cursed. The boy was talking nonsense. “Were you smoking opium?”
“No sir, Ghazan forbade it. He was very strict.”
The Khan looked down at severed head of his friend. The boy was likely telling the truth. Too many of his men smoked opium to dull their nerves. Ghazan saw it as a weakness. “And you said they called themselves dakini and they were female?”
“Witches sir, demons, with fangs.”
He turned to Imam Tor Gul. “You are familiar with the people of the east, these Buddhist curs. Have you heard the word dakini?”
“It is a heresy of infidels. They also call them khadroma, sky dancers, witches who can fly in the sky.”
He turned back to the trembling boy. “You also say you saw them fly?”
The boy nodded. He feared death at any moment.
“It is a magician’s trick,” said the Imam.
“And yet my men have been killed. If it is magic, it is effective magic.”
The Imam bowed his head in supplication. The Khan seemed calm for the moment but he was known for his sudden temper and propensity for cruel revenge.
The Khan stroked his moustache as he thought the situation through. Clearly this was a calculated warning, yet he had received no intelligence that the Himalayans had rebuilt their army. They were weak fighters, castrated by their pacifist heresy. It would seem they had made an alliance of some sort. Of course, he had to respond, even from his weakened position. Many of his best fighters had gone west, to seek revenge for attacks from the caliph of the heretics. And yet that too was a strange coincidence. Had the Shia scum formed some sort of alliance with the pagan Himalayans? Such alliances of convenience were not unknown. Perhaps they had agreed to carve up the Pashtun lands? Well, he could not allow that to happen. He wished at that moment that he had spies in the Himalayan capital, but his last man had been a counter spy and he had had him publicly disembowelled. Any other information was unreliable, nothing more than rumours and guesswork.
He turned to his military advisor, who had been standing back waiting for instructions. “Prepare a unit of twenty men armed with guns. Scour the area. Question the villagers. If they do not cooperate you know what to do. We will teach these dogs who their master is. Clear the land if you need to, there are always plenty of Pashtuns hungry for their own land. Set out immediately. Act quickly and decisively.”
The advisor bowed and left.
“Now tell me boy, can you read and write?”
The boy shook his head.
“Then you are fortunate.” The Khan turned to a guard. “Have his tongue cut out so he cannot speak of this. Then keep him in the stables to tend the horses.”
The boy sank to his knees. He knew what this meant. He would be passed from one brutal man to the next. He was a slave. It would be better to be dead. If only he could end his life quickly rather than face a choice between degrees of suffering.
He tried to calm himself as he walked through his garden to his private quarters. The roses were out and he stopped to take in the scent. Beauty was rare. It had to be fought for and captured. The poor lived in dirty streets that smelt of piss, sweat and shit. He had learned this when he was young. Nothing was given. You had to pay for it one way or another and the most powerful currency was blood and fear.
He entered his harem and slave girls silently attended to his needs. As the most powerful man he had the pick of the most beautiful women and boys. They represented every race: Golden skinned Turkmen, fair skinned Russ, tawny skinned Uzbeks and dark skinned Hindus, even rare black skinned Somali slaves captured from the west. He collected them like gold and silk and the mysterious marvels of the past.
He was gently disrobed, washed, perfumed and then fed; he was entertained with music and poetry. And tonight he would have another virgin. The Imam had said that the righteous would have seventy-two virgins waiting for them in Paradise. The Imam was a fool. He was certain there was no Paradise. He had heard the stories of the great Khans of the past. They had created Paradise on Earth. They had had their virgins in this life.
They brought her in perfumed and prepared: a pretty Tajik girl dressed in her national costume. She must have been eleven or twelve, just on the cusp of puberty and almost of marriageable age. She had her head bowed and was shaking. She knew what was about to happen. She would have been told that if she pleased him she might live in relative comfort. And there had been those who pleased him, but not tonight. Her village had resisted the tax increase, had dared to complain.
He lifted her kaftan. She had a pleasing body. He placed his rough hands on her chest. Her heart was beating rapidly like a small bird. He grunted at her to lie down and two of his slave girls guided her onto the fine silk cushions and spread her legs. They lifted off his silk kaftan and applied oil to his shaft and the girl’s vulva and anus, not for her benefit, but for his. The girl watched terrified as the slave girls manually stimulated him until he was fully erect. Then they held her down as he thrust into her. She tried to stifle the scream but could not. It was good. He liked them to cry out and to struggle. Women had been cursed. Left to their own they were witches and whores sapping the strength of men. The only way was for men to dominate, to take what they wanted when they wanted. He took his time enjoying her. He turned her over and thrust deep into her anus. She cried out again and tried to resist
. His anger was building. She would suffer for his pleasure and he would have his revenge on the Himalayans. He had to bide his time but there would come a day when he would march into their capital and have the heads of their pagan priests. He pulled the girl’s head up by her hair almost to the point where he could snap her neck. He was getting closer. He used his left hand to grab her throat. He squeezed. Almost there. He released her throat and she gasped. Closer. He squeezed again. This time he did not let go. She shuddered violently as he entered the initial stage of climax. She went limp and he grunted, thrusting violently into her one last time. She did not matter. He collapsed to the side and the slave girls tended to him with scented cloth, wiping away the sweat, semen and blood. He looked at the girl and was satisfied. He was master of life and death. One more corpse made no difference. His grandfather had told him that the Earth was ancient and filled with billions of bones; had told him of a time when the Earth was covered with a rat plague of millions of living humans. They were all bones now and still there were too many people on Earth: diseased, starving, squabbling incessantly.
He looked down at the girl one last time. She was indeed pretty: her skin young and flawless, her limp limbs perfectly proportioned, but there were many more like her and she would be quickly forgotten. He gave the signal and the slave girls collected her and carried her out. He gave another signal and he was handed a hookah filled with hashish. He did not see the nano drone that had been perched on a column like a fly, watching and recording everything.
Tshentso wiped the tear from her eye. “I regret that we could not save the girl.”
“Why would he do such a monstrous thing?” said Riko, too numb to cry.
“I have heard of such sadistic brutality but never witnessed it,” said Mae.
“I am sorry to show you this,” Tshentso sighed. “Such images can be traumatic. Unfortunately it is the reality. A reality we must deal with.”
“Do you want us to kill him?” asked Sun calmly.
Paradise Reclaimed Page 90