EnforcersCraving

by DJ Michaels

  Chelsea crossed her arms in silent defiance. The Enforcers might have called their intervention a rescue, but she still felt kidnapped, and if it quacks like a duck…

  “You’ve all been through a harrowing ordeal,” Tollanare continued, “and we want to make your transition to your new surroundings as smooth and painless as possible. If you’ll board the transit, we’ll escort you into town and get you settled into your new home. You’ll be given time to freshen up in your quarters, then a hot meal will be served in the dining room. After that we’ll begin orientation, so I’ll ask you to please save your questions until then.”

  The four Council members moved their mounts to one side, the doors on the transit snapped open and the riders behind the women edged their mounts forward. Chelsea wanted to rebel, to protest at being rounded up like sheep but the men were all business and she knew instinctively her protests would fall on deaf ears. Trapped, with no one to turn to and nowhere to go, she shuffled forward in reluctant submission.

  They piled onto the transit and Chelsea sat next to the fiery redhead from the shuttle. She offered her hand. “Chelsea McMullin. I’m from Melbourne, Australia.”

  “Sorcha Meehan, Boston and the good old US of A.”

  Chelsea nodded. “I want to say ‘pleased to meet you’ but I’m not sure that’s appropriate.”

  Sorcha offered her a wide smile. “Honey, we’ve slipped down the rabbit hole. Being appropriate is the least of our problems.”

  She was right and Chelsea had a feeling she was going to be overwhelmed by the new rules of this world and the Earth rules she’d have to leave behind. She also figured the “rescued” women would be stronger if they stuck together and she decided to treat every woman as a potential ally. Starting with Sorcha.

  Chelsea engaged her in conversation and they talked quietly as the transit rolled along. They shared information about themselves, their homes on Earth and their observations of the world gliding along outside the window. Or what they could see of it at least.

  The road was smooth and well maintained but the vegetation on each side was tall, lush and green. It had a distinct rainforest look about it but there didn’t seem to be any humidity in the air. Either it was the dry season or Chelsea was looking for similarities that didn’t exist on this world.

  The transit turned a corner and the town seemed to appear out of nowhere. One moment they were surrounded by green, the next there were stone buildings flanking the road. Modest and close-packed at first, as they drove further into town the buildings became larger, more ornate and spaced further apart. Stone walkways and colonnades connected the buildings and many were topped with spires, lookouts, domes and some even sported detailed sculptures. White marble predominated but there were flashes of pink, green, blue and gray marble in the architectural flourishes.

  People wandered the streets, mostly men but there were a few women scattered about. The men wore boots and frock coats of various colors and designs, and Chelsea spied the occasional hat. The women looked as though they’d stepped out of an Edwardian period film. Without exception, their hair was intricately upswept, their bodices tight and fitted, and their long A-line skirts seemed to cover a mass of petticoats. Most wore bustles and flounces, and while the fabric of the gowns looked serviceable, the colors were brightly jewel-toned and the patterns ornate.

  Sorcha pointed to the view outside. “I hope they don’t expect us to dress like that.”

  Chelsea grinned. “More of a jeans and T-shirt girl?”

  “And boots. I love boots.” She stared at a woman with a particularly elaborate hairstyle. “I can guaran-damn-tee I won’t be getting around looking like that, either. A ponytail is my absolute limit.”

  “Do you think we’ll get a choice?”

  Two finely plucked eyebrows arched in challenge. “What do you think they’ll do to us if we refuse? Chain us to a chair in the beauty parlor?”

  Chelsea leaned closer and lowered her voice. “We’re on an alien planet with no support and the only things we know is what they choose to tell us. I think we’re going to have bigger problems than clothes and hairstyles.”

  “Damn, you’re right.” Sorcha sat back, folded her arms and looked out the window in contemplation. “We’re going to have to stick together if we’re going to survive.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”

  Sorcha nodded and turned her clear, green eyes to Chelsea. “Allies?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” Sorcha looked like the kind of woman who wouldn’t fold easily, one who would and could stand up for herself. Chelsea just hoped she could bring the same traits to the table.

  Eventually they passed through a set of large gates, which closed the moment the transit and outriders slipped through. This place was different from the town. Here order ruled and spaces were open, the flowerbeds neat and restrained. The huge expanse of emerald lawn was clipped carpet-short and the trees grew tall, strong and elegant.

  Chelsea twisted in her seat, craning her neck to take in as much as she could. “It looks like one of those old English estates from the eighteen hundreds.”

  Sorcha grunted. “Well, sure, if you can ignore the whole Other Planet thing.”

  Chelsea smiled at the dry observation. “Yes, there is that.”

  The transit turned to make its way around the white mansion and Chelsea felt her mouth drop open when she got a good look at the size and scale. Five stories high and at least a city block long, the vast expanse of aged marble was breathtaking and so ornate it put the best baroque facade to shame. Every doorway, balustrade, windowsill and awning was carved and embellished. Inlays of colored marble provided a delicate accent to the carvings and detail. She couldn’t see the roofline but she assumed it was as ornate as the rest of the house.

  The transit skirted the building, revealing it to be even longer than it was wide. It seemed to take ages before they finally halted at a side entrance and a set of double doors. After a few moments one of the riders dismounted and entered the transit.

  It was Tollanare. “Welcome to Addestet House, the ancestral seat of the Ghananstall family. For now, this will be your home and where you will learn about our world. My staff will provide all your domestic support and men from each councilman’s security team will share protection duties. Your quarters are designed for dual occupancy so you may pair up as you wish. The maids waiting inside the reception hall will escort you to your rooms and sort out any immediate or urgent problems.” He gave a sharp nod. “I shall see you all later this evening.”

  Before anyone could ask a question, he was gone and the women were being urged to their feet by the transit driver. They shuffled out of the wheeled tram, up an imposing set of stairs and into a vast chamber guarded by armed sentries. In the center of the hall stood over a dozen middle-aged women wearing long gray dresses, their hair pulled back into tight buns. They were clearly the domestic staff Tollanare had mentioned.

  The double doors thudded shut behind them and the sound galvanized the gray-clad women into action. Chelsea and Sorcha were swooped up by a woman called Clemense and herded up a large winding staircase to the second floor. They were propelled along a corridor until Clemense flung open a door and harried them inside.

  The room they entered was a large sitting room with six-meter ceilings and wide windows that let in an abundance of light. To Chelsea’s eye the furnishings looked like beautiful antiques, from the ornately carved sofas to the large oil paintings on the walls.

  “This is your sitting room,” Clemense said, barely pausing in her stride as she crossed the room. “Through here is a bedroom which exactly mirrors the bedroom on the other side of the sitting room. You can choose between yourselves which one you prefer.”

  Chelsea meekly trailed along and found herself reluctantly impressed with their accommodations. The bedroom was even bigger than the sitting room, with a four poster bed—its brocade curtains tied neatly back—and a full-sized writing desk. A chaise longue and sof
a bracketed the currently unlit fireplace and thick, jewel-toned rugs covered most of the floor.

  Clemense stalked forward to another door and beckoned them to follow. “Bathroom. The shower stall has soap-sand for your body and soap-lotion for your hair. Bath towels are in the cupboards under the sink as are face creams, hair brushes and various hair ornaments.” She eyed Sorcha’s fire-truck-red hair. “You might want find a good alchemist if you want to wear that particular shade.”

  “What’s an al—”

  Sorcha didn’t have a chance to ask the rest of the question before Clemense cut her off. “The bath is here. Use the spigots like this,” she turned a handle and water streamed out. “Do this if you want it hotter, this if you want it colder.” She flipped the water off. “Toilet is here. This button is to wash yourself, this one is to dry. Make sure you close the lid after each use.”

  Good god, a wash and dry instead of paper. At least it was hygienic. And the convenience of their own bathroom was a big plus—no midnight shuffle down the hallway in her dressing gown.

  Clemense continued on through the bathroom and they exited from a different door into the second bedroom. The first bedroom’s color scheme was gold with red accents, this bedroom was much cooler in colors of cream and blue. Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “You like this one?”

  Chelsea nodded. “Much better than the other one.”

  “Thank god. It’s all yours.”

  That was easily settled but Chelsea didn’t have a chance to look around her new room. Clemense was on a mission. “There is new clothing in your wardrobes, all of varying sizes. After you bathe just put a robe on and wait for my return. I’ll help you dress. Someone will bring a tray of food up for you at some point and they’ll leave it in the sitting room for you. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Feel free to explore your quarters but do not step outside the sitting room door. The guards have been ordered to make sure you all stay in your quarters.”

  A short time later Chelsea and Sorcha wrapped themselves in robes and head towels, and sat down at the table to enjoy what turned out to be a delicious dinner. They lingered once the meal was finished, speculating about their situation, sharing their histories and discussing the questions they wanted to ask Tollanare if they got the chance. Chelsea took the opportunity to tell Sorcha about Tansy and the Enforcer’s cryptic offer.

  “So he’s agreed to help you for an undisclosed price?”

  Chelsea nodded, hesitated for a moment, then decided to opt for honesty. “I suspect the price is sex.”

  Sorcha flopped back into her chair. “What are you going to do?”

  “That’s the three-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it? I have no desire to prostitute myself to get what I want but how can I live here like this when Tansy could be on the auction block at this very minute?”

  “Are you really willing to sacrifice yourself for her?”

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea answered truthfully. “I’d like to think I have the courage to do what it takes to save Tansy but my reaction to Tarkan sent me for a loop. I’m the holdback kind of girl, I don’t even kiss on the first date. I’m ashamed to admit it but I let him touch me in an intimate way. And in that moment it was…”

  Sorcha quirked an eyebrow. “Good?”

  “Glorious.” Chelsea sighed. “I’ve never felt anything like it and I’m worried it’s some alien-pheromone thing and my reactions aren’t my own.”

  “Can’t you just talk to him about it?”

  Well she could, if she trusted him. “If he’s the kind of guy who would barter with a women for sex, do you really think I could rely on him for a straight answer?”

  “Oh. Probably not.”

  There was no probably about it. Chelsea wasn’t even sure she could trust him to follow through, even if she did put out. A part of her, the cowardly part, prayed she would never have to find out. “Hopefully Tollanare or one of the Council members will help and I won’t have to deal with the Enforcer.”

  The following week was an exercise in frustration for Chelsea. Every morning she and Sorcha helped each other dress in chemise, corset and bustled day gowns before heading down to breakfast. They spent their mornings being introduced to their new world and the amount of information was boggling. Ivasta was ruled by six families and each family had a member on the Council of the four main townships in Ivasta. The women were educated in township politics, social mores, and general Ivastan history. The schism between the two continents and the antipathy toward Brightstar was made clear but there was only a passing reference to the plight of women on either continent—and nobody was interested in answering any of Chelsea’s questions about Tansy.

  The afternoons were set aside for some of the most boring activities Chelsea had ever had to endure. Knitting, embroidering, reading and writing were all introduced as important feminine skills. Some of the women had a grasp of these accomplishments—Sorcha turned out to be a knitting whiz—but Chelsea had never had a knack for crafty pursuits. After day four of afternoon torture, she gathered up her floor-length skirts and skulked off to the library where she lurked every afternoon after that, grateful that her translator chip extended to the written word.

  The evenings were a different kind of torture. At six o’clock without fail, Clemense would come into their room expecting them to be washed and robed. Then Chelsea had to sit through a good half hour of having her hair pulled, twisted and pinned into some intricate design, complete with ornaments, and having her face powdered and painted.

  Next came the corset, an item she’d tried to discard but the scandalized Clemense wouldn’t hear of it. It seemed odd to Chelsea that going without a corset was shocking, but wearing a dress cut so low she was afraid to lean over seemed perfectly acceptable. Not to mention the fact that a “lady” never wore underpants of any kind.

  After the corset lacing, which seemed to get tighter and tighter each night, she was swathed in a beautiful, expensive, impractical gown of lace over silk. Regardless of the dress design or color, three things always stayed the same. The neckline was always too low, the waist too tight and the hem too long not to walk with care and concentration.

  In the evenings they were expected to attend a formal dinner, with a different dinner partner each night. Once the meal was completed they moved into a separate room to mix over drinks and what passed for tea and coffee in Sapphire.

  Every night Chelsea tested the waters, trying to find someone who could help her find Tansy but all she received in return were deflections and patronizing hand holding. Half the men refused to listen and the other half pretended to listen so they could peer down her cleavage. By night five she’d decided Tarkan was going to be her best hope. By night seven she had a plan.

  Chapter Six

  Chelsea’s escape from Addestet House turned out to be easier than it should have been. After a week of monitoring twenty-seven docile women, the guards had transitioned from alert and wary to bored and disinterested. Chelsea and Sorcha made it their business to chat to anyone who would give them time, so it didn’t take long to work out where the lake was, how to get there and where and when to dodge the guards.

  As the women made the post-breakfast trek to their classrooms, Chelsea slipped out a side door with Sorcha hot on her heels. The Boston native happily volunteered to act as escort and potential troubleshooter but they slipped unmolested through the kitchens and crossed the estate grounds in tree-hugging bursts. The long skirts were a hindrance and Chelsea was further hampered by the confining grip of the corset and her inability to take a deep breath.

  “This dress code is killing me,” she whispered to Sorcha. “How a society that has access to space-travel and translator chips can compel women to dress like an Edwardian princess beggars the imagination.”

  Sorcha snickered, pressing herself against a nearby tree trunk. “The dresses are a bit much, I’ll grant you, and having a lady’s maid freaks me out, but I love the half-boots.” They sprinted for the next set of trees. “In f
act, I might even be happy here if they gave me enough boots.”

  “What about the prospective husbands?” Chelsea kept her voice low as her eyes scanned their surroundings.

  “Fuck that. No amount of footwear is worth chaining myself to any of the idiots we’ve met so far.”

  “Amen to that, sister.”

  Most of the councilmen and land holders they’d met so far were either professional politicians or snake-oil salesman in nice suits. They all made Chelsea feel like she was being measured for a marriage certificate or a nice condo in an out-of-the-way location. She figured what Tarkan was offering would be a lot less than a walk down the aisle, but the transaction of one deed for another seemed a lot more honest and expedient than the social chess match that was going on every night at Addestet House.

  Chelsea and Sorcha came to the back wall of the perimeter fence and hiked up their skirts in a manner that would have given Clemense a heart attack. Chelsea eyed the old gnarled tree that she was about to climb and prayed the young gardener they’d pumped for information hadn’t been lying to impress them. As Chelsea dithered, Sorcha stepped forward and began scaling the tree slow and steady, testing for handholds before she moved up. Clearly this was a familiar task for the Bostonian and as Chelsea watched she wished she’d been more of a tomboy and less of a girly-girl growing up. She took a deep breath and prepared herself to follow Sorcha’s footsteps—nothing ventured and all that.

  The climb up the tree was easier than she’d anticipated but the scramble over the high concrete fence and the uncoordinated slither down the other side was as undignified as she imagined it would be. Sorcha broke the fall as best she could and the stupid long skirts and petticoats offered Chelsea a bonus level of padding and protection.

  Once they set themselves to rights they headed off, skirting the edges of town, walking arm-in-arm as though they had every right to be there. There were enough women in the township to give them good odds at not being recognized as long as nobody looked too closely, and they tried not to draw attention to themselves by furtive behavior. Chelsea was a firm believer in the “fake it ’til you make it” philosophy so they strolled along with purpose but not speed.