Lord of the Storm

by Justine Davis

  “My parents did,” she said quietly. “They would have had it, if she hadn’t been killed.”

  “Maybe. You don’t know that,” Califa returned. “I suppose that’s why you’re infected with this ridiculous idea that died out—and rightfully so, I must say—eons ago. Eos, I thought my parents were bad, naming me after some foolish old Triotian legend. Can’t you just relax and have some fun?”

  “Califa, please. I just want to rest.”

  She gave up, for Califa, gracefully. They stopped at the door to Shaylah’s quarters.

  “All right, hero,” Califa said teasingly. “Rest until dinner. I’ll send someone at dusk to help you dress.”

  “No,” Shaylah said hastily. “I’ll just meet you in the dining room.”

  Shaylah saw Califa’s brows lower and wondered if Califa guessed that she couldn’t bear to spend any more time than necessary with the silent, collared people who were slaves no matter what euphemistic names the Coalition gave them. She sighed inwardly. Califa saw nothing wrong with the system; it took a lot of work to run this big domicile the Coalition provided for her small school; the slaves they also provided did that work. And, Shaylah thought with a qualm, subtly indoctrinated the cadets in the attitude that this was the normal and right way of life.

  “All right,” Califa agreed after a moment. “I know how you are about your privacy. I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

  “Yes.” Shaylah smiled. “I presume you still preside over the awed cadets at the head table.”

  “Of course.” She grinned. “It’s on a dais now. One must remind them of their lowly place, mustn’t one?” She winked at Shaylah. “Check the storage bay,” she said, then turned and strode unevenly down the long hall.

  THE MASSAGE POOL worked its magic, and Shaylah fell so deeply into sleep on the wide, body-conforming bed that even her ever-reliable inner alarm barely woke her just before dusk. She rose quickly, feeling at least physically better. Yawning, she walked over to the counter that held her bag and tugged out the gleaming antique silver hairbrush that had been her mother’s. It always took a while to undo the tangle of her hair and smooth it to its usual shining black mass, but it felt so good to have it down and flowing free instead of mashed under her combat helmet that she didn’t mind.

  She went to the storage bay and pulled it open. Califa had hinted at something, but still Shaylah was surprised at what she pulled out. The soft material of the gown gleamed gold, and she smiled. The first time she’d visited Califa, right after she’d first been given the Sunbird, Califa had left her a plain white gown, in honor of the new ship. When she’d come after her first real fight, it had been bronze. Then, after her first medal, silver. The gold, she supposed, was in honor of the last battle. She had, it seemed, arrived at last, in Califa’s eyes. And as anyone in the Coalition from cadet on up knew, that was an accomplishment not to be taken lightly.

  Shaylah slipped the dress on with a sigh. Once, achieving this status had meant everything to her. Now she felt nothing except a weariness that sleep could not assuage. It showed in her eyes; even she could see it: The usually bright blue looked dull and flat.

  She studied herself critically in the mirror. She had lost weight, but it only seemed to make the dress cling more closely to what curves there were. The low neck revealed more of the pale skin of her breasts than she would have liked—it was more Califa’s taste than her own—but the cool, smooth fabric felt wonderful and set off her ebony hair.

  Making her way to Califa’s table was an ordeal; she had become, she realized, somewhat of a public figure. She was recognized by the cadets, who began to chatter about the “great victory” she had achieved for the Coalition. She supposed she should be flattered, but all she wanted was to forget about it.

  “By Eos,” she muttered as she sat down and Califa waved the crowd of admirers into silence, “this hero business is a nuisance.”

  Something flickered in Califa’s eyes, and Shaylah wondered if her friend resented her, or at least the fact that she had continued with the Legion while Califa had been forced to retire. Then it was gone, so quickly she began to doubt if she’d seen it at all. Besides, Califa was more famous now than she had ever been as a Legion pilot, not to mention having been promoted to full major for her accomplishments here.

  “Gold looks wonderful on you,” Califa said, eyeing the dress. “And you’ve earned it. And I see you’re still turning every male head in the place,” she added with a grin. “Long legs, black hair, and big blue eyes do it every time.”

  “Look who’s talking.” Shaylah grinned back. “You’ve got the same coloring as I do.”

  Close, she amended to herself. Califa’s paler blue eyes were much more conspicuous beneath her short-cropped hair, and cool could become icy when she turned her intense regard on something.

  They talked of old times for a while, Academy days and their first missions together, while they ate the meal that was everything Califa had promised.

  “I haven’t had a brollet steak since I left home,” she said at last, after swallowing the last tender bite.

  “Too bad they can’t seem to live anywhere but on Arellia,” Califa said.

  “Well, they do well enough there to make up for it,” Shaylah said wryly. “The growers spend more time chasing them off than growing their crops.” She smiled at Califa. “But it was wonderful. Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome. It’s the least I can do. I mean, I never would have been able to convince Legion Command to start this place if you hadn’t volunteered the land.”

  Shaylah merely shrugged. It had seemed a small enough thing at the time; her family had owned but never used the plot. She’d never expected it to turn into anything as exalted as this.

  Califa looked over her shoulder then and nodded. Something flickered in her eyes as she said, “Wait until you taste the brandy.”

  “I can’t wait. I haven’t had Carelian brandy in ages.” She felt suddenly ungrateful. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, Califa. My favorite foods from home, and now this.”

  “It was nothing,” Califa assured her, that odd glint still in her pale eyes.

  “No, really, it was—”

  Shaylah stopped dead as the heavy decanter of brandy appeared on the table before her, placed there carefully by a strongly muscled arm that was nearly as golden as the liquid itself. Her gaze jerked upward.

  He was, without a doubt, the most incredible male she had ever seen, and over the years and the worlds, she had seen a few. He was golden, from the sleek skin rippling over taut muscle to the thick, shaggy mane of hair that hung past his shoulders, hair that was every color from flaxen to deep, rich amber-blond. His shoulders were wide and strong, his naked chest was broad and smoothly hairless, giving emphasis to the scattering of fine golden hairs below his navel.

  That scattering of hair thickened as it trailed down below the edge of the trewscloth he wore. She felt an odd flush of heat as she looked at the full, masculine contours the brief garment barely covered. He seemed to gleam in the soft light.

  Were his eyes golden as well? she wondered. She couldn’t tell; he was staring at the floor as he stood quietly by the table as if awaiting orders.

  Orders. She sucked in her breath as the realization hit. Her gaze snapped to his neck, and something painful coiled and shifted inside her.

  He was a slave. Only now did it hit her, the sum of all the details she’d seen but hadn’t registered in her perusal. His wrists bore the mark of chains long worn. Her eyes flicked down the long, leanly muscled legs to his feet; the marks were there, too, around the ankles, the scars that marred the beautiful golden skin.

  She vaguely heard Califa giggle. “Like him? I knew you would.”

  Shaylah didn’t answer. She looked up once more, feeling foolish as she realized she was hoping she was mistaken, that the
golden band around his neck was merely decoration of some sort. But there was no denying the purpose of the thick, heavy collar; the glowing system lights told her more than she wanted to know.

  No simple, single control for this one. This was the golden collar, the highest level, with all systems implanted. The pain light was there, yellow and unblinking. But the blue was there too, the brain wave synchronizer, the device that kept all but the most recalcitrant of slaves cooperative.

  Its glow was faint, indicating that only the mildest regulation was being used now. A monitoring, really, the system activated only so that any abnormal activity—such as an urge for freedom, she thought sourly—would be sensed and stopped at once. At the other extreme she knew the system produced a kind of hypnosis, an adjusting of brain activity that was directed by whoever held the control unit set to that individual frequency. The possessor of that unit literally controlled the slave’s mind and could make him think, do, or say whatever the controller wished.

  She knew she was dwelling on these ugly facts in order to avoid looking at the third light on the collar. It wasn’t lit at all, but she knew it was red. The malignant, glowing red that meant that at any moment his life could be snuffed out by one tiny move of a finger on a control unit. Her stomach knotted painfully.

  “Dazzling, isn’t he? Not my type, of course. I prefer Omegans, myself. But I may try him myself one day soon. He’s only just arrived. His first service was at the Legion Club on Clarion, and they train them well there.”

  Shaylah sucked in a breath at Califa’s words. She had forgotten the other purpose of the blue hypnotic system. Somehow that was the worst, and that tight, hurting knot in her belly cramped again. That this beautiful, powerful creature should be forced to turn that magnificent body over to whomever held the controller, for that person to use for his or her own pleasure, sickened her. She had to look away.

  “I’ve heard some . . . rather incredible stories,” Califa was saying. “He’s quite something in the stamina department, I hear. And I can vouch myself for the fact that he is, shall we say, amply endowed?”

  Not for the first time Shaylah cursed her pale Arellian skin; she could feel the blush creeping up her throat.

  “Califa,” she said, her eyes flicking back to the man who stood motionless beside the table, still staring compliantly at the floor, as if his most intimate actions and parts were not being discussed in front of him.

  “Really, Shaylah,” she said. “You’re much too sensitive. I had to inspect him, didn’t I? I paid dearly to get him. They’re very rare, you know.”

  She looked back at Califa. “They?”

  “Why, I thought you guessed. He’s a Triotian.”

  Shaylah nearly gasped. Her head snapped around again, and she knew her jaw had dropped as she stared again at the golden man.

  She could see it now, the legendary beauty of Trios in his build, his fitness, his coloring. Legendary, and practically extinct. It was like looking at the last surviving Arellian lion, tawny-gold and sinuously graceful, his wild spirit restrained only by the collar that bound him, a beautiful, sad example of the last of his breed.

  “Triotian,” she whispered. Rare was not the word for it; if there were a handful of survivors from the Trios massacre scattered throughout the system, she would be surprised. “His eyes,” she murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. Somehow it seemed imperative that she see his eyes. She had to know if they were like the lion’s, not in the matching golden color, but in the look of resigned fury at his captivity.

  Califa had heard her. “You may raise your eyes,” she intoned to the slave. When he didn’t move, her hand went to the controller on her belt. Before Shaylah could protest, it was too late; she sensed the sudden tensing of his muscles as the pain jolted through him.

  “Raise your eyes,” Califa said; it was unmistakably an order this time.

  Slowly, the golden head came up. Shaylah’s breath caught in her throat. His eyes, set in a sculpted face that rivaled the incredible body in pure male beauty, were nothing like the lion’s. They were green, brightly, vividly green, the green of an Arellian starflower, the green of the grass she had heard once covered the rolling landscape of Trios. And there was nothing of resignation in them, nothing of a caged restraint. His body might be chained, but Shaylah knew with that first look that this spirit would never submit.

  And then, so completely that she wondered if she’d imagined it, the life in those green eyes was gone. In its place was the flat, dull, lifeless look of the slave, of the deadened soul, the cold ashes of a crushed fire.

  “Introduce yourself,” Califa commanded.

  There was a perfectly timed pause, just long enough to create the speculation he might refuse, yet too short for Califa to resort to the controller. Then he spoke, in a low, rough voice that sent a shiver racing up Shaylah’s spine.

  “I am called Wolf.”

  “Called?” she asked softly. Not named, called. She saw something flicker in those green eyes, but it was gone too quickly for her to name it.

  “Show her why we call you that.”

  Shaylah smothered her irritation at Califa’s tone; when dealing with slaves, Califa’s superior attitude truly came to the. fore.

  There was that moment of delay once more, and Califa’s brows furrowed. But in the moment when she moved her hand toward the controller at her belt, the man called Wolf lifted his left arm. His chiseled face expressionless, he turned his hand palm up in front of Shaylah. This time her gasp escaped. The inner surface of his wrist was a mass of scar tissue, thick and shiny. It explained, she guessed, why the two outer fingers on that hand were frozen in a slight curl, while the others moved normally.

  “Do you remember the old Triotian legends?” Califa asked. Unable to tear her eyes away from the grisly sight, Shaylah shook her head numbly. “You should; we studied them enough at the institute. And you used to tease me about the one I was named after. Don’t you remember about the wolf, that mythical creature of Trios that would gnaw off his own paw rather than stay trapped?”

  “Eos.” Shaylah whispered the oath in awe.

  “He did it on Clarion. Used the edge of the wristcuffs, sharpened on the stones of the market wall. If they hadn’t discovered it, he could have slipped the loose end of the chains through the ring on the wall and been gone.”

  “Minus his hand,” Shaylah hissed through teeth clenched against the nausea that rose in her at the thought.

  “As it was, he nearly bled to death. And he did lose the use of two fingers.” Califa shrugged. “It was a good thing for me, though. The Club wanted to be rid of him, because he was too much trouble. And since he was maimed, I got him for a lot less than he would have cost if he’d been perfect.”

  For the first time Shaylah wondered just how deep that coldness she had occasionally sensed in her friend ran. Califa herself was not “perfect,” and if anyone had suggested her wound made her less desirable, Shaylah was certain Califa would slice that person’s tongue out. But the man called Wolf was after all, Califa would say, only a slave.

  Reluctantly, but somehow unable to stop herself, she lifted her gaze once more to his eyes. She knew by the flash in the green depths—a flash of puzzlement, surprise, or sardonic amusement, she couldn’t tell—that her emotions must be showing in her face.

  “Perhaps, then,” she said softly to Califa, all the while never looking away from him, “it’s just as well.”

  She was sure of his reaction this time; one golden brow lifted in surprise.

  “Wolf!”

  Califa snapped the word out, her hand hovering over the amber button on the controller. He continued to look at Shaylah for that perfectly timed instant, then lowered his eyes submissively. Shaylah knew slaves were not allowed such liberties as expressing emotions. They spoke only when spoken to, looked at you only when given permiss
ion. And answered, not asked, questions. But anyone, she thought, who thought this man broken was a fool.

  “Go now,” Califa ordered.

  As his head moved in an obedient nod, Shaylah saw his eyes flick to her once more. The surprise had faded, to be replaced by a look that made her feel oddly warm. Then the man called Wolf turned and left them. Shaylah watched him go, admiring the strong, graceful stride, heating up again at the taut, muscled curve of his buttocks flexing in the trewscloth that barely covered the essentials. At the same time that cold, hard pain that had taken up residence in her at the first realization that he was a slave tightened another notch at the degradation of this proud, magnificent male animal.

  “Sometimes I wonder if he’s worth so much trouble,” Califa said with a sigh. “No wonder the Club got rid of him. Do you know he tried to rip the collar off, once? I don’t think he even realized it was surgically implanted.”

  It was all Shaylah could do not to throw her glass of the precious brandy. “Pardon him,” she said tightly, “for not knowing the intricacies of enslavement.”

  “Would you rather he be treated like the rest of the Triotian survivors?” Califa said defensively. “Worked to death in the mines or the labor camps?”

  “He might think it a better bargain than prostituting himself.”

  “Perhaps,” Califa said, sounding stung, “you think I should have left him on Clarion. Kryos, the slave trader, was ready to put his eyes out.”

  Shaylah shut her own eyes against the images those words brought to her. She’d offended her friend, she knew, but somehow she just couldn’t take things like this as lightly as she used to. Maybe she’d seen too many people fighting and dying to save their homes and families, like the Triotians had. Maybe she’d seen too many brave men and women who had been herded away to the camps Califa spoke of.

  Maybe, she thought wearily, she was just too damn tired to think straight. She shouldn’t be taking it out on an old friend who was trying to make the best out of what was left to her after her flying career had been abruptly ended.