Lord of the Storm

by Justine Davis

  She walked quickly to the counter and picked up the system card. She inserted it into the controller with a hand that was almost as unsteady as his had been. The lights flashed on, glowing steadily. She walked back to him, but after a few fruitless moments, she swore again.

  “Eos, I can’t remember!” She looked at him. “Tell me.”

  His voice was flat when he answered. “The blue one.”

  Flushing, her gaze shot to his face. “Not that.”

  That bitterness flashed in his eyes again. “Then perhaps you want the yellow one.”

  She nearly dropped the controller. “Why in Hades would I want that?”

  He just looked at her.

  “Why would you think I want to cause you more pain?” she demanded.

  “Because you asked for me this time. When I am . . . like this.”

  “You think I enjoy it? That seeing you like this . . . excites me?”

  “There are those to whom it brings pleasure.”

  “I sent for you,” she said fiercely, “because they were going to give you to a local Carelian tonight. For mating. I’ve seen what they do to those they mate with. And this one . . . she is particularly vicious.”

  “Degrees of Hades,” he said, with that look again, flat, dull, resigned. Shaylah felt as if her heart had been ripped open, and she struggled with the controller once more. At last, in desperation, she turned it over. Something about the odd-shaped button on the underside triggered a memory, and she quickly pushed it.

  The snap as his chains unlocked startled her, but it was clearly nothing compared to his astonishment. He stared at her as the cuffs fell away from his wrists, revealing reddened, raw bands of skin.

  “You . . . wish me unchained?”

  “Of course, or I wouldn’t have done it,” she retorted, relieved that she had found the right switch. She picked up the fallen cuffs and chain with a grimace and stuffed them out of sight beneath the bed. Only then did she realize he had actually voiced a question. He must have been truly startled, she thought grimly.

  He was staring at her in bafflement. Shaylah let out a compressed breath; this was going to be more difficult than she had expected. Even seated he was looking paler by the moment, and she was afraid for him.

  “What I wish,” she said, “is that you lie down.”

  After a barely perceptible pause, he bowed his head. “As you command.” He reached once more for the ties at his hip.

  “Don’t,” she repeated hastily.

  He looked up, clearly puzzled. “You asked Major Claxton for me,” he said slowly, again careful not to actually voice a question. “You wish me unchained. You wish me to lie down. But you do not wish me naked.” Her color deepened, but faded as something that could have been apprehension flickered in his eyes. He went on in a low voice, “My appearance displeases you.”

  “Eos, no,” she exclaimed. “You’re the most—” She stopped, knowing she would sound like a giddy cadet if she told him what she really thought of his wild, golden looks. She took a breath and began again.

  “Wolf, listen,” she explained, “I do have . . . some wishes, but now is not the time. We’ll talk about them later. Now you need rest. Sleep.”

  “You wish me to sleep . . . here?”

  She’d startled another question out of him, Shaylah thought. Progress indeed. “Where else?”

  “Usually, if I’m told to stay . . .” His glance went to the floor beside the bed. There was a metal clasp set into the wall just above the floor, at just the right height to hold a chained slave.

  “Well this is not ‘usually,’” she said, her voice sharp with anger.

  He stared at her. “No, it is not,” he said softly.

  Something in that look warmed her, and her voice was gentler when she went on. “You won’t get the kind of rest you need on the floor. Lie down, Wolf.”

  Slowly, he did, the effort it took for him to lift his legs onto the bed making her own muscles ache anew. She noticed again the raw, red skin of his wrists and ankles and went to her bag for the healer’s spray she always carried in case of injury. As she re-crossed the room she noticed a small, dark spot on the floor. Then another, closer to the door, then another. She leaned over to look closer, then wheeled around and strode quickly back to the bed.

  “You’re bleeding,” she exclaimed, her eyes searching him for the fresh wound. “It’s on the floor.”

  He lifted himself shakily to one elbow. “I will clean it.” He started to rise, but Shaylah stopped him.

  “Don’t be silly. Where is the wound?”

  “I don’t—” He broke off as she looked at him sternly. “Right ankle, I believe.”

  She looked and quickly found the laceration. “They keep you in leg irons?” she asked, her voice quavering.

  “Only at night.”

  “Or when administering punishment?” she guessed, and knew she was right when he looked away. She bit her lip as she sprayed on the combination disinfectant and cell renewal formula. “I’m sorry, Wolf. I didn’t know this would happen.”

  He went rigid, and when she looked up he was staring at her. This went beyond surprise; he was stunned. “You are apologizing? To a slave?”

  “To a man,” she said softly, as she recapped the spray.

  He was silent for a moment. “I don’t understand you.”

  She smiled wryly. “Funny, most of my friends say the same thing.” She straightened up. “Sleep. Then we will talk of . . . my wishes, all right?” He looked at her warily, and she sensed he was looking for the trap. “No catch, Wolf. Just rest.” He didn’t believe her, and she couldn’t blame him. For now, at least, she was going to have to pull rank. “Close your eyes, Wolf,” she ordered.

  “As you command,” he muttered. The gold-tipped lashes lowered, but Shaylah knew he was far from sleep. Resignedly she reached for the controller. The training was coming back to her now, and she was able to find the blue setting she wanted. In seconds she saw his body slacken as his brain-wave pattern changed to match that of the transmitter, sending him into sleep.

  Shaylah watched him for a long time before she finally switched off the controller. He slept on, a deep, natural sleep now, and she nodded in satisfaction as she curled up on the padded bench built into the wall next to the bed.

  When she woke hours later, she saw the light blinking on the communicator and realized the beep had been what awakened her. She lowered the volume so it wouldn’t disturb the sleeping Wolf, then played the message. It was Califa.

  “I trust you’re sufficiently entertained, since you missed firstmeal,” she said, with a teasing glint in her eyes. “I can have midday sent to your quarters if you like. And dinner as well, for that matter.” The image giggled. “Just let me know. Enjoy, and later you can tell me if he’s as good as they say. Perhaps I’ll have to try him myself sooner than I had planned.”

  The message wound to a stop, and Shaylah stared at the frozen image. Who was she, this woman she had flown with and fought beside? This woman whose life she had once saved, and who had once returned the favor? This woman who so casually accepted—or perhaps even ordered—the torture of a chained man until he could barely stand?

  “Have you always been like this and I just didn’t see it?” she muttered softly.

  She tried to tell herself it was the custom. The use of slaves, either in private homes or in the Legion Clubs scattered throughout the colonies, as solution to the physical needs of the various members of the Coalition Legion was an accepted practice. The Legion members were warriors and had earned such tribute, was the consensus. And if Shaylah hated the system, if she was uncomfortable with that portion of Coalition history which had brought those slaves from all of the far-flung worlds the Coalition had conquered, she knew it was she who was out of step.

  Moving
suddenly, she snapped off the receiver and turned on the transmitter. The message she recorded was short to the point of curtness, but she didn’t care.

  “Please have meals delivered to my quarters until I advise differently. And see that we’re not disturbed.”

  She sent it, then turned the unit off with a sharp, angry snap of her wrist. Aware of the tightness of muscles that had cramped on the small bench, she stretched to loosen them. Another hot plunge sounded appealing, she thought. She turned to go for her robe.

  He was awake and watching her. He looked better, she thought. Much better. The shadows beneath his eyes had faded, and he was much steadier. He said nothing.

  She didn’t know how long he’d been awake, but from the way he looked from the now inactive communicator to her, she guessed he had heard enough. Remembering Califa’s closing words, she was embarrassed. It was an uncomfortable feeling, being ashamed of a friend.

  “I’m going to soak,” she said. “Food should be here soon. We’ll talk then.”

  When she emerged from the pool, she dressed quickly in a comfortable jumpsuit; the luscious odor of food was making her empty stomach growl. She came into the room to find a big table laden with covered dishes and a silent Wolf sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

  She walked quickly to the table and lifted one of the thermal covers. The steaming aroma of spicy rockfowl met her nose, and she smiled when she heard Wolf’s stomach growl. There was a lot of food, but oddly, only one empty plate. She solved the problem by dividing the rockfowl and using its plate as a second. She began to fill the plate, lifting the other thermal covers as she went around the table.

  “You must be starving; your stomach’s growling,” she said. “Why didn’t you start?”

  His head came up. “You wish me to eat . . . with you?”

  Shaylah sighed. “Yes. I wish you to eat with me. I wish you to quit looking at the floor. I wish you to quit acting like you’ve broken the fifth stellar law if you ask a question. I wish—Never mind. Later. Eat.”

  As if on cue, his stomach gurgled again, and Shaylah grinned. She added a helping of steamed organics and held the plate out to him. He stared first at the food, then at her face, his eyes wide with shock. The irony of it hit her; the master, for all intents and purposes, serving the slave.

  “Eat,” she said again. He moved as if to reach for the plate, then stopped, still eyeing her warily. “Look,” she said quietly, “I know you don’t trust me. You have no reason to. I can only promise that I won’t consciously do anything to get you in trouble again. Please eat.”

  At last he took the proffered food. Shaylah couldn’t help noticing that, despite his obvious hunger, he had better table manners than most pilots she knew. They ate in silence, finishing virtually everything on the table.

  “I must have been really hungry,” she said as she wiped her fingers. “I usually can’t finish one of Califa’s meals.”

  Wolf’s plate hit the table with a thud.

  “What?” she asked. He didn’t answer. “You’re staring at the damn floor again. What did I say?”

  “I wasn’t expected to eat with you.”

  “Of course you were. Califa knows you are here. Why would you think that?”

  “One plate. And nothing left.”

  Shaylah’s brow furrowed; he was right. “But . . . she can’t have expected me to eat all this and not share it with you.”

  “She expected,” he said slowly, “that you would give me your leavings.”

  Shaylah sighed again, deeply. “I think,” she said, “it’s time to talk about those wishes of mine.”

  “As you command,” he answered reflexively, resuming the submissive posture.

  “That,” Shaylah said, “is first on my list. I don’t want to hear that anymore. I don’t want you to . . . to stand like that anymore. Or to choke on your questions. Got it?”

  “As you—” He caught himself. “If you wish.”

  “I do. And I don’t want you staring at the floor unless you’ve lost something.” His head came up. “Very good. Now relax.” Something flickered in his eyes, and Shaylah smiled wryly. “Can’t order that, can I?”

  “You did last night.” He looked surprised that he’d said it, and drew back a little as if he expected her to retaliate somehow. He glanced around the room, and it took her a moment to realize what he was looking for.

  “Yes, I did order it last night,” she agreed mildly. “You needed the rest, and you didn’t trust me enough to do it. And if you’re looking for the control unit,” she added, glancing at her flight bag, “I put it away.”

  He met her eyes then. “Why?”

  “Just put it down to one of my wishes.”

  The green eyes were filled with weary speculation. “You’ve said what you don’t want. What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to forget the chains for a while. I want you to move freely, to say what you want, to look me in the eye and not think you’ll be punished for it.” Shaylah took a deep breath. “I only have a short leave. I’d like you to stay here for that time. Away from . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she gestured vaguely toward the door. “Away from all that,” she finished rather lamely.

  One golden brow lifted. “You wish me to stay here”—he looked around at the spacious quarters—”with you? All the time?” She nodded. “Without chains? Without the control unit?” She nodded again.

  He studied her for a long moment. And then, in a voice that held nothing of the submissive slave and everything of a strong, dangerous man, he said softly, “Then tell me, Captain Graymist, what’s to keep me from killing you and escaping?”

  Chapter 3

  “YOU COULD TRY, I suppose,” she said calmly.

  Shaylah wasn’t surprised; she’d known from the first that this man was not beaten. Wolf stared at her; she met the steady green gaze levelly. After a long, silent moment he spoke again, in that same curious voice.

  “Somehow I don’t think it would be easy.”

  “No,” Shaylah agreed without conceit, “it wouldn’t.”

  “So, Captain. One of those questions you don’t want me to choke on. Why are you doing this?”

  She sighed. “That’s . . . complicated.”

  “Too complicated for a slave to understand, I presume.”

  Shaylah eyed him wryly. “I know you don’t have a high opinion of the Coalition, but don’t think that I’m a fool. You’re hardly stupid.”

  “High praise, from a Coalition hero.”

  Shaylah studied him for a moment. His tone had been undeniably mocking. The change in him was dramatic; it was almost as if he were intentionally goading her, for a reason she didn’t quite see. True, she had unchained him, but he still wore the collar, and the control unit, while out of sight, was not out of reach.

  “All right, then,” she said slowly, “I’m doing this because I hate what they’ve done to you. Because I hate the fact that they hide the reality of slavery behind fancy names. Because I hate the thought of what they make you do.”

  “So you thought you’d . . . what, be kind to a slave for a while, to ease your conscience?”

  “I have nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to do with this system,” Shaylah snapped. “I just thought you might welcome a few days of freedom, of doing and saying what you wish, of no one controlling you, of no one jolting you with pain to keep you properly in your place.”

  “And what do you gain?”

  Was it only moments ago she’d been wanting him to ask questions? Shaylah wondered. “I want someone to talk to who doesn’t run and tattle if I don’t spout the Coalition rhetoric,” she said impulsively, aware her words could get her into trouble.

  “Then perhaps you should get a pet.” Wolf lifted a brow. “Or is that what you’re doing?”
>
  Stung, Shaylah opened her mouth for a sharp retort. Then she shut it again, her brows furrowing as she studied him for a long, silent moment.

  “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? You’re trying to make me angry. Why?”

  Surprise showed in his face, as if he hadn’t expected her to realize that, but he merely shrugged wordlessly.

  “What were you trying to accomplish? To make me so angry that I would . . . what? Put you back in your chains? Use the controller on you? Change my mind and throw you out again?” His face didn’t change this time, but Shaylah caught the flicker in his eyes. Bewildered, she shook her head. “Why?”

  He only looked at her.

  “Wolf, I know you have no liking for the Coalition, and Eos knows you have reason—”

  “I abhor the Coalition,” he said flatly, “but that is only to be expected from one enslaved by it. It has nothing to do with this.”

  Shaylah was startled when he interrupted her, yet she welcomed it as a sign that he was growing to realize he could trust her not to punish him for speaking. Or, she thought glumly, he’d decided he was already in so much trouble a bit more didn’t matter.

  “Then what?” she asked. “Am I so . . . repulsive to you that even freedom is not worth spending time in my company?”

  Something odd came into his eyes then, something she didn’t recognize. “You’re hardly repulsive,” he said softly, paraphrasing her own words.

  More relieved at that than she cared to admit, Shaylah repeated her question. “Then why?”

  He let out a long breath. When he spoke, his words were strangely gentle. “You left one thing out of your tempting offer, Captain.”

  “What?”

  “What do I do when you leave?”

  Shaylah looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”

  “You are a woman of strong emotion, Captain,” he said in those same gentle tones. “Can’t you imagine what it would feel like to have a taste of freedom, knowing you will be cast back into Hades afterward, knowing that taste is all you will ever have?” Shaylah stared at him, wide-eyed. “Wouldn’t you wonder if maybe you would be better off not having that taste at all?”