The Sarran Plague (The Sarrans Book 1)

by A. C. Katt

  Tonas pulled his finger and attempted to spread more precum around and into Jonal’s channel, but a firm hand grabbed his wrist, no longer able to lie compliant. ::Now!:: Jonal demanded.

  He lined up his throbbing cock with Jonal’s ready hole and pushed. Jonal’s hips had moved up to meet him. He felt the sphincter muscle pop, and then grab his member, squeezing his cock in joyous welcome. He felt his lover’s heat for the very first time. Tonas was inside his Firefly. He thrust and thrust again, harder, his mind releasing the psychic hold on his and his lover’s release. Mindless, he pushed, Jonal meeting him stroke for stroke. And then came culmination; together they flew in sensation so enthralling, so rapturous, they were as one with the universe. Though they had believed they knew each other’s hearts, it was only now with the circle complete that reassurances became unnecessary. Love a certainty. They lay replete in each other’s arms.

  ::She was with us, you know, My Light,:: Jonal’s mind whispered.

  ::I know. She always is and always will be. Sleep now, my Firefly. Tonight we loved. Tomorrow, we war.::

  * * * *

  Tigger didn’t like being carried; but Anya’s grip on his coat was tight. She was stressed and hurting. Tonas and Jonal had little time to explain the circumstances of the separation. Mark told her he would come by and explain in a few tines. Anya hated being treated like “the girl.” She heard Jonal go near ballistic when he spotted Flagen at the edge of the security party. Now there’s an oxymoron, Anya thought. I don’t feel too secure and this is no party I want to attend.

  The Sarran seemed to have taken to cats. They had a hard time with the concept of pets, animals kept with no purpose other than entertainment, but once the concept was grasped, they all wanted one of their own. From what she had been told, Anya was taking temporary shelter with Cynthia (Syn) Sinclair, the only other woman on board with a pet. Syn kept a White Persian, known as the Duchess. Duchess, as Tigger, had freedom of the ship. Tigger and Duchess had charmed the crew. The cats served as ambassadors for the Earthen fem to those few Sarran who had been either disinclined or neutral on the Elder’s decision to mate WarriorPairs to Earthen women. The Sarran Warriors admired the loyalty and ferocity both Tigger and Duchess had displayed in protection of their companions. The feline personality’s basic refusal to grovel and beg also appealed to a culture built on strength and honor. Anya had heard a mess chef comment on Beast’s intelligence when Tigger had waited until the chef was busy elsewhere, claimed his prize, and was licking his paws upon the mess chef’s return. Strategy, tactic, mission accomplished, then, bravery in the face of the enemy. To a Sarran, a cat made a perfect companion. The parade marched into the transport lift. The one called TeZarron stepped aside and let her enter, followed by the rest of her escort. Anya stroked Tigger’s ears with her fingers. She reached under his chin and nuzzled the area just to the side of his whiskers.

  Anya always fussed over Tigger when she was agitated. Somehow, it calmed her nerves. He was heavy and difficult to carry, but she held on to him for dear life. Until she was reunited with Jonal and Tonas, he was all she had. She wondered how life could be so capricious giving her the love and security she had always craved with such poignant desperation then, taking it away after a few short risings. She continued to pet Tigger as the transport doors opened with a whoosh.

  “This way, Princess,” TeZarron tapped her elbow, steering her down another long corridor. The door panels seemed closer together here than they were in the section of Brightstar off the Command Bridge. Anya surmised they were in the section of the ship that housed single crew members, perhaps the enlisted men, although she knew nothing of Sarran military rankings. She studied TeZarron, the man to whom Tonas and Jonal deferred as High Prince and Elder Lord. He looked to be about forty, by her guess, six or seven cycles their senior. His hair was a deep chestnut brown, very long and straight. He had high cheekbones and his skin was the deep olive tone of an Earthen from the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet his eyes were unexpectedly greenish-gray with an almost imperceptible slant. She wondered if he was FireClan or LightClan. If he was the fire, he had it hidden under dry ice. She remembered from medical school, dry ice could burn. His aristocratic courtesy was inherent but the characteristic warmth of the Sarran Warrior toward fems was not evident. As an empath, her ability to do things with her gift was slight. However, using her empathic ability to read the emotional state of those around her had been her survival mechanism of choice. This man did not read. Her slight poke came upon a barrier of nothingness.

  They approached panels halfway down the corridor from the transport. The panels opened in an instant and out stepped the physical reincarnation of Marilyn Monroe.

  “I know,” the vision snapped, “deal with it.” The Marilyn clone turned her back and waved the small party into the room.

  TeZarron looked as if he had been struck dumb. He turned, bowed slightly from the waist, “Fem Sinclair. I apologize for the haste and the necessity of the intrusion. Anya will not need your hospitality for more than a rising. I beg for your tolerance and understanding.”

  The blonde ignored TeZarron and reached around to Anya, “Hi, Cynthia Sinclair, Syn, for short. Welcome. Second bunk is on that side. I’ll help you get settled.”

  Anya was fascinated. Syn had totally ignored TeZarron, but Anya felt the tether. TeZarron bowed slightly again in her direction and then Anya’s.

  “Princess Anya, if you need anything please do not hesitate to contact the Bridge; Fem Sinclair.” With that and one more bow, he left the room.

  “Am I crazy, or did this joint just triple in size when Mr. High and Mighty left?” Syn commented to Anya, caustically.

  “He certainly is a presence,” Anya answered. “I’m Dr. Anya Forrest, former resident doctor in pediatrics at Manhattan General Hospital in New York City. This “Princess” is their invention. I’m an orphan who got lucky with a college scholarship.”

  “Nice to meet you, Doc. I’m Cynthia Sinclair, former prostitute, Philadelphia Center City gutters.” Anya observed Syn tightening her shoulders waiting for Anya to make a remark.

  Anya replied, raising an eyebrow, “I might be mistaken, but White Persians don’t generally populate the gutters of Philly.”

  “Caught me, huh. You don’t seem to be one of those snots, but I couldn’t be sure,” Syn said casually. “I had to let you know how it was up front.” The violet eyes with lashes that swept her checks looked down, as if she were waiting for Anya’s recriminations.

  “How did it happen?” Anya asked.

  “Like most things— accidentally. I was from one of the Main Line families, over-bred to shut up, look good, and marry well. I didn’t fit the mold of country club princess.” She looked down disparagingly at her lush curves. “This is not Ann Taylor or Laura Ashley, it’s Fredericks of Hollywood and no matter how prim and proper I was, I still looked like a hooker. Platinum hair with dark lashes and brows combined with C+ cups don’t equal Main Line chic. From the time I was ten, I was told to tone it down.” Syn shrugged, her breasts pushed against the plain white blouse, the buttons ready to pop. She spoke to Anya as she moved around the room, efficiently unpacking the few things Anya had taken from Quarters.

  “Nothing ever fit me, top too big, waist too small, ass too round. My hair was wispy and refused to be properly constrained. When I dressed up, I looked like a high-class whore. When I dressed down, I looked like a streetwalker. In my freshman year, one of my father’s friends cornered me in the study and started feeling me up, my father walked in and that was that. I was officially a slut. One of his country club cronies couldn’t have been a child molester. Father started smacking me around. He said I was an embarrassment to the family and to the community in which I was raised. Therefore it was perfectly fine for him to come home after a Sunday Golf outing with the boys, eighteen holes and seven Vodka Martinis, to take me into his study, try to fondle my breasts and finger my cunt, then beat the living shit out of me because he said I provoked him.
I got sick of pancake makeup to hide the bruises I got while he derided me for temptation and whoring around. Of course most of my bruises came trying to prevent him from making me into a whore. I was still technically a virgin when I left.

  In my sophomore year, I decided, why bother; might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. I booked with this guy, Osco, he was my dealer. I used to get through it, you know? I went to Philly and disappeared. Started out with a chicken shit habit and ended up with King Kong.”

  “I’m familiar with the term,” Anya said.

  “I forgot you were a doc.” Syn’s voice chilled.

  “Yeah, a doctor, but also, an orphan. I didn’t use, but had friends who did. Even helped a few detox outside of the approved system,” Anya replied as if just stating the facts.

  “After a while Osco said I had to earn my keep. So, I hooked for a bit, but didn’t like it. I told him if he loved me, he wouldn’t make me. He told me that I was a piece of white trash only good for pushing pussy and floating.”

  Anya considered Syn as she continued her vocabulary a peculiar mixture of Bryn Mawr and street slang. She knew from her work as a pediatrician that income did not determine a parent’s predilection to abusive behavior. She also recognized Syn as a survivor. Anya’s eyes had never left Syn’s face.

  “…wound up dumped in the street. I found a shelter and did the deal cold. They helped me get on my feet. They called my parents, who swore I was dead. They had the certificate all made out, nice and neat.”

  “Damn,” Anya said, as she shook her head, “God damn. What did you do?”

  “Jonesy, a social worker at the shelter gave me a DNA test and got a court order. I signed an agreement that in return for living expenses and college, I wouldn’t darken their door or file charges of abuse. I stayed on at the shelter, went to Temple and wound up with a degree in social work, running the shelter, until all of this. One of the bitches on board is the daughter of my father’s friend. He told his family in confidence what a whore I was, so that his own daughter wouldn’t be tainted.” Syn looked at Anya in defiance, expecting her contempt and conceding to it without a struggle.

  Anya held out her arms and Syn flew right into them. These bitches are not going to get away with this. “Don’t worry about those bitches, Syn. I have a little pull around here. If I'm not happy, Jonal and Tonas are not happy.” And with that enigmatic statement, Anya planned, for the first time in her life, to take advantage of position.

  “Why? Why would you help me? Why would they?” Bright watery violet eyes with sparkling gold streaks stared at ice blue ones begging to be understood.

  “Because I’m theirs. I’m also an empath. Don’t panic. I don’t read minds, I just sense feelings. It’s stronger now, since I mated—if you lied, I’d know.” Anya smiled, “You are a cat person. Sarrans consider cats special. The cats protect us, ergo, we’re special. Besides, cats are picky. They don’t stay with bitches; they smell too much like dogs.”

  Syn giggled in response, and the two Beasts jumped into their owners laps and purred. A tentative friendship and alliance had been forged.

  They sat back and relaxed into the strange and comfortable silence of old acquaintance. Anya felt that she and Syn fit each other like well-worn shoes. When the question came, it flowed out toward her as if the conversation had a lull of only a few minutes. Syn looked up from The Duchess, directing her violet eyes to meet Anya’s. “What is it like, Anya, to do it with someone you love? I’ve done it in defiance, I’ve done it for drugs, I’ve done it for survival, but never for love. Please, tell me.”

  Anya leaned forward and a disturbed Tigger jumped to the floor. “I’m a pediatrician, a scientist, not a poet. How do I describe that which has no description? Wait.” Anya shivered with heat, in that instant she was with Tonas and Jonal, riding their whirlwind. She grabbed Syn hand and said, “Like this…”

  Chapter 13

  “Let me have men about me that are fat,

  Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’nights

  Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;

  He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.”

  —William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2

  Sarran Calendar: Cycle 9435.B1116

  Earth Calendar: July 26th, after midnight

  Bane’s tread was soft yet it still echoed across the vehicle docking chamber; an empty storage bay inhabited by the lightslips, used by Sarran scouts and Psi Security. The docking bay doors had not opened since the Ipz attack. Upon assumption of command, the Admirals sealed the bay. They noted that in a major design flaw it shared a wall with Engineering near the jump engines. It would have been all too easy to ram the wall. As it was, it remained under guard.

  It had taken tides of determined effort to map an alternate entry, bypassing security through the ship’s skeletal structure to put Bane’s boots on the grill-plated deck. His contact had his own methods and he kept them to himself. Sarran intrigue survived by using two techniques, isolation and ignorance. Although the Codex forbade using psi to read without explicit consent—Bonds and Bonding being the single exception— Bane trusted no one to play by the rules. He hadn’t. Reading without consent was one of the six major taboos on the planet. It was the only one he could not, had not, broken. Not out of honor, Bane cared naught for honor or Sarran.

  He had raped and murdered a femspring then skewered the evidence to point to his innocent brother. Flagen had to be psi-scanned to prove his innocence. After that, he was never the same, no longer the favored son. Bane violated the femspring because she seemed to favor his brother. His brother would never have what he, himself, could not.

  His fathers knew early that he wasn’t quite “right.” Their Triad, his fathers and their fem, had separated him from his brother at an early age, afraid he would damage his brother. They never managed to do the job. Flagen always reached out to Bane sooner or later.

  He reached out instinctively, because deep inside he knew that they shared a very grave sin, an abomination that was an accident of birth. They were BondMates. Flagen could not put a word to the way he felt about Bane, his emotional center was too badly scarred; but Bane knew, he had even researched the syndrome. The answer was to separate the afflicted offspring as soon as possible. His fathers had waited too long.

  He knew that the fathers planned to give the Marquisate to Flagen and he wasn’t about to let that happen. He knew that someone would be probed for the femspring’s violation and murder, he had merely made sure it wasn’t him. He knew Flagen, the honorable fool, would insist on the probe and he calculated the exact odds against and for his desired result. A damaged Flagen could not inherit.

  Flagen was a powerful telepath, but damaged by the mind probe, he was too unstable to explore the paths of the delicate neurosurgery he longed to study. He would never win his own nobility, which suited Bane nicely; and by his “evidence” he guaranteed that the fathers would not bestow the family title in that direction. It was he who “suggested” to his brother that Flagen’s study partner, Tonas, was his BondMate and encouraged his confused brother in that notion at every chance occasion. He also arranged for all of Jonal and Tonas’s close calls so that no suspicion would ever fall his way and he could play. Bane’s friend would never be able to get him what he needed. No one could.

  He pretended a BondStir with Mark Stern just to fuck with the Earthen’s mind until his clients expressed an interest. Then he became interested enough to go digging.

  Treason was his final insult to the culture that bore him. Yet, the sixth taboo remained unreached. Bane could not psi another’s mind because his psi was so low, it was near null. Mark’s ability to send to and receive from Bane was possible because Mark had powerful psi, possibly off the chart. Bane recognized that the rising they met because of his experience with Flagen. Mark projected with such intensity that Bane, even with limited ability, was able to receive. His clients dug deep and found Mark’s Earthen records. Mark was the prize. His
formula plus Mark’s genetic material would gain Bane his own planet and plenty of humanoid flesh to run the place catering to his more exotic tastes. Mark said the Earthen code for Bondage and Discipline was safe, sane and consensual. Bane threw back his head and laughed out loud. Mark would be his to use hereafter; safe, sane and consensual would be three words his boy would never hear again.

  Bane knew this was his last hurrah. The humans had a science that the Sarran had forsaken. It was Psychiatry. He read Mark’s medical text and found a pointedly accurate description of his psyche. His profile labeled him a “sociopath, potential serial killer.” He knew the Earthen psychiatrists would come eventually, there were probably some aboard. They wouldn’t be able to resist an entire planet suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and it would be, along with the cats and the fems, one of Earths only exportable commodities.

  Bane wrote “sociopath/psychopath” large across his records. Once the Sarrans gained exposure to Earthen Sciences, his time loomed short. And yes, Bane agreed he missed some essential part of being a Sarran or for that matter, a human. He arrived broken, and deemed himself irreparable.

  The rustling scrape of boot on metal brought Bane to attention. Septis appeared almost as a phantasm from the forsaken stairwell to the command corridor. Bane wasted no effort on civility. Each Warrior knew what brought him to this place; it was something that was neither asked, articulated, or acknowledged. It made things simple. There was no need for a traitor to hide his contempt for the other’s corruption as opposed to their own noble reasons. Bane knew he had no noble reasons, just unrelenting greed and an overwhelming need to punish his betters. He knew his one redeeming trait was his honesty with himself and that was the only virtue he thought necessary for survival. He crossed the grid meeting Septis halfway. “They come?”

  “Aye, they come. Next rising. Ten tines. Diversion in Engineering, boarding on Bridge. Transport through here,” Septis answered. “You have the formula?”