Khim felt his breath catch and a kind of fury, where for a brief moment he wanted to kill that handler—not because Khim cared about Tabor, but because some instinct inside him wanted this dream to end, and that slave’s nightmare, as well as his own, was just beginning.
For ten years he had killed without conscience. Murdered. But war was war. It had its own rules, ethics, and reasons. Right or wrong, he’d been indoctrinated not to question his orders. Programmed. For the mind, whether vat-grown android or natural human, was easy to influence.
Sometimes he felt rage when he killed, but not toward himself, mostly toward the conditions that required so much violence. But never such fury as he felt right now. Which was strange to him, because wasn’t killing just about the worst thing one person could subject upon another?
Maybe not. Maybe enslavement was actually worse. Maybe causing continuous suffering to another for a dark act of pleasure was an evil of a richer grade.
Of course it was all evil, and as soon as Khim’s fury tried to surface, his system bombarded him with wave after wave of disorientation and he couldn’t find the energy to lift even a finger against those who manipulated and controlled him.
Now he was pushed forward into the water stream, and down, until he fell to his knees on the tile. The sting of his weight hitting the floor was muffled by the drug. Something soft entered him from behind, sluicing him inside with warm water. Horrified, he wanted to be sick but had no will to follow through with that urge.
Though the touch was clinical, it didn’t matter to him. He did not want it. He’d been given no chance to refuse.
While one handler worked on him from behind, another soaped up his hair and rinsed it.
The ministrations to Khim ended first. The other men went through a depilatory step and more rinsing. Khim had been bred to have no body hair except for his scalp, eyebrows, and eyelashes—another reason he’d been prized for the sex market when he could no longer serve as a soldier.
Khim was taken to a dryer where his hair was arranged and various lotions and scents were put on his skin. One handler dabbed gold dust around his eyes. The second oiled his behind—yet another violation he wanted to move away from, followed by another urge to lash out, to fight, immediately quelled by the zotic.
His eyes stung in a strange response to his horrible helplessness. If he shut them, the dizziness from the drug got worse, so he opened them and watched the handlers. His own two were male and wore tight shorts and tank tops, not seeming to care that their job got them soaked. They acted indifferent. Perhaps they were drugged as well, yet under better control of their faculties than the slaves they handled. They did not seem aroused by what they were doing, but once in a while they spoke to each other with furtive smiles.
“He’s a big one.” “Such beautiful eyes.” “This one will be the star tonight, for sure.”
They also gave short, clipped orders. “Turn.” “Left.” “Follow.” “This way.” “Bend.” “Legs spread.”
They did not console with their words, but they weren’t rough. Neither were they gentle, nor at all sympathetic.
When all three slaves were lined up, naked and glistening with lotions and powders, one handler came up alongside them and doused them with sweet smoke that smelled like strawberries slightly singed.
All the colors of the drying room, a jumble of pink-framed mirrors against red walls, ran together in Khim’s vision like a distorted, melted painting. His mind numbed out. He actually lost a little bit of time, maybe minutes, for it seemed he had only blinked when suddenly he found himself in a large room full of people mingling, drinking, and smoking. He did not remember walking there.
Khim and about a dozen other naked slaves stood on a sort of stage overlooking a party where more colors assaulted him, mixing and merging as if the whole event were being held underwater.
The room’s lighting was turned low, a dim bronze effect that made strange shadows on the wineglasses and on the wide white walls. There were low tables and lots of puffy-looking couches, love seats, and settees. Some were backless or had a pillowed rise at only one end, and they looked old-fashioned. There were also recessed alcoves framed by velvet curtains with gold cords, all standing open, showing plush beds within.
Khim’s mind took an inordinately long time to process it all, moving at a sluggish pace as if he were half-asleep. His body tingled. His skin felt flushed, as if all the longings of his frustrated ten years of life were brimming to overflow in this very moment, his body poised to a tense and focused need. He’d rarely felt this way—such focused lust. Such a fever. He’d been bred for fighting, not for any purposeful sex drive.
The drugs in his system changed all that. Now he waited with the others to be chosen. Hot. Itching. Aroused. As if the very blood in his veins were boiling.
And he hated it.
Already the moans of the slaves beside him echoed as the extra drugs they’d all been given took over, ruling their bodies with pure desire. The zotic caused a sort of selective muteness—none of them could speak—but humming, moaning, and groaning all came from a different part of the brain.
Khim refused to give in to his own moans collecting in his throat. He made a vow that he would differentiate himself from all the others in any way he could. If that meant not moaning, then he would remain silent.
Out the corner of his eye, he saw Valo and Tabor. They stood out from the flock, both more beautiful than anyone in the room. Already Tabor was getting attention as tuxedoed customers, all men with the look of the very rich, moved closer to where the demon-eyed man stood so they could appraise and inspect him. Tabor bared his teeth even as he moaned in pleasure at the attention.
There must have been a dress code, because everyone wore formal attire: tuxedos or tailcoats with glittering satin vests and black ties, or brushed silk kimonos. There were men of varying ages and sizes, all well-groomed, behaving as if this lavish party were the most normal event of their week.
Khim had expected women to be in attendance as well, but they were not. Then he remembered what Valo told him. House of Xavier was a men’s-only club, very private, very exclusive.
Just as Khim thought Tabor would be the first of them to be chosen, with men surrounding him as if he were some rare and magical sylph, looking up at him with hunger and licking their lips, a voice below Khim said, “What can you do with that metal hand of yours?”
Khim’s gaze fell on a man with bright red hair, shaved on one side, and a complexion that looked almost sunburned. He had no voice to reply. And even if he had, he would have no answer to that question.
When he did not react, the man laughed louder, bringing the attention of other men to his side.
An image of every weapon he’d ever used flashed across Khim’s mind. But he could only stand there, vision blurred. And listen to that laugh.
The next thing Khim was aware of was that out of all the men standing naked on the stage, it ended up being him who was chosen first and instructed to move down the steps so that he could join the party in whatever fashion the guests saw fit to have him.
His heart rate increased, then subsided once more to that sleepy, drugged rhythm. His throat felt tight, his lungs almost too tense to take in air.
“Is that a real android?” someone to his left asked.
“That’s what they promised in the invitation,” said another.
“Bring him to the couch.”
“Oh, of course we’ll all share.”
Khim barely felt the hands on his lower arms, leading him forward, or the hands at his back, pushing. One palm cupped the curve of his hip briefly, then was gone.
He wanted to flinch. To run. But his body moved as directed, as if he had no will of his own. And of course he did not. The drugs in his system saw to that.
The couch was red velvet. The men surrounding him were mostly wearing black tailcoats with white shirts and black ties. Most had hollow gazes of empty hunger that appeared ugly to Khim, who again had tho
ughts of weapons and what he might easily do with them in this room, at this function, where the wealthy and depraved congregated.
Khim blinked. Blinked again. The room and the men surrounding him wavered.
A push from behind made his knees catch the side of the sofa, and already dizzy, he lost his balance and went forward. He caught himself on his metal hand, not feeling the red velvet underneath it but aware of how his weight indented the cushion. His sudden stumble resulted in more hands reaching toward him, not to balance but to take advantage. Hands went to his face, shoulders, back, thighs. Hands caressed his buttocks. Fingers brushed his lips, parting them. One unwelcome finger entered his mouth just as he felt a hand between his buttocks, another finger probing there.
His eyes shut on white blankness. His teeth clamped lightly at the finger in his mouth, and a voice in his ear said, “Now, now. No biting.”
Another voice exclaimed, “He bit you?”
“No, it was just a muscle response to Chin, there, putting his finger up his ass. I don’t think he was quite ready for that.”
“It’s his first night,” said another.
“Ah, that explains it.”
“Well, he better not bite. I intend to thoroughly use that beautiful mouth.”
Laughter.
Though Khim heard all this, his thoughts protesting every word and tone, he remained helpless. Of course he wanted to bite that finger! It had been his intent. But his muscles did not obey more than to keep breathing. And that attempt at a clamp down was nothing but his mouth relaxing around the intruder, strangely accepting. It was infuriating.
He tried to blank it all out of his mind—what they were doing, how they were arranging his body. Fingers in his hair, at his waist, and inside him from behind. Someone forcing his legs apart. Someone reaching under him and grabbing his erection. He did flinch at that, at least inside, where he felt flutters of both anger and pleasure begin in his stomach and tangle up into his chest. The touches felt crazily erotic but horribly offensive. They were holding him down, invading him, forcing him. He was not programmed for this. His training was to fight until he could no longer fight. At that point, all he had ever hoped for was a quick death.
This was worse—this was not a fair fight. He could have taken a beating easier than this. This strange, dark, hungering hell, this vulnerability of being so exposed and uncontrolled among strangers. This horror that his body responded to it as if it liked it, when really it was the aphrodisiacs working on him combined with the stunting of his own personal power.
He smelled pipe smoke and old leather. The velvet of the couch pressed against his cheek, and someone raised his back end and pushed more than a finger into him now where he was soft and yielding and quivering. Khim didn’t care if it was smooth and effortless and he was hard in the hand that stroked him. It was still rape, still an attack, and he very badly wanted to look up and over his shoulder at whoever had taken the lead so he could memorize every detail of his face and someday, when things had changed, he could hunt the man down and slice him open and watch him drown in his own blood.
The first rape came with much peer encouragement, laughter, and even applause.
Still mortified, a bitterness rose in Khim’s throat. The drug did not take that away. He would have to live, for now, with that acrid taste permeating him. His nostrils widened as he fought to breathe.
Hands were on his mouth again. Was that another mouth on the hardness between his legs? He couldn’t see. Sounds became muffled. Time distorted. Erections pressed into his face, his mouth. Someone slapped his jaw twice, hard. Liquid coursed down the sides of his face. Semen or tears? Both.
The bitterness in his mouth filled him until he gagged, and he was struck again as someone said, “He’s certainly not trained in the art of that!”
All that was left for his mind, which seemed to fracture over and over like multiple breaks in fine ice, was to wait. And wait. For it to be over. For the night to end.
He didn’t want to think anymore. He didn’t want to exist.
He did not want to understand what was happening, and yet he couldn’t help it. After loyal service to a high-end military organization, this was his life?
He was a sex toy now. Nothing more. And despite the physical pleasure that the drugs made him feel, his body responding sensually and even craving more, his mind knew it for what it was. Rape. And he did not want it.
It was so hard to think, so hard to understand that what was happening to him was nothing he could control or ever change. How he hated his body now, a body that betrayed him through drug-spiked blood. And all of it happening to him as if he were submerged in liquid, floating, moving in a weird, ecstatic dance that felt good, too good, even as it enraged him.
After a while, what they were doing to him began to hurt. Badly.
The transparent glass holding back the blue place in his mind where his true self lived cracked again and again, an internal, echoing, breaking crash. Gunshots in his mind. Flashing darks. Exploding novas. Body wet. Face wet. Throat knotted with screams or sobs or dark, deep yells he could not give voice to. His hands, metal and flesh, formed fists in the cushions hard enough to tear them. Hard enough to make muscles contract, stand out against his skin underneath endless caresses, his jaw clenching, back seizing, eyelids fluttering.
With a pent-up, raging, alien roar he came up so fast that naked bodies went sprawling. The couch overturned, red cushions flying.
Khim did not have time to think. His body simply reacted. He turned, his arms reached out, and he grabbed the man who had been behind him—not the first and not even the fifth, maybe a repeat. He clamped his hands on either side of the man’s head and gave a swift, strong jerk.
The room had gone instantly silent. The sound of the neck breaking was like a single clap. The man fell limp at Khim’s feet as he let go of the body and automatically crouched in defensive warrior posture. Then his warehouse programming took over, and he lowered his hands and folded them submissively in front of him, bent his head, hunched his shoulders. At that moment, and not one second before, he realized with horror that the zotic had lost its hold upon him, leaving only a lingering cloud of mist where once had stood an open door to the dancing pleasures of hell.
He’d been a very, very bad boy.
Sudden shouts went up around him. Men in uniform with lasers drawn. The House of Xavier was exclusive and wealthy. Of course it would have round-the-clock specialty guards.
Khim immediately put his hands up in surrender; his knees gave way as he crumpled to the floor. His mouth opened. What came out was a strange, strangled sound.
The men surrounded him. Some began to kick and lash at him with their boots. Others yelled for them to stop. In an automatic submissive response, Khim crouched low over his lap, put his hands behind his head to protect it, and let them have at him.
He felt very little and heard less as boots and fists impacted his sides and back. But someone finally yanked him forward and upright, cuffing his wrists. When he lifted his head, a fist slammed into his face. He felt the warm blood coat his upper lip.
He looked around, dazed and bloody. People were running for the exits. The room had cleared pretty quickly. Now two expensively suited men stood in front of him as a third, a customer who was still quickly getting dressed, yelled, “I’ll sue for this! Everything you have! He was my friend. He was my friend, and your thing killed him.”
Khim glanced through his still-red, enraged vision at the naked body that lay untouched on the floor. All the other slaves, he realized, had been rapidly escorted away. The only ones left in the room now were himself, a half-dozen security men, the dead man, the dead man’s friend, Khim’s two handlers from the baths, and two dark-haired men in black suits who looked like they wanted to murder him.
One of the men in suits said, “Why isn’t he on zotic?”
“He is, Mr. Damico. Triple dose, as ordered,” replied one handler.
The second dark-haired man sai
d, “This can’t happen. Our father will be very unhappy.”
The friend of the dead man said, “Well, you better figure something out because I’ve already chimed the police.”
“Torrel, you’re an idiot,” one of the black-suited men said. “Every witness here would have been paid nicely.”
The man said, “I have money. I don’t want to be paid. I want justice for Chin.”
They all glanced uneasily at the broken man sprawled at their feet.
Khim was shaking now, flanked by security on all sides. They seemed not to care that he was still naked and covered in blood and semen. His side ached. He might have a broken rib. Inside his rectum, he was burning, liquid dripping down the insides of his thighs.
One of the security men asked, “Orders, Mr. Damico?”
Both suited men looked at Khim. Now he could see their resemblance. They were obviously brothers.
The taller one said, “Hand him over to the police, then. We own him, but if we turn him in for murder, at least we won’t be held accountable.”
Khim trembled harder. The police? He would most certainly be executed.
“Breq, don’t you think we could—”
“Shut up, Vance,” the taller man interrupted. “It’s over. Dad’s gonna be pissed at losing his investment, but it’s the only way.”
So, Khim thought through his glittering daze, their father owned the House of Xavier.
The one called Breq looked Khim up and down as if appraising him for a fight, or a modeling job… or perhaps another rape.
The man who had just finished dressing said, “Fuck you all. This club has a reputation for being safe and clean.”
“It is safe and clean,” Breq snarled. “This has never happened before. Obviously the drugs wore off. We’ll need to investigate why.” He turned to Vance. “Take some men and go find Lig. Find out what the fuck he actually sold us!”
The man named Vance hurried off.
The Android and the Thief Page 5