by Trent Evans
The reasons were unknown, like so much else — but its mere presence at the periphery was not a good sign at all. His first inclination was to suspect mutiny, but such a thing had never actually happened on any Coalition vessel larger than a constabulary cutter, and such little tin cans never had crews much above thirty or so anyway.
A Ticonderoga was ten times that size. Unlike a cutter — vessels which numbered in the hundreds — someone was going to miss a cruiser when it disappeared. And want to figure where it had gone off to.
No, there was something else going on. The key to it — though Martin hadn’t any real way of knowing why — was Antaeus.
He pulled at the ropes lashing his arms firmly to his back, the ache in his shoulders flaring back to life all over again. At least they had let him keep his clothes — and hadn’t hobbled him.
The image of the poor shaven-headed woman flashed through his mind. Utterly debased and yet deeply, blatantly sexual, her vision haunted him, even as he felt a stab of guilt that the woman wasn’t D.
You mean your wife, right?
The poor woman’s ordeal shouldn’t have had such an effect on him, but her nude, stunning body was impossible for a man — especially one with his apparent inclinations — not to react to.
Sounds like something a monster might say.
Perhaps it was inevitable, considering the Pandora’s box he had opened when exploring his fantasies in what was essentially a consequence-free environment, something that — if he were brutally honest with himself — he would admit had evolved into a dark obsession, at the end.
He chuckled bitterly, his words muttered into the shadows. “Wouldn’t that be a bitch. Maybe this is my divine punishment for what I’ve done to her?”
Then the hatch opened, his body instinctively tensing. For all he knew, it would finally be death coming through that door.
But rather than demise, the prospect of something else entirely different shuffled into view, moving in tiny, attenuated steps. The gasping woman nearly toppled over as she was half-dragged into the room, the gauntleted hand of one of the troopers, wrapped cruelly around a length of chain clipped to her thick leather collar, the only thing keeping her from falling to the floor grates. The lights flared brighter, fully illuminating the woman’s degradation, her vulnerability — and though Martin was loath to admit it — her loveliness enhanced by her mercilessly bound, naked form contrasted against both fully-clothed males.
Led toward Martin, the girl was forced to her knees, the harness straps firmly wrapped around the base of each breast not doing anything to prevent her generous flesh from bouncing and swaying as she was made to kneel.
Oh shit.
The trooper’s blue-black visor was made of a reflective material, rendering him at once anonymous and menacing. He stabbed a gloved finger at Martin, the man’s voice a gravelly rumble. “You have one hour with her.”
“Wait — what?” Martin jumped to his feet, pulling helplessly at his bonds as he did so. “I don’t—”
The hatch slammed shut behind the soldier, leaving Martin and his naked companion alone in the semi-darkness.
He tried not to look at her, and yet it was impossible to gaze at anything else. A woman of perhaps thirty, she was indeed lovely, despite the harsh look of her completely shaven head. He knew it shamed her, perhaps more than being naked and bound did, and yet, in a way, it made her even prettier, that much more difficult not to stare at. This time she fixed him with a steady look, though he saw no real reproach in her bright hazel eyes. Her lips were swollen, a blushing pink, a hint of redness lining her otherwise quite attractive eyes.
She was very pale, though he had no way of knowing if that flawless alabaster skin was her natural complexion or if — as he suspected — she was kept locked away for most of her days in captivity.
For he was certain that was indeed what she was. A prisoner.
Just like you.
And yet, he wasn’t on his knees, naked and objectified, reduced to a mere possession.
Why?
“I-I…what’s your name?”
It seemed the height of absurdity to ask such a question, but what was he supposed to say to a woman kneeling naked on the floor, bound, debased?
“Marcia,” she said, a mere murmur. “I’m… what would you have me do?” She swallowed. “Sir.”
“I, uh, don’t understand.” Instead of answering her question — which would inevitably involve him having to consciously acknowledge the fact the vision of her prostrate before him was making his cock stir to life — he took another tack. “How — why are you here? Is this a mutiny or something? Are you an officer?”
The barest hint of a grimace twisted her lips, then it was gone, as if she feared letting on, even in the slightest, how she really felt. It was the subtlest of gestures, but he knew instantly what it meant.
We’re being watched.
“I’m Martin.”
Her strange silence unnerved him almost as much as his arousal at the way her bonds blatantly displayed her nude form.
“Why…?” He didn’t understand his urge to ask it, the words tumbling from his mouth of their own accord.
It was a question appropos to so much that had happened in his life of late.
Her gaze flicked up and to the left once, then again, and she licked her lips.
He tried not to stare at the way her smoothly shaven head only emphasized the feminine softness of her mouth, the length of her dark eyelashes as they fluttered nervously.
“I’m Marcia Liddel.”
Martin swallowed hard. “Excuse me?”
She gave him the subtlest of nods. “Yes, the same. I… I don’t know what the world knows of me.”
“The world thinks you’re, well, dead.”
The tiny twist of her lips and the wistful light in her eyes spoke more than any words possibly could. “In a way, I suppose I have. Died, I mean. The old Marcia, anyway.”
She had been declared missing just after Martin’s transport had departed for his current contract on Charon 90. Though ostensibly a mid-level underling, she was of a status quite special indeed.
Marcia was the daughter of the Company’s founder and current chief executive, Borman Liddel.
“What about Borellia? What happened?”
The company line had been that there was some sort of “malfunction” of life support equipment in the processing module of the old Borellia base station. At first glance, it was plausible; that place was a total shit hole, a rust bucket he was quite confident could suffer any number of such failures.
Still, he hadn’t believed it for a second.
While the failure might have happened, the fact that Marcia was missing was a massive red flag to him. There were several deaths… but yet Marcia was never found? Something was very wrong with that picture.
The average employee of the company probably bought the explanation — and accepted the implication that she was likely dead too.
Martin didn’t.
“I-I can’t say much.” Another pointed glance upward. “I was taken… as a hostage, initially.”
“Marcia, you’ve got to—”
“I was never in any real danger though,” she quickly added.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” Martin twisted, showing her his bound arms behind his back. “I’d say we’re just about in as much danger as one can get — before they’re dead.”
With a slow shake of her head, she straightened her back, her bulging, rope-constrained breasts heaving with her breaths. “It’s… it’s not like that.”
“It’s not like what, Marcia? We’re prisoners! You’re…”
She blushed, but her shy smile almost undid him. “A slave. It’s okay, you can say it. I’ve accepted it’s my lot now. I… I belong here.”
Oh man, this is trouble.
Either this was world-class level Stockholm syndrome… or this woman actually believed it.
He wasn’t sure which one unsettled him m
ore.
“Why are you here — right now, with me?” he didn’t like the accusatory tone in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. Something wasn’t right here.
Do you think anything is right about this entire fiasco?
“I want you… to listen to him. You won’t like it — what he might say. Not at first. But please, just listen to what he tells you.” Her lashes fluttered again. “With an open mind.”
“An open mind about what?” He got to his feet putting distance between himself and the kneeling, very naked, woman. He turned his back to her, staring into the darkness. “You have to stop with this cryptic shit.”
She was silent long enough that he looked over his shoulder at her. “Marcia?”
With a sigh so deep, she shuddered with it, she met his gaze. “You need to have an open mind about what he’s going to tell you, about his… philosophy, I guess. It’s a little…I don’t even know what to call it.”
“I don’t think I have anything else on my social schedule,” Martin growled, pulling futilely at his ropes. “Listening, I can do. It’s not as if I have a choice, do I?”
“Oh no, you have a choice,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But… you might not like what it means to have to make it.”
“More cryptic. Wonderful.”
“Please… please come back.” A note of almost panic had slipped into her tone, and he couldn’t help but respond to it.
“What? Are you okay?” He walked back to her, lamenting for the thousandth time his inability to use his arms.
From her supplicant’s position, she peered up at him, her eyes big and bright, the woman strikingly beautiful despite — or perhaps because of — her plight. “I’m… do you need anything?” She leaned closer, her pink nipples hard and prominent. “Do want anything?”
He grunted, trying to maintain his calm, hoping against hope she couldn’t see the bulge forming at his crotch.
What is wrong with you?
“Are you saying what I, uh, think you’re saying?”
Her gaze flitted downward for a split second, more than enough to know she was just aware of his physical response as he was.
“Yes,” she whispered.
D’s lost, loving smile was all his could think of at that moment, the image both stabbing him with guilt and giving him the courage he needed. It was enough.
“You… you’re a… beautiful woman, Marcia. I… no, I can’t. I won’t do that to you.”
Something passed behind her eyes, then she gave him a slow nod, chewing the corner of her mouth. “If it makes a difference, I… volunteered. To see you.”
“You did?”
“I felt… sorry for you. I wanted to help.”
“Help me?”
His guilt bloomed even brighter, twisting deep in his guts. That this woman, even in the midst of her cruel captivity, still felt concern for him… was more than he wanted to think about. It was touching, and inexplicable both — and further highlighted the fact he was not nearly the paragon of virtue he had always imagined himself to be. His erection at her debasement was all the proof of that one would ever need.
“You are so… alone. And I wanted to show you that it’s… just not true.” Her smile was as warm as it was fragile. “None of us are alone… when we find our place in this world. When we admit who we truly are.”
He said the words without thinking. “And what are you?”
“Someone put here to give, to receive — to make this life just a little bit better. To support, to comfort.” Her lashes blinked slowly. “To give love, and acceptance… and pleasure.”
“You mean…”
She only nodded, her blush the palest rosé.
Though he had no idea why he did it, he knelt down before her on one knee. “I envy you, I guess. Because you know why you’re here. I, well, I don’t — and I never have.” He whispered the last words. “But I do know what I’m not here to do. I’m not here to take advantage of helpless, kind-hearted — and very beautiful — prisoners.”
She smiled at that, her blush suddenly burning bright.
He inclined his head, locking his gaze with hers. “I’m not here to betray you — or the woman I love. That much I know.”
“I knew it.” Tears welled in her pretty eyes, and what he saw most in the woman’s gaze was relief. “I was right about you.”
The bolt was drawn on the hatch then, and amidst the flood of blinding light from the crew module beyond, stood the figure of Antaeus Elazar.
Chapter 16
Sitting across the table from him wasn’t making me feel any better about my prospects for answers. I’d hounded the company — for weeks — for just a simple one on one, so that I could have the Cartlan tell me, to my face, that my husband was really gone.
It has been a danger, of course — Cartlan himself had warned me more than once. But the danger he had warned of was the danger to me. Not my husband.
I watched him as I sat there, the monochromatic, slate suit with the high collar, the tanned skin that was just as likely artificial as it was the hallmark of healthy, outdoor living. His blond hair, strands of it appearing almost white in the bright sunshine flooding his office, held a lank thinness to it, hinting at the balding he was likely just on the cusp of.
“I — I wish I had better news for you, Diandra.”
“Tell me what happened to him. What happened out there? I was there — and he was alive the last time I set eyes on him.”
“An investigation is ongoing.”
“Yes, I’ve been told that — several times now — by your flacks.” I set my hand down on the smooth cool plane of his desk. “But I want the truth. Not the bullshit company line. You owe me that, at least.”
It was a surreal feeling, at that moment. The last time I had been sitting in that chair, had been the day Cartlan proposed the “plan” — and how the Company might utilize my services in the interests of pulling it off. I hadn’t cared about their ridiculous corporatese “metrics” nor their “probability matrices.”
I only wanted to see Martin again. The chance — even under those bizarre circumstances — was simply too tempting to pass up.
“That is the truth, Ms. Acres. There is no point in speculating on what may, or may not, have happened on Charon 90, until the company has completed its investigation. There will be answers… in due time.”
“It’s been weeks.” I sighed. “How much longer then?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
The gentle throb at my temple threatened to change into a jackhammer. “What do you mean liberty? You mean the company won’t tell you, or you simply don’t know?”
“I’m not at liberty to say that, either.”
“Jesus Christ, what’s with you people!” I shot to my feet, my hands in my hair. “I’m not some goddamn number. A reporter, or government flunkie you can just blow off. I’m a woman, a wife — and I was involved. Stop trying to act like this didn’t happen. I was there, Cartlan. I was knee-deep in it — and I want to know what happened to my fucking husband.”
“I will notify you as soon as the investigation is completed.” Cartlan indicated my seat. “Now, please, I need you to calm down.”
I paced in front of my seat, seething inside, the frustration threatening to boil over into panic. “You can’t do this…”
“I’m not… Look, Ms. Acres, I want to share more, but… I’m barred—”
“That’s not good enough. You assholes know something, and you’re not telling me. His own wife. If he’s dead, you have the obligation to tell me — not string me along like some pathetic wretch who can’t bear to know the truth.”
“I… there just isn’t anything to tell you. Not right now.”
“You’re a fucking liar!” I snarled at him, sweeping everything off his desk with my arm, to pile in his lap. “I’m not done. I’m never giving up on this. Not until I find out what you… butchers did to my Martin!”
I hoped maybe if I could anger h
im, he’d let his guard down, let something — anything — slip. I meant what I said too, even if inside I knew the worst was likely the truth.
His face went red, but he didn’t move, his beady little eyes narrowing as he watched me.
“You’ll remember this, you’ll remember my face when you’re lying awake in bed tonight. If you have a soul, anyway. You’ll remember that you destroyed the last shred of hope a wife had for her husband. Bastard!”
The tears were streaming down my cheeks as I stormed out of that office, the hopelessness bearing down upon me with a sickening, paralyzing weight.
“He really is gone,” I whispered it, my voice little more than a drowned whimper as I rushed through the lobby doors out into the afternoon.
Oh God, I couldn’t go on without him!
Even with all that had happened — I knew I couldn’t do it.
The sunlight was blinding in the street, the pedestrian boulevard thankfully closed off to vehicles. I stumbled ahead, hopeless, yet enraged, my tears blinding me. I elbowed my way through the unfeeling crowds moving along the sidewalk, strangers immune, unaware of my pain. I was at the end of my rope.
My husband was lost. I was lost.
“Wait!”
I knew the voice, but didn’t want to turn to face it. It would be too much like him to want to salve his ego, to explain why he wasn’t the heartless monster he’d just demonstrated himself to be. I slowly turned his way, swiping at the shaming tears flooding my cheeks.
Cartlan sprinted out to her, where she stood in the middle of the street, bystanders puzzled murmuring as they passed by like a maddening low-level buzzing in her head.
His face was flushed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes squinting against the sun. He raised a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the brilliant light of the afternoon.
“I... I’m sorry, Diandra. I’m so sorry.”
It was the last thing I expected Cartlan to say… but it still didn’t matter.
“Sorry doesn’t bring him back to me, does it?”
“No. No, it doesn’t, but…” Cartlan looked down the busy boulevard, cursing softly, the wind playing with a lock of his wispy blond hair. He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “There’s something you... need to see.”