by Alana Khan
He smiles to reassure me, but he’s a terrible liar. Plans this hasty rarely work.
~.~
My hand is shaking as I try to apply makeup as skillfully as Petra did last night. We received word that she and the gladiators needed to run. Petra grabbed my green dress, Dax threw about a hundred pastries in a pillowcase, and they were on the Warrior by two in the afternoon.
This dress is so heavy and hard to maneuver, it took tremendous effort to struggle into it without assistance. Of course, Tyree would be all too happy to help, but that would tip off the sneaky, watchful eyes. I’m wearing the red dress tonight; my breasts are crammed into the bodice and artfully hidden by lace. I’m wearing the huge, heavy, red gem necklace the Emperor gave me yesterday. It’s far too ostentatious for my taste, but looks great with the dress and will express my gratitude for the gift.
Without Petra, my hair isn’t nearly as skillfully arranged as it was last night. Yesterday my thin blond hair had been coaxed into a chic chignon. Today I’ve pulled it back into an easy ponytail at the nape of my neck. It will have to do.
But the makeup, well, that’s another story. My mom used to go “out on the town” as she put it, which meant fire engine red lipstick, way too much blush, and her boobs on display. She usually did this when she had no boyfriend and needed drugs. As I grew older, I got a very clear idea of what else this entailed.
Because of this, I never went through the preteen phase of playing with my mom’s makeup. I’ve never worn anything with more color than cherry ChapStick. I know I’ll look washed out from the audience if I don’t have on some fairly heavy cosmetics, but I have no idea how to accomplish this. I’ve put products on and washed them off four times now, and my face hurts from all the scrubbing.
Tyree knocks on the door. “Grace. I contacted the ladies from the dress shop. They agreed to give you a hand. I knew you needed help.”
Help? From the neon ladies? Um, what could they possibly offer me? I’m desperate and let them in.
“I showed them some pictures I took on my wrist comm last night. They say they can help you with that look,” he assures me.
“No neon? I don’t want to look like a prostitute.”
“They assure me they understand.”
Thirty minutes later I’m nodding my head in approval at my reflection. The eye shadow is a little more dramatic than I’d like, but it’s artfully applied and coordinates with the red of the dress.
I realize I’ve been so consumed with hair and makeup that I’ve had little chance to meltdown over the elephant in the room, or should I say elephants? The fact that I’ll be playing in front of thousands of people in under an hour, my friends on the Warrior are probably in another sector by now, and I’ll be dining with the Emperor of the planet after my performance. Not to mention the awkward strain between Tyree and me.
He pays the ladies for their time with the card Shadow gave him before he left. As soon as they leave, he sits me down, stands behind me and gives me a chaste neck rub the cameras can’t miss. This gives him the opportunity to give me a treatment that allows me to take full, deep breaths.
You’ll do fine, Amara. The same as last night, only better—and easier. Did staring at the doorknob help?
Yes, I should have told you. It worked great.
So do that, Grace. Focus on that and let your fingers fly. Your program will be over before you know it.
And that’s exactly what happens. I forget the Battle-Scarred Warrior. I don’t pay attention to the fact Emperor Quirinus has chosen to attend two performances in two days. I don’t notice the thousands of eyes watching my every move. I just allow my fingers to fly, as Tyree suggested. The program is over in what seems like a few minutes.
Tyree
Grace’s performance was even more accomplished and well-received than it was last night. I’m so proud of her.
Shadow had spoken with Mauritious about our departure before the gladiators left the planet. He didn’t think there was any suspicion that something was amiss. By the look of things, I don’t think the Emperor gave it another thought. No, he was too dracking busy figuring out a way to get Grace alone in his private, concert-hall suite.
I want to kill him. My hands are fisted at my sides and I hear blood pounding in my ears. He told Grace she’d be safe with him and his guards. He urged me to take a “well-deserved night off.” He caught me alone in the hallway and pointed out a lovely young female, her breasts exposed above a fancy gown, her nipples rouged, evidently to appeal to a male’s baser instincts.
“Why don’t you leave Grace here with me? She’ll be protected as heavily as if she was in the bosom of her own family. See that beautiful female over there? The four-armed Mordite with the lush mouth and luscious breasts? She is well trained. She’s so desirous to please whatever male I suggest, she doesn’t need to wear a pain/kill collar. She would be eager to service you tonight. All night long.” He leers at me lasciviously.
“She was trained in the Moruvian Butterfly Technique, young man. The Moruvian Butterfly Technique,” he repeats as he flicks his thick crimson tongue quickly in and out of his lips. “It is said there is nothing more arousing in all the galaxy. Leave Grace with me. Go have fun.”
“I’ve been charged by her father to protect her since she was a schoolgirl, your Highness. Besides, he would have my head and the heads of my parents if I was derelict in my duties.” I glance at the female and now understand the dead look in her eyes. “The Moruvian Butterfly Technique. I’ve heard about it since my teens. Many said it was simply legend. I’m certain it would be wonderful. You’re generous to make such an offer. I’m sorry I have to decline.”
In the Emperor’s private suite I move to Grace’s side to pull out the chair for her at the table for two that has been sumptuously set. I position myself in the corner so I can watch the two of them.
There are no less than eight of the Emperor’s personal guards in this room. If he gave the signal, my head would be separated from my neck before I could draw my gun. So be it. I’ll keep playing this game of courtly manners. I’ll protect Grace with my last breath.
Out of all the males on the ship, I am least equipped to actually protect my Amara. I’m clumsy with the chainsticks lodged in a holster at the small of my back. I’m slow to draw my gun. I’ve only sparred in hand-to-hand combat a handful of times. I should have demanded one of the other males stay to safeguard Grace. I was too possessive to properly assess what would have been best for her security.
Now look at her. She seems to be enamored of this male. I can see his appeal. He’s so wealthy and powerful—that alone would make any female’s heart flutter. But I have to admit, his crimson lips and dark features are handsome in a cruel way. Cruel, yes that’s the word I’ve been searching for. It was there all along, but most apparent when he was speaking of the Mordite female. This male likes his power.
I attempt to stay out of the way. I don’t show any attachment to Grace other than that she is my charge. I keep my features schooled in a soldier’s attentive repose. It wouldn’t do any good for my face to expose my desire to rip his jugular out of his throat.
He reaches across the table to feed Grace a piece of breen he has declared “impeccably cooked.” Is she simpering? Enjoying his attention? Really? Perhaps my psychic powers extend to being able to set this room ablaze and kill us all.
But no, I stand here, the perfect picture of the lone gladiator. Protector and servant. The only thing that keeps me from embarking on a killing rampage is the memory of Grace under her covers last night. Mine. She’s mine, even if right now at this moment she’s laughing at his lame jokes.
I’m fully aware of what is currently going on in this room, but I’m nursing the memory of Grace’s wild orgasm last night. Although this dinner is interminable, it will be over soon. Grace will be with me tonight. Even though I’ll be sleeping on the floor, we’ll be in the same room. He will never have her.
There’s something about the look that ju
st slashed across his face. It’s only apparent for a moment. I don’t think Grace caught it. Her facial muscles don’t tighten, her shoulders don’t stiffen. But I can’t shake my concern. The demeaning way he talked about the Mordite female. The casual way he referenced her slave collar. He was so proud she was his possession and so well trained she would do his bidding without needing punishment. The way he offered her to me like he offered Grace a piece of breen.
The thought at first insinuates itself into my brain, but I push it away. But the idea won’t let go—I should glimpse his thoughts. At first, I think it’s an idea from Drackhead. Drackhead’s ideas are seldom worth acting upon. But this thought has more merit than that. What happened with Grace and me last night leaves no doubt I can accomplish it. Even though he’s a different species, I know I can climb into his mind.
The more I contemplate it, the deeper the thought burrows into my brain. A few moments later, I quit debating with myself—I know I’m going to do it. And a modicum after that I school my features into easygoing indifference, lock my hands behind my back in a placid “at ease” position, and let the fingers of my mind reach gently into his.
Last night with Grace, I knocked at the door of her mind. Now, though, the tendrils of my mind slip under the doorway of his like wisps of smoke. My entry is undetected. He’s still blustering at Grace, bragging about battles of bygone annums as the general of his father’s troops. I begin pillaging through his thoughts, looking for the doorways to his hidden memory closets.
And then I find it. The secret closet at the back of his mind. When I open it, I realize that what I see makes the raw sewage I encountered in Captain Gren’s mind seem like a clear forest stream.
I toggle back to this room, making certain my features are set like stone. I don’t want to give anything away. Grace is safe. Neither the Emperor nor any of his guards are alerted to any change in me. Then I return to rummage through the ruler’s secret closet.
I see him as a little boy, hitting his personal servant, a grown male, over and over with a cane. The cane whistling, the male wailing in pain, his blood dripping from dozens of slices decorating his back and thighs. For a moment I’m privy to the absolute jubilation the young Emperor felt wielding this amount of power.
The next memory I open is the Emperor...drack, I don’t want to watch. What was seen cannot be unseen. I already saw his penis enter his female pet. I don’t know what type of animal it is. It reminds me a bit of my four-legged Druselda back home. She was my constant companion—so loyal. I have to shut the door on this heinous memory without watching it to the end. This was just too unsettling. Nausea rises from my stomach. I saw more than enough.
Again I bring my attention back to scan this room. I want to make sure no tears are leaking out of my eyes. Perhaps it’s because I lived so many annums as a slave. Or maybe I just have innate compassion. Watching this is like having a hand squeezing my heart.
But I have to open some other doors. Perhaps those were aberrations of a young male with too much time and not enough parental attention. I slip back into his mind and already know which door I need to open. It’s well worn. I have a hunch it’s his favorite.
This isn’t from his childhood or adolescence. It looks like it could have happened yesterday. It’s him and a young female. She could be a Morganian like Shadow, but for some reason, I wonder if she’s human. Her skin is ruddy amber; she’s lovely—tall and delicate. She’s crying and shaking her head. Her body is nude and quaking so vigorously it’s a wonder she can stand.
The bedroom is huge and so well-appointed it has to be his. It’s done up in blood red and gold. Everything is sumptuous and expensive. But that’s not what keeps my attention. He’s ordering her around. He doesn’t raise his voice. I doubt he needs to. She wears a pain/kill slave collar, he wears the wrist controller. She’s crying, begging. He just keeps calmly repeating his commands. He orders her to her knees. He orders her to suck his cock. He orders her to do other odious things.
Then I realize there’s another soul in the room. Oh my Gods, this male looks like pictures from the scriptures my parents read to me as a child. The book called him Suratan. He was pure evil. And that is what this man looks like. His face is red, white, and black, with savage markings—almost like a skull. He is so fearsome-looking, you’d shoot without asking questions if you encountered him in a back alley.
My blood chills in my veins. I shift back to the present, once again ensuring that my face is emotionless. Grace and the Emperor are on the dessert course. She’s cooing and praising the delicacy of the dish he’s pressing into her mouth with his fork. My mind flashes a picture of me squeezing his throat so hard his eyes pop out of his skull. I breathe in and out at a slow pace.
This male and his minions are far more dangerous than I’d ever imagined. I have to keep my wits about me. I can’t give anything away. Grace isn’t in any immediate danger. I need to go back inside that infested pool of waste one more time. I have to see what the Emperor and Suratan do to that poor young female.
“Come here, Devolose,” the Emperor orders. The Suratan’s lips are pressed in a flat line. He looks calm and impassive. He doesn’t look horrified. He steps forward upon command and bows his head, ready to do the Emperor’s bidding.
“Slap Tawny’s face!”
Devolose does as he’s told immediately and without question.
“Harder!” Devolose slaps her so hard her head swivels on her neck, then ricochets back past the midline of her body.
“Yes!” I can feel the Emperor’s glee, as well as his arousal. “Again!” This goes on for agonizing moments. Perhaps out of necessity I discover the mechanism to watch these vids in fast fashion.
Quirinus climbs upon his bed, lies back, and pulls his turgid cock from his trousers. He fondles it slowly, like a male who wants to prolong his pleasure.
“Slap her breasts,” he demands. Then, of course, “Harder!”
I clamp my teeth together. I’ve seen enough. These memories are horrifying, sadistic and recent. I simply can’t force myself to watch one more moment.
Just when I think I can leave these scenes, I see another doorway. It also looks well-worn. I know I have to open this door, too. Now that I know how to fast forward, I can handle whatever I find. At least I hope so.
I see a dungeon. It looks old, dark and damp with water dripping from the ceiling. The female is in a cell; the Suratan is with her. Perhaps he’s some type of android or cyborg? Certainly, no living sentient being could be so impassive, so uncaring.
The Emperor is on his sumptuous bed, fondling his cock much more aggressively and enjoyably than before. He’s watching the scene on a screen and giving orders to the Suratan via a comm unit. Somehow I have clarity that this is a frequent pastime for the monarch. He does it often, enjoys it.
The female is locked in his dungeon. She looks worse in this picture. There are bruises in various stages of healing all over her nude body.
One more thing. This will be more dangerous. I have to leave the attic of this maniac’s mind and sneak into his current thoughts. I need to find out where this dungeon is, and how to get there. The attic was far away from his current awareness. But this information is right there in his conscious mind. If he feels me riffling through his thoughts I won’t be safe. Grace won’t be either.
I know the dessert course is over and I’ll need to come back to full alertness soon. I ask myself what Grace would want, and I know the answer before I even ask it. She would never allow me to leave that female in the dungeon. I need to know where it is. Later I’ll have to figure out how to help Tawny escape. How to kill the Suratan and the Emperor? That will have to wait until another day.
Miraculously, the Emperor doesn’t feel me searching his mind for the directions to the dungeon. I discover every step—it isn’t far.
“Oh, Arge. Thank you for your kind invitation. Whoever would have imagined that I would be invited to inspect the private living quarters of the Emperor of Emiru
s?” Grace is fawning. Is she enamored? Has he deluded her?
“It is so hospitable of you, but these performances fatigue me so greatly. I’ll be useless tomorrow if I don’t go to sleep shortly. Thank you again for your generous offer. You’ve been nothing but kind. This food has been the most delicious I’ve ever tasted. Seriously. My trip to Emirus will remain in my memories forever. Thanks also for allowing me to pack a portion to give my servant when we’re back in my quarters.” She lifts the little package that’s been wrapped by his staff as if it contained diamonds.
“Tyree, would you escort me back to my room? Thanks again, Argento.” She curtsies as if she was born for a life like this. She said her existence on Earth was a struggle. Does the Emperor fulfill her dreams? Did she have fantasies of growing up and living in a palace decorated with gold and gems? My nostrils flare and my hands twitch in envy. Envy at an unspeakable monster, I remind myself.