Bliss

by Lisa Henry

  The night was cool and quiet. The air smelled of orange blossoms. He could see the stars. He’d never seen the stars in Tophet. The buildings were too tall. There was too much light pollution. Not to mention the smog.

  And yet, he remembered sitting on the fire escape off of his apartment with Emmy in his arms, watching her. Singing the few lines of the lullabies he could remember as she slowly drifted off to sleep. Emmy was worth more than stars.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about her, even though it ached like being stabbed through the eye socket. Couldn’t stop thinking about Rory, either. Of lying on the couch with him, no demands, no orders, no desperate urge to please and serve. When he’d been less a master than a friend.

  Lowell had said Tate would be happy here. So had Rory. He himself had said he would be happy. But was this happiness? Even if it was . . . did it really matter, in the face of those better, bigger feelings?

  Maybe . . . maybe they were even worth the pain they caused.

  They were. He was almost certain of it. He didn’t want to lose those feelings or those memories. He didn’t want to lose himself.

  The pain was a tool. The pain trained him not to look for his memories, not to go knocking on those doors in his mind that the chip had created. And Tate had tried so hard for so long to do what the chip wanted. But now he wanted more.

  He flinched as the chip reacted, and pain tore through his skull.

  Forced himself to back away from that rebellious thought but not to lose sight of it. To hide it and keep it safe until he was strong enough to take hold of it again.

  “Tate?” Lowell asked in a low voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The walk to Lowell’s house was short. Aaron must have been watching from inside because he opened the door before they reached it, and light spilled outside.

  Tate’s breath caught. Aaron’s nipples were pierced, and a chain ran between them. There was a weight hanging off the chain. Tate’s cock hardened as he wondered how that must feel. Pain and pleasure at the same time. A master’s firm touch even when the master was gone.

  Lowell ushered Tate inside and closed the door.

  Tate stripped off his clothes.

  “That’s it,” Lowell said. “Good boy, Tate.” He pinched Tate’s nipples. “And don’t worry, we’ll have you pierced, as well. Maybe chain you up to this little slut, hmm? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, Master,” Tate said, resisting the urge to touch his cock.

  “Yes, Master,” Aaron echoed.

  “I’m the luckiest man alive,” Lowell said, ruffling the hair on both their heads. “And soon I’ll have a third? I’ll have to invest in a fucking machine just to keep you all occupied.”

  Tate glanced at Aaron.

  Aaron beamed at their master. Happiness—there it was—overlaid on his tired, drawn face. He had dark shadows under his eyes. He looked pale and pinched. But he was smiling. He was happy. A strange, empty sort of happiness that didn’t light him up from within.

  Simple, false happiness, forced upon him by the chip.

  Tate wondered if he looked the same and flinched as pain flared inside his skull.

  Lowell didn’t notice. “Tate, go learn your way around the kitchen. At least you can cook, unlike this one.”

  The twinging headache faded. Tate lost his train of thought. “Yes, Master,” he said with a nod, and headed for the kitchen.

  “What are you?” he heard Lowell ask in a low voice, just after he left the room.

  “A whore,” Aaron moaned back. “A slut. A tease.”

  Tate felt an ache in his stomach as he imagined Rory having to say those words. Imagined Rory’s voice reaching that same eager pitch and imagined Rory held captive to the promise of that same terrible happiness.

  He didn’t want that. Not for Rory. Not for Aaron, not even for himself. But he especially didn’t want it for Rory. Because Rory didn’t do anything wrong. And more than that, Tate . . . Tate cared about him. Rory had been a bad master because Rory was his friend.

  He busied himself around the kitchen. It felt good to slip back into the certainty of service, even while unease prickled the back of his head. From the next room, he could hear the slap of flesh on flesh and Aaron’s muffled cries.

  Lowell was a good master.

  But not a good man.

  That contradictory thought balanced on a knife-edge, and Tate held his breath while he waited to see where it might land. White, stabbing pain, or . . . or nothing. No pain at all.

  Maybe time had rewritten the circuitry in his brain, the same as it had when he’d been a kid with his seizures. The doctors back then had shown him the shadowed parts of the scan. The parts that didn’t light up anymore. But it didn’t matter because his brain had adapted. Had used different routes. Maybe it was doing the same with the chip now.

  Or maybe it was just possible to hold that contradictory thought in his head because it didn’t matter if Lowell was a good man or not, only that he was Tate’s master and Tate would worship him just the same.

  Because he didn’t know any other way to be.

  ou know,” said Cal Mitchell, “most of my clients are a little more hostile than you.”

  Rory leaned back in his seat. The cuffs rattled when he rested his hands on the table. “What are my options?”

  Going up against Lowell? Limited, to say the least. But Rory was very aware that he only had a small window of opportunity to act before the chip was in, and that the lawyer sitting across from him was his best hope.

  His free lawyer, naturally. This was Beulah, after all. But Mitchell wasn’t just some harried court-appointed attorney. He had a good reputation at the Hall of Justice as being an honest, hardworking advocate.

  “I would advise you to take the plea bargain, Mr. James.” Mitchell shuffled through his paperwork. “I certainly haven’t seen all the evidence the police have, but what I have seen is compelling.”

  “I’m not disputing the evidence,” he said. “Not here. Not yet. But I want to go to trial.”

  “If you go to trial and you lose, you’ll be given life without parole,” Mitchell said. “You’re a young man with a bright future. You ought to think before you throw that away.”

  “When was the last time there was a criminal trial held in Beulah?” Rory asked.

  “Oh, now that would be going back a few years at least. And she was found guilty.” Mitchell sighed. “Listen, the police have your bank account records. They’ve traced the money. It’s right there in black and white, son. You’d be a fool to take your chances on a trial.”

  “Is that what you told Tate Patterson?”

  “Patterson,” the lawyer murmured, and then nodded. “Oh yes. Well, he punched a man in front of witnesses and on camera, so I think my advice was valid, don’t you?”

  “I’d agree with you if I thought the conditions of his plea bargain represented a humane and reasonable punishment.”

  Mitchell’s bland expression curdled somewhat. “It’s not a punishment at all. We don’t practice punitive justice here in Beulah, Mr. James. Working at the office of the chief justice, I would hope you’d already know that.”

  “I thought I did. And then I discovered what the chip you people gave him did, the chip that was supposed to just make him nonviolent? It made him a helpless slave.” A slave, and I didn’t even know. He couldn’t even tell me. And I abused him. I raped him.

  Mitchell, rather than looking shocked or horrified like he should have, just shook his head. “You’ve been listening to too many conspiracy theories. Those ARR lunatics. Lurking around, too afraid to show their faces but still trying to convince the good people of Beulah that there’s something sinister going on just because they refuse to believe that our system works. They’d rather criminals get thrown into filthy prisons, I expect.” He sighed again. “Mr. James, I’ve spoken to each and every one of my clients after the induction program, and they’ve never given any indicatio
n of such nonsense.”

  Did you ever ask them to suck your dick? Rory remembered the matching scars on Aaron and Tate’s thighs. To cut themselves?

  “In fact,” Mitchell continued, “I’d go so far as to say every client I’ve counseled postinduction has been downright happy.”

  Rory’s hands balled into fists. His heart seemed to stop. “They’re always happy,” he said. Recited it. For strength. To remind himself why he was here and what he had to fight for. “I’m not taking the plea deal. I want the chance to face my accuser. I want to go to trial.”

  Mitchell looked genuinely upset. “Oh, son, I think you’re a fool, but I’ll do my best to represent you.”

  And that, Rory figured, was the best chance he had.

  “I can’t,” Aaron said. “Can’t talk about it.”

  Tate held the wadded kitchen towel up to his nose. “I know.”

  Aaron closed his eyes. “I try . . . and it hurts. And I bleed.”

  “I know,” Tate said again. Trying to comfort him, even as he tried to think of ways to push the subject. Until Rory came back from induction, Aaron was all he had. It wasn’t fair that they couldn’t even talk about what they really felt. What did their feelings matter, so long as they still obeyed? But Tate had wanted to know if Aaron was trapped, as well, if there was still a part of him that was screaming out to be heard behind the chip too. He’d asked, ignoring the stab of pain in his own head, and Aaron had opened his mouth to answer and then his nose had started to bleed.

  “Mine’s wrong, I think,” Aaron whispered. “I shouldn't bleed. You don’t bleed.”

  Tate shook his head. “They don’t work . . .” He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, riding a swell of pain. “They don’t work perfectly, on the outside. Inconsistent. Maybe these . . . maybe these are the s-same.” He panted. Even saying that much hurt. Ached. But he had to try.

  “Tate, sometimes I’m so h-happy, and sometimes I’m so scared. I don’t know . . . I don’t know which one is real.” Aaron whimpered and lifted his hand to cover Tate’s, to press the kitchen towel more firmly against his nose.

  “I know.” He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Aaron’s. He could smell the blood. He closed his eyes and savored Aaron’s closeness. Not alone. He wasn’t alone. Aaron felt the same. Aaron understood. He smoothed Aaron’s hair with his free hand.

  After a moment, Aaron straightened and stepped away. He dropped the bloody wad of paper in the trash. “Master will be home soon.”

  Warmth spread through Tate—pleasure, anticipation, the need to serve. He followed Aaron through the house, and together they knelt before the front door to wait for Lowell. He liked them like this. Naked and ready. Shameless. Maybe today Lowell would bring a plug and piercings for him so that they matched. Aaron looked so perfect with the base of a fat black plug half spreading his ass cheeks and those heavy silver rings weighing down his pink nipples. Tate wanted that too. He wanted Lowell to test him and push him the way he did with Aaron. He wanted to prove himself to his master.

  Lowell was a good master.

  Tate closed his eyes, listening to Aaron breathing beside him. He wasn’t sure how much time passed before he heard the rattle of keys. He straightened his spine, pushed his shoulders back and his knees apart, just like Lowell wanted.

  The door swung open.

  “Good even—” Aaron began and yelped as Lowell flung his briefcase at him.

  Lowell ignored him and glared down at Tate. “Do you know what your former so-called master has done, Tate?”

  Tate cowered, breaking position. “No, Master.”

  “That little asshole thinks he can go to trial!” Lowell stalked toward the living room, ripping his tie off and dropping it on the floor.

  Aaron, still clutching the briefcase, lunged for the tie, as though letting it lie on the floor for more than a second would be a disaster.

  Going to trial? Tate remembered his lawyer convincing him it would be better if he just took the plea bargain. He rose to his feet, his stomach in knots, and padded after Lowell. Found him in the living room, pouring himself a drink. “Trial, master?”

  Because Rory hadn’t done anything wrong. But surely he didn’t think that would protect him? Tate didn’t understand. Seven years was better than life, and Rory could be—

  Happy.

  Could be happy for seven years.

  Tate breathed through the burst of screeching static in his head.

  “Yes, trial, you stupid, addled rezzy. I suppose he plans on using the stand to go public with what he’s learned about the chips. Or maybe he really does think he can get an innocent verdict and walk out of Beulah a free man. Leave you—and all this—behind.” He waved a hand. Took a gulp of his drink. “If that’s the case, then let him return to that filthy hole you both crawled out of. But sadly, judging by the way he looks at you, he can’t be trusted to do the decent thing and just save his own skin.”

  The way he looks at me.

  Lowell set the glass down. “But you’ll tell them, won’t you, Tate?”

  “Tell who, master?” Tate asked.

  “The jury.” Lowell reached out and stroked his rough fingers down Tate’s cheek. “You’ll tell them how Rory was stealing from the department this entire time. Stealing from Beulah. You’ll tell them he used the money to buy you things. Nice, expensive things. Because he wanted to buy your silence. Or maybe buy your affection so when he cashed out, you’d run with him. Or maybe he intended on framing you the whole time, hmm?”

  “He’d never—”

  “I don’t care about what you think of his character. As your master, I’m telling you to lie. Perjury shouldn’t be so difficult for you, considering you’re already a criminal.”

  Tate frowned worriedly. But he hadn’t lied to the police or to his lawyer. The only person he’d lied to had been Rory, to try to be a better rezzy, to give him what he wanted. So if he’d lied for Rory, it was okay to lie for Lowell, wasn’t it? Weren’t they the same? “Yes, Master. I’ll say what you want.”

  “Good,” said Lowell, his voice low. He stroked his thumb along Tate’s jaw, each small movement drawing a shiver from Tate. “You’re a good boy, Tate.”

  Tate sighed with relief, but somehow the feeling never reached the pit of guilt sitting at the bottom of his stomach.

  “That’s it.” Lowell dropped his hand and reached for his glass again. “Aaron? Where the hell are you?”

  Aaron hurried into the room, wincing as he moved.

  Lowell sprawled onto the couch and held out his hand. Aaron took it and settled onto his lap. Tate poured Lowell another drink.

  Lowell stared at him over Aaron’s shoulder. He slid his hands down Aaron’s spine, gripping his ass cheeks tightly, so that the pink skin turned white. “Go get dinner on the table, Tate. When I’m done with this little bitch, I’ll have worked up an appetite.”

  “Yes, Master,” Tate said breathlessly, flushing. It was still . . . wrong, embarrassing, to see Lowell use Aaron so roughly, so confidently. Even though it was right, and it proved Lowell’s strong hand as a master. Tate couldn’t get used to the sight of it, though. Couldn’t forget how much gentler Rory had been, how eager but kind.

  He’d been a bad master. And now, Tate would condemn him.

  Tate would lie and say he was a bad man, as well.

  Legal detention in Beulah was exactly how Rory had expected it to be: clean, sterile, and safe. He was kept in the holding cell at the central police station because there was no prison to transfer him to until his trial. From what little Rory had learned from the police, he was something of a sensation. There hadn’t been a criminal trial in years, and the media couldn’t be expected to ignore that, even if the defendant hadn’t been Justice Lowell’s former assistant.

  Still, Rory couldn’t complain about his treatment. He was given decent meals, privacy, and had unfettered access to his legal representatives.

  Rory looked up as the cell door opened, expe
cting to see Cal Mitchell’s careworn face again. Instead, he saw a girl with her hair pulled too tightly into a bun and glasses that made her look older than she was.

  She was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. “Alexandra! What are you doing here?”

  “Work experience with Mr. Mitchell,” she said, sitting down on his bunk beside him and dumping a stack of files between them. “Mr. Lowell said that I should take the chance to participate in a criminal trial when the opportunity came up.”

  “Really?” Rory snorted. “Like that’s not a conflict of interest?”

  She frowned at him over her glasses. “Please. As though the only interests that count here aren’t Mr. Lowell’s. That’s why you’re here, and it’s why Aaron’s in his house. He’s not worried. And since I smile at his jokes and bring him coffee, then of course he remembers me when Mr. Mitchell told him about all the extra work an actual trial would be. He’s so generous.”

  Rory smiled weakly. All true.

  Hard to commiserate and laugh about a shitty boss when that shitty boss was about to have him condemned to slavery, though.

  Alexandra drummed her fingers on the bunk. “Anyway, you’ve probably realized that the evidence against you is pretty compelling.”

  “I figured it would be.” Who better to falsify it than a justice?

  “Mr. Mitchell sent me to go through it with you, to see if I couldn’t change your mind.”

  “You can’t.”

  She smiled at that. “I figured I couldn’t.”

  “But I hope to hell that’s not all you’re here for,” Rory told her earnestly.

  “No.” She lowered her voice. “I need to know that you’re going to tell the truth on the stand. The actual truth, I mean, and not Lowell’s twisted version. Look, I can’t promise I know what will happen there, but all of Beulah is watching. Whatever you say on the stand, they’ll all see it. All of them. There’ll be no way he can put that suspicion back in Pandora’s box.”

  “Good.”

  “Look, the problem is, we don’t know how big it is. I mean, nobody can tell us. We don’t know if it’s just Lowell or if there are other justices involved. The rezzy system has been in place longer than Lowell’s been in office, but we don’t know how long the chips have been used the way they are. We don’t even know if the police are involved or if they’re as much in the dark as anyone. The fact that Lowell is actually letting you go to trial is probably an indication that the corruption isn’t widespread yet. It means questions would be asked if the process wasn’t followed, we think.”