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Copyright© 2020 Katherine Wyvern
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0117-2
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Karyn White
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WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
In loving memory of Doris O'Connor
HELL’S MERCY
The Cydonian Tales, 4
Katherine Wyvern
Copyright © 2020
Three-hundred years after the demise of Earth-that-Was, the Galaxy’s central government has banned all artificially modified and enhanced humans. Only the remote planet of Cydonia has finally dissociated itself from the ban. The wild revelries of the Black Carnival in the Cydonian capital, Neu Venedig, have now taken an even wilder turn…
On the fifth night of the Carnival, Lukan strolled out of his high walled courtyard, twirling his walking cane in the air and humming Johan Caspar Ferdinand Fischer’s “Praeludium VIII” to himself. He had been playing it on the harpsichord again and again that afternoon, and its slippery, silvery perfection still clung to his inner ear like a haunting voice.
He crossed a little bridge into a narrow calle, then turned right into a slightly wider canal-side, lit by glowing fire-bulbs and the shimmering reflections from the dark water. The place was quiet, and the music hummed on in his head, undisturbed. Even at the height of the festivities, it was almost deserted in this part of Neu Venedig. He had carefully chosen his 16th century palazzo to be well out of the raving crowds.
He skipped from flagstone to flagstone along the edge of the canal, almost like a child, almost like a dancer, following the music that he alone could hear. The long tails of his embroidered coat flapped behind him as if charmed by the inaudible melody. His ghostly shadow flickered in and out of existence as he passed streetlight after streetlight.
It was Carnival, and he was going to Hell.
The Praeludium in his head gave way to an altogether more spirited Rigaudon, and he skipped faster, actually counting, two, three, four—he skipped a larger flagstone—five, six seven. Eight, nine, heaven.
Hopscotch. A forgotten game, like the music was forgotten, like the harpsichord was forgotten, ghosts of a dead world, long, long ago. But he was alive, and he remembered. He had been alive a long time, far longer than his looks suggested.
The night was cold, and he was as taut as a violin string, ready to snap with ache and longing, and something else, too, a sort of mute grief he didn’t want to acknowledge but that haunted him all the time, subtly gnawing at him.
But he was going to Hell, so all would be fine tonight. Soon, he would be all right, freed from that silent sorrow, and released into flaming brilliance.
All was perfect, until he turned a corner into the far more frequented Campo Santa Maria and a street vendor pushed a laden tray almost bodily into his stomach.
“Lollipuss?” the man asked automatically, startled by Lukan’s sudden appearance.
Lukan blinked behind the mask, stared at the tray, and then he stared some more.
Mass tourism was really going to be the ruin of the Carnival.
“No, thank you,” he said, sharply, and he strode on, towards San Zulian, frowning.
Time was when the Carnival was the best time of the year in Neu Venedig. The endless raunchy revelries had a certain class. Back then, the costumes were so sumptuous, it was almost a pity to shed them to get naked and down to business. Not that Lukan got naked very often, but he was certainly very partial to watching others do so. And the entertainments had some standards. But since the D-terminal had opened and the rabble had flooded the city all that was a memory. That was about thirty years ago, but Lukan had still not gotten used to it. It was one of the perks of old age, that one could be grumpy at novelties for three decades on end.
“Hey, blondie … oh, blondie boy,” exclaimed a woman in a cheap corset and skirt, the rubbish they sold as Carnival-wear in the Central Planets. In Neu Venedig, a moderately fastidious housekeeper would not use them as dust-rags. The flimsy boning of the corset could hardly contain the rolls of belly that expanded in every direction. Lukan grimaced. Plump flesh was all right and had a certain attraction, especially when well-welted after a whipping. But if you want to be seen in a corset, get a serious one, one that can handle the strain.
Blondie boy, indeed.
“Not tonight, madam,” he said curtly, walking on.
I have known this city for close on three centuries. Damn, I practically made this city. I practically am this city. And a fucking upstart in a fake corset waltzes in and calls me “hey, blondie boy”.
His mood was turning darker than the night around him by then. It often happened. He wasn’t skipping flagstones anymore. As he crossed the square, he banged his walking cane down at each step, as if to point out to the other passersby that any insolence would be met with a sterner reproof than most of them had bargained for.
It would be an educational service to give her a proper caning, the damn strumpet. But God forbid that she goes and enjoys it. No. Better to ignore her.
And, in fact, by the time he had walked twenty steps, he had all but forgotten her. He walked briskly on to the Rio de San Zulian. There was almost no way to get to Hell without crossing some of the more frequented areas, alas, and at the Calle Casselleria he had to stop to hail a boat and cross over to San Polo. Crossing the Rialto Bridge in the crowd would be a nightmare.
Unfortunately, all gondolas and ferries were busy at this time of year, and even he had to share with the rag-tag. At one point, he had owned a private gondola but had finally given it up as impractical and unnecessarily showy, the sort of flashy thing the newly rich would do. He liked to inhabit his wealth with more grace these days, his only indulgences being his prodigious art collection and his dungeon. The dungeon was not underground, but at the third floor of his palace because Venice-that-was had been rebuilt as accurately as only Germans could, and the only people who could sport an underground playroom in Neu Venedig were mermaids. Literally.
As he waited for one of the boats to approach the landing, a young girl in a voluminous cloak, which was covered all over with black feathers, looked him up and down appraisingly. The feathers shimmered green and violet even in the faint light of the fire-bulbs. Her black hair was done in a complicated knot, pinned on top of her head with a feathered comb. Even her bird-mask was edged with feathers. She looked like a nocturnal, shapeshifting nymph emerging from the skin of an iridescent blackbird. One of her breasts was bare, the nipple ringed with silver and stiff in the cold. There was a feather tassel dangling from the ring.
He studied her out of the corner of his eye, leisurely. She looked at him as if he was a horse she was considering buying. He guessed that this was not her first carnival, and he mentally adjusted his estimate of her age upwards by at least a couple of decades. That look was not the look of youth. It was hard to gauge anyone’s age these days.
I should know, he thought with a slight, smug smile.
The smile must have been taken as an encouragement, and the woman pointedly made eye contact, then gave a long luscious lick to her candy.
The lollipuss looked absurd and obscene atop its stick as the not-so-young girl pushed her tongue in the slit. The marshmallow lips were convincingly floppy and slick from the lic
king. Lukan found himself watching her in morbid fascination. They said the lollipuss’s slit tasted of maraschino cherry. And that when you licked your way through the clit there was a secret cache of fizzy lemon sherbet. Lukan shook his head in amusement.
Or maybe despair.
The girl tickled the lollipuss’s clit with her tongue, still holding his eyes with her steady gaze, and he had to admit that he was sorely, sorely tempted.
I could bring her along to Hell. Hell would know what to do with such a beautiful and deliciously forward creature.
He had a brief vision (or not so brief—they had to wait a while for the boat) of her thighs spread wide, securely tied, with a large dildo firmly stuck between them to keep her cunt busy as Hell did any number of things to her ass. It would be striped like a tiger skin before the end, but striped red, not black. And then, when she was utterly broken, he would take her.
She can even go on licking that absurd sugar cunt if she’s not weeping too hard by then. Oh, it would be glorious. Lukan closed his eyes for a moment as his cock stirred in his pants.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
Hell was busy, so very busy. By now she was a very trendy attraction in Neu Venedig at this time of the year. Not as generally known as the Grand Parades in Piazza San Marco, or the Bare Butt Ride on the Riva degli Schiavoni. But the discerning visitors, those with brains and fine tastes, prized her services very highly indeed, and she had a full book through the whole Carnival. It was a mercy that she still made time for him.
There was no time for unscheduled distractions. Their arrangement was strictly private. He could bring Hell the lollipuss girl as a gift, like a cat bringing a wounded bird. But not tonight. Tonight he needed Hell to himself.
When the boat arrived, he stepped into it and held out a gloved hand to the black feathered girl, a simple courtesy, and as she moved forward, he was mildly astonished to realize that her cloak was not a cloak at all but actual raven wings, which opened wide around her shoulders, feathers ruffled and billowing in the faint desert breeze.
A nike. A new fashion, and one he rather approved of for once. A very beautiful concept, although horribly impractical in confined spaces. Their wings were seldom large enough to get them airborne, but they still spanned a good ten feet across.
She took his hand graciously and stepped into the boat where they sat side by side on damask pillows, her wings folded demurely around her shoulders once more.
What a very beautiful creature, he thought again, admiring.
Ever since Cydonia had dissociated itself from the Central Planets’ ban on Modified Humans, life had certainly become more interesting in Neu Venedig. The little planet and its capital, remote as they were, had become the refuge of all ModHums in the galaxy who were tired of living in hiding or even captivity in private seraglios and grotesqueries. It had also become a place for wild experiments and freedom of expression. There were more than a thousand arnists in the city by now, busily breeding and transforming humans, sometimes in very small and discreet ways and sometimes less so. Their shops often looked like the more disreputable kind of tattoo parlor at the front, with posters full of the latest designs, catalogues of improbable creatures and even more improbable body parts, and curious notices like “TAILS TAILS TAILS! Get a tail! Get two! Third one’s for free!”.
But, behind the tatty façades, there were state of the art genetic labs and the most advanced surgical appliances. A skilled arnist could combine and recombine one’s DNA to create, recreate, culture and transform body parts or whole organisms in a matter of weeks, and grafting them in place seamlessly was a form of art as much as a science. Neu Venedig was now known for the diversity of its arnied population as much as for Murano glass, Burano lace, or its kinky Carnival extravagance.
The nike slipped a hand around his elbow, and he took her fine fingers in his gloved hand and removed them from his arm, politely but quite firmly. It was one thing to hand her in the boat, and another thing to get too cuddly. He disliked being touched by strangers, and he was not looking for casual company tonight.
The woman sniffed unhappily and returned to her lollipuss, licking it rather wistfully now.
“I am quite certain we could have had a nice time together, sir,” she said.
Lukan, who relished the odd, long-forgotten English proverb almost as much as he enjoyed ancient music and art, gave a wry smile, thinking, the only certain things are death and taxes. That was a very comical saying from the olden days, back before the last war on Earth. It was funny already then, because sure as hell the rich of planet Earth had never paid much in the way of taxes. Later it became doubly ironic, when death, too, became a thing of the past, for those who could afford the right care.
“I am equally certain of it. But alas, not tonight, madam,” he said. “Not that I am not flattered. I truly am. But I have other plans.”
He felt a little pang of regret, but nothing to ruin his digestion. The world was full of young women begging for his attention, sometimes for his wealth and position, sometimes just for his charismatic presence. And, at his age and all, he still was a handsome man. If I say so myself.
And of course, he liked to play with these women. He was an inventive sadist. But these girls were … toys. Even this beautiful nike with her candy-cunt on a stick would have been no more than a trifle to play with for a night, or a week. Lukan had another glimpse in his mind of the beautiful young woman currently sitting beside him, spread eagled, hands and feet and wings tied, skin glistening with sweat, impaled back and front with any of the expensive, imaginative implements in his collection, gagged and wide-eyed with fear and lust, ready for his pleasure. It really was tempting.
But he was tired, and worried, and the mere thought of all that work exhausted him. If only he could bring her to Hell … that would be different. Hell still had the energy for it.
Time was when he had been the one in charge, constantly. These days, he had come to treasure the gift of surrender.
He was old. He didn’t look it, but he was, and the truth was, as one grew older one needed a change of pace sometimes. Even one’s love changed shape. And the more one loved the more one understood love, the wonder of it, and also the strangeness of it. And as for lovers … oh, yes, at his age, he had come to accept that they came and went, and sometimes they died, much as pets and potted plants did.
That didn’t mean that love died. There is always someone worth loving, if you take the trouble to look for them.
But Helenay … Helenay was something rare. Something else. And she was no toy. Goodness gracious, she was certainly no toy.
Hell was the real thing.
****
The boat had been wending its way along the busy canal to the next landing, by force of oar and oaths, because all the boatmen were devilishly short-tempered at the height of the Carnival. Lukan and the raven-woman sat quietly side by side as some passengers left the boat and others boarded. The seat in front of them was taken by a young man with a pointed little beard and furry goat legs.
There was a fine line between fauns and satyrs, and some overlap and some tricky etiquette involved when telling the ones from the others. But there was no mistaking this one. This one was most definitely a satyr.
He had impressive twisted horns on his head. He wore a long, embroidered vest, and a cloak against the cold wind. He carried a walking cane, not for style, as Lukan did, but to help himself get around. He had short legs with backwards knees, covered in thick chestnut hair, and small cloven feet. His genitals were human enough, but twice the usual size and prominently displayed by a silver cock-ring fastened to a leather belt.
Lukan stared. The raven-woman stared.
Even in the carnival, it was rather rude to do so.
But if you don’t want people to stare at your junk, there is such a thing as wearing pants, dammit.
The raven-woman gave a lusty smile, tilted her lollipuss towards the satyr, and licked it voluptuously. The satyr grinned,
bowed, and Lukan guessed that these two had found a match for the night.
Later, as he left the boat, he shook his head, bemused.
Satyrs were by far not the strangest things in Neu Venedig, these days. There were rumors that some very exclusive establishments now offered centaurs for the amusement of their more demanding and affluent customers. Lukan happened to know that the rumors were true. He also knew the astronomical price that was demanded for their, ahem, voluminous services.
This being Neu Venedig, winged lions had become popular pets for the rich. They were noble and engaging creatures, and completely tame. Before awarding the breeding license, the City Council had made it a condition that all aggression be arnied out of them. Still, as any person with a smidge of common sense could have predicted, a calf-sized animal with a ten-foot wing-span that constantly shed both hair and feathers, was a bit of a domestic nightmare, and the picturesque wilderness on Torcello Island had now become a refuge for the unwanted ones. The only pride of winged lions in the galaxy was by now a popular attraction in its own right and was a spectacular and even moving sight.
Some of the arnists’ recent creations were indeed very beautiful, like the nikes or the Dragonfly Dancers that performed aerial shows twice a day in Campo Santo Stefano. Others were … weird. Lukan had seen a lot of weird shit in his long life, but the endlessly creative tentacled creatures in the phosphorescent pools of the Darsena Vecchia had left even him speechless. It was said that they could pleasure a man or a woman in ways one had never thought of, and with eight entirely flexible rubbery arms each, with sensitive tips and suckers of all sizes, Lukan could well believe it. Still, he had never been able to look at an octopus the same way ever since, and he had been off seafood for a while.
Hell's Mercy Page 1
