Bringing Stella Home

by Joe Vasicek

  In his memory, the younger boy bit his lip and clenched his fists. The boy without a name felt tears streaming down his cheeks at the image, so crystal sharp in his mind’s eye. What is happening? he wondered. Beneath him, his platoon brethren stirred in their sleep as his emotions struggled to rise above their own.

  “Maybe we could draw straws?”

  “Fine by me, but James has to agree to it—even if he loses.”

  James. The name struck the boy like a grenade blast. He knew that name.

  The memory grew fuzzy for a moment, but soon he watched himself hold out a fist with three wires poking out of them. “Pick one,” he said, walking over to the other boy—to James. “Shortest one gets dock duty.”

  James pulled out a longer wire and sighed in relief.

  “Stella, you’re next.”

  Stella! The boy’s heart leaped in his chest, and shivers passed down his spine to the ends of his fingertips. He mouthed the name over and over across his lips—Stella.

  “Come on—can you please let me go?”

  “You’re hopeless.”

  “Please? Just this once?”

  “Go on,” the boy watched himself say to the girl named Stella. “Fair is fair. Take one.”

  “Oh, all right,” James abruptly said. “You can go.”

  The face of the girl named Stella immediately lit up with glee. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you!” She ran up and gave James a hug before scampering out of the room.

  “Your turn again, James,” the boy without a name said. There was cruelty in his voice.

  “No. You go.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I know where the short one is.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  In his bunk, the boy’s tears came harder now, soaking into the cheap synthetic bedsheets. Around him, his platoon brothers began to come awake one by one, while inwardly his heart strained harder than ever against the Many.

  “Come on, pick one already.”

  James pulled out the short wire.

  “No!”

  “You drew it, fair and square.”

  “Come on!”

  “Don’t be a crybaby.”

  “I am not a crybaby!”

  “Yes you are.”

  “No I’m not!”

  “Yes you are. Listen to yourself.”

  “I am not. Shut up!”

  “Honestly, when are you going to grow up? It’s been three years, and you’re still the same pathetic, whiny little brother you’ve always been.”

  “Shut up,” James screamed. “I hate you!”

  No, the boy without a name realized. I love you.

  In that instant, several things happened at once. All of the boy’s platoon brothers came awake, several of them falling out of their bunks in a series of soft thuds against the hard metal floor. And inwardly, the boy felt a terrible stretching of his consciousness. Pinpricks of light flashed across his eyes, and pain exploded all over his head. He opened his mouth to scream, but before he could utter a word, he was free—free of the Many, free of his platoon brethren, free in both mind and heart.

  Free—and alone.

  He felt as if he were flying through the void, falling down an abyss, with nowhere to go. A tunnel seemed to open to him, and at the far end of it, a light. Somehow, he knew that it would take him to the identity of his past life, to James and Stella and all the disjointed memories that called to him. But the light was so distant, and between them lay a gulf as empty and terrible as the vacuum of space. Without his platoon brothers, the boy felt weak, like a helpless infant without so much as the power to stand. He stared into the void, and the void stared deep into his soul, filling him with terror.

  An instant later, he returned to himself. The Many swept him up into its emotional consciousness, and together he and his platoon brothers shifted from panic and fear to calm once again.

  The danger was over—the monster had passed. They were One again.

  Those who had fallen rose slowly to their feet and climbed without a word to their bunks. The boy without a name felt their fears subside as calmness turned to slumber. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let himself drift away in sleep, safe, comforted, no longer alone. Never alone.

  But as he fell with the others into sleep, his lips formed the names of the boy and the girl from his memory.

  James. Stella.

  Chapter 13

  The summons to Qasar’s chambers came only two days after Stella’s encounter with Borta. This time, Engus brought her a holo projector with a personal message from Qasar.

  “Lady Sholpan,” his holographic image said, barely two feet tall on the table in her and Tamu’s apartment. “I would be honored if you would join me this evening as my guest.” The image bowed, and the message ended.

  As his guest, Stella thought to herself. That means he doesn’t expect me to sleep with him. She swallowed and rubbed her stomach where Borta had stabbed her. All trace of the bloodless wound had long disappeared, but the memory was still fresh enough to make her shudder.

  She wordlessly went through the motions of washing and showering, her mind occupied with other things. When Narju had finished combing and drying her hair, he walked to the clothes locker in the wall and returned carrying a yellow dress. The silk was so thin that she could see his arm through it—even a wedding veil was more opaque than that.

  “Lady Borta sent you this dress, Mistress Sholpan,” Narju said.

  He held it up, and Stella saw that it came in two pieces. The top was a tiny shred of fabric barely wider than one of her hands. She bit her lip and stared.

  “Lady Borta gave this to me?” she asked after several moments.

  “Yes, mistress. Shall I put it on?”

  Stella didn’t move. She did not want to wear that thing—it would be like walking into Qasar’s bedchamber stark naked. Borta would probably approve of that, she realized.

  “Mistress?”

  Stella blinked and glanced up at him.

  “Do you…have anything else, Narju?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You would turn down this gift from Lady Borta?”

  “Is that a bad idea?”

  Narju didn’t answer right away. He draped the outfit over his arm and bowed.

  “Lady Borta is a dominating woman, mistress. If you allow yourself to be dominated in small things, though, you will never crawl out from under her thumb. She commanded that you should wear this dress tonight, but as your personal servant, if you command me otherwise, I will obey.”

  “But what will she do if I refuse?”

  Narju shrugged. “Nothing she wouldn’t otherwise do.”

  Stella hesitated, but only for a moment.

  “Bring me something else.” Whether or not it would help with Qasar, she would rather keep her peace of mind than wear such a slutty thing.

  This time, Narju brought a choice of several dresses, both one-piece and two-piece. She wanted to go with a one-piece dress—bare midriff always made her feel nervous and self-conscious—but knew that a modest dress probably wouldn’t be nearly enticing enough to suit her purposes.

  “That one,” she said, pointing to a blue silk bedlah outfit. The top was thin and more than a little revealing, but the dress itself stretched almost to her ankles, held up by a wide double belt made of leather and colored beads.

  I would never have picked out clothes like this before I came here, she thought to herself as she rose to her feet and slipped out of her bath towel. Narju helped her into her dress and clasped the belt low on her hips. I would never have let a man dress me, either, she thought to herself as Narju slipped the top over her chest.

  What am I turning into?

  As Narju stepped away, she collapsed onto the bench and held her head in her hands. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Instead, she felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness, as if she were trapped in thick mud and couldn’t move. Her mind spun with dizziness, and for a short while she couldn’t breathe. She
felt Narju’s hand on her arm, and her face tightened up, barely squeezing a tear from her parched eyes.

  “Relax,” Narju said, rubbing her bare shoulders. She took in a deep breath; the air was sweet in her lungs. The room spun a little slower, and tears finally sprung to her eyes, gushing out like a fountain in the desert.

  “Mistress?”

  “What am I doing this for?” she asked, barely coherent. “Why do I even try? My life is a living hell. Why don’t I just give up?”

  Narju said nothing, massaging her instead. Her muscles gradually loosened under his gentle touch. For a brief moment, she could forget she was a sex slave for the monster who had conquered her home.

  “Be still and listen,” Narju said, his voice solemn. “I was not always Narju. Before the Hameji enslaved me, my name was Asi. My people were the free nomads of Tajjur V.”

  Stella stopped crying long enough to listen.

  “The Hameji see all planetborn as weak and honorless,” Narju continued, “but that was not so with my people. We made our home in the untamed lands, underneath the open sky—not in the sprawling, polluted arcologies of the domers. We were a strong people, a proud people.”

  He paused, and the strokes of his hands became harder. It was obvious that the memories pained him.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “The Hameji killed my people when they slagged our world. My brothers and I were in a small town on the edge of one of the domes when they came. Before we knew what was happening, one of the shop owners rushed us onto his shuttle. To this day, I don’t know why he did it. We were the only ones to escape with our lives.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Stella whispered.

  “So was I,” said Narju. “So was I. The Hameji took away my home, they took away my family, and they took away my manhood. In my despair, I came to believe that no man had ever suffered as much as I. I dreamed of being a martyr, of killing as many of the Hameji as I could before embracing death myself.”

  Narju paused. He continued to rub her shoulders—strong, unyielding strokes, firm yet gentle.

  “What changed your mind?” Stella asked, eager to hear the rest of his story.

  He sighed. “I came to realize that such a death would be utterly pointless. Had God kept me alive this long, just for me to end it that way? No, he had a purpose for my life—a reason for keeping me alive when so many others had perished.”

  He stopped, lifting his hands. Stella glanced over her shoulder and stifled a gasp; the solemn look on his face reminded her of her father.

  “Your self pity is a terrible poison, Sholpan,” he continued. “It is much more destructive than anything the Hameji can do to you. They have not stripped you of everything—not by far. You are not friendless. You are not hungry or naked or cold. The master even respects your chastity and allows you to keep it unsullied.”

  Stella looked away. “Yeah,” she said, “but Borta doesn’t.”

  “Borta sees your virtue as a threat,” said Narju. “But she sees everything as a threat. How else could she remain head wife? If it were not your virtue, it would be your beauty. If it were not your beauty, it would be something else. She is, unfortunately, an overly paranoid woman.”

  “Not just paranoid,” said Stella. “She threatened to kill me if I didn’t sleep with him.”

  For several moments, Narju was silent.

  “How did she threaten you?”

  Stella hesitated. Can I trust him? she wondered. Borta had claimed to control even the food and water that came into the concubines’ quarters. Was Narju one of her agents?

  No, she decided. Narju wouldn’t have opened up to me so much if he were one of her agents. He was a good man, and he’d always been kind to her. Stella decided to trust him.

  “Here,” she said, pointing to her stomach. “Look.”

  Narju bent down and squinted. “I see nothing—maybe a slight redness above your navel, but that is all.”

  “That’s where Borta stabbed me.”

  “Where she stabbed you?”

  “Yes. She stabbed me with a needle, at the meridian point or something. She did it to prove she could murder me and get away with it.”

  “One of the doctor’s instruments,” Narju muttered. A frown crossed his face. “This is a grave development.”

  “She’s going to do it, Narju—she’s going to kill me if I don’t sleep with Qasar tonight.”

  He nodded slowly. “And what have you decided to do?”

  Stella felt her arms and legs clam up. Her breathing became short.

  “I don’t know.”

  Narju placed his hand on her shoulder. His touch felt firm and reassuring.

  “Do not be afraid, Sholpan,” he said. “Whatever decision you make, I am sure it will be right.”

  Stella swallowed. She wished she could be so sure.

  * * * * *

  “Ah, Sholpan,” boomed Qasar from inside his private chambers. “Come in—please come in!”

  Stella stepped through the doorway, into the scarlet room. She drew in a breath and tried to relax, hoping that her smile didn’t seem forced. With her warm, sweaty fingers, she held tightly onto Tamu’s pill.

  “Good evening, Master,” she said, giving a little curtsey.

  “Come, please,” said Qasar, motioning to the bed. “Have a seat.” This time, a bowl of fresh fruit and a plate of flatbread sat next to the platter of sweetmeats. Together, the three dishes made a full meal—much more than the two of them could possibly eat.

  “Oh my,” said Stella, sitting cross legged on the bed. “The food smells delicious.”

  At least I have some time, then.

  “Of course,” said Qasar, reclining casually on his side. “Only the best for us both. Now come and eat!”

  Stella’s stomach felt much too unsettled for a meal, but she forced herself to swallow a few pieces of fruit and break off a chunk of bread. While Qasar made loud smacking noises with his lips, Stella took small bites and chewed slowly, nervously fingering the pill in the palm of her left hand.

  Not yet, she thought to herself. After the meal.

  “I have good news, my shy goddess,” Qasar said, chewing on a piece of roasted meat. “Or news that is good for you, at least, and convenient for us both.”

  “What is that?” Stella asked.

  “The Generals have appointed me overseer of your star—Karduna, as you call it. They’ve given me twenty seasoned captains to hold the system and manage the local planetborn.”

  Manage. Such a cold, heartless word—as if the ‘planetborn’ were robots or animals, not human beings.

  “Granted, I could easily rule this system by force alone,” Qasar continued, “but with you by my side, that is now unnecessary. Once we are married, your standing as one of the locals will grant my rule a degree of legitimacy that it otherwise could not have, and prove a tremendous asset as I seek to build my court.”

  Stella swallowed as Qasar took a pitcher of wine from a nearby hovertray. She trembled as if she were perched at the top of a narrow precipice, where any wrong move could end in her death.

  “Well?” Quasar asked, pulling out two golden goblets and filling them with wine. “What say you?”

  “I—I don’t know,” said Stella. “I—I’m not very high-born, and I couldn’t possibly do well in—”

  “Nonsense,” said Qasar. “With me as your husband, no one would dare dispute your place in my court.”

  “But I don’t think I could—”

  “The gods have ordained this, Sholpan. Your coming at this time is much too auspicious to be a coincidence. They will provide a way—they always do.”

  Stella nodded, her whole body tense. “Of course, Master Qasar. I do not doubt it—”

  “Then it’s settled?”

  “N-no, not yet,” said Stella, rolling the pill back and forth between her fingers. “I mean, how could I possibly make a difference? Those who hate you would resist your rule whether or not I were your wife. Besides,�
�� she lied, her voice slowly dying, “I like being a concubine. It’s very…comfortable.”

  Qasar stared at her for a long time, as if she had gone mad. Then, with a shrug, the expression disappeared.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “I must admit, I am quite liberal with my women. If that’s where you’d rather be—but no, we do not have to decide this right now.” He handed her one of the goblets. “Thirsty?”

  “Yes,” said Stella, keeping her eyes on him as she took it. When he tilted back his head to drink, she slipped the pill into her mouth and pressed the goblet to her lips.

  Here it goes, she thought to herself as she took a sip. The tartness of the grapes and alcohol filled her mouth, washing the pill towards her throat. All she had to do was swallow—swallow, and remain Qasar’s concubine. Swallow, and—

  Her throat seized up, and she started choking. Before she could stop herself, she spewed her drink all over the bedsheets, staining them red.

  “What’s the matter?” Qasar asked. “Too strong for you?”

  The pill! Stella cried out to herself. She looked about frantically until she saw it under one of the hover-trays. In one quick motion, she snatched it up.

  “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Don’t worry about the sheets,” said Qasar, chuckling to himself. “They can be cleaned.”

  She nodded and closed her fist tightly around the pill. It was pasty now, and warm from her saliva. She watched Qasar, waiting for another opportunity to—

  No, she told herself, taking a sharp breath. I can’t do this. I—I won’t. In that moment, she knew she would never choose to be Qasar’s concubine, not even to save her life. If she had no choice in the matter, perhaps she could eventually stop hating herself—but not if she made the choice of her own accord. It would destroy her no less than Borta’s needle.

  “Qasar,” she said, keeping her hand tightly closed around the pill.

  “Yes, shy one?”

  “I—I would be honored to be your wife.”

  Qasar smiled and set his goblet on the nearest tray. “I thought you might come around,” he said. “Here, let me give you a gift.”