by A. C. Katt
Living with Syn
By A.C. Katt
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2014 A.C. Katt
ISBN 9781611520057
* * * *
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Living with Syn
By A.C. Katt
Prologue
“Out of the mouths of babes…”
—Psalms 8:2
A small blond head pressed against the transparent viewer of the private ground transport, or PGT. The series of low wood and glass style dwellings whizzed past as the vehicle progressed through the Ulna Heights. Clustered around the Warrior Academy, the architecture of the heights blended with the landscape. Here the trees towered over the sky paths with trunks the diameter of the transport. Teal needle-like leaves proliferated, letting the sunlight filter through to the ground.
The transport left the heights and glided over flowing grasslands, Tierest trees, and acres of wildflowers indigenous to the high country. As they reached the lower elevations, the tree line gradually changed. The view no longer held the young offspring’s interest. Nafer wiggled and turned toward the distinguished, chestnut-haired Sarran Elder who sat across from him. Nafer scrunched up his impish face, which carried the imprint of the viewing window. He seemed to be to be lost in thought. Bron knew his offspring. The inquisition was about to begin.
“Zadda, are we there yet? It’s taking too long. Poppie and the Mommie are going to worry.”
The fact that Nafer spoke aloud drew dramatic attention to his level of concern. Nafer rarely verbalized since the Zyptz’s designer plague took his Zenna and Sib along with all the fems of Sarran. He’d told Bron he didn’t see the need.
::You understand mind speech Zadda, so does Poppie, so why do I need to talk?::
“Both Poppie and I have explained to you that not all Sarrans have mind speech. It is impolite to make assumptions on the level of a Warrior or a fem’s ability, therefore, you speak aloud.”
Goddess, both Zaron and I spoiled Nafer after losing Nara and Nessie and it really began to show when Zaron went on the Brightstar mission.
“Why can’t we teleport?” Nafer looked up at TeBron.
“I explained this to you, cub. Poppie has things that must travel home in the PGT. Unless you wish to go home without him, we cannot teleport to Ulna. Do you want to scare the new fem who, as yet, do not know how advanced our psy is? It would also put us all at risk, if our enemies discerned PsyOps Secrets.”
Nafer pulled on Bron’s arm.
“How can we lie to the fem, Zadda? How can you bond with a lie in you?”
Bron sighed and motioned his wiggling offspring over to sit on his lap. But Nafer almost melded his face to the glass in an attempt to see more of the outside. It could be worse. If Nafer concentrated, he could teleport out of the transport and be at the Ulna Depot in an instant, by himself and out of the reach of the two unbonded PsyOps Security Officers, Garlance and Stoker, who saw to their safety in the absence of Juraens.
He pulled his offspring into his strong arms, which even now rippled with muscle as if he still worked at the forge with his own Zadda and Poppie. Nafer finally settled on his knees, playing with the hair on his Zadda’s forearm. Both he and Nafer were dressed in the traditional Sarran vest and light trews. While Nafer wore soft slippers with reinforced soles, Bron had donned his black Nathrian leather boots, knowing that Zaron liked the way they shaped his calf. Nafer wasn’t the only one in the household feeling anxious.
Bron and Zaron had experienced a period of distance in their relationship since the passing of their fem and femspring—Nessie, and Nara with their unborn bebe. The heat of Planting and Harvest gave way to the Barrens, Sarran winter. In their mutual grief, they retreated behind their mental shields, each only allowing the other entrance for the benefit of Nafer. He didn’t attempt to lie to himself; Nafer felt the difference.
Bron found comfort in knowing that Nafer blamed the Zyptz and not his sires for the emptiness of their encounters. TeBron’s call to TeZaron on Brightstar ended the stalemate. The carefully erected barriers of three cycles ruptured with the slight buzz of an unknown song in Zaron’s head. It happened just after Nafer started to talk about mommies, when the Brightstar ranged within calling distance of his new communication device that amplified psy. Both he and his bonded felt unsure of where they stood with each other after three cycles of withdrawal. He needed what they both so carelessly threw away.
These thoughts took only a mot to fly through his cerebellum. Nafer’s rear hit his knee, bringing him out of the cocoon of his mind. He willed himself to serenity and stroked Nafer’s back like Nara used to do when she wanted him to sleep.
“No Zadda, no nap, you can’t lie to the fems, one is our Mommie.” Nafer wiggled.
“Nafer, will you please define your terms. Zadda has no notion of what the word “Mommie” signifies.”
“Zadda,” Nafer whined, “I’ve told you so many times, it is like a fem, but more. Mommie makes things called cookies with chocolate chips and you sit in front of the tube with the kitty on your lap, and eat cookies and drink milk. The Mommie makes you midtine meal in a lunchbox with a Warrior who is a spider. She plays chess, poker, and gin rummy. She knows how to hit a ball with a big slab of wood—and then you run fast so you don’t make an out. She understands everything, but she doesn’t know she does. We need the Mommie and the Mommie needs us.”
That was a long speech for his son and he expended much effort in trying to explain to Bron what apparently was something best understood by experience. Bron knew this related to the Earthen fem, yet he remained uncomfortable with the wealth of potential of this word Mommie. He and Zaron had barely found themselves again. To BondStir a second time was almost unheard of in the canons of the Sarran Codex. However, a man could fall into a large laptard pit ignoring the space between the words almost and never.
The loss of Nara, Nessie, and the bebe left him and Zaron with a hole in their psy that they seemed unable to fill. To bond again with another fem felt sacrilegious. Yet, the closer the Brightstar came to Sarran, the stronger he felt that his and Zaron’s fate berthed aboard the ship; even worse, the BondStir compulsion seemed stronger, more compelling, than what they felt with Nara. Nafer had already mind-bonded to “Mommie.” He and Zaron must put away their grief and fear and learn to open up again to each other and the new “Mommie.” He sighed and attempted a call to his Dragon. He felt Zaron but the mind blocks put in place to ensure the success of the Brightstar mission still held strong. He palmed the device in his pocket. Should h
e activate the signaler? It would get him through the first set of blocks.
::Use it Zadda, please,:: Nafer pleaded.
“Naffie,” it seemed a long time since he used the diminutive that slipped so easily from his lips today. His tendency toward diminutives and pet names always made Nara and Nessie smile. The habit came, as he did, from the forge to the castle and the castle failed to take the legacy of the smithies from the brilliance of the engineer and Warrior. In truth, he was less formal than Zaron who was raised to become a prince, so Bron used colloquiums and soon had Zaron using them too.
His offspring looked up, interested in what came next. “Naffie, we will tell the fem the truth of the Sarran psy legacy once they bond. However, we cannot afford to hand our enemies knowledge that we worked for millennia to conceal. People fear what they do not understand. The other council planets developed bio-machinery, genetic slicing, and genetic re-coding. After the initial incident that brought more than two thousand years of war, and the blessings of Triad from the Goddess Ulna, we vowed to use only natural methods to enhance our abilities. We kept that promise up until we lost our fem.
‘‘By slightly modifying the Earthen fem to accept our seed they were able to absorb the antidote. Deliberate, yes, but also ethical. If we did not give them the modification with the antidote, the vaccine would fail. Their whole planet would have been as ours and two humanoid civilizations devoid of fem. Yet we cannot let them feel pushed.” Bron settled back into his seat pulling Nafer with him.
Nafer bounced. “Zadda, that’s bullshit. Everything has changed.”
“What is this bullshit, offspring?”
“Something Mommie says is shoveled at her by most of her male acquaintances.”
Bron then knew himself to be defeated in a debate with a child of six cycles. Maybe it was time to activate the signaler.
* * * *
Chapter 1
“And he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere.”
—Ali ibu-Abi-Talib
The Brightstar landed smoothly on Sarran. After the firefight in engineering, the bridge, and in the Admiral’s quarters, the arrival was anticlimactic for Syn. A Yeoman Warrior knocked on the door of her cabin to give her a message from Anya. Prince Tonas, Co-Admiral with Prince Jonal, received a leg wound in engineering but was recovering. The yeoman told Syn that Anya would meet her after the unbonded fem were processed on the tarmac. Tonas and Jonal had agreed that Syn would accompany Anya to her new home.
Syn glowed with the warmth of Anya’s consideration after her isolation on the ship. The new princess insisted on extending her hand in friendship despite Syn’s somewhat dubious reputation.
Duchess adamantly refused to ride in her cat carrier and Syn was forced to put her in the cat bed that once served as a market basket, but was now outfitted with a soft pillow. She sighed. It’s easier than hauling the carrier, but only if she decides to stay put.
::Of course I’ll stay put. I wouldn’t want to lose you in the confusion.::
Syn turned her head looking about the cabin. There were rumors that Anya’s cat, Tigger, had psy ability. Could Duchess be similarly talented?
“Was that you, Duchess?”
::Since there isn’t anyone else in the room, dear, either you’re hearing voices, or I’m speaking to you. I think you might prefer it to be me.:: Syn sat down on the bunk, amazed. Duchess had psychic abilities. Anya told her Tigger did, but Syn was skeptical about Duchess. The fluffy white Persian climbed back onto to the bunk and sat next to the basket. ::We should go. I don’t want to be trampled in the rush.::
Well, Syn thought, if I’m crazy so be it. So much has happened since Philadelphia, this is just one more shock. I always suspected she understood, so it shouldn’t come as such a surprise she can communicate.
Syn took one more look around the small cabin. The com, a cross between an iPad and a TV- and hologram projector, told her that all of her belongings would be transported separately to her destination. She grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and took hold of the basket handle where Duchess had settled herself. Thank the stars she isn’t as heavy as Tigger. With her free hand she rubbed the nape of her neck. The headache and accompanying buzz in her ears had intensified over the last day or two. As a clinical psychologist, she diagnosed her condition as stress. When she finally met up with Anya, she was going to ask for some aspirin. She opened the cabin door and found the yeoman on guard. She sat down on the bunk and waited.
Syn knew that she would have to face Madelyn Dixon-Howard and it was enough to turn her stomach. Duchess jumped from the basket onto the bunk alongside of her and curled up in her lap. I wouldn’t be so calm if it weren’t for the cat. She thought back…
* * * *
The night before the tribunal, Elder TeZaron brought both Anya and Tigger to her room. Her room was a double, but she was lucky, her former roommate had bonded and she slept alone.
She studied TeZaron. She knew he was an Elder. He looked about forty though he was reputed to be younger; rumors said he had six or seven years on her own twenty-nine.
His hair was long and straight, a true golden blond. His cheekbones loomed high on his face and his skin tone hinted at the olive of the Mediterranean. His blue eyes reminded her of the color of the sky off the Irish Coast. They also had an imperceptible slant. She wondered at the time if he were Fire or Light clan. If he came from FireClan, Syn remembered, dry ice can burn. He showed them the automatic courtesy a Sarran Warrior shows a fem but without their characteristic warmth. Syn hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
Well, he was the reason I met Anya along with Tigger and both Duchess and I found ourselves true friends. She remembered their conversation very well. Syn blushed; her defensive greeting to Anya hadn’t been exactly polite. “Syn Sinclair, clinical psychologist and former prostitute from the Philly gutter…”
Anya didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash. She smiled and said, “I might be mistaken but White Persians don’t generally populate the gutters of Philadelphia.”
I began to laugh and that was that. She asked me my story and I tried to tell her, making it short and sweet.
“Caught me, huh? You don’t seem to be one of those snots, but I couldn’t be sure,” She said a bit too causally. “I needed to let you know the facts up front.” The violet eyes with lashes that swept her cheeks, looked down, as if she waited for Anya’s recriminations.
“How did it happen?” Anya asked compassionately.
“Like most things—accidentally. I came from one of the Main Line families, over bred and trained to shut up, look good, and marry well. I didn’t fit the mold of country club princess.” She looked down disparagingly at her lush curves.
“This is not Ralph Lauren or Talbots. It’s Fredericks of Hollywood, and no matter how prim and proper I dressed, I still looked like a hooker. Platinum hair with dark lashes and brows, combined with D+ cups, don’t equal Main Line chic. From the time I turned ten, they told me to tone it down. Marilyn Monroe is not the right look for Main Line Philadelphia.”
Syn shrugged, her breasts pushed against the plain white blouse, the buttons ready to pop. She spoke to Anya as she moved around the room, efficiently unpacking the few things Anya took from quarters.
“Nothing ever fit me, top too big, waist too small, ass too round. My hair is fine, wispy, and refused to be properly constrained. When I dressed up, I looked like a high-class whore. When I dressed down, I looked like a streetwalker. In my freshman year one of my father’s friends cornered me in the study and started feeling me up. My father walked in and that was that. They named me an official slut.” Syn sighed while putting Anya’s things in the wardrobe.
“Surely one of his country club cronies couldn’t be a child molester. Father started to smack me around. He called me an embarrassment to the family and to the community. That gave him justification and permission to come home after a Sunday golf outing with the boys, eighteen holes and seven vodka martinis, to take me
into his study, try to fondle my breasts, and finger my cunt, then beat the living shit out of me when I resisted because he said I provoked him.”
Anya sat down on one of the bunks.
“I got sick of using thick pancake makeup to hide the bruises I got while he blamed me for his own perversions; accusing me of whoring around. Of course, I received most of my bruises defending myself from his efforts at making me into the whore he swore I’d become. Technically, I still had a hymen when I left the house.”
“What a horrible and unjust experience!” Anya cried, jumping up to hug Syn.
Syn hugged her back then continued her story, mouth set in a hard line.
“In my sophomore year I decided, why bother, might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. I booked with this guy, Osco, my dealer. I became a user to get through it, you know? I went to Philly and disappeared. Started out with a chicken shit habit and ended up with King Kong.” Syn pulled away from Anya and sat on the bunk.
“I’m familiar with the term,” Anya said.
“I forgot you’re a doc.” Syn’s voice chilled.
Yeah, a doctor, but also, an orphan…I didn’t use, but had friends who did. I even helped a few detox outside of the approved system,” Anya replied, as if just stating the facts but placing them back on a semi-level playing field. Anya put her arm around Syn.
“After a while, Osco said I needed to earn my keep. So, I hooked for a bit, but didn’t like it. I told him if he loved me he wouldn’t make me do it.” Syn looked down, ill at ease.
“I’ve observed that Earthen men have a funny way of showing love. In my ER rotation I noticed that some shared their love with their fists.” Anya took her hand.
“Yes, exactly, he told me to shut the fuck up. Cunts like me personified white trash, only good for pushing pussy and floating until they died on the street from overdose or the fist of a pissed off john.”
Anya watched her as she continued the story and giggled a bit because Syn’s vocabulary was a weird mixture of Philly Street Kid and the cultured accent of the Main Line.
