The Sword of Sophia

by John Bowers

  “Who’s your owner?” he demanded of Erika.

  “I don’t have one yet,” she said, meeting his gaze with lifted chin.

  “What the hell’s that s’posed to mean?” he growled.

  “I haven’t been sold.”

  “Charley, git us a room in the au’tel over yonder.”

  The younger son turned and trotted across the street. The man was looking Erika up and down, clearly itching to get his hands on her.

  “You ain’t been sold yet, huh? How is it you’re out here runnin’ around loose?”

  Maria stepped in front of Erika.

  “She not a slave,” she told him. “She under the authority of Captain Brandon Marlow.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He a captain in the SE.”

  “Am I s’posed to take your word for it?”

  “No, suh, you kin check for yo’self.”

  The man grimaced unhappily. He didn’t want to run afoul of the SE, but neither did he want to let a loose Vegan woman get away if he could avoid it.

  “Awright, then, tell me this—she’s a Vegan woman, she ain’t been sold, and you say she ain’t even a slave. But she’s under this Captain Marlow’s authority. What’s she doin’ on the street? Tell me that!”

  “She under my escort. I works for Captain Marlow.”

  “You a slave?”

  “No, suh. A suhvant.”

  The remaining son had been unconsciously rubbing his crotch. Now he spoke up.

  “Pa, we gonna take the word of a niggo serf on this? I say we just fuck this bitch and be done with it.”

  “We ain’t gonna do nothin’ that’s agin the law,” the father replied without taking his eyes off Erika. She returned his gaze evenly, trying not to betray the churning in her stomach; she was still queasy from nineteen days of abuse on board the slave ship.

  “How long you been on Sirius?” the man asked her.

  “A few days.”

  “If you’re under this Marlow’s authority, why ain’t he here with you?”

  “He on Vega,” Maria said, her dark eyes smoldering. “He busy fightin’ the war.”

  “Then how can she be under his authority if he ain’t even here?”

  “He sent word on ahead befo’ she even got here. Suh, you best give it up. You touch this here w’ite lady, you be in one heap of a mess!”

  “Come on, Pa, let’s fuck her! The hell with all this talk!”

  “I think you’re both bluffin’,” the father told Maria. “I think she’s a runaway slave and you’re protectin’ her.”

  “You be makin’ a whoppin’ mistake, suh. You lay one hand on her, Captain Marlow gonna have you whooped.”

  A crowd had gathered, watching the drama play out. Erika stood fearfully, trying to remain defiant. The breeze lifted her hair and a late afternoon sun warmed her skin. But her blood ran cold.

  The younger son returned. “Got a room, Pa. We gonna fuck her?”

  “I think we just might do that,” the man mused. “We just might.”

  “Listen, suh,” Maria said, “you so almighty horny, you kin do it to me. But you best leave her alone.”

  The grizzled man snorted. “Why would I want a fat niggo serf when I can get a Vegan blonde?”

  “Cause I likes it.” Maria’s eyes twinkled. “And I ain’t had me no redneck for quite a spell.”

  The man backhanded her hard enough that she lost her balance and fell. Erika gasped, but the man lunged for her and crushed her in his arms, kissing her hard. She felt his erection against her belly and struggled in sudden panic.

  “Let me go, you fucking bastard!” she screamed, and ripped his face with her long nails. Instantly, all three were on her, lifting her off her feet and ripping at her dress. One magnificent breast spilled out and the crowd gasped in awe. Not one person moved to help her. Erika kicked and screamed as one of the sons tried to kiss her and the other groped her crotch.

  “What’s going on here!” a loud voice demanded. “Put that woman down!”

  Erika was dropped back onto her feet, and quickly pulled fabric over her exposed breast. A Sirian policeman was scowling at her. Maria was on her feet again, rage in her eyes. The burly man tried to soothe the cop.

  “Caught this here Vegan bitch runnin’ around loose on the street,” he explained. “She claims nobody owns her, said she ain’t a slave, so I figgered what the hell—me and the boys never had no Vegan clam before.”

  The policeman looked at Erika. “What about it? You sure enough do look Vegan.”

  “I am,” she said, still out of breath. “I came in three days ago on a slave ship.”

  “Then what the hell you doing out on the street? You ought to be in a slave center somewhere.”

  “She under Captain Marlow’s authority,” Maria said. “He sent word from Vega that she not be sold.”

  “Who’s Captain Marlow?”

  “Captain Brandon Marlow,” Maria said. “Sirian Elite Guards.”

  The cop paled at the mention of the SE. “Can you prove that?”

  “Yes, suh.” She dug into her purse and withdrew a holo-portrait of Brandon Marlow in uniform. “I works on his daddy’s plantation, suh. This here w’ite lady is our guest until the captain git home.”

  The cop looked at the holo a moment, then returned it, his eyes devouring Erika.

  “What the hell you doing in the city?” he asked. “Seems like you ought to be on the plantation.”

  “I needed to buy clothes,” Erika replied. She indicated the stack of purchases sitting a few feet away. “What I’m wearing—or was, until these gentlemen ripped it—is the only dress I have. I’ve been wearing it ever since I left Vega.”

  “God’s truth, officer,” Maria added.

  The cop sighed with disappointment and turned to the three men who had accosted her.

  “Sounds like horse hockey to me, officer,” the burly man said. “I think they’re lyin’. The Vegan bitch prob’ly got loose before they hypno-locked her. I got a citizen’s right, and I figger me and the boys ought to get at least an hour with her. You could join us, officer.”

  But the cop shook his head. “The niggo has a picture of this SE captain. I’d advise you to move on and find something else.”

  “After seein’ that, I don’t want anything else.”

  “I understand what you’re sayin’. I do. But—”

  “She coulda stole that holo picture,” the man insisted. “Cain’t trust these niggos. They steal shit all the time, and they don’t never tell the truth if they can heppit.”

  “Look, do you want to risk trouble with the SE? I sure as hell don’t. So I’m suggestin’ you just move along.”

  “Pa, I already rented the room!” the younger son protested.

  “It ain’t right, officer. Couple of hours, that’s all. If we’re wrong we can just apologize. Maybe pay a fine.”

  “The SE ain’t very forgiving. They’ll take it out of your hide, and it won’t just be a fine. What’s more, now that I’m involved, they’d come after me, too. So you just get moving. Don’t make me take you in.”

  The cop stood firm, and the three rednecks reluctantly retreated.

  Erika glared at them until they were gone, then the tears came. The crowd waiting for the shuttle watched her curiously, but she detected no sympathy from anyone.

  The cop turned back to her, and she was sure he was almost as disappointed as the rednecks.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m taking you at your word. But you go back to that plantation and stay there. If I see you on the streets again, without a citizen escort, I’ll take you to a room myself.”

  With a last, lingering look at her voluptuous body, he turned and strode away.

  Erika never left the plantation again.

  * * *

  Three years! Three goddess-scorn years. Sitting around this mansion, alone most of the time. The war on Vega was over. She’d seen the announcement on New Angeles Holovision. It came as no surpri
se, of course. She’d known from the beginning that Vega would lose. The only question had been how long they could hold out. Actually it had taken much longer than she expected—the Vegan Guard had fought desperately, selling the planet a yard at a time for a very high price in Sirian blood. The conflict had lasted almost two years.

  And the slave convoys had been running ever since. They were advertising them now, specials and sales and private orders—get your own Vegan girl; get a Vegan woman for your son; finest pussy in the galaxy!

  It made her shudder. She’d been a prisoner on Vega for over a year, shuttled from one military unit to another, servicing the troops in pleasure barracks. Finally she’d found herself on a slave ship, and somehow she’d ended up here, but the reason had never been explained. All she knew was that she was waiting for Brandon Marlow—her new owner, perhaps—to return from Vega. In the meantime, she had the run of the mansion and nobody molested her.

  But she couldn’t leave the plantation.

  Chapter 7

  Wednesday, 8 January, 0200 (PCC) – Reina, Vega 3

  Valyn Kristensen arrived at SE Executive Offices fifteen minutes early for her first day on the job. She had lain awake much of the night dreading it, certain after her hiring interview that she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. But she had no choice now—Col. Royer had made that clear. She had applied, been accepted, and was hired. It was set in stone, and you didn’t argue with the SE, especially if you were a woman.

  Valyn felt vulgar and conspicuous in her short, tight dress. Since the occupation began, the SE had issued a number of edicts concerning Vegan women, some of them too obscene to contemplate.

  Vegan culture had always venerated the woman, religious or not. Women were esteemed as givers of life, and protected accordingly. The Sirians saw women as just the reverse, as objects of pleasure, targets of lust. With the surrender of Vega, women had been relegated to the status of cattle, and the laws reflected that. Not only were tens of thousands of women forced into slavery, even those who remained free were burdened by oppressive laws.

  A series of edicts had dictated that women stepping into public must dress like whores; their clothing had to be at least one size too small, hair and makeup must be alluring, bras and underwear forbidden. Even worse, any man, Sirian or Vegan, now had the right to touch, fondle, grope, or even rape any woman who did not carry an exemption card. The Sirian Confederacy had plunged Vega 3 into the darkest age of its history…

  …and Valyn was now working for the very authority responsible for that.

  Jule Zymbal was watching for Valyn and met her with a smile. Jule was close to fifty, still trim and lovely, with blond hair and black eyes. She led Valyn into the ladies’ room and showed her the lockers.

  “You can store your personal effects here,” she said. “The SE doesn’t want to see any personal effects on your desk. No decorations, family holos, or anything like that. They like things very Spartan and military.”

  Valyn nodded and hung her coat in the locker, then stored her purse as well. She closed the locker and stared at it—there was no lock, combination or otherwise. She glanced at Jule.

  “No one is going to steal your money,” Jule told her. “They wouldn’t dare. If anything is reported stolen the colonel lines everyone up and makes them strip down to the skin. No one is allowed to leave until someone confesses.”

  “Goddess!”

  “It only happened once,” Jule said. “I’m pretty sure it will never happen again.”

  Valyn forced a smile, but she felt queasy. She ran her fingers through her hair, panting freely.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Jule’s brow furrowed in motherly concern.

  “I’m sorry.” Valyn forced a laugh. “I’m just—a little scared.”

  “Don’t be, honey. It isn’t all that bad, not really.”

  Valyn stared into the older woman’s eyes, grasping at the straw.

  “I have an exemption,” she said, “because of my father. But Colonel Royer said it wouldn’t protect me here, because…”

  Jule nodded in understanding. “The senior staff? Yes, that’s true. But trust me, they’re not nearly as bad as the rabble on the street. These are mostly older men; they bark a lot but they’re not really mean. Believe me, I’ve been roughed up by a lot worse. You can’t even trust a Vegan man these days.”

  Valyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She could tell Jule meant well, but her words were hardly encouraging.

  “I haven’t been roughed up by anybody,” she confessed. “The very idea of it scares the hell out of me, no matter how gentle he might be.”

  “Oh, you poor dear.” Jule hugged her briefly. “It won’t be all that bad. It takes a little getting used to, but after the first couple of times it gets better.”

  Valyn swallowed and nodded, blinking back the tears in her eyes.

  “I’m still a virgin,” she said.

  “Oh!” Jule stopped and stared at her a moment. “Do you follow the Cult?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that complicates things. My best advice is to lose your cherry as soon as possible. You don’t want your first time to be with someone in the SE. But if you’re one of Sophia’s kids…”

  “That’s right. Chastity until marriage.”

  Jule sighed unhappily. “Then I can’t advise you. I’m from the other side of the spectrum, never went to Temple in my life, never saw the attraction of it. Raised my kids the same way. It’s a little easier for us—not that being raped is any fun, but at least you don’t have the religious conflict to worry about.”

  She patted Valyn’s hand.

  “The good news is that you probably have a few days to decide what to do. They don’t usually call the new girls in until they’ve been here a week or two. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Mm, too bad. Well…look, we can talk some more later, okay? Right now I need to get you started. Let me show you your workstation.”

  Jule led her back into the main office, to a desk just a few feet from Col. Royer’s door.

  “Colonel Royer was impressed with your resume. You’ll be working mostly for him. Now here’s your terminal, and you’ll need a password…”

  The morning passed swiftly. Valyn had so much to learn, the software was so complex, that she was soon deeply immersed, her head spinning. Jule showed her menus, macros, commands, and triggers. Every application was protected by firewalls, passwords, and logic puzzles that had to be completed within seconds. Failure to log in to any given application resulted in the software throwing her completely out of the system, and she had to run the gauntlet all over again. Each failure was logged, and three failures in a row locked her out of the system completely. Twice Jule had to reset her password to get her started again.

  “Because you’re new I can do this for you,” she explained, “but once you’ve been here a few days this will get you in trouble. If the system locks you out, Colonel Royer or one of the other officers will want to see you.”

  Valyn felt her blood chill. “Why?”

  “To determine if you’re competent to sign on. Anyone who’s high on alcohol or drugs isn’t allowed in the system—that’s why you only have a few seconds to get through these gateways. And if you aren’t chemically impaired, the theory is that you may not be able to get in because your anxiety level is too high…and that makes them think you’re up to something.”

  Valyn stared at her, hardly daring to breathe.

  “I could be in big trouble,” she said. “I’m scared silly.”

  “You don’t need to be. You’re safer working here than anywhere else on the planet. Your employment ID card is like a force field on the street. Any soldier or civilian who molests you risks getting shot in the head. You’re SE property now, so relax a little.”

  Valyn’s first task, once she got past the log-in snafu, was to update daily files with data collected over the past few hours. Vegan constables and Sirian fo
ot patrols constantly logged data on their mobile computers that was transmitted to the SE office; arrests, interviews, disturbances, and even casual conversations were all collected and stored in temporary files, which Valyn had to merge into the main database. She also had to sort the data down and print a variety of reports to be reviewed by subordinate SE officers. In spite of her nerves, she became intrigued as some of the reports came off. There were reports of all kinds—traffic accidents, civilian deaths, curfew violations, construction problems, civilian assaults, persons reported as missing, sexual assaults (by civilians and military), domestic disturbances…the stack of reports grew.

  Valyn was amazed that the SE tracked all this information, and was certain this was only the tip of the carrot. Even more amazing, as she scanned the pages while collating them, was the amount of data collected. The list of Persons Reported Missing ran to several pages, and most of those named appeared to be young girls between the ages of ten and fourteen. Another report that caught her eye was a list of Newly Identified Transients. At the top of the page, with a log date of the night before, was a name she recognized. She gasped in surprise when she saw it, because she had thought he was dead.

  Erik Norgaard.

  Col. Royer arrived promptly at nine o’clock, striding into the office in his shiny black uniform, a scowl on his face. Every woman in the office leapt to attention as he entered, and Valyn hastily followed suit, terrified of looking the man in the face, but unable to help herself. He never so much as glanced at her as he entered his office and closed the door. With a collective sigh, everyone in the room settled back into their chairs.

  Two more men came in a few minutes later. They were also officers, but no one sprang to attention. They were younger men, one a captain and the other a lieutenant. One had just told a joke and the other was laughing; they seemed normal enough as they entered their respective offices and closed their doors. Valyn watched until they were out of sight, then returned to her work. Barely a minute later, the captain’s door opened again and he stuck his head out.