by Amber Jayne
He paced into the kitchen. He had no appetite for food. That was for the best, probably. It didn’t look like there was much of anything to eat. He spun about to march back out to the untidy front room. Bongo was standing in his way. What? Did he want to fuck again? Urna wasn’t in the mood just now. The craving pains were starting to needle his gut. He had to have something. Soon.
“Maybe I can help,” Bongo said in a soothing voice, genuine sympathy showing on his handsome features. He was holding up a piece of metal no bigger than his thumb. It gleamed. It was roughly egg-shaped. Tiny characters were etched into it. He went on, “Let me cast a spell of alleviation.”
Whatever curiosity Urna had felt vanished abruptly. He recalled the blond man murmuring at a crystal after they’d had sex, something about a magic spell of protection for him. Urna had dismissed it at the time, but right now the notion of magical incantations actively annoyed him. It seemed purely make-believe. His growing need was making him irritable. But beyond that was something worse—the fear of narcotic withdrawal, and its attendant physical and mental miseries.
“I don’t have time for this!” Urna snapped, waving dismissively.
But Bongo didn’t step aside so he could resume his pacing. “Yeah? Got somewhere else to be, do you? Is your mind really so closed? I’m offering you comfort. You’ve no reason to reject it.”
It wasn’t a persuasive argument. But Urna nonetheless found himself impressed by the man’s boldness, by the tenacity of his beliefs. Despite Urna’s own present physical condition, he was wholly confident he could dispatch this person with minimal effort. No ordinary civilian—or most anybody else, for that matter—could take on a Weapon. Especially not the Weapon.
He let a grin that was halfway a sneer curl his lips. “Okay, friend. Cast your spell. What do I have to do?”
“Just stand there.” A look of grave seriousness had come to Bongo’s face. He started a low, atonal chant. He passed the piece of gleaming metal back and forth in front of Urna’s face. Urna tried to pick out the individual letters inscribed on the object’s surface but he recognized nothing. Maybe some ancient Elyrian language he’d never come across in his unofficial studies before.
Bongo closed his eyes. The chant changed, taking on a strange melody. Words seemed to be creeping in among the sounds, but Urna didn’t quite recognize any of them either. Even so, they seemed to have a hypnotic quality—that, or the drug craving was making him hear things now.
After another moment, the Weapon felt his need easing. Or at least the chilly sweats had stopped. He found that his own eyes had drifted shut. Again he saw the Farsafe. He saw water, a huge body of it. It foamed along the shore in a weird, rolling fashion. The action of that water was mesmerizing and for an instant he felt like he was actually there. He was on…a beach? Sand underfoot. What the hell was a “beach”, though?
The chanting had stopped. Some while ago, he realized in retrospect, as he slowly blinked open his eyes.
Bongo was gazing at him, assessing. He’d put away his metal object. “How do you feel?”
Urna drew a long breath. It was steady as it slid in and out of his lungs. “Better,” he admitted, almost reluctantly.
“Good.” Bongo had the good grace not to look too smug about it.
Urna found his appetite less afflicted than before. Bongo made a pot of tea and somehow scrounged up some crackers. As Urna sipped he considered, with a little more clarity now, just what this magic-subscribing man had been saying about the Farsafe. It was an enchanting tale. No doubt about it. But, Urna saw, there was a hole in the story through which you could drive a truck.
Just how the hell did Bongo know about the Farsafe, if it was all the way on the other side of the world? A world that was infested with Passengers who would slice up any human they found that didn’t have the means to defend him or herself.
It had to be myth, then. And his belief in magic? Well, that was like—what was that word Urna had come across in his reading, something archaic?—it was like a religion. A stubborn belief in something for which you had no proof. Weird.
Magic was mostly associated with those who resisted the Lux, he knew. But that was a Guard problem, not something the military had to worry about.
Urna sipped more tea and helped himself to a cracker, nibbling it slowly. He further considered the “spell” that Bongo had just worked on him, the chanting and the foofaraw with the piece of etched metal. Was that evidence of actual magic? Probably not. More likely the oddity of the ritual had simply acted as another distraction, delaying the worst effects of the drug need.
At least, that was what Urna decided. It was easier to believe that than anything else.
A short time later the woman who had to be Virge Temple came bursting into the house. She had masses of brownish-blonde hair and darkly complected skin. In the moment after she’d slammed the door behind her and before she spoke, Urna judged her to be quite an attractive female.
She gave him a quick appraising look, nodded as if he’d passed some test, then shot her brown eyes at Bongo. “Has he started climbing the walls yet?” she asked.
“He’s fine,” Bongo assured. “Nothing a little magic couldn’t soothe.”
She was breathing hard, as though she had hurried here. “Has he asked for anything?”
“You want to direct any of those questions at me, just let me know,” Urna said wryly. “I’m right here, after all.”
She started to shuck off her coat, wincing as though her shoulder bothered her, then she stopped and fixed him with eyes that were almost as lustrous as Bongo’s emerald orbs. “Fine. You’re Urna, a fugitive Weapon. You’ve run away, and your masters want you back. Notice how I haven’t asked you why you ran away?”
“I noticed.”
“Good. Just figure I’m respecting your privacy. Thing is, though,” she reached into her coat as if to touch something in a pocket, but she didn’t withdraw it, “I’ve just gotten word from a friend. He says the Guard are going to be searching every chemical lab in a thirty-mile radius from the Citadel. The people you ran away from obviously have a good idea of what your personal chemical needs are. They’re guessing you’ll have to visit one of those laboratories to obtain some of that precious dope they’ve got you hooked on. I’d say that they know you pretty fucking well.”
Behind, Urna heard Bongo suck in a sharp breath.
Virge’s eyes flicked past Urna and she nodded. “Yeah. Trouble.”
“When does the search start?” Bongo asked.
“I don’t have that info. Let’s assume it’s already underway. But they’ll start close at home and work their way outward. We’re pretty far out here.”
“Not far enough,” Urna muttered. He wondered now if Rune was still up there in the sky, circling slowly outward, hoping to catch some hint of him with his supernatural senses.
And what, he wondered in a remote corner of his mind, would the Shadowflash think if he learned that his lover had fucked another man?
“No,” Virge said, meeting his eyes again. “Not far enough.” She had a determined air about her, a strength, a drive. This wasn’t a woman who spent a lot of time being indecisive, Urna concluded.
But he wasn’t the hesitant type either. After all, hadn’t he decided to undertake this escape mostly on the strength of that old photograph he’d found in the Unsafe? He still had that precious picture, tucked away into his boot. The image of the two adults and the child. The parents and the son—or so he told himself that was what they were. A family unit. If he’d come from a family like that he had no memory of it.
“I’d better get going, then,” Urna said. Then from some vestigial urge toward good manners, he added, “Thank you both for what you did. I—”
Virge stepped right up to him. “What’ve you got in mind, Weapon? Where are you going to go?”
He didn’t respond to her obviously confrontational manner. “If you run that chem lab, like Bongo here says, then the Guard’ll probably search yo
ur home as well as your workplace. It’d be a bad idea for me to be here when that happens.”
She nodded, evidently impressed. “That’s the same conclusion I came to.”
“Fine, then. I’ll be on my way.” He went to move past her to the door.
Virge reached out and grabbed his arm. Instinct almost caused him to react violently. She had a firm grip.
“You got a plan after you walk out that door?” the woman with the sparkling brown eyes wanted to know.
Urna wished he had some quick smart answer to that, but he didn’t, and so gave a terse shrug that dislodged her hand from his arm. “I’ll head,” he gestured vaguely, “out. Further away from the Citadel.”
“Yes,” said Virge. “That’d be the wise thing to do. But how do you propose to manage that?”
“I’m not proposing anything, goddamn it! I’ll just go.” But he found himself hesitating now.
Behind him, Bongo murmured, “You won’t get far. Have you got any idea how well known your face is? I recognized you when you were lying half under a table, passed out, practically drooling on yourself. You’ll have a crowd swarming you after three blocks.”
Urna glanced back at the male. “I’m grateful to both of you for your help, for the place to hide and the food and the chance to rest. I don’t know why you decided to take care of me, but whatever the reason, it’s time for me to go.” He spun back on Virge, who of the two seemed to be the one in charge. “Or do you want to get arrested?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” she spat. Drawing a breath, she squared her shoulders. “We helped you—you, Urna the Weapon, golden boy of the Lux—because you defied your overlords. You ran away. You said, in essence, ‘fuck you’ to Aphael Chav. Do I know why you fled? No. But I do know what your fleeing will mean to a segment of the Safe’s population, to people who’ve felt put down, oppressed, hopeless for a long, long time. You’re a rebel. You’re the best of the Weapons, and you’ve turned your back on all that fame, all that glory.”
It shocked a bitter laugh out of Urna. He returned Virge’s penetrating gaze. “What fame? What glory?” He thought of his dingy quarters, of the endless combat drills, the medical tests, the constant parade of women, half of whom he didn’t even want to fuck and who most probably didn’t want to fuck him.
He thought of the drugs they’d fed him. And he thought too of absences. Those forbidding gaps in his memory, a childhood lost to him, if he’d ever truly had one.
In a much gentler tone, Virge Temple said, “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for running away. I just want to help. How ‘bout you, Bongo?”
“Fuckin’ right I want to help.”
Virge smiled. It was quite a warm smile, inviting trust. But she maintained her steely, determined manner. “Okay,” she said, patting a pocket of her coat, a different one than before. Urna heard glass clink together. “I’ve got stuff that’ll take the edge off you if and when your drug withdrawal acts up—magic spells notwithstanding.” She looked again to Bongo. “We need to do some smuggling,” she said to him. “The cargo is a person. You got any ideas?”
Bongo at last came around to stand beside Virge. He squeezed her shoulder. Something in the familiarity of the gesture made Urna think that the two were more than just associates.
The blond-haired man grinned, which lit up his face. “I’ve already had a few thoughts on the matter. If we do this right we can have the cargo on his way in about an hour.”
* * * * *
Marny Vilst undressed completely before she lifted her head and met his eyes. Rune didn’t quite know what this indicated about her personality, but it seemed an odd characteristic tic to him. Then again, despite the many women he’d lain with, he had little experience with their idiosyncrasies.
He too had shed his uniform. They were standing on opposite sides of the curtained-off infirmary bed, the closest place for the two of them to have some privacy, the Guard underling had told him on the way here. The setting was fine with Rune. He found himself already responding, cock twitching and thickening. He felt genuine desire for this female, which hadn’t been part of his plan. Not that he minded. No reason why this shouldn’t be pleasant for him as well as a means to an end.
Marny Vilst was basically a clerk. Lowly ranked. It was why she’d reacted so sharply to his laugh at the table in the mess hall. Apparently some of those of higher grades liked to bully the juniors. It lessened Rune’s general opinion of the Guard.
Only two other beds in the small ward were occupied and both patients were evidently asleep. No medical staff were present. They had a window of opportunity here, Marny had said.
He gazed at her, drinking in the sight of her bare body. She was a slight, willowy thing, post-adolescently slim, but with enough muscle mass to give her a healthy figure. Her breasts were tight, unostentatious mounds, tipped with darker nipples against fairly complected flesh. Her pubic thatch, as pale as her hair, was nearly invisible in the dimness behind the curtain.
“Do you still want to do this?” she whispered, a quaver in her voice betraying nervousness.
He raised his eyes to her face. “Yes. Oh yes…”
They climbed onto the bed. He took her into his arms. She was light in his cradling embrace. Her skin was warm and very smooth. He trailed a hand over her shoulder, onto her back, following the contours of her form. Her flesh thickened as his hand slid lower and eagerly he cupped a buttock, squeezing. Her breath caught.
She kissed him suddenly and forcefully. It surprised him momentarily. He didn’t always kiss the women they brought to him, but this, he certainly knew, wasn’t one of those females. Marny might have a low rank among the Guard but she was a professional. More, she directly served the Lux, just as he did. In a stretched sense of the word, they were colleagues.
He returned her kiss and their tongues met for the first time. Hers was blunt and probing. She pressed herself tightly to him. Her nipples were rigid against his chest. He even felt the hurried thud of her heart, which increased his own excitement. There was a definite, delicious sense of mischief about this tryst. He wondered how many regulations he was violating tonight, then decided he didn’t give a damn.
His hard cock pressed her thigh. He kneaded her ass. She was busily devouring his mouth. She raked a hand through Rune’s long, dark locks, pulling hard enough that he could feel it at the roots. Oddly, he found he liked the sensation, much the way Urna responded on those occasions when Rune was rough with the silver-haired male.
No time for thoughts of the Weapon, Rune told himself before he could even call up an image. He needed to concentrate on Marny.
It wasn’t difficult. She had worked her other hand between them and taken hold of his cock. He felt himself throb in her firm grip, felt each individual finger where it held him, as well as the ball of her thumb as she smeared it over the cock head, catching the first stray oozings of his pre-ejaculatory fluid. He shivered at the contact.
Reaching over the swell of her ass cheek, he fingered her damp slit from behind. She bit her lip again, her spine arching. She was ready. More than ready. And from what she’d said they couldn’t tarry here.
Rune moved to push her over onto her back. She resisted, which startled him enough to pause and ask, “What’s wrong?”
Marny still had his cock in her grasp. “I’m ready for you, yes. Time to put a condom on.”
He blinked. It simply hadn’t occurred to him. There was nothing in his history—what history of himself he could recall with clarity, anyway—that included ever taking any contraceptive measures. Sex for him, so far as he could remember, had meant only grappling with Urna, or else deliberately seeding the women who were brought to his quarters. A condom?
The blonde woman saw his confusion and gave a short sigh. “Didn’t really plan ahead for this, did you?”
He had, actually, though his experience had limited him. Before he could offer any kind of explanation, however, Marny had turned and bounced off the bed. The curtain surrou
nding the bed whispered aside and she slipped through, still quite naked. He heard her soft bare footfalls and wondered what she was up to.
A moment later she returned, the mischievous light glimmering in her eyes. “Lie back,” she told him.
Rune wasn’t accustomed to obeying, not under circumstances like these. With women, he issued the commands. He could treat his female partners as he liked. But he did as she said.
She took his rigid shaft again in her hand. With her other, she set about rolling the slick sheath down the length of his organ. The sensation was strange, unfamiliar, but not entirely unpleasant. Rune lifted his head from the pillow to watch as she finished fitting the sleeve of thin, rubbery material onto him. He wondered from what supply cabinet she’d fetched this condom, but of course it didn’t matter.
“Stay there,” she said.
Another command. And again Rune did what she said, watching her climb onto him, taking a straddling position, then guiding herself slowly and precisely down onto his condom-encased cock.
The penetration felt odd to him, but again it wasn’t disagreeable. He could feel her grip upon him, was aware of the slickness of her cleft. She had full control of the situation. He did indeed merely lie there as she meticulously impaled herself on him. The furrow of concentration returned to her brow briefly, as if this were a task requiring the same level of attention as the reports she’d been working on earlier.
She had taken all of him up into herself. She wriggled atop him, a shiver passing through her as she murmured the softest of moans. A corresponding pleasure thrilled its way over Rune’s body.
