by Amber Jayne
Marny started to rock on top of him, jouncing on her knees, riding his shaft. She picked a brisk rhythm, steady, forceful. Rune, giving in to an impulse he didn’t bother to question, reached up and caught one of her breasts. He squeezed. He stroked the nipple with the edge of his thumb.
She rode him harder. The bed squealed beneath them. He realized after a moment that he was not rushing headlong toward his orgasm, as would have normally been the case. The condom, preventing the frantic immediacy of contact, was slowing him. His pleasure was building but at a more gradual tempo than what he was used to. It occurred to him—with a flash of pride, perhaps misplaced—that he could last like this for quite some time. Marny could buck on his cock for a good long while, if she chose.
But time was a factor. And she, apparently, had keyed her body to these circumstances. A great shudder went through her trim form, from knees to shoulders, a sudden violent quaking that probably should’ve been accompanied by a triumphant orgasmic shriek to the rafters. Instead she bit her lip yet again, features twisting with the intensity of her release, and emitted nothing more shrill than another sighing moan.
Her eyelids fluttered and she collapsed onto his chest. Rune held her, his sheathed cock still throbbing inside her.
A moment later she pushed off him, turned herself around, lay back on him once more, this time with her back upon his chest. She shifted her narrow hips until his staff slid back up into her. She turned her head, pale yellow tufts tickling his cheek.
“Go ahead and fuck me,” she said.
Rune realized he’d actually been waiting for her to say something like that. With her lying full-length on top of him and his cock penetrating her from behind, he started thrusting up into her. He liked having the full, if slight, weight of her body pressing him. He folded one arm over her middle. With his other hand he mauled her breasts, catching the dark, stiff nipples in between his knuckles.
It was an effort, lifting his hips to drive himself into her, but a worthwhile effort, to be sure. She writhed atop him but he held her tightly to himself. The bed’s frame squealed louder now. Hopefully not loud enough to wake either of the patients or alert whoever attended this ward. Rune had gotten away with his bold actions so far tonight. But he didn’t intend to push it. After all, this was about more than the simple carnal act.
Nonetheless, this was a hell of a carnal act, he thought, feeling an uncharacteristic grin cut his lean features. He fucked Marny with a mad abandon, lifting her with every hardy thrust now. This was a wholly new position for him. Suddenly she was thrashing about with renewed orgasmic fury. At the same instant, Rune felt his own point of ultimate release take him. He erupted into the condom, spearing Marny deep for those moments of pounding pleasure. The bliss coursed through him like maddened steam seeking escape. He found that he too had to actually bite down on a cry.
After, he held her damp body against his. He was reluctant to disengage but he did so when she made to move off him. He disposed of the condom, warm with his semen, and fetched his clothes from the floor. Marny was already halfway back into her uniform.
She looked at him repeatedly, perhaps still not entirely believing what had just happened, or that he was really Rune.
He felt looser and more relaxed than he had for days. But he couldn’t ignore his purpose here. He reached out and took Marny by the elbow. Her tunic was back on but she hadn’t yet adjusted it, and it hung oddly on her slender body.
“You know what happened to my partner?” he asked.
The question visibly startled her. She gave him a solemn nod.
“I know that the Guard are searching for him,” Rune went on. “I need to know how that search is progressing. I need to know if they’re close to finding Urna.” He caught himself before he choked on the name. Even speaking of the Weapon in a whisper lit dark flames of emotion deep within Rune. Love. Hate. Lust. Anger. He had to have Urna back. He was, simply, incomplete without the Weapon.
Marny Vilst lifted a hand and brushed a strand of Rune’s dark hair from his face. It was a tender gesture. She said, “I have access to the reports. I can get word to you.”
Chapter Ten
“That’s why I took a job outside of town,” Bongo was saying, brandishing the travel pass. “You think I like going to the Lux city to sift through what the official salvage crews bring back from the Unsafe? It was all so I’d get one of these issued to me.” Again he waved the paper, imprinted with all its proper stamps.
Virge Temple frowned. “That’s for travel to the city. That’s the wrong way. We want to take Urna away from—”
“We know where he’s supposed to go,” said one of Bongo’s cohorts. She was a gruff woman with leathery skin and graying hair shorn down to an unbecoming stubble. Her name was Vika. Virge had never before had any of Bongo’s associates actually in her home. Now she had several. They were all preparing to smuggle Urna past the town’s patrolled boundary and away to—hopefully—safer reaches further out from the Safe’s center. Outside, it was still evening. Well shy of the midnight curfew.
Virge shot Vika a glare, not liking the woman’s tone. Not liking much of anything about this. Sending the fugitive Weapon off to safety had sounded like a good idea when she’d first proposed it. But she hadn’t quite realized it would entail all this. All these scruffy ne’er-do-wells tramping about her house, taking charge of the situation. These were the same fools who thought the Lux could be toppled by issuing childish pamphlets.
Bongo said to her, in a reassuring tone, “This is a forgery. A very, very good one. It allows for travel in the direction we want to go.”
Virge didn’t bother giving it a closer glance. Bongo, she at least trusted to some degree. If he said it was a convincing copy then it probably was one.
The cause of all this hubbub, Urna, was sitting apart from the others, on a chair wedged into a corner of the house’s front room. His thin elfin features were immobile but his dark-blue eyes ticked back and forth, watching the activity. Virge wondered what he was making of it. Did he trust Bongo and these others? Did he trust her?
She crossed toward him. Bongo’s people were still discussing the details of the operation, still assembling the supplies for the journey, which they’d brought with them to her home.
“You afraid?” Virge asked bluntly, thinking immediately that her tone was unnecessarily harsh. It must be a nervous reaction on her part, she thought. Putting up a tough front.
Urna looked up at her. “I’ve been to the Unsafe. I’ve slain Passengers.” It seemed a more than sufficient answer.
Virge glanced back at the preparations. Evening had come. Curfew started at midnight. She had switched on the lights, figuring that leaving her place dark might call unwanted attention. All this was rather unnerving for her, whether she wished to admit it or not. It was one thing to indulge Bongo’s rebellious tendencies by supplying him with paper for his silly political tracts. But this was a wholly different order of illegal undertaking.
She felt a hand on her arm. Urna had strong, steely fingers. His touch was firm but gentle. “It’s not too late to forget about this,” he said softly. “Send everybody away. I’ll duck out a window and you’ll never see me again.”
Though she couldn’t explain it to herself, the thought of never seeing the Weapon again wrenched something inside her. But that was ridiculous. She didn’t know this man. He was just an image on the broadcast screens, someone with whom she associated kill numbers for the Passengers. He was a tool of the Lux, a kind of manufactured hero that many of the common people cheered for.
Nonetheless, he had done a brave thing by fleeing the Lux. That made him an enemy of Aphael Chav. And any enemy of the Toplux… “I promised we’d help you,” Virge said. “That’s what we’ll do.”
A smile brushed across Urna’s lips. She wondered—the thought coming from nowhere and departing quickly—what it would feel like to kiss those lips.
“You could satisfy my curiosity, though,” she said.
Virge paused pensively then asked, “Why did you run away?”
His smile broadened, turned into a quiet chuckle. “I recall you saying something about respecting my privacy.”
“Call it idle curiosity, then.”
“I’m guessing it’s something more than that.” He glanced up at her meaningfully. Then he shrugged and reached down into one of his boots. He came up with a stiff square of paper, old, looking worse for wear.
Virge peered down at it then started. It was a photograph. Such things were banned, except for use by the Lux-controlled military and Guard, for security purposes. But, she reminded herself sharply, Urna here was military—AWOL or not. She studied the image. Two adults, one child. Nearby the water, with the sun shining brightly.
“On the beach,” she murmured, struck by the scene depicted in the photo. It looked so idyllic, so peaceful. Surely the picture was an artifact. Something pre-Black Ship. When all of Elyria had stood naked beneath the sun.
“Beach,” Urna said, snatching back the picture. “What does that mean? What’s a beach?”
Virge blinked, nonplussed by his reaction. “It’s,” she frowned, then shrugged, “just a word. A place that’s alongside the water. Not like the edge of a lake, though.” She searched her memory. Where had she heard the term? She couldn’t say. The Safe had several sizable lakes, which supplied most of the fresh water. A beach, though, was something else. Or so she thought.
Urna stared intensely at the photograph a moment more. In a strained voice he said, “I dream about a place where there’s water and warmth.” His manner indicated he thought this statement significant, but Virge could only shrug once again. Urna slid the picture carefully back down into his boot.
Virge noticed he hadn’t really answered her original question. Maybe, though, what he’d said was the start of an answer. I dream about a place where there’s water and warmth.
Bongo crossed toward them, his manner purposeful. No trace of impishness on his handsome features. This was no game to him. Virge suddenly wondered if she would ever see him again either. It was even more wrenching a thought than when she’d pondered the same thing regarding Urna.
“We’re ready,” Bongo said.
The Weapon rose to his feet. His blue eyes shifted toward Virge. “You’re not coming with us?”
She shook her head solemnly. “I have to be at the lab when the Guard comes to search it. It would look suspicious if I wasn’t there.”
Urna nodded. Then, abruptly, he shifted half a step her way and planted his lips briefly but poignantly on hers. Something more than a friendly kiss, something less than a lover’s.
When the contact broke Virge felt a bittersweet rush of emotion. She wished—suddenly, desperately, angrily—that she and this strange male had had some time together. Some intimate time.
But time, it seemed, had run out.
Urna and Bongo moved together for the door.
* * * * *
The feel of Virge Temple’s lips on his lingered for a moment, but plainly there was no time to dwell on the fleeting pleasantness. Maybe he’d get to see her again some other time. Maybe not. Who the hell knew?
Pastel light softened the sky as Urna exited the small house with Bongo at his side. The Weapon still had his pistol tucked away unseen in his coat. The blond man passed him a modestly sized pack. “Provisions,” Bongo muttered. Urna didn’t ask for further clarification. The time for distrusting this person had already passed. For good or ill, he’d thrown in with the so-called magic practitioner. Bongo would either get him to somewhere safe—if there was someplace safe for him—or he wouldn’t.
The small group of his confederates followed them out of Virge’s house, but at the sidewalk they turned off in a different direction. Urna gave in to temptation and threw a look back at the door, but Virge, remaining behind, had already closed it. It seemed to seal something within him as well, a resignation, a grim acceptance of whatever was to come. Virge Temple was a damned attractive woman. But if he never saw her again, so be it.
They passed an aging, ragged-looking vehicle parked at the curb. “That’s mine,” Bongo said out of the side of his mouth. “It wouldn’t last five miles. We’re not taking it.”
Urna remained silent as they walked on. There was little other foot traffic on the streets and almost no cars at all. The town seemed small and quiet though not overly shabby. Urna could remember little about his own arrival here, staggering through the empty predawn streets, suffering badly from withdrawal.
He patted a pocket. Virge had given him the glass vials. They didn’t contain exactly what he was used to taking but the doses would relieve any serious pains, she’d promised. He was grateful. He didn’t want to be hooked on all that dope, after all. The military doctors wanted that. The Lux wanted it. If getting off all that shit meant defying the Lux, so much the better.
“Keep your head down,” Bongo said with a note of urgency. They had reached a corner. Someone was coming up the other sidewalk. “Too late—wait, here.” Bongo stopped and Urna stopped with him, didn’t resist when the green-eyed man turned, cupped him by the jaw and set a long kiss upon his lips. Urna understood. He returned it, keeping his face obscured as footsteps approached, passed and receded.
Even under the current circumstances, Urna felt his cock start to stir.
Bongo’s sober air relented just enough for him to say, after he broke their kiss, “That was nice. Makes me think of old times.”
If “old times” were a few hours ago, Urna agreed.
They were moving again. A moment later Bongo said, “This is it.” He opened the side door of a van and waved Urna in. It was a commercial vehicle of some sort, with a repair company’s logo on it. Seconds later Bongo had slammed shut the door, leaving the interior in nearly total darkness. Urna smelled oil and metal shavings. He heard Bongo get into the vehicle’s cab, which was separated by a partition, and start up the engine.
He settled in as they moved. Feeling around, he found he was fairly surrounded by equipment. Some of it shifted a little, clanking together as the vehicle turned one corner, then another as it made its way presumably toward the town’s border, which would inevitably be under the eye of the Guard.
Urna thought of how much luck had played a part in his escape from the Lux city. He hoped that good fortune persisted. Certainly meeting Virge and Bongo had worked out in his favor.
The vehicle slowed, stopped. A panel slid back in the partition, letting in a faint glow of dying sunlight, which, nonetheless, was almost blinding after several minutes of almost complete darkness.
“See that crate?” Bongo said through the slit. “Get in it.”
Urna blinked repeatedly. “What crate?”
A light snapped on in the rear compartment, dazzling him still more, but seconds later he saw what Bongo meant. Opening the long, narrow locker, he surveyed its grease-streaked interior. He didn’t hesitate, however, to climb inside with his small pack of provisions, even though he had to scrunch himself into an unnervingly cramped position, and even though with the lid shut, the claustrophobic tightness of the hiding place was nearly unbearable. Nevertheless, he endured it. As he’d said to Virge earlier, I’ve been to the Unsafe. I’ve slain Passengers. Anybody who could do that could handle being shut up in a coffin-sized box for a little while.
Still, it was necessary for him to keep his thoughts in deliberate focus. He brought to mind the recent sensations of kissing both Bongo and Virge Temple. He remembered as well the latter using that term “beach” when looking at the photo he’d taken out of the Unsafe. It was the same, seemingly archaic word he’d found in his own memory. A beach. Sand nearby the water, and that water rolling onto the land in strangely active way.
Was this some sort of vision of…of the Farsafe? Or was he somehow confusing all this into some imaginary fantasy of a place which, more than likely, didn’t really exi
st?
These thoughts were enough to occupy him until he felt the van coming to a halt once more. Inside his oblong box he strained to hear what was going on outside, wishing—not for the first time, actually—that he possessed Rune’s extra-human senses. What would his bygone lover make of that? The Weapon envying the Shadowflash? Even locked up in his private darkness, with the air already growing stale, Urna was able to sniff a wry laugh about it.
He thought he heard voices, but it might just be the blood rushing in his ears. Were they at the town’s checkpoint? It seemed they’d traveled far enough to reach it but he couldn’t be sure. He himself had sneaked across the limits on foot, through some weedy field—so far as he could recall, anyway. He hoped there would be no trouble with that forged travel pass Bongo had been proudly displaying earlier.
Why were these people helping him? Why were they willing to risk themselves?
He had no time to wonder. He heard the van’s door opening. Bongo getting out. On his own, or at gunpoint? Tension thrummed through Urna as he lay inside the pitch-black box. A bead of sweat rolled into his eye and he blinked furiously to clear it.
A long moment passed, then he clearly heard the vehicle’s side door opening. A routine inspection before the van was let through the checkpoint? Maybe. Straining anew, he definitely heard voices this time. A curt, impatient one, and Bongo answering in neutral, unexcited tones.
Someone was poking around the van’s interior now. Urna heard gear being moved about. His muscles tightened.
Bongo said something that Urna could almost make out—something about being late for an appointment or a repair call. The other replied with a vulgar rebuke. These were, however, the only two voices Urna had definitely heard so far. He focused himself again, preparing, settling into combat mode. Just in case.
He still hoped they would get through. But he wasn’t counting on it.
The harsh voice snapped at something Bongo said and the lid of Urna’s hiding place suddenly started to open. Before it lifted more than a few inches, he shoved hard on it and erupted violently out of the crate. He was ready for the rush of blinding light. Squinting, he smashed into the person squatting over the box, slamming with his shoulder and carrying the individual off his feet and out the open side door of the van.
