by Amber Jayne
Urna went with the man, who—not surprisingly—was dressed in a Guard uniform. He saw Bongo jumping back out of the way. Urna hit the ground with the Guard. A cramp seized his leg before he could get his feet under him. Still lying on his side, he drove an elbow into the Guard’s chest. He was a pudgy man, with a thick, coarse face, but he was no weakling. He grabbed at Urna’s arm even as the blow to his sternum forced the air from his lungs.
The Guard, also still sprawled in the street, tried to wrench Urna’s arm. His other hand was scrabbling after the sidearm holstered at his belt. Urna wondered why none of the other Guard members who must be manning this checkpoint were intervening.
Even under circumstances as unfamiliar as these, Urna should’ve been able to dispatch this person easily, calling on his extraordinary abilities as the Lux’s premier Weapon. But the painful cramp in his left calf, no doubt caused by being jammed into that crate for a little too long, was throwing off his whole combative rhythm.
Nonetheless, he rose onto his right knee, pulling free his arm from the Guard’s strong grip. The stout man had laid his hand on his pistol’s butt. Urna chopped his open palm across the Guard’s ugly face, more than hard enough to stun, he judged. Even so, the man continued to draw his handgun.
Urna struck him again, a lightning-fast blow, feeling the bridge of the man’s nose crackle under the impact of the hard edge of his hand. The Guard’s head dropped back onto the street with a dull thump. Blood was flowing from one nostril.
But still he continued to struggle, moaning now, the flailing hand somehow managing to clear the sidearm from its holster. Urna awkwardly threw himself on top of his stubborn adversary, pinning his gun hand to the asphalt. He was going to have to kill this man. So be it.
Urna reached into his coat with his free hand, taking grim hold of the pistol he had commandeered before going over the fence at the Citadel. He drew it partway out.
“No!” Suddenly, Bongo reached down and tore the gun out of the Guard’s trapped hand. “We don’t need to kill him.” And with the butt of that weapon he whacked the Guard’s skull. This time the man’s eyes rolled white, and he went limp.
Urna looked around. They were indeed stopped at what looked like a standard checkpoint. A vibrantly painted, hinged length of wood lay across the road at about waist level, with a small guardhouse next to it. Oddly, there were no other Guard about. Even in a town of this size he would’ve expected more than a single sentry watching the official route in and out. From what he knew of the Guard—and, more to the point, the Lux who oversaw them—a constant demonstration of force was considered essential to the smooth running of things.
The nearest structure beyond the guardhouse of gray brick was a warehouse, about a quarter mile away. Not one window was lit. No one else was within sight.
Looking down at the unconscious, bleeding Guard again, Urna quickly and vigorously massaged his leg. The pain eased as the muscle unknotted. Bongo had gone pale. He was staring at the gun still in his hand, as if he didn’t understand how it had gotten there. This, then, must be something new to him. Whatever else this man did, he didn’t regularly go around clubbing Guard members.
“Let’s get him into that guardhouse,” Urna said.
Bongo stuck the pistol into the waistband of his pants and the two of them hauled the considerable weight of the slack uniformed man inside, dumping him onto a cot by the open door. Urna wiped the blood from the man’s nose. When he was discovered, it would be assumed he was taking an unauthorized nap. Rousing him and finding out the truth would use up a minute or two. Not much time. But it was that much more for an escape, Urna thought.
Glancing around the otherwise empty room, he said, “I don’t understand why he’s the only one on duty.”
Bongo said, “The others were called away. My comrades created a distraction on the other side of town. Not enough to get them into too much trouble, hopefully. But enough to make our way here easier.” As they headed back to the van he added in a mutter, “I just wish that guy hadn’t been such an asshole. No way he could tell my pass was a fake. He just wanted to give me a hard time. Fucking Guard.”
Before they climbed back into the vehicle, Urna, feeling new respect for the competence of Bongo’s operation, said, “Well, that asshole got a look at my face. I don’t know how good a look. He didn’t seem to know me while we were fighting, but he might realize it later. When he wakes up. Of course, he doesn’t have to wake up…” He patted the bulge the pistol made underneath his coat.
Bongo shook his head. “Look, I hate the Guard. I hate what they represent and I hate what they do on a day-to-day basis. But killing them isn’t the answer. That’s not the way the Order of the Maji likes to do things.” He opened the driver’s door, paused, added, “Besides, if we murder one of theirs, they’ll slaughter ten times that many, just to make their point.”
Urna nodded, going around the other side of the van, getting in, hauling shut the door. In the dark again, he wondered if this “Order of the Maji” shtick was something real, or just a kind of harmless make-believe.
He didn’t dwell on it, though. The van was moving once more, picking up speed, leaving behind the town that had neatly served the fugitive Weapon as a brief sanctuary.
* * * * *
His attendants brought in the young male just as the man’s peculiar cycle was beginning. He blinked in that fashion of his, as if hoping each blink would bring this setting into proper mental focus. It didn’t help. The expression on his alluringly innocent face was one of confusion, with fear creeping in underneath, and it only worsened.
Aphael Chav had just set down the Guard report—or the summaries of those reports from the officers leading the many different branches of the Safe’s policing force. Whoever was condensing all that information into easily digestible, comprehensible accounts was doing a superb job. He ought to give a commendation to the studious clerk, whoever he was. Chances were, though, that Aphael wouldn’t remember to. It wasn’t the duty of the Toplux, after all, to go around congratulating people for performing the services required of them. He wasn’t father to any of them. He was their overlord.
He rose from the broad desk of gleaming, ancient wood just as his servants retreated from his spacious private quarters, leaving the waiflike male standing lost out in the middle of the plush burgundy carpet.
One of the Guard units had reported the discovery and destruction of an array of illegal solar collectors, which a pirate crew of civilians had been operating on the outskirts of some hardscrabble town sixty miles from the Citadel. No one gathered electricity from the sun without the authorization of the Lux. So it had been, so it would continue.
This was the last thought Aphael Chav spared for the day’s official business as he leisurely made his way toward the perplexed young man. He was a trim specimen with barely an ounce of adult fat on him, despite that he was a fully grown. They didn’t let children into the Weapon/Shadowflash program, after all.
Not that this poor, afflicted creature still belonged to that elite division of the military.
Though Aphael had witnessed the male in this state dozens and dozens of times, it still fascinated him. He never reacted violently. Never lashed out physically. Instead, he just stood there and looked around and hoped for some clue to kick his wounded memory back into life. He wanted to know where he was, why he was here. He wanted to know—limpid gray eyes flicking now toward the Toplux—who this person was approaching him.
Aphael gave him a warm smile this time. It wasn’t always how he started things out.
After a few seconds, the young man returned the smile. It looked a bit twitchy but seemed sincere. A questioning longing shone in those gray eyes.
“You look beautiful tonight,” said Aphael. Again, it wasn’t the way he always proceeded. But that was the pleasure of this—he could reinvent the game every time. He could be a sadist, a confidant, a madman, a nursemaid. He could offer succor or torture. He could scream obscenities or coo the
most ridiculously loving words. It was entirely up to him.
“Th-thank you.” The man wore a simply constructed but elegantly embroidered white gown, sleeveless. His feet were bare. He still had the long hair—a lustrous raven black—that the Weapons and Shadowflashes favored.
Aphael halted a few steps shy of his visitor. Though these private quarters, which he kept at the Citadel itself, were quite roomy, they had a snug intimacy to them, owing to the warm, dark colors of the walls and furnishings. He found living here very comfortable, preferring it to one of those gargantuan estates that infested the surrounding city. It was better, he thought, to inhabit the Citadel proper. The very symbol of Lux domination. He liked being close, at all times, to the accoutrements and apparatuses of power.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find the time for some recreation. Even a king must sport. Had some ancient Elyrian philosopher said that? Didn’t matter. Aphael Chav had said it, and in this his era, that was the only thing that counted.
“Would you like a drink?” Aphael asked solicitously.
The gray eyes continued to blink. His was truly a lovely face. “Um…yes?”
The Toplux hid a laugh and crossed toward a sideboard of waxy, dark yellow wood. He put together a drink for his guest, something sweet-tasting. Before returning with it Aphael Chav touched a control that activated the room’s sound system. Music flowed from speakers. Soaring strings, murmuring wind instruments. It was something very old, a recording disc that one of the authorized salvage teams had found in the Unsafe. He enjoyed the sounds, though he could scarcely imagine what number of musicians had been required to create such a magnificent wall of melody. The old Elyria must have truly been a world of wonder.
Even so, he preferred this Elyria. Because this Elyria was his Elyria.
He handed the thick crystal glass to the young man, who sniffed at its contents, took a tentative sip, and smiled again, more broadly now.
“That’s tasty!”
“I’m glad you like it,” Aphael said, pleased with this interplay. It was never the same twice.
His visitor happily downed another swallow. After a moment, though, the confusion and unease returned to his youthful features. “I…” Again he looked around the room, but found no prompting clues. “I guess I’ve got questions.”
“Then you should ask.” The Toplux folded his hands, waited.
The young male fortified himself with another swallow from the glass. He looked levelly at Aphael. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t think I should be here.”
“Where do you think you ought to be?”
“I…” He pursed his delicate lips. His eyes were long-lashed, and when he blinked them rapidly, as he was doing now, it gave him an almost feminine air. “I was someplace else. Just a minute ago. I think.”
Sometimes at this point Aphael would provide his hapless guest with wildly convoluted information, spinning tales of absolute fantasy, the more outrageous the better. And this man, having no other source for “facts”, had to believe him.
But tonight, evidently, Aphael wasn’t in the mood for such entertainments.
“Where were you,” he asked, “just a minute ago?” Though he knew full well that the minute was actually five months ago.
Frowning, the young male said, “I was on a rooftop. In a city. A dead city. Me and…” Suddenly the eyes went wide. “Nera! Where’s Nera? My Shadowflash! I have to—have to—”
Aphael caught the nearly empty glass before he dropped it. The former Weapon was trembling. Setting a hand on his shoulder, feeling bone and lean, hard muscle, the Toplux said gently, “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“But—” He continued quivering. “What’s happened?” Pleading in his voice. Desperate to know what had befallen him.
On impulse, Aphael decided to tell him the truth. “You’ve had a massive memory failure. What you remember as having happened a few minutes ago actually occurred nearly half a year ago. You broke down during a mission.”
The gray eyes stayed wide but his trembling abruptly ceased. Without a quaver in his voice now, he asked, “What happened to Nera?”
Aphael’s hand was still on the man’s shoulder. He squeezed. “Nera is fine. He was reassigned. He still serves as a Shadowflash, mostly accompanying salvage gangs into the Unsafe.”
“Reassigned,” the erstwhile Weapon said in a dead tone. He was staring past Aphael Chav into some desolate distance. His eyes filled with tears. When he finally blinked again, tracks ran down his finely sculpted cheeks. His girlishly long lashes glistened.
“It had to be so, Rale,” said the Toplux, employing the man’s name—or, rather, his former codename—for the first time. He stepped closer and took the narrow, muscular male into a tender embrace. Rale set a damp cheek against Aphael’s neck. The much older man stroked the youth’s long dark hair.
It required no serious coaxing to get Rale to come with him across the broad expanse of carpet as the ancient music continued to play. Horns sounded softly. Strings sang. Bass drums were thumped. They approached the enormous platform that was the Toplux’s bed.
Aphael Chav was glad, tonight anyway, that he hadn’t woven elaborate lies to manipulate this unfortunate, broken soldier. Rale was simply a distraction for him, an amusement. A curiosity, even. Naturally, Aphael’s lofty position afforded him any carnal indulgence he could conceive of. His every whim was subject to instant gratification.
In his own youth he, like most everyone, had dabbled with both sexes. It was the odd individual indeed who didn’t test the erotic waters thoroughly. By the time he’d been actively working toward seizing ultimate power, however, he had found little time to gratify any prurient urges he might’ve had. His quest had consumed him utterly. He didn’t regret that.
In fact, there was really only one person who still meant anything to him since he’d become the Toplux. It wasn’t, oddly, the female he had been involved with for a fairly substantial period some thirty years ago. Her name had been Cynovar, and she had been a formidable and beautiful woman, with striking brown eyes and dusky flesh. But he had tired of her, and she meant little to him now, even as a long ago memory.
However, what had resulted from that particular relationship, now three decades past…that had meaning for him.
The two men paused together at the edge of the huge raised bed. Aphael had an arm folded over Rale’s shoulders. Need stirred in the Toplux. In these his later years he had found his tastes reverting to those of his younger days. He’d discovered renewed interest in youthful males. Rale’s condition only sweetened the experience for him. It kept their sexual scenarios from growing stale.
The damaged Weapon turned to him now. He was no longer crying. Sometimes, on these occasions, Aphael told him about Nera’s reassignment, sometimes not. Sometimes he invented terrible fates for the still active Shadowflash. He had read Rale’s dossier, naturally. Shadowflash/Weapon teams always formed strong connections, some even becoming lovers. Certainly Rune and Urna had taken that to the extreme. It was the high level of peril under which the teams operated that accounted for such close bonds. Weapons and Shadowflashes had to be meticulously groomed for their roles. They had to be carefully maintained, their mental stabilities monitored. The enhancing drugs could have unwanted consequences, and it was necessary to control such individuals. They couldn’t be permitted to dream, for instance. Even their memories had to be regulated.
Rale had loved Nera. And he always would. The memory of that love would never get the chance to fade.
“I miss him,” Rale said, as if addressing the Toplux’s thoughts.
“I know,” Aphael said with apparent sympathy. “But he’s not here. Let me ease your hurt.” He pulled the young male closer to him and set his lips upon his. Rale stiffened but after a moment his mouth melted against Aphael’s. He pressed his sleek, muscled form hard against the Toplux’s own trim body. Despite his age, Aphael had kept himself in good physical shape. He showed none of the deter
ioration that sixty years might bring to another person. Certainly he wasn’t one of those sagging, gluttonous old monsters like some among the Order of the Lux, imagining that the grandiosity of their social status made them immune to the ravages of age and overindulgence.
Their kiss intensified. Tongues met and struggled. Rale was grinding himself against the older man, his own need apparent. Aphael relished the feel of the youth’s rock-hard crotch rubbing on him.
It was a mere matter of undoing a catch to undress the retired Weapon. The sleeveless gown dropped away, baring his toned, gorgeous body. So much training had gone into him, relentless hours of drilling, and the effect of all that effort was still evident. Muscles ridged his thighs, his biceps. His midriff was a flat, taut surface. Aphael looked him up and down.
“Do I please you?” Rale asked breathlessly.
It was a part of his psychological profile. In his relationship with Nera, Rale had always assumed the submissive position. It was how he was wired. Aphael Chav knew this.
“You please me,” he murmured, divesting himself of the loose lounging clothes he was wearing. Naked now, he took Rale’s hand and tugged him again toward the immense bed. “Come. Please me some more.”
They stepped up to the dais then climbed onto the bed itself. Quantities of silken fabric spread everywhere. They fell together, grappling, rolling, reveling. Aphael’s hard cock pressed on top of Rale’s length. Their mouths found each other once again, tongues slurping thirstily. Aphael could feel the heat rising from the younger male’s flesh. Crushing him against himself in a fierce embrace, he felt Rale’s heart hammering rapidly in his chest. He was easily aroused, the Toplux knew from experience. Sometimes in his excitement he orgasmed before things got truly underway. Once, he had erupted before they’d even reached the bed. That particular night Aphael had ordered him onto his knees to lick his own seed from the floor. While he’d obeyed, the older man had mercilessly fucked him, landing open-palmed blows on his ass ‘til the skin glowed a fine screaming pink.
