Shayne smiled conspiratorially, “Have you ever done it here?” He gestured to the girl’s pristine bottom. The dark face was eager, obviously ready for more. An eyebrow shot right up.
“I think I remember with Angela one night but there was a lot to drink. She always gets me drunk in end,” the prince said nervously. He too found it impossible to sleep. An invisible force pulled his eyes open.
“Right, blame the girl.” Shayne offered a gentle smile without showing any teeth. “I’m the same as you, Hadrian. I don’t get out much either but this cocaine makes me want to try everything. Now’s a perfect time to take a taste of that tight asshole of hers.” As he spoke, he spread one of the girl’s cheeks and pointed. “Now that’s another kind of pussy.” He tickled her, and she tried to squirm away. Shayne then flipped the girl over and pushed her legs up, resting them on his shoulder. “Here now. Settle down,” he grumbled. An impatient Balroc demanded immediate obedience as a pointed tail twitched to and fro. Shayne then lowered his body to match hers. Very slowly he pushed inside. The girl tried to wiggle free but Shayne called to her softly and she calmed and started to gingerly move with him. “That’s right. Open it up,” he encouraged. Then Shayne caught his friend, intently watching – fascinated.
“You try.” The athlete abruptly slurped out and invited Hadrian in. “Right, put it there. Just like the other but tighter.” Hadrian then rode the girl in the unrehearsed flurry of a young man. Shayne followed suit and ended just as quickly - a predictable performance for men of a certain age. With everything and everyone truly spent, both boys joined their guests and fell into the damp bed. Eventually, they drifted off to an exhausted sleep.
Later that morning – maybe the afternoon, the girls were gone, leaving a note and phone number. A small pile of the volatile drug remained on the nightstand. Once more, Shayne faced the prince on his side. The large body was a welcome a furnace in the cold room. Anticipation lurked about the great bed. There was unfinished business between the two of them.
“You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“What a great night. I haven’t had fun like that in a long, long time.”
With sugary eyes, Hadrian answered, “Same for myself. “Well, I never...” The prince was trying to find the right words through a heavy tongue. There was nothing against which he could compare the experience.
Shayne helped the prince finish, “Yeah, tonight was certainly a first for me. I’ve never had sex with another guy in the same bed. Gives me ideas.” The prince turned on his back, wearing a timid smile. “I love that smile,” pointed the athlete. It was obvious Shayne started to admire the curves on the younger man’s body. With his heart beating right into his throat, Hadrian complained, “Come on. Stop looking.” The prince’s voice squeaked high. He almost sounded like a little girl.
“Stop what? I took a pill when I went to the bathroom.” With a giant’s gesture, he added, “Shame to let this all go to waste.” The prince covered his face with the palms of his hands.
“Come on, Hadrian. Look at me. You know you’re as pretty as any girl. And you always smell so good – like a bushel of sweet herbs.” The voice was scratchy and low now.
Hadrian wasn’t sure he heard all this correctly. Embarrassed, he looked down. “That’s right Hadrian, I’m talking to you.” The basketball star gave a sinister look that turned to an easy laugh, “And you’re not on a pill.” Hadrian’s body gave it all away.
Shayne reached out and timidly put his hands on feverish skin. Hadrian moved closer. The big man gently applied soft kisses with his pillow lips. The prince made an encouraging noise. Shayne’s large hands readily smoothed the tension from the prince’s muscles. An enormous tongue pushed the young man. Then with great ceremony, as if he was lifting a sacred relic off of an ancient altar, the big man began to ever so casually feather the other eye. Wet fingers carefully slid across the outside. Hadrian didn’t push the hand away.
Taking deep breaths now – obviously nervous, Shayne heavily enunciated, “I’m sure this is your first time so it might hurt in the beginning.” The prince thought he knew what was going to happen next, but he wasn’t quite sure. Shayne’s finger remained steady, settling him like a colt in his first saddle. The big man said, “Wait, baby. Let’s have one more round of that shit the girl left. That’ll help.” He served each of them, tenderly administering to Hadrian. With growing confidence, Shayne quickly slid his thumb inside for a test. Unconsciously, the prince pulled his legs back.
Next, the athlete ever so slowly lowered the boom. Hadrian winced and tried to wriggle away. This first sensation was a sharp knife. Shayne stopped pushing and coaxed his lover back from the edge. Shayne seemed to know just what to say. Slowly, the pain turned into something else. Both boys caught their breath at the unexpected feeling. There was nothing to do but continue.
Hours later, Hadrian awoke in the late afternoon with the bright sun creeping in from behind the blinds. The new day greeted the prince with an awful crash. In the absence of the drug, Hadrian felt terribly and horribly down. The once sweet smell of sex transubstantiated into a rancid odor. “What did I do last night? I am disgusting.” He looked over at the bed. Shayne was lightly snoring. He couldn’t stand the sight of his new friend. If what happened ever got back to his home world, that truth would be a catastrophe for himself and his father. “A warrior doesn’t receive like a woman. That’s why they made eunuchs,” the prince thought with revulsion. Hadrian couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror when he went to the bathroom to clean up.
Jessica was the only other being that observed the events of last night. She carefully screened Shayne and the girls for any diseases and found there was nothing to cure. Rather, Jessica was disturbed by the prince’s use of this dangerous cocaine. She also knew that by Teramarian standards, Hadrian did something very wrong last night. She decided to keep those images out of her official log.
In a panic, Hadrian gathered up his clothes and left the apartment without saying goodbye. The afternoon sun was intense. He shielded his eyes like a bear immerging from winter’s hibernation. The prince scurried back to the hotel avoiding the glances of the people around him. “Why is everyone looking at me?”
That same late afternoon, one of the great New York tabloids was firing up their presses for the evening edition. Photos of Shayne and Hadrian spooning on the bed and other images from the evening were featured prominently on Page Six. One of the Asian girls innocently posted these shots on a social media website where someone invariably recognized Shayne Wright. By mid-day, the photos were fully circulating throughout the Internet. At this point, it was too late for Jessica to put a stop to the coverage. Too many people round the globe had already seen them - together - and in bed.
Grotto Master
Quan Chung awoke to an intense Termarian sun beating down upon his brow. He reeked of vomit and dried blood had crusted in the ear. Meanwhile, a swollen lump grew on the side of his head. The brightness of the morning was truly unbearable, amplifying the headache and a bilious stomach. “Was there a chase?” He vaguely remembered the attack on the royal entourage. “We killed him.” The memory was the only welcome feeling in a fickle body. “Why am I lying in this refuse bin?” Quan Chung crawled out and hit his head on the heavy lid. “Ouch.” The large frame fell back with another bang. Pain reverberated. Discouraged, he lay there in the sticky mess.
Chung recognized one of the worst neighborhoods in the capital. The monarchy penned all of society’s bad elements into the crumbling barrios of pleb city. Not surprising, Quan Chung knew this exact block of streets. ‘Bad’ was always his place. Carefully peering out of the bin (again), he confirmed no movement, although he heard Uriah hovers quietly floating above. He imagined the scanning beams raining down on dark alleys, relentlessly hunting for the perpetrators. Silently, the Chiang boy pulled himself up and out. Shaking with nausea, he put a hand out for balance.
“There must be a curfew,” he thought. Not a soul stir
red. Nothing. The only two shops on the street were closed and boarded. He knew his bar was near. “Would they be waiting for me?”
Putting one large foot in front of another, Quan Chung slowly edged around the corner. “I must have wanted to go there last night.” Vomit started to slide inside his throat. Draining blood caused a tornado of dizziness. Hearing shouts and the click of boots, Chung pressed against the wall. Ahead was another alleyway. With a quick move, he ducked into it and dashed behind another overflowing refuse bin. The Uriah squad marched past without notice. The sudden motion caused him to lurch and softly vomit again.
Chung glanced at his com. The device was dead. The monarchy must have put a blanket over everything. He wondered who of his friends had survived the mission. With a frown, he vividly remembered the image of the boy on the blaster. When the imperial hover struck, pieces of machine and flesh sprayed the plaza. “The brave fool volunteered for that.” Chung was immensely grateful it hadn’t been him last night. Always swaggering about the neighborhood, no one suspected Quan Chung truly harbored a coward’s thoughts.
Skulking through the alleys like a feral cat, Chung finally arrived at the darkened bar. “Follow the stairs down to the grotto door.” Familiarity carried him inside where the smell of alcohol caught the senses. The club was blinding black. Ahead was the bar itself - a beacon, shinning like an altar. “Are they whispering my name?”
The pretty girl from before stepped out from the dark to present herself. Chung felt another wave of nausea. He forced himself to look at the girl. She stepped close. He could smell her life. Everything moved like skating dust. Wild thoughts had to be tethered. Turning to the familiar, Quan Chung ordered up a brimming shot of alcohol, slamming the empty vial onto the bar. He signaled for two more. While the liquor had yet to reach thirsty veins, Quan Chung’s condition already improved. This was his place.
“Do I know you?” The room moved as he spoke.
“But I know you. Things are different, aren’t they,” she asked in a dark voice? The bartender stared at them with blank shark eyes. There was a menace somewhere. Her slight smile was insincere.
“I need to get out of here.”
“You need to get out of here,” she agreed.
Casually, he glanced around the empty club. The bar was too bright. “A beacon or a warning?”
“What do you want,” he said expecting her offer to breed? “That’s what everyone wanted these days now that the world was coming to an end.”
“I don’t want anything. Take that last shot.” The bartender had one at the ready. She wore a grim expression. Two creases framed a sad face.
“Listen to me,” she said. “Do you see the door over there? Go through that and up the stairs to the old apartments. At number seven, take the fire stair down to the other side of the building. All the doors will be unlocked.” She spoke in a clear, pure voice now. He wanted to touch her hair.
“Do you want to come with me,” Chung asked moving closer?
“I cannot.” She retreated with a small step.
An inky darkness crept toward them pushing away the light from the bar. He felt the danger. “Get out,” screamed inside his head. Quan Chung needed to ask one last question, “Yesterday, the queen’s brother. He is dead?”
The girl wore a mother’s sad expression. She said blandly, “I am afraid you killed a clone.” She faced him directly now. Eerily, soft music clicked on. The song was from better times, one that had jangled in his head the past few days. Everything knitted together too conveniently.
“We killed a clone…”
“Two more,” he barked at the shark. The glassy eyed man eerily smiled with pointed canines. News of their ultimate failure surged inside him. Words blurted, “Not dead!” Then slower, “That bastard’s not dead? By nature’s way… All the preparation… Securing the cannon… The prohibitive cost of the information and friends lost.” He gulped back an embarrassing sob of frustration and terrible guilt.
In a brave voice, the girl tried to lift him up, “Quan Chung, be strong. You did what you could.” She pointed to the stair with an oddly bent arm. “They are coming. You must leave.” The light from the bar merged round her face. Quan Chung heard shouts outside. A large machine had parked.
“Will you lead me?”
“I cannot. Go to number seven and then take the fire stair out. You have a chance. Now go!”
Without further encouragement, Chung bound up the stairs, two at a time, and he easily found the apartment. The rooms were small and dirty. His head almost touched the ceiling. Indeed, everything was unlocked. The door to the old fire stair was in an obvious location. Chung wondered if it would hold his weight. Gingerly, the Chiang boy headed downward. The frail edifice from times past slowly pulled apart with a harsh, scraping sound. A hover glided above, although the pilot hadn’t seen him yet. Step by step, he negotiated the final flight. Once on the ground, Chung ducked into a recessed door. Red beams flitted between the buildings. He heard the clamor of troops inside the club. According to the original plan, Quan Chung was to rendezvous with one of his brothers and join his father on the frigate. He hoped his family was tracking him now.
Quan Chung moved with urgency to put distance between he and the queen’s men. At a misplaced crossroad, he paused unsure for the best route. Absently, Chung rubbed the lump on his head. Both hands unconsciously reached for the spot. Rank armpits needed air. “Where to now?” The road was quiet in the tropical sun. He felt vulnerable and terribly alone on this street with an official curfew.
Moving in a menacing rhythm, Chung spotted a herd of red beams rolling to and fro. The machines slid around the corners heading toward him. Operated by a security program, the Uriah technology searched for biological signatures or “warm bags of water.” Once confirmed, a drone hover would immediately transmit that information to the sector’s security desk. As these beams closed on his position, Chung desperately pushed and prodded the doors that were near.
Trapped, the Chiang youth confronted the approaching danger. He noted that this particular set of beams was spaced rather broadly. “Maybe I can squeeze through,” he whispered? Mild intoxication drove the idea. Quan Chung stepped into the street to face the moving grid. “We’ve done this riding blasters,” he encouraged himself. Systemically, the beams came at him in great random sweeps. He set himself vertically to minimize his exposure. With a slow and deliberate action, he carefully moved limbs and torso through the crisscross maze of the closest cluster. “There are too many,” he panicked. Chung became overwhelmed. One barely missed him. Then, another caught his shoulder. All the beams immediately locked onto his position. Quan Chung started to run, but it was too late. Soldiers with shields appeared ahead and advanced. He turned and there was another squadron at the other end. The two groups silently closed on him with their Uriah crests and expressionless faces. Someone fired. He felt a biting sensation from an invisible shock wave. His muscles shut down one by one. Quan Chung slowly fell to the pavement. Knees first.
Consciousness arrived when his head bounced on a stone stair. Three grown men were required to carry or rather drag the shackled Chiang youth. As evidence of his passing, the boy’s body left a warm, red-smear across the rough surface. Quan Chung believed his arm was broken and he could not see out of one eye. The smell of this place was foul. The Uriah gaolers wasted no time, immediately attaching the boy to the rough chains. He cried, “My arm,” when he felt the bone shift. No one was listening. No one called a medic. Instead, they beat him.
Chung’s mind lugubriously rolled into itself. Despite the pain and panic, he managed to hold onto a primordial form of reason. His only hope was that his father had witnessed recent events from the freighter. This optimism was misplaced, however. While the family had a long reach into many matters, Chung knew he couldn’t really think about rescue. “Even the king was permanently behind these same thick walls.”
The sharp crack of a whip shook him from pitiful thoughts. He heard the stomp of
boots bearing more guards. Through the wall, he made out a raging battle just outside. Bodies thumped and shuffled in the narrow space. They shouted and strained against the other. “Hold firm.” “Get the free arm.” “You got it.” “There.” Chains clicked into place and the door rumbled shut. The new prisoner was successfully ensconced in the cell next to his.
“Who was that,” Chung wondered? One would have thought they were trying to cage some great forest beast. After the guards left the area, he carefully rattled his chains, signaling his presence.
“Who’s there?” He heard a woman’s voice. She had to shout. The voice sounded small but firm.
“Another rebel,” Quan Chung shouted back. If the Uriah goons wanted silence, they would have had no qualms about making their wishes known.
“Name,” she called out?
“Quan Chung, a Chiang by race.”
“Sorry to meet you under these unfortunate circumstances, Quan Chung.” She spoke with a posh voice. “It’s best that you not know my name.”
Of course, Chung knew exactly who this was. She had a very famous voice. He was a-wall-away from the Capet princess. Although she sounded winded and labored, a brave note gave him hope that he could master his fear.
The princess asked, “Why are you here?”
Youth’s virtue wanted to impress her highness, especially since the princess’s bravery was legendary. Everyone on Teramar knew what she had attempted in this very building. Capet loyalists within the Uriah regime had published the footage of “the great escape” on all the networks. While there was a vocal protest to release the princess and her father, the queen refused to acknowledge they were even housed in this place.
Quan Chung answered her proudly, “I am here because my group tried to assassinate your uncle.”
Teramar: The Gathering Night Page 16
