by K S Augustin
THE COMMANDER’S SLAVE
By
K.S. Augustin
(C) Copyright by K.S. Augustin, October 2006
(C) Cover art by Jenny Dixon, April 2007
ISBN 1-58608-213-2
Smashwords Edition
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
The noise assailed her ears and made her shrink back against the back of the male pushing her through the bazaar. Everything was so strange, so alien. What was she doing in this place? Who was she? With a muttered oath, her captor stabbed her in the back with the handle of his rifle, and she stumbled.
At least she was under no misapprehension that the weapon was there to harm her. Even amongst the chaos of the marketplace, she could detect the predatory glitter of other traders, could feel their gazes move up and down her body, assessing, calculating. No, she was sure that her guard, and his weapon, was there primarily to protect his investment--her.
But it was difficult to concentrate. As for the past four days, her head continued throbbing, sending waves of blunt pain hammering through her brain. It was all she could do to place one foot before another.
Left, right. Left, right. A jerk on the chain around her neck brought her to an abrupt stop and she once more started to take notice of her surroundings.
Helson V. She had heard her captors talking about the planet during their nighttime meals. Hell’s Market, they joked. A place where you could buy whatever your heart desired. At which point, they would normally cast looks in her direction and laugh raucously.
She didn’t know anything about the planet. Wasn’t even sure where it was. But she did know the guards were right on one count--it was indeed hell. She was sick from eating what her captors considered food, but they forced it down her throat, knowing that a weak subject would bring a correspondingly weaker price. They had also thought hygiene a luxury, though. Except for sparse toilet breaks, when she was constantly watched by one of the snickering guards, she was given no chance to bathe or clean herself. They had stripped off the tatters of clothes she wore, shrouded her in some stinking sheets that were slippery and cold to the touch, and led her off on the march to the Market on Helson V.
Once, she had tried to reason with them, but they were obstinate bordering on incomprehension. They were poor natives of the planet who had stumbled across the crashed shuttle and discovered their prize. They were so poor they couldn’t even afford transport to the famed Market but had to slog it out on foot, their captive a glittering prize that they kept as hidden as possible. In her quiet, dark moments, she couldn’t really blame them.
Coming back to the present, she looked ahead of her, at the eight steps leading up to what she presumed to be a stage. She could see figures standing immobile while several handlers walked around them. The noise was more focused here, money bids being shouted into the air, ribald comments, and there were no more doubts--she was going to be sold. Eventually, a bell sounded and the figures were led off, presumably to a holding pen while the ownership documents were prepared.
There was a commotion behind her. “Just her! Just her!” Then sounds of something solid hitting flesh. One of her captors walked in front of her, yanking at her chain and she followed him up the steps.
The reality was even worse than her imaginings. There were hundreds of people in front of her--humanoid, insectoid, drones--and she started to feel afraid. Gods, but she even longed for the relative peace of her captivity against this ... this open ogling.
The auction-master, a thin strappy man stroking a whip, took his time as he circled her, a feral smile curving his lips.
“A golden nymph,” he finally announced to the crowd, breaking their tension. The language of the galaxy was Cirlian Formal, maybe even Cirlian Lower on the less-advanced planets. She mentally described his accent as Cirlian Gutter. It gave her some small satisfaction, and she straightened her spine. She was not going to let this drain-sahmpren intimidate her.
“A prize indeed,” he continued. “A fine addition to one’s spawn-nest. Or even as the star attraction in a discerning entertainment establishment.”
There was much jeering at this.
“I start the bidding at a mere ten quatroons.”
She kept her gaze forward and steady, not looking down into the mass of life forms bidding for her body. Because that’s all they would be getting--her body. No matter what they did to her, she would try to retain her dignity … even if she couldn’t quite remember her mind.
The bidding climbed steadily. Ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-three.
The auction-master looked toward the group of natives who had brought her in, but they swore and shook their heads.
Gamely, the auction-master turned again to the crowd.
“Only twenty-three quatroons?” he taunted. “For this lovely? Look at those features, unblemished by illness or disease. All limbs strong and capable of servicing many forms.” He lifted one arm, brushing the makeshift sleeve back with his whip.
“Golden skin,” he declared, then rubbed at her arm until she flinched. “And natural too. Surely that’s worth a few extra quatroons? She will be the envy of every party you give.”
“Twenty-seven.”
The bid had time to hang in the air, uncontested. With disgust, one of her native captors strode on stage and, with one brutal movement, ripped her garment downwards.
She stood, naked, exposed to the crowd, hearing the ‘aaah’ of excitement move through them. She wanted to cover herself, but her wrists were manacled against her thighs, and she only had a few inches of movement, not even enough to cover her groin.
The gaze of the crowd moved up her body, caressing her long, shapely legs and the promise of pleasure covered by a triangle of copper curls. Grazing the slight mound of her abdomen and stroking the shadowed skin between a pair of uptilted, firm breasts, tipped by circles of dusky brown.
The auction-master had a hurried conversation with the native before turning again to the crowd.
“I have it on impeccable authority that this female is untouched,” he finally announced. “A virgin. And, I am forced to admit, a rarity to this humble market. Surely that is worth a premium?”
“Fifty quatroons,” another voice finally declared into the relative silence.
She looked then for the source of the voice and found a pair of hard obsidian eyes, filled with boredom and contempt. Even from this distance, there was something about him that sent a shock through her. It tightened her groin and hardened her nipples to erect pebbles.
“Ah, that’s more like it,” the auction-master crooned, although whether he was referring to the bid or her physical response was debatable. “Fifty quatroons. Do I hear a competing bid?”
Other heads had turned at the sound of the bidder’s dark voice and mutterings began spiraling through the crowd.
Tangus, she heard from her position at the top of the dais. Mercenary. Ruthless. Will kill for what he wants. Dead trader who tried to double-cross. Not worth the risk.
And it appeared the swirls of conversation won, because there were no competing bids.
“Fifty it is,” the auction-master declared, while the natives hugged themselves with joy and the bell tone sounded. One of the auction-master’s assistants appeared at his gesture and walked her off the stage and down the other set of steps into an open pen, walled off by strands of sizzling energy.
Still naked, she stood there and watched as a phalanx of hard-faced m
en approached. They didn’t need armor for her to know that these were space-combat veterans. The lack of expression on their faces said it all.
On cue, they parted, and she saw the man who had bought her and the body that belonged to that pair of dark, cold eyes. And, despite her discomfort, she could see it was a magnificent body. The anonymous gray jacket could not hide the breadth of his shoulders, and the snug, color-matched pants clung to the contours of thighs as hard as his expression. As he took the data pad from the dealer, she noticed large hands and strong, capable fingers, thought of them running over her body, and the breath caught in her throat.
He scanned the pad briefly, thinning his lips in disapproval.
“What’s your name?” he barked.
“My--?”
Name.
If she knew that, she would know the answers to at least part of the puzzle.
“Name,” he repeated.
She shook her head. “I ... I don’t ….”
But he cut her short. “Have you sold me an imbecile, Rakk?”
The administrator smiled. “Her, ah, handlers told me she is capable of intelligent conversation.”
The man she presumed was Tangus grunted. “Too late to do anything about it now, I suppose,” he grumbled. “Just as well I didn’t buy her for her intellect.”
He put his mark on the pad, authorizing the fund transfer, and threw it back on the table. Since the moment he bought her, he hadn’t given her more than a passing glance.
“Daurent,” he said, and a younger male behind him stiffened and stepped forward. “Take her back to the Strike. Put her in the chamber next to my quarters. You know what to do. I have a bit more to do down here, but I’ll be back in two hours.”
Daurent nodded and took her by the elbow.
“And Daurent?” The company halted. “She stinks. Make sure she’s clean before I see her next.”
* * * *
At least she was off the planet. That was the good news. Though whether she was now in the possession of rational beings or some race of combat brothel-keepers (was there even such a profession?) was still beyond her reckoning.
Daurent and his company of five others led her, still naked, back through the crowds and across to the launch bays.
They’re treating me like an animal.
I’m not used to being treated like this.
The thought entered her mind suddenly, a flash of a murky past, gone as quickly as it had come. How was she used to being treated? But no other insight emerged.
She was led to one of two shuttles that had obviously seen better days, its outside scarred and pitted, the inside bare with metal sheeting for floors and walls and thinly-upholstered chairs. No, even the most basic of brothel-keepers could afford better transport than this.
That kept her thinking while she was buckled in. Daurent was circumspect and impersonal in his dealings, but one other soldier who helped strap her in deliberately ran the back of his hand up her legs and across her thatch of pubic hair, grinning as she tried to jerk away. Her hands were still manacled, curtailing all protective movement.
“Tomben, get back to your seat.” Daurent’s voice. Tomben looked for a moment like he would disobey then, with a grimace, straightened and moved away, taking a seat behind her.
The trip was as efficient and bare as she knew it would be. No lazy arcs or fancy maneuvering. Just straight up, a short flight, then a quick dock.
Daurent moved first to unbuckle her and lead her out of the shuttle and into the Strike.
Here, things were much improved although still of a military nature. At least the floors were covered, with something that looked like short cropped carpet. And there was insulation and smooth paneling on the walls, absorbing sound and dulling the background whine of engines to a more pleasant hum.
Daurent paused at a corridor intersection. “Stera, Tomben, you heard the commander. He’ll be back in two hours. That gives you enough time to install and test the new energy-converter unit. Viils, I’ll leave it to you to oversee the supply pod when it turns up. The rest of you, run through the systems one more time. If we need anything else in a hurry, it would be wise to know now before we leave Hell’s Market.”
After terse nods, the other men scattered obediently to their posts.
“Come with me,” Daurent told her and led her through the ship. The occasional men they passed paused to stare at her, but after the past four days, she was past caring. Tangus had said she was to be cleaned up and that’s all she was concentrating on--a chance to bathe and wash the grime and dust of Helson V from her body. Even if somebody stood guard and watched her every move, it wouldn’t be enough to take away from the pleasure of such an activity.
He stopped at a doorway and entered a code, ushering her in before him.
The room was large and surprisingly plush. Richly-upholstered platforms of various heights rose from the floor, a large bed dominated one corner of the room, and an open bathroom dominated another. It took a second glance before she saw them--discreet openings in the floor, the glint of cuffs, thin luminous strands hanging from the ceiling that she first took to be lighting of some sort but which, she realized, could be used equally for immobilizing a person.
She stared at Daurent who refused to meet her eyes and surprised a flush under his brown skin.
“The bathroom has its own program.” He walked her across and a half-step down into a shower-pan that was dotted with anti-slip protrusions. With deft movements, he withdrew an electronic key from his belt and touched them against her manacles. With a soft click, they disengaged and fell to the floor. “Clean,” he announced. “Humanoid. Female.”
Then he stepped back out of the pan.
A female voice emerged out of the wall.
“Please hold your hands above your head.”
And she was hit by a focused spray of hot water.
All in all, it was certainly the most thorough of cleansings, even if it wasn’t the most comfortable.
When Daurent beckoned her out of the bathroom, the hot-air jets having dried every drop of moisture on her body, she knew he was nervous.
What was going on?
She stopped in front of him, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Then he tied her up.
* * * *
Tangus, commander of Second Fleet. How grand that sounded. How little it was actually worth.
As Tangus rummaged around the stalls and shops of Hell’s Market, he wondered again what had made him spend good, hard-won currency on a piece of flesh. Admittedly, a very beguiling and attractive piece of flesh but....
For fifty quatroons, he could have purchased two small crates of valuable spare parts, or enough food to feed the entire crew of the Strike for a week. So why had he thrown it away on a brainless female?
She hadn’t looked brainless on the dais. Despite her nakedness, she looked composed, even superior to the men who traded flesh with the same carelessness as they changed their wardrobe. That’s what had caught his eye. He had admired her spirit, but at the same time, it angered him. How dare she look that way when she was obviously a member of the Fusion. She was one of ‘them’, one of those people from so-called civilized planets who had watched and done nothing while his own people perished.
Until nothing was left except for eight thousand tired and weary men--the Second Fleet--on the run and hiding from the powerful Lasc Prein.
His libido alone he could have handled. Three years and eight months of running had honed self-discipline in the art of denial. But libido and justice? A potent mix, and fifty quatroons later, one he was powerless against.
With disgust, he threw the greasy docking-bay hinge back into the barrel. He didn’t really need docking-bay hinges. Or any more plasma-alignment injectors. He had spent the last hour and a half trying to get himself back under control, trying to think of battles and supplies, but it was no use. His groin stirred and he growled under his breath.
>
Three years, eight months of justice. Three years of ruthlessly-repressed sexual desire. He had to get back to his ship.
* * * *
If anything, she was even more magnificent than when he first saw her, even with most of her delectable body hidden.
He checked in with Daurent via intercom after docking but avoided going to the bridge. He didn’t need his subordinate’s idealism at a time like this. In his quarters, he washed his hands before taking a deep breath and pressing the button that led to the adjoining chamber.
As requested, she was cleaned up--he spotted the manacles on the floor of the shower pan--but was huddled on the floor, sitting with her hands around her knees. That wasn’t unreasonable, after all he had kept her waiting more than an hour. No more.
“Greetings,” he said.
She jerked around at the sound of his voice, for she had been facing the room’s main entrance and his silent entry startled her. As if that word was a command, other machinery sprang into action. The cuffs around her wrists, tied to loose yet intensely-strong filaments, started to contract, pulling her into a standing position. Similar cuffs around her ankles pulled her legs apart, only stopping when she was spread-eagled. It wasn’t an uncomfortable position, none of her muscles strained, but she was open to his inspection. His every inspection.
And inspect her he did. From running his hand through the unruly mane of copper hair that cascaded between her shoulder blades to flicking a finger between her breasts, from examining her large amber eyes to caressing the line of her cheekbone. He walked behind her, then stepped up close. His hands reached around to pinch her dusky brown nipples, and she gasped.
He continued rubbing one nipple with one hand while skimming her flesh with the other, over her abdomen and down to her groin. She tried to move, but he pinned her against him and she could feel the stiffness of his erection against the small of her back. His fingers started their exploration, sliding between her legs, in and out. At first just skimming her copper curls then, with each returning stroke, exerting slightly more pressure.
She felt the roughness of his unshaven jaw against the back of her neck, then his breath against her ear.
