“That’s the next step in your journey,” the Magna said. “The slave pens of Oras Dracilor.”
Flax, saying nothing, peered through the ship’s windows, her face drained of color like the ash falling from the clouds.
Kiera Russo, Queen of the Blackhearts, led Ramus and the others to a ramshackle hangar at what approximated a starport on Freeport. The building was made from loose sheets of aluminum and plastic, some of which were missing from the walls and roof. In the center, resting on a patch of dirt and tufts of grass, a ship sat on worn landing struts.
“Does it fly?” Ramus asked.
“Of course it flies!” Russo replied, angered by the insinuation. “Do you think I’d send you off in a ship that wasn’t spaceworthy?”
“In a heartbeat,” Ramus said.
“As a woman I’m insulted, but as a pirate, I respect your skepticism. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea if it flies or not...”
Ramus glanced at Fugg.
“What do you think?” the captain asked.
“Hell if I know,” Fugg said. “Where’d you get it?”
“It’s an Ougluk ship originally,” Russo said, “but some Celadon pirates were flying it when we jumped them. Long story short, the only survivor is holding my dartboard.”
“Well, he’s doing an excellent job!” Gen said.
Ramus and Fugg walked around the outside. Blast marks pitted the outside hull, but the ship was otherwise intact.
“It’s a lot smaller than the Wanderer,” Fugg remarked, “but that might be a good thing if we’re trying not to attract attention.”
“And the transponder still holds the old Ougluk friend-or-foe codes,” Russo said. “That should get you past any Magna patrol ships you run into.”
“Good,” Ramus said. “How many people can fit in there?”
“It’s a little tight,” Russo replied. “There were maybe six or seven Celadons in there. Kinda hard to count from just the body parts after we got done.”
“Oh dear!” Gen said.
“Don’t worry,” the pirate went on, “we hosed out the interior...”
“I love that pine scent after a ship is cleaned,” Fugg said.
“Oh, it still smells like Celadon,” Russo said. “Or maybe Ougluk, I can’t really tell the difference. Either way, at least you can see out the windows now.”
“How are you still single?” Fugg asked.
Russo pulled a knife from her corset.
“People tend to bleed out before getting to know me,” she said, imitating a cutting motion across her throat.
“Alright,” Ramus said, “it’s time we got going.”
“Bon voyage!” Russo shouted sarcastically. “Can’t wait to see you all again.”
“So, you think we’ve actually got a chance?” Ramus asked.
“Shit, no!” she said. “I’m already imagining the Wanderer with a big black heart painted on the side!”
From his penthouse, Judicator Busa-Gul had a commanding view of Oras Dracilor. His arms crossed, Gul overlooked the city through a long, narrow window like the squinting eyes of someone with a suspicious mind.
Gul wore a kilt covered in golden scales, his arms and chest bare, and his thick horns curled outward in a loose spiral. His powerful physique showed signs of age. Wrinkles creased around his eyes as he stared out the window.
“Still grieving that dead slave?” a woman’s voice said.
Gul nodded to his mate, Busa-Zala, who frowned disapprovingly.
“You’re entirely too attached to those creatures,” she said.
Descending a short set of stairs from the bedroom, Zala wore a skirt and bodice, both covered in metal scales. Unlike her husband, her horns were dark and extending upward with a slight twist. Jet-black hair flowed between the horns, cascading across her exposed back.
Facing the window, Gul gazed at the pyramid of the Consilium looming in the distance.
“He was a valued part of our household,” he grumbled.
“Humans come and go,” Zala replied. “They’re disposable at best, though I wish we didn’t have to get a new one so often. I have better things to do.”
“Perhaps I should get a female this time,” Gul thought aloud. “She might serve as a companion to you as well as me.”
Zala sneered.
“I don’t need a pet!” she protested. “Just bring me someone who can clean without complaining about their tired bones...”
“Nigel was quite old in human years,” Gul replied. “Perhaps we should have put him down sooner?”
“Clearly, but you went on and on about how dear he was to you.”
“I just didn’t want him to suffer.”
“It’s for the best,” Zala said. “Regardless, we’ll get a new one so you can forget poor old Nigel.”
“Thank you, my sweet.”
The slave trader Ipak-Bog stood on a terrace above a pen filled with slaves, milling about their enclosure in simple smocks covered by a layer of ash. The powder gave them a uniform appearance, gray hair and ghost-like skin, like spirits with nowhere to go. Above, the clouds had dissipated, revealing a crimson sky.
Bog came indoors from the terrace, closing the glass door behind him. The entire wall was glass, preserving his view of the pens. A door on the opposite wall opened and Sylvia Flax, along with two Magna guards, entered. Bog waved the guards away, leaving him alone with the human.
“I presume your processing went well?” he said.
Flax inspected her own smock, clean and new. Her hair was still damp.
“I’ve been thoroughly cleansed,” she replied. “Deloused and possibly irradiated...”
“Come to the window, won’t you?” Bog said. “I want to show you something.”
Flax stood beside the Magna who towered over her in front of the glass wall.
“Do you know how lucky you are?” Bog asked.
“I don’t feel lucky,” she replied.
“But you are! Those poor creatures out there are waiting, even hoping that a master selects them. That’s their only hope of ever leaving the pen. Otherwise, they’ll remain there, exposed to our climate, until they slowly grow weak and die.
“But, as I said, you’re lucky,” Bog went on. “As a celebrity, you’re a more lucrative commodity. I wouldn’t dream of exposing you to the outside like those others.”
“Thanks?” Flax replied. “Do the Magna even know who I am?”
“Not precisely, perhaps,” Bog said with a shrug, “but no matter. Short of an actual noble, you are the pinnacle of human society. The prospect of owning someone like you, and making you debase yourself daily with common labor, is greatly satisfying to my people. You humans may think highly of yourselves, but like all the other races of this galaxy, you are inferior to the Magna. In the Imperium, billions watched your newscasts each day, but here, you’ll be scrubbing your master’s toilets.”
“And if I don’t feel like playing along?”
“Frankly,” Bog replied, “I find such defiance illogical in the face of my people’s obvious superiority. It’s our manifest destiny to rule the universe. Human resistance may be quaint, but wholly unnecessary. It merely delays the inevitable.”
“You seem pretty sure about that.”
Bog waved his hand dismissively. “Of course.”
A bell chimed and the slave trader’s face brightened.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “He’s here.”
“Who?” Flax asked.
On another side of the room, a door slid open. In the archway, a Magna stood wearing a long kilt covered with golden scales.
“Allow me to introduce Judicator Busa-Gul,” Bog said. “He’s your new master.”
The crew compartments aboard the Ougluk ship were tight compared to the Wanderer, but Captain Ramus was not worried about the accommodations. He was more concerned about killing Fugg before they had a chance to die on the Magna home world.
Escaping his engineer’s near-constant complaining, Ramus to
ok refuge in the cockpit where the Dahl, Lieutenant Kinnari, was examining the navigation logs.
“The nav-computer is rudimentary,” she said, seeing him enter, “but I don’t see any problems.”
“That’s nice,” Ramus replied, slipping into his chair. “Hopefully the Magna Navy will feel the same way.”
“As your contact with the Pirate Clans said, the transponder contains the proper IFF codes. Quite a stroke of luck actually.”
“I’m aware of that, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work.”
“Are you always such a pessimist?” Kinnari asked.
“Only when I’m hurtling toward my death,” Ramus replied wryly.
“What we’re doing is important.”
“Why?”
“There’s a woman who’ll spend the rest of her life in slavery if we fail.”
“As opposed to all the other people the Celadons and Ougluks have smuggled over the border?” Ramus asked.
Kinnari nodded.
“Well, yes,” she said, “Sylvia Flax is probably considered more important to some...”
“Everybody’s important to somebody,” Ramus said. “Just not always to the Imperium.”
“Are you saying we wouldn’t be on this mission if Miss Flax wasn’t human?”
Ramus threw his legs up on the cockpit console, crossing his arms, and shrugged. “Maybe.”
He noticed her examining the tattoos on his arms.
“You said the Dahl didn’t teach you Dark Psi,” the lieutenant said. “So, who did?”
“Why should I tell you?” he replied.
“I’m just curious.”
After hesitating, Ramus said, “After our people so rudely exiled me, I fell in with a group called the Psi Lords.”
“The data cartel?”
“So, you’ve heard of them?”
“They’re mostly non-Dahl who’ve learned psionics and use it to steal and sell secrets,” Kinnari said. “Ruthless by reputation. How could you work with people like that?”
“I needed the money,” Ramus said, “and information is a valuable commodity. Besides, I didn’t have a lot of choices as I recall, plus they supplied me with resources I wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
“Like Dark Psi...”
“Yeah.”
“Do you even know why it works?”
“I don’t really care,” Ramus replied. “All that matters is it does...”
“It’s extremely dangerous,” Kinnari said. “It draws its power from ancient mysticism. There’s a reason why the Dahl outlawed it.”
“Maybe, or maybe that’s a lot of propaganda bullshit.”
“Wisdom guides us if we’re willing to be led.”
Ramus shook his head. “I’d rather go my own way. I’m not much of a follower...”
The lieutenant sighed. “Yes, I got that impression.”
Judicator Busa-Gul knew immediately his wife wasn’t pleased, especially when she spoke in the Imperial language so the human would understand.
“I thought you were getting something... younger,” she said.
He and Sylvia Flax stood in the foyer of his penthouse. Busa-Zala, his mate, greeted them as they came in.
“We talked about this,” Gul replied.
“Perhaps about her being female,” Zala went on, “but this is not what I expected.”
“I think you’ll find me pretty feisty,” Flax said flatly.
Zala’s red eyes scanned Flax from top to bottom.
“I hope she wasn’t too expensive,” Zala said before turning and heading toward the living room.
Gul removed the restraints clasped around Flax’s wrists. He put them away in a side table while she waited. When Gul returned, he offered a weak smile of reassurance.
“I’m sure my wife Zala meant no insult,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure she did,” Flax replied.
“Our previous slave was a man,” Gul said. “I don’t think Zala is as familiar with human females.”
“Her use of my language was impressive.”
“Our people learn all the major languages. It wouldn’t be reasonable to expect subordinate races to understand ours.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No offense,” Gul said, “but most Magna don’t believe lesser species are capable of learning it.”
“None taken,” Flax replied.
The judicator showed Flax to her quarters. The room, along with its own bathroom, was down a narrow hallway off the main apartment. Another door led to the laundry facilities.
“As you can see,” Gul said, entering the bedroom, “many of Nigel’s old things are still here.”
Flax went to a chair where a pair of men’s trousers hung over the back. The pants were of a style from at least thirty years ago.
“How old was he?” she asked.
“I’m not really sure,” Gul admitted. “Humans age at a different rate than us. He was quite old when he died.”
“What will I do for clothes?”
“We’ll fabricate you something. A work uniform and a few things for times when we entertain guests. It’s important that you’re presentable at all times. Zala is very particular about that...”
“I’ll try not to disappoint her.”
Gul regarded the other objects in the room, those left by his previous slave.
“You seem to miss him,” Flax said.
“I suppose I do,” Gul replied with a grim laugh. “Perhaps Zala’s right, I shouldn’t grow so attached to our slaves.”
The alarm buzzed and Sylvia Flax woke once again to the realization that this was her new life. A sick sensation churned in her stomach as she got out of bed, showered, and dressed with the knowledge that Busa-Zala would be waiting. Flax had toiled each day for a week, but no matter how much care and effort she put into the work, Zala found something to criticize and, more importantly, to punish. Bruises covered Flax’s arms and back from the discipline the judicator’s wife had doled out, often in ways designed to avoid Busa-Gul noticing. Zala was especially fond of striking Flax in areas of her body covered by clothing. She was careful not to hit her slave in the face.
Flax, for her own part, wasn’t sure why Zala was so abusive. In language fluctuating between human and Magna, Zala called her many things, but most revolved around a single word: whore.
Too frightened to tell Gul about the beatings, even when alone with him, Flax asked whether his wife would have preferred a male slave.
“Perhaps,” he replied, sitting in the den. “Zala always had a jealous streak.”
“Why would she be jealous of me?” Flax asked, shaking her head.
Gul considered a moment. “I don’t really know.”
“Do Magna ever have relationships with their slaves? I mean sexually?”
He guffawed.
“No, of course not!” he said. “I mean, there’s always rumors of such things, but bestiality is strictly taboo.”
“Bestiality?” Flax replied frowning.
Not realizing the insult, Gul went on, “I mean, just as a practical matter, I don’t see how it’s even possible. Humans are such frail things, I can’t imagine one surviving such an encounter.”
Flax, feeling herself flush, stared at a stain on the carpet. She wondered if Zala would beat her for it.
“Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?” Gul inquired. “I was always happy to answer Nigel’s questions.”
“No,” Flax said. “Nothing.”
A few days later, two Magna dressed in official attire came to the door which Flax answered dutifully. She led them to Gul’s study where they spoke in private. Once they left and the judicator had talked to his wife, he came to the storeroom where Flax was unpacking food for the evening dinner.
Flax had only known him for a short while, but she knew by the furrows in his brow that something serious had happened.
“I’ve been selected for a great honor,” he said.
“Really?” she replied.
“I’ve been appointed to the Consilium.”
“The Consilium?”
“Yes, I must leave in the morning.”
Flax stammered, straining to remember what the slave trader Ipak-Bog had said.
“When will you be back?” she asked after a pause.
“I won’t be coming back,” Gul replied, nearly choking on the words. “Those appointed to the council remain in the Consilium for the remainder of their lives.”
“So, that means I’ll be here alone with... your wife?”
“Yes.”
Flax dropped the frozen steak she had been handling. It landed with an icy clunk on the floor.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lords Winsor Woodwick and Radford Groen sat on their balcony overlooking the Regalis River. The music of police sirens wafted on the wind from the direction of Middleton on the other side of the river. The night sky glowed red with fires burning in the distance. Woodwick, with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, cast a doubtful glance at Groen who was staring at his datapad.
“I say, Radford,” Woodwick said, “Rome is burning and you’re playing the fiddle!”
Groen looked up. “I’m doing nothing of the sort! I’m betting on a dead pool about which royal gets killed next.”
“Your House is one of the Five Families. Are you planning on getting murdered as well?”
Groen gave his friend a side glance. “Murder-suicide is always a possibility...”
The two men kept eye contact for an uncomfortable few seconds until Woodwick chuckled.
“I say, Radford. Your droll sense of humor will be the death of me!”
Groen smiled devilishly, his attention drawn back to the datapad, and placed another bet.
“By the by,” Woodwick went on after a while, “I don’t suppose you’ve been following this Sylvia Flax business?”
“Who is that?” Groen muttered.
“What? You’re joking, surely!”
Groen said nothing.
“She’s practically the face of VOX News,” Woodwick insisted. “You’ve really never heard of her?”
Again, Groen was silent.
“Well, plopadops,” Woodwick remarked. “It’s all gone to pot if you ask me. A real cock-up.”
“A what?” Groen asked, finally bothering to speak.
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