Jupiter's Halo: Unbroken

by A P Heath

  With the exception of Natasha’s urgent comms there had been no interruptions. Outside the scribes now facing him would have been watching through the viewing panes of their own chamber, just as Natasha had been.

  He had not been made aware of any disruption, although he knew such a thing would trouble the Old Father deeply.

  The mechanisms the fed data to the viewing panes were an integral part of the makeup of the Halls. To interfere with them one would have to hold a detailed and in-depth knowledge of their workings and their use within the Fatherhood.

  Moreover, to know any of that the responsible party would need to know the whereabouts of the Halls of Mercy.

  It was a secret guarded so closely by the Fathers it was understood few outside their ranks were even sure of their existence, let alone able to find them in a physical sense.

  That meant one of two things; either someone within the Fatherhood had caused the interruption, or someone outside

  the Fatherhood had discovered enough about them to do it remotely.

  Neither prospect would be palatable to the Old Father, nor to Mylus and the other Fathers.

  The thought stole over him that suspicion must be directed his way.

  They know nothing. The thought was there, He pushed it aside.

  They do not understand.

  Mylus kept his face blank.

  “The subject informed me he was ‘unbroken’ before succumbing to the wounds I had inflicted upon him.”

  He spoke in a flat tone, replaying the moments from memory.

  “His life signs ceased and the surgeon apparatus activated automatically.”

  The Old Father looked back at the slate as another line of data was pointed out for him.

  “The surgeon apparatus had been put into standby some moments previously by yourself, I understand.” It was a statement.

  Mylus remembered waving the machine into silence as he looked into Aitkin Cassini’s eyes.

  “Correct my lord.” He replied.

  “But why do so when your subject was so close to expiring?” The mask tilted again.

  Expiring. Mylus wanted to laugh at the phrase. He was dying. He thought. I was murdering him.

  “I believed he was similarly close to revealing his Truth to me.” The mask nodded.

  “Continue.”

  Mylus let the memory play on inside his head.

  The surgeon apparatus had worked quickly, sealing the rift he had opened in Aitkin Cassini’s stomach, returning his entrails to their rightful place and pumping blood into his depleted system. He said as much out loud.

  “And then?” The Old Father prompted him.

  “After the third inducement the subject’s heart returned a faint rhythm and the surgeon apparatus administered chemical stimulants to return the subject to consciousness.”

  “The subject…” The Old Father paused, “…Aitkin Cassini.” He stated.

  Mylus nodded, “Yes my Lord.”

  He had not spoken his patients name out loud since concluding the session. When he had seen the Truth within the man he had felt something strange; a link, a connection to him that went beyond the familiar bonding of patient and Father that occurred when the Truth was discovered.

  Mylus had often found himself experiencing pride, not at his own actions, but for a subject that had allowed their Truth to be uncovered. It was not an easy task. With that feeling often would come a need to nurture the subject, to bring them back from the edge and watch them flourish in the light of their new found growth.

  Of course, such a thing never came to pass. Once a session was complete, the patient would be removed; sent on to recover or to be cleansed in fire, whichever was appropriate. Their Father would never lay eyes upon them again.

  With Aitkin though, it had been different. He felt release. He’d felt an overwhelming need to be near the man. When he left the mercy cell he had to force himself to step outside the door.

  The feeling had diminished somewhat since. It was still there, a background to his thoughts, but simmering gently instead of boiling to the forefront of his mind. Speaking Aitkin Cassini’s name out loud fed its fires somehow, so he avoided doing so.

  “Once conscious he revealed his Truth to me. Natasha In’Tuen informed me she had been unable to properly review the last minute of our session and I informed her it was at an end.” Mylus finished.

  There was silence in the chamber. The scribes sat motionless as the Old Father seemed to mull on the words Mylus had spoken. The silence stretched out between them. Mylus did not make a move to speak.

  The Old Father leaned forward, his fingers wriggling against each other.

  “And just how was this Truth revealed to you?” He asked. The scribes readied their slates to record his answer.

  Mylus held the Old Father’s gaze as he replied, “I saw it in his eyes.” I felt it in his soul.

  “I had pushed him past the point of breaking, and beyond it he was the same man as before.” I was with him on the other side.

  He leaned back, letting his crossed arms fall to his side.

  “There was nothing hidden within him. He had nothing to tell. His Truth had been there to see all throughout.”

  It is in me now.

  The Old Father kept his gaze for a moment longer, the mask hiding any tell in his features that would reveal the thoughts beneath the surface. He leaned back himself, unlaced his fingers and laid his hands flat on the arms of his chair.

  “So you have said Father Mylus Vant.”

  He nodded to each scribe briefly and both covered their slates, stood and left the chamber in silence. Mylus waited to be excused.

  “Our client will be pleased with the outcome you have achieved.” The Old Father said lightly, “you have done well.”

  Mylus inclined his head in respect, “Thank you my lord. May I have your leave to go?”

  The Old Father nodded in return, “You do.”

  Mylus bowed as he stood, backing his way to the chamber door to show his respect for the leader of the Fatherhood. The Old Father’s eyes watched him as he left.

  I have seen, I have known and now I shall seek to understand.

  FORTY-TWO

  The rumble of street noise from outside pulled Martius from his slumber. His back was aching and his mouth tasted sour. The ache was from his bed, or at least what the greasy looking owner of this particular establishment called a bed.

  It was barely more than a pile of thin mats, one atop another, separating him from the stained floor covering. The sour taste in his mouth, accompanied by the feeling his tongue was lined in thick fur, were from the whiskey.

  He rubbed his eyes and looked blearily across the small room to where the bottle rested on its side. The dregs of amber liquid within were darker than whiskey should be. Once again, it was only what the people here called whiskey, not the real thing at all. It burned on the way down and gave a strange scent to his urine when he passed it, but it did at least get him drunk.

  Martius rolled from his makeshift bed onto the floor and reached out to grasp the bottle. He pulled it to him and rolled onto his back as he up ended it, letting the last mouthful of the bitter spirit drain into his open mouth.

  Martius swallowed, the liquid making him cough and splutter as it forced its way down his throat.

  He sat up, leaning his back against the pile of mats and rubbing at his face and eyes. His chin and cheeks were covered in stubble. At home he had a servant who shaved him daily, ensuring his face was always clean and elegant.

  Here in this dirty dive hotel on the outskirts of Sabaea’s market district, he had no one. No one he’d trust was competent to perform such a duty at least.

  He liked the feeling of it, the rasping sound his hand made as it slid over his face. He thought it made him look dangerous, like the hard faced men he saw at Lily’s, waiting on their girls and drinking in sullen silence.

  Lily’s had been a great find.

  On his second, no, third day, he’d fo
und the discreet little door, not quite directly under the big bright sign two storeys up.

  Lily’s was not the first business of this nature he’d ventured into, but after staying an hour it was the only one he had deigned to continue his patronage with.

  As far as he could tell, there was no one actually called Lily there. He’d met the lady of the house, as she called herself, on several occasions, but one of the girls had told him she was named Maritha.

  He’d seen the men who stood apart from the other customers, leaning in the shadows with their shaved heads and overly muscled physiques. He’d been told, rather explicitly what they would do to him, were he to treat any of Lily’s girls in a less than gentlemanly manner.

  Martius had quickly come to learn that the definition of ‘gentlemanly’ at Lily’s was extremely different to the behaviour he had formerly associated with the word. As he understood it, as long as he wasn’t hurting a girl, at least against her will, or trying to utilise her services without paying for the privilege, then almost anything else was acceptable.

  He’d seen more than a couple of patrons, who seemed disinclined to waste their time heading up to a private room, enjoy the acts they were spending their credits on right before him in the darkened little bar area.

  He would never have considered the things they did to be referred to as ‘gentlemanly’, but for all he could tell the girls enjoyed themselves and not one of the looming security men made a move to intervene, so clearly it was deemed acceptable.

  Martius was not so keen as to debase himself that way. He had returned to Lily’s for the privacy, for the beauty of the girls within the walls and for the feeling of luxury they brought to this spare world he found himself in.

  If he were honest with himself, Lily’s was a distraction better left behind. Mostly he told himself the girls were a good source of information to aid him in planning his next step. The gratification was simply a fringe benefit.

  He had managed to learn some things of use during his many visits. Admittedly he’d also learned a number of things that would be useful only in a very limited and private sense, but that he was grateful for all the same.

  He had learned the best way into the tunnels was indeed through the industrial districts in Sabaea-Henry. He had known this before, but receiving the confirmation had been a pleasing experience.

  He had learned, much to his surprise, that there was a feeling of dissatisfaction amongst the workers, miners and traders of the Sabaea domes.

  Apparently they saw the upper classes as some sort of tyrannical force, greedily gathering and guarding their wealth while ‘the people’ toiled in poverty to scrape a living from whatever was left over. Martius had heard a lot about ‘the people’.

  He had previously imagined that they were all people, but Maritha had been very clear in her assertion that there were people and then there were ‘the people’ and the two were definitely not the same.

  Martius didn’t see the need to dissuade her. He’d never given any thought to the masses of the planet and what their lives might be like, at least before coming here. Even once he’d arrived in Sabaea it didn’t occur to him to think they might not be happy in their lives. This was their lot. It was as simple as that in his mind. He had been born to the richest family of Mars and they had not. Not everyone could have wealth and power. If everyone did, then no one did. That was what his mother had always said, when she talked of the family and his place within it.

  Maritha had been another pleasant surprise of Lily’s. On his fourth visit, perhaps his fifth, she had subtly informed him that she could be available for their more discerning clients and offered certain services that the other girls did not.

  At first Martius had been wary. He’d spent a great deal of hard-creds in his visits and he assumed her intention would be to rob him of the currency he still had.

  There was something about her that he found familiar too. She reminded him of someone. Not to look at, but in her bearing.

  Her manner was strict, severe in the more public areas and, he found, only marginally more relaxed in private. She was fiercely protective of her girls and of Lily’s in general.

  As she said herself, this was her home and they were her family.

  Martius had been sorely tempted by her offer; the girls were young, beautiful and adventurous, but they were still girls all the same. Maritha, or Lady Maritha as she demanded he refer to her in the privacy of her rooms, was entirely a woman.

  He had not accepted right away, but begged the chance to return at a later time. She had accepted graciously and Martius had rushed back to his dirty little room to stash the hard-creds he was carrying about its meagre space.

  He had not previously thought of the danger inherent in keeping all his currency about his person and the realisation made him feel like a fool. It also made him feel proud; not everyone would be smart enough to see such a risk, but then Martius told himself, he was not everyone.

  He had returned to Lily’s, eager to experience the ‘services’ Maritha spoke of and had found the first one was a shower. She’d led him up to the top floor of the narrow building Lily’s was situated in and ushered him through a door into her private area.

  It was only for the very best of their clientele, she informed him as she gently pealed the grimy clothes from his body. She led him through the first of her rooms as she undressed him, the walls were hung with thick red drapes, the flooring soft and warm under his feet.

  There was no bed he could see, but cushions of many sizes were piled in two of the corners.

  She led him on, into a short dark corridor. For a moment Martius worried his earlier suspicions of her motives had been right, before she pushed open a slim door and the brightness of the room beyond bathed him.

  It was an appropriate metaphor. The room she showed him was tiled on every wall, floor and ceiling. The far wall was peppered with tiny nozzles that sprayed water when activated, from the ceiling down to floor level.

  The first thing he must do, she informed him, was clean himself thoroughly.

  Naked and no doubt stinking, he allowed her to wash him in

  the jets. Her touch was delicate where it needed to be, firm where the dirt had ground in. It was an invigorating experience. Martius found his excitement rising at her touch. She noticed immediately and he received a sharp smack across his thigh.

  There were rules, she told him. He must follow the rules of Lady Maritha when he was in her private rooms. If he did not follow the rules he would be punished. Lady Maritha would make him follow her rules.

  Martius was giddy. Her strict composure and stern tones was so at odds with the situation he found himself excited further by the naughtiness of his disobedient thoughts. She smacked him harder, across his thighs, across the cheeks of his buttocks and once across his member as it stood erect.

  The pain made him howl, but did nothing to diminish his enthusiasm.

  Once she had cleaned him she led him to another room. This one was darker again than the first. Its walls were bare, its floor hard and scattered with strange looking contraptions that he could only guess at the use of. The majority looked like their employment on a body would cause significant discomfort.

  Over the next two hours Lady Maritha opened Martius’ eyes to a world of pleasures he could never have conceived of without her.

  There were chains, whips, long pointed boots that she drove into his flesh when he disobeyed her commands.

  There were gloves with spiked fingertips that she ran across the length and breadth of his naked body. She leashed him and towed him about her domain.

  She scolded him for his depravation, praised him for his might. She stroked and crushed his ego in equal measure.

  Martius had never known such exquisite pleasure. He was tantalised and teased. Tortured with the prospect of the release he craved being offered and snatched away before he could reach it. It was sublime.

  Only once he had accepted her mastery over him and begged fo
r her pleasure did she finally allow him some control. She

  walked him back to the first of her rooms, made him watch as she removed all but her long tight boots and lay on her side amongst the cushions.

  Naked, Martius realised she was older than he had thought. Her body was not as firm as he had expected, not as fresh and tight as those of the girls he had already been with in her establishment, but that did not dissuade him.

  She had wound him so tight he was ready to explode and the thought of having power over her at last was more invigorating, more enticing than the thought of any girl he had ever known.

  Martius joined her on the cushions. He eased himself into place, wary of losing control too soon. The excitement he felt was beyond measure. He rolled her body, taking himself to a position of complete dominion over her. She was responsive, letting him take the lead and urging him to please himself with her body.

  Martius could feel his tenuous grip slipping with every movement. He was ready to let go, to lose himself in this moment.

  The face of Lady Earone swam into his mind.

  She was sickened by him, by his actions. Her stern eyes bored into him. Her voice cracked like a whip with her imperious demands and unflinching, overbearing demeanour.

  Martius saw fully what he had only glimpsed before.

  He saw the control he longed for, the degenerate pleasure he took from its denial to him and the bone deep satisfaction of having power over her at last.

  He was making the demands now. He was the one with the power, she was helpless to stop him from doing whatever he wished. The feeling was intoxicating and revolting all at once.

  Martius let go of his control. His movements were forceful, almost violent as he asserted the wrath of his dominance over her. She did not struggle beneath him. She could not. He held her firm in his grip, for once powerless against him.

  Martius cried out as his lust overwhelmed him. His roar a mix of rage, passion and vindictive bliss. He collapsed on the cushions. Physically spent, but emotionally awakened.