Oblivion's Peril

by M. H. Johnson

  And it told Val something, how not a one hesitated, jerking their heads with relief when Shades held up their joined silver collar before Val. Before his smile turned cold. “Cash or credit first, you understand. Don’t worry. Your father’s diamond card is good enough for me.”

  Val forced himself to extract six cubes of pressed Elementium, eliciting a wide-eyed whistle from Shades. “My man is rolling in cash, isn’t he!”

  Val dropped the cubes into Shades' hands. "I came here hoping to find a pilot to help me fly the damned mecha it cost me too much to buy here in the first place, but I haven't found a single one. Don't suppose you could help me with that?"

  Shades chuckled. “Oh, kid, you picked the wrong time to visit Jordia if you’re looking for R&R… save the fine pieces of meat you just lucked into! Best in the galaxy. Don’t you know the score yet? Haven’t I made it clear? My man’s the future Overlord of Jordia! Council’s wrapped up tight in his pocket. No mech unit’s going anywhere that Kentric doesn’t have his mark on. And pilots? Hell, son, you’re as likely to find a virgin among a Highlord’s pleasure girls as a pilot my master hasn’t snapped up with the best rates in the system already!”

  He gave a sympathetic shake of his head. "What you need to do is forget any fancy notion you might have of flying those things on Jordia, and spend some time breaking in your newest acquisitions! Lion's Rest, finest hotel this city has, is just a luxury-ride away. Now, before you go, I'd like you to do me one favor."

  Val forced a smile, taking the silver leash the three girls were bonded to, instantly sensing how to conduct current through them, effortlessly tasting their fear through the connection, even as it blocked whatever powers they themselves might have had.

  Psionic Artificer skill check successful! True Artificer skill check successful! You recognize the inner workings of this Psionic artifact, and given resources and time, are fairly certain you could craft one yourself! Because who doesn’t want a harem of terrified young nubile women? Fitting for any would-be Overlord!

  Val grimaced at the internal message even as he sensed the inner workings of the chain and collar, the tiny Psion current needed to catalyze the device which Val suspected only those gifted with at least a sliver of Psionic potential could use, even if it would never become a significant power.

  “What favor would that be?”

  But Shades was now eyeing Val carefully. “You can actually use that thing? The way the girls are flinching tells me you can. You’re a rare breed, son. You some Highlord’s brat?”

  Val flashed a smile devoid of warmth. “I guess you could say that.”

  Shades nodded. “Cool. Now come this way, man, I gotta treat for you. They got private chambers in back where you can make calls. Whole slew of hyperion network gates.”

  Val raised an eyebrow. “Why would I want to do that?”

  Shades looked at him like he was an idiot. “Buddy, I’m giving you a chance to have a one on one with the new Overlord! Say hi or whatever you want. Just be respectful and show him the girls on the leash! He’ll get a kick out of that, and you’ll be in good standing when everything is finalized.”

  Val gave a slow, considering nod. “Why not?” he said, shrugging his shoulders and following behind Kentric’s man, peripherally noting the no-nonsense shaven-headed bodyguard posing as a mercenary for hire that nonetheless always kept a brilliant blue eye on his master.

  They quickly left the raucous conference hall behind, lost within corridors plush and tasteful as any hotel with thick, sky-blue rugs and numerous portraits of no doubt prominent city officials lining the walls as well as pictures of bucolic countrysides that could have lined the walls of any museum in Chicago.

  They passed only a few souls dressed like the Jordian equivalent of businessmen, favoring Val and the now openly sobbing girls with a single disdainful sniff before going about their own business.

  Soon enough they had slipped into an ornate room complete with a complimentary carafe of wine resting on the same hardwood counter as an old-fashioned computer monitor with an impressive forty-inch screen, or so it seemed to Val, alongside an archaic keyboard whose purpose puzzled Val only for so long as it took Shades to punch in a series of sigils that Val assumed was the frequency to Highlord Kentric’s personal unit.

  Stealth check… success! The monitor began to beep shrilly, perfectly covering the soft click of an artifact pulled out of storage Val smoothly slipped into his pouch, and seconds later, silence as a pock-marked, hard-featured face with blazing red eyes so fierce they seemed to glow suddenly filled the screen.

  Unless Val missed his guess, he was gazing for the first time at Highlord Kentric himself. The High Council’s chosen. Caligula’s chosen.

  His greatest foe.

  The massive craggy face broke into a cruel smile, savoring the scene before him. “How does it feel, whores of Calvar Province? Your father thought you would one day consort with Phoebe’s aristocracy. How sweet it will be to share with him how very far you have fallen as he screams endlessly in the pain vat I constructed just for him.”

  Kentric’s smile grew as the three girls crumpled and sobbed. He turned to the flesh peddler. “You did well, Phelp. Calvar’s whores now belong to a Terran, of all things. Forced to kneel before a monkey. Perfect!”

  Phelp performed a sweeping bow, his reflective shades staying firmly in place. “It is my exquisite pleasure to serve, Your Eminence.”

  Kentric smirked. “Yes, it is.” He turned to Val, measuring him with his gaze before giving the tiniest of nods. “You must have come far in this game you Terrans play to earn credits sufficient to purchase three fallen nobles, now your slaves in all things.”

  Val dipped his head. “I have a knack for finding the odd artifact. I’m told many of us do.”

  Kentric frowned. “Sniffing out arcane relics is a useful trait. Yet you do not have the look of a treasure hunter. Tell me, boy, have you ever tested yourself in the crucible of combat?”

  Val flashed a cold smile. “Perhaps I have, a time or two.”

  Kentric gave a considering nod. “Good. I can use Terrans gifted in the killing arts. Has Phelp told you who I am?”

  Val nodded. “The favored of the High Council. Caligula’s chosen. The man who would claim the throne of Jordia and crush all other contenders under his feet.”

  Kentric raised an eyebrow as Phelp paled. “I told him nothing of Caligula, I swear it!”

  Kentric gave a slow nod. “You are correct, Terran. I am the chosen heir of Jordia. My forces outnumber every other player on the board, and every contender who dares to cross me will be ground to dust!”

  Val felt a sudden chill, sensing the terrible power radiating from the man as Kentric's gaze crawled over his form.

  It was all Val could do not to slip completely into the shadows with frantic haste. His mind alone he hid in the gloom of his resolve. Certainly there was no way that Kentric, however powerful, could possibly project Psions through a screen, no matter what odd energies powered it.

  Even so, Val was exquisitely cautious. He kept his eyes on the man’s cruel sneer, only peripherally sensing the hot potency of Kentric’s stare.

  The would-be Overlord gave a considering nod. “It is good that you dare not meet my gaze. It is good that you know your place.” Cold lips wormed into a cruel smile. “I will make you an offer, Terran. Come work for me. I will allow you to fight under my banner and bask in the glory of countless kills.” He sneered at the trembling girls too terrified even to meet the gaze of their abuser, for all that he was no doubt countless miles away. “If you seek the exquisite rapture of breaking a noblewoman’s pride, the prizes before you are only the beginning, Terran. Fight under my banner, and countless women will quake before your gaze!”

  The sudden tension was palpable. Kentric expected Val to jump at his offer. It was all Val could do just to bow at the waist, clenched fists carefully out of sight.

  “Your offer is a prize any player embracing the Battlelord cla
ss would kill for,” he said at last. “But if you’re willing to offer so much to just one Terran player with a knack for bloodshed, how much would you offer if I could bring you a dozen such players?”

  Kentric’s jaded eyes widened. A bemused smile crawled across his features. “A monkey that can actually think. I am impressed, Terran, and pleased. Your tribes do possess odd means of communication, don’t they? And I have found it extremely… taxing, conveying my message beyond a chosen few.” He turned, glaring at Phelp. “How much did you charge him for each of his slaves?”

  Phelp swallowed. “I… he accepted the opening bid of two hundred thousand, sir.”

  Kentric looked pleased. “Excellent. You will pay this Terran an equal amount, for each of his kind he can bring under our banner. If they should prove incompetent, kill them. Should they prove proficient with mecha, small arms, or spells, you will offer them double standard rates, once they are psionically oathbonded.”

  Phelp blinked. “But the accords with Caesar, only Dominion Naval Command...”

  “Are effortlessly bypassed if a Terran does the recruiting!” Kentric roared.

  Phelp shook, crumpling into a bow. “As you command, my master.”

  Kentric flashed a pleased smile, feeding on Phelp’s fear. He turned his gaze to Val, who carefully bowed before their eyes could lock.

  “Two hundred thousand per Terran recruited, should they prove competent. You now have the opportunity to savor prestige and power beyond your wildest dreams, should you add value to my forces. But do not waste my time with fools, monkey. Are we clear?”

  Val nodded. “Your offer is more than fair. But you must understand, many of us playing this game have no idea of the true stakes. Not everyone realizes how potent you are, the inevitability of your rule." Val strove for absolute calm, knowing everything hinged on his next words. "My people believe in the power of numbers. They have to know exact amounts if I am to have any hope of recruiting them. How many mecha fight under your banner? How many troops? What arcane resources do you have? Most importantly, where are our forces positioned? My Terran compatriots might want to be stationed close to their home bases, and some, of course, will savor being placed in the front lines of your largest contingent. The more I can share with them, the more likely it is that my friends will eagerly flock to your banner.”

  Test of skills engaged! Shadowmind versus Pierce the Veil. Finesse check made! Your foe doesn’t realize how deeply you hide in plain sight. But if he’s this perceptive through a hyperion link, imagine what he could do to you in person!

  Kentric’s hot gaze seemed to burn through the monitor. Eyeing Val for long moments before giving the tiniest of nods, pausing only a minute to gesture to a servant behind him, and even at that angle, Val could sense the raw fear radiating from the servant’s gaze, hurrying off at a sprint.

  Kentric turned to face his monitor once more. "Very well, boy. You may tell your Terran counterparts that I have a full hundred top-tier battle-mechs fighting under my banner! Troops? Over a hundred thousand soldiers wield weapons at my command, nearly half of them mercenaries imported from the farthest reaches of our sector! Your friends need not worry about placement. My forces will sweep across this continent, and should you apes perform well, you will be given the right to move up the ranks, depending on your tactics and kill count. Perhaps you shall even earn the honor of leading those battalions, claiming the first cut of the spoils and the choicest nubiles for your harems! And should any of your friends be skilled at either magic or assassination… they will find the rewards to be rich indeed.”

  “Impressive,” Val said. “I have no doubt your power will excite a number of my acquaintances. But there is always the flip side to consider, no? Your power is undeniable. But what about the power of our enemies? What comprises our most significant obstacle? The more we know now, the sooner we can devise strategies to crush them.”

  Kentric gazed at something out of the monitor’s periphery, giving a single nod before turning back to Val. “A monkey who thinks. Excellent. You may tell your cohorts no individual foe holds more than the tiniest fraction of our forces. Even those who declared the red now know to fear me, and will soon fight for the honor of seeing who I will allow to live and serve me in council, and who will serve me in other ways.” A coldly smiling Kentric then lifted up a jug-sized vat filled with bubbling liquid a vile shade of yellow, within which bobbed a single head gazing out at the world with madly blinking golden eyes, mouth opening and closing in silent screams.

  The girls beside Val crumpled to the ground, wailing and sobbing inconsolably.

  Kentric's vicious smile grew. "And now you understand, Terran. Wealth and glory await you, and every worthy recruit you bring will see you ever closer to nobility, a title no Terran monkey could otherwise dream of holding! But should you even think to betray me... your head will join Highlord Calvar's in eternal agony." With those words, the signal was cut. The glass tube monitor was now inert, their private room filled with the girls’ sobs.

  “Well, that was your new boss, kid,” Phelp said, flashing a brilliant smile. “You ready to make some credits?”

  32

  Val’s gaze took in the three broken girls still sobbing for the horror they had been forced to witness, then focused upon the man who had acted as their pimp, selling them to Val as if they were no more than meat.

  He took a deep breath, fighting for control, a sniper’s discipline coming to the fore.

  Phelp gave him an odd look, smile turning into a grimace, hand slowly reaching for what was no doubt a holdout blaster in the small of his back. “You’re looking a bit intense, son. I thought you were some rich lord’s brat, but now I see you’re a hell of a lot more than that. Old Kentric saw that straight away, but that’s why he’s our future Overlord, and I’m just a guy running errands. You gotta port back to your home world or something? Need me to give you some space? Just say the word.”

  Val forced a smile. “Just thinking of all the money to be made.”

  Phelp immediately relaxed, turning his gesture to a shoulder roll. “Sure, kid. Sure.”

  “Thing is, Phelp, I got no problem with making 200,000 per head, bringing you the most elite Terran players that I can. But that doesn’t mean anything if I can’t give them solid numbers. Your boss mentioned double normal rate. That’s great. But what the hell is normal rate?”

  The flesh peddler chuckled. “Normal rate is what makes dreams come true, boy, and your friends will make double! You can tell your adventuring friends good with a blaster that they’ll make 50,000 a year with a 30,000 sign-on bonus, and an extra 50,000, once our man takes the throne! Mech pilots are worth their weight in gold. They’ll get 100,000 a year, a 100,000 sign-on bonus, and all of it doubled the second we achieve victory! They don’t even need their own battle-mech. The council’s arranged it so any and all mecha coming in system are immediately shunted to our lord, all other contracts and arrangements be damned.

  “And you can bet Overlord Kentric will keep your friends on for years to come. A life of ease, a harem of their own, and everyone will treat them with respect. And if you can actually get adventurers trained in magic? They’ll make at least as much as a mech pilot, maybe a hell of a lot more, depending on what they can do. If nothing else, they can go behind enemy lines and short out a crap-load of blasters and tech before calling out parachute and disappearing, or whatever the hell it is that they do.”

  Phelp flashed another thousand-megawatt smile, handing Val a card. “There, my man. You got my signal. Hyperion network gates aren’t cheap for personal calls, but if it’s you, I’ll pick up the cost at my end. Any H center will see you square. You get any bright-eyed boys or girls who want to play for the winning team? You call me, and the bounty is yours once they show their stuff. After our chat, just bring them to that address. Any cabby can find it, but I’m only there noon to midday, unless we make arrangements otherwise. Sound smooth?”

  Val nodded. “Smooth as silk.” />
  Phelp chuckled. “That’s what I’m talking about. Smooth as silk.” He smiled coldly at the girls. “The center has a number of rooms upstairs, perfect for young bucks looking to try out wares they can only purchase here. Hell, it’s set up just like a hotel. Just head on upstairs and pay for a room and they’ll take care of everything. Room service, extra restraints or hookers, drugs, or whatever else you might need. Sky’s the limit, here. Hell, they even have a theater! Costs a pretty penny to run, but you can rent it for private use if you got the cash for it. Now you relax, enjoy your purchases, and contact me the moment you’ve got our first recruit. We’ll celebrate!”

  With a final wave, Kentric’s henchman darted out of the hyperion booth, Val’s mind deep enough in shadow he could feel the man and his silent bodyguard quickly making their way back to the busy main chamber.

  Val turned to the three girls gazing at him with looks of anxious dread, no less beautiful for their reddened eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

  The fiery-haired girl swallowed, comforting her sisters, gazing up at him. “So what happens now?”

  The petite blond-haired girl broke into sobs. “Please don’t hurt us, please...” Her ebony-haired sister quickly took her in her arms, soothing her like a child as she sobbed inconsolably.

  The brilliant redhead rose, arching her back, and Val couldn’t help noticing how exquisitely she was put together; luscious hips and magnificent breasts looked ready to burst out of tight silken fabrics as she gracefully came to her feet. Her smooth naked belly was free of silken wraps, jewels lining her navel sparkling just like her fiery mane of luxurious curls that didn’t quite hide the shiny chrome of ports drilled into her skull. Val’s eyes widened and he quickly glanced away, suddenly ashamed of how fiercely he hungered for this strikingly beautiful girl, so luscious and vulnerable before him.

  His unexpected acquisition was suddenly silent, not even moving until he turned to face her once more. Soft, husky words caressed his ears. “It’s time we faced facts. We’re yours now, master. I can only hope that you will be kind. And I pray, before anything else, that you will listen to what I say. May I speak on, my master?”