Seduce Me in Dreams

by Jacquelyn Frank

  Gods, there had been such feeling!

  The conflict of arousal and the excruciating throbbing from her earlier punishments brought tears to her eyes. Did she cry from pain? Or was it the sudden deprivation of those intense, skilled lips that were shockingly soft and contrastingly voracious all at once? Was she already missing those calloused hands against her skin? Ravenna swam in a sea of confusion, the brutal replacement of reality rushing back into her as the dream faded to its realm of the semi-unreal. Her skin burned, yes, but it was the fire of torn and swelling flesh and not the smoldering of a man’s sensual caress.

  Ravenna had spent hours manipulating the guards with her powers and promises, but it had come to a crashing end when the shift had changed and their relief had found her sitting in state and decidedly unlashed. They had rectified the error before she or Kith could even speak to protest. Kith had screamed in rage as she was beaten first with a cane until she swelled, and then with a thin lash until she was covered in dozens of cuts that bled in rivers over her skin, soaking her clothes.

  In the dream, Bronse had not seen the half of it. What he had seen had been what her mind had represented to him, and somehow she had managed to make it seem less than what it truly had been. She could not have him acting rashly. She appreciated her ability to conceal the truth of her condition. Especially now that she was learning that beneath all his logic and reserve, Bronse was a man of deep passions. Awake once more, Ravenna knew that her condition was even worse than she had thought it was. Only Kith could tell her how awful the abuse had been, for only he had truly seen the whole of it. She had been given the occasional mercy of blacking out twice during the process.

  But at least she had not been molested again. That was very important to her. If she had let the earlier shift of guards continue without interruption, they would have incited one another into all manner of perversions. At least she had been able to skip over that torture, sparing Kith from suffering any more of it. For all his martial arts training, for all his gruff bluster, he would always be an empath and therefore would always be truly sensitive. He would never have been able to bear watching her be defiled. He would never have survived it without permanent damage to his soul and with his psyche unscathed. As it was, she worried that the experience of watching her torture had done him a great harm already. One could never be sure. Psionics were very precarious personalities sometimes.

  Ravenna wiped the sweat from her brow, then pressed her burning face into the rolled rag that served as a pillow. The skin on her back was stiff with dried blood, and the wounds, she could feel, were weeping in places. Was she still bleeding? She did not think so, she realized with a growing sense of dread. If it was not blood, then it was likely to be something far worse.

  A chill shivered sickly through her, reinforcing her fears.

  Justice had no idea what had crawled up the commander’s ass, but she was just this side of committing a major infraction against a senior officer. Commander Chapel had been in a raring nasty mood for the past twenty-four hours, and there wasn’t a single crew member who wasn’t feeling the backass side of it. Even the medic was making himself mighty scarce after daring to suggest that the commander might need something to relieve his tension. Needless to say, the suggestion wasn’t well received.

  Justice glared over her shoulder at the one and only member of the crew who would survive telling the commander to kindly remove said bug from said ass. Lasher cocked a brow at her in response and calmly stared her down.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” she grumbled. “He isn’t chewing nails and spitting them out at you.”

  Lasher was well aware that Bronse was in a bad mood. Frankly, as far as Masin was concerned, Chapel had as much a right as anyone else to have a decent funk now and then. Granted, the timing was poor and the cause was questionable, but Bronse was just venting. Lasher knew he would steam down after a while. Hopefully it would be before he alienated the entire crew.

  Lasher finished studying his schematics for the mission. He had done so dozens of times, and now he felt ready to present the mission parameters to the crew when they met for the midday meal. They would be touching down in nineteen hours. That gave them time for chart review, mission review, reports, rack time, and gear-up.

  Lasher logged off his CompuVid and stood up. He trekked back to Medbay, and the door hissed open easily at his approach. The pneumatics of the door actually were drowned out by the compressors that misted the air with disinfectant every time someone passed through the portal. On large flight ships and on space stations, a laser shower was used instead, more efficiently zapping away all surface bacteria from visitors and doing so without their notice. Lasher brushed a hand back through his lightly dampened hair. The mist would evaporate in a few seconds.

  “Jet?”

  “Yeah?”

  Jet popped up from behind one of the diagnostic palettes, a laser wrench in one hand and a calibrator in the other. The medic was obviously tweaking his equipment in anticipation of any possible casualties.

  “I need a favor.”

  “A sedative for Commander Chapel?” Jet asked hopefully.

  “Yeah. Right. When Hepraps fly.”

  Jet sighed with clear consternation. “It would last only five hours. Plenty of time to relax and refocus. He needs to focus, you know.”

  “I know. But where would you hide on a ship only so big after those five hours were up, Jet?” Lasher sighed softly. “I’ll talk to him about this after midday. Listen, I need a specialized med kit.”

  “Specialized?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you exactly what I want and you tell me exactly how to use it. Okay?”

  “Something I should know about?” Jet asked warily. He might be a medic, but Jet was as much IM soldier as the rest of them. Medics always stayed with the ship. They never went directly into the field. The ETF crew members had plenty of basic first-aid training to get them back to the ship. There was no need for a medic until after they reached extraction.

  “Negative. Let’s just call it a gut instinct, okay? C’mon, jack me up.”

  Jet gave him a crooked grin. “Come into my laboratory …”

  Bronse sat in the mess hall working up a report while he waited for the rest of the crew to arrive for midday meal. He was tired, and he rubbed at his forehead and temples where a bitch of a headache was throbbing rhythmically. Focusing on the VidPad was no easy trick. Focusing on writing a mission report for a mission he was certain was bogus was even harder.

  With a disgusted grunt, he tossed the VidPad on the table and set both hands to work at massaging his temples. How could he concentrate on anything? How could he work calmly through the day when every minute meant endless possibilities of torture for an exquisite, helpless woman? And for a brother she clearly was devoted to. When he thought of all the things they could do to her between that moment and the undefined moment when he would finally reach her side, he was blinded by rage and a sensation of angst that he had never known in all his life.

  Why had he spent precious time manhandling her? Kissing her and slaking his lust on her when he could have been advising her on ways to avoid torture? On ways to counteract it? Tricks and methods of foiling a torturer’s intents could always be learned and used. He should have been telling her those things! He should have held on to her and comforted her.

  Why did he always push her away by excusing his behavior and feelings as only part of a dream? Chasing her away. Chasing himself away. He was himself in those dreams, yet somehow better than himself. Or was it the woman? By all that was cursed and holy, Bronse wanted the answers! What was worse, he could not turn to a single one of his crewmates to help him sort out this tangle of emotions, actions, and reactions. Lasher was already looking at him like he’d gone crazy, and Bronse suspected that Masin was hunting for a reason to relieve him of his command. Justice was a woman and would make for a potentially good perspective; however, Justice had the tact of a rhinoceros and couldn’t keep a conf
idence for her life. Ender. Well, Ender was Ender. He’d sooner blow something to bits than talk about it. He wasn’t going near the hyperspray-happy medic. He wished Trick was there, oddly enough. The kid was trustworthy with secrets and definitely knew about the nuances of women.

  Lasher sauntered into the mess hall and threw himself into a chair with his own brand of laid-back authority. He slid a large CompuVid onto the table, along with a holographic imager and enough handheld VidPads for everyone to use during the briefing. Then he slowly, purposely, turned to look Bronse Chapel dead in his periwinkle eyes. “So what happened? Someone been pissing in your rations for the past twenty-four hours, or what?”

  “Leave it go, Lasher,” Chapel warned, pressing hard against his temples.

  “No can do, sir. Not unless I want a mutiny before we hit planetside. You’re alienating the very people you need in order to stay alive, Bronse. The very people who also need you in order to survive.”

  “Masin …” Bronse sighed.

  “The meeting doesn’t start for another ten minutes, Bronse. Go see Jet. Get rid of the headache at least. You’ve had it for over twelve hours already.”

  “I’m just a little—”

  “Tense. And I’m this close …”—he held up a frighteningly tiny representation between his two fingers—“to ordering you to take a relaxant for five hours and a soma-induced nap in Medbay. And please don’t tell me I wouldn’t dare when you know damn well I would. Everyone is wired tight and on the very edge of their last nerves with this mission. It’s a bad fucking time for you to be shredding everyone’s confidence and stability. Now, I hope that your stress and that headache are all that’s wrong with you, Commander, because I’m not letting one soldier in this unit trot out on a death mission when their C.O. has his head up his ass. You copy?”

  Bronse let only a single heartbeat pass. “I copy. And you’re right. I’ll be back after Medbay. Be best to review plans without a headache in the way. And I think I’ll do the soma-induced nap as well after the briefing.” He exhaled a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain everything to you. I wish I could. I just think it wouldn’t do you any more good than it’s been doing me. We’ll be seeing the plot unfold soon enough, right?”

  “That’s the plan,” Lasher agreed, his tone grave but accepting. “Bronse, I don’t mean to—”

  “To what? To be right? Forget it, partner.” He gripped his second’s shoulder firmly before rising to his feet. “As you’re fond of reminding me, we have known each other too long to worry about it.”

  Lasher gave him a half smile, his roughly handsome features lighting up with his amusement. “Does that mean I can—?”

  “Don’t push your luck” came the sharp retort as Bronse exited the mess.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later and feeling a damn sight better, Bronse reentered the mess to join his crew.

  “First Actives,” he greeted, not realizing he sounded almost jovial compared to his recent tones and behaviors. He did become aware of it as silence fell over them, and he looked at them to see them all frozen like a snapshot in their surprise.

  “Commander,” Lasher greeted in a pointed prompt, his lips twitching with humor.

  “Commander,” Ender and Justice echoed in unison.

  “Okay, Lasher. How about we skip the dinner date and cut right to the foreplay?” Bronse said in a prompt of his own, slinging himself into a chair and grabbing a piece of fruit.

  “Copy that,” Lasher agreed, grinning when Justice snorted out a laugh. He reached out to place the holographic generator in the center of the table, and they each drew a VidPad close for their notes. “Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I give you Project Pooch-Screw.” He pressed a button and with a brilliant flicker a full-dimensional topographical map of a section of the Grinpar Desert burst to life. In full color, with black sand and significant rock formations in graphic detail, the section began to pivot on its central point, turning slowly so each soldier could get a good look at all perspectives of the area.

  “All right, pay attention, kiddies,” Lasher said. “First, we’re going to take a look at the mission as it was handed to us by our friend at command. Insertion, point A. We land fifteen miles out from target range at the first hour of the next day, under cover of dark and, need I add, freezing-ass cold. From landing point we are to march along this line for fifteen miles until we reach point B—our goal point.”

  “My, that’s a very nice straight line,” Justice complimented him.

  “Why, thank you,” Lasher rejoined, smiling at her crookedly. “I thought you might like it. But wait, it gets better.” He magnified and altered the map to draw in on their goal point—a ramshackle-looking building made of stone and mortar, with slabs of metal protruding from the foundation, evidently to reinforce it. The roof was bolted-down rusted metal plates—deck plates that had been scavenged, by the look of them.

  “Hmm. A building,” Ender said softly. “A lone building in a desert prone to the most torrential and repetitive natural disaster known to man.”

  “Aww, c’mon. It’s practically on the wilderness border. How many sand hurricanes could they possibly get?” Lasher asked leadingly.

  “Okay, I say we accept that,” Justice piped up. “Location, location, location!” She spun her spoon around in the air with aplomb before setting it back in her pudding.

  “So we agree to accept it as normal for a lone building to stand on the borders of the two most volatile land factions, the Nomaads and the western barbarians. Now, as luck would have it,” Lasher went on, his sarcasm sparkling merrily in his tone as the structure began to pivot on the same central point as the other maps moved, “some very, very bad men and women have decided to camp out in and around this structure.”

  Justice and Ender leaned together to boo and hiss softly.

  “Now, our heroes … that’s us,” Lasher clarified as a simulation of the team lit up in position on command. Justice and Ender added appropriate cheers and applause, making Bronse chuckle in spite of his attempt to remain in neutral command. “We’re supposed to approach the building, surround it in a wide perimeter, and infiltrate with silent but … and might I say I love this part … not deadly force, and liberate a kidnapped political figure from our naughty bad guys. He’s being held in the rear section of the building somewhere around here.”

  “Okay, wait. The orders actually said to extract the mark without killing the hostiles?” Justice asked.

  “Death of hostiles is to be an absolute last resort. Only if absolutely necessary,” Lasher qualified clearly.

  “And did HQ happen to suggest how we’re supposed to pull that particular rabbit out of our asses, Lieutenant Commander?” Bronse asked genially.

  “Subdue with nonlethal tactics. Silent hand-to-hand, drugs, abduction—whatever works that’s nonfatal.”

  “And who’s the mark?” Ender asked.

  “Han Abjurdoon, a high king—a Shiasha—of a powerful Nomaadic tribe from the Gurdon Nomaad sector, which as you know is friendly to peace efforts being made by IM and other international peacemakers.”

  “Nice.” Bronse exhaled long and slow. “You see the problem here?” he asked his junior officers.

  “You mean other than the fact that I don’t get to kill anyone?” Ender asked dryly.

  “I see that it makes no sense to keep a valuable ransom figure like a Gurdon Shiasha in such an exposed and—might I add—hostile locale,” Justice interjected.

  “That’s not the problem. Logical or not,” Lasher corrected her, “the problem is that if this is a fake—a setup meant to thrash us all and see to Commander Chapel’s assassination—we can go in and kill whatever we want to, except a few key people to use as humanoid databases. Information gathering will be crucial in that case. But,” he said, putting heavy emphasis on the conjunction, “what if there really is a Shiasha sitting trussed up in the back room of this dangerous and highly unlikely building on the borders? What if t
his isn’t an attempt on the commander and is a legitimate mission operation that just happens to be signed by a scum of the universe admiral with ulterior motives that have nothing to do with this?”

  “In spite of it taking place on the same planet and in the same desert as the last assassination attempt?” Justice asked archly.

  “In spite of that,” said Lasher. “The problem is, we can’t risk making the assumption. We can’t just stomp in there assuming something that could get an important innocent killed.”

  “No doubt it was planned this way for that reason,” Ender noted.

  “No doubt.” Lasher nodded his agreement. “And so, let’s look at Project Pooch-Screw, the director’s cut.” There were no cheers or laughter for the quip. Everyone was leaning forward at full attention now, knowing that this was when they had to focus. “My belief is that if this is another attempt to kill Bronse, they would want to make a mark of him somewhere in here—the fifteen-mile hike between insertion and target.”

  “They would have to. If any of us made it to target and found out it was a hoax, then got back to the IM alive, it could be a bad thing for he-who-signed-the-orders. If we all die, it was simply an honest mission gone awry,” Justice said smartly.

  “Bingo,” Lasher agreed. “Though I’m sure they’ll have plenty of armed, forewarned, and alert guards to see that that doesn’t happen. We’re ETF, after all. We’re supposed to survive the unsurvivable. There are two ways I see this happening. They are either going to try to tank us all, or they are going to try to separate the commander from us and take him down separately.”

  “Makes no sense to do that. All they have to do is mine the route or the building and click … poosh!” Ender imitated the remote detonation with both sound and hand gestures. “Easier to take us all out.”

  “I agree,” Lasher said, casting a quick glance at Bronse. Bronse knew he had made the alternative suggestion only because of the suspicions that Bronse had related to him earlier about them being separated. “So here’s my version of the mission. We insert here, two hours earlier, at the twenty-sixth hour, and eight miles west of the original point, landing in this cover of low brush and scrub on the wilderness side of the border. Then we pull what now becomes a twelve-mile march parallel to the original, but we do it along this shale outcropping and the cover of the scrub, staying on the wilderness side the entire time. Besides moving through the hot zone earlier than expected, it will also give us two extra hours to jog across the border and shed the remaining eight miles to the building, approaching from the east rather than the south. It adds five miles onto the whole mission design, but I don’t see much choice. The new approach should circumvent any ambushes.”