by Elle E. Ire
Vick and I exchange a shocked glance, her eyebrows almost reaching the top of her forehead. I read her pleasure in the turquoise glow that surrounds her. Acceptance, both for her and VC1—something she’s sought for far too long.
“I would be… happy… to instruct you,” VC1 responds from both speakers, earning even more surprise from the rest of us. Sounds like Vick isn’t the only one who craves being a complete part of the team.
Alex drops into a chair in front of the vidcom, happier than an overworked empath in a null zone. The screen activates, filling with scrolling symbols no one else in the room can follow, so we don’t try. Instead, I take my own luggage—mundane, commercial gear made for the masses (and business assistants) and start for the larger bedroom Vick and I will share to change for the evening’s “festivities.”
“Oh,” Alex calls, eyes never leaving the screen, “will it be all right if I stay put tonight, then? Or will you need me at dinner?”
Vick considers for a moment. “Should be fine,” she says at last. “We’ll have Lyle. And it wouldn’t be unusual to rotate the two of you so one is always well-rested. Just make sure you actually get some rest and don’t stare at the vidcom all night.”
“No worries!” Alex waves a hand over his shoulder, then leans in toward the display.
I shake my head. He won’t be sleeping anytime soon. I hope we won’t require any backup.
Chapter 9: Vick—Showtime
I am on.
A CHIME sounds through the mining installation, followed by an announcement that the reception is to begin in fifteen standard minutes. All of us except for Alex make final preparations and head for the door. Alex is so engrossed in whatever VC1 is showing him that he doesn’t even notice us getting ready. Before opening the suite door, I hand Lyle and Kelly a couple of the Storm’s antitox tabs, designed to counter the effects of all alcoholic beverages and most narcotics. They chew the tablets, faces scrunching up at the sour taste. I don’t bother. VC1 is my antitox, far more efficient at monitoring my chemical makeup, sensitive to a wider variety of substances, and faster than any deterrent drug.
We step into the exterior tunnel, where Petala and a guard we haven’t met wait to escort us. Petala inclines her head toward the suite’s closing door. “Where’s the cute one? Alex, isn’t it?”
Guess Alex’s smile and wave really did impress her. Lyle growls softly beside me. I hope his jealousy won’t be an issue going forward. To Petala I say, “He’s taking a sleep-shift. He had piloting duty, and it was a long flight.”
Petala doesn’t even blink at that explanation. She turns and leads the way, the other guard, male, taking up the rear position behind my team. I’m not thrilled with the formation. I’d much rather have Lyle there, but I’m not in charge and need to get used to it.
Lyle does fall back in step beside the guy so they’re both covering our six. They strike up a friendly bitch session I wouldn’t be able to hear without my enhancements about unreasonable hours, demanding bosses, and inadequate pay, all designed on Lyle’s part to build camaraderie between them. I internally nod my approval. Our Undercover Ops division might not meet my moral/ethical standards, but their training is impressive. Lyle becoming “friends” with Omar, whose name I’ve also picked up from their chat, means Omar is less likely to shoot at him without asking questions first when the mission shit goes down.
The farther we walk, the more crowded the tunnel becomes, other buying parties leaving their own guest quarters with additional local security as escorts. The mood is jovial, lots of friendly chatter and eager anticipation for the festivities. Soon we’re packed wall to wall, and I focus my attention on taking deep breaths and not succumbing to the lingering claustrophobia.
Kelly pulls off the datapad clipped to her belt and scrolls while she walks, her high heels click-clacking on the stone floor. With the added height, she’s almost as tall as I am, the stilettos accentuating her shapely calves and thighs. I clear my throat and look away, glad the dim light hides my sudden blush.
“They’ve messaged over the auction schedule of events,” Kelly says, a soft chuckle in her voice.
Damn, she caught me checking her out. But hey, it’s in character. And honest.
“Dinner reception tonight, along with an unveiling of some new product they’re pushing. There’ll also be a ‘meet and greet’ with some of the prospective merchandise during the meal.”
I can hear her distaste, but anyone who didn’t know her well wouldn’t detect it. Also, I’m not fooled. She’s reciting the timetable to distract me, but it is at least minimally effective.
“Wait,” I say, making eye contact while we continue walking. “That ‘product’ was mentioned earlier, but I thought they meant the slaves. Is there something else?”
Petala glances over her shoulder. “Mr. Jacks dabbles in a few other pleasure-centered areas: aphrodisiacs, sex toys and accoutrements, even lingerie.” She focuses on Kelly, studying her curves almost as intently as I was. “You’d look great in some of his people’s designs.”
“Thanks!” Kelly says, bright smile in place. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
I suppress a growl of my own. Guilt seeps in. She wouldn’t be here except for me. And while I know she’s an adult and can make her own decisions, I still wonder every day whether it’s her love for me keeping her by my side or the bond that ties us together.
We reach an archway leading into a much larger chamber, and for a moment I fear another raft ride/dragon sightseeing tour, but when we make it through the crowd, it’s an ordinary enough cavern, wide and spacious and laid out for a banquet. Long, narrow tables crisscross the expansive space with enough seating for more than a hundred, all facing a stage on the far side. Scantily clad slave servants come and go via one of a number of narrower tunnels. I’m guessing those lead to kitchens and beverage prep areas. The slaves slip between the tables, delivering platters of food and drinks to those already seated. Their smiles are strained, and zeroing in with my exceptional vision, I note the heavy makeup hiding shadows around their eyes and numerous scrapes and bruises. Jacks has guards stationed at intervals along the walls and two flanking the stage, their expressions serious and focused, arms crossed over their chests, monitoring both the slaves and the buyers in equal measure.
A soft, citrusy-sweet scent wafts on the recycled air pumping in through shafts in the ceiling. It covers the musty odor of the caverns, but there’s something else….
VC1, what are they drugging us with?
It is a mild mixture of pheromones designed to turn humans’ thoughts to copulation. Nothing that cannot be overcome with knowledge and willpower. The antitox should take care of the others.
Turn humans’ thoughts to copulation? I parrot back at her. With a description like that, you should write love poetry on the side.
VC1 huffs and goes silent in my head.
Great. I’ve offended the AI.
Petala guides us to what appears to be a VIP table, right up front with the best view of the stage. “Your security can stand to the side, or if you prefer, he may sit with you, as may your assistant,” she informs me.
I give the other VIPs, seven men and one woman, a quick once-over. The woman has kept her male assistant taking notes at her side. She’s older than I am by at least twenty years, maybe more, dressed in a modest evening gown of black velvet that covers her from neck to ankle. Not a bad figure, but her age is showing in her eyes and face. Her graying blond hair is pulled back in a severe bun. There’s something vaguely familiar about her, like I know the face but it doesn’t go with the rest of her. Since she doesn’t even glance up at my arrival, I guess she doesn’t feel the same about me. Her assistant gives me a nod and goes back to his datapad. The men have no nearby entourage. They’re telling bawdy jokes, slapping each other’s backs, and clanking their glasses of ale in anticipation of the upcoming “show.” Nothing about them seems threatening.
I exchange a look with Lyle, tilting my head toward the n
earest wall of the cavern. He nods and retreats, taking up a stance beside one of the other guards where he can keep an eye on me and Kelly and the rest of the room.
“I’ll keep my assistant with me,” I tell Petala. Where I can watch out for her. Kelly’s looking a little glassy-eyed, her antitox tab not yet counteracting the pheromones.
Petala nods, pulling out seats for each of us in turn. I’m on the end of the table, which is perfect if I need to make any fast moves, with Kelly tucked between me and the other woman’s assistant. A couple of the men lean over to greet me down the line, raising their glasses in a welcoming toast before returning to their conversation.
Good. I’m not here to engage. I want this prelude over with so I can return to our suite and slip out to map the installation, find where the slaves are being housed, and hopefully get that information back to our operatives waiting in ships just outside scanner range so we can wipe this hellhole off the fucking universal map.
There’s a light tap at my shoulder. At first I think it’s Petala with some last-minute “dump you outside the shield and die” warnings, but when I turn, she’s gone, replaced by a very attractive redhead in a shimmering green miniskirt and bikini top barely covering her ample assets. “I’m Cate. I’ll be servicing… serving you tonight,” she says, a wink suggesting her verbal slip was anything but. “What can I get for you and your assistant?”
I study her further. Young. Very young. My stomach drops. She’s maybe seventeen, if that. Minimal makeup, no bruises or scrapes, not an ounce of fat on her, but not half-emaciated like some of those circulating through the rear of the cavern. The VIP guests have the most attractive of the merchandise waiting on them. “My assistant will have ice water. I’ll take whatever you have that’s expensive and goes down smooth,” I respond, lowering my voice to an in-character, sultry purr, the double entendre clear. Giving her a wink, I add, “Surprise me.”
Cate lowers her lips to my ear. “I’m hoping to do just that. Word among us is you’re a good owner. You treat your people well.” She tilts her head toward Kelly, tapping away on her datapad and smiling to herself, also in character.
Yes, that’s the persona Undercover Ops created for me. Hard-as-nails businesswoman, very particular about my purchases, but when it comes to my slaves, I may keep them, but I care. It’s supposed to be a carefully guarded soft spot, one we’ve “let slip” so the prisoners here won’t avoid me and my team if we’re engaged in trying to rescue them.
The reality is, there are no “good” slave owners. By definition, they are inhuman, lacking empathy, which, I guess, given my mechanical tendencies, should make me perfect for this role. The Fighting Storm probably considers themselves “good owners.” They feed, clothe, and house me, tend to my constant expensive medical needs, even pay me a salary, though most of that goes back to them to offset the costs of my implants.
But I can’t leave. I can’t choose. Legally, I can’t love. They would say I’m incapable of it.
Cate’s hand slips from my shoulder to brush the top of my right breast through the dinner jacket fabric, jarring me from my dark thoughts. “Choose me and I’ll make your fantasies come true.” Her breath tickles my neck. I suppress a shiver of pleasure, giving myself a mental kick.
Kelly already fulfills whatever fantasies I have.
Do something about the fucking pheromones, I tell VC1.
She chuckles in my head, but a moment later I feel more in control.
“Like I said. Surprise me.” I shift away, waving Cate off, and she gives a pretty little pout, then heads for the nearest access tunnel.
Kelly bumps my other shoulder. “Pricelist,” she says, passing her pad to me. “Cate’s in the upper sixth. Youth, virginity, and pleasure training are the top criteria here.”
I check out the numbers, an involuntary whistle escaping my lips. Her price is more than my entire team’s combined yearly salary. Meanwhile, Kelly is running her hands over my jacket, then slipping them underneath to my shirt front.
Undercover Ops selects my wardrobe these days. They think I wear this sort of thing well. I was wearing something like this the night I tried to propose, the same night I tried to kill myself before lightning did the job for me.
Kelly freezes midpetting, no doubt remembering the same things I am. I don’t need her to say it. I read it in her face. She eases her hands away.
“You’re getting high off what they’re sending through the air here,” I say to distract her. “I need you to stay with me.”
“I’m always with you,” she grumbles, but now she’s focused.
Cate reappears and sets a generous glass of amber liquid beside my plate while passing Kelly her ice water with her other hand. Another server, male and dressed in a pair of super-tight shorts with his chest bare, holds a tray of salads and soups, depositing one of each for all the VIP table members.
The lights go dimmer, spotlights activating on the stage before us, while the servants vanish into the shadows. The boisterous chatter and clinking of glassware hushes when Jacks himself parts more red velvet curtains and steps to center stage, every beam striking him from four different angles.
He’s shorter than I expected from our shuttle’s vidscreen interaction, but stocky and muscular, that facial scar turning his grin into something between roguish and grotesque. His good eye sparkles with pleasure—probably thinking of all the credits he’s going to make over the next few days.
If I have anything to say about it, he won’t keep even one.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” Jacks says, an unseen amplification system projecting his deep bass throughout the entire cavern, “welcome! Tonight, you are my guests, not my customers. Enjoy my hospitality. Preview the auction’s offerings both on and offstage.” He gestures to some of the waitstaff milling about. “You are, of course, welcome to make a preemptive purchase by depositing double the asking price through our automatic payment system, if someone catches your fancy. Remember, to ensure you get the one you most desire, you’ll need to take bold action.”
Several loud beeps sound in the echoing chamber, coming from the datapads now out and in front of almost every buyer present, or their assistants. On Kelly’s screen, a couple of the midlevel slaves’ names turn red, a line crossing them out and the word SOLD appearing beside them. The higher-end ones remain in the black. Bold action or not, the wealthier, more discerning guests don’t jump to spend thousands of credits.
“Excellent.” Jacks rubs his hands together. “Now, for you more indecisive types….”
The crowd chuckles in response. I swallow bile.
“Enjoy this presentation and demonstration of the most exquisite collection of human merchandise this side of the known universe. Allow me to present Saarah and Hodei.”
The lights go down. Jacks steps behind the curtain. Kelly’s hand finds my thigh beneath the table and clenches, though whether that’s yet another residual of amorousness or she’s expressing the tension we both feel, I can’t tell. The linen of my trousers prevents the channel of two-way emotion transference from opening completely.
On the stage, dark figures rush back and forth setting up props of some kind, then scatter out of sight. Low, sensual music plays over the sound system.
I fold my arms on the table and take a deep breath, schooling my expression into one of moderate interest, my unspoken message clear: work hard if you want to sell me something. Come on. Impress me.
On with the show.
Chapter 10: Kelly—Seduction
Vick is a professional.
I DIG my nails a little deeper into Vick’s thigh, conveying that this isn’t lust. It’s nerves. She glances sideways at me, lips tight, jaw muscles taut, eyes revealing nothing. But her hand falls over mine beneath the table, prying my fingers free and wrapping them in her own. She gives a little squeeze, sets my hand back in my own lap, and withdraws.
Someone reaches over my shoulder to remove my untouched soup bowl, now cooled, and shifts my salad plate from
the side to the center. I hear it scrape the base plate, but my eyes are focused on the stage and what inhumane display is about to take place upon it. To my right, the server named Cate takes up a position directly behind Vick while other attractive servants/slaves do the same behind the other VIPs, but not the assistants, myself and the small man on my left. I guess we don’t warrant that kind of attentiveness.
The spotlights come up and the audience lets out a cheer and applauds. Some of the less refined stomp their feet, whistle, or bang their glasses against the tables in a barbaric display, though most of the VIPs are fairly quiet. A naked woman appears at each end of the stage, one blond, fair-skinned, about my height and build, meaning above average breasts, narrow waist, wide hips. The other is deeply tanned, tall, muscular, with smaller breasts and long, straight, dark hair that reaches all the way down to tease by covering them, the deep pink nipples just peeking through. They’re both young, though not as young as Cate, but their eyes are aged, telling a story of haunted seriousness, a tad glazed like they’re more drugged than their audience.
Sweat beads on the tanned one’s upper lip and forehead. Our seats are so close I can see tremors rippling through those taut muscles, like she’s resisting whatever it is she’s about to do and losing that fight. I’ve seen Vick like this, struggling to overcome her brainwashing, fighting to turn down missions she is too exhausted or stressed to be taking on, and failing.
The blond’s trembling seems more born of fear than fight, and indeed when I let my walls down just a tad, I can see the deep purple hue of her fright surrounding her, though it’s mixed with a generous helping of lavender lust. It’s always seemed odd to me that two very different emotions would reveal themselves in such similar colors. I’ve never seen them together before. I wish I wasn’t seeing them now. Because the only reason I can come up with for such disparate feelings in the same person is drugs.
