Chapter I: The Beginning

"Can somebody turn that damn thing off?" Screamed Victoria Smith leaning over a young corporal who had been wounded by a hull breach on deck 6. His right arm was in essence gone, leaving only a bloody stump behind. He also had several wounds to the chest. The only think she could really do was stop the bleeding and give him something for the pain. However, these tasks did not require the chief medical officer, so she signaled over Doctor Briggs and went to her next patient. She thought to reprimand the nurses for not doing better triage, but thought better of if. In the mind numbing chaos the nursing staff had their hands full. The siren signaling the attack to the entire ship sounded again adding to her already splitting headache.

The Salvation rocked as it was barraged by another series of hits from the Zarconian battle cruisers outside. The sirens continued their useless cries. Victoria felt nauseous. Funny, if anyone should have developed a good pair of "space legs" it should have been her.

Born in space on board the Invincible, she did not leave the great ship until she was fourteen years old. Never had she beheld the great blue oceans of Terra where her mother had played as a child. Never had she lay eyes on the great cities that her father grew up in. Never had she known the greed and pride that led to Terra’s ultimate downfall. Aron had always been her home, and medicine was her life.

Her mother was a doctor, as her father had been before her. Now Victoria Smith was chief medical officer of the Salvation, a small Alliance science vessel. At 22 she was the youngest person ever to hold that position on an Alliance ship. Never mind that the Alliance's resources were stretched perilously thin, because of the war. Forget that Alliance Medical was desperate to find doctors to fill the many available positions on Alliance ships. Dismiss the rumors that her appointment had had more to do with her parentage than her actual medical expertise or skill. Ignore the whispers that she would never have gotten the position had her mother not been the niece of the Aronian King. Do not think about these things. Think only about medicine, about the job you have to do.

Strange, she knew she was a competent doctor. She was an exceptional surgeon, but she still felt a need to constantly prove herself. Sometimes she thought that she should have waited to enroll in medical school. Becoming a doctor would have been much simpler for her, had she been older. Patient trust would have come so much easier had she not been a child of 17. Even now, after having practiced for five years she still sometimes felt inadequate. She could not really imagine herself having waited. She had to admit that to herself. She loved medicine too much for that. Watching and helping her mother as a girl, she could not wait to plunge into this world herself.

To so extent she had felt alone and apart from people her own age her entire life. Her parents had realized she was a gifted child early on. She understood complex problems too quickly for a child so young. She had already begun medical school under the tutelage of Doctor Ingra LiseHansen, the Invincible’s chief medical officer, by the time the majestic vessel had reached Aron. During this time, she had been kept apart from other children, even her twin brother Victor who did not share her "gift." Victoria had never had any real friends until she met Torana Arison. She had never met anyone who understood so well how someone could be so lonely in the constant glow of so many faces.

It was the fall of her fifteenth year. Her mother had just enrolled her in the Flosaty Academy for young ladies, believing she needed an Aronian education in order to compete in their New World. Mrs. Rockford, her homeroom teacher, took an immediate dislike to her. Mrs. Rockford it seemed took an immediate dislike to all pretty young immigrants or as she called them "out-worlders." Victoria was constantly kept after school for one meaningless transgression or another. To this day she was still an expert screen cleaner and filling clerk. She also had an irrational phobia of repeating sentences. She was graded more harshly that her Aronian classmates. Her parents believed that she was simply having trouble adjusting to her new classroom environment. She had never experienced the likes of it on the Invincible. She had been the star pupil. She had been the only pupil. She could still remember her futile attempts to explain how much she loathed that school to her mother. Trying to make her understand how Mrs. Rockford loved to humiliate her in front of the entire classroom. Rumor had it that Mrs. Rockford, or Stone Britches as the student body called her, actually encouraged school bullies to pray on Terranian students. Encourage or not, she did nothing to deter bigotry in her Aronian students. Her mother shook her head, and told her that she just needed some time to adjust to her new surroundings.

Two months after her arrival at the Academy the tense situation finally exploded. Vicky could still remember it, as clearly as what she had for lunch. A test in aero-spatial physics. Victoria was sure she was doing well. She turned her head to look at the clock hanging high over the door. Strange how schools always place the clocks near the doors of the classrooms, as if to taunt the students. Twenty more minutes before you can escape. Twenty minutes was plenty of time to complete the two remaining questions. Suddenly, the answer sheet stripped from her desk, followed by the sound of paper being ripped apart. The Academy was one of the few places on Aron still using paper, something about keeping a proud tradition alive. Being reared on board a ship she had never seen a paper book until the Aronian landing and had no emotional attachment to them. Victoria had never understood the pride in cutting down trees, to produce paper that could well have been replaced by electronic means, but Victoria never understood many things about the Academy. The thing she found the most incomprehensible was that Mrs. Rockford had managed to be employed there for twenty years.

"I will not abide cheating in this class, Miss Smith. That will be a zero," had sneered Mrs. Rockford a self-satisfied grin on her face.

"But, I didn’t cheat." Vicky had insisted. She laughed now at the thought of how that large overbearing woman in her dark suits intimidated had her.

"Liar, I saw you looking at your neighbor's sheet. I’ve always believed you were a little cheater. Now I can finally do something about it. Out of this class." The old bat had actually been turning blue. Victoria would have laughed had the situation not seemed so dire to her inexperienced eyes. Pointing her chubby finger towards the door she had grabbed Victoria by the forearm and lifted her clear out of her seat.

"Don’t touch me." Victoria had said trying unsuccessfully to pull away from the older woman steel grip. "And why would I cheat?" she added.

"Because, out-worlder, your kind can’t get through life any other way. You are all that way. You ruined your own World and now you expect to desecrate ours. As though the very galaxy belonged to you and yours. Everyone knows that you are only here because you are a relation to the Queen’s lover. Maybe now an honest Aronian born girl can take the place that was rightfully hers to begin with," screamed Rockford pushing her student to the ground.

"I need to cheat!" Victoria replied angrily, picking herself up and dusting the front of her black uniform. "I could teach this class, and do a much more competent job of it than you, Mrs. Rockford," added the girl. This brought a general laugh from the class. Before anyone had seen what had happen Victoria was on the ground again. Mrs. Rockford stood over her about the take another swing at her student. Before she could, she found herself on the ground along with her student. She had never seen the punch coming. No more than Vicky had seen hers.

A red headed girl stood over them both imperiously. "He is not her Majesty’s lover. He is her husband and your sovereign King, Mrs. Rockford. If you’re going to begin throwing students around the room you could at least choose those who could fight back." The girl said. Suddenly a dazed Victoria realized just who had come to her rescue. Torana, princess of Aron, sister of Queen Faline and next in line for the throne, should her sister die producing no heirs.

Torana then leaned down and extended a hand helping the still confused girl to her feet. "Out of this room. Princess or no, I will see you both expelled from this school," screamed the fat woman getting up sluggishly and with some difficulty.

"I’m sure you will" Torana replied leading Victoria out of the classroom.

"Are you all right?" she asked as she helped Vicky down the hall to the dean’s office. Victoria nodded.

"Thanks" was the only thing Vicky could think of to say.

"No problem, it was about time somebody gave that old crone what she deserves anyway. I’m Torana, by the way," replied the girl, extending her free hand.

"I know" Victoria replied taking her hand; she was not at all sure whether to shake it or kiss it. She finally decided a friendly handshake would be sufficient. "I’m Victoria Smith your Highness." g

"Could you do me a major favor, Victoria?" the princess asked a frown on her lovely face.

"Sure, anything" Vicky said earnestly.

"Never call me your highness or princess again" Torana smiled, her green eyes twinkling.

Mrs. Rockford had been right. The girls were both expelled, for "assaulting" a faculty member. In truth, the dean had been looking for a way to be rid of the troublesome royal brat as she called Torana. This latest incident gave her the excuse she had been looking for. Pity to lose the Smith girl at the same time, but she too was becoming more trouble than she was worth. The scandal resulting from the expulsions would be a nightmare for the royal family. Imagine, an Arison being expelled from the Academy. This was unheard of. A princess of Aron being forced to attend public school, because no other decent private institution would have her now. The risk for scandal would be too great.

Torana and Victoria had begun classes at Arison Public High School at the same time. They had been best friends ever since. They still where, even though Vicky had quickly gone up levels and had left Torana and her other classmates behind. Torana had never lost touch and she had never let Victoria loose touch. Torana always took special time and effort to include Victoria in all social activities.

It was Torana who finally persuaded Vicky to join Alliance Medical. "They need all the good doctors they can get," Torana had insisted. Victoria would be helping people, not destroying them. She would be healing the persons who risked their lives to preserve the Aronian way of life. Corny. Tory had always been an idealist.

Eventually, Victoria gave in to the idealism; she started to believe it herself. Now she was chief medical officer of the Salvation, and the Salvation was under heavy attack by Zarconian battle cruisers. Another blast rocked the ship and Vicky was thrown to the ground.

"Zarconians know no mercy, Victoria. They go through the Universe taking whatever they need or desire, whether it belongs to them or not. They simply trample on anything that gets in their way. To them people are just another commodity."

Her fathers' words echoed through her mind. No mercy. She forced herself up off the ground, pulling off the jacket of her dress uniform. Just my luck, she thought, we have to be attacked, while I’m wearing this straitjacket. She left the garment crumpled on the floor. No matter, she would never get the bloodstains out. She moved to her next patient. Bad Laser burns, showing signs of radiation poisoning. She opened her mouth to order a nurse to administer 5 c.c.s of Sormickia, but quickly decided against it. The nurses all had their hands full with other patients. She walked over to the cabinet to her left and punched in the access code. "Computer, deactivate all secure medicine cabinets. Security code authorization Victoria Smith 1650333" she commanded. There was no time to be bothered with access codes. She should have removed it before. She grabbed an electronic seringe and filled it with the appropriate dosage of Sormickia, then returned to her waiting patient, who was now moaning in agony and injected him with the drug. The captain’s voice boomed through the communications system: "Commence Emergency Evacuation. Code 333." 333, the ship was being boarded.

"You heard the man. Get the sick and wounded out of here first. One medic to every escape shuttle." Vicky ordered trying to sound calm, to be calm. She pushed her right arm under the lieutenant she had been treating moments before. She half helped; half dragged him off the examining table. She led him to the access hatch of the first escape shuttle, at the back of the room. Fighting not to be pulled down by his weight she ordered the door to open. There was the sound of grinding gears as the door slid open. It occurred to her, as she lowered the lieutenant into one of the shuttle’s empty seats, that there were not enough escape shuttles available to evacuate all the patients and the medical staff. The sickbay contained three shuttles with a maximum capacity of 15 people, although recommended capacity was 10 people. There were 39 patients in the sickbay and 13 doctors and nurses. That was seven extra people. Seven people who would need to find another way off the ship. That meant that seven people would have to make their way out of the ship’s hospital, down the main corridor about fifty yards and down a secondary corridor another twenty five yards to the nearest available escape shuttle. Of course the shuttle might be full by the time they reached it or it may already have been jettisoned, before being filled to maximum capacity. There was no way of knowing. Vicky knew it did not matter, odds were there would be no time to reach other shuttles before being captured or killed by Zarconian troopers. They had already begun boarding the ship and would soon flood every corridor blocking any possible escape. Victoria also knew who would stay behind. The captain always goes down with his ship! The chief medical officer and her senior aids would stay on board until everyone else was "safely" off the ship. She, Doctor Jordan Thomas, Doctor Mark Briggs, Doctor Sheila Forcen, doctor Marguerite Clemens, and her two head nurses James Fuller and Renee Garon would be the ones left behind.

Victoria and Jordan finished carrying over the last patient; one of the poor man's arms draped over each doctor. Victoria slipped out from under the man’s arm and let Jordan secure him into the last empty seat. He then proceeded to close the hatch to the shuttle. As Victoria moved towards the control panel that operated the release of the shuttles her eyes met Jordan’s. He knows, she thought. He knows we’re not getting out in time. Strange that she and Jordan were finally thinking alike. They had rivaled each other for Vicky’s position. When Victoria finally was chosen over him, Jordan never quite forgave her the transgression. They shared a bitter rivalry that on one occasion almost cost the life of a patient.

They had argued over the appropriate treatment of a young woman, who had been brought in because of a serious head trauma. The accident had resulted in a piece of broken bone becoming lodged near the brain. Jordan had prescribed immediate surgery, before the piece of bone dislodged and caused some serious brain damage. Victoria had argued that a hormone treatment to reduce the swelling would be necessary before any surgery was attempted. Finally she overruled Jordan; they would wait twelve hours. Victoria’s shift ended and doctor Forcen took over for the night.

Victoria made her way to her quarters and had just begun to settle in for the night when she was startled by the sound of the communications link buzzard. She shook her head. No good night's sleep for her. She pulled on a robe and walked over to the communications link.

"Yes, Smith here." she answered the buzzard, pressing down on the activation button.

"Doctor Smith I’m sorry to wake you. I think you had better come down to Sickbay, right now." Doctor Forcen’s voice squeaked nervously out of the communications link speaker.

"Sheila what’s wrong" Vicky asked, growing concerned herself. Sheila never called her after hours.

"Doctor Thomas has begun surgery without you" Sheila’s nervous voice blurted out from the speaker.

"He what?" Victoria demanded angrily. No use yelling at Forcen, she could not have stopped him. "I’ll be right there. Smith out" Victoria added hastily closing her end of the communication. I’ll kill him, no I’ll torture him, and then I’ll kill him. How dare he! It was not enough for Jordan Thomas to constantly question her in front of the entire staff. It was not enough to be forever making snide comments sometimes behind her back, but usually to her face. It was not enough for him to make her life, in general, miserable. No, he had to put a patient's health in jeopardy just to get back at her.

Taking strides twice their usual size, she reached the ship’s hospital in instants. As she walked into sickbay, still wearing her robe, her face looked like a storm cloud. She did not even have to say a word. Sheila pointed towards operating room 3 and hastily found herself some duty to attend to. Victoria only nodded in response and headed down the corridor to OR number 3. She opened the door and stepped into the sterilized scrub room. She carefully washed her hands and pulled on a sterile dark blue gown. She walked towards the door then stopped, remembering to tie back her long black hair and put on a sterile cap and mask. She then started towards the door again. As she walked into the operating room itself, she could have sworn that Jordan was smirking at her from under his mask.

"What the blazes do who think your doing Thomas?" Vicky asked furiously walking up to him.

"Performing an operation" he responded not bothering to conceal the sarcasm in his voice.

"Well Gee! I can see that you idiot. After, I expressly ordered you not to. I could have your medical license revoked; Hey I could have you court marshaled."

"Go ahead"

"I would but we need all the good doctors we can get." Lord, she sounded like a recruitment poster.

"Good for you isn’t it. Don’t worry I’m sure Uncle Jake and aunt Faline would have made sure you found a job, somewhere."

"That’s right doctor Thomas, I only got this job because of connections. I have no real medical talent and I was still chosen over you, you jackass." Victoria replied heatedly. She had had just about enough of this pompous windbag.

"That would never of happened if … What the … Oh No, She’s started hemorrhaging."

"That’s what tends to happen when you operate around mass swelling. Can you stop the bleeding?"

"I think so"

"Let me do it" she insisted.

"I can stop a hemorrhage"

"I know you can, but the space is limited and my hands are smaller. This is no time for stupid competitions."

"You’re right," he said stepping aside for her.

Vicky finally did manage to stop the bleeding, but serious damage was done. Of course, there was no way of knowing when the damage was actually done: in the operating room or at the accident. That’s what Vicky kept telling Jordan, but he blamed himself.
He never questioned one of Victoria’s orders again. He also never questioned her medical expertise and abilities again.

Now they would both in all likelihood never see their home worlds again. The main doors of the room snapped noisily open. Laser fire danced over their heads like fireworks. Commands given in flawless Zarconian filled the air, followed by others given in shaky Aronian and other alliance tongues. The orders were simple: "Do not move."

Later, when asked, Vicky would not even remember moving. She would not recall her right arm moving towards the shuttle release mechanism; nor would she remember the feel of the keys under her fingers as she typed in the release code. She would always remember the feel of the shot as it hit fragile human flesh moments before she collapsed.

 

 

Chapter II: The Second Son

Ariel Hatiora was dead. Her body vaporized by one of several laser charges, sent as a warning to other planets even considering joining the Alliance. The decision was a sound one. Destroy Hatiora’s capital and in exchange send a clear message to the entire galaxy that the Empire’s power was supreme. Hatiora had, until now, futilely resisted the advance of the Empire. The Empire had briefly toyed with them, allowing them to feel secure in their position, giving them false hope, only to crush that hope in the end. After the massacre of the capital city, what remained of Hatiora’s parliament quickly surrendered to the Empire. The decision was a sound one, but Luther had been unable to make it; his brother, Drake, had.

Luther would never have given the order to level an entire metropolis, an order to kill thousands of innocent people. Oh, Luther was no great humanitarian; he was the son of Zartan, Emperor of Holy Zarcon, yet he had been unable to make the decision that definitively ended the conflict with Hatiora.

Luther was actually Zartan’s bastard son. Some years before, when, Luther’s half brother, Drake had just been grievously wounded during a raid on an Aronian battle cruiser, Zartan had decided to acknowledge his illegitimate son. Zartan, contemplating the loss of his sole heir, felt it necessary to do something to ensure his succession.

Years ago, Zartan had had a liaison with a young slave girl owned and employed at Zarcon’s imperial palace. This particular girl had gotten herself pregnant. This time, Zartan was sure the child was his. The girl in question, he could no longer recall her name, had been a shy little thing, not one to "frequent" the male slaves. Zartan was sure the child was his. This left the middle aged Emperor with a dilemma: have the girl and her little brat killed or allow her to have the child and store it away, just in case. He had chosen the later of the two options. After all, Drake was a strong healthy boy of nineteen, but he was not immortal. This other child would be insurance should anything befall his eldest son. It was a common enough practice among the Zarconian aristocracy. If the ungrateful brat chose to come after him later, he would take care of it when it happened.

Thirteen years later, Zartan knew he had chosen wisely. Where his rivals could have found weakness, they found strength and cunning. Even as Drake lay between life and death, Zartan was able to produce a new healthy heir. Luther, it was the name given to the child by his foster family; a group of slaves working on a vineyard on Cellos 3. No matter, Zartan had never even laid eyes on the boy, until he had the child brought from Cellos 3, to the Zarconian home world.

Zartan still remembered that day with a certain disgust. His son a small wide-eyed child, who looked up at him in terror, hand trembling at his sides. The captain at his sides keeping an iron hand on his shoulder, as if the boy were some sort of street urchin preparing to bolt at any moment. The child, its face framed by soft blond locks, was deathly pale from fright. Somehow, Zartan had imagined his second son would be more… Zarconian. Stronger. Fiercer. Bolder. Bother, this would be taken care of later, best get on with it.

"Boy, do you know who I am?" Zartan asked, making no effort to seem less intimidating to the boy. The boy gave a slight nod. The captain promptly cuffed the child on the side of the head. Not very gently Zartan noticed.

"If you know who his Imperial Majesty is, then you know that you must show him proper respect." The captain growled over the trembling boy. The child was almost in tears.

"That’s enough, captain. I wish to speak to the boy in private" the Emperor chided; secretly he was glad the good captain had taught the child some respect. It was after all still a slave, if only for the next few moments. Of course the loyal officer would be far less pleased with himself upon learning the boy’s true identity. The captain nodded, then gave a quick bow and left the room.

"How old are you child?" Zartan asked He knew full well how old the boy was.

"Twelve… your Majesty" stuttered the little waif.

"Your Imperial Majesty, actually." Zartan corrected, continuing to scrutinize the boy.

"Yes, your Imperial Majesty" the boy amended.

Zartan reached into his robes and produced a piece of rolled parchment.

"Do you know, what this is Luther?"

"No your Imperial Majesty, I do not know what that is" the boy replied, perfect protocol. Always answer a master with his proper title; always answer in complete sentences. The boy could at least be taught.

"Keezan Freka Zarcon, do you know what that means?" he inquired. The boy probably would not; the phrase was in ancient Zarconian.

"Freedom, it means Freedom, your imperial majesty," came the soft reply.

"That’s right. It means your freedom, as soon, as I sign your name to it. Do you know why I am doing this?"

The boy, flabbergasted, shook his head.

"No, your Imperial Majesty…" he added hastily after a moment.

"I do this because you are my son" Zartan declared, a bit over dramatically. The boy, by this time, could only shake his head; all the protocol drummed into his head over the years forgotten.

"Yes, I know, to you that miserable band of riffraff on Cellos 3 is your family, but I assure you, I am your biological father. And, now I have summoned you here to claim your birthright." The Emperor once again reached into his long flowing robes and another rolled parchment appeared.

"This, my boy, is a document that officially recognizes you as my son. It, in essence, legitimizes your birth and names you as an heir to the royal succession."

"That’s not possible, Sir." The boy was in shock.

"From now on, Luther, you will address me either as father or as your Imperial Majesty. Is that understood?" he ordered icily.

"Yes, your Imperial Majesty." The boy responded coolly. Fifteen years had passed; Luther had never called Zartan "Father" once.

"Good. Now I believe it’s time to have you cleaned up and sent to bed. Kerina, please show young Luther here to his new room," he commanded. A young girl who had been waiting patiently to attend the Emperor stepped out of the shadows.

"Yes, your Imperial Majesty," responded the wide-eyed girl. "This way your Imperial Highness." She said turning her attention to Luther. Zartan demanded respect and formality at all times, but he would not tolerate slaves dallying in the performance of their duties.

The following morning, Zartan sent for Luther and promptly brought the boy before the High Council of Zarcon to proclaim the boy as an heir to the Imperial throne of Zarcon. He presented the new prince to the peoples of Zarcon on the steps of the Great Temple that very afternoon. He then swiftly sent the boy off to the Zarconian Royal Military Academy the next afternoon. If anything could whip the boy into shape it would be the Academy.

The Academy did an excellent job. Despite his sire’s initial misgivings, Luther Kee Zarcon was one of the leading military minds of Zarcon. He was also the best swordsman that Zartan had ever seen. In the end, Zartan’s decision to take Luther’s anonymity away was premature, since Drake made a miraculous and full recovery. He also took an immediate dislike to his younger brother. His sons became almost instantaneous rivals. Drake’s hatred of the boy who would have taken his place in the succession bordered on fanatical

Zartan strolled over to the large bay windows of his study, stroking his long gray beard absently. Below him lay a small private exercise yard. The Emperor gazed down to see his youngest son, nude torso, in combat with another young man. What was his name? He was one of Luther’s closer friends, someone he had met during his years at the Academy. Luther’s body was finely muscled. Over six feet tall Luther was an intimidating sight. His once angelic face had given way to handsome chiseled features, which were now knotted in concentration. His light tint had metamorphosed into a subtle pale blue, present in some Zarconians. Most of the time Luther simply looked pale, but when you beheld him under the right lighting his skin actually looked blue. The only thing that had remained exactly the same as the day he first beheld his son was his soft blond hair, which now fell gracefully to the center of his back.

Luther lunged, catching his comrade on the side of the ribs. His opponent groaned; even with these practice laser swords, contact was painful. Luther’s adversary thrust at him in response. Luther easily parried and riposted with a series of feints designed to break his competitor’s concentration. The other man responded with an erratic upward slash of the sword, which Luther blocked, side stepping his friend and tripping him. The other man was quickly lying on his back a dazed expression on his face, like lightening Luther’s sword was at his throat. Zartan sighed. Luther had to be told.

* * *

"Why do I bother even trying to fence with you, Luther?" Zerim asked starring up at the sky laying flat on his back.

"Because you need the practice. You’ll never improve if you only spar with opponents who are weaker than you." Luther answered looming tall above his friend.

"Then you’re doomed to never improve old chum, because everyone is weaker than you. Poor little Prince doomed to a life of complacency. I weep for you, I truly do." Zerim retorted with his best theatrical air.

"Very funny, You are improving you know." Luther said laughing. It was impossible for him to stay angry with Zerim.

"I have to, if I want to survive a fight with you. You know, dear boy, you look even taller than usual from down here. I say, you wouldn’t mind pointing that thing somewhere else. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but your hands might get slippery."

"Why am I still friends with you?" Luther asked slowly sheathing his sword.

"Because you hope after years of study to someday be able to emulate my skills at wooing women. It’s a lost cause I fear, t’ is a gift given to me by the gods." Zerim answered propping himself up on one elbow.

"I’m leaving" Luther said picking up his tunic from a nearby bench.

"What? Without even helping me out of this precarious position? After all, it is your fault that I’m lying here wounded, you could at least help me up. I’m outraged," Zerim screamed, turning his head away from Luther.

He was quickly answered by a rolled up tunic in the head. Zerim hopped to his feet.

"Thank you I was looking for this" He said striding past his friend and into the showers.

Luther laughed. There was no question in his mind why he was still friends with this man. There was no question in his mind why they had become friends. He had met Zerim years before, when he first was sent to the Academy. The boys had been only twelve years old at the time. Luther's true parentage had just been revealed to him. Fifteen years later, he still did not like to think about those times. Soldiers had shown up at his family’s house in the middle of the night. They had taken him away from his screaming mother. They had beaten his father for trying to stop them from taking him. During the long trip to the home world he had been left alone in the dark in his small locked quarters. Then had he met Zartan that first time. He remembered the disgust he had read on the Emperor’s face upon his revelation that Luther was his son. He also remembered being packed up and sent away to the Academy two days after that revelation.

When Luther finally reached the academy, he was totally overwhelmed and in despair. He felt completely alone and apart from this strange new world. No one was particularly cruel to him, but Luther got the constant impression the people were staring at him. Conversations ended when he entered the room. He could sometimes hear laughter and murmuring behind his back. People would not look him in the eye and he would always be the odd man out when groups had to be formed for one school activity or another. As this continued, Luther became more solitary and more withdrawn. He soared to the head of his class, plunging himself in his studies and training. His days consisted of studying, followed by practicing, and followed by yet more studying. This went on for almost six months.

One morning during a free period, Luther sat alone on a bench behind the dormitory, as was often his habit. Reading a book, what was it? Oh yes, Yeraf Kee Tager the complete works. Luther was actually quite enjoying himself that rarely happened to him any longer. He had love Kee Tager, he still did, discovered new meanings to his fiction every time he read it. Suddenly a tall shadow began to loom over his book, spoiling his enjoyment. He lifted his head. A stocky young fellow stood directly in front of him, gazing down at him with a perplexed look on his round face. It was a welcoming friendly face, the kind that seemed to carry a perpetual grin. The boy rubbed his chin.

"Do tell me my boy, what was your crime to merit such a vile punishment?" the boy asked with a flourish. As far as Luther could tell this boy was his own age.

"What?" Luther asked confused.

"What did you do, to make them force you to read that thing?" the boy rephrased pointing at the book, which was now sitting in Luther’s lap.

"Nothing … I’m just trying to get ahead in my work" Luther responded a bit flushed.

"About three semesters ahead and on a bright sunny day like this!" The boy exclaimed.

"Do you want anything in particular…"Luther began.

"Zerim. Zerim Kee Yera, your Imperial Royalness." The boy cut in, introducing himself.

"Imp…" Luther stopped in mid stream. He had been about to say Imperial Highness. Too much a direct quote of Zartan. If there was one person in the Universe Luther did not want to start sounding like it was his father.

"An Imp? Where?" Zerim shouted turning his head from side to side.

"If you’re done with me I would like to go back to my reading now." Luther said recovering. This certainly was a strange little fellow.

"Feel free." he said, sitting on the bench next to Luther.

Maybe, if I ignore him, he’ll go away, Luther thought, picking up his book and beginning to read again. Zerim sat next to him, starring at him. After thirty or so minutes of this Luther could no longer stand it:

"Do you mind?" he screamed.

"Oh, not at all, carry on." Zerim answered nonchalantly.

"What do you want?" Luther demanded, exasperated.

"I was just wondering why you maintain yourself in this self prescribed exile." Zerim replied completely straight-faced.

"I’m not in exile. I just like my privacy." Luther shouted. He was becoming very angry.

"Well it seems to me that being forced to stay far away from your friends and countrymen all alone is exile. It occurred to me the other day; maybe he has no friend. Perhaps no one has bothered to introduce themselves. Well your Highness; I feel silly calling you that you are still quite short, I’m sure you’ll grow into the title. As I was saying, your Highness, I come to correct that wrong. I am Zerim Kee Year, son of Alben Kee Yera and I am at your service," announced Zerim bowing. Luther was dumbfounded. He simply looked at Zerim with his mouth open.

"Your Imperial Highness are you all right?" Zerim inquired solicitously. "I do suggest breathing your greatness, it does help." He added.

"Luther…" the prince whispered.

"Pardon?" Zerim murmured.

"Luther, my name is Luther." he answered.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Luther." Zerim smiled extending his hand. Luther took it.

That afternoon Luther’s life changed. Zerim was not satisfied with a simple handshake. From then on every time Luther would head to his favorite spot, the bench behind the dormitory, Zerim would be there waiting, leaning against one of the old trees that surrounded the area. Suddenly, Luther found himself with a dinner companion for each mealtime. During courses, Luther now had a partner for team projects and assignments. For the first time in a year, he was no longer alone. Time would pass and Luther would get to know other students at the Academy, but Zerim would always have a special place in his heart. He was Luther’s best friend.

Luther could hear Zerim’s off key singing as he entered the small room. He stretched. All joking aside, his childhood friend was a fairly challenging opponent. Every muscle in Luther’s body ached. Opening his large locker, Luther tossed in his dusty tunic, stripped off the rest of his clothing and added it to the growing pile at the bottom of his locker. Grabbing a fresh towel, Luther slammed his locker door shut and headed towards the showers. Zerim’s voice, which could only be described as screeching, became clearer and clearer as Luther approached:

Oh Gods! My Love is Gone

She is now far away

But I know our love is here to stay

My heart sings at the thought of her

Oh Ariel, my love is true

My blue eyed beauty how you

Make the hearts of Princes swoon

Your golden locks have enchanted me

Oh Ariel being with you would be ecstasy…

"Very Funny, Zerim. I don’t suggest a career as a traveling minstrel, unless you want to starve to death," Luther shouted over the clamor of the showers, shaking his head. His friend mumbled something about everyone being a critic and returned to his singing. Now that Luther thought about it, perhaps he did sound that pathetic when talking about the young sovereign of Hatiora. All Luther knew was that she had captured his heart the moment he had first laid eyes on her. So beautiful and sultry, she was like a work of art, and with that voluptuous figure. The truth was, it was not only Luther’s heart, which she had captured. It was not only her physical appearance that attracted Luther, however. Ariel Hatiora was like a creature of another age, a lady, the embodiment of femininity. She was something to be admired from afar, much like a mirage. She was regal and proud, of herself and her people. That pride was infectious and caused him to admire both her, and all Hatiora in the process.

She of course thought he was a complete boar. That was understandable, he was one of the leaders of an encroaching army; this led to rather difficult relations between the two of them. On one of the rare occasions the two had met, Luther had done every thing possible to persuade her to willingly join the Empire. In this particular cause, Luther was desperate to avoid bloodshed. The ruler of Hatiora told him each time in no uncertain terms; that neither she nor her planet was interested in becoming an Empire stumping ground. The last time he had practically begged her to change her mind, he didn’t know how long she could hold off the inevitable attack if Hatiora did not surrender on its own. Why would he want to, she had retorted. Good question. Because I’m infatuated with you Ariel, I may even be in love with you. All I know is that I’ve never wanted anything like this before in my life. He could not say that. Not to her. He was not even sure of it himself. All he knew was that his life was in chaos because of this girl and he was not at all sure he liked it.

"What now, esteemed leader?" Zerim asked, toweling himself off as they stepped out of the shower.

"I’m not sure, I was thinking of just going home and relaxing." Luther answered pulling a clean tunic out of his locker. His laundry had already been removed and was no doubt being washed at that very moment.

"Are you feeling all right, dear pall? We’re on leave. You can relax when we get back to base. We are under specific orders to wreak havoc on the civilian population," Zerim began about to go into one of his little tirades.

"I don’t remember issuing that order" Luther mocked, pulling his tunic over his head.

"You’ve never been able to give the orders that count, little brother" like nails scrapping the surface of a blackboard, a voice, that Luther could recognize anywhere, cut into their private conversation. Luther turned around to see his brother, Drake; saunter into the room with a smug self satisfied expression on his face.

"Oh goody, Drakey, is here, let the fun begin." Zerim muttered under his breath, turning to shine a beaming smile at Luther’s older brother.

"What was that, Lord Kee Yera?" Drake retorted acidly, he loathed Zerim Kee Yera. The little lowlife permitted himself every extravagance, simply because he was Luther’s best friend. There was in reality, only one person who disgusted him more than Kee Yera, Luther, his bastard brother.

"I was just saying, how wonderful it is to see you, your Imperial Highness." Zerim replied giving an exaggerated bow.

"What in the Caldrons of Kee Gachar do you want, Drake?" Luther had given up using formal address with the crown prince of the Empire years before. He didn’t want anything he said to him misconstrued as respect.

"My proper address is your Imperial Highness, you little brat." Drake hissed between clenched teeth. He hated being sworn at, in particular by Luther; this explained why Luther did it so much in his presence.

"What a coincidence, so is mine brother." Luther responded, turning his back on Drake and continuing to get dressed. Pulling his boots on, Luther realized his brother Drake was still hovering around them. "What is it you want Drake?" Luther finally asked exasperated.

"Simply to tell you, my dear brother, that I have taken care of your little problem on Hatiora for you." Drake sneered.

"What do you mean?" Luther asked worriedly. Drake was sounding much too satisfied with himself.

"I mean that Hatiora is now in the Emperor’s hands, isn’t it glorious?" Drake returned.

"How? Hatiora has been refusing us for months," Luther countered. No, he thought he couldn’t have.

"Now, now Luther, Hatiora can refuse all it likes. The Empire is more powerful and as you know the power rule the weak. About an hour ago the Empire gave a demonstration of its power. Hatiora’s capital city no longer exists. Half a million people, including Hatiora’s rulers were killed. They surrendered almost immediately" Drake happily informed him.

"You son of a bitch," Luther roared, punching Drake solidly in the chin.

"Oh, that’s right, how thoughtless of me, I forgot you were quite enamored with the young ruler of Hatiora. I’m terribly sorry, little one, but you didn’t expect the Empire to wait forever while you indulged your little fantasies, did you?" Drake smiled; contempt dripping from his voice like venom. Luther went straight for his throat, like a madman. Luther was vaguely aware of Zerim trying to pull him off his brother. He did not even notice when the guard ran in, so complete was his rage.

 

Chapter III: The Kee Ytenar Trading Company

Fire rained down from the heavens. Aron was once again under Zarconian attack. She ran and ran, but fire rose from everywhere. Burning, she could feel herself burning. The very Earth rocked beneath her feet. She fell and fell. A voice, a voice she could not place yet which seemed familiar to her, called out from the darkness. She was being thrown from side to side like a rag doll, shaken. Victoria, Vicky wake up. Come on Smith. She felt herself being lifted, her body limp like a rag doll, it was like floating.

Slowly, groggily she began returning to consciousness. Someone was shaking her. Vicky Look at me, look at me. Sluggishly she turned her head, trying to center on the voice calling to her. She opened her eyes, at first just a crack. The light was blinding; she squinted. Good girl, Vicky do you know who I am. Someone was holding her in their arms. She opened her eyes trying to focus on the face belonging to the male voice.

"Jordan" she answered weakly, recognizing her second in command.

"That’s right, do you know who you are?" he asked concerned.

"Your boss, I was having such a lousy dream, why did you go and wake me?" she retorted grumpily.

"Do you remember what happened?" He questioned. She shook her head.

"We where attacked" she remembered suddenly.

"That’s right. You where shot, back of the left shoulder. I’m going to check it out right now, if you don’t mind."

He carefully helped her sit up. She felt sick and dizzy. Lowering her head, her chin rubbed against something cold and rough. Her hand went to her throat, much too quickly. She would have fallen over sideways had Jordan not been there to support her. Some sort of collar. She turned and looked at Jordan. He was wearing the same sort of collar; it was attached at the back to a chain, which in turn was attached to a ring on the wall. Jordan admonished her to take it easy. He didn’t want to have to pick her up off the floor again. She felt him gently pull her halter-top off her left shoulder. Wound was superficial, good. There was more damage from the radiation than the burn. She would feel better in a couple of days.

She looked around the dimly lit room. They were in some sort of cargo hold. It was long and narrow, minimizing the free space in the center of the room. The steel walls where unpainted and relatively clean, despite a few rust spots. A long trench, in the center of the room, ran from one end of the hold to the other. From the odor, Vicky had to guess it was a urinal. At first glance, there were about thirty people in the room, some Alliance, some not. Victoria recognized about 5 people from the Salvation’s crew. Jordan put the side of her singed halter-top back up and turned her, her back facing the wall. She rested against its rough surface. She did not bother asking where they were. She knew, a Zarconian slave trader's ship.

The Empire financed most of its military expeditions this way. Companies, trading in various merchandises, would finance the expeditions in exchange for a share in the spoils proportionate to their investment. Many companies usually invested in a same expedition; this was done so no one corporate conglomerate could claim dominance over the Empire. The Emperor himself had to approve each application to finance, this way he could make sure no one company amassed too much power. Companies participating in these raids had to provide their own transportation for their share of the loot and their own personnel to oversee it. Still, they almost always made huge profits. The Empire would then take possession of the planet, station or ship. Vicky and Jordan were obviously part of the spoils for this particular endeavor.

Someone groaned a couple of feet away from her, shaking her from her reverie. She turned and looked at Jordan again. The side of his face was bruised and his lower lip was shattered. The jacket of his shirt of his uniform was stained with blood, probably from a patient, not from him. He smiled at her crookedly.

"You know Jordan, you suddenly becoming prince charming with me is not that reassuring." Vicky said leaning back against the cold wall.

"Who says I’m not the one who needs to be reassured, Boss lady." Jordan answered moodily.

* * *

The hours passed and Victoria finally drifted into a deep, but troubled sleep. Tomorrow would begin their third week in space. Jordan sat there watching, her head resting on his lap. Wisps of ebony hair had begun escaping her usually tightly coiled braid. He brushed a stray lock off her cheek. She stirred, shifting her weight, then seemed to settle into a more comfortable position. Jordan’s hands went to his temples. Oh Victoria, I wish I’d been kinder to you.

It wasn’t that he did not like her. After all she was friendly, warm, brilliant, and gorgeous. Probably the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen. He wanted her, lusted her and he worked for her. It was not an easy situation. He had not even prepared himself for the eventuality that he could work under a woman, though he knew there was a strong possibility. Most of the planets in the Alliance believed in equal rights, some where even matriarchal, like Aron.

Jordan though had grown up on Hatiora, which housed a very patriarchal, some would call primeval, culture. Women rarely held positions of power on his home world, save the Queen of course. She only held that position because no male heirs were available. This was not a put down, merely a fact. Hatiora had lucked out. Her Majesty, Queen Arial was one of the greatest rulers Hatiora had ever known. Strong and decisive, she forced changes on Parliament, which her predecessors had attempted to issue for generations. She had even stood against the Zarconian advances, with all the bravery that her station demanded. She even began the long overdue process of requesting Alliance membership. All the while, she still projected the image of grace and elegance required of a lady of her standing.

Jordan was aware that he owed the Alliance a lot. They had accepted him into Alliance Medical despite his home planet not having yet received full membership. They retrained him, teaching him more advanced techniques used all over the system. Upon returning to Hatiora, when he would have completed his military service, he would have become one of the most sought after physician on the planet.

That was over now. He would no doubt end the remainder of his days in a mine somewhere within the Empire. For Victoria that would be a different matter, well when a woman looked like that. No, Jordan was quite sure Vicky Smith would not be spending her time toiling away in some scullery anytime soon.

The thought occurred to him that the same might be said for him. Zarconians very much believed in equal rights. Women took as active a roll in society as men did, although they were less prominent in the military than in commerce. His people were a favorite among Zarconians, their fair complexions, light hair and pale bright eyes desirable features among slave buyers. Thinking of it made a shiver run down his spine. Zarconians also did not frown upon homosexuality. He really did not want to ponder that notion.

The door at the head of the room soundlessly slid open, flooding the chamber with the bright light from the corridors outside. Victoria’s eyes slid open. Lifting her head sleepily from Jordan’s lap, she sat up looking in the general direction of the doorway. Four large men plowed into the room, self-important airs on their faces. They were clad in some sort of leather; each carried a small whip and guns, handlers. They continued walking in Vicky and Jordan’s general direction. The shortest of the group, a stout ugly little man, stopped and kicked a man in the stomach for some unknown offense.

The tallest of the group, a man older than the rest, who looked to be in charge of the little group, made his way to where Vicky and Jordan where crouching. He looked them both up and down calmly and waved over his associates.

"Theses are the ones" he told his comrades in Zarconian. The other three men amassed around them.

"If you do not speak Zarconian, I suggest you learn and quickly. My orders must be followed immediately and to the letter." He continued, this time addressing the prisoners, his hand coming to rest meaningfully on the whip at his side. The short man sneered at Jordan, who had begun inching protectively towards Victoria.

The leader ordered them to get up. Victoria began rising unsteadily, aided by Jordan. He noticed that other teams of handlers had entered the room and where overseeing other slaves. The fat little man reached behind Jordan, and pulling a key from an iron chain around his neck reached for the lock on the ring to which Jordan was bound. Another man, with a large scar running from just below his right eye to his lower lip, did the same for Vicky. Each of the two guards picking up one of the captive's chains. They were ordered to follow quickly and quietly. One guard proceeded each of them, leading them by the bindings around their throats; another followed behind each prisoner. Being led around like dogs on leaches. Jordan would have liked to take a couple of good swings at these fellows. With Vicky here with him that would not be a wise move. Didn’t want to get her into trouble.

They were led out of the room and down a low winding corridor. The short man turned, stealing a long glimpse at Victoria, making a crude remark about not minding having to unwrap this cargo. He was quickly reprimanded and told to keep his mind on the business at hand.

They halted, apparently having reached their destination. The leader, who had been following behind Victoria, moved to the front warning his charges to behave themselves and do as they were told. He opened the door, driving them inside. The room’s lighting was better than anyplace else on the ship Jordan had seen so far. It was impeccably clean, with two iron tables centered in the middle of the room. Cabinets circled the walls. It was some sort of examining room. It made sense, why waste the time of the journey into Imperial space?

A man clad in black, whom Jordan had not noticed, turned around looking straight past them.

"We’re not ready for them yet. Take them to the showers" the man snapped testily at the handlers. The sound of water flowing could be heard in the distance. The tall handler pointed towards a door to their right as he grabbed hold of Vicky’s chain. He dragged her into the room. The chubby little man pulled Jordan in after them.

It was a narrow shower room; its walls and floor made in what looked like stainless steal. On the far wall hung a narrow copper pipe, which held dual showerheads. Lower on the wall, the ever-present rings and locks, as well as shelves with soap and shampoo. The ends of their chains were once again attached to the wall by the handlers. The guard stood back and ordered their captives to strip. Victoria seemed to hesitate, but did as she was told, seeing the short man come towards her, intending to do it for her. Victoria Smith, Jordan knew, was too proud to allow that to happen.

As soon as they were undressed, water began pouring over them. They were instructed to hurry up and wash up. They were to wash their hair as well, in order to rid them of any lice. Victoria reached up and removed the remaining pins, which held up what was left of her braid. She untied her hair and shook it free. It fell in long black locks well to middle of her back. Jordan turned his head, trying not to look at her. They were ordered to finish up. Abruptly the water stopped.

They were thrown towels and instructed to dry off. Vicky dried her thick long mane of hair off as best she could with the towel, then proceeded to sponge the water off her long limbs. Jordan trembled, wet and cold from the shower. They were ordered to send the towels down the first laundry shoot to their right. They were to put their soiled clothing down the second. Even that would be sold off, to shops specializing in second hand merchandise. These types of stores sold primarily to lower class Zarconians. Anything for a profit.

The handlers once again released their bonds from the wall and led them out of the room. Victoria was led to the first table and told to sit down. The metal was very cold under her naked skin. Jordan was led to the table at the far end of the room. The man dressed in black Jordan had observed, probably some short of doctor, walked over to where Victoria was sitting. He was holding some sort of electronic pad.

"Let’s start with the biographical information. Don’t bother lying, it won’t help anything. Speak any Zarconian?" He began, not bothering to introduce himself.

"I’m fairly fluent in your language." She replied softly in almost flawless Zarconian. The man in black nodded, and muttered something under his breath; it sounded like excellent. He noted something down on his pad.

"Have you ever been a slave within the Empire?" he asked turning over her right wrist, checking for a tattoo. It was custom to brand slaves behind the right wrist; since all major houses had their own symbol, runaway slaves could be traced back to their owners through their tattoos, if these were still intact.

"No" she answered anyway.

"Full name." He demanded abruptly.

"Doctor Victoria Morgan Smith" she replied chin held high. The man raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Better doctor than you, old boy. Although, Zarconian military technology was one of the most advanced in the system, their medical expertise left something to be desired. They were centuries behind the Aronians, for example.

"Planet of origin?" He continued swiftly, noting her previous answers down.

"Pure Terranian, raised on Aron." She answered making the important distinction; Full or half Aronians often ended up in research facilities where the military was still looking for ways to siphon their natural abilities. Female Aronians’ mental abilities and physical strength were legendary and also unexplained.

"Age"

"Twenty two"

"Parent’s full names, if you know." Slave family history was important in the Empire, as to not accidentally mate two close family members. Incest was highly frowned upon, and very illegal. Masters were held accountable for such matters, since they usually arranged and sometimes forced mating.

"Father Jonathan Andrew Masters, Mother Sarah Marian Smith" She did not bother mentioning that they had been divorced for years, that they in fact could not stand to be in the same room with one another. A meeting between Vicky’s parents usually ended up with blunt objects mysteriously taking flight, most often aimed at each other's heads. During their time on the Invincible their fighting had become so bad, that the commanding officer at the time, Sarah’s Uncle Jake, had had them both thrown into the brig for a week, in separate cells of course. She still felt sorry for the people that had been on guard duty that week.

"Any siblings?"

"One brother, Victor James Smith Masters" She did not explain why her brother had a different last name than her, the doctor did not ask. Victor had been raised by their father, while she was raised by their mother. Each child had kept the name of the parent they were closer to.

"Any medical condition or allergies that you know about?" He queried indifferently; there was not much chance she would, for the Alliance required people in good health. She might have a minor allergy, but nothing serious or life threatening.

"No, none"

"Fine lie back" he said beginning a grueling examination. Jordan somewhere behind her, after having undergone the same battery of questions, was undergoing the same procedure.

After over two hours of tests, they where both pronounced in fine health and sent to a new cargo hold. It was similar to the first, except that it was filled with naked, obviously triaged slaves. They were again confined to the wall. The room was a lot warmer, making the smell of human waste a lot worse than in the previous chamber.

Vicky moved herself up towards the wall and inched closer to her shipmate. Waiting for the guards to leave them to their own devices, Victoria quickly took in the room. She could see no one else, save Jordan Thomas, from the Salvation’s crew in the room. They were undoubtedly in other holds like this one or on other ships. The muffled sound of the door closing alerted her that the handlers had left the room. She turned to Jordan.

"We’ll be arriving at destination soon" he began. He looked so desperate.

"I thought so" she answered. She had to tell Jordan something and she was not looking forward to it.

"It’s Zarcana, Vicky, the Zarconian home world." He added hastily.

"You sure?" she didn’t have to ask, he would not have told her had he not being sure. It was difficult for her to tell how long they had been traveling. She had been in and out of consciousness the first few days of the voyage. She could clearly remember 2 weeks.

"Positive, I overheard some guard talking. God, I know slavery is no picnic anywhere, but the home world…" He whispered shaking his head.

"I know, Jordan, I don’t know how to tell you this," She started. She had to try; he had to know.

"What, did one of those Jerks try something" he hissed.

"No nothing like that. I wish it where something like that. I overheard some of the handlers talking too. Jordan, Tusaro was attacked last week, they destroyed it. Hatiora has surrendered to the Empire." She told him regretfully.

For a moment, all that registered on his face was shock. He shook his head over and over in disbelief. His eyes went blank of anything except pain. No, it was impossible. His shock and pain turned to rage, wild and uncontrollable. His scream broke through the silence of the cargo hold. No, the bastards. No. He shoved at Victoria blindly, as she tried to calm him, pushing her roughly to the ground. She landed directly on her bad shoulder.

The doors popped open and three handlers, whom Vicky had not seen before, ran into the room with irritated expressions on their faces, as if they had been interrupted during some very important task. Most likely a card game, Victoria guessed, having grown up on a ship, and having seen men on guard duty in action.

The three handlers grabbed Jordan, none too gently, and dragged him to the center of the room, pulling the chain around his neck to almost its full length. His howls became cries of agony as two of the handlers began applying their zappers between his ribs. Their companion snaked his powerful arm around Victoria’s waist, carrying her away so that she would not interfere. The two others finally abandoned their zappers, deciding to simply beat Jordan senseless. Then his cries eventually ceased and were replaced by a faint sobbing noise. They left him there, bruised and battered, lying on the floor. The guard who had been restraining Victoria let her go and joined his companions, eager to return to whatever they had been doing before the commotion.

Victoria reached out to Jordan, but he pushed her away. "Jordan" she whispered, reaching out to him tentatively. This time he did not resist. "I’m so sorry" she added, her voice barely audible. She gathered him up in her arms, stroking his hair. "My entire family lived in Tusaro…" he whispered between choked sobs.

* * *

Jordan still slept fitfully beside her. At times, she had held him closely, at other times, she had let him go and work out his inner fury and anger on his own, but never too long, lest he begin to dwell on things he could not change. She could not imagine what he was going through.

His entire family had migrated to Tusaro seven years before, so that Jordan could further his education in one of the fine medical schools of Hatiora’s capital. Jordan’s father had sold their small farm in Karany; a small rural region devoted primarily to dairy production; and moved his entire family to the capital in order to finance his son’s expensive education. Academic scholarships were very rare and reserved for underprivileged families. Middle class families, like the Thomas’ were too often forced to fend for themselves. His parents and older sister had found jobs in the capital, so that he, the family’s only son could attend one of Hatiora’s most prestigious medical schools.

Jordan felt an enormous amount of guilt over their deaths. They would never have been in Tusaro if not for him. Vicky had told him that was ridiculous. Jordan could never have predicted what was to happen.

Vicky put her head in her hands. None of that mattered any more. They were in orbit. She had felt the ship decelerate. It was only a matter of hours now.

The door slid open. She shook Jordan awake. He lifted his head, disoriented. "What?" he demanded, still groggy. Vicky raised a warning finger to her lips, then pointed towards the open door. Jordan was instantly alert. A tall gaunt figure appeared in the doorway. With the bright light of the corridor at his back, Victoria could only make out his outline. His voice, however, chilled the blood in her veins. "We have now reached our destination, welcome to Zarcana boys and girls. You are now all the property of the Kee Ytenar Trading company."

 

 

Chapter IV: Sibling Rivalry

Zartan sipped his wine moodily. Disaster, it seemed to follow him of late. Luther had all but shutdown since the destruction of Tusaro. Damn Drake to the Caldrons of Kee Gachar for what he had done. Telling Luther the way he had. Lucky for Drake, Zartan mused that Luther had been too enraged to pick up a weapon. Had his younger brother not decided to kill him with his bare hands, he would probably be dead. As it was, it took seven guards to pull Luther off the crown prince. By then, Luther had already broken Drake’s jaw and two of his ribs. Good for him. Zartan had specifically ordered Drake to stay away from Luther. He had gotten exactly what he deserved.

"Trying to decide what to do about your feuding boys, your Imperial Majesty?" A smooth, sultry voice broke him from his reverie. He smiled, looking up at his dinner companion. At nearly fifty years old, Sana Arison was still a stunning woman.

"Oh General, you know me so well." the Emperor laughed.

"General, is it now?" Sana asked raising an eyebrow. Tilting her head slightly to one side, she coiled a strand of her perfectly coifed hair around her finger. Her blue eyes were actually twinkling with mischief. Zartan would have found the idea of Sana as a seductress ludicrous only months before, but since the little viper had started turning her attentions on him, he had been pleasantly surprised. She was wild and exciting, and quite frankly insatiable.

"Would you prefer something more formal? Your Highness, perhaps?" Zartan teased, knowing full well that Sana despised being reminded of the title that had been stripped from her.

"Very funny, Zartan" she hissed, slipping into a more informal tone of voice. She rose, crossing to where he sat. Delight in her seduction all you might, he thought to himself, but never forget this is a woman who tried to have her own twin sister murdered and who betrayed her people to their worst enemies. Of all his allies, Sana Arison was by far the most lethal. She sat in his lap, stroking his cheek and purring in his ear. No, he should not turn his back on her for even an instant.

Twin of the late Queen Sarana of Aron, she had been exiled by her sister after a failed coup, designed to place Sana on the Aronian throne. It involved the assassination of both Sarana and her then fiancé, Francis, Duke of Lisaguere. Sarana had banished Sana, never again would she walk on Aron’s sacred soil. That had been a fatal error. Sarana should have had her executed for her treason. But then, Sarana Arison was not the type of woman who would order her own sister killed. Unfortunately for her, Sana Arison was.

Sana Arison was forced off Aronian soil, vowing vengeance against all those who had wronged her. At the thought of that, Zartan had to laugh. All Saran Arison had done to wrong Sana was being born first and stubbornly refusing to die, at her sister's convenience.

She then did something that no one ever expected, least of all Zartan. She defected to the Empire, revealing secrets, which had been guarded by the Aronians for Millenniums. With her aid, the Empire was able to execute the first ever-successful major strike against Aron 10 years later. Both of Aron’s rulers were killed, leaving behind two young heirs, Torana and Faline, the crown princess. Aron lived under Zarconian occupation for 8 full years, but under the banner of a young Torana Arison and with the leadership of two former Aronian majors, Anna Devane and Rachel Triany, an underground was formed, which with the help of the Alliance managed to definitively throw the Zarconians out of Aron. Aron enjoyed a five year rule under Princess Torana, who chose Colonels Triany and Devane as her regents. The Princess had ordered her previous regents executed for treason shortly after her rule began, when she discovered they had been stealing from state coffers and selling state secrets to the Zarconians. Her aunt had taught her an important lesson: never show mercy to traitors; they will only use it to destroy you.

Her older sister, Faline, had been smuggled off Aron shortly after the occupation had begun, to relatives of their father’s on Hatiora. When it was established that Aron was once again safe and stable, she was returned to the planet to take her rightful place as Queen. Her sister stepped down as sovereign of Aron to make way for the crown princess. She had never taken the title Queen of Aron.

Sana had since then sent several assassins against her sister's progeny, each time they had failed. All the while she rose to power within the Empire, taking a place of choice within the Zarconian military. She was one of the most powerful and despised women in all Zarcon.

"Seriously, what are you going to do about this situation between Drake and Luther? We can’t have the heirs to the Empire squabbling in public like spoiled children." Sana began; interrupting the Emperor’s thoughts, they had given up using formal address with each other in private long before becoming lovers.

"Luther has not been doing any squabbling since Hatiora. Luther has not been doing much of anything since that damned offensive." He pounded his fist on the table, rocking it and causing his wine goblet to tumble loudly to the ground. A serving girl immediately appeared, replacing the spilt goblet with a fresh one, while another girl wiped away the growing pool of scarlet wine from the carefully polished white marble floor.

"Zartan, frankly you should have expected it, my dear." she replied. Sana was not one to keep an opinion to herself, simply out of fear it would upset the Emperor. She always spoke her mind with him, unless of course it suited her private agenda not to do so.

"I expected some reaction, Sana, but not this deep depression. All he does is stay locked away in his quarters in the dark. Death to anyone who tries to deviate him from that plan. Even his dearest friends can’t seem to bring him out of this. You know, those two, the stout fellow with brown hair and that tall strawberry blond girl…" Zartan began, Damn he could never remember the names of Luther’s rowdy friends. The truth was, normally he would not care.

"Lord Kee Yera and Lady Kee Maran" Sana supplied.

"That’s right. I can’t simply indulge Luther forever; it’s been months. I need him back in the field. I was going to put him in charge of a major raid on an Alliance supply depot on the border…" Zartan complained, sounding more and more like a child who had been denied his favorite toy.

"Then do it, force the boy to pull himself together. If you continue to coddle him, things will only get worse. He needs to be kept busy. Give his mind something constructive to worry about. Besides he’s getting soft." She whispered, leaning forward just enough to allow him a view of her round, ample breasts. He stroked the soft skin exposed by the open back of her dress.

"Oh, another thing, darling. Keep Drake as far away from Luther as physically possible. Send the crown prince on some errand, to the opposite end of the Empire. Oh, and I suggest that you send one of Luther’s chums along with the boy on the raid, to make sure he does not do something rash or foolish in his grief. Now back to serious matters." she finished, leaning down to kiss him. Zartan waved his arm and the servants quickly filed out of the chamber.

* * *

Pain shot through his back as he moved, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. The shackles he wore around his wrist, attached high above his head to the wall made this impossible. He felt dizzy and weak from hunger. He had been given only a small cup of water and a small piece of bread as nourishment in the past two days. Punishment for refusing his mistress’s advances.

Each time, she would order him into her bed he would refuse. Each time, her response would be the same. He would be beaten or whipped, often both, stripped, then locked and bound in a pitch-black room where he would be starved and tormented for several days. Then he would be released and allowed time to recover. Then the cycle would begin anew.

He stared at the ground blankly. His mind was dull and foggy from hunger. He found it almost impossible to focus on any particular thought for more than an instant. A scream, only slightly blocked out by the stone walls, made him shiver. Another slave being punished. He tried to summon some compassion for this poor soul, but found that he could not. If he allowed himself to care for even an instant he would lose himself in a pit of sorrow and never come out again. He had to think of himself now.

Damn, he cried voicelessly. They were turning him into an animal.

He tried to fill his minds with thoughts of her. It always seemed to soothe him, no matter how distraught he was. She was so beautiful, and so gentle. They had become close after their capture, more than he had ever thought possible. She had helped him get through the unthinkable. He had sworn that he would never let any harm come to her, sworn he would protect her. He could no longer even protect himself, not from his mistress.

His mistress. His mind filled with hatred at the thought of her. Never, never would he give in to her. No matter what she did to him.

* * *

The sound of his bedchamber’s doors gently opening woke Drake instantly. He lay immobile in the darkness, deceiving the intruder into believing he was still asleep. Drake felt someone approaching him, cat like in the darkness. He could barely hear the footsteps approaching his bed. He caught a whiff of familiar perfume and could not manage to suppress a smile. He reached out attempting to surprise his assailant and throw her to the ground. In the blink of an eye, he found himself pinned face down on the bed. He felt a hand roughly slap him on the buttocks. A warm breath caressed his cheek. "When will you learn to stop trying to do that, silly boy?" whispered Sana Arison’s voice. She nibbled on his ear lobe.

"You’ll just have to keep trying to correct me of that habit, madam," he laughed. Try as he might he knew he could not get out of the Aronian’s steely grip. Holding him with one hand, she had him as helpless as if ten men held him. Damn Aronian strength. He struggled a little, trying to worm his way out of Sana’s iron hard hand. He began to anger slightly. He did not enjoy anyone making a fool of him. He heard Sana’s melodious laughter. The Prince relaxed, felling his lover’s free hand stroke him, first his buttocks then the inside of his thighs. She was teasing him, he reminded himself and her teasing was very enjoyable. He became excited at the thought of what was yet to come.

"Looking flushed already?" she chuckled. She slapped him again on the rear. "You know," She said releasing her grip and allowing him to face her. "I have half a mind to give you a good thrashing, Drake Kee Zarcon. You almost ruined everything. Your father almost didn’t send the little bastard on the Banchina raid. Lucky for you I talked him into it. I even convinced him to send along Kee Yera or Kee Maran." She announced proudly.

"Good, two for the price of one. Still I hope he chooses Kee Yera. Killing Lady Kee Maran would be a waste of appetizing female flesh…" Drake reflected.

"You want her?" Sana asked raising an eyebrow.

"She’s a lot easier on the eyes than Kee Yera. Besides, maybe I could teach her some manners." He responded. Why not? Sana had other lovers, including his own father, though Zartan was unaware of her affair with his son. Plus, she had a quarters and several estates full of young male slaves.

"Yes, well I suppose if you look at it that way, it does hold some interesting possibilities. If she survives, I’ll see what I can do. But for now, we must make sure everything is in place. Your man’s contact in the Alliance is valid?" she asked, with Drake every aspect had to be verified. He simply could not be trusted to look after details.

"Of course, he has everything under control. The Alliance will be alerted to the raid long before they reach Banchina. When Luther’s squadron reaches Banchina, the Alliance will be waiting for them, armed and ready. They will be destroyed and then it’ll be bye-bye little brother," he reassured her, grabbing her roughly and pulling her down on the bed. Sana allowed this, returning his passionate kisses enthusiastically.

* * *

The slave shivered with mingled anticipation and fear, as the door to his cell gently opened, letting a soft ghostly light invade the room. The light blinded him, for his eyes were accustomed to near total darkness. He turned his head away from the light. Food, he thought desperately, let it be food and not another beating. Gradually his eyes grew used to the higher level of light, and he turned his head, trying to get a look at his visitor.

His mistress, he cursed inwardly, never in the six months she had owned him, had she herself come into his cell during a punishment. She was carrying a platter of food, and not just a cup of filthy water and a crust of bread, but a crystal pitcher of clear sparkling water with two matching glasses and assorted cheeses, breads, meats and pastries. Jordan starred at it ravenously, then forced his attention to the far corner of the room, trying not to focus on his hunger. The smell of the food carried towards him, as he tried desperately not to recall the taste of such delicacies.

He heard the sound of her shoes scraping the crude stone floor, the sound growing louder and louder, until it stopped altogether. He realized that he was bringing his knees to his chest, terrified of her approach. He closed his eyes tightly, as if she could not harm him if he could not see her. He heard the sound of something being set on the ground, the tray no doubt.

He felt a warm body approach him and a soft strong hand touching his cheek. He heard her pouring some of the water into one of the glasses, then into the other. Tears began rolling down his cheeks. He knew he would do almost anything for that water, anything, but what she required of him. He seriously doubted that he was even physically capable of giving into her demands at that point, he was so exhausted.

He could not control his crying. He tried to turn his face into the concealment of his upright arms, in a vain effort to hide from her. He felt her wet cool fingers on his parched lips. "Hush" she said softly, her breath warm on his cheek. He felt the cool edge of the crystal goblet against his dried lips.

"Drink" she ordered. He obeyed. "Not too quickly, you’ll make yourself sick" she cautioned. She was right, if he gulped it down after being deprived for days; his body would reject it.

"Look at me Jordan" his mistress commanded. Jordan did as he was told, and stared at her with tear filled eyes. Her hands fondled him; he twisted self-consciously.

"Please, I can’t" he begged.

"Hush, none of that, beautiful" she said huskily, wiping the tears off his cheek. "Eat, we’ll talk about the rest later." she ordered, putting a piece of cold roast chicken to his mouth. He quietly ate it. Oh, Vicky please help me get through this.

* * *

The dancer finished applying the deep rose colored gloss to her lips and starred at her reflection in satisfaction. Her blue eyes were perfectly contoured with black charcoal, her cheeks exquisitely rouged and her glossed lips given a sexy fullness. Her stage costume was brief, to say the least. But it was opaque, for the most part and covered her in the right places. It was, actually, much more modest that many she had seen, presented to her master by one seller or another. She was grateful, that he did not force her to wear one of them. She stood up checking her hair one last time. Yes, this would do.

She had only just begun dancing for the public, her training having taken several months, and was still somewhat of a novelty. That, the other girls told her, would pass, eventually and the customer would start leaving her alone. Then a new girl would take her place, and if she did not develop a great enough following, she would be sold to the owner of a similar establishment, probably in another district or city. She should get used to moving around.

She hoped she would establish a great enough following to be kept here. Her owner ran a clean decent little inn. She was entertainment for the common rooms or the taproom, depending on the night. She sometimes gave private performances, for special clients, but those cases were rare. Most of these gentlemen and ladies left her alone; preferring a slave specially trained in the art of lovemaking in their beds.

She would eventually be sent away to train, her master warned her, when she was less in demand as a dancer. Special training schools existed all over the Empire, their only purpose creating perfect lovers. The Royal Kee Sangleen was the best of these, that is were he had vowed to send her. For now, though, she need only worry about her dancing. That was what was attracting the crowds. Secretly, she hoped the crowds would never thin.

"Victoria Girl, get out there" she heard her master’s voice calling to her. She sighed. The inn was full of damned Imperial soldiers. They never could keep their hands to themselves.

* * *

"Oh Victoria, God I love you" Jordan cried out. She was kissing his throat amorously, scratching his back just a little. He’d secretly been dreaming of this for months. He kissed her shoulders, then her naked torso. He could not remember ever being this aroused before. He had to have her, now.

"Yes" She cried out triumphantly as he took her.

* * *

Jordan moaned softly, stretching his limbs. He had had such a wonderful dream. Him and Victoria, they had been making love, over and over again. That was impossible; he had not seen her in months. He rubbed his eyes, trying to force himself awake.

His eyes popped open. He sat up and starred at his hands. He had been chained the night before; his shoulders were still stiff from it. He was no longer in his cell, but in a small sparsely furnished bedroom, sitting on the bed. Then he noticed her standing at the head of his bed, his mistress. She was wearing noting but a short robe. He looked down. Her clothing was pilled on the floor beside his bed.

"No" he screamed furiously.

"That’s not what you were saying last night, sweet. Oh Victoria, God I love you. Who is this darling creature, anyway? I’m a little jealous." she mocked, smiling down at him.

"You bitch, what did you do?" he demanded angrily.

She slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped back hard and he was slammed against the wall by the impact. "Never, ever speak to me that way again or you will beg me to put an end to your miserable existence." She warned. "As for what I did to you, I would think that would be obvious, you imbecile. But, I suppose you mean how. That should be obvious as well, they told me you were a doctor when I bought you. I drugged your food, you ninny. The drug made you very cooperative." She added answering his previous question.

"Why?" he demanded incredulously, shaking his head.

She struck him again, this time not so violently. "You will show respect when speaking to me. I did it because more conventional methods had failed with you. You didn’t expect me to be patient with you forever." she informed him.

She crossed the room to a small dresser on the wall opposite to the foot of the bed. It was an old plain wooden dresser with a small mirror and four drawers. There was a small decanter of what Jordan presumed was water and some glasses on the dresser, as well as a brush and comb, and some small bottles. She paused, poured herself a glass of water, and then drank it down without even glancing at him. She put the glass back on the table absently, and leaned down, opening the bottom drawer of the dresser. She pulled out something Jordan could not yet discern. She turned, snapping the heavy leather strap she held against her naked thigh.

"Now" she said drawing near him, "it’s high time for a lesson in manners. You will learn how a slave speaks to his betters in Sana Arison’s house." Jordan trembled as the most hated woman on Aron and most of the Zarconian Empire closed in on him.

* * *

Zerim pounded on the locked door of Luther’s quarters, as he expected there was no response. He pounded again, and was told unceremoniously to go away. Zerim smiled inwardly; at least he knew now that Luther was still alive. He moved to start pounding the door again, but Sana Arison pushed past him. She’s bad tempered this morning, he thought to himself. Well actually, he had never seen the witch in what he, or anyone sane for that matter, would call a good mood.

"Major Kee Zarcon, open this door immediately, that’s an order." she barked, banging the closed door with her open palm. A loud crashing sound was heard form inside the prince’s quarters, like something heavy being thrown over. Zerim heard the prince’s wobbly footfall, as Luther approached the door. Zerim stepped back just as the door swung open, slamming unmercifully against the wall. Luther loomed in the doorway, dark circles under his eyes, unshaven with a half bottle of Zarilian brandy in hand.

"What in the Caldrons of Kee Gachar do you want, you tramp?" he drawled. Zerim could smell the liqueur on his breath from five feet away. Sana cuffed him hard across the face.

"How dare you strike a prince of Zarcon" he howled, grabbing her by the throat.

"I didn’t. I hit a major under my command, soon to be captain, if he keeps this up, who is acting like a miserable drunk. Let go of me, now," she responded firmly, returning his icy gaze. He released her from his grip. Zerim knew for a fact she could have broken it at anytime. "I have your new orders," she added, handing him a sealed package. "You and Captain Kee Yera are to lead a squadron of battle cruisers to a recently discovered supply base on the border planet of Banchina. Everything you need to know is in that package. You leave in twelve hours." She turned and started to walk away, then turned to Zerim. "Sober him up, and go over the plans before you leave. And I suggest you give him a bath, he smells like a walking corpse." She said, strolling smugly away.

 

Chapter V: Banchina

Luther put his head in his hands, closing his eyes, willing the pain in his temple to subside. It, of course, did not. He had been reviewing the plans his father’s mistress had delivered to him that morning, when his headache became unbearable. The door to his quarters slid open, resonating like a thunderclap in his head. Thank the gods, he was aboard ship, where doors could not be slammed. Someone stomped in, making a level of noise that made Luther wince.

"Don’t worry. You only feel like you’re dying, I assure you my prince." Zerim’s cheery voice filled the room. Luther would have to find grounds to have him executed.

"Could you be any louder? My head might explode, and I could be put out of my misery." Luther asked sarcastically, afraid to raise his voice.

"I could try. What’s the matter? Hangover not the glorious experience you expected?" Zerim laughed.

"I’ve been hung-over before, Zerim. How long will it take to reach Banchina?" Luther rumbled.

"About a month. Don’t worry, your hangover will have subsided by then. I hope." Zerim mocked. Luther glared at him with murder in his eyes. Someday, somehow he would get Zerim for this.

* * *

The old man’s condition grew worse as the night progressed. He had collapsed the night before while on his evening ride. They had scoured the countryside for him all night and finally found him near dawn, collapsed by a small ravine. The healers had been unable to help him or even discern the cause of his sudden illness. He had been unconscious now for hours, and his breathing had grown shallow and was accompanied by a deep rattling noise.

The girl, who had been sitting at his bedside all night, put her head in her hands. It was as much a gesture of grief, as of exhaustion. An old Slave woman put her wrinkled hand on the young woman’s shoulder, imploring her mistress to rest. The young woman shook her head, petting the old nurse’s hand gently. She would stay with her father.

* * *

"Banchina is the third planet of the Polkaris system, and is orbited by a dense asteroid field. Our scientists theorize that this field was created by the explosion of one of Banchina’s moons several million years ago. These asteroids contain high levels of Therisima, a radioactive metal, which as you all know, has the property of blocking long range radar and communications," Zerim declared, as he pointed to a star map which had just appeared on the screen behind him, careful to take in all the room with his gaze. Luther envied him his ease at public speaking.

"This gives us a great tactical advantage. The Therisima works both ways. We will not be able to pinpoint the exact location of the Alliance base on Banchina using Radar, but the Alliance will also have no long rage radar to see us coming," Luther added.

"What’s more, Imperial intelligence has already acquired the exact coordinates of the Alliance base," Zerim remarked, a smile creeping unto his round face. Luther rose from where he had been sitting, and walked around the table to where Zerim was standing.

"We will be taking an extended route to Banchina, going into the Terralus cluster in order to avoid detection. This will prolong the journey by several weeks, but is necessary for security reasons. We do not want the Alliance getting word of our arrival early. For this reason, we have orders to engage any possibly hostile ships we encounter; by hostile I mean any ship which might contain Alliance sympathizers." The prince informed the small group assembled in the lead ship’s conference room. Officers on other ships were following the discussion via video conferencing.

"Because of the said asteroid belt, landing large ships on the surface of Banchina is extremely difficult, time consuming and potentially dangerous. That is why we are choosing to send down troops in small ten man transports, which will be able to navigate the belt more efficiently." Zerim told them.

"I need not tell you of the extreme importance of this raid," Luther began over embellishing, "the alliance will be seriously hurt by it and its movements and activities seriously curtailed in this region. His Majesty the Emperor is counting on each and every one of you."

 

* * *

Captain Torana Arison tapped her light pointer absently on her desk, as she tried to read three different reports at the same time. She had a splitting headache. She had barely slept the previous night. Her mind wandering on things she could not possibly change, for the moment at least.

A sudden visit by Colonel Masters had disturbed her more than she cared to admit. They had both gone directly to the business at hand and avoided socializing, as they would have in the past. She had been gone for over six months, with no trace. Her family never spoke of her. It was as if Victoria Smith had never existed.

Yet Faline had written that Victoria’s mother, Sarah was forlorn and inconsolable. The Queen had described her as a corpse which death had refused to claim, for though the body lingered on, her soul had been lost with her daughter. Doctor Smith went about her daily activities showing no signs of noticing them or of caring. She had given up her research work on cybernetics, a project begun years before with her late father. It was her life’s work in fact. Victoria had collaborated with her on several projects, but now that she was gone it seem that Sarah Smith’s will to live or do anything had disappeared with her daughter. Jacob, the Queen’s husband and Sarah’s uncle, Faline said, doubted Sarah would even continue seeing patients very much longer.

Victoria’s brother and father had dealt with her loss in a different fashion. They had poured themselves into their work. The Colonel taking aggressive action against the Zarconians whenever he got the chance. His attacks against the Empire had become more and more bold in the past few months. Torana sometimes feared he used his position to fulfill his personal vendetta with the people who had taken his only daughter from him. So far his hatred of the enemy had served the Alliance, but Torana wondered if Jonathan Masters’ judgment might someday soon be compromised by his strong feelings towards the Zarconians. Victor was almost as bad, spending long hours on base to the point of neglecting his wife and child.

Damn the Empire anyway! How many lives had it destroyed in one attack? Bitter irony, the Salvation was not even a ship designed for combat, although like all Alliance vessels it was well armed. Its mission had not been offensive. But then who expected the Zarconians to show any kind of scruples. One only had to think of what they had done to Hatiora. Torana tightened her fist someday they would pay. All empires must fall.

"Captain" a voice broke her from her reverie.

"Yes, corporal" She asked, looking up at him.

"Colonel…" The corporal was cut off, Jonathan Masters brushing past him and entering her office before being announced. "We have them, Torana. We have those bastards!"

"Calm down Colonel Masters. Who exactly do we have?" she questioned. Masters looked near fanatical.

"The Zarconians, Torana, that’s who we have. Intelligence has just confirmed they are on route." He declared triumphantly.

"On route to where?" she had learned long ago to take Alliance intelligence reports with some skepticism.

"Here, they are planning to attack this station. Torana, the force Leader is Luther Kee Zarcon."

"The Luther Kee Zarcon. Corporal get me Major Paxton, now," she ordered instantly. Skeptic or not, a prince of Zarcon was a fish she would not mind catching.

* * *

The drums played on in the background. The sky was a murky gray, befitting such a solemn occasion. The tempo of the drumming increased. The turn out was good for the funeral of such an important man, a lord, a great warrior, a great commander and an adequate father. Like all men of power, he had always intended to spend more time with his only child, but matters of state or of war had always kept her from him. He had long been envied within the Empire. He was wealthy and respected, considered a great man of politics and of war by friend and foe alike. His last conscious thoughts however had not been of internal policies, or even of tactics, they had been of a woman who was virtually a stranger to him, his daughter.

Now Genera Kee Maran stood looking into the sunset, mourning a man she barely knew.

The drums beat faster. The sun dove below the horizon. The drums stopped. Flames began engulfing the funeral pyre. The voice of the priest of Kee Garran cried out the ritual blessing of departure, his voice seeming distant to her. Genera’s eyes scanned the darkening heavens. She should be out there.

She had been assigned to a new mission, an assault on Banchina, but had requested a leave when her father had suddenly taken sick. It turned out he had been terminally ill. The physician had been unable to uncover the cause of his death, and had ruled it old age. Tissue Samples were still being analyzed in the hopes of being able to someday uncover the cause of his mysterious illness.

On Zarcana, to keep a body from its meeting with Kee Garran would be unthinkable. In fact, the Emperor had only recently allowed physicians to defile the deceased’s body by gathering samples after his or her death. Tiring of the rash of unexplained deaths that would suddenly befall men and women opposed to powerful Zarconian houses, his Imperial Majesty Zartan overruled the protesting order of Kee Garran, and gave the Physician’s guild the sole power to order the procedure. Miraculously, the number of mysterious deaths within the Empire had diminished.    

* * *

The operation had begun as anticipated. The Tennies, or Kee Polles ten man attack fighters as they are officially called, had begun their decent just as predicted, seemingly unimpeded, when out of nowhere Alliance fire began to rain down on them. A virtual fleet had without warning emerged from the cloaked side of the planet. Then as they engaged the Alliance ships, another few squadrons of them appeared from the larger asteroids in the field just behind them. Only one possible way they could have known we were coming, Luther reflected just before passing out, we were set up. But by Whom? Far away Sana Arison laughed.

* * *

They had them. Oh it felt good, to finally have a victory against the Zarconians. It had, however, taken some doing to prevent Jonathan Masters from annihilating every Zarconian in site, but finally he had seen reason.

How his only daughter’s capture had changed the man. Jonathan Master had always been a competent soldier, he still was, but he had lost his objectivity with regards to the Zarconians. This lack of clarity towards their greatest foe, Torana feared, would someday cost the Alliance dearly. But, for now, the Alliance had triumph over the enemy. The holds were full of Zarconian prisoners, some fairly high-ranking officers. Some probably lords. All of which had to be processed, and interrogated. The Empire’s strange military organization made it difficult to identify the ranks of officers. There seemed to be no fixed Imperial uniform.

Torana had to admit that the alliance’s more democratic military approach made more sense, even if it sometimes conflicted with her home world’s own ideology. It was about time the old crones on Aron woke up anyway. Torana had learned through her service in the Alliance how valuable male input could be in military affairs. Men meddling in war, it was unthinkable on Aron. At least, it was before the arrival of the Terranians. Faline’s marriage to their leader Colonel Jacob Samuel Morgan had irreversibly forced the change. Yet, some of Aron’s more conservative factions still resisted, and protested quite loudly. Evolution, however once it starts, is unstoppable. There were now 8 male officers in the Aronian Army, not many compared to the thousands of servicewomen, but more than ever before.

Torana idly pressed a few keys and files of various prisoners flashed before her green eyes. These told her nothing; preliminary interrogations usually produced little with Zarconians anyway. Torana had never seen a more close mouthed bunch that the Zarconians. Making them talk was difficult, to say the least. The princess grudgingly had to admit that that was one thing she actually admired about the Zarconians; they took a lot of hurting before they started to talk. Now, it was her job to see that the Alliance get as much as possible out of them.

"Send the first one in corporal." She said while punching the button on her desk, which activated the intercom system.

* * *

Traitor, the thought had been eating at Zerim all night. Someone had betrayed them. He was certain of it. The Alliance strike had been too well coordinated, too well planed. It was as if they knew the fleet was coming. They had to have. What the Imperial forces had walked into was a trap.

The light from a nearby window shone in Zerim’s face, blinding him and sending spots into his vision. It made his head ache. He moved reflexively to put his hand to his temples, but the restraints around his wrists prevented it. He was surprised how much this bothered him. Both arms had been pinned behind his back shortly after his capture; at least that is what he had been told by the young sandy hared lieutenant he had awoken next to. Zerim had been knocked senseless during the final minutes of the attack. He had come awake several hours later in shackles. He and several other Zarconian captives had been put into a tiny dark cubicle, after being taken from their ships.

They had been left there, in the dark for several hours. Being told to "shut their holes" anytime they uttered more than a whisper. A few times the guards had come in to reinforce the point, giving the culprits a solid thrashing. Then little by little, the guards began moving the prisoners to separate locations. Zerim and his escort, an old battle scared reptilian Wedar, were now rounding a corner and heading down a narrow corridor. As they reached the end of this small passage the Wedar opened a heavy windowless metal door and shoved the Zarconian inside. This room was much darker than the harshly lit corridor outside. The abrupt change in lighting temporally blinded Zerim, so he did not instantly realize that he was not alone in the room.

"Sit down" commanded a heavily accented female voice, in grammatically perfect Zarconian. As he turned, to locate the source of the voice, Zerim was grabbed by the collar and roughly sat on a chair in the center of the room.

"When I tell you to do something, I expect it to be done, immediately. Is that understood?" asked the owner of the voice. Now that his eyes where adjusting to the dimness, Zerim could see his captor clearly. She was a stunning red hared Aronian. Even if she had not been wearing the Asnasha, the traditional female headpiece, the strength with which he had been thrown onto the chair would have told him that much.

"Well?" she asked. When he still did not answer him she slapped him across the face, so hard his ears rang. He knew from having seen Sana Arison operate that she had not used even a fraction of her incredible physical power. "Is that understood?" she repeated more calmly.

"Yes" he finally answered, staring boldly into her emerald eyes.

"Good, then we’ll get along fine," she said, smiling down at him amicably. She looked very familiar. The Aronian leaned back against a large table, picking up an electronic note pad. "Shall we begin?" she asked pleasantly. Zerim thought bitterly that, her manner reminded him of his dentist.

"If you wish" Zerim mumbled, as she circled around him. Without warning she cuffed him in the back of the head. He almost leapt from his chair in rage, but remembering where he was, thought better of it.

"If you wish, ma’am. Or sir, if you prefer" Ancient military etiquette on most planets proscribed that all officers, regardless of sex, be addressed as sir. The Alliance had adopted this policy early on in order to quell some of the more traditionally patriarchal member planets' objections to Aron’s growing influence on Alliance policies. A not so subtle insult to the matriarchal Aronians. Calling an Aronian woman sir was about the same as calling a group adolescent boys "girls". Out of respect, most addressed the Aronian officers as ma’am.

"Yes sir" Zerim responded, his head pounding. She smiled at him coolly.

"Your rank" she asked, her voice dripping with anticipation.

"Yes let’s begin, sir " the young Zarconian lord answered sarcastically.

* * *

Zerim lay on the floor of the small interrogation room exhausted. The cool tiles feeling good against his bruised cheek. His ribs hurt, he was fairly certain she has broken one or two of them. His left eye had nearly swollen shut.

Their little dance had gone on a long time. The same steps always repeated. She would ask a question, and he would refuse to answer or even speak. She would hit him in reprisal. At first she held her blows, but with each turn of the dance she became more enraged and frenzied. At last, when Zerim could hold his tongue no longer, he began to scream at the top of his lungs. He cursed her as long and as loudly as he could manage, reciting every obscenity he had ever heard, and some he made up on the spot. He swore at her in his own language until he ran out of new curses, and then gifted her with the two or three he knew in hers. His throat was so hoarse in the end that he could barely speak.

Dizziness stole over him, and the Zarconian lord began to feel lightheaded. Finally no longer able to support his own weight, Zerim slumped over to one side and fell to the ground. Distantly he felt his tormentor kicking him, albeit she was making him more nauseous than anything else.

Now he could feel her standing above him, looking down at him. He heard her quiet footsteps edging away from him. Strange, she was walking almost like someone taking care not to wake a sleeping child. Behind him, Zerim heard the heavy door gently creak open. Strange words in a musical foreign tongue floated back to him.

His clouded mind managed to recognize the words as Aronian. Something about making ready for docking or rather the dock. Another voice replied, this time Zerim had no difficulty understanding the reply. Yes Captain Arison. Arison. That had been where he knew her, Princess Torana Arison. He had seen faraway shots of her face on intel report, not to mention on Aronian currency. Zerim closed his eyes wearily. Failing to recognize her highness seemed like a fatal error, but after all what did it change?

* * *

"You do not expect me to give him the drug when he is this mangled?" asked another redhead, this one much older than the princess. The woman was in her mid fifties. Her curly hair was cropped short and was only now beginning to be streaked with gray. She was much shorter than the princess. Standing with her hands on her hips, she regarded the younger woman with a look of grim determination.

"Look Ingra, I know you don’t approve of our methods, but you know as well as I do that we need this information as soon as possible." The princess said smoothly. They had obviously had this argument before. Zerim strained to understand what the two women were saying, they were speaking Aronian faster it seemed to him than was anatomically possible. New slaves from foreign worlds had said the same of his Zarconian, and for the first time he understood what they had meant. By the time his weary brain had translated a word they had spoken, they had uttered another three. He had been proud of his Aronian, considered it excellent in fact, he realized now that he had been grossly mistaken, but somehow he managed to understand the gist of their conversation. We did not like what he heard.

Zerim, bruised and beaten, had been unceremoniously dragged out of the small interrogation room. The trip between there and the tiny room, in which he was now, was fuzzy in his mind. He was not even certain he had been conscious the entire time. They had removed the restraints from his wrists and then his tunic, sat him on a chair, and then strapped him to it.

"Well, did you have to beat him this badly?" the older woman asked irritably.

"Have you ever seen what happens to a prisoner who talks, and comes out without a bruise on him?" Torana said, her voice rising in anger. She cut off the other woman before giving her a chance to respond. "His compatriots slit his throat for treason, that’s if they don’t have time to beat him to death first."

"He should be allowed to rest before I administer the serum." The older woman said in a low voice.

" I would just have to start over doctor LiseHansen. No one wants that. He can rest after." The Aronian responded in an even tone.

"If it does not go well, if I feel we are putting him in danger…" the Ingra began.

"We’ll stop, of course. I don’t take pleasure out of this doc, but we are at war with these people."

Doctor LiseHansen walked behind Zerim. She returned carrying various items, which she deposited on a table just behind him. He heard a grinding sound, as the back of his chair began descending, forcing him into a horizontal position. She smiled down at him grabbing a strand of rubber from the table and tying it tightly around his upper arm. She placed two electrodes, which had been hanging from the chair on his chest after wetting them with some sort of cool liquid. She reached down to the side of the chair and a switch. A strange light began running up and down his body and a high pitched beeping sound filled the room. A screen to his left flared to life showing various graphs.

"Don’t be alarmed, that light will not do you any harm, it is simply taking your vital signs." Said the doctor, in only slightly flawed Zarconian, with a slight smile seeing him eye the moving beam of green light speculatively. She reached behind him and picked up something off the table behind him. It was a syringe and a drug vial. She flipped the vial upside down, emptied the air out of the syringe. She began tapping the middle of his upturned arm. The beeping sound grew more frantic; this must be his heart rate he realized.

"If you want to answer her questions before I inject this into you, this is your last opportunity." She said looking down at him in sympathy. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the syringe. He felt the small prick of the needle penetrating his skin. Almost instantly the beeping grew faster.

Captain Arison came to stand in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked down at him, a grim look of determination in her green eyes.

* * *

Ingra carefully helped the young Zarconian sit up. He leaned on her wearily, shivering violently. Tears streamed down his cheeks freely. He was covered in cold sweat and vomit, having thrown up several times. Her fingers found his wrist feeling for his pulse. It was still frenetic. She heard Torana leave, quietly closing the door behind her. Ingra did not look up to see her go. She had been about to stop the young man’s torment when he began to crack. So they had plowed on, getting as much information out of him as possible. Finally satisfied, Torana had stopped.

The door opened. Ingra looked back and watched corporal Vallasez walk in carrying a blanket. He quietly handed it over to his supervisor. Gently Ingra unfolded it and wrapped it around the trembling Zarconian.

"We are going to take you to another room now, so I can examine you." She said in her soft exotic voice. She felt him stiffen. "It will be all right. It is over. I won’t harm you." She whispered soothingly. Vallasez walked over to the young man’s other side, and knelt down before him.

"Do you feel well enough stand with our help, Zerim?" Vallasez asked in a mild voice. The Zarconian lifted his head at the mention of his name staring at Vallasez with a pained expression on his face. Finally he nodded. Ingra and Vallasez wrapped their arms around him aiding him to his feet. He stood, wobbly and weak.

"You see that door over there?" Ingra asked pointing to a small door on the far side of the room. Zerim nodded exhausted. "Do you think you can make it over there?" she asked. Zerim looked at the small door, the few feet that separated it and them seemed a mile. He sighed, then nodded.

Zerim’s legs wobbled, and he had to rest most of his weight on Doctor LiseHansen and the other man’s shoulders. Even so, when they reached the door he could barely stand. The door snaked open automatically as they approached.

Once inside the other room, Zerim saw that it was much like the room they had just left, except that instead of the reclining chair was a large examination table. The exertion taking its toll, he was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. Ingra sensing what was wrong reached beside the table and picked up a small basin. Zerim retched into it until he was certain his stomach must be empty, and then was left with dry heaves that twisted and cramped his gut painfully. Finally it ended and Ingra set the still full basin on the counter next to the examination table. They maneuvered him to the side of the table, and then they gently lowered him down onto it.

"Corporal would you please get rid of that?" Doctor LiseHansen asked, pointing at the basin, as she helped Zerim lie back. With a genial "Of course, Doctor", Corporal Vallasez walked over to the counter and left the room bowl in hand. Ingra gently removed her patient’s boots. She walked around him and pressed a button, the table on which he was lying was raised several inches. Picking up a pair of scissors, she began cutting off what was left of his clothing. "Don’t worry fresh clothing will be provided for you, they wouldn’t have let you keep yours anyway." She told him seeing him about to protest. "Now, I want you to please tell me immediately if anything I do hurts you" she added moving along with her work.

* * *

Zerim drifted in and out of sleep, his entire body wracked with pain. He still felt nauseous, and was experiencing a painful stiffness in the joints. He was fairly certain he was running a low-grade fever. This, the doctor had told him, was a normal side effect of the drug she had administered to him. She had examined him thoroughly. Two of his ribs were broken and she was afraid he might have a concussion, but aside from that he was in remarkably good health.

After the examination had been completed, the orderly, the same one who had helped him into the room, returned to take him to the ward in which he was now. This time Zerim did not have to walk, but was placed on a cold metal gurney. The corporal threw a cover over him and took him to a small shower room, where he gave his patient a good washing. Zerim was silently grateful for that. Having the filth washed off of him felt wonderful. He had been given clothing as promised, a large white hospital gown. He had then been wheeled to a large locked room. It was filled with other Zarconian patients in various states of disrepair. The orderly then put him to bed and told him to ring if he needed anything, indicating a small button mounted on a box on the frame of his bed.

The room he had been left in was long and narrow, lined with beds from wall to wall. It was painted in a dull greenish shade and it smelled strongly of disinfectant. Sounds of coughing and moaning filled the air, cut by the occasional noisy snore. A guard sat just outside the door, absorbed in a one-sided game of cards. Occasionally he would turn, look through the doorway making sure nothing was amiss, and then satisfied he would return to his play. Once every couple of hours a young woman in an Alliance uniform would come in, quietly checking the patients one by one, seeing to their individual needs.

Zerim laying under warm gray woolen blankets looked around the room taking in his new surroundings, trying to understand the alien world he was now trapped in. He knew only one thing for certain, that he would never see his home again.

* * *

Luther tried to close his eyes, but in vain the slaves all around him bustling here and there seeing to his care were driving him mad. He had ordered them out several times already, but the staff of healers that his father had hired would hear nothing of it. With the emperor himself on their side, the injured prince was completely helpless.

To Zartan it was inconceivable, that his son would not need or want the servants around. The Emperor, like his predecessors had been raised a true Zarconian noble, considering himself above menial work. Submerged in ostentation and debauchery, Luther’s father had never had to lift a finger. The small labors performed each day, which kept life running smoothly, were beneath him.

His son, on the other hand was not born prince of Zarcon. Luther had worked the fields as a child. The prince had started his day before dawn and ended them only just after dusk. He had planted the rich fruits that curtained most of Cellos 3. He had stomped grapes barefoot, in the time honored tradition of wineries all over the Empire and beyond. He had carried wine barrels larger that himself, the freighter which would carry the delicacy to the noble and wealthy of the Empire. He had had no servants to look after his every need. He had groomed himself, washed himself, dressed himself and fed himself for twelve years, at those that he remembered. Having so many superfluous people around to care for his slightest whim seemed ridiculous.

He remembered his embarrassment, when as a twelve- year-old boy, three servant girls had filed into the room to bathe him. His cheeks scarlet, he had shooed them away. He was perfectly capable of cleaning himself; he was not a baby after all.

Even now he still made his own bed every morning, as if afraid his old foster mother, Jelora, would pop through the door scolding him if he did not. All the time he was aware a palace servant would be along to change the sheets minutes later. When he spilled something he cleaned it up. He felt ludicrous calling someone to do it for him.

Like most quarters in the Imperial palace, Luther’s contained several rooms set aside for slaves. His were empty. The only servants the prince’s rooms ever saw, were palace servants common to all the residents of the Imperial grounds. Many of the nobles in the palace considered this lack of form scandalous, but the Emperor’s son did not care. He simply could not tolerate the thought of having all those people around him night and day.

Luther enjoyed his solitude, probably more than most people. Oh, he had many friends, but sometimes he enjoyed being alone. As a slave he had never really been allowed to be alone. There was always some overseer watching over his every move, and when his workday was done, he came home to a small servants' quarters in which 3 families lived. It was not a shanty. It was clean, warm and dry. The master kept it in good repair as not to have it clash with the rest of the grounds. However with all the children sleeping in a large common bedroom, Luther had rarely ever had a moment to himself. Those he did have he learnt to cherish. Having multitudes of servants buzzing around him and all the extra protocol they entailed seemed to him simply a different form of bondage. He had once mentioned this very thing to Zerim and Genera. They had just stared at him uncomprehending. Finally Genera had laughed, saying: "My, my prince you do have some peculiar ideas." It seemed to him that they and his father spent more of their time worrying about what the slaves would think or what the other nobles would say, and what the courtiers would do than they did doing anything constructive.

Of course there was another reason Luther did not like having slaves around, one he would never admit to even himself. He did not feel worthy around them. Deep inside his soul, Luther could not accept the fact that he was free and that they were not. He did not feel he deserved to be free. Ancient doctrine pronounced that if an enemy allowed himself to be captured, that he forfeited his freedom and that he was in fact giving himself to you to do as you pleased. A true Zarconian would therefore fight till his last breath. Thus Zarcana had justified millennia of slavery, though few actually believed in these principals anymore. Luther thought because of them felt unworthy. He had not defeated his enemy. He was someone else’s property one moment, and a free noble prince of the Empire the next. He never felt he deserved the honors bestowed on him. At least, no more than hundreds he had know in his youth. Having the servants around only served to remind him of this, so he did not keep them.

But after Luther had returned from Banchina hurt and sick, his father had descended upon him, along with dozens of suffocating servants, insisting that proper care be taken of his Imperial Highness. Luther had gone along with this, not having been given much choice in the matter.

Luther’s eyes shot open, at a sudden drop in the noise level. He looked up to see his older brother march in, the servants bowing to him as he went along. He sat down on the edge of the bed taking no care not to jolt the patient, even though there was an empty chair besides Luther’s bed. Luther did his best not to wince still feeling sore and tender all over. He propped himself up as best he could, and crossed his arm staring back at Drake with a baleful gaze.

"What do you want Drake? I know you haven’t come to see how I’m feeling." Luther asked moodily.

"On the contrary my brother, I was very happy to hear from the healers that you’re recovering quite nicely. You know we were afraid we had lost you, little brother. Father, and I of course, would have been inconsolable." Drake answered the fake smile he had assumed upon entering still firmly attached to his face.              

"I’m sure" Luther muttered irritably.

"But another matter than your health, though not one unrelated, brings me here today. We have discovered the identity of the traitor who sent you into a trap." Drake told him, a strange gleam in his eyes. Luther, his interest peeked, failed to notice.

"Who?" he asked, momentarily forgetting his animosity for his brother.

"I’m sorry Luther, but it was someone you know" Drake began delicately, Luther should have noticed the look on Drake’s face, but he did not.

"Who Drake, by Kee Garran who?" Luther demanded, sitting up in his excitement.

"Lady Kee Maran, of Zarillion" Drake responded in a voice so low Luther had to strain to hear him.

" You swine, get out of here you liar. Genera Kee Maran would sooner cut her own throat that betray the Empire." Luther screamed pushing at his half-brother.

"I’m so sorry, Luther, but it is true. I suspected you would not believe me," Drake sighed, rising from the bed. He clapped his hands, a fat house slave came running in head bowed; he handed a file over to the crown prince. Drake shook his head sadly for emphasis, then continued "It’s all here, all the sordid little details. I’m terribly sorry. Father wanted to wait to tell you, but I thought you had the right to know." He handed Luther a leather bound folder covered by the Imperial seal. Luther opened it quickly glancing at the first few documents.

"Get out, and take the rest with you" Luther whispered between clenched teeth.

 

Chapter VI: Sentence and Trial

Genera Kee Maran paced around her small cell. Imperial soldiers had arrived at her family’s estates late the previous night, headed by Lord Kee Widoce. Jerar Kee Widoce and Genera had the man. They had known each other a long time, since her days at the Academy. She had never liked him. A slight man, Jerar was pushy and overbearing. Genera personally thought that he believed he could make up for his diminutive stature by having as big a mouth as possible. He had calmly requested Genera come with him. When she had asked why, two of his men had seized her and informed her she was under arrest for treason.

Genera had tried to get more information out of Kee Widoce, but he proved unusually closemouthed. Upon arriving at the palace she was immediately brought to the tower, where she was searched and given the white linen robes she was now wearing, since then she had not seen another soul. She would have been offended by the odor of the small humid chamber had she not been so preoccupied. Treason. How could anyone believe her capable of that? She was a decorated officer, only child of a Zarconian war-hero. She had demonstrated her loyalty on the field on many occasions. How could they accuse her of this?

A thunderous banging on the door broke her out of her reverie. A guard's contemptuous voice ordered her to go to the back of the cell. She edged her way to the back wall, and the guard opened the door after having verified her position through a small sliding opening. A dark figure materialized in the doorway. A heavyset man set against the harsh light, for a moment she imagined it was Zerim, but that was impossible he had gone missing during the Banchina raid. She scolded herself for having silly daydreams, allowing her mind to see what she hoped desperately to see.

"Lady Kee Maran," the figure greeted. He stepped in bowing to her. Turning to the guard he asked " Could we please have some light in here please."

"I am Foppar Loryan, I have been selected to be your advocate." He told her by way of introduction. The guard handed him a candlestick, which he took hurriedly. Taking Genera by the arm he led her to the corner of the room to a small table. The door slammed loudly behind them. Loryan sat down indicating that Genera should do the same.

"I would imagine you have much to tell me" he began setting down the candlestick and a folder Genera had not noticed he had been carrying.

"No not really my…" she began. She flushed in embarrassment.

"Yes I am a freeman, my lady," he said with a smile.

"I’m sorry, ugh, sir" she whispered.

"Why did you pass wind, my Lady?" he murmured in conspiratorial tones, leaning towards her sniffing the air. Genera stared at him openmouthed for a moment, then began to giggle hysterically. He grinned at her. She laughed until she thought she would cry.

"You don’t have to be sorry for me, Lady. Believe me I prefer being a freeman to my previous state" he told her in serious tones.

"How did you…" Genera began, she shook her head "I apologize, that is none of my concern."

"How did I become free? I have no apprehensions about telling you, my Lady. I saved my former master’s youngest daughter’s life. She fell off a cliff. Oh not a very big one. He ran a mining operation you see. Slate. Well the cliff wasn’t very big, as I said, but there was a river running at its base. The little girl almost drowned, but I went in after her and managed to fish her out. Well she had taken in some water, but I managed to save her. You people, you can blast a rock the size of my fist from space, but you don’t even know about artificial respiration." He told her shaking his head.

"And that’s why he freed you" she said more of a statement that a question. Freeing slaves for bravery was common enough.

"Oh he did more than that, he bought me a small house and paid for my education. I still visit the old man from time to time." He said reflectively.

"How long ago was this?" she asked interested, she had never met one like him before.

"Almost twenty years. Don’t worry my Lady, I haven’t just gotten out of school," he said with a wink. Genera blushed. "Now back to the matters at hand. How much do you know?" he continued.

"Not very much, I was told I was being charged with treason." she answered.

"Among other things, my dear" he said sympathetically. "They are charging you with the attempted murder of the prince, and treason in relation to the failed Banchina raid."

"That’s ridiculous, Luther is one of my dearest friends. Why would I try to have him killed?" she shouted in outrage.

"They have proof, Lady Kee Maran" He began guardedly.

"What kind of proof? I did not do this," She said, slamming her fist into the table in exasperation.

"Copies of communications between yourself and accomplices connected with the conspiracy, letters in your hand describing how and when to contact Alliance representatives, Large sums transferred into your private accounts preceding the attack and following it’s failure, copies of Imperial Battle plans found in your quarters and at your estates, a hidden transmission made from your study at your family estate to Alliance territory." He began enumerating.

"But I was supposed to go on the Banchina raid, if my father had not passed away suddenly…" she began, suddenly going pale.

"You are also being charged with the murder of Lord Urar Kee Maran, my Lady".

* * *

"Are you insane woman?" the Emperor screamed, he was slightly drunk, a state that did him no great service.

"Why?" Sana asked stretching out catlike on his bed.

"Telling me to spare that little bitch. I will see her ugly little head roll off of her shoulders Sana." Zartan screamed leering down at the Aronian.

"First of all" Sana said sitting up crossing her legs. "You don’t think she’s ugly, I have seen you look at her, my love." She chided. "Second" she continued, "I never said spare her, I said you don’t have to kill her"

"Why spare her life, she almost cost me the life of my son" He responded angry.

"I wasn’t aware you were that close to Luther." even before the irritated words had left her lips, she knew they where a mistake. Zartan’s slap in response was hard; it would have brought tears to her eyes had she been a Zarconian woman. She was not a Zarconian, however. Her Aronian blood boiled in anger over this humiliation, having him strike her in this manner.

He glared at her. "Never question my feelings for him ever again, Sana" he told her furiously. He started trembling. The intoxication was bringing his hidden emotions to the surface. "I know more than anyone that I have never been the father that he deserves, and that he hates me, but that does not mean that I don’t love my own son." he sobbed sitting on the edge of the bed his head in his hands. Sana sneered, weakling, she thought, just like your youngest son. She put her arms around him.

"He does not hate you my love, but he is still bitter about the entire Ariel Hatiora fiasco," she said softly.

"I know he is" Zartan said straitening regaining some of his composure.

"He has already lost his dearest friend in the raid, I think loosing another would be a blow he could not take" She said sounding concerned.

"But she is guilty. She is responsible for the loss of his friend. She murdered her own father." The Emperor protested.

"Luther is not ready to accept that yet." She urged.

"But Sana, She deserves to end with her head on the block. What do you think I should do? Just let her get away with this?" He said exasperated.

"I never said that. Here on Zarcon there is more than one kind block."

* * *

"I will not be speaking to you in Zarconian, no one else will. I will not slow down my Aronian, no one else will. Get used to it. I do not want to hear one word of your stinking native Language. When I call your name you will step to the front and go to the table I indicate, immediately for assignation. If you don’t give any trouble you won’t get any trouble, if you do I’ll make you regret the day of your birth."

Zerim stood in a large hall with about one hundred and fifty other prisoners. They had been marched into the room over an hour before and told to stand still. Zerim could see fidgeting all around him. The boy next to him was shifting his weight from one leg to another nervously. Names where being called. Zerim sighed they where calling names in alphabetical order. Yera starting by one of the last letters in the Aronian alphabet, he knew he would be there quite some time. He was tired and his legs ached. He had only been released from the hospital three days before and was still unaccustomed to being on his feet for long periods of time. The doctor had insisted on keeping him a couple of weeks to allow his injuries to heal. She had been right the nausea, stiffness and fever had passed by the next day, but had left Zerim weak for days. The pain the drug had caused was more intense than anything Zerim had ever felt in his life. The physical blows had been nothing in comparison. It had made him feel as if his brain was about to explode and his body was breaking apart.

They had taken excellent care of him afterwards though. Doctor LiseHansen, he had come to learn, was a kind and gentle person. She had a knack for putting people at ease. She made Zerim forget completely that they were enemies. She was especially good at comforting the young sick and hurt prisoners she was in charge of. Zerim remembered one instance in particular. The young Lord no more than 19 years old, two beds down from his had become excitable one evening. Most of the other physicians, Zerim had observed during his short stay at the military hospital, would simply have shot the youth full of sedatives and been done with it. Not Ingra LiseHansen however, she actually took the time to calm and reassure the boy, who was on his first mission away from the Empire. Then instead of having an orderly hold him down and jab a needle into him, she had simply given him a pill to help him sleep.

Ingra had explained many things to him. First the Aronians did not execute all prisoners, as the belief was widely held in the Empire. The captives would be assigned work duties of different sorts; some Zerim learned would be kept on base to perform menial tasks, this freeing Alliance staff for more important tasks. Others would be sent off to work camps, where they would work on various tasks, including weapons and fuel production. Dr. LiseHansen assured him few of the Zarconians incarcerated actually died. This led Zerim to seriously wonder how this was different that the slavery on his own planet, which the Alliance was continuously criticizing them for. The good doctor assured him they were not slaves and in fact did have rights. These rights being enforced by their captors, Zerim was somewhat skeptical about their seriousness.

Of course, it was not his place to complain he reminded himself crossly. He had allowed himself to be captured, now he would endure the consequences whatever those consequences may be. He had disgraced himself once, and he would not do so again. His cheeks flushed in shame at the thought of how easily he had broken once they had drugged him. His father, had he still been alive, would have been so disappointed in him.

Kee Yera, Zerim, a voice bellowed braking the Zarconian out of his reflections. As calmly as he could, ordering his stubborn knees to stop shaking, Zerim advanced to the front of the room and was directed to one of the officers sitting at the table.

* * *

Despair overcame her and Genera softly started to weep. She sat at the small table her head on her arms crying like a child. She had been in the same small damp cell for days, seeing no one but her advocate. She enjoyed Foppar’s company; he always made an effort to briefly take her mind off her current situation, to make her laugh. Like Advocate Loryan as she might, she found she could barely stand being confined. The smell from the small room cut her appetite and the sound of pleading and screaming made sleep almost impossible. She had come to realize during her confinement that she did not like the dark. Another reason she enjoyed Foppar’s visits, he brought light.

Things were not going well for Lady Kee Maran. Evidence, manufactured out of nowhere it seemed, was appearing daily. People she had never met appeared as witnesses who painted her as the most devious criminal mastermind in the History of the Empire. Foppar at first dubious about her innocence, was now utterly convinced that the prosecutions entire case was rigged. Witnesses do not appear out of nowhere every day two days! If you were such a criminal genius, why did you leave behind so many obvious clues? Foppar had shrieked irate during one of his visits.

Foppar had all his usual investigators searching for those responsible. So far they had found nothing. He was convinced there was a conspiracy and that Genera had been selected as the scapegoat. In order to use a conspiracy defense, he had told her, they had better have the names and dates and places of the people responsible. So far their case was laughable. Normally he informed her, he would have been able in a case like her to discredit the witnesses, but in this case the shear number of them made this impossible. The court would simply think to itself, these people cannot all be lying. There was another problem, on Zarcon the court in these cases consisted essentially of the Emperor. One of the principal victims having been his youngest son he would not be inclined to be magnanimous.

A gentle hand laid on her shoulder. She looked up, through tear filled eyes she saw Foppar standing over her. He placed the lamp he had been holding on the table in front of her. He knelt, wrapping arms that were surprisingly strong around her. Through her crying she had not heard the guard rap on the door or her advocate walk in. She sobbed, her head on his shoulder, while he gently stroked her hair. The gesture reminded her of something her mother did when Genera was a very small girl. Her mother had died when she was very young, leaving her father, a gruff soldier, to raise their daughter on his own.

Finally composing herself, Genera wiped her eyes smiling up at him.

"I’m sorry Advocate Loryan, for loosing control," Genera whispered, lowering her eyes.

"Why? We all do it now and again dear. You are alone, and frightened, if you didn’t loose control now and again, I would be worried about you." He told her sitting down on the bench to her left. He patted her hand soothingly.

"You want to tell me something?" she asked noticing a look of anticipation mingled with dread on his face.

"I want to suggest something actually" He began swallowing hard, then continued "Have you considered, pleading guilty?"

Genera pulled her hand away angrily and stood up. "You still think I did this" she said her voice tense and hard. He put his hand on her arm.

"Of course I don’t, sit down dear" He said softly. Reluctantly she did as he asked. "Genera" it was the first time he had ever used her first name. "Someone is going to great lengths to destroy you. I don’t think I can get you acquitted. I’m sure I can’t." he looked down at his hands. "You were alone at the time these acts were allegedly committed. No one saw you except your slaves, and their testimony is considered invalid, since they are your property. It is your word against dozens of other witnesses, some of which are other nobles. The Emperor is already hostile towards you. If you plead guilty, you can beg for the court’s mercy."

"And destroy the honor of my house, of my family," Genera said angrily.

"Dear there is no House of Kee Maran if you are dead. There is no honor if you are dead" he told her.

"You would not understand" she mumbled, averting her eyes.

He grabbed her by the arms hurting her a bit. "Why, because I’m not noble?" he demanded suddenly angry. "Why? Why?" he demanded shaking her.

"Because you're not of the blood" she spat back, furious once more.

"I could have been" he informed her in a cool voice.

"What are you talking about" she snapped.

"My master, when he freed me, he offered to take me into his house, to adopt me. He would have given me his precious Zarconian name and lineage. I said no." Foppar said forcing her to look into his eyes.

"Why? Why would you say no?" she asked. Her voice was choked turning into a sob.

He put his hand gently under her chin, lifting her face. "Because I already had a name, a name my father gave me. I was proud of that name and I didn’t need other people’s sanction to be proud of it. You know who you are Genera, you know who your family was, who cares what the rest of the Empire thinks. You are very young, you have so much left to live for, so much you haven’t done yet."

She shook her head. "I can not do it. I can’t say I killed him" she whispered through her tears.

* * *

Zerim carefully prepared his cart, filling the shelves with the cleaning products and implements he needed to do his rounds. Making certain he had put everything in the right order and that he had made no omissions. Checking the clock to make sure he was on schedule, he started making his way out the door. "Yera, get your stupid Zarco carcass in here now" screamed a shrill female voice breaking through the silence. Zerim shook involuntarily, casting a weary glance toward the supervisor's office. Other prisoners looked at him in sympathy. He pushed his cart out of the way, as not to block circulation, and hurried towards the office.

He walked in lowering his gaze to the floor. He waited in front of the desk calmly his head bowed. He heard a chair drag along the floor, followed by footsteps and the door being gently closed and locked. As the sound of footsteps drew nearer to him again, Zerim forced himself to stare blankly at the floor. A vicious punch to the stomach brought him to his knees. Rough hands grabbed him by the hair, pulling him to his feet. Sergeant Kedina flung him around making him face her. She cuffed him behind the head. "Are you Zarcos all idiots, or is it just you?" she sneered at him. Before he had a chance to respond she kicked him viciously in the shins. The pain almost brought him to his knees again, but he somehow managed to stay on his feet. Zerim was not certain exactly what he had done this time, but he knew it did not ultimately matter. The angry Aronian woman would have found some reason.

She had taken an instant dislike to Zerim. Within an hour of their first meeting, she had beaten him for showing disrespect. She had complained that he looked at her directly and forcefully informed him that he was to look down in her presence, unless he was instructed to do otherwise. I aint some slave girl ya can your jollies out’a ogling, she had informed him harshly. The rational part of his mind had screamed at him to keep quiet, not to make things worse for himself. His brain lost to his mouth. Zerim coolly informed her that he had much more discriminating tastes, or as close to that as he could manage in Aronian. In retribution she beat him nearly senseless.

Zerim quickly learned the other Zarconians under her command were terrified of her. Her temper was volatile and she was very violent, particularly with Zarconian males. The female prisoners did not seem to have as much of a problem with her. If they stayed out of her way, she stayed out of theirs. The men however were not as fortunate.

She seemed to enjoy hurting them, having absolute power over them. Zerim during his life had known men who treated women this way. He had never liked them. He had never understood them. The idea of striking a woman seemed cowardly to him. He had slapped or otherwise punished female slaves on occasion, he admitted to himself, but he had never enjoyed it, and did it as seldom as possible. Zerim’s father had instilled the belief in him that making the slaves lives pleasant was a far better way to ensure their loyalty than making them fear him.

Sergeant Kedina took a sort of perverse pleasure in hurting others. There were times when she had disciplined him, that Zerim had seen a look of ecstasy on her face. This day she was in fine form.

"D’ya have any idea how long I’ve been on the comm. because of y’a this morning?" She said slapping him hard. "You little shit, y’a missed 6 offices last night, officer’s offices. I’ve had em bitching at me bout it all morning"

"I clean all rooms on my list," Zerim began in broken Aronian, his Zarconian accent becoming more pronounced due to his anxiety.

She punched him in the stomach hard. "Don’t y’a be talking back ta me." She twisted his arm painfully, dragging him to the large wooden desk. "See that, that there is your itinerary" she said punching his face down unto the desk. "Y’a see those ones with the line under em? Those’re the ones y’a fergot."          

"Those w… ere not on my list." Zerim stuttered, having difficulty speaking while being pinned to the desk.

She kneed him in the side, hard. "You stupid and hard of hearing? I said no talking back." She hissed under her breath, twisting his arm harder. Zerim gasped in pain. "Yesterday morning the list changed, changes every two weeks."

"No one spoke to me of this" he answered, silently telling himself that he should keep quiet.

"Figured if y’a didn’t ask, ya’d get out of work right? Well wrong you lazy bum." She screamed suddenly pulling him back and tossing him to the floor. She grabbed a couple of sheets from her desk and tossed them at his face. "I’m doubling yar load, and it had better be done on time, or so help me y’a gonna regret your Pop ever meeting your Ma. Now get out." She threatened walking back to her desk.

Zerim, gathering the papers, scrambled out of her office, holding his side in pain. He glanced at his new list, sighing, she was sending him running all over the base. He stumbled over to his waiting cart, every breath burning. He glanced at the clock. He was already late.

* * *

Genera tried to look composed as parades of witnesses she had never met lied about her one after the other. She was already found guilty. She read as much on his Imperial Majesty’s face. She was going to be found guilty of treason and beheaded. Involuntarily she shivered. She was not afraid of death, as a soldier she had always known that she could be killed in action at any moment; she had been prepared for that. This was different, this she could not defend against.

She glanced over to the Emperor’s sides to the their Imperial Highnesses. Drake leered at her taking a twisted pleasure at her downfall. Luther just stared blankly in front of him, refusing to even look at her. He hates me, she thought sadly, and he believes them. She blinked back her tears. They would not see her break down.

Anger at Luther flared. How could he believe it? He had know her most of his life. They were friends. She felt an intense betrayal that he had taken the word of others about her. He had not even had the audacity to confront her in person, to ask her if these things were true.

Of course with the procession of witnesses that the court was producing she could barely blame the prince. She was beginning to believe she was guilty herself.

* * *

Luther paced around his quarters jittery. Something was not right. He still could not believe the charges brought against Genera. There had to be another explanation. He had known Genera since he was twelve, and every bone in his body told him she would not do this.

He almost tore at his hair in frustration. There was so much evidence against her. No one could possibly manufacture all of it. But kill her own father? Genera and Urar had never had a particularly close relationship, but to kill her own father. Luther had convinced himself that he despised Zartan during some periods of his life, but he had never hated him enough to assassinate him.

Could he have been so wrong about his friend?

* * *

Genera waited anxiously, today was the day her life would be decided. The verdict of her trial would be announced. Foppar patted her hand, as much to reassure himself as to comfort her. The court chamber was filled to capacity. Not nearly as many had attended the actual trial, not wanting to be bothered by the petty details and legalities. The lure of a death sentence however was far too great for the Zarconian aristocracy to miss.

Lady Kee Maran could see many faces she knew in the crowd, some she had once counted as friends. Today they were all here, not to support her, but to catch a brief glimpse of her destruction. Some had gathered to find out how the Kee Maran holdings would be redistributed once she was convicted.

The trial had not gone as badly as her advocate had anticipated. He had managed to discredit several crown witnesses and even proved that one or two had taken tributes to lie about certain details, but the crown’s case was still very persuasive. The small victories had not encouraged Genera; they only reminded her of how impossible Foppar’s task was. It was like chipping away at a mountain with a butter knife.

Foppar Loryan was an excellent advocate, though he revealed to Genera that he believed he had been selected for the opposite reason. Being a freeman and former slave he was considered inferior to other advocates, though several Genera had seen did not have his knowledge or his talents. In the empire of Zarcon, the state selected the advocates for the defendants on serious charges like rape, incest, murder and treason, so that those with fortune and power had no greater advantage than the common man. That was the theory. In practice, those with power could still manage to get the better advocates.

Luther sat to the right of his father’s throne, staring at his lap. He looked to be pondering. Suddenly his eyes met hers. He looked at her uncertainly. There was a loud knocking sound. The bailiff’s staff hitting the ground. She rose and bowed, as did all others in the room. Zartan, Emperor of Zarcon, swept into the room, his long multicolored robes following after him.

He sat, and the others in the room did the same.

"Lady Genera Kee Maran of the planet Zarillion, of our holy Empire stand and be judged." His powerful voice boomed across the large domed chamber. The room went deathly quiet. Genera rose, holding her head high.

"On the charge of the murder of Lord Urar Kee Maran, this court and this Empire find you guilty." there was a not so surprised collective gasp from the stands behind her. Zartan raised his hand to quiet the onlookers. "On the charge of the attempted murder of Luther Kee Zarcon, Prince of this holy Empire, this courts find you guilty. On the charges of treason this court finds you guilty. Further more, this court and this Empire find you guilty of the other various crimes related to these acts you were charged with." The resounding cheer drowned out the bailiff’s pounding of his staff of office. Luther put his head in his hands, overwhelmed. Zartan glanced down at him, hesitated a moment, then raised his arm for silence.

"It is traditional for the Emperor to adjourn, contemplate the case and then reopen the case to pronounce his judgment. I, however, have already given the matter considerable thought during the course of these proceedings. As I have already made my decision, I will waste no more of the court’s time or resources by further delaying these proceedings." The Emperor began, staring at Genera, who was standing rigid before the court.

"This is most irregular your Imperial Highness, and I regret I must object." Foppar said with a slight bow. The bow bordered curtness with its simplicity.

"Your objection is noted, Advocate Loryan, and overruled. I will pronounce her punishment now." Zartan’s voice boomed through the hall. "Genera of the House of Maran are you ready to hear your fate?" he asked the ritual question.

Foppar shook his head at her, grabbing her arm. She could, by ancient law, hold back the sentencing for up to seven days by saying no. Genera, still composed and dignified, looked straight into her Emperor’s eyes. "Yes, your Imperial Majesty"

"Are you also prepared to accept my judgment, Genera of the house of Maran?" he continued.

"Without question, your Imperial Majesty," she answered, falling on her knees before him.

Zartan, slightly startled, took a moment to compose himself. "Your crimes against our Empire are most vile, Lady Maran. I have long considered what would be a punishment appropriate for these crimes." He paused for emphasis, then continued. "First, you are stripped of the title of Lord of Holy Zarcon. Second, you may no longer have the honor of being known as Genera Kee Maran, henceforth when others speak your name it shall be Genera Maran. Let all Imperial scrolls and documents be changed to reflect this change. No where will your name be written or spoken with the honorific Kee. Third, the house of Kee Maran is wiped from the face of Zarcon, there will be no other Lord Kee Maran to remind us of you." At this there was muttering and yelling from the crowd. The first two parts of the sentence where not unexpected, though removing all references of the honorific even from her past deeds of glory was not common, it did happen; but the third was extremely rare. Most in the hall of justice had expected a new Lord Kee Maran would be named, hoping they were candidates, wanting to add the small house’s wealthy holdings to their own. Zartan raised his hand for silence. The bailiff stomped his staff.

"The lands and holdings of Maran will be reabsorbed by the Empire" Zartan continued. "Fourth, and finally" he paused, undecided for a moment, then continued. " The traditional sentence for treason is death by beheading."

"Your Imperial Majesty, Holy leader of our most glorious empire of Zarcon, I beg you to take into account Genera Maran’s excellent service record. She is a decorated officer." Foppar interrupted forgetting to bow with his distress.

"Which reminds me. You are dishonorably discharged Captain Maran."

"But your…" Foppar began desperate.

"Do not interrupt me again Loryan. I have already taken her service record into account. I am well aware of her accomplishments. For this reason she will not be executed." This statement was followed by a real gasp of surprise from the ground and some catcalls from the back of the chamber. Luther looked up at his father in shock. Zartan raised his arms.

"Silence," he howled, and the protests fell mute. "It is my judgment, Genera Maran, that you be put for sale on the main slave block of the city of Zarcon tomorrow morning when auctions begin. The proceeds of this sale will go to the Empire. That is all."

The screaming and howling in the hall that followed could not be silenced no matter how hard the bailiff rapped his staff on the ground. Luther stared after the emperor as he rose and exited the hall without another word.   

Chapter VII: The Consequences Of Their Actions

Foppar had tried to say his good-byes to Genera and tell her that he would continue working on her behalf, but Imperial Guards had taken her away before he could speak to her. He was astounded and delighted by the Emperor’s decision, though he grieved for the agony he knew it caused the girl.

He also grieved for what he knew was going to happen that night. Genera was no longer a lord or considered of the blood, this night she would learn what that truly meant in the eyes of other Zarconians. He shook his head; at least she would still be alive. It was far simpler to have her freed, than to reattach her head to her shoulders. Foppar quietly left the room. He would stay with this case as long as it took. He would not stop until he found the people truly responsible.

* * *

The guards did not return her to her cell in the tower, instead took her down to the dungeons were the common criminals were confined. The guardsmen, sitting at a large dirty table playing cards, grinned upon seeing her, warmly greeting the Imperial tower guards and inviting them to join them. Glancing at Genera the tower guards responded that they would be delighted as they were just now off duty. They handed her to one of the dungeon guards, a smelly fellow with yellow teeth. Instead of taking her to the cellblock further down the hall, he gave her bottom a hard slap and pulled her down onto his lap.

"Shouldn’t you take her to a cell right now?" one of the tower guards asked, staring down at her.

"Why, can’t it wait?" the other replied good-naturedly. Wrapping his sweaty arm around Genera, he nuzzled her neck, biting her. She pushed against him. He raised his hand about to slap her, but one of the tower guards stopped him.

"No, she’s to go to the slave block tomorrow. Do you want to have to pay the devaluation if you bruise her?" he explained.

"She’s not to be beheaded?" He asked in surprise, putting his hand on her breast. She slapped him. The others laughed. Red faced the guard who held her raised his fist.

"Are you deaf? Don’t hit her," the tower guard repeated.

"She hit me. She won’t behave herself," The other man replied.

"Yes she will. And no, she is not to be beheaded," The tower guard answered. "Hold her arms," he instructed the guard. He knelt putting himself level to her. "We will have no more of that. You are going to do as we wish from now on." he began. She seemed about to curse at him, so he put his fingers to her lips. "Do you know why you are going to do as we wish?" he asked softly, his voice no more than a whisper "because if who don’t, we are going to put you in a cell, a cell full of convicts who have not seen a woman in twenty years. We will leave you there all night, no matter how much you beg us we won’t let you out. Some of those convicts are killers; some are serial rapists. They will enjoy you. They will not care if they damage you, they will lose nothing by it." Tears began rolling down her face, and he reached up brushed them away. "Do you understand, Genera?" he entreated tenderly. She nodded. "Good, now I’m going to put my hand up your robes and touch you between the legs, and you are not going to move except to spread your legs for me, nor will you make a sound." He ordered in the same pleasant tone. The guards behind her laughed. She felt his smooth hand brush her calf, slowly making its way higher. It rubbed her knee, pushing slightly against it. She spread her legs.

"Good girl, don’t move" he said brushing his lips against her cheeks. He rubbed the silken hair between her leg, gently working his fingers inside of her. His touch was delicate and probing. "Is that so horrible?" he whispered quietly for her ears only. "We promise you if you obey us we will be gentle, you may even feel some pleasure. Just do as we say. We will keep you here with us a little and later we will take you into one of the empty rooms in the back and each of us will take his pleasure from you. You will not be beaten or tormented. I promise, just as long as you do what your told." He added in a louder voice, looking at the other guards. They all nodded their approval. His fingers continued working in circular motions inside her. He kissed her lips sweetly, then her forehead. He removed his hand, smoothing her skirt. He rose, pulled a bench from under the table, sitting near the guard who held her.

The smelly guard holding her put his hand back on her breast squeezing it gently. He started kissing her. She was sobbing quietly. "Don’t cry, sweet," he whispered, his breath smelling badly of alcohol. He squeezed her bottom. "You like some wine? It’ll calm you down, lovely," he offered as a bottle was passed to him. She nodded. He put the bottle to her lips, letting her take a good gulp. "What’s your name son?" he asked the tower guard.

"Gylur sir, Gylur Kee Nawbi." He answered extending his hand. The other man took it.

"Well Gylur, welcome to my dungeon," the other man said.

* * *

She closed her eyes wearily. They had amused themselves with her for hours. They had not gotten ruff, as promised. She knew they could have done far worse, but her skin still crawled with their touch. She was sore from having been with so many men, but she knew she would have felt worse if she had fought them. Still, she felt wicked for not having resisted them. The threats they had made had terrified her. All throughout the night she had heard the screams from the cellblock. She was still terrified that they would go back on their words and put her with the rest of the inmates.

The door gently creaked open. Gylur Kee Nawbi walked in carrying a blanket and a tray. He knelt next to the cot Genera was laying on, setting down the tray. He unfolded the blanket, tossing it over her. He ran his fingers through her hair. "This is probably the last clean blanket in the place" he smiled, he was a handsome man, she had not allowed herself to notice earlier.

"Thank you," she mumbled. She was grateful. She had been shivering being naked in the cold room.

"I brought you some water and a little something to eat in case you got hungry." He told her, pointing to the tray. She nodded, lowering her eyes. "Try to get some sleep. They’ll be by for you a couple of hour after dawn. No one will bother you until then."

"I will not be placed in a cell?" She asked timidly.

"No. You can stay in here if you want to." He assured her. He turned to leave, but looked back at her. "Goodnight," he whispered, walking out the door.

* * *

"She’s guilty as sin Gylur. She didn’t even put up a fight. The little slut just laid down for all o’us one after the other." The yellow toothed jailer name Rahi laughed.

"She was afraid. She was crying and trembling the entire time. I’ve seen women accused of similar crimes, they throw themselves on their guards, promising anything your dirty little mind can come up with if you help them."

"That’s exactly what she did," another man whose name Gylur did not recall interjected.

"No she let us take her, but she never invited us," Gylur insisted, taking a sip of wine.

"She just played the little frail maiden, because she could see it was sending you, son," Rahi told him patting his arm.

"She acted different with you?" Gylur asked exasperated.

"No, well what are you saying? She’s innocent?" Rahi asked, disgusted with the entire conversation.

"Like every other bum and whore in this place" one of the others yelled out. His friends gave a whistle of approval.

"I never said that. I said her behavior was not typical," Gylur answered, moody.

"Don’t worry bout it, after tomorrow you’ll never see her again. None of us make enough to pay for a piece like that," Rahi said, slapping his knee.

* * *

 

Hands lightly shook her. "Genera, wake up sweetheart" a voice whispered in her ear. She opened her eyes reluctantly, for she had slept fitfully, waking up often in a cold sweat. Gylur was sitting on the side of the cot.

"You did not go home?" she gasped in surprise, seeing his uniform was crumpled and dirty.

                       

"No," he smiled "I thought I would see you off. You had better get dressed, the slavers will be here for you in a few minutes," he told her, handing her the robe she had been wearing the previous evening. She pulled the blanket off of herself, grabbing the robe, hiding herself with it. She felt foolish knowing she had bedded this man only hours earlier. He tried to conceal his amusement. She slipped it over her head.

He reached down to the tray and grabbed a piece of dry bread he had brought for her the night before. "Here, you had better eat something, they probably won’t feed you all day," he said, handing her the bread. She took it, nibbling on it absently. It tasted like sand to her, but she knew he was undoubtedly right. She finished the bread, taking a small cup of water.

"Are you ready?" he asked in a mild voice. She nodded. He stood up, taking her arm. He led her out of the room without a word.

* * *

As soon as they reached the guardroom, Rahi reached out for her. He planted a loud kiss on her, sending her to the friend on his right with a loud spanking. They each in turn groped her a little, until Rahi returned with a pair of shackles.

"I’ll need your wrists now, precious," he said opening the restraints, looking at Genera.

Genera put her arms in front of her. He adjusted the bindings around her wrists as he turned to Gylur a smirk on his face. "Aren’t you going to say good-bye?"

Gylur took her bound wrists pulling her to him. He took her face in his big hands and kissed her cheek. "Good-bye and good-luck," he wished her in a low voice.

It was at that moment that the slavers arrived, taking her away after giving Rahi the appropriate forms. Most of the guards whistled immaturely and blew her kisses. Gylur just looked down, shaking his head. The slavers, accompanied by two burly guards dressed in black leather, took her from the dungeon by a small side exit in order to avoid mobs of the curious and the morose. Still, some had gathered, jeering at her as she was led out of the prison. Efficiently, they tossed her into a waiting transport, dispersing the crowd. Outside, Genera could hear the complaints of the masses that had wanted a better look at the traitor of Banchina.

* * *

Zerim pushed his cart wearily into the hospital. His side hurt him tremendously. Sergeant Kedina had laid into him again that morning. He felt stiff and had difficulty moving. This was the last stop on his scheduled cleaning run, it was the largest and longest place he had to clean, and the place where he was most likely to make mistakes in his hurry to get back to the Broom Closet on time. The Maintenance and cleaning area on base was so nicknamed. Zerim was not sure who had started calling it that. He did not much care, all he knew was that he had to return there within the next hour and a half.

He reached down, slowly picking up a garbage can near the door emptying it into his cart. The movement made breathing difficult. He grabbed his side sucking in an agonizing breath.

"Are you all right?" a familiar voice inquired.

Zerim turned startled, he dimly recognized doctor LiseHansen. "I am fine Ma’am, only winded," he responded lamely.

She arched an eyebrow speculatively. "Really. You are under sergeant Kedina’s command are you not?"

"Yes ma’am," he replied uneasy.

"I see. Zerim, if you ever need to talk to me about something, my door is always open to my former patients," she said, walking out the door. Zerim was astounded she still remembered him. It had been over three months since they had met.

 

* * *

Somehow, Zerim managed to finish his task and return to quarters with two minutes to spare before the doors were to be locked for the night. Had he not, he would be declared missing and when found, he would be put in solitary for 3 days. He did not want to imagine how Sergeant Kedina would punish him if that ever happened.

He unpacked his pushcart quickly, dumping the debris he had collected during his route and cleaning his tools, returning them to their appropriate storage closets. He pushed his cart into its proper place, looking at the worker’s sleeping quarters with anticipation. He felt exhausted and wanted only the comfort of his hard bed mat.

"Yera, my office." Sergeant Kedina’s voice found him just as he was making his way to the dormitory. Zerim shuddered. One of the Alliance guards standing by the door shook his head, looking at the Zarconian in sympathy.

Holding the back of his arms, Zerim hurried into the room. He waited silently as she typed something into the terminal on her desk.

"There you are. What took y’a so long?" Kedina demanded, looking up.

"I am sorry sergeant Kedina, I was going to t...the worker quarters for the night." Zerim answered lowly.

"Well forget it, I gota stay up most of the night filling out these reports, an y’a been elected ta help me. Y’a can start by getting me a cup o’coffea."

* * *

The hours passed and finally, two hours before dawn, the good sergeant had allowed Zerim to find his bed. He closed his eyes exhaustedly, not even bothering to undress. The morning wake-up call came; it seemed just moments after he had drifted off to sleep. He folded up his bedroll and sluggishly made his way to the showers, along with the hundred some odd prisoners working in the maintenance section.

After a half-hearted attempt at grooming himself and a stale breakfast consisting of warm milk and cold porridge with some sort of fruit he was fairly certain was not ripe yet, Zerim blindly prepared the things he needed for his day. Still half-asleep, he made his way outside the compound and down the long series of snaking corridors leading to the first series of offices he was to wash and clean. Had he not been so weary he would have paid more attention to his surrounding, especially going round a blind corner.

A loud bang, quickly followed by a few clatters, brought Zerim wide-awake. Before him an Alliance colonel, soaking wet with his own coffee, was swearing at an astonishing rate. His companion had also been partially drenched. Zerim thought he was going to be sick upon recognizing her. He felt dizzy and leaned on the wall for support. The electronic notepads they had been carrying, as well as what must once have been breakfast lay scattered at their feet.

The colonel’s gaze shifted from the debris to Zerim. The Alliance officer’s face became redder. "I am so sick of these damn people. Even here, they try their hardest to ruin everything."

"Jonathan, it was just an accident," the woman whispered, putting a soothing hand on the older man’s forearm.

"Their kind never means it, Tory," came the response between clenched teeth.

"I am very sorry, no harm was wanted…" Zerim began taking a clean cloth from his cart. He reached towards the colonel about to try to absorb some of the liquid that was staining the front of the officer’s jacket.

"No one was talking to you, Zarco" the officer shrieked, pushing Zerim’s hand away.

"Jon" the woman’s voice interceded.

"No, don’t Jon me. These little parasites have to learn their place." he cursed, wrenching his arm from her grasp. Turning back to Zerim, he screamed like an overzealous drill sergeant. "Was I talking to you?"

Zerim looking down said nothing. This was going to be bad.

"Are you hard of hearing? I just asked you a question. Was I talking to you?" The other man sneered, his voice growing harsher.

"No sir," Zerim’s response was so low it was barely audible.

"Then why were you talking? Do you think anyone care’s for your Zarco excuses." He mocked, putting his face inches away from Zerim.

"No sir" Zerim muttered meekly.

"What did you say, you cowering little piece of shit?" the colonel taunted.

"No sir," Zerim said in a firmer voice, his body straitening.

"That’s better. Your name prisoner."     

"Yera sir, Zerim Yera sir." Zerim responded his stomach knotting.

"Well Yera, it is about time you learnt some manners. If I had the leisure, I would take your sorry backside outside right now, but as I am a busy man, I will have to settle for reporting you for insubordination to your supervisor."

Zerim, crestfallen, said nothing. The taller man’s dark blue eyes never leaving him, Zerim stood mute and unable to respond. Involuntarily, he glanced at the woman. Gods, why her? He would have preferred slamming into Kee Gachar himself.

"Clean this mess up. Now," the colonel ordered.

As Zerim knelt and reached for the notepads, his hand was violently kicked away. Reflexively he grabbed the injured member, putting it to his chest. His hand and wrist were still tender from two nights before when the sergeant had crushed them while grabbing him to pull him off the floor. Green eyes looked at him questioningly.

"Do not touch those, they contain classified information," the colonel hissed, running a hand through hair that must have once been jet black.

"Jonathan how is he supposed to clean this up if he can’t touch anything?" the young woman asked in a beguiling voice.

"That is not my problem," he answered, crossing his arms.

Zerim tentatively brought his hand forward, dabbing the notepads with the rag he was holding. Some of the liquid was absorbed, but the job was haphazard. One more thing the Zarconian knew he would be ‘reprimanded’ for.

* * *

The trip to the slaver's warehouse was much shorter than Genera had expected. She had not realized these places were located so close to the Imperial Palace. The exterior of the building was also much nicer than she had expected. Marble and white columns, it was fronted by a large fountain which dominated an elegant garden. Impeccable stone steps led to two large polished wooden doors. Only a stylized sign above the door indicated where they were.

Genera had always visualized such places as much darker and sordid, as a sort of back alley underworld. Never had she imagined these picturesque surroundings. This part of society, it seemed to her, belonged in the background, where it would not tarnish the whole. The slave markets were to her a sinister, seedy part of Zarcon. They were the pinnacle of debauchery and greed. They were run by men and women who desired only wealth, who have no desire to better the Empire.

She, like most decent Zarconians, knew they were necessary to the Empire’s prosperity and survival, but she did not want to see them or know about them. Her Household had held slaves, but never had she set foot in one of these places. She had caretakers who did that sort of thing for her.

Now she stood before one of the largest slave traders and brokers in the Empire. They did not take her in by the front, but circled around the back to a large rear entrance. Not nearly as grand, it was still lovely. The back of the building faced a large garden filed with exotic trees and shrubs. Trails circling ponds and fountains led to benches all over the large sunny yard. On some of these benches potential customers sat, speaking to brokers and sellers or examining the goods. On a nearby marble bench, an overdressed lord was examining a young woman who was kneeling before him. At a discreet distance, a seller waited zealously for his decision.

Further away through a small grove of flowering trees, Genera realized an intimate private auction was in progress. Men and women in lavish garments sat, some watching, some raising their arms to bid as a boy, just barely of age, was guided, naked, down the row of ornate carved benches. Between the swaying scented branches, Genera could see the multicolored silk folds of the tent he had been led out of. Hands touched his young body, examining him. Then other hands went up, making their offers.

A small door made of the same polished wood as the front doors swung open and Genera was led inside. The inside of the building, was none less elegant than the exterior. The walls were a soft cream color. Valuable antique tapestries of the finest quality decorated the walls. This, Genera realized, was simply a cargo entrance. Other doors had neighbored the one she had come in through, including a smaller version of the front door up on a terrace, which by way of a winding marble staircase led to the back garden. This she assumed by its detail and ornamentation was for the customer use.

Quickly she was led down the corridor to carpeted stairs, which led to the lower levels of the building. The entire facility was remarkably clean to her. She had, as an Imperial officer been on slaver’s ships before, they had always seemed disgustingly filthy to her. Most had smelled of fear and human refuse. She had always pictured the slave houses on the home world the same way.

Another door opened and led to a small cubicle. At the end of this entry was a guard post and a barred gate. The black clad guards accompanying her waved to the guard inside a small station next to the gate. A chime rang, followed by the sound of iron grating against stone. Genera was ushered inside. After a couple more turns, stark halls and unadorned gates; Genera was put inside a small unfurnished room and told to wait. Still in shackles, she could see no other real alternative. The wall opposite the door held a small shuttered window. The only other thing of interest in the room was a small clean white toilet.

Genera did not have to wait long. A tiny little man, who barely came to her chest, scurried into the room muttering to himself. He was wearing a leather apron, which appeared far too small on his diminutive frame. He walked up to where she waited, shaking his head. "So much to be done." he muttered to himself. Grabbing the front of Genera’s dress, he fingered the fabric in disgust. He pulled out a pair of rounded scissors from a pouch on his apron and made a small slit at the throat of the garment. "Useless, useless" he muttered again, fondling the material. Without further comment, he ripped the front of her clothes open. Genera blushed with shame. When he had taken out the scissors she had expected this, but he had done it so abruptly and without ceremony that she was shocked. He finished cutting out her clothing, kicking it out of his way. He walked around her once, examining her with a critical air. Then he removed a pad from his apron, after putting the scissors back in their proper pouch.

" You’re 25 years old, is that right?" he asked, looking at the notebook.

"Yes," she answered.

He walked around her, then suddenly gave her backside a hard slap, then another. He faced her again. His face held no malice. He waved his finger admonishingly in front of her face. "You call your betters Master or Mistress, slave," he said in a calm voice. "With me you have three chances," he continued "that was our first. With each disrespect the slaps will become harder and more plentiful. When you are out of chances, I will send you to be punished. You won’t like it. It does not leave marks, but you will wish we had whipped you instead."

"Furthermore I will not be as lenient towards you has I am towards foreign slaves. You were born on this world. They come here not knowing what to do or how a slave is expected to act. You already know what is expected of you. Do you understand slave?" he finished, crossing his small arms.

"Yes, I understand, Master," she answered in a demure voice as she lowered her eyes.

"Good girl," he said in a pleased tone. Once again he reached into the oversized apron, this time producing a measuring tape. He indicated she was to lift her arm. He walked around her about to administer the proscribed punishment for her disobedience, when he suddenly cursed. He came around to face her again, red faced and shaking his head. He then went into the oversized apron again, producing a small key. Shaking his head, embarrassed he had forgotten to free her arms, he removed the shackles. She lifted her arms as ordered. The little man then proceeded to take all of her measurements, noting them down as he went along. Bringing his face to her chest, he examined her breasts from every angle. Giving each one a squeeze he nodded, happy with the results of his examination. "Excellent, not as large as I would have hoped, but still a decent size" he muttered still taking notes, he squeezed her left breast again. "Still nice and firm" he went on. Examining and palpating her stomach; then her hips, thighs and calves. "Nice abdomen, delicate beautiful long legs." He said turning her around. "Very nice, lovely" he said to himself running his hands down her back, and then her buttocks, pinching her.

"Bend over" he instructed "Good Girl. Now stead your legs" he ordered. "That’s enough" he told her, bending slightly. "Satisfactory" he mumbled. She could feel his warm breath between her legs. She heard the snap of rubber behind her. She felt his fingers entering her, feeling their way around. Genera kept perfectly still as he carefully verified every inch of her genitalia. Then as abruptly as it had come, the hand slid out. She heard the plastic snap again. Then the sound of furious typing

"Stand up," he said, impatiently snapping his fingers. "Open your mouth, show me your teeth." Genera did as instructed giving her a kind of comical grimace. Satisfied he noted down his findings. "Big brown eyes, blue would be better, but they look good on that face. Full lips, excellent, that silly trend will fall out of fashion soon, but for now it will only increase sale revenues. Nice skin tone." He read as he typed. He muttered a couple of other things about her face and hair, which she could not fully comprehend. The entire proceedings reminded Genera altogether too much of a horse being examined before sale. Of course she realized she now shared the same legal standing as the said horse.

Finally the faithful pad was returned to its hiding place in the fellow’s apron.

"Now I’m going to move you to another room. Once we leave this room you will keep your eyes lowered as is proper for someone of your station. You will follow behind me by two paces. And you will speak to no one unless spoken to. Do you understand?" he asked crossing his arms in a manner that meant he would have no arguments.

"Yes I understand, Master," she replied in a servile tone.

"Good, good. Follow me," the hyper little man chirped, rubbing his hands in enthusiasm. He opened the door. Seeing him, a guard who had been standing outside the door moved aside, giving the diminutive man a slight nod. She trailed her escort, wondering idly how she had managed to get herself into this predicament. She realized the guard was following them at an acceptable distance.

Large steel doors squeaked opened and Genera was hit in the face by a wave of almost unbearable heat. Stepping inside she saw several large steal basins filled with steamy water. Shelves stacked with towels, baskets of soaps and brushes lined the walls. Several slaves, males and females dressed in plain beige knee-length tunics were in the room. Most were busy tending to the grooming of those in the basin, or drying those who had just stepped out of the warm water. Two of these servants stepped up to Genera and her escorts, heads bowed.

"Take this girl and clean her up. Hair and body, she is to be put on the block this morning."

"Yes Master Kee Sujle," replied one of the servants bowing. She was a plain girl, just a little plump. None of the washing servants she noticed where particularly attractive, but all of them went about their tasks with efficiency and ability. The thin wraithlike boy who was with the girl took Genera’s arm, leading her to one of the empty baths. Behind her, Genera could hear Kee Sujle giving the girl instructions. She was thankful to be permitted to bathe nothing in the universe seemed better to her that removing the weeks of grime accumulated during her confinement. Except perhaps waking up and realizing this entire ordeal had been nothing but a nightmare.

* * *

Juyani fanned himself absently with his notepad. The heat this time of the morning was unbearable. He waved over a serving boy and ordered a chilled glass of Cellostrian white wine. The youngster scurried off, fetching him a pleasantly cool glass of wine, if not the best vintage. It only temporally sated him.

He looked to his right where the auctioneer was talking furiously, trying to unload a group of adolescents recently acquired, it looked to Juyani’s trained eye, from the barbarian world of Tachary. Juyani wished him luck. Tacharians were notoriously slow, untamed, and not particularly attractive as a race.

Juyani would not have procured such rabble as scullery slaves for a freeman’s inn. But then, Juyani worked for one of the most prestigious brokerage firms in the Empire. Those who could afford to solicit his services demanded stock of much finer quality. His work rarely took him here to Kee Erhima, the main slave market and slave block of Zarcana. Generally the best slave traders and houses kept the slaves of any quality for themselves and sold them on their premises, holding lavish private showings and auctions of their most prized stock. Juyani hatted the market even here in the private booths reserved to the noble and rich. The riffraff of the Empire assembled here. Every time he was forced to come into this place he immediately felt the need to bathe upon leaving.

Fortunately his work rarely brought him here. Only when a client requested a very specific slave whom he knew could only be procured here. The auctioneer announced the next selection. Juyani riveted his attention to the stage. He glanced at his notepad, reviewing his information. It was not necessary. His instructions were explicit. He was to procure this slave at any cost.

The young woman was led onto the stage. The pictures on the information network did not do her justice. Although she was not, by far, the most beautiful or beguiling woman Juyani had ever encountered, she was lovely. He could now understand his client’s interest. Long thick hair fell in golden locks across her back. She remained composed as the crowd of scum at her feet hooted and leered, reaching out for her. The handlers had her turn around several times, giving all a chance to admire her body from all angles. Yes, she was quite exquisite. The bidding started, but Juyani waited. He knew it would go much higher. He would be proud to acquire this one for his client.

Chapter VIII: Major Changes

Zerim saw the two privates guarding the maintenance facility’s main workers' doors give him pitying looks as he came in. He had done a haphazard job all day, not caring any longer. He had taken his time returning nevertheless, dreading that evening. At the hospital, he had encountered Corporal Vallasez, who had asked repeatedly if he was all right. He had told him he was fine. He had lied.

The eldest of the two guards turned to him. "Yera" he said compassionately "Sergeant Kedina wants t’a see y’a right away."

"Yes, private," Zerim answered weakly. He had been expecting this, he told himself.

As he went to put his cart away, he felt a gentle hand on his arm. "Go right away, son. The longer it takes the madder she gets. She’s asked if you were back three times already. She’s pissed. Go now. Don’t worry bout the cart. The next guy comes in gona put it away for y’a." the guard told him.

"Thank you," Zerim replied, trying to smile. He headed towards Kedina’s office. The door was open. She liked it that way. She could see what was happening about her command. There was only one reason she would close it. She closed it most of the time Zerim was inside. He tapped on the doorframe, quietly announcing his presence.

"Yera get in here now, an lock the door behind y’a." Sergeant Kedina said in a toneless voice as she leaned on her desk. He entered, quietly pulling the door behind him. Zerim whitened when he saw the club on her desk.

* * *

Damn, she had been supposed to meet Ingra at the hospital. She had gotten so caught up with reports she had completely lost track of the time. Ingra would never speak to her again.

Relations between the two women were already strained. A good friend of Torana’s brother in law, Jacob, Ingra had known the princess for years. They had never been particularly close, but Torana had always gotten along fairly well with doctor LiseHansen. Now, however, plunged in the midst of war with the Empire of Zarcon it appeared they could no longer tolerate each other most of the time. It seemed as though they worked on opposite sides of the field.

As one of the officers in charge of this facility, it was sometimes Torana’s job to perform certain unpleasant tasks. Among these were preliminary interrogations. She often found herself with the destinies and even lives of enemy troops in her hands.

Ingra, on the other hand, was a healer. Her own ideologies demanded that she heal, not harm. She found violence of any sort distasteful. The young woman idly wondered why the doctor had chosen a career in the military. The answer was obvious even to Torana. Space. The only way into Terranian space exploration had been the military. So like many of her generation, unsatisfied with the prospect of life on a desolate, over polluted, dying planet, Ingra LiseHansen had joined the Terranian Space Fleet.

The Terranian Armed Forces had been good to Ingra LiseHansen. Victoria Smith had once told Torana that both Ingra’s and Sarah Smith’s education had been financed by the T.A.F. Experiments and laboratories they never could have afforded otherwise had been theirs. In exchange they had served Terra with their heart, their lives and their souls if necessary.

But the Terranians had not really been at war with anyone. Aron had been at war with the Zarconian Empire Torana’s entire life. This war was millennia old. Her people had been fighting this fight since the dawning of the space age. There was no way Ingra could ever come to comprehend the absolute hatred her people felt for Zarcon.

The Zarconians were like a weed. Invasive, they slowly grew bigger and covered the light for all other worlds, eventually taking over everything in their path. They were destroyers. They had destroyed Torana’s parents. They had been taken down in their prime by the empire. That was something Ingra would never come to understand.

Still, despite their differences, Torana still wished to maintain her friendship with Ingra, especially now that she was so far from home. LiseHansen was a connection to her childhood, to Aron and to Victoria.

She was sure Ingra had already left the hospital, but on the of chance that she was still there, Torana hurried, almost running and taking every shortcut she new. Using the tunnels on the lowest levels of the base she made her way. She could hear the clang of machinery, warming and aerating the entire complex. Its sound was defining.

That was why she could not hear the commotion in the maintenance depot until she was almost on top of it. Voices could be heard, arguing loudly. As she approached a small worker's door, two male voices became distinct.

"We should stop this for shit’s sake." A clear voice was saying.

"And how we supposed to do that? Y’a gona ask Kedina real nice, son?" an older gruff voice replied.

"We could call someone, an officer in charge of personnel or something." The younger man continued.

"And tell him what? That veteran decorated soldier Sergeant Killara Kedina is a little too harsh when disciplining the Zarcos under her command?" the battle-scarred voice replied in sarcasm.

"You call what’s happening in there a little harsh? Man the poor sap’s been in there for over an hour. We can’t even hear him scream anymore." The younger man howled in exasperation.

"Son, I’ve been Alliance a long time. You don’t want a reputation as a squealer. I’ve got no love for them Zarcos, but I don’t agree with what’s going on in there either. The fact is, command don’t care what happens to some Zarco. Most of them would like to have them all wiped out, son. Even if we tell, no one’s gona care. Worse we’ll be the ones in hot water." The veteran said softly. Torana frustrated had to admit they were right.

"What if he dies under our watch." The youth asked.

"No one’s gona care about that either," came the reply.

This was really none of her business, but for some reason Torana felt like she should do something. She could go up to them and demand to know what they were talking about, but she was fairly certain that they would simply clam up. She walked into view. The two guards immediately fell quiet, saluting her. She saluted back.

"I need to speak with Sergeant Kedina please. Could you direct me to her." She told the younger of the two guards who was fidgeting nervously, pulling at his right sleeve.

"I’m sorry s… Ma’am, but I’m afraid she’s in a … conference," he told her glancing back toward the inside of the compound.

"It is quite important. I’m afraid I must see her," she said, pushing past them. She walked towards the windowed office in the center of the complex, assuming it must be Kedina’s.

"She’s not in, ma’am," the older man said, coming to stand in front of her. He had the look of a veteran. By the patch on his left sleeve she could see he was Tijeruan. Tigeru was a small border planet that had been in the conflict with the Zarconians longer than the Aronians and probably any other world in the Alliance. This man had not been exaggerating when he said he had been in the Alliance a long time. Torana guessed he probably had been in the organization his entire adult life. She wondered idly at his age what he had done to remain a private. Tijeruan were as a rule not a difficult people. In fact they seemed to flourish in a well-ordered and structured society like the Alliance. The princess knew many of his race who had made it to positions of considerable power within the Alliance. Right now he seemed to be unconsciously looking her up and down, trying to understand his new obstacle.

"I thought you said she was in conference" Torana said, crossing her arms, looking at the junior of the two men, who seemed to barely fit his uniform. Having a captain’s attention suddenly riveted on him made the young man even more uncomfortable than he already was. His eyes danced around furtively as if searching for some way out of this mess.

"That she is, ma’am. She’s in a conference in someone else’s office ma’am." The older man answered.

"Fine I’ll just wait for her in her office."

"We’re not expecten her back today, ma’am," he answered, cutting her off. His young counterpart was quickly becoming red faced.

"I’ll leave a note on her desk then" Torana said, cutting his riposte off.

"We can do that for ya captain, we’re sure y’are a busy woman." The Tijeruan suggested.

"Is there some reason I should not enter that office? You seem very intent on keeping me out here," Torana said, putting her hand on her hip, attempting to look as imposing and ‘officerly’ as possible. A loud crash from inside the office broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Ma’am I think you should go in there." The young man spat out assembling his courage.

His older friend elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Shut up, stupid," he whispered under his breath. Finally irritated at being told what to do the young man shoved his comrade aside. Coming towards Torana he led the way to the sergeant’s office.

As they approached, barely audible thumping sounds could be heard from the inside. Torana tried the door. It was locked from the inside. The princess knocked now intent on seeing this entire business through. There was no response. Though Torana could not see through the wall of blinds the cradled the inside of the office she could see that the lights were all lit, further more she could hear sound coming from inside. She knocked louder and a scratchy voice told unceremoniously to take a hike. She continued knocking.

Finally the door swung violently open. "I told ya people I wasn’t to be disturbed" a red faced sweating woman bellowed coming through the doorway. Her hands started shaking. "Your Highness," she began in shaky voice bowing deeply "What brings you to the door of one as unworthy as myself"

Torana took no time to reply. She shoved the groveling woman out of her way, making her way into the snug office. Her hand went to her mouth, as she suppressed a shudder of revolution. She turned to the young private "Get me a medic team" she ordered. Turning to look at the sergeant she added "and a security detail."

* * *

Ingra walked through the door hurriedly, tossing the long black velvet cloak she had been wearing to her companion, revealing the long teal sleeveless gown she had worn for dinner. One of her nurses stood ready with a plain white surgery gown, which she helped, Ingra put on. Her companion stood mute at the door, looking a little uncomfortable in these new surroundings. Dr. LiseHansen took a status report from the physician on duty, then walked into the corridor that led to the examining rooms.

Footsteps to his right caught Dr. LiseHansen’s escort’s attention. A young woman walked down the corridor head and shoulders slumped.

"There you are," he said upon recognizing her, "you know Ingra was pretty angry with you for standing her up. Fortunately I was here to raise her spirits." She raised her head looking at him sadly. "Tory what wrong?"

"Everything Jon, everything" Torana said rushing into arms that were like her own father’s to her.

* * *

"Are you positive it’s the same kid?" he asked wearily. He and Torana had moved into a small waiting room, and were waiting for news. She nodded exhaustedly.

"Well the little punk is probably a trouble maker, so he had to be disciplined." The older man shrugged.

"Disciplined! Are you out of your damned mind? This man looked like he had been hit by a freight car. When I found him in that office, he was unconscious and in a pool of his own blood. Good Lord, he was barely breathing. She nearly beat him to death," the young woman screamed standing up, suddenly revolted by the man whose mere presence she had found comfort in less than an hour earlier.

"Tory, all I’m saying is that these people are difficult," the older man tried to soothe.

"Are they? I spoke to all the guards on duty at Maintenance tonight; none of them have ever had any trouble from this man. In fact they told me he was a model prisoner. The only person that’s ever found a problem with him is Kedina." Torana insisted, refusing to concede this point. Most of the time though, she admitted inwardly, she would have agreed with him.

"She was in direct command of him, she may have been aware of things the guards were not," Masters protested.

Torana shook her head. "She has a reputation, Jonathan," she began quietly.

"What do you mean?" he asked an eyebrow arching.

"Rumor has it, she hates men." She replied tightly. She had known this for months and she had done nothing.

"That’s her private affair… if she prefers the company of women…" he blushed sitting back on the waiting room’s plain beige couch.

"No not like that. That is not what I meant." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "We’ve had several young Alliance men request to be transferred out of her command, one of her corporals even accepted to be busted down to private in order to get away from her."

"What are you saying? This isn’t the first time she’s gotten violent?"

"It’s the first time that it’s been to this… extent. That we know of," the princess said lowering her head, ashamed.

"Why is she still in a position of power?" He asked matter-of-factly.

"She’s a decorated soldier. She’s a war hero. Her tendency to pound anything that pisses standing up didn’t hurt while she was fighting Zarconians for a living. She was wounded a couple of years ago during the invasion at Gylinu. That’s how she got this assignment," Torana answered, putting her hands to her temples.

* * *

The hours passed, melting into a sameness, one hour much the same as the ones which had preceded it. The princess would get up, pace about the room in a most un-royal fashion, only to sit down again drumming her fingernails on her chair’s hardwood armrest. Colonel Masters meanwhile sat mutely observing her, wondering why he was spending his evening waiting for news on the condition of an enemy he would ratter see obliterated than anything else. He was there to lend his daughter’s dearest friend support he decided. He could only speculate on why she had had such a sudden change of heart. A couple of months prior she would not have given one mangled Zarconian a second thought. Perhaps she was getting soft, too many months of administrative duties and not enough combat.

She did look worn out. Those pretty green eyes had lost their sparkle. For a moment Jonathan tried to find the child he had known in those eyes, in this woman’s face. The girl his daughter had brought home, introducing the red hared pixie as her new best friend. The young woman his only son had once wanted to marry. He could not. She had changed. This place had changed her. This war had changed her.

Strange that a conflict her people had been fighting for centuries could change her. Perhaps it was he who had changed. No, nothing had changed in him. Something had died in him. It had withered away when he lost Victoria, his little Vicky. Their loss was a huge gapping whole in his heart, one no amount of Zarconian bodies could fill, or close, or conceal. He would get over it, he had gotten over Tracy’s death, and he would get over this loss. He would go on. At least that’s what he told his reflection every morning.

"What’s the word?" Torana asked.

He looked back at her wondering what she was taking about, and then realized Ingra was standing there. He had not heard or noticed her approach. Strange, he was trained to notice these kinds of things. Five years ago, no one could have sneaked up on him.

"We are not sure yet," Ingra said sitting down. " He was badly injured. There were a great deal of internal injuries, as well as several fractured bones. One of his lungs has been perforated. You found him just in time. We will know more in the morning."

"Will he live?" Torana asked. Why did she care so much, Jonathan wondered.

"I am not sure, the young man’s condition is critical," Ingra said, patting Torana on the hand.

* * *

Genera shivered, sitting on the edge of a large bed. She heard her stomach gargle in loud protest, reminding her she had eaten nothing since morning. It was dark in the room now, except for the candles and lamps. It had still been light when they had brought her in. She had no idea how my hours she had waited here, but it seemed an eternity. A sharp contrast to the beginning of her day.

From the moment Gylur Kee Nawbi had woken her till she had been carefully placed on this richly covered bed, her world had seemed a whirlwind. The crowds as she was taken away from the palace dungeon, the examination, and subsequent preparations for the slave blocks, the auction itself had gone by in the blink of an eye. Even the lax moments, like waiting in the slave pens to be brought to the block had been over before they seemed to have begun. Her anxiety made ordinary boredom impossible. Under the scrutiny of so many faceless people, Genera had been unable to think during the auction itself. She had struggled to retain some sort of composure as the closest to the stage grabbed for her ankles.

She had a dim recollection of the auctioneer crying sold and a vague awareness that her buyer was from the general visiting of the private boxes and not the crowd at her feet.

After the auction, she was dragged off the stage and taken to a shipping area and loaded into a waiting transport. Whoever her new owner was, he had come prepared and certain of making a purchase.

From the market she had been taken to a strange, well furnished building which bustled with activity. She had been herded into a room and told once again to wait. She did so, but not very long. A well-dressed man, her buyer she had erroneously presumed, entered the room followed by a retinue of several slaves. The wide iron bracelets they wore on each arm, which indicated their status shining in the light. Each carried a lidded basket.

"Groom her." He had ordered simply. He had walked up to Genera taking some of her hair in his hands, lifting it experimentally. "Her hair up I think, with perhaps a few locks falling at the back. A few wisps to frame her face. Use only our most beautiful combs and hairpins. The golden jewel encrusted ones. Not too much make up, she does not require it. Perfume her, nothing overpowering, something fruity."

"Yes, Master," the first of the slaves had replied.

"When she is ready, bind her wrists and tie a nice gold ribbon around her, she is to be presented as a gift." He had continued, before leaving the room again. A gift to whom? Genera wondered. Who would by her as a gift? A traitor convicted of treason.

They had worked their craft on her with extraordinary speed and efficiency, furiously combing her long hair. Their fingers had worked agilely as they separated and pulled strands of golden hair, coifing it elegantly. They had bathed her quickly with sponges to remove the light layer of dust she had collected at the slave market. They had placed small slippers on her feet to prevent them from getting dirty again. They had turned her head this way and that, painting her eyes, cheeks and lips. Soon after they were done, their master returned examining the slaves’ work. Satisfied, he summoned two handlers to lead her off once again into a transport. Strangely they placed a thick veil over her head, blinding her. She heard the muffled sounds of the man she had first thought her master, admonishing the handlers not to spoil her coiffe. One of the guards began mumbling something under his breath then thought better of it.

Their trip had not been terribly long, although Genera had no way of knowing how long it really lasted. After, she had felt the slight jerk of the transport stopping. They had placed a long thick cloak around her. The material was soft against her skin, but too heavy to be silk or satin. She had heard the gentle click of the cloak’s front clasp being secured around her neck; removing even the small bands of light still visible from the edges of the dark veil. The handlers had then helped her from the transport carefully so she would not fall in her darkness and bruise herself. They had led her up many winding staircases. Twisting and turning so many times Genera had been quickly disoriented. She had been aware of a great flurry of activity around her. Many peoples' voices had drifted to her, distant and disconnected as she was led to her final destination.

They had stopped suddenly, and she would have fallen had they not been holding on to her tightly. She had heard the footsteps of one of her party walking away from them, then stopping shortly after. She had caught dim whispering, but had been unable to discern the nature of the exchange. She heard the sounds of latches opening.

They had had to stop at several doors after that, waiting for them to be opened. Until they had reached almost the last. Genera remembered distinctly the clicking sound of a lock being turned.

When they finally stopped she heard them quickly close the door behind them. They had removed the cloak. She had shivered from the initial shock of the cold air once again caressing her skin. Her sight had been nothing but a bright blur as they removed the shroud. She had squinted for a few moments trying to recover her vision.

She had been led into a spacious richly appointed bedroom. Priceless artwork covered the walls. Large comfortable looking chairs and sofas were neatly arranged around a large central fireplace. In one corner was a small, but richly carved table and chairs, in the event the room’s owner wished to dine in privacy. At the opposite corner of the room lay an old-fashioned writing desk surrounded by tall oak cabinets. At the other side of the room lay the velvet covered bed, nearly submerged in cushions.

They had led her there, placing her on the edge of the large bed. Their leader had adjusted any imperfections the covering had created in her hair then gave her strict instructions to stay exactly where she was. He had then removed her slippers looking up at her, admiring his work. A group of slaves had then entered placing lavish bouquets of fresh flowers around the room. They had lit lamps strategically around the room to create a romantic lighting; through the wall length curtain wall Genera could see it was still light outside. Satisfied the well-dressed man and his companions had left her, again ordering her not to move until the room’s owner returned. As she was bound and wearing nothing but a ridiculous gold bow, she felt no compulsion to explore her new surroundings.

How many hours she had been sitting on the edge of this bed she could not say. Her shoulders were now sore. The young woman found it increasingly difficult to maintain her balance, feeling she was about to tip over on more than one occasion without her hands to steady her. She had nonetheless managed to stay upright thus far.

Whoever her owner was, he was wealthy. The covers on the bed were first quality, finer even than her own had been at her family’s estate on Zarillion. The paintings on the wall were all from artists of renown. The carpets some of the finest she had ever seen imported from all corners of the empire. On a desk near the head of the bed, several sparkling decanters filled with different spirits and liquors, as well as matching cut crystal bowls filled with fresh cut citrus fruits to accompany these. Whoever her new owner was he was wealthy; and of importance Genera guessed for such care to be taken for the presentation on his "gift".

She heard faint footstep outside the door. There was a brief pause then followed by an altogether too familiar laughter. The door opened.

* * *

Torana looked down at the Zarconian’s sleeping face. It was deeply bruised, beneath the tubes coming from his nose and mouth. Ingra had told her that these were there to help him breathe, but they looked more like some sort of grim torture device from the princess’ point of view. Despite the Zarconian’s natural girth he seemed small and fragile to her, like a broken doll. Ingra had told her they would have a better grasp on his condition in the morning.

He looked almost peaceful now, as opposed to this morning. She had seen the look on his face that morning. He had recognized her. She had seen the look of mingled terror and dread in his face. She had misinterpreted it. She had assumed that anxiety had been caused by Jonathan. She had assumed the fear had been of the repercussions of upsetting a colonel. She had been wrong. It had been because he had inconvenienced a princess. Those looks had been for her, or rather, because of her.

He had known that morning what would happen to him as a result of their chance encounter in the corridor. She had watched as all traces of hope shattered when Masters had given him notice that he would be put on report. The Zarconian had known what that would mean. He had known what Torana Arison’s name in that report would mean for him. He had known what Kedina would do to him, because Torana’s name had been on that report. Because some coffee had been spilt on her.

* * *

Laughter deep and hearty filled the room. A tall well-built man stood in the haloing light of the doorway. He brought his right hand up to examine a folded piece of paper more clearly. The note, it appeared, was the source of his merriment. He laughed again.

The figure walked in, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him. He stepped into the glow of the candles. Genera could not suppress a gasp of surprise.

"Well, Well. This is unexpected," the crown prince reflected, more to himself than to Genera. He took his new slave’s chin, and gently tilted her head back. He ran his hand down her flank, chuckling. Drake leaned down and kissed her. She felt his tongue part her lips and did not resist him.

She tried to respond to his lustful kisses with an appropriate amount of feigned enthusiasm and hypocritical willingness, as was required of her. She found the process rather difficult. She loathed his Imperial Highness, Drake Kee Zarcon. She had disliked him from the moment Luther had introduced him, years ago.

His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Zartan, had ordered his heir apparent to fetch his younger brother from the Academy. It had been late afternoon, just after the end of classes. Their last day of class before the three week break for the festival of Kee Gallin, goddess of love and the home. She, Luther and Zerim had been heading towards the dormitories. The future Lord Kee Yera had been pestering Luther into accepting Alben Kee Yera’s invitation to spend the holiday with Zerim at their family’s estate. Luther must have been around fourteen years old at the time that would have made Genera about twelve being two years younger than the two boys. Luther had been attending the Academy for nearly two years. He had rarely been invited back to Zarcana in that time, and had spent most of his leisure time at the Academy.

Zerim had already convinced Genera to spend the festivities with him. Her father had been of on some campaign or other, and had urged his daughter to spend the celebration among friends, rather than stay on Zarillion alone with the servants. Luther had been about to accept his offer, his only real apprehension had been that the invitation had come more out of pity than any real desire to have him around, when a dark shadow had crossed their path.

"Drake," Luther had cried in astonishment.

"Your Imperial Highness," Genera and Zerim had chanted in unison, though Zerim had said it with far less excitement. Even at that age, he plainly did not care for the crown prince. Genera had bowed then, and belatedly Zerim had done the same. Drake had looked had examined all three of them with contempt, then had nodded.

"Get your things together, boy," Drake had ordered Luther, ignoring the presence of the others.

"What?" Luther had asked, shaking his head.

"Pack some things, now. I will await you here," Drake had repeated testily.

"Why?" Luther had demanded. Genera, beginning to know the prince quite well, had known that he had been forcing himself not to respond in slave’s protocol. In those early years, he still did sometimes, particularly when nervous.

"Do as I tell you, you little twerp," Drake had growled. He spoke to his brother as one did to a menial or a slave.

"Why, Drake?" Luther had responded, his difficulty controlling his emotions barely showing. He crossed his small arms, determined. Luther had still been small for his age then. He would only attain most of his now impressive height during a growth spurt at sixteen.

The crown prince had considered the child vengefully. Luther would reveal to her and Zerim some weeks later that he had paid for that little confrontation, later aboard ship when he and his half-brother had been alone. "Father want’s your presence for Kee Gallin festival. Now get your things. I will not be delayed any longer," Drake had snapped. Luther, satisfied, had brushed past him and walked casually to the dorms.

Genera and Zerim, never having been dismissed by the prince, could do nothing but wait. He had looked the two teenagers up and down. Zerim had yawned impertinently.

Luther had returned almost immediately. For an Imperial prince he had not carried, or for that matter owned, a great many possessions.

"I’m ready, brother," he had informed Drake, holding up a single leather bag.

"That is all you are bringing?" Drake had asked irritably, "Because we are not turning back."

"That’s all," Luther sighed, "by the way, brother, allow me to introduce Genera Kee Maran and Zerim Kee Yera," Luther had continued.

"Yes, I am already familiar with Lord Alben’s offspring," Drake had said eyeing Zerim with distaste. His gaze then had shifted to her. "This, I presume, is Urar Kee Maran’s brat. I suppose, that greatness skips a generation," he had mocked, taking his sibling and walking off.

At their next introduction, Drake had somewhat changed his opinion of her. Genera had been seventeen by then, attending a formal reception on her celebrated father’s arm.

That night the Imperial heir, having cornered her alone, informed her that she had turned out rather splendidly. He found her quite alluring in fact, he had told her. He had gone so far as to offer himself to her for her upcoming Kee Salaxaegali. Genera had told him flatly that her father had already made arrangements. She had had no desire to be deflowered by the distinguished crown prince. She had had the presence of mind though, to add that she preferred a more traditional partner, one as inexperienced as herself. The Kee Salaxaegali was supposed to be a shared experience of learning after all.

Her other distaste for Drake not withstanding, she had promised herself to a hilariously jittery Zerim sometime before. In ancient times she never would have been permitted to be paired with someone she knew, much less liked. Her father had argued this very thing, when she had come to him with this choice for his approval. Finally convinced that the two children; for all nobles in Zarcon who have not undergone the Kee Salaxaegali are children; were not romantically interested in each other, but simply wanted a person that they trusted with them during the six week rite, Urar and Alben had approved their choice.

She had learnt the Zarconian nobility’s much vaunted arts of lovemaking in those weeks. She and one of her dearest friends had taught each other in the dark, by the glowing pink warmth of hand made candles found only in the joint temples of Kee Gallin and Kee Salaxia. The Salaxian clerics had looked on approvingly, correcting the slightest imperfections in their positioning.

Now she was being lowered onto a bed, bathed in candlelight, by a man she despised.

* * *

Zerim grumbled weakly, as light was flashed in one of his eye, then the other. As the offending light faded, he felt a light touch on his wrist, then that too was gone. He heard the disjointed sounds of footsteps, then a familiar squeaking sound. Disembodied voices floated his way, he could not understand what they were saying, and he did not try. He drifted back to sleep.

* * *

"How is he, doctor?" corporal Vallasez inquired, walking out of a nearby room.

"He is better. Not only are his pupils dilating, but he is responding to the exam. He does not like it."

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"He mumbles, when I put the light in front of his eyes," she smiled.

The corporal hesitated, "But you already knew that there was no brain damage, from the scans, right?" She nodded.

"Tonio, I think that you are going to make an excellent doctor. That is why I have recommended you be accepted into an Alliance medical school, but right know I am going to give the most important piece of medical instruction you are ever going to get. Trust the test and scans, but not to the exclusion of your own eyes and ears." Ingra said, still smiling. She could remember giving the same advice to another promising young student a long time ago.

"Yes ma’am," he responded sheepishly, "do you think he will wake up soon?" he inquired, deftly changing the subject.

"It is quite probable, he is almost fully conscious now. He seems aware there is someone else in the room when I examine him. I don’t think he is understands what is happening to him though. I believe he is simply in to much pain to be fully cognizant." She replied.

* * *

Zerim was aware of footsteps and talking around him. For the first time in, well a long time, he was able to understand these voices and recognize at least one of them. He surprised himself, recognizing its owner. She seemed calm. The other voice was familiar but he could not place it. Whoever it was they had woken him up.

He opened his eyes. The pain that shot through to his brain made him immediately regret it. He squinted; deciding that waking was not such a wonderful idea. He closed his eyes tightly vowing to remain asleep for at least another month.

The excited owner of the first voice would give him no such charity.

"Zerim," she said, in that low cultured voice, "Zerim can you hear me"

His response was a low, but clearly chagrined mumble. Followed by a quick "leave me alone", or something along those lines.

Not content to let him lay there in piece the voice plowed on. "Zerim?"

Reluctantly he opened his eyes again. He squinted, but managed to keep them open. The owner of the first voice stood above him and smiled her bobbed red curls dancing with her every move. Her companion stood by the door. Zerim shivered, sending spasms of pain coercing through his body. Her steady gaze rested on him. He thought for a moment, that he saw relief in those once cruel and merciless green eyes.

 

 

Chapter IX: Obligations

Music filled the air as a skinny troubadour entertained the Holy Emperor’s court with a passable rendition of a well-known Suekib folk song. An ancient melody about love lost and then rekindled. Luther seated to his father’s left had heard far better renditions of the tune at roadside taverns. Money and influence, more than talent in this as in all else, dictated if you had and did not have access to the Imperial court. Other hopefuls waited in the isles for a chance to dazzle his father.

Luther did not enjoy these spectacles and would have found much greater pleasure at one of those above-mentioned taverns. The one small mercy was that the crown prince was not in attendance this evening.

There was no love lost between the brothers. Half-brothers that is, Drake would never let them be anything more. From the moment they had met Drake had tormented his sibling, and when Luther grew to old to be manhandled by his Imperial Highness, Drake found other just as effective ways to torture him. Advertising that the newest slave in his household was now his favorite consort for example.

He had actually appeared at a court reception with Genera in tow. He had perched her on his lap, rapping his arm around her. She had looked mortified; keeping her eyes averted most of the time. Zartan had been livid, but unable or unwilling to do anything about it. Luther remembered the vicious smile Drake bestowed on him, as he informed Luther how good the wench was in bed. Suppressing the urge to throttle Drake, Luther had made his excuses to his Imperial Majesty, slipped out of the palace compound and proceeded to find a small tavern where he could get drunk      in peace.

Luther shifted in his seat, only to find Sana Arison staring intently at him. He resisted the urge to respond with some vulgar gesture or mouthed profanity. The prince would never understand why the Emperor trusted this woman. He could not understand why his father liked the woman. He had once, in a rare personal exchange with Zartan, asked that very question. Zartan had not exploded as his son had expected, but simply with a rye smile told Luther that the good general had certain qualities and qualification that Luther was unaware of. Luther’s face had gone crimson at that. He looked at the traitor of Arison now trying to divine what it was Zartan saw. He could not.

It was true, though her once raven black hair was now streaked with gray and her fair skin wrinkled around the eyes and mouth, that Sana Arison, once Princess Royal of Aron, was a stunning woman. The exotic features however could not pierce Luther’s heart. He hated her. He had for their first encounter so many years ago. He did not trust her. He found her conniving and deceitful by nature. She had betrayed her world. She had betrayed her own family. Though he hated Drake, he could never imagine actually killing his brother. Even in the blind rage that had followed Drake’s announcement that Ariel Hatiora was dead, Luther had known somewhere in the depths of his soul that he could not truly hurt his brother. This woman was not to be trusted.

She rose from her seat across the room smoothing her gown. She walked over to him confidently.

"How fares our young and most cherished Imperial Highness," she inquired smiling down at him. Zartan beside him was engaged in conversation with one of his minor officers. The Emperor found it useful not to neglect the more common noble. One never knew when they could be of use.

"I am well, General," he responded, adding the honorific with some distaste.

"Your father and I worried so about you, after the duplicity of that traitorous woman was revealed," she shouted.

"There was no need to trouble yourself," he responded in an even tone.

"Oh it was no trouble. You poor thing first that nasty mess with the Hatiora girl and then your one of your dearest friends is revealed a traitor." She baited.

"Well those are things you must come to expect in life. Betrayal can come from anywhere a dear friend, why even family. Isn’t that so General Arison?" He countered venomously.

"Yes well, I suppose you’re right your Imperial Highness," she laughed. She gave him her most radiant of smiles. Laughing good-naturedly, she added "You seem to be having the worst time with blondes. Perhaps you should try a brunette next time." With that she strolled over to Zartan’s side, whispering something into the Emperor’s ear. Roaring laughter filled the room.

Giving his father a half-hearted bow, Luther promptly rose to go. Making his way through throngs of couriers he found his way to the banquet-halls entrance aware that his father was scowling at him for his lapse in protocol. For a man who considered his power important above all else Luther found his father’s far dependent on the opinion of others.

He made his way out banquet rooms and through the many corridors and stairways that led to his royal apartments, waving to the guard on his way through. He opened the door and walked in unaware that strange eyes watched his every move.

* * *

 

"Genera"

"Yes your Imperial Highness," she answered from the corner in which she had awaited her master’s command.

"Come here, my sweet"

Genera crossed the room gracefully, and knelt at her master’s feet. He stroked her golden hair lovingly. He bent, lifting her chin and kissing her in one smooth motion. The flowers in her hair that day perfumed the air all around them with a sweet spicy scent. He liked her hair best this way. He had his fill of women dripping with gold, silver and jewels. This he could see all day at court. He did like pearls on her though. Her ears were in fact adorned with two small pearl studs.

"I’m tired" he whispered looking down at her, as she kept her eyes lowered demurely. "I want a nice warm bath. Attend to it my pet."

"Yes your Imperial Highness," she answered, rising to her feet and opening the door to the prince’s spacious private bathroom. She moved to the bath. It was more of a pool in truth. Colossal it could easily fit up to twenty people. It was surrounded on all sides by the finest porcelain tiles all hand etched in gold. It’s visible piping was gold and silver-plated. The bath itself was circled on one side by beautiful hand carved crystal bottles filed with various soaps and oils, though Genera knew for a fact that the prince only used one or two. Though Genera had lived most of her life in relative wealth, but she had never known ostentation like this. The gowns, she wore as a slave each day, were of the same quality as the best she had owned as an Imperial Lady. Gowns that the prince often enough ripped of her and cast aside in tatters, as if they were nothing.

Genera touched the controls and water started filing the enormous bath at an amazing pace. It was precisely the temperature, which the prince liked. Genera reached for one of the small bottles. Removing the magnificent silver stopper, she let a couple of drops of the strong perfumed oil spill into the tub. The fragrant steam filled the room. As she reached for the second bottle, she heard the shrill sound of the com system from the crown prince’s bedroom. Genera had excellent hearing. Despite the stirring water, which seemed to simply rise quietly by itself, and her most humble intentions she was still overhearing her master’s private conversation. She could simply close the door, but then the prince would know she had been paying attention to his private affairs. She poured a small amount of the second liquid into the bath. A rich coating of bubbles soon covered the water. She decided simply to ignore the conversation, it was after all none of her concern.

"Good make sure you do not lose sight of him. I want a full report of his movements. I want to know everything. I wish to know what he eats, what he drinks, the kind of chair he sits on. Above all the people he does whatever he does with." The prince’s voice drifted to her in spite of herself.

"Of course, your Imperial Highness it shall be as you say" answered an unknown voice through the speakers.

"Follow him and make sure you are not observed," her master instructed.

"My prince, you insult, you cut me to the quick," chuckled the voice.

"I will do more than insult you if you fail me," his Imperial Highness growled ominously.

"Rest assured, my prince, my skills will not fail you," the voice replied.

"See that they don’t. You will present me with a full report tomorrow morning," he ordered hastily.

"Of course, Imperial Highness," laughed the voice.

Genera heard the click of the channel being closed, and realized she had been eavesdropping. Hastily she slipped out of her gown cream colored gown. The prince insisted the slaves that bathed him be nude. She remembered how mortified she had been when he had ordered her to disrobe the first time in this very room. She knew it was absurd. The crown prince had had an eye full of her nude body when she had been presented to her, but somehow being stripped like this was almost worse than being bedded by him. Then at least she could close her eyes feigning pleasure and pretend he was someone else. She loathed him just starring at her.

She quickly folded her gown and put it on a nearby shelf. She returned to the side of the tub, kneeling waiting for her master. He appeared through the open doorway, looking at her in open appraisal. She tried as best she could with her downcast eyes to detect any hint of anger in his gaze she found none. She found only lust.

* * *

Luther deftly slipped out of the palace grounds using one of the various secret exits. This hidden passage had the novelty of actually being unknown by most people. He had changed into a nondescript brown tunic and dark green cloak. Not the fine weave he was accustomed to, but still of a reasonable quality. It was an old trick of Zerim’s. Never appear as rich as you are, or you’ll be hassled and hustled. Never appear as poor as you could be, or you’ll be overlooked. That was the trick. Striking the perfect balance, appearing rich enough to be important, but not enough to be noticed.

The streets of the capital were crowded this night, filled with revelers. Luther slowly made his way out of the royal district. As he reached the more common parts of the city mingled music filled the air through the open doors of competing inns. He strolled down the street hoping something would catch his eye. Mingled aromas from various kitchens filled his nostrils. Criers shouted from the portals of various establishments, trying to entice the passers by.

Luther deciding this fair was too agitated for his taste turned down a well-lit side street into a slightly quieter district that he knew. He entered an old part of the city, almost as old as the palace itself. He knew this district had often frequented it in the company of Zerim and sometimes even with Genera. His chest constricted painfully at the thought of her. He trued not to remember the times the three of them had had together.

He still could not resign himself to what she had done. He cursed himself a fool. The evidence had been conclusive. His mind vacillated between disbelief and rage at the thought of it. How could she have done this? How could she have done this to him? This quiet loyal beautiful friend of his. What could have made her turn? Had years of living under Urar Kee Maran’s shadow done this to his friend? Had she ever really been his friend at all or had all those years of camaraderie and tenderness all been a façade, a secret grasp for power and influence. How could he ever trust his own instincts again? He kept walking suddenly no longer wanting to be anywhere he and they had been before. She who had betrayed him, and he who would be forever out of his reach.

* * *

Eyes watched the prince walk aimlessly has it began to rain. Their owner followed him soundlessly through the cobblestone streets of the capital. Feet moving soundless on the slick wet ground. Always staying just out of sight, in the shadows. Following him through the twists and turns of the old city. Finally as the rain started falling in earnest and lightning filled the sky, eyes watched the youngest prince push open the door of a small inn.

* * *

As Luther pushed open the heavy wooden door of the inn, he was hit by a warm wave of heavily perfumed tobacco smoke. A rounded little owner immediately greeted him, taking his sodden cloak and asking him if he would dine. Luther shook his head and asked to be led to the taproom. The rotund little man, ringing his hands, immediately did so. Food service may be a lucrative business, but drink was even more so.

The inn; which Luther picked at random, having never been there before and being relatively quiet, being his only criteria; was clean and well kept. Altogether it was a ratter pleasant place.      The innkeeper led him into a large chamber with high vaulted ceilings. The room was ringed with comfortable looking overstuffed chairs and tables with matching wooden chairs or benches. At the vary center of the room stood a hardwood platform about a foot and a half above the floor. At the platform base a group of musician’s played for the guests. All this did not interest Luther. The owner seated him in one of the homey chairs at the edge of the room, but not so far away as to hide Luther’s view of the stage. He took the prince’s order, for which he was paid immediately in gold currency, and scurried into the bar. He returned almost immediately carrying an extremely good vintage of Zarillion Brady and a crystal glass. A quick glance around the room told Luther that not all the patrons received this treatment.

Luther poured himself a glass, and then without bothering to smell the spirit’s rich aroma gulped it down. The searing heat in his felt good to him. Somewhere deep down Luther knew that he should be swirling the liquid around in his mouth tying to detect the subtleties of the drink. Someone had told his that once. Especially Zarillion brandy. Zarillion. Lady Genera Kee Maran of the planet Zarillion, of our holy Empire stand and be judged. Urar Kee Maran had told him that.

Luther did not want to do that. He wanted to be drunk, very drunk. He gulped down another glass. The lights went down in the room. The prince barely noticed. He poured himself another shot. The musicians began stringing a lively up-tempo piece.

A single brightly lit platform revealing a shapely young woman facing away from Luther. Raven black hair cascading down her back, sparkling in the dim lighting. She posed there, staring straight up, her arms lifted dramatically above her head. Percussions were added to the arrangement. With each new beat of the drum one slender arm descended. On the third beat she turned.

The tune's introduction was finished. The song moved in to the main melody. She was by far the most beautiful thing Luther had ever seen. She moved with a gentle grace that belied her scanty attire. Luther sipped absently at his drink. She danced her way skillfully across the stage. Diaphanous veils fluttered after her. She seemed to float on air. Her skin was a milky white. Her eyes, her eyes were the bluest Luther had ever seen. They seemed to sear his very soul. Luther took a long swig from his bottle.

* * *

As the night got longer, eyes from a nearby table watched the young prince get progressively more and more inebriated. Ah the crown prince had worried about discretion. Prince Luther it could be seriously contended could have had a bolder dropped a foot next to his head without noticing. Good for the Marauder who followed his every move, but very bad for the young royal. It was very bad indeed.

The Prince making an absurd attempt at secrecy, which alerted the entire inn to his exact location summoned the innkeeper to his seat. Nothing in the known galaxy made more noise than a drunk trying to be quiet. This late in a crowded, no one paid him much attention. Some smiled or gently mocked the young man. None of the fools recognizing a face they had seen countless times throughout their lives.

The prince was whispering conspiratorially in the other man’s ear, pointing of to the general direction of the stage. The innkeeper replied bobbing form side to side, his right hand sweeping in a circle, pointing to the room in general and more specifically to a couple of ripe young barmaids. The Marauder suppressed a chuckle. So young Luther wanted some female companionship. No wonder, the master spy thought, after loosing his little friend to the crown prince’s shackles. After she had tried to kill him. And 8 thousand other young Zarconians no one ever mentioned. No wonder the boy chose to steer his attention from the fair noble Ladies of Zarcon. Luther shook his head, pointing at the stage again. The innkeeper shrugged. Luther nodded. Money exchanged hands. The innkeeper shouted instructions to one of the girls at the bar. She dutifully went into the back room, rolling her eyes once her master’s back was turned.

* * *

Higrena gingerly made her way past the storage room into the dressing rooms in the back.

Women were busily changing attire, checking and adding makeup and perfecting their coifs everywhere the tavern girl looked. Seeing a head of raven black hair in a virtual sea of varying shades of blonde. The young woman seeing her smiled.

"Hi Higrena," the black haired beauty greeted warmly. Others in the room sneered openly at the barmaid. Thinking themselves so far above her. Higrena could not abide most of the dancers. She liked this one though and didn’t particularly enjoy delivering this news to her.

"Hello Victoria, good show tonight," the girl said earnestly.

"Thanks," Vicky replied, "I presume Master Kee Geghet did not send you here to pass that compliment though."

"No that’s just from me," the girl smiled. Victoria smiled back. "One of the drunken sods up there wants you." She added pointing to the general direction of the taproom.

"But I still have another set," Victoria lamented.

"Sorry, Victoria it’s cancelled" taunted one of the nearby girls, a big-breasted blond Higrena did not particularly care fore. The shrew knew full well that Victoria despised being called on by the patrons for a night.

"After your little romp around the stage, I’m surprised the entire show wasn’t canceled," the little barmaid snapped back.

"Why you little whore," the blonde dancer screamed getting of her bench and raising her hand to the much smaller blond, "What does a little trollop who does nothing but spill drinks and spread her leg, know about the art of dancing."

"Apparently, a great deal more than you do about manners Yaratopa," Victoria replied, interposing herself between the two blondes, "This was a private conversation. Come, Higrena we don’t want to keep the masters waiting," She added putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder and leading her out the door.

"Try not to fall off the stage when you replace Victoria," the little blonde cried back her spirits apparently unblemished. "How can you stand her?" she whispered in Vicky ear.

"I can’t. I just ignore her. You should too, baiting her will get you a flogging one of these days."

"One of these days the Master will grow tired of her and she will be out the door. Please, she thinks she’s the Mistress of the inn just because the Gods gave her huge knockers" Higrena sneered.

"The Gods gave her no such thing," Victoria replied with more sarcasm than was usual to her.

"What do you mean?" the barmaid asked.

"I mean her breasts are surgically enhanced," Victoria answered.

"What?" Higrena asked confused, the girl’s native people, the Huritugue, were still bleeding away every ailment, being in what the Aronians considered the dark ages of medicine.

"They’re fake" Victoria murmured.

"What? Are you sure?" Higrena squealed with delight. Fantasies of spreading the news all over the tavern filled her mind.

"The real thing do not stand up by themselves when you lay back. Besides she had a poor healer. She has enormous scars," the dark haired dancer replied.

"The Lord who wants you is at least young and handsome," Higrena said trying to give her friend some sort of good news.

"For a drunken sod you mean?" Victoria teased.

"It’s a tap room, they’re all drunken sods. It’s the sober ones that worry me," the girl said.

"Is he the one sitting next to the Master?" Victoria asked, looking over at the obviously inebriated young man sitting in one of the good recliners as Master Kee Geghet stood by idly chattering. In all her life Victoria had never seen a man wring his hands as much as her master.

"Yes that’s the one," Higrena nodded, patting Victoria’s arm as she walked back to the bar. Victoria smiled her eyes demurely downcast as she made her way to him.

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