***
Sequestered as he had been for nearly the entire day, Harel’s headache had eased to almost nothing, though stray thoughts flitted through his head from time to time, too quick to hold on to.
Then he had seen the harem boys leaving the bath, and the pain had returned, nearly blinding in its intensity. There was no way he could stand another minute. This has been a bad idea all around, he thought. I’m not doing this again.
The glare from the boy with brown hair . . . and the look from the other . . . It was too much. No way . . .
It was several seconds before he realized that there was someone standing in front of him, speaking to him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.
“I said, I’m your relief. What’s the matter with you?” There was a soldier standing in front of him, scowling furiously. “I don’t know what they did to you, but get yourself together, man.”
“Sorry. I’m just tired,” Harel said truthfully. “I stood a watch last night, too.”
“Was this a punishment detail, then? Glad I came a few minutes early.” There was sympathy in the man’s voice now. “I’ll relieve you now, and you can sleep.”
Harel nodded, and headed for the sultana’s bedroom. “I’ll tell my lady that you’re here. They’re all in her bedchamber.”
His duty done, Harel staggered back to the bunkhouse. Once there, he flopped onto his bed, groaning at the release of tension. Almost immediately, much to his surprise, he fell asleep, finally too exhausted to do anything else.
However, it was not the deep, restful sleep for which he longed.
***
“This is all very well,” the hard, haughty voice echoed in the silent room. “But give me a good reason why I shouldn’t just kill them outright?”
“Because, my lord, it would be much easier to be able to hand them over if this . . . Galaxy Alliance ever comes looking for them, rather than telling them they’re dead.” This voice was female, low and sultry, coaxing. “If it’s truly an alliance, they might decide to partisan the people of this planet, and try to free them from your father’s empire, especially if we abuse their men.”
“Hmm. I suppose you might be right. However, that doesn’t eliminate the problem, as, until that time, they will still be here. Since Father conquered this world, its people have been less than receptive to us. They mutter of their legends, and that robot. If word were to leak out . . .”
A careless rustle of fabric. “So kill one, if it worries you so. Kill that one.” Even while ordering someone’s death, the woman managed to retain the sensual quality of her voice.
There was an uncomfortable pause, and then boot heels drummed against the hard floor. The man’s voice had lost much of its arrogance when he spoke next. “So young . . . what a pretty child . . .” Then it rang out like steel on a whetstone. “What happened to keeping them alive, Romelle?”
Another rustle. “I was only trying to help. You sounded nervous.” The smile was clearly audible in her words. The man growled. There was a quick shuffle of footsteps.
“Enough.” A third voice cut in. “I know a potion, a drug, that will steal away their will and their memories.” It was an odd voice, clearly female, but of a much different genre than Romelle’s. It was both young and old, soft and harsh. “Permanently, if you wish.”
“That will do nicely, witch.” The man’s voice radiated smug superiority. “What good will the legends be if the outworlders who would act on them have no will or minds? Excellent. And they will still be able to amuse my lovely wife.” A gasp. “Oh, I know very well you want them as your playthings, my dear. Your face is so easy to read. You especially want this dark-haired one.” There was a solid sound, a barely audible groan.
The groan made him open his eyes. One eye. The other was still swollen shut . . .
***
Harel sat upright in his bed. He could still feel the pain from the bruises he’d felt in the dream, blinked as if his vision was still blurry from the beating . . .
He remembered the dream.
Breathing heavily, he stared into the darkness, amazed. I remember it. I was brought to the sultan’s palace with the harem boys . . . and they are outworlders, from this . . . Galaxy Alliance, whatever that is.
His heart still racing, he lay back down, and closed his eyes, hoping to slip back into the dream. But he was too awake, too alert to fall back to sleep. Cursing at the untimely recurrence of his insomnia, he rolled out of his bunk and pulled on his boots. He carefully felt his way through of the lightless bunkhouse, and into the courtyard.
It was some time after the sun had set. The air was chill, and he shivered, unaccustomed to the cold. Briskly rubbing his arms, he crossed the unlit courtyard quickly, and entered the palace.
Once inside, he stopped, at a loss. Habit had carried him this far, but now, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He couldn’t return to the sultana’s quarters; that would be far, far too suspicious. After many long minutes of wandering aimlessly, he looked up to find himself in the sultan’s wing of the palace, right near the doors to his suite. This was dangerous territory; if the sultan was in as foul a temper tonight as yesternight . . .
Or when he’d first come to guard the sultan’s wing . . .
Harel shook his head. He didn’t want to remember that. He hated remembering it, hated the way it made him feel. He wished that he’d lost those memories, even in addition to the rest of his life. But they were the foundation on which he’d tried to rebuild his life, and he recalled them all too easily. Quickly, he retreated, wandering this way and that, and found a small side door that lead outside, into a garden.
And the memory walked along with him.
***
Uh . . . The groan was just as much mental as physical. Where am I?
Messages of pain came in from several areas of his body. Once he’d determined which end was which, he opened his eyes. The world was still dark, but he could feel he was lying on his stomach.
Oh, gods, I hurt, he thought dully, staring at his hand, merely because he could focus on it. After a few minutes, the aches started to resolve themselves into particular parts of his body, and he couldn’t decide if that was better or worse.
Most of the pain was coming from his head. Slowly, he was able to convince one arm to move, and managed to touch the back of his head. Lightly, but it was still enough to make him gasp. Probing gingerly, he found a considerable lump, big enough to make him think that excessive movement would be a poor idea.
Rolling onto his back, while not excessive, set his head to spinning. It was disturbing in another way, too, one that had to tortuously worm its way through his scattered mind. He was cold, and wet.
I’m probably in a cell of some kind, though I don’t recall what I did. Cells are always cold and damp.
Oh, really? another part of his mind countered. Why are you naked?
He promptly fainted again.
The pain was still present when he groaned his way back to consciousness again, but lessened. He was still disturbingly naked, but at least someone had had the decency to cover him with a scratchy blanket. Unthinkingly, he sat up then had to fight with his stomach to keep from vomiting as his head whirled. He leaned back against the wall, careful of the lump on his head, and looked about himself.
He was in a very small, very dark room. There was no furniture, no windows. The floor was hard-packed dirt, almost completely flat from use. He and his blanket were the only things in the room. He thought there was a door against the far wall, but no light leaked in around the seam, so he couldn’t be sure. He closed his eyes; at least there hadn’t been as much pain when he’d been asleep.
The creak of rusted hinges made him open his eyes. The movement of the door was a barely seen shadow in the rest of the darkness, and there was no light beyond the door to give shape to the form that entered. He was suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable he truly was in that instant, no clothes, no weapons, hardly able to move, much less stand or fight. If this person wanted to kill him, it would be so very easy . . .
“Awake, are you?” The voice came out of the shadows, and it was hardly reassuring. He couldn’t tell if it was male or female at first, and it carried a harsh edge that made him shiver. Then the figure coughed, and the voice was slightly smoother. “Good. You’ve been unconscious for some time.” It was a woman, he realized as she knelt beside him, though he could not see her at all. He heard her set something on the floor beside her.
She prodded roughly at the lump on the back of his head, and he hissed, lights flashing in his vision. “That hurts, damn it,” he protested weakly, trying to push her hand away. He was as feeble as a kitten, however, and it did no good.
“Stop that,” the woman admonished, continuing her exam by touch. His eyes crossed from the pain before she took her hand away. He thought that she was looking at his face closely, but dismissed it. It was far too dark for that. Her fingers were cold as she felt of his face, and he tried to flinch away, but there was nowhere to go. “You must be feeling better,” she muttered. Abruptly she stopped trying to examine him and sat back. “Very well. Where are you?”
“I have no idea,” he growled. “I’m in a dark room with no windows, I can’t see a bloody damn thing, how in the hells am I supposed to know where I am?”
“Who are you?” He had the distinct impression that she was smiling as she spoke.
He snorted. “That’s easy. I’m . . .” And he stopped, because he couldn’t recall his name. His name, his age, his home, his past . . . he could remember none of it. His mouth dropped open in disbelief.
“You can’t remember, can you? I was afraid of that. The lump on the back of your head has taken away your memory.”
It was fully a minute before the words sank in. “Will . . . will I get it back?” Even to his own ears, he sounded like a lost child.
“Only time will tell. I have some clothes here for you, if you’d like to dress.” She picked up the bundle and laid it on his lap. “Then I can tell you what little I know.” He had a sense that she turned away, but couldn’t tell.
The shirt and trousers were unfamiliar, but soft, well worn, and fitted him well, so he assumed they must be his. He managed to shimmy into the trousers without getting up, because he still wasn’t sure he could. There were no boots or shoes, no weapons. Somehow, that bothered him.
“Your name is Harel. You are a member of the sultan’s guard. You’ve been here about a month. That’s about all I know of you before a night or two ago. I’m not quite sure what sparked it, but there was a fight of some kind in the guardhouse. Before Captain Yurak was able to break it up, you had taken quite a beating.” Harel swallowed and nodded, forgetting that she would not see it in the dark. But she carried on as if she had.
“Since no one could wake you, Yurak decided you were injured badly, and brought you to me. I’m a healer, and I’ve been taking care of you for the past day. I thought for a while that you weren’t ever going to wake up. In case you were wondering, this is the cellar of my house. I knew you were going to be sensitive to light for a while, and I didn’t have anywhere else to put you. Now, I’m going to get you something to eat.” She climbed to her feet. “You aren’t able to go anywhere yet. When you are able to walk, you can go back to the guardhouse. Just be careful for the next few days.” And with that, she was gone.
It had been a week before he’d been able to resume his duties, and even then, he frequently suffered headaches of great intensity. Yurak had assigned him night watches. For some reason, few of the other guards would associate with him.
He’d come to hate the dark.
He was making his round outside the sultan’s suite, when suddenly the door opened. He’d grabbed for his sword, asking the man who stood before him what the danger was, but had been pushed inside instead. He didn’t recognize the man, who had an odd grayish-blue cast to his skin, and shaggy blond hair, but knew that if he was in the sultan’s quarters so late at night, he must be a lord of some kind.
“And what have we here?” The voice coming through the dim red light of the braziers was deep and . . . forceful, somehow. Haughty, proud, overbearing . . . commanding. That was the word. It was the voice of a man used to being obeyed.
It was the sultan.
Harel immediately dropped to one knee and bowed his head, though this caused it to throb. He’d never seen the sultan before, but had heard him described, and this man fit the description. He was tall and well built, obviously not a man who lounged in his throne room all day. His body was hard and muscular, much like the men in his guard, and he was reputed to be wickedly efficient with his blade. But the most distinguishing features were the pointed ears, the long mane of white hair, now tied back into a tail, the serpent-like yellow eyes and the pale blue skin, the legacy of his father.
“My lord, I . . . I was merely standing my watch.” Harel didn’t know quite why he was shaking, only knew he was frightened, very frightened of this man. “Have I done something wrong?”
The sultan straightened from his throne, and stepped off the dais to study him more closely. “He is the one you found?” he asked of the blond lord, who had backed away after thrusting Harel toward the sultan’s seat. The sultan’s tone was appreciative, and he smiled. “Very good.” Then he turned back to Harel, and somehow managed to soften his voice so that it did not echo through the chamber as he said, “Get up . . . Harel, isn’t it?”
Harel swallowed. “Yes, my lord.” He scrambled to his feet, then stood looking at his boots. “But, my lord, I’m supposed to be . . .”
“No, you’re supposed to do what I tell you to do.” Harel stiffened; the sultan’s tone had cracked over him like a whip. “And I’m telling you that you can guard me just as well in here as out there. But right now, I don’t need you to be a guard,” and his tone surprised Harel, as it dropped into intimacy. He looked up in shock, just as the sultan reached out to caress his cheek. His fingers were cold. “Right now, I need your body.”
Harel’s eyes widened in a fear he couldn’t control. The sultan smiled at the sight, his lip slowly curling, revealing very white teeth. “I delight in my harem girls. They dance for me, and they pleasure me very well. But sometimes . . . I need the feel of a man’s body beneath me, rather than a woman’s.” He leaned in close to Harel, who had to force himself not to flinch away. “Tonight . . . I need you.” And his lips covered Harel’s, a tongue that tasted slightly of wine sought entrance into his mouth.
Before Harel could even react, the sultan’s cool hands had found their way into his shirt, and were chilling his skin. He shivered, but found he could not pull away. The sultan was as strong as he, and his arm was like an iron band across his back. He tried not to gag at the tongue being forced down his throat, fought the urge to shove the other man away, more afraid of losing his life than his honor. After all, everyone assumed he’d already lost that along with his memory, and the sultan was usually of such uncertain temper that he could kill someone without a second thought. Though the sultan’s fingers warmed as they ran over his body, coaxing him to respond, all Harel could feel inside was an overwhelming heaviness, a sense that nothing mattered at all.
He let the sultan pull him into the bedchamber, and remove his clothes, let him position him on his knees on wide bed, ass high in the air. He clenched his fists in the sheets and bit back a scream as the sultan tore into him. Pain, fire-hot, lanced through his nerves, and he trembled at the intensity of it. Oh, gods, he’s big . . . Tears leaked out from the corner of his eyes as the sultan began to thrust. Every stroke brushed against something inside that made him moan, something that almost made him forget the agony . . . though it was still there, even as the sultan’s hand wrapped around his suddenly erect manhood. The other hand, gripping his hip, urged him to move back and forth in counterpoint. Reluctantly, face pressed into the pillows, he did so. The sultan moved faster as he began to rock.
With a wail, he exploded against the sheets, as the sultan groaned and shuddered behind him. Still inside him, the sultan collapsed onto his side, drawing Harel with him. His breath was hot on the back of Harel’s neck as they panted. “Very good,” the sultan whispered, and pressed a kiss to Harel’s shoulder, surprising him. “You can stay.”
That’s good, Harel thought, closing his eyes, because I don’t think I can move . . .
***
The witch, Harel thought suddenly, leaning against a stunted tree in the garden. It was the witch; that’s why she said . . . He looked around, shaking his head at the waste of water. The sultan’s palace was built over one of the largest oases on Arus, but still. He carefully picked his way through the beds of flowering plants, wondering where he was. There were still lights on in some of the windows overlooking the garden, and he drifted that way. It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could remember more, he thought, or if I had felt anything for him. But I don’t, I . . .
Lance? What the hell are you doing?
He stared through the window in shock. He’d found his way back to the sultana’s quarters, after all. Slowly, he slumped to his knees, and was lost in a swirl of memories.
***
I hate this part, Lance thought, as he watched Pidge end his dance.
He hated it because he’d enjoyed it so much the last time, and he knew how wrong, how perverse that was.
But the sultana was right in one respect; they did need to recover from their fears. Even if they couldn’t remember exactly what had gone on the night before, they still knew things had been done to them. And it had to be him, because Sven wouldn’t admit to having those fears. Sometimes, he thought, I wish I couldn’t admit to mine.
He glanced at Keith, sitting on the large floor cushion next to him. He was still a little pale. Sven knelt on a cushion behind the sultana, wearing a scowl. Pidge sat down next to her, panting. Smiling, the sultana put her arm around him and said, “That was wonderful, Angel.” She kissed his sweaty temple, then spoke over his shoulder. “You may go, Alli.” The girl with the drum nodded and rose to leave. The guard by the door moved aside to let her pass.
The sultana then turned her eyes to him, and nodded. He sighed. After the first time the sultan had taken them away from her, she’d said to him, “Sweetheart, I need you to help Keith heal from what my husband has done. Sven cannot help him; he’s far too dominant. Keith needs a gentler touch now, like yours. And I think it will help you, too.” She’d lightly touched his cheek, smiling, and very prettily asked Sven to be her backrest.
He knew Keith hated to be put on display like this; he had admitted as much to him one night. He’d been curled up in Lance’s arms in their sleeping room, letting out his frustrations. “Why do I always have to be the one?” he’d asked angrily. “Why can’t I ever sit out a turn?”
Lance had grinned in the darkness and replied, “Because the sultana likes your baby face.” It had earned him a half-hearted punch in the stomach and stifled laughter.
With that in mind, he slowly snaked an arm around Keith, and drew him against his side. Keith looked up, his eyes wide with alarm, but when Lance did nothing, merely held him, he relaxed, and rested his head on Lance’s shoulder. He knew what they were to do; they’d done it before.
When Keith had become used to his embrace, Lance began lightly stroking his arm above the gold band, then eased his hand down to his side. Keith jumped, then calmed again. Leisurely, Lance maneuvered them so Keith was leaning sideways against his chest, between his legs, closing his lips over the threatening laughter as Keith’s hair tickled his neck. “More comfortable?” he murmured, and felt Keith nod against him. He let his hands roam over the other’s slim body, touching his hair, letting him adjust to their position.
When he felt Keith’s arms slide around him, Lance started dropping light kisses on his dark hair, then his face when he lifted it. His lips barely touched Keith’s, and all the while, he stroked and caressed him, in a way that was only barely more comforting than sexual. Keith reached up for a kiss, and Lance almost let his tongue flick against his lips. Slowly, he reminded himself. Let him be in control, let him decide. Hesitantly, Keith began to touch him in return, fingertip caresses that tickled and aroused, and his mouth became more demanding against Lance’s. Brushing long silky hair away, Lance trailed kisses down his neck, then up again when Keith stiffened. “We won’t do anything that will hurt,” he whispered in Keith’s ear, so the others wouldn’t hear, making it look like he was nibbling on it. Keith swallowed, closing his eyes, and tilted his head away. His hands danced lightly over Lance’s chest, brushing his nipples, as Lance bent to kiss his exposed neck.
Keith’s hesitant touch aroused him, as it always did, but he forced himself to control. Instead of pushing Keith back onto the pillow, he fell back himself, drawing Keith on top of him, a position he’d rarely been in. Keith’s eyes were wide when he looked up, and Lance smiled, and gently pulled him down for another kiss.
Soft kisses became more aggressive, and Lance responded by removing Keith’s loincloth, and running his fingers along his stiffening member. Keith trembled, and Lance wasn’t sure it was from pleasure. He guided Keith’s hand beneath his loincloth, to his own manhood, beginning to stir. For a moment, as Keith did nothing, he thought that he had pushed too hard, but then the still hand began to move, stroking him, and he shivered at the sensation. Of its own accord, Keith’s other hand undid his loincloth, and flung it away.
It was only when he heard a pattering of footsteps that he remembered their audience. To distract Keith, he rolled them over so they were facing each other on their sides, hands still caressing, excitement growing. Keith began to pant in his ear, and Lance was surprised to hear his own groans. Suddenly, he was there, as was Keith, and Lance heard him gasp, felt him shudder, felt a sticky wetness cover him as Keith climaxed. A second later, Lance reveled in his own release. They lay there for a moment, relishing the feeling of completeness. Then, smiling, Lance rose up on his elbow, and bent to kiss his partner.
***
The five of them stood gathered around the capsule and its contents. The holo-bubble looped back to play its message from the beginning. “I am sending this message in a desperate bid for assistance. My planet is under ongoing attacks from an empire determined . . .” Pidge touched the switch and the man’s careworn features, old beyond his years, shimmered and disappeared.
Keith spoke first into the silence. “How far out of our way would we have to go?” he asked thoughtfully.
Sven started, knowing what was on the other’s mind. “How old do you think that canister is?” he countered, turning to Pidge.
“Hard to say,” Pidge replied, squatting down near it. “I’m not quite sure what kind of metal this is,” he gestured, “but judging from the amount of pitting and scarring, I’d say it couldn’t be less than 25 or 30 years.”
“I see.” Keith studied the container meditatively.
Throughout the message, Lance had stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Now he scowled and pushed away from the wall. “Keith, you can’t seriously be thinking of going to this Arus?” he inquired in disbelief.
“Why not?” Pidge asked, surprised.
“You yourself said it was at least a quarter century old!” Lance retorted angrily. “They’ve already either won or lost. There’s nothing we can do now, either way!”
“Another possibility,” Sven added in a calmer tone, “is that this message is a decoy. What if it’s a trap?”
Lance, nodding, resumed his casual position against the wall. “I agree.”
Pidge jumped to his feet. “How can you say that? Those people need help!” His young voice was filled with compassion. He clenched his fists.
Hunk stepped forward and laid a heavy hand on Pidge’s shoulder. Turning to Keith, he asked, “What do you say?” He already knew the answer, but the others needed to be reminded that despite their close friendship, Keith was still their commander.
There was an uneasy silence as Keith considered each of them in turn. He studied Lance and Sven last, and sighed. Lance’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing as Keith ordered, “Let’s go. Sven, set a course for Arus.”
Turning on his heel, Lance stalked out of the hold.
***
Lance followed Hunk down to the bridge when he went to determine if they had enough fuel for the side trip to Arus. Keith had given them the next six-hour watch to stand, while he composed the report to Alliance Headquarters and Sven and Pidge were off.
Lance flung himself into the helmsman’s chair, sulking and fiddling with the controls. Hunk ignored him as best he could. Ignoring Lance was not easy, however, especially in the close quarters of the bridge. There was a magnetism about him that drew Hunk almost in spite of himself. But speaking to him before he could vent some of his anger would be asking for abuse, so Hunk wisely kept silent.
“I don’t like it,” Lance said finally, having exhausted the entertainment possibilities of the helm console.
Hunk sighed, still checking the fuel and running calculations. “I know you don’t. But Keith has made the decision, and we’ve got to go.”
He never heard the steps behind him, but suddenly, arms were twined about his waist from behind. He could feel Lance’s slim body pressed up against his back, and habit let him relax into the embrace, though they were both on duty. He closed his eyes, and brought one hand up to curl about the ones locked about his middle.
“I know. God, I know it, and I’ll follow orders.” Hunk was astonished at the despair in Lance’s usually confident voice. “But I have such a bad feeling about this . . .” He could only just hear the words whispered into his back, and his heart froze at the fear in them.
He turned around then, enfolding Lance in his strong arms as he did. Lance’s blue eyes were bright, and then he buried his ashen face against Hunk’s shoulder. “Such a bad feeling,” he repeated, muffled, shaking in Hunk’s arms.
“Hey, don’t say that,” Hunk said, worried. He pushed Lance away just far enough to look down into his face again, and lifted one hand to cup his cheek. Only half joking, he said, “You’re scaring me . . .”
Lance’s prescience was no joke. He often caught flashes of danger that passed others by, and could not explain why he reacted just so in a situation. There was also no explanation for why he did not always get the flash when there was danger. For all that the rest of the team frequently teased him about his hunches, they usually listened to them. But this time, Hunk knew, Keith would not.
Leaning into the caress, Lance closed his eyes and shuddered. “Not as much as I’m scaring myself . . . We’re going where angels fear to tread, love, and I’ve never been so frightened . . .” When he opened them again, the blue eyes were dark, little more than pupils faintly ringed with color, and filled with fear.
Nothing Hunk did could comfort him, and neither spoke again until relieved by Sven and Pidge.
***
Opening his eyes, he stood and stared in through the window again. Pidge had left the room, and Sven’s shoulders were tense as he sat motionless behind the sultana. Lance was very gently kissing Keith, stroking his cheek. Keith smiled up at him with something like gratitude.
Oh, Lance, you were right, Hunk thought. We’ve got to get away from here . . .
***