Part I
The founding colony had been a caste-heavy thing. The
ruling class was rife with retiring Starfleet elite and
their families, the rest a multi-racial hodgepodge of the
desperate and indebted. The failed, little-known Rakshan
empire had fallen to the Federation and fallen hard,
leaving billions of poor rustics.
When Kronos had been opened for colonization, when Markwell
had been appointed First Governor, he'd looked at the dying
hordes of refugees transported to Gat and Horus and saw
opportunity... The former followers of Mander Raksha had
been offered what could only be considered a miraculous
bargain—parcel upon parcel of fertile ground in return
for pledges of fealty. The fine print was ignored, for the
refugee planets were grey, cold rocks, and the Rakshani
were dying.
Hardly anyone had refused. Governor Markwell had started
his colony with a grateful, willing army of slaves.
Kronos grew strong quickly, the export business exploding
with strong, sweet wines and the most perfect fruits within
parsecs. The climate was sweet. The seas were calm. The
native predators were small, and easily trained.
It was paradise, and if the former Rakshani had trouble
freeing themselves from their tethers to the land....
Well, who really wanted to go? And so it was for
generations.
No one cared that the "free" education came with
commitments to planet service in the Governor's private
armies, for there were no battles to fight.
No one paid attention to the strict population controls,
for the Governor was generous with farm technology. Extra
children were given unto the state, and there were many
holos of grateful adults in the Governor's colors.
No one noticed that they never came home.
No one noticed that the Governor's last name was always
Markwell, that there was always a sharply patrician face in
the holos.
A dynasty was built within the fastness of the Federation,
a planet was made a plantation, and no one said a word.
Tourism was high, and there had never, ever been a happier
population. Even [famous tourist world] inhabitants grew
weary. Kronos had the perfect mix of real life and idyll,
and Jeffrey Spender wanted, needed to get out.
He was of the First Families, raised in tasteful splendor,
educated by the best and brightest, loved absently by his
wide-eyed mother, loving his absent father. It wasn't the
plight of the proletariat—he was well-versed in many
versions of the hushed Rakshani war, and he knew these
people would never have been so healthy, so well-cared for
under the madly pious Mander.
It wasn't even the rigid class system that meant he could
never be sink lower than the rank of an Elect, never rise
to Governor. Jeffrey was less than ambitious.
It was the Researchers.
It was what they did.
His father's work, and his birthright. Complex upon
complex of coldly brilliant men and women doing things to
the Extras illegal in damned near every society in the known
universe. Suddenly it was clear why his social life had
always been just slightly more protected than the others of
his class, why he'd been encouraged to raise plants instead
of pets.
And his father had shown him the vista of experimentation,
had clasped his hand on Jeffrey's shoulder and smiled.
Kronos was lush, Kronos was lovely and always as perfectly
ripe as a Sevenmonth rosoma. And Kronos was at the cutting
edge of Federation medical science for a very simple
reason.
Jeffrey had held his breakfast until he'd gotten back to
his quarters.
And after a very long shower, Jeffrey began to plan.
Walter frowned in concentration, hunched closer to the
crackle of static from the subspace radio. Mostly it was
just an incoherent garble of intermingled signals snatched
out of the ether. At least that's what an untutored ear
would have heard. But Walter's ear was anything but
untutored in this particular art.
And he knew what he was looking for.
Key phrases, odd words—the signs and signals of that
particular Federation code he'd come to associate with
them.
The nearly nameless, nearly faceless 'them'. Those who
would be held accountable.
If by no one else, than him. His mission. Well, mission
sounded noble. And this wasn't anything to do with noble.
It was.... It just was. No more way to explain it but
that. And it was enough explanation for the only two
people who counted on the Rose of Sharon. Enough to
send him weeks and parsecs out of his way on the basis of a
single garbled radio transmission he'd picked up on the
edges of this galaxy.
Enough to keep him here for four more standard days,
staying awake on stimulants and field rations, trying to
pinpoint the source.
While the universe whizzed by in hyperspace and the
timestamp on his ostensible cargo neared its expiration
date. And Alex paced.
As if the thought of his name summoned him like a demon,
Alex was there. Pale hand slapped down on the console hard
enough to make Walter wince in sympathy and irritation.
He raised his head, ready to mete out the discipline he
knew the wild boy required and stopped and the unexpected
storms in those ocean eyes.
"This music hurts," Alex said.
Not complaint, not a whine or whinge but pained puzzlement.
Walter winced again, inside this time. Of course that's
what it was.
Music was the current lesson. Had been since the stop of
Gerrelian which had unfortunately or fortunately coincided
with the carnal carnage of the Month of Knives and
Woodwinds.
"This isn't music," Walter began.
"It has patterns," Alex said. Walter nodded, impressed
once more by the hidden depths to Alex's thought processes.
He wished he had the time and patience to explain...
"It's like dry water over smooth rocks," Alex went on.
Talking more to himself than Walter, it seemed, though
Walter's presence was clearly necessary to the process. As
was the use of senses Walter wondered at. Alex's hands
roamed over the body of the speaker and he pressed himself
against it, nudging Walter out of the way.
Four days of fatigue and a growing sense of the futility of
this particular sidetrip were enough for him to give way.
He slumped back against the console, rubbed his eyes with
the heels of his hands. The smell of Alex so close—not
quite clean, warm musk of sleep and those odd esters he
produced, stirred him a little. He thought about pulling
Alex to him for a quick fuck, knew he didn't even have the
energy to fantasize about it decently.
Alex's body covered the speaker completely now, head tucked
in so that his slightly pointed ear was flush with the
woofer. His eyes were screwed shut, face a studied scowl.
A thought struck Walter.
"So how does it hurt?" he asked.
"Hurts sharp," Alex said. "Burns sour..." he trailed off,
lost in his own thoughts. Whatever the hurt he wasn't
moving away from it. In fact, he seemed to Walter to be
trying to climb inside the speaker. It annoyed Walter,
though he couldn't put a name to why beyond his general
ill-humor.
"Talk sense..." he said, harder than he meant to let show.
Alex's eyes sprang open. Scanned Walter's face as if
reading subtler signs there than Walter ever saw in the
mirror while he depilated.
Slowly he disengaged from the speaker, cautiously rested a
hand on Walter's tired knee raising faint sparks there.
But his eyes never left Walter's face.
"The voices," he said. "They all follow lines...arcs.
They flow one way—" he made an odd wiping motion with his
free hand. Back and forth. "But there's
one...thing...Not a line. It cuts across. It's green
where everything else is cream and thin black strands."
And slow, deep dawning making sense of Alex's synaesthetic
constructions.
"You're hearing something that doesn't fit?"
"Yes!" And oh Alex's face opened to such bright delight at
being understood. And Walter's heart ached for it, but
he thrust that down hard. Bore down on the single ray of
hope. "Show me, Alex," he said.
And those eyes, so busy reading the secret instructions
written on his face in the air into which he would next
more—turned inward. He could almost hear the whir of
tiny mechanisms engaged. Walter found himself up on his
knees, leaning forward as if to pull the information out.
And then Alex was nodding, up on his feet—so graceful—
to lay artists fingers on the interface of the starmap
generator. Drawing what at first seemed to be nothing
more than a wonky grid of thin, green lines. Walter
watching open mouthed as the thing took shape before his
eyes.
A map. A fucking three dimensional map. From sound and
static and—god help him—something he must have
learned listening to Walter's old Earth recordings of Miles
Davis and Bach. And arrowing through the center—that
line of wrongness, a directional sign leading right to the
source. A solar system. A handful of planets around an
M-class star. And the joy broke so strongly he almost
laughed, clapped Alex on the shoulder hard enough to rock
him.
And Alex's face, warily pleased.
"I did well?"
"That you did, boy," Walter said, taking over the controls,
hard fingers over Alex's long slim ones to punch the map
in, watched the co-ordinates, identification keys blossom on
the screen. A green world. A lush world. A place that
should have been another Eden for sentient life to flourish
and grow. That had become instead a mere windowbox for
the Federation to plant its seeds—and worse, a breeding
ground for the unseen blight he was sworn to cut from its
heart.
Kronos, the map named the place. Factoids—history,
politics, geography—scrolled by along the bottom of the
screen. Walter ignored them for the moment—plenty of
time to study them on the way in-planet—but for now his
energy had returned. A sonic shower was in order, some
food, maybe even sleep. And Alex, definitely time for
Alex. And then they would go right some wrongs.
Alex didn't understand.
The months with Skinner had made this an old thing, a
familiar thing and it made him want to hug the ground and
tear and tear until he'd dug grooves in the grey with his
nails.
Skinner had clipped his nails very soon after he'd brought
Alex to his ship, destroying years of strengthening,
sharpening and then whispered something about "aesthetics."
He wasn't sure he understood that, either. It seemed so
foolish to limit the things you found pleasing.
But there was nothing he could do but accept this constant
low-grade strangeness, this forcible softening of himself
for the pleasure of Skinner. Because it was the older
man's pleasure, and because that was what he was here for,
somewhat.
The borya had left him on the sprawl, in grey- orange dust,
among the bones, and Skinner had come from the sky and
taken him in and away. Fed him. Gave him water so
different from everything he'd tasted that he'd thought it
poison.
The concepts of "sweet" and "pure" had been among the first
to be taught, and they were frightening things because
there seemed to be something he was missing to make them
right. He had snarled, bit at Skinner.
And tasted his strap.
Alex had taken it silently, knowing this was deserved,
knowing it was needed. The borya had taken him easily,
his burrow was unearthed by the force of the Eight, a
windstorm coming down and down from the far Dagger peaks to
whip across the settlements of thieves and killers, the
place of his home. And because he had failed to defeat the
Eight the borya took him and his belongings.
He had failed, and so he was beaten, broken systematically
at the hips, shoulders, and fingers in The Pattern. The
origin was lost, meaningless now. The Pattern remained, and
it was through the pattern that corak such as he could come
to be reborn, to try again and struggle for this something
they all longed for.
The truth of their homeworld's name...
Pax was nothing but a word for Alex, and uncomfortable
sudden blockage at the back of the throat as if the word
itself was offended by the improper nature of its vessel
and when Skinner had asked—
"What is this world?"
—Alex had spat pax to the ground, and found himself
pleased at how meaningless it was in this dark grey place,
this soft place... but then had come the lash and it was
the most perfect thing to have a Skinner who would do this
for him so freely. Each blow was binding, each lost
droplet a portion of his cursed mortality, gone forever to
be replaced with Skinner's professional touch and Skinner
thick tool hard on his tongue.
So perfect and it had seemed as though Alex would
understand all this after all. But the lessons came on the
same flood of the other man's come. Alex had knelt to take
it all, pleased and right to have his punishment and
destiny meted out with such exactitude, but Alex didn't
understand.
The concept of time often eluded him, its passages empty
and strange for the boy. Always more lessons, always on
his knees. Alex was trapped by the crudity of his own
metaphor, helpless in the thrall that bound him between
Skinner's knowledge and Skinner's fine cock. He had no
knife to free himself, he'd been as thoroughly declawed as
fired chapak for the Moon Nights, he was nothing but a
slave here.
That he understood.
But it had taken him far too long to make Skinner take him
as he wished, days and days of language and training in
meaningless things before he had finally flipped him over
and driven inside. Skinner had bit off every scream in the
flesh of Alex's shoulder, and he'd felt the blood flow and
he'd cried out and come hard and hot on the man's shiny-
warm blanket.
And when he'd licked it clean, as he'd been taught, Skinner
had stroked him, praised him. Took Alex in his arms and
squeezed tight, so tight it made him breathless and
Skinner's peace was so real...
Yes, that he understood, and it was all part of his
ownership.
Even if Skinner had not taken his property immediately, as
was custom.
And now, even now, he would make Alex wait for too long.
Alex had seen the heat in his eyes, the pleased appraisal
of Alex and his abilities. He had done well, Skinner had
said so, and perhaps Skinner thought to spare Alex his cock
because of this?
The thought was ugly, eminently killable. He was almost
sure Skinner didn't use his fuck as punishment—not all
owners did, after all—but what if he did? What if he
would only get the man's touch if he struggled, if he fired
Skinner's thoughts as well as his groin?
It was all too easy to understand that, but he didn't
want it to be that way. His life, his self, all that he
was was forfeit to Skinner until the day he died as he was
supposed to on the sprawl. That's how things were. But
he wanted the man's cock whenever he could get it, needed
to know where he stood, or lay, or bent, or knelt.
Alex would tell Skinner this, and find out which way
Skinner would lead him.
It was the only way.
After four days, the sonic was as good as water. Walter
Skinner stood in a white cloud of his own dead skin cells
and let the dry heat and fizz ease sore, cramped muscles.
Gritty eyes.
He touched the flush and a dry, desert wind poured down
across his scalp and back. So good. Too good. The
temptation to stay and bask was strong. How long since
he'd relaxed?
And steeled himself against the thought. Slapped the
shower off and stepped out. Better not to even ask those
kinds of questions any more. Relaxation was for men with
lives, men with families, men who's work ended at the end
of the day. And he'd given that up along with his comm
badge and his collar pips.
Better not to even think of himself as a man anymore, but
as a tool. A weapon, charged and aiming at the heart of
the enemy.
oh so noble... he snarled at his ignoble and stubble-
dusted mug in the mirror and slid the depilating wand
across his jaw.
But even so, he wished it—willed it to be true. He
needed to be that. To have that strength. A man might
look at the life he had chosen—that he'd had no choice
but to choose, but never mind that—and despair.
And with that word Walter ruefully recognized the familiar
strains of the black melancholy that too much time and too
little action plucked upon him.
Thank Jesu they were in motion now. Or thank the boy...
Warm flush of something like pride, something like wonder
at the thought of Alex pulling together all his strangeness
and all the things Walter had stuffed his head with to come
up with...exactly what he needed.
Uncanny really. And not the first time he'd presented
Walter with something both unasked for, unthought of and
yet, once in hand—perfect: the perfect tool for some
minor repair. The perfect spice to perk up some
reconstituted pap to the point of edibility. The perfect
sprawl of limbs across his bed...
Walter frowned at his reflection.
How had he missed this?
Well...easy enough to see why if he had ever cared to
look. It wasn't just the strangeness of the boy—
though Walter knew without a doubt Alex was the strangest
creature he had ever come upon—it was that Walter simply
didn't know how to fit Alex in with his books and his
swords and his bitter memories and all the things he'd
gathered around him and labeled 'Walter Skinner's life'.
Alex, like this life, had been imposed upon him—not from
outside but by moral imperatives he still had somehow not
managed to shake.
Had come onto his ship, as undemanding and undeniable as an
ancient Vulcan godstone—too big to shelve, clashing with
all the furniture and yet too beautiful and somehow—yes,
the metaphor held—sacred, to be dumped or sold.
Undemanding, pliable, as plastic as a shapeshifter to his
needs...
...and still, not invisible enough to be taken for
granted.
God, invisible. Walter almost laughed. Alex was
anything but invisible. And his mind flashed him back to
that first terrifying glimpse: teeth, eyes, a matted fall
of hair like the tangled mane of some ill-kept beast. A
spider- sprawl of limbs shrieking through the air towards
him...
Hard to reconcile that fanged and feral creature with the
quiet, studious...well, creature that currently prowled
his ship, speaking politely, acceding to any demand or
request. And fooling Walter not at all.
So, he had known. He'd known and understood the nature
of this harmonic convergence, if not its name or its
intent. Had known and turned a blind eye, because to see
it meant he'd have to take it on.
And tools do not take on other tools.
Only men do that. And he'd given up far too much of
manhood for this idiotic, irrefutable quest to turn around
now and accept something so meager as this boy's strange
'companionship'.
And yet...and yet... that infuriating moral compass behind
his breastbone spun and spun... hung on the myriad
wrongnesses of taking what he knew was not so much a gift of
obedience, but a tithe. Of taking with no heed to what was
being begged. Not that the boy would ever mind being
utterly his slave. He could feel (always could if he
hadn't been averting his eyes) the burning hunger in the
boy to simply be commanded. Used.
And by the customs and the rules of both his culture and
what he could make of Alex's, that would be right enough to
suit them both.
But he knew he wasn't up to that. It would give him too
much pleasure, too much pain and ultimately too damn much
to brood about in the long deep reaches of space to make it
worth either of their whiles.
But the thing he was proposing was far worse.
It was one thing to strip your own life of all but bones
and sinews, gears and wheels, leaving only enough to get
from zero hour to zero hour. But to flay another, for no
greater reason than that it's...expedient... Even if that
other offers himself up to be flayed with more enthusiasm
than is wholesome.
Which reminded Walter, he really had meant to give some
thought to figuring out an appropriate punishment for bad
behavior.
At any rate, he decided, he'd brooded on the matter enough.
He wiped the last of the powder that was left of his beard
off his face and cinched the belt of his robe. There
would be time enough to consider the problem of Alex after
they had dealt with the blight on Kronos.
For the moment all he wanted to do was throw himself into
bed for the few hours he needed to dent that bone-deep
fatigue and then get to work on his plan to infiltrate the
Federation's finest defenses.
He would have done just that, too, except when the door of
the head slid open, Walter found himself staring into the
eyes of a naked and not entirely submissive looking Alex.
The sight froze him to the spot, for a moment.
Naked, Alex exuded an almost tangible aura of menace—as
though a field usually damped by clothing had come to life
with a crackle.
He was clearly older too, than the wild boy who lived in
Walter's mind. The pale skin, just this side of metallic
luster, showed the definition of a young man's musculature,
not a boy's.
And his face was deadly calm.
Walter felt uneasily vulnerable in his robe. Tempted to
throw it off and cloak himself in the heavier, hairier
armor of trained fighting man.
Instead he simply set his jaw, presented the bulwark of his
disapproval in his face.
"What is it you want, Alex?" he said, low and flat,
somewhere between question and the baring of territorial
teeth.
And Alex neither flinched nor bared his own. Simply
blinked: another fact recorded for the mill and reached out
lay cool fingertips on Walter's collarbone.
"I want you to fuck me," Alex said. "Because I want you
to."
"You..." the word came out before anything like a sentence
had formed in Walter's mind. He felt his body flush from
nape to heels, a strangely chilling heat that centered in
his groin, hefted his cock to upright in an instant.
Quick glance showed him Alex was no less aroused—his
cock rolling as it thickened to jut, ivory and blunt, from
its bed of black curls.
Walter opened his mouth to answer, found that the sentence
still hadn't managed to gel, although any number of
thoughts were circling in the cobwebby shadows left by the
morning wallow.
Alex, head cocked to one side attentively, took advantage
of the hesitation. Pressed his palm flat against Walter's
chest, just above his heart.
Not much pressure, but Alex's hand was unnaturally cool.
Skinner could feel, or imagined he could feel, each finger,
each line and mound of palm. His own flesh seemed fever
hot under the touch. Strangeness, strangeness. The
coolness of Alex's hand seemed to seep through his skin,
shimmer there in the thin sheath between dermis and muscle,
diffusing through his flesh like some kind of contact
poison. Hell, maybe it was. He thought he should have
moved by now.
He tried, found his hand came up easily as ever. Rested
his own blunt fingers on the more fragile strut of Alex's
collarbone. Mirroring. Had he meant to do that?
"Alex?" he asked, hearing the sound of his own voice as
rusty and old. "Are you doing something?" Again that
long, calm consideration. That tiny birdlike tilt of
head, but Alex's face was slowly folding into its puzzled
frown.
"I...might be," Alex said. Guileless. "Must I stop?"
"Can you?" Skinner asked.
Brittle concentration crossed the boy's face like pain.
Faded. He moved his palm, slid it down Skinner's chest,
the friction of skin tugging at the hair there. Skinner
didn't notice a difference. The hand still felt cool.
Slippery. Odd. And very good against his skin.
The palm continued moving. Slowly circled, chafed a
nipple. Walter licked lips he hadn't realized had gone
dry.
"I would like very much to hurt you someday," Alex said.
"I think you would be beautiful."
And Skinner had to bite back what threatened to be a truly,
eviscerating moan, could not stop the forward buck of his
hips. His free hand shot up, grabbed Alex's wrist.
Ground a little on the bones.
Alex smiled. Honest smile. Childlike. Pure.
"Yes. And knives," he whispered, nodding. "The curved
knives, please..."
"Shut. Up." Walter growled. No anger in it but
implacable firmness. Slow twist of his wrist and he was
turning Alex, torquing his arm high on the smooth, scarred
back.
His other arm reaching to clasp the taut bow of his throat.
And as Alex's ass pressed back to intercept his cock he
realized that once again, without having been asked, his boy
had handed him the perfect tool to fill his needs.
Alex felt himself being fitted to the vast, hot canvas of
Skinner's body and something cold and insinuating slid up
under his skin and tugged. He was bare, raw against the
rough chafe of skin and hair and man. His shoulder burned
with the pressure, his body complained, begged to be
allowed into a more comfortable position.
As always, the cries of his own cells were music, true
music and pure and he wanted to sing with it, something old
and quiet and smooth, that would meld smoothly with the
sound of wind through bone.
It was not until Skinner loosened his good grip that Alex
realized he'd spoken.
He froze then, frightened and on the edge of rage, though
Skinner had not moved. His body remained against his own,
but... Alex growled. Skinner was holding him as you would
hold a foolish child, loose and contemptuous.
"Are you ordering me?"
Skinner's voice came low and simple at his ear, and while
Alex's instincts screamed to twist, jerk, break the other
man's unremarkable nose, there was something, something...
Skinner flexed against him, squeezing his wrist for a brief
moment of pleasure. This was what they wanted. Alex
knew it, it was so, why did Skinner not comply?
Another mystery, something so important and close—Ah,
but at least he knew now that Skinner would never punish
him with his cock. He should have known, should have
understood that the man would not be so... easy.
Alex loosened himself, a conscious act of surrender,
frustration running hot over his body, need taking every
lost bit of tension and transferring it to his aching,
aching cock.
"I will not order you."
Skinner released him entirely, then, and Alex whirled
quickly, met the other man's gaze. A flow of something
across the strange dark eyes, a ripple in an oily pool. It
might have been emotion, it might have been a shift in his
own blood flow. Only the muties had eyes like that at
home, the ones that had to be exposed.... Alex shook it
off when he felt the other man's gaze lock on his face and
pull.
It was a look of cold curiosity, a rich man's knife teasing
the flesh away from bone, another use of himself that Alex
approved of heartily.
He hadn't been taken by just anyone—Skinner would
learn all, take all....
"What do you want me to do?"
"I didn't call you here."
Alex lifted his chin, defiant of Skinner's ability to put a
knife there before he could—Alex cursed himself
silently, he was unable to concentrate. Skinner reached in
and thumbed his face, pressed crude and even along his
cheekbone, back to tug at his ear once, sharply.
Alex let the rolling sound out, unwilling to resist that
tiny indulgence.
Skinner curled his hand, ran thick knuckles over Alex's
cheek. Was he making demands? How much could he take?
How far could he go? The first—the only other—man who
had saved his life had not survived long. Alex had not
risen to protect him from the chapak. Alex was cursed
under every star he knew, though he had not told Skinner
this....
He searched himself, tried to find how deeply his desire
for redemption ran, but found the answer blocked by a
curious mist. It filled the air like smoke, it swallowed
him whole—
Skinner had stopped moving, was studying again. What had
he shown? Rage? Proof of his unfitness?
Without warning, Skinner backhanded him. One sharp blow,
more power behind it than Alex had been willing to admit
was there. Skinner, after all, was not of his stock. Alex
ran his tongue over his lip, tasted blood and felt the first
of him burst out of his cock with shameless joy.
"Where were you?"
"I was remembering."
Skinner shrugged off his robe, threw it casually to the
side. Alex took in the powerful thighs and spun to his
hands and knees, willing to stay down here if that was what
the other man wanted—
"Why did I strike you?"
Alex's teeth ached to tear the man's throat out, but he
breathed instead. Breathed in the room, the dust of one
man. He had not taken a companion since long before Alex
then. The territory was nearly pristine.... He longed to
rub his bleeding cheek along the bedpost, to sit patiently
and watch himself soak into the old, old wood.
"I don't know."
"Think."
He breathed in deep and scented the man himself, calmed
himself with the sharp, rising scent of his want, his
need. Watched the man's cock wave and shift with each
breath, so dark and heavy. Skinner grunted and it brought
Alex's eyes up...
The crudely formed face had... softened. Not the slack,
mindless hunger he wanted to see, wanted to feel deep
inside, but something... affectionate.
For hungering him?
"Does it please—"
"Answer me, Alex."
He let the words out in a snarl, uncaring momentarily.
"You don't like it when I am not focused completely on
you."
Skinner laughed then, a bark of true humor. Alex knew—
he had analyzed it for anything other. He didn't
understand...
"Is that so wrong, Alex? What predators must you watch for
here?"
It was like finding yourself nothing but a hilt when you
thought yourself a blade, empty and useless and wrong. And
the truth only came when the blade clicked home. To be so
foolishly chained to a concept with no meaning here....
Alex had forgotten to adapt. Such a small thing within the
context of this pleasure, this blood and sweat, but, if
allowed to remain, it could kill them both. A shaming
lesson for one his age and former status, but he knew the
reaction wouldn't please Skinner.
Or perhaps it would, but not as much as, "I understand."
Skinner nodded, crossed his arms. Alex watched the muscles
flex inexorably with each small movement, tried to taste
the air. And then simply crawled forward, nudged the other
man's thighs apart with his face, and rubbed his cheek along
one strong column. Smooth on the inside, burning his
face...
Alex groaned, pressed hard against the muscle, trying to
get inside, to push his blood in to flow with the other
man's. Skinner's hand fell on his head, pushed him back.
Watched him closely, but Alex couldn't really pay attention
to the scrutiny this time, not with the other man's cock
bobbing at his cheek.
He closed his eyes, breathed Skinner's sex, breathed more,
and more and each taste hooked onto his cock, his self and
yanked. He could hear a low moan with each exhale now and
he thought he might float away altogether, fly apart without
something to ground and solidify him.
Make him real.
Skinner pushed him back a little further, and Alex
whimpered, but then the hand settled on the hinges of his
jaw, pressed in viciously, forced his mouth open...
And oh, this was fine, perfect. Pain was rarely regretted,
but when it came with purpose, contact, a fire of something
tight and tight between himself and another it was something
to be craved, worshipped. Skinner moved him roughly into
position and slid his cock in, slow, steady, ruthless.
Alex opened his throat and moaned his pleasure, not
bothering to edit out the small note of triumph. This was
what he'd wanted, and yet there could only be more...
Skinner settled his other hand on the back of Alex's skull,
toying with the casual knot of his hair—short and bound
to get shorter if Alex had his way, he did not care for the
smooth waves of it, he missed the bones—before simply
weaving his blunt fingers in and holding Alex in place.
Skinner's other hand still lightly tortured the bones of
his jaw. Alex held still, and was rewarded with the first,
second smooth thrust scraping against the flesh of his
throat. But then the other man paused.
Alex moaned again and felt Skinner's entire frame shudder.
He worked his throat in a ragged series of half- instinctive
swallows and felt several hairs work themselves free of his
scalp. Finally, he just pushed his face harder against
Skinner's groin, his movements fractionally small as he was
already tight against the other man's hot flesh.
But it made his point. There was a brief, breathless
chuckle from above and then Skinner was gripping him harder
still. And fucking his face with the steady, even strokes
of a man obsessed. Alex reveled in the stretch and slight
release of his mouth, and decided there were worse things
than being part of a man's obsession.
Much worse... He tasted so uniquely like Skinner.
Simply satisfying, acridly painful across the fevered
landscape of Alex's brain, making of his vision a velvet
black landscape ripped with lightning, a fury of nature and
it was his, all his...
He felt himself relax and he hadn't even been aware he'd
been tensed. The release flooded his muscles with
something acidly welcome and he moaned, and Skinner thrust
and he had a few more moments of perfection before his jaw
was released and his head pulled back and back until all he
could lay claim to was a thin pearl of Skinner's pre-come
slick on his lip.
"Get on the bed, on your back. Spread yourself for me."
Skinner's voice was ripping cloth, low and insinuating and
irresistible. When he released Alex's hair, it was merely
the confirmation of a command...
And Alex counted himself a fine machine.
A perfect tool. Alex rose from his knees like a snake
from a basket, eyes locked on Skinner's face. Those eyes
were clear now. Crystalline and nearly black—green-
ringed, copper-flecked and all that blackness holding only
him. Only Skinner.
Only Skinner as he backed toward the bed, climbed—
sinuous and slow upon it. Did as he was bid, oh yes, but
something different now.
Not placating his master with obedience, but...Skinner's
mind too deeply awash in lust to come up with more than
glimpses, images of Alex—painted, stretched—a dancer,
a...a canvas. Less than an artist; more than clay. And
those long, elegant legs folding back upon themselves,
spreading wide.
Taut architecture of his thighs, pulled and drawn.
Truncated curls of coarse black hair. Ivory column of his
cock, head glistening, thickly glazed with pre-come.
Skinner's eyes moved down. Alex's balls—tightly
furrowed, close to his body—and below where the flesh
darkened to the pink of dusty roses, the rose of Karkorium
plums...
The puckered rosette buried in between the milk-white
globes of his ass.
His.
Not taken by him. Not given to him.
Simply, his.
There were oils by the bed, exotic oils from Lyra and
Orion. Lubricants appropriate for a dozen different
human/alien pairings. Some night he would use them with
Alex. Not tonight.
Tonight there would be only them; himself and his own.
And if it hurt...
He followed the boy onto the bed. Knelt up between those
arched and waiting thighs. Took his cock in his own hand
stroked roughly, spreading the slick pre-come with his
callused palm.
Positioned himself at that still virginally tight entrance.
Shifted his weight.
Alex gasped into the nudge, pushed forward, down.
Friction allowed only the head to penetrate.
Walter wrapped a loose, but warning fist around Alex's
cock, held him to stillness.
Hard enough to hold himself to stillness, but Starfleet's
discipline was good training for any endeavor of the flesh.
But oh, the heat inside.
Alex, so cool on the surface, roared volcanic under the
skin. His cockhead swelled in its narrow, burning
channel.
Almost too much heat to bear.
"Tell me about the pain," Skinner said. "This pain.
Let...let me see it on you."
"Yesssss." Alex hissed.
Skinner withdrew the head of his cock, levered the boy's
legs higher.
"Now," he said, and thrust.
Alex screamed—high, wild, unrestrained. And writhed
and seemed to unfold beneath him like some fabulously
complex insect. And Skinner saw—he saw the pain, race
like the flush of blood across the surface of his flesh.
The sight provoked another thrust. A battering buck of
motion that brought him up blunt and short, stuck deep in
molten, molten flesh.
Another scream—rising torn like comet's tail of silk and
sand and cold black water and oh god it was music.
And it was moving him, dancing his hips in an undeniable
rhythm. Short punching strokes and Alex was choking on
his next scream, liquid sounds and helpless gasping mewls.
Those long legs spreading impossibly wide. He could almost
hear the tear of tendon, rend of muscle from the bone.
Felt the dull scrape of friction as he withdrew all the
way.
"More..." he demanded through gasping breaths. "All of
it, Alex. All...." And thrust again, full force of his
muscular hips and legs.
Feeling flesh give, part abruptly hot and so so dangerously
slick.. and he could feel the moral compass spinning
wildly again, the ship swaying beneath him. Glance down to
see that yes, god, yes his cock was streaked with crimson
and...don't deny it...still moving. Plunging back into
Alex as he watched.
No, not watched...he knew...didn't want to know. He
wanted this. Not taken. Not given. It was his. He
owned it all. Pain and blood and Alex Alex Alex—
transformed. Not screaming now but writhing, muscles
moving under the skin.
Mouth open, crimson spatters on his cheek—brief flutter
in Skinner's throat. Where did that come from... he
couldn't tell, but his eyes were drinking the red of blood
and he wanted those dark red dribbles on the pale flesh.
And he wanted—-stroking stroking now into nothing but
slick pleasure. The burn so far away. Oh but if only
Alex's blood would burn him burn him again.
"Come on Alex," he growled. "Show me..." and when
those eyes came up blacker than before he knew: it was his
fault, not the boys. He wasn't hurting him enough. And
while he was so close Alex was...drifting. Lost.
And so much rage rising in him at those unspoken demands—
demands of flesh and of humanity and of the simple presence
of someone other than himself.
Building in him like a charge, his teeth ground hard enough
to feel something give and crunch and he raised his hand.
Brought it down in one hard ringing slap to the cock
bobbing insistently toward his belly.
And there was the cry, the boy's body jerking hard beneath
him.
Pre-come jetting tiny fountains and he hit again, wishing
his hands hard enough, sharp enough to draw blood from the
bruising flesh. All that blood welling just below the skin
and Alex had been right...he should have brought the
knives.
And like a brand behind his eyes he saw it, saw himself,
curved knives in either hand, slathered in the sticky
copper sluice of blood and shredded milk- white flesh. And
heard the choking gurgle of untimely death and saw the
smile that would curve Alex's parted, perfect lips...
And looked down, his fist merciless on Alex's battered cock
and saw that smile already there...
And came.
Alex was raw.
Inside and out, every nerve bruised or throbbing or heated
with Skinner's... With Skinner. The borya knew
nothing. His people had forgotten themselves, the Pattern
was meaningless.
This was how he was supposed to enter the darkness, not the
random ache of broken limbs, but this utter sensitivity to
the universe. A drop of sweat fell from Skinner's chest to
his own, he closed his eyes and it was a liquid punch, it
would bruise him, too.
He could hear himself, panting or sobbing... he wasn't
sure which and that meant it was probably both but there
were no words. He shifted beneath the other man, cried
out because Skinner was still so hard inside him... He'd
been fucked with a weapon, hot, so hot.
A pon stick left in the sun, still charged, still sending
pulses through every part of him. Such wealth... he
prayed to everything he knew to keep Skinner there until
Alex could just die...
Muscles flexed at the corners of his vision and he bore
down in reflexive fear, sending flares of pain so pure it
was a form of light previously unknown; Alex felt he would
simply break apart and spill it all over...
"You haven't come."
Growled out, a simple statement. Another would make it an
accusation, not Skinner... He felt himself cracking again,
thought sure this time it would be fatal. But he didn't
know how to respond...
Thankfully, Skinner didn't ask for anything, simply lowered
himself enough to make it possible to brace himself on one
elbow. Skinner's furred chest against his own... even if
this man was human it seemed too banal a designation.
Alex could feel how sweat had curled, thickened the hair
just a little. Alex never wanted this to stop, and tried
to say so by arching and rubbing. He wanted Skinner to
flatten him, smother him, fuck him again, just like he had
before and then the blunt edge of Skinner's palm, callused
and horny, came up under his chin and pushed.
For a moment, Alex wasn't sure whether to surrender to the
push or resist until his spine had snapped, but Skinner
eased off when Alex stilled, waiting for him. It felt
criminal and Alex pressed the round of his skull back
against the hot, damp pillow and arched up, offering as
much of his throat as he could.
And then Skinner came down fast, snake-strike fast and bit
him.
Held on and growled. Alex couldn't hold in his cries,
couldn't stop the rapid arch and thrust of his hips,
couldn't remember why he'd stopped.
And Skinner just held on, increasing the pressure with slow
inevitability, adding to the pain, the wonder, the sheer
solid reality of it. Alex released his knees and braced
his feet and screwed down, feeling Skinner soften but not
really caring at this point beyond the glory of his own
movements, the release of old tension, the creation of new.
He was careful to keep his upper body as still as possible,
not wanting to disturb Skinner's process, and the other man
showed his approval by biting harder. It was starting to
get hard to breathe, his cock felt petrified, permanently
blunted and full—
And then Skinner's teeth broke the skin, and Alex felt
himself split under the pressure, felt himself start to
spill and it was so perfectly, wonderfully right that he
couldn't keep from screaming.—the sound was so
breathless, so hoarse and broken that he lost it, painting
their chests and bellies, scalding himself with his own
heat.
Skinner suckled his throat greedily, finally blanketing
Alex fully with most of his weight.
And Alex shakily curled a hand around the smooth scalp and
held the man there, right there.
Somewhere in the middle of the ship's nightcycle, Walter
woke. On his bed. Alone. Definitely something wrong,
but no clear idea of what. He felt—gluey.
Inside and out, and vaguely achy, as though he were coming
down with recyck fever or a cold. His mouth tasted like -
- he ran his swollen tongue over his teeth experimentally—
shit.
Something nagged at him. He shifted on the smooth
coverlet and his hand slid into a patch of cold dampness.
More than dampness. Wet enough to leave his fingers slick.
Sticky. Dull horror dawning, he brought the fingers to his
face.
The movement alone brought the bright copper stink to his
nose, along with the underlying musks—sex, fear, ass...
Enough to bring Skinner to full alert in an instant. He
rolled off the bed, into a fighting crouch, teeth bared—
not stopping to question why.
Nostrils flaring, ears cocked to listen to the ship.
His ship still and he knew all its noises. Listened a
long moment, heard nothing new and felt himself relax.
Breathed deep and straightened, took a step toward the
head.
"Alex?" he called softly.
No reply, but the 'lock on the bathroom door was closed.
He rubbed the aching stretch of muscle at the back of his
neck and took another step, intending to override the door
with his palmprint. His foot came down in cold,
congealing ick.
He stopped. Controlled his breathing. He had done a
terrible thing, he knew that, but it hadn't seemed
this...He stopped the rationalization before it could be
allowed to birth. Self-disgust hardened him against the
growing fear.
"Lights..." he grunted.
He'd said it low, but any spaceman used to traveling alone
kept the ship's computer finely tuned enough to catch a
dying breath. And the lights came up.
"Jesu Christos..." The childhood invocation slipped out
between his dry lips. Blood...blood... What had bled...?
Bloody abbreviated footprints led toward the bathroom door;
a smeared handprint on the control pad like the attenuated
digits of a Norn. Skinner closed the distance to the door
in an instant, slapped the override hard enough to sting his
palm. The door slid open. Walter froze.
Alex stood in the center of the tiny head. His back was
to Skinner and the door, but his reflection faced them all.
Skinner had been in space battles and planetside
skirmishes. He'd pulled friends and soldiers off
battlefields and out of wreckage. He'd seen his share of
blood and wounds and the fierce madness that battle can
strike in a man. But he'd never seen anything like this.
Blood ran in a wide swath down across the young man's
chest. Blood painted the insides of his legs and long
drips twined down the length of his downy calves to puddle
in the arches of his feet.
It made no sense. Walter had known he'd drawn blood from
the boy—he could still feel the scissoring split of
tender skin between his teeth; remembered the terrible
slick heat around his cock—but he had not done this.
And looking at the boy. Cold wash of strangeness as he
tried to puzzle it out. Alex hadn't moved; still hadn't
acknowledged Skinner's entrance—gave no sign of even
knowing he was there. He seemed transfixed on his own
image—eyes glassy, mouth open and breathing in short,
shallow little gasps.
One hand was slowly tracing its way up his ribs, touching
every rising bruise, every raw abrasion with something like
the reverence of a priest touching relics. The other
hand... Skinner frowned into the slight shadow cast by the
boy's own body... the other hand was straight at his side,
held a little stiffly.
The boy's traveling left hand detoured from his ribs then,
skimmed the bloody spill across his chest. To his
clavicle. To the blackening circle of the massive bite
mark on his throat, the ragged oozing tears in the flesh...
Skinner saw a flicker of too quick movement; looked up and
caught the glitter of bright metal in the mirror. Alex's
hand had come up so fast...
The cuts exactly where his teeth had cut. But flowing
now, fresh spurt of crimson so much brighter than the
old...
And the hand coming back around behind—and Skinner saw
the blade, the curved blade flipped and angled to slip
between the milk-white cheeks.
The sight unfroze him, shot through him like electric
charge and Skinner moved so fast he was on the boy before
the thought had time to form.
He grabbed the boy's knife hand, ground a precise thumb
into the nerve bundle at the base of his wrist. The knife
clattered to the floor. His other hand went around Alex's
waist and he lifted him, bodily off the floor and without
preamble carried him out of the head.
Whatever combination of self-hypnosis and bloodloss had
entranced the boy lasted just until Skinner dragged him out
the bedroom door and into the companionway.
Then, like a switch had been flipped and thrown them back
in time, Skinner found himself with an armful of snarling,
screaming animal rage.
Hard pressed not to hurt the boy further in his efforts to
subdue him, he tried to calm him with words, with the sound
of his voice, the weight of his authority.
For a moment it even seemed to work, and Alex, whether
through conscious effort or simple exhaustion and weakness,
simply sagged in his arms—but when they reached the
infirmary, it was renewed his struggles with such crazed
energy that Walter was forced to slam his head repeatedly
against a wall strut to keep him from breaking free.
He regretted more than he could say the thought of having
inflicting further damage on that mutilated flesh, and it
was with tender care that he lay the stunned and blinking
boy in the cylindrical, steel coffin of the med-unit and
belted him in. Alex came round before he was finished and
started screaming again, flailing against the restraints
and then, when Skinner held his head still and pressed his
lips to the boy's forehead—begging...begging for
Walter to stop...please, please, please, please stop...
"Stop what?" Walter asked.
His hand was poised on the control pad, but as he watched
Alex made a visible effort to compose himself and it
stalled him.
"You..." Alex said, his voice rough and raw as torn silk
and his words came out in choppy, panicked bursts.
"Destroy... you cannot...it is.. I am...you have made it
godmade...first Pattern...you can't...Skinner, it is
perfect..."
The words made little enough sense, but the boy's eyes on
him were so intense, so desperate he knew without a doubt
that this was more than mere animal tantrum. It was hooked
into that strangeness. That thing that made Alex more or
less than truly human. That made him who he was. For
Walter Skinner, something...perfect. He took his hand
off the control panel, raised both palms as if in temporary
surrender.
"About the pain..." he said, knowing he had only the
vaguest stirrings of what this might be about, and still
never a man to distrust a gut instinct so strong as this:.
"Tell me about it Alex. This time so I can understand."
And there was that word again.
Another act of cruelty, though Skinner's face did not mock.
And he smelled more of Alex than himself... he rolled up
against the restraints and got nowhere. He was too weak,
too close to changing...
Alex felt the air leaving his body, and with it went some
of the harsh white light of this... this repair center.
Purity was not to be thanked. But Skinner was waiting for
him. He tried to put it into words.
"You gave me so much."
When Skinner frowned, it was a total thing, a reshaping of
his face into something more stone, more beautiful. But it
was always a sign of disapproval... Alex felt himself
craving that look, that inky flood of anger, leashed
violence.
But that wasn't where the other man had called his work on
Alex from, it was just Alex's own weakness. If he was
brought back to himself, he would only be tempted to see
what true rage would get him, and that wasn't the way—
"It was mine to give; it is mine to take." Skinner's low
growl pulling him back to himself, and the flare of re-
entering his body sent blood to his aching cock and just
made him hurt more and he felt his body rise in a wave and
there was more blood flowing and then a warm, rough hand on
his chest.
Centering him. Alex tried to focus, found the rage on
Skinner's face had tightened into something like fear.
Wrong wrong wrong—
"If you don't stop I'll sedate you. Talk."
"Want to be perfect. So little time to be perfect please
let me have the knife you showed me how now I can finish
and be done—"
The hand pressed him down harder. Alex felt his skin split
again beneath it, moaned his appreciation.
"That's. Not. Your. Choice."
Alex tried to free himself again, but he knew he did not
move. "How could you undo what you've done? Why do you
punish me?"
A brief pause, and then Skinner came down, a mountain of
blood-tacked muscle and aggression. Stole his mouth and
plundered it. He tasted like death and Alex moaned again,
sucked at his tongue.
And then there was a sound like the rush of a Five into
your den when the seal is released too soon, and a
spreading chill beneath his skin. His eyelids dropped of
their own accord, and Alex knew he'd been tricked.
"Why?"
"So I can do it again."
And that was all he knew.
It made Jeffrey feel naked.
There were no true moons here, just an endless series of
asteroids with irregular orbits. Well before the colonists
had arrived, said orbits had been corrected for safety, yet
left in semi-random patterns for their pleasing effect.
Tonight there were four in Jeffrey's sky, glowing in the
backwash of Kronos' young, healthy sun.
Jeffrey looked at his hand and thought it must glow, too.
Everything was clear in his vision, in his senses in
general. While he was not unfamiliar with the concept of
adrenaline, Jeffrey's life before now had been calm, empty
of such things. This was very, very new, and he was
convinced that, because the shape of a lone and obviously
lost breed tawa was so easily discernible to his eye...
Well, he must surely be exposed to every eye tonight.
And it was not yet high Spring, not yet the proper season
for young people to be out of their homes this late.
Certainly not among the surprisingly poor streets of the
Merchant's Quarter. Not dirty, just vaguely...
discouraging.
If he were a merchant, he would not be eager to come here.
Not when it was so clear that Kronos could provide
better. Jeffrey ran a hand down his tunic, and his palm
identified the fabric as none other than lirat, soft and
natural and native. Hardly anyone wore anything else.
Two weeks ago, no more, the thought would've filled Jeffrey
with pride at his homeworld's self-sufficiency. But he'd
never been to the Merchant's Quarter then, and he'd never
seen the secrets...
"Kill me... why won't you just kill me?"
The words had been running through his brain since the last
time he'd gone to the Barns. The fourth time altogether,
the first without his watchful, watchful father.
He had been led around the facilities, shown the progress,
the growth... a dozen different new species, each less
recognizably humanoid than the last, easier to breed. His
father told him of the successful attempts to seed mostly
uncharted worlds with the creatures, all something less
than precisely sentient yet trainable. Perfect slaves for
new colonies on the crumbling edges of Federation morality.
And the prospective Governors paid well, and the latinum
rolled in and it was so easy these days to smudge a genetic
fingerprint to unrecognizability and someday it would all be
his...
Jeffrey paused at the edge of the alley he'd chosen to rest
in, unable to quite bring himself out into the spots of the
asteroids again. He rested his head against the cool wall,
and tried to breathe.
He had not been shown Barn 14, and so that was where he'd
gone. Anything he wasn't shown would clearly be where the
incontrovertible proof was hidden, something he could take
holos of, steal evidence from to back up that letter he'd
sent, something.
And he was right, because Barn 14 held all the best Extras.
The one's whose stock was the most easily manipulable. The
ones whose faces had been shown in a million cheerful
holos, but whose bodies had never been seen anywhere within
the ranks of the Governor's Elite.
Generations of them. Revived and frozen and revived again,
nearly heedless of damage, certainly of human need. The
newest ones were childlike, having never been taught
otherwise, simply raised rapidly from infancy to artificial
young adulthood.
But there at the end was Quirabi, and her cheerful holo
had been one of the first, according to the histories. By
Kronian time, she was well over three hundred years old, at
least. Her arms and legs, a third of her face were of that
strangely glassine and withered quality common to early
cryo treatment, but the rest of her body was youthful.
She was naked and restrained, a new wound had been bandaged
on her side. When she spoke, she did not focus on his
face. Her voice was the slurred pipe of a drugged child.
And she had begged to be killed. Again, and again, and
again and Jeffrey had stood there until a hand fell on his
shoulder and even then he'd been too shocked to move. He'd
been turned to face his father, who watched him with an odd
sort of knowing happiness.
And introduced to the legendary Admiral Surok, whose career
Jeffrey knew by heart, who'd once written to say Jeffrey
might someday have a place on his staff, whose staff would
receive his simple but eyes-only letter for the general
about the Problem On Kronos within hours.
Jeffrey had managed not to vomit, and nodded in the
appropriate places, and when he'd been dismissed he packed
up a small number of his belongings and ready cash and got
out. There was no way his father wouldn't know about the
message by tomorrow morning, and then...
And then he didn't want to think.
So he was here, in the Merchant Quarter, and his only hope
would be to buy his way onto a private vessel. Something
good and alien to Kronos. A captain who would listen to his
story with sympathy and get him so far away from home he
wouldn't even be able to dream of it anymore.
The hope was a small one, but it was there, and he cleaved
to it.
Skinner took one last look at the control readouts on the
med-unit—mostly green now, he was relieved to see, but
he'd also set the autofunction to slide Alex into a nice,
deep sleep for the next few days. He wasn't entirely
thrilled at the idea of leaving the boy alone in the ship,
but the alternative—having to deal with the delicate
business of infiltrating a Starfleet medical facility while
keeping his wild creature in check—seemed worse.
The ship's defenses would protect Alex from looters and
curious port officials who might decide to pull an
unrecorded inspection of the vessel while the captain was
not at home and—as long as nothing kept Skinner from
returning before his induced sleep was done—might keep
Alex safe from this new, bloody madness of his as well.
Skinner did not dwell on the possibilities of either
mechanical failure or his own.
Satisfied with his final adjustments, Skinner left the
ship, turned his documentation over to the 'port authority
and headed out into the spaceport town.
In Kronostes he found a place both like and unlike most
cities that had sprung up around 'ports. Every city had
its places—its wealthy quarters and industrial sectors;
its tourist traps and its whoring places. All different;
all the same. The form might change, the names, the value
in which a sentient life was held, the races of the whores
...but the nature of these places seemed universal to
Skinner. There was a sameness to all 'port cities. Or
perhaps that was the influence of the Federation itself.
Another reason to curse them.
But every port city had one place whose form and whose
nature was always exactly the same. A place where the
flotsam and jetsam of the city lapped up against the
adamantine and forcefield fences of the landing fields in
little boxtowns and shantytowns. Here were the shadows in
which the thieves and killers hid—rough bars that stank
of piss and blood and the bitter esters of too many aliens
too close together. Places where even a man like Walter
Skinner walked with his hand resting on between his phaser
and his knife and ready to draw either at a moment's notice.
He began his search here.
What he was looking for, was an in.
It was never the same from planet to planet. Sometimes it
was a person, sometimes the location of a place or a tidbit
of knowledge bought at a price that was always too high, and
that he always paid. Whatever the in turned out to be,
it was the single most vital key to Walter Skinner's
success and, particularly, his survival: the power to get
in and out quickly and make his one shot count.
For three days and three nights he prowled the city in
search of his in. His hunting skills honed by practice
and necessity brought him time and again to places that
should have yielded his prize. But Kronos was different
from most colony worlds. Here there seemed to be no
dissatisfied underclass, no resentful aboriginals eager to
help poke holes in the Federation shields. Not even
criminals happy to make trouble for the simple opportunity
it brought. Kronos from top to bottom seemed fat and
complacent in every way and the inhabitants of the dockside
bars were not so much the criminal underbelly of the city as
simply its lazier, stupider burghers.
Day four bloomed hot and green and devoid of even the most
plausible of leads. Walter Skinner had learned all he ever
wanted to know about the richness of Kronos's soil and the
peacefulness of its history and the wisdom of the ever-
smiling Governer Markham. He had also learned the general
whereabouts of the fine new Starfleet medical facility and
had gleaned, from his own experience and the chatterings of
Kronostes happy citizens, that it was indeed his target.
What Walter Skinner did not know, was how he was going to
destroy it. And he was running out of time. His last
lead had sent him on a long and pointless tramp to a clean
and wealthy looking enclave where there was no one of any
use at all. He had spent all afternoon following one dead
end after another and by the time he decided that there
really was no hope, the sun had set and the gentle blue of
Kronos night had descended—a velvet drape of sky into
which asteroids had been set like four semi-precious stones
on display in a jeweler's window.
The slowly-cooling evening found Walter Skinner tramping
irritably back through town via the Merchant's quarter.
His irritation was compounded by his growing concern that
Alex would wake before he returned to the ship and by the
fact that the worry was only a small distraction for the
real ache in his heart—that their simple mission had now
become a suicide run and that he was going to lose the
strange and razor-studded puzzle box that was his
His!
Alex, just as he'd begun to understand the nature of its
first unlocking twist.
And so distracted was he by the new, knife-cut anguish of
this loss, that he nearly walked by the alley in which a
young man—tall and pretty-mouthed and dangerously over-
dressed for the neighborhood—was about to lose his
virtue and most probably, his life.
Jeffrey was seeing stars. The realm of his vision was
collapsing and collapsing and then, with each jerked
movement, exploding in a bright flare of something too
momentarily stunning to be called pain.
And then the process would begin again.
There was a voice at his ear and something bluntly
professional at his aching temple, and something else not
quite so professional pressed at the small of his back.
Something within him coolly reported that the reddish
splotch on the wall was where his head had impacted, that
the bluntness at his temple was a phaser, that the arm
around his neck was, quite redundantly, choking the life
out of him, and that the roughness of the voice and the
hardness of the cock implied imminent rape.
The rest of him was steadily trying to beat that something
to death because this was just too much to cope with right
now and hadn't he had enough anyway?
His vision cleared from the blow for just long enough for
him to notice that his body had gone on struggling in
complete ignorance of his brain. He was abruptly very proud
of his body. Then his attacker lifted him clear off the
ground with just the arm around his throat and Jeffery
wondered why he'd ever thought the night was too bright.
Jeffrey felt numbed and sleepy and then he felt the ground
punch him in the face and then there really wasn't much of
anything at all.
Red sands obscured the sky, swirled around Alex's body in
delicate whirls that blew apart and re-formed countless
times around his body. Red sands moved against the soles of
his feet just before he set them down in step after step.
It was said that many of the First Ones had quietly turned
to the worship of it after they had been left, that they
believed the sands alive in a way utterly incomprehensible,
yet timeless.
Alex walked through the gentle stings of the Two, naked
save for the tightly sealed eye mask and the cloth wrapped
low and efficient over his genitals, and believed.
He knew he was dreaming, though. He could see his world,
which meant the eye mask actually had some form of hole to
see through, and that was.... Well, when someone was said
to have "gone to see the sands" or was called a "sandgazer"
then everyone knew to seal their dens against the person,
because it just wasn't safe to remain close to the mad.
To see was to open your eyes to the shape of the land, vast
and scarred and the same red as your own dried blood. The
storms were near-constant on Pax, the sands always in
motion. When they did calm you could finally see it all,
miles and miles of empty. Few people left their dens
during the Zeros. It hurt the mind.
More practically, seeing the sands was to allow each grain
to sink into the tenderest flesh and burn and burrow and
burn your brain until you went even madder.
Though Alex had been born here, his body had always known
this was no fit place. Had railed and thrown itself
against the walls of wind and dust-blood until it was strong
and lean, which was good. But it also never stopped
telling him to leave, find something softer and cooler and
wetter and it was so weak.
Alex had never understood why his body couldn't just learn
to accept what was, though perhaps there was less shame now
that Pax was only a dream.
And Alex walked. Saw the sands with something a lot like
guilty pleasure, reveling in the taboo of derangement until
the weight of the drug pushed him back down and down into
simple black.
It was the familiar shuffle and gasp of night violence that
brought Skinner out of his head.
That sound that was two bodies in collision—fucking hard
or fighting—and he turned, a half step past the alley.
already knowing what it was he'd heard and seen. Whir of
the damned moral compass in his chest. On another world
he might have walked away. Violence was a fact of life and
Skinner had no need to save a boy too rich and stupid to
protect his own worthless life. And. time wasn't his to
waste on strangers—Alex would be waking soon.
And who was he to tear some lion from his kill? But the
man on top in this alley was no lion.
Just another rank and dirty urgol rutting on something
already too lame to run. And four days simmering
frustration, four days worth of prodding the city's flabby
underbelly to no end but his own sacrifice congealed
suddenly, catalyzed to rage.
Three long steps and he had the urgol by the throat.
Yanked him backwards, twist of his arms and the man's
vertebrae snicked to the edge of breaking. Skinner gave him
just long enough to register the attack, stiffen in abject
terror, send up a musk of wild fear that sent a rush of
blood to Skinner's prick—and snapped the man's neck.
The body shuddered against him, relaxed. Collapsed in
upon itself. Stink of foulness rising and he tossed the
suddenly heavy corpse aside. Looked down. The boy
sprawled on his belly on the ground before him. Half
naked, fine tunic a ruin. Hands scrabbling in the dirt
and his legs spread wide where the dog had left him.
The sight sent another deathrush through him, filled his
cock like the flex of a fist. That animal desire. This
kill was his now—and he was a lion.
The boy moaned, flexed his back, tried to rise. Walter's
foot twitched wanting to kick those knees apart again.
The rich boy's ass looked soft and pink as a D'abo girl's,
dark heaviness in the shadow of his thighs promised more.
But that was the 'man' thinking again. Thinking with his
cock, his gut. He needed cold steel between his legs, not
silky flesh. And a rich boy out alone at night in this
place sent out alarm bells that he should have heard long
before now.
So he steeled himself, took the boy's arm instead, gave him
his other arm to lever on. Got him sitting against a
wall.
"Okay?" he asked.
Not a real question. The boy—were they all so young?
—was clearly stunned. His face was wet with blood and
dirt and his gaze skittered wildly across the planes of
Skinner's face.
Annoyance reigned. Did these Kronos people have no wits
about them at all? The boy was likely hopeless—an idiot
escaped from the family pen. The sane thing to do would be
to leave now, get back to the ship. Prepare for the final
run. But something held him back. Skinner frowned,
racked his brain, trying to sort through the accumulated
trivia of the last four days.
Something about the clothes. The tunic, torn and dirty,
green-gold badge of the family crest pulled askew... And
the key slid home. If Skinner was a smiling man, he would
have smiled.
He knew that crest: those crossed staves, green fields of
'baccy and gold trefoil. House Spender. The name had
come up time and again—right hands to the Governor, a
direct channel to Starfleet. Wealthy beyond your dreams.
Impossible to reach. And here, as though sent by the hand
of whatever passed for a god in this place, was one of
their very own.
Skinner looked closer at the boys face, felt encouraged
when that vague gaze sharpened, found him. He watched the
boy take in the scene: the lump of dead man in the shadows,
his own disarray. He raised slim fingers gingerly to his
forehead, stared at the blackness of blood on his
fingertips. As if he'd never seen his own blood before.
"Did you...?" he asked. His voice was a little deeper
than Walter expected, his pretty features tangled up in a
frown.
"Un-hunh," Skinner grunted and then to make sure there was
no mistake. "I saved your life."
"I—Thank you," said the boy. He sounded puzzled.
Skinner's impatience made him grind his teeth, set his jaw
against hauling the boy to his feet, dragging him along.
Instead he held his voice to softness.
"Can you walk?" Skinner asked.
"I think..." The boy frowned, shifted to get his feet under
him. "I think so. Yes."
"Good," said Skinner. "I'll take you somewhere you can
get cleaned up." Squint of suspicion as the boy pushed
himself up using the wall as leverage.
"I...thank you. No," he said, his voice was shaky.
Words a little thick.
And Walter's patience reached the limit of its chain,
yanked hard. He wrapped one hand firmly around the boy's
slender bicep.
"It wasn't an invitation, boy."
The rich boy cringed back against the wall. "No..."
breathed shaky but something like will behind the words.
Walter rolled his eyes, shook his head. "I said get clean,
boy. Not get fucked. Get clean and get yourself fixed
up. I'll do that much for you. And you can tell me your
story if it's short. And then," and he fixed the boy with
his long-practiced captain's glare. "Then we can talk
about how you're going to pay me back." Was this what it
meant to leave home? Was this night just his due for
deserting his birthright? Jeffrey felt briefly wistful for
those otherwise useless electives about religion. The vast,
alien thing had had no place in his life, but there was
probably something useful there for this moment because
this wasn't his life anymore.
Not by any stretch of the imagination was he following the
massive brutal stranger passively, without even a fist
around his arm to compel him. The moisture on his face was
rainwater, not blood. The man would just get him medical
attention and help him—no matter what the man's eyes
said—
And that was just a little too close to admitting this was
all perfectly real, another today of his life and if he
admitted that he'd also have to admit there was nothing here
he could understand and really, if he went back to that
alley he could crawl back into his body and go back to
sleep.
His damaged body...
A part of Jeffrey's mind was cursing a blue streak, words
he'd never had any real reason to know, much less use. He
knew it was just to keep from screaming and that was a real
thought, too, and he couldn't really focus on the sky, or
the night people in the Quarter, or on anything but the
vaguest shape of his not-at-all altruistic savior...
Too real, much too real and he knew if he stopped walking
and curled up the man would just pick him up and haul him
for the... the repairs he obviously thought were
necessary before he could lower himself to rape him and oh
fuck, but Jeffrey had only been trying to avoid Wrong—
And there was the fist on his arm.
"Are you going into shock?"
The words were in the same toneless rumble the man had been
using all night, and the eyes might have been blackly
unreadable on any other night, but...
Jeffrey's own eyes were dark, and he knew contempt when he
saw it. He pulled himself up a little, deliberately slowed
down. Watched the irritation ripple across the other man's
features and resisted the urge to ask when the man had last
had to hold his pants up by the torn, ruined waistband.
He would probably tell him.
A small, bright giggle worked its way up despite his best
efforts to keep it down, and the other man raised his
eyebrow, seemed to be gearing up to explain to Jeffrey one
last time How It Was Going To Be.
Oh, he knew this man. He did. And Jeffrey knew he didn't
have to be real at all. None of this did. Not even
himself. If he listened very, very closely the wind sounded
a lot like the soft, gentle chuff of the doors to his home
holochamber.
"No. What's your name?"
That earned him a measuring look, but he knew the part he
was supposed to play here. No backing down.
"Skinner."
Skinner. He turned the name over in his mind, but found no
meaning but obvious gore... Obvious didn't quite seem the
man's style. "I can pay you—"
"I'm not interested."
And that, too, made perfect sense within this new... life
he was trapped in. He caught himself nodding absently.
"You know me."
Another look, a smile crooked less out of humor than
unfamiliarity. "No, I don't. You're going to tell me,
though."
Jeffrey flat out laughed then, and gestured to Skinner to
lead the way.
Perfectly absurd.
It would do.
There was a hiss and a click and a great wedge of searing
white light and Alex Krycek knew he was awake. He
felt...fine. Ordinary. His senses had returned to their
blunt, dull selves—capable of sight, hearing, touch,
taste, smell and nothing more. No, not returned—had
been returned. Skinner had done that, had pulled him
back from the edge of change and made him nothing more than
flesh again.
Or maybe something more. Something about his dreams...
Strange, telling dreams. He could feel them like a cupped
palmful of water in his mind, a slippery weight just beyond
the walls of memory. No chasing would bring them any
closer and so he closed his fingers around the weight, put
them with the hard-shelled eggs that were his rage.
He ran mental fingers over those treasured eggs. So many.
Someday perhaps, he would be allowed to smash them all, let
all the roaring He lingered on the pleasant thought, then pulled himself
back to the dull casing Skinner had chosen to give him for
a body. He pulled himself upright. No pain. Not even
the smallest twinge. Curious, his hand went to his
throat. Not even there, although his fingers found the
short, sharp ridges of the tiny angled scars.
So, there were marks at least. And memories.
And Skinner's promise.
Perhaps all had not been undone. And feeling cheered by
this, he climbed out of the great undoing box and stretched
his muscles one by one and then set out to find the cause of
the staleness of Walter Skinner's scent upon the air.
Skinner glanced sidewise at Jeffrey Spender limping along
beside him down the catwalk to the Rose of Sharon and
couldn't help but shake his head. Here was this creature -
- draggled and damaged and clearly on the thin ice over
water much deeper than he'd ever expected to cross—and
the sound of his honest, open laugh still rang in Skinner's
head.
How many years...? Surely he'd heard people laugh since
he'd left Starfleet? What difference did it make? None, he
told himself firmly. He was a weapon. Jeffrey Spender was
his sight. His in. Already the boy had told him almost
everything he needed to know. One simple question—what
were you doing in that alley tonight?—and after one
brief hesitation; one probe of his face with those dark and
hungry eyes—the words had poured.
How he'd had to leave—his home, his father - - terrible
things he couldn't reveal. Well, Skinner already had an
idea of what those were. He'd been in growing barns
before. And it was clear that Jeffery Spender had the
kind of clearance Skinner always dreamed of finding.
He knew too, that it would take little encouragement to
persuade Jeffrey to help him. That sonic shower, a new
pair of pants. A gruffly sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
He could almost imagine the shine of grateful tears in
Jeffrey's eyes when Skinner told him he could right the
wrong. And then...what?
Sense told him it wasn't his problem. His path was
always clear. Get in, get the job done, get out. There
were no innocents and all was fair. And he'd only known
the boy for less than a 10th of a rev and knew him already
for a lamb and a naÔf and fifteen kinds of fool. Who
could laugh at the ridiculousness of his own personal
disaster, with warmth and gentleness and to his captor's
face.
They turned the corner of the catwalk and Rose of Sharon
hove into view. Skinner heard a soft exhalation beside him
and glanced over to see Spender's eyes gone big and dark.
His face unnaturally pale in the harsh landing field
lights.
"She's a good enough ship," Skinner said, bluntly. But it
was always a source of pride to see Sharon pierce another
man's heart. "Sonic shower and med-unit—" He broke off.
He broke off, gut clenched with sudden alarm. He checked
his chron.
Damn. How had he lost track of so much time. Right on
the edge now. The sleep cycle would have ended, yes, but
not so long ago that Alex couldn't still have drifted on in
normal sleep. But not so recently that he couldn't have
gotten up to whatever the hell that was that he'd been
after. Perfection. Godliness.
The peace of death.
Skinner set his jaw.
"Stay here," he ordered perfunctorily, not even bothering
to see if Jeffrey would obey.
He considered his options, decided expediency was the
better part of valor here and drew his phaser. Set the
thing on stun. It might not stop Alex if he had gone back
into some strange fugue, but it would likely slow him down
enough to restrain him painlessly if the need arose.
"Does your watchwraith not have a safeword?" The voice at
his shoulder was unexpected, but Skinner didn't flinch.
"No," he said gruffly, biting down on the smile that
threatened to bloom. "And I haven't fed him in days, so
unless you want to be fresh meat..." Skinner sensed rather
than heard the boy's withdrawal, noting with pleased
surprise: he moves well. And then banishing Jeffrey from
his mind, he hit the lock and opened the doors of home.
Empty, empty, empty. This ship, Skinner's den was empty of
everything him. For days now. He'd been left here to
sleep while Skinner left this place like a den with
crumbling seals.
And yet the ship reported nothing was wrong, save that he
was alone here.
Alex caught himself before the knife in his hand could do
more than puncture the corner of the man's mattress,
watched the foam boil up and harden around the blade. He
was almost too late to remove it, and he did not wish to
lose it just yet.
It was the same knife Skinner had taken from him, after
all, and had been neatly replaced on the wall, with all the
other knives.
Surely Skinner would not leave such wealth behind?
He pressed his face to the mattress and it was just what he
already knew. Old and stale.
It was wrong on more levels than he really wanted to pick
through, so he settled on the idea that dens like
Skinner's were designed for more... care than his own.
More connection. Leaving a place so rich and functional
was madness, Skinner was not mad, therefore Skinner would
be back.
And so he was not surprised to hear the false wind of the
airlock opening, and he did not stop working the blade on
the old leather strop Skinner kept in his wall panel.
He did, however, catalogue each and every step the man
made, noted the cautious, but healthy rhythm. Heard him
pause... that would be the repair center. Alex
accidentally cut a small, translucent sliver from the strop.
He frowned at it for a heartbeat, then ate it. What
Skinner didn't know wouldn't put Alex down like an infant
for a rest—
Skinner was moving again, toward his own room. Alex leaned
forward, the door opened, and there.
Skinner, fresh and stronger than he remembered, or maybe he
just hadn't scented anything in too long. He smelled hard
and ready, acid. Alex was up and moving before he really
knew what he was doing, knife glanced against plastic and he
noticed the phaser in the other man's hand.
He looked directly into Skinner's eyes, found them
searching him. And then the other man was gripping his head
and kissing him hard. He even tasted stronger—Alex
couldn't have refused the kiss even if he'd wanted to, it
pulled at everything he thought of as himself and demanded.
He smelled... he smelled like someone else's death.
Alex was hard as stone, heating under the skin. So much
blood, all of it eager to spill out into Skinner's touch.
"Who was it? Tell me how it was I want—"
"Alex, we—"
And he saw a dark head moving up slowly behind Skinner and
let the knife fly but Skinner kicked the stranger's legs
out from under him before the blade could sink into his
eye.
Alex had been with Skinner long enough to understand this
probably meant there would be no kill for him.
He tried not to scowl.
Thankfully, Jeffrey landed on his good temple. Not that it
felt particularly good anymore, but Skinner's "watchwraith"
was apparently flesh and blood and not especially tolerant
of intruders.
He didn't want to be unconscious around it.
He probably should have stayed in the hangar.
"I told you to stay outside."
Skinner's wraith eyed him in a way that suggested he wanted
very badly to push Jeffrey back outside. Preferably
through a very small hole.
Jeff giggled out an apology and let Skinner haul him to his
feet.
"You're going to the med-unit now."
The wraith practically smirked, but Jeff didn't really feel
like puzzling that out. Skinner turned and said,
"You're staying here."
The wraith moved, a nearly imperceptible fade backwards
into what seemed to be Skinner's quarters. It was
definitely a good sign that Skinner had the thing leashed.
And that he already had a lover, too.
Although the long walk back to the man's ship had taken
some of the numb horror out of the idea of being saved from
one rapist by another, more patient rapist.
It wasn't that Skinner had convinced him that Jeffrey was
only here to get cleaned up, and it wasn't the man's
sparkling conversation either. He'd limited himself to
brief bursts of speech, the epitome of taciturn and grim,
but there was also a touch of dry humor in there.
And he seemed to respond well to Jeffrey's own humor...
Briefly, he could hear a soft yet piercing scream in
something that sounded a lot like his own voice and it made
him falter a step. Skinner responded by taking him by the
bicep again and there was so much simple there there.
He was going to the infirmary and that was final. Every
other part of him liked the way Skinner was directing the
plot here, so the screamer could just go... fuck itself.
He chuckled at himself.
"What's funny?"
Skinner was eyeing him curiously, though with a vaguely
surprising lack of concern. Even Jeffrey new he was
probably somewhere near hysteria.
Or maybe he wasn't?
"Nothing, nothing. Just... having a good time." Hey, it
would be an even better life if it was true—
And that was a definite bark of laughter.
"Good, Jeffrey. Good."
For all young Jeffrey Spender's bravado, Skinner
recognized the symptoms of battle fatigue setting in.
Not that it had been much of a battle, but the boy was no
Starfleet veteran and he had taken more than a few hits to
the head. A bluish egg-shaped lump was rising under the
raw scrape on his forehead. The blood from the cut had
dried in scabby lumps, begun to flake off. And he was
swaying on his feet.
He didn't look quite up to the task of sonic showering and
time was short anyway. He dragged Jeffrey to the
infirmary, pushed him onto the room's sole chair.
He tugged at the ripped collar of Jeffrey's stained tunic.
"Off..." he said, and again without looking to see if his
order was followed, turned and jammed his large hands into
the buzzing purple light of the sterilizer.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the young man
fingering the tab of material he'd pulled at, eyeing him
warily. Or maybe there was more than just wariness in that
glance. Skinner knew the feel of a young man's eyes on
him. Always had. He pulled his pink and tingling hands
from the light and snatched up the small medical tricorder.
Jeffrey was just pulling the tunic over his head when
Skinner nudged an empty storage container over to the chair
and sat on it, placing himself between the boy's knees.
With his shirt off Jeffrey seemed to shrink a little into
himself, shoulders slightly hunched, head down. His
obvious discomfort made Skinner even more aware of the
softness of his milk-pale skin. The dark curls, neatly
squared across his narrow pecs, slender arrow of hair down
his long torso to his navel. The recyc fan had clicked
over and a thin, cool draft raised lines of gooseflesh on
the boy's bare shoulders, made his nipples peak into tiny,
clenched buds.
A pretty sight indeed. And daubed like a chargas-wood
carving with black- purple fingerprints at throat and jaw;
scarlet quiltwork of abraded flesh, oozing tiny crimson
drops...
Pretty and if he'd paid 200 strips of gold- pressed and got
this for his whore, he would have taken the time to linger
over every inch. But Jeffrey had been neither bought nor
paid his own way yet and Skinner flexed his jaw, set to
applying the regenerator to the worst of the hurts.
The regenerator buzzed and tinkled as it knit together
cells. Skinner worked almost automatically, moving
Jeffrey this way and that to get to the injured parts of
him, but his mind was already racing ahead to the plan that
had been vaguely gelling all the way back from town.
"Is something wrong?" Jeffrey asked. Skinner looked up,
realized he was scowling trying to put pieces together.
He'd forgotten how intimidating his blunt face could be.
Letting his captain's tools get rusty—sign of an
undisciplined mind. He made the scowl deeper, pinned
Jeffrey with his eyes.
"I'm thinking how you're going to pay for this," he said.
No real threat in his voice, but he could feel Jeffrey's
muscles tense, heard him swallow.
"I thought—"
"Shut up," Skinner said. His mind still slogging along,
lining up targets, shooting them down. Almost there.
"How mad's your father going to be?"
"What?"
"Can you go back?" Skinner asked.
"Back? I don't want to go back..." Jeffrey's eyes were
wide, betrayed, like a pet lamb seeing his leash being
handed to a priest. Skinner shook his head, pushed down
hard on the boy's shoulder to get at the nasty scratch
across the back of his neck.
A little resistance, but hardly more than reflex, Skinner
let the reality of his strength hit home.
"It's not what you want here, Spender," Skinner said.
"It's what I need. Which is a man inside."
"Inside what?" Jeffrey nearly whining now. Honest fear;
real incomprehension and he squirmed under Skinner's hand
"What...the hell is this about?"
Skinner dug his fingers in a little, shook the boy—not
hard. A warning.
"Stop talking, boy," he said. "And listen."
For a minute Skinner thought he was about to be disobeyed
and he had only himself to blame for the twitch the
possibility gave to his cock. But Jeffrey only sagged
beneath his hand, his face folding into a frown, gaze cast
down.
And listened. Skinner suspected the boy already knew, or
suspected much of what he told him of the Federation and—
he nearly spat the words: Starfleet Medical. At least he
hadn't jumped up to argue the point—clearly he'd been
horrified by what little his father had shown him. And it
seemed clear too that he understood Skinner's intent.
Understood what Skinner wanted and why it was the only way
that justice could be done. At least he'd been nodding,
if somewhat vaguely all along.
And Skinner hadn't been coy about the debt the boy owed for
his life and that he intended to collect payment one way or
without qualm, another.
It was clear he understood. Maybe even agreed. The boy
had close to said as much. So what Skinner didn't
understand was why, when he had finished, Spender had simply
shook his head and said:
"I can't."
"It's not a request."
"No, Mr. Skinner—I...I want to. I wish I could... I
know you're right. There is no justice for these men. No
courts..."
"But you're afraid," Skinner said.
"No," Jeffrey said, and shook his head and gave that honest
laugh again. "I mean, yes. I'm...I'm terrified.
Obviously. I'm not that much of a fool."
"Explain yourself."
To Skinner's surprise Jeffrey flushed at that - - the high
pink color rising in his face and down his throat where it
recolored the already fading bruises.
"I did the worst thing I could have possibly done, I
think," he said. And he looked up at that moment to meet
Skinner's gaze with his own—open and honest and black
with something like despair. The sight stirred Skinner—
a little steel beneath the milk-fed flesh—and for the
first time he really felt for the boy. Saw him as
someone...real.
"What did you do, Jeffrey," he asked, and took the
captain's goad out of his voice. And Jeffrey sighed.
"I told someone the truth."
Jeffrey watched a rush of something that looked a lot like
murderous rage wash over Skinner's eyes before getting
crushed and knew the other man had gotten the point. He
wondered if the wash of depression he felt was normal,
caught himself before he could start thinking about what
normal might mean. Swallowed. "I ruined whatever chance I
had of getting you... inside when I sent that letter to
Admiral Surok."
Skinner nodded, leaned back a little, apparently to think.
Jeffrey hadn't noticed him getting closer during his speech
about atrocities and duty. But then, he hadn't noticed
himself getting so thoroughly pulled in, either. He leaned
back a little himself, and discovered that he had rather
further to go than he'd expected.
He examined himself as much as he dared. Found the
screaming thing still there, quickly turned away. Found
the cold thing calmly explaining that Skinner was most
probably his best hope. Found he wanted, perhaps needed
for the other man to come up with a reasonable solution.
Something that could make his stupid, childish mistake...
meaningless.
Found himself a lot warmer than he'd been just a few
minutes before.
And found Skinner eyeing him speculatively—again.
"What? Can you... can I..." He trailed off, and felt
himself flush harder. He wondered why this man wasn't
Starfleet's star recruiter. Someone's star recruiter.
What was happening?
"You don't have any choices."
The words were cold, but Skinner's tone was... pleased.
He bit back the urge to explain the obvious. "Yes?"
"Your father knows you have no options."
On any other man, that tone of voice could only be used
with a blinding beam of a smile. Skinner's eyes gleamed in
a slightly less predatory fashion than Jeffrey had gotten
accustomed to in the past hour. It was something.
Jeffrey felt the hope build up again, he could do
something, get free... "And...?"
"He'll be expecting you."
"Oh." And that was all he could come up with for an
instant. The screaming thing said something along the lines
of 'but he'll kill you,' but the screaming thing hadn't said
anything useful for hours and wasn't he supposed to do what
was right?
And Skinner was nodding. Pleased that he'd caught on.
"You probably won't even have to grovel too much, Jeff.
You're young, idealistic. He'd expect you to be a
little..."
"Wayward."
"I was going to say rebellious, but yes."
"But he doesn't think... he knows I have nowhere to go.
And he knows I'll figure that out.... would I figure it
out so soon?" It sounded like a stupid question, but it
really didn't feel like one. And Skinner's smile was not
cruel. "You're a very smart boy. And he knows that,
too."
Jeffrey licked his lips, not missing the brief return of
the predator, or the not-entirely-natural way it was
removed. Skinner had his own game. He could not block that
knowledge from himself, but then.... he had no options.
None at all...
And that didn't seem like an entirely bad thing.
Skinner's hand was on his shoulder again. Gentle this
time. Not soft, but warm. His face wanted to tilt over
until it could rest on his knuckles. He felt his body
wanting to be tired. But Skinner said:
"You can do this. Get me the codes, get out. No more than
seventy-two hours. Do you understand?"
And he knew what that meant. In three days he'd be free.
The screaming thing wanted to know what he'd be free to do,
but Skinner's blunt thumb brushed his cheek and Jeffrey was
abruptly locked in the other man's gaze.
Dark, dark waters. And they promised him that in three
days he'd have something to do. Someone to be, if it was
only a place for Skinner to seat his cock and—"Oh, God."
Skinner tipped his head to the side, searched him and
smiled again. Still genuinely happy, but oh he really was
trapped here and then Skinner leaned in and took his
mouth, took it like Jeffrey had never actually had claim of
it himself.
He was hard instantly, aching. Acid in his veins instead
of blood had to be and Skinner's tongue Skinner's hand
Skinner's other hand and Jeffrey wanted very badly to pay
this way. And continue to pay. When had this become the
reward? Did it matter?
But then it was over and he heard himself moan, practically
mewl. Skinner's hand tightened on his jaw and he abruptly
realized his eyes were closed. Opened them to find Skinner
looking so damned affectionate—"Please..."
"You need to go back now, Jeffrey. I need you to look
exhausted for your father. Wired."
"And rock hard?"
Skinner snorted, cleared his face, then laughed outright.
"All right, I'm not going to lie. Molesting you wasn't in
tonight's plan. Well, not in the official plan."
Chuckling all the while. It was a deep, rumbling thing.
Rusty and oddly endearing. Jeffrey really wasn't looking
for endearing, though. He reached out, touched Skinner's
rough-stubbled cheek. Skinner froze, and Jeffrey swallowed
but he didn't stop.
Let his hand drift lower, brushing chest and hard abdomen
and yeah he was baking under his pants. Hot and hard and
Jeffrey licked his lips again but then Skinner grabbed his
wrist and wrenched it away.
Jeffrey snarled. He could accept being a part of Skinner's
game but this was too much right now—"I imagine you're a
lot of things, Skinner. I never really expected cock tease
to be one of them."
The laugh this time was more the bark Jeffrey expected,
wanted. Without warning, Skinner lifted him from the
chair, slammed him against the wall and kissed him again.
Jeffrey had a dizzy moment to celebrate, another to watch
the screaming thing claw at the walls of his mind because
it simply wasn't a pleasant place anymore, and then Skinner
yanked his pants down and took his cock and that rough
contact was just right—
"This what you want, boy?"
"No, more—"
Skinner kneed his legs further apart and let Jeffrey feel
every single callous. So much friction and so so good—
"Too bad. This is all you're going to get."
Another kiss, even deeper this time and Jeffrey could feel
himself opening and opening to that thick, roving tongue
and he decided he could accept that.
He kicked his pants off entirely, heard the fabric tear on
his shoe. Braced one foot on the wall and slid it up.
Felt the not-so-fine fabric of Skinner's pants chafe the
inside of his thigh and shivered and bucked harder into the
man's fist.
He had leverage this way and he used it, not having it in
him to even try to be contrary enough to make this last.
He moaned into Skinner's mouth and felt the man press closer
and oh God squeeze him and it hurt but his body wanted
more.
Jeffrey fucked and fucked and felt himself chafe, felt
himself getting raw and didn't care. He was higher than he
could remember being and it still wouldn't come and he
worked himself faster, felt the muscle wrench slightly in
his ass but Skinner seemed to know what happened. Grabbed
him with his other hand and kneaded and pushed and Jeffrey
had the simultaneous urge to melt down the wall and push
himself until he broke so hard even Skinner couldn't fix
it.
The latter impulse won handily and suddenly, finally, his
body whipped him into a twisted new shape, tensed him
there, and let him shoot all over Skinner's fist and shirt.
At which point the urge to melt down the wall returned with
a vengeance, halted only by Skinner releasing him only to
grab him by the shoulders and haul him upright again.
"You're not allowed to pass out, boy. Do you need me to
give you a stim?"
Those hands... one dry, the other sticky with Jeffrey's
own semen. Both so damned warm. It wasn't his fault he
was about as solid as a snowcream under the Vulcan sun...
"Mmmph. Probably."
Skinner stood in the soft, cooling Kronos night and stared
down the empty catwalk as though he could still see the
tired, wired boy limping away from him. The needle of the
moral compass seemed to have come loose with some wild spin
and was poking him in the chest. Jeffrey was right to
have been scared. That old man, Spender... he was damn
dangerous and Skinner's reassurances about fatherly
feelings had been...lies. Guesses, at best.
He hoped that he was right—everything depended on it
after all. And was it wrong then to know that even if he
knew the boy would end up dead, or worse, he would have made
them anyway?
It shouldn't be wrong. Commander Sergei Andropovich had
sent hundreds of boys to their deaths in battle with
similar reassurances—oh, not that there wouldn't be
deaths among them, but that there would also be heroes—
doers of right, protectors of good...
The risk is great, but the prize is greater. But with
this boy—
Not 'boy', he corrected himself. Young man. And even
so, what he'd done was...worse. He lifted his fingers to
his face, smelled the rich salt there.
Just call it lust and be done with it, Skinner, he told
himself. He wanted you. You wanted...
But that was it, wasn't it? What he'd wanted. Still
wanted, his cock diamond hard, aching, weeping through the
coarse material of his trousers. No name to put to it, but
a feeling, a smell, a taste. And he pressed the side of
his hand hard and sudden into his mouth, sucked hard on the
flesh between thumb and fingers, his mouth flooding with
the taste of come and adrenaline and want.
It rolled through him, caught him up like a wave. Tore
away the words, the worry. His lip curled up in a feral
snarl he didn't even feel and he yanked the goading hand
from his mouth, whirled on his ship and sprang in through
the open door.
Skinner had taken another being onto the ship, but then he
had taken it to the repair room.
But there had been sounds. Smells.
But the new thing had left.
But Skinner had watched it go, savored its taste.
But Skinner was on him now, heat and stone and need so high
and sharp it made Alex ache.
More.
A small, tender-new part of him wondered if this was when
he should pause, ask questions. But then Skinner got his
pants down far enough and raised Alex to his knees. The
floor was cold, and he pressed his cheek to it. Waited for
Skinner.
Waited.
Too long, too long and was this new, pale thing so pleasing
as to make Alex himself unwantable?
He heard Skinner growl, felt it rip through every
vulnerable place he had and pushed his ass back to where
Skinner should be, but he wasn't there. Alex hadn't felt
him move, but he wasn't there.
He flipped over on his back to see, and found Skinner
looking down at him curiously, paused somewhere too far away
for Alex to reach. He was naked from the waist down,
columns of furred muscle leading up and up to the much
darker, thicker curls surrounding the other man's cock.
Thick, hard, drooling... Alex was about to kneel up and
take it in his mouth when he noticed what Skinner was
holding. In one hand was the knife whose grip Alex could
still feel on his palm, in the other was some sort of tube.
He swallowed, and each breath felt too big, seemed to pull
and stretch his skin.
"The knife, please Skinner..." Just the thought of being
connected to Skinner by the deadly curve of the man's own
knife tugged him closer to where he wanted to be. The edges
of Alex's vision blurred, darkened. He had nothing but
Skinner now. Skinner's heavy sac, tightening visibly as he
watched Alex. The play of muscles as he walked close
again, a perfection of shift and flex.
Skinner knelt between his thighs and Alex braced his feet
and settled on the man's thighs. The hair started to chafe
almost immediately, and Alex could taste it coming like the
taste of his own bitten lip. But he set the knife down.
"No—"
Skinner backhanded him casually, just hard enough to whip
Alex's cheek around to kiss the floor.
"Wait."
Alex tasted where his teeth had cut his cheek, but let his
body move like the shifting curve of a dune. Skinner
growled again, and Alex could see the way the man's jaw
tightened when he did it. Wanted to push his mouth against
the other man's throat to feel it, bite at it.
And then Skinner lifted his sac and squeezed the icy
contents of the tube behind. Far colder than anything he'd
ever felt, and he thought he could feel himself
crystallizing.
Skinner clamped a hand on his throat and Alex became aware
he'd been writhing at about the same time the warm, choking
weight stilled him.
"Wait."
And he tried to tell Skinner how cold he was, how the
strange gel sent waves up through his groin to every part
of his body, how the pain wasn't right if it wasn't
Skinner's, but he wasn't allowed to speak.
Alex felt spiked, shivered to an iced core of...
something. He didn't know how Skinner could stand to be
touching him; it seemed as though he should be painful to
the touch, numbing and inherently damaging. But he still
ached when the other man pulled his hand away from Alex's
throat.
Then there were fingers at him, and at first the feeling
was so muted it was terrifying, but as Skinner rubbed and
prodded he felt the heat start to build again, much faster
than his tingling flesh could stand. He felt himself
beginning to burn everywhere those fingers touched and
inside, inside...
Once Alex had spent a Zero staring up at the far stars,
watching a thin crust of ice form as he sat in the long,
long night. But even before the sun came at dawn the ice
was gone. And by the time the sun peered over the horizon
the sands were burning, as if by the magic of simple
anticipation. For the first time in his life, Alex had
felt burned within a few minutes, and had to force himself
to go out for the hunt before full sundown that night.
Under Skinner's touch he was the eager sands. Part of him
knew it must be the gel, but the gel was Skinner's and the
gel only burned after Skinner touched him so it was Skinner
doing this to him, making him hurt, marking him again...
And when Skinner slid his cock in it went easy,
disturbingly easy, but in its wake came the burn. Flaring
with his stretch, radiating out from his cock like a match
dropped in the center of an oil puddle. It felt as though
his flesh was peeling away from the inside, that Skinner
would make him tingling ash on the too-clean wind of the
ship.
Alex let the moan he'd felt building out and was surprised
to find it a yell, not surprised to hear Skinner's name in
it. Skinner just grabbed his hips and pulled him in tighter
and Alex wanted to know why his hair didn't start burning
because he was going to feel this feel this—
A slight shift to seat him better and then Skinner rammed
in and he'd only thought it would be too easy on him.
Each thrust pulled at Alex's limits, strained them like
tendons over a blade. Skinner had left him raw and then
taken him.
Impossible that he hadn't thought of this before, in some
way, but he hadn't. Skinner was giving him something
fundamentally new and right with each twisting slam of his
hips. Alex felt himself fitting within the subtle curve of
the other man's pelvis and wanted to stay there, spitted
with need and Skinner's hard cock.
And then the other man pulled out entirely, flipped him
over and got him on his knees and pushed him back down on
his cock. Skinner moved fast and well as always, and it
was as much the casual control as the return of the flesh he
craved the most.
And then Skinner roped a powerful forearm around his throat
and settled the other just above Alex's waist. The point
of the knife pricked a scattered spray between his nipples
as Alex worked himself back and down and the voice at his
ear was saying the words he desperately needed to hear...
"You..." Skinner grated out low and raw between clenched
jaws. "What I want. This..." ran his knife-hand knuckles
hard through the skim of fresh blood, pushing the point up
to somewhere under Alex's Adam's apple.
Alex shuddered, unable to stop his throat from arching up
into the steel.
Felt nothing but a tug and warmth and then a cold blanch
across his flesh as all the ice and heat inside threatened
to spill out.
And oh he wanted it, wanted more, wanted all...red sands,
black sky, white sheaves of wind. And Skinner. Yes.
The name was right. The man. No words but his body
fought for every touch of steel, every tearing thrust
inside his ass. His mouth making sounds of want. Sounds
a newthing made at the nipple of its crËche. Oh want.
He'd never known such want. Things within his grasp, out
of his control. Skinner, Skinner, knife and razored cock.
Core me, Skinner. Gut the shell. Peel away the fragile
flesh and let the angel out out out...
And the voice at his ear, anchoring the creature that would
fly:
"You'd let me kill you, boy," he said.
The knife withdrawn and Alex understood then—not yet.
There were tests yet—new Patterns. Not just the one
but fractally unwinding out from here. Such radiant
delight. Oh Skinner Skinner. You are godly, sandborne.
You are the number uncounted. You are...
"Oh yes..." Alex breathed.
"And thank me as you died. It would be right..."
Skinner's breath was hitching, his hips grinding machine
hard, deep ache of that cock nosing through folds of swollen
flesh inside him...
"Yes, Skinner. Yes, it would be right. Please yes..."
"Right to hurt..." hard thrust to twist the ache inside..
Oh yes... "Right to take..." and Skinner's mouth was on
his shoulder, teeth settling against the taut skin and
tendons aching to be bit. Alex moaned, arched harder, but
Skinner's mouth pulled off him. Soft buzz at his ear:
"Right to cut..." short downward jerk of the knife and Alex
felt it jar the bone of his sternum. Oh Skinner, yes! No
pain at all just that icy heat and the sound of his own
roar as he writhed without control between the shimmering
points.
"And what if I want to gentle you, boy?" Skinner asked.
"Is that right too?"
No, Alex wanted to shriek. No. Only this—knife and
teeth and cock—only the pain Skinner could provide.
But the lesson of the repair center had not been lost.
He was a pup, a newthing. Skinner's to make and break
and...gentle. He writhed again a final time to show
himself exactly how far from mastery he was, and relaxed,
panting into Skinner's hard embrace.
"Yes," he whispered softly. "Yours. Anything you
choose...is right. Skinner."
"Close your eyes, boy," Skinner said. "Breathe easy."
Alex complied, letting himself go boneless, be fitted to
that powerful warmth at his back. Skinner was rocking him.
Deep aching pulse like the washes of summerfloods through
dry rock gullies. Not Pattern at all as he understood it,
but it was of Skinner's making...he would learn. He would
learn.
"I fucked a woman like this once," Skinner said into his
ear. "An Orion whore. Paid 200 hundred hard for just
the one night. No holosuite. Just me and her."
"A...mother?" Alex asked. Skinner's talk of women and
whores disturbed him. He didn't know why.
"Shhh, Alex," Skinner said. "Don't talk. Just feel."
Alex turned his focus inward, to his center. Sensations
soft but crowding. Skinner's heat, the rasp of hair
against the backs of his thighs and ass, the cold hardness
of the floor beneath his knees, burning ache in his chest
where the knife had bit; hot coiled stone of Skinner's
forearms bracing him. ."I fucked her for hours,"
Skinner's voice went on. "Played her nipples like
instruments, clit like a fever tongue and her body wept and
wept..."
Alex wondered how a woman's body wept. His own cock was
glazed and drooling with the evidence of its desire.
Skinner's cock in him was maddening, hard and huge, tugging
so gently at the swollen burning place inside. Something
skittering and sweet trickling out from around the distant
memory of pain, ran down his legs, up across his back. He
whined at it, tossed his head a little.
Skinner's chuckle shook him.
"She made sounds just like that," he said.
"She was beautiful," Skinner went on. "But not so
beautiful as you, Alex." In, in. Alex frowned. Skinner's
words were strange and he wasn't sure he was even meant to
understand. And this fucking was so soft, like the
faintest scrape of wind, smallest spill of sand across a
dune. Skinner's arms shifted, his hot, rough palms
stroked Alex's nipples. Chafed them, just on the edge of
pain but never falling. The sweet things skirled out from
there too.
So many of them now they came in waves, filling his skin
with a strange distracting buzz—how to focus on the
fucking when this strangeness moved beneath his skin?
Beguiling him, like the music of Skinner's voice. Deeper
now, the words punctuated with little whispers, little
moans—the grind of stone on stone. Skinner's cock
thrusting deeper now, but smooth and slow. Pulling the
sweetness together in one place, pooling it and there was
no pain, so why was he crying out...?
"Oh Alex...you sound so...wild," Skinner gasped in his ear.
"Does it hur...hurt to be touched so softly?"
Hurt? No. Far, far from hurt. Far from anything he
understood. Something clenching in his chest, wrenching
at the seals of the den that was himself.
"No..." he cried out. "No...no...no." His head rolling
side to side helplessly on Skinner's shoulder. No. This
lesson was too hard. He would as surely die from this as
fire or ice. And Skinner held him so tightly, thrusting,
thrusting...
Skinner's hands moving again down his chest—hot, blunt
fingers of one hand caught against a nipple, held. Rolled
it gently, tugged. The other palm drifted soft as mud down
his belly, through the soft curls, to rest around his cock.
Took him up, slathered with his own slick. No pressure,
just the loose hot fist, callused palm the only friction
and the cock inside him, warm lips at his neck, tongue
taking his ear, filling him.
"Alex..." warm breath sank the word in deep. "Alex...so
beautiful."
Something gently shattered in that rough stone voice, the
sound of his name. He felt Skinner groan and grow huge
inside of him, felt spilling warmth and with a sucking drag
all the sweetness came together at once.
Blinding flash like heat-lightning without sound and he was
lifted up and out...and slammed back down to pleasure so
thick he was drowning in it, not even able to hear himself
crying out. "I die. I die. I die..." or feel the
wetness on Skinner's face, before it was wiped away.
Alex was moaning about death in the most mournful, normal
way Walter had ever thought he would hear. The whore, too,
had been this way, though it was more muted. Walter wasn't
sure if he'd done wrong or not. This was what was supposed
to happen, yes, but to feel Alex accept so much
tenderness...
He was loose in Walter's arms, utterly pliable in a way
unfamiliar to him. This wasn't his simple possession—
that was something deeper and more fundamental than bone.
This was...a gift. And, by the sound of Alex's breathing,
the breathy catch of soft moans, it hadn't been an easy one
to give.
"Alex?"
"I am not myself..."
And he sounded so lost—the impulse was too cradle, to
soothe and Skinner indulged, taking pleasure in the smooth
skin of chest and belly, in the way Alex's nape cradled his
face, but Alex's moans...
Louder, deeper sounds that twitched his softening cock even
as they raised alarm. This was only making it worse. A
large part of him wanted to ignore the sound, perhaps make
it louder. The boy was his, and he'd sworn everything
was right. Whatever he wanted to do was right and now
every inch of his body longed to hold Alex and soak in the
tears that would eventually have to come.
But would he still be Alex, then? What would happen if
Walter let him tremble on the edge of this until he broke?
Would Walter still want him? His promise... he'd promised
to give Alex his pain, his strange transcendence, again and
again.
A promise was a promise, be it sworn with blood or come.
Walter did not want to risk growing disinterested in a
broken man, no matter how wonderful it felt to break. If he
could do this, save Alex from his own needs...
He could do it again, someday.
Walter tore himself loose, slipping out wet with nothing
but the bannet oil he had, unfortunately, grown used to in
the long nights alone on the Rose of Sharon. Alex fell to
the floor immediately, began to curl into a ball.
Another moment of confusion—perhaps leaving him like
this would be best? Somewhere between comfort and pain,
whatever it meant to him? But Walter felt much too cold to
go without some touch. He grabbed one shoulder hard,
pushed Alex to his back. Searched his eyes but found only
vaguely terrified depression.
Damn.
He set his tone to a low, commanding growl. "Alex."
Alex pushed up against Walter's hand, and the movement was
a good sign, even if it was almost certainly just a slight
rebellion against not being allowed to go fetal.
Walter moved to straddle him, ignored Alex's slow and
absurdly weak wave- motion to throw him off by sheer force
of will. Moved his hand in front of Alex's face to make him
see, pressed the slack mouth with steadily increasing force
until it was hard enough to bruise.
And then he moved down to the lightly bleeding cut on
Alex's chest and ran two fingers slowly over the length of
it, forcing himself to push harder when he grew slick with
blood. Felt the boy stir a little and swallowed back a
smile.
Alex was watching him intently, focus returned with a
vengeance. Walter felt like a massive insect being
catalogued by a scientist with a phobia.
"Alex."
Bare flash of teeth and Christos but it seemed like a world
was coming back to life. Spring came hard no matter how
brief the winter, perhaps.
Or maybe it had just been too long since he'd done
something like this with no immediate plans to endanger the
receiver.
Walter pulled his hand away from the bottom of the wound
with slow care. He knew he was very, very close to the
solar plexus but did not allow himself to worry. When Alex
was watching him with the most attention Walter felt he
could command at this point, he jabbed the spot quickly
one, then again.
Alex's shout was breathy and small.
Familiar.
Olive eyes narrowed speculatively, but the confusion was
still there.
Walter brought his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood
off one finger, watching Alex the entire time. Feeling him
breathe. He didn't realize he hadn't been paying attention
to the taste until he'd brought his hand back to Alex's
swollen mouth.
Too much time to think; Alex was hesitating.
"Suck it. Now."
Alex did so immediately, with a voracity that only rang
false until he felt the boy's groan tear through the nerves
of his fingertips. Better than any oil, this. Harsher,
more real—
And then Alex had moved on to another finger and then the
rare droplets of blood elsewhere on Walter's hand. He was
beginning to feel vaguely chewed but then the arm he wasn't
bracing came up to push his hand back to the chest wound.
"Yes, this is still you, all of—"
"More."
Walter paused, wondering if he'd gone too far, not far
enough, if he'd made a mistake and if so, when.
Alex squeezed his wrist. "Skinner."
And he looked into Alex's eyes and was thankful for the
visibly dawning understanding. Because the plea was one he
couldn't even think of refusing.
"All right, Alex. All right."
But he let himself go slow.
By the time Jeffrey made it back to the edge of his
father's property—he could no longer even think of
calling it home—the dawn was beginning to break. There
were already workers out in the fields.
He could see the house from here, its rows and rows of slim
green pillars rising like the stalks of some exotic plant,
it suddenly seemed both alien and irreproachably beautiful.
And, gods, he hurt. So tired he could barely keep himself
upright against the stone marker.
Maybe, he thought, he could simply stay here. Quietly die
and sink into the ground and not have to face the
irretrievable mess that his life had been. The thought
seemed to quell the screaming thing somewhat. The cold
thing just replayed the tape of Quirabi: why don't you
just kill me? Why?
The blister on his left heel spiked pain through his whole
leg as he walked; sweat stung and chafed his groin where
Skinner—even thinking the man's name sent a bolt right to
the very spot—where Skinner had betaken him. Where he'd
not so much given himself, but thrust himself at the man,
demanding to be had. Where had that come from? He
honestly could not remember when it had become his
intention to be fucked by the man who, not long before he'd
feared as a rapist.
And how had he come back from that to here? It was as
though by leaving home—what had it been? A turn ago? A
day? A rev?—he'd somehow knocked the laws of cause and
effect completely out of true. Not real, none of it. And
yet, as he approached the circular turn of the drive he
felt for the first time since the alley, real fear.
He stood a long time before the closed door, unable to
bring himself either to touch the call chime or walk away.
In the end, he did neither. The door simply opened. His
father stood in the doorway, 'baccy stick in hand, face
unreadable as he took in the torn stained tunic, the fading
cuts, the stink.
"What do you want, Jeffrey?" his father asked. Jeffrey
felt tears rise to brim in his gritty eyes, but did not
fall. The things he wanted. If his father had asked him
yesterday, the day before he wouldn't have known how to
answer. Now his wants were simple, narrowed down to
three: Walter Skinner, freedom and for justice to be done.
And that fact that whether or not he got what he wanted
depended entirely on their never being known.
"I..." he hesitated, pride and anger pushing him to damn
them all and slap the truth into his father's bland and
contemptuous face.
"You what?" So calm it broke him, tears of rage rolled
down his cheeks and he hated them knowing they'd be taken
for weakness and fear and despair and that he had to let
that ride.
"I didn't know..." he stopped, smashed the tears away with
the back of his sleeve. Couldn't bring himself to say
more.
"Are you asking for forgiveness, Jeffrey? To be taken back
into the fold?"
Something in his father's voice, and Jeffrey looked up.
Those eyes on him. Not bland. Not cold. And for a
second—a loathsome, shameful second—he wondered if
he'd made some terrible mistake. If he had been wayward.
Foolish. Naive beyond belief. He hadn't thought...
And Skinner—the sudden sense memory of Skinner's hard
hand upon his cock, his snarl: "...that's all you'll
get, boy..." impinged on him. Humiliation. Shame. He
felt his face flush hot and red. Had he been so baldly
used? His idea to leave, yes, but this return was
Skinner's plan... The idea made him sick. He felt the
porch sway under his feet and his father's hand was on his
shoulder, steadying.
"Come inside," his father said. "Get yourself cleaned up.
We'll talk."
Jeffrey almost laughed. Another promised shower. Sure,
little Jeffy Spender will do anything you want if you'll
just let him wipe the dirt off his face. But no one had.
And the laugh dissolved back to the verge of tears again as
the doorseal chuffed behind him and the house's cool,
processed air enveloped him.
So tired. And the stim had had all but burned to ashes in
his veins, leaving him shaky and a little wild. He was
hardly aware of what was going on around him. His father
was walking away, the echo of his voice in Jeffrey's head.
What had he said? Something about a fire? Had there been
a fire? A soft, respectful tug on his tunic and he was
surprised to see a familiar servant (what was the boy's
name—Merkus? Menden?) offering his arm.
"Has there been a fire?" Jeffrey asked. But the boy just
looked at him uncomprehending and led him up the curved
stairs to the master bath.
So tired he barely remembered the bath, the servant
stripping him, alarmed exclamations at the bruises, raw
scrapes. He did not remember at all being dried and salved
and taken to his bed. And yet, there he woke, still and
bruised and smelling of lineament and oils.
He thought it must be late and that sent an adrenaline kick
through his system. Seventy-two hours, Skinner had said.
No more.
And that confused him further. When had Skinner become a
reflex? He sat up, ran fingers through his curls. Too
long... he thought, encountering tangles and felt the
grey despair of home wash through him at the thought. He
truly was home. In his own bed. All of this—the
barns, Quirabi, the letter, Skinner—could all simply
have been a dream. A nightmare. He could make it that,
he understood, with a word to his father. Could—not
just in physical reality, but in his heart.
It wouldn't take much. Just the quick death of something
barely sprouted. The snuffing of a tiny lick of flame.
He'd be dead inside forever after that, but would it matter?
No the real question was: would Skinner care?
That hand had been as hard as stone, that voice... and no
real promise spoken. He had taken everything on faith.
Had believed utterly. But why? Because Skinner's hands
were hard? His back strong? His killing hand fast? Because
his growl made Jeffrey want to spread himself wide and give
everything he was or had away? Or because it was his own
real heart's desire to do this, be this—a free man and
not the vessel for his father's revenant ghost.
As if tuned for the vibrations of treacherous thoughts upon
the air, the com unit beside his bed gave a single chime.
Jeffrey started, then composed himself and opened the line.
"Sleep well?" his father asked.
"Yes, sir. Thank you," Jeffery said.
"Good," the old man's voice was warm.
Jeffrey felt a little frisson of fear. That the old man
wasn't showing his anger was a bad sign. Or always had
been. So much had changed.
He was hardly sure of his own name anymore. Jeffrey,
said the cold thing. Jeffrey Spender of House Spender,
heir to all the wealth and glory of the name. Or maybe
not.
"I'll dress and come to your study," Jeffrey said.
"No rush, Jeffrey," said his father pleasantly. "The
Admiral and I have sufficient work to occupy us while we
wait."
Little Lost Fox 0: The Prequel
by The Spike and Te
Kronos was a beautiful world, gold and green and fragrant
with the scents of wide, wide seas and billions of growing
things.
Night, like most things on Kronos, came gently. A deep
blue—too gentle for indigo—blanket tugged over the
sky. Less a command for all to rest than a suggestion.
Walter felt the boy—his Alex—shudder around him,
against him. Tightened his hold and buried his head in the
sweaty, tangled strands of Alex's hair.
