Title: Zero Tolerance

Author: Juxian Tang

Genre: Original fiction

Rating: NC-17 Pairing: m/m

Archive: yes

Feedback:juxiantang@hotmail.comor juxiantang@hotmail.com

URL: http://www.fortunecity.com/lavender/gilliams/831

Warning: m/m rape and, occasionally, worse things

Summary: A routine drug-smuggling operation goes wrong - and Peter, a proud heir of family business, winds up in a supposedly uninhabited part of space, together with his slave Simon. Here the fortunes change for the men...

Acknowledgments: It is a long story and it took a lot of efforts (and complaining :-))for me to write it. I would like to thank all my dear friends without whom it would never be written - or would never be as it is now. Thanks to Blue for believing in me, believing that I can write original fiction again - for all conversations that helped to shape the story - and, of course, for the best beta in the world - precise, entertaining and friendly. Really, I can't thank you enough, dear one. Thanks to Quinn for unfailing - everyday - support that meant (and means) so much for me - and for most insightful comments that helped me find my way. And thanks to Eggi because the truth is that without her kindness this story would never happen to me at all. This story is for Blue, with love


ZERO TOLERANCE
by Juxian Tang


Part 1

He stood at the viewing port and looked at three silver oblong shapes of Aben guard vessels gathering at the nose of his ship. From here they seemed small and fragile against the dark bulk of the Kingfisher but he knew it was not true. Each of Aben ships was twice as large as his own. But not more powerful. And less maneuverable. This difference was what had helped them to win the war against Aben ten years ago. And so far it had helped him to slip through the territories of Aben with his cargo that cost millions.

But not this time. In the black glossy surface Peter saw his reflection - dark clothes and white face. He tried to keep his expression blank, even now when nobody could see it all the same. But what no one must ever see - and he wished he could find self-control not to do it - was how he kept clenching his fists convulsively, sticking the short-cropped fingernails into palms so deeply that the pink crescents left by them started filling with blood.

Thirty-six hours of the stand - and during this time he hardly sat down, feeling as if a tight spring was unwinding inside him. He was aware of the numb tiredness that seeped into his bones - worse than that, into his mind - but so far the nervous energy managed to beat it.

There had always been the risk - and he knew it; the risk to be apprehended or destroyed by the Abenians - give them a credit, they were doing everything for it. But so far the Kingfisher - and he, Peter Solana - had managed to escape unscathed and even not particularly scared. It was his sixth operation - and now it looked like his luck was tried a bit.

The truth was there was no direct danger for either their ship or for the Abenians - everybody kept their shields up, exchanging a blast or two from time to time but knowing they were invulnerable. The question was whose energy would run out first - who would be bound to surrender by the sheer deficiency in their ships’ constructions.

The Kingfisher had bigger capacity - Peter knew it. But there were three Abenians. And although the Kingfisher succeeded in putting on a blind field around the ships, cutting off Aben's chances to ask for help, it also meant that they wouldn't get any help, too. Well, Peter knew that they wouldn't get it in any case. The family could calculate the same well as he could. And even if his uncle decided that the value of the cargo, together with the life of his beloved nephew, was worth another open clash with Aben, other families of the League wouldn't let him do anything.

He also knew that Aben wouldn't step away and let him go even if they felt they didn't have enough energy to keep the siege; the Union ships would've - but not Aben. They hated the League too much for it - not without reason, one had to admit. And they probably knew what cargo the Kingfisher carried... which meant that they could safely guess there was someone from the family accompanying it. They would do everything to get him. Would die for it.

He hated that. He struggled with an overwhelming wish to smash his fist into the smooth transparent surface of the viewing port - knowing that it would only split his knuckles - and the outburst would embarrass him. But at least it would be an outburst - a release for the black, unhappy rage boiling in him. No. No, he should control himself better. That's what his uncle expected from him.

Just live long enough to see your uncle again, Peter.

He swirled away from the viewing port, his nostrils still flared and his mouth like a thin line. The cabin was shadowed - a small but luxuriously furnished place - and he paced around the low glass table with the virtual screen spread over the green crystal on it. He cast just a short look at it. The picture he could see through his viewing point was there, too - shown from different angles but identically hopeless - only the numbers in two columns on the sides of the screen scintillated slowly, changing. The quantity of the energy of their ship - and supposed quantities for the ships of Aben. Still too long to wait, even in the best possible variant. Best for the Kingfisher, that is.

He had to stop dashing around like a caged animal. Somehow Peter realized he was doing it but couldn't stop all the same. Not that there was anyone he should have controlled himself for. He glanced at the big man who stood motionlessly in the shadows at the wall. Simon... He didn't need to pay attention to Simon - he never did. Simon's presence didn't bother him - no more than a piece of furniture would. And indeed, the man - tall and silent and with his arms crossed on his chest - hindered Peter less now than this stupid table in the middle of the room.

His intercom came to life suddenly, the Captain must've been at the door of his cabin.

"Mr. Solana? Can I enter?"

"Yes."

He stopped pacing abruptly, huddling slightly. If the Captain decided to come to him instead of talking to him from the deck-cabin, it would have to be something pretty bad.

The door opened and with his peripheral sight Peter saw how Simon tensed subtly - not changing his pose, just some muscles bulging on his arms. Good slave! He was trained to protect Peter - trained so well that Peter didn't care to know how hard it was beaten into him. It was in his reflexes, even now when he knew it was just good old Captain O'Donnell visiting.

The hours of the stand had taken their toll on the Captain – who, with the waxen paleness of his face lined harsher than usual and the shadows under his eyes, looked like an old sad panda. Peter who didn't have an hour of sleep during this time, was pretty sure that Gary did neither.

"Our radars show that there are two more ships approaching from their side," Gary's voice was husky with smoke and his eyes bloodshot as if he was drunk.

"What?" Peter nearly jumped up. It couldn't be true! It couldn't be fuckin' true. "How did they know about us? I thought we had that blind field!"

If his eyes could kill, Gary would be already dead, Peter thought in fury. No matter that he had to look up at the Captain - well, with his height 5'7" he had to look up at most men and even at some women - but he hoped his stare was expressive enough to penetrate even Gary's helpless exhaustion. It did - Gary swallowed uneasily.

"We thought..." he halted, turned back and Peter saw him look cautiously at Simon. He understood.

"Simon, get out."

The man barely nodded, turning away without unfolding his arms, and left the room.

"What?"

"Your Abenian gives me creeps," for a moment Gary seemed to want to get distracted from the point, rubbed the forehead with his palm.

"*What?*"

"It might have been the leakage of information. Before we put on the field. We think someone in the crew worked..."

"For Aben? Impossible."

"For the Union. Aben could apprehend the message."

"I didn't know they had the technology for it," bad, bad... could be any worse? "Anyway, I want this man or woman to be found. And I want him or her to be alive by the moment when we get back to the League. And for now, Captain, what are we going to do?"

Not much to do here, right? He pressed the clasped fists to the temples as if trying to nail some idea into his head. Think, Peter, think.

"Do they have the channel open?"

"Yes. You know their demands."

"What if we satisfy them?" and before Gary's mouth opened. "We'll give them a part of the cargo and... They don't know who accompanies the cargo, right?"

"You mean... oh no, Peter," derisive smile, first name instead of Mr. Solana - the best signs how ridiculous the suggestion seemed to him. "You won't find a volunteer. To give himself out to Aben as a member of a family? Huh!"

"We can promise to pay a reward to his relatives."

He thought he saw a flash of disapproval in Gary's eyes but the Captain stayed silent. Thinking?

"If you think that you can pull a better game by giving out me, then I would like you to have second thoughts," Peter's voice dropped down to low - persuasive - and he noticed with some pleasure that it made the Captain fidget slightly. "Because although the Abenians will be tearing me apart limb by limb in the next few hours, you will have to spend the rest of your life in the corners of the Union - and even there my uncle will find you."

He felt a nervous, ugly smile twist his lips at the last words - but the smile never penetrated his voice - and Gary who covered his face with his hands couldn't see it. There was a pause when the only thing Peter seemed to hear was the Captain's slightly broken breath. Then he took the hands away from his face and with surprise Peter saw that some lines of fatigue were gone from it.

"I will not give you out, Peter. And not because of what Andre Solana can do to me. I worked for the family for twenty-six years - longer than you live - do you think I will betray you?"

Why not? But the bitterness in Gary's voice demanded a reaction - and there was the only one that would be proper in this situation; so, Peter opened his arms and took the Captain in an embrace.

"Of course, I don't," he whispered touching the Captain's cheeks with his lips - the kiss that meant a promise to be accepted into the family... a promise Peter wasn't entitled to give - but Gary didn't need to know it. Then, letting Gary go, looking at him again. "So, we'll die together?" with the barest trace of menace in his voice.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Solana. We can try to make a warp."

Peter walked to the table, his hands shaking slightly as he touched the crystal. The numbers obediently changed to the new ones on the screen.

"The Kingfisher doesn't have the capacity for warp."

"No," Gary confirmed quietly. "Not to reach the League."

Peter kept silent, continuing to look up at him, feeling how all blood left his face, and at last Gary went on.

"We'll come out in the sector M1," he made a pause for Peter to pass the order to the crystal to find the map. "We'll have to land on Shionna Prime..."

"And be captured by the Union troops," Peter added - but there was no derision in his voice.

"The Union is not Aben," Gary said weightily and Peter knew it, he knew all Gary would say. "The families of the League are respected in the Union. Besides, the rumors are the government of Shionna is not incorruptible. You'll lose the cargo, of course - and the ransom will cost a lot..."

"But at least we'll be alive," Peter added. He didn't look up any more.

What a shame it would be... When he had just started participating in the business - he was seventeen - he would prefer to die rather than to lose the cargo and cause more expenses to the family. He still remembered that time - the rawness he felt at the necessity to prove himself, to show he was worth of his uncle's choice. Now, four years later, he must have become cynical - not wanting to play hero any more. He wanted to live - most of all.

And he would - if he did it Gary's way.

"Okay," looking up at the Captain quickly, pushing a long strand of his bang away from his eyes.

Okay! He felt both desperate and furious, looking in hatred at the green transparent form of the crystal, wanting to smash it against the wall. He wanted a drink, too - no, to get a dose of the stuff and swallow it, fast and hard. The wish was so sharp that he felt dizzy... he could do it, of course... he was not an addict, it just felt too good... exactly what he needed.

Not now, Peter. What he needed was to have his head clear - despite everything, despite anger, despite the tiredness that overflowed him suddenly. He sprawled over the sofa with his eyes closed, barely hearing how the door opened and closed again when Simon came in, quietly as always.

A moment... just a moment or two of rest.

It was the warmness of the body of the big man - and careful tugging on the shoe-laces of his high boots - that made him sit up abruptly, nearly crying out at the surprisingly sharp pain that pierced his temples.

"Get away from me! I am not going to undress!" the anger splashed out at last in the sharp kick under Simon's ribs. The man didn't wince, didn't move - it was a brief moment of satisfaction at the flesh giving way under the toe of his boot that was almost enough for Peter. He looked at the lowered, clean-shaven head of the Abenian who knelt in front of him - still unkindly but already having his rage under control, listening to the man mumble with his usual atrocious accent:

"Sorry, master."

Do you know, bitch, what grief your people give to us? It was not fair, of course, Peter knew it. The Abenians that surrounded them now where not the Abenians of his slave - rejecting him once and for all as he was captured and broken.

The dark hands lay passively in Simon's lap but he didn't stand up. Peter looked at the net of scars on his shoulders and upper arms - which seemed a weird décor on his skin but were really the mementos of the savage ordeals that Simon must have been through during his childhood on Aben - or during the war. And some he got on in the prison camps of the League, of course - but Peter never wanted to know which ones. The League had specialists in breaking Abenians.

He was given Simon at his twelfth birthday. And it was the day when he fucked him for the first time. Well, Simon had been well broken by then, raped so many times that he must have lost count - but for Peter it was the first time he fucked a man. There were women - slaves and whores - but Simon was his first male - and the first Abenian. Kneeling and tamed - still having something of a savage in his bearing - or was it what Peter liked to imagine? He must have barely felt it when Peter entered him - but it was the idea itself – a proud man of Aben bending over for him, being used like a whore for his young master’s pleasure.

Hard to believe that once you wanted to fuck someone so badly. Peter felt a short, painful chuckle bubbling in him. Sex didn't mean much for him any more - hadn't for years, inferior both to drugs and to the rush in his blood at the danger of out-smarting Aben and Union troops. Inferior to the joy he felt every time he did something in the right way - in Solana's way - that made him see the pride in his uncle's eyes.

There would be no pride this time. But shit, he would have to live with it.

He dropped his feet on the floor, oblivious to his slave’s presence. He knew the man got up and moved to the wall again, sensitive to even unsaid orders of his master, while he peered at the crystal screen again. Yeah, right. Here these two new ships were. Taking the places on the left of the others.

Replacement? He was sure at least two of the ships that initially detained them were low on energy and would have to leave at once. But so far all five were there, making a neat half-circle around the Kingfisher.

Soon you'll have a bit of surprise, motherfuckers. He licked his lips that seemed cracked with dryness. The crystal updated him on what the Captain and engineering team were doing - preparing the Kingfisher for the warp. He wished briefly he could inform his uncle of what needed to be done - maybe, he could start making the arrangements with the government of Shionna right now. But the blind field must've still been on, useless as it was.

Fuck... oh fuck! He took another look at the screen and for a moment just gaped at it. It couldn't be true. It must have been his worst nightmare and he wanted to wake up - now. But it was true, of course. The ships lined up to fire.

Now he had it figured out - why all five ships were crowded there. The shield wouldn't stand the fire from five points, no matter how little power three of the ships had. Perhaps they would become worthless wrecks right after the blast. But they were Abenians - they never thought death as defeat.

Unlike you.

Did Gary see that? He must have. He must have been frantic. Because if Aben should capture their ship now, especially at the price of losing some of their vessels... having their limbs torn off one by one would seem the fastest and easiest death for them. All of them.

And if... If they went into the warp? The trajectory would change... For a moment the fear was so sweeping that Peter felt his mind go blank. He managed to focus pressing his fingers to the crystal again. The crystal - the unique invention of the League scientists - was aligned specifically for him, catching his commands even when he was messed up like this. He looked at the screen again and another fit of sick fear overwhelmed him.

If what his crystal showed was true, they had all the chances to come out of the warp very, very far from the sector M1 - and, the most important, the ship would go boom in three and half minutes after that.

But there were these three and half minutes, right?

"Gary, you..." whispering to the intercom with white lips. Silence. They must have cut off the deck-cabin not to be interrupted.

He got up abruptly - but it still seemed to him that he had to move like through thick liquid - too slow, too imprecise. The crystal made a pitiful sound as he threw it to the box. What else? The part of the cargo - not the one that was in the holds, he was losing that all right - but at least what he could save: the compact bag he hanged over his shoulder. The pain gun was the third thing - who knows how people will behave at the minute when they understand they're dying.

He left the room without saying a word, without looking at Simon. In fact, from one moment to the other he completely forgot about the silent man - or, rather, wrote him off unconsciously, the same as three dozens other people who would die on the Kingfisher if everything went the way the crystal told him. And he believed the crystal.

He was in the corridor, dodging the people who scurried back and forth, certainly for business but with desperate, panicky seal on their faces. He didn't even need to raise the pain gun once, so absent they seemed, hardly recognizing him. He already could feel the vibration from the floor and walls spreading through his body and making his teeth chatter finely - the vibration indicating that the ship was just seconds from the warp. But he knew what others, except, maybe, the Captain and the engineers, didn't know: that the moment of the warp would coincide with the moment when the Abenian ships fired.

The blast hit - and the Kingfisher quaked as a giant body going into a shudder. Peter knew it would come - and yet the force of it threw him across the corridor, smashing into the opposite wall, making him slide to the floor bonelessly.

The huge roar that accompanied the blast seemed to change into the complete silence suddenly. Lying flat on the floor, looking up at the low dark ceiling above, Peter knew it was not like that, the noise must have been going on. There were people around - and the flame somewhere near because he could smell it although couldn't see. But it was so quiet as it was - whether he was stunned or what - and something in him wanted him to stay like that, on the warm cozy carpet in the corridor.

Then he saw how the contours of the walls and ceiling above him lose their sharpness and understood that the ship went into the warp.

* * *

The little rat was running!

From his place at the wall where Simon always stood he couldn't see what the fuckin' kid saw on the screen of his fuckin' crystal - but he saw very well how Peter's face lost its expression suddenly, the trademark milk-white skin of the League citizen getting even paler and the mouth compressing hard. He must have thought he controlled himself pretty well, wasn't everything what the League did about control - self- and otherwise? He would never guess how well Simon could read him. And really - after nine years of reading his face to know what he wanted or not wanted - trying to avoid a punishment - or calling for a punishment on himself from time to time because no slave should stay unpunished for a long time and it was easier to decide himself when and what for - was there any secret left in Peter for him?

Silently he watched the young man grab the most valuable things in the cabin - the crystal and the bag - and those not big enough to slow him down. He was going to get out. Not with the ship on Shionna as he and this pathetic Captain whispered to each other. Somehow, some way, Peter must have guessed that it wouldn't work. And now he was going to run.

Simon might hate him - no more, no less than he hated everyone else in the League - but in one thing he had to give Peter a credit - he had this gut feeling for danger.

And as soon as the door behind Peter slammed shut, Simon slid out behind him.

Well, if the Solana kid was a rat, he, Simon, surely was a big cat following him. The picture made him smile while he sneaked carefully behind Peter, taking care not only not to strike his eye but also not to be seen but other crew members, too. He ran into a young ensign woman, though - her eyes getting huge and full of horror immediately as she saw him - the instinctive horror of most people at the sight of an unchained Abenian. She would scream, he knew it - and with a sharp jerk he tugged her into the dead-end of the corridor, snapping her neck in the same motion.

Her dead face became so peaceful immediately, just her head slightly awry, as he lay her down in the corner. Only then the enormity of what he'd just done reached him. Murder. Of a free woman. Did he care to think how he would pay for that... if captured? If he was wrong - if Peter was wrong - and the situation was not so serious.

And yet Simon couldn't feel sorry. Feeling how the thin frail neck of the bitch snapped in his hands... it was... beautiful. He wanted it for so long - for years.

And now, with the world falling apart around him, he got it.

He didn't lose Peter from his view when he was back in the main corridor - and it was when the fivefold energy of Abenians hit the ship. He saw Peter slammed into the wall panel and slip down, apparently unconscious, the pain gun falling out of his hand and skidding along the corridor - and pressed himself into the wall trying to stay on his feet. He felt his fingernails crush as he stuck his fingers under the panel, the shock wave of the blast shattering his body - and he cursed and cursed in Abenian - the language that he was supposed to forget but never forgot.

Hey, was he going to die by the hand of those who had been his people? It would be swell.

Well, he didn't die. The moments of animal fear passed - and he was still alive, still on his feet. He straightened on the trembling legs, looked at the corridor that seemed suddenly very empty. A moment later he understood - everybody who had walked there, lay now. He looked back and saw the corpse of the ensign he had killed fallen into the main corridor - but now it didn't matter. They would think she was killed in the blast - if they wonder at all.

Hastily, almost frantic, he looked for Peter and for a moment thought he lost him. But he was there - lying on the floor, all too quietly, his eyes dark and unseeing - and with sudden annoyance Simon thought he was dead.

Fuck him! The stupid kid couldn't even survive for him! Couldn't do this one little thing for Simon! He felt lost. Wherever the ship was going, he was going with it. Peter knew how to get out. Simon didn't.

Then the long curved lashes of the young man fell and rose again - so tranquilly as if he was watching clouds in the sky somewhere above him - and then he moved. Groggily - turning on his fours and staying for a few moments like that as if the floor threatened to slip away from under him. His forehead was bleeding - and Simon saw how a long strand of hair stuck to the gash and Peter pushed it away in irritation, balancing precariously on three points.

"Need to... need to go..." he heard him mumble. Yes, right! Get out of here. Get me out of here, little bastard.

From his fours to his knees - and groping around until he found the crystal and the bag - Simon noticed how he looked around somehow confusedly, as if he knew he had had something else but probably couldn't remember or didn't care enough. Then Peter got up on his feet, holding against the walls for equilibrium - and walked weaving - away towards the deck-cabin, stepping over or stepping on the bodies that lay across his way.

Dead bodies... or stunned... Simon didn't have time to look at them as he followed Peter - yet there was this little bell of triumph sounding in his heart. The League sluts. He wished he had time to spit on every of them. "...the Abenians will be tearing me apart limb by limb..." he recalled the low, sarcastic voice of Peter that he overheard. Well, it was the least the little bitch deserved.

Blood. He didn't notice it - smeared over the metal stripe on the floor - and nearly fell - his arms akimbo, a short curse barely caught on his lips. He knew he gave himself away - expected Peter to whirl around with the usual abruptness of his movements - and knew that he would have to kill him now... would have to kill him and ruin his chances to rescue... if they had any in the first place.

Peter didn't turn. In fact, he continued to move towards the deck-cabin door in his stumbling, shaky walk, looking down to choose the way between the bodies.

Could it be? He didn't hear. He probably couldn't hear. A evil grin spread over Simon's lips. Shell-shocked. Good! Even better than he expected. He saw Peter push the door and stagger into the deck-cabin - and covered the remaining space between them in a few huge leaps, leant to the opening, listening. Just like all those hours he had spent listening at the doors, getting the knowledge of the things that were supposed to be too confidential even for the tamed Abenian slave to hear about them; nothing new in it.

Except now he was fighting for his life .

He saw only a part of the deck-cabin - someone's body sprawled on the floor, in the pool of blood around the head. And the Captain at the table – his usual helpless self, pale long-fingered hands covering his face - and the keening sound tore from under these hands, high and steady - and not really sane, Simon thought with satisfaction.

Then Peter's voice - for once halting and kind of uncertain, even though he apparently couldn't hear the Captain howling:

"Gary, Gary! Everything is going to hell. We are fuckin' going to crash right now... Let's get out of here."

Why for fuck's sake does he needs this wimp? Peter cared for no one in all his life, this Simon knew for sure. And yet now, losing the precious time, he stood in the thrashed deck-cabin, shaking the Captain's shoulder, trying to get through to him.

"We'll take the shuttle... this is uninhabited sector but we can..." there was no so much certainty in Peter's voice as horror and urgency. "At least, it's a chance... We need to take this fuckin' chance, Gary!"

"They killed us," the keening sound stopped - and the voice coming from under the hands was clear - but still hardly sane. "They didn't give us enough time..."

"Come on, Gary, fuck you!" did Peter understand what was going on? Probably not. "I'll go to the shuttle. Forget the Kingfisher... my uncle will buy you another ship..."

Oh sure! The mighty Mr. Solana will come and make everything okay. Even here, where there are no fuckin’ living souls around - except their crazy ship that, frankly, was almost dead, too.

He saw Peter try to pull the Captain's hands away from his face - and the howling sound resumed suddenly, something trembling deep in the Captain's throat, so creepy that for some reason it reminded Simon of a dirge. Then Gary pushed Peter away, so violently that he nearly fell - and at the next moment - Simon barely had enough time to step away - Peter stumbled out of the deck-cabin, turning back and screaming almost hysterically:

"I am not going to die here because of you, you idiot! I'll go off in a minute. Get yourself together and follow me if you want!"

He saw Peter walk along the corridor, towards the heavy round hatch of the shuttle - not noticing him. Simon prepared to follow - and that was when the Captain stood up suddenly. There was blood on his face - and wetness of tears and something icky - snots, maybe - but his feverish eyes showed some reason at last.

"Wait, Peter, I am going with you..."

"No, you don't."

He must have not realized at once who it was. Simon saw him look up slowly and meet his eyes with a mixed expression of indignance and disbelief. Then his gaze slid down again - until focused on the thin stinger of the pain gun pointed at him. Sure, Peter couldn't find the pain gun in the corridor - because by that time Simon already had it.

"Get out of my way, slave!" Gary roared - and at that moment Simon pushed the button to the death level and fired.

He had seen the pain gun in action hundreds of times - had felt it on himself dozens - but he could never imagine that it would be so sweet to see how the shot by his hand would make a man twist in agony, his eyes huge like glazed dark plates, his mouth opened - but there would be no scream coming out of it - before the body, already breathless, would fall in an untidy heap on the floor.

"Slave no more," Simon said and nobody could hear that the rough blunt accent was gone from his voice on these words.

He had just enough time to slide behind the closing hatch of the shuttle - with Peter running his hands on the keyboard, not looking back. Good. It was what he needed the kid for - to get them out of here. And as soon as he felt the slight push of the shuttle leaving the ship, he sighed with relief.

Now the Kingfisher was striving to its death, with all its crew dead or still alive. But he, Simon... he was going to live.

"I think we made it," he heard Peter's voice, much calmer now, as the young man leaned against the back of the seat, looking at the ship bulk moving away from them - and then he turned to Simon, saying: "I am glad you made up your mind, Gary..."

The words died away. He must've seen it all at once - the blood-spattered sandals on Simon's feet, the pain gun in his hand - and his lips whitened as he looked for something to say - maybe, for some order to make. But he didn't have time for that.

"Rats are leaving the sinking ship," Simon said enjoying the sound of his own voice, easy and free. "Captains don't.




Part 2

It was growing dark. Smoothly and imperceptibly the grey light dissipated into grey dimness that was getting thicker with every minute. Nighttime for sure.

Well, he could use the rest . With a flashlight Simon had arranged a place to sleep near the wreckage. He didn't want to use the shuttle itself; had plucked a heap of fern leaves that together with the sleeping bag from the emergency kit they made a very comfortable bedding.

The fire of quasi-coals made him even warmer and after he had eaten a few nutrition-bars, as nasty as they tasted, and drank some water from the shuttle supply, he realized he was nodding.

Hope it's as empty around here as it seems, he thought and fell asleep under the crackling of the fire - the sound of it on the brink of his consciousness reminding him how his ship had burned a moment before he and his crew were captured by the League... his favorite nightmare - but for once there was no bitterness in it and he went through it without jerking up out of sleep in silent horror.

When he opened his eyes again, it was already light. He lay inhaling the slightly bitter smell of dead leaves under him, looking at the smooth glimmering surface above. It mystified him somehow - he couldn't even say how far away it was, tens or hundreds feet. And in silence - the quasi-coals died out some time at night - he suddenly could hear a soft rustle of running water. Strange he hadn't noticed it yesterday - he must've been stunned with the fall.

Or too busy.

He got up with a sense of enjoyment that getting up hadn’t brought him in the last twelve years of his life - or, maybe, never - stretched and, sinking his teeth into another nutrition-bar, went to look for the source of the sound.

It was a narrow trench - clean or at least transparent water running swiftly over the ground. Simon knelt at it, patting the neat edge of its bank. Artificial, too. Just like everything else.

Suddenly he understood what it reminded him of. Once in the Academy they'd visited a greenhouse - an award for success in the studies – and he'd almost been shocked then to see all these green bright plants that one could find nowhere else on Aben. The air there had been the same - wet and bitterly fragrant.

He looked at the running water wistfully and turned back. And that was when he found the path. Well, in fact, he had expected something like that – fitting into an so neat and cleverly made environment – yet he had a slightly creepy feeling as he looked at the narrow band-like way going through the ferns. Empty... as everything else around. But the path was there. And it led somewhere.

Why, you might take it right now. Wasn't it what you were going to do yesterday - to leave?

Yeah - and he still was going to leave. Once he made sure the League brat had died overnight.

He returned to the shuttle via the burnt-out way it had made through the ferns – moving almost unwillingly around the twisted heap of metal to see the place where Peter was tied.

He must've been dead. Fuck, the night had been cold - and God knows the bastard was injured enough not to survive... No, wait... It was strange, wasn't it? Logically Simon knew he should want Peter to be alive... to be here for his revenge - for the nine years Simon had spent as his slave and, maybe, for the three worst years before that, too. Three years of hell in the League concentration camp that made him submit to be whatever the League wanted him to be - a wordless pet, a fucktoy, a boogey man - just to get out of there.

He should have died; should have killed himself - like the navigator of his ship had done. But Simon had been so young then - at sixteen the youngest captain of a destroyer, at least at that time, he heard by the end of the war there were fourteen-year-olds leading ships. He knew he would never be able to get back to Aben - Aben disowned those who were enslaved: die or stay free.

He spat on the ground seeing the white motionless hands with the rope around the wrists - and then the rest of the half-naked body spread on the ground.

The kid looked like shit. He smelled like that, too - no wonder - and with a bit of sick feeling in his throat Simon saw the patch of blood-soaked ground between his legs and the gaping wound that was his anus. Then he met the stare of the black-circled eyes on the haggard face. Pretty much alive.

Simon made a contemptuous sound sniffing - deliberately letting Peter see the grimace of revulsion on his face. He saw Peter's eyelids flop up and down tiredly as if the light hurt his eyes. It might have hurt - everything might. Pathetic...

"If you eat my shit and lick my ass clean I'll probably let you live."

He said it for the mere sake of enjoyment to hear his own voice - besides, he had already taken a dump... no need for the little bastard to know, right?

"Can kill me right away."

"You hear?"

"Yes. Must've been temporary."

"Okay, then," Simon nodded, reaching for the pain gun that was hanging so conveniently on his belt. "It's a shitty way to die, you know. Gary O'Donnell could tell you lots about it. But, maybe, I'd better leave you here like that and see what parts of yours starts rotting first."

He knew he got Peter with the last phrase - saw him turn away slightly, as if unimpressed, and gnaw into his lip again. He must've bitten them raw by now, Simon thought.

"Go ahead," barely audible. Ouch... still resisting!

He raised the gun but suddenly felt that he wanted another outcome - wanted to win the brat not by pain but... to out-will him. Make him obey his former slave on his own accord. The families of the League - they always considered themselves the coolest - the toughest.

"If you lick my ass, I'll give you something to drink," he could only imagine how thirsty Peter was by now - and enjoyed seeing him run his tongue over his lips involuntarily. "There is water right over there. I'll let you wash yourself."

His voice was mild - almost seductive - and he knew it would work better than threats would. It had worked on him, after all. Hadn’t he‘d been ready to agree to everything when after countless months of beatings and rapes a man came and just talked to him - like a human being to a human being? Simon Kewlene never liked to recall how he had been broken; but the truth was that it was not some unbearable torture they put him to - it was just a conversation.

He watched the struggle in the pain-filled eyes of Peter and cold triumph filled his chest slowly.

"Come on, do it!" he lowered his pants, squatting over his prisoner’s face and waited, long enough but not too long - and then felt the soft touch of a warm tongue against his anus. He nearly shivered. Wow, a sensitive spot where you would never guess, right? Well, it was true - no one had ever touched him there... like this. Soft and velvety and careful... fuck, it didn't matter how it felt! It was the tongue of his proud master rimming his ass - that's what mattered!

He let it go on long enough for his cock to start hardening and then got up - looking down at Peter who failed to put on the mask of indifference now - or was too shaken for it. There was no reason for Simon to keep his word - and he saw in Peter's unhappy eyes that he thought about it, too. But he bent down, untied his hands and dragged him up by the collar of the sweater that was still slightly wet. Did his best for the squeamish expression to be apparent on his face and pushed Peter slightly away. It was sheer enjoyment to watch how the kid suffered silently through taking control over his numb body.

Simon didn't need to say anything about not making stupid moves - the pain gun in his hand spoke eloquent enough. He picked up Peter's boots and pants and walked him to the trench.

"And wash your sweater, I don't want you to stink around, bitch."

Looking at the trench before, Simon felt apprehensive about the water - but Peter slid into it eagerly, whether it was cold or bad or what. He gathered handfuls of water, drank it greedily first thing, then yanked off the dirty sweater and soaked it in the water. It looked like he was trying to do everything at once - washing, cleaning himself - in feverish, nearly hysterical motions. Simon noticed, though, how he flinched using his left hand - and nodded, filing the fact. Broken... or fractured.

"How come you aren’t afraid to drink it?" drinkable water was vital - who new how far away from real civilization they were - and there was not much of shuttle supply left. Peter dumped his sweater and turned to him, face and hair wet and most blood washed off; blue-lipped with cold but looking less miserable.

"You wanted me to check it, right? If it's bad - you'll know."

Trying to be smart again? Simon thought about catching up with this then shrugged. In fact, he hadn't done it consciously – using Peter to see if the water was good for drinking. But the little bitch was right - it would work this way.

At last Peter got out, shaking so badly that he nearly dropped his sweater on the ground when tried to wring it one-handed. Simon watched how he pulled up his pants quickly and even though his t-shirt and sweater were soaking wet, put them on, too.

"So, where are we?" Simon didn't want to ask questions but couldn't help himself.

"I don't know," for a moment Peter stopped struggling with his boots and looked up at Simon - and even though lying was never a problem for him, Simon could see in his eyes that he was honest this time. "The crystal showed it was an empty part of space. The only chance was a Danarian observatory - I thought they would notice the shuttle," fat chance - not to mention that Danarians didn't even use oxygen to breathe. "But this..."

"Your crystal is shit."

"No, it is not," now Peter's voice sounded exactly as usual - the notes of superiority so apparent in it. "It can help us. Let me put the info through it. I am the only one who can do it. You need me."

Here we are! Did the fuckin' League whore ever give up? Simon felt his hand reach for the pain gun - funny how easily these habits get acquired - but changed his mind: should spare the elements. He just made two steps towards Peter, momentarily intoxicated with the immediate fear making the kid's grey eyes black, and hit him with the handle. He watched him sprawl on the ground and look up, wiping blood from his mouth, starting:

"Yeah, I know you can beat me..."

He never finished.

"Right, I can. Wrong, I don't need you," Simon caught the fractured hand and squeezed the wrist, finding the small broken bone intuitively, pressing on it with his thumb. He saw the thin film of perspiration appearing on Peter's forehead, the eyes getting wide and dark at once. Must be too hurt to cry out. "I just might want to keep you alive," he twisted his arm behind his back, turned him on his side, pulled down his pants, "as long as I am not tired of sticking my cock up to your pretty smart ass."

He entered him sharply, tearing the passage that didn't even have time to scab - and tearing more, under a different angle. He heard the little "ah" escaping Peter's lips - saw his face go blank with pain and become strangely boyish. This time it went much easier than yesterday - just two thrusts and he got fully in, his balls resting against Peter's ass. The young man's head was pressed against the ground, his mouth half-opened silently and his other hand, lying on the ground, trembled unceasingly. Simon started fucking - fiercely, in long, deep strokes - enjoying a moan, then another one he managed to elicit. He dropped the arm he had twisted but all Peter did was to gather it to his chest, like a bird's broken wing.

Anger and dissatisfaction fought in Simon - more powerful that arousal, no matter how steadily and strongly he kept battering - until he willed himself into feeling hatred, not pity.

"You think I am a bad motherfucker," he leant over Peter, turning his head towards himself by the hair. His mouth neared almost as if he wanted to kiss - but when touched, he bit - tasting blood from Peter's torn lip, not knowing whether he wanted more to spit or to swallow it. "Wrong! I am a very bad motherfucker."

His hand slid under the wet sweater, catching the nipple he had squeezed yesterday. He saw Peter shiver - aha, something new for you - and twisted and crushed it between his fingers - blood wetting the tips of his fingers as the heady sweeping orgasm covered him.

He shuddered, feeling not exhausted but electrified, pulled out his bloodied cock and got up, towering over Peter.

"Not so squeaky-clean any more - but at least you'll have something of me till the next time I feel like riding your ass, slut."

He looked how Peter got on his knees and gathered his pants silently, shakily. He played with the pain gun absently. He knew he could make him fall on the ground again, writhing in agony - just with one move of his finger. And the best part of it was that he even didn't need any special reason for any, any thing Peter could do to anger him. He would do it just because he could. Wasn't it the ultimate pleasure of owning a slave?

For a moment he wanted to tell Peter about it - to see how the poor fuck would twist and turn trying to make him change his mind - but then he caught the gaze of his grim, dark eyes looking from the pale withdrawn face - the gaze full of such strange thoughtfulness - Simon understood in a flash of empathy - that, maybe, it was exactly what Peter knew and thought about right now.

He spat in anger and pushed the button and watched Peter dig his fingernails into the ground in agony.

* * *

He killed for the first time when he was eleven. The man was from the family and cheated on Andre - and apparently did something worse, too - because otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in the basement of their suburban house, cuffed to the chair.

It was the first operation Peter was allowed to watch from the beginning to the end - and he had been pretty excited when the man was proved guilty and caught. But now, looking at him - he was not beaten or tortured, just cuffed and angry - Peter hardly could believe that it was the same man who used to be a frequent guest at their place, always courteous with Peter's aunt, always amiable with Peter. Now just in minutes away from his death.

"Hey..." the man was talking on and on, saying it was a slander, Andre was sorely mistaken. At last he ran out of steam and his voice sounded just pleading as he looked at Andre. "You know me... I wouldn't do it to you..."

Peter's uncle shrugged with his usual almost somnambular tranquility and turned away to say something to his people. He looked at Peter who stood not knowing what to do. He wanted to hate the man but he couldn't; in fact, he would prefer not to see him dying.

"We need to come out. Can you keep an eye on him? Here is the gun and he is chained."

Sure. Peter nodded without doubts, took the heavy black gun in both hands and directed it at the man. He heard Andre order something to his people as they left. He looked at the man who sat motionlessly and silently, not meeting his eyes. Everything seemed quiet.

But when it happened, it happened very quickly. The man made a strange twist with his wrists and got up - and his hands were free. There was a very concentrated expression on his face as he reached for something in his boot.

Peter pulled the trigger. He was not even particularly scared, he did everything like on the shooting lesson. The bright red of the wound blossomed on the left side of the man's chest - and as much as Peter's hand demanded to shoot more and more, he knew that the man was dead; he never missed.

The man swayed for a few seconds, his eyes acquired that introspective expression that Peter saw in the eyes of dying men so many time after that - and then fell flat on the floor with a thud.

Peter just stood there. His mind was kind of blank as he struggled to understand what he did - by his own hand - and then there was another shot and the man's body jerked on the floor. He turned and saw Batista, his uncle's right hand man, putting his gun away.

"Always make the control shot."

And there were others, coming up to Peter, greeting him with a good shot - greeting him with passing the test. It had been a test. He knew it now.

That was when panic caught up on him. He looked at the gun in his hand and the thin trickle of blood that crawled to his feet on the floor - and felt about to choke on upcoming tears.

He knew he'd better die than start crying now, of course. So, he smiled and nodded - but when he looked in his uncle's pale eyes - calm water blue - he knew that the man knew. And he was not going to turn away from Peter for it.

"Next times will never be so bad."

He stumbled and balanced desperately trying to stay on his feet, knowing that if he fell, it would be twice more difficult to get up. And Simon would hate it, too.

They were going along the narrow path among ferns - walking for hours, with the trench getting farther from it and getting nearer again, crossed with other trenches from time to time. But otherwise the surroundings stayed the same. So much the same that Peter couldn't help slipping out of reality - into the past or future. Maybe, it was a blessing.

But the more painful was the return.

"Where are you going to go?"

"There," Simon waved his hand as if it explained anything.

"Why there?"

"Because," the blunt consonants were back in his voice when he was angry, "I want to ."

Peter obeyed; he just understood he couldn't take another blast of the pain gun - deadly one... or worse – again one that wouldn't kill him. The road was going slightly uphill. He noticed it when he started walking. Well, just putting one foot in front of the other would be bad anyway. Funny toddling walk that made his face color red when he realized it; when he understood that he walked exactly like some slaves walked from time to time and everybody knew why and made jokes about it. But as much as he tried to walk normally, nothing came off.

Just like he couldn’t seem to keep his attention to the present moment.

Too hard to face what you are now, Peter?

"Keep moving."

What he made me... He felt painful, choking anger sticking in his throat at the presence of the big man behind him.

Don't you know that nobody can make you be shit? You can only let it happen.

Shit... He nearly went into dry-heaves when the memory of what he had to do this morning caught up with him. He wished he could believe that he didn't really do it. Oh fuck, he should've stayed there, at the wreck of the shuttle, with his hands tied - dead or dying - not to walk wherever Simon was going to take him - and certainly not to earn the right to walk with what he had done.

Couldn't you stand a little pain, Peter? Why did you want to live so much, Peter?

To revenge?

Dream on.

After a few hours Peter hazarded to start a conversation.

"It's a ship, right? But no one builds ships so big now."

"Maybe, it is not a human ship," Simon shrugged. He had thought about it. But all other humanoid and non-humanoid races of the Union had different needs about air and water... why, the water seemed all right - he wasn’t dying of it, anyway. "Or, maybe, it was not built in this age" Simon added.

This hadn’t come to his mind. And especially confusing was that Simon was able of making a conclusions like that. But it might as well be true.

Would Andre care enough to send the ship for him? Peter registered the thought and recognized it for what it was - another illusion, just like the memories of the joys of his childhood which were nothing short of joyless. But as much as he tried to get rid of it - he had to see the situation clearly for his own sake - it came back again and again. Andre could make the same calculations and get to know where the Kingfisher was supposed to come out of the warp... yeah - and to know that it would blow up.

But still... Andre always came and helped him. Just like when Peter was seven years old.

"Stop doing it to the boy, Guido, I warn you for the last time, you and your drunk bitch of a wife."

He would tell Andre nothing of what happened. And he had to take care of Simon. The thought was like a lash across his back - like another shot of pain through the dizziness. He had to kill him. It was the only way to resurrect something of his honor. Honor? Truly, it looked like he would never be able to say this word in relation to himself.

Several hours later they stopped for a break - and Simon shared a few nutrition-bars with him. Peter was not sure eating was a good idea for him - he knew he probably wouldn't be able to pass anything for the next few days - but he had to have some strength to keep going - for the moment when he might need it for real.

"Time for fun, little bitch."

Oh shit... Who would think one could be so interested in sex?

"If you do it again now," he tried to be reasonable; yeah, try to convince this savage of something for your benefit. "I won't be able to walk."

"And I am going to miss your little butt so much that it will make me spare you?" he was amused so far, not mad. Peter knew how close the pain gun was - and felt his mouth get dry with apprehension. "You think you are so bright? You think you know where my buttons are to push them?"

Well, it was worth trying, he thought and saw Simon pull the string of his pants, taking out his heavy, already hard cock - the tower of dark flesh. Simon didn't say anything - and he didn't need to - because surely Peter knew what was expected from him.

He knelt, making his body obey before his mind started making circles as usual, as to whether he could make himself do it or not. Just a little step per time; and mind you, not that it was the first time for him to tell himself that, to use this method - think about this morning, for example. After all, seeing the damn monster of the cock just as a piece of meat - well, a piece of meat that was going into his mouth - he might get through it all right.

Better that than another agonizing fucking that would leave his rectum torn even worse. Everything else was - sentiments. He couldn't afford them.

"You hurt me - I'll hurt you worse," Simon's voice over his head, low - quiet and unmistakable in its menace.

Simon's skin tasted sweat and bitter musk - just the same as Peter had tasted in the morning - no, don't think about it - but the size was a kind of shock, even though he should've been ready - hell, he knew how it felt inside him. There was no way he could take more than its head in his mouth.

"You think me an idiot? What are you sucking - a lollipop? As if you never had your cock deep-throated."

Oh yes, he did - only he had no idea how exactly to do it. Not to mention that he couldn't imagine...

His hair was yanked. The grip bringing involuntary wetness to his eyes as Simon got up suddenly, pulling him up on his knees. The cock, glistening with spit, slipped out of his mouth - and was guided in again - and this time he didn't have any choice how deep to take it. It was shoved against the back of his throat and - with amazing, sickening sensation that made his eyes flew open - behind it, ruining the barrier of his gagging reflex. The sensation of his throat being expanded was incredible. He couldn't breathe - he realized it with momentary horror that the lack of oxygen caused - and was shocked immediately with another wave of pain as Simon pulled his cock out. Just to be sent in again.

"Hands," he heard Simon's angry voice from above, obeyed unconsciously - as Simon kept yanking his head back and forth, fucking his mouth, almost slamming his face against smooth pubis of his.

At that moment Peter didn't feel humiliated. He hardly realized anything at all through astonishing pain. How could it be so bad? I mean he had fucked enough faces in his life - and even though it was what you only did to slaves or whores, not to a clean decent girl like Joanie, his wife. But he never guessed it might have been so agonizing. His throat was burning - the feeling of something plunging into and plucked out of it made him sick - and the worst of it was that he was never sure when he would breathe. Then Simon pulled him forward and kept like that - and Peter knew he was coming, right into his throat, no chance of spitting or turning away. But the thought of having "something of Simon" from both ends now was not so bad as the choking sensation when Simon's sperm must've taken a wrong way in his throat.

He was stunned mute when some of it leaked out of his nose after Simon let him go - whitish slime that was another man's cum - and he coughed and coughed, kneeling on all fours, until his chest felt on fire. He threw up, too, but there was too little in his stomach and he just heaved helplessly.

He knew that Simon stood over him, could see his shadow on the ground and thought that the man was smiling – most likely satisfied and amused at the same time. But when Peter got up at last, still swaying, whispering half-coherently:

"I need to wash myself," he knew he was wrong.

There was no mockery in Simon's eyes - but the same hungry, burning disgust Peter had seen there when he had opened his eyes the first time after the crash and met Simon’s stare.

"You think we're done, little shit? Maybe, you think you get away cheap this time?"

Cheap? He didn't have time to think it over as another shot of the pain gun threw him back on the ground - and by the time the convulsions stopped Simon was over him, fumbling with his clothes. He didn't have time to think no, not now - as Simon's hands roamed over his body, up along the ribs, hectic, deliberately painful.

"Shush!" his knee was on Peter's hand, on the broken one, pressing it to the ground. It was bad - and worse with every second - but still not as bad as when Simon's fingers grasped his nipples, clutching like vices and twisting unmercifully. He thought he would puke again with pain; it had nothing to do with sexy tweaking. He felt how he started bleeding under Simon's fingers - from the scabs Simon had left on him before - and new lacerations - and the worst was that he couldn't even follow his instinct to protect himself.

"Don't you feel turned on? Don't you like me playing with your tits? Should I suck them to make you happier?" he guessed what would happen but could do nothing to prevent it - Simon's mouth clamped on the left side of his chest, teeth jamming into his skin so hard and hot until he felt a thin trickle running over his ribs. Simon's hand still kept moving - under the belt of his pants, finding his genitals - the intimacy of skin against skin was appalling; but Peter forgot about it at once when Simon fisted his hand on his balls, tugging them up and aside savagely. He couldn't scream - just gasped a little - and heard the laughter above, satisfied at last. "Do you like having sex with me, family slut?"

"I am not a slut. I am a man - I proved I am..."

He didn't quite know what he talked about - must've been too out with pain - but Simon hardly cared. He slapped him - stinging but barely felt by Peter as the pressure on his balls rose even more. And then it was gone.

"You are not a man. None in your family are. I bet your wife would enjoy my cock better."

"Remind me to send it to her," he should've been silent. Simon's fist shot in his mouth, straight and hard, making him feel the sharp bits of the broken tooth in the salt blood that he swallowed.

"You shit. You made me angry again," coldly and even with a bit of content. "You are going to pay for that."

And he did. It was not long but it was intense, the level of the pain gun raised to the highest possible without being lethal.

He managed to take a hold on himself somehow when Simon allowed him at last to get down to the trench and wash. And there, in a few steps away from Simon, in deceptive privacy - he broke. There were no tears but he had to cover his mouth trying to muffle the sobs - knowing that Simon could hear it all the same - and yet unable to do anything. He couldn't stop shivering, too - not with pain or cold but with the appalling thought how easily it all was for Simon - how with some pain and some violence he could make Peter in what he was now - a whore, a weakling, a wreck.

Yeah, that's how he's breaking you, Peter. And if you don't take care of it soonest, he'll succeed.

* * *

He wished he had restrained himself somehow in the afternoon. Not because he regretted what he did to the little bitch - that was a pure joy. But the easiness of slipping into anger - no, the impossibility to fight it - and that he didn't even try to fight it - made Simon feel vaguely uncomfortable. Revenge was sweet - for everything the bastard and his people had done to Simon over years - but control was more important. And if someone less smart could ask what more control he wanted over the fucked-up League slut, Simon still remembered what Goodman, the police officer that got him arrested and later sent to the Academy, said to him:

"Everything that gets you going - owns you. Everything that makes you want to do it again - owns you. Sex, murder, drugs..."

Simon had tasted all of this by the time his life in the streets was over - and enjoyed all of this. But Goodman's words stayed with him somehow - maybe, taught him something... and the truth was that the memory of it, maybe, allowed him to survive twelve years of captivity.

And even now, having six hundred packs of the most treasured drug in the Union in his bag, he still didn't try any. He was free to do it - but he chose not to. He knew Peter wanted the stuff - he could see it in how desperately the young man looked at the bag sometimes: take a dose and not to be in this world - in this hell - at least with his mind, at least for an hour.

He should have killed Peter. Should've let him die. Sometimes this thought was so obsessive that Simon chased it away angrily... but it returned.

Well, go on as before and the problem will solve itself, Simon thought watching the sad state Peter was in - even he had to admit it. Barely hobbling - and Simon didn't like the way he pressed his hands to his temples from time to time; some concussion, wasn't it? Let the bitch die.

No, let him go on.

They made probably ten miles after the break; Peter was a lousy walker, true - but it was not that Simon was in a hurry going anywhere - and nobody chased them. After what happened during the break Peter didn't try to say anything any more - no pseudo-conversation as to what Simon thought of this and that - with his eyes, wide and wild with pain, and yet icy calculating, looking for an opportunity to turn the tables again.

Simon liked him more when he was silent. Who knows - if the kid could keep his mouth shut, he would get away easier, maybe.

When it started getting dark, he made a fire of quasi-coals again and gave Peter another nutrition-bar but he just shook his head, huddling up with an unhappy expression on his face. For God's sake, it was his choice - for a few moments Simon thought about some little interlude of making him eat and then decided that succumbing to the urges again wasn't worth it. He sat at the fire, nibbling the nutrition-bar, looking at the young man who curled on the other side of the fire, seeming asleep - if Simon didn't see how his sticky but still curved eyelashes flutter at every little sound Simon made.

He wasn't horny this time - and rather tired than angry. Maybe, for once he would do without sex. Just for once.

"What do you think about?" he couldn't resist; did he aim for a little sneaky remark... why, he was just making a conversation! He saw Peter stir, his dark eyes open on the white face. "What would your uncle say if he saw you?"

"But he won't see me, right?"

For a moment Simon's temper flared up - the bitch robbed him of his remark - but he calmed down - and heard Peter continue suddenly, strangely wistfully, as if it was all the same for him who he talked to:

"I wonder who will take over for me."

Why, don't you hope to return? Apparently not. He knew there was no way back, Simon thought with a fresh pang of gloating; and yet Peter's thoughts were still about the past, he still couldn't let go. Well, no wonder - the past belonged to Peter - but the future was Simon's.

"I think, maybe, Batista. He will do. Not Dario, the guy is a wimp. But Joanie will marry Dario, I know. She'll stay for seven months in our house and then she'll be able to go home - and in a year she'll marry again."

Joanie... sweet thing of a girl whom the son of bitch didn't have brains enough to appreciate.

Well, it looked like Peter would never see her again. Simon got up and saw Peter tense - and saw how he tried to hide it almost immediately, his mouth pressed into a jagged line of split lips. He felt a sparkle of malicious joy at the sight - and enjoyed even more taking out the rope, knowing what Peter had to think. There was no shuttle but he tied him up well enough.

"Don't thrash," warningly.

He didn't. He winced involuntarily when Simon grabbed his hands - the rope burns were barely scabbed on them and the left wrist swollen and pink. Simon felt the urge to draw the rope as deep as possible into puffy flesh - and fought it. He had all time in the world - or till the bitch's death - to hurt him - so, he could stop behaving like it was the last chance for him to revenge himself.

He knew Peter fell asleep almost the moment he moved away from him. By the time Simon finished his supper, the kid was already in the middle of nightmare. It might be something new, brought on by the events of the last two days, but somehow Simon thought it was the usual one, the one he witnessed so many times during those nine years he had slept in the bedroom of his master.

His father - he knew as much as that. Heated iron. "Show me that you are a man."

In sleep the little bitch whined; made the sounds that were so difficult to elicit from him when he was awake - with Simon fighting for every shriek, every moan of his. But in sleep he couldn't control himself - and he cried - and tossed, probably hurting his tied hands even more - and the orange flashes of fire danced on his battered face.

He was keeping the nephew of Andre Solana in hell. Just like Aben sent the Kingfisher to hell... savages or not, whatever the League thought about them. Weird... he still felt proud for his planet, no matter that it had rejected him.

Simon got up abruptly, turned his face to the dark surface above - no bright dots of stars, no lights of leaving and coming ships. This world was different. But somehow it made sense. He was going to have a new way here. He knew it.

He wasn't sure what woke him up. The night was so quiet - just the quasi-coals kept crackling softly near to him. But it must've been his sixth sense that warned him - singled out one particular sound, uncharacteristic to the peace around, yanked him out of his dream... to see Peter's face impossibly close. A moment before he plunged forward, aiming for the pain gun under Simon's side.

You bastard! Simon flipped over - just a moment too late, feeling the smooth handle of the gun slip from under him - but not too late to hit, sending Peter rolling on the ground. The blow was intended to be strong enough to make the pain gun fall out of his hand. But as Simon got on his feet and looked down at him (how did the son of bitch get free?.. like a rat that is ready to gnaw its paw off), he saw the dark eyes full of hatred shining at him - and the sharp stinger of the pain gun. Hell turning its face on him again.

He had to do something about it. He had to - he thought it so desperately as never before in his life. He knew Peter's finger was pushing the button - and grabbed the knife, threw it - saw it slash along the kid's palm - but he knew it was too late...

Convulsions never hit. He watched Peter push the button again - and started laughing, already knowing what happened. The elements... he still had not been thrifty enough with them. He laughed so hard that tears spilled from his eyes.

"What are you going to do now?" he looked - and the bitch wasn't there, the grass wet with blood - but he was gone, the knife was gone.

He listened hard; there was just silence around.

Fuck... fuck it! No, don't blame anyone but yourself - if you'd tied him up as you wanted, he wouldn't have been able to twist his hands out of the rope, especially so silently. Now go look for him...

Well, he was probably running non-stop, trying to put as much distance between himself and Simon as possible. No... Somehow Simon knew it was not that. He could've run away when Simon was asleep. It was not what Peter wanted.

Oh yeah, how easy they were to read, these League people.

Peter probably had no idea how apparent the trace of blood was on the ground - for Simon who could see in the darkness like a cat - and the smell alone would lead him, sweet and maddening, unmistakable smell of blood.

He'd memorized this smell from the first time when he killed - stuck his knife in the belly of another eight-year-old kid - his own age - over a pack of cigarettes. Simon had stolen it and was going to exchange it for food. He needed this food; the kid probably needed it more, was starved enough to make a wild attempt to shank Simon. And died himself.

The first one... not the last one. Simon Kewlene, the gang leader, the wildest cadet in the Academy - the youngest captain of the destroyer ship.

Peter should've known whom he was playing with.

He moved through the ferns and caught the rustle of Peter strike from behind. The knife was aimed right - but his slashed hand must've let him down. Simon dodged – turned - and saw Peter's shocked, disbelieving eyes - before he hit, knocking him off of his feet in one blow, never letting him get up again, kicking and kicking even when the man on the ground was too gone to be able to cover himself or even to curl.

* * *

Don't kill him; don't let him get away so easy.

If it was not too late, that. He pushed the body with the toe of his sandal and it rolled slackly, like a broken doll. Simon was panting - he couldn't hear Peter's breath even if it was there - so, he had to squat to touch Peter under the jaw to check the pulse. He felt it beating, strong and fast, and Simon thought again that the bitch was tougher than he looked.

Well, all to the better.

It was already getting light when Peter came round - spread-eagled on the ground at their camping place - with Simon sitting at the dying fire, watching him, sharpening a thin wooden stick with the knife he had acquired again. He saw Peter jerk regaining consciousness, pull at his arms and legs instinctively. What - no luck? Simon hadn’t spared him this time, tightening the rope viciously.

Yet he struggled; in vain, with the strange introspective look on his face - until Simon moved and his attention shifted. His eyes became angry and miserable at once as he looked at Simon - black pools of pain and hatred and fear.

"Oh fuck..."

"Later," it was meant as a joke but Simon knew Peter hardly appreciated it. He seemed to lose control for a while, yanking on his arms again and gasping in pain. It was not the only source of pain, judging on how he shivered at every breath and then looked with almost pathetic terror when something sloshed in his chest and a clot of blood came out of his mouth.

"You are a mess," Simon informed him. "Don't make me hit you again."

"Do whatever you want."

"I hope you won't change your mind. Because I am going to punish you, you know."

"Use the pain gun," his voice was so tired that Simon wouldn't believe he still tried to be ironic. He saw Peter close his eyes - but they snapped open again when Simon got up. No matter how indifferent to his fate he tried to pretend to be... how could he be?

Simon wrapped a bit of cloth around the sharpened end of the stick and rolled it. He knew Peter looked - trying to figure out what it was and forbidding himself to ask. No matter, you'll know soon.

He checked the smoothness of the stick against the place between his thumb and forefinger and then probed the spike. Not really sharp - but it had to do.

"What..." Peter couldn't stand it; started and bit his lip. Simon came up to him, knelt at him and put his hand on Peter's jaw.

It didn't surprise him when Peter tried to resist – he had no problem to cope with it, though - turned his head on one side, holding down strong enough to keep him from trying to bite.

"Remember after the explosion you couldn't hear anything?" he didn't need the answer, he could read it in the staring eyes of grey suddenly becoming black and wide. "I found that I felt safer with you when you were in that state."

He thought Peter understood; when Simon pressed the sharpened stick into his ear, he understood for sure - and was probably speechless with shock, just gasped shortly. He couldn't thrash, too - not only because Simon held him down - but with the spike finding the way inside, he froze in terror - cried out as the spike pressed against the ear-drum and farther, tearing, destroying the membrane.

Deafening slaves was a customary way on Aben - in times when Aben was powerful enough to have slaves - but Peter couldn't know it. In fact, Simon hadn't ever seen it done, too - just heard about it. But he hoped he was doing it right - pushing, turning, twisting - until blood and some clots of film-like tissues started coming out - until Simon was sure there was nothing left more he could destroy without killing the kid.

He pulled the spike out - and Peter was gasping feverishly, strange - shocked - expression on his face - as if he couldn't believe this thing was done to him. Simon didn't wait for more struggle, turned his head to the other side forcibly and stuck the bloodied spike in again, repeating the process, meticulously: it had to be done completely, anything less didn't work. He saw blood once more - felt it on his fingers - watched a few trickles that crossed along Peter's neck. They changed direction as Peter shook his head, free from Simon's grip at last. He was shaking his head as if he thought something got in his ears and he could shake it out.

No way; it was over.

He was still silent while Simon untied him – then sat up slowly, wincing in pain - and reached to his ears carefully as if checking whether they were still attached.

It was when he looked up at Simon who towered over him and asked softly:

"What have you done?" almost childish voice. Almost begging for reassurance.

"Don't you know what?" he muttered.

But it was not what Simon said - it was seeing that he said something - that made the truth descend at last on Peter and Simon saw the expression on his face he wanted to see it from the very beginning - not indignant shock and disbelief - but the utter desperation, almost na?ve horror, as he started saying quickly and monotonously:

"No. No. No," quicker and quicker, like a very short prayer - and panic was penetrating his voice swiftly, making it higher and louder. "Don't mutilate me. Please. Do something else."

A little bit too late for that, huh?

Simon crossed his arms on his chest and watched Peter sit on the ground, still clasping his ears - with the trickles of blood slithering between his fingers - and sway from side to side repeating:

"Please undo that. Please do something else."

He told himself he enjoyed it - the devastating effect of what he did was having on Peter - but then it somehow started getting on his nerves. The bitch couldn't hear himself - but Simon could. He groped for the pain gun and recalled that it was gone - but he still had his fists - and he hit him - just to stop it. This swaying, this muttering - just to see another expression except frozen terror in the widened grey eyes.



Part 3

"Now... I want you to do something, Peter, my boy."

The flickering of the flame and a thin piece of metal his father holds in pincers, moving it through the fire.

Peter looks at it and somehow he knows what this 'something' is going to be - and he wishes he were wrong.

He also knows he can't argue with his father - and if he does it will end up worse for him. Still he prays silently for something to happen. Something... What? His mother is in her room with a bottle of cognac under the bed. Uncle Andre is away on a business trip. And the door of his father's study is locked anyway.

"Come on, Peter. Take it. You don't want to say you are afraid of a little pain?" his father smiles. It is not a good smile - it can deceive strangers but not Peter who knows it too well. His father's voice is like purring - he doesn't press, doesn't hurry - he just lets the piece of metal get sooty.

"Show me you are a man. Show me you are Solana."

Peter reaches and his father hands it to him.

Oh God... It hurts! He cries out, terrified - draws his hand back quickly and looks at his palm, dark and red and swelling - and feel the tears rise in his eyes helplessly as he hears his father chuckle above. Not a laughter, just a short snort.

"Stop it! Men don't cry. You are my son, aren’t you? Either you are my son or not"

Yes, yes, I am! Please don't say that. He shivers. He makes himself stop. There are no more tears than those that have already come out.

"Good. You know I do it for you, Peter. Everything for you."

Of course, he knows. His father repeats it every time when he has to punish him.

"Kiss my hand now. Say 'thank you'."

He does. And then his father brings the band into the fire again and says:

"Now take it once more. Prove that I don't waste my time on you."

He woke up feeling the burning in his palm again. But it was not blistered this time - just a deep outturned cut over it - not bleeding any more but stinging at every motion of his fingers. He could use this hand, though - unlike the other one that throbbed with pain unceasingly, the bracelet of pink puffy flesh around the wrist looking ugly.

The lights were on again. He raised his head and looked around and chuckled joylessly, feeling this sound inside his head, not hearing it. He remembered. He knew he couldn't hear the rustle of water any more - the sound he got used to during the last day, nor the slight humming of the mechanisms somewhere above. Most of all it reminded him of holo-pictures when the sound was suddenly turned off. But unlike holos - even unlike the first day when he was shell-shocked - now he knew it was forever or permanent.

He closed his unhearing ears with the palms of his hands and pressed his forehead to his knees.

The briquette hit against his feet and he looked up abruptly, shocked at seeing Simon so close, unable to fight the panic the first few moments.

//"Eat."//

He shook his head, wanting to say something and realizing suddenly that his throat was closed, as if he was about to cry, his voice wouldn't come out as he wanted it to - so, he'd better not to try to talk.

//"Then starve. Bitch!"// Simon made signs when speaking, a special one for every word. The sign for "bitch" he was going to learn pretty quickly, Peter thought sarcastically.

Simon walked around the camping place gathering his possessions and although it seemed he didn't pay any attention to Peter, every time he moved he caught Simon's sharp, watchful look at him. Simon could hear him, right? A little later he came up to Peter holding the pain gun, pushed the button several times and shrugged.

//"I don't need this to keep you on the leash. Get up. Walk."//

He saw Simon reach for him, apparently to raise him on his feet, and backed away furiously.

"I can do it myself."

He did - nearly doubled over with the flare of pain in his chest and belly. He made himself straighten and walk, though. Simon followed him, just like yesterday - only now Peter had a hard time making himself not to turn back to see if Simon was behind and how far.

Simon was there, of course - sometimes Peter could feel it - a hand running over his ass lewdly - or an angry push when he was not quick enough. The path was leading them upwards, as before, sometimes slightly, sometimes steeply - but the ferns around were the same. What if there was no end to it, he thought suddenly, not knowing if the thought scared or surprised him. An eternity of ferns. This variation of hell he had never heard about.

And then they saw the clearing. And something else there - something that made Peter gasp. Something looking like a low hut made of plastic plates - unmistakably made by an intelligent creature.

//"Down!"//

Simon gripped his neck and threw him on the ground, the impact reverberating in his body. He felt Simon stretch along him, holding him down.

The man was smart - and with better reaction then Peter had.

The hut was built on the ground free from ferns, three hundred feet away from them; the path reached it, turned round it and went farther - and as Peter looked at the place, he knew he was right - it was human-made - or at least humanoid. The hut itself was ugly - one could see the door, the windows made of plates.

The door opened and a man came out of it.

He was human. He could be a citizen of almost any planet of the Union - even of the League. Slight, in his late thirties, with a ridiculous mop of grey curly hair on his head. His clothes were something that looked like a filthy loose overall hanging on him shapelessly. He stretched looking around without much interest. Not seeing them.

Whoever he was - whatever this place was - seeing him made Peter almost delirious with joy. Everything would end right here. Simon was not so clever, after all. He should've stayed in the ferns for the rest of his life, not go exploring. And certainly not to take Peter with him.

As the man made a couple of steps away from the hut and started taking a leak, Peter felt Simon's hand on his neck suddenly, turning his head forcibly to face him - and saw him whisper, articulating the words clearly:

//"Stay put,"// affirmed with a jerk on his hair. He felt Simon's knee pressing on him as the man got up - and wondered what the other planned to do. If he was going for the gray-haired one... he couldn’t really expect Peter to lie here like that, to pass the chance to get free... no way!

He looked up slightly and saw that Simon didn't move towards the hut at all - but somewhere back to the ferns - and for a moment another fit of joy overwhelmed him. He was leaving! To hide in the ferns, just as Peter thought...

He knew he was wrong almost immediately, seeing Simon open the bag and pocket a few boxes of the stuff. Sure, this much stuff could make him a rich man everywhere. A whole bag could be too dangerous, too much a treasure to keep it.

Peter pressed his injured, trembling hands to the ground and took a deep breath before getting up. He knew Simon would hear him. Simon would be pissed off in a major way. But there was nothing that would stop him from trying.

Taking the heated piece of metal for the second time was more difficult.

The pain exploded inside him as he got up and dashed towards the hut and the man. He ignored pain. He didn't know if Simon had already noticed him gone, if he followed him - but even if so, he still had enough time. He saw the man lift his head and turn - his wide pale eyes, strangely watery, got huge with amazement, then with suspicion. He stepped back and pulled out some stocky baton-like stick from under his overall. Being prepared for unpleasant business, Peter could understand that... but he would explain.

The bastard should've cut off my tongue, he thought fiercely, starting talking, hoping to sound coherent even being short of breath:

"Do you speak English? Russky? Union argot?" he rapidly tried the most common trade-linguas waiting for anything to sparkle in the man's eyes. "Do you understand me?"

He wasn't sure - there was hardly anything else but tension and doubt in the man's face. But then the man said something which Peter couldn’t read but at least it might be some way to communicate.

"Sorry, I can't hear you,” he motioned to his blood-crusted ears. “ Please, help me! I am a citizen of the League, I got in trouble. Help me contact the government and you'll get an award, my family will pay a good ransom for me."

He could swear the man understood him - something shifted in the teary eyes but he was not sure it was at the mention of money. And there still was this suspicion - too much of it.

"I know I look like shit," he tried for a reassuring smile and knew he’d only half-succeeded as the man’s eyes narrowed, "but you will be paid, I promise it, don't worry... my family has the influence..."

And at the same moment the man's gaze left him. He didn't look at Peter any more but over his shoulder, watching intently, his hands clenching and unclenching on the baton. He was listening, Peter understood.

Yeah, right. Listening to Simon who came walking out of the ferns now - a great friendly smile on his face, waving his hand joyfully. He looked and saw it and felt sick with fear and hatred mixed. For a moment he was short of words. Desperately he sought eye contact again

"Be careful! The man is dangerous. He is my slave and a criminal... help me take him!"

The man looked at him again, with a quiet, calculating look in his eyes - and his lips moved but Peter was not sure if he spoke - he probably just muttered something to himself. Then he smiled as if finding an answer - and made a step towards Peter. Slamming the blunt end of the baton in his belly.

He gasped in disbelief - feeling sickening, hot pain spread inside him, weakening his limbs - and as he fell on his knees, a moment before losing consciousness, he felt in weird amazement how his mouth filled with thick salt blood, warm and choking.

* * *

"You say he's your slave," the man stood over Peter's curled body and although Simon smiled to him with his most charming smile (makes blood freeze in your veins in six seconds), he still held his pathetic stick at the ready. "Stay away!"

Simon made another step and stopped, raising his arms in a half-mocking calming gesture.

Still looking suspiciously at him, the man bent over Peter - who bled from his mouth again, the blow must've gotten a wrong place - and took his right hand, checking his forearm.

"He doesn't have the brand on him," it sounded like an accusation. Simon shrugged. The truth was he could cut the man's throat with one movement, stick or not stick - and that was partly why he let the things go wherever they could bring them. "He said you were his slave. Show me your forearm!"

He enjoyed showing the man his unmarred arms, both of them. The League didn't brand their slaves.

"I didn't have time to brand him," he said conversationally. "I just... acquired him recently."

The man's forehead smoothed a little - disapproval not leaving his eyes, though.

"You should have bothered to do it first thing. He wouldn't dare to give you this shit then."

"I will," Simon said firmly - and smiled even wider, making his voice sound as nonchalant as possible. "But where are my manners? Thank you for your help!"

"You have the strangest accent - never heard anything like that," the man shrugged but apparently didn't make the conclusion Simon was afraid of. Well, as for him - the man was the one who talked strange - but Simon thought he would be able to pick up the speech patterns if necessary. "He talks crazily, too," the man pushed Peter's body with his foot. "I had a hard time choosing between you."

"I recommend you for choosing me, then," smile.

You should thank yourself, you know. Because if you'd chosen the wrong guy, you would be lying here on the ground soaking with your blood, man.

"I usually mind my own business," the man said thoughtfully, barely looking at Simon. "That's why I live here. I have enough of these problems in the City."

"Well, sorry for disturbing you," Simon smiled again. "I think we'll just leave soonest."

"I hope so," the man muttered - and continued to stand there as if waited for something else.

"Simon Kewlene," Simon reached his hand.

For a few moments he doubted that the man would take it - and then he did.

"Raymond Glint."

The man's hand was covered in stains, blue, red and black, pale, as if they had eaten into the skin. He caught Simon's cautious look and said quickly with a bit of resentment:

"I am an artist. That's why I live here. Loneliness does me good. And what are *you* doing here?"

"I'll tell you," Simon grinned and added suddenly. "Do you mind showing me your works first?"

"You can say it's a strange way to work," the man led him into the hut, his mood changing abruptly. "But it's so perfectly quiet here, just the machines, you know - and the air... up there you can never feel such air. When I go to the City to sell my works, I return ill from there. Totally poisoned. I gather the images in the City - but inspiration... my inspiration waits for me only here."

He started pulling the cloths away from the canvas when Simon stopped him.

"Let's take care of this poor son of bitch first, okay?" Peter was still dazed, barely following him into the hut.

"Yeah, sure, lock him here," the man pointed at the small dark storeroom amiably. "I never owned a slave but there is a convenient bar to tie him to."

Simon did exactly this, putting Peter on his knees and tying his wrists to his ankles, with the rope going around the bar that went along the wall.

"Don't go away, shit," running his hand over Peter's cheek and feeling him shun away half-successfully. "And, by the way, be nice to me. We didn't settle up yet for you pulling this trick on me," he was not sure if Peter could understand him.

By the time he came out, Raymond had finished freeing his canvas from the rags. Colors... Fierce green of the ferns merging with dull grey on the horizon. Narrow blue of the trenches and brown of the path. And something else on other pictures. Dirty-green and grey of tall, grim buildings reaching to the same greyness above them.

"The City?" Simon asked.

"Yeah," Raymond nodded mechanically.

There were people, too – light, dark, in all shades - the mixture Simon had seen only when Peter visited one of the big metropolises of the Union. But just humans, for all he could see. Then the pulsating, brilliant red on one of the pictures caught his eye.

"I finished this for the Commander," Glint smiled almost self-consciously, pointing at it. "Dunno if he buys it but hope so."

The picture was strange, like everything Raymond did - rough, thick lines that made Simon think he must've been painting with his hands - and it seemed to have two backgrounds at once. One of them was of a huge tall construction on the square apparently in the City - a pale cross-like shape of a man there, a pool of red around him and a crowd of people beneath. The other one - a ghost-like pale face, almost featureless, just icy-blue eyes staring from it... and blood leaking from the mouth.

"I don't know how I am going to call it yet. 'Death of an insurrectionist' is too long. Maybe, just 'The Block'?" and seeing Simon shrug, added smiling deliriously. "I thought that guy of yours could be an insurrectionist - and you a bounty hunter, huh? Don't worry, I won't ask you to share."

It was a perfect opportunity and Simon could've jumped at it - but he didn't.

"He's my slave. And I promised to tell you what I'm doing here - so, I will. But first of all," he said before Glint could say anything else. And looking right in the man's eyes, continued, taking the narrow box of the stuff from his pocket. "Do you always feel the inspiration come easy to you, Ray?"

He didn't feel sorry for spending the stuff on Glint. He needed the man to check how it would be received here - if he would have the venue for selling it... Well, he was sure he would - people were similar wherever they lived.

As a nice side-effect the stuff would relax Glint enough for him to get to know what he wanted from him. He was walking a fine line; but a dose would make the man answer all Simon's questions.

He saw acute interest flash in Raymond's eyes when he opened the box and the little jelly balls caught the light.

"What is it?" a careful voice but his eyes, big and watery, didn't leave them.

"Something that will make you fly, Ray. Will make you feel... like God... omnipotent... blessed... Will make you paint as never before."

He handed the box to the man and saw him reach for the jellies - as if he was hypnotized. The caution stopped him at the last moment:

"You take it first. Who knows, maybe, you try to poison me."

"Don't you worry," Simon said and put a jelly in his mouth.

He had never used this stuff before. Then, on Aben, it was too expensive - he and his friends used much cheaper shit, much more deadly. Well, fortunes changed, didn't they?

He knew the dose was one jelly for the beginners - and could be driven up to five or six with time... Peter used two or, on a bad day, three.

He felt the jelly melt on his tongue - and as Raymond, making up his mind at last, reached for the box, Simon turned away slightly, spitting the half-melted ball on the floor and crushing it with his heel. No time to get blissed out. He needed his head clear. At least as clear as possible.

"I know... I read about this," half-closing his eyes, Ray said quietly, "There was the stuff like this on Earth. Making you feel high and mighty. But they didn't let us take it to the Sphere. Where did you get it?"

Simon felt chilly; he didn't know if it was because of what Ray talked about - or the stuff was taking effect. He breathed hard through his nose trying to stay sober - but felt how almost impossible it was. His heart was filling with unbearable, sudden vibrant joy.

"I brought it from a ship. The League smuggles it... The Union doesn't like it, of course, but what can they do? Me, I am not from the League, I'm from Aben. I was enslaved for twelve years but now... now I am free... I won't let anyone enslave me again... and they will pay..."

What am I talking about?

Why did it seem such a good idea to brag with his achievements? Terror pierced him when he understood what he was doing - and saw Ray's pale face very close, his wide eyes staring. Fuck the stuff... If it knocked him off so easily... But at the same moment he realized that the drug started taking its toll on the man, too. He nodded to Simon, not shocked with his revelations at all.

"I knew something was wrong with you," he laughed; a silly small laugh - but a happy one. "A ship... coming to the Sphere. What we waited for three hundred years. Why did you come? Did they send you to check if we changed, if we could return to the society? Does the Earth forgive us?"

"The Earth? There is no Earth any more," but Ray seemed not to hear.

"Some didn't believe in it - thought they forgot about us, that we would never leave the Sphere. But the Commander was right - and the order... you'll see our order. We changed... we became good..."

Simon felt like hitting him suddenly - just to make him stop, to swallow this ridiculous joy that was so difficult to understand - or, maybe, just difficult for his hazed brain.

"Wait! Tell me about the Sphere."

"Yeah... the Sphere - don't you know? Well, well," Ray suddenly turned on his heel, rushed to the canvas and pulled out the clean one, dipped his fingers into the paint.

"I'll show you, beautiful stranger. I'll show you everything you want. Look at this - it is the Sphere."

The paint was grey and the circle he draw was more oval, compressed from up and down.

"This is the Sphere. And we are here," he drew an arrow towards the bottom of the circle. "Zero level. The fern lands. The lungs of the Sphere. And above us," he drew a line inside the circle, "are the fields. Collective farms as they are called. Farmers work there. The lousy life, you should've seen my picture 'Death of a farmer' - but someone must feed the City, right?" he drew one more line, in the middle of the circle and started drawing some notched landscape over it. "The City. That's where everybody lives."

"Except you?"

"Well, one can live everywhere. Except slaves and farmers and workers. Most people just don't. And, of course, there are rats, too - the insurrectionists," he continued to draw something on the canvas. "Living between the levels, in the darkness."

"How can I get to the City?"

"And how did you get here?"

"Followed the path."

"The path is the long way, it goes around the Sphere. But you can take a short cut. Go straight ahead and you'll see the tunnel. It'll take you to the level of the fields - and there you can take the elevator. But you'll need the passport to get to the elevator, because of the farmers, you know, they always try to escape."

"Do you have one?"

"Yeah, I..." he might be gone too far but he still wasn't an idiot. His short motion stopped - and he looked at Simon slyly. "Beautiful stranger... you were right. The inspiration comes! I want to draw you. I wanted it from the first moment when I saw you."

"Go ahead," Simon nodded. "What was the Sphere built for?"

"A prison," the man shrugged. He took another canvas, tried to fix it and failed. "For bad guys. 'Take everything you need and leave our beautiful Earth. And please, please don't come back'."

If they’d sent away all bad guys, it means that the ancestors of Aben and the League were the good guys, Simon thought with bitter irony.

"The Sphere is self-sufficient... It can't be damaged... it repairs itself automatically. It is migrating randomly - but it can never land on any planet. We can live here forever, generation after generation - just to take care of the ferns and build houses and grow food. At first nobody wanted to work... there was famine... people killed each other.. and the Commander..."

"And the Commander?"

"The first Commander, not this one. He set the order. He destroyed guns... appointed slaves and farmers and others... limited the birth rate... Oh my head..."

The man moaned but he didn't seem in pain - rather too excited. His speech grew so incoherent that Simon wanted to shake him but didn't. He had seen the signs a lot of times before. His own heart speeded heart but he made himself forget about it. He was going to leave now.

"No!" suddenly Glint's dirty fingers clasped on Simon's hand. "Don't leave me! You promised... I'll draw you."

"Sure, Raymond," Simon said comfortingly and raised the man in his arms easily. "You just need to lay down a little. I'll be with you."

"I love you..." Glint whispered as Simon carried him to the bed. His arms clutched around Simon's waist - and contracted just once when Simon took his head between his palms and snapped his neck.

"I appreciate that," he said leaning towards the face with dulling eyes and thrust his tongue in still warm mouth. The taste was there - sweet and spicy of the melted jelly.

He felt dizzy and exuberant and at the same time strangely disturbed as he rummaged through the drawers of the table where Glint's hand had pointed so carelessly when he mentioned the passport. It was there, an old dog-eared paper and, after reading it, Simon made a small addition in the line for slaves. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use it for long - he didn't want to change his name to this shitty one at all.

He found a neat heap of the banknotes of different nominations there, too, and pocketed them - having no idea if it was little or a lot, of course, but hoping that it would do at least for the nearest future. Not for long... the stuff was the thing he counted on... and he was not wrong counting, he knew now.

The light cast a trail on the floor when he opened the door to the storeroom. He saw Peter blink at him - and asked:

"How is it in the darkness when you can't hear?"

He knew Peter didn't understand, noticed how his eyes became intent and worried.

"I bet you missed me, slut."

It was silly, he shouldn't try at having a conversation, not with a deaf man. He stepped closer and pulled his cock out, pulsing hard, though Simon seemed not to notice it before:

"Bring me off - and do it carefully - or I'll break your fuckin' neck just as I did it with that son of bitch..."

"You are high!" Peter's voice was strangely accusing as he dodged away from Simon's cock - dared to do it. "Go on, fuck up your brain with the stuff!"

"Look who's talking," Simon caught his face, tugged the corner of his mouth, making him open it, and felt it tear because he couldn't control his strength. Dazed he watched how red smeared over Peter's face under his hand. "Fuckin' do it now!"

Blood from Peter's mouth leaked over his shaft as he pushed it in - but Simon didn't feel it, barely felt anything at all - it seemed he was hard and yet anaesthetized, arousal bubbling in his head instead of his bottom belly. He slammed into Peter's mouth, kept slamming, ruining the resilience of his throat - fascinated to see how familiar defiance gave place to pain in Peter's eyes.

He didn't feel how he came - just heard Peter cough and choke and noticed that his cock started getting soft. He pulled it out, tucked it without getting it cleaned and started untying Peter.

A sudden thought came to his mind - a cool and clear one. He took out the box, grabbed a few jelly balls.

"Open your mouth, scum. I just want to make you happy."

He saw the doomed expression in Peter's eyes. The bitch knew it was a mistake to take them, knew what the stuff would do to him - and still he couldn't resist. Simon pushed the jellies into his mouth that was still bleeding and smeared with Simon's cum, held it covered with his palm until he saw Peter swallow.

"Now I'll be able to handle you better," he smiled, finished untying the ropes and pulled Peter up on his feet.

* * *

They left the hut - Simon stopped to throw one of the rags that Glint used to cover the paintings on his face... he was sure the man wouldn't mind, he might even like it. By this time Peter was stoned out. He had a bit of a problem with walking straight and in the direction Simon wanted him - but when Simon dragged him a little bit by his upper arm, he complied - and not even winced when Simon twisted his broken wrist inconveniently.

His face was white and his eyes wide open but all expression was smoothened from it except some kind of amazement. And he kept turning his head around as if he forgot why he couldn't hear anything. Or as if the stuff gave him his hearing back. He also seemed to forget constantly that Simon was there - and frowned every time when he saw him. And he didn't seem to be in pain.

Knowing the effects of the stuff - feeling them upon himself - Simon knew that Peter would be as soft and pliant as a child now. He thought that he could do anything to the little bitch now - throw him on the ground, fuck shit out of him - and Peter would only blink his wide-opened eyes with the pinpoints of pupils in dark-grey.

For a moment Simon wanted to do it - to lean over him, right on the road, crush him to the ground with all his weight, cradle his head between his hands and eat his soft, puffy lips mercilessly - or bite the white lithe column of his throat. Feel Peter wince under his touches and still stay soft and melting.

No. He shook his head. The thoughts seemed to bring him another hard-on - so quickly - and he didn't have time for it. He didn't spend the jellies on Peter to see what a fucktoy he could make. Because now Simon needed to play it right. And if he played right, he would have as much time to explore everything about Peter as he wanted.

He remembered verbatim what Raymond said about the tunnel - but the truth was he had no idea what the man meant. And when he saw it, he felt a kind of jolt in his chest. It looked like a tube - or a water-tower - of the old kind that he remembered seeing on Aben; but more narrow, barely two arm's spans, made of some grey rough material, not metal or stone - something man-made. And it was tall. Going right up until it was lost in the upper regions.

The entrance of the tunnel was barred with a big sign: "State property. No trespassing."

"Sure, whatever," Simon kicked the sign away and looked inside.

It was dark in there - really dark; the light from outside lit only a few thin metal rails wielded into the wall.



"Listen to me," he grabbed Peter, trying to shake some attention into him, articulating carefully. "Go up there. And no fuckin' stupid things from you - or I'll cut off your tongue and make you eat it."

"No... not my tongue..." at least this much he understood - and Simon hoped the drug made him suggestible enough.

"Go!" he pushed.

The stuff was making miracles. Peter didn't resist, got in and went up, swifter than Simon expected - and when he tried it himself, he realized why - it was convenient. The rails were located just on the right height.

He also didn't feel any fear. The rails seemed to be fixed firmly. Truth was he kind of enjoyed moving like this, in the darkness, feeling the slight strain of his muscles and not doubting that he could go on and on like that.

Then he felt Peter move somewhere aside - speeded up and realized they were already at the exit of the tunnel. On another level.

He took hold of Peter once more and pressed his hand to his mouth. He couldn't make himself more understandable - he was using the clearest signs possible. He hoped Peter knew it was up to his slave to recognize and to follow them. And to suffer the consequences if not.

With the lax body of his prisoner in grip Simon left the dark entrance only to come to a stand-still in amazement as they entered a new world.

Well, he expected - according to what Raymond told - but still seeing so many people suddenly, after such a long time of solitude, was kind of shocking. A panicky thought beat in his temples - that his freedom was over, he would be apprehended now and sent into slavery... or into death.

No. No, stupid. Everything is going to be all right if you do everything right. You either risk - or you lose.

The land in front of them was as flat and dull as it could be imagined. Simon had grown up in the city, had never been in a rural area before - and neither had Peter, most likely - but something told him this landscape never could be all natural. It had been created by men and was handled by men.

People everywhere - hundreds of them, bending over the dark greasy land, gathering green stuff from it and throwing it into big boxes that other men dragged to the carts. On any Union planet this process would have been mechanized a long time ago, even using slaves for it would be considered expensive and unadvisable. Farmers, and slaves, the lowest of the low according to what Raymond said.

And they were being guarded. Simon looked at those other men standing upright and motionless, clad in black uniform and small black berets - and with what looked like weapons in their hands. Crossbows! He wanted to chuckle and recalled what Glint said about guns. Wished that he had a gun – the pain gun or a projectile one - any one would make all the difference.

There were other people around, too - a few had cast weird looks at them when he and Peter appeared from the tunnel - not suspicious, though; they didn't seem to stand out. There was no uniform kind of clothes for those who were not guards or farmers, no similar looks. A perfect way to get lost, Simon thought. And get new life.

He looked at Peter and saw him sway slightly, his eyes half-closed. He looked phased out - badly - and Simon wondered if the dose had been too big. But even if it was - he still preferred Peter this way rather than fighting and trying to escape.

I could've killed you, bitch, do you know? Could have left you lying together with Glint's body, rotting slowly in the chilly fresh air of the fern lands.

He saw another vertical passage almost immediately - and that was where most people were heading. So, he pushed Peter who stumbled - and they stepped on the moving band that carried them there.

"Wow," he heard Peter mumble and this showed him better than anything else how far gone the kid was. He could scream... despite everything... he didn't. For a moment a strange feeling stirred in Simon's heart - something almost close to pity as he saw how Peter was losing his chance - his very last chance, Simon would take care of that - and even not realizing it.

People flipping passports at a guard post to the doors of the elevator; there was not much attention paid to that - and he showed his own recently acquired paper with the same absent expression as others. It passed.

Ten minutes later and a dizzying trip in the elevator that hummed and rumbled as if it was going to break any moment - they were in the City.

* *

The place looked much like the dead crazy’s pictures. The City really was a much like any one of the Union metropolises could be - most buildings jetted into the false sky. He saw Peter look up, too, and dragged him again - to the building that had a flickering sign saying 'Rent' on it. He hoped he had enough money to pay for an accommodation there.

And that was when they saw the first portrait. Occupying the whole wall of one of the buildings, perfectly drawn and colored - a smiling grey-haired man in a small black beret. "Commander Duvall. Thirty years of perfect order for perfect people."

"Are you sure we are perfect enough?" suddenly he heard Peter's voice and turned back abruptly but saw only unfocused, glazed stare.

"Don't give me shit! Don't give me any shit now!" he felt he was about to lose his temper and stopped himself.

He rented a flat on the top of the building, for a few days at first - without any problem, the owner didn't even demand the passport for it. Raymond's money was more than enough... but surely it was not the last money Simon would have here. He would get more soon... very soon.

The first floor of the building consisted of some slimy looking place, a kind of bar or something, with few people at the stand and a couple of creatures that could be male or female, apparently waiting for customers. They used another elevator to get to the top - had two rooms, small and with some furniture, a bathroom and a balcony there - partly the reason why Simon had chosen the upper floor. He thought that he'd later come out and look at the sky - at the surface above him - getting a bit closer to it. It fascinated him, he didn't even know why.

Another reason was that he knew he would feel safer with Peter locked on the upper floor - without giving him any chance to get out.

He dragged the somnambular-like swaying man to the smaller room and threw him face up on the bed, taking out the ropes again. He tightened the ropes so savagely that Peter's face distorted with the pain that reached him even though the haze of the drug.

"You can rest now," he said not sure Peter understood him, looking down at his eyes that closed and opened as if he no longer had the strength to coordinate their movement. Simon was, too - felt the weariness that the stuff usually left after itself. But he couldn't afford rest. Not now.

"I think I'd better gag you," he mused aloud, tore a strip from the sheet and covered Peter's mouth tightly.

It had to be enough. At least till he was back.

He left the flat, locked the door - and descended back in the street. He knew where he was going to go. He didn't ask the road but choose it by his wits - riding the band past the apartment buildings, shops, restaurants and state institutions - more portraits of the Commander - and some posters with the mugs of men and women with the announcements of the award for captured 'rats'.

He saw something that was vaguely familiar to him, too - a huge construction in the middle of the square. The Block. Just like on Raymond's painting.

When he reached the Commander's house, he knew it at once - he would know it was the place even if there was no white banner on it with the portrait of the man over the door.

It was not easy to get in but Simon managed - he learned a bit from the way the families - Peter - handled their business, after all. He was searched a few times - his knife was taken away but not the stuff - and made to wait for hours in the spacious empty hall.

At last the door opened and a man called for him tightly:

"Mr. Kewlene, Commander Duvall is ready to see you."

He risked and he won.

Two hours later Simon returned to his flat having a crispy new passport on his own name, the paper confirming his rights on the slave - and having left two boxes of the stuff in exchange for enough money to make his pockets bulge.

He could've tried to push his stuff himself, illegally, bit by bit, building his clientele. But he guessed the beauty of the Sphere was that legal and illegal depended on one man's will here. And he knew the Commander would appreciate the chance Simon was giving him.

Simon brought a short square-jawed man with a big suitcase, too.

Hey, bitch, don't I take a good care of you? Bringing you a doctor?

He felt a special interest as he looked at Peter. He'd had to try the stuff again, for the Commander, and that time he had to swallow the dose, no way to spit it. He was amazed again with the powerful effect it had on him, just one jelly. And he didn't even remember how many jellies he'd given Peter. And now the young man looked at him with widened eyes but the pupils were no longer tiny - but huge, dark and pulsating.

Too bad for you if you came round.

"I want you to check him first," he ordered the doctor. "He was bleeding from both ends and I don't want him to kick the bucket now."

He was pleasantly surprised that the doc seemed to be smart enough not to ask to untie him or remove the gag... well, taking into account the sum Simon paid him, he should've been smart.

He half expected Peter make a show again - but the doctor carefully avoided to meet his stare - except the moment he check the movement of the eyes - and even then it looked like he didn't see anything but what he was looking for - the signs of concussion, inner bleeding of the brain or whatever. Then Simon saw how Peter's body tensed when his pants were pulled down and the doctor pushed on his belly hard enough to make him flinch.

"I always say whipping is less damaging than beating," he heard the doctor mutter and filed the information. He could see Peter freeze as the doctor undressed him more, touching the scabs around his anus.

He suddenly knew what was going on in Peter's mind. Wasn't the doctor the first man who really knew what happened? So far it had been between him and Simon - no matter how obvious everything was. But now it was public.

Now you won't be ever able to deny it - that I fucked you up the ass, little white slut of the family.

"It doesn't look so bad," the doctor shrugged. "I think I won't even have to sew him up. Call me if it tears worse."

It might, doc, you know it might.

"What now? Branding?"

The instruments were shiny. Simon watched with fascination the doctor setting the tiny letters for Peter's name and Simon's own into the square form of the brand. "Peter Solana, property of Simon Kewlene." One had to admit it sounded good. Irresistibly good.

He saw the doctor light a small burner, holding the brand in the pincers above it - and that was when Peter came round, raising his head, staring at the doctor, his eyes filled with absolute, total panic.

He screamed - a muffled, low cry he made when the doc tried to bring the heated metal to his forearm - and Simon congratulated himself with tying him down properly because he started thrashing - desperately enough to make the doctor's face acquire peevish, annoyed expression.

"It doesn't hurt yet, right?"

It was not pain - it was fear - and Simon knew it. Pain wouldn't make him so frantic. He pressed Peter's right arm to the bed, using his knee - and put his hand on Peter's face, making him look away.

It made the things better. At least a little bit. He felt the moistness of the kid's skin against his palm, the eyelashes fluttering frenziedly, as the doctor heated the cooled brand again.

"He is a defiant one, isn't he?" the doc talked louder than the small gasping sounds Peter made. "Slaves like this usually finish on the Block."

"I can punish him myself," Simon shrugged and saw the brand press to the skin.

Peter didn't cry out with it. He got still, his eyes open against Simon's palm.

Simon winced at the smell of burning flesh, saw the thin whiffs of smoke rise from the blackened contours. He realized Peter didn't fight any more and let him go as the doctor held the brand pressed for a few more seconds. Then he took it away and Simon read the clear letters printed indelibly into Peter's forearm.

He looked down at Peter who lay motionlessly now, staring into the ceiling, and wondered if the kid knew what had just happened. What had been done to him right now.

It should be a moment of his, Simon's, triumph, he thought and realized that he didn't feel this triumph for some reason. Maybe, because he was too tired, spent too much effort on getting here. But all he felt was a strange relief that at least *this* was over... and, totally unreasonably, some sadness. He looked at his own palm, recalling the light, quick brushing of Peter's eyelashes against it as Simon had spared him from looking at the heated brand.

He reached to Peter again, not completely understanding why he was doing it - to touch his blank, dazed face, run his fingers over the bruises and torn mouth - or to stroke his forehead slightly, in a half-comforting gesture, trying to get him out of his withdrawal, maybe, saying something... But the doc was here, watching - and it helped Simon discard this unnecessary, strange wish almost immediately. He pulled away the cloth covering Peter's mouth.

"Scream all you want now, bitch. You belong to me," and to the doctor, "do something with his wrist, I think it is broken."




Part 4

Time had a curious quality. He couldn't point exactly to when Simon had left; one minute it seemed to him that it was ages - hours - ago and that so much time passed since then that he, maybe, would never come back. A blink of an eye later Peter was sure that only a few minutes before he had seen the lithe dark figure of Simon towering over him.

Then Simon was back - and reality began seeping in.

His mind was not quite clear. He knew that something very bad had happened, worse than anything that had happened down there, in the ferns, but he couldn't pull his tattered thoughts together enough to realize what and how exactly it was.

He knew it was the stuff - the effect being so familiar to him that he could predict every next stage of development – though the dose had been too big, Simon couldn't have been more generous. There, in the hut among ferns, Peter half-consciously thought the dose might be lethal... no, not a suicide, rather the flip-coin choice of life and death... and the inability of a user to resist feeling the spicy taste of melting jellies in his mouth.

But he was alive - and tied again - tied to the bed somewhere that looked like a sleazy rent house in an ugly city that by no means could exist.

His forearm hurt - steady burning pain that reached him even through the cloudiness of his mind. He turned his head and looked at it and saw the square of blackened skin with the network of small letters inside it. "Property of..."

He wasn't sure if he had known what it would be before he let the doctor put it on his arm. In a way he thought he had. Simon could do nothing less. Their past - Simon's hatred - a couple of rapes just couldn't settle it up.

And he still kept telling himself that nothing was irreversible, that fortunes would change again. He would get out. With what remained of his dignity intact.

He recalled a moment from his childhood, some family event, with lots of people everywhere in their house and the yard - and he made some faux pas, he couldn't even remember what it was, maybe, he was too agitated to hush immediately when told so. His father abruptly stopped the conversation he had, came up to him, caught him by the sleeve and led into the house. He remembered the momentary regret that overwhelmed him - how could he be so bad again, why hadn't he obeyed. But he knew it was too late now - and he knew what awaited him, the punishments his father created were both painful and humiliating. But what he remembered best of all was the faces of people who looked at them - and he knew they had no idea, they probably thought Guido just wanted to talk to his little boy... and he thought what would be if he screamed, told them what was happening, if he begged for help... Maybe, someone would help him. Maybe, his uncle would.

But he never screamed. The shame - the impossibility to admit how deep in trouble he was, what he brought on himself - was worse than fear of pain, than pain itself.

Well, this time there would be no uncle who would know everything without words, who would eventually get him out.

Feeling the throbbing of the burn, Peter tried to listen to the optimistic part of his mind and shush the sober one - tried to convince himself that nothing irreparable happened. The brand didn't mean nothing. People were not enslaved like this in the Union.

But he knew one thing very well, even if he didn't want to think about it consciously: it was not the Union.

The grey light seeping through the window changed into smooth velvety darkness and Simon turned on the light that made Peter blink agonizingly. Sharp pain was seizing his head every time he moved - a sign of over-dose - but he was too anxious not to try and keep Simon in his sight.

The man seemed happy - practically beamed, the white teeth sparkling on the dark face. It was the stuff, he knew. All the way through the ferns Peter had waited for Simon to try the drug - hoping that it would give him a chance - but Simon hadn't then. Well, now... he probably needed to prove the customers it was a high-class stuff.

I hope you'll keep taking the same amount you fed me – it'll kill you in a few months.

And yet the expression of absolute triumph in Simon's eyes was more than the drug could bring.

//"Hey bitch,"// Simon said something else but Peter didn't get the rest of the phrase. The man kept talking, moving around the room, Peter saw his smile flash from time to time. It was strangely exhausting trying to figure out what Simon was saying; Peter found himself making the effort even though he knew it couldn't change anything.

Then Simon turned to him and articulated deliberately - this time Peter understood - because a heap of clothes was thrown on his bed:

//"I bought these for us,"// Simon undressed swiftly and shamelessly; changing his old clothes - slave clothes: pants and vest and sandals - into a comfortable suit and shoes. //"But first you'll have a bath. You stink."//

He needed a bath - he felt so desperately uneasy with everything what was on his skin - and the unexpected joy that overwhelmed him at the thought of a bath brought him more pain than a physical blow would.

"You prefer to fuck me when I am clean?" it was kind of strange to talk like that - without being able to hear himself. It almost made him unsure if Simon could hear him. But Simon could - Peter saw it in his eyes that lost a bit of satisfaction abruptly. It was creepy to see how quickly Simon's face could change: a moment ago he was beaming - and then as if someone switch it off - his eyes were so sober and so hateful.

Yeah right - that's how he had deceived you. He practically made you forget that he was Abenian.

//"I give you more than you deserve, bitch, and you know it."//

Then don't waste your time on me. He didn't say it aloud. He chickened. He saw Simon lean over him, releasing him, and clenched his jaws in self-hatred that was sharper than the disgust he felt about the man.

Fight him! For God's sake, fight him - don't give up while you still have any fight left.

He sat up and patted his bandaged wrist watching how Simon walked out and returned with his hands wet.

//"The bath is ready. Get undressed!"// the words were clear, the gesture negligent but Simon often confirmed his speech with gestures.

He had to get undressed here?

Oh my, it was stupid. For nine years he felt no more shame about the man than he would feel about himself - and yet the present situation seemed so highly degrading suddenly.

It anything, Simon had seen enough of your naked ass during last two days.

Exactly because of it.

He didn't have time to obey as Simon lost his patience, grabbed him, the backhand slaps hard enough to make his head spin. He struggled saying:

"Stop it, I'll do it myself," but it was too late.

His injured hand resounded with pain as Simon pulled off his sweater and t-shirt. Like a small kid, he thought helplessly. He tried still to take off his pants himself and Simon hit him, made him fall flat on the bed - and Peter was too stunned to get up again. His pants were pulled off of him - and he felt Simon's hand stick between his legs. That's what he was afraid, right?

The pain in his barely scabbed opening was sharp and hot. It was just fingers, not a cock, penetrating him, scissoring inside him - the movement made him sick - and then Simon was over him, his broad mouth covered his lips, the tongue thrust in.

It was the first time Simon kissed him - no matter what else he had done. Peter felt surprised; he felt nauseated, too - smothered by Simon’s bulk he fought on pure instinct; his arm groped around, trying to find something, anything... he knew what he was looking for: the long pincers the doctor used to keep the brand in.

He flung his hand, aiming at the man's eye - but Simon always reacted with a speed that Peter couldn't match. His hand captured Peter's wrist, pressed it to the bed, twisting and squeezing until his fingers grew weak and he felt the slick metal slide hopelessly out of them.

He expected it when Simon hit him then- pure rage in his eyes. He felt blood in his mouth and the ringing heaviness in his head - but stronger than that, stronger than the fear of what Simon would do to him for what he'd done, there was the disappointing thought: you lost again. You are a failure, Peter. A failure.

He caught only parts of what Simon yelled at him from above:

//"The Block... No..."// shaking his head. //"Something better for you, whore..."//

He caught Peter's wrists in one hand and now Peter was too dazed to really resist. Simon held him, settling between his legs, immobilizing him successfully. Peter was ready to see him pull his pants down and bare his cock - but instead of this it was Simon's hand driving between his thighs, three fingers entering at once, then the fourth, slick with blood. He was tearing him.

He had been hurt before - but that... The pain went right up his belly, piercing and wild, making him cry out and choke. He didn't really feel how Simon added the fifth finger, his sensations seemed to be a mess - and yet he felt as something huge move inside him, making its way through his guts farther and farther.

He was shrieking; he knew it even though he couldn't hear. He raised his head and looked at his belly because he was sure he would see the contours of Simon's fist bloating it. There was nothing – but he couldn't see clearly all the same. His vision was exploding - red and white of every inward and outward movement.

It didn't continue for long. Later he had to admit Simon drove in and out, maybe, three or four times - but then it seemed to him it was going on for ages - that it was how hell felt: you would want it to stop but you wouldn't be able to do anything. Then Simon pulled out his fist - from what felt like a gaping wound in his bottom - wiped the dirty blood over Peter's thigh. When he was let go, he curled - excruciatingly slowly, it seemed - leaving a trail of blood soaking into the sheets of his bed.

He seemed to black out for a few moments - but then something dragged him out of unconsciousness. He felt being pulled up - held because his feet didn't want to stand on the floor firmly. He was in and out of the mist - and when he was out, he saw Simon's face - the lips moving - and somehow he could read them even better than being fully conscious:

//"I'll either break you - or you'll die."//

He didn't know it was the formula that the personnel in the camps repeated to Aben prisoners.

He wanted to die - or to pass out for a long time at least - but he was not so lucky. He still felt unable to control his body, but he was conscious enough to realize that Simon was dragging him somewhere - into the elevator - and then he saw people, lots of them, in a dimly lit premise - they drank and talked - and they looked at him. And like in a bad dream he knew he didn't have any clothes on.

First they seemed surprised, then amused - and, maybe, Simon was saying something but he didn't know what - because now they looked understanding and curious. He felt Simon twist his arm, showing the brand - and people jeered and someone even applauded.

Then Simon shook the ware off of one of the tables - glasses exploding on the floor soundlessly - and pushed him on this table, face down - but Peter turned and saw the gesture Simon made - a welcoming gesture - and then saw Peter looking and made another one, the one he recognized easily:

//"Whore!"//

There were people around him - hands - some pressed him to the table, held his arms and head down - and others groped him - but it was not the sickest thing... unlike when he felt someone get between his legs, the hands spread him open - and he didn't know if it was good or bad that he didn't even know who it was.

He didn't know how he could feel the moment of penetration, he must've had everything torn there - but he felt, convulsing with pain, his cry muffled. He felt the man fuck him and then stop - and another one take his place - but this time he was slick with blood and cum enough to barely twitch at the cock slammed into him. He knew they must've been saying something - maybe, that he was a lousy lay, what with Simon's fist being there before them - but all he heard was silence - the same as all he saw was the polished wooden surface of the table in front of his eyes.

It was a long night. And on this night Peter knew he reached the bottom. He didn't remember everything - although he was pretty sure he didn't lose consciousness. He was turned on his back after a while - and now he could see the face of the man who entered him - but he looked up, at the low dirty ceiling of the bar and sank his teeth in his lip so deeply that he was pretty sure he was not screaming any more. They came in his ass and they came on his face - they probably found his position too inconvenient to stick it in his mouth or thought he was too gone to suck but the worst thing was that he knew that they could've used his mouth if they wanted to - and there would be fuckin' nothing he would do against it.

Then the things slowed down - and stopped all in all - and then all he felt was cold. He was cold and wet, a part of this wetness probably his own piss. Nobody touched him any more. Maybe, nobody even was around - and he slid down from the table, knees hitting the floor. He didn't know what he thought about - why he didn't let himself just lie - and what? - die? But he didn't make any conscious decisions - he rather moved instinctively, like an animal trying to crawl away from a bad place.

He knew he moved like an animal - on his fours - until stumbled against anything - and he looked up - and then suddenly it was Simon - not standing but squatting in front of him wrapping his arms around him so quickly that Peter didn't have time to flinch away. His long arms were like living heat on Peter's skin and he felt Simon grab his slackened limbs gathering them all in a heap, and picked him up like a child.

He suddenly recalled one thing - how his uncle came to him right after his father's death. And he said all correct words, what a great man Guido was, what a loss for the family and how he would never stop searching for his murderers. But then he squatted in front of Peter and braced his arms around him - warm and so... safe... and he said something else, something that others were not supposed to hear:

"He won't do it again."

Oh fuck... he knew it was just a flip of his mind - the feeling of safety was never true... and feeling safe about Simon was an abomination. But - and that was the worst part - he was not sure if he cared. The warmth - the sheer size of Simon and the possibility to cling to him - that mattered. He hooked his fingers into Simon's clothes and felt too weak to hate himself for that.

There was the bathroom again and the bath and Simon lowered him there and the water was blue and hot. He didn't know why he started shaking now, when he should've been warm. But he felt Simon's rough big hands scrape over his body, cleaning him - and he sobbed - and had no control left at all to stop it.

Then he saw Simon lean to him - and turned his face up, brushed off the tears from his eyes because they hindered him to see and he knew it was important - and Simon said slowly, very clearly - somehow it was not difficult at all for Peter to understand:

//"Don't make me do it again."//

"I won't," he said and cried again.

* * *

So, that's how Peter gave up.

There was nothing more he could try to save or spare. He had become a slave - a prostitute - and it was acknowledged by everyone who had been there, in the bar, who had used him. *This* he wouldn't be able to undo, no matter how he would try.

And now he couldn't even afford to hope for the possibility of being rescued, of getting back to his past. He had become an embarrassment of the family - so, he had to cut himself off of the family, not to dare to think about it, about his uncle any more.

Well, physically it had never been so bad as on that first night. In the morning Simon called for the doctor who sewed Peter's rectum and checked for other injuries. Nobody damaged him on purpose but after so many hands groping him his genitals were bruised blue and swollen and his nipples so painful that he barely could stand any touch there.

He couldn't walk for a few days and Simon let him stay in bed - and wanted just oral sex that Peter could give, no harm done. Simon... the only one whom Peter saw - except the doctor and the maid that cleaned the flat - and they always looked away from him.

Simon was the only one who talked to him - and with time it became easier for Peter to read his lips - and they even developed a kind of private sign language, unlike anything else that existed for this purpose - but who cared if they both could use and understand it.

Simon's business affairs were going better and better. They didn't move from the building but Simon bought out the whole floor... Simon had a strange attachment to the upper floor - Peter saw him so many times standing on the balcony over the City and looking at the smooth scintillating surface above them. Peter hated the cupola - it made him feel claustrophobic...

He knew Simon was selling the stuff - but it took a few days to realize that he was not pushing it around but sold it to one customer... The Commander. What the Commander did to it was not his business. But it was surely a good way to secure the loyalty of some people.

Simon was making some investments in other things, too - apparently for the time when he ran low of the stuff... Peter wouldn't be able to play his cards better than Simon did! The money was coming - and there was almost nothing Simon couldn't afford to acquire now, within the limits of the City, that is.

"A transporting correctional spacecraft," a few days of doing nothing but lying in bed - enough time to recall some things that Peter had never cared to know - and figure out where they were. "A few years before the great migration, when the Earth still didn't know it was doomed - they tried to clean the planet from negative elements - from criminals. They built six or seven of these ships and put the convicts there, men and women. Like spiders in the jar, you know - who cares if they eat each other."

It looked like Simon knew all of this - well, surely he did - he could just talk to people, after all.

"They found some of 'the Spheres' later... last century... empty - people dead. They were dead for two hundred years. Starved to death, you know. The end of the experiment. I can't believe it worked with this one! If the Union gets to know about it..."

If the League gets to know about it... The Sphere can be something very new in the balance of forces.

//"Listen here,"// Simon’s thumb brushed roughly across his dry lips, silencing him. //"They don't know we are from outside. And I don't want them to know. So keep your fuckin' mouth shut - or I'll sew it up."//

He wished he had the crystal here. There was so much he would be able to get from it... but it was lost, Simon had bothered with the bag of stuff but left the crystal somewhere in the wrecks of the shuttle.

You don't need it, whore.

Whore... right. That was what he was. And not just because from time to time, when Simon got pissed off with him, he sent him to the bar, for a very moderate price, no more expensive than the two sad prostitutes that hanged around there usually.

//"You must earn your living."//

There were not many clients - three, four by the night - after all, they had to pay for it, not like on the first night when they got everything for free. But even though it was never intolerable physically - the men mostly were not inventive - he still feared the moment of getting down, standing in the bar with people staring at him, making remarks he didn't hear.

His hands usually shook uncontrollably by the time he was taken back upstairs and had to take off his clothes and do what the customer wanted him to do. Some of the men kept talking as if they thought he pretended not to hear - but he understood the gestures all right, mostly so deliberately obscene that it was not even funny.

Down, up, down again - until no more clients came or until Simon considered that he redeemed his fault. Because it was redemption - that was how Simon saw it. Because on the warped scale of bad and worse of Peter's life now sex with the clients was worse than sex with Simon, than taking off Simon's boots, than beatings he got from him - than standing at wait at the wall with his arms crossed.

One night Peter dreamed about Joanie. It was strange because awake he practically never thought about her. He had never loved his girl-wife - but she was clean, stayed clean when he would never be able to wash all this dirt off of himself.

At night he couldn't forbid himself to think about her - and he strangely missed her - her flowing hair and flowing skirts, her perfume, the sheer safety of her presence in their bed, the softness of the crook between her neck and shoulder that he liked to nuzzle.

He woke up crying silently, feeling the stickiness of Simon's cum between his legs, and lay sticking his fingernails in palms, repeating to himself something that became an unceasing mantra in his head: that everything was over, his past was gone - and he could live or die with it but he could change nothing.

* * *

"You deaf?" A small notebook and a pen landed on his lap.

Peter looked up at the young man who stood over him: flimsy black pants clinging to his thighs and a fluffy jacket of bright red he was huddling in. He waited in the Commander Duvall's hall for Simon - for his master - to finish the visit.

"I am deaf, not mute," he handed the notebook and pen back and toned down his voice when the man pressed his finger to his lips.

"Good," the handwriting was minute and as he showed the paper, Peter noticed that the fingernails of the man were painted - the red color of gore, almost black. Then the man pulled the sleeve of the jacket up and showed the square of the brand on his right forearm. "Seth Cane, property of Alexander Duvall." If it was the usual form of introduction, Peter didn't know it and he found it sick and when he didn't do or say anything, just stared up, the man started writing again quickly, flipped a note: "I know who you are," in front of his face. He waited a couple of moments for Peter to read it - and then the scraps like little white butterflies disappeared in his pocket.

"What do you want?"

Writing messages... now that *was* strange. Peter had enough experience by then to see that people usually tried to talk to him, even those who knew he didn't hear - and only when failing, reverted to sign language or writing. The guy shrugged - and then wrote: "Nothing, why?"

Then fuck off of me.

"Never mind."

The guy looked hideous, Peter thought. His hair was black - not natural black but dyed and with streaks of crimson red in it. He looked like a whore... him and two bitches in the bar would make a nice trio.

Yeah, with you as their companion.

And him continuing to stand here, looking down with a slight smile, was making Peter strangely agitated.

"Your master and my master are buddies, ya know?"

"Don't I?" suddenly it descended on him. The guy was making conversation. Small talk, so to speak - just like he would talk if Peter could hear. Now wasn't it funny? For such a long time nobody talked to him - and now someone did - and he couldn’t cope with it.

"I think they aren't buddies - it's business relations."

The guy laughed, yellow wild sparkles flashing in his heavy-lidded eyes the color of something bright between green and blue. He was young - or just boyish looking - with almost translucent pale skin. And with a kind of creepy feeling Peter noticed that he was missing two fingers - index and middle one - on his left hand.

"My master did that," the man saw the direction of his look and wrote quickly. "I was bad. He burnt them and then cut them off."

Uh oh. Slave-talk? Tell him, Peter, what your master did to you.

He swallowed slight upcoming sickness and thought he could stop it - not talk any more. Talking was one of very few things he couldn't been made do, right? And caught himself on asking:

"Is he your first master?"

"I was born free," the man - Seth - smiled again. There was something weird in how his eyes gleamed when he smiled - smiled at what was not amusing at all. "But he is the first. He owns me for four years. And you?"

He thought and realized with amazement he didn't know the exact time; why, one would think every day must've been imprinted in his mind.

"Three months."

"You didn't come here before."

"Like that depended on me."

When Simon took him out to the street for the first time, Peter was amazed with the abundance of people around - and with how much effort it took him to keep himself from freaking out at strangers - even though none of them paid any attention to him.

Seth laughed. And then waved another paper in front of his nose. "I watched you - do you know from where?"

Oh perfect! He watched... Something sarcastic danced on his lips but Peter bit it down - and caught Seth's look again - head slightly tilted awry - a strangely attentive look. Not unkind, suddenly he had to admit.

//"Let's go,"// for the first time Seth talked aloud.

"What?"

He didn't answer, his mutilated and manicured hand caught Peter's wrist impatiently and pulled him somewhere. Peter followed - realizing that they were in some dark corridor. It was stupid, wasn't it? He was supposed to wait for Simon...

The grasp on his wrist was firm but not painful. Peter found himself in a small windowless room, with enough space only for the messy bed there and a kind of wall-installed wardrobe, the mirror on its door, the shelf under it littered with jewelry and cosmetics.

"You live here?"

Yay, what a clever question!

Seth said something and then wrote it down quickly, the words seeming meaninglessly polite on the paper: "Sorry for the mess."

"Well, it is not an official visit."

The man laughed and covered his mouth quickly, listening intently to something. Then his face smoothed and he pushed Peter to the wall, directing his head lower almost forcefully. The guy's fingers were cold and bony but strangely non-violent and for a moment Peter thought what difference there was between Seth touching him like this and all those men who claimed his body, even those who pretended to be gentle or playful with him.

The empty hall was in his field of vision, not that he could see the whole perspective, just a part of it - but Seth was right, it was where he usually stood or sat. He suddenly imagined the door would open and Simon appear on the threshold, mad at once for not seeing him. He stepped back, turned abruptly, and saw Seth's blue-green eyes very close, looking at him with the same attention as before - the attention that seemed to melt something inside him despite his wish. Hurting him.

"Don't worry. I can hear them talking, too. I'll tell you when they finish."

Peter nodded. His head started spinning for some reason - was it the smell? Lemon and cosmetics and something intoxicating that was, maybe, just the smell of lots of clothes stuffed together. He saw Seth writing something again and peered to read it in half-darkness: "How are the things outside?"

"What do you mean?"

"In the City."

"Cold," he saw Seth shake his head with mocking annoyance. "As always. New birth rate limits are introduced. A few insurrectionists are on the Block, losing their private parts. The Commander's rating is up."

"Any new places open?"

"Yeah, all the time. I've not been there, just seen it when going by."

"Have you been in the caf? at the square, the one with glass arcs?"

He caught a strange dreamy expression in Seth's eyes - both agitated and unhappy.

"I said I didn't."

"I used to hang around there a lot."

"If you think I can pass a message to some of your friends - I can't. My... master doesn't give me slack."

He didn't know why he got pissed off suddenly - and thought he would only deserve it if Seth snapped back at him.

"My friends don't need to hear from me. Not after four years."

Well, Peter, it's not any news that you are a major asshole, is it? He asked despite himself, despite trying to feel as distant as he could:

"You don't come out?"

//"No,"// he didn't have to write that. //"For four fuckin' years in the fuckin' house - how would you like it?"//

"I would go mad."

Peter winced. Getting out after a month upstairs was bad... how about not getting out at all? So, the golden sparkles of madness in blue-green eyes were really there, not just imagined. He felt a wave of shame coloring his cheeks red but Seth probably noticed nothing. Instead he was writing like crazy: "I can handle it. I'll get out. Or, maybe, he'll get bored with me earlier and let me go."

"I thought slaves and workers and collective farmers - it was forever."

"He can let anyone go. That's what helps his order to stay. Everybody hopes it will be them. Didn't you know about it? You are not from here, right?"

The last phrase made Peter suck in the air. A fool! Simon was fuckin' right about keeping his mouth shut. The first time he talks to someone and look at this. He tried to appear unperturbed:

"What do you mean?" and saw another paper put on his lap - and the finger-less hand patting his knee along the way.

"I knew that. The Commander knows that. He just doesn't fuckin' care as long as you master doesn't give him shit."

He looked at Seth, wondering what it meant. How many years did they live without a chance of contact from outside? And now here was Simon - a link to the outer world - and all they cared was for him not to change anything.

"I won't tell anyone," Seth wrote and there was this smile again, small and warm and ironic... and Peter thought that he, maybe, liked this smile.

Then Seth made a small gesture with his hand that Peter knew - could read it in only one way: "Never mind." A moment of amazement before it came to his mind that he must've made it himself a little while earlier, automatically - just as he caught himself more and more often during last time - redundant gestures that accompanied his speech.

"Do you want a candy?"

A transparent yellow one, tasting honey and lemon, and he thought he recognized this taste - this smell - Seth smelled like that, he must've been very fond of them. And the quirkiness of the stuffy room and of this taste - and Seth's dizzy exhilaration suddenly seemed to Peter almost desirable.

Seth's face changed suddenly, eyes peering as he listened - and then he closed his hand on Peter's wrist again, pulled him out of the room - back to the empty hall. Peter looked at the door, waiting for it to open, but Seth must've heard things what was going on - because he wrote something quickly, showing it only for a brief second: "See you again.."

Peter felt his cool soft lips touch his cheek just for a moment.

He was gone when Simon came in.

* * *

He dreamed about smoke. Not the smell of it but sharp, caustic burning in his eyes as he walked along the ruins. Narrow streets which were streets no more - but debris - and buildings turned into burial mounds for those who were crushed under them. Buried with their beds and clothes, their dishes and children toys. He saw a hand or a foot here and there - but not living - dusted, turned into pieces of broken sculptures. And the dance of orange fire around.

He walked and looked at the place where he had spent half of his life - place that ceased existing - and he didn't know if it was really smoke that made his eyes sting.

Simon woke up feeling the sheets stick to his moist body, staring at the dark ceiling, regulating his breath from sharp gasping until it became steady and smooth again. It was not true... He hadn't been on Aben when the bombings started - he didn't even know whether his neighborhood suffered. And anyway there was nothing he left there he should have missed.

But, maybe, that was the thing: if he had anything left, he wouldn't feel so lost now. Not as if *he* lost something - but as he *was* lost. The feeling that came only in dreams, when his consciousness couldn't tell him how lucky and successful he was - a free man, a rich man, the Commander's close friend - the slave owner.

Yeah, right. In the darkness he reached his hand and pushed the button, seeing the light lit up in the next room - looking just like a thin line under the door but blinding bright out there. Having a slave that was deaf had its disadvantages - like you had to think how you would call for him when you needed him at night. But the light in his eyes would wake up Peter all right - and he knew what he had to do, never mind.

Simon saw him appear at the door - and stand waiting for his orders, huddling in his robe. Why was he always cold?

"On your knees," there was just enough light for Peter to see the sign - and as he made a few steps towards the bed and slid on his knees smoothly, Simon threw his feet down on the floor, taking his cock out of the shorts.

It was a good thing he could see so well in the darkness; he would miss it for nothing watching how Peter's face blanched, all color, all expression leaving it, even his soft pink lips going white. It was one of the things Simon couldn't make him get rid of - the attempts in feigned indifference - to whatever happened - that only pain could ruin.

Still trying to be Andre Solana's nephew when you are nothing?

He directed his soft cock towards the young man's mouth, felt warm dry lips envelop it - such softness when Peter was probably wounding his palms with his fingernails at the same time. Since the first time it had never been so good - Simon still relished recalling the expression of disbelief and horror on Peter's face when he was explained what he was supposed to do, his eyes dashing as he was willing himself into not begging - because he knew begging would be declined all the same.

Yet it still felt good enough. Almost the only thing that could make Simon feel better after another nightmare of the past that kept haunting him.

He relaxed his bladder muscles and started pissing.

He controlled the stream, not wanting any mess here - the pleasure of punishing Peter for spilling not worth ruining the night - and watched how the young man's throat worked swallowing. Peter had his eyes open but Simon was not sure he saw him in the darkness, even though his eyelashes kept rising and falling. He knew, though, that there was no way for Peter to switch off his mind from what was happening... neither get used to it, no matter how often it repeated.

What are you doing to survive what I am doing to you, bitch? Do you want me to tell you what I was doing? Sometimes I think I didn't live then, for those nine years. I hibernated; I put myself in the limbo. I was not sure there would be time when I came from it - but if yes, I wanted to emerge unscathed in my mind, if not in my body.

It was exactly what Peter *didn't* do... Simon knew it, even if it was the last thing he would believe about Peter. He didn't do anything to stop feeling. Just on the contrary - sometimes it seemed to Simon that he *made* himself feel - consciously - spurred himself into responding to every little thing Simon did to him.

As if feeling was what kept him alive.

Well, everybody had their own way to survive, right? And that's what made Peter such a fascinating toy.

Simon finished - the soft tongue, cat-like delicate, cleaning the head of his cock - and felt the familiar desire twitch in him. But beyond logic he pulled his cock out of Peter's mouth instead of letting the little bitch bring him on the peak of arousal - and off.

Hey man... Why do you deprive yourself of something? Simon lay down again, half-covered with the blanket and made a waving gesture to Peter who continued to kneel at his side. Why don't you want sex? Because you have the dreams? Because you are unable to discard the creepy, sad feeling even after you are awake?

Or, maybe, feeling the immediate arousal as soon as his cock was in his slave's mouth was giving away too much control? For he could fuck Peter whenever he wanted - his mouth or ass - for hours - or put his fist up to his ass (carefully). But wanting to do it, feeling overwhelmed when doing it - it was dangerous. Simon always knew it.

It was not what Simon was building his new life for.

He heard Peter running the water in the bathroom, retching, then cleaning his teeth. Yeah sure - but you know it isn't so easy to wash it out of yourself.

He thought about the nights he had spent in Peter's bedroom, listening to him sleep and playing with his cock with twisted, both spiteful and exciting thoughts of what he would like to do to this small, tender-faced bastard of his master.

He didn't need to lie in his bed alone now and think the twisted thoughts again. But Simon did.




Part 5

"So, here you are again," the square-jawed doctor hurried towards Simon reaching out his hand. Amiable as always - well, wouldn't he be - it was not that his practice was thriving. But Simon liked the man - mostly for that enthusiasm of his at whatever Simon wanted him to do. "What brought you today?"

Last time they'd met when Simon had to have his shoulder bandaged. The trip for another portion of the stuff had attracted someone's attention. Simon broke the neck of one of the obtrusive companions but the other had time to slash his shoulder before Simon wrestled him down and wrung out of him who sent him. He promised the man to leave him alive but crushed his throat instead - slowly, looking in his dulling eyes.

"Not me today," Simon flashed a smile and gave Peter a push. "I want the holes for these little thingies."

The 'thingies' were anything but little, of course - heavy steel rings nearly 3" in diameter - but that was what Simon liked about them. He had spotted them in a fine art shop one day and rolled the idea of them in his mind until the proper use came to him. It would look great.

And another good thing was that Peter would hate it..

For a while Simon played with the thought of making the holes himself but doing so without the correct instrument could ruin the picture. Besides, his slave going to the surgery for it could be additional fun. He saw a flash of Peter's eyes as he looked at the rings - one didn't have to be a wise man to guess what they were for... Well, Peter looked as if he was going to be sick.

"Heavy!" the doctor weighed the rings and chuckled. "He has small earlobes."

"It's not for his earlobes," idiot, Simon thought. Still smiling - but his gaze must've been fierce enough for the doctor to nod hastily, turn away and start preparing the instruments - taking and putting away needles, trying to find one thick enough.

"Take off your sweater."

He expected Peter to resist - some indignant refusal - and kind of enjoyed the thought of breaking him once more, right here, in front of the doctor; but when Simon met his eyes they/which had such grim determined expression in them that he knew - Peter understood what Simon wanted... and wasn't going to give him such pleasure.

Well, you'll pay for that, too, bitch.

Peter's nipples were still tender and bright, some customer having a thing about them, for all Simon knew, spending hours just sucking on them - and for some reason Peter took it worse than even a night of vigorous fucking, looking nauseated and mute after that. Now, as Simon watched the doctor's blunt gloved fingers touch one of the nipples, he couldn't deny that seeing it handled brought a little twinge to his cock.

The piercing machine hissed as the needle struck and came out from another side. Peter was biting his lip - as always - with his nostrils fluttering. And his hands moved, too, of course - clenched - how well Simon knew all these gestures.

One day he would get bored with them. But not yet.

The bleeding started the moment the doctor tried to push the ring through the hole - and by the time he managed it, his gloves were painted red. He let the ring go. Fuck... it looked heavy enough to tear out. He saw Peter look at his chest - no more able to wander with his eyes - and his expression was exactly as Simon wanted to it to be: disgusted... and desperate.

"I think it'll hold," the doctor said contently.

It'd better hold, you asshole, or you'll have one big problem on your ass, Simon thought grimly.

The arousal was gone. Suddenly - he didn't know at what moment - maybe, it was blood – he didn't feel the pleasant tugging in his bottom belly any more. He thought he should be angry with the doc - or, rather, with Peter for doing something wrong and spoiling the things for him.

The hiss of the other needle was soft - and in a minute or two everything was over, the heavy rings dangling against the trickles of blood that leaked over Peter's chest.

It had to hurt. Simon noticed it when the doctor stepped aside and Peter shifted his shoulders slightly. Every movement was going to hurt. At least for a while, until the holes were going to scar.

"That's look... yummy," after some pause he heard the doctor's voice - and was amused with hoarseness of it. He saw the doctor reach out his hand, as if going to touch the rings - and not daring - the slave was someone else's property, wasn't he?

"Treat yourself," Simon said. "Can I?" he picked up Peter's sweater and reached for one of the doctor's scalpels.

"Sure," the doctor seemed barely to notice - fumbling with his pants, showing Peter to get down on his knees.

Simon didn't look. He could hear everything all right. And he was busy - cutting through the resilient textile.

"Yeah, yeah, take it, bitch," he heard the doctor and chuckled inwardly. The 'bitch' doesn't hear you all the same. The doctor made a moan when coming - and pushed Peter away.

"Dress," after Peter had returned from the sink where he washed his mouth, Simon tossed him the sweater.

The kid still kept moving with this special awkwardness that came from trying to spare himself. Bleeding started again at every harsh movement. He kept silent when pulling the sweater on - whatever it cost him. And then Simon reached for the rings through the slashes on the sweater he had cut there.

"Perfect!" the gaps were wide and long enough not to hide the stripes of white blood-smeared skin. And surely not to hide Peter's swollen, painfully erect nipples, pulled down with the weight of the rings. "That's the only way I want to see you from now on."

Later, in the evening, he took Peter out to the balcony, to watch the lights go out. The balcony was Simon's favorite place in their apartment - and he also knew that Peter hated it for some reason. Afraid of heights? The little bastard turned out to be a walking bunch of phobias. Or, maybe, standing on the balcony just reminded him how easy it was to finish everything, Simon thought sarcastically - and that despite everything he still continued to live.

Well, it didn't look like Peter was about to do anything mad now, anyway. He looked near exhaustion - and kept shivering, which didn't surprise Simon, taking into account the open gashes on his clothes. Get used to it, bitch, not that it's ever going to change. He had had fun time watching Peter as they were returning home from the surgery, all this little comedy of trying not to react to the stares of others.

However, the truth was that Simon didn't feel like gloating at the moment. The dulling light always put him in a melancholic mood and he just let his hands run free over Peter's body, groping and tweaking everywhere he wanted to.

Peter might be cold but the place between his legs, the fine fur of his groin and silky softness of his cock and balls were warm. Resilient and unresponsive to Simon's touch. He could make him respond, of course. He had done it before. There were times when he made Peter play with himself - and the bitch obeyed - but in perverted defiance tried to do everything so awkwardly to eliminate any chance to get hard.

But when Simon wanted and tried to do it himself, with his own hands - there was no way for the little bastard to resist. Yes, Peter tried - probably reminding himself every moment that it was *Simon* whose fingers he felt up his ass, rubbing the sensitive spot there. But it was like hydraulics - it did work.

Yet Simon was not sure it was what he wanted now. He kept fingering the underside of Peter's balls, the soft place of his perineum - he taught the kid to part with his habit to flinch away a long time ago - and mostly Peter just took it, with a thoughtful expression as if it was not him it happened to.

But he was too edgy today and Simon knew the rings kept bothering him - harmless things Peter seemed to be unable to stop thinking about. I like to crack your defenses, whatever it takes, Simon thought with such satisfaction that it surprised him.

He felt generous suddenly, almost like saying that he would make it up for him - he would say it if Peter wasn’t facing him and couldn't read his lips. But what he did was to take out a small carved box where he kept the stuff for his own use and put one jelly in his mouth. Then he took one more and pushed it between Peter's lips.

Simon was not using. Well, from time to time when the Commander invited him to these special events where his trustees were treated with the stuff - then he had to take a dose or two. But alone, for himself - he tried very hard not to do it; at least not as often as he could. On Aben kids had their brains burnt out with cheap drugs by the time they became teens... it could happen to him if he hadn't got to the Academy in his time. He didn't want drugs in his system - not if he could help it.

But now and then... and the evening was lovely... Gosh, every evening was the same in the Sphere! The idea of loveliness of the evening must've already come with the melting jelly in his mouth. He looked at Peter and saw a blissful and unhappy expression in his eyes. No wonder - he must've still remembered how wonderful the stuff had made him feel - or how he had fucked up and got branded as a slave because couldn't resist taking a dose.

"Why did you do that?"

For a moment Simon was taken aback; it was not often he heard Peter's voice now - still less often when he was not allowed to speak.

"What?"

"That," yeah, the stuff was working fast and hard on Peter - deleting his mask of indifference, making his voice sound as disturbed as he must've felt, his motions abrupt and clumsy as he pointed with both hands at his chest. "That's ugly."

"That's cool," Simon said. He already felt strange - sensed the huge beating in his head but it was not painful, rather pleasant.

"I didn't do anything like that to you," Peter said and it made Simon laugh.

"It's your neglect."

The cupola above them was completely dark by now, the yellow lights glimmering beneath, in the streets, and in the buildings around, the silhouettes of people black and clear.

"You don't want to do that to me, right?" Peter was talking too loud and Simon grabbed him, pulled him inside the apartment. Crazy bitch... 'Don't want to?' Simon did exactly what he wanted! "Please take them off."

Now he didn't expect that - Peter getting agitated instead of soft and pliable - especially didn't expect him to start tugging at the rings. He must've felt numb, not sensing pain, looking almost in amazement at blood that started trickling over his chest.

"Please take them off!"

His head dangled when Simon slapped him - but otherwise he didn't seem to feel it - and Simon, with a strange choking mixture of anger and sorrow, seized his wrists. He felt Peter thrash some more - he couldn't overpower Simon, no way - but the sensation of him struggling made Simon feel the flood of long-waited arousal.

"Come here, stupid bitch."

The bed was behind Peter and Simon pushed him on it, falling over him, holding Peter's wrists in one hand and bending his head to the young man's chest, catching a trickle of blood on his tongue.

"That looks cool. And that tastes cool," he whispered knowing that Peter couldn't read his lips now - licked again, circling his tongue around the swollen nub.

His cock was hard; he pressed it against Peter's thigh and rubbed slightly. He suddenly thought he could make Peter hard now, too - sliding lower, opening his pants, taking his cock in his mouth.

Yeah, Simon could be nice to him. Or he could turn him face down and shove his cock up to his ass - as usual - let it end intensely and swiftly as sex under the influence of the stuff often was. But Simon did neither. He got up and took off his clothes, looking down at Peter who watched him with dazed and doomed eyes.

"Undress. Don't make me do it."

He saw Peter get up and follow the order, his movements awkward but no more hysterical, and stand waiting for the next Simon's wish.

"Come on, get over me," Simon lay on the bed, caressing his upright cock absent-mindedly. "Take it up your ass."

Peter usually demonstrated disgust at this... as much as he could without getting beaten immediately. But he was too gone now. He just did what he was told - squatting over Simon, guiding Simon's pole up his anus.

Look at this - what a proper little whore he'd made out of the League family man. Taking all of it without even wincing! But the truth was that somewhere in the back of his mind strange uneasy emotions hovered, making his gloating taste flat . What he felt though was the enveloping warmth around his cock. And smooth strained thigh muscles of Peter who straddled him.

The kid didn't need an order to start moving - and my, my, didn't the bitch learn a few tricks to help it finish as soon as possible? But as soon as possible was not what Simon wanted to - not this time.

"You look fuckin' great like that," he caught himself on whispering it - before he knew why he was saying it. The stuff... it always made him too talkative. "I like your lips when you bite them and they get puffy. And I like your tits when they're so big and tender. But there's something else I'd like to see - your hard cock. You know how to do it. Change the angle."

He saw a small frown fluttering between Peter's brows, his eyes very intent as always when he had to decipher a long speech even though the signs Simon made turned it into an easier task.

"I can't."

"I can't... what?"

"I can't, master."

"Oh yes, you can. Do that."

He put his hands on Peter's thighs, pulling him slightly forward. Of course, Peter could do it. More than that - he knew how easy it was. And Simon knew - could read it in his eyes - that in a way he wanted to do it.

He wrapped his hand around Peter's cock and waited - until it twitched against his palm. He helped - enjoying in a weird, smug way the sight of the hardening shaft. Yes, Peter was doing what Simon expected from him. And the best thing was that once he started doing it - he would be hardly able to stop.

Not with his consciousness slurred with the stuff.

"Faster," Simon said. "Do it faster. I know you want to."

He remembered the rhythm that worked for Peter - why, he'd learned it in the most intimate way - and looking at Peter he wondered if the kid knew it, too.

Peter started making small gasps, with every stroking of Simon's hand over his cock, with every downward movement as his ass touched Simon's pubis - and Simon felt wetness of pre-cum spread over his palm making the motion smoother.

"What am I doing to you? Say that," he saw that Peter understood - pretended not to - and repeated more insistently. "Say that you are fucking yourself on my cock."

"I am fucking myself on your cock."

"...master."

"Master."

"Say that you like it. You can't lie - you like it, you shit... you pretty shit," a small squeeze on his cock, confirming that.

"I like it... master."

"You feel my cock up to your sorry ass - and you are getting off on it."

"I feel your cock... up to my ass... and I'm getting off on it."

"Say that you are my bitch."

Silence. Was it where he drew the line? And did he still have enough presence of mind to draw the line?

Simon could hurt him so easily but his hand just continued to slide over the incredible silkiness of his cock - changing the tempo until it became so swift it was rough. But he knew it was all right because his hand just followed the speed Peter was taking riding on his cock.

"Say it now."

He looked in the dark eyes over him - staring, not shut, not even clouded any more - sober and with huge pupils - suffering eyes - because Peter knew his own body was betraying him. And then - yes, yes - jaggedly - maybe, with the fierce motions of Simon's hand over his shaft - or squeezing every word out of himself:

"I am... your... bitch."

And you mean it, kid, don't you? Not because I made you say that. But because you are coming on my belly right now, with my dick buried to the hilt in your ass.

And at this moment Simon felt powerful, almost tormenting orgasm wash through his own body.

Weird, wasn't it? When everything was over - nothing seemingly changed, they even were in the same position - but everything changed, too. And he knew Peter knew it. Whatever pleasure there was - whatever delusion - it was gone - and only the consequences stayed - of what he had said, what he had done.

Simon thought he should've felt content with it - why, everything that made Peter's life more miserable, whether it was what Simon did to him or what he did to himself, must've made him happier. But somehow he felt almost regret that everything ended - almost wish to make it keep going.

He put his hands on Peter's upper arms and pulled him near to himself on the bed. He felt his softening cock slide out of the slick warm opening of Peter's ass - and his cum cool around his cock-head the same as Peter's cum was getting sticky on his stomach - and suddenly he wanted to switch off the light and, maybe, the darkness would mend something.

Well, at least he wouldn't have to see Peter's withdrawn, self-hating look then. Simon thought he knew somehow what would be next. He could expect some crazy thing from the kid tomorrow - something deliberate and destructive that would make Simon punish him - but in fact it would be the way for Peter to punish himself. To pay for what he let happen tonight.

But it will be tomorrow, suddenly he wanted to say, just let yourself go till then. Was it so bad for him to feel Simon's warm solid shoulder against his - and Simon could pull the blanket up if he wanted to be covered?

Was it so good for Simon to feel the lithe compact body of Peter, so vulnerable and unyielding, pressed to him? Didn't he want it too much - just to lie together, to fall asleep like this? It was not the right thing to feel about Peter - his former master, the little bastard of the League - one of those who destroyed everything that Simon had had.

Oh but why did he need to remind himself about it in so many words? Suddenly Simon felt a bitter chuckle escape his lips. He reminded himself how he had been hurt not to stop hating his slave... just like Peter hurt himself not to stop hating his master.

For a moment Simon thought that the truth opened to him - the truth he didn't want to admit - and wouldn't admit, God help him. Their roles could be reversed. But they still were on the ends of the same chain.

He completed this thought - and expelled it forcefully out of his mind. Because it was not what he needed here. The Sphere - another chance - was not given to him for that.

Well, and why to wait till tomorrow? If Peter wanted to be punished, wanted to pay - he could do it now.

"Get up," the sign he made in front of Peter's face was abrupt but clear. And when Peter obeyed, "on your knees - at the wall."

He watched Peter's expressionless face with the long strand of hair falling over his eyes as he sank down to his knees.

"Cross your arms on your chest."

Kneel here. Get cold. Suffer.

Well, now he could switch off the light and go to sleep.

* * *

//"Why don't I ever see you in the bathhouse, Mr. Kewlene?"// later Peter recalled this conversation, between Simon and some man he met in the street; probably a member of the City council... or just some business partner, Simon had lots of them during last time. //"Do come. You'll like it there. And take your slave, of course."//

He didn't know how long time passed since then - a couple of weeks, maybe. Sometimes Peter felt he was losing the track of time. There was no change of seasons in the Sphere, every day the same - the ugly routine of serving Simon, being fucked by Simon, being fucked by the bar clients. It terrified him - how easily he got used to all this. Just a few months - and he somehow had problems to remember his past life.

Did he remember the conversation he had with Dario, his cousin, once? That slaves must have a different cast of mind - something wired in their brains unlike how it is for normal people; that's what makes them reconcile and even enjoy their position.

"A slightly altered part of the human race. What do you think - the great migration didn't happen for nothing. Some planets were doomed from the beginning..."

It made sense then.

He didn't know where they were going when Simon told him to get ready - not that Peter expected him to inform him. The route they took was a new one and the building they reached didn't have a sign but when they got inside, he surely understood what the place was. At last Simon had decided to follow the advice and visit the bathhouse.

The baths of the League were more a thing for health - hot, small and dry - nothing like this spacious hall with white tiles and water running in swift currents on the floor and overfilling the huge tubs here and there. And lots of people, all naked, walking, lying on the benches, talking.

Some of them noticed Simon at once and hurried towards him. As usual. His master enjoyed a kind of popularity - even respect. Well, the day when you think about it with pride will be your last day, Peter thought sarcastically. Or when you think how impressive he looks - he watched Simon's muscular dark figure towering over most of his companions.

He was left alone - nobody paid attention to him - so, he just walked around, enjoying warmth. It looked like the bathhouse was one a few places of the City where it wasn't cold.

He was not the only slave here - he could see brands - although he was the only one who sported the nipple rings this huge. He still was aware of them even though the holes didn't bleed any more and hardly hurt. The slaves eyed him warily but none of them approached him - and he suddenly thought about Seth - who couldn't be here, of course - but who talked to him - wrote him these silly notes... gave him these candies. The warmth and sweetness of honey mixed with icy bitterness of lemon - sometimes he dreamed about this taste, for no reason.

He felt a look on himself suddenly and turned back. Simon. Talking to the men and looking at him, sable eyebrows raised as if questioningly.

What was it about? With sickening feeling Peter thought that he knew what. He was probably for another fuck now, wasn't he? By these guys. Not that there was a reason why they would fancy him - they had their own slaves - but, maybe, it was some rite for the newcomers or something.

He didn't get surprised when Simon came up to him and took him by the upper arm. He just wondered where he was going to be led. Not in some separate room. Right in the middle of the hall - and the men sat on the benches around, watching him - talking about him, this much he could understand.

Uh oh. You still didn't expect it would be so bad? You should've. He just wondered how exactly it would happen. Warm water swirled around his ankles and he thought he would just look at this water and think about nothing else.

He nearly fell as Simon pushed him hard - twist him around to look in his face:

//"Pay attention, you stupid bastard. Don't you dare to disgrace me!"//

He didn't quite understand how he had to pay attention - there was anything hardly said - and, anyway, he couldn't hear it. Then suddenly Simon let him go and stepped away, to the benches - and when Peter who turned to look at him, looked back, there was another man in the middle of the hall, approaching him.

A very young man - maybe, twenty-two or twenty-three, slim, wiry, with dark short hair and skin of light gold. Another naked man. A slave.

Peter looked at the black square brand on his forearm - letters too small to read them - and then at the man's face again - and at that moment the man jumped forward and hurled his fist in Peter's face.

Oh fuck! He felt his mouth fill with blood as black and white stars danced in his eyes - and the man hit him again, sending him on the floor on his hands and knees, spitting a mouthful of blood.

He didn't think - it happened almost by itself - the man raised his foot to kick him - and Peter caught his ankle, pulling him forward. The fall was spectacular - water splashing around - and as Peter looked up, wondering what would happen now, whether he broke some rules - he saw strange sparkles of excitement among the men. They were saying something - shouting - but not something angry.

He didn't break the rules. In fact, he followed them.

//"Fight him!"// that was what they shouted - suddenly he understood it.

He didn't have time to think more - because the man was over him, his thin muscular arms clutched around Peter's ribcage as the man flipped him on the floor. He butted at the man's chin - and felt how the man's teeth clicked on something pliable - tongue? - felt a splatter of blood from the man's mouth on his face. The man hit him - his fist sank again and again in Peter's belly, his other hand clasped on Peter's hair as he tried to slam his head in the tiles.

Fight him!

It was not the men screaming - he couldn't hear them. But he heard *this* voice all right.

He kneed the man in the groin - getting a moment of slack and twisting from under him - and saw his huge dark eyes glare at him in pain and fury. He reached for Peter and didn't get him - and Peter kicked him in the face, making him fall.

He knew that the audience probably went wild. He had time only for a short look and saw them applaud and rise from their places. It was fun for them! Well, wasn't it what that guy told to Simon? "You'll like it there."

The man jumped on him again, his blood-smeared face just in inches from Peter's - and Peter wondered suddenly how long it was going to go. Till death? The man fought as if Peter was his mortal enemy.

He gasped as the fist slammed in his solar plexus - and for a few moments he just knew that he was being battered, couldn't do anything about it. He lay in the water and the man straddled him, his fists rising and falling, his bloodied teeth bared as he seemed to be saying something. Didn't Peter know what?

He didn't notice the moment when pain left him. There was only hatred for his opponent - and it made him numb. He caught the man's fist and sank his teeth into the knuckles, tasting blood. He saw the man's eyes go round and wild with pain - and the next blow went wild - which was all Peter needed to get free.

Fuckin' bring him down - bring the bastard down, don't let him rise again!

He hit feeling resilient flesh and hard ribs under his fists, first just showering the man with blows and then, when the resistance slightly subsided, choosing the places to hit - where it would hurt more, where it would bring more damage. He still couldn't turn the man over, they kept struggling against each other, kneeling.

Then a sharp, hot pain pierced him - and he saw the man's hand clutched on his nipple ring, yanking it savagely. He felt his skin ripping as the ring was torn out, quick trickles of blood running over his chest.

You'll feel pain later. Now don't stop.

He sent all his weight on the man, toppling him over - pressed him face down to the floor, smashed his fist into the man's kidneys. Peter thought that he probably was damaging him seriously - but he couldn't make himself worry about it. He wanted to damage him. Not only to make it all stop. He simply wanted it.

He didn't know how long it took him to stop punching. The man didn't turn to him now - he tried to crawl away. Peter thought that if he let him do it, it would start all over again. He plunged forward and grabbed the man's hair - too short to get a grip - locked his hands on the man's nape instead and shoved him face into the floor. For a moment he was vaguely surprised how easy it was - the man almost didn't resist. The streak of blood on the tiles was thick and long - and Peter knew the man's nose was broken. He watched the blood melt into water slowly - and saw the man roll his forehead on the floor - probably moaning - reaching his hands to his face blindly.

Peter grabbed the other’s head again and sent him face down once more. This time the impact was half-soft - against the hands - but half-hard, too - where the man's forehead slammed into the floor. The hands went slack, falling, and nothing prevented Peter from one more blow. Now the man stayed prone and motionless - face in the circle of dissolving blood.

I killed him, he thought. And another voice answered almost immediately: good, he's dead. Good.

He wasn’t - a moment later Peter saw his sides move taking in breath - and clenched his teeth not to groan in sickening relief and strange dissatisfaction. The numbness was leaving and he felt pain again - knew how he was hurt... how the man hurt him... saw his own blood mixing with the man's.

Perhaps you should've killed him, Peter.

He looked up and saw the faces around - but there was no completed, sate expression on them. As if nothing was over. He saw mouths move but for some long moments he couldn't read what they said. He sought until he found Simon's face - an expressionless, smooth face of a savage tribal chief - just with the thin lines of grey contouring his nostrils - and the black flame of content in his eyes. And when Simon repeated what others were saying, Peter understood:

//"Fuck him. Fuck his ass. Fuck the shit out of him."//

The man lay face in the water, too weak even to move – just his ribs were fluttering in the hitching breaths he took. His narrow hard ass with black down outlining the crack was the highest point of his prostrate body. And suddenly Peter knew that he wanted to do it. Man, he was hard - probably had been from the moment he felt he was winning.

He would do it to you, Peter. It could be you - snorting your own blood on the floor now.

He grabbed the man's hips and tugged him up a little, setting his ass in a more convenient position. He saw the man's hand scratch on the tiles slackly but otherwise he didn't try to fight. Well, the fight was over... the rules were the rules.

He settled between the man's legs and drove his ass-cheeks apart. He didn't need to bother with any lubrication - there were enough fluids on them. He placed his cock against the dark small round spot of the man's anus and slammed in.

So tight! Well, somehow he knew it was not so tight - it was a slave, after all, and Peter didn't need any special efforts to get in. But the enveloping, almost shocking warmth of the soft passage clinging to his cock was so overwhelming that he lost his breath. For a few moments he could just stay like that, looking at the flexible line of vertebrae on the man's golden-skinned back, at his own cock buried almost balls deep in the man's hole. It had never felt like this when he had fucked slaves or whores... shit, it had nothing to do with how it felt.

He looked up again and saw the men around smiling approvingly - and saw some men sporting very obvious hard-ons - other slaves who knelt in front of their masters to take care of their erections. He saw Simon nod barely perceptibly - and despite himself nodded back.

He started fucking the man in long, furious thrusts, clenching his hands on the man's hips so hard that his knuckles went white, devouring every slight tremble of the man's body, every ragged breath, every fluttering of the man's rectum around his cock.

"Fuckin' take it, bitch..." he was saying it and knew that his voice sounded broken - with almost hysterical laughter that escaped him. "Take it all from me."

He came in the man's ass, thrusting as deep as he could, pulling the man closer by his hips - and the orgasm was so draining that he nearly slumped after that, right over the man's half-curled body.

He made himself get up, though - on shaking legs, once more covered with a wave of pain in his well-battered body. Nobody paid attention to him any more. Some were gone too far into using their slaves - some came up to Simon and said something to him excitedly - as Simon smiled back to them.

Just one man came up to his adversary that still lay on the floor, bleeding both from his face and his ass now - an old man with his face twisted in a grimace of disgust. And almost without surprise Peter saw him kick the slave; not a hard kick - barefoot - but in his groin and the man curled on his side helplessly, his eyes closed.

The last thing Peter saw before Simon took him away was a string of bloody saliva trickling from the corner of the man's mouth as his master stood over him, saying something. Probably cursing him.

It could be you, Peter, and unwilling voice came again. You can't afford to lose.

This night Simon was almost affectionate. They had dropped by the doctor on the way to put a couple of stitches on Peter's torn nipple - and at home Simon ran his hands over cuts and forming bruises on Peter's body - just the tips of his fingers, so lightly that it was almost like warm flow of the air, not a touch.

//"I gather you don't want any more sex today?"// Simon was smiling, almost as if he had a dose; his hands on Peter's nipples, stitched and whole ones, were playful - and, maybe, his voice was playful, too. //"I mean you've already had your fuck."//

It was a joke - that Simon asked about his choice - and Peter knew it - and his usual, only possible reaction to it was silence and withdrawal. But he felt too high - not being able to stop himself:

"Depends on what you mean under sex. Having my ass screwed - thanks no thanks - I can live without it."

He partly expected a slap that would send him rolling on the floor. He didn't expect Simon's thumb raise his chin as the man said, deliberately exaggerating his blunt - Abenian - accent:

//"We can figure out something of mutual interest, little rat."//

It was when Peter got scared. He didn't want anything 'of mutual interest' between himself and Simon - he *didn't have to* want anything like that. And how close he came to wanting it - how easily... What would his father say? The old bastard was silent - for once.

//"Suck it,"// Simon's thumb pressed to his split mouth and slid in. //"Lap on it with your skillful tongue. And I'll..."// he licked his other thumb and ran a trace of wetness over Peter's belly, down to his cock. //"I'll check if I can make you get your flag up again."//

* * *

"I heard you won," tiny letters in the note-book and Seth, smiling, tilting his head awry, as usual, standing in front of him.

So much time passed since their last - their only meeting. And was it true that Peter felt almost too excited when Simon took him along when visiting the Commander? There was no reason to get excited. Certainly not because probably he might meet Seth there; Seth - a silly little slave - Seth who was possibly a cross-dresser and certainly a whore.

Seth who must've been getting mad, always locked in the house - getting intoxicated with every new face. How many visitors does the Commander have? How many of them leave their slaves in the hall?

He felt the smell even before Seth appeared - the recognizable smell he recalled so often. And now Seth stood in front of him and expected his answer - and what Peter felt was a sudden pang of hostility.

"You are pretty well informed."

Who told him?

"I heard your master talking about you to the Commander. Your master is proud with you."

Oh was Simon? How interesting.

//"I am proud for you, too,"// Seth pronounced it, not wrote. //"You are so brave."//

"Don't," did Seth think he would fall for it?

//"Are you angry with me?"//

Silly! Peter wished he could say something - something like 'don't you think too much of yourself for me to be angry with you?' And he wished he could turn away, not to stare at Seth, at his broad lively mouth articulating the words, at his manicured hand writing.

"I don't want you to be angry with me. I missed you.".

Now how easy you can be played...

"I missed you, too."

//"You face is still..."// Peter didn't understand the last word and Seth repeated it reaching his fingers to Peter's cheekbone. //"Bruised. Your face is still bruised."//

Peter thought he should brush the hand off - but didn't - and then Seth's cold long-fingered hand cupped around his cheek, the other arm twined around his neck, pulling him closer. He felt soft warm lips cover his, the bitter-and-honey tongue slide into his mouth - and he gasped, not so much in surprise as trying to get more of this smell, this taste. He didn't want to push away at all; he melted into the kiss that was deep and possessive and intoxicating - and so long that he had time to close his eyes and feel nothing but the kiss and the arm that was embracing him, the willowy hard body pressing into his.

Seth let him go and he sought to say something - and Seth flipped out the tiny note-book again, wrote something awkwardly because his other arm was still around Peter's neck. "Aren't you afraid? I can be leading you on - it can be some test your master tries to pull out on you."

"I know," he said, "I know."

Seth smiled, taking him by the wrist, still not letting the arm around him go - and guided him by the vaguely familiar way through the corridor to the small stuffed room. The door closed shut, leaving barely enough light to see.

They unlocked and stood against each other - and Peter pulled out the note-book from Seth's hand, put it carefully on the shelf among the vials of nail-polish and crude jewelry, and put his hands, trembling but as if burning from inside, around Seth's face - pulled him closer, kissing his lips slowly.

Had he known how much he wanted it?

Seth's hair was rough with dye, wiry - and his scull warm against Peter's fingers plaited through the hair. He kissed Seth's face, not just lips but all of it - cheekbones and fluttering eyelids, smooth forehead and thin brows. He felt Seth touch him and caught his hands, brought them to his mouth, kissed the palms and the backs of them and the scarred stumps of missing fingers - and he was saying something but it took a little while for him to realize what it was - the nonsense that somehow seemed important all the same:

"Please, please don't stop me."

Well, Seth was not going to - a small smile - the smile that Peter kept seeing in his dreams and daydreaming since that first time - and Peter pressed his face into Seth's neck, under his ear, kissing the warm place there - a short darting lick of his tongue that made Seth shiver minutely. He traveled along the arch of Seth's throat as the man tossed his head back - and down to the pit between his collar-bones. Seth was in a short black plastic jacket today, zippered in front, and Peter pulled the zipper down, baring his chest - nothing more under it - the pale hairless skin and pierced brown nipples, sticking hard even before Peter closed his mouth on them, one and then the other, feeling the cold taste of metal on his tongue and warm salty-savory taste of skin.

He tried to be careful, replacing the impetus of his passion with gentleness; and he wanted to be gentle - lick and suck, his fingers barely touching the man's ribs criss-crossed with scarlet traces of whipping.

Peter slid lower smoothly, following the welts with his breath rather than with his lips - and felt Seth's hands lock into his hair convulsively. He looked up, already kneeling, seeing the man look down, his thin wide mouth curve in a slightly wild grin.

Peter found the fly of the skin-tight pants, pulled them down from Seth's narrow thighs - pelvic bones sticking out at the hollow belly - and found the pink hard cock pressed against curly pubic hair - red hair, he saw with a smile.

He had never taken a cock into his mouth willingly. He had seen so many of them during last months, there was hardly anything he didn't know about their curves and shapes and peculiarities - but he always had been forced to do it, no choice. He closed his hand around the pulsing column, licked his lips, softening his mouth, before enveloping Seth's cock-head with it.

The taste was salty and warm - alive beating of blood against his palate and then the back of his throat, as he let it in deeper, no difficulty after all the training he got - easily following the push of Seth's hands on his head. He wrapped his arms around Seth, hands running up and down his back, finding his small ass-cheeks, cupping them. He felt Seth push towards him, deeper into his mouth, the head of his cock butting against the back of his throat - and Peter wanted him closer, as close as he could have him. His fingers ran along the crack of Seth's ass, not touching the anus - he was not sure how hurt the man could be there recently.

He wished with sudden fierceness that he could hear - could catch the little gasps Seth made when approaching his orgasm, maybe, the involuntary words he said. But Seth's hands talked eloquently enough, insistent and still gentle, pulling and playing with his hair - and then freezing on the back of his head as his cock twitched in Peter's mouth spilling the cum against the back of his throat.

He swallowed it, working his tongue around the shaft, and pulled away slowly to get to the cock-head, licked over it until the last drop was clean and lapped gently as the shaft was softening. He felt dizzy. He knew he was gasping - deep, fast intakes that made him too high on oxygen - but he felt faint even without it, so overwhelmed with the sensations, so satiated.

Seth took him by the arms and pulled him up, a shadow of smile still on his face, his mouth twisted as he said something - probably "Thanks," for what Peter could understand - and he wanted to say suddenly that it was his pleasure, he got what he wanted...

Seth placed his arms around his neck and started nuzzling his throat and Peter was lost for words and lost for realization what he really wanted, rubbing his body against Seth's unconsciously, his cock against Seth's, his pierced swollen nipples against Seth's bare chest.

//"Oh God,"// now he understood it as Seth pushed him away slightly, looking at his chest, his brows flying together in a frown - both fascinated and disgusted - and Peter felt like getting away suddenly, making him stop looking. He never recalled about the rings of his since he saw Seth approach him in the hall. He was wearing both rings again - his torn nipple healed enough to bear the weight.

//"Nah, don't worry. I'll be careful,"// Seth let him go but only to take one of the rings carefully - waiting until Peter shushed himself into standing still - and then push it through the gap. Peter raised his hand trying to stop him, muttered:

"Don't," and Seth stopped him with a quick open kiss on his mouth, proceeding the same way with the other ring. He understood what for when Seth pulled up his sweater, leaving him half-naked in the whole ugliness of the huge rings dangling over his chest. Seth started saying something and stopped, groping for the notebook, writing - the difficulty of the communication seeming not to bother him at all. "Don't worry, they're still busy. You'll have enough time for dressing back."

It was not what bothered him but Peter nodded, resigning to what Seth was doing - and as Seth pulled down his pants, taking off his boots in the process deftly, his waning erection rose to life again, making Seth smile triumphantly. Seth discarded his jacket, kicked off his own pants almost indignantly - and led Peter to the messed bed that seemed to be never made.

The sheets smelled with Seth and Peter felt drunk and about to come with this smell only, stifling a whimper when Seth's scrawny body covered his, the angles of his elbows and knees pressing into him, the red-and-black colored head lowering to his chest, warm tongue licking briefly on his nipples.

He should've hated that - some string of willfulness that still was not torn in him made him think so. But at the same time Peter felt that there was some special sweetness into surrendering to what he didn't entirely liked - giving away the control over his body to Seth... Doing exactly what Simon couldn't get from him.

"Don't fuck me," he said and Seth raised his head from his chest, for once serious:

//"I won't."//

And he didn't - sliding down and lapping his tongue in Peter's navel - making him arch in strange languid excitement that seemed to be tickling along his spine - and then he didn't quite remember what Seth was doing - his tongue and his lips and his fingers - and Peter closed his eyes and just let it slip away from him. Until his spilled his cum, apparently in Seth's mouth - because a little bit later he tasted it on Seth's tongue and they lay together in the crumpled bed, arms and legs intertwined and Seth's cold fingers ran over his face just as he dreamed about it - and there were candies and he smiled tasting it.

Some time later Seth got him up, concentrated expression on his face as he was listening to what happened behind the wall, in the Commander's lounge - showed Peter where to wash and then helped him to put on the sweater, his fingers so deft that Peter barely felt as he pulled the rings back into the gaps.

"Everything up to the nines," writing while Peter put on the rest of his clothes.

"Yes," he said, "yes," feeling how painfully something clenched inside him at his unwillingness to go. To go to Simon? Just the same as Seth would go to the Commander as soon as they parted? He couldn't believe the unnaturalness of it - how could anyone have this power over them, what logic was there?

The same logic as there was in you owning Simon...

Will I see you again? He forbade himself to ask Seth about it - it was redundant in case of positive answer, pathetic if Seth was not intended to meet him. After all, who knew how many others were fucked in this never-made bed. He caught Seth's look and suddenly thought that Seth knew what he thought about, could read him somehow. He shook his head angrily, refusing to weaken - and saw Seth tinker with the notebook again. He tore out the page, not showed it but stuck it into Peter's hand and pulled him out of the room, to the hall - pushed him inside and shut the door just a moment before Simon appeared.

Only when Peter was at home, he could straighten the piece of paper and read: "I want to sit with you in the caf? with glass arcs - and smoke - and drink caramel tea they serve there - and we don't even need to talk, little brother, just let me hold your hand."

* * *

He was in the bathhouse again. With the streams of water running over his feet - and a man in front of him, a man whose face he didn't see. But the face didn't matter, really - he didn't have to care who it was; the only thing that mattered was that he had to fight - and to win. He breathed in deeply, watching the man - whether he was going to strike. He didn't move and Peter thought he would strike first, balled his hands into fists.

He heard the audience cheer and urge them - and somehow it didn't surprise him that he could hear it:

"Come on, beat him into pulp! I put my money on you!"

They didn't call him or his adversary by the names - so, he didn't know whom they cheered. But he looked - and among the men on the benches - excited faces and naked torsos - he suddenly saw his father... and his uncle. Side to side, talking sotto voce, looking at him with distant, cold fascination. The strangest thing was not that his father looked young - just as he was when he died - but that Andre looked young, too - the way Peter hardly remembered him. And for the first time Peter noticed how much the brothers looked alike.

"Fight!" someone yelled - and he dashed towards the man - and as his fist stuck into soft flesh for the first time, as he got a blow in return and tasted his own blood - he somehow could see the identical, almost frozen smile of contentment and unconcern on the faces of his father and uncle.

He woke up still not knowing whom he fought in this dream - and with definite feeling of sickness that this indifferent smile of Guido and Andre brought him.

The bathhouse... the new event in his life - that had intruded unexpectedly... that he had so much difficulty to accept.

Simon took him there six or seven times during last weeks - and every time when Peter understood where they were going, he felt as if he was going to throw up - couldn't swallow a huge lump of panic in his throat. He knew it was wrong to feel it - a man must fight, must prove he's a man... how dared he to be afraid... But he was afraid. He didn't want to go there.

Of course, he never showed anything of it to Simon - to entertain the man like this? - thank you very much. He tried double hard to hide his fear - the fear that held him all the way he spent in the baths, until the moment they left and Peter understood that this time it passed.

He watched other slaves fight - and knew that Simon put money on one or the other - sometimes won, sometimes lost, taking it easy. He didn't even get hard with it, never used Peter to bring him off while the winner was taking advantage on the loser.

Sometimes watching this copulation in blood and water Peter felt sick - sometimes vaguely aroused. But it had nothing in common with the sheer feeling of rage, terror and excitement when he was the one in the middle of the hall.

He fought twice after the first time - and won twice. Thinking about it he almost couldn't believe that it happened - he had never been strong at hand-to-hand fighting. But seeing a man in front of him - a man ready to destroy him - somehow it made him find the strength in himself that he didn't even know about.

And later, topping the helpless man, he felt as never before - maybe, never since his childhood achievements in sex and murder.

His second opponent was a tall slender guy and the third one a blond beauty. The fourth one looked very different from any of the usual fighters - and seeing him Peter felt almost weak in knees for a moment. Not too tall but making up the impression of brutal power with the sheer presence of his bulk - muscular shoulders and arms and bulging belly that didn't seem soft at all. The man's head was shaven smooth and covered in blue tattoos - and his eyes were blue, too - light and measuring as he slid them over Peter... without any interest, whether it was game face or not.

And his cock; it was awesome - a snake of flesh dangling under the prominent belly, so thick that Peter took another look, unable to believe that it could be like that in its soft state. The man caught his eyes and smiled and said something - that made the audience applaud but escaped Peter's understanding.

He looked back swiftly - to meet Simon's eyes - and as Simon nodded, he plunged at the man.

He didn't even understand what happened at the first moment - like he tried to hit a stone wall. And then it felt as if this wall came down on him. He was on the floor, smearing the tiles with his blood - and the man threw himself over him, working him over with both his fists. Peter knew he managed to punch him back - two or three times, splitting his lips and cheekbone - but it didn't stop the guy... what would stop him? He just kept battering - and the only thing Peter could think about, could try to do was to try to scramble away from him.

Just as the man tried to crawl away from him on the first day. He still remembered that - and got terrified with suddenly finding himself in this position. And just as that man he won on the first day - it turned out Peter didn't have any chance. For a moment he managed to get away - the man's hands slid over his chest - nothing to hold on, since the first time he always took off the rings. But then he caught on Peter - and continued to beat - and with horrifying sound of his ribs cracking Peter understood all of a sudden that he couldn't do anything at all - couldn't move, couldn't raise his hand. He just took it; just let himself being beaten.

He will kill me...

He'd better kill you, Peter.

He didn't feel when the man stopped. But he suddenly saw the white ceiling above instead of bloodied wet tiles - and he understood the man flipped him over. It was almost like d?j? vu - pain seizing his whole body, so fierce that he couldn't define its sources. Just like after the crash... And he was on his back - and opened - and his broken ribs resounded with heat and pain as the man doubled him, raising Peter's legs on his shoulders.

So, that's how he was going to fuck him! Like a female whore. The thought pierced his mind and he wanted to moan in distress but didn't know if he made the sound or not. He was too dazed - to move, to see. The man's face swam into focus, bright blue eyes very sober and even somehow tranquilly interested. He didn't even need to work himself into fury to cope with Peter.

But other faces - of the men watching them, of Simon - he couldn't see them but he could imagine how they looked - disgusted, contemptuous faces. The lips moving:

//"Fuck him. Fuck the shit out of him."//

He felt the man's wet cock against his anus and clenched in the last attempt to stop the inevitable. The man slapped him but even now Peter could see that he was just amused, not angry. The pain of the cock ruining his resistance was shattering; the man's penis must've been bigger than Simon's or it wouldn't hurt like this. Peter hated the pain - because it distracted him from hating himself - but it was too fierce, too present to ignore it.

The man started thrusting - leaning on Peter with all his weight, just his hips working. Peter felt the sharp edges of the tiles - something he didn't even know about - scratch along his back as he was moved back and forth on every stroke. Breathing was agony, the man was too heavy - and this struggle for breath was even worse than the burning pain in his ass.

The man slowed down and speeded up again - his ability to last a part of entertainment, maybe - Peter really didn't know how long it was going on. He stopped fighting and let himself slip out of consciousness - but was back again - and still saw the man's face above, eyes peering down at him. Once he met Peter's stare he worked some spit in his mouth and without any emotion spat on Peter's face. There was no hatred - just some fascinated gleam to his eyes.

He didn't come in his ass - Peter felt as he pulled out his still hard cock - and, rising, he spilled his cum over Peter's belly. Peter registered his own gasp as the warm creamy liquid hit him, leaked in trickles over his sides and into the water on the floor.

Look at yourself, slut. He couldn't better mark you for what you are.

No, he didn't want to look. At nothing. He wanted to cover his face if he didn't know how pathetic it would look. Or he wanted to fade into unconsciousness - why couldn't he pass out when he needed it? Just not to see Simon approach him, his foot raised for kicking, his mocking, insulted face. "Don't you dare to disgrace me..."

He probably wanted it too much; he blacked out before Simon came up to him.

And he came round already in his bed - *at home* - well, it was his home, he had no other anymore. He was warm and covered and his body felt heavy and not quite whole - but even though it was difficult to breathe, there was no agonizing pain piercing his chest on every inhale. His ribcage was wrapped tightly in bandages, he felt it when raising his hand tentatively and checking.

Someone took care of him.

Simon... sitting on his bed - turning to him as he sensed or heard that Peter moved.

"I am sorry..." he tried to say it before he would see the anger flare in Simon's eyes. Not because he wanted to diminish his punishment. Because he really felt sorry.

Loser... loser in everything...

//"What for?"// there still was no anger. What was it? Anxiety? Peter would say it was if he could believe it. //"Jesus Christ... Nobody can always win."//

He felt his breath caught - trying to figure out with painful efforts if it was some trick Simon tried to play on him, if his mood would change abruptly. He expected a blow when Simon reached to his face - expected it even though there was no cold, measured fury that appeared in Simon's eyes every time he was going to strike. But the fingers only ran through his hair.

//"If you want, we won't go there any more."//

At first he couldn't believe Simon said it - and then he hated himself for the joy that seized him.

Don't you dare! Coward! You can't leave losing, you need to win!

Please, father, don't. Leave me alone...

He saw Simon expect his answer and couldn't say a word - and knew with fear that it would be taken as if he *wanted* to go there.

//"I am not fond of these fights, ya know,"// Simon added suddenly. //"The same thing always. I am not going to waste my time on it."//

Peter thought he knew why Simon was saying it; it wasn't possible to believe - but it was true. Because of what the man read in his face - the fight against himself Peter couldn't win - and somehow, incredibly - Simon spared him.

"Thank you," he whispered brokenly.

He raised his hand and took Simon's - and stopped himself only a moment before he actually did it... he couldn't understand how it was that he nearly... nearly kissed Simon's palm.




Part 6

"You know, dear, there is an idea that came to my mind," the Commander leaned towards Simon over the low table and handed him the little box of the stuff. His own voice was slightly muffled as he was sucking a jelly. The stuff meant that talk on business matters was over. Simon settled back in the irresistibly comfortable armchair of the Commander's lounge and put a jelly into his mouth. Well, one jelly now and then... especially when the Commander treated - it was okay; Simon could allow himself to do it. With his eyelids half-mast, he nodded waiting for Duvall to go on.

"Do you know my little slave - Seth? Did I show him to you?" and, when Simon shook his head. "He's a pretty thing, though stupid. I'm sure you'll enjoy him."

"Do you offer me to buy him?" the stuff worked fast, making him find this proposal so amusing that he couldn't hold a giggle. He heard the Commander laugh, too, his bird-like thin hand patting Simon's wrist in a gesture that was intended to be affectionate but Simon didn't want to guess how sincere it was.

"Nope, child. I wouldn't like to part with him forever. What I propose is to make a little exchange. For a week or for a few days. You can take my guy to play and I'll take yours."

Simon coughed; a bit of jelly-melted saliva must've gone wrong way. And yet when he coped with the fit and looked at the Commander again, he realized that he still needed a bit more time.

"You mean Peter?"

"Don't be daft, honey," the words were rude but the tone softened them almost to endearment. "Do you have other slaves? Think about it - diversity can be very entertaining. And you really can do to my boy anything you want - just return him to me in one piece... Well, let's say comparatively in one piece."

"Ugh..." he didn't feel completely sober suddenly, it was not that. But the stuff stopped having its elating effect on him. He coughed again. "Actually... I dunno."

He saw the Commander lean towards him again. Boyish slender figure in black old-fashioned uniform and smooth gracefulness of motions. What gave away the Commander's age - and what one couldn't see on his portraits - that his face and hands were covered in a frequent net of little wrinkles - smile wrinkles around his eyes in particular; the Commander loved to smile.

"But why, child?" the cool hand fondling his again. "Aren't you interested in my boy? Or don't you want me to have... But wait! The rumors are you are more than eager to share."

Yeah, rumors. The City lived on rumors.

"It's different," Simon muttered. Somehow a part of his mind wondered why he didn't say 'yes' yet... a week or a few days - there was no reason to refuse. After all, the Commander was right - he did like to send Peter to the bar to pick up clients.

Or didn't - but sent Peter all the same.

"Different like what? Like you think he'll enjoy it too much at my place?" the Commander was laughing, an easy, almost childish laughter that Simon usually caught; not this time. "I promise you he'll beg you to take him back."

He kept silent. He knew he should've said something easy - like 'okay, deal' - and the embarrassing moment would be over. Because it was embarrassing, he could sense it, even though the Commander kept smiling as if noticing nothing. All of a sudden Simon felt a fit of anger overwhelming him - he didn't even know whom he was angry with - with Duvall for pushing, with himself for resisting unexplainably - or with Peter for causing this inconvenient situation.

"Well," a moment more and Simon would probably agree - but the Commander's hand was gone as he straightened in the armchair; he never settled back, never sprawled - but somehow every pose seemed comfortable for his frail but wiry body. "I don't want to make you feel unhappy, child. Forget it."

"You don't make me feel unhappy."

"Don't think that I don't understand. Slavery is a double-edged weapon. You own them but after a while you get attached, too."

"I am not attached," now declaring it was easy, wasn't it?

"And that's right, child, that's right. Trust my long, long experience. When you allow them to mean something for you - they use it to hurt you."

Simon knew it. Losing control - that's how he called it for himself - and he always tried to watch hard for it not to happen.

"At first you give them an easy time - just because somehow it seems that you enjoy it the more seeing them contented," the Commander's voice was soft and thoughtful, his eyes looking somewhere only he seemed to be able to look to. "You spare them punishments - because you feel that hurting them hurt you hardly less. And then, when you expect gratitude and affection from them - you realize that you cherished a snake on your bosom. And when the snake bites - sometimes it is too late."

Too late? No, not for Simon. For it was not Simon's situation. He had one reason to remember what Peter was and what he, Simon, had been - the reason that others didn't have.

"Sometimes you feel that it's *you* who are his slave, not he yours," the Commander added wistfully. And before Simon could say anything, shook the melancholic mood off. "Now this stuff sometimes makes me an old fool. I hope you'll forgive me, child."

A little while later, as Simon rose to leave, the Commander suddenly took a long narrow box out of the drawer.

"I want to make a little present to you, dear," opening the lid over the purple velvet bedding. "It's an object d'art - there are just three of them made - on my special order," a thin black whip with carved handle there. "Touch it - it's soft like silk... but oh boy, you wouldn't want to know how it hurts."

I know how it hurts, Simon thought feebly, murmuring his thanks. You didn't see my back under these soft expensive clothes. Yes, the scars were there - even if sometimes he forgot about them.

He opened the door to his apartment and stepped into the suite of bright-lit warm rooms, realizing with surprise that for the first time he’d gotten cold walking through the City. It was quiet - so quiet that for a moment he thought he was alone - and then he heard the slight rustle of turning pages from Peter's room. Yes, of course, Peter didn't know Simon was back.

Sudden sickness overwhelmed him - as if the stuff was playing bad games to him today. He looked at the box in his hand and wanted to put it away - to throw it away - and leave, go down to the bar and have a drink of fern vodka. The dim lights and muted colors of the bar would do him good.

He shook his head at the thought. He could barely believe it came to his mind. Was he going to drink cheap shit in the bar downstairs when he had his splendidly furnished apartment for doing anything he wanted?

The question was what he wanted.

He couldn't understand why it was so difficult to work himself into a rage - maybe, because he hadn't done it for so long - lost the habit, or something? He entered Peter's room - and saw Peter look up abruptly as he felt Simon's presence.

Isn't he too comfortable, Simon thought with deliberate exasperation; when the trapped and miserable expression in his eyes was gone? Yes, there still was wariness - it probably would never go. But it was not enough.

"Get up."

"I am sorry," he watched Peter put away the book and stand up, "master."

A proper answer. But he doesn't mean it, Simon thought, he doesn't respect me. He kept looking at Peter, opening the box - and saw how the man's eyes shifted from his face to the whip as Simon took it out.

Scared now? Should be. How much time had passed since Simon punished him properly last time? Apparently too much. He kept clenching his fist on the whip's handle, lacing the thong between his fingers. "...soft like silk..." Yes, it was.

"I am sorry," he heard Peter repeat, a tiny note of panic in his voice. "I didn't mean any disrespect."

It is not about you, Simon thought a moment before he struck. It is about me.

He hit with the handle, the blow heavy enough to send Peter to the floor, covering his split mouth. A familiar sight - blood leaking through his fingers and his staring eyes... but something new in them this time. Maybe, relief?

You didn't know how to handle it, too, bitch, Simon thought with a sudden flip of intuition... when I beat you and rape you - you know how to cope. But not my hands, my words, my presence making you feel warm and contented.

This thought did for him what nothing else could. He lashed across Peter's face and was amazed how easily it was to use the whip. The result was amazing, too - the dark red welt swelling over his cheekbone, the little sound of pain Peter made involuntarily. He struck again, this time half across his hands that Peter held at his face. He heard Peter gasp, saw a thin trace of blood smeared over the carpet.

Never mind, there is a maid to clean it up.

He didn't give Peter time to re-group. Nor himself time to look in Peter's narrowed eyes, black with pain - always became so fathomless when he was hurt... always made Simon want to hurt him more. He leaned over Peter, clasping the whip, thinking that he would do something mad now - would push the handle into Peter's bleeding mouth, would tear it more - break his jaw, tear his throat.

Do you want to kill him?

He wound the loose end of the whip around his palm, lopped it around Peter's throat and tightened, pulling up. He saw Peter scramble up on his feet hastily as Simon continued to pull. The son of bitch *wanted* to live, didn't he? Despite everything.

He was reminded how much shorter Peter was - as he raised his hands, tugging the ends of the whip aside, he felt Peter tiptoe and lose his balance inevitably - felt his body thrash and press against Simon's, his hands claw in the whip that cut into his throat. No way. Only when Peter went limp at last, Simon let go.

Didn't kill him, he knew it - and watched Peter lie curled on his side, taking his first, impossibly painful breath - then hack agonizingly and roll his head on the floor feebly. His eyes that opened as Simon squatted in front of him were not so black as bloodshot... and terrified. Good.

"Did you like it?" he saw Peter not understand, his ability to read lips and signs not returning yet. "Did... you... like... it?" he repeated slowly. "Say 'yes, master'. Did I make you hard?"

He reached his hand to check. Peter was not hard but wet - his bladder must've fail.

That's how you like him, right? Pissed and desperate and so vulnerable. He heard Peter gasp again and again - until he managed to say, almost incomprehensibly:

"What happened, Simon?"

And Simon wished he didn't comprehend that. Because it was a wrong thing to say. What happened? As if he needed a reason to punish his slave.

"Master, you bitch! Master. Stand up!"

He straightened and waited for Peter to get on his feet. The thong of the whip slid through his fingers and he knew they both knew what was coming now.

"Strip."

He saw panic in Peter's eyes - more than just fear of whipping. How dared he not to obey immediately, didn't he know how this delay would end up for him?

"Strip, fuck you."

"I can't... I... soiled myself."

Oh fuck... You miserable, silly, filthy little bastard... Why do you do all this to me?

"Bad luck for you. Strip. And take out the rings."

The whip would tear them out - and Simon didn't want the nuisance of having to get them stitched up again.

"Put the hands on the back of the bed."

The whip turned out to handle beautifully; making circles around Peter's body, reaching every place Simon wanted it to reach. Simon broke Peter's silence on the third blow - and stopped on the twentieth, when Peter slumped suddenly to the floor in mid-stroke.

Really, the carpet being a mess afterwards.

* * *

The man was a mean bastard. Arms wrapped around his legs, forehead to his knees was an exhausting position and Peter lost the count of time standing like this, with the man's cock slamming into him under the most absurd angle. It was a difficult night, starting pretty early with some fault of his - how did he dare to change his clothes without Simon permitting him. He knew Simon was just lashing out - as he lashed out so often recently, without any real reason. When it happened he tried to switch his mind off of what was going on. Sometimes it worked.

It worked with the first three clients tonight. Nothing hurt too bad, so, he managed to slip away into thinking about nothing. But now, almost at three in the morning, Peter was too tired and too sore for mind games. He stared at the floor and wondered grimly if Simon would feel better after his slave had been thoroughly used - and knew with a kind of resignation that it probably wouldn’t be so. In some twisted way for Simon these things started as a punishment to Peter - but by the end they became Peter's fault.

One day he will kill you, he thought tiredly; and no chance to think that you'll be able to kill him first.

Eventually the man froze, his fingers stuck deeply around Peter's pelvic bones, and Peter knew the cum was pumped into his ass, adding to those three loads that already were there.

He was pushed away abruptly, feeling dizzy as he straightened after so much time in doubled-over position, and saw the man say something. As always. They either could never get that their efforts were wasted or just liked the sound of their own voice. He backed away to the corner, knowing well that it was better to stay as far as possible from the client - for who knows what other ideas would come to his mind if he found Peter too handy.

He barely made a sigh of relief when the man left - just pulled the robe over himself and slumped on the bed, wincing at the sharp pain in his bottom - when the feeling of another’s presence in the room made him flinch.

Simon was already here - and another man with him. Peter felt a kind of panic... couldn't handle that - didn't count on that - and clenched his teeth, trying to keep on to the edge of sanity. For fuck's sake there is nothing he could do.

//"Another customer for you, slut,"// Simon's eyes were bloodshot - because of a sleepless night - or did he take a dose? Man, he was torturing himself for the sake of making life worse for Peter, wasn't he? //"Feel free to do whatever you want, mister."//

The last words were meant for the customer but Peter practically didn't have problems any more lip-reading everything Simon said, even if it was not articulated carefully. He looked over the man's shoulder how the door closed behind Simon - just a few more moments of rest before standing up and waiting for the orders.

The man was new; well, Peter was not sure that he had never been in the bar - and he couldn't say anything at all about the first night when he had been gang-fucked - but somehow Peter thought he had never seen him. Pale skin, smooth face of someone about thirty-five - and bright silver hair, cropped short to the scull. The man's small mouth was like a white dent, pressed hard, and his eyes, icy blue, looking at Peter who stood there with his robe open, the indecency that didn't mean anything but was just a part of his ordinary degradation, had a mixed expression of anxiety and annoyance - but no arousal.

He said something, and although it seemed to Peter that he got it:

//"Can you read by the lips?"// he frowned and shook his head.

Irritation flared in the man's eyes, he shrugged, took out a small plate and a kind of thin plastic stick, scribbled something and showed it to Peter. The letters melted into nothingness right in front of his eyes.

"Cover yourself. I want to talk."

The squeamishness in the man's expression lanced through him and he found it weirdly amusing that some things still could get to him. He wanted to say that he was the last one here who was supposed to enjoy showing off but just pulled the flaps of his robe together.

He saw the man come up to the bed, pull the edge of the sheet away and sit on the corner of the mattress. For a few moments his face was concentrated as he rummaged in his bag for something - and then he pulled a twisted piece of metal out of it.

//"What's that?"//

Peter caught the soft hissing sound he was about to make - and congratulated himself on doing so in time. He recognized the thing; anthracite polished surface, shiny, burnt-off metal on the breaking line - how wouldn't he recognize it? From the wreck of Kingfisher's shuttle. He looked at the man with polite, mild interest - meeting the pale iridescent eyes that stuck in him like merciless hooks.

"I have no idea," good - practically natural. "I thought you would tell me."

"Don't play with me, slut. It's not in your interests."

He should've called for Simon; fuck, let him handle the situation - and this madman with his prematurely grey hair and freezy-cold eyes. He sensed danger emanating from the man... who was he? An agent of the Commander - another one who wanted to puzzle out the mystery of hidden bag of the stuff? The shuttle... He recalled what Seth told him - that the Commander knew they were from outside - and didn't care shit.

"Don't call for anyone."

He breathed in hard, making his face blank consciously, willing himself into calmness. What did he risk, anyway? Was there so much he could lose?

"I know you came with that - you and your master. Tell me about this thing - and we can find something of benefit for both of us."

He is not my master, you fool.

"Let me see," he started slowly, sticking fingernails into palms - always helped him to think straight. "You offer me something for admitting that I 'came with it' as you put it. Well, let's imagine that I lied and said 'yes'. What can you give me for that?"

He saw a haughty, cold smirk twist the corner of the man's almost non-existent mouth.

//"What is it, then?"//

Two can play this game... oh yeah, for eternity.

"If you found this, you could find the rest."

//"We did."//

"Who are 'we'?"

He saw a flash of wariness in the man's eyes - and made a wild guess:

"Rats?"

Uh oh. It happened too fast. One moment the man sat motionlessly - and then he was already over Peter, pressing him to the bed, the sharp edge of the wreck icy-cold under his jaw. The man's white lips, the smooth face were so close Peter couldn't miss a word:

//"I told you not to play with me, bitch. Do you want to die?"//

"No," he didn't shake his head, aware that his artery and the sharp metal were separated but by a thin layer of skin. "I don't want to die."

The man's body pressed hard into his, the violent, alive weight that suddenly made him think of a huge snake lying on his chest - something he had never felt, of course - and wonder where the image came from. The jagged edge of the wreck lingered at his throat for a while more - and then the man let him go, straightened, rearranged his clothes carefully.

"Let's have a fresh start."

"Okay. Say you know what the thing is - and you know things about me. Let's say I know things about you. If you want more information from me - I want something in exchange."

"How do I know if the information you have is worth anything?"

"I thought we talked about having a fresh start."

For a moment it seemed to him the man was going to strike again, his mouth curved painfully - but then he just wrote: "The spacecraft - can it be repaired?"

"It's a shuttle," Peter said. He thought about lying, telling that it could be mended - and he, Peter, was the only one who could mend it. "No, I don't think it can."

"Then it's worthless."

He felt his breath, blade-sharp, caught in his throat. He had to be careful now. He had to play his cards very, very cleverly.

"Did you find something else there - a green transparent crystal in a box?"

The man didn't answer - but he didn't need to, his eyes were too expectant.

"The crystal contains more information than you can imagine. It's the most perfect model of a computer - think how technology developed since the time you left the Earth. And I'll give it all to you if get me out of here."

"So, you want to be free?"

"What fuckin' else can I want?"

"I am going to discuss your offer with my comrades."

Oh yes, of course... Peter felt so strung-up that he was about to break into laughter - not good laughter but hysterical one. He would kiss the man's hands, kneel in front of him, would fuck him silly if he said he would take him away... right now. But it couldn't be like that - Peter knew it all too well.

"I'll contact you again. But first of all - you have to understand - if we are going to help you, we'll need a pledge."

A pledge? Sure, whatever.

"Blood pledge," the man wrote. "So that next time when I come for you, the Commander's security doesn't wait for me."

Peter thought he knew what the man meant - wanted from him. And wasn't it what he wanted himself desperately? He thought about blood - pools of blood on the floor of their flashy apartment - and Simon's dead body lying in it, the gaping wound on his throat like the second mouth.

"I don't have any weapon."

"You'll get it."

"I'll be looking forward to it," he said and smiled. And as the man continued to look at him - the gaze of blue icy and yet burning intent - not knowing what to do, Peter added, almost despite himself. "Care for some sex? No need to waste your money."

For a few moment the man was silent and motionless - and when he moved, it was not to get what he paid for - but to write again. "We, revolutionaries, believe that slavery is a crime and a greatest social injustice. Just like the fact that thousands of people have to work and die on the factories and fields to feed and satisfy the needs of the rich. We fight the order and we fight slavery - and we think everybody deserves freedom. Except those who allow themselves to become slaves - and whores," a measuring look over Peter, "in their mind."

The man left - and Simon was back again, now alone. While showering, Peter bit the inside of his lip until his mouth got all salty and wet with blood - driving himself into tranquility... not to show a sign of anything that happened, not to give himself away.

He hoped he looked his usual self when he came out to Simon - and was almost happy as the man just told him go to bed and then entered him, abruptly and without interest. But as he kept driving his cock into Peter's loosened rectum, Simon started talking suddenly, not looking at Peter, not caring if he was understood or not - but with strange vengeance both in his expression and in the rage he moved with:

//"I am going to marry. Gonna have a family, have children. The Commander will cancel the birth limit for me. I bet you thought I would never have children - and if I did, they would become slaves for you. But my children will be free - and will have everything. I'll be able to build the best life for them - rich, sheltered, happy life. Because I'm everything now - and you, slut, you are - nothing."//

* * *

In the stuffy room, in near-darkness, on soft crumpled sheets he was out of time and space, feeling with his fingers Seth's face, memorizing it by touch the same much as by sight - the wide soft mouth saying something - smiling - nipping the tips of his fingers. His cheek lay against the hollow softness of Seth's belly, arms around the twigs of his ribs under the taut skin.

"I don't want to leave you."

//"What?"// long stick-like fingers flew in front of his face in a questioning gesture. //"You don't need to leave so far. They always talk and talk when they come together... the order... the money... the stuff... blah blah blah."//

Silly thing. It was not what Peter meant - wasn't that at all.

Seth's wild-eyed face, the shadow of an evil smile directed at the men behind the wall - he would like to look at it... forever. At nothing else but this face. Had he ever wanted to see any other face turned up to him, lips ready for a kiss? Joanie had been sweet and kind and beautiful - and yet Peter had never wanted her like this... He had even wondered if he could feel anything like this at all.

And how crazy it was now that he did feel it - it was about a whorish slave with birdie brains - who was probably ready to fuck anyone who got to be around... whom Peter couldn't trust more than for an hour or two they spent in the same bed...

And whom you are going to ditch this night... You don't want to leave? What a lie.

He hadn't known if he would ever hear from the silver-haired man again; he had told himself he would just have to learn to live with it: with the chance of freedom never come true. Just as he lived with lots of other things.

He remembered the sudden anger that seized him when Simon had been telling him about his plans that night - of the safety and well-being he was going to build for his family... and how he wished desperately for this never to happen. All his muscles must've shrunk - and Simon whose cock suddenly got squeezed in the vices of Peter's insides, unresisting till now, stopped talking abruptly and looked at him with a kind of delighted amazement:

//"Yeah, do it again, it feels good."//

Peter hadn't seen the stranger after that. But this morning - in his bed - after the maid had cleaned his room - he found a thin blade wrapped into white cloth - and a scrap of paper with one word on it: "Tonight."

It could be a trap - Peter understood it very well. They could wait for him to do what he was supposed to - and then leave him alone - that is, to never come for him - and he knew what awaited a slave who killed his master. But somehow Peter knew he would do it just the same.

Now, having a weapon and an opportunity - he *had to* kill Simon.

He pressed his lips to the warm angular place where Seth's ribs were joining the sternum. He could catch the tiny shifts of muscles and bones like that, could lick and taste the salty blend of Seth's skin. He licked - and slid down with his mouth to the pierced navel, kissed it and around it, his hands under Seth, stroking the smooth curves of the narrow ass.

Yes, I am leaving you, little brother. This way or that.

"How did you become a slave?"

"Was a stupid slut... Slept over with a wrong guy and then was dumb enough to try to leave him. He was the Commander's friend... they arranged some scam and my family got broke within one month, all in debts. It was either joining the collective farmers or giving me out - and since it was all my fault... since I was their black ship all the same..."

"But why the Commander?"

"Dunno... There was the auction and then - oops - the bastard owns me... allowing a farewell night to my former lover, though," the painted fingernails ran along the jagged traces of burnt flesh on his side.

He wanted to ask if Seth ever thought about escaping. If there was any way... No, Peter couldn't. He would never endanger *his* chance of freedom by talking to someone.

Even to someone you...care for?

But was it about caring about Seth? Or was it about being free... at least in his mind, at least in fucking - wanting to fuck - someone... who was not his master? And now, with *real* freedom in front of Peter - his little psycho lover just didn't have a chance.

//"Hey, wait, what are you doing..."// Seth writhed under the touch of Peter's lips, laughed, flipping him over - rose over him - and then sank his head down suddenly, enveloping Peter's cock in his mouth.

"What are *you* doing?" he laughed, too - and felt dizzy and happy - and thought that for a little while - for a few minutes - he could forget about the blade and the closing night.

* * *

Now do everything like a smart boy, Peter, and don't you dare to fail on me.

He looked at the lights going out and tried not to let the sickness overwhelm him. There was nothing to be uncertain about, right? Not only he would do what he had to do - but he *wanted* to do it. Nothing changed since that time when he had tried to stick the pincers into Simon's eye.

At least you have to prove that nothing changed - that you still are a man, Peter.

Yes, father, I know I have another chance.

And if he ruined this chance... Well, there would be little time to remind himself what a failure he was. If everything went wrong - he'd better finish it before he got to the Block, right?

He saw the light switch on in the bathroom and knew that Simon went to take his evening shower. As usual. And there was one more of Simon's habits that should help.

He walked to Simon's room and saw the cooling glass of herbal tea mixed with a good dose of fern vodka - a specialty of the Sphere. A nice relaxing thing - and totally harmless... a much better way to relax than using the stuff. But this time Simon was going to have both; not that he would know about it.

Yes, it was not going to be a fair fight. But Peter couldn't afford to loose.

He took out Simon's box of the stuff and pinched a few jellies out of it. How much would be enough to send him to sleep... or to immobilize him? Well, this much will do, he thought. For a few moments the jellies lay on the bottom of the glass, translucent blue in greenish liquid - and then melted softly into nothing. He stirred it with the spoon, wondering if the consistence changed significantly; then took a swallow.

Slightly bitter; but Simon might think it was vodka. Peter put the glass back and suddenly felt a fit of terror, imagining that Simon came out of the bathroom and stood behind his back - and he couldn't turn around and look if it was true - he just couldn't.

There was no Simon; he understood it when time passed and nothing happened - and he put away the box, hoping that it wouldn't come to Simon's mind to take a dose today. God knows, he already has enough, Peter thought with ill-sounding irony.

He was in his room, over the chessboard, when Simon must've come out of the bathroom. Peter knew he walked around the apartment - and thought desperately how inconvenient it was that he couldn't hear; a clicking sound of the spoon in the glass - that much could tell him his plan was working.

He felt hazy. Oh my, he just made one mouthful of the potion - and there were lights dancing in front of his eyes. The colors of the board were not black and white any more - but jolly blue, yellow and red. He looked at them intently - until the door opened - and Simon came in, the glass of tea in his hand. And even though Peter told himself it was silly, he had time to feel choking panic at the thought that Simon somehow puzzled out his secret and was going to make him pay.

He watched Simon who stood in the doorway, his long soft-cloth robe opened on his smooth chest. No, fuckin' don't do that... don't gasp, don't stare at him with cow eyes. A small figurine of the bishop was in his hand and he clasped his fist, letting the spike of it enter in his skin. Remember how your father made you clasp the pushpins in your hand? Was it more difficult?

//"Who's winning?"//

"Whites, in four moves. I still didn't find the way."

He saw Simon bring the glass to his mouth and make a few gulps. He didn't come in and didn't go. Well, he could do what he felt like, right? Even hanging around in the doorway.

//"Chess is one of a few things that is the same - on the Sphere... and in the League,"// he said wistfully - making Peter look at him in surprise. Was it looking like a conversation, huh? After weeks of orders and curses. //"Do you miss things from the League? Books and holos and music..."//

"I don't think much about it," he suddenly understood it was true. "I don't think about the League any more."

He saw Simon drink again and thought that he was ready to say anything to him, that he loved the Sphere, that he was happy there - just to make him empty the glass.

"And I don't think they think about me, too."

//"How many months passed? Did they write you off? Consider you dead - just as your father is dead."//

The bastard may be dead but he's pretty much alive in my mind.

"You know my uncle killed my father," he said and was amazed how easily it came out. He had never said it to anyone, had forbidden himself to think about it for years. He probably needed a good dose of the stuff to face it. "He killed my father over me."

It was never found out. Nobody had told him... nobody had to; he just knew.

//"And now when you are gone your uncle has no one."//

Oh yes... The glass was empty. Now it was just a matter of time... and didn't he see Simon sway? Just please, please, don't let him guess... let him just fall asleep.

//"He must've loved you, your uncle."//

It *was* the stuff talking.

"He did. I think he was the only one who ever did."

He saw a delirious smile on Simon's face - and then the man swayed so hard that almost fell.

//"That's why it was so important for you? That you didn't need to deserve his love, he took you as you were?"//

"My father took me as I was," looking right in Simon's eyes, Peter thought that he was telling the truth about it - for the first time in his life recognized it for the truth. "My uncle... for him I tried to be better than I was. But it was worth it."

He watched Simon raise his hand - the glass slip out of it and roll on the carpeted floor.

//"What the fuck is it? I feel fuzzy... Should lay down... Come here..."//

Now he would understand... Peter made himself stand up and come up and Simon leant against him as they walked to Simon's bedroom. There Simon fell on the bed, face up, turning his head slightly but not looking any more.

//"No... stay with me..."// and as Peter knelt at the bed, //"you stupid... just sit with me..."//

It'll be over soon, Peter. He'll be asleep and you'll waste him. He'll pay for everything he did to you.

It looked like the silver-haired man was not the only one who wanted a blood pledge.

The sleep came - Simon's face smoothed, eyelids not shifted any more - and then Peter got up and walked back to his room. The blade was under the mattress - shining dully as the cloth fell off of it.

Wasn't it something he waited for... for so long?

He came back and raised the blade over the solid tower of Simon's neck, the pit between his collarbones deep and fluttering slightly with peaceful beating of his pulse. This time there was nothing that could hinder Peter to do it.

Come on, finish it. Clean your name with his blood!

Fuck you, father, don't tell me what to do... Peter moved the blade suddenly, setting it between Simon's lips - in the thin slit between his unclenched teeth, moving them apart. The man's jaw dropped open so easily as Peter turned the blade, showing the insides of Simon's mouth - so pink, so tender.

The man gave a snore, shaking his head slightly, as the air caught in his throat; Peter waited. But the stuff was too powerful - Simon never woke up. Not when Peter pushed fingers into his mouth and took the warm moist snake of his tongue, pulling it out. Not even when the blade started slicing through in - in smooth sawing motions - with blood first welling around it, then pouring in two streams from both sides of Simon's mouth.

Yes, it was blood that got into his windpipe, choking him, that made Simon's eyes snap open - right at the moment when Peter severed the last layer of flesh - and took his hand with the bloody lump away.

Blood gurgled in Simon's throat as if he tried to say something, his huge fiery eyes staring without recognition - but he didn't try to move, didn't try to get up or grab. And Peter reached and turned his face on the side - feeling for one moment the warmth of Simon's skin - so that blood might leak out of his mouth, not into his throat, not choke him.

He took the keys and for the first time unlocked the door of the apartment.

It was quiet and cold on the stairs - and thoughtfully, without much hurry, Peter started walking down, stairwell after stairwell. It didn't come to his mind to take the elevator for some reason - and indeed, he thought, why was not to enjoy the last walk in his life, as it was? He didn't notice at once how blood dripped from his hands, into the dust on the stairs. Not neat... But who cared?

And then, on the floor whose number he didn't know, the door opened - and the man with bright blue eyes on pale face caught him and pulled him inside.

//"So, you did it?"// it was dim in the empty, disordered room - and the man's face was like a flash of white, his lips moving clearly. Peter saw his expression change abruptly as he looked at his hand that had touched Peter and saw the thin film of red on it. //"Oh Christ..."//

"You said 'blood pledge'," he smiled and handed him the dripping bit of flesh.

He saw a play of momentary fascination and revulsion on the man's face - and then he hit on Peter's hand from underneath, making the tongue fall to the floor.

//"Let's fuckin' go, do you think we have the whole night?"// for once he didn't look in Peter's eyes.

They came up to the elevator - and the man used some instruments that he had on his belt - pushed the doors apart and there was no cabin, just a cable. He caught the cable, fixed a clamp on it.

//"Hold on to me,"// now he was all business, no place for squeamishness or wonder or anything else. Peter grasped his belt - and they started sliding down into the seemingly bottomless well under them.

* * *

There was something wet - liquid heat spreading around him, not deep enough to lull him away - but still warm, still comforting. The smell hovered somewhere - sharp, coppery, so familiar - but it seemed to have nothing to do with enveloping warmth of the liquid around him - the same as the pain - huge and clawing that started somewhere in the back of his throat and grew, bigger than his whole body - seemed to have nothing to do with him.

He didn't want to hurt. It interfered with the warmth - with comfort.

He was a small boy; a little more than a baby - and the liquid around him was the water, clear and warm, on the bottom of an enamel bowl - and his small feet splashed it - out, out! - in brilliant warm sparkles - on the small patch of withered grass in front of the house.

And a woman with a tower of dark hair - a tall, slim woman with long arms of fluid bronze - reached to him and raised him, laughing, pecking his face slightly with her lips - carried him high until passed him in the hands of another giant - a man of white teeth and shaven scull, eyes flashing with laughter.

He was too small to talk - a plump soft kid of no thoughts at all - and no wonder that the word he tried to say came out so strange - muffled and incomprehensible:

"Mom."

He had never said this word before: had been too little when she was gone. Too little to be left at his own devices. Too smart to die without fighting - too strong not to win, whatever price he had to pay for the victory.

His life a never-ending battle - and he never gave up, waited out the downfalls - and rose again. He thought it was right, it was what he was supposed to do. But now, looking at the tall woman that waited for him in the misty place that he knew was somewhere inside his mind - he thought for the first time that it could be a mistake.

Look where it brought you... drowning in your blood on the cold bed in the place that will not ever be your home.

He didn't want it; never wanted it to go on. He just didn't know it. Twenty-eight years of clawing into life... his first knife he needed to defend his food... the cold, alienated world of the Academy... his ship encompassed in flame... and later, all twelve years of mere survival...

And even when he thought that he got the life he had always dreamed about - the life of pleasures and expensive suits, influential friends and slave-owning - how could he not know that in reality he was just going away from this tall woman of the floral dress and arms of eternal kindness who waited for him on the other end.

"I am coming to you, mom..."

He opened his eyes and saw strange, alien faces above him - fretful, unpleasant, lips moving, swift looks exchanged. His head was turned - bothersome, painful - and he said to them:

"Don't touch me," but they didn't understand and, maybe, he didn't manage to say it correctly for some reason.

He wanted to go back to the woman - he saw her again, her arms open for him - and he smiled - with his bleeding mouth. He knew nothing mattered - any right or wrong things he did in his life, anything he strove for, anything he gained or lost. Because she accepted him like that - naked and faulty and ruined.

He caught her embrace and slid into its warmth - and felt nothing except its softness - no matter how cold and rough and uncaring the hands were that raised him from the bed and carried him somewhere.





Part 7

He felt a slight lick of draught on his face as the door opened and closed and when he looked up from the crystal, there was Jarvis in his room - already at the table - towering over him. The blue eyes like cold fire - and even before he started speaking Peter knew he was pissed off in a major way.

//"How dared you?"//

Peter wished he could say they would talk later. He didn't know what it was about yet - but he already didn't want it to go on. And even more than that Peter wished he had a lock on his door - not to be taken by surprise at these visits. Well, so far privacy was not a conception for him in the camp. He knew he was not trusted enough; maybe, would never be.

But come to think about it, whom did Jarvis trust? Terrence Jarvis, Iron Man, the leader of the extremist wing of the insurrectionists. The one who had given Peter a chance to get away from Simon - out of the City - to the complete darkness of the underground camp where the insurrectionists lived.

//"Look at me, you liar! Don't you dare to look away from me,"// Peter had learned to read Jarvis' lips almost as well as he had Simon's – small wonder – Jarvis was almost the only one who talked to him during last weeks. //"You didn't kill him!"//

He suddenly felt faint and dizzy - looked at the pale hand that gripped his clothes twisting the material until the knuckles went white. Peter knew he should say something - but for some reason nothing but 'I know' swirled in his mind. And even that was not quite true. He didn't know, really. Simon might've died – bled to death or overdosed.

//"You lied to me!"//

"Did I?" he looked at Jarvis almost blankly; he knew it might seem to be a cold stare, almost matching Jarvis'; but in fact it was just that he didn't know how he felt. "Did I say anything about him being dead?"

Simply made him believe in it. And that much blood - what else could Jarvis think?

That night, after they had reached the camp - through the tunnel that went right from the elevator well and being much more narrow and dangerous than the one he and Simon had used on the way from zero to the field level - Peter was locked in an empty tiny room. He had to fight panic of being imprisoned in the darkness - and felt how blood flaked off of his hands as he clenched them into fists. His smeared clothes were still wet - by the time he was let out they got dry, too.

He was taken to see the high command of the rats - and Jarvis among them - that was when he got to know his name.

"I'll be useful to you," he said - and the man wrote: "You'd better be."

It was weapons, naturally, that interested them. Constructions and how they could use the materials available on the Sphere to make them. The crystal could give that. At the first moment when Peter got his crystal back, pressed his fingers to the cool smooth surface, he felt almost choking at the thought how much happened since he had done it last time. The crystal was from his past life - maybe, the only thing of his past life that still was there for him.

//"I trusted you and you did this to me."//

Was it supposed to sound reproachful? It would work better if Jarvis' hand didn't keep clenching on his clothes.

"Trusted, comrade? Think of something better. You can't stand me."

He watched Jarvis suck in the air in annoyance and let him go, taking his hand away almost too abruptly.

//"It is not so. I don't hate you. I work with you and I don't expect you to like me - so, I don't have to like you, comrade. I just can't understand how you could spare him - after everything he did to you."//

"It was my choice."

//"Nobody but a whore would make the choice like this."//

"Well, then I am a whore. Didn't you know it when you accepted me here?"

He thought Jarvis was going to be sick, so much revulsion was in his face... or strike out - there were legends about the violent temper of his. But very clearly Peter realized that he didn't care what Jarvis was going to do. As he cared about nothing here, in the camp. Their fight, the future of the Sphere... his own future. The plans everyone around here was engaged in were not his, even though he was going to help to realize them.

He knew it was the only home that he had now - for the rest of his life-time - and it might be a lot, members of the family were a long-living breed. But he couldn't start living here any more than he had lived when he was with Simon.

There were dreams. About Seth and the caf? with glass arcs - and them sitting face to face at the small table - so small that it didn't hinder Seth to reach his hand and Peter to take it. Seth's fingernails were iridescent blue - and the palm soft and cool. It was so real - just like the waitress that brought them two tall glasses of syrupy brown liquid - and Peter felt its smell - and felt the mild blend of the smoke from Seth's cigarette dying slowly between his ring-finger and pinky. He never shook off the ash and it grew like a thin fluffy column of grey.

"I want you to forgive me."

And Seth answered - for the first time Peter heard his voice - soft and husky:

"There is nothing to forgive... but if you want - of course, I forgive you."

And he dreamed about Simon. There was no smell, no senses - just cold and darkness - and they didn't talk. What to talk about - Peter couldn't ask him to forgive. There could be no forgiveness.

For what Peter had been doing to him. For what Simon had been doing to Peter. For the last thing Peter had done. Was it Simon's turn to strike now?

"I don't care what you think about me," he rose from the chair, coming up to Jarvis so close that he could feel the warmth of the man's body, even the slight trembling of it - and noticed how Jarvis shunned away from him abruptly. "I can be a whore or whatever - but I am not a slave any more. As you said, we work together. So, stop yelling at me and get out of my room. I need to work."

For a moment the man looked at him as if going to say something, then spat on the floor demonstratively and walked out.

* * *

He switched off the crystal in the small hours, his face seemed to be unbearably tender when he touched it and rubbed his swollen eyelids. He couldn't hear whether the camp was quiet or not but he sensed it - ill-assorted crowd of people had gone to rest at least.

He should've been in bed, too - not to stare at the ghostly screen above the crystal - the more so he had no reason trying too hard for Jarvis and others. The weapons were already being made – in the factories, by the same workers who worked for the Commander's order - but in secret. It was just a matter of time when the insurrectionists could take the field. When Jarvis would take the control over all forces of the rats.

Peter was not sure he wanted to be here when it happened.

He opened the door and stood on the threshold for a few moments, getting used to the dull light of the passage. He had a separate room - but the facilities were common for everybody; a long chilly walk to the sinks.

Well, walking through the camp, alone, was one more thing why he stayed for so long with the crystal. A phantom of solitude - of peace? He entered the dimly lit washroom with a few ugly sinks along the wall - and in the mirror over one of them, for a moment, saw a shadow flit behind him. He started turning back, an immediate alert singing through his nerves - and the hands grabbed him, twisted his arms upwards brutally, pushing him on his knees.

He didn't have time to see who it was. He felt his knees hit the rough floor, struggled, trying to turn and look, and a hand clasped on his hair, pushing his head down, preventing him from seeing.

Oh shit... shit... It was not someone from outside - he knew it, not because they wouldn't possibly get into the camp unnoticed - but why would they attack him like that? It must've been... the insurrectionists, his "comrades", fuck them. He felt cold, blinding anger and struggled like mad as a black cloth was pulled over his eyes and tied firmly and the hands kept pushing him down.

A savage kick under his ribs made him cry out. Pain was hot and bitter but it took more than that to stop him from fighting - he was too angry to care how hurt he was.

Good - you probably won't feel when they fuck you, he thought sarcastically. Yep, that was probably what they aimed for. He was suddenly amazed how much it angered him - like, you know, it had never been done to him before. He knew he wouldn't get any worse if they did it - would be able to live with it.

Just one more chip, barely perceptible, off of his mind that probably was already chipped and crushed beyond repair.

He was thrown face down on the floor, his arms and legs held tightly - giving him barely enough slack to twitch. He felt someone lean over him, the hands slide under his belly and pull the belt - and butted back with his head, sensing that he hit something soft and hard, not hearing a sound of pain but knowing it was there. Someone kicked him in his side - with such ferocity that he was robbed of breath, feeling as something tore inside him.

They can kill you like that.

He pressed down, hindering a man to pull his pants off. He knew he was probably the only one of them who was still silent - and what did they say? That he was a whore and deserved it - or that he was more a nuisance than they expected? But he didn't think they would give up now.

Just let them take it, okay?

Yeah, and let them take it every time after that.

He winced at sharp pain as someone's fingernails scratched over his ribs, flaying the stripes of skin. He knew it was just inches from everything to happen - and he knew how everything would happen - so well that he could predict it blow-by-blow, the grip on his ass-cheeks, the wet bluntness against his anus, the broken resistance of the entrance.

It never came. He couldn't exactly point the moment when the things took a different turn - a pause lasted a bit too long, the hands keeping him down froze - and then let him go abruptly. He used it to twist up immediately, the pain in his side making him hiss but not stop. He almost couldn't believe he was let go - but nobody stopped him and he reached to pull the black cloth from his face.

It was when another blow came. Not particularly cruel - more unexpected - sending him off balance and back on the floor. Then nothing.

Peter was disoriented only for a couple seconds - and yanked the cloth off angrily, sat up - and saw Jarvis standing over him, haughty expression of his eyes as always - the small mouth pressed hard and disapproving as he looked at him in silence.

That explained things, didn't it?

Then Jarvis squatted and, with the light refracted in his eyes under another angle, his stare seemed almost sympathetic.

//"You okay?"//

He should've been feeling gratitude; he owed one to Jarvis, right? - would be fucked, literally not to mention figuratively, if Jarvis hadn't appeared.

"Yeah," wincing at the pain in his side. "Thank you."

//"Never mind,"// for a moment it seemed to Peter he was about to give him a hand up - and then changed his mind - got up and stepped back, giving Peter place to get on his feet.

"What a luck that you were near."

//"Stupid to walk around at night."//

"It's a bad neighborhood, I assume?"

He expected a shrug in reply - another exasperated compression of lips Jarvis usually finished their conversations with. But he continued to stay in front of Peter, turning slightly as if so that the light falling on his face make it possible for Peter to read his lips.

//"People *are* xenophobic; especially in the Sphere."//

"Oh come on," he was not going to say it - but he did. "Don't bother. I understood the lesson. 'Slave in mind' - was it about that? Showing me my place. A punishment for I didn't do the things about Simon as you wanted me to?"

//"What?"//

"You shouldn't have hit me."

//"I didn't hit you."//

He couldn't believe Jarvis said it; he smiled and reached too fast for Jarvis to step away - took his hand.

"Your touch is recognizable, Terrence. And that..." turning Jarvis' hand, showing the split knuckles - split against his teeth. "That is going to be inflamed."

//"I did it for you, slut. So that you didn't see them. So that you could continue to live here."//

He noticed that Jarvis' speech became somehow slurry - difficult to understand. And then he noticed that Jarvis' hand was still in his - no attempt made to take it away.

"So, that's all my fault? From the beginning to the end? Right, Terrence?"

Comrade Jarvis.

And then suddenly both Jarvis' hands locked on his wrists and pulled him closer - violently as always, his touch having something not human in it - but Peter didn't have time to wonder how much he was pissed off this time. Because Jarvis' mouth locked on his - and his tongue, wet and warm and insistent - entered his mouth possessively.

I won't do it... I am not a slut... But as this thought flashed in Peter's mind, he knew that he would. He thrust his tongue against Jarvis' - responding stroke-to-stroke - and his hands clasped around Jarvis' head, fingers digging into the short but stunningly silky hair, massaging the scull slightly. He didn't want to fight Jarvis. Was it enough a reason to give in?

He felt Jarvis' lips leave his mouth and roam along his throat, clamping almost painfully but never with teeth - and Peter's breath was caught, came out in short gasps - and he could sense Jarvis' broken breath on his skin, almost scalding.

Jarvis didn't quite topple him over on the ground; there was this measured grace in his movements - the precision that Peter had experienced before. He was neat enough with laying Peter down and covering him with his own body - not to hurt, not to make it look like onslaught. His lips were wild, kissing, almost torturing Peter's lips and his hands wandered around Peter's body, finding the way in to the bare skin between the pants and the sweater. But when Jarvis' fingers slid across the fresh scratches on his ribs, Peter felt him pull away quickly - and then his touch there was surprisingly gentle, almost feather-like.

Peter felt his head spin. He could feel the hardness of the floor under him as he arched towards Jarvis' hands that pulled down his pants, could feel the inescapable dampness of the air of the underground as his belly and groin were bared - the things registered in his mind with absolute clarity. And yet he was not entirely playing passion - or was the thought of getting some security with Jarvis by giving him what he wanted enough to make him hard?

Slut... indeed.

He expected almost everything - but not Jarvis' moist cool mouth envelop his cock, slide down on it ravenously. He would have understood if the man had doubled him up and fucked him - or presented his cock for Peter to suck. But he was doing it the other way. Soft and tight and with the exact rhythm that made Peter stick his fingernails into the floor and arch towards the sucking mouth.

Then Jarvis changed the mode - and his teeth scraped like very fine sandpaper, burning as going up and down Peter's shaft, making him stifle little cries, both of pain and pleasure. The same mixture as all his sensations were - cold and heat, calculation and excitement. Fuck, where did Jarvis learn to do it like this? Peter bucked his thighs, before he could resister it - and then Jarvis was over him, his mouth on Peter's lips.

He kissed, one of his hands around Peter's cock, rubbing it roughly enough to make him shiver and still driving him to the peak. And Peter felt Jarvis' other hand find his nipples under the sweater, roll them hard, press the scar tissues inside the buds. Peter wasn't wearing the rings any more - but the holes stayed, probably were going to stay forever - and deliberately cruel caressing of Jarvis reminded him about it. Maybe, it was meant to remind.

Jarvis let his mouth go - and looking down at Peter's face, said very clearly:

//"I hate you, whore. You were right. I hate you."//

The hand on his cock squeezed - and Peter couldn't do anything about it - his sperm spilled over Jarvis' fingers and over his own belly.

He watched Jarvis get up - and sat up, pulled his pants up, feeling the cool stickiness of his cum but deciding to take care of it later. Jarvis watched him from above, his face closed as always, his eyes disdainful - and sober.

//"Don't walk alone at night any more. Because I won't be always around to protect you."//

* * *

He had seen the looks in the streets. Mostly furtive, scuttling away as soon as he turned to meet them. People knew. The City was too small a place for some secrets to stay secret. Some - his acquaintances - greeted him - polite, cordial nods, a few words that could be exemplary in their awkwardness. And this expectant, curious pause... as if he was going to show some trick to them - to talk to them. Slightly disappointed as he wrote something in the notebook fixed on his wrist.

They would get used, he thought; people could get used to everything.

It was not the first time Simon was out - but the first time when he took the band on such a long distance. He felt pretty fit. He mostly lost weight because he couldn't eat for a while - but now the stump didn't hurt any more and the doc had taken off the stitches - so, he was going to gain his form quickly.

The worst was behind; he had survived - again - as always.

Thank you, Peter, you could do worse - you could kill me.

Or you could do better - you could kill me.

"Still no news?" falsely concerned mumbling of a casual acquaintance. "But the Commander's security makes wonders. The bastard will be found... we'll see him on the Block..."

"Thank you."

He had been improving his handwriting; so many hours of doing nothing as he stayed in his apartment. Just reading the absurd City newspaper - or exploring every change in the state of illumination of the cupola.

Or sucking on the blue jellies that tingled at the healing root of his tongue at first but then made him feel nothing at all.

He had never been so close to becoming addict as on those days (an appropriate revenge, would you enjoy it, Peter?) The loneliness in the evenings pushed him towards it most of all - and this yellow light - and once it came to his mind that it was the first time since before the Academy when he had been really alone. Some experience, wasn't it?

He had even brought Jordan, a prostitute from downstairs, a few times - just to have someone near - and pressed her emaciated, slack body to the bed with his weight, stabbing his cock into her unresponsive vagina. He chose her because she was so pale and so boyish - but even when he grew violent and crushed her small malleable tits in his hands, she didn't cry out or thrash.

And the truth was that eventually it was not something about her that made him cum - but Peter's sweater he made her wear and the sight of her soft pink nipples sticking out through the gashes.

Sex, though, was a much less efficient means to distract him than a dose... but eventually he managed to relinquish both of them. Simon owed it to himself - to be in his sane mind. Control... He had to have control.

And he thought he did have it - until the Commander called for him and what he offered - *this* Simon couldn't relinquish.

He hadn't seen Commander Duvall's house for weeks and now, approaching it, he noticed the changes - French windows on the first floor. It had to be unbreakable plastic - but Simon appreciated the overall impression: the leader trusts his citizens enough not to hide anything from them.

That's what he always loved in the Commander - the man made all the right moves.

The interior of the house hadn't changed, though; nor had the man - an upright frame in the ideally fitting old-model uniform - and a face with an easy lit smile.

"I didn't think I would ever see you here again, child."

"And were getting out of your mind worrying about the next lot of the stuff?" he wrote in the notebook, turning it to the Commander to read.

"You hurt my feelings," how laughter always made his eyes sparkle. "But my customers started asking questions. Who knew you would be blessed to overcome the wound and get well again?"

"Yeah, and that's why your people searched every inch of my place."

"My people took care of you, you silly boy."

This bantering could go on for hours - well, a lot of times before 'the accident' Simon had enjoyed doing that - a part of fun that the conversations with Duvall brought. But with writing down every phrase it was a bit too... cumbersome. And, anyway, he was here for another reason. He nodded - and the next moment the Commander spread his arms, inviting Simon in.

"Glad to have you again at my side."

Simon hugged the shoulders that felt elderly frail but were hardly so.

"Speaking about your offer - I appreciate it," he let the Commander go, started writing, making a pause after every phrase to let Duvall read it. "Of course, I am eager to accept it."

"I didn't expect anything else from you," Duvall had a talent to play with his voice. Like now - sounding business-like and warm at the same time. "I thought you would want to settle up the things with him - with your slave - I don't call him your former slave, mind you - a slave once is a slave for all times."

A thin pale hand lay on the crook of Simon's elbow, leading him somewhere - out of the lounge, to the stairs, narrow but convenient, and Simon thought about the rumors of the City about the cells and cellars under the Commander's house, being built for generations... and the things that were said to happen there.

"I don't mean that you might be angry with him - what is his name? - or want to revenge yourself upon him - he just doesn't deserve these feelings. But in a way... leaving everything like this also leaves a kind of unresolved issue behind, right?"

Unresolved issues... do you call it like this now?

The stairs turned around the corner - and in a small niche at the wall Simon saw a heavy wooden lid wielded right into the stone floor. The smell ambushed him suddenly; piss and sweat and feces and unmistakable odor that blood, even dry, makes. He saw the Commander go to one knee on the damp floor, reach for the lid without a shadow of squeamishness - his muscles tensing along his thin arms as he pulled the lid up.

Cold jumped in his face from the opening - and the smell got so bad that Simon raised his hand involuntarily, trying to cover his nose and mouth. The Commander's face didn't even twitch.

"One makes strange choice from time to time. I wonder what your slave could have found in... him," he said thoughtfully, looking down. It was pitch dark in the opening - and even Simon couldn't make out much - but then he saw, or thought that he saw... The Commander hit the switcher - and light lit up somewhere below.

That might be a good idea for hell, Simon thought, meeting the eyes that looked up at him from the pit.

In fact, the man was not on the bottom of the pit - the light didn't allow to see its bottom; it might be one of the Sphere tunnels - but apparently without any rails and wider than usual. The man was on the projection of the wall - just enough place for him to sit crouched.

His eyes that looked at Simon from below seemed black at the first moment; but even now, when the light had to reduce the pupils, they stayed huge, leaving just a thin lines of irises. And he was not blinking. Simon wondered if he saw them at all.

"Shall I send for the guards to get you out, Seth?" the Commander asked thoughtfully - and the man - the kid - reacted: it was a strange sound - of a mouse digging through the wall - but then Simon saw Seth's small hands with broken, bloodied fingernails scratch and scratch the stone as if he hoped he could make a hole there.

"I let them do whatever they want to him, you know," the Commander said. "Since I don't have much interest in him any more... why to spare him? I just visit him now and then... especially when I need to..."

Somehow thoughtfully the Commander opened the buttons of his fly and with a flash of white skin of his non-erect cock directed it at Seth's face.

The kid didn't move, didn't even try to turn away when the jet hit him - didn't close his eyes - in fact, he cupped his hands for the stream, bringing it to his lips greedily. And with a sick feeling of understanding Simon thought that the guards might play with him but they didn't always remember to let him drink.

Recognizable things... recognizable in too many ways.

"Aren't you going to thank me, Seth?" the Commander shook off his cock for the last time and tucked it in again. "Yes, honey," addressing to Simon, "that's him. For all I know, the one your slave had this sweet little affair with."

When Simon got the message from Duvall, for a while he thought how illogical it was. Come on, he knew Peter. It was not that Peter lacked sex in his everyday life - and really, was there anything Simon failed to do to make him hate it? Why would Peter look for another fuck behind his back... with a man, for God's sake!

But he knew at once it was true. Small things - the ones that registered in his brain but he preferred to ignore them - resurfaced now. Smell, slight excitement Peter couldn't hide, his wistful, absent look afterwards. Peter had been cheating on him.

A minor offence, taking into account all the rest, right?

"I can get him out and clean him so that you could let yourself go about him a little," the Commander offered - smiling again. "We can do him together."

"Nah."

"Why?"

He didn't quite know why. Maybe, because he had thought he would hate the one whom Peter had chosen over him. But he didn't feel hatred towards or for the kid, Seth or what his name was. It was not between Simon and him. It was between Simon and Peter.

"Then we are leaving you, Seth," the Commander said, reaching for the light switcher again - and for this brief moment Simon saw the black insane eyes change - from plea to relief to horror of being left alone in the dark hole again - and to terrible resignation. And no sound, even when the lid went down.

Only when they moved away, he heard something from under the lid. A thin whimpering, totally animal-like. A little dog whining in the darkness.

He thought about the kid crouched around his skinny knees there, above the pit - hiding his face from something that he couldn't even see - and wondered if it was not a bigger mercy to get him out of there, have him cleaned and, maybe, fed, even if he'd have to pay for that with hours of the Commander's twisted games.

But no, it wouldn't be a bigger mercy.

"Thank you for sacrificing him for me," he wrote.

"For you? No, dear," back upstairs the Commander washed his hands, appeared wiping his fingers on a soft towel. "It is not so much about you... even not about him being disloyal. The truth is that most possibly he would be finished like that anyway. I was getting bored with him - a little whore, no backbone to break. I'd better get another one for myself."

Oh right, Simon thought, a good example how one should take the situation.

And the Commander was right - he had broken the kid. Not temporarily - forever; even if one day the master would let him get out of the hellhole. His mind was in a hellhole for good.

Too bad for you, Peter, if you cared.

"Why do you think he'll come for him?"

The Peter he had known wouldn't come. The Peter he had known wouldn't recall his lover by then.

"I think he might," the Commander said joyfully. "And not only because of Seth. I think he might want to get back, you know."

"Unresolved issues?"

"In a way."

Wasn't it crazy? The Commander thought he knew Peter better than Simon knew him.

And suddenly, as if reading his thoughts, Duvall said:

"I know a lot of things. About you, about Peter... You can't even imagine what things," and, raising his hand before Simon could interrupt. "No, not that you came from outside. This is an old news, you always knew that I knew. I know about Raymond Glint, though... it alone could bring you to the Block - murder of our great artist, think about it. I know how much stuff you have left and where you hide it. I have better spies than those assholes you had killed."

His thin-skinned bony hand lay on Simon's comfortingly, not letting him go.

"You can ask why I pay you for something that I can get for free... Look at me, child. Do you know how old I am? Seventy-five. And thirty years of having power. There is not much that still fascinates me. Watching you struggle for your place under the sun is one of them."

And torturing your slave into madness is another, Simon thought. Oh he knew thinking it was a triumph of hypocrisy. Were the Commander’s doings any worse than the things he had done to Peter? And yet at that moment another thought came to Simon's mind and scared him beyond explanation.

He thought about the years in front of him - going as he wanted them to go - with him having everything he ever dreamed about. When would he become the same as the Commander was now? Uninterested in anything but destruction...

Maybe, he already was like this.

"Let me tell you a story," Duvall said lowering in the armchair. "Once upon a time I had a slave. He was an exceptional young man and I loved him as my own son. But he chose a wrong way in life. No matter how I tried to correct him, he became worse and worse - until it couldn't be tolerated any more. So, I had to send him to the Block. But I loved him so much - I couldn't stand the idea of him dying in suffering there. I let him go... I let him escape. And since then I don't know any rest. God help you, child, to get your slave back. Because, maybe, then I would be able to get mine."

* * *

You had been cheating on me, bitch... How was it that I noticed nothing? Too wrapped up in my plans, my own future, my all-too-unwelcome addiction to the stuff. The porcelain smoothness of your face, eyes half-shadowed with your butterfly-wing eyelashes - it shouldn't have been enough to deceive me. I thought I had known you - and yes, I had - I know you: every frown, every twist of your childish mouth - every way to hurt your body, every way to fuck up your mind.

Don't you dare to slide away from me. Not now. Not ever. You belong to me.

You had been trying to kill me, bitch... The last thing I remember before the blade in my mouth is the warmth of your body as you sat in the bed with me. Damned little liar...

You paid me back for what I had done to you.

Now it's my turn to get even.


The Commander will sent this kid - your lover – to the Block on the day after tomorrow. He thinks you'll come to try to help him. Because it's your fault and you know it - and because once in your life you probably will want to do something right.

The kid is a goner, in any case - and I don't think you'll be trying to save him. You'll be trying to kill him, right? Before he gets to the Block. The mercy I wish someone would show me if... (or when...) Will you know that it's a trap? Well, I always respected your ability to feel danger. It's just that sometimes you do things against your best feeling.

Please come back! Whether for Seth - or... for me.

Come back - and die - if it is what you want to do. I don't think the Commander will give us a lot of time together; most possibly something like fifteen minutes... of quality time. Enough to fuck you, anyway. Just one more time. To enter you - soft, tight, resilient - warm... to see your eyes fly open in pain... to let me recall your smell, the softness of your mouth, the fluttering of your eyelids. Your colors are - white of your skin, dark of your hair, grey of your eyes, pink of your lips and nipples.

Let me look at you - feel you - one more time - to remember you. Because after that the Commander will take you away - and you'll die. Whether you know the things he needs or not, whether you tell them or... you'll tell, of course; he has the means to make you spill every single thing that you know. And then he'll kill you. Because he likes to do it. And, maybe, he'll let me watch it and I'll pretend liking it, too.

I must if I want to survive.

Oh do I want to? You answer me. You - my detached, casually ruthless master - my passionate, pathetic slave - I gave you more than nine years of my life. More than a part of me - my rotting tongue they had found on the stairs. You know what I gave you - because you gave me as much.

* * *

//"You know we can start. People *are* ready. It is more important than having enough guns."//

He didn't know how Jarvis' voice sounded - probably absolutely calm. But Peter could see what he would hardly be able to hear. The man was on the brink; hiding his hands and, maybe, clutching them against the edge of the table.

//"And you don't care how many lives it can cost, comrade?"// Romana, a slim dark woman - Jarvis' favorite opponent. Peter saw him press his mouth tighter as if he struggled against the urge to yell at her - and then say - unhurriedly as always:

//"Was there ever a revolution without victims? I know people are ready to die to win their freedom."//

//"But we can't lead them to death."//

There were seven people in the room, besides Peter - five men and two women - all the high command of the insurrectionists. A few faces he had known very well even before he got to the camp - had seen them enough times on the portraits slapped everywhere in the City with the promises of awards. They all looked older, though, and rather grim.

//"We can start from the fields - if we manage to raise the farmers and they inundate the City... the order will not survive,"// Jarvis again.

//"Or we can blow up the fern lands. We have explosives now."//

Okay, it was a joke. Thanks God. Peter was not sure it would always stay a joke. He was the one who had brought the explosives - and the guns - to the Sphere. Maybe, one day he would have to pay for it. But he couldn't say he was exactly remorseful about what he was doing. He should've been. He just couldn't make himself care. Almost as if somewhere in his mind he still thought he was only a sojourner here, in the Sphere. As if one day a ship would come for him and take him away.

He walked to his room once the meeting was over and sat at the table. Switch on the crystal again? He could've made some calculations... not that he wanted to. He didn't feel the door open - or, maybe, he never closed it - and there was Jarvis in his room - very close, his hands touching, making Peter flinch and start back abruptly.

//"What's wrong with you? Nervous?"//

"Nope."

//"Oh you are."//

Peter shrugged, not willing to continue, looking away from Jarvis - who was still too close, still holding him slightly. Too much contact for a business conversation. And when suddenly he was on his knees at Peter's side, it almost didn't surprise him. He tried to shake away Jarvis' hand that pulled his sweater up - and felt Jarvis' warm round head pressed to his lap when thin white fingers slid over his ribs - stunningly hot. Jarvis' questioning eyes turned to him.

The arms went around Peter's neck, pulling him into the embrace - warm and hard yet strangely flexible. He was not sure he could escape from these arms, though, as much slack as they gave - and again the thought about a big snake - an affectionate, loving snake - came to his mind.

//"Peter..."// a meaningless whisper, just like one would make in the heat of passion. Only he knew Jarvis was not. Once Peter could be deceived - but not again. Jarvis' face was buried in his neck, lips warm and nipping, seeking insistently over his throat, sucking under his jaw.

Doing it again? In the mood to prove one more time what a slut their science advisor was... and he himself, helping it eagerly. Despite himself, despite his attempt of staying sober - slipping down into the lulling presence of the arms around him, the warm possessive touches that seemed to meld into his skin. All woozy and lost.

"Nah, Terrence, thanks."

He pulled away - not completely, with Jarvis' arms staying around him in a ring.

//"Why? Don't you want to..."//

Sure, whatever. Why to mind, anyway? With the mess his life had come to he could just easily take what was given and not care about anything else. Let Jarvis play his games, whatever they were about.

//"You are..."// he saw Jarvis say something - pause, then start again. //"You are a whore, a pretty whore... And you use it against me..."//

The word could be abusive but not how he said it.

"*I* use it?" Peter felt tired. "What do *you* want from me? To bring me off one more time?"

It was rude, he knew - but he didn't expect the shadow of pain flitting over Jarvis' face. He felt his arms unlock suddenly, the man get up - and thought that it must've been over. A pointless scene that wasn't going to bring anything good - or bad. He looked up at Jarvis, waiting for him to go.

But the man didn't. With a kind of amazement Peter watched him stand, still close enough - and then he took Peter's hand and guided it to his crotch.

Oh how trusting! He was allowed to touch the cock of the Comrade Jarvis...

The sarcastic thought trailed away. Cock... what cock? He didn't feel it where it had to be - neither the hardness of erection nor the resilience of the soft one. Just... kind of smoothness... like a girl's pussy... with a little stump.

He looked up at the man's face - not in disbelief because he knew what it was what he felt - and it surely explained a lot - but not knowing what reaction was expected from him. Jarvis' face was cold as always - the same detachment that was possibly just a mask for other emotions he was not so willing to show.

//"Not many people know about it. Just as not many people know that I was a slave. It was the last thing my master did to me before I escaped. The Block, you know. I was twenty-four."//

Peter nodded. Jarvis' hand still held his wrist, still made him press his palm to the flat place. But he was sure there was nothing sexual in this touch. And not only because Jarvis didn't have devices to have sex.

//"It's interesting how many people watched it - and how quickly they forgot about it, you know,"// he proceeded suddenly, the small mouth twisted in a smile that could be almost amused. //"Forgot that it was me. They looked at me - and they even didn't remember my face. Just a hapless, faceless slave."//

Wasn't it always like that? Peter wondered how many men who had paid to fuck him on the nights when Simon appointed it would recognize him with his clothes on. And how many faces of the family slaves he could remember - and he had fucked a lot of them, not just Simon - that slim strong Abenian woman who never said a word to him, not before, not after that; the kid that was said to be incomparable in blow-jobs - and he was very good, indeed... others whom he had seen and fancied and taken...

//"All these years I lived for the day when I would be able to pay him for what he did,"// Jarvis was talking, not looking at Peter, not caring if he understood. //"Oh it was not so egoistic - I thought about everyone whom he made suffer - still making - the whole world he built - and I knew one day I would bring it down. When you appeared I knew you were my lucky chance to speed up the things... I had to have you. But when I saw you I couldn't believe that you - as you are - so baby-soft... so self-centered, so manipulative - you could be the one who would change everything and would make my dream of thirteen years to come true, bring freedom to the Sphere."//

As for freedom... Peter couldn't believe in it, too.

Jarvis' face distorted as he turned to Peter, almost hissing in rage, his eyes fierce:

//"I swear by God, Peter, you will do that. Even if I have to make you. It can't go on like this! Because he is doing it again, what he did to me. Another man he owns - another slave he puts on the Block - guilty in nothing but becoming an old toy... But this one will be the last who'll die on this Block, I promise that. I swear on my brand that I'll bring him down."//

Jarvis pulled up the long loose sleeve of his sweater and for the first time Peter saw the square of burnt skin on his forearm, covered in small letter, black on white.

It almost didn't surprise him when he read it. Somehow he knew it all the way.

"Terrence Jarvis, property of Alexander Duvall."

* * *

The darkness of the tunnel was as impenetrable as the silence that cloaked him permanently. It looked like he was moving in nothingness but the thin steel rails under his hands were unmistakably material, the signs of his advance.

It was not the tunnel normal people used. And it didn't lead from a level to a level. Rather slanted than vertical - a burrow in the stone. But he had seen the map - and hoped he would come out where he needed to.

Last time Peter used the flashlight and checked the way had been at the bifurcation. The rest of it had to be straight - and it was good he didn't need to stop any more. Crawling, setting his hands and feet from a rail to a rail was a kind of hypnotizing routine that made him feel almost stoned out. Not quite present for tiredness - or doubts.

"Terrence, these are the rest of the calculations I had to make. I know it was supposed to take more time but I was not sure I would have another chance to continue, so, I tried to do my best. I know it was not what you wanted from me. And I know you don't have any reason to trust these numbers - as I obviously pulled this trick on you - but I hope you'll see that everything is workable.

If I come back, everything is going to be all right... my, I hope you'll take me back if I come back... Be mad with me but don't turn me away, okay? Think about it while there is time.

I had to do it. Look, I can't even start explaining it - that's why I prefer not to, that's why I leave like this. I also know that you wouldn't let me go - would better kill me, maybe - not because my plan is too risky but because you would see the threat to your plans in it. Please don't think so. I can swear by God - I won't harm you. I owe you too much.

I'm really sorry for doing this to you - and I hope I would come back and we would be able to discuss it, you would be able to show me how angry you are. But if not... juts please know that I wish you could succeed with everything you do. As I, Peter Solana, never could."

By this time Jarvis must've already found it. Pressed to the table in Peter's room by the crystal that was useless now. He could imagine Jarvis crumple the letter in his fist furiously, almost could see his face distort in anger and disgust:

//"Whore."//

Whatever.

The rail was cold and slightly moist and for a moment Peter stilled, pressing his forehead to the slick metal and it felt good - felt as if it was bringing him back to his senses. He moved again almost immediately. He had to hurry.

He knew he was near when the thick velvety darkness in front of him became soft seeping light. He knew where he would get out - close enough to the square; he already could feel the presence of the crowd over there.

He suddenly thought if it was the same tunnel Jarvis had escaped through fourteen years ago. Since him no one escaped the Block.

Seth... no, don't think about it. I am sorry, little brother.

He put on the black glasses before getting closer to the exit. He knew he would need them - at least for the first time outside, after weeks in the darkness of the underground. The night illumination he would be able to tolerate but not the brighter light of the Sphere's "day". He pushed away the bar that closed the tunnel and pulled up on his arms to get out.

The shapeless crowd in front of him rippled and laughed and shouted - soundlessly - and as he wormed his way into it, from somewhere afar the agitation vibrated through people. He knew it was Seth there.

He put his hand in the pocket and found the smooth handle of a gun, warm with the heat of his body. A gun from the first lot made on the Sphere factories.

* * *

This morning he had left his bed unmade. He waved the girl-service away, not willing her to change anything. There was not much sense in it because he knew for sure - he was never promised it - that in the evening he wouldn't come back here with Peter - and wouldn't topple him over to the ready bed. But as he walked around the apartment, dressing in a crispy white shirt, putting the golden necklace around his neck, buttoning the jacket, he looked at the crumpled sheets - and for a moment he could believe that everything might be as before. Peter would return - and Simon would forgive him. Everything would be all right because Peter would want this forgiveness.

Stupid... much more stupid that just one unmade bed could be.

There already were people in the streets, despite the early hour. No wonder, the Block thing was one of a few free kinds of entertainment in the City and they would miss it for nothing. Well, one can say it was not difficult at all for the Commander to win the hearts of people - a very old method - but it kept working.

The people who were going to watch tried to occupy the places closer to the Block but Simon's way was to the Commander's house first - where they both went through the details of the operation for the last time. Perfect. The truth was the Commander didn't need Simon for anything... except for this - to prove how well he could handle the situation.

"Well, sometimes it's good to come out to hunt myself. It makes me feel so young," and, patting Simon's sleeve slightly. "Don't worry, dear, we'll get him. First your slave - and then mine."

As if the kid - Seth - was not *his* any more.

Written off. Downstairs Simon watched how he was chained to the small cart that had to bring him to the Block. Clean for once - and stark naked, with this unbearable paleness of skin that only redheads have. His hair was red, now Simon could see it, the roots of his dyed hair had grown.

Silent and not fighting - just staring with the defenselessness of a ditched pet, looking into the faces but not recognizing probably even the guards that had visited him often enough. The uncomprehending eyes slid over Simon, too. Maybe, he would recognize the Commander. But the Commander was not here.

Suddenly Simon felt a fit of anger, directed at no one in particular at first; he focused trying to believe that it was anger with Seth, the wish to hit his blank face and wipe off this thoughtful, distant look.

Stupid, stupid kid! Used so many times. Used by Peter who wanted to play at love, who needed Seth to prove that in a way he still was free, that he could do something Simon hadn't known about. Used by his master who had never cared for him... but wasn't it an abomination, to suggest that owning someone and caring could be together? Did Simon care for Peter? He hated Peter... but somehow it was the same here.

Used by Simon who didn't know him at all. Poor mindless kid. Even now, when he was just minutes from starting to die - hours from actually dying, the death on the Block being a long one - he was still just the means for others to get what they wanted.

He made a step to the cart and cupped his palms around Seth's face. Smooth - shaven very recently. The smell was gone completely, just soap and disinfectant. No squeamishness could stop Simon from touching him - from fucking him if he wanted... Duvall would allow, for sure. He could do it without even having the kid unchained - just come up from behind and enter him.

And then he would know what it was Peter found in him.

The distant eyes met his without change of expression. He would probably feel nothing when dying, Simon thought. But to be sure...

He looked around carefully, registering that the guards didn't watch him, and pulled a few jellies out of his pocket, stuffed them in Seth's mouth, watching him intently until he swallowed. Well, even though the kid seemed not to know what happened to him - maybe, his mind - his soul locked in some distant place from where it couldn't or didn't want to return - knew what Simon had done. And, maybe, when the things would be weighed for Simon, this one would be counted.

The cart moved and Seth sagged in the chains - and the crowd started roaring.

Simon knew he should've hurried - his place was on the pedestal, with the Commander, to watch the execution - Duvall was already there, Simon had heard shouting that greeted him. From there Simon would see everything. Peter’s appearance and his consequent capture - and then how they would proceed with whatever was in the agenda of Seth's execution.

But Simon didn't go there. Instead he entered the crowd, following the cart, and watched the people who reached their hands to Seth, trying to touch someone who would be dead so soon. It's good that the kid doesn't feel it, he thought, it would scare him.

He looked up and saw the Commander smile and wave to the crowd - and yet recognized an intent, suspicious look he examined the people within. Seeking for Simon; Simon was supposed to be at his side. Well, with Simon's height - with his shaven head - it would be only minutes until he was spotted.

It was when he saw Peter. Having no reason to be or feel surprised - well, maybe, just with the Commander's sixth sense - Simon still felt it was like a savage kick to his chest - making him stop and stare.

How dare you to come?

Didn't you want him to come?

He looked at the dark glasses on Peter's face and his haircut that was different, no more long strands falling onto his face - he thought that, maybe, it would make it more difficult for the guards to recognize him. One had to know him like Simon did...

He watched Peter move towards the place where the cart was brought to the stairs of the Block - and trying not to attract attention with abrupt movements, moved there, too. He could see Peter very well now - how he tiptoed to see the cart. And Simon was already close enough to notice how his face blanched, his lips whitened when he saw Seth.

Look at what you had done. It is all your fault, you fuckin' damned League slut. You had put him there by caring for him - by caring for him enough to come to look at his death... or to try to spare him from it.

Simon had expected Peter to move closer - if not to touch the kid for the last time - then to kill - he needed to be close to stick the blade. But Peter didn't move. Others touched the kid's slack limbs and genitals. Simon saw Peter look at Seth as if he still hoped to catch his eyes - press his hand to his mouth - something between blowing a kiss and gesture of pain.

Then he stuck hand in his pocket and took it out - and in disbelief Simon noticed a gun in his hand. Oh God... He recalled his old thought how much difference one gun could make in the Sphere.

In any other place people would dash aside from Peter, seeing the gun - here they just didn't know what it was. Their attention was turned to Seth. Well, they would be surprised... Simon squeezed between people, almost without any caution now - and still knew he wouldn't get there in time. He saw Peter raise his hand - a tiny farewell gesture, practically imperceptible.

And then he turned around to the Commander's pedestal and shot.

The noise was deafening - even in the roar of the crowd - louder than any shots Simon had heard before - and although everything happened too quickly, it seemed to him that he saw fire blaze in Peter's hands. He looked up at the place where the Commander stood - and had time to see Duvall going limp in the hands of his helpless guards, the black uniform on his chest deformed with a huge hole welling with bright blood.

He had done it; he never missed.

Panic started amazingly quickly, people running in different directions, colliding, pushing each other. Simon fought them, too. Because he could see something else: not all guards of the Commander got confused. Some of them were trained better than that. He looked at them as they raised their crossbows - and at last he reached Peter from behind - grabbed him and pulled him away and down.

The arrow hit him in the upper arm - pain stunningly heavy and hot - and for a split second he looked in amazement at the long pole sticking out of his flesh. No, there was no time for that. He knew they kept shooting - and the crowd shunned away from him and Peter, a sensible thing because a woman screamed and choked when an arrow entered her chest. By this time he already was on the ground, pressing Peter down with his body - and despite the pain, despite the clear thought that they both were doomed - feeling a shameful pleasure of having Peter in his arms again.

There was something wet - and he didn't understand at once what it was. Blood? He was sure they didn't get Peter - and then he understood... the fuckin' gun. It must've blown up in his hands. But Peter was alive - breathing and shivering - and Simon turned him on his back abruptly, looking in his face.

Yes, there was blood - small trickling cuts Simon thought it must've been the glasses that had left them. His skin was blackened - but his eyes with burnt-off eyelashes looked at Simon with a weird expression of childish amazement.

"You..."

Whom did you expect? It's me... it'll always be me.

"I killed him, didn't I? The bastard is dead."

He could do nothing else but to nod fiercely. He wished he could ask what now - did Peter ever think what would be done to him for that? The moment of hysteria would pass - and they would come for him - and Simon would be able to do nothing about it.

He reached his hand and ran his fingers over Peter's split and burnt lips. That's how it was going to end, wasn't it? No even fifteen minutes together. He expected Peter to shun away from him - at least to say something - and when he didn't, just kept looking at Simon with his wide-open and dazed eyes, Simon got bolder and passed the tips of his fingers over his cheek. He didn't want to hurt him, felt with slight sickness the moisture of blood and clear liquid of burns on the tips of his fingers.

"Simon, you stupid," Peter whispered and raised his bleeding hand to Simon's face. "I'll be missing you."

The guards were getting near, pushing through the crowd - and the arrow in his arm started hurting with renewed force. He leant towards Peter and covered his lips with his mouth.

He had no tongue to thrust in - but had no time to feel sorry for it - for he felt Peter's tongue in his mouth, touching carefully that healed stump. For the first time Peter kissed him back.

Then the guards surrounded them - and under the pointed crossbows Simon got up and gave Peter a hand that he used with a strange amused stare. He looked up at Simon - and then looked somewhere beyond the guards. Simon turned back and saw men. Lots of them - with the same ugly guns in his hands - flooding the square.

And among them - a silver-haired slim man whose face seemed vaguely familiar to Simon - his voice covering the noise:

"The Commander is dead. The old order is destroyed. Surrender while you can - surrender to the new order."

* * *

The lights were going out. Blue and grey shadows thickened slowly above and descended on the City until the cupola became invisible and very distant in the darkness.

He had never liked to watch it; and yet how many times he caught himself on meeting the night like this, on the balcony, looking up at the vanishing lights. The City didn't light up bright yellow after the dark any more. For a few weeks it had been only orange flames of the fires that lit the streets. But little by little the electricity was returning, together with other small pleasures of life, like hot water, for example.

At least for those who took the right side.

He raised the plastic glass of vodka to his lips and took a swing. It was bad vodka - but for the ration cards you couldn't get even this. New order demanded victims, as Jarvis didn't feel tired to say. Yeah, new order was hungry... And Peter was not sure they would ever be able to feed it enough.

Well, he didn't have any reasons to complain. He could have about everything - new order didn't forget those who had served it. And the name of the man who had killed the dictator would never be forgotten. At least it was what Jarvis said.

Well, he had not always been so delighted with what Peter had done. There was enough fury in his icy-blue eyes whose coldness would soon become legendary as he forced his way among the guards to Peter on the square - and somehow Peter could know what Jarvis would like to say but would never say: 'He was mine.'

But he forgave Peter - what could be more comforting than power - and even made Peter a member of the council - Council of Six; with everything that this position meant - work and benefits. Peter didn't think it was his place to be there - but who he was to refuse?

Especially while new people were sent to the fields and factories, replacing former workers... and the enemies of the new order ascended the Block. Once Jarvis said that Seth would be the last one to die on the Block... Not true.

Peter let the empty glass fall down and walked away from the balcony, closing the door carefully. Vodka made him dizzy but not warm - and he stood in the room, shivering and looking around absently. There were few things left from the former interior: the furniture had been broken, every expensive thing missing during those few hours right after the coup d'etat when farmers and workers were let loose on the City. But Peter hardly would want anything from there. It was the place he needed.

To fight his demons? Or, maybe, there was just some weird fascination in wandering these rooms while Simon was not there.

Never would be... and Peter wished he knew whether he was glad about it or not.

Then, on the square, when the guards stepped away, Jarvis grabbed Peter, shook him in fury, yelling something - only to start groping his hands and face a moment later, trying to check whether he was all right:

//"You stupid... stupid bitch..."//

Peter saw an odd expression in Simon's eyes at these words - what, was it his remark? The insurrectionists took him, his left sleeve wet and dark with blood - and Peter thought that they probably didn't even need to do anything - just let him bleed to death.

And with sudden intensity he urged Simon silently: tell something... save yourself... don't expect from me to do it for you because I can't.

He watched Simon get free, make a comforting gesture - and start writing quickly on the small stack of paper fixed on his wrist, wincing in pain that the arrow inflicted.

"It took time for me to understand whose side I was on - but now I know. Give me a chance to serve the new order. I can do a lot for it. I endow my stock of the medicine substance called the stuff for the needs of the new order."

For an unbearably long moment Jarvis kept silent - and then, making a sign to his people, said at last:

//"We'll talk about it later. Make sure he got medical help so far,"// and as they took Simon away, he turned to Peter. //"Don't worry, we'll kill him after he tells us where the stuff is hidden."//

"I don't want him dead," he said. "I think you know it."

He didn't think Jarvis understood. Or, maybe, he did. There were rumors about Jarvis spending some time at the dead body of the Commander - and it was not only hatred that sparkled in his eyes when he left.

But whether Peter's words changed something or not - Simon was still alive - still in prison - in one of the cells under the Commander's house.

Maybe, one day you can go and visit him. Maybe.

He walked into the bathroom, steamy with heat - and dipped his hand in the water, patting Seth's knee slightly:

"Time to get out, little brother."

//"No, not yet..."//

How many hours one could spend in the bath? And how many handfuls of bath foam?

He looked at Seth thinking how little he changed: just his pale face made gentler with light red hair - but thin wide mouth seemed to hide something almost ironic in its curve the same as before - and his hands with short bright-colored fingernails were still bony and lively like bird wings. Peter wished he could see only this, never had to look in the bright blue-green eyes of eternal quietness, never had to think of childish words coming from a man.

Seth would be his little brother forever.

He caught Seth's hands and pulled him up and out, accepting him all as he was - dripping wet and giggling - wrapping him in a towel. He felt Seth's lips on his mouth and cringed inwardly responding. He knew it was a wrong thing to do but he knew that if he refused Seth would get agitated - so, it was easier just to kiss back.

He felt Seth's wet, wrinkled with water fingers slide over his face, tracing the pattern of scars. At least he was not frightened with how Peter looked like. Well, the doc said it would look better with time - his eyelashes and eyebrows would grow back, the marks would fade. So far it didn't look good... but Seth didn't seem to care.

And Peter knew someone else who wouldn't care. Simon. He didn't know how he could know it - but it was true.

//"Love me,"// he read a little gesture Seth made and felt Seth's face burrow against his neck. He kissed wet hair and led Seth to the bedroom.

"Not today. I have to go."

//"Okay,"// the kid was sleepy, snuggling around the pillow while Peter tucked the blanket around him. //"Does Terrence wait for you?"//

"Yes, he does."

But it was not true. Nobody waited for him today.

//"Just leave the light switched on, okay?"//

* * *

Day thirty-four. He could see every one of them as the notches on the wall he was making, checked them with the tips of his fingers. A good test for the sensitivity of his injured hand - to make sure it was getting healed. Thanks or despite the efforts of the doctor who visited him.

It was not so easy to kill him, do you know? He had been through worse things. They fed him - and they didn't beat him - could he expect more? And loneliness - four stone walls around - he could stand it. He could stand it as long as necessary. He just hoped it wouldn't be too long.

He kept believing that one day the door would open. And it wouldn't be black-clad comrades coming for new information from him regarding the Commander's non-existing (or unknown to Simon) secrets; pissed off that they were forbidden to press on him as much as they would like. It wouldn't be the blue-eyed man with cold and still insane face that said nothing but watched Simon as if tried to figure out some mystery.

He knew whom he waited for. And he knew that one day Peter would be here. Not because of the unresolved issues - and not to celebrate his victory - even if Peter was going to tell himself it was so. Simon knew - got to know at that moment when he pressed Peter's warm - responsive - body to the pavement of the square - that Peter would return to him.

And so far he dreamed. About hundreds of things - hundreds of 'what if' - the possibilities that presented themselves for his mind to play with them in solitude.

What if it was Simon who had been injured during the crash. What if Raymond Glint had chosen Peter over him. What if the Commander hadn't trusted him as he had. What if Simon ever let himself do what he wanted - and touched Peter in another way but to hurt him.

But in the end, he knew, no 'what if' mattered.

Because Peter will come here for him all the same - and he'll be waiting. Just don't let it take too long, don't let the men with guns come first.

In the end Simon regretted nothing. He had been happy there, in the Sphere. All these last months... maybe, the only time of his life that he lived and didn't merely survive.

And he hoped nothing was over. Oh he didn’t have the best cards on his hands now - yet he could play. He never gave up; that was him - Simon Kewlene, an orphan child from Aben slums, the League's broken slave... maybe, one day free citizen of the Sphere again.

The door opened and Simon turned to face it.



The End