Slave Empire III - The Shrike (21 page)

Her eyes stung.
“I trust you.”

“Evidently.” He
rose to his feet, leant forward and kissed her brow. “Stupid
girl.”

“Is it
real?”

Tarke wandered
over to a cupboard and opened it. “Of course it is.”

“It is
real?”

“Yes.”

“Tarke...”

He took out two
glasses and placed them on the counter. “What?”

“It’s
real?”

“How many times
are you going to ask me that? Yes, it’s real.”

“But...”

“You said you
wanted one, didn’t you?”

She fingered
the sleek metal again. “I thought you didn’t want me to have
one.”

Tarke held a
glass under a drink dispenser and filled it with a fizzy green
beverage. “Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have one, if you
want. I’ve given it some thought, and -”

“Tarke!”

“Hmmm?”

“I don’t want
it.” She jumped up. “Take it off.”

He eyed her.
“It’s a bit late now. You know a slave collar can never be taken
off.”

Rayne gripped
the collar and tried to tug it apart at the back. “You should have
asked me!”

“Are you upset
about it now?”

“Yes!”

“Don’t try to
take it off. You know what happens if you do.” He filled the second
glass. “You get your head blown off. Boom.”

“But I don’t
want it!”

“Then you
should have said so before I put it on. I gave you plenty of time
to object.”

“Tarke,
please!”

The Shrike
strode over to her, gripped her hands and pulled them away from the
collar. “Okay, don’t panic.”

Tarke reached
behind her neck, and the collar parted with a click, coming away in
his hands. She slumped, trembling.

He held it up,
raising his brows. “Okay now?”

“You
said...”

“My god, Rayne,
do you really think I’d put a collar on you that couldn’t be taken
off?”

“You said it
was real!”

He nodded. “It
is. It’s deactivated, the explosives have been removed, and the
locking mechanism is disarmed. But it’s a real Xiltran slave
collar.”

Rayne took it,
surprised by its weight. “It’s heavy.”

“Not as heavy
as one that still contains explosives.”

She raised her
eyes to the collar around his neck. “There are explosives in
yours?”

“That’s what
makes it go boom if you try to take it off, silly.”

“You wanted to
see how I would react, didn’t you?”

“I was curious,
yes. After you said you wanted one, it bothered me. Why would
anyone want a slave collar? That’s really dumb. It even annoyed me
a little. So first I wanted to see if you would be stupid enough to
let me put one on you without asking if it was real first, then if
you would believe me if I told you it wasn’t, or whether you would
let me put one on that you thought was real...” He sighed. “So many
possible scenarios, and yours was the worst possible one.”

“You didn’t
think I’d trust you?”

Tarke took the
collar. “When it comes to one of these, don’t ever trust anyone.
Never,
ever
, you got that?”

“Except
you.”

“Okay, you were
right to trust me, but I still find it annoying that you didn’t
even ask me first.”

“I knew you’d
never put a real one on me.”

He snorted.
“But I did, and only then did you get upset.”

“Okay, I should
have realised you’d never put one on me that couldn’t be taken
off.”

“Indeed. You’d
have to think I was very bitter and twisted to do that.” Tarke held
out the collar. “Shall we try this again?”

Rayne nodded,
and he slipped it around her throat, pressing the ends together
behind her neck with another ominous click that made her shiver.
Tarke placed his hands on her shoulders, and she fingered the cold
metal again, which rested around her throat like a heavy black
snake.

“All right?” he
asked.

She smiled.
“Yes, fine.”

“Good. And I’m
glad you changed your mind about wanting a real one.”

“Only after you
put it on did I realise just how strange and horrible it felt.”

“Well, yes,
because you’ve never worn one before.” Tarke returned to the
counter and picked up the glasses.

“I suppose
you’re used to it now?”

He shrugged,
handing her a glass. “I’m always aware of it. It’s not the sort of
thing you forget about.”

She sipped the
fruity drink. “Is this all the disguise I need?”

“Not quite.
You’ll need some new clothes, and a mark.”

“A mark?”

“Mmm.” He
sipped his drink.

“What sort of
mark?”

“The sort
ex-slaves wear on Rimon.” He put down his glass and opened a drawer
to take out a small round device, which he adjusted. “There we go.
That’s a good one for you.”

“What is
it?”

Tarke came over
to her and clasped the back of her neck with his free hand, raising
the instrument towards her brow.

She twisted
free, shaking her head. “Oh no you don’t. Tell me what it is
first.”

“Now you don’t
trust me?”

“After what you
just did with the damned collar?”

Tarke chuckled
and sat at the table. “It’s a Helba deviant mark. It tells others
what sort of ex-slave you are, and what you allow. It’s a way of
preventing misunderstandings in a society rife with social misfits,
psychopaths, sociopaths, phobics, schizophrenics, sociophobes and
paranoid people.”

He picked up
the instrument and pressed it to the table top, where it left a
bright blue circle split into three sections, two of which were
solid, the rest an outline. “This configuration will be good for
you. The top section being filled in means you’re untouchable, an
ex-pleasure slave. The second section, on the right side, means
only women may approach you.”

Tarke adjusted
the instrument and pressed it to the table top again. “This is
mine.”

Rayne gazed at
the solid circle, then raised her eyes to meet his. “An ex-pleasure
slave, untouchable, unapproachable by male or female.”

“Right.”

“That must make
making friends very difficult.”

He smiled. “And
yet I have a few.”

“I’m guessing
they wear the same mark.”

“Yup.”

“It prevents a
lot of misunderstandings, I suppose,” she said.

“A lot of
broken heads, too. If anyone is stupid enough to grab me for any
reason and gets their face pushed in, they can’t go running to the
authorities and complain, or lay a charge against me. They were
warned. Yours will keep you safe from men, but women can still be
friendly to you.”

She nodded.
“Does everyone wear a mark here?”

“No. Most were
labourers or servants, who have no real problems interacting with
people.”

Rayne sat
opposite him, studying the marks, whose simplicity made them easy
to understand, and she admired the cleverness of the idea. There
were probably many psychologically damaged ex-slaves who would not
have been able to go out in public without the mark’s protection.
Tarke adjusted the instrument again, leant across the table and
pressed it to her brow.

“There you go.
Now you just need some clothes. I’ll order some.” His eyes became
unfocussed for several seconds, while, she assumed, he contacted a
clothing outlet via the local shopping network, or whatever people
used on Rimon.

Half an hour
later, a roboid dropped off a package, which he handed to her.
Rayne tore it open and drew out a stretchy, two-piece crimson suit
with a high neck and long sleeves. It appeared to be made from faux
suede, and the split skirt hung to mid-thigh over ankle-length
leggings, its hem uneven. Gold embroidery ornamented the high
collar and cuffs, and a thin chain encircled the waist.

She raised her
brows. “A bit fetching for an untouchable, isn’t it?”

He smiled.
“Untouchables have two modes of dress, the monk, or priestess look,
which consists of a long, shapeless grey or brown shift that
reaches the floor, and the warrior look, like that, and this.” He
indicated his outfit. “I didn’t think you’d like the priestess
look.”

“You’re right,
but still, this is quite revealing.”

“Untouchables
who prefer the warrior look don’t want to appear ugly or even
plain, and the shift makes it quite hard to move freely. Their mark
protects them, so they could walk around naked if they wished, and
no one would bother them. But it doesn’t expose much skin, since
untouchables don’t like to be touched, obviously.”

“I did notice
that.”

“Gloves are
optional, but I didn’t think you’d want them.”

Tarke turned
his back while she changed into the new outfit, admiring it in the
mirror. The soft shoes that came with it were flat-heeled and
comfortable, and she twirled, smiling.

“So, what do
you think?”

“Very nice. Now
for a finishing touch. Come and sit here.”

Rayne returned
to the table, and he took a pouch from the box and sat beside her.
He drew out a pot of silver paint and slender brush, which he
dipped in the paint. Holding her chin, he tilted her face to the
light and applied the paint around one of her eyes, his gaze
intent. His proximity stirred the usual warm quivers in her, but
she had learnt how to hide them better now, and hoped he did not
notice. She did not think he would object to her feelings, but he
might find them a little embarrassing, she mused. He seemed to
think of himself as sexless, as perhaps all untouchables did, but
his powerful magnetism made it impossible for her to think of him
that way. Then again, he had used his charisma to try to coerce her
in the past, so he was well aware of it. He probably hated it, too.
Trying to figure him out, however, was pretty much impossible. He
would baffle a legion of psychologists. She took the opportunity to
study him up close, marvelling at his flawless skin, which seemed
to have no pores.

Several minutes
later, he sat back. “There you are.”

Rayne looked in
the mirror and discovered that she now had a silver square around
one eye, outlined in black, which gave her face an odd, lopsided
look that was still attractive. “What’s the purpose of this?”

He shrugged.
“It’s a common cosmetic enhancement untouchables use, and it will
serve as a disguise.”

She twirled in
front of the mirror again. “So are we ready now?”

“Yup. Where
would you like to go?”

“You’re the
guide.”

“Okay. Let’s go
to a club. It’s evening, after all.” He paused. “A few rules about
behaviour first. We can touch, but it must be impersonal. No
affection. You must always precede me, and if anyone touches you,
make sure you clobber them good and hard, except me.”

“Got it.”

“Good.” He rose
and opened a drawer in the cupboard, took out a pair of black
gloves and pulled them on.

Tarke waited
for her to join him at the door, gesturing to it when it opened.
Rayne stepped out into a dark corridor and followed his directions
around several corners to a lift that took them to the ground
floor. They exited into a busy street whose tall buildings were
adorned with flashing signs, and a stream of gravcars swept past
beside and above them. A mixture of well-dressed and ragged people
wandered past, unusually few for what appeared to be a large
metropolis. Rayne studied them as Tarke guided her to a building
with a brightly lighted doorway, and they entered a cool, luxurious
interior jammed with people.

Narcotic smoke
hung in the air, and a deep throbbing beat underscored the lively
tune blaring from every direction. The walls appeared to be covered
with deep blue velvet, and recessed lights threw soft illumination.
Dancers swayed on a spacious floor lighted from beneath in
constantly changing patterns, and patrons occupied tables all
around it. There appeared to be no empty tables, but when she
stopped Tarke prodded her forward, and she moved around the room.
Men stepped out of her path after glancing at her brow, and she
raised her chin, trying to look fierce. As she made her way along
one wall, two men sitting at a table ahead stood up and backed
away, motioning to the empty seats. She stared at them in surprise,
and jumped when Tarke’s voice spoke in her ear.

“Take the
table. Don’t smile.”

Rayne sat down,
and he took the other seat, turning his back on the men, who
watched them for a few seconds, then moved away.

She leant
forward. “What was that all about?”

“What mark did
they have?”

“None.”

He nodded.
“They’re normals. Sometimes the polite normals will defer to
untouchables, give up their seats or place in a queue, even bring
us drinks or food.”

“Why?”

“Respect. Or
pity.”

Rayne sat back,
catching several men gazing at her, who quickly looked away. Most
of the patrons were unmarked, while some had one third of their
mark filled in to ward off male or female advances. Two men sitting
at a table on the far side of the dance floor had solid circles,
and the crowd avoided them.

“So we’re
freaks?”

He smiled. “No,
we’re special. The more a slave has suffered, the more respected
they are.”

A man
approaching from the side caught Rayne’s attention, and she
recognised one of the men who had given up their seats. He carried
two drinks, which he placed on the table.

“A gift,
Rasheer
.”

Tarke inclined
his head. “Commendations,
Drantoor
.”

The man smiled
and left, and Rayne raised her brows at Tarke, who picked up a
glass and sipped the frothy golden beverage.

He said,
“
Rasheer
means ‘respected sufferer’.
Drantoor
means
‘privileged one’ or ‘one who has not suffered so much’. He was
actually addressing you, but you didn’t know how to respond.
Whatever you do, don’t smile at someone like him.”