The Price of Peace (24 page)

"How can we get our hands on them?" the marine asked.

Tom turned away. "They're in her bedroom.
Gida
, the overseer before her, had kind of adopted me. She wanted to get ahead in this business. I was her teacher, sort of a MBA bed-warmer. I guess she passed that along to Zylon. She had me in the last two nights. Business and pleasure in one neat package." He glanced back to them, a helpless twist to his empty smile.

"Before
Gida
, I never thought a woman could rape a man. Zylon ..." He shook his head. His back was raked with long claw marks. "There's something wrong with that woman."

"Think you could lift one of her wrist units for a day?" Trouble asked. "We could modify it, use Ruth's tractor to power it up, jack up its range."

"For what?" Ruth asked as Trouble zipped up his suit now that she was done dabbing sealant on all his abrasions and contusions. "Where would we send the message?"

"Security is never perfect, or so a friend of mine insists. Tom, you get me the guy who designed the system and a transmitter, and we'll figure out a place to patch into it." "You are Navy." Tom eyed him hard, maybe almost hopefully.

"And the Navy looks after its own," Ruth quoted.

"Hey, you in there!" A rough voice from the outside cut them off.

"Damn, it that time already?" Tom muttered as he opened the door. "You hunting for me?" "
Naw
. She wants the new guy.
Tordon
, you in there?"

In the cramped quarters of the clinic, Trouble was face to face with Ruth. Her nostrils flared as she took an involuntary step back from him. Without thought, he reached for her and pulled her close. In her ear he whispered, "Hang together. I'll have something for you when I get back."

She nodded as he turned. Her arm held his. trailing out to fall only when he was out of reach. "Be careful" was the last he heard from her.

"I'm
Tordon
," he said, stepping past Tom.

"Come with me." The fellow leered. Trouble followed him through the compound to the largest of the houses on the square. An open showerhead sprouted from one side. Trouble was ordered to "Strip, and get the mud off
ya
."

He did. The warm spray washed the aches from his abused muscles, the oil and dirt from his hair and body. Except for where he knew he was headed, he might have enjoyed it. The power of the spray wore away the ointment Ruth had put on his cuts; several began to bleed again. At the order to "Hurry up," he switched to cold water and felt cool for the first time in a week. He turned from the shower to find no towel.. . and his jumpsuit and boots had been kicked aside.

Follow me." Trouble did, padding along, dripping and naked. On the veranda of several of the smaller houses, guards lounged, bottles in hand. "New meat for the old lady" was the least of the catcalls he got. "Maybe this one'11 be good enough to live through the night" didn't match with Tom's claim to being a regular. The strategist in Trouble evaluated the prospects and options available to him, even as the man in him was hit hard by humiliation and degradation.

His options were few. Be stubborn and die, or do what was wanted of him, exactly as it was wanted, no matter what the cost, and maybe he'd live. Maybe he'd walk out of here with a transmitter. The tough combat marine in Trouble wanted to fight. The man in him wanted to kill someone, wipe out this shame. The officer in him knew payback time would come later, but only if he did this right. The man who loved Ruth would do anything he had to
to
save her from a night like this with the guards. As the guard led Trouble up the central stairs of the big house, he bowed his head, took a deep breath, and swore to do whatever he had to do—for Ruth, and for revenge.

Zylon Plovdic liked what she saw in the mirror. No more of
Hurtford's
make-do. She was making it her way. Removing the wrist unit that had matched today's outfit, she searched in her jewelry box for one to match tonight's ensemble. The jet-black "living leather" pants and mesh top needed something chrome and black. As befitted a station director, she had plenty to choose from. She smiled; a station director managing four subordinate supervisors, thirty-two employees, and almost two hundred "volunteers." Big Al said it was just a start. The last woman had been boss here over a year. Zylon wouldn't need that long; what was her name, Ruth, right, she knew how to run a farm. Zylon would double production in a lot less than a year.

With a happy smile, she strapped an ebony-and-silver
comm
unit onto her left wrist, then found a matching holder and slipped it around her right hand. Kick should be here any moment with the controller. There was a knock at her door.

"Yes?" she answered sharply. "I got what you asked for." "Come in."

Kick opened the door. He handed her the control pod; she quickly slipped it into her palm holder. The naked man entered, his head low, his eyes darting like those of some cornered animal—or some virgin girl. Zylon tapped the unit in her hand. A tremor shook the man from head to toe. "Everything is working fine, Kick. Thank you." She smiled at her deputy.

With a curt nod, he closed the door.

Zylon studied the man. Tall, light skinned, close-cropped hair. He had everything a man should have, though disappointingly limp at the moment.

"You're
Tordon
. You were on Hurtford Corner a while back." Head bowed, his eyes came up to meet hers. "Yes, ma'am." "You caused me a lot of trouble."

"I imagine from your perspective, I did."

Zylon tapped the controller, held it. The man fell to his knees, his hands helplessly grasping at the pods on his neck. Zylon wondered how long it would take it to kill a man, what he would look like, how he would scream. She might find out tonight. But not yet. This guy had disrupted too much of her life to die quickly. "Is there any other perspective? Besides mine?"

Tordon
collapsed on the floor, like a naked savage worshiping his goddess. Zylon liked that image; she let it play in her mind while he groaned. With a well-manicured toe, she tapped him. "Is there?'"

"No, ma'am."

"Stand up." He struggled to his feet.

"Hold me." There was fright in his eyes as he put his arms around her. She rested her body against him. There was blood on his chest from a cut; she nuzzled closer, licked him. The coppery taste pleased her. She began stroking his back: he followed suit. She raked him with her nails. He flinched but kept up a slow, gentle massage that left her wanting to purr. She didn't want to purr tonight. She wanted to scream in ecstasy, watch him scream in agony.

She stepped away from him, sat on the edge of the bed, enjoying the feel of silk sheets through the skintight slacks. "Come, take off my boots," she ordered.

He came, knelt before her. So submissive, she wanted to kick him. She did. He started to dodge, then froze. The spikes of her high heels caught his arm. More blood. The night was getting better.

"Take my boots off slowly. Gently. Pleasurably," she whispered. There was fire behind his eyes, but he nodded submissively. What's driving this man? My controller? His fear of death? The thoughts excited her as he reached for her boots. His fingers played along her legs, pleasurably. She moaned softly as his fingers massaged and delighted.

Yes, this one knows his place. She'd had another who thought her outfit was a come-on. That she was here for him. It had been a joy, using the controller over and over, until he got the message who was boss here. He hadn't been much use by that time. This one was a fast learner.

"Now take my pants off."

His hands slowly flowed up her flanks, gently undid each fastener that held them in place. His fingers wandered, the living leather transmitting their touch wide over her body. Her inner thighs warmed when a wandering hand passed quickly over them as they searched for her belt. Damn, I may keep this guy around.

She reached for him. He was still small in her hand. "What's the matter with you? You like boys or something? Maybe I should have a couple of the foremen in here."

That brought fear to his eyes when the controller had only brought pain. "I'm not wasting it until you want it," he answered her, maybe a tad too quickly. She'd have to consider keeping Kick here the next time she had this one in. Kick did have a way of getting his kicks.

Her pants were off; she leaned back on the bed. "Kiss me," she ordered, tapping the controller. He didn't flinch this time. He also didn't ask where she wanted his kisses. He guessed right.

Much later, she came slowly awake. His slow ministrations to her afterglow had ceased. She rolled over. He was halfway to the door. His night vision must be bad; he was headed for the wall next to her dresser, not the door. "Leaving so soon?" she snapped. His back dripped blood; she'd gotten him good. Without a word, he turned back. Bite marks on his shoulders and chest showed red against his pale skin. Yep, it had been a fun night.

He returned to the bed, and the slow, long, strokes that had soothed and relaxed her for sleep. She rolled over, away from him. "I'm cold. Pull up a sheet."

He obeyed. This was good. This was what a woman like her deserved. She kept her finger on the controller as she slowly fell asleep.

Back and forth, slowly, slowly, Trouble worked his hand along her back, trying to relax her, not wanting to excite her again tonight. Dear God, no! He struggled to slow his heart, slow his breathing, become nothing but a hand. He'd already been nothing but a slab of meat. His fingers twitched, wanting to grab the sleeping woman's neck. Choke the life out of her. The sensitivity trainer had said abused women went through these feelings. He never thought a man could.

Used, degraded, nothing but meat on demand. He wanted to shake her, scream "I'm me. I'm a man."

Slowly the hand worked its way down the back covered by the silk sheet. Her breath slowed; he slowed his with her. He had to put her to sleep before he fell asleep himself. Whatever happened, he did not want to be here tomorrow - when she awoke.

If he fell asleep, he'd miss his chance to rummage through her jewelry box, lift a
comm
unit. He bit his lip and used the pain to keep himself awake as she drowsed. The taste of blood came again. She'd bit his lips. He'd been scared she would bite his tongue. How did you have sex with someone who scared you to death? How could a woman do it? He'd heard women could fake it. He couldn't, but somehow he'd dredged up enough to satisfy her.

This time he was sure she was asleep, well asleep, before he risked rising from her bed. Listening to each slow breath, he walked toward the dresser—freezing in place when she moved in her sleep. It was too dark to make out any colors in the jewelry box; he selected a bracelet from the back. Holding it close to his eyes, he made sure it had a
vid
and speaker. Palming his prize, he sidestepped to the door. As he let himself out, he gave her one more glance. In the light from the court, she slept. Between the houses and the barracks a guard sat, half or more asleep. The
comm
unit was in Trouble's left hand; he edged to the right of the guard. The guard came awake as he passed.

"She kept you a while. Let me see your collar."

Trouble stood while the man ran a scanner over his control pods. "She marked you up good. Better check into the clinic afore you get what little sleep you can." Half asleep, the guard almost sounded human. Then, as Trouble passed him, the guard kicked him. Trouble held tight to his prize as he stumbled, but held his balance. The guard laughed, watching Trouble as he headed for Ruth and meds.

There was a dim light on in the clinic. He tapped on the door; it opened to his touch. Ruth sat on the one bunk; Tom and a short, wiry man squatted on the floor.

Both men were in breechcloths; Trouble was swept by a wave of shame and revulsion at his own nakedness, vulnerability.

"Did you get it?" Tom whispered. Trouble held up his hand and let his prize dangle. "Bought and paid for."

"You look like you've been through a meat grinder," Ruth said, coming forward with a tray of cotton, cleansers and ointment.

"Not a bad way of putting it," Trouble agreed as the stranger took the
comm
unit to study under a covered lamp and Ruth directed him to a small stool.

"What do you make of it, Steve?" Tom asked the short guy. "We can jack it into the tractor's receiver, use its antenna.

The GPS satellite will accept a message. Every satellite's got to send and receive maintenance checks, updates, and the likes. The Surveyor 2000+ series is no different from the rest... if I remember the codes for that puppy." Steve leaded for the clinic's tiny diagnostic unit.

"You mean we could have sent a message out anytime?" Tom was incredulous.

"You got anybody you want to send a letter to? 'Help, I'm being held hostage on a drug farm.' Right; who do we know who'd pay attention to you or me? Now, Trouble here ..."

"Who do we send to?" Tom asked.

"Wardhaven, Minister of Science and Technology. Copy to HSS
Patton
." "I can do that," Steve mumbled as he typed. "What do we say?"

"That I'll be a bit late for dinner," Trouble suggested.

"She really tore you up," Ruth whispered through teeth gritted almost as tightly as Trouble's. "I'm the one getting alcohol poured in his claw marks. Why are you gritting your teeth?" Trouble hissed at the pain."