Slave Empire III - The Shrike Read online

  “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 twirle
d, 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.”

  “Why not?”

  “He would think it very strange. You hate men, remember?”

  Rayne sampled her drink, finding it pleasant, and glimpsed the man who had given it to her out of the corner of her eye, gazing at her. She shot him a glare, and he retreated into the crowd.

  Tarke said, “That’s it. Treat him like dirt.”

  “But why? He’s an ex-slave, too.”

  “He was probably a labourer or servant. He might have been whipped a few times. If he was a labourer, maybe a lot, but that doesn’t compare to what a pleasure slave has suffered. It’s not that he deserves to be treated like dirt, but that’s how an ex-pleasure slave would treat him.”

  “But you thanked him,” she said.

  “No, I commended him for his generosity and deference. I was being polite.”

  “Isn’t it strange, us being together?”

  “No, it’s quite normal. We’re both burnouts; therefore we’re not a threat to each other, and we can watch each other’s backs. Also, new arrivals always have a sponsor of the same ilk, to teach them.”

  Rayne sipped her drink. “A threat to each other? What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t allow advances from women, and you don’t allow advances from men.”

  “Ah. So an ex-pleasure slave sees an advance as a threat.”

  “Of course. Having been used and abused in the most depraved ways imaginable, the last thing one of us wants is...” He looked away, frowning.

  “Anyone making advances,” she finished for him.

  “Yes. Sorry, but you already know this.”

  “I hadn’t quite thought of it in those terms. I understand better now, though.”

  He sat back, picking up his glass again. “I hope so.”

  Sensing that she was being watched, Rayne glanced across the dance floor. The men with the solid marks stared at her. They met her eyes and inclined their heads; one even managed a faint smile.

  Tarke followed her gaze. “You can smile at them if you want, but not too much.”

  Rayne cast the men a slight smile. One looked away; the other raised his glass.

  “Don’t react,” Tarke advised.

  She sighed and picked up her drink. “This is all very complicated.”

  “Yep.”

  A slight commotion drew her attention to the marked men again. An unmarked patron had evidently stumbled into one, probably shoved by the crowd that detoured around their table, or perhaps he was drunk. The offender sat on the floor, nursing his jaw, and one of the marked men stood over him, glowering at him. The unmarked man climbed to his feet and retreated into the crowd, and the marked man sat down.

  Tarke shook his head. “That fool learnt the hard way.”

  “It looked like an accident.”

  “Absolutely, but you don’t do that to an untouchable if you value your head.”

  Rayne watched the marked men. “Does that happen a lot?”

  “Unfortunately, in a crowded place like this, yes. Untouchables don’t come here much, it’s too jammed. When we’ve finished these drinks I
’ll take you to an untouchable club. You’ll find it very different.”

  One of the marked men’s eyes became intent on something behind Tarke, and she followed his gaze. An unmarked patron came up behind Tarke, who noticed Rayne’s attention an instant before the man brushed against him, but the warning was too late. Tarke whipped around and punched the man in the chest, sending him sprawling. Rayne gasped, stunned by the speed of his reaction. Tarke left the table and knelt beside the man, pulled off his right glove and felt for a pulse in his neck as the muttering crowd retreated. A middle-aged man pushed free of the throng and knelt on the opposite side of the prone man, examining him.

  He said, “He’ll be all right, Rashone. He’s just unconscious.”

  Tarke returned to the table, and two men carried the man away. Tarke frowned at his drink, and Rayne bit her lip.

  He looked up at her. “Now you know why you shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

  “God, you guys are like... land mines.”

  “Land mines?”

  She nodded. “Weapons used on Earth. If you step on one, it explodes and blows your legs off.”

  “Ah. A good analogy.”

  “You thought you’d killed him?”

  “I might have.” Tarke drained his glass. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Rayne gulped down the last of her drink and rose, heading for the door with Tarke close behind. Patrons stepped aside, shooting them wary looks, and she noticed that the two solid-mark men had left. Tarke guided her to a dark alley, where they entered an even darker club with an unguarded door and free entry. It also reeked of narcotic smoke and reverberated to the throb of exotic music. Soft light brightened the interior, and only a few dozen people sat at widely spaced tables. A huge vidscreen showed a variety of pleasant scenes, from bright landscapes to pretty birds and beasts, children playing and waves breaking on a beach.

  They sat at a table, and a waitress with a tray approached from the side to take their order. Tarke looked more relaxed. The mark on his brow glowed in the dim light, ensuring it was always visible, even in the dark. Their drinks arrived, and a few minutes later a shout made Tarke’s head jerk around.

  “Torvark! You old reprobate!”

  A well-built man in a grey outfit studded with silver approached their table, smiling. His red and gold hair indicated Atlantean descent, and an ugly scar on one cheek ruined his good looks. Tarke nodded, signalling for him to join them. The newcomer pulled up an empty chair, placing it closer to Tarke than Rayne, sat down and inclined his head to her.