Slave (2 page)

He knew I was right, of course, but I’ll swear he had the soul of a Bedouin horse trader! “I will not sell him outright!” the man insisted, flapping his arms and kicking up dust with his feet as he stomped them in a gesture of outrage. “I will auction him!”

It occurred to me, eyeing him with disfavor, that while Cylopeans never look very agreeable, this one looked even less so than most. Sort of made me want to turn around and leave right then, just so I wouldn’t have to look at him anymore.

I shook my head sadly. Stupid, stubborn man! My God, they were everywhere, on every planet, and in every system! I could take this one for the price of a slave he couldn’t control—though he might consider it a good bargain in the end. On the other hand, the one I was thinking of buying was obviously pretty stupid, and stubborn, too, or he wouldn’t have been in such a state in the first place. I revised my earlier opinion of his intelli-gence, for a smarter man would have been more docile and wouldn’t have required such a horrendous level of
restraint. Of course, I had no idea what had been asked of him. For all I knew, he might have been forced to commit some heinous crime, or maybe he just wouldn’t do windows. It was also possible that the Cylopean was just a sadistic little bastard who enjoyed such things.

Glancing at the slave again, I wondered how many men it had taken to hold him down while that genital restraint had been applied.

I tried another approach. “Where did he come from?”

This question seemed to surprise him, for he appeared to be rather puzzled for a moment. “Originally? I have no idea, though I believe he was a prisoner of war at one time. He is a fine fighter and has fought by my side in many battles.”

A soldier, then, I decided. One whose loyalty could possibly be bought with the promise of his eventual freedom. I could use a good mercenary; one who would fight and see that I stayed alive long enough to reward him. I was still a bit skeptical, however, and asked what I felt to be a rather pertinent question, given the circumstances.

“So, tell me, how did you manage to keep him from killing
you
instead of the enemy?”

The man shrugged. “If I die, he dies,” he said simply. “It was in his best interest to see to my continued welfare.”

Which spoke of other means of control, like one of those poisons that don’t work until you
stop
taking them.

I wondered if, in, say, three day’s time, my new acquisi-tion would suddenly begin writhing in agony and then die a rather nasty, painful death.
Deciding to leave that question for later on, I asked,

“And now? Have you no further concern for your own, um, welfare?”

I thought he hesitated for a moment before answering me, but I believe he was telling me the truth when he said, “I have no need of a fighter any longer.” He left it at that and I didn’t press him any further, for just looking at the man told the story pretty plainly. That he was every bit as seedy-looking as anyone there on the auction block was easily observed, and if he’d ever been blessed with any degree of wealth, it certainly wasn’t apparent at this point. Quite plainly, he needed the money, and if he was desperate enough, I still might be able to pull off a deal with him.

“Mind if I make a closer inspection?” I asked cautiously. “Is it safe to approach him?”

“Oh, yes! He will not harm you. Not while I have this,” the Cylopean replied, holding up a remote control of some kind. I didn’t ask what would happen if he turned the dial on it since I was already too creeped out by the outrageous forms of control I could see with my own eyes.

I nodded and walked around the slave.
Yes, he will do
very nicely!
I thought. There weren’t very many open wounds on him, though I had no doubt that there were probably sores beneath those restraints. He seemed healthy enough, too: no wheezing when he breathed, no cough, and his color—what I could discern of it from beneath the layer of dust and filth caked on his skin— seemed normal enough, though it might not have been for one of his kind.
“May I touch him?” I asked.

“Certainly! Touch him, if you will!” the Cylopean urged. “Feel the firmness of his muscles, the strength of his bones!”

Actually, all I really wanted to do was to knock some of the crud off of the sores on his back to see if there was anything festering under there. I didn’t have to feel him to know that he was strong. Stepping up behind him, I flicked the crusts off with my glove. No pus, I noted, but the cuts appeared to be recent—perhaps they simply hadn’t had the time to become infected as yet.

“Any sickness?” I asked.

“Oh, no, he is quite healthy, I assure you!”

“What about his teeth?” I inquired. “Are they rotten?”

Where I was going, a man with bad teeth would stick out like a sore thumb (not that this man would blend in anywhere, mind you). It was just that I didn’t want him to appear as though he had been the one to have been a slave, rather than myself. On Statzeel, with the women enslaved, all the men had personal groomers who kept them in tip-top condition—even to the point of brushing their teeth for them.

“Not at all!” came the reply. “Wait, I will show you.”

The Cylopean stepped forward and gestured to the slave, who promptly opened his mouth. “You see? All present and in good condition.”

And sharp enough to cut through most conventional tethers, with canines a full quarter-inch longer than his other teeth! Damn, he looked dangerous! What the hell was I thinking? I should move on. Then it occurred to me that the command to open his mouth had been unspoken.
“Can he hear and speak?” I asked quickly. “Does he understand Stantongue?”

This was important since he’d have to be doing the talking for me on Statzeel, and possibly on other worlds, as well. A mute would be of no use whatsoever, and I didn’t want to have to take the time to teach him a new language, either.

I was looking at the slave when I asked that question, and noted the faint flicker of a dark, feline eyebrow. Oh, yes, he understood me, all right.

“Yes, of course he can!” I was assured. “He is quite fluent!”

“Let me hear him, then.”

“You may speak, slave,” the Cylopean said in an offhand manner and with a callous wave of his hand which made me long to punch his beady little eyes out.

My own eyes were drawn once more to those shining, black orbs which flashed as the slave raised his head, an act which drew the chain between his collar and the genital cuff taut and lifted his penis by the ring running through the top of it. If I’d previously assumed that his posture was one of submission, I’d have been wrong, for obviously it was merely the position of the greatest comfort for him. Well, the position of the least
dis
comfort, anyway.

“What would you have me say, Master?” the slave asked. The words were respectful, though his tone was carefully neutral.

“Tell me where you come from,” I asked.

His dark eyes narrowed and the tips of his eyebrows became more vertical.
“You may speak,” the Cylopean said with a depre-cating wave. “Answer the questions as you wish.”

My, that was brave of him
, I thought! I might ask him what a rat his master was—of course, “Master” still held the remote and would probably zap him if he said anything out of line. Then again, I might not like his answers, either, and I decided that if he gave me too much lip, I wouldn’t mess with him. I wondered if he realized that his freedom was hanging in the balance with his reply.

“I come from the planet Zetith,” he replied.

There was a slight accent in his speech, one that I couldn’t quite place. Of course, I’d never heard of Zetith, but then, I’d never run across another specimen that was anything like him, either—and I’d seen a lot of strange beings in my search.

“How did you come to leave your planet?”

“We were at war with other worlds,” he replied. “I was taken prisoner along with others in my unit. We were to be executed, but were sold as slaves, instead.”

Well, so far that coincided with his master’s story; however, hearing him talk was a bit like listening to a computer spitting out information. His inflections and syntax seemed acceptable, but his replies were clipped and short, and he didn’t seem to relish the idea of giving me any information about himself. I tried again.

“Would you like to return to your home world?”

“I cannot.”

“And why is that?”

“It is gone.”

Which might explain why there were so few of his sort scattered throughout the galaxy—and also why I’d
never heard of the place. It was safe to assume that if he had any relatives, they were as dead as his planet. Of course, I’d heard of planets that had been largely destroyed by war, but never one that had been completely obliterated.

“Do you mean that all life is gone, or that the planet itself is gone?”

“The planet itself,” he replied. “An asteroid struck it, and it was destroyed.”

“And how would you know that?” I inquired curiously.

Those dark eyes regarded me unblinkingly. “I watched it happen,” he said shortly.

“And how did you do that?” I asked, rather intrigued.

“Were you watching from another world, or from a ship, or what?”

“In my mind,” he replied. “I saw it in my mind.”

Well, that certainly sounded interesting! I wondered if he had seen it happen prior to the actual event and was therefore able to escape—although, if that were the case, with space travel being extremely common on most worlds, the rest of the people on the planet should have been alerted in plenty of time to evacuate, as well. Unless, of course, no one else believed him and they all perished as a result. There was obviously more to that story.

“What else can you see in your mind?”

His glittering black eyes narrowed again, and the satyr-like expression returned.

“The ones responsible,” he replied.

Even more interesting! “So it wasn’t an accident, then?”

“It was an act of war.”
I glanced at the Cylopean just then, and judging from his rapt attention to the conversation, it was safe to assume that he’d never bothered to ask any of these same questions, himself. I wondered if anyone had, but left it at that for the time being. By now, I’d heard enough to know that he was articulate enough for my needs, and with a bit of care and feeding, he would probably clean up very nicely. I did note at this point that other than his eyebrows and lashes and the long mane of hair on his head, he had no other facial hair whatsoever, and if his overall unkempt appearance was anything to go by, I would have to assume that this was his natural state.

Body hair, he did have, however, which was as dark and curly as the hair on his head.

I moved closer to him, wishing that I dared to remove my respirator long enough to get a whiff of him. Some species had extremely unpleasant smells associated with them, whether they were clean or not, and it was possible that he might have fallen into that category. Unfortunately, the best I could have said was that I didn’t notice that the smell working its way through the lousy filters on my respirator seemed to change appreciably. One thing was certain, however— though my close proximity didn’t do anything to further my own enlightenment, apparently it did something to him.

I hadn’t been standing in front of him for long, but as I studied his face, I observed a slight quiver to his nostrils and a flicker of some recognition or reaction in his eyes.

He was a tall man, though I was nearly as tall myself—

my two-meter height not being at all uncommon among
Earth women anymore—and though my eyes weren’t quite on the same level as his and were shielded from the glare of the sun by the brim of my cap, I could see his own quite clearly. There was a message there, of some kind. I just wasn’t able to read it.

The Cylopean made an odd little sound, interrupting my thoughts. If he’d been human, I’d have said he was saying, “Ahem!” but this was an altogether different noise—sort of an atonal hum.

“Must be a receptive female in the area,” he commented.

Turning quickly, I cast a questioning glance in his direction. Noting that, unlike his utterance, his gesture, as well as his expression of embarrassed chagrin, were so remarkably human, I almost laughed aloud. Then I followed his gaze to the slave’s genital region and jumped backwards a full meter.

The slave’s cock seemed to have bloomed while I was standing before him, and for a moment, all I could do was stare at it. It was long and thick, and while it might have been overly engorged due to the restraint which surrounded it at the base, it still had a fairly showy head, sporting a corona complete with a serrated edge that looked as though it had been crimped like a piecrust.

Though I’ll admit to never having made a study of such things, I knew for a fact that I had never seen anything to compare with it on any biped before. On the occasional quadruped, perhaps, but never on a primate. In fact, the only time I had ever seen a penis that came even close to it had been on a stallion back home on Earth. This one was similar, though scaled down to human size—large
enough to tantalize and catch the eye, but not so huge that it would scare anyone off.

My eyes flew back to meet his glittering stare. He knew I was female, though just how he had discerned it was beyond me to guess. I might have done or said something to suggest it, but I knew that in my flight coveralls and cap and with the respirator covering most of my face and altering the tone of my voice, he should have had no obvious clue. Scent was the other possibility, but in the stench of that hellhole of a planet, I doubted that even a bloodhound would have been able to pick a skunk out of the crowd. Then again, I reminded myself, I
had
been standing right under the man’s nose!

I wondered if he always did that around females. If so, it might pose a problem—especially at a time like this when my ability to appear to be male, rather than female, was a definite advantage to the preservation of my own personal safety and general welfare.

Unfortunately for my little charade, my reaction to his erection had been a decidedly female one, and I knew I had to change my attitude if the Cylopean were to remain convinced that his assumption of my gender had been correct.