Title: Zero Tolerance
Author: Juxian Tang
Genre: Original fiction
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 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
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
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
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
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
"Mr. Solana? Can I enter?"
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
"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
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
"Your Abenian gives me creeps," for a moment Gary seemed to want
to get distracted from the point, rubbed the forehead with his palm.
"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
"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
"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
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:
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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 -
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
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
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,
"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
"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
"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. And I don't need you any
more, little rat."
He pointed the gun and suddenly saw a white ball of explosion behind the
viewing port, where the Kingfisher had been a moment ago. He wondered if they
were still too close, what it was going to cost them. The wave covered him -
and he fell on the floor, clasping the pain gun, seeing the stars swirling as
the shuttle was rocked and tossed. And then a strange form appeared against the
front screen - a huge dark globe growing swiftly - and he thought he didn't
know what it was - but it was too late to ask.
* * *
He felt the impact - actually, he was sure it would be the last thing he
felt: the shuttle hitting the surface, the blow reverberating through every
bone and muscle of his body. Ribs, spine, head... Then a brief moment when he
felt absolutely weightless - he didn't know it was the shuttle bouncing - and
another impact - but he still was alive, still conscious enough to fear and
hurt. And only after everything went quiet he realized with a kind of weak
amazement that instead of the dark insides of the shuttle he was looking at
something grey and green above himself.
Free... at last, he thought losing consciousness.
Simon didn't know how long he was out cold. He opened his eyes and had to
close them again, squinting painfully at the light reaching him ruthlessly.
What was it? Heaven? Hell?
In a way he was surprised how quickly his memory returned. There was
something - after the Kingfisher had blown up - something approaching... They
crashed... and now he was...
Wait, he was not dying. The shuttle was a mess, half of its corpus jammed
and torn - and yet Simon was not suffocating in the open space. Neither he was
swiftly getting poisoned with some unsuitable substitute for breathing gas. He
could breathe this air... fresh and somehow wet and rather cool... but no way
Well, well, looks like the stupid kid mixed up something about this sector
being uninhabited. And he, Simon, got another chance.
This thought gave him the energy he lacked so far. He moved, acquiring the
control over his body - making himself sense every limb, every part of his
body. He lay flat with his arms thrown widely on something so hard and angular
that it seemed to leave dents in his bones. He didn't know if the shuttle was
supposed to be so inconvenient. Probably not - until now.
His right arm had gone asleep, covered with some debris - but when he
shifted and raised it, he saw the pain gun still clasped there so tightly that
the skin on his knuckles went grey.
"Good slave," Simon whispered with a smirk, turning on his fours -
and felt bile rise in his throat while his head span and span unmercifully.
He threw up and dry-heaved until the greatest pain he felt nested in his
stomach - and only after that managed to move. Shit, he was not going to
succumb like this. He went through worse things than a little sickness, right?
Right. Feeling the lousy taste in his mouth, still shaky on his feet, he
crawled out of the wrecks and looked at the strange greyness above him.
Was it his sight or did it look like the panels were emanating some soft
pale light? It was not the sky, by all means. It looked like the insides of a
spacecraft... but a very, very big spacecraft, right? And yet what was around
him didn't look like a ship at all.
It was ferns. He had never seen a real fern - but one guy in his
neighborhood, on Aben, had a necklace with a hologram of it. Simon thought for
some reason, however, that ferns were rather small plants. These were pretty
solid - like a steady sea of green going everywhere he could see at the level
of his chest. Well, except the part where the shuttle burned and crushed its
way through them.
He turned his head again, looking for more damage around. The shuttle had to
break through something, right? He didn't see anything... maybe, this damage
was already removed. If it still was a ship.
The ground under his feet, uncovered with any other plants, was smooth and
solid. And there was silence. No wind, no motion of the air. Just soft, distant
humming of the machinery - maybe, far above him.
"Hey!" he doubted if he should scream - but somehow he knew there
was no one around. He would hear them - would smell them. "Hey! I am a
good guy, not dangerous!"
Nothing. Just as he thought. For some reason the idea of complete loneliness
filled him with sweeping exhilaration. Freedom! He, Simon Kewlene, was a free
He would go away. There was no reason to stay at the shuttle - and whatever
this place was, maybe, he would be able to find something more interesting
around. Someone had to breathe this air, after all.
He was uninjured, he had a weapon and... there was something else he could
use before leaving. The wrecked shuttle looked shapeless, the sharp edges of
metal sticking from everywhere, the walls pressed in and shattered. But the bag
- the bag with six hundred packs of the most expensive and most powerful stuff
in the Union - might still be there.
Simon felt suddenly sick at the thought of getting back into the wreckage -
as if it was going back into the cage on his own accord - but he waved it away.
Sentiments; his white teeth showed in a smile at this word but there was
nothing nice in it. He couldn't afford sentiments. He had spent nine years in
slavery - and three years in a camp before that - he was not supposed to feel
any shit if he wanted to survive all this; not that his life in the streets of
Aben or the brief stay in the Academy before they were thrown to fight the League
had taught him anything else.
He would find the bag - and then he would leave. He spotted it at last on
the floor - dusted and half-covered with debris - and pulled at it. And only
then he saw the pale hand clutched on it.
Perfect! Fuck it! Simon cursed both in English and Abenian looking at the
dirty bloodied fingers - and then passing his gaze to the motionless figure
jammed between the seat and the control panel - torn clothes and pale skin -
and thought if it was an instinctive urge to clasp something when the world
seemed to go to hell around you.
But could it be someone else, not the bag?
"You stupid fuck," Simon yanked and the fingers let go almost
immediately but he was not sure it made him happy; perhaps he relished the
thought of cutting these fingers off to make them go. "I could live
without seeing you ever again."
He kicked the seat away, looked down at the curled body - pushed it with the
toe of his sandal. And was shocked into muteness when the fingers curled
convulsively. There was no sound. But if he listened hard... he didn't want to
hear it... well, it was there - the ragged, uneven breath.
"You alive, aren't you?"
He kicked, pointedly, in the belly - and elicited a small painful sound -
too small, no motion - but it told him that even though Peter was alive, he
hardly was conscious. For a moment Simon just stood, doing nothing, looking,
and his lips curved in a grimace of glee and disgust.
"Bad luck for you, do you know it?"
Then he squatted and picked the man up.
He might be dying; there was blood - not much of it and mostly sticky, not
fresh - but Simon was ready to see something - a piece of metal sticking from
his kidney - or his spine bending backwards like a rag doll's. There was
nothing like this - broken ribs in the worst case and Simon knew one could live
with it, knew it from his own experience.
Well, whatever it was - but Peter's eyelashes fluttered when he raised him
from the floor. Coming round. Good. Or bad - from whoever point of view you
looked at it.
Peter didn't weigh much to make him break into sweat as he carried him out.
Now Simon was careful - he was not sure how long the kid would survive - and he
wanted him to live at least as long as his plan demanded. For once he didn't
mind to feel the slight body, bony and warm even through the clothes, in his
arms. He put him on the ground and returned once more to the shuttle, found the
emergency kit there, took out the knife and the skein of rope. He didn't know
if he needed these precautions - but he might - and he didn't want anything to
go wrong - not when he was so close to making everything - right.
The light changed a bit - or so it seemed to him - growing duller, the
shadows of the ferns cast over the ground and Peter's body paler, grey. The
young man's baggy sweater and the same baggy t-shirt he wore underneath were
torn and rumpled around his waist, showing the strip of white skin over the
belt of his pants, plentifully covered with scabs and bruises. Well, Simon
thought, it must have been how he looked everywhere. His forehead was gashed
pretty badly but it had been during the blast - and blood coagulated richly
around his nose and ears.
"Just don't die on me now," Simon whispered with the intensity
that surprised him. "Wait a little bit."
There was a conveniently twisted protrusion of the shuttle and he grabbed
Peter's wrists, feeling how some bone shifted in the left one - broken? - wound
the rope around them and then around the wreckage. It held well - the knots
held even better - fuck, the little bitch would rather break his wrists than
get free from the rope. Simon saw Peter turn his head from side to side
slightly, probably in pain - but it must've been not enough to make him come
"You don't know it," Simon said although that he was the only one
who listened to the sound of his voice. "But I always wanted to do two
things. For everything you did to me - only two things. To fuck your ass - and
to shit on your face. No," he said suddenly, his face distorting.
"Three things. And to tear your heart out."
"This is your master, you filthy bitch. Listen and try to memorize
it. It is your master. You live for him. You serve him - you are everything he
wants you to be."
"Serve him..." his lips felt numb as he repeated the words. He
looked down at the one who he was supposed to serve - had served for years:
whom he remembered a small boy - growing up in a short man considered by a lot
of people handsome - or pretty for his sweet pale face and shining grey
eyes under the girlish-curved eyelashes. Simon's hand clasped in fist; but he
didn't hit. He smiled again, almost not feeling his lips, and pulled Peter's
sweater and t-shirt up.
He had a knife - he could cut them - but he didn't want to waste his temper
on fighting with clothes. He just pulled them up enough to bare Peter's chest,
not to cover his face - looked at the rise of the ribcage over the smooth flat
belly - the contours of the ribs visible under bruised skin.
For nine years of being Peter's property Simon had seen him in various
stages of nakedness - and was always kind of disgustedly mesmerized with the
difference between them - almost as if they were not the descendants from the
same Earth. He had no bulging muscles like the ones that adorned Simon's chest
and made him look so impressive in the slave garment. And this pale skin of
Peter, contrasting with dark hair in his armpits and groin.
It also repelled and aroused him that Peter - everyone in the League,
probably - had their nipples so bright and different from the color of their
skin. Simon's, big and erect, seemed the natural continuation of his body - but
theirs were so openly sexual - pink and soft and vulnerable. Just as Peter's
were now, even though bruised and with a scab running across one of them.
There was something Simon always wanted to do - whether he explained it with
curiosity or was ready to admit how much it aroused him at nights when he had
had nobody else to quench this arousal but himself... knowing that he would
never be allowed to touch his master like this. But there was no one to stop
him now. He reached his hand and took the scabbed nipple between his thumb and
forefinger, rolling it until it hardened on the tips of his fingers.
Peter might not feel it - but his body reacted in the natural way. Simon
squeezed, harder than it would ever be possible in sex, pulling the resilient
bud of flesh up and down, crushing it between his fingers - almost as if the
sensation hypnotized him, seeing with grim satisfaction how the scab, already
dry, started bleeding again and the redness spread around the pink circle.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure to repeat it when you won't miss
anything," Simon whispered letting it go at last and pulled at the belt of
the man's pants.
He saw Peter shiver slightly as he tugged the pants off of him, baring his
lower belly first and then the darkness of his groin with the soft cock lying
across his balls; it must've been cold for him - what Simon hardly felt now, so
hot he was. Peter still didn't come round enough, just a small frown trembled
between his thin brows as Simon continued to undress him. The boots were next
and he unlaced them expertly - why, he had done so many times, just as he laced
them up in the morning.
He felt almost dazzled looking at the half-naked body in front of him, the
ribcage rising and falling oddly at the unconscious pain the broken ribs must
be inflicting. He felt his own chest expand, too, steadily and stronger than
usual and he was not sure what he felt more - arousal or the anger that made
him almost drunk with its intensity.
From the very first time when he had to kneel on all fours as the boy that
was his master fucked him up the ass half-successfully, he prayed only for the
day to come when he would be able to revenge himself. He knew it was silly,
most possibly he would die in slavery - but he couldn't stop praying - he
couldn't stop believing.
He raised Peter's legs, put them on his shoulders, doubling him, and looked
at the clean, just a shade darker entrance of his ass, so tiny that he knew
there had never been anything up there - no cock, not even a finger. And seeing
his own dark engorged penis against it was such an abomination of incompatible
sizes that he felt both sick and even more enraged - turned on - with it.
"The only thing of yours that is still virginal, huh?" he muttered
setting into the position. "Has been, I mean," and slammed in hard
and dry, ruining the resistance at the first thrust - and kept thrusting
through the torn tissues, seeing how the tip of his cock got coated with blood.
It was when Peter's eyelids flew up over dazed eyes and he tugged at the
rope on his wrists for the first time.
* * *
You are born into a family that has eighty years of retaining power and
business behind itself - and it is much in their world of shaky balance between
inside and outside wars the League led.
Your father is hardly liked by anyone but feared by everyone - and when he
dies, torn in pieces in his pleasure space-yacht together with your mother, you
have the sheer luck not to become a poor useless orphan but be adopted by your
childless uncle, the man who manages to multiply the wealth and the authority
of your family and who is feared all right but is loved and respected, too.
You grow up as his heir - having everything, wanting even more - you claw
the right to participate in the operations a year before you come to age - and
prove every time, every move that you can do it, that you are worthy - that
Andre Solana didn't make a mistake when counting on you.
They start listening to your words at the family counsel - and when one of
the old fools fucks up another operation, you take over his part of the
business - and you know you can do better, you can do so well - that a few years
later your uncle won't hesitate to retire and leave everything to you.
You marry a good girl from the family - pure, intelligent and beautiful -
who doesn't dare to speak up when you come home late at night, whether it is
after a council or after a wild tryst with an expensive whore or two.
Then you go to the routine operation - that will bring the family (and you)
another good piece of capital - and something goes wrong. A small thing - some
fuck whose name you will never know sneaks the information to the Union. But it
is like a snowball - one clings to another - and eventually the only thing you
can do is to try to minimize the damage... And your favorite ship blows up in
pieces... and you have a fat chance to get stuck in an unexplored part of the
space... or die...
But you come round spread on the ground with your hands tied up above your
head - and the cock of your Abenian slave turned bad is tearing its way through
your insides like an agonizing rod of glowing iron.
The pain reached him all the way through unconsciousness. Well, the truth
was that it probably never let him go completely - but only now he managed to
locate it. First somewhere in his chest, flaring up at every breath as
something heavy pushed on his ribs, as if jamming them into his lungs. And then
worse pain - and stranger pain - tearing through him from the bottom upwards in
the place where it was not supposed to hurt and he couldn't come up with any
explanation how it could be.
He opened his eyes and saw.
He started fighting at the very moment when he saw Simon's dark face looming
over him, the white teeth bared in what was not a smile at all - moving in
cadence with strong, abrupt motions of slamming his cock inside - already deep
enough to pin him to the place successfully and still striving deeper. He
thrashed, surprised with the pain that pierced his left wrist immediately,
forgot about it and about sickness and headache - knowing only that he had to
stop somehow what was going on. Couldn't let it happen. Even though it was
No, not to him - it was not right! He was Peter Solana, the nephew of Andre
Solana, the heir of the family. What would his uncle say if he knew? What would
others say? They would want to oust him, to take over, he wouldn't be
considered strong enough any more - not adequate.
Family members don't get fucked up to the ass. Unless they are not family
members any more and would be better off dead.
The realization was so grounding that for a few moments the pain - the same
pain that brought him from unconsciousness - seemed dispensable. He struggled
to free his hands again and saw Simon look straight in his eyes - the level,
almost calm gaze - while his thick lips moved, white teeth flashing briefly as
if he said something - but to his absolute surprise there was no sound.
Like a dream, he thought. A nightmare. It must be a dream. Then the pain
caught on him, reminding about itself with particular sharpness as Simon thrust
his cock into him once more, so deep now that it seemed to be somewhere in his
abdomen, hard and burning, mangling his insides. He gasped, trying to catch the
shriek, tearing his lips with teeth desperately - knowing that he bit them to
bleeding by the wetness in his mouth but not feeling it.
Then the thrusts stopped. It was not over, though, he couldn't think for a
moment that it was over. He felt Simon inside - huge and long, filling him,
spreading him beyond possible. And he also felt the warm heavy shapes pressed
against his ass underneath - and even though nothing in his life was similar to
this experience, he knew what it was - Simon's balls resting against his crack
as the man stopped for a little while, having penetrated him fully.
Simon said something again - and it was another shock for him to realize
that he didn't hear it - although how could Simon's words mean anything, change
anything. Then Simon laughed - nodded with the black fire of satisfaction
sparkling in his eyes - and ran the knuckles of his hand against the side of
Peter's face, up and down, almost as if caressing. But he knew it was not - not
when there was such contempt - such derision in Simon's eyes - and that made
him snap, despite every motion made him feel sick and hurting again. His hands
could be tied, he could not move - but he could bite.
His teeth clicked a tiny fraction away from Simon's palm - that moved back
immediately as the man looked down at Peter with both amusement and anger - and
when he spoke again, Peter discerned the words:
He spat; he cursed at Simon, every dirty word he knew - but he didn't have
much time for it as Simon raised his hand and backhanded him, making his head
snap to the side. He didn't see another blow coming but he felt it all right
when it came, his head tossed to the other side abruptly.
His sight blurred and he thought he was losing it again, almost relieved -
and angry for this relief because fainting was not the way out, not when he did
nothing to prevent or to stop what happened. But he was not gone. He felt
Simon's hands clutch on his shoulders, the fingers stunningly strong - shaking
him until he opened his eyes and looked again.
//"Stay with me,"// he could read it on Simon's lips - and saw
another triumphant smile pull them apart. //"I need you to feel
And he did feel. He tried to prepare himself to it - clenched his jaws -
clinging to the thought that at least he would be silent, wouldn't please Simon
with crying out. But he couldn't imagine that wrenching pain that dashed
through him, from somewhere seemingly under his solar plexus to the torn
over-stretched ring of his anus, as Simon pulled his cock out - out until
probably only the tip of it stayed inside Peter.
Then he slammed in and Peter screamed. He might not hear his own voice but
he knew he was screaming - tried again and again to gnaw in his lips to stop it
and failed as Simon continued to send his cock in and out. He pulled on his
hands again - but not to get free now. He wanted to feel other pain... as if it
could distract him. And with some part of his mind he was kind of glad that he
screamed too hard to be able to form words - because the most possible he would
beg - he would beg Simon, his slave, to stop it.
Then the battering that seemed to grow sharper and more violent slowed down
suddenly - and stopped all together as Simon froze between his legs, his cock
buried as deep inside him as possible - and although Peter couldn't feel his
semen spurting inside him, he knew it was what happened. He shuddered silently
- the humiliation overwhelming pain again - and closed his eyes, unable to
stand seeing the dark face above him any more.
There was one principle Peter tried to cultivate in his life - the principle
he came to believe to be the only true one: survival was everything. But now he
suddenly thought it would be better if he died before he let it happen.
Simon changed his position slightly and a flow the pain from other,
unexpected sources covered Peter: his thigh muscles ached dully - and his arms
must've been sprained. And as Simon took his hands off of his pelvis, he could
feel the throbbing, scathing pain of the scratches his fingernails left there.
A whole lot of things you can never imagine when you are on the giving
end, right, Peter?
Then there was the long agony of Simon pulling out his cock that softened
but still was big enough - and Peter bit the inside of his lip again, not
wanting to give out another sound and still making a small one through his
He lay sprawled now - and although he was too torn to feel how Simon's cum
was leaking out of him, soaking in the ground between his legs, he knew it was
what happened. What he didn't know was that blood colored the cum red.
He saw Simon stand up, fumbling with his cock, probably wanting to tuck it
in and deciding against it - it had to be too mucked for that. He didn't want
to look at Simon but his eyes were driven to the man despite his will - with
what he hoped was not terror. But the question he wished he didn't ask was
inevitable - what now.
What now... in the beginning, before the pain swept him, he had wanted a lot
of things - to get free, to see Simon dead, to forget everything - but somehow
during those minutes - and he knew that how much could pass? - half an hour? -
his aspirations narrowed to much simpler and pathetic things: to stop being
naked... to curl around himself, cover his private parts. To stop hurting and
to get a bit warm.
Well, what he truly wanted - and he refused admitting it even to himself -
was that he wanted to cry. He didn't cry since he was seven years old, since
the last lesson his father gave him - and even then crying hadn't meant
anything good, just more shame and another punishment. But now he wondered if
crying would make him feel better.
No. He caught a gasp that was almost like a sob, stifled it behind his teeth
immediately. Anger was better - safer - he should stick to it.
Men don't cry, men kill - remember I told you?
Oh fuck you, father.
Too absorbed in his feelings, he almost missed the moment when Simon leant
towards him, saying something. He was terrified with his inability to hear
again - he had never thought it would be so handicapping. Simon could have
repeated what he said - or said something else, his eyes still sparking mocking
and wild, as if sex did nothing to put out the hatred that burned in him.
Yes, Peter, did you ever realize how much your slave hated you?
He couldn't help it - a hysterical laughter escaped his lips, so strange
because he couldn't hear it. But Simon could all right. Peter saw with regret -
too late, too late - how the man's eyes narrowed into slits. And now, when he
spoke, Peter understood him. Wouldn't he - with the pain gun pointing in his
What one loses, the other acquires, right?
//"What is it? What is it?"// the question could be weird but he
got it right.
"My pain gun."
//"No. *My* pain gun,"// a long, slow smile. //"What does it
He stood up and shot. Peter knew he would - but there was no way he could
prepare himself to it... that was the beauty of the weapon - one could never be
ready to this pain - absolute pain. A long convulsion seized him, arching his
body, twisting his tied arms out of the joints - for something that must have
continued a split second - but seemed like ages for him. And even when his body
slumped on the ground, the course of pain through his nerves went on, making
his limbs twitch. And only after that he could start taking shallow fast
breaths that were frighteningly like sobs - but he cared no more.
Low level... you don't usually bother to use it, Peter.
He didn't know who said it - Simon or the cold, merciless voice that stayed
sane inside him through everything. He didn't know he was shaking as he looked
up at Simon - just to see him push the button slightly up and shoot again.
Pausing. Letting him acquire his breath again. Shooting. Peter was sobbing -
he would be ashamed of these sounds if he knew he made them. He saw Simon's
face - the dark mask of hatred - hovering over him through the mist of pain.
Like some strange divine creature... his Nemesis, huh?
By the time Simon shot no more there was no coherent thought in Peter's mind
- no pride, no dignity - just the fear.
He didn't know what pleasure his trapped animal stare gave to Simon when the
man came up a bit closer and took his cock in hand. The only thing Peter
thought was not again, not that soon. But Simon was not going to fuck him. He
aimed his cock at Peter's face and started pissing. And it was worse - it
turned out that it still could be worse.
Then he finished, tucked his cock into the pants at last and left.
The End of Part 1
Go to Part 2