GREGOR
“Sten’s coming to kill me,” Gregor said, wall-eyeing the panic room door as if expecting his enemy to kick it down and come charging in, AM2 battlerifle blazing. “He’s out there right now.”
“Oh, sweetie, I wish you’d quit saying things like that,” the joygirl said. “And here I told your father’s people we were making such great progress with your therapy.”
“But it’s true, it’s true,” Gregor wailed. “I feel it in my bones. It’s like he’s in this room, waiting until I have one happy moment, then he’ll cut my throat ear to ear, while that pal of his—Alex Kilgour—laughs his head off.”
“Honey love,” the joygirl said with an artful pout, “besides you, the only living being in this room is me. And I’m sure I’m nothing like that Sten of yours.”
She took his hands and forcefully pulled them to her, then moved them over her body while squirming lasciviously.
“See what I mean, cutie pie?” she whispered lustfully. “It’s all girl all… the… way… down.”
Gregor’s eyes started to close and a dreamy smile stole across his face. Then the monitor gave a “beep” and he snatched his hands back with a shriek.
“It’s Sten, I tell you,” he cried. “Right out there.” He pointed a shaky finger at the far wall—a floor to ceiling monitor displaying the luxurious seaside grounds of Wichlandia—his father’s first of a planned chain of frontier world resorts.
Twin moons bathed the dozen or so cliff-side villas in soothing golden light. The terraced cliffs and the surrounding grounds were true works of landscape art, with exotic trees and plants clinging bonsai-like to the rocks and cascading down to the sea, where steamy hot springs were nestled in moss-covered boulders. Booming surf broke over the sides to the delight of partiers frolicking in the grotto.
A black-hulled fishing boat made its way offshore, phosphorescent seas parting before its carved raptor bow, twin eyes glowing on either side of the beak. The crewmembers—all humanoid—were rowing toward shore, scarlet oars flashing in unison like wings. It had been a good catch, witness the multitude of silvery bodies spilling out of the holds and flopping onto the deck. And with the twin moons and seas ablaze with color the view alone should have been worth the outrageous prices Lord Wichman—Gregor’s resort king dad—charged. Artists would someday capture the scene and sell their works for small fortunes.
But all that was lost on Gregor, whose feverish, bloodshot eyes searched the scene for signs of his enemy:
Sten.
The man who had fooled everyone into believing that he hailed from common origins and had risen in the esteem of the brass through sheer ability and merit to become an admiral’s flag lieutenant.
Lies. All lies.
It was Sten who had undermined Gregor’s career from the very beginning—all the way back to basic training, eventually orchestrating his ouster from the Guard.
And it was Sten—using lofty connections he claimed no knowledge of—who had brought Gregor to ruin and near death in the Merchant Marines.
Gregor shuddered to think what would have happened if his father hadn’t pressured the Eternal Emperor into rescuing him from a kangaroo court of mutineers who would have found him guilty and sentenced him to death.
And it wouldn’t be a death anywhere near so kind as being hauled before an Imperial firing squad, where you would at least die with the dignity due an officer in service to the Eternal Emperor.
No, it would be that monster Rual who did the murderous deed.
Rual—second in command of the thugs and traitors who had seized Gregor’s ship, the Flame, along with an entire 125 kilometer-long space train filled to the overflowing with Imperium X. After AM2, the mineral was the second most valuable substance in the Empire.
Rual, with her mad eyes, skeletal frame and clawlike fingers.
Rual, with her long shark’s-tooth-like knife, working gleefully under the direction of the psychotic Zheng, a serial killer and leader of the mutineers.
Adding lying insult to injury, the mutineers falsely claimed they had evidence that Gregor had cheated them out of their wages. Fed them substandard food unless they paid a surcharge. Clipped them in illegal gambling games they were strong-armed into playing. The traitors even claimed they had evidence that Gregor regularly pocketed the money for badly needed repairs that were never done, leading to many injuries and at least one death.
More lies.
There was absolutely no evidence of wrongdoing. Gregor had made double-damned sure of that by feeding the evidence into a plasma furnace that atomized every claim.
All had seemed lost, but at the very last minute, Gregor’s father had circumvented Sten in a wheels-within-wheels leak-proof conspiracy, fooling the Emperor, his dreaded spymaster Ian Mahoney, and Venatora, the beauteous pirate queen who ruled over an army of fanatical women pirates.
And Sten.
Yes, Sten, who conspired to take Gregor aboard his own ship—the Jo’l Cash—and slap him in chains before hauling him before a court martial board.
Gregor didn’t believe for a nanosecond that Sten would allow him to live long enough to reach Prime World, much less stand trial. Really. If anyone believed that, Gregor’s father had some nice swampland on Clematis III he’d love to sell them.
Obviously, that had all been a cunning Sten ploy to fool the brass. Gregor knew full well that Sten had been planning to kill him all along. Of this, Gregor was certain. Just as he suspected that Sten had somehow kept Rual alive and the moment Gregor stepped aboard the Jo’l Cash, Rual would leap out, screaming bloody murder, slashing Gregor until his flesh hung in ribbons.
He shivered. Stomach roiling. Throat constricting. Gag reflexes cutting in.
“Are you cold, Sweetie?” the joygirl purred. “Let Mitzi get you a nice little cup of hot narcochai.”
Numb, Gregor could do little more than nod. Not sure she caught it, he croaked, “Please.”
“No trouble at all, cutie pie,” Mitzi said. While she spoke, she moved to the bureau where she had a variety of sex toys spread out on black velvet. When she’d first arrived, slipping into the room on a perfumed cloud, Gregor had been intrigued and no little aroused.
The joygirls and joyboys who plied their art in Lord Wichman’s resorts were renowned for their skills in the erotic arts. So to say that Mitzi was merely beautiful would be an understatement.
Her body had been sculpted to perfection. Joints enhanced so she could offer her clients impossibly pleasurable positions.
And her toys were unlike anything Gregor had ever seen before. With all kinds of interesting protrusions, textures and electronic delights.
For a few minutes he had been fooled into complacency. Here was Mitzi—so lovely, so willing, so… so… so everything!
And he was perfectly safe. The panic room had been built to his most exacting standards, with beyond state of the art security.
And hadn’t his father assured him that no one knew that Gregor was in residence at Wichlandia?
And hadn’t Gregor personally tasked his own private security force with checking Mitzi out before sending her to his room?
And she had come up aces, hadn’t she?
Safe as safe could be.
With soft music, sweet words and a few glasses of a heady narcochai drink he was soon relaxed enough not to panic when she slipped into his bed.
But as he embraced her luscious form the bloody face of Rual came charging out of his backbrain!
And with her came the ghostly figure of Sten!
Hissing, “Slice him, Raul! Slice him good.”
But it was here that Mitzi showed off her real skills. “There, there, little darlin’,” she soothed as his heart picked up speed and sweat broke out on his brow. “Just come into Mitzi’s arms and she’ll make you feel all better.”
Slowly, surely, she brought him under control. The weeping subsided to occasional sobs. Then she wiped his face, undressed him, helped him swallow a pill with the last of his chai, and then led him to a tub that had been filling up with hot, soothing water.
But just as he lifted his foot to step into the perfumed soap suds, he thought he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.
Startled, he drew back.
“What’s that?” he cried.
“What’s bothering you now, sweetie pie?” Mitzi asked.
Gregor caught the impatience in her voice, but waved it away.
“There!” Gregor shouted, pointing at the monitor. “On that boat.”
Mitzi made an exasperated noise. But Gregor was certain. He’d by clot, seen what he had seen.
“Looks the same to me,” she said.
“There it is again,” Gregor cried. “That flash of red. It’s a gunsight! I just know it!”
“Really, honey pie,” Mitzi said. “There’s nothing there. Just lights for the fishermen to find their way home.”
Gregor’s panic turned to a sudden cold fury. “You’re one of them,” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Mitzi. “You’re with Sten!”
“Please, sweetie pie,” the joygirl begged. “You know that poor little old Mitzi would never harm a fly, much less a handsome man like you. All the other girls are jealous of me.”
Gregor wasn’t listening.
He hit the panic button. The door to the room irised open and two burly bodyguards burst into the room.
Gregor pointed at Mitzi. “Get her out of here!” he shouted. “She’s one of them. She’s with Sten.”
“Sure boss, sure,” the larger of two soothed. She gave Mitzi a conspiratorial wink. “We’ll take care of everything.”
At the door, Mitzi turned to say, “I’ll be back when you feel better, honey pot. Then we can have a lovely time making up.”
As they left one the guards snagged a wheeled cart with all of Mitzi’s paraphernalia and drew it with them. A moment later they were gone.
Gregor listened intently as—one by one—the series of pick-proof locks clicked into place.
He threw himself onto the bed, laughing maniacally. “You can’t fool me, Sten,” he babbled. “I can see right through your nasty little game.”
It didn’t occur to him that the locks were more to keep him in, than trouble out.
* * * *
In the hallway, the guards and Mitzi laughed about Gregor’s latest antics.
“Can’t believe the guy,” the woman guard said. “He just turned his back on the best joygirl ride this side of Prime World.”
“It wasn’t his back that he was turning,” Mitzi giggled.
The male guard lifted a bottle of champagne out of the old-fashioned ice cooler and popped the cork, while the others held out glasses to catch the overflow.
“Best gig I’ve had in years,” Mitzi said. “A thousand credits an e-hour and I don’t even have to put out. He couldn’t if he tried. Not with that wet noodle hanging between his legs.”
Everyone had a big laugh at that. There are few things funnier than a rich man’s son brought low.
Mitzi downed her wine, exchanged a few more jokes at Gregor’s expense, then leisurely made her way back to her quarters.
Once in the privacy of her room she went to the hiding place beneath her bed and fished out the tiny comm.
She pressed it into her ear. Static. Then a voice. She could hear waves crashing in the background.
“He’s onto us,” she said into the unit.
“Clottin’ hell,” came the voice. “That tears it!”
It was Sten.