A Pair of Dice: Tragan

ACT III: PAPER

The garbage disposal unit whined overtime, dissolving bone and meat and hair and the hopelessly stained carpet. That carpet was almost as bad as the corpse: it was so soaked that it practically bled by itself, and had to be mopped up by hand. He scrubbed and steamed, and then scrubbed and steamed himself. And when the ship finally fell into normal space, he was sitting at the controls, calm and cool and collected, waiting for the world to come to him. His fingers did not touch the preset controls; instead they toyed with a pair of tiny dice. Call them his new good luck charms.

The Righteous Flea reached out and accessed the Arx systems. Paging quickly through the Welcome-to-Arx messages, he waited for the computer to announce, "Welcome to Arx Information Central. How may I direct your query?"

Tragan asked, "Reference companies, First Arx International Bank, Global Trust of Arx, general location?"

The answer was, "Both companies presently active on Arx. Stock quotes?"

"No. Reference individuals, Puh Freeth-Mill, Tayic Booc, general location?"

"Freeth-Mill marked relocated, Booc marked T City, Central Continent, Arx. Contact Booc?"

Tragan considered. "Cancel search. No, new search, Ammos Corporation, general location?"

"Company currently active on Arx. Stock quotes?"

"No. Cross reference, Ammos Corporation, Tayic Booc, present position?"

The computer dropped into a biography without prompting. "Tayic Booc is Vice-President of Experimental Research at Ammos Corporation. He was born in"

Tragan cut it off. "Cancel search."

Then he smiled. "Ah Tayic, coming up in the world, eh? But you owe me a favour. And I intend to collect. You're about to make a scientific breakthrough, which you'll probably call the Booc Gravity Plane knowing you, you vain puppy. But even you will be able to figure this one out: I have a working device and the manuals."

He pictured gravity bombs that sought their targets, soldiers flying over battlefields and striking deep into civilian territory, battleships slipping through space undetected, buildings falling straight up and destroying themselves. And he pictured himself, with a brace of the finest, fiercest beasts in the galaxy on his leashes, striding out to the hunt, and the prey, all long-legged and bare and screaming, how the prey would run from him! Oh and he would not run to the hunt, no, he would fly!

"Now, should I call Tayic now, or from planetside?"

He considered, and then he rolled the dice; he tingled inside every time he heard them clatter.

"Planetside, then. Ah Avva, I'll think of you every time I see these dice. Computer, viewscreen on."

He watched as Arx, great and gravid and red, swelled in his view. Slowly he drifted towards it, letting the automated landing program do all the work. To himself he mused, "I wonder if it's hunting season on Arx."

Then something odd happened. The centre of the planet grew a hatch, that opened, and he started moving towards that square of blackness.

He scowled. "Computer, what is that square distortion in the planetary disc? Orbital sail?"

The useless machine's answer was, "Reference not understood. Please provide more data."

"Right there, it's, it's-" What was happening? He frantically flipped his eyes over the banks of controls he barely understood.

Arx in his centre screen began to distort, to bow. The Flea was moving too, moving down. "The ship's being pulled towards it!" A weapon, a blast crater? He didn't understand! It couldn't really be there, so maybe he wasn't looking at the planet itself?

"Computer, current orientation of ship!"

"The Righteous Flea is moving towards Arx in standard re-entry position, engines first."

And he finally understood, when he saw the tiny yellow ship that seemed to be darting directly at him.

"Engines first, that isn't Arx, it's Arx's – reflection! There's another ship out there, pulling this one in!"

He hesitated, hands fluttering over the locked controls, uncertain of what to hit. Then a grapple leaped out of the darkness and seized the ship, and yanked so hard that he went flying, head ringing on the deck.

He got up, shaking himself, making sure he wasn't cut. "Oh my head. Somebody is going to pay for that, in blood!" And more insult, he could hear the outer door opening and people moving around in the main room. "I've been pulled into the other ship. Who's there?"

He stomped out, shoes ringing on the newly bare deck, and furiously demanded, "What is the meaning of - this?"

He cut off whatever was going to follow the word 'this', because the intruder was Avva. Were Avva.

But no: his eyes traced the lines of their ears, the hang of their wattles, and saw that they were actually different people. Not Avva. But Sast, no doubt about that. Two of them, dressed in plain grey, and each with a lethal looking weapon holstered at her side.

He went on, "What do you Sast want? You are Sast, I recognise you."

The first one said, looking around, "Where's the carpet?"

"Why did you take me out of my landing pattern? Who's in charge here?" Tragan snapped.

The Sast to the rear pulled her weapon and shot him in the groin, casually. He screamed as his nerves took the weapon's charge and shrilled agony down his legs. Collapsing, thrashing on the floor, he was helpless to stop them as they manacled his hands together behind his back and dragged him out of the ship, one hand at each elbow.

They dropped him on the deck outside, and he knelt, gasping, trying to get his wind back. He looked around, trying to locate himself.

It was a distressingly industrial looking place: his ship rested on a bare field of steel plates, with various pieces of bracing and scaffolding standing here and there. Workers swarmed around him, carrying parcels and wheeling equipment; robots worked alongside them. He looked up, and saw much the same on the ceiling - and also more Sast walking around up there. More gravity plane applications?

He forced himself back to his feet, ignoring the pain, and roared, "How dare you manacle me! How dare you take my ship out of landing pattern! I demand to know who has brought me here!" His face was black with rage.

His two abductors both looked to his left, and he did as well. "She did," one of them said.

He looked and his breath stopped.

What he had thought was one of the pieces of equipment being moved across the floor was actually a person, or a creature, surrounded by more Sast. She picked her way across the deck, her oval bulk and upper torso managing to move gracefully. Four heavy legs emerged from the left side of her body, each one tipped with a tusk, and on the other side seven shorter, thinner ones worked double-time to keep her moving evenly.

One of the Sast murmured, "And now, you're either going to say ‘That's the biggest woman I ever saw in my life', or-"

He stared up at the face looming over him. It was red, and both eyes were to one side, one somewhat above the other; the other side of her face was a mass of purple fringe. Her hair was ash blue, and trailed on the deck around her. Her arms flexed, and her tendrils, as she tilted her head to look at him more closely.

The other Sast said, "Or, ‘that's the most asymmetrical woman I ever saw in my life.'"

She was beyond asymmetrical; the ordering of her limbs and face hinted at some strange and alien geometry, that the mind tried to follow and grew lost in. He had never seen a woman like her. He breathed in the perfume of her and it seemed to catch at his heart.

Tragan whispered, "That's the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my life."

The two Sast looked at each other, and the first said, "Points for style, anyway."

She smiled, baring large lopsided fangs - how charmingly jagged they were! - and said, "I brought you here."

Her voice was thunder, and he let it roll over him. He pulled the shreds of his dignity around him and announced, "I am Tragan. May I ask who I have the pleasure, the great pleasure, of addressing?"

Her eyes - one green, one green-yellow - blinked one after the other. Her answer rolled off the ceiling, adding a portentous echo.

"My name is Prime Whi-M'tren Omet-J. I am the Leader of the O Corporation, and main genetic shareholder in the Sast species. Avva was my daughter. You killed her."

"Avva who?" asked Tragan, still trying to recover from the Prime's overwhelming presence. And failing.

"Come now. She took the contract to pick you up, she contacted us to say that she was on her way with you," rumbled the giant woman-beast.

Tragan stuck his chin in the air; he had already planned for this. "I won this ship in a game of dice on Parakon, I don't know what you're talking about. Clearly your Avva failed at her contract, and lost her ship in the bargain."

The vast head bowed to stare down at him. "She did not fail, Tragan. You did. Would you like to hear a message?" She tossed her head, hair flying, and spoke into the air, "Audio feed to me, please."

The audio started with, "This message is for ex-Vice Chairman Tragan, to be played upon his arrival in the first Sast ship to receive him."

The voice was distorted, but female, and Tragan recognised it. He lunged against his captors who still had him by the elbows.

He shouted, "I know that's you, Katyan Glessey – or should I say, Onya! That filter can't fool me!"

The Prime looked at him, just a look, and he closed his mouth. He wished he hadn't shouted, but to hear that voice again-! She said only, "Play message."

Tragan, the Sast and the Prime all listened with great care.

"This recording has been filtered, Tragan, so there's no way to prove who is speaking. But you know who I am. I am the person who gave your name and location to the O Corporation, and told them how to get you out. Your trial has been delayed, because the list of your crimes was so huge and so revolting – and yet, all carried out under the legal shield of Parakon Corporation business – that I needed time to think of what should be done to you. It is my duty to clean up unpleasant messes, even ones I did not have a hand in creating. And the President backs me on this, Tragan. Believe me. The lives you destroyed, they can never be brought back. But the Sast make something of a mission out of changing people, Tragan, and I hope that they can change you. If not, well, the recidivism rate of people given into their care is amazingly low. They will kill you if they have to. I almost hope they do."

Tragan's face convulsed and puffed with anger. "You unspeakable slime, how could you do this to me!?"

The Prime swayed her tendrils in some way Tragan couldn't decipher. "She knew what she was doing. So did Avva. My dear daughter, with the so-strange tastes."

All of the Sast, the two holding Tragan and the other onlookers, laughed.

She went on. "But I'll admit, she can find the most fascinating material in the most unpromising places."

One of the Sast holding Tragan coughed, then announced, "Prime, he destroyed the carpet in the Flea."

The Prime sidled in place, her mismatched feet tapping, and her fanged smile disappeared. "Well, well! I'll admit, we were not anticipating the carpet being destroyed. She'll be furious."

"She - who?" asked Tragan. Things were going past him too quickly to follow. "Glessey? I don't know what you're talking about! I told you, I won this ship at dice!"

"Well, here comes someone who can teach you some new games." The Prime gestured with three shapely talons, and Tragan's guards turned him to his right. He saw a large piece of equipment being offloaded from the underside of the Flea - his ship, he reminded himself, his, never heard of this Avva woman, no idea what they were talking about…

"What are you doing?" he snapped. "That metal tank, you took it out of my ship, didn't you? I don't know what it is, but it's my property!"

The tank had an elaborate base of controls and tubes and lights, and seemed to have been in the ship - under the main room? The top was opened, and something inside reached up and punched a hand through the thick layer of jelly that filled the interior. It worried and tore at the gelatine, and the other Sasts were careful to stand aside and not help until the nude figure climbed out through the ragged hole, spat a mouthful of goo back into the tank and then stood there, wiping her eyes clear.

Tragan's mouth fell open, and through numb lips he whispered, "…my property…"

Avva shoved her sodden mass of wild hair back, sneezed, and blotted her nose on the back of her bare arm. She smiled up at the Prime, then at the other Sast. She smiled broadest of all at Tragan.

"So nice to see you all. I presume you snagged him before he made landfall?"

"Certainly, my sweet. You gave us plenty of advance warning," said the Prime, flicking some long tendrils out and over Avva. "But your hair looks like you flew from Parakon to Arx with it hanging out the port!"

The impossibly alive woman shrugged. "It always grows wild in the tank." The she took two steps closer, her wet feet sticking to the deck, and said, "Hello, Tragan. It's me again."

Her eyes were alight with pure, sweet delight at the sight of the horror and confusion on his face. With a mental wrench, he pulled himself together and said, "I…who are you?"

She punched him hard on the arm, right where the nerve surfaced against the bone, and the manacles jingled as the tingling ran to his fingers.

She said, "I'm back to play Pummel the Passenger, now that Pinch the Pilot has run to its final conclusion. My, how you made me suffer! Unique pains, the likes of which I have never felt before. I'm impressed with how resourceful you were, working with only the materials on hand."

Tragan stared at her, and his feigned assurance ran out into confusion. He whispered, "Who…how, are you? How can you be here?"

She smiled at his question. "How am I? Not bad, considering that I was tortured to death while being telepathically connected to this, my backup body. When you finally finished me off, I just withdrew and waited in the suspension medium for the Flea to be pulled in by the Sast. If the Sast hadn't intercepted you, I would have come popping out through the floor while you were landing, and wouldn't you have been surprised then!"

Tragan blinked, trying to understand. He didn't understand. "What…why wait?"

"I'm sorry?" Avva asked, as politely as though they were at a party on Parakon, not nude and manacled on a spaceship respectively.

Tragan spoke slowly, trying to reason it out as he spoke. "There were two of you…in the ship. All this time. You could have escaped. Telepathy, so you knew what was happening to that other Avva all the time. You could have freed yourself at any point and stopped me and why didn't you?!"

Avva looked taken aback. "But that wouldn't have been playing by the rules! You caught me, we played." She smiled with delight. "Now I've caught you."

Tragan thrashed, kicking, trying to get away from the guards.

"Oh stop that Tragan," Avva scolded.

He lunged backwards and almost tore loose, but another arrived to hold him still. He stood there, panting, then went into another fit of fighting. "Let me GO!" he howled.

Avva asked, "Go where? You are on a Sast ship, there's nowhere to run. My mother here has eleven legs and is three times your height; she'd have you before you ran a hundred steps!"

Tragan froze, staring at the smiling face staring down at him: he knew that expression she wore, that of a predator savouring the helplessness of its prey.

Her giant voice rumbled. "And how I'd enjoy chasing him. I could kick him and stomp on him and bite him and…"

Again the Sast laughed. Avva made an exaggerated gesture of shame.

"Mother, you're embarrassing me. But now Tragan, I have you all to myself, and all my fellow Sast here to help me. Ah, sweet Tragan."

Tragan flinched from that word, as he had not from all the Sast blows; that word and the expression that went with it. "Sweet? You dare call me…"

One of the other Sast said, "You're shivering, Avva, take a robe."

Avva murmured thanks as she draped it around herself. Then she said, "But I'm not shivering, I'm thinking so hard I shake. Tragan, the things you did to me, and oh, the things I shall do to you in return!"

The Prime folded her hands together, fingertip to fingertip; Tragan remembered Avva making the same gesture. "As is proper; you gave yourself to him, so shall he be given to you in turn. It's a fascinating method of judging a man's measure. I often think of the Earth philosopher, Mark Twain, who said the main difference between an animal and a sentient was that if you took an animal out of the gutter, fed and cared for it, and were always kind to it, the animal would not turn around and bite you."

Avva rolled her eyes. "Yes, I know; you've quoted that to me often enough."

The Prime continued, "But, you should know …"

Avva looked at her mother, then shot sharp glances at the other Sast, all of who started to sidle and look away.

"What? What?"

One of the Sast leaned over and whispered in Avva's ear, and her mouth formed an O of surprise.

She almost wailed at Tragan, "You destroyed the carpet?! My carpet!"

A part of Tragan wanted to laugh at her ridiculous expression, but that part of him was smothered up by the part that was screaming. Then something snapped, and he lashed out with his words.

"I…I…I destroyed EVERYTHING! I killed you, I destroyed you, your Gallmian originals, and that carpet! And I enjoyed it," he snarled. What was the point in hiding it?

"The calligraphy was counterfeit, it was there for you to destroy. All the records showed that you had no eye for art." Avva breathed in deeply. "But the carpet!"

Tragan shouted, on the edge of despair in his confusion, "It was the most hideous carpet I have ever seen in my life!"

Avva paced in a little circle. "But it was mine. The carpet I truly valued. That I cannot forgive."

She came close to Tragan, very close, too close, and her hand slid under his jacket. "Don't touch me! Stay away!" he ordered, and reared backwards, but the guards were there shoving him forward as her hand found his pants pocket and withdrew - the dice.

She looked down at them in her hand and sighed, "Ah, and here they are. I thought you'd keep them."

She stepped back a pace and squatted on her heels. She shook the dice in her hand, and even over the rumble of the machinery he could hear them click one against the other.

"So, Tragan. Let's play a little game."

His heart seemed to wither in his chest.

"Undo his manacles."

The Sast forced Tragan to his knees, facing her, and undid the manacles; then four of them had to lean on him to keep him on his knees, hold him back from strangling Avva where she knelt.

Avva politely requested, "Just one arm behind his back please."

Tragan growled, bestial, fighting, "I'll tear your heart out with this one hand! Let me GO!"

They finally got him pinned, one arm twisted painfully behind his back and one free.

She held her own hand out flat before his face, with the dice held in between her fingers.

"No, Tragan. First the game. The game is called Want. We roll a die apiece, and whoever gets the lower number gets what they want. Doesn't that sound fun? So Tragan - what do you want?"

"I want my freedom!" he rasped, lunging again at the confining hands on him.

Avva smiled, and said, "I want your pain, your suffering, your body and your life. I want all your money, all your property, all your knowledge and your immortal soul. Everything that is yours, everything that is you, Tragan, shall be mine to do with as I please."

She sniffed, and looked at the dice. "And all you want is your freedom - really, I'm almost insulted. You could at least have asked for the Flea. You could have asked for me, or five of me -"

"I want-" but she interrupted his interruption.

"Too late now, you wanted your freedom, and you shall have it. If the dice favour you."

She clicked the dice together in her hand, rolled them in a little circle around her palm. She batted her eyelashes at him; he remembered pulling those eyelashes out one by one with a pair of tweezers. In the background, the Sast chuckled.

"Shall we roll together, then?"

He looked at the deck; tried to blot out the alien noises around him, the bustle, the feel of the Sast hands pinning him down. This was it; this was his destiny. The rest of his life to be decided by two little bits of wood and how they fell on the deck.

He looked up, into Avva's eyes. He reached out, slowly, and took the white die.

"Together," he said, and they rolled.

He did not look down. She did, and clapped her hands together in glee, laughing.

He closed his eyes in misery, as the hard Sast hands picked him up and dragged him away.

* * *

They took him down in a lift, then through a series of rooms equipped with the most varied sorts of equipment. His sick eyes evaluated every piece of it, every chain and blade and clamp and needle.

He fought them of course, yelling, "This means war! War between the Naglon and the Sast! We'll wipe you out, burn you out of your orbits and smash your babies to bits! Let me GO!" Their cool reply was, "The Naglons think you died on Parakon, remember?"

But underneath, he really didn't know how he was going to get out of this.

He was shivering deep inside as they brought him into a large bay. "Get him on the restraint rack," one ordered, and they wrestled him into position. After removing the manacles and stretching him out, the same Sast said "Computer, close restraints," and cold metal closed over him, wrists, ankles, and chest.

As the guards left, one said, "Avva should be along in a minute. While you're waiting, feel free to look over the equipment we've got in this bay, and imagine how she'll be using it. On you."

He dropped his head back on the table, ignoring the little flare of pain from the impact. He whispered to himself, trying to spark himself up, "Got to escape, got to get away, got to-"

But no, the door was opening and closing behind his head, and he could tell who it was from the sounds of the wet footsteps on the deck.

Avva was still in the thin robe. It clung to the wet patches on her body. She looked down on him and smiled.

"I'm afraid there wasn't time to send for any insulated wire to tie you down with. Later, I think. Later. It does creak so delightfully under stress, don't you think?"

With all the force he could exert in his voice, he ordered, "You are going to let me go."

Avva flicked her eyebrows. "Or what? You'll kill me? You already did that." She came close to him, almost close enough, and stared into his eyes. "Who do you think you're dealing with, anyway?"

He stared at her, at her impossibly healed face; even the wattle he had bitten off was back. Of course. "You…"

Avva whispered to him, intimately. "You think we are a young race, Tragan, but we are old, very old. The names change, but our souls remain the same. Many times have I died, many times have I risen. I have searched the stars for meaning and the seas for truth, and found that the universe is bleak and cold and eternally numb, and only such sensation as we can draw from it makes it real and worth living in. But right now…right now…" She stepped back from him and the rack moved, rotating from its slanted position to vertical.

"What?" asked Tragan.

"Just tucking you away in a nice stasis field while I get cleaned up and changed. And make some plans for you. After all, you only had six days to work on me; I can have six, or sixty, or six hundred, as I please. Whatever it takes. I should make plans to match the scope of my work."

The rack started to slowly descend straight down into the floor; Tragan wondered wildly if there were grinding blades underneath, starving animals to rip his flesh. He shouted up at her, standing looking at him, "Whoever you are, you'll fail, girl, I know that you'll fail! You'll never break me! Never defeat me!"

He was completely enclosed, under the floor, and faintly he heard Avva say, "Computer, activate stasis field." The sound was cut off.

'Bloo-'

He was rising again; it seemed like no time had passed. He'd been in stasis, of course.

He rose higher, and there was Avva: her wild hair neatly trimmed now, clad in a black single piece garment that left her arms bare. There were several tool belts strapped around her waist, and they bristled with (he swallowed) the most appalling collection of tools. Grippers, reamers, scrapers, piercers …

The table kept rising, until his feet were level with the floor, or a little above it. Avva looked up at him, studying him.

"Guess who, Tragan?"

"You - Avva." He caught at himself, slowed his breathing, calmed his face's bubbling with an effort of will. "Love your haircut. Pity about the face under it."

She smiled again. "So nice to see you again, Tragan."

"How long did you keep me in stasis?" he inquired.

"Two years."

Tragan's jaw tensed. Two years!

Avva continued, "Which gave us time to clean out all your hidden bank accounts, free any blackmail victims who were still under your influence, and make all the most careful preparations for you."

Two years…she could have done all that.

"Or maybe," she turned around and started sauntering around the chamber, examining its various furnishings, "maybe it's only been two hours. Maybe I've only had time for a quick bath and a haircut, and have come in here to start my exercise program of the day on your body."

"You unclean animal!" he snarled. "I'll skin you alive for this, I'll turn you inside out and screaming, I'll space you and haul you back and do it again!"

"I thought you liked animals. You'll be giving me ideas if you carry on like that. No need for temper."

She came forward and touched the warts of his face, running her fingers through his crinkled facial hair. "There are so many, many things I want to learn about you, Tragan. Where you can be hurt, how you can be wounded. Your fears, your terrors, all of them, I want them all, every part of them. You're mine. All mine."

He snapped at her fingers.

"Missed me," she said, but while she was saying it he was shouting:

"Computer, open restraints!"

Nothing happened. His head fell back against the rack.

"The computer ignores all prisoners by default," said Avva. "Close but not quite."

He stared at her, all smooth and cool and polished. So different from the rude ragamuffin she had been on the Flea. She even smelled better now. "You planned this all, didn't you? Planned everything. You were the perfect bait to put in my way, something I couldn't resist taking in and devouring."

Avva creased her forehead, looking curious. "Yes, but why? By all standards I should have been someone who could have been your friend: similar tastes in Jut Ball, smut, pets…we could have made a great team."

Tragan choked. "Me, paired with an – artificial?"

Avva shook her head. "That's not it. It's something deeper, I think. Something deep in the core of your personality. Fortunately, I have all the tools I need here to get to that core and gently peel it open – or smash inside, if I feel like it."

Tragan pressed himself back against the rack, his mouth contorting in disgust. "You are repulsive to me. You make me feel filthy. How could I have ever allowed you to touch me!"

Again Avva shook her head no – saying that his disgust was false? "You know Tragan, I've been studying you ever since I was assigned your pickup, and I've found a certain headstrong nature to your sadism. You seem a little bit too eager to leap to the front, to prove yourself, to be the one holding the whip. You're greedy. It makes me wonder about your basic nature,. You see, I think that maybe, deep under it all, you don't really want to be the Master. You want to be mastered."

He looked at her with loathing. "I will never submit to you. I'll die first."

Avva shrugged. "Death may not be an escape for you, you know. Anyway, computer, clamp prisoner jaw."

The rack clamped a cold steel grip to his jaw, and a wire mesh closed over his lips, preventing him from making anything but grunting noises.

Avva spoke to him, in the polite tones of a business meeting, "I've got some people to contact, and since you're going to be having some close contact with them, yes very close, it seems the polite thing to let you listen in and get to know them in advance, so to speak."

Her eyes left his, and she addressed the ceiling. "Computer, contact Research Bay, call to Trur Omet-J."

The voice that answered was male and excited. "Hello Avva! Been expecting your call. Are you all set?"

"I am," and she looked at the helpless Tragan, "we are. Now you said you wanted to test if the interference of two gravity planes set to overload would set up dangerous eddies that could damage organic tissue, correct?"

Trur answered, "Yes, and-"

Tragan fought the gag, tried to talk; he imagined what could happen when those gravity planes started working on him, making parts of his body heavy enough to rip loose, shaking him apart.

Avva interrupted Trur. "Well you know, I think testing three gravity planes at once would be more fruitful, so bring everything you've got to the large work bay on North Red, OK?"

"On my way, Avva."

"Computer, end call. Computer, contact Research Bay, call to Thom Omek-J."

Thom sounded older, less excited. Less enthusiastic, please, Tragan desperately hoped. "Avva, are we on?"

"Yes, and I can't wait to read your paper on the effect of perception distorting drugs on Naglon biological responses. I've got just the test subject here for you."

"Splendid!"

Tragan was holding his eyes open as wide as he could, trying not to let any tears of rage spill, not to look weak in front of her. He knew how vulnerable Naglons were to certain drugs.

Avva seemed to notice his efforts, and stroked her fingers down his cheek; the tug on his eyelid was too much and one tear fell. "Really Tragan, you should be pleased that all these people want to pay attention to you! Computer, end call. Computer-"

Oh no, not another one.

"Contact Guest Wing, Room 2235 please."

The voice that replied was not a voice; it was the buzzing of some hideous chitinous throat, mixed with a synthetic voice that seemed to be the translation.

The voice said, "You have a host for me to lay my eggs in, and now? I have been full to bursting with them –"

Tragan bucked, straining every muscle in his body against the rack.

It didn't even creak.

No, no, no, he wanted to scream, no!

Avva's polite answering voice said, "Yes ma'am, we have a specimen who meets your requirements nicely. As you asked, he will be stressed so that only the strongest eggs survive. Now, we did agree that you would not be damaging his spinal columns, correct?"

The buzzing came back, and the voice. "I prefer the full penetration, but my situation is grave, my eggs will die if I do not lay them soon. Agreed. I will summon the lift unit and come to you."

Avva nodded her head, even though the speaker could not see her – Tragan thought. "My bay is in North Red, I eagerly anticipate your arrival."

Tragan was trying to scream behind the gag. His eyes darted around the bay, looking for cameras. Were there cameras? Horrible, horrible to be defiled and killed like this, to be – laid in, opened – but to have it be seen!

Avva came close, stroked his heaving chest as though to soothe him. "Three should do for this time. There's plenty more where they came from. Ah, company coming Tragan. This may be the last time I have you all to myself for hours."

She smiled, and held her fingers before his face: her skin parted and her cilia waved proudly in the air, like a hundred tiny arms waving hello. Waving goodbye.

"So, just for my own private curiosity, and excuse me but it's been puzzling me for ever so long, I think it's time I found out exactly how far can I stretch you out, here in this way that only a female Naglon can, before you start to – ache?"

With quick knives and eager eyes, she slit through his clothing. He closed his eyes, bit his lip under the gag. Then her fingers trailed down his body and started their gentle, relentless assault on his intimate parts, teasing at them, calling them forth…

* * *

It went on.

It went on for much longer than six days.

There were days when she did nothing put pump him full of vile fluids and then seal him up so that he could not purge himself; days he spent suspended from his thumbs or his hair or his, his other parts, while Avva's tools worked on him. Other Sast, and other alien species that had an interest in tormenting a Naglon sometimes joined her, and oh the games they played with him!

They made him crawl; they made him weep; they made him retch; they made him convulse; they made him suffer and suffer and suffer. Pain was a sea washing around him, sometimes only up to his chest, but too often closing over him and drawing him down.

But embedded in the sea of pain were flashes of pleasure. In the midst of agony, a tender caress. After days of torment, an hour of music. He didn't understand, or maybe he did.

Because the pain of the tortures were made bright and hard and different every time, in contrast to the pleasure. And as much as he fought and screamed and wailed to escape the torture at the hands of his demonic nemesis, he also desperately longed for those brief moments of mercy, from his merciful angel. His Mistress.

He knew what she was doing: she was breaking him, breaking his spirit, addicting him to her presence, making herself his own personal Hell and Heaven, and to leave one was to fall at once into the other. But it went on and on and on and on, and he could feel himself wearing away, losing himself.

* * *

Tragan came to himself on a cold steel plain, terribly cold. He was pressed against it, on hand and knees, and he could not rise because of the chains that ran from neck to elbows to ankles. It was so cold he could see frost forming around his fingers on the deck. It seemed terribly still.

He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw a pair of uniformed legs standing at ease beside him, and could have wept with happiness. He'd been terrified that he had died, and that Hell would be waiting here endlessly. But it seemed he was still alive. Still alive.

Distant laughter tinkled against his ear as he groaned, "C-cold…"

The Sast beside him said, in a conversational tone, "Here she comes."

He looked up and she was there, Avva, striding across the cold deck in soft black boots and a great black shaggy coat. There were chains dragging from her hands. She saw him move and called to him.

"Hello, Tragan! I'm coming! And just look what I brought with me!"

Along with her footsteps came growls, and barks, and Tragan cringed, flattened himself against the deck, as what she was leading on those chains bounded ahead of her, great beasts rearing and snuffling, trying to reach the helpless figure before them.

Tragan whispered, "No, please no."

Avva paid no attention to his plea. "Cold enough for you? I had them open this deck to space for two hours, to give it the proper chill. And with you nude, the cold should be quite bracing. Is it, Tragan? Answer me, Tragan."

He didn't dare not answer. He said "Y-y-y-yes," through chattering teeth.

"Good," she cooed to him. "Now, I'm sure you can see all the interesting things we have here, yes? Barriers and tunnels and holes and fences. It's an obstacle course, and you're going to run it. And in case you don't feel inspired to run," the animals reared and barked, "these sweet beasts are here to motivate you. I'm sure you recognise them, the same species as your guards, aren't they?"

Tragan felt a tiny spark of – fear? hope? – and his question came fast. "They'll kill me?"

Avva smiled pityingly at him. "Actually, they are trained to rend and hold, not kill. But if they catch you quickly, they'll be quite frustrated, because they so look forward to a nice run. You had better run very far and fast, Tragan, to get them tired out, so they don't abuse you."

Tragan pressed himself as flat as he could get against the cold deck, and whimpered, "No, I won't."

Avva tossed her hair. "Really Tragan, you should enjoy your arms and legs while you still have the use of them. And besides, you don't want to disappoint all the spectators who are watching, do you? Listen to them cheer when I wave."

She waved, and in the distance there were indeed cheers; Tragan pictured bleachers, crowds, and his heart seemed to freeze.

"And then there's this," she said. She held something in front of her, then lowered it to in front of his face.

"Look, Tragan. Surely you recognise it."

He looked at it, the barrel, the spring grip, and he started to shiver, more than the cold could account for.

"An implantation gun…for ER needles…oh no. No. You implanted me."

"Even now, hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions of people, are tuning in to feel your most intimate feelings, sharing your body. Experienced Reality is quite the rage."

"On Arx?" he asked, and then wished desperately to call back the question. He wasn't supposed to ask questions, not to speak unless spoken to.

Avva answered, "On the planet we are in orbit around, and no more fishing for information or I'll sew your lips shut again."

He bit his lips, remembering the cold grate of wire against his teeth.

She went on, cheerily, mercilessly. "Now, your audience. Imagine how they must enjoy the touch of the cold deck on your hands and knees, the smell of these fine beasts, the touch of my hand," and she slapped him, across the shoulder on raw flesh, and he cringed.

"No!" he cried.

She asked, "You don't want to disappoint all those people, do you? You don't want to disappoint me? Tragan?"

"I can't," he cried, crying.

Avva sounded officious, which was only one step from being angry, and that was bad, very bad. "Nonsense, I haven't damaged any of your major joints or muscles yet. Your breathing passages have healed nicely from that, well, somewhat overgenerous application of corrosive gas I gave them, so you can keep your wind up. Those eggs in your abdomen haven't hatched."

She paused, and looked at where his feet left frozen red smears on the deck. "I suppose my flaying your feet yesterday will make the run a bit more painful, not to mention slippery, but you can do it. And you will."

Tragan suddenly thought of something, and it fell out of his mouth before he could recall it. "The eggs. You won't let them kill me, because of them!"

Avva ruffled his hair with one hand, with the other she choked up on the beasts' leads, to keep them from licking their prey. "No actually, we have a nice host animal waiting in the wings, ready to move the young into once they start to get – overly peckish. If you die, the eggs can be retrieved. It's an old family tradition that they be incubated in sentient flesh, but it needn't be for their full cycle."

"How long before they hatch?" slipped out of him, and he stared up at her, expecting the needle and wire to come out right then and there.

Instead she stared at him, and replied, "A long time. Or a short time. It'll be such a lovely ticklish surprise when they do, don't you think?"

Tragan stared at the deck, seeing the tiny specks of ice that were his own frozen tears. "I can't do this."

"Tragan," she said warningly.

He was breathing hard; he couldn't seem to stop it, to stop panting in fear. "I can't with…everyone watching me. I can't stand it. I can't bear to be watched like that."

He looked up, straining the collar around his neck, feeling it dig into him and pull at its chain. He looked up and pleaded, "Don't make me, please."

Avva frowned, and it cracked against him like a physical blow. "Tragan, you're going to make me cross."

He felt like his body, his soul, was falling open, was emptying out around him. "I cannot, I can not do this."

"But I want you to. Tragan."

He stopped.

He stopped, and then he crawled to her feet, he pressed his forehead to the deck at her feet, feeling the sweat of fear freeze under it, he whispered to her feet, "Mistress…"

Avva said nothing, but she sighed.

Tragan whispered, "Mistress, please, don't make me run. Don't humiliate me like that, I can take the pain, the damage, but please don't let them look at me, don't let them feel me! I didn't do this to you!"

He could feel her bending over him, it was like a thundercloud, he couldn't cringe any lower but he tried. "Go on," she said.

"It was just you and me, you were the only thing I concentrated on, I didn't share you, you were the most important thing in the world to me for those few days!"

He felt her hand on the back of his head.

"It was just you and me, Tragan."

He dared to look up, to turn his head so that he could see her face over him.

"Please, Mistress, only for you, I only…want to…for you."

She stood over him, silent. Then she said to the Sast guard, "Undo his chains and let him stand."

"Are you sure?" the guard asked, but quickly the chains were taken off his ankles, his arms, his neck. He was standing again, his feet both painful and numb against the cold deck. Avva handed the beasts' leashes to the guard, and then stood close to Tragan. He stared down into Avva's face, then closed his eyes and looked away. He couldn't bear to look at her. He wasn't – worthy to look at her.

But her warm fingers were on his face now, turning him to look at her, and she said, "Now, let me open your mouth."

He did at once.

"That's it, good, the sockets where we pulled those teeth have healed up quite nicely."

She put one arm over his back; oh the wonderful contrast between that warmth and his cold skin! She reached into her pocket and held something in front of him.

"Now, do you know that this is?"

Tragan blinked, focusing on the oval purple – "It's a Moke fruit."

"Yes, here," said Avva, "eat it."

Tragan cringed, sure it was a trick. "Eat…?"

Avva reassured him. "There's no needles in it, no razors, it's not poisoned, it's delicious. I'll take a bite," and he gazed in astonishment at the sight of her white teeth cleaving the fruit, her purple lips wet with its juices before she put it into his trembling hand, "and you can have the rest."

He shuddered under her arm, and started to devour the fruit. He couldn't remember when he had eaten last, and the fruit was sweet and wet and still warm from her pocket, it was wonderful, it was the best thing he'd ever eaten in his life. "Oh it's so good," he moaned.

Avva stroked his hair again, enjoying the play of colour in his face as he ate. "Now while you eat, and I want you to eat, I want you to keep up your strength, I'm going to explain."

He looked at her, eyes wide, and listened. And ate.

"I'm not making you run to humiliate you, or to torture you. I'm making you run so that everyone can see what a fine fleet animal you are, how dedicated to me, that you will run at my command. I want them to marvel at how deft you are at escaping the beasts, how cleverly you backtrack and trick them, and how strongly you will fight them when they finally bring you down. You are mine, Tragan, and all that you do is mine."

The Moke fruit was gone, all gone, he'd even eaten the bitter seeds. He moaned, the tears spilling freely now, and her fingers touched those tears.

"And even those tears are mine."

He swallowed, licked a last trace of juice from his lips, and husked, "Yes, Mistress."

Avva shouted, "Now run!"

Her arm lifted from his back and he ran, ran, ignoring the stinging pain, the slippery blood, the cold, ran for her, ran for the obstacle course, ran to hide and dodge and fight for her, for her, for his Mistress.

Behind him, Avva took the beasts' leads again; they growled and lunged, eager to be after their prey.

The Sast guard asked, "Aren't you going to release them?"

Avva smiled and said, "I'll let him get to the first set of obstacles first."

Curious, the guard asked, "When will you tell him that he doesn't have ER transmission needles in him after all? That his captivity is a secret?"

Avva shrugged. "Never. Why should I? He has put himself into my hand for all time now."

* * *

He was awakened with a slap, and a voice, THE voice, said "Wake up Tragan!"

He struggled up from the floor. "Yes?"

"Yes, what?"

He cursed himself, how could he have forgotten, he wasn't worthy to call her – "Yes, Mistress."

She spoke to him. "Something's come up, Tragan. Several somethings in fact. Several politically connected and irate somethings."

Somewhere behind her in the gloom, another Sast spoke. "There's no time for this."

Her voice was cold. "I choose to make the time." Then she leaned close, and held something out to him. "Tragan, what am I holding in my hand?"

He know them of course; he would know them, down to the faded spot on the black and the chipped corner on the white, for the rest of his life.

"It's…the dice."

His Mistress' face was intent on him, her terrible eyes staring into his. "There's a decision that needs to be made, Tragan, and if you want, you can take the dice and roll them. You can choose."

He cringed. "No, no, please, don't make me!" He was terrified of those dice, every time he rolled them something awful happened.

She asked him, "So you want me to choose?"

He bellied to her, touched his chin to the floor. "Yes, you Mistress, please, I am yours."

She only sighed "Ah," but that was warmth in the heart of him. He'd made the right decision; he'd pleased her.

The dice fell and he shook.

Avva looked down at the dice, and then spoke. "Tell the Naglons that he died in captivity, and the body was destroyed. Send them on their way."

She picked up the dice, and then rubbed Tragan's head affectionately. "It's really for the best, you know. They would have killed you on the spot, for the shame you brought their species. And then I wouldn't have you."

He dared to raise his head, dared to kiss her fingers. "Thank you, Mistress."

She let her fingers stay against his lips. "But still, we need to prepare, so that they won't find you. So that no one will take you from me, ever."

He whispered, "Yes?"

She stepped away from him, and said, "Computer, activate stasis field."

‘Bloo-‘

* * *

He awakened and felt no pain. No pain! But...he tried to wiggle his hands, his toes – and felt nothing.

He tried to open his eyes – and could not.

Had she broken his neck? Put a nerve block on his spinal column, to leave him trapped inside his own skull? He couldn't feel anything, not his breathing, nothing!

He listened; surely he should be able to hear his own heartbeat? But except for a strange myriad flutterings that sounded like waterlogged moths batting against a floor, there was nothing.

He tried to hold his breath, and could not.

"Because I'm not breathing!" he screamed – or tried to. The words were there in his head, but there were no lips to speak them, apparently, no tongue, and no breath.

Was he dead?

He lay there (he thought), stunned, for a long time.

Then she spoke!

"Hello, Tragan."

Her words pierced him like glass and he cringed. "Not so loud!" And his reply hurt as well.

"I am not loud, Tragan; I am not speaking, and neither are you. I've made you a little bit telepathic, so that you can hear me thinking to you. And I can hear you. When I choose."

Her words were hot oil dropped on his flesh, heavy brass bells being rung and he was the clapper. "Quiet!" he howled. "Please be quiet, it hurts!" The pain was so great that it drove him into a frenzy; he couldn't remember how he should be addressing her. He couldn't do anything but desperately try to move something, feel something - and fail.

"I know, Tragan. Everything hurts, doesn't it? That's the way I planned it."

Through the pain of his own talking, he stuttered, "I can't hear or feel my body." He wailed, "No body!"

"You have no hands or feet, Tragan. You cannot hear your heart because you have no heart. You cannot hold your breath because you are not breathing."

What had she done to him? Tentatively, he tried to guess. "Am I a brain in a jar? A computer print of my mind? A ghost?"

"None of those things, Tragan. You are on the Righteous Flea, and I am walking across the boarding area, coming to test the onboard systems and prepare to leave."

"Oh no. No. I prayed you would leave and, " finally remembering his manners, "Mistress, please, you can't – you can't take me with you. You can't, please, leave me alone, let me die!"

"Oh, but if I left you alone, you'd miss me, wouldn't you?"

And he would, he knew, he would miss her absolutely and completely, his life would have no meaning if it were not for her. And knowing that, accepting that, brought a sweet flash of happiness to him that left him limp – he thought. Tragan couldn't tell.

"Mistress," he thought submissively. "I would. Where am I? In the tank?"

"That tank is reserved for ME, Tragan, and you are not in it."

The word ME was a hot needle through his ears – or mind, as the case might be. He cringed inside himself, waiting for her to enter the ship and reveal his whereabouts to himself.

He thought he could feel a vibration: were they moving? No, it was irregular, like footsteps, and then it stopped. Avva's voice went on in his mind, like broken glass being ground into his tongue, telling him what had been done to him.

"I'm afraid we've had to liquefy your brain, Tragan, but don't worry, it works as well as it ever did. And it's been given a lovely artificial suspension medium, that will make sure it gets plenty of oxygen and nutrients, and flush away any of those nasty metabolic poisons. It's self-sealing too, just like the better ground effects tires. And although you may not be able to feel your arms and legs and torso and head, you do still have a physical body, of sorts. Can you guess yet?"

"No," he whispered, and that whisper was a drop of acid in his heart.

"Oh, I think you can. You see, I so much admired that lovely pebbled complexion of yours, that I thought I'd like to test it for resilience, durability, resistance to punctures, and so on. And I must say, it passed with flying colours – so to speak. So, while we were liquefying your brain, we were also peeling you flat, taking out all those bones and organs and such you won't be needing, encouraging your skin to grow in certain directions, thickening it here and there, making the corners neat-"

The vibration again, and then a sensation, a definite sensation, the feeling of a boot stepping on his skin. And it was the worst agony yet, crushing him flat, bruising him, grinding into him.

"You see, Tragan, you are my new carpet."

And as Avva commenced her checklist, walking from room to room, crossing the main area again and again to inventory supplies and double check safety readings, Tragan screamed and screamed and screamed.

She spoke in his mind, and he was instantly silent.

"All your senses are now routed through me, except for touch: and that touch is pain. If you want to see, to hear, to feel anything else except pain, it will only be through me. I can turn that pain into ecstasy as I will it, Tragan, but only as I will it."

Tragan prayed, not for death, but for her grace, her happiness, that he might be allowed to see, to hear, to feel again.

She went on, "Now don't distract me, here comes the Customs inspector, and look at those lovely hobnailed boots! I think he's going to say something, would you like to hear?"

More vibrations, and then a voice, echoing from Avva's mind to his: "Exterior looks fine, standard calibrations met – but dear! You've got to get rid of that carpet, it smothers the whole room! It's so – asymmetrical!"

The boots met his surface, and he screamed again.

* * *

It was later, much later. Days? Years? Deep in space and quiet.

He whispered, "Mistress?" He had learned that She could block out his 'voice' with no effort, but sometimes, when all was still, She would deign to talk to him.

"Yes, Tragan?" She was seated at the table; Her bare foot brushed him, just his finest hairs, and he gurgled with fright.

"Mistress…I remember the roll of the dice…and you smiled and laughed…but…I never looked down. I never saw…who had the lower number."

Without a word, She lifted Her feet from him.

"Mistress?"

She was silent. And She did not touch him.

"Mistress?"

Silence. Darkness. No feeling, no sensation, no sound, no touch…

"Mistress, please…please don't leave me here in the dark…please talk to me, please touch me, please!"

O ecstasy, Her voice in his mind, very quiet and low, "Tell me Tragan, if I offered you your freedom now, would you take it?"

"No, please! Don't leave me…"

"Ahhhh," and Her foot on his skin, and the pain and the pleasure were one, ecstatic agony.

"Ahhhh," She sighed with him.

THE END