Nor Iron Bars a Cage

This story came from the 1994 zine Red Rose 1. The sub-title of Red Rose 1 was "Because Roses have Thorns". The squeamish should therefore consider themselves warned.

NOR IRON BARS A CAGE

by R OLIVIA BROWN

There was something in Avon that still couldn't believe it had happened. Though captured by the Domo slavers he had trusted the Scorpio crew to rescue him before Servalan-Sleer could take him but in the event, Servalan had not been the highest bidder.

Oddly, the first thing his new owner had done was to remove the teleport bracelet - or rather to have it removed - for he couldn't believe this pudding-face had Xmillion credits. If only Vila had not been operating the teleport and if only Vila had not been his usual drunken self, Avon would not now be here. Wherever 'here' was.

He could tell he was on board a ship, the slight vibration was unmistakable and the room he was now in was - self evidently - a cell, a very small cell, with cool bare metal walls. With the exception of his shoes and the teleport bracelet he was fully clothed.

Avon dimly remembered being rendered unconscious. He had been standing, silent and disbelieving when he felt his ... buyer ... touch his arm; just that small touch had been enough to knock him out. He wondered how long ago that had been, but thought not long because he was only faintly hungry. A puzzle also, quite what they had used to gain such an immediate result.

Avon was lying curled on his side, the room not being quite big enough to lie flat in, and was suddenly aware of his muscles aching from lying on the hard metal as he pulled himself unwillingly into a sitting position. As he did so he gave a quiet groan of pain, a sound that was instantly deadened by the smallness of the room. He could feel the cold metal striking up through his sox and he shivered. He was curious to know why he was imprisoned here and how long he would wait for release.

A voice, male and quite soft, spoke, sounding over-loud after the silence. "Stand." Avon shook his head, both in refusal and disbelief and the voice repeated the instruction, "Stand."

There was a long pause while Avon did nothing of the sort, then the voice came again, "Disobedience requires punishment, slave." Without further warning an electric shock passed through the floor of the cell and Avon cried out with pain and surprise. "Now, stand."

Avon struggled painfully to his feet and waited for his next instruction. After a few heartbeats it came, "Strip." Once again Avon delayed and once again a shock ripped through him. More prepared this time he made no sound, even when the punishment was repeated.

Smiling very slightly, the prisoner unfastened his jacket, removed it, placed it on the floor and stood on it. The voice spoke again, "Not stupid anyway. Good, I would have hated to waste so much money on a stupid slave, however decorative."

Avon became increasingly irritated. He was hungry, he needed to piss and he was bored. The jacket was too small to sit on with any degree of comfort and experimentation showed that he couldn't stretch his legs out, the painful jolts of electricity were still going through the floor at random intervals. He considered taking his trousers off, but that would merely imply compliance with his instructions, something he was anxious to avoid.

"Want to eat yet?" The voice came without warning, making him jump. "I guarantee you can't sleep through the punishment, either. Obedience has its rewards, slave."

Avon stood and unfastened his trousers, pulling them off slowly and unwillingly. He followed them with the rest of his clothes, he thought he had finished but the voice spoke again, "And your sox, slave."

Sighing, Avon complied. "Now pick them all up." Avon did so and a door opened in the smooth surface of the cell wall.

On the other side of the door a man waited, arms folded across his broad chest. On seeing him the vague sense of recognition Avon had been aware of on hearing the voice coalesced and he spoke. "Blake? Blake, what are you ..."

He was silenced by a sharp blow on the mouth, not from a hand, the man had been carrying some sort of flexible probe or whip, some two feet long. "I have not given you permission to speak, slave." Surprised, Avon dropped the clothes he had been carrying. "And pick those up." When Avon didn't obey immediately, the

man raised his voice, "Do it!"

"You see that waste chute?" the man - Blake - indicated.

"Yes."

Immediately he was corrected, "Yes Master."

A second blow to the mouth reinforced the correction. There was a long pause, then Avon whispered, "Yes ... Master."

"Put the clothes in the chute. Now."

Avon did so, then turned back, covering his genitals with his hands.

The man walked round him, slowly, then touched Avon's face with the metal probe, tilting his face with it so he could look at him properly. "Well, you're pretty enough. Now, slave, uncover yourself."

"My name's Avon," the prisoner said, icily.

"Was it?" The man sounded quite indifferent. He applied the probe quickly to each of Avon's shoulders, it delivered a jolt of energy that caused him to lose all strength in his arms, they fell to his sides, uncovering his genitals. "That's better. I am your master and you will address me as such. You belong to me now, slave, and if you disobey me you'll be punished. You exist to serve me, and that is all you exist for, you experience pain and pleasure, sleeping and waking at my whim. Every breath you take is a gift from me." It took some time, at least a minute, longer, for Avon to be able to move his arms again. "There are facilities here, use them."

Avon waited for his master to go, finally realising that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. He turned to the facility and urinated, relieved that he did not need to do anything else just yet.

His master indicated Avon should precede him and opened another hidden door. This led to a large but spectacularly untidy cabin. Avon paused just inside and the master gave him a light shove from behind to make him move further into the room. Avon turned to face him, automatically covering himself once again. "Blake, why are you doing this?"

The master slapped him across the face hard enough to make him gasp with pain, and applied the probe to his shoulders again. "Address me as Master. Always. For your information, slave, my identity is none of your concern."

"You're joking ...." catching sight of the man's face, Avon reluctantly added, "Master."

"Far from it, slave. You will clean this room, and clean it thoroughly, understand?"

"No."

Once again the master slapped Avon across the face, "Proper address, slave. I doubt you could misunderstand such a simple instruction, so I imagine that was a refusal. A big mistake, disobedience is punished." The master strolled across the cabin to the bed and picked up a belt, folding it in two. "Will you reconsider?"

Avon looked at the heavy belt with misgiving. "No," he said, but backed away slowly.

The master stopped him, grasping him by the arm. Avon struggled hard, escaping for a moment, but was almost immediately recaptured and felt the probe being applied yet again. His arms went limp and he felt something fasten round first one wrist then the other. He was frightened, he had not expected to lose this fight but the man was stronger and quicker than he had expected, and Avon fought all the harder using his legs as well as he was able until they also were weakened by the probe, then captured and tied. Avon was pleased to hear the master breathing more quickly as he was thrown across the bed, but the fear returned when he heard the belt being readied.

The first blow caught him across the buttocks and caused him to cry out in pain and shock, the blow was repeated again and again until he screamed, then the master moved his attention to his back and shoulders, whipping him until he cried out once more. Suddenly the beating stopped and Avon slid down, his bruised body hitting the floor with a bump causing him to whimper with the pain.

The bindings round his wrists and ankles were swiftly undone and he was pulled up to stand in the centre of the cabin, swaying slightly from the shock. The master's voice was quiet and deadly. "Slave, you will clean this room very thoroughly. If you don't obey me the punishment will be repeated until you do."

Avon closed his eyes and when he opened them the master was gone, he was alone. He sat down on the floor, quite slowly, feeling the pain from his back once again. Looking around he saw a carafe of water standing open on the table with a glass. He was thirsty and needed the drink very badly, but moving over to it caused him considerable pain and for a time he sat at the desk taking slow sips.

The room took some time to clean and tidy. He decided to comply in the master's instructions - only partly to avoid punishment. As he tidied the room Avon searched every drawer and cupboard, every item of clothing was shaken out and sorted through, each of his master's personal belongings was examined minutely before being put away. He found no sign that his master was Blake - and nothing at all to prove that he was not.

The prisoner sat on the end of the newly made bed, his body aching miserably; he was exhausted, more so than he could ever remember being before, even after a long period of insomnia. Possibly the probe had a secondary function, rendering him weak.

Avon had not been resting long when the master returned. Feeling obscurely that it was expected of him the prisoner stood as the master entered the room and looked around. "Well done, slave. Now put it all back exactly as it was before. Exactly."

"But ..."

"Yes, slave?"

"Why?" The master stared at him for a moment and Avon tried again. "Why, Master."

"There is no reason. You do not have to think, merely obey."

Avon sighed and started to pull his work apart feeling inexpressibly weary and all the while the master watched from the chair by the desk. At last he said, "I have finished."

He was corrected immediately, the correction reinforced with the probe, the jolt causing him to yelp with pain. "You have not. That coat," he indicated a heavy embroidered jacket, "was over there. That shirt," he indicated the one Avon had put back across the bed, "is the wrong one." The prisoner rectified his errors. "Better, slave." He surveyed the prisoner for a moment. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

The probe was applied to his leg this time, causing him to drop to one knee. Avon sighed yet again. "Yes, Master."

"You will be corrected every time until you get it right. You are a slave and I am your master, the sooner you remember that on your own the better. Now, you're hungry, follow me." The master led the way from the cabin and after a moment's pause during which he hauled himself to his feet, Avon followed.

Almost as soon as they were outside the cabin the master stopped as a tallish, fair man addressed him. "Sir ... we are approaching base."

"Thank you, Jarvik. I shall be there presently."

Jarvik's eyes took in Avon standing, naked, behind his master. The expression on his face betrayed an obvious appreciation and Avon felt his whole body enveloped in a scalding blush. "He is very beautiful, sir," the man commented.

"But it seems he has no manners," said his master, tartly, jolting Avon's hands away from his genitals. "Hands by your side, slave."

As they walked away Avon was horribly aware that Jarvik's hot, unsteady gaze was still on him. Once in the galley he was relieved to be away from it. The master sat down on one of the many empty chairs.

"Food," he said. "While you're there you can get me a drink - tea, I think. You can have the same. The food for you is in the processor."

By this time Avon was hungry enough to obey without question, bringing the hot cups and a covered bowl to the table. He handed one cup to his master, uncovered his own meal and picked up his spoon but before he could eat his master grasped his wrist. "Ask," he said.

"May I eat now, Master?"

The master let go of his wrist. "You may."

The meal consisted of a slightly salty porridge, though dull after a time it was not unappetising, at least filling and much needed after his long fast. The tea was the most welcome part of the meal, the real thing, something he had not had since he left Earth, and it was hot and reviving. The master watched him eat with a lazy interest Avon could not identify. While it certainly lacked the intensity the man Jarvik had shown he was still not comfortable with it.

As soon as he had finished his meal the master stood, and Avon followed suit, unwillingly. The galley door opened to admit a slim young woman. For a dislocated second Avon thought it was Cally, but then he saw this woman was slightly taller, her hair fairer and trimmed in a shorter style than Cally had usually favoured.

The woman seemed embarrassed, he thought more by the master's presence than by Avon's nakedness, though she too looked Avon up and down slowly and appreciatively. "Ah ... sir, I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

"No matter, Arlen."

"Sir, we will be approaching base soon.

"So Jarvik informed me. Come along, slave."

The master led him back to the cabin. Once inside, he took a comprehensive look round "This place is a mess. Clean and tidy it at once."

"Why?"

The master struck him across the face, a full handed slap that echoed round the cabin. "You're to serve me, not ask questions. Get on with it!"

Avon sighed. "As you wish."

The master gripped Avon's arm painfully. "As you wish, Master. I want no insolence from you. Say it!"

"As you wish, Master," Avon repeated obediently. It seemed clear to him that the man was quite mad.

"Well done. So, clean it."

This time it didn't take him nearly as long, most of the work had already been done once and he finished in time to be aware that the ship was landing, a planet or at least a planetoid, and he allowed himself to consider possible escape plans - they had to be most vulnerable while landing or taking off, there was almost bound to be some chance of getting away.

***

The ship had landed some five hundred metres away from a base of sort, Avon could see it's lights clearly in the surrounding gloom and he could see also that the fence around the base was not quite continuous. He spared a thought for possible reasons for this omission, but was too tired to think about it. As soon as they were away from the ship and the master's attention seemed to be distracted by something the woman Arlen said, the prisoner ran for it.

Avon very nearly did not stop in time to save himself, the curious noise he had been aware of almost from the moment he left the ship was simply explained - the sea; and the fact that it was dashing against rocks at the base of a high cliff explained the short fence. Avon turned, in time to see his master run towards him. That run, that particular gait, all said 'Blake' to him far more powerfully than anything else: he could feel a sickening, tearing sensation inside, combined with a powerful need to act and a feeling of something left undone. He couldn't breathe for it, and blackness claimed him.

***

He came round inside another cell. He was naked, as he had been when he made his bid for freedom and he smiled at his own stupidity, he did not recall having taken that into account before he ran, or maybe he had, he couldn't really remember.

This cell was bigger than the last, it was physically possible to lie flat, but on a cold concrete surface that prospect was not particularly appealing. Once again it was quite bare, there was no sleeping surface and not even a blanket to cover himself, but along one wall two pipes ran parallel to each other, creating a possible though rather uncomfortable seat and along another wall at just above head height ran a third.

Avon hauled himself up and stood, feeling once again his aching limbs and the bruises on his back and buttocks caused by the earlier beating. On waking he had been certain of the identity of his master, but he couldn't make the memory of his treatment so far accord with the memory of the man he had known on the Liberator, the man obsessed with freedom and choice. At the time he had thought the days on and before the Liberator the hardest he had ever known, now the memory beckoned almost like the prospect of a pleasure planet.

He tested the pipes before sitting on them, but even so the moment he trusted his weight to them one broke with a sharp snap, precipitating a flow of stinking water onto the floor of the cell. The water was freezing cold against his unprotected feet and the feel of it caused him a shudder of disgust. It also made him want to urinate, he couldn't help himself, but the knowledge that he had done so and now had to live in his own muck disgusted him. He leant against the unbroken bar not quite willing to give this his full weight in case it should break like the other. It was warm, too warm to lean against for long but he shivered, for his feet were still in the freezing water.

The idea of sleeping in this filthy place was obviously quite out of the question. Seeing the broken bar Avon picked it up, shuddering once more at the feel of the muck on the floor and hefted it to get some idea of it's potential as a weapon. It was not really heavy enough, but if he could surprise whoever came in, he might gain enough time to get away. He settled down to wait.

The time passing gave him the chance to examine the cell. The door seemed to be a metal surround with a concrete infill and it fitted flush to the wall, no sign of hinges and the only opening was a grille in the bottom, which provided his only source of fresh air. No chance of escape there, the fastenings to the grille must be on the other side, and even were he able to open it with the pipe he was too large to get through. Nor was he given any hope by the flush-to-the-ceiling light fittings, an experimental blow from the pipe showed the covers to be plastiglass, practically unbreakable. The lights inside would be Permalunes, found all over the Federation and supposed by the manufacturers to be everlasting. The fact that one had ceased to function showed manufacturers to be wrong and though it made the cell rather dim Avon found the fact comforting. Their mere presence also gave him hope, they showed he was in Federation space, or at the very least, what had been Federation space before the wars.

The closer look he gave to the cell also showed that the lights were fitted with a sensor array. Interesting, and implying that the room had been constructed as a cell rather than being a storeroom which had been converted into a cell. They provided him with little hope for escape, but showed him that at least he had some means of communicating with his captors.

As far as he could tell he was quite alone, no footsteps passed along the corridor outside, and there were no cries as there had been so often during his period of interrogation by the Federation. In some ways he was reminded of his five days of torture while waiting for Shrinker, but the Federation had never been so crude in their methods. He sighed. Perhaps if they had been, he would not have held out for so long, but psycho-manipulation techniques had never worked well on him. Thrusting the thought from his mind he straightened, deciding that these cruder methods would prove as unreliable as any others.

He did not know how long he had been there. No food had been provided and he was ravenously hungry once more. His feet were cold from the half inch or so of water on the cell floor, and the skin had softened making the uneven concrete uncomfortable to stand or walk on. He wanted to sleep nearly as much as he wanted to eat, an unusual sensation for him. The smell from the hideous mess on the floor had long since ceased to trouble him, he no longer even noticed it.

Suddenly there was a noise at the door and the grille opened. Something - a metal bowl - was pushed through and it closed again with a rattle. Avon crossed the cell and picked up the bowl. Only a little had been spilled, it was the same slightly salty porridge as the master had given him before, but this time he had no spoon with which to eat. Though he was disgusted it took him only a moment to decide to eat with his fingers.

Once he had eaten he longed for sleep, but the very idea of lying on the wet ground horrified him. Eventually, utterly exhausted, he had to sit, but almost as soon as he had done so several more litres of the filthy water poured from the pipe into the cell, most of it over Avon. He jumped up with a whimper of disgust. Then the voice came, surprising him. "I imagine that by now, slave, you are sorry that you tried to escape. But are you sorry enough?" Avon said nothing and the voice came again, "Answer me, slave. Are you sorry enough?"

Avon knew he had no chance of escape if he remained in the cell, so he lied. "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry."

"Obviously not." There was a slight click as contact was broken.

Avon leaned miserably against the wall and sat down slowly, this time he hardly noticed the wet floor. He wondered if the master was listening to him, to his every sigh and the slight plash of the water as he moved.

At irregular intervals the pipe disgorged more water into the cell, until when Avon stood it lapped against his ankles. He shivered from the cold but kept himself as warm as he could by holding the hot pipe, though it meant that when the water flowed in it hit Avon, flowing down him in rivulets, dripping off his body hair. Then the voice came again. "Are you sorry enough, slave?"

Avon forced himself to say it convincingly. "Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

"Sorry for what, slave?"

"I'm sorry I tried to escape, Master."

"Will you do it again?"

A pause, then Avon answered more quietly, "No, Master."

"Tell me again, slave."

"I'm sorry, Master. I won't try to escape again, Master."

"I think you're lying." And the contact was broken again.

Avon had rarely cried in his adult life, but he nearly did now. He leaned against the wall, his face in his hands. After a moment he picked up the bar.

He waited a long time, but at last there was a noise as the door was opened and Avon looked up. Both the master and Jarvik stood there, outlined in the bright light from the corridor. "Put the bar down," the master ordered, "and come to the door." Silently, Avon complied. It seemed that the cell was in a corner of a closed in area and he could see that Jarvik was holding something which snaked out behind him but he couldn't quite see what. "Stand in the corner and face the wall."

Avon did so, a little unwillingly. Almost at once he was hit in the back with a powerful jet of cold water and he gasped in shock and pain. He was told to turn around and struggled to obey as the flow moved up and down his body.

"He's clean enough," his master said at last and Jarvik switched off the water, leaving Avon exhausted and dripping.

"This way, slave," said the master leading him away. Avon followed without comment, he was too tired to dredge up any coherent thought.

The corridors they walked through seemed long unused, the dust was quite thick in places and it stuck to Avon's wet skin, but at last they reached what seemed to be a living area for the base personnel, it consisted of small self contained flats, rather than barrack rooms or offices, and the master led him into a bedroom, also clearly long unused. On the floor was an old mattress covered with a blanket, this the master indicated with his foot. "You will sleep here, slave." The prisoner stumbled over to it and sat down. "Have you no gratitude?" the master asked, in a tone of hurt incomprehension.

"Yes, Master. Thank you, Master." Avon lay down and slept. For once in his life it was easy.

***

Avon thought he must have been unconscious for some hours, but even so when he awoke his master was there, waiting for him. On the floor was a tray and Avon could smell food. His belly rumbled and he sat up slowly.

He reached for the tray and the master pulled it out of reach with the toe of his boot. "You have forgotten, haven't you, slave?"

"May I eat, please, Master."

"This will be my residence," the master ignored the question and indicated the bedroom and by extension the flat beyond it. "As you can see, it requires cleaning and as I have a slave, that's your job."

"Why should I?"

"I see you haven't learned much yet. You will clear out this flat and clean it thoroughly, unless of course you want to be returned to your late quarters. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

The master kicked him, hard, in the groin and he cried out. "Yes, what?" It seemed the master was beginning to get impatient with continually correcting him.

"Yes, Master."

The master tipped the tray over with the toe of his boot. "Go on then, eat."

The food was better this time, bread, cheese and fruit cut into small pieces convenient to eat with the fingers and though it was dusty from the floor, Avon ate hungrily.

"Better, slave?"

"Yes. Thank you, Master."

"Good. Start work now. Members of the base personnel are clearing other residences and they will help you move very heavy items out. They won't help you with anything else."

If Avon had ever had any idea about what form slavery might take for him, domestic servitude would not have been very high on his list of imaginings. Being a naturally clean and tidy person he had rarely spent much time on such things, but this! This was an entirely different proposition. Almost as soon as the master had gone Jarvik, Arlen and another person, a man they called Deva had arrived. Avon remembered Deva as being the master's agent on Domo, the one he had mentally nicknamed pudding-face. Seeing him again, he still considered it an apposite name.

Jarvik smiled on seeing him, but his was not a friendly greeting, rather the grimace of a predator, one that sees an easy kill. He closed in on Avon who backed away as far as he could go. Jarvik put his hand out and tilted Avon's face up and into the light.