Prologue
It hadn't always been like this.
These were the words that plagued his mind, sometimes, in dark quiet moments. Those simple little words. That innocent little notion. But it was a thought that was not his to own, because he himself had never know that time of Peace. He had never felt that innocence. He had been born too late. Centuries too late. No, the notion was more like a dreamy galactic memory. Planetary, interplanetary, all across the galaxy, multiple galaxies, dimensions, peoples of all kinds and species lamenting that forlorn little remembrance –
It hadn't always been like this!
Except… it had always been like this, for him. It was all he knew. It was the only way he had been raised. How could he know anything else but his only reality? A child of misfortune, a product of his time. This was life as he knew it.
And it hurt.
His jaw ached, exploding in incandescent pain from a backhand smash across the mouth, sending him flying to the floor. The hand that struck him didn't stop, it came back and grasped the dirty fabric tatters of what should have been a shirt, dragging him upright again, dangling in the air by a fist on a level with those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes, staring at him without mercy. He hung in the grip, physically stunned, mentally resigned. This was his fate. This was his reality. This was his destiny.
His destiny was to hurt.
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Today was different. Today would be The Day. He could feel it. Something was there that had been hidden before. That - oh so crucial! - little nugget of rationality was shining bright, rays of golden intelligence shining through the cracks of those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes. The black wasn't quite so threatening this lucky morning. The intensity wasn't quite so mad. The violence had stilled. There was a slightest, barest, sliver of room for reticence, worry, determination.
Not fear though.
Fear was reserved only for his own sky-blue eyes. Those other eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes, had not known fear for many decades.
So today it had to be The Day. And it could not come a minute sooner. The two of them were on the run. It was a sickening chase, running for time, running for opportunity, running for their lives, and if those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes, had not gained a chink of lucidity in them… then he would have despaired of them both being able to live another day, another week. He himself could not get them away. He could not do what needed to be done to save their lives. It had to come from those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes. His sky-blue ones were helpless and hopeless, totally dependent on the mercurial mercies and abilities of the other.
It would happen today. He knew it, could feel it. Those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes confirmed this in an acknowledging nod, a slow blink, before they flicked away again, focusing on the task at hand.
Today was The Day they would discover whether they would live or die.
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Subjugation was nothing new. It was in Earth's own history. A long and bloody history of it, in fact. It had existed as long as humans had known life. There had never not been that need to control, need to know, need to have and take and own and use. It was a fundamental quality that had allowed them to raise above the other primates, to continue in human progress and evolution. That need had been questioned and suppressed and reinstated and discovered and changed a million times over a million years. It covered different races and religions. It covered class, colour, creed, and worlds. Slavery could be economical, financial, psychological, social, judicial, political. Why limit it to its barest meaning? There are countless ways for subjugation to occur. Like moss, it had the ability to change and adapt, to crop up and toxify in the most strange and unexpected of places, places you thought were safe.
Would humans ever stop warring with each other? This power war of making slaves-upon-slaves of each other?
The answer was yes. They would indeed one fateful day stop this self-immolation. How nice! But why is that?
Well if the whole human race is a slave to another species, then they have no time for their own subjugation games.
Oh. Done. It's as simple as that. It really is.
He would never be free. That he understood with utmost clarity. So singular and strong it was a bell in his head, the chime and vibration of it unmistakable and inescapable, filling his being every minute until he couldn't breathe without it, couldn't think, couldn't exist. It was an addiction, a poison that he had been trained to no longer be able to live without. No, he would never be free. It was impossible now and forever. But maybe… just maybe… life could get better anyway. Somehow.
How were those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes doing? Were they still focused? Were they still in control of themselves?
No time. Those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes were darting back and forth, to and fro, so quick and flicking across control panels, taking in the lights, the writings, the warnings, they had no time to glance at his own sky-coloured ones. Well…. That was a good sign in a way. The other was still working hard and lucid. Still present in the room. Not glaring around belligerently at slights and threats and visions that did not exist.
And… was it odd, was it sickening that he was… proud? His sky-blue eyes held such agonised conflict at the thought, such reluctance and confusion, but the pride still shone out happy and real despite the gloomy misgivings. Could the subjugated be proud of the subjugator? Was that allowed in the cosmic joke?
Still, no matter the answer to philosophical questions, it was still a comfort to him that even if he was to die today, then those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes were here with him. They were present and straining, working frantically hard to try and save them both. Even if they died today, they wouldn't die alone. In body and spirit neither would never be alone.
There! Those eyes, black eyes, demonic eyes darted to his for an infinitesimal second in time. It was enough.
He smiled.
The eyes softened.
And the world imploded.
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The first thing he became aware of was the sound of snarling. The noise rumbled animalistic and base, a fearful thing if one had not heard it's like before. Born of pure aggression and fatal promise. James had heard this sound from his companion a great many times in his life so far. It did not necessarily frighten him anymore, not unless it was directed at him in particular. This time he got the distinct feeling, as he lay on his back amongst the wreckage of their spacecraft, that the snarl was not actually for anyone or anything. It was more just simply unmitigated energy manifesting itself into an outlet. Unable to be still, the maker of such sound was moving around somewhere near him, pacing in agitated heavy stomps, slamming fists into walls. Snarling. Snarling. Growling.
James groaned and squinted his eyes open a crack. He found mostly darkness, with odd shapes being thrown by the flickering lights of switchboards and consoles, most of which were blazing red with warning. He hissed, quickly shutting his eyes again, a concussion a throbbing that robbed his breath with the pain and distortion of it. He could smell things. Smoke, rubber, sulphur, random leakage. His bones felt like they still vibrated from the shattering shaking that had consumed the spacecraft mere moments before. His organs felt splayed and pummelled. His teeth ached. He was weak. He was sick. But he had no time for recovery. Not on his own terms.
His agitated companion stopped pacing around and focused, fully aware of James's resurgence into consciousness.
The bond flared up bright.
KAFEH!
Like a snap, James jerked a full body spasm at the call, his lips stretched in pain from the sudden tension of his abused limbs. The call thrust through his mind like a hot knife in butter, and with it the urge – the demand! – of immediate attention, immediate obedience. His eyes flew wide.
"Trensu?" he gasped in reply.
There was no articulate reply upon the air. Instead through his mind came a hurricane of unbidden images - flashes/feelings/sensations/impressions. They blasted through his vulnerable mind, tearing along the taunt string of the slave bond, too fast and too much for him to make any real sense of the chaos.
It had been years since James had heard his trensu utter an audible word. Those soft stern lips were now demoted entirely to either making unintelligible growls of furious anger or sensuous groans of pleasure. This psychic mode of communication they had fallen into, the mental stimulations of what his trensu impressed upon him in lieu of language, was difficult and disorientating. It was a lot of pressure for a mere human to have to bear. The weight of the deluge was a constant frequency, wracking him defenceless in its wake. But James adapted. He had no other choice. He grew accustomed to it. And now, he was the only one who could communicate with his master.
In the wreck of their ship, the maelstrom of thought that his trensu thrust inside his mind was cluttered and furious, speared onwards by uncontrolled arrogance/rage/doubt/anxiety... and hope.
Over the years, James had learned not to obsess with focused detail over every image and sensation shunted at him. Like a surrealists painting, it was best to take a mental step back and look at the whole. There, in the grand overall picture from afar, can his trensu's real intended message solidify and take shape.
Images - James-emaciated-weak-bleeding-ship-structural damage-broken-sparks-colours -
Thoughts - it work - ! KafEH - Wherehow – KAfEh ? Ca –
Bond - satisfaction/triumph/concern/savage/pride/worry -
Emotions - pain-distraction-migraine–energy–exhilaration-pain-trembling -
Hmm. The most significant message his master seemed to be trying to impart then, seemed to be that his trensu was both amazed and happy that their plan had worked, and wanted to know if James was relatively alright.
Still feeling extremely shaken up himself, James spoke aloud, "I'm here. I'm alright, trensu. I think I'm alright." He didn't move from where he lay, remaining prone on the cold metal floor, reeling, still trying to grasp to consciousness.
Thick boots, heavy footsteps, and standing above him loomed his master. The figure cut a silhouette that was tall, slim, wired with muscle, dense and fast and deadly. Skin that would normally be a warm, olive colour looked bleached in ominous red as the sirens of the ships screeched thier warning lights. Overlaid upon his skin, across the expanse of chest, arms, and neck, were an intricate myriad of complex tattoos, inked black, writhing together like vines and knives, written in the dialect of Ancient Vulcan. They were testaments to his warriors' skill. They boasted his worthiness, his prowess, his victories and status, a permanent tableau of his deadliness in battle. His hair was just as black as his tattoos, flowing down his back and shoulders in a tangled waterfall down to the waist. He wore a dark robe, tied loosely at the front so tattoos were still on display on his chest. Up on his head were high-swept ears, tapering up delicately into long beautiful slim points.
His trensu lowered into a crouch beside him. A large, pale hand outstretched and brushed his cheek, tender and slow, trailing fingers over his temples, his cheek, his lips. James laid still, submitting meekly to the touch despite the noisy wail of sirens, the aches of his body. The places were fingertips made gentle contact with his own pale skin seemed to hum like honeyed sunlight, like a reverent acolyte receiving the holy touch of a divine saint.
It used to stick in James' pride at the beginning of their… 'acquaintance'… that his flesh reacted so strongly to this person, this being who would inflict such dual tortures upon him, casting him in a web of agony and ecstasy, his rational mind railing against the pleased zing of contact with his instigator. James had long since resigned himself now. Both to the possessive touch and his own submission to it. No matter where they were or what they were doing, no matter how blissful or hurtful the agonises his trensu bestowed upon him, there was always that glow inside him from the bond when his master deigned to touch him.
The Bond of the Kafeh wouldn't have it any other way.
Prickle/ ice/pressure/change.
A rush of thought came from his trensu and the hand on his face hardened from soft stroking to a harsh grip on his chin. Tilting his head upwards for his masters gaze, an almost frantic mania banked in the deep cavernous black of those eyes - kafeh/mine/possession/need/want.
They had both just gone through a perilous experience. They could have died. Having been left in the omnipotent throes of fate, helpless in the face of her divine will, the wager of their lives, his master was now feeling the need to viciously anchor himself, to feel the possession of his kafeh's absolute submission as proof that all was well.
Dutifully, James responded, once again speaking the words out loud. Eyes lowered carefully, voice rough and cracking, he whispered, "Yes, trensu. Yours. Always."
It was the truth.
James felt his master's presence inside him as hot dry fingers drifted soft and fleeting over the psypoints on his face. Carefully mulling over the mental chains that tied his kafeh to him, and finding them still strong, his trensu smiled.
Satisfaction drifted down the link. Trensu gentled again. The olive-coloured hand briefly rose up to run affectionately through James' blond hair, a smug upward curl of the lips.
But the sirens were still raging. Time awaits for no one and essentials must be addressed.
Everything was awry. Where were they? How functional was the ship? What, when, why? Questions upon questions were cascading through James's head, curious and fearful to find out about the new unknown place in which they had arrived. There was a lot to do.
James sent his awareness of this through the bond, trying to cue his master into the dire needs of the external world again.
His trensu acknowledged James's concerns, and a fierce look of determination set through the Vulcan as he rose and turned back to the raging consoles. A great thunder cloud of intent swirled through him, James feeling the echoes through the bond, and just like that all thought of James had already passed out of his master's attention. Ignoring him completely, leaving him lying and bleeding on the floor, he set about to task of fixing, stabilizing and piloting the ship. There was no room for any kind of distraction or inattention, his master was battling just to retain his lucidity, his grip tenuous and breakable under the stresses of the day, the shrieking of alarms, the storm of deep emotion besieging him.
Psychosis was only ever a breath away.
His trensu needed James to be quiet and still. Without command, without order, just the bone deep knowledge of their bond and each other told James what to do. So, with barely a whisper of fabric and skin across the metal floor, James crawled into a corner and curled up foetal. Small, silent, out of the way. A pet who knew his place. He sat and watched his master work.
It seemed to take an age. It took a lot to exhaust a Vulcan at full strength, but his master was near the ends of even his significant limits. He battled exhaustion like a foe he could kill, with clenched teeth and fingers bared like claws. He practically flew across the worktops, putting out an electrical fire, reprogramming and recalibrating systems, rewiring terminals in elegant twists of the wrist and pluck of fingers. It was clear to James that they were in dire straits, and only his master's acts of genius were preventing them from further jeopardy and decay. The ship was relatively small. It had only been intended to be used as a shuttle, a slim delicate construction meant for speedy extraditions and brief cargo transportations, but they had been forced to commandeer it and use it as their escape ship. It was never built for heavy use, such experimental, cruel treatment. It laboured dangerously under the maltreatment his trensu had made it endure, and now that they were through the worst of it, clear on the other side, it seemed the ship had given over to its grievances and was shutting down.
'Just enough,' James pleaded to the metal cocoon around them, their only protection against the nothingness of space. 'Please last just enough to get us safe'.
Slowly, one by one the shrieking sirens fell away, silent. Flickering lights shone strong once more. The scent of sulphur faded. His trensu's hard work began to pay off.
For the first time in hours, his master looked into the corner where his kafeh sat quiet.
From that one look James knew that were both safe and not safe. Death was no longer imminent, no longer maliciously lurking around the corner, scythe in hand. But though they may not be in danger anymore of the atmosphere failing or life support suffocating them, the reprieve would not last long. Death had been delayed, not dissuaded.
It was amazing how much James could pick up of his trensu without even trying. He could not understand anything his trensu had just done, the feats of technological wizardry far surpassing by leagues any skill of James, and yet a level of empathic understanding let him understand the... the tone, the colour, of his trensu's circumstantial cognizance and methods. It let him understand, in a way, his masters understanding. Sometimes, he wondered where he ended and the other began, the line blurred beyond all distinction. Then, at other times, the distance between his master and himself seemed unbridgeable, incomprehensible, so unfathomable that when he looked at the other all he could see was…
Alien.
"What do we do now, trensu?" James asked quietly.
A few whisks of fingers along a control board, and up on the screen there came the image of….Black. Stars. Gas cloud. What was that? Faint and far away, a little shiny speck in the vast greatness of the cosmos. His master enlarged the image to a much greater degree, magnifying upon that tiny speck.
Then James understood.
It was time to abandon this sinking ship. Time to steal another.