Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Eight

When Indiscretion Is the Better Part of Valor

Commodore Charles Tucker III

That little, cheating bastard!

Thank God Liz didn't get the invitation to this damn party. I think seeing what he's doing right now would just about have broken her heart.

And he didn't even have the decency to go find somewhere private. He's just sprawling there in full view of everyone with that bitch working him off, looking like he doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks.

I've never been that good at these social occasions. Yeah, you have to do them every now and again, and the Empress's party is the big one you don't miss unless you're laid up in a hospital with both legs in traction and preferably one arm missing. So I turned up and I did the party animal act, but the whole evening I've just been getting sicker and sicker at heart, seeing what was going on. Seeing the colossal waste of food, when we're having to sneak out of date food out to people who'd starve if they didn't get it. Seeing the clothes that cost more to make than some families earn in a month, or in the case of Hoshi and a couple of the top ministers, a year. And above all, seeing the slaves who've just been brought here to be used, without even a shred of dignity left to them. Just walking commodities, only valuable for the pleasures they can provide, which are available to anyone and everyone who crooks a finger.

Time was – I'll admit it – I wouldn't even have noticed. Wouldn't have thought twice about taking advantage of the 'facilities'. God knows I did it often enough in comfort houses where I had to pay, but the poor bastards here are just there for the taking, with no choice and no hope. Fucking party decorations. Maybe I had to see that expression once too often in T'Pol's eyes before I recognized it, but once I did, I know it when I see it again.

Worst thing was, I knew I'd be attracting attention – even suspicion – by not 'taking advantage'. I have a reputation, and I earned it. Was even proud of it, once. Thought it was something real fine to be able to use one body after another without giving a single one of them a thought. People would be watching, and wondering: What the hell's wrong with him? Is he getting 'a thing' for that Vulcan? Questions like that – and the others that would inevitably follow – are not something I can afford. But now, even the thought of raping any of the pieces of human or alien merchandise on view makes me sick to my stomach. Because that's what it is when the person you fuck has no choice, no right to refuse you. Plain and simple, it's rape.

I stood it as long as I could, shutting my mind to the risks I was taking by refusing to toe the line and join in the abuse. Then I just happened to see this one little guy, can't have been much older than fifteen and by the look of him he'd been brought in for the occasion. Scared shitless. Knew what was going to happen to him and hadn't a damn clue how to cope with any of it. The sort of kid who'll put up and put up and put up and then suddenly they'll knife someone and that'll be it, and nobody will ever know or care what happened to him except that there's another entry in the executions logs and another body in the waste recycler.

The sort of kid I could have been if I hadn't had parents who taught me the best they could and sent me to the schools that made the most of a mind that was just naturally adapted to the science of engineering. Even if Admiral Black hadn't seen my potential, or if old, crazy Aggy hadn't made it his business to befriend me and do what little he could to warn me what I was getting into and how to survive it. All the life-chances that made me what I am have made him what he is, and he's a terrified little guy who's here to be abused for fun.

Suddenly I was sick to my stomach. I couldn't save him, only the Empress can free a slave, but at least I could give him some pointers that might, just, mean he's still alive when the party ends, even if he'll most likely need medical treatment after what's been done to him.

Mal had left me, saying something about getting a drink, though clearly he'd gotten an offer that had changed his mind. And I had the start of a godawful headache and to be honest all I wanted was to get out of there and find somewhere quiet, but then I saw this kid, almost creeping into view like a deer being driven into a tiger enclosure – just the way T'Pol had looked that first night I gave her a uniform, when she'd realized the door to the bathroom had been closed and she might get a beating for it.

And something snapped.

I beckoned him over to me, sickened by the fear in his face as he got near me, then I stood up and led him to the nearest bedroom. It happened to be occupied, but I yelled at the heap of bodies on the bed and they dragged their victim somewhere else to start over – clearly they realized I wasn't in the mood to argue.

I've had people turn white when I've yelled at them, mostly when they realize they've fucked up good and proper and I'm about to kick their ass for endangering lives by their carelessness. Back when I took over Jupiter Station and was ordering involuntary transfers almost daily to get rid of the deadwood and the dangerous, I even had someone piss himself in the middle of a casual conversation, but I've never had it happen when I just look at them.

The stateroom bedrooms all have en-suite bathrooms. I told him to get tissue and clean the floor and then clean himself up and come back in. "An' when that's done, all you an' I are gonna do is talk," I added harshly, right in his ear. "I'm gonna give you some goddamn lessons on how to cope with what's about to happen to you, what to do an' not do, what to say, how to act, an' what your customers want.

"An' if you listen real hard an' you put what I tell you into practice, you'll have a chance, a better chance than you'll ever have if you go out there lookin' like a lamb bein' led to the slaughter."

Obviously, all rooms are bugged. The mini scanner built into my belt found two listening devices, and it was going to look real suspicious if I turned them off, so I went to the sound system and found some music and turned the volume up. There was almost certainly a camera, but searching for something that was looking at me wasn't the best idea ever, so I decided I was going to have to act. Just sitting talking to a slave who's there to be fucked was going to start all sorts of rumors running, and I've attracted more than enough attention already tonight by not sticking my dick up anything yet.

There's a sideboard in each room, kept filled with snacks and drinks, presumably for spectators or refueling. So I picked out a plate of stuff I like – mostly cheeses and grapes and a few canapés and stuff like that – and put it on the night-stand; and then, taking care to look a lot more drunk than I actually was, I started peeling myself out of my uniform.

It's beautifully tailored and very figure-hugging. I got a lot of mileage out of struggling with buttons and not being able to pull the jacket off of my arms. I thought about appearing to give up on the jacket so I could 'order' the kid to do something for the camera, but thought that might be a bit over the top, so I did eventually get out of it myself. And when I finally 'managed' to get my pants off, I sat on the opposite side of the bed to the fitment where the camera was most likely to be hidden, and I pretended to be trying to get Lil' Woody Tucker to sit up and beg ready for when the slave came back in. Given how I was feeling right then, I damn well didn't have to act unable to.

Anyway, after a few minutes the guy came back in, wrapped in just a towel, and stood by the bed, obviously waiting for orders.

Suddenly I was so goddamn furious – with him for being so helpless, with myself for having to go through with this damn charade, and with an empire that made it necessary. I didn't dare act as if I thought he mattered. I had to act like the guy I always had been, like a bastard, only this time a bastard who'd drunk too much and had to settle for what he could get.

Shutting my ears to his terrified squeal, I grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him onto the bed. Then I rolled on top of him and pushed his legs apart, and started fumbling between us like I was still hoping something would happen if I tried hard enough. Under cover of this, I started hissing in his ear that I wasn't going to fuck him, that I was going to pretend to be too drunk to get it up, and that he'd have to give me a massage instead so I could talk to him under cover of the music.

"You can feed me, too," I said, nodding towards the plate. "Makes it more realistic. Just every now an' then."

"I don't know how to do anything," he whimpered, nearly in tears. "I've never massaged anyone."

"Have you ever seen someone kneadin' out a muscle cramp?"

A nod. Big, beseeching eyes, a mind trying to make the connection.

"Then just pretend you're doin' that. Work them with your hands, just like they've got a really bad cramp in 'em. Start at the back of the neck an' the shoulders, most people like that, an' work your way down. One side an' then the other, then both together. Whatever works. Then you turn them over an' do the other side, an' if they want you to do anything then, they'll tell you."

There were massage oils on another cupboard. When I'd acted out a tantrum because I couldn't get hard enough to fuck him, I sulkily decided to settle for a massage instead. Maybe it'd help me get it up, I sneered for the camera's benefit. Either way, he could make himself goddamn useful.

So that was what we did. I lay down and in between giving out a few obscenities loud enough for the audio devices to hear over the music, I gave him some advice. Told him how to refine his massage skills. Advised him on certain techniques that are guaranteed to make a man lose his shit.

When that was done, I continued by telling him what not to do. ('Never try to penetrate a man without bein' asked. Surprisin' him at the back door's a sure way to get the shit beat out of you. If you are asked, do it gently an' with lots of lube, 'cause I suspect if you hurt him, you're just as likely to take a beatin' as if you did it uninvited.')

If I'd had enough time, I might have been able to help him more. But I knew the clock was ticking down, and I ended by warning him to avoid certain people – like 'So-an'-so carries the clap, if you can't get out of it make sure you get checked over the day after', 'Always keep your vaccinations up to date, the last thing anyone wants to do is find out you've given them more than a good time, especially if they're at all likely to complain to the Empress about it', and most importantly of all, that he should avoid Admiral Hernandez if at all possible ('Don't ask me why, just do whatever you can to keep away from her').

Then I had to call it quits, with a bit more cursing because Lil' Woody still wasn't ready to wake up and play ball. And under cover of it, the guy thanked me – I hadn't even dared ask him what his name was, because even that would have been suspicious if anyone overheard – and said if he survived, he'd always be grateful to me.

So I switched off the music and backhanded him across the mouth hard enough to look real, but curling my fingers at the point of contact so it was only a glancing blow. I have a certain reputation, and it would be suspicious if I didn't strike him. I'd pre-warned him to expect it and he obligingly stumbled into the wall and let himself collapse to the floor. Yelling he was a useless piece of shit and I hadn't wanted to fuck him anyway, I went back out into the fun party going on outside where the first thing I saw was General Malcolm Reed putting it up some panting brunette in a red dress, presumably not even remembering the existence of a sweet little girl called Liz Cutler who worships the ground he walks on.

And I walked away, because I swear to God, if he speaks to me again tonight I'll punch his goddamn lights out.

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