Jamora sat on a park bench with her eyes closed, trying to not to think about anything. Trying just to absorb the warmth of the sun, the soft feel of the air, and the rain-like sound of the breeze stirring the trees. She could hear birdsong, too, and the splashing of a fountain, and occasionally, in the distance, the sound of children playing.
Her stomach had quieted down, and her headache had finally almost faded. But though she was trying hard to relax, something inside seemed to keep prodding at her. As if there was something urgent that needed doing.
She opened her eyes and took in the scene before her. She was looking across a small lake, with a spurting fountain in the center. A group of blue-feathered aquatic birds were wading near the shore. On the other side of the lake, she could see part of Ashora Government House rising above the trees. The sun glinted off the many golden Horn Totems on the building's roof.
The portion of the structure that was visible from this spot was very familiar to Jamora, because it contained the Bureau of Defense, where she worked. But it represented only a tiny fraction of the building. Government House included all the departments of the Federal Government, along with the High Council Chamber, the Office of the High Priestess, the Bull Dancing Courts, the Founder's Memorial, and the Ashoran Stargate Facility. Government House was an enormous, labyrinthine complex that sprawled over many city blocks. It was the heart of Ashora City. It was really the heart of the whole Ashoran Federation, because it was here, very close to where she was sitting, that the Founders had first landed on Ashora and set about creating the perfect matriarchal society.
Jamora remembered having lunch at this spot a couple of weeks ago. She had sat on this same park bench eating a sandwich roll, feeling proud and happy about her work. She was making real progress at last, instead of just struggling to settle in. It was so good to finally feel she was making a contribution! To feel that she was truly participating in Ashora's noble struggle against the evil Goa'uld and all the awful patriarchal societies out there.
She had started in her job at the Bureau of Defense only four months previously. That was because her amnesia included a partial loss of her general memories – her knowledge of things like physics and mathematics. During the special classes she had taken as part of her rehabilitation, some things had seemed familiar, while others had seemed quite new. The re-learning process had often been exciting, but it had also been frustrating, when she stopped to consider how much she had lost!
Jamora suddenly felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
If she weren't truly an Ashoran – if she actually came from a less scientifically advanced society – wouldn't that be the way things would seem? Come to think of it – didn't most of the science that had seemed familiar correspond to Level IV technology? The level she had concluded that Smoke's people were at?
Jamora got up from the bench and began walking rapidly along the path, but she was barely aware of where she was going, or what her surroundings were. She was thinking about her background – her supposed life story. Her parents and grandparents were dead, and she was an only child. And both her parents had been only children, too, so that meant no aunts, uncles, or cousins. And her only close friend – fairly close, anyway – was Neshi.
Supposedly, for the previous ten years, she'd spent most of her time off-world as part of a small research team that investigated Ancient ruins. All her teammates had been killed in the attack by the Atrosians. Her doctors had arranged her current job at the Bureau of Defense, saying it suited her talents and personality. And it did feel right. But since it was a new job, her coworkers didn't know her.
So – no family other than her husband, and only one friend. The house-servants had claimed to recognize her, but they were chattel-males who could be forced to say anything. Wasn't that a suspiciously small number of people who could personally vouch for her Ashoran identity?
She should have thought of all this before! But, she realized, she just hadn't wanted to. She'd been so desperately unwilling to lose her identity all over again. And it wasn't as if any of this constituted conclusive evidence. Her head began to throb again.
Jamora's mouth tightened. She was tired of this! She wasn't going to give in to the confusion anymore. If Smoke's story were true, there had to be some objective proof somewhere. Jamora found Smoke's words coming back to her: "…you're the scientist. I know you'll figure out how to determine the truth. When you're ready."
And as she remembered his words, her mind was filled with recollections of last night's passion. The feel of Smoke's body against hers, and inside hers. The look in his dark eyes; the sound of his voice. The idea that Smoke was a psychopath was suddenly completely unbelievable. But that was just a feeling! She needed proof!
Jamora stopped walking. The sound of children's voices made her tune into her surroundings again. She was in front of the playground. As she took in the scene before her, she found she was getting that same sense of strangeness and unfamiliarity that she had felt so often when she first got out of the hospital. It once again struck her as odd that the playground contained twice as many girls as boys. That was partly because of the policy of adopting Liberated girls into Ashoran families, and partly because some Ashoran women chose to give birth only to girls. After all, Ashora could always get all the males it needed from off-world. Due to the rise of the Charitist movement, however, the practice of aborting male fetuses had declined, so the sex ratio was no longer as skewed as it had once been.
Jamora's eyes were drawn to a very handsome male, who was buying treats from a vending machine for the three children who were gathered around him. He was a chattel-concubine. She could see the Red Pendant on his Black Collar. But even without that, his status would have been obvious. He wore the black loin-cloth of a chattel-male, but it was sown with jewels. Jeweled embroidery covered his groin, and more jewels dripped from the hem of his loin-cloth. As for the jewelry on his upper body, the sun glancing off all that gold was enough to hurt her eyes.
The institution of chattel-concubine was very important to Ashoran society. After all, the mates of the Founders had all been concubines, because there hadn't been any Sons of Ashora at first. And – as was evidenced by the sex ratio on the playground – Sons of Ashora were still in short supply. Many women didn't have a husband; they only had a concubine. Or more than one. The Law allowed up to three. Some women had a husband and a concubine or two. Sons of Ashora might be scarce, but chattel-males were plentiful.
Jamora wondered why her mind was dwelling on concubines. Was it because of Smoke?
She watched a couple of women eying the handsome concubine. They were smiling and obviously talking about him. But, of course, they would never approach him or speak to him. An Ashoran woman didn't speak directly to another woman's concubine without that woman's express permission. It just wasn't done. It was a prosecutable offense, in fact. And permission was usually only given to close family members.
Suddenly, it all hit Jamora between the eyes. Of course! Smoke's companion! Smoke had said the other male knew her, too. But the other male had never seen her – not on Ashora, anyway. Nor had he been in contact with Smoke since she and Smoke had interacted. Therefore, if Smoke's companion were to recognize her and tell the same story, that would constitute independent verification!
Goddess, it was so obvious. In fact, hadn't Smoke himself suggested it? That showed how much her mind had been fighting itself! But there was a good reason why talking to Smoke's companion wasn't really an option. He was now another woman's concubine!
Jamora bit her lip. She didn't actually need to speak to the male, did she? All she needed was to observe his reactions to her and listen to what he said. Nevertheless, to approach a woman she knew only slightly and ask for access to her concubine would seem very odd. What reason could she give?
Why not just tell her the truth? she thought. That would mean letting Ashasti know about her condition, and Jamora would have tried to keep that confidential even if Dr. Lishet hadn't recommended it. She didn't like the idea of being looked upon with pity. Nevertheless, she had a good feeling about Ashasti. Jamora raised her arm, intending to use her data-wristlet to call Ashasti – and realized her data-wristlet wasn't there. She had forgotten it!
And that means they can't trace my location, she suddenly thought.
Jamora frowned. Where had that paranoid thought come from? It was true that if she used her neural implants to plug into the communications grid and make a call, her location would become traceable. But why did that make her feel so uneasy? The conspirators – if they existed – were just trying to help her. Weren't they? After all, there was a whole Government department devoted to resettling Rescued women and aiding their assimilation into Ashoran society. What other motive could anyone have for trying to hide her true identity? Jamora couldn't imagine one. Still – perhaps it was best to be cautious.
Wait a minute, she thought. Ashasti lives right here within Great Park. Jamora had found that out when she and Ashasti and Ifefal had lunched together one day at the Bureau of Liberation, and Ashasti's husband Neralo had joined them. He had walked over to Government House from home. Jamora remembered being surprised to learn that Ashasti was so wealthy. Only the very rich could afford to live in the exclusive residential enclaves that dotted Great Park.
Ashasti's home is within walking distance! she thought.
Jamora found herself moving down the path again. She needed to go and meet Smoke's companion right now. She needed to settle these questions once and for all! But could she just knock on Ashasti's door and ask for access to Ashasti's concubine? Ashasti wouldn't even be home now; she'd be at work.
Jamora's eyes narrowed in thought. A plan was rapidly forming in her mind.
###
Daniel scooped another shovel-full of manure from the cart and spread it around the base of the bush, the way Black Hands had taught him. He was sweating. The sun felt hot on his bare back. Still – he didn't mind the exercise. And he'd gotten so used to the smell he almost didn't notice anymore.
When Neralo had informed Daniel that he'd found a job for him, Daniel had been quite apprehensive. But shoveling fertilizer in the courtyard garden wasn't so bad. It might be smelly, but he'd always enjoyed working outdoors and digging in the dirt. He'd rather be digging for artifacts, of course, but he'd hoped that working with Black Hands, the chattel-male head gardener, would give him an opportunity to dig for more information about Ashora.
Unfortunately, Black Hands hadn't been very friendly. Daniel was dismayed. Was he going to get the cold shoulder from other chattel-males, too? In addition to hostility from Sons of Ashora and disdain from Daughters? Even Ashasti was proving to be rather indifferent to her new chattel-concubine. Neralo had been correct in predicting that Daniel would spend the rest of the evening alone. And this morning, Daniel had gotten only a brief goodbye from Ashasti before she went off to work – not even in person, but through a holographic "window" that had appeared in the wall of his room.
Given the whole "concubine" situation, Daniel felt mostly relieved that Ashasti was neglecting him. But there was also a part of him that felt a little abandoned. He knew that didn't really make sense, but growing up as an orphan had made him irrationally vulnerable to those sorts of feelings. Not that he ever allowed them to get the better of him. He was perfectly able to go it alone. Hadn't he proved that to himself many times?
Daniel worked on in silence. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he almost didn't notice when Black Hands came up beside him. "All right, then," said Black Hands, "time for a break. Master Neralo is always telling me to make sure no one gets too thirsty. 'Dehydrated,' as he calls it."
Daniel straightened and looked at Black Hands, who was holding out a bottle. "Thanks," said Daniel. He took the bottle and drank. The liquid was cool and faintly citrus-flavored. Daniel thought it was probably something like Gatorade.
Black Hands stood beside Daniel and drank from a similar bottle. Daniel surmised he'd gotten his name because he worked as a gardener. His hands weren't really black. He had light brown skin, curly black hair, and an aquiline nose. Daniel thought it likely his ancestors had come from somewhere in the Middle East.
Black Hands lowered his bottle and gave Daniel a thoughtful look. "You seem a decent fellow," he said. "It's good to see a Red-Tag doing some honest work instead of shirking and whining and putting on airs."
Daniel gave a small smile. "Well," he said, "all us chattel-males are basically in the same boat, aren't we?"
After that, Black Hands loosened up. And once he decided to start talking, Daniel didn't need to prod him much. Black Hands told Daniel all about Jumper, the young chattel-male who had been an under-gardener in Black Hands' former household until "he caught Mistress's eye. She picked him to Serve her, then made him her concubine. Oh, he got uppity then. Wouldn't have nothing to do with us Black-Tags anymore. Even complained to Mistress about me and got me Punished. Didn't take much to get Punished in that household. Mistress was a Scrupulist."
"Scrupulist?" asked Daniel.
"That's what the really strict Foundationists call themselves. The ones that think males get treated too soft nowadays. They call themselves that 'cause they say they're 'scrupulous' about following the Law of Ashora." Black Hands shook his head. "But they're no true Ashorans. The spirit of the All-Mother isn't in them. What mother would treat her children the way my old Mistress treated us? Even Jumper got no joy from her in the end."
Black Hands went on the recount how his "old Mistress" had tired of Jumper and demoted him back to being an ordinary chattel-male. So Jumper had found himself once again working and living alongside the men he'd treated so poorly. Oops!
"You should thank the Goddess," continued Black Hands, "that you've got Mistress Ashasti for your Keeper, and not someone like my old Mistress. Mistress Ashasti is a Charitist. It's her that taught me the true, loving nature of the Goddess. And now, Mistress Ashasti is sponsoring me to get my Golden Collar."
Black Hands' new-found devotion to the Goddess seemed to be genuine. As Daniel listened to him talk, it became clear that for him – a man from a medieval sort of world – the high-tech marvels and comforts of Ashora were magical. He might be a slave, but he had plenty to eat, didn't have to worry about war or disease, wasn't worked too hard, and could generally avoid Punishment just by following orders. By the harsh standards of his home world, being a chattel-male on Ashora was a pretty cushy life. But it was the kindness he'd received in Ashasti's household that had convinced Black Hands to give his allegiance to the Great Goddess.
"So," said Daniel, "you're going to become a Son of Ashora?"
"If the Goddess wills I pass the tests. Mistress Ashasti has promised I can keep my job here, only I'll get paid for it."
Daniel raised his eyebrows. "That's very generous of her." Daniel had to wonder how many other women would be willing to sponsor a man to get his Golden Collar when it meant paying him wages for his work instead of just room and board. He asked Black Hands about that, and learned that ordinary chattel-males seldom graduated to a Golden Collar. Usually, only chattel-concubines made that leap, and they often had to wait until their daughters grew old enough to sponsor them.
"You're a very lucky man, Blue Star," said Black Hands. "There's a Golden Collar in your future, I don't doubt." He shook his head, giving Daniel a rueful look. "And you'll earn it by Serving Mistress Ashasti, who's beautiful as well as kind. There's many a man here that's tried to catch her eye, you can be sure of that, but Mistress Ashasti only had eyes for Master Neralo. 'Till you came along." He shook his head again. "You're a very lucky man," he repeated.
Daniel had to wonder if Black Hands had been one of those trying to catch Ashasti's eye. And he couldn't help thinking about Neralo's position. How would it feel to know the house was full of men who were all trying to climb higher in Ashoran society by seducing his wife? Despite what Neralo had done to him last night, Daniel had to feel a little sorry for the man.
And for all Sons of Ashora, apparently. Daniel asked Black Hands a few more questions, and learned that a Son of Ashora couldn't sue for divorce just because his wife took a lover, or a concubine – or even another husband, which was also allowed by Ashoran law. Evidently, a Son of Ashora's rights to initiate divorce were very limited. On the other hand, a Daughter of Ashora could initiate divorce quite easily. And all that was on top of the fact that a wife controlled her husband's Collar!
"How do you feel about that, Black Hands?" asked Daniel. "If you marry, you'll have to take orders from your wife. And if she sleeps with another man, you'll have no right to protest."
Black Hands shrugged. "Where I come from," he said, "some men have more than one wife. The women don't like that, but they have to live with it. Guess I could, too. At least, as a Son of Ashora, I'll get to pick who I marry. I can't be married off unless I say 'yes.' " Black Hands turned to Daniel. A thoughtful look had come into his eyes. "That's more rights than women had on my world, and it never bothered me none. So I guess I can't complain now."
Daniel's brow furrowed as he scooped more fertilizer. It occurred to him that he'd been feeling morally superior to the Ashorans because of the way they treated men – yet there were nations on Earth where women had fewer rights than a Son of Ashora. All the conservative Muslim countries were like that. Women could be married off by their fathers without their consent, and had very little power to initiate a divorce. On the other hand, a man could divorce his wife just by saying "I divorce you" three times, and the man always got sole custody of the children. And Islamic law allowed a man up to four wives. What was worse, it was legal for a husband to beat his wife if she displeased him. And a father or husband could kill a woman with impunity if he felt she had dishonored the family.
Normally, Daniel didn't think of himself as having any connection with such practices – but getting a taste of how it felt to be the "inferior sex" was making him think about it a little harder. Western nations might not treat women that way, but they certainly maintained friendly relations with some countries that did.
###
Jack was worried. Sam had been gone for far too long.
He was examining the bedroom door again. It had a handle, but no visible locking mechanism. It also had no hinges for him to try to remove. It opened on a kind of flap. Now that the door was closed, only a faint crease marked were the flap was. And even on the other sides, the seam was so tight it was barely visible.
Okay. Time to try the old kick-down-the-door routine. Jack gathered himself to attack the door – and suddenly experienced a jolt of pain. He tried to wince as the Collar zapped him, and he tried to say, "Ow!" as he fell limply to the floor and bumped his head, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed.
Jack lay there helplessly, remembering what Sam had said about how the Collar was programmed to "watch" its wearer. It must be monitoring signals within his brain! Apparently, it could detect his intention to commit an act of violence, and stop him before he acted. Oy. Not fair. Not fair at all.
To his considerable relief, the Collar decided to release him after a few minutes. He really hated being so helpless. He felt extremely tempted to try to rip the Collar off – even if that meant ripping leads out of his own brain – but he knew that even if it were physically possible, the Collar's automatic safeguards would prevent it.
Jack had already explored the bedroom and adjoining bathroom while waiting for Sam to return, but now he began to go over everything again. There didn't seem to be any exits other than the one door. The coral reef "window" apparently emanated from a smooth wall, but Jack checked once more, carefully feeling for seams or openings behind the illusion. When he didn't find anything, he began pulling on the doors of the bureaus and cabinets again, though they all seemed to be locked.
Then he came to the rumpled bed … and stopped. Sam's discarded clothes were still tangled in the bed sheets. Jack had already put his clothes back on, such as they were. Nothing but a little black loin-cloth – which Sam had torn off him last night! He stared at the evidence of their passion for a moment. He had trouble believing it had really happened. After a year of not seeing Sam at all – and fearing he'd never see her again – last night was like a dream.
But it wasn't, he thought. Even if I die tomorrow – or ten minutes from now – at least I had that.
Jack sighed and continued looking for… whatever. Anything useful. A potential weapon, maybe. Yeah, right. I won't be playing soldier as long as this damn Collar is on me. He needed to get Sam to turn it off.
Sam. Where was she? What had they done to her? Jack felt a bubble of panic forming at the bottom of his mind, threatening to boil up and fill his consciousness. With practiced discipline, he forced the fear to dissipate, leaving his mind cold and clear.
He continued examining the room. When he touched a black rectangle that sat on one of the bureaus, a holographic projection appeared. It showed Sam! With her arm around a handsome, dark-skinned man. Jack scowled. The man wore a Collar, too, but it was gold instead of black. He and Sam were both wearing red Ashoran clothes and a lot of jewelry. Their eyes were made up in a style that reminded Jack of the Goa'uld, except there were lines of golden dots above their eyebrows. Sam also had spirals of golden dots on the areoles of her bare breasts, and her nipples were painted red. Jack found that disturbing. It was kind of sexy, but it wasn't Sam. And how come Sam looked so young?
Faked, he thought. The holograph was faked. It was all part of the elaborate hoax these Ashorans had been playing on Sam. The dark-skinned man was probably the turd who'd been pretending to be Sam's husband. The one Sam seemed so attached to …
Jack scowled harder. I'm not jealous, he told himself. Yeah, right. So maybe he was – a little. But mostly, he just felt outraged that this bastard had wormed his way into Sam's bed on false pretenses.
Why had the Ashorans gone to so much trouble to make Sam believe she was one of them? What did they hope to gain? If he knew the answer, he'd have a much better idea of how much danger Sam was in. How much they were both in. Jack understood why Sam had gone off like that, but he wished to God she hadn't. Letting these Ashorans know she was on to them was unwise.
Jack entered the walk-in closet. Skirts and wide-legged pants and jackets and topless tops were neatly hung inside. Alien clothes – but they belonged to Sam. He could smell her on them. Burying his face against one of the skirts, Jack took a deep whiff. His mind filled with powerful memories – sensations and emotions from last night, and from years past as well.
He smiled as he remembered the first time he'd ever seen Sam. She'd been so prickly, so ready to believe he wouldn't take her seriously just because she was a woman. She'd even made that funny speech about reproductive organs – which wasn't like her, really. Did he dare believe that meeting him had thrown her off balance? Meeting her had certainly thrown him. She'd looked so hot in those dress blues, but he wasn't supposed to think that.
At first, he'd told himself the attraction was just a natural reaction to her beauty. Just male hormones kicking in. So what? He couldn't let that get in the way of the mission. At the time, he still hadn't been over Sara. But the more he'd gotten to know Sam, the deeper the attraction had grown. When had he realized he was madly in love with her? It was difficult to pinpoint, since he'd tried so hard to deny it.
It had taken him even longer to realize that Sam returned his love. He still had trouble believing that. He was no prize, especially not for a woman as young, beautiful, and brilliant as her. But, for some strange reason, she seemed to like him. He smiled softly, remembering last night.
Then he shook himself. Okay, Jack. Enough reminiscing. Focus.
The clothes hangers where made of a rubbery plastic – not any good for trying to pry the door open or attack anybody. Well, he could always throw shoes at the enemy. Not. The Collar wouldn't let him, would it?
How did that work, anyway? How had the Collar known he was going to attack the door? It wasn't as if it could actually read his mind. From what Sam had said, he got the impression the Collar interfaced with the wearer's brain in only a few limited ways. And the brain was such a complex thing. Jack was no neurophysiologist, but he knew more about a lot of things than he usually let on. The Collar had to be looking at neurons firing or brain chemicals changing in particular regions of the brain. But how did it distinguish between a slave wanting to break down a door to escape, and a slave doing something like, say, tearing down a wall when his owner wanted her house remodeled?
Jack left the closet. He positioned himself in front of the bedroom door and stared at it. He was not going to attack the door. Nope! He had absolutely nothing against that door. He was just working on getting it open. After all, that was what doors were supposed to do. They were supposed to open!
When Jack felt himself to be in the right frame of mind, he made another attempt to kick down the door. The good news was that the Collar didn't go off. The bad news was that the door didn't budge. After several solid kicks, all he'd gotten for his trouble were the jarring jolts that traveled up his spine and made his skull vibrate when his shoe hit the door's unyielding surface.
Jack glared at the door. He felt aggrieved. Why the hell would anybody put such a strong door within an ordinary residence? As soon as he thought the question, of course, he realized the answer. This was a society with lots of male slaves running around inside people's houses. That door had probably been designed to present a formidable barrier to anyone who lacked neural implants. Quite well designed, it seemed.
That was when Jack heard something. He put his ear to the door. Yep. Somebody was coming. And it sounded like more than one person.
Jack flattened himself against the wall beside the door. Maybe I'll be able to slip out behind them, he thought. But it was not to be. Jack felt his body go limp again. He slid down to the floor. He really hated this paralysis crap.
The door opened, and several people came in. "There he is," said a woman. There were three women and three men, who all turned and looked at him. Sam was not among them.
The woman who'd spoken was wearing a dark grey uniform, while the other two women wore colorful, topless outfits. Jack recognized one of the men as the one who'd been in the holograph with Sam. The other two men had black loin-cloths and Black Collars.
The older of the two non-uniformed women looked at the men in Black Collars and said, "Take him away."
The woman in the grey uniform gave her an indignant look. "My chattel-males are not yours to command."
"Your pardon, sister," said the older woman. "It's just that time is of the essence. It's best if we remove the male before Jamora returns."
Uh-oh, thought Jack. Not good. But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't move anything except his eyes.
The uniformed woman looked unhappy. "This is extremely irregular. Do you really expect me to take a woman's concubine away to be euthanized without her consent?"
Euthanized?! thought Jack.
"I expect you to obey the law!" snapped the older woman. "I've shown you my authorization. Jamora is under psychiatric supervision, and this male is a grave danger to her mental health."
Jack began concentrating on the index finger of this right hand. He'd fallen on his side, with his arm bent in front of him. He focused all his will power on that one finger, and tried to move it. One small twitch for a man, one giant itch scratched for mankind…. Come on, Jack, he told himself. You can do it. You fooled the Collar before, you can beat it now.
"I know it's irregular," said the third woman. She was thirty-five or so, and had black hair. "But Jamora's case is quite unusual. I've been her psychiatrist for almost a year, and Dr. Sishesiv has been in overall charge of her medical treatment. Believe me, Dr. Sishesiv and I are in full agreement on this. And as you saw, we are legally empowered to make decisions on Jamora's behalf when required to protect her health. Jamora's judgment has been impaired by her condition."
"We're wasting time," said the older woman, her voice waspish. "You've seen our authorization. Now, do your duty."
It's no good, thought Jack. His finger hadn't moved at all. The paralysis was too damn complete.
Jack looked up at his would-be executioners. The woman in the grey uniform was frowning. The older woman looked irritated, while her companion looked worried. The men in Black Collars just stood there stolidly, obviously waiting for orders. Jack met the eyes of the third man, Sam's "husband." His gaze was oddly sympathetic.
That was when Jack felt himself losing consciousness. He tried to fight it, but….