Imperial Military Academy 2140
When he saw her, he heard his father voice whisper.
Medea.
He knew what that meant now. Who that was.
It hadn't been the first thing that he'd looked up, when transplanted from swamp to Henry Archer's comfortable Bozeman Chalet, complete with Imperial Database Access and a formidable, standalone library. For one thing, his somewhat shaky literacy skills would not have been up to the task.
But there had been a whole library to devour, and devour it he had- particularly when he'd come to realise that had been what he'd been brought to Bozeman for.
It had not been made obvious to him, upon his arrival, just what was expected from him in exchange for his life being saved. Jonathan had not offered any clues on the flight up from Florida, and when Charles had presented himself to Henry, the man simply stared at him and instructed him to "get on with it".
Henry's composure had lasted to within seconds of Charles beginning to fellate him before he'd begun roaring with laughter. "You think a lot of yourself, young man," Henry managed between chortles. "Do you really imagine a man like me needs to go to the trouble of springing whores from death row?"
Charles hadn't been able to answer, as all other reasons for him to be there in Bozeman seemed equally inconceivable. And the truth, that he'd been plucked from nothing for a career- handpicked to nurse Henry Archer's fantastical engine through the stars - seemed more impossible that anything.
And yet, no other shoe had fallen.
He'd been gawked at, yes, by the moneyed inhabitants of Henry's circles, snarled at yes, by Henry's jealous underlings, and Jonathan did not share Henry's squeamishness about demanding a quick fuck from a dependent foundling when aroused during the small hours of the night.
And yet, here Charles stood, at the Imperial Military Academy. He should be mouldering in a murderers' grave by now, and yet here he stood - in a fresh, tailored uniform, with a beautiful, silk-draped woman - here in the moonlight.
True, she was a Vulcan. She belonged to one of Jonathan's friends. The twitchy one, Charles believed, the one who licked his lips too often, and spoke with the staccato of automatic weaponry.
Yes she was Vulcan and a slave.
But she was beautiful.
A mass of contradictions.
Proud, but enslaved.
Dressed in silk and gems, but unable to own as much as a match.
Delicate and fine boned, and yet superhumanly strong.
Degraded and desired.
And. very possibly, about to kill him.
She didn't though. Her arm lowered and his throat was freed.
"Sorry, ma'am. Must'a startled you there."
She looked at him.
"You're beautiful," he added. Which was a stupid thing to say. And true.
She considered him and he let her, neither backing down nor closing himself off from her gaze.
"If you report my actions to the Academy authorities, I will likely be executed," she said calmly. "It may not be preventable."
Charles frowned. "Yeah, but I won't though. It was an accident." When her expression didn't change, he added. "I'm not like them, those people in there. I wouldn't get you in trouble."
"I must make certain," she replied softly.
"So you're going to kill me?" Charles replied, neither feeling nor sounding as frightened as he should by the prospect.
"Unnecessary," she replied, before compelling him with a not-inconsiderable amount of force into an out of the way linen closet, her intention obvious.
Distaste mixed uncomfortably with Charles's desire. "THIS is unnecessary. I'm not going to tell on you."
She sighed, almost sadly. "I believe you, but I need to be sure. There is more than my fate at stake here."
Charles resistance wore thin in the face of the purest desire of his life. "But if I were going to tell, how can you be so sure this would change my mind anyway..."
First one of her hands, then the other, brushed his temples, and his thoughts and vision began to swirl and glow.
"You cannot expect to understand everything," she said. "My mind to your mind."
