“Huh!” Monad snorts derisively as I frame my answer. “She had to think. Pretty, but not bright then.”
There is no reply to that which helps me, so I am silent.
“The answer is: a group without scruples will always outperform those around them who are restricted by morality,” states Monad. “As long as the whole does not act the same way. It is the same for individuals. Put a few predators in the herd, and the predators do best. Discuss, student.”
“Equality brings a broader pool of capability, Master,” I feel obliged to argue. “Eventually, the extra ability means they conquer the oppressors.”
“And yet, there you are, a prime specimen of a Republic female, drawn from the largest ‘capability pool’ in history, naked at my feet, and a slave,” counters Monad. “Aghara-Penthay is the predatory world. The Republic is the herd. We take what capability we want from you, to serve our pleasure. The Republic could bomb my home to oblivion, if it had the balls. Instead, your men come here on vacation in safety, because their leaders have scruples about eliminating innocent victims. We act without limits.”
I shake my head, but he commands, “arouse yourself,” and I must obey.
I’m sure I’m correct, and yet I’m the one left fingering my clitoris, while he enjoys the view. And this remains the situation as I reach the planet’s vile surface for the second time.
Perhaps I’m expecting days of waiting in a cell again, but on disembarking I learn that Monad is going directly to a meeting with the other faction leaders, and I am the one chosen to accompany him.
“You want to see real politics in action?” Monad growls to me. “It is time to have your wish.”
This is far from my wish. My dream was to see galactic politics as a participant, working to make the universe a better place for all species. Not as a trophy – an objectified symbol of a faction Chief’s power. But such is the fate of Coora. So I meekly follow my new master into ancient chamber – a space with sandstone walls, containing eight heavy thrones, each carved from a single piece of rock. Eight faction leaders must have been the highest number there’s been in Aghara-Penthay’s history, but in the era of my slavery, there are only three leaders occupying chairs – Salarin, Cronorgan and Monad.
I’ve seen broadcasts of the faction leaders many times, but the experience of being in their presence feels very different. Salarin strikes such terror into the universe’s women that I’ve somehow imagined him as gigantic, but in reality, he’s small for a human male, and has a slim, wiry build. The Sadist is elderly and grey haired, but still has a vitality about him. I could believe he’ll continue to victimize the galaxy’s females for many years yet. I know he becomes aroused by women’s suffering, and kneeling so close, I can believe it. The air around him radiates with menace.
Cronorgan is entirely hairless – a look which is pleasing and natural on Dystyr males, but in humans makes them seem effeminate and immature. He is rather overweight, which furthers the impression that here someone babyish. I know better than to let his appearance fool me. He is the Dominant. His pleasure is breaking women so they comprehend nothing but their slavery, and he does it very well.
And there is Monad. Giant, and muscular compared to his compatriots. Monad is battle-scarred and grizzled, a contrast to the other men on whom I don’t see the least blemish. Here sits a man who takes by force, and he’s willing to fight for it.
Behind each of the enthroned Chiefs sits three of his bureaucrats, on smaller chairs to reflect their lesser status. A fleet captain who oversees the faction’s piracy and capture of victims, a contracts adviser, responsible for the faction’s finances and retail agreements, and finally – the manager of the faction’s slaves, who deals with training, processing, and all matters from captives’ arrival up to their point of sale.
The final attendees are us – the women. Each Chief brings a sample of the finest female flesh he possesses, displaying a prize such as her to the other males as proof of his status. Three of the finest slavegirls in the universe. I take no pleasure in being in such exalted company. I was forty-nine, and I know that only on a planet where women have rights and are respected, is beauty a benefit. I feel nothing but pity for my fellow creatures.
The first one I notice is the woman at Salarin’s feet first, and I do a double take when I see her. Surely, the one kneeling there is Ja-Alixxe. The female bounty hunter, who was captured and forced to participate in the Rape Run two years ago, is more famous that the faction chiefs. I remember she escaped the Run, along with the Republican colonel, Melena de Santo. But Ja-Alixxe was recaptured, and after being condemned to be raped to death, the galaxy saw her martyred in an explosion on the Hub.
Apparently not. Still, what does it matter to me if one slave lives or dies? The Slavers have their ruses.
I can’t help but study her, though. Some women mentally disintegrate during slavery, but Ja-Alixxe looks remarkably well. Her eyes still sparkle with fire – she looks angry, even. She has the perfect body of an athlete. Salarin must have been making her exercise. They have done something cruel to her nipples and her genitals. Instead of the normal color of human flesh, Ja-Alixxe’s organs are silver, as though they’ve been sprayed with a metallic paint. Her breasts have been enlarged since I last saw her in the feeds.
At Cronorgan’s feet kneels a non-human – a stunning example of the Gaianesian species, only distinguishable from human women by irises of a deep purple shade, and a pattern of markings on her forehead in a similar color. The Gaianesians in the Flower Garden were beauties, but this one is exceptional.
Cronorgan keeps his hand knotted in this woman’s hair for the entire duration of the council, applying a gentle pressure. I wonder what that must feel like. In the brothel I’ve seen enough evidence of the Gaianesian females’ involuntary response – a reflex – a shameful genetic trait from their past which renders them sexually receptive when their hair is pulled. Perhaps this is true. At even the least movement which causes a tug from Cronorgan, I notice there is an instant when the girl’s eyes defocus, she stares into space, and her lips part sensuously.
And I complete this unlucky threesome, my iridescent blue-green skin and my scorns making my appear the most-nonhuman of the slaves.
“This is Coora,” grunted Monad, as I took my place kneeling at his feet, facing into the circle with my back resting against his massive shin. “She believes equality is going to save her.”
And without warning he loops my scorns around my throat, and tugs them tight like they’re a noose – using my own flesh press into my throat. From nowhere, he’s begun choking me. I struggle to rise and get up, but he barks at me to stay in position, and my legs drop faster than if I’d been axed. I lift my hands instead, and use those to struggle with the scorns, trying to pull them enough to loosen them and inhale. This effort Monad permits, but probably only because I’m so ineffective. He holds me in this position, my windpipe crushed, until I begin to panic. It’s probably only for thirty seconds, but I’m beginning to see stars, and fear makes the time feel much longer.