The Serpents and the Skulls, Chapter 2.2
30 Mar 2017Michael Wolfe
It’s been a long time since I’ve worn a flightsuit.
I’m not a pilot. I have no knowledge of ships, other than that they fly in space. And why would I? My trade is flesh and entertainment. Even when I rose through the ranks under Jaz Adissa, my strategy in politics was much the same as the one from business: sculpt a reality that allows the client to believe whatever they desire to believe- and they will shower you in credits. What works on a lonely clubgoer also works on rulers of systems. You just have to find out what they want to hear- and not only say it, but make them believe it for as long as you’re on the clock. In the Velvet Club, a convincing whisper as to the impressiveness of a man’s cock will make him happy to part from his credits. In Jaz’s meeting hall, feigned conviction as to his greatness as a ruler netted me a position as his top lieutenant.
But none of that had worked on Degginal. He was only interested in my ability to deliver Mukusubii to Black Omega. Favors were granted on the basis of merit and circumstance, and his rules applied to everyone. So when the general call-up of every available armed ship went out , I couldn’t refuse pressing my system’s fleet of Authority vessels into service. And when he issued an order that all Black Omega personnel travel in full Remlock gear and only in armed ships, members of the High Council weren’t exempt.
So here I am, in a tight-fitting black flightsuit with only the twin skulls of the Omegas to even identify who I work for. It’s uncomfortable and a far cry from the expensive fabrics that normally grace my skin.
Like I said: it’s been a long time since I’ve worn a flightsuit.
I’m in my personal transport- the Mount Olympus, a captured Imperial Cutter, painted black and simultaneously a luxury yacht, mobile command center, and symbol of my personal success. Time was, it would have taken a dozen Velvet Clubs to even halfway support a vessel of this magnificence- but now I have the tax-paying citizenry of Mukusubii to do it for me.
I sip the mimosa and smile out a wall-sized observation port. The ship is guarded, of course- both with her own array of weaponry and with a wing of black-hulled Viper escorts, plus her own deployable complement of short-range fighters. It would be foolish indeed to attack a member of the Black Omega High Council, but-
But these Gold Hand savages have no shortage of foolishness between them. To torture their own envoy like that. Terrible!
Degginal had called an emergency High Council meeting to discuss the latest developments with the Gold Crew. The deal was off, certainly- but there was more to it than that. Marra had flown right into what could have been a deadly trap, spared only by her old nemesis’s fondness for toying with her prey. More serious was the ease with which the Gold Hand extremists had decapitated their own organization. Every member of their Inner Circle that had been favorably disposed towards the annexation was dead, skinned and humiliated the same way that their envoy had been.
It had been that ability to infiltrate that had Degginal worried. Security had been tripled in all Black Omega systems and installations, and the totality of our intelligence-gathering apparatus had been directed inward. We had expected a wave of attacks on the heels of Marra’s encounter, but so far none had come. The Council had adjourned so that each member could focus on their responsibilities, which put me on my ship back to Mukusubii.
My main residence had been moved to Lasswitz Silo, where far more luxurious accommodations could be found. Mine is a penthouse on the very top of the tallest tower, with the best security in the entire city. The Olympus docked at one of the large pads, and as usual there was an entourage of high-level administrators and guards already waiting for me. Present as well was Fabrizzio, his slim figure dressed in a simple grey Imperial-style suit with his hair in a pony tail. I favor him with a smile as he takes his place behind me, various administrators already filling me in on war preparations and security enhancements.
The Council’s edicts apply everywhere in Black Omega space: known members of the Gold Crew are to be arrested on sight. Gold Crew ships are to be interdicted and boarded, with clearance to open fire in the event of non-compliance. Emergency attempts at communication with the remnants of the Inner Circle had failed, so the entire firm was doing its best to prepare for anything.
But the details were for other people to worry about, and long flights always make me tired, even on a ship as magnificent as my Cutter. After hearing a summary of the preparations from the system’s administrators, I dismissed them. With Fabrizzio and a pair of guards in tow, I made my way to my penthouse. The Velvet Club could wait- it was a location that would be almost impossible to secure, and Degginal was the most paranoid that I’d ever seen him. I’d be safer in my penthouse.
Besides, there are other concerns to be seen to.
“Fabrizzio,” I say. “Help me out of this ridiculous thing.”
With a slow, delicate motion, my companion carefully peels the flightsuit from my skin. He is truly a wonder, that Fabrizzio. He knew that I would want to wash the stink of the journey from my body. In the washroom, a bath is already drawn.
In it, he carefully washes every inch of my body. His touch is worshipful, and his every motion exquisite. Even the way he hold out my arms and towels me off is done with reverence.
He’s perfect.
Still taking my hand, he leads me to the bed. Waiting by it is a glass of wine, a recent gift from some suitor or another. Silently, he picks it up and offers it to me. I silently decline and motion for him to drink. Fatigue is already overtaking me, and I want to savor his worship with a clear head. There’s much to do in the morning, after all.
The man holds the glass to his lips and looks at me, drinking in both the wine and my nude form. The awareness causes the familiar bolt of euphoria to wash over me. It’s a reciprocal, self-sustaining rush. When I look at his beauty, I look at myself.
Fabrizzio and I share a smile as he sets down the wine.
“You,” he says. “Are so beautiful.”
I step forward, finally allowing him to touch me.
“I know.”
Morning comes. The cityscape of Lasswitz Silo stretches out before the picture window of my bedroom, greeting me with a reminder of my power. I take a deep breath to clear my head of sleep and rise from bed. As is my habit, I take a moment to survey the city- my city- before turning back to my sleeping companion.
“Fabrizzio, see to breakfast.”
The young man doesn’t answer, nor does he stir. Annoyed, I walk up to him. He’d only consumed the single glass of wine, and our lovemaking hadn’t been particularly vigorous. Its purpose had been to send me to blissful slumber, not fill me with energy. Irritated, I stood over him, repeating my demand.
“Fabrizzio. Breakfast!”
Again, he doesn’t move. Now angry, I turn the bedroom lights to maximum, preparing to beat the slave if he doesn’t comply. I look at his sleeping face as the room is illuminated-
And gasp.
Fabrizzio’s soft, beautiful features are a mess of black, mottled splotching. From his chest to his lips, a grotesque, veiny pattern radiates from his heart outward. Even without touching him, I know that he is dead.
My heart pounds in my chest as I recoil, staggering away from the corpse and feeling vulnerable in my nudity. My mind is a rush, shock at the sudden trauma and danger paralyzing me. I look around the room, my eyes wide and alert to danger. But there is nothing. No sign of entry. Nothing out of place.
How....?
My gaze settles back to Fabrizzio’s lifeless form. Next to it is the empty glass of wine that I’d refused and deigned to let him drink.
No…
I run out of the bedroom and to the kitchen. There, the bottle sits on the counter, still open from when Fabrizzio had poured me the glass. He had only wanted to serve me, to see to my every need and desire.
With a trembling hand, I pick up the bottle. It isn’t unusual for a woman like myself to receive gifts to curry favor, but I almost never pay close attention to them. My slave had almost certainly selected the first varietal he’d found, knowing that anything in my suite would be of superb quality. And this gift had shown up at the same time I did...
Swallowing, I hold the bottle, twisting it around to see the label. With a scream I drop it, glass and dark vino splattering over the composite flooring. I back away, refusing to let the liquid touch my bare toes. The glass skids across the floor, the still-intact label facing me:
Snakebite Reserve Merlot.
Product of Nijkas.