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In Thrall

gyrfalcon · 2007-01-09T16:56:28Z

Danteel had been Moncreif’s slave over seven years before I came to the Avarice . I was very young then, especially for an officer and a doctor; I think he was thirty-three, but he naturally looked much older. I’m not a storyteller and, to be honest, this really isn’t my story, it’s his. But someone needs to tell it, and for one reason or another, he considered me a friend. I think I have the honor to be the only human he addressed as such. You will enter events when and where I did, that first day of duty under Captain Moncreif, master of the Avarice and much else besides. Lark Erabon stumbled late into the conference room, running his fingers through his recently cropped black hair, straightening the new uniform that didn’t quite fit despite his average build. The meeting was already underway, of course, and as he took his seat the captain regarded him coolly. “So good of you to join us, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice oily. Lark swallowed. “Sorry I’m late, sir. I couldn’t find my room at first, and then there was no one there to help me with my things, so—” The captain held up a hand and Lark stopped mid-excuse. Moncreif’s tall, imposing form was outlined against the endless vista of stars in the large viewport behind him, and it seemed for a moment that the captain belonged more to the endless vacuum than to this small, oval room. “That was not an invitation for an explanation, lieutenant. If you are to be my new medical officer. I expect you to have better sense than to waste my time.” “Yes, sir.” The other officers in the room looked at him with expressions ranging from pity to scorn. They’re glad it’s not them being fried, Lark thought. They’re glad he’s got a new target. After a few seconds of palpable tension, Captain Moncreif motioned smoothly and a burly, brown haired man, first officer by his rank cylinders, stood. He tapped a few keys on the table and a holographic representation of the Avarice appeared in the center. The smooth, dagger-like shape of the powerful ship hovered in front of them, almost as menacing in miniature as Lark had found her during his approach in a shuttle not two hours ago. As the officer began to give the routine reports, Lark tried desperately not to squirm in the unrelenting gaze of the captain. Eventually, though, Moncreif shifted his attention to his first mate and Lark was free to look around the room. Unsurprisingly, all of the people assembled were human and male. Even if this had not been the policy for the interstellar Navy, Lark had heard that Moncreif had an intense disdain for both aliens and women. It was something he had never been able to understand about officers in general. All his life, he had been surrounded by both, and had never found either inferior. As his gaze roved surreptitiously around the room, it snagged on something lurking in a darkened corner. He had to consciously repress the instinct to flinch, or worse, to cry out like a child afraid of monsters. But if there had ever been a creature to haunt the dreams of young ones, it was the one that stared back at him with cold, hateful black eyes. Skeletally gaunt with chalk white skin and shoulder-length black hair, the apparition glared at him. Lark swallowed. He had heard the rumors, everyone had. Even with slavery legal, few in the realm, even wealthy men, dared to own many slaves, especially in the Navy. But the rumors were true: Moncreif had a Nagai. As the meeting continued, the Nagai never stopped staring at him. Lark, as such, had a very hard time concentrating. Eventually, he realized that the expression in the haunting dark eyes was not so much hatred as curiosity. As the meeting ended, he even worked up the courage to meet the intimidating glare. “Mr. Erabon!” Lark’s head swiveled to face the captain, who was looking at him as if Lark were an insect he would like very much to squash. Belatedly, he realized the captain had been trying to get his attention for the past several minutes. “Yes, sir?” he squeaked. “Since you are so fascinated with my slave, perhaps you would like him to help you to move your luggage into your quarters.” It was not a question. A dead silence fell over the rest of the officers, as palpable as cold water running down Lark’s spine. “If you wish, sir,” he managed. Moncreif leaned back, regarding the doctor through his interlocking fingers. Then he spoke in a language Lark did not know. The words were soft and almost slippery. It took Lark a moment to realize he was speaking to the Nagai. The slave answered back, his voice creeping under Lark’s skin and tickling the nerves until they tingled. Lark shivered. Silently, the slave began to walk out of the room. Moncreif inclined his head to indicate that Lark should follow. Scrambling out of his chair, Lark followed. * * * The Nagai walked steadily towards the shuttle bays, Lark trotting along behind him. Eventually, he stopped and turned to face the lieutenant. His hard eyes evaluated the human with all the warmth of an artic winter. Lark realized abruptly that the corridors were empty as far as he could see. The Nagai stared at him for a long, long time, until Lark decided that he was waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, what’s your name?” The Nagai didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t speak Basic. That would be in keeping with his luck. Lark placed a hand on his chest and said, very slowly, “My-name-is-Lark.” No answer. “Lark Air-ah-bon,” he said, annunciating carefully. Still nothing. The black eyes were blank. Lark sighed. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you? Well, I’m sorry that I don’t speak your language but between Moncreif wanting to fry me and your staring at me like death itself and the whole big, blasted ship having so many blasted corridors that a man can’t get his blasted luggage—” “Are you quite done?” Lark stared, open-mouthed at the Nagai. His expression was still impassive, but the lieutenant had the feeling he was being laughed at. “You knew Basic the whole time?” “I’ve known it longer than you have,” he said, and though he had an accent, it was an aristocratic rather than alien one. Lark peered at him. There were no wrinkles in the sharp face, but of course one needed spare skin to have wrinkles. There were sidelocks of silver in the black hair, but beyond that hardly any signs of age. “Why didn’t you talk to me?” “When...the Captain sends me out alone with one of his men,” said the Nagai slowly, “it is one of those rare occasions where I have free choice. If I choose to kill him, I am not punished. And if we fight and he wins, the incident is carefully forgotten.” Lark stared. “What?” The Nagai shrugged. “Isn’t that the way of your kind? A member is inconvenient, now he his dead, problem solved.” Only for the insane members of my kind[/] Lark thought. He started to protest, to defend the several decent humans he knew, but stopped. He swallowed. “Why didn’t you kill me? I’m sure you could have.” The Nagai’s eyes narrowed. “Because it was my choice.” He turned and continued to walk towards the shuttle bays. Lark caught up with him. “So what is your name?” “Danteel.” “Have you ever spared a life before? Have you ever even lost?” “No.” “Then why—" he tried again, but was cut off. Danteel whirled on him. “[i]You are not my master,” he hissed. “It is not for you to question what I do and why I do it.” It took a supreme effort for Lark not to wet himself. Deep from the infinite depths of Danteel’s eyes blazed a mad, silver light. The blaze seemed to engulf him even more than the blackness, and Lark was sure he had never been so afraid in his life. Without another word, Danteel resumed walking. With some difficulty, Lark again found his voice. “Where are we going?” he asked meekly. “To get your luggage.” As it turned out, the Nagai was much stronger than he looked, hefting Lark’s two biggest suitcases without trouble. Lark himself took the rest, and they both deposited their loads in the new doctor’s spartan quarters. Before Danteel could leave, Lark was determined to have an answer. “Why did you spare my life?” Danteel regarded him. “You are a doctor, yes?” “Yes.” “Someday, I’m going to need your abilities. Me, personally, not Moncreif. I’m going to need you to treat someone I care about. I needed you to owe me one.” “I do owe you, but--.” “Good.” With that he turned and left Lark alone in his room. * * * For the next few days, Lark did his best to get comfortable onboard the huge ship. His medical staff was small, but injuries were rare, so he managed to keep pretty regular hours in the med bay. He never saw Danteel during this time, or the captain, and that was all right with him. Then, about a week afterwards, just as he was getting ready for bed, his personal comm. beeped at him. He yawned and tapped a key. Moncreif’s voice came over the speaker. “Lieutenant Erabon?” Lark straightened automatically, even though he knew the captain couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir?” “Report to my quarters. Come quickly and bring your med kit.” His voice was calm, almost nonchalant. “Are you hurt, sir?” “Just come, Mr. Erabon.” Lark obeyed. He had been to the captain’s quarters only once before, but he knew the way. The suite of rooms was dark and apparently empty. “Sir?” Lark called into the darkness. “Over here, Lieutenant.” The voice almost gave Lark a heart attack. He turned, and could see the vague outline of the tall man in the gloom. “Yes, sir?” “This way, Lieutenant.” Moncreif opened a door Lark did not remember seeing before, and led the doctor down a short corridor into a small room. The light was better here, but just barely. But what Lark saw in the dim light almost made him throw up. Danteel was on his knees, leaning heavily on the opposite wall, his breath coming in long, ragged gasps. His bare back was covered in long, ugly welts and was caked with half-crusted blood. His narrow shoulders bore countless lash-marks, and sweat glistened off his pale white body. For a moment, the purely medical side of Lark wondered how he could have red blood and white skin. But then all parts of him were speedily trying to hold back the bile and vomit that rose in his throat, threatening to break loose. His disgust translated easily into anger. He turned to his captain, biting back all the words that rushed to the forefront of his mind, only letting one of them out. “You bastard .” Moncreif gave a thin-lipped smile. “Considering the circumstances, I am inclined to forget you said that.” He flexed his left hand, which Lark now saw held a long, black whip. Swallowing his emotions, Lark tried to ignore the captain and knelt in the shallow pool of blood that surrounded Danteel. The Nagai’s hands were pressed against the wall, the fingers curling and uncurling, scraping the steel. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored. The wrists were raw and bleeding, sending trickles of red down the thin arms. Lark examined, or tried to examine, the Nagai’s back. “I need to get him to the med facilities,” he said. “He’s had massive blood loss and he looks like he’s on the verge of going into shock.” “You will treat him here, Lieutenant.” “But, Captain—“ “You will treat him here.” The hand holding the whip flexed again, and for a moment--just a moment--Lark allowed himself to imagine the pain of just a single blow from such weapon in the hand of one who knew how to use it. He clenched his teeth and returned his attention to Danteel. He cleaned the wounds on his back as well as he could, peeling away some of the worst of the scabs. The Nagai hissed quietly when he did this, but did not cry out. Lark wound clean bandages around Danteel’s wrists and wiped the blood off his arms. He pressed dozens of med-patches against his back to stop the bleeding, and succeeded at last. Using the last of his med kit's bandages, he wrapped up the Nagai’s entire torso, trapping extra patches between the injured back and strips of cloth. When he was finally done, he was covered in blood, but Danteel was breathing normally. Lark looked up, dead-eyed, at Moncreif. “Well done, Lieutenant,” he said. And then he left the room, leaving Lark alone with the Nagai. Danteel had not spoken once during the procedure, nor had he opened his eyes. Lark was not sure if he was conscious or not, but he certainly wasn’t going to leave him here. “Can you hear me?” he asked. The Nagai nodded, once. “Can you walk?” Danteel sucked down a breath before nodding again, much more hesitantly. Lark got an arm around the Nagai’s shoulders, trying not to press too hard, and lifted. Luckily, Danteel was not very heavy. He even managed to support his own weight when Lark eased off, but he leaned heavily on the doctor and needed help to walk. Unsure of whether it would get him into trouble, he took the Nagai to his own quarters. He helped him to lie down on his own bed and then got out the sleeping pad he had brought from home and set up a makeshift cot with it. Danteel lay on his stomach, his black eyes watching as Lark emerged from the bathroom, clean of blood and wearing a dressing gown. Lark stopped and looked awkwardly at the Nagai. “Why?” said Danteel. Lark swallowed. “Why what?” “Why all this…for me?” Lark didn’t answer for a long time. “I’m a doctor,” he could have said, “I don’t need an excuse to help people.” What came out was, “I owed you.” “This is not what I intended when I spared your life; I have survived worse.” Lark tried very hard not to think about what could have been worse than what he’d just witnessed. “What, then?” “I am not Moncreif’s only slave.” Lark held the gaze without flinching. “There is such a thing as mercy and compassion,” he said at last. “I have not seen them.” “You’re seeing them now,” said Lark. “And you’ll see them again.” He slid under the blankets of the cot. Danteel still watched him. “You are…unique.” Lark smiled and closed his eyes, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Not so unique.”

gyrfalcon

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Mon Sep 01, 2008 7:36 pm

gyrfalcon says... · Mon Sep 01, 2008 7:36 pm

Twit, your catches are wonderful--thanks much! As to your question...

How many children does Moncreif have? Has he had any by his alien mistresses, or is he using a kind of space birth control?

*smug* More than he'd like, I'll say that much. I have a sort of idea in the back of my head to do something with them later, when I'm not doing much else. None of them live in the estate at the moment (he generally sells them when they're old enough).

"In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function...We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful." ~C.S. Lewis

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Regret has a flavor and it tastes like the espresso I consumed at 9pm.
— SilverNight

In Thrall

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