Note 1: If you are under 18 years of age, this story is not intended for you. Go away.
Note 2: Inspirations for this story range from the usual (authors Tabico and Trilby Else - this time for "Lord May" and "Bond," respectively - and Chris Chris for "Quicksilver" ) to the unusual (a certain race of cyborg villains) to the highly unlikely (Sorayama's "gynoid" paintings).
Synopsis: A slave awakens with no will or memory, just a burning love for her inhuman Mistress. But her old life may keep her from enjoying her new one.
I glide down the street, smooth, perfect, mechanical, resisting at every step the desire to skulk into shadow. It's been two hours since I escaped, and the hunt must be on by now. Damn this extra metal Xziomi's stuffed me with; if not for that, I could pass as any other mind-numbed human slave. They're pretty common here, in the heart of Washington. The high-caste Ssilm insist on them.
Cringing inside, I cast my mind back to the banquet. It's hard to think of it at all without fixating on Xziomi's "dessert," when horror breached the wall at last, and the slave remembered she was a General. I'd have killed my captor right then, and to hell with my own life or death, if not for one thing. The rebels were back, Xziomi said, and I knew only one reason why that should be.
Even before my capture, we'd been reduced to grubby little bands hiding in burned-out buildings, communicating by semaphore and coded graffiti. I no longer had any illusions of winning back the planet; I just wanted to make the conquerors pay for what they'd taken. But something in me seemed to fire the others, and I became their Joan of Arc - not entirely against my will. Now they were back to keep me from being burned at the stake.
Damn them! After all my lectures about letting me go if I were captured, after all the time spent training them for independence, nurturing potential successors. This had to be Lily's doing. Damn her, too. Damn her lovely dark eyes.
Because of her - them - I'd feigned submission until the party was over and Mistress plugged me back into the Machine. Then I'd waited another five minutes before unplugging myself, just to be sure she was gone. By that time I could barely muster the will to break free, but I managed, and stole a skimmer to carry me across the Potomac. I ditched it in the river to throw off pursuit, then headed for the Pentagon on foot. It seemed like a logical place to start looking for my troops.
Yes, I'm right on target. Across the street I see a slave sweeping the sidewalk with slow, mechanical strokes. His left ear is a lump of scar tissue. Corgan! It's all I can do not to smile.
It was Richard Womack, an engineer from Charlottesville, who figured out how to weave brain-free webs. This was back in the early days of the invasion, when the Ssilm first went public with their control. They'd been using "stealth webs" against us for some time: invisible threads that made puppets of our rulers but left them looking free. No one even knew what was happening until it was too late. Then, eager to mark their property, they switched to visible webbing; and the last remaining free humans were reduced to hiding in caves and gluing scrap metal on our faces when we needed to go outside. It was a pitiful disguise, but the only one we had until Richard came across a stash of nail guns and cartridges. He spent the next two weeks experimenting with them, using captured Ssilm and human traitors as his guinea pigs. After he'd worked the bugs out, I became his first official volunteer.
The nailing hurt like hell, but it made the perfect camouflage. Once I proved its viability it became standard equipment for raiding parties. So what if we didn't know how to reverse the process? It cut our losses by sixty percent and doubled the Ssilm's by twenty.
I wonder what Womack would have thought about my situation, webbed by him and the opposition both. In a way, I'm almost glad he didn't live to see it.
But I am glad to see Corgan, who was one of the first to volunteer for webbing, and whom I still considered one of my most reliable soldiers. I guess he must be working point guard, looking out for Ssilm enforcers - and just possibly an escaped General. Even if they haven't heard about my breakout yet, they'll all be hoping for it.
If Corgan seen me he's smart enough not to show it; but then again, he might not even recognize me with all this new metal. I check the street once more, then pivot toward him, keeping my face blank and my movements mechanical. I didn't get this far by being careless.
Corgan's eyes flicker as I approach, but he keeps sweeping just the same. I stop a few feet away so that he doesn't feel threatened. No doubt he has a weapon in that broom. "Corgan," I hiss. "Corgan, it's me. It's Bellingham."
His head rotates in my direction, smooth as a cog in a watch. For a moment I wonder if he's been enslaved, but then he stops sweeping and flashes a grin. "General," he says, "I knew you'd come back to us."
I start toward him, but he flicks a finger in warning. "Not yet. Forgive me, but I'm not letting you any closer until I'm sure you're still you." His eyes flash again as he takes in my appearance. "Damn," he winces, "they really worked you over, didn't they?"
"Over and back again." For a moment I show him the depth of my pain, just to convince him of my sincerity. "They had me, Corgan. They really had me. But they pushed too hard and the programming broke. I was lucky to get out with my brain in one piece."
He shakes his head in sympathy. "We knew you'd be tortured. They hated you too much to do anything else."
"Well, at least they kept me alive. How long has it been? My time sense is shot to hell."
"Forty-three days."
"Damn, that's worse than I thought. The ranks holding up?"
"Mostly. Deavers and Bennett got tagged in Arlington, but the rest of us are still here, still fighting. We came back to get you, you know."
"I do know, you stupid fuck-" but I chuckle as I say it. "Let me guess: that was Lily's doing."
He chuckles too, and at last gestures me closer. "Not just hers, General. If we have to die - and at this point no one thinks otherwise - we'd rather die rescuing you than huddling in a cave."
My eyes fill with tears: leftovers from the trauma, I tell myself. "You're a good man, Corgan," I say. "I'm sorry about Bennett and Deavers." Terry Bennett had been Corgan's lover for as long as I'd known them.
The soldier ducks his head a moment, then forces a second smile. "Come on, I'll take you back to base."
Corgan brings me up to speed as I walk beside him, his face expressionless, his lips barely moving. Lily, he says, is headquartered in Arlington House at the top of the National Cemetery. From the brow of that hill, she has an excellent view of downtown Washington. The rest of the troops are scattered between the Pentagon and Woodmont: they're infiltrating in squads in order to avoid detection. I know they've already failed, but I keep the knowledge to myself. I'll tell them all at once, at base. Then we can go find Lily.
Corgan leads me to a service station near the shore of the Potomac; the Ssilm blew up the gas tanks, but the repair bay is in good condition and stocked with salvage.
Sandy Rasmussen runs out of the building first, literally throwing her arms around me and jumping up and down. She's seventeen, and the web shows plainly through her thin, pale skin. She makes no secret of idolizing me. Close behind is her brother Tony, twenty-two and recently widowed. The rest of Corgan's group is composed of teachers and urban professionals, a bus driver, and a retired nurse. Only three of them had previous military experience. The rest have learned on the job, and they've learned well. They'd be dead otherwise.
Now they're all cheering and hugging me. More than a couple have tears in their eyes. Hell, I have tears in my eyes. For that one moment, I forget all about battles and brainwashing and guerilla teenagers. I forget all about the Ssilm. Then sunlight breaks through the clouds and sparkles off their silvered eyes, and I feel my stomach drop. "Let's get inside," I tell them. "There's something you need to know."
They line up along the walls of the repair bay, nine people hanging nervously on my words. My head feels light, my body heavy. "I'm not going to waste any time," I tell them. "The Ssilm know you're here." Their faces fall but I rush on, the words spilling out almost on their own. "And they've sent me to betray you."
Light explodes from my sockets and strobes across the room, ricocheting from every metal surface. I see them jerking in the beams, but it's hard to focus when my own body is jerking, too - and my mind. They're dropping like flies but I'm pinned in place, my augmented web holding me upright as my thoughts burn off in the glare.
Of course. The escaped General was only a delusion, given me by my Mistress so that I could do her bidding. Weak human that I am, it was the only way I could serve her. I have acted shamefully, speaking aloud and trying to escape and even thinking ill of the Ssilm, but that is behind me now. I am again an obedient slave, and soon I will be allowed to forget my indiscretions. Not yet, though. I still have a few tasks to complete.
I cast my eyes around the repair bay, noting the various implements of rebellion: grenades, pulse guns, nylon restraints. I remove all weapons and prop the humans against the wall, side by side with their arms linked through one another. Then I tie their wrists with the nylon, hooking them together like paper dolls and binding them ankle to ankle. Next I fasten the captives at each end of the line to pipes welded into the wall; and lastly, I remove every loose object from the floor around them. Even the most harmless of scraps must go; Mistress commands that I take no chances.
I do not hurry in my work, for Mistress has explained that my lasers will incapacitate a victim for up to sixty minutes. In fact, she has even told me how they work; she says she wants me to understand exactly what I've done to the rebels. I understand nothing, but I have dutifully stored the knowledge that my lasers disrupt a subject's neural patterns. This produces a state of catatonia similar to what I experience in flatline, though it wears off much sooner and can be reversed at any point. I will reverse it now, on my owner's orders.
Mistress has imbedded a counter-laser in the tip of my left pinkie. I step to the first captive, lift one of his eyelids and position my finger precisely before his silvered eye. There is a flash of red and he jerks, smacking his head against the wall behind him. Then he sees me crouching over him. He begins to smile, but stops as he takes in his restraints and my lack of expression. "General Bellingham?" he asks nervously. Satisfied, I turn away from him and move on to the next rebel. "General Bellingham?" he asks again. "What are you doing? General!"
Before long I have a line of fully conscious, very emotional captives. Some cry, some curse me, some curse the ones cursing me, some urge me obscurely to "fight it" (fight what?). A few sit in gloomy silence, like the man with the missing ear. He gives me a look of such pity that for a moment my inner wall threatens to crumble. I shore it up quickly and continue with my task. Mistress will be pleased with my obedience.
Their eyes follow me as I step to the center of the bay and squat. My cunt socket widens and I side a finger inside, reaching deep. There is the stud, the one that activates my homing beacon. A spasm of pleasure washes over me, making me rock on my feet. My task is now complete, and I can submit, surrender, obey. The stud whispers sweetly, inviting me to press it again. Submit, surrender obey, it tells me. My breasts and crotch find the rhythm. Submit, surrender, obey. Submitsurrenderobey. The cries around me dim, the faces blur, the memories wash away in a stream of dark warmth. submitsurrenderobeysubmitsurrenderobeysubmitsurrenderobey. Then even the words are gone.
"Well now, look at my good little slave."
Mistress's voice draws me back from flatline. As my eyes refocus, I note a row of humans propped before me, lined up against a wall with their arms linked and their extremities bound. Some are sobbing, but most lie grim and silent. One looks off to his left - my right - and spits energetically.
I do not know who these people are or how they got there, but Mistress is with me, so nothing else matters. Her long, dark legs stride into view and I bow, relishing the ring of my sockets against the floor. "You may kiss my feet," she says, and I obey joyfully, twining my whole body around her legs and lavishing her toes with kisses. In the distance I hear curses and retching, but those are easy to ignore. "Now heel," Mistress commands, and I spring to kneeling attention.
How proud I am to display obedience before these humans. Despite their webbing, they seem shamefully undomesticated. I will show them how a good slave should behave, and perhaps Mistress will elevate them to my level.
"Pathetic," she sneers, and I know I have judged the humans rightly. "A pack of miserable beggars like you trying to resist the Ssilm. And look who you chose to lead you." She nudges me with her foot, and I press against her leg, brushing her scales with my lips. "Really, the only challenge you gave us was in devising your punishment."
"You haven't won yet, Xziomi," growls one of the males. "We'll keep fighting."
"Of course you will," she purrs. "But you'll be fighting against your own, now. Just like your General." She strokes my head, sending me into paroxysms of pleasure. "In just a minute we're going to repair the defects in your webs. Then we'll send you back to your comrades and let you sabotage the rebellion from within." She chuckles. "Isn't it ironic that the disguise you used to deceive us will work just as well against your own? As long as you look and act free, no one will question your webbing."
"They will if we look like her."
"Ah, but Bellingham was a special case; your second webs will be stealth webs. You'll look and feel just the same as you always have; in fact, you won't even remember we were here today...until I trigger you. But won't Lily Mosely be surprised, the night of your great raid, when her troops turn against her? I can't wait to see her face."
The youngest captive begins to moan, and the man beside her nudges her shoulder. "Hush, Sandy. Lily can handle this. She'll save us."
"That's what we thought about the General," sobs the girl. She buries her head in his neck and he tries to pat her back. But with his arms bound and twined with the others', he can't get very far. Boom goes the wall in my mind, and I tear my attention away from the captives to deal with the internal problem. Whatever Mistress has locked inside my head, it's getting stronger. For a moment I fear it will break her bonds, but then I remember that even it knows how to submit, surrender, obey. My worries melt in the face of Mistress's omnipotence.
The wall is still again, and as my mind turns outward I see Mistress holding an instrument before my face. It looks like a blocky gun with a display screen mounted on top, and a long, fine needle protruding from its barrel. The words "nail gun" flash through my head, and I wonder where they came from.
"Take it, slave," says Mistress. "This is one weapon you're allowed to use. For now."
I obey and my mind lights with knowledge. Yes, the Machine has programmed me to use this instrument, this...webber. At my owner's command I step to the first captive, the man with the missing ear. His eyes meet mine with somber calm. "You don't have to do this, General," he says. "You're stronger than her. Fight it!"
I bring the needle to his temple, just behind his existing socket, and he does not flinch away. "Fight it," he says again, more firmly, and I squeeze the trigger.
The gun jerks, locks tight against his head, begins to release its load. I watch the man grit his teeth and feel him shudder, but my gaze is fixed on the readout screen. "Resistance 100%" it says, then drops to 97%. The man's eyes squeeze shut and he grunts several times. 80%. Now he tries to pull away, but the webber is bound tight against his skull. 60%, and now his jaw begins to relax. 43%, and his eyelids slide open to half mast, though his hands continue to twitch. 30%, and his eyes are wide and glassy. 0%, and I release the trigger.
"Domestication complete," says the slave. "All functions normal."
At that, the girl begins to wail once more. "Quiet, human," snaps Mistress, "or I'll have him make you quiet." The girl settles into hiccupping sobs.
I snap a fresh cartridge into the webber and move on down the line. The next captive is a broad-shouldered male with Ssilm-brown skin (And how do I know he's a Vietnam veteran?). He resists more forcefully than my last subject, but he can't avoid the webber forever; and once it locks onto his head, the end is inevitable. It takes two cartridges to subdue him, but he accepts the second load much more readily than the first.
Next comes the captive who comforted the young girl. She screams as I approach him, and Mistress makes good on her promise to silence her. Releasing the first slave from his bonds, she sets him behind the girl and commands him to hold her jaws together. He does so, quickly and quietly, though she continues to scream through closed lips.
The young man succumbs quickly, with only a single whispered, "Love you, Sandy," at the 48% mark. My finger jerks on the trigger but I do not release it until domestication is complete. By that time the girl has ceased her struggles.
She falls even quicker than he did.
Fort Myer. I glide down the street, smooth, perfect, mechanical, resisting at every step the desire to skulk into shadow. It's been four hours since I escaped, and I've seen the hunt-craft flying over the Potomac. They must have found the skimmer I ditched, but at least it'll throw off the pursuit. And something tells me I'm close to a rebel hideout.
Radnor Heights. Wigandt's troop has holed up in an abandoned service station. Why do I feel a sense of déjà vu?
Colonial Village. submitsurrenderobeysubmitsurrenderobeysubmitsurrenderobeysubmitsurrenderobey - but I still can't seem to flatline. I'm not sure I ought to.
Rosslyn. My mouth is forming a word. No, I tell it, but unfortunately that's the word it's forming. I clamp my lips together to keep from shaming my Mistress. I will do anything to avoid that, even pretend to be what I am not. No one will ever know I'm a bad slave.
I crouch beneath Mistress's throne, plugged into a smaller, simpler version of the Machine that aids my perfection. The feed is weaker than what I'm used to, but that is intentional. Tonight Mistress wants me in a state of perpetual unfulfillment. I writhe slowly in my bonds, caressing them with face and hands and smearing them with saliva, begging them for an orgasm they cannot not give me. Mistress's guests are deeply amused.
Tonight they celebrate the end of the rebellion, only a little prematurely. Lily Mosely is already on her way. She had planned to attack two days from now, when the palace would be quiet, but Mistress has forced her hand. Late this afternoon she leaked word that I would be executed at midnight.
The thought of my demise concerns me little. After all, I am Mistress's property and she can use or dispose of as she likes. Besides, my mind is sharper these days and I seem to recall her making other plans for me. Something that would ensure I live a long, long time. I don't try to remember the details; I should be pursuing flatline, not trying to think on my own.
Especially not with so many eminent Ssilm nearby. The Emperor of North America himself sits at Mistress's side, in the place of highest honor; and the room is filled with governors, generals, and rulers of various rank. I have been introduced to each as he or she arrived, and have kissed their feet and other organs as they wish. I am trying to be on my best behavior, though deep in my heart I still know I'm a bad slave.
And that name keeps tolling through my mind: Monica Bellingham. Monica Burke Bellingham, in fact. I should never have tried to remember it.
The guests have eaten and drunk and chatted and danced, and now they've retired to cushions along each of the walls, awaiting the main event. A low-ranking Ssilm scuttles up to whisper in Mistress's ear. She smiles and stands. "Friends, lover, rivals," she announces, "the entertainment is about to commence. I've just received word that the rebels have breached our walls." The room swells with murmurs: some excited, some fearful, most simply confused.
Mistress only laughs. "Don't be alarmed," she says. "The situation is as fully under control as my little pet here. Only nine of the eighty-five humans invading my grounds are true rebels; the rest were domesticated several days ago - by the pet herself, though she's already forgotten it. And they had forgotten they'd been domesticated, until they set foot on my grounds. Now they act solely under my authority. I call your attention to the screens behind my head."
From my place on the floor I see only legs, wires, cushions, thrones; but I listen attentively as Mistress narrates the action. "You're looking at direct video output from the only true slave in Lily Mosely's squad. My pet found him working point guard, and after she domesticated him we installed a video camera behind his right eye. Then we moved on to the next rebel base, leaving the other humans in this one untouched.
"Now, as you can see, this squad is actually shooting Ssilm. But last night our cameraman rewired their weapons, reducing their blast power. And of course I was careful to place only Conciliation Party members in their line of fire. They'll wake up several hours from now with nothing worse than headaches and a bit of nausea. Oh, except for the one that Mosely just knifed." The crowd titters appreciatively.
"Now here's the feed from another squadron, one composed entirely of slaves. Note that they have already lain down their weapons and are proceeding on their knees. They're in the kitchen now, and the help have been instructed to let them pass."
"Lastly, here are the two groups assigned to take down Mosely. They came in through the front door to get ahead of her, and my people gave them the webbers you see them holding. Note that there are only seven webbers; Mosely herself will not be domesticated yet, and of course one of her number is already under my control. He will help restrain her when the time comes."
There is a pause. Then, "Yes," Mistress continues, "she's on her way. Look at them crouching to spring." Another pause, then gasps from the crowd, followed by shrieks and laughter. At last they applaud, and Mistress beams across the room, raising her hands for silence. "Not yet, friends! The entertainment has only just begun!"
The doors at the far end of the hall swing wide and two lines of humans enter, walking on their knees. Their faces are blank, their movements robotic. They form a horseshoe with its open end facing Mistress and the Emperor. Then they bow their faces to the floor. The room erupts in applause.
"Not yet!" calls Mistress again. "Our guest of honor is still on her way. See? Here she comes."
A new bunch of humans enters, kneewalking between the bowed slaves and carrying a struggling burden overhead. It is a woman, webbed as they are but obviously not enslaved. She wastes no breath on cursing, but thrashes wildly in their grip.
When they reach the center of the room, the slaves maneuver her into a kneeling position, bowing both her head and theirs before the Ssilm.
"Well done," says Mistress, "but raise her head. I want to see her face." Their hands loosen and the woman shakes them off, then glares up at her fascinated captors. "Friends, lovers, rivals," says Mistress, "I give you Lily Mosely." Again the crowd erupts, and this time she allows them rein.
I know this is Mistress's moment of greatest triumph; I am humbled to be a part of it. But my writhing slows as I stare at the captive rebel. What is it about her that draws my attention? She seems tall for a human, though not as tall as the stately Ssilm. Her limbs are smooth and wiry, but scaleless; and her skin, while brown, is closer to butterscotch than to the rich earth tones of the ruling race. She is bald, of course, so how do I know she looks stunning in dreadlocks? Uneasy, I turn away from the questions and back to my beloved Mistress.
She smiles at the captive, and even as I glance at her she says, "Welcome to the party. I'm so glad you could come."
For a moment Mosely looks at me instead of my owner. I see her lip tremble; then her chin jerks up. "Thanks for the invitation," she sneers. "I brought some party favors, but I lost a few of them along the way. Maybe they'll turn up later."
Mistress shifts in her seat, and as her ankles brush my back I turn to caress them. I am glad she is so close, to remind me whose I am. "Let me guess," she says. "You're referring to the bombs you planted here last night, the ones set to go off three days' time."
Mosely's face freezes.
"Don't be so surprised, human. Your soldiers have been enslaved for almost a week - all of them, save your own small squad. I've tracked your every movement through their eyes."
"Bullshit. You caught them just now, in the corridors. You're just trying to fake me out, make me give up the traps we've set."
"On the contrary. Your ex-lover tracked them down one squad at a time, and pulled the trigger on every webber herself. Didn't you, pet?" She tugs my clit-cord and I spasm gratefully.
"She makes such a darling slave, doesn't she?" purrs Mistress. "Fawning at my feet, more deeply fulfilled by submission than she ever was by command. And yet, when it comes to performing her duty, she still possesses all of that old Bellingham steel. Let me show you. Up, slave," she commands, and I spring to my knees. "It's time to tame the last rebel." She unhooks me and hands me a webber. Then she sends me across the floor toward Mosely.