Obligations Read online

  Obligations

  Cheryce Clayton

  Obligations is published by Six Point Press

  Copyright 2014 by Cheryce Clayton

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the Publisher, except for short quotes used for review or promotion.

  Art by Michael Shaudis

  I write for a market of one, my husband, though you are welcome to read along.

  Chapter One - Wergol - 1998

  Chapter Two - Bystocc – 2011

  Chapter Three - Bystocc – 2012

  Chapter Four - Earth - 1995

  Chapter Five - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Six - Sheresuan - 2004

  Chapter Seven - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Eight - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Nine - Sheresuan - 2012

  Chapter Ten - Earth - 1997

  Chapter Eleven - Sheresuan - 2012

  Chapter Twelve - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Thirteen - Sheresuan - 2012

  Chapter Fourteen - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Fifteen - Wergol - 2012

  Chapter Sixteen - Earth: Taiwan - 1995

  Chapter Seventeen - Bystocc – 2012

  Chapter Eighteen - Wergol - 2012

  Chapter Nineteen - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Twenty - Wergol - 2012

  Chapter Twenty One - Earth 1998

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Sheresuan - 2012

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Earth – 1995

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Sheresuan – 2012

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Wergol - 2012

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Space – 2012

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Bystocc - 2012

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Earth – 1995

  Chapter Thirty - Bystocc – 2012

  Chapter Thirty One - Bystocc – 2013

  Epilogue - Wergol - 2013

  Thank you for reading.

  Chapter One - Wergol - 1998

  “Nobody panic, now,” Morgan heard Greg say from behind her. “I don’t know what Tim was going to say, but take a lesson from my people. Do whatever it takes to survive, and plan your freedom carefully.”

  Morgan twisted around to look up at the black man who now loomed over her. Twenty-eight years old, and the closest thing to an adult their make-believe family ever had, Greg was talking. As much to keep himself from panicking as anyone else, Morgan thought, with a glance about the room.

  It was an auditorium, larger than her school’s, but less than half-filled. They were on a raised circular stage fifteen feet wide. Several of the gray robed aliens Greg had described from their capture were also on the stage, standing about the edges. Many other species could be seen scattered throughout the room, including several humans.

  “I hear you, man, pride slaughtered my ancestors,” Sam said from above Morgan.

  As Sam helped her to stand, Morgan looked into his midnight eyes and remembered the television westerns she loved watching when he wasn’t around. The memory of feathers and war paint threatened to block out his face, and she blinked her eyes to clear her conscience.

  “Human female. Step forward.”

  Morgan held her breath, thinking they meant her.

  One of the robed aliens moved a step closer to them and flicked a whip at the dazed and still sitting Denise. The teen screamed in pain as the pink flesh on her bare arm went white and blossomed into a vivid red welt.

  “Damn you!” Tim shouted and lunged for the alien. He never got close; a whip hit him hard to the chest, and he staggered backwards, to be caught by Sam.

  “You okay, man?” Greg whispered, his deep black face gone gray as he eyed the robed aliens.

  “Yeah,” Tim said, with a brisk shrug to shed Sam’s hands, and moved to stand beside Morgan.

  Morgan tipped her head back to look up at him, and ignored everything around her as she tried to memorize Tim’s face. Brown skin; not black, not white, just dark, even with his tan beginning to fade. His eyes were a green no contact lens could fake, rimmed with thick, black lashes. His mustache had grown thicker, and a faint beard now outlined his thin chapped lips. Morgan refused to drop her gaze from his mouth as she blinked tears away. The room’s silence brought her attention back to Denise.

  “Female friend. Sold.”

  The whip again moved toward the crying Denise, but this time did not connect. Denise looked at Tim and then the others, in panic, before she stepped forward one very small step.

  “What, what do you want?” Denise cried out in a high-pitched whine.

  One member of the auditorium crowd moved up the stairs to the stage. Her buyer was human: a very tall man with Middle Eastern clothing. He smiled in answer to her question and threw a small pouch at the robed alien auctioneer.

  “I don’t understand, Tim. Tim?” Denise turned her frightened gaze back to her friends.

  “World’s oldest profession, baby,” Greg called to her when it became evident that Tim was not going to answer her.

  The buyer put his arm around her shoulder and gently forced her to the steps.

  Morgan closed her eyes as she grasped the older girl’s situation.

  “I can’t, I won’t.” Denise resisted her buyer, and stared from Tim who refused to meet her gaze, to Greg who just shrugged without further comment.

  Her half-formed protests were stilled when her purchaser paused. He stroked his hand along her cheek before he pulled her dirty, bleached blonde hair from one side of her face, and pinned it in place. Denise pulled the pin from her hair. It was shaped like a snowflake that was crafted of white metal and brilliant gemstones. The man smiled one last time before he placed his arm around her shoulders and directed Denise down the stairs.

  “Woo-ee. Looks like she fell into a pampered pet position. Let’s hope we all do as well.” Greg didn’t smile when he spoke.

  Morgan felt Tim move to hold her in response, his large hands over her small shoulders; thumbs circling the top of her neck, his hands encasing her chest with an external set of ribs, but this one made of fingers.

  “Humans. Males, step forward.”

  Once more the whip flicked out, this time catching Tim on the wrist, and Morgan’s ear burned as the whip retracted.

  Tim clenched her shoulders tight but did not move.

  “Humans, separate. Child pain.”

  Tim stepped to the side of Morgan when their keeper pulled back to strike again.

  “I love you,” Morgan whispered, staring at his back as he stepped forward to join Greg and Sam.

  “Man, we are popular,” Greg said as the sound level in the room increased. Where one had bid for Denise, nearly every person in the room was bidding now.

  “I love you too,” Tim said, but never turned to look at Morgan.

  She thought he might be afraid of what would happen if his resolve broke. Afraid he would get them all killed.

  “Mercenaries sold. The House Medori. Bow.”

  “At least we know where we stand,” Greg said to the room, which had grown silent as four short, orange aliens moved towards the stage.

  Only one climbed the stairs. It was of a fur bearing species, with visibly pointed teeth. “Yes, you do. Follow me,” their buyer said in accented English as it handed a large pouch to the auctioneer.

  “Wait, buy Morgan,” Tim called out and moved towards his new owner. “Please.”

  Morgan saw no hesitation in his step even when a whip caught him hard across the cheek.

  “The infant? I think not.”

  Tim lunged halfway down the stairs at this
pronouncement. Repeated applications of the whips prevented him from reaching their new owner.

  Morgan bit her lip as Tim fell the rest of the way down the steps.

  “Carry him.” Their owner made eye contact with Greg before turning and walking away. “Next time he dies,” was said over a retreating shoulder.

  “Come on.” Greg moved past the still-silent Sam and bent to pick up the unconscious Tim.

  Neither looked to meet Morgan’s gaze.

  “Human, child. Step forward.”

  Morgan moved to the edge of the stage and watched Greg and Sam carry Tim from the room. She continued to stare at the door they exited without noticing the silence in the room.

  “Ship rat. Sold.”

  Morgan pried her eyes from the door and stared at the creature that moved towards her up the stairs. It was short, maybe half a foot taller than her own four feet. But there the similarity ended. Morgan gasped in horror as a rancid odor reached her; even the robed slavers kept their distance from the obese, filthy alien, allowing its pouch of money to fall to the floor untouched.

  Chapter Two - Bystocc – 2011

  “Was it really necessary?” Morgan asked from where she stood framed by broken glass. She stared down out of the window at the carnage and destruction just beginning to be repaired.

  Two young Sansheren could be seen studying a pile of rubble across the street, and Morgan squinted to see the bright green danger flag they placed before walking to the next pile. It was the symbol for unexploded ordnance, she realized without surprise. Her eyes followed the road and the warning signs, so many that they reminded her of prayer flags waving in the breeze, and she closed her eyes to block the memory of Earth.

  “Two months since the cease-fire, and not a single hospital in operation for the natives,” Neavillii said, forcing Morgan’s attention to her friend and aide. A mature Sansheren, Neavillii was short, orange, and every bit a bored predator.

  “The sewers and water are still out in every major city, half of a continent has been reduced to glowing craters, and the Ouosin’s own people whisper of torture and brutality. I guarantee their beloved Twelve will not risk another House’s neutrality,” Neavillii finished in a soft voice that soothed Morgan’s own nervous fear as she stared out at the city once more.

  Below on the street, new flags marked a buried body, unexploded ordinance, and radioactive debris. The rules of war had not been broken, they had been ignored, and Morgan wondered if memories of her human childhood were coloring her mood.

  “And yet, I find myself unready for this confrontation,” Morgan said, and turned from the window to eye the large dining room where she had been left to await Tadesde, a Twelfth level Sansadee, leader of the conquering force. As a new Ninth level Sansadee, Morgan’s own party numbered ten: eight security, her aide, and herself. The Sansheren in the room were orange with hints of green, a muscular people who trusted to their own fur for warmth. Morgan wore a long black scarf draped across her shoulders and wished for thicker material. Her security stood in a cluster between her and the platforms where the meal would be served. The Arbitration papers lay ignored beside an empty seat in the center of the largest platform.

  “My adopted father, Neadesto, should have sent her beautiful daughter Iedonea. At least with the rank of an Eleventh she could have pretended peerage with Tadesde. As Neadesto’s adopted –“

  “You are Tadesde’s equal,” Neavillii insisted. “It matters not your species.”

  Morgan tilted her head toward her aide, Neavillii, in question. “I know the stories of Tadesde’s inception, but dare I call her an Ouosin and discover the rumors false?”

  Neavillii moved nearer, and reached up with her claws sheathed to begin massaging Morgan’s tense shoulders. “Her own people claim peerage to her, and few are even your rank. I am honored to attend this meal, and I will hold my head high,” Neavillii said, and Morgan twisted around to smile.

  More than thirty retainers swept into the room; at their lead was a bannerless Sansheren who was so young that Morgan was startled by the green fur that still dominated the other’s adult orange. “Tadesde?” Morgan whispered, and knew she must be wrong. Tadesde’s archetype was marked by a reddish coloring and narrow features, and the other did not match any of the descriptions of the young leader Morgan was waiting for.

  “Have you any questions for our Lady?” asked a voice from the crowd as Morgan motioned her people to approach the platforms.

  “I find the extent of the damage appalling,” Morgan said while studying the cluster of Sansheren in front of her. “Can there be a reason for such brutality?” None present bore the banner of Sansadee, and she knew insult was intended as those facing her sat without waiting for her bow. Herself a Ninth-ranked Sansadee, Morgan was an independent leader and by her own choice Neadesto’s servant. The fact that none facing her across the platform could claim even her own rank was apparent in the banners they wore.

  “There was resistance, even after the cease-fire was negotiated. The alien mercenaries refused to surrender for ransom, your Ladyship. Their species has no sense of honor or peerage,” a new voice said, but Morgan could see no one bow.

  “Perhaps you set the ransom too high,” Morgan replied, not quite ignoring the second insult, being as human as the slandered mercenaries.

  “But if our House is to gain any profit from this experience we must demand full restoration and reconstruction of the prize,” another Sansheren said, and this time Morgan spotted the speaker. The woman was not the youngest present, and yet she was still far too young to wear the banners that proclaimed her rank of Twelfth in the order of Gulardee, a soldier. She was the same soldier who escorted Morgan on her recent tour as Arbitrator for the devastated planet, and Morgan paused to collect her thoughts as she noted the scar on the woman’s shoulder and stain on her House banner that proved that she had jumped from Tenth ranked to Twelfth overnight and wasn’t a sister or cousin.

  “Traditionally, a mercenary’s ransom does not exceed twenty percent of the time involved in the original conflict. Your own demands are in excess of one hundred and thirty percent,” Morgan said with a smile. She knew she was toying with the powerful young soldier. “Why?” she asked, and retainers on both sides of the room tensed as the military leader stood and flexed her fingers, unsheathing her claws.

  “As my wonderful friend said,” the first voice interjected, “there was resistance after the cease-fire. We should be reimbursed at one hundred percent for this time. We also feel that we should be granted a bonus of half of the traditional time to discourage such dishonorable actions in the future.” The woman who stood to calm the Gulardee was old and nearing retirement.

  Morgan blinked when she noticed that the other’s chest banners betrayed her as a Tamsatel, and little more than the head of Tadesde’s House’s domestic pyramid. “No, the traditional ransom was set to discourage such destruction of the prize as we see here,” Morgan replied. “Your House acted against the better interests of this planet in pursuing the battle after the original cease-fire was negotiated. The new nuclear bombardment of the Western Continent only proves my-”

  “But, most honorable Arbitrator, we have already informed you that the mercenary Captain, Timone, was responsible for all of the nuclear weapons that ravaged the Western Continent,” the Gulardee leader challenged.

  Morgan was distracted for a moment by the Sansheren’s pronunciation of the mercenary leader’s name, Tim-o-nee, and how her name always became Mor-gan-aye. She remembered Neavillii once telling her that a one-or two–syllable name was as unnatural as a one- or two-sided triangle.

  “You cannot plan to penalize our wonderful and benevolent leader Tadesde, she who holds the Twelfth rank in the order of the Sansadee? It is Timone you should punish!” the Tamsatel shouted her disbelief as the others in the party sat glaring at Morgan.

  “Am I to be forced into accepting your honor as to what occurred?” Morgan asked, and allowed her growing disgust at Tadesde’
s treatment of the planet to surface in her voice. “How convenient Timone did not survive. Ransom will stand at twenty percent of the time involved. Mercenaries will be provided the option to purchase their debt, and medical care will be provided for any who need it, native or mercenary. As punishment for the use of nuclear weapons, I insist that any mercenary or native found to be dying by radiation contamination or exotic poison can expect full family benefits for the length of their lives, plus family status for up to ten whom they choose to record,” Morgan finished, and felt guilty at the amount of pleasure she received from handing down such a harsh judgment. Watching the two standing, Morgan saw the young Gulardee’s look of protest shift to one of fear and hatred. Glancing around the room, she noted that none of Tadesde’s retainers would accept eye contact. Among her own people, Neavillii was smiling at her, and Morgan almost laughed when she realized the very human smile that played on her own face.

  “Will you sign the judgment papers for your mistress?” Morgan used an intimate inflection on the traditional compliment to return the insults offered earlier with a twist. The young soldier was too far beneath her, regardless of rank, but Tadesde was not and Morgan enjoyed the look of irritation that crossed the other woman’s face at the childish slur.

  “It is said that the House of Sheresuan is the most neutral and honorable, this is why we asked your own love, Neadesto of the Twelfth and highest rank of Sansadee, to send us one of her daughters to arbitrate the ransom. Dare we risk another House deciding worse? I will send for my most loved Sansadee of the House Dejymo, Tadesde. She will have the honor of signing the papers herself. I look forward to dining with you when she arrives,” the young Gulardee said, and without a bow, turned and stalked out of the room.

  Morgan waited a minute and watched as Tadesde’s retainers shifted in their seats before moving to reclaim her own.

  “Tadesde,” Neavillii said.

  Her whisper caught Morgan half-way beginning to sit. The rapidness with which the other leader appeared surprised Morgan as she shifted to bow.