Aurora - Table of Contents

Part 1: Garran Raulsten on Trial
Part 2: Introducing Aurra MacCowan
Part 3: Introducing Doc
Part 4: Garran Meets DF 
Part 5: Aurra Buys Garran
Part 6: Ready for Take-Off; Introducing Flavia
Part 7: Garran's New Job
Part 8: Garran Meets Doc
Part 9: Doc's Surprise
Part 10: Not So Fail-Safe 
Part 11: Garran's Proposal
Part 12: Aurra's Musings
Part 13: The Alternate - Introducing Tyr
Part 14: Aurra's Decision
Part 15: Tyr Wakes Up
Part 16: The Diagnosis
Part 17: Indecision
Part 18: Tyr's First Fight
Part 19: Aurra's Decision Renewed
Part 20: Tyr Finds a Friend
Part 21: The Kiss
Part 22: The Message
Part 23: Tyr's Second Fight
Part 24: The Riddle
Part 25: Preparations
Part 26:

Aurora

Hi Everyone,

I have had an idea for a new story going around my head for a while, but I thought I'd put it a different setting. So here is the first chapter of a new story called Aurora and it's placed in some other solar system, some time in the far future, but the characters are all human, having colonized this part of the galaxy some millennia before.
So what I'm hoping to give you is an old fashioned love story with an element of mystery set in an environment that gives me some liberties beyond our contemporary experience.
Comments are always welcome. It helps me be a better author and will give you a better story. 

The story is below, I hope you enjoy it.

RyooT

Aurora- Chapter 1

Another Place, Another Time …

It was a rare sight. The colors of the aurora borealis sweeping through the dark sky where unusually bright and intense. This far to the north and at this point of the planet’s orbit around its aging sun, full darkness lasted only 30 standard minutes—human minutes—and the full cycle time was only five and a half hours, again in human terms.

It was peak darkness now and the next peak was still five and a half hours away and what show the aurora would put on then was anybody’s guess. The lights were fickle. So anyone who had a view of the sky through a skylight, window, view port or even a slit was captured by the spectacular display outside; anyone that is whose attention wasn’t captured by something else. 

Though there was a skylight above him, at an angle that would have given him a prime view of the light storm outside, Commander Garran Raulsten saw none of it. He was sitting alone on a defendant’s bench with space for three, surrounded on three sides by ceiling-high steel walls and a fourth, removable floor to ceiling glass wall in front of him. A military court martial was in progress—his court martial—but Garran listened with only half an ear to the arguments that were being tossed back and forth around him. His so-called defense council was useless; the whole thing was a sham anyway. Held in enemy territory and being tried for treason, this was nothing but a publicity exercise and a show of power. One that would cost him his life and nobody was going to intervene on his behalf. 

He had been the leader of a secret commando squad sent by his government to assassinate an inconvenient, but powerful crime lord who was effectively holding the purse strings of the elected planetary government of Horlus I, the planet he was currently on. Though hardly hospitable, Horlus I, the closest to the sun in this solar system, had been colonized by humans centuries ago. Because of the lack of a true biosphere, the planet was a prime location for resource exploitation and waste dumping, and access to the resources was at the root of this mission. This godforsaken black-ops mission that had started going wrong long before the moment he had been shot and captured by the thugs posing for representatives of Horlus I’s planetary defense force. And now his own government and military superiors back on Horlus III were washing their hands of him, denying any involvement in the failed attack. 

There had to have been a leak, within his own government Garran assumed, because it was the only explanation for how they had been so neatly ushered right into a deadly trap. Five of his best men, five of his closest friends, dead; he had been the sole survivor. 

Since the outcome of the trial was already predetermined, he refused to participate in this farce in any way. He kept his eyes lowered, his gaze alternating between his hands, his right leg and boot and the concrete floor. At least that’s where he tried to keep it, but he was fighting a losing battle against himself. His gaze was inexorable drawn back to his left leg. If the angle at which he looked was just right it looked just like a normal leg, but he had only to flex or extend his left knee a tiny bit and all pretense was lost. Most of his lower left leg was gone. The sight still took him by surprise every time; to speak nothing of the feeling. There was no way he could put it into words, that combination of lack of sensory feedback because his leg just wasn’t there anymore combined with phantom sensation and pain. 

He had been shot through his ankle during the raid nearly two weeks earlier. Had he been on his home world, his rank and status would have guaranteed him the highest level of medical care and he was sure his ankle could have been fixed. If not he would have been eligible for an immediate cybernetic replacement, a temporary measure until a new leg had been bio-engineered for him and transplanted. That is if he wanted it. He knew of some among his fellow commando units who kept their cybernetic parts permanently, swearing that they were more functional and useful to their jobs.

Being where he was though, Garran thought, that maybe he should be grateful he had received any kind of medical treatment at all, even if it was the most basic treatment possible. Cutting off a limb to be fitted with a simple mechanical prosthesis was the level of care reserved for the poor and disenfranchised.

But no, they had needed him alive to make an example out of him. But the blatant disregard for his rank as well as physical wholeness spoke volumes about their intentions and left only one possible outcome. He wouldn’t live long enough to ever be fitted with a prosthetic leg of any kind, let alone a biological replacement. Even the bright red prison jumpsuit he had been given had been tailored, with the left leg shortened and sown closed at the end, just another little cruelty to remind him that they didn’t intend for him to have a leg, mechanical or otherwise.

Back in his cell he had followed the censored news reports on his trial, the truth heavily twisted and contorted to fit their agenda and they only ever showed him sitting with his lower body concealed or in a head shot so that back on Horlus III everyone would be assuming he was unharmed, while in truth he dragged himself around with the help of a pair of old-fashioned crutches. 

As he slowly bent and extended his left knee back and forth, Garran stared at the stubby piece of lower leg that remained, all six inches of it. Why in Horlus’ name did they amputate almost his entire lower leg if all that had been hurt had been his ankle? At the one time he had been seen by a human doctor instead of an FRM, a field robotic medic, he had posed the question, but the man had obviously been under orders to refrain from talking unless absolutely unavoidable, so his answer had been a cagey. “It was necessary.” Necessary my ass.

Suddenly Garran became aware of the silence that had descended around him and he cursed himself under his breath for completely tuning out of his surroundings. It was so quiet that he wondered if everybody was collectively holding their breaths. Just then the silence was shattered by the thundering voice of the presiding, judge and jury in one. “I ordered the traitor to rise,” he boomed.

Garran struggled to stand up and balance on his foot, but he would be damned if he showed any weakness now, so he left the crutches on the floor and straightened out his 6’3 frame. He braced his good leg against the bench and clasped his hands behind his back. For the first time he raised his gaze straight ahead and regarded the presiding with a menacing glare.

A man that Garran recognized as the target he had been sent to eliminate was standing behind the presiding, a little off to his right. The man leaned forward and whispered something into the presiding’s ear. In response he gave a curt nod and for a fraction of a second his features contorted into a grim smile. Then his face lost all expression again as he rose to announce the verdict and sentence. After five minutes of painful elaboration, he finally came to the pronouncement. About time, Garran thought, who at this time was struggling to maintain his military erect posture. 

“ … and therefore, I pronounce the traitor to be executed by lethal injection.”

Despite the fact that he had expected just that, Garran felt his knee weaken and he struggled to remain standing. The glass panel in front of him slid down, disappearing into the ground and two hulking guards stepped in, grabbing him under his arms before he could sink down to the bench, hauling him off towards a door on the other side of the court room. Garran tried to keep up the pretense of walking with them, taking steps with his good leg, while the truncated left moved uselessly back and forth. He stumbled, but the guards didn’t care, they just dragged him on, down a short passage and into a room on the right that Garran immediately recognized as an execution chamber. The room was windowless and bare safe for a gurney with solid leather straps in the center of the room. He struggled, but despite his height and considerable strength the guards were unfazed. Within a minute they had him strapped to the gurney and one of them slipped the needle of a field syringe he had extracted from a pocket of his fatigues into Garran’s arm. The drug spread like fire through his body making his muscles contract. Garran instinctively tried to curl himself into a ball, but only his unrestrained left leg was able to cooperate, the thigh pulling up against his chest and his knee flexed fully, the stump of his lower leg pressing against his hamstring, as the calf muscle that had been wrapped over the end of the stump to provide padding contracted so strongly it felt to Garran as if his leg was being ripped apart. Torn between trying to hold on to his consciousness and silently begging for release from the pain in his amputated leg—after a few more seconds Garran’s world faded to black.

  

A few moments later a booming voice came over the intercom. “Take him to the operating theater, now!”


Entire story

Aurora - Part 2

Aurora—Aurra—MacCowan walked into her cockpit after a long, exhausting inspection round, walking every corridor, checking every seal, every air scrubber, every mechanical unit and running self-tests on every electronic one. It was a necessary procedure to be performed once every third shift; at least in a ship as old as hers. But better safe than sorry. One malfunctioning unit, one malfunctioning sensor and a delay in realizing there was a problem could allow a chain reaction that could doom the ship and the entire crew.

She dragged her boot-clad feet the last few steps, if only she weren’t so exhausted, then collapsed into her pilot’s chair. Her gaze swept over the panels and consoles, making sure that everything was in order, the auto-pilot was working correctly and they were still on the right course towards Horlus I. Her gaze finally landed on the empty co-pilot chair and as always she had to choke back the sob when in her mind’s eye saw Bryn sitting there, a broad grin on his handsome face and teasing her about something silly.

She forced the picture away before it overwhelmed her. The bone-deep fatigue was getting the better of her and though she desperately tried to keep her eyes open, it wasn’t long and she drifted off into a deep and thankfully dreamless sleep.

***

At some point in time Garran realized that he wasn’t dead. Or death was nothing like he had expected it to be. He was cold. Semi-awake he opened his eyes and turned his head from side to side, but it was too dark to make out anything other than a few LEDs in some control panel or other on the far wall. He heard the rasping breath of another person and some electronic humming, but other than that—nothing.

He realized that he was lying flat on his back, his arms on top of some type of rough material that was apparently some type of blanket. He stuck his arms under the blanket and pulled it higher against his neck. Trying to turn himself onto his side, he realized that something felt wrong. Instantly he was fully awake. His legs were not responding. He moved one hand down to his hip and below onto his right thigh. He felt his leg under his hand, but the corresponding sensation of touch in his leg was gone. He tried to move his leg, to even just contract his quad, but there was no response. No movement, no feeling, absolutely nothing. He moved his hand to his groin and was relieved to find that sensation there was completely normal. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and moved his hands back to his right leg. The second inspection only revealed one additional fact. His right leg was intact. He steeled himself for the inspection of the left. More of the same, except, as he had expected, his left leg still ended in a round nub six inches below his left knee. And he was still uncomfortable with touching the stump. He moved his hands behind his back and felt his backside and lower back. His glutes were sort of half-numb, but had not volitional movement either. Higher up he felt two small sutured surgical incisions one on either side of his spine in the area of the lumbar-sacral plexus. Bastards. They had blocked or cut the nerves to his legs. Garran was shivering violently now. Not from the cold, but from the adrenalin that was cursing through him at the realization of what had been done. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. Then his anger and frustration broke through to the surface and he screamed at the top of his voice. “You fucking bastards!” before dropping back onto his pillow.

Instantly the lights in the room came on and another angry voice spoke. “Fuck yourself.”

Garran’s head whipped around into the direction of the speaker, a scrawny man maybe a few years older than Garran, who had sat up on his cot and was angrily stabbing a finger in Garran’s direction as he carried on. “Can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep in here? I knew you were a screamer from the moment they brought you in yesterday afternoon. All I want is to mind my own business, but you, you want to make your business every ones elses, too. It won’t get you anywhere other than that they’ll cut our already meager food rations. So shut the fuck up.”

Garran had pushed himself up on his elbow. “Are you finished?”

“Yes. I’m finished with you.” Then man threw himself back onto his cot, his back turned to Garran and switched off the light.

Garran was unperturbed by the man's outburst, but his voice was laced with sarcasm. “I am sorry, but you must cut a man some slack here. It’s not every day that you wake up and find out you’re paralyzed.” He heard the man rustle, obviously turning back in his direction. The light however stayed off.

“You are what?”

“Pa-ra-lyzed. Are you deaf or what? I can’t move my legs unlike the last time I was awake.”

“Bastards.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“What did you do to piss them off so badly? I saw you missing a leg when they brought you in here and that wheelchair or yours, but that’s not unusual.”

“What do you mean?”

“Amputating a lower leg is the normal punishment for slaves who try to escape.”

“Slaves who try … you mean we … you and me?” Garran was swallowing hard, trying to wrap his mind around what he had just learned.

“Yup, except I still have all my limbs because I worked really hard to earn my promotion to come here for an opportunity to see and do something new, whereas you my friend seem to have outlived your usefulness.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t even know where here is.”

“Here, my friend, is the slave trading center on Horlus I.”




Aurora - Part 3

Aurora - Part 3

“Tsk, tsk, sleeping on the job.”

Aurra was startled awake by Doc’s gentle snickering.

“I wasn’t actually asleep,” she started to defend herself, but knew right away that Doc wasn’t fooled one bit. He took a seat in the empty co-pilot’s chair next to hers and regarded her thoughtfully. Aurra squirmed under his scrutiny. In the dim light of the cockpit that came from the various monitors, consoles and displays all around the two of them she probably looked worse than ever. The shadows under her eyes darker and the gauntness of her face more pronounced.

Doc let out a breath he had held since he sat down. “When last did you eat something?”

Aurra just shook her head, staring straight over the console at the black emptiness of space beyond the viewport in front of her, leaving the interpretation of the gesture up to Doc. Quietness descended between them, occasionally interrupted by the computerized voice that relayed system status updates and even that was hardly more than a murmur.

Aurra contemplated the vastness and harshness of space, the vacuum all around them held at bay by the walls of her ship, the freighter she was piloting. Out there, within her immediate field of view was nothing—dead space, as dead and empty as Aurra felt inside. The silent tug of wills that was going on between her and Doc was draining her even more. She felt like she was about to break; frozen by the coldness of space and about to be shattered into a million pieces and released into the void. Why was she still resisting? She didn’t even know anymore. So she relented. “Okay, Doc. Say what you’ve come to say.” She turned her head in his direction.

“Aurra you have to find a new co-pilot.”

She had known that this was what he had come to say. She tensed in reflexive response, like every time the subject came up. But every other time she had categorically refused to entertain the thought; this time though she was ready to admit that Doc had a point. She knew she was close, not only to complete emotional, but also to complete physical exhaustion. And regardless of all of her pain and heartache she was still responsible for her ship and her crew, small as it may be. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to rub the tiredness from her eyes. Then she stroked a hand over the short, black bristles of her nearly clean shaven head.

She used to have long hair, but she had shaved it off six months ago, shortly after Bryn’s death. Bryn—her co-pilot, her business partner, her husband, her lover. He had been her reason to exist. It had been a long, lonely six months, but she was realizing that more than anything she was tired of the grief. The last six months she had operated on auto-pilot, doing two people’s work on her own. She needed to move on; for her crew’s sake and her own. Still, it was hard to let go.

“We can’t afford to pay a co-pilot,” she eventually responded in one final effort to stave off the inevitable. And no experienced pilot in their right mind would hire on for the pittance she would be able to offer, no benefits neither, no days off, just a roof over the head so to speak and lots of work. And the ones that were prepared to take her terms? She probably wouldn’t want them within a hundred meters of her ship anyway. She regarded Doc wearily as a grin spread across his weathered face.

“I think,” he started, “I have found a solution.”

“What?” She challenged him, the sarcasm obvious in her voice. “Did you win a jackpot? Didn’t you say that playing the lottery was a fundamental waste of time and money?”

Doc didn’t take the bait. He just stayed infuriatingly calm as always. “Yes, I said that, and no, I didn’t play and therefore I couldn’t have won a jackpot.”

Aurra reigned in her frustration, born as it was out of exhaustion and despair. He might really have a solution if she could just make herself listen and get over the fact that he wanted her to replace Bryn. She tempered her tone and raised a questioning eye brow. “So what then? Skilled pilots don’t come for free.”

“This one does, he’s, well, almost free, we just have to buy him and,” he hurried on to say, “most importantly, he is on Horlus I.”

Aurra’s jaw dropped. “A slave? Are you out of your mind? And why would anybody have a pilot for sale anyway? Aren’t slaves for menial labor? I thought most of them can’t even read or write, never mind fly a space ship.” This was probably the longest, most emotional speech she had made in six months, Aurra realized.

Doc had realized it too and smiled at her. “Come, have a look.” He swished his hand over the touch display on the pilots console in front of him and after a few more commands the picture of a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties with a square face, dark crew-cut style hair, pale blue eyes and a long straight nose came into view. At the bottom of the picture a label read D-3248333. Attractive, Aurra thought, instantly feeling guilty. At least he looked nothing like Bryn. He is objectively handsome in a very masculine way, Aurra tried to reason with her conscience. Doc obviously saw the emotions play out on her face. “Aurra, you have to let Bryn go. He would want you to move on, to be happy again.”

“I know.” Easy for you to say. She sighed. “So who is this wonder boy and why is he for sale as a slave? You do realize I have a fundamental issue with owning a slave.”

“Yes, I know, but maybe we can make this deal work both ways. I’m pretty certain I know who he is. Look here.” He pulled up another picture, two actually. They were grainy as if taken through a zoom lens and magnified beyond appropriate resolution. One showed the back of a tall man in combat boots and dark fatigues walking away from the camera but his head turned to the side making his profile visible. The other was a head shot, but again the head was somewhat turned and the face partially obscured by shadows. Still, it looked like the same man except that his hair was long and braided into a typical officer’s queue.

“Okay, so? Who is he?”

“This, I believe, is Commander Garran Raulsten.”

It took Aurra a moment to recover from her surprise. “You mean this is the guy who single-handedly tried to overthrow the government on Horlus I? I thought he had been executed for treason? Why in Horlus’ name would they let him live and sell him as a slave?”

“That my dear, I cannot answer, but remember there would only be a very small number of people who could possibly identify him, no pictures of him exist outside of the recent media exposure during the trial.”

Aurra’s eyebrow rose even higher. “And those?” She gestured towards the grainy ones.

“Those are my own. I met him a few years ago when I was still on active duty.”

Before he had hired on as the ship’s doctor with Aurra and Bryn three years earlier, Doc had been a career officer and senior surgeon in the Confederate Forces on Horlus III. At the age of fifty two he was still far from military retirement, but he had simply walked out one day, resigned his commission and all benefits. He had never explained his reasons, and Aurra had never pried. She was a private person herself and how could you expect people to respect your privacy if you didn’t respect theirs. Still over the last six months Doc had started to become her confidant, while the rest of her crew, she realized suddenly, had avoided her as much as possible. She sighed and returned her focus to the matter at hand. “But his face was on the media daily for about two weeks. Wouldn’t anybody looking at these slave-for-sale pictures recognize him?”

“I had another look at the trial footage. I am almost certain they ran morphing software on him on the electronic feed from the trial to make any facial recognition impossible. You can never really get a clear picture of him.         

“You didn’t look at the picture and think ‘oh, that’s the guy from Horlus I’ neither and—everybody thinks he’s dead anyway. They even broadcasted the execution live the day after the trial ended.”

“Yeah,” Aurra said pensively, “but if it wasn’t him that was executed then who?”

“Who knows?” Doc shrugged his shoulders. “Probably some other poor soul rotting away in one of their prisons.”

“You are probably right. So a D-class slave. Those are the cheapest ones, aren’t they? Why is he categorized so low? Even if they don’t advertise him as a pilot or engineer; he can still do more than the most menial jobs.”

“I think it’s because they crippled him.”

“Oh, man.” Aurra stared at the picture of the ‘slave’ she was entertaining to buy. “What did they do to him?”

“He’s listed as LBK and CES.”

Aurra rolled her eyes. “And in layman’s terms?”

“I won’t know exactly until I examine him, but I would say his legs are paralyzed and his left leg was amputated below the knee.”

“Woah.” Now both Aurra’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You could fix that, couldn’t you?”

“It depends on the extent of the nerve damage, but with our limited financial means I don’t think there’s a whole lot I can do.”

“Hmm. Are you sure about this whole thing? You said you met him—you sure we are not inviting a first class psychopath on board? I mean, he did try to dispose a democratically elected government, after all.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute.” Doc answered rather vehemently. “This whole affair stinks. I think they just used him as a convenient scape goat to cover up something else and took him out of commission in the process.”

Aurra fell silent for a while, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. “Okay.” She finally said. “I trust your judgment on this. And I admit, I do need help, but I’m still uncomfortable with the thought of buying and owning another human being.”

“Well, we really can’t afford to buy him and just let him go. But let’s offer him servitude. Let’s say two years with an option to buy off the indenture. If he really is Garran Raulsten he should have access to enough money to leave straight away and we get reimbursed for our expenses and the money to hire someone else. Win—win, don’t you think?”

Aurra mulled it over for a moment. “Okay. I think that’s fair. We’ll be docking at the Horlus I freight terminal in 13 hours and 41 minutes. So how do we buy ourselves a slave?”

“Online. They will even deliver him right to our docking bay for inspection—no extra charge.” He added in a fake salesman voice that made Aurra chuckle.

She was surprised how good she felt about the situation; the fact that they were freeing him from this bond, giving him the opportunity to return to his old life. Bryn would have agreed and been proud of her for doing something so noble. For the first time in six months she felt like she could breathe again. She could think of Bryn without being bowled over by grief. She didn’t think she would ever be able to let him go entirely, but at least, it seemed she was able to move along now. She looked at Doc who, ever conscientious, seemed to be reading the fine print terms of buying a slave. “So how much is wonder boy going to set us back?”

Doc mumbled some ridiculously low price under his breath without taking his eyes of the monitor.

“Really? Is that all? Hell, at this rate let’s buy two. Get him and someone who can cook.”

She was definitely intrigued and curious to meet this man—for a very personal reason of her own.




Aurora - Part 4

Aurora - Part 4

Garran didn’t get any sleep for the rest of the night. Since the initial shock of discovering the paralysis in addition to his missing leg had worn off, he had resolved to make the best of the present situation and do what he did best—reconnaissance. He had engaged his roommate in conversation for a couple of hours without letting on that he really didn’t know much about how he got to be where he was. He also decided not to volunteer his name, concerned of what the consequences of such a revelation might be. But as it turned out he didn’t have to worry. Apparently the guards who had brought him had just given a number as identification. Apparently that was good enough.

A short while later he figured out why. His roommate’s name turned out to be DF, short for Delta-425. A slave from birth, he had been given that number and nobody had ever bothered to give him a proper name. So DF had stuck. DF was thirty two, four years younger than Garran, but looked much older. Being a slave obviously didn’t guarantee regular food and supplements. Most recently he had been a busboy, but had discovered he enjoyed cooking and was hoping to find a new master who would let him work in a kitchen. In time he hoped to acquire enough skill to get promoted to cook.

Even though it was day now, meaning the light panels attached to the ceiling of their room lit up like a sunny blue sky, DF had gone back to sleep and Garran was lying on his back with his hands under his head, psyching himself up to get out of bed and into that wheelchair that was parked next to it. He was naked under the blanket, but he could see some folded clothes on the table at the foot end of his cot. He regarded the room for a moment. Considering that this was a slave quarter it wasn’t half bad. Certainly better than the cell he had lived in for the last two weeks. Clean and functional for two people; two cots along the walls opposite each other, a small table next to each and two chairs. Straight ahead was a door that probably led to a corridor of dozens of other rooms just like it. On the right wall along which Garran’s cot was placed a door led into the bathroom and directly across from it another led into a walk-in closet. Or so DF had said. Not that slaves accumulated many possessions, but whatever they had was stored in there until they moved on to their new owner.

Finally Garran sat up and pulled the sheet away from his legs. For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, seeing his legs unresponsive didn’t bother him nearly as much as seeing his left leg with the bandaged stump instead of shin, ankle and foot. He reached for the wheelchair to pull it closer, but the brakes seemed to be set and it wouldn’t move. Using his arms, he scooted himself backward until he was level with the seat then he lifted himself across. Not very elegant for a first attempt, but so what. His left leg didn’t need any adjusting seeing that it was hardly more than half a leg anyway, but he had to use his hands to move the right leg off the bed and onto the footrest. It took just a few seconds to figure out the brakes then he was off to the bathroom, collecting a towel, T-shirt, shorts and a pair of drawstring pants on the way.

When he finally emerged again an hour later, Garran was frustrated as hell. Using the bathroom on one leg and with crutches had been difficult, but manageable. Doing the same from a wheelchair, unable to stand and without any handholds anywhere for support had been nearly impossible. By Horlus what he wouldn’t give for half an hour with a good old-fashioned punching bag.

DF was up and awake and sprinted past him into the bathroom without a word. Garran swallowed the good morning he had been about to say and shrugged his shoulders. He rolled over to the table that, as he had noticed earlier, had a computer terminal embedded into its surface. To his disappointment it was a closed system that didn’t provide him with any access beyond information about the facility he was in. He figured out how to order breakfast, which arrived promptly and pre-packaged in what appeared to be a service hatch next to the door. It wasn’t any different from military ration packs and tasted just as awful, but worst of all it wasn’t nearly enough. He tried to order more only to be informed by a red blinking message on the display that he had already received his allotted amount.

Just then DF stepped out of the bathroom and saw the empty breakfast packaging and blinking message. “I told you your shouting during the night was gonna get your ration cut. Let’s hope they didn’t cut mine, too.” DF went to his terminal and ordered his own breakfast. It arrived within a minute and looked at least twice the size of what Garran had received. DF took two of his food packs and tossed them toward Garran who caught them with both hands. “Here. I don’t need that much.”

Garran nodded his thanks. “I’ll return the favor somehow.” While he ate the additional food packs in silence, DF busied himself with his own. Suddenly the clock icon on the terminal in front of Garran started blinking. “Hey, DF, this clock thing has started blinking. What does that mean?”

“It means they have loaded a schedule for you today. It tells you for example what time you are booked for the gym. That’s pretty much the only time we get to go outside of this room except for show times.”

“Show times? You mean like a movie theatre?”

DF laughed. “No. No. Show time is when you are being presented to a prospective owner. Sometime the buyers come here, but most of the times the handlers will take you to a location the buyer specifies.”

“Well it looks like I have an interview later today with somebody called Aurora MacCowan.”

DF frowned. “That’s quick. You haven’t even been here a whole day. I’ve been here a week and no show times so far. Maybe…” the frown on his face intensified.

“Maybe what?”

“What’s your number again?”

“Which number?”

“Your inventory number. The number in the top right corner if the display.”

“D-3248333.”

“Ah, I thought so, that’s why.”

“Why what?”

“Well, you’re cheap. You’re a one-legged crip in a wheelchair.”

DF’s words hit him like a punch in the stomach. Garran didn’t think he had ever felt so low. 




Aurora  - Part 5

Aurora - Part 5

DF’s words still stung, but then again, if he looked at the situation objectively, that’s probably the first impression anyone who saw him now might have. And DF hadn’t said those words to insult him. It was just an obvious observation and explanation for why he had a show time and DF didn’t. He could understand that DF was jealous. To be so completely without any control over his own life and destiny must be wearing him down. That’s probably why he looked so much older than his age.

Garran was only just learning to understand what it was like to not be in control. He had always been in control. It had been drilled into him from a very young age. During the trial he had stayed in control by not breaking down, not giving in to their taunts, not showing that he cared that they had amputated his leg, but mentally preparing himself for his own death. He had been at peace with it—until he had woken up earlier to find he was neither dead nor any longer in control of his legs or his life. But somehow it still felt unreal, like this was just some horrible dream and he would wake up any minute now and everything would be back to normal.

Garran shook his head. This was the new normal. At least for the time being. Until he could figure out a way to get back to Horlus III for proper medical treatment. His situation might be inconvenient, aggravating even, but it was hardly permanent. So what was the point of feeling sorry for himself?

His spirit buoyed by his own silent pep-talk, Garran actually felt sorry for DF when, an hour later, he alone was escorted from their room for his first show time. As it turned out, however, he wasn’t the only one to go and meet with Aurora MacCowan. A second, very effeminate man shared the ride to what turned out to be the main Horlus I freight terminal. The entire way the guy wouldn’t shut up. At least he didn’t expect conversation. Garran was pretty certain the other man hadn’t even realized that Garran hadn’t said a single word the entire time. They were shown into what looked like a large business lounge, but nobody was in attendance. It was a pleasant room with tastefully arranged seating groups and decorative art pieces all over the place. Garran positioned his wheelchair towards the middle of the room and waited in silence, while the other guy, Toby or Tony or whatever his name was, stalked around, critiquing every single piece on display in his irritating monologue. The two handlers accompanying them rolled their eyes and took up rear guard position by the door they had come through.

Ten minutes later a door on the far side of the room opened and a woman dressed in black fatigues, a skin-tight black shirt with long sleeves, a high collared, black leather waistcoat and black leather lace-up boots stepped inside and stopped just inside the door. She was fairly tall. Garran guessed she was about 5’8 or so and maybe pushing 30. She was thin, too thin to be pretty and her eyes seemed too large for her face, the effect amplified by the black eye makeup she wore. Her head was shaved but showed about a week’s worth growth of black hair. She reminded him of the manga comics he used to read as a kid.

Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him silently. Then Toby or Tony ruined it by mumbling something about how black wasn’t her color. She turned around to face him, looked at him for a tense moment then turned away again and spoke to the handlers. “This one,” she gestured at Garran, “yes—that one,” a toss of her head into Toby or Tony’s direction, “no.” Then she turned around and pulled open the door she had come from. Garran sat like nailed to the spot. Whatever he had thought show time might be like, this had taken him completely by surprise. He had expected questions regarding his skills, his disability, anything, but not this. She held the open door for a moment, turned, looked back at him. “Coming?” Then she stepped through, letting the door close slowly behind her.

Garran gathered his wits that seemed to have temporarily deserted him. He didn’t think anybody had ever thrown him so off balance as this woman just had. He turned a questioning look at the handlers who nodded back at him and he finally made his way to the door that was busy closing behind Aurora MacCowan.

***

She walked down the long corridor away from the door and after a moment she heard him follow her.

“Wait up.”

She didn’t slow down and she didn’t look back. The wheels of his chair made a strange noise on the rough floor and she pictured him for a moment in her mind, his arms pumping the wheels, the empty pant leg flapping, catching up with her. A small smile stole across her stern face, but she reined it in as quickly as it had appeared. Did he realize how much he disconcerted her?  She had been rooted to the spot as soon as she had laid eyes on him. Tingles of desire had shot through her core, instantly awakening her dormant libido. He looked so masculine in that sleek, low-rider wheelchair, and the tantalizingly empty leg of the drawstring pants he wore, hiding the part of the leg that remained, but drawing attention to the part that was missing. He was so handsome and so … virile; all her teenage fantasies come to life. And the look he had given her back in there. Pure male challenge to see him as anything less than the warrior he was. She shivered involuntarily as she saw him draw parallel with her out of the corner of her eye. Still she didn’t look at him directly. She couldn’t or she would blush like a silly school girl. Please forgive me, Bryn, she said under her breath.

“Why did you take me and not him?” He blurted.

She answered, her voice cool, well as cool as she could make it, addressing the corridor in front of her. “Apart from the fact that he was an insolent asshole? I need a cook, not the tooth fairy.”

“You want me to cook?”

“Not you, the other guy.”

“I know a cook. Well, an aspiring cook, but he’s had some training. And he’s a really good guy and not an insolent …” He cut himself off. She heard him take a deep breath and then drop behind her again.

Aurra stopped, turned and looked at him so suddenly that he nearly ran into her. She saw the expression of surprise followed by pain as the rims of his wheels bit into the palms of his hands as the brought his wheelchair to a stop an inch before her shins. It took all of her considerable self-control to stop herself from reaching out and touching him to make sure that he wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

“Okay. I’ll give your friend the aspiring cook a chance. Do you know his inventory number?” She pulled a phone out of a pocket, gripping it hard to hide how much her hands were shaking.

Garran backed up a bit then rattled off DF’s number.

Aurra turned around and walked on. “Hey Doc, the second guy was a bust, but find this one—C-1012009—and have them bring him over asap.”

Will do. C-1012009. Everything okay? Doc had obviously picked up the slight tremor in her voice.

“Yes.” She wouldn’t, couldn’t ever reveal how frazzled she was. “Everything else prepped?”

All done. He probably needs a few changes of clothes and stuff. Why don’t you take him shopping before you bring him back here?

“No. What we have will do. Anything else can wait.” She wasn’t keen on the thought of letting him wear Bryn’s clothes though they would surely fit him. But she had a weird unsettled feeling, so she sure as hell wasn’t going to parade him around a trading post now. No—best to get him out of sight as quickly as possible.

Doc seemed to have caught on. He always had that uncanny sixth sense. I’ll ask them to bring the other one right to our docking bay and bring his belongings along, too. Since you got a reference. He chuckled.

“Yes. Very good. That way we can maintain our schedule. See you in two.” She disconnected the call and put the phone away. She could feel Garran’s eyes practically drilling holes into the back of her head. Still she refrained from engaging him. The walls here had ears and eyes. She didn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. You didn’t treat slaves with respect and kindness. She also didn’t want to let on that she had an idea about his true identity. So she remained outwardly haughty and aloof. Plus it helped her to somewhat distance herself emotionally from this man who had so effortlessly gotten under her skin. But her vows to Bryn were sacred to her. She wasn’t ready to open herself up to getting close to another person again. Oh man, she was really getting ahead of herself. This man was not for her. He would probably leave as soon as they arrived back on Horlus III anyway. All he would do for her was to give a face to the fantasies she might indulge in—if absolutely necessary. That’s what she had done before she had met Bryn. She had stayed firmly in the closet for nearly thirty years and that’s where she would stay. The fantasies where one thing, but what if she took it too far and tasting the real thing spoiled her for ‘normal’ men? Then where would she be? Guilt hit her like a wrecking ball. I’m so sorry Bryn!

***

For the rest of the way Garran maintained a reasonable distance to the woman walking ahead of him. Just in case she pulled to another one of those zero-warning stops. But nothing else was said and she didn’t seem to pay him any attention at all until they arrived at another door. When she opened it and held it for him he realized that it led to a boarding ramp.

Curious—she was using the facilities corridors instead of the public walkways, but from his perspective—definitely a good thing. Maybe his luck would hold and they actually were about to board a ship that would take him away from this awful planet. Then, once he had scoped out the crew and determined how safe it was to reveal his identity, he would figure out what to do next. He still wondered what kind of service she expected from him. If not cooking then what? Maybe serving food and clearing the dishes afterward? She would most likely consider him capable of that and as long as the ship had elevators between decks and not stairs, getting around in his wheelchair shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Of course he’d much rather walk, but he didn’t hold out much hope that they had any medical facilities to speak of. So treating and reversing his paralysis would have to wait until he was back on Horlus III.

Another thought came to him as he slowly rolled down the steep boarding ramp. It even brought a grim smile to his face. He still wouldn’t need a prosthetic leg. Why have a leg if he couldn’t walk in the first place?

They entered into an airlock, Aurora still paid him no mind; instead she stood close to the door that would admit them into the ship, looking inward. A compact sort of freighter by what he could tell. They obviously maintained a segregated atmosphere inside the ship which spoke of a level of professionalism that surprised him. Most freighter captains didn’t hold much with procedure.

The internal airlock opened with a light hissing sound and admitted them into the ship that was, though obviously dated, immaculately maintained. No missing or skew panels, no exposed wiring like he had seen in so many other ships of this kind. His respect for the captain grew by the minute. They would surely get along well.

Aurora turned down a corridor, still without addressing him. No ‘welcome on board, this is your new home’—nothing. Garran shrugged to himself and followed along. She certainly was a strange character. He wondered what role she held on board. Maybe the first officer? To his surprise she took him straight to the cockpit where she stepped off to the side so that the way and view of the front of the cockpit was clear. Nobody else was present, and Garran could see that the ship’s computer was busy with the pre-takeoff system checks.

She finally looked at him while simultaneously pointing at the co-pilot chair. “Please, Commander, familiarize yourself with the controls. We’ll take off as soon as your friend has arrived and loading is complete.” Then she turned on her heals and left, leaving him alone in the cockpit and for the second time in the fifteen minutes he had known Aurora MacCowan she left him speechless.




Aurora - Part 6

Aurora - Part 6

In a few minutes she would have to join Garran Raulsten in the cockpit. Aurra swore silently under her breath. Why in Horlus name had she agreed to this harebrained idea? Doc could have just as well contacted some of his old military buddies and have someone else rescue the man. Wasn’t he their responsibility anyway? If what Doc had said was true and Garran Raulsten had not gone renegade, but been sent to do what he did—whatever happened to leave no man behind?

Together with Brent Younger, one of her three engineers, Aurra was overseeing the loading of the final cargo container, while Jason Lee, engineer number two, was busy settling the aspiring cook into his new quarter and showing him the galley. Nobody would be happier to be relieved of kitchen rotation than Jason—as would be the rest of the crew. Jason’s cooking had always been on the edge of edible. Even with little experience, DF’s food must surely be more digestible than Jason’s—she hoped.

Aurra wasn’t really needed here. Brent had the situation well under control, and she was running out of excuses keeping her from the cockpit. If only looking at Garran Raulsten didn’t start the tingling of her insides. In fact just thinking of seeing him overwhelmed her with sexual awareness. Only yesterday she had been dead inside. And no she was torn between her loyalty to Bryn and the fantasies that were careening around her head like an out of control fire cracker.

Aurra watched Brent, who like Aurra was behind a big glass view panel, just on the opposite side of the cargo bay, as he operated the controls to close the loading portal. She counted down the seconds until the big doors’ teeth were interlacing and finally closing altogether. The green status light came on, showing that the bay was now hermetically sealed. Next Brent would cycle the air in the cargo space and run the decontamination protocol. She was always insistent and meticulous about the prescribed decontamination. Something that Bryn had drilled into her and for good reason. Many a cargo crew had picked up unwanted guests, like alien plant seeds tucked away in the nooks and crannies of the containers and then been slapped with steep fines for unloading contaminated containers on another world. It was an expense she couldn’t afford.

She made a thumbs-up sign to Brent, who grinned at her and then shooed her away with an impatient hand gesture, probably wondering why she was standing there watching him in the first place. It wasn’t like she had shown any interest in her crew’s tasks over the last few months. Aurra sighed and turned away. She had five more minutes. She’d check the airlock seals on her way to the cockpit, just to be safe. Then she’d get there with a minute to spare before the actual take-off. Just in time to take her seat; check the status readouts and put on her headset to communicate with the port and traffic control authorities. She would be safe for another half an hour until they were beyond the gravity well. And then—then she would have to make small-talk with Commander Garran Raulsten.

***

Flavia van der Riijn was daydreaming. Reclined on her oversized, circular bed with peach colored sheets, she was propped up against a massive stack of pillows of the same color. The leather-padded head board that surrounded one third of the circumference of the bed was cream colored on the outside and rose above her like an awning, giving the whole bed the look of a partly open clam shell. The inside ceiling was even inlaid with mother of pearl, and polished to such a degree that she could see a mirror image of herself, well a rose tinted and somewhat distorted mirror image which, Flavia thought with bitter cynicism, actually improved on the original.

In front of her a bank of screens of various sized showed images of different feeds she received live from any number of places. Right now the central and biggest one showed a darkened, but empty room. Just some indirect light accentuating some of the rooms features. Her favorite features in her own personal dungeon.

She didn’t really see the screen in front of her, though. Instead Flavia was imagining in vivid detail the exquisite torture her favorite slave Ragnarok was going to inflict on his newest, unwilling victim. Such a fanciful name. She herself had bestowed it on him. The Dawn of the Gods—and she was Sigyn and Rag was her own personal Loki.

Nobody knew about the ancient legends anymore. In fact the subject was forbidden to most people, unless you belonged to the cultural elite; and Flavia definitely considered herself part of the top echelon of cultural society. She laughed out loud at the thought. In public she was known as a philanthropist, a sponsor of the fine arts, particularly of the underprivileged and yet it was all fake, a lie, all just make believe, just like the robotic double that was her public stand-in.

To some degree autonomous, and when necessary remotely controlled by Flavia directly, the robotic woman was so real that unless she got stabbed or shot, nobody would be able to tell the difference. And her robotic double was everything that Flavia wasn’t. She was tall and gorgeous; she had a sensual voice and perfect manners. The real Flavia was born a throwback, an apparently random genetic mutation of a flaw in human evolution that was supposed to have been eradicated from the genome centuries ago. That’s why nobody had caught on when she was born: she was a dwarf.

Except that when the problem became apparent, her father had started dragging her from one specialist to the next, but all they had achieved was to make her grow taller, so now at almost five feet she was just that—a tall dwarf. She still had the disproportionately short limbs, the bowed legs, stubby fingers and oversized head of a dwarf. All the cosmetic surgery while growing up had only been temporary fixes, as if her flawed genetic makeup needed to reassert itself with every growth spurt. Eventually she had refused to be subjected to more surgical torture and had turned toward what would become her favorite pastime—manipulating and torturing others.

Even her father, who ruled the underworld of Horlus I with his iron fist, was like butter in her hands; nothing that he wouldn’t do to let her indulge in any of her whims. Though she had never mentioned it, Flavia expected that he knew about her secret dungeon and the slaves she kept there for her pleasure. But she knew that in his own dark soul he approved.

Like he had approved of her plan to take revenge on Garran Raulsten for trying to kill her father. Flavia twisted the ring in one pierced nipple and the pain shot straight into her lower belly, sexual tension growing from within. She used the images in her head to stoke the fire. Soon Garran Raulsten would be suspended from the ceiling in her dungeon. Padded leather cuffs encircling his wrists, he would be hanging in the center of the room. Around his hips and the tops of his thighs there would be a leather harness that would slightly spread his useless legs apart and D-rings would let him be cross-tied to prevent him from swinging his body. Twenty cameras observing every detail from every possible angle and remotely controlled by Flavia would allow her to orchestrate the drama in its unfolding. Rag would have a transmitter in his ear, following her commands and silently obeying her instructions. She knew he got off on the double game, submitting to her unconditionally while at the same time taking his pleasure from however she directed him to force himself on the soldier.

And what a pleasure it would be, Garran hanging by his arms, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulging under the strain, while his legs dangled uselessly below. Completely at her mercy, she would have Rag stimulate him orally until he was hard as steel and then restrain him with a cock ring to keep him that way. She felt the wetness seep out between her legs at the magnificent image in her mind. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have had both his legs paralyzed. Maybe it would have been more fun to see him move his stump in futile resistance. But no, he was a trained killer after all. She shuddered pleasurably at the thought of the damage he might still be able to inflict with half a leg.

She wondered if she should have Rag gag him for the first session. Rather not. His screams of pain and indignation would make the experience for Rag and her all the sweeter. Should she tell Rag to use the big obsidian dildo or should she allow him to penetrate him instead? After all she had picked Rag for his size. Both had its merits and both would cause an exceedingly unpleasant experience for Garran. Until, that is, he was overwhelmed by the stimulation and he would scream, begging for sexual release.

Oh yes, she would have weeks of fun with Garran Raulsten. And maybe she would even take him herself one day. It would be early enough to kill him when she had tired of him and he had been suitably denigrated and put in his place. She would probably do the killing herself, too. Give him one last mind-shattering orgasm while he bled out through his femoral artery. Maybe cut off his other leg? He wouldn’t be able to feel it anyway. She panted and smiled as the thought alone nearly made her come. She groped for the vibrator she had discarded earlier and put it to use, while twisting the nipple ring harder at the same time. Within seconds she pushed herself over the edge, screaming so loud when she came that she didn’t even hear the shrill ringing of her phone.

Exhausted she let herself drift off to sleep.

***

Garran had moved from the wheelchair into the co-pilot chair and done a thorough check of all the controls, checked all the status readouts, familiarized himself with the layout of the cockpit, identified every single switch, light and monitor. Confirming his earlier impression, everything was meticulously maintained.

He put the headset on and listened to ground, air and space traffic for a while, but it was mind-numbingly boring. Surely the captain must arrive any minute now. He was keen to meet the person who obviously took so much pride in his ship. He felt himself growing impatient. Should he go in search of him? Except that would mean transferring back into the wheelchair and making his way around the yet unfamiliar ship. He decided against it, aggravated that he couldn’t just get up and explore.

Having nothing else to occupy himself with, he studied the wheelchair. Not too bad as far as wheelchairs went. It was kind of minimalistic and Garran preferred it that way. He found the mechanism that let him fold it together and lifted it over to the other side of the pilot chair so it was out of the way. It was surprisingly light weight even though it felt really solid when he was using it.

He looked down at his immobile legs. In this ship it would probably take them about two weeks to Horlus III, then he’d check himself into the best clinic money could buy and have his paralysis reversed. In parallel they could start growing a new lower leg for him. That process would take several weeks from start to transplant and would require another few weeks of rehab afterwards. So four months give or take and he should be back on his feet. A month maybe two in the wheelchair, then he’d upgrade to a mechanical prosthesis until the transplant date. No point in dithering around with an osseo-integrated one. It would be just like a nice long vacation. He hadn’t been on vacation for a long time and after this ordeal he clearly deserved one.

Footsteps took him out of his reverie. Finally! He looked over his shoulder and saw Aurora MacCowan make her way into the cockpit. This time she actually looked at him though her expression was hard to decipher, somewhere between aggravation and frustration he thought.

“Have you made yourself familiar with the controls, Commander?”

“What is this? A test?”

“Do you always answer questions with questions? I thought you were used to taking orders. Consider it part of your job interview.” She sat down in the pilot’s chair and grabbed the headset.

“And what exactly is my job?”

“Less talking, more flying. Take us into orbit, Commander. I’ll get clearance.” With that she turned away from him and started negotiating the take-off parameters with ground control.

Garran shrugged, put on his own headset again and readied the engines for take-off. Surely at some point he would get an explanation, wouldn’t he?




Aurora - Part 7

Aurora - Part 7

The ringing of her phone finally managed to penetrate Flavia van der Riijn’s consciousness. She pushed herself up against the stack of pillows again, gathered her long blond hair into a pile on top of her head and stuck it into place with some pins before she picked up the call. Only few people dealt with her directly and they had all learned to be exceedingly patient for Flavia to answer.

“Rag! Why are you calling me? Why are you not in the dungeon?” Flavia was purring down the phone; the fact that Rag wasn’t where he was supposed to be obvious by the lack of activity on the big screen in front of her. She heard him draw in a breath through his teeth. Something he did when he was nervous that annoyed her immensely. “What?” She drawled.

“He was sold to someone else.” Rag’s rumbling baritone came over the line.

“He was what?” Flavia wasn’t sure she had heard right. “Who the fuck would buy a paralyzed, one-legged…“ Her blood pressure was soaring and Flavia could feel the heat in her face. She forced calmness into her voice. Shouting at Rag would only confuse him. She had bought him for his physical prowess and his below-borderline IQ made him pliable and good at following orders, but thinking proactively was beyond his capabilities. She needed to ask clear questions and give him clear orders to get what she needed from him. “Rag?” she said as gently as she could.

“Yes?”

Now she could hear the tremble in his voice, his fear of having failed his mistress. “Is he still at the Trading Center or has he already been moved to his new owner?”

“He was moved. I tried to call you. I saw them take him. I didn’t know if I should follow them.”

“And did you follow them?”

“No I stayed here. You sent me here.”

“Do you know who he was sold to?”

“No they didn’t say.”

She hadn’t expected the sales staff to do so, but sometimes they were chatty and let things slip. It didn’t matter anyway. She had her means to get to the information she needed.

“You did good, Rag. It’s not your fault. Come home to Mommy and make your Mommy happy.”

“I will come.”

His voice was full of relief. All of her slaves respected her. They felt a kinship with her and she with them. They recognized that in this day where physical perfection was the standard by which everyone was measured she was just as enslaved by her situation as they were. She was kind to them. Much kinder than many of the masters they had served before. She treated them fairly. In return they protected her with their life. But Rag loved her. He was the only one who truly loved her.

Flavia closed the call. She had an hour before Rag would return. She got up and grabbed the peach silk wrap as she waddled into her bathroom. She would soak in the tub for half an hour while another one of her slaves tidied up. Who should she send for? Maybe Baldr. Like Rag, Baldr was one magnificent example of manhood, but unlike Rag he was quick-witted and sharp and he had the most magical hands.

She had given him the name Baldr because he was blind. He’d been caught stealing from his previous master. As punishment he had had his eyes removed. Flavia had bought him and given him prosthetic eyes that allowed him to see light and dark. Maybe one day she would upgrade him to fully functional eyes, but she believed that he was better doing what he did by touch.

That’s what she needed. A soak in the hot bath followed by one of Baldr’s massages to erase the tension Rag’s call had infused into her body. A temporary setback; that’s all it was she told herself. Nothing she couldn’t fix. In a while she would get to work to find out who had bought Garran Raulsten and why. The easiest course of action would most likely be to just offer compensation and buy him back.

As she sank into the hot water, Flavia wondered why someone else would want to buy a crippled man in a wheelchair advertised as a sex slave. She had considered it the perfect cover story. Obviously there was a market out there if someone jumped at the opportunity like that. Maybe it would be a lucrative type of business venture to explore. If there was demand then she would supply. She would have to explore that. Maybe offer tailor-made disabled slaves for the discerning customer. Look at Baldr—what was better than a blind masseur? Flavia giggled. She pinched her nose and sank under the surface. What a glorious idea.

***

Aurra pulled off her headset and turned her head to look at Garran while he finished with the take-off sequence. Professionally efficient as she had expected he ran the last checklist before relaxing into his seat when he had confirmed that they were on the correct course to Horlus III and the auto-pilot was fully in control.

“Thank you, Commander. That was flawless—as I had expected.”

Garran looked at her with an expression of surprise on his face, as if he hadn’t expected the praise. “At your service, Ma’am.”

“Really?” Aurra raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Don’t make promises you won’t keep, Commander.” How endearing how his face turned from neutral to confused. Silence descended between them. Damn—could she be any more tongue-tied?

He didn’t seem to notice and ignoring her comment, he asked. “Since you seem to know who I am—how about leveling the playing field?”

“Umm—of course.” She reached a hand across the gap between the seats. “Aurra MacCowan—Captain and owner of the Dark Goshawk”.

He took her hand and shook it. His grip was strong, masculine and authoritative, but not crushing like some men’s. He held on a little longer than necessary and awareness arced through Aurra’s arm straight into her lower belly. Finally he released her hand. Did he feel it, too?

“Dark … Goshawk?”

Aurra could see the smirk that Garran was trying to suppress. His eyes lit up and she could see the implied challenge. She felt her resistance melting. They hadn’t even exchanged more than a few words and already she could feel a tangible connection between them. But what about Bryn part of her conscience started protesting. She ignored it if favor of the realization how much she craved that connection with another person; the lightness, the gentle teasing.

She shrugged in response. “The previous owner was into birds. The ship was previously named Dark Chanting Goshawk, but that was more than even I could stomach.” She rolled her eyes for effect. That elicited a chuckle from Garran that he quickly turned into a cough.

“Commander, I would like to introduce you to the rest of the crew and we have some business to discuss, but first how about I show you to your quarters?”

---

“What?” Garran caught himself. “Sure, that would be great.” He was still mesmerized by the tingling sensation in his palm from when he had held Aurora’s hand. Aurra, he corrected himself. Still deeply absorbed in his thoughts, he put his left hand on the edge of the seat and reached with the other to the edge of the console to pull himself out of the pilot seat when it occurred to him at the last second that he would be crashing to the floor if he moved another millimeter.

Hell no—he didn’t just make a complete fool of himself in front of her by forgetting that he couldn’t walk. And he couldn’t even fake it by lunging for his wheelchair because he had stowed it on the other side of the seat. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the backrest, feeling the heat creep up his neck.

He heard Aurra’s quiet chuckle. “Hey, Commander. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but maybe you should stick to your wheelchair until you get your legs fixed.”

Garran opened one eye and squinted at her. She was half turned in her chair and smiling at him. The smile transformed her face and released that knot of embarrassment, frustration and anger that had just lodged into his throat and in his chest. He laughed. “I don’t know how I could possibly forget, but I did.” He reached for the wheelchair and positioned it then he lifted himself across. He noticed how Aurra was watching him the entire time. For some reason he didn’t feel like analyzing right there and then, he was glad that she didn’t seem to be put off by his missing leg and the way he had to use his hands to move his other leg around.

She stood up and slipped past him, the back of her hand brushing his arm. Another tingle of warmth radiated from the spot she had touched. He shook his head.

“What?” She asked from where she was standing behind her chair, looking at him, waiting for him to be ready.

“Nothing. Lead on.” He released the brakes and followed her out of the cockpit, thinking of how attractive she had looked when she had smiled at him.




Aurora - Part 8

Aurora - Part 8

Aurra had shown Garran his cabin and then excused herself. The cabin was surprisingly spacious with a double bed and not just a standard narrow bunk—if you even had the luxury of a private space. He had asked Aurra about it and she had said that all of their cabins were doubles. It had been designed that way and she had never seen a reason to change the configuration.

Not that he minded the extra space, particularly with the wheelchair. He inspected the bathroom. It too had enough space to accommodate his wheels. Judging by the state of repair of the ship they most likely had their own machine shop He would find some tools later and make some handholds to make using the facilities less arduous for himself.

He had read somewhere that for centuries the ability to fix brain and spinal damage had eluded medical science. And apparently there were still some rare conditions today where repair was more a matter of luck than science. Since his paralysis was limited entirely to his legs, Garran was confident that his injury was pretty straightforward and easily fixed. He just couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for people to find out that they would spend the rest of their lives like this.

Aurra had shown him some drawers full of good if used clothes and he was glad to get out of that white institutional garb. He had raised a questioning eyebrow at her, but she had just shaken her head with a grim expression on her face; clearly not willing to share whose cloths these were. So he had left it alone and she had left him to get changed.

The clothes were mostly military style fatigues, black, khaki, tan and white T-shirts and some sweatshirts, shorts, socks and in the bottom of a closet he even found a pair of well-worn boots his size. Not that he needed boots—with only one foot and stuck in the wheelchair as he was, but it would make him feel more like himself again. He was sitting on his bed now, leaning against the headboard, dressed in shorts and a black T-Shirt. Next to him a pair of fatigues, sweatshirt, a sock and boot. He regarded his legs for a moment.

They had been powerful legs that had carried him for thirty six years through many dangerous situations and while he had been injured in action before his legs had never let him down. Now nearly half his left leg was gone. The short stump below his knee still wrapped tightly in gauze and adhesive bandages. Shit. Now he would probably have to change the dressing himself instead of the robot medic that had done it for him daily the last two weeks. A procedure he had avoided to observe except for that first time when the shock of finding his leg missing had turned into morbid curiosity; and the sight of his naked, newly amputated leg had been thoroughly disturbing. The thought of actually having to undo those wraps now, to hold this remnant of his lower leg in his hands and really look at the shape and the scars before he hid it from sight once more made him queasy. Stop being such a sissy, he reprimanded himself, it’s still your leg. He would ask Aurra for some medical supplies later.

He grabbed the fatigues and lifting his right knee he brought his foot close and threaded it through. The shortened left leg was actually a lot easier to dress he noticed with dismay.  He shifted himself left to right and back to work the pants up his legs and over his hips.

He was still in the middle of it when a knock sounded on his door. Expecting Aurra he called, “give me a minute.” Unfortunately a second would no longer do. The door opened and he was about to insist on his privacy when a familiar face peeked around the door jamb.

“Can I come in?” Doc asked and did so without waiting for a further response. He was carrying a medical case and a bringing an armful of supplies with him.

Despite the fact that he only had the pants halfway up his hips, Garran stopped what he was doing and reached out his hand. “Doc Morris? I don’t believe it. What are you doing here?” Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait until Horlus III to start treatment after all. Morris was an authority in neuro-orthopedic surgery.

“I’ve been with this crew for three years. Good to see you, Commander.” Doc put the case and supplies on a sideboard and sat down on the end of the bed. “How are you, Garran?”

Garran waved at his legs. “Well, as you can see I’ve been better. I’m up for some running repairs so to speak.”

“Do you know what they did?” Doc asked.

“Not exactly. Do you want me to take the pants off again?”

Doc waved him off. “Later.”

Garran carried on getting dressed. “I was shot through the ankle. The next thing I remember, I woke up in a prison cell with my left leg gone. Then after the trial, I think they staged my execution. Next time I woke up my legs were useless. That must have been about 12 hours ago, but I don’t know for how long I was knocked out.”

“Just your legs?”

“Yes, everything in between seems to be working properly.” He pushed away from the headboard and sat on the edge of the bed to put on the sock and boot.

“Interesting—so they didn’t just whack your spinal cord. I didn’t think they did.”

“How would you know?” Garran asked frowning.

“The skills you were advertised with.” Doc chuckled. “You were listed as a sex slave. Hardly a selling point if you couldn’t perform,” he smirked.

Garran froze, boot in hand. He turned the point toward himself. “A sex slave?” Then he pointed the boot in the general direction of the cockpit. “Does she…”

“No, don’t worry, Aurra doesn’t know. That’s why I picked this other guy, too. Was he really as bad as Aurra said? I wanted this entire transaction to be as inconspicuous as possible.”

“I think you succeeded. And yes—verbal diarrhea of note.” He leaned down and manhandled the boot onto his foot.

Doc watched him for a while then he check the time. “Aurra will call the crew together in ten minutes. Let me just take a look at that left leg of yours quickly.”

Garran finished tying the laces on the boot, releasing a silent breath of relief. Then he let himself drop back on the bed, arms above his head, but since he couldn’t feel what Doc was doing, curiosity won out after all and he pushed himself up on his elbows to watch Doc treat his leg.

Doc rolled up the fabric to above the knee then pulled on some gloves. He cut off the bandages, exposing the stump. The skin was still discolored, the scar in particular, but completely closed. Doc felt and pushed, then extended and flexed the knee joint fully.

Garran cleared his throat. “Before I couldn’t move it at all, it moved pretty well.”

Doc nodded. “They did a good job. Other than a wrong diagnosis, I can’t fault them—you’ll get a straightforward transplant at knee level.” He put the leg down carefully and got something else out of his case while Garran pushed himself up into a sitting position again. Doc handed him this something resembling a short, tight white sock. “Here put this on”

Garran took it and held it between two fingers away from him as if it smelled bad. “What’s that?”

“A shrinker. It will bring the swelling down. I know you can’t feel your leg, but you still need to treat it properly. It’s going to be a while before you’re ready for a transplant.”

Garran sighed, tangles of unease starting to pull on his stomach. He reached forward stretching the tight sock, but struggled to put it on until he figured out how to pin down his knee with his forearms while using both hands to pull the shrinker over the end of his stump. He shot an accusing look at Doc. “You could just give me a hand you know?” He growled.

Doc just shrugged. “Nope; your leg, your problem. Come—let’s go.”

***

In the past Flavia had had other people do research for her, but over time she had found that they never provided the degree of insight she wanted into the matter at hand. So she herself had become proficient in discovering information through the depth of computer networks and data stores—even the ones not intended for public scrutiny. There were ways and means around the security features, most often through skill, occasionally through monetary incentives and sometimes through brute force, but she had yet to fail at finding what she needed to know.

She was perched over a keyboard hacking her way into the Slave Trading Centre’s central database, Baldr standing behind her, continuing to massage her neck and shoulders. With him she didn’t have to worry about giving away any secrets. To him the screen in front of her was just a dark square against the brightness of the window beyond her desk.

“Hmm, thank Horlus for your divine hands. What would I do without you?” Flavia purred. In his reflection on the monitor she could see the smile spread over his features at the praise.

Finally the recent sales data appeared in front of her. Flavia’s brows drew together reading the information on the screen. A woman had bought Garran Raulsten—Aurora MacCowan. She was even more dismayed to see that instead of an address the contact details listed HIII-FC3792B Dark Goshawk—a freight carrier whose home base was Horlus III. She pushed back from her desk so abruptly; she toppled the surprised Baldr to the floor. “Go Baldr.”

Apparently unperturbed he got up and bowed slightly. “As you wish, Mistress.” Then he turned and left the room. Flavia watched him until the door had closed behind him. She started pacing. Was it possible that someone had been sent to rescue Garran? But then how did they know about the staged execution? She had made sure that the switch had been watertight, the execution real, the body cremated. The diplomatic channels between Horlus I and III had been open and both the governments on Horlus I and III had authorized the execution. It had to be a coincidence. 

She went back to her desk and initiated a background search on the freighter and Aurora MacCowan. She tapped her foot while she waited impatiently for the special screening algorithms she had developed to sift and collate information across millions of systems and databases. She went back to the sales info from the STC and noticed that two slaves had been ordered for inspection, both male sex slaves. One had been accepted, the other rejected. Flavia relaxed slightly, her gut-feeling growing stronger that it was unlikely that this was a rescue attempt. And if you compared the pictures, Garran won hands-down, wheelchair and missing leg or not. 

Background information started to come in. The freighter had made trips all over the solar system; no steady routes, but also no long stops in any one place. They were constantly on the move; typical of small, independent freight operators. The ship was registered in the name of Bryn MacCowan, deceased as of six month ago. The application for transfer into the name of the widow, Aurora MacCowan, twenty nine, had been approved and would become active a few days from now, after a mandatory waiting period had elapsed.

Aah, a lonely widow looking for some solace most likely—and who better than handsome and tragic Garran Raulston? What to do? An idea came to Flavia. She would send her double and one of her own prime-male slaves and offer a trade to Aurora MacCowan. An unfortunate clerical error, he was not supposed to be sold, he is scheduled for surgery to repair the damage to his legs…

She logged into the Port Control System to delay their departure clearance indefinitely. But then her plans came to a crashing halt—the Dark Goshawk had been cleared for take-off an hour before. Garran Raulsten had left the planet!




Aurora - Part 9