Emerald Sea John Ringo
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CHAPTER ONEWhen the girl awoke it was in a stone chamber. She lay on a soft bed covered in a fine cosilk coverlet. Her filthy clothes were gone and she wore a robe of light yellow silk, or something so like it she couldn't tell the difference. The room had a desk, on which sat a fine silver vase and a washing basin. There was only one door and a barred window high on the wall. She got up and walked to the door, expecting it to be locked, but it opened easily. On the other side was a corridor lined with other doors. One end ended in a blank wall, but there was light and an open area at the other end. And female voices. She walked down the corridor uneasily but was surprised at the sight that greeted her. There was a high-ceilinged chamber at the end, with slits near the roof to let in light and several corridors leading off of it. There were several women in the chamber, lounging on pillows strewn around on the floor. Some of them were sewing but most were simply sitting, talking in low tones, or playing board games. Some of them were just . . . sitting. They seemed vacant. They smiled happily all the time, but didn't talk or play the games. They just sat and stared at space, as if fascinated by the walls. All of the women were dressed . . . scantily. Most wore robes like the one she was wearing, their legs slipping out revealingly at the open bottoms, while a few were wearing camisoles and panties or even lighter lingerie. All of them were more well-fed and healthy looking than any but the most successful of the post-Fall women that she had known. They were all also, even by the standards of the time, very good looking. "Ah, our sleeper awakes," one of the women said, getting to her feet. She was a tall, thin brunette wearing a camisole outfit and high-heeled strap-sandals. "Where am I?" the girl demanded. "What . . . what is this place?" She had a sinking feeling that the answer was evident. "Well, food and a bath first," the woman replied. "I'm Christel Meazell, by the way. And you are?" "Megan," the girl said. "And I want some answers." "As I said," Christel answered, smiling brightly but clearly in no mood for back talk. "First some food and a bath. I suspect you're starved and you definitely need a bath." Christel led her down one of the corridors and into a long room with a table occupying most of it. Christel clapped her hands imperiously and in no more than ten seconds a woman came in bearing a platter heaped with food. The woman, who was much older than those in the chamber and not nearly as good looking, slid the platter dexterously onto the table and laid out the plates and cups she had carried. There was roast pork, hot from the oven. Mashed potatoes. Hot loaves of bread. Butter. A huge bowl of steaming broccoli. Gravy. Spring carrots. Megan's mouth watered at the sight. "Sit," Christel said. "Eat." Megan started to sit down and then looked at her still dirty hands. "I hate to eat this as filthy as I am," she admitted. "Eat first, then a bath," Christel said. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't gorge yourself and then throw it all up." "I won't," Megan said as both of the other women retired from the room. She carefully served herself small portions of everything. The bread was succulent. The carrots were heaven. The broccoli was ambrosia. None of this kept her from scoping out her surroundings. The door at the end of the room clearly led to the kitchen. One of the other corridors, at least, was going to lead out of what was clearly a prison. On the other hand, she was being fed and there was the promise of a bath. She also suspected that there was more than one layer she would have to penetrate. And she had no idea where she was. The "old man" had clearly used power to knock her out and then ported her here. Wherever "here" was; it could be anywhere on earth. Whoever the "old man" was, he had power. Which meant he was either a member of the Council or in their employ. Which meant escape, if even possible, would be problematic at best. Better to reconnoiter the territory rather than make a break and fail. Gather information. Interrogate, carefully. Get the lay of the land. Lay of the land. That had a bad ring to it because if this wasn't a harem, she was a kraken. Thus far, even given the Fall, she'd managed to avoid spreading her legs for anyone, much less someone not of her own choosing. It looked like her luck had run out. Even though she'd eaten hardly any of the food she was full and knew that if she ate more she probably was going to spew everywhere. Especially given that last thought. So she took a sip of the wine that had been brought with the food and went back to the main chamber to find Christel. "Bath next," Megan said. "Then you'll answer my questions." "You're fitting right in," Christel said, getting to her feet. She led Megan down the same corridor and opened a door on the opposite side from the dining room. The "bath" was sumptuous and occupied most of the wing. There was a long, deep pool, with water running into it in a waterfall and then spilling out the far end. There were showers along one wall. Heaped towels. Soft soaps. A vanity with various ointments and cosmetics. And more of the light, silk robes in various colors. "Dive in," Christel said. "Shower first, then the bath. Wash thoroughly." "What about . . . feminine needs," Megan asked, insulted. Did she think she wasn't going to wash her butt or something? Then she realized that the older woman recognized the dirt as a mask and was warning her not to try to use it here. "It's not your time of the month," Christel replied. "I checked." "You checked!" Megan said, angrily. "It's my job," Christel said, coldly. "Now take a bath and we'll discuss the rest when you're done." As soon as the woman was gone Megan stripped out of the robe, dropping it in a hamper, and turned on one of the showers. The water ran hot quickly and she gratefully started working off the grime of months. She washed her hair three times before it finally felt clean. When she was done she glanced at the baths and then shrugged. There was no need for them after the shower and she wanted answers. But she knew that she had better pretty up so she sat down at the vanity. Her hair had gotten long since the Fall—it was easier to just let it grow—and dropped nearly to her butt. This was the first time she'd seen a mirror in a long time and she was surprised, and shocked, at how much weight she had lost. Even her breasts had shrunk. She had never gone for the standard "look" pre-Fall, which had been for a skinny, buttless, breastless, waiflike body that was more boyish than anything. She had a natural hourglass shape, with rounded buttocks and high, firm breasts. Which, it appeared, had just led her into serious trouble. "Good news," she muttered at the stranger in the mirror. "You're fed, you're bathed, and you have clean clothes to wear. Bad news. It's because you're about to be raped." She flexed her jaw and for just a moment saw an echo of a parent in her blue eyes. "So, what would Daddy do in this situation?" she asked, then paused. First of all, he wouldn't say something like that aloud; there was every likelihood that there was at least intermittent monitoring of the harem. And what he would do was gather information and then when he had a good plan, escape. He'd stay alive, whatever that took. Her eyes teared for just a moment and then she shook her head. What he wouldn't do was start crying because he was afraid he'd never see her again. He'd just go on. And hope for the best, planning for the worst. She shook her head again and then stood up, donning one of the robes and wondering if there was some way to at least get panties for God's sake. "Time for the briefing," she said. "Let's get out there and slay 'em." * * * "You clean up quite well," Christel said. She had taken Megan to a small chamber off the main room. The chamber had a low desk, designed for a person sitting on the floor or, as Christel was, on a cushion. And it had more of the ubiquitous cushions found in the main room. Megan had taken one of these and was sitting cross-legged with her back against the stone wall. "Thank you," Megan replied, coldly. "Okay, where am I? I can guess what this is. Given the way the world is run these days I won't ask 'by what right' but I will ask 'what council member keeps this harem?' " "Smart and pretty," Christel said, smiling thinly. "Don't be too smart for your own good. Did you notice the young lady out there that didn't seem to care if it was night or day?" "Yes." "She was . . . too smart for her own good," Christel said, giving that thin, humorless smile again. "This is the . . . seraglio of Paul Bowman." " 'We feel the same way,' " Megan said, nodding. "And he even called himself Paul." "It is not just for his idle amusement," Christel added. "I was one of Paul's . . . biological consorts prior to the Fall. We made a child together, using replicators of course. After the Fall he ensured that I and Jean, who is a grown man now, were provided for. As he did with his other four consorts." She paused and looked up as if bringing some rehearsed speech to mind and then nodded. "Paul's purpose in trying to bring a new age to this fallen world is just," Christel said, primly. "He was terrified that, given current trends and the way that the world was slipping into lotus eating, that the human race would simply wither away. Since the Fall he has worked incredibly hard to ease the suffering of his people. But he feels it important that there not only be breeding, but good breeding. And therefore he has established this retreat for the purposes of breeding a finer quality of human. You are here to be one of his consorts. Your purpose, from his point of view, is to breed good children. When you become pregnant you will be moved to another area where you will be pampered and cared for carefully until the birth of the baby. You will then move to the creche for two years so that your baby will develop a good early infancy bonding. At the end of the two years you will return here." "And never see them again?" Megan said, perhaps more aghast at that than the rest of the litany. "No, you will visit them from time to time; they will be well cared for, I guarantee it. And when they reach an age where they are amenable they may visit the seraglio from time to time. When Paul is not here. He . . . believes in the importance of children but . . . does not care for them as children." "Oh, that's just great," Megan snapped. "He wants babies bred but doesn't want to be bothered with them himself. Some leader. Some visionary. What a hypocrite." "Watch your tone," Christel said, dangerously. "We are here for Paul's pleasure and needs, not the other way around. He is a very important man, to the world and to us. Keep that in mind. I will add that Paul works very hard. And the other purpose of this group is to make him happy when he has the time to visit us. If you find it impossible to make him happy, steps will be taken." "Such as a mind-wipe?" Megan said, coldly. "There are preliminaries," Christel replied. She held out her hand languidly and mouthed a series of syllables. Megan's whole body was suddenly seized by pain and she couldn't even gasp, much less scream at the agony. In a moment the pain stopped and she was left panting and sweating in reaction. There was no side effect except a lingering memory, but she felt as if she was going to throw up her good supper. "Paul has given me access to a small amount of power and a few programs," Christel said, smiling thinly. "I use the power sparingly. Don't make me use it on you." "I won't," Megan said, trying to act meek. "Why do I suspect you're lying?" Christel said. "Megan who watches everything as if she were the predator rather than the prey. But you'll learn your place. Everyone does eventually. One way or another." * * * Megan stumbled out into the main room still feeling the tingling aftereffects of the pain lash. Most of the girls ignored her quite pointedly but one, who was sitting beside one of the mind-wiped, smiled at Megan and patted a pillow next to her. "Isn't she just dreadful?" the girl whispered when Megan collapsed on the pillow. "It wasn't fun," Megan admitted. "I'm Shanea," the girl said. She was a short, heavy-breasted blonde with a happy but vacuous expression. "Shanea Burgey." "Megan Sung," Megan replied, holding out her hand. "Your name is actually Shanea?" Megan continued. "Yes," Shanea said, looking at her sideways. "Why?" "Your parents gave you that name?" Megan asked with a faint smile. "Did you kill them in their sleep?" "No, silly," Shanea said, smiling. "I like it. This is Amber," Shanea continued, turning to the girl next to her. "Say hello, Amber." "Hello," the girl said, softly. Amber was a tall, absolutely exquisite brunette with slender hips and waist but very firm, large breasts. Megan had already noticed that Paul seemed to be eclectic in his taste for women except on the order of breasts. Amber continued looking off into the distance while her hands worked at the knitting in her lap. It didn't seem to be intended to be anything; she was just making a long piece about as wide as the knitting needle was long. The wool was lovely, a light gray shade that looked as soft as silk. From time to time the girl would stop knitting and stroke the fabric, a look of pleasure crossing her perfect features. "Her real name is Meredith," Shanea said. "But she likes to be called Amber. She doesn't talk much. She . . . had some problems adjusting." "I can imagine," Megan said. She wondered what the girl had been like before. In a way she'd rather be dead than mind-wiped. And most mind-wipes didn't leave the person a relative vegetable as Amber seemed to be. "Really, it's not that bad," Shanea said, earnestly. "Paul's actually rather sweet in his own way and we don't have to worry about . . . other men. It's much worse on the outside." "I'd love some more clothes," Megan replied. "Even panties for God's sake." "You can make them," Shanea said, perkily. "Come on." She led Megan down one of the corridors to a side door and opened it up to reveal a small storeroom just about crammed with fabrics. There were bolts of lace and silk, some of them woven so sheer as to be transparent. "And, look," Shanea said, opening up a basket, "there's all sorts of needles and things." "I've never . . . done any sewing," Megan said, looking at the room and thinking in terms of rope ladders. Silk could be awfully strong, especially if you braided a section of cloth. She also didn't know much about braiding, but somebody in the harem probably did. Not that a rope was going to do her much good if she couldn't even find a window she could fit through. "I'm not that great but I'm learning," Shanea said happily. "Come on, we'll work on some shorts for you." "Not pants?" Megan said. "A shirt? Maybe a dress?" "No, not pants," Shanea said, for the first time with a serious tone. "Megan, please don't say things that don't make sense, okay? Did you see anyone wearing pants?" "No," Megan said, slowly. "I guess that was pretty stupid, huh? I guess, maybe, a halter top? Short shorts? What was that thing they used to wear, I've seen it sometimes. Oh, yeah, a miniskirt?" "What's that?" "Think 'school-girl look.' " "Oh, is that what they used to wear in schools?" Shanea said, her eyes widening. "Were they harems, too?" "Sometimes you have to wonder," Megan frowned. "Sewing. Bleck." |