Chosen by the Governor (23 page)

Marco pointed to the other side of the building. “That area has been allocated for the theater and dance.”

His captain puffed out his lips. “Dancing,” he said with a derisive snort.

Marco ignored the dismissive gesture. “Yes. Primarily for the women, although I gather some men wish to form a troupe. However, no mixing.”

He continued to enjoy Freya’s private dance shows. Since they’d returned from their vacation in the tent, he’d tried to visit her regularly. What had changed since he declared his love was his urgency, the desperate need for sex. Instead of the appropriation of her body for his pleasure, he’d spent more time talking with her or he watched her little dances or harp playing, which she’d learned to a good standard.

What had this love done to him? It wasn’t easy to unravel the complex emotion since he’d never experienced it before meeting Freya. She reflected his needs perfectly. Every time he sought her out, she welcomed him with a kiss and knelt on the floor at his feet. His heart soared at the sight of her naked body—preened and glazed with oils, her hair coiffured, and her treasured sex shaved and swollen. Always ready. Always willing. That to Marco was love: her submission. Yet, instead of him ravishing her, she’d sat upon his knee and they chatted, joked, and touched each other with tenderness.

Refocusing his distracted thoughts toward his captain, Marco cleared his throat. “Let the prisoners organize this in conjunction with the supply officer. However, any sign of the factions interfering, then we step in.”

“Yes, sir.”

The disk on the back of his hand buzzed. The text rolled across the mini-display. Lalita requested his presence, at his earliest convenience, which to Marco meant now.

He commandeered a speeder to fly him back up to the city. He doubted Lalita had good news to tell. The overseer continued to rule the Volta with her exacting rules, and although he was sure she took care of the women’s physical needs, she remained detached and unemotional in her attitude to them as individuals. When Marco had proposed Freya teach some of the jenjins the art of pole-dancing, Lalita had scorned the idea. He’d persisted, arguing that it was entertainment and stirred in him a great desire for his jenjin. That had been the winning point—his needs outshone Freya’s wish to do something she enjoyed.

According to Freya’s latest report, the jenjin she’d demonstrated to had been keen to try it out and her classes were over-subscribed.

She’d laughed in the privacy of his chamber. “Me, a technology journalist, teaching dance! It’s the last thing I ever dreamed I would end up doing.”

There were many things she’d probably not envisioned and that included saying goodbye to her friend, Lucilla. The repatriation had happened quicker than Marco had anticipated. A new treaty had been negotiated with Lucilla’s people allowing her to return home, and he wondered if it was because of the planet’s special status. The only two planets—Earth being the other—to have their world left intact by the invasion forces of the Vendu. Why? He suspected it had to do with the plan to save the empire from collapse.

On the day of her departure, both women had wept in each other’s arms. Marco had scratched his head—why cry when she was going home?

“She’s my friend. I’ll miss her,” Freya had told him later.

He’d shrugged. “Friendships come and go.”

She’d pouted. “I’d cry if we were parted. More than cry, I’d be heartbroken. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t cry,” he’d answered, but he knew he’d not given the whole truth. Tears were an outward display of weakness, but inside, hidden from sight, he would be devastated.

Half an hour after he’d received the summons from Lalita, he bounded up the steps of the Volta and made his way to her chamber. She buzzed him in immediately.

“Governor, please take a seat,” she rose and offered him a chair next to her desk.

“What’s this about, Lalita? I’m a busy man.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t disturb you if it wasn’t important.” She sat, allowing her long skirts to settle neatly around her chair. Her deportment was faultless. Some time in her past, alongside other favored jenjins, she would have knelt naked by the emperor’s throne, waiting for the great man to summon her to service him. Now she held sway over the lives of many women, their happiness in her hands, including Freya.

“We’ve made some changes to the surveillance cameras in the atrium,” she said.

Marco furrowed his eyebrows—what did that matter to him? Lalita controlled the security of the Volta’s interior and all he provided was a team of guards to patrol its perimeter and entrances. “Yes,” he snapped impatiently.

“A blind spot had been identified. Something which I assumed was of no great importance. The sightings of the cameras have been adjusted. There is no more blind spot.” She reached across her desk and activated her console, bringing up a display screen. “I’ve been reviewing the new setup and this came to light… I will replay what the camera captured.” She tapped and the video appeared on the screen.

Marco leaned forward. It was Freya, partially hidden behind the foliage of a shrub, but sufficiently visible that he could see her upper body and face. Her modesty was limited, she’d covered her nipples with a flimsy robe, but the pebbles were erect and visible through the translucent fabric. She was smiling, her white teeth glinted and she held in her hand a piece of paper. Opposite her was the guard, one of many appointed to patrol the Volta. He was allowed to enter the atrium, but no further.

The young man’s face was flushed and the tips of his ears were pink. He glanced over his shoulder a few times, shifting on his feet as Freya spoke to him. There was no sound recording and Marco couldn’t lip read. She handed the guard the paper. For a second, he hesitated, but when Freya battered her long eyelashes, he grinned and accepted it. Then, with one last look around, he dashed off out of view.

Lalita sighed. “Such a pity. She was doing so well with the protocols. A model jenjin. No silly giggling during classes, no tardiness. Then, this.”

Anger boiled in Marco’s veins. He jumped to his feet and started to pace around the room. Love letters? He couldn’t countenance the thought. More likely given her history, she was sending an illicit message to insurgents, but whom? After she’d begged him to give the prisoners more privileges, she was abusing her own. What really struck Marco hard was that she flirted with another man and made sure she was doing it out of sight. He’d not doubt she had noted the blind spot and utilized it for her own purposes. What she hadn’t done was check if it still existed.

Why? He fisted his hands into tight balls. Why was she doing this? If she wasn’t in love with him, then he’d laid bare his heart for nothing other than her amusement. He pressed his lips together, silencing the stream of curses he wanted to shout out.

Lalita maintained her poise. “Naturally, this is a serious breach—talking to a man without permission.”

“She passed him a note,” he seethed. “Using paper I’d given her!” He roared and punched his fist against the wall. The pain rocketed through his knuckles.

“It’s these aliens. They don’t have the same standards as the Vendu. If they’d capitulated from the outset, lives might not have been lost on these planets. She’s disappointed me. Us. So sad.” She shook her head. “You will wish to punish her, and I might add, I do wonder if she is truly suited to the Volta. There are other jenjins—”

“No,” he snapped. He wouldn’t give up on her. Freya possessed a different kind of integrity to what Lalita admired and his jenjin was generous in nature. Inhaling deeply, he decided he would hear Freya’s side of the story and wouldn’t condemn her solely on the basis of silent surveillance footage. “Bring her to the punishment suite.”

A soft smile slipped over Lalita’s face. “If you think that is necessary, she will be brought there for your discipline. Might I suggest, since you wish her to remain here, that your discipline is firm and unswerving. She must remember she is nothing more than a pleasure vessel and has no say in her punishment. She might be the governor’s jenjin; however, her status is not to be augmented beyond that. It would disturb the order of the Volta if she was treated otherwise.” Lalita’s inference annoyed Marco. She alluded to something he considered private—his growing affections for Freya.

“I will determine her fate, Lalita, not you.” He left the room without saying anything further. Once in the punishment room, he moved restlessly around, touching a few implements, reading the labels on the bottles and examining the ropes and pulleys used to bind the disobedient jenjin. It wasn’t a surprise that Freya hated the room. However, she needed to appreciate what options lay open to him.

The problem was, he’d no idea what to do with her. His anger had abated, because he had to stay calm and not frighten her. While he needed answers and accountability from her, somehow he had to salvage their relationship. She was right when she’d spoken of tears at their separation, because he would suffer not having her in his arms. What dented his determination to resolve the crisis was the fear she might fight him or refuse to accept his punishment. Such behavior would mean they were doomed. How could he trust her ever again?

* * *

She’d been practicing her harp when the summons arrived. “Report to the punishment suite immediately. The governor is waiting for you.”

With trembling hands, she lay down the harp and hurried, without running, to the room she dreaded entering. She paused outside, trying to recover her shattered poise. It seemed more than a coincidence that the request had come only a few hours after she’d given Lucca the letter.

It had been the third one she’d given him to deliver. Of the guards that patrolled the perimeter of the Volta, Lucca had been the only one to smile at her. She chose him because he looked so young, barely an adult, and if she regretted anything it was abusing that smile of his and convincing him the letters were for her father. They weren’t and if he’d read them, which she prayed he hadn’t, he would see they were love letters.

She’d done a reconnaissance of the atrium, noting the movements of the cameras and spotted the gap. When she’d beckoned him over the first time, he had taking some convincing. He’d avoided eye contact until she’d fluttered her lashes, then pleaded for his sympathy—her poor father would be desperate for news of her and if he should reply in some way, a few words of reassurance, then would Lucca convey the message? He’d dithered and eventually agreed. That had been two days after she and Marco returned from their trip; since then she’d arranged the delivery of two others. As for the letters she’d sent her real father? In the second one she’d removed the sugar-coated view of her life, and other than glossing over Marco, she’d pleaded with her father to discover the truth behind Tony. As yet she’d received no reply from her father.

“How do you know my messages have reached him?” she’d asked Marco.

The question had resulted in a pause, the protracted kind that usually indicated Marco had something difficult to say. “My friend, Hadro, is part of the intelligence network that infiltrates your territory. You’re not the only one who uses spies. We’ve been moving amongst your kind since the invasion. It’s helpful that we have a similar physical appearance.”

Why hadn’t she been surprised by that admission? “But no replies?”

“It’s easier to deliver a message than it is to intercept an answer, especially if the recipient doesn’t trust the sender. Hadro has not had a response.” Marco had tried to placate her worries that her father had given up hope for her. “It takes time. You must stay brave.” The irony wasn’t lost on her as she stood before the door of the punishment room. It had been her constant war cry when struggling with her situation—hope. Plucking up the courage, she knocked and entered.

He was leaning against the far wall, his arms folded over his chest, his ankles crossed. But it wasn’t a stance of relaxation. He gripped his upper arms tightly and one foot tapped impatiently on the floor.

The ball of nausea forming in her stomach worsened. She eyed the floor in front of him; the cold hard surface was not the same as the rich carpet of her room. She slowly knelt, then slid her arms forward until outstretched. With her bottom raised, she waited.

She wore tiny panties and two triangular patches over her nipples, which were held in place by a weak bra strap. Attached to the cups were silly tassels—she’d been showing a few jenjins her dance moves prior to her harp practice. The girls had giggled a great deal and copied her gyrating hips and foot movements. She’d enjoyed those dance lessons and also making plans for the theater studio Marco planned to create in the factory. Life on Tagra, her captivity, had improved immeasurably since Marco had told her he loved her.

Did he still? He loomed over her and sighed. “Tell me everything, now. I’m fighting the urge to walk out of here and not come back, but I know that will leave me bitter and pained. So, tell me, what have you been doing with one of my men?”

She peeked up between her arms. “Sir. Please don’t do anything to him. He’s not the brightest—”

“I asked you to explain yourself.” She couldn’t ignore the tension in his voice. “The letter?”

“Was written by Gellis to her lover, Jophran. Three years ago, she moved up here and has had no word of him since. I gave her paper and she wrote to him, but I don’t think she expected me to find a way of getting them to him. I persuaded the young man, I admit, with deceit. I told him the letter was for my father. I’m not proud—”

“No, neither am I, for that matter because this wasn’t the first time, was it?”

“No. Today was the third time. You found out?”

“The cameras were moved and Lalita saw you give him the note. This Jophran, he replied to those messages?”

“He told Lucca to tell me, meaning Gellis, that he is alive and in good health and misses her.” Freya bit back a slight sob. “Gellis is very relieved. He was a teacher, who taught subversive texts and wrote dissenting articles in pamphlets. He’s not a bad man.”

“But he is a convict.” Marco stepped back. “Why do you act this way, Freya? To test me? Have I not given you what you wanted? I love you. I care for you. I’ve given permission for your ideas. Yet you remain secretive.”