Emerald Sea

PROLOGUE

The girl washing clothes by the side of the rushing stream might once have been pretty. Now, with the exception of her forearms, she was filthy and skinny, her long, brown hair hanging in tendrils around her face. She wore the remains of a fine, blue cosilk tunic, which had been tied up in the heat, and matching pants that had been cut off at midthigh. She was barefoot and her feet were heavily calloused.

Less than a year before Megan Samantha Travante, like all the humans of her time, had lived the life of a god. Before the Fall, with the omnipresent Net to care for every need, humans wallowed in almost inexhaustible luxury. A person could live anywhere, even under the sea or in the photosphere of the sun, Change themselves into almost any form. Food was available with a word, replicated in any form. Safety was guaranteed by personal protection fields capable of surviving in any possible conditions.

Megan’s life had been slightly different from the norm. Her father was one of the few remaining “police” of the era, a man who tracked the limited criminal element that sprung up even with enormous luxury. And he was very good at his job. Good enough that he had pressed his only daughter into studying more than was normal for the period and developing a high degree of personal paranoia, not to mention defensive capabilities, which made her strange to many of her friends. Joel Travante knew that even in Paradise the serpent always lurked in the human breast, and he was sure that his daughter knew it as well.

With pressure from her father, and her mother who was an expert on preindustrial art, Megan had used the resources of the Net to develop herself in ways strange to many of her peers. She attended few of the innumerable parties; she, in fact, had very little social life. Her life had been dedicated from an early age to intensive mental and physical training. Teaching methods had advanced along with every other art and science. Besides audio-visual systems that practically hammered knowledge into the young mind there were direct input methods available. Between the two, no realm of knowledge was closed to even the youngest. At first under her parent’s pressure, and then on her own for the acorn does not fall far from the oak, Megan had used them to amass an education that would have astounded most professors of previous eras.

The Fall, though, had caught almost everyone by surprise. The Net was managed by the Council of Key-holders, thirteen people who between them held the keys to the program that managed the Net. They had fallen out, the reasons given ranged from their own statements to wild rumors, and started a civil war that had drained the power from the Net and thrown the world into a state of instant barbarism.

Megan had been seventeen at the time of the Fall, not yet officially “released” by her parents, but free to wander at will. She had been visiting a friend in Ropasa when the Fall came while her mother was, presumably, home in the Briton Isles and her father on assignment “somewhere” in the world. Thus she had been left to her own devices. She had managed, through the smarts and paranoia that her father had inculcated, to avoid the worst aftereffects of the Fall. She hadn’t been raped, unlike some of her friends, and she hadn’t been one of the women chosen as “consorts” to the Changed legions of New Destiny. But it hadn’t been easy to avoid either. Finally, she had found work as a washing girl and general servant for one of the elders of the local town. It wasn’t a great job, but she had plans. She had skills that were rare in the post-Fall world. Most of those skills required an industrial base that was sorely lacking in the small town she had stumbled into. So she bided her time, watched for opportunities and kept her head down. In time, she’d work her way out of squalor.

In the meantime, she had clothes to wash.

“Excuse me, young lady,” a quavering male voice said behind her and she sprung up, holding the stick she had been beating the laundry with as if it were a club.

But the voice had come from an old man who was leaning, wearily, on a stick. Even with the stick, he was no threat.

“Excuse me for startling you,” the old man said. He was dressed in rags and his feet were as worn as her own. “I was hoping that you might help me across the ford.”

The girl cocked her head at him and, keeping her hand on the stick, walked to support his off-side.

“This is very kind of you,” the old man said. “There is not much kindness to be had in this Fallen world.”

“It’s okay,” the girl replied as they entered the stream. “I’m surprised you’re able to survive.”

“Well, I make my way, you know,” the old man replied. He was skinny and his long hair hung in greasy locks over his face and he stumbled on the round stones of the knee-deep ford. “Food is where you find it and I can work, sometimes. Not much to steal from old Paul so no trouble from bandits. I could wish that that damned Sheida hadn’t caused all this trouble, though.”

“I wish all the Council were damned to hell,” the girl snarled. “I wish… oh, I wish too much.”

“Sometimes we feel we are,” the old man muttered. “And tell me your wishes, young lady.”

“Just the usual,” she laughed, bitterly. “To be home. To be fed. To not have to worry about the cold or having to dodge gangs of men.”

“Where do you live?” the old man asked as they reached the far side of the ford. He stumbled over the slight bank and then sat down, resting his feet in the water.

“With a couple in town,” the girl replied, sitting down next to him. “They took me in after the Fall. I… well I do their cleaning and laundry and stuff. The man is one of the town elders and it’s a good enough life. They protect me, at least.”

“Do you… perform other services for him?” the old man asked, delicately.

“No, he’s never even asked,” the girl replied. “I don’t exactly dress up around them, though. I… don’t know what I would do if he made it a condition of staying. But I think Master Jean’s wife would have something to say about it if he did. He lives in fear of her.”

“Yes, yes,” the old man said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Not the most idyllic life, though.” He peered at her and then nodded. “Good genes, good phenotype. I think you’d clean up well. Yes, you’ll do. You’ll most definitely do.”

“What?” the girl said, suspiciously, getting to her feet. She held the laundry club protectively in front of her and looked around, afraid that the old man was a scout for some group of thugs. “I’ll do for what?”

“As it happens, I can make your dreams come true,” the man said, suddenly standing without the club and holding out his hand. “I can make it all better.”

The girl felt the world swirl around her and she lost consciousness.

In a moment, the two were gone.

CHAPTER ONE

When 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.”

CHAPTER TWO

There had been a pair of cutting scissors in the room, chained to the shelves. Other than that they had small cutting blades about the size of her thumbnail to section the cloth. Megan noticed that she hadn’t seen anything resembling a knife or any serious bladed weapon in the whole harem. They had cut sections of cloth and headed back to their seat by Amber.

“What are you going to make?” Shanea asked.

Megan looked around at the other girls. Most of them simply wore the light robes that were provided, but a few had other items. One girl had a lovely blue pair of panties and bra with lace on the edges. But Megan knew that was far beyond her ability, even if she felt “right” wearing nothing but panties and a bra in public.

But she really wanted some support for her breasts. And something down lower would be good as well.

“I think… something to go around my top and bottom,” Megan said, then shook her head at Shanea’s incipient worried frown. “Nothing too… covering, damnit. Something that just covers the breasts, maybe buttoned. Just a few buttons. And pretty much the same thing on the bottom. If I can use those to figure out how to sew, I’ll look at making things like bras and panties.”

“Oh, those are hard,” Shanea said, sadly. “Mine always look terrible. Only Mirta is that good. She’s so good nobody picks on her even if she isn’t one of Ashly’s friends.”

“Ashly?” Megan asked, picking up a length of heavy blue silk that rippled like water in her hands. “What about this?” she said, wrapping it around her breasts over the robe.

“Shorter,” Shanea said, darkly. “Narrower, whatever.”

“Great,” Megan snorted, folding the cloth almost in half. “They’re going to hang out the bottom if I go this narrow.”

“Trust me, go with narrow,” Shanea said. “If Christel thinks you’re trying to ‘cover up’ too much you’re not going to like it.”

“Got it.” Megan frowned. “Shorter. Now, Ashly,” she said, setting the cloth down and trying to figure out what to cut off. And how; the narrow cutters were hard to figure out.

“She’s the one playing backgammon,” Shanea whispered, gesturing carefully to the far side of the room where a tall, heavily built blonde was lying on her stomach looking at the board, one foot raised in the air and lazily waving back and forth.

“What about her?” Megan asked. She was trying to cut a straight line in the cloth and failing miserably despite going with the weave. The cutters were wooden crescents with two small blades embedded in them. When pressed into the edge of the fabric they would start a triangular cut and they maintained it well, as long as the fabric was kept taut. But when she’d stop to tighten the fabric the cut would waver. And it wasn’t particularly straight to begin with. She suspected her first effort was not going to be useable in public.

“She’s next after Christel,” Shanea said. “Christel doesn’t say that, but Ashly does, and she’s really mean. She’s the one that turned in Amber for talking about escaping. And she’s got some friends that help her. She’ll hurt you; she likes to hurt people.”

“Some people are like that,” Megan replied. I’m one of them. At least when I’m this angry. “So does she hurt you?”

“Not so much anymore,” Shanea said, sadly. “I just try to keep my head down and not bother anybody. Most of the time they don’t bother me. Mostly.”

Imprisonment experiments. Dad had talked about that one time, too. Take any random group of people. Make one side the “guards” and the other side the “prisoners.” Within weeks the guards are sadistic to the prisoners and the prisoners have separated into packs for mutual protection.

Something else about prison society. “It’s human society with all the stops off, honey. You have to establish that you’re not the bottom of the pecking order. And you have to establish that fast.”

Prisons were as much a part of the past as… well, war, come to think of it. But her father, it seemed sometimes, knew everything. And a lot of it he had passed on.

“Sometimes they want me to have sex with them,” Shanea continued. She had cut out a triangle of cloth and was contemplating it idly, as if thinking about something in the past. “It’s… sometimes it’s not so bad.”

“Shanea?” Megan said, gently.

“Yes?”

“Let me handle Ashly and her friends,” Megan said, then smiled, nicely.

“Don’t try to fight them,” Shanea said. “Christel doesn’t like fighting.”

“I’m sure it won’t get that far,” Megan replied. “Leave it to me.” She looked at the strip of cloth, then folded in an edge and wrapped it around her top again. “What do you think?”

“Narrower.”

“It will be when I’m done.” Megan sighed. She measured where it met in the front and then cut it off with some extra cloth in case she messed it up. Then she folded over one edge, which immediately unfolded.

“Pins,” Shanea said, handing her a handful. “Fold the edges and then pin them.”

“This is a pain,” Megan snapped.

“It passes the time.” Shanea shrugged. “There’s sewing, talking, bathing and playing board games. Except when Paul is here.”

“And then there’s getting raped,” Megan said, darkly.

“It’s really not that bad,” Shanea said. “Really. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, so just have as much fun as you can. Think of your boyfriend or something. Or girlfriend if you go that way.”

“Which is it for you?” Megan asked.

“Oh, I dunno,” Shanea smiled. “I think for fun, guys. For comfort, mostly girls.”

“And the only ‘guy’ is Paul,” Megan said.

“Yep.”

“What’s he like?” Megan asked, almost against her will. She told herself she was just gathering information about the enemy, but she knew she was lying. If she was going to spend the rest of her life “servicing” some guy, it made sense to recon the territory as well as possible.

“Not too big, thank goodness,” Shanea said with a shrug. “I kind of have to clamp down on him. Too quick. He really seems to think it’s just a duty.”

“Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.” Megan said, thinking that if it was “just a duty” a test tube and artificial insemination would work as well. Although, somewhere, she’d heard the term “live cover” which supposedly worked better. She shuddered at the thought. I’m a brood mare.

“Yep. ‘Oops, I gotta go now.’ And he switches around, too. I haven’t been with him in… a while. I mean, I don’t know how long. No way to tell time in here.”

“Does he just… arrive, do one of the girls and then leave?”

“Usually. Sometimes he stays for a while talking and then chooses another.”

“Just one of his myriad ‘duties,’ ” Megan snorted.

“I guess. And he’s looking worse and worse, too.”

“What do you mean?” Megan had gotten the edges pinned and took up one of the fine needles. Shanea had insisted on little needles for the silk and Megan found herself squinting at the hole, trying to get the incredibly fine thread to fit the even finer hole in the needle.

“Well you saw him,” Shanea said. She was apparently working on one breast piece of a bra and her movements were far defter than Megan’s.

“He looked old and worn out,” Megan said. “From the little I saw. But I thought that was a disguise?”

“The old might be,” Shanea said, picking up one of the needles and trying to thread it as well. After only a few tries she got the thread through. “Try licking it.”

“What?” Megan said, aghast at the apparent non sequitur.

“The thread, silly,” Shanea said with a grin. “Try licking it. It makes the end a little smaller, it slides in better and it stays… firmer.” She grinned again.

“Harem humor,” Megan snorted. “Great.” She tried licking the thread though and it was easier. It still seemed to take her forever to get it though the needle.

“See? Lick it and it goes in easier,” Shanea grinned.

“Shanea?”

“Yeah?”

“Once is funny; twice is annoying.”

“Okay.”

“You were saying Paul is looking worse?” Megan said after an overlong silence.

“Yeah,” Shanea replied after a moment. “He just keeps getting thinner and weaker-looking. Like he’s sick or something.”

“Or wondering if destroying the world is a really good idea?” Megan muttered.

“No. He’s really worried about people, though,” Shanea said. “It’s really all he talks about, how hard it is for the people.”

“Maybe he should have thought about that before he tried to overthrow the Council,” Megan replied quietly.

“Well if Sheida hadn’t fought back…” Shanea said, hotly.

“Shanea, let’s not argue about that, okay?” Megan smiled. “You’re the closest thing that I’ve got to a friend in here. I won’t say anything else bad about Paul, okay?”

“Okay,” Shanea replied, shrugging. “I mean, I wish it hadn’t happened, too. But if Sheida had just seen what he was trying to do…”

“I’m sure she did,” Megan said, as placatingly as she could. “But, really, let’s not argue about it, okay? We can’t do anything about it. And, you’re right, Paul is probably a nice guy. I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

“Well, he is a nice person,” Shanea said. “He’s been very nice to us.”

“Of course,” Megan replied. He gets sex whenever he wants it and all he has to do is give us some board games and cloth. Great guy.

“Dinner time,” Christel announced, as she opened up her door.

“I’m not really hungry, yet,” Megan whispered.

“Eat it while you can get it,” Shanea replied. “Three meals a day, none in between.”

“What about the sewing?”

“We’ll just leave it here,” Shanea said, standing up and touching Amber on the arm. “Ami, time for dinner.”

“Dinner,” Amber replied, standing up and walking towards the dining room. She had a graceful stride and, again, Megan had to wonder what she had been like before.

“Settling in?” Christel asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Megan said, trying to imitate Shanea’s bright vacuousness.

“Have you ever sewn before?” Christel asked, stooping and picking up the pieces of fabric.

“No, ma’am, but Shanea is showing me how,” Megan said, gritting out a smile.

“What is this?” Christel picked among the fabric, looking at the way it had been pinned. “This isn’t a shirt or something, is it?”

“No, ma’am,” Megan said.

“It’s more of a breast-band,” Shanea interjected. “It’s going to be quite fetching, really. I hadn’t thought of it, but I think Paul will like it.”

“And a short skirt,” Megan continued. “Very short.”

“We’ll see,” Christel looked at the other girls who had paused to see if the new girl was going to get a tongue-lashing. “Get into the dining room!” She tossed the fabric on the pillow and put her hands on her hips. “We’re here to make Paul happy. We make Paul happy by being pretty. Anything that is not pretty doesn’t get worn in here. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Megan said as Shanea nodded her head. “I’ll do the best I can.”

“Now, go eat,” Christel said, pointing. “And don’t overeat; half the girls are starting to look like balloons.”

When they reached the table the only spaces were at the far end. The food was brought through the door to the kitchens and then served to Christel first who passed bowls down the table. By the time they got to Megan, Shanea and Amber, who had somehow been driven to their end, there was very little left. The meal was the same that she had been served before, roast pork, broccoli and potatoes. The only pieces of pork left were ends and gristly bits, the broccoli was all gone and there was only a smidgen of potato.

Megan didn’t mind, she wasn’t particularly hungry, and she gave her servings to Shanea and Amber. But she noticed that several of the other girls had taken huge servings and then eaten barely half of them; as if they were trying to starve the girls at the bottom of the pecking order.

“Who’s the skinny brunette by Ashly?” Megan asked, pointing with her chin at a thin-faced brunette who had started to become one of the “balloons” Christel had mentioned. She was sitting next to Ashly and wolfing down a huge plate of food, even though Megan hadn’t noticed her doing anything in the afternoon but sit watching Ashly play backgammon.

“That’s Karie, Karie Szymonic,” Shanea whispered. “She likes to start stuff and then Ashly and the others join in.”

Christel was at the head of the table working on a much smaller portion and taking delicate bites. On her right was Ashly and then Karie, across from them was a delicate, birdlike, redhead, who had also taken a small serving. Megan had noticed her earlier doing sewing in the corner.

“The redhead?”

Shanea leaned out to look down the table.

“Oh, that’s Mirta. She’s okay and Ashly doesn’t pick on her because she does the most beautiful needlework. If you want anything nice, you ask Mirta. But she’ll want something in return.”

“And, unfortunately, I don’t have anything to trade,” Megan snorted.

“You’ll find something,” Shanea said.

“When can I stand up and leave?” Megan asked.

“Not until Christel,” Shanea replied.

Megan continued to observe the other girls covertly. She caught one absolutely poisonous look from Karie, for no reason she could determine. Ashly seemed to be ignoring her so far. She knew from what her father told her that she should try to establish dominance, but the time didn’t seem right. And if she made too many waves there was Christel with the threat of the neural whip. And mind-wipe on the other side of that. Neither thought pleased.

For some reason, her mind kept coming back to the scissors in the store room. Chaining them there was probably to keep the girls from using them on each other. The tiny cloth cutters would be almost useless as weapons, even in a catfight. She doubted that the scissors were secured to defend Paul; he had to have a personal protection field on at almost all times.

Almost. There’s one time when a PPF had to come down, and that was during sex; any personal intimacy, really.

Interesting.

But he’d be able to summon it almost instantly. And practically any damage a person could inflict by hand could be repaired by medical nannites.

Almost, again. Her father had not talked a lot about his investigations but sometimes she was able to pry information out of him. Sometimes she had wished she hadn’t, one time…

She was about… fourteen. He had been… mean to her for nearly a week. He’d been pressing her, hard, about her boyfriends and what she had been doing with them. Usually he was more than willing to let her do her own thing. As he put it: “I gave you the skills to live your own life and I can’t be there all the time. I have to trust you.”

But he’d been… pressing her. He’d gone into what she called “Full Inspector Mode.” Who was she hanging out with, were they having sex, what were they like, how old were they, how did they act, how did they treat her? Finally she’d lost her temper with him and told him to mind his own business. And it came out.

There was a predator who had been stalking little girls. Most of them just postpubescent, as she was at the time. He’d sweet-talk them into a little cuddling, not sex, oh no. Then when their shields were down he would hurt them, confuse them, teleport them out to somewhere and keep hurting them, continuously, never letting them get a moment to even think about summoning shields. He’d rape them while he hurt them and then usually kill them. He’d made a mistake with one, finally, and she’d had just enough presence of mind to call her shields and teleport out so they finally understood what had been happening.

He’d gone into some pretty graphic detail, probably to convince her of the seriousness of the threat. She hadn’t liked it at the time and didn’t really like thinking about it now. But that was the answer. But if she managed to kill Paul, really kill him, brain dead fully, against the fight of his nannites, what would she do then? And how to do it, how to hurt him that badly?

She realized that while she had been dreaming Christel had gotten up without a word and left. Most of the other girls were getting to their feet and filing out as well.

“What about the plates and stuff?” she asked Shanea, who was getting up and taking Amber’s arm.

“The servants clear them,” Shanea said. “Come on, Ami.”

“That’s silly,” Megan replied, taking Amber’s other arm and pulling the girl, who was still eating in very small, fine bites, to her feet. “Why don’t we clear?”

“Because we can’t go in the kitchen,” Shanea replied. “You can’t pass through the door and it zaps you if you try.”

“Oh.” So much for that way out.

CHAPTER THREE

When they reached the main room, they found their sewing scattered all over the place. Her breast band and the other large piece she had intended for the skirt had been cut into ribbons as had the triangular piece Shanea was working on. Karie was standing over the damage with a smirk on her face.

“Oops,” the girl said, looking at Megan. “It looks like somebody had an accident.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Shanea said, getting down on her hands and knees and picking through the pillows. “But watch your feet, those pins could jab into your foot and really hurt you.”

Megan looked at the girl, standing there with a vicious smile, and then sensed someone moving up behind her. She suddenly looked to the side where Mirta was watching her from over the piece of complicated brocade she was sewing. The girl raised an eyebrow as if to say: “Okay, what are you going to do now?”

Megan gave her one, brief, hard look, which she was pretty sure Karie wouldn’t notice, and then… dissembled.

“Yeah, that’s okay,” she said, at her absolute meekest. “I think there’s a pin there on the floor by your feet.” She got down on her hands and knees, keeping her eye on the ground, and picked up the pin. “You need to watch yourself, really; you don’t want to get hurt.” All of this was said in the saddest little humble tone she could manage.

“Pathetic bitch,” Karie said, kicking her in the side.

Megan rolled with it expertly and came up on one knee in the most helpless pose possible. Amber’s knitting needle was right by one hand but she knew if she used that sort of weapon she wasn’t going to like the consequences. Two of the other girls had closed on her as well and she was just as positive that showing that much ability would make her a threat, to Christel if not to Paul. She was pretty sure she could turn all three into mincemeat, especially if she used nerve and joint techniques. But it would not be a good thing in any sort of long term.

“Oh, come on,” she whimpered, holding her hands up to Karie. “Can’t we be friends?”

“Like I’d be friends with a pathetic little bitch like you,” Karie replied. She darted forward and grabbed Megan’s hair, hard enough to bring tears to the girl’s eyes. “You think you’re better than me?”

“No, Karie,” Megan whined. The other two were standing back, letting the leader have the fun. “I just want to be your friend.”

“You’re gonna be my bitch is what you’re going to be,” Karie smirked. She pulled aside her robe and thrust her crotch in Megan’s face. “Lick it, bitch.”

“Karie,” Ashly drawled. “Get a room.”

“Okay, I will,” the girl said, dragging Megan to her feet by her hair and dragging her down one of the corridors. She pulled open the first door and threw Megan into the room.

“Down on your knees, bitch,” Karie said, striding over to Megan who had rolled, again, to one knee.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Megan whimpered.

“I’ll hurt you if I feel like it,” Karie said, catching her up by her hair again. “I won’t hurt you, much, if you lick me till I come.”

Megan whimpered again and then leaned forward, placing her left hand, lovingly, humbly, on Karie’s thigh and then driving a knuckle-punch upward into the girl’s crotch.

Women are very nearly as sensitive in the crotch area as men and, like men, it tends to take their breath away when struck there, hard. It certainly does so when followed up by a rock-hard fist to the solar plexus.

Then Megan really got to work on her.

“Mustn’t make marks,” Megan whispered as she pinched the base of the bully’s nose then drove another fist into the woman’s gut.

“Don’t want anyone getting upset,” she added, slamming one open palm into the girl’s right kidney followed by another to the left.

After the second kidney strike, Megan realized that she was letting her bad out just a little too much and wrapped the sadistic bitch up in an unbreakable hold that included some very nice joint work.

“Having fun?” she asked Karie, who was whimpering softly and half unconscious from the pain. The last kidney punch had probably been over the edge; the girl was likely to piss blood for a week.

“Moan,” Megan said.

“Wha…?”

“Moan!” Megan whispered, fiercely. “Like you’re having fun with your new girlfriend.” She increased pressure on the elbow joint until she felt sweat bead out on the other woman’s body. “You’re having fun with me right now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t…”

“Moan!” She gave the elbow an extra twitch and what came out was a gasp followed by a moan.

“I can take the whole lot of you, but I have no reason to want to,” Megan said, softly. “But you need to know that Megan’s the top bitch. Say it: Megan’s the top bitch.”

“Ooooooah!” Karie moaned. “I can’t…”

“Say it,” Megan snapped, bearing down on the wrist this time. “Megan’s the top bitch.”

“Megan’s the top bitch!” Karie gasped.

“Now moan like you’re having the orgasm of your life.”

“Oooooaaaahooooo…”

“Lousy acting,” Megan said, standing up by pressing a nerve point in the girl’s shoulder so hard she gasped. “When we go out there, your acting had better be better. You’d better have a big happy, I-just-came, post-orgasm smile on your face. Moan.”

“Ooooohhh…”

“Better. I’ll be crawling. Don’t think you can get your mad out because I’m on my hands and knees; you really don’t want me to show you how mean I can get. Who’s the top bitch?”

“Megan.”

“Moan.”

“Oooooohhhh…”

“Very good. Much better. I think you like this too much. Who’s Megan’s bitch?”

“Karie?”

“Bingo, moaner. Let’s hear a low, growly one this time.”

“I…”

“Loud!”

“Ooooooaaaagggaaaa!”

“Good. Now, fast pants, moans, and then orgasm gasp…”

“Ah, ah, ah, ooooo… ooo… ooooh, AAAAAH! Oh, my God!”

“Good. You’re good at faking it.”

Karie suddenly lashed out a leg and tried to sweep Megan’s out from under her. Megan jumped lightly over the leg and landed with both knees in the girl’s back, driving the wind out of her lungs. Then she hit nerve points a couple more times, lightly, to get the point across. With each strike the woman let out a moan of pain. Close enough to pleasure for anyone listening in the hall.

“You can’t beat me, you can’t sneak up on me, and all of you together if I was asleep and stone drunk couldn’t take me,” Megan said in a feral whisper. “Now get on your feet, be a good little bitch and I’ll quit hurting you.”

As Karie stumbled up Megan drove her heel into the girl’s stomach.

“That was for calling me pathetic.” Megan smiled broadly. “Now you can really get up. And, remember, big smile. Oh, I almost forgot.” She stood still for a moment and then slapped herself as hard as she could, once on each cheek.

“You hit in the face?” she asked Karie.

“No,” the girl said, looking at her wide-eyed. “No bruises.”

“Nothing Paul might not like, right?” Megan snarled, working her jaw from the slaps. “Who’s the best bitch?”

“You are, Megan,” Karie said.

“And who’s Megan’s bitch?”

“I am,” Karie said in a defeated voice. She wouldn’t meet Megan’s eye. “I’m gonna piss blood.”

“Too bad,” Megan said coldly. “I’m sure I wouldn’t have enjoyed the recovery from what you were going to do. And this is just between us, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And leave Shanea alone,” Megan added. “She’s my friend.”

Megan got down on her hands and knees and headed for the door.

“Big smile. Big shit-eating smile.”

“I am,” Karie said. “Ashly’s gonna eat you alive, though.”

“Ashly’s got no idea who she is fucking with,” Megan replied, then opened the door.

“Are you okay?” Shanea said when she crawled over and sat down.

“Fine,” Megan replied quietly. She looked over at Mirta who was staring at her somberly. The girl continued to stare and then raised one eyebrow. On an impulse, Megan winked. Mirta looked over to where Karie was clearly regaling the other girls with her tale of the rape of the new girl and then frowned and looked back at Megan. Megan just smiled, her eyes cold, and turned away.

“I managed to salvage some of it,” Shanea said.

“Well, I think Karie got her mad out,” Megan replied, smiling sadly. “So maybe she’ll leave us alone for a while.”

“Maybe,” Shanea said. “But sometimes she decides we need extra training.” Shanea looked sadly at the scraps in her lap. “I don’t like that.”

“Maybe she’ll concentrate on me,” Megan replied. “I can survive it.”

She’d gotten another piece of cloth and pinned it when Shanea nudged her.

“Time for baths,” the girl said. “Almost lights out.”

The sun had set long before and the lamps had come on. They were clearly powered but instead of the normal diffuse lighting of pre-Fall these were globes, some of them colored, hanging from sconces set in the walls. They illuminated the area, but not brightly, and Megan had discovered why Mirta sat in the same place all the time; it was where the light of three lamps fell and just about the most brightly lit place in the room. The brightest spot was Ashly’s seat and the girl, who had continued to play one game of backgammon after another, glowed in the light.

“I had a bath,” Megan said.

“You take one every night,” Shanea replied.

“I think I’ll put this stuff in my room,” Megan said with a shrug, picking up the sewing.

“No locks, it won’t help,” Shanea pointed out. “But I don’t think they’ll cut it up again. Christel doesn’t like us wasting cloth. I don’t know why; there’s enough of it and more.”

Megan took the pile of sewing to her room and set it on the bed, then headed for the bathroom. Most of the girls were in there and the vast majority had already climbed into the long, low bath. Warm water flowed in at one end and out at the other and the pecking order remained; Ashly was having her hair washed by one of the other girls while the far end, which was already filled with oils and soap scum from the upper end, was reserved for Shanea and Amber.

“I think I’ll take a shower,” Megan said with a grimace.

“I sometimes do after the bath,” Shanea whispered. “But you don’t want to stand out.”

“I think, this time, I’ll stand out,” Megan replied, glancing over at Ashly. Mirta had just finished washing her hair and gave her a long, considering, look as Megan strode to the showers.

Except for relaxation, she’d never been much of a bather. She much preferred showers; she just ended up feeling cleaner. And since she’d already had one she did a sketchy wash of her pits, toweled off, grabbed a new robe and was out of the room before most of the girls had gotten done with their careful soaping.

When she reached her room she considered it carefully, then dragged the desk across until it was in front of the door. It wouldn’t stop a concerted assault, but it would wake her up if and when.

She lay down and considered the day. It had been a long one. And there were probably going to be more long ones in the future. Right now, though, she was very tired. Before the lights dimmed she had closed her eyes and breathed into sleep.

Shortly afterwards, however, her eyes sprung open as the desk scraped on the floor.

She rolled to her feet in a defensive crouch but the movement had stopped.

“Megan?” Shanea whispered.

The lights were down and she was pretty sure the girl wasn’t supposed to be walking around.

“What?” Megan said. She stepped over to the door and it was open enough to see that it, apparently, was just Shanea.

“I wondered… sometimes when bad things happen I have nightmares,” Shanea said, uncertainly. “Would you like somebody to sleep with?”

“Is that okay?” Megan whispered.

“Christel doesn’t care,” Shanea said, “as long as it doesn’t…”

“… bother Paul.” Megan sighed. She really wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep and there weren’t enough pillows for that. They’d have to be constantly in contact. On the other hand, she rather doubted that Shanea was there for Megan’s comfort. After a moment’s thought, Megan pulled the low desk out of the way and led the girl inside.

“The active term here is ‘sleep,’ ” Megan muttered as she pushed the desk back into place.

“I know,” Shanea said settling down with her back to the wall and Megan on the outside. The girl laid her head on Megan’s shoulder and put one leg across her thighs. “I… just like someone to hold at night.”

“Remind me, if I ever learn how to sew, to make you a teddy bear,” Megan said, shaking her head.

In remarkably short order, Shanea was snoring very faintly. It was unpleasantly regular but Megan put it out of her mind and mentally composed herself for sleep.

I have got to get out of this place.

After the events of the first day, things mostly settled down. Their sewing project was not disturbed and the clique around Ashly seemed to have decided to ignore them for the time being. Megan slowly learned to sew and as the days passed discovered the true horror of the harem: boredom.

There was nothing to do and, of course, nowhere to go. Their day was a regular, monotonous routine. Get up in the morning, clean themselves and their rooms, have breakfast, which was usually very tasty, flaky rolls with fruit, fruit juice and milk, play games, talk or work on sewing projects all morning, lunch, generally light, more killing time in the afternoon, dinner, more killing time, bathing, lights out.

She found herself unable to sleep at night after the stresses of the first few days wore off. More often than not Shanea came by, scratching at her door. She’d at first expected the clique around Ashly to attack her in the middle of the night. Then she’d dreaded it. Then she’d anticipated it as something to break up the monotonous routine.

Christel left the harem to more or less run on its own. She spent all her time in the inner sanctum. Which left Ashly to run things. Badly.

Megan had taken to leaving the main room for most of the day, although Shanea was aghast at that as well. It Just Wasn’t Done. But Megan had to get some exercise. She retreated to her room and would spend hours in there, first limbering up, then doing katas, which segued into dance. Snatches of tunes would come to her mind and she danced to all of them, running one into the other as they could be recalled. She didn’t sing, she didn’t hum, she just danced, sometimes furiously, for hours.

She was getting to be in the best shape of her life. And she still was bored out of her gourd.

From time to time there had been verbal jabs from the girls around Ashly but since the incident with Karie nothing more. Then, at the end of the second week, when she had finished her sewing project, she returned to her room one afternoon, planning on getting in some solid exercise, to find that someone had placed the skirt and top on her pillows and then peed all over it and them.

She was pretty sure it wasn’t Karie. The girl was a bully of the first order and unlikely to want to brave her wrath again. But it meant it was probably one of the girls in Ashly’s little clique. And the way to deal with that was to kill the rot at the source.

She picked up all the material and walked through the main room to the baths with a sad expression of woeful misery on her face. Once in the bathroom she attacked the material, cleaning it as well as she could. The silks were too stained to be worth using, though, and all her work was ruined. She also couldn’t get the smell of pee entirely out of the pillows. It infuriated her that she’d have to live with that smell for who knew how long.

Somebody was gonna pay.

CHAPTER FOUR

Megan waited a few days until the others had decided she’d decided to take the injury lying down. She had started work on another outfit and planned on making sure that this one was wearable. Then, one day, she noticed that Ashly was getting a bit squirmy and casually got to her feet, headed for the toilet.

The toilet was just off the bathroom and just as well appointed. There were more vanities inside as well as four stalls with doors so the girls could have some privacy. Megan waited in her stall until she heard someone come in and then walked out. When Ashly emerged from her stall, still adjusting her panties, Megan looked at her with eyes wide with sadness.

“Ashly, I know I’m not your friend, but it wasn’t nice for somebody to pee all over my bedding,” Megan said in her meekest little-girl voice.

“Well, I guess some of us just don’t like you,” the girl said dismissively. She was a head taller than Megan and carried herself with assurance.

“I was just hoping that maybe we could be friends,” Megan said. “I’d like for us to be friends.”

“Why would I want to be friends with a little turd like you?” Ashly said, brushing past her.

Megan waited until she was almost past and then drove a knuckled fist into the other girl’s solar plexus. When Ashly doubled up, choking, Megan lifted her by one shoulder and drove her fist into the girl’s stomach twice more.

“Well,” Megan said, neutrally, as she grabbed the girl by her long, blond hair and drove a knuckle into her kidney. “For one reason, I wouldn’t beat the shit out of you.”

Ashly fell to her knees and whimpered.

“Christel’s gonna…” the girl started to say, just as Megan grasped the base of the girl’s nose and pinched, hard. There was a very sensitive nerve juncture there and clamping down on it effectively ended rational thought for Ashly.

“Christel is going to what?” Megan said, sweetly. “I don’t think Christel is going to hear about this at all. Because if she does, you’re going to find out that this is love taps. Now, you’re going to talk to all of your friends. And you’re going to explain that the little games are stopping, aren’t you? Because if you don’t, we’ll have to… talk again. You might think that you can gang up on me, but if you do that it will be obvious. Besides, you might want to have a quiet chat with Karie about what happens when I get really angry. And then Christel is going to know. And then she’d better mind-wipe me. Because otherwise, you’re not going to be good for anything but a kitchen slut. Do I make myself clear?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She just pinched the nerve point so hard the girl must have thought she’d been hit by a neural lash and then walked out, twitching her robe into place.

She didn’t know if the girl would take it lying down or not. But when she got back to the main room she gave Karie a significant nod and then strode over to Mirta.

“Hi,” she said, squatting down in front of the seamstress.

“Hi,” Mirta replied neutrally. “Could you move over, you’re in my light.”

“Sure,” Megan replied, moving over. “What do I have to do to get you to make me something?”

“Oh, I think you’ve already done it,” Mirta replied, lightly. She was hand-embroidering the edge of a bra that was made of silk so transparent it was like glass. “I’ve been waiting for months for someone to take down that arrogant bitch.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Megan said with a broad smile.

“Yes, you do,” Mirta replied. “I wasn’t sure at first, but Karie steps aside when you walk past. And she never gives just one lesson to the new girls. She didn’t give me just one lesson,” the woman said in a low but fierce tone. “And I notice that Ashly seems to be taking a long time in her toilet. But she only went in there to pee. She’d have been out at least two minutes ago.”

“You notice a lot,” Megan said, sitting down.

“I notice that you spend a lot of time in your room,” Mirta replied. “That when you come out you usually go to the shower because you need it. I notice that you don’t walk quite like a dancer, either. You walk more like some martial artists I’ve known. You walk like a panther, except when you play that meek little girl role. I notice that you watch all the time, too.” She looked up and pinned the girl with her eye, tying off a section of the embroidery and picking up the next color without looking down. “And your hands have calluses. But not from sewing.”

“How old are you?” Megan asked.

“Me?” Mirta squeaked. “I’m just like you, just a little girl, not even twenty! And some man picked me up by the side of a stream and then… oh, it was So! Terrible!” The entire performance was delivered in a frightened little voice while cold eyes stared back at Megan.

“Yes, it is so terrible,” Megan replied neutrally. “Will you help me?”

“With sewing?” Mirta replied, finally looking down. “Happily.” She had been stitching the embroidery, tiny stitch after tiny stitch, without looking at what she was doing. And doing it perfectly.

“You do it so well,” Megan pressed.

“Most of my life,” Mirta replied. “My parents were reenactors. You know what that means?”

“Yes, people who had a hobby of doing stuff the old ways,” Megan said. “The town elders where I… was… were sort of like that. At least, they lived in an old house and had some stuff that they used from time to time.”

“My mother taught me to sew when I was very young,” Mirta said. “We’d make stuff and then take it to Faires.” Her face cleared of the cold lines it normally had and she smiled. “I used to love to go to Faire.”

“I hope we all can some day again,” Megan said.

“Don’t talk that way,” Mirta said carefully. “We are Paul’s servants. That is all that we are or ever will be.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t take us.” Megan grinned.

“Hmmph,” Mirta grunted, but she smiled as she did. “So what do you want?”

“I really don’t know,” Megan replied. “Some simple panties, for God’s sake. I’m just too clumsy with a needle to get the fine sewing for them.”

“Easily done,” Mirta said, then looked at her. “I saw what you were trying to do with the other outfit. I have some ideas. I don’t know if you’ll like them.”

“As long as it…”

“Pleases Paul.” Mirta grinned evilly. “Yes, I think it will. Do you want me to do it?”

“Please,” Megan said. “How do I repay you?”

“Oh, you already have,” Mirta replied calmly. “Although breaking the bitch’s neck and boiling her in oil would have been preferable.”

“Once you break the neck, they don’t feel the oil,” Megan pointed out. “Details. You have to decide.”

Mirta shrugged. “Okay, just lowering her into a vat of acid.”

“What?” Megan said, frozen.

“I said…”

“Yeah, okay,” Megan replied, her mind racing. “I guess I’ll get them in a few days?”

“That… works…” Mirta replied.

“Thank you,” Megan said, suddenly looking her in the eye. “You have been very helpful.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mirta said, staring at her. “Very glad.”

Megan gave her a nod and walked back to her room. She refused to whistle as she walked.

Shanea was there when she arrived. The girl had gotten over her fear of being out of the main room and now hid in Megan’s room much of the time despite the still-noticeable smell of urine. It was a pain in the ass in some ways and in others quite comforting. Megan had never really had many girlfriends and certainly none that looked to her for protection. It was pleasant and cloying simultaneously.

She was working on another outfit and looked up happily when Megan entered.

“Where were you?” Shanea asked.

“I had a… conversation with Ashly,” Megan said. “And Mirta is going to make me an outfit.”

“How did you talk her into that?” Shanea asked, eyes round.

“I was very charming,” Megan said, throwing herself on the smelly pillows. “Shanea, I need to think for a bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Shanea said, going back to her sewing.

After a while Megan threw herself to her feet and paced back and forth.

“Shanea, what does Christel do in her office all day?” she asked. It bothered her that the woman almost never came out except for meals. For that matter, she was never at the evening bath.

“She’s working on the accounts,” Shanea said. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Megan said, stopping her pacing and looking at the girl. “All day?”

“There’s a lot of them,” Shanea replied. “That’s why she’s always so angry. She hates doing them. I saw them one time and they’re really really complicated. I couldn’t make head or tails of them.”

Megan stared at her, unseeing, for quite some time, then smiled broadly.

“Shanea, you are the most wonderful person in the world.”

“Thank you,” Shanea smiled. “Why?”

“Just because,” Megan said. “I’m either going to be stumbling back in just a minute or I’ll be quite some time.”

She walked to the door to the office and knocked, knowing that all the other girls were watching her. What was that feely she had watched? Oliver Twist. “Please, sir, can I have some more?” That was just how it felt.

“What?” Christel said angrily from beyond the door.

“I’d like to speak to you,” Megan replied, as meekly as she could manage.

“Come in,” the woman said.

Megan stepped in, half expecting to end up on the floor, doubled in agony. The older woman was behind the desk, which was littered with paper.

“Shanea just told me that you’re in here doing the books all day,” Megan said, standing more or less at attention. “I… think I could help.”

“You?” Christel snapped, throwing a pencil on the desk. “What do you know about it?”

“I… was studying numbers before the Fall,” Megan replied. “I know something about accounting. And… you seem like you really hate it. That makes it hard on the rest of us. If I can help, that makes it easier. And, frankly, I’m bored to tears.”

Christel looked at her, cocking her head slightly to the side, then shrugged.

“You really think you can make head or tails of it?” Christel asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Megan said, walking over to the table and looking down. The papers were covered in columns with notations and numbers by them. They also were covered in equations, most of them scratched, rubbed or in some cases ripped, out. It was pretty clear that math was not Christel’s strong suit.

She pulled one of the papers around to her and read it, then blanched.

“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “You use single-entry bookkeeping?”

“What?” Christel said.

“Single entry,” Megan replied, shaking her head. “You’ve got both your expenses and your income on the same line. Not to mention mixing up your purchases and your use. No wonder you’ve been having problems.”

“How else do you do it?” Christel asked, bewildered.

“Okay, okay,” Megan said, dropping into a cross-legged position next to the desk. “You’ve got food purchases here and a new shipment of cloth. Not to mention housekeeping items and cleaning supplies. By the way, can I get some new pillows?”

“What happened to the ones you have?” Christel asked, angrily.

“They got… damaged. Look, what you do is separate this out by category…”

For the next two days Christel led her over the accounts, although it was quite often the other way around. It turned out that the woman was responsible for managing all of the needs of the harem. She had to track, and account for, all of the food that was consumed, the supply of bedding, the raw materials the girls used in their sewing, their “feminine” supplies and everything else that went into a functioning harem.

By the second day, Christel was in a more jovial mood. Megan hadn’t been lying when she said she knew something about accounting. It was clear that the younger girl was far better at organizing the accounts than Christel had ever been.

“The worst part is that Paul is always checking on them,” Christel admitted early the next day. “He wants me to account for every single item and explain why they were used. The food budget is the worst. He’s always harping about how much food the girls eat. So one time I cut them back and then they didn’t have enough and were complaining.”

“Well, from the looks of some of them they could use a diet,” Megan noted. “But not all. What we need to do is manage the diets individually. But that will mean working more closely with the kitchen staff. Also…”

“What?” Christel asked, looking at her sharply.

“Well, there’s no reason they have to sit around all day,” Megan pointed out. “I’m sure some of them know how to dance, for example. And they could use some toning up. Dial in on the food consumption, maybe have weigh-ins and track their body fat, and start having classes in, oh, dance, singing; can any of them play a musical instrument?”

“We’re a harem, not a choir,” Christel noted.

“Yes, but you said that one of our purposes is to keep Paul happy,” Megan said. “Is he going to be happier with a bunch of roly-poly slugs? Or a group of girls that are healthy, happy, in good condition and maybe can entertain him other than on their backs?”

Christel made a moue and shook her head.

“Think of it this way,” Megan said, carefully. “It’s not going to cost anything more, except maybe for some instruments, and it’s going to look good. Look, I can dance for Paul, at least. And I can teach the other girls, if there’s no one else.”

“You?” Christel asked.

Megan stood up and took off her robe, uncomfortably aware that it left her entirely naked, and went through a series of simple dance steps, lifting on a toe, turning, bending. She wasn’t about to show her advanced moves, much less katas, which looked very much like a dance when she did them.

“Me,” Megan said when she was finished. She picked up the robe and put it back on, belting it tightly. “Not to mention stretching exercises and gymnastics. I’m sure that Paul gets tired of the missionary position all the time.”

“Well, you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” Christel said cattily and then sighed. “You do have a point, though. And you’re not the only one who can dance, girl. In fact, you don’t dance all that well at all.”

“No, I don’t,” Megan said, meekly.

“I’ll see about it,” Christel said.

Megan had been working all day, skipping lunch in fact, getting the books in order. She had broken out most of the items by category and had started to get a handle on in-flow and out-flow. Some of it still didn’t add up, but she wasn’t sure if that was Christel’s execrable bookkeeping or something else. But she realized that she was so tired of staring at columns, and so hungry, that she wasn’t making any more sense, so she stood up and walked out into the main room.

Christel, once Megan had demonstrated she knew what she was doing, had been spending most of her time in the main room. Ashly had been displaced from the position of prominence and Christel spent her time chatting and playing Yahtzee while Ashly sulked off to the side.

As Megan walked out and headed for her room, she heard her name called.

“Megan,” Mirta said. “I’ve got your outfit finished.”

“Let’s… see it in my room if you don’t mind,” Megan said, gesturing at the corridor.

Mirta merely nodded and headed down to the room where Shanea, inevitably, was ensconced. Megan noted that her friend was one of the ones who needed to go on a diet. Since Megan had befriended her, mysteriously larger portions had made it down the table. Amber was in there as well, knitting something golden this time.

“Here it is,” Mirta said, holding up two pieces of cloth that together might have made one decent skirt.

The top was at first glance a simple halter, with very brief coverage of the breasts; the triangular fabric might just cover the nipples. But the fabric was of some odd material that changed color as the light hit it. Small as it was, it was quite spectacular. The “skirt” that accompanied it, in the same fabric, was brief to the point of scandal in any other environment. Short, very short, and slit up either side.

“I made you some panties as well,” Mirta said. “But with that, well, even a thong might show.”

“It looks… tight,” Megan said.

“It is tight,” Mirta replied. “I got the outfit you were working on from Shanea for sizing and figuring that you went a little loose, I tightened it up, because…”

“Paul will like it,” Megan said, making a moue of distaste. She slipped off the robe, despite the company, and slipped on the skirt, which had two buttons in the back. She found it easier to slide it around to the front to button because it was tight. The buttons gave no sign of straining loose, but she had a struggle to get them in the holes. She also had to pull it down onto her hips to maintain any shred of decency. The halter top was tight as well and as she had feared the tiny triangles barely covered her nipples.

“Oh, that’s… lovely!” Shanea said.

“Pretty,” Amber said, looking up at her with a fixed expression. “So pretty.”

“Just right,” Mirta said, pushing Megan’s breasts up into the halter; the bottom of her breasts showed a goodly bit of rounded flesh. “Perfect.”

“I think I’d rather wear a robe!” Megan said.

“I think that Paul would rather you wear this,” Mirta replied. “And Christel will certainly have no problems with it. The other girls will be clamoring for one just like it.”

“I want one,” Shanea blurted. “But I don’t have anything to trade!”

“I’ll see if I can fit you into my busy schedule,” Mirta replied. “Now that I’ve got the pattern in mind, turning more out won’t be all that difficult. Some… small, strong stitches involved, but not hard ones.”

“I can’t wear this out of here,” Megan complained. “Every time I sit down I’ll show all I’ve got!”

“Not so,” Mirta said, stepping to the side. “The method for sitting is thus. You point your toes and roll down onto your legs.” The woman demonstrated, gracefully sitting without spreading her legs or showing anything she didn’t care to show to the audience.

“Where did you learn that?” Megan asked.

“That’s for me to know, dearie.” Mirta laughed, getting up with almost the reverse motion. “When you sit, you stay in the same position, with your feet tucked under your butt. Nobody gets to see anything you don’t want to show. Drives guys nuts. Try it.”

After a few tries Megan had managed to sit without collapsing or spreading her legs and she realized that it was how Mirta always sat down. It was both elegant and, she suspected, alluring. A graceful and sexy motion. Grand.

“Now, go show it off,” Mirta said.

“I’m not going to parade around in this… this…”

“Go show it to Christel,” Mirta said, definitely. “You will too ‘parade’ around in it. You’re my walking advertisement. Get out there and advertise.”

“You evil old…”

“Ah, ah,” Mirta smiled. “Me?” she added in a little girl voice. “I’m just… just a little girl…”

“Right,” Megan said, facing the door. “And I’m Sheida Ghorbani.”

She strode down the corridor and into the main room, walking over to where Christel was playing Yahtzee. The other girls watched her and she had to admit that based on their reaction she had to be the most hated girl in the harem. Many of them had some minor form of lingerie or panties and bras. But the outfit Megan sported was, to those, what a nuclear weapon is to a firecracker. It was the sexual equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

She stopped in front of Christel and pirouetted in place.

“Will this do?” she asked, sharply.

“It will do very well,” Christel replied with a nod. “I’m sure Paul will love it.”

“As am I,” Megan said tightly.

“Dinnertime,” Christel said. “Why don’t you go get your… friends. And put a robe on; that thing is scandalous.”

Megan went back to the room and stripped off the outfit, replacing it with a robe. She felt more dressed with a robe on. She felt more dressed naked.

“It was a hit,” she told Mirta sourly. “Christel’s going to want one.”

“I might make her one,” Mirta replied, with a malicious smile. “And she’ll never understand why she doesn’t look as good as you do in it. But the next outfit I’m going to make is for Amber.”

“Amber?” Shanea said. “Why?”

“Because I want to.” Mirta grinned. “You’ll see. And one for you, dear, of course.”

“One that will suit her?” Megan asked. “Dinnertime, by the way.”

“Oh, yes,” Mirta replied, as they walked out the door. “Definitely one that will suit her. And I think that Amber’s will cover her almost completely. And make Paul want to tear down walls. The human body is a lovely thing, but never so lovely as when properly covered. It’s using clothes to create a mystery that is the truest art.”

“Not much mystery in what you made for me,” Megan said, sourly.

“Enough.” Mirta smiled. “Just enough and no more.”

When they reached the dining room the food still hadn’t been served and Megan sat down with a puzzled frown.

“Girls, listen up,” Christel said, clapping her hands for attention as Mirta sat down. “Starting tonight, you will be served individually. And for tonight all the portions will be equal. As soon as I can obtain a scale, all of you will be weighed. Those of you who are overweight, and you know who you are, will be placed on reduced servings.”

“What?” Karie said.

“Yes, Karie, you’re one of them, and Shanea and Demetra. But we’re also going to start having classes in dance and exercise. They will be mandatory for most.” There was a general unhappy muttering at that and she looked around at the group with a hard smile.

“Paul maintains a harem, not a palace for lazy slugs. It is about looking good for Paul and, frankly, most of you are starting to look a bit soft in the middle. That is going to change.” She waved to the kitchen and the servants began carrying out plates that had been pre-served. Megan carefully kept her eyes on her plate and tried very hard not to smile. One change effected.

CHAPTER FIVE

After another week, Megan had the books in order and Paul still hadn’t put in an appearance. And after struggling for that week, maintaining things became easy enough that she got bored again. But she still didn’t go out of the room, much, preferring to use the excuse of “keeping up the books” to maintain some relative privacy. She was also exempt from the regular exercise and dance classes, but she kept in shape by working out in the office. Everything was on track except one: The kitchen books still wouldn’t add up; the harem was paying for at least twenty percent more food than was being consumed.

After going over the numbers repeatedly she reached the point that she was positive it wasn’t just sloppiness. Which meant she knew darned well where it was going. The problem was what to do with the information. She could inform Christel in which case the head cook could look to being on the wrong end of a Change. Or she could manage it more… obliquely.

She was also fascinated by some of the items available for order through the kitchens. There weren’t only foods and spices but cookware, distilling materials, cleaning solvents…

An idea was starting to tick over in her head one afternoon when the door opened and Christel waved at her imperiously.

“Megan, go to your room and put on that lovely outfit Mirta made for you,” Christel said, smiling viciously. “There’s someone you need to meet. Again.”

“Ah, the washing girl,” Paul said, smiling. He was no longer the old man he had appeared, but the face was the same. As was the long hair that hung in lanky strands. But his clothes were clean and finely made. He had the look of being about two hundred, slightly below normal height. Megan suddenly realized that she had met him before, years ago. She truly hoped that he would never remember the meeting.

“Her name is Megan,” Christel said. “Megan Sung.”

It was the name she’d used after the Fall. She didn’t know why she had changed it; it wasn’t like her father was well known. But, then again, the sort of people who would react to the name “Travante” were precisely the sort she didn’t want interested in her.

“How have you been, Megan?” Paul said, holding out his hand. “You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“Oh, I am much better, sir,” Megan said, not taking the hand but instead dropping in a curtsey that kept her legs modestly crossed. She stayed in the curtsey for a moment then straightened back up, not meeting his eye.

“What a delightful young lady,” Paul said, running an eye over her like a horseman with a likely looking filly. “Beautiful bone structure. Love the outfit.”

“Thank you, milord,” Megan simpered as well as she could. Let him choose one of the others, let him choose one of the others…

“I think we should get to know one another better,” Paul said, taking her hand and leading her to the room reserved for him.

“Yes, milord,” Megan said, trying to sound happy and failing miserably. She bit her lip and the last thing she saw before the door closed was Ashly looking at her with an expression of malicious delight.

“The first time is always hard,” Paul said, raising himself off of her and rolling to the side. “It will get better.”

Megan rolled onto her side, away from him, and curled into a fetal position, clenching her hands so hard that her nails dug into the palms of her hands.

I will not attempt to kill him, she thought. It’s not possible. He’s protected. I’m in a prison in a fortress. It will only get me killed.

“It was… wonderful, milord,” she heard herself say.

“That is, in fact, a lie,” Paul said, neutrally. “But I appreciate the effort.” He patted her on her rump. “Get up. Clean yourself. It will help you feel better. And it will get easier with time. What you do here is of great importance. You are a fine group of potential mothers. Good genes should be perpetuated and here you are protected from harm to you and your children. Understand your importance and it makes the life much more pleasurable.”

“Of course, milord,” Megan bit out. I’m supposed to be thankful for being a well-kept broodmare. Gee.

Paul rolled to his feet and pulled on his clothes than tapped her on the rump again.

“Get up,” he said, not unkindly. “I will give you a few moments to yourself but then you will come out of this room.”

When he had left Megan grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to her stomach, fighting against tears. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. She wanted, oh, how she wanted to escape. But neither tears nor screams would do anything. As she lay there, feeling fluids trickling down the inside of her thigh, she had a clear vision of her hands pushing Paul’s head into a bucket. And she realized that the bucket was not filled with water, for all that the liquid was clear.

With that thought, she rolled to her feet, her face hard and her eyes like agate. She walked to the silver basin and carefully washed herself, then, recomposing her features, she donned her “outfit” and walked out the door.

“Marlene, thank you for meeting with me,” Megan said, sweetly.

She was sitting in the dining room by the door to the kitchen when the head cook came in. The cook was a slightly overweight, older woman with piggy eyes buried in her flesh.

“What do you want?” the cook asked, brusquely. “I’ve got work to do.”

“I know, I know; it must be terrible slaving over a hot stove all day,” Megan said. There were enough cooks on the payroll, if they all existed, to do the work three times over. She doubted that the fat old bitch had been near a stove in a year.

“I work for my keep,” the cook snarled. “I don’t make it on my back.”

“Well, we all do what we can.” Megan sighed. “Speaking of doing what we can, I just had a couple of teensy questions. Nothing really.”

“Oh?” Marlene said, suddenly wary.

“I was just looking at this item for meat last week,” Megan said, her brow furrowing in clear perplexity. “You see, based upon what we’ve worked out in the individual diets, there should have been seven kilos of beef used in last Friday’s meal. And it appears that we paid for ten kilos…”

“Well, there’s wastage,” the cook said, huffily. “I mean, we order it on the bone. Bones, gristle cut out, you ladies have to have everything perfect…”

“And I know you make your own noodles, aren’t they delicious? But there’s another ten kilos of flour listed as used. And, by golly, the servings should have only worked out to five kilos. I’m just so perplexed!”

“You had better get unperplexed, missy,” the cook said, nastily. “You have no idea what can end up in your plate.”

“Oh, I rather think I do,” Megan said. “I rather think I do. And anything… untoward would be easy enough for Paul to detect if one of his concubines turned up dead. And he would wonder, wouldn’t he? Let’s just drop the bullshit, okay? I’ve been over the books for the last several months. You’re not just skimming, you’re stealing a council member blind. What do you think his response would be?”

The cook just looked at her, her jaw working in anger.

“Now, let’s be friends, shall we?” Megan said, after a moment to let the cook consider her position. “I see no reason to cut in on your little… peccadilloes.”

“What?” Marlene replied, suspiciously.

“I don’t, frankly, care if you steal that bastard’s shorts,” Megan said, making the point clear. “On the other hand, there are a few things I need. And I see no reason that you can’t get them for me.”

“Oh.”

“If you’re stealing and I catch you out, I’m a hero,” Megan said, smiling sweetly. “On the other hand, if you’re stealing and at the same time slipping me things I need, while I’m covering you up in the books, that makes us… partners.”

“What do you need?” Marlene said, after a moment. “And is this…”

“It’s not going to cut in on your take at all,” Megan assured her. “But you really need to be a bit more discreet. I can point out some areas that are easier, and more profitable, to cover up than others.”

“Okay,” Marlene replied. “What do you need? And how are you going to get it past the Gorgon?”

“I’ll handle Christel,” Megan replied, handing the cook a sheet of paper. “Here’s a list. I’ll also handle the books on those items. We’ll just list most of them as… spice.”

“Christel,” Megan said as she was carefully walking the older woman though the last week’s receipts, “you know what this harem needs that it doesn’t have?”

“Dildos?” Christel said snippily. She had been spending less and less time on the books and liked that state of affairs. But she wasn’t going to entirely trust “the new girl” either.

“No, easier to just get cucumbers from the kitchens,” Megan replied with a chuckle. “No, it needs perfume.”

“Perfume?” Christel said, then smiled. “Yes, as a matter of fact it does. I think Paul would like that.”

“Perfume and cosmetics. I know all the girls are gorgeous, but there’s nothing that a little cosmetics can’t improve upon. The problem is, I talked to Marlene and there aren’t any suppliers available.”

“Paul could probably find one,” Christel said, thoughtfully. “Or just ken it.”

“He probably could,” Megan admitted. “But wouldn’t it be better as a surprise?”

“Yes,” the older woman replied. “But you said there aren’t any suppliers.”

“There aren’t. But the raw materials are available.” Megan pointed out. “In fact, there’s some indication that most early perfumes were invented in harems. Still-rooms used to be common in them.”

“Stills?” Christel said, cautiously. “One of the reasons we only serve a little wine is that I could easily see us all getting to be drunks…”

“A still can be used for much more than making alcohol,” Megan said, shaking her head. “What you do is you get raw materials for the perfume and you distill them down, concentrate them. That’s how you get the concentrated scent. By the time of the Fall they were mostly based on nannites, but this is the old way of doing it.”

“How do you know that?”

“I said I was studying numbers,” Megan replied. “That wasn’t… entirely accurate. What I was studying was chemistry. Early perfume production was part of the history I audited. I can make some simple cologne just from stuff available in the kitchen. But with a few other items, nothing expensive or complicated, I can make some really nice perfume. I think. I know the theory, anyway.”

She looked up and saw the older woman eyeing her warily.

“Look, I’m talking about some rose hips to start, okay?” Megan said, shrugging. “I promise I won’t be making brandy in my spare time. If I do anything out of line you can always zap me, right? There are two spare rooms. All I need is a table, some glassware, a catchment for runoff and some spices. Perfume, scented candles. I can’t sew, but this I can do.”

“Okay,” Christel said, suspiciously. “But if you’re trying something…”

“For the last time,” Megan said, letting a note of anger enter her voice. “We’re in an impregnable fortress in the middle of Paul’s territory. I’m not even sure where we are except up in the mountains. And I’m well fed and well housed. Running away would be stupid, impossible and pointless. I like my brain the way it is. And, let me note, so do you. Otherwise you’re going to have to manage all this damned accounting. At this point the last thing either of us wants is me brain-drained.”

“True,” Christel chuckled. “Are you going to have enough time for this and all your other duties?”

“Yes, I will,” Megan sighed. “All of them. Including…”

“Keeping Paul happy.”

Cosmetics turned out to be easier than perfume. There were people who were making the former and if it was available anywhere in Ropasa it was available to “Paul’s Girls.” The expense of the material made her blanch when she got the bill, but in time she’d find a better, meaning less expensive, source. But within a week she had a supply of rouges, mascara, lip gloss and powders that the girls cheerfully dug into with abandon. So much abandon that she knew immediately that she had to find another source.

Perfume was another matter; no one seemed to be making it anywhere in Ropasa. Certainly not commercially. She felt a twinge of anger at being trapped in this damned harem; if she was back on the outside she could make a killing in the perfume business. But needs must and she instead ordered the materials she needed to make it, including a good workbench.

The material for the table was brought into the harem by Changed. They were not the half-wild orcs that made up the bulk of Paul’s legions but heavy-bodied, dull-witted beings wearing gray smocks that took no note of the women who shrieked and hugged the walls as they came through carrying balks of timber and tools.

They were followed by another Change. He was short with preternaturally long arms and legs. He did notice the women but only to wink at them and leer as he followed the bearers into the room set aside for the perfumery.

“I want it over there,” Megan said, pointing to a wall that got a decent amount of light.

“Build it, build it,” the shorter Change said. “Sammy build it he will!”

The Change started pulling out tools with what appeared to be complete randomness but he worked incredibly quickly, all the time singing and humming to himself. In less than thirty minutes he had taken the raw wood and constructed a heavy-duty table without using a single nail or glue.

Megan watched the proceedings with interest. The Change had never bothered to measure anything but the table appeared to be perfectly level and was extremely sturdy. As he was sanding the top she shook it, but it barely budged.

“Build!” Sammy yelled. “Solid. Live longer than Sammy it will!” He smoothed the top as the bearers left the room to another cacophony of screams, then began applying lacquer to the whole thing.

“Well, Sammy, you did a very nice job here,” Megan said. “I’m going to go see about some glassware.”

“Build!”

She thought about the construction as she walked back to the dining room. Paul wasn’t only building legions of fighters, but other specialties. She suddenly had a vision, as if she had been there, of rank upon rank of “Sammies” specialized for metalwork turning out weapons and armor for the legions. Of more Sammies building ships and engines of war.

She wondered, if Paul’s faction won this war, if this was the fate of mankind. If, with the unlimited power and knowledge of Mother available, the New Destiny faction would turn everyone into narrow, specialized, insects. What, then, would be the fate of Megan “Sung”? Would she be specialized for providing sex to a wretched old pervert, so far beyond the bounds of sanity that he thought the women of his harem were happy to be here?

In all honesty she knew that most of the women in the harem were happy to be here. The life was far easier than anything since the Fall. And, as Marlene was only too happy to point out, all you had to do was lie on your back and spread your legs from time to time.

All.

And who was Sammy? Who had he been before he was Changed? What had caused them to Change him into this… builder-goblin? Had he angered some council member, one of their staff? Or had he simply been chosen at random. “Five orcs, next one’s a builder…”

She shuddered at the thought and, deep inside, admitted that maybe there were worse things than having to fake enjoying being raped every few weeks. Even if the person they happened to no longer knew it.

CHAPTER SIX

Megan was in the still-room trying to convince rose water not to boil when Shanea came in.

“Paul’s here,” Shanea whispered.

“I guess I should go get dressed,” Megan said, looking down at her spotted robe.

“And fix your hair,” Shanea replied, pulling at her arm.

Megan turned down the oil lamp and went up the corridor. Other girls were rushing past her but she ignored them. Once in her room she stripped off the robe and started to pick up another.

“You probably should wear… you know,” Shanea said, picking up the few decimeters of material.

“I probably should,” Megan groaned. “God help me.”

“Have you seen the one that Mirta made for Amber?” Shanea asked, helping her into the skirt.

“No, is it as bad as this?”

“Covers practically everything,” Shanea answered. “In gauze. I don’t think she’s wearing it, though. And Mirta’s not done with mine.”

“I need to talk to Mirta about the fabric closet,” Megan said, making a mental note. “I think she probably has some suggestions.”

“Probably,” Shanea said, taking Megan’s hair down from the bun she’d had it in and brushing it out. “It’s snarled.”

“I can’t keep it down around the flames; I’d end up burning it.” Megan sighed and winced as the tangles were pulled out. “That will have to do.”

“Everyone else is made up,” Shanea pointed out.

“This will have to do,” Megan stated.

The two girls walked down the corridor to the main room. Paul was still there, talking with Christel, who did not look happy. Paul looked, if anything, worse than the last time they had seen him and Megan noticed that his hands were worn and almost white. It looked, impossible as that seemed, as if he’d been washing clothes by hand, probably with lye soap.

“Ah, Megan,” Paul said when she walked in the room. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Megan has many projects at the moment,” Christel said, subtly shifting to be between them.

“Surely none that require her attention right now,” Paul replied, walking around Christel to take Megan’s hand. “You look lovely.”

Most of the girls in the room had made heavy use of the cosmetics Megan had procured and had donned their best outfits. She got vile looks as Paul led her into the room.

This time she tried very hard to if not enjoy the act, at least appear to. After the first “session” she had had nightmares three nights running. The worst was when she awoke with the face of her father over her. That had brought her as close as she had ever gotten to suicide. But she had tried to mentally prepare herself for the next time, knowing that with no way to avoid it, the better she could make it for herself, the better off she would be.

However, there was no foreplay or even time for her to prepare herself. Paul took her practically as soon as the door was closed, pushing her to the floor and thrusting into her, hard. She tried to loosen up, to moisten up, moaning, badly, as if she enjoyed it. But he came quickly and then rolled off of her, pulling on his pants quickly and not looking at her.

“I guess you like the outfit,” Megan said. He’d pulled the halter away from her breasts and she’d managed to get the skirt out of the way of any outflow. But the outfit had never really come off.

“Maybe too much,” Paul said, getting up and starting to retrieve his shirt.

As she wiped herself she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Paul,” she said. “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied, dismissively.

“Was it me?” she asked with a plaintive note in her voice.

“No, sweetling,” he said, sitting down by her. “It’s just work.”

“You look tense,” she said. “Lie down.”

“Why?”

“On your stomach,” she replied, pushing him over. She rolled over and straddled his back, the skirt hiking up out of her way. She thought for a moment of simply hammer-driving his upper vertebrae, but she wasn’t sure if his healing nannites would cure it. And whoever took over from him was sure to kill her, even if she succeeded. Instead, she took her thumbs and started digging them into his back, rolling upward with strong, firm, strokes.

“God that feels good,” Paul exclaimed. He pillowed his head on his hands and rolled his back up. “Thank you.”

“Now, what’s so troubling at work?” she asked. “Don’t you dare tense up on me,” she added, pushing at the muscle that had bunched at her words until it had eased back down.

“It’s nothing I think you’d be interested in,” Paul said.

“Probably not,” Megan said. “But verbalizing a problem is quite often a way for the unconscious to find a solution. You talk, I’ll massage. Call it division of labor.”

Paul laughed at that but was quiet for a while as she continued massaging his back.

“Minjie Jiaqi’s aide killed him and took his Key,” Paul said, finally. “He’s willing to join with New Destiny, but he’s putting too many conditions on it for me to feel that I can trust him. Minjie had been a friend for years. I don’t feel happy just letting the son of a bitch get away with it.”

“Good God,” Megan said. “I hope the Coalition doesn’t know.”

“They don’t,” Paul replied. “We have a very good source close to their Council. But the problem is…”

“You’re tensing up again,” Megan warned. “Talk, don’t tense.”

“The problem is that if he feels he can go his way, the others will too,” Paul snarled.

“Calm,” Megan said. “Shuuuh. Talk it out.”

“I’m holding a tiger by the tail, honey,” Paul said, rolling out from under her and sitting up. “The council members that side with me don’t understand the importance. Really, only Minjie ever did. Celine wanted to be able to make her damned abominations. Chansa… Chansa just wants power, direct power. The kind that the Council couldn’t really wield before the Fall. Reyes has his… girls.” Paul stopped and looked to the side, shaking his head. “Every time I come in here I think of the… the horror that they are suffering and it just makes me want to throttle that perverted bastard.”

“You need some more massage, Mister Paul, sir,” Megan said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him facedown again. “So how do you keep them in line?”

“Subtly,” Paul muttered. “For one thing, all their guards are bound to me. They didn’t notice at first and since they have I’ve been quite pleasant but very definite about it. The thing is, if one of them decides to defy me, I can take them out at any time. Furthermore, it’s my guards who hold the power plants and my word that locks the shields. And I’m very careful to remain shielded myself. When I’m in here, no one can enter or leave and there’s a shield up to ensure that. But this Patala bastard had all my guards killed and refuses to have them replaced. He doesn’t have access to much power; I could destroy him in an instant. But I’m afraid if I do, it will cause the others to react.”

“How was Minjie killed?” Megan asked. She lay down on his back, pressing her breasts into his muscles and rolling them around. “Now, doesn’t that feel better?”

“Oh, very much so,” Paul said, rolling over.

She mounted him, smiling sweetly, trying hard to enjoy it enough to get moist and started moving up and down. To her surprise she actually did start to enjoy herself, at least partially because she was looking at his unguarded neck. She clamped down on him and leaned in, stroking up and down, imagining cracking his hyoid bone and watching him choke to death on his own blood. When she realized she was finding sexual pleasure in the thought, she tried to think of something, anything, else.

“How was Minjie killed?” she asked, panting.

“You want to know now?” Paul gasped.

“Um, hmmm.”

“Binary toxin,” Paul said. “Part in his food, part in his wine. By the time the nannites could react, he was already effectively dead.” He rolled her over and began thrusting until he came and collapsed onto her, burying his face against her neck.

“Kill him,” she said, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back to where she could look in his eyes. “Have him assassinated. Quietly. Then make a deal with his aide. Don’t fuck with me, I won’t kill you.”

“How?” Paul asked as he drew out of her.

She knew the answer but wasn’t about to tell him.

“That should be easy to figure out,” Megan said. “Have Celine do it.”

“Hmmm…”

“There,” she said, using a corner of a towel to wipe herself, “don’t you feel better?”

“Yes,” he replied, kissing her on the lips and running his tongue into her mouth. He needed to use a toothbrush and he smelled. “Thank you.”

“I live to serve,” she said, running her hands over the back of his neck. She knew damned well how she would kill this unnamed usurper. The only problem was escaping after she did it.

Paul returned over the next three days in quick succession, each time looking more worn and wan. Each time he chose at least one of the girls, sometimes two. Twice in the three days it was Megan, to her well-hidden disgust.

After the quick succession of visits Paul didn’t come back for two weeks and then another long pause of almost a month. The last visit he bedded Ashly and Velva, one of Ashly’s little clique, giving them something to talk about for days.

This pattern continued for months. From time to time one of the girls would begin showing signs of being pregnant and after a brief check by Christel she would be whisked out of the harem and into the confinement quarters.

Each month, Megan secretly prayed that she wouldn’t be one of them. If she was taken out of the harem, away from her “experiments,” away from the books that at least gave her a few hours of work during the week, if she was simply cooped up and fed like some damned brood mare, she was sure she would go completely insane.

She wondered, as the time passed, about the pregnancy rate. She had spent enough time on the outside to know that farmers’ wives spent most of their time “knocked up.” But over a six-month period, only two of the girls tested pregnant. A similar group on the outside would be at least an order of magnitude more efficient as “breeders.”

But given Paul’s infrequent visits, the rate was not so surprising. A couple of visits a month, one maybe two of the girls “taken” at apparent random and there was no way that the rate was going to be much higher. And he was getting to be in terrible shape. She had to wonder if his nannites were bothering to maintain his sperm count. It was just another of Paul’s studied blindnesses. He had a “duty” to perform, even if he was performing it badly. The fact that this “duty” happened to be sex with voluptuous young females, none of whom had a say in the matter, was quite beside the point, of course. It was just another proof that Paul was absolutely crackers.

But, as the time went on, despite the many things she now had to occupy her, Megan looked forward to his infrequent visits. The disgust was starting to fade and that terrified her. By the sixth month of captivity, she was beginning to look forward to the act, to the sex. It no longer felt like rape and she was horrified that she was actually starting to enjoy Paul’s company. He was smart, very smart, and when he did bother to talk he was interesting. The chance to know something of what was happening outside the harem was delightful. To listen to the intrigues that were going on among the New Destiny faction and, from time to time, to hear about the actions of the Freedom Coalition that fought against them.

What was even more horrible was, she began to enjoy him as a bed partner and he definitely seemed to prefer her to the other girls. The dreams continued but more and more they tended to be erotic rather than nightmares. Or, they were nightmares, because the dreams never really changed; she’d see his face above her, taking her. But the fear and anger and disgust drained out of them as time went by. The helplessness was still there, but something in her was changing. When she had him at her relative mercy, she no longer looked at him as a target. The plans were still there, remaining in the background, waiting the proper time, but she no longer thought of killing him when he was inside her. She wanted him. And she hated herself for it.

“Here it is,” Megan said, holding up a small bottle filled with yellow liquid.

The still-room was now filled with odd scents, a complex of strong musk, rose water and an undertinge of sulfur. Ceramic bowls bubbled over charcoal braziers and a small complex of distilling equipment dripped liquid into a small glass jar. The end of the table was covered in a pile of spices and several sealed bottles were scattered around them.

Christel took the bottle and removed the stopper, sniffing at the liquid.

“Oh,” she said, tipping some of the liquid out and rubbing it on her inner wrists. “Wonderful!” she exclaimed, sniffing at her wrist.

“It’s not very potent,” Megan noted. “The scent will wear off quickly. I need a secondary distilling apparatus to get it to be real perfume as opposed to a very light cologne.”

“Can you do that?” Christel asked. She sniffed at her wrist and noticed that the scent had already begun to fade.

“Oh, yes,” Megan said. “But it will have to be ordered from a glassmaker. The cost is well within our… well I’ve got it listed as ‘fripperies’ budget. The cloth to make clothes, board games, that sort of thing. We haven’t really touched the budget on that. And the glassware isn’t all that expensive.”

“All right,” Christel said, sniffing at her wrist again and touching some of the cologne behind her ears.

“Um. I’d sort of hoped that I could… use this to trade,” Megan said. “I can’t sew and I was hoping I could trade this with the other girls. Obviously, you have first dibs.”

“Obviously,” Christel smirked. “But that’s fine. Just don’t start too many fights, okay?”

“Okay.”

Christel looked around the room and then under the workbench.

“What is that big bucket?” she asked.

“That’s sort of the junk left over,” Megan said. “I’m going to have to have it hauled out sooner or later, but there are two hogsheads for it. They’re plastic lined, so they won’t leak.”

“Okay,” Christel replied, looking around and shaking her head. “You really do surprise me, Megan.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” the girl said as the older woman left the room. “I certainly hope so.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Megan was frowning at the latest bill for cosmetics when Paul suddenly appeared in the office. She let out a slight shriek and the paper she was holding flew across the room.

“Jesus, Paul!” she snapped. “Ding a bell when you’re porting or something!”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, then frowned at her, looking at the papers scattered across the desk. “What are you doing in here?” he added severely, the frown creating a furrow between his eyebrows. He had lost weight even in the last few weeks and was so thin his ribs showed. His clothes weren’t as elegant, either. Actually, he looked like a walking corpse.

“I’m doing the accounts these days,” Megan said, waving at the papers and worrying about the change in his appearance. Paul dying from malnutrition was not part of her plans. “And other things.”

“What ‘other things’?” Paul asked, dangerously. There was an almost feral light in his eyes as he stared at her. “And why are you doing the accounts?” he asked, harshly.

“The ‘other things’ is making perfume,” she said, coming gracefully to her feet and walking over so he could smell the underside of her wrist.

“Nice,” Paul said, mollified. “You make it?”

“I have to.” She frowned in turn, returning to the desk, and sitting in the graceful motion Mirta had taught her. “Do you know that there’s not a single perfumer in all of Ropasa? Saving me, of course. You want to make some money instead of spending it for a change?”

“Making perfume?” Paul snorted.

“Perfume was a major trade item in preindustrial days, Paul,” Megan replied, hotly. “Given what I’m paying for cosmetics for the girls, I could make a killing if I was still on the outside. Setting up a perfumery would be expensive, but I’d recoup the investment in a year!”

“You’re not getting out of here, Megan,” Paul said, kindly, squatting by the desk. “You have more important work to do. Don’t… don’t make the mistake that some have made.”

“Paul, I’m not trying to escape, okay?” Megan replied, wondering and fearing at the truth in the statement. “I don’t even know where we are. Okay, I got up to a window, that I couldn’t fit through, and looked out. We’re in a castle. Big surprise. We’re in a castle on a mountain. We’re in a castle on a mountain that has a valley down below and other mountains in the distance. Paul, I could be anywhere in Ropasa, okay? And I got enough of a look to see that there are about a billion Changed guarding the castle. There’s a town in the valley. Why do I think it’s probably crawling with your forces? Paul, I’m not trying to run away. I’m just saying that you’re leaving money on the table, here!”

Paul looked at her for a moment and then laughed, finally sitting down on a pillow, some of the tension going out of his face.

“You’ve changed,” he said, still chuckling.

“What do you mean?” she asked, cautiously.

“Where’s the meek little Megan that I found by the side of the stream?” Paul said. “Meek, scared little Megan. She’s disappeared and been replaced by a coldhearted business woman who wants to make a killing in the perfume business.”

“Little Megan is still here,” she said, smiling. She shook her head at his appearance, though. “Paul, what have you been doing to yourself? You look like a damned ghost. How long has it been since you’ve laughed?”

“Too long,” he admitted, frowning. “The world is such a terrible place right now, Megan. That bitch Sheida and her lackeys…”

“Paul,” Megan said gently. “You need to get some rest.”

“There’s too much to do,” he said, almost wailed. “I’m holding on with both hands, as tight as I can, and I can feel it all slipping away!”

“Paul,” Megan said, severely. “Go take a shower, maybe a bath. No, wait…” She thought for a moment and then nodded. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere. Promise?”

“Promise,” Paul said. “But why?”

“Why do you come here, Paul?” Megan asked.

“Because I have a duty…” Paul started to say.

“And we have a duty, too,” Megan replied, cutting him off. “More than just to make babies. You’re the most important man in the world, right now. Our duty is to make sure you can do yours, and we’ve clearly been falling down on the job.”

“That’s what Christel says, but…”

“Christel, Schmistel,” Megan snorted. “I’m sorry; she’s good for keeping the girls in line but there’s a reason I’m doing the accounts. Face it, Paul, she’s not the brightest leaf in the tree. I know what you need, and you’re going to get it. So you wait right here.”

She got up and walked into the main room, pointing at Shanea, who was talking to Mirta, and then at Mirta. She walked over to Christel and squatted down.

“Paul is here and he looks awful,” she said to the woman.

“In the office?” Christel said, flustered and getting to her feet. “He’ll want to check the books…”

“I’ll handle it,” Megan said, laying her hand on the woman’s arm. “Let me handle this, okay? He needs rest. You’ve tried your arguments, let me try mine, okay?”

Christel looked at her, and at the door, frowning.

“Christel, I don’t want your job,” Megan said, softly. “I don’t want to try to keep the girls in line. I don’t want to hold the whip. I don’t, okay? But what happens if Paul kills himself from neglect?”

The woman gulped and shook her head. “I don’t know, I suppose…”

“You suppose what?” Megan said, softly but fiercely. “That Chansa would take us under his wing? Not hardly. We’d probably go to Reyes, who goes through women like a shark though a school of fish. Or to service the Changed. Or be Changed. Maybe even turned over to Celine.” The latter council member was the source of most of the monsters that had been created for New Destiny’s war. Most of them had started off as human beings. Under the rules pre-Fall they still were human beings. But nobody who had seen them or heard of them could think of them that way.

“They wouldn’t…” Christel said, desperately.

“Yes they would and you know it,” Megan replied. “So we have to make sure that Paul survives. You were right all along; we’re here for Paul’s needs. But he has more needs than the ‘duty’ to turn up from time to time and inseminate us. And I’m going to prove it to him.”

“Go,” Christel said, finally. “Try it.”

“I will,” Megan replied. “Shanea, Paul is in the office. Go get him. Take… Velva. Take him to the baths. Bathe him, don’t let him do a thing for himself. Don’t have sex with him. If he says he wants to, tell him ‘not now, later, just bathe now.’ Got it?”

“Give Paul a bath,” Shanea nodded, gulping. “Don’t have sex with him, even if he wants it. What if he really wants it?”

“Really tell him, ‘later.’ When you two are done, bring him to his room in a robe,” she turned to Mirta. “Mirta, get Amber into her costume, then go to the kitchen door. Get a platter. Light foods. Bread, fruit, cheese, a small carafe of wine. Then bring it and Amber to Paul’s room.”

“Paul has… problems with Amber,” Christel said. “Are you sure…?”

“I’m sure,” Megan said, looking around. “Girls, go get into your new costumes. When Paul comes through from the bath, I want you to stand up and move in around him saying nice things. Nothing important, just that we’re glad he’s here. Don’t be suggestive. And don’t try to follow him in. If this works out I’m going to keep him here for at least a couple of days.”

She looked at Shanea and Mirta, then gestured. “Go.”

Megan stood for a moment, pulling at her hair, then turned to Christel.

“I have things I need in the workroom,” she said. “If I could…”

“Go,” Christel said, “you’re doing fine. I think you’re right, okay? Girls, what are you doing just sitting around? Up on your feet, go get dressed…”

Megan rushed to her room and grabbed up various pots, then to the abandoned still-room. Shanea had taken to watching the bubbling substances for her but with the girl otherwise occupied Megan turned down the heat on all the crucibles, grabbed some bottles and headed for the toilet.

There were other girls in there jockeying for position in front of the mirrors but Megan shoved one of them out of the way with her hip and carefully deposited her bundles on the countertop.

“Ashly,” she said, looking over at where the blonde was brushing her hair in front of a mirror. “My next-stage perfumes; they’re a little more concentrated. And I need somebody to mix something for me while I do my makeup.”

Ashly looked at her as if she had grown another head, then nodded.

“Okay, Karie, you do the mixing,” Ashly said, walking over to look at the bottles and pots. “What is all that?”

“Perfumes, oils, massage creams,” Megan said. “Karie,” she continued, opening up a jar and dropping a few milliliters of oil onto the cream inside. “Mix that up for me, please?”

“What is it?” Karie asked, sniffing at the contents.

“Almond massage paste, the oil is sesame,” Megan said, looking in the mirror. “I don’t have time,” she muttered, picking up a flat of eye shadow.

“Vita, do her hair,” Ashly said. “Megan, calm down. What the hell is wrong?”

“Did you see him?” Megan asked, turning to the girl. “He looks like a zombie.”

“I saw. Megan, don’t tell me you’re falling in love,” Ashly said, smirking.

Megan closed her eyes and decided not to “explain” to Ashly the facts of life, again. But it was tempting.

“No, I’m not falling in love,” Megan replied, wondering if it was a true reply or not. “But if Paul dies, all this will go away and very bad things will probably happen to us, okay? I don’t want that to happen. Do you?”

“No,” Ashly said. “I hadn’t thought…”

“Neither had Christel,” Megan replied as Vita combed her hair and Ashly took the eye makeup out of her shaking hands.

“What are you going to do?” Vita asked. She was brushing Megan’s hair up and out to make it appear larger.

“I’m going to make him the one happiest son of a bitch in the world,” Megan replied. “I’m going to make him never want to leave. And then I’m going to convince him that, for the good of the world, he shouldn’t for a while. A few days at least. And we’re going to feed him up and primp him and pamper him until he’s able to take care of himself again.”

“And if you can’t?” Ashly asked, brushing on the makeup expertly.

“Lightly, please,” Megan said. “Then we might as well all cut our own throats. Do you want to be turned over to Reyes? Or the Changed?”

“Oh, God!” Vita said.

“Right, so we’d better make him really happy,” Megan said, looking in the mirror. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Ashly replied.

Megan picked up the pile of cloth at her feet and put on the new “outfit” that Mirta had made for her; a bikini bottom with a long “loincloth” front and back and a tight matching top like a sleeveless shirt that completely covered her breasts except for a swelling that dropped out from the bottom. It practically begged to be pushed up.

“You look like… well you look good,” Ashly said.

“You all need to get dressed, too,” Megan replied. “Hurry.”

She picked up the pots, nodding at Karie and Ashly and practically ran out the door.

She dropped the pots in Paul’s room and then ran back to the office, getting the synopsis of all the accounts that she had prepared. She knew that Christel usually covered them with Paul but that had to stop soon, too. There were too many inconsistencies that Christel, bless her black stupid heart, wouldn’t know how to explain.

She piled the reports by the pillows and then assumed a modest position and waited. Before Paul got there Mirta came in with the platter of food and Amber. As Mirta left, she settled Amber in place, positioned the tray of food and wine, with the addition of a carafe of water, which was smart thinking on Mirta’s part, and settled down to wait again. She had barely had time to rearrange the pillows when she heard a murmur from the main room and the door opened up. She could see that the girls were all in their finest and as Paul came in the room she imperceptibly waved at Velva not to follow him in. The girl looked nonplussed but closed the door behind her.

“Megan,” Paul said, weakly, “this is all quite unnecessary…”

“Hush,” Megan said, standing up and unbelting his robe. “Lie down.”

“Megan,” he said, looking at the other two girls.

“Have you bedded each of us?” Megan said, pushing him down.

“Well… yes… but…”

“Hush,” she replied. “No talk. No work talk, no talk at all.”

She rolled him over on his stomach and positioned Shanea and Amber on either side.

“Like this,” she said, taking up a fingerful of the massage cream and dabbing it on his upper arm. She took Amber’s hands and pushed the thumbs into the muscle, working down the arm. “Slowly and firmly, all the way down the arm. You understand? Don’t pinch.”

“Down the arm,” Amber said with a nod, pressing into the flesh of his triceps. “Don’t pinch.”

“Shanea, you do the other arm,” Megan said, rubbing the cream into his back, then beginning to massage.

“Oh that feels good,” Paul murmured.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Paul Bowman,” Megan replied, pressing into his muscles. They were firm from work but he was so skinny. “What happens to us if you die?”

“I won’t die,” Paul said, starting to push up.

“Don’t you dare get up,” Megan said, sternly. “We’ve barely gotten started.”

She worked his back as the other girls worked on his arms and shoulders, then the three of them worked down his legs. As they massaged he began to relax and at one point gave a faint snore. He started at that and began to rise.

“And you haven’t been getting enough sleep apparently,” Megan said, pushing him back down. By then they’d worked most of the way down his legs and she pushed on him to roll over. She began massaging his pectorals and nodded downward at Shanea.

Shanea looked at her with a happy grin and slid downward, taking him in her mouth.

“Megan!” he said, his eyes flying open and his arms coming up.

“No, Shanea,” Megan grinned. “Now lie there and enjoy.”

“This isn’t right,” Paul said, lying back anyway. “People are starving and…”

“And if you die, who will care about them?” Megan asked. “Chansa? Celine?”

“You have a point,” Paul admitted.

She slid over and propped his head in her lap, then gestured at the platter. Amber had to think about it for a moment but then her eyes lit up and she slid the platter over, taking a plum from it and offering it to Paul.

Megan picked up a loaf of bread, still warm from the ovens, and broke off a piece. As soon as Paul was finished with the plum she handed him the bread and he tore into that as if he were starving.

“Softly,” she said. “Slowly. You need to build your strength back up. And I’ll tell you something, Paul Bowman, you are not leaving this… building until you are looking better than when you came in. And you had better be back soon for more pampering.”

“This isn’t right,” Paul muttered, but he also didn’t try to rise.

“My neck’s getting tired,” Shanea admitted. “You never give me enough practice at this, Paul.”

“See?” Megan said, trying not to either laugh or cry. “You’ve been neglecting Shanea shamelessly, forcing her to lose the best of her arts.”

“Oral sex does not get babies made,” Paul pointed out.

“Babies won’t get made, or have a protector, if you don’t take care of yourself,” Megan said, ruthlessly. “Amber, can you remember…?” She pointed to where Shanea was idly stroking at his member.

“Yes,” Amber said, moving down to replace the other girl. As she started, Paul groaned and reached out a hand to her.

“Amber,” he said, sadly. “Of all the things I’ve done, I feel the worst about you.”

Worse than throwing the world into barbarism? Megan thought, surprised at the sudden intensity of her anger.

“I think she’s probably happier this way,” was all she said. She picked up another piece of bread as Shanea snuggled into his side.

“Sometimes the caged nightingale won’t sing,” Paul murmured stroking the hair of the woman who was fellating him. “Did you know she was a… friend before the Fall?”

“Like Christel?” Megan asked, neutrally.

“Yes, I care for our daughter as well. But Amber could not adjust to the confinement I had to impose on her.” He looked up and back at Megan. “You seem to have adjusted well.”

That’s because I’m working on the key to the lock at this very moment.

“Some people can’t handle change,” she replied, picking up another piece of bread and feeding it to him. Shanea had slipped out of her top and was now lightly licking his chest, and he groaned again.

“Amber,” he said, breathlessly.

The suit Mirta had made for the brain-drained girl covered her almost entirely, somewhat like a jumpsuit. But it was made of nearly transparent material that shifted in color and opaqueness as the light hit it, hiding and revealing in apparent randomness. It also had well-placed buttons and ties, and Amber obediently opened up the bottoms and mounted Paul.

He groaned again as she began to stroke and then came quickly.

“This is all too much,” Paul said as Amber lifted herself off. Shanea picked up a cloth and wiped him clean, then ensured the job by lowering herself onto him again, working the area with her tongue, her head moving like a cat.

“This is all too much,” Paul murmured again, then his head lay heavy in her lap.

Shanea looked up with an unhappy expression when she heard the snore.

“Stay here with him,” Megan said, slipping his head off her lap and deftly sliding a pillow under it. “When he wakes up, send Amber to me and give him whatever he needs. No, let me make that clearer, when he wakes up, make sure he comes again, one way or another. But send Amber to me first.”

She picked up the platter and stood up, walking to the door. It was only when she was through it that she realized she was the only one in the room who hadn’t gotten involved in one form of sex or another and she was horrified to find herself regretting it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“How is he?” Christel asked.

“Sleeping,” Megan replied. Mirta took the tray from her and she thanked the seamstress with a nod.

“He never sleeps here!” Christel said.

“He will for the next few days if I’ve got my ducks in a row,” Megan said. “He needs the rest.”

“He’s supposed to be guarded when he’s sleeping,” Christel pointed out. “Did he ask about the accounts?”

“The accounts never came up,” Megan said. “Although other things did,” she added with a grin.

“He’ll never stay,” Christel said. “He has things to do.”

“Look, when he wakes up, first he gets screwed then we feed him,” Megan said, lifting her fingers in order. “We feed him heavily, lots of meat and carbohydrates; he’s bound to be hungry after two bouts of sex. When he’s fed, we get him to come again. Between the food and the sex he’ll fall asleep again. When he wakes up again, we might have an argument out of him. But if we have to, all the girls strip naked and pile on him in a giant scrum of bodies. There’s not a man on earth who will try to run away if he’s got fifteen naked girls holding him down and begging him to take them.”

“You have a point,” Christel said with a grin of her own.

“This is really important,” Megan pointed out, again.

“I know,” Christel replied. “Should somebody else go in there?”

“You know anyone else who has the patience of Amber and Shanea?” Megan asked, raising her eyebrows. “Why do you think I’m not in there. It’s going to be lots of fun watching him snore.”

“What about guards?” Christel asked.

“What about them?” Megan shrugged. “He’s got a PPF; what more does he need?”

“They don’t activate automatically anymore,” Christel pointed out. “He has to summon it. What if someone broke in and tried to assassinate him?”

“Who?” Megan said, exasperated. “They’d have to get through the Changed guards around the castle and then through us, which, admittedly, wouldn’t be hard. But by then he’d be up and prepared. He’s safe, Christel. The only person who is going to kill Paul is Paul himself. And that’s what we’ve got to convince him not to do.”

Megan was in the distillery when Amber came to get her and she hurried at once to Paul’s room, pulling off the robe she’d used to cover her outfit as she went.

When she entered Shanea was already fellating him, stroking up and down hard. Paul looked up in annoyance as the door opened and then in something like shame when he saw who it was.

“I don’t like being watched,” he said, his face wrinkling up in worry.

“Then why don’t I join in?” Megan said, stripping off the panties of her outfit and pushing Shanea aside as she slid onto him.

“Hey, mine,” Shanea said, jokingly.

“Later maybe,” Megan said, sliding up and down on him. Fortunately he’d been premoistened and she found herself rapidly lubricating the area. After a short time she rolled over and pulled him onto her, grabbing his buttocks and digging her fingernails in. He pumped at her hard and rapidly and, as always, came a bit too soon.

“I need to go,” Paul said, getting to his feet.

“Not until you’ve had something to eat,” Megan said, gesturing at his robe. Shanea obediently picked it up and put it on him.

“Come on out in the common room,” Megan said. “The rest of the girls want to see you, too.”

She cleaned up, put on her bottoms and led him out into the common room, settling him on some pillows with girls on either side. The she went to the dining room, dragging Shanea with her.

“Marlene,” she called from beyond the doorway. She had already determined that a field extended out for at least a meter into the dining room. If one of the harem girls moved into the field she got a very unpleasant pain jolt. She wondered if it extended to the other side of the doorway as well. If not, it might be possible to throw yourself through the field. On the other hand, she had no intention of trying to find out.

“You rang?” Marlene said, coming through the door with a tray covered by a silver lid.

“Thank God,” Megan said, taking the tray.

“And I’ve made up another with cakes and other goodies so the girls can eat, too,” Marlene said as a servant came through the doorway. “He might not if they don’t have anything.”

“Thank you,” Megan said, nodding at Shanea to take the second tray.

“I heard why you are doing this,” Marlene said, looking her in the eye.

“Just my duty to help my lord and master,” Megan replied, smiling.

“Mirta says more with a glance than you do with a sentence,” Marlene grinned. “Paul might like a couple of those cakes as well; make sure the girls don’t stuff themselves silly.”

“I will,” Megan said. “Later.”

Megan walked back to where Paul was listening to Ashly tell about her latest triumph in backgammon. It was apparent that he was trying to be interested and failing miserably.

“More food?” he asked, as Megan sat down and opened up the cover.

Marlene had outdone herself. There was some sort of meat covered in a red wine sauce and beautifully sculpted portions of potatoes, lightly grilled tomatoes and a green mash that had been shaped into the form of a flower. Shanea had opened up the other tray and was distributing small, glazed cakes to the girls, one apiece, and whispering that they were supposed to make them last.

“More food,” Megan replied, picking up a fork as he reached for it. “Ah, ah, you don’t do anything for yourself.”

“I can feed myself,” Paul said, but he let her section small bites of the food and shovel them in his mouth. When a few crumbs fell off the fork, Ashly helpfully leaned forward and licked them off of him. By then Christel had turned up with another carafe of chilled wine and fed him sips between bites.

“What are you doing to me?” Paul asked, looking at Megan.

“Pampering you,” Megan said. “We’ll stop when you learn to take care of yourself.”

“Okay, I promise not to learn to take care of myself,” Paul said, laughing as the last of the food was served.

“Good,” Megan said, honestly. Having him here a lot worked perfectly. She unbelted his robe and kissed his chest, licking at it lightly.

“Megan, not here,” he groaned.

“Here,” she said, reaching over and pushing Ashly’s head towards his crotch. She would have grabbed Shanea, not knowing how Ashly would feel about it, but Shanea was just out of reach.

Suddenly she found a breast in her face as Karie sidled up on one side and she backed away as the rest of the girls closed in on him.

She stood up and looked at Christel who winked back at her. So there was more than one plan afoot; good.

Megan backed away from the pile and gestured with her head at Christel.

“How do we get him back to sleep?” Megan whispered.

“Oh, I think when they’re done with him he’ll sleep,” Christel chuckled quietly.

“I think they’ll all sleep,” Megan said, turning her head to the side. Paul wasn’t the only one who was having fun in the pile. Ashly, who was still stroking for all her neck would bear, was sitting on Shanea’s face. And there was no way that Shanea had been forced to the position; she’d been on the other side of the pile to start. But Shanea wasn’t lacking as somebody’s hand was down in her crotch and that led to… maybe Velva…

“It looks like an erotic M.C. Escher painting,” Megan muttered, shaking her head.

“Good work.” Christel chuckled again.

“Sure, laugh,” Megan replied. “I’ve got distillation to attend to.”

“Go for it,” Christel said, stripping off her clothes. “I’ve got better things to do. All this needs is a half a ton of whipped cream and five more males.”

Megan shook her head as Christel writhed into the group. She fully intended to just go back to her, lonely, workroom and keep distilling the various substances she had concocted. But the more she thought about it, the more she watched, just standing there as the pile writhed in a tangle of limbs like some giant fleshy amoeba.

But far more attractive.

“Oh the hell with perfume.” She sighed, aware that she had reached a point where she wasn’t about to go to her workroom. Although the bath had some interest. Finally, she took a deep, shuddering breath, stripped off her clothes and dove into the pile.

Christel was right; it needed whipped cream.

CHAPTER NINE

Paul looked slightly shamefaced when he woke up in a pile of female limbs. But the first thing he saw was Megan, leaning on one arm, watching him.

“Was it just my imagination, or did I see your face in the middle of… this,” he asked, gesturing at the girls, most of whom were still sleeping.

“It wasn’t your imagination,” Megan replied, shrugging.

He watched the way that moved her breasts and shook his head.

“I… didn’t figure you for this sort of thing,” he said, carefully.

“Neither did I,” Megan admitted. “But it was pretty fun once I got over the idea.”

“I have to get up,” Paul said, trying to figure out how to crawl out and disturb the least number of people.

“You are staying here at least one more day,” Megan said, sternly. “You looked like death-on-a-cracker when you came in and you still don’t look good.”

“I’ve got things I have to do,” Paul said. “Besides go to the bathroom.”

“It’s over there.” Megan gestured with her chin. “But you’d better come back out, too.”

“I will,” Paul said.

When he came back out he was wearing one of the standard robes and he sat down on a pillow, turning his head to the side as he contemplated Megan.

“What are you doing awake at…” he paused and obviously consulted the Net, “three a.m.?”

“I get enough sleep in the harem.” Megan shrugged. “I wasn’t tired. I was watching you.”

“Watching me sleep?” Paul asked. “Or watching over me?”

“A little of both. Watching and thinking.”

“How easy it would be to kill me?” Paul asked.

“Damage you, yes,” Megan said. “Kill would be for all practical purposes impossible. And if I even tried, well, the best that might happen is that I’d wind up like Amber. And, hell, I don’t want to kill you. I did at first, but I don’t want to anymore.”

“Do you know why?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Megan replied, sitting up. “Tell me, O Wise One.”

Paul smiled and said something softly.

“Have you ever heard of the Sabine women?” Paul asked.

Megan thought about it for a long time and then shook her head.

“I think my mother mentioned the term,” she said. “But I don’t recall anything about it.”

“Very old legend,” Paul said, taking a sip of wine. “The Romans were short on women so they invited a neighboring tribe, the Sabines, to a festival in honor of the gods. Under a binding truce of course. At the height of the party, the Roman young men took off with the Sabine’s wives and daughters while the older men held off the Sabines. Then they raped them and took them as their wives. Quite a few years later the Sabines had built up enough force to fight the Romans and, hopefully, destroy them. But the Sabine women convinced them not to kill their new husbands. After a while the Sabine tribe was absorbed by the Romans.”

Megan frowned. “It’s a legend.”

“A legend that has had a ring of truth to this day.” Paul sighed. “Because the psychological basis of it started to be understood in the twentieth century, starting with something called the Stockholm Effect. People tend to bond to their captors in personalized imprisonments. Most of the real-life examples have faded over the last few millennia but there are tens of thousands of them that have been studied. And the psycho-physiological effects, even the evolutionary bases, are easily traceable. Women who have been kidnapped and imprisoned tend to bond to their captors even more readily and to fall in love with them. Tend. Not always, humans are individuals. But it’s the majority.”

“I’ve fallen in love with my kidnapper,” she said, hanging her head.

“You’ve fallen in love with your kidnapper,” Paul confirmed. “It’s not nice, it’s not the way that things are ‘supposed’ to be. But it’s very real and it’s very human and it’s something that I counted upon when I set up this… group. It probably goes back to prehuman conditions. Young female chimpanzees that are thrown out of their packs are often found by males from other packs. When they are, they are forced back to the area that the females stay in and are brutalized until they stay there of their own free will. To the point of preventing new females from attempting to escape. I have not brutalized you girls, but do you think Christel, for example, would support any plans to escape?”

“No,” Megan said.

“I could postulate a race which is different,” he paused and chuckled grimly. “Actually, I don’t have to. The elves are different. Attempt to rape or imprison an elf and you’d better have lots of chains. And a gag.”

“You haven’t…” Megan said, her eyes wide.

“Never,” Paul replied, definitely. “But some have tried from time to time, especially in the years when they lived among humans; elves were always beautiful. But the elves have no submit in them. They do not change their… emotions under stress. Put them in an imprisonment situation and they will always try to escape. They will tend, very hard, to try to kill their guards, even if it means their own deaths. Humans, though, tend to make the best of a bad situation. Even to the point of falling in love.” He looked at her tenderly and smiled. “I take it you’re human?”

“Very,” she admitted.

“Amber, though, seemed to be part elf,” Paul sighed. “She never would submit to this necessity and when she plotted to kill Christel and escape I was forced to make her… more compliant.”

Megan shuddered and shook her head. “Paul, do me a favor. If I ever go insane and do something that makes you have to do that, just kill me, okay?”

“I truly hope it never comes to that. You can’t kill me, you know,” he added, looking at her. “And if you even managed it through some miracle, it would be worse than it is now. That is part of this effect; faced with unpalatable choices humans choose the lesser of the evils and live through them as best they can. But you don’t want to anymore, do you?”

She thought of all the nights that she had cried for her loss and the pain. And of all the times they had talked. She probably knew more about the inner workings of the New Destiny faction than anyone not a part of it. And she knew that she no longer wanted to kill him. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t, but she didn’t want to.

“No,” she answered honestly, dipping her head again and fighting not to cry.

“If it helps you at all, I love you, too,” Paul said. “You’re… very precious to me. Sometimes when I come here it is only to see you. I can’t talk to other people as I can with you. I certainly can’t to anyone outside this group and of all the ones in it, the only other one that had your clarity of mind and ability to listen and make useful comments was Amber. And in the end, I had to make her safe.”

“I won’t force you to do the same to me,” Megan said. “At least, I hope I never do.”

“Do you know why the caged nightingale won’t sing?” Paul asked.

“You said that before,” she said, looking up with unshed tears in her eyes.

“It is because it knows that it is supposed to fly free,” Paul said. “When you can’t sing anymore, I’ll know that it is time to release you… or know that you will never sing again.” He looked at her sadly for a moment then stood up. “I have to go.”

“Paul, you are not going anywhere,” Megan said. “You’re still not strong enough.”

“I have things I have to do, Megan,” Paul said. But when he stood he swayed on his feet.

“There,” Megan said, triumphantly.

“Blood flow, that’s all,” Paul said. “I stood up too fast.”

“I’ll wake everybody up again and we’ll start all over,” Megan warned. “Where do you have to be? What can’t you do from right here?”

“I need… I don’t have to be anywhere. But I need to recall my avatars and find out what they have been doing while I’ve been… busy.”

“You’ve got projections running and not monitoring them?” Megan asked.

“They’re sentient avatars,” Paul corrected. “For all practical purposes they are me. It was proscribed pre-Fall, but it’s the only way to keep track of what is going on. I need to recall them, soon. They’re not… fully stable. I need to recall them and then send out new ones.”

“Well, you can do that here,” Megan said. “Right?”

“I need to be undisturbed,” Paul pointed out.

“There’s an empty room right there,” Megan said, pointing at his chamber. “And I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. And when you’re done, I’ll make sure that you’re fed and comforted and cosseted and…”

“Okay, okay.” Paul laughed, hushing himself as one of the other girls stirred and snaked a hand across the body next to her. “I’ll go in there.”

“And I’ll watch. Is there anything I should be aware of?”

“No, it’s a harmless procedure,” Paul said, walking to the room. “Mostly.”

Paul reclined on one of the pillows and closed his eyes, appearing to go back to sleep or into a trance. But almost immediately he began to twitch as if hit by some invisible force. And he muttered.

“Bloody hell…” Pause. “No, no, no how stupid can one vacuous bitch be? Released?” Pause. “Ekmantan.” Pause. “Ships? Dragon-carriers?” Pause. “Damn them.” “Talbot.” A hiss of anger.

It went on for what seemed like hours and he became drenched with sweat, the increasing anger boiling off of him like a vapor.

She rose after a while and left quietly. All of the other girls were still in sodden slumber so she picked through the detritus of the orgy until she found the remains of the carafe of wine and a jug of water. She carried both in and resumed her vigil.

Paul finally settled down, stopped twitching, mostly, and appeared to dream. He muttered from time to time unintelligibly. She listened as closely as she could but there was nothing that was understandable. Finally, he opened his eyes, looking wan and pale.

“Harmless, huh?” she asked, sitting him up and propping pillows behind him. She held a glass of wine to his lips and then followed it with water.

“This one was harder than normal,” he admitted. “I’d been away too long.”

“And you do this regularly?” she asked.

“Usually every day,” Paul admitted. “It’s how I keep track.”

“What are dragon-carriers?” she asked.

He looked at her sharply, then shrugged.

“The UFS has rigged out one of the warships to land and launch wyverns and greater dragons,” Paul said. “I’d heard about it, but didn’t really expect it to work. Well, it did. They destroyed the force that we sent down to the Isles to disrupt their negotiations with the mer. Now Chansa wants to build some of his own, so he can protect the invasion fleet.”

“What do you think?” Megan asked.

“I think we’re playing to their game and that’s what I told Chansa,” Paul replied. “We’re just about evenly matched for power at this point, so we can’t use that against them. But just making our own carriers isn’t going to win us control of the sea. We need something to deal with the dragons. I told him to consult with Celine about modifying our dragons and get a group together to consider how to counter theirs.”

“Do you think it will work?” Megan asked, handing him the water.

“We have to take Norau,” Paul shrugged. “There are five power plants in Norau. We’ve tried everything from sedition to infiltrating attack teams, but most of them are well away from the coast and we can’t use teleport. If we take the plants, or capture that bitch Sheida Ghorbani, the war will be over. But taking it will be… difficult. They’ve armed every peasant in the field and they make them train with the arms. There are areas that haven’t done that, though, because Sheida’s too stupid to make them. We’re going to concentrate our attack on those areas. But we have to get there first, which means controlling the ocean. And we can’t do that if one carrier can destroy six of our ships, five of them without ever coming in sight of the ships. And the carrier had less than a full complement of dragons.”

“What are dragons afraid of?” Megan said. She’d wished for a month now that she had some way to get word to the other side. This was operational intelligence, stuff that could be acted on. Especially if she found out the counter plans. She had to figure some way to smuggle out information. There had to be a way.

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” he said, getting a far away look as he accessed the Net. “Their wings are monomolecule fibers, so no hurting them there. Their underbellies aren’t, though. I’d say that a well-placed ballista bolt would take one down.”

“Lots of dragons?” Megan prompted.

“Lots of bolts,” Paul smiled in response. “Chansa’s problem, I’ll let him come up with the solution.”

“Who is Talbot?” Megan asked. “You’ve mentioned him before.”

“Duke the Honorable Charles or Edmund, take your pick, fucking Talbot,” Paul said with a frown. “He was one of Sheida’s little fuck boys before she became a council member. He apparently threw her over for her sister. He’s now the commander of the eastern defenses in Norau and he was on the mission to the mer-folk. Apparently he put some spine in those Changed abominations, because they killed everything that Chansa sent at them. Chansa is simply furious. He not only lost the orcas and a kraken but a reasonably competent field agent and a very good source. All thanks to Duke Fucking Talbot.”

Megan decided that she much wanted to meet “Duke Fucking Talbot” someday and give him a very friendly kiss.

“And the rest?”

“We’ve settled the negotiations with the replacement for Minjie’s replacement,” Paul said with a grin. “You had a perfect plan there, my dear. I let Celine handle all the arrangements. I understand they almost have the blood off the walls. She sent a very small and somewhat intelligent spider into his quarters. When he was in flagrante delicto, it bit him and paralyzed him. Then its momma came in and finished off the job.”

“What happened to the girl?” Megan said, horrified.

“Boy as it turns out,” Paul replied. “Nothing, the spiders had very specific instructions. I made that clear to Celine. Much more horrible that way.”

“Paul,” Megan said, glancing around. “I can’t guarantee I’d notice a spider.”

“I would, my dear,” Paul smiled. “I don’t keep up a PPF when I’m with you ladies, but nothing can come in or out.”

“I got food and drink from the kitchen,” Megan pointed out.

“Only because I relaxed the protocols to let you,” Paul replied. “And the kitchen itself is sealed. I also sweep for anything that might be one of Celine’s little monsters, not to mention poisons. You have a few lovely items in your lab, by the way. What do you use sulfuric acid for?”

“Reagent,” Megan said. “It’s used to transform some of the products that I get to add a sulfur molecule. That makes them more volatile.”

“Ah,” Paul said, getting a far-away look. “Actually, most of the stuff that you use for perfumes is poisonous in sufficient concentration.” He looked at her and smiled. “But not to me, of course. It takes something much more subtle than concentrate of rose hips.”

“People used to die from cosmetic poisoning,” Megan shrugged. “Heavy metals. And painting. Painters didn’t always start mad, but lick enough paint brushes that have been covered in vermilion, which was basically mercury, and you get a little brain addled. Not to mention that lovely yellow from lead.”

Paul got a far away look again and then smiled. “You are a font of knowledge my dear.”

“I like chemistry,” Megan said with a shrug. Of course, mostly from a forensic side, but let’s not go there. “Half of chemistry is knowing what you don’t want to swallow.”

Paul yawned and smiled at her.

“Could I convince you to snuggle down here with me?” he asked, patting at the cushions. “Just like two people who enjoy each other? Not one of my girls who feel they have to… service me. Just… friends?”

“Yes, Paul,” she said, lying down in his arms. “I think we could do that.”

“Always sing for me,” he murmured as he coasted on the edge of sleep.

“Always, my dear,” she whispered. Till death do us part.