Imprisoned Page 4

  “What…what do you mean?” Ari’s mouth was suddenly dry. For a moment, she’d almost forgotten the hairy convict and his promise to put her on his “list” but Wheezer’s words brought her situation home again in a visceral way.

  “I mean if Tapper’s got you on his list, there’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, laddie. He’s at the top of the heap here—does what he likes.” Wheezer shook his head regretfully. “Sorry about that. You seem so nice and young too. But then…” He sighed. “That’s the way Tapper likes ‘em.”

  “I can’t just let him rape me!” Ari protested.

  “Now, now—it’s no fun but just between you and me Tapper don’t last forever—especially in the tight ones.” Wheezer winked conspiratorially. “Just squeeze him a bit once he’s all the way in you and he’ll blow his load before you know it. Your arsehole will be sore for a bit, so it will, but you’ll get over it.”

  “I don’t want to ‘get over’ being raped!” Ari protested. “I can’t—”

  But just then Wheezer’s tablet made a soft ding.

  “Oh, lookit that—your number already came up.” He nodded at the tablet. “Come along with me, boy. We’ll get you to the processing desk and into BleakHall before you know it.”

  That was exactly what Ari was afraid of.

  Three

  The day was going like every other day in the past six months, Lathe thought morosely as he straightened the medical supplies in the small infirmary. The guttural grunts of the Horvath guards, the shouts of the prisoners which sometimes escalated into screams of fury until he went out and broke up whatever fight had started about who was next in line or who had stepped on whose foot or some other inconsequential disagreement. The endless stream of small injustices and cruelties that wore a male down to the bone because there was nothing light or good—no vestige of kindness or decency—anywhere in the echoing black metal halls of BleakHall.

  It was always the same—it would never end. He would never see daylight outside these walls or breathe clean air, uncontaminated by screams of pain or the rough, trollish laughter of the Horvaths again…

  Easy, Lathe, he told himself, running a hand through his hair and sighing. You have all the evidence you need for the Yonnite Council of Mistresses and you’ll be out of here soon. The tunneler nanites are almost finished with their job.

  Yes, the nanites. He sighed again. They were supposed to be plan B—something that he would only use if there were no other options. But the same day he’d gotten into BleakHall himself, the inmate who was supposed to be his inside contact had been fatally shanked in the exercise yard. There went plan A and so Lathe was forced to employ plan B—the tunneler nanites he’d brought in his Prison ID tag. Even now they were digging a passageway, starting in the small supply room closet of the Infirmary, right under the prison to the far edge of the perimeter fence outside.

  Sitting outside the fence and camouflaged by light-bending see-me-not tech was a Kindred shuttle outfitted and fueled up—just waiting for Lathe to take charge of it. The minute the nanites informed him the tunnel was done, via uplink to the controls in his ID badge, Lathe would be out of here. He would take any Kindred who might be imprisoned with him too—though there weren’t any right now.

  Which meant he was all alone in this hell hole of misery and cruelty. And since the nanites could only dig a certain amount a day to avoid tripping the prison’s sensors, he seemed likely to remain here alone for at least another week.

  You can hang in there for a week, Lathe told himself. You can do anything for a week. Soon you’ll be out. Soon you can bring the evidence of what the Horvaths are doing in this place to light and bring the people who own BleakHall to justice. Thonolan will be avenged…

  Speaking of the Horvaths and their cruelty, he could hear evidence of it now, right outside the infirmary room door. Grunts and screams were coming from the cavity search line where Mukluk, the sadistic head of the guards, was currently doing searches.

  Most of the Horvaths were simple creatures—stupid and slow-witted, Lathe had found. But there were some, like Mukluk, who were brighter than the rest. And unfortunately what they turned their superior intelligence to was finding new ways to be cruel to the prisoners. Or simply twisting routine prison procedures to suit their sadistic needs. As Mukluk apparently was now, just outside the infirmary room door.

  “Please,” Lathe heard a high, almost feminine voice pleading. “Please don’t! I swear I don’t…don’t have anything up there. Didn’t the X-ray and the mobile Magnetic device tell you that?”

  There was a burst of rough laughter from Mukluk and the other Horvath guards and then a hissing, growling voice answered the new inmate.

  “Thoze scanz only zzhow metal. Have to do a manual cavity zzearch for everything elzz. Now bend over and zzpread your legzz.”

  Lathe tried not to listen. As a medical doctor, the kinds of atrocities that went on here turned his stomach. Yet even he had been forced to kill twice since coming to BleakHall. He had been fighting for his life and the kills had cemented his reputation as someone not to be messed with, since he’d been using the poison attribute of his fangs. But still—he had killed. And not guards either but other prisoners. Though the Goddess knew there were some here that deserved to stay behind BleakHall’s walls forever. He hadn’t understood that when Commander Sylvan had first tried to tell him but—

  “Please! Please, no!” The pleading voice outside his door sounded so young—so innocent somehow. Lathe tried in vain to ignore it. There was nothing he could do—he’d tried to institute a new, more humane way of cavity searches when he first gained access to the infirmary but the Horvaths wouldn’t allow it. They liked inflicting pain.

  “Please!” the voice moaned again and this time Lathe broke. He couldn’t stand it somehow—couldn’t stand to hear the pain of this unseen prisoner. Though he doubted the Horvaths would let him interfere, he had to at least try.

  He slammed open the infirmary door and saw a youngish man—really no more than a boy—bent naked over the searching table. The boy had tousled black hair and big, dark eyes that were filled with fright. Two of the Horvath guards had him by the arms, forcing his flat chest down to the cold metal of the table and the third—Mukluk—was standing behind him, one thick clawed finger ready to probe.

  The Horvaths had digits about twice as thick as a normal humanoid’s and their scaly skin was as rough as sandpaper. Even worse, each thick finger was tipped with a blunt, curving claw.

  The combination meant that Mukluk almost always drew blood when he was doing the cavity searches for new prisoners. Not that the other Horvath guards were particularly gentle but Mukluk was especially rough—he took sadistic delight in the pain and humiliation he caused when he shoved a sandpaper-rough digit into each new prisoner’s arse and dug around, looking for contraband.

  And now he was about to do it to the dark-haired boy the other Horvaths had spread out over the table.

  Though Lathe had witnessed this particular cruelty more times than he cared to count, he suddenly couldn’t anymore. As the lizard guard prepared to shove one scaly, clawed finger into the helpless, trembling body before him, Lathe held up a hand and shouted, “Stop!”

  “Zztop?” The two Horvaths holding the boy’s arms looked confused. Mukluk only looked irritated.

  “Why zzhould I zztop?” he demanded, flickering out his forked tongue to swipe at one slitted yellow eyeball. “Thiz zzearch muzt be done.”

  Lathe had to think quickly.

  “Of course it has to be done, but you don’t want to be the one to do it. Not on this prisoner,” he said quickly. “Not if he has what I think he has.”

  “What he hazz?” Mukluk peered at the prisoner suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

  “Hang on—let me examine him. I need to verify my suspicions,” Lathe said brusquely.

  Walking over to the table, he yanked the boy’s chin up and stared into his eyes.

  Those eyes. Dark eyes—a
blue so deep they’re nearly black. I’ve seen them before…where?

  He pushed the strange thought away. It wasn’t important right now. Saving the boy at least this one indignity and pain—that was what mattered.

  “Uh-huh…mm-hmm,” he muttered to himself as he lifted the boy’s lids and made a great show of examining his eyes. The boy trembled under his touch, the great, dark eyes pleading with Lathe. The expression of hope and fear tore at his heart but knowing the guards were watching, he forced himself to keep a blank face. He made the boy open his mouth and stick out his tongue before he nodded and stepped back.

  “Just what I thought—he’s got Zamwer’s syndrome.”

  “Zzzzwhat?” Mukluk demanded suspiciously.

  “Zamwer’s syndrome,” Lathe repeated patiently. “An inflammation of the mucus membranes that causes the patient to produce acidic secretions harmful to saurian life forms.”

  The two Horvath guards who were holding the boy’s arms looked at each other in apparent confusion but Mukluk was still staring at Lathe suspiciously.

  “And thizz meanzz what?” he inquired, his forked tongue lashing in irritation.

  “Well, it’s completely harmless to non-saurian life forms—those not evolved from reptiles,” he clarified, hoping Mukluk was following him. “Me, for instance—I can touch him with no problem. But if you or any of the other Horvaths come in contact with any mucus producing membranes, well…” He shook his head.

  “Well what?” one of the other guards insisted, his yellow eyes wide.

  “Well, any number of things. Depending on how strong the acid produced, it could do anything from giving you a simple third degree burn, to causing your scales to drop off.” Lathe shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “I guess it’s a chance you’ll have to take to search him properly.”

  “Zzcales drop off?” The guards looked horrified and even Mukluk looked non-plussed. Lathe could see the Horvath weighing his words. He was trying to decide if he believed Lathe or if he thought he was lying and trying to save this particular prisoner.

  Suddenly it seemed incredibly important to Lathe that he did save the boy. He didn’t know why—maybe because of his youth or apparent innocence but he didn’t want to watch the boy violated…didn’t want to hear his screams of agony as Mukluk dug around inside him with a cruel claw.

  But he couldn’t let Mukluk know that.

  “Well, I just thought I’d warn you,” he remarked. With studied indifference, he turned away from the table, as though he was going back into the infirmary.

  Please, Goddess, he prayed as he walked. Please, help me save him—please!

  One step…two…the infirmary room door was almost within his grasp. Were they really going to continue with the cavity search and ignore everything he’d just said? Was he not going to be able to save the boy? Three steps…he was reaching for the door handle…

  “Zztop!” Mukluk’s voice hissed at him.

  Slowly, Lathe turned his head.

  “Yes? What do you want?”

  “You—you zzearch him.” Mukluk stabbed a clawed finger at the boy, still spread trembling over the table. “You do it, Medic.”

  “All right, fine.” Lathe nodded. “Let him up. I’ll do it in the infirmary.”

  “No!” Mukluk’s forked tongue whipped out, lashing the air angrily. “You do it here! Now! Zzearch him while we watch.”

  Inwardly Lathe cursed. He had wanted to spare the boy violation—not violate him himself! But there was no choice now and at least he knew he would be gentler than the cruel Horvath guard.

  “Fine,” he said again, shortly. “I’ll do it.”

  Coming up behind the boy, still pressed to the cold black metal of the table, he reached for a box of plasti-shield gloves. They were sized for him of course—they wouldn’t fit the scaly claws of the Horvaths.

  But when Lathe picked up the box, Mukluk knocked it out of his hand.

  “None of that, Medic. You zzaid the dizeaze wouldn’t affect you. No glovezz.”

  Fucking great. Lathe resisted the urge to growl and bare his fangs at the head guard. It would do no good and would probably only provoke Mukluk to use his pain-prod on both Lathe and the boy.

  “Fine,” he said yet again. “No gloves. But I have to at least use some lubricant. Otherwise the membranes will be irritated and will produce even more acid which might become toxic.”

  Mukluk looked like he wanted to protest again but in the end, he only lashed his tail and licked his yellow slitted eyeballs with his tongue as Lathe reached for the seldom-used tube and spread a liberal dollop of the pale blue jelly over the pad of his middle finger.

  Very conscious of the Horvaths watching him, he put one hand on the small of the boy’s back, trying to soothe him. He wished he could say some words of comfort—wished he could let the boy know he’d be gentle. But he could do nothing with Mukluk and his crew watching—nothing but get on with the business.

  Reaching between the boy’s thighs, he probed gently but firmly, feeling for the tender opening to the lad’s body.

  The boy tensed at once, his buttocks going rock-hard as he tried to keep the invader out. Lathe didn’t blame him but he couldn’t stop. With the Horvath’s watching, he knew he had to do this.

  “Easy, little one,” he murmured, the words rising to his lips though he had told himself he shouldn’t say anything. He rubbed gently at the small of the boy’s back, trying to soothe the trembling…wishing he could ease the boy’s fear.

  “Please…” came the whispered reply, so soft that Lathe could barely hear it. There were tears in the boy’s voice—they tugged at Lathe’s heart. But there was nothing he could do but continue.

  “I’m sorry, little one,” he murmured, rubbing between the shoulder blades. “But I must do this. It’s either me or one of the Horvaths—you understand?”

  For a moment the soft buttocks tensed even more. Then the boy seemed to go limp beneath his hands and the small body relaxed.

  “All…all right,” came the whisper Lathe could barely hear. “I…understand.”

  “Good lad,” Lathe murmured comfortingly. “I’ll make it quick. In and out—just have to be certain you’re not hiding anything you shouldn’t.”

  “Hiding…anything I shouldn’t,” the boy repeated in that same, soft whisper and gave a broken little laugh. “Goddess of Mercy…”

  “If she’s anything like my Goddess, she’ll watch over you,” Lathe said comfortingly. “Here it comes…just open up and let me in.”

  As he spoke, he breached the boy’s tight rosebud with his middle finger, sliding smoothly and slowly into the hot, tight depths to be certain there was no contraband. These searches were actually necessary, he knew. The most amazing and alarming things had been found secreted in this most private area of some of the prisoner’s bodies. He needed to be thorough but he tried to be gentle too, mindful of the fact that the boy had probably never been touched in this way before.

  Or maybe he had, if he was a slave sent from Yonnie Six. But somehow Lathe didn’t think so. The tension in the small body under his spoke of a sheltered life—an existence before this one where the boy had not been touched against his will. What had he done to be sent to this hell hole, Lathe wondered as he continued the exam. How could anyone send such a defenseless looking lad to BleakHall?

  As he slipped his finger in to the hilt the boy stiffened again and then gave a soft little sob before relaxing once more. It was a hopeless, broken sound—a sound of surrender and it seemed to squeeze Lathe’s heart.

  All right, the boy seemed to be saying, Do what you want to me. I can’t stop you—I give up.

  Lathe finished the search as quickly as he could and then withdrew, wiping his hands on a sani-towel to clean them and kill any germs.

  “There—nothing,” he said roughly. “And now I’ll finish the exam in the infirmary.”

  But at this, Mukluk balked.

  “No! The cavity zzearch is done. He will be moved to ze
ntral prozzezing like all the rest.”

  Lathe wanted to protest but the big Horvath guard had taken out his pain-prod and was tapping it against one scaly palm. The message was clear—if Lathe tried to interfere any more, both he and the boy would taste the prod.

  “Fine—then I’ll take him to central processing and get him dressed,” he said.

  “Glukgag—go with them,” Mukluk ordered one of the other Horvath guards who had held the boy down. “Make zzure they are not plotting anything.”

  The other Horvath saluted and motioned with his own pain-prod at Lathe.

  “Come on, little one.” Lathe helped the boy off the table and led him, naked and shivering, through the door and into Central Processing, followed closely by the Horvath guard.

  Four

  Ari tried not to cry but she hadn’t been expecting the cavity search—hadn’t been expecting any of this, although she supposed she should have. Oh, she’d been prepared to strip and to be scanned with both X-rays and the Magnetic Imager every which way. But she had not been prepared to have anyone probing inside her body. And though it could have been much worse if the tall Kindred called Medic hadn’t interfered, it was still more than she felt she could handle at the moment.

  You have to handle it, she told herself angrily. And you’re going to have to handle a hell of a lot more if you can’t find Jak and get the hell out of here quick! So suck it up and stop moaning. After all, it’s not like you’re a virgin.

  Of course it wasn’t like she had much experience either. There had been a few sweaty fumblings with other contestants when she and Jak went to overnight Ton-kwa tournaments but those had been few and far between and never very satisfactory. The few (okay, two) males she’d been with never seemed to know how to please her or what to do with their hands.

  Unlike Medic who apparently knows exactly what to do with his hands, whispered a sarcastic little voice in her head.