And now, part two. Thanks so much for all the kind comments, they're greatly appreciated.

-Red.

Part 2

Saracen entered his study to find the administrative work awaiting him. He disliked it on a good day, and today he was less than happy to start with. His little excursion to the medical ward had ended up with a disinfectant swab and twelve stitches, along with an admonishment from his Doctor about purposefully antagonizing women enough to receive jagged wounds from them.

He sat down with a thump in his high-backed leather desk chair, and thumbed through the more mundane articles on his tablet first. Several invitations, a request for help with a predator hunt on a neighboring property, and several personnel issues with his farm out in the country. Also a note from his friend in the Senate, once again asking him to participate in politics.

Finally, he pulled up the girl's file, and the attached medical report from Doctor Deeja. The shoulder was, indeed, dislocated. He had put it to rights, treated the attaching tendons with a healing-booster, and administered a pain killer. He made note that she would likely also have a vicious bruise in her mid-torso, just at the diaphragm. Saracen frowned. He disliked breaking his possessions, let alone one that could walk and talk.

He scanned through the file. Deeja had administered the usual new slave workup. Shots, blood work, full body scan. Her blood work was clean, and exceptionally healthy for a new import. He noted that her right arm, three fingers, four ribs and one cheekbone had all been broken at some point in the past several years. She had two scars, one on her right forearm, and another on the left side of her neck. The arm injury had apparently been caused by flying debris, the neck... by a very sharp instrument.

Doctor Deeja went on to say that she seemed otherwise intact and in good health, but had been quite difficult. The clinic had sedated her.

There was also a personal note from the Doctor: “I went ahead and administered the normal birth control routine, though she is just old enough to start it. Don't be staying up all hours and overexerting yourself, and wait at least a week for everything to kick in, you lucky bastard you.”

Saracen sighed, and put down the tablet. Well, at least this was expected. Virility was a prized trait on Tharis, and the existence of female slaves, (as well as discussion about who had the best examples) was a normal pass time of those who were awarded the coveted slave license.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he replied, distractedly.

Kes came in, closing the door behind her. She came over to his side, and knelt down alongside his chair.

“I told you... you don't have to do that,” he said, not looking at her.

“And I remind you that this is how I was trained to behave, Sir.”

He glanced at her. Her face was serene and passive.

“Does it please you to do so?” he asked.

She looked up at him, intently. “Very much so, My Lord. You need to remember that. A slave finds joy in proper service. She finds happiness in serving her Master in every possible way. She hopes not for herself, dreams not for herself. She exists only to make her Master's life better. When she succeeds, she feels complete. When she is complimented, she feels ecstasy. She never expects, never hopes for recognition. Her service is enough.”

“I freed you over twenty years ago, Kes,” he reminded her, looking back to the file.

“And I told you, in that moment, that I refused. You may have put the paperwork through, and you may have technically freed me, Sir. Yet, still I serve. It's who I am. Please.... Do not forget that.”

He smiled a bit then, remembering. “Very well. I take it you've seen her, then?”

“Yes,” Kes answered. “She is still sedated. Doctor Deeja believes she has seen some fighting and violence, but that she hasn't been beaten too severely in recent time, at least within the last two years.”

“Her file says she was captured as a combatant on Pheonix, when it was overtaken by the Subarans,” he said, shaking his head. “Combatant... she was what... fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Thirteen,” Kes answered. “The Doctor says, according to his graphs for bone growth, she is currently sixteen Earth-cycles old.”

Saracen's eyes closed slowly. “No wonder the Doctor was so snide,” he remarked.

“The girl... will clean up quite nicely,” Kes remarked. “You did not see her at her best. She will be quite well-developed in a cycle or two.”

“Now I've got you teasing me, too,” he said, lowering his forehead into his left palm. He could almost feel Kes trying not to grin.

“You sure do know how to pick them, Sir.”

“I order you to allow me to maintain some of my dignity,” he said, flatly.

“As you command, My Lord.”

“I think the problem is going to be her mind. She got this far... so much so that she was almost introduced to a nobleman of Tharis, yet she was still able to secret away a weapon, defend herself. She called that proctor a dog, if I remember correctly. I think she may be an excellent actress, but training her into the slave that she actually is?”

From the corner, Thunder, one of Saracen's two wolfhounds, raised up his furry head and yawned.

“Not you, boy. Go back to sleep.”

The dog lay its head on the floor over its paws and stared at his Master.

“Hell. Maybe I should just train her like a dog,” he mused.

“Only to start. Later, she'll need training in proper etiquette, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and... well... other things as well. I daresay she'll not be in the kennel long. However... that may be the most important part of it all, now that you mention it,” Kes thought aloud.

Saracen picked up the communicator on his right, and punched a button.

“Caius? Prepare one of the kennel stalls with a straw, chain, collar, and a chamber pot.”

“Yes Milord? We treating the hounds like guests now, are we?” the old hand asked.

“We're training a whole new animal starting tomorrow, Caius. With any luck, it will be temporary lodging.'

“As you say, Milord.” The communicator switched off.

“You may be onto something,” Kes said, smiling.

“I'm going to be depending on you for a lot with her, Kes. The basics, and then everything she is going to need to know. You're better prepared than I am, in a lot of ways.”

Her smile turned warm and kind. “Thank you, Sir. However... the most important part is yours. You are her Master now, for better or worse, and you will have to set the tone immediately. You cannot afford to be so...” she caught herself before she said 'soft' to his face.

“I know I'm a bit of a strange bird, Kes. I always have been. When I freed you all back then, more than one nobleman called me crazy. There were rumors that someone in the senate was bucking for an inquest. But that was... a long time ago. That girl needs to know how to survive here, in the role into which she has been placed. I want to give her a fighting chance at a life, Kes. A good life.” He look at her fully now. Her head was bowed.

“It is a good life, isn't it, Kes? Honestly?”

Her eyes rose to his. There was a slight shimmer in them.

“It's been more than I ever dreamed of, My Lord.”

They both smiled. “Have her brought to the kennel. Keep her sedated until she's locked up good and tight. I'm not taking my security for granted again. Crazy little thing... she stared down the Reaper, and got in a touch, too.” He smiled a bit wider as he turned back to the file.

“As you wish, My Lord.” Kes swept up with effortless grace, and exited silently.

“I still think this is ill-advised,” Saracen said.

“I know, Sir, but we've spoken about this at length. It's time, and I think we both know it,” Kes replied. “Begging your pardon, My Lord, but you are approaching the age where it will be... unseemly if you don't choose one.”

He nodded below his hood, the crimson fabric bobbing in the light of the torches. “You know... I swore. I swore an oath. That usually means something. It certainly does to me,” he stated.

She smiled slightly. “You swore your oath to me, My Lord. I have released you from it. For your own good, and that of the household. Your honor is intact. And, begging your pardon, Sir... It's not like you to complain, or to prevaricate. Lord Saracen made a decision. Lord Saracen follows through on his decisions. He always has, and always will,” she stated, a hint of pride in her tone.

“Perhaps I'm simply getting old,” he sighed.

“You're barely over sixty,” she stated.

“I don't even know what I'm supposed to look for,” he said.

“What would you look for in one of your Marines?” she asked.

“Spirit. Character. Strength. A notion of his own mortality.”

“I should think it's about the same then,” she answered. “Only you'll also be looking for a pleasing confirmation. It's a simple enough criteria to add to the list.”

He stopped suddenly, the opening in his hood turning to look at her in the torchlight. She faced straight ahead, unblinking, stopped silently at his side.

“You... you're enjoying this, aren't you?” he asked, incredulously.

“My Lord's enjoyment is my enjoyment,” she said, not cracking a smile. Her nostrils flared slightly at the effort.

He looked back down the ranks of the slave pens. “You're certain about the age range? We're not thinking too... young, are we?”

She finally smiled. “You have to include time for proper training. Also, remember, we live longer than most off-worlders. Until she becomes acclimated, she will be aging faster than we do. For about the first five years or so, she will age at an average of...”

“Three times our native rate, I know,” he said, taking over her train of thought. “I've read the figures from the Ministry of Health and Immigration.”

Kes was silent. They began walking once again, her light footsteps from sandal-shod feet, his heavy steps from tough leather boots. They approached a doorway, where a small, stooped man in a long tunic awaited them. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, which took a moment, given his expanse of brow. He smiled in the artificial way of all salesmen, and ushered them through the doorway to a small waiting area. Inside was a couch and table, with wine and fruit laid out on a platter.

“Please, do sit, My Lord Saracen,” the man said, coaxingly. “We're just rounding up the last of the specimens to match the list of particulars you sent. Please, have some wine, and I'll see to the arrangements.”

Lord Saracen scooped up a firm, round pear from the tray, and remained standing. He looked the small man in the eyes, his gray irises dilating in the shadow of his dark red hood. The little man looked down to the table, and licked his lips. Saracen brought the pear to his mouth, and slowly took a large, juicy bite. He chewed for a moment, the sweet flavor of the pear filling his mouth, and momentarily overpowering the scents of the slave pans outside the door, and the small salesman's heavy cologne.

“Oh, it's quite alright, my good man,” he said. “No need for a formal presentation. I'm a military man. I'll look over the recruits in their ready state,” he explained, walking towards the heavy wooden door in the opposite wall. Kes followed him closely.

“But, Sir! They haven't been properly instructed yet!” the man protested. “They have no idea of the gravity of your name and position! It simply wouldn't do!” He was scuttling around to try and interpose himself between his customer and the door. “Please, just wait a bit, I'll have them ready to meet you in a moment-”

“Move,” Saracen said, solidly. The man stopped less than a centimeter away from the door latch, his hand shaking.

“Yes. Yes, of course, how silly of me. Please,” the man said, drawing his hand back, and stepping aside.

Saracen unlatched the door with his gloved hand, and stepped through into a larger room. This room was much better lit, with natural light being piped into the room from outdoors. This cast a more natural glow on the interior of the room, and the twenty-odd people within its stone walls.

Jean-Philippe Saracen, Lord Saracen, Hero of Tharis, Colonel of Marines, found himself facing a room full of teenage girls. Each was dressed in the traditional short tunic which slaves wore indoors, or outdoors in hot weather. They were hurriedly being lined up and scrubbed cleaned by three proctors. As he came fully though the doorway and stopped, there was a scream from one of the girls near the end of the line where he stood. All the girls looked in his direction, gasped, and dropped immediately to the ground, heads down, arms outstretched, in a traditional pose of supplication. Saracen recognized the pose; it was one of the first taught to new slaves. Every slave he had ever owned had assumed this position at least once. He hated it, and seeing it now almost made him doubt his resolve.

“My Lord!” one of the proctors said, bowing low, “Forgive us for not being prepared. Several of the slaves are still arriving. If you would please wait just a moment-”

“Have them stand,” Saracen ordered.

The proctors looked at each other. One shrugged her shoulders, and the second ordered the assembled girls to “Stand, and keep your eyes in their place.”

Kes came to her Lord's side. “See, you're getting into the spirit already,” she whispered.

“If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it,” Saracen whispered back. “You evil old biddy.”

“I'm barely over one hundred,” she reminded him, mock hurt in her voice.

“But 'evil' you don't contest,” he observed.

“It's not my place to correct my Lord,” she answered. Her grin fought its way to the surface, and she nodded toward the group of young women standing at attention in front of him. “Well, time to get started. Have fun.”

Lord Saracen sighed. He walked up to the line of girls. Each was young, ranging from fifteen to seventeen Earth-cycles in age. Each looked to be in good health. Each cast their eyes downward, not daring to look into his.

“How do you keep them in such good shape?” he idly asked the proctors.

“We make them run two kilometers before each meal. If they don't finish, they don't eat,” the head proctor replied. “Later, once they're all finishing the workout, we turn it into a race. Only the top seventy percent get to eat. We also start them on their exercise and diet programs the moment they enter transit to Tharis. We've found that gives us the best results for longevity, especially with the addition of our supplements, and the higher gravity we run on our ships. We up the gravity gradually during the trip.”

“How long do they usually take to transit?” Saracen asked, walking down the line. Each face was pleasing. Each girl, while differing in stature and coloring, matched her sisters. There was something unnerving about them. He wondered why he's never thought about such matters before.

“It depends on where they were bought. We don't do the capturing ourselves. Some as far away as five years, some as little as three.”

“And what happens if they don't eat often enough? What happens to the unfit ones?”

There was a nervous silence. “We have very little spillage,” one proctor replied, quietly. “Less than three percent.”

Saracen stopped walking. His last boot-clad footstep echoed in the stone interior. He looked straight ahead. “I see,” he said. His voice was thoughtful, and quiet.

He looked back down the line. The girls were all lovely. They would be, of course, having been pre-screened for a client of his caliber. They represented a variety of races and backgrounds. Each had long legs, pretty faces, delicious curves, shiny hair. Each had survived being sold or captured. Each had survived the rigors of the training program.

Each one was destined to be a slave for someone like himself. Like himself...

The door opened, and three more girls were ushered into the room. They immediately took up position at the end of the reviewing line, and cast their eyes downward. They were breathing heavily, and caught themselves, trying not to show that they had been running. Saracen realized... that they just might go hungry tonight.

The usher began closing the door, when the sound of a terrified scream wafted down the hallway, and into the room. The voice was a man's. The proctors all looked at each other, and two of them dashed out of the room.

Lord Saracen followed, Kes on his heels. The proctors gave chase, leaving a room full of bewildered girls with only the salesman.

A voice, a young woman's, rose in the hallway, from around the corner. “...what you get, you DOG! Keep your hands off of me, or you'll lose more than that next time!” the fierce scream came bouncing down the walls.

They rounded the corner, and were greeted by the scene of a male proctor, bent over, holding his arm. Blood spattered down on the floor, pooling near his right foot. Beyond him was another proctor, approaching with a catch pole, loop at the ready. Between the two slave dealers was something that looked like a cross between a young girl and a wild animal. She held in her hand a scrap of metal, sheared off of some fixture or other. Blood dripped down from the ragged edge of the makeshift weapon. Her ragged tunic was ripped from her shoulder, revealing her breasts; her legs were bent, ready to spring, her arms taut, ready to slash.

“Move,” Saracen said calmly, putting a hand on the injured man's shoulder. The man glanced up into the face of his rescuer, and went instantly pale. He scrambled back out of the way, landing in a crouch against the far wall of the hallway.

Saracen caught the eyes of the other approaching proctor, and stopped the man in his tracks by removing his hood, and drawing one of his concealed fighting knives from behind his belt He shifted it to his left hand.

“Report,” Lord Saracen said sharply. His tone brooked no argument.

“We...we... were bringing her to the chamber... f-f-for the review,” the injured man tried to explain. “All... all I did was take a little squeeze-”

“I'd go have that arm looked at, if I were you,” Kes said, interrupting him. The man looked up at her, and shuffled back down the hall towards the other proctors. Kes stared at her Lord intently, keenly aware of his body, his movements.

Saracen approached the girl slowly. She was dark of skin, dark of hair. She had the look of someone blessed by the sun, a wild girl from some faraway jungle, a predator, cornered. Her dark eyes were wild. She would not cast them down now. Fear and rage had taken her over. She held the scrap of metal out from her body in one hand, swaying back and forth as she watched him, a feral thing.

Lord Saracen had seen that look before, in an enemy's eyes. Speaking was of little use, now. He made his move so quickly, the girl should have had no time to react-

Her hand flashed, and the ragged blade slashed up. Saracen's right hand came up to block, but not fast enough. He stepped into her movement instead of away from it. He corrected in mid-step, feeling the metal rip through the sleeve of his tunic at the shoulder. He spun to his right, grabbed her wrist, twisted down. He sent his elbow flying back into her mid-section, felt the air leave her body in an instant. He pulled down, over his shoulder, and she flew over him, landing on her back with a dull thud on the stone. He twisted again, rolling her face-down. She drew breath, screamed, and fell unconscious, her scream dwindling as she slipped away.

“MY LORD!” the head salesman exclaimed, rounding the corner. “I apologize most deeply. I shall have her dispatched at once-”

“I'll take this one,” Saracen said firmly.

“But...but...SIR!” the man said “She just tried to kill-”

“Have her file ready in 5 minutes. Transport her directly to Doctor Deeja at the Theranesia slave clinic.” The salesman was now wringing his hands, and visibly sweating. He was undoubtedly considering his liability.

“My Lord, you can't possibly-”

“I... can't... possibly....what?” Lord Saracen asked, rising to his full two meter height. His voice had gone from hot to cold. He turned to look the little man in the eyes, his face alive with malice.

“I... I mean, that is...” the man looked at the girl lying face-down on the floor, then back at his client. His very wealthy, very angry, very tall client.

“Of course, My Lord. Right away, Sir,” the man said, pushing the proctors towards the now-sleeping hellcat lying before them.

“Careful of her left arm. Her shoulder is dislocated,” Saracen said, re-sheathing his knife in its scabbard beneath his robe. Two people passed by with a stretcher. The other proctors returned to the little room, and ushered the remaining girls down a hallway, out of sight.

Kes' hand was on his shoulder. It felt the wound there, and then took hold of his elbow, gently guiding him back towards the entrance.

“That was... rather rash, don't you think?” she asked quietly.

“Someone had to stop her, or she'd have hurt someone-”

“I mean buying her,” Kes explained. “No questions, no interview, no measurements, no health-check... you haven't even looked over her documents.”

“She's not broken,” he answered.

Kes looked ahead. She was no longer leading him. He grabbed another pear from the table in the little room before walking out toward the pens, and their waiting transport. His stride lengthened, his boot steps echoing on the flagstones.

“She should be broken,” Kes said, firmly. “She's a slave, My Lord. You're doing her no favor. She'll have to be broken eventually. But now, YOU will have to do the breaking.”

“I'm well aware of how to break someone, Kes,” he answered.

“Any one of the others would have easily made you happy...”

“Lord Saracen made a decision. Lord Saracen follows through on his decisions,” he replied, ending their conversation. He lengthened his stride, making Kes break hers to keep up.

I've never let my Dominant nature get me into trouble...yet. Oh, sometimes it's difficult, believe me. I work in Customer Service presently, and the times I've had to count to ten and take a deep breath before speaking have been many. The times I've had to fight off the urge to physically smack someone have been few, thankfully, but they exist.