dark domain - the artpacks.acid.org collection/darkdomain.iso/artpacks/1994/mist1094.zip/EO-LAST.LIT

Text File | 1994-10-15 | 22KB | 414 lines

                             L A S T   D R I N K

        "Pour me a drink, Srina," ordered Greg Tomerson. "And while you're at
it, pour one for Mr. Heller."

        "Yes, Master," said Srina obediently, her voice laced with a thick
alien accent. She meekly went to the wine cabinet, and took out a bottle of
Venus' Finest. She poured two drinks in elegantly crafted wine glasses, and
took them over to her master and his business associate. "Your drinks, fine
sirs."

        "Well trained. I like that in a slave," said Greg. He accepted his
drink greedily, like a man who had been deprived of water for weeks, and
settled back in the overstuffed chair.

        Philip Heller laughed loudly, staring rudely at the beautiful woman.
To her credit, she didn't show any sign of discomfort. He turned to Tomerson.

        "Where'd you get her?"

        "Bought her from a trader on D'lor Seven. Cheap, and young. These cat
women are becoming the norm in the modern slave trade," said Tomerson. Indeed,
Srina was a cat woman with dark black fur, and a delicate tail. Her ears were
pointed and on top of her head, and her nails more like sharp claws. She had a
full mane of black hair, and piercing green eyes.

        "Yes," said Heller, "I have noticed that. In fact, I've been thinking
of getting a feline-girl myself sometime. In fact, if they're all as pretty as
Serlina here, I might even buy two!"

        Tomerson ignored the mispronunciation of his slave's name and said,
"Well, Mr. Heller, I called you over to discuss security here on Sonso Two."
He abruptly re-noticed Srina. "Srina, dear, you may clean anything around the
house that needs cleaning," he dismissed her. Taking into account the vastness
of his mansion, she would certainly be busy for a while.

        "Now Tomerson, I'm sure you know that Sonso Two has the most formidable
security system for quadrents around. No invasion force has come through yet."

        "But the Katerain!" protested Tomerson, quickly reminding himself to
keep calm. No professional financial giant acted like an amateur when his
concerns weren't taken seriously at first. He stared at the holo-image of a
waterfall that rested on his desk. It calmed him.

        "Oh, yes. The Katerain," said Heller, as if the statement were
self-explanatory. "They took over three moonbases in the Trioma quadrent in the
last six months. And yes, the Trioma quadrent is only a short shuttle voyage
away. But don't let it get to you. Those moonbases weren't even vaguely related
to Sonso Two. In fact, they were minded by Oxytytes. You know how trusting they
are. Probably didn't have any security system, let alone a decent one. We're
far superior."

        Tomerson curbed an overwhelming urge to shout. Heller was the average
stupid zillionaire. He thought he was so damned superior, didn't think anyone
could invade anywhere he lived. The Katerain were an unknown race, who had
appeared a few years ago. They travelled all over the place, and supposedly
wore full uniforms that prevented indentification. They were conquering
territory at an alarming rate, and although many had challanged them, they
hadn't been defeated.

        The other thing that bothered him was Sonso Two's location. It was the
only human-populated moonbase for lightyears around. Not one ship in the Terran
Fleet could possibly save the colony if it was conquered. But Heller didn't
seem to see that. No, all Heller was seeing was the inside of the luxurious
office, where potted plants of exotic origins sat on exquisitly carved shelves
and one-of-a-kind paintings adorned the walls. Not as fancy as his own office,
perhaps, but close.

        "Listen, Phil." Tomerson's use of his guest's first name showed that he
meant business. "The Katerain are a huge threat. If you think our security
system flawless and then they trash it, we don't get a second chance. So if you
want to save your own ass, you'd better make sure every single aspect of this
base is perfect. Am I being clear?"

        "Transparent," Heller acknowledged, succesfully managing to insult the
young businessman at the same time. "But don't go thinking you're getting off
any better, Greg. You'd better contribute to our efforts too, or I'm really not
gonna be too happy!"

        Heller's threat seemed lame on the surface, but the undercurrent of
implied violence was enough to make Tomerson ease up. Maybe he'd gone a bit too
far. After all, Heller was a respected public figure. "Okay, Mr. Heller. I'll
do my part if you do yours. I just don't want Sonso Two to be Katerain
territory by the end of the month."

        "Understood. I'll have my men step up security. We'll allow the usual
authorized imports, and keep our regular export contracts. But until the
Katerain are no longer a threat, no alien -or human- shall be permitted to land
here. Will that be satisfactory?"

        Tomerson tried not to show his relief; it was more than he'd expected.
He said, calmly as possible, "That will be fine. Now I have an appointment in
a few moments with Andrew Larson. He's getting me a good deal on a few hundred
slave feline-girls."

        "Got any buyers?"

        "They're in demand. I say I can sell them for three times the price."

        "Good business," said Heller appreciatively. "And I guess I'll have to
buy one from you, to promote a potential booming market."

        "At the wholesale price, I assure you," said Tomerson. The meeting was
coming to a good close.

        "Thank you. Inform me when your 'cargo' arrives. I must be going now,
to update our defences."

        "Of course, Mr. Heller. I'll save the best for you," promised Greg.
Phil quickly downed his drink, picked up his briefcase, and left. Greg sighed,
poured himself another drink, and waited for Larson.

        Srina was carefully dusting and re-arranging delicate china figures on
a glass tray when Greg called her. He didn't verbally call, actually, since the
manor was so big. Instead, a red light on her bracelet flashed. She hurriedly
began putting the china figures down, anxious to press the red button and ask
him what he wanted. She had to do it quickly, or risk punishment. But she
couldn't just drop the china figures.

        She managed to put them down gently, but not fast enough. Hot pain
seared up her arm, from her wrist up to her elbow. She cursed an alien curse
and pushed the red button with her other hand. Soon the feeling would come back
to her hand, but for now it was immobile.

        "Yes, Master Tomerson?"

        "Srina, that was too slow," said her master harshly, not sympathetic
at all to the pain he knew she was in. The bracelet on his own wrist controlled
the bracelet on hers, and she could not remove it.

        "I am sorry, Master Tomerson. What do you require of me?"

        "Mr. Larson is here. Come pour the drinks," said Greg.

        "Yes, Master Tomerson, right away." Srina watched the red light dim as
the connection was broken. How much she'd like to snap the demeaning bracelet
in two....

        Andrew and Greg were engaged in a round of polite laughter when Srina
entered. She went straight to the wine cabinet, feeling Larson's eyes on her
the whole time. "Now that's one good looking feline-girl," said Larson. The
comment was directed to Tomerson, as if Srina's beauty was all his doing.

        "And obedient," added Tomerson. "Got her on D'lor Seven six weeks ago,
and haven't regretted it since. I think the entire population of Sonso Two will
want one."

        "Perfect," smiled Larson. "But I think slaves should have more....
appropriate uniforms. I just happened to bring an example with me..." He
snapped open his briefcase.

        "Srina! Where are my drinks??" bellowed Greg. Srina was carrying two
brandy sniffers and a bottle of Regil Classic on a fine silver tray, but her
master's yell startled her. The tray crashed to the floor, and the bottle and
glasses were shattered. "You stupid yetskiza!" growled Tomerson. "Clean that up
right away! If I payed you it would come out of your pay!"

        Srina timidly started off to get cleaning supplies. "Wait!" said
Larson. He had found the rather skimpy uniform, and decided that Srina would be
a perfect model.

        Greg instantly understood what Larson was going to do, and decided it
was a fitting punishment for his slave. After all, she'd proved herself
incompetent after he had praised her so heavily to Larson. "Yes, Srina, wait.
I think Mr. Larson would like you to help him out."

        Srina turned reluctantly, and Larson tossed her the outfit. It was
small enough to be a hankerchief. "Well, try it on, Srina. You may change in
the closet," jeered Greg. Srina entered the large walk-in closet, pulling the
door tightly shut.

        She emerged in a very skimpy silver bikini-style outfit. It made her
feel extremely uncomfortable, epsecially the way the two men looked at her,
leering shamelessly. "Wonderful! I'll make it the official slave uniform from
now on," promised Greg. "Can she keep the sample she's wearing?"

        "Of course. I have many more. Now, are you willing to sign a few
papers?" Larson pulled a thick sheaf of papers from his briefcase. Greg's eyes
cruised through them. The price was cheaper than he's expected! It was
definately his day.

        He signed the papers, being careful to check for small print. "Now,
when does my cargo arrive?"

        "Well, actually, tomorrow."

        "Well, well, what advance notice you have given me!"

        "I'm really sorry, Tomerson, but I want to get them here before the
Katerain reach the D'lor System. Those mysterious conquerors are getting too
close for comfort." The D'lor system contained eight planets, and D'lor Seven
was the home of the felinoid-people, who called themselves the Lacmar. However,
Terrans didn't respect the name, and referred to them simply as 'felinoids' or
'cat people'.

        "Good decision. I'll store them in the stables until I sell them off."
He turned to Srina. "Clean up this mess, pour me another drink, and clean the
stables." When she left to get the cleaning supplies, he addressed Larson once
more. "Do they have the control bracelets yet?"

        "No. The security sytem is working on a more effective model, coming
out within the next few months. Maybe you can get a hold of some old models to
use until then."

        "Very well. I'll expect the delievery tomorrow at..?"

        Larson had been watching Srina leave, savouring how her hips fit the
disgusting (in his opinion-beautiful) outfit. Now he switched his attention
back to Tomerson and quickly got his thoughts together before answering,
"Uh...they'll be here at six p.m tomorrow. A truck will bring them around, and
I'll make sure they're in uniform."

        "Good," smiled Tomerson. Yes, this was definately his day.....

        At six p.m the next day, a big truck lumbered up to the Tomerson Manor.

        "Pour me a drink, Srina," ordered Tomerson as he went out to sign for
his order. No point in having her mixed up with all the rest. If they mistook
her for an unclaimed slave, she might spend the night in the stables, and then
who would wait on him?

        There were hundreds of them, huddled together in the truck. The silver
uniforms glittered, and Terran guards herded them out of their mobile prison
like cattle. "Where d'ya want 'em?" drawled the driver.

        Greg quickly signed for the order and ordered, "Around the back, in the
stables."

        The driver nodded. "Okay men! Follow me!" The herd of slaves were
surrounded by guards and led around the back. They found the stables with no
difficulty, and moved the girls in alongside stallions and foals. Those who
even attempted to resist were brutally disciplined. Greg Tomerson watched all
this impassionately, and when the guards left, he locked the huge iron gates
and went inside to activate the force field. No feline-girl worth money was
escaping him.

        Greg Tomerson's life went pretty smoothly for the next few months. He'd
managed to sell all three hundred of his first slave shipment, and had
established a quick monopoly on the slave trade. Now "Tomerson's Tantalizing
Feline-Girls" were being sold all over Sonso Two.

        The only problem left was the Katerain. He hadn't heard of them since
he became one of Sonso Two's most powerful leaders, and didn't know if that was
good or bad.

        He sat at his desk, ready to call up the security report, one he used
to check almost hourly, but now referred to only twice daily. But as he called
up the files on his computer, his screen blinked a red message: INCOMING
MESSAGE.

        He sighed, pressed a few buttons in rapid succession, and typed,
RECEIVE MESSAGE. The screen flashed red and then a silver background appeared,
bearing the seal of Sonso Three. Tomerson sat up straighter. A message in bold
letters took form against the silvery backdrop. It read simply: HAVE DEFEATED
KATERAIN. ARE REPAIRING BASE. CONTACT WITHIN THE WEEK.

        Greg received a flood of messages after that one. All the other leaders
had apparently received it too, and they were in the mood for partying.
Ecstatic that what had been the biggest of his problems was over, Greg decided
to throw the party himself. He invited all the other successful buisnessmen,
including Heller and Larson, who had become close friends. They would talk,
drink, and swap success stories. It would be an entertaining evening.

        Sixty-five men arrived at the Tomerson Manor that night. Fifty-six were
businessmen thrilled at being recognized by such a successful man, and hoped to
get in good with him and swing a few good deals. The other nine were as
powerful as Tomerson had become, and appreciated not having to spend their
money throwing a party, even though they had so much of it.

        "Srina, Lotuza, Zeena, Railia, Poloy, Fieska, bring us some drinks,"
ordered Greg extravagantly. His other six slaves had cleaned and decorated the
house, and prepared the dinner.

        The slaves were dressed in shimmering gold outfits, and the men eyed
them appreciatively. A few of the more brash guests executed low whistles, but
when no one else did, they stopped, embarassed. The feline-girls were soon
swamped with orders for Oxolop Brandy and Saturn's Rings Wine. An elaborate
eight course meal followed.

        After a few hours, the men began to feel sick. They began lining up
outside the washrooms, and doubling over. Only Tomerson felt fine. "Uh, what's
wrong with you fellows?" he asked nervously.

        "My stomach," moaned one.

        "My head!" protested another. Various other groans became audible.

        "Maybe he poisoned the food!" cried a particularly insolent
businessman.

        "I had the same meal, and yet I feel quite healthy," said Greg.

        "I never knew you wanted the whole moonbase so badly!" cried one man.

        "He's trying to get rid of us all at once!"

        "I swear, I'm not trying to kill you!" protested Tomerson. "I invited
you here for fun!" He turned to one of his closest friends. "Isn't that right?"
"It isn't fun to be so ill. And why aren't you sick too?" accused Larson. "Did
you make sure that your food was prepared separately?"

"I swear, this misfortune wasn't planned!" claimed Tomerson. But his protests
were futile. His guests were in pain, and angry. They began marching towards
him, smashing empty bottles- and the occasional half-full one- for weapons
along the way.

        Greg ran around the corner and up the spiral staircase. He looked down
at the advancing men. Many fell to the ground, but still the survivors marched
on. He ran to the master bedroom and locked the door. He suddenly felt trapped,
and decided to fling open the doors and hide somewhere else.

        Too late. The door was buckling as clenched fists pounded it with a
steady rhythm. Pound, pound, pound, pound. Pound, pound, pound, pound. It was
slowly driving Greg mad.

        But after fifteen minutes, when the door was just about to collapse,
the pounding stopped. Greg waited for it to start again, but it didn't. He
waited, shivering on the bed, for fifteen more minutes. Finally, he decided it
was time to do something.

        He turned the knob, but the door wouldn't open. Panicking at the
thought of being trapped, he applied all his weight to the door. It moved an
inch, then an inch more. Finally it was open enough so he could squeeze
through, The first thing he saw was the reason he had been trapped; men lay
against the door in a heap.

        Bodies lined the hallway. He checked a few pulses. Dead. Now he was
worried. Who had done this? His safe mansion suddenly seemed a lot less safe.
Someone had poisoned sixty-five men... and that someone could be anywhere.

        He entered the main room again, and suddenly noticed a shortage of
slaves. That figured, as feline-girls were non-violent. They had probably been
terrified by the fighting, and run off to hide. He rolled up his sleeve to push
the blue button, which would alert all of them. But his hand stopped halfway.
A dozen terrified slaves would only add to the confusion. Besides, they weren't
warriors, and wouldn't be able to defend him anyways. He suddenly wished that
he'd hired armed guards, but he'd always felt so safe, right up until that
evening.

        A cold, irrational fear materialized in his stomach, and he went to the
phone. Dead. He checked the security readout. All the security systems around
his house were on, as usual. Good. No one had gotten in or out. He would be
safe until morning. The communications operator would have already noticed his
dead phone lines and automatically made a note to leave it for four hours. If,
by then, he failed to call in and say everything was fine, security forces
would be notified.

        He felt a bit better, knowing he was at least secure. Maybe the slaves
had served food that had gone bad and hadn't known it. Since he hadn't eaten
much compared to the others, it was a possibility. But there was always the
possibility that someone had meant for it to happen. Some unimportant unknown,
hearing of the party and deciding to take care of the competition? Dissatisfied
rebels? The more extreme ideas bounded about in his mind, growing bigger and
more terrifying every time he thought of them.

        Now he sat down heavily, and reached for his wine. He poured himself a
drink, something he hadn't done for himself in a long time. He took one sip,
then two, but could not not take more. No, he felt the eerie feeling of being
watched, and sprang to his feet.

        A war cry sounded. He turned to the left, then to the right. Where was
it coming from? It sounded again. The inhuman battlecry of enraged warriors.
And then he saw them. Twelve warriors in black uniforms. They didn't have
weapons, which scared him even more. What sort of warriors were confident
enough to attack unarmed?

        "Who are you? Why did you kill all my guests?" he asked.

        "We are the Katerain. We do not need to explain our actions," said one
of the warriors coolly, a voice modifier changing the speaker's tone enough to
prevent Tomerson from knowing even if it had been a male or female who had
spoken.

        "But you were defeated at Sonso Three!" he protested.

        "Silly man. We conquered Sonso Three, and sent you word of our own
defeat. It was perfect. You became overconfident, and we were ready. We had
already slowly filtered our forces here, even with your pathetic security
measures. Now we are ready to claim this colony. Of course, we owe most of our
success to you. After all, you so helpfully gathered almost all of the most
powerful leaders here, making it so convienient to dispose of them all at
once."

        "But why didn't you kill me?"

        "We already have. You have taken two sips of the poisoned wine. Soon
you will not be able to stand up, let alone stand in our way. Sonso Two belongs
to the Katerain."

        Tomerson could feel his stomach begin to knot. "Tell me something,
before I die. Who are you, and how did you get through the security system?"

        "Easy." The Katerain removed their masks, and familiar faces sneered
at him. "Yes, it's us. Your humble slaves. The ones you didn't pay, or treat
decently," said Srina. She was obviously the leader. "You actually brought us
here, in huge numbers. Maybe you weren't aware that your slave population
almost outnumbered your Terran population?" She laughed. "All you cared about
was power and wealth. And now you have killed your planet's population. Our
cloaked ships are waiting to land here, as soon as all you Terrans are either
enslaved or killed."

        Greg Tomerson felt very, very sick, and only partly from the wine. He
had worked so hard to protect the colony from the Katerain, and all that his
efforts had done was aided the enemy. "Pour me a drink, Srina." He couldn't
stand the thought of the slow death that awaited him.

        Srina smiled. "Of course, Master." She poured a full glass, and he
swallowed it greatfully. The poison entered his system at an alarming rate, and
his vision blurred.

        "Thank you, slave....," he gasped. He died, and Sonso Two died with
him.
                   THE  END (obviously, in this case)
SAUCE00Last DrinksEoanyaMiSTiGRiS20941015