The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [39]
“Welcome to my world, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. His voice shouldn’t have been able to carry that far, but it did. Vassily frowned. Something was not right here.
“A while ago, you were leading your ordinary lives. Many of you served in Starfleet. Others are civilians. All of you are here, now. Back in your world, no one even knows you are gone. My holograms have seen to [115] that. You think you are so unique, that you are irreplaceable. But you’re not.
“In your world, you were the organics—the masters. Here, you will experience what it is like to be the slave class. This is a pleasant little fantasy world that I have created, much the same way you,” he said, pointing to one man, “or you,” he added, stabbing his finger in the direction of another, “have created such simulations to while away the time. In these little fantasy worlds, the creator has everything he desires. He uses holograms to achieve his pleasures.”
Baines looked around, smiling slightly. “Now the shoe is on the other foot. I hope you enjoy your time in this particular holosuite.”
The prisoners exchanged uncertain glances. Vassily felt Allyson’s hand steal into his own. He twined his fingers around hers. There was no desire, no passion—just the desperate contact of flesh on flesh, an intense need to connect with another human being.
The moment was shattered as the holographic riders spurred their holographic horses into action. Neighing fiercely, the beasts charged the crowd. Andropov felt Allyson’s hand being torn from his grip. He stumbled and fell, and other bodies landed on top of him.
They all struggled to their feet. Andropov coughed, his mouth full of sand, and that was when he felt the sting of the whip. In a fraction of a second, his back was laid open from shoulder to buttock. Despite himself, he cried aloud, with pain and surprise.
“Up, slave,” snarled the rider. He was a large man, brown-skinned and dark-eyed. His muscles gleamed [116] with sweat. “We have monuments to build.” He turned his head and his eyes fell upon Allyson, who stood with a cluster of other prisoners. Andropov could already see a bruise welling on her face.
White teeth showed in the rider’s brown face as he leered, his gaze caressing her from head to toe.
“Behold a rose blooming amid the dung pile,” he said, his voice sultry. Allyson, green eyes wide, cringed and tried to cover herself.
“Leave her alone,” said two voices at the same time. One voice was Vassily’s. The other who spoke was a tall, attractive woman. Her skin was as brown as the rider’s, and her long, straight hair as black. Her body was strong and athletic, and her almond-shaped eyes snapped defiance.
Briefly the rider glanced in Vassily’s direction. Almost absently, he cracked his long, thin whip. This time it caught Andropov across the cheek, narrowly missing his eye. He clapped his hand to the wound and blood flowed between his fingers. The rider turned back to the other woman, clearly much more interested in her than in Andropov.
“Another flower,” he said. “My chieftain Baines has an eye for beauty, I see. And such fire, to rush to the defense of her friend!”
“She’s not my friend,” Allyson said quickly. Andropov saw that she was shaking. He knew what she was doing—trying to protect the other woman.
“It does not matter,” said the dark-skinned woman. Her voice was deep and musical. “You will leave her alone. You will leave all the women alone, and you will cease injuring the men. Your ‘chieftain’ will return us [117] to the places he has stolen us from, or he will face the wrath of the Federation.”
The rider threw his head back and laughed heartily. He turned to his comrades. “Listen to her!” he crowed. “As if she actually has some say in what becomes of her!” His friends laughed along with him. He turned back to the woman, and although desire still gleamed in his eyes, his voice was harsh.
“You are nothing, do you understand? You’ve got no name, no rights, no reason for existence except to please us. You’ll do what we tell you to do and you’ll do it with a smile on that pretty