On Mars, a single “moon” was roughly equivalent to 30 days. Living four moons as a slave was almost beyond my imagination. I didn’t know how long moons were on this planet, but it seemed like she’d been a slave for a whole lot longer than 120 days.
After cleaning and inspecting her left arm, I motioned for her to pull the sleeve of her right arm up. It was just as bad as the other one. She had to be in a lot of pain, but she was tough and did her best to hide it.
I thought again of the Federation, my home, and imagined leading the task force who would later invade this planet and free any slaves we could find.
“Why did you release me?” she asked. “Am I not pleasing to you?”
The question shocked me like a miswired toilet-paper dispenser. “What do you mean?” I asked. “I find you… very pleasing.” I wasn’t kidding. I was trying to remain clinical as I inspected her wounds. And though the bruises were ugly and shocking, they didn’t detract from her beauty. Nor did they diminish the stoic pride or assertive power in her eyes.
“It is the way of things,” she continued, “that slaves do not get freed. Not even when our master dies. We are burned with him so that we will be slaves forever. But you freed me. You released me. Why?”
I didn’t make eye contact. I was still trying to remain clinical, inspecting her for anything more serious than bruising. She had scars resembling those caused by a whip. Either she’d been beaten a lot and used her right arm to protect her body, or the vrak had learned to make what ancient humans would have referred to as a “cat of nine tails.”
“Because slavery is wrong under any circumstance,” I said, still inspecting and cleaning her arm.
“But you have a slave.”
I raised my eyes to meet hers. Her expression was one of concern and confusion. I imagined my own was similar. “No, I don’t,” I said. “I abhor slavery in all its forms.”
“But the vrak.” She motioned in the direction Skrew had left. “He is your slave.”
“No, he’s not,” I said, growing impatient. I took a deep breath. It was obvious to me the woman would take time to adjust to her freedom.
She pursed her lips together, squinted one eye, and wrinkled her perfect, little nose. My heart melted. It was the most amusing, charming expression I’d ever seen. It was a look of innocence and youth. She had to be at least in her early 20s, though. Maybe as old as 25. I resisted the urge to smile at her, considering the seriousness of the conversation.
“Did he not give you his phylac?” she asked.
I felt its weight around my neck. It suddenly felt oppressive, heavy, and suffocating.
Using only my thumb, I lifted the string over my head and held the small object in front of my eyes.
“You are a master,” she whispered.
I was almost at a loss for words. I tried to speak but found my throat suddenly parched. I felt defensive, formulated justifications and counter-arguments, but the sad look in her eyes smothered the small brushfires threatening to consume me from the inside.
“I didn’t know,” was all I could manage.
She studied my face for several seconds. Her eyes held me firmly in a powerful grasp I couldn’t escape, even if I’d wanted to. I felt that I owed her an explanation, but I didn’t know if she would understand. She might think me a babbling idiot… or a liar.
She leaned forward and took my left hand, the one holding the damp cloth, in both of hers. She removed the cloth, placed it on the ground, and inspected my hand. She ran one beautiful finger across the calluses on my palm, sending goosebumps running up my arm. It took every ounce of self-control I could muster not to growl with pleasure.
On the back of my hand, she found a few old scars. One was a plasma burn I’d received when rescuing a fellow Marine from a critical powerplant failure. He’d suffered a career-ending set of injuries, but he’d lived, and he and his bride had both thanked me later. I heard they had a child and had named him after me.
The second, the one that seemed to capture her interest even more, was from a battle to free the city of Bramon on Sigma. It was my first introduction to the Xeno’s ootheca egg sacs. The acid had left pits in my skin, and the wounds had taken a long time to heal.
The third scar was on the big knuckle of my middle finger. I’d earned that one knocking two teeth out of a man I caught trying to mug someone. It was a scar from fighting. When the woman’s wounds healed, it would be a scar we had in common.
After performing a similar inspection on my other hand, she held onto it and looked me in the eye. “Who are your people?”
“My people are called ‘Martians,’” I said. “We are from the planet Mars, in the Sol system.”
She made the wrinkled-nose face again, and I wanted to laugh. “I have never heard of Martians,” she said. “Do your people keep slaves?”
“No. We never have. We don’t like slavery.”
“Then why do you have the vrak’s phylac?”
“Because he was going to be tortured to death,” I explained.
She had to have known what was happening in the village near the shack I’d rescued her from. She couldn’t have been that isolated, could she? The whole line of questioning was beginning to make me uncomfortable, and I hadn’t finished my examination.
I picked the cloth back up, wet it, and brought it to her face. She leaned toward me to make my task easier. Damn, she was pretty. I was having trouble staying focused as I cleaned the grime from her beautiful forehead and cheeks.
“Torture is the way of the Sitar,” she said. “It is the law. It
