Vanquished

By Lux Caverna

Indil yearns for love in another man’s arms—love forbidden in his Rihadeshi culture.

Now he’s kidnapped by Glim, an enthralling space pirate, during a theft gone wrong. To save his life, he must carry out the biggest heist in history. While also capturing Glim’s heart.

If he can steal a billion credits, he can steal a new life.

And the beginning of his life might mean the end of an empire.

Vanquished is 114,000 words of slow-burn male/male erotic romance set in an imaginary empire. It has several scenes of corporal punishment and explicit sex between two men.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lux Caverna
• Release date: Jun 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005903121

Book preview

1

The tip of the sword never moved. It stayed at his throat, the man’s hand steady, that muscular arm keeping the blade perfectly still.

Indil tried to catch his breath. This is what a warrior looked like: steady, courageous, strangely sure of himself. Handsome. Deadly as fuck.

Don’t react, he told himself. Just—Just think about The Project. The Project always calmed him. What if there was a guard—an alert guard like this one—what if there was a guard, what would you do then? How would you get past a suspicious guard, to slip the worm into the system … Though—fuck—that man had a beautiful mouth, and those shoulders … Mind back on The Project, you idiot!

The man with the ceramisword was watching him closely. Indil felt the other guard—the safe guard; the guard he wasn’t attracted to—wanding him, even though it should have been obvious that Indil belonged here: the mountain-two-stars logo of the Bank of the Empire glowed on his breast pocket the instant Indil entered the lobby; his suit was a steady charcoal color; his chip would have triggered a file on their monitor with his name, rank, and purpose for being in the Bank annex.

Jump of the heart, and Indil’s personal monitor began a faint vibration against his wrist to warn him that his heart rate was edging too high. Was the guard wanding him because it wasn’t clear Indil belonged here? But—But, no: Henvis wouldn’t send him over to wire a vault if there was any question about Indil’s job performance; Indil’s suit wouldn’t be its reassuring charcoal if he didn’t belong here. Still …

He tried to cover the jump in heart rate by thinking through The Project—the soothing Project. Run through the algorithm, tweak it. Felt his heart slow to an acceptable beat and the monitor stop vibrating.

The swordsman, now: his clothing announced that he didn’t really belong—not in the way Indil did. Plain fabric in an unchanging green; plastic badge with the Bank logo stamped on it; no beard, so no chip, because he wasn’t Rihadeshi. And probably good in bed and rough and demanding and maybe even masterful— Stop that!

Little twitch of the swordsman’s mouth, and a blossoming warmth in his eyes, and Indil felt his heart jump again. Stop that! Stop that stop that stop that—

Sir, the other guard said, gesturing at Indil’s jacket pockets; and Indil silently offered for inspection the tools weighing down one jacket pocket, the little box of chip drives that spoiled the shape of the other pocket; fucking Henvis, sending him over here to do a junior clerk’s job, when Indil had so much real work—real accountant’s work—to do—

Thank you, sir. The other guard’s voice was properly obsequious. Let him go, Harrow, he muttered to the swordsman. Sorry, sir, he said to Indil. He’s … new.

The sword left Indil’s throat and slid into the scabbard at Harrow’s side. Surely the jumps in Indil’s heart rate could be explained by him being almost skewered by an overeager guard. He made a mental note of that explanation in case it was needed later.

Thank you, gentlemen. Indil smiled. Nodded genially. Always be polite to underlings, because they can fuck up your day.

I’ll … accompany you, the swordsman said. Sir.

Because, of course: Indil could possibly be kidnapped and robbed and murdered in the twenty steps between the guards’ station and the elevator; of course he needed a bodyguard.

Try not to stab him, Harrow, the safe guard said sarcastically.

Just being cautious, sir, the swordsman said. First week on the job, he confided to Indil. Want to make a good impression.

Well, almost decapitating one of the Bank’s accountants was an interesting start. Of course, Zun Harrow, Indil said pleasantly. Bodyguard, he thought a little caustically.

Though it felt oddly comfortable, having Harrow beside him. Oddly safe. And like Indil was important enough to have a bodyguard—practice for when he was that important. He sneaked a glance at Harrow, admiring the handsome jaw, the wary gaze analyzing everything they passed, the casual way Harrow kept one hand on the hilt of the ceramisword, because you can’t be too careful while walking an accountant across an empty, well-lit lobby. Enjoyed the flicker of warmth that flashed through him, the minute racing of his heart that could be accounted for by the briskness of their pace.

The elevator door opened automatically to the chip in Indil’s body; Harrow looked over the interior before stepping aside for Indil to enter.

Sir, he said, inclining his head in a businesslike way.

As the elevator door closed, Harrow gave Indil a quick survey up and down his body, and a little smile through the rapidly closing door.

Fuck, oh, fuck, those bright eyes … Indil fought the flush of warmth, the thought that Harrow had been admiring him—him!—the sudden unsteady beat of his heart at the thought that Harrow might want him—him!—because everybody knows the non-Rihadeshi have sex as casually as they have breakfast, that they fuck anyone (or anything) that catches their fancy, so a well-mannered accountant might be just—

Fuck fuck fuck: stop that! The monitor on his wrist was starting to take interest again. As the elevator glided up to level three, Indil closed his eyes, let his mind wander through The Project, worked a few restful calculations. Total number of transactions in quadrant three of lower deck ten on Endelhan 2 will be around five thousand by the time you get back to the office, and probably that would total around four-hundred-twenty-five thousand credits, the average transaction in that quadrant being eighty-five; and if you take into account the average number of cancelled transactions each day, the total would be—

And—thank You, blessed Tawis—Indil felt his focus shift, felt his monitor calm, felt his heart rate slow—slow to a rate below that of someone planning some form of larceny, slow to a rate that wouldn’t trip an algorithm in the all-observing computer system and cause a thunder of guards to stampede in Indil’s direction, with a shameful arrest to follow. But, Don’t think about guards, Indil cautioned himself. Guards—that one—arresting him, stripping him, forcing him— Stop that!

So, level three—Customer Service—where Indil would take the bridge across to Customer Maintenance and up that elevator, his path cleared by the chip in his body connecting to the all-seeing computer system; and to Indil’s secret relief he was now calm enough that the elevator slid smoothly to a stop—oh, thank You, thank You, blessed Tawis; I owe You a sacrifice—and he could exit with dignity instead of being confronted by a security force armed with something more efficient than ceramiswords. Before the door opened, Indil’s suit changed color from Accounting charcoal to the rich blue of a manager in Customer Service—blue to blend in with everyone else in the department, but the depth of color signalling that he was important enough to be respected and to be saved first in case of danger.

Polite smile at the Rihadeshi guard sprawled at his station just outside the elevator, and brisk amble past the Customer Service workers in their pale blue uniforms, artificially cheerful in their tiny cubicles as they fielded transmissions from disgruntled customers. Nod to an administrator in rich blue, who nodded back, probably unaware of Indil’s name, but knowing that he was expected to respect a fellow administrator.

As Indil approached the bridge, the door opened automatically to his chip, and he allowed himself a flicker of pleasure. Belonged here, and the doors knew it; the chip was clearing his path. And that door would never open to someone in pale blue; Indil had earned a much higher security level than most of them could even dream of.

By the time he reached the door at the other end of the bridge, his suit had changed to the warm brown of a manager in Customer Maintenance. He wended his way through the cubicles where clerks clad in tan muttered over problems, to the elevator in an obscure nook that opened at his approach.

So, up past level four, where the computer techs were (and wasn’t he glad to be out of that stop-dead job), and levels five, six, and seven—where the servers were—and as the elevator reached level eight, Indil’s suit shifted color to rust—easy to spot against the dull gray of the Lattice’s corridors. Door opened into the modest lobby, where a digital map blinked at him.

Indil gave it a glance as he started for the door to Section Three, where most deliveries were being made while Sections One and Two were being brought back online. Yes: the vault was in Dock 3.5.2.

The door sealed itself behind him, and Indil tried not to flinch. The corridors here were simply insulated walkways through the near-vacuum of space to the docks where things were delivered and taken away, and the soft chunk! of that door sealing was a reminder that he was now somewhere vulnerable to open space. And probably alone, except for the ever-attentive computer system.

The corridors in the Lattice were narrow and low and dark unless someone with a chip was present; and oxygen would have begun flowing through the ones on his route as soon as he entered the annex. He followed his lighted corridor to the elevator shaft, where a service elevator growled—probably delivering refuse to be removed—and stepped into the transport pod beside it that obligingly opened as he approached.

He sat in the pod and felt himself relax at the friendly chunk! of the door locking once he had fastened the seat strap. The tiny pod was built to act as a rescue pod if necessary: tough and equipped with water and food and waste disposal (under the cushion he was sitting on); and it felt very safe here as the pod slowly glided to level five and opened.

The pod’s door stayed open as he left, in case he needed to re-enter it quickly. The freight elevator had preceded him, and the automated refuse container was trundling off the elevator into Dock 3.5.3. Dock 3.5.1 was empty; the door into Dock 3.5.2 opened invitingly as Indil approached and stayed open in case he needed to exit quickly.

The vault stood in its crate on the pallet just inside the bay door, where it had been delivered yesterday. It was a Gefrithsum 950, and it was expensive, and it was huge: taller than Indil and deeper than it was tall; someone had a lot of jewelry and silver and precious objects and a very specific space for the vault to sit in. The crate and the vault door were already open so oxygen could get inside; and once Indil entered the vault he thought, Fuck you, Henvis! Fuck you, you fucking bastard—you FUCK!—because a fucking intern could have done this job his first fucking day; and, just, fuck you, Henvis, you smarmy bastard.

Because this wasn’t a new vault that might take some tweaking by skilled hands to get correctly wired; this was an old vault with a couple failed chip drives needing to be replaced. He glared at the dozens of drawers and large sections, each of which should have shown a tiny light under its tiny slot for a tiny chip drive.

But, You have to replace all those chip drives, anyway, Indil reminded himself grimly, because all the chip drives were the same vintage, and where one failed, the others were sure to follow; and maybe a lowly intern couldn’t have managed it; maybe it needed the skills of a man who’d worked in Computer Tech before finishing a degree in accounting and earning a higher social credit level and greater responsibility. Certainly it needed the personal attention of someone in Outer Open Accounts, rather than some lower-level drone from Computer Services who might compromise the vault so it could be robbed by his friends.

But Henvis was still a smarmy fuck.

Indil pulled the tiny pocketlight from his pocket and swept its beam over everything. Yes: the chip drive on that upper drawer on the right had failed and pushed itself out of its slot; and then the owner of the vault had panicked when the vault’s security system collapsed and had emptied all the drawers and sections and sent the vault to the Bank for repair and was no doubt even now haranguing someone at the Bank to hurry up about this.

He pulled out the offending chip drive and replaced it with one from the box in his other pocket; and, suddenly, tiny lights flickered to life on all the sections and the drawers, and the vault door closed with a satisfactory click! and Indil slid to sit on the floor and admire it all, bathed in the glow of seventy-nine miniature lights.

He leaned against the big section where people usually stored the massive silver punch bowl and closed his eyes for a moment, automatically unclasping his personal monitor and slipping it into his pocket. It felt safe in here, so safe. No one could get in; no one could get to him. And the walls of the vault blocked the queries of the computer system; he was invisible. Any … agitation would be unnoticed, unrecorded.

So he gave himself a moment to think about that guard. Harrow. A Cliff Person name; and, oh, what everyone said about the Cliff People: they fucked anyone and everyone as soon as they hit puberty, so a man Harrow’s age would be skilled and demanding … Indil let the heat of that thought wander through him like a slow river. Someone that demanding could—could find out where an accountant lived and force his way in and—and fuck him again and again, holding him down and taking him and taking him and taking him with what had to be a big, thick cock.

Tonight, Indil promised himself. Tonight, safe in his quarters, he would think about Harrow demanding use of Indil’s body—spanking the clothes off him, maybe, and forcing him to do the things no proper Rihadeshi man could allow himself to do—and Indil would finger himself and tease himself and bring himself to the brink again and again, whimpering and begging for release, imagining that hard body and those big hands on him, harsh commands rasping in his ear and hot cock plunging into his mouth and his ass.

Indil gave himself another moment to imagine that, to fix in his mind Harrow’s bright eyes and sly grin and lush mouth and rich voice and the solid warmth of that well-muscled body as they walked to the elevator and the strange sense of safety Indil had felt. Yes, tonight.

Tonight. After he dragged himself home, late again because he’d had to stay at the Bank to catch up on his work after much of the day was given over to swapping out the chip drives in this fucking vault like Indil was some sort of clerk, just because Henvis had told him to, because Henvis was a step higher than Indil was in Outer Open Accounts, which wasn’t fair because Indil had been there longer and knew the job better and should have received the promotion. Indil let the frustration wash through him. Henvis: less experienced, but still Indil’s boss now because—well, everybody knew it was because Henvis’s family had Connections. And Indil had none. No family. So no Connections.

Indil rode the frustration for a moment, safe from the all-recording computer system. Henvis, the outrageously stupid fuck who’d had his way in life smoothed by his family—by the fact that he had a family. Unlike Indil, who’d had to struggle for everything he had. Next time, he reminded himself. Next time he might be up against another orphan—there were so many from the breakup of the Ranuil—and then surely he would get the promotion; surely a man who’d completed a degree in accounting after apprenticing in computing exhibited the kind of initiative the Bank would want to encourage.

He drifted for a few seconds in the happy haze of that future time: bigger quarters (two actual rooms!) and maybe another gildedfish and further promotions and vacations to places where—

Stop that! Because he had to open the vault door and … agitation would be noted by the all-monitoring computer system.

So Indil slid his mind into the well-worn groove of The Project, that long-plotted plan to rob the Bank of the Empire, which he would never put into action, but which served as a long meditation that soothed him and kept his mind out of the soggy depths of the fucking boredom of his fucking boring job doing fucking boring accounting in fucking boring Outer Open Accounts.

Monitor clasped back on his wrist, Indil thumbed the new chip drive out of its place and heard the vault door open as the other seventy-eight tiny lights blinked out. Stupid owner: the manufacturer had provided an update to the software that kept the vault door locked if the security system inside collapsed, but could any of these rich bastards be bothered to update their expensive, expensive toys? And his wirefree was locked in its cubicle at the Bank’s Security Desk, so he couldn’t even play music to keep himself from going witless with tedium while he spent hours swapping out chip drives because some rich fucking bastard was so fucking lazy …

The vault had thirty-seven drawers and sections on either side, the back wall bare except for four large hooks and some clamps. Paintings, Indil thought; hung and clamped to the vault. Someone with a vault this size probably had a lot of very expensive paintings to go with whatever they needed seventy-four drawers and sections for. Must be nice.

He started near the vault door, changing the setting on his pocketlight so it gave off the soft, homey glow of a small lamp: cozily like the table lamp in his quarters. Box of replacement chip drives open in one jacket pocket; discarded chip drives dropped into his other jacket pocket; chip drive snagger handy in his breast pocket; mind on the nuances of The Project and what he’d do with all that money if he actually went through with it.

Mind very definitely off the broad shoulders and strong hands of a Cliff Person guard and what that guard would force a begging, pleading, law-abiding Rihadeshi accountant to do in bed.

It wasn’t fair. Other Rihadeshi men—Rihadeshi men with families, with Connections—did as they pleased. Even men who worked at the Bank—that executive laughing to a friend as he strolled into his office, Oh, yeah, I fucked him. I fucked him so far into the mattress he had to claw his way out. I fucked that ass until he squealed. And the comical Oops! when he saw the computer tech finishing up the installation of a new desk unit. The grinning You didn’t hear that, to the tech. And the tech had said innocently, Hear what, sir? while his heart pounded at this new understanding—that the upper echelon could fuck whoever they pleased, and nobody cared. So it was that Indil registered that night for the online program in accounting.

You’ll get there, he reminded himself now. You’ll be promoted, and you’ll get to that level and be able to fuck someone and have nobody care. And be fucked by someone, which was the really important part.

Halfway down the first side, Indil felt the vibration of the alarm on his personal monitor. Break, the little screen said, time. Out of habit he waited a moment, but that was all it said. So Indil tapped the screen to acknowledge the message and stretched and took off his jacket and hung it on one of the picture hooks and lay down on the floor of the vault to rest.

The monitor was new and not as elegant as the ones worn by some of the higher-level Bank executives, but it was better than what he’d had before he could afford this one: that monitor subsidized by the company that made ZestUp, so every reminder to take a break or have a meal or hydrate was accompanied by a perky five-note jingle and a tinny voice suggesting you ZestUp while you restup! Embarrassing when that thing went off during a meeting, but less embarrassing than the personal monitors sponsored by the condom companies.

It was pleasant here on the floor, though his trousers were probably getting dusty. Faint vibrations of machinery; whisper of vents piping air to him. Quiet; and he was safe, so safe. Outside were only the Sentinel ships and the shuttles between the annex and Bank Colony. And, of course, the little ships that delivered things and took things away—the ones with crews carefully vetted by the Sentinel Force and Bank security. After all, they didn’t want a repeat of— Don’t think about that; it’s all safe now; they’ve made sure everything’s safe. Safe now, from the rebels who’d brought their fight to the Inner Colonies and blown up part of the Lattice, among other things. You’re safe.

When his monitor pointed out that break time was over, Indil obediently stretched and retrieved his jacket and began again to replace the chip drives.

Mind firmly off the fact that his accounting work for Endelhan 2 was falling further and further behind as he worked here, Indil fell into a state near meditation: thumb out an old chip drive, slip in a new, feel for the minute buzz that told him it had been accepted. Once or twice, a new chip drive was rejected and was tucked into a side slot to be inspected later. Occasionally an old chip drive unseated itself, but had to be carefully teased out with the chip drive snagger. He worked his way down that side, nudging the pocketlight along the floor with his foot to light his way. Replaced the chip drives connected to the picture hooks. Checked the thick panels that slid out from either side of the vault and locked together to protect the paintings. Replaced the chip drive on that lock. Started up the other side of the vault, working his way toward the vault door.

Felt the vibration in the vault and heard the metallic rattle of the crate door sliding closed with a reassuring bang and nudging the vault door almost closed.

Froze.

Door of the crate for the vault closing meant loss of pressure in the bay.

Rumbling, now; and— Fuck! Was it another explosion?

Rumbling louder; and something clanged against metal. The grating shriek of metal rubbing metal. The vault suddenly shifted, just enough that Indil almost lost his balance.

Fuck fuck fuck; he was going to die; it was an explosion; another explosion; and he was going to die; he was going to die; he was going to die.

Clang again, and more grating; and this time the shifting of the vault threw him off his feet.

Die; he was going to die; he was going to—

Then—oh, fuck—the vault ceiling was suddenly drifting down toward him; but really he was drifting up to it; drifting, because—fuck!—the artificial gravity wasn’t working, which meant he was free in space—the vault was free in open space—open space, where there was no gravity and no air and no heat and he was going to fucking die …

Indil frantically grabbed for something—for anything; there wasn’t anything in this fucking vault he could grab; he was just helpless in no gravity with discarded chip drives leaking from his pocket and he was going to freeze in open space or he was going to die of no air and no one could help him and he was going to die.

The pocketlight floated with him. His monitor was beeping to point out to him that his heart rate had gone beyond acceptable limits. Clannng! from outside the crate as metal hit it; something ground along the side of the crate; and another clang; and then the soundlessness of open space, where he would float until he died; but at least his pocketlight working meant that he wouldn’t die in the dark.

Indil punched the beeping monitor into silence and grabbed for the pocketlight, which floated just out of reach, shedding the cozy light associated with table lamps all across the system.

He heard the grating of metal against metal, heard something hit the vault hard, heard a distant vibration.

Listened.

Listened.

Something rattled occasionally against the vault, but otherwise, just the distant hum of vibration.

Getting chilly. How long could he float here before freezing?

Listened.

Breath coming short. How long could he breathe inside this vault?

Frantically he paddled in the air, trying to get to his pocketlight, to waft himself to the hooks for the paintings, to get himself anywhere he could grab something.

Shift in the hum of vibration—what was happening?

Forever; he had floated forever here; forever. Would he freeze, or would he suffocate? Indil’s monitor was buzzing frantically, asserting that his heart rate had gone far beyond acceptable. Oh, God of space, God of dark travels, Indil was going to die here, die, die; please, oh, pleeeease …

More forever passed.

The humming faded.

Clannng; and insane scraping of metal against metal. Help. Oh, help …

And then the sound of metal dragging across metal and some more clanging. Pleeeease help me …

And Indil dropped to the vault floor onto his shoulder in a miniature rain of discarded chip drives as the pocketlight fell beside him and—smash!—out went the light.

Rumbling in the darkness; and Indil listened, listened. Had he been rescued? Surely he’d been rescued.

He listened; he listened.

The vault was large—for which, blessed Tawis, I am thankful; I’m so thankful; I owe You a sacrifice—and there was only one person breathing the air trapped inside, but the air wasn’t infinite, and seemed to be getting a little stale; and his monitor was beeping insanely, so he stood and tapped the display and took off the monitor and slid it into his pocket as he listened.

Surely they were rescuing him; surely he’d been rescued; surely someone was going to open the door of that crate any instant now. He couldn’t open it himself because the vault door opened outward and there was only about an inch between the vault and the sides of the crate, so he couldn’t open the vault door far enough to unlatch the crate and he was stuck here in this vault with no air, and surely they knew this; surely they knew he was in here, in this vault with no air coming in.

Didn’t they?

Indil listened; he listened.

And then there was—oh, thank You, blessed Tawis!—the bang of metal against the metal side of the crate and the soft thud of someone apparently hitting it and the faint mutter of someone calling the crate a fucking thing and then some sort of argument between some people.

Rescued. He’d been rescued. Indil tugged his clothing into a more dignified arrangement. Rescued.

More clanging and the murmurs of voices arguing and then a burring sound—something drilling?

Indil froze in the darkness. Surely if the Bank had rescued him, someone wouldn’t need to drill because they’d know the code to open the crate. And if the Sentinel Force had rescued him, they had a key that opened every lock in the system.

Just who had rescued him?

Indil found himself stepping back, back, further back into the vault, as far from the drilling and the burring and the sudden clanging as he could get. His breath came short—how much air was left in this vault?

Then—

Then—

Clang-clangle as something dropped and the glow of sudden light at the edge of the slightly open vault door and aiiiiir. Oh, merciful Tawis, thank You! He luxuriated in the oxygen.

Then a voice—a faintly familiar voice—said, You mean this doesn’t have a camera? and a woman said, "Well, if you wanted a camera, you should have drilled a bigger hole; and another man said, Just put the fucking thing in, will you! and the woman said, I am! as another woman said, Leave her alone!"

Tiny blip of darkness at the light, the rattle of something scraping around the edge of the vault door, and a gentle purring: drone. Automatically he looked for it, but it was invisible in the darkness.

Then the first man said, "So, what’s on that?"

Heat sensor, the woman said; and there was a sudden silence and she went on, Wait a minute: why is the door open? Because it’s open. And, you know, there should be a lot of little blinky lights in there, shouldn’t there? If it’s full? A lot of little lights blinking? You know—heat from that? Or at least the heat from the security system? Instead of—

Silence.

Instead of— the woman said.

Shit, that’s big, the second woman said. "What is it?"

Oh, fuck, the second man murmured.

It’s somebody in there, the first woman said.

There was a general rustling; and someone—another woman—said, "Not me, and the second man said angrily, You said … ! and the second woman asked, Is hru dead?"

"You said—" the second man shouted.

No, said the first woman. Well, actually, I don’t think so. Too much heat. Except, she went on, maybe if he just died … 

"You, the second man snarled, said this was—"

It was online! the first man protested. The computer said it was online! That meant it was full! and a tiny voice in Indil’s head said, Fuck; because the vault had gone online when he replaced that bad chip drive …

And now we’ve got a witness! the second man snapped.

Well, maybe he’s dead! the second woman said hopefully.

Fuck! another man snorted; and Indil heard someone bustling away.

"I am not taking responsibility for this, the first woman said. The purring of the drone faded as it slipped out of the vault. I’m out of here. You take care of it." More bustling.

We have to get rid of this thing, the angry man said. Put it in the garbage barge. The recycler’ll take care of everything.

Indil huddled against the empty picture wall, suddenly bereft of air. His heart was pounding; his lungs were straining. He was going to fucking die here …

No, said the first man.

It’ll be quick, the second man went on. If he’s still alive, he’ll freeze in the barge, and it’ll be over.

"No," the first man said.

But we can’t have a witness, and we can’t keep this fucking vault!

Indil stifled a sob. Don’t don’t don’t; death in the cold depth of airless space was the nightmare of everyone who lived in orbit. No. Nonono …

No. Nobody deserves that. I’ll—I’ll do it. Go help Lodi. I’ll— I can take care of … this.

A wordless snort from the second man, and then the rustle of people moving.

Get rid of him; I’ll do it: nothing in that sounded good. Indil’s shaking knees refused to hold him up; he felt himself begin to slide down the wall. Tawis, Lord of commerce, I’ve always honored You; save me save me save me. He huddled himself into the wall, trying to make himself too small to see. Holy Merrin, Lord of mercy, help me help me help—

Silence.

Silence.

Then some rustling and the scrape of the crate door sliding open. The door of the vault opened. A lightball rolled in, and Indil saw: saw Harrow stride in; saw the determined look in his eye; saw the ceramisteel sword; saw him square his shoulders and march to where Indil cowered against the wall; saw the moment of hesitation; saw the flicker of anguish; heard him say, Oh, fuck; I’m sorry, as he saw the sword blade sweep up, ready to slice down—

2

Indil blurted out the first thing that came into his head, which, luckily, wasn’t "Please, just fuck me; fuck me hard before you kill me, but I can help you steal a billion credits!"

And saw the sword blade stop.

Eternal pause, Harrow staring at him.

And then the sword pointed down, and Harrow walked over and pulled the vault door almost closed. He came back to Indil. A billion is a lot. How?

The crisp word stoppered up Indil’s brain. I’m—I’m a licensed accountant.

Harrow waited a moment, apparently expecting more. Then he smiled; and, oh, that little, amused smile …

I— There are— I can— A—A program. I— They would never notice.

Harrow looked at him for a moment. An accountant, he repeated.

Indil eased himself up, knees still shaking. By the gods, the man was handsome, even in the flat light of the lightball. At least fuck me before you laugh and kill me, he thought.

An accountant could …  Harrow grinned, and Indil felt his heart turn over in his chest. An accountant could … do a lot of things. If he … didn’t mind being dishonest. He studied Indil for a minute. I can use an accountant, especially one who can help me steal a billion credits without anyone noticing. What’s your name, accountant?

I-Indil. Indil tried to straighten his wobbly legs. Indil. Sir. Mar— No; that was wrong. "Zun Harrow. Sir."

The beautiful mouth unfolded again into the devastating smile. The ‘sir’ is good, Harrow said. "Though it’s not ‘Harrow.’ How dishonest are you, Mar Indil?"

I … can be, murmured Indil, who’d never cheated, lied, or stolen a single thing in his life and had the social credit score to prove it.

Not-Harrow laughed. To stay alive, anybody would promise to be dishonest. He hefted the sword, sighted down its blade, looked at Indil. But you know what’ll happen if you go back on your word.

Yes, sir, Indil breathed. Thank you, sir! Thank you! Oh, by the gods, maybe he’d cheated Death …

And if I’m not here to do it, there are nine others who won’t hesitate. And two who might just go ahead and kill you just because they don’t trust you.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! Thank you!"

Not-Harrow appraised him. I really like that ‘sir’, he growled.

Y-Yes … sir. Indil sucked in breath and asked boldly, "If—If it’s not ‘Harrow,’ what—what is your name? Sir?"

The little amused smile. Glim.

Cliff People, Indil said.

A little chuckle that quickened Indil’s heart. We’re not Rihadeshi here, Mar Indil. Rihadeshi won’t have us.

This one would have YOU, Indil thought. He felt himself flush with chagrin: bold, so bold.

"We’re not Rihadeshi, Mar Indil. We’re degenerates. We fuck whoever we want, whenever we want. And sometimes we