Subject 5691 – The Fathomless Pool

If I have a fit, it’s all Night Tempest‘s fault! I swear these Flash Fiction pieces are going to kill me. Not because of the prompts, but because I’m so damn impatient to post the chapters! I finished this Monday night and have been twitching to post it ever since. I enjoyed writing this chapter. I hope you enjoy reading it! Oh, and the content is getting increasingly NSFW. If you click to continue, you acknowledge that you are at least eighteen and not uptight about sex.

As always, dart over to Night’s site, read her entry, check out the others participating, then return for more Petri and Grokhaar. This week, I got to choose the prompts. I found many, many lovely generators over at Chaotic Shiny and used an item each from five of the most promising ones.

Holiday – Crollifus is a cultural holiday celebrated on the summer solstice. It is associated with wildness, a reunion and peace. Traditions include private games of chance, exchanges of gifts and atonement.
Flag – an oriflamme with two stripes of olive and pale yellow, and a cross of dark green. The emblem is an oak tree. (oriflamme – any triangular banner with pointed ends, not to be confused with a pennant which is simply a triangle)
Superstition – Finding a poppy in a grove of ironwood trees is a sign that soon you will encounter a duel.
Tarot Card – The Lauded Arcanist – The card depicts a proud youth involved in a search near a lake. It is bordered by mountains. The back is bronze with an ear of corn involving repeating design. It is bordered by glyphs.
Ritual – Fighters trying to be protected from spirits can sacrifice a raven in a temple under a quarter moon.

The previous chapters of the story are (in order):

Petri
The Journey Begins
Kandaria

*****

Petri watched the pilot as comprehension dawned on Grokhaar’s ruggedly handsome face. The Alliance had spent millions of credits and wasted decades, if not longer, attempting to create a race of superior beings. They tried various methods – from injecting humanoids from various planets with foreign DNA to attempting to create sentient androids – but none had met with success. Even Subject 5691, the longest to survive their genetic manipulations, had been deemed a failure. During all their attempts over the years, one thing remained a constant: the name granted to those few who attained enough sentience to understand. Petri. An insult designed to remind each of them that they were nothing more than experiments; a creature born from the manipulation of cells and matter. The results grown in a Petri Dish.

“Do you like that name, lad?” A shiver ran the length of his spine at the growling quality of the Den’Lastrian’s voice. It sounded like danger and safety and lust all rolled into a large, russet-skinned, sexy specimen of manhood.

“It is better than a number, is it not?” He hissed.

“Bare those fangs at me again, boy, and I will have you against the wall of this ship, to Minost’s puckered arse with refueling!” Petri felt the cool metal of the ship’s wall against his bare back as the pilot closed the distance between them to mere millimeters. He hissed when Grokhaar’s thick cock pressed against his hip; he stifled a moan when he felt the metal ring that adorned it.

He placed his hands on the Den’Lastrian’s chest, intending to push him away. The pilot’s groan muffled his at the play of hard muscles rippling beneath his skin. It was his first flesh-to-flesh contact with another living being; even the scientists had worn gloves at all times when dealing with him. He ran his fingers over his smooth chest, the hard nipples pierced by the titanium hoops, and down his toned stomach. His breath quickened, his fangs ached, and his dick peeked over the band of the tight trousers. A large hand wrapped around each of his wrists when he brushed the edges of the breechcloth flaps.

“If we start that, we won’t leave the ship for a few hours at least, and I don’t want to be here that long.” Petri shuddered when Grokhaar trapped his hands against his broad chest, covering the cool rings. He felt that same tension from earlier pooling in his groin. How would the Den’Lastrian’s hands feel on his aching flesh? “Hold that thought until we get off this tharking rock, lad. The next leg of this journey will take a few days. Plenty of time for a bit of exploration.”

Grokhaar’s searing crimson gaze sent waves of heat over his skin. He ached to touch and be touched. He longed to lick and bite and drink of the man’s body. He needed in a way that made his chest tight and his fangs throb. “Yes,” he hissed. He curled his fingers around the thin rings, giving them a light tug, and savored the large man’s groan. “I want to know you, Grokhaar Xandria. I want to know how to ease this ache I have for you. I want to taste your blood and sweat on my tongue. You will help me.”

“Sounding mighty bossy there, lad.” Petri narrowed his eyes at the man’s sudden grin. “I like it. Can’t stand a docile bedmate.” When the Den’Lastrian ghosted his lips with a kiss, his heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest. Such a brief touch, and yet how it burned! He wanted more. A smile curved his lips. If the pilot wished to stoke his desire into a raging inferno, he would repay him in kind.

“We shall have to see if you maintain your appreciation once this refueling is complete.” He twisted his hands free, brushing over the impressive bulge beneath the flap of the breechcloth. His smile widened when Grokhaar sucked in a shaky breath, and he stepped away from the tempting male. “In order to refuel, we must first leave this ship. After you, captain.”

The pilot snarled something unintelligible beneath his breath and turned towards the hatch. “The moment we make the jump, lad. Not one second later.” Petri acknowledged the vow with a hungry smile and a glancing touch of the firm ass beneath the breechcloth. Grokhaar stumbled. “Minost’s horns, lad, you’re killing me! Hands to yourself, now, or the bay’s crew will get a show they’ll not soon forget.”

“As you wish.”

On their way off the ship, Petri grabbed the stolen Alliance pulsegun. He strapped it to his bicep with practiced ease and wondered which scientist had programmed that into his genetic coding. Time was fluid on the space station. The scientists used the artificial lights to lengthen and shorten his days, documenting his vital statistics and the affect the changes made on his sleep schedule and mental health. He learned how to play their game, how to twist their experiments to give them the results he wished them to have. He was tired of expending energy on defeating their cruel tests. It was time to turn the tables on his creators. Making sure the weapon was visible was part of his game. If the guards commandeered it, then the tracking chip remained on Kandar, creating a dead trail. If they did not, he would crush and dispose of the chip while they purchased supplies. Either way, the Alliance would find no trace of him beyond this planet.

They stepped from the ship and onto the busy shuttle dock. Grokhaar placed his palm to the dock console by his ship, then clicked through a series of options and requests. The system checked his available credits, approved the requests, and sent the required number of MechBots to perform the services. He watched the floating spheres as they drained the refuse tanks, performed minor repairs, and launched the fueling sequence. Unlike the medical androids, few providers programmed sentience into the mechanical robots. They were created to perform specific tasks in specific ways without thought or question. It made him wonder why his creators gave him sentience. What had been their plans for him? What made him a failure when none of the others outlived their first growth cycle?

“Welcome to Kandar, lad.” Grokhaar waved a hand to indicate the shuttle docks, then started the walk towards a central gate. “A lush, green planet with too much water and not enough common sense. Kandar is…”

“…the fifth planet in the Listervynn System, orbiting a Class V Yellow Dwarf star along with four other planets.” Petri completed the sentence, his eyes darting around the busy dock. He identified all the exits, the number of workmen present, the number of guards, types of weapons, and the probability of surviving a fight should it come to that. The calculations took less than a minute, and he was pleased with his conclusions. “Its population is primarily humanoid, with a growing number of refugees from the swamp planet of Glanshyl. Kandar consists of eight distinct territories, ruled by a King or tribal chief, who are controlled by a planetary governing body of mystics known only as the Kandarian Council. Fifteen Alliance years ago, envoys from Furthark, the third planet in the Raletian System, arrived to initiate trade with the planet. The Kandarian Council rejected their negotiations due to a vision, but the Furtharkii envoys never returned to their home planet. Furthark declared war when the Kandarians failed to produce their emissaries. They have been at war since.”

“You sure know your history, lad.”

“I was trained to know.”

The guards stepped forward when they approached the gate. Petri followed the larger man’s lead, though he easily could have neutralized any perceived threat from the lax guards. The men claimed that several of their weapons were contraband or too dangerous for the citizens of Kinstral, the port city. Grokhaar lost the ornate sword and the engraved daggers. Petri maintained a stoic countenance when they demanded he relinquish the Alliance pulsegun. Fifteen minutes later, they stepped onto the transport pods while the guards argued over their stolen weaponry.

“By the eight suns, lad, that was a skeevy trick to pull.” The large man chuckled as he led them through the crowded bazaar.

“I felt it only appropriate that they dispose of the weapon.” Petri’s lips quirked. Grokhaar’s amusement was infectious, and he felt the man’s approval keenly. “It was a mutually beneficial plan. They get the credits for the weapon, while we dispose of it.”

“Tharking genius! Ah, here we are. The Fathomless Pool. The ship can replicate most food items, but they taste like the sweat off a Flanghorn cratercat’s balls. It’s worth the extra credits to me to purchase a few crates of something that actually tastes good.”

The Fathomless Pool occupied a prime location in the market, a corner building facing the center square. A floating waterfall spelled out the tavern’s name, creating a soothing environment in the midst of the commercial chaos. The building grew on an island in the middle of a small lake, its walls formed from living trees. Growing amongst the leafy canopy are two flags facing the central market. Fluttering in the artificial breeze, the twin oriflammes bore two stripes of olive and pale yellow, and a cross of dark green. The emblem of an oak tree dominated the center panel. Stepping stones provided access to the tavern, each painted with the design found on the banners and enspelled against moss or mold.

Inside, the air was cool and damp but not cloying. Petri inhaled the clean, earthy scent of fresh tilled dirt laced with the subtle aroma of the flowers that cascaded from the ceiling. Each blossom glowed, providing the room with a gentle light that cast few shadows. It was a stunning, relaxing effect, yet it set him on edge. He took a mental inventory of the weapons the guards allowed him to retain as well as a visual inventory of the patrons of the tavern and the visible exits. He also remained close to Grokhaar. He was confident that the Den’Lastrian was no stranger to combat, but he was holding the man to his promise. He refused to lose him before he got a taste of the handsome male.

“Borlacht, you tharking son of a Silaurian slave hound, how have you been?”

“Grok, you washed-up slab of Minostian bull dung.” The Den’Lastrian and the bartender shook hands, then hugged with resounding slaps on the back. Petri watched the exchange with fascination. “What can I get you this time? More flisterberries? A crate of brandy pears? I got a fresh supply of Pyperian sweetmelons just yesterday. I can get you a crate of them at a premium.”

“I’ve got a passenger this trip, Borlacht.” Petri nodded to the merchant in acknowledgement. Every instinct screamed at him to leave this building, but he saw no reason for his unease. “I’ll need a crate of the berries and the melons.”

The two settled into negotiations while he scanned the crowd. No one had moved and yet something teased at the edge of his consciousness. He closed his eyes, focused his thoughts, then looked around again. The patrons remained in place. Exactly in place. He hissed softly, staring at the nearest table. The couple looked natural, the man lifting his mug while the woman laughed, yet they were static. He palmed a dagger in each hand, shouting to Grokhaar to arm himself. Just as the large man uncoiled his whip, the illusion fell to reveal a dozen armed guards and a single cloaked figure.