Keywords: mm heavy sm heavy dom sf X-Moderator-Review: 8: fluid prose; captivating; heavily SF-embroidered

Archive-name: leashedsteel

Leashed Steel

Richard fled. There were simply too many. Four he could have killed. Five would have been a fight. Seven, and they would have destroyed him long ago. The six Pretasi were too many. He had a moment to hesitate, a moment to decide, and he ran.

Cynraiti though he was, Richard ran.

Captain Kees van Loos-Macklin waited, leather-gloved fingers drumming on his thigh, for the return of his Fighter. It had been seven hours now, and the Pretaso battle should be nearly over. A simple strafing run, he thought, with no more than four Pretasi ships ready to defend. Were there more, it would be time to fight and die gloriously. At least, that was what the High Command had ordered, and what he was supposed to inculcate in Richard.

A howling rent the sky, and the needleship dropped down towards the landing cradle. It was a good landing, brought through foldspace with a match on rotational velocities, and the gauss-braking system brought Richard's ship to a perfect stop. Kees walked forward, his black-clad figure scything through the workcrews headed up to the ship. Its fifty-foot bulk was covered with sensors, armor being all but useless against meson particles or direct nuclear contact. Kees' eyes swept across the ship, looking for the degree of damage suffered. Unable to find any, he began to be suspicious. Surely things could not have gone that well, he thought, despite all the training I've given him. While he was still pondering that question, hand on chin, a port opened and Richard walked out. With an emotionless face, he walked over to Kees and offered him the leash. Raising an eyebrow in question, Kees took the leash and led Richard out of the hangar.

After the Cynraiti ship winked out of realspace, leaving three hulks and three ships to tow them, the Pretasi matched orbits with their dead, and returned them to the surface. As heroes, they would be given heroes' funerals. They had done their duty to their world, they had fought well enough.

They had driven off a Cynraiti attack, a rare enough feat. For one Cynraiti to attack six Pretasi was normal. For the Cynraiti to be defeated was rare. For one to retreat was unheard of.

The returned Pretasi were clearly brave, as were their fallen comrades. What remained unspoken was that they were not as brave as the Cynraiti.

The scream was muffled behind tightly clenched teeth, as Richard tried at once to show strength and appreciation. The tightly coiled muscles, holding back any response, were a clear enough message of the first, and his erection was clear enough for the second.

At just the juncture between branding and burning, Kees drew back the white-hot brand and placed it near the fire, far enough away that it began to cool. More enthusiastic officers would have put it back in the fire but to Kees the few degrees were unimportant.

Across Richard's back, there were now thirty-one Maltese crosses, the insignia Kees used for kills. Giving Richard a moment to recover his breath, Kees contemplated what his own back would have looked like, if his Officer had not been the last of the old school. Kees' commander, Vittorio, had never believed in olding fighters by pain, pain and sex. Kees had been drilled, and worked, and drilled again, but never marked. There would hardly have been room for the markings. There would have been one hundred and fifty Maltese crosses, tracking around his back and chest.

The suspicion of failure hung in the air. Richard should have come back with more, enough to finish the next row of seven crosses, or not returned. There were still four empty spaces. Kees bent down, and kissed the place next to his last mark. Richard quivered, the anticipation wrapping itself through his nerves and mind. Then, picking up the brand again, Kees touched it to the spot he had just kissed. Unable, this time, to hold back, Richard arced back against the brand as his orgasm wracked through him. Kees smiled to himself, then caught it. Richard had known how many brands remained, and permitted himself to come at the last. Kees knew that were he a firmer master, he would punish Richard for coming. But he did not, unsure of what punishment he could unleash that would be punishment and not reward.

Kees was of the old school, and did not understand the new.

Later, in bed, Kees was careful to remind Richard of his brands, running the fingers over them whenever Richard's mouth was doing what Kees wanted. It was an effective technique, and Richard had learned just what to do. Afterwards, though, Kees lay awake, contemplating the military perfection of the room as Richard slept.

Crossed swords defined the room, their plain steel-cross hilts and straight blades meeting at a perfect right angle. The deep gouges in the walls behind the blades attested to the times Kees had drawn them, in jest or in anger. The brands, crosses for success, other marks for punishment, hung on another wall, ready also to be drawn and used. Richard's face and arms bore scars from the swords, while the others had made their mark upon his chest, his legs, his back.

Sun Tzu, Musashi, Clausewitz, Rommel, N'Gal, the names marched down the bookshelf in military rows, memoirs, lectures, descriptions of campaigns. They, too, had made their mark. Other officers might choose to mark the body, believing that the ferocity of a common bond was enough. Kees drilled more with the book and sword than the brand and the sex.

Kees lay there and replayed all the information he had. Tomorrow the full report would be out, but until then all he knew was that he had failed.

Courts-martial had become, by necessity, more refined and more understanding. It took years to train a Fighter, and only the best Fighters lived to become Officers. Kees, as teacher and Officer, was responsible for Richard, his successes and his failures. The retreat was Richard's. The guilt, if there was guilt, belonged to Kees.

Thus, Kees, forty-two years of experience, stood trial. Forty-two years that the Cynraiti did not want to lose. While most Officers had less experience, they had fought enough to be valuable teachers, and their experience was very had to replace.

When an Officer was tried, then, it became a serious matter, and one on which no error could be afforded. The trial of Kees van Loos-Macklin, Officer with one hundred and fifty kills, would be careful and exact.

His steel-grey hair brushed back, Kees lay in the examination chair. It was, as close as they could make it, a replica of the fighting couch inside a needleship. Kees felt right at home. Thus, there was no resistance when they began probing.

The first checks were routine, and clear. Richard had, in fact, retreated. There was no other interpretation. This was cowardice.

Then the deep work began, probing to see whether Kees could be salvaged. He had failed, and badly, but the sentence could no longer afford to fit the crime. If he could learn, Kees would be taught. If he could not fit the system, and would continue to train bad Fighters, he would be hanged.

Memories came flooding in to the data banks: van Loos-Macklin, recruit of the last class before the Fighter system became standard practice. He had been hazed, fought in the standard student duels, and done well. His military career was exemplary.

All this was positive information, but it did not expose the crack, the flaw that had caused Kees to fail. Further probing was initiated. In order to save him, the doctrine was, they had to convict him.

Finally, the clinching piece of evidence fell into place.

The sweat drowned the room, blinding eyes trying to keep up with the whirl of sword blades. Fencing was archaic, but nothing built better discipline, nothing was better symbolism. Cadet van Loos-Macklin pressed his attack, forcing the upperclassman back up against the wall. With sheer speed, he came time and time again within an inch of making the first cut in the uniform that would signal the end of the bout.

Then, as a drop of sweat hit his cornea, he closed his eye for just a moment, and in the next, felt his sword fly out of his grasp. That was a defeat. Then, with a smile, the upperclassman had drawn a line along his side, just barely breaking the skin. Kees could hardly notice the pain. He kept his eyes locked on those of the upperclassman. Finally, done with his hazing, Kees' opponent turned away, leaving him standing in a cold fury, a thin trickle of blood slowly staining his shirt.

Three months later, however, Kees van Loos-Macklin was the champion fencer in the Academy.

It was the judgment of the Board of Admirals that his exposure to uncontrolled hazing, and more importantly, his reaction to it, marked him as incapable of learning and understanding the system, creating the kind of loyalty needed.

That Clausewitz and Sun Tzu would have laughed or cried at such a system, that Kees van Loos-Macklin thought it inefficient, made no difference. The Cynraiti had won wars with it, they were winning against the Pretasi, and the system was not on trial. Kees was.

Thus Kees van Loos-Macklin was convicted of cowardice in the face of the enemy, and sentenced to hang.

No one had yet left a note suggesting he use his sword, and Kees was grateful for that. He did not want to face up to that. Unlike the Fighters, willing to sacrifice everything for their Officer, or the other Officers, who remembered their own time as a Fighter, Kees had nothing to fall back on. The iron discipline he'd been accustomed, the professionalism, all that was gone, with his career and his rank. Now, instead of using the sword to alleviate his crime, he spent the time fencing, poking holes in his walls every time he felt a thrust was good enough to let go home.

Richard had been moved out, as a new Officer would have to be found. It would be hard on Richard, but Kees was sure he'd adjust. A Fighter in that state was a fetus, walking around holding its umbilical cord and looking for a place to plug in. A happy slave needs a master, for things to make sense. They'd find him another man, since that was the way Richard responded. Richard would find another man to be his master, to add his own brands next to Kees' neat crosses. Richard would find someone.

Kees envied him that. There was nothing he could turn to, save his books and his swords.

Richard looked proud, the fierceness in his eyes the same as before setting off to battle, or when awaiting the first of many brands. The cloth uniform fit him loosely now, with the straps and leash removed. No longer was he under restraint.

Kees took all of this in as soon as he saw Richard, standing in the Admiral's office. It was incongruous, the uniform, the only thing loose in the entire room. Kees and the Admiral were dressed as officers, tight black and leather, while the guards were battleready, in skintight camouflage. The room itself was tight, everything perfectly in place, save for the small pile of fabric and chain in the middle of the Admiral's desk.

Snapping a salute, Kees waited for the Admiral to explain. His eyes remained on the Admiral, despite the desire to see more of Richard.

"It seems, Captain van Loos-Macklin, that your training was, in its own way, efficient. Richard has volunteered to die in your place."

It took every ounce of training, every ounce of self control he had developed, from the first time a sergeant had screamed in his face to the most recent bout of control fencing, for Kees to keep from breaking down.

In a voice straight from the drillground, Kees asked "May I speak with him privately, sir?" Glancing over at Richard, he could see a smile creeping across his face, the smile of the winner in their little games, the smile after good sex, the smile after a good battle. Kees was not sure he liked what it represented.

The Admiral simply nodded, and the guards led them both out of the room.

Entering the cell a few steps behind Richard, Kees could read nothing from his gait. Kees stopped just inside the cell, and snapped out, "Explain, Richard."

Dropping to one knee, a sign of respect Kees found inappropriate, Richard said, "Sir, you've trained me to die heroically. You've trained me to fight well. I failed you once, and I won't fail you again." The voice carried an edge of pleading, an edge of begging, a hint of desire.

Kees simply stood, stiff at attention. The green eyes remained impassive, waiting for an explanation. Kees felt himself bound, unable to argue. The sacrifice quavered in Richard's voice.

The swords crossed in Kees' heart, the duty and honor drilled in him slowly backing, parrying, surrounded by the weapons of self-preservation, righteous anger, and now the steel in Richard's gaze, the leash in every twitch and word.

It was all Kees could do to nod.

The Cynraiti believed in appearances, and the impressiveness of formality. The gallows was ready, made monumental by design. Walking up to it from the underground tunnel that was the only way into the courtyard drove it home. Looming above the crowd, the condemned, the judges, the gallows waited.

Kees took his position by the side of the gallows, full dress uniform hot and constricting. His hand wore at the sword hilt, rubbing first this way, then that. His other remained fixed at his head, a salute supposedly at the presiding Admiral now mounting the steps. Anyone looking at Kees' eyes could tell that it was truly for the man behind him.

His hands cuffed, his neck bared for the rope, Richard seemed as eager as the first time he had stepped into a needleship. To Kees, he had the aura of a saint around him, going willingly to his martyrdom. It was not a thought that came easily to Kees, but he finally had to acknowledge that it was not, in fact, a martyrdom. Richard was not a victim of the system.

As Richard placed his head in the noose, all of the officers on the platform drew their swords and raised them. Kees snapped his out with the grace of a fencer, and held it poised as if to strike off a head, not signal a trap door.

The final words of the conviction and sentence were lost to Kees, as he studied Richard for one final time, remembering every muscle, every touch.

Each unscarred place, each expanse of unmarked skin, cried out to him of failure. Richard had been stripped to the waist, displaying Kees' shame and weakness to the entire watching crowd.

The commanding officer dropped his sword, and the rest fell, down the line, a line of headsmen that ended in Kees. As his sword reached the end of its perfect sweep, the trapdoor opened.

Even to the last, Richard did not twitch. He hung there, rigid, fighting to keep himself in control. The stain on the front of his pants, that was standard, and no one would say if it was just the last response of his nervous system or his last spark of pleasure. No one could deny that he smiled when the door dropped.

The courtyard stood empty, save for the hangman, the gallows, and Kees. The viewers had gone back to their duties, the officers to their reports and their Fighters. The lesson had been taught.

It had been most forcefully learned by Kees van Loos-Macklin, who stood at full attention, the grain of the sword hilt impressing itself into his palm. He understood full well.

I will not fail you, Richard, he thought.

I will be crueler.

S.E.S. -- Moderator, rec.arts.erotica. Submissions to erotica@unix.amherst.edu. Please, no reposts, first drafts, or requests for "subscriptions," stories, GIFs, or archive sites.