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James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

The noises came again, and he followed them to a spot beneath the dish. The night here was as black as pitch, a circle of night within night, and the corporal proceeded at a careful pace.

A toolshed sat near the concrete base that supported the dish. Bending close to a window, he heard the noises more clearly and grinned. A slave’s rags were draped over the window to hide what was going on inside, but through the rips in the cloth he could see three naked women stroking one another, caressing and kissing, hands cupping breasts and stroking between open thighs. Unable to tear his eyes away from the delicious sight, he pressed closer to the window as a large-breasted slave lay down upon a worktable asking to be taken. An older woman with streaks of silver in her red hair climbed on her face and began rocking back and forth. Then the younger blonde buried her face between the woman’s thighs. Their moans and cries of pleasure grew louder as their sex play became more passionate and inventive.

Rubbing the front of his clothing, the corporal glanced around to make sure nobody else was near, then holstered his blaster and slid a hand into his pants for some relief himself.

Instantly, the shadows rose behind him and a woman grunted with exertion as she drove two long spikes into each of his ears. Convulsing, the corporal gurgled incoherently. The slave waited until he was still, then scratched on the window. A few seconds later, the three women stepped from the hut, wearing blue shirts and boots, and carrying blasters.

“Here,” said the fourth slave, passing over a set of keys.

“Victory or death,” the older woman whispered in reply, and they separated quickly, leaving the corpse on the cold ground.

WEARILY WALKING from his bathroom, Silas Jamaisvous turned off the lights and poured himself a stiff drink from a crystal decanter. The amber color of the predark liquor was that of new honey, the smell ambrosia. He only hoped it would mix with the drugs and give him a night of dreamless sleep for once.

Opening a small vial, he added a measured dose of morphine, then doubled the amount. Even with the drug, he still wasn’t sleeping well. The dream, always the terrible dream.

Draining the glass in a few swallows, Silas sat on his bed and kicked off his velvet slippers. The room was nicely warm, the heavy curtains blocking any noise of the troops on patrol outside. It had been a long and fruitful day of work. The master computer system for the Kite seemed to be working fine today, but the real test would come tomorrow when they tested the focusing mechanism. Having the ultimate weapon meant nothing unless it could be used with surgical skill. Clubs were for cavemen, and he was a scientist.

Snuggling under the covers, Silas fought against the drug coursing through his veins, formulas and mathematical equations filling his mind. But finally, he relaxed and let hated sleep claim him once again. Almost immediately, sweat formed on his brow, and his eyelids began to flutter.

Groaning and mumbling in the delirium, the man couldn’t hear the cover come off the air-conditioning vent in the wall. It was maneuvered inside the shaft, and a figure slowly emerged from the wall, lowering himself to the floor, the bare feet making not a sound. The invader waited until his vision became adjusted to the dark, then drew a length of rope from around his waist. Holding an end in each hand, he crept toward the snoring man.

Standing above the sleeper, the slave watched the rise and fall of the madman’s chest, savoring this moment of revenge. Then he bent over to slide the garrote around the unprotected throat of the man who had tortured to death so many people in the name of his holy science.

“Victory or death,” he said through clenched teeth. “And it’s death for you, whitecoat!”

A muffled cough sounded and the room flashed with light. The slave stumbled backward, bleeding from the chest. He hit the wall and dropped the garrote, drawing a blaster. Again the cough sounded, the muzzle-flash of the silenced weapon strobing the darkness as the soft-nosed rounds punched the slave to the ground with sledgehammer force.

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