flighty_dreams

TITLE: Spliced - Part 1, Chapter 1
AUTHOR:

flighty_dreams
WARNINGS: NC-17, most definitely. slavefic. scifi setting.
WORD COUNT: 2858
SUMMARY: Part 1. A businessman finds exactly what he wants at a slave market. Or does he?
NOTES: This is my baby. I've been working on it on and off for two years now (it's currently pushing 90K words). I'm really nervous about posting it, but I hope people like it. Lothy may remember it, though I've added and changed a bunch of stuff since I sent part of it to her about a year ago.

Allied Planets - Year 309

* * *

PART ONE

* * *

Chapter One

Matt wasn’t sure what made him go by the slave market that day. Certainly he had no initial intention of buying anything. Whatever the reason, he was glad that he did go, although there would be later days when he cursed the ashen place.

As he wandered down the aisles, his hazel eyes sparkled as he thought of the freedom of being a self-made man. It was wonderfully liberating to have his past on the planet Karta—particularly his overbearing father—well behind him. Intelligence and a good, calm head for business had led to his success. He wasn’t insanely rich, but he was decently well-off and comfortable.

He halted his perusal of the merchandise to check the time. He had two hours to go before a meeting with a client. He could have gone to a restaurant or bar to kill some time, but inexplicably he was here instead. Was it boredom? It had been a while since he’d had a bedslave, but he wasn’t hurting for attention. Invariably bedslaves bored him after a while and he ended up selling them.

A flash of blue-black raven hair up the aisle caught his attention. He’d only seen that distinct color on Andorians, and it was a fairly common color among those clones. As he approached he saw that the slave in question was indeed an Andorian, which made him sigh. Clones that had been bred for centuries, Andorians were specially-made pleasure slaves. Docility and the ability to feel pleasure and pain as one, as well as faster regenerative capacity had been bred and trained into them. Their genetically heightened sex drives ensured that they were always eager to serve too. Too bad personality hadn’t been bred into them as well.

In the galaxy of the Allied Planets, he knew that Andorians were an anachronistic anomaly. In the Anti-Tampering Ruling of AP Year 07, the AP had prohibited technological enhancements to the body, or body-tech, as well as advanced genetic alterations. After centuries that had pushed the barriers of human evolution further and further, humanity had finally decided they’d gone too far. Across the planets a movement spread to eliminate ‘unnatural’ alteration of the human body. As the members of the old guard fought against this new ideology, the Interplanetary War began. In the end the newcomers won, but only at great cost of lives and assets, and they set up the foundations of the current AP government.

Of course the government couldn’t control everything that people did in labs across the planets, so they put measures in place to discourage people from continuing to enhance themselves or genetically alter their children prior to birth. Matt thought that what they’d done was very clever. How did they make those options unpalatable? Anyone found to have tampered with their body beyond the simple installation of a universal translator (those were one evil still considered necessary) was regarded as a clone. Clones were considered below humans but above beasts, and they had no rights or votes in the AP.

The government’s enforcements were successful. Almost everyone decided that they valued their own humanity over increased strength, speed or any other number of skills. There were always a few exceptions, but they were limited in number, living on the fringes of society or settling on the unusually tolerant planet of Festun. In the meantime, many human cloning facilities were forced to close, except for the ones that turned their focus onto creating clones to be used as a workforce.

Nowadays Matt knew that the vast majority of clones were slaves for their entire active periods, which were much shorter than human lives. Something in the process of making a full grown clone made the duration of their working period short, often only twenty to thirty years. Twenty some-odd years after a clone was first activated, their cellular structure would begin to deteriorate, and when the condition worsened enough that they were no longer viable for duty, they were deactivated, or euthanized.

That was certainly how it was with Andorians, who were a luxury type of clone slave. The fact they were not only clones, but that they had their physical beauty and healing ability enhanced, made them unusual in this anti-tampering universe.

Even three hundred years after the Interplanetary War, the AP was still rabidly naturalist, particularly on planets like the one he grew up on, Karta. Clones were to be used and discarded as needed; they weren’t people. And Matt didn’t really disagree with that, since they all seemed rather childlike. He wasn’t sure if simpleness was deliberately included in their genes or if it was the training, but he’d yet to meet one capable of critical thinking.

He’d owned two Andorians before, and although their bed skills were amazing, their charm had quickly faded for him. They lived to serve and please with a mindlessness that bored him incredibly. He liked and expected obedience in his bedslaves, or pets, but these Andorians had no personality at all. After the second one he’d given up on any Andorian holding his interest and turned to other kinds of pets with a bit more spark to them.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t enjoy taking a look though, especially with that blue-black hair. It had always been his favorite hair color for a slave.

When he got close, he stopped to get a good look at the Andorian, who was well worth the perusal. Being only a couple inches shorter than Matt, the slave was tall for an Andorian, since they were generally short. His exquisite hair reached just past his shoulders, hanging loose and soft about his face. His body was lean, not a spare inch of fat on him, and lightly muscled. The planes and curves of his body were sharper than usual, accentuating the rippling skin. And his face… it was not the typical androgynous, almost feminine beauty of every other male Andorian he’d ever seen.

It still definitely screamed Andorian, but there was strength of character in his face one didn’t normally see in his kind; it was a different kind of beauty. And the ice blue eyes that looked up to meet his gaze were stunning. Those eyes and the sharper bone structure of his extraordinary face took his breath away. And the Andorian held his gaze for far longer than any regular bedslave, much less any other Andorian, would have. In that look Matt saw the missing piece—personality. This one actually had thoughts of his own. Matt had to have him.

* * *

Min hated slave markets. The stench of fear and desperation filled the hot, dusty air, coupled with the hunger of the prospective buyers. Of course he was one of the ones that smelled of fear as he stood there naked and chained helplessly to a post. The uncertainty and helplessness of the situation were what bothered him so much. Knowing that anyone who cared to could examine him and pay money and take him home if they so desired, and he would have no say in the matter. The person who bought him could be man or woman, cruel or kind, and because of the uncontrollable circumstances of his birth, he was forced to obey. He’d rebelled before, tried to fight his fate, but it always ended badly.

So far a lot of people had passed by, but only a few had lingered long enough to ask the nearby handler for his price. He was Andorian, and therefore outside of most people’s budget. Of the ones that could afford an expensive plaything such as him, many were turned off because he veered somewhat from the standard Andorian beauty. He was too tall for one thing; masters invariably hated owning slaves that were taller than them. He also knew that this planet, Monlea, wasn’t a big trade planet. The richer the planet, the higher the demand for expensive toys, and Monlea didn’t meet that requirement.

Glancing to his right, Min saw a tall, lean man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes heading his way. When he noticed the man was looking intently at him, his hands, which were cuffed to the post, gripped it tightly for a moment before letting go. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but he recognized that expression. It was the look of a man who liked what he saw, and he thought it likely that this would be the man that bought him.

Well if he was, he better get a good look at him. As he checked him over, Min admitted that there were worse alternatives—his personal mantra. The man was good-looking, though not exceedingly so. And he didn’t see any hints of cruelty or outright sadism in his expression or his eyes, which were sparking to green now. Over the years he’d learned the signs, and he could usually detect such things. Taking in the man’s well-cut but simple slacks and shirt and his good looks, he decided he liked this one.

He studied the man’s face, trying to guess where he was from. Maybe Kartan? Few Kartans traveled away from their isolationist planet, so he hadn’t seen very many of them. He could be Pyrunian too, he fit that profile as well. Definitely not Tyrran, his face was all wrong for that.

Wait, how long had he been looking right at the man? Masters always saw it as disrespectful or even rebellious, so he quickly dropped his eyes to the ground. But he could still feel the man’s eyes on him for a bit longer. Watching the ground, he saw the man’s feet walk behind him as the man examined him.

A moment later a warm hand stroked down his back, causing a tingle down his spine and probing the skin before reaching back up to touch the Andorian brand on his right shoulder blade. The brand had been done years before, his first memory of pain. It was done early on for all Andorians, since all were clones bred and raised to be used as slaves. The brand was the Andorian mark, and under the skin below it was a small chip with a barcode that was used to identify and keep track of him. When many copies of the same clone could exist, the chip was the only effective way to differentiate between them.

He remained still throughout the examination, hiding the pleasant effect the man’s touch had on him, and when the man finished he strolled over to the handler nearby. The slave couldn’t hear what the man and the handler were saying over the clamor of the market, and he shifted his weight restlessly as he waited. He turned his head to get a better look at them, even though that motion caused the heavy iron collar around his neck to chafe him. He watched them argue a bit before the man shook his head and walked off.

Suspicious, he studied the man as he walked away, and noted that once he got a good distance away the man turned to take another long look at him. Yes, he thought, that one would be back. He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or disappointed at the thought. Well, it depended on what the alternative was, he decided. At least there was attraction with this one, thinking of the man’s arousing touch upon him.

Then he sighed softly to himself. How foolish of him to stand here debating this; it wasn’t like he’d be allowed an opinion. Eventually someone would buy him and soon enough he’d be on his knees serving again. And as long as his master or mistress wasn’t cruel, he would be okay with it too. It was what he’d been bred and trained for after all, and the need to serve was in his blood. He’d learned to accept that long ago. It was just the uncertainty and waiting at a market or auction that bothered him.

A while later another man came over to inspect him. Taking in the smirk and the malicious glint in this one’s eyes, along with the slightly shabby clothes, he knew immediately who he preferred. This man was shorter and meaner, poking at him proprietarily as he hunted for flaws. There was a look of hunger and want in his face, and the chip on his shoulder was almost physically visible.

As this one turned away to talk to the handler, he searched the crowd for the tall man. He finally spotted him at the end of the next aisle, speaking to another customer. The tall one wasn’t facing his way, but the slave stared at him intensely as if sheer willpower could make him turn to look at him. Amazingly after a minute or so he actually did turn. First he twisted halfway, and then the whole way. Catching the man’s gaze, which became puzzled as he noticed the slave’s intense stare, the Andorian shifted his head toward the handler and new buyer to direct the man’s attention there. The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise as he realized what the slave had done, but he excused himself from his conversation shortly after and headed back to the Andorian.

He let out a breath in relief before turning back to watch the negotiations. It was a dance he’d observed many times, and he was glad to see they didn’t look like they were close to finishing. The tall buyer would make it in time. Just then the shorter buyer walked back to him and pointed to a small scar on his side. “I wouldna say that’s perfect condition,” the man sneered at the handler, revealing an East Province Monlean accent. Then he grabbed the slave roughly, twisting his arm painfully to turn his back to them and pointed at another long scar on his lower back. “And this,” the man added, one of his hands maintaining an agonizing grip on the Andorian’s arm. To the slave’s consternation, he felt himself stiffen in reaction to the rough handling.

As the handler rattled off an indignant response describing the difficulties of keeping slaves completely unmarked, the tall man arrived at the scene. His eyes narrowed as he noted the man’s grip on the clone’s arm. Watching him, the Andorian felt a pang of misgiving as he caught the possessive flash in the tall man’s eyes. Better possessive than cruel though, the Andorian thought to himself.

“Seems foolish to me to focus so much attention on a couple of little scratches,” the tall man interjected smoothly, his dark, liquid voice sending a little ripple down the slave’s spine. Even his voice was attractive, and his slight Kartan accent confirmed the man’s origin.

Now it was the shorter man’s turn to be indignant. “It’s not foolish! These scars ya be dismissin’ lower the slave’s value. Makes it damaged goods, I say.” The Andorian scowled inwardly at being referred to as an ‘it’, but hid his reaction.

The tall man smirked. “I thought your bigger cause for complaint should be that he’s too tall.” The clone had to struggle to keep his expression blank, especially when the shorter man’s face flushed furiously. The Andorian was at least a good three inches taller than the East Province buyer.

“Who d’ya think ya are, talkin’ to me like that?” the man demanded harshly, his accent increasing along with his fury. His grip tightened on the slave’s arm angrily, and the Andorian held back a grimace. Lie back and think of the AP, right?

“Oh, excuse me, I’m Matthias Muldane,” the tall man introduced himself, amusement still lighting his eyes. The Andorian was glad to have his name. Sometimes it was a long time before he found out a master’s full name; they didn’t exactly introduce themselves to their ‘property.’ Muldane added, only somewhat genuinely, “Didn’t mean to upset you, I was just teasing.”

The other man offered no introduction and continued to glare at Muldane. After several seconds he let go of Min’s arm and turned back to the handler. Before he could say anything though, Muldane told the handler, “Let’s talk about price again.” The handler quickly replied, and after being told the amount, the shorter man made his own offer. The negotiations continued fiercely for a few minutes longer. Meanwhile the slave turned away and watched the market around him. Judging their monetary situations from their appearances, he already knew what would be the outcome of this battle.

A few minutes later his hands were unchained from the post and a leash was attached to the cuffs at his wrists. By law, simple underwear to cover his privates outside of the market was put on him, and basic sandals placed on his feet to protect them. The lead was placed in Muldane’s hands and the handler moved behind him and scanned the chip in the Andorian’s back with a small handheld device. He inputted Muldane’s name and rescanned it.

The Andorian was now the property of Matt Muldane.

Chapter 2