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“I’ll authorize limited paper production but no printing presses. There’s an abandoned factory that can be used to dry out the pulped reeds. Since prisoners have always found a way to send messages amongst themselves, whether they etch them on metal or stain cloth, paper won’t make much difference. As for music, I will permit dancing, but not between the different sexes. And one theater.” He nodded, as if pleased with his ideas. He removed his finger from her mouth.
“Thank you. Hope is so important.”
“None of these things will give them freedom.”
“But without them there is no sense of purpose or even belonging. Recreation eases tension.”
He pursed his lips and tucked his hands behind his head. “Of course, these things will have to be earned so—”
Freya started. “Oh, no. That wouldn’t work—”
Marco frowned. “Freya. These are the conditions,” he said sternly.
She shifted position and knelt. “Sir. With all respect for your generosity, if you make these things a reward, then like the food vouchers, they will be bartered and used by the factions to control and wage power struggles. Make them a choice for anyone. It will bind people together.”
Marco tipped his head up and examined the roof of the tent. Again, she waited for him to consider her suggestion. “Wise girl. Very well,” he sighed. “It will be open. But the first sign of misuse and there will tighter controls.”
She glided over him, lowering her warm breasts on his tattooed chest. She kissed his neck and rocked her body up and down his belly. Marco grinned and cupping her ass cheeks, he separated them and fingered her bottom hole. “I’m going to put a vibrating plug in here and you can dance again. Let’s see you jiggle inside and out.”
Freya paused mid-stroke of her hips against his hardening cock. She swallowed. “Yes, sir. Whatever you wish.”
Chapter Fifteen
The old factory bustled with activity. Several prisoners were clearing the debris on the floor, while others were moving in equipment—a water tank and rollers. The sweltering space was destined to make paper using the reeds growing along the river. Marco’s initiative had been met with puzzled expressions by his captains, one of whom stood by him as he watched the men work. He’d brushed aside his officer’s concerns, merely stating the provision of writing tools would allow the prisoners to spend their free time productively, instead of fighting each other.
What had surprised Marco was that paper manufacturing wasn’t unique to Earth. The project had taken off rapidly due to the number of prisoners who had an interest in making paper and ink. They formed a team with designated roles and put into action the idea. Sometimes he forgot that the prisoners on Tagra had once held other occupations—engineers, architects, builders. The penal colonies provided them with unskilled labor—tedious, repetitive factory work, and nothing that made use of their technical backgrounds.
Marco pointed to the other side of the building. “That area has been allocated for the theater and dance.”
His captain puffed out his lips. “Dancing,” he said with a derisive snort.
Marco ignored the dismissive gesture. “Yes. Primarily for the women, although I gather some men wish to form a troupe. However, no mixing.”
He continued to enjoy Freya’s private dance shows. Since they’d returned from their vacation in the tent, he’d tried to visit her regularly. What had changed since he declared his love was his urgency, the desperate need for sex. Instead of the appropriation of her body for his pleasure, he’d spent more time talking with her or he watched her little dances or harp playing, which she’d learned to a good standard.
What had this love done to him? It wasn’t easy to unravel the complex emotion since he’d never experienced it before meeting Freya. She reflected his needs perfectly. Every time he sought her out, she welcomed him with a kiss and knelt on the floor at his feet. His heart soared at the sight of her naked body—preened and glazed with oils, her hair coiffured, and her treasured sex shaved and swollen. Always ready. Always willing. That to Marco was love: her submission. Yet, instead of him ravishing h
er, she’d sat upon his knee and they chatted, joked, and touched each other with tenderness.
Refocusing his distracted thoughts toward his captain, Marco cleared his throat. “Let the prisoners organize this in conjunction with the supply officer. However, any sign of the factions interfering, then we step in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The disk on the back of his hand buzzed. The text rolled across the mini-display. Lalita requested his presence, at his earliest convenience, which to Marco meant now.
He commandeered a speeder to fly him back up to the city. He doubted Lalita had good news to tell. The overseer continued to rule the Volta with her exacting rules, and although he was sure she took care of the women’s physical needs, she remained detached and unemotional in her attitude to them as individuals. When Marco had proposed Freya teach some of the jenjins the art of pole-dancing, Lalita had scorned the idea. He’d persisted, arguing that it was entertainment and stirred in him a great desire for his jenjin. That had been the winning point—his needs outshone Freya’s wish to do something she enjoyed.
According to Freya’s latest report, the jenjin she’d demonstrated to had been keen to try it out and her classes were over-subscribed.
She’d laughed in the privacy of his chamber. “Me, a technology journalist, teaching dance! It’s the last thing I ever dreamed I would end up doing.”
There were many things she’d probably not envisioned and that included saying goodbye to her friend, Lucilla. The repatriation had happened quicker than Marco had anticipated. A new treaty had been negotiated with Lucilla’s people allowing her to return home, and he wondered if it was because of the planet’s special status. The only two planets—Earth being the other—to have their world left intact by the invasion forces of the Vendu. Why? He suspected it had to do with the plan to save the empire from collapse.
On the day of her departure, both women had wept in each other’s arms. Marco had scratched his head—why cry when she was going home?
“She’s my friend. I’ll miss her,” Freya had told him later.
He’d shrugged. “Friendships come and go.”
