Disclaimer: Voltron is the property of World Events Productions.

Pastures of the Sun

Chapter 1

You Can Never Go Home
The Moody Blues

Keith was stubborn. And he did not consider his stubbornness unreasonable. After all, he'd shown admirable tolerance, more than anyone had a right to expect, considering the characters for whom he was responsible.

There was Alura – a piston, if ever there was one, yet prone to bouts of weakness. It was not untrue to say that the Princess of Arus had yet to realize that her woman's body had certain constraints upon it that her male counterparts' bodies did not. Still, she was loyal and determined; Keith admired her for it.

Hunk could also be trying, though not so much so as the princess. Hunk's main short-coming lay in the fact that in his zeal to meet the enemy, he didn't always think things through first. But Hunk was generous and kind-hearted. Again, Keith was pleased to have Hunk on his team.

Pidge was a child. A brilliant child, granted; but a child nonetheless. There were times when Keith had felt almost guilty about Pidge's participation in the dangerous work of the Voltron Force. Almost. For when Keith reminded himself of the times Pidge had rescued the entire team from disaster, he was forced to acknowledge Pidge's indispensability.

At last, his musings brought him to his second-in-command and the reason for his current bout of agitation.

Lance. Lance the hot-head. Lance the impetuous. Lance the moody. The disgruntled. The fearless. Lance the impossible.

Keith felt his jaw tightening. Oh, there were times when he truly wished he had Sven back again. Sven had been the consummate second-in-command: stolid, reliable, cool, calculating, compassionate, and courageous. And somehow, Sven had always been able to keep Lance in line. Sven had known a manner of dealing effectively with the upstartish pilot of the Red Lion, a manner that continued to elude Keith and left him frustrated with his inability to squelch Lance's brashness.

But Sven was gone – injured, taken to heal, and now missing.

And Keith had been left with a vacant number two position, which he had filled with Lance. Lance, of all people!

"I should have chosen Hunk," Keith groaned, staring up from his bed into the darkness. "At least he knows how to follow orders." He sat up abruptly and swung his legs over the side of the bed, resting his face in his hands. "Why did I ever choose Lance?"

The answer did not evade him for long; it never did. The fact was that, for as often as Lance's actions infuriated Keith, Lance was the best, the most logical choice for the position.

Lance could fight. And Lance knew he could fight. He never backed away from a challenge. He had no fear – or at least it seemed that way to Keith. On top of that, Lance was a magnificent pilot, certainly the most talented Lion pilot of them all. And he was a clever tactician and knew how to solve problems on the spot. In short, Lance was a brilliant officer.

And he was fiercely devoted – to the team, the mission, and Planet Arus.

Keith's ire softened, as it always did when he allowed himself to be reminded of Lance's positive traits. It was easy to forget Lance's generosity, his courage, his willingness to sacrifice – his general goodness – when he was pulling stunts like this latest one.

Of course, it hadn't really been a stunt – just more of Lance's usual "spoiled child" routine.

Lance had wanted a bit of Lion sparring – just him and Keith. It had not come as an unexpected request; Lance was always trying to hone his skills, and the truth was that Keith was the only team member who could present Lance with a genuine challenge.

But Keith had turned down Lance's request. Keith had felt that team exercises were more necessary at the moment than one-on-one duels. He had told Lance as much the night before the team exercise. Lance had grudgingly accepted Keith's decree and done his best to keep his temper during the team exercise, which he had felt to be a waste of his time. When the exercise had concluded, Keith decided he needed to spend more time helping Alura with some of her weapons systems.

Lance, in a moment of particular childishness, had thrown out some comment about, "Bending and scraping to a girl who kisses mice", and at Keith's rebuke, the pilot of the Red Lion had stormed off in a fit of rage.

"Disrespect. That's what it was," Keith said to himself. "He was disrespectful to me as team leader, and to the Princess. How can I get him to understand that? He can't always have things the way he wants them."

He stood up and checked his chronometer. It was close to ten o'clock at night, almost eight hours since Lance had groused his way out of the castle. He headed for Lance's room, only to find it empty. So, he went to the control room. A pair of surveillance operators were on duty. Keith joined them at the security panel.

"Is Red Lion back yet?" Keith asked.

"Red Lion, Sir?" one of the operators asked with a puzzled expression.

"Yes," Keith replied, "Is it back yet?"

"It hasn't left since its pilot brought it back earlier this afternoon," the man said.

Keith was mildly surprised. He had expected Lance to shoot off in the Red Lion, as he usually did when he was angry. This change of Lance's routine was nothing to get excited about, but it did make Keith wonder . . . where was Lance, if not in the Red Lion? Keith could think of only one other place.

Lance called the place 'The Basin'. The pool was basin-shaped. The single shallow waterfall that filled the basin looked like the stream from a faucet. But there, the similarities ended. For here, the low woodland shrubs and tittering ferns lined the basin's edge. And beyond this thin strip of thin vegetation, the fir trees rose up, stretching away beyond sight and up to the sky.

Lance came here when the mood took him. He was not always ripe for trees and birds and the tinkling of water. It was true that he had grown up in the country, a land-boy in fact; but that part of his life had ended years ago. And he made a conscious effort not to think of it. His new world was one of sleek metal cats, speed and power . . . his Red Lion and the silence of space.

It was only when he felt himself truly falling out of perspective that he came to The Basin.

Today had been one of those times.

Why had he gotten so angry and acted so rashly? Even he had to agree that the Princess needed practice. Keith's decision had been sound.

It was just . . . Lance couldn't remember the last time he and Keith had faced off one-on-one for a spar. Lance missed the competition. He missed the chance to beat the pants off Keith, and he missed the few times when Keith tricked him utterly and completely into defeat. They had been like two boys wrestling in the great robot Lions, and the time together had meant a lot to Lance. Keith had been the first one to ever really spend any time with him . . .

Lance pushed the thought aside.

He was sitting on a lip of rock that jutted out over the basin. Beside him, the fall sent up a slight mist that felt good against his face. He wondered how long he had been sitting there. Looking at his chronometer seemed like too much work, certainly something he did not want to do. Besides, he knew he wasn't ready to go back yet, so the hour hardly mattered. It was dark, and he felt fairly certain that the others were probably worried about him. He smiled at that thought: small payback for the anger they had roused in him.

He heard a sound just above him, but he did not even bother to look. He already knew who it was; he'd been expecting it.

"Do you plan to stay out here all night?"

Lance gave a one-sided shrug. "Until I feel like going back."

Keith jumped down onto the ledge. "When might that be?" he asked, marveling at how Lance could sit out in the darkness of the woods in the middle of the night and not be startled by the sound of an approach. Fearless . . . or perhaps foolhardy.

"I don't know," Lance replied, not trying to be flippant. It was an honest answer. Lance was not skilled in duplicity. "I’m still angry."

Keith sat down beside him. "Tell me what it is this time," he said with a lightness in his voice that was characteristic of the quirky relationship he had with his second-in-command.

"The same thing it is every time," Lance replied. "You know what I mean."

Keith nodded in the darkness. "You want things back the old way."

"With Sven, we had all sorts of time for sparring, trying new tactics, really intense training to sharpen our skills," Lance said with energy, turning to regard Keith as best as the dim moonlight would allow. "Now, with Alura . . . it seems like you're spending half your time teaching her things she should already know."

Keith listened patiently. He'd heard this lament before, but there was a new element to it this time – only he could not pinpoint what it was, not yet.

"Well, maybe if my second-in-command would take some of his valuable time to help the Princess, I wouldn't have to spend so much time doing it," he said, allowing only a slight hint of accusation to creep into his voice.

But the hint was enough.

"That's hitting below the belt, Keith—"

"Yeah, well, sometimes it seems like that's the only kind of blow that gets through to you," Keith replied, accusation now mingling with humor.

Lance cringed. "Ouch," he said, trying not to react to Keith's attempts at lightening the mood. But he knew it was only a matter of time. For whatever reason, Lance could never stay angry with Keith once Keith made an overture towards reconciliation. It was one of the things that irked Lance – the undeniable reality that he had no defenses against Keith's kindness. God, did he need him that much?

"Look, Lance," Keith began. "You know as well as I do that the Princess needs more training. And you know that she's on the team to stay. It's up to us to bring her up to speed."

"I know, I know," Lance replied grumpily. "I just feel we're stuck back in the basics."

"I'll tell you what, then . . . " Keith put an arm around Lance's shoulders. "Since you seem to be aching to kick my butt, tomorrow after the exercise, I'll give you the entire afternoon. You can beat the daylights out of me – if you can."

Lance's eyes widened with a glimmer. "Your word?"

"My word."

"No 'I-have-to-help-Alura' excuses?"

Keith stood up and offered a hand to Lance. "I gave you my word."

Lance accepted Keith's outstretched hand.

Keith continued, "Tomorrow afternoon, it's you and me." He pulled Lance to his feet.

Lance nodded with a grin . . . then he saw the glint in Keith's eye.

"Is that water behind you?" Keith asked with a wicked smile. And before Lance could react, Keith shoved him off the ledge and into the water.

As Lance surfaced, roaring with outrage yet feeling once more that sense of belonging, he heard Keith's laughter. "That's for making me worry!"

Six hours. They had been at it for six hours. The same scenario over and over again. Someone was always making a mistake. First, it was Pidge, too slow in attempting to dodge ion darts. Then it was, of all people, Keith, failing to roll out in time to avoid Hunk's strafing run and plummeting straight down into the lake. Add to that a list of errors on Alura's part, and Lance was beginning to believe that it was a conspiracy to keep him and Keith apart.

"At this rate, we'll be here all day," he mumbled to himself. "They'll find a reason to go on for six more hours." His impatience grew. Not only would he not get to knock heads with Keith; he'd be forced to spend who knew how many more hours replaying this same dull, insipid routine.

"Starting my run!" Alura's voice grated on Lance's nerves.

He watched as she began her approach, as she angled off at the last minute to avoid the two proton missiles he had launched at her. Lance knew that he was simply to stay in place at that point and let Alura pass. But this time, he didn't. An uncontrollable fit of mischief gripped him, and he brought Red Lion around in a spiral, catching Alura's Blue Lion in the swirling eddy of his pass. Blue Lion went into a spin. It was one of Lance's favorite tricks. He had done it to Keith a hundred times.

What he seemed to have forgotten was that Keith was an experienced pilot who could usually recover from Lance's pranks. And even when he couldn't, he was tough enough to weather the consequences.

As Alura's lion spun out of control towards the ground, Lance half-expected to see her pull out of it. No such thing happened. Blue Lion crashed into the ground.

"Princess! Princess!!" Keith's voice came urgently over the radio.

There was no answer.

Keith was in the lead as the four other lions landed near Alura's Blue Lion, which was lying on its side like a dead animal.

Lance, the last to land, got out of his lion and approached as Keith and Hunk climbed through Blue Lion's hatch. Less than a minute later, Hunk emerged, helping Alura climb down. Keith followed and took the Princess's other arm.

"I'm okay," Alura was saying. "A little shaken up, but I'll be okay."

Lance took a few steps closer. He saw that Alura was apparently unharmed, and in a moment of unrivalled cockiness, he said, "I knew she'd be alright. And maybe she learned something, too."

Keith left Alura to Hunk's supportive arms. His eyes were blazing as he covered the ground between him and Lance in two steps. Without warning, he drew back and punched him squarely across the jaw.

Lance went down hard. He did not get up right away – not because the blow had jarred him, but because he could hardly comprehend what had just happened. At last, he got to his feet, touching gingerly at his jaw.

"Why did you do that?" he asked, eyeing Keith with astonishment.

"Because you deserved it," Keith replied heatedly. "And more."

"It was just a little fun," Lance protested. "Come on, Keith, you and I do it all the time."

"You almost caused a tragedy," Keith chastised.

Lance gave an incredulous laugh. "Keith, you're blowing this way out of proportion." He turned to Hunk and Pidge for support, but neither of them spoke. In fact, they were both regarding Lance in much the same manner as Keith was.

Lance rolled his eyes and groaned dramatically. "Okay, fine. Would it help if I said I'm sorry?"

Keith clenched his teeth. Lance was making light of a very serious situation. This time Keith was not going to let Lance charm his way out of it. He looked him dead in the eye.

"Take Red Lion back to its den," he ordered. "Wait for me there."

"Keith, come on—" Lance began.

"Do as I tell you!!" Keith cut him off, his voice rising with ire.

Lance hesitated a moment, a brief flash of fear causing him to wonder if perhaps this time he had pushed too far. But the fear gave way quickly to anger, and he cast a scowl at each of them, then sauntered back to Red Lion.

Keith turned to the remaining three.

"Princess, are you sure you're alright?" he asked.

"I'm sure," she replied. "I can go on with the exercise."

"Hunk? Pidge?"

They both nodded.

"You can practice some target tracking until I get back. I won't be long." Keith's voice was ominous.

"Keith!" Alura called out as the leader of the Voltron force turned to head back towards Black Lion. "Don't be too hard on him. After all, he showed me just how far I have to go. Zarkon's forces would show me no mercy either."

Keith's face was set like stone. "There are other ways to teach you, Princess. Lance did a dangerous, reckless thing. It's time he was held accountable for his actions."

Lance already had it figured out. He'd eat a little crow, appeal to the friendship he and Keith shared, humble himself a bit . . . Keith always gave in. He was stubborn, to be sure, but only to a certain extent. Where Lance was concerned, Keith's hardness tended to soften into jelly. Lance knew this; he had played on it ever since he had joined with Keith as a space explorer.

Lance hopped down from Red Lion as Black Lion entered the lava cave that was the former's home. Keith exited his lion; and Lance, hands outstretched in supplication, went to meet him.

"Okay, I know I was wrong," he began. "I'm very sorry. I don't know what got into me. I could have caused some serious trouble." He shook his head helplessly. "You've known me long enough to know that sometimes I just do things that make no sense."

Keith's face was steely. "Give me the key to Red Lion," he said evenly.

Lance was momentarily taken aback. "What?"

"You're a rotten liar, Lance," Keith replied. "You're not sorry for what you did. And you know damn well why you did it. After our talk last night, I expected better. I guess I've been expecting too much. Now, give me the key to Red Lion."

Lance felt a tremor in his legs. It crept up into his chest and radiated through his arms. It felt like fear, and Lance detested it. "Why do you want the key?" His voice was filled with suspicion and dread.

"Because I'm grounding you for two weeks."

Lance's jaw dropped. "Grounding me?! How can you ground me? What if Arus is attacked? What if Voltron is needed?!"

"I'll lift the grounding if I have to, for emergencies. Now, give me the key."

"No!!" Lance refused, taking a quivering step back.

"Lance, unless you want to be taken off the team altogether—"

Desperate, Lance clutched Keith's arms. "Keith, come on! We're friends! I'm part of the Voltron Force! Don't ground me! I'll apologize to Alura! I swear I'll never do anything like that again, but I . . . I can't bear to think of going two weeks without flying Red Lion! Please, Keith! Anything but that!"

"You should have thought about all that before you pulled such an idiotic stunt," Keith replied, brushing Lance's hands aside. "Give me the key."

Lance's heart was pounding. His hands tightened into fists, his entire body tensed. He reached down to remove the key from its place on his breast.

"If this is the way you feel," he said, his voice barely under control, "Then you can find yourself a new pilot for Red Lion!" His voice at the end of the sentence rose to a shout as he threw the key with all his might across the cavern. Then he turned and ran.

Keith watched him go. A deep sigh trailed out of him. He was not surprised at Lance's reaction; he had expected no less, given the severity of the punishment imposed. To take Red Lion away from Lance for even one day was a brutal decision, and it had not been an easy one. But it had been necessary. Lance just never seemed to learn. His childish behavior was just as prevalent now as it had been two years ago when Lance had joined the team. Still, it was that very same childishness that somehow managed to endear Lance to Keith. And it made being Lance's commanding officer a very difficult challenge.

Keith crossed the cavern. A glint of reflected light drew him to the spot. He leaned over and his fingers closed around the key to Red Lion.

"Lance . . . " he frowned. "What am I going to do with you?"

Lance didn't drink.

Or it might be more accurate to say that Lance did not get drunk. He'd never been drunk in his life. True, he had knocked a few back from time to time. But getting drunk meant losing control, and losing control was an abhorrent and frightful thought as far as Lance was concerned.

Then again, there were worse things a man could get himself into . . .

"I should know," Lance grumbled. He looked at the half-full glass in front of him, contemplating the contents. He didn't even like the taste of Andrusian Ale, yet its consumption seemed appropriate for the circumstances; just as his surroundings, so far removed from the usual clean and wholesome trappings of the Castle of Lions, seemed appropriate. Lance had never been to the spaceports on the far side of the ancient and defunct kingdom of Helena. But he was becoming well acquainted with them now.

After the confrontation with Keith, he had gone to the launch tube, tossed his uniform, once a source of pride and belonging, to the floor, and pulled on his civilian clothes. He'd taken one of the castle speeders and roared off. He'd had no plans as to where he would go. He had only known that he'd wanted to get away from the Castle of Lions, away from Alura and Pidge and Hunk. Away from Keith. Away from all the people and things that had turned against him. Crossing the reconstructed "Love Bridge", he'd entered the ancient boundaries of the long-fallen kingdom of Helena. Driving west, the beautiful countryside began to drop towards the sea, where spaceports had long ago replaced the seaports; and as the sea drew near, the land grew oppressive and dark. The air grew foul and thick with the smell of too many bodies living in close quarters; the seaports were squalid and filled with wickedness.

Whether it was the wickedness that had drawn Lance thither or whether it had simply been the first route to avail itself, the truth was that as Lance had approached the outer limits of the spaceports, he'd felt a thrill of excitement and satisfaction.

"If they want to think I'm rotten, then I'll be rotten," he'd thought ruefully, pulling the speeder off the road at the port limits and concealing it behind a brambly hedge.

He had gone on foot into the port, wandering from street to street under the flickering light of the street lamps. The place was filthy, the gutters piled with trash and a sinister concoction of sludge water, buildings blackened with years of neglect, bodies (whether or not they were living or dead, Lance could not tell) lying on the walks, against the buildings, sometimes even in the streets.

After an hour of roaming, he had found himself in front of a tavern, The Black Anchor. It looked as good and seedy as any he had passed thus far, and so he went gone inside. The place was perhaps three-quarters full, the patrons all male and all rough-looking. They paid Lance no mind when he entered, other than to cast a curious glance in his direction.

Lance had gone directly to the bar and sat down. He'd ordered the Andrusian Ale, because it had been the only thing on the menu that he had recognized.

And now, an hour later, he was still nursing that first ale as he sat brooding and sinking deeper into anger.

"Keith thinks I'll come running back to apologize to him," he said to himself. "Well, he's in for a surprise. I'm not going back. I'm not going to beg and plead. I don't have to be a member of the Voltron Force. They think they've got me over a barrel. I'll show them." But then, his thoughts shifted. "Why did he come down so hard on me? So, I made a mistake. I wasn't trying to cause any trouble. I just lost my temper. What am I going to do without Red Lion? I don't want to do anything else."

And so, the argument went back and forth in his head. His ego versus his conscience. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he was hardly aware of the tavern's other denizens.

And for the most part, they were hardly aware of him.

For the most part.

At the far end of the bar sat a round-faced man with bulging red cheeks, an upturned nose, and tiny eyes beneath bushy brows. His clothes had the look of having once been fine, but now they were dated and worn, nearly thread-bare. He had a somewhat shifty look about him, but not enough to mark him as a particularly wicked man. His name was Merdock, and both he and his business were well-known among those who frequented the Helena spaceports.

He had been watching Lance from the moment the latter had walked in the door. The young man stood out like a shining jewel among the tavern's other patrons, but then again . . . Merdock had an eye for such things. It was all part of his job.

Merdock sipped his Pollavian Fire Water and observed.

"He carries himself with arrogance and pride, yet he's been injured in some way. He's angry. He wears every emotion like a banner. His figure is very fine, indeed. Andrusian ale . . . he's not a drinker. What could have brought him here? And why should I care? Ah, I can scarcely believe my good fortune!"

He made eye contact with another man, sitting at a table near the smoking fire. He made a motion with his head, and the other man followed his gaze towards where Lance sat at the bar. Merdock got up and moved towards the front door. The other man followed. Together, they stepped into the cool night air.

"Have you ever seen anything like him, Bayari?" Merdock asked, sounding enraptured.

"Not in a long time," Bayari replied. He was a large man, but it was not flab that gave him his girth. Bayari was strong and powerful. That was his part of the job. Merdock spotted the merchandise and made the deals. It was Bayari's task to procure the merchandise and keep it "in line", so to speak. "You want him for the next shipment?" he asked.

"Not the next shipment," Merdock replied. "This shipment. They go out tomorrow . . ." His face grew pensive. "We've already made our delivery, but I'm sure Arangus will be more than happy to take on a last-minute addition . . . especially one so perfectly suited to the most affluent of Arangus' clientele."

"We'll have to work quickly," Bayari said. "If we don't nab him tonight, he doesn't look like the type we'll ever see in here again."

"Leave him to me," Merdock grinned with confidence. "He won't be difficult at all. He's already looking for a reason to be wicked."

Lance swirled the last swallow of ale around in his glass and considered whether or not to order another, or to head off for some other den of evil, or back to the Castle of Lions.

None of the options appealed to him.

He gave only a sideways glance when a heavy-set man sat down beside him and ordered a glass of Pollavian Fire Water.

Merdock sat in silence for the first several minutes, paying exceptional attention to the young man sitting next to him, trying to gauge his state-of-mind, trying to formulate the best approach.

At last, he pointed to Lance's glass. "Mother's milk?"

Lance didn't even bother to look at him. "I don't want anything stronger," he replied dismissively.

"Hmm!" The man laughed. "Most folks who come here can't find something strong enough!"

Lance felt a distaste for the man. "I don't usually come to places like this. I don't get drunk."

Another laugh. "No, you don't look like the type. But you're here now. And if you don't drink, then I must ask, what does bring you to a place like this?"

Lance felt a twinge of irritation. "That's my own business."

"Fine, fine . . . don't get defensive. It's just that I've never seen you here before. You don't quite fit in."

Lance's scowl turned into a grimace. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That seems to be the consensus."

Merdock hid his smile. He had found an opening.

"Well then, maybe you need to learn how to drown your sorrows like the rest of us," he suggested. He summoned the bartender. "Zegal, get my friend here something with a little more kick."

"No, thanks," Lance declined.

Merdock gave Zegal a subtle nod. The bartender set a glass out, despite Lance's protest.

"Well, you still haven't answered my question," Merdock said pleasantly. "I can't quite figure out what a clean-cut fellow like you is doing here at the docks."

"I can't figure out why you want to know," Lance replied.

"Because I'm curious," Merdock said. "Your appearance here has made me curious."

"Well, I'm not here to cause any problems, if that makes you feel better," Lance replied.

"I wasn't worried about that." Merdock suppressed a chuckle. He thought it was amusing to see such moroseness coming from someone who was obviously as straight as an arrow and whose worst offense against humanity probably amounted to no more than an arrogant sneer.

In the world Merdock inhabited, the worst Lance could ever do would never be able to come close to the perversion and evil Merdock had witnessed. Lance's surliness appeared to Merdock as no more than the sulking of a chastised child.

"Like I said, I'm just curious. That's all. Nothing more," Merdock said. "You're very suspicious."

"Not suspicious," Lance corrected. "I'm private."

"Aren't we all," Merdock nodded. "Round these parts, a man has to guard his privacy. There are secrets to keep."

Lance replied haughtily as he reached absently for the Fire Water. "I have no secrets."

"I don't believe that." Merdock sipped his own drink. "I think you're nothing but secrets. And if, indeed, you have no secrets, then why the need for privacy?"

For a reason Lance could not pinpoint, Merdock's assertion appealed to him. The idea of being mysterious, of arousing such interest in a complete stranger – even one so repugnant as this one – gave him a sense of importance and rareness. Not to mention, he regarded himself as infinitely superior to the dregs surrounding him.

"Even if I did have secrets, I wouldn't be telling you," he retorted with a shrewd grin.

Merdock fought down the thrill rippling through his body. This boy could not be a more perfect find. His cockiness was an added bonus on top of his more obvious physical attributes. And now that he was at close range, Merdock noted with even greater excitement, the fine complexion, the striking eyes – a mixture of hazel and brown – the pale straight mouth, and the look of youthful manhood.

"I don't imagine there's anyone you would tell your secrets to," Merdock said, sensing that his companion was warming to the conversation.

"You've got that right," Lance replied, taking another draught from the Fire Water. "Because if you're going to confide in someone, that means you have to trust them first." Suddenly, his arrogance turned to anger and hurt. "And that's a dangerous business. It's not worth it." A pause as he took another drink. "Better to go to the grave keeping all your secrets."

"You trusted in someone and they betrayed you? Is that it?" Merdock asked, watching with satisfaction as Lance practically emptied his glass in one long pull. "Is that why you're here?"

Lance snorted. "Ha! Hardly. No one means that much to me."

"What do you mean – that much? How much?"

Lance made an exaggerated face of exasperation. Instead of answering the question directly, he asked, "Do you have any friends?"

"One or two," Merdock replied.

"Do you depend on them?"

"No more than I depend on myself."

"That's what I mean. No one should ever mean so much to you that you're willing to put them ahead of yourself!" Lance set the glass down with a clunk as he spoke the final word.

"Precisely!!" Merdock agreed as Zegal set another drink in front of Lance. "A man has to look out for himself!"

"Right!" Lance reached for the glass.

Merdock gave a cockeyed grin. He was amazed at what one little glass of Fire Water could do; apparently, the boy had been telling the truth when he said he did not get drunk. The Fire Water had gone straight to his head, freed his tongue, and flushed his cheeks.

"And you know—I always thought friendship was the basis for everything," Lance went on. "It should always come first. Friendship should always come first. Nothing else in between. But I was wrong. He fooled me, you know. All this time, he had the wool pulled over my eyes."

Merdock nodded. He need prod no further. The boy was on a roll.

"I mean, if someone makes a mistake, that shouldn't come between them as friends, should it? But it does. People let it. It seems like all they want to do is punish you, and they don't forgive . . . ." Lance's voice fell off miserably.

"It's happened to me," Merdock said with feigned sadness. "There are those who have no compassion for the feelings of others—"

Lance slammed the second glass down on the bar. Merdock was pleasantly surprised to see that it was empty. The boy had drained the entire glass in one swig.

A lot of pain and anger in him . . . once let loose, he can't control it, he thought with satisfaction. Good, good. The Fire Water will bring it all out eventually.

"That's exactly it!" Lance blurted out. "But they expect you to still care about everyone!" He turned to face Merdock squarely. "Keith expects me to be perfect, but everyone else is allowed to make mistakes. Is that fair? No! He makes all sorts of demands on me, but he forgets that I never asked for that position!" He cut off abruptly, face intense in thought, then admitted, "But I would have been mad if he's selected anyone else. I deserved that spot, and he'd have been stupid to give it to anyone else."

Merdock listened in fascinated humor and motioned for another glass to be set before his suddenly talkative companion.

Lance snatched the glass up immediately. "And you know, he doesn't even appreciate what I do. He doesn't appreciate me at all."

"Oh, I'm sure this Keith can't be as bad as you say," Merdock replied, playing a false devil's advocate.

"Huh! You try working for him!" A long pull on the newest glass emptied it. "But that's not important anymore, because—I quit that job!!" He tossed the glass over his shoulder. It broke on the floor, drawing only minor attention. "I'm unemployed! I need a new line of work!" He turned again to Merdock. "What do you do?"

Merdock grinned with secret knowledge. "I'm a businessman."

"Hmmmm." Lance looked pensive. "That sounds boring."

"Sometimes," Merdock replied. "And sometimes it's more fun than one man should be allowed to have."

Lance shrugged. He looked at the bar. "Where's my drink?"

Merdock slid his glass in front of Lance. "Right here."

Lance gave a sloppy smile. "How can you have too much fun?" he asked. "I don't think I've ever had too much fun." He laughed suddenly. "Oh! There was the time Princess lost her bikini! That was fun."

Merdock watched him snicker and shake with laughter. No doubt about it, the boy's inhibitions were crumbling down. Merdock spent the next hour supplying Lance with drinks and listening to his drunken ramblings.

Through the inane chatter, one name came up again and again.

Keith.

Keith was the leader, the one who didn't understand, the one who did not appreciate him, the one who did not listen, the best friend, the nearest thing he had to a confidante . . . he was the one who had hurt him.

It was clear to Merdock that he was hearing the tales and woes of a boyhood love, a mutual devotion that had hit a sour note. And all Merdock had to do was offer an occasional sound of commiseration and try not to laugh at the increasing clumsiness of his quarry.

Then, unexpectedly, Lance asked, "How long have I been sitting here?" He stood up and promptly fell into Merdock, who put his arms out to steady him.

"Hey, there, I think you've had enough, my young friend," Merdock said.

Lance smirked at him. "I've already told you, I don't get drunk."

"No, of course not," Merdock grinned. "We'll just say you're very tired."

"We can say that," Lance agreed.

Merdock began to lead him towards the door.

"Wh-where are we going?" Lance asked, trying to regain enough balance to stand on his own, to reassert some control over the situation. But his mind was muddled, his coordination compromised.

"To put you to bed," Merdock replied.

"I think—I think I should go back to the castle," Lance stammered.

"The castle?"

Lance nodded. "But I don't think I can drive."

"You live in the castle?"

"Mm-hm," Lance mumbled an affirmative response. "I'm the Red Lion."

"Oh, now I'm sure you've had too much to drink," Merdock said lightly, opening the door. He took Lance out into the night.

"No, no, I live in the castle," Lance insisted. "I’m the Red Lion—oop!" He stumbled. "Oh, good thing Keith didn't see that. Where are you taking me again? It's cold out here."

Suddenly, another man appeared on Lance's left.

"Hello, who are you?" Lance asked.

"He's a friend," Merdock answered. "He's come to help."

"But I—"

"No 'buts'. We'll take good care of you," Merdock assured him.

"Keith's going to worry. He . . . I . . . I'm important to him, you know," Lance said in confusion. "Well, I think I'm important to him . . . I think. And now he's going to worry."

Lance noticed the grips on his arms tighten considerably. He was being led along quickly now.

"No worries." Merdock's voice was smooth. "We'll take care of you."

Lance was too dull-witted to wonder. All he wanted now was a warm bed. Isn't that what Merdock had said? Something about a bed? Lance slogged along between the two men, barely conscious. By the time they left the cold for marginally warmer indoor environs, Lance was no longer coherent.

Bayari chuckled as he and Merdock set Lance down on the dirt floor of the cellar into which they had entered.

"This was too easy," he said.

Merdock replied with a laugh of his own. "Well, he was honest about one thing; he wasn't a drinker. He went down like an anchor."

"I heard what he said about the Red Lion. What do you suppose he meant? He can't really be a member of the Voltron Force," Bayari said.

"If he is, then this is even better. Voltron's interfered with our line of work often enough. Here's our chance to repay a piece of the debt. More likely, it was just the wishful thinking of a drunk. Look at him . . . he's only a young man, barely more than a boy. He couldn't be a member of the Voltron Force," Merdock replied.

"Well, whatever he is, he'll soon be something else," Bayari said with a wicked grin.

"He still hasn't come back?"

Keith turned at the sound of Hunk's voice.

"I don't know," he replied, trying to sound casual and disinterested.

"You're waiting up because of him, aren't you?" Hunk said knowingly. "Why else would you be up at four o'clock in the morning, just hanging out in the break room? You're worried about him."

Keith scowled. "Why would I be worried? Lance does this sort of thing all the time. He throws a tantrum and runs off to get everyone worried while he cools down. Why should I worry?"

"Maybe you think he really meant what he said," Hunk said, helping himself to a cup of very strong, stale coffee.

"Not a chance," Keith replied. "Not Lance. He could no more give up Red Lion than you could give up . . . dessert."

Hunk laughed. "You're right about that. And I guess you're right about Lance. He can't hold a grudge for too long."

"Oh, Hunk, that's just the problem," Keith groaned. "I don't want Lance to chalk this up to a grudge. I want him to stop acting out every impulse. Sometimes, it seems like he doesn't think at all before he does something."

"You're exaggerating, Keith," Hunk pointed out gently.

"Even if I am, can you blame me? Hunk, you know as well as I do that Lance is danger on the move. The reason he's always in trouble is because he goes out looking for it. He's always spoiling for a fight. Am I right?" Keith challenged.

Hunk answered with a challenge of his own. "Would you want Lance to be any other way?"

"Right now isn't a good time to ask me that question," Keith grunted. "Things have been hard between me and Lance lately."

Hunk gave a knowing nod. "I think you're starting to expect too much from him. You know everything he's been through. Things aren't going to change overnight. Lance has a lot of shadows following him. For as many as he's outrun, there are still more that he hasn't been able to shake yet."

"It's been two years, Hunk," Keith replied. "How much time am I supposed to give him? How much time is he going to need? I know what I need now, and that's a reliable second-in-command."

"He needs as much time as it takes." Hunk finished off his foul cup of coffee. He stood up. "Besides, I think the real problem here is that you care more about Lance than you're willing to admit. And until you can be completely honest and frank with Lance, you can't expect him to be open with you." He patted Keith on the shoulder. "And as long as both of you are withholding things, you're never going to be the team, the one-two punch you could be."

Keith squinted at Hunk. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Hunk smiled and sighed. "The last thing Lance wants to do is show weakness in front of you. And the last thing you want is to see his weakness."

"Ha! I've seen plenty of Lance's weaknesses—" Keith began, but Hunk cut him off.

"You've seen Lance's mistakes. You've seen things in his personality that grate on your nerves. But you've never seen him show weakness, Keith," Hunk corrected. "He refuses to let you see it. He refuses to let any of us see it. But it's there. How can it not be after the things that have happened to him."

Keith drew a deep breath. "Did you study psychiatry or something, Hunk?"

Hunk grinned. "Nope. I've just been watching you. And Lance."

"Well . . . stop watching!" Keith made a feeble attempt at a joke.

But the frightening truth was that he feared Hunk might be right. Just what was it that made working with Lance so damned difficult? Was there really something Keith was withholding in his dealings with his impetuous second-in-command?

He didn't know. He just didn't know.

Lance did not want to wake up, yet he could not fight the persistent prodding at his consciousness. He felt awful – even in this quasi-asleep stage, he was well aware of the roiling in the pit of his stomach, the ache behind his eyes, the involuntary trembling of his muscles.

He remarked dimly that what he was experiencing was a hangover – his first ever. He knew he had drunk too much the night before. He hadn't intended to; but somehow it had happened, and now he was reaping the rewards. Time to face the morning like a man . . .

His mind thrust closer and closer to wakefulness; his senses began to register and report to his brain.

He was cold. Cold and very uncomfortable. He was lying on his stomach, his cheek pressed against a smooth, cool surface. Vague sounds came to his ears – the sounds might have been voices. Then again, they could have been footsteps on a wooden floor, birds calling in the trees, wind through the grass. Lance could not tell – not yet, at least.

He shifted slightly. Moving was unusually difficult.

Another benefit of tying one on, he thought wryly.

Even so, the small movement set something loose deep inside him. He felt it surging up his throat. He barely managed to raise his head in time. But still, he could not completely avoid making a mess of himself, so violent was his sickness. He inched awkwardly to one side, horrified at how unresponsive his arms and legs were to his commands.

When the illness had subsided, he lay still, breathing hard and rapidly. He calmed himself and decided to try and sit up. It was then, as his senses emerged from the sluggishness of the previous night's indulgence, that he began to realize that his muscles were obeying; he simply wasn't getting the desired results. It almost felt like – no, it certainly felt as if his hands were tied. His feet, as well. This was an interesting thought; and in Lance's state-of-mind, it was too nebulous a thought to be dissected.

"What a way to start the day, eh?"

That was definitely a man's voice.

Lance opened his eyes ruefully, fully expecting to be painfully dazzled by sunlight. But he found himself looking into a dimness that he could not quite make out. He could not see the owner of the voice.

"Who's there?" he asked.

"I'm over here," came the reply.

Lance turned his head. He recognized the man sitting on the bottom-most step of a wooden staircase.

"I remember you from last night," Lance said, each word requiring his concentration. He was already making a pact with himself never to get drunk again.

"I'm surprised you remember anything, the way you were knocking 'em back," the man replied.

"Your name is Merdock," Lance went on.

Merdock nodded. "I'm impressed. What else do you remember from last night?"

Lance groaned. He wasn't interested in answering Merdock's questions. He had more pressing concerns. Why couldn't he move?

"Did you tie me up?" he asked.

"We certainly did." Merdock was so matter-of-fact about it that Lance wondered if perhaps he had misunderstood the question.

After several seconds, Lance could think of no better question to ask than, "Why?"

"Because we don't want you to get away," Merdock answered.

"Away from what?" Lance could not stop from thinking that this conversation made no sense.

"Away from us." Merdock grinned in amusement. "I'll explain it when you sober up some more."

"No, no," Lance protested. "I can't wait here for you to explain. I have to get back to the castle." He tried again to get to his knees, but even that effort was fruitless. "Keith will think I meant it."

Still half out of his wits, Merdock mused. "He'll think you meant what?"

"What I said about leaving. He might be looking for a new pilot right now." Lance squirmed and wriggled as he spoke. At last, he asked in the purely reasonable voice of an unreasonable request, "Will you untie me? I can't go anywhere like this."

Merdock chuckled. "You may not be a fun drunk, but you're a hilarious hangover." He got up from the step, came and hunkered down beside Lance. "Stop worrying about this Keith fellow. Besides, if you told him you were leaving, you were telling him the truth."

"I'm not leaving—"

"Yes, you are," Merdock cut him off, running a fingertip along the ridge of Lance's cheek. "Trust me. You're a once-in-a-lifetime find. You're going to make me and my partner very rich." He paused. "In fact, after you, I may never have to work another day in my life."

Lance was confused. "What do you mean? I don't understand. Why won't you let me go?"

Merdock stood up. "Because, dear boy, you are exactly what my business associates are looking for." He paused. "And it won't be so bad. Tonight, you'll be on your way to exotic, faraway planets. And me . . . I'll be basking."

"Lance didn't come back at all last night," Keith announced to Coran after a sleepless night.

"Well, you were pretty rough on him, Keith," Alura said gently. "He's probably trying to teach you a lesson. Or he may still be too angry or hurt to come back."

"That won't help us if we need to form Voltron," Coran interjected. "We don't have anyone trained to fly Red Lion, and Red Lion is Voltron's sword arm. Lance should never have run off like that."

Keith sighed. "It's my fault. I should have stopped him."

"Give him a little more time," Pidge suggested. "You know Lance; he needs time to calm down."

"If he's not back by nightfall, we'll have to assume he's left us. We'll have to start looking for a replacement," Keith said in a quiet voice.

"If he's not back by nightfall, we'll have to start looking for him," Alura replied. "Lance wouldn't disappear without a trace. If he doesn't come back, it's because something's happened to him."

Keith lowered his head into his hands. Either he's left us or something's happened to him . . . what kind of choice is that? Come on, Lance . . . you've made your point. Come back and we'll talk about it. Just don't leave the team. You can't leave the team.

Lance could not get free.

He'd tried. Lord knows he'd tried.

It had taken several hours for him to feel like the attempt. He'd been sick a few more times, but now the fuzziness had worn off, leaving him only with an aching head and a mind full of questions.

His two captors checked on him from time to time, washed the foulness from his face and neck, and offered him water and dry bread. They were not rough or cruel with him. They answered no questions and asked none. They both were clearly pleased with themselves. One thing Lance gathered from them: they considered him to be of great value, although they gave little indication as to why.

As far as Lance was concerned, there could only be one reason. They knew, from his own careless blabbering, that he was a member of the Voltron Force, and they intended to either sell him to Zarkon or some other evil agent; or they would ransom him.

Neither prospect gave Lance any comfort. In fact, he was utterly mortified that the previous day's fit had landed him in such a position. He began to wonder if maybe Keith had been right about him all along. Was he really an accident waiting to happen? If nothing else, now he was a liability. And even worse, without him, the team could not form Voltron. What if Zarkon picked this time to attack, before a replacement could be trained? That would spell disaster for all of Planet Arus.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let myself get into this situation? He had only one hope. God, I hope they're looking for me.

It was dark in the cellar when Merdock and Bayari entered.

"As promised, it's time to get underway," Merdock announced. He lengthened the rope around Lance's ankles, so he could walk; but kept it short enough to prevent him from running.

"Now, it's not far, and we don't need any trouble," Merdock continued.

From behind Lance, Bayari reached around and thrust a rag into his mouth, securing it in place with a piece of twine. He and Merdock got Lance to his feet; they pulled a sack over his head and shoulders, down to his waist, securing it with more of the twine.

"Okay now, not a sound, no fighting," Merdock said. "You just stay quiet and don't play any games, and everything will work out fine."

The two men led Lance up a flight of stairs, through a damp passageway, and out into the fresh night air. A short walk—a few steps only—and they came to a cart. Here, they lifted Lance into the cartbed, where he lay unmoving as his ankles were drawn together again. Then something heavy was placed across his legs, another across his middle, another across his chest and shoulders. His head was kept free of the weight. The pressure on top of him increased until he could not move at all. It did not take Lance very long to realize that he was being buried under sacks filled with some manner of grain or powder. As the weight grew more intense, Lance began to fear that they would crush him until he could not breath; but then he felt the cart jerk forward . . . they were moving.

The ride seemed to go on forever over rough, pot-holed ways that spelled out agony for the body pressed beneath the sacks. Lance did not know how much time had passed, but he slowly became aware that he could no longer feel his limbs. His entire body was numb, yet his head pounded. His breath still had the faint odor of sickness, and in the hot, confined space of the sack covering his head, Lance thought he was going to be ill again.

And then the cart stopped.

"What are you carrying?" a voice asked.

"Grain." That was Merdock's voice.

"Uncover it."

Lance heard a rustling sound. After a few seconds, the other voice gave permission to pass, and the jaunting ride continued.

When, at last, the cart came to another halt, Lance could feel the weight on top of him beginning to reside. The bags of grain were being unloaded.

Lance was lifted from the cart and carried a distance. He was set on his feet and his ankles loosened; but on either side, his arms were held securely. He could hear a lot of subdued activity going on around him.

"There's Arangus." Merdock's voice again. "Go tell him we have another one."

Shortly thereafter, a new voice met Lance's ears.

"Merdock, you never cease to amaze me. Yet another?"

"Not just another," Merdock replied. "A prize. A collector's item."

"Oh?"

"Why else would I come here to make a special delivery after handing over so many fine specimens two days ago," Merdock said. "This one is worth all the rest combined."

"A noble?"

Merdock made a derisive sound. "You know that none of your clientele care about bloodlines, Arangus."

Arangus laughed. "So, let's have a look at your little treasure."

In the next moment, the sack was removed from over Lance's head. He saw a ruddy, obese man regarding him with wide eyes.

"My word," Arangus breathed.

Merdock could barely contained his pleasure and self-satisfaction. "Is that all you have to say?" he asked with a brilliant grin.

Arangus stepped closer. "Take the gag out."

Bayari complied.

Arangus' expression grew even more incredulous. "Where did you find this one?"

"We didn't have to find him," Merdock replied. "He came to us."

"Just came knocking on your door?" Arangus quipped.

"Bayari and I were visiting the Black Anchor last night," Merdock explained. "And there he was."

"He hardly looks like the type to frequent the Black Anchor," Arangus noted.

"It was his first time," Merdock chuckled. "And a fortuitous circumstance for me and Bayari." He paused. "That translates into good fortune for you."

Arangus nodded. "Me and whoever the final buyer is." He reached out a hand towards Lance's face.

Lance took a step back. "Don’t touch me," he said in a low voice.

Arangus grinned. "That attitude might dissuade some would-be buyers. Of course, it is more likely to entice them into a frenzy."

"Such an attitude meshes perfectly with his other more . . . laudable attributes," Merdock said. "He will be a trophy among trophies."

Arangus nodded. "Yes, you're quite right about that."

Lance scowled hatefully at the two men. "No one's going to buy me. I’m not going to be anyone's slave!"

Merdock and Arangus were not moved.

"No, I would say you're going to fill a more . . . decorative position." Arangus' voice had a sinister inflection. "Entertainment purposes, more precisely."

Entertainment? Lance's mind was filled with images of the arena. "I won't fight for you," he said.

Merdock and Arangus exchanged amused glances but said nothing. At last, when Arangus spoke, it was not to address Lance's protest.

"So, I'll see what he brings on the market. Twenty-five percent to you. Agreed?"

Merdock shook his head. "Payment upfront for this one."

"Now, my good Merdock, you know that's not possible—"

"It's perfectly possible," Merdock replied. "The price is already set."

"Oh? And what are you asking?"

"50,000 credits."

"50,000!! Isn't that rather extravagant?"

Merdock was smug and self-assured. "Come now, Arangus, you know he'll easily bring 100,000 on the market. Probably more."

Arangus had to admire Merdock. The man knew his business. And the merchandise in question was undeniably the finest Arangus had seen in his 30-plus years of slave-trading. He would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity.

"30,000 credits," he countered.

"No, my friend. No room for negotiation this time. 50,000 or I'll find another trader."

Arangus took a thoughtful pause. His eyes scanned over Lance's body, still clad in the same clothes he had worn the day he'd stormed off in anger. There was strength beneath those garments; the outline of sculpted muscles clearly visible. Even clothed, the boy was as close to perfection as Arangus had ever seen. And the face – the face was fair beyond description. 100,000 credits would be the starting bid . . .

"Very well. 50,000. Let's do it now," he conceded; then calling over two associates, he ordered, "Take this one aboard, too."

Lance resisted as the two men took his arms.

"I'm not going anywhere!!" he cried out, struggling as fiercely as his bonds would allow. "I'm not going to let you take me! Let go of me!!"

The two men were impressed with Lance's strength and determination. They were caught momentarily off-guard, as Lance twisted out of their grasp; but the short rope around his ankles made any attempt to flee impossible. He stood tense and staring at the two men.

Beyond them, Merdock, Bayari, and Arangus watched with great interest.

"Just don't damage him in the process of taking him aboard," Arangus laughed. He was about to turn and continue on with Merdock and Bayari, but instead he found himself watching Lance's fight, mesmerized by the sight of his beautiful young body in desperate resistance.

"He fights even though bound," Arangus said in breathless admiration. "And he scarcely seems to tire."

Merdock, too, was watching; but his thoughts were not so pleasant as Arangus'. In fact, they were distressing. He pondered Arangus' words.

He fights even though bound. And he scarcely seems to tire.

Now that the boy's drunkenness had worn off, Merdock was starting to see that which he had first caught a glimpse of the moment Lance had walked into the Black Anchor. A certitude, a confidence hovered about the boy – stronger than the fear and confusion Merdock had picked up last night.

I'm the pilot of the Red Lion.

The statement came back to Merdock's mind, playing unceasingly. The claim no longer sounded like a drunken boast of nonsense. And if it were not false, then it must be true. And if it were true, there were people who would come looking for the boy.

Merdock's mind was racing. Who had seen the events in the Black Anchor? Had he and Bayari left a trail unknowingly? With the credits from the sale, he could go far away; but how far would he have to go to be safe from Voltron?

He was drawn out of his thoughts by Arangus' voice.

"Simply captivating," the trader remarked. "I may just have to absorb the loss and keep him for myself."

"I wouldn't recommend it, Arangus," Merdock replied.

"Why is that?"

"I have reason to believe that he'll have people looking for him."

Arangus made a dismissive gesture. "They all have people looking for them."

"But not all those people have the means to find the ones they're looking for," Merdock went on. "The ones who will come after him . . . they will have the means."

"Why? Who is he, Merdock?" Arangus now turned a serious eye on him.

"It's better if I don't tell you—"

"The sale is off if you don't."

Merdock drew a deep breath. "He claims to be a member of the Voltron Force."

Arangus stared at Merdock as if he'd lost his mind. He looked at Bayari, who nodded confirmation.

"And how would you come by a member of the Voltron Force?" Arangus asked, at last.

"Like I said, he came to us," Merdock replied. "I don't know why he was there, but he was. I saw an opportunity too incredible to pass up. I didn't believe him about being the pilot of the Red Lion at first. I thought he was a drunken braggart. Now, I'm not so sure."

"The Red Lion . . ." Arangus breathed. He strode back over to where his two men had forced Lance to the ground and were drawing his ankles together. He reached down to grab a handful of Lance's hair and jerked his head up.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

Lance glared at him in silent defiance.

Arangus was not perturbed. "Is it true that you're the pilot of the Red Lion?"

Again, Lance did not speak. He was well aware of the things he had let slip when drunk, but he was sober now—there would be no more mistakes of the like.

"I asked you a question," Arangus persisted.

Lance started to struggle again, until Arangus planted a fleshy knee on his chest and pressed his full weight against him. With three men holding him down, Lance lay still, conserving his strength.

"Are you a member of the Voltron Force?" Arangus asked again.

Lance thought quickly. No matter what he said, they would not release him. But if they took him to Zarkon, his chances of escape would be slim. If they took him to be a slave on some backworld planet, the outlook was somewhat less grim.

"No," he replied evenly.

"You told my friends last night that you were," Arangus persisted.

"How do I know what I said last night?" Lance spat back testily. "I was completely soused."

Arangus regarded him with scrutiny for a long few seconds. At last, he stood up. "If you're lying . . . " He slid a hand between Lance's legs and grabbed his privates in a sudden movement.

Lance gasped.

"If you're lying, I'll know precisely what to do with you. There's a market for eunuchs, too, my beautiful creature. Do you understand?" He tightened his hold.

A thin cry escaped Lance's lips.

"Say yes or no. Do you understand?" Arangus pressed.

"Yes," Lance barely managed a choked whisper.

"Good, then," Arangus released his hold and turned to his lackeys. "Take him aboard."

Keith stared out over the Basin, trying to gather the fragments of his shattered hope. He had hoped against expectataion to find Lance here.

And now he was faced not only with disappointment, but fear mingling with self-recriminations and guilt.

If Lance had left, it was his doing.

But Lance had not left. Somehow, Keith knew that Lance had not abandoned the team. It might have been because Keith could not even imagine him doing such a thing; yet there was more to it than that.

Keith knew Lance. He knew that Lance was incapable of leaving. Slowly, since Lance's departure, Keith's certainty had been growing: Lance's extended absence had the shadow of evil about it. Some manner of devilry had found Lance – or Lance had found it. It hardly mattered. Lance had not come back because he could not come back.

Something was wrong, and it was up to Keith to lead the way.

He headed back for the Castle of Lions. As he approached, he could not help but notice how warm and brilliant it looked in the night, friendly yellow light streaming from the windows and parapets, the star-filled sky providing a backdrop that looked like something from a painter's canvas.

Yet, there was nothing for him in that castle. Nothing at all. All the joy and welcome that the lights had once offered now served only as a grim reminder of that which was no longer there. It struck Keith as ironic that as he stared at the bright beacons that all the light seemed to have gone out of the castle.

He passed beneath the great gateway upon which Black Lion rested, crossed the bridge over the lake, and came to the entrance to the castle. The guards let him enter, and he proceeded directly to the control room, where the rest of the team and Coran awaited him.

Keith could tell immediately from their expressions that they had not met with success. He gave a minute shake of his head to indicate that he, too, had met with failure.

Pidge spoke up. "I checked in his room. It doesn't look like he took anything with him. But one of the maintenance crew told me he saw Lance take off with one of the castle's speeders yesterday afternoon."

"And he had no idea where Lance was going?" Keith asked.

"None," Pidge replied.

"There's no report from any of the space ports," Alura added. "He has to still be on Arus."

"He wouldn't still be trying to make a point, would he?" Pidge asked.

It was Hunk who replied. "No, Lance has never stayed away for this long. He wouldn't leave us in the lurch like this."

Keith agreed. "This doesn't feel like of one Lance's lessons. I think he's in trouble. We've covered the local area. It's time to expand our search perimeter."

Alura turned to Coran. "We can use the palace resources to help us search."

"But we must be careful, Princess," Coran replied. "You know that Zarkon's forces have this planet under surveillance. If we're too obvious in our search, Zarkon will know what's going on, and he might choose this time to launch an attack, while we are without Voltron."

"Unless Zarkon already knows," Keith said gravely, then he voiced what was on all of their minds. "What if Zarkon is responsible for Lance's disappearance?"

"It's possible," Coran frowned. "Zarkon waits for any opportunity to avail itself. And with Lance's habit of running off, disregarding all security measures, it was only a matter of time before Zarkon took advantage of his recklessness."

Keith turned sharply to Coran. "You're not being fair to Lance. We don't even know for sure if he's in Zarkon's hands. Lance may have his faults, but I don't think he'd go out and make himself a target for Zarkon. If he's been captured, I'm sure he didn't plan it. And don't forget, Lance has gone out on a limb plenty of times for our sakes."

"If he is Zarkon's prisoner, how come Zarkon hasn't attacked?" Pidge asked.

"He may be planning to use Lance for some other purpose," Coran replied. "My main fear is that he will use Lance to try and force us to capitulate. He may even demand the Princess in exchange for Lance's life. Lotor will never stop trying to make the Princess his bride."

Keith felt his ire rising. Coran, it seemed, always used the Princess as the standard against which everything and everyone else was measured. Although the castle diplomat had not said it directly, his meaning was clear: Alura's freedom was more important than Lance's life.

Alura could see the tenseness in Keith's shoulders. "Coran," she began, "If Lance is in trouble, I intend to do everything I can to help him. That means finding him first. While we're all sitting here talking, precious time is being wasted. Now, I agree with you that we must be cautious, so it's probably not a good idea to send out our guards to help search for Lance." She turned to the commander of the Voltron Force. "Keith, any ideas?"

"Well, before we start zeroing in on Zarkon, we'd better make check all other angles. Lance may have had an accident and be hurt. Or he may have run into some other kind of trouble," Keith replied. "Princess, you said there were no reports from the space ports, but there's a lot of unregulated activity that goes on in those places. It wouldn't hurt for us to take a look. We'll sweep down from here, across the River of Altare, down towards the Helena ports, covering the countryside in between. It's a lot of ground to cover, but we'll just have to do the best we can. Princess, you and Pidge take the area from the Love Bridge to the village of Miabeck – that's halfway to the Helena ports. Hunk and I will cover from Miabeck to the ports."

"Should we take the lions?" Hunk asked.

"No, no lions this time. They'd draw too much attention," Keith replied. "If Lance is in danger, we don't want anyone to know who we are. We'll take speeders."

"Right!" Pidge said enthusiastically. "Princess, you ready?"

She nodded. "Good luck, Keith, Hunk. And be careful, the ports of Helena are dangerous places."

Hunk gave a dismal grin. "Why do you think Keith gave that assignment to me and himself? No offense, Princess, but we've already got one member missing. We wouldn't want anything to happen to you, and those ports are rough."

Alura smirked. "Well, let's just hope that when this is over, we're not missing two more members of the team. Let's go, Pidge!"

Lance's two escorts had managed to get him into the ship. It had not been a pleasant experience for any of them; and in the end, the two men had been driven to use brutal force, against the orders of Arangus. The only way to silence their charge's physical protests had been to use the shock-wand – a long metallic rod that delivered a potent electrical shock.

Lance had quickly become its intimate acquaintance. One moment he had been on the ship's ramp, twisting and fighting in the arms of his captors; the next, he found himself on his knees, screaming in agony, a pain burning in his side. Two more similar episodes followed, and Lance did not recover so well from the last one. When he came to his senses, it was to find himself lying on a steel platform, his ankles clasped in shackles, his wrists also enclosed in iron cuffs in front of him. He felt a dull throbbing pain in his side, and as he tried to sit up, its intensity forced him to give up the effort and lay back.

Very suddenly, he became aware of someone beside him. He turned his head to find himself being regarded by a young boy – perhaps Pidge's age. The boy was staring at Lance with a combination of fear and wonder.

Lance looked back at him for a few seconds before asking, "Who are you?"

"Aron," the boy replied, followed immediately by, "Did you fight them?"

Lance sighed. "I tried. I think I lost." He touched his fingers gingerly to the pain in his side, drawing back sharply at the slightest touch.

Aron lifted Lance's shirt carefully. "You have a bad mark there," he said.

"I'm sure I do," Lance replied. "It's what I get for thinking I could beat them." He turned his head and drew in a breath of shock. He was in the hold of a large ship. In the dim light he saw row after row of the metal platform compartments like the one on which he was lying. There were two people on each platform, all male, chained at the ankles, wrists bound in front of them. In between the rows ran walkways – sunken sewer ditches with metal grates over them. The ditches branched off into each compartment in the form of open sanitation gullies. The leg shackles were mounted into the walls at the base of each compartment, allowing for limited movement to the sanitation gullies. The ceilings over the compartments were low, too low for someone Lance's height to sit up straight; but the aisles were tall.

Lance carefully pushed up onto his elbows until the pain stopped him. His jaw hung slack. There had to be over three hundred captives in the hold. There might be many more, but the distance fell into shadow.

"I can't believe it," Lance whispered. He had thought Arus was out of the slave traders' sites. And yet, here was compelling evidence to the contrary. He looked at Aron.

"Are you from Arus?"

Aron nodded.

"How were you captured?"

"We, uh . . . we were fooled by a man into following him. He said he could show us where to find treasure, so we played hookey. He led us into a trap," Aron replied.

"How many of you?"

"Me and four friends." Aron paused. "How were you captured?"

Sticky question. "I guess I was sort of playing hookey, too," Lance replied. He frowned deeply, adding in his thoughts, And throwing a patented Red Lion rage. My God, what would Keith say if he saw what I've gotten myself into?

Of course, Lance would have been very happy at that moment to take any ribbing from Keith if it meant being rescued. He wondered if his friends had started to look for him yet.

A low rumbling vibrated through the ship. They were taking off.

Lance's heart sank, but in some odd way, he couldn't shake the idea that he was finally getting what he deserved.

Arangus lay back against the plush array of pillows on his bed. He indulged himself yet again in thoughts of his prize acquisition. It seemed truly a waste to have to sell the boy. Certainly, the idea of parting with him without having first experienced his body was a dismal prospect.

Dismal, indeed.

The voyage to Aegypto, the destination planet, was six days by the Arus time standard. Six days. Six days to savor the pleasures. Six days – and more, if Arangus so desired. It was purely his decision whether to keep or sell the boy.

And he was not going to waste another moment in the process of coming to that determination.

He sat up and summoned two of his guards, dispatching them to the hold. Then he poured himself a glass of Terran wine and sat down to wait.

Lance did not resist the two men who came to get him. In fact, he went willingly, wrists and ankles bound as before, in the hope that an opportunity for escape might present itself.

He was led through a maze of corridors, coming at last to a halt before a single closed door. One of his escorts buzzed for entry.

The door slid open and a voice called out, "Enter!"

Lance, flanked on either side by the guards, walked into the room. He recognized Arangus immediately.

Arangus motioned to the two guards, and they departed.

Lance stood still just inside the doorway. He stared directly at Arangus, yet in his field of vision, he noted that the man's quarters were well appointed. Whoever Arangus was, he commanded a fine suite on board this ship; and evidently, he wielded considerable power.

Arangus returned Lance's stare. At length, he spoke in a languid voice.

"So . . . a member of the Voltron Force. You know, I'm starting to believe that you might have been telling the truth." He paused and his eyes narrowed. "True, you look very young, yet . . . there's an edge to you. I've seen that you know how to fight, that you're a bit on the rough side." A derisive chuckle. "Is that scowl permanent?"

He took in Lance's hateful glare, and what he saw intrigued him. The young man was holding himself strong and defiant, yet he could not camouflage the strongest of his emotions. Anger was foremost, but directly beneath it was the unmistakable shadow of uncertainty and fear. The boy did not know what to expect.

Arangus reached for the goblet on the table. Getting to his feet, he took a sip and strolled leisurely to where Lance stood tense and unflinching.

"Do you feel like telling me your name now?" he asked.

Lance did not answer.

"Come, come, surely there's no harm in telling me your name," Arangus persisted.

Lance's reply was sharp. "There's no need for you to know it."

"Now, that may be true," Arangus replied. "I'm asking because I want to know."

"Then you'll go on wanting," Lance replied.

"Why are you so stubborn?" Arangus asked. "It won't do you any good where you're going." Arangus saw the smug glint in Lance's eye. "Ahh, I see. You plan to be wicked and disobedient. You think that will make them cast you away. It might. And it might also drive them to kill you."

"Either way, the problem's solved," Lance replied flippantly.

"You'd rather die than be sold?" Arangus voice was filled with humor and doubt.

"I'm not property," Lance said. "I won't be a slave."

"Yes, yes, so you've said," Arangus nodded. He stood directly in front of him. "You won't be a slave – not in the traditional sense. But you will be a servant."

"I won't do it," Lance replied.

The determination in Lance's eyes set Arangus' heart to flame. "You may not have to," he said. "There are other ways."

Lance's attempt to hide his hopefulness at this announcement was not successful, and Arangus reveled in the fact that he could elicit such emotional responses at will. Still, he had to handle this one delicately; if indeed, the young man were a member of the Voltron Force, it wasn't for nothing.

"You needn't be sold," Arangus said. "I have been looking for a new boy for my own business."

Lance's hope crashed within in. His scowl deepened. "I'm not interested."

"You don't even know what the job entails," Arangus replied.

"I don't need to know what it entails," Lance said contemptuously. "I'm not going to serve you or anyone else."

"Don't be too hasty, dear boy. Let me show you something." Arangus moved to the wall and pressed a buzzer. He then sat down and regarded Lance expectantly.

After several seconds, a side door opened and a young man, perhaps a year or two younger than Lance, entered the room.

"Yes, Master," the boy said without sparing even a glance at Lance.

"Show my guest what your job is," Arangus said.

Without a moment's hesitation, the boy leaned in and pressed his mouth to Arangus'.

Lance reacted despite himself. This display was hardly what he had expected, and he was horrified. He turned away. He could not comprehend what Arangus meant by showing him such a thing. What sort of man would keep a boy at hand to fulfill his . . . his needs?

Lance's mind was so consumed with his own loathsome thoughts of what he had just observed that he was completely thrown off balance when something softly touched the nape of his neck. He pulled away violently, and with his ankles tethered, lost his footing and fell to the floor. He looked up to see Arangus leering down at him with a sinister grin.

"Wh-what are you doing?!" Lance demanded, pushing away across the floor then getting awkwardly to his feet. "Why did you want me to see that?"

Arangus' enjoyment of the situation was clear. "Only trying to give you a little taste of what you're in for."

Lance gritted his teeth. "I won't do that," he ground out.

Every moment brought Arangus' lust to greater heights. There was something in his captive's very manner, the tone of his voice, the glower in his eyes . . . there was a depth of passion in the boy. And Arangus wanted nothing more than to feel that passion.

"You seem to think you have some say in the matter," he taunted. "Where you're going, they won't ask your permission. And you don't have to be willing for them to do it to you. They will take you when they please in whatever manner they wish. And you won't be able to fight them. They know how to break headstrong, arrogant cockcombs like you."

He watched as Lance struggled to keep control of his temper, then he went on.

"Why would you rather risk ending up with someone who may not be as . . . compassionate as I am? I would treat you well. I'm offering you a choice, which is more than anyone else will do."

Lance was speechless. This was a greater nightmare than he could have imagined.

Arangus stretched out a hand, and Lance leaned away.

"Keep away from me!!"

"And when your new masters disregard your pleas?" Arangus challenged. "You will learn the hard way what it means to be obedient. They will take you and rip you to pieces! You will mean no more to them than another bit of flesh to possess and demean. Is that what you want?"

Anger and hatred surged through Lance's veins. It was his own sense of helplessness that planted the hot ember in his brain. He lunged into Arangus, knocking him back over a table and crashing to the floor on top of him.

"I won't be a slave!!" he cried out, throwing his shoulder against the Arangus as the trader attempted to get to his feet.

Arangus thrust Lance back, registering vague gratefulness for bound hands and feet. He could see the fire blazing in Lance's eyes, and the design of his lust began to shift from the desire to experience the boy to the desire to punish him, to see the arrogance snuffed out, to replace the defiant anger with cowering fear.

Arangus stood up and moved toward the wall buzzer again. "If you won't take my word for it, maybe experience will convince you!" he barked. He pressed the buzzer, and within seconds, the same two guards who had brought Lance up from the hold appeared.

"Take our guest to the crew deck," Arangus instructed.

"The crew deck? Are—are you sure, Sir?" one of the guards asked incredulously.

"Of course, I'm sure," Arangus replied. "He needs to learn discipline. And he needs a taste of what he's going to be doing for the rest of his life."

"Is he to be given to the crew?" asked the same guard.

"He is."

"Sir, I wish no disrespect. I only wish to point out that he would bring a great price. If you give him to the crew, he will not be fit for any purchase," the guard explained.

"Your concern is well noted, Masuke. And you are correct. Yet I have reasons for wanting to see him broken. If it means I lose money on him, so be it. He had his chance to choose mercy, and instead he chose punishment. Now, take him out of my sight."

"As you wish, Sir."

The crew deck was a large single room, home to the ship's complement of low-ranking regular workers. It was a dim space, stretching from bulkhead to bulkhead, all dull steel, interwoven with metal girders supporting a low-slung ceiling.

It was overcrowded with men, munitions, a few possessions, and some staples for the journey. It was a foul place where too many unwashed bodies had spent too many days. Some hammocks hung from the beams for those lucky few who had been quick to lay claim to them at the journey's outset. Otherwise, the floor was littered with a number of rotting bedrolls which bled their deteriorating contents onto the floor.

Lance entered this place, yet not fully under his own power. He had fought his escorts every step of the way, and he had paid for it. They had not been excessively brutal, only enough so as to reduce Lance's resistance long enough for them to bring him to their destination.

And now, they had arrived.

The guards released Lance, and he dropped to his knees. Somewhere in front of him, he heard a voice. "Wha's this, then?"

One of the guards replied, "A gift from the master."

"Ay, that so?"

"He told us to bring him to you," the same guard replied.

"One this nice?"

Lance looked up. He could see at least a dozen men standing before him. They were dark, unkempt . . . foul. He could sense that, in the further reaches of the darkness, there were more eyes regarding him with perverse interest.

"He's all yours," the guard said. "Don't question Arangus' generosity. Just enjoy it." A wry grin crossed his face. "But beware, he's a fighter."

"All the better," came the reply.

The two guards departed.

Lance's gaze moved from face to face. There was something wanton and lustful in the expressions looking back at him. For the first time since his abduction, Lance could not manage the smug defiance that had carried him thus far. He knew what was going to happen; and he knew he was no match for so many adversaries.

He stayed on his knees, leaning back on his heels, trying to steel himself for what was coming. The situation might be hopeless, but Lance never went down without a fight. He was not going to start now.

The man who had spoken earlier stepped up to stand directly in front of him.

"So, you like to fight, do you?"

When Lance did not reply, the man continued, "We like to fight, too." He laughed, and the sound reverberated through the deck. "Well, then, let's 'ave a look at you."

At a nod from the man, two more came forward, gripped Lance by the arms, and pulled him to his feet.

The man on Lance's left made a sound of approval. "He's nice, Kaeso."

Kaeso, the man who had first spoken and was now emerging as the ringleader, nodded with pleasure. "The Master has been very generous." He made a wide, slow circle around Lance; then coming to stand behind him, he reached around his waist to the buckle on his belt.

Lance's reaction was immediate. "No!" he cried, his voice shrill and filled with terror. He twisted in the men's grips, lunging forward; but the two men held on.

Their laughter rang in Lance's ears. This was all a game to them.

Kaeso reached around Lance's waist again. This time, when Lance resisted, Kaeso wrapped his arms tightly around him.

"O-ho! I like this!" He burst out into laughter, savoring the feeling of the body struggling in his arms. He pressed his mouth against the side of Lance's neck.

Horror coursed through Lance's body. He fought wildly, twisting and screaming like a trapped animal. Breaking away for an instant, he crashed to the floor, Kaeso smashing down on top of him. There was a brief period of struggle, during which Lance realized, with shock, that they were untying his hands and feet. Then they moved away from him.

Lance looked up to see a circle of faces, leering, sinister, anxious.

He got slowly to his feet, and his eyes darted from man to man. He waited for the first advance, but no one moved.

Still, he waited; and still, no one moved.

At last, his anxiety could not be contained. "Get on with it! Come on! What are you waiting for!"

Kaeso took a single step forward.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered.

Lance matched Kaeso's forward movement with a step back. His eyes made a peripheral search, attempting to locate any means of escape or anything he might use as a weapon.

Kaeso mocked Lance. "Get on with it! What are you waiting for!" He waited for his crewmates to cease with their snickering. "Either you take 'em off, or we take 'em off. Makes no difference. We're gonna have you, boy. Ain't no stopping that."

Lance continued to back away until he came to the bulkhead. A quick glance to his right showed him the door through which he had entered the deck. It was no more than five yards away, but there were crewmembers very near to it. He'd never be able to beat them to the door. Looking to his left, his hopes increased. There was a ladder close by, leading up to hatch in the low ceiling. No one stood between him and the ladder.

Here was a chance.

Lance sprang for the ladder. He made it, but only because the men permitted him to get there. They were much more enticed and excited by a protesting quarry than a docile one. They let him get halfway up the ladder with his hands on the hatch above before they snatched his ankles.

Lance had his fingers clenched around the brass ring on the hatch, but he was being pulled from below until finally, his hands slipped loose, and he fell back into the waiting arms of the crewmen.

A fight ensued. But for every man Lance cast off, another took his place. And given the viciousness of Lance's resistance, the crewmen reacted with equal brutality. It was not long before Lance found himself bruised and bleeding, but still on his feet.

Kaeso watched the goings-on with pleasure. The sight of the young man fighting so fiercely, refusing to submit to such greater numbers, made the idea of breaking him even more thrilling.

After several more minutes, Kaeso motioned to one of the crewmen beside him.

The man slid his belt from its loops around his waist and entered the fray. Coming up behind Lance, he reached over his head and wrapped the belt around Lance's neck.

Lance's hands immediately went to his throat, his fingers scrabbling desperately. The pressure only increased until he could no longer breath. He was forced to his knees, then to his stomach. They had his arms and legs now; he had been subdued. He was only vaguely aware that they were removing his clothes.

Kaeso watched them and quaked with anticipation. When, at last, Lance lay naked and unmoving on the deck, Kaeso allowed himself a moment of admiration. The body laid out before him was truly outstanding. Smooth, well-defined muscles, gleaning from the sweat of labor, drew lines of strength from head to foot. There was nothing soft or delicate about the boy, nothing demur or effeminate. In short, he was the ideal type of boy for sport.

And Kaeso intended to have good sport.

"Let him breath," he ordered. "We want him to be awake for this, don't we?"

Suddenly, Lance could breath. He lay gasping, dazed, and too exhausted to move.

"Take him over to the trunk," came Kaeso's next instruction.

Two men lifted Lance and dragged him over to where a large old-fashioned sea trunk stood, made of wood with a rounded top. They straddled his legs over the trunk and pressed his upper body down on top of it.

Kaeso sauntered over.

Lance was starting to come around, and Kaeso wanted to wait until he was perfectly coherent before starting in on the enjoyment.

He watched as Lance attempted to sit up and was held in place. Each attempt grew stronger, until it took three men to hold him down. Two men held his arms behind him. A third had climbed up on top of the trunk and had his knee pressed against the back of Lance's neck.

Now, Kaeso knew his victim was awake, and there was no reason to delay any further. He splayed his fingers and placed his hands on the perfect curve of Lance's buttocks. He ran his hands slowly up over the small of his back, then down his sides, coming back to where he'd started. He ran a tentative finger down the valley between Lance's buttocks, lingering when he came to the object of his ultimate desire.

Lance was in utter panic. "No!! No!!" he screamed, his legs flailing, his entire body straining with superhuman strength until more men had to be called to hold him down.

"Grab his legs!!" Kaeso laughed, squeezing the tender white flesh before him. "Hold him still or it'll be like trying to ram a torpedo into a moving ship!"

Lance felt arms wrap around his legs. He was now completely immobilized; his struggles had no effect.

Kaeso's hands continued their wandering, gliding down Lance's trembling thighs, coming back once again to probe and tease that which Kaeso most desired. After several minutes, Kaeso raised his eyes to the men holding Lance in place.

"Slide him down."

He gripped Lance's hips and pulled him to the edge of the trunk, his companions moving likewise.

Kaeso dropped his trousers, displaying the grotesque measure of his manhood. With the tip of his penis, he tapped and poked in a reverie of perversion.

Lance's body jerked spasmodically. He no longer had control of his movements. In fact, his body no longer seemed like his own. It couldn't be – not with the sort of things they were about to do to it. It was going to become their body. They would own it. They would do with it what they pleased. They were going to take his body from him, violate and abuse it, then toss it aside.

The art is in learning to separate your soul from your body. You leave the pain in the body. You free the soul. The spirit that breaks free from the cage is the one they can not kill.

The voice rose unbidden in his mind. It was Keith's voice, repeating one of the mantras that they had learned during their training to be space explorers. It was what Lance had always called the "mind over matter" philosophy. Keith's faith in the teaching had been genuine. Lance had thought it to be nothing but a load of rubbish.

Now, he wished he had not been so cynical.

He had not learned. He had not practiced. He had not believed.

And now, he could not call upon it. He could not master it. This was the only body he had, the only one he wanted. And it was going to be ravaged.

And he would still be living in it . . . only it would no longer belong to him.

He felt the tears forming on the brims of his eyes.

How can you let this happen? He wasn't sure to whom the silent question was directed. He only knew that he had to deflect the blame for this, for that sinister voice was once again pointing the invisible finger in the back of his brain, insisting, Because you deserve it – and more. You deserve it. This is all you're good for. This is what you deserve. This is what you deserve. This time it's going to happen. This time there's no one to stop it. No miraculous rescue, no saving grace. Not a soul in the universe to deliver you.

A warm drop slid from the corner of his eye and across his temple.

He could hear the men cheering Kaeso on, insisting that he hurry so they could all have their own turn.

"Quit takin' your time, Kaeso! Get in there!" one voice shouted anxiously.

"Now, now, lads," Kaeso replied. "We don't want to be too hard on him . . . this is probably his first time."

A roar of hysterical laughter rose up.

"Since when have you cared to be gentle?!"

"Ay, I suppose you're right about that!" Kaeso replied.

A frenzied cry accompanied Kaeso's violent movement as thrust his brutal way into Lance's body.

Lance's voice erupted from his lips in a half-choked cry of agony. He was scarcely aware of the sound of the jeering, so horrible was the pain. Each thrust brought a new level of excruciation. Lance's scattered tears rose into sobs, the likes of which Lance had sworn he would never give in to.

He could offer no resistance; every movement sharpened the hurt. He could only lie still now and let them do as they pleased.

And they did. Every one of them.

By the time they were finished, Lance was unable to move. He had remained conscious throughout the entire ordeal, but his mind and his body had grown mercifully numb after the first dozen men. He didn't even know how many more there had been.

He was taken over to the ladder where earlier he had tried to escape. His wrists were bound together over one of the upper rungs. His feet touched the floor, but he could not stand. He hung there, available for future use, blood painting obscene rivulets down the back and insides of his thighs. Bruises were starting to form on his body, wherever he had been struck during the throes of another man's ecstasy, where zealous fingers had squeezed darkened imprints into what had once been unblemished skin.

Now that the torment had ended, somewhere deep down in Lance's darkened mind, he found that yet another recording was playing. It required no effort or concentration on his part; it was not a conscious thought. He knew it was his own voice, but the words were nothing Lance would have ever uttered . . .

Help me . . . please. Don't leave me here. Please don't leave me.

As if in counterpoint, the response came . . .

You're only getting what you deserve.

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