John Ringo - Emerald Sea

“Build it, build it,” the shorter Change said. “Sammy build it he will!”

The Change started pulling out tools with what appeared to be complete randomness but he worked incredibly quickly, all the time singing and humming to himself. In less than thirty minutes he had taken the raw wood and constructed a heavy-duty table without using a single nail or glue.

Megan watched the proceedings with interest. The Change had never bothered to measure anything but the table appeared to be perfectly level and was extremely sturdy. As he was sanding the top she shook it, but it barely budged.

“Build!” Sammy yelled. “Solid. Live longer than Sammy it will!” He smoothed the top as the bearers left the room to another cacophony of screams, then began applying lacquer to the whole thing.

“Well, Sammy, you did a very nice job here,” Megan said. “I’m going to go see about some glassware.”

“Build!”

She thought about the construction as she walked back to the dining room. Paul wasn’t only building legions of fighters, but other specialties. She suddenly had a vision, as if she had been there, of rank upon rank of “Sammies” specialized for metalwork turning out weapons and armor for the legions. Of more Sammies building ships and engines of war.

She wondered, if Paul’s faction won this war, if this was the fate of mankind. If, with the unlimited power and knowledge of Mother available, the New Destiny faction would turn everyone into narrow, specialized, insects. What, then, would be the fate of Megan “Sung”? Would she be specialized for providing sex to a wretched old pervert, so far beyond the bounds of sanity that he thought the women of his harem were happy to be here?

In all honesty she knew that most of the women in the harem were happy to be here. The life was far easier than anything since the Fall. And, as Marlene was only too happy to point out, all you had to do was lie on your back and spread your legs from time to time.

All.

And who was Sammy? Who had he been before he was Changed? What had caused them to Change him into this… builder-goblin? Had he angered some council member, one of their staff? Or had he simply been chosen at random. “Five orcs, next one’s a builder…”

She shuddered at the thought and, deep inside, admitted that maybe there were worse things than having to fake enjoying being raped every few weeks. Even if the person they happened to no longer knew it.

Megan was in the still-room trying to convince rose water not to boil when Shanea came in.

“Paul’s here,” Shanea whispered.

“I guess I should go get dressed,” Megan said, looking down at her spotted robe.

“And fix your hair,” Shanea replied, pulling at her arm.

Megan turned down the oil lamp and went up the corridor. Other girls were rushing past her but she ignored them. Once in her room she stripped off the robe and started to pick up another.

“You probably should wear… you know,” Shanea said, picking up the few decimeters of material.

“I probably should,” Megan groaned. “God help me.”

“Have you seen the one that Mirta made for Amber?” Shanea asked, helping her into the skirt.

“No, is it as bad as this?”

“Covers practically everything,” Shanea answered. “In gauze. I don’t think she’s wearing it, though. And Mirta’s not done with mine.”

“I need to talk to Mirta about the fabric closet,” Megan said, making a mental note. “I think she probably has some suggestions.”

“Probably,” Shanea said, taking Megan’s hair down from the bun she’d had it in and brushing it out. “It’s snarled.”

“I can’t keep it down around the flames; I’d end up burning it.” Megan sighed and winced as the tangles were pulled out. “That will have to do.”

“Everyone else is made up,” Shanea pointed out.

“This will have to do,” Megan stated.

The two girls walked down the corridor to the main room. Paul was still there, talking with Christel, who did not look happy. Paul looked, if anything, worse than the last time they had seen him and Megan noticed that his hands were worn and almost white. It looked, impossible as that seemed, as if he’d been washing clothes by hand, probably with lye soap.

“Ah, Megan,” Paul said when she walked in the room. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Megan has many projects at the moment,” Christel said, subtly shifting to be between them.

“Surely none that require her attention right now,” Paul replied, walking around Christel to take Megan’s hand. “You look lovely.”

Most of the girls in the room had made heavy use of the cosmetics Megan had procured and had donned their best outfits. She got vile looks as Paul led her into the room.

This time she tried very hard to if not enjoy the act, at least appear to. After the first “session” she had had nightmares three nights running. The worst was when she awoke with the face of her father over her. That had brought her as close as she had ever gotten to suicide. But she had tried to mentally prepare herself for the next time, knowing that with no way to avoid it, the better she could make it for herself, the better off she would be.

However, there was no foreplay or even time for her to prepare herself. Paul took her practically as soon as the door was closed, pushing her to the floor and thrusting into her, hard. She tried to loosen up, to moisten up, moaning, badly, as if she enjoyed it. But he came quickly and then rolled off of her, pulling on his pants quickly and not looking at her.

“I guess you like the outfit,” Megan said. He’d pulled the halter away from her breasts and she’d managed to get the skirt out of the way of any outflow. But the outfit had never really come off.

“Maybe too much,” Paul said, getting up and starting to retrieve his shirt.

As she wiped herself she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Paul,” she said. “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied, dismissively.

“Was it me?” she asked with a plaintive note in her voice.

“No, sweetling,” he said, sitting down by her. “It’s just work.”

“You look tense,” she said. “Lie down.”

“Why?”

“On your stomach,” she replied, pushing him over. She rolled over and straddled his back, the skirt hiking up out of her way. She thought for a moment of simply hammer-driving his upper vertebrae, but she wasn’t sure if his healing nannites would cure it. And whoever took over from him was sure to kill her, even if she succeeded. Instead, she took her thumbs and started digging them into his back, rolling upward with strong, firm, strokes.

“God that feels good,” Paul exclaimed. He pillowed his head on his hands and rolled his back up. “Thank you.”

“Now, what’s so troubling at work?” she asked. “Don’t you dare tense up on me,” she added, pushing at the muscle that had bunched at her words until it had eased back down.

“It’s nothing I think you’d be interested in,” Paul said.

“Probably not,” Megan said. “But verbalizing a problem is quite often a way for the unconscious to find a solution. You talk, I’ll massage. Call it division of labor.”

Paul laughed at that but was quiet for a while as she continued massaging his back.

“Minjie Jiaqi’s aide killed him and took his Key,” Paul said, finally. “He’s willing to join with New Destiny, but he’s putting too many conditions on it for me to feel that I can trust him. Minjie had been a friend for years. I don’t feel happy just letting the son of a bitch get away with it.”

“Good God,” Megan said. “I hope the Coalition doesn’t know.”