Force Majeur

by Juxian Tang (translation by Lena)

Prologue

22:55

Cold. Sighing melancholically, Sliver followed a steamy cloud of his breath with his eyes and tucked his nose deeper into a furry collar of his jacket. If only it were just cold. But those awful white flakes burst from the sky now and then and didn't melt on the chilled sidewalk. Sliver's foolish habit to hold his hair in his mouth ended up with a strand on the left frozen to an icicle.

"I want the summer back," the boy a few steps away from him murmured plaintively.

"You won't live till the summer," a rude voice responded. "And stop coughing here, you walking disease."

"Leave him alone, Sean," Sliver answered mechanically. A particularly fierce gust of wind forced him to huddle so much, that his clenched teeth ached.

Oh, how he hated such evenings – when it seemed that the icy air maliciously found every hole to get under his clothes, and his legs froze so much that even continuous bouncing in place didn't help to restore feeling in his feet. "Bouncies" – that's how they called them for this jumping in the cold season, which became so habitual, that it was impossible to get rid of it even in the summer. It was said that even those who eventually decided to give up this profession gave themselves out with such jumping.

However Sliver had yet to meet anyone who'd managed to give it up.

As to spite, clients apparently also found this time too vile to put their noses out of doors. What's their problem, Sliver thought with resentment, it's warm in the car. But in the next two hours only a few cars stopped, and Sliver still didn't succeed. Instead, it was still necessary to give a five to the Big-Man "for the place", and the guy didn't care if they managed to earn anything. Others tried to whine and ask for the delay, but Sliver never argued. He would have to pay anyway – and to risk getting a black eye for saying a few words against the Big just for fun – there was no point.

"On the blue sea, on the white ship, I have met you, I have seen you..." came from the opposite karaoke bar. For some reason at least half of the visitors chose this song – and not one of them had a decent voice. This guy simply bleated.

"The sea..." someone whimpered, Sliver couldn't force himself to look around to see who it was. "Anyone saw it, the sea?"

"I saw – well, in this clip. There is one guy with loose hair standing on the rock, and it splashes on his face."

"Yeah sure, all happened in the pavilion," Sean noticed skeptically. "Here, on Amoi."

These conversations took place about every evening – a habit to go over all this dozens of times was the same integral part of the expectation as jumping in place.

"We could save money and go to the sea," someone said pensively.

This was something new. Until now it never came to such wild fantasies. Apparently someone froze his brain. Of course, the dreamer shut up at once.

"C'mon, rave on. You'll go back to Ceres, you gonna splash in the shower imagining that it's the sea."

"I'm not from Ceres."

"Oh, how sweet."

"And you, mongrels, don't have the right to stand here at all!"

"Keep talking."

A slowing car put an end to the argument. Everyone perked up. Sliver stepped forward, drawing aside flaps of his short jacket with habitual gesture, showing how little clothes he had underneath. Naked stomach from the edge of the fitting pants, running so low that they hardly covered abdomen – up to the mesh top ending just below the nipples.

The window of the car didn't even lower. It passed on, to the disappointed sighs of the "bouncies". Sliver hastily wrapped himself up. He'd tried in vain – and it would be completely impossible to warm up now, he was all trembling.

The jacket, which Sliver bought in the spring from a black market dealer, for a considerable – as for Sliver's means – sum, looked very warm. "Looked" was the key word here, as it actually seemed all made of holes that the wind blew through.

Still, the thing looked good. Sliver considered the color irresistible, and the shaggy fur for some reason reminded him of his toy dog which he got from his mother, and which was pretty worn out, but very soft.

I want home, he thought angrily.

The car stopped suddenly: it simply drove with its usual speed, and then suddenly pulled up – so that nobody appeared to be ready for this. The darkened window slid down.

"Hey, you! I speak to you – you in red. Come here."

Suppressing the desire to run, Sliver tried to make his gait appropriately seductive, swaying his hips a few times.

The man leaning to him over the front seat was young, with green hair combed in a straight parting and generously smeared with gel.

"How much?"

"Five for a blow-job. Ten for an hour. You bring me back. And I don't do it without a condom."

"And how about a discount? For three?" The back window was also lowered, and in the twilight Sliver saw two more guys.

He hesitated. Of course, it made sense – not to stand here anymore, not to waste time – and he actually would have three clients tonight.

"Twenty five."

"Will do. Get in."

"First the money," he murmured already in the car as one of the guys dragged him over his lap and put him in the middle.

"Yeah, sure. Maybe you want to give it to your pimp – if you don't trust us so much?"

"I'll give it later," Sliver murmured. "Father won't object."

It was his usual response – and it usually sounded convincing. They didn't need to know that he worked for himself – and that he had no father. Of course, other "hawks" offered him to come under their wings, but he wasn't going to give half of his earnings for an ineffective protection. He needed everything he managed to earn.

The guys seemed well-off if not madly rich – it was possible to judge by the car. They also looked quite decent, Sliver decided. Most likely, they needed a quick cheap fuck, and they didn't want to bother with more expensive boys on call.

The one that drove the car constantly sang, as if he was drunk. Other two were mostly silent. That one on the left... he's got bad eyes, Sliver thought, somehow sleepy and cold.

But they didn't behave roughly – they just groped him as usual. Sliver smiled and let out pleased sounds to show how much he liked all this, doing it completely mechanically. His legs started to recover from cold and hurt awfully.

They didn't drive long – seven minutes later the car turned to less busy streets and eventually stopped at the dim signboard of a cheap hotel.

All was clear, the guys wanted it with the minimum charges. Sliver didn't object – they had already paid him. The money would be enough to pay part of the debt for the flat, he dreamt, and then that old asshole landlord would stop bothering them to move out.

"Let's go, cutie," the guy with the green hair grabbed him by his elbow and led him inside.

The house was old, the stairs steep and narrow, and the room was as damp as the street, and it stank with the mustiness.

"Oh, boy," one of the guys rubbed his hands, then quickly turned the heater on full blast.

"Yeah, invigorating," the driver agreed.

Sliver settled down with his legs on one of the beds, still muffled in his jacket. He really hoped that they wouldn't make him show himself in front of their eyes at once.

But the guys apparently forgot about him. A bottle of champagne was suddenly produced and the sparkling liquid filled the glasses sitting on the table. Two guys clinked glasses with the blue-haired one, whose eyes Sliver didn't like.

"Well, Greg, congratulations!"

"C'mon, take out the diploma, we have to celebrate."

"Way to go, pal."

"The doctor, that obliges."

Some drops were splashed on a plastic card which, as Sliver believed, was the said diploma, then the glasses were lowered and filled again.

"And our boy, apparently, started to miss us." At last the driver paid attention to him, pulled him closer and settled down on his lap face to him. Sliver fidgeted a little, trying to check if the client was ready. He was quite ready – he had a full hard on – though for some reason refrained from taking advantage of Sliver's services.

"I like your jacket, little one." His hands slipped along both Sliver's sides, then came up and cupped his face. "The color matches your lipstick."

His thumb pressed against Sliver's mouth. Sliver habitually parted his lips, preparing to lick it, but it didn't slip inside, instead it smeared the lipstick on Sliver's face, first to one side, then to another, drawing him a clown's mouth.

"Red," the guy's voice turned almost into a purr. "Red like blood."

The feel of cosmetic smeared on his face was unpleasant, but Sliver could hardly do anything about it, so he simply endured.

"And sweet," the other guy added, leaning over him. His mouth touched Sliver's lips, but the tongue didn't slip inside. Instead, Sliver felt the teeth gnawing on his lower lip – and then a sharp pain. He yelped slightly, tears springing from his eyes from shock – but he actually couldn't object to such treatment. It was within the limits of norm and he could bear it.

It didn't last long. The guy that held him in his lap slightly pushed his companion away.

"What have you done?" his voice was almost reproachful. "You've upset the boy."

Sliver quickly swallowed the blood and smiled brilliantly.

"No... it's nothing."

"Sure it's nothing," the guy agreed. "Here, have a drink."

Champagne stung a bit on the bitten lip and it was cold, but the guy didn't take the glass away until Sliver drank it up.

"Do you like it? I bet, you haven't tried anything like that in Ceres."

"Like soda," Sliver said, "only not so sweet."

Unexpectedly cold turned into heat inside him, and he suddenly felt cheerful and languid at the same time. Sliver could be lovely when he was cheerful. He fidgeted in the guy's lap a little more, this time deliberately nestling on his member.

"Let's switch off the light and turn on the music channel," he nodded at the old TV on the bedside table. Actually he would prefer cartoons, he rarely had chance to watch them, but the cartoons would hardly match the mood.

"Don't be so quick," the guy's fingers clenched on his elbow stronger than necessary and Sliver looked at him with surprise. "We still need the light."

"Indeed," the other guy said. "Isn't it the time?"

The driver's fingers were rigid, steel on his hand – but his touch when he tickled Sliver under his chin seemed almost gentle. With slightly dazed eyes Sliver watched as the two others produced a thin film from somewhere and spread it one of the beds.

Something he had never seen before.

"What's that for?"

They didn't answer. The one that held him looked at his companion.

"Go ahead, Greg. It's not so terrible. You should prove... that you're a real surgeon."

"Last test – and welcome to our brotherhood."

"No problem," said the blue-haired one.

Suddenly a flat small suitcase which he brought with himself was opened – and Sliver saw how yellow electric light reflects on the sharp edges of medical tools.

"You will like it, Greg," the guy with the green hair grinned, "cutting."

Sliver felt a sharp terror overwhelming him.

"Why are you wriggling?" the driver asked in a suddenly rough voice.

"I... I want to go to the toilet..."

The hand on his elbow did not open, on the contrary, it tightened even more, up to bruising.

"Then stop wanting."

"Exactly," the other guy chuckled. "Soon you'll be thinking about something completely different, angel."

How easily they attached hand restraints to the bedframe – Sliver thought detachedly – as if they have done it before. This idea pounded completely alone in his head – all the others seemed paralyzed with impossible, desperate horror.

"Come here," said one of the guys. "And open your mouth – we don't want your cries to disturb Greg from showing his skills."

He held a gag in his hand.

The one that held him on his lap, lifted him and handed out to Greg. Sliver became limp, almost unconscious with fear – and the grip around his elbow loosened a little.

He almost didn't think, he moved on pure instinct. He dived down, slipping out of the grasp and rushed between their legs to the door. By some miracle the door wasn't locked. He took off from the room and darted down the stairs. They were just behind him, swearing furiously.

To shout? Sliver didn't even try. He knew he could scream himself mute in such place – and no one would come to help him.

The receptionist wasn't at the counter and Sliver didn't stop to call him, he ran out to the street and dashed towards the noise of the cars passing in the distance.

It was so empty and silent around, that the only sounds Sliver heard were stomping of his boots against the asphalt and his own ragged breath. Then on his right there was a screech of brakes – and the car stopped directly before him, turning and blocking his way.

Probably they were too confident – or the hunt itself gave them pleasure. But those few instants before they left the car were enough for Sliver to turn and rush in the opposite direction. He heard a sound of the engine again, and dived into the gate.

He stumbled against a rusty pipe on the ground. The pain pierced his leg, there was a terrible noise of a torn fabric – and something ahead in what he fell with his face, unable to keep his balance. He felt the heat of blood running from his nose, but didn't make a sound, he crept deeper into the dark corner.

"Where are you, little one?" It was the driver's voice – and steps, so close. All three. "Come here, we'll play some more."

Mom, mommy... Sliver covered his mouth with his hand to stop the teeth from chattering. His mind prompted him that it was necessary to simply sit quiet and they wouldn't find him – but the panic stupefied him.

Eventually he jumped up like a scared rabbit, and broke to run again. Their joyful shout caught up with him.

He ran, sobbing and limping, feeling that he can't hold on, that now they would catch him.

Suddenly the door of some building ahead, probably the office – all windows dark, opened revealing a lonely figure. The man lit a cigarette, covering the flame from the wind – short flash of light in the darkness – and he moved across the street towards the car.

Sliver jerked desperately, when suddenly his leg buckled again – and he practically fell down on the man clinging desperately to the fabric of his clothes.

He didn't remember what he muttered – and even begging incoherently he knew, that now the man would push him away, would throw him away like a kitten, directly at the feet of his persecutors – and then it would be over.

Instead, firm hands suddenly grabbed him by his elbows, shaking him and pulling him up – and Sliver's eyes, dazed with horror, stared at the pale face under a bang of dark-red hair, and saw the serious glance of the narrowed eyes.

Part 1

Oh look out world, take a good look
What comes down here
You must learn this lesson fast and learn it well
This ain't no upwardly mobile freeway
Oh no, this is the road
Said this is the road
This is the road to hell

Chris Rea "Road to hell"

Next day, 7:05

Raoul brought a glass with orange juice to his mouth, took a sip, and put the glass on the place. The orange liquid seemed impossibly, almost unpleasantly bright in the electric light. Strange that he hadn't noticed it before. Raoul frowned, looking at the glass then took the next portion of his meal on the fork and put it into his mouth. He didn't feel the taste. For an instant he thought that he should take some interest in what he ate – but the idea disappeared almost at once; no doubt, something with the perfect proportion of proteins and fibre – he could completely rely on Julius in that matter. As well as he could believe that there was exactly as much meal on the plate, as Raoul needed to eat. It wasn't important if he was hungry or not. Recently he was never hungry.

He frowned, noticing that until now he coped with only half of the portion, and didn't think of it anymore, turning to the notebook screen and mechanically continuing to eat. So... Today's meetings, delegation reception, signing documents. He picked one of the contracts, something attracted his attention in the form. It seemed the traders association was too insisting on his prompt agreement. Well, they would wait some more.

They will say Iason Mink would have solved this problem much faster. This idea didn't cause the usual twinge of bitterness as it had in the last months. Most likely, I just got used to it, Raoul thought. You get used to everything – and eventually there remains nothing but indifference. Yes, he wasn't Iason; never would be. He would make five mistakes where Iason wouldn't have made even one.

But Iason was dead – and nothing could be done about it. Raoul now occupied his place, sharing his duties with some others – that's how it should be, as long as Jupiter wanted it. Desires of the others, including Raoul himself, were of no importance.

He shifted his eyes to the screen again and read the list to the end. The fork squeaked against the plate giving an unpleasant sound. As if only waiting for this signal, a thin figure appeared on the threshold. With the corner of his eye Raoul noticed how Julius' fast hands immediately cleared the table.

His furniture had the ability to appear where he was needed any time – and to disappear as soon as the need for him expired. Julius was almost perfect – accurate as the machine, and tactful as no android could ever be.

Of course, he was not as decorative as the furniture should be – light-brown straight hair falling in two wings on the thin face. Ordinary appearance... For that reason he could not find an owner for a long time, everyone preferred better looking furniture. Though, certainly, it should have been thought of earlier – before castrating him. Raoul bought him when the boy was already on the verge of despair – and Raoul knew that in such a simple way he won Julius' passionate gratitude.

Of course, he didn't need gratitude or any other feelings from his furniture. Besides, Raoul didn't do it out of the kindness of his heart, but pursuing his own goals. Unremarkably looking boy in the tight furniture outfit – it was the safest way. At least Julius' hair didn't remind him of another, brighter color...

He automatically answered some messages. Over a note from Leon his fingers froze for an instant. An invitation tonight at 8 p.m. Nothing special – just a chess game and casual conversation. He didn't have any plans for this evening.

"How about tomorrow?" he wrote. "If you are free, I will come."

He sent the message and relaxed slightly. It's not that he didn't want to see Leon... And however – yes, he didn't want. He still didn't feel comfortable with him. But Raoul tried not to refuse personal invitations, aware that doing so would win him fame as a hermit – not too good an addition to his reputation. Simply today... today he would allow himself this luxury. Besides, before Leon answers some hours may pass... and eventually Raoul may even forget about the invitation.

He rose from the table, noticing numbers 7:15 on the clock. Julius was already at the door with Raoul's raincoat ready. Raoul held out his hand to lower the notebook cover.

And at that moment in the corner of the screen, with a slight pulsing sound, a green call signal came on.

For an instant Raoul peered at it with slight hostility. A personal call. If it was some urgency in business they would contact him through the central terminal.

Maybe Leon already received his message and decided to call him? It wasn't the way between them – but who knows? However... he shifted his glance to the signal tracer. Surely not Leon. Tanagura Police Center?!

Probably it was some mistake. Extremely rarely, but wrong connections happened.

Raoul swiftly pressed his finger on the answering key.

"Yes, what is it?"

Quality of the picture on the screen wasn't too good, obviously the equipment in the station required replacement. But it was still good enough for him to recognize...

For a second Raoul desperately wanted to turn back time, never to accept this call, to just shut down the computer and leave for work.

The man on-screen took a deep breath, tossing his dark-red bang from his face.

"Mr. Am, I apologize for disturbing you so early. It's Katze. Do you remember me?"

What the hell... The anger in this thought completely surprised Raoul. Why the hell does he call him? Where did he get the number? How does he dare... how does he dare to remind him, to ask if he remembered...

When Raoul did everything to forget.

"I worked for Iason Mink," Katze continued. Raoul noticed that there was a slight nervousness in his voice, although he tried to hide it. "Earlier, I was his furniture..."

It was unbearable. Simply to interrupt him, Raoul answered.

"Of course I remember. What's the matter?"

He couldn't call Katze by his name, he couldn't address him in any way at all.

"I am really sorry that I was forced to call you. But I had no choice. I've been arrested that night and I need someone to vouch for me."

That's the matter. Iason was dead – and it meant he couldn't protect the dealer anymore. Probably he knew the number from Iason, Raoul thought detachedly – perhaps Iason once contacted him through Raoul's computer – and since then he hadn't changed the number.

And he should have, should have changed it!

He still faced the screen – and felt his nails digging into his palms, deeper and deeper. But he was also certain that his face didn't reflect any of his feelings – was calm and cold, as always. His silence too was cold – cold enough for Katze to start to feel awkward. Raoul saw how his hands moved nervously, as if he didn't know what to do with them, and then clenched one on the other.

"If you could just send confirmation of my law-abiding..."

Raoul smiled. Law and Katze – one had to have no conscience to put them into one sentence.

"I presume, there was no problem with that before," he said.

He saw how Katze's throat moved convulsively, as if he swallowed hard. His lips pursed expressively.

"It's... a bit different situation, Mr. Am. It has nothing to do with my... main activity."

His voice already sounded hopeless, Raoul suddenly realized. As if he already guessed... Well, Katze was never a fool.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to look directly at the screen. He wasn't even sure how well Katze could see him – but it probably didn't matter.

"I don't think I can be of any help."

In the darkened amber eyes it read: 'I expected that'. And Raoul felt anger again – if he expected, why did he call?

"I believe I cannot interfere with the police job."

Actually, he hadn't ask to interfere – he'd only asked to be vouched for...

"I understand, Mr. Am. It's just that..." Raoul didn't even need to listen to this anymore, the conversation was over, he didn't know why Katze continued speaking. "It's just that I had no one else to call."

"All right, enough of occupying the line," somewhere from behind the screen another voice was heard.

"Excuse me. Goodbye."

The screen faded to black, but Raoul kept looking at it for a few more seconds as though something could change, as though he missed saying something important.

What a nonsense... he had said all that he wanted. As if erasing the picture frozen before his eyes, he ran his hand over his face, brushing aside long locks of hair. It helped – a little. He pressed the notebook cover with his fingers, lowering it.

That's all. That's all, enough. Nothing happened. Simply some bastard had the audacity to disturb him. Surely Katze couldn't expect that Raoul would agree to help him. For the sake of what? For the sake of Iason? Iason was dead – lost, because of the mongrel from the slum, by the way, same as Katze. And they had nothing more to do with each other.

Surely nothing more. Raoul was ready to swear on it. And definitely he was ready to swear that Katze couldn't remember anything... as if there was something to remember. And there wasn't, right?

Water under the bridge, yes?

As if waking up, Raoul started towards the door. Julius already waited for him there, still with his raincoat. Raoul cast him a sidelong glance. Julius always disappeared when Raoul had private talks, unless Raoul ordered him to stay. Thus Julius surely didn't hear anything.

"Call the service," he said when the heavy fabric of his raincoat rested on his shoulders, "tell them to block my personal number. And prepare an application for a new number – Damien will deliver it to my office for signing."

He didn't need to see Julius nod to know that all will be taken care of perfectly. Pulling on his gloves, Raoul purposely softened his movements. He didn't want to tear the thin fabric – and in any case, everything was already all right.

He did the right thing. Calls would not disturb him anymore.

---

Got what you deserved. It's fascinating – what idiot do you have to be to know it, and still to do it? Exactly the idiot he was. Katze leaned back in the chair, biting his lip. The bang fell on his eyes wrapping the smoky room in the chestnut web.

Damn, he wanted a smoke. It seemed everyone smoked here except for him – and the nicotine hunger was so sharp, that sometimes it seemed to him that everything was spinning before his eyes. But cigarettes had been taken away when they arrested him, and when he asked for a smoke, they said that he could have either a cigarette, or one call. Of course he chose the call.

As it turned out, it was the wrong choice.

"What is it mongrel, failed with your blondie pal? He wasn't glad to see you?"

Katze sighed deeply, trying to steady his voice.

"I would like to call once again."

"I bet you would," a wicked smile on the policeman's face widened. "But why should we let you?"

It was probably the first thing he said without decorating it with an insult. With the corner of his eye Katze watched how he rounded his chair. The hand that grabbed his hair didn't come unexpected – but he forced himself not to resist. His head was yanked back and down, forcing his face up. The grip was so painful that he gritted his teeth.

"Probably we were too nice with you, scum," the cop bent down to him so close that Katze felt his breath.

"This riffraff from Ceres just crammed the streets," indifferently offered the other, until now sitting with his hands crossed on a solid stomach. "They swarm like rats. Should they sit in their holes, no one would touch them."

"I'm a citizen," Katze said steadily. How many times did he repeat it that night? "I received citizenship four years ago. My identification number is..."

"Alright, alright." The policeman pulled him by his hair again, so hard that Katze felt his neck crack. "We've checked everything, furniture."

His hand suddenly slipped between Katze's legs and touched his groin. He instinctively pulled back, trying to break free. Both policemen burst out laughing.

"So, you cannot fuck boys anymore – therefore you sell them?"

"I already told to you, I didn't..."

A blow. Katze fell back in the chair – the chair would turn over too if it wasn't fixed to the floor. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the mist before his eyes. His mouth slowly filled with blood.

"You'll get yourself into trouble." His voice sounded calm but slightly muffled. It's because of the blood, Katze thought.

"Oh, really?" they laughed again. "Maybe you have a lawyer?"

He had. The man was introduced to him by Iason. Two weeks earlier he refused to represent Katze's affairs, having said that without Iason Mink it became too dangerous. Katze didn't think so. Of course, he should have found a replacement already, it wasn't so difficult to do – but for some reason he put it off for later. Perhaps the refusal of the former lawyer left him somehow upset... or maybe just... something stopped him from searching for another man in place of someone connected with Iason. Ridiculous display of nostalgia.

However, the problem that arose now wasn't in any way connected to the black market. It was an irony. Katze would smile, if he still didn't have to swallow the blood.

"If you accuse me of something, I should be given a public defender."

"Accuse you? We don't accuse you of anything yet. We've just... detained you until the case is solved."

And that was the worst.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Katze swore at himself. How did he manage to get involved? He had promised himself that he would never, never...

He had promised himself. And for so many years fulfilled this promise, not allowing anything that took place around to concern him. It was the only way to survive, he knew it – and he did everything to survive. All these years... Not to interfere – it was his first rule. Never to let anything so close that it could hurt or harm him. It was the right approach.

Those who interfered were dead – or in deep trouble.

So why the hell didn't he get in the car and leave when that stupid brat rushed at him yesterday?

He recalled the pale face, smeared with makeup and blood, turned to him, the lean body he pulled up – the kid apparently was light as a feather – and the convulsive sobs escaping the little throat.

"Sir, please, please, sir..."

Most likely it wouldn't have impressed him. Katze was about to push him away and pass on – when suddenly in the boy's eyes, staring at Katze's expressionless face, something changed – as if he understood that he had nowhere to look for help. His thin hands suddenly twitched, turning out the pockets of that stupid shaggy jacket.

"Sir, take the money, please, only take me away from here, just a few blocks, I'll pay you..."

On the money there was blood too. It was two tens and some change. Probably all that the boy managed to earn that night.

Katze didn't even know what it was: weakness that he couldn't allow himself, or some reflex when those three guys suddenly appeared from behind the corner and stopped, looking at him. There wasn't even a shadow of anxiety in their eyes – as if they knew exactly what would happen – as if they knew it as well as Katze himself. Now he would leave, he would drive away – and the boy would be again at their mercy.

So maybe it was anger. What right did they have to assume that they knew how he would act? What did they know about him in the first place?

Probably Katze knew very little about himself – or rather he was no longer sure what he knew. At least, he did the last thing he should do.

He grabbed the boy's thin wrist and pushed him roughly behind his back, shielding him from his pursuers. They seemed surprised. One of them, with his hair coated with gel, raised a beautiful eyebrow.

"He's your boy, or what? We thought he worked for himself."

Probably at that moment all could be settled – later Katze regretted that many times. He should have simply said that yes, he's the pimp – to come to an agreement, to pay them if he so wanted to protect the boy.

Instead, he let a surge of anger overflow him, rush in a hot wave to his head.

"It's none of your concern for whom he works."

"Is that so?" the other guy said almost amiably. "Then give him to us. Let us finish what we have started and there won't be a problem."

Katze heard the boy behind him whimper with fear.

"I... they... please, sir..."

"Come here, you little shit." The youth with gel-covered hair held out his hand as if he was sure that now the boy would immediately go to him.

"The work is over for tonight," Katze said. "At least for you."

He turned, controlling the situation with a furtive glance. The bastards stood far enough not to pose a danger. He squeezed the knob of a paralyzer, simultaneously pushing the boy towards the car.

"What is it, man?" Only now did they seem to realize that their prey was getting away. "What do you think you're doing? He's ours tonight, we paid him."

"With this?" He still had the money the boy had pressed into his hand. "The transaction has been terminated."

He dropped the cash to the ground.

"You son of a... You have no idea, who you deal with..."

They moved closer when Katze opened the car door and pushed the boy inside. He expected that he would have enough time to get in and leave, when suddenly one of the guys moved violently pulling out a knife.

And fell to the ground, howling. It was the smuggled paralyzer with the expanded field of power – both of the guy's companions were within its reach too, and now they were shuddering, clutching one his numbed hand, the other his leg.

Katze didn't consider it unfair. Why risk, if there was an easy way to protect himself?

He left, stopped by nobody, not listening to the curses that flew after him.

If only he knew then that his problems had only begun.

---

The boy shivered in the front seat, muffled in the garish-scarlet jacket. Blood squelched in his nose with every breath, and he tried to wipe it with his hand a few times. More to get rid of that pitiful show than out of sympathy, Katze found a tissue in his pocket and held it out to the kid. Blood and smeared mascara instantly made the white fabric red and black.

"Thanks..."

"Keep it," Katze said, when the soiled tissue was held out back to him.

"Thanks."

"Where should I take you?"

Basically, it was not a question – the boy obviously was from Ceres. Even if his profession wasn't enough proof of that, his hair was bluish-black, even darker than Riki's – such color practically didn't occur among Tanagura citizens. Straight strands reached just past his chin – although now they looked almost like feathers tousled and sticking to all sides.

"I'll drop you on Ceres' edge – will you get home?"

Katze wasn't going to risk showing up in the slum at night in this car.

"Sure, sir. Thanks."

"Enough thanking me already."

For an instant Katze considered asking him, what they had tried to do to him that he was so frightened – then decided that he didn't want to know. What such bastards could do, he knew – saw the bodies pulled out of the sewage, heard about the manhunt made for sale, and about how it all worked. Such things you wouldn't do with pets or even with legal prostitutes.

The boy obediently got quiet; only his eyes, huge like saucers, continued to look at Katze with desperate gratitude.

As if there was something to be grateful for, Katze thought with an unexpected disgust for himself. Once in a lifetime he did something that he wouldn't have to be ashamed of later – and he suddenly became a hero, if not in his own eyes, then in the eyes of that silly prostitute-boy.

And by the way, when the same bastards find him in his usual place tomorrow – Katze wouldn't be there.

This idea unexpectedly took hold of him.

"Listen, you... what's your name?"

"Sliver."

Sliver. Suitable name, considering this lean figure and thin fingers.

"If I were you, I wouldn't show up there for a few days. That place where you stand."

Stupid turn of phrase, "if I were you". Him, Katze, took very good care to not be like the boy.

Sliver put a strand of hair in his mouth and chewed on its end watching Katze with his head tilted. Expression of his eyes changed; now he looked almost with sympathy, as if... as if Katze had said something silly.

"I... that is... if I don't show up, they'll kick me out of there, sir."

And do you want to live?

"Simply, if I see them – I'll run."

Great. Katze shook his head, not sure what made him more annoyed – obstinacy of the boy or his own nonsense. He could have settled the business with the clients peacefully. Instead, he enraged them even more – and who will pay for it?

"I have to work," the boy said with the quiet conviction – as though he assumed that Katze was still upset with him. "I can't... come back without money."

Suddenly he stopped short, his eyes growing round and scared, when he realized what he said. However, Katze realized it too. The money he had thrown out so easily – in cafe in Eos a cup of coffee cost more – for the boy from Ceres these were the earnings for a living.

And these earnings were lost. Katze gave the boy a suspicious look. It seemed a few bruises blossomed on Sliver's face under the makeup. But to cover them would be nothing new for him. And even the recent fear wouldn't force him to be more careful.

Now he would clean up, apply the makeup again – and go back to work in search for clients. Damn.

Certainly, it wouldn't be anything terrible. After all, he had enough money... Katze hadn't been in need of money for a long time.

Continuing to drive the car, he reached into his wallet and counted a few banknotes.

"Here you are. Is that enough for you to stay home?"

"Sir... I didn't mean to..." To Katze's surprise small hands with the bitten, brightly polished nails started to push the money away. The boy looked as if Katze's offer made him upset – his lips trembled, eyes darkened, offended. "You don't need to do that, sir, you already... you saved me..."

"Stop calling me 'sir'."

"Huh?"

"'Katze' is quite enough."

"Whatever, Mr. Katze, sir," Sliver stated firmly. "I don't need money from you."

"That sounds very resolute." Katze blinked at the dim lights of the looming slums. "However..."

Do as you please, he wanted to say. What did he care what would happen to the boy tomorrow or even tonight?

"I haven't earned them."

Oh, what the hell.

Katze braked sharply and turned the wheel. Sliver went white as a sheet and his eyes grew even larger, when the car suddenly rolled back the same road. Katze saw how the boy convulsively folded his legs under himself, scratching the upholstery with his boots probably without even noticing it.

Perhaps he thinks that he annoyed me, and I'm taking him back.

"So you want to earn them?"

Delight that flashed in Sliver's eyes was almost undisguised. Katze saw how he hastily nodded – like a Chinese doll.

"Perfect. Then we go to my place."

Half past midnight, Katze thought grudgingly. So much to do tomorrow – and I'll have to put up with this little brat in my flat – and it's still necessary to find some way to scare him away from my bed.

But maybe it was right... If it could keep Sliver at home even for one night.

"And take the money."

The boy, who already produced a tiny mirror from his pocket and hurriedly tried to bring himself back to a presentable form, quickly counted two banknotes and held the rest out to Katze.

"Here. That's how much I take for the night – and half of the night has already passed."

"Are you always so fair?"

Katze asked that and almost at once regretted. He knew the answer – read it in the boy's suddenly serious eyes.

"No. Not always."

"As you wish."

Cleaning up at last came to an end. Under the blood and makeup there was exactly what Katze had expected to see – pale face of an anemic child from the slums.

"How old are you?"

Why ask – he didn't want to know. Sliver counted something on his fingers, moving his lips.

"It's... zwolf."

Katze shuddered. He knew this dialect – he was born in the same area of Ceres.

"Twelve? Why aren't you in the orphanage?"

In the orphanage they would at least teach him how to count normally.

Yes, the only useful thing they could teach there.

"I don't want to go there," Sliver's voice became whimpering. "I have a mother, a brother..."

As though it ever mattered.

"I don't want to go there, Mr. Katze," he added plaintively. "Teachers beat you there... and they fuck you without any money."

Quite right, Katze thought with a smile.

"And you know what? They can make you such surgery there, they can cut off your balls and all."

"What all?"

"Well, you'll have to live like that."

Katze bit his tongue, focusing his eyes on the road. He didn't know whether he found this conversation amusing or unpleasant. His voice sounded slightly dismissive.

"Some people really strive for it."

"Perhaps," Sliver said firmly. "But not me."

Katze shrugged, with one hand mechanically taking a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. He still felt Sliver's gaze on him, but the conversation apparently came to nothing. And so much the better, Katze thought, you never know where it could take you.

The thin hand suddenly rose – and only because Katze continued to glance at the boy, he didn't miss it – he caught the narrow wrist halfway to his crotch.

"Keep your hands off, kiddo."

"Sir, Mr. Katze, I... I didn't want..."

Sure he didn't want. He just thought I wanted, Katze thought.

"Don't disturb me when I drive," he said almost softly.

Sliver obediently put his hands on his lap and nodded. Katze bit the filter of the cigarette, suppressing a crooked grin. With such an attitude to work, he really should think something up so that Sliver didn't bother him with his services.

---

However, as it turned out, he didn't have to worry about it. No more than three minutes after they had reached the apartment, there was a bell at the door.

Not that Katze was disturbed – most likely it was something concerning his work – probably he would just have to solve some urgent matter. He nevertheless nodded at Sliver, pointing at the door to the closet; the boy obediently slipped inside.

"Open up, police. Or we will break down the door."

"No need to." Katze released the locks with no doubt that it was some misunderstanding. And when the door was swung open right in his face and two policemen twisted his hands behind his back, he still believed that it was only a small problem easy to handle.

"You are arrested for carrying an illegal weapon, violation of private property, attack on law-abiding citizens..."

He did not argue – it was one of the rules his lawyer taught him – he agreed to go to the police station. They searched him – the paralyzer was on him, but it wasn't such a bad crime – he could get off with a fine. And it was impossible to prove the use – the paralyzer didn't leave traces.

"And what about the property violation?" he asked already in the car.

"They paid you for the boy – and you preferred to cheat them. Not a good way to treat respectable people."

It was almost ridiculous.

It became less ridiculous when it turned out that one of the guys he had met earlier that night was the nephew of the police chief – and all three declared that they had struck a deal with Katze, paid him a round sum – and then he'd knocked them out, taken the boy and left.

They remembered the number of the car and called the police.

They knew that they lied – that he had no connection with the boy. But actually he could have been in much more trouble if his apartment had been searched. If Sliver had been found there, building a case against him would have been a piece of cake.

However, until the morning it turned out that not everything looked good. Katze's eyes were stinging from smoke and the lack of sleep and he almost desperately craved for a cup of coffee. He asked if he could call – and he suddenly realized he had no one to call to. He had contacts, but those people would never forgive him – if he involved them in affairs of such nature, he would cast a shadow on their names.

If Iason were alive... If Iason were alive, Katze would have never found himself in such a situation in the first place, he would have never ended up trying to play a savior.

Great; now he was paying for this whim.

And then... then he thought about Iason's friend, about the blondie with the dark-golden hair and a strange manner to cover half of his face with his bangs – though he, unlike Katze, didn't have to hide any defects. He thought that Raoul Am, having taken Iason's place, would probably figure Katze could be useful to him – just as he had been useful to Iason. Why would Raoul mind – only one message... – it wouldn't hurt his blondie's reputation, and he should understand that Katze could come in handy.

Probably Katze himself handled it badly with Raoul. He should have explained that he had means to pay for the favour. But he hadn't expected... hadn't expected this indignant expression, almost personal hatred that flashed from Raoul's blue eyes. Personal hatred? How could it be? With Raoul he had only just... only just talked a few times.

Perhaps Raoul blamed him for Iason's death simply by association: since one mongrel was responsible, all the others were responsible too. But anyway, Raoul's refusal was very inconvenient.

It was extremely inconvenient...

---

"Why are you squirming? Don't you like when they touch you there?"

He almost managed to escape the importunate hand creeping where it shouldn't, when the second policeman suddenly rose from the chair and came up to him.

Katze had time to notice a carved ring on the cop's fleshy finger as the fist flew towards his face. Something cracked, his mouth filled with blood again, and his head pounded with a blinding pain.

Shit... a tooth. He spat thick red saliva and white chips.

"You think you're in Ceres to spit around like that?"

"I say, he still didn't get where he is, Dave."

"Well, we'll explain that to him."

Their voices sounded malicious and seemed a bit remote because of ringing in his ears. Katze slowly wiped his mouth with his hand, wincing at the bloody strip. It seemed now his problems really began. But they had nothing against him – except for a profound desire to suck up to the chief.

"Listen, let's not create problems – neither to you, nor to me. If it is necessary to pay a fine..."

"Sure it is," they chuckled. "And as for the problems – it seems, so far you're the only one who has them, furniture."

Dave uttered this word with such contempt, that it sounded more abusive than a curse. Katze threw up his head, eyeing the fat policeman with hatred. All his determination to remain quiet and try to control the situation disappeared.

"So I'm the furniture – but at least I have achieved something in life. And you'll die as you are, in the lowest post here."

It was stupid – but it probably wouldn't have changed anything. Katze felt handcuffs being clasped around his wrists, his hands forced behind his back – and the following impact knocked him down to the floor.

He couldn't get up anymore – and didn't really try. First they used their batons, then their boots. Through the mist of pain Katze clung to only one, completely unimportant thought – too bad that they had cuffed his hands and he couldn't cover his head.

His body remembered how to take a beating better than his mind. Since he had left the orphanage twelve years ago nobody – except for Iason that day – caused him pain. He had thought that he would manage to stay away from it for good. But there he was again, on the floor, with his forehead pressed against his knees, trying to protect his stomach and groin... stupid instinct – as if there was anything to protect.

He clenched his teeth, unwilling to please them with his screams, and simply suffered, knowing that there was nothing else to do. Most likely they didn't want to kill him, so they would stop soon. Or at least they would get tired. Another thing he remembered from his past in the orphanage – sooner or later they always get tired.

But maybe their boots were too heavy – or he wasn't so young anymore – but the heavy wave of oblivion overcame him before the impacts stopped. Katze felt the sense of reality escaping him...

---

And then he came round, and the sharp edge of the table was cutting into his stomach. Something else was wrong, but his confused mind at first didn't figure out what it was. Only when a hand slipped between his legs, and firm, sticky fingers traced the scars left after the surgery – he understood.

Katze twitched pulling his legs together, but it was all he could do – his hands were still cuffed. They pressed on his shoulders, almost crushing him into the table.

"Where do you think you're going? We're not over with you," Dave's voice sounded from above. "I always wanted to see what the furniture have between their legs. And you know what? It's a disgusting sight."

"Anything else you wanted to see?"

"Shut up, scum." A blow sent pain through all his body. Katze bit his lips.

"But you know, all mongrels should be treated like that – you just wait and in twenty years Ceres can be razed to the ground."

"Too expensive," Dave smirked. "Better just to take a little bomb and there won't be a problem."

Be quiet, Katze said to himself. May they talk what they want – the words don't matter. Nothing mattered – if only they let go of him, allow him to get dressed...

"Advise it to Jupiter, Davie – maybe she'll listen to you."

They hit him again.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that, furniture!"

It rustled in his ears.

"Be careful, Dave, we don't want him to pass out."

Water was splashed on his face – not much, probably from a glass. Katze convulsively licked his split lips. They grabbed him by his hair.

"You hear us, furniture?"

The instinct of self-preservation prompted him to nod – it was easy, and maybe it was all they wanted.

"Fuck off," he whispered.

Till the last moment he didn't suspect what they were going to do. They kept repeating how disgusting he was, how much he made them sick, how they despised him. He even thought that they could do something extremely painful – like putting a shocker between his legs.

But when he felt his buttocks being parted and something damp and blunt pressed against his anus, he understood – could not deny it anymore.

Why? Why did they want to do it? They saw him – and were disgusted. How could they get hard on him then?

But of course he knew how – it had nothing to do with the physical appeal, nothing to do with sex. He just... got used to consider himself invulnerable to such things, as if his own asexuality could make the others forget that he could be used for this purpose.

And for all these years it really worked like that.

Pain pierced him running up his spine, and Katze inhaled convulsively, stifling a scream by some miracle. The pain was familiar and should have been more tolerable – he knew how to bear it. But it made it no easier. He almost suffocated with nausea, and despair, and hatred. He hated them for what they were doing, hated himself for letting them do it – hated his weakness and stupidity that put him in this situation.

And being aware of his own helplessness was more painful than the tidal waves of pain, more sickening than a grunt one of the policemen made entering his body.

He wanted all that to be over; he wanted to pass out – but somehow he couldn't, and his resistance was easy to overcome for them. Probably his twitching was even turning them on.

It lasted long, and when it ended, having allowed him to slide down to the floor, one of the cops yanked his head back grabbing his hear. Katze did something as stupid as spitting in his face. But maybe it wasn't that stupid at all, as at the next moment pain exploded in his head and he didn't have to feel anymore, didn't have to think and to hate himself.

---

16:00

While the negotiations continued, it was easy to keep his thoughts in check. The conversation was quite useful and the offers interesting, and if Raoul listened to them with more attention than usual, it could only support his image in the eyes of the federal government delegation.

But the business part inevitably came to an end and the letter of intent was signed. At the end of the meeting Hazall, as always, supplied Raoul with a pile of brochures of some companies that had a lobby in the government and now, willing to start business with Amoi, needed support. Raoul nodded, hiding behind his hair, feeling equally unfortunate having to talk with that guy, and now – when the imitation of work had ended – having nothing left to distract himself with.

The morning call ruined all his day. No, it was his own nonsense that ruined it. Nobody forced him to think – and if anyone of the people sitting now at the table with him found out what was on his mind, they would immediately run to Jupiter recommending him to be brainwashed – just out of friendship, so that he didn't dishonour himself.

Fortunately, they didn't know.

"As always, it was a pleasure to deal with you, Raoul," Hazall said, slamming his notebook shut and pulling out a narrow inlaid cigarette case. His smokes were thin, long and smelled with sandalwood – a smell that Raoul found most unpleasant, as well as the habit of addressing him by his name. It had never happened with Iason. But when Hazall suggested they could call each other by their names – why, they'd known each other for so long – Raoul at some point thought that it was a good idea. "I've never returned from the meeting with you disappointed."

"Contacts with you have never disappointed us either," Raoul mechanically offered.

"Of course, the death of the my dear friend, Iason Mink, is a serious loss, but I'm glad, that you have recovered. I hope you will move in the same direction as before."

"We do not plan any changes in our domestic or foreign policy."

"Very good. Stability is the basics. By the way – I published a video-book, I've brought it here for you as a special gift." Hazall rummaged through his things, produced a weighty box and put it on the table. "I simply called it '20 years in the politics. Memories of a man who wanted to make other people's life better.' I'll sign it for you."

"It's too early for you to write memories, Natan – there is still much to do."

The name slid off his tongue almost without a problem – as well as meaningless courtesy and the words of gratitude. Raoul passed the book to his secretary. Let him find out if there was anything useful, however experience prompted him that in that kind of things there was never anything useful.

"How long are you going to stay on Amoi, Natan?"

"Oh, a day or two at the most." Hazall's narrow eyes became pensive. "Sebastian here suggested to accompany me to the auction, I've wanted to buy a pet or a pair for some time already. Not that your gifts are too little for me," he playfully waved his hands and Raoul smiled politely. "I just want to choose something for myself... maybe even something unusual."

"I hope you don't intend to buy yourself a mutant," Sebastian joined the conversation.

"But of course not, of course not! I'm an admirer of beauty," Hazall laughed again. "That's why I like those creatures – so charming... and fragile... like flowers so good to pick... you know, as they say – cut flowers smell the sweetest..."

He continued speaking, this time turning to Sebastian – probably planning the schedule for the evening. As soon as Raoul's part in the conversation was no longer necessary, his attention started to drift away. He caught himself convulsively tugging the strand of his hair. He managed to let go of it, but getting rid of the intrusive thoughts wasn't so easy.

His personal number had been changed, with that everything was settled. Now he would be disturbed by no one from whom he didn't want to hear. What else did he want?

"I had no one else to call," he remembered Katze's calm voice – and the slight note of nervousness under this calmness.

But why had he believed that he could call Raoul? What had Raoul done to make him think so?

And that was the problem, wasn't it? What Raoul had done – and what he hadn't done, but wished to have done. And that was what Raoul feared the most.

He suddenly recalled Katze's face – or rather, his memory played a bad joke on him forcing him to see this face in spite of his will. Younger than now, the face of almost a boy, and without that awful scar – red bangs and eyes lowered under the long dark eyelashes.

And another memory, of a hasty fragile heart beating under his hand, of the feeling of peace that overcame him when this mad pounding started to calm down.

It should have never happened, he thought. All because of Leon – however it wasn't Leon's fault. It was nobody's fault. It was just a tiny episode that had hardly changed anything.

"Raoul?" Hazall's voice reached him suddenly, pulling him back to the present. Raoul shook his head with relief, glad to be released from unwanted memories. "So what do you say?"

"About what... excuse me, I got lost in my thoughts." His voice sounded light enough, but he didn't miss the askance glance that Sebastian shot at him.

Great. It always started like that – got lost in his thoughts, fell into a reverie. And it ended up in the chair for the brain correction. No, of course he didn't have to be afraid of that.

"Will you go to the auction with us?"

"No thanks. I do not plan any purchases in the near future."

"Excuse us, then."

He shook Hazall's soft hand, all covered with rings, and looked as he and the rest headed to the door. What other plans did he have for today? Work on the documents? He hoped he would spend time productively and no memories would bother him.

---

That day he performed his first independent cleansing. Up until then he'd been only assisting – and now they entrusted him to do it for himself. Raoul knew that he couldn't refuse – nor could he make a mistake.

He didn't make a mistake. He did everything correctly, didn't overlook a single detail and Jupiter praised him. He kept his composure until he sat in the car, until the dark windows hid him from attentive eyes. Then the cool mask finally slid off his face. He clenched his hands so tightly that his knuckles cracked and pain pierced his joints – he looked at his hands surprised. Today those hands pressed buttons, turned knobs.

But Leon... It was Leon's fault – it was him who provoked the situation, he signed his own sentence... as if he hadn't been warned. Raoul did only what he should have done.

Leon, to hell with you, Leon... Raoul hated him with such desperate, unarguable hatred one could hate only the person he had betrayed. At that moment more than Leon he hated only himself.

It was out of self-hatred that he didn't do the only reasonable thing – didn't go home to wait until he could get a grip. Instead, he went to a club – he decided he should prove that he really controlled himself and the best environment for this were his fun loving friends. And for some time Raoul really did well – he talked, made jokes – he'd never expected he could be so sociable.

He didn't know how many glasses of wine he'd drunk, he certainly took good care that nobody noticed, moving from one company to another. His senses got slightly dulled, but... it was just wine, and his body, his improved blondie's body, efficiently coped with intoxication.

All right, so he nevertheless managed to bring himself to such a condition that he sent the car away. And when one of his friends offered to take him home... or maybe it was this friend's home, Raoul had problems with understanding – Raoul dismissed him indignantly and staggered outside.

He remembered the cool night air that seemed to soothe his inflamed eyes. For the first time he just walked like that down the night street – and the sensation was so new, that he didn't even know whether he liked it or not.

Familiar places soon changed into unfamiliar and then some guy stepped out of the shadows and murmured something like:

"You wanna relax? I have a good stuff."

And the moment later he realized whom he'd accosted; he cursed:

"Son of Jupit..., a blondie!"

He wanted to disappear back in the shadows when Raoul held out his hand, grabbed his wrist and mumbled, finding his tongue with some difficulty.

"Give me that stuff."

It was a powder to inhale. The pusher measured out a dose – and watched, eyes frozen, as Raoul added to it five times as much. It wasn't a risk for him, he knew his body would handle it – and he needed the drug to work.

It did work. Afterwards all became unreal, and apparently he agreed when the pusher offered him something more to try. It was fun, and what's more important – when the thoughts of Leon came into his mind again, they were no longer so clear and intolerable.

Probably he called Iason – Raoul didn't know why – whether to tell him how fun it can be, or to boast how well he'd handled the situation. He didn't remember the call, but how else could Iason show up in that brothel, his mood rather disapproving.

At first Raoul tried to defy him, insisted that he liked it there and wanted to stay. But soon the fun ended – one Iason's glance scared it away. At that moment Raoul suddenly saw him as if for the first time ever – pale, with white gold falls of hair and the beauty of a punishing angel, standing in the middle of a dirty room. And this sight was so bewitching, that he let Iason take him away.

In the car Iason was silent, looking out of the window, and this silence was worse than any scolding, worse than the promise to tell Jupiter. Raoul pressed himself into the corner and watched Iason through the long bangs. Sometimes it seemed to him that he'd never seen anything more beautiful – and more cold – than Iason. But sometimes thoughts about what had happened so recently this evening surfaced again, and then Iason seemed hostile, seemed insensible to Raoul's pain.

The car stopped at Iason's house.

"Get out, Raoul."

"I don't want to..." he murmured. "Why did you..."

"Because you can't control yourself," Iason's voice was like a crack of a whip.

"I cotro... control." To prove that, Raoul got himself out of the car and followed Iason into the house. "I'm just..." he laughed, "I'm just a little tired. It was the first brainwashing I did, you know..."

"Personality correction," Iason corrected, and this almost mechanical remark broke something in Raoul.

"To hell with such correction! I washed his brain," he screamed. "Now he'll never be the same, you got it? I did it for your sake..."

He shouldn't have said that – anything, but not that. Raoul realized that, seeing as Iason's eyes froze and he covered his mouth, scared. But it was already too late.

"Not for my sake," Iason said. "For your own sake."

He turned away and Raoul with his dazed mind reckoned that there was something irreparable in what happened, that Iason was leaving forever and he would never be back. He surrendered, clung to Iason and begged him, repeating incoherently:

"Please, don't throw me away... I've no one left... I'm cold..."

"You can't control yourself," Iason answered coldly. His slender rigid fingers easily released his coat from Raoul's hands and the next moment he wasn't there.

Raoul stood still in some stupid despair – not quite because of what had happened, but rather realizing with horror that he no longer had anything to put between himself and his memories.

Then before him was a thin boy in a pink uniform; he cautiously drew his attention.

"Excuse me, sir, let's go, I'll show you to your room."

Katze, Raoul remembered, they call him Katze. Not arguing, he dragged along. It meant Iason handed him over to his furniture. This thought was bitter, but even then he understood that Iason was right. Raoul was ridiculous, he dishonoured himself – how could anyone be surprised that Iason hated to deal with him.

Realization to what he'd brought himself was unbearable – or maybe his body finally had enough. They were already at the threshold of the room, when Raoul suddenly let out a choking sound and clapped his hand to his mouth. Somehow Katze guessed what was going on. His hand unexpectedly slid around Raoul's waist, dragging him to the bathroom.

There, over the toiled bowl, he was long and painfully sick, and he swore at Jupiter inwardly that all that muck he had taken this evening didn't just let him die a silent death.

He felt awfully dirty afterwards, so he convulsively ripped off his clothes and got in the shower. Reality slipped away from him again, and when he came round he was standing on the bathroom floor and Katze was hastily drying him with a towel.

"I can't control myself," Raoul offered sullenly, repeating Iason's words. Of course, the furniture answered nothing, Katze's thin face was calm, eyes lowered. Only his hands continued to move quickly, wiping Raoul, drying his wet hair.

"I can do it," Raoul murmured, but somehow he couldn't, on the contrary, he only made Katze's job more difficult – and considering Raoul's height and weight it wasn't easy before.

Eventually Katze wrapped him in a warm bathrobe, walked him into the bedroom and covered with a blanket. He felt terrible – most likely the after-effects of detoxication. Raoul was trembling, his body was screaming, the light was abusing his eyes and he had an awful taste in his mouth.

"Here you are, sir," Katze spoke again, "I've brought you some water."

The water was cool and tasty, but it would be better if his hands didn't tremble so much that he couldn't hold the glass. Finally Katze took the glass himself and lifted it to Raoul's lips.

At that moment he felt strangely grateful to the furniture – out of all that had happened to him that evening, Katze was the only one who'd made him feel better.

He coughed soundly, having choked with the last drops of water, and sobbed from disgust at himself. That's what he brought himself to – Iason was right that he didn't want to look at him. Nobody wanted to look at him...

Covered with his hair, Raoul sulkily observed as Katze put the glass on the bedside table and filled it with water again.

"You want some more, sir?"

"No. Turn off the light."

"Good night, sir."

Katze pressed the switch on the headboard – Raoul could do it himself, if he had only thought. Raoul heard careful steps in the darkness.

"No, come here."

He didn't know what he wanted. In the darkness it was easier – nobody looked at him, he didn't have to meet anybody's eyes. The steps came closer. Some light however came from the corridor and he could vaguely distinguish Katze's anticipating pose.

What did he want? He was just... cold...

"Sit with me."

If Iason didn't want him and Leon was lost forever – what else remained? He just wanted some living creature next to him, even if it was just furniture. Katze silently knelt on the floor by the bed.

"No, sit on the bed."

He wanted to feel someone beside. Katze was warm, Raoul remembered that when the boy walked him to the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under Katze's light weight.

Raoul did it unexpectedly for himself – he suddenly threw out his hand, blindly, but he accurately found Katze's slim waist. His body worked by itself, moved by some instinct that the blondie shouldn't have had. He felt Katze's weak resistance, most likely out of surprise, but to overcome it was no problem.

Raoul wrapped his arms around the furniture's slender body, pressing it to himself, enjoying the heat. Katze gave out only one startled yelp – and then got silent, his body becoming obedient. Well, it was natural – he should serve the blondies, please them in everything they wanted.

And Raoul didn't want much – warmth of another body pressed to him under the blanket, sound of another's breath, that's all. He didn't even know that he wanted so little, but when he satisfied that, he calmed down.

Katze didn't feel like Leon with his big, imperious body, neither like Iason who even during the most intimate moments seemed cold. Katze was smaller, more fragile and hotter. Under his hand lying on Katze's chest, Raoul could feel the fast heartbeat.

As if he was scared, thought Raoul – and probably that's how it was. But the feel of another being in his embrace was so pleasant.

"Stay with me," Raoul whispered. He wanted to say these words to Leon, but he could never do it again. And Iason had rejected his plea. But Katze – Katze could not refuse.

He lay silently pressed to Raoul and gradually the rapid pounding of his heart calmed down and became steady. Raoul closed his eyes and gave in to the feeling of warmth and peace that he hadn't felt in a long time, maybe never.

---

When he woke up next morning, he definitely was alone. His head wasn't aching, he wasn't cold anymore, and all in all he felt ready to work. Indeed, blondie's metabolism was a masterpiece. If only he could forget his yesterday's excesses. Laying in the bed Raoul tried to recall what he had done and said. He was ashamed, but with shame he could easily cope. He would apologize to Iason and about the rest nobody knew.

Katze, he remembered... and he remembered his foolish behaviour in the darkness. Of course, nothing bad had happened – he was just cold so he took advantage of what was at hand. After all, furniture were meant to his advantage. He could forget it, throw it out of his mind...

Only that he didn't feel like forgetting, he suddenly understood. The thing wasn't in what happened – it didn't matter. It was an unfamiliar sensation that had suddenly overcome him last night. Warm, calm... safe. Even if it was only an illusion, Raoul couldn't get rid of it.

Jupiter wouldn't like it, he realized.

Almost involuntarily Raoul shifted to the place where on the bedding remained the imprint of Katze's body, he touched the sheet with his fingers.

However, soon, washed, dressed and accurately combed, he sat at the breakfast with Iason and the phantoms didn't bother him anymore. Iason was very affable with him, strangely tactful, mentioning not a word about yesterday – and Raoul was glad for that.

And when Iason's furniture showed up – as always useful and imperceptible, eyes fixed on the floor, Raoul almost believed that he could forget about everything, that nothing had happened. Just a red-haired boy, one of the mongrels who allowed to castrate himself to get promoted. Nothing special, nothing to think about.

Raoul continued not to think – persistently not to think – for several months. In that time he became even closer with Iason, and because of that or for any other reason his career considerably progressed. It was easy not to notice a furniture, especially that Katze knew his place, he never got under the feet, never stuck in view.

And then one day Raoul noticed that he had changed his hairstyle. Now his long strands were covering his cheek – and when he casually pushed them aside, Raoul saw a long jagged scar on his face.

He got so angry then, himself not knowing why – that he could hardly talk to Iason. Of course, no one but Iason could do it – and if it was just an accident, Iason would have certainly disposed of the broken property. But he couldn't ask Iason, could he?

Or maybe he could? Raoul realized it much later – it would be natural to ask, just as he would ask such question seeing the broken knickknack in Iason's house. But then he was simply confused and couldn't think clearly what was right and natural.

Katze was flawed, he wasn't like before – and Raoul was strangely annoyed by that, almost as if he had been deceived in some way. Of course, it was illogical – what could he care what Iason was doing with his property?

And maybe, he thought, it was even better? Now he would not recall how he held in his embrace someone who was so defective. Before, Katze was attractive enough to be a furniture, now... now looking at him was unpleasant, right?

Iason obviously understood it too, as he soon bought another furniture. But he didn't dispose of Katze either, he commissioned him to another job. Raoul was still seeing him, sometimes behind the wheel of Iason's limousine, sometimes receiving orders from Iason. He still fixed his hair so that it covered the scar – but it didn't look too good.

And sometimes Raoul caught himself thinking that this scar didn't prevent him. That he didn't care how Katze looked. He only wanted...

And it was dangerous – to want. Not on the impulse of the moment, but knowingly – to want something like that from the furniture. Raoul couldn't afford it. He should have forgotten. Everything was right in his life, he held a high position, sex with Iason was always a pleasure. He couldn't allow some mongrel to ruin his life.

And then Riki appeared and did just that – he ruined Iason's life, and Iason allowed it so easily.

The fear that lived in Raoul ever since that incident, now became embodied. To what Raoul stuck with such determination, Iason rejected with such ease. And partly Raoul was angry because of that – at Riki, at all the mongrels, at Iason, but partly – he could almost make it out – he was jealous.

Iason risked doing what Raoul would never dare. And Iason lost.

After his death Jupiter carried out a thorough inquiry among the blondies for unconventional habits and weaknesses. Two or three of them were ruthlessly corrected. Raoul passed the test with flying colors. And suddenly now...

What the hell was he doing now?

---

Katze woke up from cold. For some minutes his reality was limited to the hard cool floor beneath him and a dim light leaking through his trembling eyelids. Then the contours began to sharpen. The cell was closet-sized, with a bed and a sink by the wall. Katze felt that he was leaning against some metal surface. Ah yes, the door.

It seemed he was alone. It filled him with relief – but at the same time with painful despair. He curled up trying to warm up, bracing himself with his hands. So, his hands weren't cuffed anymore. Probably they dragged him to the cell and left him on the threshold. It was over.

The feel of his own skin against his hand made him stir. His pants were lowered. This thought added to the overwhelming disgust for himself, bringing back his strength. Between his legs it was wet, sticky and sickeningly cold.

The smell... Katze felt it suddenly and realized that it was coming from his own body, from their sperm that dried on his skin. He remembered this smell, remembered it hatefully well – as if all those years since he had been for the last time violated in the orphanage never happened. He hated this smell. Sometimes he thought that he'd become a furniture not only to be allowed to leave Ceres, but also to never feel that smell again.

Well, his plan didn't work out too well.

Gritting his teeth, he waited until the nausea passed. Last thing he needed was to vomit; there was enough muck on him already. And how much longer was he going to lie in all that? Finding strength in anger at himself, Katze rolled and tried to get up leaning on his hand. The pain that apparently only waited for that, hidden in his body, now hit with new force.

He fell on the floor again, foolishly surprised that it could hurt him everywhere – from the top of his head, to the tips of his toes, as if he was a bundle of inflamed nerves. It was hard to breathe – flashes of hot, dazzling pain pierced his side with every breath.

Just a broken rib. Or two. And what unforgettable sensations!

They had never beaten him so badly in the orphanage. Or maybe they had, and he just didn't remember. Besides then he'd been just a tough kid, and now... now sometimes he felt like an old man, much older than he was.

But all this didn't matter... What mattered was that he had to get up and pull himself together – or to stay where he was all messed up and freezing.

Unable to contain himself, he whined quietly trying to rise again. The blood from the bitten lip filled his mouth, but he managed to lift himself up and make two steps towards the sink. He leaned against it with relief and stayed like that for a few minutes. He needed to make one more effort to take his hand from the edge of the sink and turn on the water.

Afterwards it was easier. Paper towels crumpled into a soggy mass when he wetted it – but there was just nothing else around. Wincing, he started to wipe himself. The clots were thickly dyed with blood, but Katze already knew they had torn him, he could feel it. The blood bothered him less than the sensation of their semen on his skin. It was illogical, but he didn't give a damn what was logical, he just wanted to be clean.

His anus seemed open and very sore – so sore that he couldn't touch it. Katze ordered himself to stop being a fool – he had to wash up so that he didn't feel their presence anymore. The blood dripped again, he barely managed to stop it. Finally he realized that it was all he could do and he threw the lump of dirty towels into the trashcan.

Now to dress up – and no one would guess what had happened to him. Casual glance in the mirror over the sink made Katze shudder with disgust. His own face, all in the dried blood, was pale as death and seemed unfamiliar to him. He washed it mechanically, making sure that nothing left – except for the split lips and darkening bruises – but with those he couldn't do anything.

Finally he got to the bunk and laid down, pulling the blanket up to his chin, his teeth still chattering. He was so exhausted that he should have had no strength left even to think – but his brain seemed as active as never before, rewinding one and the same thought in his head.

What a fool! How could he let it happen... He'd been too confident of his immunity, he had forgotten who he was. All his life he tried to run as far as possible from his past, from his origins – and for some time he even succeeded. With Iason's help he achieved much – became a citizen, had money, some power – all that a native of Ceres could only dream of.

And if it required him to play by certain rules, Katze agreed.

The rules still applied. He suddenly knew what he should do. They would release him sooner or later – they had nothing against him. And when he left and the door closed behind him, he would simply forget all that happened here. Nothing had happened – period. He would be able to forget – he had quite an experience in that area.

---

He was eight when his brother was born. That's what an orphanage teacher, a fat moustached brunette, told him. Due to her masculine appearance she was deprived of men's favours, which other women enjoyed all the time.

"Your mother gave birth to another spawn, Katze."

Katze remembered how he made his way to the nursery, found the right cot by the label – and stared greedily at the small snuffling bundle inside. The brother looked more like a caterpillar than like a human, only his head was big and round and he had a grayish down instead of hair. Katze found no likeness between him and himself, and when the baby opened his eyes, Katze saw they were dove gray.

The eyes opened, the bundle reddened and gave out a piercing shriek. The sound was strange, rather awful, and Katze tensed expecting that now someone would come to scold him. However for some reason no one reacted to the screams, although the baby continued to cry.

At first Katze found these sounds unpleasant – and then, at some moment, he felt pity for the baby, who tried so hard, but no one heard him. He found a dummy in the cot and put it into the open mouth. The baby sobbed a few more times then calmed down – probably just tired. But Katze felt sudden pride in how he had coped with the situation.

It was his brother, he thought. He'd never had a brother. Well, maybe he had, but he didn't know about it. He'd been taken from home four years before and since then he didn't see his mother. Probably they didn't allow her to visit him.

He remembered his mother quite well – her flowered dress and the smell of her perfume, and how she laughed with a high-pitched forced laughter when one of her men came for a visit. Then they would lock themselves in the room and he was sent to play outside or, when it was late, to sit on the stairs.

Sometimes she was kind, seated him on the bed with her and showed him her shiny beads and earrings – and sometimes she was very strict. Then he was in for anything; her slaps were fast and stinging, and gave him a headache afterwards. But nevertheless she was good, he wanted to stay with her forever. Maybe he would have – it was his fault that he didn't.

All was because of that guy who came to her. She seemed so cheerful because of him that sometimes she even sang this song that Katze liked so much, about blue eyes and a short gray skirt. And then one day this guy came when she wasn't in, picked Katze up, took off his pants, and began to stick something warm and wet into him. Then she came and started to scream – at both of them. She threw the guy out and yelled at Katze so much, that he thought she would throw him out too. She called him a whore and a traitor, and she told that he'd stolen his mommy's beloved person.

A few days later people from the orphanage showed up and took him away.

He wondered what was his brother's fault – he was so little.

Suddenly daring, he took the bundle out of the cot. The brother was heavy and strangely wet – but Katze quite liked his weight, he liked the way those gray eyes looked through him with an unfocused gaze.

When the nurse finally showed up, Katze was cradling his brother in his arms. He was punished for entering the room without asking and for taking the baby. But as soon as he left the arrest, he was again beside the cot, watching the infant with adoration.

"He's my brother, his name is Timmy," he used to say. "It's me who named him."

His own group laughed at him, but Katze knew that they did it only because they were jealous. The others weren't so lucky – they didn't have brothers.

Even the older boys, the ones who liked to drag him and others into the bathroom after the classes, and made them do certain things there, apparently found out about Timmy's existence.

"Ah, Katze, the one with a brother," he once heard and it filled him with pride.

He knew that Timmy made him special. Because the others didn't have it – didn't have a brother who would grow, and whom then Katze would take from the orphanage – by that time he would earn money somehow... and together they would go home, to their mother, and she would say: "Really, are you my sons?!"

And then... here Katze's imagination split. Either they would forgive her and take her along, or Timmy would say: "You threw us away, you didn't need us – now we don't need you," – and he would leave together with Katze... they would go for a journey. He was absolutely positive that they would manage to get out of Ceres.

At first Timmy lost his appetite and slept badly – and he cried all the time, but Katze was willing to take care of him every free minute. His brother should grow big and strong.

Of course he had to pay for the right to be with his brother. He had to pay for everything – for the permission to enter the nursery, for some hours of free time instead of those ridiculous, stupefying duties they were burdened with so that they didn't loaf about. Katze agreed to pay – he was ready to do anything they said.

It was worse when he did everything and they didn't let him see Timmy anyway. Sometimes he was almost sure that they didn't agree not because he did something wrong, but because they simply liked when he begged them. That teacher especially often locked him in the arrest – just because Katze was afraid of it, because it meant two or three days without Timmy.

Timmy already started to crawl and gave out almost intelligible sounds. And then Katze again landed in the arrest, practically for nothing. And when he was released, first thing he did was go to Timmy – but in his cot there was another senseless little baby.

Katze couldn't believe it. He searched all the cots thinking that they had simply put him into another – but Timmy wasn't there, and the teacher passing by dragged him out of the room.

"Whatcha looking for? That little brat is dead, got it? Now, get out."

He didn't believe it – how could he believe it, three days before Timmy had been in good health!

Katze couldn't calm down for three days, even locked up in the arrest, even after a visit of two teachers who came especially to "appease" him. Then he got tired and they released him. At night one of the older boys said to Katze, who was kneeling before him:

"You know, where they took your brother? For organs." And when Katze didn't understand, he explained. "That's what they do, that's the business. If some kid of normal people is born sick and needs a transplant, where do you think they take a kidney or a heart from? It's too expensive to clone, so they take it from Ceres. That's why they allowed you to play with the kid, so that you took care of him until he was hale and hearty. No one wants organs from some weaklings."

Katze vaguely remembered what happened next. Days in the arrest changed into a continuous stay interspersed with violence – and even cold water and hoses with sand in the teachers' hands couldn't pacify him. Then there was an orphanage infirmary and inflamed veins on his hands from all the drugs he was injected with.

He nevertheless pulled himself together, went through it and shoved the memories about his brother into the deepest corner. He never talked about it, but never forgot it.

And when two years later the same teacher told him:

"Congratulations, Katze, that slut your mother gave us another mongrel. You wanna see your brother?" he answered quietly, but so firmly that she didn't ask again:

"I don't have a brother."

The brother made him vulnerable. Closeness with anyone made him vulnerable. He couldn't let them use him like that again. He couldn't let them cause him such pain. He didn't remember when he had made that promise to himself – but he had never broken it since then.

The operation was a natural continuation of this decision. He should love nobody and nobody should love him. Sometimes Katze wondered how bad it would have hurt if he didn't have this protection and allowed himself to fall for Iason – which he could have. It was impossible not to worship his master, but the other, more intimate feeling would have simply ruined him.

And still that day when Iason and Riki died, he cried not only for his boss and owner, whom he would never see again. He cried for the love he witnessed, which – he knew it – would never happen to him.

And as for that new anonymous brother – Katze never took an interest if he had survived or died, in the crowd of kids he never tried to find a face that would remind him of something. And he no longer believed that he would leave Ceres. He bet on the other, more likely way to get out – to become a furniture. And he achieved his goal.

---

He shuddered when the door swung open. Although he tried to remain calm, being unable to control the situation made him nervous. He sat abruptly, unwilling to be taken by surprise. Most likely they didn't intend to do anything to him, but he couldn't get a grip.

They didn't even enter the cell.

"Get out. You're being released."

Katze slowly unclenched his hand holding a shard of mirror. Silly – what did he intend to do? Protect himself?

It meant they didn't need him anymore. Well, it was just as he'd predicted – they didn't have a reason to detain him.

The pain forced him to grab the edge of the bed and stop short, when he got to his feet. He almost forgot how badly he was beaten. But it was nothing, he just had to get out. He would drop into the drugstore on his way home – and a few pills would bring him back to normal.

Katze flatly refused to pay attention to the thin trickle of blood that ran down his leg again, soaking into the fabric of his pants.

They walked him to the room where he signed a few papers. Dave and his partner were nowhere to be seen, Katze noticed that with relief. He wasn't sure if he could stand the sight of them... and even so, what could he do? To his surprise, the official that took care of the documents was quite polite. Katze was given back his wallet, cell phone – though they had removed the chip, and even his smokes. He moved down the corridor accompanied by one of the policemen, trying not to limp. Finally the door opened and the cold air blew into his face.

Only twenty hours spent in the police station – and simple pleasures of life take on a new meaning, he thought. For example the fresh air... and a cigarette. He inhaled with pleasure, for a moment nothing existed for him, not even the pain in his ribs.

Wet snow fell from the sky again, forming puddles gleaming in the yellow light of the lanterns. Katze scanned the street, the taxies somehow didn't crowd at the post door waiting for the opportune client. Well, he would have to drag himself to a busier street.

The door of a dark car parked by the curb opened soundlessly, and the light fell on long blonde locks turning them into dull gold.

"It took you long."

Katze stopped, for a moment unable to believe that he'd heard that voice. Hadn't the same voice told him just this morning: "I can't be of any help." And suddenly now... Was Raoul even speaking to him?

He cautiously turned around, not trusting his balance – there was no doubt, Raoul, leaning out of the car. In this position his long hair reached almost to the ground, but Raoul seemed not to notice it. And, unlike his usual style, this time both of his eyes were visible – full of some childish grudge and unhappiness.

"You've kept me waiting," he repeated.

"I'm sorry." It was a mechanical answer, Katze didn't even quite understand what he was talking about. Raoul here... waiting for him? Really, he...

But of course, that explained everything – that's why they released him so quickly and easily. Blondie's intervention really solved it all. But Katze asked him only for a call, he didn't have to be here.

"Thank you," he said quietly. Probably there was nothing more to say.

"I interfered only for Iason's sake," Raoul spoke quickly. "He always made that fuss about you and all..."

"I... thanks."

"Come on, get in."

Katze needed a few moments to process this offer – it was even more unexpected than Raoul's presence here. Although who knew – maybe Raoul had plans for him. Katze suddenly wished Raoul to put off his plans for a while; he needed a painkiller and had to stop the bleeding somehow. He could endure a trip by taxi; but a talk with Raoul – it was a bit too much.

However, the debts had to be paid – the sooner the better.

He ground out the half-smoked cigarette and rounded the car. The door automatically opened for him. A move he made to sit into the low limousine made the broken rib in his side press deeper. He coughed feeling a warm salty liquid in his mouth and spit it on the asphalt.

"What is it?"

Raoul didn't really want to know, right? That's why Katze simply said:

"Nothing."

The thin hand in the glove brushed the driver's shoulder and the car pulled out.

"Where do you live?"

Oh Jupiter, they even wanted to take him home. Katze told the address to the chauffeur. He didn't see the man's face, just a shaved dark nape – and the driver didn't say a word, just continued driving, however taking the right direction.

Once he was in this place too... There was nothing logical in this thought, Katze ascribed it to his reeling consciousness. Why would he suddenly recall it? Of course, he'd been driving Iason, and sometimes even Iason and Raoul together. Sometimes they separated from him with the screen, so that he didn't hear their conversations – but more often they didn't, and then the sensation of these two sitting behind was almost as if he was just beside the strong source of current – dangerous and at the same time strangely exciting. The air of power, Katze had thought then.

It would never be like that again. Iason would never be again. And Raoul...

For some reason Raoul didn't set to put forward what he wanted. Katze focused with effort and turned to him.

"Mr. Am, I..."

It seemed Raoul shuddered slightly. Then his eyes became angry.

"What happened to your face?"

"What?"

"Did they treat you badly?"

And what did you think, Mr. Blondie? But actually Katze was more surprised that Raoul noticed – and found it necessary to ask.

"Though, of course, there's nothing to be surprised at." It seemed Raoul himself realized his sudden interest. "How else could they deal with a man who busies himself with such things? I told Iason long ago that the black market should be eliminated. It's a shameful part of the planet's economy and the profit isn't such a significant part of the turnover either."

That's what... New broom sweeps clean. Raoul wanted to get rid of the black market and probably reckoned that Katze's help would be useful.

To hell with it, he must have gone nuts.

It was hard to focus, and to look calm it was even harder – and the feeling of his own weakness overtook him again, spitefully strong.

"Ceres lives from smuggling," Katze said. His voice sounded neutral enough, but it was not what he felt. It roared in his head, the despair becoming almost physical.

Now Raoul would ask why should anyone care what would happen with Ceres – and he would be right. Why would anyone care... what would be with Ceres, what happened to Katze at the police station, what could have happened to this boy, Sliver, if he hadn't run into Katze, and what could still very likely happen to him. Who cared? They were just mongrels, right?

He almost got used to thinking about the mongrels as if it didn't refer to him. It had to afflict him directly, it had to be shoved right into his face who he was – so that he remembered.

And if Raoul says that... if he says that he doesn't give a damn about Ceres, then he, Katze, would get out right here. To hell with all that Raoul could think or do – to hell with all, he just couldn't take it anymore.

For some reason Raoul said nothing. Forcing his sight to clear up, Katze looked at him – and almost laughed with a nervous laughter. Raoul looked as if Katze offended him with something – maybe with his interruption.

Just like a child, with those brows furred together and those upset blue eyes, Katze thought distantly. There was something in Raoul... as if, despite all his efforts, he didn't stir that involuntary thrill Iason had – and because of that always tried to look more severe than he was.

Though all these were just appearances. Raoul's authority was enough to release him – and would be enough to crush him.

"Iason considered it necessary to keep the market," Katze added quickly.

"Yes, of course."

Iason's name worked. Even after his death he still had an effect on people.

Suddenly Katze felt a sharp, piercing longing for Iason. He missed him so much. It was always so good to deal with Iason... and... damn, he simply missed Iason. Living with Iason was hard – just like with constant danger.

And still it was so easy to love him – it was impossible not to love him.

Even the pain Iason inflicted was sweet. Katze recalled the weight of a whip and the blinding flash of pain – the sensation that he sometimes brought to his mind, touching his cheek with a strange feeling that was almost a pleasure. For Iason he was willing to bear any pain.

Suddenly Katze desperately wanted to be in the car with Iason. Iason probably would have scolded him for getting involved in someone else's affairs, but it didn't matter. He would have felt important... Even if Iason had never considered him a man, Katze still knew he'd been important to Iason.

Raoul... to Raoul he was nothing. And it was a bit upsetting because... because under this mask of the flawless blondie, there was something in Raoul... something alive, something good to touch, that didn't sting and hurt like Iason.

But these were just dreams, nonsense, his thoughts would never bring him to something like that if he weren't weakened, so tired... he just needed some rest...

"Katze. Katze."

His name... Raoul was calling his name. Something happened? He should answer, but didn't have time – suddenly Raoul's strong fingers clenched on his forearm and the blondie's face leaned very close.

"What's wrong with you? Jupiter, where does this blood come from?"

What blood, he thought... apparently he'd just ruined the upholstery in the car, he should have thought about it earlier...

"Turn," Raoul's cold voice ordered. He no longer saw the blondie's face – and the hand didn't hold him anymore.

Turn where, Katze wanted to ask, but apparently he didn't succeed. It suddenly got very dark in the car, and he felt that he was falling. He didn't know how he could be falling since he was sitting, but he couldn't stop it until something stopped him – and then it was good and quiet.

---

"How is he?" Raoul asked, when the door finally opened and the doctor appeared on the threshold of the room. A moment later he bit his tongue – it sounded almost as if he cared, as if he'd spent one and a half hour pacing around the hall and waiting for an answer. Which, actually, he had. He'd tried to work, but he didn't have any urgent matters and not urgent ones couldn't absorb his mind enough to distract him. And when he caught himself reading the same document for the third time, he just turned off the screen.

But the doctor didn't have to know it. No one had to.

"His condition is stable." The doctor rubbed the bridge of his nose. His expression was a bit tired. It wasn't anyone familiar, Raoul had never seen him before. "Two broken ribs, I fixed them, probably also a concussion. A small bleeding, I put in the stitches. And of course numerous bruises – though without internal bleeding."

"Did they beat him or what?"

Probably he said it too fast – as if he were worried. And maybe he could be worried, why not? Who should care...

For Jupiter's sake! Raoul cut off his convulsive thoughts – he only made things worse. Sharp gaze of the doctor stopped on him for an instant, but then faded.

"Yes." It was hard to say what the man was thinking, perhaps that Raoul had done it himself. Of course, it suddenly occurred to him – he must have seen – and reckoned that Katze was his furniture... Although no... By the way, he didn't even know whether Julius called the doctor for people or for pets and furniture.

"Also, I don't know if you are aware that..." it seemed the doctor hesitated a little, "there was also sexual violence."

"What?" At first Raoul thought that he had misheard. "But he's a..."

"I considered it necessary to run a test for sexually transmitted diseases – the result was negative."

Oh... it was the last thing to come to Raoul's mind.

"But he's a..." the thought that kept nagging him returned again. "He's a furniture..."

"Excuse me?"

The furniture were not used for sex – it was the basics. Nobody could be that perverted. Although...

"I gave him an injection," the doctor continued evenly, "he'll be sleeping till morning. Tomorrow he needs to take those pills. And in two-three days he should come to the clinic for removal of the fixing film from his ribs."

Raoul thanked him absently and signed the bill. Julius must have walked the doctor to the door, though Raoul didn't pay attention to it, he still couldn't comprehend what he had been told.

And what was he thinking? The moment when his fingers brushed the upholstery in the car and felt blood, he apparently stopped thinking at all. He could have at least given some reasonable orders but in fact they were anything but reasonable. Starting with the demand to go home instead of the closest clinic where he could leave Katze in good care. Maybe he was just confused... it was easier to believe it than that he was doing it – for the sake of what? Katze was no one to him, not even his property – believing that he was doing it for the sake of Iason's memory was only possible up to some moment.

Well, he got what he wanted. And there was no point to get starry eyed as if it was somebody else's fault.

But he hadn't known...

He was overwhelmed by a sudden anger – just like at that moment when he had for the first time noticed Katze's face marred by the scar. He couldn't explain the cause of this anger – and even at whom it was directed. At those who had done it – no doubt at the police station? At Katze who'd let it happen? Or at himself?

Katze had called him in the morning and his lips hadn't been split yet. There hadn't been this worn out expression in his eyes, as if he wanted to be left alone, allowed to curl up and lick his wounds. And Raoul had refused him. And when he finally decided what he should do – absolutely spontaneously, just acting on impulse not allowing himself to think... it was already too late?

It looked too much like pleading guilty and Raoul didn't like it. Katze deserved the rough treatment he received in the police – he was a criminal and a law-violator.

But why did Raoul feel as if something of his own were violated? Nonsense, he had no business with Katze...

Like a silent shadow Julius slipped into the hall and put a cup of herbal tea on the table – Raoul sometimes drank it the evening. This time he hadn't asked for it.

"Sir..."

"Yes, Julius?"

"Your supper is ready – anytime you wish."

He shrugged – he wasn't hungry. But it could look as if he were too nervous to eat... Raoul shook his head, turned away, and rather felt than heard that Julius left the room.

And if something like that happened to Julius – wouldn't Raoul have every right to be angry? No one had the right to spoil his property. But Katze... what did Raoul have to do with him?

How did they dare to do it... This thought was so strong that it silenced all the others. How did they dare to do... it... Raoul felt nausea at this thought.

How did they do it? Did they undress him? In what position? How many of them were there? Or maybe only one? Did Katze derive any pleasure from that – he was a castrate, hardly anyone could want him in all these years... The thoughts flowed with a continuous stream, and Raoul couldn't put a stop to them. He knew that they were shameless and that he should never think them – but he couldn't help it. For a few instants he lost control.

And when the reckless moment passed, he felt terrible. Was it the same with Iason? Had he known this feeling when you realize that what you do is a destructive insanity – and you still do it? Raoul had always criticized Iason for doing something from what Raoul managed to refrain. But now, when Iason no longer lived – and there was no one for whom he could boast of his compliance with rules – he found out what it was.

No, no, it was all madness. Raoul left the hall and headed down the corridor – right to the door behind which, he knew, was Katze. He didn't hesitate, he pushed the door and came in.

In the bedroom only the lamp on the bedside table was on, casting the circle of yellow light on the bed and on Katze's face. He was asleep – the doctor had said that he would sleep until morning, Raoul remembered. His face was calm, only very tired.

The glow of the lamp made Katze's hair brighter red, and his face pale – even his lips were almost colorless, cracked. This time the bangs didn't hide the half of his face and the scar was revealed.

Such an imperfect face, Raoul thought. Well, look – is that what you wanted to see? For all these years he avoided looking at Katze because of his own confusion. How stupid it was. There was nothing in that man that could occupy Raoul's mind for long. Perhaps he just had to look his fear in the eye.

There was nothing – except that Katze had once been beside him when Raoul felt vulnerable. It was nobody's fault – neither Raoul's, nor Katze's. And he could forget it, he could recover.

But even at that moment, repeating it to himself, Raoul knew that it was a lie.

Probably there was something defective in him, something that even Jupiter had failed to notice running her checks, since he was looking at this face, so far from blondies' perfection, and even from pets' delicate charm – Katze was no longer a boy, he even little resembled that Katze Raoul had been embracing that night, his features became more rigid, firmer – he was looking at it and wanted to touch it with his hand, to run his fingers along this slightly bent brow, to brush those cracked lips.

Raoul reached out his hand but he didn't do it. Instead, he grabbed the edge of a blanket and with a swift movement pulled it down.

The sight stunned him. He hadn't known what to expect. Katze with his chest bandaged seemed intolerably defenseless to him. And those dark-purple bruises that covered almost all his body evoked such pity in him that he found it hard to breathe.

He had no idea that it was that bad. It was... it was horribly severe – there was just no sound spot on Katze. How could he move, talk – without giving himself away?

Raoul hadn't wanted it to happen. Even when he got mad at Katze and thought he could use some lessons – he never wanted it to be like that. When he'd been holding Katze, pressing him to himself, the man had been strong – fragile, like all ordinary people – but strong, hot and lithe. Now he looked like a victim of some accident, with those bruised lips and weakly heaving chest.

Suddenly Raoul felt shame for what he had done – he had bared him like that, looked at him when Katze couldn't protect himself. His groin was uncovered too and Raoul for the first time saw his tightened empty scrotum and small scars in place of his removed testicles. Sure, he had examined furniture before, for example Julius, when he'd been buying him – there was nothing strange in that – and of course everyone could watch pets naked.

But he already lost hope he could prove himself that such thinking was right. When it came to Katze, he couldn't help himself.

With resignation Raoul realized that his goal to come here – to get rid of the demons by satisfying his desire, proving that there was nothing special in Katze – was missed.

It became even worse.

Raoul cut off this dangerous thought, covered Katze with the blanket and quickly left the room.

---

Soft light made its way through his eyelids. For some moments he just lay quietly not quite understanding why he was feeling so comfortable. Then he opened his eyes and in the gray light coming through the heavy curtains, he saw an unfamiliar bedroom. However, the furnishings reminded him of something – expensive things, graceful shapes of items, faultless combination of colors. He had something like that seen long ago, in Iason's home – it was completely different than his own randomly arranged apartment.

Of course, it wasn't quite Iason's style... Katze woke up finally. Nonsense, Iason was dead, and it was... memories came back to him: Raoul's car, sudden weakness, far voice calling his name – and cold professional hands examining his body. He tried to resist it, tried to close his legs to hide his mutilated groin – until a needle sank into his vein and brought calmness. Finally he understood why he was feeling so good – he didn't feel the pain anymore.

Only breathing was difficult – because of the film, he realized, touching his chest – and all his body seemed a bit numb. They must have used really good drugs on him...

He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. It still hurt to sit, but it wasn't nearly as bad as yesterday. The door opened suddenly and Katze hastily wrapped himself up in the blanket, covering himself.

It was just a furniture – a boy of eighteen, with studied – up to full absence – expression on the thin face and with long eyelashes.

"Hello," Katze's voice sounded hoarse from sleep.

"Good morning." The answer was completely neutral. The furniture didn't even raise his eyes, approached the headboard and put a tray with a glass of water and two pills on the bedside table. "You have to take these."

"Thanks."

"Do not rise. I'll bring you breakfast in a minute."

He treats me like a guest, Katze thought, a little intrigued. He served him as if Katze was a born rightful citizen of Tanagura instead of an upstart and former furniture, once of an equal position with him. Although, by some imperceptive signs, Katze was sure that the boy knew. Perhaps they, furniture, could recognize each other instinctively.

He got up anyway, found a robe in the bathroom, put it on, then got into bed again. A strange feeling – as if everything was unreal – overcame him. Yesterday he was lying in blood on the cold floor of the cell, today he was in Raoul's house – and he was well taken care of, by the qualified doctor. The drugs were all the best – strong and with no side effects – he knew that only few people on Amoi could afford it.

The question was why. And Katze didn't have an answer. There wasn't a single reason he knew, why Raoul would bring him to his home when he had passed out – and treat him so well. If it were Iason, Katze would understand – but Raoul... Raoul never seemed to notice his existence at all. Sometimes Katze even had an impression that he looked through him purposely; however many blondies – just like the ordinary citizens of Tanagura – looked at them, mongrels, as if they didn't exist.

But now he didn't want to think about it – he too much enjoyed the feeling of the pain gone.

The door opened and Katze with habitual gesture adjusted his hair so that it covered his cheek. The furniture carefully placed on the sheets a little table for breakfast in bed. Coffee and toasts... it was healthy – and Katze suddenly realized how hungry he was.

Folding his hands behind his back the boy stopped by the bed.

"If you need anything..."

"My clothes," Katze said, softening his words with a smile that remained unresponded.

"I'll bring them in a minute."

"Thanks. What's your name?"

"Julius."

"I'm Katze."

"I know." Without another word the boy left.

Katze just finished eating when Julius came back with a pile of clothes in his hands. It weren't Katze's clothes, but it perfectly copied the cut only the shade was slightly different. Probably his own clothes were ruined by blood, Katze thought.

He managed to cut off this thought and avoid further thinking, however washing up, he felt another sharp twinge of disgust for himself when he saw his reflection in the mirror. Don't think! They had taken care of him, stitched him up – now he could forget it all, he could throw out of his memory how treacherous his body turned out, how... shameful. He knew that even if now it seemed to him that he would never manage to get rid of the sensation of grime, it would pass.

Did Raoul know, a thought flashed through his mind – and however, why would Raoul be interested.

He left the room and went downstairs, listening to the silence of the house. Julius was sitting at a little table with some invoices in front of him. Noticing Katze, he quickly got to his feet.

He was shorter than Katze and seemed fragile, but something in his posture, even with his eyes lowered, was defiant – so much that Katze wasn't sure if it wasn't just an imagination. However, if Julius openly displayed any roughness, Katze could show him his place – but the indefinable body language... for that even the furniture could allow himself.

"If you want to see my master," Julius offered, anticipating Katze's question, "he isn't at home. He said he wouldn't be back until late. If you want to go, I'll call a taxi."

It seemed everything was put out clearly.

However he really wanted to go. He hadn't been home for one and a half day and... aw shit. He locked that boy in his apartment. Not that the locks there made it impossible to get out... and until now Sliver could easily walk off with anything he wanted.

For some reason Katze didn't think that he would do it. But who knew.

"I'll go. But I want to leave a message for your master."

"Video or note?"

"Note."

"Very well." Julius led him to the computer.

Katze looked at the keyboard, suddenly not knowing what he wanted to write. The blondie didn't need his gratitude – and still, what else could he tell except that he was grateful? He wrote a few sentences that didn't cover what Raoul had done for him, but were the best he could think of.

"Your taxi. And the pills. You have to take them every four hours in the next two days," Julius handed him a packet. "And the tests results."

Oh. Katze glanced at the leaflets, saw the negative result and felt that he blushed furiously. He hadn't even thought of it... However, he realized, it was even better, now he didn't have to check it for himself.

"Thanks."

The boy was looking through him. Katze headed for an exit. He was already in the corridor, when a sound of breaking glass made him look back. He was far enough from the room – but in the complex labyrinth of mirrors he suddenly saw reflection of Julius, standing over slivers of broken glass with the expression of hatred and misery frozen on his face.

---

There was someone in the apartment. The sound of TV came from the room and there were high laced boots in the corridor. Of course – not just someone, but the very specific "bouncy" Katze had brought to his place the night before. He didn't know if he was glad that Sliver was still here. Katze rarely let anyone in his flat, he preferred to run all his business in his office or in apartments he rented especially for that purpose. He liked being alone – or rather, it was convenient to him; and what else could matter except convenience?

He entered the room; Sliver momentarily jumped to his feet. His eyes were wide and somewhat dazed, as if still reflecting the wild dance of creatures, whose adventures he watched on the screen.

"What are you watching?"

Sliver blinked and quickly turned off the TV. His expression was thoroughly apologetic.

"Fluffy Mutants... I... didn't know when you would be back, and you were gone for so long..."

He stood before Katze picking the carpet with the barefoot toe, his arms wrapped around his chest, looking as if already prepared for a scolding.

"Sorry for locking you up in here," Katze said.

"I... that is..." The golden-brown eyes widened even more, and suddenly something flashed in them. "Did they release you?!"

"Generally yes," Katze smiled, pulling a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. Sliver continued to stare at him, and then his face became frightened.

"Did they... beat you?"

Not at all, Katze wanted to say angrily, but the boy's eyes suddenly filled with horror.

"Forgive me, please, I didn't know... It's all because of me..."

"It's all right." Katze said it softer than usual – almost unexpectedly softly for him, but Sliver didn't seem to notice. The words flew even faster, panic clear in his gaze.

"Please, it's not my fault... I didn't think... I didn't know that it would happen..."

He's afraid that I'll revenge on him for that, Katze thought.

"It's all right," he repeated.

"I'll pay you back," Sliver offered quickly. "You can do everything that you want with me – you'll like it... You should know, I'm really skilled..." he tried to sound serious and convincing, but his lips were trembling. Katze couldn't stand the sight.

"Stop it. Nothing happened. I'm not going to do anything to you."

"I..." Sliver got silent.

"You better tell me how the things are going here."

"You aren't angry?"

"No! How many times can you ask about the same?"

"All right," Sliver nodded obediently and at last considered what Katze had asked him about the things. "Well... nothing happened here. No one came. You got a warm place," he added unexpectedly. "And beautiful."

As for beautiful, it was a gross exaggeration.

"But I touched nothing, honest!"

"Very well." Though Katze didn't keep at home anything that could be dangerous.

"Only the phone called all the time, and this thing," he nodded at the answering machine, "just beeped."

Of course. Katze glanced at the flickering light. Overloaded. So many people wanted to talk to him at the same time, and when he needed someone... But why complain?

"I finally started to answer – here, I wrote down who was calling," Sliver said proudly, holding out a little sheet of paper. Katze looked at the letters, going in various directions, sometimes reversed. "Is that readable?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks. You've worked for me as a secretary." He didn't know why he had said that, just as if he wanted to make Sliver happy. And strangely something stirred inside him, when he saw the kid's face brighten up.

"I also... can cook," Sliver said.

"Yeah, and what did you eat?"

"I..." he blushed. "In the fridge there's..." and suddenly he cheered up. "There's still some bread and milk, and cheese – I can make toasts."

Considering that Katze never kept too much supplies in the fridge, the boy indeed ate like a bird.

"No, thanks, I'm not hungry. Let's go, I'll drive you home."

"What, right now?" Sliver looked at him almost distrustfully.

"When else?"

Relief that flashed in Sliver's eyes was almost painful to look at. He was ready to pay the debts, Katze thought, but it was hardly making him happy.

"You were locked here for one and a half day. Besides, you answered my calls, and you know what kind of a job it is."

A few minutes later, shod and wrapped in his jacket again, Sliver stood by his car, nervously shuffling his feet.

"Oh my, mom will probably kill me for being gone so long."

"I'll talk to her," Katze promised.

It seemed that calmed the boy – anyway he chattered cheerfully all the way, falling silent only as they passed some extremely attractive shop-window.

"One day I'm gonna have such bike! Now I wouldn't have time to take care of it, and I don't need it to get rusty. But one day I'll have it."

It wasn't necessary to ask how he would get it – certainly he wouldn't buy it.

"Have you ever been to Aquapark, Mr. Katze? They say they have such hills there, high as a house – and bathtubs with boiling water."

Katze shook his head, what made Sliver clearly baffled.

"If only they let you in without identification card... but they say sometimes you can get inside through the back door."

He almost didn't notice as they reached Ceres – not until Katze slowed down.

"How do you know where I live?"

"I don't know," Katze said. "Show me."

The house was three stories high, rundown – it seemed it would collapse in one stronger gust of wind. But such houses looked equally unstable when Katze was a kid – and still stood, for all those years. Sliver rushed up the stairs – Katze heard the hasty clatter of his boots and followed him.

A door on the top floor remained ajar. He came in; a room, separated from a kitchen only by a partition – usual layout that gave all the apartment the smell of the cooking. On the stove something was sizzling, a baby cried in the room, and a woman wrapped in a warm housecoat was shaking Sliver by his shoulders.

"Where have you been? Where have you been?" Her voice was high-pitched as if she were just a girl. She probably was very young indeed, Katze thought – women in Ceres had their first children at the age of thirteen, fourteen – only her face was already worn out. "You were gone for two nights!"

Her thin hand rose and fell twice. The slaps were deafening. Katze shook his head – well, he'd promised to intercede for Sliver. But the very next minute the woman pressed the boy to herself, squeezing him tightly, and her voice became thick with tears.

"How could you do it, Romi, how could you? You got me so worried. Tommy was crying all the time, he missed you..."

So Sliver had another name. And the baby was much too little to miss anyone... but did it matter?

"Don't you ever do it again, ever, hear me?"

"C'mon mom, come on now, mom." After a few seconds Sliver started to untangle himself from her embrace. "I brought the money!"

"You silly, silly boy..."

Katze carefully put some banknotes on the table in the corridor, and left silently.

---

Inhaling the cool air, he thoughtfully looked at the houses around – all equally gray and depressing. Katze knew this picture, those houses and streets – for all these years that passed since then, he forgot nothing. Children's impressions were the strongest...

He knew this place. He didn't like coming here. But since you are here already, he admonished himself, why not do it? Finally it would be necessary anyway.

Just a few blocks down the street – and the next featureless house, and the next stairs. Long time ago he had hoped that there would come a day, when he would never come back. But he was always coming.

The door squeaked when he pushed it open – and the sleepy voice from the room called:

"Who is it?"

"Me."

"Go away, I'm not in the mood today."

"It's me, mom," he said, entering the room.

This house had its own smell, so importunate that it always seemed to him that he could still smell it even after he had left. Sickeningly sweet perfumes, alcohol and filthy clothes. Nothing could be done with that smell. Even if she moved to another place it would follow her. However she'd never agreed to move – to the better district, as he had asked her – no doubt just because he had asked.

"Ah, liebe!" She rose from the bed and smiled, opening her arms as if for a hug. Cigarette in an amber cigarette-holder burned between her fingers as usual. "My son has come... my son has come to visit me!"

He stepped back, fearing that she was really going to embrace him. However, of course not – she fell on the pillows again.

Her face was covered with a thick layer of makeup, even though she'd said she wasn't expecting anyone today. Her style hadn't changed for years, Katze suddenly thought; she was still drawing black lines around her eyes – a manner that once made her expression so naive and inviting, and her hair was still curled into big false locks. Only she was no longer young... how old was she? Probably almost fifty.

"Thank you, son! Thank you that you don't forget about your mother!"

Anguish in her voice made him cringe. Though, actually, he had expected that. She always made a show of herself – every single time he came.

He'd better have just passed the money through someone – just as he was doing it sometimes. When he didn't have to see her... he could almost love her, he could forget what she was like, and only remember that she was his mother – more than most of the natives of Ceres had.

"Take him away! Take away that brat, I can't stand the sight of him! Stop whining, you're annoying me," he recalled her voice, the last thing he'd heard from her when they were taking him to the orphanage.

But he had forgiven her, hadn't he? He found her after he'd become a furniture and got a job in Iason's house – and since then he had never left her, he was providing for her. She didn't have a need for anything – or at least for the last years he'd been giving her so much money that she could buy anything she wanted in the black market.

However her perfumes were still the same... and the cheap smokes too.

"Well, my boy, come closer. Let me take a look at you!" She didn't have problems with her eyes, it was just a game, another game of her. "What a hunk! You look just like a man. Who would have guessed there's not much left between your legs."

Oh yeah, just in case he had forgotten... he had to be reminded.

"Here, mom," he put a pile of credits on the bedside table.

"Brought the money?" she spoke with a sweet voice. Katze tensed. Sometimes she was thanking him meekly, called him her savior and supporter. What would be today? 'You wanna buy yourself out? You buy yourself out of your mother? With this, huh?'

Her thin finger with a long polished nail hooked the banknotes, spreading them in a fan.

"Well... if that can ease your conscience, sonny..." her tone changed, became unbearably chilly. "You live in Tanagura, you enjoy your life, you wear expensive clothes, and that your mother is freezing and starving here – it means nothing to you."

He knew it was pointless to argue. She was working herself up, her voice growing shrill, hysterical. Probably she wanted to be heard by the neighbors, though he knew that when she had a good day, she was boasting about him before them, praising him as a great son.

He just had to wait until she would be finished with her show. Katze winced, feeling a headache that came back unexpectedly. He should have taken some of those pills he had gotten from Julius, before coming here.

"Another son would give anything to his mother," she continued. "Another son would do anything to take his mother from Ceres and find her some decent place to live..."

When she had said that for the first time, Katze didn't know what to answer, he started to excuse himself: "You must understand, I can't... I don't have such power..." Then he got tired of excuses; she didn't really need them. She just liked doing it – she liked watching him confused, unable to look in her eyes. She was still able to stir him – to touch him deep inside.

"Any other son would for his mother..."

He suddenly heard his own cold voice speaking:

"But you do have other sons."

"What?" she stopped short. Her face suddenly reminded of an offended child, with those pouting lips and defenseless gaze. He wasn't playing by the rules!

"How many children did you have, mom?"

Why had he asked about it? He'd better just wait until she stops grumbling and leave. He didn't want to know the answer, it didn't matter...

"Children? How can I remember?" she laughed with a nervous, unnatural laughter – just like she used to laugh for her men. "I never wanted to have those little mongrels. All guys are pigs, they just use some good fuck – and I have to give birth after that. Your father, that scum, was no better – and you're just like him."

Sometimes she claimed that she didn't know who his father was, Katze remembered – just as she pleased, just as she thought it would hurt him more. Only it stopped affecting him a long time ago.

"You ruined all my life," she hissed.

It was like a joke. Katze rubbed his temples, trying to get rid of the pain. He should go, he should just get out of here. Enough, he did his duty, now he didn't have to show up at this place for a few months.

"Four," she suddenly spoke calmly. Katze threw up his head, struck by a strange feeling. "You were the second. The one I had before you died at once. I kept you the longest. I could have given you to the orphanage right away, but I didn't, I didn't let them take you away. I loved you, I took care of you – or maybe you don't remember?"

He remembered – her beads she gave him to play, beads pouring over her hands in the thin sunrays. He remembered them walking down some street and her hand strongly holding his. He remembered an old skateboard she had brought him – a gift from their neighbours – and the boy from the house next door that had taken it away from him. Katze had been crying so much that he got a nosebleed and she made him a pudding with raisins to comfort him... He had those memories – many of them – then why much more often was he recalling her hateful voice when they had pushed him into the car and taken to the orphanage? He felt shame, so strong that he couldn't raise his eyes to her.

"I wanted to keep you so much, but they forced me," she continued. "These are the rules, you can't help it."

Stop whining, you little bastard... take him away, now...

"I disposed of the next one at once, I didn't want him to be the bane of my life – besides, he was born only because it was too late for abortion."

Katze wondered if she knew that Timmy had died. Most likely she didn't – and he wasn't going to tell her.

"And then there was another one, with those funny eyes. I kept him about one year, he already started to walk. He was amusing – all my friends made fun of him."

So that one wasn't a baby when they had brought him to the orphanage, Katze thought with a strange regret. He could have seen him, he wondered how he would have felt watching the boy big enough to walk and, perhaps, even talk a bit... amusing, she said...

"With what funny eyes?" he asked mechanically.

"A?" she seemed distracted. "Yeah, he had different-colored eyes, I've never seen anything like that."

"What?"

He didn't notice as his hand moved, just as if he were trying to shield from her.

"What what?"

"What you said, say it again."

"He had different-colored eyes – anything else you want from me?"

It couldn't be that. He firmly rejected this thought. And what could she remember – she had said it herself, she didn't remember anything. She probably just made it up – there had been no different eyes, there couldn't have been. Different eyes – really rare, hardly ever happened...

And that was the problem.

"There is nothing special about him," Iason's voice surfaced in his memory, "but different eyes, it's quite interesting. We'll have to tell Hazall that it's a specially engineered breed."

"What was his name?" Katze whispered. He intended to say it aloud, but his voice faltered.

"I don't remember." This time she didn't seem to pretend. "No, I don't remember. Why?"

It was a good question.

What did he need it for? To have it shoved in the face after all these years when he'd been trying with all his might to separate from his past?

He regretted so much that he had asked that question at all, that he had started all that.

"I don't want to remember any of them," his mother spoke. "You're my favourite son anyway, liebe, you'll always be my favourite son..."

She smiled stroking his hands – and he shuddered, but not with her touch. With disgust that he felt for himself. He turned away and quickly headed for the door. Her voice was still echoing in his ears, repeating the words he didn't want to hear:

"You're my favourite son..."

---

He stopped by the car, resting his hand on the hood, caught by sudden weakness. For a few seconds he couldn't move, his temples soaked with sweat. Finally Katze took out his cigarettes and stuck one into his mouth. Familiar smell of smoke brought relief. He looked at his fingers – his hand didn't shiver.

There was no reason to be nervous. For a moment Katze even thought that he could delete her words from his memory, believe that he had never heard them. Once he had already done something like that, he denied that he had a brother – because loving him would hurt too much, and losing him would be unbearable.

Why shouldn't he do it again: deny the thought. Why shouldn't he forget what he had done?

A vague memory of an insolent boy from Ceres, trying to snatch a better morsel came back to him. The boy was self-confident and irritating, and needed to be taken down a peg. He was so desperate to get out of Ceres, that he was ready for everything to achieve it. And finally he lost – because the other players were simply not in his league.

"If you're thinking about getting along in the market... you'd better remember the name Katze," he recalled his own voice.

But in fact it was simple. Killie was just a boy, complete stranger – Katze refused to accept the other option. He really should forget what his mother had said, he knew how to forget, it worked very well with him. Some time would pass and he would find other problems, other matters to solve.

He sat in the car, turned the key, then froze again. Of course, he should go home. But the thought which way to go to get a certain answer was too nagging. He couldn't push it out of his head anymore.

You can find out everything... But at the same time he knew with deadly certainty that he didn't want to find out.

But of course he went there – it wasn't far away – he parked the car in front of a door with a plate "Kairu May Orphanage".

He'd been coming here in the past few years, on business – it was even giving him some masochistic pleasure. So little changed about this place – even the color of the walls was the same; he remembered everything here, he remembered what they had done to him and what they had forced him to do. And watching teachers and the headmaster – different ones, but it didn't matter – fawning on him because he was in charge of the orphanage provision and contacts with important people – it was... comforting.

They admitted him at once.

"How can I help you?" the headmaster, a little rat-guy with round glasses rubbed his hands nervously. "Any problems with the payment?"

"I need to see the files of pupils – nineteen-seventeen years old."

"Of course, of course." He didn't even ask for the reason for such need, demonstrating his unconditional obedience with all his bearing.

Of course, Katze could easily download these files from home. But most likely if he went home, he would never get down to it. And for the better. However, it still wasn't too late – until the files were loading it wasn't too late to go.

No, it already was too late.

He opened the data and ran his eyes down the list of pupils. There were many of them, he caught himself thinking – more than he'd thought. Children were still born in Ceres – just to live their lives like Romi-Sliver, like Guy and others. Few managed to get out – like him... like Riki... like...

The name suddenly flashed from the list, the very name he was afraid to see, hoped that he wouldn't see.

"Name: Killie. Mother: Theresa. Father: unknown. Accepted at the age of 1. Released at the age of 15. Not recommended for further development."

It meant he wasn't obedient and/or sharp enough to become a furniture.

So when Katze met him, he was almost seventeen... What had he been doing after being released from the orphanage? Had his mother given him that name? Did he remember anything from before the orphanage?

No, of course not... Stupid questions – he shouldn't ask them at all, he should control himself, he shouldn't allow those ideas to unnerve him – that Killie had been sitting in the same classrooms as him, that he had been locked in the same hole when they punished him...

For seventeen years Katze had never given it a thought, right? So why should he suddenly now...

He nervously crushed an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He shouldn't think, he shouldn't even allow such thoughts. That everything could have been different, if only he had known, if only then...

With a quick motion he shut the computer down and left without saying goodbye. Heavy front door slammed behind him. For a moment he even forgot that he had come here by car and simply moved down the street, but he remembered it almost at once and walked back, swearing under his breath.

It was snowing again.

---

"Snow."

A hand was outstretched as if it wanted to catch a few white flakes on the palm. Transparent wall of a glass dome seemed nonexistent, and the dim lights of Eos so close that almost within the reach.

"I love snow. It's so pure... pure like a memory... after the cleansing... easy to form in any way you wish."

Long fingers lightly brushed a carved glass of warm wine, caressing the silvery surface. He pushed away a white strand of hair, bringing the wine to his lips. For a moment the dark-red liquid reflected his perfect blondie's face, only slightly touched by time: thin lines of wrinkles around his eyes from frequent smiling.

The door opened almost soundlessly, but he heard it and turned around to see a man hastening towards him with his eyes lowered. One glance at the open notebook was enough for him.

"Well," he spoke and the smile that habitually parted his lips, didn't reach his eyes. "That's even better. Now we have means to control him. We need him... and we can use him."

>> Force Majeur – part 2

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