Chapter 1

There are a number of things I don't like about Mars: no open spaces, not many trees, no large bodies of water, but there is another aspect of Mars that I really don't like. The sign on the door read "Department of Human Services" (also known as DHS); what it should have said was "Slave Market". It's really kind of ironic, that little bit of obfuscation; generally speaking Marsmen (they really don't like to be called Martians) have no problem calling a slave a slave; in fact, it's written that way in a number of their laws. But for some reason the government department used as the official clearinghouse for the buying and selling of human flesh had to be called Human Services. No one ever said Marsmen were consistent, or even particularly sane for that matter.

So what am I doing about to fork over a ton of my hard-earned, mostly legit, cash on three women I don't know and who everybody will assume will be used as my sex toys? Good question. Hang around for a bit longer and we'll get to that.

Anyway, I pushed open the door, entered and was greeted by that annoying little beep announcing my arrival. God, I hate those things; but then so has every customer who ever entered a shop. Probably had little bells on the doors back in Babylon and I'm sure it was just as annoying then as it is now. Anyway, there wasn't much to see: just a bare room with the Mars Republic's Department of Human Services seal painted on one wall with its two hands reaching out to the viewer. I'm surprised some dickhead didn't have cuffs on them. Maybe that would have been a little too honest.

I guess the stupid bell did its job because before I could even get to the counter the fattest, oiliest greaseball you could imagine oozed out from the back and slithered up to the counter. What is it about slavers that they all look like they crawled out from under the same rock? Them and aircar salesmen ... tax collectors, for that matter? I suppose it takes a certain kind to deal in human misery. I haven't met a one of them yet I wouldn't put in the "better off dead" category.

"May I be of service to you, Citizen?" he said stretching out his greasy paw obviously looking for a handshake. Well he wasn't going to get one from me. I looked at the offending appendage, sniffed and turned up my nose like some snooty Domer. Hey, I can act like one of them upper-crust skanks if I have to; I even wore my best suit for this and it isn't a cheap one, let me tell you.

"I'm looking for, ah, domestic assistance," I said in the crisp, brittle tones of one the Old Dome scions. I was thirty-two standard years old, hopefully any of you Terrapors [That's what Marsmen call an Earthman and it's not a derogatory term, not really, anyway. One of the scientists on the first Mars mission coined the phrase by combining Terran and Porcus: ground hog, get it? I don't think it's that funny either but the term stuck. Being a transplant, I'm still considered a Terrapor also.] out there already know we follow the same calendar here that they do on Earth. Yeah, our sidereal day is actually about twenty-four hours and thirty-eight minutes so it plays hell knowing whether its day or night outside, but since most of us spend 99 percent of our time inside and underground, it really doesn't matter and it makes dealing with the home world much easier.

How did I get off on this tangent anyway?

Where was I? Oh yeah, I was thirty-two but looked much younger: the proverbial baby-face and not terribly imposing in any respect at one hundred and seventy seven centimeters and seventy-three kilos. So I looked like an old teen or young twenty-something, just about the perfect age for some do-nothing counselor's son out buying his first toys without daddy. It's handy since it explains why I wouldn't use daddy's name, (I'm a big boy now!) but infers that the old man is still there standing behind me. Hey, it's not my problem if they come to the wrong conclusion.

Anyway it seemed to work again since greaseball pulls his hand back without taking visible offense. Actually I'm not really sure it's possible to offend this kind of slime; maybe if you claimed they were nice to some widows and orphans but that would be about it. They treat those below them like shit and expect the same from those above them, so unless they know differently if you treat them like crap they assume you're one of their "betters".

"What sort of, ah ... assistance might you be looking for?" he asks as if he hadn't just been slighted.

"I have very definite and discriminating requirements," I sniff.

"Of course, sir." Its amazing how that 'sir' pops up once they determine you're the top dog. "I am sure we have what you require. All our ... merchandise, is top quality and absolutely guaranteed."

"Good, good. I was told you might be able to help me. My fa― I heard your office has the best quality." Might as well throw the dog a bone; it did seem to puff up his fat little chest. "Here is what I require: three girls, young, older than seventeen but no older than twenty-one. One blonde: I want her to be of average height, about the same as me I suppose. I'd also like a brunette, a tall brunette: yes as tall as you can get. The third should be a red-head, short: I like short red-heads. Do you have anything like that?" I knew he did, at least as of half an hour earlier. In my business information is critical and I don't mind paying for the best and latest. He had them and I also knew they were here on-site for the next day or two.

"Hmm, very specific, but not impossible," he burbled as he typed the info into his console. "Do you have any preferences as to, shall we say, body types."

"Well, I'm not that concerned with that," I said slowly as if thinking about it. "They all pretty much come with the same accessories, as they say. Not too heavy and not too skinny but other than that I'd like to see what you have and see if there is anything I like."

"Very good, sir. I think we have a number that would meet your requirements. Would you follow me to our viewing room?" He led me back behind the counter to a nicely appointed room with a couple of comfortable chairs facing a blank wall. "Would you please wait here while I bring in the first group of candidates?" After I waved my hand in confirmation, he left and I sat down in one of the chairs to wait. It took about ten minutes but finally the door opened and two guards carrying stun rods entered herding three blondes and lined them up against the wall followed by greaseball.

"I believe any one of these would meet your requirements, sir."

He was correct, all three of them were quite attractive and if I had been in the market for myself ― my own pleasure that is ― anyone of them would have been more than tempting. But I wasn't looking for a bed partner willing or otherwise; I was looking for a payday and the one that was going to give me that payoff was the one in the middle. My daddy always told me you never let the seller know just how much you want anything he's selling so I made a big production over inspecting each of the offerings, muttering, hemming and hawing over each one. Two were obviously scared, not that I could blame them. After all I was potentially someone who would be in complete control of their lives. I could make living a hell or maybe a not quite hell; I doubt they even considered their lives would be anywhere close to being pleasant. Fuck, what a society we had!

The third wasn't scared; she was pissed, really pissed! This was the first time I had ever seen Teresa Mari Athena Dubois in the flesh and I'll have to admit I was impressed. She was just about my height, maybe a centimeter or two shorter and massing maybe sixty kilos give or take a couple. She wasn't fat by any stretch of the imagination but curvy and well padded; especially given she had huge tits that were well beyond what was fashionable for the day. Her hips were a bit wide also, not really a big ass, just wide hips ― "birthing hips" is what my grandma would have said. Kind of surprising in this day where a sufficient amount of cash could buy you any kind of body you wanted and she definitely had the cash, or at least mommy did. The reports all said she was some kind of genius, at the very least a hell of a lot smarter than I am but then again maybe that isn't a very high benchmark to measure by. Genius or not, it was obvious she didn't spend a lot of time worrying about what her peers thought about her; my admiration moved up a notch. Her curves came with a pretty, heart-shaped face with full lips and piercing blue eyes.

It was the eyes that really grabbed me. I don't think in all my years in the army and the war I have ever seen eyes hold that much hate. If the old saying "if looks could kill" were anywhere near accurate I'd have been a walking corpse right then and there. I could tell she hadn't made her time in captivity an easy one. There were the telltale signs of stunstick strikes visible on her neck and the exposed portions of her arms; lord only know what you'd find under that plain gray tunic.