But looking good for her alien captors, she decided, was not her job. She couldn’t even believe it was something she had started to do, even for a second.
“Let’s go,” she told him, giving what she hoped looked like a defiant shake of her head.
* * *
Mina followed Voso, this time trying to remember the series of turns and twists that they took through the large fortress, but she could not. It was a moot point anyway, she decided. Either she would endure Trothplight, or she would end it; her captivity here was entirely the product of her own desire to win this contract.
She steeled herself again.
They passed beneath a large arch and into a great room with multi-colored stones carved in intricate patterns and windows almost two stories high that, she could now see—though barely—looked out over the ocean, which seemed to have receded. The sky was still almost indistinguishable from the ocean, and both thrashed and churned, waves and clouds alike moving quickly and angrily. Frightening streaks of heat lightning and electrical bolts passed between the two surfaces, dozens each second. It was a scene of horrifying chaos and destruction, and yet it seemed unreal: no sound, or cool air, penetrated the fortress.
But this was far from Mina’s thoughts because upon entering the room, as spectacular as the storm was, her attention had been drawn to a large table—perhaps twenty men could have sat there comfortably. Heaped upon the table were platters of food, and the sight and smell of it made her stomach growl. Hunger gripped her fiercely.
She was surprised that the smells—and indeed, many of the dishes—were familiar to her, instantly recognizable. There were, naturally, a number of alien options, but many Earth foods teased her with their sights and aromas. The equivalents of these foods were available in space, but a whole chicken, roasted and shiny with crispy, golden skin, sat on a huge platter.
Her eyes went wide with disbelief. She looked at Mozok and almost blurted out a question. Remembering herself, she instead said nothing, and looked to Voso for what she should do next.
“You may speak freely,” Mozok said, when she did. “For the duration of our dinner.”
Mina turned toward Mozok, suddenly remembering her desire to win this bizarre competition, the idea of saying something pithy occurring to her at the same time.
But she did not. Instead, she asked, “Is that a real chicken?”
Mozok seemed amused by this. He looked at the chicken. “It is.”
“Hmm,” she said haughtily, not wanting him to know that she found it impressive.
Mozok gestured at a chair at the head of the table. “Sit here, trothka.”
Mina looked at the chair, which looked very much like a throne. She walked toward it hesitantly, looking back at Voso, who jutted his chin in its direction encouragingly.
But as she approached the throne, she recognized on its armrests the same shackles from the punishment table. She stopped in her tracks and looked at Mozok suspiciously. “Those look like shackles,” she told him.
Mozok nodded economically.
She turned to Voso, then back to Mozok. “Am I to be shackled while I eat?”
Mozok smiled and tipped his head. “Unless you wish to end Trothplight.”
Mina glared at him and stood up as straight as she could, striding to the throne and theatrically placing her arms along the armrests, wrists aligned with the shackles. “I do not,” she said haughtily.
The shackles closed around her wrists, and she felt the distinct heavy force of her shoes as they froze to the floor the way they did previously when Mozok had first spanked her.
Her hunger was now angrily gnawing at her, but she fought to dismiss it from her mind. She would simply not let Mozok have the satisfaction. “Well,” she said. “It’s twisted. But I was trying to watch my weight anyway.”
Mozok and Voso seemed to move as a single entity, standing behind the chairs at either side of her, pulling them out as they chanted something in unison, and then seating themselves at either side of her.
Mozok began to pile food, mostly her favorites—which she wondered how he had known about—onto her plate. The scent was overwhelmingly delicious, almost making her dizzy, but she stared at him stonily.
“Trothplight,” he said, as he piled them, “is not ordinarily a commercial transaction. Parliament, I must say, was quite displeased with me for proposing it to you, as they believe it is a sacred ritual.” He looked up at her. “I am sure someone as cynical as yourself can appreciate that I am not such an individual.”
Mina thought she saw something like a kindred twinkle in his eye, but she forced herself to look at her plate of food, feigning, as best as she could, disinterest. “Sure,” she said.
“In Trothplight, the males are to demonstrate to the female that they can provide for her every need, if she can submit to their control. The Herstrakaa and Draquun societies are organized in this way, and both males and females are satisfied more fully by this relationship. It appeals to deeply embedded evolutionary forces.”
He waited for her response. She scowled at him. “Right,” she said. “It sounds to me, if I may speak freely, like the men are probably a lot more satisfied by this relationship than anyone else.”
Mozok smiled again and leaned back in his chair.
