Excerpt from "Duty" by Pat Jacquerie

The story up to this point: Avon and Tarrant are returning to Xenon Base 
from some unsuccessful negotiations when they're forced to crash land 
Scorpio on a non-Federated planet, Fargone. This is an agricultural planet 
that's considering resisting Federation takeover, and one of the members 
of Fargone's oligarchy, Rowan, takes them to his corporate plantation, 
agreeing to repair Scorpio.  At dinner that day, Tarrant makes an 
unintentional faux pas, revealing he's just under twenty-five, a statement 
which obviously shocks everyone present senseless. In the scene that 
follows, Rowan takes Avon to his study to explain why, while Tarrant 
spies on the conversation through a convenient connecting door, hoping 
that Avon can talk them out of whatever fix they've gotten into.... 


Rowan paced the elegant parquet floor of the study, crossing and 
recrossing Tarrant's narrow field of vision, hands clenched tightly behind 
his back. From his agitation it was obvious that whatever taboo he'd 
inadvertently tripped over had to be major.

=I hope you can talk our way out of this one, Avon.=

In contrast, Avon stood quietly beside the desk that dominated the room, 
no emotion save cool interest evident in his expression. After several 
moments passed without any cessation of Rowan's movements, he said 
mildly, "Perhaps if you told me the problem."

Rowan halted, and after a momentary hesitation, circled the desk and sat 
down. He folded his hands in front of him on the desk top and, even at this 
distance, Tarrant could see that his knuckles were white from the 
convulsive clenching of his fists. "You told me that Tarrant was your 
associate."

"That's correct."

"But he's not--a =man=." Rowan blurted out the statement in an 
embarrassed rush, with an odd sort of emphasis, not as if he were talking 
about age or gender, but as if separating animals from sentient species.

"Perhaps you had better explain." Avon might not qualify as a social 
person, but in situations such as this, when a persistent quest for 
information was called for, he could show an almost unnatural patience. 
"Unfortunately, we're not familiar with your customs."

And calling that "unfortunate," Tarrant reflected, probably qualified as one 
of Avon's more outstanding understatements.

"He's not a man," Rowan said again. Like a person who enunciated clearly 
and loudly in a vain attempt to communicate with someone who didn't 
speak his language, he appeared to be hoping that mere repetition would 
get his meaning across.

"Can you be more specific?" If Rowan had been one of the crew, Avon's 
voice would've dipped into the danger zone by now, but as it was, he kept 
it admirably even, nearly without inflection.
	
With what seemed a major effort, Rowan regained a semblance of 
composure. "Young males are violent, at the mercy of their hormones, 
dangerous to society."

"Possibly true." Avon looked thoughtful and Tarrant wondered uneasily 
what incident his crewmate was calling up from memory. "So?"

"They must be kept under control." Rowan resembled an Old Calendar 
minister, ready to mount a pulpit and declaim the holy writ.

"Tarrant =is= under my control," Avon said calmly.

The young male in question found himself clenching his teeth. Avon had to 
say that, of course, but....

"I do not believe we mean the same thing by that, Avon." Rowan halted 
his pacing temporarily and looked at Avon as if in sudden hope. "Unless 
you are having--" He seemed to be searching for a suitable term that 
foreigners could understand. "--sexual relations with your young male?"

For a space of seconds, the mask of impassivity dropped from Avon's face. 
"No, I am not," he snapped. Then a moment later, apparently realized his 
mistake. 
	
Not that Tarrant could blame him. He'd have said the same, and twice as 
emphatically.

"I thought not." But Rowan clearly was disappointed. "I am not ignorant 
of Federation custom, Avon, but this is how we handle these matters here. 
Certainly we could not let young males near women until they're properly 
socialized."

Tarrant had the feeling Avon might actually agree with that statement, 
considering caustic commentary he'd made in the past.

"So you use," Avon appeared to be choosing his words carefully, "sexual 
intercourse as a means of control?"

"It's the best method," Rowan said seriously. "It allows an outlet for their 
overactive hormonal urges and demonstrates in the clearest possible way 
who is in command."

To Tarrant, it sounded like, =We fuck them into obedience.= 
Remembering the mysterious bruises on a few of the young male servants, 
he wondered if that didn't include beating them into compliance, as well. It 
probably depended on the taste of the one doing the commanding.

"But we are not from Fargone." Avon sounded like he didn't expect to be 
heeded. They both knew that every society was convinced their own 
mores were universal--a visceral conviction that had little to do with 
reality or logic. "What if I sent Tarrant back to the ship for the remainder 
of our stay?"

Tarrant was certainly willing.

"No, Avon. As long as he is on Fargone, our laws are quite clear. Your 
young male must be..." he trailed off delicately.

=Screwed is the word you're looking for.= Which was precisely how 
Tarrant felt, too.

"If you don't wish," Rowan cleared his throat. "That is, I can always assign 
one of my own men to act as his temporary warder."

=No=. Tarrant fought down panic. Given this choice, what would Avon 
do? But, come to think of it, handing him to a Fargonean would probably 
be the best idea...he'd rather deal with a "master" he'd never have to see 
again after the fact. He didn't really need to be giving Avon a reason to 
think of him as less than an equal, a dangerous idea if ever Tarrant had 
heard one.

"Tarrant is =mine=." A suggestion of a snarl colored Avon's voice. Tarrant 
wasn't entirely certain he liked hearing himself referenced in the tones 
Avon generally reserved for Orac, Scorpio, and other inanimate objects he 
claimed as his own.

Avon continued in a more even tone, "If the appearance will suffice...."

Rowan shook his head, and suddenly Tarrant remembered the surveillance 
equipment in their room, equipment apparently a permanent fixture. 
Fargone didn't leave the fulfillment of civic duty to chance or whim, it 
seemed. From the expression on Avon's face, he'd drawn an identical 
conclusion.

"Perhaps you'd like to think about it," Rowan suggested. He glanced out 
the window, where the sun had sunk only about halfway toward the 
horizon. Dinner had been served in early afternoon and several hours of 
daylight remained. 

Avon nodded slowly. "I should consult Tarrant about his wishes."

Rowan looked taken aback at the concept, then quickly recovered. "Of 
course. Perhaps you would meet here before supper and let me know what 
you've decided? If you truly are set against this, Avon, one of my own men 
will be happy to oblige."

Avon's voice was curt. "I'll let you know."

Clearly, the discussion was over. Tarrant scrambled for the door, wishing 
to reach their quarters before Avon for appearances sake, if no other 
reason. On the way, he prepared himself for what was bound to be an 
unpleasant conversation.