Episode One Rude Awakening

P lanet Earth

Year 2275…

Alliana

"Senator Quarren requests your services immediately." My wrist-comm wakes me from a sound sleep. "Douche first."

I jump out of bed and hurry to the bathroom. The words "immediately" and "douche first" don't go well together, but I'll do my best to hurry. I always do.

Perhaps it's good I have to rush so I don't have time to think. I'll be in such a hurry I won't have much time to think about the Senator's disgusting, wrinkly balls. Gross. My older sisters and I used to joke about it, but they both left home last year and their husbands don't allowed us to speak to each other anymore.

They were placed as brides with high-ranking officials. That left father with a fatter bank account and allowed us to move two floors higher. He's closer to the most powerful people in the Tower now, which was always his aim.

In the past, the Senator told me not to worry about hair and makeup. He never explained, but I think his urgency is spurred by his fear he'll lose his morning erection if I take more than a few minutes to get to his home.

After I cleanse myself, I drag a brush through my hair, pull on my white traveling gown, and hurry out the door.

I'm in Tower One, acknowledged throughout the Up Above as where the highest-ranking people on Earth live. The Senator is only eight floors above me.

Streaking through the hallways, I'm not stopped by any of the guards because of my traveling gown. The diaphanous white shift leaves nothing to the imagination. The guards don't hide their stares, leering as their gazes flick from my pale pink nipples to the hairless V at the top of my thighs.

If I were wearing other clothing, I'd be stopped and questioned. But the gown is a signal I'm on my way to fulfill my duty. The guards don't mess with me, knowing they'll face the wrath of someone far more powerful than themselves if they delay me by even one second.

When the elevator stops, before the doors are fully open, I leave it at a full run. I'm now torn between arriving out of breath with my hair disheveled or keeping the Senator and his fragile erection waiting.

One of his servants is waiting outside his door, ready to pull it open and usher me inside the moment I arrive.

I've been here dozens of times before, so I barely glance around at the priceless treasures displayed on every wall and flat surface. My mission is clear—get to his bedroom at the speed of light.

I barely notice his wife, who is standing in the corner naked. It struck me some time ago that he must create imagined punishments for her whenever he summons his morning female. It seems designed to shame her.

From what I'm told, she's his third wife, maybe in her thirties, which is far too old for his liking. Rather than let her sleep in while he dallies with his morning's choice, he strips her and orders her to watch from the corner.

Once, I tried to give her an "I'm sorry" glance, but she just looked away. Although it shouldn't be her shame that she was ordered into the corner, her husband has made this her fault rather than his own. I don't want to make her feel even worse, so that was the last time I did more than dart my gaze in her direction.

I'm not allowed to talk to my sisters, but I doubt they're faring better in their new marriages than the Senator's wife. I have no illusions about what's in store for me when I turn 18 in a few weeks. My father has put me up for bid in all the best marriage auctions.

I heard our cooks talking once. One of them said the average age of the bidders was 62. That wouldn't be too bad. Far better than Senator Quarren, who must be well over 80.

I scratch with my nail on his bedroom door, as he instructed me years ago, and he screams, "Come in! What are you waiting for?"

As soon as I enter, he yells, "Strip!" and points to his cock, already drooping in the few minutes since I received his comm.

As I pull off my gown, he sits on the edge of the bed and says, "Suck."

He's pissed, and his choice of positions doesn't bode well. He has better leverage this way to force me all the way down on his semi-hard cock. By the ruddy color of his face and the thin line of his lips, he'll take pleasure in gagging me and depriving me of oxygen.

I hate mornings like this.

I kneel between his bony legs, and despite rushing since I awoke this morning, everything in my mind slows down. Instead of thinking about the task at hand, I'm focused on the wall in our living room.

When I was very young, before my father put my mother in the Punishment Tower with the other women who displeased their husbands, I didn't know what all the objects were that had earned a place of honor on that wall.

Later, when I saw women in the hallways, their nethers locked in more modern versions of the items in my living room, I realized what they were. My older sister Daisy even named them once. Chastity belts.

My father collected antique versions. Knowing what their purpose was didn't stop me from standing on the couch to touch them when no one was around. I even had enough time once to play with one of the locks. I'll never forget my feeling of accomplishment when I felt the tumblers lock into place.

It's with the same feeling of certainty, as if a tumbler is clicking into place, as if something is irrevocably changed, that I feel something shift inside my mind.

"No," I say softly even as my body bends to kneel.

Squatting, stopping in my downward movement, my ass in midair, I say more firmly, "No."

I don't know what nudged the tumblers of my mind. Perhaps I'll never have a clue what made the shift. One second I was thinking about the Senator's antique cock shoving past my lips, his wrinkly balls banging against my throat, and the next, I simply refused.

"No?" His aged voice cracks in that angry pitch old men get when they're furious.

I stand to my full height, which is exactly five feet tall. My mother, before she was sent to the Punishment Tower, told me my father determined my height. That means he forced her to have genetic manipulations. I think I was designed to be as non-threatening as possible with my five-foot stature, snow white hair and lashes, and remarkably fair skin.

Standing now, my shoulders tip back as I shake my head. "No."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I expect him to sputter, to order me again and again to do his bidding. I'm braced for not only a backhand, but a full-on punch. He does none of those things.

Perhaps I forgot this man was born to power and is used to being obeyed. A simple voice comm will result in another girl arriving at his door within minutes. Someone younger. Definitely someone more compliant. Why would he bother to argue with me?

"Your father is going to be pissed. I imagine he'll kill you for refusing me. That won't serve any of us," he says, his voice steady. "I'm going to summon my head of security, Bleeker. He'll take you to the surface and leave you there."

He's barely looking at me, more concerned with jacking his cock between his thumb and one finger. Trying to nurse his erection back to life even as he delivers his severe decree.

"Because I'm a nice man, and because I was planning on bidding for you in the marriage auction, I'll send Bleeker to retrieve you in 14 days. If you're at the appointed spot, he'll return you here. I have no doubt you'll be much more compliant—if you're still alive."

He looks… gleeful. With all of his abuses to me, my sisters, countless other women, even his wife—wives—was he waiting for a moment like this where he could display his full and complete power over a tiny woman like myself?

"I'm going to enjoy this. If you get back, I'll be able to buy you at a discount and no one will bat an eye when I do whatever I want to you."

The surface? Down Below?

"Do you have any idea what awaits you down there?" He lifts one eyebrow in question while he sneers at me. "Animals. Monsters . You think your little bedroom duties here aren't enjoyable? Wait until those abominations get hold of you. You'll be lucky to live through your first night."

Hundreds of years ago, when the planet became so polluted, the air so befouled, the infrastructure so ruined, the elites of the world created the Up Above.

It consists of one hundred towers scattered across the Earth. They're built so tall they rest above the smog and pollution. Only the richest could buy their way in, but they soon realized they needed staff to wait on them, to do the maintenance, to keep the Towers clean.

So others "bought" their way into the lower floors of the towers by selling their daughters to the elite. The commodity for daughters was beauty. For the security and maintenance sectors, the males were sold for brawn.

My father came from a long line of social climbers, most of whose sons died of suspicious causes shortly after they were born and whose daughters grew more beautiful with each generation. That's how we've risen all the way to the 80 th floor instead of still being on the first, among the lowest class.

Down Below evolved in different ways. It's whispered that people mutated because of the chemicals in the water and food supply. I know little about it. The news doesn't mention the existence of the Down Below. But the elite know what's going on down there.

I'm still in shock. I can't believe saying one word—no—to this powerful man brought about this life-changing event.

Only a moment after the Senator calls Bleeker, his head of security, the burly man barges into the bedroom. Through a foggy haze, I only hear half of what they're saying to each other. I have the presence of mind to pull my gown back over my head, not that it will provide any protection from the elements or prying eyes.

"Come," Bleeker says, yanking my upper arm so hard I'm certain it will leave bruises. "You've earned yourself a trip Down Below. Good. You'll be a lesson for all women who dare to think of refusing a man."