FanFiction by Lady Lorelei the Tarot Goddess

Warning: Please note that some stories may be rated NC17. If you are under the legal age of adulthood in your country of residence, or if you are offended by the idea of slash (stories containing male/male sex) or adult themes, including BDSM and other sexual kinks, please go and find something else to read.

Title Chapter: 5 Storm

Title Series:  Enemy Mine

Word Count: 2167

Author: Lady Lorelei the Tarot Goddess [email protected]

Episode Theme Music: No Leaf Clover by Metallica

Viggorli Subgenre:  science fiction/space opera

Rating Chapter: PG for nudity

Rating Series: NC17

Warning: angst

Disclaimer: I thank Viggo and Orlando for making the world a better place.

Summary: Two very strong men, emotionally scarred, thrown together by circumstance are unable to deny the fascination and attraction between them.

Feedback: will sustain me and encourage continuation of the series. Also, if the prose is too techno, I'll be happy to add a glossary. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and praise dearly craved.

Archive: my fanfic site


Enemy Mine  5) Storm


Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel
is just a freight train coming your way...

                                      ~~~ No Leaf Clover by Metallica




rested with his eyes closed against the too-bright sun, and his head leaning against the glass viewport. He rode in a service flitter, back to his master. Now with the nausea of chip modification fading, he could wonder at his feelings. On the old chip, the basic submission module he had in the slave pen, Viggo had entertained no feelings and done precisely what was asked of him. He didn’t even have a memory of the murdering rage he felt at what had been done to him.


Now that he was on Orlando’s personal chip programs, he had feelings. Not the murdering rage, but not any simpering servile eagerness either. Mostly he felt despondent about his situation – passion slave to one of the most powerful Houses on Barliwhiten – and not very hopeful about making an escape and finding his way off this planet and back home where he belonged.


His thoughts were clearer, too. Under the old chip, stringing two thoughts together had been like swimming in molasses. Now, he was able to consider his situation and his fate. He couldn’t quite pull out his escape options and examine them clearly, but he was aware of that fact. He knew it was the chip steering him away from thoughts counterproductive to pleasing his master. The left side of his mouth quirked in a wry grin.


He tried opening his eyes again. He shaded them with his hand and peered out the portal. After a moment the rushing carpet of green resolved itself into organized rows and he realized he must be looking down at a cherricado plantation. How many acres . . .? He turned and looked aft. There was nothing but trees as far as he could see. Mile upon mile of them. The flitter wasn’t moving slowly. It covered the ground at a prodigious clip.


A stab of  . . . something hit him as he realized the speed at which he approached his master. The master he hadn’t seen in over three days. He tried to analyze this feeling, tried to sort out what part of it was truly his and what part the chip’s. And all he could think of was a moment in time, when deep brown eyes rose from their total immersion in the hair of Viggo’s own arm, to met his own. Honestly, he did have a desire to see those eyes again. Even more honestly, he desired to see them filled with the same expression, the same fascination with the minutae of his body. He shuddered as ghostly fingers seemed to stroke his collarbone.


With a growl, Viggo dug his knuckles into his eyes and harshly pushed such thoughts away. Artefact of the chip, nothing more. And yet, wouldn’t the chip grant him unquestioning devotion? Being an extremely refined personalized program for the wealthy of a slave nation, wouldn’t the program coax affection and relief and simple joy out of him at the thought of seeing his master? Where was this wash of anticipation, desire, hope, and excitement coming from?


It must be the chip. Only the chip.


Viggo noted the change in speed and direction as the flitter banked and made for a cluster of buildings. What looked to be living quarters, storage barns, and equipment sheds sprung up out of the green carpet like a child’s tumbled play blocks.


The grudging respect he felt for a man who owned and ran such a huge operation, was genuinely his. Viggo honestly claimed that. And it was natural to feel nervous in anticipation of seeing the man who could issue his life or death with a mere flick of his finger. Yes, that was natural and he could own that. But when he caught sight of that blonde head and saw it turn and move in his direction, he couldn’t understand why his lips lifted in a relieved smile. The chip didn’t control gross muscle movement. However, his traitorous smile turned quickly into a grimace of concern as Master Bloom approached and came close enough to show his features. Viggo was shocked at the changes only three days had wrought in his master. His skin was sallow and hung on his skull like a death mask. His eyes were red rimmed and burning hotly from the deep pits his sockets had become. Viggo’s brain kicked into overdrive, a definite boost from his new module. Only an entire lack of sleep along with extended vigorous physical activity and probably lack of proper food would allow his mods and nanos to fall behind in the daily upkeep of his bodily health.


"Ah Viggo. So nice to see you again. I know it’s too soon after your strenuous programming, but I require your perspective."


"Yes, master," he said with a touch of respectful curiosity in his tone. He didn’t bother hiding the stupid grin that lit his features at the sound of Master Bloom’s light voice. He was too busy fighting the overwhelming urge to take that thin haggard frame and enclose it in the sturdy strength of his own arms. Definitely an artefact of the chip. Certainly the House Bloom programs would maintain a strong affection in its slaves for their master.


"What do you know of cherricadoes?"


"Well," he began, somewhat taken aback. "What everyone in the Empire knows: The fruit is utterly delicious and available no where else and no when else than when the trees ripen here on Barliwhiten." Viggo realized something very bad must be going on with the trees for Orlando to look like this. His nano's, genes, and enhancements should have kept him at peak condition through most ordinary stress, therefore he was under extraordinary stress, standing here as he was, in the middle of his orchard.  "And that, second to slaves, it's Barliwhiten’s greatest export. And of course, that the fruit harvest comes only once in 5  intergalactic standard years due to the growing season and the long year here. "


The trees were cultivated elsewhere of course by whoever had the money to throw at a conservatory to preserve the climate and soil conditions for 5 years. But the fruit from those trees was always small and sparse and the trees usually died after only a few seasons. Oh yeah, and didn't it take 5 seasons (25 intergalactic standard years) before the mature tree bore fruit for the first time?

"Well, we have a problem with this year's harvest and I confide in you merely on the off chance that your unique perspective might offer  . . . " Orlando trailed off. He scrubbed his face with his hands. Then he seemed to remember where he was and what he was doing. "It seems the spring rain, wind, and temperatures for the last 2 intergalactic years have given rise to an insecticide-resistant swarm of bore-bees. Their food of choice happens to be the cherricado. Of my 70,000 acres of cherricado trees, perhaps 20 thousand are unaffected. I have those trees covered with fine mesh nets and guarded by my house guard. And inspected daily by me."


Viggo felt another prickle of something he could not name.


"Rough estimates at present are that half the planet's crops are lost. You see of course, the financial implications."


Viggo nodded. His mouth opened. "Bio insecticide? Nanotech?"


"Oh yes, our scientists are well on their way to creating all sorts of weapons to fight these borebees. And they should have several solutions very quickly. In just a few galactic months. But you see, Viggo," Orlando's eyes were a pale amber, as though the color had been leeched out of them. "That will be too late for the current crop."


He took a breath.


“The only solution I've come up with is to ascend the trees and cut out the bees and their larvae by hand, and hope the fruit will recover enough to be edible. I know it will be B or even C grade. But with half the crop lost, surely the price will go up and maybe I'll end up with A grade prices on C grade fruit."


Viggo regarded him in silent shock as the magnitude of the disaster rolled over him. Horror. That’s what he was feeling, in sympathy for a slave-owner. For his owner. “My grandparents had an orchard," he stammered. “I mean, I know how to pick fruit. Spent my summers there. But this . . .” he trailed off, lifting a hand to indicate the disaster. “We never had insects we couldn’t kill or catch some way.”


Blonde locks waved as Orlando nodded. “Yes, we’ve sugar traps around the perimeter. The main swarm appears to be over. It’s just clean up and maintenance now.”


Orlando lifted his eyes and looked around. He noticed almost all the workers within eyesight regarding him. Viggo watched his expression turn to fury. Watched his tongue and lips muscles work - keying up his mastoid com implant .


He began in icy tones. "And what none of these fools seem to realize is that if we lose this crop, they all end up in the slave market again." His voice became louder and shook with rage. "If this crop doesn't sell, I won't be able to feed them through the winter! Get back to WORK!" he roared. Orlando flipped a knife toward Viggo then strode to an empty ladder and veritably flew up it. His own knife in hand, he quickly began attacking the small fruit with a circular swipe. A slave ran over to collect the bugs and larvae that rained down.


Viggo looked around for an empty ladder but they were all full of suddenly frantic sweating bodies coring out the borebee’s homes with rhythmic motions of their arms. He spied a cherry picker and swarmed up the metal arms then balanced on the lip of the bucket. His reach extended beyond that of the man in the bucket. The sun beat down. His head pounded in time. His arms worked ceaselessly as those around him.




After sunset, after the evening meal, after the cleared trees were covered in netting and the irrigation channels turned on, the orchard became quiet. Painkillers were passed out freely and those who had the energy went back up the ladders on a fresh set of trees, under a bank of night lights.


“Viggo,” a strange voice called from the bottom of his ladder. “Master Bloom wishes to see you.” He looked down and met the vacant eyes and weary expression of a female plantation slave. “Please come now.”


“Yes, of course,” he said. “Step aside.” When she complied he slid down the rails of the ladder and landed lightly, his legs easily absorbing the shock. He followed her back to the buildings and past them, all the while fighting down the excitement pumping adrenalin through his system. He knew he was overexhausted from the exertions, both mental and physical of this very long Barliwhiten day. So where was this rush of new energy coming from? He heaved a sigh as he entered the door of the red Lamborghini flitter. Blaming it on the chip was becoming an old and worn out excuse to his inner ear.


“Scrubber’s in there,” Orlando said as he met Viggo’s eyes and nodded to a door. He returned to issuing orders to the three men who stood facing him while he sat at a small table in what Viggo judged was the tiny vehicle’s galley.


“Samson, go rest. Sunrise is early enough. Rodgers, take us to number 18,” Viggo heard as he made his way through the door. He shut it behind himself and crossed the sleeping chamber to the ‘bath’. Water was too heavy and space-consuming to store aboard a spaceworthy flitter and waste on bathing. He let his sweat encrusted clothing fall to the floor before stepping into the sonic scrubber cubicle. In seconds he was clean. All the dirt, dried sweat, and dead skin whisked away by gentle air currents. He shook his head and stayed in for another ten second cycle before stepping back out, barely noticing the shift as the ship rose in flight.

He couldn’t bear the thought of touching the pile of nasty clothes he’d shed. He stepped over them and back into the sleeping room. It was dark. The couch was pulled out into its bed configuration. Dark eyes met his before closing. “Come to sleep.”


Viggo doused the bathlight and crossed the tiny space. He slid between the sheets and tried to remember how to breathe.


“Won’t you hold me, Viggo?” came the weary care-ridden, utterly exhausted voice in the dark.


Without a word, Viggo rolled and surrounded the thin form with his arms. Flesh met firm flesh along the length of his body. Briefly they touched chest to chest, thigh to thigh, and all was right in the world of Viggo Mortensen. Yes, all was right and good, and he just couldn’t find it in himself to blame the chip.







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