Raven Marina

The carriage follows the boulevard down into a tunnel, whisking me under the city to my regular spot. As royalty from my homeworld, I take some solace in being around a mix of characters at Raven Marina. Nothing like the stiff, feelingless upperclass back home. It's quite moderate: far from the most depraved part of Zephyria, though I don't dare imagine how depraved it can truly get. I've learned, from coming here regularly, that people flock to this place to party and unwind. Most importantly, it's far enough from the Embassy Compound that I know there's no chance I'll be recognized.

I step out into the transport hub, the warm breeze from the lake soothing against my skin. I take a deep breath—while I still can—and savor the environment. I wouldn't hear laughter and joy like this in the stuffy compound, let alone the pumping bass thrumming up through the pavement. I feel the vibrations tingling through my feet.

It's time to get dressed.

I make my way from the transport hub to the nearest Wardrobe Machine. They're everywhere; the only legal dispensers of laminate. There are even a few in the Compound—a gift from the Torean government when the Embassy was first built—but no one from Aetheria would ever dare touch one. I roll my eyes as I step up to it.

As practiced, I stuff my diplomatic ID chit deep into my pocket and pull out my resident ID: an expensive, illegal precaution, but absolutely necessary to keep my identity hidden once I'm in laminate. I've loaded it generously with local credits, so money is never a concern.

I select my usual outfit: a jet-black slavesuit.

That familiar twinge sparks through me again, a hot little shiver that pools low in my belly.

A slavesuit is the perfect way to blend in: head-to-toe shiny, latex-like laminate that clings like a second skin. There are hundreds of them here, dark silhouettes moving through the crowd, and it lets me experience Slavecode without actually surrendering to real ownership. On this part of Torei, at least, my studies have drilled the three major classes into me:

• Men: rare, precious, elevated.
• Freewombs—like me: women unbound by contract, free to move through society under normal laws.
• Slaves: women owned, permanently or for a term, in servitude.

Slaves are by far the most common. Most indigenous women here are one, even if it's not immediately obvious. Some stroll about as if they were completely free—if their owner allows it. Others have been reshaped through medical science into exquisite, impossible forms, their lives extended for pleasure and service. My chest flutters at the thought, a rush of heat I have to tamp down. No—I don't want that. Not truly. I just want to taste it. To feel the edge of it without falling over.

Being Slavecoded means that, for as long as I'm sealed inside the suit, I'm treated like a ****. I have to follow the different laws: obey any legal instruction, show perfect respect to everyone I encounter. But I'm also an anonymous shadow, able to watch, to touch, to participate, and no one bats an eye. Crucially, no one cares who I really am beneath the gleaming black.