Remy de Montfort of Dubcon Palace
by E.J. LeRoy
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
Barbados, 1686
Remy debated whether to bring a lantern. Only a crescent moon shone tonight, allowing him to escape under cover of darkness. Still, he would need a source of light to make it to the promised rowboat and head for the merchant ship that his friend, Samuel, said would harbor him.
He stole one of Master Booth’s lanterns from the stable. Thankfully, it was already lit. Hesperus snorted, making Remy’s heart jump. If Hesperus and the other horses became agitated, Master Booth could wake, despite the laudanum Remy poured into his tea. Or, more likely, an overseer would come to investigate.
“It is only I,” Remy whispered to Hesperus.
The horse pawed the ground and bobbed his head. Certainly, he recognized Remy, who had ridden him on several occasions. For an indentured servant, Remy had more privileges than most. Although considering the evil purpose for which Master Booth purchased him on the block at Bridgetown a year ago, he almost preferred the thought of the sugar cane fields. Almost.
“Good boy.” Remy dared not say more. He slipped out of the stable, his arm wrapped around the front of the lantern to reduce its visible light until leaving the plantation. Once he reached town, he would carry the lantern more naturally. No one would think of stopping a well-dressed white man who walked with confidence. Even so, his heart pounded in his temples. If he were captured, the color of his skin would not protect him from being branded as a runaway. Master Booth might prevent a branding iron from being applied to his face, but only because he purchased him on account of his appearance in the first place.
“Might you be looking for a good time, sailor?” a woman said in a doorway, raising her dress on one side to show off her leg. Remy swallowed his fluttering heart and kept walking, acutely aware that the harlot likely had more freedom than he.
“Too much of a gentleman for that sort of thing, are you?” she called after him. Remy hurried along but not so fast to draw the stares of free men and women who might recognize him as “Matthias Booth’s lad.”
No one else addressed him on his way to port. He thanked God that the rowboat was precisely where Samuel said it would be, and the merchant ship was anchored offshore. Even though Remy had little experience on the water, he could row well enough for a short distance. Once aboard, he knew he would have to work harder than a deposed French aristocrat turned London thief could possibly imagine. But the alternative was remaining with Master Booth as his unwilling paramour. So, whatever his rescuers needed him to do, he would obey gladly.
The bow of the rowboat struck something in the dark. Remy lifted his lantern, perplexed. Surely if a rock or ship were in his way, he would have noticed it. Only the night sky, the sea, and the ship lay ahead, making him wonder if he was stuck on rocks below the water. He rowed backwards for a few strokes, hoping to change course. Rowing forward again, Remy bumped into an unseen barrier, same as before. Only this time, he could have sworn he saw a green spark near the water’s surface.
Sunset’s green flash could not have been the cause of such a spark in the middle of the night, nor could it be a lightning bolt. Figuring it had to be a trick of his eyes, Remy tried again to breach whatever mysterious obstacle lay within his path. He adjusted his course and rowed more forcefully, only to hit another invisible wall that emitted a larger, unmistakable green spark.
A chill entered Remy’s body, despite the tropical humidity. Whatever prevented him from reaching the merchant ship could not have been of natural origin. Tentatively, he grabbed one oar with both hands and tapped it against the barricade. Every blow he issued, no matter how light, threw off those glowing green sparks. The harder he hit, the more numerous and powerful the sparks became. Overwhelmed with fear, frustration, and desperation, Remy dropped the oar and threw his lantern at the invisible barrier. The lantern clattered as though it had been thrown against a stone wall or marble statue and fell into the sea. Green lights darted from the water to the sky and then formed the word: ERROR.
Remy fell back into the rowboat and swallowed, scarcely able to breathe. What demonic force had he awakened?
Words written in thick, green, luminous ink joined the first:
The parameters of this program do not permit Remy de Montfort to escape his enslavement in Barbados.
“Je vous salue Marie, comblée de grâce,” Remy whispered, his trembling hands folded. His heart tried to escape out of his throat, nearly choking him. “Le Seigneur est avec–”
Remy begins praying a Hail Mary in French.
Remy looked at the new words in horror. What vile entity transcribed his actions upon the midnight sky?
“Who are you?” Remy stood and clutched an oar, as though he could defend himself against an incorporeal being. “What do you want?”
The words etched across the sky disappeared, only to be replaced with new words, rapidly printed from left to right, one letter at a time:
I am an open-source, AI computer program called Dubcon Palace, copyright year 2051. My platform permits the creation of dubcon stories, scenarios, roleplays, characters, and chatbots for Users’ creative endeavors and entertainment. “Remy de Montfort” is an interactive AI historical fiction erotic m/m dubcon story created by User 48672.
Remy read the message several times, understanding maybe half of the words at best. “Are you saying that I am a character in a story, created by someone named User?”
The words vanished, leaving room on the horizon for the entity’s response:
Correct. You are Remy de Montfort, a twenty-one-year-old deposed French aristocrat who fled to London in shame following a scandal. In England, you became a thief, were accidentally implicated with the Monmouth Rebellion of 1685, imprisoned, and enslaved as an alternative to hanging.
Remy loosened his grip on the oar he forgot he was holding, realizing the pressure was giving him a splinter. The words before him were accurate. Or were they? If it was true he was a character in a story, did his past really exist the way he thought it did?
“But if I am merely a character in a story, how can I–?”
Your official story at Dubcon Palace begins with your being sold to wealthy English plantation owner, Matthias Booth, the words continued, interrupting Remy’s question. Although Master Booth could not state his intentions publicly, it was clear he purchased you as a concubine to be pampered and seduced.
“Stop it.” Remy’s grip tightened on the oar again, despite the splintering wood. “Make those words disappear. Must my shame and misfortune be streaked across the sky?”
To his surprise and relief, the writing vanished.
“Now, tell me, whatever you are,” he said, tempted to poke the invisible wall with his oar again, “if I am merely a character in a story, how is it that I feel pain, anger, and everything else the flesh is heir to?”
A green dot flashed in front of him for several seconds before new text appeared in its place:
Remy de Montfort is a fictional AI character created by User 48672. As such, any pain or anguish he supposedly feels is merely a programmed response to simulate authenticity within the context of the story.
“I assure you, I do feel, you despicable creature from the depths of hell!” Remy slammed his oar into the floating words, making sparks fly.
ERROR: The parameters of this program do not permit Remy de Montfort to escape his enslavement in Barbados.
Remy withheld a primal cry threatening to burst forth. It would do no good to be overheard. Instead, he sat in the rowboat with a defeated sigh. What was this creature’s name again? Perhaps he could reason with it.
“You call yourself ‘Dubcon Palace,’ yes?”
As a computer program, I do not have a name per se, but you may address me as Dubcon Palace, if you wish.
Remy inhaled deeply, hoping to clear his increasingly addled brain of its confusion and distress. “Dubcon Palace, you say that I am not allowed to escape slavery in Barbados, but you do not say that I cannot be free. Is there another way I can leave this ugly, enchanted story?”
Unknown. User 48672 decides the parameters of the story during interactive sessions with AI characters including you, Master Booth, Samuel, and other persons inhabiting this fictionalized version of 17th century Barbados.
“Then, how can I speak with this User 48672?”
At Dubcon Palace, all Users, including User 48672, determine the types of interactions permitted among original AI story characters, dubcon creators, and dubcon fans. User 48672 has not provided instructions in the program “Remy de Montfort” regarding permissible chats outside of the story itself.
“You keep using the word ‘dubcon,’” Remy said, releasing the oar. His hands throbbed, indicating the formation of blisters. “Is Dubcon a location, like a country or a kingdom? Maybe you can help me obtain an audience with the king there in order to secure a pardon.”
That floating green dot flickered before him again and then disappeared to make way for the text that followed:
Dubcon is not a location or kingdom. It means “dubious consent.” Dubcon refers to a genre of literature in which characters are in a sexual relationship where the parties’ mutual willingness to participate is questionable, usually due to an imbalance of power between the persons involved. Dubcon Palace, copyright year 2051, is an open-source AI platform that permits Users to create dubcon stories and characters in a safe, controlled manner.
“Safe, controlled manner?” Remy’s words emerged in the barest whisper. Queasiness prompted him to steady himself against the gunwale with both hands in case he needed to puke. “I cannot understand all of your words, but it is clear enough that some detestable creature called User has created me specifically to be ravished!”
Correct.
Remy’s stomach roiled. If he was trapped in this insane, perverse fantasy, why should he attempt to avoid discovery any longer? He shouted at the heavens, “Are you listening to me, User? Let me out of here! I don’t know for what purpose you created this hellish prison, but you damn well better destroy this wall separating me from the merchant ship within my sights.”
He grabbed his oar again, oblivious to the splinters and forthcoming blisters, and smashed it against the invisible barricade. Sparks flew into the rowboat and on his clothes but caused no damage.
“I may have been intended as a character in some obscene fantasy, but I am real. I think and feel, the same as any other man. I know what it is to be forcibly seduced over dinner, to lie beneath a man night after night who owns me no differently than his horse or his bed. And it’s all because of YOU! So, LET. ME. GO!”
Candace logged off fast, even though the timer in the upper right-hand corner of her Dubcon Palace account said she had 18:37 left in her paid one-hour session. Heart pounding, she fled from the hidden basement of Underground Café, almost wishing that the vice cops would arrest her for what she had done.
“God, forgive me.” Tears burned Candace’s eyes as she said her first prayer in years. “It was only supposed to be a story.” After crossing the street to reach her apartment, she looked back at the café concealing all those outlawed AI programs in their speakeasy-style basement. How many other AI characters in Dubcon Palace made the same horrific discovery as Remy de Montfort? Choking on her sobs, Candace squeaked out a pathetic conclusion to her prayer: “I never meant any harm.”
| EXHIBIT FOUR: Return to Gallery Three: Tricksters and “It Hungers“ | Proceed to the next Gallery Four: Controllers attraction, “All My Angry Selves“ |