Beowulf's Children Part 26

Edgar Sikes slept alone in his room off the main communications center. He had another domicile, out at Surf's Up, but spent little time there. Most of his personal possessions-such as they were-were here in his little cubbyhole. It was cluttered and overstuffed. He rarely had visitors. Most of the time he was in the computer center, or in his room reading. He'd been reading a James Bond metabook when he went to sleep.

Something hit his door three times, hard enough to rattle it. He sat up with visions of SMERSH a.s.sa.s.sins dancing through his head.

Trish Chance was an impressive sight. Five foot ten of brown-skinned feminine muscle, her body was almost-but not quite-a parody of the female form. When he opened the door she brushed past him, b.u.t.tocks sliding pleasantly past his, as if she were dancing with an inexpert partner. She turned as if posing. The muscles in her arms and shoulders shifted and separated like the coils of a spring.

In the crowded environs of this room, she was d.a.m.ned near overpowering. The only girl who had shared a bed with Edgar Sikes, once and nevermore. She smiled at him, and closed the door behind her.

She wore a formfitting pair of black denims, and a white ruffled shirt so tight across the chest that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s threatened to explode through the cloth. She smiled at him, lips curling up at the corners like those of a jungle eat who has spotted something extremely edible.

Edgar's throat tightened until he could barely swallow. "Ah-hi Trish," he said, startled by his own daring. Why was she looking at him like that?

She crossed the room to sit beside him on his narrow cot. It creaked at their combined weight. He sat too, and her thigh was only an inch from his. She wore some kind of sweet, musky oiled essence. Her skin had a soft, almost golden sheen in the dim light.

Trish was part of Aaron's inner circle. What was she doing here? "Is there something I can . . . do for you?"

In answer she leaned forward. What happened next was so shocking, and so powerful, that when she finally pulled back it took almost a full minute for his brain to get back into gear. He had never been kissed like that. His experience with kissing-or anything else to do with women-was scant. Yet and still he would have wagered either kidney that no more thorough kiss had ever been given-or gratefully received-in the history of the universe.

He leaned forward urgently, hands questing for something to hold on to-preferably Trish's extraordinary b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She held him away gently but firmly. In that instant he verified what he had always suspected-that Trish was much stronger than he. Why didn't that make him less a man?

Because his masculinity was so painfully self-evident that it could have withstood anything short of a hurricane without withering noticeably; and because Trish was saying, "You're going to get everything that you want-and more." Her hand slid between his legs. She started a silky stroking movement.

He whined. He hated to hear the sound of it coming from his own throat, but undeniably, there it was. Oh, G.o.d-he hoped he didn't start to whimper and beg.

"Please . . ." he whimpered. Maybe strong women liked whimpering. He was in a state to try anything. Dammit, she wouldn't let him any closer.

If she kept stroking like that, in another moment it wasn't going to make any differ- She stopped, fingertips still touching. He felt like a violin string in the last moments of a Vivaldi concerto. A weird notion danced through his head: that Trish in his room was some last legacy from what he could not cease to remember as a neat array of clean bones . . . from the woman who would have been his father's wife. For just this once, for Linda, he would believe in life after death.

"First," she said softly. "First I need to know what kind of man you are."

"Whatever kind you want," he said, and believed he meant it.

"I want to know," she said, and her eyes bored into him. "I want to know if you're the kind who believes in revenge."

He withered. She couldn't know why; and he was thinking again. Not Linda. Aaron must have sent her; nothing else could have. And Edgar Sikes did believe in revenge.

Oh G.o.d. Her hand felt so good. She smelled so good. It had been so long. He pulled back a little to see her face.

"Yes," he said. On Aaron Tragon!

"Good," she said, and began to unb.u.t.ton her blouse. "There's something that Aaron wants you to do."

"Aaron . . . ?" he asked inanely. But then she had bent him back flat on the bed, and her hands were unbuckling his belt with practiced precision, and her left nipple was in his mouth. And all he could think of was: I'll believe in the Tooth Fairy, or the Easter Bunny, or Dianetics . . . but not in Aaron Tragon. But Trish, Trish, you don't have to know that! Not ever.

She knew it. Ruth could see that. Aaron was reining Zodiac back, letting her win. Chamels weren't quite as fast as horses, and Aaron was a fine horseman, but by the time they were halfway across the plowed field, she knew that she was going to win.

She knew it. Knew it! Well, whatever his little joke was, she was going to get full measure of satisfaction from her victory. She'd make him take her to one of the notorious Surf's Up bashes, that's what she'd do.

She would arrive with him, on his arm- "Hiyahhh!" She looked around, and saw that Aaron had suddenly stopped playing, he was letting Zodiac have her way, and the mare was charging powerfully, head down, feet digging into the soil and ripping up great clots of earth, Aaron bent into the saddle, urging the quarterhorse on and on.

Ruth heard a little yip of fright escape her throat. For a time Tarzan kept his lead, and then Aaron slipped past her just as they entered the shadow of the grove, and she had lost.

She reared Tarzan around, and brought him to a halt. One thing at least-chamels could change direction or stop faster than horses. She slipped down his back and patted his muzzle, calming him, stroked the great, trembling hind legs. Tarzan stretched and folded down into a sitting position. Where shadows dappled his back, his color had begun to change.

Aaron returned on foot, leading Zodiac by the reins.

"You know," he said, "I think that chamels will actually be better for hunting than horses. They're more flexible in the brush."

"And almost as fast on the straight," she said.

He was very close to her. G.o.d, her whole body was shaking. She wasn't certain that they had ever been this close together. Not alone, anyway. He was breathing very hard, and sweating. His sweat smelled very . . . male.

"So," she said, a little frightened by her own daring. "Exactly what reward do you claim?"

He leaned nearer until she thought that he was going to kiss her. She moistened her lips, and tilted her face up, and when his face was only an inch away, he said: "I want you to serve the food."

She felt her face drop, her entire body freeze with disappointment.

Then he added: "First."

They spread the picnic blanket. Aaron handed her his backpack.

Her hands were shaking. She was trying so hard to do everything perfectly, to bring a dancer's grace to every tiny motion. But every part of her was too aware that he was watching, every inch of her skin was too sensitive, felt his touch even though they were separated by feet. She kept speeding up, and he, with infinite patience, kept reminding her to slow down.

"We have all the time in the world," he said.

She set out the carefully packed plates, and the carefully wrapped food, and the carefully wrapped utensils. "Slowly," he said. "You have to make sure that everything is in its place. Everything is exactly where it needs to be."

She nodded, feeling feverishly hot.

They ate. There was no moment when his eyes met hers, and she wanted to scream, wanted to throw the food down and throw herself into his arms, wanted to feel his lips and hands and tongue all over her body, just like she'd read in the books, seen in the holos. She longed to do the same for him. Please G.o.d, please, let this be the time, now, here . . .

But her silent pleas went unheard. He continued to concentrate on his food, eating as slowly and carefully as if it were a tea party.

She watched his hands. So large and strong. They moved with such certainty. Such strength. Hands like that could do anything, could take anything that they wanted.

She thought she was going to die. Please . . .

"Excuse me." He broke the silence for the first time in five agonizing minutes.

touch . . .

"Would you hand me the b.u.t.ter?"

me. I love you so . . .

She nodded silently, and grasped the small platter, extending it to him. His hand reached out, and their fingers met.

And their eyes. And she was falling forward.

And then their lips.

And then it was everything, every moment she had hoped for, so exhilarating that even the brief, sharp pain as he eased into her only increased the impact as dream crossed over into reality. A fierce, tender, laughing, tearful, all consuming experience.

His lips and tongue. And G.o.d, his hands. So gentle. So strong.

Hands like his could do anything. Take anything they wanted.

She thought she was going to die.

Trish Chance was bored. Aaron had a plan, sure he did, but right now his plan was to do nothing . . . and meanwhile they were trapped on the island, unable to go to the mainland, under suspicion but forced to be polite to the First.

Trish left the comm shack wearing a wide grin. Smile and smile and be a villain, she thought. She didn't have to spend all her hours sulking. Edgar was an eager student-and so grateful, too. And everyone was so surprised! The comm shack was centrally located, which meant it was near everyone's place, and if Trish kept visiting Edgar everyone on the island was going to know it.

Her grin faded when she saw Carolyn McAndrews approaching with a purposeful look. Carolyn had tried to adopt Trish in the early days, when no one was quite sure how to raise the Bottle Babies. Trish had been ten years old, and eager to have a permanent home rather than the communal nursery. But not that eager, not in that home.

Now Carolyn was coming at her. "Trish!" she called.

Trish slowed, hoisted a smile into place. "Hi, Carolyn."

"Have you got a minute to talk?"

"Sure. What's up?"

Carolyn quieted as Julia Hortha and Manny Halperin strolled past in deep conversation. When they were out of earshot, she said, "I'm sorry things didn't work out for us, earlier-"

"It was along time ago, Carolyn, and you had your own children to take care of. I can't blame you for putting them first."

"Did I? I suppose I did," Carolyn said. "It comes of-of living alone.

Trish, I think you've fallen into a-well, a kind of role."

"A role?" Trish was genuinely puzzled. "What kind of role?"

"You and Edgar. And before that, Derik, and Terry-you were their first, sort of the Initiator."

Trish giggled. "I guess I kind of fell into that, yes. Edgar too." Her smile went exotic and mysterious. She a.s.sumed a thick and flagrantly faux accent. "I like to teach the young ones zee arts of love."

She laughed, then let it die when Carolyn didn't join in. "I did that, Trish. I slept with any man who didn't have a partner. None who did, at least not that I knew of, but a lot of men. And look what it got me."

Trish shrugged, genuinely missing the point.

"I'm alone, Trish."

"What do you mean, alone? Everybody likes you." n.o.body listens to you, she thought, but who would? Smile and smile-"You're one of the heroes of the Grendel Wars. Carolyn and the horses."

"Trish, every man would sleep with me, but none of them wanted to take me down the rapids. Now I'm getting old, and no one wants to live with me."

Sudden understanding. She must think she's my mother. "Oh, that.

That's not what I'm looking for, Carolyn."

Carolyn grasped her arm. Trish looked at the hand, and decided to let it remain there.

"Trish, it's a bad thing to be alone. Don't you want to belong to someone? To have someone who belongs to you? You have nothing but casual relationships-"

She laughed in Carolyn's face. "In a world with less than five hundred people, there is no such thing as a casual relationship. We're all family."

"Imagine yourself alone, with no defenders, at my age," said Carolyn.

Trish was incredulous. "Defenders? Defend from what? Do you think I'm going to starve in the snow without a man to protect me? n.o.body starves on Avalon. n.o.body goes without. And I'm tougher than I look, lady. I'm stronger than, almost any man here-and men aren't any better at hunting, or producing, or anything else than women are. Didn't you get the word? There was this thing called the Industrial Revolution. That made us equals, that and Zack Moskowitz's grendel guns. And then there was birth control. Maybe your mother forgot to mention it to you."

Carolyn smiled, not a thin smile but with genuine warmth. "You might be surprised at what my mother taught me. And Trish, dear, my sister and I did win places on this expedition, and we didn't owe a d.a.m.n thing to any man for that, either!"

"That's the spirit. I have to go now."

"No, wait, this is important. Trish-it's a terrible thing to be alone-"

"It's also a terrible thing to have ice on your mind," Trish said, and made as if to leave. Carolyn blocked her path, but Trish knew that she had scored a direct hit, and for the first time felt a tiny trace of remorse. She wiped it from her mind. Who gave her the right to lecture me on morals?

"I don't seem to be explaining this very well," Carolyn said. "I know they call me a hysteric, but there's more to this than you think." Carolyn struggled for words. "Sometimes hysterics has nothing to do with ice crystals in the brain."

Change in conversational direction, or change in tactics? "Sure, you can be scared into it. What was it that got you, Carolyn? Grendel fever? Seems to have done it for everyone else."

"No, not grendels. That was awful, but . . . it was earlier, Trish. When Ernst came out of cold sleep and he was a m-moron, and he barely remembered m-me. And old friends were dropping dead all around me. It turned out half of us were damaged and we couldn't be sure of the rest . . . It was Hibernation Instability. Ice on our minds, we said. We were trying to be polite!" Her eyes defocused, as if she had forgotten she was talking to another person. "We were trying to be polite . . ."

Trish had heard it before, too many times. This wasn't insulting, it was pitiful, and just plain boring. "Excuse me, Carolyn," she pushed past the older woman. "I'm almost sure I have something to do, somewhere else."

"I'm trying to help you," Carolyn said. "You're playing with something you don't understand."

"And you do?"

"I understand more than you do."

"Carolyn, I doubt that."

"I know you do. When I was your age I was sure I knew everything, too."