Dangerous Women Part 10

Sammy shrugged. "It's this state religion of yours. Women are either Madonnas or wh.o.r.es."

"And which are you?" he asked, deciding to hit back.

It was the right move. She gave him an approving smile. "Whichever you want."

"Oh, I doubt that. I think you're not at all accommodating," Rohan said.

Their drinks arrived. She lifted hers and smiled at him over the rim of her gla.s.s. "For an aristo, you're not at all stupid."

"Thank you. And for a stripper you're not at all common."

They clinked gla.s.ses. She sipped. Suddenly nervous, he threw his back in a single gulp. "Whoa, slow down there, caballero. Otherwise I'll be carrying you out of here."

"My driver would handle that," Rohan said.

"Yes, but he can't handle propositioning me," Sammy retorted. She picked up her menu. "Shall we order? I'm famished."

She made love as well as she stripped.

Rohan rolled off her with a gasp and a groan. Shudders still shook his body. She sat up, straddled him, and raked her mane of hair back off her face. She drew a forefinger down his nose, traced the line of his lips, stroked his neck, and then rubbed his paunch. Futilely, Rohan tried to suck in his gut. She chuckled deep in her throat, and Rohan felt his p.e.n.i.s try to respond, then collapse in defeat.

He had wanted her so badly by the time they reached her apartment deep in Stick Town, where the Flutes congregated. He had ripped off her clothes and shoved her down on the bed. Then, with clumsy fingers, he'd freed the clasps on his shirt, ripped loose his belt, pulled down the zipper, skinned his trousers over his hips, and fallen onto her. There had been little foreplay.

He reached up and gently touched that gamine little face. "I'm sorry. That probably wasn't very good for you."

"I'm sure there will be an opportunity for you to make it up to me," she said softly, and bent forward to kiss his lips. She tasted of vanilla with a hint of tequila on the back of her tongue.

He rubbed his hands across her groin, and stopped when his fingers. .h.i.t deep, twisting scars beneath the silken fur. How had he not felt them earlier? Too absorbed in his own pleasure and the sensations sweeping through his body. She froze and stared down at him.

"What-?" he began.

"I was on Insham." He yanked back his hands as if he's been the one who had applied the knife and cut away her ovaries. "Of course, I'm one of the lucky ones. Neutered beats dead." The words were flat, matter-of-fact.

He found himself making excuses, offering the party line. "It was the actions of one overzealous admiral. The government never ... we stopped it as soon as word reached us."

"But not before three thousand seven hundred and sixty-two children were killed. Do you know how many are left?" He stared up at her, at the glitter in her eyes, and shook his head. "Two hundred and thirty-eight."

"You know the exact count?" It was inane, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Oh yes."

"How did you ...?"

"One of your soldiers saved me. Me and a few other children. He guarded the nursery, shot and killed other s.p.a.ceCom troops who weren't so ... squeamish."

"You think that's the only reason he acted?" Rohan asked. "Maybe he knew it was barbaric and immoral. Can't you give us humans that much credit?"

"You humans started it." She pressed her lips together, as if holding back more words. "But perhaps you're right." She paused, lost in some memory. "I always wonder what happened to him. Did your government court-martial and execute him for refusing an order?"

Rohan couldn't continue to meet her gaze. He turned his head on the pillow, catching a scent of lilac as his stubbled cheek rasped across the silky material of the pillowcase. "No. All the troops, and there were a number of them who refused the order," he added defensively, "were allowed to resign from the service without prejudice."

"I'm glad. I would hate to think he died for an act of mercy."

They were both silent for a long time. "None of you would have suffered if the Cara had just obeyed the law."

Sammy smiled and drew her finger down the bridge of his nose. "And if they had, I wouldn't be here, and you wouldn't be lying, sated, in my bed."

There was no answer to that. He struggled to sit up past the curve of his belly and kiss her. She made it easy by lying down next to him and cradling his d.i.c.k in her hands. Her head was on his shoulder, hair tickling his chin, breath warm against his neck. Tentatively he asked, "Do you hate us?"

"What a silly question." She paused. "Of course I hate you." The words landed like a blow. "Oh, not 'you' as in you. Humans in general, yes. You personally, no. Humans are mean, violent monkeys, and the galaxy would be better off if you'd never crawled off your rock, but you seem to be all right."

"You're half human."

"Which means that I'm at least half as mean. You should keep that in mind," she said, her voice catching on a little chuckle.

"I'll keep that in mind," Rohan mumbled as sleep fell on his eyelids as soft as snowflakes. He drowsily thought back over the evening, the quick steps of her tiny, arched feet, the play of muscles in her belly. The memories and the heat of her skin pressed against his had his d.i.c.k hardening again. He remembered the flash of light from her claws. Unease banished torpor. "Those were gloves, right? The claws, I mean. They were sewn onto gloves."

There was a sharp p.r.i.c.king against the soft skin of his p.e.n.i.s. His eyes snapped open, and he tried to peer past the bulge of his gut, but to no avail. He pushed up on his elbows, the pinp.r.i.c.ks becoming stabs of pain. "s.h.i.t!" he yelled as he saw the extruded claws inset with the diodes. The razor-sharp tips pressed against the pink, wrinkled skin of his rapidly deflating d.i.c.k.

"No. They're real."

He stared up at her, now deeply frightened. She retracted the claws, then she fell onto his chest, hair spread like a cloak across them both. He took her hand in his and inspected her fingers, trying to see how the claws were sheathed. He noticed that the pads on the tips of her fingers were completely smooth, but then she kissed him hard, her tongue demanding, forcing past his teeth. His erection returned, and all thought about her odd hands was driven from his head.

"I won't hurt you, Han," she murmured against his mouth. "That much I promise."

Tracy stared, stricken. "We ... s.p.a.ceCom ... killed ... children?"

"Yes. All but a handful." Rohan refilled his gla.s.s. "I wasn't lying to Sammy, it really did start with an overly pious and deeply bigoted admiral." He shrugged. "And some good came from the revulsion that shook the League once word of the butchery got out. The laws on aliens were relaxed somewhat."

"Was this why the Cara vanished?" Tracy asked.

"Yes. Within days of the slaughter, the Cara were gone. Their shops standing empty, the freighters drifting abandoned and stripped in s.p.a.ce or laying derelict on various moons and asteroids, as if a great storm had swept through and tossed them aground." Rohan looked around the bar with the exaggerated care of the profoundly drunk. He leaned in across the table and whispered, the words carried on alcohol-laden breath, "They could still be all around us, and we wouldn't even know it."

There was a p.r.i.c.kling between Tracy's shoulder blades, as if hostile eyes or something more lethal were being leveled at him. "That's stupid. s.p.a.ce is big. They probably just went someplace else. Got away from us. Went back to their home world. We never found it."

"In what? They abandoned their ships."

Tracy found himself reevaluating the sullen drinkers, the jovial bartender, the waitress. Did each face hide a murderous hatred?

Rohan resumed his story.

For their two-month anniversary, Rohan gave Sammy an emerald-and-gold necklace. It was a ma.s.sive thing, reminiscent of an Egyptian torque from Old Earth, and it seemed to bend her slender neck beneath its weight. He had bought it originally for Juliana, but she had never worn it, disparaging it as gaudy and more what she would have expected from some jumped-up, nouveau riche trader than a member of the FFH.

"So, I get your wife's castoffs?" Sammy asked with a crooked little smile.

"No ... that's not ... I never-"

Sammy stopped the stammered words with a soft hand across his mouth. "I don't mind. It's beautiful, and it's rather appropriate. I got her cast-off husband."

They were at his small hunting lodge in the mountains, enjoying a rare snowfall. The only light in the bedroom was provided by the dancing flames in the stone fireplace. Outside, the wind sighed in the trees like a woman's sad cries.

Sammy sat up and twined her fingers through his. "Why did you marry her? Was it arranged? Did you ever care for her?"

"I was a replacement. Her fiance was lost along with his ship. No bodies, no debris, just a ship and her complement of s.p.a.cers gone. After an appropriate period of mourning, her father approached my father. I was the dull number cruncher. I was never going to equal Juliana's dashing s.p.a.ceCom captain."

"Tell me about your father. Is he still alive?"

Hours pa.s.sed. He told her about his family, the estate in the Grenadine star system. His sisters. His younger brother. His hobbies, favorite books, taste in music. Occasionally she asked a question, but mostly she listened, head resting on his shoulder, hand stroking his chest. He talked of his daughter, Rohiesa, the one good thing that had come from his marriage.

He poured himself out to her. His hopes and dreams, his secret shames and deepest desires. She never judged, just listened. Only the fire seemed to object with an occasional sharp snap as flame met resin.

Over the next month, his need for Sammy rose to the level of an addiction. He left work early, returned home at dawn, if at all. The conversations continued. Unlike Juliana, Sammy seemed genuinely interested in his economic theories as well as the name of his old fencing master.

Some nights he couldn't see her. He had to escort Juliana and Rohiesa to various soirees. The final night had began that way, at the first grand ball of the season.

The walls and ceiling of the enormous ballroom of Lord Palani's mansion seemed to have vanished and been replaced with the glitter of stars and the varicolored swirl of nebulas. The effect was spectacular and utterly terrifying. Guests cl.u.s.tered near the center of the room, avoiding the seeming emptiness all around them. It made it difficult for those who did wish to dance to actually dance. Lady Palani was in a rage, as evidenced by her pinched nostrils and compressed lips. One of the young Misses Palani was in tears. Tomorrow's gossip would be filled with talk of the Palani disaster. Rohan handed his empty plate to a pa.s.sing Hajin servant and snagged a gla.s.s of champagne from yet another. His host approached, his long face had drooped into even more lugubrious lines.

Rohan gestured at the holographic effect. "It's quite ... stunning."

Palani took a long pull of champagne. "Stunning price tag, too, and everyone's terrified. But they insisted." He gave a sad shake of his head. "There's no accounting for what mad notion will seize them."

Rohan correctly interpreted this as a reference to Lady Palani and the couple's five daughters. It also brought back the memory of a conversation he'd had with Sammy only three day before.

They had been walking in the Royal Botanical Garden, Sammy pausing frequently to touch and sniff the flowers. He loved to watch her: each gesture was a sonnet, each step a song. She had gently stroked the petals on a rose and turned back to him. He had tucked her arm through his and as they strolled he had casually mentioned how a friend's daughter was at a discreet clinic after a very public and embarra.s.sing breakdown at a Founder's Day picnic.

She had glanced up at him, the glitter back in those strange eyes. "Are you surprised? You keep your women mewed up and deny them any kind of meaningful activity. I'm surprised more of them don't go nuts. You give them nothing to think about or talk about beyond family and gossip. You never let them do anything but plan parties or attend parties, run households and raise children."

"That's a schedule that would kill most men," Rohan said with a ponderous attempt at humor. "Thus proving you are the stronger s.e.x, Sammy."

"On Earth, before the Expansion, woman were lawyers, doctors, soldiers, presidents, and captains of industry."

"And s.p.a.ce is hostile, and most planets difficult and dangerous to colonize. Women are our most precious possession. Men can produce a million sperm, but it requires a woman to gestate and deliver a child." Rohan's voice had risen and his breath had gone short. He wondered at his own vehemence and defense of the system. And why had he brought up De Varga's daughter? Because he feared for his own Rohiesa?

"And those days are gone. Your conservatism will be the death of the League, Han. The Cara were right about one thing. Adapt and change ... or die."

"Rohan?"

"What? Ah, beg pardon. I was drifting."

"I was just asking about the inflation figures," Palani repeated.

"Ugly, but let's not mar the evening with such talk," Rohan said, and moved away.

He risked a surrept.i.tious glance at the chrono set in the sleeve of his evening jacket. Forty minutes. It seemed like he'd been here for an eternity. Just a few more and he should be able to slip away and join Sammy at the street festival in Pony Town. He imagined the pungent scents of chile and roasting meats, pa.s.sionate music from the street musicians, bodies moving in wild abandon to the primal beat and thrum of guitars. The imagined music clashed with the lovely but formal dance music provided by the orchestra hidden in an overhead alcove. Rohan deposited his champagne flute and moved toward the doors. To h.e.l.l with it, he couldn't wait any longer.

Juliana intercepted him. The hand-sewn sequins on her formfitting dress flashed as she moved, echoing the glitter from the diamonds tucked into her dark curls. "You're not leaving, are you?"

"Umm ... yes."

"You abandon me for your wh.o.r.e?" Her voice was rising, the words starting to penetrate through the stately measures of the music.

"What are you talking about?" He knew it wouldn't work. He was a terrible liar. He resorted to pleading. "For G.o.d's sake, don't make a scene."

"And why not? You're making a spectacle of yourself with this alien puta."

"How-"

"Bret's wife had it from Bret. She told her mother. It's all over Campo Royale and you're a laughingstock."

"You had already a.s.sured that with your parade of lovers!" he spat back, finally saying aloud what had lain between them and rubbed like sand in his craw.

"At least mine are human."

People were starting to stare. Rohan looked around at the gawking faces, the soft-footed servants, the elaborate clothes. Steel bands seemed to close around him, penning him in, holding him fast. The cry of the guitars in the streets of the Old City seemed faint and far away.

"No," he said, not certain what he was rejecting, but rejecting it all the same.

He heard Juliana screaming imprecations after him as he trod down the curving crystal staircase.

He found her in the streets among the beribboned stalls that sold jewelry and pottery, perfumes and scarves. The roar of voices mingled with the music; fat sizzled as it fell from roasting meats onto the wood beneath. He clung to Sammy and buried his head against her shoulder.

She brushed his hair back with a gentle hand. "What's happened?"

"Juliana knows. They all know. They'll make me give you up." He choked. "And I can't. I can't."

"Come," she said, and, taking his hand, she led him through the rollicking crowds where humans and aliens could dance and feast together, and perhaps even fall in love.

She took him back to her apartment. She prepared him a drink. He slammed it down, only realizing after that there was an odd taste. The room began ballooning and receding around him.

"I'm sorry, Han, I wish we could have had a little more time together." Her voice seemed to echo and be coming from a vast distance. Then there was darkness.

The first return to consciousness brought with it an awareness of the chill of a metal surface against bare back, b.u.t.tocks, and legs. He knew he was naked and cold, and that nausea roiled his gut. He felt gloved hands pressing against his arms and the bite of a needle, then Sammy's voice murmured soothing words and her hand stroked his hair. He dropped back into darkness.

A bright pinpoint of light glaring directly into his eye was the next memory. The light shifted from his right eye to his left and was snapped off. Concentric circles of blue and red obscured his vision as he tried to focus after being nearly blinded. This was followed by hard pressure against the tips of his fingers. Another needle p.r.i.c.k and he slipped away again.

When he awoke he was in Sammy's apartment, lying on a bed frame without mattress, sheets, or cover. He staggered out of bed and stood swaying in the middle of the bedroom. His eyes felt crusty; slowly the disjointed memories returned. He looked down at the crook of his elbow. There was a small red dot like the bite of a steel insect. His clothes were dumped on a chair in the corner of the room. He searched the pockets and found them empty. His keys, wallet, and comm were gone. Even his comb and monogrammed handkerchief had been taken.

"Just a thieving wh.o.r.e," he said, testing out the words, and then recoiled at the unfamiliar sounds issuing from his throat. He had gone from a light baritone to a deep ba.s.s. His throat felt sore and his mouth was desert dry. That's why he sounded so strange.

Pressure on his bladder sent him into the bathroom. As he relieved himself it started to penetrate: every vestige of Sammy was gone. No toothbrush, no hairbrush, no makeup, even the delicate perfume bottle he'd bought her-all gone. But if it had been nothing more than a con, why had she waited so many months and through so many encounters before robbing him? He staggered to the sink to wash his hands and splash his face, and recoiled from the image in the mirror.

A stranger looked back at him.

The frightened eyes staring out at him were now a pale grey. His hair was dark and straight rather than reddish and curly. His forehead was much higher because this alien hair seemed to be rapidly retreating toward the back of his neck. His skin tone was decidedly darker. Nose larger and bulbous on the tip. Ears clipped closer to his skull. His real ears had been rather protuberant. He looked down. His belly was larger, and the birthmark on his left hip was gone. He stumbled back to the toilet and vomited until he was reduced to dry heaves.

Whimpering, he returned to the sink, rinsed out his mouth, and gulped down water. Then stared at his hands. His wedding ring and the heavy signet ring with the family crest were missing. His gut twisted again, but he managed to keep from hurling. Back in the bedroom, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his clothes with trembling hands and started to dress. Because of his weight gain, he couldn't close the top clasp on his trousers, and the straining b.u.t.tons on his shirt gapped open enough to reveal skin.

He left the bedroom and found the living room to be equally void of any trace of the occupant. On an impulse, he checked the kitchen. All the dishes, utensils, and food were gone. In this room he was more aware of a faint disinfectant smell, as if every surface had been washed down with bleach.