I reached up and took hold of his cap, drawing it loose. His brown hair fell out, flowing to his shoulders.
His? Her shoulders. “Helse!” I cried.
My beloved smiled. “When you call, Hope, I am here.”
“But you’re dead!”
“For a time, yes. But I will live for you when you ask me to.”
“Oh, Helse, I love you, but I can’t believe in you!”
“I know.” She removed her masculine shirt, showing the binding about her chest that masked her bosom. She unwound that, letting her breasts free. They were not the splendors that Juana or Roulette possessed, but they were the first I had loved. Helse was, after all, only sixteen, still maturing.
“You’re lovely,” I told her.
“I know.” She stripped down her trousers and panties and stood naked for a moment, appraising herself. Then she joined me in the hammock. It was a squeeze, but I welcomed it.
Hungrily I kissed her. But then I paused. “The last time I was with you, Helse, it turned out to be—”
“But I can’t come to you in my own body, Hope,” she protested.
“I can’t love you through a substitute!”
“Yes you can. Megan—”
Megan, the girl of the picture who had looked so much like Helse. The scientist’s niece. The one QYV had promised me for the key. For an instant I was tempted; then I rebelled. “No! I want you—only you!”
“You wouldn’t like me now, Hope,” she warned.
“Yes, I would!” I insisted foolishly. It was as if I were a boy of fifteen again, heedless of reality in the flush of first love.
She sighed. “I must do what you want.” She began to change. Her clear complexion became rough; then her skin flaked away. Her hair came out in tufts. Her lovely breasts shrank like dehydrating fruits and fell off. Soon there was no more than an ancient corpse beside me, with the bones beginning to show.
I realized I had been a fool. Of course this was her physical nature now; she had died fourteen years ago. “Oh, Helse! I’m sorry!”
“But you will join me,” the awful skull said. “When the pirate wench slays you.” She tried to laugh but lacked the wind for it.
I woke, shuddering. I was alone in the hammock. Neither living nor dead flesh had visited me physically; it had been a vision.
In my visions I can believe almost anything, but in the waking state I am more cynical. I did not believe that my death would bring me to Helse; it would only extinguish me. I would be absolutely foolish to let myself be killed.
Which perhaps was Helse’s point. She had always known when my feelings were going astray.
“Thank you, Helse,” I said to the empty room.
It was the hour of decision. I went to Roulette’s chamber. For this I was dressed, and I had a knife.
I stood before the door panel. Something nagged me, and I paused until I had it. This was a play, of course, a choreographed ritual, but aspects were real. The pirate wench knew I was coming, and she was pledged to fight me; would she simply remain in her hammock?
I tried one of the oldest tricks in the business. I removed my shirt, opened the door, and tossed the shirt into the darkened room. It flared, ballooning in the breeze of its motion before falling to the floor.
Something leaped at it. Immediately I jumped in, catching her from behind. She had stabbed the shirt. I put her in a neck strangle, expertly squeezing so that her carotid arteries were constricted in their deep locations. In five seconds she was unconscious, because the blood flow to her brain had been cut off. She never had a chance, because she had been too eager to strike and had fallen for my countertrap.
Quickly I laid her down and used my shirt to bind her wrists, and the sheet from the hammock to secure her legs. I had not forgotten the lessons of the rehearsal! I tore off a section of sheet to gag her, then picked her up and draped her over my shoulder. The abduction was in progress.
I carried her to the groom’s chamber—actually, for this special occasion, a converted recreation room—and laid her on the bed.
The groom’s team was present, seated in chairs near the walls. Repro, Phist, Mondy, Emerald, and Spirit. Brinker operated the video camera, and Juana was in a corner making shorthand notes. Seven people in the gallery. It was time for the second act. I remained uncertain I was up to it.
I stripped until I was naked, disposing of clothing and knife, preparing for the nuptial rape. At the same time, Spirit untied Roulette, who had, of course, recovered consciousness; a proper blood strangle puts the victim out only briefly. Had I not tied the bride, she would have come suddenly alive at the least convenient moment. Now she was ready for me.
She wore a pale blue negligee that offset her red hair dramatically. Her tresses were artfully wild, making her resemble in my mind a waiting jaguar. Her eyes blazed out at me defiantly. Perhaps it was her striking beauty and softness of form, merged with her evident readiness to explode with tooth and claw that enhanced the feline impression; or maybe it was a carryover from my drug-vision of some time back. Whichever, I found this alarmingly sexy.
Sexy? Well, that was, after all, what I was here for.
I was naked now, and Roulette was clothed. It didn’t help that three men and four women were watching, and that I had had sexual relations with two or three of those women. The moment I experienced the masculine reaction, fourteen eyes would be on it in addition to those of the bride; that daunted me. If I did not experience that reaction, I could not complete my mission. What ignominy it would be to render her helpless and then be unable to complete the act.
It is said that a watched pot never boils, and that the main cause of impotence is the fear of impotence. That seemed to be true. I was defeated before I started.
Roulette stared at my face with her blazing hate. Then her eyes traveled down my torso, and she smirked.
That was a tactical error on her part. Shame converts readily enough to anger, and it was so with me. The audience faded somewhat from my awareness, as if fogged out by technical means to enhance the foreground. Flushed with reaction, I advanced on her. I was supposed to brutalize her; that much I could do!
And with that realization I felt a tug at my groin. Ouch! The thought of hurting a beautiful young woman gave me a sexual reaction! I was, to some extent, a pirate.
That, in turn, cooled me. But now I was at the bed, and I had to act or retreat. I almost retreated, but then she made her second error. She struck at me, swinging her small fist at my groin. Automatically I blocked her arm, and then her other hand swung out, bearing the knife, the blade driving directly at my face.
Now the battle was joined, truly. My head moved aside before I even realized, consciously, the nature of the thrust. Her hand passed by my ear, and in that moment she was vulnerable. There are ways in which a weapon handicaps a person, for it limits the variety of attack. I knew how to handle a knife-fighter. Before she could bring her blade back, I had her arm in a pain lock.
“Oh!” she cried involuntarily. She tried to fight it but could not; I could readily have broken her elbow. She tried to retain her hold on her knife, but slowly I increased my pressure, and she had to let it drop.
She relaxed. “I guess you’ve got me, Captain,” she said.
I let her go, and instantly she arched off that bed and leaped at me, claws and teeth flashing. A jaguar indeed! But I had not been deceived; I caught her by shoulder and thigh and lifted her as I might a mannequin, and flung her down onto the bed. It was a hard fall she took, and part of the air of her lungs whooshed out. I dropped with her, pinning her with a judo hold-down, my right wrist angled to press at the back of her neck, my head close to hers. She struggled, but when she did, the cutting edge of my wrist brought pain that forced her to desist. That is part of the technique of a hold-down; it is not strength or weight alone that makes it effective. A midget could have pinned a giant with this one.
I murmured almost in her ear: “The wife of an officer of the Jupiter Navy is exempt
from civilian prosecution. She can travel with him anywhere in the Jupiter Sphere. Wherever she goes, she will be treated with the deference due her husband’s position. She must, of course, entertain visiting officers in a formal manner, but she has a maid for the busywork. She dresses prettily and listens politely to their droll stories, while their wives eye her jealously. I can’t say it’s much of a life for a woman as lovely and talented as you, yet perhaps it has its appeal.”
I let her go. Again she sprang up like a released steel spring, grabbing for my hair while her two knees came up. Had her move been successful, she could have caved in my face with those knees. But, ready for this, I simply lifted my head clear, caught her rising right leg, and gripped her right buttock through the negligee. With that leverage I turned her over. Before she could react, I caught her negligee and hauled it up toward her head. Then I grabbed for her nightgown beneath it and hauled it up likewise, exposing her classic bottom. I spanked it smartly.
She seemed virtually to spin in air, outraged. But her elevated skirts hampered her, and the material started to tear. I grabbed it again and swept it over her head, stifling her with two layers of cloth while her body was exposed to the breasts.
She was helpless again for the moment, head and arms entangled. I stared at those perfect breasts; half-dazed, I had never seen a better pair of structures in my life. Now I had the male response. Suddenly I wanted to fling myself on her and do what I had come to do. But caution prevailed.
I gazed and spoke to her again. “There are sights to be seen in the Jupiter System that few pirates are privileged to experience,” I told her covered face. “One day I mean to see them myself. The great city-bubbles, some of the largest in the Solar System, floating the massive atmospheric currents of the Colossus, laid out with streets and parks and small lakes. I understand the freshwater fishing-bubbles are fun for the honeymooners; the water is in a channel-river that makes a spiral loop several times around the bubble before reaching the lake at the equator. Couples float down it in canoes and keep any fish they catch. I think that would be fun, especially with the right company.”
She finally burst out of her confinement. “You can stare at my naked body and talk of fish?” she demanded. “You’re supposed to be ravishing me!”
“But I don’t believe in rape,” I said innocently.
She wrenched about, striking at my face with her fists. I swung clear of her blows, and she sat up and pushed me farther away, causing me to lose my balance and fall on the bed. Her knees came up; I jerked my head up, and she spread her legs and caught me in a head-scissors. My error; I had been warned about this very thing. I knew I should have knocked her out when I had her entangled. A head-scissors is not the most serious situation, but it can be awkward to break, because the legs have more power than the neck. She had me pinned, and my arms could not pry her knees apart.
Furthermore, I was facing into her naked split. Supposedly this is a position to inflame a man’s passion. Actually, I don’t regard the genital region as the most esthetic part of a man or woman, and I was desperate to free my head before she found some more deadly way to capitalize on her advantage, but every part of Rue was a marvel of rondure and symmetry, and I was indeed impressed by what I saw.
She shifted position, and I gained leverage, and got my arm between her thighs. There are nerve complexes there, and I jammed my thumb into one, and the sudden pain forced her legs apart. I yanked my head out, sat up, and discovered that she was reaching to the floor to recover her knife.
I grabbed for her arm, but it was too late; she had the knife. She blocked my hand with her left arm while her right hand raised the blade.
I disengaged and threw myself to the floor as the knife plunged forward. I wasn’t quite fast enough, and she grazed my leg. I felt it only as sensation, not pain, but the blood was welling out of my calf. That knife was sharp!
I paused, but she knew better than to pursue me. The bed was her bastion. She awaited my next attack, her blade poised. She might not be expert at unarmed combat, but she did know how to use that knife.
A portion of her negligee trailed over the side of the bunk. I dived and caught it, feinting at her knife hand as I did so, to conceal my purpose. Then I stood back and yanked on the material.
No good; it simply tore loose, leaving her with a ragged but sufficient covering. But I realized I had a device here; she could not protect both her knife and her clothing. I made another pass at the knife and got another handful of cloth. I tore it free. After several such sallies, I had her halfway naked; after several more, I had stripped the rest of her.
I had thought this would at least disgruntle her. It did not. She remained poised, her blade awaiting its opening. She had come close to scoring on me again as I tore away her apparel, and now none remained to distract her. She was one lovely, firm-fleshed young woman, and knew it; it was harder than ever to concentrate on what I was doing.
What was I doing? I should be trying to knock her out so I could rape her in peace, and my own weapon was hardly ready. It was dangerous to let this drag on like this; sooner or later she would score with her blade. Every adviser, including her own father, had told me to finish it quickly.
But now, having suffered first blood, I knew emotionally as well as intellectually that this was a serious fight. She would stab me if I didn’t stab her. Yet still I clung to my idiotic notion that she would somehow submit without violence, once she saw the light, so that it wouldn’t be rape. I knew better, but it prevented me from undertaking the brutality I was supposed to practice.
“An Operations officer has status in her own right,” I said. “She does not have to play hostess for her husband if she chooses not to. She exerts significant power, organizing the operation of the command, answering only to the commander himself. She salutes only him. This is not ordinarily a prerogative of marriage to the commander, but in this case the marriage is required for legitimacy, and the office can be assumed only while this mission exists. But for that limited period, it’s about as much power as any woman can have.” I knew, now, that she craved legitimacy and power beyond all else, as some women do. Her father had encouraged this attitude in her, making her his heir in nature as well as in office.
“Damn you!” she flared. “Shut your mouth!”
“Just thought you’d be interested,” I remarked. “You did very well when you organized the arrangements with the Solomons. I appreciate competence wherever I find it.”
“You’re not fighting fair!”
“Well, as they say, all’s fair in love and—”
“Next you’ll tell me you love me!” she cried indignantly.
“No. I could never love a pirate. I merely want to use you.”
“Well, get on with it, then! You won’t use me by talking at me!”
All too true. Her knife had never wavered. There was no easy way to conquer this hellion, certainly not by words.
I became aware again of the audience sitting around the chamber, making no sound or motion. I certainly wasn’t following their advice. It was evident to all that I simply wasn’t ready, physically or emotionally, to finish this business. Even the victim was getting disgusted. Probably I should retreat, giving up the effort. No rape, no marriage, no loss of life. But also no alliance, and no continuation of my mission in the Belt. That was no good, either.
I studied Roulette, trying to fathom an opening so I could disarm her again. Once I got the knife away and held her struggling body close, I thought I could do the rest. But I wasn’t sure. If I still couldn’t perform—
I looked into her eyes. Was there a pleading there? She knew what I had to do, and why, and knew what it would mean for her. She knew that if she killed me, or even escaped me, all would come to naught. If ever a woman could be said to want to be raped, this would be the occasion. I knew I had to do it, and she knew she had to be the victim, but neither of us was able to overcome our aversion to it. I could not force her, and she could not accede without v
iolence, however much we both might desire the consummation. An impasse of a sort, like that Juana and I had suffered in the Tail, and I did not know the solution. We were locked in a situation neither of us wanted.
Then I looked through her eyes, and her face changed. The jaguar aura faded, and her features became rounder, older, and beautiful in a different way. Her naked body became less pronounced but just as feminine. And—I loved her.
“Helse,” I whispered.
“No,” she said.
“Who, then?” For now I saw that she was not precisely Helse, who was dead, but another woman very like her in appearance, though older. The woman Helse might have become, had she lived to her thirties. Had she been Saxon.
“Megan,” she said.
And so she was. The one other woman I could love, perhaps, though I had never met her. I stepped toward her. “I hardly know you,” I said. “Only through your picture, that I glimpsed with my beloved.”
Mercenary Page 36
