by J. E. Gurley
A Floxian even more down on his luck than he and Ulrich tended a large kettle of water, methodically stoking the fire with pieces of wood as needed.
Jazon attempted to converse with the Floxian while relaxing in the deep stone tub, but he noticed the man’s eyes and knew it would be impossible. They were yellow-tinged from the use of tal, a favored narcotic of their race. Used as an eyewash solution, it induced mild hallucinogenic visions. The Floxian was lucid able to tend to the bath, but was otherwise lost in his own private fantasy.
Jazon had tried tal once, much to his bitter regret. He had hallucinated all right and had enjoyed the powerful visions and dancing colors, but no one had mentioned that because of the differences between human and Floxian physiology, he would be blind for three days. After that calamitous encounter, he had decided to stick with alcohol for his mind numbing pleasures.
The bathwater was tepid, but he overlooked that minor inconvenience, as he relaxed in the clean tub, carefully scrubbing two week’s worth of dust and grime from his filthy body and massaging his aching shoulder.
His long, dark, curly locks, which normally hung below his collar, plastered tightly to his scalp like a body armor helmet liner. After half an hour in the tub, his allotted time, he exited clean and refreshed – a new man. He glanced at the scummy water he had left in the tub and decided to give the attendant another half credit for fresh water. Ulrich would never deign to bathe in water so filthy, and judging by the foul odors emanating from his friend’s body, he desperately needed a bath, perhaps more so than Jazon.
The Floxian smiled, revealing a mouthful of undulating cilia instead of teeth. Floxians were filter feeders, eating mainly small plankton strained from jugs of seawater, but the sight of the wriggling, pale white flesh made him queasy. He had heard of men who claimed oral sex with a Floxian female was the best in the galaxy, but he had never summoned the courage to try.
The attendant handed Jazon a ragged, rough towel woven from pounded blackseed fibers. He rubbed his body vigorously with the coarse cloth to dry him and wrapped the damp towel around his waist for the walk back to his room. He regretted his lack of credits for female companionship; though he found most Terran females out in the Fringes of the Local Arm were so distastefully ugly that it was often difficult to tell them from another species, except maybe by smell. The pretty ones cost more credits than he had seen in years.
“Your turn,” he announced cheerfully to Ulrich, as he entered their small but surprisingly clean room. Jazon had washed his clothes before he dirtied up his own bath water, and now he set them in front of the fire to dry. They were still ragged, but at least they no longer stank. “It will be nice to wear clean clothes again. I suggest you do the same.”
Ulrich rolled his dark brown eyes at Jazon’s off-hand suggestion, carefully closed his book, and laid his glasses on the table. His taciturn attitude since the fight in the bar was beginning to wear on Jazon’s nerves.
“Why don’t you wash those filthy things while you’re at it?” Jazon chided, pointing to the glasses. “They’re disgusting.”
Ulrich shrugged and picked up his glasses. “If it will make you happy?”
“Immensely so,” he replied as Ulrich slammed the door behind him.
He laughed at Ulrich’s discomfort. Ulrich tended to wallow in self-pity at times, and Jazon had to play nursemaid to bring him back into the fold. “Then maybe you’ll see the Three Principles is a bucket of feces,” he yelled through the door and chuckled.
The roaring fire toasted his feet, while a glass of dewberry wine warmed his insides. Looking at his feet, he decided they had not been so clean in a month. Soon, the fire’s warmth spread from toe to heel until his feet were tingling with newfound vigor. He slowly donned his clean, dry socks, relishing their fresh feel as he pulled them up his leg, amazed that such small comforts produced such huge amounts of pleasure, even with his toes showing through the holes. A full belly, a hot bath, and clean socks – what more did one require for extreme happiness? A needle and thread would be nice, though, he thought, as he looked at his bare toes.
A gentle tapping on the door surprised him. It was so soft that he at first mistook it for street noise. The second series of knocks was slightly louder. The Constables, he thought with alarm. No, they wouldn’t bother to knock on the door. They would simply break it down. Palming the illegal stunner in his left hand, he walked to the door clad only in the damp towel and his socks. Standing to one side in case of trouble, he quickly swung the door open.
The woman standing in the hallway looked almost as surprised as he was. He immediately realized that she was Terran. It took only a few gratifying moments of careful examination to determine that she was also very beautiful, unnaturally so, in fact. Long, black hair that shimmered in the flickering light hung just shy of her narrow waist. Her hair danced in the gentle breeze blowing through the open doorway. Her almond-shaped eyes were twin pools of quicksilver. He saw his reflection staring back from them and realized that she was wearing reflective lenses as protection against the harsh Ataxan sun, a common practice for most Off Worlders.
Her skin was perfect – soft, pale, and unblemished. He caught the faint scent of orange blossoms gently surrounding her like a fragrant cloud. He stared at her, mouth agape, until she spoke. Her voice was as flawless and as perfect as the rest of her, the hypnotic sweet song of a Siren.
“You are Jazon Lightsinger?” she asked, holding the ‘z’ and ‘s’ until they became a soft, sibilant hiss. He continued to examine her exquisite body. It had been a long time since he had seen such a beautiful woman. He inhaled her presence as he would a bouquet of flowers.
She waited patiently for his answer. When none was forthcoming, she asked, “May I enter?”
Still speechless, Jazon ushered her into the room and closed the door behind her. She took the room’s only chair, near the fire, forcing him to sit on the edge of the bed. She sat with her spine rigid, legs held tightly together, and hands folded in her lap – all prim and proper. It was then that he remembered he was wearing only a towel. Self consciously, he reached over for his damp cloak and threw it over his lap to cover his growing manhood. He noticed her smiling as he did so. He decided that he had never seen such a lovely smile before. Her teeth were as white and as perfect as pearls, as even as the horizon above the sea.
“Who are you?” he asked, finally finding his voice.
She bowed slightly. “I am Amissa.”
“What gods must I thank for your presence here?” he asked. His voice was suddenly as high-pitched as a choirboy’s voice.
She blushed slightly. “No gods. I come at the behest of my benefactor, Lord Hromhada Tuus, Highborn Lord of the Tuus Enclave. He has been expecting you.”
Jazon’s head swam. He swallowed several times to keep from choking. If he had not been sitting already, he would have fallen on his face in a swoon. His legs felt as limber as chewed leather. The dreams were real.
In truth, his decision to come to Ithira rather than Ontara had been more a personal desire to be near a spaceport than his belief in the dreams, though some part of his mind had considered their veracity.
The Highborn Lord of the Tuus Enclave was the foremost leader of the Dastorans. Now, he understood the sheer perfection of the girl, Amissa. Dastorans seldom made close contact with other species, preferring to work through intermediaries. The Dastorans had undoubtedly cloned her from Terran stock, working their quasi-magic gene manipulation techniques on her embryo, producing perfection, or as close as one might come with mere flesh and blood. She was undoubtedly a domo or personal secretary for the Highborn Lord, perhaps more judging by her lovely appearance.
“Of what possible service could I be to the esteemed Highborn Lord of Tuus?” he asked carefully, thinking it best not to appear too eager. If the Lord knew how badly he and Ulrich wanted to return to Earth, Lord Hromhada might demand several years of indentured service, something Jazon might have been willing to trade if only reluct
antly.
“Sadly, I do not know. He is my, er … employer, and I merely do his bidding. My Lord begs me to convince you and your companion to visit his ship tomorrow at midmorning, perhaps for brunch. We can provide you with Terran food.”
Real Terran food, he thought, as his stomach churned in delight at the prospect. “Will you be there?” he asked, hoping for another opportunity to see her.
She blushed, and then brightened. “Alas, I will not, but I am certain we shall meet again.”
“Beautiful,” he said, smiling as her blush deepened. He wondered if he could talk her into staying until morning. It had been such a long time between women. “Would you care for some wine?” He offered, searching frantically for another glass. He then realized that there was only the one glass. Embarrassed, he poured some wine into the glass and offered it to her, choosing to drink from the bottle.
She politely refused his offer. “No, thank you. I fear that my Lord has need of my services, and I must return shortly.”
As she stood, she bowed again. Jazon was unsure if he was supposed to bow in return, so mimicked her gesture, using one hand to keep the cloak around his waist. She smiled either at his attempt at formality, or at his lack of proper etiquette. “However,” she continued, “My Lord wished you to have these.” She clapped her hands twice and the door opened, revealing a Dastoran servant bearing two large boxes. The tiny, humanoid servant deposited the boxes on the bed and retreated before Jazon got a good look at him. Dastorans came in many shapes and sizes suited for many different purposes, bred as needed from clone tanks. This one appeared too fragile for manual labor and had no distinguishing features, not even sex, as if decanted from the tanks too soon. It was a most probably a personal body servant.
Amissa opened one of the boxes for Jazon to inspect, and his eyes widened at the very stylish and very expensive Terran clothing inside, complete with undergarments and boots. He almost cried at the sight of such luxury. The entire outfit would probably cost three hundred credits on Earth, more this far out.
“This one is yours,” she said. “The other is for your companion. I hope the sizes are correct. If not, we can adjust them for you.”
“I … I don’t know what to say,” he gushed, as he held up the boots and stared at them lovingly. He had repaired his old boots so many times that they were more patch than original leather. Their usefulness had long ago ceased.
“My Lord wishes you to accept these gifts in gratitude for answering his summons. Any future services will be rewarded more amply.”
“Future services?” he questioned, raising one eyebrow as he spoke.
“My Lord Hromhada will explain more fully tomorrow.”
“Inform Lord Hromhada we will come, if only to thank him personally for his generosity.”
Amissa bowed for the third time. This time Jazon did not return her bow. Apparently, this was the correct thing to do for she smiled. “There is an, ah, additional gift for you both, but I must leave now.” She glided to the door, each slight movement as perfect as a ballerina’s dance.
“When will I see you again?” he asked again.
“I do not know, but my Lord Hromhada wishes me to be your …” She hesitated as she searched for the correct word, “… liaison with him in future meetings. I am certain we will see more of each other.”
She fluttered her eyebrows in a titillating manner and closed the door softly, leaving Jazon wondering just what she had meant by her last sentence.
He dropped the cloak on the floor and examined the clothing. Even as a somewhat prosperous trader in alien artifacts many years ago, he had never been able to afford clothing such as this. The pants and shirt were biothermic, woven with metallic fibers that kept the wearer’s body at a constant temperature within a twenty-degree variation of ambient outside temperature. The jacket contained photosensitive threads that morphed into to a variety of pre-programmed colors under different lighting conditions.
He gently caressed the boots. They were genuine Terran leather with plasteel soles and self-seal tops to keep out dust and water. Such boots were worth dying for on a backwater desert planet like Ataxa.
That thought brought him to his senses. He set the outfit back on the bed and wiped his hands on his naked thighs. If the Highborn Lord was willing to give them such extravagant garments merely for speaking with him, what did he have in mind for them? As eager as Jazon was to reach Earth, or any Terran world for that matter, he didn’t relish the thought of risking his life for passage. Perhaps it was better not to grow too attached to them until they had spoken with Lord Hromhada and discover their true cost.
Ulrich burst into the room naked and almost out of breath, dragging his towel behind him. “You won’t believe what I just saw.” He pointed down the hall excitedly. His body was still dripping with bathwater, but his skin looked two shades lighter after his bath. Jazon noticed Ulrich had also shaved his head.
“You mean Amissa, Lord Hromhada’s liaison?” He laughed.
Ulrich looked as if he didn’t get the punch line of the joke. “What? No, I mean two human women. They’re coming here.”
Just as he spoke, there came a second knock at the door, this one louder and more deliberate. Ulrich rushed over to open it, almost tripping over his towel in his eagerness. Two whores, there was no mistaking their profession, walked in. They were both Terran and surprisingly attractive. Both wore the traditional gaudy makeup and revealing clothing of their trade, but the two wore it with a little more finesse than most whores, as if they had some small amount of pride in their profession.
Jazon spoke up. “You’re wasting your time, fair ladies. Alas, we have no credits, but if you stand there for but a moment longer, I will remember your splendid forms tonight in my dreams.” He sighed loudly.
The first woman, a voluptuous, middle-aged woman with dishwater-blonde hair streaked with lines of blue and red, snickered. “We’ve been paid, honey. We’ve been instructed to come here and see that you two gentlemen received some comfort after your long journey. My name’s Antha.”
She jerked her thumb at her younger companion, a short, slim redhead with what must have been surgically enhanced breasts, for they stretched her tunic almost to the point of rupture in a deliberate attempt to repeal the laws of gravity.
“She’s Dell.”
Antha stood with her hands on her ample hips and looked Jazon boldly in the eye, then down his engorged penis. She smiled. “What do you say, darlin’? Want a tumble or not?”
Whatever Lord Hromhada had in store for them, Jazon thought, he was assuredly grooming them for something either dangerous or important, probably both.
“Well, Antha. Have you ever heard of the Kama Sutra?” he asked, as he gently escorted her to the edge of the bed. He moved to help her remove her clothing, though in her profession, she needed no assistance in disrobing. She was completely naked in ten seconds. Jazon was pleased with what he saw. She was not in Amissa’s league, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He glanced over to see Ulrich and the redhead, Dell, engaged in a bout of foreplay of which he had not suspected the monk-like Ulrich capable.
“Kama what?” Antha answered, as she held out her delicious-looking breasts whose nipples, he quickly discovered, tasted of strawberry. She had invested the credits at some time in her life to have flavor glands implanted in her nipples. Jazon imagined that it improved her business tremendously.
“Kama Sutra … never mind,” he mumbled around a mouthful of nipple.
“Like them?” she asked proudly, as he moved happily from one nipple to the other.
“Shhh! Don’t talk,” he admonished while he slowly moved upwards and covered her lips with his.
He expected no sleep that night. It had been a long time between women, much longer than he cared to remember, and he intended to make the best of it, courtesy of Lord Hromhada.
The bed was small, but by carefully arranging themselves, it accommodated the four of them, at least until the action became so fr
antic that he and Antha rolled off the bed. He winced in pain, as he landed heavily on his bad shoulder, but grabbing the bedcovers, he quickly made a pallet on the floor, and they continued without a pause in the action.
2
What say you to such a supper with such a woman?
Note to a letter on Bowles’s Strictures Lord Byron
The morning sun pierced the tattered, stained, and sun-bleached curtains of their room, stabbing Jazon’s eyes with cobalt spears of light. Resisting the urge to roll over, he untangled himself from the covers, trying not to disturb Antha. He quietly awoke Ulrich, cautioning him to silence. They hurriedly dressed in their new garments. To Jazon’s pleasant surprise, his clothes fit as perfectly as if tailored. They reluctantly left their two short time companions sleeping.
His jacket changed color at its own kaleidoscopic pace, a whirl of patterns and hues, bringing a smile to his face at the awe and envy in the looks of passersby. He drew countless stares from the early morning vendors and deliverymen as he sauntered boldly down the streets of Ithira feeling like a million credits. The biothermic generator quickly adjusted to cool his body in the heat of the Ataxan morning.
Ulrich’s clothes, though similar to Jazon’s, were a bit more somber, as were his tastes. Jazon briefly wondered how the Highborn Lord had known about his and Ulrich’s disparate preferences in styles. In fact, how had he learned of their whereabouts? Did he have spies searching for them, or was his psi ability so strong as to follow them mentally. Jazon didn’t like the idea of another mind in his, probing his secrets.
He promptly forgot about his clothing and spying as they entered the port, and he caught his first glimpse of the Dastoran ship. He had seen Thistleships, the massive Dastoran weapons platforms bristling with weapon pods that had kept the Cha’aita at bay far over a century, but he had never seen a ship such as this one. The Highborn Lord’s ship was a slender golden needle resting gently on the tarmac. From bow to stern, it was over fifty meters in length and ten meters in girth. It sparkled in the stark Ataxan sun like a jeweled stickpin. Numerous bulges and protuberances marred the otherwise smooth surface, but gave no indication of whether they were instrument pods, weapon pods, or merely decorative elements. He saw no Skip-engine pods, but surmised that the Dastorans had somehow incorporated the gravity-bending nacelles into the ship’s overall design. A glowing, cursive script resembling a vine with tiny, triangular leaves flowed along the length of the ship, either an artistic whim or the ship’s registry in Dastoran writing.
