by J. E. Gurley
She stared at him for a moment, and then lowered her eyes. “Do you wish to use me?” she asked bluntly, innocently. “My Lord asked me to provide you and Count Stumphman with female companionship last night. If they were not sufficient, I must assume my Lord would wish me to complete his request by offering myself. I have been tutored in many methods of sexual pleasure, both human and Dastoran. I am also familiar with several of the less strenuous mating rituals of the Mrumbans, if you would prefer.”
She stood, touched what he had thought to be a purely decorative stud on her shoulder, and with an effortless shrug, dropped her jumpsuit to the floor. Jazon had thought it hid nothing from his imagination, but he had been in error.
Fully exposed, her nubile body was small but expertly proportioned. Her firm breasts stood proudly high on her chest, and her exquisitely rounded buttocks beckoned him. She exuded sensuality from every pore of her body, but in a manner more coquettish than blatantly sexual.
Jazon stared at her for several long seconds, his throat frozen by the shock of so much perfection. Hormones spilled into his bloodstream, and his ears sang with pumping blood, but he fought hard against both instinct and his normal urges to resist temptation. The Dastorans had obviously designed her with sex in mind. Her body, her stance, her every move was a sensual suggestion, alluring and irresistible. Was she a plaything of the Highborn Lord, or merely a tool, a perfect tool, he used at his will? Her offer was so emotionless, so free of guile that it threw him off balance. His ego understood that her offer was in no way due to his charm, his manhood, or his rugged good looks, but simply a logical extension of her earlier duties. Her obsequious behavior offended his manly sensibilities. Even a whore tried to pretend some interest.
Grudgingly, he forced his raging hormones under control. He tried to keep his voice low and even, in spite of the conflict underway in his body. He did not want her to misconstrue his lack of enthusiasm for a lack of desire.
“Please inform Lord Hromhada that his gift last night was acceptable and much appreciated. I equally value your kind offer, but it is unnecessary. You may dress now.”
His refusal took every ounce of willpower he possessed. Every fiber of his body called out for her, but he knew acquiescence would lead to dependency. She was a drug for which his body hungered, a sensation he was not sure he enjoyed. He took pleasure in drugs and alcohol because they made him forget for a short while where he was. Amissa would be a drug for which he would constantly yearn. His immediate goal was simply to return to Earth. Anything else could potentially interfere with that desire.
Amissa stared at him quizzically, as if surprised by his rejection. Her eyes darkened, and her smile faded. He could well understand her reaction, but it seemed as if there was more to it. He doubted that he would be strong enough to refuse a second such offer. Ulrich would never believe him.
He wondered if she had made the same off-hand sexual offer to Ulrich. Had Ulrich accepted? She slipped back into her jumpsuit without looking in his direction. Jazon stared in disappointment and odd relief as her exquisite naked body disappeared beneath the thin material, and immediately regretted his decision.
“Metak will come soon to bring you to Lord Hromhada,” she said matter of factly. She moved closer to Jazon and whispered in his ear, her lips brushing it ever so tantalizingly. “Do not agree to anything my Lord Hromhada asks without careful consideration. Your life will depend upon it.” She sauntered to the door and was gone before he could question her further.
After she left, the idea of a cold shower to cool down his raging hormones crossed his mind. Once inside, he decided to explore the bath. He soon discovered that the bath was a marvel of Dastoran technology. The toilet was an organic model that biodegraded his wastes and recycled it for its moisture and organic components. Sitting on it was like riding a spongy mushroom and required a bit of getting used to, but its simplicity was beautiful. The toilet absorbed his waste and, with a slightly disturbing sensation, cleaned his bottom. The merchant in him wondered idly if the Ataxans would allow such a low-tech device into their dry wastelands. He could make millions of credits with it.
The shower offered a variety of cleansing nozzles, including massaging water jets set at various angles, steam vents, and both sonic and ultraviolet flashes. He sampled all four in various combinations that he was sure had not been intended by the manufacturer.
He emerged feeling cleaner than he had in his entire life, every pore in his body refreshed and revitalized. Even the muscles in his sore hand and shoulder no longer ached.
The large purple bruise in the shape of an Ataxan hand had faded to a small mark. He was amazed to see several older cuts and scratches almost healed. He knew hospitals that would pay dearly for such technology.
He carefully examined his yellow-stained teeth in the mirror. Traveling in the desert wastelands had not provided many opportunities for routine oral hygiene. He found an ultrasonic tooth cleanser in a cabinet and thoroughly cleaned his teeth, relishing the tingling sensation as the device massaged his gums, removed plaque, and killed bacteria as it whitened enamel. Afterwards, his mouth ached as it did after a rare visit to an oral hygienist.
That chore completed, he looked at his face in the mirror. He might feel refreshed and younger, but the mirror did not lie. There were more lines than he remembered on his forehead, and his hairline was receding at an alarming rate. Small furrows at the corners of his tired eyes, crow’s feet, made him look older than his thirty-four years. He sighed at his reflected image. Even this marvelous bathroom couldn’t turn back the clock. On Earth, if he had the credits, he could undergo a regimen of drug therapies to add decades to his life, but nothing could erase the rough years he had lived.
He applied depilatory gel to his bearded face, and then, recalling the hairless vision of Lord Hromhada from his dreams, on impulse spread the gel over his entire body, including his hair and eyebrows. This called for another long, invigorating session in the shower.
Afterwards, he studied his reflection and saw a bald version of what he must have looked like ten years earlier. With no eyebrows, his bright gray eyes stood out starkly on his wide, craggy face. His nose, slightly large for his face, had a downward bend near the tip like the beak of a bird of prey, the result of a few days’ stay in an Ataxan jail. It was one of the more obvious scars from that episode. He had other, deeper, less visible ones that he tried hard to forget.
Women had assured him that his was a handsome face, not beautiful, but bold and powerful. With his light complexion, he could have passed for white, but his goal had been to prove that he was as good as a white man, a biligana, which in the Diné tongue meant not simply ‘white’ but ‘one with whom I struggle’. The choice of words had special underlying implications in his case. His struggle had been as much with himself as with the outside world.
He felt no qualms at attempting to ingratiate himself into Lord Hromhada’s good graces. In fact, he felt a secret delight in doing so. “That ought to impress his Lordship,” he mumbled as he rubbed his hands over his hairless body. The sensation was odd, like caressing a snake. His lack of eyebrows gave him a quizzical expression. “The new me,” he exclaimed to his reflection, “a kiss-ass, brown-nosing bastard!” He chuckled at his frank self-appraisal.
His face and forearms were much darker than the rest of his body from constant exposure to the harsh Ataxan sun. Large white rings surrounded his eyes from his shaded goggles against the sun’s actinic glare. He adjusted the UV flash and allowed it to darken his skin a few shades. It improved the overall effect, though it did highlight a few old scars.
“Now I look like a good Indian,” he said, mocking his artificially darkened complexion.
The last few years of tramping the galaxy, living like a vagabond, had taken a toll on both his health and his physical appearance. Ataxa, as unforgiving and as brutal as it was, had not been the worst of over a dozen worlds he had visited since leaving his Arizona home. In his six years as an Alliance Ma
rine, he had set foot on worlds where one pinhole in his body armor would have killed him instantly. He had fought on worlds so far from their suns that laser flashes left permanent shadow imprints on the rocks. He had walked on worlds too hot or too cold for human endurance – yet, he had endured.
Later, as a merchant trading in artifacts, he had once visited an ancient Trilock world. He shuddered at the memory. He never wanted to do that again. The Trilock had looked at him as he would at a piece of choice steak. Between the two, the Cha’aita and the Trilock, he didn’t know which race he loathed more. At least the Cha’aita could claim some obscure religious teachings for their wanton plundering of the galaxy. The Trilock had no religion, not even the Three Principles, to guide them. They, like the Ataxa, were just a half rung above their primitive ancestors on the evolutionary ladder, a step or two below Earth. Compared to the elegant Dastoran culture or the delicate ecology of Mrumba, Earth was still a young world and humans a young species still slowly evolving. Primitive or not, he would like to see his home world again someday.
Ignoring his closet of new clothing, he donned the simple, blue jumpsuit laid out for him, a good choice for comfort if not style. It fit as well as any tailored outfit and was microclimate controlled, keeping his body warm or cooled as needed. Choosing it also placed distance between Lord Hromhada’s gift of the clothing and the unspecified price required to pay for them.
Just as he was deciding on a scent from the many colognes arranged neatly on his dressing table, the door chimed softly. He splashed on a light floral scent and rushed to open the door, hoping it was Amissa again with a repeat of her offer. He was disappointed to see Metak. Jazon enjoyed the astonished look on the servant’s face when he saw Jazon’s bald head.
“Luncheon is served,” Metak said, quickly averting his eyes.
Jazon clapped his hands together. “Show me to the soup kitchen, Mettie,” he said as he brushed past the startled servant.
3
And dar’st thou then to beard the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall?
Marmion Canto VI, Stanza 14 Sir Walter Scott
Jazon met Ulrich in the hallway, dressed in an identical blue coverall. Ulrich had also made good use of the shower. He looked more presentable than Jazon had ever seen him. His freshly depilated face matched his shaved head. His skin possessed a freshly scrubbed healthy pink glow. Even his glasses sparkled.
“Did you see Amissa?” he asked, eager to see if she had made the same offer of sexual favors to Ulrich.
“Who? Oh, the girl you mentioned. No. I haven’t seen anyone, but I did explore the ship’s computer for a few hours. It was wonderful. They must have the largest library in the Local Arm.”
Ulrich’s joy spread across his face, but Jazon ignored him. Perhaps Amissa’s offer had been genuine, he thought, for me alone. He knew he felt some kind of deep attraction to her beyond that of purely sexual desire, but if the opportunity arose again, he might not be as hasty in his refusal.
“Library, huh,” Jazon mumbled distractedly to Ulrich only half listening to his friend’s speech. “That’s good.” He noticed Ulrich staring at him oddly over the rim of his glasses. “What is it?” he asked.
Ulrich smiled. “Your head. It looks… different.”
Jazon ran his hand over his slick scalp. “It feels different,” he confessed. “But clean.”
“Eyebrows, too? Now look who’s trying to look like a Savant.”
Jazon shot him an annoyed look but said nothing.
His and Ulrich’s quarters were the only accommodations along the corridor, which communicated with no other part of the ship except by the transport. He wondered if the section was a kind of quarantine for alien guests. This time when they entered the transport cabin, Jazon prepared himself for the rapid acceleration, but Metak, having had his amusement earlier, commanded the car to travel at a more leisurely pace. After a few minutes, the door opened silently, revealing a large atrium with an enormous viewer at one end floating gently above the floor. The viewer revealed a panorama of stars moving so slowly that it took Jazon a few seconds to realize that the ship was underway.
“We’re moving,” he whispered to Ulrich and pointed at the viewer. He suspected the Dastoran ship had inertia dampers far superior to any Terran ship. He had felt no movement whatsoever.
“Yes, we’re on our way to Lahhor, one of the Dastoran worlds closest to Earth,” Ulrich said distractedly as he surveyed their surroundings with delight. “We should reach a Skip point within two hours.”
That Ulrich knew they had left orbit and he had not, bothered Jazon. “How do you know?” he asked.
“I accessed the computer,” Ulrich answered smugly.
“Oh, I see. Well, there’s nothing on Ataxa I’ll miss, but it would have been nice to know we were leaving. I might have wanted to flip it a bird as we passed.”
“Sorry, I thought you knew. They seem to be in somewhat of a hurry. We left just after the shuttle docked.”
“How convenient,” he said. “It might be difficult now to refuse any offer the Dastorans make.” Deciding to make the best of the situation, Jazon began to observe his surroundings, which he recognized as the grand hall he had earlier seen on the viewer in his room. The room was so breathtaking, so spectacular, that he promptly forgot about their destination. Even given the size of Lord Hromhada’s ship, the room was gargantuan in scope, stretching almost the entire width and height of the ship. Massive light globes hovered on suspensor fields just below a holographic display on the ceiling representing a Dastoran sky with pink and gold swirling clouds. Jazon considered the enormous expenditure of energy required for such a feat and whistled softly in appreciation.
At the forward end of the room, a large pool of crystal-clear water sparkled invitingly, complete with a cascading waterfall whose gentle resonate splashing filled the air with song. The trees and plants surrounding the pool were mostly unfamiliar to him, though he did spot a giant red cypress towering to the ceiling and a large weeping willow beneath which a dozen tables clustered on a small floating island.
Among the rich verdant greens, brilliant crimsons, and golden hues of the alien foliage, exotic birds and small tree climbers resembling white-faced Capuchin monkeys and golden ring-tailed lemurs scampered, squawking and leaping amidst the thick canopy.
A forest of translucent transport tubes dotted the great hall from floor to ceiling at spaced intervals along the room like rows of crystal columns supporting the sky. Sliding walkways rose from the floor at comfortable angles, sweeping gently upward in graceful spirals to delicate balconies, which were little more than slivers of translucent crystal seemingly defying gravity by overhanging the large atrium like leaves of a tree.
Scores of Dastoran Highborn strolled, sat in chairs scattered about the gigantic room, or dined on the balconies. Small mobile carts glided silently throughout the room laden with trays of food and refreshments. Hundreds of servants with a dozen various body types scurried about, heads bowed respectfully, rushing from one cluster of people to another, mostly Highborn Dastorans, but Jazon noticed a few aliens among them, two in particular.
The Trilock, one obviously a warrior, and the other wearing the dress of a diplomat, sat alone at the far end of the room attacking a tray piled high with raw meat, oblivious to the Dastoran’s squeamishness at such an act of public vulgarity. Jazon inhaled deeply. He could smell the Trilocks’ familiar strong scent from where he stood, although overall the air bore the sweet scent of candied apples. He had read somewhere that the Highborn secreted odors as a method of controlling their servants. Perhaps Amissa’s ability to change scents was also a subtle method of control. It was certainly something to consider. He knew they were subtly manipulating his every move for some purpose, and if they knew him as well as he suspected, they certainly knew his susceptibility to a woman’s charms.
A single Mrumban of the Ambassador Caste stood alone near the edge of one pool. Almost too quickly to follow, the Mrumban’s long
, sinuous arm shot into the pool and withdrew a large, fish-like creature from beneath the water. He handed his catch to a waiting servant, who promptly scurried away to prepare it for the Mrumban’s meal. The entire scene was so comical, so much like a customer at a lobster tank in a Terran restaurant that Jazon burst out in laughter, a loud guffaw that reverberated throughout the atrium, eliciting a few turned heads. Ulrich glared at him as if he had passed gas in public.
Jazon started to explain that he was not laughing at the Mrumban, but dropped his protest, as he watched the Ambassador unhinge his folded legs and rise to his full two and a half-meter height. The Mrumban was as tall and as thin as a reed. Jazon swore he could see him swaying in the gentle breeze blowing through the atrium.
Jazon’s gaze roved the room, stopping at a large, curved table sitting atop a dais made of intricately carved crystal dominating the center of the atrium like a throne. Lines of gold filigree radiated a soft silver light from within the crystal. Around the dais, several female Highborn, resplendent in their colorful, almost transparent gowns reclined on benches. Their shaved heads sported delicate pastel tattoos marking their lineage, colorful swirls and whorls that often encircled the eyes.
Dastoran women were, at least in Jazon’s eyes, not without their charms, alluring and exotic with stunningly sensual eyes, though they were far too pale for his tastes. Their slim bodies accentuated their wide hips but they had almost no breasts, the need to suckle their young long ago replaced by breeding tanks and surrogate mothers. It was rumored that Dastoran women were tutored from birth in methods of sexual pleasure, but Jazon knew of no human that could boast of such a conquest. To the Dastorans, Terrans were all reservation Indians like him, second-class citizens.
Two mature males, equally as hairless as the women but well muscled, and an imposing older individual that could only have been High Lord Hromhada, flanked the women. Jazon’s eyes rested on him for a long moment, observing the subtle ways that the others acknowledged his authority. A lone, elderly Terran sat opposite the Dastorans, as if purposely excluded from the group.
