by J. E. Gurley
Her innocent smile sent a jolt into his stomach as if someone had sucker-punched him in the gut. His grimace changed her smile to a look of alarm.
“Is anything wrong,” she asked. The others turned toward them at her question.
He glanced down at the floor to avoid their eyes. “No, I’m fine. Just a slight twinge, that’s all.”
“Should I have my physician attend to you?” Lord Hromhada asked with concern as he walked over to them.
“No. I’ll be fine. I guess I just twisted a muscle. The scars aren’t properly healed,” he lied.
Everyone seemed satisfied with his answer. Everyone, it seemed, except Ulrich. He caught Ulrich staring at him from across the room with concern. Jazon waved him off. Ulrich shrugged and resumed his conversation with Lyton. Amissa continued to stand in front of him. He could see that her eyes held questions that she desired to ask but feared to. He reached for a glass of juice from a passing servant’s tray and downed half of it quickly to loosen his parched tongue. Their eyes met, and he felt himself slipping into them. She smiled. He noticed how moist and inviting her lips were.
His eyes continued down her body. She wore a sleeveless, strapless dress that hung mysteriously across her body, clinging to some features, barely concealing others. The overall effect was stunning. Her breasts were as full as Amissa’s, his Amissa, and her nipples were standing quite at attention.
The dress emphasized the flatness of her belly and the gentle curve of her thighs before it fell away to her feet. The fabric was sheer and, in the light of the Great Hall, hid nothing from his view. He glanced up and saw her watching his lecherous appraisal of her body with interest.
“I am a virgin,” she stated flatly, without emotion, as if saying, “I am glad to see you”, or “I am only fourteen”.
Jazon gulped in surprise, unable to formulate a response.
She continued. “I say this because I don’t remember if you and I …” She blushed. “My body feels things my mind cannot remember.” She looked away in embarrassment. After a few seconds, she looked back at him and said, “My body calls to me when I am with you, but I cannot, I will not, accede to its desires. I have my duty.” She sobbed and fled from the gathering.
Lord Hromhada watched Amissa leave and favored Jazon with a puzzled expression, but said nothing. After a moment, he returned to his conversation with Huumba.
Ulrich, too, watched her leave and shook his head. He sidled up to Jazon. “She’s the same woman she was,” he offered.
Jazon smiled sadly. “Yeah, if I want to adopt her.”
“Somewhere inside, she’s over six-hundred-years old, Jazon. Don’t forget that.”
“Then how come I feel like a dirty old man when I look at her and want to slip it between her thighs.”
“You’ve bedded fourteen-year-olds before,” Ulrich said with a touch of sarcasm.
“Whores, yes. Not her,” he answered quietly.
“You’re going to be neuro-linked to her mind in the ship. How can you be intimate with her mind and still be afraid to admit that you’re sexually drawn to her?”
“Because I don’t want to screw her mind,” Jazon spat, annoyed at Ulrich’s cavalier attitude.
In fact, he had given a great deal of thought to his coming link with Amissa. He had linked to ship AIs before and didn’t think this time would be different. Each AI had its own personality and its little quirks. He could cope.
The problem would arise when he and Amissa weren’t linked, when the ship’s computer controlled Occam’s Razor. At these times, Amissa would be out of her neuro-link and moving freely about the ship just like any other crewmember.
This was when Jazon wasn’t sure if he could manage. When he was around her, it was if she were a bitch in heat. His lower brain between his legs took control and overrode his common sense. He wanted to howl out his desire for her to the world.
It would be another thing entirely if she felt differently. He could control himself in that case. Even though they had never had sex, both he and Amissa VI had known it was as inevitable as the coming of dawn. This fourteen-year-old-version felt the same way. Her mind didn’t remember him, but her raging hormones did. How could he convince himself to keep his hands off a fourteen-year-old-girl that had learned more about sex in her six-hundred-year-history than he could possibly learn in his lifetime? One part of his mind – probably the lower, hairy part – recognized the dilemma and could overcome it. The other part knew man and machine should each have their assigned functions in such a relationship. As long as she was the ship’s AI, she was a machine, an integral part of their navigation system, even if she did look like sex personified.
“Let’s get this show on the road!” he yelled to the crowd, irritated with himself for letting his doubts get under his skin. A sudden silence descended in the room and all heads turned toward him. “Time’s wasting,” he added.
Lord Hromhada looked perturbed at Jazon’s abrupt announcement. Jazon figured he had intended another rousing speech.
“Very well,” Lord Hromhada agreed. “Everyone to the shuttle. I wish you all a safe and successful voyage.”
Jazon stormed out of the Great Hall and headed for the shuttle without waiting for the others. He was in no mood for fond farewells. Ulrich grabbed his shoulder as he hurried away from the crowd, but Jazon shrugged him off.
“Later,” he snapped.
As the passengers for Occam’s Razor boarded the shuttle, Lord Hromhada pulled Protector Huumba aside.
“Watch the Trilock carefully, but do not kill him until after you have entered Trilock space,” he whispered. He was still angry over the Terran’s untimely announcement of departure. He had planned a brief but poetic speech appropriate for the occasion. Lightsinger had ‘stolen his thunder’, as the Terrans were so fond of saying.
Huumba nodded. “And the Terran, Lightsinger?”
Lord Hromhada remained silent, but his eyes never left Huumba’s face. Interpreting the Highborn’s silence for assent, Huumba grinned. Lord Huumba raised one finger. “Do not kill him unless he attempts to steal our AI. He is vital to the success of this mission.”
Huumba’s look of satisfaction turned to one of embarrassment. “I could pilot the ship,” he said defensively.
This time Lord Hromhada grinned. His sad grin was one of bitter realization rather than one of joy. “Your brother told me the same thing before he died.” His words had their calculated effect on Huumba. The Drone lowered his head and stood before Lord Hromhada expectantly. The scent of bitter almonds drifted from him, the scent of sadness. “Do not return unless you are successful, Protector Huumba.”
Huumba nodded and entered the airlock.
Lord Hromhada left the jubilant crowd and observed the shuttle’s departure from a view screen in his private quarters. He did not wish to allow others to see his trepidation. Much rode on the success of the mission, and the volatile mixture of crewmembers was just one more risk added to the already long list – an untested captain, an uncertain AI, a Trilock spy, a Terran spy carrying an unknown substance within his body, and a proto-type ship.
The slender needle pulled away from Thrallimar and maneuvered slowly toward Occam’s Razor floating a few kilometers away. As the sun’s disk came from behind Lahhor and struck the ship, Occam’s Razor glowed like an intricately carved daishitura lantern. He glanced at the kole wood lantern hanging above his desk, given him as a gift by Lord Mothisurai, the ship’s designer, some years before. Until this moment, he had not noticed the similarity of design. Had Lord Mothisurai used the daishitura lantern as a template for his masterful creation, or were the two designs so akin because of their parallel of purpose – the daishitura to light the darkness and Occam’s Razor to enlighten the world.
He worried for his own creation, Amissa. She should have had more time to assimilate her teachings. He could read the confusion in her eyes; feel her doubts with his senses. He had no doubts of her ability to navigate the ship or to carry out hi
s orders, but he was concerned with her renewed interest in Lightsinger. By all rights, these emotions should not have reappeared in her new clone configuration. Their eventual mating was to be one of physical need, not an emotional bonding. He had kept this knowledge from the Council for fear they would seek to delay the mission. The mission could suffer no delays, both for the sake of the Mahata Fey and for the sake of testing Amissa’s latent abilities.
They must learn the extent of her powers as quickly as possible. They had spent six hundred years designing the tool. Now was the time to see if the tool measured up.
Lord Hromhada’s worst fear was a barely perceptible increase in the decay of space-time caused by the emergence of the new life form. The universe was out of balance, and the fabric with which it was woven was readjusting itself, remolding itself to new and perhaps dangerous parameters. His mind, with the help of Amissa, had touched the fringes of the hive life in the Claw Nebula when he had first learned of its existence.
It had been an utterly alien feeling. The alien thoughts were chilling, having more to do with survival than with evolving. It was a primitive, inorganic intelligence, and yet it was intelligence; of that, he had no doubt. The hive mind had probed his mind as well. From it, the hive mind had chosen the name Phyein for itself as a means of identification, a word was from the ancient Terran Greek, physis, to grow. Clearly, the hive mind was declaring its intentions by this choosing.
The strength of the hive mind was appalling, beyond calculation. He had learned things he would have considered impossible in earlier times. The foundations of his beliefs had been shaken to their core. Most of what he had learned he had kept even from the Council. He was certain his decision would return to haunt him.
Lord Hromhada was worried. His last attempt at contacting the Phyein had been a complete failure. The Phyein had noticed his thoughts with its hive mind and had shut him out, as easily as one might close a window against a draft. He had left with one impression – immense power. The Phyein had evolved into a highly sentient, purpose-driven life form. Its one purpose seemed to be to remove itself from its present environment. If the Phyein were unleashed upon the galaxy, the threat of the Cha’aita would seem the mere itching of a flea on the belly of an elephant. Occam’s Razor must succeed. Contacting the Phyein was of utmost importance. He only hoped the price for their success would not be the life of his precious Amissa.
He rang for Metak. His faithful servant entered the room almost immediately, a ghost from the shadows.
“Did you include the device as I instructed?”
Metak bowed. “It is as you wished, My Lord,” he answered.
“Good,” Lord Hromhada muttered as he waved Metak away. If his faith in his Drones proved unfounded, he had taken steps to prevent Terran control of his ship. The Terrans must not learn of the new Interstitial Drive, at any cost. The Dastorans were too weak to resist a concerted effort by the Terrans to obtain the drive. He was not sure that he believed, as did most of the Council, that there was no place among the galaxies for Terrans. If the Dastorans were to evolve beyond their physical bodies, as foretold by their ancestors, they did not want Terrans around to interfere with their Ascension. The Terrans were a wondrous race, capable of much good once their past was sufficiently behind them. He had seen many brave deeds accomplished by Terran war ships. Perhaps the two races did indeed need space between them if both were to develop to their full potentials, but he could not help feeling a bit sad at the prospect.
If the Avatar project succeeded, it would not have been possible without Terran genetic material. Did this not bind the two races in some subtle way? One could not have faith in the Mahata Fey and not believe so. There were mysteries at work that were beyond the control of the Council, the Alliance, or even the Phyein.
Lord Hromhada clasped his hands behind his back and watched with sadness as the shuttle left Occam’s Razor. Now, his creation, his daughter, was beyond his reach. He could only trust the capricious gods, and Jazon Lightsinger, to bring her back to him.
Jazon was disturbed to find the Trilock ambassador, M’Kat, waiting on the shuttle. He had hoped Lord Hromhada had decided to keep the Trilock off Occam’s Razor. He was wearing the colorful robes of an ambassador, but Jazon spotted the knife protruding from his sash.
M’Kat bowed slightly as Jazon entered the shuttle. “Greetings,” he said. He kept his hands extended far from his knife as a sign of friendship.
Jazon ignored M’Kat’s salutation, glared at the top of his bowed head, and walked quickly to the bar. Without thinking, he picked up a bottle of vodka and poured a tall drink. Realizing what he had done, he set it back down on the table hard, splashing the liquor over the rim.
“Thank you,” Lyton said as he quickly picked up the drink and added two cubes of ice. He smiled and sat down.
Jazon nodded perfunctorily. “No problem, Lyton. Glad to be of service.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the Trilock plod to a chair and sit down. The chair’s frame bowed under the Trilock’s immense weight. Jazon could feel the ambassador’s eyes boring into his back.
Better his eyes than his dagger.
Ulrich sat beside Lyton and the three Drones took positions apart from the others. Amissa entered the shuttle and stood by the door until Jazon sat down. She deliberately chose a seat beside him. She wore a blue jumper much like the others, but hers stretched tight across her pert, young breasts and tucked seductively between her thighs. Jazon glanced away quickly when he realized that he was staring at her crotch, but his eyes returned to her almost immediately. He felt a familiar stirring in his own jumpsuit.
“This is going to be a hard trip,” he mumbled, and then laughed at his double entendre.
He looked up at her face and caught her smiling at him. She had obviously noticed the direction of his earlier gaze and seemed unperturbed by his lust. In fact, she seemed most pleased.
“Are you excited?” she asked as she leaned over to him, brushing his arm with her breast.
“Wha … Oh, about the trip,” he replied, breathing a sigh of relief. “No, I’m a little frightened, actually,” he admitted.
She creased her brow with concern. “Frightened of what?”
“Frightened about the aspects of this voyage, this creature.” he explained.
“The Phyein,” she said with a look of distaste in her eyes.
“The Phyein? What are they?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. The word came to my mind when you mentioned the life form. Perhaps I overheard Lord Hromhada speak of them.” She sounded as if she were trying to convince herself more than him.
Jazon looked at her a moment. “Yeah, maybe,” he admitted slowly.
“Are you afraid of me?” she asked suddenly. The directness of her question caught Jazon off guard.
“N-no,” he stammered. “I’m trying to remember that you are a fourteen-year-old-girl and the ship’s AI to boot.”
Under the cover of the table, she reached out her hand and covered his. Her warmth flowed through him like an ocean’s wave, calming his fluttering heart with the suddenness of a flood. He felt her eyes burrow into him as if she were attempting to see into his mind. He felt her presence inside him probing. She glided through the lobes of his mind like a shadow, touching here, caressing there. He felt something inside change, subtly.
He reached out and stroked her cheek gently. Somehow, she had managed to transmute his animal lust into gentle caring. He now saw her as two separate entities – Amissa, the woman he wanted so badly, now only a dream, and Amissa, the ship’s fourteen-year-old AI. He moved his hands, both from her cheek and from beneath hers. He stared at her questioningly as she smiled at him.
“You must remember, when we are connected through the neuro-link, I am a machine, no different from a computer or a food processor. My age, my sex, my feelings are irrelevant.”
Her smile faded, replaced by another look, one more seductive, more reminiscent of the woman h
e loved. “You must also remember that this body matures rapidly. By the end of this journey, I will have aged perhaps four years. Physically, you will be unable to tell the difference between me and your Amissa.”
Having told him this, she sat back in her seat and closed her eyes for the remainder of the journey to Occam’s Razor. He didn’t know if she had warned him away, or if she had promised to fulfill his desires at the end of the voyage. Perhaps now he had a reason for ensuring the success of the mission.
The shuttle docked with Occam’s Razor, and her new crew disembarked. Jazon immediately went to the bridge to familiarize himself with the controls. He picked up the neuro-link helmet and toyed with the thick cable that ran from it to the bulkhead. He knew it ended in a similar cable that would hook directly into a socket connected to Amissa’s cortex. Jazon had known ship’s captains who had similar sockets implanted in their brains, but he considered it an invasive act. He had no great love for the neuro-link helmet. He considered them sort of a prophylactic condom for mental intercourse, but he had used them before. Of course, he had never linked to a human, especially not one he knew so well.
Occam’s Razor was everything that Lord Hromhada had promised and then some. Jazon knew he lacked certain details of the ship’s operation, assuming Amissa would control these functions, but he was surprised to find that he didn’t have access to all the ship’s files. It appeared Lord Hromhada did not trust him completely with his new toy. He couldn’t help but notice the strange configuration of the Skip engines, an Interstitial Drive, Ulrich had discovered, capable of not only piercing the barrier between dimensions briefly as a regular Skip Drive did, but capable of actually navigating in a different dimension.
The engines appeared to be very powerful, much larger than a ship the size of Occam’s Razor should require. This technology was something the Alliance could use. He wondered if the Dastorans eventually intended to share this knowledge with the Terrans. Somehow, he doubted it.
