Cat Star 04 - Outcast

by Cheryl Brooks

  Bonnie stared at him, scarcely believing her ears. "Fifty women? Vox how long?"

  "I am not certain," he replied, "but I believe I was with them for ten years—as the years were reckoned on that planet," he added.

  "Let me get this straight, Lynx," Bonnie said. "You were a love slave to fifty women? For ten years?" She tried to comprehend what it would have been like to have been stuck servicing fifty men for that long, and while she knew it wouldn't have taken quite as much out of her as it would have for the reverse to be expected of a man, she could understand him a little better now. "Why the devil didn't you say so before?"

  As soon as Bonnie said it, she knew it was a stupid question. He didn't want to talk to her at all, let alone tell her his life story.

  Then she remembered what Jack had said about Cat's sexual abilities. One Zetithian man in a harem? It was no wonder they hadn't left him alone! They must have been after him night and day! No, he hadn't been castrated. They'd simply worn him out.

  "How long ago was that, Lynx?"

  "Another ten years have passed since I was sold to someone else," he replied, seemingly grateful to have moved on to a less sensitive topic.

  "And why were you sold?"

  He looked at Bonnie as though she'd lost her mind. "The women I served must have... complained," he re­plied, "for I was taken away and sold to a man who freed me after five years of service."

  "And you still can't... do it," Bonnie said hesitantly. "Even after all this time?"

  "No."

  Bonnie's body might have been screaming at her, but her heart was even louder in its protests. She loved him anyway. This wasn't terribly surprising consider­ing that, as things stood, she couldn't have him at all and still loved him. Sighing deeply, her voice wistful, she said, "Would it make any difference to you if I said it didn't matter?"

  If he'd been holding anything other than Ulla, Bonnie believed he would have slammed it into the ground in frustration. "What do you want from me?" he demanded angrily. "I have done the work. I have helped with Shaulla's birth and her care—I have even helped you to name her. I can do no more than that."

  "Probably not," Bonnie agreed sadly. "But the thing is... I love you, Lynx. God knows you've given me no encouragement, but there it is, whether we like it or not. You can't help who you fall in love with—no one can—and, believe me, I've fallen for the wrong men my whole life! It's something no one can predict, and quite honestly, I wish I didn Ylove you. It would make things so much easier."

  His silence stretched out longer than it should have, and Ulla began to fret even more than she had when Lynx was so angry. Reaching out, Bonnie took Ulla from him.

  "She's probably hungry," Bonnie said as she began to pull up her shirt, preparing to feed her. Lynx didn't move.

  Bonnie looked into his fiery feline eyes and saw no warmth there, no love returned, and no hope that there ever would be. "Go away," she whispered. "Leave me alone, now, please... That's something you can under­stand, isn't it? The wanting to be alone?"

  And it was true: Bonnie did want to be alone—alone to hide her shame. She'd never told anyone she'd loved them before and then been so completely rejected and ig­nored. Not like that. Not without some sort of response.

  Then Bonnie realized that she had never actually spo­ken those words before—at least, not to a man. Perhaps that was why she was so alone. She thought she might have said, "I love you, too" at one time or another, but had never been the one to say it first. She had always waited to hear the man say it before she risked saying it herself—and sometimes, those words were never ut­tered. This time was different, though, because she had volunteered the information, and it had gotten her noth­ing—nothing but a blank look from the man she claimed to love. She was mortified and desolate, knowing that Lynx would never even say, "I love you, too." In fact, he didn't say anything at all, but left her there in the shade while she nursed her daughter.

  All Lynx could think as he walked away was that it served him right for being such a fool. He hadn't in­tended to tell Bonnie that he was incapable of being a lover to her, it had just popped out. How could he have let himself be goaded into revealing such a secret? She didn't need to know, and he didn't want her to know. It was better to let her think he didn't like her, not that he was only half a man.

  And what had she said? That it didn't matter? Lynx believed it mattered more than anything. No woman wanted a man who couldn't function. He'd even been sold because of it.

  But at least she hadn't laughed. He reminded himself that Bonnie had always been kind to him, even when he was being an ass—which made Lynx feel even worse, because telling her hadn't changed anything. He was still being nasty and rude to the one person who had ever shown him kindness.

  And not only that, but she had claimed to love him—not just desire him, but love him! Lynx had no idea what to make of that. No one had ever told him such a thing before, and while he had to admit that he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea, he wasn't com­pletely sure he believed her. As to why they couldn't be friends, the main reason was that most of the contact he'd had with women had been sexual in nature; just being friends with a woman wasn't something Lynx knew anything about.

  AAA

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  Bonnie wondered just how much it had cost Lynx to admit his failings as a man—if you could call it a fail­ing. Bonnie knew that Lynx had never asked to be anyone's love slave—let alone slave to more than fifty women!—and though it might have seemed like fun to a young man at first, he was to be commended, rather than condemned, for having lasted as long as he had. No one could have tolerated that forever; in his case, what was surely every man's dream had become a night­mare when translated into reality. Unfortunately, what Bonnie thought didn't seem to matter to him; she'd told him she loved him, in spite of everything he'd told her about himself, and he hadn't said a word.

  Bonnie tried to convince herself that she didn't care, but she knew it was a lie because she did care, though not for the reason that he, or anyone else, might have ex­pected. She cared because she did want something from him—and it wasn't just his love—she wanted what ev­eryone else seemed to think she should want; she wanted his children.

  And not even for herself. She wanted them because deep down, Bonnie believed that Lynx wanted them far more than she did. His love for Ulla was obvious, and she knew he would love his own children even more. Bonnie laughed bitterly, knowing that the one thing Lynx might have wanted from her was the one thing she couldn't give him. It was so ironic, so sad, and so unfair...

  Vladen had said that Lynx was needy, but Bonnie wondered just how much he had actually known. As the regional physician, Vladen was required to do physical examinations on all immigrants to the sector, so if there had been a physical problem, he would have picked it up on the scanner and would, therefore, never have suggested that Lynx might be the one to father Bonnie's next child. If Vladen had known about it at all, he would therefore have had to assume that the cause was psychological, and that, given the right environment, Lynx's problem would correct itself. Unfortunately, Bonnie didn't think the right environ­ment was to be found anywhere within a thousand kilometers of her house.

  It occurred to her to consult Vladen in the matter, but Bonnie knew that as things stood, it was truly none of her business. It wasn't as though she'd been Lynx's wife or girlfriend who was facing an infertility problem. Bonnie was nothing more than his employer—an em­ployer who ought to have known better than to fall in love with her own employee, much less told him about it. She hadn't intended to, but like so many things in life, it had simply happened.

  The season progressed, and the rains became more in­frequent. Bonnie went to the market in Nimbaza every week, taking Kipper and Ulla with her in the speeder and leaving Lynx behind to tend the farm. To Bonnie's surprise, Lynx seemed happier for some reason, and while she suspected it was from having finally told her something about himself, if Lynx had been asked, it was doubtf
ul that he would have said the same thing. It might have helped to unburden himself—or even to know that he was loved—but he was also becoming more used to his life on Bonnie's farm, and, as he had always done, he took pride in his work—however mundane it might have seemed to anyone else.

  Lynx loved coming up with new and better ways to do things around the farm. The enock pen was only the beginning, and he was streamlining work in ways Bonnie had never dreamed of, and also began looking ahead to anticipate any problems that might arise.

  Bonnie saw Drummond and Zuannis at the market every week, but knew that Jack wouldn't be back for months. Bonnie and Salan kept right on trading eggs for cheese and butter, and everyone remarked on how beautiful Ulla was and how fast she was growing. That was one nice thing about having a baby along, Bonnie reflected—it gave you something neutral to discuss.

  Vladen always followed up his quick assessment of Ulla by asking about Lynx, which made Bonnie wonder if he knew more than he let on. Perhaps he had seen something on the scanner.

  "How's that Zetithian boy?" he would say—still re­ferring to him as a boy. Bonnie thought he might have been right about that; perhaps Lynx had never truly grown up. She tried to imagine what she would be feel­ing, what kind of psychological scars she would carry with her always, had she been in a similar situation, and came to the conclusion that no one could overcome them unless they had their memory erased. Vladen had already suggested that the problem was either Bonnie or Lynx's nose, but it went much deeper than that. One thing was certain; the cookie dough ploy would never work again.

  Lynx kept the equipment running smoothly and to­gether they brought in Bonnie's best grain harvest ever.

  The storage side of the shed was full, and there were buyers lined up for all that she didn't need for her own livestock. Zuannis had put in a large order for grain to make her bread, and Bonnie was looking forward to vis­iting her. It might have been a Twilianan bakery, but to Bonnie, it smelled every bit as heavenly as her favorite bakery on Earth. In anticipation of that sale, though it was a bit risky of her when she expected Lynx to resign each and every day, she bought some fencing materials and decided to have a go at capturing more enocks.

  For this, she needed Lynx's assistance, and when Bonnie told him how she and Sylor had done it, while he might have thought it was suicidal—which was Bonnie's own opinion—no one could have guessed it from his neutral expression.

  To catch an enock required a speeder that would fly about two meters off the ground carrying the weight of two people, as well as that of an adult enock—who tended to weigh in at about seventy-five kilos—suspended in a net beneath it. The speeder Sylor had taken could do it, but Bonnie wasn't so sure about the other one.

  Lynx wasn't either. "It will not fly that high with the added weight," he said flatly. "The enock will be dragged and possibly injured—but I may be able to modify the speeder."

  "That'd be great!" Bonnie said. "That fruit the enocks like so well is nearly ripe now, and pretty soon they'll be thick under the rabasha trees."

  "Where are the trees?" he asked.

  "You know that little grove in the northwest corner of the wheat field? Those are the rabashas." Bonnie had never gathered the fruit herself, mainly because the enocks would have attacked her, but also because the fruit smelled like it was rotting even when it wasn't. Why the enocks liked it so well was beyond her compre­hension, but then, they liked dead rats, too.

  Lynx nodded, saying that he would see to it, leav­ing Bonnie to assume that he intended to work on the speeder, and a few days later, he started work on the new enock pen.

  Not long after that, he knocked on the door one morn­ing and asked Bonnie to come and pick out which enocks she wanted to keep.

  "What do you mean, which ones I want to keep?"

  "There are a great many of them," he replied. "You can be... selective."

  Gazing back at him with a doubtful eye, she said, "Show me."

  A walk out to the new pen was all it took to demon­strate his brilliantly simple plan. There were about thirty enocks of all sizes in there, munching away on a big pile of rabasha fruit. The stench was incredible, but from the look of it, the fruit wouldn't last long.

  "So, how did you manage to gather up the fruit with­out getting yourself killed?" she asked.

  "I built a fence around the grove to keep them out," he replied.

  Bonnie shook her head, saying ruefully, "And then you just gathered it all up and lured the enocks in here with it."

  He nodded. "It seemed simpler than catching them one at a time."

  Bonnie started laughing then and didn't stop until tears were streaming down her cheeks. "Sylor was such an ass!" she exclaimed when she could speak again. "Always looking for the most exciting way of doing anything! When I think of all the times we nearly got ourselves killed catching those damn things with the speeder..." She paused, staring at the flock of enocks in awe. "What an absolutely brilliant idea!"

  Then another problem occurred to her. "You said I could be selective," she reminded him. "We only need one male in each pen. How do we get the other males out of there?"

  Lynx had a plan for that too. "The females are at­tracted to my purring," he said. "I will lure them into the feeding area and then open the main pen with this," he said, holding up a remote control he had rigged to open the gate, "and when all but one of the males is out, I will close it again."

  "But if you're outside the pen, how will you keep from being attacked?"

  "The males will not attack me if I give them more of the fruit."

  "Or dead rats," she suggested. Gazing up at Lynx with frank admiration, Bonnie felt a strong desire to hug him—stronger than usual, that is—but somehow managed to suppress the urge. "I knew the enocks were more docile when you purr, but I didn't realize that the females were actually attracted by it. Seems women of all species take to you, Lynx," she remarked. She started to add, "Too bad you don't return the favor," and nearly had to bite her tongue off in an effort to leave those words unsaid.

  A moment later, she was glad she'd managed to keep her mouth shut because, to her complete surprise, Lynx responded with the most naturally male gesture she'd yet to see him use. Shrugging his shoulders in a rather self-deprecating fashion, a hint of a smile touched his lips, making him appear to be almost pleased. Bonnie thought she might pass out from the shock, and it made her wish she'd been looking at Lynx instead of the enocks when she'd referred to his idea as being brilliant.

  Unfortunately, it wasn't long before Bonnie was sure she'd imagined all of it. He'd leaned toward her for the briefest instant before his face quickly became the same unreadable mask as always. If any woman had ever re­ally seen him smile, Bonnie was certain that it must have been Ulla—and it also had to have been when no one else was looking. Her feeling of disappointment was like a swift slice right to the bone, and this time, she couldn't keep the words to herself.

  "Oh, please, don't spoil it," she whispered softly as she turned away from him. Taking a deep breath to ease the pain in her heart, Bonnie leaned against the fence and stared blankly at the ground. "You've done a great job here, Lynx," she said, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "I'll have to pay you a big, fat bonus— maybe triple your usual salary."

  Bonnie looked up in time to note that his wooden expression had been replaced with one of utter mysti­fication. She didn't even want to attempt to explain. It was too damned hard.

  Lynx had just gone through such a range of emotions that he didn't know what he was feeling. Her praise had washed over him like a balm, and his initial impulse was to gather her up in his arms and kiss her. He'd been about to do just that when the knowledge that he couldn't—or shouldn't—do anything of the kind had slammed into him like a hammer. However, Bonnie hadn't taken more than two steps toward the house when Lynx did some­thing he hadn't done in months. He actually touched her. Grabbing hold of her arm, he spun her around to face him, fully intending to kiss her like she'd n
ever been kissed before.

  Glaring up at him, she said, "What's the matter? Won't money be enough?—or do you only want my firstborn child?"

  He gaped at her as though she'd slapped him. "I—yes, the money will be more than enough—you do not need to—"

  "Then let go of me!" Bonnie growled, gripping his arm to push him away with her free hand. She felt some­thing there—something familiar, yet also something that shouldn't have been necessary for someone like him. It took a moment for Bonnie's brain to register the impli­cations and then she froze, staring at him in disbelief. "You lied to me!" she whispered fiercely.

  Lynx looked completely bewildered. "I have not."

  "Yes, you have!" she insisted. "T cannot be your lover,' you said! That's bullshit! Here I've been feel­ing sorry for you and thinking that the way you dote on Ulla, you must want children of your own more than anything in the world, and you've got one of those things in your arm!" Bonnie wished she'd paid more attention to some of Jack's more colorful expressions, because they would have come in handy, but just then, she couldn't think of anything bad enough to call him. "Impotent, my foot! An impotent man wouldn't need something like that!"