***
Wind watched the overseer trundle off, his gait uncharacteristically bowlegged. Her heart battered her ribs as if it could burst through her chest and drift after him. She hadn't expected the sadness that clung to her when he disappeared into the shadows of the spindlings. He was Plutian. Her father, her entire House, would be ashamed.
However, they were fairly ashamed of her now. But they hadn't experienced what he'd done to her either. He made her feel the thing she was sure she'd never truly felt before: loved.
That sweet burst of Phuck's essence, which had frightened her only until the moment it collided with her skin, had released a million delicious explosions inside her. Every inch of her tingled. When she opened her eyes, the world around her was breathtaking. The thin and reaching spindlings, the plushshorbbrush and the sturdy growths of satisfying gorne were all dressed in the gauze of the moonlight. She had stared at them as if she'd never seen them before. Her first breath, after being permeated with Phuck's energy, was filled again with the scent of the Sex that Dick-Edd had slathered on her. After that, she'd jumped Phuck and rode him like an untamed dragon for hours.
Then the Sex wore off. But she didn't want Phuck to stop touching her. No matter how awful he smelled, no matter how large and odd the black hole in the middle of his face appeared, none of it could devalue the way he made her feel.
She closed her eyes and relived his hands, pleasingly firm and capable on her skin, as they had been hours before. His tongue was just as slick and wet and, quite possibly, even more skilled than any human she'd ever had. And his mating. Oh, his mating. Between thrusts, he'd sent bursts of his energy that shook through her, devouring her guts like a drum beat. There was nothing more incredible than the great size of him, pushed up inside her, flush to the balls, as the blast of his lust pummeled her.
She had found herself imagining behind closed eyes, as he took her breast in his mouth and ground his body into hers, that he gazed upon her with absolute enchantment. That he sent each gush of energy as a proclamation. It had to be. No other man had ever filled her with ecstasy so completely. And no other man had ever loved her.
Wind realized, with a horror that equaled her surge of desire, that love was an incredibly easy thing to do. She loved Phuck. There it was.
But he had said he loved Karma. He had seemed eager to get away.
He had to be wrong. As did she.
It was the only way any of this would work.
Wind sunk down onto a rock and reasoned away what he'd said, replacing it all with much softer speculations. Maybe the overseer was simply attracted to the idea of mating his Rha's sister. Maybe it was that Karma was easily the least intimidating woman on Earth. She had no breasts to speak of, slight hips, and a tendency to blush the most unbecoming shade of puce. Not to mention the girl's miserable boon of virginity. She knew nothing of pleasing a man, thanks to her brother.
Wind smiled to herself. She had so much more to offer.
Although he was long gone, she decided to give follow. She let her imagination spin away as she stumbled along, thoughts leaping—from the texture of his bed, to the scent of his morning skin—until they all landed in a covetous fury, impaling every desire Wind had, on the spike that she imagined waited for her, in Phuck's lap.
***
Maeve sat, soaking in their words.
"Since you're fine, I'm going to get back to the House," the second man, the one called Eon, had said. He wasn't talking to Maeve, of course, as she was still tethered to the wall with the fabric muffling her words.
"Good life," Diem had said from over his shoulder as Eon went out, closing the door behind himself. Diem was heating something on the counter. Maeve watched, swooping back and forth from the edge of the bed, trying to see around the man's broad shoulders.
He cracked a bit off a small pod and a tiny flame rose up from some tinder he had in a bowl. He took down another dish from the shelf, poured something like flour or oatmeal in it, and added water from yet another jug on his shelf. He balanced the dish of his mixture on top of the bowl that contained the flame. He stirred the mixture in the top bowl once or twice with his finger.
Maeve wondered how stagnant and old the water was in the jug. Her mouth turned to sand at the thought. Her tongue stuck to the fabric and she tried to swallow despite it, which produced a glugging sound. He turned his head toward her as if she'd called his name.
He brought his dish of whatever toward her, but eased down onto the floor with his back against the wall. He was far enough from her that she couldn't kick him.
Maeve was determined not to tell the Neanderthal anything, which was pretty easy with the thick strip of fabric still wedged between her lips. But her body was used to three meals of eggs a day and, sometimes, even traded snacks in between. Her belly howled in response to the first delicious whiff she got of his warm food.
Diem dipped his fingers into the dish and brought them to his mouth. There was a brown, lumpy glob of cereal on his fingertips. He blew on it to cool it, and the scent wafted over Maeve. She inhaled deeply, against her will. The smell was, gloriously, unlike eggs. It smelled heavy, like comfort, warm and grainy. He slipped the food between his lips. She licked her own as she watched the smooth muscles in his jaw chew and swallow.
The rag in her mouth soaked up her saliva as she watched Diem dip his two first fingers into the dish again. She watched his lips mold around his fingers as he deposited the food on his tongue. Maeve swallowed lint. Her eyes dropped to his throat, engrossed, as if watching him swallow was a spectator sport. He dipped his fingers back into the bowl.
"Want some?" he asked. Maeve's gaze snapped to his. There was a glint of temptation in his eyes, a challenge. Fuck him. She shifted her position, turning her head to look at the other side of the room. She'd just have to get her mind off the gnawing in her gut.
From the sound of it, he continued to eat. She glanced back just as he finished the meal. He got up and dropped the dish in a bucket beside the counter. She couldn't help but stare at the bucket longingly, fantasizing about licking the rounded plate just once, until his body blocked her view. Her eyes flicked to his face.
"Ready to talk?" he asked.
Damn it.
She nodded.
The fabric in her mouth was awful, her tongue was so dry it felt cracked, she was starving and tired and fucking resolve just took a kick to the nuts. He'd won. Fine.
She'd have to fix that, but at least she'd eat first.
He removed the gag, but didn't untie her hands. Instead, he sat down on the bed and removed his own boots. They were thick things, heavy soled and laced through holes punched in the raw material. The laces were made of some kind of cord. It all seemed so primitive that just studying his boots made Maeve feel a little light headed.
"Was that a dinosaur outside?" she asked.
"Dinosaur?" he pronounced the word oddly, like it didn't fit on his tongue.
"What was the animal outside?"
"A dragon." He chuffed like she was an idiot, but then zeroed in on her with curious eyes. "What is a dinosaur?"
She couldn't answer. Her mind was too busy curling over the memory of the beast outside and trying to reconcile that with reality, to be able to give this dope a lesson in world history. Dragons didn't exist. Dinosaurs did. The guy had to be pulling her leg, except that this was a pretty damn elaborate punking. She'd seen the thing outside. It breathed fire. She doubted that a mechanical dragon could move like that one did.
"Dragons don't exist," Maeve said. Diem cocked his head, furrowing his brow as if he didn't know what to make of her.
"Where did you come from?"
"Earth," Maeve said. "Where is this?"
"Earth," Diem answered.
"What year is it?"
"It's Hot Season 6."
"What the hell does that mean?"
His tone softened to an embarrassingly sympathetic pitch. "Are you wrong in the head?"
"No. Are you?"
&
nbsp; He obviously didn't believe her, because instead of retaliating with an insult, he kneeled down and continued in a calming tone, "If you tell me what House you belong to, I'll make sure you are delivered back to it."
His sincerity sent a horrified jolt up Maeve's spine. "You're not kidding, are you."
"Kidding about what?"
Damn. Her limbs went loose. This was all wrong and maybe the clock in the Archive was right after all. Maybe the chambers were time-traveling chambers, who the hell knew? But, forward in time and things should've been all tech'ed out...cars that ran on air, and food in capsules, Beam-Me-Up-Scotty shit to visit friend's houses. But everything here suggested she'd landed with in cavemen era instead. This wasn't a joke. Something had gone horribly wrong and now—
"My name is Maeve Aypotu," she blurted. He drew back at her sudden zeal, but she had to know what the hell was going on. "You don't know who I am? You don't know my name?"
"It's an odd name." He shook his head. "I've never heard of anyone named anything like it."
"I don't know how that can be..." she whispered. "My father owns Aypotu Drugs. All seven continents have done business with us. You've got to know who I am."
Diem's expression didn't show an ounce of recognition.
"The Archive," she said, her voice climbing. "Have you heard of that?"
He shook his head. "No. What is it?"
Maeve swallowed down her pride and used Casper's words. "It was an experiment."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hot Season Six
Phuck burst through the door of his cabin and scurried to lock it behind him, in case Wind was still following him. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the secured door and released his captive breath.
"Running from something?" a voice asked from across the room. "A dragon, perhaps?"
Phuck opened his eyes to 38596—the head of all the Plutian overseers, or Shetbahg, as the humans had named him—standing in his temporary dwelling. 38596 had taken human form for this visit, but unlike Phuck, the superior's physical manifestation was impeccable. Flowing blond locks, a rigid nose, red lips. The way the lips pursed, however, was not a good sign.
38596 didn't relish business trips to Earth. Phuck had only seen him twice in total. The first was when Phuck was assigned to the Fly House, and the second was when 38596 escorted Phuck to Earth for a brief tour and list of expectations before returning to Pluto. Phuck hadn't seen him since, but had continued operations as directed, shipping dragons back to Pluto on the scheduled trans that showed up as routinely as the seasons came and went. There was no reason for 38596 to be anything but pleased, which created a stir of anxiety that churned through Phuck.
Phuck's thoughts raced to his Hope Marketing. He couldn't dissolve the worry that 38596 might know of Phuck's forbidden bartering and immediately panicked that his superior might properly assess that Phuck was nearly defecating as he stood before him. Phuck's brain scurried to bury his guilty thoughts the way hampigs buriedshorbscales for the Cold Seasons.
As was respectful, Phuck cranked his head back, exposing his neck to his superior. Staring up at the ceiling of his cabin, he was aware that 38596 could fire off a line of acidic spittle at any second that would permanently separate Phuck from his beloved head. Sweat gathered in the folds of Phuck's human skin bag as he waited to be severed. The more Phuck stared at the ceiling, the more he believed it was likely that 38596 had come to do just that, since Phuck's previous twelve shipments had been coming up smaller and smaller, due to the skimming that had become more common to all the Houses.
Phuck stopped himself from swallowing, although he was nearly choking on his own welling venom. He listened hard for any warning that 38596 was about to strike, hoping a split second would be in his favor, in which he could dart out of the way and hurl his own venom back. It would be traitorous, an unforgivable crime, but suddenly—
"Release," 38596 said. Phuck straightened his still gloriously-attached head over his rotators. The superior did not look pleased, but at least he had not struck. "Do you know why I have come?"
"Yes," Phuck said, then cursed himself for his wrong answer. He often spoke the truth too soon, not quick enough to accurately calculate the full value of a good lie. "My shipments have been less than expectations."
"It is refreshing to hear such honesty," the superior said, as he clasped his sensory extensions behind his back and rested them on his buttocks. "Why have the shipments been short?"
Phuck took the moment of 38596's shock and used it to knit an excuse. If the excuse had been a scarf, it would have been a beginner's work, the gaping holes a reflection of Phuck's gaping mouth.
"Death," Phuck said. He was shocked that he'd stumbled on what could be the perfect excuse—it was an indisputable fact that dragon harvesting was variable and ridden with mortality. The beasts, when grown, were exceedingly durable, but their young were another story.
"Hmmm," 38596 said. "What is the percentage of death, per House?"
"Oh, uh...three percent, perhaps?" Oops. It was another accurate answer.
"Yes, three percent would be acceptable, but the shortages have ranged between three and five percent. Explain."
"Explain," Phuck mumbled, the pumps and gears of his mind gnashing together, burdened by having to broker another decent lie. A believable lie. A lie that would keep his head secured above his sensory extension's rotators.
"Explain now."
"Yes, now. Of course, now. Yes. Now. The shortage range is higher because...because I have not calculated my first answer correctly," Phuck stammered. In the back of his head, the truth was flashing like a dragon with indigestion. He struggled to keep it buried under his tongue instead of rolling out upon it. "Three to five percent is the actual range. However, I strive to keep it at three, I do. Yes. I work my humans hard to maintain that number, yes, very hard. But it has been as much as five percent, it has. The reason is, well, the reason is..."
"Yes?" The superior's brows lowered, rattling Phuck's self-preservation mechanisms into overdrive. His brain chipped away at the edges of the truth, trying to find a soft, weak spot to chisel off a lie. And then it happened. He cracked open the answer like a dragon egg, the idea springing up from the pieces of the truth like the most valuable heathen ever hatched.
"The reason is that I cannot control it. We do our best, 38596, but the hens are fragile. It is Hot Season. Ice House always has trouble in Hot Season with storing the eggs. The temperature of the cold seeds still varies, and it is hard to predict if it is too much or too little sometimes. And the Hot House sometimes over-incubates the eggs that have gotten too cold. I cannot speak for Breed House. I believe Dick..." Phuck quickly pinched off the human's pet name for the overseer. He doubted his superior would find it charming to be named by humans. "191225 would have to speak for his own shortages."
"And what of Ice House?" 38596 asked.
"What of it?" Phuck said. Surely Tiddy wasn't the overseer that had caused all this trouble, but then again, Tiddy liked to think she was the hub of the entire dragon trade. The new eggs came to her first for incubation. Tiddy seemed not to notice what came or went, except when Phuck was coming and going. She seemed to notice him greatly.
"21141231185 reported the shortage after noting the consistent decline in shipments. She was rewarded for her keen observations."
Silently, Phuck cursed several Plutian curses upon Tiddy's head and her House. She'd been willing to do anything for him, slipping him an egg here and there, while batting her amorous pink eyes. He'd removed her hand from his urine straw the last time he'd accepted one egg. Only one. He'd told her that his mating cost was two eggs, not one. Could that be why she'd reported him? He was clueless.
Still, Phuck made himself an oath that if he happened to ever find Tiddy in a dark portion of Fly House's lot, he would be sure to let her know that her pink eyes were not stylish or unique. They were ugly as an albino ratfish's and he'd be sure to end any ideas she had of ever mating with him again.
>
"Rewarded?" Phuck asked. "Rewarding a liar only earns a larger harvest of lies."
"You believe her to be lying?"
"I do not know for certain, but believe? Yes, I must believe she is."
38596's eyes flashed. He wasn't a skilled superior for nothing. "She is lying about there being a shortage?"
"Well, I would suppose," Phuck stammered again.
"But you said yourself that there were shortages."
"There have been shortages, yes, there have. But the shortages were due to deaths."
"You know this for certain?"
Phuck wanted to scream, suddenly lost in his lie. Was he certain? He didn't know anymore. What had Tiddy told the superior? Tiddy knew Phuck was skimming eggs and raising them for sale on the Hope Market, but she'd been paid dearly for her contributions with his powerful, Plutian mating. He'd pounded her with his vibes until she was a boneless, pink-eyed glop of human skin bag on the floor of her cabin. Did 38596 know about that? But if 38596 knew all of what had been going on here, why hadn't he severed Phuck's head the instant Phuck had exposed his neck?
He had to calm down, but Phuck found it impossible to act normally under these circumstances. What was normal? Was standing there gaping, normal? It was so easy to portray normalcy until now that he needed to so desperately. For the life of him, he couldn't remember what normal felt like, what it sounded like, or how it looked on his human form. Was his back column this tight when normal? Were his sensory extensions always this sweaty at the tips?
Exhausted, Phuck fell back on the truth. He answered in a clanking, mechanical tone, "I don't know anything for certain. All I do know is that death occurs frequently during harvesting."
38596 circled behind his worker and when the Superior's arm came down with a slap on Phuck's rotators, the lowly overseer nearly dispelled a nest of drait in his pants large enough to cradle his dehydrated pain berries.
"The irregular supply is exactly the reason that Pluto can no longer rely upon the dragon trade alone for its sources of goods," 38596 said. Phuck's stomach dropped.
The Fly House (The UtopYA Collection) Page 17
