“Not yet.” Eliana stood back, slipped off her robe, climbed back onto the bed, and stretched out atop him, her naked skin flaming hot against his own. She hummed low, then rubbed his chest with her breasts. Hard nipples dug into him. He felt every part of her dig into him—her belly, her pubic mound, her legs. He groaned.
“Eliana! Don’t—I’m not healed yet.”
“The part I care about is in fine shape!” she said, laughing playfully, then lowered her face to his.
“You feel good. Very good.” Matt kissed her pale white lips.
Eliana kissed him back, then whispered softly. “When is now, my dear Vigilante.” She rubbed her mound against his hardness.
“Eliana!” He pushed back against her. Then he threw one Healpak-laden arm around her and pulled her close as they kissed deeply.
Passion swept over them. They gave themselves over to each other, to their passion, and to their mutual need.
Later that night, Matt awoke. The Healpaks had shed themselves, like a snake sheds old skin.
Eliana was up and moving about his stateroom, nakedly beautiful as she bent to inspect the half-finished Hopi-style weaving on his loom. Shuttles still dangled from one side. Her fingers traced the borderless geometric figures, designs that spoke of lightning, raincloud and mountain, all overarched by the figure of Corn Maiden.
In the stillness after their lovemaking, she’d handled his news about Eliana-the-bioweapon reasonably well. She’d shown brief sorrow, looked regretful, then taken him into herself once more, riding him with a furious urgency. As if by her own efforts she could make things turn out the way they should. Hope she had in full measure, but enough for him? Avoiding the thought, Matt admired her naked form as she was backlighted by the yellow glow of his aquarium.
“Do you like the design?”
She jumped, then turned, a shy smile on her face. “Yes.” She pointed. “Is the wall tapestry over there your work too?”
Rising up and leaning on one elbow, Matt nodded. “Yes. It’s an Apache motif taken from their bead-working designs. Next to it is one based on the Micronesian myth of The Porpoise Girl. Do you know her story?”
Eliana shook her head, clasped hands behind her back, and met his eyes. Her look was different, not erotic, more like . . . hopeful. “No, my schooling has been more classical. I speak Katharevusa Greek, compose monodic lyric poetry after the style of Sappho and Alcaeus, play the kithara lyre, and I’ve published commentaries on Aeschylus’ Oresteian trilogy. But I’m not that familiar with Pacific Ocean cultures.”
“What about the sciences?”
She laughed, walked over, and sat at the end of the bed, by his feet, one hand resting on his ankle. “I’m Greek—remember? Aristarchus, Aristotle and Galen gave the world the basics of science. I follow in their footsteps with my own work.” Her eyes gleamed mischievously. “You know, Matt, reproductive studies have always been a Greek interest. We could practice some more?” She tickled his feet.
He stifled a laugh. “Soon. But first, tell me about Grandfather Petros and your genos. Are the women of Olympus allowed any independent purpose in life?”
Her forehead creased as old memories intruded into their new world, their hopeful world. “Oh, Matt, the clan genos has always been the basis of Greek cultural life. Not the state.” The frown deepened. “Genos Themistocles is several hundred people—aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, every variation of step-cousin—and we’ve been successful here.” She looked away briefly. “It’s . . . it’s not that we’re enslaved or anything. It’s just that women grow up knowing our family duty. In Olympus colony, everything is focused on reproduction, on making it possible for the colony to survive, and women who can birth viable babies—even crossbreed babies using the artificial placentas—are highly valued.”
“As they should be.” Matt enjoyed the warmth of her hand on his ankle, the casual closeness she’d chosen for them. “But you have value beyond just being a baby factory. You know that.”
Eliana looked up at his hanging mobiles, aside to his weaponry wall of daggers, knives and swords, then back to him. “You confuse things for me. Before the Stripper, before you, I headed a research group on the outskirts of Olympus urbus, following in the biogenetic research lines of my mother, searching for designer proteins, new enzyme reactions and mapping the esoteric branches of the Derindl genome so we can . . . so we can have a better Union with them. So that maybe, just maybe we women of both species can naturally give birth to crossbreed babies—by overcoming the body’s rejection of the Derindl blood variant. That is something I hope for too.” She hung her head, her mood now wistful. “But now that I’ve found you, I want to stay with you, and . . . .”
Sitting up, Matt reached over to cup her chin and lifted it up. Her eyes were filled with giant welling teardrops that threatened to become an ocean. “Eliana! You deserve happiness on your own terms. You know that, don’t you?”
She pulled back, wiping her eyes. “It’s not that simple. I owe a duty to the genos, to Ioannis, to Grandfather Petros, to Autarch Dreedle—so many people are counting on me!”
“And who are you counting on?”
She looked suddenly uncertain. “Those whom I once relied upon are all untrustworthy. As I saw in the holosphere after the bomb blast. But I am only one person.”
“So was I, in the beginning.”
She looked curious. “When did it begin?”
“Seven years ago. Long ago.” Sudden depression overtook him like a bath of cold water.
Eliana saw it and moved to lie beside him on the bed, reaching out to turn his face to hers. “Matthew . . . what’s wrong?”
He breathed into her neck, unable to meet her eyes. “You speak of duty. Once, years ago, I had a duty. To my wife and first love. Helen Sayinga Trinh. She died during an attack by resource-pirates . . . on our way outbound in a Sixth Wave freighter.” Matt licked his lips, the image of flame, blood and flesh still haunted his memories. “I escaped in a lifepod, going into stasis to conserve supplies. Months later, after drifting in a nearby nebula, Mata Hari found me, brought me out of stasis, changed me and trained me to be its cyborg Interface. I’ve been good at that, you know?”
“I know,” she whispered into his ear. “Sometimes being good at something is the only thing that gives meaning to a life of restrictions, of limited choices, of wished-for but lost opportunities.” She sighed. “A pioneer colony has its limitations too, Matt.”
“If the colony survives.” He turned on his side to face her, reaching out to embrace her, to pull her love spirit closer to him. He sought her lips. The kiss was meant to be arousing.
Eliana pulled back, shaking a finger at him. “Matt, you don’t escape me that easily. Every woman has a right to know the life history of the man with whom she shares her bed. Even if he is different, like you. Or . . . like me.”
She’d done it! Eliana had finally acknowledged how much they had in common. She had accepted his cyborg-nature as the other side of her own crossbreed heritage. Why then, did his stomach clench? “How much do you want to know?”
She mused beside him, eyes alight, dancing with her enjoyment of her time with him. “Ummm. Everything would be a bit much. How about that bookcube over there? Do you read much?”
“Yes, I do read. That’s how I educated myself before I met up with Mata Hari.” Determined to pay her back for earlier teasing, he moved his knee to her groin and rubbed softly, slowly, until she gasped.
“Read what!”
He smiled. “Well, it’s just an old collection of stories by Samuel Clemens, Rudyard Kipling, Jack London, Moliere and Apache elders. It’s not a true library of knowledge. But I like studying ancient stories and myths.”
Eliana smiled, then moved atop him to ride his knee, her expression erotic-fierce. “Tell . . . me . . . a story. Please?”
Matt reached up and pulled her hips down against his leg. “Well, I’m part Samoan by heritage, so how about the Micronesian story of The Porpoise Wo
man?”
“Tell me about her,” she gasped, head thrown back, her eyes closed as she concentrated on her own pleasure.
He began. “Once, long ago in the middle of Earth’s largest ocean, a girl came from the sea to watch men dance. One man—her future husband—stole her tail so she couldn’t return to the sea. He hid it in the rafters of his hut. All through the night, the next day, the next night, and the following day the Porpoise Girl hunted for her tail—because she desired to return to her father deep in the ocean depths.” Above him, Eliana rocked against his leg and moaned her rising pleasure, tossing her head from side to side, her eyes shining nova-bright as they set fire to his heart.
Matt continued, trembling with his own arousal. “Finally, she found it. Going back to the beach at sunset, she warned the village children playing by its shore to never eat porpoise meat again, then vanished into the white-curling combers that touch every island shore. Leaving behind her heartbroken husband.” Eliana cried out with her repletion, her groin jerking against his leg. Then she stared down at him from within a waterfall of black hair.
“Not so simple a story,” she murmured, reaching down with one hand to stroke him.
“Oh!” Matt reached up to caress her heavy breasts as they dangled above his face. “Again?”
“Soon.” Eliana smiled, then sat back and played with him. “Tell me, my fine, oh so controlled Vigilante, was she happy with her choice?”
“Who knows?” He moaned when she lowered her head to his waist. “Did you . . .did you know that part of my lineage is as honorable as yours?”
Eliana looked up suddenly, her expression fierce. “Your honor lies in the oath you kept—to defeat the Stripper! I need no other. Nor should my genos.” She bent down.
Matt persisted. “Some relatives said we. . . were . . . descended from the family of mythical Palulop, the great canoe captain who could navigate anywhere across the wide ocean.”
Her hot breath touched him intimately. “Is that why you roam the stars?”
“No.” Now his hips moved out of his control.
She brought him closer to release. Moments later she gasped for breath. “Why, then?”
“Because of a Promise I made to Helen.” Matt pulled her up from his hips and sought her eyes. Her wondrous green eyes. The eyes of a woman who loved him and whom he loved. “Enough of old memories and new love. Show me what the Derindl women do with their tails.”
“Pervert!” she laughed, then spread her legs as she mounted him, her hips shimmying like a young colt. In that moment she drove away the loneliness and brought back love. She made him believe once again, believe that, somehow, it would all work out. She offered him hope . . . .
Long into the night they pretended things were not as they were.
Two days later the Stripper broke down.
Seated in the Interlock Pit on the Bridge, with Eliana sitting close by in her accel-couch dressed only in his Samoan lavalava skirt, Matt watched the forward holosphere.
The blood red hulk of the Stripper filled the sphere. Spy Remotes fed him its image from every angle, in every spectrum. But the Stripper did not move. No ore-cutting lasers flared. No air defense shot down his Remotes. No active radar ranged his Remotes. Nothing moved. Nanoprobes confirmed the death of interior machinery. Already, a Fire-and-Forget Nanoshell had penetrated the hull, dispersed into submunitions, and his nanoborers and nanoware energy seekers now spread through the immense interior caverns of the Stripper. Saying a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of Chaos, he turned to Eliana.
“Well, lovely Patron, the job is half-done. Shall we take up Hover station over the Stripper before your countrymen beat us to the salvage rights?”
Eliana looked puzzled. “What do you mean? No one knows the Stripper is dead—yet. I know satellites will report its demise to both Autarch Dreedle and to Legion’s spies, but we’re first on site. And what Greek would approach the Stripper?”
Matt watched as she turned crosswise in her couch, folded long slim legs under her, and watched him instead of the holosphere. He had an advantage over her—the PET relays still fed his mind an uplinked view from his miniProbes. “Almost any Greek, my dear. Spyridon could use the ecotoxin reservoirs to blackmail Autarch Dreedle. Your uncle Nikolaos could offer them to Halicene Conglomerate, as a bribe to return their freighter traffic to his Port. Ioannis could salvage the hulk and sell its remains back to Legion—or hope for continued preferential trade relations if Halicene doesn’t blame him for the defeat of its machine. Even you—”
“Me!” she sounded amazed. Then her hot temper caught up, turning her look stormy and challenging.
“Peace!” Matt bit his lip—it was not fun looking at situations from the self-interest of all possible opponents. “But yes, Mistress, even you could find value here. How many full spectrum neonatal placental units do you think you could buy . . . with enough ecotoxins to destroy a planet’s lifeweb?”
The heat left her mood. Eliana knew him well enough now to see how and where he led. She did not like the direction he illuminated, but she was too intelligent and too honest to dismiss him as a crazy cyborg. And . . . she was falling in love with him—so she had confided last night. In the end, Eliana could only turn away, stare at a sidewall image of Sigma Puppis system, and whisper her protest. “Matthew, you misjudge me. I may have my own interests, I may detest your computer, but I would never make possible the destruction of another planet. Throw the damned stuff into the sun!”
“Good idea.” Matt rejoiced inside and knew that his choice to love her had been well-founded. “Mata Hari will send the reservoirs to your sun aboard a cargo Remote. But it will be stealthed—we can still use the possible trade of them as a card in future negotiations. Understand?”
Eliana groaned, then turned back to him, her expression stark. “Matt, I don’t want to know more of human and alien depravity. I hate politics! All I want is . . . .”
“Yes?”
“An answer to how I can both serve my people and be with you.” She looked at the holosphere, her expression troubled. “When do we leave for the Stripper?”
Ouch! Well, he’d invited that sharing. “We’ve already left, Eliana.” Matt blinked twice. “I’ve set up our own Defense Zone around the Stripper. In seconds we’ll be hovering above it. Would you care to walk atop the corpse of your planet’s enemy?”
“Go outside?” Astonishment filled her. “Unprotected? You want me to walk where you walked?”
“Not me. What do you wish to do?” They took up Hover station over the Stripper just as he finished his question.
“Matthew,” Mata Hari said, interrupting their discussion. “We’re there. What are your instructions for decontamination and recovery of the ecotoxin reservoirs?”
Holding up a hand up to forestall Eliana’s reply, he answered his partner. “Your Nanoprobes have located all the reservoirs?”
“Of course,” she said, sounding a bit indignant. “There are four—two in the front hull and two in the rear. It will take awhile to cut through the upper hull plates. But our starboard lasers and plasma cannons can do the job.”
Matt recalled onto his contact lenses the schematics of the Stripper. His onboard CPU scrolled parameters and readings along either side of the tiny image. “Can they be detached without setting off some kind of deadman switch?”
“Deadman switch?” A few milliseconds passed. “Oh—the Library has defined your idiom usage. Yes, it can be done.”
“Will you, directly and personally, monitor the ecotoxin removal and local area decontamination?”
“Yes, Matthew. Although it is a simple task, one quite within the capabilities of my expert subsystems.” His AI partner sounded peeved, as if he’d asked her to put all her massive intellect into building a farm compost heap. “Besides this job, I am quite able to continue with my usual stellar system monitoring, Vidcast intercepts, probability runs, and sociopolitical spyprobe monitoring—along with a few million other minor tasks.”
>
She was exaggerating, but only slightly. “I know. You’re the perfect AI.” Both he and his symbiont laughed out loud, together. It felt like old times, when he’d first begun working with the ship, saving lives, fighting lost causes and seeking justice in a lawless universe. Even Eliana smiled at their repartee. “What about Legion—any sign of the MotherShip?”
“No, Matthew,” Mata Hari said, her tone abruptly sober. She appeared suddenly in a side holosphere, dressed in the lacy, white Victorian dress, her expression thoughtful. “All is quiet on the F5 front, according to tachyonic reports from our sensorProbes.”
Eliana looked at him querulously. What did she want? Oh, yeah. He lowered his hand. “Sorry, Eliana. About that walk atop a corpse . . . I’m afraid it’s too risky. And the timelines on this Job are getting constricted. Okay?”
She shrugged. But her look was not jovial. “Fine by me. I prefer trees to metal.”
He left that one alone and refocused on his PET links and his other partner. “Mata Hari—please open up the Stripper and remove the ecotoxin reservoirs. Have a cargo Remote standing by in the belly lock for detachment and transport of the toxins to the local sun.” Matt paused, thinking over his instructions. “And after loading the reservoirs onboard, take this ship into orbit about Halcyon.”
“Complying, Matthew.” The AI’s holosphere presence turned busy as her image key-touched a make-believe laptop. But through his cyborg relays and over the hundreds of lightbeam neurolinks, Matt felt a two kilometer-long starship go about her business. She did it most efficiently and most logically.
Nearby, Eliana tapped her armrest. He dropped gestalt focus and smiled at her. “Yes, Patron . . . my Eliana?”
Eliana looked over at the holosphere image of Mata Hari, then over her shoulder at the green forest of Memory Core pillars. The place where most parts of his AI partner resided. She fixed a smoky gaze on him. “Matt, can we ever speak in private . . . without her hearing us?” She gestured to the pillars.
Star Vigilante (Vigilante Series) Page 21
