Finding the Zero-G Spot

by Sahara Kelly

  His sexual skills had been applauded and then, embarrassingly, critiqued. And by the women he’d just fucked, too. That was an experience he’d not soon forget.

  Overall, they’d rated him high on the satisfaction scale, with a few points off for not letting them get on top of him. Well, damn it, they hadn’t asked! He loved to have a woman on top, riding him to her pleasure, but he wasn’t a damned mind reader.

  He winced, wondering if that would be his next set of lessons. Learning to anticipate a woman’s sexual needs? He truly believed, in spite of all the wonders he’d seen, that such a thing was completely impossible. And always would be.

  The man who called himself Guardian had brought him here, promising he was needed.

  Now, he had to wonder, for what?

  So far, his little adventures hadn’t exactly worked out. Or so he guessed. It seemed that no sooner had he been given an assignment than he was back here in Anyela again. Wandering through this lovely country, waiting for something to happen.

  The paths were busy today, not just with hormonally challenged couples who regularly enjoyed each other with a minimal degree of privacy, but with the occasional family as well. It was market day and all the world loved to barter their wares.

  A little thump into his shins made Rory look down.

  The slightly scared eyes of a tiny girl looked up at him.

  He smiled, realizing he must seem like a tree to such a tot. He squatted and held out his hands, grinning as she carefully wrapped her hand around one finger.

  She smiled, tentatively touching his plaid with her other hand. “Pwetty dwess,” she lisped.

  “Thank you, wee one,” answered Rory. “Would you like to see things from a bit higher up?”

  She nodded.

  Rory scooped her into his arms and held her high against his chest, giving her a bird’s eye view of the crowds milling around the different stalls.

  “Oh there’s Mama…” The little girl pointed. “Mama…Mama…look, the big man lifted me waaaay up…”

  Rory shuddered, having forgotten that delicate little girls could possess voices like foghorns when necessary.

  “Mama” came over with a smile, and a word of thanks. “Lalla, stop screaming in this nice man’s ear, will you?”

  “Not a problem, Lady. I’ve heard battle cries on the field that were louder. Though not by much, I’ll warrant,” he answered with a laugh.

  “He’s got a pwetty dwess, Mama. I want one.”

  She sighed, relieving Rory of his burden. “Yes dear, I know. We’ll add it to the list. Right after the silks, the caftan you saw the other day and the pony.”

  “She’s a lassie. It’s natural to want things,” grinned Rory.

  “You’ve children of your own, Sir?”

  “Och no. It’s not time for me to have mine yet. I have things to do and apparently I’m needed here…” He spread his hands around the busy scene. “Though heaven knows for what…”

  The woman brushed her child’s head with her lips and stared fixedly at him, concentrating on his eyes.

  “Never underestimate the reasons for your presence here, Rory McAllen. You’re needed. And all your skills will be put to the test. Best get ready.”

  Her tone brought shivers up his spine, and he stilled, wondering if he’d heard her correctly.

  Then she blinked and smiled at him, and with a nod she left, the little hand of her daughter raised in farewell.

  Now what the devil had that been all about?

  * * * * *

  “That’s him.”

  The voice behind Alana made her jump a little. She’d been lost in watching the tall red-haired man as he chatted with a woman and her daughter.

  “That’s who?”

  Paul sat himself down next to his wife and put his arm around her comfortably. “Laird Rhuadhri McAllen. Rory McAllen as we call him here. He’s one of our main problems.”

  “Good heavens. Why?”

  “He sucks at being a genie, that’s why.” The gloomy voice of Sami joined them, as he and Hari made their way over to the window.

  “I thought genies were supposed to suck.” Alana couldn’t resist it. She received three identically indignant stares.

  “Sorry. Toss a comment like that out and I’m gonna whack it right back at ya!” Inwardly she chuckled at them. Theirs had been such a guy response. “So how can he be such a lousy genie? Where did you send him?”

  “We tried him in Elizabethan England when there was a small problem with financing the Globe Theatre.” Hari looked pensive.

  “Well, that sounds fine. So…he seduced some rich woman? What?”

  “He tried to skewer William Shakespeare. Called him a pervert for putting men into women’s dresses.”

  “Ah. Okay. He’s a traditionalist then.”

  “Then we tried another time…” Sami shook his head.

  “And?” Alana turned her gaze on her handsome blond friend.

  Sami sighed. “He got into the Palace and Victoria never gave Albert a second look.”

  “Oh dear. So he doesn’t follow instructions very well, either.”

  “You could say that.”

  “We tried to get him to intervene in the Techno-conflict of 2361.”

  “The whaaa…?” Alana’s face reflected her confusion.

  Hari coughed. “Sorry. It hasn’t happened yet. Forget I mentioned it. Just figured you should know that Rory did his best to behead Bill Gates the Seventeenth.”

  Alana tilted her head and raised a speculative eyebrow. “A sentiment not dissimilar to those expressed in the late twentieth century, I might add. Although directed toward the original version by anyone who ever got the blue-screen-of-death and lost a week’s work.”

  Paul tried to suppress a chuckle. “His latest adventure was on Argosy 2. We needed someone to distract their warrior queen so that the future rulers could stabilize the region.”

  “And?” asked Alana again.

  “She tried to make him king.”

  Alana couldn’t help it. She snickered.

  Once again arrogantly masculine eyebrows were raised in her direction. God, if testosterone was a drug, she was getting seriously addicted here.

  “So the problem is that you all don’t know what to do with one Scots warrior? A Laird has laid you low?”

  The men winced.

  Alana received the I’m-tolerating-this-because-you’re-pregnant-and-therefore-to-be-cherished look.

  She sighed. “Go away guys. All of you. I want to think, and I can’t do it with all that…that…chest looming over me. “

  This time, three male faces smiled. God, men were so shallow. Tell them they had a nice chest and they’d puff up like pouter pigeons. If anyone told her she had a nice chest right now, she’d probably cry, seeing as she felt rather like a cow three hours overdue for milking. And it was only going to get worse.

  She pulled her attention back to the immediate problem and stood up, stretching her back and feeling the need to walk around a little, accompanied by the tiny flickers of life within her.

  Resting her hand on her belly, she wandered over to the center of the room and stared at the astounding vision beneath.

  The passage of time.

  Something no mortal should probably see.

  Her child stirred then settled, as if it, too, was stunned by the thought.

  She pulled her eyes away, and strolled to some of the control panels that were discreetly set into desks along the walls.

  One, Paul had told her earlier, indicated the general progress of time. Another, peppered with little lights, showed locations of other Time Temples. Yet a third showed tiny spots where potential problems might exist.

  The touch of a finger would call up a report on that area.

  Alana watched carefully as data streamed steadily across the mammoth information system.

  She couldn’t begin to guess at the technology behind it. She was actually afraid that even considering it would make her ear
s bleed.

  Instead, she considered Rory McAllen.

  A warrior with enormous sexual dynamics. A man of action not subtlety. A man who could seduce a woman into giving up a nation or worshipping him enough to put him on the throne.

  Where to put such a man to do the best good?

  Pulling absently on her lower lip, Alana wandered along, thinking, considering, discarding ideas.

  Suddenly a small data stream caught her eye and she stopped.

  Daringly, she touched the screen and called up the information.

  She read quietly and summoned several more data-filled documents. Finally, she raised her head.

  She had the answer.

  Alana jumped a little as she realized she was not alone. Standing next to her was a tall man with the most unusual turquoise blue eyes. His hair was long and tied back neatly, and he was watching her fingers as they moved over the data screens.

  He leaned over a little and read her information.

  Then he turned to her and a slow smile spread across his handsome face.

  He nodded.

  Chapter Two

  The Hubble Quadrant…Thursday

  A sparkling new TEDco Unit, Number 14/F-37c Green, or TUNG, as its users colloquially referred to it, stood in pristine glory on one side of the rather cramped quarters of Major Boralle North.

  Being just one of many aboard the small star cruiser GAC 131—for Galactic Adjutant Court—Boralle had no illusions about her place in the overall scheme of things.

  She was approximately ninety-seventh on the list of priority crewmembers, which meant that in case of a fatal hull blowout, she would be saved before the cat. Possibly. And seeing as the cat was a mech, and had cost the cook a lot of money, it would most likely get preferred treatment.

  She’d come cheap. The actual amount of Interspatial Monetary Units that her salary drained from the Central Galactic Court system probably equaled their monthly budget for coffee supplies. And maybe a donut or two.

  But the chance to go off-world and travel the universe, meeting new beings, working on new planets and learning about new cultures had been too great for Boralle to turn down.

  Now she was a poorly paid legal clerk stuck on a ship full of blowhard bureaucrats. Oops…no, wait. That was an inaccurate statement. She was the ranking poorly paid legal clerk stuck on a ship full of blowhard bureaucrats.

  And they expected her to win the Sexual Olympiad on Frallien IV.

  Which had resulted in the addition of this monstrosity to her quarters.

  She leaned back on her bunk and activated her vidviewer with the datacard that had come with the TUNG unit.

  “Thank you for purchasing TEDco’s most up-to-date Satisfaction Booth.”

  Boralle stifled a laugh. Satisfaction Booth? That’s what they were calling it now? Well, they’d come a long way from that antique expression someone had unearthed from a thousand-or-so-year-old cache of ancient vids—Orgasmatron.

  But name notwithstanding, it performed essentially the same purpose.

  She resumed her vid. “Your new TUNG unit is ready to bring you the ultimate in pleasurable experiences. You will immediately find your arousal higher than you can imagine, and the resulting cataclysmic explosion within your neurons will produce a sensation that has to be experienced to be described.”

  She snorted. Yeah right.

  An impossibly bosomy woman slithered into the TUNG, as naked as the day she was born. She flashed a winning smile and about twelve tons of extraordinarily white dental work at the camera.

  The narrator went into great—and what seemed to Boralle to be quite lascivious—detail when it came to the placement of the probes.

  She fidgeted, uncomfortable with the level of description. This was damn close to being one of those pornoviddies so beloved by the cook. And his mech cat.

  Wait, it was getting a little better.

  “See how lovely Darleenni is settling herself comfortably? The seat adapts itself to the curves of her body and the probes do the same.”

  The “lovely Darleenni” gave a sensual sigh and wriggled on the probes that she had just clamped to her labia with a large smile.

  “Now all Darleenni has to do is activate the unit—and behold!”

  Boralle beheld.

  The unit’s lights flashed rhythmically, and pulses on the various indicators showed the level of Darleenni’s arousal. Within seconds, there was a flood of inputs from the sensors, the soft background music swelled to a crashing and resounding climax—and so did Darleenni.

  The scene was overlaid with filtered images of waves pounding on the shore and fireworks exploding against a dark sky.

  Boralle yawned.

  Just another fucking machine.

  “But wait, there’s more. As a thank you gift for your order, TEDco has included a set of genuine carbomide steak knives…”

  * * * * *

  “So how’s the TUNG?” asked General Morrone.

  “Haven’t had a chance to try it out yet, sir,” answered Boralle politely. I would have if you hadn’t buzzed me to get my ass up here in the middle of my off-shift.

  “Well, I hope it’s worth the extraordinary amount of money we spent on it, Major North. It’s very important that we make a good showing this year. If we can’t get those indicators up on those dials, we’ll be a laughingstock and won’t stand a chance in hell of being allowed in on the energy negotiations.”

  Boralle resisted the urge to roll her eyes as General Morrone launched once more into his spiel about Frallien IV.

  She could practically recite it word for word.

  Eons ago, scientists on Frallien IV had somehow discovered a way to harness the energy released during sexual activity. It was one of the most jealously guarded secrets in the quadrant. Their planet now existed with a relatively full power source, and the Olympiad held every fifty cycles charged up their storage tanks. Or whatever vessels they used to store such power.

  However, the business itself had become mechanized some hundreds of years ago, and no longer required actual contact between the two sexes.

  A variation of the technique had been adopted by early galactic explorers, and patented at great cost by the TEDco Company, thus removing the lures, temptations and incredibly explosive situations that sex in space could produce. Now, all starships were equipped with earlier—and less expensive—varieties of TUNG booths, and everyone had a very satisfactory physical outlet for their needs.

  Boralle found it acceptable and logical. It never occurred to her to question it, it simply was.

  But this year, Frallien IV was in something of a dilemma. Their eternal rivals for the gold standard at the Olympiad were the rather savage inhabitants of nearby Magus Prime. And Magus Prime, with its new and warlike leadership, had sent word that this year they intended to win. And they’d demand the blueprints of the Sexual Power Technology as their prize. They also made some improbable suggestions as to what Frallien IV could do with the gold statuette customarily awarded to the Olympiad victors.

  The Frallien leadership had fallen into a nice snit over that particular portion of the message, having evolved into a civilization where such vulgar expressions were seldom heard and, on the rare occasion that someone dropped a hammer on his toe, were treated with disdain. Very unlike the Magans, who were known to curse fluidly and fluently whenever the mood struck them. The mood, apparently, was a violent one, because it struck the Magans on a regular basis.

  In fact, the message was pretty clear. These games are simply an excuse. We’re going to get the SPT information we want, one way or another.

  The Central Galactic Court caught a whiff of this threat and saw the chance to turn the situation to their advantage. If they could negotiate a peaceful settlement between Frallien IV and Magus Prime, then they would cement their presently shaky position in this quadrant as legal counselors and advisers.

  They could also get their greedy paws on the Frallien IV SPT energy secrets and score a major cou
p in the Intergalactic Council by presenting it to the enrolled members, thus ensuring their position as Lawyers for the galaxy for the next few light years. And selling it to others not enrolled thus ensuring their bankroll for the next few light years.

  Boralle clenched her teeth at the absurdity of it all.

  General Morrone was winding down, reminding her of her duty, the honor of the CGC and that she was receiving some extra off-shift time to practice with her TUNG booth.

  She attempted a look of grateful respect.

  His eyebrow rose and she realized she’d probably failed. Well, rass that.

  She didn’t care anymore. If she was going to have to come for the fleet, the hell with his feelings. He’d earned his nickname of “General Moron”, and he was living up to it now.

  With a smart salute, she turned on her heel and left his office, not realizing that he hadn’t dismissed her.

  Her temper was up, her spirits down, and she was in the right mood to step into that damn booth and bust every dial she could find.

  On that rather militant thought, she marched down gray corridors to her quarters, stepped inside and slammed the door behind her.

  The small vase she’d bought recently shivered as the harsh metal sound rattled around the room.

  Boralle was no tourist shopper, and guarded her small cache of IMU’s with care. But when she’d seen this odd vessel, held out for her inspection by an unusual man with turquoise blue eyes, she’d obeyed a strange urge to buy the silly thing. It was a bit whimsical really, and every now and again she stroked the rather strange-looking handle that protruded from one side.

  It was decidedly phallic, but much too large to be anything like the real thing. The wood, however, was soft, and its feel seductive. She liked it. Plain and simple, she liked it. Liked touching it as she passed, stroking it now and again, and just looking at it occasionally.

  It was on a small shelf next to the TUNG.

  That damned satisfaction booth.

  Well, mused Boralle, no time like the present. Maybe if she broke it they’d find someone else to participate in these stupid games. Of course there was no one else on board ship who was as young as she was…