“I hope no one had a big breakfast!” one woman in the row ahead joked.
Outside the tinted hood, Ewa could see the same completely irregular motion of two other skimmers, which helped calm her nausea a little. The words “evasive action” went through her mind: Maxie and/or Virge had used it discussing military tactics after some mini-PVN they’d watched.
Now they were out of range of whatever weapons were on the ground, skimming steadily again.
The pilot was shouting again.
The woman in the row ahead turned around and said, “A skimmer was shot down. It’s ahead. She’s not landing to pick up the wounded.”
“She has to!” Ewa cried.
The other women took up the case, and the hardened woman settled it by sliding forward, grabbing the pilot’s weapon, putting it to her head, and demanding she pick up the wounded.
“I piloted skimmers like this at the Slam-’Em Races on Ophiucus IX,” the woman said. “Drop down now, or you’ll die without a face.”
The pilot found the grounded skimmer a kilometer ahead. One side had been blown away by an aero-torpedo. That side was in flames. The pilot was dead. Three women were still alive, though bloodied. One was going into premature labor. The pilot and two women managed to get her onto their vehicle in the narrow space between the pilot and front seat, where she fainted. The other two surviving passengers were terribly shocked. They were also helped into the skimmer. Ewa’s pilot checked the others for life signs, then set the downed skimmer for autodestruct. As they were leaving the terrible scene, Ewa heard something. She rushed back, pushed the cracked broken hood aside, and saw it – a newborn wrapped in a Plastro bunting, its head alone showing through the visor: thin black hair, black eyes, screwed-up face. Ewa brought it back to their skimmer, and as they belted in and the pilot took off again, the racer said to her, “Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
Ewa asked the survivors whose baby it was.
“Jof’a,” one replied finally. “She –” the woman broke down.
“We’ll take care of Jof’a’s baby, won’t we?” Ewa cooed.
But when the baby didn’t stop crying, Ewa opened the Plastro bunting and lifted the infant against herself to give it tactile comfort. As she cooed and hummed and held it against herself, she clearly felt the extended spine and the four little lower limbs through the lightweight material, and Ewa understood completely and with a mixture of pity and horror exactly what the Bella=Arth. merchant had failed to convey to Janitra: more – more legs! Two more legs!
Despite her shock, Ewa didn’t say anything to the other women but kept the baby wrapped. It was cooing, and she put it back in the bunting as soon as it showed signs of sleepiness. But she understood now all that was happening, and why it was happening. She was devastated, she kept telling herself. Yet, she also knew that she would let nothing happen to this child, nor to her own, when it was born: four-legged, like this one, and beautiful, and in need of her love and nurture.
Who was she to be able to go against a thousand years of acculturation by the Matriarchy? And, after all, it would be Ewa’s firstborn.
Rinne braced herself, then entered the pneumatic doors of the Stellar-Zine Lounge. She wasn’t all that surprised when, just beyond the entry, air-jets from above and below suddenly swept her with gusts of air (checking for hidden weapons), adding a completely unnecessary razzing sound intended to draw the notice of the patrons in floating booths closest to the door. Attempting to remain collected, she strode past the curious, ignoring their comments –
“Eve! Look at the old broad!”
“What’s this place comin’ to?”
“She must have had her prime vanish on her!”
– and settled herself on a slip-out stool along the long keyboard slab of Plastro that served as a bar.
The barkeep was a woman a century older than Rinne, but with a few too many full-cosmo. jobs, a propensity for clothing too small and too revealing for her age and figure, and a bizarre fashion sense. She was lounging on a floating pad among some still-in-uniform, worn-out-looking MC Security guards, all watching and laughing at a life-size holo depicting a sextet of various species in sexual acts, a few of which even Rinne had never seen before. At least she suspected they were sexual acts.
“Hit the deck, honey!” The barkeep turned toward her and gestured at the panels on the Plastro. “Anything illegal or immoral, you gotta see my grandma!”
The MC guards glanced at Rinne, then back at the holo in one motion, without a break.
Rinne ordered a double Stele Martini. She’d need it. She sipped and inspected the egg-shaped lounge, trying not to appear to be either who she really was or a pickup.
One booth at the far end held some MC forces in the deep indigo capes of the Cult of the Flowers. She definitely didn’t think it was any of them she wanted. Looking around the room more closely, she realized that the wallsized panel behind the holo was a door to another room.
Now what?
Ever since she had landed on Markab Lambda VI, things had gone wrong. The planet itself was a dusty, infertile mining world, with little water and plenty of room for intersystems markets. The capital, MarkoCity, was little more than a market itself, buildings low to the ground to avoid the inevitable erosion of the dry-naphtha storms that swept over it periodically; most of the living was done underground.
Including the spa, which was acceptable enough. Except for the management. Rinne discovered upon arrival that her reservations were for tomorrow, not today, Sol Rad., and as she didn’t want to take any chances of being noticed by flashing her credentials, she settled on a smaller, far-less-elegant suite.
Worse, Diad hadn’t arrived yet. When she comm.ed what passed in MarkoCity for a Fast port to check on his flight, she found out it had arrived – without him. Finally, the spa’s desk Cyber, which surely had its circuits badly overscrubbed in the recent Cyber modification, located somewhere among its circuits a holo-message sent by Taylor. He was still on Hesperia, he told Rinne. Something crucial had come up at the company he owned, and he’d been called in. He would be on the next Fast, which wasn’t due for twelve hours Markab time. He looked upset and sounded calm.
Rinne had sulked for a while in her too-small suite, then unpacked Jenn-Four and tapped her into the desk Cyber, which was in turn tapped into the port’s Cyber. Rinne asked, “When’s the next flight to Deneb XII?”
“Next commercial flight is twenty-two hours, ten minutes.”
Dealing with problems here, Rinne had just missed one.
“There’s a military schedule,” Jenn-Four added. “Looks like an easy tap for me. Whoever modified these Markab Cybers left the chips in but scattered all over and unattached. I’ll try a temporary electron fuse.”
“Fine,” Rinne said.
“Three MC Fasts due to leave for Deneb XII. Time secret, but Fast overhaul and fuel-ups are in progress. Any of the three could leave at any time. Or all three.”
“Go on,” she urged.
“You want the staff? On vessel number 4567121 the Captain is a Vestra Pl’mia. On number 876921C it’s Patha Ip’py, and on number 98CLFL088 is Commander Helle Lill. You know anything more now?” the Cyber sassed.
“Why’s the third one’s number so different from the others?”
“It’s listed as a Cult of the Flowers vessel. Newly converted. Bet it looks like the others from the outside.”
Wasn’t Commander Lill the name of Diad’s friend? The one who had captained the Fast the Hesperian exiles had been forced to take off Regulus Prime? From what he had said, Lill was a hardened, old MC soldier. Evidently a successful one, too, if she was on her way to quell the troubles on Deneb XII. She might be leading the trio of Fasts.
“Comm. Fast port,” Rinne told Jenn-Four. “The last ship you mentioned. Use all my clearances to get through to Commander Lill – but not my name or title.”
The holo snapped on. A young woman at the Fast port, dressed in MC red with Cult accessori
es: Plastro head visor, form-fitting body armor, and the violet-velvet, single-shoulder cape.
“Captain Wang’Un,” she saluted. “Commander Lill isn’t here.”
“I must see her,” Rinne said without identifying herself.
Wang’Un had heard that tone before. “Yes, ma’am. But she’s on shortleave. She and part of the crew. We’re not due out for ...” she hesitated.
“I don’t need that information. Where is she now?”
The Captain was pretty when she frowned. “I could send someone ...”
“I’ll go myself. She’s in MarkoCity?”
“Yes, but ... it’s kind of a rough place.”
Rinne heard the name and location and guessed how rough. She tried to find clothing that was both sleazy and unnoticeable. Not easy given how little she had packed. But at last she’d managed a look that could be construed as a well-off but still-rustic agro.-merchant. And here she was, all dressed, at the Stellar-Zine Lounge, and no Lill. Rinne would have to go behind the holo.
I’m not staying here another twenty-four hours Sol Rad., she told herself. Maybe not even the twelve until Diad arrives.
Rinne caught the barkeep’s eye and gestured her over.
“I’d like to meet your grandma.”
Closer up, the woman was even older, even worse in shape. “It’s pretty unsavory back there. Maybe you’d better think twice.”
“Maybe not. If it’s money, I’ve got it.”
The barkeep shrugged, then gestured with one of her several chins. “It’s –”
“I know where it is,” Rinne got off the stool and sidled her way past the holo and through the sliding door. She heard someone whistle behind her.
This room was much dimmer, also egg shaped, with round tables hovering inside circular booths, upon which various bodies were writhing. Other bodies were stationary against the walls, watching the single holo of perhaps a hundred Humes and Delphinids engaged in very damp sexual activities, a holo that completely encircled the room at eye level, and thus was inescapable. Especially its sound, which seemed to match the sounds in the room, which in addition were heavy with breathing and motion. This was worse than Rinne had imagined. She would never find Lill here.
After a few minutes during which she pushed away various hands and other less-definable limbs that reached out for her, Rinne’s eyes adjusted; her mind blanked out the holos; she scanned the booths, noticed a few torsos above the tables, among them one freshly risen, with a uniform top mostly open, breasts barely tucked in – and the giveaway Plastro wristlet of the Cult.
“Your Captain said I might find you here,” Rinne said quietly and sat opposite the striking woman.
The head of an attractive young male lifted from within the woman’s lap. A second later, and farther along the curve of the booth’s seat, another male head lifted. Obviously, they were doing something to each other and Lill.
“Apologies for disturbing you,” Rinne added.
The big woman leaned back and chuckled. “Don’t mind them.” She pushed the one head back down out of sight below the tabletop; the other head followed of its own accord. The noises they were making resumed.
No sense in being roundabout, Rinne supposed. “I was supposed to meet Diad here in MarkoCity. He’s delayed. He mentioned your name in Melisande.”
Lill reached down and lifted the head. “Sorry, boys. You’ve lost me. Scat.”
The two youths clambered over Lill and out of the booth, pulling up their body-tunics as they went. Lill crossed around the booth, pushing Rinne aside so they sat side by side and very close. “Even gynos have ears. Quietly now. What do you want?”
“Passage to Deneb XII,” Rinne said.
“Northie mentioned a lady. He didn’t say it was such a fancy one.”
“Look, I haven’t time to –” Rinne began.
“Hold on! We’ve got time! And after all... I was expecting you.”
“Expecting ...? You mean your Captain comm.ed you?”
“My ladies comm. me when they douche. She said you had clearances up the ovaries. No name. You’re what? Some hot Councilor? Why not just use rank?”
Rinne was silent. Commander Lill was smart. Perhaps too smart.
“I could just have waited until Diad arrived,” she finally said.
“And miss the show?” Lill gestured around the room. “Just tell me why you want to go there.”
“It’s personal.”
“You have a spouse at the spa? No. If Northie spoke of you, you’re all his. A daughter there? Some relative? An ex-spouse?”
“Something like that,” Rinne allowed. In a sense they were all her daughters, relatives.
“It’s a real grokker on Deneb XII, you know.” Lill said.
“I know.”
“Could get even grokkier. Bang-bang. Bla-boom!”
“I’m ready for it.”
“Fine. Pack and meet me at Fast port in one hour Sol Rad. You’ll remain in my quarters on the Fast until we land. No one will know anything!”
“Agreement.”
“What about Northie?” Lill said. “He’ll arrive here all hot and bothered with nowhere to go. He’ll follow you.”
“Can’t you keep him from doing that? If it is as bad as you say there ...”
“Look, I can bar him from military Fasts. I can even harass him with commercial ones. But forget it. Northie does what he wants. He’s from the City,” she added, as though the two terms were synonymous.
Rinne had a sudden insight. If a high-ranking MC Commander with a Cult-equipped Fast said that, meant it, knew it, it must be true: it must be reality. He’s from the City – he does what he wants. That was true of Hesperia, too. Recent events proved that. How long had it been true? Why hadn’t Rinne known it? Or anyone else at her level in the MC? Wicca Eighth wouldn’t believe it. Would any of the other Very Important Women – before it was too late?
“You’ve known Taylor a long time,” Rinne said quietly. “What’s he like?”
“Arrogant. Aggressive. Provocative. Demanding.”
“But ... also sweet. Gallant and loyal,” Rinne added.
“Loyal, yes. Intelligent. Practical. He’s Hesperia! Roll it up, and he’s it.”
Rinne remembered the lift drop from the Spoorenberg. His arms around her, the ineffable sadness of twilight. Then what he had said – about how it would all change, all of it.
“Trustworthy?” Rinne asked now.
“Do you mean personally?”
“No, I mean ... I know so little about him. What if ... what if he’s not who he seems. It would make sense, you know, to find me, romance me... . You know what the political situation is like now.”
“Far as I know, he’s always been a Beryllium hauler, party boy. Worked for O’Kell, one, maybe one-and-a-half centuries. Never had a political thought in his head.”
Lill was tiring of their conversation; she had begun glancing about the room.
“Gratitude,” Rinne said. “And also for what you just said.”
“Truth only,” Lill said, then reached out and grabbed some passing male and pulled him into the light. “Well! What do we have here?” With one motion, she reached up and pulled his tunic off one shoulder and down to his knees, “Hmmmm!”
“I’ll be at the Fast port.” Rinne got up to leave.
“Sure you won’t stay?” Lill smiled. “Looks like there’s more than enough here for the two of us.”
Her low-pitched resonation accompanied by tiny chittering finally stopped.
Mart Kell pulled himself out of the velvet grasp of her many palps and managed to get to his feet. The darkened room spun for a moment before he felt steady. These sessions with Kri’nni were becoming intense. And he wasn’t an adolescent anymore. Mart pulled up his semi-Plastro tunic.
“Going so soon?” Kri’nni asked.
“Have to. Meeting of the Quinx.”
“Too bad. I could go on for hours more Sol Rad.” She added those odd sounds by which Vespids si
mulated laughter. “You going to tell me what’s on the Quinx agenda (menu ((what’s for dinner?))) or will I have to find out myself?”
“What do you think?” He found the skullcap and pushed back his hair to stuff it in. Had the cosmetic tint gone out of his eyes? Probably. They had been here longer than it lasted. The visor would be cover enough.
“So, my little byte of information from our last meeting proved useful (of advantage ((delicious))), didn’t it?”
“I’ve just paid you off a second time, Kri’nni.”
A palp reached out and slid into his tunic.
“I really couldn’t,” he protested. “It’s flesh, remember? I’m not made of chitin.”
“Do you know what fascinates (excites ((stimulates my palps))) me the most about you? About all Humes really? Rectums!” He felt her palp trying to gain entrance there.
“Stop, Kri’nni! I don’t know why. It’s just like your fecal-positor.”
“Absolutely not! On you it’s also a sex organ.”
“So?”
“Humes are so tightly constructed (dense ((compact)))! It’s surprising your rectum is so little used. One might think Mother Nature (“the Great Queen” ((“She Who Creates”))) would make better and more use of it. Especially on males. You’ve got all that space in your lower torso doing nothing, merely holding digestion tubes.
“Watch out, Kri’nni, you’ll end up becoming a Species Ethnologist. Or worse, a philosopher!”
He pulled her palp out of his tunic and finished dressing. Kri’nni “laughed” again. Then she said, “Tell me about the Quinx meeting, Mart.”
“You follow the Inter. Gal. News. You know what’s what on the agenda.”
“The riots on Deneb XII. How to make Momma hurt.”
“Momma’s already hurt. Her girls gave up Alpheron Spa.”
“What?” Mart was stunned as much by the news as by how casually she gave it. “When?”
“I heard about ten minutes Sol Rad. before you removed your clothing.”
Leave it to the Bella=Arth. Comm. network. It had always been better than Inter. Gal. It was always surprising to Mart that they had lost the war. They seemed superior to Humes in so many ways.
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