Now Playing on Outworld 5730

by R. T. W. Lipkin

  When she ran over to him, instinctively knowing that he was her superior, she’d been immediately entranced by his tantalizingly yellow eyes, his thin, bloodred lips, his sinuous body.

  “Care to join me for dinner?” he’d said. Just like that. As though he asked women he’d never met to dinner every day. As though he asked women as plain, as unremarkable, as frankly unattractive, as Allene Dickens to dinner every day.

  “Thank you, sir,” she’d said. He was obviously rich. She’d at least get a dinner that had real food and possibly more than a small glass of water. She’d spent every night for weeks dreaming of such a meal, and she could practically taste it as he made his offer.

  “Clive Idrest,” he’d said, offering her his hand. She’d gasped as he told her. This was Clive Idrest himself. No wonder he was so successful. He reeked of success.

  Instead of shaking her hand when she put it in his, he brought it to his mouth, and she thought he was going to kiss it. She’d read about gestures like that and had seen them in fabulas, even if she’d never experienced this sort of thing for herself. But he didn’t kiss her hand. He licked it.

  “May I have the pleasure of your name?” he’d said as he licked her hand again. Unbelievable sensations were working their way throughout Allene’s entire body.

  “Allene Dickens, Mr. Idrest,” she’d said in a near-whisper. She wanted him to lick her hand forever so she’d never have to stop feeling the exquisite way she felt at that moment. Plain, ordinary, nothing Allene Dickens was someone Clive Idrest wanted.

  “Allene,” he’d said in the same way she thought he might say Cleopatra or exalted goddess.

  “Mr. Idrest,” she’d said.

  “Clive,” he’d said. He was still licking her hand, although he’d changed method and direction, and Allene thought she was going to collapse in uncontrollable ecstasy.

  “Clive,” she said under her breath. She was surprised she still had breath. Her eyes were locked on to his. The yellow seemed to change color as it shimmered and sparkled.

  She’d wanted to say something alluring and romantic, but she had no experience with either, so she just said his name again. “Clive.”

  “Come, Allene,” he said, finally lowering her shaky hand from his lips and tongue. “My chef is serving dinner and we mustn’t be late.”

  “Yes, Clive,” she’d said, the first of many many times she’d say those same words while he effortlessly seduced her and drew her into his glorious plans.

  Chapter 92

  Early in the morning, Alexander lay in Gil’s arms. His lover was asleep, but Alexander had woken more than an hour ago. He knew Gil had to leave soon, off on another weapons run, and he dearly wished he could go with him and leave Outworld 75 and Clive Idrest behind.

  But he had a job to finish. He was almost there. He could feel it. Just a little more time.

  Despite its cramped space and narrow beds, it was strangely comfortable here in the crew’s quarters of the transport. And it was safe here, away from anyone who might be watching or listening.

  Gil stirred and turned onto his side, facing Alexander, then touched his cheek just under the ugly bruise that was taking so long to heal.

  “Let’s kill him and be done with it,” Gil said. “I’ve wanted to kill him for years, ever since I found out what I was really hauling around for him. He trapped me the same way he traps everyone. The way he trapped Marguerite. If only I’d known she was on the ship that day, Alexander.”

  Alexander grabbed Gil’s hand and kissed the palm.

  “How could you have known?”

  “Today’s as good a day as any to rid the universe of Clive Idrest.” Gil absentmindedly stroked Alexander’s upper arm, one of the few areas of his body that hadn’t been injured in Idrest’s latest beating.

  “Not yet, my love. I have to protect you. And myself. And especially Marguerite. No one can know what we’ve done.”

  “There are ways.”

  “I’ve been waiting for the right moment. I have everything planned. Just wait. Awhile longer.”

  “Tell me, Alexander.” Gil’s hand reached down to stroke Alexander’s already-enlarged sex, and the two men moved closer to each other.

  “I can’t dare tell you. You have to stay safe. What if something would go wrong? I want you to be able to say you know nothing about it. Because you won’t. You can’t.”

  “There are ways, Alexander, and you forget that we have weapons that most people don’t.” Gil tilted his head in the direction of the transport’s hold.

  “It can’t happen like that. I’ve told you before. Just be a little more patient.” Gilbert’s touch was like a salve, the very opposite of Idrest’s.

  “I’ve been waiting for years, Alexander. My patience left me long ago.”

  “Only a while longer.” Alexander gasped. “Don’t stop what you’re doing.”

  Gil leaned over and kissed Alexander so gently, like the angel he was, saving Alexander from his fears about Marguerite, loving Alexander with his entire soul, showing Alexander that empathy and trust and love existed and were real, tangible, and true.

  “I’ll never stop loving you,” Gil said as Alexander shifted his weight and moaned.

  “Only a while longer,” Alexander said before he lost himself in his lover’s embrace.

  Chapter 93

  Violet woke up in the middle of the night, suddenly fearful. She’d dreamt that she was on the set of Mirage and that she couldn’t remember her lines, couldn’t remember who she was supposed to be portraying, and that the director had laughed at her as he was telling her to get out and never come back.

  “But I’ll be fine in a moment,” she’d said, pleading with him. She was sure she could remember everything. It was just nerves. Every actor had this problem. Every actor worth anything overcame this problem. She had done so herself many times.

  “If we must fight a duel, then we must,” the director had said, and he drew a sword out from behind his chair, testing its edge with the pad of his thumb and rubbing the blood onto his face, one smeared line on each cheekbone, as though he were applying war paint.

  “I’ll be fine in a moment,” Violet had said, panicking now. She’d never so much as lifted a sword and now she was going to have to defend her life using one?

  The director stood and slashed the sword around a few times for show, and quite a show it was. He was as deft with the sword as any ordinary person might be with a knife and fork. He’d slash her in two before she even had a chance to find her footing.

  “Please, my lord,” she’d said. “We mustn’t fight. I’m sure I can remember my lines, remember who I am. I just need the chance.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times,” the director’d said, “my name is Ephraim. But I wouldn’t expect you to remember. You can’t even remember a simple three-word sentence.”

  “I can,” she’d said. “I just need more time. Please, another minute.”

  “When Charlotte was in this role, she was extraordinary.” The director looked just like Lord Trevelton, Violet realized, and he was even wearing a Regency-era costume, his white cravat tied in the exact way that Etterly tied Rafe’s. He could never do it as well himself, although perhaps it looked better done in his haphazard style.

  “I can’t be Charlotte,” Violet had said. She couldn’t be. If she could, she’d remember her lines, she’d please the director, and Mirage would run as smoothly as it had before she’d shown up.

  “Then you must fight,” he’d said, and he edged forward, slashing at her, the sword zinging through the air.

  When she woke up, she was covered in sweat and breathing so rapidly she couldn’t believe she hadn’t just been running her fastest.

  What had Trevelton said that day? That they couldn’t make it to Gretna Green that afternoon? She still didn’t know what that was or why he’d said it. Perhaps it was a town near where the farmer Ephraim Croft lived. That was probably it. Farmers lived near places named Green. Maybe that wa
s even his hometown.

  Why was Lord Trevelton the director of Mirage in her dream? Why could she not shake him off the same easy way she’d shed other lovers? The way she’d displaced Booker with Trevelton himself.

  She needed someone new. That much was clear. She’d find someone as soon as she was settled in her part in Mirage. As soon as she’d found a place to live. As soon as she’d paid off Booker’s debts. She’d already started thinking of them as the last of Booker’s debts, as though they were already nearly paid off, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  When Rosie had shown her the sketches she’d made for the masked ball’s decorations, Violet had started imagining herself dancing in the enchanted atmosphere. Rosie had even found special candles that would change the usual nighttime mood from cozy to headily passionate.

  Violet would dance with Saybrook. After all, it would be her last night at Hollyhock and he looked like he’d be a good dancer, the slightly slumped way he held himself giving him a look of physical assurance and ease.

  Certainly Mrs. Allman would allow her one small pleasure. And Rosie too, since she was working so hard on the ball. Who would mind if two servant girls had a few dances? It was a masked ball, and this was a majestic, not early nineteenth-century England. No one would ever have to know who they were.

  Violet was an actor, not a lady’s maid. And Rosie was hardly a scullery maid. Violet and her dear friend should be allowed to dance with the players. It’d be Violet’s last night. The last time she’d get to spend with Rosie. She’d speak to Mrs. Allman in the morning.

  Violet forgot her dream and drifted back to sleep in the damp sheets.

  “Remember that he’s dead,” the director was saying to her now. He looked almost exactly like Calvert, which was comforting. Now she could remember her lines.

  “Yes, Mr. Calvert,” she was saying as she waited for the cue.

  “And that you weren’t expecting it,” he was saying, nicely reminding her.

  “Yes, Mr. Calvert,” she said.

  But when she saw Trevelton’s body lying there, the blossoming bloodstain on his chest, she didn’t need to act, but fell to the ground, sobbing.

  She leaned over him and felt the warmth as his heart pumped the last of his blood onto the front of Violet’s best white dress. She’d worn it specially for this occasion, and now it was ruined.

  Chapter 94

  Allene Dickens would do anything for Clive Idrest, and had. And would again. Whatever he asked.

  She’d come to this majestic, knowing that her job was to wait on his faithless wife, a woman who was beautiful on the outside but who was incapable of giving Clive Idrest the kind of love and attention and devotion that he craved. Who regularly cheated on him and who couldn’t see the treasure she was destroying with her own foolish, uncaring behavior.

  That magnificent night when Clive had explained what he wanted Allene to do while he was still lying atop her, looking down at her with his penetrating, mesmerizing gaze, at first she hadn’t understood him.

  Why would the glorious Clive Idrest want his wife to become pregnant with another man’s child? Didn’t he stay married to her for show? What kind of show would that be? Her body full with someone else’s offspring? How could he ever live that down?

  But he’d explained it to her, soothing her fears. He’d stayed married to Marguerite up till now, using her as his public wife, but until he’d met Allene, he hadn’t known that there’d ever be anyone out there who’d truly love him and who he could truly love in return.

  Now that he was sure of Allene’s love, though, he could hardly tolerate being in the same house, on the same planet, in the same galaxy with Marguerite.

  Yet there was no way to break with her and still maintain the high esteem the intergalactic community held him in, and his businesses all ran on that esteem. If it were just himself, that would be one thing. But there were thousands of employees counting on his businesses, and so on his reputation and image—and for them, he had to be very careful about his personal actions.

  Since he’d met Allene, he’d been struggling with a way to end things with Marguerite, a way that would protect his businesses and their employees, and he’d had a revelation that the perfect solution was for Marguerite to become pregnant with someone else, one of those lightweights she was always frolicking with at those silly majestics she wasted her time on.

  If she were obviously pregnant with another man’s child, he’d be not just justified but he’d be legally permitted to immediately break with her, cutting her off from his fortune, his name, and their marriage.

  Then he and Allene could have the life together that he’d always dreamed of. They’d have children of their own. After a certain amount of time had passed, of course. Everything must appear to the benefit of his image. For his businesses and their employees.

  Which Allene understood and sympathized with. After all, she was one of his employees, and fabulously lucky to have the job. Now she had a beautiful apartment as well, which Clive had moved her to the day after that extraordinary dinner he’d shared with her, pouring out his heart, telling her things he’d never dared say to another living soul.

  How he was secretly working on a formula that would convert the acidic red-orange sea of 75 into potable water, ending the drought and preempting any future droughts. He couldn’t bear to see the residents suffering so. How he had plans to colonize a new outworld, turn it into a utopian dream, with untold freedoms and wealth for all its occupants, no matter who they were, no matter what their origins were.

  How Marguerite could have been so blind, so foolish, so utterly stupid, as to have rejected Clive Idrest—this was beyond Allene’s imagination. Yet she was grateful to Marguerite, because if Marguerite had been the wife to Clive that she should have been, Allene never would have met him, never would have loved him, never would have been loved by him.

  As it was, she would always do whatever Clive asked of her. She regularly changed the company records for him, since the galactic government was trying to use their antiquated regulations to destroy his very life’s blood. She’d helped clear out his office before the surprise inspection that she’d learned about ahead of time.

  And of course she’d do anything he asked in bed. He was the most inventive, creative lover. Even though he was the only lover she’d ever had, she was sure of her estimation, since he did things to her that she’d never read about or seen in fabulas. They were certainly unique. Like the way he licked her hand, which he still did on special occasions, when he was particularly pleased with her.

  But she feared his reaction when she told him that the duke had returned. She’d wait a few days. Maybe the duke would leave again and then everything would be as it should. Clive didn’t need to know every small thing that occurred. Marguerite was pregnant. That was all that mattered.

  Soon Allene would be back on 75, Clive would be rid of Marguerite, and Allene and Clive would be able to begin their life together. She’d move out of her apartment and into the house by the sea. She’d be Allene Idrest, not Allene Dickens. She’d be the wife Clive Idrest needed and deserved.

  As she fell back to sleep, she could feel Clive’s hands probing her, bringing her a pleasure that no other man could ever equal.

  Chapter 95

  Nicholas held Marguerite close. They were lying in the bed in his bedchamber. They’d used the secret passage through her dressing room, one of the many such passages at Hollyhock Manor.

  Marguerite was asleep now, but Nicholas had woken up after only twenty minutes. Sometimes that was all the sleep he needed.

  He glanced down at Marguerite’s swollen abdomen and smiled. He’d never have guessed that Calvert had called him back because she was pregnant. Nicholas had thought of many reasons, but Marguerite being pregnant with their son wasn’t one of them.

  The reason he’d considered most often was that Clive Idrest was on his way to 5730 and Calvert somehow knew that Marguerite needed to be protected
from him.

  Nicholas yearned to make love to her, but she was so soundly asleep and had been so overwrought that he didn’t want to disturb her.

  She would leave Idrest now. Nicholas was certain of that. Whatever Idrest was holding against her would vanish in contrast to the child growing inside her.

  No wonder her skin was outshining the candlelight. She was radiant with a new life. A life that they had created together, in love, in lust, in passion. Their son would be extraordinary, and already was.

  Clive Idrest would no longer have a hold on Marguerite. Whoever had given Marguerite the antidote, he was grateful to them. Because no man would tolerate his wife having another man’s child, and Marguerite’s relationship with Idrest was as good as finished.

  Nicholas would take Marguerite back to Earth with him, back to his home in Australia. She’d never have to go to 75 again. She’d never have to see Idrest again. Nicholas was already arranging everything, watching with satisfaction as the future fell into place here in the past.

  “Very satisfying, yes,” the half-asleep Marguerite murmured as she repositioned her leg that was resting on top of Nicholas’s.

  Nicholas pulled her closer and gently moved her hair away from her face as he rested his cheek on her head.

  “Because he deserved it,” Marguerite said, or Nicholas thought that’s what she was saying. Her words were almost slurred, as though she were drunk. But she was merely asleep.

  “You deserve it too,” she said, then fell back into a deep sleep.

  Clive had built a special platform for her, and she was forced to stand there all day, enclosed by a transparent shield, on display to everyone on 75 who walked by the main square, which he’d also had built for her.

  She was wearing only a transparent gown, Regency style, with a high waist that showed off her ever-expanding belly to advantage.

  There was a sign in front of the platform, but Marguerite had never seen it herself, since she’d been placed here while blindfolded, but only after Clive had made her ask for it. His pleasure, as always, depended on her humiliation.