by George Olney
"Otherwise, you wouldn't be worth my time," he added dryly.
She stared at his retreating figure in shock and started as the strange voice with its unknown language spoke from thin air. He answered in the same tongue and she realized just how alone she was. She knew nothing about the ship, or where she was, or what he was like, but he was the only one that could speak her language. She didn't even know his name. Hell, she couldn't even find Earth!
Wrapping her arms around her knees and hugging them to her chest, she furiously glared at his retreating figure for a few moments. Not only had that guy kidnaped her, he'd messed with her body. So all right, according to him she was off the bottle. That remained to be seen. That business about diseases and life spans was just fantastic bull! If he was telling the truth about the birth control business, that really hurt. That bastard had no business doing anything with her body!
He said she was no longer her own person and that hurt. So all right, maybe her life wasn't a shining beacon, but it was hers, damn it! She felt like screaming her fury at his calm assumption of dominance over her. There had to be a way out of this! Damn him to hell, there had to be!
A little part of her was grateful for her anger. It was smothering her fear at suddenly being thrust into such a totally alien situation. This was no time for silly weaknesses. She eyed the towel again, but thought better of reaching for it. No sense in starting another fight she knew she couldn't win.
Calm down, girl, she told herself. You have to survive. No one'll help you, it's all in your lap now. You can't do it if you can't think straight. Now start thinking.
For a few seconds, her past wandered through her thoughts. She had been a survivor since childhood. Ma was always gone off working, or drunk, and she was kind of growing up on her own. She had a fantasy of her father, a good and strong man living somewhere else who would come for her one day. That lasted until Ma told her she didn't even know who her father was. After that, she didn't care when the social services lady took her away, about the time she was eight or so, and took her to live with some people she didn't know. From then on, there were different homes and different schools until she had enough of the whole thing. Some were good and some were bad, but none she cared about.
All along, she had her dream. She saw the beautiful, glamorous women in TV and movies and she knew what she wanted. More than anything else, she wanted to be an actress. One day, she pitched her school books in the trash, packed a bag, and went out the back window of the foster home to the bus stop. Most of her secretly and painstakingly hoarded lunch money went for the ticket to Hollywood. Soon enough, she was there, ready to be a star. She was going to be JoAnn LaTour, movie star. Betty Bankhead was dead.
She snickered a little, thinking about it now, but she smiled, too. That girl was dead broke and determined - and she was going after her dream.
She could have gone down the tubes right after that, but she didn't. What saved her was old LeRoy. She saw him, beat up and bloody, in the alley behind the bus station. Full of innocence and determination, she knew she had to help him.
LeRoy was grateful enough to give her a place to stay in his little apartment and help her get a quick job at a burger joint. All he asked in return was friendship that later blossomed into a real closeness that had nothing to do with sex.
He was gay ("as queer as a football bat," he said), which was why he got himself mugged that day, but he also knew everyone in Hollywood. LeRoy was an old actor gone to seed, but a lot of people still liked him. He kept her from getting in trouble before she got her feet on the ground, introduced her to the right people, and helped her go after her dream.
She smiled again. LeRoy was one of the best persons she ever knew. He taught her there were good people in life. LeRoy was a friend and, more than that, he was family. Maybe he wasn't the father of her dreams, but he was a pretty good substitute. He, as much as anyone, helped shape her life and view of the world. Somehow, he never quite let her lose her sense of wonder.
She frowned. There were bastards in life, too.
Like the one on this ship.
Well, she'd gotten through everything else life had thrown at her and she'd get through this. She settled down and began to mull over the situation. The thing to do was ignore her anger. Getting mad was only going to hurt her chances of survival. She decided she had to take things as they came and find a way to get away from this man and back on Earth again. Life there was no picnic, but it was the only one she knew.
The voice had to be from a computer, she decided. There were plenty of computers that spoke and reasoned in TV shows and movies and she saw no reason this one should be any different. By now, she was sure that she and the man were alone. He needed a computer like that to run the ship. She might get it to help her, if she could speak the language.
That was first, that and finding out what was in the ship. He said she could do what she wanted – or what he let her do - so maybe she'd find something that would help her learn the things she needed to know.
For a second, she thought of killing him, but put off the idea. She needed him, because he controlled the ship and everything else she depended on to live. Until she could get on her feet and gain more control of her surroundings, he was safe from her. Besides, she'd fought more than once but never seriously harmed anyone in her life, let alone killed a person.
But, Lord, killing him was a satisfying thought!
She wanted desperately to fight him on the clothing issue and everything else he said, but decided reluctantly against it. There were some kind of rules to what he was doing and she didn't know what they were. Until she did, she didn't want to risk the danger she saw in his eye again. She would fight him when she was ready, when the odds were in her favor, but not before then. Always pick your battlefields carefully, she remembered hearing somewhere, and nothing was more true now.
Being without the protection of clothing bothered her. Deep down, she was unsure of herself. Not having that barrier against the world made her nervous. She snorted. Screw it! To hell with the nerves! There was just him, after all, and the little world of the ship. Damn it, she stripped for a living! She could handle being nude until she found a way to beat him.
So how to do it?
She decided to work on him. He obviously didn't think of her as a person, just property. Well, that was about to change. She was good at manipulating men, could take a man and convince him to do anything she wanted. He was now her target. She wanted out and he was going to let her go.
Clothes were out, she thought, so one aid was gone. Briefly, she had a fantasy of tweed suits and clunky sensible shoes. It would be so nice not to have a life based on sex. On the other hand, she was absolutely certain sex was her only reason for being on this ship, so she may as well adjust to reality.
She had to get oriented and everything else would follow.
She got decisively out of the couch and began to study the room. Recalling sea stories from the movies and TV, she decided the whole place could be called a combination wardroom and bridge. From here on in, that's what she'd call them.
The hatch to the wardroom split a series of shelves against the back bulkhead. Objects and books were arranged along those shelves and the shelves of cabinets spaced along the other two bulkheads. With the chairs, sofas, and such, it was a comfortable place.
The wardroom made it obvious that this ship was home to the man. He probably only left the ship for short periods. She wondered what he had been doing on Earth, but gave the mystery up for the present.
She glanced at the big sword again. It was a little over five feet long, with a slender diamond-cross-sectioned blade something over a yard long. It had a needle point and two razor edges. There was a plain cross guard and a handle that looked like it could be used with two hands. She would certainly need two hands, she thought, but she doubted the big lug would. He could probably handle it single handed unless he seriously wanted to chop somebody.
Or something. She saw what
looked like an overgrown bat's wing on the opposite bulkhead. The wing was nearly six feet long and she had no desire to see the bat that grew it. Whoever this guy with the eye patch was, he was definitely a tough customer if he'd killed that monster with just the sword. Probably had, too.
She walked over to the bridge, but didn't try to go up on the deck itself. She didn't want to take the chance of touching something critical. Just the look of the various screens, lighted control banks, and the two command chairs was enough to tell her when she was out of her depth. Maybe later on, she promised silently.
As she walked back to the passageway hatch, an object on a shelf caught her eye. It was a small sculpture of a nude woman, done in a clear red gemstone. She picked it up to examine closer and the stone shone brightly in her hands. The woman's posture was graceful and her expression appealing. The sculpture as a work of art and the woman were both exceptionally beautiful. It looked like it was done from a living model.
Strange, she reflected as she replaced the little figure, the wing matched the man, but not this. There might be more to him than his infuriating superiority and implied violence. She wondered where he got this lovely piece, since he didn't seem the type to care for works of art.
The little figure's nude shape caused her to think of her own body. It could use some attention if she was going to wander around like this. She needed to tone and flatten here and there and build some muscle. With the alcoholic monkey off her back, she needed an outlet for her new found energy and exercise sounded good right now.
She caught herself and realized she sounded like some kind of tourist on an excursion. Right then she decided she had enough of poking around on her own. She needed to know a few things and there was only one person who could tell her. He was damn well going to do it, too.
Suiting action to her thoughts, she padded back down the passageway searching for the man, the picture of determination. No more embarrassment, bucko! He was going to take her as she came. She was always known as a big, brassy blonde, she thought with a mental chuckle. Well, look out you sonofabitch, she was fixing to be pure brass. She was no longer frightened. It was time to take control of the situation.
Grae stood in the ship's workshop deep in thought and stared blankly at the tool in his hand. He was wrong to lose his temper, but he had just done it, however momentarily. He hadn’t lost his temper since he was a teenager and it bothered him. Somehow, that woman had immediately gotten under his skin and struck sparks. There was something about her that touched a deeply buried nerve and got a reaction, one he didn’t know he had.
Despite her attraction to him, he was beginning to think taking her was a mistake. Binding her couldn't be undone that easily now. Anyhow, she was nothing but a sexual entertainer, he told himself. Nobody special. Not like... Well, the best thing to do was try to keep from getting emotionally involved with her and unbind her as soon as he could honorably do it.
Something told him that might not be all that easy. Not with that woman.
She found him leaving the workshop and stopped in front of him, eyes to eye, with her fists on her hips. "Look," she began, "no matter what you say, I know I'm supposed to be your plaything, buddy, and I'm not too hot on that, but we'll let it pass for now. If I'm going to share this ship with you I need to know where everything is, at least so I can find something to eat if I want it. No need to bother the Lord and Master, right?"
He looked at her strangely for a second then smiled. Deep inside, she breathed a sigh of relief. "That sounds reasonable," he responded. "I'll show you around."
Good, he was showing a favorable reaction. Time to try something else. "By the way," she added, not trying to disguise the sarcasm, "and I'll try this one more time. Just who the hell are you, Mac? Or do I just call you Spaceman?"
A little tight nerve inside her loosened when he smiled with real amusement. "Grae. Call me Grae. And you're on board the Irine."
In the next hour, he unbent slightly as he showed her the ship that was obviously his pride. She learned the locations and uses of the tiny gym, the galley, the storage holds, the library, the engine room and other compartments as well as the medical cabin and another stateroom, currently sealed. It was all intensely interesting and exotic. Just like a movie.
"Look," she said finally, "this is great, but I need to learn how to use the library and everything else. You've shown me how to punch buttons without telling me what the buttons mean. How can I learn your language?"
He caught his sarcastic retort in time. She was serious. Slightly surprised, he said, "There seems to be a little more to you once the booze wears off, Frenchy." He nodded. "Okay, there's a program in the library hypno-reader to learn Rembaud. I'll tell the ship to set it up for your use. If you can do it, it's a plus for you. Anytime you want to, just go in the library, attach the headset like I'll show you, and tell the ship to activate it. It will understand the English words if you speak slowly and distinctly. The reader machine will automatically start where you left off. It ought to work for you. It's our standard teaching method for cross-cultural communication."
"Great!" She smiled brilliantly at him. All of a sudden she felt grand. She'd pulled it off and felt like a schoolgirl just selected for the cheerleading squad. She turned to trot to the library, stopped short and whirled at him. "Hold it! What do I tell the ship? How do I talk to it? Let me try a short run now."
He restrained a smile. She was honest, and didn't deserve patronizing. A part of him enjoyed the brightness of her smile, but he pushed the sensation away.
Taking her down the passageway to the library, he showed her an enclosed chair and screen combination that looked like something out of a video arcade, the access console for the ship's library storage banks. He told her to sit in the seat, then grinned slightly at her reaction as the seat pads squirmed to conform exactly to her body. He taught her how to use the console and how to tell the computer to input the teaching programs she needed and a basic data search, then set up the headset attachment for the hypno-reader so she could use it.
As he walked out, he decided to go somewhere and think. The way she was behaving about the library was unexpected – and unexpectedly appealing. He felt himself responding to her bright eyed enthusiasm, and that brought up another question, sex.
The way he was beginning to feel about her, it was going to come up soon. Was he even ready for where that might lead with the woman he was beginning to see emerge from the drunken stripper he'd rescued? The sober Frenchy in the library was far more appealing than the one that had caught his attention in the strip club. If he exercised his right by custom with her, he had the feeling there was no going back. The thought frightened him.
After Grae left, she spent a little time becoming accustomed to the console and playing with the controls, looking at what the computer found under her direction. Finally, she leaned back in the seat and crossed her arms, viewing the console screen with some degree of satisfaction. There was as much material stored in the ship's computer as there was in a major library back on Earth. That made sense, she decided. If someone was going to be alone for months without going nuts, they needed entertainment of some kind. She promised herself her first hypno-reader session shortly, but she was a little cautious. She needed the language, but she didn't want to voluntarily go into some sort of learning trance before she knew more about her surroundings.
She was never very good in school, she remembered with a slight feeling of guilt, but having a good reason to learn something made all the difference. The simple joy of making a complicated machine do something properly added a new dimension to her life. Really, library computers were old friends and this one operated the same way, just a little simpler and easier. She felt better than she had in years.
Her stomach began to tell her about missing breakfast. She debated eating now or trying out that gym equipment. Remembering those extra pounds, she finally decided on a light workout and then a lighter lunch. She was going to have plenty of time for d
edicated exercise.
Too much time, really.
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She didn't see Grae during her visit to the galley but she knew he was there. That made her realize that two people in an enclosed space such as this ship couldn't lead separate lives and started her meditating about his attitude towards her. On her part, he could die the next minute and she'd be overjoyed as long as she could find her way home. His attitude towards her wasn't much better. She was sure she was there to provide sex when he wanted it, otherwise, he left her alone.
Her pleasure at being able to work the computer faded. He wanted her for nothing more than sex, she was certain of the fact. Worse, she wasn't in control. She was a stripper and a bar girl, but she never went to bed for money or favors. She was the one who chose men, not the other way around. Now he was violating her sense of independence. That hurt, damn it!
She was street tough enough to put up with a bad situation for a while in hopes of getting her own back later, but it still hurt. The whole thing was degrading.
Hell, she owned nothing. She knew nothing. She couldn't even speak the language.
She stopped that depressing chain of thought dead. Damn it, it just wasn't like her to be so worried about anything, even a screwball situation like she was in now! There was no denying JoAnn was in a pretty sad state, but maybe Frenchy wasn't. He called her Frenchy, not JoAnn.
JoAnn couldn't handle this but Frenchy sure as hell could! Maybe she ought to give up being JoAnn and just be Frenchy. Well, why not? New name, new life, new start? She did it once before, when she became JoAnn.
After a minute, she leaned back in her chair and laughed. JoAnn might be worried and depressed but Frenchy wasn't. Frenchy was her nickname, Frenchy was his name for her, and Frenchy she would be. Frenchy was also one tough broad. All right, dammit, she was now Frenchy. Let her get her feet on the ground then stand back!
