The Pleasure Dome (The Science Officer Book 4)

by Blaze Ward

It might be an act. It might be a trap. It might be an opportunity. And maybe she was hungry for a second round or a second dinner.

  Javier’s only mission right now was distraction. And she made that such a chore. Honest.

  “Boring,” the woman sulked a bit. “Beautiful songbird. Golden cage. A story as old as time and money.”

  She shrugged with her whole body, stretching the semi-translucent silk tight to distract him. It worked.

  “And I’m just another bad boy?” Javier teased.

  “Worse,” she replied. “A consummate professional with a goal. I just happen to be a pleasant diversion. If I hadn’t come along, you might have listened to opera all night instead, wouldn’t you?”

  “Cyranean Pulse,” Javier replied. “But yes, you are essentially correct, Khatum of Altai.”

  “I have a name,” she snapped.

  “And we have not been formally introduced, madam,” Navarre’s voice whip-cracked back at her.

  He waved at the remains of the bed.

  “Though this hardly qualifies as a formal salon against which we could explore the social geometries of Kierkegaard,” he continued in a cruel voice.

  She shifted herself around, almost angrily, until she was also upright, with a pillow behind her and those distracting golden-brown breasts resting on a sea of ecru silk. Her eyes were fire.

  And then they sparkled.

  “No, I suppose not,” she said with a sudden, bright giggle, also waving at the destroyed bedding. “But our activities here would either constitute a concrete refutation of existentialism, or its logical conclusion. Two strangers seeking meaningless pleasure in one another. I suppose one’s take on the balance between Deism and Romanticism would determine which side of the coin landed upright, wouldn’t you agree? And you may call me Behnam, at least in private.”

  For a moment, Javier knew pure lust.

  All that, and brains, plus an amazingly rare level of education. Certainly not the sort of woman to take home to meet his parents, but wow.

  “My mother named me Eutrupio,” Javier said.

  And it wasn’t even a lie.

  Javier Eutrupio Aritza. Or Eutrupio Navarre, he supposed, if one wanted to be philosophical.

  Navarre would never admit to softer emotions or philosophical permutations, but he was a boring shit. Too linear.

  “If the Creator actually cares,” Javier opined, waving a hand at the room, “then we’re probably all going to hell. Perhaps we did and just haven’t been judged wanting. At least not yet.”

  “Who are you, Navarre-the-killer?” she asked, leaning towards him.

  “A man making his way best he can,” Javier replied with a shrug. “There are amazing distractions, if one stops to smell the roses.”

  “And you’ll be here an entire month?” she asked breathlessly. “On someone else’s credit?”

  “That’s the current plan,” he lied breezily. “It will depend on the buyer’s ability to get here.”

  She rolled away from him and stood up on her side of the bed.

  “In that case,” she said, sashaying towards the pile of clothing. “Next time, I might let you scrub my back. But we should save some things. Wouldn’t want to show you everything all at once.”

  Javier let himself stare lustfully at the woman. It was rude, and she seemed to thrill in it, stretching the black fabric around her in ways that made her body even more interesting than it was nude. There was nothing to do about the remains of her mohawk braid, except pull it all back and strut home.

  Oh, the hard life of a space pirate.

  “Will you be recovered enough to join us for an event tonight?” Behnam, the Khatum of Altai, asked lightly. “Or should we give you another day?”

  Javier shrugged. Navarre was a bad-ass who would admit no fear, no exhaustion. Nothing.

  And boring as shit.

  “I’m still star-lagged,” he replied. “Someone interrupted what would have been a solid night of meditation and sleep, so I would vote for another day of rest, if I need to show up all the locals.”

  She grinned back at him and subtly transformed back out of that vulnerable girl she had been and into the hard-ass businesswoman who was one of the richest people in the sector, and one of the most dangerous.

  “Then you will most definitely need your rest, Navarre,” she smiled cruelly. “There are many who will want to take your measure.”

  Without another word, she turned and left.

  Javier let her go. There was nothing to be gained by trying to get in a last word, not now.

  Because there was no way in hell he was going to be here in two days to say it.

  Part Four

  Djamila watched Farouz peek out the door one last time and then close it in silence. She found herself leaned back against a shelving unit taller than she was. The whole room was an oversized closet, maybe four meters by six, with clothing neatly folded and stacked by size. All of it gray.

  He turned back and smiled up at her.

  “So far, so good,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  They had stealthily made their way back down a series of otherwise hidden hallways, accessible from the main part of the ship in many places, but separate from the world of wealth and dissipation outside.

  “Why mechanical locks everywhere?” she asked, more curious than anything. “And where did you learn to pick them?”

  He shrugged and stepped away from the door. Not close, but closer.

  “We get a number of really smart people here,” he said. “Bankers and finance people. Good with computers. Got to be too much hassle to keep them from damaging systems trying to override them. Mechanical locks are so old-school that you have to study them in order to get by. And develop a very soft touch.”

  “Soft?” she asked.

  Farouz took another partial step closer.

  “Just so,” he agreed. “Light enough to find the right spot. Firm enough to tease it into position. Strong enough to hold it perfectly still, while everything else moves for you.”

  “We’re still talking about locks?” she teased.

  “Everything is secured,” Farouz grinned. “Getting it open so you can access something takes time and patience.”

  He was suddenly close. Arm’s reach for him with shorter arms. His eyes had a gleam in them Djamila wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before.

  Desire.

  Not lust. Not power. Not control.

  Want.

  It was alien to the Ballerina of Death, but not necessarily unwelcome.

  “So did you bring me here to seduce me?” she whispered. “Or show off your lock-picking skills?”

  “There’s a difference?” he whispered back, staring up at her from breathing range.

  “Yes,” she said. “You still haven’t shown me anything in gray that would convince me this is the kind of place I might fit.”

  “Fit is important,” he agreed. “We should find you something that fits just right. Fills that burning need.”

  Djamila suddenly felt fifteen again, on the verge of losing her virginity to a fellow student. It hadn’t been that great, nor had others, but the edge of excitement and danger was there.

  She smiled. Considered kissing the man. And not kissing him. Danced wickedly outside of herself.

  Farouz took a step back and studied her in slow detail. His hands flexed like he wanted to use his fingers to measure her and not just his eyes.

  “It helps that you are proportioned more like a man,” he said. “I can only imagine the impossibility of finding pants if you were all leg.”

  He turned to his left and studied the shelves.

  Djamila let out a silent breath. So close. And so strange.

  When was the last time she had felt desire?

  Farouz kneeled down and pulled a bundle from a bottom shelf, unfurling it and holding it up to her hip.

  “Perhaps a single roll at the hem, until you sew it under,” he said with a leering smile. “Jacket w
ill be easier.”

  A moment or two later, he handed her a shirt and a jacket from another shelf.

  “Try this on,” he said, moving to the door and turning his back on her.

  Djamila started to strip immediately, but Hadiiye stopped her.

  “You aren’t going to watch?” Hadiiye asked slowly.

  “It might be considered rude,” he said back over a shoulder. “Seeing things I wasn’t supposed to.”

  “Supposed to?” she inquired with a saucy edge so unlike herself she nearly gasped. “I think you should see how everything fits. You brought me here, you know. You have some responsibilities for the fashion.”

  She watched him turn slowly back, facing her while leaning back on the door. She was expecting a leer, but got a warm smile instead.

  Slippers off first, she pulled the tunic over her head. It was a thick fabric, and they were shipboard, so she had nothing under it but tan.

  The slacks went next. Again, nothing but skin.

  She lingered over the new t-shirt, putting it to one side after a few beats so she could pick up the pants and slide them over her long, bronze legs, watching his eyes every step of the way.

  He stared right back at her, eyes locked as she moved.

  Farouz’s eyes drifted when she pulled the shirt over her head and tucked it down tight against her skin.

  She told herself it was cold in here.

  The jacket was last, and then she stood before him transformed.

  “How long is your moron boss going to be aboard?” Farouz asked in a breathless voice.

  “We’re scheduled for several weeks,” Hadiiye purred back. “I’ll have a lot of personal time available.”

  He stepped closer. Again, close enough to breathe on, but not touching her at all.

  Pointedly so.

  “I have to go on shift in an hour or so, and pull a double because Derek is on medlist,” Farouz replied. “I would like to take you out to dinner in forty-eight hours, and then properly seduce you.”

  “And not now?” Djamila asked, breathless all of a sudden.

  One of his hands went around her hip and pulled her close. She leaned down so they could kiss, but it was over almost immediately.

  Djamila lurched, but only in her head.

  “Cheap flings are just that,” he murmured. “I’d rather show you a better side of the world.”

  He stepped back.

  “Thank you for that, though,” he said. “I could never have imagined something so amazing.”

  She let the thrill fill her. And relaxed.

  “What about this?” she asked, starting to unbutton the jacket.

  “Keep it,” he said. “A crew this big will never notice, and if you wore it in two days, we could go nearly anywhere aboard ship and nobody would ask.”

  She smiled.

  “It’s a date.”

  Book Twelve: Gray

  Part One

  Javier was typing into Suvi’s communication keyboard rather than talking out loud, because he couldn’t be sure how late Sykora would be out. The rest of the board didn’t really do anything important, except play music ` make cute, little, furry animals dance across her dashboard. She did all the flying.

  But it also irritated her to have to wait for him to type.

  Javier suspected she was reading various books while she waited for him to use such a slow method of chatting. He considered flipping to an ancient Morse code keyboard to really slow things down, but she was already tart in her responses.

  Not worth pushing it.

  She was a good kid. With way more than she should. If not for him, she’d still be the monotonously-boring AI system that had come with his ship. Before he’d turned her into someone fun.

  The outer door chimed once, and then opened.

  Javier was in the main room. He wasn’t sure if Sykora was alone, or if he’d even see her tonight. Creator knew she was furious with him for assigning her that mission.

  Her fault. Either of the pathfinder babes could have handled the job easier. Her professional pride would get her killed one of these days.

  If this wasn’t already such a dicey situation, he would have arranged for it to be sooner, rather than later.

  And he had expected her to stomp into the room.

  Instead, she entered like an ice skater, gliding effortlessly to a halt beside him.

  Javier triple-taked and then nearly jumped out of the chair.

  She was dressed in gray, holding a small bag of what he presumed were the clothes she had gone out in.

  And she had a goofy grin on her face.

  Man, this was probably worse than Homicidal Amazon.

  She sniffed. Pointedly.

  “Wow, you really do work fast,” she announced in disbelief. “She’s already been here, rolled you once, and left?”

  “Sit,” he commanded sourly. “We have to be done with this mission in twenty-six hours, then steal the cargo lighter and escape.”

  “Why?” she pushed back. “What’s the rush?”

  “You got a date or something?” Javier turned and looked up at her. Inspecting those little details.

  Pupils dilated. Breathing shallow. Skin flushing suddenly. Jaw dropping open in shock.

  Shit. She really did have a date. Her? Here? What the hell had she been up to, the last six hours?

  Javier pointed at the sofa.

  “Down,” he commanded a second time. “If it’s that important, we can always kidnap him at gunpoint later and take him with us.”

  Wow. Blush all the way down to her collar now. Like she was seriously considering it.

  He watched her stumble to the sofa and collapse onto it.

  “And I’ve never come home in someone else’s clothes sober,” Javier sneered at her. “So I’ll assume you were successful. Spill.”

  Even more blush? How was that possible? And was she going to pass out shortly from all the blood flowing into her face?

  It took a few seconds for her breath to get normal. And her usual anger to resurface.

  The Ballerina of Death returned, took possession of the Dragoon. Good.

  She was more predictable now. More professional. Possibly less dangerous.

  “I made contact with a member of the security crew,” she finally said, tones clipped sharp enough to shave on. “Allowed him to seduce me. Arranged a date for forty-six hours from now.”

  The blush returned, but nowhere near as bright.

  “I was able to locate and acquire a uniform for myself,” she gestured to those endless legs. “I can get you to the same location.”

  “Portal security?” he asked.

  She was tactical now. He just needed to prod her in the right direction and duck, like pointing a cannon.

  “There is a secondary set of corridors for Operations crew only,” she responded. “Access is via a physical key turning counter-clockwise in a mechanical cylinder lock.”

  Damn, that was new. Or old, depending. And useful.

  “How many keys did the man have?” Javier asked.

  “Farouz only used one, that I saw,” Sykora said, blushing some more.

  Farouz, huh? Probably an ogre even taller than her. Must be a monster.

  “How frequently were the corridors airlocked off?” he asked.

  “Infrequent,” she said. “And open, once we got into them. The only other time he needed to key a door was to get into the uniform closet.”

  Javier leaned back and thought. Suvi was listening, and could fill in all sorts of details later. From what he had already seen in the vault, getting into the boxes was also a mechanical process.

  Everything was mechanical.

  That was a maneuver so devious he could have never predicted it, but he had spent two hours in close contact with the mastermind behind it all. Nothing the Khatum did would surprise him.

  Hopefully.

  And hopefully, she wouldn’t be terminally pissed at him when this was done.

  He leaned forward and
started typing into Suvi’s keyboard.

  Now was not the time to ask her to look something up for him. At least, not out loud.

  The encyclopedia he had uploaded into her system was heavy on biology and applied sciences. It took up a tiny fraction of the space she had dedicated to books and movies.

  Javier felt like a barbarian, working with stone knives and bear skins, to quote the ancient wisdom.

  One article led to a second, a third, a fourth.

  Ah. There you are.

  The Science of Lock-picking. And the ancient tools of the trade. Something called a snap gun.

  Insert a bar into the key slot. Turn the mechanism enough to just rub the pins inside and hold them tight. Tab them all upward simultaneously with a hinged pivot. Feel all the upper half of the pins come clear and release the lock. Turn the cylinder the rest of the way.

  Billiards you played with small metal pins, using the same physics as an opening break.

  Devious. Not a single i/o portal anywhere that he could plug Suvi into and let her tickle a computerized lock open, or beat the controlling software to death.

  And he knew she had been so looking forward to it.

  “I’ll need access to a machine shop, or something similar,” he said finally. “Twenty or thirty minutes and the right tools.”

  Sykora had been watching him, hawk-like.

  He spun the display around for her to see.

  “That’s so ancient that I’m nearly offended,” he continued. “But it’s also genius. And easy enough for a competent systems tech to keep repaired. I had been planning to use software uploaded into the probe to defeat the door systems.”

  “And now?” she asked, breathless. “Are we blocked?”

  The tone brought Javier’s head up.

  Was she looking for an excuse to get physical enough with this Farouz-fellow to lift his key? Sykora? The Ballerina of Death?

  Officially weird. And yucky.

  “No,” Javier countered. “We sleep. We eat. We get ready. In about twenty-two hours we sneak out, do this thing, and then commit an act of piracy on the cargo lighter that will be docked and unloading. Those come in every twelve hours, so we should be good, if we can do everything else on time and get clear.”