by N Lee Wood
He shrugged. “The only thing they wanted from me I didn’t find all that enjoyable.”
She seemed amazed. “What happened?”
He told her. When he finished, she was smiling, once again amused, her anger vanished. “A medical examination isn’t usually considered an erotic experience.” She scribbled on a piece of paper before folding it over. Rooting around in her reader for an address, she wrote it on the note in her delicate Hengeli. “You’re not being asked simply to provide sperm. Go here and give them this.”
He took it, eying her questioningly.
“Nathan, Vanar men are expected to want sex. That is their primary function in our society. Why would you think anyone required you to be chaste and virginal? Go, please, and enjoy yourself.” She sank tiredly into the chair. “But I meant what I said: no more trouble.”
XII
THE KAEMAHJAH WASN’T ALL THAT MUCH DIFFERENT THAN ANY LARGE social club on Remsill or the upscale lounge of a liner: drinks, dancing, music, laughter, conversation.
And, of course, sex. Lots of it.
All women were legally allowed to marry three kharvah, although most Middle and Common caste women married fewer. But in the High Families, when senior women took more than one kharvah out of circulation for business reasons, a lot of unmarried women were left over. Most of them were the younger daughters and cousins who stayed at home to support the Family business. Or they were taemorae, hired employees hoping to acquire enough business connections to begin their own households while canvassing the younger men with more prominent family connections in search of a kharvah or two of their own. Or they were women who simply elected to remain unmarried, whether childless or not, either finding mates among their own sex or satisfaction in a kaemahjah, the house of joy.
This particular kaemahjah was a popular outlet for women from respectable houses looking for male company. Some came to relieve the stress of Family business, to have their tender muscles and egos massaged. Some came only to be entertained, to dance or talk, uninterested in sex at all. Some came in for the sole purpose of getting pregnant, earnest women who fucked with an intense determination that was somewhat alarming to Nathan.
The vast majority of men who chose to become sahakharae were not homosexual, which surprised Nathan. Most were younger sons from Common Families without prominent-enough connections to have attracted a marriageable woman. Boys with enough talent or good looks hoped to find a sponsor to train them, with ambitions of attaining a position in one of the Nine Houses. Once sterilized, they gave up any prospect of those family ties that welded Vanar society together. But many of them earned a significant income in the kaemahjah to supplement their official function of keeping tensions at home under control, saving for a comfortable retirement.
There was also a pool of kharvah with ever-changing faces drifting in and out. They came to meet possible marriage partners, or to visit lovers they had been prohibited from marrying for reasons of Family business concerns. Others came because their wives couldn’t spread their time far enough between business and several kharvah to keep everyone happy. And there were plenty more like Nathan who simply came because they were frustrated and bored.
After two months, Nathan began to feel the seasoned pro. The staff at the kaemahjah greeted him now by name, even if they all mangled it into “Nay-teen Karoo.” An older employee assigned herself as his guide and protector. He had been preoccupied with a tall, exquisitely lovely woman doing her best to chat with him, struggling to understand his clumsy Vanar while stroking his thigh delightfully, before his self-appointed guardian interposed to warn her off. At first, he had been annoyed—the tall woman had been highly attractive—until he discovered she had rather explicit tastes that there were other men more accommodating toward.
Apparently, they had special hospitalization coverage.
He also discovered he had the absolute right to refuse any offer he didn’t care for, a strange sensation of control he hadn’t had in a long time. Rarely was anything more than a simple “no” needed, and at the slightest hint of insistence, kaemahjah staff firmly intervened. Nor, in spite of his preconceptions, did he feel like a prostitute; no money ever changed hands. Although small inexpensive gifts were sometimes offered, just as often they were reciprocated. His stipend was paid by the government of Vanar, the amount considerably higher now that he was Nga’esha kharvah rather than mere naekulam. The money was deposited directly into an account to pay for his time regardless of whether he had sex or simply sat and drank and listened to the music.
For the most part, all he did do was drink and listen to the music while watching the dancers. His Vanar had improved after Pratima’s gift, increasing his vocabulary enough to hold his own in a discussion on native Vanar botany, should any women who shared his passion ever show up.
So far, none had.
At first, it had even been fun, a chance to escape from the constant male company and revel in plenty of guilt-free sex. He had partied with boyish enthusiasm, a few favorites more than once, but after a while, the novelty wore off. He was not among the men sought out for their elegant and witty conversation, although he was welcome to join in the groups, listening attentively, trying hard to understand the jokes. When he did, he was so pleased with his own accomplishment he sometimes forgot to laugh.
He learned to smoke the traditional Vanar water pipe, enjoying the mild narcotic languor and the hallucinatory sharpness of his senses. There was no limitation on either smoking or his drinking, and if he drank himself into a vomiting coma, he knew he would be taken care of without disapproval by the staff. But after a few times of waking up hungover and disoriented in a sterile white room, stinking of sour vomit and sweat, that luxury wore thin as well. Occasionally, he would drink enough to lose his inhibitions and try dancing. The women thought it hilarious to watch his poor imitation of the polished, elaborate movements of men with bodies trained since infancy. But he did try to keep making a fool of himself to a minimum.
He attempted to learn qaellast, studying the endless games without much success. The rules seemed deceptively simple, but he had yet to win a single game, even against the worst players. Eventually, only the staff offered to compete with him, patiently explaining in slow Vanar whenever he made his frequent incredibly stupid moves.
No one seemed concerned that he spent most of his time by himself, drinking and smoking. He passed the tedious days in a dreamy, quiet state skirting the edge of depression. At least he could relax here as he couldn’t at the House, where he was endlessly smiling and obeisant, lowest of the low, bowing and scraping while suppressing the urge to punch his fist through something. Yaenida had less and less time for him, ensconced with her senior daughters behind closed doors, engaged in one business matter after another. Once his daily kowtow had been performed, he escaped to the clearing. After a time, even that refuge had turned to more emptiness, Pratima’s absence disheartening.
On a late afternoon, the clientele thinned out and he was idly considering leaving. He had already politely turned down an offer of company, deducing with a now experienced eye the woman’s end objective: not many sought him out for anything more than a quick, indifferent coupling, and these tended to be either women attracted by his strangeness or unmarried women desperately seeking pregnancy. He was beginning to resent the first, and while he could sympathize with the latter, on occasion even enjoyed sex with them, the goal left him less than enthusiastic.
Not ready to return to the Ngai’esha House and face the smug gloating in the men’s quarters, he preferred to simply sit and listen to the music. He leaned against cushions piled up against a carved screen, his foot idly tapping the air to the rhythm. This group was better than most, four men who played a fast intricate rhapsody of reedy flute, a three-level dulcimerlike stringed instrument, lute, and a drum that the young player bounced his fingers on to produce a deep, rolling sound that made a pleasant sensation in his gut.
He hadn’t noticed her, and when he did, i
t was obvious she had been watching him from across the room for some time. His heart slammed into his throat, and he stood up slowly on numbed legs. He was light-headed and queasy, wondering if the narcotic smoke had made him ill before he realized it was simple fear and panic knotting around his excitement.
Pratima sat alone, almost secluded by the screens around her. Reclining on the low divan, she propped her head up with one fist, resting her weight on her elbow. Her hair, loosened from the braid, fanned behind her in polished black waves. A qaellast board had been set up, stones gleaming white and red against dark-grained wood. She watched him walk toward her with a faint wry smile.
“Greetings, bhraetae,” she said in Vanar when he reached the screens. He stopped and put his hand on one edge to steady himself. “Would you care to play a game of qaellast?”
“I’m the poorest player on all Vanar, l’amae,” he said, in the same language.
The skin around her eyes crinkled as her smile broadened.
“The music is excellent. Perhaps you might dance for me?”
“I’m an even worse dancer.” He stepped inside the privacy screens and drew them closed, the music still faintly audible behind the dampening barrier.
“Then what can you do for me?” she said softly, looking up at him. He didn’t know where the words came from, how he managed to speak at all as terrified as he was. “What you came here for.” Taking two steps to her, he slid his hand behind her neck to pull her head toward him, his fingers tangled in her hair. He had a glimpse of white teeth as her lips opened before he crushed his mouth over hers, kissing her with greedy hunger.
Half falling on her, he knocked over the qaellast board, scattered stones hopping over the stone floor. Her hands gripped his arms, hard fingers digging into his skin, pulling him down onto her. His tongue slid into her mouth and she bit it gently, held it captive with her teeth. He moaned, feverishly groping with her sati, pushing it open off her shoulders. His hands covered her small breasts, nipples hard under his palms, the bones on her rib cage palpable through the flesh. She was small and slender, but with the ruthless tenacity of steel cable rather than any fragility.
She released his mouth, and he buried his face in the curve of her neck, filling his senses with her smell, her taste. Strong hands wrenched his sati open. His bare skin burned under her touch as she reached down and grasped his cock, pulling him toward her inexorably.
“Oh, no,” he groaned, not wanting it to happen so quickly, powerless to slow himself as he felt her press him against her hot softness. His hips thrust instinctively, sliding, filling her. Pressure shimmered up his spine, her fingers stabbed into the flesh of his buttocks, squeezing, drawing him deep into her, her legs clamped around his waist. He could hear himself making helpless animal sounds as he drove himself into her with bruising force. He shuddered and came, the explosion of relief blinding him.
His muscles had turned to butter, and he slid off beside her, one boneless arm draped over her chest. He lay there breathlessly, shaking in fatigued satiety. Dazed, unable to even move, it took several minutes for his heart to gradually slow. The sweat on his body chilled him, the hairs on his arms standing up.
Suddenly, he was aware she had made no sound at all. None. He looked at her, fumbling in embarrassment. His penis slid out, his testicles contracting with the air-chilled slickness. Even spent and ashamed, he was surprised to find he still wanted her, an ache coiling around the base of his groin.
She gently disentangled herself from him and began wrapping her black sati around herself, expertly twisting and pleating it into shape. He watched her silently, miserable, unable to find the words to even apologize to her.
She clipped the folds of cloth together securely with an unembellished pin, then held out her hand toward him. “Now that you have fucked me,” she said calmly in Hengeli, “come, and I will make love to you.”
XIII
HE FELT A VICARIOUS THRILL OF POWER, ABSORBING PRESTIGE JUST BY being in her presence. The deferential respect she received, the interest turned toward them, strangely intoxicated him.
She appeared not to notice, nothing condescending or haughty in her demeanor. When she spoke, she was faultlessly polite, yet it was as if she had no understanding of any hierarchy. When she walked, she seemed unaware others made way for her, heedless of their respect. She wasn’t arrogantly ignoring them, he realized; she dismissed it so thoroughly from her consciousness that their reaction to her simply didn’t exist.
He, however, didn’t quite have the same dexterity. He was very much aware of the respect around them. The stares turned on him had an almost physical sensation. They left the kaemahjah, and a float taxi settled next to them at the barest motion of her hand. The driver didn’t blink as she motioned him inside to sit beside her, rather than relegating him to the back as he expected.
The taxi rapidly skated away from the outlying suburbs at the margins of the Estates. Thin, twisted spires and arched walkways, organic designs crystallized into delicate buildings, dominated the city center. She had the taxi stop in front of a glittering tower of white marble and got out, walking away without looking back as he followed her. The taxi lifted and sped off, seemingly unconcerned she had not paid for the fare.
The streets teemed with pedestrians, mostly women. He tried to ignore their stares as she stopped, facing a blank wall. The building had no entrance that he could see, until she stepped in front of an un-adorned expanse of marble and placed her hand against the stone. A thin seam incised a black rectangular line, and the marble fell back smoothly, exposing a bright entry. It closed behind them seamlessly.
She stood in the center of a barren room as large as Yaenida’s study and said in Vanar, “Up, please.” Only his gut told him they were ascending until they reached the top of the tower. The walls folded back like flower petals opening to the morning sun and merged into the floor. The space was huge, expansive windows curving around a panoramic view of the city so high and so empty it made him vertiginous.
Large paintings, costly museum-quality pieces, hung on the arced girders separating the pseuquartz windows like bars on an immense birdcage. The room was spacious enough to easily accommodate a thousand boisterous party guests, while floor cushions and low settees arranged around antique screens made the area surprisingly intimate.
She watched him as he walked around. His bare feet sank into the plush carpets, and he noticed the faint perfume of flowers before spotting a cascade of orchids thriving on a ten-meter-high tumble of natural rock. The granite glistened as water trickled through the greenery into a mosaic pool large enough to swim in filled with silver-scaled fish.
“Is this yours?” he asked, dazzled.
She seemed surprised by the question. “No,” she said simply. “Are you hungry?”
He turned as he heard the faint skittering, staring at a black metal and chrome ten-legged spider striding with delicate grace across the room toward them. Two feet high, it held a silver tray bearing food on its back, balanced with four sets of sharp-spined mandibles. Stopping before a low table, it smoothly lifted the tray off its back, swiveling the mandibles to set it down before sorting and arranging the food into two settings.
“Thank you, Ilitu,” Pratima said in Vanar, and the mechanism strolled back toward a small alcove, its multijointed legs moving in smooth rotation, tapered ends barely making tracks in the thick rug.
“Are you always so polite to robots?” he asked as the machine settled into its slot, curling up its legs to mesh like an abstract sculpture against the wall.
She knelt by the table and picked up a tiny canapé. “Only when they’re sentient,” she said, and popped the hors d’oeuvre into her mouth. He shot a startled look at the mechanical spider, gazing back into its lifeless eyes, four ebony stones. She motioned for him to sit down.
Rather than kneeling formally in Vanar fashion, he tucked his sati under his knees and sat down cross-legged. She smiled, but said nothing. He watched as she leaned over to pour
out a tiny serving of coffee. Her hands were steady, long, unadorned fingers with blunt nails holding the fragile cup out to him.
“Thank you,” he murmured reflexively, and sipped the thick, black liquid before setting the cup down gently. He was not an expert on ceramics, but he knew he was drinking from antique porcelain worth far more than he was comfortable handling.
“Okay, I’m impressed,” he said. “Who does this all belong to, then?”
She tucked a strand of loose hair behind one ear. “It doesn’t belong to anybody. It’s just somewhere for Pilots to go during our down-time, a place where we can relax.” She ate another canapé, chewing s1owly as he surveyed the huge room. “Pilots are particularly sensitive to claustrophobia. We need space.”
He picked up a strip of thin slices of pickled ginger arranged on a tiny sliver of bread among artfully cut vegetables, then a thick garlicky artichoke paté, cradled in the halves of pinkish hard eggs. They were delicious. “Ilitu made these?”
“Yes.”
He made a deliberate effort to turn toward the spidery thing. “Excellent, Ilitu. Thank you,” he said in careful Vanar. When he turned back toward Pratima, she was grinning. “No?”
“Not necessary,” she said, voice sparkling with suppressed laughter. “But I’m sure she appreciates it.”
They ate in silence, trading glances and hesitant smiles like love-struck adolescents, or at least he felt like an infatuated teenager. “Would you like to listen to music?” she asked.
“Why not?” he barely got out before the opening strains of a quiet concerto. Startled, he shook his head and leaned back. “What, is the room sentient, too?” he asked.
“The entire building is sentient,” she said. “We are inside Ilitu. She is a conscious entity much like ourselves.”
