The Iron Maiden

by Piers Anthony

  Once he was in, and the air pressure was up, so that they could remove their suits, she saw that he was in a moving trance. He knew what he had done. She realized that he was bereft of his love, and would need support. Spirit was the only one who could give him what he needed. Her own grief would have to wait; it was in any event less than his.

  She turned to the six children who were all who survived. They ranged from age six to age ten, four girls, two boys. All were staring, some with tears on their faces, some dry-eyed with shock. “Go to a clean chamber, all together, and cry,” she told them. “Comfort each other, and I will comfort my brother. I will come to you when I can. We are family.”

  “We are family,” the eldest girl repeated. She turned to the others. “Come cry with me.”

  They went with her. Spirit took Hope into their chamber and laid him out on a salvaged mat. She sat by him and stroked his hair, comforting him while her tears flowed silently. Now she had him all to herself, and wished she didn’t. If only Helse could have been saved! Then she could be comforting Hope, and Spirit could be with the other children, crying without restraint.

  She dreaded the coming encounter, but nerved herself for it. She would have to tell him the truth, but maybe not all the truth. He had to know that Helse was dead, but there was no need for him to know that she had died ravished. She did not think it would be dishonest to keep that secret from him. If he asked her directly she would have to tell him, but if he did not think to ask, then she would not volunteer.

  Hope stirred. Spirit dried her face and set her expression. She had to be strong for him.

  Then he woke. He clutched at her arm. “Was it all a dream?” he demanded desperately.

  She was ready. “I wish I could lie to you, to give you ease, my brother. It was no dream.”

  “Helse—”

  “Dead.” There; it was out.

  He looked so pained she had to do something. She embraced his head, drawing his face into her scant bosom. It worked to a degree; he relaxed slightly. Maybe if she had had breasts like Helse’s it would have been more effective. “Hope, you must seal it off,” she murmured. “We need your strength, to survive. There are only eight of us left.”

  She continued hugging him, and talking to him as if he were a little child. She reminded him that Helse had sacrificed herself so that the rest of them could live. She told him that he could not throw that away.

  Finally she got through to him. He sat up, strength returning to his body. “I shall extirpate piracy from humanity,” he swore.

  She nodded and let him go. Then he turned to her. “And you, my sister—you are sustaining me in my hour of need. But who is sustaining you?”

  It was like explosive decompression. Suddenly she was bawling, and he was holding her, patting her shoulder in the way he had, comforting her. She had not realized how thin the veneer of her stability was; the merest little question had destroyed it.

  After an additional time she settled. “Don’t tell,” she said with half a smile as he wiped her face.

  “Never,” he agreed, and kissed her forehead.

  They went to the other survivors. Spirit took the two boys, hugging them somewhat as she had Hope, and Hope took the four girls, letting them hug him and cry against him. Hope’s magic was returning, and it was especially good with girls; they all loved him in their fashions. Spirit lacked that talent, but she was the closest thing to a woman remaining in the bubble, and that was what the boys most needed. An older, comforting woman.

  CHAPTER 5

  WOMAN

  After some hours they organized to set the bubble right. First they ate enough to sustain their systems. Then they dragged the bodies to the front lock, and Hope and Spirit hauled them out, one by one, to anchor to the hull. The job seemed interminable, but they kept at it, because the bodies would soon spoil in the warmth and air of the interior. The only exception was Helse; Hope couldn’t handle that, and neither, it turned out, could Spirit. But the other children rose to the occasion and did that job, burying her, as they called it, still in her wedding gown. They brought back only the once-humorous little tag, HELSE HUBRIS, and formally gave it to Hope as a memento. They pretended not to notice his tears; how well they understood.

  In between they held spot services for the dead. They tried to remember something nice to say about each child they put away, and to wish him or her well in heaven. Some were siblings, some were friends; all had been companions in misery. If the tears came again, as they often did, there was no shame. They were family.

  They swept up the refuse, and washed off the decks. Meanwhile there was another, far more positive aspect: they had taken the pirate ship with them. Its lock had been fastened to the bubble’s front lock, and all the pirates were dead of decompression. They were treated with less civility: their bodies were dragged into a single chamber, piled up, and sealed off. They were welcome to rot, and their only benediction was an assortment of curses to hurry their way on to hell.

  The pirate ship had welcome supplies of food, weapons, and tools. It would be some time, if ever, before anyone had to eat fresh meat again. It also had money and booty from pirate raids, including some mysterious containers marked only with letters of the alphabet. These, Spirit concluded, were illicit drugs, fabulously valuable on the black market.

  Hope did a fade-out before they were done exploring the pirate ship, but she managed to steady him. He was like that, often thinking too much; no one knew what so-constantly revved up his brain, and it was best simply to work around it.

  Finally they found a fully-stocked lifeboat. That was a find indeed! They strung lines to it so as to haul it behind the bubble. That might come in really useful, if other pirates didn’t steal it from them first.

  They cut loose from the derelict pirate ship and resumed their journey. One of the things they had picked up was a holo projector and a number of cartridges. Hoping for diversion, the children set it up and put in a cartridge labeled Animal Fun. But it turned out to be obnoxious fun: a naked woman indulging sexually with a donkey. There was a cry of dismay, and Hope came from his station to see what was wrong. “Turn it off,” he said, disgusted. But then the children got interested, because this was normally forbidden material. So they watched the animals, and also the cartridges showing all manner of human sexuality. Spirit felt guilty, but watched with them, as intrigued as they. This was certainly one way to study the diversity of the act. Despite all its seeming variants, it consisted essentially of getting the male and female parts together, then squirming and grimacing and moaning until a bit of juice jetted from the male. She thought there should be more to it than that, considering all the secrecy about it. Maybe there was, in non-pirate relationships. Certainly it had had far more significance for Hope when Helse did it with him.

  The children were adjusting, one way or another, but Hope was having more trouble. He slept only fitfully, writhing during what sleep he got, sometimes crying out inchoately. Spirit stayed with him, trying to tide him through by holding his hand, stroking his head, or just hugging him. It had been bad when their father died, and worse when their mother died, but Helse had taken up much of the slack. Now Helse had died, and it was the worst, because his loss was greater, and Spirit had less to offer. It was like trying to sail one of those little boats in a video, when the water got stormy. She just had to hold on to him, muttering reassurances, until he settled down again.

  But one night it was worse. He thrashed about, and the name he spoke was Helse. He seemed to be talking to her. Then Spirit tried to leave, but he wouldn’t let her. “Don’t go!” he cried, grabbing onto her. “Love and be loved!”

  Spirit tried again to free herself, but realized that she couldn’t do so without waking him from his dream of Helse, and she didn’t want to do that. Helse was his only real comfort, and he could be with her only in dreams. So she let him draw her in, and actually she didn’t mind being close to him, even if it was Helse he thought he held. She wished she could truly
be Helse.

  Then he tried to kiss her. She turned her face aside, feeling guilty. Then she asked herself what harm there could be in kissing her brother, and let him do it. That was perhaps her mistake, because when his passionate lips touched hers she felt a surge of passion herself. Was this what it had been like for Helse? Lips were merely lips, but this was feeling fire, spreading trough her body, heating her breasts and her groin. She wanted—what?

  Then he paused and began to draw away. “But I killed you!” he said, perhaps waking just enough to remember reality.

  Spirit felt the pain going through his body. She hated that. She tried to comfort him. “She told you to do it,

  Hope. To let the air out. She said ‘Do it!’”

  He seemed to consider that. Then he said “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” she replied. That had always been true. Did it matter whom he thought he was addressing? She was addressing him.

  He put his hands on her, ruffling her clothing. She was in a nightie left from one of the women; it was more comfortable for sleep. He was in pajamas, similarly loose. She moved, trying to preserve her modesty, such as it was, but he pressed in more closely. She felt something by her hip, and realized with a shock that it was his member. He had an erection.

  He thought she was Helse—and he wanted to have sex with her.

  She almost cried out, to wake him, lest they both be severely embarrassed. But something stopped her, and in a moment she realized what it was. She wanted to help him, not hurt him—and waking him from his longing dream to the stark reality of Helse’s death would hurt him worse than anything else. He could never again have sex with Helse—unless she came to him in some other body.

  Spirit could be that body. She had been jealous of Helse, then sorry when she died. Now she could do something to make it up. She could let Hope love Helse, using her body.

  Almost she felt the spirit of Helse entering her, seeking Hope.

  So she let him draw up her nightie and put his hand on her breast. It seemed to fill out as he touched it, assuming a little of Helse’s volume. She breathed, trying to make it fuller yet, suddenly afraid that he would recognize the imposition and wake, angry with her.

  But he continued. He kissed her mouth again, and this time she responded better, her feeling fleshing out what her body lacked. Then he moved his face down and kissed her breast, and she let him, her excitement blossoming. He put his mouth on her nipple, licking it, and her body came alive in a new way. She arched, trying to give him more. She had never imagined feeling like this. The pirate holos had shown no such tenderness, no such joy of participation. This was the missing element, this burgeoning feeling.

  He got on top of her, and his member was now free of its clothing, pressing hotly against her belly. He wanted to put it into her. How would that happen? In a moment she realized that she had to help him. She spread her legs, lifting her knees on either side of him. His member slid down her belly and dropped into the opening crevice between her legs. She had become hot and slick there. She remembered what he had said about being inside Helse, and heaven being inside him. Had heaven been inside her too?

  She wiggled, and the tip of the member found the deepest, hottest recess, and pushed into it. She welcomed that forbidden penetration. There wasn’t quite room enough, but he did not stop and she did not try to withdraw. Instead she tried to relax where it counted, letting her knees spread wider. She pictured a cylindrical spaceship docking at a round refugee bubble. The mating of the locks. He was knocking at the lock; she wanted the lock to open. Only in this case the ship was actually sliding into the bubble. And it did, slowly, tightly. There was pain all around the rim, as if the surface were corroded, but it was sweet pain, maybe punishment for her doing what she knew she should not, though also joy. Pleasure-pain, like struggling to win a fierce competition. Stage by stage, the valve yielded as the conduit connected, as something somewhat too big nudged into something slightly too small. But the tube was expanding, stretching around the entry vessel. The atmospheric pressure was equalizing. Yet the ship was still driving in, on and on, as if forging through viscous substance, and the bubble was still giving way around it, more readily now. There was a special delight in the tightness; the fit was firm, with no leakage. Overall it was weird and wonderful, a transcendental experience.

  At last it stopped; he was all the way inside her, his hull right up against hers, the seal complete. She had not realized how far in it was possible to go; the warm rod of him was throbbing right there in the depths her belly. She surrounded him, she enclosed him, she contained him, she loved him. She reveled in her power to perform, to take the whole of him into her resilient being, and hold him there softly forever.

  “Helse!” he whispered, and kissed her again on the mouth. She returned the kiss ferociously. She felt him swelling within; now it didn’t hurt, for the tight interior was more flexible than the aperture. She clenched whatever muscles she could find there, squeezing him, caressing him, making him welcome. She felt him responding, becoming increasingly urgent as she stroked him with her substance. Yes! She wanted him to feel her loving power. His body was tensing, his breathing coming hard; something was building to the bursting point. The member jerked quickly in and back and hard in again. And at last there was a rush of fluid heat. It was a signal of his melting joy, erupting from the swollen tip—and after that her own joy came, surprising her, radiating through her body long and slow and strong, wave after wave, making her writhe in the continuing ecstasy. It seemed as if his essence was spreading through all her channels, carrying pleasure everywhere. Who cared about the beastly mechanics of it; this was heaven!

  They remained a forever moment in that hot wet joy, their bodies perfectly united. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me, she thought, and wondered whether that was the true meaning of those words: the blessed rod of flesh within her. She wanted it never to end. But of course it had to, for men lost capacity after they jetted, as if they had lost the fluid that distended them. What had been huge and hard was softening.

  “Oh, Helse,” he said as he drew out of her, diminished.

  “Oh, Hope, my love!” she said, kissing him again.

  He dropped his head beside her and slept completely. That was the way with men; Helse had told her. But as the rapture of the moment faded, Spirit became increasingly uneasy. Hope had perhaps not known what he had done, but she had. Maybe Helse was with her, but it was Spirit’s body, and who else would ever understand? Also, the fluid heat had come out of him and into her, but it wouldn’t stay; it would slide out of her and stain the mat.

  Carefully she disengaged from him, and he did not wake. Surely Helse had done the same, many times. It was part of being a woman. She sat up, and felt the wetness below. She got a tissue and put it there, wincing when it touched the rawness. Then she stood, holding the tissue in place, and walked quietly around. The fluid slid down and out cohesively, and she folded the tissue around it.

  She climbed out of the chamber and went to the nearest head. She was alone, fortunately. She used the facilities and cleaned up. She was sore, but knew she would recover. She opened the tissue she had brought and looked at it. There was just a whitish blob there, like the translucent white of an egg. So little, signifying so much! She put it down the disposal chute. Then she returned to the chamber and lay down beside Hope. She had to decide what to do, because when he woke he might ask. She didn’t want to lie to him, but neither did she want to tell him the truth. Not only had she had full woman-style sex with him, she had reveled in it as the culmination of all her desire. He would never understand.

  She worked out the necessary compromise: if he asked her, she would tell. But she would not volunteer it. That way she would not be lying to him. With luck it would remain her secret.

  She closed her eyes. “Oh Hope, my brother, my love,” she repeated. Maybe it was forbidden, maybe her soul was soiled, but she had at last had what she wanted most of him. She had never really under
stood what it was she had desired, but now she knew, absolutely. She knew it would never be repeated, but she would cherish the secret memory as long as she lived. It was, in its way, Helse’s gift to her. The gift of his ultimate expression of love.

  As morning came, she got up and dressed, letting Hope sleep. He had not slept this well since losing Helse; that much she had done for him. She donned blouse and pants and brushed out her hair, adding a ribbon, making herself respectable. She looked in a mirror. Helse had been right: she was becoming pretty. Her blouse made her breasts show a little, and the pants were tight enough to give her a bottom. She had used that bottom! She also looked innocent, which was much of the point. Her innocence was forever gone, but she would try her best to fake it. Maybe Hope wouldn’t ask.

  She went out and interacted with the other children, seeing that they got food for breakfast, hugging a girl who had evidently been crying, planning the day. Did any of them suspect what she had done in the night? There was no sign of it. She intended to provide no sign; every hour the secret held made it less likely ever to be exposed. Her mother and the other women had shown her how to fake innocence; it was a lesson she hoped she had learned well.