Dangerous Women Part 9

A waitress took their dinner orders. Booze continued to flow. Rohan found himself thinking about the inflation numbers from the Wasua star system. That made him switch from champagne to bourbon. A live band began to play, and girl after girl in various and creative outfits took to the stage. The creative outfits where shed in time to the pulsing music, and the ladies were all very ... Rohan searched for a word and settled on "flexible." Almost all the tables were filled now, parties of men with sweat gleaming on their faces, stocks and ties loosened, coats removed. Girls settled into laps and ran tapering fingers through their marks' hair. The roar of conversation was ba.s.so and primal.

A quintet of five girls was dancing and singing on the stage to an old s.p.a.ceCom marching song, but with some interesting new lyrics. The sprightly music had Rohan first humming along and then singing along, but it was frustrating that the girls couldn't get the beat right. They were late. He began to conduct vigorously, and felt his elbow connect with something.

"Whoa!" shouted Fujasaki. There was a large wet stain on the front of his trousers.

"He's drunk," Rohan vaguely heard someone say.

"So what? We're all drunk," Franz replied.

"Yeah, but he's the Chancellor, what if-" Bret, a newly hired aide began.

"Relax. They sweep the place regularly and keep the press out," John replied.

"Yeah, relax, Bret. We're having fun. I'm fun. I'm ... I'm just made of fun!" Rohan shouted.

The five ladies went trooping off the stage, their sa.s.sy little b.u.t.tocks wiggling provocatively. "Where are they going?" Rohan asked. "Where are all the lovely ladies going?" he repeated, and felt a tightness in his chest at the sadness of it all.

"Gone to housewives everyone," Franz said.

"What an awful waste," Rohan groaned. "We need an expert commission-girls keep turning into wives. It's a scandal. We need an investiga-"

A drum roll cut through his slurring words. All the lights in the club went out save for a single stabbing spotlight pinning the stage. Into that cone of light leaped a girl. She seemed to be flying, so high was her grand jete, and the long cloak flowing behind her added to the illusion of flight. The music resumed, a primitive, urgent beat. She stood front and center, her features covered by an elaborate mask and headdress. All that could be seen was an unnaturally pointed chin and the glitter of her eyes. She caught the edges of the cloak with long claws set with light-emitting diodes, and dropped it to reveal an elaborate costume, far more concealing than was usual for a stripper. Rohan wondered if the claws were sewn into gloves?

She began to dance. No harsh gyrating and suggestive posing. She danced with breath-catching grace. Her arms wove patterns, and the diodes left streaks of multicolored fire in the air around her. Layers began to fall away. The crowd shouted its approval as each piece of clothing fell. Another slithered to the stage floor and a long silky tail covered with sleek red and white fur unfolded and wove around her like a dancing snake. The shouts became roars.

The girl danced in close to her sweating admirers. Hands groped for her like blind babies seeing the t.i.t, but she always eluded them. Unless those reaching hands held credit spikes. Those she allowed to be thrust into the credit deck that adorned the low-slung belt that clasped her waist. Rohan sat rigid, fingers gripping the edge of the table, willing her to remove the mask. Show me ... show me ... She approached their table. The young men leaned across the table, spikes extended like some commercial metaphor for s.e.x. Rohan couldn't move. He just watched as another layer fell away to reveal pale cream and red fur that covered her flanks and belly and rose like a spear point between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. There was a gasp from the audience.

John fell back against the booth. "The Pope's holy whickerbill!" he breathed.

The music quickened in tempo. Fire sparked from the tips of her long claws, the jewels and bells on the mask and headdress set up a hysterical ringing. She spun, faster and faster, then another great leap took her back center stage. Legs widely braced, hands cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She slowly slid them up her chest, across her neck, lifted the mask and headdress and flung them aside. She was alien and yet familiar. Rohan devoured her features. Noting the tiny upturned nose with flaring nostrils, p.r.i.c.ked ears thrusting through the wild tumble of cream and red curls. They were tufted on each point. Cat eyes of emerald green.

"An alien," Bret said, and his voice held both disgust and l.u.s.t.

Blackout.

The lights came up. The stage was empty. Excited conversation danced around the table.

"Cosmetic surgery?"

"No. Gotta be one of those Cara half-breeds."

"Thought we killed all of them."

"Should have. Disgusting."

"Hey, turn out the lights, close your eyes, and think of it as exotic underwear," John said with a laugh.

The room seemed to be ballooning and receding about Rohan. His heart thundered in his chest, and his breath came in short pants. An erection nudged urgently at his fly. He staggered out of the booth.

"Sir?"

"Are you all right?"

"Where are you going?"

He didn't answer.

"Wait," Tracy said. "A Cara/human half-breed? There's no such thing. First off, it's illegal." The young officer pointed at the Hajin waitress. "And second, our equipment might line up, but there's no way we'd produce offspring."

Rohan waved an admonis.h.i.+ng finger at him. "Ah, but remember that the Cara were master geneticists. They'd been blending genes from every known alien race long before humans arrived on the scene. They were eager to add us to the mix, and couldn't believe that the League was serious when the ban on alien-human comingling was put in place."

Tracy took a sip of his drink. He knew from his studies that the Cara had no physical norm. They tailored bodies to suit a given situation. They changed s.e.x on a whim. For thousands of years, they had been harvesting, mixing, and manipulating the genetic material from every race they met. A task easily accomplished, since the Cara spent their lives aboard vast trading s.h.i.+ps that traveled between systems, or in the shops supplied by those s.h.i.+ps. For the Cara, the greatest sin was uniformity. They believed that diversity was the key to survival and advancement. It had all been horrifying to the humans, and human purity became an obsession. Most genetic research and manipulation was outlawed for fear that the Cara might find a way to affect the basic human genome. Tracy said as much to Rohan.

The older man shook his head. "Yes, but that didn't discourage the Cara. They found volunteers, disaffected humans hostile to the League, and produced several thousand half-breeds." He picked up his gla.s.s and set it down over and over. Linking the circles formed by condensation into a concentric pattern.

"So, why make this girl look so different?" Tracy asked. "They could have made the offspring look like anything. Even exactly like a human."

Rohan looked up. "And that was their mistake. That's what they should have done. Instead, they tried to temper any backlash by tweaking the genes to make the children attractive to humans. Or at least what they thought would be attractive. They had noticed that we like cats. Hence Sammy." Rohan refilled his gla.s.s and took a long pull. "What they didn't realize was that it would make the kids just that much more horrifying."

"But you weren't disgusted by ... Sammy?"

"Samarith, her full name was Samarith. And no, I wasn't disgusted, but I had a taste for the exotic. They knew that. And used it."

Rohan's stomach was roiling, his head pounding. Swaying, he made his way through the anteroom and out onto the street. The sea-tinged air cleared his head somewhat. He found the corner of the building and went looking for the stage door.

What are you doing? the rational part of his mind wailed.

"I'm going to compliment her on her dancing," he said aloud.

And ask about her life. Explore her thoughts. Share her dreams. f.u.c.k her blind.

He found the side entrance and entered. Inside, the smell of sweat and rancid makeup seeped from the walls and hung in the air. Rohan swallowed hard and tried to find his way past the lighting control panel. He turned down a hall and found himself pressed against the wall as a gaggle of girls came hurrying past, heading for the stage. In the confines of that narrow s.p.a.ce, they rubbed against him. He could feel the warmth of their bare skin even through his clothes, and his erection hardened again. He found another hallway, but this one was guarded by a tall man with a pendulous belly. Rohan tried to walk past and was blocked. The bouncer's exposed biceps displayed military tattoos and muscle now overlaid with fat. The overhead lights gleamed on his shaved head.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I wish to see the young lady who just finished performing."

"You and every other aristo ..." The man glanced down at Rohan's crotch. "Who stores his brains in his c.o.c.k."

Rohan gaped at him. "My good man, you can't address me in that way."

"Yeah, I can. And if you want to see Sammy, it'll cost you." He thrust his hips forward, displaying his credit deck. It didn't have the same effect as when the dancers did it. Rohan dithered, remembered that gamine little face, unlimbered his credit spike, and paid.

"Where can I find her?" Rohan asked.

"Follow your p.r.i.c.k. It seems to be doing a pretty good job as a dousing rod."

The bouncer stepped aside and Rohan walked down the hall, checking each room as he came to it. Giggles and a couple of lewd invitations were received as he opened and closed doors. Hers was the fifth dressing room he checked. She was dressed in a deep-green robe and seated at a dressing table. The bottom drawer had been pulled out and she rested a bare foot on it. The robe had fallen aside, revealing the shapely leg almost up to the hip. Smoke from the stim she held languidly in one hand swirled like a halo about the tips of her p.r.i.c.ked ears. She raked him with a long glance from those amazing green cat eyes.

"How much did you pay?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"To Dal. How much did you pay him to get back here?"

"Three hundred."

"You got taken. He would have let you in for half that."

"I'll remember that next time." Samarith lit a new stim and regarded him. Rohan s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" he finally asked.

She let her gaze drift down to his crotch. "You're giving me a moderately sized hint." His erection deflated. "Awww, I broke it," she drawled.

"I wanted to invite you to supper," Rohan said.

"Courts.h.i.+p first? Well, that's a change." She stood and stubbed out her stim. "There's a pretty good place in Pony Town that serves late."

"I was going to take you to the French Bakery." It was the capital's best restaurant. He thought it would impress her.

She laughed. "You're such an idiot. Kind of sweet, but an idiot." He gaped at her. "It's better if I keep a low profile."

"Your profile wasn't very low tonight," Rohan shot back.

"This is a strip joint. It may be frequented by your set, but it's still a strip joint. Waving me around in public wouldn't be good for either of us. And who are you, by the way? Which scion of a decaying n.o.ble house are you?"

"How do you even know I'm FFH?"

"Oh, please." Scorn etched the words.

He thought about his job and the stress that it carried. He thought about his cold and distant wife. "Can't I just be Rohan for tonight?"

She c.o.c.ked her head to the side, an endearing sight, and considered him. Her tone was gentler as she said, "All right. I'll call you Han, and you can call me Sammy, and tonight we'll pretend we aren't who and what we are."

"And after tonight?" Rohan asked.

"That depends on how tonight turns out."

Rohan allowed Sammy to issue directions to his Hajin chauffeur, Hobb. Neither he nor Hobb intimated by word or action that they were familiar with the area. But he knew it well. His favorite ma.s.sage spa was just a few streets over. It was a place where men with his tastes could feel the touch of the exotic. He liked the way the soft play of fur and the rough pads of an Isanjo ma.s.seuse tickled his skin and kneaded his muscles.

That night the summer heat had broken and it was pleasant to be outside. Humans, Hajin, Isanjo, Tiponi Flutes, and Slunkies roamed the streets listening to musicians performing on street corners. They played games of chance or skill-everything from chess, to c.r.a.ps, to a swaying grove of Flutes playing their incomprehensible stick game. Diners lingered in the restaurants. Lovers cuddled on benches in a small park, while the elderly sat and contemplated the s.h.i.+ps lifting off from the Cristobal Colon s.p.a.ceport. Hobb opened the flitter doors for them. Rohan stepped out and felt the rumble underfoot as another s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p leaped skyward. The fire from engines was a red-orange scar ripping the darkness. For a brief moment, it almost eclipsed the light from the nebula floating overhead.

The long lines and evident elegance of the flitter drew more than a few looks. "I'll call you when we're ready to be picked up," he said softly to Hobb. The Hajin bowed his long bony head, revealing his golden mane between his collar and hat. Rohan turned to Sammy. She wore slim-legged pants tucked into high boots, and a silk top of varying shades of green and blue that was tied in interesting ways to make it drape and flow. The cream and red hair tumbled over her shoulders. She drew looks. Rohan struggled for breath.

"So, where would you like to eat?" he asked.

"There." She pointed at an Isanjo restaurant. Potted trees dotted the s.p.a.ce with webs of rope slung between them. Isanjo, using hands, their prehensile feet, and their tails darted along the woven lines. Somehow none of the items on the trays tilted, slipped, or fell.

They settled into woven rope chairs, and a waiter slithered down the trunk of the tree next to their table. His order pad hung on his neck along with a credit deck. "Drinks?" he asked, the muzzle making him lisp the word.

"Champagne," Rohan said.

"Actually, I don't like champagne," Sammy said.

"Oh. Your pardon. What would you like?"

"Tequila."

The waiter turned dark, wide eyes to Rohan. Their blackness against the gold of his fur made them seem fathomless and terribly alien. "I'll drink what the lady is drinking," Rohan said, making it an act of gallantry. With a bouncing leap, the creature was up the tree, gripping the ropes and racing away.

"You just full of courtesy, aren't you?" Sammy asked. "Do you even like tequila?"

"Well enough."

"What do you drink at home?" she asked, fixing those emerald cat eyes on him.

"Champagne, martinis. In the summer months I'll drink the occasional beer or gin and tonic. Wine with dinner. Why do you ask?"

"How often do you drink?"

"Every night," he blurted before he could help himself. "And why the interrogation? You sound like my doctor."

"Do you drink to relax or to forget? Or both?"

"You make too much of this. I drink because ... I enjoy a drink in the evenings. That's all." Though he found himself remembering the night five weeks ago when he'd heard Juliana's tinkling laugh as she flirted with the young officer who was currently inhabiting her bed. He had drunk himself into insensibility that night.

Another Isanjo landing next to the table caused Rohan to start and pulled him from his brooding reverie. A bowl of dipping sauce and pieces of bread were slapped down on the table. The pungent scent of the sauce set Rohan's eyes and mouth to watering.

"You were drunk tonight," Sammy said, and popped a piece of bread into her mouth. "Otherwise you would never have come backstage."

"Do you rate your charms so low?"

"I rate your sense of propriety a good deal higher" was the dry reply.

"Well, you're probably right about that," Rohan admitted.

"So, why did you come?"

"Because you're beautiful ... And ... and I'm lonely."

"And do you think two bodies clas.h.i.+ng in the dark will alleviate that?" she asked.

He was embarra.s.sed to discover that his throat had gone tight. He swallowed past the lump, coughed, and said, "Are you propositioning me, young woman?" He hoped his tone was as light as the words.

"No. You have to do that. I still have some pride left. Not a lot, but some."

"You find your ... er ... profession to be demeaning?" The look of contempt and incredulity almost cut. He looked away from those blazing green eyes. "Well, I think you answered that question."