What kind of woman was this who glowed with the memory of such simple things as coffee and fruit?
Because they seemed to make her happy, too, oranges replaced sardines on Roark’s mental list and he added a note to learn more about this Christmas she spoke of. It was obviously an important holiday, a feast day, perhaps, to celebrate the victory of some great battle.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her face falling into a frown of apology. “I‘ve been yammering away and I still don’t know why you’re here. I’m afraid I don’t know where Sergeant Mohawk is, either. He’s usually at his desk when I get here and to tell you the truth, I’m getting a bit worried.”
“Sergeant Mohawk is at the hospital having his leg checked out. It appears to be healing well,” he told her. It was the excuse for his visit; to inform her of Mohawk’s whereabouts. She looked disappointed by his news.
“Then I suppose you’ll be sending him back out to the front soon, won’t you?” she asked quietly.
“It’s what he wishes,” Roark answered just as quietly, “But I’m afraid it’s a wish I cannot grant. Mohawk has grown too old for battle.”
It was every Godan warrior’s wish to die with honor, facing his enemy. Mohawk had earned it, but it was not to be. His age and growing weakness would endanger the lives of his comrades. It was Roark’s duty as First Commander to give voice to what the old soldier probably already knew. He was not looking forward to the task.
“I’m glad he’s not going back. I’ve been worried about it since I learned that was the plan. The leg may be fine, but he isn’t.”
Her finely arched brows lifted and her grey eyes brightened with the light of her thought.
“That’s why you created this office, isn’t it?” Mira said, thus proving she was perceptive as well as beautiful. “It wasn’t for me. It was for him. He told me he had no family when I asked if there was such a thing as medical leave. He has no place to go, does he? This is his life and this life is his home.”
“All that is left of it at any rate,” Roark admitted. “I must find a way for him to accept that and feel useful.”
Her hand on his arm felt as gentle as the rays of the sun in springtime, her smile as warm as a summer breeze.
“Thank you, and don’t you worry about Sergeant Mohawk. I’ll take good care of him. I’ll teach him how to run a newspaper and he can teach me how to swear in Godan. I might kill him in the process, but I promise you, he’ll die a happy man.”
In that moment, Roark knew that this human woman was to be his, regardless of her barren state, and come battle fire or meteor storm he would have her. She was the myth and the legend. The Goddess of War had been replaced by a human woman whose laughter worked magic.
He captured her hand and brought her fingers to his lips where he kissed them tenderly before he arose. “My men tell me that the leggings you wear are common among the women of the town. I will therefore and reluctantly allow you to wear them, but button your shirt. It is unseemly for a woman of your value to show so much flesh to any male but the one who claims her.”
Roark laughed as her soft look turned flushed and furious. He left her sputtering a string of the Godan curses she’d learned from the old warhorse. It was further proof she had spirit, an attribute sorely lacking in most of the females he met. He found it refreshing. She could swear at him all she wanted as long as she kept herself modestly covered from other men’s view and saved the pleasures of her body for him.
Chapter 11
“Coffee on Tuesday, a dozen oranges on Wednesday, a chocolate bar today and now this.” Mira slapped the folded card on the table. “It’s not an invitation, by the way. It’s an order.”
Wynne picked up the heavily embossed card and began reading aloud. “Roark, First Commander of Sector Three, North American Continent, Earth; Free Son of Tadin, Master of the Honorable House of Kronak... Jeez, I hope that’s his title and not his name, ‘cause that’s a boatload of a signature,” she laughed before continuing, “... commands and requires your presence at his table for dining and conversation on Friday... Oh crap! That’s tomorrow night. He didn’t give you much time to find something to wear.”
“I don’t need to find something to wear. Whatever I wear to work tomorrow will be fine.”
Her sister spread her arms and shimmied her shoulders. “Whatever happened to luring him in with a little T and A?”
“Tits and ass got shut down, remember?” Mira lowered her voice and in an unflattering mimicry of the Commander’s, intoned, “I will reluctantly allow you to wear those jeans, young lady, but button up that shirt. I don’t want every boy in high school ogling my daughter’s T and A in the cafeteria.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Wynne giggled, “and I don’t think he meant it to sound fatherly.”
“It was humiliating. I felt like I was sixteen again and Daddy made me change my outfit before I went on my first date.”
“Give the man some credit. He did notice the button and he didn’t tell you to fix it until he was leaving.” Wynne sagely nodded her head. “That means he enjoyed it. He just doesn’t want anyone else to. And,” she added dreamily, “he brings us coffee.”
“You hussy. You’d sell your soul to the devil for a cup of coffee. Stop defending him,” Mira demanded, not because Roark didn’t deserve it, but because she needed to keep this whole thing in her mind as a business deal if she was going to go through with it. “He only brought the coffee once. I haven’t seen him since. He sends some poor recruit whose hands are shaking when he drops the stuff on my desk. That poor guy won’t even look at me and then Mohawk bellows something foul at the man and he salutes and runs like a scared rabbit. And,” she drew the word out, “he calls me ma’am.”
“Well, at least that doesn’t make you feel like you’re sixteen.”
“No, more like sixty. I don’t get it, Wynne. I think the man might be crazy. I mean bringing the coffee was sweet, but it wasn’t really for me. He brought two containers and he didn’t drink any, so it must have been for Mohawk, but Mohawk said it smelled like burned pig piss and he wouldn’t drink it either. The chocolate bar I get, but what’s with the oranges?”
“Maybe it’s some kind of Godan courting ritual. You know, maybe it symbolizes drink, food, and dessert.” She drained the last of her coffee, tipping her head back and tilting the mug to get the last drop. “Didn’t you ask anyone about it?”
“Who would you like me to ask? I haven’t seen Ahnyis all week. Mason, who knows a lot more about these people than he’s telling I think, would only laugh at me and crack jokes about it. Harm would tell me it’s above his pay grade and Sergeant Mohawk ...” Mira let the sentence trail off.
“You asked him, didn’t you?” Wynne clapped her hands with delight. “Tell. Tell! Come on, tell. I’m cooped up here all day. Your life is the only entertainment I get.”
Feeling guilty, Mira relented. “The only thing I know about women,” she growled, “is you fuck ‘em, pay ‘em, and stop for a jar of good ale on your way back to the base. So don’t ask me about no fucking oranges, because I don’t know fly shit about it.”
“I love it,” Wynne cried, clapping her hands in applause. “As soon as he’s allowed, please, please bring him home to supper. The kids are going to love him.”
“As long as you make it clear they’re not to repeat anything he says. He’s another reason I need to keep this job, Wynne. It might be employment under false pretenses, but he needs it as much as I do. So, what’s the play? Do I give up, give in, or try to string him along for another week?”
“None of the above.” Wynne rinsed out her mug and set it to drain. “I’ll wake up Dorrie so she can keep an eye on things while we’re gone. You and I are going to see Mrs. Pulaski,” she said firmly. “I’ll bet she has something you can use and don’t look at me like that. I’m much too old to believe you can send me to hell by shooting death daggers from your eyes.
“You’re going to go to that dinner and you’re going to
enjoy it, Mira Donazetto. Daddy always said if you’re going to do something, you should take the time to do it right, and Mom would be beside herself that after all the slugs you brought home. A handsome man with a good job has finally invited you to dinner.”
“Gussy it up all you want, sis, but the truth is I’m selling myself to the highest bidder.”
Wynne’s face became soft and serious. “No, Mira, the truth is that you’re making excuses and this must be important because you never make excuses. The truth is that you’re scared and you can’t admit it. You never could. Once upon a time, you would have fought it. You would have seen it as a dare. Why is this so different? Why aren’t you fighting it now?”
What her sister didn’t understand was that it was never about fighting fear. It was about fighting fear’s control. This time, it wasn’t fear’s control. It was Roark’s. Did she dare take the risk? Did she have what it would take to meet the challenge? She might have, once upon a time. Now, Mira wasn’t so sure.
~*~
Pulaski’s Dry Cleaners and Professional Tailoring had been closed since shortly after the war began. Business had been slow to begin with, once the army base shut down, and with the advent of the war, few people had the money to spend on their services. Many of the remaining customers simply left their clothing behind when they couldn’t pay. Some of the less fortunate didn’t live long enough to pick up their dry cleaning.
A few years later, Mrs. Pulaski, a seamstress by trade, began a second career. Pulaski’s became a second hand clothier. With her needle and thread and the treadle sewing machine that once served as decoration for her shop window, the woman could make just about anything fit anyone. People who needed money sold their clothing to Mrs. Pulaski and she resold it to those who couldn’t afford to buy new. There was a special room in the back of the store where Mrs. Pulaski kept her treasures.
Mira’s entire outfit came from that room. She had no idea what the fashion was for little black dresses before the war. She’d never owned one. She only knew that the one she carried in the flimsy plastic bag fit like it was made for her and the subtle colors of the multi-toned and glittery spike heeled shoes made her walk and feel like a queen.
The dress and shoes were not hers, however. They were rented for the evening on the condition that they be returned in one piece and unstained. For a small fee, Mrs. Pulaski also provided the accessories necessary to complete the outfit.
In another small bag, tucked into the toes of the shoes, Mira carried a gold toned cuff bracelet studded with crystals that reflected the colors in the shoes, a pair of pearls that dangled from delicate gold chains for her ears, and a long strand of pearls and that would be tied in a knot between her breasts so that it followed the V-neck that dipped nearly to the wide waistband of the backless dress.
Though she grumbled at the cost and loudly protested the fuss the two women made, Mira was secretly pleased by the way the dress made her look and feel. It was more daring than anything she would have chosen for herself, but it suited her perfectly. The halter and open back revealed the strength of her body. The deep plunge of the neckline offered an alluring display of her high, firm breasts. Gathered slightly at the waist, the straight skirt fell to just above her knees, giving only a hint of what lay underneath while artfully displaying the length of her legs. In it, she felt both strong and feminine, and she couldn’t wait to see the First Commander’s reaction to it. It was the dress that changed her attitude toward the whole situation.
The little black dress made her forget the reasons she’d set out on this path. The dress made her forget the war and the sacrifices she needed to make for the sake of her family. In that dress, she wasn’t the poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks who wanted the rich guy for what he could provide. That dress made her feel as if she was going to Roark as an equal, the way she would have gone to him if she’d met him before the war.
Logically, she knew that dress and the things that went with it didn’t change a damn thing and her world would be the same when she opened her eyes in the morning. But tonight, in that dress, she would be Cinderella attending Prince Charming’s ball and midnight would be a long way off.
Would Roark understand its message by the amount of flesh it revealed?
The thought made her smile and she kept smiling through the morning as she listened to Mohawk’s grumbling and sorted through the various forms that were necessary for the opening of Vochem’s clinic. Initially, Mira had no idea how complicated the process was. She thought only in terms of finding a building, cleaning it up, staffing it with a few qualified people, and opening the doors.
Complications immediately arose. The human world relied on electrical energy and most of it had been cut off early on in the war. Huge Hahnshin warships had blanketed the world with what one of her fellow teachers had called electromagnetic pulses. Mira understood very little of his explanation. Like most people, she only understood that the lights went out and only cared about how it affected her personally.
While smaller sources, like the generator chained to their fire escape, still existed, the major sources and power grids were gone. Old World medical equipment would have to be adapted to the New World crystalline energy of the Godan. Workers would have to be trained to use their higher tech equipment, too.
Mason’s help would be invaluable there. While Mira was capable of narrowing the list of applicant’s who seemed qualified, it would be Mason’s job to interview them and sort the true from the false, since there was no way to check an applicant’s credentials.
Other Godan Sectors had started the process years before, but their documentation needed to be translated. Much of this fell into the lap of Local Communications and Development or LCD, which Mohawk redubbed Local Craphole and Dungheap.
“It’s where they throw shit nobody else wants to deal with. The good news is that there’s too much shit for two people to handle so they’re hiring more help. We can throw the shit at them and see if it sticks.”
The magic of the dress, hanging in its bag from a coat peg on the wall, was working here, too. Today, Mira welcomed the additional workload. This was her chance to show the world, or her little section of it, that the LCD was more than a sympathy job for an old soldier and an artificial paycheck for the First Commander’s supposed mistress.
Ahnyis thought the dress was perfect, too. She held it to her front and danced around the clinic. She checked how she looked in the glass front of a medical supply cabinet, swaying her hips back and forth.
“Roark wouldn’t see anyone wearing something like this in the Bride Market. This will knock his shoes off.”
“Socks,” Mira corrected with a laugh. “Knock his socks off. So what do they usually wear at the Bride Market, or do they just strip them off, send them down the runway naked, and sell them to the highest bidder.”
“They don’t march the females out on stage and auction them off,” Ahnyis laughed. She carefully tucked the dress back into its bag and took her seat. “The Market is a place where marriages are arranged. It serves a purpose, an important one.”
“Important for whom? It sounds barbaric to me.”
“It isn’t if you know the history of it.” Ahnyis daintily arranged the crackers, cheese, and fish paste that she ate every day for lunch. “Almost two thousand years ago, a plague struck the Godan. Almost half their population was wiped out.”
“Earth had what we call the Black Plague and it did pretty much the same thing.” Mira didn’t add that this war had produced an even worse result if the city’s population was any indication of what was happening in the rest of the world.
Anyis must have been thinking the same thing because she spoke of the future and not the past. “But you’ll be left with the ability to repopulate. The Godans weren’t.”
Mira’s head snapped up at that.
The healer nodded. “It’s true. Most of the deaths occurred among the females. At the time, the Godan were the scourge of the known galaxy. They we
re a warrior race known for their ruthlessness and brutality. They stormed through the galaxy, conquering every civilization in their path. But,” Ahnyis raised her finger to make her point, “once the battle was done, they were also known as benevolent conquerors who allowed their conquests to thrive under their protection.
“Can you imagine what the Godan Plague did to them? Can you imagine what it was like for them to be powerless to protect their own wives and daughters? Worse, those females who survived bore no daughters. The disease didn’t kill the Godan males, but it altered them.
“Historians argue about why the Godans suddenly switched from conqueror to explorer. Some claim they no longer produced the numbers necessary to expand their realm, but scientists believe it was because of the need to find a race compatible with their own to produce offspring.”
“Obviously they found them,” Mira pointed out. “Mason said something about ten percent of a genetically something or other.”
Ahnyis nodded. “A genetically compatible population, GCP. We know that now. All they knew then was that among the known races of the galaxy, they found small populations of impregnable women. Those females became the spoils of war and then the winners fought each other to keep them. Eventually, someone figured out that killing each other over a female wasn’t the brightest idea and willing brides were easier to live with than captive ones.”
“Duh,” Mira laughed, “I wonder how long it took the men to figure that one out.”
Ahnyis laughed with her. “I’ve wondered that myself. Anyway, they eventually did. Laws were passed and kidnapping was replaced with the Bride Market.”
“Where women are bought and sold instead of captured and raped. Wow, there’s an improvement.” Mira made her sarcasm clear.
“That’s probably the way it started,” Ahnyis admitted, “but it’s a lot more complicated now. It’s not all about beauty, either, though it does play its role and it works both ways. Intelligence and personality count, too, so does family and power and money. Matchmaking is a profession and a successful matchmaker can earn high fees and bride prices aren’t always about what a man will pay so much as what he can provide and both parties have the right of refusal. Ideally, it’s a fair exchange and when it’s done right, love becomes part of the profit. The females aren’t trapped. Marriage contracts can be terminated if one party doesn’t fulfill their obligations. It might not be the way you do things here, but it’s worked for the Godan for centuries.”
Roark (Women Of Earth Book 1) Page 10