by Brian Daley
Out on the roof, halfway across the carpet, Sintilla slowed to a disappointed trot, then stopped.
She was a small woman, barely 150 centimeters, who at times seemed a lot like an energetic adolescent. She had a dimpled, winsome face and a mop of ginger-brown hair worn in kinked curls. She was dressed in dazzling, metallic cinnabar rompers.
"You bums! she yelled up at the departing Alacrity and Floyt. "Just you wait!"
She glowered at the Blue Pearl as it drifted grandly over Frostpile, allowing the passengers a final look. Sintilla pondered whom among the stronghold's personnel she might buttonhole to find out what had happened to the breakabout and the Earther just after the Willreading. All sorts of delightful rumors were bouncing around the scuttlebutt circuit. She also wanted badly to know where they were bound.
Then she spied the ground crewman, lounging against the door of the service dome. Through the door she saw the data station. Putting on a cheery smile, she headed that way in her resilient, peppy stride.
Floyt and Alacrity, meanwhile, set down their bags as several servitors closed in on them with trays of goodies and others took their luggage. Selecting a long-stemmed goblet of greenish wine and a stylish little Perkup nasal inhaler, Alacrity sighed. "Now maybe we can take a few minutes out for a nice, relaxing attack of the shakes."
Floyt, munching a marvelous little hors d'oeuvre, a red ceramic mug of lager in his right hand, nodded. "I endorse that plan." He gazed around.
The shuttle was a splendidly airy place, with sculpture and foliage, flowers and small trees in abundance, the plants buoying the air with their fragrance. The lighting was pleasantly subtle, the carpets were handwoven masterworks.
There weren't many other passengers. Queen Dorraine was standing alone in a small, lecternlike structure high and off to one side in the dome, staring out into the night, lost in thought. Her father—first Councilor Inst—had died only that morning.
The Severeemish envoys, Minister Seven Wars and Theater General Sortie-Wolf, father and son, stood with their two bodyguards. The four hulking males of a genetically engineered and selectively bred race, they dwarfed everyone else inboard.
In Floyt's opinion, they couldn't really be called human at all. They had long, bony, top-heavy skulls, putty-gray skin, nails like metal talons, and hair resembling white steel wool. They were on their way home, taking along Redlock and Dorraine in order to work out an urgently needed alliance.
In the middle of the Pearl's central dance floor, which was empty, a small pedestal of ornate Epiphanian wheywood supported a small, smooth, white porcelain box. Floyt wondered if it were some sort of goodwill offering.
No longer the center of attention, the two made their way to an observation point—the shuttle being mostly observation points—for a last look at breathtaking, ethereal Frostpile.
"There's Weir's suite," Floyt said. "You can tell it from the whatsit on the terrace."
"Causality harp," Alacrity supplied, his eyes locked to it. "That's what old Dame Tiajo called it." The causality harp was a shifting, glowing nebula five meters high, hanging stationary, filled with mists of light, shimmering phase-portraits, and hazy half images. Floyt could almost hear its eerie tonalities and deep, nearly subsonic hum. Tiajo had said it was comparable to wind chimes.
"Was she serious, d'you suppose? Alacrity?"
Alacrity shook his head slowly, not to signify no, but to show that he didn't know.
The Blue Pearl put Frostpile behind her. They realized someone was coming their way.
Governor Redlock was only a bit taller than Floyt, but broad as a door and powerful-looking. He had battered, canny features and a lumpy pug nose; the topknot that gave him his name was going gray. He wore the black dress uniform of his Celestials and a crescent gorget with nine assorted sunburst insignia picked out in glittering gemstones against black enamel, to represent the star-systems under his governance. He also wore an Inheritor's belt.
"You needn't have run, gentlemen," he said with a half smile.
"We, ah, needed the exercise," Alacrity explained lamely.
The governor looked from one to the other. "But, of course; that's understandable enough. After all, you two haven't been in any trouble for—what is it now? Nearly an hour?"
While Alacrity stammered, determined not to mention Sintilla, Floyt filled in. "At any rate, we're very, very grateful to you and Queen Dorraine. If you hadn't offered us a ride, we'd have been in an awfully bad fix."
He didn't need to add that they were destitute and desperate for the reason that Dame Tiajo, Redlock's sovereign, had denied them any funds for travel to Blackguard. Like her late brother, she disliked Earthservice; she therefore detested Floyt's aim to take the starship back home for the profit of the bureaucracy.
She was unaware of the conditioning that compelled Alacrity and Floyt to carry out their mission, and they were prevented by that conditioning from mentioning it.
"Quite all right. Dropping you at the spaceport's no inconvenience. I wish we could do more, but—" Redlock waved one thick hand to indicate that that was the way things went. But they already knew the way things went, and one of the ways things didn't go was for even a strong and independent governor like Redlock to defy a hard-nosed old bat like Tiajo once her mind was set on something. Especially for some inconsequential interstellar spindrift the likes of Hobart Floyt and Alacrity Fitzhugh.
"At any rate," Redlock continued, "there were one or two things I thought I should bring up, the first being how you will prove your claim to your inheritance."
"I'd wondered about that," Floyt admitted, "but we never got a chance to ask anybody, so I was hoping you'd tell me. Don't I need documentation, or authorization from Tiajo? Or something!"
"Your proof is right there," Redlock explained, waving at Floyt's belt. "Provisions were made by Director Weir—and don't bother asking me what they were in your case, because I don't know. But I do know that the belt is all the identification you'll need."
While Floyt was expressing his thanks, musical instruments began tuning up over by the main dance floor. Four young women—the same ones who'd played as a string quartet during the Pearl's voyage to Epiphany—struck up "frisking music" in the lively style originated on Murphy's Law. They played jingle sticks, sonic withes, ocarina, and fingerdrums. They looked the part of a traditional Daubin' Band too, dressed in one-shoulder shimmerskins with mitered vertical black-and-white stripes, pageboy hairstyles, and whiteface makeup.
The music sounded so jaunty that Alacrity and Floyt both looked up at Queen Dorraine, who was still silent and distracted in the lectern. But she didn't seem to hear, and Redlock didn't appear inclined to halt it. Clearly Dorraine's mourning rituals didn't require that everyone else take part.
"By the way, since you're here, Governor"—Alacrity seized the moment—"there's something else. Our guns, I mean. There're still in King's Ransom, I guess?"
"The fact of the matter is, Alacrity, I had them transferred; they've been inboard the Blue Pearl all along. You may have them back when you disembark."
Now it was Alacrity who said thanks, and even the peaceable Floyt was glad he wouldn't have to face the glaxay without an equalizer.
In the meantime, another passenger padded up behind Redlock soundlessly. Alacrity focused in on her right away.
Typical, Floyt thought, looking at his friend. I know he really loves Heart, and I believe him when he says he's going to find her no matter what, but his libido's always set on SCAN.
Exquisite was the word that came to mind first. She wasn't much taller than Sintilla, which made her all the more unusual to Floyt, what with most offworlders ranging from gangling to behemoth. She had golden skin, long, straight black hair that fell to the level of her hips, and dark almond eyes with a slight epicanthic fold. The delicate perfection of her face started Floyt's own pulse quickening.
"I don't believe you two have been introduced to Yumi," Redlock said. "She's part of the Daimyo's entourage."
The Daimyo of the planet Shurutzu had been a minor sensation at Frostpile owing to some fairly zany misadventures.
"Oh, right," Alacrity said, smiling, heavy-lidded, at her. "Didn't recognize you with your hair down and without the kimono."
She was wearing a feathery white neck frill, crossed bandeau top of wetsheen, fringed hip-yoke, and high-heeled sandals. Around her upper right arm, her proteus was disguised as a serpentine of rubies, moonpures and kaleidobursts. Her presence brought a subtle odor of jasmine to the air.
"Stop drooling, before your robe gets soggy, Alacrity." Alacrity looked at Floyt, but just grinned wider, anticipating.
However, once Redlock had finished the introductions, Yumi began in a strangely accented sing song: "Citizen Floyt, my master the Daimyo bids me come before you with an earnest request, which I entreat you to hear."
"Uh? Ah, oh … " was all Floyt could get out for the moment.
Alacrity, at least as astounded and feeling put upon, broke in, "Request? For what? I'm the bodyguard here, so I guess I should be the one to talk to you about it before you—"
"Oh, no; that's quite all right, Alacrity," Floyt headed him off. Redlock looked on expectantly, enjoying the show.
Yumi smiled, and their little region of the Pearl brightened. "Citizen Floyt, what the Daimyo asks, in fine, is whether you might deign to consider parting with one half liter of your very esteemed and illustrious Terran blood."
"My blood?"
"Not a chance," Alacrity decreed, from conditioning and from habit, apprehensive and disappointed.
"You will pardon my speaking bluntly, since time is limited. The Daimyo would place great value on such a gift, Citizen Floyt. Your blood, produced in the hallowed biosphere and magnetic fields of Earth, containing vital potencies and unique essences available nowhere else in the universe—it is the true elixir of Manhome."
"You can tell that superstitious, priapic old vampire for us, that—" Alacrity began.
"My master the Daimyo would of course wish to make a gift in return," Yumi interjected. "Three thousand ovals, to be precise."
"Are you sure a half liter's enough?" Alacrity asked eagerly. "He's got plenty. I could jump up and down on his chest for you. He's the only Earther you're ever going to see, after all."
"I guess I'll do it," Floyt decided.
Yumi smiled again, and they found themselves reciprocating. "Most puissant Governor Redlock has permitted me the use of a private compartment in Blue Pearl. If you'll follow me, most generous Citizen Floyt?"
Redlock caught the wary flicker that crossed Alacrity's face then and gave him a reassuring nod. That was good enough for Alacrity. Worse luck, he grudged. "Cash before splash, no IOUs," he cautioned his friend as Yumi slipped an arm through Floyt's. Floyt looked dazed but happy.
"Won't this hold you up?" Alacrity asked Redlock.
The governor shook his head. "King's Ransom won't rendezvous with us at the spaceport for another two hours, so I was planning on taking a roundabout course there. I wanted time for some uninterrupted talk with Seven Wars and Sortie-Wolf, among other things."
Alacrity understood. Things like giving Alacrity and Floyt a chance to pick up a little traveling money, where Tiajo couldn't interfere. "Thanks very much, Governor. I hope we can make it up to you, one day."
Redlock inclined his head. Then he looked up to where his wife meditated alone on the cold stars. The Pearl's hull had been shifted to full transparency and her lights dimmed a bit. Alacrity spotted The Strewn, the open star cluster that was the brightest ornament of Epiphany's night, after her two moons.
"Make yourself comfortable," Redlock invited as he moved off to join Dorraine. "Why don't you begin by changing out of that drogue chute you're wearing?"
Chapter 2
Rhapsody In Blue Pearl
The compartment in the Pearl's lower hull was just off the crew lounge, with a big, padded card table lowered to serve as an examining table.
Yumi was cordial but briskly efficient as she readied medical instruments. A superb little bento tray, holding four chocolates, had been set out. Floyt, sitting on the table, helped himself to one. It was delicious beyond compare, with a sweet, syrupy liqueur center. He couldn't resist a second.
Meanwhile, she scanned his heart and blood pressure, scoped his chest, and made similar assessments. Then she drew the robe from his arms and upper torso and pressed him down flat on his back.
The thing she used to draw the blood was like nothing Floyt had ever seen before, a flat tube with a shrunken sac the size of a walnut at its far end. It had a veined, organic look to it, nothing like a man-made object, and glistened wetly.
Yumi laid the open end of the tube into the hollow of Floyt's right elbow; it made itself fast, numbing the surrounding flesh. A few moments later the sac began to swell, and Floyt could actually see the tube—blood vessel, whatever—pulsing with his blood.
He shifted uneasily. "Is it alive?"
"Not in any significant sense, except in that it serves this purpose very well." She moved to stand behind him. Closing his eyes with soft fingertips, she began gently massaging his forehead and temples, her small hands cool, strong, and skilled.
At length Floyt said, "I saw you in your kimono too, Yumi. It was rose red, with big hibiscus on it."
"Yes. Your own traditional regalia caused much, much talk in Frostpile. My Daimyo is having a suit such as that made for him. What do you call such garments?"
"A tuxedo. White tie with black tails."
"You were a splendid figure, like a man from legend. You were the envy of Frostpile."
That came as such a revelation to Floyt, who'd been treated more like a gatecrasher, that he was silent for a time.
"Do you believe it, Yumi?" he asked dreamily after a while, the slow massage having set him drifting. "Do you believe that Terran blood is something magical?"
"I know that my master believes so." Her fingertips caressed his temples. "And if it makes a dear old soul imagine he is a strong young man instead of an aged, infirmed one, then it is worth any price, and I am happy."
The fingers went to the muscles of his neck. He felt as if he were floating, but at the same time he could feel every nerve ending in his body.
"Then I suppose he's disappointed he couldn't get a younger donor?" The scent of jasmine had Floyt's head swimming.
"Younger?" Her laugh was musical. "Oh, Citizen Floyt—"
"Hobart."
"Oh, Hobart! Why would my Daimyo want the blood of a stripling!"
The deft fingers were at his shoulders now. He felt his muscles relax. Immersed in the sensuality of it, he wondered fleetingly how long such tension had been in him.
The lilting voice said, "My Daimyo hopes to feel the spirit of a man who has led a full life on Manhome, who has had time to experience the nuances and extremes of existence there."
Floyt thought back through his life. "I doubt I'm what he had in mind."
"You must not say that! You are the first Terran I have ever met, but I sense that it is true of you. I sense that most clearly, Hobart."
Her hands rested over his drumming heart now; he felt her small, firm breasts against his head as she half cradled it. Instead of leaving him weaker, the drawing of his blood left him preternaturally alive, as if a light charge were passing from cell to cell throughout his body. A voluptuous heat seemed to radiate from his face and neck, chest and loins. His body, ignorant of etiquette, responded eagerly.
Taking her wrists, he drew her hands hands to his mouth, ignoring the tube in his arm. Yumi's breath caught, then became quicker and deeper. He kissed her palms softly, bit gently at the fleshy mound of her thumb, traced her heartline with the tip of his tongue, and tasted the skin between her fingers.
Yumi moaned and bent over him, drawing the midnight curtain of her sweet-smelling hair around them both, pressing her lips to his. He eased his fingers deep into her hair, inhaling great, long, dizzying breaths of her as they kissed. Her mouth opened to
an aroused, unhurried dialogue that became their whole universe.
After an unmeasured time, she broke away, panting. "A moment, Hobart … No! Only a moment … "
Floyt was a little surprised to find himself back in the compartment inboard the Blue Pearl. Yumi detached the tube from his arm quickly but carefully, spraying his elbow with something that prevented bleeding. He felt no pain.
She placed the bloated sac containing Floyt's blood—the Daimyo had gotten his money's worth—into a small refrigerated canister. Then she crossed to the compartment's hatch, to make sure it was secure. Floyt, up on one elbow, watched her movements hungrily, the sway and flex of the lissome body and the answering swing and ripple of the glossy mantle of hair.
Yumi lowered the lights to a glow. Walking back to Floyt, she discarded the bandeau in one direction, the hip-yoke in another. The golden skin over her heart bore a straight white scar that for some reason she'd chosen to leave there; her breasts were high and dark-nippled, her pubic triangle a slender delta.
Yumi bent over the table, breasts flattening against his chest, hair trailing across them both, as she loosened the thongs of her scandals with one hand and kicked them away, supporting his head, with his lips to hers, with the other. She gasped at the contact with the cold Inheritor's belt; he unbuckled it and dropped it to the deck.
Floyt lifted her onto the table alongside him, holding her in long, slow kisses and conforming his hand lingeringly to her shoulder, her breast, the small of her sinewy back, an upthrust hip, the moist warmth where those slim legs met that made his breathing suddenly require conscious effort. The blood pounded at his head, his neck and chest.
Yumi helped him slide out of the robe, and he wafted it away dramatically, making her giggle. They explored with hands and lips and tongues, breathed one another's breath, tasted jasmine and sweat, united their flushed heat.
Floyt embraced her to him, beneath him. Yumi drew her fingertips across his slick back, pressing into his buttocks, pulling him deeper into her. A sustained sound, by parts coo and outcry, came from them both.