by Diana Palmer
The ship alarms sounded. Hahnson glanced at his computer console. “Sorry, have to run. We’re chasing insurgents in the Eridanus system. I hope we can avoid Eridanus Three. Even if Kanthor’s there, we could be eaten by some of his less welcoming brothers,” he added with a chuckle, making reference to the giant cats, the galot, from which Cehn-Tahr had gained genetic material, including psychic abilities. Kanthor was Dtimun’s childhood playmate.
“That would be unfortunate,” Mekashe replied. He grinned. “In such case, you should all consume vegetables before you make port. No self-respecting galot will eat a vegetarian, on principle.”
Hahnson laughed out loud. “I’ll remind everybody. Listen, I’ll get this package right to your holo printer. And good luck!”
“Thank you.”
He cut the connection, and then worried about what Hahnson had said. He had no microcyborgs to disable. Hahnson had no need to know about his personal physiology, because there was always a Cularian surgeon aboard ship, who dealt with the Cehn-Tahr and Jebob and even Rojok casualties that sometimes were lifted by the Morcai to medical ships. Hahnson didn’t know that Mekashe needed no augmentation of his true strength. He wondered why he would need to weaken himself. Were humans so fragile?
He recalled Jasmine’s look of pain when his hand had tightened on hers the night before and grimaced. Apparently, he was going to have to modify his strength in order not to harm her. Well, the dravelzium would suffice, he was certain. He just had to restrain his enthusiasm.
* * *
HAHNSON’S PACKAGE APPEARED minutes later. Mekashe opened it and read the instructions carefully to make sure he understood the proper procedure for administering the drug.
“Be careful of the dosage,” Hahnson cautioned in a holomessage that accompanied the dravelzium. “Too little can be as dangerous to her, and too much can make you very drowsy. I’d start with one cc and see how it affects you. I’d do it in private, as well.” Hahnson grinned. “You don’t want to pass out and have her dragging you back to your quarters by a leg.”
Mekashe laughed uproariously at the image that presented itself. He took the precious discs and put them in his personal safe. One could never be too careful with powerful drugs. He saved out one of the 1-cc discs for later, just before the opera. He’d never anticipated an evening so much. Already, Jasmine had become part of his life.
* * *
HE DRESSED CAREFULLY in his most formal suit, a black one that flattered his pale golden skin and black hair. He looked very correct, he told himself, smiling at his virtual reflection. His hair, thick and soft, was in a conventional cut, like the humans wore. When he transformed to his natural form, it was like a mane that swept back from his face and down his back. Like his cousin Rhemun’s, it was gloriously curly, a genetic legacy from their forefathers.
Unlike Rojoks, whose hair signified rank by its length, Cehn-Tahr had only personal preference to consider. Mekashe had enjoyed long hair when he noticed that Dr. Edris Mallory seemed entranced by Commander Rhemun’s long, curly black hair that he wore to his waist in back. But growing his hair hadn’t provoked the same reaction in Edris, who was in love with Rhemun. It had been a huge disappointment to find that the pretty little blonde physician didn’t share his infatuation.
Now, however, he didn’t mind. He had Jasmine, who was the embodiment of dreams. He looked forward to the opera, which he’d never attended in his life. He’d heard some of his comrades bewail the experience as earsplitting misery which they endured because they were fond of their shipmates. Mekashe was going to keep an open mind. It wasn’t the affair, it was the company that he was going to keep that warmed his heart.
He presented himself at Jasmine’s door precisely when the ship’s intercommunications hailed the six bells the Duponts had told him about.
Jasmine opened the door, and Mekashe’s breath sighed out in wonder.
She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen in his life. She wore gold, a soft fabric that fell in folds to her ankles, with a high neckline and short sleeves. Over it was a cape of the same material, secured by a white fur collar and clasp. The fur smelled of mammal. He’d read that the humans still wore fur accessories for fashion, although these were Tri-D creations, not taken from live creatures.
“Is it...all right?” Jasmine asked worriedly, because his expression was troubling.
“You look quite incredibly beautiful,” he said in a soft, deep tone. “You take my breath away.”
She beamed. Her pale blue eyes sparkled like jewels. “Thank goodness. I was afraid I’d dressed inappropriately.” She grimaced. “The salesman said it was rather risqué.”
He frowned.
“Daring,” she modified. She flushed.
“Why?” he asked, because he could see no evidence of that.
“Well...it’s this.” She turned around. Her beautiful, smooth back was bare to the waist.
The sight of that exquisite skin had a very formidable effect on Mekashe, who was now very grateful for Hahnson’s prescription. What might have provoked an alarming behavior was tamed, so that all he did was smile.
“It is perfectly appropriate,” he assured her when she turned back. He leaned down a little. “What the salesman meant is that to some cultures, a bare nape—much less a bare back—is extremely stimulating.”
Her eyes widened. “Is your culture one of those?”
He nodded. “To us, a bare nape is very exciting.”
She caught her breath. “Oh dear. Should I go and change?” she asked at once, not wanting to make her new friend uncomfortable.
He laughed out loud. “Most certainly not. The effect is tantalizing, but not overpowering. Shall we go?”
Her father paused behind his daughter with a rare paper book in his hand. “Leaving now? Have fun.” He kissed Jasmine’s cheek. “Chess tomorrow?” he asked Mekashe.
“Definitely. After breakfast.”
“I’ll warm up the chess pieces.” He smiled and walked away.
* * *
“YOUR FATHER READS books made of pulpwood,” Mekashe remarked on the way to the theater.
“Yes. He has a collection of them. They’re very rare. He said that no electronic book has the feel and smell of the real thing. He paid a fortune for them.”
“Paper pulp.” Mekashe shook his head, smiling. “We revere our forests. We consider that they have a culture, even some form of sentience. It would never occur to us to slaughter one for a commercial product.”
She stopped and looked up at him worriedly, afraid that she’d offended him.
“We consider that the culture of other species does not conform with our own, and we make allowances.” He hesitated. “Did you think we might cage your father for public punishment for owning a book?” he added at her consternation, laughing.
“Well...” She smiled shyly. “I wasn’t sure. We know so little of your culture.”
“You will learn more, as we go along,” he promised. “Now. Tell me about this thing called opera.”
She enlightened him on the way to the event.
They were in line when he spoke again. “It will be a new experience for me.”
“Don’t you have opera?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Our music is mostly instrumental,” he replied. “We have artists who paint with sound, who—” he searched for the right word “—who make visual canvases which, when touched, produce music.”
“That sounds almost magical,” she said.
He nodded. “We have a sector called Kolmankash, where exotic tech is produced. We have many inventions that would seem like the arcane to other cultures.”
“I’ve heard of Kolmankash! I would love to see a canvas that sang.” She sighed.
“Soon,” he promised, and she beamed.
* * *
THEY WERE SEATED. The
orchestra began tuning up. Mekashe wished he could cover his ears. If this was opera, he was already disenchanted and not looking forward to an evening of this assault on his hearing.
“They’re just tuning up,” Jasmine whispered, when she noted his almost-human expression of distaste. “It’s not opera. Not yet.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Very well.”
Her small hand slid over his big one on the seat beside her. He turned and looked down into her eyes as his own hand curled very gently around it and a jolt of feeling like an electric shock went through his body in a hot wave.
She felt it, too. He didn’t need to be telepathic to know that. Her eyes were full of her feelings. He could hear her heartbeat, quick and unsteady. He could hear her breathing stick in her chest. He could feel the ripple of sensation go through her at the contact. If he was entranced, she certainly was. His eyes met hers and neither looked away.
He was grateful for the dravelzium. Without it, he’d have carried her out of the theater to the nearest closed room. In his long life, he’d felt the sensation only a handful of times, mostly with totally inappropriate females. This one would be eminently acceptable to his culture and his Clan. He was certain of it. An ambassador’s daughter, especially the first Terravegan ambassador’s daughter, would be thought of as an aristocrat. And he was also certain that the racial element would not present a problem. Jasmine was so beautiful that no one would protest at the coupling.
The clapping of other concertgoers interrupted the eye contact. They both laughed self-consciously and turned their attention to the stage.
The orchestra began to play. Mekashe was fascinated by the arrangement of notes. He’d never been exposed to human music. The humans aboard the Morcai used earphones when they listened to virtual music, so he hadn’t heard any. But this was worthy of Kolmankash itself.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
She relaxed. She knew that he’d been reluctant. Probably he’d been told that opera was a form of torture, because some human men felt that way about it. She was glad that he could share this with her. It was another thing they’d have in common, a love of music. This, Madama Butterfly by Puccini, was her favorite opera.
She felt his fingers contract. Hers tensed, but he loosened his grip immediately and shot her a look of silent apology. She smiled. At least, this time it didn’t produce broken bones. He’d probably realized that he was much stronger than she was, and he was making allowances. It had to mean that he cared. She certainly did. He was the most wonderful thing in her life. The first man. The first humanoid, she corrected. She’d never even had a real date before. Her father had been very protective. But he trusted her with Mekashe, which meant a lot.
* * *
THEY LISTENED TO the opera quietly. When the female singer came to “Un Bel Di,” and hit the extremely high note that only a first soprano could hope to reach, she heard Mekashe’s faint intake of breath, even as tears rolled down her own cheeks. The song was so exquisite that it was almost painful to hear. Imagine, she thought, being able to produce so much emotion with nothing more than an arrangement of musical tones.
* * *
MEKASHE WAS SILENT when they filed out with the other patrons, after explosive applause and five curtain calls.
“What do you think?” she asked.
He looked down at her with a smile. “I think that I will enjoy opera very much. Is it possible to obtain a recording of this one?”
“Yes, it is. I’ll gladly lend you mine until Daddy can have one sent to you from Terravega. They aren’t available on the Nexus, I’m afraid.”
“I would be most grateful,” he replied.
She looked down at their linked hands. He was very strong. The grip didn’t hurt, but it was firmer than it should have been. She wondered if he’d been around humans much. He seemed surprised that she was so fragile, compared to him.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked at once, when he saw where her gaze had fallen.
“Not at all,” she said.
But he loosened his grip, just a little. He tugged her to one side of the crowd filing out of the auditorium, and his eyes were a solemn blue. “If I do, you must tell me. Don’t be afraid of offending me—you won’t. I would not hurt you for all the galaxy.”
Her heart soared. She smiled up at him with sparkling, soft blue eyes. “I know that. I’ll tell you,” she promised.
His eyes narrowed on her face. “I had no idea that humans were so fragile,” he said softly.
She smiled. “I’m afraid it’s probably just me. I’m sort of fragile. I bruise really easily.”
He let out a breath. “Still, I apologize for any discomfort I may have already caused.”
He didn’t know about the broken bones in her hand, and she wasn’t about to tell him. “You’re forgiven,” she replied. She searched his face. “Have you been around humans much?”
He started to tell her about the Morcai, about the Holconcom, and realized that it would be breaking many protocols. Later, perhaps. “I have some small acquaintance with mostly male humans,” he said after a minute.
“What do you do for a living? Or are you independently wealthy?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Among my own people, I’m an aristocrat. My Clan has wealth that we all share. But I do work, just the same. I’m a...” He searched for a word that would suffice. He couldn’t reveal his true duties where he might be overheard. The captain of the emperor’s Imperial Guard did not dare reveal himself to outworlders. “I’m a consultant,” he added, recalling his cousin Rhemun telling Kipling that, when he met his almost-adolescent son for the first time. “For the military,” he added.
“Oh. One of those brainy jobs,” she teased.
He cocked his head, curious.
“A job which requires intelligence,” she amended. “So sorry. I have to stop using idioms.”
“Alternatively, you can teach me to understand them,” he replied, smiling. “I’m a quick study. I speak many languages.”
“Really!” She grimaced. “I only speak English and French.”
He scowled. “What is French?”
“A dialect of old Earth, carried over to Terravega with the first colonists. My surname is French—Dupont.”
He smiled slowly. “Truly fascinating. Do you know much about your ancestry?”
“A little. I know that my distant ancestors were vintners.”
He scowled, not understanding the reference.
“They made wine,” she explained. “They had great plantations of grapevines, red and white grapes alike, which they made into expensive wines that were sold all over the planet. And when my Terravegan family colonized, they carried on the tradition. You’ll find Dupont wines still served in the finest dining facilities on Terravega. Even on Trimerius, where the military headquarters of the Tri-Galaxy Fleet are located. Daddy knows Admiral Jeffrye Lawson,” she added. “They play chess together on the Nexus.”
Mekashe also knew the admiral, but he wasn’t going to mention it. Time enough in the future to tell her what he really did for a job. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to be with her, to learn about her.
“They have a pool party scheduled for tomorrow aboard the ship,” she said slowly. She hesitated. “Bathing suits and all.”
He shook his head, smiling. “What is a bathing suit?”
“People wear skimpy clothing-suits that leave the arms and legs and midriff bare on women, just swimming trunks for men that leave the chest and legs bare.”
He scowled. No way could he do that. Not only was being half-nude in public considered indelicate for the Cehn-Tahr, he couldn’t reveal the band of fur that ran the length of his spine to Jasmine. It might offend her, cause her to draw back from him before she got to know the person he was.
She saw his unease and grimaced. “I don’t like
wearing bathing suits, either,” she confessed. “Mama said it was indelicate. She wouldn’t let me go in swimming pools, ever, back home.”
He laughed. “I would have liked your mother. I have to confess, my culture also considers public nudity—even seminudity—indiscreet.”
She beamed. “I’m glad.” The smile faded. “There’s not much else to do on board.”
“There are holorooms,” he corrected. He pursed his lips. “We might have a picnic, on any planet of your choosing.”
She caught her breath. “Really? They can do that? I thought they were only used for, well, for indiscreet purposes.”
He laughed. “Some of them are, certainly. But we can walk in a forest on Terramer, or sit by the ocean on Trimerius. We can even go to Enmehkmehk and catch farawings.”
“What’s a farawing?”
“A small creature with brilliant wings. Untouchable in the real world, but they can be caught and even tamed as pets in a holoroom. You can save the program and revisit the pet at your convenience, and anywhere you might be. A chip of the capture is provided as part of the entertainment.”
“I should love to go on a picnic!” She hesitated again. “How do you know about picnics?”
“My best friend is bonded to a human female,” he explained. “She taught us about certain human entertainments. Sadly, opera was not one of them.”
She laughed with delight. If his friend was bonded to a human, it might mean that he had no qualms about an interracial marriage. Her heart felt lighter than air.
He saw her delight and read, quite correctly, her train of thought. His was going along the same lines. He was certain already that he would not be able to give her up. She was capturing him, as surely as farawings were captured in holorooms.
“Tomorrow, then?” she asked. “After breakfast?” She grimaced. “You’re playing chess with Daddy.”
“Then after luncheon,” he suggested softly.
Her sad expression lifted. “That would be wonderful. What should I wear?”
He wanted to tell her to keep on the gown she was wearing. It complemented her delicate beauty. But it would be impractical. “Casual clothing,” he said.