"I'm . . . fine," he gasped, waving aside the crewmen. "Get going, now."
The boatmen were mercenaries; they shrugged and obeyed, leaving him to walk in a straight, slow line to his cabin. The boat's diesel blatted, then settled down to a steady burbling. He opened the door—anyone else trying that would get an unpleasant surprise—and let the softsuit fall to the floor in a thin puddle as he stumbled to the bunk. It collected itself and slithered to the table and up one leg, pouring itself into a container the size of a pocketbook to recharge and repair.
This time he did groan between clenched teeth as the air rasped at the burns and bruises that covered most of his skin. His right hand was swelling and red as boiled lobster from the two pointblank hits. According to the techs back home, a softsuit probably couldn't take close-range plasma bolts from a standard Domination hand-weapon. Apparently the United States of Samothrace built its agents better armor than they thought.
Enough better. Just. He staggered to the bunk and fell into it.
The suitcase clicked beneath the bed. He lay panting in the dark, his eyes swimming with the aftermath of the booster chemicals, as tendrils felt their way over and beneath him. They crisscrossed his body in a dense web, creeping into the corners of his eyes, nostrils, mouth. Things pricked his skin, and the pain diminished. Coolness soothed; there was a muted buzzing as dead skin was debrided away and replaced with temporary patches that would speed regrowth. Tentacles thin as wire and stronger than thought manipulated his gun hand.
No serious degradation of function, the AI said with indecent cheerfulness, you will recover full effectiveness within five days, including metabolic stress from the combat drugs.
Which took a little off your lifespan every time you used them—but it was better than being dead. His stomach twisted at the memory of the fight. Neural-link simulators could feed in scenarios of what it was like to fight a drakensis hand to hand, but there was still a difference when it was for real. His gut heaved again at the memory of the raw strength behind the grip that had spun him through the air, hearing again the guttural snarling of a tiger about to kill.
How can anyone mistake it for a human being? he thought. The face had been like a beast's, too; the sort of expression an antelope would encounter on the very last lion it ever saw.
It was not attempting deception with you, the machine answered pedantically. Presumably it takes more care with the local humans.
I failed, Ken sighed. His hand tightened toward a fist until the twinges warned him. I should have killed it!
A scouting operation, the AI replied. There will be other opportunities. After a moment: sleep.
Thirty hours to the dropoff point near Miami. He could sleep the entire time. Darkness closed over him, as welcome as his mothers touch.
***
Gwen wrapped the weapons in Pierre's jacket and tossed them over the balustrade of her bedroom's exterior terrace eighteen feet above. Then she took two steps and leapt, hands clamping onto the rough coral rock of the balcony and swinging her over. Quicker than going up the stairs, and less likely to cause commotion. And her body craved movement.
Alice was waiting; she gave a jump and squeak of startlement as Gwen appeared. Then her eyes widened at the Draka's appearance. Gwen was still running with sweat, and there were bleeding grazes on her flank and one arm; they clotted with inhuman speed. Her chest heaved as lungs pumped oxygen into the bloodstream. Skin twitched as overprimed muscles sought release. She fought down another snarl.
"What happened?" Alice asked, crossing her arms on the breast of her robe in an instinctive gesture of self-protection. The Draka caught an edge of the creamy scent of fear; her mask had slipped a bit under the stress, and the other's subconscious was reacting to what it perceived.
"Bit of an emergency," Gwen replied, watching patterns of heat through the Australian's facial skin. They made her seem to glow from within, like a lantern. "It's over for now. I'll explain later."
"All right," Alice said, dropping her eyes. Good, she's learning, the Draka thought She looked good. Delicious.
Without looking up: "Do you still want to . . . ?"
Gwen nodded.
"That's fine with me." An uncertain smile. "You are very good at it."
"After four-hundred-odd years of practice," Gwen said, advancing, "I should be."
She pulled the blond woman's arms down, then stripped off the robe. Alice shuddered at the musky smell of her sweat, then again as Gwen bent and took a nipple between her lips. She cried out in surprise as the Draka put a hand beneath her buttocks and lifted her smoothly into a fireman's carry across her shoulder. And again as the fingers probed her openings, halfway between a moan and a protest.
"This will be a little different," Gwen said, as she strode easily across the terrace and into the bedroom. "More strenuous."
The scent was intoxicating; she bit at the thigh next to her cheek, just hard enough to draw a squeal.
"I had to go into combat overdrive and didn't have the chance to expend much energy. I'll have the jittering judders for days unless I work it off now."
The squirming within the circle of her arm had no more chance of dislodging itself than it would have from a similar thickness of steel cable; and in any case, it wasn't an attempt to escape. The soft helpless movement was extremely pleasant, like a kitten's paws batting at her hands. It helped flip the savage focus of killmode over into an equally directed urge: lust, but with an edge to it, raw and direct.
She tossed the other down on the bed and climbed onto her, straddling Alice's shoulders and linking hands behind her neck. The Australian's eyes were wide and her mouth trembled slightly. Her heartbeat hammered in Gwen's ears, nearly as rapid as her own pulse. The Draka's thumbs caressed the other's cheeks and the angle of her jaw, then drew her upward as she sank down.
"So play pony for me, Alice."
Chapter Eleven
Thomas Cairstens pedaled faster and looked down at the speedometer of the bicycle. Twenty. For ten miles, the way she was going. He'd cut across the circle of her course. Jesus. Gwen was loping along on the foot-trail beside the laneway, keeping pace without visible strain and hurdling boulders and logs with an easy raking stride. The scent of pine was strong in the cool dawn air, but the flicker of light in the east was bright enough to give a hint of the heat that would come later. The Draka moved through the dappled half-light with a wolfs concentrated economy of motion; he could barely hear her footsteps on the rocky limestone soil. She slowed as they angled back into the gardens, down to a trot and then a walk by the freshwater pool.
He dismounted and stood panting as she shed lead-weighted anklets, bracelets and waist-belt. "Impressive," he said.
Gwen was breathing deeply, and the sweat-wet exercise tunic clung to her. "Ironic," she replied. He raised an eyebrow.
"The way we're designed, we'd be the ultimate terrors in a world where wars were fought with rifles, or better still swords." She nodded toward the bicycle. "But on that, you're nearly as fast as I am; in a car, much faster. I can see in the dark—so can an IR scope. I can do differential equations in my head, but not as well as a computer, not even your computers. I've got a built-in drive to fight—and apart from some infantry mopping-up actions at the end of the Last War, it's been about as much use as an udder on a bull for four hundred years. Until now."
"What do you fight in your own world?" he said curiously. "You said it was very peaceful."
"Animals," she said. "Including ones we designed intelligence into, to make them more dangerous. And each other, particularly each other—drakensis are drakensis's main cause of death."
She stripped the tunic off over her head and threw the sodden fabric to the stone pavement with a wet smack. The swimming pool was fed from a cast-bronze lion's mask set in a semicircle of rough stone blocks. Gwen bent her head into the stream of water from the lion's mouth and drank hugely. Cairstens felt his breath catch at the sight. Naked, she looked far less human; the sleek perfecti
on of long bones and flat-strap muscle was somewhere between machine and animal. He caught the smell of her sweat, like musk mixed with flowery perfume, and gave an involuntary gasp.
Gwen raised her head. Her nostrils flared slightly, taking his scent. "You've been good," she said, and flicked her hand toward one of the loungers. "But quickly."
His fingers trembled slightly as he dropped his shorts and lay back on the padded deck-chair. He reached behind his head and gripped the framework as Gwen came to stand over him, her mahogany curls outlined against the rising sun.
"Another built-in drive," she said, and straddled him.
Her hands clamped over his. The weight of her body came down on him, always shocking; the denser bone and muscle made it heavier than his, and hot—fever hot with the superactive metabolism. Lips moved across his as her tongue probed his mouth. Her hips moved, and he felt his penis seized and clamped and held in a warm internal grip just short of pain, like a wet heated glove of flesh. The steel frame of the lounger creaked rhythmically as she rode him, harder and harder. She growled with pleasure as she moved, a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard. The musk of her scent and the crushing strength that held and moved him brought an exquisite sense of yielding helplessness. When she stiffened and arched over him he spasmed and cried out in abandon.
Gwen lay on him for a moment, smiling. "Best way to start the day," she said kindly, chucking him under the chin.
Cairstens lay limply. "God, I'm ruined," he said.
"Not at all," Gwen replied, picking him up and tossing him casually overarm into the pool.
He thrashed and sputtered for a moment as she arrowed past him. When he turned, she was standing on the bottom of the deep end looking up at him—the sight was a little eerie, until you remembered she was naturally denser than water. Then she crouched and leapt and barreled by, her wake buffeting him aside. They climbed out and put on beach robes; the maid was there with breakfast, and Alice had brought the files.
"No problems with the Belway people about the other night?"
"Coleman and Klein didn't even wake up, according to the monitors. Feinberg was up, and went out in the garden. I told her it was a minor disturbance among the construction workers, and she bought it."
"She called her policeman friend again," Gwen said. "I wonder just why he was so concerned. We'll have to look into that." She grinned. "I think she's fonder of him than he knows, judging by her behavior in the bath after that."
Alice giggled. "Not quite as much the ice-maiden as she puts on."
"There's no conflict between libido and ambition," Gwen said. "Quite the contrary. Now. It's been a very productive week," she went on thoughtfully, loading her plate with johnnycake and local dishes—fire engine, chicken souse, slices of fresh avocado. She began to feed. "I think we've achieved a preliminary rapport with Primary Belway Securities."
"Got them around your finger, you mean," Alice said.
"Not exactly. Not yet. But their eyes are definitely full of dollar signs," Gwen said. She chewed thoughtfully on a piece of johnnycake. "Pass those grits, please. We'll need a secure line into Belway, somehow . . . definitely a hold on one of their executives."
"Which one did you have in mind?"
"The youngest, Feinberg. She seems to be more mentally flexible; that'll be useful if we can bring her fully on-side eventually. You humans tend to ossify mentally by forty."
"We've got a few months before the action moves to New York," Cairstens pointed out.
Gwen frowned slightly. "Yes, but that damned Samothracian is a complicating factor. I'll have to be very cautious there, with him around."
She murmured something in her native dialect; Cairstens thought he caught damnyank, but he couldn't be sure. It was too different from English as he'd been raised to understand it, and she rarely used it.
"You should set up a meeting with Amier and Lather," Cairstens said. "Their influence could be extremely helpful in the U.S. I think I impressed them, but you should consolidate it."
"An excellent suggestion," Gwen said thoughtfully. "Speaking of risks, it's time to prepare a fallback strategy, just in case," she added.
"Just in case what?" he asked.
"Just in case the Samothracian manages to kill me," she said. Cairstens swallowed, feeling his stomach lurch. Alice had the same stricken look. "Oh, don't worry—it's a low probability. But it exists."
"What will you do?" he asked.
"Clone myself," she said. "I had Singh do up a viable embryo, and it's ready for implanting any time."
Cairstens frowned, searching for details; his background in genetics had improved considerably over the past few years, since that was one of IngolfTech's main lines. A clone was a genetic duplicate of the original, a cell-nucleus inserted into an ovum and stimulated to divide. This Earth still couldn't do it with higher animals, but he supposed it was routine in Gwen's timeline.
"But a clone wouldn't have your memories, would it? It wouldn't be you."
Gwen tapped herself behind the ear. "Not normally. But I can download a lot to my transducer," she said. "It's quasi-organic itself and the memory's stored holographically; we can extract a piece and implant it in embryo at about seven months, that's standard procedure, except that they usually use a blank one. That'll provide a lot of the background. No, it won't be me, a different personality . . . but it'll be fairly close. With the right upbringing, it—she—would be ready to start taking over in about twenty, thirty years. We mature about the same rate you do; the homeostasis doesn't kick in until then. I've drawn up a plan for a schedule of clandestine investments, safe houses, that sort of thing. You can start implementing it after the bankers leave. That way if everything goes sour, the clone can be reared in safety and have a base to start from."
Alice paused with a piece of pineapple on her fork. "Won't it be inconvenient, being pregnant?" she said.
Gwen chuckled. "Not for me, my dear. Not for me."
The Australian's fork dropped to her plate with a clatter. Her face went white around the eyes and mouth as the Draka reached over to pat her on the cheek.
"Don't worry," she said. "The procedure's painless, and once the embryo implants in the uterus you'll feel fine. Slightly euphoric, in fact. It's all designed that way. Special diet, of course—she'll need more minerals and so forth than a human fetus—but it's not dangerous if you're careful. And I can guarantee that you'll absolutely adore the baby. That's built-in too."
Alice stifled a scream. Gwen rose and pulled her to her feet, half-supporting her.
"It's all ready. No time like the present." She stroked the Australian's blond hair. "It's a very special relationship," she said soothingly. "Being a brooder for a Draka, that is. Come on now, don't fuss."
***
"Now, we have to keep this under careful control," the head of IngolfTech said.
Jennifer blinked. The sun threw sparkles of metallic brightness back from the water in the concrete holding tank. Sand gritted on the paving stones beneath her sandals. A succession of broad football-field-sized concrete holding tanks stood along the seafront, stepped down one from the other. There was a muted hum of pumps, and a hissing as bubbles rose through the water in the first four tanks; a heavy algae smell rose from them—but this last one was filled with something as transparent as distilled water.
Gwen dipped a glass into it and drank. "Try it," she said.
The Belway Securities executives followed suit. The water was sun-warm but nearly tasteless.
"Four days ago, that was sea water. A tailored algae-bacteria combination—solar-powered, bioengineered desalinization."
"You're serious?" Jennifer blurted. The other two executives looked at her, and she flushed. Well, at least I'm not following her around with my tongue lolling out, she thought. Talk about unprofessional, give me a break.
"Perfectly serious. The algae extract the sodium from the seawater, encapsulate it, sink to the bottom, then die. You drain the algae from the bottom of the tank,
and the fresh water from the top. That's an oversimplification, of course; the technical data is in your briefing kit. Basically the algae produce a carbon-based ion-exchange polymer which holds the sodium and chloride ions in an insoluble chemical bond."
The managing director ran a handkerchief over his balding head. The Australian assistant made a hand motion, and a Haitian servant in a white jacket came forward with a tray of iced lemonade. Jennifer gave the blond a second's attention. Wearing a high-collared dress despite the heat, and looking rather peaked.
Back to business. "EPA approval might be a bit of a problem."
Everyone nodded. Gwen shrugged.
"It's not viable in the open ocean, no resistance to predators; and we built in a cellular failsafe to limit reproduction. Besides sun, it needs sulfur, nitrogen, and ammonia at much higher concentrations than in the sea. The bubbles"—she nodded toward the tanks—"are aeration. It's a photosynthetic process, of course, so atmospheric carbon compounds are a source and oxygen is a byproduct, just like any other plant life. The necessary nitrogen is taken from the atmosphere via symbiotic nitrogen-fixing bacteria, and two other bacteria also concentrate metallic salts. Incidentally, raw sewage would do fine as a source of bulk nutrients for the process."
"Ah," the managing director said. "And the byproducts?"
"Salts of various types. To be precise, a concentrated saline sludge with organic polymers. There's another process which recycles the sulfur and so forth for reuse, and the rest is chemical feedstock for a number of processes. In fact, the sale price of the byproducts would more than cover the installation costs—you could run this process at a profit without using the fresh water, just dumping it back in the ocean.
"But yes," she went on, "regulatory approval—particularly in the U.S.—may take some time. However, think of the potential once it is approved; and in non-American markets, as well. We've had expressions of interest from Saudi Arabia, among others. And Singapore."
"What are the costs?" Coleman said, swallowing.
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