Clever Cargo

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Clever Cargo Page 3

by Beva John


  This causes some commotion among the other surrogates. I hear murmurs that I am a lucky bitch. Dorothy says, “They are just jealous. Every one of them would like to be in your shoes.”

  When it is time to leave, I cling to Dorothy’s hand. “Please keep in touch with me.”

  Dorothy assures me, “Of course I will. I’m not stupid. I’ll want an invitation to the Palace.”

  “I don’t know if that is possible, but I will do my best.”

  At our final good-bye, she kisses my cheek, then laughs and rubs at the lip paint mark she left. “Oops.”

  When arrive at the palace, I am met by a Brune woman, a household manager, who escorts me to an elegant suite of rooms where I will be living. Not for the first time, I notice that most of the Brunes I have met walk slowly. I don’t know if this is a physical limitation or a cultural norm. All I know is that I must slow my natural human pace to match theirs.

  The palace is much more ornate than the buildings in Baby Town. Everywhere I turn, there are expensive items of art as if I am in a museum. There are stone statues – most of them blue – as well as enormous paintings that cover walls, frescoes on the ceilings, intricate carpets on the floor and gilded furniture.

  The manager takes me to a massively sized suite with two different sitting rooms that look out over a garden. I had thought that I would be living in the servants’ quarters, but it looks like I will be more of an honored guest.

  The manager is outlining the rules and schedule of the palace, when we are interrupted by Prince Magnar himself.

  I am stunned. I did not think I would see him again, not possibly for months. I have heard that most surrogates never meet the parents of their babies.

  “Your Royal Highness,” the manager says and bows her head.

  Magnar strides into the room. He is wearing an ornately embroidered long coat over pants and is as breath-takingly handsome as I remembered. “Welcome Lottie,” he says formally, in that low sexy drawl of his. “I heard that you had arrived and thought I should give you a tour of the palace.”

  I see surprise in the manager’s eyes, which is quickly masked.

  “You may go,” Magnar says to the woman, who swiftly retreats, leaving us alone together.

  “Shall we?” Magnar asks. His tone is pleasant. He stands formally, with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nods. “We will begin with a tour of your rooms and then go through the public rooms. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them. I wish you to be comfortable here.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He looks at my face closely. “You have a red mark on your cheek. Has someone struck you?”

  “Oh, no,” I say nervously, alarmed by the anger in his eyes. I rub my cheek. “I think that is face paint.”

  He glowers at me. “Why do you have lip print on your cheek?”

  “One of the other women at the Maternity Sector kissed me when I left.”

  His brows lower further with disapproval. “Are you a lesbian?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not that it matters,” he says quickly, his countenance brightening. “It is not a requirement of your surrogacy for you to be heterosexual, but I was merely surprised. Lesbians were not common in your day, I believe.”

  “No, they weren’t. If they were present, they kept themselves well hidden.” I was not aware of any lesbians back in Boston – although from my reading, I did know that some ancient Greek women loved each other. I was quite surprised to meet several lesbians during my stay at Baby Town. It was all discussed matter-of-factly there.

  Most of my prior friends would have been scandalized, but they were from the old Earth, six hundred years ago. I am living in a new age now, and I needed to learn new ways of thinking. Personally, I have no romantic attraction to other women, but I find it interesting that some women do. Some of the women at Baby Town planned to marry their female lovers and have children through artificial insemination.

  There are so many different ways to make a family now.

  “Hold still,” Magnar orders, interrupting my thoughts.

  I freeze and he reaches over to my face and rubs his blue thumb over my skin. I hold my breath. “There was still a small spot,” he says and tilts his head, surveying me with his dark eyes. “There, you look fine, now.”

  “Thank you.” I glance down to hide my flustered response. For a second there, when he reached over toward me, I did not know what he was going to do. For an instant, I thought he might kiss me, which was foolish.

  I clench and unclench my hands, striving for composure.

  We then walk back to the bedroom, where there is a wall of cupboards containing clothes for me. “I hope that these will fit you. If they do not, they can be altered.”

  I am astonished by the dozens of dresses and suits. “So many? I doubt I will be able to wear them all.”

  “As the baby grows, you will need newer, larger clothes.”

  For a moment, I had forgotten the purpose of my living here. I place a hand on my stomach.

  “You are well?” he asks with concern.

  “Yes, I am well. The doctors say that the baby is growing right on time.”

  He tells me that he has arranged for a doctor to be at the palace. “You will meet with her every week to ensure that all is progressing as it should.”

  “Thank you.” I am pleased to see that so many of the doctors on Allathone are women. In my time, I only knew of one – Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, and I envied her education. I say, “Would it not be wiser for me to stay at the Maternity Sector, where there are multiple doctors and they have a proven history of live births?”

  Even with surrogates, the birthrate for Brunes is not what it should be.

  Magnar says stiffly, “My surrogate lived at the palace before I was born.”

  “Oh. If it is a tradition, then.” I worry that I may have offended him. I must learn not to blurt out all my suggestions. It was something that caused me trouble in school and at home with my father. All my life, I have had too many ideas and I had to learn that not everyone wants to hear them. Especially not a Prince, who is accustomed to having his own way.

  He glances at me. “Besides, I want you here. I want to get to know you better.”

  His words make me happy, until I remind myself that he wishes to know whether I will be a suitable nanny. He has no real interest in me as an individual.

  As we walk into a hallway, I ask Prince Magnar how many rooms there are in the palace.

  “Over two thousand.”

  More than Buckingham Palace and the Palace at Versailles combined. “I will not be able to see them all today.”

  “No, but we can see the main rooms together.”

  I am surprised that a person as busy as he must be wants to give me a tour. Magnar has a reserved manner, but behind that, he is kind. I say, “I assume parts of the palace are off limits.”

  He says, “If you wish to see a room, ask one of the servants and he or she will accommodate you.”

  “There are no locked rooms like Bluebeard?”

  He frowns. “I do not recognize the reference.”

  “It is from a fairy tale. From Earth. In it, a new bride is shown her new home and there is one locked door that she is told to never open.”

  The corner of Magnar’s mouth quirks upward. “Since humans are notoriously curious, I assume she does open it.”

  “Yes. Otherwise, it would be a boring story.”

  “What does she find in the locked room?”

  “The bodies of her husband’s prior six wives. All murdered, all hanging from the ceiling by hooks.”

  His lips twitch. “Gruesome. I assume this story is told to make obedient wives.”

  “Perhaps. Either that, or to warn the reader that actions can have unforeseen consequences.”

  “Is the man punished for his crimes?”

  “Yes.”

  “As it should be.” He looks at me thoug
htfully and adds, “Rest assured that if you find any locked doors in the palace, there are no prior dead surrogates hanging on hooks. You are my first.”

  “I am glad.” But the cynical side of me thinks that is no reassurance.

  “What is it? What are you thinking?”

  “That there would have been no locked room for Bluebeard’s first wife.”

  He bursts out with a quick bark of laughter, which takes my breath away. When he laughs, Prince Magnar is more open, even more charming. He says, “True. You are wise to be cautious.”

  I think that is one of my primary traits – to be cautious. I do not trust everything I see or hear – even handsome princes.

  He clasps his hands behind his back – a formal gesture – and asks idly, “Is blue an ominous color to your people? Was there a reason for the beard to be blue?”

  As a traveler with blue skin, it is an insightful question. “Not that I know of – other than the fact that humans don’t naturally have blue hair.”

  “Although I understand blue hair is a popular fashion on Little Earth.”

  “And at the Maternity Sector. The women there have every color of hair imaginable.”

  He glances at my long brown braid. “But not you?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want blue hair?”

  “No. I have never been tempted to dye my hair.”

  “You have beautiful hair. You should never dye it.”

  I don’t like his tone. It is true that I have never wanted to dye my hair but being told that I shouldn’t makes me want to consider it. “Is that a suggestion or a command?”

  His eyes look at me narrowly. “Neither. It is merely my opinion.”

  I snort. As if he doesn’t know how compelling a royal opinion can be. I imagine that he has rarely expressed an opinion or desire that was not immediately granted.

  He stiffens and tightens his lips, obviously offended, and whatever camaraderie we were enjoying vanishes.

  Not for the first time, I regret my impulsive tongue. I cannot count the number of times I lost employment for being too willful, too pert. As much as I want to be genteel and ladylike, I have rough edges. I find it impossible to be quiet and discreet. And obvious bunkum infuriates me.

  But that doesn’t mean I should be disrespectful. “I am sorry,” I say quietly. “I should not have taken offense at your remarks. I appreciate the opportunity you have given me to be your surrogate and now, to live in the palace. Thank you.”

  He nods, but I can tell that I am not forgiven. I sense that he does not approve of me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAGNAR

  I walk back to my chambers, irritated. Lottie is a most uncomfortable woman. She is unlike any other female I have met. She is rude and opinionated, and I begin to question the wisdom of having her move into the palace.

  She walks swiftly, with purpose, like a Brune male.

  She expresses her opinions like a Brune male.

  And yet, she is completely feminine. Disturbingly so. I have never been so stirred by a female before. I want to rub my hands over her face and bury my face in her throat to see if her skin is as soft as it looks.

  I am fascinated by the curve and subtle sway of her breasts beneath her blouse. They look like the perfect size to fill my hands. Ripe and round. I wonder what the color of her nipples would be. For Brune women, they are a darker blue. But with humans, I do not know.

  I want to undo her braid and run my fingers through her long hair.

  I want to kiss her smart mouth and see how she responds.

  I feel like a Katoll with a permanent cockstand around her.

  But that is not right.

  Lottie is my surrogate, not my mistress.

  And I can’t send her back to the Maternity Sector because I don’t want the gossip.

  I decide it would be best to ignore her – to keep my distance.

  After a week, I am still restless and unsettled, so I visit my cousin Tomor, who lives outside the Capital City in a large estate famous for its vineyards.

  As I approach the large house, leaving my bodyguards behind, I feel a pang of guilt. Tomor was my closest companion when we were younger, but as I assumed more royal duties, we have not had as much time for each other, but I should have made greater efforts to see him. How long as it been since we talked – four months or five?

  I have heard through my advisors that his health is failing. Tomor is the third in line to the throne, so his health is a matter of government concern. According to the reports I’ve seen, he is on his third artificial heart and the doctors do not think his body capable of withstanding another replacement. His liver is failing and there is water in his lungs.

  Tomor’s servants greet me with low bows and escort me to the rooms where he is resting.

  I push through large double doors into a room with high ceilings and a wall of windows that looks out onto the vineyard below.

  Tomor’s bed is enormous and covered with naked human females writhing on the bedclothes in a pile somewhat like a nest of young Namvires but without scales and tails. They are a tangle of arms and legs, breasts and butt cheeks. At my entrance, one of the females with long blonde hair pops her head up from the fray to see me and says, “Fuck. Oops, I shouldn’t say that.” She giggles as she covers her breasts with her hands. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

  Tomor sits up with a smirk on his thin face. “Greetings, Magnar. How nice to see you.”

  I am shocked by how frail and pale he is. He looks like he is on his deathbed, but I know he wouldn’t want my pity. He is a proud man, just as I am. I say, “Pardon me. I didn’t realize you were so busy.”

  Tomor waves his hand. “It is nothing.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your orgy.”

  Tomor smiles wryly. “It’s not an orgy. My heart is not the only organ that is failing. I can’t brix anymore, but I like human females best, so I always keep a few around.” He claps his hands and tells them to leave. The women scatter, running to the doorway, breasts and butts jiggling. One of the young women giggles and another glances over her shoulder looking at me boldly and winks at me before slipping out of the room.

  I roll my eyes and Tomor laughs. “Can’t blame her for trying,” he says as he slips his thin arms into a silky robe to hide his bare sunken chest. He starts to cough, a deep, hollow sounding cough that lasts for nearly a minute. “Who knows?” he says finally. “Maybe you can hire them when I’m dead.”

  I don’t think so. I say, “How many human females do you have in your employ?”

  “I have no idea,” he says frankly. “Thirty. Maybe more.”

  I tsk my tongue. “I suppose they are not very expensive since you don’t bother with providing them uniforms.”

  He pretends to take offense. “Not all of them are naked all the time.”

  I raise one of my eyebrows. “Just most of the time?” I guess and he nods with a little laugh.

  “It makes life much more pleasant,” he says, and I imagine how much I would like it if Lottie were naked and writhing on my bed.

  But I don’t think she would approve.

  Tomor coughs again and I wait for him to recover. I worry that our conversation is tasking his strength.

  When he finishes coughing, he sighs and lies back down on his sheets. “Forgive me,” he says weakly.

  “Nothing to forgive.”

  He looked at me closely. “What is it? Why are you here?”

  “Can’t I visit my cousin without having a reason?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I know you hate sick rooms.”

  He’s right. I do. I hated visiting my father when he was dying.

  He points to a chair. “Pull that closer to the bed and sit down.”

  I obey him and sit next to his bed. Now that I am closer, I can see how pale his skin is – and it looks loose and fragile. His eyes are yellowish, and my heart tightens. Tomor is only a few years older than I. He should be young and vibrant, but l
ike so many of our people, he is ill and will die while still a young traveler. The average life expectancy for a Brune is only fifty years now. My father lived to be seventy-six and my mother is almost seventy.

  I have been blessed with greater health and stamina than most of my contemporaries, so I hope I will have a longer life like my parents.

  Tomor looks at me expectantly and I say bluntly, “I have a surrogate.”

  “Yes, I heard of that. Congratulations. I hope all goes well and the baby is born healthy.”

  Goddess willing. “Thank you.”

  “Although I don’t envy you taking Lady Jing as a bride. It will take a lot of work to keep her happy. She’s flighty and superficial.”

  This from a person who is lounging with four naked human females. I say, “Well, considering my options, she was the best choice.”

  Tomor shrugs. “Better you than I.”

  Yes, for if I were as ill as my cousin, the empire would be in crisis.

  I vaguely remember that years ago, Tomor spent more time with Jing and there was talk of a possible engagement between them. But Tomor’s health began to fail and those talks ended.

  I look at him now, wondering if his criticism of her is partly a response to her breaking his heart. Did he ever care for her or would their marriage have been like mine – a marriage of convenience only?

  I say, “Jing will make an adequate Queen someday.”

  “Adequate is a poor endorsement.”

  He’s right, but I don’t want to dwell on that, so I make a joke. “It is not as if I expect a mind bond with her.”

  Tomor smiles, amused. “Can you imagine mind bonding with Jing? Your poor brain would be full of fashions and cosmetics.”

  Or hairy Enset natives. What a dreadful prospect. “I know.”

  He says, “But that’s all nonsense, anyway. I’ve never known anyone who had a mind bond.”

  Neither have I. “I think it’s one of those ancient myths, created by the poets to make the rest of us poor travelers feel deficient.”

  “I agree. But maybe if I had experienced a mind bond, I wouldn’t feel that my life has been wasted.”

  I don’t know what to say now, because Tomor and I both know he is dying. I say, “Don’t give up all hope. Who knows? You might mind bond with one of those naked women.”

 

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