by J. S. Volpe
* * *
When he stepped into the Black Hole Lounge’s dimly lit interior at five to six, he grunted in mingled surprise and relief to find Solace already seated at the long black bar, sipping one of those cloying shnozzberry martinis that were all the rage these days. All things considered, he had been more than half sure she wouldn’t show up.
Far more surprising than her mere presence was what she was wearing. Her torso was sheathed in a skimpy black dress nearly nonexistent in the leg and so low in the chest it was a miracle her nipples weren’t visible. She also wore transparent high-heeled pumps, another faddish choice that showed off her slender, beautifully pedicured feet, the nails of which, like her fingernails, she had painted with nanite-filled polish programmed to display swirls of color that shifted languidly like smoke. Her long black hair had been waved since their encounter in the elevator, and the shining serpentine tresses framed a face embellished by a hint of black eyeshadow, deep red lipstick, and a pair of pendant earrings that looked like real diamonds.
He sat down beside her, the bar-stool’s fake leather upholstery producing a faint creak that made him a little nostalgic. He hadn’t seen real leather since the Universal Biodignity Act of 9051.
“You look fantastic,” he said.
She smiled at him with those dark red lips, eyes fixed directly on his, then lowered her gaze with affected demureness.
“Thanks,” she said in a coy, girlish voice.
He blinked at her, nonplused to hear her adopt such a tone.
The bartender, a female wochobüshkan with dusty blue skin that faded to white at the tips of her two waist-length head-tentacles, appeared, handed them menus, and asked Reynard if he would like anything to drink.
He flashed Solace a smile then said to the bartender, “I’ll have a Queen Pithylia.”
Solace frowned slightly. The bartender blinked at him, her black, whiteless eyes uncertain, the ends of her tentacles curling up into stiff hooks, a sign of nervousness.
“Um, I’m not sure what that is,” the bartender said.
He started to explain how to prepare it, but she interrupted him: “Sorry, but open flames aren’t allowed on Haven.” Noting his disgruntlement, she said, “It’s, like, a security measure.” Noting the unchanged disgruntlement, she added, “Fires are dangerous.”
His mood plummeting fast, Reynard cocked an eyebrow. “Have you ever even seen a real fire?”
The bartender opened her mouth, shut it. “Um…”
“Reynard.” This from Solace. He looked over at her. She shook her head.
He sagged a little as a silent sigh escaped him.
“Gimme a vodka,” he said. “Neat.”
Back on familiar ground, the bartender gave him a sharp nod and bustled away, overcompensating for her inability to meet his primary desire by meeting the secondary one with almost military efficiency.
“A Queen Pithylia?” Solace asked. “Did you really think she’d be able to serve something like that?”
He shrugged. “I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
She reached out and gently patted his hand on the bar top.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you good and drunk one way or another.” Leaving her hand on his a moment longer than necessary, she gave him another coquettish smile, then settled back and picked up her menu. “We’d better order soon,” she said, perusing the items on the menu’s holoscreen. “I am absolutely ravenous.” She packed the last word with unmistakable innuendo.
He stared at her in baffled silence. Why was she being so uncharacteristically flirtatious? Given their less-than-ideal encounters the last few millennia, not to mention their meeting in the elevator earlier today, he had been expecting coolness, even animosity. What kind of game was she playing?
Unsure how to proceed, he picked up his own menu and scrolled through the entrees.
The bartender returned with Reynard’s vodka.
“You two ready to order?” she asked.
“Yeah, I am,” he said. To Solace: “You?”
“Oh, I’m definitely ready,” she said with a quick glance at Reynard to underscore the double entendre.
“Glad to hear it,” he said with a smile, hiding his growing mystification.
Choosing to be oblivious to this exchange, the like of which she had no doubt witnessed in here a thousand times before, the bartender said, “So what’ll it be, then?”
“The Oysters Deluxe for me,” Reynard said. It didn’t include real oysters, of course. It didn’t include any living things. Not even plants. Only villains and barbarians ate anything other than synthedibles anymore. Even the drinks he and Solace were sipping had been made from inorganic chemicals. Thankfully, synthetically produced foods were designed to replicate the flavors and textures of the finest examples of real, old-fashioned biological food. In Reynard’s opinion, the invariable perfection got rather monotonous.
“And the lady?” the bartender said.
Solace shot Reynard a sultry sidelong smile. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Good choice. I’ll have that out for you in a picobeat.” She hurried away.
Reynard regarded Solace as she sipped her martini, unsure whether to be pleased or perturbed by her behavior. Had it been any other woman delivering these innuendoes, sending these fuck-me glances, he wouldn’t have thought twice about satisfying her desires. Hell, he would have had her back in his room already. Or in her own room. Or maybe in the nearest closet.
But this wasn’t any other woman. This was Solace. And she wasn’t acting anything like Solace…
Or was she? As he had reflected during their encounter in Giv-Golos, no two people could ever truly know each other. Her coquetry tonight could simply be a facet of her personality he had never seen before. He knew next to nothing about her sexual behaviors, her preferred bed-mates. Maybe she was one of those women who act prim and proper on the outside, but secretly lust for dangerous men. Maybe discovering the truth about him had made him more alluring to her.
Noticing his scrutiny, she cocked her head.
“Anything wrong?” she asked.
“No. It’s just…well, I’m a little surprised you don’t want to talk about, you know, what happened before. About—”
She leaned forward and again laid a hand on his. The touch shut him up in an instant.
“Let’s not talk about the past,” she said. “Now’s the only time there is, right?” She curled her fingers, the tips of her nanite-covered nails lightly grazing his skin.
He stiffened and sucked in a breath. In his pants, his penis stirred and began to strain against the fabric enclosing it.
She gave him another seductive smile, then picked up her martini. As she dropped her gaze to guide the slim red straw into her mouth, he allowed his eyes one swift sweep over her body: her shining black hair cascading over her bare brown shoulders, the smooth swells of her breasts, her slender legs stretching away into the shadows beneath her snug black dress. He felt almost dizzy with lust at the thought he might see that body unclothed before the night was done, feel it warm and writhing beneath him, taste it, touch it, possess it. He still didn’t entirely grasp why this was happening, didn’t have a clue what emotional undercurrents or ulterior motives were driving her, but what difference did it make? If she wanted him to fuck her, then that’s exactly what he would do.
She looked up from her drink, only her eyes moving, swiveling in their sockets to fix upon his. Her dark red lips formed a smile around the straw inserted between them. The pink liquid in the glass slowly drained away as it rose through the straw and disappeared inside her.
The bartender returned, bearing a pair of steaming plates which she set on the bar before them. That was another good thing about synthedibles: All they needed was a quick heating up.
“Enjoy,” the bartender said as she departed. Reynard thought he detected a trace of amusement in her tone, and wondered how much of the exchange she had witnessed.
He took h
old of the oyster fork that was stuck into one of the fabricated oysters like a sea-god’s trident piercing the body of a vanquished foe. Twisting the fork, he tugged the fake meat free of its dark striated shell. It came away with a slick tearing sound, leaving behind a few rubbery shreds that clung to the pale interior of the shell, which was synthetic just like the meat. He never ceased to be amazed at how much effort the makers of synthedibles devoted to replicating every last taste, texture, color, and smell of real organic food. For a society that claimed to abhor the killing and consumption of living things, the overwhelming demand for such slavish reproduction seemed hypocritical, to say the least.
“Mmm,” Solace said, her mouth full. “This is delicious.”
“Yeah.”
“You know,” she said, holding up one of the faux oysters on the end of her fork, “some people say these are an aphrodisiac.”
“Maybe I should’ve ordered something else, then.” He shot her a smile. “I mean, with you sitting here, an aphrodisiac is kind of superfluous.”
She grinned and forked the oyster into her mouth.
And so went dinner: As the pile of empty shells on the sides of their plates swelled, as their glasses emptied then filled then emptied again, they flirted and traded trivialities, neither of them sharing anything of importance about themselves. She told colorful stories about her days working as an assistant at the Yohelé Orgasm Institute in the mid-10300s. He bragged of adventures he had had, leaving out all serious illegalities and whatever else he thought might disquiet her.
By the time dessert arrived—two slabs of rich, creamy synthedible mint-chocolate chip ice cream cake—Reynard’s face felt flushed, and he had to squint a little to make out the logos on the bottles behind the bar. He was drunker than he had been in…well, centuries. Since that party on Smasmu IV, if he wasn’t mistaken.
The truth was, he avoided drinking whenever possible. Given his activities, where the slightest lapse of focus could bring hordes of Harmony Facilitation Officers down on his head, anything that muddied thought and perception was asking for disaster. And since any place, person, or event had the potential to be bent to his ends, he saw himself as always on the job. For occasions when he had to drink socially, he had taught himself how to nurse a single drink all evening while making it seem as if he had gulped down half the bar.
He couldn’t understand why he had drunk so much tonight. It was as if his body had been acting of its own volition, continually grabbing his glass and raising it to his lips while his mind had been preoccupied with Solace’s pleasing yet decidedly uncharacteristic behavior.
Since Solace didn’t strike him as a heavy drinker and weighed a good forty or fifty pounds less than him, he figured she had to be at least as drunk as he was. But however closely he watched her, he couldn’t tell for sure. Sometimes she seemed quite tipsy, making jokes and comments that under normal circumstances she surely would have thrust aside as inappropriate or insipid the moment her brain conceived them. At other times, however, her eyes shone with such craft and her speech flowed so elegantly he felt clumsy and outmatched. He hated being drunk.
The bartender returned to clear away the dessert plates and find out if they wanted anything more. Reynard asked for a glass of water and the check. After the bartender had brought them, then bustled happily away with a twenty-cred crystal, which covered all food and drinks plus a hefty tip, Solace cocked an eyebrow at Reynard.
“Water, huh?” she said.
“Absolutely. After all, I’d hate to get so drunk I don’t remember this wonderful night.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should stop too.” She eyed her half-finished peach martini—her fifth martini of the night, and her second peach one, she having grown tired of shnozzberry half an hour back—then shrugged. “On the other hand, I hate to waste it.” She downed the rest in one big swallow.
With a satisfied sigh she pushed the glass away, then swiveled around to face Reynard, her elbow on the bartop, her chin on her palm, her index finger toying with her pendant earring as she regarded him with a coy smile.
“So,” she said, “if we’re not gonna be drinking any more, we’ll have to find some other way to occupy our evening.”
“I don’t think it’s technically evening anymore. I believe we’re officially in night territory at this point.”
“Evening, night, morning, whatever. Time is relative, right? And it flies. It flies relatively.”
“Sure,” he said, her strange comments making him wonder again how drunk she was.
“So what can we do with our flying time?” she asked, her low, insinuating tone making it abundantly clear what she wanted to do.
Smiling, he leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from hers. The stink of peaches and alcohol washed across him. He laid a hand on her smooth brown knee.
“Well,” he said. “I might be able to think of a few things to keep us busy.”
“Hmm.” She sucked her upper lip between her teeth and pressed a finger onto the back of the hand on her knee. “And where should we do these things?”
“Oh, not here,” he said, looking around in mock alarm. “I’d hate to make these fine people jealous of all the fun we’ll be having. After all, I don’t want to make anyone feel bad.”
“Want to make ‘em feel good, eh?” The finger twisted first one way then the other.
Reynard inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. He flipped his hand over and grabbed hers.
“Let’s go,” he said, rising, hauling her up off her seat.
She stood there looking at him a little uncertainly for a moment, but then tilted her chin up, eyes sparking with willed boldness, and gave his hand a squeeze.
“Yes, let’s,” she said.
He led her out of the bar to the elevator, pleased to find he was steadier on his feet than he had feared he would be. Moving around made the feelings of drunkenness abate a bit.
While they waited for the elevator, her hand still clasped in his, he leaned in close, his bicep pressing against her warm, soft breast, his cheek grazing hers, and nuzzled her earlobe. She drew in a breath, the sound clear and sharp so close to his ear. She had just started to turn her head toward his when the elevator emitted its single chime and the door slid open.
An elderly couple shuffled out. For a second Reynard thought the woman was the one he had let the elevator door close on earlier; but no, it was just another collection of droops and wrinkles and outdated clothes.
The woman spared them only a brief, disinterested glance as she and her companion walked past, but the old man’s eyes, bright and quick in his seamed gray face, darted back and forth between Reynard and Solace before fixing on Reynard. The old man gave him a grin and a single vigorous nod, as if in encouragement.
Reynard pulled Solace onto the elevator, trying to maintain his passion but failing. The old couple had dampened his mood. Part of it was the memory of the old woman from earlier and how he had let the doors close on her. For some reason it bothered him now. He found her shocked look no longer amusing but sad and pathetic. And the old man’s silly go-get-em nod hadn’t helped either, somehow reducing this whole endeavor to farce or banality.
Solace didn’t seem to notice the shift in his mood, or perhaps she did but intended to swing things back in her favor, for as soon as he had pressed the button for Level 2744, his level, and the elevator door had closed, she threw herself against him, forcing him back against the wall, and began licking and nipping his neck. Her body, barely covered in its skimpy black dress, pressed against his from chest to thigh. His passion rekindled, his penis swelled pulse by pulse.
He seized a fistful of her black hair and tugged her head back, off his neck, baring her face to his. Her eyes were as clouded with lust as he knew his own must be. Her lips were parted, revealing a glimpse of white teeth.
He leaned in and kissed her. As their lips joined he felt her exhale a tiny sigh into his mouth as if relinquishing a piece of herself into him, and she made a small noise t
hat might have been a whimper or a moan. Her hand squeezed his. His squeezed hers. He wrapped an arm around her back, and clutching her tightly, twirled around so their positions were reversed; now it was he who was pinning her to the elevator wall, their bodies welded together, his groin nestled in the crook of her parted legs.
The elevator stopped with a chime. The door opened.
For a moment they continued kissing, pressing, clutching. Then he broke away and, still grasping her hand—he hadn’t let it go since they left the bar, he realized—he dragged her out of the elevator and down the white corridor to his room.
He had his key-crystal out well before they got there. He swiped the crystal over the scanner next to the door, and the door whooshed open. Stuffing the crystal back into his pocket, he stepped across the threshold and yanked her in after him. Unprepared for the hard, sudden tug, she stumbled forward and slammed into him, sending him stumbling in turn. For a second they did a clumsy dance there in the dim foyer, where the light streaming in from the bright white hallway faded through infinite gradations of gray toward the black of the room’s unlit interior. Their shoulders knocked. Their hips bumped. Their legs tangled and tottered. Their hands remained clasped through it all.
They miraculously stayed upright and took advantage of the collision to resume kissing with wild abandon. Without even looking, he flung out his free hand and slapped the touch-switch that activated the room’s lights a moment before the door whisked closed and cut off the light from the hallway.
Still kissing, bodies still pressed together, they stumbled into the main room, weaving and turning and careering as if their opposing passions could find no balance, condemning them to remain in constant chaotic motion.
He caught quick glimpses of the room as they staggered about: the tall crystalline entertainment column that served as both container and player of countless films and songs and images and mood-shows; the square black table and two silver chairs sitting before the curtained display screen, which was currently switched off but could be programmed either to show the universe passing by outside the ship or to radiate varying levels of imitation sunlight; and there in the midst of it all, the neatly made bed, its perfect orderliness awaiting disarrangement.
He hoped to maneuver her toward the bed, but instead their turbulent course somehow ended with his back banging into the wall beside the entertainment column. She wrenched her hand free of his grasp, and it joined its mate in roving over his body, clutching, stroking, clawing. In no time his shirt was untucked and pulled up high enough to expose his belly and the line of dark hair plunging from his navel to the waistband of his pants. Her crotch ground against his, teasing his stiff penis with wonderful friction.
He broke the kiss and drew back a little to take a breath. As she peered at him impatiently, desperate for more, he saw that her eyes were glistening, an effect he at first attributed to her intense desire. But then a tear slid from the corner of her right eye and streaked down her cheek.
“Solace,” he said. “What—”
Before he could say more, she hurtled forward, pinning him to the wall. Her lips smashed into his, pinching his lower lip against his teeth. He caught a quick taste of blood.
“Solace,” he said, his words muffled by her mouth.
She seemed not to hear him. Her onslaught didn’t slacken a bit. Her mouth and hands and body continued moving, touching, caressing. Though he tried to give himself over to the arousal her actions elicited, the image of that tear coursing down her face kept recurring.
He yanked his head back. She tried to follow his lips with hers, but he turned his head away, denying her access.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “I thought you liked it.”
“I did. I do. But…”
She cupped the bulge in the front of his pants.
“Well, you’ll like the rest even better,” she said, flashing an impish grin full of teeth, exultant in the power she knew she possessed over him. But that exultation imperfectly masked something else, something fragile and sad. Looking closer, he spotted the shiny lines of shed tears running down both of her cheeks.
“Sol—”
She launched herself against him again, slamming him against the wall so hard that the entertainment column wobbled on its stand. Her hand, still on his penis, stroked it up and down.
He allowed himself to enjoy the feeling for a moment, then gripped her by the forearms and pushed her away.
“What are you doing?” she said, words clipped with annoyance. “Why do you keep stopping?”
She tried to move forward again, but he held her at arm’s length.
“What?” she snapped. “This is what you want, isn’t it? This is what you’ve always wanted! Well, take it!” The words were both an order and a plea.
He shook his head. “Why are you acting like this? What’s wrong?”
“What a stupid question!”
“I don’t think so.”
She twisted in his grip, trying to get away now, but he held her tight.
“Stupid!” she said.
“Stop it!”
“Fuck you!” She wrenched herself from his grasp and stumbled backward, glaring at him like a feral animal. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I’m finally giving you a chance to fuck me like you always wanted, and you can’t even fucking do it!” Her voice was a shriek. “Why are you just standing there? Take me! Fuck me! Just…just…”
She burst into tears. She made no effort to cover her face or turn away, just stood there sobbing helplessly, eyes clenched shut, cheeks streaming with tears, arms limp at her sides.
Seeing her like this roused something inside him he had never felt before. He wanted her to stop crying, but not for the reasons he had wanted girls to stop crying in the past—because their weeping annoyed him, or because he thought if he comforted them they would put out for him; no, for the first time he wanted her to stop crying because seeing her cry pained him. Seeing her face contort in misery was like seeing something that shouldn’t exist—a square circle, a black whiteness—and he felt compelled to do whatever he could to ease that misery.
Without a word he stepped forward and gently wrapped his arms around her, half expecting her to either pull away in defiance or go limp, ceding all power to him. Instead she showed no response at all at first, leading him to wonder if she was so far gone in her agony she wasn’t even aware of him. But then he felt her arms closing around his back.
Though her sobs soon tapered off, she remained in his embrace, her cheek on his shoulder, her eyes closed, a damp oval on his shirt from her tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice shaky and low.
“What’s wrong?”
There was no response for so long he became convinced she wasn’t going to answer at all, but then she sighed and said, “Sometimes I hate this world. I don’t understand it anymore.”
“You what?” he said, mystified. He had been expecting some tale of romantic woe, of her being jilted and deciding to vent her aggressions on him.
“I don’t…” She sniffed, the sound becoming something of a wet snort as she sucked back snot. “I don’t understand all this technology anymore. I sit there trying to work this silly KristalLine crap, and I feel so fucking stupid. I mean, I’m over eleven thousand years old. I’m from a world that was pretty technologically advanced in its own way, but I can’t make these damn crystals do what they’re supposed to. And then there’re those gendermorphing procedures. Men becoming women. Women becoming men. How can you be sure of anyone anymore? Any man you meet could have been a woman the week before. I mean, I don’t want to sound intolerant or—or judgmental or anything, but I—I just don’t understand how people could do that.” She heaved a husky sigh. “And their fashions—all these ugly fashions. The goddamn twirly things they attach to their crotches and the metal fins and the tacky fucking glow-piping. And—and…” A pause, then: “And I lost my Gem Node. All my contacts were on it.”
“You
didn’t back it up anywhere?” He tried hard not to make it sound accusatory or belittling.
She didn’t say anything, but he felt her shake her head.
After a moment she said in a small quiet voice, “Can we lie down?”
His heart jumped, and his cock gave a tentative twitch. Did she still want to have sex?
“Just to lie down,” she added quickly, as if reading his thoughts. “But…” Her voice was hesitant, almost embarrassed. “Could you still hold me? Please?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, feeling far less disappointed than he would have expected.
He led her to the bed and they lay down atop the covers, still embracing. She didn’t look at him, just kept her head lowered, eyes closed. His arm soon went numb under the weight of her shoulder, but he said nothing, choosing to let it go dead and heavy rather than disturb her.
Her breathing slowed and deepened so much he thought she had dozed off. But then she mumbled, “Thank you,” her voice drowsy-thick. A minute later, her breathing grew even slower and deeper and more regular, and he knew she was asleep.
He remained exactly as he was, numb arm and all, not tired enough to sleep, but relaxed, comfortable, at peace, floating in a strange sort of contentment with the scent of her filling his nostrils as if it were the only smell in the universe. He gazed at her sleep-slack face for a few minutes, examining every curve, every line, every tiny hair, then with a small smile, he rested his cheek against the top of her head, and they lay there together in silence, on the bed, in the room, on the vast ship as it traversed the endless void.
An hour later she muttered something that sounded like “Nectar for that,” and rolled over, off his arm.
He watched the back of her head for a minute to make sure she was still asleep, and when he heard her deep regular breathing, he got up as slowly and quietly as he could and went in search of a bite to eat.