He knew her strategy, and she knew he knew. Which only deepened his interest.
“There are more efficient uses of your energy,” he said, testing her.
“I can’t imagine any.”
“We arrive at the next station in hours. Deterrence has a tendency to shoot objects they can’t identify.”
“Well, your identity is fine,” she said. “Sit back. Here’s a pillow. I’ll adjust you some thinking-mood lighting.”
“I do not require any special ambiance to conduct an analysis.”
“No?”
Her hips swayed as she walked away from him. He could watch her walk all day. The too-tight yellow suit raised his thermals.
She tasted the decadent meal bubbling on the efficient heater. “Soup is good for recovering from injuries.”
“Thank you, but hunger is not the cause of my distraction.”
“Right. Sorry.” She served him a warm bowl of sapphire-colored soup. Blueberry honey made a gorgeous lake dusted with delicate orange blossoms, and within could be found treasures of sweet fruits and hearty nut pieces. She sat on an overstuffed pillow in the middle of the carpet. “Join me anyway. I made it by hand, and food is meant to be eaten together.”
He picked up the spoon. She had squeezed exotic delicious flavors from the barest of materials. “This is quite the program.”
She eyed him. Dark and thoughtful, sensitive and easily hurt, always thinking of others over herself. “You almost sound serious.”
And yet, the new spark in her manner and naughty glimmer in her alluring eyes made his cock harder than ever. “I’m always serious.”
“Then admit it tastes better made from raws,” she said, baiting him. “Admit it.”
He wanted to bait her back.
“It is a bowl of calories,” he said. “You could program any reprocessor to create exactly this.”
“But it tastes better.”
“Taste can be sour or sweet or salty or savory or bitter based on its chemical composition. ‘Better’ is not a flavor.”
She tapped her spoon on the bowl. “Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘to break bread’?”
“Bread is a small square of grass protein pulverized with lipids and infested with yeast.” He raised a brow. “Yum.”
“It’s the oldest phrase in our language.” She rested her elbows on her bent knees, winced, and eased to her side, revealing the attractive pear of her shapely ass. “The ancients broke that edible grass protein into pieces for sharing. Half a millennium later, sharing a meal still taps into our primal consciousness.”
He liked her confidence. That’s what it was.
“Your ancestors also only lived about two centuries. And if ancient schemata is to be believed, they had to evacuate their own digestive wastes once or twice a week.”
“All I’m saying”—she held up a hand—“is that flavor is much more than the sum of its nutritional components. That’s why so many high-class restaurants employ chefs. Patrons can taste the difference between a reprocessed meal and one made by hand.”
“In a blind taste test, I think ‘patrons’ wouldn’t be so picky.”
“Flavor is also the memory of the dish, the ambiance of where you eat”—she indicated their private boudoir—“and the people you share it with.”
“Now you’re describing memory formation. Not taste.”
“The best meal I ever tasted is the one I shared with my uncle the first time he got back from a hunting trip.” A distant smile curved her mouth. “We grilled up half an aquapede. Our entire floor joined in. Everyone was laughing.” She rubbed her forehead absently. “I was so grateful he had come back.”
The shadows seemed to grow, heavy and somber, in their small corner of the frigate.
“Because your family didn’t,” he said. “Not for you.”
Her gaze flicked to him. “Is that in my file?”
“I’m demonstrating my flawless powers of analysis.”
“Well, in this case, you’re right.” She blew out a long stream of air, watching her loose hair dance. “I’m allergic to biolite silicon.”
The least toxic nano-material had killed her.
“My parents were warned that my sister might not end up being the only one on the Kill List. So they devised a plan to save us all.” Mercury smiled without mirth. “Of course, I screwed it up.”
After sparring with her, the reappearance of her overactive social-moral complex should have been merely interesting. Instead, he felt an unusual crinkling sensation in his brain. Buzzing like bees.
He preferred her as his sparring partner.
“I doubt you did so intentionally,” he said.
“Not that it mattered.” She sighed. “We were to change our identification chips and run to a disconnected planet. I went first.
“The first surgery actually killed me. They kept me on artificial resuscitation for almost an Old Empire galactic standard year before they got the exposed biolite out and brought me back to life. I mean, they brought me back and I stayed alive.
“Cressida, of course, couldn’t wait a year. I ended up on the list later. She had to run right then.”
“So she left you behind.”
“They had no choice.” Mercury’s hand moved to her pale neck. She grimaced.
The necklace she had been wearing, with the double medallion, he now suspected M could be Mercury, and C could be Cressida.
“Does the A stand for ‘and’?” he asked.
“My half-brother, Aris.” She dropped her hand, not complimenting him on his deductive powers. “He went to his bio-father for training as the genetic heir. He was leaving anyway. But I…” She frowned at her fingers, rubbed them on her leg. “I couldn’t be moved.”
“And you couldn’t rejoin them later.”
She nodded. “Biolite allergies tend to run in the family. Her chip wasn’t changed, so they needed to take extra precautions. Since my chip was so damaged it still transmitted my actual ID, I couldn’t come along.”
He patted the seat beside him. “Let me check something.”
Her open expression turned guarded. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”
“It’s not a trick.” He patted the seat again. “Please.”
She rose and perched on the edge of the cushion. Poised to run.
He examined the creamy skin of her forehead. “They can adjust a faulty anonymizer without disturbing the internal biolite.”
“My brain swelled up for years,” she said. “Like a Cro-Magnus of Giran 5. Mares Mercury doesn’t have the facilities to reprogram chips.”
And it would be too dangerous for her to travel.
He examined her problem.
An obfuscation program was supposed to detect trauma, like a black-level heart rate, and only then activate.
But Mercury’s went off all the time, regardless of input.
The chip broadcast beneath his thumbs, chirpily identifying her as a 117 real-age transvestite named Celian Octaviar. Beneath piped the ghost of her true identity. Every Transit Authority would lock her up. The only reason Luck Hub hadn’t was because of his orders.
Her smile turned rueful. “With a head so swollen, I was the hit of my social circle, that’s for sure. My uncle had to beat off suitors with his hunting stick.”
Yves stroked her perfect forehead, cupping her fragile brain. “I wouldn’t have cared. You’re still sexy.”
She turned beautiful eyes on him. So wide and liquid. So trusting.
The urge to taste those parted lips pulled him physically toward her. He lowered his mouth.
Her lashes started to close.
And then snapped open.
She put her hand on his mouth. “No way, robot. You got all the data you’re going to get off me.”
He nibbled, his teeth making little white imprints on her slender fingers. “I have to find out if kissing you in a bedroom has a better flavor.”
She wavered. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Didn’t you say ambiance improves flavors?”
She gathered herself to rise. “Making this place livable was supposed to keep me away from you.”
He arrested her. “But I’m an analyst. I need to reach a conclusion.”
“Not everything important can be analyzed,” she whispered.
He loved her whisper. “Let’s test your hypothesis.”
Panic flashed across her features again.
“Oh, no.”
She jumped up, dumped their dishes in the reprocessor, and went to work reassembling a beaded lamp.
“Mercury,” he said.
“A nice living area is like a nice meal.”
“Don’t run away.”
“It might not stand up to your analysis, but I require it. And you do, too, if you’d let yourself admit you need something.”
“The only thing I need is you.”
“You mean my chip.”
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine standing, thanks.”
“This physical distraction”—he pointed at his head—“is interfering with our escape. Why don’t we work together to figure out how to control it?”
She sighed loudly. “I think you’ve got it handled.”
He knew what words would work on her. He knew how to make her do what he wanted.
Prey on her guilt. Point out how their association had materially damaged him.
But he didn’t want her to come to him because of her social-moral complex. He wanted her to come to him because she shared his uncontrollable addiction.
Whether that desire was logical or not.
So he did the only manipulation he still allowed himself. “Mercury…”
She shivered.
Why she reacted to the way he said her name, low and slow, like he were already tasting her… Well, he wanted to taste her. She could hear it.
“You want to help me so you can stop thinking about me,” he said reasonably. “Quit this useless busywork. Sit down and let’s help each other.”
“I don’t believe in the whole ‘let’s screw to get it out of our system’ thing.”
“Have you ever tried?”
“Obviously.” She fluffed a lumpy pillow and placed it on the sofa bed. “Not.”
He caught her arm.
She flushed. Arousing, and enrapturing, and hinting at naughty.
“What?” she asked, trying to disguise her heat with anger.
Even irate, her reactions blazed. Fascinating. He could watch her all day. Her expressions. Her work.
He found himself wanting to give her something. Even though it would do her no good.
“Your ID chip,” he said.
She flinched and hunched in on herself. “What about it?”
“You’re not using the full capacity. You’re using more like 8 percent of it.”
She blinked. “What?”
“They only activated the test portion during surgery to confirm it had implanted.” He stroked her forehead. “The other ninety plus is still in you, pristine, waiting to come to life.”
She grabbed his hand in disbelief. “Wait, so, you mean they forgot?”
“A death spiral during surgery would override the normal implantation sequence.” Just like the catastrophic depressurization event in the departures lounge had overridden the sentries’ assignments.
“Your emotions are not the cause of your identity problems.”
He pushed against the limits of her processors. “The control sequence for the anonymizer is likely on the inactive partition. Once it’s activated, you will be able to travel without fearing detection.”
“You mean—”
“Yes.” He cupped her fragile head. “We get it activated, and you can rejoin your family without worrying about compromising their lives.”
~*~*~*~
A lifelong heaviness lifted from Mercury’s chest. She breathed deeper, the boudoir glowed with warmth, and even the darkness seemed more inviting.
Her identity problem could be fixed, if only the rest of her chip could be turned on.
And then she could become anonymous. Find Cressida. Rejoin Aris.
Become a family again.
She grasped the hands of the man who had finally given her hope. “Then how can we turn on the rest of the chip?”
“Power,” he said, smiling at her hands on his. “We need a large shock to start its heart, so to speak.”
“Could anything here do the charge?”
He looked around. “Sure. Any power tool could be broken down. Even the reprocessor—”
“Yes!” Her legs danced, eager to get out and live her dream. “Give me a salvage list!”
“The problem isn’t creating a charge. The problem is you surviving it.”
“I’ll survive,” she promised.
He snorted and brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “It’s equivalent to ten lightning bolts shooting directly into your brain. There’s a reason they perform the procedure in hospitals.”
“You could construct something. I know you could.”
His distant expression meant he was thinking hard.
“I have faith in you.” She jumped up. “I could sneak off the ship at Hope Station, no problem. I’ll construct it if you’ll tell me how.”
“No need to construct anything.” He tugged her back down. “Break into the engine room and take a swim in the quadirium core.”
Wait a minute. “Won’t that incinerate me instantly?”
“Your biological parts, sure. But by the time your chip hits the sixth acid sphere, enough static will have built up in the circuits to power on.”
“Yves…”
His steady arm supported her as she deflated. “When our only option is jumping into the engine, we’ll revisit the non-hospital possibilities. Okay?”
“Ugh.” She pressed her forehead against his bony knee. “I want to be a whole, well person.”
He stroked her forehead.
Oh, no. She rose up. “I’m so mean. Look, I’m complaining about not being whole, and you’ve been shot in the head and paralyzed.”
“Only temporarily.”
He lay back, pulling her with him. In the soft bedroom ambiance she had made, with the man she wished to smother in sex. Hardness pressed against her soft thighs, temptingly serious.
He focused on her lips. Where she had just licked them.
Because he intended to fuck her and forget her.
“Stop provoking me,” she said. “You don’t seem the type.”
“It’s only you.”
“Why me?”
He covered his mouth, thinking hard, then fixed on her. So intense, his focus took her breath away. “Every time I kiss you, I feel sensations.”
“What kinds of sensations?”
The skin between his dark eyebrows wrinkled. “I don’t know. Not normal. Aberrant.”
Well, okay. Aberrant. Great.
“That’s why you have to help me control this obsession,” he said, “by giving in.”
“Oh, sure. Let me get out the electro-welder again, since having me operate on you went so well last time.”
“You should want me to reprogram myself. Refusing means you’re illogical.”
“I’m illogical?” She pulled free. “You’re making out with a girl who gives you aberrant thoughts. But why is that surprising? You’re an asexual robot.”
Her accusation echoed across the garbage chamber.
The frown returned. “Yes, exactly.”
“Exactly!”
He smacked his chest so hard she feared it would leave a dented handprint. “I’m an asexual robot. So what the hell am I trying to do with you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Neither do I!” His voice rose to shouting. “I shouldn’t be interested in this. In you. Instead, I find myself compelled to reach out, to touch, to do things I should have no reason to want to do. And I can’t stop myself. You’re in front of me and I lose all control.”
<
br /> His words licked her body with dangerous gasoline. She rubbed her arms. “Stop.”
“I can’t. Not on my own. That’s why I need your help.” He gazed at her, helpless. “I am drunk on you.”
His words lit her on fire.
She sucked in a breath. “What do you mean?”
“Every touch is like a shot of diamond-clarified vodka. Every new sensation hits me with a reward shower that I can’t control. Every texture of your skin against mine slows me down until I am literally overloaded. I am stuck in your gravity well, and time has dilated beyond all sense of meaning, and I’m simply chasing the next hit of feeling, the next taste of you, the next breath, the next gasp, the next flutter of your eyelashes, the next pulse of heat beneath your skin. You’re pouring a distillery over my head, and I’ve opened my arms to embrace it, and I’m intoxicated. I’m drunk to death.” His voice broke. “On you.”
She stood naked before his accusation. Her body warmed beneath her taut fingers. He looked pained. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and kiss the pain away until the tantalizing passion swept them both under.
She shifted. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want…” He stopped and blinked. His expression twitched, as though he caught himself saying something anathema. “I don’t have wants. I have requirements. Assignments and operating parameters.”
“But if you did have a want…” she prompted.
“But if I did have a want, it would be for you to teach me the extent of this sensation. If I can do that, perhaps I can understand how to metabolize this craving, and I will no longer be ruled by it.” He said the last with a rising inflection, as though unsure whether it was true.
Sure. Just because she understood her attraction to his hard body, it didn’t make hers stop reacting, after all.
But he was a robot. Maybe once he followed the sensation to its final conclusion, he really could deconstruct the molecules and neutralize the attraction. It was possible.
“So you’re asking me to teach you how to have sex,” she said.
He waved her offer away. “Of course I understand the mechanics.”
Of course he did. She tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ears. “Then—”
“I want to drown with you.”
Her body throbbed. “With me?”
“I am not captivated by anyone else.” He laced her fingers in his, gliding her cool flesh against his hotter strength. “I am only intoxicated by you.”
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