CYBORG PLEASURE; the Space Madame's Warrior

by Cathryn Cade

  And come to think of it, she was a thief too, in a way. A space pirate ... although they'd never stolen from any beings who weren't light years worse than Il Zhazid and his band ever thought of being.

  Having enveloped her craft, the outer hatch slid shut. She was in.

  “Welcome to the Pleasure Planet,” a smooth, androgynous voice said. A breathtakingly handsome male in an extremely snug, metallic gold-and-white ensemble gave Ilya an intimate little wave, his dark hair gleaming, eyes and teeth sparkling as he posed like Chaz Jaguari. “Please wait until the airlocks have been activated before disembarking.”

  For one sec Ilya nearly preened under his admiring gaze. But she caught herself and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and you're not real.”

  “Really?” he asked with comical dismay. “I could have sworn I was ... let me just check.”

  She paused, one hand on the release control for the hatch, as he reached down and cupped himself with one hand. With a little moue of mischievous pleasure, he thrust his hips forward. “Oh, that feels real.”

  “Fuck me,” she muttered under her. Maybe the place really was part bordello, if even the holovids had sexy replies programmed in.

  She stepped out of the cruiser, slinging her duffel over her shoulder.

  Mr. Handsome snapped and fizzed at the edges.“—low me—” he said, his smile disappearing and reappearing along with the rest of him. “Your escort will be—”

  “Hopefully in better shape than you,” she said, and walked straight through him.

  The hatch into the interior of the space station was ornate, the currency symbols worked into the gleaming gold surface and the surround. Even the control panel she could see through the viewing windows on either side of the hatch was fancier than any tech she'd ever seen.

  The hatch slid to reveal a wide passageway lined with crimson carpet, and walls that streamed improbable scenes of beautiful, well-dressed beings laughing as they were showered with golden coin, surrounded by others applauding their success in the midst of a glamorous casino.

  Huh, she had to appreciate the place's marketing team. The advertising began before the suckers even landed, and then amped up now that they were a captive audience. Who wouldn't want to be one of these winners? Well, her, but then she was cynical as hells, and not much of a believer in fantasy. No one used coin any more, everything was credit, dispensed through comlink.

  Nope, she wasn't here to gamble. She was gonna take this place apart, learn how it ran, and then maybe, if she was in the mood, put it back together and let it go on working.

  Or, if she was in a bad mood, blow the whole place to space rubble.

  * * *

  Playa del Kol hovered in her chair beside Bek Anthem, watching on holovid as the small, unkempt blonde strode down the Palace passageway, ignoring the uniformed valet trying to take her bag for her.

  “So that's our new boss?” Playa asked. She didn't look anything like the other managers, or the neatly uniformed IGSF accountants.

  Bek, the head of Pleasure Palace security, snorted. “They send us a female who looks like she's been living wild on Frontiera to run this place?” He exchanged a look with Playa. “She'll never last.”

  Playa frowned uncertainly as the woman glared at the valet through her mass of untidy braids. “According to Sheriff Stark, she's very intelligent, and gifted in math and tech. But she seems very ... angry.”

  Bek snorted again. “Yeah, she's angry all right. You hear about the trick she played on Stark? One of his men shared with me. She'd better not make a play like that here, or ...”

  Or what? The blonde was their boss, it was their job to get along with her, not vice versa.

  And anyone trying to get even with her might find themselves a hatch without life support. That was how Vadyal had dealt with a dealer he caught stealing from him.

  Out here, they weren't under the care and governance of anyone but the Alliance, and that far-flung organization had plenty to do besides watch over them.

  The Pleasure Palace was a floating speck in the galaxy, run like a fiefdom by its builder. All they could do was hope this new boss wasn't as cruel and capricious.

  And that she wouldn't delve too deeply into the secrets of anyone on station.

  Playa drew a steadying breath and smoothed her hands over her tunic. She had dressed with special care this morning, in her best uniform, the white one with the gold braid and fasteners. She even wore her artificial feet with shoes on them, instead of merely folding her pant legs under her knees as she often did when she wouldn't be appearing in the public areas of the station. Some beings didn't like being reminded that her legs were missing from the knees down.

  Others assumed that because she was physically handicapped, her brain was somehow compromised as well. Ilya Mondas might be one of those. The appearance of normality even in her hoverchair, was crucial if Playa wanted to keep her job.

  She glanced one last time around the huge office which would Ilya Mondas' and she hoped, hers. Since Mulyos Vadyal himself had furnished it, it was even more luxe and gaudy than the public areas of the casino. The desk was an expanse of real wood inlaid with ebony and ivory cerametal, the carpet plush crimson shot with silver, the walls gold lii silk patterned with ebony currency symbols, and the fitments of ivory and gold. Several large, glossy plants grew in huge ebony pots, and two walls were holovid viewing screens of the different gaming areas of the casino.

  There were also a set of holovid viewing screens next to the desk. Playa and Bek knew what they revealed, but the goddess willing, Ilya Mondas never would. The keycode was 'missing', and would remain so as long as possible.

  “Don't be nervous,” Bek said, giving Playa a warm look. “You're tops at what you do, and you've got class and culture. Once she hears that pretty voice of yours, she's gonna be eating out of your hand.”

  Playa blushed. “Oh, that's ... very kind of you, Bek, but I doubt it.”

  “I don't,” he said, his own cheeks flushing. “I could listen to you talk all day long.”

  Playa smiled uncertainly. Of course he couldn't mean what that sounded like ... could he? She did her therapy regularly to keep her upper body strong, and her legs from wasting, but she was stuck in this chair. Bek was strong and manly, and he could have his pick of females here.

  “Here she comes.” Bek stood at attention as the office door opened. Playa glided to join him, pasting a smile on her face.

  Their new boss stalked into the room, dropped her large bag on the floor, and regarded the two of them for one second. Then a wide, white smiled flashed on her tanned face, and she threw back her head and laughed. It was a loud, rollicking laugh, though with a hard edge that did not invite them to join her.

  “What the hells are the two of you supposed to be?” she demanded, her voice still quivering. “Burlesque show soldiers?”

  Her voice was deep for a woman, and husky. But it wasn't this that made a flush crawl up over Playa's face, and embarrassment snake through her middle. It was the sheer derision in the blonde's voice and gaze as she looked them over.

  “These are the dress uniforms chosen for our positions by our former employer,” Bek said, his voice expressionless. “We were not given a choice in the matter.”

  Playa wished she were a former soldier who could stuff all emotion down like Bek. She knew her usually pale face and throat were no doubt deep mauve. She did not blush attractively.

  “Welcome to the Pleasure Palace, Ms. Mondas,” she said, her voice tight as her throat. “I am Playa del Kol, your personal assistant.” Interim assistant, that is. But maybe if she didn't put it that way, Mondas would reckon she simply came with the office. Vadyal's 'assistants' had fled after his death, or were in prison.

  Mondas' green eyes regarded her narrowly.

  “I am Bek Anthem,” Bek added. “Head of security.”

  Those green eyes flicked to him, assessed, then went blank. “Great. Now both of you get out of my office.”

  Playa blink
ed, puzzled. “Ah ... won't you need us to show you where things are? Also, the remaining IGSF officers are waiting to officially turn over—”

  Bek touched her shoulder gently. “We'll get out of your way, Ms. Mondas. You can link either of us when you need help.”

  “I won't,” the diminutive blonde snapped. “And tell the epaulets I’ll link them—don’t need face time with those stuffed uniforms.”

  Hoping her face was serene, Playa glided with Bek into the passageway. When the hatch shut behind them, she slumped, her spirits sinking lower than the bottom of her chair.

  “Quark it,” she whispered. “She hates me. I really wanted to keep that job.”

  Bek motioned for her to follow him. He strode off down the passageway, Playa at his side. “Don't worry overly much,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “I give her an hour, maybe less, before she realizes she doesn't even know how to find her quarters.”

  Playa's eyes widened, and she smiled back at him. “You're right. Or where any of the dining rooms are.”

  “Or how to summon a valet.”

  “Or a masseuse.”

  “Or one of the hairdressers. Her hair? That looks like ... something I can't even express.” He twirled one hand. “Some kind of small creature’s nest.”

  Playa giggled, then clapped a hand to her mouth to smother it. “She could certainly use a visit to one of our spa salons.”

  Ilya Mondas' hair, her clothing, even her hands ... the woman truly was a mess. Not to mention that vest bristling with weapons. She looked like a frontier mercenary or a ... a pirate. Which many called Joran Stark and his people. Il Zhazid, indeed.

  “We must keep her out of the public areas,” she said. “Until we can persuade her to have a fashion intervention.”

  Because goddess forbid the guests get a look at the woman as she was. The Pleasure Palace was all about facade. It might be crumbling behind the scenes for lack of care, but the customers must feel they were in the lap of luxury. This facade included all employees’ appearances, and especially the CEO.

  “You can get her to clean up a bit,” Bek said.

  “Me?” She frowned up at him. “Why me?”

  “Because you're good at managing beings,” he said. “You've proven that, liaising alongside me with the IGSF officers and the employees. You can talk her around. And, uh, you always look very attractive yourself. You'll know what she needs to look more like … you.”

  Playa gaped at him.

  But they'd reached the intersecting corridor that led to the guard offices and stronghold. With a wink, Bek strode off, leaving Playa to glide along the opposite corridor.

  She sighed. He was just being nice. Anyway, time for her to do her daily check through the casino, and make sure the floor managers were doing their jobs, the droids were running properly, and morale and appearances were on an acceptable level.

  Then she had an idea, one that made her smile so brightly a valet hurrying by nearly dropped his hovercart. He smiled back. Playa didn't even notice.

  She linked a contact she used only when absolutely necessary. “Marvelle, greetings. I ... request the services of one of Dr. Blu’s, er, warriors—just for the evening.”

  An ebony-skinned woman in a crimson suit regarded her with an enigmatic gaze. “For yourself?” she asked, raising a brow. “Is that ... advisable?”

  “No, no, not for me,” Playa said hastily. Good goddess, no.

  She explained what she wanted.

  The woman thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I shall have to consult Dr. Blu on this. Wait.”

  Playa's pulse leapt. She opened her mouth to protest, but the woman was already gone, the holovid swirling in the Pleasure Palace's gold-and-irridium logo.

  “Oh, hells,” Playa whispered. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

  The holovid changed, a thin man appearing. Dr. Annar Blu was Indigon, like Playa. His black hair emphasized the white skin of his thin, lined face, and the deep blue of his deepset eyes. He sat askew in his hoverchair, as if it was all that held him upright. As he regarded Playa, something moved behind his icy blue gaze that sent a chill straight through her.

  “So you wish to utilize one of my charges,” he said, his voice thin and cold.

  She opened her mouth to say she'd changed her mind, but he spoke again. “Very well. I shall send VX-900.”

  He broke the link without saying goodbye, but far from being offended, Playa shivered with relief. She did not like the cold physician-scientist—in fact, he scared the hells out of her. Locked down there with his giants like a—a keeper.

  She almost felt sorry for his charges, except that of course they didn't have feelings anymore, not real ones. Not when he was done with them.

  She supposed it was better than death, which would have been their fate, had Blu not saved them.

  * * *

  She didn't know where anything was in this place.

  Ilya reached this realization, moments after she'd sent away the two employees in their blinding white & gold. Stopping in the middle of the big office, she scowled at the empty holovid display areas above the huge desk.

  Resentment churned in her stomach along with embarrassment. She was in this—this huge, quarking maze of a place that she didn't know and didn't understand, she couldn't find her way around, and she didn't know a single living soul on the station.

  But damned if she’d let it get the better of her. She had spent the months since Var's death feeling angry and helpless, she was done with that skrog shit.

  Especially with the helpless part—she wanted, no, needed to be in control. That was why she loved tech—it was brilliant, it was useful, and it was something she could control, could forge into pieces as bright and sparkling as stars, and loose them on the galaxy to do her bidding.

  When she powered up a spybot, a new program or a protection like the invisicreen around the cata pens back in camp and at night the camp itself, she felt important. What she could do counted for something in the vastness of the universe ... even though she no longer had her man at her side to tell her so, and show her how much he meant it.

  So here, now, in this place with all its tech mocking her with silence, and her ignorance of how to make it give up its secrets, make it show her the inner workings of this place—that had to end.

  These holoscreens should all be operational right now. If they were, she'd order a snack, kick back in the extremely comfy looking throne—because that was far too grand to be called a chair—behind the desk, and commence surveilling every venue, employee and customer in the station.

  She paced restlessly over to the divan where she'd dropped her old duffle, pausing to shift uncomfortably. Ugh, she needed a nice, hot showerdry and some clean clothing. Hers felt as if she'd slept in them, which come to think of it, she had ... for the last two nights, if she remembered correctly. She was sticky, itchy and a surreptitious sniff of her under-arm made her wince. She didn't smell real good, either.

  Shame niggled through her as she suddenly pictured the look in Var's hazel eyes if he were here. He would not be happy, and it took—had taken a lot to upset her gentle giant. Worse than angry, he'd be disappointed in her.

  Thinking of him made the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise, as if he really were watching her. Right. he was dead, dead and gone. So gone she hadn't even gotten to see his body, see the proof that his mighty spirit was really snuffed out like a fuzzed hololamp. She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard against the hot press of tears.

  “Skrog shit.” She was all emo because of this big leap into space, that was all. She sniffed loudly, and swiped her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  Then, as she lowered them, the prickle on her nape intensified. She was being watched.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ilya whirled, moving into a defensive crouch, laser weapon already in her right hand, flashbomb in her left.

  But at the sight of the helmeted man who stood across the room, all tho
ught of defense left her mind, leaving it a fizzing, sparking blank.

  Holy hells. He was quarking magnificent. The living embodiment of raw, virile manhood. Nearly two meters tall, and at least one hundred-and-ten or twenty kilos, he was tall and broad, with shoulders like a battle cruiser, muscle upon muscle, from his feet to his head.

  His skin was burnished golden tan, his body hairless except for a narrow trail that began at his navel and disappeared beneath his low-slung belt. He wore only a brief garment of some silky, pale cloth that belted around his waist and hung half way to his knees, a length flung over one massive shoulder, more of a tease than a real covering, and a pair of soft sandals on his feet, the same bronze leather as his belt.

  Was this how the casino guards dressed here? If so, she was all in favor.

  His arms hung at his sides, his huge hands relaxed. Hands that looked as if they could lift the huge desk behind her and break it like kindling. And his arms were ... poetry. Thick, with biceps bulging with raw power, his forearms thick and corded with sinew and veins. His legs were sculpted works of art.

  Oh, great God beyond, he looked like all her sensual fantasies of the perfect male brought to life.

  Like Var, only ... well, Var had been human and this male was—she didn't know what he was. He was scary—in fact if this were a dark corridor she'd have shot first, gaped later. But he was also the sexiest male she'd ever seen.

  She finally shook her head, to break out of the fugue state that had come over her. Gah, she was so hot she might melt in a puddle right here on this carpet. Sheer lust, the likes of which she hadn't felt since she first saw Var smiling at her across the bar on Quol-Ray Station, a smile that had burned away her ininitial fear of him.

  Only this attraction was far worse, because now she knew exactly what she was missing. Then, she'd only hoped. Var had taught her everything she knew about sexual satisfaction.

  “Okay, enough,” she mumbled to herself. Unaccustomed heat crawled up her throat and over her cheeks. God, she was gaping like a lust-struck idiot.