by Cathryn Cade
Vadyal's pet physician and scientist had received the very best of everything, including sentient beings as fodder for his experiments.
Playa made sure she stayed on his good side, and out of his business. It was the best way to survive here, just as it had been with Vadyal.
She would put these diplomatic skills to use with Ilya Mondas as well.
There were things Playa despised about the Pleasure Palace, but there were things she liked too. Here she could live without ever going out into the terrifying maw of the galaxy, if she wished. And she did wish. If she never set foot on a planet again, that was fine with her. Out there lay her past, in here was her future.
And if she could cement the position of executive assistant to the new owner of the Palace, this would make her even happier. Then she and Bek could go forward with their plans, which thus far were only dreams. Dreams they only spoke of in the privacy of his quarters, with his surveillance scrambling tech playing a false loop of them quietly watching a holovid on his divan.
Because even the head of PP security was not safe from surveillance. He'd told her the entire station was under surveillance, on Vadyal's orders, and that he was certain that even with Vadyal gone, there were still watchers.
Bek had stripped the spytech from her rooms to give her privacy, although he never visited her there. The tech in his own quarters he left as it was, so that whoever used it would have the illusion he was unaware of their surveillance. Bek was smart and wily, as well as panty-droppingly sexy.
The currents of pressurized air in the tube pushed Playa through the smooth tube with speed that ruffled her braid from her shoulders and flipped the stiff gold braid on her collar against the delicate skin of her throat, but she gripped the arms of her chair and ignored the tiny sting.
When the hatch opened to deposit her in the passageway outside Vadyal's office, she took a sec to straighten her hair, and then opened the double doors ahead of her to glide into the office.
“I am here,” she announced politely to the small woman pacing the office. “How may I assist you?”
As Ilya Mondas turned, Playa schooled her face to reveal none of her own dismay. Because Staar was right this time—their new boss did look like a refugee from a frontier pirate band. One who had lacked access to personal care for some time.
* * *
Ilya turned to the slim woman with pale skin and dark hair sitting erect in her plush hoverchair. Despite her ridiculous uniform, Plura—no, Playa— managed to look stylish and dignified. The way Ilya needed to look if she was going to get any respect around here.
Ilya huffed out a disgusted breath and set a hand on her hip.
“I need a ... a what d'you call it—a re-styling,” she bit out, gesturing from head to feet with her free hand. “Hair, clothing, all that shit. You have places for that here, right?”
She knew they did, as she'd seen wealthy patrons being escorted in and out. She hadn't paid much attention, other than wondering what the markup was on the goods and services.
Dark blue eyes widened until Ilya wondered abstractedly if they were going to bug out of the other woman's face. But then Playa nodded, so emphatically her chair bounced a little in midair.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, thank you. I mean, I will be extremely pleased to do this for you.”
Heat crawled up Ilya's neck. Okay, it was unanimous— everyone, both here and back in camp, thought she looked like a steaming pile of skrog manure. “Right. Go for it.”
“We have three salons here,” her assistant said, her fingers already flying on a small tablet she'd whisked out of nowhere. “I will have our most exclusive stylists clear an appointment for you. And may I suggest a selection of clothing from our boutiques?”
When Ilya nodded, the woman's eyes lit up like Ilya had handed her a fancy gift. “They can take you immediately. Would you like to follow me?”
Ilya scowled. “Hurrah. Yeah, may as well get this over with.”
She grabbed her duffel and followed Playa from the office. She wasn't sure, but she thought the other woman whispered, “Oh, this is just the beginning.”
Ilya groaned inwardly. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
The Palace Royale Salon and Spa was not ebony and crimson, like the rest of the place. It was ivory and more ivory, like someone had sprayed whipped soy-cream topping into the place in lavish scrolls and layers. Even the staff dressed in ivory suits with identical soothing smiles on their pale lavender Egglantian faces.
Those smiles, Ilya would soon learn, were lies, all lies.
“I just want to look ... businesslike,” she announced when she faced their lineup in the salon, in which she seemed to be the only victim at the time. “That's all. No fancy shit, understood? And you don't get to cut my hair.”
With murmurs of delight through their sharp little teeth, the egg-faced beings fell on her—or at least that's what if felt like.
First she was stripped of every scrap of her clothing and tech.
“The vest and the duffel stay with me at all times,” she hollered when two of them tried to bear her things away. “And you don't take my boots. I need those.”
“We will cryo-cleanse them,” one said, holding her things at arms' length.
The other two dunked her in a bath of green goo that smelled like mint and grass, but tingled on her naked skin. Having seen her things deposited carefully on a hovercart, Ilya sighed and gave in to their ministrations.
After a soak in the goo, she was showered off and tipped back in a chair to have her hair, hands and feet seen to. This involved lots of murmuring, tugging and pinching, but Ilya gritted her teeth and endured. She was tough enough to endure a surveillance patrol in the Frontieran summer heat for hours on end, she could do this.
She grimaced when she saw that her finger and toenails had been buffed and painted pale gold, but she could always make them take the color off later.
Next, her hair wrapped in a turban full of more goo that smelled like some kind of herb-flower mix, she was given a warm toddy that tasted like caramel and whiskey, placed on a contoured table, and her towels whisked away while the Eggs scowled at her naked body like she was some kind of mutant. But the warm wax painted on her groin and legs was soothing, so she closed her eyes and relaxed.
Then the wax was ripped away, taking body hair, and she was pretty sure some skin, with it. Ilya arched off the padded table with a shriek of outrage as pain stabbed delicate nerve endings.
“All is well,” one of the Eggs chirped, holding Ilya down with surprising strength while the other two continued their rip-and-tear torture. “The gesic will take the worst of the sting.”
No, no, she needed more gesic. Lots more, but since she was too busy trying not weep to ask for it, she simply held out her cup in a silent demand. Luckily she gulped the second cup down before they perpetrated the same outrage on her underarms.
But then they sat her in a lounger, covered her with warm, soothing lotion and a blanket soft and warm as gyre-goose down, while they murmured over the top of her head.
Slurping a third toddy, Ilya ignored them in favor of basking in the warm haze of having come through a battle and survived. She was a quarking hero, that's what. She deserved some kind of medal ... except these bitches would probably pin it right on her skin.
She hiccupped. Whoa. Also, she might be just a little drunk. She peered at her attendants, but none of them appeared to notice. They were too busy murmuring amongst themselves in salon-speak, things like 'thicken the lashes' 'lovely cheekbones' 'perfect bow to the lips' 'bleach the freckles away' and 'definitely enhance the eyebrows. They cannot be seen on her face'
“Just one more thing,” one of them cooed, leaning forward to brush Ilya's eyelids closed with her soft fingertips. “Just relax.”
Ouch. It felt as if someone was brushing tiny, stinging bits of fire over her brow-bones. But just about the time it hurt, the sting would move on, so Ilya took it without protest.
Th
en they smeared and brushed stuff on her face, and went to work on her hair.
This was so boring that Ilya went to sleep.
She woke slowly, in increments. Wiggled her bare toes, then her fingers, then stretched languidly. She felt great, hadn't slept that well in weeks. The lounger was really comfy, the blanket soft, and she was all clean and lotioned. Although her mouth felt dry as a Serp desert.
Her eyes flew open, and she looked down to find herself draped in ivory. “What? Where the hells am I?”
“In a private room at the salon,” Playa said, gliding to Ilya's side in her chair. She held her little tablet in one hand. “You slept for a while. This is quite common after a salon treatment.”
“Right,” Ilya said, sitting up. No wonder she'd slept, all the drinks she'd sucked down. Probably snored like a skrog too. Whoa, her head ached. Must've been Pangaean rum in those drinks.
Holding the blanket, she slid off the lounger to the soft, carpeted floor. Then she looked in the mirrors that surrounded the small room.
She let out a strange sound, between a whimper and a curse.
Was that her, the woman staring back at her from the mirrors? She was fairly sure it was. Well, had to be, because she'd just dropped the blanket same as Ilya, and felt it slide down over her own bare skin. But quarking hells and black holes, what had they done to her?
She clapped her hands to her face and padded closer to the mirrors. Her reflection wide-eyed and stunned, gazed back at her. Her ... but not her.
She still had blonde hair, but instead of a tangle of braids hanging around her face and shoulders, the streaky blonde mass now swept up and back from her face in a graceful, soft swirl topped with tiny braids in an ornate pattern, all of it fastened somehow in a loose twist that trailed a few strands before her ears and at her nape.
Her face was entirely visible now, and it was enhanced with cosmetics.
“What'd they do to my eyebrows?” she asked. Instead of blond wisps that disappeared on her skin, they were now winged, graceful light brown slashes that traced her brow bones and enhanced her green eyes. Made them look bigger somehow. Of course the cosmetics they'd shaded around her eyes had something to do with that.
She was even wearing lip gloss. Ack. Dano had tried to get her to wear it, but it made her braids stick to her lips, so she'd wiped it off on her sleeve as soon as he wasn't looking.
“I believe the brows are tattooed with permanent color,” Playa said gently. “The rest can be cleansed away when you wish.
Her eyes sparkled as she glided nearer to hand Ilya a robe—ivory, of course. “Do you like your hair? I think it's beautiful. I tipped the technicians very well.”
Ilya accepted the robe and shrugged into it, still staring at her reflection. Did she like her transformation? She had no freaking idea.
“Ah, it's fine, I guess.” She'd never aspired to be feminine, or do all the shit some other females did to make themselves attractive to males. Var had liked her just the way she was, and had showed her this by fucking her enthusiastically and looking at her as if she was miraculous and sexy, although at times aggravating enough to make him grind his teeth.
She scowled in the mirror. This transformation wasn't about sex appeal, it was about respect. Everyone in this place, employees included, seemed to be here for the show as much as anything else. If she wanted their attention, she had to appear at least as luxe as that dancer, if not as tall and well-endowed.
Then when Ilya knocked their feet out from under them, they wouldn't see it coming.
“Are you ready to try some clothing?” her assistant asked.
“Hells, yeah.” This skimpy little robe was no cover. It made her feel vulnerable. She wanted her layers back.
It turned out she wasn't going to get them. Or at least not in a fashion she recognized.
Playa led the way into yet another room, one filled with a bewildering array of clothing of all colors and fabric, footwear, and two more beings, although at least these were Serpentians, not those blood-thirsty Egglantian bitches. She couldn't believe Playa had tipped them. They probably worked just for the pleasure of applying as much pain as they dared.
Slim and stylish, with smiles fixed on their faces, the two Serps whisked Ilya's robe away, considered her naked body for a long moment in which she started to get the strong urge to zap someone with a flasher. Okay, so she was short and didn't have much for curves. Everything worked, so that was good enough for her.
But finally they handed her some panties and a soft bra. They were black and felt a lot nicer on her skin than the cheap recycled knits she was used to. Even had some lacy trim that made her skin look sort of pearly.
Then a suit, also black—the pants were snug around her waist but then draped into wide legs. There was a slick cami, sort of the pale gold of her nails, and a black jacket, but unlike any she'd ever worn. This was snug, and the fabric sort of glittered under the lights. It was stretchy, though, so she could move, so that was all right.
Finally, some fine stockings and a pair of black boots. These had platform soles, which she wasn't too sure about, but when she stood, she like them a lot, because they made her taller. That was good, added authority.
She looked stylish, elegant and sort of pretty ... completely unlike herself, and totally ready to kick some corporate ass.
“Okay,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Thanks, I'm all set.”
The three women gaped at her.
“But, we haven't accessorized yet,” one of the Serps gasped, as if Ilya had suggested walking out nude.
“And we've all these other things to try,” the other said, with a graceful wave of her hand at the racks of clothing.
“We are done,” Ilya said, narrowing her eyes at them. “I don't wear jewelry and shit. And just send this other stuff to my quarters. If it doesn't fit or I don't like, you'll get it back. But no dresses—I do not do skirty things.”
“Perhaps just a scarf for now,” Playa suggested. “And one bracelet.”
Ilya knew Serps could move fast, but these two were good. Before she could blink, she had a silky scarf in some complicated gold and black pattern draped around her neck, a wide, heavy gold bangle on her left wrist, and two delicate gold hoops dancing at each earlobe. Since these were held close to her skin by a mild electrostatic charge, Ilya decided not to protest. They were kinda pretty, although she'd refuse under threat of more torture to admit this.
“Okay, uh, thanks,” she said.
The Serps beamed at her. “Thank you, Ms Mondas. We'll bring the rest of your new wardrobe to your quarters, as you requested.”
That sounded all right, as long as they didn't have some plan to show up every morning to make sure she was garbed to their standards.
Out in the passageway, Ilya was shocked to see a crowd of glossy, bejeweled beings, their gazes locked on the spa doors. The moment the doors opened, they surged around her and Playa, leaving them eddying in the wake.
“The spa always this popular?” Ilya asked, when the passageway was empty. There were women who submitted to that shit willingly, even eagerly?
Playa cleared her throat gently. “This salon and spa are our most exclusive, and they were closed for your private session.”
Ilya digested this as she concentrated on walking in the floppy pants. Although she would never admit it, she kind of liked the way they slipped around her legs when she walked. And the boots were heaven, so light and comfy.
“You'll take care of tipping them too, right?” she asked as they approached one of the big elevators.
Playa glided alongside her. “Does this mean you'd like me to continue as your assistant?”
As the elevator hatch glided shut, Ilya stiffened. “Give yourself a day. You may not wanna stick with me.”
Because she couldn't forget her real reason for being here, and it wasn't to play dress-up. Her new boots' pointy toes were made for kicking, and that's just what they were going to do—metaphorically speaking.
&
nbsp; Although once she found her quarry, a laser would work much better. And she'd enjoy using it, because all this dress up was sort of fun, but the one man she'd give anything to see her this way, never would, thanks to someone here
.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sec Ilya Mondas informed Playa she'd be speaking via holovid to the employees, a chill raced through Playa. She linked Bek, and texted him to come to the corporate office.
He arrived with uncanny speed, and stood beside her, just inside the big doors as Ilya Mondas sat behind the big ebony and gold desk, a dark curtain her backdrop.
She ignored Playa and Bek as she brought up holocams. Only those linked to the employee coms and work areas, thank the Great God Beyond. At least their guests wouldn’t be seeing whatever this was.
“What is she doing?” Bek asked Playa under his breath.
“I'm not sure,” Playa said. “But it's going to be ... important.”
She leaned forward tensely as her new boss stared into the holovid cam. A deeper chill slid down Playa's spine. Perhaps having the stylists sweep back all her blonde braids wasn't the best move, because now the fire burning in those green eyes was clearly visible for what it was—rage.
Playa blinked as actual sparks began to fill the air around the blonde. Ilya sat calmly as they fizzed and popped over her head, one sailing down to swirl around her hair before winking out.
“Uh-oh,” Playa breathed.
“This is not good,” Bek muttered, echoing Playa's thoughts. His hand settled on Playa's shoulder as their new boss began to speak.
“Hello. I am Ilya Mondas, your new CEO, and one of the new owners of this space station and the Pleasure Palace Casino. As you all know by now, Mulyos Vadyal is dead. His mistress, Slidi, is on her way to Deep Six, along with a few of their minions.”
Minions? Playa had the absurd urge to chuckle. Mondas had actually used the word in a sentence.
“You also know Vadyal was revealed as the leader of a slaver gang,” their new CEO went on, “Which he ran behind the scenes of this casino. That gang has been destroyed, with the major buyers and sellers sentenced to Deep Six, their profits confiscated by the Alliance, and their slaves freed and returned to their homes.”