by Nora Lane
“I had another treat in mind,” he said. The glowing embers in his eyes made it clear his treat would burn calories, not add them. His hips pushed forward, increasing the delicious pressure between my legs.
I scooted back on the table, knowing my control depended on it. “I hope it’s a root beer float.”
My talk of ice cream further cooled his intentions. I waited the instant required for him to slowly regain composure.
“Then this is the luckiest day of your life, Ms. Gabarro. Because I can make a root beer float that is out of this world.” His boyish grin nearly melted my resolve.
My heart wanted to break into a billion tiny pieces so there could be more of me to adore him.
“You talk a big game, Mr. Sinclair. But I have elevated tastes when it comes to ice cream.”
“Careful, Ms. Gabarro. A single taste can get you hooked.”
“As much as I love dessert, I know when to say enough.”
“Just one mouthful, Ms. Gabarro, and I guarantee you'll beg for more.”
“I’ll start with what can fit on a spoon, thank you.” I pushed his chest and finally felt firm in my conviction to detangle us. For now.
“Noah,” Cosmos said, “the core temperature has now risen to fifty-three point—“
“Yes! Thank you Cosmo Spacely!”
That cleared up the story of his naming.
“You’re welcome, Noah. I’m pleased to have assisted you.”
Noah glared up at the ceiling. I wondered if glaring upward made it more obvious to the station’s AI.
Noah stepped back from the table and I closed my legs with more regret than was entirely ladylike. I took his hand and he pulled me up. My boots touched the floor before I was ready to stand on my own.
“Come with me,” Noah said. “You haven't had a root beer float until you've had one in microgravity.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Noah and I trailed Astro through endless corridors and bulkheads. This place was designed to be locked down tight.
Made sense.
If something happened and the frozen vacuum of space reached for you, I’d sure as hell want a pressurized pocket of air close by.
Astro looked back to see if her master was still following. I assumed she didn’t give two steel shits about me. She hopped through a bulkhead and clattered into a sit. Her ghostly red eyes dilated as her gaze shifted to me.
“Thank you, Astro,” Noah said as he knelt to pet her. I didn’t know how anyone pulled off scratching bits and pieces of metal, tubes, and circuitboards, but Astro’s low purr proved it could be done.
I stepped through the bulkhead and immediately recognized the ladder running up the wall. Only there was a number two next to it. I’d come in the first service corridor. This was two. My approach to the station showed there were four corridors, like spokes in a wheel.
“This one doesn’t go all the way through to the pressurized docking bay, so it’s less cluttered.”
He glanced up, looked back and then grinned.
“Wanna go for a ride?”
Yes. Yes more than anything.
And No. No I wasn’t going to go there just yet.
“I will agree to you carrying me up the ladder, Mr. Sinclair,” I said. “To that, and nothing more.”
Noah clipped the bag that I assumed was our dessert to his waist. There were no loops in the natural-looking fabric. Yet, I clearly saw that it held the bag. His suit was odd in a way that mine wasn’t. Mine felt manufactured. His felt grown.
“Climb aboard,” he said with an arched brow.
“Behave yourself, Mr. Sinclair. Remember the original purpose of my visit. Don’t let bigger dreams confuse you.”
“Big dreams are the only ones that interest me.”
He wrapped an arm around my waist and, for a split second, the icky, insecure weeds in my mental garden wondered if that was a comment.
Big.
Me.
Whatever. He was clearly into me. Right?
We started up, toward the center of the station, away from the centrifugal force exerted at the rim. He carried me with ease.
After a time, my weight diminished. Not like inches came off. That’d be a miracle cure indeed. The feeling of my weight diminished. Then again, all my problems seemed to fade in Noah’s embrace.
“I have a strictly professional question for you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I have a strictly unprofessional answer for you, Ms. Gabarro.”
“I want you to know that this really was on my list. Before I got here.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“This was a question passed to me by a subscriber of my website. That’s the only reason I’m going to ask it, just so you know.”
“Can we agree to all your conditions and get to the question?”
“Of course. I wanted you to be clear.”
He paused mid-stride and held me out over the open air of the vertical shaft. Which was also horizontal, viewing the station edge-on. Directions were confusing in space.
My heart jumped out of my throat. I clawed for the safety of his embrace.
“Your question?”
“Not funny, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I’m not joking. I’ll drop you if you don’t get on with it.”
“I won’t be threatened into cooperation.”
“I don’t make threats, Ms. Gabarro.”
What a pretentious ass!
“I’d sooner spatter my guts on the floor than give in to blackmail.”
He released his hold around my waist.
Frozen fear dropped my belly a few stories in less than a second flat. My stomach plummeted but my body didn’t. I gently floated down, slower than an Autumn leaf.
He laughed and took my hand like a belle at the ball.
I smacked his shoulder as hard as I could. My balled fist hit a slab of unforgiving muscle. He was distractingly chiseled.
“Not funny, asshole!”
“Come on, a little funny?”
“Zero funny. Less than zero. An infinity of negative below zero funnies.”
“Mathematically, that comes back around to funny at some point.”
He chuckled like he expected I’d do the same.
I didn’t. He was a little too self-assured. A little too in control. There was no chance in hell I was going to ask the question now.
“Is someone acting a little passive aggressive because they got thrown a stop sign?”
I didn’t just say that!
His lips tightened and he shook his head.
“Not funny, Ms. Gabarro.”
“Come on, a little funny?” I asked.
“I see you’re a smart ass.”
“I see you’re a Judgy McJudges Alot.”
He gestured to the bag at his waist.
“This ice cream isn’t getting colder.”
“I accept your surrender.”
He cocked his head to the side and stabbed me with a smoldering look.
“It is you who will surrender to me, Ms. Gabarro.”
The words and the meaning behind them left me breathless. It was a long minute before I could speak again.
“Dessert, Mr. Sinclair?”
“My thoughts exactly,” his eyes devoured my curves.
“Ice cream, Mr. Sinclair. Remember the melting ice cream?”
The storm in his eyes cleared and he nodded.
“Yes, exactly,” he said. He looked up. “It’s not much farther. Do you want to try it alone?”
That was the thing I wanted least in the world.
“I’m still a little unsure. I’ll trust your guidance for now.”
“Stick with that perspective.”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
“Only if it’s best for you, Ms. Gabarro.” He pulled me close and wrapped me in a firm embrace. “What about your question?”
“I’ll save it for later.”
“I’m waiting,” he replied.
; “You can wait a little longer.”
He squeezed me tight.
I was butter on fresh pancakes. An ice cube on a frying pan. I melted and sizzled at once. I rested my head on his chest, closed my eyes… and resolved to enjoy it.
To avoid judgement. Guilt. Insecurity.
To simply be.
For one minute. For as long as it lasted.
CHAPTER FIVE
We climbed higher until the feeling of weight disappeared. We emerged in a large room with smooth walls and more space than anywhere I’d seen in service corridor one. A rack of space suits hung lifelessly on the far wall. A thick, bolted doorway with a tiny window in the center indicated an airlock of some kind.
“This room provides access to the unpressurized docking bay. It’s used for routine shipment of goods. In an emergency, you could EVA with one of those suits on.”
The idea of floating outside the marginally comforting confines of Orbital One was horrifying. The deep cold. The endless expanse. The beautiful mother below, dragging you down.
“You stay here,” Noah said.
“What am I, Astro?”
“I’m just saying so my target isn’t moving around.”
“You like easy targets, huh?”
“Could we keep this about the ice cream, Ms. Gabarro?”
“When were we not, Mr. Sinclair?”
“You just earned yourself less than an equal share,” he said.
“Don’t you dare.”
I was serious. Root beer floats were my favorite dessert. He probably hacked that info out of my life too. I couldn’t muster the necessary outrage to care.
He released my hand and I didn’t fall. I didn’t move. I simply floated. My stomach wanted to fall through the floor, or wall, or ceiling, whatever the part that was below. But it wanted a bite of root beer float first.
Noah flicked off the wall and spun mid-air. Another flick and he glided away several feet. A quick tuck and twist and he was somehow turned and facing me again. He tapped the wall and came to a halt. He moved like a native. With unearthly natural grace.
And by the sound of his cure, some unnatural grace as well.
He unpacked the bag and set its contents floating around him. He dug out a spoonful of vanilla ice cream. It was reassuring to see he chose a classic. Some people put mint chocolate chip and other monstrosities in their root beer floats. Like my roommate Roberto. He was the champion of the Rocky Road root beer float.
He loved the drama of unneeded complexity.
“Ready?” asked Noah.
“As I'll ever be.”
Maybe it was the pizza, or maybe it was a quick acclimation, but my belly felt ten times more settled this time around.
He held the laden spoon between two fingers and pushed it at me. His fingers let go and my eyes shot down. A lifetime of experience telling me the spoon was headed for the floor. I looked back up to track it as it glided toward me.
It was unreal. I caught it just before it smacked into my chest. I didn’t want white splotches on my perfectly purple suit.
Not those white splotches at least.
The ice cream had little flecks of tan in it. The beans. This guy knew good ice cream.
“Here's where it gets tricky,” he said. He cracked the top on a plastic bottle. A fine mist burst outward and disappeared as it dissipated into the air.
“Ready?”
I nodded, despite being anything of the sort.
He spun the lid off and pumped the bottle in my direction. A long tendril of liquid snaked out of the opening. He capped the top with his thumb and cut the stream. The shifting rope drifted toward me. The surface wobbled, broke apart, and rejoined as it closed the distance. It headed for my chest. Too low.
I tapped the ceiling and drifted down.
There. Closer. Inches away.
I lined up and hoped for the best. I opened my mouth as the leading edge hit my lips. Tiny dark bubbles splashed off and drifted away. The writhing snake hit the back of my throat with a chill. I kept my mouth open, scooping up the remaining liquid.
I wavered or the liquid did because half of it splashed my face. A little bit up my nose.
After sucking in as much as I could, I finished with the spoonful of ice cream.
The sweet, frozen richness was a welcome reminder of familiar things. Of life back home and the simple pleasures that were so easily forgotten.
I sent the spoon drifting back to Noah and finished gulping down my first taste of an entirely literal root beer float.
It took another ten bites for us to perfect the system. For most of it to end up in my mouth instead of around it. I wanted to continue improving, to verify the mechanics and especially to get a few more delicious mouthfuls. But I didn't want to be greedy.
Pleasures great and small were meant to be shared.
He took a number of turns and didn't miss a drop. The few errant globs that tried to sneak away were quickly tracked down and swallowed. It struck me again how he moved. He swam like a dolphin in the water. He flew like a hawk in the wind.
He actually did those things.
He kicked his legs like a tail and held a hand upright above his back, like a fin cutting water. He flapped his arms and pressed them to his sides like a gull spearing into the water.
It would've been enough for the metaphor to have worked. For his grace to match theirs. But it was more than that. Because even in silly mimicry, he moved more fluidly than any animal on Earth.
His beauty wounded me, like a spear through the heart. The clenching ache was real.
I needed space.
That phrase didn't have the same weight in the current environment, but it still applied. I needed to turn my brain off with sleep. Let my subconscious chew on everything I’d learned. Maybe morning would bring an answer.
I started to fake a yawn and then a real one took over. I rubbed my eyes and suddenly realized I was exhausted. An afternoon nap wasn't enough by half.
“Is our date over so soon?” His joyful expression foundered.
“This was never a date, Mr. Sinclair.”
“What am I going to do all night? I was sure we’d be engaged in penetrating conversation.”
“Daylight hours are for interviews, Mr. Sinclair. Nighttime hours are for sleeping.”
He shuttered.
Why?
Was he that disappointed not to round home base on our first not–date?
“Nights are cold and weightless in space,” he said. “This one could be hot and heavy.”
Despite the longing between my legs, I shook my head. “I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but I need to decompress.”
He bit his lip and nodded. “Your will is my command.”
“I may put that to the test, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I hope you do, Ms. Gabarro.”
He kicked off the back wall and drifted over. His thick arms curled around me. The magnetic attraction between us strengthened with proximity.
“Please give me the pleasure of taking you to bed, Ms. Gabarro.”
He grinned and waited, baiting me to make his meaning clear. “I will accept an escort to my door. Lord knows I would never make it alone.”
“So I'm an escort now?”
“Only for certain services, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You do understand that I only accept one form of payment?”
“You do understand that I could never be bought?”
“Are you always so feisty?” he asked.
“Sugar makes me crazy.”
“You make me crazy, Ms. Gabarro.”
Gah. Why did he have to make it so hard? So hard to think straight.
“To my room, sir. And only one of us will be staying.”
“I may part with you at the door, but I'll join you in your dreams.”
CHAPTER SIX
The symbiote Rama Chandriss rose to consciousness. That was the name of his last host and it still held resonance. Rama had forgotten his first name long ago. It wa
s no longer important. He wondered if he might someday come to think of himself as Noah Sinclair.
Eight years after this latest Joining and the Rama pattern still felt more dominant. The symbiote shared Rama Chandriss for hundreds of years, so it was to be expected.
The symbiote knew the instant awareness settled that his host hadn't slept in weeks. Their bio-electrics functioned below optimal levels. Rama slowed their heart and measured its pacing to metronomic perfection. He routed excessive triglycerides to the appropriate waste glands. An even more excessive level of testosterone production required an adjustment to the hypothalamus and pituitary glands.
The human showed signs of being in heat. Of the mating rut. Rama knew such things were necessary, for him more than most, but he still found it to be distasteful. He would surrender to the primitive lust of a necessary mating. His thinking matrices could be occupied elsewhere while the host’s body completed the cycle.
Rama paused for a moment in reflection as other parts of his consciousness carried on with the routine maintenance of the host.
He marveled for a moment that he had begun to identify himself as he. As having a male sexual identity. Rama Chandriss had no sexual aspect. The being he was before Rama had no physical aspect at all. So sexual differentiation was even more removed from his psyche.
It was a good sign.
The deepening integration with the host was going as planned, despite the growing resistance. They all resisted. They all surrendered. It had always been so and the symbiote would ensure the cycle continued.
His existence and the fate of his kind depended on it.
Rama had successfully halted the aging process in the host, so time was somewhat irrelevant. In the earth man's temporal reference, the symbiote and Noah Sinclair had been joined for nearly eight years. It was a single flame on the face of the sun for Rama’s kind. Time was a malleable concept for those that could effectively live forever.
The statement required the “effectively” qualifier because they had not solved the problem of degenerative signal loss over long spans of time. They had also not solved the problem of pattern procreation. Even when his people existed, the mechanism for electromagnetic reproduction was lost in the shrouding mists of time. If it ever existed.