Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 2 - Mercenary

by Anthony, Piers

  I caught on. "Me—and one of those?"

  She looked me in my eye. Her iris was purple, and I realized she wore tinted contact lenses. "Hope, she is intelligent and bilingual, like you, no woman of the streets. You would be doing her a favor, believe me."

  Her use of my name startled me; I had not realized that she knew it. But, of course, she had done her homework before coming here, at least to that extent. She was a competent officer. "Uh—" I began doubtfully.

  "A refugee does not really have the option of dismissal from the service, as you know. I hesitate to conjecture what would become of her, if..."

  How well I understood! Perhaps some women considered sex to be a fate worse than death, but most refugees who returned to their home planets would find literal death, and the females would find sex, too, in the form of rape. They had to make good in the Navy. This officer had really maneuvered me; I could not refuse what she asked, as well she knew.

  "I'll try, sir," I said.

  She smiled warmly. "You will have an hour. I regret that we cannot grant you more time, but our facilities are already overworked. You will be under observation, you understand; we must be assured of performance. But that will not be intrusive. We do have some slight discretion. Here, I will convey you to Juana's chamber." She rose gracefully.

  "Uh, sir, my clothes—"

  "Yes, take them with you, by all means." She waited a moment, gracious even in this detail, while I gathered up fatigues and boots in an armful that I carried as low as possible before me. Then I followed her out the door and down the hall. We passed into another section of the ship and entered a new chamber.

  "Good luck," the officer said, and closed the door behind me as she left.

  I stood there, my bundle of clothes held protectively before me. There on the bunk was a naked girl. She was hunched over, her black hair covering her face and part of her bosom. At least they didn't shave the women's heads; that would have been a horror! As the officer had said, certain allowances were made.

  "Juana?" I asked. I could see she was Hispanic; it was not just her skin, as dark as mine, but the shape of her head and the way she held herself, even in this cruel situation.

  She did not answer. I did not know her personally, but I knew her culture and her horror. I also knew that she knew what had to be. To her, it was much the same as rape.

  And I was to be the rapist.

  I turned to go, unable to continue with this. At least the regular prostitutes could not be hurt.

  But then I remembered the alternative—for both of us—and turned again. I set down my clothing and sat beside her on the bed.

  I saw her stiffen and hunch away from me, but she did not actually move on the bed. I began to use my power, to fathom her individual nature. I can judge a person quickly and accurately when I try. I would not call my talent telepathy—I have very little belief in the supernatural—but rather a semiconscious perception of human reaction, of body language, of tension in the voice; I suppose I am a living lie detector, though it is more than that. I relate to people more perceptively than others do. Now I related to Juana. She was frightened but not completely; it was not the blind terror of the unknown but rather an unwillingness to yield gracefully to degradation, and a horror of the inevitable. It is said that the familiar loses its horror; that is not necessarily the case.

  "My name is Hope," I said. "Hope Hubris, from Awful. This is my first time here. I—I was impotent, so they put me with you."

  She lifted her head, losing her horror of me. She brushed back her hair. Her face was pretty—or would have been, had she not been crying, making her eyes puffy and her chin mushy. Her irises were dark brown and glazed with moisture. "You're not—one of them?"

  "Not a prostitute, or gigolo, or whatever it is called," I said. "I—sex with a stranger, just like that, like polishing boots or brass—I can't do that. So they put the difficult cases together, figuring maybe we'll understand each other and work it out."

  "I'm sixteen," she said.

  Helse had been sixteen! It struck me suddenly unexpectedly. I forgot where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. Helse, sixteen, and I, fifteen. She had shown me sex and love, in that order, and changed my life, and I never wanted any woman but her, ever, and she was dead. Because of me.

  "What's the matter with you?" Juana asked.

  I wiped my face, suddenly wet with tears. "I'm sorry," I said. "I can't do this."

  "You know you have to," she said.

  "Maybe with a—"

  "All I said was that I was sixteen. I didn't mean it was statutory rape! I just meant I'm young, and it's hard for me. So you would understand."

  "I'm sixteen, too," I said in Spanish, under my breath. Juana's eyes widened. "You lied to get in?" she asked in the same language.

  "No. I don't believe in lying. But someone did—and the magistrate didn't believe me. But that's not why... why what you said bothered me. She was sixteen."

  "You have loved?"

  "Forever."

  "But she is gone?"

  "Dead. And I want no other, ever."

  "You made the trip to Jupiter?"

  "Yes."

  "Me, too." She was more comfortable in Spanish, speaking with greater confidence.

  "Your folks?" I asked.

  She nodded heavily. "Yours?"

  "Yes. All dead, except my sisters."

  "Raped?"

  "Yes. One."

  "Me, too."

  "The Navy—doesn't understand about rape," I said.

  "They practice it!" she said savagely. Then she smiled, and her beauty began to manifest. "Figuratively."

  "True."

  "I'm glad it's you, Hope. I'm Juana Moreno, from the Second Platoon. We had better get it over with."

  "But if you were raped—"

  "I think it will not hurt so much, with you."

  I realized that she had accepted it, but I had not. "It should not hurt at all! And I—Helse—"

  "Helse? That is not a Hispanic name."

  "Neither is mine. But she was Hispanic, like me. Like you. But more experienced. She showed me—"

  "Show me how she showed you. For it not to hurt."

  "No. That memory is sacred."

  "Look, Hope. I was raped by Saxon pirates. I'm afraid. I know it will hurt terribly, and I'll scream, but if I can't make it in the Navy, I have no life left. So I'll bite my tongue. You understand. I want it to be you."

  I sighed. She was correct—for both of us. We had to do it, and I could be potent with her. "She... I was afraid. I had seen my sister raped—I didn't move. Helse did it all, the first time."

  Juana shook her head. "I couldn't do that. You must do it."

  "I don't want to hurt anybody that way!"

  "It will hurt less with you. And it's so important. They are watching, and time is passing."

  "They are watching," I agreed.

  "Yes."

  I glanced down. "You can see I'm not ready."

  "Yes. You really don't want to. That makes it easier for me."

  I shrugged. "I'll try." I raised my right hand. "May I touch you?"

  She shrank back. "No!" Then she laughed falteringly. "Sorry, Hope. Ask me again."

  I got up and paced the floor, no longer bothered by my nakedness. "This—like a surgical operation—I can't do it."

  "Yes."

  My eye caught something on the wall. "A light switch!" I exclaimed.

  Juana looked up, smiling with gratification.

  I touched the switch, and there was blessed darkness. First, the language gave us some illusion of privacy of speech, and now the cessation of light gave us privacy of appearance. I felt much better, and knew that Juana did, too.

  I returned carefully to the bed, finding it with my foot, and sat down. I heard her breathing beside me.

  "Juana, take my hand," I said.

  There was a brushing of arms, and then her hand found mine and squeezed it nervously. She was shivering and not with cold
. It was warm here, and she was well fleshed. I knew she would cooperate, but would not initiate anything; it wasn't her way, and she had not been jesting about being afraid.

  "May I kiss you?" I asked.

  "Yes," she whispered, almost imperceptibly faint.

  I drew her in toward me by the hand and quested for her face with my own. I found it and met her lips, and kissed her briefly.

  Then she tore her hand away from mine but not to retreat. It was not passion, either, but the desperate need for comfort. She flung her arms about my shoulders and pulled me in close, so that we both almost fell over. "Hold me! Hold me!"

  I held her. She was excruciatingly female against me, and now I reacted. Her hair caressed my shoulder, and her body was warm though her hands were cold. I felt guilty on two counts: for having to take advantage of a frightened woman; and for being aroused by someone other than Helse.

  "May I pretend you are someone else?" I asked.

  "No!"

  Surprised, I chuckled ruefully. "That was unkind of me. I did not mean to insult you."

  "You did not insult me, Hope. I know you loved her. But I wish you would try to love me, just for this hour. I have no one, and I need someone."

  Helse was dead I reminded myself yet again. I was not really being unfaithful to her. She would have urged me to do this. She would never have permitted the dead to hurt the living. "I'll try."

  We lay on the bed and kissed again. I was on my right side, she on her left, and it was somewhat awkward. I proceeded very slowly and paused when she stiffened, trying not to hurt her, but somehow it had to be forced. In retrospect I realize that the position was wrong, but then I thought it was my inadequacy.

  "It does hurt," she whispered. "But I don't mind. You are a nice man, Hope."

  "You're a nice woman, Juana." And when I said that, she sighed and relaxed a little, and it was easier.

  "I think we're going to make it," she whispered.

  We were already making it. "I think so," I agreed.

  "I could love you, Hope."

  "It's not authorized."

  She laughed, then caught her breath, for that had hurt. But it helped me complete the position. We finished it, not with any sharp climax, and separated with a certain relief. There had been some discomfort for me, too, physical and emotional, for she had not been ready, and perhaps would never be ready. Sex is not always wildly exhilarating, contrary to myth, for either man or woman. Sometimes, with the best intentions, it is a chore. But we had accomplished it, and that pleased us both. Had it not been for the fertility suppressant in the base water supply that halted the female cycle, she could have become pregnant. It could have been much worse.

  "Can we be friends?" she asked wistfully.

  "Yes." My limited passion had abated, but my emotion was stronger than ever.

  "Would you kiss me again?"

  I rolled over and kissed her. This time, free of the onus for performance, it was a deep and wonderful experience. We held it for some time, not wanting to let it go. The sexual act had been a somewhat artificial thing, done by Navy command, but this was genuine.

  Then I had an idea. "Juana, you know we have to come here to the Tail once a week, and it will be with different partners each time. We have no choice; we're recruits."

  "Yes. But I think I can tolerate it now. I will pretend it's you."

  I smiled in the dark. "And I will pretend it's you. But after Basic, when we're E2's, a person doesn't have to come here, if he has a hetero-roommate."

  "I know."

  "When that time comes, if we're still here in this company or this base, will you be my roommate?"

  She made a little shudder of gladness. "Yes, Hope." We lay there in the darkness, holding hands, and there was a certain affinity to love. We had worked it out.

  Training continued unabated. I learned to fire a laser rifle with accuracy and to do hand-to-hand combat and to make a "jump" in a space suit, with a miniature rocket jet to propel me. And I marched. The Navy in its infinite wisdom believed that marching with full gear built good soldiers. There was an all-purpose dome with a sand path around it, and we traversed that path interminably, until I thought I had memorized every obnoxious grain of sand.

  But it wasn't all bad. The Navy also believed in culture, in the form of art, music, and dance. The art was in the form of repainting the buildings. They didn't need it, in this controlled climate; that was not the point. We needed the experience. The music was in the form of a marching band. Those of us who could play musical instruments of the brass or percussion variety played them while we marched to the booming beat of the big drum. It was, I admit, fun to march to the drum; the beat made our feet respond, and the pace was always slow. The dance was in the form of trick marching: intricate maneuvers in unison. These were exacting but all right. Anything was better than the dreary marching in sand with gear.

  We did get fleeting moments of free time. The Navy encouraged us to use it in constructive entertainments. Our ship had an excellent day room, complete with pool table, table tennis, decks of cards, chess, checkers, backgammon (Acey-Deucy), dice, dominoes, and marbles. Naturally the troops generally ignored these and concentrated on the unauthorized entertainment: the feelies.

  The feelies were special programs played through headsets. Electrical currents were fed through the head in the form of trace magnetic fluxes, stimulating programmed visions. Some were benign, such as a tour of an Earthly zoo or a swim through ice water in a fissure on Europa. Most were sexual, ranging from normal Tail-type through sadomasochistic, which last extreme the Navy frowned on. This sort of thing did not appeal to me, either, but I was surprised by how many others professed to enjoy it. There were several brands that circulated, and it seemed some were better than others. Periodically there were crackdowns on the feelie-chips, but there were always more of them, and it was evident that the Navy did not take the matter seriously.

  "Hey, Hope, you should try this one!" a platoon-mate called to me. "It's got your name on it!"

  "Hubris?" I asked, suspecting this was a joke. "No, Hope," he said. "Here, try it! You'll see!" Still wary, I borrowed his headset and set it over my own head. The front of it came down to cover my eyes, and the sides covered my ears. Sight and sound came, three-dimensional and binaural, seeming to put me in a different world. The touch and smell sensations took longer to manifest, as the currents did not immediately align with those of the brain; the participant had to cooperate, to get himself into the mood, and I was not doing so. I was just looking.

  I seemed to stand on the hull of a bubble in space, with the pale illumination of the sun highlighting the curve of it. Before me was a bag or package. From it poked a human arm, and the hand reached toward me. "Here is what you need," a voice said in my ears. But the hand was empty.

  Then my vision panned around, and I saw the name printed on the surface of the bubble: HOPE.

  I removed the helmet, controlling my reaction. "So it is," I said as I returned the headset to the other recruit. "What's it all about?"

  "You okay?" he asked. "I thought you were going to fall over for a moment there!"

  "I thought you were joking," I said quickly. "It was a shock to see my name on that spacecraft."

  "I guess it was. I'm only a little way into this one. It's a reverse-role experience—pretty hot stuff, I'd say."

  "Reverse-role?" I asked blankly. "You mean where the man's passive and the woman dominant?"

  He laughed. "Naw, that's tame! Hell, you can get that in the Tail, if you ask for it. This is where it's keyed to a man, but he's in a girl's body. I played through one the other day. It's really something, getting felt up when you're a girl. Feeling things happen to anatomy a man doesn't even have. Drove me crazy, till I caught on. Penetration—" He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Some freaks really go for this stuff, though." He set the helmet firmly on his head and settled back in the chair.

  A man's awareness in a woman's body. While that woman underwent the
experience of sexual stimulation and culmination. That was surely not on the authorized list!

  I read the label on the chip container projecting from the top of the helmet. Each chip was protectively encased, but the cases plugged into the helmet socket. It was easy to use. This one said EMPTY HAND—HOPE.

  I went to my hammock and closed my eyes, feigning sleep. We had already passed morning inspection, and it was a weekend, so my gear no longer needed to be reserved for display and could be used for its theoretical purposes. I wanted a chance to think without being disturbed.

  When my family had fled Callisto and traveled toward Jupiter in a bootleg bubble, using gravity shields somewhat the way the ancients had used sails on ships of the seas, our toilet tanks had filled up and had had to be evacuated. My fiancée, Helse, and my sister, Spirit, had gone out with me onto the hull without the benefit of magnetic boots—bubble equipment had been minimal—and guyed ourselves with ropes and done the job. But I had passed close to one of the bodies frozen and bagged and tied to the hull—the bodies of our menfolk, slain by the pirates—and suffered a vision of a dialogue with my father, Major Hubris, who had told me there was food and shown me his empty hand. That vision had horrified me, but the revelation had been valid, and we had found food.

  All the people of the bubble had known of my vision, but all were dead now. All except me—and my little sister, Spirit. She alone knew the significance of the empty hand. This particular thing I had not spoken of when I told my tale to the migrant crew; it was a very private matter.

  The feelie-chip was labeled EMPTY HAND, and the particular show was titled HOPE. Could that be coincidence? Perhaps, but the view it presented of the bubble hull and the packaged corpse could not. No one could have guessed about that, and I had told no one. Well, I had written it in my biography of my experience as a refugee, but that was safely out of the way; I knew no one here had seen it.

  And the reverse-role theme—that also related. Spirit and I had escaped the pirates by masquerading as the opposite sex. She had become a little boy, and I a teenaged girl. We had learned that device from Helse, who had protected herself from molestation by passing as a boy. That strategy was not effective in all cases, of course, but it had worked for her. I had left Spirit on a pirate ship, in a compromise with necessity, to be the cabin boy for a reverse-role captain named Brinker.