by David Weber
“It looks . . . good.” Despreaux shrugged again. “Not you, but . . . good. I can get used to it. He’s not as pretty as you are, but he’s not exactly ugly.”
“Darling, with all due respect, you’re not the girl I’m worried about.”
Roger smiled broadly. It felt strange these days, but Chung was a smiler.
“What?” Despreaux sounded confused.
“Patty is not going to like this.”
Neither did Dogzard.
The Mardukan dog-lizard was defending the middle of Roger’s stateroom, hissing and spitting at the intruder into her master’s territory.
“Dogzard, it’s me,” Roger said, pitching his voice as close to normal as he could.
“Not to her, you’re not,” Julian said, watching carefully. He’d seen Dogzard rip a full-grown Mardukan to shreds in battle, and he was not at all happy about seeing Roger down on one knee with the dog-lizard in its present state. “You don’t even smell the same, Boss; entirely different genetic basis on your skin.”
“It’s me,” Roger said again, holding out his hand. “Shoo, doma fleel,” he added in the language of the X’Intai. It meant something like “little dog,” or “puppy.” When Roger had picked up the stray in Cord’s village, it had been less than a quarter of its current six hundred-kilo size, and the runt of the village.
He continued talking to the dog-lizard in low tones, half in Mardukan, half in Imperial, until he had a hand on her head and was scratching her behind the ears. Dogzard gave a low, hissing whine, then lapped at his arm.
“She is having a moment of existential uncertainty,” Cord said, leaning on his spear. “You are acting as if you were her God, but you neither sound nor smell like her God.”
“Well, she’s going to have to get used to it,” Roger replied. Patty had been, if anything, worse. But when he’d climbed onto her back, despite her hissing and spitting, and slapped her on the neck with his sword, she’d gotten the message.
“Okay, Dogzard. That’s enough,” he added sternly, standing up and waving at the door. “Come on. There’s work to do.”
The beast looked at him uncertainly, but followed him out of the room. She’d gotten used to life being strange. She didn’t always like it, but the good news was that, sooner or later, whenever she followed her God, she eventually got to kill something.
“Despreaux?” Pedi Karuse said.
“Yes?” The tall, blonde sergeant walking down the passage stopped, her expression surprised. “How could you tell?”
“The way you walk,” the Shin warrior-maid said, falling in beside her. “It’s changed a little, but not much.”
“Great,” Despreaux said. “I thought all us humans looked alike to you?”
“Not friends,” Pedi answered, working her back in discomfort, and eyed the sergeant thoughtfully. “You look as if you were four months pregnant, but on the wrong side. And you lost two of your litter. I’m sorry.”
“They’re not pregnancy blisters,” Despreaux said tightly. “They’re tits.”
“You had them before, but they were . . . smaller.”
“I know.”
“And your hair’s changed color. It’s even lighter than my horns.”
“I know.”
“And it’s longer.”
“I know!”
“This is bad?” Pedi asked. “Is this ugly to humans?”
“No,” Despreaux said, just a tad absently. She was busy staring hard at one of the passing civilian volunteers . . . who didn’t notice for quite some time because he was not looking at her eyes. When he did notice, he had the decency to look either ashamed or worried.
“So what’s the problem?” Pedi asked as the civilian scurried off a bit more rapidly than he’d appeared.
“Oh . . . damn.” Despreaux’s nostrils flared, and then she gave her head a brisk shake.
“Okay,” she said then, pointing at her chest, “these are like baby basik to an atul. Men can not seem to get enough of them. I was . . . medium to small before. Probably a little too pretty, too, honestly, but I could work with that. These, however,” her finger jabbed at her chest again, “are not medium to small, and the problems I’ve got now go way beyond ‘a little too pretty.’ Just getting a guy to look me in the eye is damned hard. And the hair color—! There are jokes about girls with this kind of hair. About how stupid they are. I’ve made them myself, God help me. I had a fit when Dobrescu showed me the body profile, but he swore this was the best personality available. The bastard. I look like. . . . God, it’s too hard to explain.”
Pedi considered this as they walked down the passage, then shrugged.
“Well, there’s really only one thing that matters,” she finally said.
“What?”
“What Roger thinks of it.”
“Oh, good God.”
Roger’s eyes looked downwards—once—and then fixed resolutely on her face.
“What do you think?” Despreaux asked angrily.
She looked like she could have posed as a centerfold. Long legs were a given, too hard to change. Small hips and waist rising to . . . a really broad rib cage and shoulders. Slim neck, gorgeous face—if anything, even more beautiful than she had been. Bright, nearly purple eyes. Hair that was probably better than his had been. Nice ears. And—
“Christ, those are huge,” was what he blurted out.
“They’re already killing my back,” Despreaux told him.
“It’s . . . as good as you were before, just entirely different . . .” Roger said, then paused. “Christ, those are huge.”
“And all this time I thought you were a leg man,” Despreaux said bitingly.
“I’m sorry. I’m trying not to look.” He shook his head. “They’ve gotta hurt. The whole package is fantastic, though.”
“You don’t want me to stay this way, do you?” Despreaux said desperately.
“Errrr . . .” Roger had grown up with an almost passionate inability to communicate with women, which more than once had landed him in very hot water. And whatever he felt at the moment, he realized this was one of those times when he should be very careful about what he said.
“No,” he said finally and firmly. “No, definitely not. For one thing, the package doesn’t matter. I fell in love with you for who you are, not what you look like.”
“Right.” Despreaux chuckled sarcastically. “But the package wasn’t bad.”
“Not bad,” Roger admitted. “Not bad at all. I don’t think I would have been nearly as attracted if you’d been severely overweight and out of shape. But I love you for you. Whatever package you come in.”
“So, you’re saying I should keep this package?”
Roger started to say no, wondered if he should say yes, and then stopped, shaking his head.
“Is this a ‘does this dress make me look fat’ thing?”
“No,” Despreaux said. “It’s an honest question.”
“In that case, I like them both,” he confessed. “They’re totally different, and I like them both. I’ve always been partial to brunettes, especially leggy ones, so the hair is a wash. But I like a decent-sized chest as much as any straight guy. Those are, honestly, a bit too large.” Okay, so it was a little white lie. “On the other hand, whether you marry me or not, your body is your body, and I’m not going to tell you—or ask you—to do anything with it. Which do you prefer?”
“Which do you think?” she asked sarcastically.
“It was an honest question,” Roger replied calmly.
“My real body. Of course. The thing is . . . I guess the question I’d ask if I were trying to trap you is: Does this body make me look fat?”
“No,” Roger said, and it was his turn to chuckle. “But you know the old joke, right?”
“No,” Despreaux said dangerously. “I don’t know the old joke.”
“How do you get guys to find a kilo of fat attractive?” he said, risking her wrath. She glared at him, and he grinned. “Put a nipple on
it. Trust me, you don’t look fat. You do look damned good. I suppose I do, too, but I’ll be glad to get my old body back. This one feels like I’m maneuvering a grav-tank.”
“This one feels like I’m maneuvering two blimps in front of me,” she said, and smiled at last. “Okay, when this is over, we go back to our own bodies.”
“Agreed. And you marry me.”
“No,” she said. But she smiled when she said it.
“Mr. Chung,” Beach said, nodding as Roger came onto the bridge.
“Captain Beach.”
Roger looked at the repeater plot. They were in normal-space, building charge and recalibrating for the next jump. That one would be into the edge of Saint territory.
“So, have you found someone to crosscheck me?” Beach asked an offhand manner.
“Yes,” Roger replied, just as offhandedly.
“Good.” Beach laughed. “If you hadn’t, I would’ve turned this damned ship around and dropped you back on your miserable mudball planet.”
“I’m glad we see eye to eye,” Roger said, smiling thinly.
“I don’t know if we do or not.” Beach gazed at him for a moment, then tossed her head at the hatch. “Let’s go to my office.”
Roger followed her to her office, which was down the passage from the bridge. It had taken some damage in the assault, but most of that had been repaired. He grabbed a station chair and sat, wondering why it had taken this long for the “conversation” to occur.
“We’re fourteen light-years from the edge of what the Saints consider their space,” Beach said, sitting down and propping her feet in an open drawer. “We’re in deep space. There’s exactly one astrogator on this ship: me. So let’s be clear that I’m holding all the cards.”
“You’re holding many cards,” Roger responded calmly. “But let me be clear, as well. In the last nine months, I’ve become somewhat less civilized than your standard Imperial nobleman. And I have a very great interest in this mission’s success. Becoming totally intransigent at this time would be, at the very least, extraordinarily painful for you. I’d taken you for an ally, not a competitor, although I’m even willing to have a competitor, as long as we can negotiate in good faith. But failure of negotiations will leave you in a position you really don’t want to occupy.”
Beach had raised an eyebrow. Now she lowered it.
“You’re serious,” she said.
“As a heart attack.” Roger’s newly brown eyes gave a remarkable imitation of a basilisk’s. “But as I said,” he continued after a moment, “we can negotiate in good faith. I hope you’re an ally, but that remains to be seen. What do you want, Captain Beach?”
“Most of what I want, you can’t give me. And I was raised in a hard school. If it comes down to force, you’re not going to like the results, either.”
“Agreed. So what do you want that I can give you?”
“What are you going to get from the Alphanes?” Beach countered.
“We don’t know,” Roger admitted. “It’s possible that we’ll get a jail cell and a quick trip to Imperial custody. I don’t think so, but it’s possible. We’ll be negotiating, otherwise. Do you want money? We can negotiate you a more than fair fee for your services, assuming all goes well. If we fully succeed, and I believe we will, we’ll be freeing my mother, and I’ll be Heir Primus to the Throne. The next Emperor of Man. In that case, Captain, the sky is the limit. We owe you—I owe you. Do you want your own planet?” he finished with a smile.
“You do know how to negotiate, don’t you?” Beach smiled in turn.
“Well, I really should be letting Poertena handle it, but you wouldn’t like that,” Roger told her. “But, seriously, Captain, I do owe you. I fully intend to pay that debt, and since it’s an open one, you can draw on it enormously. Right now, I have virtually nothing you could want. Even this ship is going to have to go away—you know that?”
“Oh, yeah. You can’t get this thing anywhere near Sol. We could only hang around the fringes, where it was easy to bribe the customs officials.”
“So we can’t give you the ship; we’re going to need it to trade to the Alphanes.”
“But you’re going on to Old Earth?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . .” Beach pursed her lips, then shrugged. “What I want, as I said, you can’t give me. Now. Maybe ever.” She paused and made a wince. “How . . . Who are you going to use as a captain on the Old Earth trip?”
“I don’t know. The Alphanes will undoubtedly have at least one . . . discreet captain we can use. But he or she will be one of their people. Are you volunteering to captain the ship to Sol? And if so, why?”
“I will want money,” Beach said, temporizing. “If you fully succeed, a lot of money.”
“Done.” Roger shrugged. “A billion here, a billion there, and sooner or later, you’re talking real money.”
“Not that much.” Beach blanched. “But . . . say . . . five million credits.”
“Agreed.”
“In a UOW numbered account.”
“Agreed.”
“And . . .” She made a face and shook her head. “If— What are you going to do about the Caravazans?”
“The Saints?” Roger leaned back in his chair with a tight smile. “Captain, right now we’re wondering if we can make it to Alphane territory in one piece! After that, we have the little problem of springing someone from a fortified palace and somehow keeping the Navy from killing us. I’m in no position to discuss anything about the Saints, except how we’re going to sneak by them.”
“But in the long run,” Beach said, half-desperately. “If you become Emperor.”
“I’m not going to start a unilateral war against the Caravazan Empire, if that’s what you mean,” Roger replied after a moment. “I have . . . many reasons I don’t care for them, but they pale beside the damage such a war would cause.” Roger frowned. “What do you have against the Saints? You were one.”
“That’s what I have against them,” Beach said bitterly. “And so, I will ask this of you. If you see the opportunity, the one thing that I’ll ask—screw the money!—the one thing that I ask is for you to take them down. All the way. Conquer the whole damned thing and kill the leaders.”
“Not all of them,” Roger said. “That’s not how it’s done.” He gazed at her for several seconds, his expression almost wondering, and she half-glared unwaveringly back at him.
“So that’s the deal, is it?” he asked finally. “For captaining the ship, for turning off the self-destruct, you want me to invade the Caravazan Empire?”
“If the time comes,” Beach said. “If the time is right. Please. Don’t hesitate. Don’t . . . do it by half measures. Take the whole thing. It’s the right thing to do. That place is a cesspool, a pit. Nobody should have to live under the Saints. Please.”
Roger leaned back and steepled his fingers for a moment, then nodded.
“If we succeed, if I become Emperor, if war comes with the Saints—and I won’t go looking for it, mind you—then I will do everything in my power to ensure that it’s a war to the knife. That not one member of the Saint leadership is left in power over so much as a single planet. That their entire empire is either transferred to a more rational form of government, or else absorbed by the Empire of Man or other less irrational polities. Something close to that anyway. As close as I can get it. Does that satisfy you, Captain?”
“Entirely.” Beach’s voice was hoarse, and her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “And I’ll do whatever you need done to ensure that day comes. I swear.”
“Good,” Roger said, and smiled. “I’m glad I didn’t have to break out the thumbscrews.”
“Hey, ’Shara,” Sergeant Major Kosutic said, sticking her head into Despreaux’s stateroom. “Come on. We need to talk.”
Kosutic was a blonde now, too, if not nearly as spectacularly so as Despreaux. She was also her regular height, with equally short hair, and a more modest bosom. She was stockier than she had
been—she looked like a female weightlifter, which was more or less how she’d looked before, actually—but her stride was a little more . . . feminine, now. Something about the wider hips, Despreaux suspected. The transformation hadn’t changed her pelvic bones, but it had added muscle to either side.
“What does Julian think of the new look?” Despreaux asked.
“You mean ‘Tom?’” the sergeant major said in tones of minor disapproval. “Probably about what Roger thinks of yours. But ‘Tom’ didn’t get the big bazoombas. I’ve detected just a hint of jealousy about that.”
“What is it with men and blonde hair and boobs?” Despreaux demanded angrily.
“Satan, girl, you really want to know?” Kosutic laughed. “Seriously, the theories are divergent and bizarre enough to keep conspiracy theorists babbling happily away to themselves for decades. ‘Mommy’ fixation was an early one—that men want to go back to breast-feeding. It didn’t last long, but it was popular in its time. My personal favorite has to do with the difference between chimps and humans.”
“What do chimps have to do with anything?”
“Well, the DNA of chimps and humans is really close. Effectively, humans are just an offshoot of chimpanzee. Even after all the minor mutations that have crept in since going off-planet, humans still have less variability than chimps, and on a DNA chart we just fall in as a rather minor modification.”
“I didn’t know that,” Despreaux said. “Why do you?”
“Face it, the Church of Armagh has to make it up as we go along.” Kosutic shrugged. “Understanding the real why of people makes it much easier. Take boobs.”
“Please!” Despreaux said.
“Agreed.” Kosutic smiled. “Chimps don’t have them. Humans are, in fact, the only terrestrial animal with truly pronounced mammary glands. Look at a cow—those impressive udders are almost all functional, milk producing plumbing. Tits? Ha! Their . . . visual cue aspect, shall we say, has nothing to do with milk production per se. That means there’s some other reason for them in our evolutionary history, and one theory is that they developed purely to keep the male around. Human females don’t show signs of their fertility, and human children take a long time, relatively speaking, to reach maturity. Having a male around all the time helped early human and prehuman females with raising the children. The males probably brought in some food, but their primary purpose was defending territory so that there was food to be brought in. In addition, human females are also one of the few species to orgasm—”