Damia

by Anne McCaffrey

  “You’re maturing nicely, Damia,” Afra told her when his inspection brought him back up to her eyes. He patted the water beside him. “Water’s warm.”

  Clothing in the gymnasium at Callisto Station was strictly optional and decorative rather than veiling.

  Damia stamped a foot and squealed. “No! The tan! Afra, the tan!”

  Afra looked back at her body. He cocked his head: it was slightly darkened. He put a green arm up next to hers and shook his head. “Not my shade, I think.”

  Damia let out a screech of indignation. “Afffrrrra!” She stamped her foot so hard that her breasts shook.

  Afra gave her a teasing smile. “Yes?”

  She pulled a bottle off the nearby deck chair and handed it to him. “Will you put this on me?” she asked, her tone turning sweet. “I don’t want to lose what little tan I’ve got.”

  Afra took the bottle of before-swim tan lotion and eyed the adolescent carefully. He sniffed the bottle, put a little on one finger and rubbed with his thumb. “How much and where?”

  “Just enough to get me oily and everywhere, of course.” Her tone was just short of patronizing.

  Afra obliged, starting with her backside. “Your hair will get oily.”

  “I don’t care! I’ll wash it later.” She lifted it out of his way with a hand. She twisted her head back slightly to watch his expression. It annoyed her that he merely laved her down gently, working from shoulder to buttocks to ankles with no change of expression. Her eyes twinkled in anticipation when it was time to do her front, but Afra was just as careful and just as nonchalant when he lathered her breasts as when he lathered her nose.

  Still, he did avoid one area. Damia coughed discreetly. “You missed a spot.”

  Without batting an eye, Afra oiled up his hands and dutifully went over the indicated zone. “I guess you’ll wash that, too.”

  To her intense pique, Damia blushed.

  Afra avoided her face until she had recovered, spending the time ostensibly fumbling with the bottle’s top. He hefted the closed bottle and with a gesture asked, “Put it back over there?”

  “Oh, sure,” she replied absently. She patted her firm belly for attention. “Do you think Amr will like it?”

  “Your belly? I can’t see particularly why,” Afra said, peering wistfully to the empty pool beside him.

  “Afra! Not my belly! The muscles! Look!” And she tensed, revealing an exceedingly well-muscled body, with abdominal muscles showing clearly under soft tan skin.

  “Nice,” Afra replied absently. “Let’s swim!”

  “Oooh! I should know better than to try to compete against a pool with you!” And with that she dived in.

  Hours later she appeared in his apartment. “What do you think?” she asked, twirling around to let the skirts of a diaphanous purple evening dress swirl about her. She had done her hair up in a bun, with her witch’s streak spyraling around the outside. Long, dark lashes accentuated piercing blue eyes. Dimples formed around her mouth as it curved gently in a smile.

  “I think,” Afra said as he strode into the living room with his dinner, “that you were taught to knock.”

  Damia pouted but her eyes twinkled mischievously.

  Afra knew that look. “You know how your parents feel about you ’porting around the Station.”

  “Are you going to tell?”

  Afra shook his head immediately. “I told you when you returned that you were welcome any time, anyhow. The door is even keyed to your retinal pattern.” He gave her a measuring glance. “But it is good manners to knock.” He put his plate down on the coffee table and gestured at her dress. “I do like it, you know.”

  “It’s for our date tonight.”

  “Date?”

  “Me and Amr.”

  “Sweet sixteen is a good age to start dating. Where are you going?”

  Damia’s face fell. “Weeelll,” she hedged, finishing in a rush, “Amr’s picking me up at Earth Station.”

  “So this is not merely a fashion parade. Do your parents know?”

  “They won’t have to.”

  “What are you hiding from them now?” Afra asked with some exasperation. Damia pursed her lips, bowed her head. Afra took in the look and let out a sigh. “A special boy?”

  “He’s not a boy! He’s eighteen—almost!” she responded hotly. “I’ve been seeing him for months now. Tonight’s special.”

  “So I had gathered,” Afra replied softly.

  Damia stared at him. “You’re not angry?”

  “That you’re ready to become a woman? Why should I be?”

  His detached response perturbed her. Afra was aware of that but ignored it. Damia’s affection for him had blossomed quickly into an infatuation as puberty changed her from girl to young woman. Afra respected that and handled the change in the intensity of her emotions as best he could but refused to release the storm that would surely strike if he made any overt acknowledgment of it. It took a supreme effort on his part as he recognized how much joy he took in her presence, but he refused to abuse and relinquish his position as her best friend and confidant.

  “Will you ’port me to Earth, then?” she asked him flatly, eyes flaring.

  “You’ll be careful—”

  “I know what to do!” she shouted back. Before she could draw breath to berate him further, she was on the steps at the entrance of Earth Station. “Hmmph! That showed him.”

  Call me when you want to come home, Afra sent along with a special stamp that Damia had come to accept as a quick peck on her forehead. Despite herself, she smiled fondly.

  Damia had met Amr at Luciano’s when Uncle Gollee had had to cancel a lunch date. Amr Tusel, with swarthy good looks and a ready smile, had proudly informed her that he was a T-9 and training to be a Stationmaster. Damia, too, worried that she would frighten him away, had not revealed her own Talent but professed astonishment at his prowess. At eighteen it would be a while before a T-9 would assume stationmaster duties. They had spent that whole first night dancing, and Amr had walked her back to Central Station, which dispatched people to any part of the world. His consideration and his kindness had impressed her, but their first kiss had her toes curling and her body flooded with emotions she had not felt so intensely ever before.

  Since then, Damia had established that they would meet at Earth Station because (truthfully) it was closer to home for her. They had seen each other for over six months, catching films, tri-vids, cavorting at amusement parks, and dancing the night away. As time passed, they spent more time engaged in passionate embrace than in conversation. Several times in the past weeks Amr had had to break them out of their passion for fear that they would violate the few remaining blue laws.

  He had not figured out who she was, having never seen the lofty Jeff Raven nor any of the Gwyn-Raven clan, but Amr had figured out that she was young and a virgin. With a sense of honor and a Talented compassion, he had surmised that he was being considered for that most delicate of consummations. The prospect had frightened him, and for a while they did not see each other. When he relented, Damia had grown reticent in her own right, and it was only with a loud and lengthy argument that she finally set the date.

  Being dormed at Trainee Quarters, Amr had no room of his own for such an assignation, and Damia had dodged the possibility of using her house by saying that her parents were always around and that would inhibit her.

  The hotel was just across the street. Damia had left an overnight bag at Earth Station several weeks before when she had first made up her mind and had retrieved it before she met Amr.

  He approached her with a smile on his lips and gave her a quick kiss. He stood back, taking in her appearance and shaking his head in admiration. “You are beautiful, Damia.” He took her bag from her, waving her onward with a hand. “Lead on, fairest of Venus’ daughters!”

  Amr conducted the course of the evening. They checked in, left their bags with the bellhop, asking them to be taken to their room. Dinner, a full
-course menu, was first followed by a leisurely stroll and then the dance floor. They danced until the DiscoTech was reluctantly closed. The last dances were slow ones and Damia’s passions had been aroused. The urgency abated slightly on the trip up to their room but Amr teased her back into passion.

  Passion was not new to Damia: she and Amr had spent many evenings locked in tight embraces but always before she had broken free when her passion threatened to overwhelm her. It had been incredibly frustrating. Tonight Damia felt free to unleash her full emotions.

  Gently Amr drew her into his arms, sliding them down her stately shoulders to her delicate waist. He pulled her body close to his as they kissed with rising passion. As passion rose, their clothing fell.

  Soon they were on the bed, Amr running crafty hands all over her body and Damia lost in a shower of feeling that threatened to drown her. As her passion peaked for the third time, Amr gently entered her. At first Damia was too distracted by all the other sensations of her body to notice. She froze for a moment when she did, looking up at him with a frightened expression, but Amr smiled tenderly through his passion and gently flexed his flanks. Damia moaned, grabbed him tightly, wanting him in her. In her ecstasy she opened herself up, pulled him along and they rose and rose, crashed, rose again and again.

  You’re Talented! Amr cried through his passion. Damia, hearing the accusation in his tone, unwillingly offered to stop, but Amr thrust himself deeper in her, thrust his tongue into her mouth, crying: No! Oh gods, no! I’ve never felt this before!

  They continued, Damia reviving Amr’s flagging passions until they were both afloat on a wave of emotion, drained, recharged, sizzling electric ecstasy pounding over them, through them, around them wave after wave. The exertions and emotions finally were too much for Damia and she drifted languorously from orgasm to sleep.

  Damia awoke with Amr’s eyes glittering on her, following the line of her body like daggers. She was sore, sore in places she had never known she had. Muscles she had only just discovered registered their abuse with loud flares of pain as she moved one leg in front of the other.

  “Do it again, please?” Amr’s voice was hoarse, small.

  “Oh, it was great!” Damia answered. Amr moved an arm to encircle her but Damia moved—painfully—away. “I’m too sore, Amr. Too tired. None of the tapes mentioned that.”

  “Nor what you’ve done to me,” he replied, eyes dull. Anger crept into them. “Have you no notion of what you’ve done to me?” His fingers clenched into fists. Tears welled in his eyes, tears of anger, of honor lost, of despair. “Do you?” His voice grew louder until he was shouting: “Do you? Do you? Whore, slut! Bitch!” With a look of pure terror he caught his hand mid-stroke as it moved unwilled to strike at her.

  Afra! Damia cried in despair.

  She disappeared as Amr fought to produce an apology. Gone, he closed his eyes and cried softly in deep sobs, curled into a fetal ball.

  Nothing was mentioned about hating after loving! Damia sobbed to Afra as he finished toweling her off and pulled her into his arms to wrap the towel around her. She rested her head on his chest and bawled. It was so—so . . . and then he screamed at me!

  You were careful, weren’t you? Afra asked her, keeping his tone calm and soothing.

  Of course I was careful! I’ve had the implant for months now! Damia retorted angrily. Afra pushed himself away from her, tilted her head up so her eyes met his.

  “Damia, you kept your shields up, didn’t you?” Afra asked.

  “Shields? Afra, we made love!”

  Afra’s expression altered, pain flickered across his face. “You were in a hotel?” Damia nodded dully. “The one across the street from Central?” She nodded again.

  What room number?

  Afra! she protested.

  We have to know how Amr’s handling this, he said, then strengthened his ’pathing. Gollee, we’ve got an emergency. A muffled response came back to him. Afra made a face. I need you to look after a T-9, Amr Tusel. He’s over at the Excelsior. Afra paused, his face expressionless as he looked down at Damia. I think he’s been burnt out.

  Gollee Gren became instantly alert. I’ll handle it, Afra.

  “Burnt out?” Damia echoed aloud. “Afra, he was fine!”

  “Was he fine when you left him, Damia?” Afra asked her softly. “Did you guard your Talent when you made love?”

  Damia was devastated. “Nobody told me!”

  “I did,” Afra said quietly, lips thin. “I said, be careful.”

  “I thought you meant—” Damia broke off, finally absorbing the enormity of her recklessness. “Will he be all right? Will he recover?”

  “Possibly,” Afra hedged. But she cocked her head at him challengingly. “Probably not,” he admitted, recognizing the morality involved.

  “Oh, Afra!” Damia wailed, throwing herself in his arms. I’ll never love again!

  “I wouldn’t say ‘never,’ Damia,” Afra said at his driest. He picked her up and carried her over to the couch. “Just never be so careless ever again.” He placed her beside him on the couch, cradling her torso with his arms. “Love, Damia, but be caring and careful with it.”

  No, I’ll never love again, Damia mumbled earnestly as her “voice” faded with fatigue. Afra made no reply, holding the youngster until she drifted into sleep. Then, very carefully, he insinuated a tendril of thought to ease her pain.

  Afra was aware of Damia’s gaze before he opened his eyes. He looked down at her, still resting on his chest, and met her piercing blue eyes. He gave her a slight smile. “Bet your muscles are sore.”

  Damia snorted. “From sleeping this way or from before?”

  “Both.”

  Damia regarded him for a long moment, then admitted: “It could have been you—”

  Afra silenced her with a finger to her lips. “Don’t.”

  She examined the finger critically, then ducked away from it to kiss it, smiling up at him. The smile faded. “Have you heard about Amr?”

  Afra nodded solemnly. “He’s resting now, in the hospital.” He looked down at her. “I will teach you control.”

  Damia bit her lip. “Would I have done that to you, if we had—”

  Afra shook his head. “We didn’t, Damia.”

  “It could have been you!” The admission was torn from her lips. She buried herself against his chest. “Oh, Afra, don’t you love me?”

  Afra cradled her head tenderly to his chest.

  “I wanted to, you know,” Damia went on, implacably young and naive. “I tried—”

  “I know,” Afra soothed.

  She pulled her head back against his hand to look him in the eyes. “You knew? And you didn’t— And I— And Amr?” she spluttered, growing furious.

  Again Afra put a finger to her lips, but Damia wrapped her teeth about it, biting hard. Her eyes locked on his as she bit harder and harder, but Afra’s expression didn’t change. When she tasted salty blood in her mouth, Damia spat the finger out.

  Tears dripped out of Afra’s eyes as he coldly examined the bleeding teeth marks.

  “I’m glad it hurt!” Damia said, hot with fury, with embarrassment, with guilt.

  Afra flicked his eyes to her. “That isn’t what hurts, Damia.”

  She broke free of his grasp angrily, strode to the bathroom, pulled on one of his long shirts, grabbed a first-aid box, and threw it at him on the way out. “Here! That’s for your hand. I can’t do anything for your heart.”

  The door, being automatic, would not slam, but Damia kicked it with a resounding thud to achieve the same affect.

  * * *

  “A word with you, young miss!” The tight voice of Gollee Gren shocked Damia so much she jumped.

  “Gollee! What are you doing here?” she asked, looking around the lounge at Callisto Station. “It’s not Dad—” Then she remembered. “Amr?”

  “He’s all right.” Gren dismissed the issue. He grabbed her, dragged her over to a booth, sat down beside her. “Just what d
o you think you are doing, anyway?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gren swore. “After all he’s done for you. He’s covered up for your ‘tricks,’ he’s watched over you, lied, and you—you’re not even worth your name!”

  “Who?” Damia cried in confusion.

  “Who?” Gren snorted. “Trust you to not know! Don’t you think? Don’t you see?” He shook his head in a vain attempt to throw off his anger. It did not work. He let out a deep breath. “I got the pictures back from medics.” He nodded to emphasize his point. “He said that one of the Coonies had bit him, but I know those marks. Even when you try to bite his hand off he protects you!”

  “Afra?” Damia exclaimed. “He doesn’t even know I exist! That cold-blooded, green-skinned, yellow-eyed”—she searched for further epithets, found none—“Capellan!”

  “You don’t think about anyone but yourself, do you?” Gren snapped back. “Damia, Damia, poor Damia!” He narrowed his eyes critically at her. “Well, what about Afra? How do you think he felt when his best friend’s daughter comes on to him? Don’t you know what you did?”

  “He turned me down!” Damia exclaimed, wondering how Gren could have known that and amazed at herself for blurting out such an unsavory episode.

  “You were as obvious as the Sun! He had no choice, even if he had wanted to!” Gren said hotly. “But that’s nothing. To punish him for it you go off and maim some poor—”

  “THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Damia shouted at the top of her lungs, tears of rage rolling down her cheeks.

  “Isn’t it?” Gren asked quietly. “Think carefully before you answer, Damia Gwyn-Raven. And when you are done, you go to him and you ask him very politely to teach you control.”

  “I won’t! Never!” She was so furious she whispered, visibly trembling to suppress the things she wanted to do, could do to her accuser.

  “Your parents don’t know about that night, or Amr,” he said, speaking as low and as intensely. “Yet.” He rose, turning back to her in parting. “Now, you apologize to him and you learn from him how to control yourself.”

  “Or you’ll do what?” Damia sneered tauntingly.

  Gren looked her over critically. “I won’t tell your father.” And he stomped off, leaving Damia to wonder why that promise struck her as so sinister.