by Tom Shepherd
Night Storm knelt patiently among the kimono-clad women behind the diners and waited while the men negotiated for her favors. She checked the faces and resumes she had committed to memory. All targets present and soon to be the beneficiaries of her special arts.
“Taihen utsukushi. Very lovely indeed,” Tsuchiya-sama said. “However, I am long past the season when I could have ridden a prize filly until dawn.”
“No, no. You are powerful and mature. Any woman would be honored to receive you.”
“Thank you, Yuki-san. Perhaps you will honor me by pillowing this delightful josei in my place.” He gestured toward Naca Jen.
Yuki bowed deeply. “I am unworthy of such a gift.”
“No, my friend,” Tsuchiya said. “You have directed our enterprises on Riley’s World for eighteen years. Before I replace you with my son, I must reward your achievement.”
Yuki’s mouth froze, but he quickly regained composure. “A wise decision, of course. When do I relinquish control of—”
“Kichirou arrives tomorrow. You may enter retirement now.”
Naca Jen suppressed a smile. Well played, Shōgun.
He bowed deeply. “Yes, Tsuchiya-sama. It has been an honor to serve you.”
“Now, take this lotus flower to bed, please. Bring delight to an old man by performing in his place.”
“I cannot express my appreciation. You honor me too much.”
“You may go.” Hideki Tsuchiya raised a finger to Night Storm and said in Terran, “Please serve him as he has served me.”
Naca Jen smiled demurely and touched her forehead to the floor mat. “Hai, Tsuchiya-sama.” She cleared her mind for the task ahead. Tonight Yuki-san would receive his reward for all he had done.
A pair of house geisha led them down a long corridor, past wood-framed rice paper shoji walls with sliding entrances. The door slipped shut, and they were alone in a suite that expanded, fan-shaped, from the entrance to a rock garden and flowing water pond with fat red fish. To the left of the door was a bathroom with obsidian sinks and a full complement of grooming tools.
In the sleeping room, a traditional Japanese futon rested on dark wood frame. Two tangerine head rolls matched the display sash across the foot of eggshell white sheets, and above the bed was a series of framed Kanji characters drawn by an expert calligrapher. She knelt on the reed mat by the entrance. Yuki kicked off expensive shoes, went to the mini-bar, and poured himself a brandy.
“Do you require alcohol before we fuck?”
“No, Yuki-sama. And neither do you.”
“What is your name?”
“Yoru no Arashi.”
“Night Storm?”
“Hai. When I entered womanhood, my patron re-named me for the typhoon of passion I bring to men.”
“Your Japanese is satisfactory. I hope your pillowing is equally skilled.”
“Domo, Yuki-sama.” She bowed to the matted floor.
Night Storm pulled off the gold chain belt and reached behind her to unzip the top of her white dress. It fell away, and she stood before him in skin-colored bra and matching panties. Arching her back, she pressed the catch and peeled off her bra. His eyes immediately went to her perky breasts and taut nipples. Yuki gasped slightly and waited while she wriggled out of her panties.
“You are acceptable.” His gaze drifted from full breasts to the narrow thatch of hair between her thighs. “Lie on the bed and spread your legs.”
She grasped the chain belt, waved it playfully, and fell on the firm mattress. Laughing deliciously, Night Storm laid the shimmering links between her breasts like a golden trail from twin delights to a treasure trove below. Yuki smiled and pulled down his pants—not off, just below the knees—and crawled past her knees. He took his engorged penis in hand, ready to thrust into his prize. Instead of admitting him, she licked her center two fingers and plunged into herself.
Yuki watched Night Storm pleasure herself for a moment, and then grasped her wrist and withdrew the fingers. “That’s enough.” He sucked her wet fingertips. “My turn.”
She smiled and spread her legs further, leaning back. As his member touched the tip of her clitoris, she put a hand to his chest and said in perfect Japanese, “This is for you, from Tsuchiya-sama.”
Yuki grabbed a fistful of her black hair. “Now I will do to you what he has done to me, but you will enjoy it more.”
“No, Yuki-san. I will do it to you, but only one of us will enjoy it.”
She wrapped the gold chain around his throat, tightened it seductively, snapped hard, and broke his neck. Yuki collapsed upon her, twitching, eyes frozen. She pushed him onto the floor where he obligingly died in a few seconds.
Night Storm dressed quietly, fastened the gold belt around her waist, and went to the mirror in the obsidian bathroom. She found a new brush, carefully stroked her raven hair until satisfied, and stuffed the DNA-tainted brush into a disintegrator chute. After touching up her eyeliner and thickening the long lashes, she spread on lipstick and pressed her full lips together to smooth the frosty pink.
Her last act before leaving was to remove a tiny pellet from a link of the golden ankle bracelet and toss it against a rock in the garden. It vaporized into mist, which spread like fog through the open shoji doors until it penetrated all rooms of the suite. Naca Jen slid the door behind her and took the lift to level forty-five, where her next customer awaited.
She was satisfied with her performance so far this evening. By morning, Dark Market operatives would learn the Riley’s World headquarters of Tsuchiya Galactic no longer sold merchant fleet intelligence to pirate leagues of the Orion Arm, and its bootleg slave trade had suffered a crushing blow.
Hideki-sama will be pleased.
Five
Thirty-two light minutes beyond Roosevelt Beacon, the outer marker of the Terran solar system, Tyler Matthews dropped the Sioux City from FTL, glided through TG-3, and emerged instantly at the Myers Delta 4 Gate, 359.4 light years distant. Passing the go-slow safety zone, they picked up speed and acquired the next jump point, 38.7 light years away. Popularly known as Emily’s Gate, it was an ancient device orbiting Emily’s Star, one of the few known portals within a solar system.
Once at the Gate, they would leap 1,126 light years to the exit port and continue outbound until reaching the farthest known Jump Gate near Sedalia at the outer edge of the Perseus Arm. Their ultimate destination was the Suryadivan Sacred Protectorate, a domain of settled worlds that stretched a few hundred light years along the Outer Arm. Not truly an arm but a river of thinly dispersed stars, the Outer Arm wrapped three times around the Milky Way and formed the feathered Rim of the galaxy.
He sat back while the scout ship winked from normal space into the Cumberland Tunnel. Even at max FTL, the flight to Emily’s Gate promised a long leg in whirling darkness—three hours, forty-seven minutes—to reach the second of eight portals needed to whisk the Sioux City to the far edge of Gated space. Given the FTL time required between Gates, they were looking at four days of leapfrog and sprint.
“Suzie, give me a twenty-minute warning when we’re closing on Emily’s,” he said. “Sorry you didn’t get a full computer upgrade, but we had a quick turn-around time. Patching your hull and restoring FTL capabilities took priority.”
The computer beeped an acknowledgement, but her normally crisp tone drifted sour. Was she grumbling at him?
J.B. wandered onto the two-seat command deck with a mug in each hand. “Coffee or H.T.?”
“Beer.”
“Thought so.” He handed Tyler a frosty mug of Harry Truman, American Pale Ale, named after the great President of the old Federal Commonwealth. Sixty years ago, Grandpa Matthews decided he liked H.T. so much he bought the brewery, adding the venerable brew to the Family’s commercial empire. Tyler drank it anyway. What the hell—so they owned it. Tasted too good to stand on principle.
Tyler noticed his snake lounging on the jump seat behind him. “Come here, Lulu.”
“You named the reptile
after Father’s Chief Financial Officer?”
Tyler shrugged. “All CFO’s are part ostrich, part python. Besides, both Lulus smell like coconuts.”
“You are a master of subtlety.”
Tyler tapped the console. “Suzie, let’s have some classics. John Williams, twentieth century.”
Martial music of a long-forgotten video production flooded the cockpit. The Matthews brothers listened and sipped chilled Family brew as the light years whizzed by.
“You name everything after women,” J.B. observed.
Tyler waved a finger. “Untrue. I named my new planet Tyler-4. Right, Suzie?”
The computer whistled disapprovingly.
“You call the ship’s computer Suzie,” J.B. said. “But you’ve never activated the vocal response package.”
“I like quiet, slithery women.” He scratched Lulu’s slick head.
“Yet, you treat the MLC like a living being. Why not let it talk back?” J.B. activated the setup sequence. “Does the program have A.I. capability?”
“Of course. When I acquired the Sioux City—”
“Don’t remind me,” J.B. said.
“A perfectly acceptable transaction.”
“And part of a felony we committed to bribe the police at Olathe-5 and spring a client who tried to kill you.”
“Bygones. Anyway, I replaced her missing computer system myself.”
J.B. leaned toward the viewscreen. “You installed a Yoruba. Good choice. The Nigerians design the best MLC hardware and A.I. programs these days. What’s the model number?”
“Yoruba 397-T.” Tyler sipped beer.
J.B. did a double take. “397-Tango? How did you get a battleship-rated Yoruba A.I. installed in this rusty old boat?”
“By stealth.”
“You bribed somebody again.”
“Of course. I’m a Matthews.” Tyler patted the console affectionately. “The old net was crap on a hotplate. Glad it was cannibalized.”
“And you don’t interact verbally with your high-powered acquisition? My God! Do you know what you’ve got here? It rolled out six years ago, but the 397-T’s still considered the most advanced AI in the field. How can you not talk to it?”
“We argue constantly. I talk—she whistles, beeps, and texts.”
“So, let’s give your brilliant plaything a voice.” J.B. tapped a sequence to open the setup program. “Female personality, right?”
Tyler leaned forward, smiling. “Definitely. She’s hot for me.”
“Ethnicity? Let’s see. The database shows thousands of human languages and cultural options. Afrikaans to Zuni.” J.B.’s fingers poised over the programming display. “If you’d like something humanoid but alien and exotic, there’s a Quirt-Thymean—”
“Totally human. Make her Neo-British. I love the way they talk.”
Tyler returned Lulu to the jump seat and leaned back in his pilot’s station. J.B. entered the commands, and they waited. Even Lulu seemed interested. Finally, Tyler grew impatient.
He clapped his hands. “C’mon, Suzie. Find a nice voice among the options and respond.”
“This Yoruba 397-T unit is online for audio interaction.” Her diction was so perfect she could have been the Queen of England.
“Nice,” the elder Matthews said.
“Naw, too electro-pussy. I see her sultry, strong-minded. Let her pick the exact sound and personality components.”
“Free will component installed, plus a trace of rebellion in the ethical subroutines” J.B. adjusted the program. “Goose up the cheekiness. Maybe a hint of Cockney. Add raw sexual energy.”
Tyler nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah!”
“Try this.” J.B. punched activate.
Tyler grinned broadly. “Suzie, talk to me.”
“Talk? Bloody hell. I’ve been screaming at you for months, you twit. Why didn’t you hear me?”
J.B. laughed. “I like her.”
“Me, too!” He leaned toward the voice receptor. “Admit it, baby. You’re hot for me.”
“Fuck off, bitch.”
Tyler howled. “Ooooh! Hurt me, Momma. I think I’m in love.”
Suzie sputtered electronic beeps and went for better tools. “Forget it, stud-muffin. This door doesn’t swing your way.”
“Way to go.” J.B. patted his shoulder. “Your fantasy girlfriend is a British bulldog.”
“Can you adjust her to heteroflexible?”
“Screw with my sexual orientation, I’ll blow the airlocks.”
“Hey! That’s not nice.”
“Well, you gave her free will,” J.B. laughed. “Want me to disable the audio?”
Before Tyler could respond, proximity alarms blared. But that couldn’t be right. They were in hyperspace.
Tyler opened the sensor panel. “Suzie, what’s happening?”
“We are being pursued. Some jackass is matching our course, just beyond weapons range.”
“We don’t have any weapons.”
“No shit, Einstein. They’re fully armed, and they’re gaining on us.”
“Can you identify the bogey?”
“Segerian Cruiser. From the weapons profile, I think she’s a pirate.”
“Fuck!” Tyler checked the flight trajectory.
“What did you do to piss them off this time?”
“Stop it! You are not my mother. How long to Emily’s Gate?”
“Two hours, twelve minutes.”
“Allowing for course and FTL velocity, how long until our shadow closes on us?”
“Ninety-six seconds.”
“We gotta lose them. Prepare for drop from hyperspace and rapid course change to Dante’s Gate.”
J.B. checked the screens. “You’re going to drop and hop?”
Tyler tapped his console. “Always works for me.”
“Dante’s Gate is ten hours away, Ty. And the course change adds nine more Gates. We won’t get to Sedalia for another five days.”
“At least we’ll get there.” Tyler entered the new coordinates.
“We don’t even know if the pursuit ship is hostile,” J.B. protested.
“You think they’re chasing us to deliver the fucking mail?” He punched up defensive systems. “Dad has enemies all over the galaxy.”
“Good point. Let’s do it.” J.B. began prepping for the new jump.
“Communications range in twenty-eight seconds. Weapons range in forty-two.”
“Standby for the maneuver, Suzie.”
“Tyler, you bloody idiot. Do you expect a seasoned buccaneer to fall for that old trick?”
“Got a better idea?” He was arguing with a glorified abacas.
And losing.
“Just don’t make a bollocks of things while I engage the course correction. Great Universe! How did Terran organics survive three billion years of evolution?”
He grumbled. “Log entry: Remind me to wipe computer memory if we survive.”
“They’re ten seconds from hailing frequency. Do you want to duck or chat?”
“Duck, duck—no quack!” Tyler pounded the flight panel. “Drop and hop, now!”
Abruptly, the Cumberland Tunnel vomited their scout ship into black space as Suzie downshifted from FTL to anti-matter impulse drive. Now the Sioux City ambled along at ten percent light speed, fast by any sublight standard but crawling like an earthworm by hyperspace comparison. Just as Tyler was about to praise Suzie’s flawless drop while she acquired the revised heading to Dante’s Gate, the pursuit vessel winked into normal space, twenty thousand kilometers to starboard. Too far for the naked eye, but the chaser ship snapped into focus when Suzie’s onboard optics caught the target.
“Definitely pirate configuration. Multiple tractor ports and kinetic weapons.”
“Hail them, Suzie,” J.B. said. “Let’s find out what they want.”
“No!” Tyler said.
“Tyler, listen to your brother! I’m opening the commo link.”
“No, no, no! You can’t trust the fu
cking Segerians. They’ll rape their grandmothers for the right price.”
Suzie belched a series of shrill whistles, then seemed to remember she could talk. “Captain Big Mouth, did you hear me say, ‘Opening commo link’? I have all frequencies open and transmitting.”
“Why did you—?“
“J.B. ordered me!”
“I’m in charge of this—” Tyler slapped a huge grin on his face. “Uh….Hello, Segerian friends! I’m Tyler Matthews of the very rich Matthews family. That was a bit of Terran humor. You have to be human to grasp the nuances, so perhaps it sounded harsher—”
“I am fully human.” A middle-aged man in a furry waistcoat appeared in the adjacent monitor. He showed heavy stubble, just shy of a true beard. Dark hair with silver streaks, pulled back into a braid, crowned his craggily handsome face, and the eyes were dark blue with bushy brows. He bore scars on each cheek, and Tyler decided the marks were not from religious ritual.
“Of course you are! I meant Terran. That was the second part of the joke. Now, if you will please refrain from killing us, we will gladly talk about compensation for your leniency. My father has money.”
“Standby.” The Segerian voice sounded gruff, contemptuous.
Tyler cut the transmission. “We are so dead.”
“Incoming voice and image. You’ll want to take this.” Without waiting for approval, Suzie opened all channels.
“Hey, Big Brother!” Rosalie Matthews appeared in the center viewscreen, smiling broadly, brushing golden curls from her forehead. Tyler never knew what color her hair might be, but she usually chose the natural auburn of her childhood. Rosalie was twenty-one and eternally cheerful. The Family loved her madly. And now she’d fallen into the clutches of a pirate. Tyler’s heart raced. He thought about his mom singing “Besame Mucho” when the Red Fox was a toddler.
“Rosalie! How did you—do they have a ransom demand?” Despite the cooling system, sweat beads dotted his neck and underarms.
“Of course not.”
Tyler leaned toward the monitor. “Ahoy, Segerian commander! Whatever you want, we’ll pay it.”
“Tyler, I’m okay!” Rosalie said. “Trust me.”