“I didn’t say that. As you pointed out, the current iteration of the Reich left me to rot in stasis. If you hadn’t manipulated the rebels into rousing me, I’d still be there. And I’m flesh and blood, so that should make you happy.” Never mind I’d been programmed just as well as any computer. “Let’s say I find that my loyalties at the moment are… in flux.”
I had to assume the room was equipped with heart scanners and other sensors to monitor blood pressure and pupil dilation, but I was pretty sure I’d had enough scotch to foul the readings. They’d have to do better if they wanted to catch me in a lie. Probably I was just being paranoid, but the scotch really was excellent, so I didn’t mind taking the precaution.
“Perhaps we can convince you to remain as our guest,” Mueller said. “If you see what we do here, it might nudge you favorably in our direction.”
“By all means,” I said. “Put me down for the full tour.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The central hub of the installation was a great domed crossroad. Two-dozen broad corridors emptied into a central atrium, the glass dome rising multiple stories overhead, blue sky and sunshine pouring in from above. The atrium seemed also to serve as some kind of central meeting place, and men and women hung about in twos and threes, conversing. All wore expensive clothing and eyed us with mild curiosity as we passed.
“Where are we exactly?” I asked Mueller. “I mean, on an island, yes, but what sort of place is this?”
“I’ll show you.”
He escorted me down a long side hall and we stepped into an elevator. He tapped some kind of code into a keypad and we went up quite a long way, then stepped out onto a long observation platform at the top of a tall tower. The tower was the pinnacle of the main dome, which was surrounded by five smaller domes. It was a big place, bigger still if it extended very far underground.
I looked out past the installation. The island in every direction was made of impassible mangrove swamp, all the way to the sea.
“We like our privacy,” Mueller said. “The only way in is through the secret underwater path to the submarine pens. The swamps are far too thick for a landing.”
I looked up. “They could come from above.”
“And where would they land? Anyway, there’s a laser matrix five hundred feet over our heads. Anything that tried to fly in, hoverbots or glider squadrons, they’d be cut to ribbons. And any Reich agent who attempts to infiltrate will be detected because all of the modern agents are corrupted with enhancements.” Mueller shook his head. “Not that I’m worried. The rebels are crawling over the remains of the cities, scavenging for food, and the Reich is light years away scrambling to defend itself against the Coriandon.”
“Who lives under these domes?”
“The best and the brightest,” Mueller said. “Those with resources, and also vision. It’s an achievement, this place.”
“But it’s not enough.”
His face very slowly darkened. “No.”
“What now?”
“You need to pay a visit to Doctor Turner.”
“I thought I’d already been checked, head to foot,” I said.
Mueller shook his head. “Not that kind of doctor.”
* * *
“I’m Doctor Turner.” She stood aside and gestured into her office. “Call me Paige. Please come in.”
She wore a gray skirt tight over wide hips. Gray jacket. High-end synthetic cream blouse, clasped at the throat by a mother-of-pearl brooch. Short, only coming up to my chin, wavy auburn hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her eye makeup and lipstick were a matching slate blue, a style I’d seen a few times back in St. Armstrong. She had a sharp angular face which was as severe as it was pretty.
Turner indicated that I should sit on a low, furry couch along the far wall of her office. She sat primly in a swivel chair facing me, ankles crossed, back straight.
“Mr. Mueller told you what I do?” she asked.
“You’re a psychiatrist.”
“Does that disturb you?”
“No,” I said. “Does it disturb you?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Turner said. “But this is a closed community, living in accordance with certain guidelines. We can’t risk a new person introducing a psychosis to the population.”
“People here all have their minds right, do they?”
“I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” she said. “Just relax and answer naturally.”
If you’ve seen any of the old holovids, you know how this goes. The psychiatrist asks questions—mother, childhood, fears, dreams. Did I hate my father? Did I masturbate? She pecked notes into a compu-tablet until I was beginning to think the real test was to see how much tedium I could tolerate. I answered the questions on autopilot, wondering how long we planned to go on like this.
Dr. Turner set aside her compu-tablet and stood. She pulled a pin from her hair bun and her wavy locks fell down past her shoulder.
“You don’t mind some music, do you?”
“I don’t mind.”
“Computer,” Turner said. “Play ambient jazz.”
Music seeped from hidden speakers. It had the flow of improvisation jazz, but sounded more like random musicians standing in a loose group each waiting for the other to discover what song they were playing. The volume seemed too high to facilitate meaningful conversation.
Turner sat on the edge of the couch, next to me. “Some of my patients recline. Feel free if it will put you more at ease.”
“I’m good,” I said. “Not my first time sitting up.”
She put a hand on my thigh. “Seriously. I want you to feel as if this is a relaxed environment. A very relaxed environment.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“As I said before,” Turner said, moving her hand farther up my thigh, “we’re a closed community here. We see a lot of the same faces, over and over again. It’s new and exciting when we have a chance at fresh blood.”
Then she removed all possible doubt where her hand was going.
She squeezed.
My pants grew tight.
“Is this some new form of psychiatry?” I asked.
“Let’s just say it’s therapeutic for both parties.” She leaned in and kissed me hard on the lips.
I kissed back. She still had a firm grip on me with one hand, her other one going behind my head to hold me in place, her tongue darting in and out of my mouth. My hands went inside her jacket to cup both breasts through the sheer material. A flimsy, lacy bra underneath. Material too thin to hide her rapidly hardening nipples.
She kissed her way across my face, nibbled my earlobe. I felt her hot breath on my ear as she whispered, “Shatterstorm.”
I went stiff when I heard the word.
The other kind of stiff.
Shit.
“I’ve been waiting and waiting for somebody to come,” she whispered. “I think I’ve removed all of the electronic spy devices, but I can’t be sure. I’ve turned the music up to cover our conversation.”
Her hands worked my zipper and pulled me out. She stood, hiked up her skirt and wriggled out of black lace panties, kicked them away. She positioned herself over me, grabbed me again, and put me inside. I bucked my hips and she gasped as I went to the hilt. She quickly found a rhythm, rocking back and forth.
“If there are spying devices,” I whispered, “won’t this seem suspicious?”
“No.” She picked up the pace, her round ass slapping my thighs, a little grunt squeezing out of her on every down thrust. “I’m supposed to examine you, make sure you weren’t programmed with subconscious assassination commands, but I’m also supposed to get close to you. Make sure you see things our way, and want to join us.
“I… can be… very… convincing.”
She threw her head back and shivered, mouth open, eyes shut tight.
“That’s a little one,” she said. “I always have one or two little ones before the big one.”
I grabbe
d two big handfuls of her plump ass and thrust as hard as I could. I was heading for the big one myself.
She bent over to whisper in my ear again.
“What are the orders from Mars?”
“Kill her,” I whispered back.
“Good,” she said. “I’ve been planning. I’ve hid away weapons. They have something in mind for you, but I don’t know what it is. You need to kill her before they implement whatever that plan is.” She increased her speed, humping and humping and humping. “Yes… kill her… yes… kill… kill…
“YES!”
TWENTY-SIX
“Tell me again what all this is about?” I asked.
“A reception. To welcome you,” Paige Turner said.
“I like how you’re dressed.”
She smiled. Her dress was of some fabric that might as well have been mist clinging to her body, red but transparent, her curves plain underneath.
“Typical for this sort of affair,” she said. “As is your garb.”
I wore loose silk trousers and shirt, a garish pattern of gaudy colors. Pajamas really. Slippers so light I could have been walking on a cloud.
“Come.” She took my arm. “Everyone is waiting.”
We walked into the reception.
It was a large domed area, not as big as the domed crossroad, and there was no blue sky above, but a slow swirl of festive colored lights. The place had been fashioned to resemble some kind of garden area with grottos and fountains and thick grape vines climbing up trellises. There was something vaguely Roman about the whole setup.
Mueller approached me wearing a similar set of pajamas. He held a silver goblet in one fist and smiled crookedly at me.
“Ah, the guest of honor.” He turned to the rest of the throng, lifting his goblet high and gesturing grandly at me with his other hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the newest addition to our elite community. Carter Sloan.”
Polite applause rippled through the throng. Smiles and nods in my direction.
“They all have questions and want to meet you, but don’t worry, they won’t crowd you all at once,” Mueller assured me. “Some of the more important council members might circulate past sooner or later, to welcome you, but there’s no pressure. It’s a purely social event.”
“I’m sure I’ll have a good time.”
“I guarantee it,” Mueller said. “We’re a very intimate community, and rather free with each other at parties like this. You should consider it a completely safe environment, and please remember that there’s no judgment here. Doctor Turner will be more than happy to show you the ropes, I’m sure.” Mueller smiled at us again and drifted back into the depths of the crowd.
Turner took me by the arm and steered me toward a table laden with food and drink. It was strange not to feel hungry, after my time fleeing from the scavengers, but none of the food tempted me. I did happily accept a goblet of wine. A single sip told me it was an excellent vintage. Score one for the Dragon Nazis. They knew how to live well.
A servant in a white coat stopped in front of me. He bowed and held a tray toward me. I eyed the unfamiliar offering with skepticism. Neat rows of little pink squares, like samples of bubblegum.
Paige plucked one from the tray and popped it in her mouth, then chewed slowly.
“It’s a narcotic produced from natural plant life found on the planet. It retards the areas of the brain that produce anxiety and inhibitions. You’ll enjoy the party more if you have one or two. Trust me.”
When in Rome.
I popped one into my mouth. It was spongy, but dissolved quickly, making my tongue and gums tingle. At first, nothing happened, so I washed it down with the rest of the wine and filled the goblet again.
A moment later, I looked up.
The swirling lights above me had turned into some sort of bizarre living things, circling the dome like angels of liquid light. A second later I felt myself lift, lighter than cotton candy, and the lights spun around me, caressing my body, and I was light, too, and we all danced together in the sky and—
I blinked.
I was standing on the floor again, the party still unfolding around me. I was a dozen feet from where I’d started, but had no memory of moving. I looked around for Paige.
She stood, eyes wide, head tilted to one side, a dreamy expression on her face. Transfixed by the color show. A tall man with a neatly trimmed beard stood behind her, one hand up under her dress, snugged casually between her legs. Turner moved her hips in a slow circle in response to the man’s attention. Then she reached out to cup the breast of another woman standing close to her.
The nurse who’d tended me earlier.
I looked around. The entire party writhed like a single pulsating sex act, swaying to music, transfixed by the lights, hands and mouths roaming over whomever happened to be handy.
There was a soft pressure on my leg.
It seemed to take an hour to turn my head and look. I was in some sort of sweet foggy paradise. Harsh reality seemed light years away. There was nothing but this place in this moment.
The pressure against my leg was a handsome black woman with impossibly perfect cheekbones. Like all the women at the party she wore a dress of the same ephemeral material. It was golden against her onyx skin. She was tall and athletic and had straddled one of my legs, rubbing up and down like a cat wanting a scratch. As she gyrated, one hand went inside my shirt, long fingers raking through chest hair. She kissed my neck.
The colors overhead flared and billowed and I was lost in a sea of sensation, bliss blurring into bliss, a state of perfect contentment. Sight, sound, taste, smell, touch. All melted down into a new hot glowing element called pleasure.
I think a lot of this happened to sitar music.
* * *
It went on for hours or maybe only minutes. Time became meaningless.
Until suddenly it had meaning again. I blinked, and took stock of my surroundings. I still felt at ease, vaguely euphoric, but I was no longer lost to pure ecstasy.
I looked down to see that I had my pants around my ankles and was taking a short blonde from behind. She was bent over the food and drinks table, eating pudding from a bowl, using only her fingers.
Paige was suddenly at my side. “They pump an oxygen mix into the room to dilute the effects,” she explained. “It means she’s about to arrive.”
“She?”
Turner grabbed my arm to pull me away.
“Her.”
Then I realized who she meant. The daughter of the Brass Dragon. At last. I disengaged from the blonde and pulled my pants up.
“Apologies. Duty calls.”
The blonde turned and winked at me. “Next time.” She kissed me softly on the lips.
Butterscotch. The pudding was butterscotch.
Turner dragged me to where the crowd was gathering. I followed their gaze upward, and saw a balcony twenty feet above us. A banner hung from it, the swastika with the dragon perched atop it. I was eager to see her, finally, in the flesh. It was irrational. The woman I was fated to kill—and yet nothing seemed more important than finally glimpsing the mystery which had brought me so far across the galaxy.
Heavy velvet curtains parted and Mueller appeared on the balcony. A murmur fluttered through the crowd and died. Every eye in the place glued itself to him.
He raised both hands theatrically.
“Friends. We’ve come so far together. Sacrificed much and enjoyed much. We’ve seen dreams blossom and seen them dashed. We strive on, but now at last, it is our time. We are on the cusp of something incredible. The banners of the galaxy are changing day by day, and we lucky few are the ones to answer the call, the ones to hear the bugle finally sounded. Luck. Fate. Strategy. A combination of so many incalculable things has led us down a path, has set us in motion.”
He paused, turning his head slowly, seeming to meet every gaze. “If we don’t stand up, if we don’t seize this opportunity as it is presented, we are not just cowards. We are traitor
s.” He smiled. “But I know that the heart of every man and woman in this room is true.”
Abrupt wild applause.
“I know that we will all rise to the occasion,” Mueller continued. “The occasion has arrived. Destiny is upon us. We here are brave enough to admit that terrible things have had to be done. That the obstacle of the old Reich had to be torn down so we could step over the rubble on the path to a new horizon. And so we stand amid the ruin we ourselves orchestrated, among the bodies of strangers. We’ve ruined worlds. How could we do this? Only one answer suffices. The absolute faith that for centuries to come we will have set the Reich on the right path. The knowledge that we’ve taken the long view.
“You, my friends, are to be congratulated for this.”
More wild applause. After a night of drinking and drugs and uninhibited sex, they liked knowing that their sacrifice hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“But you don’t want to hear any more from me,” Mueller said. “I know who you want to see, and I know why. We live in a time in which blood has almost been forgotten—yet some of us remember, and we are a fortunate people indeed, for our leader can trace her heritage back to the originals. The blood of Gestapo Mars runs pure in her veins. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the daughter of the Brass Dragon.”
The applause this time was thunderous, and shook the dome like an earthquake. Mueller stepped aside, and the velvet curtain parted again.
Then she stepped out onto the balcony.
The applause redoubled.
The daughter of the Brass Dragon was nothing short of a goddess. Her skin was dark and golden. A glossy black braid of hair flowed so long that a tender bot rolled behind her to keep it from dragging on the ground. She wore a glittering silver dress that seemed to reveal everything and nothing at the same time. Her face represented every facet of humanity, almost as if emissaries from every possible gene pool had sent DNA as tribute. She was like no other woman, and yet she was every woman.
She said something, and there was more wild cheering. My mind has been conditioned for retention, to absorb even the tiniest nuance from every situation, but I couldn’t tell you what she said. Her words were the music of the cosmos, washing over me, seeping into every bone.
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