"Sensors?" I said, in the general direction of the com, sounding far less assured than normal.
There was a pause. Then the voice said, "Light," as though that ought to mean something. "Ship sensors," the voice said at last.
I blinked at the dark sphere. So it was a ship? Not a being? I felt fearful, which was odd.
It's not that I didn't understand the meaning of fear. I understood it perfectly. Fear was what little old ladies who ran expensive boarding schools felt when they took a look at me. That was why they refused to admit me, unless dad brought force or money to bear. Fear was what larger young men who ran military academies felt after I got the first one over on them. And that was why they called Daddy Dearest in hysterics and demanded I be taken home again.
What I didn't understand was feeling fear. But neither could I deny I was afraid of this dark, secret ship—this legend come to life. Could it just be another type of harvester? What, all black? To . . . what? Allow its fellows to ram into it? Or to play a prank on tourists? Likely, except that Circum Terra and the powertrees were not open to tourists. Only to butting-in Juvenile Patricians. And those were few and far between.
Trying to understand who this might be, trying to figure out how to react, I stayed quiet long enough that the voice said, in the tone of one who has reached an unpleasant decision, "Right. I'm bringing you in."
Bringing me in? "Bringing me in to where?"
"The Cathouse," the voice said, with an absolutely matter of fact tone.
I blinked, and my panic receded. The whole sequence of events from waking up with Andrija Baldo in my room to some space-borne bordello's kidnaping me only made sense—and perfect sense at that—if one assumed that I was dreaming.
The certainty that I remained safely tucked away in my bed, in the space cruiser, kept me still and only mildly curious as something grabbed the lifepod. I didn't know what it was, not to draw a diagram but it looked like a mechanical claw that enveloped the transparent ship from all directions and . . . pulled and shoved. My stomach, already tempted my lack of gravity, now did its best to catapult towards my mouth.
I had a moment of doubt, because one doesn't normally feel queasy in dreams, and then stopped thinking about it because the claw shoved me neatly through a membrane, then another—an air lock?—and into a vast, dark space.
How vast it was, I couldn't tell, because it was dark. Though not dark as outside. More a twilight type of darkness, a veiled light—like a late Summer sunset over the Mediterranean.
My lifepod was set down, with a resounding metallic thud and then the claw withdrew. I counted to five. Then to five again. Everything in me wanted to move. I wanted to open the door. I wanted to take off running. I did not want to sit here, waiting, confined—my legs bent backward and fast growing numb.
But what if there was no air out there? Nonsense. Nonsense. Why would there be an airlock if no air? But what if it was ammonia? Or something like that?
No. If he—whoever he was, Mule or darkship thief, or whatever—was anything human derived, he breathed air.
I'd just made up my mind, and set my hand on the release bar for the lock that would allow the upper part of the lifepod to open, when there was a thud from somewhere near the nose of the lifepod. A thud like . . . like a giant door sliding open. Someone was coming. Something was coming. For me.
I'd be damned if I was going to meet it while cramped and bent in here. I pushed down the door opening release very fast, then pushed the lifepod open, in one move, while holding my slip—what remained of it—closed with my other hand.
And found myself facing someone who looked utterly alien. Oh, not alien like with tentacles and stuff like the bad mid twenty-first-century sensies. I mean, those were not really scary. What's so scary about a squid or an octopus? Even if it's walking on land?
No. This . . . creature was scary because he was human, undeniably and certainly of the same human stock I was—bipedal, general body shape of human male. Truth be told, wonderful body shape of human male. He was tall, with broad, straight shoulders, a narrow waist, the muscular legs of a dancer or runner. All of which were clearly visible because he was wearing what could have been a dancer's costume—bright red and made of some material that molded every inch and possibly every pore.
I noticed that first, but then I looked up. And above the neck . . . Oh, don't misunderstand me. He didn't look deformed. Just familiar and different in an unbearable combination. His face was that of a human male, in bone and skin—a broad face, with a hint of the Nordic and a square chin, that would not have looked out of place on a redhead.
Only the hair above the face was not red. It was . . . calico, like a cat's. A mixture of blond and brown and red, bright enough to be visible in this dim light. And his eyes, broad and bright, had no sclera at all. They were green like a cat's and, like a cat's, slanted and shining in the dark.
"Cat got your tongue?" he asked, and seemed to see this as the epitome of humor.
I must have made an inarticulate sound, not so much of fear as of shock. And I let the front of my gown drop open. His eyes widened, just a little, and he did the quick once over, up and down checking movement. So, strange he might be. But human he was. And male.
"Where am I?" I asked. "Who are you?"
"What? Are you mentally defective as well as an Earthworm?" he asked. "You set out to catch a darkship thief, and you're surprised you caught him?"
"I'm not . . ." I said. "I didn't . . ." Never had I found it so difficult to express myself in the right words. And then I realized what I'd first missed in the low light. In his hand, he had a weapon which he pointed at me.
It wasn't like any weapon I'd ever seen—narrow and bright yellow and thin at the tip, it looked like . . . a pointer of some sort. But I had no doubt from the way he was holding it that he was armed and from the way he was looking at me that he was dangerous.
I grabbed my ruined slip and held it one-handed, calculating how fast I could move to kick that weapon out of his hands, before he could—
"Don't think about it, Earthworm," he said and smiled. Even teeth, but not a pleasant smile. "I don't have the time to play with you. I'm mid harvest, and I can only leave the ship on autopilot so long. So, I'm going to put you somewhere where you can't trouble me." He stepped out of the way and let me see, past him, an open door leading into what looked like some sort of corridor. "Go. Forward. Past me."
There's only two things anyone can do in that situation. Obey or not obey. I chose the third. As I was walking past him, I turned and attacked him aiming a high kick at the gun and getting ready to fall again, entrechat, and kick his groin on the way down.
It should have worked. It always worked. But his hand met my foot, held it. Sending me spilling backward, my head hitting the floor, hard. Dazed I looked up, to catch again that brief look of appreciation at what my split-up slip revealed.
Oh, yes, he was male. And human. Very. But the expression of interest passed as soon as he'd shown it, his—warm, vise-like—hand let go of my foot, and he seemed to jump back. Or rather, he seemed to fade out and appear further back. Quickly. "Up," he said. "Up. Don't try that again. Next time I'll fire. I swear I will. Up."
He looked discomposed, which was odd, because he'd stopped my kick just in time. Why did he look like he'd suffered an unexpected blow? What was he afraid of?
Whatever it was, it wasn't my fast moves. And I wasn't stupid. If at first you fail, you don't try and try again in the same manner. You fall back and think of a better way to succeed. So I walked past him—as dignified and composed as I could be—into a narrow corridor, where the walls appeared to be made of some hard, poured material, ceramite or perhaps dimatough, in an iridescent, pearly grey. At least that's what I thought the color was, which was hard to tell in the almost-darkness.
As I walked on, ahead of him, I smelled the vague, rancid smell of long-distance ships. Not as bad as in the Circum harvesters, but worse than in Father's cruiser. Not too bad, though. Not nearly as bad as that lifepod, with my sweaty self in a far too small space.
The floor under my feet felt carpeted. Plush carpets. Living quarters? He walked me round and round. Ramp. We were taking our way up somewhere. Didn't he have stairs or anti-grav wells? Of course he must. Somewhere. But only an idiot would take a prisoner up stairs or anti-grav wells and give the prisoner the advantage of high ground. Instead, we were following a spiral corridor along the outside of the ship, climbing up and up. Till he said, from behind me. "Left, sharp. Don't try anything funny."
I didn't feel even vaguely humorous. I remembered that move downstairs. He was faster than I. I'd never met anyone faster than I. And I didn't want to die. I'd got lucky he had grabbed me with his free hand, instead of blasting me with his burner.
"Is that gun a burner?" I asked.
"No," he said. "It's just a flashlight. What do you think?"
I swallowed. "I rarely think about—" I said.
"Noted," he said. "Only an idiot would take a ship like that thing back there through the powertrees. I've half a mind to space you and save you the trouble of committing suicide going back in that."
"Going back—" I said blankly.
"When I'm done collecting and not a minute sooner," he said.
We were following another corridor, and it opened onto a large, circular space. I had to blink to realize it was a bedroom. It wasn't just the darkness, but it seemed so odd to find an utterly human bedroom—bed, chair, closet doors on the wall, a sensi cabinet, a gem storage unit, in this creature's lair.
He grabbed me. For the space of exhaling, I saw images of women captured by space monsters of . . . But he threw me down on the chair. The hard, straight backed chair. Then he moved again with unreal speed. Tying me to the chair.
There are very few things I truly can't stand to have done to me. Being tied up is one of them. As he tied me with something elastic and fabric-like at middle, legs and chest, I panicked and tried to struggle. But he was fast, and I hadn't a chance.
When he finished tying me, he pocketed his gun and grinned at me in the dark. "I'll let you go once I'm done harvesting," he said. "I really can't afford to be on autopilot anymore. We could blow at any second." He got a strip of fabric from his closet. "Just an extra precaution."
"No," I said. "Do not blindfold me."
"Why?" he said. "Because it will make it harder for you to get free? Good."
And then he seemed to speed up again. Before I could do anything, I was blindfolded. And tied. To a chair.
Right. He was going to die. He was going to die a slow and excruciatingly painful death.