The BLTS Archive - The Bodyguard
fifth in the Riding The Tick series
by RSchultz (cousindream@aol.com)

---

Disclaimer:  Star Trek in all its universes is the property of
Paramount Studios and whoever owns Paramount.  I'm only playing with
one of the universes.  I will recreate the heaven and the earth when
I'm done playing.  Nah nah nay nay!  This story belongs to me under
common-law copyright.

May be archived, but please notify.  28,300 words, October 2000.

Flamers and mail bombs to Milosevich.  He must have so many now, a few
more would not hurt.

---

Here in Persepolis City it is going to be another hot, moist day.
Blocker 10 or higher is advised.  We remind everyone that free
cancer shots are available in all government facilities, schools,
police stations, community centers, libraries, and any office of the
People's Glory Party.  We had eighteen cases last year, and that's
eighteen too many.  Do your bit to eradicate this unnecessary
disease.

This message comes to you courtesy of the  Miseroe VIII
Productivity Through Better Health Commission.

---

Breath whistled shrill through my teeth as I began to invest myself
with the rhythms of my movements.  The patterns, the dance of
inevitable cycles.  A dream of fluidity.  I .... move.

The cool air inside the room felt good as I began to sweat.  The
burning, the good stretching as my muscles loosened and worked in
patterns.  A negation of limits, body glowing. rich and full.  The
good stretching as muscles are loosened and worked in the patterns.  A
negation of limits, body glowing, rich and full.

Beyond the windows lay what passed for a metropolis on this planet.
Inside me was nothing but the patterns, I must forget everything but
the Now.  The cycles.  The keys to being more than myself.

I never forgot I was in a room, inside, on a floor of a hotel eighteen
stories above the sculpted landscapes below.  I never forgot the
furniture, or the movements of air, or the strains on my breath and
body.  It simply became less important.  Reality became something ....
inside.  And less external.

The feet must be placed just so.  Glide one foot forward, seat it
firmly, do it without thinking.  The back upright, the forearms
straight and horizontal in front of me, just so.  My eyes straight
ahead, the movements of my head purposeful, nothing random, nothing
chance.  Reach for the patterns, the patterns are there. Reach for the
rhythms, reach for the systems and cycles, reach for the completeness.
Reach.  I am a...  I am me, and it is enough.

Left arm back, the right forward, the left forward, the right back,
again, again, again, again and again, my breath whistling, in and out,
one with the patterns, the cycles.  My bare feet moving carefully
forward, glide, glide, do not walk, millimeters off the even floor of
the carpeted room.  Move, strike, move, strike, move and strike again.
I become a Shrike-bird, impaling my foes on the horned thorns of my
hands and feet.

Thumb tight against the knuckle of fist, do not pretend, do not think,
it must all be fully automatic, find the patterns.

The attack, the move, the attack, the raising of the arm, the hand
open.  The patterns.  The move back, again, again, again, carefully
controlled and totally mindless, feel the pattern.  Find the rhythms,
the cycles, the way things SHOULD be.  Find the truths, the ways, the
force, the patterns.  Rightness.

Turn, balance on one foot and kick.  Recover, one hand up, the other
arm swinging in a protective swing, the left foot back, find the
balance, the pattern.  Find the cycle, the paths into truth, the
doorways into correctness.

Swing the left arm down, block the kick, take the blow, bring the
right elbow around, bring the arm up in protection.  Seat the feet,
always on the ball of the foot, then the whole foot. Without thought..
Find the patterns, feel them, taste them.

Arms in front, back straight, move the body, the right foot comes up
and out, recover, put the arms up, parallel to each other in front of
me.  The protective swings, the straight-armed blow, one, two, one,
two, one arm down and out, one arm up and in, protect, protect, now
arms together, protect, hit forward, put the whole body into it, the
other, move, strike, move, strike, move....

At some point I had taken notice of the Admiral, I had included him in
the furniture, a part of an unimportant reality outside my patterns.
Something to be noted, and yet not noted.  Furniture. Not ignored,
just not included in my own special reality, a frame for my patterns.
An object to be danced around, rather than with.

So long he squatted, THERE, on the rug, and did not move, I had no
need to alter my patterns.

I loved my patterns, they were insights into truths, rightness,
cycles, ways, forces, peace.  A truth.  I could trust truth.  I could
trust nothing else.

My breath whistled in and out, and sweat runneled off my head and down
my neck, soaking my pants and shirt.  Holding me tight to the reality
of this room and this time, this NOW.  Patterns, they might hide, but
they did not lie.  Patterns, I must always seek out the patterns.

Breath loud in throat, I went into a circling movement, each foot
carefully placed, each hand where it should be, where it felt right,
where it fit the patterns.  Always my mind placed invisible foes just
SO, exactly THERE, they were ALSO part of the patterns of my reality.
Always a response, making slow circles in front of a fixed point, my
knees slightly bent, back straight.  Patterns.

I kicked out, turned and kicked again, one fist back to my breast, the
other striking out, swiftly, do not lose my balance, swiftly, left,
right, left, right, left, pivot, jab, pivot, jab, defend. Patterns.

In time, as sweat dripped off my lips, my chin, I began to slow, this
too part of the pattern.  It was time to end, my body the clock
telling me when enough was enough.

Finally I stood in front of the Admiral, and forced my hands down to
my side.  Fists became hands again, breath whistled through my teeth,
until I opened my mouth to take in greater gasps of air.

A smile wrapped itself around the bottom half of his face as I stood
there.  He had changed to a white bathrobe, and slowly clapped his
hands in approval.  I had thought my patterns might have awakened him,
but if so he was not distressed.

"I hope my morning exercises have not interrupted your sleep, Admiral
Nakamura.  I apologize if they have.'

"On the contrary, Senorita Natalia, I was already awake and having my
morning's contemplation's when I heard your exercise's."

"Natasha, Sir, and it's my first name.  Family name Yar."

His gaze openly and approvingly took in all of my body.  I realized my
soft gray exercise garments had taken on a semi-invisible aspect.
Sweat plastering them to me like a second skin.  Without standing at
attention I drew myself up straighter, letting him admire my breasts
and vagina if he wished to do so. Another damned male.

"And I don't do men, Sir."

Surprisingly, he failed to raise to the bait.  Just nodded a
millimeter, his eyes boring into my face for a second.  With
remarkable grace he rose to his feet without using his hands.
Show-off, displaying fitness even in his old age .... what?
Mid-sixties, seventies Terran, in age, first flush of rejuv.  Not too
old.

"Do your friends call you .... Tasha?"  I gave a nod of assent. Damn,
I need this job.  Hope he'll take a hint and leave the hands where
they belong.  Carolita said to massage this male's ego, not his
libido.  She said I was supposed to keep him safe and happy, whatever
that meant.  For 450 Gulden a day.  That's a pretty big bonus.  Maybe
I won't be stranded on this mudball planet forever.

"Your physique is admirable, Senorita Yar, as are your exercises.
Though they are unlike any style I can recall, they were remarkable
for both their offensive and defensive qualities.  I am now extremely
pleased that your company..."

"Black Star, Sir.  Not the biggest condotta on this planet, but
certainly the best.  Your staff chose well, Sir.  We haven't lost a
single life, once it came under our protection.  Not for over two
years, local time.

"There are two more Black Star contractee's on the elevator ground
floor downstairs, two in the corridor on this floor, two  attached to
your aides in the other suite, and two on the roof.  We also practice
sophisticated non-linear stochastic counter-measures against remote
spying."

"The anti-bugging is critical to my mission," he noted.

Old pervert couldn't lift his eyes from my crotch.  Hope he was
enjoying the view.  For Gulden 450 a day he can LOOK all he wants.

"Remarkable.  I do not recall seeing a woman as comely as yourself in
service anywhere as a bodyguard-for-hire."  (Go ahead, stroke me with
words, see if it gets me into your bed).

"Tell me, what is the name of the school of defense you were
practicing just now?"

"School?"

A look passed over his eye's for a second, then he smiled broadly,
nodding.  "I mean, who was the name of your Master?  Surely he
advertised or taught his system as Trillian Tae Kwan Do, or Fernandan
Open Hand, or some such.  What was it?," he requested.

"I don't know," I replied.  "I just saw it, that's all."

"Saw it?," the Admiral continued.

"Yes Sir, on Thi Tri IV.  It was demonstrated to some of us of the
Legion at the time I was serving there.  Unfortunately, I never had
the opportunity to take any formal courses."  For some reason I added;
"When I joined the Legion, I had some training in hand-to-hand combat,
but it was rudimentary.  Of course I've added my own patterns, and
incorporated a few movements I've seen, since that time.  It seems
effective."

"Saw it?  Some Master demonstrated it for you a few times, and you
acquired this .... system .... from that?"

"No Sir.  We were on contract there, and were shown the trial, or
rather execution, of a traitor.  Or perhaps he was accused of being a
saboteur.  I was never exactly sure what his crimes were. But they
were capital offenses there, and three sisters were allowed to beat
him to death.  If they could manage it.  It was a trial by combat.  If
he survived, he was innocent.  If dead, he was obviously guilty of
whatever he was accused of.  Seemed straightforward."

"Three sisters?  Against one man?"

"We in the audience were informed of their respective levels, grades,
ranks.  We were told he was quite capable of surviving an attack by
these three women.  As it developed, one sister sacrificed herself to
break one of his knees.  She died during the assault, but after that
it was a matter of when he would be killed by the remaining two
sisters.  Not if."

As an afterthought, I added; "They must have hated him very much. They
took over four hours to kill him.  They toyed with him, ripped him
apart, making him suffer as much as possible."

"Astonishing.  You state you have had no formal training in any
systematized defensive arts, you merely OBSERVED a demonstration of an
unknown school?"  The Admiral was now quite straight in posture, hands
behind his back.  "This happened on ...."

"Tri Thi.  Over by Tau Zeta Omicron, by Elohim.  Had a front-row seat,
and as I have noted, they took four hours to execute the man.  I had
plenty of opportunity to study their patterns.

"The planet was in the midst of a civil war.  Those are always the
nastiest.  Can't ever trust anyone, treachery everywhere, families
fighting families, father against son, priest against bishops.
Loyalties tend to un-glue, and you've got to keep your back covered.
You trusted your contractor and allies the least."

The Admiral had taken a stance I recognized through long association.
That of an officer taking a report.  Smiling slightly, I added a
"Sir."

"Astonishing," he observed.  Then he smiled again, and ran a finger
along his little mustache.  "And please dispense with the 'Sir'
prefix.  Just call me Yoshi.  I think we're going to come to know each
other quite well over the next few weeks, and I'm your employer, not
your commanding officer."

Absolutely, I thought.  As an officer and an employer you wouldn't
attempt to use your position to force me into cranking you.  Not you.
Never.  It's obvious, of course, that you're not just another male
wanting the big blond girl.

"I'm here to evaluate the planetary government for admission to the
Federation, and I'll need to spend a great deal more time than I wish,
talking to diplomats, officials, bureaucrats, and other liars and
bone-brains.  I'll need a safe place to relax, to recoup my thinking
edge.  By chance, you are the one to provide me with this safe place,
you and your company."

Yes, I mused, and it'd be a lot more comfortable if you could do me
each night, wouldn't it?

What in Hades have you gotten me into, Carolita?  Bad thoughts, forget
them.  Carolita would have arranged outside prosties for the Admiral,
if she thought he needed them.  She'll risk my life, not whore me.

Wonder if he will offer sweet words, money or threats?  Just how bad
did I want this job?  Even at 450 Gulder a day.  Wonder why he doesn't
have his own security staff?

As if reading my mind, he explained.

"This is supposedly a friendly, intimate, preliminary, and casual
visit.  I have two aides in the other suite, but frequently
negotiations will consist of myself with one or three spokes- people,
or their aides.  A simple visit.

"In reality it's nothing of the sort.  Rumors have reached UFPSec
indicating a need to protect myself and my aides.  A local security
service seemed the best low-key way to go.  You're all off-planet, and
I hope you're reliable, both your operation and yourself."

"Black Star's operation, sir."  A reminder.  "Not mine."

A dismissing gesture with one hand.  Putting on his most gracious
smile, he resumed the friendly manner.  "If you're going to guard my
back, it's important we reach a modest level of trust."

At least he's looking at my eyes now instead of my nipples.

"So long as we understand my contract entails physical protection
on-planet, and nothing more."  Pause.  "Yoshi."

"Yes, yes," he waved a hand in the air.  "I know.  You don't do men.
I am not in the habit of demanding sexual gratification from lower
rankers, those under me.  Pardon the pun.

"I am talking about a business arrangement, a contractual situation.
Having stated that, I see no advantage in remaining stiff and formal.
We should attempt to enjoy ourselves while I am forced to linger on
this mudball.  Is that not so, Miss .... Senorita .... Yar?  Or are
you accustomed to Sergeant?"

"Tasha will do fine, ah, Yoshi."  I knew he was stroking me, blowing
vapor in my ear, but what did it matter?  Just another job, another
contract, take it as it comes.  450 Gulder a day.

Besides, he was kinda cute for an old guy, and it was entertaining the
way my height and size advantage failed to slow his appreciation of my
body.  He was brash and .... irrepressible, yes, a good word for him.

"Good guess on the Sergeant, but I haven't used it for some time. The
Legion and I, we parted ways."

He looked in my eyes at that, but he failed to ask anything more.
Evidently what he saw satisfied him.  Everything he was seeing seemed
to make him happy.  Oh hell, I thought, go ahead and look, Admiral.
I've a sweet body.  Just remember not to touch.

"Tasha," he began, "on my planet we try to find beauty in all things.
We seek a face of knowledge, and of truth, in any aspect of reality.
It is a tradition among us to be lovers of art.

"Your body is a work of art, and I hope you will be as pleasing in
your mind as you are to the eye.

"Therefore, I shall continue to gaze admiringly on your lovely
attributes, and enjoy them.  It is my nature to do so.  If this
attitude bothers you, I shall attempt to be more discreet in my
admiration.  It shall, however, continue.

"I apologize if this offends you, but I shall continue so long as we
are together.  If this means we must terminate our present contractual
arrangement, I shall do so.  Taking much care with my report to your
employer so no ill words or prejudice attaches to your file, or name.

"You may leave, if you wish, and I shall attempt to make your leaving
without penalty.  I would rather continue to have you alongside me,
and to know you better during this time.  But you may leave.  Is this
satisfactory, Tasha?"

What a load of manure.  Still, I had to smile at him, at the very
least for admitting he would continue to leer.  450 G a day. Hell, let
him look.  I held out my hand, and it took a few seconds for him to
respond.  Then he formally bowed to me, and shook my outstretched
hand.

"There is one condition," he added.  Oh-oh, here it comes.  "You must
allow me to join you in your exercises.  They appear stimulating.  May
I?"

He wished to practice open-hand combat with me immediately, but I
wanted to cool down first, than work back up.  I knew what he was
doing.  He had presented me with his sweet and reasonable side, now he
was going to present me with his warrior attributes.  Go ahead and
blow your vapor in my ear, Admiral.

He brought large towels, and began to quiz me as I dried.  We both
slowly worked into our stretching exercises, loosening our muscles.
What I thought to be a bathrobe was revealed to be an exercise suit
leaving his shins exposed.  A 'karate' suit.

Sitting tailor-fashion on the couch, performing his own version of
upper-body exercises, he inquired as to my planet of origin.  And
whether my tan was a complete body tan.  The cozy persona now. We're
comrades, I'm just a friendly type of person he was saying. Yeah,
sure, maybe.

He had not heard of Turkana, but admitted the impossibility of knowing
all the inhabited planets.  When I mentioned it had used planet
burners on itself, then he remembered.  The question about my tan I
ignored.

"Do all your people practice ritual scarification there?," he asked.
Did, past tense, Admiral.  Turkana is a burnt cinder now.

He nodded as I touched my badly healed cheeks.  The souvenirs I had
brought back from Candia.  The scars left by a slug entering below one
cheekbone and exiting the other.  Even today it hurt to chew hard food
on my right side.

"It's a reminder, Yoshi."  Touching yesterday's losses and today's
pains.  Entry and exit in my head, and yet I lived.

"The lesson is not to be stupid, and assume a dead enemy is dead. I
have others, they are almost invisible, but I remember them.

"Not to be slow," said as I felt the middle of my torso. Recalling
that morning I had died, the incredible pains of dying.

"Not to be trusting," recalling the harmless little boy on the trail,
touching the re-build where so much of my hand had been re-grown.

"Not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time," indicating my left
arm, remembering the look of bone sticking through flesh.

"And I should always keep my head down," indicating my right
collarbone and ear, recalling the smell of myself sizzling.

He didn't ask about the few lesser lines on chin and neck.  Those
knife lines were my private reminders never again to be young or
virgin, small or innocent, helpless, or trust a male.

"You know your scars can be removed in any competent medical
facility?", he queried.  I nodded, and he failed to inquire further.
Maybe he was accustomed to the level of free medical care customary
for Starfleet personnel.  For groundling's with little money, like
myself, it was a luxury rather than option. For me removing the scars
took too much money.

Besides, I thought, they gave me a deadly look, made me appear older,
someone competent, and not to be toyed with.  Good for my present
occupation as bodyguard.  And why remind him I envied his benefits as
a Starfleet Officer?  Making him uncomfortable would only anger, to no
purpose.  Nobody likes to hear about truth.

"Astonishing" he finally admitted.  "It is known many conflicts are
still being fought with obsolescent weapons, but knowing a thing is
vastly different than understanding it is still a reality somewhere."

Lying in your own filth and feeling your heart pump your life's blood
away is more reality then you'll probably ever know, Admiral.

He shook his head twice, then continued.  "I take it you did not
fulfill a rear echelon function in this, ah, Legion?  No, I thought
not.  You are not a clerk or Tech's.  They do not acquire the special
memories you have indicated."

"They can, in the Legion," I pointed out.  "Too often there are no
front lines, and you can't be sure who's on your side and who's not.
I've had to fight our contracting authorities more than once."

You couldn't trust your employer not to betray you at the end of the
fight, to save the cost of hire.  We were good, and our price was
high.  After the danger was past, many employers came to think our
price was too high.  It was then Tech's and Officers might instantly
transform into combat infantry.

It takes big credits to hire five thousand fighting personnel,
complete with up-to-date symbiot armor, artillery and Tech services.
Betrayal by the paymaster might necessitate harder fighting than what
you had just accomplished against an ostensible enemy.  We call it
treeing the dog.

That was in the past.  A once-upon-a-time.  It would accomplish
nothing to dwell on why I was here on Miseroe, instead of on a distant
system where a war was in progress.  Actually I understood a war WAS
in progress here, out in the boonies.

In a bodyguard situation I never removed myself from my weaponry.
Therefore a small arsenal was laid on the daybed, by his door. Knives,
long Bowie knife called a Fernandan Toothpick, Angstroms, needler, and
slug-throwers.  His military side allowed him interest in my weapons,
the tools of my trade.

Yoshi politely asked, so he got the Grand Tour.

"Everyone expects knives such as my Toothpick are for chop-and-slice.
Most knives are cheap close-in tools, but the Toothpick, like any
Bowie, is also perfectly balanced as a throwing weapon.  It is not an
art quickly mastered.

"Bowies make a complete revolution over a distance equal to two-and-
a-half-times its own length.  Toothpicks will turn over in
three-times- length.  It is 300 grams heavier than a Bowie, longer,
needs more Calorie of throw to make it work properly, and is capable
of pinning an earth-norm humanoid against a wooden wall.

The Admiral borrowed my almost-Bowie, testing it's feel and balance.
Most people test it's sharpness.  He was holding it to the side when
he stopped.  He looked up at me, then at the knife in his hand.

Probably remembering, apart from the stupid braggarts, people who
carry knives have inevitably used them.  Users are accustomed to using
them without hesitation or confusion.  I have used them to cut and
kill.  Too many times.  Confusion or delay can get you killed.

Only fools carry knives, if they haven't the reflexes to use them. He
did not play any foolish games with it, not with me.

"Needlers," I said, "can incapacitate instead of kill, but only if the
skin is punctured.  A Needler can poison, and you may use it against
other sentient races.  However, you need to change the needles for
each race and each purpose.  Hard to do in a dill situation.

"Phasers," I continued, "are wondrous weapons, of course.  Their big
fault is they require a finite amount of time to change from stun to
annihilate, and back again.  Though with training it does become
semi-automatic.  A command, a thought, and you've done it already.
You can also change the Hertzian signature, to penetrate fluidic
defense shields.  But you might need to know your opponent's sigil to
do so.

"It's largest problem is its lack of discrimination," I pointed out.
"You might stun an enemy, or disassemble them down to their component
atoms.  But you tend to lose the middle ground of response, all due to
the speed of reaction already mentioned.  You have to react
immediately, and you don't always have the time to spare, with a
phaser.  Low charge might also reduce its abilities, which means you
have to continually measure its effectiveness.

"The Angstrom stored-charge has force and readiness in its favor. You
lift it, point, and the water-blast ("Chresardic disassembly," the
Admiral supplied) will blow a large hole in damned near anything.
Which means there is a lesser chance of surviving an Angstrom hit, the
wound is larger.  In dry materials it's a heat-ray.  It is possible to
blow someone apart without hurting their clothes, but unlikely.

"Bad point is it's limited use against solid objects.  The wafers also
have a minor but known tendency to snag the sides of the ejection port
after firing, when they're hot and semi-gelatinous. Which means you
keep a little knife - like this - on my utility belt - to quickly pick
loose any half-melted plastic.  If you can ignore its heat, you can
just brush it off.

"The slug-thrower, on the other hand, is rugged in construction, and
you may discriminate where and how badly you hurt a flesh target.
There can be fewer deaths, but more injured.

"Bad points are its inability to penetrate armors, force fields, or
compoloidal skinshield barriers.  They malf if not maintained
properly.  Which is why I disassemble and re-oil mine each day.

"Slug-throwers, however, DO perform even while WITHIN the perimeters
of personal force-fields.  Which is why assassins like them.

"Plastic Angstrom wafers weigh little, practically nothing can destroy
them, and they're compact.  It is difficult for security forces to
scan for Angstrom wafers.  To do that you need Starfleet-grade
scanning equipment.

"You need large quantities of heavy metallic, or ceramic, 'bullets' to
make your slug-thrower weapons effective.  To carry numbers of them
sufficient to make an automatic slug-thrower effective is a burden, in
the field.  Here it is no problem.

"One additional problem with phaser's, though they are durable, is
that they are horrendously complex, and expensive.  Most planets
forbid private ownership - which is the case on Miseroe. Considering
the reputation of the penal system on Miseroe, I'll manage without a
phaser or disrupter, thank you.

"In addition, I appreciate the discrimination and readiness of my
slug-throwers.  Personal preference.

The Admiral observed the smooth chambering on my needler, Angstroms
and slug-throwers, then returned them.  He admired my Brno Angstrom,
but was surprised by the heft of the Nambu slug-thrower.  "This is an
actual antique, isn't it,?" he queried.

"It has a maker's mark indicating it was manufactured in 1937, Euro
date Anno Domini, old T-dating.  The slide, firing pin and grips are
new.  The ammunition is a modern blend of propellants and
metal-ceramic.  Have to pay through the nose to get copies of the
bullets through a replicator, though," I added.  "It's a souvenir."

"Not of some Terran war you personally experienced, I hope," he
smiled.  "This is over four centuries old."

"It belonged to a friend."  Fuck you if you think I'm going to explain
my first genuine male lover.

After a pause I did nothing to lessen, we finally began with our toe
bends.  It was time for our preparatory exercises.

The Admiral finished first, he was impatient for his bout.  He did
more toe-stretchers waiting for me, but I would not be hurried.

Eventually I straightened, attempting to be as smooth as the Admiral.
Trying to imitate the Admiral's oily flexing of leg muscles to lever
myself erect.  Not quite, but not bad.

First he taught one must bow to one's foe, both before an engagement,
and afterward.  If you were still capable of standing. He reminded me
that this was merely an exercise, not a fight to the death.

Hell, did I have him spooked, just the tiniest bit?  I hoped so.

From the beginning it was not a matter of love taps.  I didn't have
much knowledge or practice in pulling my punches, but I presumed he
did, he was no amateur in open hand.  He sounded self-assured, and I
decided to trust him to protect himself.  I also decided to trust him
to pull his punches when hitting.  If not, I might have more than a
few bruise marks as souvenirs tonight.

Additionally, I had a sinking feeling I might be operating at the
limits of my abilities.  Wishing again that I'd the time to study with
a fancy teacher with set hours and formalized patterns...

So be it.  I was as I was, he was as he was, it would be as it would
be.  Patterns.

He circled for position in the newly created cleared area we opened in
this hotel suite room.  His forearms were parallel and in front of
him, his hands claws.  I moved cautiously, in no hurry to engage.
Each minute of preparation brought me further and further into my
cycles, my patterns.

Peripheral vision began to diminish, and I basked in my movements.
Breath whistled again, my cheeks working in and out, already sweat was
running across my eyebrows, wetting my shirt and pants.

With a smile I began to hope he would linger in his appreciation of my
body, my nipples, the cleft of sex visible in my long gray pants.  If
he did, I would have him.

This had already moved from reluctant additional workout to game, to
contest.  Contests too were part of the patterns, they too were right,
proper, truth.  Chess, VeloCity, Go, Poker, Stratagema, War Games in a
HoloTank, all of them have patterns.  You can win once you see the
patterns.  You have only to see clearly.

Even prepared he almost had me with the first move.  This too is a
pattern.

He flung himself at me suddenly, without so much as an eye muscle
movement to warn me.  Truth: most fights are resolved in the first few
seconds.

A straight jab which I parried with the left arm, and an overhead chop
aimed to reach my neck where it joined my collar bone, also easily
parried.

Suddenly he was close, too close, I barely realized his intentions as
he rebounded, his elbow swinging up to impact with my head. I had to
spin as well, my right arm taking the impact, it turning into instant
deadness as his elbow struck.

He spun out of range (Fast!  Fast!  Damned fast this one!), and
without thinking I glided forward, once, twice, three, four times.
Each time trying for a blow against his torso, his chest, his head.
Each time he punched away my blows, and ghosted to the side, aiming
another blow, feint, a kick at my knee.  It landed on my thigh and I
knew instantly there would be a bruise there by night.  Not even
woman-fat could protect me there, the blow had been clean, and it
hurt.  It mustn't slow me any.

I hoped it would continue this way.  Sometimes they go into cramp when
struck that hard.  The pain was filed into another, irrelevant,
section of my mind.  I sought patterns.

As we circled again, sensation came back with a painful flush to my
arm, but I could see a pattern to his defenses.  One arm did not seem
as smooth in operation as the other.  He might be trying to sucker me
in, yet he also might be suffering partial loss of coordination,
result of one of my blows blocked by that arm.

Couldn't trust it, it was too easy.

Maybe it was his intake of breath, maybe it was a cessation of the
wavering, but I was already gliding back (feet solidly where they
should be, keep the feet firmly parallel!) when he spun again into an
attack, all feet in the air this time.  I ducked the first one, and
took the second at an angle with my shoulder.

My own swinging foot now caught him in the chest, under his guard, and
I heard the breath whoosh out of him as he was half-flung, half danced
away from me.  I had the advantage of height and weight and I bored
in, in, in.  Straight blow, straight blow, my swinging foot ducked,
next foot blocked.  Elbow swinging in as I straightened, impact
against impact as my blow met his mid-air, jarring me so hard my teeth
bit blood from my tongue.

I had the weight, and my blow, even blocked, tossed him off-balance.
He staggered back, falling to his butt.  Immediately he was back on
his feet.  Fast!  Fast he was.

Yet again he blocked my foot as it swung around, even though it lifted
him off the rug.  The second swinging foot was deflected, the third,
the fourth swung under him as he leaped in the air Fast!!.  He gave a
clean blow into the flesh of my lower back, obviously aiming for the
kidney.

Anger turned me cool.  Hell, detachment was something practiced in a
pickled situation.  I had trained to stay detached for half my adult
life.  To be detached, not to be angry, to control my flares, that was
to be in control of the situation.  That was when I controlled the
cycles, when I saw the patterns, when I was one with the dance.  That
was how I still lived.

Logic told me he was also nearing his personal edge.  There had been
no pauses to this combat, and this too was a pattern.  He had expended
great amounts of energy, hoping for a quick kill.  He had
miscalculated, and hadn't gotten it.  His patterns were clearing. He
was a chess-master, a Stratagem buff, Go fanatic, Poker player,
tactician and strategist.  He was accustomed to an elegant solution.
Quick final moves delivered with clean measured blows. The unexpected
move, the brilliant riposte, finesse, cunning.  In that instant I knew
I had him.

Breath wheezing in my lungs, I brought a foot forward, jab, jab,
crossover on defense, jab.  Foot forward, jab, jab, jab, jab, it no
longer mattered if his defenses were brilliant and fast.  It no longer
mattered if my blows miscarried, or he was able to give me blow after
blow.  For he no longer had the luxury of landing a winning blow, or
making a timely move, or a subtle and unexpected swing.  He was
off-balance, his control was gone with the fine edge of his
thinking-ahead-to-the-next-move.  He was unable to put all his weight
behind the blows he landed.  I wasn't giving him the room in time or
space to win.

The initiative had come to me, and he could not  maneuver, or find his
elegant move.  All he could do was deal with my size, my pressing, my
closing, my constant blows, as best he could.  Again and again he
landed painful glancing blows, but they were imprecise and capable of
only minor hurt.  I had the advantage of height and length of arms,
and I could win with weight and sheer force.  If I did it now.  There
were also limits to my own reserves.

Jab, jab, an attempt to knee him when he tried to be elegant and dance
inside my defenses.  I grabbed him, crashing to my knees as he tried
to throw me, and slammed him stomach down to the floor.

He twisted, his knee striking me in my lower stomach as he turned, But
I butted him hard with my head, then again, stars replacing sight.  I
could not see what it did to him, but my own ears were ringing with
loud buzzing alarms.

He twisted again, and was almost out from under me when my arms went
about his neck, one forearm across his windpipe, holding my other arm,
my hand forcing his head to the side.

Not very elegant, but as it had become a matter of size and strength,
I could win.

The muscles in his neck corded, I couldn't hear, could barely see, my
eyes stung from sweat, every arm and shoulder muscle cried out in
protest at the strain, and he kept rotating the two of us as he tried
to break free.  Then he gasped something, again, and my brain finally
made the connection.

He was yielding.

I let up, and leaned back, my arms wide, trying to obtain enough
oxygen so that I wouldn't fall down in a faint.  That would be
embarrassing.  He turned onto his back, his eyes blank, then
glittering.  I was lying on my own back by then, feeling misused,
sore, exhausted, tonight's bruises already hurting.

This had been no game, or exhibition.  Yoshi (the name feels
comfortable, now!), MY goddamned Admiral, had taken us to the limit of
our abilities.  But I had WON, dammit!  I had WON!  Not many minutes
before I wouldn't have counted it much of a victory to beat this
scrawny runt.  Now I did, and I was exhilarated.  He rolled over and
grasped my shoulders, gasping into my ear.

"Oh, sweet and patient Buddha, guide to Heaven, that was simply
marvelous, that was great.  That was more fun than I've had in years,"
he babbled.

"Ameratsu!  I think I'm going to enjoy this damned diplomatic mission
one damned hell of a lot more than I thought I would!"

I turned, still on my side, and hugged him.  He was as crazy as I was,
and this job might be more fun than I had expected.

I raised up, sitting on my butt, trying to stop trembling. He twisted
and straddled a thigh.  His sweat dripped onto my already soaked
pullover shirt.  Yoshi bent, his head bent against me, his breath
warming a breast.  Then he leaned back, glints showing in his eyes,
the blood hot in him.  I could plainly feel his erection.  I realized
I was also on an adrenaline high.  It would be so easy...

Yoshi was a gentleman though, and he waited for me, did not force the
issue, knowing I was vulnerable at that moment.  The horny son of a
bitch probably knew even Lesbians occasionally sampled a man.

The pause gave me a chance to place a hand against his chest, and
shake my head no.  Before I succumbed to the imperatives of the
moment.  Aching in every bone and muscle, I still had to admit it was
a turn-on.  Especially the winning.  It would have been easy to let my
fire burn higher.

With nothing resembling his previous grace, he rose to his feet, and
gave me a hand.  I needed it, the way my thigh was hurting. It would
be nice to get a shot to clear away the damage to my body, but I had
to save my Guilders.

He gave me a very deep bow, which pleased me immensely.  This bowing
business could be habit-forming.

We did a few cooling-down exercises together, he talking of past
masters he had studied under, years ago.  He almost forgot to look at
my body.  Almost.  Excepting my butt, which I wasn't supposed to
realize he was admiring, since my back was turned.

Still panting, he demanded I share one of the luxuries of the suite
before the day's round of meetings began.  I'd intended to make use of
the suite's baths, but it was nice of him to offer.

He hustled me into a bathroom, a real bath with real hot water. One of
the benefits of a settled life.  Luxury suites in real hotels.  Real
showers, baths, and something I had not seen for far too long.  Bubble
bath crystals, courtesy of the hotel.  First class all the way.  I'd
already noticed nothing was too costly when taxpayers were footing the
bill.

First, complete the limbering down on the gloriously thick white rugs
in the bathroom-cum-dumper.  Undressed, cooling, I rolled over and
over in them for a minute, enjoying the feel against my
sweat-salt-itchy skin.  Then put myself into the marvelously hot
water.  Not so hot as the Admiral was taking in his own bathroom, no
doubt.

The ideal Japanese-style bath consisted of nearly boiling water, then
cold water shower, maybe beating himself with a switch or two.  Would
they have switches here?  Make it a point to find out.

True, CombTeam had gone through this suite yesterday, looking for
bugs, and this morning again.  Yet I should double-check.  Make an
inventory of the suite's contents, I should have done that already.
Later.  Can't afford to get sloppy, not if I'm being paid Gulden 450 a
day to protect someone.  Have to be professional.  Should always have
the CombTeam in twice a day, checking for bugs and other inserts.

For the present I luxuriated in the fragrances and the hot water, the
oils and soaps, and indulged in a little non-serious personal
masturbation, being sensual to myself.  Which resulted in a small
gratifying release.  Enough to take the edge off.  This body deserved
a little pampering after this morning's workout.

In time sounds of music and singing came from the main room of the
suite.  The Admiral was finished and dressed long before I was,
obviously.  Tasha, you're only eighteen Terran, and you're getting
slow already.  Senility will set in before you're twenty-five.

With regret I left behind the luxury of scented and soothing water.
It'd been too long between bubble-baths.  Already my body was
complaining where I was hit during the Admiral's fun and games.  Lots
of bruises by nightfall.

Toweling vigorously, I reminded myself this was just a job.  It might
look easy at present, but I still had to cover the Admiral's ass, come
what may.  He, his government, was overpaying Black Star to cocoon
him, wrap him in a comfort balloon so he could concentrate on HIS
proper and immediate task.

The hair I'd spit-stuck to the door was undisturbed, so he had not
tried to peep me.  The dumper entry was an archaic door, ornate, and
had been left unlocked, but he had ignored it.  At least there were
limits to his lechery.

In the main room, the Admiral was singing lines of Italian in concert
with a Holo.  The Admiral was dressed in an unassuming gray-green and
charcoal four-piece civilian catsuit, rather than a uniform.

A Vid ran on a small stage in front of him.  Two miniature
black-haired girls patiently sat in the front of a stage, watching a
serene scenario or playlet unfold before them, and us. Seemingly
irrelevant, the playlet was a representation of the passage of the
four traditional Terran seasons.  Vivaldi' s `THE FOUR SEASONS'.  The
two insertions sitting on the bench looked ethnic Japanese, chops,
surely close blood relatives of the Admiral.

In the playlet people and animals passed, as did the seasons.  The
seasons passed, the girls watched, and the Admiral sang.  It was
beautiful, though the Admiral's voice was not strong enough for the
Opera stage.

I entered with undergarments already on, and he glanced my way, but
generally ignored me.  I wriggled into my brown leather-reinforced
pants, suspenders and belt.  Utility belt and harnesses were rigged
upon my body.  During all this time I ignored the fact my breasts were
covered with only a one-ply light halter.  Deliberately took my time
arming myself.  He noticed, but pretended not to.  My breasts swayed
in time to my motions, and they were lovely breasts according to a few
admiring observers. Inside I smiled.  I pretended it wasn't important
whether he appreciated them, and he pretended he wasn't watching.

Legion overshirt, gray-green, sleeves down to my wrists.

Fernandan Toothpick in my left boot, needler on belt.  Light vest of
Groll plates for personal protection.  Angstrom in holster under the
left arm, Nambu in the small of my back.  I didn't give a damn if
everyone noticed the cross-strap keeping the Angstrom holster and gun
in place.

Brown cloth jacket to match my pants, light brown boots.  A small
slug-thrower in a spring holster on my right forearm, under my sleeve.
Sweet music. Italian, Vivaldi.

"Giir forte sdruzziolar, cader a terra, / Di nuovo ir sopra 'l giacco
e correr forte, / Sin ch'il giaccio si rompe, e si disserra," he sang,
almost spoke.

"Standard," I clearly spoke into the pause, and sang with him, a rough
singing of the last lines.

"We hear from all the closed doors, / Borealis and all the winds at
war, / This is winter, but as such, brings joy."  The Admiral had
joined me, stumbling in the first line, but recovering and matching
from then on.

A wave ended the music.  First he bowed to the two seated female
holo-figures, then to me.  If he fails to criticize the quality of my
voice, I won't comment on his.

The Admiral was not a bad tenor, amateur group quality, had a good
grasp of Italian.  I bowed back, he came closer, bowed again, and
kissed my hand.

"I was unaware you were an Old Earth music lover, Senorita Yar, Tasha.
Do you know any of his operas?," he asked.

There's a lot about me you don't know, Admiral.

"Just the 'THE FOUR SEASONS', I stated.  "The Mother Superior of my
convent school on Turkana had a great deal to teach us, and little
time.  Nonetheless she liked that piece, and presented it for it's
Italian and it's joys."  I had enjoyed Italian language lessons.

"Did Vivaldi write much beautiful music like that?"

"A good deal more," he admitted.  "Some of which has been lost to us.
A pity.  I have many classical works with me.  Handel, Haydn, Ravel,
deBussey, as well as that of Monteverdi, a worthy north Italian
contemporary.  A few chips of entertainment weighs so little, after
all."  He grinned at me, realizing he was being stroked.  "If you
wish, I may be able to share some of them with you."  Whether or not I
much cared, probably.

You had to admire Yoshi's persistence.

In the corridor, we were joined by the Admiral's two aides, and two
more Black Star security.  Both Aides were Earth-norms, which was
probably best.  Miseroe had an infinitesimal Exo population, and I
hadn't the feeling the planet yet welcomed many non-humans.

The Admiral failed to comment on my profusion of archaic weaponry, so
I presumed he was allowing the professional, myself, to judge the
level of armament necessary.  Mechanical devices like slug-throwers
and stored-charge weapons were obsolescent, true. Yet sometimes immune
to interference procedures or shielding.  As disrupters and phases
were not.  A genuinely advanced complex could nullify a phaser or
disruptor.  He was leaving me to do my job as I saw fit.

At least the Admiral didn't seem to be chafing at his tether.  He
already knew he couldn't move about freely on Miseroe.  I would try
not to order him about, telling him he couldn't do this, or go there.
Still, there had to be clear limits.  Let us hope he stays reasonable.
Gulder 450 a day.  Well, the hotel was a comfortable prison.  With me
as the official food-taster for the king.

Both aides looked to be mild and inoffensive clerks, but little alarm
bells went off in my head when one 'accidentally' brushed my sleeve
with the spring-gun in it.  In the lift to the roof the other gave my
rear an admiring pat, a quick brush.  Probably checking for anything
in the small of my back.  The Nambu is a large item, I hope they
wondered what it was.  They weren't 'just' aides.  Without making a
show of it they had frisked me for unseen weaponry, finding more than
they probably expected.

Made a wager with myself.  I'd bet the Hind, at least, had the
UFSMarines star-shield picted permanently on his upper right arm. The
Islamic probably had a quotation from the Qu'm'ram tattooed to his
back so God could find the believers on a battlefield. Definitely
Insertion Command.

It was comforting to know they could back me in a dill situation.
Their own armament was discreet.  Small-of-the-back phaser's, under
the jackets, and an ankle holster on the Hind.  Possibly an armpit
item for the skinny dark man.

They had noted my weaponry, then dismissed it.  My business to know
what was useful and 'right' for me.  Not eccentric or old-fashioned,
just what I was comfortable using.  Yoshi undoubtedly thought me
paranoid.  However, I was still alive.  And paranoids make good
bodyguards.

First item of business before exiting the elevator to the roof was the
relief of aches, pains, and possible injuries for Yoshi. Unexpectedly
I was given a shot as well.  A combo muscle shot, blood boost, and
fix-mix in the arm, and away we went.  Logical. Should have your
bodyguard in top condition.

One of the aides handled the procedure.  The wonders a small leather
case might contain.

Naturally I had both my Nambu and my Brno Angstrom drawn when we
stepped onto the roof.

I missed the medical care customary to the Legion.  Just didn't miss
the dill situations which prompted the use.  The Medicos at a hospital
could have begun that day to remove my facial scars, for again Yoshi
offered to use UFP funds to pay for it.  Certainly, and you'd never,
never use the favor to pressure me.  Didn't like being under an
Obligation.  Still .... I'd think about it.

Besides, I realized I DID use the twin scars for personal reminders.
Don't repeat the same mistakes.  Always put another round into a dead
man.

Still, maybe some other day, Admiral.  Decide first if Yoshi meant it
when he stated he would peel off my 'decorations,' my scars. Then if I
wanted to pay his probable price.

Then again, I'd bedded so many males in my life, what was one more?

Something to think about.  I tried not to reflect on the end of our
relationship, just weeks in the future.  Relationship, hah! It was
just a business contract, and I shouldn't begin thinking otherwise.
Still, it felt comfortable being around the Admiral. Wondered what
sort of a lover he was?

As the days passed Yoshi played many of his music's, no small number
of which served as background to our dances of patterns and power and
combat.

He introduced me to Handel, Ravel, concertos, libretto's, Bach, all of
which gave me minor pleasures.  However, 'Frebzy', the 'L'Estro
armonico', and 'Bolero', ah, those caught my imagination. The rest
were pretty, yes, but didn't mean much.

Apart from his music's, Yoshi did not include me in his life.

He admitted the two girls in his holovids were his daughters, but
little else.  Except a growing unease and irritation with the
planetary negotiators.  He was not alone in that.  His Aides weren't
half so reluctant to tell me of their opinions of the nature and
stubbornness of the Indig negotiators.  Yet, for eleven days little
details were all I was told.

As for Yoshi, he concentrated on his music, our open-hand exercises,
and continuing attempts to have me confide in him. Spill my guts.
Confide in ol' Yoshi, I'll be sympathetic, you can tell me anything,
I'll respect you no matter what happened, here, you can cry on my
shoulder.  Certainly, yes.  Yoshi, good guy.

Not an original seduction script.

Funny thing, the thought was beginning to appeal to me.  I eventually
told him a few things from my past, nothing I hadn't told two dozen
other humanoids.  My parents death, life as a lesbian on Turkana.  Not
about my whoring, or murderous ways, or the way I left my sister
behind, the only family left to me.  I just couldn't tell him that.

I told of joining the Legion, and the bald fact I had left them on
Candia.  I didn't say why or how.

He flat-out refused to believe I was eighteen until I offered to go to
the Medicos for a complete DNA scan.  When he discovered I had joined
the Legion at the tender age of sixteen years Terran, he had been
utterly appalled.  Or pretended to be appalled.

He was laughable after that.  He acquired a paternal and protective
mode in addition to lechery.  He didn't stop admiring my body, or
desiring it, he simply added to his patterns.  He was living the word
dichotomy.  Lusting after me and trying to protect me at one and the
same time.  Too bad this would end so soon.

His insistence on improving my diet made me smile.  Not so many fatty
solids, he'd say, more vegetables, better quality fruits. He accepted
it as preordained that a natural part of young girls diet would
include large amounts of sweet and fatty things.

We frequently ate in the hotel restaurant downstairs, and he
embarrassed me with his solicitude.  Chiding me for bad habits in
front of the Maitre'd.  Treating me like a child when I was still in
my bodyguard gear.  The second time I realized the head waiter didn't
care.  Neither did either aide.  After that revelation I relaxed and
enjoyed the human scenery.

The type of people who could go to the Peacock Throne Hotel for a meal
were apt to dress and act as they wished.

One child I recall was having lunch with her olders, probably
grandparents.  She couldn't have been over thirteen years Terran. Her
lovely small breasts were covered by a single gauzy wisp, and none
about her seemed upset.  Outside in Miseroe the Pols, the Lowers, they
frowned if too much leg was shown.  The Uppers lived differently, but
that is always true.

Yoshi noticed the girl, and frowned, disliking the exhibitionism
coupled with her age.  To irk him more I stated her nipples would
likely become large and stiff if someone sucked on them.  Meaning
nasty old lesbian me.

Yoshi scowled, and I pointed out I was eighteen, not much older. He
ignored that, and we returned to our food.  It was also a gloomy meal
for me after that, for I recalled I was still a whore at the tender
age of thirteen.

Yoshi apologized in his fashion by insisting he (meaning the UFP) buy
me some non-necessity.  Eventually I accepted a pair of soft clinging
fishskin gloves, under the pretext such beauties were for my work.  He
must have turned his own daughters into terrible spoilt prima-donnas.

The two young women in his HoloVids were slim and charming, he must
have loved them immensely.  He never mentioned a wife, and I never
asked.

He was treating me more like a step-daughter, than a bodyguard, and it
saddened me to see it happening.  I mustn't become accustomed to it.

The days passed, and in our morning combats I began to learn to pull
my punches, and accept his coaching.  He never stopped enjoying the
sight of my body, sweaty or not.  He must have noticed I never wore
anything thick and concealing.  There was a lot of tease in me.

The line about his being a lover of art was possibly true, for he only
observed.  Maybe I wasn't a piece of meat in his eyes now. Maybe I
never had been.  I'll hold that thought close to me.

Once I accidentally on purpose left the dumper/bathroom door open, but
he stayed away.  I think.  Another time I accidentally stripped with
my bedroom door open, but he went to his own repose. Did I want to
casually tell him one morning I did indeed do men?

The thought occurred of letting my tears flow, and confessing some
flaw, giving him a revelation.  Buddha knew there were periods in my
past liable to bring tears to my eyes.

Once having revealed and cried for Yoshi, he could have seduced me.
Him being the male making the moves.  I even considered raping him
after one of our morning exercises.  Nothing seemed quite appropriate,
somehow, so I did nothing except wait for him to alter our situation.

Maybe I was hoping to be his pseudo-stepdaughter.  With a little
almost-incest.  But taken under his wing.  Somehow.

Damn, I had sad Fantasies.  Dreams were all I had, that and an early
death.  Or deaths, if that old female seer was right.

I shouldn't think of finding a family.  Old whores never had families.

Maybe I was ready for love and affection from an older man.  Like the
Admiral.  A father figure.

Mostly I tried not to think of the day we'd part ways.  Okay, so now I
hoped to con him into taking me with.  That would be good for me.  He
assumed a Federation vessel would take him off-planet, and if true,
maybe he'd give me a hitch to a more congenial place. Anyplace would
be more congenial than 'Misery', good ol' Miseroe. Maybe he'd let me
tag along.  Maybe not.  Just couldn't rely on it.  Maybe if I was his
lover he'd take me with.  Hell, I'd gotten to Miseroe by spreading my
thighs.  They were good strong long thighs.

*Sigh*

From the first day when we began shuttling to the Presidential Palace,
we developed a routine I took pains to vary.  Seeking to lessen the
dangers of having a routine.  Arise, exercise, eat, visit the Palace
(which was also the City Hall) by flitter.  Five times we commuted
there via ground vehicle.  Three different days we returned by that
venue.  Thrice we used the hotel back door.

We might flitter onto the roof, alongside, in front or back of the
Palace.  Once we walked by a connecting tunnel, having landed on a
nearby administrative annex.  Simple things, to lessen the chances of
ambush.  Mostly I tried to keep an eye on our surroundings, not Yoshi,
or our party, but who and what was about us.

Formally, once we were on the second floor of the Palace I became
superfluous.  Maybe.  I never ceased eyeballing, and being suspicious.
With good reason no one in Black Star particularly trusted agents of
the government.  Even the Hind twitched more than once as some Indig
came too close.  Everyone in a uniform served a Council member.  Not
the government, or the Pols.

Twice Subhas, the Hind, made to pull something from his sleeve.
Probably had a spring-gun in his sleeve, but his was better than mine,
because I could never spot it.

The Indig Ministers became familiar to me.  The President showed for
two symbolic treaty-signings, but mostly stayed away. Enjoying his
wonderful senility.  Outwardly, this was all 'preliminary'
negotiating.  Conferences with underlings, malfunctions in trade
resolved, first findings, and such.

Actually Yoshi had extensive powers, and the Indigs meant business.
They wanted access to UFP financial institutions for the usual
reasons.  Speed exploitation, maximize usage of existing
opportunities, rationalize development.  Make lots and lots of money.

The sooner you can do some things, the more actual planetary wealth
you have.  The faster you can develop, the sooner things can be done
in the future.  Maybe much done is not especially friendly to their
planet, but being a short-lived species, us humans want everything
accomplished in OUR lifetimes.  The trick is to plant your colony
without destroying future generations. Not always easy, easier to
accomplish if monies are available.

Negotiator number one was the Minister of the Interior.  A withered
old Chop, Oriental, named Morkeleb.  His eyes were empty, and they
scared me.  I felt he wanted to bite my neck.

Once I held a door for his inner group as it entered the conference
room.  To him I was an insect being judged by a spider. How many cubic
milliliters of juice did my body yield, how much meat, how much
enjoyment in prolonging my demise.

He appraised me.  Not as if he'd like to lay me on my belly and have
me.  Oh, no.  Nothing so normal.  His appraisal had more to do with
judging how long it would take to drain me, and in what ways.  He made
me itch.

Power-behind-the-throne, the gray eminence, his apparent equality with
the other ministers didn't fool me for two instants.  This was a
powerful man, and hungry for more power.

Ursula was the Minister of Justice, a slender and much older woman
than Yoshi.  Being in a position of power on Miseroe told me much
about her.  Miseroe didn't quite bar women from positions of
responsibility, any more than they excluded Exo's from the planet
surface.  It was just coincidence that no Exo's lived away from the
two spaceports, and no women seemed to be in charge anywhere in the
planetary biosphere.  Just coincidence.  Which was another reason why
I wanted off Miseroe.  Even a slow-brain like myself can tell when I'm
not wanted.  Counting the owner of Black Star Security, Carolita, and
this woman, I hadn't seen ten female bosses.

Negotiators three through seven were the Ministers of Productivity,
Treasury, Propaganda, Energy and Security.

Productivity was a small wiry man, Tibbom, with his head always thrust
forward.  The man who always had the stats and data already to hand,
when they were needed.  A Techno with no real loyalties except to
whoever happened to be in charge.  Bland, but terribly essential.
Innocuous and harmless.

During an 'informal' lunch break Tibbom deliberately took up a
conversation with me, putting on his best face.  Amazing, but he soon
had me laughing and enjoying myself.  He was a good-humored womanizer,
and attempted to stroke me in a manner not at all displeasing.  I
didn't even mind his hand in the small of my back. Yoshi looked as if
he was prepared to defend my honor.

Treasury was a harried fat man, Remars, rapidly developing a facial
tic.  His responsibilities were all too real, and he was
embarrassingly eager to seize on any straw Yoshi might give him.

A skinny Chop named Pho was Security.  He was dead.  There was nothing
living about him.  Not evil, or inimical, or devious. Just dead.  I
would have felt more comfortable with a genuine zealot, a crusader.
They are capable of being reached,  Pho was a locked-out PADD.  He
contributed nothing to the discussions, except a phenomenal store of
folk parables and jokes delivered in an essentially flat style.

Propaganda was a real charmer, who I decided five seconds into meeting
him never, not ever, to show him my back.  Energy didn't pick his nose
without Security telling him to do so.

When half the meetings were over both Treasury and Productivity were
replaced.  By a genuine top-drawer piece of work named Witen, already
present as the Minister of the Interior.  The next Interior was a
malevolent scarecrow who didn't pick his nose unless Witen told him to
do so.

Quite smooth, smiling, young, olive-skinned, good reflexes, nice
looks, regular teeth, never raised his voice, a perfect gentleman. If
the Minister of Security was a creature of enmity, this man's bite was
toxic, like that of a poisonous ferret.  I could imagine this one
cracking my thigh bones with his teeth to suck out the marrow with his
tongue.

I wouldn't have trusted him with my pubescent daughter, my aged
mother, my money or my small dog, if I'd had any of those items. Put
him naked on a street corner on Old Earth during the Gene Wars, and in
a day he'd have a vehicle, a mistress, a bodyguard and at least three
dead bodies floating in his wake.  When he was around I felt like
keeping one hand on my money belt and the other on my ass.

Mostly I stood outside elegant doors, attempting to look efficient,
alert and deadly.  Probably looking armed, bored and deadly.

Most of these negotiating sessions were held at the Palace.
Conferences, fact-findings, friendly presentations, amicable
discussions where I heard many a voice raised in anger through the
doors.  Stroking backs, lies, truths, denials, smiles.  All supposed
to be terminally boring.  Twice they were held at Camp
Will-Of-The-People, which meant long nervous journeys over unknown
terrain.

Actually, instead of being tedious I found it entertaining. Because I
could almost understand the moves and stratagems being employed.  Only
part of each day's business was conducted 'officially'.  The rest
occurred in private (probably bugged) offices, in corridors, and at
stand-up 'luncheons' or 'buffets'. I stayed Yoshi's shadow during
them, and studied what patterns I could.

I'd never realized before how interwoven these patterns were, how much
enjoyment there could be in anticipating a maneuver.  Did politics
naturally attract boring and shallow people who thought themselves
smart and cunning?

As an example, let me tell you of what I termed the Temptations.

They always had a little table of finger foods for us guards. Second
day of the talks, outside the second floor meeting room, I noted an
unfamiliar razzer browning up to me.  He struck up a conversation.
obviously wanted to be friendly with the big blond, sincere type,
genuine, amiable, respectful of my work.  Sure.

If he had been a beauty of a man, it would have been obvious. This
gent had a lop-sided face, a nose bent in a few places, laugh
wrinkles, beginning crow's feet around the eyes.  Not without faults,
dirt under his fingernails, kept tapping me on the arm, lightly, when
making a point.  The sort of person you could depend on, or like.  Of
course, certainly.

He tried for a date, anything, for another hour and a half.  Had to
tell him if he tapped me on the arm again with that finger I was going
to cut if off.  Then eat it.

The next one was more subtle.  She was mid-twenties T-years, a
familiar face to many in the Palace.  Numbers of males would make it a
point to stop by to say hello.  She was a guard, a razzer, but more
clerk and dogsbody than Police.  Hair a little too short, but she
always smelled nice.  She showed me where to get a cup of their own
coffee, or their green version of Baklava.  Throw a little brass in
the office pot.  Friendly Madchen, made a modest attempt to make me
feel like just one of the gals.  Obviously straight, liked the guys.

The next day her scent was stronger, she was wearing a fraction more
make-up, and she was looking at me more often.  She followed me into
the ladies dumper after lunch break, locked the door, and crowded me.
Only a little.  Lady-like.  Waiting for me to be Croc.  Not overt and
cheap, just letting me know she wouldn't be above enjoying a pleasant
INTERLUDE.  Wanted to know if I was as much of a Crocodile as I
looked, waiting for me to put skids under her.  Dot and tee me, she
was saying, be my dyke.

Pleasant enough Madchen, but she smelled of PHONY to high heaven.
Comparing notes with the two Aides days later it developed the sweet
Mad had made herself available to the Hind as well as me.

Patterns.

Each day the CombTeam found at least one new bug or insert in the
suites.  Usually one easy pickup, and one VERY GOOD hard-to-find item.
Sometimes two of each.

This efficiency on our part irked someone.  Someone who believed
accidents happened just when you wanted them most.  Especially if you
gave them a push.

Before Miseroe I'd already heard the word 'Mechanic' used when someone
had an accident that was impossibly convenient.

In the space of one twenty-six hour day every first CombTeam member
found themselves in a series of convenient accidents.  The retaliation
could have been subtle, but this was blatant.  It was also a warning.
Leave our electronic eavesdropping devices in place.  Or else.

One Black Star op was hurt in a vehicle collision.  Another Black Star
comber suffered a mugging.  The third and fourth had their housing
unit ruined by a fire.  Yoshi paid a bonus (from UFP) to cover the
expenses and replacements of those afflicted.  Must be convenient as
hell being able to spend credit without a qualm.

After that Carolita assigned bodyguards to each of a second CombTeam,
and Yoshi paid for this as well.  Carolita never said what pressures
she herself might have received.  With the UFP footing the bill she
added an AirArtillery team to the roof, with Sunday's and Minoan
Screwdrivers.  Familiar sights, from my days in the Legion.  We were
at war now, officially.

Now each day two identical flitters left the roof, sometimes three.
Each day I would personally choose which one we actually flew in.  The
Admiral and his aides had decided to trust Black Star, me.  We all
knew our routine was no longer routine.  Not after the Mechanics had
visited the CombTeam.

It was not entirely tension and nerves.  Each morning Yoshi and I had
our combat game, during which he would present me with new patterns,
new methods of return and defense, attack and movement.

Always he had his music.  Whether I appreciated it or not, I was going
to be exposed to its positive values.  He reminded me of the Mother
Superior at the convent school.

Most intriguing was the sight of Yoshi carefully stroking the ego of
some Indig bone-brain flunky with an estimate of self-worth vastly at
odds with reality.  It was all I could accomplish to keep a straight
face when he would assume his air of sincere earnestness.  Agreeing
with the Ferret or the Snake (my terms for the new Ministers of
Interior and Security), his face was open and innocent.  Letting his
hand casually run up the back of Ursula, the Minister of Justice.
Telling gross jokes to the Ferret.  Exo jokes at the Snake.  And
keeping one hand on his money belt and the other two on his ass.

He seemed serious when he paid court to the Minister of Justice. He
showed good taste there.  Of a crew of governmental cut throats,
Ursula was the most reasonable, least greedy, and most dependable of
those running Miseroe.  I thought.  Nice cheekbones. She could have
been a pleasant bonus for Yoshi.  Smart women put you to bed for the
night with a smile on your face.

In this situation it probably also meant that bedding her might
enhance his chances of awakening alive.  Not a side-benefit to be
scorned in a place where much seemed hidden.

---

Diplomacy was a fascinating world I'd never known before, and
difficult to understand.  For years I'd cleaned up behind the
diplomats, after 'teams' like these made the services of the Legion
inevitable.

Seeing these people with their narrow visions face-to-face made me
realize how INEVITABLE, how avoidable most wars were.  Including the
civil ones.  These powerful people felt they were inevitably pushed
into impossible positions.  Megalomania I called it.

A war or something terrible to others became their only logical
alternative.  The only impossibility was persuading these dedicated
idealists to change their positions.  They were forced into bad
actions, it was not their choice.  Yeah, and I'm James T. Kirk.  Of
course they're always right, and you're always wrong.

The Admiral kept up a good front, always appearing relaxed.

The truth was not so serene.  After we returned from the second trip
to the Presidential mountain Camp, Yoshi was furious. Whatever had
happened, he was red-faced with rage upon arrival at the suite.  He
shook, screamed, and bent double in his anger.

He demanded, then cajoled me into having an exercise with him.
Immediately, now, that very night.  It didn't have the feel of a
friendly bout.  It had the stink of something that would not turn out
well.  He was not thinking clearly, and I was afraid of him. I didn't
know if he would be able to pull his punches, and told him so.

In the end he watched with apparent indifference as I deliberately
stripped my clothes off until I was bald assed bare.  Naked. Trying to
feel proud and defiant, I confronted him with my hands to my sides.
Hands, not fists.  Vulnerable, defenseless, female.

Go straight for the heart and the glands.  Piss on subtlety.

Hell, by this time I knew he came from Old Earth Hawaii, not Shikaku,
or Old Japan.  I'd known someone from Shikaku once, knew something of
their patterns of behavior.  Yoshi was Old Earth, and he didn't think
in the terms used in pre-Atomic Japan.  Or in the terms they were
using on Miseroe.  I was guessing he was an old-pattern paternalist
with an ingrained reluctance to hit a woman.

Presented with a large naked woman he was more apt to think in a lust
mode.  Not a fighting mode.  Protection mode, not killing. He was
forced to re-establish sanity.  I hoped.  His rage said to hit
something.  Civilization said Protect!  Naked Woman!  Male libido said
Wonderful!  Naked Woman!  Confusion allowed him to cool down.

In the end he sat on the floor by the door, eyes and thoughts looking
elsewhere than the confines of this room.  He had to perform
processing, had to mentally and emotionally swallow the overload
inherited from the negotiating table.

He accepted a touching, a caress, my hand against his neck.  His eyes
cleared, and he carefully held my hand against his cheek. Then he
kissed it, and patted it.

"Go," he whispered.  "Put your clothes on.  I'll be fine."

My clothes went with me into my room, where I leaned against a wall
and shook.  Fear, relief, even a touch of humiliation for stripping,
all seized me in a body reaction.  Pleasure at succeeding with my
ploy.  Elation at pulling my maneuver off. Regret for the hurt I had
done Yoshi.  He knew exactly what I had done, been forced to do.

It hurt to see how contrite he was, when I returned.  Yoshi
apologized, bowing deeply, then retreated to his suite.  Me?  I slept
alone again, and had bad dreams in the night.

In the morning he apologized again and again for last night's
excesses.  In an hour I wished he would shut up or allow our exercises
to proceed.  If we had fought, I would have allowed him to win, or
would have bounced him off the walls.  One of the two. The bouncing
sounded good.  Beat some of the poison out of him, even if the price
would have been Yoshi acquiring a broken bone or two.  Broken bones
they can heal.  Frustration I got no cure for.

His apologies and depression continued into the late morning, despite
calls from his aides.

By noon I was dressed in my leathers, harness and weapons, and forcing
him into the elevator.  Literally.  I had a wrist lock on him at one
point.  Enough was enough.  Yoshi was going to drive us both insane.
I'd never had anyone treat me like a small frail child, not within
living memory, and I couldn't stand it.

Oddly, missing the morning meetings had a positive effect on the
negotiations.  The aides logged over four dozen inquiries over the
delay.  By arrival time at the Palace, the questions were both more
insulting and more accommodating.  In diplomatic terms, identical.
Indicating uneasiness on the part of the other negotiators.

We were flitting to the Palace, when Yoshi snapped erect like he had
just awoke.  With a click of his fingers he ordered us back to the
hotel.

Once in the suite he was a madman, calling up strange, exotic and
arcane items on the replicator menu.  He handed me item after item as
it appeared, then demanded I wear it.  Test the fit, though he was
working from computer measurements.

More items came off the set, sometimes duplicates in varied sizes. One
would surely fit me, he commented.  In minutes my new set of clothes
was lying over the top of my bed in all their dark midnight splendor.
He was handing me new clothes to try on when I happened to notice I
was bare-assed naked.  However, this was accidental.  I kept putting
clothes on and taking them off, sometimes with Yoshi's help.  Naked
was incidental.

I hope he enjoyed the view.

Once I was trying on a pair of tight leather pants and we both looked
in each other's eyes.  In effect he was groping me, helping me put the
pants on and testing for fit.  He turned red and whipped his hand out
from my crotch.  I  grabbed it and stuck it right back in.  Ignoring
his embarrassment, needing to discover if the pants restricted me too
much.  Pretending the situation wasn't about to melt me down or make
me roll on the floor with wild laughter.  Or both.

I could do little but shake my head.  What the hell...?

"Trust me on this," he had said, standing in my doorway.  Living the
illusion that he wasn't engrossed in enjoying how much young female he
was seeing.  I made sure he saw plenty.

Never do things half-way if you can do them to excess.

Eventually he came down off his high (I stayed on mine).  "It is time
to cease playing one set of games, and time to start playing another.
This, YOU, will provide us with a new a pivot point. Symbolic, but
nonetheless real.

"Follow my lead, and all will be made clear."  He already had his
Fleet issue sliptop off, and was indicating my cluttered bed. Yoshi
had a nice chest for an old guy.  I'd had lots of old guys when I was
a whore, but this was fun.  His gray looked good.  I didn't think
Chop's had chest hair.

"Please, Natasha, humor me in this.  What I plan will increase the
danger of what you do.  Does this bother you?  I'll double what wage
you're earning now.  You will anger people in the local government,
and to counter this threat I promise to transport you to any planet
you name after these negotiations.  Do you want this?"

He accepted my demand to get any of Black Star off-planet that wished
to go with us.  He also said he'd get us to any planet on our route.
Fair enough.  This was negotiations.  Besides, it was obvious to
everyone by now that our mission was to protect Yoshi from the
legitimate government of this planet.  It'd be better all around if
Black Star lifted off-planet after this little game.

"I'm going to pressure adversaries as well as allies in the
government, and I want you to be part of the pressure.  Will you do
this for me?  Triple your wage?  No, Quadruple?  Quintruple? You might
have to earn it the hard way, are you still willing?

"How hard?"

Five times...  Hell, that's 2250.

"Say 5000 Guilder a day," I calmly bid.  "Retroactive?"

Even Yoshi knew I was reaching for the moon.

"How hard...," he started to say.  "I don't want you to kill anyone,
but you might have to risk being killed.  How much do you consider
your life worth?"

3800 G was already more than I used to get in the Legion during a
shooting war.  With contract status bonus.  "Five thousand a day
dating to beginning of contract, thirty thousand bonus if you get out
of this rathole alive, and you take me off-planet all the way to
Earth."  Saints Sigmund and Albert, I said that without a pause or a
quaver in my voice.

Yoshi blinked, then smiled.  "Twenty thousand bonus, plus per day."
Searching my poker face.  "And you go with when we leave. All the way
to Terra if you wish."

"Thirty thousand."

"Twenty-five thousand bonus and four thousand a day.  And Terra."

I stuck out my hand, spit into the palm, and presented it to him. He
took it without a pause, but was careful to clean it afterward.

"Another Turkana custom?"

"Picked it up from a boyfriend," I announced proudly.  Then I blushed,
because I'd never admitted before to having a boyfriend. Yoshi checked
a smile.  He'd caught that one.  Ye that practice to deceive....

"Another thing," he paused.  "How good are you with those knives and
pistols?  Can you disarm an entire room of armed men?"  Too late to
ask for a bigger bonus.  DAMN HIM!

Which is how it happened I was dressed to kill - literally - an hour
later.

When we finally reached the Presidential Palace, the Admiral was in
full gold trim dress uniform, complete with every ribbon and medal he
had ever been awarded.  And probably a few he had invented just for
this emergency.  One award was Romulan, I knew, because a driver in
the Legion had kept one as a souvenir.

Yoshi even had a gold-plated phaser hanging on his gold-red-black
dress brocade belt.  I'd never seen a gold-plated phaser before. It
struck me it was no decorative toy.

As for myself, I looked like one of the most expensive prostitutes I'd
ever known and envied years ago.

First was a billed black leather cap with braid and without insignia.
Black SOFT leather waist-length jacket, having two stylish tails to
it, Saint Sigmund it felt so gorgeous inside and out.  With
silver-edged epaulettes, and ornamental silver chains on sleeves and
closures.

A big black leather belt with the biggest, gaudiest silver and gilt
buckle I had ever seen before.  Lions fighting dragons fighting hawks.
Red ruby and green Jade eyes.  Gaaah!

A silver-edged black cloth-and-leather-striped shirt with nothing
under it.  My breasts swayed with every step, and I adored the
tingling of my hardened nipples as they rolled against the stiff
leather and cloth.

Black leather boots that reached over my knees, with roll-down tops.
And a black leather skirt that only came down far enough to cover my
crotch, so long as I stood upright, straight, and did not move.  With
the smallest step it rolled right up my ass.  For modesty I was given
a pair of black unders with three dainty black ribbons over the front.
And an embroidered Angel at the bottom.

Archaic net opera hose held up by a GARTER BELT no less.  Nobody could
feel hotter than I did looking at myself.  Yeah, I was wet. My outfit
screamed contradictory messages at the world.  Fuck me! it said on one
hand, and Touch Me And Die! on the other.

Saints Sigmund and Albert knows I've never felt hotter from simply
wearing a set of clothes.  The hotel must have catered to interesting
guests.  Yoshi had known how to access this collection, and computer
had a pretty accurate idea of my measurements.  Lecherous perverted
nasty-minded old computer.  I felt like raping Yoshi in gratitude.

The fascinating point was I was loaded with enough weaponry to kill
three dozen men.

Had a little plastic stored-charge Angstrom in a breast-holster,
another in a thigh holster.  A roll of refills behind my belt. The
thigh Angstrom was not hidden in THIS skirt.

Two push-knives were behind my belt buckle.  I also had two obsolete
and dangerous slug-throwers.  One in the small of my back, the other
as a spring-gun up my sleeve.  A throwing knife was behind my neck,
and a vibratory sliver up my other sleeve.  My Fernandan Toothpick was
in an outside sheath on my right boot, visible and ostentatious.  A
needler was in a holster on the other boot.

As an erotic accessory I had a tiny limited-range needler in a holster
belted high on my thigh, above the hose.  Not quite as visible as the
Angstrom.  I suppose I might have looked ludicrous with all the
hardware except I knew how to use every piece of it.

Without trying too hard I was the inevitable fantasy of every male (or
lesbian) who'd ever dreamt of the ultimate Top.  The wet-dream of a
significant percentage of the population on any Earth-norm planet, in
other words.

Including myself.

I stood in front of that bathroom mirror utterly fascinated, staring
at my TopCroc image.  Was it possible to fall in lust with yourself?
Yoshi'll let me have the wardrobe at the end of contract.  He MUST!!!
I'll take his....  Something or another right off.  What'd hurt most?

Damned hell, I FELT like the biggest bitchiest TopCroc butch in human
space.  There couldn't be a hundred dykes on any planet in the UFP
that wouldn't have a lust-seizure on seeing me. Especially with the
little billed leather cap.  The Federation was paying so I played a
100% holo of myself to gauge my appearance from any angle.

I wanted to run my hands over every inch of my holo image.

The crowning glory was a pair of folding Polaroid aviator glasses.
This item the Admiral pulled out of personal luggage.  A holodeck
program he enjoyed had him as an F-14 pilot flying over North Vietnam
during the later phase of the Vietnam War, mid-Twentieth Century.  It
struck a few cords of memory.  F-14's were a rickety type of jet
plane, ground support missions, being shot down, great risks.  It was
probably a good bet the Admiral was marginally crazy, if this was his
idea of a fun holodeck program.

What the hell.  So was I.

GodDAMN!  Did I ever look the perfect Boss Crocodile.  Especially with
my cheek scars.  I felt really hot and dangerous.  We all live in our
fantasies.  I felt like seducing myself.

There was method to the Admiral's madness, of course.  He was changing
the rules of the diplomatic game he had been playing. All their
attention would be on my image, and not on what I actually was.  HIS
bodyguard, armed and dangerous.  From this point forward nothing would
be the same.  I hoped I'd survive this turning-point.

Later, we came down from the flitter-stage, and the six of us walked
straight to the conference room.  This time the other two Muscle's
guarded the flitter.  Deliberately, this was to be NY play.

Ignoring protests and queries, the two aides revealing a portion of
their training as they parted the sea of bureaucrats in front of
Yoshi.  He now discovered the negotiating team was still present,
though not in today's conference room.  I think everyone noticed the
new me.

"Good," he proclaimed.  "Tell them the meeting will resume in ten
minutes.  No, make that five."

Once inside the room I stared at the professional Grab's around the
room.  Five to start with, all in dark-green uniform, a variety of
razzer.  As each Minister entered, two obvious personal Grab's
followed.  Arms lifted from the sides of their bodies by the size of
the weapon under their armpit.  Bad placement.  Waist belt or hip
holster is better.  Easier access.

The room was standard Versailles, twenty generations removed. Mirrors,
sprung inlaid wood floors, high windows, ornate gilt long table.
Impressive until you started thinking how many farmer's taxes paid for
all this irrelevant bullshit.

Oddly enough there IS a logic to spending monies on this type of
luxury.  If ostentatious display is not indulged occasionally, most
Earth-norm's don't feel they are dealing with a legitimate government.
They distrust it, and have qualms obeying it.  You figure it out.

At any rate, the Admiral is sitting at the table as everyone trickles
in.  Yeah.  Regal.  Imperial.  Oblivious to all about him.  In the
exact center of one side of the table, flanked by his aides, and
myself standing alongside and behind him.

From the speed of response I would have bet all parties involved had
agents monitoring the Admiral's movements at the hotel. Acquiring
advance warning that the conference was about to recommence.

It was a circus when they came together.  Three top monkey's, and many
under-monkey's, and two guard-dogs to each big monkey.  All attempting
to make points off each other, and the Admiral.  Yoshi? The three
sitting on our side ignored the others present.  For four thousand G a
day he had changed from being employment to "our" ambassador.

The tough old woman, Ursula, the Minister of Justice, she could have
been a TopCroc from the in-control calm she radiated.  She was the
first to ignore the verbal fireworks.  Quietly and silently observing
Yoshi, the aides, and me.  She was amused.

Unexpectedly she stood, walked to me, and took the opportunity of all
the bickering to whisper a question to me, an offer.  Asking if I'd
allow her to do something extremely interesting and decidedly
personal.  Something few people had ever offered to do. At least on a
first date.

She quietly laid one painted fingertip on my arm.  Just for a second,
but her smile for me was the warmest thing in the room. Outside of
myself.  I must have smelled like rut for forty meters in any
direction.

Hello, hello, and haven't I just discovered something damned
interesting about the Minister of Justice!  No wonder Yoshi had only
limited success with his ardent gentleman subroutine.  Not his fault.
Not after what she asked to do for me.

The Minister of Interior, our skeletal white-haired Oriental, was the
next to quiet.  The Snake was already immune to my charms, and lifted
a hand for silence.  Yoshi patiently waited in his chair, ignoring
everyone but Minister Morkeleb.

The Minister indicated me with a long pointed fingernail, then looked
to Yoshi.  "Why?"

"To indicate a new phase to our discussions," he purred.  "For far too
long you have lied to me, obstructed me, and my aides.  You blew vapor
in my ears.  This will now cease.

"You have practiced dominating games, confusion games, attempting to
cow me and my party, so I would be more accessible to your lies."

The Admiral touched his ear in signal, and I lifted a (splendid!) leg,
to rest it on the edge of Yoshi's arm rest.  Everyone at the table got
a marvelous view of my crotch and those fantastic sexy black panties.
As well as the needler.

One of the aides opposite actually became bug-eyed staring.  He really
should control his blood-pressure better.

"Those games will now cease.  New ones have commenced," he proclaimed.
"As an indicator of changes, from this moment forward outward indices
will be seen to be in effect.

"For starters, from this moment the only armed bodyguard in any
negotiating room will be mine.  No more will your Arms, your Grab's,
razzers, whatever, no more will I allow them into any negotiating
session.  I am weary of living under the unspoken threats of your
private armies."

Buzzing came from them like a nest of hornets with the first whiff of
smoke.  I stood up, and walked around the table, letting my hand
linger on the kinky hair of the bug-eyed aide on that side.

"Let me explain why things must alter," Yoshi continued.

"As presently constituted, my mission must end in total failure. As
the truths are not forthcoming, I must respectfully decline to
recommend Miseroe for admission to the UFP.  For lack of reliable
data, I must assume reasons for a cover-up.

"Ergo, no admission, with no reason given.  Which would probably be
the beginning of a discreet data-search by the UFP, including covert
agents and spy-sky surveillance's.  For between ten to twenty, maybe
even thirty years such a unhappy situation might continue.  Until we
would either admit you, or be able to state what changes must be made,
IF ANY, before admission could be granted.  Possibly fifty years, if
any harm comes to myself or my aides.

"Are you willing to wait fifty years?

"Therefore it is to your own benefit that I learn now those
embarrassing little secrets you are afraid might halt your admission.
As is, you are denied.  Believe it.  You will be rejected, if tomorrow
your nomination reached the negotiators on Parliament.  Therefore, you
lose nothing by talking to us frankly.

"I know nothing about your worries.  And frankly, I don't give a damn,
to quote one gentleman in an old flat-vid.  I am not here to pass
judgment.  Merely recommend.  Or sign treaties.  What should worry all
here is that we might stall, and you will have to waste one, or
possibly two, generations in futile secrets.

"Your choice.  I'm here, and the rules are changed.  Learn to live
with that.  Proceed from that point."

There was dead silence, only the Minister of Justice, Ursula, looked
happy.  As if her own position had been vindicated.  Which it probably
had.  Her legs were crossed, and one foot kept a swift beat
throughout.  Her eyes followed me carefully, and she seemed the only
one to notice I had gotten behind everyone else at the table.

"Tasha, darling," Yoshi silkily crooned, "disarm these muscular armed
guard gentlemen and send them on their way, will you? Please?  Do be a
nice group of gentlemen and leave us now?"

By the time they turned to look at me, I had both slug-throwers drawn,
safeties off, and the four immediate civilian-dressed Grabs covered.

The two with the Minister of Justice took their cue from her, and
placed their Klingon disrupters on the conference table.  I knew they
had more weaponry, but they didn't appear the threat.  The old
Crocodile, she had them on a tight rein, and she was mutely backing
the Admiral's game plan.

The other four bodyguards nearest to me, they were the problem. The
uniformed razzers would wait for a clear order before interfering in
an interior struggle.  I hoped.

My back felt damned naked.  It'd be too easy for some asshole to pull
his piece, and things to race out of control.  To the Admiral it was a
move in an ultimate game of Go.  Fuck that.

This TotalSex outfit was affecting my judgment.  I WAS this super-sexy
hired gun.  All or nothing.  What the hell.  No one lives forever.
These Grab's were loosing their pieces, or there'd be blood ankle-deep
around this table.  DAMN!!!!  I was really flying a millimeter of the
deck.  To say I'd become a loose cannon would be to understate the
circumstances.

The Interior Minister's two bodyguard's were the dangerous ones. They
had that look of having other people's blood on their hands, and it
hadn't particularly bothered them.  They'd never been the one
bleeding, they'd always been the shooter.  It showed in their eyes, in
their arrogance.  Which made them the dangerous ones.

Sure enough, when things got dill, those two didn't wait for a word
from their boss.  The taller one reached for something on his waist
(Surprise!  Surprise!  I hadn't noticed him wearing a piece there).
Indicating his main weapon was NOT the large device in his armpit.
The other was crouching and spinning.  His hand already drawing
something major from his armpit holster.

As his armed hand cleared his jacket, I put a slug through his thigh
at approximately twenty millimeters distance.  This blew his leg out
from under him, and HIS disrupter went skittering under the table.
The other one turned into the barrel of my other slug-thrower, and
went totally white in the face as I put a slug into his knee.  He also
fell down suddenly, his disrupter flying feet away.  Snake froze in
position.  Very wise of him.  I had been going to dink him next,
judging him the most serious threat. Everyone else was standing in
place, wondering what the hell they should do.

After a pause, the Ministers indicated compliance.  Even the Ferret
knew he was in danger if weapons started discharging. Prudent move.  I
would have purposefully dinked him and Spider if I knew I was going
down.

In a minute's time the table had an interesting collection of
disrupters and Angstrom's, and two of the razzers were dragging the
wounded bodyguards out of the room.  They smelt of blood and emptied
bowels.

Their convalescence would probably last a minute or two once the good
medico's got to them.  Yet as a professional courtesy I'd have to send
a get-well card to each.  It would be expected.

Nothing personal, buddy.  And never, never, never underestimate the
female of the species.  Oh, yes, and remember the pain next time you
plan to dink someone.

Once the room was cleared of bodyguard's I stood behind Yoshi's chair,
attempting to appear bored.  Two Razzer's collected the assortment of
lethalities on the fancy and now scratched table.  I gave Yoshi a kiss
on the top of his head, where he was losing his hair fastest, and a
proprietary caress of his neck.  He ignored both, as if either were
indeed his proper due.  My blood was almost a vapor, I was so worked
up.

Obviously Yoshi supported me, therefore I smiled my most evil grin at
them (with my jaw-shot scars my grin was as evil as a grin can get).

Yoshi ignored their ministerial complaints.  The diplomats attitudes
towards the Admiral had to change, now.  They also accepted us as a
matched pair.  A nasty and frighteningly unpredictable matched pair.
No doubt all assumed we were lovers, me the muscle, he the brains.
The two of us were menace incarnate.  That particular image appealed
to me as well.  It made me feel sexy, wanted, powerful, hot in my
crotch.  A great aphrodisiac, that's power.

The Minister of Justice assumed no such thing, and continually tried
to catch my eye.  Sex with that old harridan, as hot as I felt, would
have melted both of us down to our component long-chain molecules.

But not now, not while on the job.

The others at the table never had a chance against the four of us,
Yoshi and I, and the two hard-eyed aides at his elbows.  They were
completely outclassed.  I'd seen them holding weapons, un-holstered,
underneath the table's edge.  If I had to take a bet, I'd have said
they had Snake and Ferret targeted.

It was amazing how well Yoshi had read the government on Miseroe. From
that day forward I was the only (officially) armed person allowed into
the conferences.  Ursula's guards were always discreetly armed, but
her I wasn't worried about.  The guards stood against the 'back row.
Eyeing their fellow Miseroe muscle. The costume for myself altered
every day, but black leather was always a part of it.

Hell, it was the tax payer's money.

When approached on the matter of me souveniring my new wardrobe, Yoshi
was glad to allow me to luggage everything.  "Go ahead," he laughed.
"It doesn't fit me, so It's yours now, take it all with you."

The permutations of my new overtly deadly and sexy persona would go
with me when we went off-planet.  Somewhere, on some planet, some room
or bar full of dykes was going to experience the new more extreme me.
Hot damn!  Or maybe I'd try a man instead.  It was going to be an
interesting experience in any case.

If I lived that long.  It didn't take a Betazoid to tell me the
Ferret, the Spider and the Snake now hated my guts.  They had been
caught trying to pull a Potemkin Village on the Admiral, a charade.
Both would have gladly turned my guts into cat snacks. It wasn't their
fault for trying their trickery, it was mine and Yoshi's for
discovering it.  It's never their fault.

The Justice Minister, Ursula, she was not on their list of friends to
be rewarded, either.  At least she had her own protections.

Other troubles...  Unfortunately Yoshi was revealing a side to himself
not in keeping with his stern diplomat persona, nor his previous happy
hedonist facade.  It wasn't comforting, being near him now.

For that matter I'd spent an hour that night shaking, a reaction to
the near-thing I finally realized that meeting had been.  Then
frantically masturbating for another hour.  Oh, the rush of all that
power!  It wasn't comforting being near myself, either.  I would have
enjoyed myself tremendously, if I had to kill again.

As for Miseroe, it eventually admitted a number of practices which it
tried not to admit were naked theft and slavery.  An old story. They
did it at the beginning out of necessity, and it became
institutionalized belief. The right thing to do.

In the initial pioneering stage, to develop needed centralized
facilities, labor was needed.  Criminals were used, but there weren't
enough.  They'd developed a system of couvee, where everyone had to
pay a tax of labor to the State.  Simultaneously their laws were also
broadened to increase the number of criminals for use as raw labor.
Inevitably this labor also became channeled into use for the benefit
of a privileged few.  Those enterprises deemed 'essential' to the good
of the state received this slave labor.

Losses, attrition, in 'criminals' now averaged approximately nine to
eleven percent a year, according to Ursula.  The Ferret did not
appreciate her volunteering that nugget of information.  And sentences
tended to be long.  You might survive your jail sentence, maybe not.
Misdemeanors might become death sentences for shop-lifting and cursing
your boss.

You do the math.  If ten percent of your convict labor force dies each
year, a ten-year sentence leaves you.....dead.

Forced labor drafts also meant workers ran away who were liable for
'community service'.  All the poorer citizens were liable, while the
better classes were never liable.  It also meant gender imbalance,
with so many young men running to the wilder lands.

It was a system of slavery, peonage, worst than the old Middle Ages on
Old Terra.  For the overlords of that time owed a return duty to their
serfs, a duty of protection and laws, however capricious.

As for the rest of the planet, well, a large frontier class had
developed which was totally alienated from the expanding governmental
apparatus.  Only a sixth or seventh of total population, but
essentially controlling half of this planet's surface.  The 'Outers'
didn't record births or deaths, or damned much else, with the central
government.

Deaths were commonplace in the interface zone between cultures. It was
what we termed a low-intensity war in the Legion.  Razzers came
looking for labor, and the labor tried not to be captured. An Angstrom
wafer in the head tended to cool official ardor.

More and greater profits and power were available to a minority or
clique, if they only were ruthless enough.  Everyone else stayed on
the edge of survival.  Volatile.

I felt like telling these fools my own experiences, but knew they
would never listen.  Each planet was different, they would claim. I
would state they were creating trouble for themselves down the stream,
and they would ignore me.  Of course, as a trooper in the Legion, I'd
been one of those paid well to pull their cojones out of fires they'd
themselves set.

Trickery, exploitation, it can work for centuries, or millennia. It
could survive forever, or next to forever.  Humans can accustom
themselves to the most terrible of conditions.  As illustration, look
at the Legion.  Life hung by a thread, with terrible conditions.  Yet
few deserted.

But peonage might result in a populace lacking loyalty or common
sense.  They can be a tinder, susceptible to a hot spark, and there
were many in the galaxy willing to be a spark.  Their 'Wild' planetary
neighbors were just such a spark.  The more the Central Government
attempted to destroy the frontier element, the more desperate and
cunning it became.

Additionally, if there is no mechanism for change, still change will
come.  Periodically it can turn violent.  Then you call for the
Legion, and the blood flows like a river in flood.

I'd seen it on a dozen planets, but responsible and knowledgeable
people never believe it will happen to them.  Their ways are a
reasonable response to difficult conditions.

Eventually Yoshi had to admit to the aides and I how he could never
recommend their admission under the present systems.  Too unstable.
The old woman was in favor of change, at least for dropping their
couvee, their labor tax.  She was trying to trigger change by using
Yoshi's complaints as a pivot.

Hell, just turn 'em loose, she said, it was a frontier planet. Their
second largest continent didn't have four thousand people on it.
Things would eventually get done.  Towns, farms, families would
ultimately turn all the 'Outers" into pillars of society. However, she
was only one of several in the oligarchy, and she fumed and fretted to
no avail.  As did Yoshi.  There is no one so rigid as someone
defending a pattern of behavior deemed a rational and proper way of
life.  And wanting all things to remain under their control.

As for Yoshi, he had won his gamble.  And regretted it.  From his
avoidance of me after the shoot-out, I think he realized just how far
I might have gone.  I didn't like me much either.

Would I have killed?  Hell yes.

Everyone in that room realized how close I had been to insanity. It
disturbed me to think of how close chaos had come.

I had been a weapon awaiting a pull on my trigger.  It was a nasty
revelation, one guaranteed to make my mind rattle.  I talk different,
of logic, reason, coolness in the dill.  But it had excited me to be
primed to kill.  Despite my many past resolves I realized it might
never leave me.  The flush, the excitement at the moment of death.  It
was my darkest side.

Yoshi never took back any of his words of support, but he was unhappy
to realize the unpleasant alternates.  He was saddened, and attempted
not to be mad at me.  I had been the loaded weapon, and his the finger
on the trigger.

He was angry with himself for putting me in a position where others
might have died.  His game had just been another game, on one level,
and it had worked.  Only the two ass holes had been hurt.  But games
where people got shot or killed weren't quite the same as a Stratagema
match.

Being military had never made him view life losses as necessary.

---

Next morning I waited in vain, in the main room, for him to exit in
his white suit, waited for the morning combat game.  He stayed hidden.
He was blaming me.

Dammit,  I wanted to be more than a piece of meat that kills.

If necessary, I would re-enact that scenario, begin pulling that
trigger and not stop this side of life.  Hell, it was predicted by
that old seer I would die four times.  Three to go.

But now I had the leisure of wondering if it would have been
necessary.  Alternatives?  Second-guessing myself, and Yoshi.

After an hour of dispirited limbering exercises, I gave it up,
showered and changed.  Yoshi pouted in his own room, worried,
plotted...  I don't know.

Carolita personally led the morning CombTeam, noted my depression, and
pulled me aside for questioning.

It was short, but fairly thorough.  She'd heard about the shoot-out at
the Presidential Palace, yet attempted to restrain her curiosity.  I
didn't have to tell her about my bonuses and Yoshi's offer to lift me,
all of us, off-planet at the termination of contract.  She already
knew about it.  Yoshi had spent more UFP money buying my contract.
Probably more than it was worth, but he was spending other people's
money.  That sort of money is always spent easily.

Carolita did two additional things.  She held me, trying to be another
woman, a friend if I needed it.  She might have suspected Yoshi's new
distant attitude towards me.  Seen the confusions in me, the unwanted
closeness I was feeling for the Admiral.  For a straight gal she could
be quite perceptive.

And she brought a new woman on corridor guard.

She introduced us, and I realized Carolita had brought an older woman
onto the Admiral's team.  Just for me.

Two short black braids bumped this woman's collar, accentuating her
every movement.   She had a large upside-down double-bited axe, a
labrys, tattooed below one ear.  She smelled of salty ocean breezes,
and touched one of my face scars, never losing her smile. She liked
what she saw, obviously, when she saw me.  Carla, called La Candace by
her friends, she said.  And lovers.

A small present, from Carolita, to me.  The gray in her hair gave
Carla a wise look, and she deliberately walked slow for me so I could
see her move.  She bent for me, making eye contact.  She moved smooth,
had a nice sweet backside, and her eyes crinkled when she chuckled.

That must have been one hell of a bonus Yoshi paid.

All the protection team members lived at the hotel now.  Including
Carla.  The Admiral's Aides stayed in two rooms opposite the Main
Suite.  The other two Suite's were partitioned for the growing numbers
of Black Star personnel.  Carla let me see how smoothly she handled
her DxG machine-gun, flaunting muscles hidden under shirt-sleeves.

She let me know shift-change was due shortly.  She let me know many
things.  She was Croc, but nothing religious.  I think she was telling
me I could be the Daddy if I wanted.  Or I was imagining a lot of
things.

The thought kept nagging at me.  Her unsaid logic.  Forget the
Admiral.  Don't look for love anyplace but.....here.  With her. Or
simply have some innocent lust.

Yoshi and I had a separate but physically together dinner.  He quickly
retired to his room, so I cleaned and oiled my weaponry. A little
light music on the Voxer, Schemm-A'Hel, NoDreams and
BurgundySugarPatch, first album.  Unable to not think of the smile in
the dorm down the hall.  In the end I finished my nightly work,
looking at nothing.  Leaning against the daybed, listening.  Until I
rose and went to my room.

When I was naked I looked at myself for the first time in many days.
Wishing I had someone to go back to.  Knowing La Candace was down the
hall.  Wondering what to wear.

In the end I put on a long gray-black semi-transparent blouse, open.
Show off the goodies.

In the end I put on one of the black unders with the angel's face and
bows.  In the end I put on my green robe.  In the end I moved to the
hall door.  In the end I knew I would do whatever Carla needed me to
do.  I was femme, now, and she could be Daddy. Keeping two wardrobes,
one for Croc, one femme, damn but that cost money.

I opened the door, and it was like in a romantic HoloDrama on the Vid.
Carla stood there, one hand raised.  Ready to knock on the Admiral's
door, my door.  The other holding a red tulip.  The tulip threw me
until I remembered they had planter boxes, back on the ground floors
of this hotel.

She looked down at me, and I'm not a small woman.  I stared at her
nipples underneath her man's white T-shirt.  She noticed my gaze and
we both watched them swell.  I let the green robe fall open and
reached for the tulip.  At first she didn't want to let it go.

"Would you like to come in?  Please?"  In the hall the Beta shift
guard blew me a kiss and I smiled and replied with a finger in the
air.  As La Candace passed me, she caressed my young flat belly with
the flat of her hand, looking at me.  I fondled her neck, smiling,
finally looking forward to this night.

With the door closed we kissed, soft, moaning, but not searching. Yet.
Carla, Carla, La Candace....  She mumbled my name. finding my breasts
once my robe and blouse were open.

"Carla...." I whispered.  Her fingers were already caressing my sex
through that lovely angel's face.  "I want a woman's kisses....it's
been so long, there, please."  Grabbing her hand, immobilizing it.
Carla grinned wide.

"My pleasure," she chuckled.

"Wrong," I giggled.  "Mine."  My hands slid down her shoulders and her
arms as I flowed down her.  I leaned back, giggling, holding on to her
hands.  Pulling her down.  My hands to my hips, pulling my under's
off, waiting for Carla.  What a lovely name.

"Now?" she asked.  "Here?"  Kneeling in front of me.  I scooted
backward, already anticipating her and our pleasures.

"Yes," I hissed.  "Here.  Now.  Please, don't make me wait...." Lying
between my opened thighs.  smiling at me.  Moving to kiss the insides
of my thighs.  Enjoying me.  Murmuring words that said she adored the
way I tasted, the way my skin reacted to her roaming fingertips, the
scent of my pubic hairs.

The rich creaminess as I had my first come on her loving tongue.

---

In the morning La Candace arose first, and after a rousing dual
morning sexual wake-up call, we lay spent, side by side.  It was sweet
finding a girl who was tall enough for us to luxuriously lay mouth to
groin without having to struggle to find our mutual enjoyment point.
After a night of comes. La Candace tasted better than ever.  Now,
though relaxed, our mouths were busy in the other's sex again.

Slow.  Gentle.  No hurry.  It came on slowly for me, long waves
building higher over time, each spark anticipated and savored as we
nuzzled at the other.  We came together.  Last night had been fire.
This was warmth.  Finally we had to leave my bed.  We washed and
dressed, touching continually.  Pleasures.

When La Candace left the suite the Admiral's door was still closed.  I
would have liked displaying my new best girl to him. Carla and I
kissed at the door, long and probing.  Gamma shift already leaving the
hall.  We lingered in order to let them all know me and Carla had most
definitely been together last night. Showing off.  Hey!  Look here,
guys!  Look at my new gal!

Carolita was there also, smiling, pointedly not noticing the pair La
Candace and I made.  Passing out breakfast trays, asking me how was my
night.  I patted her on her ass and she turned to me. Almost
straight-faced.  Not quite smiling.  Pleased I was feeling better.

Inside the suite this morning was a repeat of the last.  Irritated me
waiting in vain for the morning battle, exercises, with the Admiral.
Feeling like a fool for not inviting La Candace to share a breakfast
with me.  Make it obvious to the Admiral, if he noticed, that some of
us knew how to relieve tension.  Carla had been inside with me last
night, and we hadn't been playing Stratagema.  Probably invite her to
my bed again tonight.  So there!

We weren't making lies about love here.  She was fun, and I was the
same to her.  But it wasn't love.  We'd make lust again when we had
returned from negotiations.  It was so simple.  End of shift, a touch
on her arm, and the dance, the conflict that always ended with two
winners.  Me and my lover.

Wondering why I hadn't leapt at the opportunity for a little friendly
sex before.  Be just another encounter in the night.

Yoshi came out, sullen, taciturn.  Fuck you.

Not saying much over a mutual breakfast.  Not noticing my smile and my
easing of personal tension.  Time to go again, play snarl at the Tarq.

La Candace took the initiative as I passed her.  She held my arm and
reeled me into her arms.  It wasn't a lust thing.  She was just being
a woman with another.  She didn't know why I was troubled again.  Just
the result.  We said nothing while she held me, her head against my
neck.  Making me feel nice.

"I'll be here when you want to come back.  I have some Kiwi-Orange
juice and we can just sit out here in the corridor and talk.  Just
talk.  Talking always helps."

Then she let me go and gently indicated I was to go on.  For now.

After the day's negotiations at the Palace, we came home to the hotel
and had a cold supper.  Holding eyes down, during supper at our little
table, Yoshi leaned back in his spindly chair.  Eyes downcast, he
shook his head, and lifted his eyes to mine.

"Tomu dachi," he began.  First time he ever called me a friend. "Eli a
hohonu keia lua," he continued.  "I've dug a very deep hole, and put
you in it."  Staring at the wall instead of me.

"You did nothing but what I asked of you, and it is time to reach back
to you.  E wehe i ka puka, we must talk.

"No one died that afternoon, and I am glad.  It broke loose
negotiations, and as such was a correct move.  Yet it could have been
quite costly.  To you.  It could have cost you your life, and for that
selfish disregard, I owe you much.  Worse, perhaps, it might have
caused you to kill."

He stared at me, perhaps he fought sadness, fatigue, fear.  "You once
mentioned Candia, and I found a reference to you, and your fire-team."
A hand reached to mine.

"You've suffered enough, I think, but others wished to execute you
all.

"Are any still alive beside yourself?"  Yeah, right, like we exchange
messages via subspace radio.

"I don't know," I replied.  "We all scattered after our courts-
martials.  One, I know for sure, was assassinated by kin from Candia."

With a shrug of my shoulders I let go of that line of conversation.
We all die.  Some sooner than others.

Once Yoshi and I began apologizing to each other, it was comical.

First I apologized to him, then he apologized to me, then me, then
him, and so on.  We competed in being more sorry than the other, until
we were glaring at each other, nose to nose.

We had been trying to blame each other, now we attempted to surpass
each other in blaming ourselves.  Eventually a strange look came to
his face, and he reached out to touch my short hair.

"Such a lovely shade," he whispered.  "There is a quick-grow birch
adapted to Hawaii, the inside of its bark is exactly that shade, or
shades.  Honey, textured blond, brown, cream, gold.  It has a soft
fragile texture, much like the feel of your soft cheek."

Closing my eyes, I leaned into the caress, much as a cat might. He
could have had me for a word, or another caress.  Most men would have
murdered for an encounter with a beautiful lesbian. Allow me to know
whether or not I'm beautiful, even with the cheek scars.  He must have
known of the possibility, but simply stood straighter, then bowed.

"You did what I asked of you, Tasha," he flatly stated.  "To blame you
for what might have been is both stupid and without honor. Such should
not be what an Admiral of Starfleet does, we should be far above such
errors.

"You have performed admirably, and I thank you for your forbearance,
and patience with a grumpy old fool."  He bowed again, then retired.
At the doorway he spoke again.

"You are one beautiful young woman, Tasha, and most of your beauty is
inside.  Whoever receives your love is a very lucky person."

Then he was hidden, the door closed.  One of my hands was still
raised, reaching out to him.  My heart jerked unevenly.  He hadn't
even been referring to La Candace.

Allah, I wish I could keep my head straight about which person or sex
I was going to get hot flashes over next.

It was an honor thing, I knew.  Memories tittered inside me of another
human male who had the ability to become tied in knots by his Japanese
honor at the damnedest moments.  The Admiral had lost face, by risking
my honor and life.  In treating me badly, in admitting it to my face.
Hawaiian he might be, part of him remained Japanese.  Yoshi's not
touching me, loving me, was a self-punishment of his own devising.
Damn, damn, damn...

It felt very lonely inside me, not beautiful.  He'd turned from me,
and I wondered what he had learned in his inquiries.  If he knew I had
been a whore, or an assassin.  Or if it was my jaw-shot scars that
turned him away.  If the fault lay in me.

It was going to be another night with roiled stomach.  If I wasn't
such a putz haymisheh...  Long lanky La Candace waited outside the
apartment door.  Maybe I'll sit with her and talk.  Then kiss. Later.

Duty won over the urge to cry.  I spread out every item of personal
equipment on the floor and day-bed, put on a fresh pair of cloth
pants, sat down on the floor with tools, cleaning fluids, rags, and
oil.  It would help to pass the time.

CombTeam would get the ignored supper when they came in tomorrow.
Ankle under each thigh, mind ignoring my reality, work to be done.
Something to spend the late afternoon doing.  Angstroms first, then
the slug-throwers.  La Candace would be free by seventeen hundred.
I'll message her.

Carefully I put each Angstrom in its holster once it was cleaned, then
inspected its rolls of plastic wafers.  Inspect, oil, return the
knives to their sheaths.  Turn to the slug-throwers.

First the Suomi.  Disassembly, clean, oil, reassembly, check the
action, turn to the magazines.  A hint of oil to the holster. Bullets
out of the magazine, clean, replace in magazine.  Slide a magazine in,
chamber, safety, holster.

The Nambu lay in my hands, firm, solid, and images came to me. Then I
stripped it, warming to the memories tied to this one. Fear and love
and more regrets.  Plus a few good remembrances.

The main-spring was compressing for insertion when Yoshi came back
into the room.  One look at him, then back to my craft.  Whatever he
had come back for, it wasn't my body.  Yoshi walked in without his
usual banty-cock walk.  This was something serious.

He sat tailor-fashion opposite me, wearing those funny slippers with
the big toe separated from the rest of the foot.  I cleaned bullets,
smooth and efficient, returning them to magazines, not looking up.
Waiting for Yoshi to say what he would.

"Ursula is dead."  He had to mean the Justice Minister. Unadorned,
bare.  For long seconds I froze, then I inserted a loaded magazine
into the Nambu.  Always, without fail, when blood is high amongst men,
women are the ones who die.

"How did it happen?"

"Accident, they say.  Flitter malfunction, no survivors, not two
klicks from the Palace."

"Mechanics,?" I asked.

"Exactly.  My feelings also.  Arranged accident, professional
assassination.  Power struggle, revenge, realignments, who the hell
knows?  If there can be no UFP membership, some are going to lash out,
blaming others.  They must know they will be denied."

A pause, my head down.  Then I resumed cleaning the bullets. "Blaming
the outsiders who denied them membership?"

"A strong possibility," Yoshi noted.  "Which is why I'm here now,
instead of waiting for the morrow.  Precautions will need to be taken.
Tonight."

I must not cry.  Ursula would not have cried for me.  I didn't know
her, but she would have went on.  She would have given me honor by
continuing.  It's what women do best.  We go on.

"Ua make oia, Tasha," Yoshi breathed.  "She is gone.  It is up to us
to continue."  His hand stroked the air in front of him, as if feeling
an invisible face.  "I wish I'd had more time to know her. She would
have been interesting.  Do you feel this?"

Silence.  Then: "They who sow in tears / Shall reap in joy."  The
closest thing I could come to a prayer.  More of a farewell than many
people I've known ever received.

Yoshi was alongside me, and my cheeks were wet.  "They all die, you
know.  They all die.  Why do they do that?  Don't they know I want
them to stay?"  The rage came on me, my white-fired rage, and my teeth
hurt from the power with which I gritted them.

"They all go away," dismay and anger thick in my voice, "it's not
fair, they go away, they leave me.  It's not fair, they don't love me,
or they wouldn't go away like that, they all go away.  They fuck me a
few times, they make me love them, and then they all go away..."

It was just quiet tears after that.  Yoshi held me close, patting my
shoulder, trying to comfort.  Eventually he got me to talk a little,
to let flow the puss from one of the wounds in my soul, one which
still bled.

"You aren't crying for Ursula," the Admiral stated.  Shake of the
head.  "Who?"

"Her name was Imke, and the top of her head came up to my chin. We
were both prosties, whores, she a year younger.  She was fourteen when
first we met.

"Curly blond hair, real blond, not like this stupid mixture I have.
Her nose was broken, and never fixed, and she had gaps in her teeth.
Could eat like an ox and drink like an eel.  She was my woman.

"She could remember nothing about her parents, just a succession of
pimps from her early childhood on.  Just like me.  Hell, her earliest
pimps might have been her parents.

"She was tone-deaf, had the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen, and
eyebrows almost white.  Too thin and skinny to look dangerous.

"We almost fought over whoring territory when first we met.  Just a
stretch of oily street with a series of bars and restaurants. It was
her territory, and I wanted to work it.

Instead Imke had me, cranked me, on a soft pile of trash behind a dyes
factory.  It took weeks for an orange and purple stain to fade from my
ass.  After that we were lovers, myself the Crocodile, she the
Madchen.

"For a few months I was her player, her whoring paying for our living.
She, myself, and my little sister Ishara.  We had a few happy months
until I had to kill her old pimp.

"The fool had gotten his nose slit by me for his trouble the last time
he tried to separate me from his prostie.  He'd resented my taking
Imke from him, or rather Imke's wages.  Too bad.  Few of us get what
we want out of life.  The next time he came at me from behind, meaning
to kill me, and I had to kill him.

"It developed he was a target, an Alliance grunt, and the Coalition
paid me a reward equal to more than two week's of Imke's earnings as a
whore.  A discreet inquiry, and I was pointed in the direction of
another Alliance adherent, due to be dinked.

"In a year's time I couldn't remember how many people Imke and I had
dinked.  Mostly men.  None of us liked men anymore. Especially Ishara.
We'd known too many of them too well for too long.  I even persuaded
my sister Ishara to kill.  It was good money.  Easy, at first."
Dry-eyed, I looked to Yoshi.

"Not very beautiful inside me, now, is it?"

He just continued petting my head, letting me lean against him. "There
is more."  Not a question.

"I left the Coalition, but I'd done their work, and now they owned me.
The reasons for leaving, they don't matter a great deal now." A shake
of my head.  "Would you believe I had grown weary of killing?  I
escaped, eventually, into the Legion.  Where I killed.

"My sister was left with someone, more women of the Mother Church, and
Imke was cut loose.  We fought, I thought she would find someone else.
I hoped she would, but it didn't matter if she did or not.  I had to
flee, from myself as much as the Coalition or anyone else.  You can
only travel far and fast if you travel light, if you travel alone.  So
we fought, and I sent her away, and I tried to hide my sister.  Then
myself.

"It didn't work.  They eventually found me again.  Maybe they found
Ishara also.  Probably.  If so, it doesn't matter now.

"Turkana had itself a burning, not long after I left with the Legion.
Nukes, planet burners, nerve flash, the works.  I wonder sometimes
which side thought it had won.  So much for little sister, or Imke, if
either had lived that long."

Hollow, nothing inside, nothing left.  They all left me because there
was nothing left inside me worth loving.

"Imke..."  How to say this?

"She still loved me.  Still, she had to realize I had sent her away.
Still, despite everything."  When the real world penetrated that rural
convent, ah, what terrible news it brought.

"The day I fled, Imke went back to the Cap, our contact, almost-Boss,
whatever, over in Vanau Luva.

"I think she meant to hide my tracks.  Well, she confused things for a
while.

"She shot Cap and his two Lieutenants.  Walked in, this innocent
little assassin and no one thought she would dink her bosses in their
own headquarters.  Skinny little whore.  Must have used the Angstrom.
Not much left of them, evidently."

"She died, of course.  Then and there, I hope, by his bodyguards. She
must have thought she was buying me time to get away, time to hide.
Hah.

"They found me anywise.  It was for nothing."

There should be a great sorrow now.  I felt guilty because I couldn't
give it.  She was gone, and no amount of ashes and sackcloth would
matter to her.  Reap in joy...  That was all.

We all die.  What to say then?  Already she was becoming dim in my
memory.  Except....

She had nothing to her, she was just what she was.  The men, they
would say she was a cheap whore with bad teeth.  Foolish, stupid,
doing what she did.  For me.  I wasn't worth it.

Why then did I remember the way she liked to rub her head against my
neck like a blond cat?  Her body, her loving, it didn't seem like
anything special, not now.  But she was my woman, and I could do
anything I wished with her, to her.  For her.  She was constantly
touching me, for reassurance.  When we went to sleep she would back
into the curve of my bigger body and drape my hand on her hip or
belly.

Just a stupid whore who got herself killed.  They who sow in tears...

Yoshi carefully raised himself, and went to the replicator.  He
ordered two Green Soap's, the local cheap beer.  Surprised he even
knew the crud.  If he drank beer I would have expected Leatherback or
Rajah.  Something fancy, off-planet.  It came to me that Green Soap
was probably considered a fancy beer somewhere.  It came from
off-planet, right?  Maybe it tasted better coming off a replicator at
Guilder eight a plastibottle.

"To Imke," he said.  He handed me one, and I drank.  To Imke.

Not my usual stim, but he was buying.  Nope.  It tasted as lousy via
replication as it did fresh.  I don't think the Emissary drank much
beer.

"We wrap the talks tomorrow, no more use to them.  I've got to
recommend denial of application, because of chronic instability, and
probable civil war in the near future."

Comradeship, that's what we were having.  Together on the floor,
having a beer together.  Wish it had been better beer.

Wondered what the Admiral's plans were for after Miseroe.

Visit his daughters, maybe get a field command, some vessel or base
where an aging Hawaiian strategist would be useful.

The TRIESTE was due Monday, I'd never been on a Starfleet vessel
before.  See the galaxy.  Risa.  Terra.

We would part, he to Parliament, Babel, me to...wherever.  Maybe Earth
after all.  On the TRIESTE he would be the honored guest, and I was
due to become baggage again.  We were about to part.

Would miss him.  His pacing at odd hours of the night.  I would hear
him in his room, muttering, probably swinging his hands.  I'd even
miss the way he would grit his teeth and grimace as he'd near the
limit of his strength in his push-ups.  Mustn't appear weak with the
almost-pretty female watching.

He could cuss in Japanese, but for never longer than fifty seconds.
An Officer and Gentleman had restraints, he said.  Fifty seconds is as
long as anyone should have to cuss.  More and it loses its potency.

We were sitting together, backs against the daybed, staring into our
pasts and futures, when he broke the silence.

"I was Captain once of the HALLEY, a survey destroyer, the third of
that name, fourth if you counted the science mission that lived frozen
on the Solarian comet of that name for seventy years.

"They were lucky, those pioneers.  Frozen for all those terrible
years.  Most of them slept through the Gene Wars and the Troubles."

He got up for another.  I shook my head for a refill.  Like I said,
Green Soap was lousy beer.  Thin Pils.  Good for a planet with too
much desert and heat.  I hadn't killed this bottle yet.

"My wife was aboard the HALLEY when we orbited a place called Draconis
Tau Hajj, in the Nereids.  We had a pair of tugged containers in tow,
over four hundred researchers both hot and frozen, and all their gear,
ready to set up shop on the planetary surface.  Fifth from the sun,
and it was undergoing a Davonian period of intense biological frenzy.
As the place's M-class life was a close match to Terra, it was decided
to study its lives for all the usual reasons of research.

"Orbit was achieved, and we unshielded for a few Prelim teams to beam
down."  He took a deep swallow of his beer.  "A piece of interstellar
garbage chose that moment to hit our nacelle. Probably came all the
way from the Oort cloud to destroy us.

"Ella, Ella Laifeng, she was a Hawaiian like myself, from Old Earth,
she was Engineering Second, and was in a Jefferies tube in the nacelle
when this rock hit.  The size of a fist, maybe, but when it's velocity
approaches 100,000 k per s, it packs quite a punch.

"The whole ship whipsawed, we lost the Prelim team during
transmission, and the bulkheads closed off the connectors between ship
and nacelle.

"The containment field was going down, and we had to jettison the
matter-antimatter pods.  No choice.

"One problem.  Impact had jammed the bulkhead doors which would have
allowed us to jettison our pods.

"I've taught at the Academy at San Francisco on Earth since then. They
use a holo of what happened to the HALLEY as an exercise in training.
I've had to take cadets and other officers through the simulations,
and I try not to let my hurt show.

"I ordered Ella to blow the bulkhead hatches by hand.  She did so. Six
hundred people were saved, and the ship."

It took a few seconds before it came to me she had perished.  He had
ordered her to her death.  Ella was his wife and he had commanded her
to...  He had ordered her to...

Yoshi was staring ahead, involved in his own Golgotha.  She who would
wear another person's shoes....

The beer was thrown in the replicator disposal.  I called up good
green Starfleet quality Saurian Brandy, proof ninety, and two glasses.
The UFP could afford it.

One for Yoshi, one for myself, we clicked glasses.

"To Ella," I said.

"To Imke," he said.

"To Ursula," I managed.

"To Ishara," he remember my sister's name after all.

"To Yoni," I returned.  His oldest daughter.

"To Iyo," another toast, another small sip of Brandy.  Can't get
slugged, still got a job to do.  Sips, not swallows.

Hesitation, then with a glance to Yoshi.  "To Annie," old wounds in my
voice.  A click of glasses.

"To all the women we have known, wherever they may be," he proposed.

"Here, here."  Silences, as we finished our brandy in small sips.
Remembrances fogging our vision.  I held his hand, hard, for a few
seconds.  Then he poured another dose of brandy, his half full, mine a
wetting of the bottom.  He knew I was still on duty.  Yoshi glanced to
me, a smile changing his face.

"There was a young Vulcan named T'rang "Who always undressed when she
sang.         "Then a Klingon, he caught her,         "Did far more
than he oughter, "And she promptly cried; "Do it again!""

Admirals weren't supposed to know limericks.  A wicked grin came to
me, and Yoshi returned it.  "You ever heard any lesbian limericks?"

""There were two plump sisters from Bajor..."," he began.

"..."All their assets were both quivery and major..."," I returned.
It might turn out to be a good night after all.

I heard the whine as it rose in pitch, that first of all.  Then the
all-too-solid thump as the grenade came through the transport field
and hit against table surface, then bounced to the floor.

"GRENADE!!!!!"

After that a ringing in my ears, and a realization I had pulled the
Admiral to the floor, grasping his body tight to mine, covering his
body with mine.

Before we could recover, the door from his bedroom went sailing,
landing hard enough on my thigh to make me cry out.  Then a third
grenade went off in my bedroom, then in the Admiral's bathroom. There
were thumping noises felt, not heard, from elsewhere on this floor,
and I knew we were under full-fledged assault.  No Mechanics this
time.  No myth of accident or mishap.

I couldn't hear anything but the whining alarms in my ears, not even
what I said to the Admiral.

"Keep your head down!," I yelled, but don't know if he heard me.

The day bed had collapsed, its covers in pieces everywhere.  My arms
wouldn't support me, the first two attempts I made at it.

Then, I started looking around.  I couldn't find a thing at first, not
a single one of the weapons to hand not seconds ago.  Then saw I had
rolled over onto my Nambu, and protected it and its magazines.  The
Brno was lying against the Admiral. His back and legs were scored as
if by a giant bird, a dozen parallel gouges in his legs.  No time for
first aid.  My back and buttocks hurt, but didn't seem to slow me too
bad.  Later the bad pain would start.

Yoshi mouthed something to me, but I pantomimed my lack of hearing,
and handed the Brno to him, with one extra roll of wafers found
sitting upright by my knee.  His hands were shaking, and he didn't
attempt to get to his feet.

A steady vibration was felt through the floor, it might have been the
hotel alarms coming on and staying on.  More thumps were felt, and I
found myself almost falling when I rose to my knees.  I shook my head,
and wiped the blood off my forehead (what wound? Find out later), and
out of my eyes.

They were going to assault immediately, and I must greet them as they
transported, before they became oriented.  Impossible to lean on the
furniture, most of it had been reduced to trash, sticks, dust.  The
grenade had landed in the middle of the room, it had been transported
into the middle of our cleared space.  Yoshi and I had been between
the daybed and the door.  By such thin threads are you saved.

I didn't know if the Admiral was coherent and able to cover my ass, I
hadn't the time to find out.  In the epicenter of the blast the
yellowish sparkling that was a Klingon transporter appeared, and I
stumbled to my feet, Nambu in hand, the four spare magazines I could
find going into the waistband of my pants.

Most large public buildings on any world utilized some cheap
interference-scale force field, nothing fancy, just a locked gate to
discourage amateurs.  These defenses were a joke to a Police or
military system, but were sufficient to set off alarms whenever
penetrated.  There had been no warning, no wailing of alarms before
the first transport, therefore the assassins were already within the
hotel.  Somewhere nearby a Klingon transporter had been assembled, as
well as grenades.

I would send in an assault team, to make sure of the kill.  They
wouldn't rely on anything so chancy as a few grenades to do the job
for them.

A figure in clamshell armor solidified in the yellow haze, and I
closed with it.  My heart hurt it was pounding so hard.  Humanoid,
probably earth-norm, the dull sheen of the collapsed-neutron material
on his white suit giving him an Exo appearance.  A standard black
visor covered his face.  I began firing the Nambu into the join of
neck at point-blank range, less than a millimeter from that seam.
Twice I flinched when ricochets grazed my shooting hand.

Somewhere between chin and shoulder there would be weak points in his
armor, and I meant to find them.  He had a disruptor, and I tried to
wrest it from him as I lurched against him.

I could feel the kick of the pistol as I fired round after round into
his neck seam.  Round after round, until the magazine was empty.  My
thumb released the old one, and my feet kicked us both to the floor.
Not elegant, but sure to buy time.  No easy task to lever sixty-five
kilos of armored suit into an upright position.

As he struggled to shoot me I seated the new magazine by slamming it
against his shoulder.  Roll him to his other side, use that second to
chamber a new round into the Nambu.  He fired constantly, trying to
reach me over my desperate hand.  Ceiling rained down on the pair of
us.  Then more pistol rounds slammed into his neck seam.

Success with the Nambu was announced by the gout of silvery metal and
gore that splashed over my left hand.  The assassin jerked, pulling
his disrupter into continuous fire.  He cut a wide swath in wall and
ceiling as he spasmed.  Quite dead.  A bullet ricocheting inside an
armor helmet was going to make minced meat out of the wearer.

I bent for the disrupter, but found it wouldn't fire for me.  It had
been signatured to the holder, and no one else could fire it until it
had been de-processed.  Signatured weapons could tell if the original
holder was dead or dinked, and might be passing that data to some
hostile InfoNet.

Why the hell hadn't they simply transported a hundred kilos of
chemical explosives here and finished the job in one big bang?

When I went to dig out another magazine for the Nambu, I discovered my
hand had been burnt to the bone, from the metal splatters.  The smell
of burning Natasha now registered in my nostrils, and I shuddered at
the pain suddenly washing me.

Heart racing, nauseated, ignoring my burnt hand, I pulled a magazine
nearer my good hand.  Where would the next assassin be transported?
My hearing was still a loud ringing, but I could think and act, and
stumble in a drunken walk.

A glow, a yellow glow, came from inside what had been the Admiral's
bedroom, and I limped to where that door had been blown out.  As I
stumbled over it, Yoshi crawled to the entry and began firing the Brno
nonstop.  As I reached his position I saw another armored figure
twisting in confusion inside the shredded remains of the suite
bedroom.

Whether Yoshi was hoping to kill this assassin himself, or attempt to
aid me in dispatching this intruder as I had the first, I don't know.
His Angstrom hits were perfect for my purposes, though.

They were hitting the helmet and visor of the assassin, and the Hitter
was almost blind inside his protection so long as stored-charges were
slamming into his helmet InFoNet.

With heat and impact disrupting data input and displays, he was
without knowledge of what was occurring to the world around him.
Unless he had neckjacks, and he wasn't acting like he did.

As the figure swayed and swatted at the charges, I stumbled into the
room with Nambu in hand.  In seconds I had negotiated the wrack of the
bedroom, and was firing into the neck seams of the armored assassin.
At a thousandth of a meter they were stressing the seaming at it's
most vulnerable point.  I stepped back to reload, ignoring the pains,
forcing my hand to clumsily force the new magazine into position.
Seconds were all I had, the assassin was sure to recover and start
blasting in all directions.

Then the barrel of the Nambu was once more against his neck seams. The
Nambu fighting my hold as it was emptied into him.  Finally the
neckflex gave, and I felt the rounds impacting inside the head of the
would-be killer. Empty.

There would be more coming.  The assault was not over yet.  I could
feel it still coming, the worst of times.  I didn't do more than touch
the fallen disrupter.  Signatured.

I'd gotten a ricochet, or maybe melted metal, on my left arm, and I
had to lean against the shattered wall, trying to catch my breath.  I
dropped the blood-slippery magazine, and had to bend to pick it up.
Almost falling, I braced against the wall, trying to find oxygen.
Again, I thought, one more time.  Nambu reloaded by holding it under
one armpit, re-chambered somehow.  Look around.

No doubt about it, this was a fight for my life.  These people meant
to kill us, but they must not be the whole government.  We'd never
have known we'd died, if that.  This smelled of faction against
faction, their aims their own, and damned if I understood.

No time to balance and judge, no time for anything.  Leaning against
the wall I felt a repeating rhythm, and I wondered what it was.  Then
I knew what it had to be.

Someone had an automatic slug-thrower, a machine-gun, and they were
ruining the barrel by firing it at full automatic.  Running one belt
of rounds after another through it in full desperation. Maybe it would
last as long as it was needed to last.

Maybe it was the last defiance of someone fighting for their lives and
losing.  I did not know.  But that it was a slug-thrower meant it was
likely ours.  Experience told me it was a DxG, the vibrations almost
like sound to the fingertips against the wall. I knew it had to be La
Candace.  I knew beyond all doubt.  Saint Barbara guide her, Saints
Sigmund and Albert, protect her, Saint Mitchell, let her win this day,
Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ, let her live, grant her that boon,
full of grace....  Give Carla her life.  I do not ask for mine.
Mother forgive me for I have sinned......

There was nothing I could do to help her, them.  They who sow in tears
shall reap in joy.  Someone earning their pay the hardest way of all.
Time to face my own devils.

Shake my head, clearing my eyes of blood again.  Yoshi was blue of
lips and not a little pale, telling me of loss of blood from wounds
not seen by me.

You got a real fucking Spirit of Bushido, Yoshi, I thought. You're
game for anything.

He wiped his brow of pain-sweat, and held up to me the Suomi with its
glass-and-ceramic bullets.  Two magazines he also held up, and I
placed them in my mouth first, sticking the loaded Nambu in my waist.
The barrel lay dreadfully hot against my belly skin, burning me,
reminding me of its hard use.

The Suomi held at port as I stumbled across the room towards what had
once been my bedroom, and was now a place of possible death. I peeked
in each bathroom as I passed, the water pouring into holes in the
floor.  In the second a disoriented armored figure was halfway through
the floor.  He unlatched his visor to take a peak around.  When he
opened his visor a crack I put a round from the Suomi in his head from
less than a quarter-meter.  Amateur.

Dark yellow sky lit one portion of my bedroom, dusty light from the
main-room lit the other.  Nothing.  I swiveled slowly, noting the
gaping wound to the roof, looking for evil.  Two streaks of light
crossed the small square above, someone was still fighting on the
roof.  That was a Minoan Screwdriver taking flight.

But my ears still told me nothing.  The floor was covered with
flinders of furniture and bedding, the wrack of a grenade in an
enclosed room.

Strips and squares of leather, cloth, a split boot, all added their
share of litter.  My lovely wardrobe, my beautiful, nasty, and sexy
clothes, all trash now.  The grenade must have landed almost next to
my carryall, shredding the contents.  All my lovely clothes.

A ball of yellow-green appeared, and out of it fell a small oblate
sphere with an angry red eye to it.  It's first bounce was between my
feet.  Without thinking I dropped the Suomi and grabbed the grenade
before it's second bounce.  Without slowing I lobbed it through the
rent in the hotel wall.  It had no more cleared then the night turned
red-yellow-purple, and I was knocked on my ass.

I SHOULD be dead.

This time it was not a ringing I heard, but a frenzied whine, rising
and lowering in a buzzing irritation.  My body bounced, and I knew one
or more grenades had gone off elsewhere, shaking the top floor of the
hotel anew.

One eye was not tracking any more, and my forehead felt loose near it
when I ventured to gently touch the area.  Nothing but loose skin
flopping over the eye.  Maybe I had lost it.  Maybe it was okay.
Maybe I was already dead, but didn't know it.

Questions, questions.

Hope the UFP will pay for fixing it.  Don't want a prosthetic. They're
hell, needing to be rolled back in the head each day or night, and
fresh silicon oil squirted into the bezel there.  Would rather have an
organic one.  If they can find a donor.

My headache doubled me up, vomiting onto the floor.  Heave and gag
until there seemed nothing else to bring up.

Despite a hurried search of the cluttered floor, my Suomi, and its
magazines, remained lost.  The air was so thick with dust I had to
feel for them with my one good hand.

Shuddering from the nauseating whine in my head, I pulled the Nambu
from my waist as another transport proceeded within a meter of me.  As
soon as I couldn't see through him anymore, I levered myself into a
squat behind him.  He looked around, and I could see he was holding a
clear plastic Riot shield in front of him.

Portable and cheap, those shields would stop anything short of phaser
fire, but they protected in one direction only.  To the front.  My
first bullet took him in the thigh where it joined the buttock,
underneath the protective Groll vest he was wearing.

He landed on his side like I had kicked his feet out from under him,
and I put the next bullet right into his ear, poking the barrel of the
Nambu around the side of his riot helmet.

The second man was already transported, and I put my first bullet into
his hip just beneath the edge of his armored safety vest.  He fell on
top of his comrade, and I leaned over to put the next into his
forehead.  Four bullets to go.

The third was facing to the side when he transported, ready to shoot
me.  So I put the first round into his arm, the second missed, and the
third bullet went into his knee under the edge of his riot shield.
The fourth went wild, and he was grappling me, the two of us rolling
on the bloody and filthy floor.

He pulled the gun from me and threw it away, not realizing it was
empty.  Then he tried finding his disrupter.

Disoriented, I sought to pull my push-knife from behind my belt. He
smiled at me, I remember it clearly.  I remembered the smile from that
bloody day in the Conference room.

The disrupter was aimed at my head.  He fired it, I think, but it
would not fire.  He had someone else's disrupter, signatured to that
person, not to him.  He went searching in the darkness and the mess,
and I clung to him like a lover, my legs holding me to him.  He found
another disrupter, and twisted to fire it into me. Nothing, it too was
signatured to a dead man.

At that moment I managed to twist, clawed onto him with my one good
hand, knife clutched in slimy fingers.  My little push-knife was
jammed into that point where spine joins the brain, as hard as I could
manage it.  A spray of brains and blood and spinal fluid flew hot over
my hand.

He brushed me away, pulled the knife from his head, and continued
searching for his own disrupter.  By the time he found it, his body
was twitching, and his mouth was drooling uncontrollably.  He pointed
it at me, and I sang my last song to myself to release my ghost to fly
free.

He could not make it fire, he even tried to steady his hand with the
other, but he could not make his fingers squeeze.  He managed to
squeeze a long burst off as he fell to his side.  It tore a huge hole
in the side of a wall opposite, letting in light from somewhere else
in the hotel.  One eye closed before the other, and I think his spirit
had gone wandering before the body had stopped spasming.

I lay panting, not trying to see with my other eye, just bleeding and
resting.  The man who had received my knife in his brain was the man I
had shot that afternoon in the negotiation chambers.  If it meant
anything, I could guess who was responsible for the attack on us, our
suite.

It was so cold in this room.

Shadows moved on the ceiling, and I ignored them.  They were a part of
the world in which I had no more interest.  Hopefully, when someone
found me, they would give me a blanket.  It was so damned cold, my
teeth were chattering.  Someone with a disrupter stood over me, I
moaned and closed my eyes.  My teeth were chattering still when I felt
a hand on my brow.

It must be the priest, come to shrive me.  "Father forgive me, for I
have sinned," I thought.  I was so cold, they should heat the church
during the winter.  But it was a poor church.  Hail Mary, full of
grace, please Mary, Mother of God, have you a blanket for me?

It was a cold winter, and I was so thin, almost twelve years old now,
but skinny, and tall, and it was so cold.

I needed to whore myself tonight, and if I wanted to whore myself, I
must appear cheerful.  The shift-change in this factory must be soon.
The winds were so damned awful cold, so cold, will I ever be warm
again?  If I don't get a customer, Uncle Flit will be mad at me again.
At least I'm growing breasts now.  More men think I'm attractive now.
But it was so bitter cold, my bones ache, and it's so hard trying to
shelter against the door of this building.

Then it became too cold for me to think.

---

Purple darkness burst on me, the pain of it making me hungry, then
panicky.  A liquid flew into my mouth, so salty and sweet, then it was
water, then cloying beer, then water again.  The bright purple
darkness translated into a soft pink scream in my ears, then strobe
flashes of fuzzy brightness.  The intervals lengthened and quickly
merged into a too-bright muzziness behind my right eye.

When my jaws moved and my lips bruised itself against something soft,
I knew I was alive, and coming out of a MedField.  The disorientation
of reality flowing back into a body long ...... dormant, was a price
paid for life.  I'd experienced it before. Light, hearing, the sirrus
of people and machinery, taste as more water was squirted into my
mouth, the foreign bitter smell of a Med facility, the feel of weight,
slight pressure, a blanket.  I could still see only with my right eye.

"A poem for you, Tomu Dachi Yar."  A vague grayness smelling very loud
in my ears, and an orange movement to my left tasted sweet.

Yep.  Confusion of the senses, Med StasisField withdrawal effect.

As the orange taste withdrew, I could feel a hot oiliness in my blood
as the last of the injections worked on me.  I was too hot, too stiff,
it hurt to move, I had a migraine headache, charley horses chased each
other up and down my legs, I needed at least five cold beers in a row
for my mouth, then a liter of lemon juice, but I was alive!

"Made it again," I tried to mumble.  My tongue kept bumping into my
teeth.

Figures to my right, my eyes were coordinating now, to match my
improved hearing.  Thinking hurt, but it was like a plains fire, it
was spreading fast.

"There was an Old Japan poet named Bassho, he lived seven centuries in
our past, and he left something for you.  A poem." The voice
registered, I'd heard it constantly for days.  Yoshi.

"You only live twice: Once when you are born  And once when you look
death in the face."

A terrible hurt on my hand, translated into a soft caress there.

"He was right, wasn't he?  Facing personal annihilation can make you
feel tremendously alive, yes?"  Speak for yourself, Yoshi. Somewhere
between the tenth time you risk your life and the twentieth, all you
do is feel sick fear.  Yoshi was alive as well. Trust him to get
metaphysical.  Metaphysical is a game you play so you can pretend you
have some control over the situation.

A Medico stood over me, her brown eyes catching mine, her hand on mine
under the...blanket.  Med cloth.  She was in Starfleet blue, and I
sighed to feel so safe.  My body relaxed, I was safe.  Safe at last.
Starfleet?  "TRIESTE?"  Has to be.  They weren't due until...  What is
today?

"How long?", I asked.  A tall oriental girl swam into view, and she
smirked at Yoshi, the Admiral.

"Iyo," I exclaimed.  It was the younger daughter, she was wearing
Starfleet yellow, sciences or engineering, I knew.  She laughed,
grabbing the Admiral by his shoulder.  She turned to me, a slender
hand light on my cheek.  Was she was taller than me?  Nice.

"Just lie back, rest, there'll be time for your questions.

"You're on Earth, and you came all the way from Miseroe in a stasis
field aboard the 'TRIESTE'.  It has been nearly fifteen weeks since
you were hurt.  You're at the Katherine Forrest clinic, Oakland,
across the bay from SpaceFleet Academy at San Francisco, Terra."

I touched my left eye, my bandage there, then pulled the sheet up to
my chin.  A quick look showed I was wearing a suit of some sort under
the silvery blanket.  I could feel my toes wriggling against the
weight over them.  I think.

"Am I missing anything?, I asked, touching my eye bandage again.

"The eye is a good match from the donor banks," Yoshi reassured. "It
will take longer to acclimate to it.  No one will ever be able to tell
the difference, believe me.  Especially you."

Iyo leaned close, kissed me on the cheek.  For a second I wondered if
I had a conquest, then realized she was being friendly, that's all.
Straight gals, they keep sending the damnedest signals.

To a questioning look Yoshi cleared his throat and explained.

"Due to the circumstances of the assault on UFP personnel, it was
decided to remove all Black Star personnel off-planet, who wished to
be lifted off Miseroe."  We were all from off-planet, we all wanted
off Miseroe, I recalled.

"Carolita chose to emigrate to Risa, of all places.  She may even get
a conditional entry permit.  They don't allow many emigrants, you
know.  Tourists yes, but not many wanting to make a home there.  They
have to be all ideological hedonists."  Yoshi smiled at Iyo,
continuing.  "Her psyche profile must have been remarkable!"  Dirty
minded old man.

"It's cost a fortune to pay high passage for some back to their homes,
their destinations, but I think it was worth it," Iyo added.  "Their
lives would be in jeopardy on Miseroe, father felt it was only right
they be allowed to escape."  Nice old man.  I could guess who decided
to do this, probably in a warm wash of gratitude at having survived
the assault.

It struck me then.  I was on Earth!

"Carla?", I blurted.  Iyo and Yoshi exchanged a glance.  Ah, she knew
of that aspect of myself.

"The fighting in the corridor was very close," he began, then said no
more.  I already knew.

For a millisecond I thought of revenge, but it fell away.  I had
tasted revenge before, and it was a cold, thin soup indeed, and it
tasted no better hot than cold.

I had never known La Candace, I had never loved her as genuine lovers
can.  Just that one night, it was all we'd had, and I regretted that,
and I smiled at that.  We had a night and often no one has even that.
She would have been a good woman, she would have been in for the long
haul.  I am sure of it.  We live for our loves, we women do.  It is
what keeps us alive.  One more personal skein of regrets to hold close
at nights.  There is never an end to the regrets.  They who sow in
tears...

I must think on other things before I cry.

"Yoshi," I softly asked, "could you let me visit Starfleet Academy
when I'm better?  And Starfleet HQ, and the NukeWar Memorial, and the
Hawaii Tunnel, and the London Pylon, and the Grand Canyon, and
Planarium Museum, and the Rhyslieng manuscripts at Ann Arbor...." I
trailed off as Iyo traded looks with her father.  I had been talking
like a small girl, a visitor.

Forget it.  I couldn't expect Yoshi to indulge me by taking me about
the places on Terra I'd read about.  Some day, maybe.  That was well
enough, I was on Terra, there must be something I can do for a living.
Mayhaps the Admiral could point me in the direction of possibilities.
They have free education on Earth, maybe I can return to school
part-time.  Learn something useful.

Anything but killing, and my....other skill.

"I've an offer to make to you, Tomu Dachi Yar," began Yoshi.

"There's an opening at Mendelev School in Nuevo Laredo.  They
specialize in bringing individuals from off-planet academically and
socially to the point where they may fit into Terran life.

"And after them, you have been promised a place at Saint Peter the
Great school, in Moscow.  If you successfully pass through Mendelev,
or a similar facility.  Saint Peter is a military Academy, very strict
and tough, but in two years or thereabouts, you might be able to join
Starfleet Academy, here in San Francisco."  He looked at me
expectantly, as did Iyo, and the three or four staff who 'happened' to
be in the room.

It was too much.  "Why me?"

He wore a tight smile.  "Why not you?  Are your sins so great? All of
our sins are enough to damn each and every one of us, Tomu Dachi.  We
each exist in a state of sufferance from greater powers.  Why not give
you this?"

"Take it," Iyo advised.  "If you have the intelligence, you can do it.
If it matches your bravery, if you are as smart as we hope you are,
you will do well at the Academy.  Trust us, please."

What had Yoshi been saying about me?  I felt embarrassed, I had been
fighting for my own life.  Bravery?  Ye that sow in tears....

My hands clasped his, trying to catch my breath.  Like I had run eight
klicks.  Maybe it was a time to change.

Another set of hands, on a world now dead.  Sister Sanisii and me, in
the drying peach orchard beyond the school walls.  A bench of
Jack-willow wood, situated underneath the Linden's.

Myself in student brown, Sister in teacher's black.  Both of us
patient, silent, immobile, waiting.

Near ourselves was a Bumble butterfly with a fat, ripe body, and a
drunken walk when walking.  A body of sweet yellow cream and green,
mottles of blue and tulle.  It hovered over our open hands, settling
on Sister's creased palms.  Only a touch, she laughed a gentle laugh
as it stumbled across the ball of her thumb.  A movement, and it
startled into the air, its wings soundless in the open air.

"Now you," Sister whispered.  My stillness invited it.  The butterfly
circled lazily, twice I thought it would never come back.  Yet it did,
and almost afraid to think for fear it would go away, I offered it my
palm.  We knew it enjoyed the oils on a human skin, but it still
seemed a miracle.

I could feel it's tiny weight, the movements of its legs as it
silently licked my palms.  Sister must have read my thoughts, for she
whispered again, her soft words disturbing the Bumble in its enjoyable
explorations.

"You could grasp it now, Tasha, yes?"

"Yes."  I breathed rather than spoke.  Tears trembled in my eyes,
threatening to spill over.  Why should I cry?  This was beautiful, so
lovely, to be here, feeling and watching beauty.

"Would you?"

"Never," I swore.

"Why not?"

I blinked at her lined face, framed by wimple and cowl, lit by hopes
and loves only she could see.  "It would destroy it."

As we spoke it tired of my palm and slowly and erratically flew away,
seeking richer flowers than myself.

"It only visited you," Sister said.  "It was not yours, it was only a
gift, for only a short while.  Merely a gift, for a few fleeting
seconds you felt it, it was real, it was beautiful.  But it was only a
visitor, not a possession.

"If it was not yours to keep, forever and ever, are you sorry now to
have known it?  Was it not beautiful, for all its shortness in the
hours of the day?

"If you seek to hold on too tight to some things, you will destroy it.
Find your beauties and your purposes where you may, Tasha. And accept
the shortness of the span in which you may find those beauties.

"Wait," Sister whispered.  "All lifetimes may be short, but not all
will find any beauty in them.  Seek.  And try not to let the ravings
of a woman mayhaps touched by our maker too hard, try not to let her
words disturb you too much."

Another place, another time.  My head shot up, fixing the Medico
before asking a whispery question.  "Did I die?"  That look again, the
Med looking uncomfortable.  "The signs, they...."

"I died," swallowing that fact.  I had three more deaths to go. And
maybe a child, as well.

The StarGypsy hadn't been sure about that, it was somehow fuzzy, the
seeress said.  Twenty-fifth century and I'm believing in Romany
fortune-tellers.  Returning to reality, I heard Iyo and Yoshi
chattering merrily in Japanese.  They hardly noted my pause.

Iyo turned to me, patting my shoulder.  "MaMa has visited you almost
daily, while you were being reassembled.  She's put liters of her
get-well cure in stasis for you.  Matzo-ball and chicken soup, with
extra spicy egg rolls on the side.  You'll love it." Chicken soup, a
remedy for all ills.  How normal!  Across human-space the chicken and
its soup had continued.

Chicken soup for me, as if I were a normal person.  Someone else
making chicken soup for me.

"Her last class today is at 1400, she'll be glad to see you're
proceeding normally.  She hopes for hundred-percent recovery. Partly
so she might grill you concerning my father's misdeeds. Careful if you
start her talking about her biosplicing projects, though, she'll talk
you deaf!"

"MaMa?  Wait a second...  Your mother's dead, isn't she?"

"My Mother?  Ella?  Not unless she's jumped off the Pei Carillon on
the Academy campus in Berkley.  Even then she'd argue with gravity on
the way down, trying for an exception.

"Might even get it, too."

Yoshi had the grace to avoid my eyes as I looked at him.  "Didn't both
your parents serve on the 'HALLEY'?, I asked.

"Well, certainly.  In a manner of speaking.  The 'HALLEY' is a
first-year training dummy ship we maintain at the Presidio, in San
Francisco itself.  Have you learned much of the Academy?  PaPa states
you haven't had much formal schooling."

"Yoshi?"

"It seemed a good venue for relief of your miseries, at the time. I am
deeply ashamed to have told you untruths, and ask humbly for your
pardon.  However. no harm done, correct?"

Didn't look very ashamed, the old liar.  Spacing his own wife, my ass,
ordering her to her death, yeah, certainly.

A thought!  "Are you going to be an instructor at Academy?," I asked.

"No," he replied.  Wicked grin.  "I'm going to be teaching at Saint
Peter the Great in Moscow.  You WILL be worthy of me."

For years I had no future, I drifted from day to day.  Fulfillment was
just a word in a Vid.  Why then the hollowness inside at the thought?
Me with a future?  In Starfleet Academy?  Impossible.

Do they let killers and dykes into the Academy?  How could they not
learn the truth?  Yoshi knew of my past, my love for women, and he
thought it possible.  The term for me is bisexual, but the word the
rest of the galaxy would use is still pervert.

They would all know I could kill, if I had to.  Even Iyo, even if she
thought me a hero at this moment.  Could it be...?

It was difficult to conceive of having a future.  I was going to go
from job to job, love affair to love affair, and die young.

THIS new concept was frightening, it made my fears ravenous.

It would take time to grasp hold of the concept, too hard for now.
Me, with a future.  How long might a person live if they had the
resources of Starfleet behind them?   How much adventure in Starfleet
and how much boredom?  How many cute women?

Today was today, tomorrow was tomorrow, and I shouldn't let myself
dream too much.  There'd be that school in Nuevo Laredo, then Saint
Peter school to finish first.  My ignorance and limits made me feel
small and stupid.  I might be at either school for years, if the Fleet
would have me despite possible slowness and faults.

Have to swear off women for a long time, and men.  Would need to
concentrate on my schooling.  At least I would have one friend on this
planet.  A married friend who had scruples, who did not abuse me
(except in our exercises).  Yoshi would be Tomu Dachi.  My friend in a
high place.  Maybe only a little high place, but a friend.  That would
be a unique for me.

Reality reminded me not to expect much from knowing the Admiral. He
was not the type to grant unearned favors.  I would have to earn all
my evaluations if I wanted to reach the Academy.  It might take a few
years.  Yet, something to look forward to, instead of dread.  Suddenly
I could look forward to something.

A new worry intruded.  I would need clothes, personal effects, just
how much would the UFP pay for?  I turned to Iyo.

"When will I be leaving this bed?  No, no, not for that, though that's
something else I must do soon.  I mean, when will I be able to move on
my own two feet?  If I'm awake, most of the Med work is already done,
isn't it?

"I'm going to need new clothes, unless my kit was salvaged from
Miseroe.  Thinking of my deadly TotalSex wardrobe.

"Will I need uniforms at this Mendelev school in Laredo, and at Saint
Peter the Great?  Comps, books, so much...."  I trailed off. Am I
asking too much?  Can they help me?  Just how much does an Admiral
make, if I have to impose on him with a loan?  And there's no surety
I'll even like it at those schools.  Too bad.  I've done things I
didn't like most of my life, and for lesser goals than a chance to go
to Starfleet Academy!

"You don't have to go to school," Iyo reminded me.  "We've been
planning so much for you, but you don't have to go anywhere or do
anything you don't want to.  You can simply walk out of here and never
look back.

"Though the Medico's would appreciate it if you'd stay overnight."
Doubt was plain on her unlined face.  Would I go to Starfleet if it
was offered me?  Do stars give off heat?

The damned NOVELTY of meeting someone with uncomplicated lives, able
to allow their emotions to show in their faces!

"Starfleet has already authorized a prelim allowance for you, if you
wish it," Yoshi added.  "It should cover most necessities, including
clothes and comps.  The Program will list you as a cadet trainee, and
as a possible inductee to the Academy.  But only so long as your
schooling evaluations indicate reasonable progress.

"It will not be a great deal of creds, but it will cover uniforms
where necessary.  Could you manage on a tight budget?"

Not a great deal of creds, he said.  Yoshi probably never had to live
off refuse heap discards.  His world and mine didn't have a large area
of overlap.  I think I could manage on a tight budget.

Yoshi reminded me I had some money of my own.  My Miseroe Guilders, my
wages from Black Star translated into UFP creds.

"Iyo," I gently asked her, "do you think your father could advance me
a small bit of credit on my wages from Miseroe?  A girl needs other
things than uniforms, and..."

Yoshi heard, and waved a hand in the air.  "The Fleet will swallow
costs of items not regularly covered.  I'll authorize it.  Losses
while in the service of the UFP, make a list.  Your previous attire
disappeared in a blaze of glory, you know," he added.

I nodded yes, remembering pieces of black leather strewn over the
floor of my bedroom at the hotel.

"In addition, a small loan may be arranged between friends," Yoshi
tacked on.

"Small?" Iyo added.  She seemed to be staring at her father and
mentally telling him it had better not be a SMALL loan.

Normal people.  Iyo held my hand, then chuckled, nice smile to her.
"I'll take you shopping tomorrow.  There's a marvelous consumer center
over on a place called Market, we'll fit you out in all the latest.
In the meantime..."

I whispered my vital sizes to Iyo, glancing at Yoshi.  Suddenly he was
an intruder in a non-male world, us girls exchanging whispers and
giggles.  Whispers?  Giggles?  Me?  Me with a future?  Never.

"Admiral," I began again.  "Do you recall that special wardrobe I was
given on Miseroe?  The things you said I could take with me when we
went off-planet?  Black leathers and boots and things?" And other
lovelies, I mentally added.

Iyo looked quizzically at her father, and the old story-spinner had
the grace to blush.  "Her clothes were part of a special tactic I used
during negotiations on Miseroe."

Poor Yoshi, Iyo was going to investigate the story of the clothes and
the maneuver.  I should pull her aside, later, and explain all to her,
to spare her father any embarrassment.

On second thought, no.  The old liar deserved some embarrassment.

"It's cost would be absorbed under a special release, if I push the
release hard enough.  Do not worry, your wardrobe will be replaced in
toto."

Poor Yoshi, with a hangdog look.  Well, dammit, he PROMISED!  I wanted
that outfit back.

Surely I wasn't going to school immediately, I'd have a few days to
acclimate.  Maybe meet a few new friends.  Enjoy myself before
becoming a student.

Wonder if they had any dyke pick-up bars in San Francisco?

---

continued in the sixth story in the Riding The Tick series 'Crocodile'