This Alien Shore (56 page)

S
HE WAS WAITING for Phoenix when he came back. Of course. Where else did she have to go? She wasn't nearly as confident as he was that the station was safe for her, now that the facial recognition program had been neutralized, and besides, what business was there for her to attend to, that she had to go anywhere? For now it seemed safest to remain sheltered here, in the apartment of this man who so obviously found her mysterious and attractive. If only that could be manipulated into some more lasting feeling! What would happen when all her mysteries were solved, or other mysteries beckoned more loudly to him? She'd be on her own again, and that wasn't good. No, if Phoenix had taught her anything in their few hours together, it was that she needed a hacker to survive. The data jungle that was the outernet simply could not be navigated safely, not when so many predators were at large in it, creatures with her scent in their nostrils and blood on their claws.

She dreaded the day he would ask her more questions. She dreaded the moment he found out that she really,
really
didn't know the answers herself, and couldn't give him more information than she already had. Would he leave her then? Decide the intriguing mystery of her presence was not worth the risk of harboring a fugitive? Grow frustrated with her refusal to share her secrets with him, not really believing that she herself didn't know who was after her, or even why?

That could be dealt with. He was a man, and men could be manipulated. Men could be bound in a web of emotions so delicate that they never felt its touch, yet tangled so tightly they could never break free. It was hard to do such a thing quickly, of course ... but then, that only made it more of a challenge. All of the Others could appreciate such a challenge, though they might argue for hours about how to meet it.

In the end it was Katlyn who told them what had to be done. Katlyn who made the preparations, and waited with bated breath to see what his response would be. The Others crowded around the edges of her consciousness like children at a viddie, vying for the best view. Even Derik was there, which surprised her. Normally when she took control of their body, he just sank down into the darkness and sulked.

It's not that easy,
he told her.

Isn't it? She smiled.
Just watch me.

Then the door slid open, and the hacker was home at last. Tall and a bit gangly, with a shock of blond hair haphazardly brushed across his forehead and a faraway look in his eyes. Not bad-looking, she assessed, though it was clear from the plain cut of his clothes and the rather careless way they had been assembled that he was unconcerned with his own appearance. She could have done worse.

He seemed not to notice her at first, lost in some hacker's reverie. She suspected that was pretty much his normal state. “Jamisia, I'm sorry it took so long, I had to—”

He stopped in mid-sentence. He had seen the apartment's interior. Clearly for all his sophisticated brainware, he had no way of processing such a vision.

Katlyn looked about the small space with what she hoped was an expression of charming innocence. “I just wanted to help out a bit, for all you've done.” There: add a slight tremor at the end, expressed in voice and the trembling of a lower lip, to imply she was afraid she had displeased him. Because her fate was now in his hands, and she could not afford his displeasure.

I'm going to gag,
Derik warned.

Do it on your own time,
she thought back.

Phoenix entered the apartment and walked around, as if in a daze. In truth the transformation was hardly spectacular, but apparently it was unexpected enough to render him speechless. He went to the table where old dirty plates had been piled—now cleaned and stored away, and the other items on its surface neatened—and touched a finger to it as if suddenly remembering that yes, the tabletop was that color, how long since he had seen it?

It wasn't clean. Oh, no. Katlyn wasn't foolish. Katlyn knew what game she was playing, and she played it with finesse. Katlyn had been abandoned for a half a day on a strange and hostile station, and had realized that she needed more assurance of this man's protection than she currently had.

He's mad at us,
Zusu crooned.

Phoenix looked like a man in shock as he wandered around the apartment. He stopped at one or two places where items of special value were scattered—like his worktable, with all its electronic paraphernalia—and she could see him open his mouth as if to voice some criticism of her cleaning. But those things which he treasured had not been touched at all. Every piece of wire, every chip, every headset fragment, was exactly where he had left it. She had cleaned around those things, avoiding the sacred sites of his manhood, sweeping away the mess which surrounded with enough discernment and sensitivity that he could find no cause for protest.

He knew, of course. Deep inside his soul, where men rarely looked, he knew exactly what had taken place. She could see the concept struggling toward his lips, trying to shape itself into words. But men didn't have those words. Men were creatures of confrontation and certainty, who didn't deal well with the subtle gray realm of hints and intuition. And she could see it in his face when he finally decided to ignore those internal warnings, the hints of a game that was beyond his understanding.

“You ... cleaned up.”

She bit her lower lip in what should look like uncertainty. He responded well to her vulnerability, so she was trying to play up that role. “I hope you don't mind. I was here for so long, and the place ...” She managed to blush, as if from embarrassment. “It kind of needed it.”

When he said nothing she offered, “I tried not to move anything important—”

“No. You didn't. You didn't at all.” He shook his head as if to clear stray thoughts from it, and at last, the male processing done, a grin spread slowly across his face. “It's great. Thanks.”

She beamed at him, warmed by the light of his praise. It was an expression she'd been practicing all afternoon, and it had its intended effect.

This is no challenge at all,
she mourned to the Others.

Stop complaining,
Raven told her. And Derik smirked,
They can't all be Variants.

He sat down in the chair by his desk in what was obviously a state of utter exhaustion. She could not have asked for a better opportunity if she had scripted it herself. Slowly she came up behind him as he rubbed at a kink in the back of his neck. Physical tension. Good. “Did you do what you needed to?”

He began to curse, then stopped himself, as if embarrassed at giving her offense. That was pretty amusing, as she'd heard far worse inside her own head than he could ever manage. Derik had inured them all to such language long ago.

“Sort of. I—” He jumped slightly as her hands touched his shoulders—gently, so gently—and then began to stroke the points of tension along the crest of his muscle. “Ah. I ... ah, found the person I was looking for. Don't know who he is yet, not really. Gave me a name.” Eyes shut, he relaxed into the gentle kneading, surrendering his tension to her caress. “Not his real name, of course.”

“How do you know?”

“Said he was Masada.” He laughed shortly.

“Masada?”

“Famous outernet theorist. You wouldn't know ... oh, that feels good there.” She saw him sink down into his chair about two inches as she stroked the muscles of his upper back. “Scary son of a bitch, whoever this guy is. But not damn likely to be Masada.”

There was silence then, a few minutes stretched out long and smooth by the contact of fingers upon flesh. The thin material of his shirt slid easily over his pale skin, and it was some minutes before she slipped her hands under it, touching his skin directly. He jumped as she did so. Easy. Easy.

He had to talk, of course. The silence was too intimate. “It was really nice, what you did with the place. That you did it, I mean.”

Her fingers slid down over his chest as she leaned forward, the warmth of her body close enough to be felt now along his back. She felt him shiver slightly, and knew that he was aware to the inch of just how close she was. “You've done so much for me,” she said softly. Hands stroking gently over his lean torso, feeling him stir slightly, clearly both aroused and disconcerted by her attentions. That was good. Men were easiest to control when they were off balance. This one was working out just fine.

At last he moved, rising from the seat, taking two steps forward to get out of her reach.
Not unexpected,
she assured the others. All part of the game. She could sense Jamisia watching in awe, which was good; the girl had to learn this someday.

“I ... um ... it's all right, I was glad to help ...” He fumbled with some piece of machinery on his workbench, turning it this way and that and tapping it against the table, as if trying to think of something suitably urgent to do with it. She didn't move toward him, but let the moment play itself out. If the prey got too nervous, he would bolt for cover, and then the chase must begin all over again. Not a bad prospect under normal circumstances, but right now she didn't have the time for that kind of prolonged game.

Finally he looked up at her. That was her cue. Holding his gaze, she moved forward again—slowly, softly, and most importantly, wordlessly. He started to say something. She reached out and touched a finger to his lips, warning him to silence.
No, my sweet, this isn't something you can put into words, so don't even try. What are you going to say-? That you don't know what's happening here, or why? That part of you knows you should protest, but the far larger part of you has no desire to? That you're used to cold data, which can be categorized, analyzed
—
controlled
—
but the chemistry of human interaction is something else again?

Apparently not, for as she came to him he made no attempt to escape her. She did not need to draw his arms around her, or make more than a token effort to invite his embrace. He tried once more to say something, and once more she stopped him, this time with a lingering kiss.
It's a fantasy. Just a fantasy. Words will make it real. Shhh.

There were probably men who could resist such a lure, she mused. Not that she'd ever met one. Her men had all been delightfully predictable, from start to finish.

This one was no exception.