9.

Women, all the world over, are what men make them.

-Sir Richard F. Burton Things were less than good onboard s.p.a.ceship Slicer, in Yahna's view. Tension rode heavily on them all. Nerves rasped raw with strain were poised ready to trigger violence at the slightest provocation. There were provocations.

Hearing a series of frantic bird-whistles from Twil'im, Jesti found it backed into a corner of the DS station. Musla of Sekhar was threatening it with a knife, a kris. Jesti managed it so that no one got stuck.

The issue was the manner of Twil's rubbing against Musaphor, in pa.s.sing. Musla was convinced that the Jarp had designs on his devoutly Muslim body. Twil insisted that nothing could be further from the truth; it had merely lost its footing momentarily. Its flailing hand had only happed upon Musla's backside. All an accident, all innocent. As a matter of fact, Twil avowed, it preferred women. Oh wonderful, Yahna thought. She had never seen Jarps as s.e.xy at all.

Hieri calmed the pair down, eventually. After that, though, Sek and Jarp walked wide of each other.

The next incident involved Yahna. Seeing how her dress was torn (after her episode with Jesti), Hieri had concluded that she was ship's woman. That meant available for trysting: 106.

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slicing. Jesti disagreed. Harsh words were exchanged. Hieri backed off-making it obvious that he did not consider the matter closed. And again, Yahna Golden's emotions were mixed.

It was nice, somehow warming, to know that she'd aroused at least a degree of protective feeling in Jesti. On the other hand, she wasn't sure she wanted it. Hieri was a handsome man. Her phantasies would accommodate him nicely. Still . . . she was not ship's hust. Once that sort of thing began, where might it end? A career as crew's hust on a pirate s.p.a.cer offered little future even if a woman embraced the concept, which Yahna definitely did not.

She even retained mixed feelings about Jestikhan Churt, after his (a.s.sault? Violation? You won, he'd said. . . .) Of his courage there was no doubt. He'd proven that beyond question, and a vast resourcefulness. His intelligence was something else again. Where did inborn ability in this miner leave off and acquired knowledge begin? She had a notion that he was very possibly her equal in innate capacity. What he lacked was background, sophistication. Cla.s.s. Obviously a life spent in the mines of Eilong limited experience! Oh, he had his own brand of cla.s.s, and time spent ranging the Galaxy in Slicer would fill the gaps soon enough, with her filling any crucial information gaps. Working with MarsCorp had given her a range of insights and plenty of lore-and she was an educated woman. She would not succ.u.mb to the simplistic kneejerk of Whatta Man (sigh!).

It was in a different dimension that Golden ran into trouble. Emotion and feeling-as brought into focus by her extra-long, gilded nail. Unhappily, she lifted her right hand and looked down at that middle finger.

Her a.s.sociates took it for granted. One more affectation, a flamboyant shtick like her periodot nipple cup or her crown of aureate hair, all designed to catch the eye and project that s...o...b..z image. Only she knew the truth about it: that nail was a lot more than a normal h.o.r.n.y sheath protecting her fingertip. It was her secret armament. A razor-edged plasteel sliver molded to the actual nail and 108.

sheathed in its gilt coating. Not much less dangerous than a HRal's retractable claw!

So. She had her weapon. So-why hadn't she used it last cycle, in those moments of writhing violence on the floor here, while Jesti forced her?

It was a question she had no answer for and didn't like at all. Certainly she hated the Eilan for what he'd done. Yet, incredibly, a degree of ambivalence clouded her reaction. And her feelings, now.

For one thing, there was the matter of the-change in him. Then, his words and stance had projected cold anger. Now, his manner had reversed totally to wry humor. As he had put it: "We're even now, Golden One. You raped my mind, back there on Croz. That hurt my ego. I had ta have payment from you for that. That's why 1 flashed so fast when you gave me an excuse to rape your body. Ego-bruise for ego-bruise. Now, that's over. Out of my system. I've had my revenge. You got the rape you wanted. It clears the board. We can forget it, without debts. Settle down to being people." And he had laughed, eyes bright with affability and humor between friends.

Friends? Well. . . . Was apology, a left-handed one at that, enough to make up for violation of a woman's body?

The answer, of course, was a vehement Negatory.

Add to it the things he'd said, the accusations as to her motives. What right had he to probe her secrets, to show such psychiatric ability to drive through her mind-locks, her need for rape, her powerlessness to explode her tensions into o.r.g.a.s.m without a foreplay of violence?

She hated him for those coldly verbalized perceptions. Above all, she hated him for being perceptive-being right.

Yes, she knew that. For her, pa.s.sion would not release itself in simple copulation. She found no pleasure in the routine joining of two bodies. To gain release, to soar to ecstat, her secret self demanded the catalyst of brute force. Specifically: rape.

Of course it was only lately that she'd been able to admit that to herself. To face up to the facts of her conditioning and what had happened between her and Fahrood.

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It was the kinship that had made it so bad, left the guilt and need for expiation. She was a child and he a grown man: uncle, cousin, in-law-something. Kin. Even now a family conspiracy of silence surrounded him. She'd never be able to get the bloodline clear. What counted was the way he had come into her bed when she was only eight years old.

He with his great man's body and his huge-seeming hand across her mouth. Coaxing, cajoling. Soothing. Threatening. Until at last there was nothing for her but to give in.

Then the pain. The shame and tears. The anguish. If she could have killed herself then, she'd have done it. Him, too! Yet a child of eight-what could she do? He knew that, of course.

Other such nights followed, so many of them. At first, he swore that each would be the last.

The worst had been the business with her mother. Her mother, who had claimed to love her so, yet wouldn't listen. She accused her daughter of lying; she punished Yahna for lying. Then her mother wept and wailed and clung to the girl, as if mother were child and child were woman providing solace. Begging her to keep the nasty truth a secret. Not to reveal what had happened . . . what was happening.

Why had her mother done such a thing? Again, Yahna wondered. Fear, she now supposed. Her mother had been intimidated. Imploring silence lest her husband slay the man-whoever Fahrood was-and in the process, destroy the family. Better merely to destroy one member, Yahna. . . . Besides, the child need feel no blame, no shame. She remained a victim only, feeling no pa.s.sion and no pleasure.

The nights went on. Months, years of nights for Yahna, whenever l.u.s.t stirred within Fahrood.

And then the night came when her body became a woman's body, and she was a child no longer. The night when nerves pulsed to life, and senses woke, and muscles twitched and spasmed. After a time Fahrood began to fear that she would fill with child, and who dared mention an anticoncep shot for a girl barely at p.u.b.erty? And so he 110.

disappeared. He left a ripe, aroused, pa.s.sionate child-woman. A woman who ached for man as an addict l.u.s.ted after its eroflore.

Only later, when boys her age approached her, did she learn the nastier truth. Her body was a woman's body, ripe to overflowing with a woman's pa.s.sions. Yet let a man so much as touch her and tension was at her throat like a Ghanji tiger: the tiger was a mind-block called guilt. The pain and shame of all those nights with Fahrood had left a legacy she had not even realized.

It was more than surprise and shock; it was too much to bear. Better that her body should ache with longing than that she should feel the pain come through as secret sin. So it was that Yahna erected a wall of cold disdain around her. Friendships faded. Intimacy lost its glow for her. Even when acquaintances admired her mind-her brilliance, sometimes-they walked wide around her.

Later came another truth. A fellow student, the nice-looking Thebanian called Djalor at the Psychesorium of Koba. Djalor watched her; Djalor dared; Djalor pressed against her. Instinctively, she thrust him away. That was too great a blow to the male arrogance of youth. Djalor slapped her. She reeled, lost her balance, fell. Her temple struck a table. She spilled down into blackness.

When the blackness cleared, she realized with horror that the boy was doing things to her body . . . and that even worse, her body was responding. She could not prevent its delighted response. His fingers toyed and eased in and out of her while he nursed or pretended to nurse at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and every nerve in her went ecstat. She heard her moans and gasps and little whimpers, and there was nothing of guilt or pain in them.

He knew, of course. When he reached the point at which he could no longer wait to be in her, the tiger forced her to resist. That got her a hard-clamped breast and a forearm across the throat, and a v.a.g.i.n.a full of hard youth. Since she was helpless and forced and couldn't do a d.a.m.ned thing to deter this use of her body . . . she enjoyed the h.e.l.l out of it.

He knew that, too. It was clever of him to tie her up, 111.

once he had flashed. With the resilience and potency of his age, he was ready to begin again at once. It was also flaining well nice of him to tie her up, though he didn't know it. ...

She felt no guilt. She was helpless. This hyper-h.o.r.n.y boy was to blame, not nice (not-so) little Yahna. She was relieved of all partic.i.p.ation; of guilt.

It was a night to top all nights. It ended only when Djalor lay shaking with exhaustion and utter depletion. Yahna thought she'd die of pure ecstasy. She too was exhausted, drained. She did nothing while he untied her, even chafed her cord-marked wrists and the b.r.e.a.s.t.s he had bared and bound. Then he left.

Next day he had slipped an arm warmly about her waist, and moved it up toward the breast that he had owned but a few hours previous.

She broke his arm with a testing bar.

By then, she knew the truth. Her childhood years as Fahrood's victim had forged shackles on her brain. Violence alone could break them. The immediate violence of the thing called rape. With most females, it was a phantasy not really desired. With Yahna, it was necessity. That was the sullen lurking tiger in her mind.

It changed her life. Turned her into a tacit temptress. From pure research she moved more and more into applied techniques. The job she sought and won was as a psychtech serving the cynical sensualities of MarsCorp . . . doubly rich multiplanetary corporation born of the sensuality of another woman: Setsuyo Puma. "Akima Mars." The Biggest Pair In The Universe.

Off went the sedate mode of dress her family had imposed upon Yahna . . . along with the family name she hated anyhow, for its dishonor. On came flamboyant styles that cried out to l.u.s.t, that appealed to pa.s.sion. With them came the halo of gold, and the surname to match. This was Yahna Golden. She yearned for-begged for-rape. It never happened. She was too successfully daunting.

Until now. Now she fared through the purple abyss of s.p.a.ce on a pirate ship, with men whose hands dripped garnadine red with blood. All of which brought her reverie full circle. Back to Jestikhan Churt and her ambivalent 112.

feelings about him. The man she had not daunted, but dared too much, pushed too far. At last!

She could not see him as a pirate. He was not in the same cla.s.s as the crew of the sneerily-named Slicer. And he had protected her from Hieri. A man of honor and old-fashioned principles!

And raped me.

Ah, but had it been rape, really? Could she be wrong about her tiger, her mind-lock? Might her need for violence not exist first and foremost in her imagination?

There's one sure way to find out!

She contrived to "fix" her clothing. Since it was ruined, torn and rag-taggy, she turned the fine lovely dress into a double-strap halter and a hip-band skirt, short. A bit of skindye, carefully applied, created an interesting atomic symbol around her navel, in yellow and linden green. And in the most casual of ways she contrived to place herself close to Jesti. Found excuses to stretch and twist, to display her body at its most seductive. (The halter displayed little cleavage. It didn't need to.) She let him catch her with her low-lidded gaze on him-challenging, tempting, taunting, tantalizing. Ran her tongue along her ripe-sullen lips in clear and open provocation/invitation. Found transparent excuses to lean back against him, body touching body, in a manner that left no question of intention.

She could feel him stiffen, the second time she did that, when she twisted. His arms came around her, one palm flat against her bared belly.

Her muscles tightened by pure reflex in the same instant. Cat-lithe, she twisted free of his embrace and clawed at his face. (Death of a dream. The tiger remained triumphant with its claws firmly in her mind.) Sidestepping swiftly, Jesti dodged the slashing nails. The rising desire she had glimpsed moments ago had already vanished. His old, mocking grin was back as he caught her wrists and pinned her tight against a bulkhead/wall.

"Have mercy, woman! You're raping my mind again. I can't trust you for a moment."

"Who's raping whom?" she kneejerked. "Whose hands were pawing my body?"

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"Who cares who did what? This s.p.a.cer's not big enough for us to fight each other. I mean, for right now us mad rapists got to stick together."

He was chuckling and winking as he said it. And all at once, quite in spite of herself, Yahna was laughing too.

Again, Jesti was right. Even more importantly, she'd learned her lesson. She was what she was. A tiger was a mind-lock was a tiger. From here on, she would face it. Live with it.

That cleared the air between them. Yahna made it a point to be present any time Jesti was sleeping and to stay in the con-cabin with him when he was oncon, with his back necessarily to the door. In turn, he persuaded her to don a (man's, large, but not loose everywhere) shirt, and pants that bagged on her everywhere save rearwardly. Regardless of what the real situation was, he told her in manner salesmanly, to the others she had looked as if she was flaunting herself, and that would likely lead only to trouble. And he, Jesti told her, would be involved. She swallowed, almost wanting to hug him, and agreed to the loose clothing. (No, he did not apologize for having ruined her dress.) The situation with regard to the rest of the crew came to a head the third day out.

Jesti was oncon. Running shorthanded as they were, he had little choice, qualified or no. Besides, if SIPAc.u.m signaled danger, all he had to do was. .h.i.t the alarm for help. On ship's day three, Yahna was playing computrician. Abruptly SIPAc.u.m began flashing a ruddy telit and beep-beeping. Alarm.

Captain Hieri was asleep, and he needed that sleep. Petri, as ship's second, had the duty. He was in and keying before she had reacted. He adjusted the scanner and his voice rasped with excitement: "Theba's cold warheads! It's a s.p.a.cer-a 'Vocker. Foundering, it looks like."

Jesti pushed back in the con-chair. "So?"

Petri's grin would have done credit to a hungry dyre-wolf. "So there's no such thing as a 'Vocker that doesn't carry ice emeralds. Ships from Havoc pay their dock fees 114.

with 'em. Saves them stells." The wolf-grin broadened. "With their ship in trouble this way, it must mean their drive-train's out. That locks their DS, too."

Jesti spread his hands and repeated it: "So?"

"So all we have to do is change course long enough to come alongside, lock on, and pick up those gemstones. Like taking candy from a baby."

Yahna could see the shadow of a frown touch Jesti's forehead. "I thought we made a deal. I saved your necks. You carry me to Jasbir-or wherever."

"Firm. But-"

"No piracy, Petri. That wasn't on the tapes."

"But ice-emeralds ..."

"No," Jesti repeated.

Petri stared. He wore a stopper. His hand touched its grip, thrusting up out of the violently crimson and yellow sash he wore. Jesti smiled. It was a dangerous sort of smile, Yahna decided (feeling a little rush). The Eilan swiveled around in the captain's chair. His hand lay in his lap. So did his own blue-gray cylinder. Petri looked at it: Jesti's stopper.

Yahna had heard of echoing eternities of silence. This was one of them.

Then Petri snorted, angrily. Wheeling, he strode from the cabin.

Still smiling, Jesti let his eyes swerve toward Yahna, and swiveled the first chair back to face the console. Back by the wall-she'd gotten out of Petri's way at the SIPAc.u.m interface, fast-Yahna relaxed. And ever so silently, the con-cabin's door reopened. Stopper in hand, Petri stepped inside. He leveled the weapon at the back of Jesti's bare head. Very bare head.

It seemed to Yahna that she stood frozen. Yet that couldn't have been. There wasn't time. Blood pounded in her ears. She couldn't breathe. She didn't even dare scream, lest Jesti turn and Petri tighten his grasp on the stopper- all it took to beam Jesti. With a Three, she'd bet. Already she could see the Outie pirate's knuckles paling as he started to squeeze his weapon's grip.

Yahna Golden pounced.

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It was not a conscious act. She hardly knew what she was doing. She had to do something, and her legs did: they drove her at Petri. Her right hand was out and thrusting its middle finger. The one with the six sems of plasteel.

Petri glimpsed her movement out of the edge of his eye. He stiffened, started to turn . . . and with all her strength she drove home the deadly nail in a slashing thrust to the side of the throat. The razor-edged plasteel "fingernail" sliced through the skin and deep into flesh. It found the carotid artery.

Petri's head went back. For a fraction of a second he hung rigid. Then another instant pa.s.sed and a spasm hit him. He jerked frenetically. Jetting blood drenched Yahna. Then the man who had been Petronius Jee was tottering, crumpling, falling. He was dead before he hit the deck.

Yahna would have fallen too, only somehow Jesti was out of the con-chair and catching her, grasping, supporting her. Seconds pa.s.sed before she realized that the captain was standing in the cabin doorway. If he felt emotion as he looked down at his fallen brother, Hieronymus Jee didn't show it. He didn't even bend to make sure Petri was dead.

Yahna tried to speak. She couldn't.

Jesti spoke for her: "Your brother had it in his mind to kill me, Hieronymus. From behind."

Hieri's face remained wooden. "Petri lacked judgment. That's why I am in command."

Jesti's gesture was helpless in frustration. "What can I say, Captain? Stopper's in his hand. I'm sorry, sure, but that won't bring Petri back. And I'm not hypocrite enough to claim I'd rather I was lying there instead of him."

"Oh? Indeed." Hieri's face remained stony.

"In deed." Jesti rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes seemed to draw deeper into their sockets. "Don't make it a blood feud, Hieri. That buys no points for either of us."

(His tone, Yahna thought-it's close onto pleading.) Hieri's expression didn't change. "Don't worry. Duties feud only with equals. Purple subs don't rate more than a Poof ing."

Jesti stood very still. "That sure does sound like a threat. Do I dare turn my back on you now?"

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"You're right both times, Eilan. With me, you'll see it coming."

Jesti nodded once, and shrugged. The faintest of tight-lipped smiles had replaced his conciliatory manner. His thumbs were hooked in the royal blue sash Petri had given him yesterday-not bright enough, Petri said. Now that sash bore Jestikhan's stopper.

He said, "Your decision, Captain."