Hammered (38 page)

“Je parlerai. You will listen.”

“Ah. Ssssss.”

his hand in my hair, pulling,
sexy
, his hand on my
breast, soft, warm through plum-colored worsted fabric, warmth through my white cotton blouse not crisp any longer, hot flush up my body and melting in my belly, my metal arm pinned between us, his mouth now on my throat, my collarbones, teeth at the corner of my jaw, breath over my ear with the sound of his voice

“Je te veux. J’ai besoin de toi. Veux-tu que j’ait dit à toi que je vais faire?”

“Yes.”

left hand unbuttoning the jacket, tailored armor, warrior in business attire, mouth a moment behind as he pushes open one blouse button at a time, heat and wetness, shivering, painful, and the only thing keeping me off my knees is his grip on my hair and the fact that the car is slowly losing acceleration, my left breast bared to cold air now and the slow spirals of sharp teeth, rough tongue, and the tickle of his voice against my flesh

“Je vais te deshabiller. Je vais embrasser chaque pouce de toi. Je vais te lécher et je vais te faire toi jouir and then I’m going to open up that pretty scallop shell between your legs and fill you up with my cock until you want to scream …”

Soft, promising between the love bites, oh so dirty and sensual and sharp and already I want to scream; he’s let go of my hair and is pushing jacket and blouse off to lie forgotten on the floor, and kneeling now, exploring my navel with his tongue like a promise of what’s coming, fingers nimble as he opens the button of my slacks, slides them down over my ass, hooking my panties down with the same smooth motion and I step out of my shoes as I step out of the trousers and he pushes me back against the bulkhead. Cold.

Breath harsh in my throat, both hands knotted in his hair, pulling the collar of his white, white shirt. My knees are like water. I have to lean against the wall.

“Ta chatte mouille, n’est-ce pas? Je veux toi goûter.”

“Never thought I’d hear a man with daughters talk so fucking dirty, Gabriel.”

“Comment pense-toi que je leur ai reçus?” And while I’m laughing, shocked at his audacity and his filthy, sexy mouth, he presses those enormous hands flat against my hips and shoves my ass hard against the icy bulkhead. Somewhere in there the acceleration cuts out and we sail into sudden weightlessness and spin, drifting, helpless, but he holds on to me somehow and I have no idea, when it’s over, if I screamed his name or God’s, or what language, or if I managed to hold my tongue. There’s blood on my mouth, and through the twisted collar of his shirt I can see a pale handprint darkening where my left hand clenched, somehow not hard enough to break skin, crush bone. My whole body shudders and as he pulls me naked into his embrace I bury my face against his shoulder and I am weeping, am laughing, am shivering in the cold capsule air.

“Shhh,” he says, stroking my hair, floating, spinning slowly. A droplet of blood drifts free of my bitten lip and splashes his cheek, followed by a salt-sticky tear. I swallow the rest, scrubbing my face against his shirt to jar the swelling globes out of my eyes. “Shhh, mon amie, mon amour. Don’t cry, Jenny.”

I sniffle against his shoulder, tension gone, and the next round of shivers
are
from the cold. “We’ll sleep,” he says. “There’s time later.”

“Bullshit.” I grab him by the cheeks and, spindrift, kiss him, tasting myself on his mouth like butterscotch. He catches my waist. We bump lightly into a wall, careen off, and while he’s holding me I start working on the buttons of his tear-stained shirt, not really sobbing, and then kissing his throat, burrowing through the curly pale hair on his broad chest to let him feel teeth on skin, floating, twisting, my struggles with his belt sending us gyrating like a top. I elbow
him in the head and he kicks me in the knee and we connect with the bulkhead again, and it doesn’t seem to matter …

I’m a pro. Thirty-five years ago, I would have had him zipping his pants back up before he was finished with a cigarette. Some little voice still tells me that I should feel bad about that bit of ancient history, but what I’ve got left is just the gritty acknowledgment: I did what I had to do and I lived. I’m not ashamed of it. I lived.

I’m ashamed I wasn’t brave enough to take Nell with me. I wasn’t brave enough to take my sister through Hell. If I had been, she might have made it, too.

Then Gabe’s hands are in my hair again and I’m not ready for the kisses. Like making out on the porch swing, long and slow as if we just started, as if I’m a young, young girl who needs to be seduced very gently and thoroughly. Lingering and wet and dreamy, like crickets chirping and nowhere to be for hours. But he’s naked and hard, almost where I so badly need him, and I swear a million years pass before I awaken, hammock cords cutting my skin and Gabe stirring against my back as the car begins decelerating and the feeling of gravity slowly, slowly returns.

Clarke Station spins, giving the illusion of gravity. We step out of the elevator’s expansive “car” onto the Woods Memorial Platform, a space that looks exactly as an airport terminal would if it had porthole-sized slivers of reinforced crystal instead of broad glass windows. Gabe angles me a sidelong smile; I can almost see canary feathers at the corner of his mouth. The patterns of his touch still tingle on my body. I find my own lips curving in a smile, still unfamiliar with the ease with which it spreads across my face. My right shirtsleeve is buttoned down over soreness I expect will bruise purple by morning, and I’ve never been happier with a minor ache in my life. Besides, I more
or less did it to myself, and probably left a few bruises on him as well.
And who would have thought blue-eyed Boy Scout Gabe Castaign would turn out to be such an inventively dirty old man?

Valens intercepts the look between us, but I’m not sure he picks up its significance. And with a sudden flare of rebellion I don’t give a damn if he does know.
If he was listening at the door, for that matter.
I offer him a broad wink with my prosthetic eye and turn back to surveying the landing platform.

“Are you all right, Casey?” Soft voice that even sounds concerned.

I think about all the things I could say. Gabe’s attention is on me, too, subtly, and I settle on a phrase they both will understand, in their very different ways. “Sir.” A long breath. “I got my shit squared away.”

A fair man of medium height strolls toward us, pushing a desk-worker’s paunch in front of him. Beside him is a petite and tidy woman in Canadian Air Force blues.
Richard, who is that?

I hear his voice as if he whispers in my ear. “The man’s Charles Patrick Forster, Ph.D. He’s a xenobiologist associated with the Avatar project. He’s the guy who figured out the wetware that runs the ships.”

Xenobiologist? The VR linkages?
A moment before that sinks in, and I’m sure it will bother me later. A lot. They’re
alien in origin, too?

“Yes.” Fleeting impression of a smile. “The woman with him is Captain Jaime Wainwright, commanding the
Montreal.”

My CO, then.

“Yes. Jenny.”

Richard.

“Once we’re on the
Montreal
, once you’re jacked in, I’m
going to get the hell out of your head and give you back some privacy. Promise.”

Thanks.

“And thanks for the lift.”

Any time.

Captain Wainwright comes to a halt in front of me and extends her hand. I return the clasp as warmly as I can, managing not to wince when she closes her left hand on my bruised wrist, strong and warm. “Pleasure, Captain.”

“Likewise, Master Warrant Officer. I guess that makes this a joint army–air force venture?” Her hair’s black as jet, but I imagine she’s a few years older than I am. Beside me, Gabe holds out his hand with a cheerful smile, showing no sign of discomfort when I step on his toe.

“I’m only just back in the service, Captain.”

She grins and offers what would be the nicest compliment of any normal day. “By the shine on your shoes, Casey, I never would have guessed.”

When she turns away from him to greet Valens, and I’m done shaking the biologist’s hand, Gabe offers me a conspiratorial wink and touches the center of his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. Dirty, dirty old man. It’s a little difficult to walk normally as he takes my steel arm and steers me after the others, and I’m feeling like a very lucky girl indeed.

The biologist, Forster, falls into step on my other side. “I understand you’re one of the recipients of the nanite-maintained wetware our team developed. How do you like it?”

I look at him, and he’s earnest and shining, scrubbed cheeks freckled under close-cropped thinning hair.
What do you say to a question like that?
“It’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, Doctor,” I tell him quietly. “My pain’s down 63 percent, my reflexes have actually improved, and I can sleep through the night without drugs for the first time in twenty years. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

His grin turns into a thoughtful pursing of the lips, and he actually seems to consider my question with care. “Yes,” he says at last. “It is.” He glances up at Gabe, who is seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Ahead, Valens chats with the captain. I’m not quite sure where we’re going.

“Care to hear a little confession, Master Warrant?” He’s been hanging around with army too long.

“Sure,” I say.

“I got into this line of work because I wanted to—well, I wanted to be in the front lines of whatever we found, out here. I figured the greatest thing I could manage in this lifetime would be what I’ve been doing for the past ten years—studying an alien life form”—my eyes widen, and it’s only Gabe’s grip on my arm that holds me upright—“the shiptree, as I’ve taken to calling it. Have you seen my papers on it?”

In my ear: “Get them!”

I’m on it, Richard.

“I’d love it if you mailed me copies.”

“Consider it done.”

It’s all I can do not to glance at Valens to see if he’s overheard, but I can still hear him talking. “I heard a
but
in that sentence, Charles. If I may call you that?”

“Charlie.”

“Jenny, then.” A moment of eye contact, and we’re on the same team, just like that.
Don’t trust too quickly, Jenny. You can’t afford to trust at all.
But I’m stuck with it, aren’t I? “Anyway. Where were you going?”

“But,” and he pauses, as if watching my reaction to see if what he is about to say will offend, or as if uncomfortable with the confidence he’s about to offer a total stranger. “Meeting you. Having you tell me that, about your pain. Seeing you striding down the corridor like you own it. Forgive me if this sounds mushy. But it makes my work feel worthwhile.”

And damned if he doesn’t mean it, too. I blink and glance down at the floor. “It’s appreciated, Charlie.”

He grins. “Remind me to tell you my scientific wild-ass guess about the salvage ships sometime.”

“What’s wrong with now?” I can about feel Richard bouncing on his toes in the back of my wetware. His fingers would be drumming the furniture if he had either to work with.

Charlie clears his throat. “Well, the way I see it, there’s no way they could have been left there accidentally—discarded, and not stripped or salvaged. So it stands to reason that they were a gift.”

“A … what?”

“Sure. Two damaged ships, set down carefully and preserved. They’re not built for atmosphere. Or gravity. You know what happens to a starship if you try to
land
it on a planet?”

“I can imagine.”
Vividly.

“I theorize that they were left for us to find. The casualties removed, the bodies shown proper reverence—if the aliens, whatever they are, do that. They may be two races: we saw two totally different ship designs. Anyway, it stands to reason—as I said—that the salvage was left for us as a gift.”

I roll that around on my tongue for a moment. “A gift of garbage.”

Charlie grins, delighted that I’m following his logic chain. And hell if it doesn’t make sense. My own ancestors weren’t above salvaging from the middens of the white colonists. I take a breath before I continue. “Get as far as Mars, and we give you the stars. Don’t break stuff, kids.”

“Exactly!”

And then we arrive in front of a dogged hatchway, painted oxymoronic Air Force navy. I come up behind Valens, who
offers me a smile a little too fond and possessive for my tastes. “Go ahead, Casey. Open it.”

Cool pressure on my left hand as steel clicks on steel, and I have to lean on the heavy blue door to pop the seal against a slight pressure differential. Airtight, and what’s on the other side wafts through, a draft cold as a ghost.

And conversation is suddenly useless.

I imagine Gabe’s grip on my arm must tighten, but I can’t feel it. I pull away, footsteps slow as if through mud at the end of a march. Forster stops, and I can feel his eyes and Gabe’s upon me. They’re all looking at me—Valens and Wainwright, too. I don’t care. I have eyes for one thing exactly.

Richard’s voice, though I’m already moving: “Dammit, Jenny, get me to the window.”

This is a lounge, a viewing area. The air
is
cold. The details of furnishing, decking, everything vanishes in the reality of the scene outside the massive, floor-to-ceiling window. The spin of the docking ring is such that, from an outsider’s perspective, I am standing on the “wall” and looking through the “floor.”

The sun is behind Clarke, as if hanging over my shoulder. The broad, tapering rail-edged strand of the beanstalk drops toward a cobalt-blue globe delineated by swirls of vapor-white. I lose sight of an ascending car as it brakes silently toward the center of Clarke, from where it will be switched to one of the half-dozen sets of rails leading to the various airlocks around the edge of the platform.

It looks a hell of a lot better from up here, doesn’t it?
The curve of the earth kills my breath dead in my chest. We’re spinning with her, and I can make out the edges of North and South America, the faint outline of the Atlantic coast. It’s holier than a stained-glass window, blues and silvers reminding me of the Madonnas of my childhood. And that’s not all: