Dangerous Women. Джордж Р. Р. Мартин

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СКАЧАТЬ who have entered the bonds of matrimony also think he’s mad. But at least for tonight we’ll put aside such worries and concentrate on sending him off in style. So, a toast to Knud on his final night of freedom, and may it be memorable!” John cried.

      There were calls of “Here, here!” from around the table; glasses were clinked, drained, and refilled. Knud, smiling but with a hint of worry in the back of his eyes, laid a hand over his glass. “Now, go easy, fellas. I have to be in reasonably good shape tomorrow.”

      “Not to worry, Knud,” Franz said. “You’re with us.”

      “And that’s why I’m worried.”

      A waitress took their dinner orders. Booze continued to flow. Rohan found himself thinking about the inflation numbers from the Wasua star system. That made him switch from champagne to bourbon. A live band began to play, and girl after girl in various and creative outfits took to the stage. The creative outfits where shed in time to the pulsing music, and the ladies were all very … Rohan searched for a word and settled on “flexible.” Almost all the tables were filled now, parties of men with sweat gleaming on their faces, stocks and ties loosened, coats removed. Girls settled into laps and ran tapering fingers through their marks’ hair. The roar of conversation was basso and primal.

      A quintet of five girls was dancing and singing on the stage to an old SpaceCom marching song, but with some interesting new lyrics. The sprightly music had Rohan first humming along and then singing along, but it was frustrating that the girls couldn’t get the beat right. They were late. He began to conduct vigorously, and felt his elbow connect with something.

      “Whoa!” shouted Fujasaki. There was a large wet stain on the front of his trousers.

      “He’s drunk,” Rohan vaguely heard someone say.

      “So what? We’re all drunk,” Franz replied.

      “Yeah, but he’s the Chancellor, what if—” Bret, a newly hired aide began.

      “Relax. They sweep the place regularly and keep the press out,” John replied.

      “Yeah, relax, Bret. We’re having fun. I’m fun. I’m … I’m just made of fun!” Rohan shouted.

      The five ladies went trooping off the stage, their sassy little buttocks wiggling provocatively. “Where are they going?” Rohan asked. “Where are all the lovely ladies going?” he repeated, and felt a tightness in his chest at the sadness of it all.

      “Gone to housewives everyone,” Franz said.

      “What an awful waste,” Rohan groaned. “We need an expert commission—girls keep turning into wives. It’s a scandal. We need an investiga—”

      A drum roll cut through his slurring words. All the lights in the club went out save for a single stabbing spotlight pinning the stage. Into that cone of light leaped a girl. She seemed to be flying, so high was her grand jeté, and the long cloak flowing behind her added to the illusion of flight. The music resumed, a primitive, urgent beat. She stood front and center, her features covered by an elaborate mask and headdress. All that could be seen was an unnaturally pointed chin and the glitter of her eyes. She caught the edges of the cloak with long claws set with light-emitting diodes, and dropped it to reveal an elaborate costume, far more concealing than was usual for a stripper. Rohan wondered if the claws were sewn into gloves?

      She began to dance. No harsh gyrating and suggestive posing. She danced with breath-catching grace. Her arms wove patterns, and the diodes left streaks of multicolored fire in the air around her. Layers began to fall away. The crowd shouted its approval as each piece of clothing fell. Another slithered to the stage floor and a long silky tail covered with sleek red and white fur unfolded and wove around her like a dancing snake. The shouts became roars.

      The girl danced in close to her sweating admirers. Hands groped for her like blind babies seeing the tit, but she always eluded them. Unless those reaching hands held credit spikes. Those she allowed to be thrust into the credit deck that adorned the low-slung belt that clasped her waist. Rohan sat rigid, fingers gripping the edge of the table, willing her to remove the mask. Show me … show me … She approached their table. The young men leaned across the table, spikes extended like some commercial metaphor for sex. Rohan couldn’t move. He just watched as another layer fell away to reveal pale cream and red fur that covered her flanks and belly and rose like a spear point between her breasts. There was a gasp from the audience.

      John fell back against the booth. “The Pope’s holy whickerbill!” he breathed.

      The music quickened in tempo. Fire sparked from the tips of her long claws, the jewels and bells on the mask and headdress set up a hysterical ringing. She spun, faster and faster, then another great leap took her back center stage. Legs widely braced, hands cupping her breasts. She slowly slid them up her chest, across her neck, lifted the mask and headdress and flung them aside. She was alien and yet familiar. Rohan devoured her features. Noting the tiny upturned nose with flaring nostrils, pricked ears thrusting through the wild tumble of cream and red curls. They were tufted on each point. Cat eyes of emerald green.

      “An alien,” Bret said, and his voice held both disgust and lust.

      Blackout.

      The lights came up. The stage was empty. Excited conversation danced around the table.

      “Cosmetic surgery?”

      “No. Gotta be one of those Cara half-breeds.”

      “Thought we killed all of them.”

      “Should have. Disgusting.”

      “Hey, turn out the lights, close your eyes, and think of it as exotic underwear,” John said with a laugh.

      The room seemed to be ballooning and receding about Rohan. His heart thundered in his chest, and his breath came in short pants. An erection nudged urgently at his fly. He staggered out of the booth.

      “Sir?”

      “Are you all right?”

      “Where are you going?”

      He didn’t answer.

      “Wait,” Tracy said. “A Cara/human half-breed? There’s no such thing. First off, it’s illegal.” The young officer pointed at the Hajin waitress. “And second, our equipment might line up, but there’s no way we’d produce offspring.”

      Rohan waved an admonishing finger at him. “Ah, but remember that the Cara were master geneticists. They’d been blending genes from every known alien race long before humans arrived on the scene. They were eager to add us to the mix, and couldn’t believe that the League was serious when the ban on alien-human comingling was put in place.”

      Tracy took a sip of his drink. He knew from his studies that the Cara had no physical norm. They tailored bodies to suit a given situation. They changed sex on a whim. For thousands of years, they had been harvesting, mixing, and manipulating the genetic material from every race they met. A task easily accomplished, since the Cara spent their lives aboard vast trading ships that traveled between systems, or in the shops supplied by those ships. For the Cara, the greatest sin was uniformity. They believed that diversity was the key to survival and advancement. It had all been horrifying to the humans, and human purity became an obsession. Most genetic research and manipulation was outlawed for fear that СКАЧАТЬ