Alysha's Fall Page 13

  Alysha staggered to the block and climbed onto it, wavering, almost falling. Forcing herself upright, she thrust her shoulders back and lifted her head. It was not her shame anymore. She could not carry it any longer. She would not answer the universe’s injustice by sheltering it from her wounds. If the unkindness started in the Academe, she wasn’t sure she wanted any part of it after all.

  Alysha closed her eyes against the press of the metal harness, the places it had become embedded in her skin, the collar cutting against her wind. She ignored the jewels and beads that swung around her body as she breathed; pushed away the feel of the rips in her legs, the sick twist of her arm. After a while, the pain receded into white mist, and the cold air from the vents seemed far away.

  When she opened her eyes, she found Brighthaven standing at her feet, staring up at her in the silence of the hall. She couldn’t read his eyes: they were green walls, impenetrable. Alysha watched with remote fascination as the lines around his mouth grew more distinct, the press of his lips crushing, the edge of his jaw tightening.

  His gaze moved. It traced, with the same hardness of expression, the scant costume made to expose and cheapen, the collar and the belt with their matching locks, suggesting slavery. It swept over the broken arm, the welts on her skin, the rips and tears that decorated her body like blood-colored ribbons. Then slowly, his gaze climbed back to her face. Alysha met it impassively. She did not know what she saw there, nor what made her summon the energy to toss the bag of fin at his feet. It landed in front of his boots, chiming as the drawstring unfurled to disgorge handfuls of bright, golden coins.

  Brighthaven looked down at them, and she saw the tic in his cheek leap down to his mouth until his lips drew back to expose his teeth.

  She didn’t expect the violence. She barely heard it past the control, but it was there.

  “Get down.”

  Alysha stared at him. She thought of the self-righteous contempt of the senior, and did not see it in the fury on Brighthaven’s face.

  “You heard me, Cadet. Get the hell down! See the healers and get to bed, in that order!”

  She opened her mouth to speak, to ask about the sentence, about the days on the pedestal . . . and met his eyes. Wrath burned there so brightly a shiver ran from the base of her tail to the back of her neck. She realized suddenly how exposed she was, what a risk she’d taken.

  “Don’t report back here again. And keep your name off my roster,” Brighthaven said curtly. “Get moving!”

  “Aye, sir,” Alysha said softly, and stepped off the pedestal. She stumbled, struck the floor with a hand and a knee. The breath hissed from between her teeth, and the beads twisted around her ribs and thighs. When they stilled, there was no other sound in the antechamber.

  Carefully Alysha drew herself upright, sensing his eyes on her, and shivers ran up her body. She hobbled out the front hall, feeling his gaze on her back. She didn’t notice she was still trembling until she got outside, nor did she understand why her faith in Fleet had been restored. It was enough. Silently, Alysha Forrest reported to the Medplex.

  Steel

  Commandant Brighthaven stared at the marquee from the pooled darkness of a corner, hands in the pockets of his trench coat. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, a phenomenon not solely caused by the cold autumn breeze, nor aggravated by the shadows and the lateness of the hour. People shoved past his nook into the open doors of the storefront, their visages craggy mysteries cast in black and lurid crimson, diluted to caricatures. He read in all their faces the same primal forces, only rarely mitigated by the filter of emotion, and the latter disgusted him more than the former. Brighthaven glanced up at the building’s banner again, tracing it with green eyes.

  “Find Your Phantasies.”

  It was not a fantasy he was seeking tonight, but confirmation.

  Pulling the lapels of his trench coat up to hide the collar of his uniform despite having shed it several hours before, Brighthaven schooled his features to a relentless neutrality and joined the flow of people entering the nightclub.

  It was a shocking transition. Even his insensitive human nose was bowled over by the tangled odors: the peculiar tang of a hot room inhabited by too many unwashed, sweating bodies, the unmistakable taste-smell of pheromones, the scent of sex. The commandant gathered himself at the threshold of the room, then pushed his way inside and into a maze of low tables, illumined only by dancing candles in crimson smoked-glass containers. When his eyes adjusted he could see the hunched forms of patrons at the tables, mugs eerily refracting the smoldering lights. The room was studded with columns that seemed to writhe in the smoke-filled air. A stage occupied the back of the room, its floor bisected by several poles and strewn with chairs and other props. There was no one on it though a low, pulsing music throbbed through the air.

  Brighthaven moved into the club, deftly avoiding others and trying to get a sense for the flow of people so he could sit somewhere he could observe, unremarked. He bumped into one of the undulating columns and started away as it gave beneath him. The human got an eyeful of the Karaka’An feline tied there and her pale-furred stomach before he backed away a pace to stare. Barely a woman, her body had just reached the uncertain ground between adolescence and adulthood. She swayed mindlessly to the bass, wrists bound above her head and ankles together, her body bowing from the column in a parody of dance.

  Gritting his teeth, Brighthaven turned from her, forcing his stomach to stop churning. Some voice in his head insisted that teenagers should not be so utilized, but this was reconnaissance, not a raid. Even so many years after leaving Terra to take the helm of the Alliance’s Fleet Academe, he had not forgotten all of the lessons about mixing the two.

  Regular traffic clustered around a booth at the side of one wall. Brighthaven slipped through the labyrinth of tables to reach it and waited patiently for the people to disperse. The music swelled on a downbeat, and a voice rose over it, seizing his attention.

  “And now . . . the sweet shakings of the Harem Rose!”

  The curtains parted to reveal a Tam-illee foxine dressed mostly in jewels and a pair of translucent pants, connected only by the broad glittering band of fabric over her belly. Her costume lewdly exposed every part of the russet and cream female, and her dancing was less art and more exhibition. Brighthaven didn’t even realize his nose had wrinkled and lips had curled back to bare his teeth until the bridge of his nose began to ache; it was an expression he must have adopted from his felinesque second at the Academe.

  The Harem Rose’s entrance cleared the area around the booth, and Brighthaven used the opportunity to investigate. A slim Asanii feline stood behind the counter, wearing a clip in her hair, a gem in the hollow of her throat, two rings and nothing else. His eyes did not linger on her, fastening instead on the cryptic display behind her head. Ten hooks hung crookedly on the wall, each labeled with what Brighthaven took to be the names of the dancers, since “The Harem Rose” was one of them. Depending from the hooks were a series of elaborate, ornate keys, secured with different-colored ribbons and hanging from different heights. The keys themselves were either white, blue, or black, and there was no discernible pattern to the coloration or position.

  Brighthaven met the casual gaze of the female and said, “What are those?”

  “Those are tango-keys,” she answered, her voice a sweet soprano flavored with apathy. “If you buy them, you get to tango with the girl. You do know what tango is? You’re human.”

  “It’s a dance,” Brighthaven answered.

  “That’s right,” the girl said, voice lacking enthusiasm, “The white key means she dances a private little dance for you, but you can’t join her. The blue key means you can dance with her. And the black key means if you bruise her or break a few bones while tangoing, we’ll look the other way.”

  His stomach clenched again. Scanning the names above the hooks, he sought some clue toward his goal and found none. “Does the ribbon signify anything?”

  “E
very dancer gets a color to herself for the ribbon. The height tells you how much time she has left to be bought tonight. If the key is hanging at the black line, she’s free the entire night. If the key is tied to the hook, she’s bought up. Time is marked off in pairs of hours by these.” The female pointed out a strip of black paint with flared points that Brighthaven had assumed to be decoration.

  “I see. Around how much does a pair of hours cost?”

  “Depends on the girl. The least popular, like the Harem Rose, run about twelve fin a twicehour for their white keys and forty for the black. The most popular, like Steel, take in fifty fin a twicehour for their white keys and almost two hundred for their black.”

  “Thank you,” Brighthaven said, drawing away without hearing her ambivalent reply. His heart throbbed beneath the poor casing of his chest. He found a corner seat, only rarely glancing at the Harem Rose’s gyrations . . . his mind was otherwise occupied.

  Two hundred fin for two hours’ abuse! A swift glance at the painted meter showed that the dancers generally worked four hours. Four hundred fin was more than most people made in two weeks. If she was one of the ones that commanded such a price, she could easily afford her Academe education off her pay here. . . .

  If she was actually paid what she commanded, which was unlikely. And even if she was, she’d have to sell a blue or black key frequently. Brighthaven let slip a quiet curse. There had only been two black keys hanging out of ten. If the manager of the club decided which keys would be sold, then the decided lack of them meant the clientele took the “breaking bones” clause seriously.

  The commandant massaged his forehead wearily, hardly noticing as the Tam-illee foxine finished her piece and slipped back through the curtain. If it hadn’t been brought to his attention that one of his cadets was probably earning money illegally . . . but it had been. It had taken him a while to trace her to Phantasies, partly because establishments like it hid behind façades of rigorous legality, partly because he’d had other concerns. And now he was here . . . but she was not. Some slim hope remained that his information had been in error, and he could go home and wash the taste of the gutter out of his mouth.

  “And now, the girl you’ve all been waiting for—the dark star with eyes like ice whose time you can buy but will fight you all the way—the mysterious, cold-hearted Steel!”

  It was mild curiosity that made him glance at the stage. It was shock that froze his eyes there.

  It was her.

  Some part of him had denied that any Fleet cadet could sink to the depths it required to become an illegal prostitute. But the Karaka’An who glided smoothly from behind the curtains was unmistakable. The rain-gray fur that covered her entire body, the black hair falling free behind her shoulders, the unusual height, the muscle of someone who endured physical training every day were all there, were all hers . . . all the way to her ice-blue eyes, narrowed and artificially painted, her full lips creased in a slight grimace.

  She was dressed only in jewelry: a thick belt of gems clasped her narrow waist and dripped stones over her hard thighs, connecting to a metal harness composed of strands of jewels that exposed rather than concealed her. Thin chains leashed a set of elaborate bracelets to broad, incised bands around her upper arms. A similar set of bangles balanced on her tail-tip, their chains flying to the thick choker rammed onto her tail-base. A collar around her neck forced her chin up; when she slowly turned, he saw the golden lock hanging from its catch onto the nape of her neck.

  She began to dance. Every motion was pregnant with grace and hatred. There was a savage edge to her movements that warred against the too-calm expression on her face.

  Brighthaven broke from the vision of her and jolted out of his chair. He strode to the booth and stared at the keys. Beneath the name “Steel”, hanging all the way to the black line on a silver ribbon, was a black key.

  “I’ll take her,” he said to the girl.

  She glanced up at him with half-lidded eyes and asked, bored, “Steel? For how long?”

  “The entire night.”

  Her ears flicked back in mild surprise; she held out her hand. He slid a card into it, the one tied to the quiet account. It cleared, and he received both the card and the key in return, the ribbon neatly tied to its handle. Silently, Brighthaven wound his way back to the table to watch her dance, to watch the hatred and the helplessness so clearly emoted through the medium of her body. It was the most sensual thing he’d ever seen, and not at all arousing. The taste of ashes in his mouth precluded that.

  When the last notes died away, Brighthaven rose and presented himself at the door to the back hallway. He was met there by a thin human man.

  “Key?”

  Brighthaven displayed the crystalline key with its ribbon.

  “Last door on the right. She’s waiting for you.” A sneer. “Have a good night and remember, no permanent damage.”

  He managed a flicker of a grim smile down at the man and stepped into the tiny corridor. A panel of cheap dark wood bisected the walls; beneath the panel, strips of the same wood ran up from the floor and above it the walls were draped with red satin interrupted by doors, one other hallway, and several sconces for artificial lights half-heartedly molded to resemble candles. The illumination had a gritty, yellowed cast. Brighthaven carried the key to the last door and paused there a moment for no reason he could discern. He took a breath and unlocked it, stepping inside and letting the door slide shut behind him.

  She was sitting on the bed with her back to the entrance, twisted with her knees facing outward and her body swiveled to look over one shoulder out the one window at the stars. Her back rippled as she breathed; still mussed from her performance, her hair fell in a wild black tangle onto one shoulder, partially obscuring the gold and silver collar and the lock hanging from it. The gold chains of her harness fastened beneath her shoulder-blades with matching locks, just as the heavy belt did. The hard strand of muscle connecting her jaw to her clavicle was coiled with tension.

  In a low voice, Brighthaven said, “Cadet.”

  He heard the gasp against the silence as she flung herself from the bed, blue eyes flashing open further and pupils contracting as she recognized him. She backed away a step, and then leaped to attention, shoulders back and chin up. It was such a swift transition Brighthaven was almost fooled into thinking her calm, but the jewels dripping off the belt were shivering.

  Her posture was such a contrast to her costuming that he almost, almost cursed. To see such pride and discipline in someone, such strength of mind and determination forced into the beads and baubles of a whore . . . Brighthaven shook his head and said, voice rough with the effort of controlling his reaction, “At ease.”

  Alysha’s limbs relaxed automatically, but she couldn’t force her breathing to slow. Each one might as well be her last. The weakest part of herself wailed that everything was lost while other parts denied that it was the commandant . . . but there was no mistaking him. The same hard, professional green gaze, the laugh lines around the eyes, the stern mouth and firm shoulders and streaks of gray in the brown hair: she felt transfixed. It was the longest minute of her life, staring at him, balancing on the edge of an abyss where his words could push her over or pull her back.

  “Sir,” she whispered, then cleared her throat and tried for a louder tone, “Sir . . . ”

  “Sit down, Forrest. Is there anything to drink around here?”

  She sagged to the bed again, watching as he shed his trench coat. He was wearing a heather-gray turtleneck tucked into black slacks. Alysha could almost fool herself into thinking that it wasn’t Brighthaven. Brighthaven always wore a uniform. “Drink? There’s a genie in the wall, sir.” She couldn’t believe that was her voice. It was too even. The air prickled on her bare fur, and her ears clouded with the blood of shame.

  He was either here to find out what she was doing and pass judgment on her . . . or he was here for the same reason all the other patrons were.

  No, she couldn�
�t believe that.

  Brighthaven returned with two glasses. He kept one for himself and offered her the other. Blindly, Alysha took it. She watched his eyes stray from her face to her neck and easily read the disgust that made his mouth twist; the next moment she felt the trench coat impact her stomach.

  “Put that on.”

  Alysha shrugged into it and pulled it closed around herself. The fabric smelled like a musky aftershave. She fumbled for the glass and sipped, tears threatening to burst from her eyes as it burned all the way down. Some kind of brandy, or cognac. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her.

  “Why are you here, Cadet?”

  Alysha closed her eyes. She refused to cry, or break down. She would not be here if there were another way. “Because I needed the money to go to the Academe.”

  “Why didn’t you get some other job?”

  “There were none that made the kind of money you need for tuition,” Alysha replied. She admired her own calm at the same time she wondered wildly where it was coming from. She didn’t dare meet his eyes.

  “Didn’t you apply for a scholarship?”

  He couldn’t be that naïve. Alysha cleared her throat. Without glancing up at him, she said, “Only the children of influential citizens are awarded scholarships, sir.”

  There was such a long pause that Alysha chanced a look at him. He was staring out the window, and there was such a fascinating mix of emotions on his face that her short peek lengthened. There was shock in the width of his eyes, calculation in the furrowing of his brows, and growing anger in the lines around his tight mouth. So . . . he had not known.