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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thomas Cairstens pedaled faster and looked down at the speedometer of the bicycle. Twenty. For
ten miles, the way she was going. He'd cut across the circle of her course. Jesus. Gwen was loping along
on the foot-trail beside the laneway, keeping pace without visible strain and hurdling boulders and logs with
an easy raking stride. The scent of pine was strong in the cool dawn air, but the flicker of light in the east
was bright enough to give a hint of the heat that would come later. The Draka moved through the dappled
half-light with a wolfs concentrated economy of motion; he could barely hear her footsteps on the rocky
limestone soil. She slowed as they angled back into the gardens, down to a trot and then a walk by the
freshwater pool.
He dismounted and stood panting as she shed lead-weighted anklets, bracelets and waist-belt.
"Impressive," he said.
Gwen was breathing deeply, and the sweat-wet exercise tunic clung to her. "Ironic," she replied.
He raised an eyebrow.
"The way we're designed, we'd be the ultimate terrors in a world where wars were fought with
rifles, or better still swords." She nodded toward the bicycle. "But on that, you're nearly as fast as I am; in a
car, much faster. I can see in the dark—so can an IR scope. I can do differential equations in my head, but
not as well as a computer, not even your computers. I've got a built-in drive to fight—and apart from some
infantry mopping-up actions at the end of the Last War, it's been about as much use as an udder on a bull
for four hundred years. Until now."
"What do you fight in your own world?" he said curiously. "You said it was very peaceful."
"Animals," she said. "Including ones we designed intelligence into, to make them more dangerous.
And each other, particularly each other—drakensis are drakensis's main cause of death."
She stripped the tunic off over her head and threw the sodden fabric to the stone pavement with a
wet smack. The swimming pool was fed from a cast-bronze lion's mask set in a semicircle of rough stone
blocks. Gwen bent her head into the stream of water from the lion's mouth and drank hugely. Cairstens felt
his breath catch at the sight. Naked, she looked far less human; the sleek perfection of long bones and
flat-strap muscle was somewhere between machine and animal. He caught the smell of her sweat, like
musk mixed with flowery perfume, and gave an involuntary gasp.
Gwen raised her head. Her nostrils flared slightly, taking his scent. "You've been good," she said,
and flicked her hand toward one of the loungers. "But quickly."
His fingers trembled slightly as he dropped his shorts and lay back on the padded deck-chair. He
reached behind his head and gripped the framework as Gwen came to stand over him, her mahogany curls
outlined against the rising sun.
"Another built-in drive," she said, and straddled him.
Her hands clamped over his. The weight of her body came down on him, always shocking; the
denser bone and muscle made it heavier than his, and hot—fever hot with the superactive metabolism. Lips
moved across his as her tongue probed his mouth. Her hips moved, and he felt his penis seized and clamped
and held in a warm internal grip just short of pain, like a wet heated glove of flesh. The steel frame of the
lounger creaked rhythmically as she rode him, harder and harder. She growled with pleasure as she moved,
a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard. The musk of her scent and the crushing strength that held and
moved him brought an exquisite sense of yielding helplessness. When she stiffened and arched over him he
spasmed and cried out in abandon.
Gwen lay on him for a moment, smiling. "Best way to start the day," she said kindly, chucking him
under the chin.
Cairstens lay limply. "God, I'm ruined," he said.
"Not at all," Gwen replied, picking him up and tossing him casually overarm into the pool.
He thrashed and sputtered for a moment as she arrowed past him. When he turned, she was
standing on the bottom of the deep end looking up at him—the sight was a little eerie, until you remembered
she was naturally denser than water. Then she crouched and leapt and barreled by, her wake buffeting him
aside. They climbed out and put on beach robes; the maid was there with breakfast, and Alice had brought
the files.
"No problems with the Belway people about the other night?"
"Coleman and Klein didn't even wake up, according to the monitors. Feinberg was up, and went out
in the garden. I told her it was a minor disturbance among the construction workers, and she bought it."
"She called her policeman friend again," Gwen said. "I wonder just why he was so concerned. We'll
have to look into that." She grinned. "I think she's fonder of him than he knows, judging by her behavior in
the bath after that."
Alice giggled. "Not quite as much the ice-maiden as she puts on."
"There's no conflict between libido and ambition," Gwen said. "Quite the contrary. Now. It's been a
very productive week," she went on thoughtfully, loading her plate with johnnycake and local dishes—fire
engine, chicken souse, slices of fresh avocado. She began to feed. "I think we've achieved a preliminary
rapport with Primary Belway Securities."
"Got them around your finger, you mean," Alice said.
"Not exactly. Not yet. But their eyes are definitely full of dollar signs," Gwen said. She chewed
thoughtfully on a piece of johnnycake. "Pass those grits, please. We'll need a secure line into Belway,
somehow . . . definitely a hold on one of their executives."
"Which one did you have in mind?"
"The youngest, Feinberg. She seems to be more mentally flexible; that'll be useful if we can bring
her fully on-side eventually. You humans tend to ossify mentally by forty."
"We've got a few months before the action moves to New York," Cairstens pointed out.
Gwen frowned slightly. "Yes, but that damned Samothracian is a complicating factor. I'll have to be
very cautious there, with him around."
She murmured something in her native dialect; Cairstens thought he caught damnyank, but he [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]