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than she was, and she certainly wasn't ready for retirement, not just five
years out of the Academy. But the dwelling was undeniably his, and the locals
called him old. Why?
"Watch out for the old devil," at least three of the reclam farmers had
told her. "He knows everything, but he moves like the lash of the storm, like
the old storms."
She studied his face, the so-short and tight-curled blond hair, the
tanned and smooth skin of his face, trying not to stare, waiting for him to go
on.
The afternoon wind whined, but the cabin did not shake, unlike some of
the town buildings. While their native wood bent, it never broke, not with the
local design.
"When the Empire rediscovered, they were lucky. Between storms of summer
and howlers of winter. No landspouts that day.
"Could be we were lucky. Time should tell. Couldn't see the sky then,
just the gray and gray of the clouds, and purple funnels of the landspouts.
Screaming and ripping through the hills and plains. Rock rains all the time.
Sheerwinds could cut rivers in half.
"Silver lander. Went hunting and found a devilkid."
He laughed, a short hard bark of a laugh that contrasted with the soft
penetrating intensity of his light voice.
"That was six centuries ago. You act like you were there."
He ignored her interruption. "Great Empire decided they had some
obligation to poor home planet. Guilty conscience. Decided to fix us up. Till
the local budget got tight, and they decided to recruit locals. Couldn't find
anyone, except a devilkid. Other couldn't hack it. Devilkid ended up in
charge. Called him captain. Still a devilkid in soul. Scared the Impies until
the day he walked out. End of story."
"You haven't told me anything."
"Who are you?"
"Me?"
"No matter. Told you everything. Now listen. My turn."
She frowned, then leaned back as he began to whistle in the strange
double-toned sound she had heard him let out momentarily when she had arrived.
The song had a melody, a haunting one, that spoke of loss and loss, and
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yet somehow each loss was an accomplishment, or each accomplishment was a
loss. The melody was beautiful, and it was nothing.
Nothing compared to the off-toned counterpoint, which twisted and turned
her.
The tears billowed from her eyes until she thought they would never
stop, and his song went on, and on, and on.
When the last note died, she sat there. Sat and waited until he sat
beside her and stroked her cheek.
As he unfastened her tunic, she shivered once before relaxing in the
spice of his scent, before letting her arms go around him, drawing him down
onto her.
The song was with her, and with him. Nor did it leave until he did, and
she laid back on the coverlet, shuddering in the rhythms of music and of him,
her movements drawing her into a sleep that was awake, and a clarity that was
sleep.
She woke suddenly.
Her clothes were where they had dropped, next to the bottom edge of the
bed, and her stunner and equipment belt had been moved to the highest shelf,
the one without the old books on it.
She rolled away from his silent, and, she hoped, sleeping form gently,
until their bodies were separated. She waited, half holding her breath, to see
if he moved.
Next, she eased into a sitting position, a position she hoped would not
wake him. Again, she waited.
An eternity passed before she edged to her feet, and silently padded
across the smooth and cold wooden floor.
First, to get the stunner.
By climbing onto the bottom shelf, she reached the belt and eased it
down. Her fingers curled around the butt of the weapon, and she drew it from
the holster.
"Wouldn't."
She brought the firing tube up and toward him, but before her fingers
could reach the firing stud, his naked form of tanned skin, hair-line scars,
and blond hair had struck across the room like the flash of coiled lightning
he resembled. His open hand slashed the weapon from her fingers.
Ramming her knee toward his groin, she drove to bring her right elbow
toward his throat.
Before she could finish either maneuver, she found herself being lifted
toward the bed, her right arm numb from the grip of his left hand.
"NOOOO!"
"Yes."
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She could feel her legs being forced apart, his strength so much greater
that her total conditioning and military training were brushed aside as if she
were a child, and she could feel the hot tears scalding down her face, even as
he heat drove through her like hot iron.
You were warned, a corner of her mind reminded her. You were warned.
But they didn't know. They didn't know!
When he was done, this time, again, he kissed her cheek, ran his hands
over her breasts. But he did not relax.
Standing quickly, he went to the hidden closet and pulled out a loose,
woven gray robe and pulled it on before sitting at the end of the bed, his
hawk-yellow eyes exploring her.
She wanted to curl into a ball, to pull into herself and never come up.
Instead, she took a deep breath and slowly sat up, cross-legged, and faced
him.
"Was it necessary to hurt me?"
"After a while, need the thrills. Beauty isn't enough. Neither is scent.
With you, it's almost enough." He frowned. "Shouldn't have tried for the
stunner. High-minded lady. Sexy bitch. Changed her mind and tried to zap old
Greg. Hard to resist the instincts. Don't have many barriers left, and fewer
all the time. Happens over the ages."
He straightened, leaning back with his eyes level with hers, for an
instant before he stood. She could see the blackness behind the yellowflecked
eyes, a blackness that seemed to stretch back through time.
She shook her head to break away from the image.
After crossing the room with a slight limp she had not noticed before,
he turned and walked back, picking up her clothes, and sorted and folded them,
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