Home Worlds! If you haven’t read it you definitely
should. I have recently been getting
into the Sci-Fi genre and this was definitely a great book to pull me further
in. Milani uses her words to create a
world so vivid I can visualize everything and for me this is important because
if I can’t see it I can’t get into the book. The book is full of great
characters both supporting and main that create great depth to the story. They were so realistic I could almost imagine
them as real people. This book has a
little of everything. Political intrigue
that will keep you on your toes wondering what will unfold next and of course
the steamy romance.
If you are interested in reading Sci-Fi this is definitely
a book you should add to your collection.
I’m going to give this book 4.5 out of 5 stars.
If you don't believe me enjoy this excerpt:
ARRIVAL
The
Protector’s shuttle dropped into atmosphere above the North American
mainland. It raced its sonic boom west
across the steel blue waters of the Pacific until the green ridges of the Hawaiian
Islands rose from the horizon like broken dragon teeth. Within the quiet luxury of the Protector’s
private cabin, Jezekiah Van Buren leaned forward for a better view. Even this far out, he recognized the misty
outlines of Maui and Kauai to the north of the island chain. To the south, he made out the Big Island, Hawaii
itself. And Oahu, dead ahead, its
outline etched in his heart.
Home. After three years of living the myth out on
the galactic rim, he’d almost convinced himself that Home World was all a
fantasy. Now, the beauty of the reality
surprised him. Though not half as much,
as the thrill he felt just in being here.
The shuttle banked north, following the island chain to the space port
up on Niihau. Jezekiah twisted in his
seat to keep Oahu in sight as long as possible. Foolish to welcome the sight of
home. There was nothing for him on
Earth: no hope, no freedom – just Mother’s duty and Letticia’s hatred. He did not want to be here. Yet his body felt the islands’ call and his
soul sang with joy. Sensors woven into
the fabric of the seat picked up the telltale changes in his body’s chem
signals that betrayed his eagerness and fed them to ShipMind. The shuttle upped screen magnification
instantly. Squinting, he glimpsed the
sunlit sparkle on Pearl Harbor before it vanished behind the gray-green
coast.
“You sure your
sister ain’t going to knife me, Milord?”
The worried voice of the pretty boy wearing Jezekiah’s clothes broke his
reverie.
Milord. The very title sounded like a death knell. He’d managed to forget, these past couple of
years, that he was condemned to be the future Lord High Protector of
Earth. Jezekiah rose, put on a smile to
disguise the loathing in the thought, and scrounged memory for the boy’s
name. He came up blank. “Quite.
Unless you open your mouth and let her hear that accent.” Simple cosmetics let the crewman – ah, Roy, that was the name - fake the fiery
red hair and impossibly blue eyes of the Great Family Van Buren, but the sweat
sheening his skin was real fear.
Admirable bravery, nonetheless, for a Sprite. SpriteType was gene coded
for beauty, not courage. He pulled Roy’s
collar straighter, smoothed the silken drape of his double’s blouse to show the
flame-orchid crest emblazoned on it to better effect. No point telling the boy
now that little sister Letticia was not really the reason they were trading
places. “Just do the smile and nod. That’s all anybody’s expecting.”
Which
was as well, since their disguises consisted of nothing more than hair dye and
contact lenses. He could have had the
ship’s surgeon do a thorough job, of course,
But that would have made the switch official. Made it part of the ship’s records, got it
posted to NetMind. Odds were too great
Letticia would be monitoring ship’s records, looking for any hint he was
planning something exotic. He had no
desire to gift dear little Letticia a heads up on this switch. He was too eager to reach the Manor alive.
Jezekiah
circled his stand-in, checking for any glaring flaws. The resemblance wouldn’t pass more than a
casual glance: the boy was a bit younger than his own twenty-three years, a bit
narrower in the shoulders. Still, the
lad bore himself well, and had a SpriteType’s instinctive flair. He swept his jittering doppelganger a formal
salaam. “You are perfection personified,
Milord.”
“Yuh-huh. Scuttlebutt’s putting odds on blood, it
is. ‘T’ain’t bettin’ in my favor,
neither, they ain’t.”
“The
bet’s on my blood, not yours.”
“Yuh-huh. Less’n your sister gets eager.” Roy’s eyes searched his, seeking
reassurance. “So why’s she want to kill
you anyway?”
It
was a better question than the boy should be asking. The engineered characteristics that went into
the SpriteType gene pack were designed to produce happy-go-lucky personalities
in exquisitely beautiful bodies, not deep thinkers. But Type coding only guaranteed looks and talents,
not luck. A Sprite who’d been forced to
live by his wits the way this one had learned to think about things like
surviving the night. He knew how that
felt. Rather too well, in fact. But those were not memories he could afford
at the moment. Or ever, if he had a
choice.
“Wish
I knew,” was all he said. It was the
simple, wholehearted truth. Letticia
didn’t want the Ring. Never had. Nor was she supposed to know anything about
her part in the treaty he had worked out.
Of course, with Letticia ‘wasn’t supposed to’ didn’t mean much. He pretended his sudden shudder was due to the
cool air. Still, Kip Marsden would have
alerted him had Letticia pried into his node too far; even Lush – no, better
learn to think of his baby sister as Letticia - had never outwitted Kip. Yet.
So Letticia shouldn’t have any reason to want to kill him. Yet she had most certainly spent a goodly
part of the past few months trying. That
was one of the main reasons he was coming home in such a hurry – he wanted this
treaty ratified before that damned assassin of hers got lucky. The other reason was on Den Lupus, preparing
his alternatives. If this treaty failed,
Strongarm would take the Van Buren Commonwealth down with it.
He
couldn’t afford to worry that possibility right now. Jezekiah straightened the Sprite’s shoulders,
tugged the trousers to a sharper crease.
“Doesn’t matter for you, in any case.
You will be under the
protection of the Protector’s own Sec chief.
No one is going to risk attacking you.”
He hoped.
He
stood back, considered the effect. Not
bad at all, for a joy toy who’d been gracing a petty officer’s bed this
morning. It would do for distance work,
and Kip Marsden would make sure the KnowNet cams kept their distance. Past that - Mother was clued. And on Earth that was all that mattered.
Which bent the odds
of making it to the Manor alive in his favor.
Assuming, of course, that Letticia hadn’t got clever while he’d been
gone. Assuming that she hadn’t clued her
assassin to anticipate precisely such a diversion. He forced the odds on that out of mind. Still, if the last few attempts were any
indication, her hired killer would get quite close enough to recognize the
substitution. Ideally, just not in time
to find Jezekiah in the crew line.
Jezekiah
dropped back onto the shuttle’s seat.
The tendril of ShipMind woven into the soft leather read his measure,
molded the cushions to him. He’d lost
the habit of luxury these past two years;
now, he allowed himself a moment simply to luxuriate in its enveloping
comfort. He’d lost his edge in the
Family games, too, though. That was the
real worry. The little voice at the back
of his mind recognized the bitter tinge in the thought. He hadn’t lost
his edge, it murmured. He’d blunted it,
deliberately and with enthusiasm. The
thought of what Mother would say if he were fool enough to share that
particular truth made him grin.
“’T’ain’t funny from my end, it ain’t.” Roy jammed hands on hips and scowled. “I still got time to back out of this, I do.”
Not
really, Jezekiah thought, but there was no point in telling the
boy so. Maybe he should drug the poor
sot after all. Would not do at all if
the fellow ran screaming for shelter when he met Letticia’s hatred at face
range. He decided against it. Mother was clued; terror and Kip Marsden
would handle the rest.
“Sorry.” He put his working smile on, watched the lad
relax at its false re-assurance. “I was
just thinking what a lucky sot you are.
You will be my personal guest, remember.
You get to sleep VIP, eat VIP, even screw VIP if you want. It struck me funny that you should
worry.”
There, that put the
dreamy look back in the lad’s eyes. He
really was a lucky sot; his dreams were simple.
Jezekiah felt a sudden pulse in the energy field encircling his Ring
finger and tamped the jealousy down.
He’d need to find gloves. Thick
ones: the energy field that was the
Heir’s Ring lit its yellow diamond shell from within. The result wrapped a cold, golden star around
his finger. In a crewman’s line, it would
stand out like a system buoy. Or an
assassin’s beacon, in this case.
So, then. One more item on the to-do list. For these last few minutes, though, he was
still free. If he played his hand right,
he’d be back off Earth in a week.
Without the Ring this time.
Without the threat of the Protectorship hanging over his head. Free, once and for all and forever.
He upped the screens’
magnification again, shifted focus to Oahu.
The tiny colored flecks he’d seen before bloomed into sails where
windsurfers rode the breakers. Beyond
them, Diamond Head’s blunt cone loomed over the curve of white sand that was
Waikiki. The familiar blackened
skeletons of ancient towers broke the jungle along the shoreline, a long, dark
thread binding the Manor to his Family’s history.
“Scrat me,” said an awestruck whisper at
his shoulder. “Those Home World stories
really are true, they are.” Roy had
peered out with him, sham dignity forgotten.
“Always thought the legends were sawyered, I did.” The boy’s lips and eyes formed matching o’s
of wonder. Decidedly not an acceptable
Van Buren expression.
“Some
of them are. But not Hawaii. There’s no need to lie about Hawaii.” Which tidbit was itself a lie. Still… no point ruining the lad’s
fantasy. He’d make a fine bit of free PR
once he was back out on the rim. And
Makers knew – he corrected the Lupan expression – God knew ‘free’ was all Earth could afford these days.
The
shuttle banked lightly, angling toward the great public port on tiny Niihau. Docking
at three minutes, Milord, ShipMind
announced. After two years holding his
own on the rim, the title jarred. The reception party is assembled.
The muscles between
his own shoulder blades tightened with the words. Jezekiah rose, shook his crewman’s coverall
loose. He touched knuckles to forehead,
crewman style, pinched color into the lad’s cheek. “Smile.
You’re on.”
He felt the old, cold
calculations settle in behind his eyes.
His pulse steadied, the old half-smile formed of itself. So, then.
He was home.
*
Earlier
Van Buren Protectors had carved Earth’s deep space port out of Niihau’s broken
volcano. Port facilities were carved
into the inside curve of the mountain itself, creating a stone pueblo that
overlooked the magnificent bay.
Shambling along in the sweating crew line, Jezekiah risked a casual
check back at the shuttle. Mother’s
personal ship nestled on the Protector’s private landing pad, sleek and slim as
a baroque pearl against the sapphire sea.
Beyond it, a TransitLine cruise ship was freshly docked at the tip of
the curve. The line of disembarking
tourists snagged where it snaked behind the glittering dignitaries swarming
Mother’s dock. Fathers from the full
dozen worlds of the Van Buren Commonwealth worlds lifted children onto their
shoulders to catch a live-eye glimpse of a Van Buren prince. The children, less concerned with princes
than pleasure, squealed in delight and played catch-as-catch-can with the
KnowNet cams whisking past.
Nice touch, that cruise ship. Gave him a flood of tourists to blend
into. Had to be Mother’s work: it would
take Van Buren level clearance to permit a hoi
polloi liner to dock while one of the Family was on the field. Odd though, for Mother – she hadn’t allowed
the rank and file within weapon range since the Tong rebellion.
“Aw,
damn me, they lied, they did!” The woman ahead of Jezekiah wobbled to a
stop. She had the massive build and
albino complexion of the deep space mining clans. Explanation enough for her troubles. In a pinch, a ship-bred miner could survive a
good fifteen minutes in full vacuum. In weather they were defenseless. Already her skin was reddening in the Hawaiian
sun.
And
yet… there was wonder in her eyes.
Glancing down the queue Jezekiah saw that wonder reflected in a hundred
faces. He’d seen it in a thousand
tourist vids, some of them his own propaganda.
The difference was that this time he felt it himself. This time he, too, felt every cell in his
body thrill to the feel of Earth. He
felt the pull, the sense that this place
was right, that this was where he belonged. Genetic manipulation had adapted humanity to
survive the physical demands of other worlds.
But even the most radically engineered Types, even polymorphic LupanType,
were still fundamentally human. Earth
was home world, and every cell in
every body on that dock knew it.
The
wonder still shone in the miner’s eyes when her knees gave out. She dropped straight, nearly taking Jezekiah
with her.
“Where
you popper?” Jezekiah asked, using crew pidgin.
Clansmen normally packed small, pop-up umbrellas to protect their skins
from planetside suns. The umbrellas also
prevented ship bred miners from attacks of psychotic agoraphobia at the sight
of open sky, but no one with a sense of self-preservation reminded them of
that.
“No
thought t’need it. It’s Paradise they
said.” She breathed deep, nearly choked
on air wet and heavy with the scents of ocean salt and metal tang. “It’s lie,
they did.”
“No
lie. Just summer.” Jezekiah looked up as an airborne Sec cam
buzzed the line. It slowed as it reached
him, and he felt his skin tingle as it ran bioscan check on him.
“No
screens, either – scrat that
thing!” The miner woman swung her
duffle bag wide off her shoulder, making the Sec cam bounce in its wake.
“Good shot.” The cam zoomed off, apparently
satisfied. Still, he’d been spotted, no
question. So, then. He could expect to find Kip Marsden waiting
for him the other side of customs. Which
couldn’t be soon enough. Damn, it was hot out here. “Need hand?” he asked as the miner doubled
over her duffle, wheezing.
“It’s
no groundhog dainty can be carryin’ me.”
Her words were stronger than her voice.
“Lender,
only,” Jezekiah said. He offered her his
free arm, bracing himself so the weight she put on it wouldn’t stagger
him. Truth was, it felt good to simply
be himself, do simple, honest work. Good
to be able to speak from his heart, for himself. Likely the last time he’d dare such honesty,
he thought, and his little voice chided him for the resentment.
Besides,
he’d forgotten himself just how sticky hot Hawaii’s weather really was. The crew’s customs line snaked along the
unshielded section of the dock, leaving the off-world hands to either exult or
fry in the Hawaiian sun while they inched toward the bureaucrats manning the
crew customs booths.
A hundred feet or so
ahead a trio of towering pylons flanked Niihau Port’s customs terminal. Open scanner booths filled the space between
the pylons’ stone bases. Tourist scans,
those. Their section of the dock was
weather shielded. Paying visitors were sheltered from the unpleasant inconvenience of
real weather. Mother wasn’t about to disappoint
the chow line. For once, Jezekiah caught
himself resenting the fact.
“Damme, worse’n scrattin’ Streiker, it is.” The miner wheezed, leaned on him hard.
“T’ain’t,
either.” Jezekiah drew breath to chuckle
at the defensiveness in his tone, wound up choking on a gush of hot, wet air
instead. “Chance, at least, on Home
World.”
“Fuh.
Maybe.” On Streiker, parents
careless enough to birth a natural were sterilized. The baby itself was simply thrown out onto
the blue Streikern ice.
She
eyed him speculatively, sudden curious.
“You Home World local, I bet.
Maker, maybe, I bet.”
“Half
true.” Alone of all the worlds of the
Commonwealth, only Earth still produced true, genetically unmodified human
beings. Only on Earth, on Home World,
could one still find completely natural
humans, those astonishingly unpredictable people untouched by genetic
engineering whose looks and talents and traits were determined by luck rather
than a pre-packaged Type code. Only Home
World still housed Makers. Made for improbable
FunNet romances on the rim and unenviable living conditions on Earth. Among the Lupans, Makers ranked one step
below God Himself.
“Got
hard body check coming, you do, yeah?”
The miner’s voice called Jezekiah’s attention back to the line.
“Yeah.” Dark memories tried to well up. He shoved them down. Not in time.
The
miner straightened, though the motion cost her, and laid a kindly hand on his
shoulder. “Give for take – tell ‘em you miner clan, you want. Jump you in my own self, you want.” She managed a leer in compliment and
gold-capped teeth flashed in the sun.
“Thanks,
but can’t.” It was no mean offer. She might be nothing more than hired crew on
Earth, but she had the rank to grant him status within her own clan. He pried her fingers from his shoulder enough
to kiss their tips. “Got family waiting
other side.” That half of said family
was trying to kill him wasn’t her worry.
“Your call.” She
wheezed in earnest. Bad sign; humidity
out here would rot her lungs if she stayed unsheltered too long.
Craning
to see past the curve of the line, Jezekiah ran his gaze past the dark uniforms
of the crew and customs folk, looking for Kip Marsden’s broad figure. He caught the recurrent
flash of reflected sunlight
from the transit shuttle station at the terminal exit. But no sign of Kip Marsden. A flicker of fresh worry tickled his
gut. That Sec cam had already registered
his biopat. Plugged into NetMind as he
was, Kip would have pinpointed his location on the instant. Ought to be a whole Sec team strolling the
dock by now. So where was he?
Damn
and damn again. He had a whole new
problem, if Kip didn’t show. Crew
customs might not be as comfortable as the tourists’, but its scanners were
just as efficient. He almost wished for
a moment he truly was an Earth-born natural. Then he could stride through
bioscan with impunity – without a Type’s genetic ID code, the man-made
interstellar brain that was NetMind could not ‘see’ him. As it was, even the most cursory scan would
spot his biopat in a heartbeat. At which
point bureaucratic hell would break lose.
Which was precisely the kind of ruckus his would-be killer would be
looking for.
Something pale near
the booth’s pylon caught his eye. A man
in a light suit, broad-brimmed hat pushed back on his white-blond hair,
shouldered through the in-coming queue.
He was tall enough to seem slender, but his lazy sneer made a burly
deckhand change his mind about shoving back.
Aryans. Jezekiah let the miner’s weight bow him a bit
lower. Trouble by definition. Ugly
trouble if Mother had the Aryans looking for him instead of Kip Marsden. AryanType was hard-coded suspicious, and
Mother’s interrogators were trained to indulge the trait. The Aryan ran his cold, blue gaze across the
nearest crew folk without interest, then settled his back against a pylon,
pulling his broad-brimmed hat low against the sun. Watching.
Interesting, his
little voice murmured. The Aryan carried
no scanner. Despite the heat Jezekiah
shivered. The fellow looked vaguely
familiar, though he couldn’t put a name to the face. Could only mean he was attached to the Manor
staff. It also meant the fellow would
know him. He’d certainly be easy enough
to spot. Even an eyeball scrutiny would
recognize him under the hair dye and contacts, if someone knew who to look
for. The Aryan was obviously
looking. Looking eyeball only, keeping
it out of Net. Easy enough to vanish
him, too, out of Net.
So, then. Little sister Letticia had learned to hedge
her bets. Be easy enough to spin a tale
for the Aryans, send them looking for an imposter. Might not even have needed a cover
story. A simple order would suffice;
Aryans would carry out any Van Buren order that didn’t directly threaten
Mother. Letticia could have him picked
off out here and cry ooops
later. Quite a nice idea, actually, his
little voice noted. Warranted
remembering. Assuming, of course, he
survived it.
For a moment, he
considered simply pulling off his gloves.
Let the Heir’s Ring proclaim his identity. That was the easy way out, the path of perks
and privileges. The path he’d vowed to
escape. He left the gloves on.
Beside him, the miner
doubled over, gasping, her face a dangerous shade of red. Jezekiah wrapped her arm over his shoulder,
half-dragged her to the shade of the port wall. Helped that the move put the
crew queue between himself and the Aryan.
Jezekiah lowered her
to a squat, eased her head down to her knees.
No question that she needed a medic.
Stretching, he spotted the medics’ Helping Hand sign just beyond the crew
customs booth and nearly whooped with delight.
The medics’ booth ran straight through the mountain wall to open out on
the terminal passage. Once inside he
could simply catch a tour car to the Manor.
He squeezed the
miner’s shoulder gently. “Stay put. I’m going to send help.” Head down, he eased toward the customs booth,
trailing a hand along the rock face like a spacer who’d yet to find his
groundhog legs. Keeping the queue
between himself and the Aryan, Jezekiah stumbled toward the ‘authorized staff’
door at the back of the customs booth.
“Good try, monk. Get back in line.” A customs agent blocked his way with a
scrawny arm. The man’s features had the
humorless set of a NumbersType whose parents were either too poor or too cheap
to pay for anything more than the most basic gene pack.
“Need water,”
Jezekiah croaked. Hot as it was he
didn’t even have to fake it.
“Yeah, sure. You and every other monkey trying to dodge
scan.” The agent moved to shove him
back.
Jezekiah locked the
agent’s hand on his shoulder. He leaned
forward and put heart and soul into preliminary retching noises.
“Gobbing monkey! Get over there!” The agent dodged aside, shoved him hard and
fast toward the Helping Hand counter.
“Just make sure you check yourself through here afterward!”
Hand clamped over his
mouth, Jezekiah waved a bleary assent.
It was already
crowded inside the station, and raucous.
Crew folk provided the crowd, jump suited men and women huddled
arms-on-knees in the chairs lining the walls.
The ruckus came from a group of bejeweled Pandari merchants whose
retainers were demanding personal heaters at the top of their collective and
impressive lungs.
The humans who had
settled Pandar world had been gene-coded to survive the mummifying aridity and
UV radiation of Pandar’s blue-white sun. Even within the protection of the terminal’s
weather screens, this lot needed breathing filters to survive Hawaii’s humid
air. They huddled together in a
brilliant clump, embroidered collars pulled up around their ears, nictating
membranes flickering in distress across their eyes. The metallic threads on their robes raised
rainbow reflections on their blue-black skin that matched the enameled patterns
of their breathing filters.
A harried medic
shoved a teardrop container of water into Jezekiah’s hand in passing, and
Jezekiah let himself sag against the wall, cradling its moist coolness against
his face. The coolness revived the cold
little voice at the back of his mind, reminded him he needed to get out of
here.
After he
kept his promise. He was past the
Aryan’s line of sight here. Already
ID’d, too: every doorway in every public
building had bioscanners built into it.
The medical staff might be too busy to monitor scan, but SecNet would
have fed his reading straight into Kip Marsden’s link. Even if not – he could slip his hand into any
sync link in the terminal, and the resources of the planet were his. He didn’t need to run any more. At least, not yet.
Jezekiah worked his
way over to an open bin of water teardrops behind the staff counter near the
terminal side door. He filched an
armload of teardrops from the bin, eyeballed the terminal passage for his
escape route while he shoved them into a Helping Hand carryall. Fifty feet beyond the station, the terminal
arched open onto a fern studded stone plaza.
Through the exit arch, he could see the sunlit flash of departing
transit cars. He hoisted the carryall
higher on his shoulder. All he needed
now was to collar a medic and he’d be on one of those cars.
Odd, though. Still no sign of Kip. He ran a quick scan down the terminal passage
as he turned back toward the dockside of the station. No Kip - but he glimpsed a different figure
lounging against a comm kiosk, watching the other tourists trudge past with
professional indifference. He’d
half-seen that figure on half a dozen worlds between here and Den Lupus, felt
that presence in his gut.
So, then. So much for keeping his word. No hope of keeping his promise now, nor time
to mourn the loss. He closed his eyes
against the upswell of shame. No choice, his little voice urged. He needed to be out of here before the
assassin spotted him. Dead, he was no
good to anyone.
Jezekiah bumped into
one of the Pandari retainers. He used a
bowed apology to put the woman’s voluminous robes between himself and the
assassin’s line of sight. Realized with
a shock of relief that the jeweled pattern of her robes marked her as a
medic. Stifling a grin, he shocked her
to silence with a hand clamped around her shoulders. He had her steered half-way to the dockside
door before her nictating membranes stopped flickering enough for her to
actually take note of him.
“No questions.”
Jezekiah used his formal voice, tone calculated to demand obedience. “A Van Buren operative needs your aid. You’ll find her squatting against the wall by
the crew line. Treat her well.” Jezekiah shoved the carryall of water into
the medic’s hands. He clasped the
retainer’s shoulder, added a meaningful smile.
“The Protector will reward you.
Now go.”
Eyes still
flickering, the medic swung the carryall over her bejeweled shoulder and strode
outside.
So, then. He’d kept the dirt out of his soul a few
minutes longer. Elbowing his way back to
the water bin, Jezekiah filled another carryall. He swung it over his shoulder and strode out
of the Helping Hand booth’s terminal door and into the trudging mass of
tourists. With luck, the assassin would
take him for one of the station hands assigned to keep newcomers lubricated
until their transportation arrived.
Only his luck didn’t
hold. He made the mistake of looking
back just before he reached the exit.
Down the corridor, the assassin looked up, looked his way. And smiled a feline, predatory smile.
Damn! Jezekiah’s mouth went dry. Only chance now was to reach the next transit
car before the assassin got within range.
There were a couple of still-empty cars at the stop. Around him, the crowd of tourists slowed as
they hit the hot, humid wall of Hawaiian air.
He shifted the carryall higher on his shoulder and picked up his
pace. If he beat the tourists, he could
commandeer the car before the assassin caught up.
Something hard hit
him hard in the chest. Jezekiah slammed
the carryall around into it, his pulse jumping.
“Hei, you!” A short young
woman in a red sarong glared up at him from beneath a skewed plumeria
wreath. She took in his crewman’s
coverall and changed the glare to a smile of patently false welcome.
Joy toys, he
thought. “Sorry,” he muttered, and moved
to skip past.
“You wan’ gul? Show you good time, eh?” She was barely shoulder height on him, but
she shifted with him to block his path.
“Later.”
Her smile widened,
though not enough to touch her eyes.
Clearly this was a girl who did not enjoy her work. Odd, then, that her stable master hadn’t used
Seed on her – but no, not odd, not on Earth.
Grandfather Ho didn’t distribute Venus Seed on Earth. Mother’d seen to that. He brushed past her and kept walking.
“Eh, wha’ kine spacer
no wan’ gul?” She back tracked with
him. “You stay come. Give good time, eh?” She was a tasty little piece, some primal
section of his mind noted. Buxom but
willow-hipped and lithe. With clear
brown skin that bespoke fresh air and sunshine rather than a Seed sot’s
haggard, driven lust.
“No money.” He said it sharper this time, and
louder. He put his free hand out, palm
up in peace sign, and brushed past her again.
Behind him, he could hear a flock of tourists gaining ground, aiming for the nearest
transit car.
“No hu-hu. You pay later.” She skipped ahead to block him again, giving
him a view down her cleavage that tickled his groin.
Damned determined
little piece. Or desperate. He refused to let himself consider the kind
of penalty she must face for failure.
“Later.” He didn’t need to fake
the desperation in his own voice. He
lengthened his stride to jogging pace.
The joy toy jogged
backward with him. She wasn’t even
sweating, he noticed with envy. “Heia, you don’ like gul?” Her gaze took on a narrow-eyed assessment –
tinged, he noted, with
relief. “You wan’ boy, eh? You come.
Got lots pretty boy.”
“No!”
She skipped into his
path, nearly tripping him. Sidelong, he
saw her throw a glance past his shoulder.
He followed her line of sight to a trio of groundskeepers with the
boulder builds of Samoans. Even in this
sun, only one of them – an ambulatory mountain with a gleaming, black mole at
corner of his jaw - wore a broad rimmed straw hat. They were watching the exchange with
interest. And ambling closer.
Damn and damn
again! The exchange had cost him
precious moments. The tourists flocked
past to engulf the transit car. Jezekiah
swore softly. The only other empty car
sat at the end of the plaza, far enough off to discourage most travelers. He shifted the carryall to the other
shoulder, forcing the girl to skip out of its way.
Behind him the
Samoans had spread out across the path.
Their broad figures blocked his view of the terminal. Which was as well, since they also blocked
the assassin’s sight of him. He’d have
been relieved, had mole face not been grinning so broadly. The sight stirred memories that he refused to
awake.
It took him two steps
before the realization struck home. He
glanced back again, mouth suddenly dry. Not a mole on that Samoan. It was a tracker stud, one of a pair that
would be embedded in temple and jaw. The
mark of a Registered killer. That explained the hat.
So, then. He was being herded.
He lengthened his
stride abruptly. Swearing, the joy toy
grabbed his arm. No invite this
time. Her grip was hard as a man’s. Whirling, Jezekiah swung the carryall hard at
the girl’s head.
She dodged, stepped
in under it to jab her fingers into Jezekiah’s wrist. His arm went numb. She yanked the sack out of his hand, smacked
the carryall into his midriff hard enough to double him around it. He heard the water slosh near his ears. Then her knee caught him between the eyes and
the world went black.
Bonnie Milani
Bonnie has taken what might be called the sandwich approach to writing. She started writing early, winning state-wide writing contests in grammar school, publishing an environmental fairy tale under the aegis of the NJ Board of Education in college. After earning her M.A. in Communication at Stanford, Bonnie freelanced feature articles for East Coast newspapers and regional magazines, from Mankind and Peninsula to Science Digest as well as how to articles for the late & much lamented fanzine Speculations. She stopped writing completely after marriage while building a pair of businesses with her husband. It was only with the successive deaths of each member of her family that she reclaimed her love of story-telling. Home World is the result.
Today, Bonnie lives with her husband of thirty-six years in Los Angeles. She is still a full-time benefits broker, specializing in employee benefits for entrepreneurs and micro-businesses.
