THE MOTHER LODE BY ABRAXIS
Chapter 1 - THE MEET
He sat at the bar nursing his whiskey. Four years a dead man and things had been going pretty well for him. He had finally acquired enough credits to take the next step in his transformation. It hadn't been easy. Even though the pay was good, the cost of living, or rather hiding, was high on Derius 4. It's real value was that, as an inner cluster planet, it was one of the last places anyone who didn't buy his death would think to look for him. It was also one of the last places that he might run into someone who would recognize him and put the lie to that death.
He had let his hair grow into a half inch long skull cap. Had grown a beard and mustache; not long, just enough for cover. Then, he had started taking contracts to get the credits for the most important change. But his eyes were going to cost plenty just to make them normal. He hated that idea. He would much rather have gotten a righteous job done to replace the prison shine. But, at twenty times the price of a reversal, that wasn't an option.
He had been one day from trading one disability for another, trading day-blind for night-blind, when Freddie G. had approached him with this contract. With the credits offered he would be able to pay for the best of both worlds as far as his sight was concerned, get the righteous job that would let him see just as well in light as in dark and wouldn't scream convict to every cop and merc. He would also get a guaranteed perfect, new identity as part of the contract, something that he wouldn't have been able to swing with any amount of credits. The final cream on top was that the contract would get him back to the outer systems with a legal trail for that new identity. It was the mother lode for someone in his position. It also stank to high heaven of a trap.
Either way, he had to agree to the meet. He couldn't pass up such a sweet chance of being able to begin to live on the clear and clean almost immediately. The longer he stayed on the run the more chance there was that he would never make it out. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could make it once he was out. But he had to try. There was a debt to be paid and a promise to keep. On the other hand, if it were a trap then someone knew he wasn't dead and he had to find out who that someone was.
So here he was, sitting in plain sight at the bar as the contractor had specified, every nerve on red alert, rather than in one of the dark secluded booths toward the rear of the place where he could have relaxed a little. The only reason that he had accepted this demand was that he had been allowed to select the place for the meet. This saloon had dimmer lighting at the bar than most had in the back booths and it had a gigantic mirror across the back of the bar that gave him a better view of the lighted entrance than anyone entering would have of him. It also had more ways out than just the doors.
The place wasn't all that busy, dive that it was, but the woman would have caught his attention in a crowd. Young and fresh, a pretty face surrounded by short, curly brown hair; she was an amazon. From where the top of her head passed the door frame, he judged her to be over 6' tall until he saw the huge platforms of her shoes. All right. She was a petite amazon, maybe 5'9" or 10", but still an amazon. She had shoulders as broad as most men; nice, strong, level shoulders with plenty of creamy ivory skin showing around the skimpy straps of her black, slip cut top. She had some extra weight to her. But, damn, it was nicely arranged and there was muscle underneath it. She moved easy and sure on those stilts for shoes.
She wasn't busty but not flat chested either and they bounced nicely as she took another step into the bar. She tucked in prettily at the waist and her hips were just slightly narrower than her shoulders, allowing her arms to hang straight at her sides. Those arms were long and strong looking with enough extra flesh to make them also look invitingly soft. Her legs were amply displayed by the black mini skirt she wore. They were also long, just seemed to go on forever, and equally strong and invitingly soft.
The lily was gilded artfully with the glint gold; long, spool shaped, dangle earrings and single, thick chains at neck, left wrist and right ankle. He felt himself getting hard.
"Down boy," he thought. "It ain't like you haven't been getting any. Tonight is business not pleasure. Here to earn money not spend the kind she'd cost."
Boy didn't seem to be getting the message. It didn't help that the woman was now walking straight toward him with a graceful but purposeful stride.
*****************************************************
As Jenna let her eyes adjust to the dim interior of the sleazy tavern, she began to scan the bar trying to locate the man she was here to meet. This turned out to be fairly simple. The patrons at the bar consisted of three john-hooker couples negotiating the night's business, a set of arguing drunks, a few drinking to get drunk types and one man who was watching the entrance in the mirror behind the bar. He was wearing dark glasses and seemed to be focused on his drink but she could feel him staring at her.
Since he hadn't been told that his contact was a woman, his continuing attention after she had stepped away from the door must indicate a baser interest. She allowed herself a brief sense of accomplishment at this. She had put a great deal of effort into her choice of clothing and accessories. To look like a woman who would allow herself to be "picked up" in such an establishment hadn't been what had concerned her. To look like a woman that a man would want to "pick up" had been. It would seem that she had managed to do that.
She made a quick appraisal of her own. While his position sitting at the bar hid a great deal, she could see that he was very strongly built. A black, short sleeved knit shirt displayed massive arms and broad shoulders that tapered into a trim, tight torso. His choice of meeting place that both fulfilled her demands and yet allowed him a maximum of security demonstrated that he had intelligence relative to his profession. She could only trust in Mr. G's judgment and hope that he had more than brute muscle and criminal cunning. Though that would do for the basic duties for which he would be employed, it would be extremely advantageous and much more to her own personal desires if he were capable of more than that.
Fingers crossed, mentally, she strode across the room and took a seat on the bar stool next to him. When the bartender asked for her order, she used the agreed upon code phrase.
"I usually drink Tovarich but any vodka will do. A straight shot, please."
Quoting her a reasonable price and smiling appreciatively at the little piece of mid-drift that she revealed by raising the hem of her top to reach the pocket sewn into the waist band of her skirt, the bartender reached under the bar and brought up a bottle of clear liquor and a stubby whiskey sour sized glass. After pouring his overestimation of a shot into the glass, he gave her a subtle warning look that referenced the man beside her and then made himself busy at the far end of the bar. It took her a second or two to understand that the bartender had taken her for a hooker and thought that she was risking too dangerous a piece of business. That the bartender in a place as low as this would consider the man beside her threatening was a mark in the man's favor.
As she waited, somewhat impatiently, for him to respond with the proper counter phrase, she sipped the vodka. She didn't have much experience with liquor, just enough to know that champagne was bitter and puckered the mouth and whiskey was completely nasty. She was surprise to find that Dr. Fenton had been correct in his insistence that vodka be the choice in the code. She liked the almost tasteless heat of it, especially as it hit her stomach and firey warmth spread through her. She smiled softly as she took a second sip, wondering what other surprises this evening was going to hold.
The next one came almost immediately. The man turned his face slightly in her direction and spoke in an intimate whisper. The deep, rumbling purr of his voice vibrated a lot more in her than her ear drum. The scientist in her muttered about testing the subsonic range of his vocal cords but the thought was lost in the unexpected physical sensations she was experiencing.
"Doing a little slumming, sweet thing?"
As his words finally took precedence over his voice, Jenna felt like she had suddenly been doused with ice water. Shit! Shit!! Shit!!! That wasn't the counter phrase. She had sat down by the wrong man; a very big, probably very dangerous wrong man, who had just addressed her in a quite suggestive manner. Though she was certain she could deal with him if he became aggressive, the last thing she could afford to do was bring attention to herself by creating that kind of scene. She turned toward him with her best "you're boring me" expression on her face then turned back to her drink, taking a much larger drink of it than she had before.
This time the vodka's fire hit before it left her mouth. She managed to swallow it but had to take several gasps of air to keep from choking. The man chuckled.
"Now that's better. Couldn't finish this with you lapping that stuff up like a kitten going for milk." His easy drawl turned into a parody of upper class precision. "You might like that better with a mixer." The drawl returned as he raised his voice and spoke to the bartender. "We're taking a booth. Bring us a couple of bottles and a Coke set-up."
He picked up both of their glasses in one hand and took Jenna's arm in the other. His grip was gentle but firm as he stood up and brought her to her feet to stand facing him. He was a tad taller than the 6' 1" that the platforms gave her. His shoulders were so broad that he made her feel almost petite; something that she hadn't experienced since childhood. The sensation made her a bit breathless.
He turned and began moving her away from the bar. There was nothing in his manner that solicited permission or agreement, just obedience. Jenna's usual reaction to even being touched without invitation, much less man-handled in such a fashion, would have been swift and none too gentle. Now, she found herself compliantly allowing him to steer her through the maze of tables and chairs and into the dark niche of a circular booth, the graceful strength with which he moved totally occupying her mind.
But, when he made it clear that he intended to sit next to her rather than take the opposite side of the booth, she finally reached her limit. The man's insolence seemed to have no end. Trying to pull her arm out of his grasp, she spoke sharply.
"I would prefer that you sat on the other side of the table!"
He continued to use the grip on her arm to maneuver her into the booth and added the pressure of the side of his hip and thigh against hers.
"Got to make it look right, sweet thing."
Jenna doubted that any resistance short of an unrestrained attack would free her from his hold. Deciding to take the opposite track, she feigned cooperation and, as soon as his grip loosed, attempted to keep scooting farther around the booth. It didn't work. He released his grip only to wrap his arm around her back, place his hand against her waist and slide her back across the slick vinyl of the seat. She found herself pressed tightly against his side the full length of their bodies. He felt like warm, thinly padded steel. Jenna's insides suddenly felt like she had taken another extremely large drink of the vodka. Her mind was in total confusion as she turned her head and looked into the reflective surface of his dark glasses only to see her own startled eyes staring back at her.
**************************************************
He saw the shocked confusion in her eyes and felt her body shiver against his. He drew a deep breath through his nose, seeking her emotions. They weren't hard to read. Except for a slightly spicy odor that he identified as a popular men's deoderant, she wore no artifical scents. Heavy anxiety but no real fear. A hint of anger but it was older, not now. Sexual arousal, the pheromones were coming off of her in waves. He put it all together and felt a little shocked himself. This full grown woman, ripe as they come, was getting hot and bothered over of him and had no idea what was happening to her.
As soon as she had spoken to the bartender, in a throaty contralto just as lush as her body, the code phrase had told him she was his contact. The cultured tone and proper pronunciation and structure of her speech had removed her from the hooker category, bypassed merc and pocketed her as a toner; totally not someone who would allow him to touch her once this silly game was over. That's why he had made her play it all the way. Riddick's law (one of them anyway): Get what you can while you can.
As he continued to stare into her eyes, he saw understanding begin. Stiffening a little he waited for the rest of it to come: the shame, disgust, revulsion. It didn't. Confusion turned to sharp awareness. Shock was replaced by ......... Jesus H. Christ, the closest word he could find for it was 'curiosity' and that really didn't describe it. He had had run-ins with toners slumming for cheep thrills, trying to put some life into their meaningless existence by playing with the dangerous animals. This wasn't that at all. She was looking at him like kids look at a teacher when the subject has really grabbed onto their imagination. He cut back on the predator purr and spoke almost gently.
"Hang in their, sweet thing. Just a little longer and you can have some space to re-group."
There was an unspoken 'thank you' in her voice as she replied.
"That would be much easier to do if you wouldn't call me that. My name is Jenna. What shall I call you."
"Riddle."
It wasn't the name he was using. He might still need that identity. It wasn't the name he had intended to give her either. It was a name he had used only once and for a very short time; the one he had used on the trader ship that had rescued that damn, piece of junk, smile of the fates skiff just before it completely disintegrated. Used because Jack had goofed and then changed directions in mid-word. Which is exactly what he had just done.
What in the hell had happened? One of those ..... what was the psycho babble ...... oh, yeah ........ 'a verbalization of a subconscious desire or an inappropriate thought. Popular term: Freudian slip.' Dealing with all the yoyo shrinks that one institution or another had thrown at him had been a interesting education in that kind of shit. Yeah, it was a slip all right. One that could put his ass back in Slam real fucking fast. Yet, he'd almost done it, almost blurted out his real name to a woman he had just met. He suddenly need time to re-group, himself.
Chapter 1 - THE MEET
He sat at the bar nursing his whiskey. Four years a dead man and things had been going pretty well for him. He had finally acquired enough credits to take the next step in his transformation. It hadn't been easy. Even though the pay was good, the cost of living, or rather hiding, was high on Derius 4. It's real value was that, as an inner cluster planet, it was one of the last places anyone who didn't buy his death would think to look for him. It was also one of the last places that he might run into someone who would recognize him and put the lie to that death.
He had let his hair grow into a half inch long skull cap. Had grown a beard and mustache; not long, just enough for cover. Then, he had started taking contracts to get the credits for the most important change. But his eyes were going to cost plenty just to make them normal. He hated that idea. He would much rather have gotten a righteous job done to replace the prison shine. But, at twenty times the price of a reversal, that wasn't an option.
He had been one day from trading one disability for another, trading day-blind for night-blind, when Freddie G. had approached him with this contract. With the credits offered he would be able to pay for the best of both worlds as far as his sight was concerned, get the righteous job that would let him see just as well in light as in dark and wouldn't scream convict to every cop and merc. He would also get a guaranteed perfect, new identity as part of the contract, something that he wouldn't have been able to swing with any amount of credits. The final cream on top was that the contract would get him back to the outer systems with a legal trail for that new identity. It was the mother lode for someone in his position. It also stank to high heaven of a trap.
Either way, he had to agree to the meet. He couldn't pass up such a sweet chance of being able to begin to live on the clear and clean almost immediately. The longer he stayed on the run the more chance there was that he would never make it out. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could make it once he was out. But he had to try. There was a debt to be paid and a promise to keep. On the other hand, if it were a trap then someone knew he wasn't dead and he had to find out who that someone was.
So here he was, sitting in plain sight at the bar as the contractor had specified, every nerve on red alert, rather than in one of the dark secluded booths toward the rear of the place where he could have relaxed a little. The only reason that he had accepted this demand was that he had been allowed to select the place for the meet. This saloon had dimmer lighting at the bar than most had in the back booths and it had a gigantic mirror across the back of the bar that gave him a better view of the lighted entrance than anyone entering would have of him. It also had more ways out than just the doors.
The place wasn't all that busy, dive that it was, but the woman would have caught his attention in a crowd. Young and fresh, a pretty face surrounded by short, curly brown hair; she was an amazon. From where the top of her head passed the door frame, he judged her to be over 6' tall until he saw the huge platforms of her shoes. All right. She was a petite amazon, maybe 5'9" or 10", but still an amazon. She had shoulders as broad as most men; nice, strong, level shoulders with plenty of creamy ivory skin showing around the skimpy straps of her black, slip cut top. She had some extra weight to her. But, damn, it was nicely arranged and there was muscle underneath it. She moved easy and sure on those stilts for shoes.
She wasn't busty but not flat chested either and they bounced nicely as she took another step into the bar. She tucked in prettily at the waist and her hips were just slightly narrower than her shoulders, allowing her arms to hang straight at her sides. Those arms were long and strong looking with enough extra flesh to make them also look invitingly soft. Her legs were amply displayed by the black mini skirt she wore. They were also long, just seemed to go on forever, and equally strong and invitingly soft.
The lily was gilded artfully with the glint gold; long, spool shaped, dangle earrings and single, thick chains at neck, left wrist and right ankle. He felt himself getting hard.
"Down boy," he thought. "It ain't like you haven't been getting any. Tonight is business not pleasure. Here to earn money not spend the kind she'd cost."
Boy didn't seem to be getting the message. It didn't help that the woman was now walking straight toward him with a graceful but purposeful stride.
*****************************************************
As Jenna let her eyes adjust to the dim interior of the sleazy tavern, she began to scan the bar trying to locate the man she was here to meet. This turned out to be fairly simple. The patrons at the bar consisted of three john-hooker couples negotiating the night's business, a set of arguing drunks, a few drinking to get drunk types and one man who was watching the entrance in the mirror behind the bar. He was wearing dark glasses and seemed to be focused on his drink but she could feel him staring at her.
Since he hadn't been told that his contact was a woman, his continuing attention after she had stepped away from the door must indicate a baser interest. She allowed herself a brief sense of accomplishment at this. She had put a great deal of effort into her choice of clothing and accessories. To look like a woman who would allow herself to be "picked up" in such an establishment hadn't been what had concerned her. To look like a woman that a man would want to "pick up" had been. It would seem that she had managed to do that.
She made a quick appraisal of her own. While his position sitting at the bar hid a great deal, she could see that he was very strongly built. A black, short sleeved knit shirt displayed massive arms and broad shoulders that tapered into a trim, tight torso. His choice of meeting place that both fulfilled her demands and yet allowed him a maximum of security demonstrated that he had intelligence relative to his profession. She could only trust in Mr. G's judgment and hope that he had more than brute muscle and criminal cunning. Though that would do for the basic duties for which he would be employed, it would be extremely advantageous and much more to her own personal desires if he were capable of more than that.
Fingers crossed, mentally, she strode across the room and took a seat on the bar stool next to him. When the bartender asked for her order, she used the agreed upon code phrase.
"I usually drink Tovarich but any vodka will do. A straight shot, please."
Quoting her a reasonable price and smiling appreciatively at the little piece of mid-drift that she revealed by raising the hem of her top to reach the pocket sewn into the waist band of her skirt, the bartender reached under the bar and brought up a bottle of clear liquor and a stubby whiskey sour sized glass. After pouring his overestimation of a shot into the glass, he gave her a subtle warning look that referenced the man beside her and then made himself busy at the far end of the bar. It took her a second or two to understand that the bartender had taken her for a hooker and thought that she was risking too dangerous a piece of business. That the bartender in a place as low as this would consider the man beside her threatening was a mark in the man's favor.
As she waited, somewhat impatiently, for him to respond with the proper counter phrase, she sipped the vodka. She didn't have much experience with liquor, just enough to know that champagne was bitter and puckered the mouth and whiskey was completely nasty. She was surprise to find that Dr. Fenton had been correct in his insistence that vodka be the choice in the code. She liked the almost tasteless heat of it, especially as it hit her stomach and firey warmth spread through her. She smiled softly as she took a second sip, wondering what other surprises this evening was going to hold.
The next one came almost immediately. The man turned his face slightly in her direction and spoke in an intimate whisper. The deep, rumbling purr of his voice vibrated a lot more in her than her ear drum. The scientist in her muttered about testing the subsonic range of his vocal cords but the thought was lost in the unexpected physical sensations she was experiencing.
"Doing a little slumming, sweet thing?"
As his words finally took precedence over his voice, Jenna felt like she had suddenly been doused with ice water. Shit! Shit!! Shit!!! That wasn't the counter phrase. She had sat down by the wrong man; a very big, probably very dangerous wrong man, who had just addressed her in a quite suggestive manner. Though she was certain she could deal with him if he became aggressive, the last thing she could afford to do was bring attention to herself by creating that kind of scene. She turned toward him with her best "you're boring me" expression on her face then turned back to her drink, taking a much larger drink of it than she had before.
This time the vodka's fire hit before it left her mouth. She managed to swallow it but had to take several gasps of air to keep from choking. The man chuckled.
"Now that's better. Couldn't finish this with you lapping that stuff up like a kitten going for milk." His easy drawl turned into a parody of upper class precision. "You might like that better with a mixer." The drawl returned as he raised his voice and spoke to the bartender. "We're taking a booth. Bring us a couple of bottles and a Coke set-up."
He picked up both of their glasses in one hand and took Jenna's arm in the other. His grip was gentle but firm as he stood up and brought her to her feet to stand facing him. He was a tad taller than the 6' 1" that the platforms gave her. His shoulders were so broad that he made her feel almost petite; something that she hadn't experienced since childhood. The sensation made her a bit breathless.
He turned and began moving her away from the bar. There was nothing in his manner that solicited permission or agreement, just obedience. Jenna's usual reaction to even being touched without invitation, much less man-handled in such a fashion, would have been swift and none too gentle. Now, she found herself compliantly allowing him to steer her through the maze of tables and chairs and into the dark niche of a circular booth, the graceful strength with which he moved totally occupying her mind.
But, when he made it clear that he intended to sit next to her rather than take the opposite side of the booth, she finally reached her limit. The man's insolence seemed to have no end. Trying to pull her arm out of his grasp, she spoke sharply.
"I would prefer that you sat on the other side of the table!"
He continued to use the grip on her arm to maneuver her into the booth and added the pressure of the side of his hip and thigh against hers.
"Got to make it look right, sweet thing."
Jenna doubted that any resistance short of an unrestrained attack would free her from his hold. Deciding to take the opposite track, she feigned cooperation and, as soon as his grip loosed, attempted to keep scooting farther around the booth. It didn't work. He released his grip only to wrap his arm around her back, place his hand against her waist and slide her back across the slick vinyl of the seat. She found herself pressed tightly against his side the full length of their bodies. He felt like warm, thinly padded steel. Jenna's insides suddenly felt like she had taken another extremely large drink of the vodka. Her mind was in total confusion as she turned her head and looked into the reflective surface of his dark glasses only to see her own startled eyes staring back at her.
**************************************************
He saw the shocked confusion in her eyes and felt her body shiver against his. He drew a deep breath through his nose, seeking her emotions. They weren't hard to read. Except for a slightly spicy odor that he identified as a popular men's deoderant, she wore no artifical scents. Heavy anxiety but no real fear. A hint of anger but it was older, not now. Sexual arousal, the pheromones were coming off of her in waves. He put it all together and felt a little shocked himself. This full grown woman, ripe as they come, was getting hot and bothered over of him and had no idea what was happening to her.
As soon as she had spoken to the bartender, in a throaty contralto just as lush as her body, the code phrase had told him she was his contact. The cultured tone and proper pronunciation and structure of her speech had removed her from the hooker category, bypassed merc and pocketed her as a toner; totally not someone who would allow him to touch her once this silly game was over. That's why he had made her play it all the way. Riddick's law (one of them anyway): Get what you can while you can.
As he continued to stare into her eyes, he saw understanding begin. Stiffening a little he waited for the rest of it to come: the shame, disgust, revulsion. It didn't. Confusion turned to sharp awareness. Shock was replaced by ......... Jesus H. Christ, the closest word he could find for it was 'curiosity' and that really didn't describe it. He had had run-ins with toners slumming for cheep thrills, trying to put some life into their meaningless existence by playing with the dangerous animals. This wasn't that at all. She was looking at him like kids look at a teacher when the subject has really grabbed onto their imagination. He cut back on the predator purr and spoke almost gently.
"Hang in their, sweet thing. Just a little longer and you can have some space to re-group."
There was an unspoken 'thank you' in her voice as she replied.
"That would be much easier to do if you wouldn't call me that. My name is Jenna. What shall I call you."
"Riddle."
It wasn't the name he was using. He might still need that identity. It wasn't the name he had intended to give her either. It was a name he had used only once and for a very short time; the one he had used on the trader ship that had rescued that damn, piece of junk, smile of the fates skiff just before it completely disintegrated. Used because Jack had goofed and then changed directions in mid-word. Which is exactly what he had just done.
What in the hell had happened? One of those ..... what was the psycho babble ...... oh, yeah ........ 'a verbalization of a subconscious desire or an inappropriate thought. Popular term: Freudian slip.' Dealing with all the yoyo shrinks that one institution or another had thrown at him had been a interesting education in that kind of shit. Yeah, it was a slip all right. One that could put his ass back in Slam real fucking fast. Yet, he'd almost done it, almost blurted out his real name to a woman he had just met. He suddenly need time to re-group, himself.