Sparks in Cosmic Dust (18 page)

Day 79, C143,000,000

Millions and millions.

Her exotic initiation into the world of deep-space prospecting now at an end—ever since the cave-in, her existence had relapsed somewhat to the daily, inescapable grind she’d endured in the Delfin—Varinia found herself thinking too much of her girlhood home, and of the rolling green fields where she used to while away summers with her treasured mares. Here there was beach, emerald water, extraordinary sky, but the oppressive tension broiling between Solomon, Clay and herself rendered the place somehow bleak, banal.

She hated the suppers. Everyone sat outside their own tents, and there hadn’t been a campfire since that cringe-worthy exchange over a week ago. What had she been
thinking?
Clay might be ungodly desirable in a deep, tortured-artist sort of way, but she should never have let the brandy get to her like that. Dumb. Then again, poor Solomon had assumed too much from the very inception of their pact on Kappa Max. Was it her fault he loved her when she didn’t love him? She’d gone along with the partnership for months, trusted him when he’d said the feelings would grow between them.

A part of her had wanted him to be right. Outwardly, Solomon Bodine was everything a woman could want in a man. Inside, he was sweet and loyal and had good morals. She’d never forget the time he rescued her from the Delfin’s Aqua cube. But no obligation should be interminable. He’d have to accept the fact that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with him. Some other girl on some other rock would have to worship the ground he walked on.

But how could she tell him without flaring up the already brimming jealousy between him and Clay?

No one spoke much anymore, except in “pyro-talk,” as she dubbed it—a kind of shallow, declarative communication that wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular but, to the babbler, seemed worth sharing somehow. While digging, she’d listened to reams of absolute crap from all three of them, Grace included. Interior monologue aired like headshrinker piffle during what had become a Sisyphean routine in the mine. Swing pick, gather rocks, pile rocks on trolley, swing pick…

As the sun set behind one of the moons, barely dodging an eclipse, Varinia ladled her last glob of pyro extract into the third vat. It plopped and began to hiss.
Whew.
Enough of that. It had been an arduous day, most of it spent hammering alongside Grace and Solomon in the mine, and her shoulders, biceps and abdominals were heavy as sopping plaster.

She trudged back to her tent, too tired to bother with supper. Tomorrow, she’d take it easy, maybe try and reacquaint herself with Danai, who hadn’t ventured inside the inlet while Clay had kept vigil at the camp’s perimeter during his convalescence. Now that Clay was up to performing outdoor duties again, and would soon be back in the mine, the wayward mare had her chance to prove Varinia’s two-thousand credit investment wasn’t a complete waste.

Oh, great. Now I’ve got clips on the brain. Not even poor Danai is safe…

“Hey.” Solomon threw his damp mining jacket down next to her. It landed with a
thump
and wafted an unpleasant smell of sweat and acrid pyro fumes up her nostrils. “Man, I’m starved,” he said.

“Grab a bite.” She unzipped the tent door. “I’m gonna turn in. We really pushed it today.”

“Yeah. Hey, Varinia…” His eyebrow curled, his cheek and jaw muscles gave a little twitch, which she’d learned meant he was fretting about something. “You wanna, you know, fool around tonight? It’s been a while.”

“Sorry, I’m a bit tired for what you have in mind.”

“Nothing like that. We could just get naked and, you know, make it relaxing. Might do us good.”

She had to hand it to him, he was awfully sweet for such a big guy. And damned sexy with a short beard. “All right, we’ll give massages or something. I’ll get the beds ready while you have supper.”

“Amen to
that.
”

By the time he returned, Varinia was wide awake, her brain besieged by tangible neuroses she could almost taste and touch, blazing in front of her eyes in the dark. She craved his muscular lovemaking, needed it to remain at her beck and call. But that was a shitty attitude. She was cheating him out of the romantic fulfillment his brittle heart desired.

She sighed. This had to be her farewell night spent alone with him, a last gentle bit of intimacy to show him there were no hard feelings. She
had
to tell the poor bloke how she really felt about him, once and for all. She’d strung him along for too long.

But that didn’t mean she was free to shack up with Clay. Hell, no. Poor Solomon’s heart had already been broken once recently. That slag at the Pyramid. Hatcheck girl with a penchant for storeroom quickies. And based on the wild abandon he’d displayed afterward—spiting his religion by chasing the
uber
-temptress of deep space, the black-hearted, all-devouring Varinia Wilcox—he was not likely to take rejection well here, under the volatile influence of pyro. Christ, he was big enough to rip any rival apart.

And Clay probably wouldn’t want her anyway. Not with a fortune like this at stake. He wasn’t dumb.

No, if she left Solomon, it would have to be a clean break. She would simply move out of the tent and erect the spare one for herself. For the remainder of their stay, she would either keep herself to herself or, if either man had further designs on her, rebuff any and all advances. Simple.
Yeah, right.
The one she had to worry about most was herself.

In close proximity to Solomon and Clay…in heat? No fire retardant yet invented could—

She maneuvered the folded-blanket pillow and rolled onto her front when he unzipped the door. “Varinia?” he whispered. “You still awake?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can’t see a thing. How about a low light?”

“Sure. Whatever works.”

While fumbling for the light glider on the ceiling, he overbalanced against the tent’s inner wall.
Whump.
The illuminating strip running around the dome roof blazed on, flooding the interior with fluorescent pink light. Varinia mashed her eyes closed.

“Sorry. Oh my God. Wow, don’t move.” He adjusted the glider to a dimmer wattage.

She secretly enjoyed his blunder. It had helped punctuate her surprise.

Lying fully naked, face down, diagonally across the tent, she thought only of his lovelorn fantasies enjoying her from head to toe, the things he
wanted
to do to her, and could easily if he had a mind to. Solomon was by far the strongest man she’d ever had in bed.

Her pulse thudded in her chest, then in her wrists folded under her chin. Another
whump
followed by the frantic sound of heavy pants being hustled off fed her sense of empowerment. She bristled. But no matter how horny he was, she had to call the shots here. They’d agreed on a massage. Nothing more. If she could keep him to that, it was an important step to his accepting they weren’t a couple anymore.

Tame him?

For one horrifying moment, what she was doing didn’t make any sense whatsoever. She was the most evil bitch in the known universe—the
uber
-temptress finally living up to her reputation.

His huge, coarse hands ran over the small of her back, settling on her hips. From there he rubbed lightly over her ribs. Gentle but firm. A little ticklish. He shifted position, straddling her on his knees, his not-quite-flaccid cock brushing warmly against the middle of her back. She shivered with delight.

“So I was thinking,” he said in a smooth, confident voice while massaging her sore shoulders. Sublime, masculine rubs. “When we reach a hundred zee, we’re gonna need somewhere to store our clips. Somewhere with lax immigration. We don’t want them asking too many questions. With my ID history, the jobs I’ve always worked, I’d be flagged for anything over a hundred thousand. You think Grace knows how to get fake IDs?”

Great, more pyro-talk.

“Mmm. I’m sure she has it covered.” Varinia closed her eyes. “When she sells the treasure, her contacts will probably deck us out with blanket visas, fake IDs, immunity cred, the works. They’ll be used to that stuff.”

“Sounds like you’re no stranger either,” he said.

“Maybe not. You don’t really think I got from there to here just by shedding kit, do you?”

“Actually…”

“
Hey,
knock it off, brick-brawn,” she joked. “I’m naked here.”

“And your point is?”

She lifted her butt a few inches, couching his balls on her spine. “I can feel where your point isn’t?”

Solomon let go of her shoulders and slapped her ass with both hands.

“Oh, you’re so gonna pay for that.” She settled again, smirking at his deep chuckle.

Oh, brother. This is gonna be trickier than I thought.

His slow rub grew a little repetitive, as though he was trying hard to impress, but she couldn’t complain too much. Solomon had skillful hands and was a natural masseur. Her shoulders, neck and lower back fell asleep.

Then, without invitation, he slid his hands slowly round her sides, his fingertips questing farther and farther into forbidden territory, up and down, again and again, inching from the edges of her breasts to the sensitive ramparts of her hips. She gave in to the gentle ebb and flow, the warm stirring beneath it all that threatened to grow into a maelstrom through sheer acuity. Anticipation. Longing.

To hell with it.

At the apex of his next ascent, she clasped his hands and fed them under her breasts. He let go in order to roll her onto her back. The sensation of being completely exposed and at his mercy gaped her mouth, curled her cravings into a serpentine coil. Knees raised, legs apart, she was undone and waiting.

Solomon’s ripped arms were scarred about the shoulder. His beautifully defined pecs and abdominals towered over her, flexing with his heavy breathing rhythm. In the pink light, his dark beard recast him as a man with great experience, while his hungry gaze and impish grin reminded her of the youthful eagerness inside. A potent combination. Power and appetite.

She reached up to his abs, loved the film of sweat and grime slick under her palms, then further to his pecs. As if he’d read her mind, he dropped his grin and his shoulders to reciprocate. God, how she wanted his huge miner’s hands all over her.

Varinia curled again, arched her back under his commanding massage of her breasts. Full span, gathering her cups together for several blissful handfuls. He bent low, sucked each nipple in turn, and right then she wanted, needed him inside her. Nothing else mattered, not where they were or what happened before or after. His sex was right there and she craved it like the sum addiction of a billion pyrofluvium sparks.

Whump!

He leaped up and tore the tent door open.

Clank! Clank!

Varinia darted behind him and peered over his shoulder. Outside, long black cords were piling on top of a rectangular silver container about the size of a small coffin. Red and green flashing lights attached to untidy white wiring decorated all the edges. She grabbed Solomon’s shoulder, and they both recoiled as the black cords ended and a large silver parachute collapsed, enveloping the tent.

“Hell, we need the rifles,
now
.” Varinia rammed her T-shirt on. She couldn’t find her panties quickly enough and decided to lunge through the door anyway. Modesty was less important than staying alive. “Solomon. The guns. Where are they?”

He caught her by the wrist and wouldn’t let go.

“What’s the matter with you? They’re
here.
” Why wasn’t the fool making a move? “Great! You’re just gonna crouch there like that? I need Buck Rogers and I get Buck Naked? Get your meat hooks off me, sleaze-heaver.”

“Cool it. Think this through.” Studying the box, he raked his free hand through his greasy hair.

“Think what through? We just got
bombed,
and you’re sitting there asking it the time. Get the fuck off me, Solomon. That thing’s gonna explode!”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re bugnuts!”

“Look closer.” A sudden gust filled the parachute, lifting it six feet off the ground. He craned his neck, directing her to a label on the lid. “It’s more like a luggage trunk. See the clasps? And what do those lights remind you of?”

“How should I know? Shuttle-landing lights?”

Varinia jumped again when Grace wrenched the canopy up and trained her handgun at the mystery object. Clay stumbled beside her, a blanket wrapped around his half-naked form.

Christ.
She covered her privates and dashed back inside. Had he seen? Hell, of course he’d seen. They’d all seen! She fumbled around until she found her khaki shorts, then for good measure threw a heavy blanket over herself as well. Avoiding eye contact with anyone, she crept out beside Solomon, who wasn’t wearing a stitch, while Grace and Clay dragged the parachute to one side, exposing the box. They all converged on it.

In the middle of the flashing lights, what was clearly a luggage label—Solomon was correct—read, in French:
Cadeux pour les orphelins millionnaires ci-dessous. Joyeux Noel!

Puzzled, she translated aloud to the others’ astonishment. “Presents for the millionaire orphans below. Happy Christmas!”

“This some kind of trick?” Clay crouched to inspect the magnetic latches, then gazed up at the night sky. “If there’s still a ship up there, it’s in hiding. Grace, this something you’ve seen before?”

“Not exactly. We were sent a counterfeit deed to our silver mine on Fourmyle one time, though. It arrived in the morning through our subspace fax, giving our exact coordinates. It claimed we were trespassing on official licensed property. The biggest load of crap you ever read. I told the others it was just scare tactics, but they never settled after that. When the same fax arrived again, they downed tools and got the hell off Fourmyle in under a day, two months before schedule. They didn’t have the stomach to fight for their claim.”

“Old-school psychology.” Clay rubbed his chin stubble. “They’re letting us know they know we’re here…and what we’re doing. They’ve called us millionaires, so they must also know we’ve struck pyro. Hmm, I reckon they’ve been watching us closely for days now, probably at high magnification. They know our strength, and that they’ve made contact suggests either they’re not sure they can force us out, that they’re counting on scaring us off, like Grace suggests, or they’re simply making things easy by giving us the chance to leave peacefully.”

Varinia fingered the messy wiring and the frozen adhesive keeping it attached. She swallowed a lump in her throat. Grace’s small hawk eyes were narrower than ever, twitching with defiance. And the men weren’t about to bow to such a cowardly threat either.

That left bloodshed. Or, if the watchers really were counting on this Yuletide omen gifting them a free, unchallenged claim, they might not show themselves until the camp had left. Yes, it could all be a bluff. A handful of men or women up there using fear to achieve what they could not by strength of arms alone.

Varinia stepped back and gazed up into the bracing emptiness of deep space. Her home lay out there somewhere, so far beyond her sight that a trillion of her standing in relay, each at the extremity of human vision, could not conspire to see her front door.
This
was her home right now, and pyro her future. She was sick of being forced into corners by forces she couldn’t meet face to face, sick of being bullied, first from her Selene dream, then from any chance at a quiet life in the Inner Colonies. Now these unseen sons of bitches wanted her to leave somewhere so remote there wasn’t even an official name for it.

She tightened her fists on her woolen wrap. “We’d better not be buying any of this.”

Grace snorted and stomped round to the front of the box. “Not while I’m still vertical.” Without hesitation, she unclasped and lifted the lid. Varinia flinched at the
click,
but soon peered inside with the rest of them.

They found a bundle of five small magnesium flare candles, four paper plates, three socks dyed red with what smelled like beetroot juice, two large sachets of syntho-turkey roast, and, finally, a cartoonish digital printout of a partridge in a pear tree.

“Funny fuckers, aren’t they?” Clay spat into the sand. “First they luck onto the richest trove in the galaxy, then they mock us for doing all the hard work for them. They’ll soon see how funny it is when they try to collect.”

Solomon glowered at him, pursed his lips. “Luck? How do you think they found us in the first place, dickhead? That hoorah double-back warp sounded like a dumb idea as soon as I heard it. Jesus. Trying a bolt-head stunt like that on professional trackers. What the hell were you thinking, Grace? And
you
—” he flung an outraged finger inches from Clay’s face, “—have been a fucking liability ever since we left that shithole on Kappa. This is all you fault.”

“
My
fault?” Clay smacked the big man’s hand away. “Watch it, Bodine. You’re coming apart, spouting shit. This was no one’s fault. We did a double-back because there was no alternative. If by some infinitesimal fluke they stumbled on our new vector, how is that anyone’s fault? I suggest you cool off before you get hurt.”

“Okay, I will.” Solomon shoved his open hand into Clay’s face.

Once again, Clay batted it away. “Man, I knew you were a fucking time bomb, but that God-fearing shit must have really put a weed up your ass. Do you hear me, loaves and fishes? You’re fucking loco!”

Before Varinia could intervene, Solomon let loose with a strong right hook, knocking Clay clean off his feet. She thumped the big man’s arm but he paid no notice. Out of the blue, Clay sprang at his opponent’s legs and rugby-tackled him to the ground, sparking a vicious, near-naked brawl in the sand and over the fallen parachute. Meanwhile, the Christmas lights illuminated them in alternating red and green hues, rendering the absurd truly ridiculous.

Fuming, Varinia snapped the chest lid shut and sat on it, crossed her legs, and sank her chin onto her fist. There was nothing she could do to break them up that wouldn’t be construed as favoritism, so she watched resignedly instead. Nude Greco-Roman wrestling did have its perks. But she was sick to death of them being at silent loggerheads. At least this represented progress. They’d just have to punch and headlock each other senseless until one of them stopped. Then she’d have her say.

Crack!

Grace’s gunshot pierced the night. Stepping out of the gloom, she trained her Ares pistol on the nearest man. “Either go back to your tents right now or I execute you both. I’ll not warn you again.” She cocked it. “More profit for me, better for Varinia. Don’t test me, shitheels.”

For one soul-swallowing second Varinia reckoned the good doctor really
was
going to pull the trigger. She’d never seen such a murderous scowl on an old woman before.

Slowly, the two men got to their feet and, prideful not to reveal which parts of them were injured—from the ferocity of punches, probably most parts—they trudged apart toward their respective beds without saying a word.

Before they vanished altogether, Varinia called after them. “Right, this has gone on for long enough. Solomon,
we’re finished.
It was never going to work between us, so consider us over. I don’t love you, never did the way you wanted. And Clay, don’t even think about it. As of right now, I’m Varinia Wilcox, Kappa Max ghost again. There’s a sheet of glass between me and every man for a billion light-years in every direction, no exceptions. We dig, we leave, we each go our separate ways. I’m putting the spare tent up right now, so you don’t need to measure dicks on my account anymore.”

Both men disappeared, and a few seconds later Solomon slung her sleeping bag, blankets and clothes out onto the sand.
Asshole.
He then zipped the door and switched out the light.

“Nice speech, chick.” Grace holstered her sidearm. “That’ll have them licking their wounds.”

“Yeah? That was okay? Not egocentric at all?”

“Epically egocentric.”

“Sue me.” A chill gust delved inside the neck of Varinia’s cloak, making her shiver. “Grace?”

“Hmm?”

“Help me put my tent up?”

Grace sighed and, giving a slight nod, slung an arm over Varinia’s shoulder. “Sure thing, Sarah Jayne.”

Sarah Jayne.
Demure Snow White virgin with rosy cheeks and ebony ponytail, Sarah Jayne. Well, that had been her reputation. But in her first year in the prestigious Selene modeling academy, sweet Sarah Jayne had slept with two of her instructors. Nothing compared to most of the other girls, though. Protected promiscuity within the academy—no one was permitted to enter or leave without being screened for pregnancy or STDs—was an unspoken part of the institution. It helped cultivate sexual self-identity, and though it wasn’t exactly advertised on the official Selene prospectus, nearly all the instructors freely engaged in extracurricular “tutoring” of their ingénue models.

After all, Selene modeling was all about projecting sex, albeit coquettishly. The more a model knew about her own sexuality, the more effectively she could ply it. Or so her first tutor had told her…in his quarters…while peeling off her sports bra after a hundred tandem circuits of the low-g velodrome. She was sixteen. Mr. Hughes was in his thirties and had been the object of her crush for weeks. Barely legal, the ensuing half hour, during which he’d ravaged her innocence but made sure she loved every moment, had left her glowing for days after. The next time they made love,
she
took charge briefly, to his delight, and so the new, confident Sarah Jayne grew sexually from strength to strength.

But she never forgot that time early in her second year when she’d sneaked out of holo-catwalk practice to be with him, and Mr. Hughes, fresh from another tandem session in the velodrome, had someone else in his quarters. Door locked. She’d peered through a gap in his blinds, burning with jealousy, but had soon gasped as he’d peeled down a freshman
boy’s
cycle shorts. A lanky sixteen-year-old lad with a huge erection. Stunning Hispanic face.

That same time next week, she found them both in his quarters again, but this time, having discovered the lad also had a sophomore girlfriend, she knocked on the door. Her gambit worked, as they both eagerly invited her in. Sarah Jayne always counted that hour of sexual athletics as the most satisfying lesson of her entire academy training. Worshipped by two partners across two generations, she’d orchestrated the whole show from start to finish, and by the end she’d had them both gasping for breath, on their backs, burned out.

It was safe to say, without Sarah Jayne, there’d never have been a Varinia Wilcox.

Strange how little any of that mattered now. Her big secret wasn’t a secret anymore. While Grace helped her put the new tent up, it was as though a fresh chapter in her wayward life drew breath, as though she had the power to reinvent herself once again.

Free from obligation.

“So you
were
the Selene doctor when I was there?” she asked Grace. “I don’t remember you.”

“I only remember you because of the controversy, chick. That decision to disqualify you, the whole coining palaver. I was on the voting committee. It was pretty much unanimous in the end, except for me and a couple of younger contest judges. Most of them couldn’t get past the stigma, the precedent of including a coiner in such a high-profile contest. Their sphincters puckered, simple as. I argued that it gave you no advantage in a beauty pageant other than knowing where the other girls hid their sex toys.

“Then there was that business with the collapsed woman outside, in the hedge maze. The life you saved.” She flexed one of the tent spines until it arched the canopy to its full height, then locked it into place. “I said if that wasn’t proof of your character, there was no such thing. Didn’t do any good. You could have saved the President of ISPA and his whole cabinet and it wouldn’t have cut any ice. They’re just not ready for anything they can’t get a handle on.”

Varinia shuddered as the wind picked up and flapped the canopy. “What about you, Grace?”

“What about me, chick?”

“What do you think will happen next? For people like me, I mean.”

The old woman flashed her with the beam of her helmet lamp. “Well, I’m not playing Battleship with you, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Varinia grinned to herself. With that dry and throwaway bit of humor, it was suddenly all right to be what she was, to do what she could do…if only around Grace. When the tent was up and she was snug inside, she’d try her best to prove that the good doctor’s faith in her, all those years ago, had not been misplaced.

How much farther now?
Despite the often remarkable disparity between real time and astral time—Varinia had once floated for what seemed like days, when it had in fact been a single night—she’d never ventured into outer space from a planet’s surface before. The height was impossible to judge. She could gauge neither her speed nor her geography. Storm clouds hovered thickly above, the occasional impish flicker of lightning inside auguring nasty weather. A new kind of pseudo-cold, empty and lonely, struck deep into her coining alter-ego.

This was too ambitious.

Locating the orbiting vessel and spying on its mysterious occupants had seemed a good idea at first. Like many of her special-ability-inspired schemes—relaxing through a brief travel before she stepped onto the Selene stage; drifting into space from her shuttle cabin, just to see what it was like, and almost ending up light-years disembodied when the ship began its warp jump cycle; conning Archie by signing up for Cydonia Face at the Delfin. Yep, she’d always been a tad too cocky with her gift. Too reckless. And now it was time to know her limitations and get safely back to ground. One of these days she’d pull a stellar Hansel and Gretel and run out of breadcrumbs altogether…for eternity.

But would she simply stay in this form when she died, only cast away from where she was supposed to be when her afterlife guide came to usher her away to a further existence? Who knew? Mankind had never been equipped with a handbook for any of this stuff. She sure as shit hadn’t. Long-held theories about the parallels between coining and lucid dreaming simply weren’t true—she was no more trapped in her body right now than were the sound waves expelled from her vocal cords when she’d yelled at Solomon and Clay. Coining was phenomenal. A metaphysical can of worms that mocked the infancy of neural science while at the same time opening it up to infinity.

Before they’d died, her mum and dad had assured her this ability was simply the next stage of human evolution, and that they were proud to have a prodigy for a daughter. But she’d always sensed a hollow air of duty in those pep talks. The kind of knee-jerk optimism all parents use to cushion their children from harsh reality. Truth be told, they’d never really forgiven her for keeping her gift a secret from them all those years—they’d found out with the rest of the galaxy when she’d returned home in disgrace after the Selene Pageant. Mortifying times. Ashamed to leave her own room. Meals her mum had made her left hovering on the grav-lev dumbwaiter outside her door. Endless astral escapes to nowhere, the only way she’d ever felt at peace.