Shattered Bonds (continued)

Shalene froze, certain now that she had heard the noise. There was someone else in the house with her. Their footsteps alternated between stumbling and stopping completely, making it difficult for her to clearly identify them. It could be her brother returning to play a cruel prank on her, but she had difficulty imagining him leaving the presumed gaggle of admiring girls in order to do so. That meant that it had to be someone else.

So far, they had remained far enough from her that she could not detect a scent that might reveal their identity. Something in her hindbrain suggested that it was male, but that would have been her first guess anyway. A hint of his identity flashed across her mind, but did not remain long enough for her to grab hold of it.

She re-oriented herself within the house. It was not that it was fabricated all that differently from almost all of the other ones in the colony. Unlike her intruder, however, she knew instinctively where every piece of furniture, every possible obstacle, was placed within it. From her location in the lower hallway, she tried judge whether she could make it upstairs to her bedroom—or any of the rooms—and secure its door before she was followed and caught. There was only one room that would work on the lower level, but the intruder waited between her and it. He also stood between her and the front door.

Hurrying up the stairs would not be a problem. She had done it countless times before, often as a young child trying to escape parental punishment or, worse yet, some new torment from her brother. As much as he annoyed her, she would have given almost anything for him to be there right now.

If it is him, I’ll make sure that it’s a long time before he can even look at a girl again without pain.

The imagined retribution did little to reassure her. She could not imagine her brother being able to prolong the tension for this long without succumbing to laughter.

The sound of something scraping along the floor broke her reverie. It lasted only a moment, but long enough to tell her that her intruder was still in about the same location.

Probably shifted his leg or something . . .

Shalene could understand that, as she also was growing tired of remaining still. She wondered why the intruder had not moved further into the house, though. She doubted that he had fallen asleep, although that had been known to happen. The most famous story involved Draeger Jantzen, who, after heading home after a particularly intoxicating evening, entered the front door of one dwelling too soon. Jacob Forrester found Draeger asleep across their dining table, having wrapped himself in the tablecloth for a blanket. The matter was treated generally with good humor, but Draeger’s drinking had diminished significantly for several weeks afterward.

If her intruder had entered their home looking for something specific, Shalene had heard no signs of him conducting such a search.

Unless, of course, he’s looking for me . . .

Her best guess was that he knew that she was in the house, but not exactly where. Why else would he just be waiting? He was waiting for her to move again, just as she was of him. The stairs, she decided, still offered her the best chance—if she was quick enough. Without knowing for certain who it was, she had no way to determine how fast that might have to be.

A new scrape sounded against the floor. She guessed her intruder was growing impatient, which might mean that she had a chance. He might be distracted, or overreact, giving her the opportunity to dash for relative safety. She was not sure what she would do once she was secured inside her own room, but maybe she could wait him out. The only communication line into the house was located near the computer—also out of reach—so there was no easy way for her to call for help.

Well . . . I can either stay here and wait for my legs to cramp up . . . or I can run for it.

Neither option held any more appeal for her than the other one. Both had their own risks. However, if she stayed where she was, she was certain that he would, eventually, come looking for her. Her choices would be even more limited then.

The scraping sound came again. Her entire body tensed at the noise. It lasted longer that time before fading in silence. Shalene guessed that he had shifted both of his feet that time, demonstrating his increasing impatience.

Now or never, I guess . . .

Touching the wall lightly, she verified her location, took a deep, quiet breath, and dashed for the stairway. Her feet were much louder on the steps than she would have liked, sounding as if she were wearing heavy wooden clogs instead of her usual lightweight shoes. Not that it mattered, she decided, as the intruder would have heard her anyway. She just hoped that her heavier footfalls were not slowing her down.

Almost without realizing it, she counted the steps as her feet touched each one. Two of them remained before she reached the short hallway on the second level. She was beginning to believe that she might make it safely when she felt a touch on her ankle. Her reaction was instinctive—and that was what failed her. When her foot twisted away, it brought her leg along with it, bringing her crashing down onto the stairway.

She did not know whether her head hit the wall or the floor, but the end result was the same. Aching vertigo gripped her, making it difficult for her to think clearly. She almost sobbed with frustration, but it stopped in her throat when a hand firmly gripped her leg. Another one joined it, this one pressing against her waist. She willed her mind to clear, to allow her to focus, to protect herself, to . . . do something.

Shalene could smell him now. Alcohol was heavy on his breath, but it could not mask the other odors of his body.

Sean.

Her first reaction, as incongruous as it was, was puzzlement.

What’s he doing here?

Her head still ached, but she was able to think now. Conducting a quick mental survey of her situation, she determined that:

Sean, for some unknown reason had invaded her home.

She had nearly made it to the second level.

Sean’s hands held her pinned against the steps.

Her back was pressed against the edges of those steps.

It arched upward against them in a manner that would soon become painful.

Sean seemed to be drunk, so his behavior might be unpredictable.

He was much stronger than she was.

The hand that had pressed down on her waist was moving up her stomach.

His face was now close to hers.

“We really should turn on the lights for this,” he whispered hoarsely. “But you don’t need lights, do you?”

His breath was sour from the alcohol. Shalene wanted to cough, but was afraid that she might cry out instead. That was what Sean craved, she suspected. Besides, she knew, there was no one else besides him to hear her.

His hand moved upward along the small, smooth rise of her breasts. Before she could turn her body away from him, his hand grabbed the collar of her tunic and pulled. The fabric held, revealing only a few additional centimeters of her flesh. Gripping the material tightly in his fist, he yanked on it savagely. It tore with a hideous sound. Shalene felt the open air against her breasts.

“Not much there,” Sean murmured derisively. “But that’s okay.”

He pinched her exposed nipple. Shalene let out a high-pitched whimper, although she tried hard not to.

“That won’t do,” Sean scolded her, his voice a rasp.

He covered her mouth with his hand. The force of it bent her neck backward, pressing her head hard against the floor. Shalene tried to relax, telling herself that struggling, tensing against his hold, would just make it worse. Then she felt the hand that had pinned down her leg move up between her legs.

She tried to squirm, to protest, but his grip on her was too firm. His hand continued it journey, his fingers probing along the fabric on her underwear. She tried to cry out, to draw breath. The little air that she could inhale, tainted as it was by his sour breath, was not enough. Her throat constricted and it felt as if her lungs would burst from their need to expel the stale air within them.

She struggled involuntarily now, trying to free herself from his torturous hold. In a sudden flash, she remembered something would do when she was younger and her brother would touch her just to prompt her annoyance. Finding strength in a mouth gone dry, Shalene ran her tongue across the palm of Sean’s hand.

He reacted by pulling his hand back in surprise, but did not release her. She gasped, unable to think of anything but drawing her next breath. So concentrated she was on that, she missed what Sean did next. When he pressed down on her this time, using his entire body to pin her against the floor, she felt something touch the flesh of her inner thigh. It took her only a moment to realize what it must be.

She tried to move away, but he was too large and too strong for her to do more wiggle ineffectually underneath him. His fingers tore at the top band of her underwear, trying to find purchase. His coordination, greatly impaired by his consumption of the alcohol, was not enough to give him immediate success. This failure only served to fuel his already irrational anger. He lifted himself to get a better look, providing Shalene with just enough freedom to roll to one side. This disturbed his already precarious balance.

Sean fell onto her, hard, knocking the wind from her. Ignoring the pain in her diaphragm, she pulled her knees upward, using them together as a lever to force a wedge between their bodies. Her feet found purchase on something and, demonstrating a strength she did not realize that she possessed, she struck hard with them. Sean grunted, stunned by the sudden attack, rising further away from her to escape the pain. Shalene wasted no time, kicking out sharply again.

She felt the impact in her ankles. There was an instant of absolute stillness, followed by the sensation of movement. A moment later, something substantial hit the stairs below her. The pressure was gone from her and house became, once again, quiet.

The pressure gone from her neck and back, Shalene hunched forward, trying to gather the tattered fabric of her tunic to cover her. She panted with fear, resisting the urge to curl around herself and withdraw. Although it was quiet now, Sean might still come after her again. It was clear what he wanted now, even if she had no idea why. He had never demonstrated any particular interest in her before.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

Baula stood before the clearing. The two villagers chosen for the honor finished drawing the last of the lines within the ground. They stood and turned toward Baula, their eyes averted from his face. He had gone to the archives to review the proper symbols and protocols for this particular ritual. He had learned them during his own training as an acolyte and adept, but had never thought to have to use them.

According to the records kept by priesthood, it had been more than a hundred cycles since this ritual had last taken place. Baula had mixed feelings about that. Certainly there was something to be said to be recorded in their history as one of the few naha priests to oversee such a ritual. There was also, he felt, a certain infamy to it as well that was less desirable.

Realizing that the two villagers still awaited him, he moved his hands with the prescribed blessing. The pair moved away quickly, seeming both relieved to be free of their duties and filled with anticipation of what was yet to follow.

Baula motioned to the adept who stood beside him. At the gesture, the adept began to beat slowly on the length of hollowed wood hung by a strap around his neck. Behind him, the other priests and adepts strode slowly in, gathering in short ranks behind him. They would all bear witness to this event, as tradition dictated.

When the last of the priests were in place, the rhythmic drumming stopped. Baula waited a moment and then began to recite the ceremonial words that began the ritual. There were a combination of recitation and prayer. Some of the words, written down generations ago, were archaic and difficult, but he remembered them all.

Aged I might be, he considered with satisfaction, but the gods have willed that my mind continues to be strong.

The invocation concluded, he gestured once more to the adept. The drumming resumed, this time with a different cadence. The beats were timed more slowly than before, softer and yet, Baula thought, more ominous.

That is fitting, he thought, considering how this will end.

From behind a hastily hung curtain, Braith strode slowly out into view. She was clad in a wheat-colored gown, accented by a waist-length stole dyed with the yellow-pink juices of demal berries. The berries themselves were deadly if consumed. Even long-term physical contact with them was to be avoided, but the colors that the juice from the berries produced was highly sought after, particularly for ceremonial garments.

Braith wore an uncertain expression beneath the lightweight hood that shadowed her features. He felt reassured by this, as it told him that she was taking the enactment of this ritual very seriously indeed.

She continued walking until she stood before him, her head lowered, shrouded by her hood. Baula stared down at her, knowing what must be said next, yet also dreading it.

“You are Braith, daughter of Lenai?”

“I am Braith.” Her voice trembled even across those few syllables.

“You agreed to this Challenge?”

“I did.”

“Do you still wish it?”

There was a long pause before Braith answered. Although she could end the ritual here and now, before it began, Baula knew that she would not. If she chose to, she would retain Doal as her mate. Morah would be free to be Bonded to another female, should one desire him. There was little shame in it for him should Braith withdraw her claim, although some females might wonder what him undesirable now when a Challenge had been previously sought.

Baula saw no advantage to Morah for her over Doal, except perhaps for his youth. Either of them could bring her children, as Doal already had—two litters so far. Morah was a crafter of tools, but no more valuable to the village than Doal, who gathered well from the fields.

Not for the first time, Baula was glad to have been freed by the circumstances of his birth of the complex interactions of courtship and mating. He could never do so himself, nor carry or sire children. When his gisa chose its time to journey to its next life, there would be no others to carry on his line. He almost certainly had siblings among those in the village, but neither he nor they knew of each other. He had once been as the niyala recently come to them, taken from its family to be raised among the priests, all ties to its lineage forever broken except by the memory of those who had brought him there. It was never spoken of, so soon forgotten.

In reviewing the proper invocations and prayers for the ritual, he had discovered tales recounting past rituals. Many were such as he supposed this one to be, but a few—a very few—recorded circumstances that he had not considered.

It was possible that Braith had Bonded with both males: with Doal at their original Bonding, and with Morah in some more recent cycle outside the sanction of the priests. While a male could Bond only once, a female was capable of Bonding with many males. There was no biological restriction to prevent it—it was simply, by tradition, not done. If Braith had done so, with both Doal and Morah, it would explain Morah’s strange behavior.

Two living males could not be Bonded to the same female without unreasoning jealousy eventually consuming them. It was not a matter mind over heart; it was a biological fact. If Braith had done as Baula now suspected, then she had no choice but to allow the Challenge to continue. It would be best for the village if the blood-driven rivalry between the two males ended here, cloaked in the appearance of ritual, then to have the village bear witness to a savage attack between them when their control finally broke.

Braith would have no choice but to let the Challenge proceed. If he was correct in all of this, Baula knew that he would be blessing the release of the gisa of one of the males before the night arrived.

“I wish it,” Braith answered. Her voice broke, but she otherwise maintained control.

“So it shall be done,” Baula intoned.

He felt little pity for her, if she had done as he suspected. There was little within him as well for Morah, who had most likely willingly allowed Braith to Bond him. Doal was the innocent one here, as far as that went, and it was his gisa that Baula would offer prayers for.

“Those Challenged shall come!” he called out, loud enough so that the villagers who had gathered could hear him.

From opposite sides of the clearing, previously hidden by roughly-hung barriers of dark cloth, Doal and Morah stepped forward. They each stopped within rectangles scrapped into the dirt at their ends of the clearing. They were each clad only in a thick woven girdle that protected their genital pouch. Although presently withdrawn and protected with their bodies, a well-aimed blow could end a male’s ability to ever sire a litter.

There was no place in the ceremony during which either male could choose to withdraw. If it had reached this stage, then it was too late. Nothing remained for them outside the ritual now except for lingering madness and eventual death. It brought an uneasy, hollow feeling to Baula’s heart, but he could nothing more now than to proceed as tradition—and necessity—demanded.

“Present the weapons of the Challenge.”

Two males, each clad in a simple, pale robe, appeared from each side and approached him. Their heads lowered, they presented the weapons chosen by the Doal and Morah for inspection. Both were carved from wood. From where he stood, Baula could not be certain from which trees each might have been formed. Each had been polished to a shine bright enough to reflect light. There the similarities of the two weapons ended.

The weapon Morah had brought forth was constructed from a light-colored wood. Baula guessed that it had come from either a takal or ponta tree. Both produced a pale wood that was dense and durable. The haft was wide and rounded, capable of being gripped with both hands, if needed. Beyond that [] a thick [] bearing only a slight curve. It was a weapon meant to be used to attack with brute force, not elegant defense.

Doal’s weapon seemed to have been created from a darker wood, possibly from that of a g’laka tree. The color was not quite right, though, Baula decided. He suspected the coloration was due to age, that the weapon had been passed down through the generations of Doal’s family. The broad design of both the handle guard and taper of the blade were of a style not favored by the current craftsmen. It was designed more for protection than for assault. It was intended to allow its owner to defend himself until he could disarm his attacker, defeating him through surrender.

It was not unusual to find weapons such as these adorning the interior of the villager’s homes. Their purpose in those cases, though, was largely ornamental and, occasionally, ceremonial. They were displayed or worn during certain rituals, never in the memory of those now living had they ever been used for the purpose for which they were originally intended.

Two priests left the cluster around Baula’s and moved forward. They each examined one of the weapons. After completing their inspection, they returned it to the male who had brought it forward. The priests tilted their heads at Baula, signifying their approval, and then returned to their positions near Baula.

Baula gestured toward the weapons and offered the requisite blessing. He would rather have not done so, for he knew the purpose for which they were about to be used. He then added a silent prayer that the manner in which they permitted the gisa to be freed of the one who lost the contest would be swift and free of pain.

The two males retreated, bringing each weapon back to its owner. Doal and Morah each accepted theirs back with deep solemnity. For Baula, watching the two males was a study in contrasts. Doal appeared to be the more uneasy of the two. He made small, nervous movements and bore a demeanor almost as if he had already been defeated.

He must certainly be wondering how he has failed his mate for her to agree to this Challenge.

Baula could almost understand: no male in recent memory had been brought to this position.

In order to win, he must decide how badly he wishes to continue to serve her.

Morah was energetic and confident. He seemed certain that his youth and strength would bring him to victory in this contest.

He would be wise to be cautious, Baula observed. Mere speed and strength are often not enough to win out over experience and skill.

“Doal,” Baula called out. The older male lifted his head. “Your Bond with Braith has been Challenged. You must now defend it.”

“I shall.”

Doal’s voice carried a surprising strength that helped to ease Baula’s heart.

He has not given up as yet. That is good.

“Morah,” Baula called. “You have Challenged for the right to Bond with Braith.”

“I have.”

Baula hid the sigh that came next before he continued.

“As it has been since our Beginning, there can only be one Bond.” Baula turned toward Braith. “You are prepared to Bond, or remain Bonded, with the one who survives.”

“I am.”

Braith continued to sound uncertain. Should Doal prove victorious, he will have earned the right to remain her mate. If Braith did not desire that outcome, then she would have little recourse except to allow another Challenge. To Baula’s knowledge, the only times that had ever been permitted took place in tales that were passed down as ancient legends.

“Doal,” Baula called again. “You stand before the boundaries of the combat area. You are aware of the rules and penalties?”

“I am.”

Doal’s voice had gathered further confidence.

“Morah, you stand before the boundaries of the combat area. You are aware of the rules and penalties?”

“I am.”

He sounded certain in a way which, in Baula’s experience, meant that he would likely suffer the first or more severe penalties, even if he later proven victorious.

“Let the Challenge begin.” Baula announced.

He did not shout, but his voice carried to the villagers gathered around the outer boundary of the cleared area. Beside him, a slow and steady beat began to sound.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

Her attention had barely been on it for a minute before she heard the sounds of someone coming in the front door. At first, she thought perhaps Jessica had dashed back inside for some last remark. Wendy started to smile and then froze as the shadow that came down the short passageway grew too large to be that of an eight-year-old child. It transformed into an actual person and Wendy found herself looking up into the eyes of David Grimes.

He was dressed in his security force tunic, complete with on-duty sash, and looked grave.

“Dr. Aimes?”

His far-too-serious demeanor wiped away any less than professional thoughts Wendy might have harbored. While it would have been nice to believe that he had stopped by for personal reasons, she could see that was probably not the case.

“Hello, David,” she replied evenly, studying his expression. “Is there something wrong?”

“They need you at the security center. Right away.”

Wendy’s throat tightened around a sudden lump.

“What happened?” She rose, ready for reach for one of her trauma packs.

“It’s the aliens,” David replied. “Something’s going on and they hope you might know why.”

Her hand fell to her side as she realized that she would probably not need the kit. She frowned even as she relaxed, relieved that it was not some kind medical emergency.

“What’s going on?”

David looked uncertain. Several times, it looked as though he might say something, before finally settling on, “I think you need to see.”

Wendy’s frown deepened, but her curiosity was definitely aroused.

See what?

“But no medical emergency?”

David shook his head.

Wendy gave a faint shrug, realizing that she was going to get nothing more from him at the moment.

“All right then,” she said. “Let’s go.” Keeping the tablet, she left the medical kit behind.

As David turned and headed for the door. Wendy admired the smooth movements of his superbly muscled body, also noting the way his pants fit the curves of his thighs. She could easily imagine them . . .

David paused at the door to wait for her and Wendy looked away quickly, feeling just the hint of warmth across her cheeks.

What is it about a man in uniform, anyway?

Wendy strode past him, sensing that his eyes followed her. She tried to convince herself, although not very hard, that it was only her imagination. Nonetheless, she made certain to give him a full view of her backside when she turned to latch the door and engage the lock. That part of her, at least, still felt as if it might be appealing.

Starting off less than a pace behind David, she moved a little more quickly so that she walked next to him and could see his face. She hated talking to someone’s back.

“Now can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked him.

He looked pained. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “The aliens are doing something and they told me to come get you—that you might know.”

“Why me?”

David shrugged. “Because you visit their village sometimes?”

That was true, Wendy admitted, but that hardly made her an expert. There were sociologists and anthropologists that had been studying the [aliens] for decades. Certainly they would have a better idea than she did. Other than possibly inconveniencing her patients for a few hours, she was glad to be involved. Even if she had no useful opinions to offer, she would get a chance to be in the middle of it for a little while. Having that opportunity brought her an unexpected thrill of excitement.

Wendy wondered what the [aliens] might be up to that would call the colony council to call for her.

It’ll probably turn out to be some kind of fertility or planting ritual, she guessed. At least it got me out of the clinic for a while . . .

Neither of them spoke as they made their way to the security center. Wendy kept wondering if she should say something about what had happened—or not happened, or almost happened—the night before. David was behaving in awfully detached manner toward her.

Did I scare him off? Or was did I just read more into it than there really was?

She could not deny that he had been aroused, but then she had discovered that it did not take much to get that kind of reaction from a man when he was almost guaranteed to land a woman in bed.

I suppose I could kiss him again and see what happens . . .

Wendy regarded David with a quick sideways glance, but his gaze remained fixed ahead. She sighed, deciding to let it rest for now. There were nearly at the security center anyway.

He held the door for her as they entered the building. She fought back a smile as the small clots of people parted before them, albeit reluctantly, at the sight of David’s uniform.

When they reached the observation station, Wendy paused in the doorway, checking to see who was gathered around the displays. She half-expected to find Greg there, and was disproportionally relieved to find him absent. Although David remained close to her, he was acting in an official capacity, and behaving in a totally professional manner, regardless of whatever more personal acts had taken place within the boundaries of her own imagination.

She was surprised to see Trenton there. The colony’s oldest resident was nice enough, even if shades of his military tenure made unwelcome appearances from time to time. He had kept mostly to himself in recent years, Wendy knew, ever since his wife had died. To find him in the midst of something like this immediately increased her sense of alarm.

Were the [aliens] preparing for some kind of attack on the compound?

The atmosphere in the room did not seem to quite carry that level of apprehension. It felt more like curiosity, mixed with confusion. Trenton’s presence might be a coincidence, Wendy decided.

Georgia turned around and smiled warmly. “Come on in,” she called out. “We’ll squeeze you in.”

Several of those around Georgia shifted their positions, not really enough for Wendy insert easily into the space fully, but it allowed her to get sufficiently close so that she had full view of the displays.

It took her a moment to orient herself, assessing the vantage point shown on each display so she could properly mentally align their location within the [alien] village.

“Doctor?” someone asked. Wendy did not immediately recognize the voice, but it sounded equally of inquisitiveness and impatience.

“Hmm?” she answered thoughtfully and then, realizing a more direct answer was warranted, added, “Yes?”

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

Wendy stared at the clearing displayed on one of the monitors, looking for familiar symbols among those drawn into the dirt. Finally, she shook her head slowly.

“No,” she admitted, “nothing like that.” Continuing to peer down at the screen, she added, “And those symbols don’t seem to be part of their alphabet—at least none of the characters that I recognize.”

She heard a burst of deep murmuring from somewhere behind her.

“Maybe something older?” someone suggested. “Something more traditional?”

Wendy stared at the geometric shapes etched into the ground. There were simpler than most of the characters in the [alien] alphabet, so she could understand that reasoning. It did not feel like the right answer, though.

“Maybe,” she mused aloud. “But I don’t think so.”

“How do you know?” someone asked in sharp, almost accusatory tone.

Wendy turned to find a stock, dark-haired man staring at her. Her first instinct was to slap him for behaving like a jerk. She managed to that reaction under right rein, even while imagining how satisfying it would feel. Publicly, doing so would earn her no rewards. She suspected, though, that quite of those present would privately laud such a response.

“I don’t,” she responded coolly.

“Then what have you learned after spending all that time with them?” the man persisted.

Wendy’s earlier urge grew stronger. Unfortunately, it was a well-known that the [alien] were primarily vegetarians, so she could not even make an idle threat of offering the man an opportunity to find out for himself in a very up-close and personal way. Nonetheless, his snide interrogation did give her an idea.

She turned to one of the colonists closer to the control panel. “Have you seen Shanta? The young female.”

There was a brief, whispered conversation and then the young man began to manipulate the controls. The orientation of the images on several of the displays shifted, moving to pass over more the [aliens] gathering around the cleared circular space. Wendy glanced at the other screens, but none of them showed any of the [alien] with markings that matched Shanta’s.

“I don’t see her,” Wendy conceded softly.

“Me either,” someone else said. Wendy recognized the voice as belonging to Isaac Dart, one of the colony’s few cultural anthropologists.

“Okay,” the middle-aged man sitting on the other side of George said. “Put them back where they were.”

The images on some of the screens jittered rapidly for a moment, and then settled back into the views that they had shown when Wendy had arrived.

“Trenton has a theory,” Georgia offered.

Wendy glanced at Georgia, and then at the old man, intrigued. She got the impression that he had been prepared to offer it before, but her arrival had interrupted him.

“If you’ve got a good one,” she said. “I’d like to hear it.”

“It might be the only one that makes sense,” he began.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

There was a sizable crowd of people outside the center when he arrived—easily more than a dozen. Most appeared to be roaming around with specific purpose, but gathered into small groups engaged in mildly intense discussion. A few of them regarded him as he arrived, nodding or smiling their greetings. Trenton interrupted one of these to ask if he had seen Georgia that morning.

“Yeah,” the heavyset, dark-skinned man replied. “She’s inside with some of the Council members.”

Trenton glanced at the main entrance curiously, but nothing in man’s tone implied that any momentous announcement was imminent. Despite that, Trenton thought, it did seem to hold more than just a hint of anticipation.

“Thanks,” he acknowledged the man distractedly and headed toward the building.

He had no trouble entering it, other than having to work his way through a larger-than-usual crowd inside. Most people sidled out of his path, with only a small number of mildly annoyed looks. He did not see Georgia among them, so guessed that she was in one of the main chambers. The crowds grew denser as he moved further into the building. The largest one seemed clustered around the colony’s security center. The buzz of conversation he heard as he approached it, though, carried an air of curiosity and speculation, rather than alarm. He relaxed somewhat at that.

Making his way to the doorway, not without some effort, he found Georgia huddled with several other colonists around a bank of displays. From where he stood, Trenton did not have a clear view of what they showed, but it appeared to be an area outside the colony compound. Trenton noted that, interestingly enough, none of the Council members present were among the group gathered at the displays. They all remained several paces back, watching the proceedings with uncertain expressions.

Trenton pressed his way through the crowd, gathering a few curious glances, but no real resistance. He stopped just behind Georgia. She must have sensed his approach from the shifts in the crowd behind her. She turned and her set expression transformed into a smile when she saw him.

“Good morning, Trenton.”

“Good morning,” he returned past a sudden rasp in his throat. He seemed suddenly aware again of the weight in his hand. “I, um,” he cleared his throat, trying to be polite about it. “I brought you this.”

Georgia eyed the container for a moment before accepting it. “A little early for whiskey, isn’t it?”

Trenton stared at her blankly for a moment, and then laughed, feeling the tension throughout his body ease.

“It is, at that.” He chuckled. Holding the container out further, he told her, “It’s coffee—real coffee. When you didn’t show up this morning . . . I . . .” he trailed off, realizing that he was beginning to stammer.

Georgia watched him with barely disguised bemusement.

“I could bring you whiskey instead,” Trenton blurted out without meaning to.

Georgia laughed heartedly. “No,” she said, still chuckling. “Coffee is fine—perfect in fact.”

She accepted the container and loosened the lid. The rich, acrid aroma of the coffee wafted to Trenton. A few of the others presents noticed and looked their way. Georgia ignored them all and resealed the container.

“Thank you for this, Trenton,” she told him. Her eyes twinkled. Trenton felt as though he had scored some kind of real victory with her.

Their eyes remained locked together until someone jostled Trenton. He did not see who it was, but they apologized quickly before moving away from him. Georgia looked away and Trenton felt as though he had lost something important.

“What’s going on?” he asked before she managed to turn completely away.

“Not sure,” Georgia replied. “There’s something going on in the village. Some kind of ceremony, it looks like—but one no one’s seen before.”

Trenton frowned, but felt a flare of intense interest. The [aliens] had a well-established culture, with regular rituals. For there to be a new one taking place that none of the colonists had ever seen before was newsworthy indeed.

That explains the crowds outside . . .

“Because of the coming storm?” he wondered aloud.

Georgia shrugged. “No one knows.”

“There’s been fog storms before,” a brown-haired man with thinning hair rebutted irritably.

“But none like this one,” someone else said. Trenton did not get a chance to find out who before Georgia spoke again.

“So we don’t know,” she said firmly, but without anger.

“What about Dr. Aimes?” Trenton asked.

“What about her?” the dark-haired man snapped. Trenton tried to remember his name, for he was beginning to truly not like him.

“Isn’t she friends with some of the aliens?” he asked. “Like the young girl?”

Everyone gathered around the display paused. Several of them turned to look at him. For a moment, Trenton wanted to laugh. Almost to a person, they all had the same dumbstruck expression. It was Georgia who reacted first.

“Someone—you,” she pointed to someone wearing the sash of the security force. “Go find Wendy. She’s probably at the clinic.”

The young man looked startled and, for a moment, Trenton thought he might salute. Georgia could have that effect on people.

“Yes, ma’am,” he acknowledged briskly, and pushed his way out through the crowd.

Georgia turned back toward the displays, motioning to the person standing next to her to make room for Trenton.

Trenton eased into the gap and looked down at the displays. They could provide views of nearly every part of the colony compound, as well as several points on its perimeter. Early on, shortly after the original colonists had discovered the [alien] village, they had secreted several small cameras in the area around the [alien] village, camouflaged among tree branches and in other bits of thick brush. These had been salvaged from the landing ship’s exterior hull, so were built to be robust and withstand extremes of temperature and radiation. They had encountered neither here, so the majority of them still functioned.

All but one of the displays showed different vantage points of the [alien] village. The single remaining view was of the armory locker. As far as Trenton knew, that screen was permanently locked to show that location.

“What’s happening?” Trenton asked, as his original question had not really been answered.

“We. Don’t. Know,” the dark man replied.

Georgia speared him with a glance, saving Trenton the trouble. The man just glared back, but shut up before saying anything more.

“We’re not sure,” Georgia told Trenton. “They’ve been clearing out a section near the center of the village, moving everything out of it. We think they started right after daybreak, but haven’t had a chance to pull the recordings yet to check for sure.”

Trenton watched the screens that displayed that section of the village. A sizable group of [aliens] worked to clear the area of stones, branches, and other debris. They appeared to be working from a center point, moving outward to form a rough circle of cleared ground.

“I keep expecting them to drag an altar or something,” one of the older men said.

“They’ve never done that before,” someone replied.

“Not human sacrifice, I hope,” Trenton whispered.

Georgia shot him a horrified glance.

“[alien] sacrifice, you mean,” someone remarked, only half-jokingly.

“We’ve never seen them do that before either,” someone else said. Trenton thought he heard an almost hopeful tone in that person’s voice.

The [aliens] had never demonstrated any tendency toward violent forms of punishment. What few transgressions the colonists had witnesses seemed to have been settled through an exchange of goods, some kind of physical labor required by the village, what appeared to be some kind of ritualistic and spiritual penance, or some combination of these.

It’s possible, I suppose . . .

On Earth, back in humanity’s past, there had been certain seemingly unforgivable crimes for which the punishments were often severe, up to and including the loss of limbs or life. There was no reason that the [aliens] might not have the same practice if the sin was great enough. It could just be that none of [aliens] had ever committed this particular transgression since the colonists had started observing them.

The [aliens] continued their work and the circular shape of the cleared space became more apparent. It seemed to be, at least to Trenton, an awfully wide space for an altar, even for one intended for live sacrifice. The only reason to make it that large would be to ensure the protection of those outside it, such as in the case of something like a bonfire or . . .

A memory of a film he had seen during his youth flashed across his mind. It had been said to depict the witch trials of the late seventeenth century in the early colonies of what would later become the United States of America. Although later proven to be false, the common legends had it that those accused of being witches were burned at the stake.

Was something like about to happen here?

The group of [aliens] began to thin out. Two of them remained within the boundaries of the circular space. They conferred for a moment and then each knelt and began to trace geometric shapes on the ground. It was almost like watching a reflection in a mirror, as each [alien] made almost exactly the same motions, creating the precisely the same shapes into the dirt.

Something niggled at the back of Trenton’s memories. He had seen something like this before—many times, actually.

Back when he was a boy . . . ? No? Yes. And more recently than that as well . . .

“I think I know what they’re doing.”

#

Wendy waited for the results of the scan she had just completed to display on her tablet. She knew what they would be before they appeared, but she enjoyed testing herself against the computerized system. It seemed, though, as if it was becoming easier for her to beat the computer, at least in terms of the initial diagnosis. The system seemed to be performing more and more slowly in recent months.

I need to remember to ask Jason about that, she considered as the data began to appear on the tablet’s display. I hate to bother him again, though, after sending him on that wild goose chase after that strange message.

She realized, then, that was first time she had thought about it that morning. It was a creepy kind of coincidence that it had seemed to come from a dead woman’s comm frequency. The events that followed her near-fainting spell—which she had not forgotten about—had pushed it deep into her mind.

Wendy nodded with satisfaction, even smiling a little smugly, as the diagnostic software confirmed her own prognosis: young Jessica would be fine. She would be sporting a fine pink scar along her shin for a while, but it would probably fade enough as to be nearly invisible by the time she reached adolescence. Even if it did not, now was probably not the time to explain to the little girl that the front of her legs was not going to be the first thing that boys looked at.

“She’ll be fine, Ann,” Wendy told Jessica’s mother. “It looks like the infection cleared up with no problems and the swelling is completely gone.” She checked the tablet display again and then looked back up at Annika. “Have there been any other problems?”

“It itches!” Jessica exclaimed. “Sometimes,” she amended timidly when she realized that both pairs of eyes had now turned toward her.

Wendy smiled and patted Jessica on the knee. “That’s okay,” she told the little girl. “That’s going to happen. Just try not to scratch it too much. Okay?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll just itch more.”

Jessica seemed dissatisfied with the explanation. Her lips formed a disappointed pout that made Wendy want to laugh.

She probably wanted me to tell her that bugs would crawl out of it or something. Just what I need, she thought, glancing for a moment toward Annika, getting blamed for giving some poor little eight-year-old nightmares.

“Finish the last two doses of the antibiotics,” she told Annika.

“They taste yucky!” Jessica protested.

“Then mix them with your juice,” Wendy suggested helpfully.

“It still tastes yucky.”

Wendy smiled and surrendered to a soft chuckle. “Just two more and then you’ll be done.”

Jessica rolled her eyes expressively. It was all Wendy could do not to burst out laughing.

Thank god mine’s not a girl.

It took her a moment to realize that she had accepted Garnet’s pronouncement as truth, despite the fact that she had run her own tests yet.

“That should do it,” she announced. “I don’t need to see you again for a while.” She helped the young girl down from the examination platform. “Unless you decide you need a matching scar on your other leg.”

She ignored the mildly annoyed looked that came from Annika.

“No way!”

“Good plan,” Wendy agreed. She knelt down and met Jessica eye to eye. “Do me a favor, okay? Don’t climb any trees for a while that are taller than you are.”

Jessica’s mouth formed a stubborn line. A moment later she sighed deeply.

“Okay.”

Wendy grinned and stood up, feeling the strain in her lower back.

I guess I won’t be doing that much in a few months . . .

“Since you were so good,” she told Jessica as she finished entering her notes on the tablet, “you can take two apples from the basket.”

“Really?” Jessica’s eyes opened wide. “Thanks!” Without waiting for a response, she dashed into the waiting area.

Wendy shook her head, smiling with light-hearted amusement, and turned to Annika.

“She’s fine, Ann,” she reported. “There’s no permanent damage at all. I even suspect the infection might have cleared up on its own, but she would have been pretty uncomfortable until it did.”

Annika gave a tired sigh, but seemed genuinely relieved by the news. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep an eight-year-old confined to her bed for two days?”

No, but I guess I’ll probably get a chance to find out.

Wendy gave her what she hoped was an understanding smile. “It’s not just eight-year-olds. Trust me. It’s twenty-eight-year-olds, fifty-eight-year-olds, and eighty-eight-year-olds—and all the ‘year-olds’ in between.”

That got a smile out of Annika and Wendy felt better.

I can’t blame her really—not with trying to manage eight kids. And a husband who . . .

Wendy cut that thought off immediately. She was not part of that marriage, so it was not her place to offer opinions or advice unless it was asked for. Based on what she could piece together from what Annika had told her—and not told her—Wendy was reasonably certain that at least two of the pregnancies had not been Annika’s idea.

“That’s it,” she told Annika. “I’ll see you again soon. I’m soon it’s about time for at least one of their checkups.”

Annika’s expression took on that long-suffering look again. Wendy kept hers even, waiting to see if the woman had anything else she wanted to say.

“MOM!”

Jessica’s carried like a high-pitched bullhorn from the other room.

Annika sighed. “I’d better go,” she said, as if not entirely wanting to. “Thank you, Wendy.”

“You’re welcome, Ann,” she replied. “And I’m always here if you need anything. Anything.”

Annika paused in the doorway, but did not turn around.

“Thank you,” she said again. Her voice was a barely audible whisper, and then she was gone.

Wendy stared after her, wishing there was more that she could do. Greg had told her to stay out of it—out of other people’s personal business in general. It bothered her to do so, but she could see no other way—at least, not at the moment.

Breathing a slow sigh, she turned back to her tablet.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

As the information came up, she frowned slightly.

“Garnet,” she asked quizzically, “why did you want to see me? Your request was kind of, um, vague.”

Wendy looked at the elderly woman and then felt her cheeks grow slightly warm, remembering a similar appointment from the morning before.

Garnet and Daniel?

She had never seen the two together, except at very public colony events. Granted, if anyone would take pains to be discrete, it would be Daniel.

I mean: Good for them. But . . .

It was not who Wendy had originally guessed was to be the object of Daniel’s affections.

Does Daniel have more than one waiting in his stables?

The thought, while it did not shock Wendy, did surprise her. She had never been drawn to older men. That Greg was two years older than she was not really relevant. That David was ten years younger was—might be.

Wendy . . . she scolded herself. Stay on track . . .

Garnet was studying her curiously. “The mind does wonder a bit during pregnancy, doesn’t it?” she remarked, almost casually.

Wendy felt her cheeks burn as she tried not to read more meanings into the old women’s statement that might really be there.

“Uh,” Wendy cleared her throat quietly, trying to regain some measure of professional decorum. “Yes.” Her eyes moved back down to her tablet, swallowing past the small lump that had formed in her throat. “You wanted to see me because . . .?”

She waited for the explanation that she really did not want to hear.

“I seem to have picked up a slight rash,” Garnet began. “It itches like mad, and my usual lotions don’t seem to be working much on it.”

Wendy let out a slow, almost silent breath of relief. It stopped almost immediately at Garnet’s next words.

“Here, let me show you,” she said, and began to unfasten her pants.

The rash, it turned out, was not in the location that Wendy had feared that it was. Her relief, at this on that subject, was complete when she saw the tiny raised lesions and bright pink discoloration that ran along the upper section of Garnet’s left thigh.

Wendy reached down and brushed it lightly with her fingertips.

“Is there any pain associated with it?”

Wendy saw the elder woman shake her head in her peripheral vision.

“Nope,” she replied. “Just itches something fierce at times.”

Wendy looked at it more closely. “It looks like an allergic reaction to something,” she said. “I’ll want to take a skin sample.” She reached over a nearby tray for the instrument she needed. “Have you ever been allergic to anything before?”

“Just men who drink too much.”

Wendy reacted with a most unladylike snort at this. Garnet flashed her a mischievous smile, making Wendy wonder just how much living this old woman had done. Wendy carefully scraped off a few skin cells for analysis, being careful not to bruise the old woman’s skin. She had a hunch, though, that Garnet’s skin might be even tougher than her own.

“Where were you yesterday?” Wendy asked.

“Last night?” Garnet responded with bland innocence. “Or during the harvest?”

It took a moment before Wendy could meet Garnet in the eye. The old woman seemed to be enjoying herself greatly at her expense, although in a good-natured way.

Well, if it is Daniel, then I’d say he’s got his hands full.

“Let’s start with during the harvest,” Wendy replied, managing somehow to sound clinical.

“Out in the north side,” Garnet said. “Just beyond the orchards . . . the berry patches.”

Wendy nodded, picturing that section of the compound in her mind.

“We had a heck of time getting all the berries out,” Garnet went on. “We had to climb through the brambles several times to get at them all.”

“Ah,” Wendy said, nodding again. “Let me double-check something. It’ll just take a moment.”

She analyzed the skin samples quickly. The results of the scan showed pretty much what she had expected.

“It’s nothing serious,” she told Garnet. “Just a reaction to being pricked by the thorns. There was probably still some fertilizer on the vines that you reacted to.” She checked the colony database to see what chemicals might have been involved. “With careful washing, it probably would have cleared up on its own in a few days.”

“Not before I’d taken off a layer of skin with it,” Garnet remarked, chuckling good-naturedly.

“We wouldn’t want that,” Wendy agreed.

She washed her hands and then began searching through her supply cabinets.

It took her several moments to locate the container she was looking for. Opening it, she looked inside and then frowned.

Yikes. I seem to running low. I’d better hope I don’t get too many more cases like this one today.

Using two of her fingers, she scooped out a small portion of the yellowish-white paste and smeared it onto a wax-coated sheet.

“Rub a little of this—just a thin film of it—on the area three times a day, particularly right after bathing. Let me know if the rash gets any worse or this stuff doesn’t seem to help.”

“I’ll definitely do that,” Garnet replied.

Wendy made a note to check in on the woman the next morning.

“Here,” she said. “Let’s start now.”

She captured a small dab on her fingertip and then rubbed it lightly along the affected area on Garnet’s thigh. The older woman gave no reaction at first, and then whistled out a sigh.

“That’s the stuff,” Garnet agreed, her eyes closing for a moment in relief. “You have a nice touch . . . a lot like Sapphy’s.”

Wendy chuckled and washed her hands again, trying not to think about feeling another woman’s hands on her body. She folded the paper into a small envelope and handed it to the older woman as soon as Garnet finished raising and refastening her pants.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Wendy asked her.

“Not for me,” Garnet smiled. She was apparently feeling even spunkier now. “But I’ll bring by some tea for you later. It’s just the thing to help get you through these mornings.”

Wendy stared at her again, her mouth almost falling open.

“Don’t look so surprised, young woman,” she chided Wendy gently. “I know a thing or two after raising three daughters of my own. And I studied a bit of pharmacy in my day,” she added. “I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”

Wendy continued staring. She had not known that.

“Where do you think most of your fancy medicines come from?” Garnet chuckled. “From plants. Botany has many uses, you know.”

Wendy nodded slowly with mild chagrin. She had known that, of course, but some reason had never put the two together within the context of this woman.

I wonder what other little surprises she carries around inside her?

Wendy made a mental note to see whether she might be able to use a part-time pharmacist. It could definitely help out to have one at times.

“Point taken,” Wendy conceded, entering the last of her notes onto her tablet. “Let me know if it gets any worse.”

“I’ll do that,” Garnet agreed.

She surprised Wendy by reaching out lightly touching the smooth bulge on her stomach. “Take good care of this little man,” Garnet said with gentle solemnity. “Let’s hope he turns out as smart as his father.”

She gave Wendy a sunny smile and left the examination booth. As the curtain fell back into place, Wendy stared at it. She had never even run the test yet that could tell her the current gender of the fetus.

Yet she thinks it’s a boy . . .

Wendy shook her head slowly with bemusement.

If I’m half as lively at her age, I’ll be doing well.

She looked over her scheduled appointments to see if there was a block of time available when she could run her own tests, if for no other reason to try to prove Garnet was wrong. She was interrupted, though, by the sound of someone entering the clinic.

I’ll get to it later, she promised herself, and accessed her next patient’s chart.

#

Trenton awoke slowly, with vague memories that seemed to come long ago in his past. There were discontinuities, though. It had not been Edith, but Georgia who was there. It had not been the Landing Day festival, but something else . . . something to do with the harvest? Georgia had . . . kissed him?

His fingers went to his lips, lighting exploring their lines and wrinkles, as if they would betray its secrets. The memories were fading now, but they had seemed so real—vivid in a way that his dreams rarely were. He swallowed, feeling the pasty feel of early morning coating it, and took stock of his body.

His mind seemed clear and free of any headaches. His joints ached no worse than usual for this time of the morning. Something, though, felt different. Not wrong, exactly, but . . . unusual. There was the customary urge to urinate, of course, yet even that . . .

Trenton stopped in mid-thought and then lifted the covers.

Oh my.

The memories of the previous night snapped back into focus. Georgia had kissed him. And, unless his memory was playing with him, he had not exactly resisted. The result had been . . . well, looking under the sheets had shown him the results.

Lazarus Long would be proud, he considered, recalling a character from an old, old book. He was trying to be alarmed, or at least suspicious, of this interesting development. Neither of those was working very well for him. He knew that he was going to need to move on to acceptance of the situation and then . . . and then . . . and then what?

That was, of course, denial, the more analytical part of his mind knew. He knew exactly what the “and then” implied. Or rather, what he was almost certain what Georgia wanted it to mean.

I’m not a damned twenty-year-old stud any more!

His body, however, seemed determined to prove to him otherwise.

Well, I guess the good Doctor was right about that, at least, he conceded silently.

He supposed that he should feel relieved rather than ashamed.

Speaking of being relieved . . .

The urge to empty his bladder was growing more imperative.

Well, it’s not like there’s anyone here to see it . . .

While that was not entirely true, as Sean might be asleep in his room, it was very unlikely that the boy would be up and about at this early hour. With his luck, though, Georgia would arrive just as he was leaving his room.

Well, there’s nothing left but to try . . .

Shoving the sheets aside, Trenton slid his feet into his slippers and headed toward the bathroom, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the obvious indication of his current condition.

Urinating helped, as he knew it would, but not nearly enough. Fortunately, he was in the room that held his next best option. He turned on the shower, not bothering to set its temperature, stripped down and stepped inside it.

Trenton was no stranger to cold showers. He had endured plenty of them during the early days of the colony. It had been many years before they had the solar-based heating system working efficiently enough to provide enough hot water for the entire colony on a continuous basis. It seemed to help now. The abrupt shock of the chill water caused gooseflesh to form across his entire body. It achieved his desired effect as well.

Once that was accomplished, he doused himself with some warmer water, mostly in an attempt to stop his teeth from chattering. While he had tolerated cold showers countless times before, he had never claimed to have come to enjoy them. He toweled himself off quickly, rubbing briskly to bring some feeling back into his extremities. His skin tingled as blood flowed back to its surface and warmed it.

On his way back from the bathroom, he saw that Sean’s door was closed and latched. His grandson had come home at some point during the night. Without opening the door, though, it was impossible to tell whether he had come alone. Trenton had made it clear, on several occasions, what his rules were concerning overnight guests—particularly ones of the opposite sex. However, like so many of his mandates, it was ignored with a regularity that paralleled whatever favors the boy needed.

Whenever he bothered to consider it, Trenton felt a bit of a hypocrite, as he had been a young man once, with strong desires. He knew that, one way or another, his grandson and a willing partner would find some way to satisfy them. Trenton knew without a doubt that it had happened more than once when he had been in the community. Those he had let slide by without rebuke, saving them for a later time when he might need them as leverage for something else.

There was something about this latest one, that Lorelei Ling, that troubled Trenton. He could not clearly define what it was about her, though, that bothered him. She did not strike him as a thief or the type trying to get pregnant in order to snare a husband. From what he had heard, she was not being particularly choosy about her candidates if the latter. He could not shake the feeling that Lorelei was using his grandson in some way. For all the boy’s faults, Trenton did not want to see him get hurt.

He considered this as he dressed, finding a comfortable pair of pants and tunic in case he ended back out in the fields again.

Getting hurt like that is all part of growing up—and growing old, I suppose, I can’t save him from it forever.

Trenton knew, though, that would not keep him from trying.

Dressed, he slipped into his shoes and headed out toward the kitchen. If she kept to her usual schedule, Georgia would be making an appearance within the next several minutes. Deciding to surprise her, he portioned out a small amount from his hoard of real coffee and started it brewing. He hesitated to begin breakfast as well, in case she had already prepared something.

While he waited, he looked out over his small garden, noting that a few of the beds needed weeding. A few of the stalks looked dry, but he would forgo watering them, as they would be receiving more than enough moisture in the next several days to come.

The coffee finished brewing and Trenton checked the clock. It was later than when Georgia usually arrived, but she had been known to show up at his door as late as this. He was becoming hungry, though, and the scent of the coffee was incredibly enticing.

Ten more minutes, he told himself. He could wait that long, and tidy up what little needed to be tidied before she arrived.

Ten minutes passed. And then fifteen.

Trenton began to worry. Granted, Georgia did not pay him a visit every day.

But after last night . . .

Frowning, he poured himself a mug of coffee, not wanting to waste it. He sipped at it while he spread creamed butter and some kind of violet-colored marmalade on two slices of bread, without taking time to toast them.

She could be busy, he reasoned.

The leading edge of the fog storm was expected to arrive that night, so the colony had only a few hours left to complete its preparations. He could already feel the change in the air. The barometric pressure had increased; he could feel that in his sinuses without checking any actual instruments. He knew they would not feel any increase in the moisture content of the air until only a few hours before the storm settled in. If anything, the air might be a little drier, its moisture drawn toward the edge effects of the storm—and another thing that his nose could detect.

He finished the coffee and considered drinking the remainder. His stomach suggested that might be a bad idea, providing a hint of the acid bite from his first cup. Trenton resolved to save it for later, or perhaps the next morning, and rinsed the plate he had used clean. After drying it, he returned it to its place on the shelf.

Georgia had still not arrived. While there was likely a very reasonable explanation as to why, Trenton knew that it would prey on his mind until he knew what it was. Some part of him was concerned that she might be ill or injured; he tried to be as little attention to that voice as possible. Based on what had taken place the night before, he was fairly certain that he had not insulted her. So . . . the only way to know for certain was to locate her and find out.

Trenton headed for the colony’s administrative complex, situated across the compound from the community dining hall. He guessed that the day’s activities would be coordinated from there, rather than from makeshift stations near the orchards as they had been the day before. Several other colonists passed him along the way, as most of them were moving far more quickly than he has. Certainly the younger ones were, he noted without rancor. Nearly all of them greeted him cordially in some way. He tried his best to return their greetings in kind, but his thoughts continued to linger on Georgia’s unexpected absence.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

Son of a bitch . . .

Wendy stared at the contents of the empty room, in only slightly less disarray than her own, and wondered whether she more upset that he had probably spent the night with Rachel or because his arrival the night before had subverted her chance with David.

She turned away from the room, her lips stretched into a tight frown. David had wanted her—she could tell, judging the solid bulge in his pants. That, at least, made her feel better about the whole—a little. It did, however, nothing to quell her stomach’s discontent. It had settled down now, leaving her ravenously hungry. Not eager to once again revisit whatever she ate, she considered her breakfast options carefully—with a preference toward what might also be prepared quickly.

Toast? That would be easy and stay down.

She knew there was bread in the cabinet. Entering the kitchen, she found it quickly. While waiting for two slices to heat, she began searching the refrigerator. She found a jar of preserves and opened it: still fresh. Unable to identify it from the dark orange color, she lifted it and sniffed at it cautiously. That gave her no more of a clue as to its flavor.

Fruit. She decided. Fruit is good. I’ll need some protein soon, though.

She grabbed a plate from another cabinet just as the toast was ready. Plucking them carefully with her fingers, she dropped them onto it and then slathered some of the preserves across each slice.

Before she realized it, she had downed four slices of toast and a liter of water—and she was still running late. Cursing unintelligibly through the last crumbs of the fourth slice, she hurried back for the bathroom.

She showered quickly, judging that her hair could wait until later. Tucking it up into a knot to avoid getting it wet, she understood now why pregnant women and new mothers tended to wear theirs short. She was not quite ready to do that though, if ever, as she had considered it one of her best features. Her breasts were normally adequate, but nothing that gained attention for her by themselves—although daily becoming more so—but she knew that a lot of men out there liked long hair on a woman. So, she had no intention of cutting it short, not at least until David had a chance to run his hands through it . . .

Wendy! Just . . . stop it.

It took her a moment that her hands had been slowly caressing her wet skin, moving along the curves of her breasts, her belly, and heading down between her legs. Had she not been running incredibly late, she might have surrendered to it. There was, after all, nothing wrong with a little harmless fantasizing while in the shower. Although, if David were in there with her . . .

WENDY!

Breathing a heavy sigh, she rinsed off one more time and turned off the water. Reaching for the towel, she discovered that it was missing, probably still in her bedroom from the day before. Feeling a twinge of guilt, she grabbed Greg’s and wiped herself down with it. When she was done, she hung it back up, hoping that he would not notice, while also making a mental promise to add it to the pile of laundry that she planned to do later.

Grateful to find a clean set of pants and a tunic whose colors did not clash too badly together, she tried to remember if she had any extra coveralls at the clinic.

I must, she decided with only moderate confidence. I hope.

With that, she headed for the front door. She paused as she reached for the handle. With the kind of morning she had experienced so far, there was every chance that Greg was standing right on the other side. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she pulled open the door.

No one was there. Nor was there anyone coming along the path.

Okay, Wendy decided. I just might survive this day after all.

Almost wearing a smile now, Wendy set off for the clinic.

When she arrived at clinic, she felt palpable relief at not having encountered Greg or David on her way there. Well, running into David might not have been so bad, but she suspected that it might have added to her already distracted mind.

You really just need to let that one go. It was just one of those things . . . and now it’s over. Probably.

She found Garnet Jones waiting for here just outside the main door. That was a welcome intrusion into her thoughts, as it forced her to focus on her work and more important medical matters.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones,” she apologized, slightly breathlessly from hurrying. “Got a late start this morning and . . . well.”

The older woman, her tightly curled hair streaked with white and gray, stared at her mock indignation.

Wendy looked startled, wondering if she had managed to offend the elderly woman after all, and then returned a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry for being late, Agate . . .” she shook her head fiercely, correcting herself quickly, “Garnet.”

Wendy’s eyes rolled skyward as she felt her cheek flush with embarrassment. Garnet responded only with a genial chuckle.

“That’s quite all right, Wendy,” she said with a devious twinkle in her eye. “I’m the prettier one.”

Garnet and Agate were twins. There were not identical, as anyone who bothered to look close enough could tell—and as Wendy had verified during their basic genetic scans—but close enough to confuse some people at first glance. They were from a family of five daughters; their mother had taken to naming them all after precious stones from Earth: Ruby, Garnet, Agate, Sapphire, and Amethyst (who went by “Amy”).

Wendy laughed softly as she unlocked the front door.

The clinic was one of the few buildings in the entire colony that was locked when not occupied. The other two were the armory and the electronics storage. The first was for obvious reasons. The latter one had been a more recent decree. As more and more of the electronic devices salvaged from the original landing began to fail, replacement and substitution parts had begun to disappear from the storage lockers. As they were also needed to keep systems such as those that ran the colony’s comm and surveillance networks, the colony council had decided to secure them. Debate over the decision, as Wendy recalled, had been surprisingly subdued and dwindled away quickly.

After unlatching the door, she reached inside and activated the lights, and then held the door open for Garnet. The older woman smiled at her graciously and stepped inside.

“How’s Sapphire’s doing?” Wendy asked, as she opened the curtains and activated the rest of the lights. “She hasn’t come by lately.”

“I think she’s seeing Dr. Greg,” Garnet replied. Wendy felt a small knot form in her stomach, but fought to keep her expression composed. “She’s about four months along, she says. She and Pauline could not be happier.”

Wendy nodded, filing that information away. Pauline was one of the few female members of the security force. No one rather knew how the relationship between her and Sapphire began. Sapphire’s disposition toward female partners had been well-known throughout the colony. It had become apparent at a young age, chiefly because Sapphire had done very little to hide it. At an age when young boys were trying to sneak looks underneath girls’ tunics, Sapphire had been doing the same. While it had troubled a few of the colony’s parents, Sapphire’s own mother ignored their concerns and allowed her daughter to follow her own path. She meted out discipline when it was necessary (e.g., when Sapphire got caught at it), but otherwise welcome friends of any gender into her home without question or fanfare.

Some of the more mean-spirited among her age group at the time (and Wendy knew a few of them) referred to her as “Sapphy the Sappho”. Many of the colonists thought, but few said out loud, that her mother must have sensed something was different about her daughter when she was born, given that fitting alliterative appellation. Unfortunately, for those colonists anyway, this derision-intended epithet prompted the young girl to research the historical origin of the name, leading her to even more fully embrace the practice.

Wendy remembered that Sapphire, as a younger child, was a highly talented poet and songwriter. She expanded into visual media, creating strikingly colorful abstract paintings. Wendy had one of these hanging in her waiting area. It never failed to provoke a positive response when people first encountered it. She had paid a high price for it in trade, but it had been well worth it for the appreciation that it received as well as the support it showed for the young and controversial artist.

Sapphire’s real passion was taken by sculpture, though. The colony lacked the facilities for any kind of art museum, although there was a perpetual desire for one, so the few pieces that Wendy had seen had been in Sapphire’s own home and at those of the lucky few who had managed to somehow acquire a piece. Those sculptures, in Wendy’s opinion, had been breathtaking. Greg had been unimpressed, so she had not tried to pursue trying to either acquire or commission one. There had been one piece, that Sapphire claimed had been inspired by her first sight of Pauline, titled “”. It was a relatively simple piece, depicting two women in an embrace. There was nothing particularly erotic about it, yet everything about it had grabbed Wendy’s awareness, seizing it to the point where she remembered having dreams of being made love to by another woman.

The dreams had unsettled her. Not because she was disturbed by the very notion, but simply because she had never really considered the option before. She preferred men in her bed. She was biologically wired that way, just as Sapphire was to prefer women. That was just the way it was. Yet, after seeing that sculpture, she found herself with a lingering, persistent desire: she wanted to experience the emotions she saw displayed there in those two entwined female bodies. She had, of course, never done anything about it. A hint to Sapphire would probably have sufficed, but the occasion had never arisen when it would have been practical. Also, Wendy admitted to herself, she was concerned about the implications if word got out.

Men could be strange about that sort of thing, she had observed. Some men seemed to take as a personal challenge to prove to the woman that a man—a forceful and assertive man—was what they really needed. Except in a few cases, most of these men, she noticed, tended to end up as long-term bachelors until they encountered a woman who straightened them out.

Other men—a significant majority, it seemed—found it incredibly arousing, which Wendy had never understood. The thought of Greg, for example, with another man held no appeal for her at all. She found no satisfaction in merely observing. Having two men both share her was something she had never experienced. Even if she had been tempted—and, yes, in some small part of her mind she was—she knew that Greg would never allow it. Or, if he did, he would like behave like a pig about the whole thing, diminishing her enjoyment of it.

Just what you need, she considered sourly, a reputation like Lorelei Ling’s. The two of us could open the colony’s first official brothel.

Wendy shuddered slightly, forcing her thoughts back to the present.

“Are you okay, dear?”

Wendy turned toward Garnet and smiled, nodding.

“Fine,” she told the elder woman. “Just remembering something I hadn’t done.”

“Nothing serious I hope?”

Wendy chuckled, guiding the woman toward one of the examination booths.

“Hardly.” She laughed.

“That’s good,” Garnet replied. “All your attention needs to be on that baby right now.”

Wendy stopped in mid-stride. She knew that was staring in shock, but could not stop it. She had told no one—no one­­—about her pregnancy, even to the point of securing her own medical files from Greg’s access. He had apparently not yet noticed; the implications of which she had not yet decided.

“How,” Wendy choked and tried again. “How did you know?”

Garnet smiled knowingly. “Young woman,” she said, “when you’ve been around for eighty-four—no eight-five now—years, you learn to notice a lot of things, particularly,” she raised a neatly manicured finger, “when you have young daughters of your own.” Her expression sank slightly.

Wendy knew what she must be thinking about. Garnet’s daughter, Noel (named for having been conceived on Christmas, to who Garnet often referred to as “Santa’s greatest gift” to her), had managed to get pregnant shortly before her fifteen birthday. She had miscarried during her fourth month. It had been messy, painful, and even touch-and-go for a while with Noel. It had been several months before she had recovered fully.

The father had never been identified, although Wendy suspected that Noel and Garnet both knew—well, certainly Noel did at least, unless she was a great deal more promiscuous than she let on. There had been rumors, somewhat unpleasant ones, about the possible paternity, but they had never been proven. Wendy had taken samples from the fetus, per her usual procedures, but, at Garnet’s request, never processed them. The data was still stored in Wendy’s medical records, but locked under a secure code. Wendy suspected what the data would show, so was very careful to resist temptation to ever look at it. However, should she ever hear another such rumor involving another young woman in the colony, she intended to violate Garnet’s request and see that justice was done.

“You are, aren’t you?” Garnet asked, although it felt to Wendy like more of a statement for her to confirm.

“Yeah,” Wendy nodded, smiling in spite of herself. “Almost three months now.”

“That’s very good,” Garnet replied, patting Wendy’s hand lightly. The elderly woman’s smile was sincerely happy.

Wendy found herself relaxing. She still had not run the full suite of tests on herself yet, but she found Garnet’s affirmation reassuring. Garnet had known that Noel had been pregnant before Noel had—or at least before Noel had been willing to admit it—and brought her in to be examined by Wendy. She had seemed uncharacteristically on edge then and until the end. Wendy had originally regarded it as general uneasiness, given that it was Garnet’s daughter. Later, though, Garnet had told Wendy that she had known from the start that the pregnancy that it would end badly. At the time, Wendy had dismissed it as perfect hindsight. Now, she was not so certain.

“Does your young man know yet?” Garnet studied her with subtle intensity.

Wendy shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Hmm.”

Wendy could not bring herself to meet Garnet’s eyes.

Please . . . PLEASE don’t ask.

Wendy picked up her tablet, activated it, and then waited for Garnet’s medical profile to be displayed. It, at least, gave her eyes something to do other than meet the old woman’s careful gaze.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

Baula arose before the dawn. The air was cold and the dampness warned furthered of the coming storm. His joints ached as he rose from his bed, more on this day than on most. He had not slept well. In addition to staying up far later than was usual in order to complete the preparations for the ritual, he had been troubled by strange dreams. Only the barest memories of them lingered with him now, but he remained deeply trouble by them.

Gathering his robe around him for warmth, he headed toward the stream to relieve himself. As he moved through the short halls of the temple, he saw that the acolytes and other priests were still in sleep. That was as it should be, he noted. There was no reason that anyone other than himself needed to be awake at this time.

Besides, he considered with wry amusement as he made his way across the meadow, it will give me some time of peace before Paim begins once again with his discontent. This day may be difficult enough as it is.

A light covering of dew coated some of the plants, Baula noted, as he crossed the field. While uncommon for this time of year, it was not at all unusual, given the approaching storm. Still, it left his robe moist in places, adding further to his chill. Looking toward the horizon, he saw the clear division between the land and the stars, but nothing more.

His morning cleansing completed, and the requisite blessings given, Baula headed back toward the temple. Daylight would be coming soon. Around him, small creatures began to stir, preparing to seek out their morning meals before the airborne predators awakened and began to hunt. Baula smiled gently, appreciating in the connections of life about him.

It’s so much easier for the simpler creatures, he mused.

There were still primitive, instinctive rituals among them, he knew, but they lacked the complexity that came with intelligence. He wondered whether the Human ritual were even more complicated, as their knowledge was far greater than his. He did not know, and wondered whether it would be against their rules to ask about them.

Baula filed that question away for later consideration. Today, he must focus on the concerns of his own people. It could be, he knew, a difficult day for them all.

The barest hint of gray appeared along the line of the horizon as he reached the path that led to the temple. Noises came from a few of the homes, mostly from those with very young ones who were finished with sleep and now hungered. Baula smiled again with satisfaction at the memory of the previous day’s birth. He would check on the health of the niyala before beginning his final preparations for the day.

The newest of the acolytes were stirring now, warming the fires and preparing the morning meals for the other priests. Baula wondered if there would be dala fruit today. It seemed the right season for it, and it might be considerable time before there was more in abundance, for it did not tolerate the fog storms well. In the thick moisture of the fog storms they tended to rot while still on the vines. The odor afterward, even before they began to dry later in the sun, while not as bad as putrefaction, was unpleasant indeed.

Baula remembered one season, while he was still a young acolyte, when he had been assigned to help clear the vines of the decaying fruit. The task itself had been bad enough, even with the masks filled with herbs to help cover the smell. Although he had washed himself thoroughly—several different times, in fact—the stench had lingered in his nose for many days afterward. It had been many cycles before he could bring himself to look at the fruit, much less eat even a small slice of it; the mere sight of it reigniting those memories of those hideous aromas.

Returning to his chambers, he hung the robe to dry, shivering slightly in the still-chill air of the room. During his absence, someone had renewed the fires that kept the room warm. He knew that it would reach a more comfortable temperature soon. Walking to the other section of the room, he examined the condition of his ritual robe, checking to see if any final cleaning or minor repairs were needed. He found none, as he had not the countless times he had checked it the night before.

Soft footfalls sounded from the hallway just outside the doorway. “Come,” he called out, without looking up from the fabric of the robe.

The footsteps came within the room and halted.

“On the table there will be fine.”

He turned to see one of the young acolytes enter and place a small platter on the table that he had indicated. Baula smiled graciously, but the acolyte kept its face averted, so he did not know if it had seen it. Without a word, the acolyte turned and left, disappearing into the hallway beyond.

Baula sighed lightly. He understood the need for proper protocol within the ranks of the priesthood, but he wished for more contact with the members beyond those in the higher levels. When he had been an adept, and an instructor for the new acolytes, it had been possible. There were times when he missed that sorely.

Being the naha priest was not without its rewards, but so much of it was symbolic or administrative work, scarcely the same as sharing his knowledge with attentive acolytes and adepts. He was not exactly forbidden from doing so, but it was simply not done. Indeed, there was often too much that filled his days to permit it anyway. That did not, however, prevent him from wishing for it on occasion.

He wandered over to the table, surveying the contents of the tray.

No dala fruit.

Nonetheless, he gave a silent prayer to the gods, thanking them for the food he did receive. He nibbled at a piece of orange lompahs fruit. It was firm and sweet, but no substitute for dala.

Daylight began to appear behind the thin fabric of the drapes that hung before the windows within his chamber. The families of the village would be preparing and eating their morning meals. Their conversation, usually of routine matters, would likely be filled with much speculation over the result of the coming Challenge. Within the houses of Braith and Morah, he suspected, the tenor of those discussions might be far different.

The hava juice tasted bitter this morning. Baula wondered, though, if his apprehension for the upcoming ritual might not have soured its taste for him more than the flavor of the actual berries. He finished it nonetheless.

A new set of footfalls sounded from the corridor. Baula knew without looking that it was Paim. The elder priest’s shuffling footsteps were distinctive, making Baula wonder idly what his own must sound like to someone else.

“Good morning, Paim,” Baula offered, selecting a bite of pinkish fruit before turning to face the elder priest. He ignored how his fingers trembled as he did so.

Paim was already dressed in his ceremonial robes. Baula was not surprised, although there was still some time before the Challenge was scheduled to begin.

“You have not changed your mind.” It was a statement, not question, Baula noted.

“I have not,” Baula agreed evenly. “Did you believe that I would?”

“Your lights continued to burn until very late,” Paim remarked. “I thought perhaps you were considering the wisdom of allowing this ritual to continue.”

“I was.”

This seemed to surprise Paim. Baula smiled slightly.

“A good leader considers carefully the counsel of those around him,” he said solemn conviction. “Even to those he disagrees with.”

Paim scowled at that and Baula wanted to laugh. Instead, he hid it behind another bite of the pink fruit.

“As you wish, naha,” Paim said.

Baula noted the barest hint of annoyance, but let it pass. The day would likely be challenging enough without forcing Paim into an even more dour mood.

“If everything prepared?”

“Yes,” Paim replied, remaining in his place at the doorway. Baula had not specifically invited to enter and, to be honest, was not eager for him to stay.

“Very well then,” Baula agreed. “Is there anything else?”

It looked for a moment like Paim was going to say something. His mouth closed on it, though, before any words came forth.

“Nothing,” he finally admitted. “Although we may need to speak later.”

Oh, Baula thought with wry humor. Of that I have no doubt.

“Of course,” he said aloud with even calm. “Now I must prepare myself.”

Paim stared hard at Baula for a moment before tilting his head in respectful acknowledgement. He turned and moved slowly back down the corridor.

Baula watched the elder priest’s departing back for a moment before looking back toward the plate that contained the rest of his morning meal. By tradition, Paim was next in line to lead the priesthood when Baula’s gisa believed itself ready to release itself to its next life. Baula feared for the village should that come to pass.

He began to reach for his formal robes and then remembered the difficulty he had in putting them on properly.

One more thing I would change if I could, he thought, laughing softly.

He rang for one of the acolytes to come assist him. While he waited, he picked through the remaining bits of fruit and roots, silently lamenting once more the absence of dala fruit.

#

Wendy awoke in a surprisingly good mood. Vague memories of something that had happened the night before fluttered across her consciousness. Or were those dreams?

The feeling quickly evaporated, however, when she saw the time displayed on her wall chronometer.

“Damn it!”

She fought to untangle herself from her blankets, nearly tumbling to the floor in the process. After untwisting the sheet that had somehow wrapped itself around her ankle, she dashed for the bathroom, relieved to find it empty. She had barely made it inside when she promptly threw up—which had not been her original intention.

Leaning against the sink, she took slow, deep breaths, waiting to see whether her stomach had completed its rebellion.

Great. Just . . . great. She took another breath, clearing her mind. I wasn’t that drunk . . . was I?

She could not remember exactly, but was almost certain that she had limited herself to no more than two glasses of wine at dinner. When she had come home, it had been tea . . . chamomile, with . . . David.

Wendy smiled as her memories that part of the evening became more clear.

Damn Greg . . . if he hadn’t come home when he did . . .

She stopped at that thought.

Had Greg come back home?

He had not been in her bed, but then was not unusual since she had gotten pregnant.

Trying to avert her eyes and hold her breath, she rinsed out the sink and then splashed water on her face. It helped and her stomach seemed to have decided that she and it were on civil terms again.

Morning sickness? Just . . . great.

Ignoring the water that had splashed on her tunic—grateful that it was just water—she turned and headed back down the short hallway.

Greg’s door was closed, but not latched. She pushed it experimentally and it opened easily, indicating that he had not bothered to close it all the way.

The room was empty—and definitely not slept in.

Shattered Bonds (continued)

A chime sounded, indicating that the water was ready. She rose, relieved by the interruption. It not only gave her something to do, however briefly, but also possibly prevented her from saying yet something else potentially embarrassing.

She prepared the tea for each of them and brought the two mugs over to the table. She placed one in front of David, having to peer at its color again to ensure that she had presented him with the correct one. Sitting down across from him, she looked down at her mug, watching the steam rise from it. Her eyes moved toward David’s face to find him staring down at the contents of his own cup.

His eyes came up and met hers. They locked for a moment before, David’s cheeks splotching with pink, his turned away. Wendy fought back a smile.

I really need to stop. It’s not nice . . . or fair.

She picked up a small chunk of cheese and chewed it slowly. The ferocious edge to her hunger had abated, but her stomach told her that it was more than willing to accept more.

Gods, I’m going to balloon up like one of the sows.

That thought, however, did not prevent her from reaching for another piece. To her mild surprise, David reached for one too. He stared at it, as if still afraid that it harbored some deadly pathological agent, and then bit into it carefully. He swallowed it and, upon discovering that he did not immediately succumb to an agonizing death, placed the rest of it into his mouth. When he finished it, he sipped at his tea.

Chamomile, Wendy thought, was a good match for the buttery cheese. She was not so sure about the mint. Judging from David’s carefully controlled expression, it was not the best combination that he had ever tasted, but he did appear to loathe it either. Wendy noticed, also, that he did not reach for another piece.

“Thank you for walking me home,” she offered, trying to fill the silence with something that did not sound too awkward or forced. She added small, but sunny smile.

David averted his eyes, appearing the perfect model of modesty.

“It was nothing,” he murmured, and then, a little more loudly, added, “Um. You’re welcome.”

Wendy smiled gently and patted his hand lightly. David stared down at it as if it were a serpent preparing to strike. He did not, however, move his hand away. Wendy moved hers away slowly and then used it to lift her tea to her lips. She was surprised to find it nearly gone.

It might have been coincidental timing, or a subliminal reaction to the discovery, but Wendy found herself trying to stifle a yawn. She glanced quickly at David, but he seemed not to have noticed. Sipping from the mug again as cover, she tried to decide how badly she wanted this little tête-à-tête (where had she learned that word?) to end, or whether to concede to her body’s demands for rest.

The next yawn, which she felt as if she nearly strained her jaw muscles trying to hide, settled the matter for her. She drained the small remaining amount of tea and allowed the next yawn to show—although contained to slightly more ladylike dimensioned.

“I guess you’d better put me to bed now,” she said, trying to covertly watch David’s expression.

He did, she thought, a creditable job of managing not to appear too surprised. His eyes still widened slightly, but he did not appear quite ready to bolt this time.

Wendy rose and held her hand out for his cup. He handed it to her, making an effort to avoid contact with her fingers. Wendy smiled gently and turned to place the cups in the sink. She would wash them in morning. If Greg came home and found them there . . .

Well, let him think what he wanted.

Wendy managed to keep her smile from taking on any smug undertones—or least she hoped so. David did not withdraw any further, so she assumed that she had been successful.

“It’s this way,” she said. “The second room on the left.” She led the way, knowing full well that David would not.

She turned the light on immediately, hoping to put him at ease. She wished immediately that she had not. With a quiet groan of despair, she saw that she had left the bed unmade and that her clothes were tossed everywhere. Taking a slow breath, just stared at the mess, unwilling to view David’s reaction.

“I’ll just change real quick,” she told him with quiet meekness.

Gathering up the long tunic that she usually slept in, she moved past him and headed back into the short hallway. She closed the door to the bathroom, but not all the way, leaving a sliver of it open. There was no sense, she decided, in making David force the door open is she began to faint again.

Slipping off her shoes, she pushed them with her foot into a corner with the intention of gathering them back up in the morning. She slid out of her pants, definitely noticing that her body’s center of balance had changed in the past few weeks. Standing up, she caught sight of the mirror. Reflected through the narrow slit of the doorway, she could see David still standing in the hallway. She could not be certain, due to all the refractions of light, but he did seem to be looking in her direction.

So much for being the perfect gentleman, she smirked, rather enjoying the sensation of being the object of such covert voyeurism. He probably thinks I can’t see him.

She looked down and then frowned. “Damn,” she whispered, wishing she had worn panties that were little more provocative than the more comfortable ones she had started wearing recently.

Still, she considered, my ass is still in pretty good shape.

She took a quick glance to reassure herself that, in fact, it still was, and then smiled with approval. Next, she pulled her tunic up over head, tossing it over the edge of the sink. Her eyes flashed quickly up at the mirror: David had not moved. Unfastening her bra, she left it fall open and then had it join her tunic. She did not turn around, but knew that, if David really was looking, he had a clear view of her breasts in the mirror. She was both surprised and pleased to see that her nipples had grown hard. Apparently, she was finding this whole exhibitionist thing quite a turn-on.

She was tempted, although only slightly, to turn around and give David a complete view, but she feared that might finally send him over the edge and he would run off.

Might be fun, though . . .

Sighing, she pulled the oversized tunic over her head. She never slept with a bra on anyway, but she knew those nights were coming. Gathering up her pants and shirt, she turned and opened the door. David quickly looked away. Wendy hid a small, smug smile.

“It’s okay,” she called to him, trying not to laugh. “I’m dressed.”

David’s eyes came up and then widened slightly as they passed her breasts. They remained there for probably a moment longer than he intended before moving back to her face. Wendy regarded him evenly, as if she had seen nothing. She knew what he had seen. The tunic she now wore did little to hide the natural shape of her breasts or their aroused state.

“I think I’d better go to bed now,” she softly as she walked past him. She was aware that David’s eyes followed her intently.

Entering the bedroom again, she tossed the clothing she carried onto one of the existing piles, along with a silent promise to do some washing the next day. She turned to face David, who remained just on the other side of the doorway.

“Thank you for everything,” she told him, while taking a step closer.

David’s eyes watched her, flowing every moment of her body. His mouth worked, but no words came forth. Wendy leaned forward to kiss him lightly on the cheek, but at the last instant changed her mind.

Her lips met his, softly at first. He reacted with surprise, but did not pull away. Wendy figured he was too stunned to react and began to pull away. That was when David surprised her.

His mouth found hers. Wendy melted into his arms and let it happen. His lips were warm and undemanding. He held her gently, supporting her without restricting her movements. He kissed pretty well, Wendy decided, even if a bit tentatively.

It was not a long kiss, but more than sufficient for Wendy to feel its effects throughout her body. Her nipples had grown hard again and she could not deny the moist feeling between her legs. She was certain, from the touch of their bodies, that David was experiencing the male equivalent.

To hell with this . . .

“To hell with this . . .” She whispered it aloud and leaned her face back up toward David’s.

Their lips had just touched when she heard the front door open.

“Wendy?”

Greg’s voice sounded more inquisitive than filled with concern.

DAMN it!

David moved hastily away from her. He wiped at his lips, which, Wendy knew, was unnecessary, as she had not been wearing any lipstick. If he were trying to wipe the guilt away . . . well, that was a whole other issue.

She sighed heavily, glancing for only a moment at David. Crossing her arms over her chest, she called back.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I’m here.”

David’s eyes were wild with apprehension. Greg was not known for his violent behavior. Occasional verbal assaults, sure, particularly when a little drunk, but nothing physical.

Wendy looked at him calmly, hoping her expression would wind him down a little before he said—or did—something foolish. She heard Greg coming toward the hallway. He stopped there when he saw the two figures standing just outside the bedroom. Wendy could not see his expression clearly, but his tone weighed heavy with suspicion.

“I’d heard you’d been hurt . . .” his eyes played over David, “. . . or something.”

“It just felt weak, almost fainted,” she said. She nodded toward David. “David brought me home. He’s with Security, you know.”

And he was about to conduct a full-body search, if you hadn’t interrupted.

She could not decide yet whether the last was a good or bad thing.

Greg studied David warily, but his stance relaxed.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” David replied, He nodded toward Wendy, his expression impassive. “Dr. Aimes,” he said to her. “I’ll be going now.”

“Thanks, David.”

She gave him a slight, hopefully neutral smile, and watched silently as she he left.

“So you’re okay then?”

Greg sounded more annoyed than relieved, she thought.

“Yeah,” Wendy agreed softly, breathing a slow sigh. “Just . . . tired. I’m going to go to bed.”

“Want me to come?”

“No,” Wendy replied, perhaps a little too quickly, she thought.

No! I’m turned on as hell. And like hell am I going to let you watch me masturbate while I think about another man.

“I’m going to bed,” she repeated. “You can go back to the harvest party . . . or whatever, if you want.”

Greg stared at her and then shrugged. “Sure,” he said, “if that’s what you want.” He looked Wendy over one more time before heading back down the hallway.

Wendy heard the front door close a few moments later. Part of her wanted to cry; another part wanted David to come back. Neither of those parts, she realized distantly, wanted Greg to return.

She turned and went back into the bedroom. Turning off the lights, she dropped onto the bed, ignoring any clothes that might still have remained there. She sighed, noticing that her earlier feelings of intense arousal had fled. It was now just her . . . and the tiny little being growing within her.

That was the last that she remembered before sleep took her. That, and the memory touch of young David’s lips on hers.