Then, with her tender rear, she felt the hard mound in his trousers.
She laughed again.
"Dirty bugger. You were enjoying all that, weren't you? And here I thought you were a cold fish."
She lowered one foot to the floor and pulled the Warden's trousers free. He was red, erect, veins standing out an angry purple. The scope of her device's paralysis had encompassed whatever muscle or sphincter would let his penis return to flaccidity. The blood was trapped, the horrible little cock forcibly engorged like some morning's piss hard-on.
Mira looked into his eyes again.
"Yes, that's right, you poor bastard. I'm going to fuck you now. Because I don't think you'll be able to get it up. Stuck halfway, poor eunuch."
In that moment she felt she could see deep inside the man. The Warden's eyes shone through their veil of tears, illuminating the shadow-puppets of his many layers: the crazed beasts of reflex who fought the rictus of paralysis; the cold intelligence of his governors, still plotting how to escape and complete their mission; and deepest of all, the remaining shreds of humanity in their caged dance.
These last might be happy, in a way, she thought. For the first time in many years the little man's personhood must be on equal terms with the overlays of programming: all helpless together. But at least his humanity would feel some lust, enjoy a moment of pleasure, however hopeless and thwarted. She didn't desire revenge upon the unfeeling mechanisms that had tried to kill her lover; there was no pleasure there. It was the person part of him she wanted to torture, if only by making it remember for a moment what it had been.
It was more than an hour later that the glimmer faded completely from the Warden's eyes. Blood was everywhere (fucking had only amused her for so long), but the man was still alive.
She knew, however, that he was no longer a threat.
"Release him," she told her weapons.
The square object mounted on her wall shifted a little in color, and the Warden slumped with a whimper.
Mira turned to look for Darling. But he was gone.
"Oh, dear," she said to the empty room. (She'd been talking out loud to the Warden through the whole affair.) "I hope he understands."
Duke Zimivic tugged happily at the sleeves of his jacket. This view really was spectacular. The suite cost more than he usually spent on backwater rocks like Malvir, but it was well worth it.
And besides, now that that abomination Darling was out of the way, Zimivic was sure to make the acquisition of a lifetime. Without another bidder to contest for the prize, he could get it for a pittance. The idiot local who had discovered the piece would be all too happy to take a tenth of what it was worth. But sheer profit was a fraction of the deal's value; the discovery of a new sculpture would be the best thing for the price of his Vaddums since the Blast Event.
Zimivic allowed his reverie to be interrupted by an annoying thought, Where was that champagne? What was the value of room service's inflated prices if they didn't ensure immediate gratification. He considered going to the Tower Bar, but the fabulous view there was free, and he'd paid for the one here, damn it! And that pathetic piece of statuary might still be there, trying to stare the Warden into submission.
Zimivic glanced happily at his watch. (An ancient analog Har-ing: an absolute fortune.) Darling would be off-planet in three hours, if he hadn't already submitted to the hopelessness of his situation. Zimivic tugged the jacket sleeve over the watch again.
Bringing the Warden had been genius. At first, Zimivic had toyed with the idea of offering the ugly little man as a gallery piece. Some idiot performance artist somewhere would be happy to have it tag along for a year or so, enforcing some obscure sentence that would keep the critic's chins wagging. "The Failure of Cadence: Askar Cunes goes for a year without completing a sentence!" or "Vampire Nouveau: Rodge Hammish must stay out of the sun or die!" Good stuff, and then sell the little man when the piece was over. Or even better, if the unlucky artiste should slip up, the supreme sanction would be imposed. A bonanza of publicity!
But a grim hour with the lawyers had convinced him otherwise. Apparently, there were laws about having purchased another human being, especially an induced-psychosis killing machine from the twisted and barbaric NaPrin so-called culture. But the little creature had paid for itself already. The expression on Darling's face alone had almost been worth it! And now, sole access to the new Vaddum.
Perhaps it lacked imagination, this enforcer routine, compared to his original scheme to use the Warden as an artwork. But it had certainly gotten the job done. And the rumors that would spread once Darling returned to the HC and started complaining! Don't cross Duke Zimivic, he'll crush you like some poor criminal on NaPrini. No bad reviews for his shows, you'll wind up sentenced to a standard decade of covering fashion shows on the Outer Rim!
Zimivic imagined the sentences he could impose. That fat bastard Reginald Fowdy, sentenced never to look at a statue of a naked man again. Hah! Or his lackey Leao Vatrici, a month without AI assistance might do her some good.
But, of course, the lawyers were right: keep the Warden out of the Home Cluster. Strictly legal. But everyone must know that it's somewhere, waiting for orders. The unseen weapon is feared the most.
A muted chime came from the door.
Champagne, at last! And after twenty minutes—a fair excuse not to bother with a tip.
Zimivic strode to the door and clapped once. It slid open.
The woman wasn't dressed in hotel livery. Perhaps a manager here to apologize for the delay. His eyes scanned her reflexively: small, heavy breasted. A bit of fun like he might have brought along for company if the Warden hadn't required a cabin. Passage for three all the way Out here would have been far too costly. And the bastard shipping company wouldn't let him plonk the Warden in cargo. Were they afraid of hurting its feelings?
"Well, where is it?" he demanded. "Do you know how long I've been waiting?"
She stared at him coolly. Her hair was wet. There was an almost vacant expression of exhausted pleasure on her face, as if she'd just fucked and had a shower. Very alluring.
"I believe this is yours," she said, and reached to one side. She pulled a hunched, stumbling figure into the doorway, propelled it into the room.
"What is the—" Zimivic started.
The figure smelled of piss and sweat and excrement. Its clothes were caked with patches of blood, some dried, others still dark and shiny. Where skin was exposed, the creature bore marks of torment: the crude gouges of fingernail wounds, the straight, bloody lines of razor strokes. The figure fell to the floor, splaying across the white carpet like a bundle of laundry come undone. It turned its head toward him, made a mewling noise like a wounded cat. I Only then—through the puffing of dark bruises, through layers I of blood crusted and fresh, and despite a single revolting strand of mucus connecting its nose to the carpet—did Zimivic recognize it.
It was the Warden.
"My god," he said. The money he'd spent on the thing.
He turned to the woman for sympathy. But her face didn't hold the concern of a local official bringing home the victim of some terrible crime. Quite the contrary: she was smirking.
Zimivic got the nervous feeling he often did when dealing with someone who was not an employee, functionary, or social inferior.
"That," she said, pointing at the crumpled figure on the floor, "had these." She threw a pair of disks at Zimivic.