For the first time, Jedao glimpsed uncertainty in Teshet’s eyes. “We don’t have a lot of time before we’re back to heptarchate space and you have to go back to being a commander and I have to go back to being responsible,” he said softly. “Or as responsible as I ever get, anyway. Want to make the most of it? Because I get the impression that you don’t allow yourself much of a personal life.”
“Use the goose fat,” Jedao said, because as much as he liked Teshet, he did not relish the thought of being cemented to Teshet.
It would distract Teshet from continuing to analyze his psyche, and yes, the man was damnably attractive. What the hell, with any luck his mother was never, ever, ever hearing of this. (He could imagine the conversation now: “Garach Jedao Shkan, are you meaning to tell me you finally found a nice young man and you’re still not planning on settling down and providing me more grandchildren?” And then she would send him more goose fat.)
Teshet brightened. “You won’t regret this,” he purred, and proceeded to help Jedao undress.
Author’s Note
This story is a ridiculous caper, and was written to stand alone because Jonathan Strahan at Tor.com had asked me if I was interested in submitting something. What you may not be able to discern from the text is that it was screamingly difficult to write. My family ribs me all the time because I have... developed a reputation for writing depressing genocide stories. “Ridiculous caper” is not a skill set I’ve been working on. In fact, the entire first draft, which featured a secret weapon and Jedao challenging a Kel to a duel, was so riddled with plot holes that I discarded it and started over.
What enabled me to finish this story was writing chunks in locked Dreamwidth blog posts while my friends cheerleaded, and promising myself a white chocolate Kit-Kat, the unicorn of Kit-Kats, as a reward if I finished the draft. It didn’t have to be a good draft, just a complete one. My rough drafts are frequently atrocious, and I hate the process of generating words, but I like doing revisions.
I would like you to know that one of my beta readers suggested “A Sticky Situation” as an alternate title and I rejected it on the grounds that it was too much innuendo even for me.
Gloves
THE SECOND THING that Brigadier General Shuos Jedao did when the mechanics signed off on the repairs to his command moth was look up the address of one of the space station’s brothels. (The first thing was to draft a letter to his mother. His mother had Mysterious Ways of Knowing if he shirked his filial duty.) He’d considered doing something sensible with his money instead, like gambling, but the gambling houses wouldn’t let him in these days.
The last time he’d attempted to gamble at this station, during a previous visit, he’d put on a tasteful amount of makeup and changed into civilian clothing respectable enough to announce that he had money, but not so ostentatious that some thief would try to pick his pocket. Sometimes, when he got bored, he did dress like a fop and let them get close enough that their terrible life choices dawned on them. After all, how else was he supposed to stay in practice with some of those armlocks?
Unfortunately, when he arrived, the house manager, a leggy Shuos woman with hair swept up in fantastic coils, stopped him at the door. “Hello, Jedao,” she said without warmth. “Sorry, you’re not allowed in here.”
“I play by the rules,” Jedao protested.
“Don’t care,” she said. “That’s even worse than when you clean us out, because we can’t even nail you for cheating. Do you have nothing better to do than bully honest, hard-working foxes? Can’t you go wallop some heretics instead?”
Jedao looked wistfully over her shoulder at a table where several people were playing jeng-zai, then went away.
The brothel was much more reasonable, possibly because he didn’t cause them to lose money. The receptionist took down Jedao’s name, contact information, and preferences. Then they offered him a discount if he booked an “overnight experience” rather than by the hour. Discount my ass, Jedao thought; but he was running out of fun things to blow his money on during leave. He collected firearms, for instance, but he couldn’t haul his collection everywhere. In real life, he had to leave most of them in storage. So what the hell, “overnight experience” it was.
He showed up seven minutes before the appointment, dressed in uniform. This brothel catered to soldiers anyway. He’d stuck with medium formal on the grounds that he didn’t want to get his full formal uniform messed up.
“Shuos Jedao?” said the receptionist, quite properly addressing him as a client rather than an officer. “Kio is waiting for you. Up the stairs, second room on the left.”
“Thank you,” Jedao said. There was never a good reason to antagonize the staff at a brothel. He and Ruo had done it a couple of times as cadets, and learned that annoyed prostitutes had a habit of “spilling” highly staining substances on uniforms. He headed up the stairs as instructed.
The upper floor smelled of perfume, some kind of aquatic. He could distinguish different explosives by smell, but perfume notes? Forget it. (His brother and sister had always found this very amusing.) The second room on the left was obscured by a dazzling curtain composed of strands of faceted glass beads in pale blue. Reflected glints formed a mosaic of light across the floor and walls. He rapped politely on the doorframe. The curtain swayed, and the glints of light wavered and rippled.
“Welcome,” a tenor said from within.
Jedao’s pulse quickened. He pulled the strands aside and entered to a clattering of beads.
Kio stood at the far end of the room, next to the head of the bed. He was tall, clean shaven, hair cut short: all in accordance with Kel regulations. His clothes, too, imitated the black-and-gold Kel uniform, although they were of silk and clung appealingly to his long limbs. The gold braid was further embellished with amber beads that caught the light as he moved. Golden chains descended from his epaulets to the buttons of his shirt, and jingled faintly as he began to make an almost-salute, open hand rather than fist to his left shoulder.
“Don’t,” Jedao said.
Kio froze. “Did I misunderstand your preferences, sir?”
“No,” Jedao said. “It’s something I prefer to keep out of the house’s records.” Just so his meaning was clear, he pulled out his wallet and retrieved a token of very large denomination in the local currency. He left it on the table next to the door.
“Something could be arranged, sir.”
Next: “Stop calling me ‘sir,’” Jedao said. “It’s not—it’s not necessary.”
Kio’s wariness, if anything, increased. Jedao sighed inwardly. Although various laws and customs protected prostitutes, the fact of the matter was that laws and customs were cold comfort when dealing with belligerent trained killers. While Jedao was not belligerent, he couldn’t deny being a trained killer. Even if he employed swarms of warmoths these days instead of a sniper rifle or his hands, Kio would be aware of his reputation.
Jedao crossed the distance to Kio in slow strides, to make himself as little threatening as possible. He knelt before the other man. His hands were damp inside the regulation half-gloves. “Use me.”