“ ’Lo, Jo,” Yolande said, accepting the glass.
Machiavelli IV came bounding into the room and raced around the wall to reach her, running with innocent unconcern across what looked to be empty space and soaring to land on the foam-lava floor by her feet. Two housegirls followed more sedately with her lounging robe and slippers; Yolande sipped moodily at the hot sweet-tart liquid while they removed her uniform and redressed her, moving only to transfer the glass from hand to hand.
“We’re leavin’ tomorrow,” she said abruptly. Then, to the apartment: “Walls, blank.” The holo panels dimmed to a neutral pearl-gray color. Yolande spared them a moment’s irritation, she would have preferred mosaic, but the necessary skills were still scarce on Luna, and anyway this was the Commandant’s quarters. Furnished rooms, in a sense.
“Tomorrow, Mistis?” Jolene asked, puzzled. It was a month before leave was scheduled.
“I said so, didn’t I?” Yolande snapped, then sighed and drew a hand across her face. “Sorry, Jo. Somethin’ came up. Down to Archona, stayin’ with Uncle Eric, then a quick trip up to Claestum to drop off Tina with John an’ Mandy, then back here. Call it fo’ days; just pack an overnight bag an’ Tina’s things.”
She looked down at the housegirls, kneeling with hands folded in their laps and eyes downcast; both rather new, and still a little shy, especially at hearing the Archon referred to as “Uncle.”
“Run along, there’s good wenches . . . I’ll take Lele, none of the other staff.” No point in carting a dozen servants along for a visit, and Jolene hated space travel. “Light supper, an’ . . . ”
The inner door sighed open and shut. Yolande looked over her shoulder; it was Marya. “ . . . An’ set up the chess game fo’ after, Marya.”
King’s pawn to knight four, Yolande decided. She moved the carved-ebony Janissary and leaned back in the lounger, sipping at the white wine; it was Vernaccia. Checkmate in, hmmm, seven moves. She was not doing as well as usual tonight, and it was getting a little late. Damn, I’m not sleepy, either, she thought.
The lounging room was arch-roofed, a relic of excavating techniques in the early days, back in the mid-1960s; the Commandant’s quarters had been enlarged but not moved as the city grew. There were a few pictures, some hangings, but she had had most of the walls left in the natural white-streaked black rock interspersed with hand-painted azulejos tile; the furniture was modern and local, spindly shapes of lacquered bamboo and puff pillows. The room seemed cavernous and dim now, yet somehow cramped despite space enough to guest a hundred. Perhaps it was subliminal knowledge of all those kilometers of rock above. Yolande stirred restlessly.
What was it Michelangelo said about Vernaccia? she thought, sipping again. It “kisses, licks, bites, thrusts, and stings.” There’s my subconscious telling me what I want. That was a little awkward; she had told Tina no . . . She was not in the mood for Jolene’s friendly complaisance, and the rest of the staff were unsuitable or too new, too much in awe, to be very interesting. Maybe a man? That was nice occasionally; unfortunately, no Citizen she knew well enough was available, probably. Well, she could have a nightspot send a buck around—perfectly legal nowadays; the Race Purity laws had been updated back in the ’70s.
No, maybe I’m old-fashioned, but no. Ah well, there’s always the headset. That brought sleep without chemical hangovers.
“Mistis.” Yolande blinked out of her reverie and saw the serf’s next move.
“Thought so. You shouldn’t be so . . . schematic about you pieces. See.” She took the other’s last bishop and indicated the alternatives. “Neither of us’s up to scratch tonight.”
“Ah, Mistis. There was an unusual note in the serf’s voice. Yolande looked up, saw that she was studying a piece held in one hand. A pawn in ivory, in the shape of a German soldier of the Eurasian War. “Ah, can I ask you a question?” The fall of her hair hid most of her face, and the tops of her ears were pink.
The Draka blinked puzzlement. “Certainly.”
“Were, ah, were you planning on going to bed alone tonight, Mistis?”
Yolande’s eyebrows rose, and she spoke with a chuckle in her voice. “Is that an invitation, Marya?” I hope so. Have for years; wonder what changed her mind?
A nod. “Well, well, that is a surprise.” She cleared her mind and looked. Rather nice. Not young, but then, neither am I anymore. It was getting to be a little embarrassing, bedding teenagers. Granted they were only serfs, still . . . And I’ve wanted you for a while. She rose and extended a hand. “Shall we?”
“Ah!”
Yolande went rigid as the orgasm flowed over her like waves of warmth, felt the world swim blue before her eyes. She was straddled, kneeling across the other’s shoulders, arched back on her heels with her shoulders resting on the serf’s upraised knees. Now she leaned forward and sank lower, linking her hands behind her neck and smiling down at the face between her thighs. “One mo’ time, pretty pony,” she said softly, moving her hips in languid rhythm to the sweet wet friction of tongue and lips. The serf’s eyes were closed below a frown of concentration; her head moved with the arching of Yolande’s pelvis, and she gripped the Draka’s hips with a clench that whitened her fingernails.
“Ah. Mmmmm.” Yolande moved more quickly, shuddered, locked immobile with a long hiss between clenched teeth. This time the color went beyond blue to indigo, shot through with veins of red. She nearly collapsed forward—would have in normal gravity.
“Wonderful,” she sighed as she eased herself down beside the other and reached up for the wine glass. Blood pounded in her ears like retreating drums, and the dreamy relaxation was like flying in dreams. Marya’s eyes fluttered open, dark and unreadable. Yolande poured the last of the wine on her lips and kissed her, savoring the pleasant mixture of tastes. The room was dark except for a wall set to show a landscape of lunar mountains jagged across the three-quarters Earth; that cast a pale silver glow over the circular bed. The air was lightly warm, and she could smell the roses in planters around the walls, musk, a slight tang of sweat and warm flesh.
Marya turned on her side and laid her head on her owner’s shoulder; Yolande stroked her back. At least the third-arm problem is less up here, she thought drowsily. Gods, I haven’t felt this relaxed in months.
“I’m glad you liked it, Mistis,” the serf said, yawning into the curve where neck met deltoid.
“Freya, yes. I’s so tense without knowin’ it, I went off like a sunbomb. That damn stingfighter’s got me tied in knots . . . can’t figure out how the damnyanks did it.” She was muttering, half thinking aloud; absently, she set the glass down on the fused stone of the headboard and began stroking down Marya’s flank. “And on top of that, those fuckin’ prisoners. Why is Biocontrol gettin’ into the decision-makin’ loop? They’re just a research institute, even if they’re so almighty impo’tant these day . . . ”
She paused, hand lingering on the firmness of the other’s hip. “Lift you knee . . . Did you like it, Marya?” Her fingers trailed down the inside of the serf’s leg and lightly cupped her groin.
“Couldn’t you tell, Mistis?” the other said. She smiled and rolled onto her back, raising and spreading her legs.