A World for Dreams

Chapter Seven

The Alternative
(Reed)

As I finally arrive at my destination my system is jumping with adrenaline, my mind almost equally divided between fear, relief and desperation. I want to live, I always have, but whatever's coming for me let it come now – for God's sake let me be over with the waiting.

I suppose insofar as I'd expected anything, I'd expected some kind of laboratory. But this is no laboratory or anything like it; this is a state room, done out like something I'd expect to see in one of Sato's palaces. It's exquisitely tasteful, insofar as I'm a judge of such things; the very little power of movement I still have (enough to let me blink and swallow, but not much else) also allows me to turn my eyes slightly, so that my peripheral vision suggests one or two ornaments here and there whose utter simplicity is the most eloquent testimony to their costliness.

The gurney is pushed into the required position, the brakes are applied, and the lackeys bob their heads obsequiously and depart. They don't bob their heads at me, I hasten to add. There are drapes of probably fabulously expensive material hanging from the ceiling, and if they're not bed-hangings you can call me a selection of hors d'oeuvres and eat me.

Oops. Probably not the best choice of words, that. I control another impotent impulse to guffaw as I reflect that I should be surrounded by canapés and those little crackers with heaps of sturgeon caviar. But cancel the wine cooler – you drink red wine at room temperature, and forgetting that would offend Alice's sensibilities so horribly he'd probably feel obliged to exit via the nearest airlock.

(I hope someone ties those drapes out of the way. The bill for getting those clean would probably bankrupt the Empire...)

After a moment's silence I hear the rustle of fabric. My already thundering pulse finds it can still speed up just a notch more.

They say the Ancient Greeks believed their goddess Aphrodite rose from the sea at the island of Crete. Em rises into my vision looking lovelier than any goddess. She's wearing nothing but some drapery of cobwebby lace in which an occasional tiny jewel winks like a misty star. Her lips are flushed with arousal, and as they fasten on mine there's nothing I can do but respond. I can't move, but my brain furnishes me with all the memories and images I need, and my system flushes with raging desire so fast it takes even me by surprise.

I want her. I want her so badly I can hardly control my lust, and there's nothing left in me that can even ask why as she mounts me after all she's done – evidently whatever that stuff was in the hypospray isn't proof against the rush of testosterone. The part of me still raw from her betrayal doesn't want to respond, but no man can hold back the sea; I feel every nerve in my body betraying me as the physiological response instantaneously overwhelms me. I hear the ocean roaring in my ears, feel the tide washing over my body, and I can't help myself. I still want her.

I surrender completely. She takes me, and it's as glorious as ever. I'm still shuddering and gasping with the violence of my climax as she bends close to me. "Perdóname, querido," she whispers, and then she's moving, and someone else is taking her place.

Blue eyes, bluer than azure coins, stare down into my dazed amazement.

And at last I know what has been transplanted into me, and what my purpose is. Even pinned beneath the once-beloved body, I have enough breath left to scream with anguish as I realise that the last act of the tragedy is upon me.

I may survive this. I may not. My survival is not the key issue.

The alpha male must breed. The alpha female is not dispensable.

There are always alternatives.

=/\=

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