This is a fan translation of Captain French, or the Quest for Paradise (Капитан Френч, или Поиски рая) by Mikhail Akhmanov and Christopher Nicholas Gilmore.

Chapter 4

There was a reason why I had set the meeting for two days later: first of all, I wanted Killashandra to get used to the thought of the coming journey, and second, I wanted to make certain preparations for it.

They mainly came down to purchases, and I once again had to resort to going through the worthy Geoffrey. Then again, this entertained me far more than a shopping trip through Bailey-at-Kleis, which I was unable to do. Buying things was the most mundane activity in the world, but it was worth seeing the Archon's face when he found out what I wanted!

Actually, I had everything necessary aboard the Circe, and everything else could be made by my robots in a matter of hours. But I decided not to skimp and shake my wallet to infuriate Geoffrey. It was my small revenge: for all of Killashandra's suffering, for the evil done to her, and for everything else that she had lost by the grace of the Archonate. She'd gained very little: a revulsion to divine objects, a hatred for her tormentors, and a rough cloak, which was the local dress of the dissenters.

So I started with the cloak.

I told Geoffrey that such an outfit was completely unacceptable to me as a wedding gown and that I wished to purchase thirty kinds of the best fabrics produced on Murphy: silk, satin, brocade, etc., of the highest quality and at the highest prices. I also submitted a request for lingerie, cosmetics, and those cute trifles (purses, powder boxes, graceful vials, brooches, rings, and earrings) that so captured the female eye. Half of these items turned out to be sinful luxuries that were not produced on Murphy; out of the half that had been delivered to me, I selected five specimens, rejecting the rest as too crude and primitive products, unworthy of my bride.

Geoffrey's face contorted. Before his eyes, the wicked stubborn girl Killashandra was leaving the strict Murphian paradise and departing into hell, which was fairly comfortable and cozy, with silks and rugs, with an infinite number of fine clothes, with a chest of jewelry, and with piles of translucent undergarments that awakened the most sinful passions. I didn't know what else he'd imagined, but I tried to finish him off by demanding a shipment of gems: rubies and emeralds, topazes and fire opals, first water diamonds and pink jade. There was plenty of all that on Murphy.

"Are you planning on decorating your nuptial bed?" the Archon forced out with a sour smile.

"Most certainly," I answered. "The bed, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling; and the best specimens will decorate the bride. I am not a young man, my friend, and I don't fit the role of young David; my ideal is King Solomon. Naturally, at the age when he became gray-haired and wise and learned to understand women."

Perhaps it was not very nice to awaken Geoffrey's base feelings, greed, jealousy, and impotent hatred, but I was just a man, and I was enjoying my triumph. After all, I had that right, as a kilogram and a half of platinum was a sufficiently strong argument to justify my every whim. Geoffrey had demanded and received his payment, which meant that my system of values turned out to be stronger than all his pious discussions. I did not hesitate to show it.

"You told me, Archon, that the chaste sisters are excellent singers. Do you have recordings of their choir? I could purchase some of them… along with the fabrics and the gems… The payment will be in platinum."

He looked at me in confusion, suspecting a new trap, but the thought of platinum warmed his heart. For a moment, I pitied him, but just for a teeny-tiny moment.

Thinking of those endless years Killashandra had spent washing kitchen cauldrons, I said insistently, "Well, what about the recordings?"

Geoffrey silently buried his head in his computer and, after several minutes of intense search, muttered, "There is something… Last year, they recorded an oratorio called The Defeat of Heresy… and some hymns of gratitude…"

"No need for hymns, but the oratorio will do," I said. "The name sounds symbolic… I'll take it!"

"Why do you want it, Captain? As far as I know, you have no desire to fight heresy on other worlds. Besides, the recording is a holy object, and I couldn't part with it for anything less than… hmm… fifty grams."

"I'll take it!" I repeated, and the deal was made.

I could afford this small luxury; after all, I had negotiated Killashandra's price down by half a kilogram. This meant that I could buy ten such holy oratorios.

Archon Geoffrey stared at me with suspicion, "Perhaps, now you can tell me why you want the recording? It needs to be listened to on one's knees and with one's heart reaching out to the divine… I hope it will help you defeat the Devil in your own soul, and—"

"I wouldn't expect that," I cut him off. "This choir will be heard in my bedroom on our wedding night. Instead of the epithalamium to Hymenaeus, if you know that it is."

That was how I entertained myself for two whole days, trying to combine business with pleasure and step on Archon Geoffrey's pious tail.

The morning of my meeting with Killashandra, or rather her holographic image, had come. Corporeally, my betrothed was still in the abode of the chaste sisters, while I was near the holoprojector on the Circe's bridge. It was assumed that our conversation would be private, but I had no doubt that a dozen of devout caterpillars was currently stuck in front of their screens, paying attention to our every word. Then again, I couldn't care less. Killashandra's pretty face appeared before me. A witching fire burned in her green eyes, while her short red curls looked like a flaming halo.

"Good morning, my girl. Do you know who I am?"

"You are my reward for patience. I can love or not love you, but you are still my reward!"

Well, at least she was honest; she didn't lie or try to convince me that she was burning with an unconquerable passion at first sight. Hypocrisy was one of the worst vices imaginable, and I was happy that it had not touched my Killashandra.

Her lips moved, "I was told that I have a choice. I can call you my husband or stay here forever, preserving my chastity and entrusting my heart to God. The sisters believe that I should choose Him."

I smiled, intuitively sensing the tension gripping her.

"I can't compete with the Lord, my dear, but I'm prepared to become your reward. But…" I hesitated, contemplating my words, "but I would like you to understand that I'm not a fleshless shadow from the heavens; I'm a living person, a man. With all male desires, which God, naturally, does not have."

Her cheeks blushed.

"Sister Seraphima says that you're not human at all… not a man…"

"You'll have to take that on faith, my girl. Until our next meeting! I'm afraid a holographic image will not convince Sister Seraphima of anything."

"She said that you were once human, but now you're a scary cyborg, with a heart of platinum and hair of steel…"

"My hair is natural, and you're going to be able to verify that soon, when you touch it. As for my heart… If there was any platinum in it, then I gave it to Archon Geoffrey in exchange for your purity."

I didn't know if she believed me, but the witching fire in her green eyes seemed to have grown brighter. I felt myself melt under her gaze. I was already in love with this woman: for her beauty, for her doubts, and for seeing me as her reward.

"Sister Esmeralda says that you're the Devil himself," Killashandra continued listing off my merits. "You will rape me, devour my body, and throw the bones out into outer space."

"Sister Esmeralda exaggerates my appetite. I swear that nothing bad will happen to your body. Nothing you would not approve of."

"Sister Camilla says that you will take me to one of the slave worlds, strip me naked, and put me up at an auction to entertain lustful males. And I will be bought by a scary monster with horns and a long tail…"

"Sister Camilla knows nothing of trade, biology, or sex. The people on slave worlds are cheap, robots are preferred over them, but no robot would have cost me more than you. As for monsters… There are, of course, originals, there are creatures we aren't used to, but, so far, no one has thought to grow a pair of horns or a tail. And if that happened, then I'm sure that tailed males would prefer tailed females."

She seemed to have believed me. But what else could this poor girl do? Maybe I was a cyborg, a slaver, and Satan himself, but my word was worth more than all the allegations made by Seraphima, Esmeralda, Camilla, and the other chaste sisters. Not because I knew how to convince; I was simply the focal point of all of Killashandra's hopes, who had fallen from the heavens at her feet. Whoever I was, I was still her reward… I reached to the panel of the holoprojector, and Killashandra's face moved away, as if carried by a gust of wind. Now I could see all of her, from the red-gold head to her heels, wearing a rough shapeless robe with elbow-length sleeves, with an unevenly-cut hem, from under which I could see the ends of her sandals. But even in this garb she looked beautiful and desirable to me. But her arms… Her fingers were swollen and covered in abrasions and small sores, while her elbows had genuine crimson wounds, the indicator of a close acquaintance with each of the chaste sisters' kitchen cauldrons. I swore and zoomed the image in again; I didn't want her to think that I was examining her like a racehorse.

"You're a smart girl," I said quietly, "and you understand that the words of God's sisters are worth the price of snow on a winter day. It's only their word against mine, and words are merely words… I have no intention of refuting them, I'm only asking that you trust me, Shandra."

Her head slumped.

"Trust? I trusted my father… and I loved him… He saved me from hunger and death, he protected me from those who hunted for human flesh, he killed for me… And he told me I would be happy… that I would conquer the hearts of hundreds of men and would choose my Prince Charming from among them… Instead, he married me off to a sexless deity to pay away his memories! And now, after so many years, what choice do I have? Either a monster from space or a god I hate!" She threw her head up, and I saw tears running down her cheeks. "My father betrayed and lied to me… my father… Can I trust you? Should I? And why?"

"Because I'm your reward and hope. And hope, my dear, is a terrible gift… If you reject me, then you will forever torment yourself with doubt whether I told you the truth… Or you might someday discover it from the lying chaste sisters, from Seraphima, Camilla, and Esmeralda… They will tell you who I really am, but I will already be gone; no Graham French, no hope for deliverance… So think about it, who should you trust? The ones who have been tormenting you all these years, or a cyborg and a demon?"

She thought. I watched the tears dry on her cheeks and emerald flame once again spark to life in her eyes. She was a brave girl and undoubtedly not a fool; one who had not been broken by forty years of humiliation would hardly be afraid of a cyborg and a demon.

And that was what happened.

A timid smile blossomed on Shandra's lips, for the first time during our meeting.

Then I heard, "All right, Graham French, monster from space! You don't look like the prince my father promised me, but I will still fly away with you. After all, not every children's tale can come true, right?"

And she smiled again.

The following day, they brought Shandra to Skeld Jarvik, the only spaceport in the vicinity of the capital. Murphy had barely any orbital transportation craft left, so the landing field was abandoned; it was overgrown with grass in some spots, while cracks in concrete slabs had been hastily filled in with compacted gravel. At the very edge of the spaceport, there was an ugly building with an open gallery and a few people seeing us off: the venerable Archon Geoffrey, his acolytes with hard gazes, and a dozen local reporters. After all, the departure of the Trader from the Stars, the Friend of the Border, Old Cap Frenchie was an event on a planetary scale!

The craft that had delivered by bride turned out to be a match for the spaceport: just as ancient, ugly, and neglected, with scratched-up plating and thrusters that were black from the soot; it was unlikely they'd been cleaned since Murphy was struck by the comet. I was standing next to my shuttle, watching the landing with fear: this rust bucket was barely keeping itself aloft, and, for a moment, I was scared that Archon Geoffrey had decided to pay me back by killing Shandra along with the craft.

But that pile of junk managed to land safely, then the hatch slid open with a creak, and Shandra, safe and sound, jumped down onto the charred concrete slab. She was accompanied by a female pilot, whose facial expression was so severe that Lucifer himself would not risk to bestow a couple of nasty propositions to her. The pilot was wearing a black monastic robe and knee-high boots, while my bride was sporting her brown burnoose and sandals on her bare feet.

"Killashandra!" I yelled out, stepping forward. "I am pleased to meet you, my beautiful lady. Please, allow me to greet you in an old Earth manner."

With these words, I bent down to her hand and kissed her pale fingers, swollen from cleaning cauldrons. Shandra seemed to like that; she quickly touched by hair and made sure that it was not made of steel wire, which meant that I was not a cyborg. After waiting for her to smile, I once again gently kissed her fingers. The female pilot huffed indignantly — either such gestures were not commonplace on Murphy, or she decided that I was planning on biting my betrothed's hand off. I straightened and threw a stern gaze at the pilot.

"Lady Killashandra's luggage, if you please. And hurry it up! I don't want to extent my visit to Murphy."

The woman's mouth twisted.

"Luggage? What luggage? All members of our commune make a vow of non-possession, and we have no personal effects. Even the dress and footwear of your future wife belong to the abbey!" She jerked on the sleeve of Shandra's robe and added. "The dress should really be taken off and left here, but morality is above all! You may consider it a gift from our commune."

"We'll return it. I can't allow the poor sisters to become even poorer," I said, turning to Shandra and carefully holding her by her elbow. "Come, my love! You may lean on my arm — it's yet another custom of Old Earth, a sign of trust and protection. Let's go!"

I led her to the shuttle, noting that I had trouble keeping up with her. Lady Killashandra was in a hurry to leave Murphy, and her legs were long, longer than mine, at least. I'd already mentioned that Murphians were, by and large, a tall people, and Shandra was no exception: one hundred and eighty-five centimeters against my one hundred and seventy-six. So we must have been an amusing couple; a young red-haired Valkyrie in a robe that stretched to her feet, and a gray-haired, life-battered beaver from the bottomless cosmic pools…

The hatch of my shuttle slid silently closed behind us, we passed through the airlock, and found ourselves in a corridor. To the left was the cockpit, to the right was the compartment for passengers and valuable cargo, while straight ahead was the storeroom with a spacesuit, a first aid kit, tools, and all sorts of stuff. I rolled open the door to the storeroom.

"Please change, my dear. There are jumpsuits here; not very nice clothing, but still better than the gifts of the chaste sisters."

Stepping inside, she looked around the cramped cubbyhole and turned a questioning gaze towards me. She seemed to be expecting something.

"Are you… not coming with me?"

These were the first words I heard from her since she'd landed. She said it with such shyness and hope that I wanted to follow her to the depths of hell, and beyond.

"Why not?" I muttered. "If it doesn't offend your maiden modesty…"

"It won't. Don't you want to look at me?.. At my body?.."

She playfully tilted her red-curled head, but I could hear the echo of panic in her tone. The suspicion that I was a cyborg was gone, but I could still turn out to be the Devil, who would rape and then devour her, and then throw the bones out into space.

My poor girl! My poor, beautiful Killashandra! My heart ached every time I remembered that moment…

I told her that I was very interested in her body, but now was not the time and the place for admiring it.

However, Shandra insisted, "But I want you to look at me! I want to know if I will be desirable!"

She pulled me into the storeroom and threw off her shapeless robe. As I had assumed, she wore nothing under this garb. Nothing but her charming, blinding, young femininity!

I remained silent, and the corners of her mouth started to move down woefully.

"Well," she asked in a trembling voice, "is this not what you were expecting?"

"It is and more," I answered with complete honesty. "And now get dressed, my fair lady."

Several days later, when I was healing her arms and conducting the necessary medical tests, I was able to describe her in all details, although centimeters and kilograms, the outlines of her skull, the volume of her lungs, and the tone of her skin would not say much about her beauty. She had to be seen!

Shandra's body was breathtaking: firm breasts with large scarlet nipples, slightly sloping shoulders, a slender body, wide curved hips, and elegant shapely legs. Her wrists and feet turned out to be surprisingly small for her height; her fingers were long, and, after the swelling went down, I spent hours admiring them: they looked like the calyx of a blossoming golden lily with pink tips of her nails. That hue, the gold of autumn leaves, dissolved in the pink glow of dawn, always reminded me of Shandra now, of her skin, delicate and velvet-soft, of her lips, of the waterfall of her silk-like hair… And all these treasures, all these riches had not been the creation of a biosculptor but of nature itself; it had given Shandra everything women dreamt of when they looked at their crow's feet and faded lips in alarm. Of course, now they had CR and biosculptural transformation at their service, so all of them, all women and all men, could buy beauty and youth and retain them forever. All except for criminals sentenced to aging and yours truly. These thoughts put me into a negative mindset, but I told myself that eternal life was beautiful even at fifty and that all my contemporaries, who had turned to dust long ago, couldn't dream of such wonders. Besides, now I had Shandra!

She put on a flesh-colored jumpsuit, which did not so much hide as emphasize her figure, for it had been designed for me. I didn't like untailored clothing; it seemed to me to be a vulgar legacy of the days when everything, from diapers to pantyhose, underwent forcible standardization. Of course, such measures had been necessary due to the population explosion on Earth, but I was alone in the Circe's spacious cabins. And my robots, having grown adept at tailoring, make clothes just for me. I was able to confirm the wisdom of my habits after we exited the storeroom. Maybe the jumpsuit was too tight for Shandra, but I could admire her without lowering my gaze, without a shadow of embarrassment, although not without sinful thoughts. It should be noted that a flight jumpsuit was an amazing outfit; it was light and fit you like a second skin; I always wore one aboard the Circe, although I preferred dark brown to flesh coloring. Picking up Shandra's brown robe, I put the sandals into it, wrapped the package, and wrote an address on the packing tape, "To the chaste sisters, with best regards." Then the package ended up in the airlock, and we made our way to the cockpit, to the panel of the autopilot, which was blinking red and green lights. I sat Shandra down into a chair, strapped her in, and sat down myself. Now all I had to do was turn on the monitor and tune in to one of the local news channels, which was reporting on my departure. They must have been filming from the spaceport building, since the architectural masterpiece itself was not in the shot, and neither were the worthy Geoffrey and his acolytes. But I was able to admire my own shuttle, which looked like an elegant toy, compared to the ancient rust bucket that had brought Shandra.

"Why don't you press that button right there, my girl," I said. "Right, good job… You just sealed the airlock's inner hatch. Now turn that black dial until the little window above it shows the number "ten"… This means that the pressure in the airlock compartment is equal to ten atmospheres, and any object inside will rush outside, if we slide open the outer hatch, of course. Which we're going to do, by pulling that lever with the red grip."

I didn't know how much she'd understood from my explanations, but everything was done with precision. A woman of her age had to know something about spaceships and airlocks, but I doubted that her educational program included mathematics, electronics, and physics. On the other hand, Shandra obviously had intelligence and imagination, so I assumed that she could picture what would happen to her robe.

With one eye, I was looking at her, and with another, I was glancing at the screen with the silver cylinder of the motionless shuttle. The emergency lever with the red grip moved down under Shandra's hand, and the shuttle shuddered slightly, spitting out a thick brown lump. Like a cannonball, it soared over the slabs of concrete and vanished beyond the upper edge of the screen; based on the initial trajectory, it was heading straight for the building where the reporters were filming. I wished for it to fall right on Geoffrey's head and engaged the engine.

We launched, accompanied by Shandra's ripple of laughter, and I was enjoying these sounds, until the shuttle dove into my ship's cargo hatch.

I sent the robots to unload the shuttle and introduced Shandra to the pulse shower, the pool, the wardroom, the big lounge, and other marvels. The main of which was my bedroom—our bedroom, as it would be known from then on; I'd had it automated long ago, as I hated making the bed.

I activated the RIT—rotational ion thrusters—system, which ensured the spinning of the ship to create an illusion of gravity; it was only a hint at it, though, the point-zero-two gs I was used to. Shandra liked that; now she was laughing not at our farewell salute to Murphy, but at our own amusing jumps and that I was capable of throwing her up to the ceiling with one finger. She was suddenly in a carefree mood and full of mischief, like a child, but I did not stop her; after all, why should the girl not have some fun on her wedding night?

However, I was gripped by a sense of alarm. While we were swimming, Shandra kept looking at me in askance, without exhibiting any shadow of confusion or nervousness. Perhaps, she was inspired by my lack of horns and a tail, or the pipes where a cyborg would pour motor oil, but it did not seem like too big of a consolation to me. In her dreams, she'd probably seen a bronze-skinned and muscular young prince, and, instead, she got something else: a second-hand commodity, who was rather wiry and pale. To put it simply, a genuine space monster instead of an Adonis or an Apollo! And now this gray-haired monster was planning on putting her in his bed…

I was also foreseeing problems in bed. Except for my first marriage (which had been so long ago!), I hadn't had a chance to meet an innocent girl. Obviously, it was an incredibly rare commodity in the universe, when the birth rate was low, and women retained their beauty and youth for centuries (but definitely not their virginity!). So my experience in that respect was limited, and, after searching my memory, I could extract from its stores only three practical pieces of information.

First of all, defloration was accompanied by light bleeding. Second, this act brought no pleasure to the innocent victim, so its performers should expect more spiritual pleasures than physical. Third, the gift of virginity, given to a man, was a great honor for him. To this list I could also add that Shandra was looking at me with hope and impatience. It seemed she was already certain that I was not a cyborg, not Satan, and not a damned slaver; then who was I?.. Her reward, her long-awaited husband, a man of flesh and blood, who would teach her a great number of wonderful things… She'd been waiting for him for forty years, she'd hoped and dreamt, she yearned to give him the precious gift of love… I felt the full weight of my responsibility.

That could have ended badly, but, when we finally found ourselves in the bedroom, our instincts won out.

I had to say that our shared experience confirmed the first and third rules and disproved the second. The truth was probably that Shandra's female nature had been trampled, humiliated, and ignored for so many years, that she was now getting pleasure not so much from my actions but simply from the intimacy. Kisses and embraces, caresses and tender words, not to mention the culmination of passion, all that was so new, so exciting to her… And so wonderful! And for me? Was there even a need to ask?.. She was generous, she believed me, and she became my wife… How could I not love her, knowing how patient and brave a spirit was hiding in her beautiful body?..

Half an hour later, we got up to go shower. In the meantime, the bedroom had cleaned up the mess: the bed sheets were changed, the pillows were fluffed, and flutes with rosé Excaliburian wine appeared on the nightstand. Glancing at them, I thought that Shandra might be hungry, but she did not want to eat. We dove into bed and made love once again, with less haste but with the same enthusiasm. The Circe, kind soul, turned on music; not The Defeat of Heresy, of course, but something smooth, gentle, lulling. Then we fell asleep, under the quiet whistling of the flutes and the drawn-out tune of the violin.