Rogue(10)

I stepped through to the bathroom, tossed my clothes at the automatic washer, a great invention that, and got clean. Finished, I pulled on shorts and T-shirt, came out and hit the comm to clear out leads and messages. I’d have to come up with a reason for shutting down for several weeks that was believable. I’d divert some business to a couple of competitors I respected. Existing jobs would have to be completed, though.

She came up while I worked, and headed into the bathroom. I noted it without any comment, and took care of two inquiries, a request for quote and some random comments on social trees. I don’t do much with them. Dan is a loner.

A few segs later she came out clean, damp and naked. We’re not a psychopathically modest culture, and we were both soldiers. Or she was and I used to be. Nudity isn’t really an issue.

Or it shouldn’t be. I found myself very disturbed. Not aroused—that might have been expected. Just disturbed and wrong feeling. In fact, I felt worse for not being aroused, because her body was perfect for her. Everyone comes in their own shape, and hers suited her. Olive skin and dark hair, smooth, slightly angular lines, that tone of youth. If I’d have seen her in a club when I needed some comfort, I’d have zeroed in on her at once.

I went about getting undressed myself, mostly. I sleep in a T-shirt and briefs because I chill easily. I was about done when she said, “Okay, goodnight.” She slid under the covers, rolled her back to me and went to sleep.

I didn’t. I wasn’t comfortable.

Oh, I had a field-supported mattress that would flex for contours and not transfer any vibrations from the other side. The room wasn’t soundproof, because I like sensory input of my environment to feel safe, and I’m used to city noises, or woods noises, desert, ship, whatever. That wasn’t the problem.

Sexual tension. There it was now. Out in the open. At last. I’d slept alongside women soldiers before, but usually in sleeping bags or curled up in cloaks. I tried to recall a mission where I’d done this, and couldn’t. I’d had a couple of short relationships when Chelsea was younger, but nothing recently except the occasional friendly fling or professional escort, who left at once. Occasional sensory environment fantasies with friends on the nets who knew me only by a nickname were not the same. The last woman I’d really shared a bed with I’d been involved with socially and professionally, and was the mother of my daughter and now dead. Hell, long dead. Ten Grainne years, fifteen Earth.

Next to me was a highly toned young woman, with an attitude and look I liked, near naked and within arm’s reach. I couldn’t touch her for all the obvious reasons. And the purpose of this exercise was so people would think we were sexual. That, and it created a better bond for the masquerade psychologically. It had all the advantages of a real relationship, without the sex. That was exactly the problem.

I lay there for most of a div, 2.7 hours, sweating slightly and not sleeping. No, I could not “accidentally” grope her. I couldn’t snuggle. I couldn’t do anything that would give my body a hint that anything was going to happen. It was strictly a cover. My body didn’t believe it. Then I realized my brain didn’t, either.

Eventually, I got up and headed through to take a long, hot, soaking, mind-numbing shower. It almost worked. Eventually, it did. Then I came back and slept, exhausted, as far away from her as I could get and still be in the same bed.





CHAPTER 3





The alarm went off at two divs. That’s about five a.m., allowing for our longer day and different clock. The warble sounded and the lights came on. I was on my feet at once, because if I hesitate, I fall back asleep.

“Good morning!” I said, doing my best impression of the type of morning person I despise. “Time for our morning workout!” I added.

“Right. Okay,” she croaked, eyes squinted and face pinched. She didn’t look bad in the morning, but she certainly wasn’t pretty. She rolled out and clutched at clothes.

I was dressed in seconds, pulled on my running shoes and snugged them down. I hopped into the kitchen and grabbed the kits I’d prepared the night before—two of the detachable assault packs from the SW’s large rucks, filled with water, some sundry items and food bars for warmup. I came back through, dropped them on the bed and hit the bathroom. She was running a brush through her hair to get rid of the crinkles. She wore tight shorts, running shoes and a ziptop, and looked disgustingly trim. When I came out, she had hold of one of the packs.

“Why these?” she asked.

“Practice,” I said. “We might need to carry gear, and if we can run with it, we can run without it. We’ll work up to boots in a few days, too. Grab your weapon and let’s hit it.” I pointed at the pile as I leaned in and grabbed a pack and my holster.