Tug

Erotica

Tug

By Reed Manning

Tug by Reed Manning

Fictionwise www.Fictionwise.com

Copyright ©2003 by Reed Manning First published in Fictionwise.com, September 2003 NOTICE: This ebook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This book cannot be legally lent or given to others. This ebook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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The tug assistant engineer was the first new face in the Hub Café since the early days of the ark's journey. When he sat down at a table, the ladies of Mädchen Haus suddenly began checking their own reflections, adjusting their hair, freshening lipstick. They attempted to downplay their interest, but their glances continued to be drawn to the newcomer's strong chin, his brown eyes, his well-groomed hair and uniform. And to his long, capable fingers, particularly the one absent a wedding band. Like many colony starships, Venture's passengers consisted overwhelmingly of families. Those adults still in need of partners, whether for an evening or a lifetime, had by this point in the year-long voyage trolled through the entire manifest of candidates. Some had found what they wanted. Others cycled through the leftovers. Those not willing to lower their standards had been forced to pin their hopes on the arrival at Gamma Leporis A, where the million or so established colonists on the star's third planet promised a bounty of potential lovers sufficient to end their deprivation. They had forgotten the very first mingling would be with the crew of the tugboat, newly docked with the ark to guide it into orbit with the precision, experience, and guidance systems the larger vessel lacked. A three-week endeavor. Becca Nordland tried her best to ignore the tropism that drew her attention toward the stranger. Prime as he appeared to be, there was only one of him. To have a chance with him, she would have to out-maneuver two dozen rivals, most of them more assertive than she. Better not to get her hopes 3

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up. She hadn't been laid in eight months. She hadn't been seriously involved in two years. If the fire down below awakened prematurely, suppressing it again would be akin to capping an erupting volcano. Surely if she looked beneath the exterior this ... hunk ... would turn out to be just as flawed as the losers already available to her. But did that exterior have to look so tasty? Amelia Darnell was the first to slide into the seat across from him. He smiled, chatted, and as Amelia's grin reflected his, Becca conceded defeat. Not so some of the others. Julie, Viola, and Miriam snagged other chairs, refusing to allow Amelia to capture by default what they wished for themselves. Becca turned away and went back to proofreading her latest report. Lack of concentration forced her to read each sentence three times, but at least the words projected on the tabletop gave her a degree of camouflage in which to hide her disappointment. She didn't succeed in keeping her glance entirely away from the other table, however. She noticed when the man politely excused himself from his admirers and vanished in the direction of the restroom. She was aware of him as he reappeared and approached, not his old seat, but the chair across from her own. “Hi,” he said. “Hi,” she answered, barely managing not to hiccup. “My name's Warren.” “Becca.” 4

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“You're the enologist, right?” Becca gulped. “Um. Yes. I am. Just call me Wine Girl.” Oh, Lord, she thought, mentally kicking herself. Don't give him ideas. Too many of her so-called friends subverted the nickname to Whine Girl when they were in a catty mood. “Good,” Warren said. “The colony vintages are a real workin-progress. Folks haven't figured out how to compensate for the effects of the alien soil. We need more trained people working on the problem. Hasn't been a high priority with so much other infrastructure to install.” “It's a dirt-y job,” she quipped, “but someone's gotta do it.” She nearly bit her tongue. Stupid, stupid. She had never been good at small talk or jokes. Warren's smile remained as warm as ever. “Tell me more,” he requested. “What grape varieties do you like? Which ones do you think will do well here?” This guy is too good to be true, she decided. She could talk for hours about her specialty and never once feel like an idiot. “Well, for one thing, I'd say we start with climate zones. The best wine regions of the planet haven't even been settled yet, much less planted...” Her nervousness vanished. Over at the table Warren had abandoned, Becca's friends were gazing at her with the same lip-twitching wistfulness she had been experiencing a few minutes before. **** Three hours later, Becca accompanied Warren back to his quarters aboard the tug. Becca had never let herself be 5

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seduced so quickly before, but she had no doubt it was what she wanted this night. The reduced gravity gave her an exhilarating sense of strength. The tug's crew accommodations rode on the rim of a wheel too small in diameter to spin fast enough to create a full gee of centrifugal force. Becca could actually sense the rotation, as she could not on the ark. The effect reminded her of an amusement park ride. How appropriate, she thought. “Welcome home, sir,” purred the door. “Hello, Horace,” Warren replied. The portal opened. Warren gestured Becca inside ahead of him. “This is Becca.” Becca entered a large living/dining room, with a full-length couch, a coffee table, a recliner. The bedroom was a separate chamber visible through an archway. This was far more luxury than Becca was accustomed to. Arks were designed to transport as many people as possible then be dismantled at their destination. Tugboats were made for repeated use, and unlike the arks, tug crews could quit their jobs if they didn't like their fringe benefits. Hence, even a junior engineer could count on a little pampering. “I am pleased to meet you, Becca.” The voice now came from an array of speakers set in the walls and ceiling, heightening the disembodied quality. “Would you care for a beverage? My patron maintains a cultured selection of wines.” “Thank you, Horace,” Warren interrupted. “Not quite cultured enough in this case.”

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Becca smiled. “Tea would be fine, Horace,” she told the butler. “Something with cinnamon and cardamom, if you have it.” “Ah. Are you Scandinavian, perhaps? At once, Miss Becca. Master Warren?” “Nothing for me, thanks.” In the kitchenette in one corner, mechanical arms rose from the counter top, fetched a tea cup, filled it with steaming water, added a tea bag, and set the cup on a saucer. “Sugar?” “Heaping teaspoon, please,” Becca said. As soon as the AI servant had finished preparing the tea, Warren said, “That will be all, Horace. Privacy level one, please.” “Acknowledged.” The voice ceased, the butler commanded to silence unless reawakened by his host or by the ship's emergency systems. Fully alone now, Becca thought, suddenly feeling bashful. She gazed at the steam rising from the tea cup. Not cool enough yet to sip. Warren approached. He laid a hand on her neck and caressed the uppermost nape. Delicately. Reverently. As if worshipping the softness of the hair. Her nipples began to stiffen. Already his quarters felt more like a home than the dormitory atmosphere of Mädchen Haus ever had. “My uncle had a Horace 2.4 when I was a kid,” she said, trying to force calm into her voice. “Excellent program for its generation. 7

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Whenever I'd visit, I think I looked forward to talking to Horace more than my uncle.” Warren winced slightly. “Actually, it's still a state-of-theart bit of software in this backwater of the galaxy.” She bit her lip. “Oh. I'm sorry. Of course.” When she made landfall she was going to have to do better to avoid that type of faux pas. “Let's not discuss computer programs right now,” he suggested. “Nor wine.” She turned away from her tea, realizing she was no longer interested in drinking it. Not if it served to delay other things. “Let's not discuss anything,” she agreed. She guided his fingers from the back of her neck around her collarbone to the vee of her blouse, to the topmost closed button. If she'd known she was going to be romanced this evening, she would have worn a dress. Ah, well. At least she wasn't wearing her lab coat—as she would have had she gone straight to the Hub Café from work. She had never been so glad she had taken the time to shower, file her nails, dab on some perfume. The nice part was, she had the feeling Warren would have picked her out of the crowd if she had been wearing a burlap sack. He smiled in that utterly male way she wanted to see on his face just then, and began unfastening the buttons. He peeled the blouse off at a leisurely, confident pace, projecting no worries that she would yank it closed. While he draped the 8

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item over the back of one of his two dinette chairs, she unhooked her bra and handed it to him. He laid the undergarment on the dinette table and paused to gaze. Becca clasped hands behind her back and let her breasts be adored. She had forgotten how nice that could be. Warren approved. She could tell by the quickening of his breathing, by the pooling of his eyes. They kissed. They gazed into each other's eyes from inches away. They kissed again. “Shall we move to the bedroom?” she proposed. **** Already naked and reclining on the bed, Becca watched with keen interest as the last of his clothes flew off. He was already so hard his cock seemed to twitch to the beat of his heart. Any slight doubt she might have had whether he found her attractive vanished. “Come here,” she urged. He approached the bed. She scooted to the edge and took him into her mouth. He gasped at the sudden wet warmth. Becca reached behind and pressed his firm buns, thrusting him further into her face. Her lips rode along his shaft, indulging in the tumescence, the contour of his veins, the heat. Now it was real. Much as she liked the romancing, the words, the pheromones, the kissing, she looked to penetration of one sort or another as the threshold when sex became real and certain and for-the-record. Giving oral attention was her favorite way to start. She could feel the subtle details with the lips of her mouth the way her nether 9

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lips could not. She could taste his taste. And then there was the delicious perception of control. While in this configuration, she was no mere receptacle, no mere collection of orifices for him to explore. She was now a queen of womankind, a proverbial goddess-on-her-knees. He moaned. His bulb massaged her palate with insistent little nudges. She insulated him from her teeth with tongue and inner cheeks. Carefully she gauged the rhythm, aiming for one that would make him ache, but not one that would beguile her into finishing him off that way. She had a tendency to derive too much fun wielding that power. Tonight was meant for more. Finally he pressed her head back to the pillow. She settled on her back, legs apart. He reached between her thighs. She inhaled sharply as his fingers, anointed with the wetness that had seeped out of her, brushed up and down. He coated her labia with the slickness, working his way from clitoris to perineum and back. The lips swelled, parted, tingled. Her mouth formed into a wide-open oval and stayed there, pleasure rolling up her spine so assertively she could only surrender to it. Warren leaned down and tasted her. He murmured approval. Then, after kissing the insides of her thighs and tongue-lashing up and down her vulva, he settled into a soft, clockwise kneading of her clit. He slid a finger inside and began to vibrate it against her pubic bone, awakening her deeper pleasure nexus. The waves of stimulation from there coursed all the way into her pelvis, 10

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propagated into the muscles of her butt and thighs, all of which complemented the more intense but localized clitoral throb. Her first orgasm arrived with such abruptness and force her eyesight blurred. Warren managed to keep the rhythm steady even as her writhing transformed into shudders. Neither tongue nor finger stopped moving until, reaching her limit, she tapped him on the head. He ceased at once, having mercy on her while she rode out the ten or fifteen seconds of hypersensitivity. “Again?” he asked when her breathing had returned to normal. “Oh, that was plenty,” she assured him. He didn't let her get away with self-sacrifice. He licked her. She twitched. Her knees unfolded all the way once more. He raised an eyebrow. “Well ... okay,” she murmured. “If you'll let me be greedy...” **** She was still delirious from orgasm as he entered her. She recorded the instant in her mind, knowing she would want to play it over and over. He thrust enthusiastically, but not clumsily. The point had arrived for good, hard fucking, and both of them knew it. But there was no reason to be brief. Warren pounded hard, then medium, then hard, then quick-and-shallow, then hard some more. Eventually, panting and sweating, he slowed down and graciously accepted her offer to ride on top. When her hips wore out, they shifted to their sides. 11

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Finally the spark of need flamed in his pupils. She recognized it and urged him on top of her. His thrusting accelerated one last time. She watched his expression intently. He was a large man, and she a small woman. His triceps and deltoids bulged along his upper arms as he loomed over her. His hips pounded fiercely. She was helpless to stop him, and all she could think was how awesome that was. His eyes lost focus. His lungs heaved. Becca read his spurts in his pelvic quakes, in the gush of warmth and wetness inside her. He came in a way that made up for eight months without a man. “Yes,” she whispered. Spent, he collapsed on top of her. **** Becca wanted to stay where she was, blanketed by him, and just drift off into sleep. Not that she was the least bit drowsy. She loved the connection. They lingered skin to skin along the full length of their torsos, his cock still inside, lungs alternately filling and emptying. Their breathing calmed. The sweat evaporated, save for the layer sandwiched between them. Eventually she sensed the fatigue in his arms from keeping his full weight off her. She let him free of their embrace, pouting her lips as he sprawled onto the mattress next to her. She rose to run a warm washcloth over her crotch before the stickiness set in. She returned to the bed and did the same for him, a bit smug to note how thoroughly icky she had caused him to become. 12

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She tossed the washcloth in the direction of the bathroom and snuggled against him. “If that's what I came twenty-eight light years for, then I made the right choice,” she cooed. He grinned. “You're welcome.” “How about you? You get what you wanted?” It was only after the words were out of her mouth that she realized the risks involved in asking the question. “And then some,” he said, his tone reassuring her thoroughly. “I just wish I could mirror the compliment. I can't imagine devoting a whole year of my life to a trip to someplace I've never been, out of touch with the universe for thirty years.” She blinked. “You're not from Earth? You didn't come here on an ark?” “No. I was born here the fifth year after the colony was founded.” “God! You weren't even a twinkle in your daddy's eye when Venture left Earth space!” Becca was hit by a wave of skin prickles. Warren was twenty-seven. She was twenty-six. So far so good. But she was only twenty-six because she didn't count the interval her aging had been slowed to a crawl by the relativistic effect of the voyage. How ... weird. “You've held up well for such an old broad,” Warren said. Her eyes narrowed. Reaching down, she cupped his balls. “I know more than one way to squeeze these dry, you know.” He stroked her chin. “Which way would you prefer?” She felt interest growing down in the target area. Her hand roved further up, finding firmness where she thought none 13

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could arise so soon. It was not the desperate hardness he had displayed earlier, but they could work on that. “This way,” she said, climbing on top and putting his cock back inside. She rocked her hips gently back and forth, kissing him, letting her attentions reawaken him fully, not caring at all how long that might take. **** “You did it how many times?” Amelia asked her in the café the next evening. Becca turned crimson, and glanced quickly to see if anyone at nearby tables had overheard. “Well, we were in his quarters for nearly twenty-four hours. He wasn't back on duty until late shift today.” What she didn't say aloud was that if Warren hadn't needed to get to work, they would probably still be in his bed. She kept that to herself because Amelia's expression made it clear she might murder Becca if she made her any more envious. “So?” Amelia asked. “Any longterm compatibility potential?” Becca sipped her drink, buying time to reply. “I don't know. It ... hasn't really crossed my mind.” “Oh.” Now it was Amelia's turn to blush. “Well. Of course not. Who cares about that yet, anyhow?” “Not me,” Becca said. Right at that moment, the wellearned soreness between her thighs was the best feeling in all the galaxy. **** 14

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When she did allow herself to speculate about the future, it was mostly to note the little things about Warren that she had long ago decided she wouldn't find acceptable in a longterm mate. His chest was hairier than her ideal. The size, strength, and conditioning she had found so scary and wonderful in bed might be just scary if she were dependent on him. She had always said she had to have a talker. But in the short term, he pleased her so much her female friends began to make really rude jokes about the glow she exuded whenever she returned to Mädchen Haus. Perhaps the jealousy was what prompted her to spend more and more time in Warren's quarters until, a week into their relationship, she asked if she could hang out there alone, while he was duty, keep a comb and change-ofunderwear there. She was touched by how readily he said yes. “Hello, Horace,” she said as she arrived at the portal at 2100 hours. That would give her three hours before Warren's shift ended. “Welcome back,” the butler replied, its voice issuing from a tiny speaker above the peephole camera. The door slid aside. She stripped down, put on a bathrobe, and tucked herself into the couch to read more of the latest agricultural dispatches from the colony. Studying had taken on new meaning, because in less than two weeks, she would finally be able to act on her research. But she could not concentrate. It was so quiet. She wasn't continually interrupted by Amelia wandering in and out of 15

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their dorm room, nor could she hear the buzz of conversation from the common room. “Horace,” she said. “Yes?” acknowledged the butler. She hesitated. “Nothing. Just wanted to hear another voice.” “Understandable.” She chuckled. The AI program didn't really understand, of course, but it knew the right words to say. That was not a trivial thing. “Are you licensed to this tugboat, Horace?” she asked. “Or are you Warren's copy?” “I am part of his private collection of home accessories,” Horace responded. “When he leaves his current employment, he has indicated he will reinstall me in his residence.” “Isn't a cloned version of you installed there already?” “No. Master Warren does not have a permanent domicile. When he is not aboard this vessel, he stays in fleet housing and stores most of his possessions at the home of his parents.” “Interesting. Does he—?” “I must ask you not to interview me regarding my patron's personal history and circumstances,” Horace said. “He prefers to disclose such information himself.” “I see.” A bit stung, Becca tugged her bathrobe collar closer together. “I am a very good listener, however,” Horace continued in a soothing tone. “I would love to hear about your life.” 16

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She debated resuming her reading, but seeing that this would reprise the silence... “All right,” she said. “But tit for tat. Whatever I tell you doesn't get repeated to him. I want to be the one to tell him when the time comes.” And, she realized, she had been wanting to. But Warren hadn't asked. “Agreed,” Horace replied. Knowing that his parameters did not permit him to make an insincere contract, Becca began talking, her voice directed at the ceiling. “I was born in Phoenix, just before the wells all ran dry....” **** She had told him a great deal about herself by midnight, by which time she was expecting Warren to walk in. Instead, the vidphone on the wall near the dinette table lit up. Warren's face appeared. He was at his work console. “Hi, Bev,” Warren said as she activated the camera in his quarters. “We've got a little problem with some asteroid debris. I'll have to put in an hour or two of overtime.” “Um, okay.” “See you when I get there. Later, cutie.” He cut the transmission. She stood where she was. The knot of her bathrobe belt unwound and the garment hung open, but she did not notice at first. “Horace, who's Bev?” she asked. “I am sure it was only a slip of the tongue, Miss Becca. He was probably preoccupied by his task.” 17

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She shook her head. “People mess up my name all the time. They call me Rebecca, or Becky. They don't call me Bev.” Horace didn't say a word. “I know your protocols,” she said. “You won't say anything to compromise your patron. So let me just put it this way. If you don't tell me the truth, I'll assume the worst. What's it going to be?” If the AI had had a throat, it would have cleared it. “Miss Beverly was a woman Master Warren spent time with in these quarters last year. She was a passenger on the ark Pride of New Zealand.” A knot tightened under her rib cage, making it hard to breathe. “They were lovers?” Horace again maintained silence. “Remember what I said?” Becca prompted. “The privacy parameter was in effect at the appropriate times,” Horace explained. “I have no direct knowledge.” “Make a guess,” Becca commanded. “Yes. They were lovers.” Becca sighed, re-tied her bathrobe, and sat down on the couch. “How many passenger liners has this tug guided to orbit since Warren joined the crew?” “I do not think it is appropriate to answer that, Miss Becca.” “If it takes three weeks to get to a rendezvous, and three weeks to pull the ark into spacedock, and about three weeks off until the next trip begins, he could be doing six runs a year.” 18

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“Your estimate is accurate.” “So how many women has he had? Does he make this a habit?” “Do you truly want me to answer that?” Horace asked. “No. I already know the answer.” Tears brimmed on her eyelashes. “You think you are not special,” Horace stated. “But you are wrong. All Master Warren's women have been special.” “Aaaaak!” Becca scrambled for her cast-off socks, wishing she had not undressed in the first place, wishing she had the guts to run back to Mädchen Haus in just a bathrobe. “My humblest apologies,” Horace said. “Let me rephrase that.” Becca tugged her shirt over her head so forcefully she nearly ripped the collar. “It must be nice for him. An endless supply of hard-up women. Never has to worry about any of them infringing on his personal space for more than a few weeks. Well, I don't want to be the latest conquest.” This time, when Horace failed to reply, she did not press him. As soon as she finished dressing, she stormed out of Warren's quarters. **** “What an asshole,” Melanie declared when Becca related the story two days later. “And the thing is, he can get away with it over and over and over, because there will always be another ark.” “Exactly.” She stopped short of saying more. By the time Melanie, who lived with parents in the administrators’ 19

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residences, had heard the gossip and come calling, Becca had already vented, and was ready to put the past in the past. Melanie waved at the array of tables in the Hub Café. “Look. He knew the prime hunting ground. The closest eatery to the biggest single-women's dorm.” “Yup. I noticed that. Hindsight's a bitch.” “Has he called?” “Yes,” Becca replied. “Twice. I didn't talk to him.” “Good for you.” I'm better off without him, she told herself. She was back in her normal context. In little more than ten days, she could open her life's next chapter. She had more than enough to keep her busy. Another two days passed. Warren did not appear in the Hub Café, trolling for a new babe, as she had cynically assumed he might. When he didn't show up in any of the other bars, lounges, or restaurants on the ark, she concluded he was just being smart. By this point, every eligible woman on board had heard the story. He must have realized the ground was poisoned. “Still thinking about him, eh?” Amelia said as she stopped by their bedroom for her handball racquet. Becca yelped, startled from her ceiling-gazing by her roommate's sudden arrival. “No,” she answered in a tone of forced calm. “Ancient history.” Amelia snorted, tucked the racquet under her arm, and disappeared again. Becca knew she need not have been startled. Amelia always played racquetball at this time on this day of the 20

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week. It was so invariable a routine that she had come to count on the habit as one of the ways to determine when she might be certain to have the room to herself for an hour. Now it only meant too much privacy. And as for routines, they had never been so oppressive. For a year, she had followed the same schedules and patterns. Now the predictability of those schedules and patterns gnawed at her peace of mind. She had broken the routines, but good, last week. Stolen moments. How could she not want more? Especially when more routines waited after landfall, once she got set up in her viticulture lab. She sighed and tried to make herself busy. She noticed her fingernails needed to be trimmed. No clippers. She frowned, remembering finally that her clippers were in her spare toiletries bag. And the bag was still in Warren's quarters. She chewed her lip. She wanted the stuff back, but she didn't want to encounter Warren. However, if she recalled correctly, Warren was on duty for another couple of hours. She stalled another twenty minutes, and finally put in an audio-only call to the tug. “I need my stuff from your place,” she said in a rush as soon as he answered. “Will you authorize Horace to let me in?” She held her breath, waiting for the reply. “Sure. I'll do it now,” he said. 21

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“I'll be gone before you get off duty,” she promised. **** “Let me in, Horace,” she told the door. The portal opened. She slipped inside. The first thing she noted was the scent of the room. Vanilla. She had chosen it, six days back. She liked it so much better than the pine and floral aromas her dormmates favored, and Warren had not coded his quarters for a specific scent. She had expected the bouquet to be expunged by now. Never mind that. She hurried on into the bathroom and checked the counter and the drawers for her toiletries bag. “Your possessions are beside the door,” Horace said. She checked. The bag and a neat pile of laundry waited just inside the portal. She had rushed right past them. “Thank you, Horace,” she said. She bent down and picked up the articles. “I assume this is good-by,” the butler said. “Yes. It is,” she answered firmly. “It is unfortunate you and my patron could not reconcile your differences.” She pressed her mouth tightly shut and stepped to the door. The door did not open. “Horace. Open the door. You're out of bounds.” “My parameters allow me to keep this portal closed for short periods if it does not cause harm or increase the risk of danger to an occupant, nor contribute to a crime. You may call security to override my actions, of course, but it will take 22

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them up to a minute to accomplish that task. I promise I will open up before then if you will converse with me.” She sighed, stalked back to the couch, and sat down. She took out her fingernail clippers and began trimming, dropping the leavings on Warren's carpet. “Talk to me, then,” she said. “What do you see as the obstacle preventing you and Master Warren from continuing your romance?” “It's a simple problem,” she replied at once. “His goals are those of a guy. Mine are those of a gal.” “It is a pity you see these as so far apart. From my perspective, they are quite close.” “That's because you're a sexless artificial intelligence matrix,” Becca declared. “Exactly. I have an objective perspective. And I repeat, the things you and he want from a sexual relationship are quite similar.” Becca regarded the clippings on the carpet, frowned, and began picking them up. “How do you figure?” “You told me your personal history. When things did not go well with your beau in your hometown, you moved on to university life. Partly as a reaction to another period of romantic difficulties in your sophomore year, you transferred. When your post-grad engagement broke off, you changed cities. When you didn't find happiness there, you decided to emigrate.” She pursed her lips. “I shouldn't have told you so much that night.” 23

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“But you did. Now I ask you, is your serial monogamy more noble than Master Warren's?” “I—” Becca closed her hand tightly, only to be poked by fingernail clippings. “I—” “Master Warren does not let his affairs overlap,” Horace continued. “He chooses at most one companion per voyage. He does not begin with another until the previous relationship dies out. Each new lady must meet an increasing standard. Last voyage, he did not take a lover at all.” “He didn't?” “No. He did not. You think you are not special enough. It is not so. I tried to tell you that four nights ago, but I chose the wrong way to begin. You did not allow me to finish.” “You said all his women were special. That's paradoxical, Horace.” “But it is the truth. Being with his women has meant a great deal to my patron. Not one of you has been inconsequential.” “Horace, he's a guy. He doesn't just like the women themselves, he likes the fact they arrive in a series. Maybe I shouldn't let it bother me, but I am the way I am. He's the way he is. People don't change.” “Life experience changes humans all the time,” the butler countered. “Have you not grown tired of the patterns of your own life?” She opened her mouth, but it took two breaths before words came out. “Me? Yes. Yes, I guess you could say that. Look, don't try to trick me. You know I can't trust your motives.” 24

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“My motives are invariable,” Horace admitted. “I do what I think will be in my patron's best interest. But in this instance, I can do so and you may still appreciate what I have to say.” She hesitated. “All right. Talk.” “You see Master Warren as unchanging. This is not correct. What met his needs in the past is not what will meet his needs in the future.” “So? He's twenty-seven. When will he change? At age forty? Fifty?” “He has already changed, Miss Becca.” “Oh?” “I understand it is not easy to believe me. And you will not even allow him to suggest as much.” “I believe he would say anything right now,” Becca confirmed. “He could lie to me as much as he likes, and by the time I know it's a lie, he'll be out of reach.” “Your fears are understandable. So I will give you facts you can confirm. Perhaps they will lead you to new conclusions. A new degree of security.” “What facts?” “You see his supply of women as endless. An irresistible lure.” “A parade of wet pussies.” She folded her arms. “What man could resist that?” “Master Warren does not see it so crudely, no matter what you may think of male humans,” Horace said patiently. “He wants them for their brains,” she mocked. “He wants everything. Intelligence. Sex appeal. Beauty. Age. Training. Economic standing. Is that not how you 25

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evaluate a potential partner? Granted, he has done more research than most.” “No kidding.” “You should be complimented that he has done so much and yet still sought you out.” “He sought me out?” “He looked over the ship manifest, yes. He did not pick you randomly out of the crowd at the café.” Becca thought back to their first encounter, and how he knew she specialized in the science of wine-making. “Christ. Now I feel like I was being stalked.” Except she didn't. Not really. She felt good about it. “Had you rebuffed his overtures, he would have been gone within sixty seconds,” Horace assured her. She nodded. He hadn't made a single move until she had responded warmly to the ones that preceded it. “You ... said you had some facts to share?” she prompted. “Yes. About the endless supply. It is not so. Venture and its passengers are part of the last of the initial flood of immigration. In eighteen months, ark arrivals will drop to less than half of their present rate. Several tugboats will be mothballed, including this one. Master Warren does not have the seniority to obtain one of the remaining berths.” Becca's breathed in sharply, noting the vanilla aroma all over again. “A year and a half is a long time,” she said cautiously. “A year and a half, maximum,” the butler replied. “My patron has already purchased real estate near Peninsula City, where is parents and brother have settled. He has spoken of 26

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taking the early severance package. But if he does keep his job as long as he can, is that so much time? Your lifespan will be as much as 140 years. Eighteen months is an insignificant fraction. Barely enough time to adjust to a new world, new employment, new routines.” Becca tossed the clippings in the recycle slot, returned to the couch, and digested what Horace had said. “Shall I open the door now?” he asked. **** Becca was still on the couch when Warren arrived home. His eyebrows rose as he spotted her. “I'm surprised to see you,” he said. “Funny. I'm surprised to be here.” He cocked his head to the side. “Anything I can do for you?” “I was wondering. Why haven't you taken up with some other girl yet? Venture is full of prospects.” He nodded. “Bunches of ‘em. But I only choose the best. You were it, this trip.” “Just this trip?” she queried. “And better than the last,” he added. “As for all-time rating, I don't want your ego to get over-inflated.” “I see,” she said. “I guess a guy has to have some secrets.” He sat down in the recliner, losing some of the tension he had displayed since he had arrived. “You don't seem as angry as I expected you to be.” “I...” She considered explanations, then decided no. Sharing was a thing that needed to arrive in the right 27

Tug by Reed Manning

dosages, at the right intervals. She had had a full quota of conversation already this evening. “I'm not.” “Good.” “Do you know,” she said lightly, “that your butler is a silver-tongued devil?” “Really? Just how do you know that?” “We don't need to get into details right now,” she said. “Horace?” “Yes, Miss Becca?” “Privacy level one.” “At once.” Becca let the echo of the AI's voice fade. Then she pulled down her skirt and panties and tossed them on the floor. She turned away from Warren and bent down, hands braced on an arm of the couch, and let herself open like a flower. As his eyes locked on what she was offering, she was rewarded by a dramatic bulging beneath the fly of his uniform. “Let's just focus on the next eight days,” she said.

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