I laundered the sheets and replaced them -- those were my best, the ones that would go through the ship's instant cleaners and be fresh within five minutes instead of an hour -- and changed from my work clothes into something more suitable for lounging. I brought out the food I had available, and the drink I'd put aside at various times, and I picked up a copy of an ancient novel to read, one that Beka had found in an antique shop and loaned to me with the condition that if I harmed it I would have to replace it. But even the vicissitudes of a ritual-bound slaveholding society at war could not keep me from anticipating the evening.

One should not grant room to anticipation, for it will prove an unwieldy guest.

Still, when he arrived, I felt almost nervous, far more than any trained warrior should ever admit to. Last night he had come to me for help. Why was he coming tonight? To share pleasure? To find help again? Or for some other reason, of which I had no inkling?

I let him in and closed the door. Perhaps I could not truly lock us away from the outside world, but I did what I could; I had set the computerized room controls to observe the ambient temperature and humidity only, and to adjust for what I'd come to consider comfortable. It would not scan for human activity, nor analyze it, unless the programming I'd set were to be overruled by Dylan himself.

Harper looked me up and down and blinked. "Fancy threads. Elegant?"

"You like them?" The clothing was nothing special, only the sort of lounging garb that had been worn in my pride's lost culture: a loose, unbelted robe over a pair of loose trousers, both of them silk. Unlike some other Nietzschians, I believed that wearing comfortable clothes was practical, and not unmanly.

"Oh, yeah. The colors do good things for you, definitely, and the style " He whistled. "Can I touch?" His fingers wiggled.

"If you wish." I held still and he traced the brocade embroidery and the jacquard weaving in the fabric itself that shifted color as the direction of the light varied. His touch felt light, almost evanescent, and I shivered slightly at it. I shivered again as his hand moved beyond the edge of the robe onto my chest and skimmed the edge of the right areola. The nipple there hardened instantly.

"I've, um, got to ask you something," Harper said.

"Ask anything you want."

"Really?"

"Yes."

He hesitated, and I began to wonder if he was about to request a treatise on Nietzschian sexual practices when he said, "Why do you have red sheets and blankets?"

"It's symbolic," I said solemnly. "I sleep well on the blood of my enemies."

"Ohhhhhhh, right." But he was smiling. "Really? You know that's deeply twisted in so many ways."

"Actually, I just like red."

"Okay. I can go with that." And he leaned forward and started to lick the other nipple.

It was a good thing god was already dead, because I was certain this much pleasure could not have been had in an orthodox afterlife.

"Seamus --"

"Ssh," he admonished me. "You had first dibs last night. Now it's my turn. Lie down, please." His eyes widened. "You called me Seamus. Most of the time I only hear that when someone's going to yell at me."

"I promise I won't yell at you in that name unless it's a life-and-death situation. Did you take your medicine?"

"Yes, Tyr. Bossy Nietzschian."

I lay down. "I am at your disposal, sir."

"Now, that's what I want to hear."

Had I been without sight, or hearing, or sense of smell, I would have known Harper was unique simply from his touch.

Nietzschian women are aggressive, sexually voracious, wonderfully so. One matches a woman, one overawes her with skill. One enjoys one's lovemaking with a Nietzschian woman as one enjoys battle, because it is dangerous and calls forth the height of one's abilities. As a youth, with other boys, or in the Sylphydia, one was often clumsy or gauche, though tenderness was not unknown, but it was always clear that the matter was an exchange: one would receive what one was willing to give, and reciprocity was important.

When Harper touched me, I could feel the reverberation of his fingers on my skin to the marrow of my bones. This was not reciprocity or exchange, but pure gift, something that was supposed to be impossible in the life that we knew.

He brought me off quickly the first time, too quickly, and I felt my face warm with embarrassment, but he looked pleased, gratified at his efforts, smiled at me and rubbed his cheek against my thigh. I slid my hand down from his head to his shoulder and back, finding no knots in his muscles, only warm satiny skin. When I pulled him up next to me on the pillow to kiss, he came readily to my lips, but he was aching for more and my recovery time is not measured in seconds. So I practiced tadronssich, the art of bringing about orgasm with kissing alone, and soon he climbed up to lie on me, his muscles tighter, working, and I anchored him with my hands and felt his ass clench and move, the strong muscles beautiful under my fingers as I explored his mouth, his neck, and the curl of his ears.

Nietzschian males are noted for their sexual stamina. I was unaware that unenhanced human males could rival us in that area. I have determined to continue my research, in order to achieve a better understanding of cultural biology that could surely benefit my people. Of course, the sample size is small, but greater depth of analysis can be achieved with a small sample than with a larger survey.

It's possible, of course, that I'm only using this as a rationalization for doing what I wish to do. Self-examination of motives will only go so far. Beyond that, one must act.

It is also possible that I'm in danger of losing myself over one nonenhanced human. One must acknowledge that this danger exists, but it is best observed from a distance I am unable to achieve at the moment.

"Do you want this?"

His hand stroked me, the thumb rolling softly across the glans.

"Ever since I saw you in that black leather outfit. Do you have any idea what that does for you?"

I chuckled softly. "Some idea, yes. It's also the most practical everyday combat gear I own."

"Hey, I'm just delighted to get you out of the chain mail. Kissing through that is scary."

My hand slid lower, fingers seeking. His quick gasp told me I'd reached my goal. My fingertips felt warmth, tightness and slippery moisture.

"So I prepped. Don't kill me for it."

"Oh, I won't."

He went to hands and knees and I moved behind him, carefully. My arm spikes were as retracted as possible, but I did not want to chance any accidents. When I entered him, he arched his back and sighed, and suppressed the smallest possible wriggle. We went slowly, his breathing my cue, and I played with his nipples to distract him. Apparently my hair distracted him as well.

"It's like being hit with a really soft flogger," he murmured.

"You play those games?"

"Sometimes. Not very often. Only when ... it's not real."

"I understand." And I did. One would not willingly play at such games unless the actuality of slavery or mistreatment were impossible within the circumstances.

(I had, when I was a courtier, been beaten in the bedroom for displeasing my owner. He had decided to make an example of me for the edification of the other courtiers and courtesans, who had been summoned to watch. At times the sensation of the soft leather strap, doubled to make it a punishment rather than a pleasure, and used again and again on the same area, was still tangible; that dream would wake me shivering in the dark, and achingly hard ... the part of the brain that turns certain varieties of pain into pleasure was enhanced by my ancestors. This is another thing not spoken of, especially where outsiders are concerned.)

Harper was around me, holding me in warmth, so close that our balls brushed against each other, warm, soft, solid.

I braced one hand on the bed and held him close with the other arm. "Let yourself go; I'll hold you," I whispered in his ear, licking the back of its outer rim, and I leaned back slowly and rose so that I was kneeling, holding him on my lap. The hand that had been against the bed came up to stroke him, to toy with him as I pleased, to wrap around his length and surround him in the warmth of my fingers as he surrounded me.

His head came back against my shoulder as his knees found support on the bed. "Wow. You have good ideas."

"You talk too much," I said roughly, and began to jerk him, to make him move while I held still. He rose and fell, writhing, around me, in my hands, moaning with pleasure. His hands moved on my thighs, stroking, clenching. When he spent himself, spurting onto the sheets, clenching around me, he nearly brought me with him, but it was not my time yet. He stretched back in my arms, turned my head and opened my lips with his tongue, softly then roughly.

"The next time we do that, I want to face you," he breathed in my ear. "I want to see your face when you come."

"Your wish is my command." We disentangled ourselves briefly and he lay back against the pillows. I moved in between his parted legs, which wrapped around my waist as soon as we were joined again. "How would you have me?"

"This one's for you." His face shone bright and trusting. He stroked me and pinched my nipples gently. "I can take it."

I reset my angle, so that his pleasure would not be neglected as I took mine, and drove into him, slowly but with strength, with control, and he moaned and pulled my head down to his. "Let go. You won't hurt me. That's what the legs are for. If it starts to hurt I'll tighten them." His tongue slid in and out of my mouth hard, in the rhythm of my strokes into him, and I felt a long deep shiver float over my skin. "Trust me." I arched my back and anchored my knees in the mattress and took him hard as I felt the piston drive of my heart inside his, the same rhythm, the same rhythm, and when I spent, drenched with sweat, and collapsed on top of him, he took my head in his hands and licked the drops of salt from my eyelids, from the corners of my mouth, then held me for a long, long time, even after we had slipped apart.

My back muscles, buttocks and thighs had worked themselves to aching and now lay limp. He had not tightened his legs around me at all.

Another physical enhancement that my ancestors determined would increase one's chances of survival was increased memory. I have, when necessary, eidetic memory for whatever I see or read, as well as aural memory that eliminates the need for a recorder if necessary.

But I also have enhanced physical memory, body memory. My body actively recalls everything it has ever felt; if I think of something pleasant, it is as if I am experiencing it again. Fortunately, we are also all taught control of appearance from our earliest years, so that the record of our passions would not be legible on our faces and in our ways of standing and moving unless we wish it so.

***
I awoke as he was dressing, quietly and quickly. He leaned down to kiss me. "I'm on shift in half an hour; gotta get a shower and fast food."

"Go. Be well."

I lay abed, listening to his rapid light footsteps disappear into the constant minor hum of the ship, before I threw myself out of bed and set about the same tasks, plus a few more. Clean sheets, for one thing, for we had brought into the bed the food I'd set out for us and, as expected, a few things had spilled. I may be trained to endure much, but I would rather avoid crumbs in the bed sheets.

The key he'd given me still lay securely in its secret pouch in my clothing, as near to my skin as it could be without discomfort. It was tiny, far smaller than most of the anti-locks I'd seen, and resembled nothing so much as an ornament. If I should lose it on the ship, the first place I'd have to look for it would be Beka's ears or Trance's hair, which would necessitate more explanation than I felt I wanted to provide.

Dylan met me in the hall outside the galley, with the look on his face that meant he already felt as if large reptiles were snapping at his back. "Oh, Tyr. Good. We need to go over the security precautions for the conference on board next month."

I nodded, my usual procedure for dealing with an anxious client. It's hard, even now, to think of myself as being allied with as ancient and straitlaced a military organization as the High Guard, though if all the officers were like him it might have been an interesting place. I preferred to consider myself to be on an extended contract with him, regardless of whatever he thinks of the situation.

"Do you have any specific concerns, other than having invited Charlemagne Bolivar to attend?"

"Actually, I do." He handed me a pad. "I've itemized them there; probably over-organizing, but that never hurt."

I glanced at his list. Most of it was reasonable, considering the various races and cultures that would be represented. Of course we would increase surveillance of the entire ship for the duration, but since certain groups had different abilities to detect our surveillance we would have to be a little more creative than usual, to compensate for having a crew of five instead of three thousand.

"This seems reasonable. I'll get back to you later today."

"Good. Great." He headed toward the bridge but turned so that he was walking backward. "And whatever you cooked that had leftovers in the galley last night was great. Would you show me the recipe?"

"You liked it?" I raised an eyebrow. I hadn't thought Dylan would favor such a simple dish.

"Let's just say there aren't any leftovers any more." He grinned at me and patted his stomach.

"I'd be pleased to show you how it's done."

"Wonderful." And he was off toward the bridge as I set off in search of Rommie to discuss security.

Rommie was on the observation deck, considering the latest plant that Trance had placed there. Trance had recently been on a campaign to move plants out into the rest of the ship, for various reasons. I thought she might be running out of room in the hydroponics garden and might simply want to expand it; in fact, I'd considered mentioning that to Dylan as a design alternative for the next shipwide upgrade, since we all benefitted from the good food she grew there.

"What do you think of this?" Rommie asked, head tilted to the side, as she observed something that could be classified as a plant only because it resembled neither a mineral nor any animal I'd ever seen.

"I think it's probably very expensive." An attempt at diplomacy seemed the best approach.

"Hmm. The cost wouldn't seem to be that justified, would it? I mean, what does it do?" Rommie reached out to touch it, but hesitated a centimeter from contact. "It doesn't have flowers or fruit that I can see, it's not terribly pretty or green, and it doesn't seem to create any measurable difference in the air quality."

"Perhaps it's meant to be an object for contemplation," I offered.

Rommie shrugged. "That must be it. What's up?"

"Security. Dylan has concerns." I handed her Dylan's pad.

"Hmm. I understand that the Dilantians get rashes from exposure to infrared, even at the low levels we have, so I'll employ quantum flow sensors for security in their quarters. We are monitoring the guest quarters, aren't we?"

"It does seem the only way to prevent assassinations."

"Particularly with your kinsmen aboard."

I raised an eyebrow. "At the risk of boring you with my genealogy, let me point out that neither Charlemagne Bolivar nor any of his pride are my direct relations."

"That may be a good thing. Are you willing to negotiate with them if the need arises?"

"Certainly. We do speak the same language."

Rommie frowned. "I thought there wasn't a universal language among Nietzschians."

"Only the nuances of power."

"Oh, very well. I don't see anything else here that I need to take care of."

"What about external surveillance?"

"Harper hasn't gotten around to repairing the vane on the port-side area of the stern. After he does, there shouldn't be any problem, barring new technology, which, of course, even I can't predict."

"I presume that Dylan will conduct tours of the ship for the visitors?"

She nodded. "I'll adjust the area to voice commands for him, during the tour, and have it revert to ship control afterward while continuing full monitoring. There's no excuse for carelessness."

"Now you're starting to sound like a Nietzschian."

"Funny thing; I was originally programmed by one."

"Ah. Perhaps that explains why we get on so well," I suggested. She handed back the pad, turned on her heel and left.

Later, on the bridge, as I performed daily systems-checks on the weapons array, Beka said, "So, Tyr, have you found out anything more about Napoleon Rastafarian?"

Dylan was reading a display on one of the newer monitors that Harper had revised while repairing the bridge and comparing it to something on his pad. When he looked up, his face wore the same expression I recalled seeing on my oldest brother's face when a teething baby had kept him awake for three nights running. "Napoleon Rastafarian? I don't recall that name. Is that someone in Sabra-Jaguar who should be on the invitation list? Or is it someone who shouldn't be allowed on the ship."

"Too late," I murmured.

"Relax, Dylan. It's a joke," Beka grinned at him. "It's a hypothetical Nietzschian."

"And I thought we were having such fun with the real ones," Dylan countered. He shook his head as if knocking the hair from his eyes, but he has not worn his hair that length in months; it was simply a nervous movement to give him time to think.

"Harper was trying to imagine the most unlikely Nietzschian possible," I said. "Although Beka seems to think of it as an alias."

"Oh, come on, Tyr, wouldn't you just love to be Napoleon Rastafarian if the opportunity presented itself?"

I let her hear a little of the low growl in my voice. "I refuse under any circumstances to claim a heritage from Pride Rugrat-Chihuahua. Find yourself another patsy."

"Um, I think we can agree that the opportunity isn't going to present itself, can't we, Tyr? Beka?" Dylan said, his eyes tapping back and forth between us. "Though I'm pleased to have a happy bridge crew. It makes the work so much more enjoyable."

I shook my head and set back to work. The Dylan I'd known before the Magog encounter would have dropped his pad in laughter at the mere thought of the ridiculous Rugrat-Chihuahua Pride. This Dylan was too driven to allow himself the time to relax, a dangerous condition for a warrior. Nothing good could come of it.

Harper returned to my bed on alternate days until the start of the conference; our increased workload did not permit any other time together, much though I might have wished it. He seemed to be growing too thin in my arms, and I would have liked to cook for him again and watch him eat. However, as I observed him, I noticed that he was still eating as much as he had in the past; perhaps our activities were burning away more calories than I'd realized.

I had rekeyed the door to his touch, so that he no longer needed to announce himself before entering; as he touched the door a low tone, audible to me but to no one else on shipboard, would tell me he was there. I was grateful that it woke me, or called me out of the washroom. Once, while I was in the shower and heard it, I stayed there and he came in to join me, dropping his clothes quickly as he arrived. The soft rubberized floor of the shower stall made an excellent surface for his knees and mine, in turn.

When he slept in my arms, I slept well.

***
"But why not?"

"I ..." Harper's voice was hesitant. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You will not hurt me, and I'm in no danger from your passengers."

"We don't know that. I don't want to take the chance."

"Does what I do with you upset them?"

"No. No. And I love it, don't get me wrong. If I could, I'd have you in there all the time."

"It might make work somewhat awkward."

"True. And how would I flirt with all the beautiful babes at the conference if we were joined at the ass?"

"I can see that would be a disadvantage."

"No, don't say it. I'm not large enough to be a human shield for you."

"I wasn't even thinking that, though now that you bring it up, I'd say at least part of you is sizeable enough to afford me some protection."

"Hey, I'm flattered. Feel free to express your admiration any way that you want ... oh ... oh, yeah, more there..."

We played at night and said nothing of it beyond the doors of my rooms, nor did we allow our outside concerns to enter. He did not inquire about the security precautions, and I asked nothing about his activities or the special projects that Dylan had him working on.

"Has Harper repaired the vane yet?" I asked Rommie, a few days before the conference. "I have some free time, if that's not done, and I'm a competent welder."

"I appreciate that. No, he fixed it a couple of days ago. You're welcome to go and check it out."

"I might do that."

Rommie hesitated. "Do me a favor and wear the gravity boots, not the free line."

"Why? Aside from keeping me from getting a longer view of the ship, of course." She had never asked me something like this in the past.

"I don't really know, but it feels as if I'm ... itchy. Me-the-ship, that is. It's as if something were tickling the outer hull, though I've checked all my sensors and there's nothing out there."

"I'll take a look. Perhaps you picked up some small debris from the tail of that comet that went past us yesterday."

"That might be it. Thank you, Tyr."

I strapped on breathing apparatus and a containment suit and went out into the blackness of space to check the vane. I saw nothing that could account for the "feeling" that the android reported, but it occurred to me that it might be wise to have the planetary battle robots do forays out there during the conference, just for the sake of added safety. I made a note to mention this to her, and sent her the message, but it went through the system while the ship was experiencing power flickers due to some of Harper's upgrades being tested. I should have checked to see if the message went through but forgot to do so.

As it was, neither Rommie nor I could have done anything to prevent what happened. We paid for our lack of interdimensional technology in the blood of attendees, though I was pleased to see Charlemagne Bolivar exhibited many of the finer attributes of my people and few of the less pleasant ones. He appeared to be a capable fighter, and I thought his pride's ships might make the difference in the fight against the Magog -- if he could refrain, in the meantime, from the stealthy backstabbing and double-dealing that had made Sabra-Jaguar Pride a name even among Nietzschians.

What could I say? He and I got along very well.

Rev Bem was still away at a Wayist gathering, probably purging his continuing feelings of guilt over his behavior during the events on the Magog worldship; it was just as well.

It is possible that, even if Andromeda had sent out the robots, the ship that had attached itself to us would have remained unnoticed because of its ability to shift time and space dimensions. Harper's ability to walk between brilliance and insanity, and his sense of timing -- which was beginning to rival that of Trance Gemini -- saved us at the last.

And, through the intervention of the scheming Satrina Leander who had caused the problems by allying herself with the enemy, he was rid of nearly half of his passengers.

When the ship was ours again, and all the delegates, living and otherwise, were sent home, Dylan declared a three-day weekend, saying that we deserved it. He asked Andromeda to take us to a quiet sector near a stable sun, and told us he'd see us on the bridge in seventy-two hours.

I took time to make sure all the security measures were in place, and then wandered past the cargo bay where my treasure waited. The key Harper had made worked perfectly, and I slid past security and rekeyed the door so it locked again within a second. I paused to let my eyes accustom themselves to the darkness rather than turn on lights and risk notice from some automated sensor, and brought out a small handlight from a vest pocket.

The progenitor of my race lay undisturbed in his coffin, under the cloth I'd draped over it that now bore bloodstains and a few fraying tears from Magog claws. Harper had done a good job here; there was none of the smell of death that had lurked in corners elsewhere for weeks. I could tell that, despite his situation, he'd taken care to do this himself rather than allow the A.I.s to do it, though I hoped he'd let the androids dispose of the bodies.

I let myself out again and relocked the door. Dylan was free to think he had control over me, though I knew he wouldn't be fool enough to think I would not try to regain my property. Of course Rommie would tell him I'd been there, if he asked. I hoped that by disturbing nothing I'd allayed his suspicions.

Harper slept for the first 30 hours or so of the weekend, ate for the next three (on and off, or so Trance told me later), and then came in search of me.

I was asleep. I'd gone running after my foray into the forbidden, setting my feet on decks I seldom visited simply to make sure all was well there and we had no more unscheduled visitors of any description. Upon returning, I had showered, eaten a quick meal, watched a movie with Beka -- some drawing-room comedy of manners about time travel and mating that was quaintly humorous -- and then had gone to my bed. I slept, woke, read, snacked, and slept again.

The door alarm told me who it was. I feigned sleep, until he curled up naked behind me, his skin cool and soft, and ran his hand down my flank. "I know you're awake. We've got to celebrate."

"What are we celebrating?" I'd heard rumors, but I wanted to know for sure.

"Half of my passengers have checked out. They're no longer in residence. They've gone bye- bye."

I rolled over to face him. "That's certainly worthy of celebration." I pulled him close and kissed him, and he returned the kiss with attentive energy. "What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that, a ride on the joystick -- "

"Anything else?"

"No limits. No, wait, only that one limit still." He kissed me again, his eyes turning pale. "I don't want to hurt you."

"All right, for now. But one of these days, Seamus Harper, I'm going to back you into a corner and force you to do me properly, as a shieldbrother." I rolled on top of him, supporting myself on my elbows. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes. Yep. Gotcha. Da. Ja. Oui." He punctuated his reply with fast, hard kisses. "And believe me, on that day I'll have absolutely no mercy on your magnificent backside."

"You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to it," I whispered into the curve of his ear.

I started to slide down to catch him in my mouth, but the sweet friction between our bodies ignited me before I could stop myself, and we spent ourselves together the first time without further ado.

It took some time to wear down his energy so that we could both nap again; I enjoyed it all.

Having the proof that our prior activities had not caused his passengers to reanimate, I felt free to let him occupy himself in whatever way he wished, as he roused me with hands and mouth and with the sweep of his body against mine. When I could wait no longer, I seized him and, with his enthusiastic assent and cooperation, rode him thoroughly, so that I lost myself in the sensations around me as well as my own, and came hard and long inside him, as he whimpered in delight.

Afterward, as I held him, I said, "You know I will hold you to it."

"As hard and fast, or easy and slow a ride, as you want," Harper promised, raising my hand to his lips, "but only when -- "

"I know." I slid a hand down his belly to cup him tenderly. "I spoke with Rev Bem yesterday; he sent a message to say he was praying for the council. I didn't tell him about the invasion."

"Just as well. He'd probably think he caused it." Harper turned toward me. "And?"

"I asked him how you were doing, comparatively, and he said," I took a breath, "you were doing very well."

"Don't lie to me, Tyr. You said you wouldn't."

I closed my eyes, not wanting to say the next words. "He said that nobody had lived on the drug this long. He thinks your health is a miracle."

"Hmph. I'm a miracle. Well, yeah. The Harper is good. Haven't I been saying that?"

"I would be the last one to argue against it," I told him, tightening my arms around him, willing him to leave any other questions unasked so that I would not have to answer. Regardless of our long weekend, time was running out and I wished to waste none of it.

A week later, Trance cornered me in a hall. "I need to talk to you," she said, in a voice she must have borrowed from Dylan when he was giving someone a piece of his mind. "Now. In private."

"All right." Just off shift, I had been going to lift weights for a while, but that sort of exercise is always available. I followed her to an empty room that had been a High Guard lancer's cabin three centuries earlier. "What is it?"

She slapped the lock on the door and whirled to stare at me as if she'd never seen me before. "What have you been doing with Harper?"

I blinked. If a placid house cat had suddenly savaged me with twelve-centimeter claws I would not have been more surprised. "What exactly do you mean?"

"I mean, what are you doing with Harper?" She said it again in precisely the same way, giving me no clue as to her intention. "I just had him in the med deck for a checkup."

"And?"

"He's ... getting healthier. There's no way this can be happening. Magog infestations are fatal unless treated instantly. You know that and I know that." She paced up and down the small cabin. "He's been hanging around with you; that's the only difference. Are you feeding him something different than he usually eats, or giving him some special Nietzschian medicine that I've never heard of? What's going on?"

I blinked and tried to assemble my scrambled wits. "Let me get this straight. You've just seen Harper for a checkup, and he's ... better?"

"Oh, he still has the remaining Magog larvae inside, but from what I can tell they're dying. Atrophying. Even with the suppressive agent he's been taking, they should be at least half again as large right now, especially because there are fewer of them than before."

I sat on the built-in desk, my head spinning. "Before I answer, would you tell me something?"

"What?" She tilted her head, shaking it slightly as if to clear her mind.

"What exactly did you do to rid me of the Magog?" I remembered the pain of that procedure in exact detail; none of it had mutated to pleasure. But my mental state had been such that I was unable to recall her method.

She turned her face away from me toward the wall as if the memory were as unpleasant for her as for me. "I gave you an overdose of pannifleurum and flooded you with chlodax-3 rays for four hours at a time. You had three doses, and then I had to keep you alive while ..."

While the larvae loosened themselves from an environment suddenly too hostile even for them, and sought a way out. I endured two days of convulsions, fever, chills and delirium, despite all she could do for me. At one point she put me into the same kind of coma that Harper was in, so I would not expend all my strength in enduring suffering. I would not have asked her to do it, but I accepted quickly when she offered it; it was the only surcease I had.

I shuddered, flickers of remembered agony licking through my skin.

Trance nodded. "You barely survived the pannifleurum, let alone the rest. It's one of the very few substances that your immunity to poison does not counter, and it can be fatal to any other humanoids even in smaller doses. That's why I couldn't do it to Harper."

"So?" I stood behind her. "Is something wrong now? Are they growing again? I talked with Rev Bem about the drug."

"He told me." Trance turned to face me, her stance full of resolution. "The problem is that there's not a problem, and I don't understand it."

"What?" I shook my head, unsure of what I was hearing.

"Harper told me what the larvae looked like when Satrina Leander took them out of him. That's why I checked the ones that are still there. They're not growing; they look like they're getting hollow inside, starting to die. And I can't account for it." She brushed past me to pace the room again. "I don't understand what's going on. How can I use this to help anyone else if I don't know why it's happening? So I'm asking you -- what are you doing with Harper?"

"We are shieldbrothers," I said slowly, "with all that entails."

"I ... see. With *all* that entails?" Her eyes widened.

For some reason I did not wish to explore, I did not feel that telling her of our relationship would be a violation. I had learned to trust no one far, but I had noticed that Trance would keep secrets. "Almost all. He will allow me within him, but he will not allow himself within me."

Her hands flew up to stop further words. "I have to think about this. No, not about you. You're fine. And I'm glad you and Harper are close; he's needed a good friend for a long time. And --" she turned to face me, "I think you two would be very pretty together."

"Thank you," I said gravely. One should always accept a compliment, regardless of the circumstances.

"I think I need to have you come down to the med deck so that I can run a few tests." Her eyes flickered sideward, which in humanoids means they are thinking of something they cannot access directly in the conscious mind and must search out from within the unconscious. "If what I think is true ... Tyr, are there any Nietzschian beliefs or laws or customs that forbid transfusions or cell transplantation or anything like that?"

"None." I watched her moving, stopping, moving, stopping. Was it possible --

"Good. Come with me right now."

"What will you tell Dylan, if he asks?"

"That I wanted to do a routine checkup. You're due for one in a week or so, when we'll be in Tarsis Cluster, and I'll probably be too busy then to do it."

"All right."

I learned to kill when I was a child; we hunted to eat. I learned all the ways of self-preservation and survival as a youth, both within my pride and afterward, when I survived the mines and Kotyra and went out into the wider universe as a mercenary. I took pride in my work, in my ability to guard whatever I was hired to guard. I was a good mercenary; I stayed bought until such time as it was more opportune for me to do otherwise, and I paid my debts.

Yet, as a Nietzschian without a pride, I knew I would probably never attain the status of husband and father. I might never know the sensation of the power of my body going into a wife's womb to create life.

I am a killer, and a scholar. Life and death are my gift, my work. I know the difference between a Phyrian hawk and a handsaw. The handsaw is much easier for decapitations at close range, though the hawk can be an able assistant if it is tamed. There are six ways of taming a Phyrian hawk according to scholarly texts, and none of them work. The only thing that did work was to bare my arm and allow it to feed on me. A token bite or two from my forearm, and it was mine, not because I held it in my fist but because it knew me, knew me as distinct from any other being in the galaxy, which allowed us to converse. I learned its thoughts, it learned mine. We lived and fed together on the game we killed for a long time, until I was captured by slavers for sale to yet another master and the hawk died attacking them. A handsaw will not fight in defense of its partner.

If there were any portion of my anatomy that Trance did not sample, on a slide or in scanned readings or in any other way, it was so deeply beneath the molecular level that it might not be said to exist at all for any practical purpose.

"Well?" I inquired, when she let me up.

"I don't understand."

"Show me." I was not a physician or biologist, but I had some knowledge of which end of a microscope to look through.

"Those. They're new. I've never seen them before."

They looked much like any other cells. Lumpy, slightly irregular, but cells have their own logic which does not necessarily prescribe beauty of a sort that I understand. "And?"

"I'm going to try something." She pressed a button that tipped the cells she was observing into Magog cells, taken from one of the larva that had infested me. She had explained at the time that she would retain it in stasis where it could not mature but would provide cells for study, and I had reluctantly agreed to it.

She looked again, and magnified the view.

The lumpy cells had attached themselves to the Magog cells, and were attacking them, causing them to collapse. Cell walls ruptured; cellular matter spilled out and was consumed by the lumpy cells, which continued to work.

"So?" My patience has its limits.

"Can't you see? This is unprecedented." Trance was so excited that she hugged me. I was so amazed, I let her. "You've developed antibodies to the Magog. That's not supposed to be possible. Ordinary people don't do it. Nietzschians don't do it. How did you do that?"

"I don't know." I felt baffled, confused. Had my body taken an evolutionary leap without my knowledge?

"I need one more sample." She handed me a bottle. "Go in the next room, lock the door, and think luscious thoughts about Harper, or whatever. I don't need to know. Just come back with a sample in here."

The bottle, more like a large vial, would have held a half-liter. "Your expectations flatter me."

"I didn't say you had to fill it." A violet blush tinted her cheeks. "Just go do it, all right? I have a hypothesis to test."

I did as she requested; I recalled images of our first time together, and of the feel of his mouth on me as the shower rained warm water upon my shoulders. When I returned and handed her the bottle, she smiled. "Thank you. I hope you enjoyed it."

"What are you going to do?"

"This." She had prepared another test dish of Magog cells; she poured a little of the semen over them. We did not have to wait long to see the Magog cells surrendering to mine. "It's just as I thought. The antibodies exist throughout your body -- they're in every sample I took -- but especially in your semen. And Harper is acquiring them from you."

My legs felt as if I'd just run to the top of Mount Wagner and back before breakfast. "What are you saying?"

"Nietzschians feel very strongly about creating life, don't they? Don't you?" she asked. "The continuation of the people, and so on?"

"Of course." I gazed at her blankly.

"Do you know how fortunate you are? You're able not only to continue your line but also to, um, protect them against Magog infestation, all at the same time. At least, I'm pretty sure you could. Well, your wife would be safe. I'm not sure about the babies, but it's possible they would be, too."

I rubbed my face with my hands. She was babbling. She had to be babbling.

Trance never babbled without purpose.

"Just say it, Trance. Abstract science gives me a headache. Tell me what you're talking about."

"You had sex with Harper. You came inside him. Am I right?" She raised an eyebrow. I nodded slowly. "And you had somehow developed anti-Magog-larva antibodies, though how you did that I have no idea whatsoever. Nobody I've ever heard of has done that. During or after sex, the antibodies were absorbed through his body, and they began to attack the Magog larvae."

Now that I understood what she was talking about, the inferences were staggering. "I hope you can synthesize a serum from this, because I'm really not prepared to spread my favors quite as widely as you might imagine."

"Oooooh. Now that's a thought. No, I'm teasing. I really can't see you telling Dylan to bend over and drop his pants because it's all for his own good." She giggled. I started laughing, the laughter of relief and happiness, and could not stop. Every time the image started to seem too absurd, her chuckle would set me off again. I bounced against the wall, laughing, and my arm must have struck a communications panel without my knowing it.

Everyone in the ship raced through the door in quick order: Rommie, holding a gamepad, Beka and Harper, who had apparently been playing tennis in the recreation rooms, and Dylan, in his sleep clothes, rubbing his eyes.

Trance turned to me, apologetic at having to share this with the audience, but I waved a hand to tell her to go on. Everyone who mattered already knew what had been happening; telling it could do no harm even with Dylan's straitlaced attitudes. I had observed long ago that Dylan only appeared to be an ethically constipated High Guard officer, and that appearance did not countermand his ability to think like one of my people.

"We have good news, I think," Trance said, and they assembled themselves in expectant attitudes, though Dylan seemed half absorbed in tying the belt of his robe, and Beka was watching him do it. "We may have discovered an antibody that will combat Magog infestations."

"We?" asked Rommie.

"How? When?" Dylan was awake now.

"You should sit down," Trance told Harper. She pushed his shoulders as I put a chair behind his knees. He sat with a thump, bemused.

"We. Tyr and I. It was sort of, um, unexpected." Trance smiled at them, and at me, and last of all at Harper. He leaned back in the chair and looked puzzled, his eyes moving from her to me and back.

"So, when do I get this miracle drug?" he asked.

It's amusing to watch Trance Gemini blush purpler. "You, um, already have it, courtesy of Tyr."

"What, something you put in my food?" Harper glanced about, trying to catch the joke. "I knew that wasn't an aphrodisiac."

"Not exactly in the food all the time," I murmured.

His jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

I shook my head.

Beka hugged Trance. "You can synthesize this, right?"

"I shouldn't have any trouble, as long as Tyr will help me."

"Delighted," I said with a flourish, attempting to keep the blush from my own face as well. Nietzschians do not blush well.

"When do we get doses of this wonder drug?" Dylan asked.

"I need to do more testing, to make sure it will reject the earliest stages of infestation. But you'll have it as soon after that as I can do it. Unless, of course, you prefer to take the direct route and obtain it from Tyr in its original form."

The coin dropped in Dylan's mind, and so did his jaw. His eyes slid toward Trance, who nodded, to Harper, who smiled cheerfully, and to me. I corrected my stance, crossed my arms and smiled, slowly.

"Don't put yourself to any trouble on my account. I think I'll wait for the synthesized version." Dylan said.

"Oh, it would be no trouble, Captain," I said, with as much assurance as I could muster over the recurring image of 'bend over, Dylan.' "After all, you have told me many times that the good of the ship is paramount, have you not? And that we are here to bring together a new Commonwealth? I'm certainly willing to do my part in this enterprise."

I had not moved a muscle toward him, but he smiled and backed up, casually, so that Beka was between him and me. "That's ... admirable, Tyr. I'm gratified that you remember my words so clearly."

"Just doing my job," I murmured.

Beka and Trance were still snickering half an hour after Dylan left. Rommie had left with him, on the pretext that someone had to run the ship, but I suspect that her own amusement at Dylan's expression played a role.

Harper tapped my arm. He'd observed the antibodies on the viewer, and talked with Trance about his condition, and his eyes shone. "Would you have done Dylan, if he'd said yes?"

"This is hardly the place to discuss that," I said, with a warning glance toward the women.

"Oh, Beka won't care. She's had her eye on his ass for months. C'mon. Tell me. You know you want to."

"Well, then." I cast one more look toward Beka before continuing, in a softer tone. "I think that if Dylan were to wish to go that route, he would be much happier about the method of application if it came from Beka rather than myself."

"Well, sure. But that's not what I asked, is it?"

"Harper, of course. He's the captain. One does what one must to ensure the wellbeing of the ship."

"Now you sound like one of Dylan's duller speeches. Are you going to tell me you want his ass or not?"

I shrugged, relaxed. "I hardly think I'd have a chance at getting it, but yes. Let's just say it would be a more pleasurable duty than many I've had."

"That's for sure. What, you thought I was the jealous type? Give me a break."

"I never said that."

"You never say a lot of things. Doesn't matter."

"Y'know, Tyr," Beka said, slipping within my zone of safety to stand so close that I could feel her body heat through my chain mail, "we might be able to dose Dylan in a, er, chain reaction fashion. You -- me, me -- Dylan..." Her eyes twinkled.

"Shouldn't you verify that with him beforehand?" I inquired. Beka seldom flirted with me since I made dinner for her; I was not entirely certain why. I enjoyed the flirtation. "But, if you're certain it would work, we can of course start any time you like. I believe there's a bed open in the next room."

"Ah, I think I'll get back to you on that." She twinkled again. "But don't think I don't appreciate the offer."

"You see?" I said to Harper, in mock-sadness. "Nobody wants me except you."

"Their loss. Hey, I know. I could write a testimonial for you."

"Then everyone will want their own Nietzschian lover?" I shook my head and felt grateful that I was the only Nietzschian aboard the Andromeda, and not only for the sake of my reputation. "I'm sure a schedule could be worked out, though I doubt it would fit well with yours since you work odd shifts."

"Oh, yeah. And I'm still in the middle of treatments. Right. You can't stop treating me, can you? I mean, you wouldn't, would you?"

I gave him the private smile that was always his. "No, to both questions."
 

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