Oh, much older than her; quite middle-aged, at one hundred and forty. Well, that was kind of her to say so. Yes, the wings worked, in anything less than 50% standard gravity. Had them since he was thirty. He lived on an air level here with 30% gravity. Huge web-trees up there. Some people lived in their hollowed-out fruit husks, though he preferred a sort of wispy house-thing made from sheets of chaltressor silk stretched over hi-pressure thinbooms. Oh yes, she’d be very welcome to see it.
Had she seen much of Tier? Arrived yesterday? Such good timing for the Festival! He’d love to be her guide. Why not now? Why not. They could hire a yacht. First though they would go and make their apologies to the Ambassador. Of course; he and she were old pals. Something to tell that aunt of hers. And they’d call by the cruise ship; bring the others? Oh, just a little camera drone? Well why not? Yes, Tier’s rules could be tiresome at times, couldn’t they?
‘Yes! Yes! Yeeehhhsss…’
That was him; she’d given one final, ear-splitting shriek and then gone limp, with just a huge grin on her gelsuited face (she’d kept it on, another aperture had obligingly opened). Time to bring this bout to a climax…
The yacht had served him before; it heard what he said and took that as a signal to cut engines and go into free-fall. He loved technology.
The neural lace would have handled his orgasm sequence better, controlling the flow of secretions from his drug glands so that they more precisely matched and enhanced the extended human-basic physiological process taking place, but it was still pretty damn good all the same; his didn’t last quite as long as hers obviously had, but he’d put it at over a minute, easily.
He floated, still joined to her, watching the smile on her face and the tiny, dim lights in the huge dark eyes. Her fabulous chest heaved now and again; her four arms waved round with a graceful, under-sea motion. After a while, one of her hands went to the nape of her neck. She took the gelsuit’s head off and let it float free.
The deep dark eyes stayed; the rest of her face was brown flushed with red, and quite beautiful. He smiled at her. She smiled back.
With the gelsuit’s head removed, a little sweat beaded on her forehead and top lip. He gently fanned her face with his wings, bringing them sweeping softly from behind his shoulders and then back. The huge eyes regarded him for a while, then she put her head back, stretching and sighing. A couple of pink cushions floated past, bumping into her floating arms and ricocheting slowly away.
The yacht’s hire-limit warning chimed; it wasn’t allowed to stray too far from Tier. He’d already told it to cruise back in when it hit the limit; it duly fired its engines and they were pressed back into the slickly warm surfaces of the couches and cushions in a delicious tangle of limbs for a while. The girl wriggled with a succulent slowness, eyes quite dark now.
He looked over to one side and saw the little camera drone she’d brought, sitting on the ledge under one of the diamond view ports, its one beady eye still fastened on the two of them. He winked at it.
Something moved outside, in the darkness, amongst the slow wheeling turn of stars. He watched it for a while. The yacht murmured, engine firing quietly; some apparent gravity stuck him and the girl to the ceiling for a second or two, then weightlessness returned. The girl made a couple of small noises that might have indicated she was asleep, and seemed to relax inside, letting go of him. He pulled her closer with his arms while his wings beat once, twice, bringing them both closer to the view port.
Outside, close, by, a ship was passing by, heading inbound on its final approach for Tier. They must have been almost directly in its path; the yacht’s engine-burn had been avoidance action. Leffid looked down at the sleeping girl, wondering if he ought to wake her so that she could watch; there was something magical about seeing this great craft going sliding silently by, its dark, spectacularly embellished hull slicing space just a hundred metres away.
He had an idea, and grinned to himself and stretched out his hand to take the little camera drone – currently getting a fine view of the lass’s backside and his balls – and turn it round, point it out the view port at the passing ship, so that she would have a surprise when she watched her recording, but then something else caught his attention, and his hand never did touch the camera drone.
Instead he stared out of the port, his eyes fastened on a section of the vessel’s hull.
The ship passed on by. He kept staring out into space.
The girl sighed and moved; two of her arms went out and drew his face towards hers; she squeezed him from inside.
‘Wooooo,’ she breathed, and kissed him. Their first real kiss, without the gelsuit over her face. Eyes still enchanting, oceanically deep and enchanting…
Estray. Her name was Estray. Of course. Common enough name for an uncommonly attractive girl. Here for a month, eh? Leffid congratulated himself. This could end up being a good Festival.
They started caressing each other again.
It was just as good as the first time, but no better because he still wasn’t able to give the proceedings his full attention; now, instead of trying to remember what the girl’s name was, he couldn’t stop wondering why there was an Elencher emergency message spattered minutely across the scar-hull of an Affronter light cruiser.
6. Pittance
I
Ulver Seich sobbed into her pillow. She had felt bad before; her mother had refused her something, some lad had – unbelievably – preferred somebody else to her (admittedly very rare), she had felt terribly alone, exposed and vulnerable the first time she had camped out under the stars on a planet, and various pets had died… but nothing as terrible as this.
She raised her tear-marked face up from the sodden pillow and looked again at her reflection in the reverser field on the walk-in across the horribly small cabin. She saw her face again and howled with anguish, burying her head in the pillow once again and bashing her feet up and down on the under-cover, which wobbled like a jelly in the AG field, trying to compensate.
Her face had been altered. While she’d slept, during the night, one day out from Phage. Her face, her beautiful, heart-shaped, heart-winning, heart-melting, heart-breaking face, the face which she had sat and gazed at in a mirror or a reverser field for hours at a time on occasion when she’d been old enough for her drug glands to come on line and young enough to experiment with them, the face she had gazed at and gazed at not because she was stoned but because she was just so damned lovely… her face had been made to look like somebody else’s. And there was worse.
It might be hurting a little now if she wasn’t keeping the pain turned off, but that wasn’t what mattered; what mattered was that her face was: a) puffy, swollen and discoloured after the nanotechs had done their work, b) not her own any longer, and, c) older! The woman she was supposed to look like was older than she! Much older! Sixty years older!
People claimed that nobody in the Culture really changed much in appearance between about twenty-five and two hundred and fifty (then there was a slow but sure ageing to the three-fifty, four hundred mark, by which time your hair would be white (or gone!) your skin would be wrinkled like some basic’s scrotum and your tits swinging round your belly-button – ugh!) but she had always been able to tell how old people were; she was rarely more than five or ten years out – never more than twenty, at any rate – and she could see how old she was now, even beneath the puffiness and shadowy bruising; she was seeing how she would look when she was older, and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t her own face, it didn’t matter that she would probably look much better than this by the time she was in her mid-eighties (she had pictures of 99.9 per cent certain projections prepared for her by the house AI which showed exactly how she’d look at every decade for two centuries ahead, and they looked great); what mattered was that she looked old and dowdy and that would make her feel old and dowdy and therefore that would make her behave old and dowdy, and that feeling and that way of behaving and therefore that look might not go away when she was returned to her normal, her natural, her own appearance.