The Destiny Dance

Chapter 1

"Kill her, and be done with it."

Two Avarian brutes had caught her, disturbingly easily -- her head was ringing from the force of being suddenly slammed into the ubiquitous graphite composite of which much of her civilization was built. She had no idea it was so hard.

Rain began, though she hardly noticed.

The one who had thrown her, now punched her in the belly. She gasped for breath, a great pain spreading upward from her abdomen. "She's pretty. Maybe we sell her."

"Naw... you know how Dern gets when people piss with his plans," the original speaker continued. "He'll take it out of our percentage for sure. Want me to do it?"

"I got it." Through her blinding pain she heard a knife slide free of a sheath. "Sorry, lady, nothing personal." He grabbed her head to expose her throat.

Terrified like a farm animal led to a slaughter it knew was coming, Athowyn struggled wildly, frantically to escape. To live. O stars above how she longed to keep living... her frail arms lashed out against his sides, his belly, anyplace she could connect -- she was a dust mote flung against an oak --

He jerked suddenly and released her. Hot wetness washed over her; it took Athowyn a moment to understand that she was free. Confused but practical, she struggled away from him. Gratitude for whatever rescue had just occurred would have to wait until later.

The brute's head had been taken off by some projectile; she was covered in bits of his hard skull and the soft tissue inside -- blue Avarian blood and tissue covered her face and clothes. The assault upon her senses made her retch suddenly.

The other one -- also decapitated -- lay nearby. The rain began falling in earnest then and it seemed to her as though their corpses steamed.

Athowyn shrank against the slick alley wall, wanted to vanish, to disappear home to the Keep, to her rooms, her studies... Her father was right, she was and would remain a foolish, naive child. Maybe she could claim insanity, crawl back to them for a while, get her bearings before making any more stupid decisions. So distracted by her anguish was she, that she did not notice when a grav-assist van slid to a stop next to her.

Two men piled out, running for her in the rain. One of them, trying unsuccessfully to keep the downpour out of his eyes, griped sullenly upward into the rain, "Always with the sunshine..." He had a massive rifle hoisted over his shoulder.

The other one ran right up to her, grinning strangely and seemingly leering at her from head to toe. She was about to feel insulted when he exclaimed, "I was right, Bolly -- she is half-human." He stepped away from her as suddenly as he had approached.

Bolly clapped theatrically. "Yes, you have the eyes of a hawk, kid."

"And the fat credit account of a wealthy merchant," the kid replied quickly. "Pay up, old man."

The tossed credit chit was caught deftly. "Now go in the van and radio ahead that we're bringing someone in."

"You're the boss."

"Yes I am, aren't I," Bolly remarked, "Now git." The youngster disappeared into the van.

He approached, his eyes scrunched against the ever-increasing downpour. "That your blood?" Bolly wondered, eyeing her face.

Athowyn, relieved beyond gratitude that it wasn't, could only shake her head. For some reason someone had unscrewed her jaw and replaced it with one that wasn't connected to her brain.

Bolly walked over to inspect the dead Avarians. "Nothing personal, guys."

Even though she wanted to say something, at that moment she desperately needed the soothing balm of the predictable stinging rain, the soul-calming quiet of not being in fear of her life.

"Are you mute?"

Making a great effort to rise out of the safety of anonymity, she slowly replied, "No." She struggled to understand what was going on.

He smiled weakly, moving a step closer. The smell of powder residue from the rifle he had just fired washed over her. "Don't mind Tommi, he gets excited when he sees a human. I knew you had human blood in you the second I saw you through the scope" he said quietly. "But I'm the only one looking out for Tommi these days, so I got to let him get a piece of me every now and then. You know what I mean."

She wasn't sure she did, but in a sudden growing fatigue that threatened to drown out every thought, she wondered, "Aren't you... afraid of me?" Was it possible they had no idea who she was?

Even through the buckets of water sheeting them both, she could see his eyes brighten. "Did you swallow a bomb? Do you know the names of all my ex-girlfriends?"

"Well, no... " she answered, puzzled.

"Then why would I be afraid of you?"

She decided to leave it at that. For now.

* * *

After what had just happened, the very last thing she wanted to do was get in a van with strangers and go where they wanted her to go. For the moment though the only alternative was trudging meekly into the rain -- covered in stinking gore -- until the next predator found her.

The grav-assist van -- which only had a tiny bench for the driver, and no seating at all for anyone else -- was packed with electronic gear of all kinds, most of which she recognized -- they were either security operatives working for her family, or for one of the other Great Houses, or very sophisticated thieves; she had her suspicions. Athowyn and the perpetually grinning Tommi crouched miserably between stacks and boxes while Bolly apparently found the bumpiest route possible to wherever they were going.

Occasionally bright, colorful beams stabbed into the interior of the van through the windshield as they passed by a particularly garish building. The Sprawl might be a haunt for despairing souls, but they lit their world like they meant it.

"You are Caer'Nin," Tommi said eventually, still grinning. She was shocked... how could he possibly know? Other than the fact that she was human, And that was iffy. There were simply too many humans on Avaria.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied coldly, glaring.

He pointed at her necklace; she had long since taken to wearing that particular memento stuffed under her clothes, but the tiny graphite-steel chain holding her unique pendant was partially visible before it disappeared into her cleavage. Of course -- each link was stamped with her family crest! He could see that? Wasn't likely.

"I... I bought it at a market," she lied hurriedly. "Are you saying it might be stolen?"

"No one steals from the Caer'Nin and lives," Tommi scoffed, his grin fading..

"I'm not... I don't know what you're talking about," Athowyn continued, ever more desperately. "If I were spying for them, why would I flash this around?"

"She's definitely Caer'Nin," Tommi grinned.

The van's rear doors opened, revealing Bolly and a faintly lit warehouse all around them. In her growing fear and confusion, Athowyn hadn't even noticed they had halted.

"That's a good question," Bolly said, hoisting his rifle onto his shoulder amiably. "To throw us off the scent?" His intense blue eyes glared at her. He then held out his hand and waited for her to take it.. "This way," he said.

"I... I wanted to thank you," Athowyn said, hoping to change the subject. "For... saving my life back there."

"Thank me later," Bolly said easily. "Much later. Right after your shower would be delightful timing. Besides, it was an honest accident -- those poor fellows!"

"What do you mean?"

"They were just warning shots -- I never meant to hurt them".

Tommi, following a few steps behind, chuckled, hooted, and then collapsed in a torrent of howling laughter interrupted occasionally by gasps. Incredulous, Athowyn turned to gape -- she had never seen anyone laugh so deeply before. Despite herself, she smiled. The continually repeated phrase, "Just -- warning -- shots..." kept Tommi giggling beyond all reason and control.

"Not again," Bolly remarked drily. "This -- this! -- is why we don't take him out on jobs. Or out in public. Or out in daylight. Or even out of the box much."

"He certainly has good eyes," Athowyn remarked. "Augments?"

"Of course," Bolly admitted quickly. "Genetic augmentation though, not tech-level. It means --"

"It means his psychological development has been impaired," Athowyn muttered quietly. "A fair number also suffer from Rosho syndrome, a recessive genetic condition that, well, is probably -- "

"Yup," Bolly agreed. "Making him blind."

Athowyn's heart broke for the kid. "I'm so sorry. Does he know?"

"We just tell him he's special, and don't worry about the rest. We take it one day at a time down here. Come on, we do not want to piss off the big boss."

"By the way," Athowyn noted casually, rubbing her butt as they made their way farther into the warehouse, "Your rear right upper grav inducer needs to be properly synchronized. Seriously."

Bolly stared at her in a way that suggested she might have just sprouted a second head.

Nevertheless his eyes lowered to her hand and he agreed, smiling, "I'll think about it. Seriously."

Chapter 2

Not one fact or softly hinted rumor in anything she had heard about the Sprawl -- and she had exposed herself to the media more than most -- could have prepared her for the reality. Her mental image of the vast uncivilized darkness fairly oozing beneath the Keeps of the Great Houses, like hers, was one of despairing, hopeless thieves and murderers floating lazily from one con to the next, desperately maneuvering from one assault to the next, to stay afloat in a cruel current of vices that kept bubbling up evil.

For all Athowyn knew, it might all be true. Although she had long suspected it of being propaganda, here, in this warehouse deep, deep in the Sprawl, the only thing that was assaulted was her nose: with the overwhelmingly familiar and welcome aroma of crawfish chowder -- one of the few less hateful things introduced to Avaria by the lately reviled humans.

Athowyn had cheerfully slaughtered many thousands of the little critters in search of the perfect chowder recipe ... one of her earliest childhood memories was helping her mother try different cream and spice substitutes. Her mom had explained that there had been some galactic emergency that had prevented a specific merchant fleet from arriving that year -- but more like her childish mind had turned a simple failure of earther cattle and herb cultivation right here at home into this far more exciting event.

It didn't change the fact that her mom -- a human herself -- was never happy with the substitutes; green onions and corn and even potatoes were easily grown here; crawfish fair threatened to overrun the planet they were so delighted with their waters; but trying to get that "darned" earther cayenne pepper plant to take root in mother's well-oiled garden was apparently no less complicated than mapping the Avarian genome -- and mother should know, she had done the mapping.

The pungent but welcome aroma of chowder in her nostrils, Athowyn took a deep breath and was able to relax and take in her surroundings, a warehousing facility that had not been used for actual storage in generations, she guessed. Instead, walls had been erected to partition off large sections to provide separate living quarters. Children hollered and hooted at play; the occasional tot bawled somewhere out of sight. There must be a hundred people living here; yet there was no hint of the stench of a great, unventilated mass, the acrid mouldering that comes when too many are squeezed into too tight a space. Beneath the chowder she could smell the fresh night air working its way in.

Bolly led her to a large common area that at times probably doubled as any number of things, but now had become a kitchen and dining hall. Here a dozen men and women representing every Avarian race had busied themselves either cooking or cleaning: those from the central tundra like her father, with denser bone structure making them somewhat more compact -- some would sneer, squattier; those from the tropical jungles of the western lowlands, whose limbs seemed stretched and skin somehow thinner; those from the near-wastes of the temperate zones far to the north or south, whose abundant ears had evolved a downward tilt over the eons; yet all sharing essentially identical pointed ears, bluish-tinted skin, and large, upward tilted eyes. Her human skin really stood out.

They glanced her way and went back to work. What they thought of her pink skin and round ears, no one said. No one seemed to disapprove.

One tall woman overseeing several others husking a small mountain of fresh corn, wiped her hands and approached. "Did you get it?"

Bolly slipped a thick package out of his drenched coat. "Have I ever disappointed you, Ola?"

"Only when you're awake," Ola scolded playfully. She tossed the packet to one of the cooks. "Use this," she instructed. "It's the good stuff." They happily complied; Athowyn watched them tear into it carefully. She could smell the cayenne from here.

"Now," Ola continued, wrinkling her nose at her, "This one needs scrubbing."

"Don't think I haven't noticed," Athowyn added. "If you could point me in the direction of -- "

"I was about to escort her down," Bolly explained happily. "Someone's got to keep an eye on this dangerous fugitive, you know!"

Ola laughed. "Yes, and that eye would be mine, you old pervert. You're off the case, Bolford."

As Ola led her out of the kitchen, Athowyn saw Bolly prop his rifle against the wall with an "I'll clean you later," shrug out of his drenched coat, and get to work husking corn. It felt suddenly good to her to be not fearing for her life. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this safe.

* * *

After promising to burn her clothes -- and watch the exits -- Ola left her alone.

The air in here was hot and moist, but the stone tile floor was cold from others having just showered. Her toes squirmed in distaste; her short nipples hardening she cranked the controls and steaming water shot over her.

Athowyn felt as though she had been cold for weeks, being trapped in wet clothes that had gotten drenched. That's what it was like living at home, being unwelcome and unloved, hated by her own father. She didn't realize how much she hated her father's house and how much she hated the Keep until she was here showering.

It may not be the delicate shampoos and body washes that she was used to, but if all they had was one rough bar of soap to wash everything, then she would make do.

Rinsing those bits of tissue and skull out of her hair and face was the hardest -- her mind kept reliving those awful moments, as though she needed to. She decided to wash her whole body at least twice, but had to admit to herself some long moments later, that she had lost track of just how many times she had lathered and rinsed. And yet -- Athowyn found herself fighting the urge to wash herself one more time. She nevertheless grinned as she contemplated such dry hair that it would look as though she had electrocuted herself.

When she regained some measure of control, she worked her way down her neck and breasts. She soaped her flat belly and washed briskly between her legs, reaching down to get everything, right down to the spaces between her toes.

Cleaning done, there came a moment when Athowyn allowed herself the simple pleasure of just feeling the hot water drench her, listening to it splash and steam and gurgle... the water smelled great and tasted better; the hiss of the showerhead hypnotized. Her thoughts and feelings -- though muddled in general -- seemed to coalesce into that moment outside in the rain, when Bolly -- coarse, blond locks almost completely obscuring his somehow trustworthy eyes, his heavy rifle hoisted upon a shoulder -- joked with her about the color of her blood. Bolly, who despite being a denizen of the very much feared Sprawl, was so much beyond handsome that Athowyn had to achingly characterize him as "stupid-good-looking."

She was surprised when her hand wandered downward at the thought of him standing over her in the rain, dripping onto her, the sharp acridity of the rifle's powder residue igniting her senses, placing her firmly, but delightfully, at the scene. Her expert fingers rubbed gently through her short, soft pubic hair, probed between her pussy lips. A welcome heat spread inside her abdomen as Athowyn's body responded; it wouldn't be long before her pussy swelled.

But no matter how good looking she thought Bolly was, a vague daydream about her rescuer was not sufficient to disconnect her from the horror of being nearly knifed a mere hour ago, of being soundly splashed with the warm, exploding skull of an Avarian down on his luck. Tears running down her face Athowyn sank slowly onto the tiles, sobbing, all hope of physical pleasure gone.

Here in the familiarity of the hot water, the despair she felt might at last begin to fade.

Chapter 3

Athowyn, Ola, and Bolly had the end of a table to themselves; elsewhere in the small dining hall the numerous denizens of the ex-warehouse were giving new meaning to the words "dinner crowd;" young and old alike feasted upon the mighty delicious crawfish soup as though it were the finest meal in the galaxy.

For all she knew, it was -- but some also stared at her with a steady interest that seemed more than mere curiosity, more than a passing interest as to why there was a human woman sitting among them wearing dark blue coveralls with the name "Bolly" stitched over her left breast.

Bolly noticed the level of interest Athowyn was generating in the room, and explained it thus: "It's not your status as a human, with your rounded ears and pinkish skin and odd scent; it's your great beauty, no doubt."

Athowyn just about choked on a mouthful she was so unprepared for that. "No doubt," she mumbled self-consciously.

Ola, however, was having none of it. "Oh be quiet, Bolford," she pointed out. "He flirts with anything that has a pulse. Lucky for you that you still have one."

She preferred precision shooting to luck any day, Athowyn thought wryly. And if she had any clue how to act around the opposite sex she might have flirted back or something, instead of sitting here thinking about how she thought about Bolly not twenty minutes ago, in the shower.

"That is so not true," Bolly defended himself. "It absolutely does not have to have a pulse!"

"You're making her uncomfortable, Bolford, look how she blushes!" Ola continued calmly. That poor woman -- as long as she never found out the truth of why she was really blushing.

"Let's get down to business, Athowyn. Tell us where you came from and why you're here. We already know you're not from the Sprawl. Tommi believes you are one of the Caer'Nin, and I believe Tommi."

Blood drained from Athowyn's face as she confronted Ola's cool steady gaze. There was no doubt in her mind that the tall woman would protect her extended family with her life, ruthlessly, if need be; that she would break any law, silence anyone she thought might threaten their small island of respite from the unwelcoming mass of the Sprawl. Though she might be dead in ten minutes -- her life had only been on loan to these Sprawlers anyway -- they had trusted her in bringing her inside these walls. It was her turn to show some trust.

"Two days ago," Athowyn began quietly, for their ears only, "I was a child-princess living a lie at a Keep, and not just any Keep; my father is Grol Omer, ruler of House Caer'Nin, so-called 'protector' of many hundreds of thousands of lesser Caer'Nin, and all of the Sprawl, along with the other Great Houses. Two days ago that child-princess --the only child and heir to all of House Caer'Nin -- must flee to the Sprawl, or flee... into suicide from my own Keep."

Her anger at her father barely contained, she continued. "The child that was born Caer'Nin no longer exists. I am a woman of the Sprawl now -- I am certainly no Caer'Nin spy." Frustration, rage, self-pity, all flashed across her eyes in an instant. "Not that a human Caer'Nin spy would blend in very well..."