there’s no way we’d produce offspring.”
Rohan waved an admonishing finger at him. “Ah, but remember that the Cara were master geneticists. They’d been blending genes from every known alien race long before humans arrived on the scene. They were eager to add us to the mix, and couldn’t believe that the League was serious when the ban on alien-human comingling was put in place.”
Tracy took a sip of his drink. He knew from his studies that the Cara had no physical norm. They tailored bodies to suit a given situation. They changed sex on a whim. For thousands of years, they had been harvesting, mixing, and manipulating the genetic material from every race they met. A task easily accomplished, since the Cara spent their lives aboard vast trading ships that traveled between systems, or in the shops supplied by those ships. For the Cara, the greatest sin was uniformity. They believed that diversity was the key to survival and advancement. It had all been horrifying to the humans, and human purity became an obsession. Most genetic research and manipulation was outlawed for fear that the Cara might find a way to affect the basic human genome. Tracy said as much to Rohan.
The older man shook his head. “Yes, but that didn’t discourage the Cara. They found volunteers, disaffected humans hostile to the League, and produced several thousand half-breeds.” He picked up his glass and set it down over and over. Linking the circles formed by condensation into a concentric pattern.
“So, why make this girl look so different?” Tracy asked. “They could have made the offspring look like anything. Even exactly like a human.”
Rohan looked up. “And that was their mistake. That’s what they should have done. Instead, they tried to temper any backlash by tweaking the genes to make the children attractive to humans. Or at least what they thought would be attractive. They had noticed that we like cats. Hence Sammy.” Rohan refilled his glass and took a long pull. “What they didn’t realize was that it would make the kids just that much more horrifying.”
“But you weren’t disgusted by … Sammy?”
“Samarith, her full name was Samarith. And no, I wasn’t disgusted, but I had a taste for the exotic. They knew that. And used it.”
Rohan’s stomach was roiling, his head pounding. Swaying, he made his way through the anteroom and out onto the street. The sea-tinged air cleared his head somewhat. He found the corner of the building and went looking for the stage door.
What are you doing? the rational part of his mind wailed.
“I’m going to compliment her on her dancing,” he said aloud.
And ask about her life. Explore her thoughts. Share her dreams. Fuck her blind.
He found the side entrance and entered. Inside, the smell of sweat and rancid makeup seeped from the walls and hung in the air. Rohan swallowed hard and tried to find his way past the lighting control panel. He turned down a hall and found himself pressed against the wall as a gaggle of girls came hurrying past, heading for the stage. In the confines of that narrow space, they rubbed against him. He could feel the warmth of their bare skin even through his clothes, and his erection hardened again. He found another hallway, but this one was guarded by a tall man with a pendulous belly. Rohan tried to walk past and was blocked. The bouncer’s exposed biceps displayed military tattoos and muscle now overlaid with fat. The overhead lights gleamed on his shaved head.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I wish to see the young lady who just finished performing.”
“You and every other aristo …” The man glanced down at Rohan’s crotch. “Who stores his brains in his cock.”
Rohan gaped at him. “My good man, you can’t address me in that way.”
“Yeah, I can. And if you want to see Sammy, it’ll cost you.” He thrust his hips forward, displaying his credit deck. It didn’t have the same effect as when the dancers did it. Rohan dithered, remembered that gamine little face, unlimbered his credit spike, and paid.
“Where can I find her?” Rohan asked.
“Follow your prick. It seems to be doing a pretty good job as a dousing rod.”
The bouncer stepped aside and Rohan walked down the hall, checking each room as he came to it. Giggles and a couple of lewd invitations were received as he opened and closed doors. Hers was the fifth dressing room he checked. She was dressed in a deep-green robe and seated at a dressing table. The bottom drawer had been pulled out and she rested a bare foot on it. The robe had fallen aside, revealing the shapely leg almost up to the hip. Smoke from the stim she held languidly in one hand swirled like a halo about the tips of her pricked ears. She raked him with a long glance from those amazing green cat eyes.
“How much did you pay?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To Dal. How much did you pay him to get back here?”
“Three hundred.”
“You got taken. He would have let you in for half that.”
“I’ll remember that next time.” Samarith lit a new stim and regarded him. Rohan shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” he finally asked.
She let her gaze drift down to his crotch. “You’re giving me a moderately sized hint.” His erection deflated. “Awww, I broke it,” she drawled.
“I wanted to invite you to supper,” Rohan said.
“Courtship first? Well, that’s a change.” She stood and stubbed out her stim. “There’s a pretty good place in Pony Town that serves late.”
“I was going to take you to the French Bakery.” It was the capital’s best restaurant. He thought it would impress her.
She laughed. “You’re such an idiot. Kind of sweet, but an idiot.” He gaped at her. “It’s better if I keep a low profile.”
“Your profile wasn’t very low tonight,” Rohan shot back.
“This is a strip joint. It may be frequented by your set, but it’s still a strip joint. Waving me around in public wouldn’t be good for either of us. And who are you, by the way? Which scion of a decaying noble house are you?”
“How do you even know I’m FFH?”
“Oh, please.” Scorn etched the words.
He thought about his job and the stress that it carried. He thought about his cold and distant wife. “Can’t I just be Rohan for tonight?”
She cocked her head to the side, an endearing sight, and considered him. Her tone was gentler as she said, “All right. I’ll call you Han, and you can call me Sammy, and tonight we’ll pretend we aren’t who and what we are.”
“And after tonight?” Rohan asked.
“That depends on how tonight turns out.”
Rohan allowed Sammy to issue directions to his Hajin chauffeur, Hobb. Neither he nor Hobb intimated by word or action that they were familiar with the area.
