The Astrogatrix (Transparent Ones Book 2)

By Chang Terhune

Drina thought her Mars business was as dead and buried
as her military career. She was content to live out her life
in drunken peace and harmony in a shack on the Mayan
Riviera.

Then her old nemesis General Baptiste showed up with an
unreasonable request: rejoin the UFW and come to Mars
with them in a final push to defeat the rebellious and evil
Free Mars Republic.

As Drina faces down the unanswered questions of her past
she meets up with the strange residents of the red planet:
a grizzled crazy photographer, a boy soldier who looks
exactly like her dead husband and a ragtag group of kids
led by a pair of enigmatic, cigar-smoking twin 11 year old
boys.

But once she’s captured by the FMR the real horror begins.
For Drina is about to meet the creature that killed her
husband. The same ancient creature intent on taking Earth
as its new homebase for an invasion of the galaxy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312361461

Book preview

The Astrogatrix (Transparent Ones Book 2)

THE ASTROGATRIX

by

Chang Terhune

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1: CLOSER

CHAPTER 2: UPON RETURNING

CHAPTER 3: OUTSIDE

CHAPTER 4: SALVAGE

CHAPTER 5: EXPOSED

CHAPTER 6: UNCOVERED

CHAPTER 7: PROGRESSIONS

CHAPTER 8: SPACES

CHAPTER 9: DIVERSIONS AND REDIRECTIONS

CHAPTER 10: VATICINATE

PART TWO

CHAPTER 11: OUTLIER

CHAPTER 12: DECLINATION

CHAPTER 13: DIVINATION

CHAPTER 14: SUDOXE

CHAPTER 15: TALKING TIME

CHAPTER 16: OPACITY

CHAPTER 17: ONTOGENY

CHAPTER 18: NUMEN

CHAPTER 19: RECONSTITUTED

CHAPTER 20: .

CHAPTER 21: EXCISION

CHAPTER 22: ABSENCE

CHAPTER 23: THE TRANSPARENT ONE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1:

CLOSER

2470 A.D.  Outside of Jupiter

An easy job in a quiet part of space, they said.

Out where the traffic slowed to a trickle, rarely diverging off the Outer Galactic stream into the desolate neighborhood of the Boneyard, was an uneventful convergence of nothing.  From that lonely outpost by the JAAR, any starships were imperceptible to the naked eye against the backdrop of all the multitude of stars and heavenly bodies.  Only the instruments and Specialist Luck's displays revealed a steady rush of vessels going anywhere but here.  The incessant progression of ships in the Big Stream bound for exotic destinations brought a pang of wanderlust to his heart as he trained his sights on those distant lanes.  He lifted his gaze away from the display and looked out upon the starry dark. 

People think the scopes tell you the real story, he said.  I think it's the other way around.  A scope is there to make us feel like we're part of the hustle and bustle.  But that just ain't so.  We're out here parked in the middle of nothing while they- Here he gestured out the window at the invisible current of humanity pouring forth from Earth- are out there doing something.

Ninety-six days, twenty-two hours, nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds, proclaimed a soothing, robotic female voice from an indeterminate place on the wall.

Yes, Gala.  Thank you.  Luck glowered at the darkness before him.

It used to be longer, Aidan, said the voice, now more conversational in tone.  And you've stopped swearing at me when I say it.  You must be getting used to being out here, at least?

That's what scares me, he said.  That I might start to like it. 

He shuddered dramatically for the all-seeing eye of Gala.

I would miss you terribly, said the tug's persona with a laugh.

Until they wiped, reprogrammed and tuned you for the next dupe they stuck out here.

True, Gala replied.

So tell me again why they still have a human posted out here after over a hundred years of flawless A.I. supervision. Luck folded his arms over his chest.

Gala intoned the regulations as if reading from an ancient scroll:

To ensure the proper maintenance of the retired--

Moth-balled is a better word for it!

--the retired fleet until such time as ships of this nature are required for use again. Luck shook his head at the sterile ambiguity of a sentence Gala had repeated for him countless times.

Figures that I'd be the first hump dumb enough to get stuck out in the middle of nowhere for eighteen months with no other humans around just to babysit a bunch of retired generation ships and empty pleasure cruisers.  Why can't you do all the work out here? said Luck.

Who says I don't? replied Gala.

Luck flipped the bird at the empty space behind him.

Besides, I'd miss the human company.

Luck rolled his eyes then frowned.

Why don't they do something with all these ships?  Put 'em into service again.  Make a museum out of them.  Chuck 'em into the sun, maybe?

Because who would want to come out here and see a bunch of cold, empty ships?  You'd have to be an idiot to come out here and--

Luck cocked an eyebrow at the bulkhead.

You've made your point.  Now hush. 

Specialist Aidan Luck, known to certain members of UFW Inner System Traffic Management as "The Boneyard Concierge", looked out the observatory bubble of his service tug away from the distant traffic lanes across the span of emptiness at the Jovian Asteroid Anchorage Ring, also known as the JAAR.  The JAAR was comprised of one hundred twenty large-scale ships locked onto a wide ring tethered to an asteroid trailing Jupiter like a dog begging for scraps.  The gas giant loomed in the distance. 

Luck's job was to oversee routine maintenance, regularly check that all the ships held fast to the JAAR and keep them free of damage and debris.  The A.I.'s, the walky-dogs, the scrubbies, the walky-spiders and the micro-fleas did such a good job that he was left with massive amounts of free time and limited ways in which to spend it.  Virtual simulations got boring quickly, he wasn't too much of a book learner and there was only so much working out even he could do.

Can't wait until I get out and get home, he said.

Oh, I love this story! said Gala.

Collect my mom and my sisters and bolt out for someplace fancy like Arbor Town or New Goa.

I do so love talking to Maggie.  Why don't you invite her out here?

Because when we're left alone together in a place this cramped and boring there are eventually bruises, blood and fractures.  That's when we're in a good mood.  Sibling rivalry, y'see.

A glint in the JAAR caught Aidan's eye just as Gala pinged a warning.

A detachment? said Gala with genuine surprise.

Aidan checked his display to see that a ship had indeed detached itself.  The JAAR was two kilometers in diameter with the ships all attached at midships airlocks like bullets in a bandolier.  Each was firmly secured along their docking rings with additional redundant harnesses.  To come loose off the JAAR a ship would have to be disengaged from the docking rings inside and all harnesses undone from outside.  Both of these required permission from UFW Traffic Management and Luck and Gala's supervision.

Jesus.  Figures.  Luck slung himself into his flight harness and let it enfold him, snapping and clasping by itself.

When was the last time a ship got checked out?

"2287.  Black Narcissus.  Owner converted it into a scrap hauler."

Which ship is this one? he asked, initiating the tug's detachment from the main station.  He heard the hatch clank shut behind him as Gala prepared for emergency departure.  A slight tug of gravity on the restraints and they were scooting toward the JAAR.

"ID tags say Princess of Mars.  One of the first out.  Came here in 2231.  It was a cruise ship in use around the system.  Pluto and back in a week with room for 3,500 people."

Sounds delightful, said Luck as he drew up security and telemetry windows around him.  Is there a malfunction?  Something go wrong out there?

No.  Last check on its harness was a month ago and it was fine.  I didn't get any message from the sensors or the caretaker onboard.

Okay.  Try the comms.  Any chatter?

Nothing.  Its persona was deactivated when it came to the JAAR.  Onboard caretaker is unresponsive.

Closing in, Luck could see sunlight reflecting off the resident ships of the JAAR.  It spun almost imperceptibly to the naked eye, the four tether points marked by blinking beacons where meter thick cables led from the ring to a central connection point three kilometers away on the asteroid it trailed behind.  As Luck saw Princess of Mars' slender form drifting away from the JAAR like a child leaving the safety of a playground's fence, he began to get a cooling sensation in his stomach.

Talk to me, girl.

Nothing to tell:  Comms are silent, caretaker offline.  Aidan, there's nothing going on for several million kilometers in all directions.

Defensive posture, then.

Aidan, why?  This is just a--

Do it, he said.  Cold sweat gathering in his armpits and on the back of his neck matched the grinding sensation in his guts.

Defensive postures engaged. I think it's just a malfunction, Aidan. 

He noted Gala's concern as another icon in the display activated; a quartet of small, stubby guns rose up on their front end. 

Pathetic, he thought. 

Nothing happens out here for over a hundred years then all of a sudden the impossible happens on my watch.  You still think that's not a malfunction, Gala?

Aidan, I--

Wait a second, said Luck, checking his forward arrays.  We're being probed.  Nothing heavy, uh, just a charting beam--

It's coming from that ship.

The scan showed the simple beams reflecting off their hull as Princess of Mars slid away from the JAAR.  Aidan's stomach dropped further down into his bowels as he saw the ship gracefully clear the structure and move under its own power.

It's heading right for us.  Dread tightened his muscles, making his lower body clench as he watched the giant ship power toward them.  Whatever was making it move did so with amazing alacrity.  He'd never seen the pilot of even a small craft maneuver it so deftly this close to a dock. Princess of Mars was fully clear of the JAAR now.  Aidan noted how all eleven hundred sixty-five meters of her was pointed at the bulky form of his little tug Jenny Papazian.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he muttered, repeating his mother's favorite mantra in times of stress.  Okay, uh, Gala open up all channels for me.  I'm gonna talk to it myself.

Aidan, I've been doing that with a subpersona for the last--

Goddamn it, just open them!

Yes, Aidan.  Okay.  All channels open. 

He gripped the sticks in his hands, licked his lips and cleared his parched throat.

"Uh, this is UFW Tug Jenny Papazian hailing vessel Princess of Mars.  You are unauthorized for disengagement and departure from JAAR.  Hold position, identify yourself and await a boarding team."  Luck squeezed the sticks and felt his hands slide greasily on them.  He wished he'd convinced Gala to blow off tug duty for today.

Nothing, Aidan, said Gala.

I know.  I can hear absolutely nothing myself.  He knew it was stupid to get angry at Gala; her voice was now loaded with filtered sub-frequencies to maintain his calm and ensure smooth operations.  It made him angrier that it didn't work than that she did it at all.  "Princess of Mars, this is UFW Tug Jenny Papazian requesting immediate voice confirmation.  I order you to put a full stop on engines and await boarding." 

The silence, the great depth of absent sound, made Aidan want to scream loud and long enough to fill all channels, all space between him and the Jupiter station.  Still nothing came from the speakers.

"Gala, prepare front guns and call Jupiter Station Kettlebell.  Send them all relevant video and patch in a stream to their watch."

Done.  Less than a kilometer and closing, Aidan. 

He was too far from home, too young to be out here all by himself.  Who the hell puts a twenty-one year old so far out in the system all by himself?  UFW Screw you, that's who! was the familiar reply in the chorus of his platoon mates.  He'd give anything to be back with them. He'd even take more of LeClerc's shit and Gottmundsdottir's passes at him.

Eight-hundred fifty meters and closing, Aidan, said Gala. 

He could make a single shot at their bow and maybe knock out sensors long enough to make a run for the station.  Maybe duck behind the asteroid's blind spot to cover his ass while he scrammed back to Kettlebell.

What kind of weapons does she have, Gala? Aidan asked.  He definitely wanted his mom right about now.  Either of them.

Registry says she only had minor defensive beams at bow, midships and stern.  But there's something very big powering up near the bow.  Where there should be an observation deck I see an enormous buildup like a kind of particle weapon. Forward shields are up now.  Our guns won't put a dent in them.

Aidan knew from training and endless simulations that any ship would have to drop shields momentarily to fire a big gun like that or else the beam would bounce around inside the shield and tear up your own ship.  Gala would be looking at the source of the energy for a chink in the armor then put a tiny hole in their bow. 

And then they'd blow his tug into dusty fragments.

Do not fire.

Luck thought it was Gala for a second until he realized it was a male voice croaking from his seat speakers.

Gala? Aidan asked.

Comms are dead now, Aidan, she replied.  Channel opened and shut just like that.

Oh, Jesus.  It's a trap!  They're gonna make me stop for a second and then--

No, Aidan. They're powering down that forward guns now.

A glance at the display confirmed Gala's words.  The blinking circle at Princess of Mars' bow stopped.  She was completely defenseless.

Still moving, though.  Five hundred meters and closing, Aidan, said Gala.

Prepare a boarding team of four spiders and six walky-talkies.  Arm the walky-talkies with cutters and the spiders with hammers and piezo torches.

Aidan, those're poor weapons against--

Well then go and get me that a gun you've got hidden away for Christ's sake! 

For once, Gala stayed silent until she had to speak.

Initiating emergency docking sequence.

Copy that, Gala.

Airlock sync and docking ring union in ten, nine, eight...

He listened to the countdown, his bowels clenching even tighter.  He thought of his sisters playing in the cramped courtyard back on the ring commune orbiting Venus.  Never gonna see them again, he thought as sweat dripped from his wrists on to the sticks.  Gala stopped counting when a thud told him they'd connected to the giant, dark ship.

Contact has been made.  Attaching cowling now.  Gala piloted them in all the way.  Despite his best efforts, Luck's grip on the sticks as if he were in control did nothing to stop him from realizing he was less in control than ever.  With shame he remembered being a child and gripping himself in the night when he was afraid. 

As the safety harness disconnected he floated through the portal into the ready room.

Behind a partition of diamond pane windows he watched his crew get ready for boarding; biped walky-talkies readying themselves behind fat walky-spiders already crouched at attention.  Both were armored in the same gleaming black metal, polished to perfection by caretaking stevedrones.  He worried that both were horribly outmatched by whatever could sit in the depths of a mothballed pleasure cruiser for a hundred-odd years without anybody noticing.  Luck felt like a child again, outnumbered by the cajoling big kids in the playground at the Mariner School.

Nobody to help you now, he said to himself.  He took a deep, shuddering breath, pulled on a suit and grabbed his firetool.  Before stepping into the airlock, he felt his boots lock magnetically to the deck with a disconcerting firmness.  His suit finished forming to his body and indicated full pressurized with a beep and a green icon on his faceplate.  He stepped hesitantly between the walky-talkies, trying to hide among their shining, mechanical forms.  The display above the lock indicated a secure seal between the two vessels.

Great, he thought.  Here goes nothing.

Gala, open it up, he said. 

A walky-spider spun the handle. Aidan felt a rumble through his boots as the heavy doors parted before him, revealing the long, plastic tunnel attached to the Princess of Mars' docking cowl.  Aidan stepped forward, waiting breathlessly as the pleasure ship's doors opened.

At the portal, he stared into a short service airlock illuminated by his headlamps and powerful swivel-lights mounted on the back of the walky-spiders.  He expected the grand entrance of a pleasure cruiser he'd once seen as a kid when it stopped into port with all the artwork and gorgeous attendants.  Here he was instead, standing at the Princess of Mars' bland service entrance. Even the emergency lights were off, the batteries dead after a hundred years.  The walky-spiders scuttled into the airlock then through the doors before branching left and right. Through his helmet speakers their sub-sentient chatter began as they crept into the ship, recording and searching.  Luck followed hesitantly, stepping into the corridor beyond the airlock.

Dozens of empty black space suits lay strewn on the floor as if someone was caught stealing them.  Luck thought they'd fallen off hangers until he noticed a strange, greenish jelly that filled the helmet of each one.

He drew his sidearm, stepping closer to the nearest suit.  Peering into the clear globe of the helmet, Luck saw icy blue strands and small white shards mixed in among the jelly; he realized these were hair and teeth. 

Luck inhaled and stepped back, tamping down the nausea that rose inside him.  He glanced at an insignia on a suit near him:  a red sphere with a yellow outline and a strange character above the sphere.  His stomach dropped.

FMR!  FMR suits! he said.  Oh, shit.  Gala, you see this?

"Yes, Aidan.  I've called Kettlebell.  Backup troops will be here in two hours."

Two hours?

He looked at the red of the insignia and wished he'd never been born.

The occupants of these suits were real FMR soldiers, not the bogeymen they tried to scare him with back in school.  Mama cried when he'd gotten shipped out here to the JAAR and so close to Mars.  As if being a planet or two away would stop them.  In their last letter to him a month ago, Mommy and Mama both begged him to ask his superiors for bigger guns or put someone more experienced out there.

There's fifty-four bodies in there, Aidan, said Gala.  An awful lot of overkill if they wanted to take on one tug, if you ask me.  Luck looked over the mass of shining black suits filled with the festering, gelled flesh, teeth and hair like purulent terrariums.

A shadow detached itself from the wall and moved toward him.

Luck raised his pistol, shouting, Freeze!

The shadow coalesced into a black-suited figure stepping over the mass of bodies underneath its boots.  The figure made no effort to step gingerly over fallen comrades and blindly trod on arms, legs and occasionally a helmet. I said freeze!

The figure stepped closer.  Luck's headlamps illuminated the helmet.  Inside, a man's face glowed behind streams of condensation.  Green skin sheltered yellow eyes framed by the matted, ice blue hair he saw in the cast off suits.

He held out his hands toward Luck.

Freeze.  I don't want to fire on you.

The soldier stopped less than two yards from Luck and dropped his hands to his sides. Aidan saw his expression go from gaunt and struggling to slack and resigned which frightened him even more.

Surrender and identify or I will fire my weapon, Luck said.

S'okay, said the suited figure, his voice raspy and sluggish.  They're all dead.  I did it.

I don't care.  Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head.  The man dropped to his knees as Luck commanded.  Luck clenched the trigger even tighter.  The man held his hands up.

When they ask you, tell them...  Tell them some of us are still human.

He fell face forward into the pile of bodies.  Luck stepped closer, lowering his weapon to the man's helmet.

What did you--

Inside the helmet the skull popped wetly, like air bubbles in an omelette, coating the interior of the helmet with a mixture of slime, hair and teeth.

Aidan, he's dead, said Gala.

Luck didn't feel any better about that.

CHAPTER 2:

UPON RETURNING

2470 A.D.  Earth

The airship was gaudy inside and out.  Yuri Ovechkin, its owner, a former hockey superstar and notorious full-contact entrepreneur, had the lousy taste of a conservative, religious farmer who'd suddenly won the lottery.  Even if it had not been formerly owned by a Mandarin polygarch known for outlandish taste and contempt for basic human rights, it would still be a remarkable blimp.  The deceased's decorating sensibility wavered somewhere between a little girl obsessed with mythical creatures and princesses or a painter of grandiose Chinese homeland epics.  The exterior was gold, with hanging red filigrees so lavish it looked like a floating Chinese lamp built around a cow when viewed from the surface.  Yuri liked it so much after he'd had the owner thrown from the side that he didn't change a thing about it except the name.

The interior was decorated like a bad theme restaurant: lurid shades of red and gold, wall murals depicting quaint village scenes or battles, the entire vessel lit everywhere by enormous crystal chandeliers. 

Drina felt nervous standing under the lighting even when alcoholically or chemically emboldened.  The furniture was overstuffed and comfortable but a bit too pliant for her tastes.  Every piece of it was programmed to begin molding itself into various sexual positions when it sensed an occupant.  Drina had grown tired of a chair or couch configuring itself to accommodate one or more partners; she spent most of her time standing or wandering the airship's observation decks, enormous banquet halls and exquisite ballrooms.  She knew people wondered why the mysterious and languid, dark-haired woman in the red dress was always on the move like a half-sated lioness.  Then again, there was plenty to be distracted by at Yuri's endless floating party.

Why the hell am I here?

She stopped at the enormous windows of a portside observation deck as she thought this.  It was relatively quiet today; the long couches spread about the room were dotted here and there with a couple engaged in either party chatter, lazy foreplay or pneumatic sex.  Seeing two diplomats talking near-Earth economics while barely noticing a couple, a trio, a quartet or other multi-bodied sexual groupings right next to them had long since ceased to shock her.  Having seen all too much of the latter during her time aboard, her attention wandered to the view outside.

Where else would you be?

Below her spread Earth's blue surface.  Humanity's recovery from its environmentally profligate twentieth and twenty-first centuries took most of their twenty-second, twenty-third and twenty-fourth.  Here and now in 2470, Earth looked beautiful once again.  Drina gazed on a mother world she had never known up close; like most Astrogator's, her early years were spent off-world at the secluded lunar Astrogation academy. 

Glancing at the coastline below, she felt something subtly shift inside her.  Distant elements awoke, pushing memories through buried, darkened layers then up into her consciousness.  Drina touched the window and an overlay appeared, delineating borders and place names;  Cancun, Playa Del Carmen, Cozumel and Tulum brushed away her martini buzz, flooding her with clear, sharp but not altogether pleasant memories.  Once upon a time she longed to return to those very shores below with Leo.

Poor Leo, now scattered into space with the molecular remnants of their ship and life together.

Is pretty, yes?

Pretty? Drina said, not bothering to turn toward the voice or shy away from the hand alighting low on her hip.  She laughed, leaning in slightly, the hand sliding in to rest on the cleft of her pelvis with a relaxed, proprietary familiarity.  Only a man like you would refer to something as gorgeous as this with an understated word like 'pretty.'

"Only a woman with no connection to it would be so defending of gryaznyye staryye planety Zemlya." 

Drina bumped her hip into Yuri.  She turned toward him, leaning against the windowsill. 

One would think a woman born and educated on Luna and seeing so much of the galaxy as an Astrogator would be bored with this simple blue world, he said.

I've been here before, you know.

Da. I know, Drinschka.  Yuri's hawk-like face softened as his mouth flinched around the nickname. Then he smiled and swept a lock of blond hair away from his piercing blue eyes.  But you stand up for her like a recent convert defends old Christ against the pious near-atheism of a Bishop of the Infinite Sublime.  Like a long absent parent or prodigal daughter eager to make the mother or child proud.

Drina noticed Yuri swallow on these words, his smile faltering for a millisecond. 

'Methinks the lady doth admire too much.'  Something along those lines.

Drina laughed, admiring Yuri over the rim of her glass as she sipped.  He was attractive even with the scars from his long and fierce hockey career.  He was tall and powerfully built without any of the flashy genetic augmentation popular among his gangster colleagues.  Yuri worked hard for his position in life and his face showed it.  A badly damaged nose and cheekbone had been rebuilt but other than that, Yuri Ovechkin wore all his scars proudly.  He was quite aware these only enhanced an air of power.  It was a power that kept weak men at a distance while drawing certain women closer. 

How long have I been at your floating party, Yuri?

Long enough to find a dress that perfectly matches the red of the décor.  Nice work. 

Though some thought it was a nod to the previous owner's Mandarin ancestry, the famous red and gold colors of Yuri's jersey matched the decorating scheme of Karjala Cup 2455.  Partygoers delighted in the house game:  to match these reds and golds perfectly, knowing it would curry favor and attention from Yuri.  The shade was not a normal red, having many subtle nuances achieved only through access to an industrial nano-loom married to a quantum computer.  Only three people succeeded.  Two were business associates who suffered accidents shortly after the termination of their involvement with Yuri.  The third?

You like it? she said, standing and turning once before plopping down on the sill and crossing her legs.  Only took me six months here and a whole lot of walking.

And yet your legs remain so...  sleekly feminine, said Yuri, his eyes taking in where his hands had been many times and only days before.  Drina no longer thrilled at the thought of his touch.  She was never the most exotic feminine appliance on board and Yuri's appetite was famously voracious and mercurial.  Sure, Drina was the hot new thing for a while.  But recently she'd been downgraded in an ever-changing cycle of beauties.

Thank you, Yuri, but my legs and I are ready to take off for a while.  She placed her drink on the sill, straightened the dress and brushed her hair from her shoulders.  Yuri's eyes rested on her clavicle before meeting Drina's.  He wore a frown and furrowed brow.

But, Drinscka!  I so love having you here.  We've had such wonderful times, yes? 

Drina smiled at Yuri's half-hearted protest.

He's just as bored as me, she thought.

We have, Yuri.  Definitely.  But I want to do some walking on solid ground.

Please, Drinschka.  Stay.  How do I convince you? 

Poor Yuri, she thought, doesn't know when to quit even when his heart's not in it. 

She looked for the familiar tick in his right eye signaling the imminent arrival of persuasive violence but saw only his fondness for her and a general boredom.  His single attempt at physical correction with her taught him an important lesson about UFW martial arts training and earned him a fresh scar on his hip.

Yuri, she said, stepping closer, touching the lapels of his smoking jacket, standing on tiptoe and kissing him.  He reciprocated, a hand moving to her buttock and another sliding through her hair.  She drew away.  He wiped his mouth leisurely with two fingers before tasting them.

So...  Where shall I drop you off? 

Most people would have been terrified hearing those words from Yuri.  It was not uncommon for some to be tossed overboard like so much trash.  Accidents happened on board Karjala Cup 2455, some more suspicious than others.  Drina knew he meant taking a shuttle to a soft landing at a geographical locale as opposed being thrown from the rear landing deck. 

Right down there, said Drina, pointing to jungle coastline rimmed in turquoise seas below.  I'll give the driver a specific location when we get near ground-level.

Very well, Drinschka. I will tell Grigori to prepare a shuttle.  Shall I have someone pack your things?

Sure.  I don't have too much on board.  I'm sure whatever I leave behind will fit someone else.

No one else can fit your clothes like you, beloved.

So sweet, Yuri.  Yet so rough in rink, bed and boardroom.

Everyone deserves their own special treatment, said Yuri, opening his arms wide.  His eye caught a couple behind them in escalated foreplay.  Drina chose her exit, knowing she'd be out of mind before she left the room. 

I'll send you a postcard, Yuri.  He flinched again, losing the smile for a moment, then turned toward her and chuckled.  She left her drink on the sill and turned to her quarters.

Yes...  Do that, said Yuri, turning to face the welcoming couple, throwing open his robe to reveal nothing underneath save his very excited biological features.

~*~

The shuttle touched down in a bare dirt lot next to a small, sun-bleached bodega.  Peering into the heat, Drina caught an unpleasant burning scent.  Across the road was a smoldering trash mound attended by four listless children throwing wood and more garbage at it.  Wrinkling her nose, Drina refused the offer of help and personal security by Yuri's driver but tossed him a few gambling chips for his time.  She slipped the light bag onto her shoulder then stepped into the noonday sun of the small Yucatan village in red dress and matching heels.

In the bodega she purchased some toiletries and a cold bottle of water.  Despite a fan and the invention of cheap air conditioning three hundred years ago, the air was stifling and inert.  She wondered how the fruit didn't dry, spoil or wilt instantly.  The old man seated behind the safety glass with a very illegal Ghorran-style shotgun across his lap was so immobile Drina wondered if he was real.  Drina slid her palm over the green triangle on the counter and smiled at him.

"Gracias, senorita," he said, face hardly moving as a papery voice emerged from a darker fold among the brown, wrinkled skin.

"De nada, senor."  It took her a moment to draw upon the Old Spanish that Leo had taught her years before.

Where is the nearest hotel? she asked.  Something on the beach. Secluded.  Safe.

Down the road a mile or so. He barely lifted a gnarled hand off the fat shotgun to gesture out the door.  On the left.  Playa de La Paz.  Yoga.  Massage.  Good bartender, too. He looked her up and down once with bored appreciation. Right up your alley.

Gracias, senor, she said, leaving the bodega before the possible double entendre could bother her.

Drina went a few meters before taking her heels off to walk the hot dirt road.  She felt the ground's collected solar heat burn her skin.  Shortly, the dermal implants would cycle in, keeping her skin supple while letting it tan.  She pulled sunglasses from her bag and slid them on. 

The glasses powered up and she double-checked the name of the hotel.  Sure enough, directions popped up for a Playa de La Paz less than a kilometer ahead of her.  The last time she'd been down here she was on a man-made island a few clicks northeast.  There she'd had two weeks of R&R with her new husband before being installed in the Wellstone.  Memories flashed through her mind for a millisecond and she shivered despite the unrelenting tropical heat. 

Now, with a forty-five-year-old mind in a body reconstructed to look like that of a twenty-five-year-old, she approached the wrought iron gate at the entrance of Playa de la Paz and waved a hand over a green triangle near a speaker.  A slight crackle preceded a female voice.

Welcome to Playa de La Paz, Señora Valencia, it said in Soceam standard.  How long will you be staying?

Not sure, Drina answered in old Anglese out of curiosity. Indefinitely.

Excellent, the voice said, matching the switch in language.  Your account will be charged weekly for services.  Do you require assistance with luggage?

No, thank you.

The gate opened inward, revealing a sandy path weaving through a wide, open courtyard lined with palm trees on either side.  Small stucco palapas flanked the main path that led to a large dining hall with palm frond roof.  Drina reflexively scoped out the entrance seeing two large beam guns painted green hidden among the palms.  For the first time since her discharge she wished she still had military-grade neural implants.  She knew the path underneath her feet was smart-mined, among other security measures.  Classy place, she thought to herself.  From the trees a parrot startled her as it flew out and landed on a perch near Drina.

"Please follow me to your lodgings, señora," it said in a deep male voice.

Certainly, Drina said.  She walked behind the parrot as it flew along the path, stopping occasionally to let her catch up.  It finally stopped near a palapa with a rusted iron 9 nailed to the front door.  A shallow pool for rinsing sand off one's