The Wilding

THE ROOM WAS all stone and metal, unyielding, cold. Glistening tiles of Andalask marble were underfoot, fitted so closely that a drop of water could not have squeezed between them. Walls were surfaced in wafer-thin slices of U’lu schist, that glittered like stars against a sea of pearly gray. Sculpted seats of florentined metal were clearly intended for art rather than comfort, and the matching table held upon it a decanter of Aldousan swept-crystal with two glasses to match. The glass was more fragile than the rest of the room but equally unliving, its substance drawn from the melding of rock and heat rather than organic substance.

K’teva looked over the room with satisfaction and checked one last time to see that the security array was working properly. It was. There was only one thing left to wait for, then, and that was not in her glove.

She was quiet on the outside—as always—but inside her heart was pounding in a fevered expectation. Part fury, part determination, part . . . a strange hunger, that rooted itself in the same parts of her flesh which were normally reserved for pleasure.

You thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you? Her words addressed a man not yet present except in her imagination, and fixed upon him with such rage that if he had been able to sense even a shadow of her mood he would have stayed many systems away from her. But she was Braxaná—more so than he, at least—and knew how to keep such things hidden, until the end.

It had taken her most of her spare cash to outfit the room properly, but it would be worth it. It was the kind of room that most purebred Braxaná had tucked away in their mansions somewhere, though theirs were probably more subtle in design than hers was. Theirs had to be. The people they dealt with knew the implications of such decor, and their enemies might be hesitant to enter such a space if it were not well disguised.

Would her visitor read the signs right, would he know? Maybe I should have put out a few pillows, she thought. A natural fiber rug on the floor might even add to the moment, if positioned properly. Perhaps she should have provided one.

The man on the front step was dressed in Central style, but the clothing sat ill upon him, as if he was used to something else. Little wonder. It was probably rare that such a man came into the Holding at all, and she doubted this one had ever been as far as the B’Saloan system. She’d wondered, when she invited him, if he’d be willing to come at all.

She indicated a hallway and let him precede her. She’d left the door open at the end of it, and he took the cue readily enough. Any man who worked for a Braxaná woman learned how to figure out what she wanted, without orders needing to be given. That was as much a part of their culture as the social codes which prohibited her giving him a direct command.

She followed him into the stone-and-metal room and shut the portal behind her. His heavy synth boots, scuffed from years of wear, echoed dully on the marble floor as he took up a position at the far end . . . almost as if he knew where she wanted him.

He hesitated. She could almost smell his brain churning out a chemical cocktail of suspicion and doubt. He had, indeed, reported his findings to her already. So why had she called him all the way here, to the Mistress Planet, to meet with her personally? Let him wonder, she thought. Anticipation thrummed hotly in her veins as she turned to the small table, lifted the decanter, and poured two round-bellied glasses full of the deep red Central wine. Were her hands trembling just a bit? She steadied them as she lifted one glass for herself and offered him the other. He took it.

“It’s like I told you, Lady.” He took a quick drink from his own glass, swallowing it like one might a cheap Border ale, instead of a fine Central vintage that probably cost as much as he made in a year. “No one’s seen hand nor glove of your Kesserit for a while, but rumor has it he went off with a bunch of freelancers, and them with none too good a reputation.” He drank again, deeply, emptying the glass. “I’ve got some information on them—and their possible future targets as well—but you have all that, Lady, it was in my last report, so I’m sorry . . . I assume you want something more than that?”

She put her glass on the table. It was still full. A casual step put her in a place where the table was between them . . . and other things as well. “I would like you to tell me of the others, Silkar.”

His expression tightened ever so slightly. Another might have missed it, but she was used to the Braxaná and knew how to watch for such subtle signs of expression. “I don’t understand,” he said quietly. He put down his own glass, now empty. “I’ve got other jobs, if that’s what you mean. You’re not the only one wanting information from the Border, and I haven’t made any agreement not to sell it—”

“—because you see, I have other spies. And they tell me that there are some men on my home planet who know my business. More of it than they should.”

“Isn’t it?” She took a step backward and looked him over. “They tell me otherwise. They tell me that the things these men know could only have come from one person. What’s the matter, Silkar?” Her eyes narrowed, as hard and as cold as the stone surfaces surrounding. “Didn’t I pay you enough?”

She saw his eyes skitter about the room, marking its only entrance—behind her—and perhaps even searching for things that might be used as weapons. Too late for that, she thought. He was like a wild animal caught in a trap, who had only realized that it was that. But she was of the first class by virtue of her half-Braxaná blood, and he was not. For him to lay a hand on her in violence was an offense punishable by death. She could taste the knowledge of that as it lay heavy in the room, could see his tongue lick nervously at the corner of his mouth as if he shared the sensation.

“Tell me whom you report to,” she said softly. She had fallen into the speech mode of Seduction, which made her choice of words doubly offensive. “If the information is useful I may spare your life.”

He was about to speak, most likely in anger—no Braxin male could fail to take offense at such a direct command from a woman—but even as the words were ready to leave his mouth a sudden stabbing pain in his stomach robbed him of his voice. His hand went to the site of the pain and for a moment he looked more perplexed than afraid. Then his eyes caught sight of the two glasses on the table—his empty, hers full—and when they turned back to her they no longer contained puzzlement, or even fear . . . simply horror.

He lunged for her, but she was ready. One fingertip’s touch to a hidden control brought up a force field that divided the room in two, transforming the short distance between them into an impenetrable barrier. He struck it with such force that she could see his palms reddened as the barrier absorbed the energy of his momentum, but he was beyond feeling such peripheral damage. Pain was churning in his gut now and raw animal terror was drowning out all rational thought in his brain. Screaming invectives at her, he beat upon the barrier. It was a primitive instinct, doomed from the start, but the human hindbrain knew nothing of force fields, only desperation and fear.

It churned out of his stomach directly, eating through flesh and clothing alike. A black, roiling mass more sentient than mere poison, a thousand times more horrifying than any stable life form. It churned out of his abdomen, his chest, and even his mouth, spilling over the confines of the flesh which had recently taken it in, devouring everything it landed on.

Silkar screamed. It was a primitive, inhuman sound, voiced by a creature whose higher instincts had been drowned out by terror. He fell to the ground and clutched at his stomach in agony, but there was no flesh there any longer—only a black mass of poison that seethed as it spread, devouring every bit of organic material within reach. It had gotten on his hands and now they were being consumed, bloodstained finger bones jutting out as the flesh was dissolved first, then even the bone crumbling as it, too, was digested. His body began to convulse as it died, death-spasms casting bits of flesh and poison to all corners of the room.

A thick wad spattered wetly on the force field right in front of K’teva’s face, the poison seething with hunger as it fell to the floor inches from her feet. She took a step backward instinctively, fascinated, horrified. She had read of the Black Death, of course, and had learned the details of its application when her black market contacts obtained it for her, but to see it in action . . . that was another thing. Her intellectual facilities assured her that it could not reach her through the force field, but the animal part of her, ruling over that part of the brain where lust and fear were regulated, was not so sure.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The convulsions ceased, and the few remaining fragments of flesh—his legs, mostly—lay still. The seething blackness slowed, then stilled, and finally became inert, its surface dulled and cracked as it died. All around the room, the bits of poison that had been scattered by his struggles likewise went inert where they had been cast, and did no damage to the room surrounding them. Of course. The Black Death could only digest organic matter; stone, metal and glass were immune from its hunger.

She stood there breathing heavily, drinking in the heady elation of the kill. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, a strangely sexual rush that left her flesh aching for other acts, living acts, as if to counterbalance the dance of death she had just been part of. She wanted to savor the feeling as long as she could, before the cleanup began. Because of course, there would be cleanup. Not just of the room itself. Unlike the Kaim’eri she had no right to kill a man just for annoying her, which meant there would have to be special arrangements made. She had set them all in motion before Silkar had arrived, of course, but it would behoove her now to confirm them all, and to make sure no rival had stuck a thorn in her glove while she was . . . indulging.

She let the force field disperse. The smells from the other half of the room filled the small space with the stink of fear, and of dying. Tonight it was the scent of her triumph, as sweet to her nostrils as the bouquet of the finest wine.

To have an enemy worthy of one’s respect . . . that is a prize beyond measure. What is a lover’s touch compared to such a thing? Love is but weakness shared, trials halved for being met in tandem. While a skilled enemy provides stimulation, challenge, and ultimately growth for all those who test their strength against his.