Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/A/ASS13709.TXT

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@BEGIN_FILE_ID.DIZ
Damage
Palindrome.
.emordnilaP
Chapter Eight:@END_FILE_ID.DIZ

     Picard had stayed collapsed in his boarding room for some time, overwhelmed
by Hannah, only to find she'd left a note for him at the desk to meet him again
at ten o'clock.
     She'd arrived wearing the same grey dress as this afternoon and taken
forever to cross the threshold once he'd found her. She'd taken the stairs to
his room while he'd wandered the lobby like a department store floor walker. He
didn't know she couldn't have been seen going upstairs with him. Finally
they'd met and they ascended by separate staircases. Despite her undetected
arrival, once they sat on the couch she seemed more scared than ever.
     Jean-Luc leaned close, she didn't slide from him, only grew tense. Trying
to hook his face under hers for a kiss made her stiffen more. He was irritated
He shivered slightly, wanting to hold her. He looked away and considered.
     Jean-Luc removed his shoes and socks.
     'Look at these,' he twiddled his toes, 'aren't they ugly? They look like
they're made of mahogany they're so brown and purple. And where there are no
broken capillaries the skin is splotchy white. Nevertheless, my feet don't feel
ugly, they feel fine other than the calcium deposit my doctor has to keep
removing.'
     He untied his neck scarf and made her look closely at the decades of small
razor scars on his cheek, chin and neck.
     Jean-Luc showed her how one of his fingers curved no matter how straight he
tried holding his hand. And then there were his age spots, scored on to the
backs of his hands by too many suns.
     She sat stony-faced as he removed his pale jacket and untied his shirt.
When he was young he'd hoped to have a manly figure with lots of chest hair like
his father, but now it was his back that had so much hair. Now his belly was
soft, the washboard ripples he'd worked so hard for gone and even his chest
hairs were going grey. Gently, he took her hand and extended a finger from her
fist and used it to count the birthmarks on his torso and arms; he counted aloud
for her, numbering his imperfections.
     He removed his pants and used her fingernails to trace his varicosing
veins. Lastly he slid from his drawstring drawers. Jean-Luc's pubic hair was
turning salt and pepper with age and his thighs and calves had been worn smooth
of hair by hundreds of uniform pants.
     The traveller's clothes lay in a stack on the armrest. He snuggled close to
her for warmth, yet her face was bloodless as he leaned to kiss her. Even her
lips were pale. Hannah raised her arms to screen him from her. She unbuttoned
her blouse and loosened her bodice. Hannah took Jean-Luc's hand and let him feel
her right breast; she flinched involuntarily from his cool fingertips. She let
him feel her aureole tighten and push her nipple forward. Then she slid his hand
leftward, letting him discover her smooth, broad mastectomy scar.
     A purse of grey felt gave her the appearance of balance. She'd even sewn a
button-loop on it to keep it in place on her corset. She didn't blush but grew
paler still. Jean-Luc willed his hand to stay loose but his arm muscles
stiffened as he tried lightening his touch for fear of hurting her.
     He pressed her backwards until she reclined. She took his right wrist and
bent his arm against the chesterfield's back. He supported himself over her with
this arm and put his left palm onto her remaining breast. He noticed now how
with one arm bent back to keel him from touching her mangled side, how the her
padding hadn't moved with her arm as it ought to have. How could he have missed
it? Slowly, they found the other's rhythm and silently agreed to indulge in the
fiction that her body was whole.
     Jean-Luc let her pull the skirts of her dress up in her own time.
     She put one foot down for balance and Jean-Luc nestled between her legs
He put one hand between them and began pushing through the wool, cotton and
silk. The outer material was cool and rough, but as the layers grew softer they
became warmer. When he found her warmth and dampness he moved slowly for fear
of hurting her. Throughout their eyes never unlocked and they even blinked
together. He slipped over her wet pubic hairs when trying to penetrate her
and forced himself to slow. His feet were cool and nearly cold. Jean-Luc
shivered from the contrast between her heat and the room's cool air. He
didn't thrust, but rocked his pubic bone against her mons, slowly driving
them to bliss in unison It was only when she neared her crest that she moved
her hips. Her orgasm came only when he bucked his hips once and lost his grip
on the backrest, collapsing against her.
     They separated slowly, not wanting quick movements that would destroy the
moment.
     Someone walloped the front door five times. Grooved habit made Jean-Luc
reach for his boots. There was always an emergency, he thought, then wondered
if that had always been his excuse. Jean-Luc knew it was either Beverly or
Deanna. He put his feet on the floor before the houseboy had begun galloping
from the back of the house.
     'I'll come back and,' he didn't want to promise anything outrageous. What
should he say, that he knew a doctor who could clone organs? Could Beverly
perform surgery that complex in the shuttle?
     'Tell me to wait for you,' she spoke her first words of the night. Jean-
Luc averted his eyes and blushed and hoped putting on his shirt had hidden
it. 'You'll be a while?' Jean-Luc pulled on his drawers and pants at once
Below, he heard Beverly querying the houseboy. He started when he caught her
face at the corner of his eye, inches from his ear. 'Also, tell me I shouldn't
stay up for you.'
     Jean-Luc's ears were red and he couldn't meet her eyes.
     'I can't promise you, but I want to say I might be able to make things
better for you. Possibly.' Two drum beats, one half the weight of the other,
tattoo'd up the stairs to Jean-Luc's landing. Jean-Luc wrestled his fingers into
his first stocking when they slowed nearby. Beverly shouted through the door
excitedly. 'But such promises would be not lies but uncertain. I mean to say...'
He mouthed an obscenity when Beverly called him captain through the door.
     'Captain? I'm not angry. I won't be angry about to-night if you vanish,
when we met you said you were leaving. Thank-you for touching me, it's been a
long time. But don't ruin it for me by telling me what you'd like to do, rather
than what you will do. Kiss me goodbye.' He bent to kiss her mouth but she only
pecked his cheeks.

Chapter Nine:
     Beverly hadn't said anything about the perfume clinging about him even
though the scent had been very noticeable in the Hansom's small space. He'd
listened to her report sullenly. His face was grey still throughout the ride
Only as they approached the guard post did he stir.
     They were committed to ending the mission quickly when they stunned the
with an injection. Once he recovered the city would be searched for the jungle
doctor and her escort. Captain Picard hoped he and his colleagues would be gone
by dawn. As of tonight the mission had gone on too long.
     Beverly had been on duty in the shuttle and detected a series of sub-space
signals coming from what seemed to be a Romulan equivalent of a tri-corder.
Beverly made the shuttle's computer mask a sensor sweep of the base behind a
propitious solar flare that had rattled around Earth's upper atmosphere. A
Vulcanoid was there, the streams of copper in his blood reflected brightly for
an instant, like ribbons.
     Jean-Luc dismissed Beverly.
     'Return to the shuttle and wait for my signal. I'll signal you in half
an hour whether or not anything's happened. Prepare to beam me back if I'm in
trouble before then. Or to get a phaser to me if necessary.'
     He rolled the guard into his booth and bent under the lift gate.
     The base was noisy despite the late hour. Hundreds of snores rattled the
distant barracks and the mess reserved for officers was still rowdy. From their
observations, they knew workmen of every type wandered on and off the base, as
well, being so close to the port, besotted sailors had been know to stagger onto
the quad, or so newspaper cartoonists said. Jean-Luc couldn't believe how lax
security was in this era. Unfortunately, though the world still pretended to
believe in gentlemen, the war to-day and the wars to-morrow would be fought with
blood, bone and fury, not white gloves and plumes.
     He wanted to take another look at the rubbish heaps and latrines. Both had
been a common sight for the conspirators to infect on troop ships and bases.
     Jean-Luc strolled over the quad with his hands in his pockets as though he
knew what he was doing and had every right to do it. He almost thought to
whistle but dismissed the thought as inviting trouble and over-confident. He
wasn't worried about getting stopped by the base troops, at most he'd get
arrested for vagrancy and have to beam away from a jail cell. He was worried
about a nervous Romulan panicking and shooting at shadows.
     Long Point was shaped like a square with one corner lopped off where it
joined a private road that led to the port. This is where the stores and stables
were kept. The bottom right of the square held the main gate and administration
buildings; the upper left the barracks and short cannon range. The officers had a
club on the base but most of them forsook the meagre lodgings, one building near
the administration building, for residences in the city. Jean-Luc walked into the
dark shrubbery along the artillery range's edge, avoiding the lighted areas. When
he saw troopers moving about in the dim but he knelt and stayed still until they
moved on. His stop-and-start walk slowed him damnably, it took thirty minutes to
cross the half-kilometer quad.
     The sliver moon rode the single cloud like a sail on a foamy boat. Jean-Luc
wished he hadn't worn his grey jacket but there was nothing to be done for that
now. Once he'd heard some gravel scrape nearby accompanied by a voice. He was
ten paces away from a duty post, dark green in daylight but black now. Jean-Luc
slowly squatted and began crawling to the shack putting his black pants between
his jacket and the direction of the sound. Slowly, he moved piece of lumber in
front of him and waited. Fifteen minutes later when he was about to stand again
the trooper he'd heard moved first. A lamp blossomed from the darkness and
lighted the side of the shack. The captain was lying on his side under some
loose beams and the trooper ignored him. Jean-Luc's jacket was the same colour
as the granite gravel ringing the shack. The guard circled once and left,
continuing his patrol.
     Once he was certain no-one was in earshot, the captain broke wind and
continued to the kitchens. He knew he was close because it was the single
building that kept its hearth lighted. Coal smoke irritated his lungs as he
approached and he though he was able to see orange light from its chimney,
though it was more than likely city light reflecting off the steel pipe.
     The compost was in the open air and lighted by the street lamps from the
utility road that led from the rear gates, through the industrial sector and
into the port. Jean-Luc flattened against the ground and studied the scene.
He somehow doubted anyone as desperate as he guessed the remaining Romulan
must be would have risked walking into a relatively well-lighted area.
Besides, saw dust had been sprinkled on the heap this afternoon and the pine
shavings were still on top of the humid heap so walking around the compost
would have silhouetted them dangerously.
     He'd always scored zero by zero on any psionic tests but he'd always
believed nothing could replace experience and insight. Jean-Luc decided to go
to the circular livery building, another favourite target for planting
infectious material. Down heaps had also been used to spread disease at the
other bases and on the troop ships. When he approached the stables and heard a
long, dragging scratch his heart leapt but he was not surprised. Jean-Luc
unbuttoned the fob from his vest and took out his watch in order to switch on
the communicator inside.
     He dropped it, and it clattered on the flags.
     Jean-Luc looked at the nearest stable door and saw no-one. There was a
change by the door to his right. He saw a heavy-lidded eye, lighted by the tiny
moon, peer at him from the gap. The line between the door and wall turned to
shadow as the figure behind moved away. The captain scooped his watch into his
pocket. He leapt to one side and then changed his mind, deciding to go around
the building's dark side. From behind the wall came bumping noises. Jean-Luc
made noise of his own, stepping onto the ring of gravel surrounding the
building. The curving wall had no place for him to hide. As far as he could see
it was in good repair and there were no cracks through which he could see
inside. He stopped and counted to thirty then stepped backwards, off of the
gravel surrounding the building. He picked up some stones and threw one to his
right, then others further to his right then crouched and crawled to his left.
     Inside, some horses stamped in their stalls, irritated from being woken
from horse dreams. Jean-Luc knelt against the wall, grinding sharp stones into
his knee, and pressed his forehead against the planks, looking for a gap. He
searched up and down, moving quickly from one plank to another. He took out his
grandfather's pocketknife and wedged its blade into one groove and pushed it to
one side. Inside was a dim, yellow light. He saw splashes of colour, red tools
and institutional greens and whites but nothing intelligible. Jean-Luc pulled
the knife free and continued around the building's side listening all the while.
He jammed the blade into another crack and widened it enough to see a horse
moving around inside but nothing else.
     He almost crept in front of a door without realizing it. Jean-Luc looked at
it fearfully before realizing it was pinned shut with a meter-long bar. He
raised one foot and dusted his boot's sole of crunchy gravel before setting his
foot on the flag before the door, then the other foot. He stood and pulled the
cold metal free. It had been years since Jean-Luc smelled unpainted iron, hardly
a common construction material in his era. Its scrape had sounded hideously loud
to him but that couldn't be helped. He tried holding the bar so that it didn't
touch the loops that held it but stopped when well-ahead of him, well around the
the building's curve, someone began fighting open a door. A latch rattled open
and a door was kicked. Jean-Luc yanked the bar free and staggered into a run.
     Two dozen paces ahead of him, large hinges groaned open.
     A horse skittered its way onto the flags before the door. The rider wore
a cavalry uniform. He touched one spur to the brute, making it step to one side,
then whipped the reigns along its face, making it back away from the Frenchman.
Oil light from inside the stables came in streaks. The horse and rider were half
in and out of shadow. He wore a cavalry uniform complete with sword and shako.
Jean-Luc couldn't see whether or not he had a pistol belt. The rider was human-
looking enough, but Jean-Luc saw only his long spine and aquiline face. The
rider snarled and guided his mount into the dark. The saddle was well-oiled and
the straps and buckles creaked as they trotted onto the gun range.
     Jean-Luc ran.
     All he had was a blunt pole and his grandpere's pocket knife. This was the
stupidest thing Jean-Luc had done in some time. He couldn't guess what the
Romulan wanted to do. If he wanted escape, he would only have to walk carefully
off the base, so why steal a horse. Why dash through the open quad at night?
Neither could he believe how hard the horse was being ridden, surely the whole
quarter heard the horse's hooves? Despite his forceful exhalations, the cool air
began chilling his lungs. Jean-Luc reached the top of the artillery range he
slowed rather than risk falling into one of the gunnery pits that strung in a
line at the top of the range. He kept loosing sight of the rider and horse in
the dark and soon had to follow them by sound alone. Soon his side began hurting
and he had to slow to catch his breath. Where was the Romulan going? The rider
wouldn't risk jumping over the perimeter fence on an unfamiliar horse in the
dark. Jean-Luc leaned on the bar and listened. The horseman was well ahead of
him. Through the dark Jean-Luc heard listened to the horse's foot-falls slow
and circle.
     Jean-Luc said 'hello' in Vulcan and, damn it, couldn't think of anything
else. He crept through the black, listening to the horse, trying to guage its
distance. 'You know,' he began. And the Romulan charged.
     Despite the poor light there was a flash of silver with the horse-thunder
as the rider drew his sword. It vanished and reappeared, telling the captain the
Romulan was right-handed. Jean-Luc thought of leading them toward the gun pits
but they were too far off to run, even if he were fresh. Jean-Luc made a show of
jamming one heel into the ground and raising his bar as though he were aiming
for the rider's thigh, a deadly wound to cavalrymen for the sword would often
tear the leg's artery and winnow into the belly. His attackers, horse and rider,
looked like a burst of smoke. Only when they were ten meters away did Jean-Luc
see them clearly. The rider was low in the saddle with his sword parallel with
the ground at chest height; the horse held its face forward ready to bite.
     Jean-Luc stood with his feet well-planted on the right of the rider's path.
There was a cloud of heat as the horse's breath preceded it. He swung backwards
as though for chop but began a pirouette. Jean-Luc almost lost his balance in
his backwards swing. He swung his leg out in a wide sweep trying to leap to the
horse's right, opposite the Romulan's sword. He span about with the bar close to
his chest and he saw a blur as the Romulan raised his arm to slash his seven
kilogram sword at Jean-Luc's skull. Jean-Luc's back was to the horse and rider.
Jean-Luc blindly extended his arms and swung the pole like an axe, aiming for
the horse's teeth.
     The jar took Jean-Luc's blunt weapon away. The brute screamed from pain and
reeled. As it passed and staggered, Jean-Luc gasped fearfully as the dark mass
moved on top of him and put his arms up instinctively to ward off a sabre slash.
The animal's smooth coat roughened his fingertips; before the thought formed
clearly in his mind Jean-Luc grabbed the first piece of leather that brushed
against his hand.
     He was dragged.
     His hand hooked around a strap firmly then felt as though he was sinking
into mud, and the that he'd stepped on some glass Christmas ornaments, he was
confused by a strange vibrating pop before realizing the animal had stepped on
his foot. For a mad moment Jean-Luc thought there'd be no pain, like in boy's
adventure stories where the protagonist managed to hack through a jungle with a
bullet in the bum, a sword hole through the arm and a crack on the head with no
discernable effect. He wasted the valuable second on this fantasy before the
pain started.
     Jean-Luc kicked the ground with his good leg, trying to keep his mangled
foot raised. The horse's body was very hot and slick. His left hand was the only
grip he had on the horse's riding gear. Above him, the rider raised his blade
high but changed the angle, turning it to stab with the point, not slash with
the blade. The rider neared the top of his swing and lurched forward trying to
stop his momentum. Nearing blindness, Jean-Luc took the Romulan's right ankle
with his free hand and pulled it free of the stirrup. Pain boiled up Jean-Luc's
leg when his whittled foot bounced along the turf. He shivered and whined as he
fought to breath. Jean-Luc lost his presence of mind and let go. He tumbled
gracelessly and heavily and screamed when the bones in his foot splintered
further.
     The rider shrieked and fell.
     Jean-Luc tumbled and yelped. Saint Bouchard, he gasped, what had he done
to his leg! He couldn't move his ankle without the bones and cartilage
stretching. Bugger giving his location away: Jean-Luc swung his watch out and
pulled on its clasp. Its electronics woke, lighted and moaned to the shuttle for
help. He began crying from the pain.
     Jean-Luc twisted onto his left side, trying to keep his legs stiff
All about him was dark green, blue and black. The horse danced, shrieking and
unable to out run the pain in its bleeding mouth. It whined piteously and grew
mad with pain. Jean-Luc's ears got hot as he blushed madly, ashamed of what
he'd done to the horse. There were shrubs and trees moving gently in the
frigid breeze. The captain couldn't distinguish a man's figure from the ground
about him. The rider had worn dark clothing...Jean-Luc was wearing a white
shirt and light grey jacket. He prayed the rider was stunned, equalling their
disadvantages.
     Jean-Luc clambered onto fours then wiped his wet eyes, trying to catch a
glint from his iron or blue sword steel.
     He froze, sighting a grey mass. It wasn't moving. He crawled to the form
while fumbling for his pen knife. A mechanical sound clicked out from the dark.
Jean-Luc guessed what it was, descriptions of the sound and the mechanisms that
made them had figured too long in books to not have brought dread to him
immediately. The hulk he'd seen still remained crouched and still. He counted
to thirty and at twenty he realized he was was counting too quickly and began
counting again. Jean-Luc shivered, his sweat now made him cold. He reached
toward the figure.
     It was a rock.
     Jean-Luc scrabbled next to it on his hands and good foot. He put his cool
hands on the sharp, hard granite and plowed onto his knee. Jean-Luc closed his
eyes to listen. No part of the granite felt loose enough to pry free silently.
Worse, Jean-Luc felt his bladder swelling slowly and had a bizarre image of his
grave marker noting: Here lies Captain Jean-Luc Picard, Medal of Valour, silver
service star, distinguished service bar, Crimson Cross, stepped on by a horse.
He peed in his pants. Jea-Luc opened his eyes and pressed against the rock.
     'I'm never warm on human worlds,' the Romulan said. The voice was several
paces to Jean-Luc's left, damn it. 'Oh, don't talk, I know I've failed.' His
voice was a woodwind baritone. 'My face is open, I'm bleeding all over my eyes
but I can still see you.' Dimly, Jean-Luc saw the speaker three meters away,
leaning on another lump of granite. 'This is a damned cold planet, Admiral,
Captain Whomever. What a silly thing to do, trying to best you on your own
world. It wasn't you who stopped me, you know. I'd simply have gone back to our
time and and come back again and succeeded. A robber beat me. I was attacked in
the street from behind and robbed. My communicator, my gear for gaussing life-
form sensors, all that got nabbed, marooning me here with my ship cloaked in
orbit. Now, isn't that a bugger?
     'It's a lot to ask but don't bury me here. Bury me in the Mediterranean,
where you first caught up with us. It's warm there, and the people are nice;
they like to talk. I can see why much of your culture started there. People
there like talking.'
     And the Romulan shot a bullet into his brain.
     Jean-Luc leapt backwards at the flame, mashing his foot further. The
suicide's face had been visible for an instant, lighted from inside like a Jack'
o'lantern. Jean-Luc was mad with pain, he panicked and began crawling into the
bushes nearby. Searchlights swept the dark but none of their arcs covered the
dead Romulan. Jean-Luc cut off his boot to let it swell and bruise to its
content. When the troopers on patrol began moving in regular formation for a
more scientific search Jean-Luc dragged the Romulan over his own gore into the
bushes and waited for the transporter beam, trying not to vomit. When the horse
was found the base's powerhouse began grinding to life, ready to turn on the
sulphur lamps ringing the quad.
                    *
     Hannah woke but kept her eyes closed. Her breathing was slow and deep.
Awake behind her eyelashes she knew the bed beside her was empty, but while her
eyes stayed closed she could dream otherwise. Outside, the sun rose to beat the
heavy curtains with heat.
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