Plain or fancy?

Either.

Latex?

Nothing oral without it. Lioe felt Roscha pull away slightly, knew her own answer had come too quickly, and looked sideways to see Roscha looking at her with an expression that hovered between amusement and irritation. “Well, you don’t know where I’ve been, either,” she said aloud, and Roscha’s anger dissolved in a shout of laughter. She flung her head back, the light from the intersection gleaming in her hair, and Lioe couldn’t help laughing with her.

“Your place or mine?” Roscha asked, after a moment, and Lioe shrugged.

“I’m staying in a hostel in the Ghetto,” she said. “You’re welcome, but it’s a long way.”

Roscha laughed again, more quietly. “I live on my boat. I drive a john‑boat for C/B Cie., deliveries and stuff. The tie‑up’s not far–as long as you don’t mind a boat.”

“Your place, then,” Lioe said, and they walked on. Roscha freed her hand from Lioe’s pocket, slipped it around the other woman’s waist; a heartbeat later, Lioe did the same. She was very aware of the gentle pressure of Roscha’s hand against her skin, and at the same time the texture of Roscha’s stiff jerkin under her hand. It felt a little like thick leather, but the surface was oddly patterned, like scales. She squeezed Roscha’s waist, trying to feel her body under the jerkin, and felt Roscha’s fingers tighten in answer against her shirt. It was not satisfactory, to be touched, and to feel so little in return; she squeezed Roscha’s waist again, and then released her, sliding her hand and arm up under the skirts of the jerkin so that her hand now rested directly against the thin shirt. Its weave was loose; she prodded experimentally at it, working one finger into the fabric so that she could feel warm skin, and Roscha jerked and gave a stifled giggle.

“That tickles.”

“Sorry,” Lioe said, and stopped poking, but she did not take her hand away.

They reached the edge of the Straight at last, a broad stretch of road, quiet now, only a few bicycles and a single flatbed carrier visible along its length. The Old Dike loomed in the distance, towering over the housetops. The noise of the carrier’s engine echoed oddly between the housefronts and the water; a bicycle whispered past, tires singing against the pavement. Lioe caught a glimpse of the rider’s face stern with concentration as he flashed under the nearest streetlamp. They crossed the trafficway cautiously, mindful of bicycles, and Roscha stepped up onto the wide poured‑stone ledge that edged the river. Lioe copied her, more cautiously, and looked down to see the water black beneath her, shadowed from any glint of light by the stone wall that was its bank. Bollards, low iron things with rounded tops like fantastic mushrooms, sprang up at regular intervals along the wall, one or two with a coil of bright yellow safety line looped around them. Roscha led the way along the ledge, Lioe following a little more slowly–the wall was broad, but the black emptiness beside and beneath her, and the low rush of the water, were enough to encourage caution–and stopped beside a bollard that carried a double loop of safety line around its base.

“Here we are,” Roscha said, and nodded at a rope ladder that was hooked into two of the holes drilled into the bank. Lioe looked down rather dubiously, was reassured to see the soft glow of a steering lamp. In its dim light, she could see most of Roscha’s boat, a long, narrow shape, blunt at both ends, with an arched section at the bow that vanished into the shadows. The deck glowed gold directly under the lamp, and a solar strip glittered softly. Roscha frowned absently down at the boat, one hand buried in a pocket, and a few seconds later Lioe heard the faint double chime of a security system disarming itself. “I’ll go first,” Roscha said, and let herself down the ladder without waiting for Lioe to agree.

Lioe lifted an eyebrow at that, but waited until the other woman had reached the deck before easing herself onto the unsteady ladder. It took her a moment to find her balance, but then she had it, and lowered herself cautiously onto the deck. Roscha was waiting to steady her, and Lioe accepted the support for a few seconds, until she caught the rhythm of the boat in her feet and legs. She nodded to Roscha–the boat moved less than she had expected, but it was a jerky movement, unpredictable–and Roscha released her, moved forward to the shelter and crouched on the deck to release a hidden latch. A section of the deck came up in her hand, revealing a short ladder and a dim, red‑toned light. Lioe grinned, even though she knew perfectly well why any boatman– or pilot, for that matter–kept red lights in the sleeping quarters, and came forward to join her. Roscha smiled and said, “After you.”

The cabin space was mostly bed, a thin mattress on top of a good‑sized platform that probably concealed storage space. Lioe sat on the edge of the mattress–there was no room for two to stand in the narrow stairwell, and the arched ceiling kept her from standing upright except in the very center of the cabin–while Roscha secured the double‑doored hatch behind them, and turned at last to face her. One hand was in her pocket still: the security system chimed again, resetting itself, and the red light strengthened slightly. In the comparative brightness, Lioe could see more details, the crumpled blankets and the cases of disks, Rulebooks and session supplements, mounted on the bulkhead just above the bed. Roscha slipped out of her jerkin, hung it on a hook mounted beside the hatch, and seated herself on the mattress beside the other woman. Lioe smiled and reached for her, and Roscha reached back. They kissed, lips meeting and parting, slow and awkward until they’d settled on who would lead. Lioe leaned into Roscha’s strong embrace, let herself be held and touched, Roscha’s callused fingers fumbling under her clothes to free her breasts, pinching her nipples into stiffness. And then they were scrambling with clasps and zippers and catchtape, struggling to get all the way onto the bed without letting go, either one of the other, until they were lying nearly face to face, legs tangled, thigh to crotch. Lioe leaned back a little to let Roscha’s hand between her legs, to let the deft fingers slide between her labia, circling and searching and teasing in the thick wetness until she found the right stroke. Lioe buried her face against the other woman’s shoulder, riding her hand and the rhythm of the boat until she came. Roscha came a few minutes later, driving her crotch against Lioe’s thigh, and they lay tangled, breathing hard, until finally Lioe shifted her shoulders so that she could lie flat, displacing most of Roscha’s weight sideways onto the mattress. Roscha mumbled something, already half asleep. Lioe craned her neck awkwardly to look at her, caught between amusement and chagrin– no particular sense of prowess, I didn’tdo anything–but it was late, and there was no place she needed to be. She shifted again, freeing herself from the uncomfortable parts of Roscha’s embrace, and let herself relax toward sleep.

Part Three

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Early Morning, Day 31

High Spring: The

Chrestil‑Brisch

Palazze, Five Points

It was very late by the time Damian Chrestil came home to bed, a bored helio pilot lifting him from the Junction Pool helipad up and over the light‑streaked mass of the Old Dike to the Chrestil‑Brisch compound on the headland that was the third of the original Five Points. Most of the lights were out in the narrow buildings, only faint security lights glowing behind the arches of the first floor. The second and third stories, solid walls of dark stone broken by unlit slit windows, looked ungainly, top‑heavy, without light to give them balance. Only the ring‑and‑cross of the landing pad glowed blue through the darkness, and the helio pilot landed them with the rotors barely moving, balancing the weight of the passenger pod against the gas in the lifting cells. Damian nodded his approval– no need to wake everyone in the house–and let himself in through the security ring, raising his hand in greeting to the single human being sitting sleepily at the center of the glowing banks of controls. Like all the Five Points families, and most of the other groups that dominated Burning Bright’s commerce, the Chrestil‑Brisch had good reason to employ a private police force. It was a matter of pride that theirs was smaller than many. The guard nodded back, and said, “Na Damian, there’s a visitor waiting in your suite. She’s on your admit list.”