The Mission

By Rob, edited by Brantley

Chapter 6

__________________________________________________________

“Psst!”

“Eh? What where?”

“Over ‘ere.”

“Where?”

“’ere - in the shadows of this dark alley.”

“Who are you, and what are you doing there?”

“Never mind that. Come’ere, I got somethin’ I want to show you.”

“What’ve you got to show from the shadows of a dark alley?”

“Something you’ll be interested in.”

“How do you know I’d be interested? I’ll be thinkin’ you’re up to no good, that’s what I think.”

“I have nothing to hide.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, man, put that thing away, will you!”

“No offense, pal. Just making a point, is all.”

“Such as it is. So anyway, what’s this you’re so eager to show me?”

“Pictures . . . “

“Pictures? What pictures? Pictures of what? Pictures - oh, my word!”

“Wha’d’ya make o’ that bit of stuff, eh?”

“My . . . word!”

“Ah-ha?”

“This is . . . !”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s . . . !”

“Right you are.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before!”

“That’s because there’s never been anything like it before.”

“Really?”

“For sure.”

“How did you come by these?”

“Hidden camera . . . that sort of stuff.”

“Really? This is . . . incredible. It’s . . . demented . . . perverse . . . it’s beyond pornography - not that I’m any kind of a sewer - I mean connoisseur, of that sort of thing - although they are - hidden camera, did you say?”

“Yes, I did.”

“They are of surprisingly high quality.”

“That’s mostly due to the subjects themselves.”

“Really?”

“They’re . . . ve-ry photogenic.”

“To say the least.”

“And - get this . . . there’s no airbrushing.”

“You’re kidding! I could’ve sworn - not that I’m all that familiar with that sort of thing, you understand, but - are you sure?”

“What you see is how they they really are.”

“Well, these are . . . stimulating.”

“Yes, they are.”

“They’re, uh . . . urgent.”

“Most certainly.”

“They’re compelling!”

“Undeniably so.”

“They’re completely devoid of redeeming social value.”

“Beyond doubt.”

“You, uh . . . got any more?”

It had begun innocently enough: Protectors seeking to conceal their most alluring attributes as a means to woo their sorely needed Messenger. But things got out of hand. Maybe it was because Protectors had never had to compete for attention before. Uniformed or naked, each had been the only one of her kind on a planet. Here...

Everyone had become so accustomed to seeing these physically perfect women nude that none gave it a thought any longer. But then, all of a sudden, without explanation, the Protectors began to cover their impossibly gorgeous bodies. It was a thing unheard of—undreamed of . . . and it quickly came to fascinate.

Crowds would gather whenever a Protector was spotted in the marketplace. All waited to see if she would cover herself, and, if so . . . how. Photogs started taking pictures of Protectors in various states of dress, and selling copies of the prints . . . at progressively higher prices.

As if the shame of their having to share a Messenger wasn’t enough, now they had a quadruple X rating to deal with.

“What hurts the most,” Britt’a complained tearfully, “is that we’ve done nothing to merit this!”

“Those sick bastards!” Can’dy grumbled.

Shopping for concealments became their most closely guarded secret. An army of paparazzi had infiltrated the marketplace of Binkley’s World - prowling for Protectors who were . . . vulnerable. Some, when caught, would simply throw up their hands: “Please don’t shoot!” they’d cry.

Others, like L’yn, were more direct: “How’d you like a telephoto lens enema?” Often a Protector would bribe a merchant to open his stall to her alone long after hours in the depth of night. They would come heavily disguised—terrified of being discovered. Some merchants took them for fools, admitting a well-armed paparazzi to hide just before a Protector was scheduled to arrive.

It didn’t stop there. Virtually all of the wily merchants of Binkley’s World took advantage of the Protectors’ appalling naiveté with regard to clothes. They used the opportunity to unload a bunch of useless junk on them—at horribly inflated prices.

On top of all that, word had gotten out about Shad’rah’s upcoming sexual duel with Arion known as Ediphus Wrecks. Nobody was supposed to know about it outside the Integration Program, but the Arions, predictably, fell all over themselves bragging about Ed and his capabilities, even while the Velorians steadfastly maintained a dignified, if strained silence.

It could have happened only on Binkley’s World, where mostly inexperienced Protectors – the majority of them auxiliary class – had been drawn into a social experiment without ever being asked, without ever being prepared.

Unlike the Protectors of old, who almost invariably served alone on their assigned worlds and might never see fellow Velorians save for Messengers on their rounds, most of the auxiliaries of Binkley’s World had been rushed through training and then thrown together into their new assignment – a new kind of assignment.

Unlike the Protectors of old, they had not been born to a destiny. They had not, like the P1 daughters of great families, grown up knowing that, when they turned 16, they must force open the Great Door if they could -- and accept whatever came after. They did not have the support of their families, or of glorious (if often tragic) family tradition.

They had only themselves. They might be gorgeous and powerful and invulnerable, but they were also naïve, susceptible – like ordinary young people everywhere – to fads and fashions and foolery. That including the foolery of competing for men – well, one man. The Protectors of old had never had to lack for male attention.

* * *

Now word had come that the Messenger they all awaited was arriving on a transport carrier. None of the Protectors knew what this meant, although they supposed that he must have been instructed to save all his orgone for them, rather than expend even a drop of it flying here under his own power.

Every Protector not on duty was present at the passenger debarking platform. Those who couldn’t be present were represented by 3-D holograms of themselves.

“Alright Protectors,” Bea’trice announced to call her group to order, “we want this messenger alive. Understood?”

Every blonde head that was physically present dutifully nodded.

“So there will be no spontaneous sex when he gets off,” Bea instructed with care.

Cha’rise raised her hand.

“Yes, Cha?” Bea acknowledged.

“How can he get off without sex?” Cha’rise wished to know.

“A joke that bad should put you at the back of the line,” said Bea, who continued with the business at hand.

“There will be no chest smothering,” she instructed further, “no groin greetings.”

She paused here to adopt a significant look of dire warning that was lost to none.

“And there will be - no . . . flying leg locks,” she stressed to add.

“Holy Galen,” Cass’andra whispered to Britt’a, “she’s just took all the meaning out of a simple, ‘Hello’.”

Deb’ra raised a hand. Bea acknowledged her with a nod.

“Can he greet us in traditional Velorian fashion, man to woman?” she asked.

“If he so chooses,” Bea answered.

There were several sighs of relief. All of them had sorely missed their breasts being casually fondled.

“At least we might get some-thing out of it,” a notably irked Mar’go noted. “I don’t know about anyone else,” said Mon’ique, “but if he puts his paws on me, I fully intend to breathe deep, and lean in.”

Bea’trice looked over the Protectors under her charge.

“I assume that you all have your attribute concealments of choice?” she inquired.

Again, the blonde heads nodded. The holograms were already concealed.

“I have it on good authority that the area has been secured for us,” reported Bea, “so you may don your concealments at your leisure without risk of being photographed.”

The Protectors went about concealing their most alluring attributes with the concealments they had chosen. The atmosphere was tense, however, with several of them frequently casting nervous glances over their shoulders. The paparazzi had been merciless at catching these poor girls dressed, and all of them had learned to be ever wary.

“The area’s secured . . . the area’s secured,” Fa’un recited like a mantra, her hands trembling as she struggled to put on her concealment. “The area’s secured . . . “

“It damned well better be,” Car’ol promised to her neighbor, who happened to be Kath’y, “because if I see one photog, my tits are going to be the last things he lays eyes on.”

Tra’cy gave her Velorian sister a knowing smirk that was somewhat smug.

“You don’t lay eyes, dummy,” she duly informed Car’ol of the all too obvious, “you lay hands.”

L’yn had to smile.

“I lay lovers,” she slyly divulged.

Hea’ther looked at L’yn askance.

“Quite the hot-twat, aren’t you,” she noted.

L’yn turned her smile Hea’ther’s way.

“Come up, and see me sometime,” she dared. “I’ll put blisters on your tongue.”

The ready light suddenly went on above the debarking platform. The space craft’s passenger door was about to be opened.

“He’s coming!” Bea’trice hailed to alert the group.

The seal of the airlock hissed as it released. The door of the craft slid open. Every Protector held her breath.

Passengers began to emerge, both humanoid, and alien. Friends, and relatives beamed, and waved, and scurried to hug several of the arrivees. The Protectors stood in stoic formation amid the happy confusion. When most of the others had dispersed, there appeared in the transport’s doorway a man of singular appearance.

He was tallish -- like a Velorian male, and he was blonde—like a Velorian male, and he had a long pole -- held in the grip of one hand. The pole was gently tapered from butt to tip, standing at slightly greater than the man’s height, and had what looked like a spool of plastic string with a crank attached to its lower end. The man was dressed not unlike a Velorian male of advanced years, and looked to be of an age becoming to experience. He wore a hat decorated with a dense variety of baubles that looked—to a Protector—invitingly lethal.

“Is that . . . him?” Kath’y wondered quietly.

“Could be as well as not,” was as far as Mar’tha was willing to venture.

“I’ve heard of wearing your heart on your sleeve,” Cass’andra observed of the man’s curious, but interesting hat, “but wearing your sex toys on your head? That’s a new one on me.”

“See that sharp, three pronged number by his left temple?” asked Shell’y.

“Oh yeah . . . ,” oozed Mon’ique. “Mmmm I would not mind feeling that.”

“Sounds like you’re feeling it already,” Britt’a noted.

“Not—at—aaaaallll,” Mon’ique continued to ooze.

“Eah,” L’yn sneered, “I’d probably get two strokes out of it before it melted.”

The platform was all but deserted now, save for the Protectors. No one else emerged from the craft. There was just the lone blonde man standing in the doorway with his strange looking hat, and his strange looking pole, and his overall look of . . . much experience.

Bea’trice swallowed hard, then stepped forward to manage introductions.

“Are you,” she tentatively inquired of the man, “the . . . messenger?”

“Yup!” the man barked in a friendly way. “That’s me!”

Bea’trice smiled her diplomatic best.

“The Auxiliary Protectors of Binkley’s World extend you welcome,” she officially greeted the messenger, and then she appeared to wait expectantly.

“Uh, Br’uce,” said the Messenger, hastening to take up the slack left by Bea’s subtle prompt. “The name is Br’uce.”

He extended his hand to Bea, which she accepted. While this was going on, Tra’cy cast a suspicious look toward Fa’un, who stood nearby.

“I’m group leader Bea’trice,” Bea identified herself to Bru’ce, then she turned to present her group to him.

“And these,” she informed Br’uce with an inclusive wave of her free hand, “are your Protectors.”

There they were; over a dozen of them. Protectors; every one. Each the pinnacle of physical perfection—gorgeous beyond words, desirable beyond words, insatiable . . . beyond words - giving, and demanding . . . uh, beyond words. The array of womanly beauty that stood before him—there for him alone—their genetically gifted bodies aching for that most primitive form of fulfillment—it was enough to take any man’s breath away, rendering him . . . beyond words.

But this was no ordinary man—not that he was a man of words. He was a very special man. He was a Velorian messenger - a member of that particular breed of human male bred, and trained to serve a Velorian Protector’s particular requirements. He was a man who could rise to any occasion. A solid man—upstanding, and outstanding—a pillar of strength. A man who would neither bend to pressure, yield under stress, or go off half-cocked. He was a man of endurance, a man of resilience and he was hung like a….

They didn’t have a word for “horse.”

Br’uce looked out over the smorgasbord of erotic confections that stood before him, and he found cause to smile, and he found cause to sigh.

Three more years to retirement.

“Hokay,” he raised his voice to announce, clapping his hands together to give them a sturdy rub, “who’s first?”

“The privilege of selecting who will be your first, Br’uce,” Bea quietly explained to him, “is all yours.”

Br’uce eyed the Protectors’ Group Leader.

“Ya don’t say,” he addressed her somewhat warily.

Bea gave him a knowing smile.

“Hokay,” Br’uce reiterated cautiously, “let’s see what we got here.”

Br’uce once more surveyed his private menu of Nordic, blonde perfection. He’d seen Protectors uniformed before, and, of course, he’d seen Protectors nude, but he’d never seen Protectors who looked like this bunch.

There was one who wore a pair of earmuffs over her ears. This struck Br’uce as odd, because the climate of Binkley’s World was really quite pleasant, aside from which, she was a Velorian Protector. Ten thousand degrees above, or below zero shouldn’t’ve make a wit of difference to her.

Can’t mean she’s really frigid, in her head any more than in....

Another wore a scarf tied around her lower face in such a way as to effectively cover her mouth.

A poster girl for oral hygiene if I ever saw one, Br’uce surmised.

Yet another Protector had achieved the same effect, though with greater economy of means, by applying a thin film of brightly colored paste to her mouth.

Green lips, Br’uce noted, then, yeah right . . .

One had had the novel idea of using paint to conceal the nails of her hands, and feet.

There’s something to be said for pastel, Br’uce considered, unfortunately she doesn’t say it.

Another had taken a broad band of steel, and wrapped it around her waist in order to hide her navel.

She ever hear of a belt? Br’uce wondered.

Another had simply ‘plugged’ her belly button with a borrowed jewel, and some sturdy glue. Some girls’ll do anything to have an ‘outie.’

Another had tied some strands of string about her pelvis in order to fasten a pretty flower to her sacrum.

A G-string without the ‘G’.

There was even one Protector who wore a pair of bunny slippers on her feet.

That stumped Br’uce, who didn’t even know about the local equivalent of a bunny, let alone slippers.

After he’d gotten a look at a number of his new Protectors, Br’uce had cause to think, These girls need to get out more often.

And then he saw . . . her. A Protector so singular in appearance that she easily stood out from the rest. A Protector unlike any he had ever known before. A Protector of such compelling allure, such captivating mystery, such Damn! She ain’t even usin’ pheromones!

Of their own, Br’uce’s legs began to move, bringing him closer to the mysterious Protector. He let his experienced eyes linger over her Supremis form; from the toes of her gorgeous feet, to her long, muscular legs, to a pelvis that contained the power of the universe, and which possessed the knowledge to use that power to its fullest, to the deliciously tapered, yet strongly modeled waist, to the expansive chest with all of its full, ripe curves, the magnificent breasts with all of their full, ripe curves, the supple arms, the broad, powerful shoulders, the brown paper bag over her head.

Char’lene watched the Messenger looking at her. She thrilled within the secure confines of her concealment. Of all the available, enhanced Velorian women there for his choosing, the messenger had seen her alone - had approached her alone—and it hadn’t been her tits, or her pussy that had attracted him - not even the sum of her entire, groin wrenchingly beautiful, nude Supremis body had caught his eye! But it was her face - her most alluring attribute—her face . . . the one part of her he could not see.

“What’s in the bag?” Br’uce asked the mysteriously veiled Protector.

Char’lene blushed! She was so happy!

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she managed to reply in an even tone.

Br’uce scrutinized the eyes he could see just beyond the surface of the bag. He smiled amiably.

“Well, yes I would actually,” he responded, “otherwise I wouldn’t’ve asked.”

Char’lene was positively tingling with excitement! She was certain that he was interested in her! - that he wanted her! - she so hope.

“Let me be your first,” she promised, “and I’ll reveal all to you.”

Br’uce weighed every one of the mysterious Protector’s words most carefully. Even without pheromones, hers proved to be an offer he could not resist.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll bite.”

“I hope so!” Char’lene exclaimed before she realized it.

And so it was done. The Messenger’s first lover had been chosen. Bea’trice pressed a button on the control she had, and the holograms vanished, then she whisked Br’uce away to his quarters while he was still in one piece.

The other Protectors gathered around Char’lene to congratulate her. Though disappointed for themselves, they were genuinely happy for her. All of them pressed their breasts to hers in the sincerest gesture of Velorian good faith. Char’lene thanked every one of her sisters, and even felt the awkward need to apologize for her good fortune.

“Ah!” L’yn admonished her. “None of that.”

“But we do expect a full report of every caress, and every kiss,” said Mar’go.

“And every thrust, don’t forget,” Britt’a added.

“And every nip, and every bite.”

“Along with the start, and stop points of every trail his tongue makes on your body.”

“Exact location, including tongue wetness, tongue pressure, pauses to swirl, lash, or vibrate.”

“And where he does these, of course.”

“And for how long.”

“And how hard.”

“Girls! Girls!” Fa’un hastened to interject. “It’s okay. I made up a check sheet.”

The thing was as thick as a telephone book. The winner was duly bestowed.

“Gee, guys, I really appreciate this,” Char granted, though doubtfully, “but I think I’m gonna be a little . . . busy, y’know.”

Mon’ique took her by the shoulders to regard her seriously.

“Char’lie,” she said, “before any job is finished, ya gotta do the paper work.”

* * *

Paperwork was the last thing on James’ mind that day. Memos and messages accumulated in his office unread. Calls went unanswered. He was only vaguely aware of what was going on outside his quarters.

“Turnabout is fair play,” Bidu teased. "Can you take the heat?"

It was only after he had undressed her with his eyes the day before that she had told him she could return he favor. All he had to do was find some old clothes for the occasion, and he’d complied – he wanted to keep his uniform, which didn’t – like a Protector’s -- have to be made from nearly indestructible vitamartix Something casual would do.

James assumed the position – hands on hips – in the same room where he had burned off her own clothes. Wearing a long-sleeve shirt, pants and underwear, he stood proudly but with a smile on his face as her eyes lit up – literally. She hadn’t always known that she had heat vision; neither had James. They had discovered it only after she had been tested at the Academy, and she still hadn’t mastered it when they had parted on Velor.

But she was a master now. She started slow, aiming at his chest. A frail would have felt only a warm glow, and James didn’t even feel that. But when his shirt began to smolder, he could see the smoke rising past his eyes as he gazed into hers. As she stepped up her power, it burned away, along with the undershirt beneath. He looked now; the flames were working their way down his pants, and within seconds his superhard cock burst through them, aimed at his wife – like a compass needle pointed true North.

Bidu lowered her eyes then, concentrating on his shaft. Red hot it grew, then yellow and finally white. Even Vendorian steel would have softened by now, but James’ manhood grew even harder, if that were possible, and its aim never wavered. It felt deliciously warm now, and James felt deliciously warm inside at the thought of her love – and of what she was about to do now.

With the grace of an acrobat, she leaped towards him, spreading her legs and making a perfect landing, her cunt engulfing his glowing cock. Steam burst from around it as she took him to the hilt, her pleasure buds reveling in the sensation even as James reveled in her tightness. Invulnerable cock and invulnerable cunt exploded with pleasure and then exploded again, and again. And that was before they even began thrusting.

And that was only the start of another day of Velorian love, love more intense and prolonged than any a frail could even imagine.

James had things he needed to tell Bidu. They went unsaid. Bidu had things she needed to tell James. They too went unsaid. They had all the time in the world for each other -- they thought. But events were closing in on them. Some they knew nothing of, but should have.

* * *

Oon’ah, and Xanthra decided to go for a swim that afternoon after Oon’ah had gotten off duty. They were still dealing with a lot of flack from the Arion Primes about being assigned to the Velorian civilians, and the Protectors were putting in their two credits worth over being “stuck” with the Arion Betas. Both of the Supremis found that they were getting a lot of practice in the diplomatic art of smoothing ruffled feathers.

They went to the shore of the White Lady Sea where there had once been a popular spa. The Arions had destroyed it for a minor infraction while the planet was under Empire rule. The resort was on the Binkleyan agenda for reconstruction, but fresh drinking water, and Vandorian steel both claimed a higher priority at the time. Still, even though in ruins, Binkleyans gravitated to the idyllic haven of sun, surf, and sand.

“Are you going swimming in your uniform?” Xanthra asked her Velorian as they made their way.

The corners of Oon’ah’s mouth pursed as she gave her Arion a droll look. Being the only Protector hardly ever seen nude in public did leave her open to a certain amount of ragging.

“No, silly,” she answered succinctly. “I’m not going to wear my uniform to swim.”

“You mean,” Xanthra gasped with elaborate affect, “you’re going to . . . you’re actually going t - oh Skietra, I feel faint - I mean, just the thought of - no . . . it’s too much - it can’t be true . . . I’m trembling - are you really - I mean . . . really—“

Oon’ah suppressed a giggle, then took her hand into her own, and Xanthra instantly shut up.

“I have a swim suit,” she related quietly.

They walked along, hand in hand, thrilling in each other’s company.

“How’s Shad’ar doing?” Xanthra asked after a time.

“You mean, Shad’rah?”

“Mm, yeah. Sorry.”

Oon’ah sighed.

“Not good,” said Oon’ah.

The Arion’s jaw tightened as she looked out over the water.

“Ed’s getting bigger, bolder and badder by the day,” she said.

Oon’ah looked her way.

“Is he giving you trouble?”

Xanthra lowered her eyes. A little smile played briefly along her lips.

“He knows better,” she almost whispered.

“The match is tomorrow night,” said Oon’ah vacantly.

Xanthra gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, hoping to relieve some of the oppressive care.

They found Shad’rah sunning herself on the escarpment. Her hair flowed down from the back of her reclining head like a gentle sea of straw colored waves. Even in complete repose, she glowed with the vitality of life perfected.

They saw the glorious symbiosis of life in what they observed as Sha’drah presented her naked self to the sun in humble homage, and she allowed the sun to worship her. She was as perfect an example as could be had of the fabled Velorian maternity engine firing on all cylinders. Even by Velorian standards she was remarkable - her beauty . . . flawless.

“She’s so young,” Oon’ah observed with somber wistfulness.

Xanthra felt her lover’s feeling. She clutched the tapered muscle at the base of Oon’ah’s shoulder, and gave it a firm squeeze. “Just like we once were, huh Puss?” she offered softly.

The two of them stood by watching the youth in silence for awhile.

“Old Arion proverb,” Xanthra recalled, “’Any Protector can be made to submit’.”

Oon’ah knew of it, but had never wanted to believe it. Now, however, she wondered.

“Old Velorian proverb,” she offered as a contrast, “’Any Protector can be made to ascend’.”

Xanthra thought this over in the spirit of comparison.

“Hm,” she murmured, “it’s an interesting variation.”

“Submission - death,” said Oon’ah, “to us there is no difference.”

Xanthra frowned. She looked askance at Oon’ah.

“Who said anything about ‘death’?” she asked.

Oon’ah turned to regard her other.

“That’s what ascension is, isn’t it?” she inquired. “Ascension to a higher plane after death?”

The Arion’s frown deepened.”For frails, yes,” she answered. “Or so they say. But does the same apply to us? And does it apply in the same way?”

This got Oon’ah thinking. She looked back at Shad’rah. “So . . . what does ‘ascension’ mean to us?” she wondered.

“Well,” Xanthra offered, “the term ‘ascend’ means ‘uplift’ . . . ‘to raise up’ . . . ‘higher.’”

Oon’ah still looked at Shad’rah, but she no longer saw her.

“ . . . ‘higher’ . . . ,” she seemed to ask, “ . . . in what way . . . ?”

“ . . . ‘uplift’ . . . ,” Xanthra murmured thoughtfully, “ . . . ‘to raise up’ . . . “

“ . . . from death . . . “

“ . . . but for those who can’t be killed - “

“. . . by any other than extraordinary means.”

They were now looking intently at one another. More so than they had before. They were on the verge of something, and both of them knew it.

“Uplift . . . “ said Xanthra in the breathless voice of shared epiphany.

* * *

"Before we get carried away," Bidu said to his face between her breasts, "I have news from home."

James’ eyes rolled up to observe her face.

"Umphumph," he replied.

Bidu rolled her eyes in exaspiration, then gripped the hair at the back of his head, and used it to pull him from the depths of her cleavage.

"Repeat that," she instructed him drolly.

"Really?" James complied.

"Umhm."

Satisfied, Bidu returned his face to her bosom, holding the back of his head to encourage him to settle in.

"Alisa's contacted your mother," she told him.

"Umph! . . . gumph! - umbph!"

She let him struggle a bit before releasing him - that should teach him 'empty', and 'meaningless'.

"What!?" James gasped at her when he was finally free to speak.

"Your sister, Alisa," Bidu related. "She's contacted your mother."

Memories flooded back to him of his younger sister - the troubles she'd brought upon herself . . . her exile.

"How is she?" he so wished to know.

"She has a family now," Bidu told him. "A husband, and three little ones."

"Three!" James exclaimed. "Goodness, I'm an uncle thrice over all of a sudden."

"They named their first born Lillith," Bidu went on to say. "She wants to become a Protector." 

"No way," James scoffed. "Never happen - especially not after - "

"Alisa's heard about the amnesty Velor has offered," said Bidu, cutting him off. "She knows that it's provisions apply to her, and that those same provisions apply equally to her descendents."

"Still," James cautioned, "Regardless of the girl's parentage she is not a native of Velor, because she was born off planet. That alone would eliminate her from the Protector program. Aside from that she's nature bred. Any flaws in her gene sets have not been corrected by the Maternity Engine. And if that isn't enough, she's being raised, and educated in a foreign culture -- i.e., none Velorian. Even were she being tutored by the best Velorian teachers, her loyalties would always be suspect."

"Now that you've quoted chapter, and verse of protocol," Bidu granted him in a tired way, "Mom says that things are changing on Velor."

"'Mom'?"

"Your mother - my mother in law - Naomi," his wife attempted to specify.

Sometimes her man could be so dense.

"Don't forget," she then continued, "that not too long ago, my enhancement would have been not only illegal, but cause for high treason, and punishable by death."

"But you're a Legionnaire," James reminded her. "And Legionnaires aren't Protectors."

"Yet," said Bidu as a statement.

James had to smile, and hold her close. He knew she was playing devil's advocate.

"Don't get your hopes up, babe," he told her seriously, but in good humor. "The Velorian senate isn't going to move that fast."

Bidu became still, then she slowly drew herself away from him just enough to give him a significant look, and then she waited.

Aaaaaannd she waited . . .

"Is it?" James began to wonder.

Bidu burst out laughing. Her entire body shivered from thrill as she took him, and snuggled, and snuggled. She'd had him, they knew it, and they loved for it. James thrilled at his minx, and the feel of her wonderful body against him. Still, he gave her bottom a resounding *THWACK* -- to teach her a lesson, of course -- and Bidu squealed, and snuggled the more. She would've been very disappointed if he hadn't disciplined her.

"Seriously though," James broke in on Bidu's tender, but determined offerings of affection, "what does mom make of this?"

"Personally," Bidu related, "she couldn't be happier to have a Protector for a granddaughter."

“I sure hope we can make it to the Rites.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Binkley’s World is always a problem, as you’ve doubtless heard.”

“I’ve heard…” Bidu said, but went no further.

“Still, it could be worse. The program’s working – after a fashion. Bea’trice tells me they’ve got a sporting match set up for tonight – Protector versus Prime. Strictly sparring, of course. She thinks our champion will take theirs. Good for morale. They’ll need some, what with their getting only one Messenger. “

“I’ve heard about that, too.”

“Maybe we need an auxiliary Messenger Corps,” James opined. “Some of those bureaucrats back on Velor don’t know dick about what we need out here.”

They don’t know dick about a lot of things happening here, he thought. But he didn’t want to talk about that – not yet. He had to make his case, and make them understand. It helped to be the son-in-law of the prime minister, of course. It would help even more to have Bidu as his messenger. She’d come through for him. He was sure of it.

* * *

From the beach, Oon’ah, and Xanthra had hastened to Oon’ah’s office where her computer could access the main Velorian database. What they’d realized had both of them so buzzed they felt like they’d just had sex.

“Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘Fucking with your head’”, Xanthra noted.

As soon as they’d arrived at her ‘glorified broom closet’, as Oon’ah called it, she’d brought up Velor’s main page, accessed the main database, then began working her way inside. After more than an hour of wading through classified procedures, and documents, Oon’ah got to the file she wanted, but she also found that it was forbidden.

“You got an access code?” Xanthra asked over her shoulder.

“I’ve got several,” Oon’ah answered.

She began, but quickly found herself stymied. One code after another failed to remove the forbidden block. It wasn’t long before Oon’ah had exhausted a carefully harvested personal stash of codes she’d only moments before been proud of.

“This stuff must really be sensitive,” she was none too pleased to admit.

Xanthra looked at Oon’ah thoughtfully.

“To who?” she inquired academically.

She took over Oon’ah’s keypad.

“Maybe there’s a back door to this,” she wondered quietly.

Xanthra shifted the computer into language input mode, then pecked away at blinding speed for several thousand strokes. When she was finished a few seconds later, she shifted the machine back into communal mode, leaned back and then said, “There.”

Oon’ah sat forward to look at the screen, and then she sat back again.

“There - what?” she wanted to know.

Xanthra looked back at the screen.

“Oops,” she said.

She executed a final key stroke.

“Sorry.”

Oon’ah looked back to the screen to see a cascade of multi colored pixels raining down beneath its surface similar to video ‘snow’. Like colored pixels started to fix themselves on the screen, and a background began to appear. After a few seconds, lettering took shape. When it was through, bold type stared back at her from the screen.

“’Beware whoever ventures in,’” she read.

The two quietly regarded one another for a moment, or, possibly, even two.

Xanthra smiled.

“Feeling venturesome?” she inquired of Oon’ah lightly.

Oon’ah wasn’t sure about an Arion comfort unit being able to hack a secured Velorian data base.

“Remind me to debrief you one of these days,” she said.

The pad of her forefinger struck the ‘enter’ key.<