Original Flavor (anime influenced) Rated R RULES OF ENGAGEMENT (Part I: Choose Your Enemies Carefully) I. CHOOSE YOUR ENEMIES CAREFULLY Luxura VIII is a pleasure-planet--as if you couldn't tell by that name--located rather centrally in the disputed corridor between the Darkworld Empire and Network-controlled space. In layman's terms, Luxura is one of the so-called "Free Planets" of "Free Space"--they don't belong to any one starfaring nation and they don't answer to any particular authority, even the one that claims to run the place. To me personally, Luxura happens to be one of the few, almost completely ideal places in which to hide from all the people in the galaxy that want to catch up with me and inflict grievous bodily harm. Despite its (extremely) thin veneer of refinement and elegance, Luxura has a sordid, degenerate, thoroughly decadent underbelly--the sort of place the idle rich go to spend unhealthy amounts of time and way too much cash. That's possibly the reason that I like it so much. Its entire surface, and almost every other part of it as well, is covered in things generally frowned on in the reputedly moral areas of the galaxy: gambling casinos (where you can part with most of your ready credit among other things if you know who to ask), red light districts (including some of the best--ahem--"massage parlors" in the galaxy), more bars than you can shake a drunken space pirate at, and possibly the largest open-air slave market outside Network-controlled space. They have the most shameless flesh peddlers, the most brazen (and crooked) tech fences, a thriving market for every pleasure-stimulating drug known to science, and possibly the largest concentration of con-men, grifters, whores, pimps, street samurai, razorgirls (and boys), clandestine surgeons, recruiters (for various things both legal and otherwise), bioshop guinea pigs, and unemployed mercenaries drowning their sorrows than any other place that I, at least, have ever seen. It's the sort of place where something--emphasis on thing--can walk (or slither or crawl or--well, you get the picture) up to a bar, order a drink, play a few games of anti-grav rimshot, and have no other attention paid to him unless he welshes on a deal. As I said earlier, a perfect crowd in which to lose oneself. I was sitting in a combination bordello/watering hole where I'm a personal friend of the owner, a bulb of the thick, murky vaguely beer-like substance the place specialized in slowly warming on the bar before me. A number of idle thoughts were playing through my head as I considered my drink, the primary one concerning my contact and where the hell she was. I had been on-world for a full four days and was beginning to slide comfortably back into the smut and debauchery; surprisingly enough, I didn't exactly want to sink any farther than I already had. Ordinarily when I turn up here, I have my warped, twisted little mind set on some R & R & R--which, in my case, means rest, relaxation, and a redheaded sex kitten with a chrome fetish. This time, however, the thing I was principally concerned with was my life and how to go about keeping it. You see, I had, for reasons that have been described both as noble and unbelievably stupid, thrown my life away by breaking one of the primary rules on which it is based. The rule that states, "Choose your enemies carefully." I hadn't. What I had done was skip out on the contract that bound me--mind, body, and just short of soul--to the Network, the megacorporate conglomerate that economically rules three whole sectors of space and whose humblest ambition is to own the rest. Technically, what I had done wasn't supposed to be possible --but then, I've never let that bother me in the past, either. The unbreakable Network contract is almost legendary in the annals of the business world; if you sold your soul to what passes for the forces of evil on your homeworld, you'd have an easier time wriggling out of that deal than you would welshing on the Network. It's doubly difficult to manage when, like me, you were genetically engineered, cybernetically modified, psychologically conditioned, and wired to self-destruct by the Network. But I had help and a burning desire for something--and someone--else; falling in love was the single most transfiguring experience in my life till now (which wasn't a hard thing to accomplish; force-grown to full physical adulthood and programmed with the complete life experience of a mercenary/assassin though I am, I'm technically only five years old). His name is Hunter Cormier, and after he dragged me out of Network Corporate Headquarters, unconscious and borderline operational, he disabled my self-destruct hardware, yanked and wiped my behavior modification circuitry, and told me in no uncertain terms that the feeling was mutual. We spent one night together--a definite first for both of us, I'm usually good for at least three nights and he doesn't believe in one-night stands--and I woke up in the morning with a serious problem on my hands. The eight megacorporations that comprise the Network can afford to field a small army of specialists dedicated to keeping not-so-freelancers such as myself in our places. While I technically hadn't been indentured to the Network since I had finished paying off my production costs, I had deliberately and with a great deal of premeditation not only broken my own contract but cost the Network a sizeable chunk of revenue by keeping Hunter and his teammates out of their profiteering grasp. It had seemed like a good idea at the time...but we also all know where the road paved with good intentions leads. Without a doubt, the Network would have their goons after me as soon as they figured out where I was--to either drag me back, completely wipe my mind, and start over again with a less troublesome personality loaded into my skull, or to kill me. Which left me with two equally unpalatable alternatives. I could stay on Darkworld, ignoring the obvious implications of doing so, and thereby bring death and destruction down on the man I love; or I could slink off into the night and never see him again. I slunk off. I decided that being the cause of Hunter's death (or the cause of any anguish in his life) was the one thing I could never forgive myself for. I figured that kissing him good-bye, slipping out the window, and vanishing was the kindest thing I could do at that point; the pain of my leaving him would be considerably less than the pain of getting killed by a Network cleaner unit. A quick comm-call to one of my old contacts found me in an underground bioshop on the notoriously crime-ridden West Side of Bandazar, having some superficial changes made. They covered all my visible cybernetic modifications--my arms, my legs, half my face and chest, and my entire spinal column--with sytheskin, about six shades darker than my organic skin. Melanin injections took care of the actual growing type of skin, so that I went from ghostly-pale to a rather swarthy bronze. My longish silver blonde hair became black, my crystal blue eyes, with contact lenses and a new coverpiece for my cybernetic scaneye, became dark brown. A new wardrobe and a subtle change in enunciation, style, and physical stance turned me from a bullets-in-the-dark type to a briefcases-over-a-power-lunch type inside an hour. My identification, passport, birth certificate, credit accounts (with real, working credit in them), citizenship documentation, and all the other fake records that would support my new identity--Alexander McKieran, up-and-coming corporate go-getter--were ready in half that. Two hours later I strolled casually past a woman I knew to be a Network informant at the spaceport and boarded my shuttle for the starliner Galaxy Queen, bound for points in Free Space, including Luxura VIII. Since I made it there with no one trying to hit me on the ship, blow said ship up, or nail me once we reached our destination, I presumed the refit worked. Nevertheless, I didn't plan on staying on Luxura for longer than was absolutely necessary. Which brought me to Madame Elyena's House of Passion. Laugh at the name if you must, but Elyena and I have been friends ever since my first visit to Luxura at the tender age of two-and-a-half. My colleagues in the field of killing-for-hire took me there to celebrate the fact that I had just finished paying off the outstanding debt I owed the Network for building me in the first place. The actual details of the nights that followed are rather blurred, but I distinctly recall, somewhere about the fifth or sixth day, waking up to discover myself nestled firmly between Elyena's heavenly body on one side and another, equally heavenly body on the other and wondering how I got there. I never have been able to remember that, but Elyena assures me that she and no one else was my first instructor in the purely licentious pleasures of the flesh. I took this to mean she likes a male virgin to corrupt every now and then, so, when I spot one, I usually direct them to her; there are worse people you could lose your chastity to. As usual, Madame Elyena's was crowded with individuals of dubious virtue, sitting at the bar, sipping their drinks and ostensibly waiting for someone. Others were more open (and predatory) about what they wanted. I was trying my hardest to look inconspicuous, even taking a few sips of the by-now flat, warm, and thoroughly repulsive beer I ordered. Elyena's is primarily a bordello--the bar is simply there for window-dressing and serves possibly the worst drinks on the entire planet. All the real action takes place upstairs, in the specially soundproofed and lavishly appointed rooms occupied by a vast assortment of the most gifted men and women on Luxura. Madame Elyena is a selective woman and she generally judges her staff by rather exacting requirements--by and large, they are healthy, sensuous, outgoing people who enjoy the company of others, who are all capable of protecting themselves and others from clients who try more than someone wants, who are intelligent and good tempered and generally pleasant. A sense of humor is a must. Elyena, in exchange for their contracted services, provides an education plan, health benefits, child care (not on site--she doesn't like children to grow up faster than they must), and an extremely generous salary that has set up more than one ex-employee of hers in a more stable environment. She even deals in helping her employees change their identities when they leave her, if they want it, and if they're entering a more straight-laced line of work. This alone makes me wonder a bit about her background--how many madames know how to gimmick an I-core to insert fake records or erase information that might be damaging to an employee's future? I was in the midst of contemplating just that when Elyena arrived, gliding up behind me and wrapping her strong, slender arms around my neck. "Well, well, well, look what's come slithering up out of the gutter. What's been doing, Alex?" Elyena has one of those voices that insinuates itself into your ears, filling your mind with images that belong in an x-rated version of The Arabian Nights. I smiled at those images and even wallowed in them a bit before turning on my stool to face her--or, rather, to face her chest, which was about at my eye level. She's over six feet tall to start with--even in her bare feet, as she was now--an Amazon who was kicked out of the sisterhood for not particularly disliking men. In addition to the sensuous voice she has a body that would make better men than I become her willing sex-slaves for all eternity--night-black hair teased into wide, loose ringlets; a phenomenally beautiful face she maintains without any type of artifice; a form comprised of full, womanly curves and firm muscles. She's mostly retired from "active duty" as she calls it, preferring, now that she's got the option, to generally sleep alone. She maintains, however, an extremely select circle of individuals whom she will allow into her private rooms for activities of a more or less immoral sort, and an even smaller circle for whom she'll do other things in addition to those mentioned above. I am one of those. She pulled me into a tight, warm hug that smooshed my face into her ample cleavage; I squeezed her back and let her perfume do to my nose what her voice did to my ears. After a few minutes of the cuddling and nuzzling routine she stepped back and gifted me with an utterly bemused look. "It is you--all that new pigmentation made me wonder. Incidentally, I like you better as a blonde." "Couldn't be helped--I'm trying to be unobtrusive." I replied, glancing meaningfully at the unlit door behind the bar. "You could've just snuck up the back stairs," she purred in my ear. "And have to kickbox with Mi'iko to prove my identity? I think not." I slid my arm through hers, my head coming to about her chin as I hopped down off the stool and she led me back around behind the bar. "I paid an exorbitant amount of credit for all this and I'd rather not have it ripped off by what passes for security around here." "Mi'iko would know you by scent--and then you'd have to worry about her ripping all that off in the height of passion." Elyena's a tease--my relationship with Mi'iko, her security chief/second-in-command, is more along the lines of professional kickboxer to professional kicking target than anything else. She has the best spinning-heel sidekick that has ever connected with my head. Beyond the few stares of surprise and mild interest that crossed the faces of the bar's patrons--quickly put away when Elyena glanced in their direction--we elicited no other attention. Elyena feels that everyone is entitled to some form of a personal life--her employees spend as much, if not more, time off duty as on--and she is uniformly unamused when people infringe on hers. Whom she spends her time with is no one else's business; if she discovers that some idiot is spreading around the identities of her personal friends, that idiot generally discovers how far her reach extends. I was fairly certain that even if any Network agents came sniffing around, they wouldn't find very much of anything. Elyena's private suite is located in the rear of the building, behind just enough visible security to simultaneously intrigue and warn off the curious. All the invisible security is there to deal with anyone too stupid (or persistent) to take the hint. Her bedroom looks like something that was lifted lock, stock, and sexual playthings straight out of some debauched pasha's harem; the rest of the rooms are furnished in a slightly less provocative manner and resemble an extremely well-organized business office more than anything else. And, while I have some rather fond memories of the bedroom, it was Elyena's expertise in other areas that I needed just now. She hit me in the back of the knees with a chair the minute we entered, forcing me to sit down and killing my normal tendency to pace when I'm thinking or talking. "All right, Manslaughter, let's start at the beginning." Yes, that's right. My name is Manslaughter--no first, middle, or last, just the project codename under which I was created. "You mean, the beginning of it all or just where things start getting good?" "Smartass," she snorted, "The part where you started thinking, 'Gee, now that I've signed my own death warrant, where do I go to find an eraser?'" "I guess the news that I'm now an extremely free agent made the trip from Network Corporate HQ pretty fast, huh?" I asked, giving her my best wide-eyed-innocent-lost-upon-the-universe look. "You could say that." Elyena informed me dryly. "The day after you skipped out on them, I received a rather terse message from your former First Officer, asking if I had any clue where you were. I told him I had no idea, of course, but after that, I knew it would only be a matter of time before you showed your face--with trouble nipping at the other end." "How did he seem to you?" Of all the people I ever worked with, my First Officer, Khasamar Seyt-Enkidu, is the only one I regret not being able to take with me when I left. The man is simply too decent to waste on the Network. Elyena let out an exasperated hiss at that, planting her fists on her ample hips and glaring at me in aggravation. "He seemed fine. I'm worried about you. We've both been around long enough to realize the Network's not going to just let you walk away from this one--they'll either kill you physically or destroy you mentally and, strange as it sounds, I've gotten used to you just as you are." "I know." "Smartass." A smile curved her full lips and she finally took the chair opposite my own. "So what do you want me to do?" I thought for a minute about how to approach this. Elyena didn't exactly advertise her more technically minded services on the all-commercial channel; I didn't doubt that she had her share of contacts on the even seamier underside of Luxura, but I also didn't want her to stick her neck out too far on this. If her identity as the madame of Luxura's most infamous brothel was only a cover, I didn't want her blowing it for me. I didn't have any worries that she was a Network agent--if she was, I would have been dead or reappropriated by now, anyway. "I need you to find me a job." She nearly leapt back out of her chair, her eyebrows lifting and her eyes flying open in mock surprise. "A job?! Why, Manslaughter, I never suspected that you--" Now it was my turn to smile. "Wench. You know what I mean. I need you to do what my current corporate scum identity wouldn't--sniff around the local mercenary outfits, see who's hiring up and where they're going next, what kind of specialties they want. Preferably something that will keep me anonymous and take me far, far, far away from the Network." "Merc units, huh?" She sat back in her chair, lacing her fingers together and rubbing her palms thoughtfully. "Things have been pretty slow lately, but I'll see what I can do. You want me to take a peek at which of the private companies are hiring for their special security forces?" I couldn't have kept the totally disgusted look off my face even if I had tried. "If I never work for another corporation, Elyena, it will be way too soon." "I'll take that as a 'no.'" Elyena's wry smile made a brief return appearance. "Are you going to tell me where you're staying, or are you going to check back in with me?" I hesitated over that for a second. When you're on the run from a ruthless corporate megaconglomerate with burning ambitions to recycle you into an exceptionally advanced toaster-oven and enough cash to buy your own mother (if you have one), the idea that you can't trust anyone definitely occurs. Sure, Elyena and I knew each other in the biblical sense of the term and had been friends for years, but everyone has their price--and I should know. There have been times when I've thought I should just have mine tattooed on my forehead and be done with it. Total amorality is considered a virtue by the Network, and one I was only slowly beginning to lose--but Elyena, for all that she ran a house of ill repute, had a definite edge of integrity that made me want to trust her. Anyone that goes to such lengths to help out her employees, their children, and her friends can't be all bad. I guess I'm just a sucker for a woman with obvious maternal instincts. I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out a square of magnetically-charged comm-circuitry, and handed it to her. "That's the comm-code for the place where I'm staying." Elyena took the card and made it disappear, shaking her head slightly. "I don't know about you, kid." "Hey, I figure as long as I'm breaking all the other rules that've kept me alive thus far, I might as well go for one more." I bent down and, for a change of pace, kissed her on the cheek. "I seem to recall a wise woman telling me once that someday I'll have to trust someone." "I also told you to choose your enemies carefully, and look at where that landed you." She was still smiling but there was an unreadable expression lurking in her dark eyes; I refrained from trying to read it and exited down the back this time.