Maker - Michael Jan Friedman [22]
Paris hesitated, his hand poised by the pad. To that point, he had kept his relationship with Jiterica a secret, reluctant to attract the curiosity of his fellow crewmen.
After all, Jiterica was a low-density being, very different from Paris or anyone else on board. It was only her containment suit, with its built-in force field, that allowed her to maintain a humanoid form. Without it, she would eventually lose control and revert to her natural, gaslike state.
It wasn’t that Paris was ashamed of his feelings for Jiterica. He just didn’t want people talking about the two of them. What they had together was their business, and no one else’s.
At least, that was his take on it. He hadn’t asked Jiterica what she thought, but he had a feeling she felt the same way.
Which was why he hesitated to press the pad and announce his presence. If Jiterica was talking to someone, she might not want her guest taking note of Paris’s visit.
Then he heard the voices grow louder, and after that there was laughter. It gave rise to something in Paris that he couldn’t remember feeling before.
It wasn’t a good feeling, either. It was awkward and uncomfortable and insistent, and it made the blood rise to his face.
Damn, he thought, I’m jealous, aren’t I?
It was absurd. If Jiterica was laughing with somebody, that was a good thing. It meant that she was enjoying herself.
But there was something about that other voice that he didn’t like—something untrustworthy, it seemed to him. Maybe it was just his imagination. But Jiterica was so naive, so easy to take advantage of…
So easy to hurt.
You’re crazy, he told himself. No one on board would hurt Jiterica. There’s nothing to worry about.
Then he heard that other voice again, and it changed his mind. Setting his jaw, he pressed his hand against the pad and waited for Jiterica to respond.
It took what seemed like a long time before the door finally whispered aside. When it did, Paris saw Jiterica standing in the center of the room.
But she didn’t have her containment suit on. She was…naked, in all her glittering-ion glory. And she wasn’t alone.
“Cole,” said Jiterica, “come in.”
She gestured to indicate the one who was with her—a man half a head taller than Paris, with short blond hair and a dashing slash of a goatee.
He wasn’t a crewman. He was a Magnian. And his smile matched his voice—oily somehow.
“This is Stave,” said Jiterica.
Paris felt a rush of blood to his face. He didn’t know anything about the man, but he instinctively didn’t like him. And he liked even less the fact that Jiterica was standing there in front of him without anything on.
Back on her homeworld, no one wore clothes. Why would they? They were essentially clouds of ions, drifting through the atmosphere on savage chemical winds.
But Jiterica wasn’t a cloud at the moment. She had the shape of a humanoid, enforced even without her suit. And there was something indecent about the way Stave was leering at her.
“You ought to put your suit back on,” Paris said. And then, realizing how awkward it sounded, he added, “So you won’t strain yourself.”
Stave chuckled. That sounded oily too. “I was just showing Jiterica what it would be like to walk around without the suit—or the strain.”
Only then did Paris understand. Stave was keeping Jiterica’s molecules in line with the power of his mind.
Paris had known that the Magnians had superhuman powers, but this was the first time he had seen them in action. It would have been impressive if it didn’t feel so…improper.
And Jiterica didn’t have any sense of what was going on. She didn’t understand.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked Paris.
Stave’s smile widened. “I’m glad you like it.”
Paris didn’t. But there was nothing he could do about it, short of demanding that Jiterica put her suit back on. And he didn’t have the right to do that.
Just then, someone else entered the room from the bathroom in the rear. It was Pfeffer, one of the ship’s security officers.
“Paris,” she said, acknowledging him.
The ensign put two and two together.