2008 Gaylactic Spectrum Award Recommended Short List (Short Fiction)

After six years of incarceration, Heron is trying to start a new life, but that isn’t easy when so many avenues are closed to it. It finally finds a refuge of sorts on the Castor Xeni Orbital and a sucrease from its pain in the arms of voluptuous Subah Doisson.

But then various systems on the Orbital start getting sabotaged. With a small engineering population, and Heron the latest newcomer to the station, how can the hermaphrodite prove its innocence amid a sea of entrenched prejudice?

Restricted–18+ only

PUBLISHER: Total-E-Bound
LENGTH: Novella
ISBN: 978-1-906328-33-7
COVER ARTIST: Lyn Taylor

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.: Chapter One :.

This is the first chapter from Prime Suspect, available now from Total-E-Bound!

Heron Meed tried to look nonchalant as it handed over its identity chip.

Immigration. For not the first time, the hermaphrodite wondered what selection process seemed to award the role of planetary gatekeeper to people who looked either like sadistic bastards or apathetic sloths. Not that one had, in all honesty, too much face-to-face experience with such people. Once, years ago, as a member of the Republic Space Fleet, one and its cohorts could enter and leave territories with impunity. But that was before the mutiny charge, and before six years of lonely incarceration.

Now, as a member of the unprivileged public, stripped of all privileges, it was important to abide by the rules and cultivate an air of shallow humility.

“What was your last place of embarkation?” the Immigration officer asked, his colourless eyes alight with a perverse pleasure.

You already know that, you bastard.

“The e’Bultar Detention Centre,” Heron replied quietly. It didn’t have to turn around to see fleeting expressions of distress flash on the faces of passengers behind it. The shuffling of feet and sound of sudden furtive movements said it all.

“Were you, visiting perhaps?” the officer asked with false innocence.

Heron didn’t hesitate. “No.”

The condescending smile was wiped from the officer’s face as quickly as it appeared and Heron knew the game was now on. There was nothing anybody could do to stop Heron from entering the Castor Xeni Orbital; artificial habitat constructs were not off-limits to recently released criminals the way precious natural planets were. One never saw the logic in such a policy but, for the moment, was glad of the loophole. But it also knew that Officer–Heron quickly scanned the id badge–Fusmic would make things as difficult as possible.

Tough. The passenger transport it had arrived on was the last for three days and if there was no pretext for throwing the hermaphrodite into a holding cell–which there would not be–then Immigration had to let it through.

“There seems to be an irregularity. According to this, your gender…”

Fusmic left off and ran his eyes suggestively down the slim figure on the other side of the low counter. The being identified as Heron Meed had regular features: olive skin, square jaw, high cheekbones, slightly slanted silver-grey eyes and dark straight hair cut short. There was the slight protuberance in its throat, at odds with the soft curves that the snug-fitting faded jacket could not hide. Much as it also could not hide–Fusmic’s eyes moved lower–the bulge in its military-style trousers.

Heron was used to the looks, the almost-physical stripping that it was forced to endure more times than it liked, and remained impassive.

“I’m an hermaphrodite from the Morhea Sector. The last I heard,” Heron drawled, unable to contain its contempt, “it is still part of the Republic.”

Fusmic’s eyes widened and he threw the chip back across the counter where it skittered to a stop in front of the hermaphrodite.

“We don’t like your kind here,” he snarled, although whether he meant Heron’s immediate past or gender was unclear. “See to your business then get lost.” His eyes finally moved past Heron. “Next.”

Heron picked up its chip, hoisted the backpack on its shoulder and kept walking.

“Could have been worse,” it said softly.

Could have been a hell of a lot better.

Now that Heron was clear of the first major hurdle, it stopped to take a good look around.

Upon release from a detention centre, the Republic generously provided a single one-way trip, but only within the neighbouring sectors, to the destination of the previously incarcerated’s choice. Heron had spent the last several months of imprisonment trudging through stick after stick of data, sifting through the blaring ‘Denied!’ on most worlds before finally coming to a shortlist of four. Going home–to the Morhea Sector, to admitted failure–at this point, was not an option. Which left two orbitals, one moon habitat and an asteroid belt. The Castor Xeni Orbital had seemed the best choice at the time.

Heron knew Castor Xeni from its old days in the Space Fleet. The privately-owned orbital specialised in the repair and refitting of commercial and luxury spacecraft and even the Fleet had been known to use it for emergency repairs. It was a busy place, full of arriving and departing ships and several cadres of engineers, all supported by an intensive mining operation on the planet below that kept the station supplied with the exotic ores its commerce relied on.

Busy, however, did not translate to a high turnover of personnel. Ships came, bearing no extra passengers, and ships left, better than before but also carrying no paying passengers. Castor Xeni was strictly a place of business and not anybody’s first choice of pleasure spots, which explained the low frequency of commuter services.

Heron considered this good news. Few visitors meant a dearth of loud-mouthed tourists, overzealous security personnel and inane shallow pleasure-seekers who viewed sex with an hermaphrodite as nothing more than a notch on their hedonist belts. Although, now having passed Immigration, it wondered whether it had been a bit too idealistic about the casualness of the orbital’s personnel.

Well, it was too late to change its mind. With funds too meagre to buy passage off-station, Heron was forced to spend the next few months on the station, finding work and beginning the process of ‘cleaning’ its past of any distasteful connotations.

Past the sterile open Arrivals/Departures area, wide corridors splayed out in a star configuration. One way led to the food ellipse, another to the habitat levels, yet others to Engineering, Cargo and Station Administration.

Food, Heron decided, as its stomach rumbled.

It was difficult being back in the wider society after eight years of service in the Republic Space Fleet, followed by six years of unjust incarceration. At any moment, Heron expected someone to rush up to it, either with a set of orders or a dehumanising command, but it was ignored.

Heron moved past the slower knots of people and into the multi-choice eating space. From now on, everything was going to start costing money, from the meals one ate, to its rooms and even maintenance charges for the air and water it used. Its savings would diminish much quicker than on a habitable planet but that couldn’t be helped. Until Heron held down five years of legal employment, its feet would never touch the soil of a free planet.

With a grimace, Heron took a tray from the pile just inside the entrance and bought the cheapest, most filling meal available–bread with protein cubes in a brown gravy and a small bottle of flat, recycled water. The food might have been better in the detention centre but it was prison food, when all was said and done, and always laced with the bitterness of injustice.

A job and someplace to sleep were the next things on the agenda after immediate hunger was assuaged. Heron paused on the way out of the large canteen and grimaced. No, that wasn’t correct. As an ex-criminal, the first thing to do–the thing it should have done before even eating–was to register with Station Security. As if it hadn’t already paid its debt to the Fleet and to society at large.

A large directory schematic directed Heron to the Security office, and it headed there resentfully. It provided its name to one of the staff and was lef–waiting on hard, thinly-upholstered benches–for two hours before finally being ushered into the Administrator’s office, a pointed reminder of just how low on the pecking order it had fallen.

There were no fripperies in the Administrator’s office, situated in the solid bowels of the orbital. No stills of family, no fidget-gadgets on the stark gleaming desk; just rows of flickering monitors that flashed images from one surveillance camera to another. The only thing curved and organic in the room was the Security Administrator himself and, judging by his stolid impassive features, Heron considered the man only barely organic.

His badge rotated the name “Acqui K’liven” in a variety of common Republic languages and, as a heavy-worlder, he didn’t so much sit as squat on his wide chair. In fact, Heron thought in a brief philosophical moment, he looked so immovable it seemed plausible that the entire station had been built around his massive form.

K’liven also said nothing, content to wait until Heron had its fill of the office.

“I’m looking for a job,” Heron finally began in standard Ingel, sliding its identity chip across the desk.

Thick fingers reached for the chip, making it look toylike and fragile in those large hands, and deftly inserted it into the computer.

“And why did you choose the Castor Xeni Orbital, Heron Meed?” Acqui K’liven’s voice was a deep rumble, as thick and slow as a plastic lava flow.

“I have expertise in engineering and astro-navigation,” Heron replied easily, “and you have a large engineering contingent on this station. I’m not proud, I can turn my hand to anything.”

Heron was sure the station would be grateful to have someone with its range of expertise.

K’liven didn’t answer.

“And,” it finally admitted into the lengthening silence, “it’s quiet.”

“You don’t like excitement?”

“No.”

“That’s good. Because neither do I.”

K’liven scanned the rest of the chip’s contents. Being a higher designation than Immigration Officer Fusmic, Heron knew he would be accessing more detailed information on its history–its former occupation, the charge against it, regular reports from its time in prison. Under the desk, it clenched and steadied its hands while it waited.

“As long as you don’t bother me,” K’liven finally rumbled, “I won’t bother you. You have sixteen hours to find accommodation; we don’t tolerate loiterers on the orbital. And three days to find work, or I’ll deport you.”

Heron nodded, retrieved its proferred chip from K’liven’s bulky hand and took its leave.

So, accommodation was its next highest priority. Heron had noticed a bulletin board in the food ellipse so headed back there now, scanning the listings for available units, and started with the first–most recent–ones.

***

Before its new life had properly started, it was already looking like it had finished. Back in the common eating area, Heron collapsed into one of the chairs.

They all said no. Heron had also asked after jobs and received some promising offers, but nobody was willing to offer it a place to sleep and put its things. Whether because of gender, or its status as a newly-released prisoner, Heron didn’t know–or care. There were now only eight hours left on Security Administrator K’liven’s first deadline and Heron didn’t want to start life on the orbital as an outlaw.

It shuffled through the names it had stored on the chip. One had begun with the most recent names. Maybe if the order was reversed…? The small screen blinked blue.

To share family quarters. One room plus access to shared facilities. Rent plus outgoings plus percentage of annual habitat tax, pro rata. Contact Subah Doisson, Hydroponics Level D, Junction 12.

It didn’t sound very inviting–the details were sparse at best, and the date-tag was months’ old–and Heron didn’t relish the idea of sharing quarters with a family. Still, it was desperate. If it couldn’t find accommodation within the next few hours, and didn’t have enough money to get off the station, it would be arrested, and that was not a good beginning to a new life.

Heron read through the listing again, memorising the address, then got to its feet.

The Hydroponics section was difficult to find, hidden away from the other areas almost as an afterthought, which it well might have been. As it navigated the increasingly narrowing maze of corridors, Heron thought that Subah Doisson must have provided his or her working address until it suddenly came across an orange-lined door that denoted accommodation quarters. It looked around. A home in the middle of an industrial area? How strange.

Heron rang the buzzer, already half-dispirited. Maybe if it could show K’liven proof of employment, the security chief might give it a reprieve regarding quarters. Heron was prioritising its tentative employment offers when the door slid open.

“Yes, may I help you?”

Heron straightened immediately from where it slouched against the wall.

A woman. As tall as Heron with slightly darker skin, murky green eyes and dark auburn hair. With strong features and a low, husky voice, she couldn’t be called attractive, but there was a striking beauty in her, emphasised by her voluptuous figure.

Heron, deprived of any companionship for six years, felt a flutter in its groin as it regarded her.

“I’m looking for Subah Doisson,” it said.

“I am Subah Doisson.”

Oh. Interesting.

Don’t get too excited. There’s probably a he-man lurking somewhere in the background. It restrained the urge to look over her shoulder and into the quarters.

“You have a listing for someone to share your accommodation?”

Heron saw the woman size it up. There was speculation in the gaze but nothing that made its skin crawl, no half-hidden lecherous leer or tight grimace of revulsion.

“That old listing?” Heron’s heart dropped and something must have shown on its face because the woman laughed a little nervously. “I mean, it’s still available, but it’s just that I created it so long ago, I’d almost forgotten. Please,” she said, standing aside and gesturing with her hand, “come in. I’ll show you around.”

It was a modest space with two bedrooms, both with secondary doors opening into a common bathroom. Privately, Heron thought it would be a bit cramped with three adults sharing the quarters but beggars couldn’t be choosers, as the ancient saying went.

Subah Doisson must have misread Heron’s silence because she added apologetically, “I know it’s a long way from the rest of the accommodation wing and you can sometimes hear the water pumping in and out of Hydroponics behind the walls. Because of that, though, it’s not as expensive as some other family quarters–”

“I’ll take it,” Heron cut in.

“You will? I mean, that’s good.” She gave a quick smile and Heron’s heart bumped momentarily in an uneven staccato. “This will be your room,” she indicated the bedroom on the right. “I’m one of the Hydroponics engineers so I work pretty regular hours for the most part. It will be interesting having someone else to share with again.”

That makes two of us.

“What about your husband?” Heron knew family quarters were never allocated to single women, no matter the circumstance. Space stations were the epitome of pragmatism.

“He died two years ago.” Her eyes clouded briefly. “A reactor accident. I thought I would be relocated but these quarters are not very popular and, in the end, I just ended up staying. I’ve been looking for a co-tenant for almost a year now.”

And, Heron thought, she didn’t have a clue how to go about it. She should be full of questions: who are you? Why are you interested in renting here? Do you have a job? Where did you live last? Heron was tempted to force her to throw it out, just to show how undesirables should be dealt with.

Instead, in a calm voice, it asked, “How much is the rent?”

“Five hundred credits a month, plus outgoings. Say, six-fifty for the first month?”

“Sounds fine. I’ll transfer the funds immediately.” There were questions here, Heron could feel it in the air, but K’liven’s heavy threat hung over Heron’s head. It couldn’t afford to harbour any doubts, especially when this was the only accommodation choice it had.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Subah asked, moving to the small galley.

Heron was on the point of saying “yes” until it realised its last meal was eight hours ago. “Ah, no.”

“Then I’ll fix us something.”

Left with nothing to do, Heron stowed its backpack away in the room. There was also a small desk in the room with an attached swing-out chair and the ubiquitous computer. After a quick look around, it bent down and stroked the bed’s smooth amber coverlet. It was thicker than the blankets the detention centre offered, without the patches or holes it was used to. The Republic had technology to travel the stars yet still couldn’t develop material that didn’t tear or wear out. Couldn’t…or wouldn’t.

Six years ago, Heron wouldn’t have looked twice at such furniture trappings. But now, a plain coverlet was the height of luxury.

With a wry smile, Heron walked over to the computer and inserted its chip, authorising a funds transfer to Subah Doisson, once he found her in the station’s directory (Engineer, Hydroponics). The screen chirped acknowledgement and a little over half of its money was instantly gone. It hoped the handful of job opportunities it was offered were legitimate.

When Heron returned to the living room, Subah was ready with something to eat. The food was simple and uncomplicated but tasted wonderful.

“Don’t you want to know who I am?” Heron asked her.

“I know your name is Heron Meed. I was notified of the transfer while I was in the kitchen. It’s a nice name but a bit unusual.”

“I come from the Morhea Sector.”

Subah’s expression was interested but blank. Somehow, it was vitally important to Heron for Subah to understand who–and what–it was.

“I’m what’s called an hermaphrodite,” it persisted. Didn’t she notice what had been so immediately evident to Immigration Officer Fusmic?

Subah nodded. “I know about the Morhea Sector. You forget, I’m a bio-engineer.”

Heron’s eyes narrowed. This seemed too good to be true. “So you don’t have any problems with renting a room to someone like me?”

She looked at it with large green eyes. “Why should I?”

Why should she? What a ridiculous question to ask. The reasons were legion. Because ‘hermys’ were the alleged carriers of terrible venereal diseases. Because they were abominations in the eyes of the Creator. Because they were immoral, oversexed beings bent on taking over the galaxy. Heron had the urge to grab her and shake some sense into her. Better to be rejected now by someone with knowledge, however incorrect it may be, than later, when one had already started on the path of its new life.

“Our differences are not always appreciated in society,” it remarked, trying not to make it sound like a loaded statement.

“It doesn’t affect your work, does it?” Subah asked.

“Work? No.”

“Then what you do in your time is your own affair.” Was there a glint of something in her eyes? Heron blinked, unsure.

“I’m an ex-criminal,” it ventured. “I was released from the e’Bultar Detention Centre two days ago.”

Why was it doing this? Why was it almost daring the woman to throw it out? It was an inconceivably stupid move but Heron couldn’t help itself. Some perverse part of it wanted to shock the woman, to send her screaming through the orbital.

“And were you guilty?” Subah asked, breaking into its thoughts. “Of whatever crime you were convicted of?”

“Maybe.” Heron hesitated. “Certainly, the Republic seemed to think so.” There was a heavy pause. “Don’t you want to know what I did?”

“I’m a person who believes in new beginnings, Heron Meed,” she said in that sultry, husky voice it tried to ignore. “So, no, I don’t think I need to know what you did.”

She was lying. Heron could see the truth in her steady gaze. It wasn’t that Subah Doisson didn’t need to know. She didn’t care.

Heron looked deep into her eyes. That explained her lack of curiosity, her ready acceptance of a stranger on her doorstep. Maybe calling what it saw in Subah’s eyes a death wish was a bit strong, but there was still an unsettling carelessness about her. And, rather than repelling it, Heron found it fascinating.

What had happened to Subah Doisson?

Click to buy. And thank you!

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.: News & Reviews:.

I could not put [this book] down … exciting sex scenes that had me hanging on to her every word … [for] every person that likes the thrill of sci-fi interlaced with enjoyable hot erotic romance.

5 STARS: Wendy Cable, Just Erotic Romance Reviews,
Newsletter 109

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[T]his is a pleasant short story at the end of the day …

78: Mrs Giggles, damning me with faint praise here

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The love scenes are sexy, sensual and highly erotic. The plot is exciting with some great twists. This is a great read…

4 HEARTS: Valerie, Love Romances and More

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