Commander Cura grunted, nodding.

“If communications are opened between Jota and the preserves,” Sta’al continued, “if an alliance such as you suggest can be forged through such communications, and if humans under Jotan supervision respond favorably to such an alliance…then these are good and admirable things. I have committed myself to the belief that all living things deserve liberty and protection, most of all those who cannot provide them for themselves. That we are directly responsible for their suffering may be debatable, but that we are responsible for confining them now without equity or representation is undeniable and as that would appear to be the only issue at hand, I will lend my official support to the institution of such a program. As to the physical whereabouts of the human Daria Cleavon, I will say only that Jota’s position in talks of emancipation would be severely lessened were we to first incarcerate her.” She smiled, and then resumed her inspection of her hand.

Magistrate Inarr glanced at her, but there was no heat in the look. “Vey Kosar?” she asked sourly.

“We need information,” she said simply. “A willing subject who would honestly answer questions…that alone could perhaps double the present life-expectancy and infant mortality rates of the humans in the preserves. She says she’s willing to undergo complete medical exams? Imagine what we could learn! Nutritional needs, growth rates, common deficiencies of aging, childcare and pregnancy—”

“The location of the liver,” Tagen muttered, thinking back to vey Venekus’ main complaint.

“Precisely.” Vey Kosar spread her hands. “All she wants is a room in the back of an officer’s quarters with a sek’ta in full supervision at all times. She doesn’t even view that as imprisonment. What is the problem here?”

“And you?” Inarr glanced at Commander Cura.

“I can speak solely for Pahnee’s record and character,” he answered. “Both exemplary. He is not in the habit of chasing after humans. I haven’t met this one, but I must trust his assessment of her.”

“Oh, very well.” Magistrate Inarr flicked her claws dismissively and spun her chair away. “It’s bound to go over poorly no matter how we handle it, so we may as well bite the media full on the chin. We’ve got to look like we approve of this catastrophe. Congratulations, sek’ta Pahnee, you’ve just been promoted for your decisive and meritorious conduct on this mission.”

Tagen sighed.

“My feelings precisely,” the Magistrate muttered, and then spun back to scratch at the tabletop. “We have E’Var at least, and we can show him in shackles while we tell the fair citizens of all Jota’s worlds that a decorated officer is keeping a pet human in his closet.”

“I am not,” he said tightly.

“Oh, hush, male. I said you could keep her, didn’t I? Just, for the gods’ sakes, don’t take her anywhere. Not for a while at least.”

“She won’t mind the seclusion, will she?” vey Kosar asked. “Humans are very social creatures, from all accounts. Will the isolation…affect her?”

“I doubt it.” He refrained from commenting on all the practice she’d had adjusting to it. “She understands the necessity of discretion.”

*

“So does that mean they want me to be a neurotic shut-in?” Daria pressed, plating the prepared food.

“At least for now.”

“Yay!”

“Although there will be a conference later this season to introduce you before the media. Limited interactions, I’m sure, but very public. I’ve been instructed to teach you to speak Jotan.”

“Good.” Daria made just one of her eyes close in an singularly sly and alluring manner as she seated herself at the dining table. “Because all I know how to say now is ‘Tor u’ane sa y te chi’ay’.”

“I advise you not to,” he said, his brows rising in feigned surprise, just as though he had not taught her the words himself. “Although, gods know, it would certainly present humans in a fetching light.”

She giggled. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, tor y’ana sa y te chi’ay.”

“Chi’an is plural,” he remarked. “And the ladies, if there are any, will be at distinct odds to comply.”

“Just you, then.” She interlocked her slender fingers and perched her chin atop them, her eyes sparkling. “Tor u’ane sa y te chia’ay, Tagen.”

“Oh, if you insist.” He picked up the table, dinners and all, and moved it to one side so that nothing obstructed his approach. He lifted her into his arms and she opened eagerly to his kiss, her hands slipping beneath his clothing to scratch along his chest.

He took his time undressing her, even though she, in her youth-sized Jotan clothing, was far easier to access than in her old Earth-wear. Every inch of her was precious, every inch demanded to be kissed, caressed, admired. He unwrapped her in this slow, jubilant fashion, there in the corner of the kitchen, and knelt before her. He ran his hands wonderingly down her naked body all the way to her feet, and then back up to grip her hips as he pressed his mouth to her belly, her thighs, her sex.

Her hands clutched at his hair, pulling him even closer as his tongue coaxed her to open. Her cries, unbridled and dazzling with delight, sent flashes of pure sexual pleasure through him like lightning. He teased her with greater passion, greater tenderness, and her fragrant oils filled his senses for reward.

‘All my life,’ he thought dazedly, letting her passion coat his questing tongue. ‘I will have this amazing female for my own all my life.’

She tugged at his hair sharply, guiding him up so that she could pull his clothes away, her eyes glassy with the intensity of her desire. He could think of nothing he had done in his life to deserve such a wondrous, passionate female.

Or her cat, he thought, distractedly eyeing the orange paw that covertly hooked the cooling meat from Tagen’s plate and dragged it beneath the table. “Ah, lucky me,” he said, and pulled Daria with him to the tiled floor. It was cold at first, but not for long. In moments, they were joined together; in moments, there was only the heat of their breath, their blood, their bodies. There was only heat.

Blessed heat.

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Epilogue

The hopper left Jota Prime just after six bells and by seven, it had docked with the prison transport vessel Depahg. The prisoner was transferred shackled and unconscious from one holding bay to the other, and then the ship was underway. They were two hours from the Gate that would bring them to Far Point space when the prisoner finally began to rouse himself awake. His name was Kanetus E’Var and this time, he was caught for real.

He had spent fifty days in a holding cell deep in Jota Prime’s Magistrate Capital, days without either sunlight or stars to comfort him, days measured out by idle scratches on the wall after the receiving of each day’s allotment of food. Days he passed lying on the thin mat provided for his bed, waiting until his interrogators came for him. And they always came. He’d fought every time, but every fight had ended with him in binders and a solid dose of hypnotic swimming in his veins. And then, the questions. The same ones every day.

The Fleet did everything by regulation. It was a joke, one that everyone knew, and it was always as funny the fiftieth time as it was the first. Regulations allotted prisoners a cell just large enough to stand up and lie down fully, and so Kane had one. Regulations provided a bed and one meal per day with adequate nutritional basis to sustain life, and so Kane had it. Regulations allowed for interrogations to be provided under hypnosis through the use of only those serums approved for that use, in specific, the drug endoxis, and so that was what they gave him. And Urak had been giving him endoxis since he was six years old, just in case. A far-thinking man, his father.