Polarisian Multiverse Bk. 01 Ch. 01

POLARIS: BOOK I, Ch. 1 -- Welcome to Polaris

Magic, weapons, and seduction in a multiverse

I have been to Polaris.

It was one of those freak accidents, where universes meet at a coincidental time to change your fate. I should have crashed on a desert road in Texas, when my old-school Jeep Sahara went into a gully in one of those freak west Texas thunderstorms, but one of the lightning bolts not only seemed to split the sky, but to split the fabric of reality as well. I was too busy with the Jeep, fighting to control it in a spin, to fully realize what was happening, but the landscape changed from a hard clay road and scrub brush and cactus under a driving rain to a murky street, the kind where the trash piled at the base of a building may be last month's garbage or the home of a local bum, where the rats and the winos both dine out of the buffet on the curb in mildewed cardboard boxes, and where the night mist can curl so thickly that a wi11-o-the-wisp can substitute itself for your evening companion if you're not careful. The Jeep only stopped because it met something sturdier than itself, namely the side wall of an alley, about twenty feet from the end of that and a bit more from the main street itself. If it had been a different night in Polaris, and another dimensional gate had been open in that wall, who knows where I might have stopped, passing from dimension to dimension and never knowing what I missed in this city that was the cynosure of universes. But the other gate was closed that night ...

All I knew at that moment was that I wanted to feel solid ground under my feet again, and I wrenched on the door handle and kicked at the door of the Jeep until I was able to push it open enough to slide out, dropping to the ground, not surprised to feel mud beneath my knees and hands, crawling a few feet away before stopping to catch my breath. I kept my head down, instinctively avoiding the rain that I didn't notice was no longer there, so I didn't see the dark silhouette standing at the edge of the building near the main road, nor the smaller furtive figures that started to crawl closer out of the swimming night.

* * *

It bad been a long day for you, gun-for-hire transporting the Bastet, an art statue carved out of black diamond, to its new owner's dimension. You were hired as the real courier, while most of Polaris's armed escort & delivery services spent the day serving as fronts, not only because it seemed unbelievable that anyone would trust you with such a valuable object, but because you in fact had the best chance of getting it done. Disappointingly, while several armored cars were subjected to hold-ups that day, you crossed the city without even being stopped by one of the robotic LEOs. (Isn't it terrible when enough money can buy off the cops?) So here you were, not a single fight under your belt for the whole day, wending your way back into The Nadir to see what business was going on in Salter's, your most-frequented watering hole.

Seeing the Jeep appear out of a wall and crash into another didn't surprise you, just another instance of those local dimensional gates acting up again. Mild curiosity, enough to make you look without planning to get involved, stopped you when the door opened and the driver slid out. You lit a cigar stub and watched as the local gutter rats, human and otherwise, moved in to investigate. It wasn't your normal policy to bother them, after all, they had to make a living too. You were about to move on when the first prowler reached for the driver's prone figure ...

... and fell back screaming and writhing in agony, lit from within by what looked like flame in his very bones. The rest of the pack paused, looking for the source of the magic, but seeing no one other than their victim (missing your shadow in the dark), they closed their circle again and sent a delegate forward. This one got close enough to push at the driver's shoulder with a splintered stake, prompting the form to push up in protest as another set of rags was set ablaze from within.

Action on the streets - things were looking up for the evening! The expectation of a fight that you had felt all day and not released pulled you toward the fray. If the driver was going to put up a fight, then why not help? You waded in, grinning around your cigar, using the sole of your boot and your scabbarded saber to clear a path, flinging mangy bodies aside to land in piles of rot. Between your forceful blows and the strange incendiary effects, soon the street was clear of all but yourself, the wreck of the Jeep, a few smoking corpses, and the driver.

You reached forward tentatively, not wanting to get burned yourself. Before you touched, you murmured "It's ok, I'm a friend." As your hand made contact with the denim-covered shoulder, the head came up. Auburn hair with shades of brown and gold fell around the pale face of a woman. Her green eyes were slightly unfocused, and she was breathing hard through slightly parted lips. As she looked up toward you, you offered her a hand, and saying "It's ok" again. She made an automatic gesture of cleaning hers on her blue jeans before taking yours and coming off of her knees to her feet. She paused for a minute, trying to catch her breath, then put a hand on your arm, and you felt the chill of it through your leather sleeve. As you looked down, you saw her start to slide and you found yourself catching her in your arms.

Stranger things bad happened in Polaris, lodestar of oddities. At least you were not being set on fire. With a cynical shrug and a self-deprecating smile, you hoisted the still form and set off down the street. When you neared Salter's, instead of using the front entrance, you took a narrow passage down the side of the building and, pressing a loose stone, entered through your private door to a rear room. This was one of your sanctuaries where you conducted business, laid low, or slept off long nights. Here you set her on a narrow cot, removing her wet denim jacket and soaked boots, wiping off the worst of the remaining wet with an old bar towel. She was still unconscious, so you pulled a blanket over her and headed for the bar, wishing for the best. Some people survive Polaris, and some don't, and you idly wondered which she would be.

* * *

I slowly became aware that I was awake again, still feeling damp and lying on a lumpy mattress in a dark room. The door was cracked, and in the light from that I could see there wasn't much else, just a table and chair. I didn't know where I was, or how I got here. The last thing I really remembered was driving in Texas. But I obviously wasn't locked in, and although the sounds coming from the next room sounded like a bacchanalian fraternity party gone wild combined with a sports bar on Super Bowl Sunday, I figured I'd better see what was out there.

The door opened at one end of the counter in what appeared to be a basement bar room, but I didn't see any Super Bowl, much less any TV. As I paused in the doorway, I saw the bartender look at me and signal to someone in the throng. And then you walked over. You were tall and slender, with a kind of compact tension that seemed to radiate out and force people out of your way without having to touch them. Your sandy hair was trimmed short, and I could see the shadow of a bare day's growth of beard. You wore a dark grey shirt with black pants and black boots. Around your hips was a pistol belt like I used to see at the El Paso Saddleblanket Company, with loops for bullets and a holster with a heavy stainless revolver hanging off of the right side. Slung by a shoulder holster under your left arm was another pistol, an ugly-looking dull black semi-automatic of no distinguishable lineage. Around your throat was tied an old olive scarf, and I could see the edges of a silver chain disappearing under your shirt on your chest. You looked hard, a cross between a gunman and space pirate, I thought, and I braced myself to meet you.

When I looked at your eyes, I found myself being subjected to a perusal similar to what I had just given you. What did you see, I wondered? A young woman (if late twenties was called young here, wherever I was), in a bloused white shirt, kind of like the old pirate shirts without the lace, and faded blue jeans. I had on one of those travel "belly packs" and a black leather belt with brass medallions, and black suede boots cuffed around my ankles. That's what I would have seen. But I realized you saw more -- your eyes were measuring the rise of my breasts under the shirt, and deciding (disappointedly?) that I was wearing a bra. Then they looked at the way the belt fell around my hips, and gauged the way the denim of the jeans caressed my thighs. A quick glance at the boots, then you made your way back up, finally realizing how tall I was when I stood next to you, just barely able to see the top of my head. When you found me staring back, not stepping back, you gave a half-smile and jerked your head for me to follow you.

One table, catty-corner to both the bar and the entrance door, seemed to be your private territory. An oilskin coat was slung over a chair with the silver tip of a scabbard peeking out from beneath. We took the two chairs toward the corner, you to have your face to the door/back to the wall, and I to be able to watch the other occupants of the bar - the nearest comparison I could think of was one of those bar scenes from "Star Wars" or "Star Trek - Deep Space Nine", though this was much seedier than even a Ferenghi bar. The bartender had followed us, and placed another bottle of beer at your elbow, saying "Here y'are, Cap'n" then turned to me and asked "Miss?". I ordered wine, as it seemed safest since I had no idea about the water or anything else here. As I finished yet another overview of the room and ventured to glance toward you, you finally spoke. "You're not from Polaris." A flat statement, not a question, but maybe a bit of amusement underneath?

"No, and I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore either, and I don't think you are Toto or the Wizard."

I was amazed when you laughed out loud. "No, and you don't look like Dorothy (apparently even Polaris gets old MGM rentals). So, who are you?"

"My name's Althea, I go by Thea. And what do I call you ... Captain?"

"Bonney. Tom Bonney. Or Captain."

"Unless you get promoted?"

"Something like that." Conversation stilled for a moment. I mean, what do you say first when there are a thousand questions in your mind? And when you're not sure whether or not you're going to like the answers: one thing I didn't doubt was that if I asked you something, and if you chose to answer, what you told me would be the truth. But then my wine arrived - and so did company.

Something large and hot, hairy and smelly, came to lean against the wall at my left side, leaning over me to address you. "W'all Cap'n, wot's this new bit you got 'ere? New action for the 'ouse? Be glad to try 'er out for ya." A large, pawlike appendage, with a scaly palm, started running up and down my back, while its mate took hold of my left arm.

Your voice was flat. "Leave her alone, Fleabag."

"Cap'n, c'mon, y'know this's a business bar, not a place for dates. And dat's wot I want - to conduct some business!" I was being pulled out of the chair.

"Um, excuse me. Do I get a say in this?" From you "yes", from Fuzzy or Fleabag or whatever, "NO". Well, Rhian, drive on. "Do I have to go with him? I mean, is that why I'm here?" Opposite answers this time. I noticed your hand was sliding off of the table top.

Unfortunately, so did Fleabag. The paw that was on my back came around that side with a gun on you. "Hands on the table, Cap'n. She ain't worth fightin' over."

Enough. You two brutes could stare each other down all night, but I was going to puke from his body odor if this kept up. While Fleabag tightened his grip on my left arm, and leaned closer to you with his gun, I slid my hand into my fanny pack - the back pocket, the one with a Velcro closure, which no one could hear in the din from the bar. Out came a little .380, my "car gun", up under Fleabag's jaw, and out came a silvertip hollowpoint bullet from the top of the other side of his head. There was a new mural on the wall there, kind of free-form splatter-paint. I jumped back tightly into the corner next to your chair as the large body fell forward against me.

"Does that mean you choose me?"

With that kind of a question, I decided not to press my luck (like acting on impulse just based on the fact that Polaris seemed to be an armed society, and I really didn't like Fleabag, nor did you seem to). So, let's stick to straight questions and straight answers. "Yes. What do we do now?"

"Go someplace else. The LEOs aren't likely to come here and charge you with murder, but why wait? And besides, Fleabag was right, this isn't a place for dates."

"Where is?"

"My place."

* * *

"Your place. That room behind the bar?"

"No, that's only temporary. Someplace else."

Out into the dimming night with a man who looked like he could smile while he slit your throat. Some might say I was crazy, but I was so far past the limits of anything I knew that instinct, telling me to trust you, was all I had. And then there was always the philosophical argument, that none of this could be real and so nothing I did or didn't do mattered anyway. We made our way quietly through the dark streets and alleys, a relaxing silence after the action and commotion at the bar. I saw a few figures out in the shadows, but none came near. Maybe it was like that first impression I had, that others went out of their way to sidestep you.             

Eventually we stopped at a warehouse, and you started using several keys and checking what looked like high-tech alarms. Entering the place, I turned slowly, absorbing the difference in the pleasant interior from the drab facade outside. There were no windows on the ground level, which seemed both good for privacy and for protection from the neighborhood, though there was an open metal catwalk around the walls on the second level. The whole building had been bisected by a wall, and the front half was a spacious living area. You had left it open, creating rooms simply by using carved wooden screens, some solid and some slitted and airy. You led me off to the right to a kitchen separated from the main area by a bar/counter. I took a stool and faced out to the room, watching the way the light fell from the high windows. Behind me I heard glasses clinking and then what sounded like a cork popping.

Surprised, I turned, and you handed me a glass of what looked like champagne... "Welcome to Polaris."

"Thank you.' I watched as you paced your way around the bar to stand in front of me, so close you were between my outstretched legs. You touched your glass to mine, and we drank. "Does this mean you are the welcoming committee?"

"Looks like it." You took another swallow and reached over my shoulder to set down your glass.

"So, what's on the tour?" I asked as I took another sip.

"This" and your mouth came down on mine, closed at first, simply teasing my lips with your own, slowly using your tongue to taste the champagne, first from my lips, then as I relaxed into you, from within my mouth. I could taste the champagne from your mouth too. You had one hand behind my head, cupping it firmly but gently, tilting it to meet you. Your other arm circled behind my back, pressing our chests together as you stepped completely between my legs. I also slid a had behind your neck, not holding you, just feeling the smoothness of your skin underneath the scarf. With the fingernails of my left hand, I traced my way down your back, enjoying the feel of solid muscles underneath your shirt. Our kisses became more fevered, and our bodies were rubbing each other, seeking friction and heat. I wanted to feel my nipples against the hair of your chest, and I could feel your cock hard against my pussy. I put my hands on your chest, holding the edges of your shirt above the top button.             

"May I?" I asked in a low voice.

"Please" - almost a groan of agreement.

I started working my way down the buttons, pausing at each to spread your shirt and feel the heat underneath it. Your head remained bowed, and I couldn't see your eyes; you were watching your own progress as you unsnapped my belly pack and unhooked my heavy belt. As you laid those on the floor, you knelt at my feet, pulling off my boots and socks, rubbing my feet and putting pressure on the arches so that I gasped in surprised pleasure. Your hands, hot as fire through my jeans, ran up my legs to my waist, and you lifted me to my feet, pulling me to you for anther deep kiss.

We were working together now, stepping slowly across the floor without losing contact, only losing pieces of clothing along the way your shirt, my jeans, your boots, my thong. It was like strip poker without the cards. Soon we passed a wall of solid wood screens and stood in front of a large bed swathed in black sheets. We stopped then, pausing to look at each other. I lightly ran my fingertips, barely hard enough to touch, over your chest, combing the wiry hairs and tracing my way around the nipples, down to where your unbuttoned jeans hung on your narrow hips, a shadow of hair darkening the opening.

You used both hands to push my shirt back off my shoulders, letting it pull my arms back from you, seeing my pink nipples through the lace of my white bra. Your palms cupped them, squeezing them, rubbing, feeling them rise to points under your caresses. I let my shirt fall to the floor behind me, and reached behind my back to unhook my bra; you paused just long enough to let your jeans slide to the floor, then pulled me to you hard and fast, so that our bodies met along their whole length, our kisses deep and our hands exploring rapidly. You fell to the bed, carrying me with you so that I landed beside you. You rose up on one elbow beside me, looking down the length of my pale body glowing on the dark sheets.             

"What do you want? you whispered.

"I don't know."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

You caught both of my wrists in one hand, holding them above my head. You then pulled the scarf from your neck and tied them together, hooking the loop of fabric to the headboard. You massaged your way down my body, straightening it on the bed, making it tense with anticipation of your next touch. I heard you say that you were going to mark me in a way that would always remind me of my first night in Polaris, and then all went black as another scarf came down across my eyes.

Your body left me, and I heard water running. The bed sank again with your weight, and I felt a warm moist cloth across the shadowy hair that covered my crotch and clit and pussy. I moaned with pleasure as you ran the cloth in and out of my folds, even using a finger to push it partly inside me. Then there was a whisper of sound, and I felt something cold touch itself on my stomach, freezing me in place. Like a narrow icicle, it brushed its way down, and then I realized it was a blade, and you were starting to shave my hair. I was startled at first, but then realized the care you were taking, and I held still to see where this would go. I could feel the cool air of the room on the damp areas as you removed the hair, a contrast to the heat in your fingers as you tested the smoothness of the job. I could hear your whispered comments, both to yourself and to me, talking about the sharpness of the blade, the whiteness of the skin as you exposed it, the hot wetness you felt that wasn't from your cloth, and how beautiful you thought the folds of skin were when they were no longer hidden.

You warned me that the next thing would be cold, and I tensed as cool liquid was poured on me. Just as I felt the bubbles rise on my skin and realized it was the champagne, I felt the heat of your breath as your tongue chased the drops that were sliding down into my pussy. You had to hold my hips to keep them from twitching as your tongue soothed the area, washing it clean with your kisses and champagne. You drank deeply, coming back again and again to that hole where juices were flowing, driving me wild with need and longing.