ADULT CONTENT!
Sexual situations and drug use. Virgins, please scram now. Go read something moral and enlightening.

[Author's note: Admiral Piett is a NICE guy! I'm sure of it! That's why everybody likes him so much. And one of these days I'm going to write some high-quality fanfiction that shows his true character and nobility but-- This ain't it. This is because I had a really weird *koff koff* dream one morning. Even then, it could have been a perfectly nice little smutfic but I just had to go and toss drugs and domination in along with the sex. Argh, can you believe it? Okay, if you're still here--]

[My beta said, "The reason why I asked if that was the drug's official name is because it is pretty naff. Firstly, -anol endings are for chemicals, not drug brand names in general. And secondly, it sounds like 'skirt up and all' which is exactly what's happening here but is not in general a frightening name. But if it's official, you're stuck with it."]

I had left my panties off for his convenience. After all the ruckus I'd forgotten about it; then when I was walking around his suite by myself my lack of underwear caught my notice again. I had just decided to get some from my suitcase and put them on, when I heard the door opening. I arranged myself by the window, in a pleasing pose as if nothing was wrong.

Why bother. When he came in there was anger written in every line of his body. All hidden, tamped down and banked, of course. He didn't say anything to me. He gave me a considering look, without any pleasantness to it, then went over to the computer and started punching keys.

By this point he should have been undressing. Undressing himself or starting with me first, I couldn't have cared which. I would have been naked while I was waiting except that it didn't take a genius to figure out It Wasn't Over Yet. And it's hard to carry on a convincing married fight when you're the only party without any clothes on.

My husband, Andries Piett, pulled up a chair to take the weight off his feet, and continued whatever project was so fascinating on the computer. He had quit typing, and was now reading whatever it was he had accessed.

Well, I hadn't come up here to be ignored. 'It' would have to be gotten over sometime, wouldn't it? I mean, he couldn't stay angry with me forever, could he?

That was the theory, anyway. That was what I'd always heard.

I walked over to him. I found myself walking very gingerly, non-threateningly. In truth I hadn't known him that long. I'd found out he could tiff just as well as any other man when he was merely irritated; I hadn't seen him really angry before.

I wished he would face me and yell. It would have to be better than this, this polite, distant--

With fury coming off him in waves.

When I came almost close enough to see what he was reading, he tapped a button and it disappeared. "What do you want?" he asked.

Stung, I stepped back. What I wanted was perfectly clear, wasn't it? Him. I wanted him. It was why I'd come up here. It was why I had ordered this gorgeous white dress, and then not worn any panties under it. It was why I had gone to that boring party and even attempted to talk to any of the ramrod bores in the first place.

I said, "I want to go home. Call the shuttle and let them take me back."

A few almost-emotions registered across his face-- irritation, then hurt, then fury again-- and then back to the professional nothingness I was starting to really hate. "That's right," he said, with mock- approval. "Start a diplomatic incident then leave me alone to clean it up."

"You said there was nothing more I could do."

He almost-smiled. It wasn't a pretty sight. "You've done enough already."

That was twisting the knife. It was hurting, too.

So I had said a few things! So I had insulted some hateful woman who happened to be married to an ambassador. She had asked for it. I wasn't hired for my diplomatic skills.

I couldn't reel my words back into my mouth again! Everybody was going to go on tormenting me for hours or days or weeks or until everybody was satisfied and-- what could I do?

Apologize?

I almost-shouted, "Let me lay down on the floor so you can walk on me!"

"What good will that do?" he wanted to know. He tapped his fingers noiselessly against the side of the console, waiting for me to leave so he could get back to his reading. "What I need to do is have your mouth wired shut so it can't ever happen again."

"Well, then other things couldn't happen again, either," I said, trying to be provocative.

It didn't work. There was no response whatsoever, and I couldn't decide whether I was furious or mortified.

I flounced to a chair and sat down in a froth of fancy dress. Then realized I'd just quit yet another battlefield, the clear loser yet again.

I was not going to cry. There was no way I was going to cry. Just because I'd permanently, irrevocably embarrassed and shamed myself and my husband and the damned Imperial Space Navy which had somehow decided I was a representative of it-- that was no reason to cry.

Crying was as deadly stupid a thing to do as apologizing. Hey, I knew what trouble was like, too. Shit happens, even to the best of us. It's nasty while it goes on, but you weather it, and it blows over, and you pick up the pieces and adjust your budget accordingly. In the military when trouble happened and you were at fault, you just swallowed hard and took up your new duties as a private. Or if you were an Admiral, on Vader's personal staff--

I couldn't help a smile at that.

Both of us seemed to be alive. I'd had to see Darth Vader at closer range than I had ever wanted to, while I told him the story of how that horrible woman had first cozied up to me, then assumed that because she was older than I was she could tell me all of her opinions, then gotten her neck out of joint because I told her what she could do with them.

I repeated each detail while my heart shook in my shoes. I couldn't tell if Vader was actually angry. His expression remained-- much the same as it always was. How would I know if he was angry? Would waking up dead be a clue?

My dear husband leaned against a bulkhead with his arms crossed, looking disgusted. When I got to the part where she called me a child and I called her a bitch, he closed his eyes.

That was already six hours ago. By now I was getting tired, and starting to see the humorous side of all this. I rested my chin on my hand and laughed under my breath.

"Not funny," my dear husband said, not looking up from his screen.

"No, it isn't," I agreed, in just as nasty a tone of voice. And that settled that-- I went to the dressing room to get some underwear out of my suitcase.

At least it got his attention. He followed me. I became aware of his presence just before I singled out the wanted article of clothing, and, lest the selection betray something of my thoughts, I slammed the lid down on the case again.

"You are not leaving," he informed me, upon seeing the suitcase.

"Why?" I demanded. I intended it to come out as a demand, but instead it sounded dangerously close to a whimper. "Andries, why should I stay here? What good will it do?"

"You could always apologize to Lady Herret as I asked you to."

"I don't apologize. I told you that. I especially don't apologize after I said I wouldn't!"

When I next looked up he was gone. Forgetting the underwear-- and still halfway wishing we could forget all this, and get back to the original purpose of my visit-- I ran out into the main room. He wasn't there. The computer screen had gone neutral grey. The chair was back in its place.

I was alone.

I would not cry. No way would I cry. There was prickling behind my eyes which a cleansing flood of tears would relieve, as well as the suffocating pressure around my heart. But it would do no good, and I didn't do it.

I went to the window and stared down at Imperial Center, wishing I could go back.

If the damned party had taken place down on the planet, there would have been a dozen different ways to sneak out now and go home-- or go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Here I was stuck. There was no way to leave except in the shuttle that had brought me. There wasn't any point even in leaving this room. This was 'home' at the moment, in that it was his quarters. If I did go out, I wouldn't even know where to find him.

I was persona non grata with several people out there. Yes, better to stay safely stuck away in here.

I sat down on the bed but instantly got up again. Not the bed. No, anywhere but there. Cold, unyielding lonely expanse of bed-- I curled up in a chair instead.

Forgotten?

Well, my admiral didn't come back. By the time an hour had gone by I was fancying myself abandoned for life. At least abandoned for this visit. In two days the fleet would leave. Don't hold your breath for it to come back, either.

Could he actually have stomped out of this room, not intending to come back tonight? Would he go find a bunk somewhere, and stay out of my way until I left with the rest of the guests?

I would have thought he wanted me. We had been married for, what, three weeks now? Not quite three weeks. And that hadn't seemed long enough.

Did my refusal to apologize to that bitch equate to refusing to sleep with him? Did he take it that way?

It had been my golden opportunity. The Naval gala of the century. My chance to see him again. At least get royally laid. Well, I'd screwed that one up--

Now I heard they were talking about not having receptions on board warships, ever again. And about having a screening process for the wives of high officers. And requiring social training for particularly hot-tempered young brides.

Basically I should never be allowed out again without a muzzle, a leash and a trained handler.

I jumped when the door buzzed. That meant it wasn't him-- he wouldn't have announced his arrival. I checked my hair in the nearest mirror. It was perfect. Of course. It couldn't be anything other than perfect; I was perfect.

Usually.

"Come in," I said.

It was four stormtroopers, and a trooper officer with dead-looking eyes. They hadn't even cleared the door before I felt threatened. "Admiral Piett isn't here," I said, imperiously. "Can I help you?"

"Would you come with me, please?" the officer said.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, please."

"To where?"

"Come with me, please," he said, and stepped back for me to go out before him.

"There's some mistake," I said calmly. "I'm Allina Piett and I'm not to be detained. Call the admiral and ask him."

"It's the Admiral's orders," he said, uncomfortably, as if that was already more explanation than he was in the habit of giving.

I didn't like it, but I went.

I was only vaguely familiar with the interior of the ship. Given its vastness I doubted there was anyone who knew their way around the whole thing. And I was transported in a closed repulsor car, so I had no clue of direction. One thing I was aware of: we went down. Up is good. Up is the direction of status, power and respect. Down is the opposite.

We went down, and down, and down.

None of my companions had anything to say to me. With difficulty I swallowed my nervousness and stayed silent myself, twisting my rings around my fingers but keeping my feet still at least.

Down was also the direction of the hangar. Maybe they were taking me to the hangar. Maybe my husband had decided to loosen up a bit, and was sending me home in the shuttle.

In that case the escort would have brought my suitcase, and wouldn't have brought their weapons.

When I finally had to speak or die, I said, "What exactly were Admiral Piett's orders?"

The stormtrooper captain looked me over and didn't have anything to say.

Later I would have a word with somebody about his rudeness. He should be required to explain his actions to me-- shouldn't he?

The car stopped and I was hustled out. The door slammed behind me, leaving me alone in a new place.

I had lived in Imperial City a long time. I carried a three-dimensional map in my head, and it was large enough that I could go a long way and still know approximately where I was. I hadn't realized just how secure that made me feel. Here I was painfully disoriented. I felt lost in the expanse of ship. The idea of it still floating above my home planet was somewhat comforting, but beyond that--

It wasn't hard to figure out what this place was. The two officers here had those same dead eyes. Manacles hung from a convenient peg, and down a corridor I saw rows of hatches without much space between: cells, it would seem.

As I turned to look wistfully after the departing hovercar a humming caught my attention. There, in a tucked-away corner, hovered a round, black interrogation droid.

Thanks to a former co-worker who was the paranoid, rumor-passing type, I had once seen a poor-quality homemade documentary on this type of thing. "Secrets of the New Order" it was called, or something like that. I hadn't believed it. Nobody would actually design and build machines whose purpose was only to cause hurt to people until they-- I had dismissed all the rest of the documentary as well, thinking it must be the product of many over-active imaginations, if not simply an atrocity-propaganda hoax.

The reality sat there in midair looking right back at me, its various tools and claws stowed away, only the bantha-sized injection needle in a fixed position. The documentary hadn't mentioned the humming, which was fearsome enough in itself. They must have pitched that sound on purpose to get into the brain and under the skin. I found my nerves instantly aflame with mechanically-generated terror.

But, I reminded myself, whatever it was doing, it wasn't doing it for my benefit. They must leave it on like that all the time, for some reason, despite its nerve-wracking humming. And it wouldn't go wild and attack. If it did it wouldn't chose me for a target: I am fine and I. Am. Completely. Calm.

I cleared my throat, brushed my oceans of white skirt nicely around my bottom and walked (calmly) over to the two officers. "Hello," I said pleasantly. "I'm not absolutely sure why I was brought here--"

"Admiral's orders, ma'am."

"Oh. You know who I am?"

"Yes, ma'am." He nudged his companion's shoulder, and the two of them prepared to jump ship and abandon me.

"Where are you going?" I demanded, not very calmly. "What is the meaning of this? I demand an explanation!"

The one man looked at the other, expressing scorn at my manner of speaking to him, but it was to the other that he looked, not at me. The door slid shut behind him and I was alone.

With that-- thing.

I went at once to the comlink and shouted, "Supervisor!"

There was no response, but neither was there the deadness of a malfunction.

I reached under the console, found various hidden buttons, and pressed them all. To my satisfaction, deafening alarms began to blare all around me. I put my fingers in my ears and waited for some attention.

The alarms turned off again, but nobody came.

Keeping a wary eye on the humming black sphere, which of course hadn't budged from its position, I sat down to await developments.

The next one to come through the door was my husband. I should have jumped up, glad to see him as a rescuer, but in the meantime I'd had time to think about it, and I wasn't so sure. Casting an eye over his person I began to have my doubts: did I even recognize him? Did I know him from a stranger?

If a stranger at a cocktail party had asked me whether Executor carried torture droids I would have said, "Of course not!"

Which would have been very stupid and uninformed. But then, most of our perception is based on assumptions.

"Andries?" I said, feeling uncertain. "What's going on? Why was I brought here?"

He said, "To point out a basic fact of life to you."

"Oh, really? I think it could have been done as well where I was. Please return me to your quarters now, or back down to my home."

"Don't you ever back down?" he asked. "Don't you ever get tired?" He sounded tired. Well, of course. He would have been on his feet for quite some time now.

"Of course I get tired. I'm tired right now. But I was brought away from my-- your-- our-- bed, and down here instead. Now, what?"

He rubbed the back of his hand over his brow. An expression of weariness; I watched with a twinge of guilt for having added to his burdens. But something about the way he took his hand away, the movement was not natural. That was the only sign there was of his continuing anger.

I sat down again. He couldn't still be angry with me. He shouldn't be angry, it wasn't like him, it wasn't natural after what we had become.

He should let go, and just forgive me, before he snapped and did something completely--

He walked over to the torture droid and put both his hands on it. I wanted to scream a warning-- don't you know what that thing is? It'll get you!

It turned on its own power to follow the leading of his fingers.

--crazy.

There was another one behind the first. I hadn't even noticed the second one.

The chosen individual left its position and hummed peacefully across the room in my general direction. The other one remained still.

"What are you doing," I whispered.

"Lord Vader approves of you on a certain level," he informed me. "He always favors people with definite personality as long as they don't get in his way. You won't be in his presence again, I guarantee you. I enjoy you, Allina, but you've made yourself into a problem. If you can't play well with others, you're going to have to stay home."

I kept a weather eye on the floating black ball. "Now I remember hearing--"

"I can imagine."

"About you. That you were 'just another of Vader's hired killers'. That you were in the Jedi Purges. That you--"

"If you had ever expressed interest in my war stories, you would have heard them."

"I thought it wasn't possible." I got out of my chair to retreat.

"If you choose to believe stories about how horrible I am, then why aren't you afraid of me enough that you will apologize to someone when I ask you to?"

"I don't know," I said.

"I heard your mother call you 'spitfire' and I managed to ignore it."

"You shouldn't have. It's so."

"Mm-hm." He went to the console and pushed some buttons. I heard the exit doors lock.

I had walked all the way around the console to keep it between the floating sphere and me. But the droid now hovered directly above it, so there was no reason for me to walk anywhere else.

Only a few days ago I would have thrown myself into Piett's arms confident of salvation. A few weeks before that I didn't know who he was. I seemed to be back to that state, only without the innocence of it. I wasn't merely on my own now, I was betrayed.

Or the other option. What else had the documentary said about that million-credit machine facing me right now? Somewhere between drugs and pain, it could flip a few switches in my mind and I would be a nice girl from here on out. And if that happened-- well, everything could go on as it was; Admiral Piett would still have his pretty trophy wife. She could go on living in her previous place.

He would still have me but I would not have him.

But the new woman could never enjoy him as I had, or love him as I did. I looked around for some way to end her life before it even began, and, nothing presenting itself, I did the next best thing, for appeasement of my rage: I jumped him.

It took him by surprise and we went down together. I know I hurt him. I got in a couple of good thumps before I ended up face down on the floor with my hands pinned behind me.

I had made him breathe heavily, and that pleased me.

"At last a reaction!" he said, with satisfied tones. "I wondered if you had it in you."

"Why wouldn't I?" I gasped. He was putting too much pressure on my rib cage; I couldn't breathe very well. I would be hanged before I would complain. "I can scrap as well as anyone!"

"Your stony eyes are driving me insane," he informed me, leaning over me. He climbed off me and picked me up by my arms. I put my teeth together to avoid crying out. "There is a way in there. I couldn't find it before. Maybe this will help."

The black interrogator. I had forgotten it for a moment, now I heard it humming very close to me. "No," I said.

"Won't it help? I bet it will. We'll see." Still holding my arms behind me, he half-marched, half-dragged me past the console and into one of the cells. It contained a table and a bench and smelled of disinfectant.

I found an opening, a moment when his grip was off-guard, and almost twisted myself free. He caught me, folded me up again and held me down over the table. I wasted some energy in straightforward, strength-against-strength bucking, which did me no good.

The droid had followed us in. Its hum grated on my nerves and pushed my fear past the breaking point. And the needle. I didn't even want to look at that. This wasn't the doctor's office; these needles were built for efficiency, not comfort.

I resolved to be strong. If it had to happen, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream. But the droid's sensors were designed to be sure there was no premature brain damage, and no accidental death. Nobody resisted, not even those who had prepared for it, trained for it. There was no way in the universe that I would be able to resist.

This could not be happening to me. Not when he, the one I loved, was touching me, really touching me for the first time since I set foot on his damned ship.

Only to hold me still for that thing-- and I screamed then. "No! Please, Andries!"

I wasted more energy in that unequal struggle, then when the black planet of the droid's surface filled my vision I went quiet and turned my face into Piett's arm.

He huffed a laugh. "It's not going to kill you. It won't even hurt you-- much." He moved my hand, holding it where the droid could get to it. I felt something damp contact my wrist, then the sharp pinch of the needle. I yelped, then grit my teeth. Piett, bending over me, said soothing things into my ear-- "Sssh, hold still, don't fight, it'll be over in a moment."

He had a wonderful voice when he chose to. Soft, gravelly, yet thrilling. Or perhaps I only found it so.

I pulled against him. He prevented my moving, which was probably good, since moving the needle would not have been comfortable. I could hear that irritating buzz so close to my head. I looked at my hand and was sickened by the sight of the black droid fastened to me by the thin metal tube. When I wasn't looking, it felt like I was being pinched hard, but seeing the reality of needle disappearing into my flesh was worse.

My traitorous husband breathed warm into my hair and, to my displeasure, I felt deeply aroused. Why must it be so, now of all times?

The droid moved-- clumsily, I thought; it bumped as it withdrew itself and the needle, sending a thread of fire up my arm. There was great relief from that one ill-used patch of me, but not much relief of mind. I didn't know what it was that it had injected me with, or what would happen now.

Something was happening to me and it frightened me. Something taking effect inside my system. Something waking up. Something shutting down.

I couldn't think. I started to panic as my thoughts went away. Then more of them went away, and I ceased to worry about it.

I could feel--

I could feel more clearly than I ever had before.

Piett still held me bent over the table, not allowing me to move. I became acutely aware of the solidness of his body behind and above me. The edge of the table cut into my hips with a pressure that was becoming pain. Piett's hold on my wrist was becoming painful too. I saw his black-gloved hand-- very clearly I could see the stitching along the fingers and down the backs of the hands. I could smell the soft, well-worn leather. The scent was faint to my nostrils but seemed to be increasing in clarity with every passing moment.

When I turned my head the other way, I could smell the animal fibers of his tunic, and the sweet spice of his skin beneath it. With a gasp of shame, I realized I was intensely aroused. I wanted him now, more than ever.

Had I no pride at all?

I closed my eyes. A small, impatient movement on my part made my clothes slither across my body. My dress was made of finest shimmersilk, but now felt like burlap dragging on my over-sensitive skin. I twitched to get away from the feeling, and that made the burlap scrape with a vengeance. I held still.

My husband was asking me if I was all right. I couldn't understood his words very well, but I felt his voice intensely. I heard it as a living thing moving against my eardrums, and through to the inside my head, becoming mingled with my own thoughts.

The table pressing against me, and the ungentle way Piett held my wrist, were both becoming too painful to bear. Each of those contacts were unnaturally exaggerated, as if they were touching against an inflamed wound. I moved again, trying for release, but at the same time not wanting to move.

"Does that hurt?" I heard his voice say. "Of course-- I'm sorry--" he released the grip, instead brushing his gloved fingers gently along the bare arm that he had held. I felt all my nerve endings quiver in response, trying to follow a source of intense pleasure.

"What is that stuff?" I managed to say.

Then I missed the whole first part of the explanation, because I felt his hands touch the back of my dress. Lowering the zipper. Touching my bare skin, with the gloves that were both warm and cool at once, and very smooth against me. I could hardly breathe for the pleasure of it.

Something about a drug that increases the sensation of pain? And lowers the resistance? And that I had nothing to be afraid of, really.

I almost remembered to be frightened, and with the sliver of conscious mind that remained to me, I listened for the torture droid's telltale humming. I couldn't register it, but that didn't mean it wasn't still there. I didn't dare to open my eyes and look for it.

Piett took his gloves off. His bare hands, strong and warm, sent cascades of sensation along my burning skin. With no thoughts, no resistance, I melted into his hands with a whimper I couldn't even remember to suppress.

My dress slid down my legs, floating to the floor; some folds of it stayed there to brush against my ankles. I heard my husband laugh softly. Of course-- no underwear.

He said something, in tones of great amusement, something about Lord Vader and the Moffs and me and the brazenness he supposed he should beat out of me, if only that were possible-- and I heard none of it, only felt the rough cloth of his clothes, and his hands hard against my bottom.

I was hot and drenched. Drowning in sweet, slick desire. He lifted me from the table, just enough to get his hand around to the front of me, and sank his fingers into that warmth.

I gave a pride-less yowl of anguished need. I could think of nothing else but the joy and bliss of this, and the hollow, hurting ache in my body, wanting him, wanting him in me, wanting him on me, just wanting to scream, take me!

I tried to turn-- but the effort from my own muscles hurt too much.

He rubbed his hand into me, slow and hard, feeling the wetness, massaging it back into me. Both his arms were around me as he leaned over me, lifting me from the surface of the table but keeping me down at the same time. He leaned over and kissed the back of my neck, gently bit me, and just once licked my skin-- that made a delicious tingle of cooling as it evaporated. I tried to speak, but as if in a nightmare, no sound came out.

He stepped away from me to undress. I managed to stand up, holding the table for support. My legs were weak, my balance non-existent. He paused from levering off a boot to catch me before I fell. Somewhere in the back of my consciousness I registered what it would have felt like to fall against the floor, in this condition. Bone-jarring agony, is all it would be--

I saw the torture droid, floating forgotten high up in a corner.

Pity the poor victims of--

Piett set me on the bench and continued stripping. I watched him, doing my best to turn down my other supercharged senses so that the light of the room and the beauty of his form would be bearable. It was, just barely. I saw his pale skin and the movement of his muscles as something familiar, as well-known to me as my own body, and as desirable. I reached an aching arm to touch him-- the velvety skin covering the harness of his engorged shaft. I had to drop my arm. I couldn't bear it. Couldn't see straight-- the room seemed to tilt and distort.

I was angry that I lost my sight.

He held me and I was immensely pleased. I must have still been on my back but it couldn't be proven. I could be up, down, or drifting alongside, without gravity or anchor, or any reference point but his arms, how he held me, and kissed me. His mouth warm on mine, comforting, inviting, tormenting me with the--

silence. That moment before the moment before--

I felt it. The answer, the satisfaction, what I needed, pressing against me--

he thrust into me all in one easy, practiced stroke. The thirst for him was quenched, the drowning of all my doubts was completed. I believe I--

I--

I could feel him inside me, every last inch, clear as never before. The disruption, the invasion inside my body was brought to my senses now not vaguely but acutely. I forgot the splinters of pleasure at every contact with my outer skin, in the shock of the sensation pulsing inside me. I could feel the shape of it, and how all my insides conformed to it as it moved, withdrew, ground forward again.

Too much for one tired mind to absorb.

"Andries," I whispered, surprising us both by speaking.

He kissed me slowly, tasting my sensations, licking my breath from my lips. He touched my hair and I forgot all else-- for the sheer pleasure of his fingers tangling in that silk and the pain of a few pulled strands.

He pushed my hips apart, thrusting into me with a sweet slow rhythm. It was gentler than usual. He was being very, very careful of me, and still it was too much, almost killing me. I was exhilarated and terrified.

At the last moment I tried to hide, but that was a futile attempt. I was found, and dragged out, and then ever so gently, with loving hands, I felt my whole body twisted and crushed beneath the--

unbearable pleasure.

I gritted my teeth and tried to hold on to my sanity. I was doing well, I thought-- then that man, whom I love more than the air I breathe, took my face in his hands and kissed me sweetly when I least expected it--

I ceased to breathe. There was no way I could breathe. I couldn't see. Couldn't think. My body betrayed me, handed me over to my tormentor. I gasped, choked, every muscle in my body convulsed.

Sweet relief tore me apart.

I thought I would die. I would never move again. I would stay here forever-- wherever 'here' was. It didn't matter. I would only stay there floating weightlessly, blissfully comfortable.

Drifting.

Falling.

"Allina." His voice was sharp, commanding. Too loud in my ear. I tried to move away from it. "Allina. Open your eyes."

Bothering me.

Leave me alone--

His hands on my head, gently shaking me. There was urgency in his voice: "Allina, wake up!"

He struck me. Probably not very hard-- in my present state it wouldn't have to be very hard, to feel like being smacked in the face by a ship's hatch. Pain blossomed in my skull, shooting tendrils of misery down my neck.

I moaned, feeling freshly betrayed, and took a deep breath that sent a cooling wave of oxygen through my body. Had the air gone stale? I hadn't noticed. I took another breath, and it was another delicious sensation. A few more breaths--

There had been an irritating beeping sound, as of a wake-up alarm going off by my head. That sound had stopped when I began to breathe again, but the humming was still there-- I opened my eyes to see the black interrogation droid hovering just above me, staring at me with its emotionless life sensors.

Piett pushed the droid away with his hand. It floated away. Maybe it felt offended in its little droid brain. It had only been trying to help, that time.

My husband held me, spoke to me, his lips close to me, his breath ruffling my hair. I heard only a few of the things he said. Nice things, all of them, and that was good for a change. He had been angry with me for many hours in a row. He said some sweet things that didn't even come through to me, although it was with crystal clarity that I heard a spoken vow to never be angry with me again.

What man could keep up that kind of promise?

It was a nice thing to say, anyway. And it felt good for him to touch me as I drifted off again. He allowed me to go this time, but stayed beside me with reassuring watchfulness.

Next time I woke up it was on sheets made from flower petals, the residual pink glow that betrayed their origin countered with a severe line of dark grey piping. It was the most delicious feeling against my naked skin. But my brains were back in order, and I decided it was not like my husband to spend so much money on an affectation so expensive and so easily ruined. But then, what did I know of him, really?

Sunshine warmed my face. I thought nothing of it at first, since my bedroom was aligned that way at home, but then as reality slowly returned, I realized it could be no accident that the ship was oriented in just such a way, to make the sun's light fall through the window and splash across my bed.

A compliment. Rather like leaving a bouquet of flowers on the nightstand?

Well, thank you.

I moved experimentally, running internal self-checks and security procedures. Everything seemed to be in order. The sheets felt wonderful, but not *too* wonderful; just ordinary wonderful. My hair, which had somehow-- no, I knew how, but I didn't want to think about it-- gotten loose, was tangled around my breasts and arms, but while that irritated me, it didn't drive me "totally insane with unendurable frustration" as it would have if the drug was still with me.

"So, it wears off," I said aloud, sitting up to disentangle the hair.

"Of course it wears off," Piett's voice said. "I wouldn't have given it to you if it didn't." He sounded lighthearted and cheerful. He must really not be angry with me any more.

I went down again, into the sheets. "Why is my head splitting?" I demanded.

"Must be from all that went on yesterday," he said. "Skirtopanol doesn't do that."

"Is that what it was," I mumbled. "I've heard of that before. I thought it was illegal."

"It's controlled, and for good reason." I heard his steps come nearer and I made sure my face was hidden. He went on, "There are up-sides to everything. I've heard of guys having an IT droid come up to their room along with the whore. I can't say I ever tried it before."

"You," I said, with emphasis on that word, "still haven't."

He chuckled in the most blood-freezing way, and it distracted me for a moment. I thought of previous occasions when I'd heard him make that sound. I had formerly dismissed it as a fluke and not like him at all.

Probably just the same as he had dismissed it when he heard my mother call me Spitfire.

Meanwhile I missed what he said: oh, yes, something to the effect that he wouldn't be trying it, either. Not on himself.

"What does it do with men?" I wanted to know.

"Don't know, didn't read that far."

"I see."

He continued, "I'm surprised nobody told you. It's one of those tales old wives like to shock young wives with. I can see you just haven't been hanging around the right crowd."

"I had no interest in the Imperial Space Navy at all until a very short time ago," I said quelchingly.

"I know," he said, in less friendly tones. "It shows."

I had nothing to say for myself. I heard or felt no movement, but I thought he was leaving. "Andries," I said into the pillow, quieter than a whisper.

He touched my shoulder. A warm, gentle touch. His hand felt rough by comparison with the petal sheets.

"Sleep more, if you'd like," he said. "You have to go home today, but I could go down with you. You could apologize to Lady Herret, and then we could go have lunch at the Gardens again. What do you think?"

"Yes," I said simply, my attention all on the hand, and the voice. The Gardens Plaza was where we had met. He had been wearing plain clothes. I had had no idea who he was. He had looked me up and down with that expression of professional nothingness, those resigned, I've-seen-too-much eyes that I chose to take a different way: as possibly the greatest challenge to woman that there had ever been.

But then I had loved him. Maybe I did from the first instant, and that's why I took it that way.

Damned fool of a woman to do that.

When he was gone I turned over on my back, pushed the sheets down and lay there basking in the warm sun. I was still a bit tired. He was probably right-- a little more sleep would take care of the headache.