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Report from New Xenaland
One: Saturday, 17 April, 99 ... 06:00 -- Base Cyrene, Downtown Auckland, New Zealand
Rain-tinged, cool dawn light spills at a low angle across tangled hotel sheets, throwing two naked bodies into stark relief. They sprawl, entangled in one another's limbs, across the narrow mattress, half under the bedding, one dark and long, one compact and fair. A ladylike, burr of a snore floats free of a heap of red-gold hair on a pillow near the theoretical head of the bed. The man's oversized hand strokes unconsciously across her upper back with a susurrus of flesh-on-flesh.
The telephone at the bedside rings. The woman's strong hand fumbles for the receiver and gets it reasonably close to her ear and mouth.
"'Lo," halfway between a mumble and a groan. "Right. Bagels, orange juice, coffee for two. Thanks." Gabrielle Dolly replaces the receiver and rolls over toward the man — Mitchell Cary Drummond. "Hey!" A mumbled reply comes from under the other pillow. Dolly grabs a bare shoulder and shakes it. "Hey! That was our wake up call."
Drummond slowly climbs out of his deep sleep. It was a long night. The clones made a bloody attempt on their principal's life the previous evening. It was successfully foiled, but at great cost. Three members of the Center's Troll Action Team went into the River of Souls behind it, albeit with an escort of three clones apiece.
Once it was all over, Drummond and Dolly retreated to her hotel room to burn off the excess adrenaline. Nobody got much sleep.
"Wha' time izzit?" Drummond asks.
Dolly rolls back over and squints at the clock on the night stand. She groans. "Oh-six farking hundred. We've got an hour before we have to take over from the night crew."
"'M gonna take a shower. Join me?" Drummond rolls out of bed and gets to his feet.
"Wash my back?" the doll asks as she moves to stand in front of him.
"And your front, if you like."
The doll clasps her hands at the back of her man's neck. Using him as a hanging point, she jumps and wraps her legs around his hips. "I like," she purrs.
As he carries her with him toward the bathroom, he lowers his head to engage the doll's mouth with his.
#
Dolly stood hipshot and canted forward before the room's dresser mirror, assessing her eye makeup. Her red-gold hair was pulled back from her face and clasped at the nape of her neck in a pewter Celtic knot hair ring. The ponytail fell down her bare back to her waist. She wore black leather — halter top, a tight, tight miniskirt, and knee-high boots.
She took a bite of bagel, chewing three times before taking a sip of OJ and returning to her muttons.
Drummond stood behind her, admiring her in the mirror of the dresser. As she noshed, he checked the load of his Heckler & Koch USP9 service automatic. A round chambered, the safety on, he lifted the back of his leather vest and slid the gun into the holster nestled in the small of his back.
The doll's eyes met his in the mirror. She put down her makeup brush and leaned back against him, reaching up and back to touch his face with her hands. The posture threw her full breasts into high relief. As Drummond turned his head to kiss her left hand, he slid his own hand across her belly and drew her in tight.
His whole body went tense, like a stretching cat, and he shuddered. What in hell was a man his age doing with a woman as young as Dolly appeared to be, let alone her actual age? (And which age would that be? The age from the birth of her karmic ancestor in 1830? The age her papers said she was — born in 1971? The little-over two years since her Genesis? Add in the ten she was in the back-time loop?)
"We look good together," Dolly rasped, with more than the usual husk to her whisky voice.
"Yeah," Drummond said quietly, leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss on her hair. "You'd look great anywhere." The doll's face colored. She pulled away and picked up a hairbrush. Stripping the hair ring from her ponytail, she began plying the brush with more vigor than seemed strictly necessary.
"You worried? About what Xe Doll will say?" He backed away to one side and watched her with the hairbrush.
Brush. "She's just gonna have to get over it." Brush. Brush. "She really projects too much of the TV show onto us for my taste." Brush. Brush. "She's not Xena: Warrior Princess, and I'm not Gabrielle the Bard of Potidaeia." Brush. Brush. Brush. "The sooner she accepts that, the better."
"Yeah, but she's a friend, and I'd hate to see her hurt."
Dolly stopped, pursed her lips, holding the hairbrush like it was a snake and she wanted to strangle it. "Shoulda thought 'about that awhile ago. Like about the time you an' me were doing the jungle boogie on the Doc's couch."
"I did. I just felt kinda — helpless — to stop it. Y'know?" The woman made me do it. So lame, Drummond.
"Yeah." Sigh. "It's a weakness I have. Tall and dark. Don't-take-no-for-an-answer personality. Just call me the third puddle of mush on the right." Another sigh.
Drummond snaked an arm around the doll's waist and pulled her against him. He leaned forward and nibbled on her neck. "Time we got moving."
She leaned into it with a shuddering moan. "That's not going to get us... moving... any... faster." Drummond could feel her voice rumble in his belly. The girl-scent of her filled his head.
But her words penetrated through the fog. He straightened to his full height, squaring his shoulders and sighed. "You're right, dammit. You 'bout ready?"
"Almost. Let me get the armory together."
She hiked up her skirt and with a quick, practiced economy of movement, strapped her primary weapons to her thighs: a small, deadly automatic on the right and a pair of throwing knives on the left, tugging the dress's hem down to conceal her armament.
She tested the draw of the automatic, making sure that the slit in the side of the skirt allowed her easy access to the weapon without revealing its presence. Then, chambering a round and engaging the safety, she slid the gun back into the holster.
She picked up the belt made of metal throwing disks, each concealing a spare ammo clip, and fastened it around herself, letting it ride loose and low on her hips.
Next she slid a Ka-bar knife into the sheathe between her shoulder blades, and one more into the top of each boot.
Giving herself a final once-over in the mirror, she nodded. Drummond had her black leather jacket ready for her, helping her into it. He picked up his own denim jacket and they headed for the door.
She had her hand on the doorknob when he stopped her with his own.
"There's more besides Xe," he said.
She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed.
"We... Our relationship is... Not exactly approved..."
"Forget that! Remember my full name..." Gabrielle Francesca East. The East name was one to conjure with in Upothesa. After all, the whole consortium revolved around two parties. If you were a God or an East, you had it made.
"I know that, Gabrielle," Drummond said, deliberately using her given name — which he almost never did. "Your not the first East women with whom I've... kept company."
"Nice circumlocution." Dolly smirked.
"Good term for it. We have to be circumspect. We... Us... It can be bad for discipline and morale. Could get some of your Troll friends killed."
She snorted derisively. "Come on! They all know..."
"They know, but they don't have to have their noses rubbed in it. In here, we can be lovers. Out there, I'm your commander. I have to know that..."
"I can take your orders..."
Don't get her back up. "Without question, just like any other member of the team."
"Do you want to break it off?" She set her jaw and glared challenge at him
He drew a long, shuddering breath, then let it out. "No."
"Well, then... what?"
"Just... let's not use pet names. Let's not touch... inappropriately. Let's..."
"OK. It's Drummond and Dolly. You're the boss and I'm the Agent Specialist. Good enough?"
He nodded. "Good enough. Now..." he leaned in and kissed her. "Game face, Dolly."
She grinned at him, then pointedly straightened her face. "Game face, Drummond," she said, yanking the door open and marching through with her patented Dolly strut.
He had a good deal more trouble with his game face than did she.
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