"Kama Sutra for Kamikaze" Author: jetta-e Rating: PG-13, slash, humor Translated from Russian ("Êàìàñóòðà äëÿ êàìèêàäçå") by Tel and belana

As an autumn leaf –
Dead, withered and sordid –
A flyer is falling…

It’s not truly refined, is it? I must agree with you. I have no talent for poetry, notwithstanding the fact that the constellation of my honorable grandmother produced many famous Haut-poetesses worthy of the Celestial Garden. And the moment was not exactly suitable for poetry. My flyer was hit and was losing altitude. It had only a very little power left, and I had only a few seconds more than it did. Having tried everything possible to regain control of the unruly machine, the only thing left was do was to give my soul into the hands of my ancestors. Death had an appointment with me below, lurking as an unseen shadow behind the Barrayaran partisans. I prepared to sell my life as dearly as possible, but common sense told me their commander would rather shoot the falling enemy flyer from hiding than get into a fight. Let it be my funeral pyre!

Sadly, my dreams of a swift and glorious death were for naught. Falling down from on high to crash would be elegant too, but the antigravs gently carried my hit flyer towards the ground from one updraft to the next. I arrogantly decided to land. To meet my enemies ready and willing to die in battle, to look in the eye of eternity and invite her to one last dance – what kind of man and warrior could resist such a temptation? But Lady Luck, flirtatious like any woman, only pretended to look my way: ten meters above the ground the antigravs failed, and the dead heap of metal helplessly fell to earth. I did not even have time to reach for my needler before hitting the ground, and the last thing I remembered was the dashboard coming rapidly closer.

When I came to after my unfortunate bout of unconsciousness, I carefully refrained from opening my eyes right away. Judging by my other senses I was half-seated with my shoulder blades touching something cold and angular. I immediately tried to put my weight on my hand to change positions, and failed. The danger I had sensed since I regained consciousness was not imaginary. My arms and legs were numb, but I was helpless for a different reason: I was tied up.

A ghem-officer does not allow himself to complain about the vagaries of fate, but I could not suppress a sigh: sadly, I had been denied an honorable death and was undoubtedly the prisoner of the Barrayarans. I made myself lean back and stop fighting, especially when I discovered that instead of energy shackles the locals were using suspiciously unhygienic belts probably made from dead animal skin.

The sunset’s colors were burning just like my unlucky flyer should have been. I did not see the flyer, but I suspected that I had been taken far away from the crash site by now. However fascinated I had been with my approaching death I did recall that I had gone down over a forest. Now there was a stony slope covered with bushes on one side and a sheer drop on the other, the beautiful skyline beyond it painted in fantastic colors of saffron, scarlet, and magenta. These were the color of my mother's clan, and it was symbolic that they accompanied me at the dusk of my life.

The Barrayaran soldiers walking near the edge of the cliff in their grey-brown coats were blatantly out of place against this perfect splendor of colors. But they were the harsh reality, while the beautiful sunset was just Fate’s last present to this scion of Clan Rau. Noticing I had moved, one of the Barrayarans came closer. Officer’s insignia flashed on the collar of his coat, and he grabbed my shoulder to pull me upright.

“Have you come to, Captain? Can you hear me?”

I was not given time to answer. My body was not as resilient as my mind in the face of hardship, and my vision swam. I felt suddenly and violently sick, so much so that I did the only sensible thing and clenched my teeth.

“He had a hard landing. If he had any brains, they’d be scrambled,” one of the soldiers commented. Barrayarans have the most peculiar idioms. This one, for example, undoubtedly bore evidence to a time of genetic experimentation before their descent into barbarism, when they must have attempted to create a subrace of brainless laborers. Their comparison of a ghem-lord to such a creature would have been insulting, had I not known that mocking the enemy was ordinary military practice for them.

I undoubtedly had a concussion, no matter what the ignorant Barrayarans claimed. The only way I knew to ward off the approaching nausea was to half-close my eyes and breathe in a measured pattern. The Barrayaran officer could take it for fright or deliberate contempt, of course, but vomiting out my lunch on his boots and my own uniform would be even more disrespectful on my part and highly crude.

Through my thick eyelashes I studied my final opponent carefully, wondering what death he would choose for me from their barbaric traditions. As a source of information I was useless to him, since I had been given the fast-penta allergy like everyone else in Intelligence. Torture I would honorably endure, as required of an officer and ghem.

I am a very stubborn man, you know. My kinsman and patron Colonel Rau once told me privately, My boy, if you had as much brains as you have stubbornness, and if you were as ambitious as you are handsome, you would serve in the Celestial Garden by now. Well, it’s true. My uncle knows me too well to be mistaken in such matters. While if I had been more careful in my career I would have never been assigned to the expeditionary force for this colonial war, and would not now be lying here on the ground, bound and a prisoner to the natives, on the other hand, young men like me (I am only forty-two) are naturally romantic, and have a thirst for heroism and risk. Alas, I obviously would not now live to maturity.

Death does not scare me.
The expectation of it
Is worse than the death itself…

I swallowed hard, giving my voice the steadiness that is required of the son of a ghem clan in his last minutes, and spoke firmly. “I am Century-Captain Rau, officer of the armed forces of the Cetagandan Empire. My serial number is 2362-6784-223. I serve my Celestial Master and will die for him. I will say no more.”

“I know you’re a century-captain, it’s written all over your forehead.” The Barrayaran was strangely amused. They are strange people, and they laugh at the most obvious and natural things. “So, how does the phrasing go? Uh, right. You don’t need to know my name, so… As your equal in rank and ancestry, in the name of my liege lord Emperor Dorca of Barrayar, I name you my prisoner and by the code I demand your obedience in return for my protection. Stupid formalities! Anyway, if you start pulling stunts, I’ll kill you.”

Perhaps the concussion had affected my usual quick-wittedness. I was condemned to death, how would it be possible to pull stunts? And why would I be trying to perform extremely complex acrobatics in my final hour? I reflected on this, bewildered and trying to understand what he meant.

Misconstruing my confusion, the Barrayaran decided to explain. “You’re one lucky ghem, you know? You ended up in my hands at the right time. You’ll keep your scalp – I’ll try to exchange you for a good man of ours in a few days…”

To say I was dumbfounded would be an understatement. So the Barrayaran did understand what he was saying and actually meant to abide by the rules and keep me captive rather than their usual barbarity. What should I have felt at that? Shame because he could not follow all the correct ceremonies and my name would be tainted with captivity? Relief because I was still alive to serve my Emperor and my clan? Pride that I was valuable enough for my life to be worth exchanging for? Fear that my enemy would change his mind? Interest in this Barrayaran who was aware of military etiquette despite the general ignorance of his people? I am ashamed to admit it, but my only thought at the time was: Now what?

* * *

At the end of a short path a tent camp – obviously temporary – and the reluctant hospitality of the Barrayaran commander awaited. The ritual of honorable captivity is an ancient tradition of ours surrounded with many formalities: the prisoner willingly gives up all attempts to escape and in return gains the status of a guest and the full hospitality of his captor, including boarding, food, servants and bedfellows. Right now said luxuries were limited to a waterproof tarp and army sleeping bag, but even if the splendors of the Celestial Garden appeared outside the tent, they were not for me. I was forced to drink some real Barrayaran alcohol, putting me to sleep and giving me nightmares from its hallucinogenic properties. How do the natives charmingly call it, snow heat? Or is it moonshine fever? It’s a rather strange idea, to treat a concussion with toxins. I would not trust the local doctors with even the scruffiest of the cats that play in my dear mother’s chambers.

That is why the Barrayaran and I only got properly acquainted with each other the next morning.

Contrary to my beliefs about everyday guerilla life, in the morning there was no noise or bustling about camp. Whether it was because of the freezing cold rain (the plague of this uncivilized planet) or the expectation of news about their "good man", the Barrayarans all indulged in unmilitary laziness and slept in late. Suffering from a headache from my concussion, as well as side effects from the ethanol, I woke up early. My only entertainment was to take a look around and think on my impending fate. I say this to avoid any accusation that I was blatantly ogling the Barrayaran. I would never have allowed myself such an impropriety if I had a choice, of course. The patchy camouflage fabric of the fly-sheet was thin, stopping the water but letting a fascinating greenish underwater light to filter through and penetrate the tent. The features of the sleeping man were deprived of their usual vigilance and smoothed by the shadows. He looked indecently young.

The wild rose's bud
Has not blossomed yet
But the thorns are there

Indeed, no matter how young I was, he was a child compared to me. I had to make an effort and remember that the natives with their barbaric genotype age rather fast, but it looked like my opponent was barely over twenty years old. By our standards, so young a scion should be in the custody of family or live under the careful chaperoning of a senior relative, not leading armies all by himself. Here youths of that age not only occupy important posts, but marry and produce offspring! It’s so senseless! Just as it’s impossible to see what kind of flower a barely opened bud will become, one cannot determine the appropriate mate or which qualities should be bred for in the offspring when a youngster is scarcely of age.

I think the Barrayarans feel ashamed of their youth, since the custom of growing facial hair is widespread here, hiding their age and inherited conformation. Only the upper class attempts to approach civilized standards by removing everything except for a strip on the upper lip, but the methods they use are hardly civilized. Instead of stunning the hair follicles for a reasonable amount of time, they physically scrape the hair off. This is obligatory for all mature noblemen. I have read of primitive savages whose initiation into adulthood involved ritual torture, but even those simple wild men made their young go through this torture only once, not every morning of their lives. It’s too horrible to imagine what they do to the rest of the hair on their bodies, especially their most intimate areas… but I get carried away.

Only when the steady light coming down through the rain-swollen sky indicated the sun was at its zenith did the commanding officer’s batman dare to wake him up. The deference he showed to my captor was quite proper, though I suspect that the depth of his bow was due more to the low dome of the tent than plebian awe. When I heard the title Mylord I became certain my captor was Vor. He himself never told me his name – I do not know if that was out of superstition, paranoia or forgetfulness. He knew what my name was, but decided not to use it when talking to me. By unspoken agreement I called him Captain; to avoid confusion, and because we were of equal rank I was left with ghem. He tried to be harsh, but I believe that his gnawing curiosity was no less than mine. We both had only seen enemy officers through our weapon sights before.

As the elder of us and a guest I decided that it was my responsibility to make polite conversation. What harmless topic to choose, though? A line came to me while the captain was performing the depilating ritual. He used a steel knife, large, fancifully decorated, and obviously very sharp even from a distance. Any sensible man would be terrified to imagine that thing in close proximity to his throat. Or his crotch. Which was exactly what I said. Who could have known that haircuts, even intimate ones, bore some sacred meaning to the locals?

"Take care for your own scalp, not other people's hair," the Barrayaran grumbled without pausing in his task. Oh! Was it my imagination or did the dashing captain blush?

By the way, the barbaric Barrayaran interest in scalps always seemed ridiculous to me, due to the obvious futility of sequencing anything at their technology level. I remarked politely to the captain that for any civilized man the Barrayaran custom of scalping the enemy was savage, since they failed to take advantage of technology and waste the genetic material. A general biopsy could serve the same purposes or, considering their limited resources, thumbs for fingerprinting.

It was trivial scientific reasoning, nothing fancy. Was it really necessary for the captain to stand there with his mouth open? Barrayarans are very strange folk.

* * *

According to our unspoken agreement I mostly did not leave the tent during the day except to fulfill bodily needs that should be neither mentioned nor neglected. The “bushes” (as the captain called them) used for that purpose were a tangle of tentacles and tendrils the color of dried blood. Raindrops slithered greasily down the glistening barrel–shaped tree trunks. I noted without much interest that the respectful plebian watcher followed my every step like he was expecting me to dash through those awful bushes with the speed of a unicorn fleeing a whore. One should not expect knowledge of alien customs from a commoner, or rather, one should not expect a savage highlander to lower his guard when a horrible and mystifying Cetagandan was walking free in front of him.

Sadly I disappointed him by not spending a second more in the open than strictly necessary. Though I am an educated and poetic man, I was in no mood to seek out the lyric charms of the local wilderness. I returned to the warmth of the tent as fast as I could, finally realizing why its green fabric was red-brown on the inside. It was a cleverly simple solution for a planet where green Terran plants fought with native red ones. It was as primitive and effective as the infrared lamp substitute hanging near the ceiling – a transparent container with a mesh cover under which a stick of fat was burning and liquefying.

How could people leading such barbarous life fight the temptations of true civilization?

And was that fight easier than the fight of a civilized man against the tempting charms of a certain savage?

I confess, my attitude toward the Barrayaran was ambiguous. One minute I saw him as an equal in everything – station, military rank – and even superior to me as I was his prisoner and sworn to obedience. And then I would remind myself that he was not of my people, and this barely mature face belonged to a boy half my age. The next minute I would remember that he was my enemy who refrained from executing me like so many of my comrades only by chance, and my dignity would allow me to yield. Then I considered that the winner of a battle is not always the one who ends up on top. My experience in mind games (as well as those that happen behind bedroom doors) was vastly greater than his, and I found the idea strangely exciting. Yes, life was taking its toll, after a dose of synergine I noted with satisfaction that the flesh’s healthy urges returned. Sadly, my satisfaction was not as complete as I wished it to be…

I am an active man by nature. Idleness drives me mad and I indulge my mind in fantasies – the more time passes the wilder they become. To do my duty – collecting intelligence – was meaningless. It was unlikely for anything of importance to be found in this poor partisan camp, apart from data on its location which could change any second if Barrayarans decided to move and hide in the forest like frightened animals. The idleness of my body, practically caged in the several square meters of the tent by my word, and the endless waiting without imminent danger (since I had been promised my life) had a strange effect on me. My thoughts began to wander further into the realm of total abstraction.

For a while I toyed with the idea of collecting a genetic sample from the captain and determining his identity when I returned, but aside from satisfying my curiosity, what would that give me? I belatedly realized that the local genetic pool was so complicated and unstudied that I could just as easily exchange one mystery for another. And how could I take a sample in such conditions? I am not high–ranked enough to have access to the most delicate instruments of the Celestial Garden, which can create a genetic map from the tiniest skin particles left behind on contact. Hmm…

Yes, there is one way to persuade a man to share his genetic material. It is as symbolic as it is effective; it is pleasant in its symbolism and satisfies more than curiosity alone. And the most elegant part was the innocence of the deed - I bet my captain would only consider it frivolous fun, not noticing the gene theft and thus not having the opportunity to be insulted by my conduct.
Truly, my thoughts dwelled on one topic, the delicate intimacy of which only I could see. It was doubtful that the Barrayaran – as ignorant as he was charming – had any idea just how much the lines from the classical poem suited the situation:

The mind and the body
Are debating the essence
Of perception:

What is more sacred –
To learn the stranger's name
Or come to know him?

So it was decided. I had a goal, and idle boredom stopped torturing my mind. Moreover that goal was quite intricate: achieving it would satisfy body, curiosity and self–esteem. The last would be achieved through deception, but innocently, like a sedate walk hand in hand with a patron through the labyrinth garden. The results of such walks are usually enlightening, and grant the respectful youth priceless experience of a sort which would be quite useful for my savage captain...

* * *

He returned soon, almost as if he had guessed my intentions. The captain dived under the fly sheet – wet, businesslike and rumpled like a duck in the Imperial ponds. He sat near the entrance and started tugging off his mud-strained boots, grumbling some unfamiliar local idioms in the process. Finally he got rid of his boots and wet cloth cape, sighed, glanced at me sideways, climbed into the sleeping area without a word and silently closed the transparent flap behind him. We were alone.

"I thought you'd try to run," he said suddenly. "I would have. I wouldn't sit here like a fool. But who knows what you’re up to, ghem? Maybe you’re waiting for nightfall. Don't hope for anything, I'll tie you up for the night. Word of honour aside, sleeping with you won’t be comfortable."

Tie me up? Hmm, such a turn of events could have its advantages, but I would prefer to have more freedom if the captain was disinclined to take any action. What was preventing him - noble tact, youthful timidity, genuine hostility, ignorance of custom or just narrow-mindedness not allowing him to see the man sitting at arm's length?

“Uncomfortable? Am I occupying someone’s place?” I asked, gently gesturing to the spread out blanket.

“Joker,” The captain smirked. “No, as you can see we have no women here.”

In the name of all the virtuous ancestors, who would ever invite women into an army camp? Even if the woman was a local savage. Military luck is a jealous lady, and she turns away from men who are impudent enough to cheat on her in her own realm. It is said that some ancient Terrans had superstitions about women aboard ships – well, perhaps the primitives have their moments of genius.

"Are you saying you share your pillow only with women?" I was surprised and skeptical. "Your companion should not worry. I most respectfully do not challenge his rights and release you in advance from any personal obligation to me."

Ah, my poor captain! After that I was sure he was not overly bright. I watched emotions play on his face, and then bewilderment was followed by understanding, for some reason mixed with anger. He blushed, tried to hide it without success, pressed his lips together searching for an answer for several seconds, then grumbled something unintelligible and turned away.

Blush as scarlet as
Sunset flared on the cheeks
O sun, don’t leave!

I was worried. Barrayarans are so unpredictable! I had not insulted his code of honor with my proposal, had I? He did not think I was attempting to convince him I was defecting so that I could break my word and escape, did he? I continued hastily.

"Captain, I promise: we were and still will be enemies. If we capture you the day after tomorrow, I will do my utmost to extract all information from you. And whatever’s left over after the Intel interrogations will be handed over to a firing squad."

"Oh, that's so comforting," the Barrayaran said archly, with some perplexity. But the return to the more familiar topic of war had a positive effect: he stopped unconsciously shying away. He was so lovely when he did that, but it made heart-to-heart talks unnecessarily difficult.

"Of course. And if tomorrow you cannot exchange me you’ll kill and scalp me with the satisfaction of a job well done. In which precise order does that happen, by the way?"

"Are you hoping that I’ll spare you because of your pretty face?" The captain smirked.

"Do you think it’s pretty?" I was genuinely glad. Well, well, he wasn’t absolutely hopeless if he noticed the hereditary elegance of my Rau Clan features. With a little patience and tact towards the unfathomable Barrayaran, my goal would be in sight! "So what’s stopping you? I swear on the gene book of my Clan you do not need to fear me in bed." I smiled amiably. "I do not bite."

I confess that here I used my natural advantage as a ghem-lord. The perfectly quick reflexes developed over many generations were on my side, as well as surprise. I caught his wrist and, leaning forward, pressed it to my cheek for a second. The Barrayaran tried to snatch his hand away at the precise moment I let it go. The only thing left for the captain to do was hiss in outrage. ”D– don’t you dare…” To his credit this stopped very soon.

Good heavens, why was he upset? My grip, while strong, was respectful, my cheek was soft, not weathered by rain or cold, never knowing stubble or a knife scraping it away. It could hardly be otherwise. Even my father – who is of respectable age now, I not being the oldest of his children – cannot remember the time when it was in fashion to leave a strip of hair on the face among the noble people. My captain surely noticed the smoothness and perfection of skin, and if he was attentive enough – the strong muscles as well.

Now the main thing to remember was caution. I needed to treat him as carefully as I would a wild animal undecided whether to bite, take the offered food, or run away. He was as dangerous, beautiful, and nervous as the azure mini-dragons that dwell in my older sister’s garden. Of course, unlike them the Barrayaran couldn’t fly away, as there was hardly room to spare in the tent. He moved away a notch and pressed his lips together, plainly waiting for events to unfold. I chose the simplest and most efficient tactic, lying down to put my head on his thigh. The classical canon of seduction says that this approach works on multiple levels: it’s unreasonable for a sitting person to feel threatened by someone lying down and looking up at him, a man can hardly help but think of the closeness of the other person’s lips; and a hardhearted man is required to touch you to extract himself.

“You’re an officer and you act like a slut.” He leaned closer, surprised.

I needed another second to translate this from the language of one culture to another. A slut? Ah, yes, the local idiom for those who offer the pleasures of flesh for money. Did he really doubt my honesty? I valiantly suppressed my anger: I had to be patient and assuage his doubts. The boy was so uncivilized!

“You think I’m looking for something in return for our intimacy, don’t you? No, there’s no need to pay me. I am your guest, and out of affection I would like to indulge you by satisfying our mutual urges.”

“Indulge me,” the captain said slowly, tasting every syllable. He was positively charming, but rather slow in understanding things even a juvenile ought to comprehend. He stretched his hands towards me – without much tenderness, perhaps, but that could be attributed to army life and an education lacking in proper ceremonial instruction.

I am still ashamed to write about what happened next. Though surely I have nothing to be ashamed of personally – well, too much faith in people, perhaps. Yes, he was Barrayaran, yes, he was an uncivilized boy, but he showed a certain understanding of the necessary ceremonies and some knowledge of their meaning if not their sacred essence! I took him for an equal, and he… he behaved like an animal bereft of etiquette and led only by its instincts.

Yes, I must confess. He hit me.

He grabbed me by the collar, lifted me up, and hit me in the jaw.

He must have understood that in raising his hand to an honorable guest he rendered null the traditional obligations that maintained the fragile truce between us. He could not have been under the impression that a well–trained Intel officer of century-captain rank was a harmless hamster. He knew that with his punch he destroyed everything, insulted me greatly, and risked his own life – yet ridiculously he still succumbed to the reflex, despite there being no logical reason for his behavior.

My first urge was to retaliate without holding back. Given my experience in close combat I am sure my strike would not have just bloodied the insolent youth’s lip, but seriously injured or killed him. But a civilized man should not follow mere urges like a savage without thinking the situation through. I controlled my anger, wiped the blood away (the punch had been painful, and the resulting mark would not make my face more handsome), and tried to understand what had happened. It is possible I was looking for a reason to excuse the pretty boy's behavior and let me spare his life. It certainly wasn’t the case that I feared Barrayaran vengeance over the death of their commander!

The situation was spiraling out of control, which increased my frustration. I am genetically immune to panic, but I knew no way out of the difficult situation I found myself in. I was nearly at the point of desperation before I sighed with sudden insight.

"I do not tolerate such treatment in bed! Or are you only capable of rape?"

The expression that crossed my captain's face after this half-serious reproach was nearly appropriate. He flushed a little and then glanced away, remorse replacing anger. Had I guessed correctly? The experts in local folklore say – though I refuse to believe this – that Barrayaran men permit themselves to hit women. How much more aggressive would they be before coition with a man?

Barrayaran courtship rituals may have their own cultural worth, but I was not going to risk more injury to my handsome face by following them. It was perhaps time to stop worrying about frightening this wild beast and time to start being wary of his fangs. Would imitating the forceful style of intimacy that was more familiar to the Barrayaran make him feel more at ease? I pushed him down onto the spread out sleeping bag, trying not to cause more than minimal discomfort and keeping in mind that I was only playing at his game.

Looking him straight into the eye, I decided to phrase my words as simply as possible. “I can forget that you attacked a guest… hold still, you fanatic! But you will have to atone for your actions like a gentleman.”

I was lying atop him, the two of us poised like warriors waiting to join battle. Both of us were acutely aware that we were hanging on a thread over an abyss. The first strike would turn a test of strength into a short and furious fight to the death. In the end I’d either break his neck or his knife would end up in my liver. Fortunately, the heavens favored me enough that the Barrayaran finally deduced I was not actually hostile to him. He flushed red and breathed heavily but stopped trying to break free quite so desperately - though he left himself in position to perform an effective but most uncivilized attack on my groin if necessary.

“What?” he whispered. Thank Darwin, he’d not only listened to my words of wisdom but wanted to know how to make amends!
The temptation to torment the young barbarian a little in revenge for his savage attack was irresistible, though I was prepared to limit his suffering to an educational lecture and a few object lessons. I had plenty of experience demonstrating my physical attractiveness to men.

“Wild genes!” I began with obscenity to demonstrate my anger and frustration to the Barrayaran. “What put it in your head to attack me? You sorry excuse for a barbarian!” I took a deep breath to calm myself and continued: “You must have had bad luck with lovers to resort to such harshness. Someone needs to show you how to actually please a man, and I’m not the worst option. The local women are ignorant, even if they make up for it in enthusiasm. I can easily prove I’m more skilled than any of them.”

“Do you want me to screw you?” the captain asked, completely confused. He lay still under me, having abandoned the last vestiges of resistance.

I shook my head disapprovingly. I wasn’t sure what that meant but it sounded violent. “Why don’t we try to explore more refined pursuits?”

The Barrayaran did not say “no”. Well, he might yet prove trainable. Charmingly so, at that.

“Have you ever heard the word consensual? Let’s make that our motto for tonight.” How would the Barrayayans frame this? Since the captain had some small knowledge of our oaths it would be shameful for me to look ignorant. Ah, I remembered now! “I give you my word that tonight I will do you no harm and will stop at your first objection. Now you.”

Contrary to my concerns he mumbled the required words. Well, now I could let my captain go without fear. Especially since I’d discovered while lying on top of him that he’d responded to my assurances in more ways than one.

I released my grip on him, rolled off and lay beside him, my whole body displaying vulnerability and openness – head thrown back a little, throat exposed. With quiet courage and complete carelessness, I forced myself to relax completely. Logically speaking, the Barrayaran was hardly plotting my death in secret – I was his prisoner, he had all the power and plenty of opportunity to murder me. My sprawling position left the captain with only two alternatives – to huddle in the corner of the tent like a frightened child or accept my embrace.

I was not inclined to back down: my wounded pride drove me just as much as scientific interest or physical desire did. Though the red-faced captain refused to acknowledge his arousal, I would bet my family medallion against a handful of sand that he could not have fallen asleep even if he’d thrown me out of the tent. Having given his word, he could not do that either. I took pity on him and put my hand on his sleeve.

"Come here. Lie down. Relax. We’ll just talk – a little education in certain matters won’t hurt you. By the way, you hit me in the face. Do fix that."

I smirked gently and forgivingly. The Barrayaran obediently reached for... – oh, Clan Mother, why do you send me such hardships? – the hip flask with ethanol that I was sadly familiar with from the previous evening. It was the medicine used to cure everything from dementia to amputated limbs here.

But I clenched my teeth valiantly and endured the searing touch of the awful liquid, watching the embarrassed Barrayaran try to be delicate as he wiped the blood from my cut lip.

The moment was right. The rest was “a matter of technique” as the locals say, though I strongly prefer to call it art. I caught his wrist, pressing it at a certain point, touched his hand (luckily sterilized by ethanol) to my lips, lightly exhaled, and then nibbled gently on it, noting with satisfaction the young man’s sensual sigh. He was bewildered by his own reaction, but in the battle between his wild prejudice and my knowledge of human body the latter, of course, won.

So. Now it was possible to catch both of his hands and tug him forward. The roles were now reversed, with the captain on top without really understanding how he’d ended up in that position. And I sang a sweet phoenix song to him, or as the Barrayarans might say, pulled the wool over his eyes.

“You are too careful.” Cowardly, in these matters. “Remember, you can do anything you want to me.” What you will want is up to me. “I am your prisoner. I am in your hands.” Which I hold rather tightly now. “Aren’t you curious what I can do?”

“Anything I want?”

“Everything,” I acknowledged gently. “Without breaking your word, of course.”

“And, uh… if I want to screw you…” he asked, confused.

“If that slang of yours means intercourse then that’s exactly what I have been hinting at for the last thirty minutes, my slow-witted friend.”

“What do you get from all this?” he asked, almost whining.

Mindful of my ultimate purpose, I had an answer prepared in advance.

“You asked me to submit to honorable captivity,” I answered sternly. “Your intentions were pure, and your interest in Cetagandan culture very promising, but did you not realize that you were obliged to treat me as your most honored guest?” As I said this I watched the Barrayaran closely - he swallowed this explanation as readily as a child eating ginger caramels. “And then you defiled our ceremonies! What do you take me for?” The question was rhetorical and didn’t call for an answer. How should I know what he took me for? Maybe I reminded him of his mad great-aunt. “It’s unbecoming for an honored guest to sleep alone. And when I say sleep I do not mean merely fighting over your meager blanket.”

The captain then managed to amaze me to the point that I completely lost my inherent composure.

“Why me?” he asked quizzically.

“Because I like you, you idiot!” I snapped at him, forgetting civility and scolding him like a careless subordinate. Not waiting for him to say something even more inappropriate, I silenced him in the most obvious of ways. Executing the embrace of a sleeping dragon maneuver, I put my arms around his neck and brought our lips together.

It would be dishonest of me to say that I continued to plot my next moves over the next several minutes. Instead I fully indulged myself, barely registering my grip on him loosening and the captain in turn grabbing my shoulders with the strength of a drowning man. Understandably, I was pleased to finally teach this handsome young nobleman all the simple pleasures I had sought to share with him. Seemingly he had not taken my generous promises seriously at first, but he now reevaluated his opinion of me. None of this involved anything more complicated than instinct, which was all for the better. Our bodies could communicate with each other far better than our minds.

I worked free the button on the stiff cloth collar of the Barrayaran’s uniform. Remarkably, the barbarous item had not left giant blisters on the smooth neck underneath. I touched his neck gently and slid my hand under his coat to explore the well-developed muscles of his back. Athletic men are my weakness. His tight shoulder muscles relaxed slightly when I caressed his back, and my actions were rewarded with an unconscious whimper.

The young man was as sensitive and responsive as was proper for his age. What had been the point of the idiotic questions and violence? The local wooing rituals were still a complete mystery to me. My sure hands explored the body under the enemy uniform, but I was much less certain how to navigate traditional Barrayaran custom.

While the kiss lasted the captain hardly noticed the crude metal buttons of his uniform coat surrendering to my fingers like an advance guard falling to an attacking enemy. I stroked, caressed, and tasted him everywhere, registering every tiny response. Just like a musician tunes an unfamiliar instrument, listening to every sound and testing every string before cacophony suddenly becomes melody, so I intended to tune my partner and find his hidden weaknesses before I brought him to the heights of ecstasy. Breaking off the kiss, I finally let my captain breathe.

"You kiss like a woman," he said in a suddenly hoarse voice. "Like the most wanton girl I ever had."

"I kiss much better," I corrected him gently. I cannot say the comparison flattered me, but I realized that this confession from the Barrayaran was valuable. It must have been true that he knew nothing better than the local women, creatures worried about the horrors of natural reproduction and confined by silly customs that stood in the way of sensual pleasure.

"And can you fuck like a woman too?" His expression when he said this was strange, and I thought I heard mockery, shyness, and weird daring in his voice. We had not changed positions, which lent a particular charge to the discussion: I was still lying on the soft sleeping bag, with the tamed Barrayaran sprawled over me – quite willingly now.

Do I look like a man who refuses to indulge his lover's small fancies? But preferring "the willow bends under the wind" out of all the styles of lovemaking was the sign of a small mind. I am capable of much more innovative things in bed, though any demonstration of my skill would be enough to dazzle the unsophisticated Barrayaran. Trying to discuss such things with him was useless, though. I had already noticed his tendency to distrust any statement not supported by first-hand experience, and such elegant and complicated concepts could hardly be translated to his limited vocabulary. By the colors of the clan, I was not inclined to show mercy on my charming opponent by confining myself to the basics.

"Why should you take your enemy's word for it?" I answered in the same tone he’d used. "Test it."

The endless patience and endurance with which I had tempted the young barbarian the entire evening was finally paying off. He stared at me as if trying to read my thoughts (of course telepathy is a myth, but I was glad he was concentrating on the pleasures to come) and shook his head stubbornly. “So I will!"

Finally seeing sense, the Barrayaran started fumbling with my flightsuit as if he was afraid delay would lessen his determination. The high-tech design of the suit puzzled him for some time – whatever else he’d done with ghem officers in the past, he’d clearly never undressed one. “I’ll tell them I sure took care of that ghem-lord…” he muttered to himself as he yanked the release clasp the wrong way, “…once I got him unwrapped…” My perfect hearing easily distinguished the words.

I condescended to undo the suit’s clasp, and the Barrayaran had a chance to find out for himself that the snakeskin of our flightsuits loses volume and stiffness in the absence of static charge and can then be removed in a single motion along with the underlying bodysuit.

Then I granted the suspicious Barrayaran detailed empirical proof of the truth behind my words, demonstrating to him the genetic superiority of the ghem-lords over mongrel humanity and the inevitable victory of high aesthetics over reproductive instinct. Admittedly this particular wild-type specimen demonstrated some useful qualities worth securing in the genome, such as extraordinary energy and stamina even in the absence of any stimulants.

Did I mention I’m a terrible poet? My poems are only a crude reflection of the emotions I felt. Then again, a moon’s reflection in a pond on a windy day can be recognized and admired, right?

The novice’s brush
Is led by the master to
Draw a hieroglyph

*

Sakura tree bends
Under furious wind
Storm is coming soon

*

The beast is chased
By the tireless hunter
In its own den

*

When the axe shall
Cut through the heartwood
The land shall shudder

*

Tiger and dragon
Fight. Who is stronger?
The more agile one!

*

The thunder claps
The lightning sparks furiously
The rainbow is near

*

My garden bloomed
Six times this spring by the
Grace of heaven

* * *

The night, too dark for even my eyes to see in, reached the tent. The primitive heater died down. Searching out my jumpsuit and putting it on by feel would be uncomfortable and completely inelegant, so I relaxed lazily and tried to postpone that. To preserve heat I pressed closer to the Barrayaran and covered us both with the second sleeping bag. The captain turned to me – I felt his breath on my cheek in the dark when he said "What do you want now? You’re insatiable, you know." His smile was unusually soft.

"How so?" I yawned and stretched, pressing closer to his warm young body. "You’re planning to exchange me tomorrow?" Tomorrow would come in the morning, and just now I did not want to do anything. Even the genetic material that started the whole thing... to hell with it. It couldn’t be used for serious research, and as a nostalgic souvenir it was too troublesome.

"I'll do my best." The captain mumbled something confusing about procreation processes that I didn’t understand due to my limited knowledge of Barrayaran culture. "I don’t think I'll... have enough endurance for any more of your ceremonies."

"You underestimate yourself," I consoled the Barrayaran amiably. "You have good genetic potential." I wanted to share my observations, even though my audience wouldn’t be able to understand my analysis. "It’s fascinating! It was proved long ago that natural selection is ineffective in advancing the human race, but you’re a miracle of uncontrolled breeding! Physical development, perceptiveness, sexual stamina... Do you have any special training?"

My lover laughed – a completely inelegant, bubbling noise.

"Trai... Oh, training! In the mornings… I lift a bucket of water... with my dick," he managed.

Well, the Barrayarans have a long ways to go to understand elegance and other important things.

"You’re a boy," I sighed and put my arm around his shoulders. "A naive, ignorant boy. It is a pity I do not have the time to tempt you more."

"Deeds characterize the man. Deeds on the battlefield and in bed," the captain said adamantly, but then yawned and embraced me. I did not feel like starting another dispute. Even after our mutual exploration, we were unable to understand each other.

His lips were close to my ear, and he whispered sleepily, "You can hardly be older than me, my silky ghem-lord. How old are you?"

My eyes were closing, so I answered curtly. "Forty-two."

My sleepy lover jumped out of my hands and spat some local idiom.

“Sleep,” I begged him tiredly. “Why are you upset? It’s the natural advantage of civiliza-a- a-a…” This time I yawned wide enough to almost dislocate my long-suffering jaw. “The long youthfulness of the flesh is a beautiful thing. As is your own youth…” My eyes closed, and I fell asleep.

* * *

The morning came grey and cold. I woke up alone and half– closing my eyes listened to the sounds from outside.

“It’s eight o’clock, sir,” the batman announced. “They’ll arrive in thirty minutes.”

“Is there any tea?” the captain asked. “Make me some, I’ll be right there. Get the communications man here.”

Fabric rustled and squelching footsteps headed away.

The Barrayaran unfastened the entrance flap and checked on me; I noted with respect that his face was hard and detached, without any reminder of the previous night’s activities. His uniform was buttoned up, and only the fingers fumbled with the top buttonhooks of his collar:

“Get dressed and be ready. Don’t even think about leaving the tent until I call for you.”

I nodded silently without getting up or discarding the sleeping bag that covered me. It also covered most of my uniform, and underneath it I was naked. At that moment my unerring sense of aesthetics told me that even a hint of nudity would be indecent.

The next and last time we saw each other was in the middle of the camp an hour later. The captain was huddled under a wet cloth cloak quietly saying something to a group of bearded men in scruffy clothes. He stood up when I approached.

“You honored the terms of captivity, Century-Captain Rau. I exchange you.”

I sprang to attention – my scarlet field uniform without a single wrinkle, my face paint in the correct patterns – and gave him a curt salute by the book and pressed a tight fist to my chest.

“It was an honor to be your prisoner, Captain.” And a pleasure to be your lover, I thought, but naturally didn’t mention.
When I was leaving with the guerilla escort I suddenly smiled, thinking that just like in the courtly novels I’d never learned the name of the one I shared a bed with. I strained my hearing trying to make out bits of conversation behind my back, but there was nothing starting with Vor in the phrase “…wait for the General, Ezar, he’ll decide with you…”

Alas, I am not suited to be a detective.

But I hope I turned out to be a decent mentor…