Free Iron Sunrise by Charles Stross Page A

the forced grin, trying to look inviting, willing her endocrine override to give her a flush of subcutaneous blood vessels and a crinkling of nipples. Trying to fake arousal, to do anything to keep the sad bastard distracted from the prospect of wanking his way into nuclear oblivion, taking half a city with him. Anything to let her get closer to the trigger—
    "You may approach the throne," declared Field Marshal Professor President Doctor Idi Amin Dadaist, spreading his legs. With a moue of vague disgust he yanked his pants open. His penis was indeed large and stiff: it also bore several weeping sores, like a blighted aubergine. "Kneel to kiss your emperor!"
    Rachel saw his hands raised above his head. His right fingertips brushed against the dead man's wristband as he smiled lazily. She knelt before him, tensing. "I can do good things with my hands," she offered as she reached toward his crotch, her skin crawling.
    "Then do so," he said magisterially. "Remember, as your President I hold the power of life and death over you."
    Rachel nodded and gently stroked his glans. She could see a vein pulsing in it. She leaned closer, trying to judge the distance, swallowing bile. "May I kiss you, Mister President? You're a very powerful man. Would you like that?
    I'm your loyal subject. Will you let me kiss you on the mouth?"
    The Field Marshal and Professor sat up slightly. "Certainly," he said, mustering up a slightly pathetic gravitas: his breath caught as she stroked him.
    "Hey, that's a funny smell," Rachel said quickly. Then she leaned forward and clamped her mouth down onto his lips, tongue questing, fingers busy with his shaft. He tensed slightly, back arching, and she reached up to grab his right arm by the wrist. Something insectoidal flickered past her eyes in a blur of wings as he spasmed and pumped a ropy stream of hot imperial semen across her thigh. His jaws flexed: she stuck her tongue into his mouth as far as she could, squeezing her eyes shut, holding her breath, and prayed that he wouldn't have a seizure as he bucked and jerked against her. The President for Life twitched a couple of times: then his eyes rolled up and he slumped backward in the recliner. His right arm fell sideways as she let go of it. She straightened up, gasping, and managed to turn aside. She spat, trying to get the taste of decaying teeth out of her mouth, then doubled over and vomited noisily across the would-be dictator's feet.
    After a few seconds, she felt strong arms around her shoulder. "Come on,"
    said MacDougal. "Let's get you out an' away. It's all under control."
    "Under—" Rachel moved to wipe the tears from her eyes, then realized her hand was sticky. "Ugh. It's over?"
    The room was filling up with naked policewomen toting toolboxes and talking into throat mikes. "Ordinary bomb team's already here to take over—half of it, anyways. You can come away now." Without her uniform and body armor, Inspector MacDougal had the most remarkable tattoos Rachel had seen in a long time: angel wings on her shoulder blades, a snake around her narrow waist. She pointed at the four nude women who were leaning over the bomb with instruments and neutron counters. "That was inspirational, Colonel! 'Naked women are my friends.'"
    Rachel shook her head. An insect buzzed overhead. Not police issue, it was probably the first harbinger of a swarm of journalists. "I'm not really a colonel, I just play one in the banana republics." She shuddered. "I needed to get close enough to gag him and hold his arm out of the way. Whatever it took."
    "Well, if it was up to me, you'd get a medal." MacDougal looked hard at the recliner and shook her head. "Took guts. Some assholes will do anything for a handjob."
    "Need water," Rachel gasped, feeling another wave of nausea coming on.

    Someone passed her a bottle. She rinsed and spat, rhythmically, until the bottle was empty, trying to remind herself how much worse it could have been. She could have had her tongue bitten