"NC," Jer asked slowly, terror rising in his chest. "Why is everything yellow?"

The Cajun's mouth had dropped open in disbelief. "That crazy son of a bitch..." His fingers flew over his control board. "No way he t'ink he can.... Sweet Mary, no..."

The holograph of the cockpit was now warming to an orange tint.

"What's going on?" Paget demanded, although he knew perfectly well. "What's he doing?"

"Damned if I know," the Maker replied tightly, despite the fact both of them could read the multiple indicators warning of the dangerous rise in hull temperature as Kamikaze plunged crazily towards the surface of the red planet.

The graphics that represented the needle's forward view lurched and spun wildly while the image of Sulu's hands on the controls stayed as calm and steady as they had been before.

"Can't you do anything?" Jer pleaded as the image of the cockpit began to take on the sickening red hue that indicated the hull temperature was rising beyond critical.

"Anyt'ing I do now jus' gonna blow him out th' sky," the Cajun responded, his eyes wide with horror. "An' it look like he takin' care o' that himself."

Although it broke a half-dozen Clave protocols, Jer hit the button on NC's control panel that opened a comm. line. "Kamikaze! Can you hear me? Kamikaze!"

The only reply he got was a low, deranged-sounding chuckle.

Sulu couldn't stop laughing. The universe was so wide and so wonderful. His mind was so open and so free. His ship was a beautiful firebird skimming along the edge of existence and sanity. He was burning and swirling like the dance of thousands of suns at the galaxy's heart. He was everything and nothing. Dancing and swirling with his beautiful ship. Everywhere and nowhere. Burning and glowing with the energy of the universe glittering in his veins.

Somewhere someone was calling him, calling him by a name he shared with his ship. His burning silver metal soul rejoiced that the universe recognized the perfect unity between ship and pilot. He gratefully sped towards the call, threading the needle in his mind's eye... Threading a needle with a needle! What delight!

Needle threaded needle threaded needle threaded needle... gradually diminishing in proportion and scale until Sulu was once more in a place where time was time and space was space and he and his needle were once more separate constructions of flesh and metal.

He took in a steadying lungful of what was left of his oxygen supply and checked his readings. The comm line seemed to be open so he spoke into it. "Did I win again?"

"Jesus Christ, Kam," his opponent breathed, sounding shaken. "I never thought you'd try to..."

"Good run, Barak," he commended his fellow racer, his readings confirming that he had indeed crossed the finish line coordinates well in advance of the other pilot. "You almost had me that time."

"You crazy motherfucker," came a voice over the line with the unmistakable accent of his Maker.

"You were right about the wobble in the stabilizers, Cajun," Sulu reported, checking the many still-blinking damage report lights.

"Wobble?" the Maker repeated incredulously. "If you gonna try an' blame that wild shit you done pulled on somet'ing being wrong wit' my engines..."

"Nothing's wrong with them," Sulu soothed as he activated the meager damage control systems available to him. "Nothing at all. I just finally figured out how to use what you gave me. You're a genius, Cajun."

"Well, I guess I oughta be happy that apparent even to a motherfucker as crazy as you so obviously are," was his Maker's grudging reply.

"Is Cobra with you?"

"No, as soon as it started to be pretty certain you were gonna somehow manage not t' destroy my ship - that I have done sweated blood an' fuckin' tears t' make fo' you fo' the past month an' a-fucking half - in a fiery crash as you whirly-gigged your way 'tween Mars an' Phobos, he headed down t' th' hangar bay wit' the intent o' hopefully fuckin' some sense into your shit-fo'-brains crazy-assed self."

"I'm afraid I did scorch the paint job a little," Sulu admitted, wincing at some of the reports he was getting from Kamikaze's self-monitoring systems. "How long will it take you to get me ready to race again?"

"Never," was the adamant reply. "You can put your head 'tween your legs an' kiss that pilot's seat goodbye right now, 'cause you not never gonna see th' inside of that cockpit again, you crazy motherfucker."

"You've got three days," the racer informed his Maker. "Call Castor."

"What fo'?"

Sulu smiled as the hangar bay doors of Clave opened to welcome him and his beautiful silver bird home. "Tell him Kamikaze is ready for his crown."

In order to become the King, the first prerequisite was, obviously, that the current King be available for a challenge. When the King was at the Clave, and was challenged, refusal wasn't really an option, for if the challenge was refused, the King lost his or her crown anyway. Then it was a free-for-all for any and all racers who wanted the title. But when challenge was accepted, it was up to the King to choose the kind of race. No King worth his or her salt would pick anything less than the Jupiter Well, and most chose an Asteroid Arena. Because of that, it was a rarity for anyone other than the Heir Apparent - the person every other racer was sure would be the next King - to offer such a challenge, though any other racer could challenge at any time. It went without saying that a Crown Race, as these challenges were called, was an event no Clavist - Racer, Maker, or Groupie - ever wanted to miss.

"So who wants a piece of the action?" a nasal, New York accented voice rang out amid the din of the Clave's control room.

Jeremy turned, looking up from where he'd been worrying his thumb. Several people immediately began crowding around the Groupie, calling out bets. After several seconds, Groupie interrupted the one-sided wagers.

"There won't be decent odds unless somebody bets against him!" she reminded.

"I will," a voice rang out.

Beside Jeremy, NC muttered, "'Course he would, th' prick."

Barak made a show of striding through the throng around his not-a-girlfriend-but-someone-he-sure-liked-to-fuck. Barak and Jeremy had become not quite friends, due mostly to the Ter-African's uncanny ability to get along with everyone. Barak's superior, know-it-all attitude didn't sit well with a lot of people - mostly because they were sure they knew it all too. DelMonde didn't like him for a number of reasons, not the least of which was he was disparaging and dismissive of the young Maker's abilities. The next-to-not-least reason looked up from the statboard where she was recording bets and odds.

"I knew I could count on you, bubee," Groupie said with a nasty show of teeth. As soon as Barak's bet was recorded, and the odds recalculated, the hue and cry of numbers went up again.

Jeremy went back to biting this thumb.

"Why he treat her like shit?" NC asked, jerking his own thumb in the direction of Groupie and Barak.

"You called it," Paget responded. "He's a prick."

"Why she put up wit' it?" the Cajun wanted to know.

"On that, your guess is as good as mine. Or could be considerably better if you really wanted to know."

NC scowled, stared at the two a moment longer, then muttered again, "Prick."

Jeremy was smart enough not to ask.

After a moment, the Cajun nudged him. "You bettin'?" he asked.

"Everything I own," Jer answered. "If he loses, it's gonna be spectacular."

"So spectacular you not wanna go on livin'?"

"Without him?"

The Maker snorted. "You sure he gonna win or die tryin', that it?"

"You named him after a suicide pilot," Paget reminded.

"Non, he not gonna do that," NC assured after a moment. "He not have to. I do it fo' him if he wrecks my beauty."

Jeremy couldn't stop the chuckle. "When exactly is the ship gonna stop being yours?" he asked.

The Cajun grunted a sound that Jeremy interpreted as either 'we'll see' or 'never.'

Then he stiffened and drew unexpectedly closer. A few seconds later, the Ter-African understood why. The sea of people parted as Ruis Calvario entered the room, followed closely by Willow - also known as Loki Monolem - and the Haven Dealer, Lane Gage.

"My dear Groupie," the deep, suave voice that haunted Jeremy's nightmares said. The girl looked up and made an incongruous, choked-off sound, like a swallowed 'eek!'

"Groupie, really?" Gage said, shaking his head.

Willow stepped forward, placing a friendly hand on the groupie's arm. "We're just here for the line," she promised.

"And to see the Heir Apparent become King, of course," Cal added with a knowing chuckle.

"Odds, Groupie?" Gage rejoined.

"Th' high-rollers in it now," NC murmured.

Jeremy himself was torn between pride and fear. Pride won out when the Cajun added, "Shee-it, I gonna be fuckin' rich."

Castor had chosen an Asteroid Arena with a twist. The race was to be twenty minutes instead of the usual ten and he'd added a pinpoint landing. The gathered Clavists had rewarded his audacity with a unanimous awed and impressed "ooooh!" His opponent had merely shrugged and answered, "It's your life," which garnered another expression of incredulity and admiration. Both needles had been prepared and both pilots had positioned their ships at the entrance to the docking bay, ready for the huge door to be opened and the starting flag to drop.

Sulu took in even, shallow breaths, resisting the urge to inhale deeply. With a pinpoint required, he just might need that extra bit of oxygen at the end of the race. His heart was already pounding with excitement and he consciously slowed it.

Nothing to worry about, he murmured to himself. The way this beauty responds there's no way I'm gonna lose.

He closed his eyes and let the hum of the engines sing to him. He relaxed into the feel of the controls and the flow of the information from the sensors. The smell of victory surrounded him and he smiled, thanking his Maker.

"Ready Racers," came from the headset and he braced for the rush that would come with the opening of Kamikaze's throttles. "In five... four... three... two... one... GO!"

From that moment on, for the next twenty minutes, Sulu didn't even think about Castor or her pilot. He didn't think about Cobra or Cajun or Cal, or the rewards that awaited a newly crowned King. He didn't think about prestige or status or even being a benevolent Monsieur Le Roi. Speed and power, the blackness of space and the challenge of the asteroids was all there was.

The control room was packed, everyone jostling and craning their necks to see the readings displayed on the sensor grids. There was never any visual on a race: no one put cameras on a needle. A visual record would have been a definite minus for Clave security. The screens showed the Asteroid Belt in all its dangerous complexity, the varied sizes of rock circling at different speeds, depending on their size and their proximity to other rocks. Both ships were racing toward the Belt, the blip identified as the Kamikaze slightly ahead of that for the Castor.

"Don't mean a thing," one of the racers, a disgruntled former King named Revelation - Rev for short - muttered. "The winning comes in maneuvering."

"Like Kam ever has any problem with that," Jeremy retorted.

Then he shuddered at Calvario's knowing snort.

"They're in," Groupie announced. She liked to do play-by plays for races for, she said, those in the back who couldn't see the screens. That it also gave her the opportunity for witty commentary was only icing on the cake. "Looks like Castor's trying to take the easy route. Must not be too confident."

The 'easy route' was staying at the edge of the Belt, weaving in and out of the less densely packed obstacles. Kamikaze, however, was taking the bolder, more dangerous and flashier run, streaking right through the middle of the Belt, twisting and turning amid the larger asteroids that tended to collect there.

"He a sneaky bastard, that fo' sure," the Cajun chuckled.

Jer nodded. It was well known by those who had done Asteroid Arenas that while there were more boulders in the center of the Belt, the fact that they were larger made them slower and therefore easier to maneuver around.

Of course, that also made it more likely that anything that did hit the needle would do significant damage.

"Castor might win this," the Groupie called, "but he won't raise anyone's opinion with such a chicken-shit tactic."

There were both groans and laughter; the groans from those who worried about their bets and laughter from anyone who appreciated Groupies' commentaries.

"Look at Kam's chutzpah!" she crowed. On the screen, the Kamikaze was darting toward the Castor, dipping around the other ship as if daring it to come and play.

"Why you fuckin' 'round fo', you shit fo' brains," DelMonde grumbled.

"Because he can, Maker," Lane Gage's smooth voice replied. He held out a tightly rolled blunt. "Can I offer you gentlemen some Rigellian? On the house for old friends."

Jeremy grinned as he took the joint and lit up. NC scowled, but didn't decline when Cobra passed it to him.

"Kam's tricks seem to be working," Groupie reported. "Castor looks like he's losing his cool."

Jeremy stared at the screen. The Kamikaze was speeding away through the Belt, with the Castor right on his tail.

"And it looks like a game of cat and mouse - and who needs to be told which is which!" Groupie cackled.

"Go kitten," Gage murmured.

Jer glanced at the Haven, then his gaze shifted to DelMonde, who was apparently choking on the smoke in his lungs.

"I think she picked the wrong analogy," the TerAfrican said. "Doesn't the cat usually chase the mouse?"

"Not if the cat is exceptionally talented," Gage answered with a wry grin.

"Or he bet on Castor," the Maker managed.

"Really, Maker, do I look incredibly stupid?"

Jeremy suppressed a grin

"And we're at the halfway point, people," Groupie called. "That's ten minutes for those of you who didn't know Castor called for a doubled Arena. Kam's still bobbing and weaving..."

Someone called out "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!" to a smattering of laughter. Not everyone was familiar with late Twentieth Century Terran references.

Gage lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

"Don't ask me," Jeremy replied.

DelMonde squinted for a moment, then said, "It got somet'ing t' do wit' some old time boxer. He like t' dance 'round in th' ring."

As if she'd heard the Cajun, Groupie was saying, "And Kam's dancing rings around Castor. He must think he's Saturn!"

"Devri, he makes it look easy," Gage said with clear admiration.

"And damned sexy," Loki Monolem's voice added as she walked up to the small group. "If I called dibs on jumping his pretty ass when he lands would it do me any good?"

"You hafta fight off Cobra first," the Maker chimed in.

"Damn straight!" Jer affirmed, and reached down, actually rubbing his crotch.

"Such crudeness, Cobra," Gage tsked.

Again, NC seemed to choke on the Rigellian.

There was a sudden, loud, "Whoa!!" from the crowd as Groupie shrieked, "Oh my gawd, did you see that? Kam just slipped between those colliding asteroids! Is he good or is he good?"

"Oh, he's good," Gage affirmed, and Loki giggled.

"You given' me a fuckin' headache," DelMonde snarled. "Go away, th' both o' ya."

The Havens shrugged at each other, then moved away, Loki calling over her shoulder, "See me after the race, Maker. I've got a job for you."

"She wanted to get that in before Kam wins and you're inundated with offers," Jer pointed out.

"Long as them offers come wit' cash money up front, I not sayin' no," the Cajun responded, then glanced at the suave patron of the Clave, who was watching the race with apt rapture. "Less it come from that ol' sick-fuck," he amended.

"Amen, brother," Jeremy murmured.

Despite his mounting anxiety about its outcome, Jer had to admit that this was a fantastic race. Castor had a more conservative nature than most Clavists. Pragmatic and taciturn, he was less given to flash and bravado than was usual for a reigning champion. Perhaps his greatest strength as a racer was his ability to size up a challenger within the first few seconds of a match with unerring accuracy. Whereas most top competitors flew with at least a quarter of their attention on impressing the Clave, Castor raced only as well as he needed to in order to beat his challenger. Because he took no unnecessary risks, he had enjoyed and unusually long reign. However, his unambitious approach to the sport had resulted in a string of very pedestrian challenge matches.

Against Sulu, though, who - regardless of his opponent - always raced as if racing was a form of art or a prayer to the Gods of the Cosmos, Castor was forced to display his true metal.

"He's pulling back into the lead!" Groupie was narrating breathlessly. "Castor's nose is about a half ship length ahead... But now Kamikaze is rolling into some kind of meshuginah twirl-y thing..."

It was finest crown match Paget could ever remember seeing. He wished he could relax enough to enjoy it more. Despite the amount of Rigellian he'd puffed through, he was still as tense as piano wire. Scanning the control room, he noted that there were several other knots of spectators who seemed to share his anxiety.

First there was Castor's cohort of followers and hangers-on. These lesser racers and groupies actually stood to lose more than their reigning king did if he should be overthrown. Castor had already secured his desired future and was simply waiting out the time until his twentieth birthday when he'd be old enough to slip comfortably into his dream job. This was what being King of the Clavists did for a racer. Above and beyond the status and bragging rights of being the best of a teenagers' racing club, the true reward of the King of the Clave was that he or she was given the opportunity to have his or her dreams come true. Winning a crown match gave the champion entrance to an elite line of Clave royalty. Former racers so powerful and important that they were completely inaccessible to most mere mortals were now generous virtual cousins to a reigning King.

Because needle racing was illegal, few ex-racers dropped by the Clave to watch races - even ones as splendid as the current match-up. In order to meet the highest tiers of ex-racers who had gone on to the greatest glories, a Clavist had to be invited to parties held in locations other than the small station. Because of the secrecy necessary, there were even parties within parties that were open only to a select few. The most straight-forward method of gaining admittance to the most exclusive and rewarding gatherings was to be the reigning King. The second surest route to entree was to be part of the King's entourage.

Castor's inner circle of followers winced miserably as Groupie called out, "Kamikaze pulling ahead now. Out by a length..."

In keeping with his conservative and sensible temperament, Castor's dream was relatively modest. He wanted to be a Blackstar Ranger. The Rangers were an elite fighter pilot squadron who flew security patrols for un-allied worlds near the Romulan border. They were essentially mercenaries... but then again, Castor was neither an idealist nor a romantic. He was probably going to make a perfect Ranger. Jer could see a future vision of him patiently sizing up and calmly dispatching many a Romulan raider before breakfast every morning...

"And believe it or not we're not done yet, folks," Groupie reported. "Castor has pulled below Kamikaze's port side and taken the lead again..."

A glint caught the corner of Paget's eye. He turned to find it was only the sparkle of the overhead light catching one of Ruis Calvario's rings as he raised a glass of wine to his lips. Jer stopped himself from grimacing as the rich man smiled at him.

Of course, Sulu already had admittance to some very exclusive circles... but only as Calvario's pet... or whatever he was to him. More and more with each passing day, Jer knew with increasing surety that this was not what he wanted for his beloved. It wasn't jealousy. It was apprehension... fear of something he couldn't quite name. Sulu deserved a chance to find his own way, pursue his own dreams. Less and less with each passing day, Jer believed that this was what Calvario wanted for his beloved.

The rich man raised his glass amiably to Jer. The look in his eyes made it clear that which ever way this race turned out, Calvario believed he was going to win. Paget forced himself to smile back at the man, fighting the conviction that whichever way the race went, he had something to lose.

"Rounding a small cluster of asteroids now," Groupie was calling. "Each took a different path. We'll see which one pays off..."

Arranged beside the playboy in postures of studied nonchalance were the Havens. Jer tilted his head at them. Despite their outward cool, they formed the second group of individuals Paget identified as enjoying this excellent crown match less than they should. For reasons he did not understand, the Havens seemed to take a particular interest in Sulu. When he'd asked NC about it, the Cajun had just snorted and replied, "Surely t' God you can tell Loki an' Gage got the hots so bad fo' th' boy they not even able t' look at him wit'out they drawers catchin' on fire."

When Jer had pointed out that this was not a unique affliction among racing enthusiasts and had pressed the Maker for further insights, the Cajun had just shrugged. "It some Haven t'ing,' he'd responded dismissively. "Too complicated t' explain. Too fuckin' goofy t' bother."

Paget frowned. Although he couldn't explain how or why, there was something about the intensity with which the Havens seemed to not care about the outcome of this race that made it seem as if they cared very much.

"Castor is rounding the top of the asteroid cluster first and..." Groupie's voice was starting to get raspy from the strain of maintaining top volume for so long. "Holy fuck! Kamikaze is skimming right up under his belly!"

Jer forced himself to take another theoretically calming toke of Rigellian. The Havens could be putting on a show of detachment simply because of the amount of money riding on this race. Clavists had been anticipating Kamikaze's challenge to Castor for weeks now. The skill level of each racer as well as their contrasting approaches promised for a good match-up. The presence of this many Havens was most probably an indication of how far excitement about this race had spread through the secret circles of ex-Clavist society. A majority of these golden-skinned traders were probably representing off-site gamblers who could no longer risk the scandal of having their real names even whispered at the Clave.

"We've got no clear leader..." Groupie called. "Yes, we do! It's.... No, we don't! Jeez...!"

People who had too much money riding on this race definitely formed the third group of uneasy spectators. As excitement continued to build, side bets and doubling down had continued at a furious pace. Many now were biting their nails as the sum they stood to lose flashed before them each time the lead switched hands.

"Stop chewing your knuckles," Paget advised the spectator beside him quietly.

"Huh?" NC quickly pulled his hand away from his mouth, then muttered a soft, "Shit" reproaching himself for the lapse.

There were people who had bet too much on the race, and then there was Barak and the Cajun...

"And that's the full twenty!" Groupie called out. "Kam's up and out of the Belt, and headed back. Remember, people, he's gotta pinpoint to win the crown! And Castor's coming up fast... but not as fast as Kam! And again, Kamikaze is taunting him, dropping back, then surging forward!"

"Mmmm, surging..." Jeremy sighed, then grinned as the Cajun rolled his eyes.

"This is a performance, not a race," came Barak's unwelcome comment from the outskirts of the crowd. "Of course, it's likely Kam has to use these tricks to win in that ship of his."

DelMonde bristled and started toward him, but Jeremy grabbed his arm.

"It's almost over, don't leave me!" he pleaded artfully.

NC eyed him. "You not be headin' on down to th' bay?" he asked, apparently changing the subject.

"And miss the end of the race?"

"It either that, or miss bein' first in line when he come in," the Cajun pointed out. A grin that didn't touch his eyes pulled at his lips. "I even take you down there myself."

Jeremy Paget was mind-blind. He didn't have an ounce of empathic or telepathic gifts in him. But he didn't need them to know that 'taking him down to the bay' would mean walking right past Barak.

"Don't spoil your moment of triumph, Cajun," he offered. "This is the first of your builds to win a Crown Race."

"Oh, I not spoil not'ing," the Maker returned easily. "I jus' gonna rub Barak's big ol' uppity nose right in it."

Noel Christopher DelMonde did not gamble on ships he had built. Doing so violated his personal code of ethics. However, after a heated discussion about the positioning of his mouth relative to his money, NC had been goaded to enter into an agreement with Barak. According to the terms of this agreement - which did not qualify as being a bet by virtue of some mental gymnastics too subtle for Paget to follow - if Kamikaze won, Barak had to foot the bill for building the next experimental needle on the Cajun's drawing board. If Kamikaze lost, the Maker had to rebuild and upgrade Barak's needle to the racer's very exacting specifications without pay for parts or service.

Jer was sure that the potential humiliation and aggravation of being his rival's virtual slave for the next month or so was keeping the Maker more than usually attentive to the race's progress.

"Coming into the stretch neck to neck," Groupie announced. "Wait... Kamikaze's starting to pull ahead..."

Barak was standing with Gypsy. The pretty Japanese girl, in her signature multi-layered clothing, was gripping the taller racer's arm tightly, repeatedly pulling herself onto her tiptoes, nearly squealing with excitement. Barak himself looked bored, but there was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

Jeremy heard NC's deep-throated, nasty chuckle as Kamikaze lengthened his lead. If Sulu won, Barak would pay dearly. Given the budget the Cajun had set for his next project, Barak stood to lose almost as much as Jeremy looked to win if Kamikaze claimed the crown.

"And the bay doors are opening..." Groupie reported. "Since the racers agreed to a pinpoint landing, the nets are being deployed... just in case..."

Of course the money meant nothing next to what Jer believed winning this race could mean to his beloved.

"Kam's heading in," Groupie announced. "Wait, no he's not! He's dropped back again! Castor's going to pull it off!"

Paget's stomach flipped. A Rigellian pipe slipped from the Cajun's suddenly numb fingers. The crowd moaned as one.

"No, wait again!" Groupie squealed. "Here comes Kamikaze, faster than lightning!"

"Faster'an that lightnin'," NC drawled as he unobtrusively kicked the pipe he'd dropped under a chair. "Any damn day o' th' week."

"Too little too late." Barak shook his head as if he'd never been in any doubt of the race's outcome. "I'll expect the plans for my re-design tomorrow morning."

"Motherfu..."

"What the - !" Groupie's voice interrupted. "Holy crap, Kam's passed Castor in the bay!"

"Hallelujah!" Jeremy shouted, tears of relief and joy momentarily blinding him.

"Hey, Barak, I t'ink I gonna name my new ship Crow," the Cajun cackled into the stunned silence as the crowd blinked at the monitors in collective disbelief. "In honor o' all th' shit you gonna be eatin' fo' th' next month."

"Kamikaze!!!" Paget whooped, sprinting ahead of the crowd who, immediately upon gathering their wits turned as one to have their own race to the bay. "Kamikaze!!!!"

Groupie's last, excited words echoed behind him in the rapidly emptying control room. "He used his braking thrusters to counter that last-second burst! His fuel gauge reads empty! His 'sphere monitor is at zero! Oy geveult, he did it, he did it! We have a new King!!"

The celebration was still going strong as sunlight started to come around the curve of Mars. The new King (who, oddly enough, everyone was calling Le Roi, though Jeremy pronounced it 'Leroy") had been serviced by everyone whose service he wanted - and a few people he hadn't wanted after he was too stoned and wasted and cruising and otherwise fucked up to notice. DelMonde was drunk, but not so drunk that he didn't remember every request made of the new Royal Maker, and how much they'd offered for his talents. Jeremy, also drunk, spent most of his time making lewd evaluations of the offers being floated around the Cajun, and watching his beloved, his eyes shining with tears of joy and pride. There was no jealousy in him; he'd had, as he'd expected, the first run at congratulations with the new King - one that had lasted for well over an hour - before Loki had simply burst in and demanded that he give someone else a chance. Sulu had kissed him so thoroughly, so apologetically, so lovingly, that he'd agreed without a murmur of protest. The memory of the kiss lingered as he vicariously enjoyed the veritable parade of Clavists giving His Royal Majesty due homage.

He'd also watched Barak take out his expensive loss on Groupie. She had returned his disregard with all the considerable sarcasm and disdain at her command, then gone and hid her tears in a full hookah of Rigellian before attacking NC with an incredible case of the hornies. She cuddled against the Cajun now, stoned to the gills and blissfully sated, adding her own wit to Jer's commentary on the procession of those with credit to burn.

"Heads up, mon ami," NC suddenly murmured, and Jeremy glanced up to see Sulu emerging from what looked like a puppy-pile, only with people instead of canines. Someone was handing him a pipe, which he was reaching for... then the sea of sycophants parted as Cal began making his way forward.

"Oh shit," Jer muttered, and before he could act, the Maker had risen and was dragging both he and Groupie with him. The sea parted for him just as easily, though people looked more confused than they had at Cal's approach.

"Come on, Le Roi," the Cajun said, all false intimation and sultry suggestion. "We got us our own celebration t' make."

The crowd rippled with snickers and sniggers and knowing "oh-ho!"s. Groupie gave a giggle of perfect insinuation.

"Come on, lover," Jer added, his own voice dripping with salacious promise. "First come and last served."

Sulu's smile was far more night than sunshine, his eyes blazing jet. "Sounds like the perfect end to a perfect evening," he said. He disentangled himself with kisses and caresses and took NC's hand, letting himself be pulled up from the pile.

As they made their way to the Maker's room, the Cajun leaned over and gave Groupie a quick kiss.

"Thanks, darlin'," he said.

She chuckled. "I'll go hide and let that bastard son of a bitch schmuck prick hear the story from absolutely everyone."

"You're not coming, Groupie?" Sulu asked, his voice taunting - though Jeremy didn't know what he was insinuating.

"Already did," she replied airily, returned NC's kiss, then stuck out her tongue and walked the other way.

"Such a shame," Sulu tsked. "I've heard she really knows how to use that thing."

There were more chemicals and Rigellian and liquor. There were real congratulations, shared rapturizing about the race, varied and vicious snipes about Barak and all the fools who'd bet on Castor. There were excited plans for even better innovations on Kamikaze and all the ways to extend the new King's reign into infinity. There was music and dancing, DelMonde playing and singing with Jeremy while Sulu enjoyed the performances. He himself, he insisted, couldn't carry a tune if it had anti-grav units. There were jokes and insults and leers and laughter and finally passing out in a tangled heap on DelMonde's bed.

If there was the sex that had been so luridly implied, not one of the three remembered it.

The End