for Deb and Bas, who I blame for this

He was no Immortal, and yet he was.  It was hundreds of years since I'd last seen him--since he'd gutted me on an old-fashioned steel knife in a Martian brothel.  And yet here he was, this redheaded mortal man, standing tall and proud in slavery.

His master stood nearby, and I wondered how long it would be before the slave would murder him and escape.  Enslaving men like that is dangerous; they will kill you at the first opportunity.  I only had to learn that lesson--oh, three or four hundred times.

The man had been marked as being for hire, and I let myself look at him.  Strong and well-formed; not a particularly attractive face.  Neither is mine.  His sandy hair raised his price; his apparent age and arrogance lowered it.  Very few of the men here would want a whore they had to fight for.

I am not most men, and I am not from here.  My identity record claims that I am eighteen and from Chuk, the city to the south of this one.  My journals tell a different story, a longer story.  My journals say I am at least six thousand years old and that I do not know my true name or place of birth.

Some days I don't know which is the lie.

I stop in front of the redheaded mortal, and he meets my eyes.  "I know you," I whisper, in what used to be Modern English but is now Old Earth Standard.  He bares his teeth--straight, strong teeth--but does not answer.

I pay for his services for the night, remembering the way he held the knife when he fought me on Mars, remembering the cold slice of steel through my skin and muscle.

In a cheap traveler's station, I chain his hands to the bed, to keep him from strangling me.  I have no illusions regarding this man.

I stand over him, and still he meets my eyes, fearless.  "How old are you now?" I ask him, keeping to the language I know he speaks.  Or spoke once--perhaps he no longer does.

"Old."  His voice sounds rusty.

I smile at him.  "Do you remember me?"

"Mars," he says.  "You're dead."

"Mmm."  I sit down in the chair by the bed.  "Evidently not.  That was six, seven hundred years ago.  What are you?"  He laughs.  I flick out a blade so that it rests at his throat.  "And be honest, youngster."

"Universe jumper."

"A what?"

"This isn't my universe," he says.  "I'm...jumping universes.  I killed you on Mars seven hundred years ago.  Or thirty, depending on who's counting."

"I'm counting.  How old are you?"

He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he is hiding fear.  "Old.  Over two thousand years old."

I laugh.  "You're a child."

"I'm the oldest living human being."

"If you don't count my kind as human," I say, and his eyes flick open.  I tilt my head to one side.  "Maybe you don't have my kind where you come from." 

I stand up and strip to my shirtsleeves, considering.  "Can I trust you not to bite?" I say.

He looks at me, his expression grim.  "I'd rather avoid getting fucked or killed. So yes."

"You don't like men?"

"I like men just fine.  I don't like rape.  I don't like honest whores being treated badly."

"You shouldn't whore on this planet, then," I say, and kneel over him, locking my legs around his shoulders and my fingers around his chains.

He's good, I'll give him that.  I rock into his mouth, into his throat, feel the rippling of muscle and the flick of his tongue.  His breath brushes over my skin, and I feel the familiar tremble of orgasm--thousands of years, and never stale for me, not yet.

I wonder if he feels the same, or if sex has become meaningless for him, as it has for so many of my kind.

I unchain him and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  His lip is bleeding, and I half-expect it to heal, but it does not.  He is just a mortal, a strong man with red hair and an ugly face and a pride that I can hardly bear to see worn by a slave.

"I don't have much choice about where I'm whoring," he says.  "Do you think I want to be doing this?"

"The room's paid for," I say.  "And your time, through dawn."

I throw him a spare vibroblade and leave.