do it! I'm just thinking out loud… We've always assumed… or rather, our parents always assumed the Benefactors were infallible, so much more powerful, our saviors, and not human. Like gods."
"Gods aren't made of metal," Harpal said.
"How do you know?" Joe said, again playing Devil's advocate. That had been his flaw when he had been Pan—an inability to settle on one course of action, to see all sides yet still concentrate on one plan. Martin saw that Joe sympathized with him, and double-saw himself through Joe's eyes, and felt a puff of annoyance.
He was being pushed by forces he could not resist to take actions he had not thought through and might not agree with… The fate of a Pan. The fate of all leaders. The group never tolerates completely individual planning and initiative, not even in dictators, if his readings in human history were any guide.
Human history. What sort of history had the Benefactors lived through?
Know your enemy. Know your Benefactors.
"I'll go to the War Mother," Martin said.
"Talk with Hans first," Stephanie suggested again. "Never take full responsibility."
All but Cham nodded agreement.
"Somebody who's never been a Pan can't understand what it's like," Harpal said.
"Somebody's going to scream at you that you questioned the moms," Cham said.
"They'll find some reason to scream, no matter what," Joe said.
Theresa stood with arms outstretched under revolving spheres of sunbright light. She kept her room small and tidy, a scholar's room she had once called it, and Martin liked the style, although it differed completely from his large, messy sprawl. He stood in the open hatch before announcing himself, pleased just to be near her.
"Hello," she said. She came forward and he hugged her, nuzzling her neck. His response was not immediate; he felt a sour burn in the deep of his stomach.
"It wasn't so bad," she said. He lowered himself to his knees and she combed his hair with her fingers while he kissed her navel and belly. "The first drill, I mean."
"It was awful," Martin said. He pressed his cheek against the warmth of her stomach, chin nuzzling curled hair. "I'm going to speak with Hans now, and then I'm going to the moms." He stood, head bowed, and she wrapped her arms around his waist.
"No time?" she asked, teasing him with her fingers, rubbing the overalled cleft between his buttocks. She pressed his coccyx. "I'm sorry," she said, still touching him. "Not making it any easier."
"No," he said, sighing. "Are you going to a Wendy party this evening?"
"There is one," she said. "I'd like to. I'll stay for you."
"I won't be done until then, I think," Martin said. "But we've been together so much, I don't want to wear you out."
"Do I act worn out?" she asked, lip-tugging the tip of his nose.
Martin bowed awkwardly and curled his face into her breasts and felt for the nipples. Lip-tugged and suckled. Her breasts were small and firm looking, yet still soft to his touch. He thought about other Lost Boys touching her, felt vaguely neutral for an instant, realized he did not like that thought, bit her gently to emphasize his presence. "I don't want to bore you," he said.
"Do I act bored?"
She held on to his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his hips and moved her pubis against him. His erection was quick despite the distractions and he pushed her back to the pad.
"Don't ruin me," he said.
"Touch touch," she said, "then you can go." He touched each thigh with two fingers of his left hand, lifted her easily to his lips, tongued her lightly. Then he let her go and Theresa slid to the floor.
"Delicious," he said. "After the party?"
"Sleep here."
"Pans sleep in quarters where they can be found."
"Set their wands. They'll know."
Martin had always been shy of announcing the obvious. "Maybe," he said.
Theresa turned back to the revolving lights. For a moment he thought she might have completely forgotten him, so swift and decisive was her motion; as if he were easily dismissed. But she
"Gods aren't made of metal," Harpal said.
"How do you know?" Joe said, again playing Devil's advocate. That had been his flaw when he had been Pan—an inability to settle on one course of action, to see all sides yet still concentrate on one plan. Martin saw that Joe sympathized with him, and double-saw himself through Joe's eyes, and felt a puff of annoyance.
He was being pushed by forces he could not resist to take actions he had not thought through and might not agree with… The fate of a Pan. The fate of all leaders. The group never tolerates completely individual planning and initiative, not even in dictators, if his readings in human history were any guide.
Human history. What sort of history had the Benefactors lived through?
Know your enemy. Know your Benefactors.
"I'll go to the War Mother," Martin said.
"Talk with Hans first," Stephanie suggested again. "Never take full responsibility."
All but Cham nodded agreement.
"Somebody who's never been a Pan can't understand what it's like," Harpal said.
"Somebody's going to scream at you that you questioned the moms," Cham said.
"They'll find some reason to scream, no matter what," Joe said.
Theresa stood with arms outstretched under revolving spheres of sunbright light. She kept her room small and tidy, a scholar's room she had once called it, and Martin liked the style, although it differed completely from his large, messy sprawl. He stood in the open hatch before announcing himself, pleased just to be near her.
"Hello," she said. She came forward and he hugged her, nuzzling her neck. His response was not immediate; he felt a sour burn in the deep of his stomach.
"It wasn't so bad," she said. He lowered himself to his knees and she combed his hair with her fingers while he kissed her navel and belly. "The first drill, I mean."
"It was awful," Martin said. He pressed his cheek against the warmth of her stomach, chin nuzzling curled hair. "I'm going to speak with Hans now, and then I'm going to the moms." He stood, head bowed, and she wrapped her arms around his waist.
"No time?" she asked, teasing him with her fingers, rubbing the overalled cleft between his buttocks. She pressed his coccyx. "I'm sorry," she said, still touching him. "Not making it any easier."
"No," he said, sighing. "Are you going to a Wendy party this evening?"
"There is one," she said. "I'd like to. I'll stay for you."
"I won't be done until then, I think," Martin said. "But we've been together so much, I don't want to wear you out."
"Do I act worn out?" she asked, lip-tugging the tip of his nose.
Martin bowed awkwardly and curled his face into her breasts and felt for the nipples. Lip-tugged and suckled. Her breasts were small and firm looking, yet still soft to his touch. He thought about other Lost Boys touching her, felt vaguely neutral for an instant, realized he did not like that thought, bit her gently to emphasize his presence. "I don't want to bore you," he said.
"Do I act bored?"
She held on to his shoulders, wrapped her legs around his hips and moved her pubis against him. His erection was quick despite the distractions and he pushed her back to the pad.
"Don't ruin me," he said.
"Touch touch," she said, "then you can go." He touched each thigh with two fingers of his left hand, lifted her easily to his lips, tongued her lightly. Then he let her go and Theresa slid to the floor.
"Delicious," he said. "After the party?"
"Sleep here."
"Pans sleep in quarters where they can be found."
"Set their wands. They'll know."
Martin had always been shy of announcing the obvious. "Maybe," he said.
Theresa turned back to the revolving lights. For a moment he thought she might have completely forgotten him, so swift and decisive was her motion; as if he were easily dismissed. But she
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