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Post by Aedh on Nov 24, 2008 13:42:30 GMT -5
032[/b] Mona crawled out of the bathtub after about an hour. She'd have made the bath longer and hotter, but she'd been starting to prune up, and that she didn't want. She had expected to pay a price when she'd told David to give it to her good, and had prepared beforehand with some painkillers and muscle relaxants. But this had been like a thousand strokes of a toilet plunger clear to the breastbone; her arms, legs, and neck throbbed, and her crotch felt she'd given birth to a barrel cactus. And--worse luck--there was no chance of being able to call in sick in the morning; there were mandatory reports to be finished and dispatched, and a must-do errand later. Still, it had been worth it, she reflected as she lay like a wet flannel in bed, her duvet roughly drawn up, and the room's e-screen burbling away, some 'vidcast on with the volume turned way down. There was a buzz ... goddess, not a call now, she groaned mentally; but it was her Number Two PDA, whose number was known only to sisters and comrades. So she reached out for it on the nightstand, her arm shooting a shoulder-to-elbow twinge, and fumbled it to her ear, rolling over. "Star," she said. "Um--Crown," said the caller, a young woman's voice. "Sorry. Do we really have to do this codename stuff? I feel, like, you know, we're back in second grade playing cops and robbers." "Yes, we have to," said Mona. "We're among some sharp customers, and we can't afford to neglect any precautions, no matter how silly they might seem. If a codename keeps your own name from being intercepted even once, it's worth all the trouble. If you were found out ..." "What would they do?" "Nobody knows what happened to the last person they found out." It wasn't true, but it was the needful thing to say. "So just watch yourself. Did you complete?" "Yes." "How are you feeling?" "Pretty achy," she said. "I met Panzer after school, as you instructed. Good name for him. Do you know, he had the back of that tank he drives all ready for a lay? Do you think he was expecting me?" "He keeps it like that most of the time. You should see the trailer he tows with it sometimes--looks like an ordinary cargo trailer, but it's all tricked out as a sex den inside." "Whoa!" said Crown. "Sounds ... kinda--ah, kinda luscious actually." "Not if you're one of the women he abuses in it, which can be several dozen on a good day--speaking from his point of view," Mona replied severely. "So, did you get him to talk?" "Some. It's all in the report I'll e-mail you tomorrow." "Tonight, please," said Mona. "We need to move on this." "I'll do what I can. It's a little tricky because the meeting I went to didn't quite go as planned. Gauleiter spoke, but before he talked he asked everybody to introduce themselves to each other. I was next to some people who shook hands and told me all about themselves. Well, I had to bail--the address on record with the school you gave me--" "Yes, I know," interrupted Mona. "We're still working on finding you 'real' parents after the first people got cold feet. So you had to leave early, then." "Yeah. Precautions, like you said. I did get some vid that I think we can use. I have to get that to--to our friend." "Good--Noble's very busy right now, with the bombing. Her office is chaos at the moment, so she's delegated some responsibilities to me. Go on and send it as instructed, though." "Okay. What else do you want me to say, besides what Panzer disclosed?" "Your own evaluations of things on the ground here. This isn't your first operation. You know. Observations. About class ... staff ... especially things to do with Ilex and how she runs the classes. You've been to one, right?" "Yes." "You'll report abuse, naturally." "I dunno ... I was with--um--Given the one time, and he was really so very sensitive and sweet. I just wanted to wrap him all up and make him all warm." Mona thought she heard a little sigh. "That's not what we're looking for, Crown. Remember, sex is abuse by definition. You at least kept your eyes and ears open. There was something to report, surely." "Sure, I guess." "Well, what about with Panzer? You don't have any qualms about reporting him, I trust? I'm certainly going to." "You? You--?""Yes. People have gone to prison for twenty years for a lot less than what he did to me this afternoon. And if you're not feeling any ill effects, I trust you'll at least offer something in sisterly support of my ordeal," she said archly. She was, in fact, a bit nettled that he hadn't left marks on her. It would have helped a lot. "Okay," said the caller. "Anything else?" "No, not now. We have to keep things brief. I trust you'll forward me copies of the information for review." "Yes. Alright, goodbye, then, Star." "Farewell, sister. And thank you," said Mona, ending the call. Then she rolled over again and replaced the PDA, not without a misgiving or two. Crown, known at the high school as 'Debi DiStefano,' had come highly recommended, a veteran of a previous operation in Omaha which had resulted in the arrest of a Bearer, and was now a blueprint for a program of nationwide scope. Sensitivity was a requirement of Crown's job, but so was unquestioning commitment. Mona felt matters, somehow, going slightly askew, but there was no choice but to go ahead. It would all turn out, no matter what Mona had to do to make it so. And there was still the information she'd collected from Jason Macklin, known to her people as 'Doktor.' The fact that he was being pimped in the City itself was a potential blockbuster, and there was urgent follow-up to do on that. She thought of history, of dead ancestors and relatives; the twentieth-century European Holocaust, and the more recent destruction of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. The former had become a radioactive no-go zone, and the latter had been 'cleansed' with biological and chemical weapons and was now a middling, militia-infested Palestinian town renamed 'Al-Quds.' She and hers had had enough of losing. The moment Mona had arrived on Alder Island, she's known that there was a battle on: her cause versus the island's. One had to win and one had to lose, and she had no intention of being the representative of another generation of losers. >< >< >< The man in the Queen City Transit Center, situated in a tunnelplex some stories beneath the downtown’s central hill, may have been thinking like Mona, of ancestors and progeny; of battles, and the vagaries of history, but if his meditations were as dark as hers, he gave no sign. His smooth Asian features seemed carved of stone as he looked about him in the swirling crowd, past the surrounding knot of black-clad escorts, sent by Leonard Chung to greet him at his arrival at the airport. He had been ushered straight through the usual checkpoints with deference and quiet murmurs of regret for the inconvenience. Of course, Mr. Chung could not greet him personally, but he was sending his best people. If the new arrival was impressed with Leonard Chung’s best people, he gave no sign of that either, as they moved through the well-populated platforms in a phalanx. “Where is the main air shaft?” he asked one man, who pointed up. “Just there, Mr. Dong,” he replied. “And how is its grille covering secured?” “Hex-head bolts, sixteen-millimeter, thirty of them, pneumatically tightened.” Mr. Dong nodded toward a tunnel connecting to bus platforms one through three. “Width, seven point two meters. Have you a traffic count for that tunnel at peak times?” “Four thousand an hour, Monday through Thursday. Three thousand on Fridays,” said another escort. The PA system crackled to life, announcing something. A soughing in air and a vibration below them meant an arriving train, this one from the Burien route. Mr. Dong flicked his wrist and studied what was evidently a stopwatch. “Give me a mark when the train breasts the tunnel,” he said to a third man. He and his people had slowed to a halt. Passengers scurried around them. “And … mark!” The electric-powered train, already slowing, ground to a halt, juddered once, and opened its doors. Mr. Dong took his observation with a slight head movement that might have been a stillborn shake. “Inefficient,” he murmured. A female guard touched her earpiece. “Mr. Chung would like to know our ETA.” “It will be when I have walked through this place thoroughly, and seen for myself the plans I have been studying on paper, and answered a few questions. And after I’ve gotten off on someone. You’ll do.” Mr. Dong motioned, and the guards all stepped so as to face out in a tight ring, with the female and Mr. Dong inside. He unbelted a black leather trench coat to reveal a tight, very athletic body covered in close-fitting mesh, with something strapped around his hips that looked very much like the Alder Island Bearers’ genital restraint. He tore its straps open with four quick, smooth moves, and the female knelt down, facing a bulging male organ that stood out as long and thick as her forearm. “You. Face, one minute,” he said. She took the thing in her hands as he emitted a soft, indistinct sound, and within seconds the monstrous thing was shooting down her throat. She had to gag a few times and discharge some semen onto the platform floor, but Mr. Dong gave no sign of displeasure at that, nor when, after blindly feeling in her pockets for some seconds, she finally produced a quart plastic softbag and thrust his organ into it, massaging it. Through the plastic the dark-orangeish-brown penis throbbed and heaved, gradually submerging itself in hot, sticky fluid. As the bag reached about half-full, his spasms grew slower. An escort handed back a sealed disposable cleaning towel, and another a liquipak. The female closed the plastic bag, then broke open the cleaning towel and cleaned off first Mr. Dong, and then herself. She didn’t do a perfect job on her uniform; there were a few spots and spatters on it, as there were on some other escorts’ uniform fronts as well. By the time she was done, Mr. Dong had downed the half-liter liquipak. The remains of everything were handed to another escort, who bagged them all in another bag and handed them to yet another, who moved off to put them somewhere. The female did up Mr. Dong’s genital restraint and buttoned his coat back up for him. The entire operation took eighty-three seconds, during which commuters moved all around. No one said a word, paused, or even appeared to notice. “As you were. Now let us go to the main lift,” he said. “I wish to proceed up to the aboveground office tower,“ said Mr. Dong, and the group began moving again. “From there we will proceed to Mr. Chung’s office.” Another guard touched an earpiece and spoke. Nothing remained where Mr. Dong had relieved himself with the female guard except some liquidy leavings on the concrete floor. They lay for a few moments, then someone hurrying trod in one, and they gradually disappeared under a flurry of passing feet. >< >< >< Taylor's new favorite club, KLSM, was quiet. The day's events would make it a tough evening, with more to come. The disturbances downtown--the blast itself, sirens, rerouted traffic, general commotion--had made it hard for her to sleep, even in her newer and much better apartment. Moving hadn't been a problem; two suitcases had taken care of that--the landlord could have the rest of the crap. But now this. And she'd had to notify Shaz, of course. Nick wouldn't tolerate any disruption of that arrangement with him yet. He'd said so in a text to her. Now it was gonna be even harder to come up with the forty thousand a week needed to keep her footloose and fancy-free. Well, hell's bells. Accidents could happen to anybody ... even Shaz, even in spite of Nick's concerns. But Nick had mentioned something else rich with possibilities, she thought, as she surveyed the depleted dance floor, and then the bar, where the underoccupied staff were chatting and polishing glasses. He'd mentioned a Councilor, an older one, well-off and with--apparently--an addiction to having ladies do certain things for him. Anderson was his name ... Councilor Anderson. Nick wanted her to get with him, and given her information that would help her do that. He'd been a little cryptic about just what he wanted her to do once she was with him, but anything to do with getting in with a Councilor sounded like some alright to her. So before she'd come down, she'd taken care to send Councilor Anderson a text--personal, sexy, and using the name of a reference that Nick had recommended. She thought it would appeal to the old goat. She wasn't particularly hungry yet; she'd dined yesterday. She knew that if she was gonna survive, she'd have to find a way to do it which didn't involve leaving drained corpses that would surely lead the law to her, though she still exulted at the memory of Friday night ... and that would be Shaz's fate the moment she was free to act on it. So last night she'd left her victim alive. For the moment she was just absorbing the general atmosphere, relaxing a little, and looking for straight business, a lot of which would be needful. She scanned the bar again, looking carefully, taking a moment to soak in something of each man's posture and apparent attitude. She nearly didn't sense the person behind her, turning at the last moment to see a man opening his mouth to say something. "Oh, hi," she said with a smile. "Hey," he mumbled, surprised and momentarily a bit abashed. "You ... you come here often?" "Lately," she said. "I don't remember you--but hello." He was close to her age, handsome and fit, wearing designer goth that must have cost him the equivalent of three days' rent on her life to Shaz. If he was packing half the cash that his outfit had cost--a fair rule of thumb, she'd found ... "Can I buy you a drink?" She gave a half-nod and a smile, letting him steer her toward a booth. They'd soon ordered, and then he folded his hands and leaned on the table, looking at her closely, with great interest--more interest than she'd seen in any man's eyes for quite some time. "You dance?" she asked him. "I like to dance." "I can, but it's not really my thing," he said. "I'm kinda serious. I came looking for you, actually. I think it's you." She sat up and scanned him again. There wasn't any feel of cop about him. "Oh?" He produced a PDA and flipped it open, punching a few buttons. Then he turned it to her. The tiny screen displayed a fuzzy picture of a woman walking under a streetlight in a certain alley. She recognized the alley, and the clothes she'd been wearing last night at the time she'd--dined--in a doorway in the alley. "That you?" he asked. "I might know who it is," she said cautiously, cursing herself for not changing her hair. "Why? She in trouble?" "Not from me," said the man. "Someone I know shared this around to some friends. He saw something through his back window. He saw her walk up the alley with a street guy. And he saw her walk back down alone, and snapped this." "So?" "So he's a bit of a nut, I allow you. He snaps a hundred things a day, just anything he finds interesting. He didn't think anything at the time. But later he went to take his trash out and saw a street guy crawling along. He had a bloody neck and he was mumbling things." Taylor cursed herself again, but asked only: "So, why'd he share the photo out? He a vigilante?" "No. He thinks she might be a vampire." "And if she was?" "Well, that's for her to find out," he said, snapping the device shut as the waitress arrived with the drinks, a couple of house cocktails. He paid with a fifty and told her to keep it ...a good sign, she thought. "Sorry if I bothered you. It's just that your hair looks like hers. And I had a sort of feeling. I get ... feelings, sometimes." "I get around," she said. "Can I ask who your friend is?" "He's in music. I don't suppose you've heard of 'Tiamat 69?'" "Yeah, they did 'mRdR me,'" she replied easily. "Fuckin' cool song." "Oh!" he said, seeming genuinely surprised. "Yeah--sort of retro-goth power metal. Not everyone's cup of tea." "I'm into music. I don't really know anything about them except they're, well, like you say." "They're into vampires. They're all kinda crazy about it. They have a vamp thing going, and he's convinced that there's real vampires around in Queen City. He follows up on every little factoid and incident that he thinks supports his theory--you should see his place. Straight outta Elza's Sex Crypt," he said, referring to a popular 'Net game-cum-alternative world. "He sent this around to friends asking if anyone knew or could find out." "What do you think?" "I think it's possible," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "And if it were true?" "Well, that'd be ... like--awesome," he said. "And pretty sexy, especially if they looked like this." He tapped the closed PDA. "I'm not really a big fan of the band but I'm kinda, um, into vampires myself. That's how I know this guy." "You know what I think?" she asked him. "What?" "I think you're awesome ... and pretty sexy," she said, putting her feet out to curl back around his legs. "Make that very sexy. I'm Taylor, by the way." "Liam," he said with a little softening in his face. He really was very good-looking. She studied him again. The name--something--and that face, stirred a memory. She'd seen Liam somewhere before, but she couldn't place it just then. "I like you, Liam," she told him. "Thanks," he said,. "I like you, too, Taylor. I'll be around. Why don't you get with me if you find out who that was?" "If I knew--if I could introduce you to her tonight, would you get with me?" she asked. He looked at her again with a flash of humor in his blue eyes. "Sure, Taylor," he said. She downed her drink in one. "Well, c'mon, then," she said, taking his hand in hers. At his reaction, she added: "I don't bite--much." >< >< >< Not far away, 'Nick' was at work in his office, having picked up a flashdrive from Mordred. He was interested in many things, not least in last week's sudden cessation of CCO reports from Rhys Macklin's office ... coinciding with the suicide of his PA--what was her name?-- Louise. Nevertheless, the reports he had, channeled to a server in the office of the City Comptroller's office and then relayed to him through an arrangement he had in place, showed a pattern of discrepancies in Dr. Macklin's financial doings--in particular, sums being transferred though an account in a San Francisco bank ... sums of which corresponded to periodic upticks in the spreadsheets of AltaCal Import & Export. They were quite large ... far more than enough to keep Dr. Macklin in pinatas, pickled nopalitos, and earthenware planter pots. He wondered what the scientist was really buying from Mr. Cabrera. He also had tracking reports on some of the serials on the bills he'd had Taylor give to Shaz. More than a few of them had been deposited locally by people employed by Mr. Cabrera; a number had also come in from sources he knew to be associated with the County and City. Several had come from Leonard Chung's people. Perhaps it was time to feed her a little more ... but not too much. He didn't want her to think she could depend on him for more than benign supervision and the occasional favor. His philosophy was that Minions had to find their own way from the beginning. It was wiser that way, and ultimately made them stronger. Adela was very good. She'd be a Vampire ready to stand on her own two feet and work, rather than lapsing into occultic seclusion. Such Vampires might save themselves during the coming persecution, but they could do little to help mitigate the persecution itself. He thought about Taylor again. He was certain that the motel slaying was her work; the evidence he had found, one way and another, supported it. Unless, that is, there was another Vampire locally, or minions of another, of which he knew aught. He was new in the area, comparatively speaking, and Vampires tended to be territorial. It could be that there was one around here that had long been quiescent, and now had become conscious of him. Vampires trying to smoke one another out by obvious activities were not unknown. But it was much more likely that it was just Taylor being foolish--not knowing her victims first. The truck driver was one thing, but picking a prominent Alder Island businessman was something else, regardless. That was why Vampires--and wise Minions--often developed intimate relations with contacts; as a way of knowing who they really were. There was, furthermore, the matter of the Medagenix slayings. Three coordinated killings carried out in a day: one done by a State employee, Valerie Cripps, who had every evidence against her except her own patently ridiculous story of having been tied up while some woman who was her exact double, right down to the last biometric, took her place and did it. She had nothing going for her but passing a polygraph, but those weren't too hard to fool. Another murder perpetrated by a prison guard who had later been found dead herself, and a third by a woman--reportedly--masquerading as an Insta-Bang worker. A hundred years ago he would have suspected the hand of Dea Tacita, but that menace to Vampires and humanity alike was gone. It had certainly been seen through on the skill level of a national intelligence service. There was something going on there. Finally, he thought about the matter of Liliane Perez-Kessler and Nola MacLennon. He'd gotten a look at some of the forensics reports, and they turned his doubt about the official story into instant certainty; it was certainly a double murder. But who would want the mistress of the Mexican Consul dead? She had a past, that was true ... but who didn't? Yet every sign was that her past was past. Unless she had a current connection to something going on with Mexico ... and he thought about Enrique Cabrera again. Closer attention to Mr. Cabrera was clearly necessary. And closer attention to Taylor. >< >< >< Bernie Young had quite enjoyed the conversation, and the sex, with Ralna. She was extremely intelligent, far and away the most sensitive woman he'd ever been with, and he'd had to be at his gentlest--the way he'd have treated someone half her age. She'd acted very young, too ... trembling and shaking like a leaf at first, then plunging into it with a gusto that had left him scrambling to keep up. With her white undies and blue jeans slung over a chair, and her smooth, firm skin and steel-spring muscles, he might have been having an Alder Island freshman gymnast. There had been one thing distinctly odd, and that was the sensation of bulkiness about her. At her height and size she should have weighed about one-thirty, but she'd dented the bed--and when on top, had borne down on him--like a big man of two hundred or more. He'd made a mental note to come around to the subject some time ... later, after the undeniable fun was over. And he'd drifted off to sleep in pleasant exhaustion ...Now, however, Bernie was awake, and he wasn't in bed. He was in his living room, laying stretched out on the carpet, and having difficulty breathing. His instinct was to put his hand to his face--something was blocking his mouth. But when he tried to move his hand--hands--he couldn't. They were tightly secured behind his back, though he couldn't feel them. And his legs were also secured at the ankles. He craned his neck to look down; he couldn't feel his feet either. He'd been dressed in pajamas from his drawer, and his ankles, he could see below the pajama bottoms, were bound with thin wire, many wraps of it, and were starting to swell and turn red. There were indistinct noises coming from the second bedroom which served as his study, and with the low light in the room he could see a flickering glow. Someone had his workplex on and was going through screens rapidly. His instinct was to struggle, but it would be no use. His bindings would make struggle exquisitely painful--he knew that from his work on Chinese gang cases. And then he made the connection. He wondered if Ralna, or Rhys Macklin himself, were in with Asian mobs. The glow subsided ... she--whoever--had switched off, and was taking a moment to arrange things. Then she came out. In the blurry half-light he saw Ralna's jeans, shirt, and leather jacket. Then the person moved into the light, and he saw a cold-eyed Oriental man's face atop the body ... looking at him, at his open eyes. Despite himself, Bernie moaned. It was too much. He was going insane. A nightmare, he thought frantically. I'll wake up any second now ... I'm thinking, so I must be almost awake.The person palmed a gun in a gloved hand, a big Desert Eagle .45, and walked toward him with a completely blank face--devoid of any feeling at all. Then he--it--squatted down near him, looking ... looking ... and then the hand moved and his world exploded as he was struck savagely across the face with the big weapon's barrel. In the moment of numbness before the pain he could feel warmth ... blood welling; probably the front sight had ripped some skin. Then another jolt as he was struck the other way. This time pain came in a wave that wrenched his entire body; as his stomach convulsed he tried to suck in air to vomit, but couldn't, and that only made matters worse. And his tongue ran over something hard rolling in his mouth in a salt sea. A dislodged tooth. He had half a minute to bear that while he saw a silencer being fitted onto the Eagle's receiver. A leathered hand came to his face, thrusting his jaw up, and the frozen eyes moved very close to his own for a minute, reading him--probing him--forcing their way into him ... almost as if raping his mind, calmly, blankly drinking his pain. He couldn't help making noises, or the tears that joined the blood on his face. If only he could breathe ... but he was about to drown in blood and tears and gagging vomit. Then the face moved back, and in some part of his mind he felt himself being yanked up, absurdly manhandled like a rag doll by this person smaller than him. He was shoved down again, forced onto his knees. He couldn't see the person anymore, who was behind him, bearing down hard. All he could see was the carpet, and some dark spots--his own blood. Then he closed his eyes as something hard pressed into the back of his skull. He'd always wondered if you could hear the gunshot that was to kill you. It had seemed wise to leave it with the idea that it depended on how far away the gun was. Now it didn't matter. Nothing did. He could hear the weapon's action clicking as the finger tightened on the trigger ... chik-kik ... There was a whock and >< >< >< Slim, dark, and efficient, a nurse was making her second round of the shift at Bayview Hospital, Queen City's largest and best. Her nameplate read: Nita, RN; tonight she wasn't in charge, as Bayview had NAs--nursing admins--who personally supervised every shift. But she knew the NA here now, and there would be no problems. It was finally calming down, and all but a few bombing victims' family members had left. She had Second Floor B this time, and would be here for awhile; Bayview hadn't survived by being uncooperative with the people who paid the bills, and their necessary functionaries. Nurse Nita--also known by 'Maya' and a few other names--wasn't a monster. She was a real nurse, and devoted to nursing. No one put more care and determination into healing--that is, worthwhile healing--than she. She had a dossier full of deserved commendations. On emergency-room duty she'd been rightly credited with dozens of saves, and countless times in operating rooms had quietly and respectfully improved doctors' work. Today, as late as she'd come on, she'd helped with several bomb victims. She saved--and killed--by numbers. Yet the numbers didn't always add up in every situation. B-412a was one such. Earlier she'd helped the attending physician stabilize her, but she was reviewing the case again in her head. She entered B-412 silently, like a ghost in her white rubber-soled comfy shoes and with the barest rustle of her starched uniform. Bed B, like every other for miles around, contained a bombing victim--they were assigned to any space that could be found--but this one was sleeping the sleep of sedation. Bed A contained the patient who was on her mind. She left the room lights down and brought up the patient's chart data, her good-looking, serious face looking grey in the blue, green, and yellow light from the datascreen in the shadows. Lucky McCullum, date of birth 12 May 2063, EID 466270151NN, admitted very early Saturday, the victim of a brutal sexual assault in an alley downtown. Her identity had had to be established through a DNA match in the official CSDb, the combined-services database, as she had no IDB or MIB, nothing on her, not even a handbag. She'd been raped and beaten, sustaining multiple contusions and fractures, two dislocations, and trauma to her head and internal organs. Her stomach had contained over a pint of male ejaculate, and she'd had to be vacuumed out before a colposocopy could be run. And left--evidently--through much of the night on the street, she was suffering from hypothermia, as well as shock so severe that her system had shut down. She'd survived--basically--because she was one tough old cow, but even so, another half hour and she would have been a fatality. Nurse Nita frowned as she read. There were some apparent anomalies. For one, she had no DWD on file. Why, she did not know, but it did not matter. What mattered was that Nita would not be able to relieve the system of her as soon as might be optimal. Lucky was having an RIA--rosette inhibition assay--an enzyme check ordered, surely, as a means of checking hepatic function. That would be a justifiable concern with someone who had this woman's lifestyle behind them: long years of alcohol, nick, and who knows what else coursing though the liver. Nita was most familiar with the RIA as an early pregnancy test, but with a fifty-three-year-old woman who'd had both ovaries out many years before, that was out of the question. There were other methods of evaluation, less expensive and more efficient. And Lucky's occupation was listed as 'sex service worker,' which usually meant an Insta-Bang or Dial-a-Gasm person in their twenties--not a woman in her fifties with dentures, hernia, and metabolic arthritis. She might be an attendant of some sort, perhaps a kind of house mother; yet then even if she had no family, one would find an employer listed as the contact, and Lucky's contact data read simply, unknown. Nita, RN, didn't like unknowns. And the RIA bothered her. An LFT, a standard hepatic panel, should have been ordered.--not to mention the unconscionable lack of a DWD, potentially costing the system many thousands of dollars. She checked the responsible doctor's name and made a mental note to have an administrator talk to her. It just wasn't right. She powered down the screen and looked at the unstirring figure in the bed. Things were indeed not quite adding up here, and whenever that happened it was her job, despite--no, really, because of--her love for nursing, that she had to find out and put things in order. With unknowns, without order, everything would collapse. Who are you, Lucky McCullum?--what are you really doing here? Nita thought, looking at her searchingly. Well, we'll have it out. One way or another.Then she padded out as noiselessly as she'd entered. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 25, 2008 18:03:41 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Dec 1, 2008 12:28:06 GMT -5
033
Tuesday, 13 OctoberCandee hadn't waited for the confirmation message. She had packed a bag with a few things already, last night, between bouts of e-form filling and 'mailing back and forth while Rhys was at his meeting, which had evidently been something extraordinary. He had made a few unwonted calls, to Merilee Brunett, Stan Wilkes, and Regina Thomsen--undoubtedly school and community business from the night before--and as soon as he was safely gone to catch his ferry, she'd donned a robe and gone to her e-plex to check her messages. Sure enough, there it was, the 'mail with the words in it that she felt surgingly confident would unlock for her the one thing that money couldn't buy. Nevertheless, she didn't jump up and run around. Being born beautiful hadn't deprived her of a brain, nor had her grey matter rotted away in college. So first she went to the kitchen to make a coffee--not ‘bux, but a real coffee--then came back after a few minutes to re-read the 'mail carefully ... and her brow furrowed. She had expected that the procedure would require an overnight stay. The 'mail made it plain that she would have to be away longer than that. They asked for a week. That wasn't good. She turned off her PDA and the 'phone so she could think without interruption. The original little white lie she'd prepared for Rhys about an overnight absence wouldn't wash; she'd have to think of something else, and arrange it before she left. There was no question of passing this up. She changed her robe for a thicker one, a full-length terry-cloth wrap, pulled on her favorite fuzzy slippers, and took up her mug, a beautiful creation of Dunoon china featuring a gilt-edged reproduction of a medieval illumination. Then she wandered out through the French doors onto the porch, set the mug on the wide wooden rail, and leaned against it, looking down as a mist rolled through the sedge grasses that bordered the waterside. A breath of a breeze stirred her long chestnut hair as she looked and wondered. He wouldn't like it that she was surprising him--he might even be angry at first--but would all be worth it. Whatever came up, it would be forgiven when he realized she could now bear a child. Their child. She could then forever expunge the irritating thought that cow Jane had done something for him that she couldn't. How could he not understand? He was, after all, a man. He couldn't not love his own child, and her with it. It would be beautiful and smart, like its parents. Then--then--she would have given him, from her own body, a gift in return for all he had done for her. Then she would have truly earned the name 'Mrs. Rhys Macklin.' >< >< >< After the morning datasession with Sir, Ralna had performed her morning routine with extra care. Her body felt ... different in a few places; different than she ever remembered feeling before. She ran an exhaustive self-evaluation, and some suggestive results presented themselves for review. Terminating Bernard Young and downloading the information from his home deskplex had been entirely routine. She existed to serve her Sir, and she did so. That was what life consisted of. However, the physical interface with Bernie had been quantitatively and qualitatively different than anything in her experience. She was of course not unacquainted with human reproduction, sex, and fucking, and possessed databases assigned to those behavioral topics; they'd guided her through such encounters as those with Pete. But Bernie had handled her body unlike anyone previously, in a mode parametrically compatible with that odd subject called romance so often referenced in datasources. She had hitherto deemed romance to be basically nonsense--along with religion, humor, fictive literature, and law, which served no discernible purpose save to stimulate primitive human neuroses and provide employment for people who derived profit and satisfaction from the same, to the general detriment of society. However, as she processed biodata during her exercises, it came to her that these same human neuroses might well constitute windows of opportunity which could from time to time be exploited to more efficiently serve her Sir. A certain proficiency at this romance could pay dividends, should matters come to a point where no other effective means could be found to complete a mission. But one thing was clear. Mere factfinding could not suffice. Her experience with Bernie had taught her that in this sort of physical interface it was not only what one did, but how one did it, that generated effective results. Consultation would be called for. It would be necessary to obtain direct experiential resources ... to train with human experts of proven competence, just as she had done learning armed and unarmed combat tactics and psychological strategies. Therefore, toward that end, she allotted a portion of her DRT--domiciliary research time--to hooking up to the 'Net and searching terms such as relationship, dating, sex, romance, and love. A preliminary survey of source materials tended to show that she was equipped for proficiency. She possessed an excellent physique, matchless computational powers, high sensitivity, and near-infinite memory capacity--a combination which should prove of great assistance to successful endeavor, or so it would appear from all the authors' indications. With this information in mind, she proceeded to consult local directories and databases--names and facts, analyzing which among them might prove to be valuable instructional assets. Knowledge, after all, was power, and that was true for every subject. Before she left, she had acquired seventy-seven fields which she marked for inquiry, and boarded her bus confident that soon she would be able to serve her Sir better and more efficiently than ever. >< >< >< >< >< >< Taylor opened her eyes earlier than usual. Not that she could see sun; her new basement apartment had only three small welled windows, each of which she'd completely drowned with rubbish. But she could feel a sense of day percolating down and in--vibration, dull occasional noises, and a sort of ambient warmth that came from the presence of daylight outside. And her arm was around a man ... a living man, a handsome and powerful one. Not one with big muscles, but one with an assurance about himself that showed he feared absolutely nothing. They'd come back to her place, and talked, and made love, and he had freely offered himself to her, on the understanding that she take just so much and no more. She had honored the deal, and felt satisfied. Life forcibly taken from a terrified victim was sweet and good, spiced to satisfy her predatory instincts. But life gently taken from a willing subject was sweeter yet, because it satisfied other, more refined needs, and it could go on and on and on. And both were available to her. She understood, now, the way Nick had looked at her that first night. He had felt it. He knew. And she was sure that she had made a convert in just the way that Nick had made her. If Nick had spoken true, Liam would not leave this place with the makings of a Minion in him, as she had left Nick's; but he would be hers just as certainly, in a way perhaps even more meaningful. She would not be Nick's creature forever, she told herself. But with proper management, Liam would be hers. Forever. She checked the little sticky-band on Liam's neck, then went to get him a cup of something good. >< >< >< Enrique Cabrera was getting on his coat to go to the office when his PDA buzzed. He picked it up with a curse, then looked at the CID. He didn't want to answer just any call, but he'd been waiting for this one. So he flipped it up and answered. "Rico. Hello, Quinta. You have news for me?" "I've got one thing you asked for," said the female voice on the other end. "I can--I know someone who can--help arrange for you to get your stuff out of storage," she said. "All those boxes of tech, it won't be easy, but he'll co-operate." "I gotta have it. Bao Zhan put me in a fuckin' spot with that operation. Killed two good guys with it, too." "That's your business," said the woman. "All I do is find people in the Department for other people. As for the rest, I've got my own life to deal with." "What's his price?" asked Enrique. "How much?" "He doesn't want money," said the woman. "He wants nick." "How many cartons? Five, ten?" "Two hundred. Twenty boxes." "That's worth about seven hundred grand!" spluttered the businessman. "That's between you and him. He obviously thinks it must be stuff you need bad. You want to talk to him or not?" "Son of a bitch ... yeah, okay." "The Starbucks near Madison and Broadway, tonight at seven." said Quinta. "Good. Thanks." '"No problem. You know how to settle with me." "Yeah. By the way, anything yet on that other matter?" "I'm working on it. I have to go." "Okay. Adios, amiga."She ended the call without a word. Enrique went back into his study and punched another number. "Hey," he said. "Yeah ... look, I need some more stuff pronto. Twenty--make it thirty boxes ... yeah, I need to pay someone off, and I'm low anyway. ASAP," he said. "Today." At a squawk from the other end, he said, "Well, tonight anyway. Just as soon as you can. But tonight ... yeah, whatever. Same, same. Okay," he said and ended the call. Enrique strode out to his car in a foul mood. He had had a wife and two kids that he loved, and for the kids he'd already invested a pile in the offsets that were demanded from middle- and upper-class citizens by City government-related organizations so that his kids' lives would be certified carbon-neutral--as if he gave a shit, but he didn't want nosy enviro-activists hassling him. And he didn't want any of them--or himself--getting on Rhys Macklin's bad side. As rumor had it, that was a good way to get to see your own pancreas sitting in a jar on a table in front of you; whether that was true or not, he didn't care to find out. >< >< >< "... Two ... one ... and cut!" said the director. "Okay, Sarah baby, you were great! Orca loved ya--believe me, I know." Deward and Tina--with whom she'd made up over dinner at Moreno's the night before--and a few dozen other watchers and production people began murmuring with relief and congratulations. Sarah DeJong looked around the little room in the CAB which had been hastily done over into a remote location for 'the daytime show,' as Rhys had called it elsewhere. "That's it, then?" she asked. "Sure, baby. Listen ... the audience's still cheering for you," he replied, gesturing to a monitor on which the NAE's most beloved personality was saying a few stirring words to conclude the segment. Sarah didn't feel like a national TV star; it had all taken place in the basement of the County Administration Building with only a few people present, though her interactive chat with Orca had been watched by millions, and was even now undoubtedly being posted to MyFace and WhoToob, destined for millions more hits. It was all a little too much, too suddenly ... but she realized that she'd just laid a foundation stone for a career above that of Queen City City Manager. A brief flash of herself taking a seat in the United States Congress crossed her mind, and she let it go with a bit of reluctance as people thronged around her, shaking her hand. Tina had flowers, and she kissed her affectionately. Another person, apparently just arrived, waited; him and two black-clad attendants. She made her excuses and joined Leonard Chung, who smiled and took her elbow. She turned and waved as they went out, with Deward and Tina looking a little disappointed at the brevity of the moment of triumph. They went down a short corridor and into a metal-framed doorway. The doors slid shut. "Nice job," said Leonard. "You did very well." "Thanks," she said. "So, I take it you have something for me?" "That I do," said the executive as the lift reached its destination floor and the doors glided open. They began walking across the reception area. "We have a press conference shortly." "Really--evidence, then? Progress?" she asked. "Yes." They passed by his receptionist and into his office, where the attendants closed the door behind them. "What now, then?" Leonard smiled again. "I collect. Kneel down, Ms. DeJong." She looked at him, uncomprehending for a moment, and then hands on her shoulders, and a firm nudge to the back of one knee, put her down on the thick Persian carpet. "What--here? Now?" she gasped, watching him undo the front of his black trousers. "Yes. The face that I put on worldwide TV, that fifty million people just cheered, is the face that's gonna suck me off. Here-- now. I want you just like you're gonna look all over the world in an hour." He dropped his pants, peeling down his black briefs, and let his hard maleness spring out at her. "But--but ... " He looked down at her. "You got a problem with sex in the office? That would come as a surprise to Tina and Deward, especially to her if she learned about him. And I happen to know that's no flashlight you keep in your bottom desk drawer." She gestured toward the bodyguards. "Them!""They'll get their turn," said Leonard. "And you will swallow every drop, Sarah--no plastic bib, and I know you don't want anything on that designer silk blouse. Then we'll go to the briefing, and the press of Queen City and a fair part of the earth will get to hear you talk, with my come on your breath. Mine and my creatures'. Some of them will start working for you now. That's how it is. I've got power, and what you have--all of it--is just what I decide to lend you. Now get busy. We don't have all day." Sarah DeJong, still made up for TV, coiffed and bejeweled, immaculately business-suited and high-heeled, took the proffered flesh in her hands, leaning her head in and licking her crimsoned lips nervously. If he weren't a proven champion of women's rights ...>< >< >< The tall, blonde, hard-looking woman had to slow her stride as she exited the County Court's security area with a neatly-suited man; he was having to scramble a bit to keep up with her. But she hadn't hired Norman for his height; she'd hired him because he had a rep as a pit bull who came highly recommended by the people at the Queen City Women's Legal Defense Cooperative. "You're sure about this?" she asked him. "Trust me, Jane," he replied. "It's worked so far, hasn't it? Assuming, of course, you've been correct with all the information you've given me." "I know all about that place, and I know all about him," she said, with that air of disgust that always elicited sympathy. "What other reason would he have for hiring a tart like that? You can't tell me it's for her fucking brain, unless it's one he built himself. But if it was, you could trust him to put it in a nice cozy little body. I'm his wife, goddammit! Wives know things." "You were his wife, legally speaking," he observed. "You did divorce him." "That doesn't count--it was under false pretenses. How was I to know he was only doing this 'poor and disgraced' stuff temporarily, and that he'd go on to make billions?" she demanded as he pushed through the revolving door after her. "And I've got the goods on him, too. Six flash drives loaded with all the stuff he worked so hard to keep out of his trial. Each of them has to be worth at least a billion dollars to him." "And you have them safe?" "Goddamn right I do, mister. Enough there to send him to the slammer for the rest of his miserable life." "He doesn't know you have them, I assume." She laughed sardonically. "I've stayed alive, haven't I?" "You're going to have to turn them over to me for inspection. At least copy the data for me." Jane halted. They were now on the sidewalk, and her sudden stop made a man behind her swerve and stumble. "Do you want to stay alive, Mr. Boulanger?" "That would be good," he said, wheeling around to look at her. "But I can't build a good case unless I know what there is." "Look--me, I'm safer from him than anyone else on the planet. If I'm found face-down in the bay, everyone will know who did it and why. You are another matter. You don't know him. I do." "Okay, so you know him--tell me this. Is he gonna run for office?" She snorted, and started walking again, her heels toc-toc-toc-ing on the pavement. "That'd be stupid, and stupid he ain't." "Councilors have a lot of power. He likes power." "He's got more power than all the Councilors put together," she said. "He likes the shadows. Manipulating other people, not being in the limelight himself. A campaign, even a short one, would put him right in it." "What would he have to fear?" "The truth." "What truth?" "The truth that crooks like him always fear," she said irritably. She was dying for a cigarette, and also starting to wonder how Norman Boulanger had earned his reputation for aggressiveness in court. "Exposure." "I thought you said he didn't know you had the data." "Look--are you fuckin' cross-examining me?" she demanded. "I'm not paying you for that." "You're not paying me at all. The LDC is paying me." She ignored his quibble--people like him were always all about money. "Is it my fault that bastard left me with nothing, and I had to go work at a shitty job?" she demanded again. "I assure you, Mrs. Macklin, you're going to be cross-examined, and not by me," said the attorney. "We are going to be up against some very smart people. And things like you just said are going to be just what they want to hear from you. Have you contacted Mrs. Scraggs yet?" "Zoey? I thought you'd done that," she said as they rounded a street corner. He shook his head. "I can't do that. You still have part of the bargain to uphold. That's your job. Testimony about his abuse of her is going to have to come from her, and it's you, her mother, who alone can get her to step forward." "Well, he didn't really abuse her--""Of course he did. He's her father, right?" "Yes," Jane said. "Being a father is being an abuser. The courts have long settled on that. For example--if she wanted a pony, and he didn't get her one, that's abuse--he didn't meet her emotional needs. And he did get her one, that's abuse too, because ponies are dangerous. They can kick and bite." "It sounds like just bringing a child into the world is abuse, then," she commented brusquely. "Exactly. Wrongful-birth suits have been around for a century or more. From what you say it should be no problem getting Mrs. Scraggs to threaten to file one. Maybe we could even reach Jason." "No chance," she scoffed. "A sports car, plenty to eat, and twenty-four seven ya-ya? What else could a lad want?" "A life," answered the attorney. "Independence." Jane Macklin halted again and thought. She smiled. She reached out and put her hand on the shorter man's shoulder. "I like how you think," she said. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Dec 7, 2008 18:59:00 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Dec 7, 2008 18:59:26 GMT -5
034[/b] Liam propped himself upright in Taylor's bed and sipped his ’bux as she lay beside him, an arm on his quilt-covered thigh. "You like it?" she asked. "I'm glad ... I never tried that blend before. It's just what the nearest shop had." "It's good," he told her. It wasn't, really, but he wasn't about to say anything uncomplimentary to what might be a genuine vampire. If she was a few years and a few pounds beyond his usual preferences, she was still good in bed--warm, proficient, and forthcoming. Rather than the slim, pale-skinned, hollow-eyed denizen of the night that he and his friends had their sights set on, she resembled a declining disco singer-- fleshy in more ways than one--gamely battling away against cellulite and crow's-feet, trying desperately for one more hit single while working in ever smaller and seedier places. But for just that reason he felt a certain attraction to her that was outside the physical. She had spirit--spunk--drive, call it what you will--more so than anyone he knew. It was refreshing, even if it was also very not-vampire-like. But yet, after a good hard screw, he'd given her permission to nick his carotid artery, which she did with precision, and had taken and swallowed what had to be several ounces of its contents. And she hadn't vomited it back up, which any normal person should have done very quickly after drinking any quantity of fresh blood. So maybe there was something to it after all. It certainly called for more testing, he concluded, as she massaged his firm abdominal muscles with her soft hands. "Liam ..." she began. "Mmm?" "I kinda hate to bring this up after such a beautiful night ... but, y' know--" "You get paid for this," he said. "I know." "Um--yeah." "I gave you my blood. That's gotta be worth something." "Yes--oh it is. But I don't live on blood. Well I do, actually, but it doesn't pay the rent." "What's your going rate?" She felt a little nervous. Taking a dead victim's wallet was one thing; looking a live one in the eyes, especially blue ones like this, and presenting a bill was another. "I usually charge, um, five thousand a night." "I don't carry tons of cash," he said. "I do things by plastic. Would you take a B-card?" he asked, referring to bearer cash cards accepted by banks and most businesses in lieu of bundles of greenbacks. "Sure," she said. She'd seen them before, usually on vid-ads where they were touted as prizes. Wealthy people tended to pack them. "Okay ... hand me my coat, will ya?" She reached and brought over his black overcoat. He rummaged inside, drawing out a rather thick card-case, flipped though it, and handed her one of the items inside. She took it, took a look, and her eyes popped open wide--to him--back to the card--back to him. "Is this--how much ...?" "You wanna know how much is left on it?" he asked. She nodded dumbly. "Everything. It's maxed and unused." "But ..." "Consider it a sort of deposit if you like," he told her. "I'd like to meet you again. Tonight. With a friend or two. I take an interest in you, Taylor, and that's not something I say to a lot of people." "Well, thank you, Liam," she said, rallying, and giving him a really sincere and tender kiss. Within an hour the mystery man had made an appointment with her, had dressed, given her the six-digit code she'd need, and was gone. And she lay in bed, dozing, and clutching a card worth one hundred thousand dollars. >< >< >< "Let's be on our way, Madam Manager," said Leonard to Sarah, who was giving herself a final check in one of the large mirrors that adorned his office suite. "The press awaits." "If we had such a tight schedule, you should have told Heinrich there," she said, throwing a tart glance at the larger bodyguard. "Is he just off a desert island or something?" Leonard also looked at the beefy giant. "Lovely, isn't he? The newest member of our team, fresh from three years' sojourn in Florence, Colorado, in the heart of the healthful Rocky Mountains." "Isn't that where the federal Supermax prison is?" "I believe that's a feature of the community. He had a job with Slackwater Security on his relea--er, arrival in town, and was assigned to my detail the very next day. Only a week ago--wasn't it, Heinie?" The man grunted. "I'll remember to send him a couple of pounds of raw steak for lunch," said Sarah. She brushed her blouse off again. Somehow--thankfully--she'd managed to avoid spotting it. "Are we ready?" said the County Executive, with a hint of impatience. "Yeah," said Sarah, turning and taking a few steps toward him and the door, a bit unsteadily. "Are you alright?" "I feel a little queasy." He opened the door for her. "It's a big morning, I understand that," he said with a smile. "Camera jitters ... you'll get over it." >< >< >< The Bayview Medical Center administrator wasn't used to dealing with patient cases on an individual basis. It ate up valuable time, now at a special premium with the bombing victims clogging his hospital, but one of his more senior physicians had wanted to speak to him about the sexual assault victim in B-412--about which he'd been forwarded a matter of concern. So he had allotted the attending physician a few minutes. He was now staring at her. He obviously hadn't caught something correctly. "Excuse me--I think there's some mistake here," he said, looking at the doctor, a small, businesslike Eurasian woman. "It sounded for a moment like you said she was pregnant." "Yes, sir." He flipped through the folder on his desk. "No, Doctor. The patient is fifty-three years old and had a double oophorectomy twenty years ago. Both her ovaries were removed." "She's pregnant. We cross-checked. The RIA results indicated pregnancy, though that certainly wasn't what we were looking for." "And what were you looking for?" "An RIA is--or ought to be--standard procedure upon detection of cervical dysplasia, which we found in the course of reviewing the sexual assault injury examinations. I was quite aware of what I was doing when I ordered that, and I'll answer to anyone for its benefit." "Wait," he said, looking for an opening. "Maybe there's a mix-up. The patient ... she's called 'Lucky?' What's her real name?" "Her real name is Lucky, sir. Lucky Bunny McCullum, date of birth 12 May 2063, in Stone Branch, Logan County, West Virginia." "Well, what the hell kind of a name is 'Lucky Bunny McCullum?'" expostulated the administrator. "It would seem to be the one that her parents, Caxton and Melvina McCullum, chose. It's on her birth certificate, which we obtained though the datasearch for her identity," she added, not at all surprised at such a question from the admin, whose own name happened to be Titlow Feggins. "But her ovaries were removed! She can't be pregnant--it's impossible. They're cysts or something. Her lifestyle--" "The files we obtained state that she had a double oophorectomy. One ovary was removed, but one was left. Apparently there was some kind of mistake. They do happen." "Why didn't she get pregnant years ago, then?" "We don't have complete pharma records, but she appears to have used oral birth control for a long time even after the procedure. She may have rightly suspected that she still had an ovary left, or perhaps, since there was no hysterectomy, she used them for the benefit of regulating her menses. Obviously we can't ask her at this time." "But her age ... and she definitely wasn't on any fertility medications." "Having a child at fifty-three is very unusual, but not unheard-of. I had a complete records search ordered. Lucky's mother, Melvina McCullum, died at age forty-nine of complications from Lucky's birth; Lucky was the youngest of eight children." "Eight? Huh! No wonder they named her 'Bunny.' They certainly bred like rabbits!" "Lucky had four sisters named Duchess Marie, Honey Ducky, Happy Jo, and Charmin Angel, and three brothers named Caxton Patton Junior, Cromwell Grant, and Purvis Odierno. They were all raised by their father, who was fifty-seven when Lucky was born, and lived twelve more years." "Good God," muttered the administrator. "The father--what did he do?" "Like a lot of people in his area, a little of this and a little of that--" "--and a lot of one thing, anyway!" "He was a Mideast veteran, Special Forces, Silver Star. He was in the Roundhouse at Jamsh-i-Qors, first wave. One of six from his company to come out alive." Mention of that action, which had happened in 2028 but whose horrors had been made public only decades later, caused a moment of silence. "He was also what wasn't yet--but would be, later--called a humod. An early experiment--not one of the later full-blown humods; only soft mods done through internal surgery. At the time, they weren't classifying. Ten years later, he would have been classified." "Why wasn't he sent off with the rest?" 'Sent off' was the common euphemism for the Federal action taken in 2071 to round up all known humods, after which none were seen again. "We don't know. As one of the early experiments--which weren't considered human modification in its later sense--he wasn't classified, as I noted. He could have passed for a non-mod very easily, since nothing was visible. And it could be, later, that he had friends in the establishment who kept him out of the way. Roundhouse survivors were long revered by other military people, you know. He was the last at the time of his death." "Hmmm ... so, Lucky's the daughter of a humod father." "Basically--yes." "Well, that's a little more understandable, then. Many of them, especially the early ones--they didn't know. Who knew what went through their heads? No one understood how much of a threat they'd become." "One of Lucky's sisters, Happy, went on to enjoy some moderate fame as an exotic dancer under the name of 'Legs Benedict.'" "The same as the star of movies like 'Vampire Vixens Of Betelgeuse Six?' Not that I'd watch any trash like that personally, mind you." "Yes--no, of course, sir. She retired from show business to start some other things. She owned a nightclub and a few small stores in Los Angeles. She's still alive, her and Purvis and Duchess. Lucky's said to have talked about making her way to L.A. to look up her sister." "Why did Lucky have the oophorectomy? Prophylactic?" "She had had a child earlier. A daughter. According to records, an Anat Katrina McCullum was given up for adoption in Reno, Nevada, by one L. B. McCullum the year before, and a prophylactic oophorectomy was part of the bargain. We don't know exactly how old the child was. Adoption agencies in Nevada aren't required to retain birth certificate copies after the child turns eighteen. Many do, but this one didn't. She'd pretty much have to have been less than two years old, though. A search on Anat Katrina McCullum led to Topeka, Kansas, where she was most likely born, but no copy of her birth certificate existed--" "Yes, I know--the '93 missile strike. Half the records for the previous decade were wiped out." "Exactly." "So who was supposed to have done her procedure? How could they have bungled like that?" "It's in her record, but what would be the point in following up? It's not like we have any standing to bring a suit against them, and it seems useless to take them to task for a mistake made by staff who are probably long gone." "So ... well, I suppose we could simply give her an abortifacient and have done with it." "Right now, that wouldn't be advisable. The cervical dysplasia is a possible sign of Crohn's disease, which means a weakened immune system. Introduction of an abortifacient such as mifepristone could easily kill her through toxic shock or internal hemorrhaging." "And your point is--?" said the administrator bluntly. "Sir!" said the doctor rebukingly. "What? Are you going to tell me that a modern hospital isn't any sort of an end-of-life management facility? That you've had no part in ending useless lives for the benefit of society? Gimme a break!" "A patient with a DWD end-of-life instruction, who's plainly in the throes of a terminal illness, is one thing. This is different. For one thing, she has no DWD.” “What? Why not?” “No medical coverage. Never had any so no reason to sign.” “No--that’s illegal! Is that even possible?” “She’s an unlicensed sex worker, so she obviously never had any fear of breaking the law. “ “How did she get in here? Anyone who might not have one has to sign!” “She was unconscious. And no family members who could sign. Anyway, her case is also a police matter." "She could die of her injuries--" "--Which are serious, but not life-threatening in and of themselves. Second, this is Bayview Medical Center. A real, actual hospital--" "--of which I'm an admin--" "--and a world-famous institution that gets a lot of press, and not some charlatan-riddled community clinic," drove on the doctor. "And I'm no charlatan. I'm not going to open myself up to doubts about my competence for allowing such an obvious, basic cockup with one of my patients. If this got out, where would I find another comparable position if I needed one? No, sir. Not on my watch." “That can be fixed.” “Go ahead,” she challenged. “You’re not above a sexism charge.” There was a silence. "Alright, let’s play with some ideas. What would you suggest, then, in the name of moving Ms. McCullum out of here and getting some real patients that we can help in here instead?" "She is a real patient insofar as she has injuries, and trauma which is of interest to some of our specialists. Left to myself I would treat her until her injuries are taken care of, and then release her." "And if she persists in her insensible state? We're saddled with a patient who'll be a charity case, and charity is mighty short these days." "She can be moved to a managed-care facility after she's recovered from her injuries. I'd sign off on that. Then it would be someone else's problem," said the doctor. The admin thought. This was one of his best staff physicians, a well-regarded contributor to the widely-read Q&A section of Bayview's 'netsite, and they were ill-prepared to lose someone of her caliber--the hint hadn't gone for naught. She wouldn't leave over a patient issue, but she might just leave over what she felt would be a forced blemish on her professional record, and she'd have no trouble at all finding another berth. He might even have to answer to the Board of Directors about it. "Very well," he said at last. "You have up to seven days, and then--if not before--she's shifted out of my hospital. Fair enough?" "Fair enough," said the physician. "Thank you." "Very well," he said. "I'll let you return to your duties now." Dr. Chantal Inouye nodded, then turned and left. Only outside the office did she look down at her hands and notice them starting to tremble. It was hard sometimes ... damn hard.>< >< >< Toward noon, Ralna was wordlessly summoned into Rhys' inner office by a flash. It took her a few moments to suspend her tasks--she had only two running--and wheeled around, smoothing her slacks as she rose. Then she gave a perfunctory knock at the inner door and entered, to find him standing, facing out his little window. "Sir?" she asked. "Ah, thank you, Ralna. How are the uploads from Mr. Young's data cache coming along?" "Estimated time left for processing, thirty minutes. I still await specifics as to the report you wish." "I'll inform you by tonight; it can wait 'til then. First, I have another task for you to begin. It will involve some changes in how we do business around here." "Yes, sir." She assumed her customary feet-shoulder-width, arms-at-rest position. "I've decided to run for Nels Anderson's seat on the Council," he said, turning to face her. "Very good, sir," she said. "I exist to serve, in any capacity." "Are you ... surprised?" he asked. "No, sir. I surmised your plans from the instructions you gave me yesterday regarding the County Elections Board." "Let me ask you: what do you think?" Rhys saw that her eyes darted momentarily. If his decision to run had come as no surprise, his question had. "I ... I assess--" she began. "No, Ralna," he interrupted gently. "I've done my own assessment. I want to know what you think. Free processing. Just give it a few seconds with no assigned tasks." He watched her; there was no telltale flutter of the eyelids. She was thinking, not accessing. "It's--it's a good time, sir. I--think." "And why do you think that?" "Because no one is expecting it," she said. "Good!" He smiled. "Almost no one," she added. "On some of the boards I monitor--some of the women's groups--there is speculation of various tones about your expected run." "Yes, well, they've been expecting that for years," he said. "Fortunately, even most of them don't really believe it. Not now, anyway." "I should advise you that it's too late to list as an official candidate, sir," she said. "I don't intend to list as an official candidate," he answered. "I never did. That only gives them time to prepare a Pandora's box of media slime for you. I intend to run as a write-in candidate, and I intend to run hard. I have no financial constraints. I have some announcements prepared; I've had them for some time, against the day if and when I decided to run. Your first task will be to update them and then see that they get to every media outlet. Then we will coordinate the formation of an election committee, set up accounts, and begin a media blitz. You're going to have a very busy three weeks ahead of you." "Satisfactory. Two questions, sir." "Go." "One. May I ask if this has anything to do with yesterday's bombing?" "Yes," he said. "That's why the prepared announcements will require updating. We will address that first of all. And two?" "Two is, have you informed Mrs. Macklin of your decision yet?" His smile returned, more broadly. "You really are thinking," he said approvingly. "Yes. Well, I called home, but she didn't answer, so I left a voice message, there and on her PDA. She'll get them." "I--think, that would be good, sir," Ralna said, with a brief, flickering smile of her own. "Excellent. Very good." He reached into a drawer of his desk and removed a flashdrive. "We will start on this, and then while it processes we'll review Bernie's little trove. I think we have time." >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Dec 15, 2008 2:08:37 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Dec 15, 2008 2:09:50 GMT -5
035[/b] David strode down the school's hallway easily, powerfully, his size-sixteen trainers eating up the long stretch of concrete, and other students making way for him. It'd been a good morning so far; three periods in HIR, nine good fucks and nine pregnancies, not counting Holly warming him up beforehand, Shannon on the way in, and a great wake-up at Kirsten's. Her parents had known what the deal was, and Kirsten's mom April was particularly thrilled for their family to be on the inside now. April didn't look too bad herself; she kept fit, and looked like she knew how to please a man. Now, though, it was a classroom period for him. He was enrolled in one of Janine Sandoval's IT courses, but he wouldn't have to sit in a classroom to pass. All he had to do was show up when she put in a request for him on one of his open hours. She was good at CDF, too, always one of the first to show up and the last to leave, and you couldn't help but respect a woman who could field-strip an M240G and then reassemble it, complete with function check, in ninety seconds flat. She was in her office, which adjoined the classroom, getting ready. "Mmmm ... hell- oh, big guy," she said with a smile which made her nose dimple. "Am I glad to see you!""Hey, Janine," he said casually, sitting down on the desk of the other IT teacher, who wasn't there just then; it was on the other side of the little space, adjoining a door to a classroom on the other side, which was empty. Probably his prep period. "You're looking good." And she was--plenty of strong, curvy leg showing below a denim skirt as short as the dress code allowed. A clingy cashmere cowl-neck sweater completed her outfit. She had her classroom door ajar, and there were students beyond it--the class he was, on paper, a member of. "You want me to sit in?" "Just a test period," she replied, touching his thigh, stroking it. "They'll be taking an online exam. You I intend to test ... interactively." She ran her hand up to feel the firm mass of his crotch. "How's your hard drive?""Never better," he smiled. "We'll just see about that." Her voice dropped. "I need some serious cock now!" she breathed. "Fuckin' four-alarm hormones--feel this!" She took his hand and guided it up under her skirt, and gave a momentary shudder as something went squish."Sounds like we got a fire to put out," he said. "You ain't kiddin', mister," she returned, picking up her e-board. "Now, get you ready--I'll be back in two minutes." >< >< >< It didn't take him two minutes, or even one; all he had to do was un-velcro the front panel of his sweatpant-style bottoms and loosen up some of the straps on his genital restraint--she'd want to do the final undoing. His manhood strained against the nylon panels, stretching them, and, as he often did, he pulled up his top and looked down at the rippling abdominal muscles he spent so much time every day working on. With that done, he devoted a few moments to thinking about the woman he was about to have. His path crossed Janine's in three ways--not unusual for any two Alder Island residents. She was a teacher at his school, a CDF comrade, and also a friend of his mother. She kept an animal at their horse farm, a good Appaloosa gelding, and came riding two or three times a week. She rode Western style, affecting a Spanish touch in keeping with her name, though that had come from her first or second husband--he couldn't remember which. She was separated from her fourth now; husbands didn't matter so much for her because she was 'clear,' as the femmes liked to say--sterile. But she loved the island and contributed a lot to it. As with Holly, sterility didn't keep Janine from having a strong--occasionally volcanic--sexual drive. It had gotten more so over the last year. John plainly didn't take to her, and to her credit she'd picked up on that and hadn't put him in the situation of having to break the Rule. But Jason, unusually, had also confided something. Apparently a month or so ago she'd bitten him, and he still had the marks on his shoulder. She did look a little carnivorous, slipping back through the door and shutting it firmly with one hand while hiking up her skirt with the other. She was wearing thigh-high hose; her red panties were already stained at the bottom. She pulled them down and stepped out of them, and took a few seconds to extract a sodden tampon, which she dropped in the wastebasket with a solid thunk. He stood, legs spread, while she knelt before him, ripping into his genital restraint; she gasped with pleasure as he sprung out at her, hot and hard, and immediately her lips and tongue were on it, grooming it, going straight to every sensitive spot on the pinkish-brownish mass. Then she swept her desktop clear with an arms and hopped up on it, leaning back and putting her legs apart and in the air. He was into her with two delicious thrusts, long and careful, penetrating easily--she was as wide-open as Interstate Five at four a.m., and he went straight up into her belly, which quivered and shook under the tight denim skirt. David liked her little round tummy, her strong limbs, and her full, soft boobs--not the biggest in town, but very nice, as he remembered, pushing her sweater up over them. "OHhhhhooooohhhooYEAH!" she groaned. "Giiimmmm-mmmeeee ... gimme fuck!" Her legs closed around him, tight; he dug into her, splort--splot--squish--shtooop, as he pulled out and went in at a lower angle, flexing his knees and spreading wider. Splut--splot--splot-splot-splot-splot, and she arched her back, thrusting her breasts up, working her hips around and around, her arms stretched up holding onto his. As they fucked her head went back and forth, eyes closed, and started banging against the wall, loudly-- "OOOOOoooOOooOHhhhhhhHHhh ... unh! unh! unh! OOOOOHHHFUCKYESSSS!" He got his arms around her and worked her back, then tipping himself back on his feet brought her up off the desktop, clinging to him with her legs and arms as she rode him in the air, her chin on his shoulder, moaning into his ear, "God damn David I love you ... ahhhhhhhh fuck," her nails raking into his back. He felt an orgasm, a big one, coming quickly, and she was coming up too. She threw her head back, as if about to yell, but then jerked it forward and sank her teeth into the base of his neck. Surprised, he almost dropped her, but let her back down onto the desk, bending over because she was fastened to him like a limpet; it was all hipwork for a few seconds, and then he came in her with a long russhhh, and another, and another, and lots of anothers. That made her let go her bite, but her nails scored down his chest and arms as her hips and abdomen went nuts, convulsing over and over; her breath came in great whooshes and sighs between clenched teeth, and in between a low animal keening noise. At length, when she subsided, and he did, too, he let her go; her desk calendar was soaked with come and juice and sticking to her butt, and body fluids had pooled and were draining off the edge of the desk and forming a stain on the carpet. David put a hand to his neck, which hurt, and his fingers came away with some red. "Damn, Janine!" he said to her as she lay gasping and fumbling for a towel for her flowing snatch. "Could ya, like, not bite me?" He put the towel in her hands and guided it to the right place. "Did I--?" She heaved herself up onto her elbow, looking, her eyes somewhat unfocused. "I'm sorry." He touched it again. There wasn't much bleeding, actually. Still, he didn't like it, and mentally resolved to bring a rubber mouth guard for her for next time. Janine got up, a little clumsily, and turned, putting herself up on tiptoe and climbing up on the desk, getting onto her hands and knees with her cushy, round ass exposed to him, and below it her dripping fuck-hole. "Here ... okay, now. Gimme some more this way, then," she said, opening the hole with two fingers. "I'll make it up to you--somehow--just finish what you started." "You want me to?" he said. "That might--hurt a bit." "Bring it on," she said. "If it does, I deserve it. But gimme s'more if you wanna pass your test." He looked at her; her head was down, and she was stuffing a corner of the towel into her mouth. "Miggh mau," she added commandingly. He tore the top off a bottle and downed it in three swallows while a small cramp worked itself down, along, and through his scrotum and up into his groin--reloading--and then he spread her properly, taking his beefy, glistening hardness in one hand and guiding it back into her. The next few minutes he spent refilling and refilling her again, up her snatch and up her ass, too, making her soft, moonlike cheeks shake. He put a little punishment into her, watching her contort and listening to her whine. He didn't stop until his own front was plastered with semen and the floor stain had become an iridescent puddle. At last she went limp and he stepped back and downed another drink to recharge his parched system. "Ahhhhhhhhhhh ... godgodgod ... damn!" she muttered, turning over and sliding off to plant her feet on the floor, one of them in the puddle. She ran a hand through her hair, wrecked by his hands. "Did I pass?" he asked, toweling himself off roughly. She looked down at her splotched skirt and her thigh-high hose, which had slipped down on her moist legs. "Oh, yeah," she said, and threw him a look of feral satisfaction. "One less Island bitch in heat, for today. Now I know what one of my targets feels like after it's had two hundred slugs through it." He gestured at the clock. "Five minutes 'til the bell," he said. "You gonna go out there like that?" She shrugged, making a few motions to put herself right. "Right now, I don't care," she said. "Like there's anybody here who doesn't really know anyway." "Yeah ... hey. Do try, Janine, to kind of keep your teeth to yourself?" he asked. She came over and looked up at his neck. "Damn!" she said. "It's not bad, really ... it's not bleeding, not now. I am sorry, David." She met his gaze, and her dark eyes held nothing but concern and embarrassment. "I just--I'm sorry. Something comes over me sometimes. I'm not-- myself. I don't quite know how to say it." "Then don't try. But keep it to a dull roar, okay?" he advised, doing up his genital restraint. "Yes, I'm sorry," she said. "Look ... gotta go now. We'll talk, alright?" He made a sound of assent, and she ran a hand through her hair, tossing it down, and slipped back out into the classroom. He finished tending to himself, and walked out, feeling not quite like he should have felt after a good fuck. If Janine needed to talk to anyone, maybe, it was a shrink, he thought unkindly. But it didn't seem bad--more like an amped-up hickey than anything else. He'd be alright. Still, he didn't like it. >< >< >< Although a number of downtown businesses were closed, at least temporarily, Leonard was gratified to see his noodle stand open for business. His security chief didn't want him going out without two bodyguards, and he had complied, if a bit grumpily; Erlinda knew her business. But he had them stand well away as he ordered the usual. Sitting down, he found himself joined by someone he knew--he nodded okay to his two shadows--and the young Chinese man with the Hugo Boss shades said, in Mandarin: "So, Mister Chung. Good morning. I see you have an escort today. Wise, perhaps, given the circumstances." "Some things have to be done," said Leonard. "What news do you bring, Mister Bao?" "I bring a concern. The chief is concerned about Nels Anderson's suitability for re-election to the Council." "Might one ask when the chief started to take interest in the character of political candidates? Especially ones such as Nels, whom I have where I want him?" "And where, may one ask, is that?" "In my pocket. I'm well aware of his various, ah, matters. I have sources. We'll have one more good term out of him yet." "Really? You are aware of the killing of FBI agent MacLennon, by a woman named Perez?" "Yes." Leonard waited as the other man fished up some noodles and ate them, and at length Bao said: "One hopes you don't believe that version. Both were murdered by a third party." "I have heard that theory advanced." "Do you wonder who that might be--if it were so?" "No," Leonard replied. "Are you, then, unaware that Miss Perez once provided services of a sexual nature to Mister Anderson?" "There are thousands of women in the world who could say the same," said Leonard. "We know that." "You have not, then, asked yourself why the two should be together, the FBI agent and the former mistress? And who would take that opportunity to kill the two of them?" "No." "To do so might be wise, Mister Chung. Some might say the one to benefit by such a double murder would be yourself. Yourself and Mister Anderson, of course." "Some might be wrong," replied Leonard, raising the bowl to drink off the last of his soup. "Is Mister Anderson running for office unopposed?" "Of course not. That wouldn't be democratic. He has an opponent." "And who might that be?" "I don't remember his name. Some Red Partier." "Not, perhaps ... Doctor Rhys Macklin?" "One hopes, Mister Bao," said Leonard, "that you don't believe that version. It's kept circulating by our people in the spin machine for the consumption of less-intelligent women." "Is it--is it, now? I'll take care to convey your reassurance on that point to the chief." "Very well, Mister Bao," said the County Executive, rising. "I wish you a very good afternoon, then, and good luck." "Thank you, and good luck to yourself, Mister Chung," replied the other. As Leonard walked away to rejoin his bodyguards, Bao Zhan produced a slim PDA and flipped it open. And he murmured to no one: "You'll need it.">< >< >< Rhys Macklin came in from a late lunch to find his PA at her desk, propped up in a position of comfortable ease, processing visually from a laptop. She had not, then, gone for her own lunch, because he had left before her, and he was very nearly as punctual as she was. "You ought to go to lunch, Ralna," he said reprovingly. "It's required if you're to maintain peak efficiency. Is anything the matter--is it related to the system event that came up this morning?" "Yes, sir, it is," she replied, taking a second to stretch out, turn, and smoothly come to her feet, sitting back on the edge of the desk a little--moderately attractive and very businesslike. "The event itself was, as you suspected, sir, a hack. Definitely intentional--not a bug, virus, or random event. We thought it had something to do with a Chinese source, you'll recall, but it originated locally, from a Denny Way office complex." "It could have been," he said thoughtfully, "both local and Chinese." "That is highly probable. I analyzed the protocols used, and was able to engineer a counter-hack in an effort to comply with your directive to gather all possible information. My counteraction was very brief and by my own estimation was not detected while in progress, although, naturally, it will be detected at some point." "Good. Result?" "A message from one Xue Guangyong indicated an expected arrival of certain controlled hardware in the city--among many other items, GDIS Selene-9 microprocessors, K'an Pao Version 6 nanomods, several LUM-44s, an infinite-fracture subether generator with its supporting equipment, and--significantly--a so-called Crawling Chaos nine-terabyte whitedata reconverter. That last is something the United States military has been working on, and even they haven't got it. But someone does have it--not only that, but in a transportable configuration--and it will be arriving in the city in the morning." The big man stood still, his lips moving silently for a moment. At last, he asked: "Are the election announcements processed and sent?" "Almost. Estimated time to completion, twenty-nine minutes after resumption, sir." "Let me ask you, Ralna ... to think." She focused on him attentively. "What use, do you think--I don't mean calculating probabilities--what use would someone have for all that?" "It could be that it's just a variety of items destined for different sources. The KP-Sixes are designed to regulate biofunction--you built several into me. The Selenes can be used for many different purposes. As for the rest of it, except the whitedata reconverter, it's mil-spec, mostly employed to link sat-nav to weapons systems, though there are certainly other applications. That last ... if it's all it's meant to be, it's every hacker's dream--basically a bulletproof, soundproof cloak of invisibility." "Someone planning to take over the city could use all that, couldn't they?" he quizzed her. She paused a moment. "Yes, those would all be elements, as part of a much more sophisticated macro-system. But it would be a little pointless ... like--like using me to do nothing but type and make pots of ‘bux every day. What do you think, sir?" He drew a breath. She ran a flash scan of his biodata ... pupils, blood pressure, respiration, alpha and theta waves. His signs were plummeting at the moment, as if he'd been emotionally high and was suffering some disappointment. It was possible that she had somehow failed some aspect of thinking ... She was aware of her own heart and breath rates shifting. "I think I'd love to have those," he said after a minute. "I was thinking about tasking you to intercept the shipment. But it's going to be very well-guarded, and I'm not sure I want to risk you. All I really need is in that shipment that Mr. Cabrera was supposed to deliver." "I could procure that for you, sir." "I know you could, Ralna. And I may task you to do that soon--but not yet. I want to give Mr. Cabrera a day or two more. To see how effective an operator he really is. We don't need to partner with anyone who's helpless in the face of a minor setback or two. About this shipment, though ... I would certainly like to know where that's going, to whom, and why." "Would you authorize me to take some action toward that?" she asked carefully. "Yes, very well." he said. "But for now, that's all, Ralna.” “One thing more, sir. Mr. Rollins.” “What about him?” “He remarked on doing some work for Leonard Chung.” “Really?” “Yes. I took the liberty of procuring some information.” She picked up the drive she had taken from Rollins‘ pocket. The project dealt with male sex-organ work, specifically, testicular transplant. They had done research and testing and were ready for trials.” “Commissioned by Leonard Chung?” “Yes, sir.” The big man smiled wryly. “Him and his Oriental worries about virility and posterity. Not that he has much to worry about in that department, from what I hear.” He held out his hand, and she put the drive in it. “It might make interesting fireside reading.” “I exist to serve, sir.” “Yes, thank you, Ralna. Take your lunch. The rest can wait." >< >< >< Ralna obediently went to lunch; it was necessary, as Sir had said. The chatter all around was about Bernie Young being found dead, the victim of Asian gangsters; the building's security video had clearly captured one of them, and it could only be a matter of time before the police had a 'make.' However, having thought, Ralna was finding it to be an addictive habit, and she was tempted to it even while picking up her fish tacos to complement the Waldorf salad, cottage cheese, turkey-bacon sandwich, oranges, grilled mixed vegetables, and bran muffin that would be her midday meal. "I think I'd love to have those," he'd said. He'd used the word love only once before in her presence, and that in a clearly jocular mode in a conversation with Bernie. This time he'd said it to her, and in an obviously emotional context. She had downloaded much data on love in its various forms. It was something that bound two people together in a close and mutually beneficial relationship, even if--as with Sir and her--there was no possibility of sex or fucking to complement it. But those she could get elsewhere. If having these items in his possession would cause him love, then that could be no bad thing. It was logical. And he'd been thinking about asking her to intercept it for him--but he had foreborne, out of concern for her person. That showed, incontestably, grounds for love. And she did exist to serve. He said so every day. She tasked herself to research all of this, thoroughly and quickly. He'd said he'd like to know where the shipment was going, to whom, and why. If it were delivered to him, then he would know. His initial desire would be fulfilled. And it wouldn't require anything already outside of what constituted a normal mission task, she thought, walking with a light, rapid step back toward the office building. No more than the usual. Intercept, interface, download ... and terminate.>< >< >< At his office, Enrique Cabrera closed a window on his deskplex and considered. He'd had another call from Quinta. She'd procured access to Juan's casefile and found out the name and address of the woman who'd attacked Juan. Ralna Ochoa. A Latino surname, an uncommon one. There weren't many Ochoas in Queen City, and he'd certainly never heard the first name 'Ralna' before. He'd looked her up. There weren't any pictures online, so she was either a new arrival in town, or had lived a very quiet life with no arrests. Or else it was a fake ID; the cops got those sometimes, too, but fake IDs--really good ones that would stand up to processing in a station--were hard to come by. Enrique was well aware of that. Her address was in an uptown neighborhood he knew, chock-a-block with older apartments. Middlebrow. Hispanics, all races. Working people. Chances were that she worked, too, but her work address wasn't part of the information. She was also a member, or a guest, in a pricey health club, and that added to the probability that she had a decent job somewhere. He'd seen Juan through enough incidents to know that there were two types of women he hit on: street sluts and respectable businesswomen, and it wouldn't have been the first kind in a place like this. She was probably well-put-together, tailored, and a little prim-looking. But that was just guesswork. Whoever this Ralna was, she was looking less and less like the hard-bitten hit-bitch-for-hire he'd imagined--she wouldn't have gone to the cops afterward. And she would have had a record. Data online. But she didn't. Not knowing just who the hell she was made it trickier. Juan hadn't come to--still comatose--but his health outside that didn't seem bad. He could still wake up and talk. His PA buzzed him, announcing a visitor about a contract, and the businessman decided to table the matter for the moment. Another day or two wouldn't change matters too much. He made a mental note to have someone check out her building, get a picture or two, and find out where she worked. There was time. >< >< >< One of the good things about nowadays, thought the fisherman in his little rowboat, accepting a beer from his buddy, was that you could now fish in Elliott Bay, right along the Queen City waterfront; the slicks, sheen, and trash that had once adorned the pea-green waters were now history, as they deserved to be. His buddy had caught a thirty-inch halibut near--so he'd claimed--this very spot. He gave his jig line a twitch. It didn't jerk up. "Hey!" he said. "I caught something. Or snagged something, anyway ... it ain't pullin'." "More junk," said the other man. "An old shoe or something. I swear, we're the sweepers of the bay bottom. Makes you wonder what the fish came back for." The first man pulled. "I dunno ... it ain't no shoe, dude. It's movin', but real sluggish, like. I don't suppose it could be a really big halibut? I heard they can act like that. Especially if it just had a big meal. Those things eat anything, ya know." "Well, be careful pulling it in," said the other. "That's one of my best jigs you got on there." The first man pulled, gingerly but firmly, and was soon rewarded by the sight of a whitish mass slowly--slowly--slowly--making itself apparent ... dimly at first. But he was seized with the fisherman's avid curiosity. He'd certainly caught something, that was for sure. "Hey!" he called. "Comere, Ivan! Damn!""What the hell is that?" asked Ivan, leaning over. "Is that ...?" The mass now began floating upward, and as it approached the surface, the first man's eyes widened, and he scrambled backward to the boat's other gunwale. The beer toppled over and started emptying itself, and Ivan, retching, turned and emptied his stomach next to it. The catch was, or had been at one time, a human being; not all of it was still there, and two crabs were clinging persistently to their moving banquet. "Fuck! Fuck! Shit! Call the cops, dude!" yelled the first man. Ivan, his head between his legs, retching, could only fumble in his pocket for his PDA; getting hold of it, he held it out. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Dec 22, 2008 15:33:07 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Dec 29, 2008 0:08:31 GMT -5
036[/b] After school, Merilee Brunett had collected John, on time at two-twenty-eight exactly. Tuesday was Father Craig's day off, so there was no afternoon church service; she and John usually went to a private Bible study circle, where for the past year the ladies and special guests had been studying fertility cults of the ancient Near East. However, this afternoon Merilee had arranged a short visit with Father Craig to discuss a matter personally. This had meant pulling John out of class as well, as he simply could not be entrusted to anyone except a few people she could rely upon completely. Those were, in order: Father Craig; Vonda Hoffman; Holly--though she and Merilee weren't friends really, Holly could be counted on to see he came to no harm--Kayleigh, as long as they were at home together; and Jo Dunbar. Merilee was meeting Father Craig herself, of course. Vonda hadn't answered--no doubt busy with family matters; Holly had a meeting of her own, and Kayleigh had reminded her irritably for zit's sake mo-ommm! u said last week I could go to the mall 2day n hang with my friends for once in my herking life, which was true. Jo had had to go to the city for something. Merilee had once or twice left John with Candee Macklin for awhile, but there was no answer there either, and she was just weighing whether or not she should try Regina Thomsen when Vonda called back. She was staying after school grading assignments, and would be happy to keep an eye on him. So, after parking somewhere secluded for their usual right-after-school R&R session--refreshment for him and relief for her--she'd buzzed the Saab back to the high school and dropped John off with Vonda in her classroom, with thanks and assurances she'd be back for him in an hour or less. The rectory wasn't far away, down on the edge of the town proper, and as Merilee putted up toward the driveway she saw another car pull out of it, a black one, very sporty and powerful, and take off the other way with a spray of gravel. It looked like Janine Sandoval's new car, but what she would be doing here was beyond Merilee. Janine had never evinced anything but pointed disinterest in the Church and religion in general. Merilee parked, carefully in the exact middle of the guest space, got out, and went to the door. It stood ajar; that was unusual, as Father Craig was big on energy conservation. If Alder Island experienced no brownouts, as the rest of the county and even the city did, he always said that was all the more reason to use what they had responsibly. She knocked, and heard nothing. She checked her watch--three-fifteen; dead on time. And he wasn't there, it seemed. That, too, was unusual. She knocked again; no reply again ... so she pulled it open and went in, quietly. "Father?" she said, looking around the entryway and into the little parlor that served as his reception area. That certainly hadn't been him driving the snappy car, she thought, so he must surely be here somewhere. Why had he not answered?She tried peering through the doorway on her right, his private study.. "Father Craig?" she called quietly, but not--she hoped-- too quietly. "Oh, Merilee," said a voice. "Hello." She turned to see Father Craig standing in the other doorway, leading toward the hall to the rest of the house. Or, not standing so much as leaning against the frame ... as if he might fall if he tried to stand on his own. He always looked older and less well in person than in church. Now he looked positively frail--discolored and--and drained almost. His black clerical suit looked definitely baggy. "Father!" she said, shocked. "Let me--can I help you? You don't look at all well!" "I've felt better," he admitted, with a wan smile. "Now let me--here, no, don't tell me no," she said, with motherly firmness, taking his arm, "--let me help you over to a seat. You need to sit down and rest. Have a cup of something. What do you want? Juice? Milk?" She quashed the flash urge to offer him a breast, though it would surely have done him good. "I'm fine, really, Merilee," he protested, but after she'd sat him in an armchair. "Nonsense. Tea? At least some water. You look like you've spent two weeks on a desert tramp." "Alright, a glass of water, thank you, Merilee," he said quietly. She bustled into the kitchen, got him the drink, and returned, handing it to him, then looking down at him to make sure he at least had a sip or two. Only then did she take a seat in another armchair, drawing it up a little, careful not to blister the carpet, and then composed her skirt and sweater to cover her generous figure. A moment passed, and she looked at him directly. "I have to ask--as I was coming down the road I saw a car leave here. In sort of a hurry, it looked like. Can I ask who that was?" "Just a visitor, Merilee," he said. A stern flash passed though her face. "Well, I trust that in your condition it was important, and brief. I'll keep it that way, I promise." "All right," he said. "Regarding John again?" "No, he's fine, thanks. I came to tell you personally that I had a call from Dr. Rhys Macklin. He's decided to run for Nels Anderson's Council seat." "I'm glad to hear it, overall," he said. "I would have a few concerns, though." "That is what I was wondering about." "We could do far worse than Nels has been. Dr. Macklin is certainly stronger when it comes to the family area. On the other hand, his history ..." "'Doctor Humod,'" she quoted. "He does have a history of being involved in science in a way that Teaching would call into severe question," said the priest. "Still, that is in his past. So far as we know." "You're not sure, then?" "With a man like him it is hard to be sure. Of course, he married outside the Church--twice. But again, his decision to keep and raise his son, against Jane's efforts to have Jason PPT'd, is morally creditable. The seeming disaster of his earlier medical career has unquestionably redounded to the benefit of the island, and everywhere touched by the island, and I can tell you by looking at the visitors' register that that covers a lot of ground. It's due to his work, ultimately, that we have John." "Yes," she smiled. "Of course, the, um, situation with John is completely irregular. Officially, my superiors know nothing about it. But in extreme circumstances such as we face today, any efforts to build families with children-- any program short of forcible impregnation--should be viewed in a light that falls short of condemnation. Of course, it must be mutually beneficial, respectful of the institution of marriage as far as possible, and must have the consent of the community. I am satisfied that our arrangement meets those criteria." "I'm surprised that more people don't see it that way," said Merilee. "I've heard people on the 'Net saying that this sterility plague is the work of God ... His way of ending the human race for its vices, just as in the days of Noah." "Yes. Some of my colleagues assume a similar view. I do not. Scripture and prophecy are quite clear on the next age of humanity and how it will arrive. There will be clear and unambiguous signs and messages from heaven calling to repentance, and that has not been the case hitherto. This is a man-made disaster, and anything man can make, man can unmake, with proper dedication and motivation." "So, then we can organize the parish to support Dr. Macklin?" The priest took another sip of water. "You and like-minded people can work quietly, and I won't oppose it. For obvious reasons I can't say or write anything myself. Everything that goes out under my name is pre-screened by the Chancery for any possible trespasses on the Baltimore Concordat of 2042, signed when the Pope removed the Vatican's essential functions to the United States. The Freedom Of Worship Act makes it quite clear that anything that could be construed, however remotely, as advice from a pastor on how to vote or think about political matters--and political matters are many--is strictly prohibited. I'm nearly at my wits' end sometimes on how to reconcile the Lectionary with any sort of permissible homily." He gave a wry grin. "Sometimes I go quite in envy of our Muslim cousins, who have no such restriction, since Islam is classified as a protected lifestyle rather than a religion. Anyone who thinks of the Catholic faith as less then a total lifestyle agenda has plainly not read the teachings of the saints and Popes and Councils." "Yes, I'm sure," said Merilee, whose acquaintance with those was limited to the online Daily Devotamatic message from Mother Angelina Mary's Mercy And Renewal Year. "Well, thank you, Father. I won't take up any more of your day, then." "Very well, Merilee. Thank you," said Father Craig, looking a little better already. She stood, then sat back down on the edge of her chair. "Father," she asked, fixing him again with her most serious look, "I really want to know. Who was that other visitor? You looked most unwell, and whoever it was had just left." "A visi--" "Father, please. it looked like Janine Sandoval. Please tell me this, at least. Was it Janine, or not? A simple yes or no, and if it's no, I won't ask any further." He looked down, as if remembering something bad, and then put a finger to his lips, and gave a nod. "But--" Merilee groped for words--"umm-- whoever that was," she said slowly, "isn't a member--a member of the parish. Are they?" " Whoever that was," he replied, "was an Alder Island resident, and as the Rector here I preside over a geographical area. I have duties and obligations--" he gave the word some stress--"which extend to every person in it, Catholic or not." She thought furiously, trying to understand the puzzle she had stumbled into. "Is there--ah, anything-- anything--I can do to--to work with--help--such people?" "It's incumbent on all of us," he said, "to be alert. Watchful. Our neighbors may be trouble--that is, in trouble--that we don't see casually. That's about all I can say." "Very well ... well. thank you, Father," said Merilee, standing up again. On impulse, she took a folded-up knitted afghan--one she had, in fact, knitted herself some years ago--from a third chair and shook it out, arranging it over his lap. In her view, there were few, if any, situations that couldn't be somewhat mitigated by the closeness of woolly comfort. "Thanks, Merilee," he said. "Don't worry, Father, I'll show myself out. You take care now, alright?" "Thank you, I will," he said. As her hand was on the doorknob opening it, he said, "We will be encouraged by God, and our prayers will be heard. A sentiment from a wonderful Psalm--Psalm 10. It bears re-reading. Memorization, even. I commend it to your attention." "Okay, Father ... take care. Bye!" she chirped. She was careful to turn the lock before pulling the door firmly closed. >< >< >< In the meantime, Vonda Hoffman had been working at her desk, while John Brunett simply sat, nestled down into his all-enveloping coat. He looked into space, his robin's-egg-blue eyes peering out from beneath his hood, full of--something, she knew not what. She'd known him from the time she'd first arrived here--longer than she'd known Gary--and she still had no idea what went through that head of his, God love him. He was a sweet boy, sensitive, fragile, and silent ... a pure soul, one who hardly belonged in this world at all. She'd been working for about ten minutes when she heard a sound. She glanced up; he was emitting a slight moan. He looked a little uncomfortable, but all right. After a minute or two more he moaned again. This time when she looked at him, he met her gaze. "You okay, John?" she asked. He licked his lips. "I ... I'm ... cold." He looked down at his lap, then back at her, with evident pain. She wondered. To her, the room was sweltering all of a sudden, and she undid her bow tie and the top two buttons of her blouse. Then she got up and came around to him. "Is it your tummy? You need something to eat?" He shook his head. "What is it then?" His jaw moved; a vague sound came out, which resolved itself into: "... I ... I ... it's been a--a--a while, Mrs. Hoffman." Then it dawned on her. He was a Bearer. He couldn't go long without ... without. It might have been an hour already. Then something else dawned on her. She was a widow now. She wanted a baby--for Laney, for Gary, for her, for everything that was new and good. She needed a quick, anonymous way to get pregnant, where no one would ever know. A man--yet not a man; some source near, so she knew and felt the rightness, but also far enough away to be unknowable and untouchable. The time was right. They were alone. John was notoriously short of speech, and she would only have to keep her own lips sealed as well. Even Merilee might never know ... and a chance like this wouldn't come again. Something in her yelled: He's like a son to you!He had been. But he wasn't her son. He was a young man, a Bearer, pledged to start pregnancies as a civic duty, which he did, dozens of times a day, often with women who were total strangers--which she wasn't. She knew him and knew his family. And her own family duty was clear. She knelt down in front of him, her insides convulsing. What would Merilee say?
What could Merilee say? she replied brutally. Leave it to him to refuse--despite the Rule--if he sees fit. The voice fell silent. Vonda's throat tightened, and she put her hands on his down-coated thighs. "Would you like me to help you, John?" He looked at her with wonderment. "Mrs. Hoffman-- you ...?""Me, John. There's no other girls around. It's alright, this once--I promise. It's okay." "Alright," he said, untangling his legs in preparation to rise. She reached up under her plaid woolen skirt and pulled down her pantyhose and her plain white cotton undies, rolling them down her legs, down to the tops of her stretchy boots--this would have to be quick--and grabbed the edge of a worktable. He approached her softly, opening his down coat almost like Dracula's cape in the old 'vids, and planted his feet wide, settling down on her and wrapping the coat over them. Her eyes widened; she gasped and gritted her teeth for a moment, and then her hand came upon a wadded-up cloth that she could bite down on as they coupled. It tasted a little like cleaning fluid. Her feet came off the floor and the pantyhose was shoved back up and she clamped her legs back and upward around his waist, locking her ankles; he was as quiet as a mouse. There were no sounds but his feet shifting with a squeek-creek, the table knocking gently against the wall, and her own ragged breathing ... and the squish and blop as she felt hot, lovely, burning, superfertile seed filling her to the brim and overflowing in a flood. She fought for breath ... remembering to move her hips ... counting the times to herself ... one--two--three ... sixteen--seventeen--eighteen ... Would it never end? She lay her head on one side and moaned very much as John had. >< >< >< They were done--just--when the door opened and Merilee's head poked in. John had redone his coat, thanking her in a mumble, and Vonda had managed to slip back behind her desk, thanking her lucky stars that she'd still had a tampon left in her purse to stem the tide. "Hello! Thank you, Vonda, you're a treasure--are you ready, John love?" Merilee smiled. He nodded and picked up his backpack. Vonda prayed that Merilee wouldn't spot the mess by the worktable, with the crumpled cleaning cloth laying in the middle of it. Fortunately, she seemed preoccupied. "Thanks again--see you. 'Bye!" Merilee fussed with John a bit, raising his hood, and then they were gone. Vonda put her head down on the desk. Something had just died. And something new had just stepped in to take its place. She raised her head and stared at her screen and the stacks of papers as if she'd never seen any of them before. She had either just done something very good that felt bad, or something very bad that felt good. She wasn't sure ... good and bad were suddenly so mixed up that she couldn't tell one from the other. She was sure of one thing, though. It was good-bye to everything. Life would never, ever be the same again. >< >< >< >< >< >< NSPD Chief Lin Jones had a newscast on, watching that morning's press conference with Leonard and Sarah. It wasn't news to him. He'd been on the dais with them--so had Justin Earle and Sheriff Jimmy Maldonado. But he liked to see how things played out, and how the edit went. Murders, to take the top of the pile, had been racking up fast. Forget the hoods and bums; within the past week there'd been an FBI agent, a woman intimate with the Mexican Consul, three high-ups connected with Medagenix--two of them in the City Jail yet, and now a City prosecutor. Not to mention several bloodless corpses that looked like part of the 'vampire' murders, one of them an Alder Island businessman, and a--no, make that two, mutilated women turning up in the harbor. Oh, and a terrorist bombing at City Hall. The incidents were racking up faster than he could find detectives to assign to them. The squaddies weren’t going to like it, but they were going to have to lay off the usual graft and shakedowns and do some actual police work. The media were having a field day, naturally. Even election news had been pushed down below the fold, and his own picture--one he disliked, having been snapped while his mouth was open--was appearing frequently. The 'net was going nuts with rumors of a major gang war. It was possible. Anything was possible, but if this was a gang war it was a new kind of one. Terrorism? The media, and politicians, had discounted the claim of the ... what was it? December Second Brigades, but Jones wasn't so sure. No one else had claimed responsibility, despite elected officials' finger-pointing at the United Patriots' Front. Jones watched the part where the video had been played. "About the UPF, there's a bunch a' us around. We're a veterans' organization. We work against givin' meals and clothes t' poor kids. We work against givin' money for schools!" A current of excited talk ran through the place--apparently a school auditorium, on Alder Island if Jones wasn't mistaken--and the man pulled a Confederate flag bandanna out of his pocket and waved it. "It's just plain crazy! What the hell are they about over there?! Y'all know where to find me. I'll take names of anyone who wants to go." Video fuzz was on the speaker, ostensibly for confidentiality; it also did a good job of hiding editing discontinuities, Jones thought sardonically. Chief Lincoln Jefferson Jones had no illusions about his job. Laws were on the books, of course, but they received scant attention these days. Policies and regulations, enforced administratively, ruled every facet of daily life, and in a world where the Chopper Club killer could be set free administratively, law meant next to nothing. Many cops resorted to graft and shakedowns to fill their pockets. Why shouldn’t they? A crime wasn’t a crime if you wore a badge. Real police work--some still knew how to do it--was devoted to murders, gangsterism, and terrorism that threatened to upset the applecart. A chief’s job was to play the game of balancing the demands of political patrons with those of the lawyers‘ lobby, make sure that police jobs and benefits of all kinds were protected, and keep the media happy along the way. Lin Jones was good at that, and the media liked him; he was handsome, grave, and dignified, with an impressive bass voice and a diplomat's ability to speak meaningfully without actually committing himself to anything ... although inside, he did have a sense of justice, which he was careful to keep under wraps except with those he knew well. He had felt for years that things were coming to a crisis here; but he’d hoped he’d be able to take retirement before they blew up. His hopes looked like they were about to get an old-fashioned stompin’. He shut off the 'vid; he'd seen enough, and a buzz told him that he had a visitor. "Yeah? Yeah ... come in, Harry." Detective Casarelli walked in, and Jones motioned him to a seat. "Hey. ‘Bux, Harry?" "No thanks, I gotta ease back on that stuff." "Alright. Well, what's the good news?" The 'Iron Man' replied: "If it's good, it ain't news. We've got another victim of the Terminal 25 woman's killer. Female, Asian, aged in the twenties. It's about five days old, looks like. We're confirming that. However, the Terminal 25 body's shown some new facts." "What's that?" "That body's older than we'd thought. She was apparently killed about three weeks ago really. Tissues showed signs of frost damage. That body was frozen for about two weeks after it was killed." "So we're looking for someone with good access to some facilities, then." "Yeah. It may have been frozen because of how she was killed. You remember, the damage was from metal edges?" Jones nodded. "Lots of metal edges. Very sharp. From the evidence now, it looks like they came from inside." "Inside?" Jones looked at the New York veteran incredulously. "The details are in your report, but I'd say, from just the evidence, that she'd carried to term a healthy, hungry, eight-pound high-speed food processor which decided to chew its way out of her, and then go back in for some more tasty goodness. About a dozen times." "And this new body? Was it frozen, too?" "Well, it's early innings yet, and it was in the water longer. It was so ripped up that it couldn't hold the gases which make a floater. We don't have a DNA match in the database for her yet, but that's still running." "So," Jones said slowly, "this is someone with some tech. Serious hardware, and access to foreign women. And with access to somewhere big enough to freeze a body, and able to dump it in the storm drainage system. You ever get a trace on the first body?" "It was dumped downtown, at an access point near South Jackson Street and Boren Avenue most likely. Of course, that doesn't mean she was killed there. Especially from having been frozen for two weeks first. She could have been killed anywhere." Jones was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Hell of a thing, Harry." "Hell of a thing, Lin," said the old cop quietly. "You took the media precautions I laid down?" "Yeah. This new one adds a few things. For one, with two now that are foreign, and most likely sex trade workers, I'm thinking that the next one we find is gonna match that. He's got an M.O. Profiles like you said, but if he--they--whatever, preys on foreign nationals, the media's gonna be less interested, especially with the bombing on now. And Bernie Young." "I'm seeing foreign connections lately, Harry. Nola MacLennon worked on foreign-national cases. So did Bernie. Liliane Perez was a foreign national. That banker--" "--Juan Espinoza--" "Yes. He worked with foreign investments. Two of the three murdered Medagenix people were foreigners, and the company had heavy international connections. And the bombing. I know what they say, and I know what the script is--I had to recite it this morning. That doesn't mean I have to believe it. It's got Mideast written all over it." "You think they're all connected?" "I doubt it. But I do think we're looking for someone heavily in foreign business and politics. Some ones, most likely." "Then those are 'someones' who are heavy, if they can be into anything heavily. And as for foreign business and politics--that's a lot of folks in this town," said Harry. "And almost all of the heavies." "Yep. You know and I know, Harry, and so does everyone else. There's gangs--tidy gangs with corporate offices, but gangs nonetheless. Asians who control the tech and tissue trade, and Latinos who control the drugs and the flesh trade, and that's how it is. We can nip at their heels, but it would take Feds to bring charges that would put them out of business. At least temporarily." "You think there's a high-level gang war on? That's what's all over the 'net. But if you're right about the Mideast connection, where does that come in? And what about Feds?" "I don't know. It's just a hunch, and I can't call them in on a hunch. There's something high-level going on, that's for sure." "You might wanna get Macklin in on it, then. He's the go-to guy with all the global stuff. Unless he's in the middle of it, of course. Just sayin'." Jones threw Casarelli a look. "I seem to recall, Harry, just sayin' something about a Commissioner got you busted down to patrolman after twelve-and-a-half years on the Port Authority CIB. You're getting a little old to start over again, Detective." He gave a humorless laugh. "Nowhere but here, and to no one but you, Lin." "Let's keep it that way," said the chief. His deskset buzzed, and, responding to it, he said to Casarelli: "'Fraid that's all we got time for, Harry. Be good now, ya hear?" "I'll have a stab at it," said the old cop, getting up. "So to speak." >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on May 3, 2009 23:13:30 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 3, 2009 23:13:48 GMT -5
037[/b] With no football practice after school, David had picked up Jodenne, and after a good hard quickie to enable him to last the drive without distraction, he'd set his big vehicle's course for the CDF's main training area on the west side of the Island, a hundred acres with some beach. Here at 'Camp Freedom' there was a range for light weapons, trails, an obstacle course, a bivouac area, and everything else needed for basic training. He'd smiled when he'd seen Kirsten's new car parked in the dusty gravel lot already, with a dozen others. She and Suzanne were nearby, having a snack at the reception/picnic area next to the main camp building where the Colonel's office was, and the supply room and mess hall. He parked, let Jodenne out, and grabbed a green duffle which contained some gear he'd need. Kirsten was eyeing him overall; Suzanne was eyeing his groin bag, swaying from side to side as his thighs moved underneath it; he knew which he wanted first. He downed his duffle and said, grinning, "Great to see you! Glad you could make it." He said it to both, but, seemingly by accident, touched the auburn-haired Suzanne on the arm. "You here for the shoot?" "For--the--shoot?" asked Kirsten. "It won't be just weapons," said Jodenne. "I'm sorry, I thought I'd PDA'd you about it." "Ohhhh .. yes!" replied Kirsten, who usually ignored texts and 'mails from people like Jodenne. "The shoot!""Bernd is our photographer besides being IO. He'll be taking photos for publicity, weather permitting, which I'd say it does," he said, looking up at the cool autumn sun dappling the fir trees. "Colonel George has talked to some people about it, and he'd like to get a CDF Calendar done up for next year. Maybe some of these shots will go on it. Well, I've gotta go get ready," he finished. "See ya in a bit." He picked up the duffle again, his arm muscles bulging under the thin cloth of his tee shirt arms, and crunched off toward the building. "A photo shoot," said Kirsten, "that's great! I mean, that it's on, then." Jodenne smiled, and settled her big body on one end of the table's seat, making it groan a bit. "The others should be here soon," she said. "Janine's car is here, I see, and Colonel George's, and Bernd's." Kirsten pulled out a compact mirror. "Is it all planned who--what--is gonna be shot? I mean, you know." Suzanne smiled an excuse, getting up and going toward the building. "Nothing set--Bernd improvises. Of course, David and Lynx will be the stars, I'm sure. But some others, too. And some settings, naturally. Hey, there's Lynx now!" said the big girl, watching a small electric utility vehicle pull into the lot. Kirsten poured herself a cup of water from a canteen as the tall blonde, already in camos, got out and waved to them, walking straight toward the building. Kirsten didn't drink her water immediately. She looked at her cup, and at the canteen, which was imprinted with the words: For Water Only. Do Not Apply Flame. Jodenne looked at her, a broad-lipped smile pushing her round cheeks up and making her eyes seem to sink into her head. From the building, through a meshed opening, came a feminine giggle, then a stifled little shriek, and the scraping of soles. The new girl's eyes moved that way involuntarily, then moved back to Jodenne, whom she realised had been watching her all along. "Um, Jodenne?" "Yes?" "Is he--David--is he always like that?" Jodenne's smile widened. "Like what?" "Like-- you know--sex with every girl that comes along, all the time." "Sure. He's a Bearer." "What does that mean?" "You've been briefed. Your parents knew when they moved here. I heard you went to a range with him where he did your car. I heard you got the talk from him. You have the information." "Yeah. It didn't seem, well, real somehow. Like a VR game. Like it was all--you know--macho bullshit like guys always spout." "Nope." "And he just has girls all the time? Every day?" "Every hour of every day. Every ten or fifteen minutes if he wants. I've still got the taste of him in my mouth now." She licked her lips as a low, feral, female moan came from the building, accompanied by a dull, rhythmic thud-thud-thud.Kirsten couldn't keep her brow from wrinkling a bit. "That's just weird-- no insult intended. But I mean, really!""Maybe. It's a weird world, gal. All I know is, you won't survive by yourself. You gotta pick your weirdness." "And no one minds? I mean, that he's screwing someone else every twenty minutes?" "Would you want him to have no one but you?" Jodenne asked matter-of-factly. "An hour with him and you can't walk afterwards. An evening with him and you might live if they got you to the hospital in time. A whole night, and they'd be laundering your remains out of the mattress pad. Boys are boys and men are men. He's a god." Kirsten thought back to her experience, and to David's words. "He's something, that's for sure," she said. "He's a Bearer," repeated Jodenne. "If you knew what that really meant, you wouldn't wonder. So, if it's all so weird, why are you here, then?" "I might have said it was weird, but I didn't say it was boring," Kirsten returned. "And I have him to thank for a new car." "Are you pregnant?" asked Jodenne bluntly. "It came up positive," admitted the blonde girl. "And you don't know what to do." It wasn't a question. "Yes--no. I don't know!" wailed Kirsten. Jodenne took one of Kirsten's slim hands in both of her thick, dimpled ones. "Why did your parents move here? Do you even know?" Kirsten bit her lip; then the dam burst. "My dad--he worked for the State, you know? Good job. And one day he went to work to his desk, but there was someone else there. And he said, 'Excuse me, this is my desk.' And she said, 'No, sorry, it's mine. Your things are in a locker over there,' and she pointed. And they were. And he went to talk to his boss, and she said he'd been fired because he had a complaint about him, that was three complaints. He said, 'What complaints? From who? About what?' And she said that was confidential information. He didn't even know he had any complaints! He was given ten minutes to get his stuff out of the locker and leave or they'd call security. After thirteen years of work! He came home crushed. He couldn't go to another State department. Nobody would take him with complaints on his record. They'd heard about the Island and decided to sell our house right away. They said it would be good here. I asked what kind of a job he was getting and he said don't worry, everything would be alright. We'd be taken care of. I didn't get it. I still don't get it! And now--now my mom--April--I call her mom but she's my stepmom really--she's pregnant, and her almost, like, thirtysomething! And I'm not ready for babies in the house--that's so OMG like--like I dunno what!" Jodenne nodded. "So they came here. And your step--mom got pregnant right away. And so did you." "Yes." "So they know you're pregnant?" "No." "You'd better get out that PDA and tell them, right now." "They'll kill me!" wailed Kirsten. "I got news for you, honey," said Jodenne. Just then, Suzanne reappeared, smoothing her camos, and wobbling a bit as she walked. "What's that?" asked Kirsten "Get out your PDA and make that call," said Jodenne firmly. "I'll tell you if you haven't figured it out by the time you're done." >< >< >< Everything had gone well for Candee, and she had made her University Hospital Physicians contact and been checked into a facility--so they called it. She looked around her room. It seemed more like a French country bed-and-breakfast. It was in an ancient wood house--twentieth-century, certainly--with wooden floors, fluffy curtains, little decorator touches everywhere; only the bed, a medical model, and the com-unit next to it, looked modern, and even the bed had a rustic quilt on it. This was the hospitality area, of course; the actual clinic was attached to it, both tucked away on a quiet, leafy side-street with a mountain view. She wondered what experimental medical programs might have been housed here before this one. And she thought back to the excuse she'd left for Rhys--a friend in need. He wouldn't be pleased. He'd quickly uncover the ruse, but he wouldn't be tracing her to this place quickly. He might well suspect the worst. She drew a breath, and tried to think of other things. She looked around at the sun streaming in the windows, and inhaled the fresh flowers, and plopped her traveling bag on the bed, unzipping it. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. She knew one thing, though; she was going to give Rhys the child he deserved of her--that he needed. That she needed. And nothing and nobody was going to stand in the way. She spent a few minutes unpacking, getting out her favorite robe and fluffy slippers, and a tracksuit, and a few other basics, and arranging them. She'd be here for maybe three nights, so she hadn't brought much. Then in a pouch on the bag she felt something she didn't remember packing. Reaching inside, she brought out a slim PDA, one she didn't recognize at first. Then with a rush it came back to her; last Friday, their dinner date with that funny Canadian. Carlos. Candee smiled. That had been fun. And Rhys had been so romantic afterward ... there had to be hope for them. He'd understand. But then she thought about how Rhys had been eager to pull that joke, but seemed to have forgotten about it afterwards, because here it still was, untouched. A joke was a joke, but after all, Carlos would eventually have to have his real PDA back, she told herself ... or else he'd get in trouble. She thought about switching it on, but resisted the temptation. If it were a missing Government device, they might be on the lookout for any activity from it. It might be, or might not. She put it away again, where it had been--better to be safe and just let Rhys deal with it. And then, she felt a little troubled again. If he had been keen on that PDA and then forgotten about it immediately, what else could he have been keen on lately ... and then forgotten about? But no, not him, she scolded herself. And when he had his own child, their own child, there would be another reminder of love, a permanent and lasting one. He was a good man really. He'd understand. >< >< >< More people had arrived at Camp Freedom, and Bernd had snapped a number of pictures. To start with, he'd done a few fun cheesecake/beefcake ones--David with a a bayonet and bare chest, Lynx in full tarty makeup with a machine-gun--and then they'd gone on to the real business: Colonel George, himself, Clint, Janine, and others, separately, in pairs, and groups. He took some visitors and guests, too, including one of a rather thoughtful-looking Kirsten, with Jodenne and Aoede, who had come with her mother. He'd snapped ones of Janine and two war-veteran members running a shakedown of a new 12.7 HMG which went well apart from a brief problem with a shear bolt retainer inside the receiver, which Janine had quickly fixed with pliers and a hairpin. The range and demonstration had been brief, but had attracted more visitors than usual, who were allowed within boundaries, fenced off from the main range. One of those visitors, a well-dressed, dark-haired woman, had been looking around carefully; this was her first time here ... and her last, with any luck. But an opportunity had arisen when she saw Kirsten sitting with Aoede over a picnic salad. "Hi," she said. "Mind if I join you?" "Hey, Ms. Stern--not at all," smiled Aoede, while Kirsten murmured greeting. "I never expected to see you here. Have a root beer?" Mona declined with a head movement. "Good to see you. Aoede," she said, pronouncing it correctly, like 'Oida.' "And you Kirsten! How are you?""Um ..." Kirsten mumbled. "Okay." Aoede winked. "Ings," she said to the woman, who lifted an eyebrow. "I-N-G-S," she spelled. "Island New Girl Syndrome. You know." "Oh, yes. It can be a bit of a shock if you've moved here from somewhere else," said Mona softly. "Is there anything I--we--can do for you?" "I don't get it," said Kirsten. "Six months ago my dad would have killed me if he'd heard I was pregnant. Now he's ... happy.""And what about you?" asked Mona. "Are you happy, Kirsten?" "I guess," said the girl. "Yes." "Of course she is," put in Aoede, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It just takes a little gettin' used to, you know?" "Yes, it does," said Mona. "To find yourself like that, when you're not sure you wanted it, or were ready for it, and with dad being someone you hardly know ... you want to know what your options are." "Options ...?" echoed Kirsten, a slight question in her tone. "Well! Hello, all," said a voice behind Mona. "Hey, Janine!" smiled Aoede again, while Mona half-turned, to see her, in camo pants, boots, and brown tee shirt, hair pinned up under a camo cap. She had an ammunition belt slung over one shoulder, coming down across her swelling bustline, and gun oil stained her hands and shirt, and also stained a red rag protruding from a cargo pocket. She had the unmistakable glow of a woman who's just lately had a great fuck, and Mona had no doubt who with. Mona had never liked Janine, but she now realized that the IT teacher who stood behind her represented everything Mona Stern didn't like, but for her job--and that job only made the rest more galling, because teachers weren't supposed to be like that. They were supposed to be caring, sensitive, free spirits, naturally in ways that passed the approval of the education establishment. They should be voluntaristic, in causes that helped the Party. They were to train students to think for themselves, so long as they stayed to the right way, on the right topics. They certainly had no business screwing students unless it was for an excellent reason and they could be sure of no one but the right people knowing. "Hello," said Mona with a small smile. "It's good to know who we can call upon if we need anything killed in a hurry." "Yeah, you know ... until the day when psychologists reach a one hundred percent success rate, we gotta be ready to take out some of their failures," returned Janine easily. "But I am glad you came, Mona. I hope you'll come again." "What can we do for you, Janine?" asked Aoede diplomatically. "I just wanted to welcome Mona personally," said the teacher. "And Kirsten, it's her first time at an event, too. What'd you think, Kirsten?" "I liked it," said the blonde girl. "It's sure a lot different than what I was used to." She didn't know if anyone else heard a a muffled thump-thump-thump from the direction of the building, and what sounded like a low moan, but she raised her voice a notch. "Everything here is a lot different from what I was used to," she said. "I love this pasta salad." Then she ran out of talk for the moment. "I wanted to talk to your mom, Aoede ... I thought she was here with you." The brunette turned with a look of surprise. "Oh! I thought--she was here a minute ago." "I'm sure she'll be back in just a few," said Mona, giving her sweetest smile. >< >< >< >< >< >< Laney had come home from school sad again, Vonda had noticed. The e-plex was on too loud, and snack food wrappers were left in the kitchen. She sat, staring unseeingly at some 'cast about how to cook tasty Italian dishes using seaweed. "Another not-so-great day?" Vonda asked, sitting down by her on the couch with a smile and a touch. "Yeah," said Laney, her voice hanging as dark and straight as her dyed hair. Vonda massaged her daughter's shoulder, slowly and gently. "Yeah," she echoed. "There's a lot goin' on." "Are they gonna let you see Dad yet?" she asked, using her name for Gary. "I haven't heard," admitted Vonda. "Something horrible happened to him," said Laney dully. "I think it's like with those women in the city. No one's seen them either. More deaths every day ... more people dying and they say less and less about them." "I know," said Vonda. By tacit agreement they kept away from newscasts. "Really ... it makes you wonder if there's any reason to go on yourself." "Why, sure there is," said Vonda. "We have each other." She realized, a moment too late, that that was what they'd always said together with Gary. Laney just looked at her. "Still," Vonda continued carefully, "life goes on." "Does it?" "Sure it does. What would you think if we had a new arrival?" The girl looked at her strangely. "What do you mean, a new arrival?" "I mean a baby, honey," said Vonda softly. Laney looked off into space for a minute ... then asked: "How could that be? I can't have one. You can't have one, and why would you adopt now of all times?" "I don't mean an adoption, sweet cakes," whispered the older woman. Laney's eyes popped open. "Huh? Well-- I'm sterile--you mean ... ?" her voice trailed off. Vonda nodded. She didn't know if she was pregnant; it was still two days too early for a home test to register. She had no intention of telling an outright lie if she could avoid it. But she knew she was still fertile, and at the right time, and she'd--well, she'd been with a Bearer. The likelihood of her not getting pregnant out of it was very slim. "But ... Dad was sterile!" she protested. "That's--you ... " Her jaw opened and shut convulsively, and she jumped up. Vonda half-rose, taking her hand. "So we thought," said Vonda, looking into Laney's face intently. "But people can be mistaken--even doctors. Miracles can happen." The girl's eyes burned into hers like black lasers. "I ... I don't know what to believe any more!" she cried. "You wouldn't want a baby brother or sister? To help care for almost like your very own? You'd want such a thing not to happen? To have a--a legacy?" Laney stood, trembling, her mouth working silently for a moment ... with a look of plain disgust and horror crossing her face. Then she yanked her hand out of Vonda's and ran, snatching her coat off the hook, and fled out the kitchen door. Vonda sat down, her head roaring, oblivious of the e-plex, which was now blatting out something else. She drew her legs up onto the couch. Then she buried her face in a knitted afghan that lay over the cushioned back, and she wept. >< >< >< Mona had been hoping to offer Kirsten a ride, but Kirsten had driven herself--in a spiffy, brand new Mercedes electric that Mona knew cost well above what Kirsten's parents should be able to afford, so she'd had to content herself with a quiet chat in the parking lot and an exchange of PDA numbers. She'd hoped she was getting into the game with them fast enough, but someone else had moved faster. And Kirsten pregnant already. And, as with Janine's attitude, she had no doubt who was responsible for that, too, and who was responsible for the car. A nice Welcome To Breeder Hell gift. She made a decision. She pulled her own car over and flipped open her PDA. There was still time. She did a lookup, then dialed. A smooth voice said: "Good afternoon, Doctor Macklin's office. How may I assist you, please?" Mona's eyebrows went up in surprise for a moment at the unfamiliar voice, so unlike Louise's, until she remembered that Louise was dead--Louise who had sounded comfortable and, well, human, like a spinster aunt in a library--sometimes humorous, sometimes cranky, always caring. Mona disliked this new voice instantly. Too perfect for this late in the day, she thought with irritation. Probably not human at all, but some sort of AI device he'd built for himself. "Yes ... I'd like to speak to Dr. Macklin, if I may." "Thank you. What name shall I say?""Mona Stern." "Thank you, Ms. Stern. I'll see if he's in." There was hold music of the usual techno variety for a moment, and then Rhys' voice came on. "Hello, Mona," he said, in his usual smooth, poker manner. "What can I do for you?" "Are we on a secure line?" "Yes. Why?" "I need to see you," she said. "It's about Jason." "What's up with Jason?" he asked. "It's tied up with some other things. Nothing very urgent. I wondered if we could get together, oh--tomorrow evening?" "Hmmm ... I'm tied up, I'm afraid. Can it wait 'til Thursday?" "Sure." "Where at?" "How about at the your place?" she asked. "What's your ferry? The 5:15?" "Yes. See you at about ten to six, then?" "Perfect," she said. "Thanks." >< >< >< Not many miles in a straight line, on the other side of the water, Nels Anderson also sat alone in his house. He usually had the e-plex on, either for viewing or to make background noise. He hated being alone; that was one reason he had women over. But this afternoon it sat silent, allowing his own thoughts to rise to a shout inside his skull. He owed his achievements in business, and then in politics, to the fact that he'd never let himself be alone. He'd had a good relationship, a close relationship, with the Party, and then with the Council, and with businessmen in general and Leonard Chung in particular, and those were good things to have. But now all of them seemed to be drawing back from him in the face of some new threat, a chilly and vague one. Its face and voice were that of this Mona, but there was a lot more to it than just her or even the groups she claimed to represent. He racked his brain for anything he could have said or done to alienate the Party, or Leonard, which came to the same thing. He couldn't think of anything. He'd always voted loyally, except for times now and then when he'd been allowed to make a 'conscience stand' on a safe issue--no one, after all, wanted to make the Council look like it was staffed by a lot of machine politicians. Freedom lay in exceptions; it meant the ability to do anything you were allowed to do, and to get away with something now and then as long as everyone understood. He was under no illusion that his penchant for creative female companionship had remained unknown. By tacit agreement it had remained unspoken ... until now. It was looking like it would no longer be tolerated, and he wasn't sure he could afford that. He wasn't a dirty old man, he felt plaintively, which was in essence what he'd been accused of. He had needs--basic needs. And for his politics to be held hostage to this was going too far. Nels had survived a long time, and even prospered, before he'd gotten into politics. His political career had been intended as a crowning gift, a thank-you, to the community. Now it looked as though it was going to be used--rather brutally--by people who didn't give a damn about him. Maybe he didn't need them as much as they thought he did. He'd survived without them before, and, he felt, he could do it again. Let them find someone else to do their dirty work, if they could. Maybe they deserved a cold dose of Councilor Rhys Macklin ... that would show them what they'd lost ... just who they'd driven away with their calculations. It was time for something different. He'd gotten a different sort of text on his PDA last night, from a woman he didn't know, who called herself 'Taylor.' She seemed to be safe; she'd referenced a Filipino name that she couldn't have known except by personal contact. He didn't know if Taylor was a Filipina or Chinese or not. He did have a longstanding rule about only doing business with those where he initiated contact. But he had replied to Taylor's text, and she'd replied back, promising him ... what was it? 'Plesure I g8rntee u nvr had n ur lyf--hot byond hot, humn byond humn!' It was a good pitch line anyway, and he hadn't enjoyed the company of an intelligent woman for a long while. Yes, it was time for something different.He picked up his PDA. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on May 11, 2009 17:26:41 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 11, 2009 17:27:43 GMT -5
038[/b] Kirsten had asked Suzanne if she wouldn't mind finding a ride home with someone else, as something had happened, and Suzanne hadn't minded. Part of it was that Kirsten didn't want to be tempted into blurting out something uncool about Suzanne's casual quickie with David--after all Kirsten had had one herself before. But it wasn't a false excuse; something had come up. Bernd Behrens' electric runabout had turned out to be too low on power to get him home, and would have to be left at the camp to recharge overnight, so Kirsten had offered him a ride. He accepted with thanks, loaded his gear into the little rear box, and soon they were off. On the way, a few minutes of chat had lapsed into silence ... then, as she drove, looking straight ahead, Kirsten said suddenly: "Do you mind, Mr. Behrens, if I ask you some kinda--well--um, personal questions?" "Maybe. About what?" "My family--I'm--umm, kinda new here, you know. To the Island, I mean. And stuff's, like, different here, you know?" Bernd smiled. "That's very true. If there's anything I can help you sort out, Kirsten, I wouldn't mind." The girl slowed for a stop sign, looked, then accelerated again. "Well ..." she began. He waited. "You and your wife have, I think, six kids, right?" "And another on the way, yes." "I ... ah ... um ... can I ask ..." She blushed, then blurted out: "Are they yours?" "Yes," he said. "OMG yeah ... um ... I mean--like--are you--you know--?""Are you asking if I'm a sterile or a fertile?" he asked easily. She braked rather too abruptly for a curve. "Yeah!" she shot out, reddening even more. "God, I mean--sorry--never mind. Just forget I asked." "I don't mind, Kirsten. A lot of people here know a lot about other people. It's a cosy place. I'm a sterile, like most men are." Kirsten thought a moment. "So they're yours, as in, your family, legally. But you're not the dad of any of them. Physically I mean." "No," he said. "I'm their dad, but not their father. That's common here." She felt some tentative relief that he seemed to know where the conversation was going. It was still hard, though. "So ... your wife, she ... like, well, got pregnant by other men then?" He smiled. "DF's--donor fathers? Well, yes. Of course." "And you're--well, you're alright with that. And your wife is, too." "Sure. We have a family. It's not a physical family, but it is a family. I don't keep them in the closet. We do family, if you know what I mean." Kirsten slowed again, for a turn. She knew one thing; she was not going to ask him about his own sex life with his wife. She thought dubiously about her own household's potential to 'do family.' "And, well, how does it feel, raising children you didn't father?" she asked. "I'd have loved for us to have our own biological children, of course. But they are ours in a very real way. I love them, and so does their mom." "Yeah. Sorry. It's just that ... you know. A lot of men wouldn't feel that way." "Alder Island isn't a place for everyone," he said. "It's a place for a special sort of person who can look past their own limitations and find goodness. And I'm not talking just about fertility, but about every sort of personal limitation, whatever it may be." "So it's fair to say it's not all about the financial benefit, then," she ventured. "Not for you, anyway." "Not at all. There are those who come here for that, but they are the ones who get what they want and leave. It's understandable. A lot of people eat fruit but not everyone wants to be a farmer." "I can sorta see that," she said slowly. "But it doesn't make a difference in things between you and your wife that she ... well ... you know." "Ione and I have a great relationship, and it just gets better," he said. "I don't think less of her. I think it's terrific that she has that much trust in me, to accept her and what she has to do with DF's." Kirsten shook her head. "I ... yeah. I get it. Sorta. I'm just not used to that way of thinking, I guess." "It's a culture of personal acceptance," he said. "Taking responsibility, and of making things what you want them to be. Anyone can join--anyone can belong. All you have to do is look at life calmly and be willing to re-examine your assumptions. That's what makes us different from other places. And that's why we have CDF ... to defend it. It's a culture that could conquer the world if people saw how it works." Kirsten thought about Alder Island culture conquering the world, and couldn't suppress a small shudder, and a feeling of frustration. She had meant to build up to a certain question, but it had slipped away, refusing to come forward and let itself be asked. So she tacked: "Maybe. But it's, you know, open to abuse. I mean, what about all the people who come here for kicks and bucks?" "Oh, sure," he said, holding on to the grab bar as the little car rounded a curve. "You mean stuff like steriles coming here for cheap thrills ... or for the free healthcare. Those who have babies simply to sell them. That's what the Federal Family Subsidy program was meant to stop, but it goes on anyway." And, he thought with a sideways look at her, young women whose families move here, and find themselves pregnant and up to their necks in a place whose values they don't know or understand.She nodded, and he went on: "Abuses happen. Anything good gets abused, and the better it is, the more it gets abused. That's the way life works. I could mention a man who got nailed to a cross once for going around saying how God loved everyone the same. But you can't stop being good and doing good because of those who abuse your goodness. If everyone did that, there'd be no goodness left in the world." "I dunno about goodness," she said, slowing as they came to a thirty-KpH speed zone. "There's plenty of weirdness, I know that." "I don't want to sound patronizing, but you're young, Kirsten. You're seventeen. There's a lot more life ahead of you than behind. You're full of questions, and a lot of them don't have easy answers. A lot of them have answers only you can supply. Well, we're all here for you. We care. We want only the best for people here." "What if the best were that a girl got pregnant and didn't want to? Or changed her mind?" she asked, looking straight ahead again. "Who's to say what would be the best for her?" "She herself," said the teacher. "In consultation with her parents or family, one would hope, if she were very young. You have to learn about things. Believe me, at your age," he smiled, "people think that people my age, and our ways, are all 'weird.' Well, we were all your age once. We've been there. There are thousands of women on the Island who've been just in the position you describe. I'd say to such a girl, find one or two of them that you like, and talk. Because it's just not what we're about here, we don't encourage terminations, but pills and procedures for that are a ferry ride away in the city. We have women here who've gone that way once or twice. My wife did, with her first pregnancy. She'd changed her mind, but later she changed it back again. We understand, even though we promote a different way." 'A different way,' she thought. That was one way of putting it. "Okay," said Bernd. "The next left, and just down to the blue house. Thanks, Kirsten." "No problemo," she said, taking the turn. "And thank you ... it's been interesting." "Alright!" he said. "See you in class tomorrow, then?" "Sure, Mr. Behrens," she said, and added silently: Unless I've gone to the city.>< >< >< Rhys Macklin had to leave for the day after taking Mona's call, so he cleared his desk and went out to get his coat. Ralna was starting to shut down her workstation, and he studied her for a moment. "Do you have any instructions for this evening, sir?" she asked. "Have you finished with processing the dossier files we, um, acquired from the CEB-SYS, Elections Department?" he asked. "Estimated time to completion, still one hour, eleven min--" "Yes, thanks, Ralna," he broke in--the seconds were irrelevant with a ferry to catch. "I've uploaded personally and will continue to run the job en route to my residence. The job will be complete by the usual time for our evening datasession, if that is satisfactory." "Excellent as always, Ralna," he said, shrugging on his overcoat. "As an optional subtask, have you evaluated the possibilities of going brunette? Not biomorphic alteration, I just mean hair dye." "No, sir. If you will recall, my default hair color is blonde to facilitate haircolor alteration during biomorph, since it can easily be altered to a darker shade; hair dye would apply an inalterable layer that could interfere if a lighter shade were mission-critical." "Yes. I would be interested anyway, Ralna." "Very good, sir. I shall research and evaluate all shades and hair products conformable with the search parameter 'brunette,' and present optimal possible outcomes based on analysis." "If you would be so kind, Ralna. Other than that, the evening is yours for learning and training, under the default conditions." "I exist to serve. Good evening, sir." "'Til tonight, Ralna, and thank you," he said, shouldering his office case. >< >< >< Once on the ferry, Rhys meditated for a few moments on his conversation with Mona Stern. 'It's about Jason,' she'd said. He couldn't think of anything that had been going on with Jason, but he could ask him tonight--if he saw him. The conversation also reminded him of the guests that would be coming to dinner with Candee and him, Mayor Hotchkiss and her husband Ron. He'd better call and ask Candee if he needed to pick up a bottle of wine on the way. He opened his PDA and called home, but got the answer message. That was a bit odd, as Candee should have been in the kitchen, starting the dinner. He tried her PDA number, and there he got another message. "Hi, this is Candee. I'm sorry, I can't answer right now. Please leave your name and callback number, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. It--" he thought he detected a fractional pause-- "might be a day or two."That was definitely odd. He checked his messages and found a text from Candee, sent a couple of hours before while he'd been busy in the office. 'Hello darling! I [heart] u VERY MUCH! Bt I haf2 cancel tonite w Joy/Ron as I haf2 hlp a frnd n trouble. Pls cll J/R w onoes! My PDA wll b off. I [heart] U n wll b bck asap, wll xplane all. ThanQ fr ndrstndng. KISS!'He backed out of 'Messages' and sat for a moment, his face completely blank. Then, because he obviously had to, he called Joy Hotchkiss to inform her that the date was off. That was briefly done, and after conveying assurances that he himself did not feel to Joy, he switched off and thought. If she was off to sleep with some man, she wouldn't have sent such a message. Candee knew him--or ought to know him--well enough to realize that he tolerated her extracurricular activities. On the other hand her story could be, actually, true. Candee was a woman capable of passions and sudden urges--he thought of lessons and workshops: one week she was determined to master Mediterranean seafood cooking, and a week or two later it would be weaving, and after that volunteering with mountain beaver research, or learning about twentieth-century punk culture, or how to speak Xhosa. Haring off to Pittsburgh or Little Rock for a day or three after receiving a message from a school friend would be unusual but not unprecedented. He tolerated all her 'fits' and loved her through them. But ... she would have called him. She should have called him. Of course he didn't like being interrupted at the office for nothing, but abandoning a dinner date and leaving town overnight wasn't nothing, and after all he had Ralna to take calls for him. The thought that this had to do with jealousy over Ralna did not escape him. If so, that would be one thing that she had in common with Jane. Jane ... She might swear like a sailor, drink like a fish, screw like a sow, smoke nick like a DEA incinerator, and profess blank ignorance of everything, but she wasn't nearly as stupid as she liked to appear; in particular, she was extremely skilled at getting people to do things for her. Candee wasn't stupid either, but he knew Jane could play her like a harp, which was why he took care to try to keep them as far apart as possible. Well, Candee's PDA would be off if she said so, and for the moment there was no knowing the facts of it. He could put Ralna on it--she had little else to do. He weighed the idea. The notion that his wife and his ex had a common purpose against Ralna was weird--so weird that it seemed entirely possible. He decided against putting Ralna on it--for now. It would do to show some trust in Candee, against the possibility that this was another sudden, innocent, all-consuming 'fit' ... but it would also do to be prepared to take some action on the morrow. >< >< >< >< >< >< Camp Freedom had been Bruce and Regina Thomsen's property, deeded over to the CDF, but Regina and David maintained a private cabin on it which David used at times. He'd felt like doing that today, and Jodenne had busied herself with little things while he'd vanished upstairs a half-dozen times with women who'd made one excuse or another to hang around afterwards. She couldn't blame them; she knew what they felt, looking at David's enormous, perfect body in action on the range, with the maleness of a hundred men packed into it. She felt proud of him, even while dusting the downstairs as thumping and moaning percolated down from above; the sixth woman in an hour--the visiting aunt of one of her friends--who would walk away full of his essence, and there'd be still more for her if she waited it out. And at last, there was, after he'd eaten a two-thousand-calorie, male-supportive snack she'd prepared in the kitchen for him. They went to bed and he clearly wanted satisfaction. It was long, and slow, and deep. If there was enough of him physically to make two men, there was also enough of her physically to make two women, and she luxuriated in the flesh-thunder they could make when they had time and tonight they did. With no one but her, she thought, as they lay, his arms around her, and her snuggling all of her hot, ample curves into him, could he really spend himself into sweet exhaustion. She stroked his hair, his body. At length, she asked him: "David?" "H'm?" he asked drowsily. "I wanted to ask you ... well ... you know how I'm always around for you, twenty-four seven." He made the smallest shrug. "M'm." "I'm pregnant again ... I've had three by you already--no one but you, David. The first one, then the twins." "Yeah," he said. "You and a lot of other ladies. Between live-fires and sperm donation, I've got a hundred thousand kids out there rattling around ... if I was a pop song, I'd have gone gold." "I gave them for adoption, you know. To USDAD, like you suggested." The United States Defense Adoption Department was a branch of the military that handled adoptions, in and out, for military families. "Yep. Three little soldiers," he said, with a flicker smile. "I hope you think of them with pride." "I can take you and take care of you like no other girl can. I cook for you, I clean for you. I even do your laundry when it needs it." "Yeah ... I appreciate it, Jojo, don't think I don't," he said. Her heart leaped. The pet term was rare. She tried to keep her voice sounding calm and cool. "What if you gave me your name?" He opened one blue eye and studied her. "Hunh? You mean, married you?" "Something like that ... yeah," she confessed. "You know. I can't help wanting to raise some of our own children, well, properly--I mean, raise them with you." He turned over and chuckled. He lay for some time, silent, scratching his chin, and she fought back the urge to talk at him while he thought. But she couldn't resist it, and went on, "You're going in the army, I know. I wouldn't mind. I'd go with you anywhere. I wouldn't care. I've got another year of school left after this one, but I could finish it on base. My folks would sign. I know you're gonna be a sex specialist--" "CHRIS, yeah." "It wouldn't bother me at all. I know the deal. I'd do everything for you, take care of you. Send you presents wherever you were, keep your house, take care of your gear and uniforms, polish your boots--keep you looking the best. Because you are the best. I--I love you, David," she finished in a burst. "Okay, maybe it's not cool to say that, but I said it. So do with it what you will. But I'll tell you this, David Thomsen. No one in whole goddamn world cares for you like I do, and no one ever will," she added fiercely. "So there." He put a finger out, tracing some of the cetacean contours of her body: the big hips, the pendulous belly, the massive bosoms now free from the custom bra-apparatus that she had to wear, and, as once before, he felt something special there, a kinship. She was exceptional--like him, in a sort of way. He traced again, slowly, up over her double chin, onto the thick lips that had spent so many hours wrapped around his flesh. He could be happy with her. He also thought briefly of another that he could also be happy with, as he imagined; one of the very, very few females on the Island he'd actually wanted and never had, because she put herself away from him through contentment with what she had already. Maybe that was why she interested him--a challenge. But of eventual marriage with that one, there was no question--it would just be too strange. And so he put that thought away, and focused on Jodenne again. She sighed. "You don't have to say anything. I probably blew it." She looked at him and smiled, her eyes narrowing to slits. "But I love you, and I always will, no matter what you say." "You're my woman, Jodenne," he said slowly. "You're mine in a way that no other is. That's true." She held her breath. "It's--well, it's a thing ... I'd have to think about it, though. It would change my enlistment, and all that. I'm in the army already. I'm signed up. But haven't started on active duty yet, so it's a little complicated right now." Jodenne bowed to disappointment. It had really been too much to expect that a Bearer would say yes to her--a fat schoolgirl--when he had the world at his feet. "I like it that you said that, though," he said. "And, well, I would pretty much have to get married sometime. And it would have to be to someone who understood me like you do. My type--up for it anytime. And there ain't' a' too many of them around." "So ... ?" "You've thought about it, I can see," he said. "I haven't. But I will." She wrapped her arms around him, and threw a thick leg up over his, and held him to her with all the strength in her body, which was a lot, hidden under the layers of wobbly flesh. "Okay!" she said, making the best of it, and then smiled, scrunching down in the bed. She put a hand under each enormous breast, shoveling them around, over and under each other, and massaging his manhood with them. "Just once more unto the breach, dear friend?" "Anytime!" he grinned. "And I do mean, anytime!" >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on May 11, 2009 17:39:44 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 16, 2009 13:16:23 GMT -5
039[/b] Cindy Shanley's com-unit call bar flashed for the several-dozenth time that day, drawing her out of the kitchen where she's been sitting down to a tofu cube and some arugula for dinner. She had tonight and tonight only to lose a pound and a half if she wanted her magenta crepe dress to fit perfectly, which it would have to tomorrow. One of her nineteen confirmed clients would be the Princess of ... well, somewhere in the Middle East, a young wife of a blubbery, sterile old King who had to have a baby, or else. She would have loved to announce the Princess as such to the others, but the very strictest confidentiality had been commanded since the Princess was ostensibly on a trip to visit her uncle in Vancouver, and someone's neck would be for the chopping block--literally--if the matter were found out. But still, a Princess was a Princess, even if she had started her climb to the top by as a second-string Canadian Football League cheerleader. And her people had been calling incessantly; that, and Cindy was waiting for confirmation from the twentieth client. She'd ordered extra cleaners in, and had in a panic-moment considered junking the old carpet and drapes for new ones, until she'd learned that the Princess had grown up in a mobile home in Coquitlam. There were limits. She'd answered so often that day that she'd stopped checking the bar for caller ID; she just hit 'receive.' "Cindy," she said. "Cindy Shanley! Hello there," said the caller, a feminine voice. Cindy's brow furrowed and her eyes moved to the callbar. Then she noticed the 'Private Number' legend. "Don't you remember me?" the voice went on. "I'm afraid not," replied Cindy, who did not like taking anonymous calls. "You'll, ah, have to remind me since your number's blocked." "Is it? How dreadfully absentminded of me," drawled the other. Cindy started walking, softly, across the carpet toward her e-plex. "And so, you are ...?" "A friend," said the caller, "a friend with a concern." Cindy switched on the e-plex. "And what can I do for you?" "It's not what you can do for me, it's what you've been doing for yourself," said the caller. Come on, come on, Cindy mentally told her CPU. "And," continued the voice, "it's what you can do to stay healthy." "And what have I been doing?" asked Cindy, punching a button to bring up the com-set's feed onscreen. "Why, you know. Running that nice little breeding pen up there in Belltown, in cooperation with an Alder Island Bearer that you've been picking up at the ferry." "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, miss," said Cindy, carefully clicking, clicking, to bring up a certain program. "I'm not sure what name you know him by, but on Alder Island he's Jason Macklin, the son of Doctor Humod Rhys Macklin--his homegrown little breeding machine. He comes over a couple of times a week to impregnate women you've brought in from all over via shrewd viral marketing on the 'net." "Let's say for fun that someone's been up to something like that," Cindy said, starting the program, a powerful one, classified and completely unauthorized for public use, obtained courtesy of an associate in Federal employment--one who collected twenty percent of her earnings, in return for certain favors. "What should such a person do then?" "Why, you should stop doing it! It's naughty! And him a seventeen-year-old, too. That's still statutory you know. Thanks to the breeder lobby they don't enforce it on the island, but you ain't on the island, darling." Cindy silently cursed. The program took awhile to trace some numbers around the blocks, and on some numbers it wouldn't work at all; hers was a beta copy, and not all the kinks had been ironed out. So she played for time. "Okay, what do you want?" she asked. "As I said, stop it. I'd hate to think what would happen to you if Doctor Macklin found out you were pimping his only son. He's got friends in high places you know. And low places. Not to mention if your clients found you'd been charging one hundred thousand dollars a pop for something they could get for free on the island." "How much do you want to stay quiet?" she asked, watching the flickering screen. "My price, for the third and last time, is not money. It's you stopping it," the caller reiterated, with a touch of irritation in her voice. "Alright," said Cindy. "I'll take your opinion into consideration." "It's for your own good," said the caller, and clicked off--but not before Cindy's screen stopped moving and showed her a number. She immediately speed-dialed. "Yes ... hello? Sorry to disturb you, but I'm afraid we have another shakedown artist ... female voice, no name given. Yes, I got her number using the trace program." She read off the number on the screen. "Good ... yes, thank you. Very good ... nineteen confirmed and waiting for number twenty--yes, I'm sure she will. Thanks again ... yes, bohnswahr to you too," she said, and ended. She sat back and looked at the number on the screen, and almost felt sorry for whoever it was. Another chump who didn't know what she was up against. As if Cindy were some two-bit White Center stew-keeper hiring out disposable, imported ass ... But Rhys Macklin wasn't the only one with friends in high places--and low ones, too. >< >< >< In the meantime, Rhys had arrived home via his usual transport service. He had changed his thoughts from dinner with Joy and Ron to what to do alone, or perhaps with Jason--a father/son tete-a-tete would be good. Jason's runabout was there, and his own Cadillac. Candee's red Mercs coupe was gone, but in its place stood a Tata nanobus which he recognized but couldn't place with an owner. They were popular on the Island with budding families. Probably a friend of Jason's had begged it from her parents for the evening. He parked, gathered his stuff, and went toward the house, but halted momentarily on the flagstone patio. Over the top of his house he could see a faint glow--the lights of Queen City reflected in a dull amber smear on low moving clouds. Thanks to energy conservation measures they weren't as bright as they once had been ... he imagined back a hundred years and more, to when things had been much more open. Then they literally painted the sky. He had seen old pictures, of course, but nothing like the real thing. He looked, too, at the lowering clouds, and over the water. You could tell where the city's business sections were, because other than that, lights were scattered--here and there, dotted about, were inventive souls with generators or some other means to keep themselves supplied in 'brownout country.' Beyond that, beyond the suburbs where he couldn't see from where he stood, was 'blackout country.' Alder Island was technically brownout area, but thanks to a combination of legal arrangements, entrepreneurship, and good old corrupt politics, it had its own co-operative utility which was able to generate a few kilowatts during the night. It was one of the things that prompted others dislike to the place, apart from the different culture, and residents were cautioned not to be too showy after hours. Rhys looked up, at the scudding clouds. There was a feeling of rain in the air. He looked back down and around, and imagined again ... some other person standing, perhaps in this very spot--back around the year 2000--and looking, and wondering how long it would all last. If they had been his age or less, they could have lived to see the answer. And Rhys himself was by no means sure how long what he now saw would last. He had an unsettling, momentary premonition that he, too, would live to see his answer. >< >< >< Inside the house, he passed through the entryway-- no Candee, so he hung up his own coat--about where she would have hung it, he guessed--left his stuff on the entry table, and went into the kitchen. There he saw Jason, and a friend, as he'd guessed, a brunette he didn't recognize. An off-islander, no doubt. And Vonda Hoffman. He was surprised enough to see Vonda--her Tata, then--but even more surprised to see her in blue jeans and tennies, finished with a knitted sweater and a leather bomber jacket on over that. She always called before visiting, and she was seated, yet, in front of a plastic tray, a microwave dinner from the freezer. Jason and his friend also had them. Vonda was a confirmed skirt-wearer, her usual woolen coordinates Monday through Friday, and sporty or even denim on weekends. For her to appear in jeans, off-property, without her hands on a tool, was a first in Rhys' memory. And again, she'd often inveighed against frozen dinners, calling them in her Texas twang, 'hawg-fodder.' Vonda Hoffman sitting in his kitchen, in jeans, not calling, in front of a frozen dinner, was just not right ... She's killed someone, Rhys thought, only half-joking. Whatever it was, he steeled himself for a bombshell. Jason, in his usual sweat suit, looked up, as did the girl. "Heydad," said the boy in his usual style, pushing back his chair and gesturing shruggingly. "This is Jenna." The girl flashed a quick hey-my-date's-dad smile, and also started to get up. Jason mirrored the gesture to his other side. "This is--well, ya know Mrs. Hoffman." Vonda looked up and did a smile. He went on: "Candee's not here, but I bet ya knew that." Rhys gave a nod. "Thanks, Jason, yes." The young people moved quickly with their trays, putting them by the sink. Rhys noticed that Jenna was probably a year or two older than Jason, her tall, willowy figure shown off by black leggings and an over-the-hips baggy sweater. Jason seemed to inherit his taste--the girl was similar to what his mother must have looked like at her age. "We were just finishing up," Jason said rapidly. "Seeyadad." "Where ya going?" Rhys asked him. "Out." He stifled a sigh. "Alright. I want to see you later, though. Come back some time, okay? Some time tonight, I mean." "'Kaydad," he said, and twined his arm through Jenna's. As they went out, she smiled again and said, "We'll leave you two lovebirds alone." Rhys chuckled as, around the corner, he heard fading sotto voce youthful recriminations. ... mumble-MUMMble ... "Jayyy-sun!" ... ratsamafrazzit ... "I didn't-- Jeeze, don't spazz alright?? It's just a saying for zitssakes! ... " and the thump of the door closing. Vonda pushed her own tray away with a rueful smile of her own. "With all due respect, Dr. Macklin, that's the crappiest dinner I've had in years." "Never touch 'em myself," he said, pulling out a chair. He noticed something else--Vonda's makeup--another surprise. Usually dressing-table-perfect, this time it showed signs of having been applied in a car. He went on: "Those dinners are Jason's. I'm surprised you didn't take charge and make them something. There's plenty to work with." "Maybe. But I don't like to just waltz into another woman's kitchen and take over. Where I'm from that'd git ya hog-tied and dumped in a watering trough." With her native twang asserting itself, she was nervous, or edgy alright, he thought. But he only said, "So, to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure, Vonda?" "Well, Dr.--" "Call me Rhys--it's okay. We're not at a school board meeting," he said lightly. "Well--Rhys--I came by because I dunno what to do. I'm at my wits' end with Laney, and--everything." "Alright. You can tell me about it if you like. I am a doctor, after all, I guess," he joked. "Can I get you some coffee?" "No, I'm fine, thanks." "Can I get myself some, then?" "Hell, sure. I guess it's your kitchen." He busied himself with the electric machine, and talked as he reached for things and ran water. "Can I ask if it's about Gary?" "Yes. No. Not really." "Okay, let's start at the beginning," he said. "But before the beginning, I'm curious as to why you're here. I know you're good friends with Merilee Brunett, and you know the others like Janine and Holly." "I was hoping to talk to Candee," said Vonda. "I need some--" she fiddled a bit with her fingernails--"some distance from the gals at work." "Sorry about Candee," he commented, pouring. "Where is she anyway?" "You weren't the only one wondering. I don't know where she is either," he admitted. "I got a message this afternoon about a sick friend or something. Unusually inconvenient since I'm announcing for office tomorrow, and have my first press conference on Friday in the city. I was going to ask you to be there--they'd let you go to that, just for the morning. But still, a snarl. She didn't call," he added pointedly. "I didn't, either," Vonda confessed. "I'd love to be at your meeting--I'll see to it. But I wanted to see Candee really ... she's usually here toward evening, and I guess I was hoping to kind a' zippity-doo-dah." "Well! Zippity, doo, and dah," he bantered, bringing a mug to the table as the machine began to burble. "I shall endeavor to make good where others fail. So tell me about it." "It began, I suppose, really when Gary went missing. I felt lost. Abandoned, like the kids' dad abandoned me," she said, fiddling again and looking down. "It's not fair, I know, but that's how I felt. Once again, it was the kids--well, Laney and Tommy anyway--and me. And with Laney being sad how she is. You know, she takes it hard that she's the only sterile of the bunch." "That's gotta be tough on her," said Rhys sympathetically. "Not only the odd girl out at school but at home too." "We don't--" Vonda began. He held up a finger and said: "I know you don't make anything of it. And at school too, at least officially. I know you all love and respect her. She can't help being born the way she was, any more than Candee can. I know Candee wants a baby. But believe me, when someone's sterile, they're sterile. I ought to know if anyone does. Ain't no changin' it," he said, intentionally echoing her way of talking sometimes. "I'm sure there are fertiles at school who talk down to steriles. Kid stuff. But I'm not talking about how she's treated. She feels that way." "Sure, I know," said Vonda. "But I was racking my brain for a way to help her over it, and over Gary. She was Gary's little girl, you know. She misses him terribly. And with not being able even to see his body. That makes it even harder." He nodded. "So, I thought, well, maybe having a baby might help bring things back to normal." "Huh?" he said, and noticed her flinch. He quickly reached out and took her hand reassuringly. "I mean--you mean--adoption? Or something else?" "I thought," she said, her hand working around in his nervously, her nails digging into his palm, "--I thought, not adoption. That it would be better if I had one myself. I'm fit enough and I'm not into the 'pause yet." He looked at her intently. "And ...?" "Well, I kind of lost my head. I got pregnant." Boom."I mean, it's not official but I'm pretty damn sure if ya know what I mean." He must have looked at her oddly because she hastily added: "Not Jason, no." "John," he said softly, making the connection. "Yeah. Well it's not like I meant to! I mean, I did mean to--or I was thinking about meaning to--but that's not how it happened." She gulped and stared down at the table, speaking rapidly. "I was working in my classroom after school, and Merilee had something to do where she couldn't have John along--gawd only knows that that might a' been, because they stick together like a couple a' honeymooners if ya know what I mean--and she left him with me to watch. Y' know she won't leave him alone for five damn minutes." He nodded, and she went on. "So I said, yeah, and it was, like, gettin' on for an hour, and me and him alone in there. No one else. And he was hurtin'. You know what it's like for a Bearer after long enough--" he nodded again--"and he was, well, for chrissakes he was in pain! He was looking at me like an animal caught with its leg in a steel trap. Any other Bearer, I coulda told him to go play outside, but him, he's--you know--Merilee's right in one way, emotionally he's about a rather dim three-year-old. I don't think he even really knows what sex is--I think he thinks it's just like scratching yourself when you itch. But I cared--he was Merilee's kid and sitting there suffering--I had to do something, and, well, I knew I was a widow now, and I was helping! Don't you see? It wasn't like sex--well, it was--but not really. It was like a dream--but I had imagined it before, I mean, with him. I had thought that he'd be the one if I wanted to get pregnant again without anyone ever knowing. But right then I was just trying to help him--help him scratch his itch--like I'd help out anyone in distress. Great goddamn idea that turned out to be," she finished, raising her head, with a tear brimming. He squeezed her hand gently, understanding. "That's why you didn't go to see Merilee." She looked intently into his eyes. "I couldn't go face Merilee--in her house--with John and Kayleigh right there. You understand." "Oh, yeah." The bux was done but he didn't move. But again, she seemed to want to be silent for a moment, so he went and got the carafe and brought it to the table, and poured himself one. He looked up at her, holding it up, but she shook her head, so he set it down. "And her--her ..." Vonda trailed off. "With John," she said suddenly. "You know. I know. I dunno who else does but Kayleigh--maybe Holly does. He's--gawd love him--he's a moonchild, that one. They're ... they're different."He did know. "They're not bad," he said. "They're just ... different," he repeated. "He's a Bearer. We need him. We need them.""They're all a little tetched in that house," said Vonda sadly. "They're not evil. They're people in God's hands ... only he knows what to do with 'em. Even on the island they have ta keep shet about it, and that's proper. But I know one thing. Anyplace but here they'd either be put in a filthy show, or else cuffed to somebody's truck bumper and dragged twenty miles down the highway." "Yup," he said. "Anyway, so something happened with Laney." "Yes. I told her I'd got pregnant ... I didn't say how. I wanted to let her believe that it was somehow by Gary, that a miracle had happened." "And she didn't." Vonda looked at him again, with burning sorrow. "She eyed me like I was some kind of snake! My own Laney-babe! She ran out ... I tried calling her, but no use. When Tommy got home, I just plain cracked. I had to talk to someone!"He took her hand and squeezed it again, silently. "You did good, Vonda," he said. "I didn't do good, Rhys. Ah fucked things up--Ah did." He hadn't thought he hadn't any surprise left in him, but hearing Vonda drop the F-word did it. "So now what?" he asked, and waited, pouring himself some bux. "Ah dunno," she said shortly. "What are you afraid of?" he asked. "That Laney will talk about it? Spread skeptical stories?" "Ah dunno. Maybe." "Well, if she did, no one would run you out of this town. You'd be far from the first woman to get pregnant by a Bearer--but I don't think that's it really." "No." "You said you don't even know that you're pregnant," he said. "You could--I have to say this--you could go to the city and get a pill and make sure. I know that's not how we do business here, but you're an exceptional case, I think." "Yeah," she said. "But it's really Laney, isn't it?" he asked gently. "You're afraid you've lost Laney for good." "Yeah," she admitted. Then she was silent. A change of scene from the kitchen--which couldn't be helping Vonda's feelings that she was being a bad mother and helpless widow--seemed called-for, so he took up his mug and said, "Let's go out to the living room." "Okay," she muttered. He didn't ask for her jacket; she probably felt safer in it. He led the way out, down two steps, and into the front with its palatial dimensions and near one-eighty view of the Sound, with Queen City's lights spread out in full view. He left the room's lights as they were, soft and ambient. He motioned her to a seat on the couch. She looked around and sat down. Then she looked around, as if really sizing up her surroundings. "Nice," she said. "Nice place." "Thanks," he said, cradling his mug, and sitting down near her. "So, tell me. What do you want to do?" "What do I want--?" "--To do. Vonda. If you could do anything, right now, what would it be?" "I dunno," she said. "I don't want to think. I'm tired of thinking. That's all I've been doin' lately and I ain't been doin' a helluva job of it. What I want is, I want to unthink all the thinking I did since Gary didn't come home last Wednesday. I want to know what happened to him. I want to undo what I did with John Brunett, and I want to unsay what I said to Laney tonight. Of course, that would mean I wasn't here," she said, her voice dropping. "And I'm not sure I don't like being here," she finished very softly. "Do you really want to know what happened to Gary?" he asked quietly. "Yes! Of course I do," she said quickly. "I could tell you. I found out. I'm not sure I should tell you, though." "Why not?" "I don't know if you'd believe it. I do know you won't like it." "Hell's bells, man! Somebody's gotta let me in on it sooner or later. What are they afraid of? That I'm gonna bite whoever tells me?" "Funny you should say that," said Rhys softly. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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