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Post by Aedh on May 19, 2009 23:33:54 GMT -5
040[/b] Taylor was flush from a quick shopping trip in the nearby downtown boutique district, wearing an Aida Higami off-the-rack that--if she'd known--Candee Macklin wouldn't have scorned, paired with Prada boots and a new necklace and earrings, all bought with her gift from Liam. She looked killer, and felt that way, with the hunger just starting to show an edge. She'd had a text from Nick, to meet her in a little basement bar on Yesler Way, near KLSM. The meeting with Nick would delay her, but the other person--her assignment--she knew he'd wait. Then she had a little business of her own, and he'd wait, too. She only wished she'd had time to get her hair done, a real good thousand-dollar job at one of the glitzy salons that up to now she'd only looked at the ads for. But she had an appointment for that, too. Nick was waiting, in a corner booth. She knew it. She walked straight to him, powerful, confident, the favored minion of a master vampire. He was there, and she smoothed her new dress as she slid into the seat. "You look good, Taylor," he said. "Very good. You must have made a very good friend." "Yeah, I did," she said with a smile. "It's gonna be a busy evening." "Indeed," he said, moving his glass of red wine slightly with his fingers. "No drink for me, thanks," she said quickly. "You've established yourself with someone," he said. "Gained a measure of independence. Excellent. That's the first task of a Minion and you look like you've done it in record time. The details are your business--I'll leave it to you. But you're still new. You have tested your strength. But you have not yet been tested by your weakness--and you will be. For our kind, much is possible. Immortality is possible. Life on the edge is possible. But immortality gained by living on the edge is impossible. The choice is yours. Remember, I am never far away from you." "I gotcha," she told him. "How are things?" He looked at her closely; she felt the keen nonhuman intelligence focused on her physically and mentally. "Fine. Good. I got started with that Councilor you mentioned." "How so?" She shrugged, wishing he'd hurry up and drop the other shoe. "Just sent him a sexy text I thought he'd like." "Did he reply?" "Yeah. I'm meeting him right after this." His eyebrow lifted a little. "Really? Hum. Just keep it businesslike for now, all sex, no feeding. Do keep your eyes and ears open. He's not only a Councilor, he's CCLE--Committee Chair for Law Enforcement. He knows what's going on with police work." "So do you, surely?" "On the street, yes. But he knows the minds of those in charge, and that is an invaluable resource. Whatever you can pick up about this 'Harbor Killer'--please pass that on to me. We need as much information on that as possible. For your own sake as well as mine." "Okay, I will," she promised. "Slow and easy," he said. "Maintain. That is what we want. Open vessels. Channels. Just keep him strung along." She nodded. "Since you've done well with that, I have someone else that I'd like you to start learning about, with an eye to eventually developing a relationship. For information, and for channels." "And who's that?" "His name is Rhys Macklin." Taylor had to think for a moment; her closest connections to society and culture were gossipy 'vidcasts, pop-ups on her PDA and the occasional glance at a vidmag. "Macklin ... is he any relation to 'Doctor Humod?'" "He is that man," said Nick. It was Taylor's turn to lift an eyebrow, remembering a vidclip or two. "Huh? You mean he's a real person and not just a viral-marketing chara?" "He is quite real. He lives locally, on Alder Island, and he's a forensics consultant to the City police department. And in a day or two, unless I miss my guess, he's going to be announcing a run for public office, for the Council." "For the Council?" Taylor was impressed. "Running for Council takes some mojo." "Yes. We want something on him," said Nick. "I want you to research him. Approach him, and sleep with him. You'll enjoy his place. He's a billionaire many times over." Taylor smiled. If she remembered right from vidclips, he was a physically a big man, and she liked big men. Big in more ways than one. "We'll wire you. He likes tobacco cigars. Pretend to have a sideline in tobacco, and your supplier's been busted. He knows everyone. He'll know someone to hook you up with, if you talk to him right. Just sex, though. Again, don't feed. We want a minion of our own on the Council, someone who is ours, as your patron--whoever it is--is yours. Find out whatever else you can, discreetly. This should happen tomorrow. I'm sorry to have to give you two power-clients to manage, but I only just learned of his political plans, and I have confidence in you." "I'll repay it," she said confidently, feeling powerful again. "I'm sure you will. But you must be careful. He's a dangerous man, and just putting a 'make' on him like he was anyone is inadvisable if you don't want to end as bags of protein pellets for wildlife conservation. Exercise great caution." "You can count on me," Taylor assured him, with a glance at her watch. "I know I can," he replied. >< >< >< After Taylor left, the dark man stayed at his table and considered. He did not expect Taylor to succeed in her new mission; he was in fact counting on her to reject the advice he had given her about Rhys, true as it was. Nels Anderson had been the assignment he'd planned for her from the beginning. Taylor had shown tremendous potential, and gaining a patron so soon was excellent. But--and it was certainly her--she had unfortunately committed a fatal lapse in judgment over the two men at the Motel 9, which--as 'Kirin,' he had investigated with Detective Crowley. It had revived interest in the 'vampire murders,' as they'd been dubbed. There were, of course, many more feedings than were on the case roster--successful feedings. The police files represented failures on the part of Minions, who on occasion had slipped up and left evidence. One here and one there, so long as they were anonymous, unknown persons outside of society, might be forgivable. But two at once, and one of them this Gary Hoffman, a prominent builder, was much more serious, especially if Hoffman had been an associate or friend of Rhys Macklin. One of the cornerstones of the dark man's success up 'til now had been keeping away from anything to do with Macklin. Taylor showed nerve, strength, and passion--an edge-liver rather than an immortal, and best used quickly and boldly before her too-bright flame burned itself out. As such, she was ideal for a task he would never consider for one of his tried ones, his real potential immortals ... and she might even succeed. If she did, he would have recouped something on his investment in her. If she did not, he could tell the QCPD that the Motel 9 case could be marked closed. Either way, it worked. >< >< >< >< >< >< Adela usually didn't care to be seen with svelte blondes who might disrupt her business prospects, but she couldn't help liking her brand-new acquaintance. Sure, she was built like a runway model--as it were, a sport coupe's body next to the big woman's stretch limo frame. But she made up for it with her campy disco outfit and her obvious newness-- foreignness--to the scene. It made her smile to see Heidi on the dance floor. Her shimmy shake reminded Adela of some vidclips she'd seen of an Insta-Bang corporate team playing B-ball in high heels; good, even great at parts, but not like everyone else did it. "I likes ya, Heidi-gal, I do," she told her, as she came back to their table. "Where'd ya say you was from again?" "I come from Slovakia," said the blonde. "I saw you watching my step. It is popular in Bratislava." Adela laughed out loud, neglectfully but only momentarily showing a couple of very sharp teeth. "Well, this ain't Brati-yaya," she said. "Ah got ya another wine punch." "Thank you." The blonde sat down, as the DJ set up another track, starting the beat pounding again. "So, new friend Adela, tell me," she continued, a serious tone entering her voice, "You are an escort, no?' "Yeah," said the big woman. "Ah do that on the side, like." "So! I am wanting to know--" she pronounced it to rhyme with 'panting'-- "about how an escort turns the tricks." Adela hadn't smelled cop on the her before, and she still didn't. "Oh, gal," she smiled, "a nice girl like you? No, no. You need to get a job waitressing or something. You got ta be savvy, you know? Street-smart. Know the turf." "Turf?" Heidi looked around with a frown. "I see no grass here." "That's just what Ah mean," said Adela patiently. "Ah ain't talkin' 'bout no grass. An' if ya don't know even that much, how ya gonna know a cop from a john?' "Oh, I am very good at the analysis," Heidi assured her. "The analysis, I have studied at Uniwersity. Also the boogie-boogie." "Uni- werr-sitty?" drawled Adela. "Honey, I got mah BA, BS, and pee-aitch-dee from the college of hard knocks." "College of hard knockers!" said Heidi brightly. "Ah! Escorts go there to study the boom-boom?" "Yeah, they do," Adela laughed. Then something caught her eye. "Nah looky," she pointed. "Ya see that guy there?" she said, indicting a man in a vest. "Nah he's married, and he got his wife with him somewhere here. Ya know how Ah knows that?" Heidi didn't, and Adela explained. So attentive was her friend that Adela spent the next two hours imparting a lot of hard-won street wisdom to her fresh-off-the-boat friend. Heidi started buying the drinks, and Adela had nothing urgent to do that night, and she enjoyed it--enjoyed being a teacher for awhile, liking how Heidi soaked it all in like a computer, serious and wide-eyed, with occasional funny comments and questions, and she was secure in the knowledge that the blonde was almost certainly a clerk or something--no dogg, a nice gal anyway--and no threat, especially after she mentioned giving props when she wrote about it on her blog, 'All About America.' In fact, later, after it had gone ten, the big woman even agreed to supervise from a distance while Heidi 'took her exam,' putting the make on a lone man on the dance floor, a nicely-dressed young soul brother who looked like a church deacon on the sneak. She did well, Adela had to admit to herself--not that it took a lot of skill with that sleek, clingy outfit on the jet-set beach body and the gee-whiz manner. Adela said goodnight with a thumbs-up and a wink, and Heidi waved over her shoulder, as she and her new date went out. She's alright, that one, Adela told herself, and smiled again. She hadn't had that much innocent fun in years. >< >< >< Vonda stared at Rhys Macklin and put down her glass; she had just drained her third bourbon and branch. "You're shittin' me," she said. He shook his head slowly. "You're telling me that Gary went to Queen City looking for hookers? And came across a vampire hooker who screwed him and drank his blood?! If I hadn't had my eye on you since you came back from work I'd say you were stoned!""That's not exactly what I said. I said he was last seen in the company of a woman who's known as a prostitute, and he was found dead, shortly afterward, with another man, both completely drained of blood." "Comes to the same thing," said Vonda. "The two may or may not be related, but it looks like they are. I'm not making this up, Vonda. I read the police reports myself. And they're not from some young cop who's being sensational. I know Jack Crowley. He's been on the Force thirty years. Plain, hard, sour, no more imagination than a pipe wrench. Nothing but the facts. And he investigated with a Federal agent who'd surely have called him out on anything wacky." "So that's why they wouldn't let me see him?" "He looked practically like a mummy. Like he'd been dead for a thousand years." "And this really happened." It was half a question. "Yep." "But there's no such thing as vampires! It's all horror vid crap!" "Maybe. Maybe not. But as a scientist I work with facts. And the fact is that if there's no such thing as vampires, then something just as horrible and even more mysterious did that to him. And not only to him but another man at the same time, and it's been happening on and off for a few years now. And it could happen to any of us, too." "I'm sorry," she said. "But it's fuckin' incredible, you know that," she said, and held out her glass for more bourbon. He took it an moved toward the bar. "You can skip the water," she added. "No sense in keepin' up appearances." He stopped. "You gonna be alright to drive home?" "Do I sound like I'm gonna be alright to drive home??" she demanded. "No." "Well, don't call me a goddamn cab," she said, as he poured. "I'm not drunk. Jesus! If that was only my problem!" He brought her the drink and she took a long sip, stifling a cough. "You asked me what I wanted to do, and I didn't answer. I got your answer now." "Yes?" "I wanna wake up," she said. "I wanna wake up last Wednesday and find that I'd been dreamin' all this shit." "I'm sorry," he said. "You're sorry?" she exploded. "In one week I've lost my husband, my daughter and surely the rest of my children, my best friend, my chastity--to my best friend's son yet--and my self-respect. Oh, and tomorrow we'll be able to add my reputation to the list," she said bitterly. "I find out that my man was screwing hookers on the side, and now there's a goddamn vampire thang on the loose killin' people and the cops don't want anyone ta know! Thank you sweet fuckin' Alder Island! I love you too." "I wish I could do something," Rhys said. Vonda gulped the rest of her drink, and then set the glass down and looked at him for a full minute. Even in the ambient light he could see a tear rolling down her cheek, followed by another, and another--big, fat drops finding their lazy way toward her chin. She mouthed silent words: Help me!He started to open his arms, leaning toward her, and the threw herself into them, crying, crying, letting out a million tears that she'd saved up for ... who knew how long? She didn't know herself. She screwed herself into him, arms around his body, her bosom in his lap and her head against his stomach, letting everything flow in great racking sobs. He could feel years of pain, with the kids, with school and work there, with carrying the secret of her friend Merilee, with setting herself the terrible task of earning Islanders' respect while moving to a beat that was hers alone. She had married one man, he knew, to help him, a man who didn't deserve it. Then she'd devoted ten years of her life to helping the island, and her new husband and her kids. John had needed help from her. And, at long, long last, she needed some help herself. "Now, now," he said. There wasn't anything else to say. "Now, now, Vonda." He bent down and whispered into her ear: "Let's find you somewhere to sleep, okay?" She nodded. He stood, then took her up in a fireman's lift, and carried her across the room and up the stairs. >< >< >< Taylor's appointment with Nels was at his house, a tidy little one, very old-fashioned and Scandinavian, with a displays of teacups, antique nick pipes, and whatnots, the odd ship model, and lace doilies everywhere. The armchairs even had little armrest covers and antimacassars. He seemed a bit edgy, but it couldn't be because it was his first time with a hooker. By rep, he'd been doing that since before she was born. His taste in women was a little old-fashioned, too; he obviously liked her curves, which put some strain on the Higami dress in places that fashionistas usually worried about. But they were her assets, and she liked them that way. Flesh and blood were good things. After collecting, she'd danced for him in the parlor, clothed, while he watched approvingly. He made some tea for them, which she sniffed discreetly but sharply, and for insurance she switched cups while he obliged her request for some honey for it--she had no intention of getting a tummyful of GBL or whatever. Then she'd taken her clothes off and danced for him again, and he'd disappeared and then come back out wearing what she supposed was some kind of Viking outfit, complete with furry vest--out of which his grey-haired belly sagged--armlets, furry boots to match the vest, and a horned helmet and plastic sword. Under it all he had on a sort of furry jock strap, and while she finished the nude dance he took his tool out and played with it. He was pretty well-hung, she saw, and also that he couldn't get it quite hard--not unusual for a man his age. From there on she had him made. It was obvious that one reason he liked the smaller Asian women was that he could pick them up and carry them into the bedroom, a feat that wouldn't be possible with her size-ten figure. So she let him rope her up--he was knowledgeable, using escape knots that looked formidable but could be undone with a tug at the right place--and she obediently played barbarian captive, crawling in on a lead. Then he ravished her fair, virginal body while she uttered faint protests. He had a safe-synth play whip that he wanted to use on her; conscious of her later date, she let him do it a bit, over a strategically-placed sheet, with a promise of allowing more vigor the next time. As a make-up for that she gave him her almighty number-one blow-job package, complete with suitable accessories from the kitchen. He packed quite a load, she had to admit. It even dulled the edge of her hunger a little. He was a biggish man, and, drained completely, would have satisfied her for a whole day or more--but she reminded herself of Nick's admonition, and her scalpel stayed in her purse. He'd be angry with her if this one were taken, and she wasn't quite ready for a government agent and full-fledged vampire to be angry with her. Not yet. This time, to gain his trust, she didn't engage him in any office talk, but after he went to sleep she dressed and she did have a look around, and experimentally turned on his e-plex in the corner of the parlor. He hadn't bothered to logout of his 'net mail, so she did some reading. She was able to confirm that Rhys Macklin would be launching a media effort in the morning, with an official announcement on Friday. She took note of the latest Nels had on the harbor killings, and she felt a surge of indignation that some freak was mangling hookers--it always had to be hookers, and foreign ones ... such as Nels liked. She wondered. She read on; he had a 'mail about the Motel 9 murders, as they were called. She was disquieted to learn that 'Tommy' had been a prominent Alder Island contractor, a someone, with kids and a widow, and that the cops were going to follow through on this one. That wasn't good; surprising, she reflected, that Nick hadn't got on her case about it. Detective Crowley, she learned, was working with a Federal investigator named Kirin Marlowe, who, according to Chief Jones who had sent the 'mail, was competent but unorthodox. She chalked both names on her mental slate. She had no idea who the Fed was, but with some help--maybe from Liam and his friends, who she'd be seeing in an hour--she could find out, and see how close he was getting to her ... and take him out if push came to shove, and Crowley too. The thinking brought her hunger back. She PDA'ed for a cab and then switched off the e-plex, careful to leave everything as it had been, except that she took a felt marker and a paper, and wrote a nice little quick thank-you note to post on the fridge, as she very occasionally did with obvious singles like Nels, telling them what superstuds they were. Getting ready to leave, she zipped up her boots slowly, sensually, enjoying the dull zuzzuzzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzzzzzzzzitt! as she started slowly, accelerating, and finishing off quickly--almost like a little micro-fuck for each foot and leg. And she told the cab driver to drop her off at a place several blocks from where she would meet Liam. She was going to need something to dull her appetite before she met him. >< >< >< The man couldn't believe his luck. His first time at the new club, and he'd hit it off with what looked like some European chick, cool and blonde and inexperienced and curious. She'd taken him to her place, a midtown condo with a For Sale sign in the window; she'd explained that she was just renting it for a month or two while she 'looked round for permanent place.' He'd promised to show her a good time 'down home style,' and with a body seemingly made of steel springs under her flesh she'd made a great student for his moves, and he gave her all the best ones. She never broke a sweat, he saw. He' set himself the task of making her do that when he saw her again, after working out and bulking up some. As they were finishing up, with her tireless legs wrapped around his waist, he told her, "Damn, Heidi ... damn, you're good, ya know that?" "Thank you," she smiled, starting to tremble suddenly, working her thighs a little, settling them in, and squeezing them, tight, surprisingly tight ... machine-tight. "Hey!" he protested. "Fun is fun--but can't ya let a guy breathe a little?" "I'm sorry," she said. "We're done. Or you're done, anyway." She locked her ankles together and exerted; his ribs started to break with a sickening cr-rr-ack-ack-ack-ckkk but he hardly had time to feel as she snapped her head up and with a crunch split his skull with a vicious headbutt square on his coronal suture. He slackened, eyes popping wide open, and she let him down to one side on the bed, whoever's it was. She'd had no problem opening the door while he went for a drink at the machine around the corner. Then she arose, and stood, and looked down at him emotionlessly. She'd learned a few things from him alright, and had a variety of significant sensory traffic--but not quite what she'd hoped for. Perhaps love was not going to be that easy to find. As she turned, the light reflected on a different facial curve, a new eye color, a slightly shorter body ... and Ralna gathered up her things. She could leave the remains here--there'd be minimal cleanup. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on May 24, 2009 21:48:42 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 24, 2009 21:49:09 GMT -5
041[/b] “This is for you,” said the tall guy, setting a medieval-looking stemmed metal cup on the table in front of Taylor, between two candles in skull-shaped holders. He’d been introduced by Liam as ‘Lord Margoth’ or something like that. He looked about a foot taller and maybe twenty pounds heavier than Taylor, with sculpted black hair that stuck out in foot-long spikes; black eyeliner, which on one side surrounded an unmoving glass eye; lots of tattoos, and bad breath. He played guitar and wrote for the electro-Goth power metal band 'tiamat69.' The other, whose apartment they were in, went by the name of ‘Abduliblis,’ or something like that. He was an albino, whether natural or made so by treatments. His teeth were certainly artificial; he was the band's bass and keyboard player, and it was he who had put Liam onto Taylor with his video. They both seemed like basically nice kids to her. But Liam, who was also sitting by, dressed in impeccable Milanese black, had been right about the flat’s décor. A casket stood propped up in one corner, and the place was strung with fake cobwebs and spiders, hung with daggers and red velvet draperies and kitschy gilt-framed pictures of every ‘vidstar who for the past twenty years had put on a cape and vampire teeth. Most of them were personally inscribed. Musical gear stood about, and stains, and smells poorly disguised with incense, testified to the amount of beer and nick that got consumed here. Lord Margoth sat down, joining the others seated around the table.. She looked at the chalice dubiously. She could smell its already half-congealed contents, rank and sour. “It’s real blood,” said Abduliblis encouragingly. “Blood is your food, isn’t it?” asked Lord Margoth gloweringly. “Pizza is your food,” replied Taylor, throwing a glance at a box that had been forgotten in the rush to clean up the place for her arrival. “That doesn’t mean you find it palatable after it’s been left around to get cold, stale, and leathery, and then gets handed to you laying on tray from the prop room.” Liam’s two associates looked at each other. Then both looked at him. He gestured. “Don’t you have anything fresher?” Abduliblis put his hand to his neck nervously, and she fixed her gaze meaningfully on him and said: “Why don’t you put your neck where your mouth is?” Lord Margoth half-rose. “Alright then. Do it!” He tapped his jugular with long, dirty fingers. “Right here!” Then he sat again, tensed. She felt a stirring of desire. He had passion. He wasn’t big, but he was certainly tall, and he moved with a loose-jointed, unconscious grace that would help erase the images of the ungainly Nels from her memory. But she stood up, taking the dominant position. She would run things here. She walked a few steps, letting her soles tock ... tock ... tock, and then she turned, nodding to Abduliblis: “Okay--but you first, in the bedroom.” "The bedroom?" he asked. "The bedroom." She raised a foot, slowly, deliberately, setting it on a chair. Then she reached inside the boot shaft--taking care to lean down to show ample cleavage--and slowly, deliberately, withdrew her scalpel, holding it up so it flashed in the light. "It's safer if you're already lying down if I take a little too much and you get dizzy." Liam told Lord Margoth: "Have some juice and a doughnut or something ready." A question crossed the guitarist's face. "Should sound familiar," said the clubman offhandedly. "Haven't either of you ever donated blood before?" He turned a bit, revealing the small band-aid on his own neck. Taylor held out the scalpel, passing it back and forth a few times in the flame of a candle. She carried sterile packet-wipes for it, but here were two showmen who ought to appreciate a dramatic touch. Then she looked at them, a hungry look. "Or are you-- scared?" she asked huskily, and ran the tip of her tongue around her lips. "Do I frighten you?" The whited man stood, quietly--the stoic type. He had a pretty good body himself, well-muscled, as if he spent an hour at the gym every day as well as the rest of it. He'd do. She led him in and closed the door. Lord Margoth took up a chair and moved it quietly so as he could sit and look through the keyhole. "You're gonna watch?" asked Liam. "That's kinda, well ..." The tall guy turned and pointed to his good eye, then shrugged, then drew a finger across his neck, then shrugged again. "Oh, you'll know," came the answer. "You'll know without having to watch. But whatever crumbles your cookie, I guess." It wasn't long before groans and squeaking springs made themselves apparent, and Lord Margoth's long body seated on the backward chair, tautened again. He removed something from a pocket and punched himself in the crook of elbow with it--a mini-doser for some kind of medication. Liam quietly rose, walking over near him. The groaning got louder. A short, strangled yelp sounded, followed by a high, quavering male moan. The musician made as if to rise, but Liam put a firm hand down on one shoulder, and another across his mouth. He bent down to whisper in the unwashed ear: "It may look a mess, but she won't kill him, just like she didn't kill me. Understand?" The head made a nodding motion. "We are dealing with a vampire here, my friend. Someone unlike you and me." Again came the nod-move. "You wanted her--I got her. A real live blood-drinker--not a wannabe, not a vid, not a costumed fangirl at a show, but somebody who actually lives on blood, whether or not she seems like somebody from a 'vid." The head made a shaking motion. "This is real. This is reality. Got it?" The nod again. "One thing now. Do not say or do anything to piss her off, alright? Or we may none of us get out of here alive." Liam removed his hands, and the tall man rose, quietly, turning, his face flushed. Liam wondered what had been in the mini-doser--Black Magic, perhaps, from his dilated pupils and warming skin, or something even worse. Taylor on a blood rush--even a small one--versus the tall guy on a meth-style toot, was a recipe for something he didn't care to try. "Easy now," he admonished, backing off. "It's cool, man," muttered the other. "I just--I just--just-just-just ... " His eyes glazed over momentarily, then focused--" needed sump'n, ya know?" Liam nodded, evaluating options. "It's cool," repeated Lord Margoth. "It's cool, man." "It's cool," Liam reassured him. The door opened, and Taylor appeared, hair askew, wrapped in an old sheet, arm in arm with Abduliblis in a robe. His skin nearly matched his hair for pallor; the pinkish band-aid looked darkly prominent on his neck, and was trying to control a tremble. Liam moved to help him to an armchair. She turned calmly, perfectly in command, to Lord Margoth. "Your turn," she told him. "If you're still not scared." She looked at Abduliblis, settling in the chair. "It was alright--wasn't it?" His eyes darted around. "Ohh--yeah, man," he said weakly. Then he looked at Lord Margoth, and gathered strength. "You write. You think--you think you've seen the darkness? Dude ... you ain't seen shit, man, 'til you've bought this ticket." The guitarist turned, his skin still ruddier, veins on his neck and arms nearly popping out, and an erection clearly visible at his crotch. He whipped off his shirt, exposing his slim, tattooed abdomen, and put his chin to his chest and faced Taylor. "Bring it," he said. "The more, the better." She looked up at him squarely and smiled. She'd wiped her lips but only licked her mouth round inside; it was dark with thick blood residue between her lighter-reddened teeth. "My motto exactly," she said, and motioned. "After you." >< >< >< Jason came back home late, but came home, as bidden. He padded through the darkened entryway, past the kitchen and the portal to the living room; apart from some points of light from electronic devices, all was bathed in nothing but shadows and the faint luminescence from the cityscape across the water. He looked around the lower level. There were no lights in the office or library or e-room, or any of the ground-level rooms. So he made his way up the broad, open stairs, built on a single beam to make them look like they were floating in the air. Once on the upper level he moved quietly. There was no light coming from the direction of his parents' suite, and ... he approached ... no sound of sleeping. He was curious, as Vonda's car was still there with his dad's, so he tried another way, toward the guest suites. Rounding the corner, he at last saw light, and approached. A table lamp was on. Gingerly pushing the door open, he saw one of the king-size beds, rumpled up, and in it was Vonda Hoffman, sleeping on her side, her naked shoulder and arm exposed, and her breasts part-covered by a sheet. Behind her lay his dad, also sleeping under the coverlet, an arm protectively around her. He stared for some seconds, his face inscrutable. Then he pulled the door to and went to his own suite. There he rummaged, quickly, purposefully, and started filling a large gym bag with necessities. It took a few minutes. Then he stood, thinking, his PDA in hand. Then he put it down. He went down, put a coat on, and paused on the back patio for a brief, monosyllabic call to Jenna. Then he got back into his little runabout and started it. With a couple of clicks and whirrs, it backed around and was gone, the loudest sound being the crunching of tires on the gravel of the driveway. >< >< >< Abduliblis sat back, stretched out in the chair. He closed his colorless eyes for a long moment, then opened them, staring upward into nothingness. "What was it like for you?" he asked. Liam sat facing him, half-squatting on an ottoman, more attentive to potential sounds of trouble from the bedroom than to the murmured question. But he said: "I liked it. It felt sweet to me ... I liked giving to her. It didn't hurt." "It was the surprise more than anything. But it was not like I ever imagined," said the albino dully. "She got me going with a fuck, and when she cut me, it didn't hurt, like, much ... but it felt weird. I felt paralyzed, and afraid, like in a nightmare ... where you can't lift a finger to save yourself. All you can do is lay there and watch death spread its wings over you, and there's nothing you can do about it, nothing at all. She could have drained every drop and all I could have done was lay there." Liam listened to Taylor and Lord Margoth in the other room--springs squeaking, grunts, and gasps. "It's different for different people," he observed. "It all depends on what sort of person you are. She told me, 'Love the darkness and it will make you one of its own. Fear the darkness and it will destroy you--not the darkness, but your fear.' You sound like you were partway between." "Maybe." "But this was different from slashing your arm at a show and giving it to people to lick." "Totally, man. You are right. She's something different." The musician lay back, and breathed. A loud thump--bang--thump came from the bedroom, and a male yell: "Bitch!" followed by a feral female shriek. Liam moved. He grabbed the knob, twisting and shoving, and saw a flail of bodies with a sheet in motion in the air--a crimson-stained sheet. Then it fell to show Taylor astride the tall man, his hands around her neck and her face turned to glare at the intrusion, snarling with blood smearing her mouth and dripping from her chin. "Enough!" Liam dove in a flying tackle, with a shoulder to Taylor, twisting to chop at one long, tattooed male arm. His momentum carried her over with him onto the floor atop her; she was strong but pinned under him against the wall. She convulsed, and Liam grabbed a handful of her hair and looked fiercely down at her wide, mad eyes and open, red-frothed mouth. Raising his hand and banging her head down with all his strength, he yelled at her, "No!"She froze ... and the moment of madness seemed to pass. "Awright," she spat. "OK! Get off me now!" Now she was just angry, and he pushed himself back off her and twisted round to the bed, where the man had a hand to his neck, with blood seeping though his fingers. Liam balled up some sheet, tore the hand away, and put pressure on what looked like an inch-long cut on an artery, bubbling burgundy-dark. "Back off!" Liam said, sparing a glance at Taylor, who was on her feet in a half-crouch, coiled to spring. "Chill, Tay! Chill!" She was coming down, but slowly. "Bastard's wired up on something. Dust or BM, I dunno. Not cool." "Yeah--here-- goddammit!" he cursed as the musician's hands closed around his neck. It was weak; he broke the grip easily and half-rolled the man, pulling one hand down behind him and wrenching it, giving him some other pain to occupy him for a minute. "I'm trying to save your fuckin' ass!" he shouted in his face. "Do you hear me? What did you take? What did you take?""Shit, man," said a voice from the doorway. Abduliblis was standing--half-standing--in the door, holding a mini-doser. "What is it?" asked Liam--the struggles were subsiding. The albino made a face. "Fuckin' B-29, man." "Shit!" said Taylor, wrapped in a towel she'd snatched up. "I knew it! Crazy fuck!" "Talk to me," said Liam, still holding the sheet. "I dunno--makes ya freak when you're bit, that's all I know," said Taylor. "They go fuckin' apeshit." "And he's lost blood--a pint?" "Maybe," said Taylor. "Tear up a sheet," Liam commanded Abduliblis. "I'm sorry, I know you're not well, but we gotta restrain him." "I got cuffs." "No, he might hurt himself worse if he freaks again. Sheets, strips." Lord Margoth soon had his hands tied behind his back and his ankles tied together, while Taylor swiftly dressed and wiped her face clean. "Now," Liam told Abduliblis, "you're gonna call for an aid car. They'll be here in five minutes, and we'll be gone. How long's he been doin' that shit?" "Only once before that I know of. Do we tell--?" "No, we don't. Unless you want your place to become the scene of a police investigation." The musician clearly didn't want that. "OK. Here's the deal. You and him and a friend of his--you dunno who--were here. He dosed and freaked and tried to kill himself. You and the friend got it under control, and the friend took off while you were calling." Abduliblis nodded, and Taylor came out, more or less ready to go. "Play it like that and you should be alright. Any other way, you don't even wanna think about it." "And this?" The other touched his hand to his own neck. "He attacked you while you were trying to stop him. You cut yourself shaving--I dunno," said Liam. "Something." Abduliblis nodded, and Liam headed for the door, with Taylor following. "One more thing," he said. The albino looked at him. Liam turned a finger toward the woman. "You wanted to meet one--so; vampire, or not?" "Vampire," came the reply. "Thank you," said Liam. "And we bid you goodnight." >< >< >< Chief Jones came awake to the buzzing of his bedroom comset. He hit the delay, not wanting to wake his wife. At---he looked--one-thirty-six AM it would be something big. He rolled out of bed, wrapped a robe around himself, and walked out, closing door and going down the hall toward his kitchen. He activated. "Yeah. Jones ... a two-sixteen--where? East Marginal?" He nodded, his face setting. "Okay. I'll drive there, it's not very far. Twenty minutes." He heard the door open. "Hon? What's that?" "Bad nick bust," he said grimly as his wife came out in her robe and slippers. He opened the hall closet where he always kept an outfit ready for instant use, and started dressing. "Interception, Traffic had it set up with SP and Substances thanks to information relayed by an officer. A van loaded with thirty boxes of it. These guys didn't just give up." He tucked his shirt in as he continued: "They opened up. Four officers down, one critical. Two baddies shot, one dead." "After last week, with two officers killed?" she asked, straightening his clothes as he stepped into a pair of shoes. "That's bad, Lin. Things are gettin' very bad out there, very fast." "Tell me about it," he said, sitting on a bench, tying rapidly. She got his coat and put it on him. "You be careful now, ya hear?" she admonished. "I will," he said, keying open a box and removing a holstered pistol. "Very careful." >< >< >< >< >< >< The long hall in the big building was mostly dark, with ankle-height illumination behind bumper strips shedding light out on shiny concrete floorway. The occasional recessed ceiling fixtures cast cones of light down. Through one of these passed a woman, her face in deep shadow, her eyes like black wells as she looked down at something held in her hand. She was, from her uniform, a nurse; Nita, R.N. She was on a different floor tonight, working not for Dr. Inouye but for Dr. Pavel Ochuko. One of Dr. Ochuko’s patients was a man in whom Nita was interested, as he was in a comatose condition, and the prognosis for him to recover was poor. She had her case ready, and a phial of some special solution to be added to his drip bag. She also had uploaded a direct link to his monitor station onto her PDA. If this solution acted as expected, it would induce total paralysis in about forty-eight hours. Not murder, in so many words--but no responsible medical opinion would support keeping such a damaged person alive. She had another variant that would take about seven days to work, but she had decided to try the faster-acting one first. If trials were successful, she could take on an assistant or two in her work--ones who would not have to develop the nerve and poise required to do direct corrections as she did. She turned, padding into a dark room, from which a low light arose, shining out the door, which closed silently. It took only a few moments; the light clicked off, and she re-emerged, professional, serious-looking. She took the folder off the clip rack outside the room and noted the change of medication for Patient ... she flipped a page, and then flipped back again. Yes, Patient Juan Espinoza. Results would be tracked most attentively. >< >< >< In his downtown office, with his electronic equipment around him, the man that Taylor knew as 'Nick' and that Mordred and the police knew as 'Kirin' was winding up his day. Three-fifty-two AM. He pondered on the news he'd just picked up off his PD-NET link. He knew about the breaking South Side highway bust to which Chief Jones had been called. A police shootout with cigarette smugglers was common enough. He was much more interested in the discovery of a body in a midtown condo, thanks to some owner/sellers who had unexpectedly decided to drop in after a night on the town. ID found on the body had revealed the young black man's name to be Tyrone Higgins. That name wasn't of interest to the general public, but it was of interest to him. Tyrone had been the desk clerk on duty at the time of the Motel 9 murders. He had not died as the builder and the truck driver had, however. He'd been killed by unarmed combat, his ribs broken and his head split open in a move worthy of a Shaolin master; it was certainly not Taylor removing the witness, but someone else. Reviving police interest in the case was just what he didn't want, and if Taylor succumbed to the mission he'd given her, this meant it was still open. He'd had no suspicion that Taylor hadn't been working alone--although he'd wondered just who the mysterious patron was that had enabled her to afford a ten-thousand-dollar dress. Such a person would be capable of hiring someone to remove Tyrone. But who--and why?The name of Rhys Macklin suggested itself immediately. He hadn't forgotten about the matter of Liliane Perez-Kessler and Nola MacLennon. Despite the official version, he was as certain as anything that a third person had killed Liliane. He knew that Liliane's name was linked to Nels Anderson, and that Nels was linked to Rhys as an upcoming political opponent. He also knew that no one would be suffered to run against Nels without official sanction, no matter what party they belonged to. So Nels was on the outs, an ex-mistress and an FBI agent dead, one who had been investigating traffic from Mexico--in company with a woman linked not only to Nels but to Consul Campos. And there were the Medagenix murders--it was quite possible that the company had been tied up with commerce from Mexico in spite of the Chinese cartels. He smelled Chinese influence in back of it. It all eventually tied in to Alder Island and to Rhys Macklin. Everything seemed to be working out very conveniently for him. He must have an agent within his, the dark man's, own ranks, and it was not Taylor. He briefly considered contacting Taylor and changing her job to killing Macklin instead of getting information. But--no. He needed the information, and more than that. The dark man had plans, and an obstacle in their way, and that obstacle was Leonard Chung, whose control over the political scene was firm enough that no one of his own people could shake him. But the campaign season was about to take a turn ... a turn that could prove of great value, removing a once-favored tool of Leonard's, potentially replacing him with an independent man capable of taking on Leonard openly in the Council. He himself could ally advantageously with such a one. If he did, and Leonard were successfully brought down ... well. His Minions were many, and some were powerful; their networks served his. An unfortunate, mysterious incident to remove Macklin in turn, before he could consolidate his own position, and then his own way would be clear. The city was ready. Besides an election swing--easily helped to success--he needed nothing but time. And as one gifted with near-immortality, time was all he had. >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on May 26, 2009 23:02:33 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 26, 2009 23:02:55 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 26, 2009 23:03:38 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on May 31, 2009 6:28:40 GMT -5
042
Wednesday, 14 October [/i] Mist had settled on the bay, and on Harbor Island; the dead-hours mist that often rose a few hours before dawn, and dissipated soon after the sun began to glow over the shoulder of Mount Rainier ... a chilly mist, muffling noise and blurring the headlights of whatever vehicles might be on the streets. It was so quiet that in the distance a foghorn could be heard giving the occasional groan like a solitary widow sitting in her room, refusing to be comforted. Its tendrils were creeping among the big concrete warehouses, once full of merchandise from around the world. Some still were, but many others had been locked and shackled with rusting chains, their man-stone fronts chipped and flaking below seagull-flecked roofs. Some blocks of them didn't even bother with the bluish or yellowish security lights. One of these did cast a sickly glow across a broad loading dock, partly roofed with a broad freightport at the bottom of a vast empty incline meant for parking rows of container trucks, and a partly illuminated legend above the dock read: 'Fujian Shipping ... ' Now there was nothing, except for a small commercial van such as a plumber or electrician might use, backed up incongruously against a shelf on the long dock like a discarded can laying against a curbside. Two figures could be seen in the shadow under the roofing, pacing; smears against the vague raven-grey of the warehouse's wall. Once in a while one of them passed under a dock lamp. Both were quiet and swathed in dark clothing. Both carried military-style automatic carbines. With a whirr, a freight door near the van rose ... rose halfway up, and stopped, spilling a quadrilateral of pinkish light onto the dock's rough surface. After a moment, two coverall-clad men emerged, spoke briefly with one of the guards in Chinese singsong; one opened the van's rear doors with a key, and the other went back inside. Soon they, and another couple--four workers in all--were trundling crates out on pullcarts with soft, inflatable rubber tires, while the two guards kept lookout. After some minutes of loading, the worker who had unlocked the van's cargo doors reappeared with an electronic handboard, and one of the guards spoke to him. There was some discussion, which grew animated, and the second guard walked over to look. It was at this point that yet another person slipped from shadows by the access stairs. moving furtively, and softly opened one of the van's front doors and disappeared inside. The trio under the canopy was joined by the other three workers, one by one. The first guard pointed to the handboard, then inside, expostulating in a high-pitched voice, 'Ni naoni dongbudong?' and finally, with a shrug, Let it be on your head, then, the lead worker turned and went back inside. Two other workers, seemingly wanting no part of an apparent deviation in the proceeding, turned and started walking down the length of the dock. The first guard stood, looking inside, and the second one moved a hand and clicked something, speaking low--obviously a quick call. Then, as the lead worker approached the loading door from inside with the questionable crate on a pull-cart, the guard who had been calling put away his comset, raised his weapon, and yelled, 'Wei!'The first guard's hand flew, and a knife thudded into the first guard's chest; he twisted, crumpling, and squeezing off a short burst of gunfire. The first guard moved quickly, downing the lead worker with a lightning kick as the fourth worker appeared, dashing for the van's cab. The vehicle's door flew open and a flashing da-da-dat took him down. The two workers who had left stood, seemingly paralyzed for a moment, and the first guard, emerging with the pull-cart, wheeled to spray them with a six-or-eight round burst, starring the darkness. The van's engine revved as the first guard shoved the pull-cart, struggled the crate off it into the back, slammed the cargo door, and sent the cart away with a foot shove, sprinting for the passenger door, which opened and slammed. The vehicle pulled away with a spin of its tires and was off, as the pushed-away pull-cart did a lazy half-circle around the dock, approaching the edge but saved from falling off by hitting a stanchion with a clunk. By that time, the electronic gate to the freight yard was rolling shut, not quite there when the van rammed into one side of it, ripping it off its tracks with a metallic whunk and pulling a left. It sped down the street, heading for an on-ramp to the West Queen City bridge, and two cars were soon in pursuit. One, a big Ford, pulled close, with a passenger leaning out the open window, firing a pistol. The rider in the van--hatless, old-fashioned Chinese hair queue flying--leaned out on his back, pointing a PDW with his left hand, and took out the Ford's windshield with a snarl of autofire. It careened into the guardrail, and the second car, a fast sports job, pulled up quickly, with a third vehicle appearing behind. The sports car driver had learned from the Ford and someone stood up through the sunroof, keeping up a spray of suppressing fire, starring the van's rear windows and keeping the van's rider inside. But, the bridge crossed, the van had to slow for another curving ramp. The more agile sportscar pulled easily up to the driver's side of the van and its gunman could have taken him out--but, perhaps because of valuable contents, its driver started to pass. With the front of the van between him and the car, the van's rider swung up, and his arm moved in an arc. A second passed-- straightening out on a new arterial roadway--and a crump cracked the sports car's windows, smoke jetting from the sunroof--a smoke grenade had landed inside, beautifully thrown. It was the turn of the third vehicle to approach; the one-after-another streetlights played on a shiny Hummer, wider than the van and nearly as long, with a massive front bumper clearly meant for ramming. It wasn't as quick as the cars but had plenty of power, and gradually gained on the laden van. There was no shooting from the pursuers this time. The van's rider let off another windshield burst, but it only chipped bulletproof glass. The Hummer neared as the chase led to a built-up area, and the van veered into a side street. The pursuing driver stepped on it and was closing when the van swerved toward some construction scaffolding spread across the face of a huge old historic brick warehouse. The Hummer went straight on after it, and the van rammed along the front of the work stands, which started to buckle and lean as each prop was knocked out. The van made it through, but the string of collapsing structure fell onto the Hummer, enveloping it in a mass of wood, steel, and materiel, and on the van went, leaving a thin trail of steam in its wake but with the Hummer halted. Now a siren, now two of them, were wailing, though still distant. The van turned into a container yard, stacked with truck-sized, detachable units to go on the back of freight trailers, to be highway-hauled to various destinations. A couple of minutes later, a police car entered the yard and then slowed, searchlights playing ... cruising up and down along the rows of fifty-foot metal boxes. Something was clearly amiss, as the yard's gate had been standing open ... but except for the containers, and a couple of large trucks waiting near the cranes for their morning loads, there was nothing. Maybe the night watchman had opened up early for the morning shift. A little while yet, and then at one end of the yard, a large lift-loader chugged into life, operated by a hard-hatted, overalled worker with a hair queue tucked up inside his headgear. Then he set it on one of the waiting cargo trailers hitched to a truck, and, after replacing the loader, climbed into the cab of the vehicle and started it. And after a few minutes more, the truck revved and crunched into forward gear; the driver gave a friendly wave to two more cop cars cruising in. They waved back. Nowadays it was heartening to see any signs of legitimate business moving. >< >< >< >< >< >< Grey dawn was lightening the sky as an unshaven, jeans-clad young man let himself in the back door of an old North Side house in the Eighties, just into the brownout district, but power was up at this hour. With practiced ease he slipped by boxes and bags of stuff in the back hall, past the grimy clothes washers and dryers, and up the back stairs. There were plenty of creaky boards under the threadbare carpeting, but he knew where all of them were. Around the landing and the last door was his. He quietly unlocked and opened it. Inside, in an untidy bed-sitter, a young woman was propped up on a couch in a bathrobe, her skin looking grey in the chromatic glow from the e-plex's screen. "Ashley?" He seemed surprised. "What are you doing up?" She looked at him with concern. "What are you doing back so late? It's so late it's early." "I know. I'm sorry." "Brionne and Marcus were here waiting for you ... they didn't wanna walk home in the blackout what with all the freaky shit goin' down these days, so they're sacked out in the bedroom now and I came out here." "Well, I wasn't doin' nothin'," he said. "I'm sober. I was just ... walking." "Why?" She patted the seat next to her. "Come sit down, Stoshie-babe." He did as bidden. She looked at him. "What's the matter? Something up at work?" "Yeah. No. Well there was something up--when I had work. Ash ... I quit." He returned her look sorrowfully. "Oh!" She seemed about to rebuke him, but her face grew serious. "It must a' been something, huh?" He shook his head slowly. "Well ... testing new veeyar stuff was cool. All the worlds out there, ya know? It sounded like fun ... put on your helmet and suit, or whatever, and get paid to do what everyone else has to pay to do, after you do it." She nodded. "I did wonder a little about the hours, four to midnight. Seemed a little weird." "I know they had you testing some weird games," she said softly. "You talk in your sleep sometimes ya know. It was messing with your head, wasn't it?" "Seriously. You don't know half of it." He gulped and took her hand in his. "There was sex, and--and stuff," he added meaningfully. "Killing people." "Yes." "Killing women," he said. "Sometimes I'd dream about it and the woman I was killing looked like you." She put her hand to his cheek. "I'm sorry," she said. "There was this one part ... " he began. "I don't wanna tell you too much. But I had to kill someone ... horribly. Beyond sick." A shadow passed across his good-looking face. "That was awhile ago. It involved an all-over suit that was hot and uncomfortable, and it was very physical. I hated doing it but they said I had to. You know how hard jobs are to find. So I--got through it. They said it was just once." "But it wasn't," she said. "They said they had a bug to work out, so I had to do it again last week. I hated it even more." "And tonight they had another bug, and they came back to you a third time?" "Yeah." Then he was silent awhile. She was silent, too ... thinking. He knew she was thinking about the bills that they'd have to find another way to pay now ... or go and dogg it. "I knew," he said. "I knew that if I did it a third time that I'd freak. Part of me would never come back again. That is one goddamn evil game, Ash. The second time I did it, I ... I ... oh, shit!" He pointed to the e-plex's screen. "What?" She looked. "Him. I knew somebody familiar-looking had popped up inside the game while I was doing it! That's him ..." Ashley looked, her eyes popping open. "They can't do that!" she said quietly. "He's a real person! He's on the news for zitssakes! There's laws about that--must be some programmer having an inside joke." "Pretty sick joke," said Stosh. "I could see him in the game while I was--was doing it. Watching ... and smiling! At least I think he was--I dunno ... my head's messed up, Ash. Maybe I dreamed it. I dunno," he finished miserably. He turned and lay down and put it in her lap. A tear flowed down his cheek and lost itself in her robe. Ashley stroked his head, shhhhh-ing him, and trying not to show the horror that was churning low down in her gut. More than anything it had been the face on the screen. Unless someone was having a joke, or unless Stosh was freaking out and seeing things ... she had a sudden, very very very bad feeling about this. >< >< >< Cindy opened her eyes to soft, dull light glowing around the edges of drawn blinds. She was in a hotel room--the Five Seasons--and her PDA was going off, and she ached, and the bed was a mess--the room was a mess--and she grabbed for the device. It was nothing but her PA with an update message, however. Things would be alright--if busy--at the office this morning, so she could take an hour or two put herself back together. She scrabbled for her pills, shook out three, fumbled for--yes, there was a glass of water, warm, but water--downed the meds, and, that done, dropped back to look up at the ceiling. Her back ached, and her legs and arms and tummy, and neck, and her womanhood burned dully. She’d had one hell of a fuck from Leonard’s Chinese friend, and no doubt remained--he was a Bearer all right. All business, just like Scott was, and so she’d heard other Bearers were the same. She hadn’t been expecting true romance anyway, just lots of hard cock, and he’d delivered in spades. It didn’t look as though he’d stayed long after she’d passed out. She spent some time as the meds kicked in, letting her mind wander back to him, his smooth, silky skin, his good shape, his steely muscles, his impassive face as he unleashed floods of hot come into every orifice of her body, making her his more than any other man ever had, and all in the space of a few minutes. He could only have been about twenty years old, but seemed to have the maturity and bearing of a man twice that age--near her own. Whether he’d make a good replacement for Scott or not, she’d have to think about. Scott’s gift for feeling and empathy was valuable, and this Won Long Dong, as he called himself, seemed to lack it entirely, she thought as she levered herself out of bed, feeling the need for coffee. Outside the door, she paused, ready to change her mind. There sat a tray with a silver coffee pot, a tray of breakfast morsels, and a rice-paper envelope with a lotus. A special order tray! Beautiful, and thoughtful, she thought, melting inwardly. She opened the envelope and extracted the card, which bore an Oriental ideogram, and the sentiment: ‘Love is a flower that blooms in a night; devotion is a mountain that can never be moved.’
How wonderful! Cindy thought, her heart softening. A man of few words--not much English--but sensitive after all! She stooped to pick up the newspaper, and stopped. At the door of the next room, was an identical tray, with an identical envelope and identical lotus. And at the next room, and the next, and the next ... wrapping her robe around her, she ventured out into the hallway and down around the corner. More of the same trays stretched down the hallway, one to each door. Suddenly, she knew, and felt ill. A door opened; a woman came out and stooped to pick up her tray--a young woman, blonde, nice body, well-kept. “How nice!” she said, looking up and down with the tray in her hands. “I’ve never been here before, but I’ll be back! Look at the beautiful service for everyone!” Cindy held up her card. “Before you get too sure of that ... have a look.” The other woman looked at her quizzically. “Is devotion a mountain, or what?” asked Cindy. The other put down the tray and picked up the envelope. She tore it open, scanned the writing, and her jaw dropped wide open. “You--you ... ?” Cindy gestured. The other woman looked once more, and disappeared back inside her room as if yanked by a rope. The door slammed. “That’s the biz, sister,” she muttered to herself, and went back in to her own room. She didn’t know quite how it had been set up, but to her Leonard would have some explaining to do--but tomorrow. Today had to be devoted to her clients, and Scott. She would retain him for awhile yet. There was something to be said for a sense of honor. >< >< >< Holly was in the ladies' locker room at the AIHS Staff Fitness Facility, going over the drill, as always, with the students for that period, when hard, tapping footsteps sounded, and heads turned to see Vonda Hoffman walking in, wearing her schoolday skirt/vest/blouse-and-tie combination. She smiled, and greeted one of her cheerleaders who happened to be there, passing through to the office. In response to Holly's look of mild surprise, she explained: "Just need to pop in for some cheer stuff." Holly nodded, but that hadn't answered her unspoken question, and Vonda knew it. It wasn't a false excuse; Vonda did have a desk and filing cabinet in Holly's office for her work as cheerleader coach--but she had, up 'til now, avoided going there during class time in the Facility. It wasn't discussed; Holly was aware that while some people didn't approve of the class activities, many more who did accept them didn't care to be there while they went on, and Vonda had, she thought, simply been one of these. But Holly knew she could talk to Vonda later, and with an "Alright! Let's go!" they were trotting out to the floor to face David, Jason, and John. Through the thick office window, kept--as the whole place was--immaculately clean, Vonda watched, standing still. She watched the assignments, the shy smiles, the occasional blush, the young, taut bodies. She looked at the never-warm-enough John, who yesterday had become the first person she'd offered her body to outside of marriage ... and thought of the second--Rhys Macklin--brought to mind by Jason, who resembled him facially. And she looked at David Thomsen, too, looking like a body-suited Zeus; confident, relaxed, at ease, doing what he was put on earth to do. She heard, barely, Holly's whistle, and saw the young people going about their tasks with no more trepidation than they would bring to a beach volleyball game. She thought of Holly, seeing her stride about, coaching, encouraging, warning, and noting. She knew Holly socially and professionally, but not very well personally. She felt a sudden envy for the other woman's overactive glands and absent moral sense. There had been a time when that woman would have been a rebel ... and Vonda realized with a start that she had been the rebel all along, trying to embody a moral code that no one shared here. No one but Gary, so she'd thought, it came to her bitterly. And perhaps Rhys Macklin. He wasn't known for screwing around; there had never been any gossip about him. Maybe he got his whores in town like Gary did, said her dark side again. Even Merilee Brunett, who was monogamous, after a fashion ... Vonda knew that she worked with Jo Dunbar at the middle school, giving very attentive care to selected young fertiles aged twelve to fourteen. She couldn't help thinking of Rhys again. Did he or didn't he? Was he the last man on the island who had some shred of faithfulness left? Did he not see through the 'sick friend' line, which was the oldest hooey in the book? He couldn't not know about his wife and what everyone knew about her--did he not care? If he didn't, why was he so faithful to her? And if he did, then how could he put up with it? She pulled herself together with a start. She was thinking way too hard about Rhys. He'd been very nice ... very gentlemanly and caring. She had had a head full of whiskey, and had been more or less pretty much flat-out seducing him. She had a good body, a damn good body for a woman her age, which was pretty near his, and she'd held onto him and wouldn't let go. She realized she had tempted him sorely ... then she shook her head. All these thoughts about Rhys could lead to no good, and with the sex going on in front of her yet. She pictured just downing her books and leaving .... taking off. But no. There was still Tommy and Laney living with her, or at her house anyway. Laney had pointedly avoided her, coming back very late and leaving very early, ghostlike. No. She had to put Rhys behind her somehow, just like John, and Gary. Despite herself, she felt her instincts looking about for the one, the man to be with, to take care of her and have fun with ... No. No.She was startled to see class breaking up, and Holly striding toward the office with a towel around her neck. God! Was it that time already? She glanced at her watch. She had been standing there doing nothing but trying not to think of Rhys for about twenty-five solid minutes. That was not good. Holly pushed in and set her clipboard on her desk. "Still here?" she greeted with a grin. "Thought you were just popping by." "Yes, I was," said Vonda. She had to say something, however small, about her obsession. "Rhys Macklin's announcing a run for Council, you know." "Well, good for him. I hope he wins." Holly bent over, untied her battered gym shoes, giving the laces a quick yankdown each and then prying them off. Then she stood up and walked toward the office's private shower stall, stripping off her sweat-and-other-things-stained unitard. Then she reached for a towel, her body taut, firm, and mature, proudly naked but for her socks, and she faced Vonda and said, "See anything interesting?" It was useless to say no, so Vonda said yes. "There's nothing like sexercise," said Holly frankly, pulling off the socks and stepping through the portal of the ionizing dryer into the vapor-jet stall, pulling the shoulder-high glass partition shut. "I heard about your husband--Gary," she said. "I'm sorry, Vonda." "Thanks ... me too," replied the widow. "I have a question for you." "Yeah?" Holly twisted her head so that the vapor wouldn't completely undo her perm--they were bad for that. "Did you ever--well, you know a lot," began Vonda. "Did you ever--ah, hear of my husband on the island? You know, with women?" "No, and that's the truth," said Holly. "I never slept with him, and none of my girl friends did either, if that's what you were wondering. Why? Was there something connected with his passing?" "Yes. In the city, though, not here." "Who told you?" came Holly's voice. She pronounced the name with a little difficulty: "Rhys Macklin did." "Well, he'd know. That bastard knows everything." It was said offhandedly, Holly using what was for her a term of sly respect. Vonda choked off the next question that sprang to her lips, which would have been about Rhys and ... "He's a good man," she said instead. "He's kinda strange if you ask me," Holly said, sliding open the partition and stepping in the dryer, which purred to life. "Say, can you hand me my clothes? On the hook there." Vonda reached over and drew a set of sweats off a large clothes hook on the storage door, and a white brassiere, and panties--black panties, but stained white at the crotch, and handed them to Holly, remarking: "I ... sorry, but I'm just curious. How do you get that--that?" she said, pointing to the panties. "That stain. It's not from bleach, is it?" "No. That's my juice that does that," said Holly, pulling them on. "I'm a juicy gal." "But you--well--I dunno, but how do you get like that? I mean, you, ah, do it like, well, a lot," said Vonda. "Like, a dozen times a day." Holly laughed, strapping on her bra back-to-front. "I hope not--that'd be a damn slow day." "Can I ask--I mean, that's a lot--more than most women. How do you feel about that?" The phys-ed coach, easing her bra around, cocked a brown eye at her, as if she'd asked something that made no sense at all. "Feel about it? Why, good of course! I wouldn't do that much a' something if it didn't feel good. And even when I'm not doing it, or watching it, I get juicy thinking about it." She shoveled her arms through the shoulder straps "Ah, the simple life," commented Vonda, meaning the dig. "I envy you." "What's to stop you?" asked Holly bluntly, adjusting each bra strap with a snap. "Better late than never. You're pretty good-looking you know. You got good curves yet, and boobs that 'ud make some men get up and howl, and a few women, too. Tone up! I'm not saying get ripped, just shape up. Get with Janine or Lynx or one of the CDF girls and work out a little." "I can't," said Vonda, as much to herself as out loud. Holly pulled on her sweat top and went for another pair of socks sitting on a folding chair near where she'd left her shoes. "The time was when I couldn't. I changed--I don't see why you can't. It's never too late, I say." "You?" The older woman looked at her curiously. "Me," Holly smiled, tying her shoes, looking up at Vonda. Then she stood up and arched her back, jutting her chest out in an exaggerated sexy move. "You wouldn't believe that about fifteen years ago I was voted 'Girl Most Likely To' in my class." "I would," Vonda rejoined. "Maybe, except this was Saint Aloysius Parochial School, and the 'most likely' meant becoming a nun." "You?" Vonda repeated, now incredulous. "Me," Holly repeated. "I was virginal 'til I was sixteen, a poster girl for chastity education. And passionate about it. And one day I met a guy, an older guy. He turned me on and I never stopped. Passion is passion, and religion and sex are practically the same thing. I threw away my rosary beads and told God to go find some other girl. Sex is life, and the more the better--I'm here to teach that, to girls who will go out from Alder Island to raise children of their own to believe it. Strong, healthy girls--clean ones, not sluts-- powerful women who know how to use their bodies and minds to get what they want, when they want it. Women who will be able to make-over not just their faces, but their neighborhoods, their workplaces, their states--even the world, which badly needs it if you ask me but that's another topic." "What about the boys, then?" Holly snorted. "Are you kiddin' me? Who trains puppies to be good dogs? Their owners! 'Cause that's what men are--dogs. Food, diversion, sleep, and a quick hump once in a while, that's all they want and need. You just have to make sure they don't piss on the floor or wreck the furniture. Any woman can do that. There's only four males I've ever trained, and that's my studs; those three--" she jerked a thumb toward the other side--"and Zack. You remember Zack." Vonda did. She doubted anyone who'd ever seen him frontally could forget him. But she asked: "Nonstop lust, that's all fine ... but what happens when you get old?" "I'll burn that bridge when I come to it," said Holly. "Burn all the way, baby. If you don't, you're just waiting to die. Well, not this gal, and not my gals. We aim to live. Time to get on with it," she said, glancing at the wall clock. "You might wanna get a move on, Vonda. And think about it." Vonda saw with a start that she had two minutes left to get to her third-period class, and drew her papers up in her arm. "I will. It's been interesting, Holly." "For both of us," replied the other cryptically. Vonda had no time to ask. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jun 1, 2009 21:31:03 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jun 6, 2009 8:08:31 GMT -5
043[/b] Jason, dressed after HIR, was on his way to an actual class. There had been three messages from Jenna on his PDA, all sent while he was busy with Holly and the girls. He'd been with ten thousand women and girls, but all of them either safely on-island or safely at Cindy's--all but Jenna, and Lucky. He often thought about Lucky--more often than Jenna. He wondered what had happened to her and her despairing spirit, so crushed in darkness, and he'd started some research to find her. But unlike Lucky, who had no one, Jenna was bound by very close ties to people who would bring forces against him, forces legal and illegal, and against Cindy and Jenna and anyone else they could find out about. Jenna needed handling. It might make him a little late, he thought, but he decided to call her back. The excuse of having to get to class might prove handy. He veered into the student commons area, to a callbooth in the PDA-allowed zone where a person could sit and talk surrounded by special damping tiles that ensured one's conversation didn't disturb anyone more than three feet away. He speed-dialed her number, then had a seat on the edge of the blocky, plastic-covered seat. "Hey--Jenna? Jason." "Hi, Jason!! Mmm, I'm so glad you called, baby," her voice came back. "I got your message. Are you--?" "Yes," said Jason. "But I don't have a ton of time--I'm between classes. Can you talk?" She said yes, understanding the common PDA-callers' question: talk freely. "And in reply I wanted to say Yes! Yes, yes yes, I would love to, and I'm so glad!" "Good. Well, we need to figure out how. Don't you share a place already?" "Yeah, that will have to change. Even if it were safe for you in the city, it wouldn't be here. I need to leave before I'm evicted with extreme prejudice for being a you-know-what." Breeder, supplied Jason mentally. "Yeah," he said. "So I was thinking about, me coming over there? If I'm, you know, I'd be welcome enough, right?" "Well, yeah, sort of. I could get you a place easy enough. But it's my dad." "Your dad?" Jenna demanded. "The one who invented what you are?" "Well, yeah. He's not gonna like me moving out." "You're never there anyway," she said pointedly. "Why should he care?" "Something's going on with him," said Jason. "I dunno what, but it's something. I'm just not sure you'd be completely safe on the island." "So? Let's get away entirely then. Go to LA, or Vancouver or Vegas or somewhere." "Nuh-uh, I can't do that. I wanna leave this place, sure. But not sneaking off in the middle of the night. I want to finish school and leave the right way. Like David is." "Well time's a-ticking, baby. I don't have very long before my roomies are gonna notice something different about me, and then it's goodnight Irene." "I might be able to swing something on the reservation. I have a friend whose grandfather's an elder there. It's just a few miles off-island, and it's more outta sight if you know what I mean. You could still get to your classes, but it would be a commute. Then when we're both done we could hit the road. Look, I gotta go now Jen. Think about it." "I will. I'll call you, sweetie! I love you byeee!"The connection ended, and Jason checked the time, uselessly as the class buzzer was sounding. He picked up his book bag with a sigh. >< >< >< In his suite above Vancouver, the Chairman clicked off his desk unit without a quiver or a word; only a pulsing vein on his neck showed his feelings. It was more than enough for the three men and one woman standing with military precision six feet in front of him. "This is the doing of I know not who," he said, thickly, in Mandarin. "But I know who is responsible. It is that fool Xue Guangyong in Queen City. He promised good security and tight shipping time for the components. Instead, they were wafted away from him as if by a summer breeze." "A question, Sir!" said the lead man. "Ask." "What of Bao Zhan?" "That boy? He wouldn't dare," said the Chairman. "His tong has a writ from us. And this was too well-executed. It's someone inside. We know who everyone was. All the security people checked in and the one guard is known to us. The job is simple, and because it is simple I'm giving you a strict time limit. Seventy-two hours from now--no more, no less--I want the head of Xue on my desk, and the head of the guard. And I want to hear who they were working for. If any of those are lacking I will have your head instead." "Sir!" The four of them snapped to attention "Go! Be swift!" bade the Chairman, the office door opening. The four needed not another instant, but turned as one and strode rapidly, lightly, out the doors. When they were gone, he eased open a drawer and removed Carlos' PDA, and laid it on the desk. It gleamed dully up at him like a big bullet. The Chairman was a man of power and hard common sense. But even so he couldn't suppress the notion that it was somehow an albatross, an omened object, that would exert an unlucky influence until it was replaced with the real thing. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and put it away again. >< >< >< Rhys Macklin was gratified to see that Ralna, with characteristic efficiency, had supplied his public-relations consultants with everything they'd asked for, and that the first surprise advertisements had already gone up, the prepared ones, done a year ago and held ready. In the old paper-ballot days, a candidate jumping into an election in October would have been unthinkable, but now everything was done electronically, and "Mackin' 4 Macklin" was already generating buzz, even outside the state. WhoToob and MyFace and SpaceBook were lighting up, and MorOns.org had an announcement up with the promise of much more to come; his face on the popups and 'casts looked just the way he wanted it to. As far as garnering actual votes went, he wasn't worried. There were no such things anymore. The Party picked someone, the media went to work building the candidate up, outlining their ideas and defending their positions, and creating them as public personalities. Opposition candidates, called by insiders 'goldies,' were run; they were useful for blaming things on--such as the time, Rhys remembered, an electronic tabulation was mistakenly released for a few minutes, which showed the goldie having obtained more votes than the Party candidate. The goldie was immediately denounced as a fraudster who had somehow corrupted the system, and a 'recount' was done in which the proper candidate was discovered to have won by a comfortable margin, to a general sigh of relief. People didn't really want to know the details, after all. They knew what they wanted, and what they wanted was what the Party promised. So they pretended to mark e-ballots, County officials pretended to count them, and then the Party's candidate was duly installed. The only way Nels wouldn't be re-elected was if he committed suicide. This was why Rhys had replied to calls from the bemused asking Are you serious? in the negative. He didn't expect to win. He did expect to get some highly accurate readings of the mood of the establishment and the public, in advance of certain State and Federal legislation he was interested in, in the wake of new NAE regulations that created the possibility of experimental legal enclaves. His com-unit flashed; Ralna's voice said: "Excuse me sir. A call from a Destiny Brigid for you." "Ah, thank you, Ralna. Line Four, please." "Thank you." This would be the chair of Insta-Bang, in which he happened to be a major shareholder. He told Ralna to hold his calls, then answered it. "Rhys. Hello, Destiny. Thanks for returning my call so soon." "No problem!" said the energetic voice on the other end, and a holo sprang up. Destiny Brigid was a former model and smart businesswoman who had led the company to record profits for several years now; it was, in fact, Queen City's most profitable legitimate business, had gone national, and was now planning overseas expansion, as well as a new branch called 'Essenia.' It was this last he had called her about. "So what's up with our favorite backer? Besides standing for Council, you ol' dawg you! I saw that, even before I read your proposal. How's the iBabe project coming along?" This was Destiny's way of referring to a deal whereby Insta-Bang and Scrapple Computer had financed critical aspects of what had started as a research project, proceeded through CC-3000, and ended as Ralna. As rich as he was, even Rhys couldn't afford to finance Ralna's development all himself; she had required some sixty billion dollars to create, and he'd sought assistance. He had sold some aspects to the companies as biocomputing research with applications to the personal services industry, but because of the anti-humod laws it had to be carefully presented. An annual report would be due by next February. Under another name, using other aspects, he had also secured some funding from the U.S. military, but neither Destiny nor anyone at Scrapple knew that. He said blandly: "Pretty well on my end. I'm more or less carrying on myself ... I haven't been in touch with anyone at Scrapple for some months now. But as for my proposal, what did you think?" "I love it! Very classy, very chic." "That'll put those MacQuickies in their place, eh?" he asked. "Yeah. You know--well you might not know, being our most prominent non-customer--" this was a standard friendly needle between them--"but we've had a lot of customers asking for the same service person from time to time. Under our current structure we can't do this because we can't guarantee availability. You have to keep your staff busy. You understand." "Sure. Essenia has been kicked around for awhile as a way to answer the demand. That and a venture into the high-end market. Couture services. I've decided I'm willing to underwrite twenty percent of the initial investment." "Oh!" The woman's face showed surprise, a rarity. "Well, thank you! That will enable us to get backing for the rest. What can I say?" "You could say yes to my request to hire some staff for six weeks at a special rate." "How many, how much, and what's the project?" "I want to drum up some popular interest in my candidacy." The shadow of a frown flashed across her face. "The company can't do political endorsements, of course. And a special rate might be seen as a political contribution." "No, I know that. But I also know you have a lot of part-timers and people on call-back status who would like to have some temporary full-time work. And I'm not talking about el freebo. I'd pay a percentage discount just like a normal corporate customer." "Oh, that might be different then. What did you have in mind?" "I'd like to hire, oh, say, six hundred campaign staff--not necessarily anyone actively working now--but I‘d pay regular overtime for them--but also people on callback, or prospectives. I'd provide salary, benefits, and clothing--no uniforms, they'd be working for me for the duration. I need some assistance to, ah, persuade people in key sectors to back me. Orgasms for votes." She laughed. "A politician who wants to serve the public the way the public has to serve politicians now! I love it!" "So! Can our people work out the details, then?" "Sure. I'll have to have a pro-forma board meeting but we can do that via teleconference. I don't see any problem." "Good. I'll let you get to it, then." They traded good-byes, and he signaled for his assistant. "Yes, sir?" "Ralna," he said, "I have a new assignment for you." >< >< >< >< >< >< Nels Anderson cleared his throat, and his mind, before walking into County Executive Leonard Chung's lair. The summons had been polite and brief, a typical Leonard note: Councilor Anderson: Please honor me with a visit to my office at nine-fifteen. It could presage anything. Everyone knew it, and Leonard knew that they knew it. The news of Rhys Macklin's intention to run for his seat was all over by now, and nothing else could be the topic for discussion. One thing or another was going to happen. Leonard was going to back him, or he was going to throw him over the side--and, if the femme lobby had been unleashed on him, the prospects for the former were poor. Nels was announced by his personal assistant--another new PA, this one a young man in a black military-style V-neck sweater over a shirt and tie. He was told to go in, and he did. Leonard was seated behind his big rosewood desk pretending to study something; Nels noticed two more bruisers standing motionless on each side of the inner office door, and they were armed. Leonard clicked off, motioned Nels to a seat, and leaned back in his own chair, his face blank but for a meaningless smile. "Good morning, Councilor," he said. "Punctual as always. You'll be wondering why I asked you to stop by." "I expect it has to do with Rhys Macklin's campaign launch. The official announcement is tomorrow, but he obviously intends to stand for my seat on the Council." "Yes. This is quite sudden, old friend, and I know you are acquainted with him--at least better than I. So I wanted us to put our heads together and come up with some ideas for a strategy." "I'm thinking along those lines," said Nels cautiously. "What have you been thinking?" asked Leonard. "Did he tell you beforehand? Were you surprised?" "No," said Nels. "It shouldn't have surprised anyone in the Party. Talk about him running has been circulating for years--since before the last election, in fact. Everyone knew he was going to do it someday." "I was referring to the timing of the announcement," said Leonard smoothly. "Did that come as a surprise?" "It's extremely late in the game," said Nels. "Very unorthodox, but smart for someone with his negatives. He's not beholden to the Party so he doesn't have to follow its rules. As a write-in candidate he doesn't have to register. There's no rules for write-ins because they win so seldom. If I'm not mistaken, a write-in for Council has won only once in the past century, and that was because he had unofficial Party backing because he was running against a candidate exposed at the last minute as a serial child rapist.." "Yes," said Leonard. "The Smithson scandal. Fortunately we've educated the public on acceptance of people with nontraditional sexual orientations since then." Fortunately for you, Nels thought. But he said, "I know that in some quarters the talk of Rhys standing for Council was dismissed as spin. But a man of your intelligence wouldn't have made that mistake." "The Party is large, and we allow people to think their own thoughts. Of course, I keep key people informed. And that's why we're talking now, old friend. I notice he made no mention of party affiliation. He's not a Red Partier, is he--do you know? Does he lean that way?" "I've never heard him mention it. He professes disdain for all parties. He claims to be for cutting government." "Ah," Leonard smiled, genuinely now. "A cutter. We have him on that. Just this year we cut half a billion dollars from the County budget." "True, after a budget increase of three billion was voted through. He's going to argue that that represents not a cut, but a two-and-a-half billion increase." "Politics one-oh-one, Nels. You know and I know. But his argument will take more than three seconds to make, by which time ninety percent of the voters will have stopped paying attention. He sounds like a garden-variety blowhard to me." "With many millions to spend. His ads are on every channel and major 'Net syndicator that serve this area." "Then he'll be losing many millions," said Leonard. "Your situation seems safe enough to me. So while the Party will back you in the usual way, I'll commit major resources elsewhere." "He's a billionaire." "He's Doctor Humod," replied Leonard coolly. "Talk about your goldies ... we couldn't have hand-picked an easier man to beat. If you can't win this election on your own, then it's past time you retired anyway." Nels had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He'd made Leonard, who'd been a shipping insurance agent before Nels had assessed him as a good business contact with the Asian/Pacific community and convinced him to run for Council. He was surely taking money from the women's lobbies, from Rhys Macklin--or, knowing Leonard--from both. He had to say a word about that. "Fair enough, if you can have a word with the NSFPAC people and other women's lobbies who've decided to take me on this year." "Really?" enquired Leonard. "Really. I had a call from a woman calling herself 'Mona,' who has information, and she checks out. They're tightening the screws." "It's a free county," said the Executive. "People are entitled to demand things from government. But out of curiosity, who is this Mona?" "Mona Stern. She's a school staffer from Alder Island, and no friend of his." "So you say. It's obvious to me she's a shill. She was put to this by him to shake you up, nothing more. It's not only obvious, it's rather ham-handed. But there, I'll let you get back to work, Councilor. I think the way forward is clear now." Nels made the usual agreement, said thank you, and left. On his way down, he reflected. He had been thrown over the side; Leonard's remarks about 'major resources' and 'if you can't win this election on your own' indicated that. It was official; he was in the soup. He couldn't have his name taken off the ballot-- the Party will back you in the usual way--and he was mindful of what Mona had said, and Leonard had left unspoken, about throwing elections. Well, he was a Councilor yet, and had three weeks. Time enough to do what he had to do. >< >< >< Enrique Cabrera had heard about the police nick bust on the morning news, and made a call to Quinta; the cops had obviously been tipped, and he wanted to know by whom. He had also seen the advertisements for Rhys Macklin for public office. That was a more complicated matter, as he had knowledge of illegal technology that Macklin had hired him to hijack. So, after he got to his office--an ordinary-looking office above a restaurant, as befitted the taco mogul he was, among other things--he called Oscar Espinoza on his private comset. Oscar gave his customary greeting, “Espinoza,” and Enrique gave his. “How’s business, tio Caro? You keeping up?” "I'm well, Rico. And you?" "Not bad. I heard about Dr. Rhys Macklin running for office this morning and I wanted to ask you about it." "Ah! You're getting civic-minded, Rico? That's good of you. Anderson's out, you know. They're still running him officially--for one last term, I guess--but the word is, he's gonna be finishing up as Madame DeJong's waterboy. Probably clearing the way for her to take his seat in the election after." "What about Macklin, though? What's he like?" "Our kinda guy I think, with a little breaking in. Better than some squawking puta like the ones whipping up buzz about Nels. He's a businessman," finished Oscar unironically. "What if somebody knew something bad about him?" asked Enrique offhandedly. "Everybody knows something bad about 'Doctor Humod.' But that's all years ago now." Enrique considered for a moment. Then he decided not to ask what he was going to, as Oscar's attitude seemed clear. But he didn't want to let the call go for nothing, so he said: "I visited Juan last night." "How is he?" "Still out, no change." "That's too bad," said the older man. "At least he's alive." "Yep. I know the name of the woman who--who put him in the hospital." "Yeah?" "She's Latina." "Anyone we know?" "I don't think so. Her name's Ralna. Ralna Ochoa." Oscar was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: "Well, Rico, if you had any plans to put hurt on her, despite my advice, you can drop them. She's Macklin's PA." "Macklin's PA?" repeated Enrique stupidly. "Yeah ... you didn't ... oh, Jesucristo, Rico, you talk to me right now--what did you do?" "I didn't do nothin'!" protested the restaurateur. "Rico ... I know you, Rico. You put out a hit on her, didn't you?" "Someone might have," he admitted. The voice became soft, dangerous. "You ... fucking moron--do you have any idea what that's gonna do to the election?" "I would never have done that to him! I didn't know he was gonna run for office!" Enrique defended. "I didn't know she was his PA either! What's the chance of that?" "God save us ... My brother Antonio," said Oscar, "I always wondered why your father put you in charge of slinging tacos and nothing else. Now I know. Now I'm gonna tell you some things he would a' told you. One--Rhys Macklin is way outta your league, Even his fuckin' PA is outta your league. Two--you do not whack chicas, and three--you do not whack anyone until you know who the fuck they are!!" The businessman was silent. Oscar's tone sank again. "Cop-killings. Slashers. Militia activity. Hijackings. City Hall gets bombed, and now we have a fucking assassination?? You know, one of these days people are gonna wake up!!""So what do we do, tio Caro?""We hope that your hitman is as idiotic and incompetent as you are. And you find him and call it off before he makes the hit. If Macklin even finds out you tried this, you are toast--you know that, don't you?" "Yeah," said Enrique miserably, thinking of his wife and children. "It's just that Juan--" "--got what was coming to him, I hate to say of my own family but it's true. Now, get going, Rico-- now. I'll talk to you again when I hear this has been dealt with." And Enrique was left staring at Call Ended: 03:14.23, and glad that he hadn't mentioned the botched hijacking whose cargo was still in police custody. And which just might save him yet. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jun 13, 2009 7:38:28 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jun 13, 2009 7:43:02 GMT -5
044[/b] At eleven-fourteen precisely the bell rang; Vonda's students arose as one, chattering and shuffling their way to lunch. She saw the tide eddying around some obstacle just outside the door, and upward looks. Someone tall waiting to see her, then ... she was a little surprised to see David Thomsen padding into the room, wearing a very baggy part-mesh top and knee-length athletic shorts nearly met at the hems by some sort of padded, thick white leather training shoes that must have weighed five pounds each. The shorts were, despite their special tailoring, stretched out at the crotch by the massive flesh underneath. He was looking at her with thoughtfulness on his broad, handsome face. She wondered. He wasn't one of her students, even in theory. But she smiled--automatically smoothing her skirt, she realized, and standing up very straight--and said, "Why, hello, David. What can I do for you?" "Hey, Miz Hoffman--" "Call me Vonda," she interrupted, "while we're talking privately anyway, that's fine." "Okay, Vonda," he said. "I couldn't help noticing you in the Facility office second period." "Oh! no, no matter," she replied. "Just had to get some cheer stuff." "You took your time," he said frankly. "All period in fact. I saw you watching us." "Well, I don't usually go in there--" "You never go in there during HIR labs," he said, sitting a little on the edge of a worktable. "Must a' been some cheer stuff you wanted awful bad." "Well, yeah. And I admit, I looked. I was interested ... I've heard my gals talk about it often enough." "You looked really interested. Especially in me." "Well, that's not really typical schoolwork. They didn't have it anywhere I taught before I came here, and they certainly didn't cover it at teachers' college." "So, what did you think of it?" he asked. "I--" She felt slightly flustered. Schoolgirlish, in fact. "It was, well, interesting." "Can I ask why you avoided the place before? I mean, during lab hours?" She shrugged. "I never found it interesting before." "I heard about your husband. I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "Can I ask, is he--that--why you never found it interesting before?" "I suppose," she said. "I just--I'm down with Alder Island and all that," she said, using the young people's phrase a little self-consciously. "I work here ... I'm fine with it all. It's just that where I came from things were very different. One man, one woman, for life. Marriage. Kids. That's the idea anyway. Not like this. As much as I'm okay with it," she added. "I never heard talk of you getting around," he said bluntly. "That made me wonder." "Wonder about what, David?" Her insides were starting to churn a little .. butterflies in the stomach. "There's someone in school here," said the young man slowly, "who isn't what they seem to be. Talk is that someone's pretending to be a student, or teacher, or worker or something, and passing information about us and this place to somewhere else." "And you thought--?" Her face broke out in shock. "No! Ah can assure you it's not me," she said quickly. "If that's what you were thinkin'." "Well, I didn't know. But I know Laney, and Tommy, and I knew Nolan, too. I wasn't thinking that so much." "What were you thinking?" He crooked a finger, motioning her to come to him. She walked toward him. The five feet between her desk and where he was felt like a fashion runway with ten thousand eyes and one thousand cameras on her. Every physical defect she might have flashed before her mind's eye: her sometimes-lazy eyelid, the little bump on her jaw, the annoying thread the might be dangling somewhere, the incipient run in her hose ... but she walked over to him and stood, bending over a little at the waist. He took her hand. She nearly jumped at the unexpected gesture. "You took your wedding ring off," he said softly. She flushed. "Well, Ah ain't married anymore." He looked her straight in the eyes; half-seated as he was, he was still at eye level with her, and he moved his feet so his shoe soles settled protectively next to each other in back of her pumps. He said: "You're the one." "What?" she asked, dumbfounded. Those words ... "I always wanted you, Vonda. As a woman. I always respected you. Admired you. You were something different. You stayed with your husband, and I respected that. But when I saw you looking at me today, I saw a woman who wanted a man." He drew her in a bit so his huge genital bulge felt hot against her thigh. He looked at her again, and electricity seemed to crackle in his blue eyes. "I dreamed of you. I thought of you when I was having sex with a thousand other women. But it was you, Vonda. You're the one." Her brain roared. She thought of Gary, who had loved her as well as he could, but who had betrayed her and died at the hands of a prostitute. She thought of Rhys Macklin, so worldly and successful but yet a gentleman, like some of the Texas business moguls her family had known ... and somehow--for some reason--devoted to that little twit who wasn't worthy of taking away his slops. Anger rose in her, and frustration. She did want a man. A proper man. One who wanted her. She hadn't been picturing anyone definite ... certainly not one whose mother was so close to her own age, and not with a physique worthy of a sculpture by Michelangelo. But why not? She listened for her inner dialogue to start, but it didn't. She'd already lost her reputation--she knew if no one else did--first with a quickie with John Brunett and then a night at Rhys Macklin's house--and god only knew what her kids were making of her. What she had left was her own: her house, her job, a few dollars in the bank, and the body that was now sinking down ... down, slowly down onto its knees between David's thighs, and its head sagging forward to rest on his monstrous genital sac, hot and throwing off an animal pungency that she could smell. Why not? Life as she knew it was shot to hell. Why not try someone else's idea of it? It was supposed to be good enough for her children and the gals on her cheer squad. It couldn't work out any worse than her own plans had. This might all be some kind of elaborate joke of his, or done to win a bet, but so what? If people were gonna talk, why not give 'em something to talk about? She threw her bloused arms around his waist, feeling the hard muscle ... feeling, feeling ... and a surge of raw lust welled up in her; she could feel her womanhood starting to run in the way Holly had talked of hers. I'm a juicy gal, she'd said. Vonda could relate. She felt David's big hands on her head, stroking it. She looked up, her eyes moist, and saw him responding with nothing but simple desire on his face. "I want you, Vonda. Right now," he whispered. "I want you, too, David," she said softly. He reached down and lifted her to her feet easily, like a sack of sugar, and stood up, with her hand still in his. "There's a supply closet across the hall," he said. "We've still got twenty minutes." As in a dream, she nodded, and went with him. >< >< >< Within a minute they were in the supply room, the light on and the door locked, surrounded by metal shelves of stuff. There was a worktable, and a cheap mattress leaning up on the fiberboard floor. She had her shoes and pantyhose off in a moment, and he stepped out of his shorts and whick--whiiiick--scrrrrip--away came his genital restraint. She goggled at his enormous organ, springing out like a ramrod. He sat her on the worktable .. cold on her bare tush under the short skirt draped around it, and went to one knee, stroking her thighs and touching her for punctuation as he spoke. "You're still fertile, Vonda ... I can tell. I'm gonna call this one." She licked her lips, touching him, too, touching his enormous, rock-hard erection. "Call ...?""Pregnancy has a lot to do with how much the woman wants the man, and you want me more than anything you've ever wanted. So I'm gonna make you pregnant right now. It will be a boy. I care about this one--for your sake, Vonda. Because of you. If you don't want to keep him, give him to me and I will provide for him. I will name him and I will see him raised." "You will?" "I will. And he'll be a man's man. Maybe even carry the Bearer trait with him. He'll grow up to be winner. A fighter and a killer and a heartbreaker, and his first fight will be to drive out whatever's bad in you, and he'll win. I'll give him everything I have and more. He'll be me and more than me. He'll be a god on earth." "Oh ... David!" she cried, and wrapped herself around him. "We're gonna make him right now," said David, and spread his legs and entered her, slowly at first, then faster, harder, fuller. Her vitals screamed but again she didn't care. She yielded, let go, convulsed, over and over as they swung, rolled, went down, crashing against a shelf, whacking into a locker, breaking something with a PWOCK-tinkkkkle, her legs alternately flailing and gripping him hard, her teeth grinding. It was pain, but glorious pain--hurt for hurt, pain she wanted and needed to drive out the other pain. He came volcanically inside her, violently, rapidly--it seemed like her abdomen must burst with the pressure, and she could hear and feel gobs of his burning seed splashing on her thighs and shins and splattering on the floor. And she pressed herself into it, wanting all he could give, damn the pain. Let him fuck her to death if he wanted to--there were worse ways to go. She was his rag doll, his come-bag, his tool, a simple extension of his own genitalia. Her head whacked into something, and again her shoulder. She kept her eyes shut and hung on, knowing she would die if she opened them or let go. She endured as he dug in and gave her a hundred times more than she needed. She was numb when he let her down, breathing rapidly, tears spurting from her eyes, and not only tears of pain but tears of everything all at once. And he held her awhile, whispering to her ... and last he sat her up and it came to her that she had better move while she could. Her feet went splish-splish-splish in cool, sticky, semen on the floor while she moved a towel around. He had a mop and bucket. "I meant what I said, Vonda," he told her, taking out the mop and swiping as she pulled out her pantyhose. "You keep me up to date." "Ah will," she said faintly, retrieving a shoe which had flown into a corner. Then she turned to face him as he put the mop away. He hadn't broken a sweat while nearly killing her. He was a man and more than a man, and now she had his divinity inside her. She fought back the impulse to kneel and recite a psalm to him. But she had to know one thing. "Was it ... was it good?" she asked. "It was you," he answered. "If I knew a higher word I'd use it. But I don't." She licked her lips again. "Do you ..." "Yes. I want you more. More and more, again and again. You have to be the most woman I've ever had--I thought it would be so. You know how to turn off your brain and let your body drive. I would love to be the man you call on anytime. And I do mean, anytime." She threw her arms around him and kicked her feet back and up, hugging him for dear life. "Thank you, David." "Thank you," he replied. "And I will see you again. And we'll talk .. wherever, whenever." He smiled and was gone, and she came to with a start and dove into her purse for the small stock of pain pills she always carried. She was gonna need them badly. >< >< >< Rhys' meeting with his political consultants had gone well, and Ralna had come along, equipped with a comset remote so she could monitor any calls to the office. She didn't need it, having wireless access built into the parietal region of her skull, but it was good for show. Ralna remaining undetected was an absolute priority if he meant to banish 'Doctor Humod' to the past for now--and ultimately, to transcend him. He looked at her as they walked down Fifth Avenue, overcoated against the fine, chilly rain greying the city. She was adapting well, he thought. Her speech patterns were rapidly naturalizing, and she was picking up colloquial usage with amazing speed. She moved more naturally, too ... not that there had been anything wrong with her physicality before. But it was somehow less smooth, with features like randomized eye movement, breathing irregularities--even a sigh once during the meeting--and she'd picked up one or two small mannerisms like touching herself on the ear now and then. He himself, had he not modded her--he reflected--could not have told her from a pemp; that is, as he and his colleagues used to say, a PMP or pre-mod primate. That had been his own focus, unlike some who enjoyed building in third eyes and arms. It had been his grail-quest, he once told someone, that he would someday have some pleasant, civilized discourse with someone and only later discover that the other had been a humod. Somehow, he felt, research had lost its way. The earliest humods, the simplest ones, had been the best and most survivable. Soft mods, with limited enhancements, like the original military models. Technology had taken over, of course, and those with the money--which always seemed to be the ones without taste, discretion, or a sense of fitness--had driven the technology. Which just went to show why one doesn't let technology take over, he thought sardonically. Three arms, indeed!But the technology was here, like it or not; the toothpaste was not about to be put back into the tube. And so he had decided that the old man--in technically-driven fields, the age of thirty was considered hopelessly out of touch--he, the old man, would show them all a thing. He would create the embodiment of his vision, but also fused with the latest, most advanced technology as well. His masterwork. Others had tried to create beings that were basically cyborgs--half-human, half-mod--hence the term 'humod.' But that was just the problem he had set himself to overcome. That was where they had failed, because you can't make something half-human, or half-mod. One half must destroy the other half. It must be all or none. And that was where Ralna was different from any of them. All human, and all mod as well. Unprecedented. Well, nearly unprecedented ... ... it was not for nothing that he had devoted himself to the study of history and religion and mythology as well as science. Ancient scriptures had spoken of nephilim, half-gods, half-men. They had failed, and been destroyed--as humods had. But after them had come one who had been all god and all human, both, entire and complete in one body. He had succeeded. The presence of that Man had moved the world into a new age ... an age that had now disintegrated. The time had come for a new step forward. God, it was written, had selected a woman. He, Govannon Rhys Macklin, had also selected a woman. He didn't flatter himself that the analogy ran any further than that, other than the purpose, which was to create a new order of being--something the world had never yet seen. The Man had been the son of God; the Woman was the daughter of Science. And as the Man has fulfilled his father's law and pointed the way beyond, so, Rhys Macklin hoped, the Woman would fulfill her maker's law, and also point a way beyond. >< >< >< On their way up in the lift, Rhys asked Ralna: "Do you know why I brought you to that meeting?" She looked at him. "To preserve a verbatim record, perhaps, sir. To scan the others present for abnormal bio-sigs. To deal with any attempt on your person since you are now a candidate, albeit an unofficial one. Perhaps for training in thinking. You did not specify; you simply said 'come,' and I came. But all are logical." "I also had an illogical motive," he said. "To provide you also with information should you have to, um, succeed me someday." “Me? Succeed you, sir?” “That is why I want you to accustom yourself to thinking. You may find yourself with responsibilities. I’m a busy man, Ralna, and I’m nearly fifty years old. You’re much younger and stronger than I am. I have research and business interests, and political ones, which must be carried on. Who is better-equipped to take charge than you?’ "I'm ... I'm flattered, sir. But except on your direct instructions I would never assume control over any of your affairs while you lived." She looked at him a moment, her eyes flickering, and then said: "Your biosigns changed significantly just now, sir, when I said that. Do you have information for me?" The lift stopped and the doors opened. "You heard what the consultant said. My wife has vanished, probably temporarily, but ... things happen to people who cross the Party, and the Party's embodiment, for the moment, is--well, you know who," he said, glancing upward. "Things may happen, but not to you, sir," she replied. "Not while I exist to serve you." At the door of the office, they both extended their hands for the doorknob, and his fingers brushed the back of her hand. Her hand fastened on the knob first, but before she opened it, she looked up at him again. His eyes traveled down, past the hem of her skirt and his trouser cuffs, to where one of her boot soles half-covered a business card lying on the floor. Her glance followed his, and she quickly knelt down and picked it up, while he opened the door. He let her in first, and while she took in the office, with more than a casual visual--he knew she was running a scan--he removed her coat and hung it up and added his own next to it. All was normal. "Whose card?" he asked. She turned it over in her fingers and handed it to him; on one side in Mandarin and the other in English, it read: Fujian Shipping & Trading Co, Ltd. Xue Guangyong, Senior Assistant Director, and carried the customary contact data. He shrugged. "Does it mean anything to you?" "We investigated a hack--" "Yes, Ralna. I mean, why that card should be here now. Did you not say you'd counter-hacked?" "Yes, sir. It's surely been detected, but just as surely hasn't been traced here. I accessed through a network that used a dummy IP in another City bureau." "Which one?" "The Compliance Code Office, sir." He smiled. "Good. Well, I saw on my PD-NET review that they were hit with a robbery very early this morning. I expect that this is someone's way of warning me that I'll be called on in connection with it." She turned to face him. "Sir, you said you'd love to have that shipment they were expecting. The Selene Nines, the LUM-44's, the Crawling Chaos, the KP-Sixes, the SubEGen, the rest of it." "Yes. Seems like I wasn't the only one. Anyone would, who knew what they were." She reached into her purse, drawing out a keycard, and took two steps and held it out to him. "What's this?" he asked. "No one but me knows where those goods are now. And that is the key to them." His jaw dropped. "You ... I read about that on the PD-NET. That was you?""Me and a driver, sir. The driver was good, but no one else will be using his services." "Oh-mi-god, Ralna," he said slowly, taking a deep breath, and also taking the keycard. Her face registered instant concern. "Sir? I know you said you didn't want to risk me. But you gave me the night off. I--I wanted--to optimize your plans. I did it on my own. For you." "That was a beautiful operation," he murmured. "They're analyzing some video, but it's been flagged as a DNI ... they expect it to be hopeless. One comment said that it had to be an internal black-ops strike." "Are you pleased, then, sir?" she asked softly. For an answer he took her into his arms and gave her a bear hug. "Pleased? I want you to have my babies!" he said, one arm around her back, with her head eased to rest against his chest. "Does that express it? It was beautiful ... you are beautiful, past my every hope and desire." A moment passed; and very quietly, into his jacket lapel, she murmured: "I exist to serve." >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jun 20, 2009 14:37:38 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jun 20, 2009 14:38:09 GMT -5
045 [/b] A trim, intelligent-looking young man, adjusting his glasses on the way in to Chief Jones' office, nearly ran into a black-coated detective coming out. He yanked himself aside just in time; he didn't care for police at all, especially not to touch accidentally. A lot of corrupt thugs, he thought, serving the powers that be. But he mumbled an apology just the same. "No prob, Mr. Huxley," said the middle-aged cop, turning back and pushing back his snap-brim hat. "And you are--?" asked the other. "Casarelli--Detective Casarelli." He started to put his hand out for a shake, but stopped. This wasn't New York. "Sorry, Detective," said Huxley, with a cool glance. Then he went on in. Chief Jones stood up to greet him. "Hello. Have a seat. Care for some ‘bux?" "No, thanks," said the visitor. "I just stopped by to pick up the interim report on the City Hall bombing investigation." "The official report?" asked Jones, with what looked to the City Manager's assistant like a smirk. Huxley twitched. He was feeling twitchy; he'd dosed up on Levagra to give Sarah an extra-hot time during their usual midday quickie, only to find himself put off in favor of some sleek Asian to whom, she'd explained, she owed a warm, personal Queen City welcome. One of Leonard's new higher-level assistants, he guessed. She'd promised to accommodate him after a meeting but by that time the enhancement aid would have worn off. Sloppy seconds, he thought with distaste. "Yes, of course the official report," Huxley replied irritably. "What other version is there?" "The truth," shrugged Jones. "But don't worry. That's strictly classified." Huxley leaned down on the desk. "Truth? Chief Jones, the truth is above your pay grade. Your job is collecting and turning over evidence. The correct evidence. It is for others to determine what the truth really is.' Jones drew out a dossier from a shelf. "Here you are," he said. "Complete with all the official evidence. A truck license plate traced to an Alder Island construction business, with data and numbers to match. Luckily we were able to obtain some of the owner's DNA for a further match. Also a recording claiming responsibility from an ex-soldier in a group there," he added, as Huxley riffled through the pages. "The explosive?" "Military-issue T-9. Untraceable .... could have come from anywhere." "Good." Jones held up another dossier. "Do you also want this?" "What is it?" "The unofficial version, showing traces back to that December Second Brigade or whoever it was that tried to claim credit." "No," said Huxley. "Make it disappear." "What if we went public with that?" asked the older man thoughtfully. "Just supposing." "A link to a Middle Eastern group is unacceptable," declared Huxley. "Especially with an election in the offing. They are peaceful. The word Islam itself means 'peace,' you know," he added, making a note of the chief's typical police ignorance. "And here I thought the word Islam meant 'submission,'" murmured Jones. "Oh, no, no. Besides which, if such an allegation were made public, we'd have a wave of riots--rockings, strikes, shootings, a few beheadings, just like in Milwaukee, Detroit, Crestwood, Pittsburgh, and a dozen other places. And rightfully so. Why should they bear slander patiently? No, we have to stand for peace," Huxley opined. "You know, you should go back to college. Learn what the world's really like. They say it's never too late." "I'll look into it," said Chief Jones with a wan smile. "Until then I'll stick to collecting and turning over evidence." "Good. Thanks, Chief," said Huxley, and left. >< >< >< Merilee adjusted one heavy, tender breast inside its bra cup, and then the other, making sure the absorbent liners were in place before pulling down her sweater. Then she stroked young Sean Lonergan's head as he lay dozing with his head in her lap, arms thrown around her--well, almost around her; they wouldn't quite go all the way around. Her body was pretty ample, and he was small for his age. He needed all the nutrition he could get, she thought pityingly, and all the care and love. He was obviously one of a large and disquieting group of Alder Island children, conceived and brought to birth more for the financial benefit than anything else, and--that obtained--effectually abandoned, to judge from his loneliness and desperate need for her affection. It was rapidly becoming clear he felt he had very little to live for apart from her. He was not the expert nurser that John was--he still used his teeth sometimes--but he was making progress. She thought about John. She had known that with high school, life would grow a little bigger for him. New friends, new relationships, and that could not be all bad, especially in a nice place like the island. But with it she thought that she detected some distancing from her in him. She was driving up to the high school to nurse him every day on their lunch hour, but after only six weeks he was not nursing like he used to do for lunch. He was still doing it, but the nearness--the intimacy, she felt--was less. He was still her boy, of course. And yet .. and yet ... the naive goodness, the innocent desire, was waning. Even good girls, it seemed, could draw him away somewhat. With blood she had sworn to God a terrible revenge on anyone or anything that came between them. But how could she avenge herself on his own growing-up, after all? And time was not only doing its work on him. She was in her mid-thirties but moved with the matronly waddle of fifty; wearing anything but skirts and baggy tops was out of the question. The weight of her bust was rounding her back, making it hurt sometimes, and if she could cover up her pendulous belly, puckered hips, and ballooning thighs, she could not cover her double chin. Marriage again was out of the question. She refused to apply for an annulment, as if she had anything to atone for, and Steve, the kids' dad, scoffed at the idea. She couldn't marry again--that would be abhorrent--and what other man would take a--frankly--dumpy woman like her? If he did, how would she know it wasn't for her money? And if some man of unquestioned integrity and unusual appreciation did, how would his demands come between her and her duty to her children? She remembered with a smile a year before--just a year--when Kayleigh had gone off with Vonda Hoffman to the junior cheer regionals, her first extended trip away from home. Kayleigh had loved it. And while Kayleigh was gone, she and John had spent a hundred hours in bed, a marathon of love on love, giving on giving. holding one another and never getting up, just living on each other and nothing else in a closed, secure, warm cocoon of care and nurture. It had been sheer heaven. They had repeated it in smaller versions since ... but the same spirit was not quite there, she felt sadly. That had been the acme. Nothing could surpass it. And so, with their peak in its past--things still good, to be sure, very good, but not the same--she had wondered what the future would hold for her. And now she looked down at Sean Lonergan and knew. He wasn't yet a man but he was a male, someone capable of satisfying her needs. And she was responsible, with Jo Grant and community health professionals, for developing precious male fertiles. And he wanted her terribly. And so they had begun a relationship. Sean would not come between her and John, she reflected-- Sean was the Celtic form of John so it was really like they were the same, only Sean was a younger version with all the intense desire and need that John had had. And still had, but not as much, not the same. So she could develop him and satisfy him and help him, and he could help her in return. No one the loser here. It was not lust but love. How could anyone object to love? No one; not God Himself, who, it was written, is love. The bell rang, and Merilee put her hands on Sean's shoulders, shaking him very gently. "Sean ... wake up," she whispered. He stirred, then opened his eyes and looked up at her. She smiled, and he smiled back, understanding. He would keep the secret. He had collected his pack and left, and she had her own bag and had wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and was on the way out when Jo said: "Merilee? Um ... " Merilee turned. Jo was looking her her knowingly. Knowingly and disapprovingly, she could tell. She braced herself. mentally undoing the safety catch on her claws. Jo was a friend, but friends weren't everything. "Um ..." Jo began, seeming to wither a little. "As much as I--we--appreciate everything, everything ... I have to ask you; not that--not here anyway." "What?" Merilee asked. Jo's glance moved toward the back room and away again, then down at her keyboard. "What you were doing in there," she said rapidly. "I mean, it's okay but--but just--if you could find another place? Not here." Merilee felt her gorge rising, and her claws came out. "And what about you and your little 'patients?'" she asked softly. "It's alright if there's no love in it, then?" "Two things. One, I'm a licensed pediatric specialist, and it's very occasional and for therapeutic purposes only. Two, it happens off-campus in my clinic office, not here. This isn't the high school's staff fitness facility, which officially doesn't exist. We could get in trouble, Merilee. Even here. Nobody wants trouble." "Why should there be any trouble?" "There's someone around," said Jo. "Word is they're reporting to the State or something. We've got to be careful." "Who?" Jo shrugged. "Someone undercover. Maybe even someone we know. Just saying, Merilee. Anyone could walk in here and hear something." "I see. Alright .. thank you, Jo," replied Merilee. "I'll be going now." Jo looked straight at her. "Sorry. I had to let you know, though." "Right. Thanks." Merilee left, feeling tensed, letting her flat bootsoles slap carelessly on the hall floor, thinking about a hundred things besides her next class. >< >< >< It was, as Sir had promised, a busy day at the office, but Ralna had to be discreet. She could type a 'mail with one hand, work a spreadsheet with another, upload information visually or via interlink, and conduct a voice conversation, all simultaneously, but if she were to be found doing that by a walk-in visitor there might well be undesirable consequences. So, until the move to a newer, more controlled office that Sir had mooted, she kept to doing no more than two things at once, as a rule. It was an amusing challenge to put things together so that doing no more than that she could still accomplish all her tasks. It gave her a ... a feeling, she thought, of--of satisfaction. Thinking was still very fresh for her and she was, she decided, as yet far from proficient at it. But it was proving rather addictive, and Sir's words to her had given her something new to work on; she allowed it to run as an invisible third task while she composed a press release and took a call from a City auditor's clerk. Was there not love between them? Ralna had in the last two days uploaded a tremendous amount of information about love. Apparently, humans everywhere were looking for it, and few were able to find it. For some people it meant sexual intercourse. For others it meant various things to do with god. One man, said to be a god, had let himself be nailed to a tree for love of people who hated him. For love, so another story went, a woman spent her life nursing disease victims whose disease had in turn claimed her own life. People seemed to be willing to suffer any indignity, spend any amount of money, do the most absurd things for it, yet few sources agreed on just what it was. It had a lot to do with feeling, evidently, which was why she had started working through that; but her experiences with sex had so far proven unfruitful. All of them had played out like exercises in self-satisfaction for the other, and triggered her own blank defense reaction which commanded that no one must ever live to tell about sexual experience with her body. No, sex was not the answer, as useful for learning and improvement as it was. She had run proper analysis on it on the bus on the way to work this morning. Its preliminary results had shown that love amounted to dedication; setting aside self-interest in order to promote the interest of another--and doing so freely, with no expectation of return on investment. "The gift of the Good to the Other," as it had been phrased by one writer. It meant duty ... existing to serve, as she did. But there was more than that, obviously. There was also having the other. And if the one and the other were present to each other, and each existed to serve the other, then that was love. Her thinking was not interrupted by finishing the call with the city official, but it was cut off by a verbal summons from the inner office. "Yes, sir?" she replied. "Ralna," came Rhys' voice, "I have a task for you, priority. We need to know Candee's whereabouts ahead of my official announcement for office tomorrow. I've done some checking around myself--" that was said unnecessarily as he knew that Ralna ran a background audit on all his calls except from the private line--"and I've come up with no information from our friends and business associates. I want you to access the cache files in my home server and analyze all her 'mails and messages." "Yes, sir. Back to what date?" "Oh, ninety days for a start. That won't take long. Perhaps there may be a clue there. I'll provide you with the necessary password and protocols in a moment." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir" "Thank you, Ralna, that's all for now." "I exist to serve," she replied; within seconds her mindplate had the information and she set herself to the task. It proved to be of interest, she discovered, as a significant amount of Candee Macklin's messages and 'mails dealt with love in one way and another, and so she integrated the scan into her own free processing on love. There were many from and to men with whom she had sex during the day, but all the keyword data indicated that she had been in full control of that side of things, and nothing to suggest she had lost it. Absolutely no data sorted under 'politics;' she seemed to have no knowledge, nor cared to acquire any, about that topic. However, when Ralna eventually sorted under 'fertility' and 'child' the hits climbed sharply. Candee had no children of her own but plainly was consumed with the subject. That ran well into her own thinking. Her relationship with Sir might well be based on love. She was, by duty, logic, and inclination, wholly devoted to him; her daily schedule, except for her free time, was his creation. She herself was his creation. He had given her life itself, and she gave her life back to him every day. But was it really love, or simply perfect commitment? She remembered how he had embraced her earlier. It had been soft yet strong, and she could detect even without a scan that his biosigns had been elevated in a good way; his brainwaves had been almost palpable and she had gone slightly weak at the knees when he had instructed her to ... to have babies for him. Such an instruction he had never given even to his wife, so the data indicated. There were many indicators that for humans this was a sign of love of the highest order, despite other counterindicators from a range of sources that pointed to a desire for enslavement. And yet ... and yet, how could he desire to enslave her? She was already his property in a very real if not quite legal sense. She was aware from his biographical data that although Sir currently professed no dealings with superstition or lore about god, he had undergone some childhood education in a religious environment whose teaching held the rearing and raising of children to be a calling of the highest and most desirable order. Evidently his feelings had changed; human feelings did. At the same time, however, he had designed and built her to be the ultimate personal assistant and bodyguard. Into those things all her physical energy channels had been directed--not to include the enormous but comparatively rare task of childbearing. And yet ... and yet. Could it be that his feelings had changed? Human feelings did. More data was required. >< >< >< >< >< >< Uptown, Norman Boulanger looked up from a brief to see a taskbar flashing; a call being held by his PA, a nice, middle-aged woman with the look of a new-minted granny and the instincts of a mako shark, a combination beyond price in his practice. "Yes, Hannah?" he said. "Call for you, sir. A gentleman named Mordred. He says it's about the Jane Macklin case." The lawyer took a moment to run through all the names he knew connected with Jane's case, and 'Mordred' wasn't any one among them. He was curious, but cautious. Rhys Macklin had friends and connections everywhere. "Put it on conference," he said. "I'd like you to listen in, too." "Yes, sir," she replied, and then he hit 'accept.' "Hello, Norman Boulanger," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Hey, Mr. B," said the caller. "Name's Mordred. I'm a professional 'net researcher. I know you're handling Jane Macklin's action against her ex-husband Rhys Macklin. I'd like to help you out with that." "I'm afraid I'm not sure what you mean," said the attorney. "Help me out, Mr. ... what was the name again?" "Mordred," said the caller. "And you know exactly what I'm talking about. Jane Macklin was married to Rhys Macklin for twelve years, and they had two children; one, Jason, still lives with his dad on Alder Island. Jason was genetically tinkered with before and after birth, and finding out about that Jane wanted an abortion but lost the decision and he got custody. She did get custody of her daughter, Zoey, who is now Zoey Scraggs and lives in Pocatello, Idaho. The Scraggses don't live in Idaho City any more. Have you caught on to what I'm talking about now?" "I believe so, Mr. Mordred," admitted Norman. "So how would you like to help?" "Rhys Macklin is a powerful man. He's running for a seat on the Council. He's got connections. Frankly, Mr. B, he'll squash you and Jane like bugs. You haven't got a hope unless you can get Jason to testify against him. Right now that's a big gamble for you. I can make it a sure thing." "Can you?" asked the lawyer. "I can. I guarantee it or you pay me nothing but expenses." "Pay you?" The voice became nettled. "I believe I mentioned being a professional 'net researcher. I don't work for love, Mr. B. And with Rhys being a candidate this is going to be a big case and you know it." "Mrs. Macklin isn't rich. With as much as you know, you'll also know I'm handling this on a contingency basis. I only get paid if she wins." The caller laughed sardonically. "I know what it means, Mr. B. I'm a professional but I'm not a grifter. In exchange for the information I'd get my expenses, which aren't great, up front, and get my pay if you win. If you don't, I walk away with my expenses covered. So do you wanna meet and talk about it or not?" "What do you propose to bring?" "Okay," said the caller. "This is where you turn off your conference connection, Mr. B--no, no," he said, as Norman started to say something. "I know you have someone listening with you. Well, this is where they get off." The attorney thought for about one second before cutting the conference connection. "Ah, that's better. I understand, Mr. B, but we are gonna want plausible denial here. What I will bring is printouts of certain records and conversations. With selected bits redacted, but enough so you can see what it is. If you decide to use it, you get full versions with sourcing. But it will stir up a hornets' nest for Rhys Macklin and get Jason to testify. One thing--the deal-breaker. No one must know of my involvement. It's got to be completely confidential. That's why I told you to shut off the link." "If you're going to get paid, there'll be a trail," Norman pointed out. "Money leaves footprints." "If I get paid I'm going to disappear," said the caller. "The money will finance it." "You're afraid of Rhys Macklin, then?" "Let's just say that I have my reasons," replied the voice. "And they're good ones. So. Do you wanna meet?" "Alright," said Norman. "No promises until I see the stuff, though." "Of course not. And you'll bring along a written agreement which we will sign if you accept my help, and which you will keep completely secret until and unless Jane wins. That agreement will turn over to me five million dollars, or five percent of the net worth of the award, whichever is greater." "Five million. That's a lot of money," said Norman. "It's pocket change to the people involved in this. It's certainly only a few percent of the settlement you can get for Jane Macklin unless you're a complete idiot. And I want ten thousand, cash, payable on the spot if you decide to accept the information. That's my expenses." "When do you want to meet?" "No time like today. After work at the Sully's coffeehouse on Olive Way?" "Done. How will I know you?" "I'll know you, Mr. B. That will do. See you there. We now return you to your regularly scheduled legal stuff." The caller clicked off. Without missing a beat, Norman lifted his voice. "Did you run down that number, Hannah?" "Yes, sir," said his PA. "Routed via telnet from the City Compliance Code office. Came through their anonymous tipsters' number so it can't be traced beyond that. They have protocols but he did it anyway. He wasn't blowing smoke about being a professional, sir." "Hmm. Good, Hannah, thanks." Norman Boulanger sat back and thought. Any custody case involving Rhys Macklin was going to be bigger than usual. But this was looking like turning into something else again. Stick with what you've got. Be safe, came the thought. He called to Hannah again. "Yes, sir?" "Hannah, I need you to draw me up an agreement," he said. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jun 27, 2009 18:50:22 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jun 27, 2009 19:08:53 GMT -5
046
"You have made him little less than a god, You crown him with glory and honor. You have given him dominions over all the works of your hands, You have put all things under his feet, All sheep and oxen, wild animals of the field, the birds of the air, And the fish of the waters and all creatures who travel the paths of the sea. O Lord, O Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!"Merilee, kneeling in her corner in the family room, watching as John's hands held on to the thick hips of a churchwife in front of him and he buried his entire manhood in her billowing flesh, coming in rushes, irrigating her, making her fruitful and good, heard the reading from the prayer service in the sanctuary over the speaker, and it seemed appropriate to her. Her John was indeed little less than a god, and crowned, to her, with glory and honor. From sole to crotch and from pelvis to neck he was encased in softest sheep fleece under his angelic robe, and by nature he was a creature not quite human; more in some ways, and less, too--less in ways where humanity had gone wrong. As she often did during these sessions, she felt near to tears with joy. Her own nurturing juices running high, she had nursed John after school with extra abundance; her nipples hurt from the milk gushing through them. And now by divine alchemy he had transformed the life she had given him into seed, passing it on to many women--praying, grateful women, seated discreetly in the pews nearest the side room--who would themselves transform it into more and more new lives. How could such plenteousness of life not be good? It was, and more--it was majestic. "MmmmmMMmmmmm .. aaahhh ... AAH--GODDDD! JEEEzusandmarySAAAAVE ... YES! OH! OH!" As if in answer to the Davidic song just read, a wild, ecstatic womanpsalm broke forth from the supplicant's lips, her midsection convulsing, again and again, yielding to the big organ within it whose powerful melodies of fertility poured out again and again, the wobbling flesh embracing it fully. Merilee knew her, a local woman and proud mother of seven already: one before she had seen the light, and six by her John. Two more, and her nice, quiet husband would be able to leave his job in the sin-ridden city and then they could both devote themselves to full-time parenthood with the payments they would be getting. She took her cues from John, who infallibly sensed when it was enough, and first signaled the outer chamber where the women acolytes would enter and assist her to the right, and help her clean herself up and put herself right, and perhaps to say a brief prayer of thanks at the corner shrine ... and deposit her thank-offering, of course. Just what was the price of the gift of life, no one discussed much. Merilee herself considered five to ten thousand a good figure, though they had had checks for very much more or less. It all evened out. In the meantime, in the left chamber, the next supplicant would be preparing herself, with the help of another pair of acolytes, strengthening her for joy, and she herself would be ministering to John for a few minutes, wiping, powdering, perhaps offering a change of garment, nursing him a little, whispering words of love and giving tender caresses as his mighty rod drew afresh from the wellsprings of divine richness coupled with her own providence. Today he seemed in fettle physically, making a dozen mothers in the first hour, but he looked a little--thoughtful--to her. Something other than pure goodness seemed to be on his mind, so during one of the longer nursing breaks, taken on the hour, she asked him: "John, my angel ... my wonderful one; you're thinking. I can tell. I know everything." She looked down at his blonde head and stroked it as her breast tingled with the pleasure of sweet relief. "Why don't you share it with mama?" For an answer he only hugged her tighter. She ran her fingers through his hair. He seemed on the verge of becoming more upset, so she just cooed meaningless phrases of comfort. Despite all her efforts, he had bad days sometimes. She wondered if he knew about the spy that Jo had mentioned. He must feel that something was up. Perhaps he was afraid she might present herself here. If she did, thought Merilee, she would pray for her ... by description, by name if possible, with her crisis com-clip on--a reception committee would be waiting to welcome the visitor in a very special way. But there was a movement at the door; an acolyte checking discreetly ... so Merilee talked John down, petting him, giving him comforting squeezes and touches. More supplicants awaited their miracles. God's work came first. >< >< >< >< >< >< Dr. Chantal Inouye's midday break had been delayed due to a meeting at which further policy revisions in the hospital's pharmacy had been discussed. Officially, through its pharmacy, the hospital dispensed some 2,600 medications, all that were still on the government FDA's approved list. However, due to concerns over liability, most of these were in placebo form. After all, a bioethicist had argued, when you came down to it, medicine was 'really a sort of Zen thing;' left to themselves, patients either recovered naturally or did not. If a patient recovered naturally, that was desirable. The staff could claim credit. If a patient suffered, the staff could cover itself by speaking sagely about complications and unfortunate cost measures. If a patient died, that was, of course, the best of all possible outcomes as they could claim credit for heroic attempts and bury the evidence. This had been unofficial policy for a long time, but was now to become official under a public campaign to be called “Greening Healthcare For The Future.” Chantal sometimes felt sufficiently sure of herself to procure real medications for some patients. It was difficult but could be done by a well-connected doctor. None of this applied to VIP patients, of course. Chantal riffled through the pages of Lucky’s file. She had thought since yesterday of trying to get Lucky McCullum classified as a VIP patient, but it was certainly hopeless, despite the phenomenon of being a fifty-three-year-old woman who had become pregnant naturally. It would have to be approved by Feggins, and Feggins had already obviously conceded more than he had wanted to. The doctor looked again at the stat chart clipped to the front, signed by Nurse ... it looked like Nita--something. She had seen Nita last night briefly as she was leaving very late. She remembered, or thought she remembered, Nita from a University Hospital terminal-care workshop, but--she could have sworn--by a different name. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that Nita seemed extremely capable and efficient. Being that, she got assigned all the hard cases, of course. Two of her patients had died, one quite suddenly, during the night. But Chantal felt good knowing that someone so competent was in charge of Lucky off-hours. As she closed the file, a poorly-attached Post-It fluttered out from beneath the stat chart. Chantal picked it up. It was a message from the call center, from yesterday afternoon, about Lucky. Apparently someone had called the hospital, enquiring about her. Perhaps she did have a family member after all ... The contact number given was, she recognized, an Alder Island Zoomnet PDA number. She had one herself; so did half the island’s residents, and a few--but not many--people off-island. She picked up her own PDA and dialed. “Heya, this is Jason,” came the message. “I’m kinda busy right now but if you leave your name and number, yada yada.”Chantal sat back for a moment, surprised. She knew the voice of Jason Macklin, of course. But what would he want to do with a--a displaced sex worker, as staff had agreed to classify Lucky--and separated by six miles of water and light-years by culture and politics, from the city where she lived? Shaking off her wonderment for the moment, she said rapidly: “Jason, this is Doctor Inouye of Bayview Hospital returning your call. I--I have--information that you asked about. Please call back as soon as you can.” She gave her number and ended the message. Then she let out a breath she had been holding. She was up on the news, of course. If it turned out that Lucky had a connection to Rhys Macklin, that might make even Admin Feggins see things her way. 'Lucky ... ' she thought. Let’s hope your name comes through where it counts.>< >< >< Jason, lying in Jenna’s arms in the service booth at the ferry terminal, heard the muffled chime of the message arriving. He reached over into his coat pocket, withdrew the device, and clicked it open, then snapped shut again. “Anything the matter?” asked Jenna, trailing a finger along the skin of his chest with one hand. “It’s the hospital,” replied Jason. He was glad to be with Jenna ... he did love her, though he had felt some irritation when she had told him how she had skipped a required class at the U, and how valuable her time was. At a half-million dollars an hour, he thought a little unfairly, he could pay for her entire four years of college with a dozen hours‘ earnings. Not that he could tell her that, of course. “Nothing urgent, I hope,” she said with a caring frown. “It's kinda priority,” he said. “It was really wonderful that you came over, Jenna.” “Well, I know it’s dangerous for you to go over. But I know how much you want a--a--sorry, but, like, normal life. And you have to go to the city in disguise for a few hours now and then. To play your music or whatever. It’s just not fair, I think. I think you’re wonderful, really.” “Thanks,” he smiled back. "You're wonderful, too." “Have you rented that place yet? I mean, through your friend?” “Yes. I can’t wait,” he said. “The hell with my dad. I wanna go as soon as possible. Can you meet me tomorrow night?” “To--to go with you, you mean?” “Yes.” “Oh!--um--OMG that’d be great!” she cried. “But ... but ... my stuff! I’ve gotta, you know, move my stuff and--” “Why?” he asked. “What stuff? You haven’t got anything I can’t buy you a hundred of. By the time you’ve been with me a month you won’t want any of your old stuff.” She looked doubtful. “Besides,” he argued, “won’t that tip off your roomies if you clean everything out? Who knows who they’ll report you to?” “But if I just disappear, they’ll call the cops for sure!” “Do this, then. Pack two bags. Leave a note. Tell them you’ve been called home on ... on family matters for a week or three. That’s kinda true isn’t it? Then after a while talk to the office and say, hey, you have to withdraw because of this and that. If you still want any of your stuff, we can find someone to go collect it for you.” She thought for a minute, caressing him softly, and then said: “Okay.” She sighed and turned herself over with a few little humps--the place wasn’t designed for lounging around in--and reached for her bag, unclenching the towel between her sticky thighs. “I’ll let ya go then ... you’ll be busy. Say, what’s the shopping like here? And is there somewhere I can, um, clean up good?” He levered himself up, turning himself to face the little douche unit that she’d used and carefully lowered his maleness into it. “The shopping’s good, I think, but pricey,” he said. “And you can shower and clean up at the fitness club down the street. Just say you’re a friend of mine ... my dad owns the place with Regina.” “Regina?” she asked. Running the pre-soaped water, carefully wiping one side and then the other, he felt a twinge of caution. “She’s--a businesswoman,” he said. “Nobody you know.” “Not yet anyway,” she said, drawing on the track suit she’d brought to wear for after. She’d learned from last time when her spotted clothes had drawn a few glances on the ferry. “Nice, then,” she said after a few quiet moments, he tending to himself and her folding her street clothes into her bag. When Jason had dried off and cinched up his genital restraint before dressing, she said: “I’ll leave ya to it. See you--what about tomorrow?” “I’ll take my car across and park on the street across from the terminal. You know my car, it’s out there. I’ll have my stuff I need in it. Then we’ll load your stuff in and we’ll drive on the ferry and straight to the new place on the reservation. Meet you about seven? Make it seven-ten.” “All right, I’ll do it,” she said decisively, and when he’d tied off his pants she gave him another hug. Then her face screwed up as if she were holding back tears. “Jason ... Jason, I love you so much!”“I love you too, Jenna,” he told her, brushing back her light brown hair and giving her a kiss. “Bye for now then.” “Okay!” She blew him a kiss, mwah, then slipped out the door. Outside, she stopped, turned ... bit her lip, then turned again and walked away quickly. >< >< >< Again, as it probably would be for quite awhile, after-school football practice had been cancelled, and a CDF drill was on; recruiting event--David noted on his PDA messages, he'd expected that, a lot of the guys were on the Force-- Don't come late unless you're bringing volunteers! Cheer practice had also been cancelled--that was no surprise either, as October meant football cheerleading and there wouldn't be any of that. It was surprising to see a text from Vonda Hoffman, I'll ride with you to CDF, but also inviting him to a quick cheer meeting first PLEASE come David! He was already in his military gear, and he'd stowed his bag in his truck and gone over to the gym--the main gym, not the Staff Fitness Facility, whose door he passed to see Holly coming out. "David!" she smiled. "Thought you were off to drill! Somethin' bring you back?" she asked with mock innocence, touching her chest with a free hand. "I'm dressed but we could fix that en toute suite."He smiled back. "Mmmm! Even I'm good for awhile after that last, um, exercise! No, it's--Mrs. Hoffman wants me to look in on a cheer meeting." He shrugged. "I dunno--maybe she wants some quick toning tips or something." "Vonda? The old cow's feeling a little frisky, eh?" Holly lifted an eyebrow. "Maybe that look at the bull in action stirred up some memories." "Oh come on, be nice, Holly," said David. "She's a nice lady, and it is a meeting." "No worries," replied the coach. "I'm gonna stray a little myself tonight. But keep yourself in shape for tomorrow!" "Oh I will," said David, and with winks and 'byes they went their ways. A few yards more, striding with the creaking leather thump and stiff fabric crinkle that his fresh uniform always made, and he was into the gym atrium--he saw someone up on the balcony where the upper weight training area was, beckoning him up the stairs to the side. He could go up there without having to change to athletic footwear, which was a relief, and he did, taking the steps two at a time with his long legs. Up in the weight room, deserted of the regulars who would be on their way to drill or elsewhere, he saw Vonda, four uniformed cheerleaders, three in Alder Island red and white, and four older women--moms or big sisters, in athletic gear. He wondered but not long as they smiled at him, some giving little waves. He recognized all of them vaguely--the three red/white girls were all ones who had opted out of HIR Lab. The fourth uniformed cheerleader was in blue. Her David knew from HIR--quiet, a little shy she'd seemed, with John. "What's up?" he asked Vonda. ["Ahhh! Don't you look nice?" grinned Vonda. "Well! Ah saw the flyers go up and Ah knew y'all wanted volunteers for CDF, so Ah called around, and here they are. Four gals, Krissy, Cheyenne, and Emmeline, and Debi. We got the red, white, and blue. And their moms, Dakota and Shari, and their friends Sinead and Talia. And Ah might just tag along myself." All of them were looking at him with a look he was well acquainted with. They were all standing, and started fanning out around him. He felt a stirring in his loins, but said just: "Okay! Great! Thanks, ladies." "We're not doing this for nothing," said one blonde mom pointedly. "Yeah," added another. Now in a rough circle around him, they kept looking. Vonda started walking toward him, swaying, flipping up her plaid skirt a little. David wondered now, if she'd been taking some drugs; her dark eyes had a feverish glint. "They wanna see some of the, um, benefits of military life. Like how a big, strong soldier might comfort a female buddy," said Vonda. "So--show 'em! Give it to me right now for starters! Right here!" She lay down on a short, almost bedlike pile of folded exercise mats, reaching up under her skirt and pulling down her panties, arching her ass up off her back and her gym-shod feet. "Show us!" came a feral cry. "You're not going anywhere yet!" More Yeahs! He wondered a third time how she'd managed to get enough of whatever drug it was for all of them. He walked over, one hand on his belt buckle, looking down at Vonda. He had to ask: "Are you alright, Mrs--" "Vonda," she said. "No, Ah ain't. Ah'm callin' you out. You're mah man now--Ah'm gonna have you where th' hell ever and when th' hell ever Ah want you, and Ah want you right here an' now in front of mah friends so they'll see. Then you're gonna do all them 'cause Ah tell you to, and 'cause they want it too! Right??" A yell went up, a mad yell that soared out over the balcony and made the gym ring. "I want twins!" ranted a cheerleader. "Gimme!" "I want triplets!" shouted a mom fiercely. "I want octuplets!!" screamed another. "An' after you've done all them you're gonna do me one more time again!" Vonda told him. "Ta make double damn sure!! THEN we'll go and join the army with ya. And you'll make sure we're all happy campers, all the time! Ya GOT THAT SOLDIERBOY??" By now Vonda had a finger in herself, stirring the pot. "So c'mon c'mon C'MON!!" He stood as if rooted to the spot, unbelieving. A hand snaked around from behind him, and another ... yanking at his belt, pulling his trousers down, more hands tearing into his genital restraint. His manhood sprang out, angry, hard, and burning hot, and he whipped around as females fell back. "YEAH!! Okay, bitches!" he bellowed, and strode two, three steps, sinking down onto Vonda. And to think he had felt for her--well, now she was gonna get it. They were all gonna get it alright. He took his length, hefting it in one big hand, letting it slap her belly two or three times ... and felt it suddenly wilt. He felt a rush of panic, and the females, looking at him, started to laugh crazily, pointing and chattering like monkeys. Vonda screamed and pumped her legs, battering him in the chest and shoulders with her feet, pushing him ...pushing him ... pushing him ... ... and he opened his eyes ... to find himself in the driver's seat of his truck, leaning back from having been slumped over the wheel, with Vonda Hoffman pushing gently at his shoulders. "David? Wake up!" she was urging, with friendly concern in her eyes. "Huh?? Wha--?" he mumbled. "Oh ... hi." "Didn't you get my text?" Vonda asked. "Cheer meeting?" asked David quickly. She smiled. "No! Silly man! Cheer practice is cancelled while football is, remember? I said I'd come with you to the recruiting event. Might as well keep busy and there's worse ways than CDF--maybe they can use an ol' biddy to help run the office or something." "Oh! Well--I'll see if I can find one to recommend," he joked, checking his PDA again; there was the text from Bernd, and one from Vonda saying I'll ride with you to CDF, and nothing more. "Are you alright?" she asked. "I found you dozing off. You been overdoing it lately?" "I'm ... I'm alright," he said. "Um, Vonda ... " "Yes?" "There was definitely no cheer meeting, um, right?" She looked at him a little strangely. "Ah told you one time! Now will you unlock the passenger side for me, please?" "Sure," he said, pressing a button as she walked about the front of the Hummer, the afternoon sunlight playing in her hair. She opened up the door, climbed up and in, and pulled it to with a thunk and buckled in. Then she looked at him. "You're sure you're alright," she only half-asked. He smiled. "How could I not be? I was dreaming about you." >< >< >< >< >< ><
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