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Post by Aedh on Jun 3, 2010 13:33:01 GMT -5
047[/b] In the modest, semi-detached Alder Island apartment where she stayed with her 'parents,' complete with stuffed animal toys and pop music posters and achievement awards on the walls, a young woman lay on her bed, staring through a corner of the window at the dull, cloudy autumn sky. She wore tights, a tee, and socks, and close by on a chair back, a pair of military-inspired cargo-pocket pants were draped over a fleecy zippered top. On the other side of her bed lay a sporty woman's shoulder bag, the kind made of light, synthetic fabric that has zip-flaps and special pockets for everything. Plastic and paper documents, grooming items, tissues, and digital devices were all in their places, at least on the flap section that lay open. There was also one item on the flap that the bag didn't have a special pocket for--an automatic pistol. The young woman was, perhaps, thinking of ways of how to get that in along with everything else and not make a noticeable bulge. Her thoughts were interrupted by an electronic tinkling, her PDA's ringtone playing a hit song. Without looking, she moved an arm and picked it up, running it by her eyes and bringing it to her cheek in a practiced motion. "Crown," she said briefly. "This is Je--" began the caller, but Crown cut in: "Yes, I know, my CID's working. What's your codename?" "Codename? I dunno." "Didn't Star give you one?" "I don't know who Star is. I've only talked to one person before who had no name at all and told me to call this number. No names were ever mentioned." "Okay, first things first. I'm Crown. We'll call you--um, Nurse." "Nurse?" exclaimed the other. "'Nurse,' said Crown firmly. "We have to call you something. if you wanna be part of the action." "But I don't wanna be part of the action, Crown." "Huh! You became part of the action the day you applied for funding to help you finish at the University. You should have known that. You don't think people just give money away, do you?" "That's what I imagined when they talked about 'grant' instead of 'loan.' Is that how they got you?" "No," lied Crown. "Anyway, what do you have to report?" "It's tomorrow night. I'm gonna meet him with my bags at the ferry terminal." "Which side?" "This side--the Island, I mean." "And where's he taking you?" "To the Skookumish reservation on the other side of the bridge. He's got a place rented. I'm supposed to commute in to the campus and finish my classes for the quarter, and then after that we'll leave." Crown nodded. "Smart. Not a bad plan." "What are you gonna do?" "About your friend? Myself, nothing. At least for now. Except pass along your news to whoever will decide what is to be done and who is to do it." "What are they gonna do? Are they gonna hurt him?" "I dunno. I do know it would be wise not to get too involved with him." There was silence from the other end. "What? Are you having second thoughts?" demanded Crown. "Second thoughts kind a' come with the territory when you're pregnant." "Pregnant?" exclaimed Crown with distaste. "He is a Bearer--superfertile. It's kind of all about getting pregnant with them, you know." "You're on your way back to the city now, aren't you? Get it taken care of, then. No second thoughts required." Nurse paused only fractionally this time before saying: "Yes, of course. It's my choice, isn't it?" "Of course it is," said Crown. "And I'm confident that you'll make the right choice." "Sure ... I--I gotta go, Crown." "Me, too. You did good, Nurse. Keep on and keep in touch. And don't forget to get that little matter taken care of." "No. 'Bye." "'Bye." Crown ended the call and checked her watch. The too-long minutes of a bit ago now seemed altogether poised to jump and fly away like a flock of starlings. If Jenna was on the ferry she thought she was--time to get moving then. She'd sort her packing problem out in a moment, after she made another call. That took a minute or so, reporting to someone else what Jenna--Nurse--had told her. Then she stood up, pulled on the pants and top, securing them, and slipped into a pair of light work boots. She picked up the pistol and shoved it down into the middle of the sports bag, obviously thinking This will have to do, and did up the zips. Then she stopped, tapped her foot three times, and pulled out her PDA to make another call. Someone answered. "It's me," she said. "I got a call from Jason's girlfriend ... Jenna, I mean. The college girl from Queen City he's been seeing. They're planning to move her over to the reservation tomorrow. I--with it being tomorrow, I had to call in--you know. Yes. No, she didn't say what he's planning to do. Probably doesn't know herself. Yes, well, I thought I'd let you know in case you didn't. Yes. 'Bye, then." With that over, the face of the young woman known on Alder Island as 'Debi DiStefano' cleared a little, and she put away her PDA and stepped out lightly, grabbing a jacket on the way to closing the door and calling: "Mo-omm! Let's go!">< >< >< Elsewhere, another woman stirred on her bed, and felt around, hearing a PDA signal. Taylor rolled over with a groan; she'd seen Shaz earlier, gritting her teeth, buying freedom that she could have had for free but for Nick's mysterious restrictions and conditions. It was hard, and especially hard today because she was getting hungry. She had had to restrain herself from tearing the smirking head off its narrow shoulders with all the willpower at her command, and afterward she'd had to lay down in bed, tired, as if she'd been drained herself. Even as an ordinary mortal, willpower had never been her strong suit, and her experience with Liam's friends had taught her that survival as a Vampire would depend on developing more than ordinary willpower. For the first time, she felt a stab of doubt as to whether she was up to it. At last, Taylor found the PDA, emitting its message tone, pulled herself up to a sitting position, and reached for her bedside cup. The bux in it was stone cold, but she drank it anyway, for the clammy jolt to get her eyes open. Then she played the message. "Hello, Tay, it's Liam. I've been in contact with your boss. I don't mean your pimp, I mean your boss, the one you call 'Nick.' We've had a couple of fascinating 'net chats and I'll be meeting him. He's already explained a lot about his operation to me, Tay, and, well, I just don't need you any more. Rich young guy, older street woman--you see the inherent problems in a relationship like that. So, you can keep the card I gave you if there's anything left on it. Call it a thanks for the introduction. I may see you around, but feel free to live your life and I'll do the same. 'Bye." She shot upright, legs off the bed, arm up, ready to hurl the PDA across the room and watch it smash against the wall. Then she held herself, by another effort of will. This would take practice. And she thought. There was no message from Nick. How the hell had Liam hooked up with him so easily? Had he sold her out, and Liam simply couldn't help himself from doing the dial-a-gloat? It seemed likely, from his sarcastic tone. She felt a hot flush of anger coming back. Somehow, some way, Nick and Liam had gotten together and decided they were too good for her.But no--no, that couldn't be. Had Nick not trusted her with an important assignment--in fact, two of them, Councilor Anderson--and Rhys Macklin, the billionaire? And she'd begun with Anderson, made a good beginning. Think, she told herself. Vampires are supposed to be smart. So be smart. This isn't Shaz you're dealing with here.She got up, splashed some water on her face, checked the afternoon light coming in around the top edge of her little window, where she'd intentionally left a little gap, as a reminder. Then she made a fresh pot of bux and put on a jacket top with an exaggerated hood and sleeves, and dark sunglasses, and cotton gloves, and ventured outside, up the steps and around the corner in the alley for a cigarette with her cup. She was well off Shaz's chemicals now, but a smoke did help keep her going when she was starting to get hungry and needed to think. Most likely, the answer to the question of how Liam had hooked up with the reclusive Nick was that he hadn't. She'd been a little careless and dropped his name, and Liam had decided to dump her and use an arrogant, shitty excuse. That would be like him. If by some chance he had found Nick, and Nick had deigned to chat with him, it could still be working like that. Or perhaps Nick had put him up to it to test her--but no, it wasn't like Nick to be shitty that way. Either way, a call to Nick couldn't hurt. She finished her smoke and went back down inside and dialed him. "Hello, Taylor," came his voice. "I trust this is important?" "Yes, and I'll be brief. Have you met someone--rich playboy type--in a 'netroom? Calls himself Liam." "I know thousands of people, Taylor, many of them only through 'net contacts, and they call themselves anything they please. Who is this, specifically? Is this your very good friend you mentioned last night?" "Yes. I had a message. He says he had a 'netchat with you, and explained everything to him, about vampires and what you're doing and all that. He used that as a preface to dumping me." "Given your profession, Taylor, you should be used to very brief relationships with sudden endings," said Nick dryly. "For Minions, too, the quickie and kiss-off is ninety-nine percent of their social life. I'm a little disturbed that he knew enough to invoke me as part of whatever line he used on you." "So you want me to keep on then, with Anderson and with Macklin?" "Of course. With Macklin, he can be found in the passenger lounge of the 5:15 ferry to Alder Island every weekday evening, regular as clockwork. He has his wife on the other side, and on this side he has that PA who seems a bit possessive of him--she sometimes shadows him down to the ferry dock. But once he's on the boat, he's alone. You should have no problem striking up a relationship with him. You are certainly the physical type that he seems to find attractive. I myself can testify to your social skills. If you arrive at the terminal early, I can have someone there to wire you up so you can collect info from him. Remember the script, and don't try to pass yourself off as something you're not. You know what to do from there." "Oh, yeah," she said. She'd watched enough romance vids to know what character to play, and she was sure she could do a good job. And Nick obviously knew it. She'd been stupid to suspect him. The whole thing was just Liam being an asshole, getting under her skin. "Can I have someone meet you at the upper ladies' room at the terminal at quarter-to? That will be enough time." "I'll be there," Taylor promised, her confidence surging. She'd have to feed first, which might be a little tricky during daylight, but she'd pull something off. Nick believed in her. "Oh--how will the person know me?" "She'll know you. I hope to hear from you in, let's say, two days, with information," said Nick. "I'll be at the usual Friday night." "I won't let you down," Taylor promised. "I know you won't," came the reply, and Nick ended the call. This was it, Taylor felt. A date with a billionaire-- another billionaire!--an older, more sophisticated one. She smiled. Lucky for her, she had a billionaire-friendly outfit that the younger, idiotic one had paid for. This would be sweet. >< >< >< >< >< >< "Just sign here, Ms. DiStefano, over where your parents signed," directed Bernd Behrens, as she bent over the desk in the sparse Camp Freedom HQ office. "It's required for those under eighteen." The young woman, whose name was not DiStefano, was over eighteen by a few years, and had not spent two dozen hours in the company of her 'parents,' nodded brightly and signed, while Colonel George looked on, smiling, with David's friend Lynx, and Sergeant Duarte. Lynx was the first to shake Debi's hand. "Congratulations, and welcome to the force! We're looking forward to beginning your training today. We have a few other new arrivals." She looked over Debi's shoulder at Holly Hrdlicka, who had just walked in with a folder. "Sorry," said Holly. "I just came by to turn these in. I can't ... " Her voice trailed off as Debi turned to look at her. "Hi, Miss H!" said the girl warmly. "I didn't know you were joining too!" "Hello, Debi. Just dropping by," said Holly. "I'll have to officially start another day--next time. I've got some business in the city." She put her folder on the desk and gave Bernd a look. "I'll 'mail you." "Okay, thanks, whatever, Holly," said the adjutant amiably. "Next drill, then. We'll be here." As Debi turned to shake hands with Duarte and Colonel George, the coach darted her eyes at the young woman meaningfully and mouthed: About her. "I will 'mail you," she repeated aloud to Bernd, and then--sensing Debi turning back--smiled, and grasped her hand too. "Always glad to see one of my ladies getting into some good, wholesome activity, I say," she finished. "Well, gotta run. See you next time." "I think it's time we went out, too," said Lynx. "Let me take you around for a little orientation. Your gear will be safe here." "I'd rather take it along, Ms. Ellingsen," said Debi, hefting the sporty bag. "If you don't mind." "Not at all." Outside, Lynx took the new recruit for a walking tour of the main area, pointing out the dining hall, the men's and women's bunkhouses, the mechanical shop, and the supply area, where they met a stout, cowboy-hatted man with a game leg coming out, who gave them a greeting. "Hello," said Lynx back. "This is Debi--Debi, this is our maintenance man, Swithun Cassidy. We like to call him Mopalong." "That's me, li'l lady. The rootin'-tootin'est, shootin'est janitor in the West, Mopalong Cassidy." With his right hand, he slapped the holsetered revolver at his hip. "Pleased to meet you," said Debi. "Is Janine in the shop?" asked Lynx. "She took the quad bike to collect some brass from the rifle range," said the cowboy. "But y'all go along a bit up there toward the small arms range, you'll meet some a' the other gals." He gestured with the toilet plunger in his left hand. "Thanks, we will." "All right, thanks," added Debi. A short walk through the tall, quiet Douglas firs, standing in a deep green sea of salal and Oregon grape bushes, led to a grassy space with grey split-log rails on stump stands, and grey rustic plank benches. A flagpole made from a sawn-off young tree had no flag on it. On several of the benches lounged several girls, all in various states of camouflage gear. A large brunette was sitting astride a large log on the ground, honing a sheath knife. "Hi!" said Lynx, and Debi smiled. "Newest recruit here--Debi. Debi, this is Aoede, Mikayla, Kirsten, Suzanne, and Jodenne." The last-named raised her honing steel in salutation. "I think Jodenne's giving some instruction on sharpening. You can sit in--I've gotta run," she said. "You all, be nice to the newbie now, alright?" Aoede said: "We're the nicest gals around," hitting gals slightly, which made Kirsten and Mikayla trade quick smiles. Lynx turned and was gone with rapid strides of her long, shorts-clad legs, leaving Debi with her schoolmates. "Welcome to the posse," said Mikayla lazily. "You'll fit right in, I think." "I hope so," replied Debi. "I'm glad your parents let you sign up," put in Suzanne. "They don't seem the type to me. They haven't been joiners of anything since they--you--moved here six months ago, from ... sorry, where was it again? Omaha?" "Salt Lake," replied Debi, and her stomach instantly turned. "Originally, I mean. We moved here from Eau Claire, Wisconsin." "Salt Lake to Eau Claire to Alder Island," said Aoede. "That's some moving." "Yes. Well, you know how it is these days with trying to find a family-friendly place to live. It's not easy. Lots of people here are from somewhere else." "Why sure," said Aoede. "I didn't mean anything by that, babe." "I'm a newbie here, too," offered Kirsten. "But just from Tacoma." "I can say, you've moved for the last time," said Jodenne, giving her knife a stroke and holding it up; a ray of sun flashed on its keen blade. Then she smiled at Debi, her plump cheeks dimpling in a way that Debi somehow found repellent. "Why, you'll never wanna leave." "So, it is true that the Thomsens--Regina Thomsen owns this place?" asked Debi. "Sort of," replied Suzanne. "They deeded it to the Civil Defense Force, but it's still theirs to use privately when CDF's not running." "Do they own everything around here?" "Oh, no. Other people own stuff, too," said Suzanne. "But Regina and David get around a lot. It's all about the Bearers here, and the people who work with them. You haven't been to many HIRs, have you?" "You had David yet?" asked Aoede frankly. "What's that got to do with--?" "What the top folks think of you has everything to do with everything around here," put in Jodenne. "It's who ya screw, isn't it?" asked Debi with an audible trace of bitterness. Mikayla snorted. "So what? Where is that not true?" "The difference around here is, no one pretends any different," added Kirsten. "I found that out." "Just don't sell him your car," put in Mikayla, and they all laughed. Some sort of inside joke, obviously. Debi drove on: "And you're okay with that?" "Girl, if you're gonna get done and dumped, or you're gonna get done and kept, which would you choose?" asked Aoede. "With your experience of other places, that oughtta be a no-brainer. It's a cold world out there." "I'd rather not get done," said Debi. "Mrs. Hoffman tells us we ought to stand up for ourselves." "Mrs. Hoffman's gettin' down for David right now," said Mikayla, looking at her PDA. "Huh?" The tall blonde showed the face of her PDA. "It's the DaveNet. User contributions, twenty-four seven, all about our favorite sex god. He's here at camp, and someone's just reported that he's done Mrs. Hoffman." "Sorry if this sounds blunt--but can't anyone do anything around here without having to submit to that gorilla?" Debi burst out. Boots crunched in the gravel behind her, and a baritone voice said, "Ooka ooka." She whirled to see David standing above her. "Oh! I didn't--" "It's alright, Debi D," he said with a wink. "No insult that a good dose a' face won't make up for." "What?" Debi shot to her feet. "What," he said. "You give good face. I like it. I'll take some now." "You just got done having sex with Mrs. Hoffman!" she exclaimed. "One of my teachers!"He shrugged and half-turned. "Anyone else woman enough?" Suzanne stood up, thrusting out her chest. As she walked swayingly over, Mikayla reached over and touched Debi's elbow; she looked. The blonde murmured: "Get it." "I think I'll go on and see other sights, thanks," said Debi, shouldering her bag, and walking back down the path, feeling a few glances on her back. She'd gone twenty yards or so, to a fork she'd taken to go this way with Lynx, when she heard a motor approaching. She stood aside, and a small four-wheeled utility cart hove into view around a bend. The driver, Janine Sandoval, in full fatigues, hair pulled back under her cap, pulled to a stop, motor running. She looked at Debi for a long moment, then beckoned her over. The girl went. "What are you doing here?" demanded Janine. "Mona advised me to join." "I see. And if Mona advised you to jump off the bridge?" "I don't see what you're getting at." "Your chances of survival on this island are about the same if you stay here at camp," said Janine severely. "You should have talked to me first. You're no use to anyone dead, you know." "Dead?" asked Debi skeptically. "Well, you may be of use to Mona dead. Her and City Light. I can't think why else she told you to do this." "No one here knows about me but you." "Holly Hrdlicka was here. I saw her paperwork." "Yes. I saw her, too." "She knows," Janine told her. Debi's eyes widened. "Or if she doesn't know, she suspects. You drew John in your HIR lab, didn't you?" "Yes." "He sussed you, I think. He's slow, and he's a moonchild, but if there's one thing he knows it's how teenaged females respond sexually. Somehow, something about you didn't click. He must have tipped you to Holly." "Well, it's over, then," said Debi. "The hell it's over. You're not going anywhere, sister," said Janine flatly. "You're staying put 'till I say so." With this, and a hard glance, she gunned her engine again. "You want my advice? Keep your head down, and don't follow anyone's advice anymore but mine." And she was gone in a spray of dirt bits and fir needles. >< >< >< Norman Boulanger didn't care much for coffeehouses. They were hard and busy and things moved fast. He especially didn't care for Sully's, as it had nowhere to sit except on tiny, high-seated wire stools evidently designed for anorexic teenage girls. For seat space requirements, if he were to sit, he would need two of them himself; and, he thought, looking at a man lumbering in, there was someone who would want about six. The fat man bought a bux and slowly made his way around the place, checking people out. This, Norman surmised, was his appointment, so he went over and introduced himself, sticking out his hand. "Mr. Mordred, I presume?" "Yes, Mr. B, that's right," said the other. "You see? I said I'd know you. Flushed you out pretty good." "You'd make an admirable private eye," said Norman. "Now, is there somewhere we could, er, lean while I look over the sample printouts you mentioned?" "Sure, lead on." They found a corner area near some potted bushes, and exchanged papers. Mordred's printouts, as promised, were call records and select conversations, obviously garnered from voice-recognition-activated monitors; you could always tell those by the spelling errors. He saw a fair number of them in his line of work. The fat man had clumsily, unprofessionally, but nonetheless effectively annotated the prints, indicating who owned what number, and therefore who was speaking. He didn't recognize many of the names. He did recognize Cindy Shanley's, and Jason Macklin's, and several prominent Queen City politicians' and businessmen's wives. And lots of talk about getting lots of women pregnant, for money--lots of money. He read a bit, thinking, and then asked without looking up: "Are you with the police, Mr. Mordred?" "You're wondering how I got a hold of this stuff?" "It takes police technology to acquire material like this. It wouldn't be admissible as evidence unless we could prove that it was legally obtained. Which, I'm guessing, it wasn't. Was there even a warrant authorizing this collection to happen?" The fat man turned around and leaned against the bar the other way. "So, you're saying you don't want it, then?" "Only if you feel comfortable with the fact that you're placing a lot of trust in me. I would be in possession of information that could send you to jail if the police knew you had it." "Let's just say that doesn't worry me," said Mordred, tossing off the rest of his bux. "So then what?" "I'm a bit curious as to why, Mr. Mordred, you're not blackmailing Mr. Macklin directly yourself." "Because I want to stay alive, Mr. B. As an officer of the court, you have confidentiality laws to protect you. I don't." The lawyer was suddenly reminded of Jane Macklin's question: 'Do you want to stay alive, Mr. Boulanger?' "Do we have a deal, or don't we, Mr. B?" demanded Mordred. The lawyer set his briefcase on the narrow countertop, and from his inside pocket took out an envelope. He opened its ungummed flap and showed the fat man the contents. "Do you have all the files on a portable format?" The fat man produced an envelope of his own, with a little oblong piece of plastic inside. "Hook it up to most PDA's right now," he said. "Give me that and the agreement, and I'll give you this." Norman took the papers out of his briefcase; Mordred took a few minutes to read them over. "Use your real name," advised Norman. The other signed. "Date," said Norman. Mordred wrote 10-14-2116 next to his name, Claude Van Beer. Norman took the papers, and they traded envelopes. The lawyer plugged in the plastic and ran through a few files on his PDA while Mordred reached into the envelope and discreetly counted the cash. Finally, the latter pushed himself upright. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. B." "And how do you get paid if we get a settlement?" "If you get a settlement it will be all over the news. I'll contact you. You'll know who I am." "Acceptable," said Norman. With a grunt, Mordred adjusted his jacket and moved off, while Norman stayed, thinking. He thought about Leonard Chung, and about how there was a vacancy for a City prosecutor following the sudden death of Bernie Young. He ran over some of the data again. Things were looking up. >< >< >< The man about whom Norman Boulanger was thinking was, at that moment, leaning back on a large, calfskin-upholstered chaise. That calfskin was illegal, didn't bother him; no one but his black-clad servants entered this room adjoining his offices in the County Administration Building. Officially it was an Emergency Communications Center. In fact, that function had long been outsourced to a firm in the Philippine Islands, and Leonard Chung had redone it into, well, a centre of sorts, where communications happened, and the odd emergency had been known. He was communicating now, asking a question seemingly into the air but actually toward a microphone, while a holo--in the style of Rhys Macklin's device--played in the air to one side. This holo wasn't Leonard's favorite kind to see, being an unhandsome man in a shirt and tie. But business was business. "Things are not well! Things are very badly!" complained the little holo-man. "Our K'an Pao Sixes, our motherboards, our helium-fracture chips, our LUM-44s, not to mention the Crawling Chaos--all stolen this morning! Hijacked! This sets the plan back by months!" "Part of the plan," replied Leonard. "Other parts are proceeding on schedule." His hand drifted out to lazily stroke a leather-clad thigh near him. "Who is responsible?" demanded the other. "Not me! I had security!" "Not very good security now, was it, Mr. Xue?" asked Leonard. "Huh! Not very good police work when a loaded lorry drives into a freight yard and simply vanishes into thin air!" shouted the man. "The Chairman will hold you responsible for this!" "I suggest that you think less about the Chairman's opinion of me, and more about his opinion of you," returned Leonard instantly. "Not only that, but our tester quitted--walked off the job last night." "That's no matter for concern. We don't need him any more," said Leonard, reaching over to touch a hard, bare belly. "I feel confident enough in the suit's completion to give it a field test." "What, yourself?" "I have someone," said Leonard, trailing his hand down to caress an enormous, mesh-covered mound between belly and thighs. "That's all you need to know, Mr. Xue. You will deliver up the prototype according to the protocols I will 'net to you. As to the rest of the project, I will go up with it and see what is to happen. Perhaps nothing." "Very good, Mr. Chung," said the little man, bowing his head. Leonard clicked the call off and rolled over, his arm at last able to fully go around Won Long Dong's waist. Dong sat up, slowly, elegantly, looking at Leonard from under hooded eyelids. "Now," he said. "I was tiring of your endless conversation. I was just about to call some guards for relief!" "Oh, no, my young hero," purred Leonard, stroking the huge penis. "I can't wait to get that in me. And, soon, to be inside it myself, or at least my essence inside it. You will ensure my progeny." "You may count on that," said Dong. "You may also count on the beginning of the plan tomorrow." "Excellent. All is ready, then?" "Yes, everything you supplied is in order and prepared." "I'm very glad," sighed Leonard, settling into Dong's body and stroking his genitals, watching them gradually engorge and rise. "And I'm glad you're here at last. Unwanted in China and in so many other places ... I know you have been angry and sad. But here you will find only good fortune. But first there is work to do. Who would build anew must clear away the old rubble." "I'll sweep it away like so much chaff!" said Dong, his manhood rising powerfully erect. "I know you will, my lover, my son, my god--I can't--can't resist!" cried Leonard, taking the engorged foretip into his mouth, caressing the shaft and sucking, stroking the leather on the thighs. Dong petted his head, smiling, breathing faster, and thinking his own thoughts about what the morrow would bring. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jun 6, 2010 21:21:01 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jun 6, 2010 21:21:14 GMT -5
048[/b] Jenna, after disembarking, had walked the Queen City ferry terminal like most Alder Island residents did: quickly, gaze averted from the conscripted protesters, many of whom she knew. She had stood next to the one in the Tibetan hat, and even thought she'd liked him. She had liked him, to be honest--somewhat. But her destiny lay with Jason. She felt his pull, like a piece of driftwood caught in a tide rip, swirling slowly, around and around, bound for a fate she couldn't imagine. No one addressed her directly, by name. Perhaps those who knew her assumed she was going to the island on a mission of some sort. Most likely, she had simply become other to them, lost her name and her face. Jenna herself had othered people before. It was easy. It made life simple. You didn't have to deal with issues like loyalty and betrayal, old affections and comradely memories, debts owed and favors done. You just colored them gone. She walked downstairs, heading not for the stops on Second Avenue, but along the old rail tracks. south toward Jackson Street, where the turnaround was. She didn't feel like meeting anyone she might know at the nearer stop. She reached the bus shelter and had waited for a few minutes when her PDA buzzed. She opened it, hoping to see Jason's ID, good news. Instead, she saw a number she didn't know. She pressed 'Receive.' "Jenna?" "Yes?" She knew the voice, Fawn ... Fawn somebody, who volunteered at the women's center at the University. "Jenna dear, I'm calling to do you a favor. There is concern about you among your sisters and friends. It's been shared around, and I've been consulted. I'm not supposed to be calling you with this, but my heart is heavy, seeing you headed toward what could be a lot of trouble." "What sort of trouble, and what 'sisters and friends?' asked Jenna carefully. "Dear, we know about you. We know you've been seeing, shall we say, your young man on Alder Island--" A cold tingle ran up Jenna's spine, but she retorted: "The last I heard, it wasn't illegal to go to Alder Island. And I'm not sure what makes it your business if I did." "Oh, you did. You just got back on the last ferry. Someone saw you. And if it's not illegal, there are things that ought to be. One of our young women, seeing Jason Macklin, the son of Doctor Humod. I do hope you know what you're doing." "I do." "Do you? Do you know that you don't have to go there? He comes to Queen City." "I know. I met him here. What's that about how some things ought to be illegal? You mean him coming to the city? What's illegal about that?" "Do you know why he comes to the city?" "It doesn't matter why. He's got business of his own." "That's one way of putting it, 'business.' He breeds. For money, you know. Not even for the love of it, but for cold, hard cash. He'll be arriving on the very next ferry. There he'll be collected in a limousine by a businesswomen named Cindy Shanley, who will whisk him away to her penthouse, the new tower on Blanchard Street. And there, in conditions of absolute luxury, he'll breed with twenty women, one after another, like ducks in a row. He'll make about a thousand dollars a minute, paid in cash. He may pretend he doesn't like it, but women who can pay like that--well, you know, dear, he's rutting with the cream of the crop, women who fly in from all over the world. Executives, lawyers, heiresses, politicians and politicians' wives--even royalty. He's got to like the fact that he's planting his seed in the wombs of the world's richest and most powerful fertile women. He's a god, breeding with goddesses at his pleasure. And where are you in all this?" "I'm the one he loves," said Jenna bravely, her head whirling. "Love?" came Fawn's voice like honey. "Of course he'd say that. But what is it? What does it mean? It's a word people use to try to snare each other for their own purposes. Really, what have you got that--to be blunt, my dear--that another woman worth a thousand of you--one with a billion dollars, or a title, or both--doesn't have? Can't they love as well as anyone else? Why you of all the college girls in Queen City?" "Okay, why me?" asked Jenna. "I suppose you know." "Through you he can get to a lot of other people. Your friends, your sisters, everyone you ever worked with, trained with, fighting for what's right, really right, which is moving women away from hired sex and being themselves, being their own people, standing up for freedom. Do you think those breeders want that sort of woman around? Of course not. They want broken women--tame, tractable, obedient." "What do you know about it?" "I know he's broken you," said Fawn quietly, and paused for a moment. Jenna said nothing. "You don't believe me? You can see for yourself. You can go to the ferry terminal now, watch for his arrival. See who collects him. You can go to the building where she is. It's too late now to see all these powerful women arriving, but you can watch them leave. You'll see a lot of unaccompanied women leaving--one at a time, but see who they are, and see if I'm lying or not. Furs, diamonds, personal attendants, the lot." "If you're trying to make me hate him, it's not working," said Jenna. "Oh, I don't want you to hate him. I just want you to know what he does. Honesty is the best policy, my dear. So I'll be honest about the rest of it. By doing what you've done, you've broken your agreement with the women's fund that was paying your way. You'll get no help now. You'll be living with, and taking classes with, women you betrayed, and they will know it. Your grades will tank. You won't get a job even if you finish school with what's going to be in your record. You’ll owe a repayment of all the funding you’ve received so far if you don’t graduate. You're through, Jenna. You're one of them--a dogg. Nothing for you. So you'd better hope that Jason Macklin loves you, whatever that means." Jenna said nothing. She felt nothing. She was hardly aware of the PDA in her hand. "I'm so glad we had this little chat, dear," said Fawn. "Don't forget any of it. Do you smell that?" "Smell what?" asked Jenna dully. "That smoky smell ... that would be your bridge burning," opined Fawn. "I wish you all the luck in the world, dear. You'll need it." Then the call ended. Jenna sat, feeling nothing, for a few minutes. Then she stood up and walked. >< >< >< Down from Taylor's new neighborhood, in the dingy hallway of a South Plum Street apartment, a small man in a designer tracksuit and baggy jacket shifted the shoulder bag he was wearing and knocked at a door. "Kecia, Daddy's here," he called. A few seconds passed. He twitched. He'd had trouble with Taylor earlier; bitch was getting way too up herself, making money and now somehow beating her need for painkillers as well. "Kecia!" he yelled angrily, and tried the door. It opened. Unlocked--not good. In the kitchen, the first thing was the smell. Not the usual background scent compounded of old garbage, mouse piss, filthy laundry, and cheap incense mixed with stale nick fumes. He was used to that. This was something else. He walked in, softly, his hand in his bag, around the butt of the gun he'd started carrying. "Kecia! Get yo' ass up, bitch!" he said loudly, warningly, but not yelling now. The light around the drawn curtains made it dim, but the living room was just the usual whore mess; discarded clothes and half-eaten food and a few wine bottles. He rounded the corner toward the bedroom. The smell was coming from there. He hardened himself. If there was a dead body in there, it wouldn't be the first time for him, or the second. He drew the gun and pushed the bedroom door open with it, slowly, slowly. The smell got stronger. He used the muzzle to flip on the light, and saw the bed, soaked with blood--blood sprayed on the wall, too, and on the bed a body, most of a body. It was shriveled somehow, hardened and ghastly pale. His gorge rose, and he doubled over and vomited, in three, four big heaves, fouling the carpet. That done, he recovered. He wiped his lips with the edge of his jacket and stood up, looking around. Everything was quiet and still but for the whisper of a city bus going by in the street. Shaz wasn't physically courageous, but he had the cunning and toughness of a rat. He knew a situation when he saw one, and the first thing to do was think, quickly. No one had called cops yet, obviously. They would be here, though. It was too late for him not to leave any traces, but he could minimize what he did leave. The thing on the bed was extremely dead and wouldn't bother him, so he had a good look around, stepping warily, being as careful as he could not to touch anything except with his gun barrel. The thing on the bed had been a male, for sure a trick. Drawers were yanked open, and so was the closet door, things strewn around hastily. Kecia's bag was gone. No PDA, and she'd taken some things with her, so she was trying to take off. He looked down. There was blood on the carpet near the bed, too, and partial footprints. Some were from a pointy shoe with a high heel, but a few others looked like athletic soles. Kecia hated heels. So there had been two people here, besides the thing. He looked at the thing itself, not getting too close. It looked as if its throat had been half torn away--taking a slab off the neck up to the left ear--and worried; he could see esophageal cartilage protruding from the ripped edges under the jaw. This was some sick shit. And no cops yet. The thing must have died quickly--and without too much noise; he noticed a blood-sodden pillow tossed aside. And this was a building where everyone minded their own business and a few odd noises didn't attract much attention. Male clothes were tossed in a heap near the bed, and he thought for a moment about going through them, but decided not to. Whoever the man was, wasn't his business, and the less touched, the better. He backed out slowly, looking around some more, but it was pretty clear. Three people, certainly one woman and probably two, to judge from the size of the sneaker prints, had come in. Two had left. One was Kecia. Who was the other?Shaz put the gun away and walked back out just the way he had come. Kecia's PDA was gone; the first thing was to try calling her, but not from here. He got out the door, closed it, wiped off the knob with a corner of his jacket, and assumed a casual gait as he went back down the hallway. There wouldn't be any cams on this place, not ones that worked anyway, and besides, he'd done nothing himself. If he couldn't find her, the cops would, eventually. She had to be found. This shit wasn't good for business--anyone's business--and Shaz was a businessman. >< >< >< Fifteen minutes later, from the doorway of a vacant storage building, Shaz dialed Kecia's PDA. Probably useless, trying to call someone on the run, but he had to try everything. He was down a girl, a customer, and some money, and the cops would be all over this like shit on a blanket. She answered. He blinked; he'd be nice, for now. "Kecia, gal. Shazzie. 'S'up?" "Ah thought you'd call. Ah'm outta here," said a woman's voice, over a motor in the background. "You been ta mah place, you know why." "Been there. Just me. No cops, yet. So 's'up? Whad' j'a do, Keesh-gal?" "Nothin'! Ah n't do nothin'! Ah had me a trick in, an' someone came knockin' at th' door an' woul'n' stop noway, so ah told th' trick ta chill while ah got shet of 'em. So it was this gal ah knew, one a' Ricky Santos' gals, name a' Saydi. She was actin' freaky scared, said some shit 'ud gone down at her place and could she stay wi' me. Ah said ah was busy but she say she'd scream if ah di'n't let 'er in. Well, she knew th' deal, an' bidness is bidness ain't it?" Shaz had to concur. "So ah lets 'er in, tells 'er to chill quietlike whiles ah finish. She knows. She's one a' us. She's chill--ah thanks. Well--" the woman gulped--"Ah goes back in and the trick susses and nah he wants both a' us, fo' th' price a' one if you please! Ah says no an' he gits all shitty on me, then ah look up an' there's Saydi in the doorway sayin' okay. Ah gits up, she pushes me, hard, ah falls an' she jumps up in the bed, right on top a' th' trick an' hits him in th' chest wi' both fists together. Then she puts a han' over 'is mouth an' opens 'er jaws wide and sinks 'em inta 'is neck. Then she tears 'is throat out, rrrip! like that, jes' like you'd bite inta a peach, an' ah'll hear that goddamn burblin' and suckin' and thrashin' fo' the rest of mah fuckin' life, ya know it ... jus' stupit' sick dawg! Ah'd a puked but ah was froze stiff!" She was talking and heaving now, obviously crying as she remembered. "Goddamn, Keesh. So what else happened?" "Ah tries ta git up an' run an' Saydi leans over an' grabs me, one-handed by mah arm, hard, hard like a vice, so hard her nails sinks right inta my wrist and stick deh. An' she holds me a coupl' a' seconds whiles she finishes suckin' up th' trick's neck. Then she gits up and yanks me over an' slams me upside the wall wi' both hands. Ah thought ah was fuckin' dead right there niga. Sho' ah did!" she sobbed. "Awright, well, you ain't dead, Keesh." The hooker took a long breath. "Not yet. Then ya know what--she bit me, dawg! A li'l bite on my neck, sucked up a li'l a' mah blood ta add to th' mess on 'er from th' trick. Then she takes mah hair in 'er hand an' yanks mah head down an' looks at me. Stone cold. Stone cold an' like dead a week, niga. Tells me ta go, git outta town, tell nobody or she'd find me an' do me like th' trick. So what th' fuck dawg? It's mah fuckin' life we talkin' 'bout thassright!" "Goddamn," said Shaz slowly. "That's some shit." "She gi' me five minutes ta git dressed an' pack some shit an' get out. Ah beat th' clock by a minute easy. Ah did it. An' ah'm outta here dawg, dang sho' nuf. Ah'm gone like th' breeze." "So where ya goin', Keesh? Ya owe me for the day, y' know." "Ah kep' it. Ah'm gittin'. You won't find me, or that boss a' yourn neither. Ah ain't 'fraid a' y'all half as much as ah'm 'fraid a' Saydi. She's on some fuckin' sick dope or sump'n ah don' know an' ah don' wants ta know." "Goddamn," said Shaz bitterly. "Word up! 'T'ain't jes' Saydi neither. There's Schehera on Firs' Hill, an' LaWanda from down ta White Center, an' Taylor, too, an' mo'. They leavin' bodies, dawg. Mo' bodies than th' cops find. Ah can't take it no mo'. Shit's goin' down, niga--some new junk onna street 'r what, ah dunno. But ah knows--ah seen hell in that bitch's eyes when she was lookin' at me 'gainst the wall. All them hoes 'us gone ta somewhere ah'd rather die than go ta." The woman's voice broke. After a moment, she gathered herself and said: "Stupit' bad shit niga. It's goin' down, an' ah'm gittin' out. An' anyone who stays in this town--Gawr help 'em." The little man's stomach suddenly felt a cold pressure. He said something else, and so did Kecia. Then he was standing, looking down at a screen that said: Call Ended. 05:46. A little red Insta-Bang car whirred along the street slowly, as if looking for a client, and turned a corner. He pocketed his device; something clawed at his brain. He fought it back and tried to think. Was she lying and she'd done it herself? Shaz's career meant dealing with unusually good liars. Like most of them, he knew one when he heard it. It didn't ring like that. For one, she'd answered. For another, there were the two sets of footprints. She could have killed the man and then changed shoes, but nothing else seemed to point to that sort of detective-movie crap anyway. He thought of the Motel 9 killing. They said a hooker had done that, too. He thought of how Taylor had started avoiding light, and she'd moved to a basement apartment, underground, and all the money she had. There was another, Shequean in Sodo, who seemed, suddenly, very flush. But some of his other girls had had a lot of bad days lately, all of them blaming it on regular tricks who hadn't come back. Maybe she'd told the truth. Kecia had always been level-headed, not a doper or a freak. She'd saved a trick's life once with CPR. But even if he got Kecia back, and his money, and cleared things with the cops, she'd never work well again most likely, and there were some big if's there. He made another call. As he punched buttons, he couldn't help shivering, despite his jacket, as the wind whipped up, sending a few dead leaves and discarded plastic wrappers chasing each other down the street. "Yeah?" said a voice. "Ricky, Shaz. One a' ma gals is gone missin,' playa. I heard a thang about one a' your gals, maybe." "Which one?" "Saydi." "Fuck! Cunt missed me Monday night an' got gone. Word?" "Word is, she offed a trick today at my gal's place. Some sick shit, dog." "She better hope the cops catch her b'fore I do. I'll gun 'er ass dead 'f I see her. You'd best do the same. Fuckin' crazy cunt. Which a' your gals was it?" "Kecia, South Plum. I talked to 'er. She was there. She freaked, an' she's runnin‘." "Kecia was alright, that one. What a' ya gonna do?" "Gotta call da man, don't I playa? Shit's outta my league," Shaz said frankly. There was a moment of silence. "If you say so," said Ricky. "Do what you gotta do." "Yep." Shaz ended the call. He couldn't help thinking about Kecia's last words, and he couldn't help sharing the feeling that things were gonna get worse before they got better. If they got better. >< >< >< Taylor's contact at the ferry terminal proved to be Adela; it took some remembering that the big black woman was a National Security Agency operative posing as a hooker. She certainly had a second career available if she ever washed out of the company, Taylor thought, as Adela did up her jacket lapel's tiny edge slit. Taylor wouldn't have admitted to actually liking Adela, but the agent had an undeniable personal magnetism; Taylor wondered why Nick hadn't given this job to her, but she didn't ask. As they finished the operation in a toilet stall, Adela brought her up to date. Macklin's mysterious PA, Ralna, was nowhere in evidence this evening, and Macklin himself would be on time. Adela seemed short of words, not quite herself, but Taylor felt good. She bought her ticket and walked the gauntlet of the protesters, not looking down like most of the commuters, but meeting each glance boldly, powerfully; in fact, on locking eyes with her, some of them looked down, and from those she felt as if she had drawn strength, will. She moved more confidently as she went, with firm, light steps, and gave a little wave to the surveillance cams, which were placed obviously, meant for a warning. She had been scanning the crowd, looking not only for the dishwater-blonde PA in geek glasses, but for the big figure that would be her target. She didn't see him until she'd boarded and gone once and then again around the passenger lounge--he'd come on after her, then--but there he was, looking solid, strong, and very full of power, trench-coated over a blue serge suit with a tie, and slender laptop briefcase. Taking one of the row of chairs facing his row, she crossed her legs under the little black dress, displaying the elegantly kinky metal details on her boot heels and toes, bobbing her foot a little. With her leather jacket falling open, it wasn't very hard to catch his eye. "Hi," she smiled. He gave a flicker of acknowledgement from behind his glasses. She leaned forward. "Can I ask you--do you come to Alder Island often?" He leaned forward a little himself, elbows on his case--that victory was won. "I daresay. It happens that I live there." He seemed to have a very slight accent, she noticed. A little bit of Canada or Ireland or something. "Re ally?" she asked. "That's fascinating! Here I was thinking, someone like you must go over for--well--you know." She gave a knowing look. "Sex?" he supplied, with a glint of quiet amusement. "Oh!" She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "Well, there's sex and sex, isn't there? I mean, you know, fertile sex. I mean--you--" She gave him an appraising look with a little half-shrug, to finish the thought, you're obviously an alpha male.He smiled, it seemed to her, a little sadly. "No, that's not my game, I'm afraid. I just live on the Island and work in the city." As if to underline his words, the boat rumbled and began to move, a recorded safety announcement droning on the PA system. Taylor felt her PDA vibrate, a text. She ignored it. "Can I ask what you do in the city?" "I do scientific consulting work for local government." "I love science," declared Taylor. "That's what's bringing me to the island, really." "Ah, yes. Biology." He gave another glint. She decided she liked his glints. "Well, yes, and no," she replied, adapting to sound like the sort of woman he was probably used to, and shifting her legs again for good measure. "I've heard a lot about the island, you know. From friends. I've looked over at it for so many years, but never been. So I thought, well! Tonight I've got nothing doing, so why not go on over and see what's there?" "It's a nice place," he said. "Of course I think so, or I wouldn't live there. But you have to understand what the island really is." She leaned forward again, giving him her most attentive look; scientists like brains, and it was a good sign that he thought she had brains enough to take an explanation. "The island's famous for infertility solutions, naturally. If anyone thinks of the place beyond that, they talk about reactionary politics and wealth. But it's really what the culture there stands for, which is achievement--achievement without elitism. Nothing is prohibited on the island. We don't like the word 'No.' We like 'Yes' much better. It's embodied in our rules. You've heard of our Bearers, I'm sure." She nodded. "Did you know they are prohibited from saying no to any woman who requests their service? Any woman?" She shook her head. He went on: "Many people have come there, like you, attracted by they know not what, and they are perfectly ordinary people. But inside every ordinary person is an extraordinary person, aching to get out, to do, to be, to achieve. They're sick and tired of being told 'No.' What we do here is the basis of all our success, and it is nothing more than this--to always say 'Yes.' To try to offer everyone a chance at something new, something to transform their lives. So a lot of people look to sex. We do that. We do other things, too." Taylor listened, feeling resonation. "You're coming here after, you say, so many years of looking over at the island across the water. But--can I ask, to borrow a phrase--why now? Why tonight, um--what was your name?" "Taylor," she answered. "Why are you here tonight, Taylor? Why wasn't it last night, or last week, or last year?" "It's ... " She abandoned the story Nick had cooked up, searched for something with a high truth quotient; she had a foreboding about being caught lying to this man. "... I had a breakup." "Ah!" He glinted. "Don't like the lonely nights, eh? Looking for something different, then. Something totally different." She made a noise of assent, and said: "He was ... well, he was a bastard, really. Too bad, because he was a rich bastard. Very rich." "The worst kind," said the scientist. "I'm curious ... can I ask--again--? His name? I might know him." "You might think poorly of me." "Who cares? You're a chance fellow-passenger on a ferry. We'll never see each other again. So go on, satisfy my curiosity." "His name was Liam." "Last name?" "He never told me. Rich, though. Gave me a cash card with a hundred grand on it for a kiss-off present. Makes ya wonder what he'd give someone he loved," she said with a touch of bitterness. The man lifted an eyebrow. "That is very rich," he agreed. "So what else do you know about him?" "Eh? Oh, clubber. Goth. Friends in the music scene. Tall, very good-looking. Into, well, weird stuff. Occult, vampires, stuff like that." The big man had his PDA out and was accessing something on the 'net. After punching a few buttons, he held the screen out to her, awkwardly, with his thumb covering the bottom. "That him?" She looked. It was a picture of Liam, but in an office, in a business suit. She nodded. "Thought so. I know him. He's not just rich." The man took his thumb away. "He's William H. Bates the Seventh." Taylor's jaw dropped as she read the caption. "Liam--William ... ?" "Yes. Heir to the largest of the Microhard fortunes and the Bates Foundation. His personal net worth exceeds that of several dozen countries. Businessman by day, occult dabbler by night. Some people call him Bateman as a twist on the old comics character." She dropped back in her seat. Good Minions weren't supposed to stun easily, but she was still mostly human. "Yes, off the record," he said, "'Rich bastard, very rich' sums him up nicely. How did you two meet?" "Clubbing," she managed to say. "And we talked a little about, um, occult stuff. He seemed interested." "He would be. That's how Microhard always did business. Take people on, plunder their brains for any information of interest, keep the information and get rid of them." "Kind of like Alder Island with people's bodies?" she asked, with more bitterness, probing. "If you thought so," he parried, "you wouldn't be here, would you?" She saw the glint yet again--she hadn't gotten tired of it. What a tremendous Vampire he'd make, she thought. If only I could! He held a finger up; his PDA was going off. "Sorry, Taylor. Business. Do you mind, for a moment?" She didn't, and decided to check her own PDA while he talked to someone in a foreign language. That impressed her even more. She called up the text, and read it. No name, and number that wasn't in her directory. And it was short. Nick's not expecting you to come back.She sat there, staring at it in disbelief. If she'd been stunned before, there were no words to describe the blank curtain that had now fallen between Taylor and her world. She sat, motionless, feeling absolutely nothing until something brushed her cheek. "Taylor?" The voice sounded like it was coming over a static-ridden PDA connection. She looked; the big man was touching her cheek. "Are you okay, Taylor? You went white as a sheet." She tried to think. Not that there were no thoughts--a hundred of them were staging a battle royal inside her head. Her jaw moved. "I ... I ..." "You don't look well," said Rhys. "The boat is due in, and you have to get off. You're in no shape to be drifting around, I guess. Bad news, I guess too." "Um ... yeah." She wanted to do a dozen things all at once: scream; cry; feed immediately; find Liam and kill him, find Nick and kill him too; find Adela and punish her for going along; find Shaz and kill him just on general principles, and a few others. And, not least, get a plan. A really, really big new plan, really fast. The big man took her hand and drew her upward. "I'm a doctor," he said firmly. "And I can tell you're in no shape to be banging around a strange neighborhood by night. Your pulse is going nuts, your breathing is irregular, and you're perspiring. And you're also clammy-cold. You've had a shock. Do you have reservations for the night somewhere, Taylor, where I can give you a ride?" "No." He motioned to the people queuing up to disembark. "You're gonna have to stay somewhere, somewhere where someone can keep an eye on you. And reservations aren't easy to come by at this short notice on the island. I can put you in the clinic." "No." Caught up in her private storm, she still had enough willpower to make that very clear. "No clinic." "Well, we've got to go. Stand up ... good. Can you walk alright?" She found she could; taking a few steps, and feeling the cool air coming in through the doors was helping her head clear. They walked up the companionway, his arm around her shoulder, steadying her, and at the top, outside the terminal, past the picketers, he turned her to face him, looking down at her. "I suppose ..." "What?" She spoke dully. She didn't want to sound too recovered unless necessary. "I could take you home, I guess. I've got a nice place. And spare rooms. And my wife's away, and my son only drops in occasionally these days." Normally, she would have been surprised. She knew that under the law, she was a murderer, many times over by now; evil stalked her steps. But even evil itself seemed to have deserted her. And here she was being invited into a doctor's house, and another billionaire at that. She felt that nothing, nothing could surprise her any more. She said: "Um ... but I don't even know who you are, not even your name." "My name tends to scare people. Macklin. Dr. Rhys Macklin. You still interested?" "Sure. I've--I've got nowhere else to go." That much was true, extremely true. Without Shaz, without Liam, without Nick--one, two, three strikes--she was out, alone in the world, with nothing to call her own but her body, her worn and carried items, and her wits. Time to use 'em.Taylor had come to get her hooks into Rhys Macklin as a favor for Nick. Now, in a moment, it had become survival. She would have to find a place on Alder Island. A place for herself. A home, or a grave. Life would never be the same again. >< >< >< >< >< >< Face time with Leonard Chung was hard to get at best, and Norman Boulanger was keenly aware that things were not at their best. A PDA call to his office had produced the inevitable stonewall response, even when he'd argued that he had vital election information. So he had gone by his office and given Hannah the flashdrive he'd acquired from Mordred, with instructions to copy the contents and secrete it in a safe place. There had been four messages from Jane Macklin which he ignored--time was pressing. He had gone to the County Administration Building, where he had called in a favor and obtained access to the executive car park, and was now waiting by the lift. Any time now ... He looked from the lift entrance, calculating the distance from there to the bollards which kept vehicles from getting too close. He checked his PDA again; his attention was distracted by blue and red lights set above the lift door. This would be his man starting on his way. He concealed himself behind a pillar, in the shadows thrown by the orange-yellow sodium glare that lit the place. First down, as he knew, were two black-suited security people, who stationed themselves on each side of the door. One spoke into a PDA, and a motor purred to life somewhere near. The lights began moving again. A few seconds later, Leonard's big black car pulled athwart the row of bollards, and the lift bay doors opened to reveal several people: two more black suits, and another, and a fourth person. Norman didn't know who the fourth was; it didn't matter. As they stepped out, he also moved, and as the vehicle's door was opened, he shouted: "Mr. Chung! Mr. Chung, sir! I need a moment to speak to you!" The first two guards came swiftly toward him; he continued loudly: "Norman Boulanger, Jane Macklin's attorney! I have some information you need to know!" He made no move as one goon grabbed him by the arms and another whipped out a truncheon. But the all-important figure of Leonard stopped in mid-entry into the car. The unfamiliar person with him, in a bodysuit and coat whose cut made him look for all the world like an Alder Island Bearer, stopped, too. "Boulanger?" came Leonard's voice mildly. "Counselor, whatever it is, don't accost people. Call my office in the morning." He started to get in. "The morning is too late. Rhys Macklin will announce tomorrow!" Norman said forcefully, wriggling in the arms of his captor. Leonard paused again. "He's going to run, and he's going to win. He will have your job. Unless, maybe, you know what I know!" Leonard reversed himself and came forward, giving his own suit a reflexive brush, and his companion padded with him, smoothly--the latter, to judge by his coat front, really was a Bearer, an Asian one unknown to Norman. The politician and his companion stopped ten feet away, while a third guard joined the two on Norman, and the car's driver got out. He had a pistol at the ready. At a word, the second guard put his hands on the lawyer. "I don't have the information with me," he said quickly. Leonard approached, quietly. The sodium light made his face look greenish. He neared until he was looking directly into the orange sheen of Norman's face. "I thought," he said, "the morning was too late." "Too late for you to know about Macklin announcing. But I can't just carry that information walking around. It's got to be kept safe." At a nod, the man with the truncheon used his fist to punch Norman in his modest-sized gut. "Counselor," said Leonard softly, "you don't know what I know and what I don't. But you ought to know enough not to waste my time. Should I have you arrested and your premises immediately raided on suspicion of containing evidence of collaboration with terrorism?" "You can't do that," wheezed the little attorney. "I can do whatever I like under emergency executive powers. I can have you interrogated by Dong here. Nin xian qing?" He gestured, and the other ripped away his coat front with one hand and a genital restraint with the other; a cubit-long organ sprang out, so hard it actually curved slightly upward. Norman stared at it, sickly fascinated, and its single eye seemed to stare back, twitching. "Would you like that?" asked Leonard even more quietly. "No," said Norman. "I think I'd like it. At least I'd like to watch. Still, noblesse oblige." With another murmur, Dong recovered himself, and Leonard half-turned, then stopped. "You may deliver your information to my office for executive review tomorrow. Then it will be determined if it was legally in your possession or not. We will proceed from there. Qing jin," he finished to Dong. They walked. "Keep your nose clean, and do what the man said," admonished one of the guards, and pushed him hard, so that he stumbled. Within seconds, the car was gone and so were the security people. Norman thought about the guard's words. Not a bad new City motto, if one were wanted, he thought. >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jun 6, 2010 21:24:56 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jun 15, 2010 23:04:51 GMT -5
049[/b] Jason parked his runabout in its accustomed place in the terminal lot on Alder Island, set the hand brake, and unzipped the bag on the seat next to him. He knew everything was there, but he checked again anyway. The he got out, cinched up his long leather coat, arranging the hood about his neck, and then went around the get the bag out of the passenger side. That done, he shouldered it, closed and locked the door, and turned his steps toward the building and the ferry slip. He'd had sex with Michelle barely twenty minutes before, but already he could feel the weight between his legs dragging him down, putting pressure on the straps of his genital restraint, obstructing the free movement of his thighs, the unwieldy mass rolling left to right and right to left with each step, making him walk slowly, carefully, like an old man instead of the youthful fertility god he was supposed to be. Worst of all was something not yet here but on the way--the desire, the constant, evil craving that made nearly everyone he saw reek of sex--young and old, females--but a lot of males, too. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't stop it any more than he could stop seeing colors or hearing sounds. Tonight he would get some satisfaction with Cindy's clients. He could do them all more or less as he wanted, vent himself on them utterly, and never have to see any of them again; no issues, no meaningful looks on the street, no waiting for PDA calls, as with Islanders. It was blessed release, and this would be the last time. He knew Cindy would ask him to her party tomorrow, the special pregnancy party which she threw a couple of times a year for select clients and prospects. He couldn't go, of course; he was meeting Jenna. He'd have to tell Cindy. He thought again of his plans with Jenna, his half-baked idea about spiriting her away to a place on the Skookumish reservation. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. Yes, she was going to be in the apartment until they left for California, but that was more than six months away. In the meantime she'd do--what? Be pregnant, and wait around for him twenty-three and a half hours per day. Six months of being a sex slave in his private hell ... what would that do to their love? He didn't want to think about it. He was glad of ending things with Cindy. He didn't want anything to do with the city any more, except to find Lucky. If Jenna had given him more than sex, he had done the same to Lucky. He wanted to know how she was doing, whether she had recovered, as she had promised, from her darkness; if her dream of moving down south had now come true. With the amount of money he'd given her, she could have gone anywhere. It was foolish to think he'd ever hear of her again. He had talked to some friends, called in a favor or two, to see if she could be located. Not that there was much to go on. No ID number, not even a last name--only a first one, and even that might not be the name she was known by. One thing was certain, she had not been seen at her usual City waterfront haunts for five days now. His ferry--one later than the usual, by arrangement--was arriving, and blew its horn. He shouldered his bag, remembering a line he'd read somewhere-- "Once more unto the breach, dear friends." He wasn't sure what a breach was, but it sounded like something he was going once more unto. He'd have to trust to the Private lounge for a hookup or three. He moved down the walkway, slowly, like a prisoner moving toward his jail cell. >< >< >< >< >< >< "What's the latest, Merilee?" Jo Dunbar asked Merilee Brunett as she wheeled a stack of chairs into the high school's Conference Room B. Merilee put her PDA back into its holster on her bag. "They're doing alright, it sounds like." "The meeting agenda," said Regina Thomsen with a wink, helping Jo start to take chairs down. Jo and Joy traded looks about the unspoken addition: Not so much your children, whom you've called twice already in the last fifteen minutes. Thankfully, Regina was being somewhat sensitive about Merilee's unaccustomed separation from John after school hours. "We have an agenda. I only wish we had a better time for the meeting," Merilee complained. "No Dr. Macklin, he's busy, and half the people who would be here are at CDF. You'd think Colonel George would have let everyone go for the evening by now." "I got a call from Sergeant Duarte," said Joy Hotchkiss. "He just dismissed them, a little late, as you say. Security briefing." She smiled. "People will be here." "Good! Oh--my case with my notes! Excuse me a moment," fussed Merilee, and bustled out with a swish of skirts, her flat soles slapping the carpeted floor. After a moment, Jo put down a chair and asked: "Security briefing? Why?" Joy motioned where Merilee had gone, then put a finger to her lips. "Some people on the island who don't check out," she said in a low voice. "Don't let on to her, though." "She'll find out soon enough," said Regina, tossing her head. "Besides, it's not like she's leaving two babies at home. They're both teenagers, for Pete's sake. Someone's gotta grow up here." "They're always your babies," said Jo half to herself. A tall man knocked at the side of the door. "Hello! The meeting here?" he asked with a smile. "Sure!" said Joy. He was joined by another couple, Chantal Inouye and her husband, whom Jo turned to greet with a smile. "How's things?" "Good, thanks," said the doctor. "There's definitely interest among the medical community on the other side. Rhys Macklin isn't exactly mainstream, but he is a scientist and a doctor. I got an email back from Rhea Soulange, PA to Mandy Thornton of Washington Cares. The membership might well trend his way, though Mandy herself probably wouldn't speak out to endorse him officially." "They could designate someone," said Regina. "True," put in the tall man, adjusting a table. "There's still some vestiges of independence out there. Not everyone yet is absolutely reliant upon the entity for their every thought and opinion--hello, Merilee!" "Hi," she said, bustling back in, replacing her PDA in its holster and swinging her heavy briefcase up onto a table. "More on the way?" asked Chantal. "Yes, we're expecting Janine Sandoval and Bernd Behrens, Stan Wilkes, the Balans, Vonda, Father Craig, and Bud and Colonel George and some others." "Stan will have something to report on lining up out-of-state support," said Joy. "I know the building trades groups are behind Rhys a hundred percent. That's what Vonda will be reporting. How about you?" she asked Merilee. "Well, the KC/QC Education Association is coming along--slowly," said Merilee, opening up her case, as Colonel George walked in with a quiet hand salutation. "Like the medical community, many of them like a scientist. They're just not so sure as we are about this scientist. Especially with the 'Mackin' For Macklin' ads he's been running." "Ah, yes, the Insta-Bangs," said Regina. "Touch of genius there." The tall man needled her: "You didn't have anything to do with that, did you? I know you know Destiny Brigid." Regina turned around with a little smile. "Why, little old moi?" she asked innocently. "Whatever would make one think that?" Merilee and Jo traded resigned what shall we do with this woman? glances. There was a greeting at the door as more people arrived, and the soldier said: "Are we discussing Dr. Macklin's prospects already? I thought that was what the meeting was going to be about." "You're coming in on the tail end of the pre-meeting meeting," said Regina. "You know how this place is for meetings." "You betcha! My friends in the tribal lobby aren't opposed to Dr. Macklin. Some are willing to fund him, but at the rate these things move they will probably have to do it privately." "Probably the best idea anyway," said Jo. He nodded. "I think so. Say, did Janine get here yet?" "No," said Joy. "Why?" "She took off from camp pretty fast in that black sports of hers, I thought she'd beat us here for sure." "Unless she was going home to clean up," said Joy. "You can get pretty dirty doing her job." "That's true," he began, then another voice from the door cut in. "Refreshments! Where do you want 'em?" "Refreshments?" Merilee asked, with a look at Regina, who nodded. "Over here, please," called Merilee, and several more attendees came in, following a pair of uniformed service people wheel pushing metal carts. "Good lord!" exclaimed Chantal's husband, drawing in the aroma. "You call this refreshments?" "Hey, if it's good enough for the sultan of Brunei, I figure it's good enough for us," said Regina with a royal smile. "Now, let's get this set up, Madame Chairwoman, and get this show on the road." >< >< >< John Brunett looked down at the sodden bed from his recumbent position, half-covered in a spot-soaked quilt, his ever-present fleece boots protruding from the bottom, and at the slender, sandy-haired girl on her haunches between them wiping herself down with a towel. "I'll have to call Mom back," she said. "She'll wonder why I didn't answer." John nodded. It was the fault of Mrs ... Mrs ... someone, who was supposed to have come by to relieve and comfort him while he was at home with his sister. A lady from church, was all he could think of. He knew her well, could picture her, but her name wouldn't come. But the fiery ache came. It always came, making him hurt, and Kayleigh had helped him again. Like with his mom it was ... well, he didn't think about how it was. It just was. With some of the ladies at church, or the girls at school he liked it, because they wanted him, and liked him, and loved him--he supposed. He wasn't sure what love was supposed to be. He'd heard so many things said about it that he couldn't remember any of them. He automatically reached out and took a drink, a long, tremendous drink of whatever there was--milk again as always. After that, he knew what to do. He did it a dozen times a day here at home: he rolled over, sat up, standing up off the bed and took a hot towel from a special metal container and wiped himself down. He always did that carefully. While he did that, Kayleigh, with a few long-practiced motions, stripped the sheets and quilt off the bed and pushed them into a big basket. Then she flipped up some ties and took the plastic cover off the mattress. She took fresh bedclothes off a stack by the door, pre-arranged in order, and he helped her put them on. He always felt like helping Kayleigh, though with his mom he always let her do it all herself. He didn't know why. The sheets on, he arranged the fresh quilt while Kayleigh took her PDA and called mom back. He wasn't sure what Kayleigh was saying--just something reassuring, by her tone. Voices were so often just a buzz to him except when mom was talking, and even with her sometimes. He heard Kayleigh turning on the shower, as they called their walk-in ionizing bodycleaner. She'd take one first, then she'd make him take one. He didn't like it, but at least it didn't take long; he went into the bathroom, standing near the heater, and stripped himself off with a shiver, wrapping up in a fleecy robe until the very moment of entering. John stared down, looking at his downy coat and genital restraint, which he'd obediently hung up, and his long sheepskin boots, laid on the floor with the shafts folded over twice. All of them would be cleaned by his mom in a high-tech electrostatic cleaner which removed most of the stains; still, all the gear got so messed up that it had to replaced weekly. He had no idea how much it cost. He had no idea how much anything cost, and only the vaguest idea of what money was. He had a distant memory of being very small and playing happily--sometimes. And sometimes people shouted and looked angry, and then he would try to hide in shame, because if they were upset, of course they were upset with him. Who else was there to be upset at? No one else ever did anything wrong that he could tell. But him ... he opened the robe and took a quick look down at his body; the slight build, the long, thin bones everywhere apparent, and below, if he looked at the proper angle, the fragile legs, knobby knees, and big, fragile feet, all so white and pale and soft that they would be the envy of any woman. But he couldn't see his feet and knees now, because his blue-veined scrotum hung down, warming his thighs, while his male member, retracted, slept atop it like a giant pink cave slug, if there were any such thing. He covered it up again quickly. He didn't enjoy looking at it, or letting his tummy get cold. The light on the unit's side went off, and the door opened a bit; Kayleigh's hand groping for her robe on its hook. She wouldn't let him look at her naked. Even in bed with him she kept some clothes on. She drew the robe in and then came out with it on, motioning him in. After the shower, Kayleigh was dressed and finishing up another PDA conversation. By the time John was dressed, she was done and came into his room and sat on his bed. "You okay?" she asked. He nodded. For now. "There's something you need to know," she said. He listened. "I--I--" her eyes looked this way and that--"I don't want you to think I'm, like, not gonna be there for you. But I have a boyfriend," she said quickly. "A boy. At school. I'm--I'm his girl now. I'm with him. It just feels ... well, not quite right being with you at home and him at school. I mean being with you," she added. "You know what I mean." He nodded. Then his mind stirred; a thought. A question began to take shape. "Do-duh-duh-duh--?" he began. "Does Mom know?" she supplied. He nodded. "No, not yet. I'll tell her." He nodded again. She looked directly at him now, and put her hand on his leg. "I still care about you. I'll be there for you when you need me. I won't let you suffer." Her cornflower-blue eyes widened. "But things are different. Before, I didn't care what I did. Now I do care. I ... I can't help it ... but--but when I was with you just now, I could only think of him." She closed her eyes, and a tear trickled down out of each one. Then she covered them with her hands, rocking back and forth sitting crosslegged, face in her hands, elbows on her knees. John looked at her blankly, his mind reeling as it tried to grasp something completely outside himself, and it failed. He simply stared, completely lost. When the girl looked up again after a few seconds, her mouth twisted in grief, and, sobbing, she picked herself up and ran, slamming the door to her own room. The PDA left on John's bed sat near him, buzzing. He looked at it dully, but made no move to answer. >< >< >< "Nice place," said Taylor, looking around the dining area, through one way into the kitchen and then another down and across the vast living room and out the windows toward the city. "Very nice." "Thanks. Can I take your coat?" asked the big man. Taylor undid three buttons and gave a little shrug. Before he had drawn her coat halfway off, he put it back. "On second thought," he said. She turned to look at him with a smile. "H'mm. That's okay. I wasn't expecting to be visiting a married man at home." "You have to stay warm. You're recovering, but you did have a shock. Believe me, I didn't invite you in lightly." He went into the kitchen as he spoke, and returned with a cup of something warm. Taylor sniffed it--tea. She took the cup and looked up at him. Even from four-inch heels he still had five or six inches' height on her. She let him steer her toward the big sofa in the living room; he did something, and lights came up slowly. She decided she liked this place better than any other place she'd ever been in. Something felt very peaceful and life-affirming about it; just the qualities she needed to establish herself in a new place and feed to strength. They sat down. She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and asked: "So, where's your wife, then?" "On a visit," he said, sitting down in a chair angled to her seat on the couch. "She won't be back tonight. Though if she were, it wouldn't matter. You're here for a rest. Doctor's orders." The glint Taylor liked flashed past. "I'll show you to your room later." "Thank you," she said, leaning back, cradling the tea. "No hurry. I feel quite a lot better now." "Good. Would you like to watch something on the e-plex?" He picked up a card-size remote from a little sliding tray inside the chair's arm. She was tempted; there was a small screen for retroviewing, which meant that for serious watching there was full holovision. But she said: "No, thanks. I'd rather talk, if you don't mind. It's not often that a girl gets an evening to herself with Dr. Rhys Macklin." "Or that a fellow gets an evening to himself with Taylor ... " She smiled again. "Taylor," he finished. "More often than you'd think," she said. Her eyes moved, then flickered back to the window. Was there something, or someone, outside in the yard? "You're an escort, then." Inwardly, she felt charmed by the old-fashioned, genteel word. Outwardly, she shrugged. "No law against that, I guess." "There is, actually, but I won't tell if you won't. So, back to my question from the ferry. What brings you to Alder Island really, Taylor?" She thought fast. The story Nick had sketched for her had seemed plausible at the time, but it now sounded ridiculous. She sprang up, her metal-clad heels making a scrape on the floor, and stood, legs slightly apart, erect, looking down at him. "I'm not on the island to beg. I'm here to raise some hell." She turned, walking down across the living room, one strut-step at a time, loosening her coat to fall a little off her shoulders. She knew she had good shoulders. He watched. Taylor walked some more, swaying, slowly, slowly. Then she turned again, standing confidently. "I'll lay it on the line. You're running for office--I know you are. I came here to get dirt on you. But I'm not gonna do that. I can give you what I was gonna give your opposition. And that's something." She let the coat fall a little farther, bunching it up around her bosom. "You work for Nels Anderson?" he inquired. "I blew Nels' mind last night," she told him. "I can blow yours tonight, or anyone's you want." She watched him carefully, smiling. He looked very, very thoughtful. "All right," he said at last, and motioned. She let the coat fall; short black dress, long black boots, and nothing else but a chain necklace. She felt proud of her strong, blood-fed curves, pulsing with life she'd ripped from a score of victims. To work for a man like this--well, there was no limit. He could send her anywhere, provide her with anything. She was ready. His face grew remote, still, appraising, the face of a man putting his entire mind to work on one task. "Let's see you do something," he said. "Let's start simple. How about a little dance?" He pushed a few keys on the remote, and dancing lights sprang up--a holofunction of his e-plex, she knew. She put both elbows down low, hands out to her sides flattened with palms up, and crooked her middle fingers to say: Bring it. Music began to pulse, coming from everywhere and nowhere, a hell of a system, electro-trance roaring to life with a pounding, fast beat. It was an old song, a good one, one she knew. She tap-tap-tapped one toe on the percussion break, then threw herself into it, mouthing along with the words. I'll take you up to the highest heights, Let's spread our wings and fly away, Surround you with love that's pure delight, Release your spirit, set you free!
Come on feel my energy, Let's be as one in soul and mind, I'll fill your world with ecstasy, Touch all your dreams way down inside ... Way down inside ...way down inside ... way down inside ...
Let me be, let me be, let me be your fantasy, let me be, let me be, let me be your fantasy, yeah ... The big man watched, seemingly impassive. The woman was good, very good, presented herself well. He let the song fade, and brought the holos down and the ambient lights up. She stood, watching him, breathing; but for her mature figure and clubbing outfit, she could be a high school gymnast looking for the judges' cards after finishing her routine. He beckoned her over to her seat. She came, and she sat. He smiled quietly at her, leaned forward, and said: "You're not human, are you? Not any more." Taylor was silent. "Come on," he urged softly. "You think I'm not going to believe you. Well, let me tell you, I have experience with PHEs, posthuman evolutions. You're not going to scare me, or shock me, so just say what you are. I know what you're not. You're not human, and you're not a humod, at least of any sort I've encountered. So what are you?" "I'm a vampire," she said. "Or, a vampire minion, properly, so he says." "'He?'""Nick--I don't know his real name. The vampire who made me. Has a room at the Bayshore Suites. Says he's a Federal agent." "Ah. Mr. Vartan Iulianou. Yes, I had my doubts about him," said Rhys Macklin with perfect seriousness. "So, he's a vampire, is he?" "Are you making fun of me?" she demanded suddenly. "I swear by all the bodies in my secret underground lab, I never make fun when it comes to the question of who, or what, will eventually take over from a human race which is slipping quickly down the evolutionary drain. The mind is gone, devoted to self-destruction. But there is physical material which can be salvaged. You're a good example. Mr. Iulianou chose well when he chose you." "He doesn't seem to think so," said Taylor with a touch of anger. "There's a story there. I suspect it had something to do with your message on the ferry that gave you such a turn ... let me say that Mr. Iulianou and I have differing views," observed the big man. "That's enough for now." "'For now?'" Taylor repeated. "Does this mean--?" A rising, chiming tone went off. "Excuse me," he said. "Another call. I have to take this. I may be some time. Make yourself at home, Taylor. We'll talk." He rose, calmly smoothly, turning his broad back on her as if she were anything but a carnivore who might at any moment tear into him for dinner the way he'd tear into Baja veggie wrap. Not for the first time this evening, Taylor had to think. She found her way out onto the front deck, facing the water. It was fully dark now, and a wind was blowing up, making trees sway and whipping the black water of Puget Sound. She let the night energy wash over her skin. And then, as often these days when she had to think, she lit a nick cigarette, drawing it in deeply, anticipating the heartrate boost it would give, pumping the blood through her veins, giving her more life. Was he having fun with her, or not? He could tell something about her, that was true. So could any human. She wasn't so new a Minion that she hadn't learned the predator awe that she and her kind touched off in their prey. Some realized it sooner and others only at the last second, but you could always see it in their eyes: the fear, the knowledge that nightmares were true--that death was upon them and that it wore a human face. But if he spoke truly, he knew what she was and felt none of it. That would mean he knew he wasn't prey, which would imply that he wasn't human. That was ridiculous. So, he was tying one on with her. He had, after all, gotten her to admit to being a Minion. He was ridiculing her ... 'I swear by all the bodies in my secret underground lab,' indeed! He was another rich dabbler--another Liam. An older one, better manners, but entirely too much going on under there. She turned on her heel, having reached one end of the deck, and walked slowly, step by step, back the way she'd come. She decided to finish her nick stick, walk in, collect her coat, and keep walking, out the door. She'd had a pleasant, momentary vision of being his queen bitch, using his money and connections to make herself--get the better of her dark controller--but it wasn't going to happen. She turned suddenly. "Sorry, the job's taken," said a voice. Taylor's head snapped to one side, then she felt the impact. The blow would have stunned or killed a human, but Taylor was made of stronger stuff now. She looked back, going into a crouch, snarling, blood rushing, powering up. Her adversary was also female, tallish, ponytailed, in dark athletic clothes, standing loose, a martial arts stance. She had picked the ground; wide-open, weaponless, hand-to-hand, favoring training rather than the gut fighting that Taylor knew. Her longer limbs added more advantage, while Taylor's heels hobbled her. The other moved warily, circling, but even now, with her life at stake, Taylor couldn't shake more questions. Was the call a setup? Was this a test? But there was no time. Her opponent moved--a hammer kick hit her shoulder. She went with it, turning, lashing out with one foot and connecting, not a solid blow, but it caught something. That foot stopped--held--and instantly she kicked out with the other, sharp heel foremost, and felt it punch and heard a breath and release. Now she was on her back, free; she rolled over and threw herself up, onto her feet. She raked out with her hands but felt a blow on her head, not a hard one but sharp. Boxing, not wrestling. She had to turn that around. A hand hit her throat in a grip and another spun her around by her left arm. Instinctively, she let herself go, coming face to face, and threw herself into a vicious headbutt, thud. That loosened her opponent; Taylor seized a bared arm, and sank her teeth into it hard. Or tried to ... bare flesh, but like tough leather her teeth would hardly grip. It yanked away and she felt a blow to her abdomen, then another. She tautened her muscles, but a third blow knocked her wind out. Smart--even a Minion needs to breathe ... she staggered, felt herself being pulled upright, then the world turned upside down and over again, and she hit the deck on her back with a headsplitting crash. Dazed, Taylor looked up, blurrily, to see her opponent, a fine specimen, looking back down at her; healthy, attractive features perhaps, but with a blank look, inhuman, cold. A foot crushed her mid-abdomen, taking her gasping breath away again. She flailed up with an arm, which was caught, easily now, and twisted so hard she half-turned, pain tearing at her shoulder. She saw the face again, near, as two hands took her head. Again, the thought flew-- no awe: no prey. Had Nick somehow taken away her powers before sending her to die for him? She bucked desperately, gripping her adversary's body between her thighs and trying to crush her. But she might as well have tried to crush a tree trunk. The face's lips formed one word: "Fail." Then Taylor's head twisted suddenly--she felt, for an instant, her nose touching the wood flat to her back; then everything went dark. There was no pain, no sensation, no world, nothing but a void, and she seemed to hear words--a memory, or the face saying them, she didn't know. I do not fear death. Therefore, death retires from me.Taylor reached with a final effort, reached, in her mind; numbness, and cold--creeping, freezing cold, coming up over her, settling in, making its home in her body. So this is it, she thought. A distant echo, as of music, of something ... and then it went away. >< >< >< Cold, too, was what Detective Jack Crowley felt as he looked around the South Plum Street apartment. He had known what he'd find. There were only a few personnel here: one forensics agent, two orderlies, and two cops. The deputy coroner was due to arrive any moment. There would be no doctor. Each of them were experienced, if unofficial, members of the 'woo-woo squad.' Fewer smiles were being used these days by people who called it that. It was handling a case every day or two now. There was a bleak sameness about all of them. Crowley said the usual words to the scientist: "Whatt'a ya make of it, Mel?" The man stripped his gloves off. "Same as Tenth Avenue, and Roy Street, and Harrison. And the others. Cause of death--well--basically, having his head ripped halfway off, eh?" "Psycho." "You know we wouldn't be here if it was psycho. Psycho means human." "Evidence, Mel. We need evidence. Some skin under a victim's nails, hair, saliva traces. Something. Why does all the evidence say human when the behavior isn't?" "Unless it's something nonhuman that takes over a human." Jack looked at him. "Possession by some sort of entity? Good luck selling that to a judge." "Not my job, luckily." "Or mine." The cop flipped open his PDA. "Who're you calling?" asked the other man. "The guy you've met once or twice. He may, just may, be able to do that some day." "'May be, some day.' I love your confident attitude," said Mel dryly. Crowley shifted hands. "Kirin? Where you at? I've got another one for you ..." >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jul 10, 2010 23:49:03 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jul 10, 2010 23:49:55 GMT -5
050[/b] Kayleigh Brunett took a deep breath, then another, then turned her head and looked at her bedside clock. She had been laying on her bed, crying, for only about twenty minutes--twenty minutes that felt like twenty hours, rolling back and forth, making the plastic-covered mattress crinkle dully under the sheets. She could hear a low broken moaning sound out in the hallway beyond the closed door. She knew it was John. She had seen him many times like this, his long legs doubled up under him, slumped against the doorway, giving voice to his pain, his fear, his loneliness--his cold. Someone should be with him ... but where was Mom? Why should it be her again? Always her, when Mom wasn't here. She was thirteen years old--his sister--and having to serve him like a wife. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair, either, that his mother, their mother, should be doing the same. Not fair to any of them--least of all to John. Kayleigh scrunched her own tall body up--already five feet seven, with the slim build of a developing hurdle runner or pole-vaulter--and clenched her fists on her pillow, rolling over and kicking uselessly a few times. It wasn't that she hated John, or even didn't love him. She did love him, loved the boy underneath what Mom and the island had made him, who still survived and showed himself in brief smiles and gestures and occasional funny little things. That was why it hurt so bad. That was why, last year, seeing her mother in pain from John's constantly increasing needs, Kayleigh had steeled herself, set her face, blanked out her feelings, and set to helping with him physically. Just for awhile, she'd told herself. Mom would realize, would see the pass things had come to, and she'd get help. But it hadn't happened. Things had gotten worse. John was older, more powerful--despite his frailty--and even less fit for anything anywhere near normal life, even by island standards. And Mom was growing not less but more comfortable with it, and more protective. The money and benefits rolled in, ever more, and she had her, Kayleigh, to help now. Kayleigh had given herself away for nothing. She was starting to dread coming home. John hardly seemed human any more, just a raw bundle of nerves, tears, cold, and thirst, and a male organ that belonged on a maddened bull rhinoceros rather than a human being. She had heard, once, some talk about how perhaps an operation could relieve a Bearer of his condition--but no, they said it had been tried and didn't work, that the results had been horrible. But if her life was getting unbearable, his must be beyond imagination. Besides ... they said it didn't work, and who were they but Dr. Macklin and Mom and everyone else who profited by John? And so, Kayleigh had started going with Shonnie at school. He was nice, a little nervous, but beautiful with his fine, sensitive features and dark hair. He was a fertile--not a Bearer, of course, but still, marked out for the course that the island always plotted for its fertile males: a good job, so hard to find elsewhere; respectability, status, a nice home, permission to be with all the women they liked--vanilla perfection outside, and inside--well, who knew? In many ways Shonnie was what Kayleigh wished John could be. And she thought that maybe ... maybe ... Shonnie with his sweetness and kind eyes could someday be trusted to know her terrible secret. He would be silent. Island men were silent; it was the price of their lease on paradise. Of course, Shonnie had wanted sex. She had no grounds to refuse him, seeing what she was to John. So she had given it to him, at school mostly since she could so rarely get away anywhere else: in the supply room, or a stall in the bathroom in C Wing--seldom entered because it was always Out Of Order due to a mysterious plumbing problem--or in the gymnasium loft where the out-of-season equipment was stored. He might have gotten her pregnant. She'd had one, maybe two periods, or at least pains and blood on her sheets, but none so far this month, not that she was sure when exactly it was supposed to happen. She'd prefer to think he'd gotten her pregnant rather than John. His offspring seemed to be fine with other women, but whatever was going on with John had to do with his genetics, and his genetics were also in her. She thought of what might come of it if John got her pregnant, and shuddered. She heard another sound outside: her brother trying to say something. "M-M-M-M-M-M-M-M ..."Kayleigh shot up. Mom! She felt around in a panic. No calls--very unlike Mom--of course, duh! She'd left her PDA in John's room! No doubt there were six messages on it by now, asking, wondering, worrying, entreating, afraid. She'd be home soon, and whatever her feelings, Kayleigh could not be caught not taking care of John. She ran her hands through her hair, got up, and went over and opened the door. There he was, on the floor, looking up at her with grief-stricken eyes. She took his hand, helping him up, managing a smile and a muttered apology. He came slowly, as usual when he was like this, shuffling, bent, wilted--almost all wilted except for the maleness that jutted out hard like a battering ram, angry-red and hot, demanding relief. He had her PDA. She took it and got off a quick text. Then she sat him down on the bed gently, laid him back and helped him to scrunch up on it, and began to massage the thing, listening for the sound of a motor. She hoped it would be soon. >< >< >< >< >< >< Finished with his call, and having made a few necessary notes in his den, Rhys Macklin returned to the main room. "Thanks for waiting, Taylor ... Taylor?" He looked in the kitchenette, the hallway. Then he walked the lower main hall, around and back again, then upstairs, peering here and there and knocking on bathroom doors. Finally, back downstairs again, he stood, one arm folded into the elbow of the other, crooked up so he could slowly scratch the stubble on his chin. He listened to the rising wind, soughing around the eaves outside. Taylor's coat was still in a shapeless mass on the couch where she had tossed it; if she'd gone out, she'd have been back in quickly. That thought led him out the front door, to one side and onto the deck, where a body lay, almost as shapeless and dark as the coat on the couch. Instantly he was there, kneeling down, putting a finger here, two fingers there, laying a palm. Then he stood up, looking down, thinking. After a minute he came to a decision. He made his way back into the house and through into the rear entryway, taking an overcoat. He went to his garage, opened a door, and returned a few moments later wheeling a gurney. Maneuvering it across the paved drive, up onto the walkway--with a bit of difficulty, as there were two steps--and around, he returned to the deck, where he squatted down, got his arms under, and with an effort of strength, lifted the body onto the apparatus, which he then cranked up and pushed back the way he had come. Getting it down was still clumsy with the added weight, but at least the direction was favored by gravity. He stopped outside the back door and went in to retrieve Taylor's coat and handbag, and brought them out and placed them atop the body. Then he moved his burden into the garage, whose door shut behind him. Inside, he wheeled it to the back and through a door. This door let into a hallway tunneled into the steep hillside backing the garage, and after thirty meters or so, he emerged into a room; a smallish but well-equipped laboratory, from which several more doors opened. There he left the body on its carrier, approaching a paneled area with six large handles for six pull-out compartments of a type recognizable to anyone who'd ever seen a morgue. There he turned a switch on, returned to the central workspace, and switched on a computer and several devices. He looked at the body, lifting the dress twice; finally, he picked up a voice recorder and clicked on, and spoke. "Sixteen-ten, sixteen, time, twenty-hundred, location, home lab. Intake, cadaver, female, age early thirties. Arrived home with me, eighteen-forty, found by me deceased on my front deck at approximately nineteen-thirty-five. Assign this lot, log number ... two-three-five-seven-seven-six-A."He ceased, then donned rubber surgical gloves, then placed the woman's purse on a countertop, and proceeded to remove the contents, larger items first, the smaller items with grips, examining some items closely under the overhead light. After making a survey, he went back and continued with the recorder. "Items in subject's handbag: card wallet including medical ID, State and NAE ID's; digital music player; small bag with lip balm, lipstick, lip gloss, mirror, fold-up brush, analgesic tablets, nail files, bobby pins, and face powder; sunglasses with case; plastic closable bag containing several tissues; key ring with keys; several receipts; reusable, portable shopping bag; pocket planner; audio headset; tin of breath mints; eye drops; hand sanitizer; pen; switchblade knife; two pairs surgical gloves; packet of plasters; styptic pencil. No PDA. Name from IDs is Jael Schlick, age thirty-three, with a rent receipt for 635 Terrace Street, though IDs show a Weller Street address.
"Subject was fit and healthy for her age, if her ability to dance is any guide. Cause of death appears to be spinal shock caused by massive lateral contortion to the neck. Other injuries to the body support the preliminary conclusion that she was assaulted by blows delivered expertly by hands and feet, and dispatched with a head twist, breaking the neck." He ceased again, then thought again, then went to a control panel and electronically set some things to happen in the house; a security routine. Then he went back to the central work area, opened a sterilizer, and withdrew some instruments. He also opened a drawer and laid a pistol on the workspace top, not close to his instruments but still within easy reach. >< >< >< It was early for the party to be rockin', thought Brionne, and it kind 'a sucked that she couldn't drink anything. But that was part of the deal when you were doing family planning. She'd talked with Fawn on the phone a couple of more times and swung by the office once, but no one was there but that Danielle or whatever her name was, and she had given Brionne some pills that would help her family planning, she said Unfortunately Brionne had kind a' left them out in the bathroom and Kamiko's boyfriend had taken them. And washed them down with a couple of beer bongs. And they'd only made him throw up all over the place and he'd had to go to the ER with zit-awful cramps and stuff. So maybe it was better she hadn't taken them after all. Fawn had sure seemed bent out of shape about it when she'd told her. Then Brionne had gotten a weird call from her mom about had she had her family planning yet, and she hadn't. Then yesterday she'd found a pamphlet about a clinic on Alder Island that helped people with family planning with babies and everything. So, she'd told Fawn, awful sorry, but I wanna go check this place out, alright? Fawn had gone all quiet and said sure. Now--she checked her PDA--Fawn was calling her back again. Maybe the family planning had come through after all? "Yeah, Brionne-- Hiyeee Fawnie!" she said over the loud music. "What? Hello?" came Fawn's voice faintly. "I can hardly hear you, Brionne." "What? Oh yeah, I'm over at my friend Aaamiie's for a party thing, I was hoping Ashley would bring Stoshie as he's got so sad about losing his job an' all. I know it sucks bein' a dogg but I mean c'mon for zitssakes, you gotta get a freakin' life don't you and stop sitting around playing Grand Theft Auto: Sioux Falls don't you? I mean--" "Brionne," cut in Fawn, "I have some bad news for you." "Bad news? You want bad news? They've stopped selling Ichi-Wow Humod Green nail polish!" complained Brionne. "That was such the raddest shade for--" "Brionne, your mom and dad have been taken hostage in a home invasion situation." "No! Really? That is so cool viral marketing! I bet it's to help sell that Sike-O-Snort EXXXXTREME energy drink, isn't it?" "No, Brionne. It's not viral marketing. It's UPF." "Huh?" Brionne's jaw went slack, her mind rummaging vaguely among images of salted snacks and music devices. "UPF--United Patriotic Front," said Fawn. "You know." "No," said the young woman, baffled. If you couldn't wear it, eat or drink it, and it didn't get you high, it didn't register well in Brionne Stewart's prefrontal areas. "Breeder scum! That's what you need to know. Nasty, vicious, fascist, extra-chromosome, teabagging, bible-bashing, gun-toting, sister-raping nazi trailer-trash rednecks who want to deprive you of your choice!" "Where?" asked Brionne in a panic, looking wildly around. "At your house--your parents' house," said Fawn. "They took your parents hostage!" She sat up, running a hand over her denim tiny-skirt, tight against her pasty thigh, and wiggling her foot in its fluffy boot. "Okaaay ... so what am I s'pose to do about it?" "You need to come down to the clinic right away. They want to negotiate with you." "They wanna what?""Talk, Brionne. They have demands for you in order to let your parents go." The girl's brain began to hurt, a sure sign of unaccustomed usage. "Demands? Whadd eye got they want? They're not gettin' our PlayBox Ten! Marcus 'ud go ballistic over that!" "They want your baby, Brionne." "What?"
"Your BABY!" Fawn bawled. "My baby? But I'm not done with it yet!" Brionne wailed. "You have to--
"Whaat?? Don't mumble, Fawnie! Somethin' wrong with your mouth?" "I'LL TEXT YOU!" screamed Fawn, her throat aching from the exertion. "Text! Yeah! Go, gal!" bade Brionne, and hit 'end.' "What was that, girlie?" asked Rayvyn, passing by with a beer. Brionne put on a downcast look. "It's my folks, Rayv. They've been taken hostage by Nazi redneck weirdos." "Awesome!" exclaimed the other, taking her hand. "You know what this means?" They looked each other in the eyes for a half-second before it dawned on Brionne. Then they palmed their PDAs and yelled together: "Tweeter!" >< >< >< Vonda had called Merilee at the meeting to say that she didn't feel well, and David had driven her to the car park, from whence she'd driven straight home. Home, as such, she thought, turning on the hall light. The rest was dim, unoccupied. She hung up her coat and walked into the twilit living room. Tommy obviously not back yet, and might well be away all night; Laney gone; Gary gone, of course. The place was developing musty corners and chilly layers that wouldn't go away no matter how high she left the heat on. That only made the space stuffy, not warm. To be really warm, it needed a family living in it. There was no family here. She walked through into the kitchen, slowly, her thighs burning. Sex with David twice in one day--the session in the school storage room, and another at camp later, in the bunkhouse--would have made a woman half her age move slowly. The wall comset was blinking. A message. She entered the play code. Laney's voice came out. "Mom, I'm alright. I came today and got my stuff, what I want. I'll call once in a while. That's all you need to know." There was a pause, and sharp-drawn breath. "You think everything wrong with my rotten life would somehow be fixed if I had a baby? A half-brother or sister to raise while having to pretend it was my own? That wouldn't solve any problems. All it would do is make a lot more of them. How you thought that--?" She made a snort. "You're no better than the rest of the weirdos here. I'm staying on the island, and staying in school. But I need a break from you. A nice long break. So if I see you in school, I'll be cool, and you be cool too. Don't embarrass me, or I'm gone for real." The message ended. 'Don't embarrass me.' Would the news that her mother was screwing one--no, two--of her classmates qualify? Vonda thought bitterly, Bearers or not? And yet a fire burned in her. David Thomsen--a young man any straight woman in the world would want--wanted her, Vonda Hoffman, age forty-three. It was intensely flattering. And, to be frank about it, she wanted him. She felt young again--they'd been like a pair of teen-agers today. He had relished her mature, well-kept body like an oenophile with his glass of Margaux, and his enormous-in-every-way masculinity swept through her like a flash flood, filling some very old, dry, dusty places that had not been satisfied for many years, if ever. With him she felt alive--more than alive ... she groped, unsuccessfully, for a word ... fierce. Something primitive and powerful, something she had been trained to put down. She still didn't quite know what to do with it--with ... with the beastess, she decided to call it. Gary's death seemed to have unlocked its cage, and her impulsive, shameful quarter-hour with John Brunett had coaxed it out. David had met it squarely and made himself its master. As long as he was around ... but of course, that was the problem. The relationship, if it could be called that, wouldn't last. It couldn't last. It would be over in a few days if it wasn't over already; he'd surely had a few other girls since having her four hours earlier. He'd probably forgotten about her already. But she also wanted another man. She got down a bottle and poured herself a stiff whiskey, downed it in one, and poured another, taking it out to the dark living room and sitting down wearily, leaned forward and unzipped one soft grey athletic-soled boot, then the other. Then, propping each foot on an ottoman and drawing it out, rested her legs, staring out the window. There was a vine maple outside which the rising wind was moving back and forth. She could relate. At her age, she wanted wonderful things, things that would last. David was wonderful, but he wouldn't last. It was different with Rhys. They had been friendly, neighborly for years. She'd known him for years, before he'd even met Candee. She and Rhys related easily, naturally, deeply. She, Vonda, would have been the logical choice to replace Jane--except, of course, she'd been married to Gary, hadn't she? And things seemed so good. Candee, with her supermodel looks, youth, and thrill-seeking temperament, deserved a man like David far more than Rhys. Vonda, with her capacity for real love and real commitment, deserved Rhys more than--more than--solitude, broken by what could only be occasional flings with David, who would anyway be leaving in less than a year for the Army. If she relied on him, his shipping out would be the death of her. But life was like that. How often did anyone get what they deserved? Rhys was out of the league of a middle-aged schoolteacher, even one with a good body. He was an international figure, a natural aristocrat. He needed someone on his elbow who would make him look good, not only in Queen City but in Washington D.C., New York, Dubai, Tokyo, Paris, and London. That would be Candee. Not her. She raised her glass to her lips, but it was already empty. Again, she could relate. An empty glass ... that was Vonda Hoffman alright. She sat, regarding nothing. A tear welled out of one eye and rolled down her cheek. >< >< >< On the ferry to Queen City, an athletically-dressed young woman with brown hair reached into the small backpack beside her on the seat, and withdrew a PDA from it. She studied it with intelligent blue eyes for a moment, then punched a few buttons. Nothing, apparently, happened. She tried a few new combinations, and within a minute or two, she was evidently getting what she wanted. She brought an earpiece out of her bag, with a little connection wire, and connected it to the PDA. Her face assumed a fixed look; nothing moved but her fingers, and those very rapidly. Now and again, her eyelids flickered momentarily as data flashed across the little screen. When she was done, she put the PDA into her bag, and took out a different PDA, connecting that to the same wire. Then she sat back. It had taken less than five minutes. In those few minutes, however, Ralna had learnt much from Taylor's PDA, and was now plugged into the 'net via her own device to run some cross-checks and research. PDA's by themselves didn't have more than the most basic capability, unless they were connected to a server. In this case, Ralna functioned as her own server, via the unimod on her ear. While the scans and checks ran, she minimized that mindwindow and engaged in some free proc-- thought, as Sir was now quite strict about calling it. To the casual eye, this subject, Taylor/Jael, had appeared human in every respect, like Ralna herself. On the trip over, Ralna had watched them, sitting a few seats away, disguised then as now by biomorph, and by observation Sir had betrayed no awareness that the subject was anything but human. And Sir knew humod as well or better than anyone--he had created her, and she was perfect. Yet the subject herself had not scanned as human within normal parameters. Respiration, skin temperature, heart rate, theta and alpha signs, were all subtly different. They did match one other set of readings Ralna had. Those came from Adela, the escort she'd met for an evening to do some direct research on love, a subject with which escorts ought to have expert familiarity, according to all the data. At the time, Ralna had not prioritized Adela's biodata as an issue. It had not been extremely variant--she could have been ill and on drugs--and Adela had nothing to do with Sir. But Adela's variances occurring also in Taylor brought urgency to the matter. Was Taylor human, or was she not? Ralna, for once, did not know. She did know that her first kick to the subject's head, which would have felled a normal human like a pole-axed ox, had done hardly more than stimulate her into fighting temper. And she fought very hard, if not well. Ralna, who didn't bruise easily, now had two of them, and that spiked heel, driven with great force, had given her a welt which would have been a serious puncture wound but for her subcutaneous mesh. It was a sound conclusion that whatever Taylor had been, Adela was the same. Ralna had learned from Adela. From the evidence of this PDA, Taylor had known Adela also. They had things in common. Two escorts, that is, two persons with professional competence at love; two sets of biodata which did not sit well within human metrics, but sat well with each other; two nonhumans? That probability existed. Ralna herself was proof that PHE--in Sir's phrase--had arrived. So, was Taylor a humod herself, or some other posthuman? At this question, her mind-body interface had a minor event which slowed her processing, also producing some untoward reactions in abdominal and neck nerves. Sir had ... had never told her unequivocally whether she was the only still-functioning, online humod to come from his hands. No data she could find suggested that he had created any but her in recent years. But he had created her with extensive assistance from other scientists, which strongly implied that there were others capable of creating humod, and so that perhaps they had done. Certainly, her own unimod, keyed to a humod brain structure, might have been developed, but could not have been tested and proven to work, without another humod. So there had to be at least one other humod out there-- one known to Sir.
Yet--her processes slowed further--if she--the subject--Taylor-- were a humod--a humod that Sir knew about-- or had made, but not told her, Ralna, about ... and the way she danced for him, with love ... and he knew ... One for love and one for business?
Let me be, let me be, let me be your fantasy ... A rush of blood went to her head, to her muscles, making her flush hot; she could feel her heart rate and respiration surging, her pupils dilating, energy burning to white heat--very like going to combat mode--as when she had ended Taylor. She had let out her remaining aggression during the six-mile, twenty-four-minute run from Sir's house back to the ferry terminal. But here ... she sprang up--luckily she was a few steps from the door. She pushed outside, letting the door bang, outside into the rain-spattered night. Glancing around, her hair blowing in the stiff, chilly wind, she saw a section of thick steel safety rail bolted to the front of the observation deck. Placing her feet, she flexed her arms and hands most carefully, channeling energy into them and into her shoulders and back and thighs. She took hold of the inch-thick bar, settled herself, and let all her energy flow ... Nothing at first. After a second, there was a metallic groan, and then, poppop-popoppop, the iron bolts sheared away; she whipped the rail around, end over end, around and around, bojutsu style, bringing it to a rest in evenly spaced hands, and then, muscles suddenly bulging out, bent it into a U. Then she threw it away into the bay. For once she did not care whether anyone observed her or not. All she cared about-- all she cared about--was some PHE getting with Sir--getting past her. She was devoted to him, body and spirit, wholly. And no one--nothing--would change that. What did she lack? Why should anyone else be his fantasy? As she told him every day during comsessions, she existed to serve. To serve him. And serve she would, sparing nothing, until the end. Even if he ... he ... Her processing stopped. She leaned back against the windowed wall, faint, drained. Raindrops hit her face, catching in her hair. He would not, could not, put her away, bypass her. He couldn't. And yet ... and yet. Logic and data dictated that nothing lasted. Equipment wore out, processors became outdated, memory sectors degraded, 'ware failed of upgrades, manufacturing flaws emerged, flesh and blood aged and weakened, feelings changed ... even love could end, and love was exemplified by the data as the most enduring of all things. But she, Ralna, was perfect. And if she could learn love, she could perfect it. And if she could offer Sir perfect love, then that would create a bond as enduring as her duty to him, and bind them even closer. And she would end anyone who got in the way. Anyone.The boat's horn blatted, signaling approach, and a rain-jacketed ferry worker came out, safety vest glinting under the deck lights. He looked at her. "Are you alright, Miss?" She blinked, coming to herself, realizing she was wet and cold. Then she nodded and got to her feet. The rail had gone unremarked. Her processing restarted. She had never dreamed, but these past minutes must have been what dreaming was like. If so, it was well she didn't. >< >< >< Not very far away, a closed store's security light made a patch of wet sidewalk gleam dully in the mist; across it walked a dark, trench-coated figure, rounding the corner of Rainier Avenue South onto Ferdinand Street. Kirin--his name this evening--had been to the South Plum Street apartment to consult for Detective Crowley. The official CSI was perfunctory, nearly over by the time Kirin arrived; this file would go to the very bottom of a deep pile. Both of them knew that the only real question was who, what Minion, had done this. Officially, Kirin had nothing to do with the 'vampire' cases, and officially, they were simply a collection of deaths with unexplained causes. But he had tacitly, and completely unofficially, assumed responsibility for tracking them. They had been climbing in numbers lately. The first ones, over the last few years, had been some of his own makes' simple lapses, for which they received correction. The Motel 9 case, with Taylor, had been different. She had not only been trying to use him, but she had also lost control, allowed herself to lose control. For that, he had sent her on a mission which would surely be the end of her, unless he had badly misjudged Rhys Macklin and his Alder Island community. At first, he had thought, ironically, that Macklin was Taylor's mysterious wealthy patron, until he had received communications from Liam Bates. Liam interested him; as rich or richer than Macklin, and much more easily manipulated, with his youthful fascination for Gothic razzle-dazzle and grand guignol. Nothing was easier or cheaper to supply, and the returns could be huge. He supposed he owed Taylor thanks for that. Thanks, Taylor, he thought with a small, grim smile, wherever you are.But Taylor was not the South Plum Street killer. The traces, the smell, the feeling, were not of her, nor any other minion of his, and he knew them all. And there was evidence, too, of this person named Saydi, who worked for Ricky Santos. Santos was known to Kirin, though Saydi wasn't--girls came and went daily in this business. Santos had ties to Councilor Oscar Espinoza through his nephew, Enrique Cabrera, who in turn used his business as cover for suppliers of Latina flesh to operators like Santos. This could reach into the Council, and ultimately to Leonard Chung. Kirin smelt a connection running from the killings of FBI agent Nola MacLennon, through the affairs of Medagenix and Valerie Cripps, and the murder of Bernie Young. It was a connection that had to do with illegal biotech and government, and that meant the hand of Chinese operators. Ms. Cripps was clearly terrified of testifying; she would do nothing but repeat some fantasy about having been kept captive elsewhere while another woman who resembled her in every detail--right down to fingerprints and retinae--had actually murdered Bhattacharya. There might be no connection here, but again there might be--if Mexican-based businessmen were deciding to move in on the Vancouver-headquartered Chinese. If so, Leonard would be point man to defend Chinese interests. He certainly had enough professional security working for him to accomplish all the mayhem. The other suspect would be Macklin, but Macklin had no staff muscle, only a single PA--and Macklin had also been hit, losing his previous PA. Despite that, Macklin could actually be the bad guy, but the frame fit Leonard much better; besides, putting Macklin away would help Kirin not at all, while bringing down Leonard would advance his plans considerably. Therefore, the force of the Federal government's investigations--which Kirin's actions officially were--would for now focus on Leonard Chung. And at the moment they had led him to this small, poorly-kept house, set back off the street amid a tangle of overgrown landscaping in an area that was still struggling against decline, although the smart money was on decline at three to two. As he turned to mount the cement stairs leading though the front garden to the house, he reviewed the immediate purpose that had led him to this two-bit pimp's hangout: South Plum, by all the evidence, was the result of an out-of-control Minion not of his own make. That made it vital to find where this Saydi had come from, and when. His plan to subvert the coming Persecution of his kind, and to create an area of refuge, depended on precise Minion management--hence his strict rules for them. His rules could not be enforced with another Vampire's minions knocking about, and if another Vampire were actually here, unknown to him, that would be very bad. That was the reason for territoriality. Vampire against Vampire rarely happened, but when it did and matters became visible, it almost always triggered Persecution. He was not ready for that. Soon he would be, but not yet. If the next Persecution began now, it would mean the end of them all. Now on the house's porch, he could see a few lights glowing through the dirty curtains. It was quiet. He knocked. It took several knocks before anything happened. There was movement inside, stealthy, quiet, meant to be unheard. There were muffled voices, one and then another. And there were scents. It wasn't easy to be sure in a place so smell-laden, but there were some fresh traces, three or four. Another knock finally produced movement to the door, and a view-port sliding aside. "Yeah?" said a male voice. "I want to see Ricky Santos," Kirin said mildly. "Dunno who that is. Go away," came the reply. The viewport started to close. "Word is, Saydi capped somebody tonight," said Kirin. That froze the viewport. "I want to see Ricky." "You a cop?" "Of course I'm a cop, as evidenced by the way I'm speaking to you through a bullhorn from a street full of cars, with floodlights all over the place. Now, can I see Ricky, or not?" "Wise guy," said the voice. "Alright, wise guy, sure. You c'n see Ricky." The door was opened, by a young, bandanna-headed Latino, and Kirin went in. As it shut behind him, the man raised a pistol in one hand and pointed him to the right. "Go ahead, wise guy." He emerged into a parlor with cheap, dirty furniture, stinking of nick fumes and unwashed humanity, but most of all, of blood. Someone had been killed already in this house tonight, and killed bloodily. There were three other men, Latinos, all with guns. "I see Ricky's got himself some protection," commented Kirin. "Not too late, I fear." Bandanna's pistol went up and pointed right at Kirin. "Alright, mo'fucka--what's 'at 'bout Saydi, and what's 'at 'bout not too late I fear?""I didn't come to talk with you," said the man, "but with Ricky. So, can I see him?" "Sure," said Bandanna, nodding to another in a leather vest, who raised a sheet on the couch, and on it sat a sloppily severed, bloodstained head. "Talk ta Ricky all ya like." "Who did that?" "We kind 'a thought you might know," said Bandanna. "Talkin' 'bout Saydi an' all. So how you up on that? What's your angle?" "I'm looking for a vampire," said Kirin. "I have friends in the Department." "Vampire?" snorted Leather Vest. "You fa real?" asked Bandanna. "Ain't no vampires here, yo. Jus' one mo'fuckin' crazy-ass strung-out bitch. So, you seen Ricky. Now you can leave." "I'm for real. But Saydi didn't do this. You did." Kirin pointed. "You, and you, still have blood on your clothes. I can see it, smell it. It's very fresh, and human. Someone ordered you here to kill Ricky Santos and pin it on Saydi. Well, that's wrong, muchacho."All four raised their weapons now. "Wise guy," said Bandanna. "Guess there was two caps, then." He cocked his pistol. "No," said Kirin. "There were five." He leaped straight up, whirling around, trenchcoat flying, as two guns went off nearly together, flat and loud in the room, takkak! The coat jerked, floating to the floor--empty--as one man hit a wall. Another turned, to have his gun arm grabbed by someone and was thrown head over heels; a snap as a bone broke, a scream, and a machine pistol opened up with a clattering roar, exploding upholstery stuffing and wall plaster A backhanded motion, and blood spurted halfway across the room; a light broke, it went suddenly, deafeningly quiet. "Hijo de la puta," breathed someone. The remaining light flickered in the plaster fog. "¿Dónde está--?"For an answer, the remaining light went out. There was a loud thump; the MP barked again, flashing blindly in the dark, blowing out part of the outside wall, shattering one window, then another, and stitching into the roof before stopping. Then came a crunch, and a hoarse, terrified scream, ending in a choke, and finally, noises as something like a few crumbling roof bits falling to the floor. The searing odor of burnt cordite hung heavily, but the sourness of blood crept in, slowly, but getting stronger. By the time sirens sounded in the street some minutes later, the dark man, his trenchcoat the worse for a couple of bullet holes but with the misty rain gently soughing it clean, was blocks away, crossing through Columbia Park, looking out among the trees to a few blurry lights in a row atop the black murkiness of the lake. He was no closer to the information he needed. And, it would appear, he was a little slower than he'd been a hundred years ago. That, or humans were getting faster. He'd have to start packing a weapon, something he disliked. But he was sure of one thing. There was another Vampire involved, and it had a local presence, either personally or through Minions, and it had a purpose. This would mean new plans, and having to take an ally. He had a candidate in mind. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Jul 30, 2010 20:31:16 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jul 30, 2010 20:31:33 GMT -5
051[/b] Debi had gotten a ride back from Camp Freedom with her 'mom,' changed into a rainjacket and rubber boots, and then, with her scooter, had gone on the trail of Janine Sandoval. Her first guess was correct--Janine went to the meeting of the "Macklin For Council Entente," or "MAC-FORCE" as it was billed in the ads that were starting to run. She was still in her uniform from the CDF drill. Unfortunately, Holly Hrdlicka was on the committee, and, though she hadn't seen Holly arrive, Debi couldn't risk meeting her and Merilee together, so she waited outside, away. She risked a nick stick while she waited, doing her best to conceal the telltale glow under her hood. The meeting took about an hour, which seemed much longer in the windy, wet darkness, but at last, people emerged, by twos and fours, chatting: Regina Thomsen and another man; Merilee Brunett, the Inouyes, Father O'Hanlon the priest, and others-- no Holly, she noted. Janine came out with a purpose, not stopping to chat with anyone except to trade a word with the priest. She was surely headed home; she'd hardly go anywhere else in combat fatigues at this hour. Debi let most of the cars leave before coming out. She was sure of herself and knew the address, and she putted along, set-faced, serious, passing under one streetlight after another. >< >< >< Bao Zhan didn't like to be kept waiting, so the man in the leather trenchcoat made sure he was in the usual booth at the usual restaurant well before the appointed time. The place was a Chinese joint with a thin layer of grease coating everything, suffused with the odor of Chinese restaurants the world over, compounded of stale oil, fish, ammonia, garlic, and ginger. It didn't seem like the sort of place that a fastidious person like Zhan would have meetings in, which was why he had meetings there. The man had downed one pot of tea when the slim, tailored Oriental walked in, dead on time to the minute, and slid into the booth--after wiping the seat twice with a handkerchief. "What news do you bring, Mister Burt?" he asked. "I've looked up everything and everyone at Fujian, just as you asked," said Burt. "Including Mr. Xue. The consensus was, the hijacking was an inside job." "The evidence?" "All agree on the essentials. Two and only two carried it out. One was a driver who never spoke, but the other spoke perfect Mandarin with a Shantung accent. A high voice, somewhat effeminate-sounding, not to say feminine. Nothing feminine about the way he got the job done." "Inside knowledge?" "Absolutely. They knew exactly what to take, exactly where it was, and exactly when to strike. The LUM-44's, the helium-fracture chips, the boards, the K'an Pao Sixes, and of course the Crawling Chaos, and the rest of it." "Hum. Some treachery from Mr. Xue, perhaps?" "I checked with our person inside Leonard's office. He doesn't think so, and neither does Leonard himself. I suspect the Chairman thinks differently. With that following so soon on the Northlake job, I think I would not like to be holding Mr. Xue's life insurance policy right now." "Who, then?" Burt knew who Bao had in mind, and he knew that Bao wanted him to say it, so he did. "It may be no accident that Comrade Xia Longwen is making a visit. It fits with the extremely professional way this was carried out. MSS, or someone MSS-trained." "China's Ministry of State Security. We can't touch them." "What do you think?" The Chinese looked at Burt steadily, and the man asked slowly: "Stealing back their own stuff? But why?" "The result of an administrative countermand, perhaps, or an internal power struggle." "Out of our league, anyway." "Assuming it's Xia." "Who else?" "It could be the Federal Government, NSA, using Chinese-trained personnel. There are NSA personnel in the city. And there is Rhys Macklin." "Macklin? He's a scientist, but he's a medical doctor. Humod. This is different. And he's one man. He doesn't command this sort of muscle." "In China, we understand that many things are not what they appear to be. He is a very rich and powerful man. What he does not have, he can hire if he wishes. And he is preparing to take office." "Run for office, you mean." Bao made a dismissive gesture. The other took a final swig of cold tea. "All right, then. Maybe it was him. What do we do if it was?" "We execute him," said Bao. "If it was him. Our job is to find out." "Your job," corrected Burt. "No, our job. This and the Northlake case have to be linked, and those items are still in the hands of the police, who do not know what they have. There are operatives--someone's operatives--on the street working this. You and your people will find them. I will handle the China connections. If they lead to Macklin, we will execute him. If they lead to MSS or another government, we will collect what information we can and leave it for the time being." "I don't like this," said Burt. "No one likes this, Mister Burt. There is something very deep and ugly going on. It has roots in Asia and it's branching out here, that much I know. And I intuit the hand of a government in it. It could be a classic intelligence maneuver, using a man supposed to be an outcast to do your dirty work. Macklin is wealthy but there is more than just personal wealth behind this. You will assume this case and pursue it, and report to me at least daily, and on the moment whenever anything of significance is found." "This will cost you," said Burt. "Usual terms." "I'm aware of that. But this needs to be found out." Bao rose. "Good day, Mister Burt." Burt nodded, and Bao brushed himself briefly and walked out, just in time for the waiter to come with the bill. Exquisite timing, as usual. He took the bill, and kept a copy. Expenses would be starting now. >< >< >< Fifteen minutes later, Debi rode past the front of Janine's residence, a small detached bungalow, early twentieth-century, set behind a compact mass of overgrown shrubbery and trees between two stone property walls; only the gleam of a porch light behind the iron gate showed. She stopped a few numbers down, chaining the scooter to a lamppost, and then checked her bag. Her camera, PDA, and pistol were unburied and accessible, and a few other unusual necessities were a bit further in. Then she started walking. She saw a car parked in the little garage access way on one side, but it wasn't Janine's; she approached and saw that Janine's car was parked further in. So Janine had arrived not long ago, but someone else had arrived on her heels. That suggested a planned meeting. She didn't recognize the car, but her PDA contained much data relevant to Alder Island, and it showed the owner to be Father Craig O'Hanlon, the priest. Debi was intrigued. She was pretty sure that Janine wasn't a parishioner at Immaculate Conception. Debi moved in carefully. She knew how to detect and bypass most standard home security systems, a skill that had served her well in previous jobs. Island homes of the more desirable sort--such as this--usually had them, but here she could see no sign of any such thing. She slipped through the gate, closing it behind her again, and into the yard, circling the place once as wind ruffled the wet vegetation, and, that done, checked the windows. They were set high, almost all over bushes which obstructed view, and anyway all had curtains drawn except for the pebbled glass in the dark bathroom, and a glow from smaller, higher ones, which from their position had to be over the kitchen sink. However, if the house's main floor was set high, that left room for small basement windows to peep out, and there was light behind two of them. That drew her attention, and she went to one. There was something drawn over that window, too, but if she couldn't see, she could hear; she felt in her bag for a stethoscope, and put it gently to the glass. There was sound, indistinctly, as if on the other side. She had seen, in back, a very narrow old concrete stairwell down to a windowed basement door, and she crossed back around and over, descending the steps and putting her instrument against the glass. There was a woman's voice, low, and a man's voice, short sentences, mostly separated by silences but sometimes spoken nearly together. Then there came a stifled yelp, and a quavering moan of pain, from the male voice. Debi palmed her pistol, but hesitated--until she heard a snarl from above her. Though very few people owned pets any more, Debi knew she was looking at a dog at the head of the stairwell, a very big black one. It was emitting a growl, and it looked hostile. "Shhhhhhh!" she commanded. "Shush!"It wouldn't shush, and instead began to bark fiercely, showing its teeth. That was a problem. She didn't dare to shoot. She tried moving up the steps, but the animal stood its ground and barked even louder. That was when the door banged open behind her, and a female voice said: "Freeze." The word was backed up by a menacing c-click. Debi obeyed. "Baal, heel!" came a curt command. The dog obeyed, falling silent. "Drop the gun," said the voice--Janine's. "Umm, self-defense," replied Debi. "Your animal's attacking me." "No, he's not. He's sitting quietly." This was true. "Now, drop it, or I do a little self-defense of my own, against an armed prowler." Convinced, Debi did as directed. "Hands up, slowly, slowly. Then turn. Come on down." Debi did all of it. Janine Sandoval had a large, nasty-looking hand weapon trained on her. It featured a scope on top and a little thing at the bottom which shot out a thin red light-beam, which seemed to be resting on her forehead as she stepped down. Janine wasn't in her fatigues any more, but had changed into a sort of long, Asian robe, simple but elegant, her dark hair pulled back tightly into a ponytail; her eyes were dark, too, and cold. She stood back, motioning Debi through the low doorway and inside, into a room nicely done into a Scandinavian-style studio apartment with a kitchenette and table and chairs, a sofa, pictures, bookcases, and other things, with stairs leading up and a door on the far wall. "Shut the door behind you, firmly and quietly," said Janine, and Debi did, and turned again. At the table, in a circle of light which also gleamed on some medical things and an incongruous wine glass, sat Father Craig, sleeves rolled up. He was holding a sterile pad to one forearm. The priest looked up. "Don't hurt her, Janine," he said softly. "No hurting." At that, the teacher's face flashed a small, sardonic smile. "The creed of the sheep, the herd animal. As a pastor, meaning a shepherd, you would say that." "What has she done?" asked the priest. He looked tired and very pale, not well. At the same time, Debi began: "I want--" "Quiet, you," Janine told her, the gun never moving off Debi. "What she's done, Father, is to enroll at the high school, posing as a student, while actually collecting data on citizens and on school and civic activities--including, I doubt not, IC Parish, to send to others, outside the community. She might or might not hurt people herself. She had a gun. But the point is, she's giving information to people who can hurt us all, very much, very badly. Am I right or wrong, Debi, or whatever your name is?" "Social data," said Debi. "Social data for research. You people don't like outsiders, so I've been hired to collect accurate research data." "By, oh, the Women's Health Alliance? Washington Cares? QCFPAC, perhaps? Does the name Mandy Thornton sound familiar?" "Not especially. We use code names for reporting, to preserve objectivity." "To cover your tracks, that is," scoffed Janine. "My point is made. Now. Slowly, put down the bag, sister. Don't think I won't shoot you in front of the priest. I don't fear his hell--he fears mine. Now, do it." Debi complied. Janine teased a metal chair away from the table with her foot, moving it three feet or so toward Debi. "Good, now, kick the bag toward me. Very good. Now, sit down here." Debi hesitated. "Do it," Janine said again. "You can walk out of here later, or I can put you in a lot of pain." The priest added: "Please, Debi, do it for me. She's not bluffing. I don't want any more hurting." Debi did as told; it made her face away from the table and Janine. She felt something go over her, a plasticized cargo tie, and felt it yanked tight with a pull around her, cinching itself on a speed clamp, crudely but effectively pinning her arms and tying her to the chair. It would take a few seconds to get out, but in a few seconds she could be shot a half-dozen times. Janine now turned her around to face the table, and she could see now that the wineglass was partly-full ... and inside it had a faint viscous stripe that no red wine would leave. The teacher picked up the glass, gun still in one hand, and brought it up to her nose, which wrinkled. "Feh! It's completely gone off now, thanks to our Debi barging in." The priest looked up at her. "But, I had a good sip or two. I shouldn't be such a piggy cunt as I have been, really--from the lips onto the hips, they say. Keep the pad on, Father. We'll clean you up, and you can go." Debi watched as she put the weapon down, carefully within reach, and he raised his pad, which a blood spot on it. Janine swabbed it with a wipe, put on a bandage, and replaced the tape next to a syringe; there was also a scalpel, a test tube rack, some rubber tubing, and other implements lined up on a sterile mat. And Debi saw that what she had first taken to be a countertop cooker oven was, in fact, a small autoclave for sterilizing instruments. "You--you're drinking his blood," Debi accused. "Mm. Priest's blood, nothing like it," agreed Janine. "Theologians say that receiving the priesthood confers an indelible mark on the recipient. They're right. You can taste it." "You mean--he meets you here? To give you blood? You're a--a vampire?"Father Craig rolled down his sleeves, and the teacher picked up the weapon again. "I can take care of myself. I think you should be wondering more about your own future and less about my present." "Please, no hurting," said the priest, standing up, taking his coat. "Not unless I have to," Janine replied, backing gracefully around and opening the outer door. "I'm sorry, I can't show you out the front." "I understand." He walked slowly over. In the doorway he paused and said simply: "Thank you, Janine." "You're welcome. And good night, Father." With a goodnight, he was gone, and the teacher shut the door and locked it, and walked back to Debi, also slowly, but with lazy grace, the progress of a predator who has her prey firmly caught and is deciding just how much she should play with her dinner before dealing the deathblow. She picked up a length of stretchy rubber tie, strrrrrreeeetttttchhed it in her hands once or twice meditatively, and then bent down behind Debi, binding her wrists firmly together behind the chair. Then she straightened up, went around, and sat on the table, one shapely leg exposed up to the thigh where her robe fell open, and looked steadily and still coldly at Debi. She took up a silver case and shook a nick stick out of it and lit it. She smoked for a bit, letting the smoke drift lazily. At length she murmured: "An inconvenient woman ... what are we going to do with you, my dear?" >< >< >< Holly Hrdlicka liked being vice-chair of the MAC-FORCE, and she didn't make a habit of leaving Alder Island, where she'd built a life she thoroughly enjoyed; but an unusual request from the candidate himself had not only resulted in her being aboard the evening ferry for the city, but--more unusually still--arrayed in a wrap, dress, heels, and full makeup into the bargain. It had begun the night before. After a few words of chat, Rhys had gotten down to brass tacks. "Holly, I'd like to ask a favor of you, in your capacity as an officer of my Island campaign committee."
"Would this involve doing something fun?" she asked, rolling out of bed quietly so as not to disturb the post-coital slumber of the man she'd picked up an hour before in the produce section of the supermarket, throwing on a robe, and padding out to the living room.
"Knowing you, I can answer unequivocally, yes."
"Okay, you can run it by me one time," she said, looking at the clock. "But keep it brief. I have ano--a date in an hour."
He gave a baritone chuckle. "Sure. There is a man who will arrive in Queen City in the morning, a man I know, who could be--actually, who is now--on board with us, in his sympathies. He's emir, that is, chief adviser, to the king of a certain Middle Eastern country, and he's here--officially--with his entourage to chaperone his master's favorite wife, who's visiting a couple of friends locally."
"Really?" asked Holly, intrigued. "So what does this emir, or whoever, have to do with us--with me?"
"He's a friend, whose sympathies could be translated into active, material support. But you have to understand the culture. He will appreciate being, er, made welcome, if you know what I mean."
"But me, Rhys? I'm a schoolteacher, and not the youngest one on the planet. What about--well, not Candee, of course--but what about that PA of yours, Ralna? I hear she's world-class, speaks languages, knows--knows--stuff. How to look, what to say, what fork to use for fish, what the weather's like at Ipanema, how to belly dance. And as for the rest, well, I'm pretty fit, but I heard she can do two hundred one-handed pushups in a row. If that's true, she's beyond fit--she's a machine. Why not her?"
"I can't," he said. "Believe me, I can't. Besides, I know Mahmoud--that is, Mahmoud ibn Aziz al-Hazari, Mr. Aziz to you. He's always had his pick of jet-set women who are, as you say, world-class. Supermodels are a dime a dozen to him, so of course, he doesn't want them. What he will appreciate, what he likes best--what he can't say out loud where he comes from--is someone like you, that is, a classic American woman. Smart, good-looking, sporty, personable, good listener, unpretentious, who can hold a drink, a woman who can just be herself comfortably, and one in her place, who knows the area. Not too young, not too old, and for a nice bonus, one who's good at--ah--what you're good at. Trust me. I know him and I know you, and I'm sure you'll hit it off. Besides, you will get a shopping spree out of it."
"Really? What kind of shopping spree?"
"The usual, a few hundred thousand worth. Jewelry, scents, an outfit or six, the odd objet d'art. If he likes you, maybe a new Porsche. What do you say? Sure, I could hire someone, but I don't want someone, Holly, I want you. Say yes, and you can help me and help the island, meet a real, actual queen, and live high for a night. Why not?"
"Because I have to be to work early in the morning?" she said faintly, the last vestiges of resistance slipping.
"Pack what you'll need. They'll fly you over by helio and drop you in the school parking lot."
"Done," she'd said, exhaling.
"Thanks, Holly. I'll PDA you a few details. I guarantee you the night of your life." They'd ended the call, and she walked back, her head full of thoughts, to caress her companion awake. She was already feeling the itch, and he was no Bearer, so he'd have to be cleared in time for her ten o'clock.So far, so good, she thought now. Until I put my athlete's foot in it, which I'm undoubtedly about to.She'd driven to the Five Seasons, where her car was instantly recognized and whisked away by a valet, and she'd been escorted by four uniformed men and two women up to a suite, where she'd met some very nice people, including a high-level PA, a handsome devil of a male who'd taken her on a ninety-minute whirl of the downtown's swankiest boutiques, some of which had been held open especially for them. They had everything ready--Rhys had undoubtedly sent her sizes ahead. Then she'd been taken back to the hotel salon for a bit of quick hair work and then getting dressed up and made up at speed, with the very professional help of some of the ladies, and of Handsome Devil, whose name was Musa and who was queer as a three-dollar bill--of course--but then they turned her around. She'd looked in the mirror and couldn't believe it. She looked beautiful--more beautiful than she'd ever imagined. Then she was escorted to a small private dining room, atop the hotel with a gorgeous view of the night harbor and the afterglow over the Olympics, elegantly laid out for four; the Emir, the Queen, and, as it happened, an aunt of the Queen's, who happened to live locally. Three ladies stood in waiting, chatting a little, trying to put her at ease. She begged permission to make a call. One of them smiled: You can do anything you like, madame. It took a minute to sink in that that was meant quite literally. The thought paralyzed her for a moment. She gathered her wits and made a quick call to Rhys: Fine, fine. The Queen and her cousin? Excellent. Just relax and be yourself. Say and do what comes naturally--well, if you're stunned, then be stunned in your own natural way. You'll do great--yes, you will, in fact, you are. You'll knock 'em dead, kiddo! Alright, I'll leave you to it. Goodbye.She'd no sooner put her PDA away when one of the ladies with her took a seat. It seemed she was the Queen's cousin, who'd been vetting her, Holly, all along. If she had proven unsuitable at any time, a message would have been conveyed with regrets, that the Emir and the Queen were unavoidably detained and that she might go. This made Holly feel better. Then a door opened at the other end, and someone said something. She rose, turning; the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen was arriving, together with a man who looked like a movie star. She thought despairingly about her teeth, which had never been perfectly straight, shrugged to herself, and gave her suicide smile. >< >< >< By ten, "Scott" had finished his work at Cindy's and put himself back together with the help of her PA. For the last time, he'd had sex with twenty of the world's elite fertile women and put his pay into his duffle bag; but the last time for him to think about each of them individually had passed. He could only think about one woman now, one young woman, far poorer than any of them, yet she had given him more than any of them because she had given her heart, her life, her future--everything. He wondered if Jenna realized for herself just how completely she was his. "Now, tomorrow night," Cindy had said to him aside in her suite, "tomorrow night is our semi-annual reception for very special invited guests, strictly formal. You did confirm your invitation as a guest of honor, the other being the Queen of Saudi Arabia, who'll be here with some friends. You will be here, won't you?" Now, he thought. Now I tell her, no, I'm not coming. In fact, I'm never coming back again. "Of course I will," he said. "Good!" she smiled. "See you at the terminal at seven, then." He mumbled something and shouldered his bag. He was conducted down the lift and into the limo through the back way, and Cindy's driver swung out through the car park gate and into the dark street to turn, turn again, and head past the front of the building down to Second Avenue. There were a few people about, he saw through the one-way tinted windows. As the car made its second right, he saw one person, a woman, under a streetlight, across from the front doors. He wasn't sure--just a glimpse of light hair and face and a familiar-looking coat--but he could have sworn it was Jenna. But what would Jenna be doing hanging out in Belltown? It was an expensive neighborhood to live in, but not the nicest one after sundown, when all the doors were locked. It was more than the day-world minus light; night took the streets and transformed them into another world, an alien world that even the police preferred to avoid--the world of Lucky. He felt it, he recognized it. She had given a piece of it to him. He wondered, again, if it would take him over and claim his soul someday. He took a deep breath, cursing his treacherous tongue, too quick to want to please, to say things people wanted to hear rather than the truth. He'd bought a moment of face-to-face peace at the price of more bad feeling later; he'd have to 'net Cindy with an excuse of some kind, and she would not be pleased. Not that it mattered much, but still. Within a few minutes, the car had him at the ferry terminal. He got out with his bag, adjusting himself, and looking around as the car pulled away, hoping against hope he might see Lucky. She wasn't there, of course. And still no messages about her. He went into the terminal entrance slowly, wondering if he would ever see her again. >< >< >< Jenna watched the big limo roll past, putting on more speed just as it passed by where she stood, as if someone inside had said: Faster, James--away from the riff-raff. That would be her. It certainly wouldn't be any of the women who had been coming out from the lobby as their cars or taxis pulled up, escorted by polite, uniformed men. She could see the ten-thousand-dollar dresses, the sparkling jewels, the remains of hair jobs to match, hear the laughter and greetings-- Marvelous! Incredible!--see the post-coital glows. Fawn had had it right. He's got to like the fact that he's planting his seed in the wombs of the world's richest and most powerful fertile women. He's a god, breeding with goddesses at his pleasure. This last car had come around from the back, no doubt taking him homeward. She thought she saw a smudge of a face in the back window, but impossible to tell, of course, but she was sure it was him. No one else could make so many women so happy in so short a time. She tried again to visualize what he saw in her that made her as good as them, not to say better. Whatever it was, it wasn't coming to mind at all. She was just a girl. At nineteen she had youth still, but that was flying away with every day. She had his offspring in her womb, which would take half her youth the day it was born. She didn't have anything else, nothing at all. She felt cold, inside and out--cold, and frustrated. And she felt used. Whatever he felt for her-- if he felt for her, which she was beginning to doubt--it couldn't be love; if it were love, he'd have stopped the car. He'd be with her now. Love? Of course he'd say that. But what is it? What does it mean? It's a word people use to try to snare each other for their own purposes. Really, what have you got that another woman worth a thousand of you--one with a billion dollars, or a title, or both--doesn't have? She wasn't sure what he was using her for--wasn't sure Fawn had gotten that part right--but he was using her for something. She could still end her pregnancy; she had already ended her past. There was no going back. Only forward. She turned and started walking, deeper into the night, into an alley. Something bad might happen to her, but she didn't care. If someone sexually assaulted her, she could scream, kick, cry out, hate, do something. But with Jason--with this--there was no crying out, no protesting. Everything was settled and done. She just didn't know what the hell it was. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Aug 18, 2010 9:13:43 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Aug 18, 2010 9:14:11 GMT -5
052[/b] Nurse Madisun hurriedly put down her bottle of green tea; it was looking like another busy night on 3-C. This time it was Room 326, monitors showing cardiac arrhythmia, the room-cam clear--he was alone. She punched some numbers swiftly into her keypad, then arose and went for the crash cart, speaking into her com-clip. "Attention. Attention. Three-two-six, Code Blue. VFIB." Almost immediately, a soft tone responded in her ear, and a calm voice: "Thank you, Madisun. I'll see you there in forty seconds. I'll also page Dr. Inouye." Madisun, pushing the cart at a clip, felt better immediately. Nurse Nita was wonderful, unfailingly calm and in control, never at a loss, always on the spot when a crisis happened. Any other head nurse would be going to pieces, given the number of cases who seemed to pick her shift to go critical, but Nita dealt with all of it gracefully. Madisun wondered if there were any more staff like Nita where she'd come from. She wasn't quite sure where Nita had come from; her English was perfect--better than most Americans'--but with a slight modulation ... Pakistan, perhaps, or Iran. It was a pleasure to hear her speak, when she spoke, which was no more often than strictly necessary. And this patient would need Nita's skill; Mr. Espinoza, the brain trauma case, comatose and, lately, developing complications. So tragic, and him so young and handsome ... Madisun imagined Nita at Mr. Espinoza's bedside--a perfect photo for the 'netsite. Within a few seconds, she had no room for imaginings; she was pressing on his heart, trying not to look at his ashy-white face, performing CPR, while Nita prepared the defibrillator. Dr. Inouye was there in moments, and another doctor. The pads were applied-- "Clear!"--and a whump as the current went. Madisun put things in order as the two doctors bent over the patient, conferring; at a word, Nita had a syringe out, preparing an injection, and, that done, the doctors sent Madisun back with the cart. The floor was short-staffed, and another crisis code could be expected fairly soon at the rate things were going. In the meantime, Chantal Inouye, substituting as attending physician on duty for the floor, conferred with Nita and with Dr. Ochuko, Juan Espinoza's doctor, who had chanced to be there in attendance on another case. "It can't be related to coronary artery disease," said the man. "No history of that. Hypokalemia?" "His diuretics are under control," said Nita, showing the printout. "Potassium loss is unlikely." "He's on amiodarone, for--low blood pressure?" asked Chantal, reading. The other doctor looked back at her, raising his eyebrows, and just then a tone sounded. "Attention. Attention. Three-one-two, Code Brown.""If you don't mind, Doctors--" began Nurse Nita. Both of them motioned with nods, and she was gone, her soft footsteps vanishing almost immediately. Chantal began again: "Amiodarone, Doctor? That can have serious side effects." "Yes," said the man. "On the other hand, he's in a vegetative state, and you know how resources are. We get amiodarone for pennies per dose from Asia. Possible pulmonary fibrosis is the least of his worries right now." "Yes, but surely, his insurance will pay for leading-edge treatment." Ochuko, older than Chantal by a few years, grey-haired, looked down at her seriously. "'Leading-edge treatment?' You sound like you really believe what you're writing for the 'netsite. We're turning patients away, Dr. Inouye, do you not know that?" Chantal could only stare. "But--Bayview is the best there is." "I know. It's because we made the decision to turn people away rather than just warehouse them like community hospitals, where they've got beds in corridors. So we're the best because and only because all admissions here receive some treatment. Doesn't say much for the rest of the system, does it? As for 'leading edge,' well, there's things we still do very well here--trauma care, diabetes care, pediatrics. And as for Mr Espinoza--through bookkeeping magic, his insurance is paying for-- adequate treatment--for him and about twelve other patients." It came to her, suddenly, just how much of her time had been spent behind the desk, and how little in the trenches. True, she had some patients. She had Lucky McCullum, but only because Lucky had no personal physician and Chantal had assigned herself the job on the spur of the moment and been able to keep it because of her prestige as the mednet maven. Coming up against a case like this showed her the problem in all its cold, indifferent vastness. "It's that bad?" she said, not really a question. "It's that bad," confirmed Dr. Ochuko. On her way out with her coat over her arm a few minutes later, Chantal Inouye went by the nurses' station. Nurse Madisun was there, and Nita, too, entering some information. Chantal stopped and asked Nita: "Has Dr. Ochuko ordered an ECG on three-two-six?" "Yes, Doctor." "Does he have a cardiac history?" Nita looked up at Chantal from her seat. "No, Doctor. But his dose of amiodarone was unusually high." "How high?" Maya turned her screen around, and Chantal's eyes widened. "Dr. Ochuko prescribed that?" "No, Doctor, but that's what he was getting. A misread on his dosage chart, surely." "A dangerous one," replied the physician. "Please ensure that his dosage is adjusted immediately." "I'm doing that now, Doctor." "Excellent. Keep a close eye on him, Nita. I'm not without suspicion that someone might be tampering. He's a man with enemies--ones who are capable of reaching inside the hospital, even." Madisun, overhearing, shuddered and glanced their way. Nita said simply: "I am watching three-twenty-six carefully, Doctor, and I will continue to do so." "Very good, Nita. Doctor Lavender is on the floor, and I'm off--finally. Good night, ladies," said Chantal. She looked over Nita's head at Madisun, and made a hand motion downward, as if to say, Do as she does. Madisun smiled in return and gave a nod. Nita kept at her work, imperturbable. She would adjust the dose, certainly. The bioreactive phenokyluramine derivative she had introduced into Juan Espinoza's bloodstream earlier had done its work and would pass out of his system within a few hours; it no longer needed the amiodarone to disguise its effect. Paralysis should be occurring tomorrow. She would, indeed, watch him most carefully, and log everything. That information was awaited. >< >< >< >< >< >< The tall, thin, tattooed young man with the bandaged neck had been at the bar, elbow to elbow with people he didn't know and plainly didn't like, for a half-hour; adding to his irritation was the earsplitting, head-pounding trance music. It wasn't the volume, but the genre. He'd spent the previous half-hour at a table, and more time at the bar before that, obviously waiting for someone who hadn't shown. Now he turned, at a familiar slap on his shoulder from a very blonde man wearing darkened glasses, also with a bandage, though a smaller one, on his neck. "What are you doing here?" he asked sourly. "Looking for you. I had a call. Wondering what the guitarist of Queen City's greatest death rockers is doing in a disco hangout," said Abduliblis. "I know you said we needed to grow our style, but I didn't think you were thinking of this." "I wasn't," growled Lord Margoth. "So, what, then--?" The bass player snapped his fingers, soundlessly in the din, and grinned, revealing his modified, spiked teeth. "You're hooking up." "So?" "Here, dude? It's not with that--that--Taylor?" "Go away," snarled the tall man, looking around. He had to swivel his head as only one eye moved. "Are you insane, man? After what she did to you? Have you even slept since you got out? Personally, I was puking after all the fuckin' shots I got." "I've got my reasons. Now, butt out, man. Now." "Don't do this, dude. It's not worth it. She's playing with that Liam--he hangs here. He's some rich bastard. Probably owns the place. He can get us in trouble, and all over some crazy crankhead bitch who goddamn near offed you." The tall man glared at him. "Either she's that, or else she's a real vampire, if you believe in that sort of thing," said Abduliblis carefully. "Which would be worse?" "I don't know why you're buggin' the shit outta me, but you are," said Lord Margoth. "If I tell you a thing, will you just screw the fuck outta here?" The albino nodded. " You're the one that collects pictures and stories, the one with the goddamn coffin in his place. You're the one who spent a fortune having his teeth redone. You're the one who writes the vampire songs. Now we've met a vampire. Not just some pretend-vampire fangirl, but real, or as near real as it gets." The other nodded. "So what's gonna happen now? Don't you wanna know? She bit us, man! Shit happens when a vampire bites you. You're the one who writes songs about it-- you oughtta be the one who wants to meet her again." "She cut me with a scalpel, and sort a' sucked the cut. I dunno if that's the same." "She's as close as we've ever gotten, and you're backing off? Well, not me. I want to know. So I em'ed her this morning about meeting her." "Fuck, man, she's got your PDA now? Stupid, dude! Did she reply?" "No, but I know she hangs here. So that's it. I wanna talk to a vampire. Now will you fuckin' leave me alone?" "I'm just worried about what happened the last time you talked to a vampire. Last night," replied the albino, touching his neck. "Don't. So. I ain't here 'cuz I've gone disco, alright, man? That's all you need to know, fellow band mate who is not my goddamn mother--" Margoth put his hand to his pants pocket suddenly, felt, and inserted it with some difficulty, as his hands were big and the fabric was tight. Abduliblis watched as he coaxed it out and flipped it open and read. "What is it, dude?" "Speak of the devil," the tall man said, with a lip twist. "It's an em from her." "And?" "Don't worry, mom," Margoth said sarcastically. "Says she won't be here tonight." "Good. Let's blow. If you've gotta meet her, can you please do it somewhere less disco? It's kind a' embarrassing. Disco vampires." "Alright, if-- if-- you leave me the fuck alone about it," Margoth glowered. "Deal, dude. Let's blow." The tall man pocketed the PDA again and finished his drink. He hadn't said anything about the rest of the message. Let me be your fantasy. Tomorrow at ten. Love, Taylor.>< >< >< Downtown, Jenna walked blindly in the misty rain, avoiding light, keeping to dark alleys, along blank walls with scarlike doorways and boarded or bricked windows. But however long she walked, she didn't see any place black enough to match her feelings. She hated--everything and everyone. She hated Jason. If he thought of her at all, it was surely only when he was screwing some other woman; he'd smile to himself about that stupid little twat who thought she could take him away from the high life. She hated all the rich, beautiful bitches she'd seen leaving Cindy's building, and hated Cindy Shanley especially for pimping him. Then she hated him again for going along. Okay, she hadn't actually seen him, but she didn't have to. It had been him in that limo, right enough. She hated Fawn for telling her the ugly truth in such an ugly way and taking such pleasure in it. She hated the thing which was starting to grow inside her; even if she had a termination tomorrow, it had done its work. Most of all, she hated herself for being stupid enough to think that Jason might actually love her, for throwing herself at him, giving up her life for a rich bastard who was doing nothing but stringing her along and laughing up his sleeve at her. It hadn't been much of a life, but it was something. Now she'd be lucky to get back into her room and get two suitcases' worth of stuff out. That, the thing and a ferry ticket. That was all she had, and the thought filled her with silent rage. She wondered sardonically if Insta-Bang were hiring, as one of their little cars whirred by on the street behind her. Probably not. Certainly not her--she wasn't sterile, even, and had the thing to prove it. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hardly noticed footsteps behind her. When she did, she turned and saw four shapes approaching; dim, shadowy, menacing. She glanced around. They were in a blind alley, no way out. Just like my life, she thought bitterly. "Hey, pretty girl," called a male voice. "Where you goin'?" "Nowhere," she replied. Truer than you could imagine. "Good. What'a ya say to a little date, then? Right here, right now?" Another voice cut in. "Stiv, we got a job ta do, dog!" "We can do it and her, too," replied Stiv, a big man with a small beard. She saw that two of the men were carrying bags, heavy bags. "Dog, look--" "What a' you, gay?" Stiv spat back. "You don't like, look the other way. Keep a look out." Jenna instinctively reached for her PDA. "I'll call the cops," she said loudly, as she'd been drilled to do. That brought a couple of amused noises as they closed in. Something about two feet long whirled in the hands of one of them. "Go ahead," said Stiv. He and a second guy were getting close enough to smell. "But if they come, they won't find you alive. Slug." I should be panicking now, she thought, or else submitting nonviolently, maybe. Sweating through it. Instead, she felt nothing, absolutely nothing, except complete emotional blankness, as if her brain had been wiped clean with a sponge. This was going to happen, and she could see everything unfolding, clearly, in order. Her hand shifted to the can next to the PDA, the pepper spray that her mother had given her a couple of years before when she'd left home, gotten from who knew where--probably Mexico as it was illegal north of the border. She managed to turn it in her pocket as her shoulder blades hit a wall--she had been backing up. The second guy, Slug, shot out a hand and grabbed her. "Hands where we can see 'em," he said, his breath foul. And then Jenna left her body, partly it seemed. She could still feel being thrown down and greasy hands on her closing on her clothing, smell rank body odor, being held by the legs and arms. But her viewpoint was from above, about fifteen feet above, looking down at herself on the pavement with Slug and another man restraining her limbs as Stiv opened his pants. The bags has been put down. She could see Stiv's leather-jacketed back as he went down on her, laying a gun aside, growling some words, feel tearing and pain, and she could feel and see herself struggling a bit at first, then going slack. Stiv said a few words between heavy breaths as he got into her, violating her, hurting her--putting himself into the place where the thing was, and for a fleeting moment she felt glad it was getting some unwelcome company. Stiv's hips moved, plunging, into her again and again, and the others let go of her slack limbs. "That's it, that's it, ohhhhhhhh-ahhhhhhyeah," he moaned. She could see the others standing up, moving back a bit, watching, relishing, except the fourth who stood ten feet distant, looking away as Stiv had suggested, holding a gun. She let him have her for a minute or two, making small sounds, writhing slowly--her floating body wore her wristwatch. She let him come inside her, bathing the thing in his juices, three, five, seven, eight, nine times. He paused as his body, spent, started to shift gears. She whispered down to herself: now. Her arm whipped into and out of her pocket, giving Stiv a blast of pepper spray point-blank in the face. He screamed and reared up and with an almighty heave she threw him off and grabbed for his gun, knowing where to reach because she could see it from her height. The others turned, cursing, but she had the gun up and rolled away, pointing it. She wasn't quite sure how to fire it, but they didn't know that just yet. She thought she had about a half-second to figure it out. She had the trigger--there was a little lever by her thumb-- up, or down? She'd have to trust to luck. "Back the fuck off, pigfuckers!" she yelled, the words ripped from her throat, grating like iron on iron. She moved the gun, a little machine-pistol, from one to the other of them, and to Stiv too, who was rolling and cursing and screaming. "Bitch!" one of them said, but her instinct had been true--without their leader they were hesitating. She scooted back, the gun up but wavering a bit. "Back or I'll fuckin' kill you all right now!""Shit! My gun!" shouted Stiv. "Fuck! Fuck! Get 'er, motherfuckers!" The fourth guy, the one who had looked away, took three slow steps toward her, raising his weapon. Jenna pulled the trigger-- stuck fast. The lever should have been the other way. The fourth man's gun moved--and fired, one, two, three. Jenna braced herself for impact but felt nothing. And it was suddenly quiet through the roaring in her ears. " ....... mmf mmmfffm mffmf," the fourth man was saying. Then her hearing started to return. "Stupid shit. I should a' led, and now I do. Now let's get outta here." Slug said: "But--the bitch--" The fourth man said: "Fuck 'er. We got business." Then to her, quietly: "Put it down and roll away. We got business, nothin' to do with you. Stiv was a motherfucker, tha's right." "But--" Jenna was about to think something when a voice came from the alley mouth. "Hey! Hey!" They all looked--someone was there. Jenna decided. She flipped the lever and squeezed. The weapon roared to life, bucking and pulling her arms like a mad beast, but she tried to wrestle it level as it spat, moving one way and another almost by itself, nearly making her brain explode with noise. But after a few seconds it clicked, empty, going down, smoking. All four men lay on the ground. One moved, convulsively, gleaming with wetness, and fell and did not move again. Jenna thought. She went to look in the bags the men had been carrying, canvas bags, long, heavy ones. An unzip showed one with guns in it, several guns. The other had metal things that had to be spare magazines and ammunition. She moved quickly, zipping them and picking them up, one in each hand, and staggering upright. They were heavy, and her body hurt, but she was fit, a hiker in her spare time, and desperation gave her more strength. Time was short. She moved toward the street, the bags swinging awkwardly and hitting her legs. Outside, whoever had been there was gone, as well they might be with gunfire going on. She moved, awkwardly, hobbling, down the block, keeping close to the building, downhill to the left and around a corner, taking note of the street sign. She went another half-block, stopping in the shelter of a deep doorway with her bags, setting them down and getting out her PDA. A quick lookup, and then she called a cab to meet her a little way away. There was already a siren in the distance, but hopefully if they passed they wouldn't take too much notice of a young woman with some bags in the next block. She took up her burden and moved again, slowly, toward where she had called the cab to meet her. What she had to call her own in the world had now increased, and she reckoned the new additions were worth something. >< >< >< Merilee Brunett's evening had started poorly. If only things had stayed poor and not become so much worse than that ... but they had.First, the Committee meeting hadn't gone well. She had been forewarned about the candidate not attending. But with neither Holly nor Vonda there for backup, she couldn't resist Regina Thomsen dominating the event from start to finish, with her waspish style and right-coast comments meant only for the initiated. Janine Sandoval and Father Craig were there, but both had been silent, and both had left in a hurry; only Jo had spoken up for her. Her PDA calls to check up on John and Kayleigh had ceased to be answered halfway through the meeting, making her even more nervous and fearful--but so it had had to be, as everyone else she trusted to stay with John was either at the meeting or away out of reach. It wasn't fair.
And if only she had left as quickly as Janine had ... she had bustled, but not gotten out before someone she didn't know--whom no one there, apparently, knew--had handed her an envelope-- special delivery, he'd said, and Merilee had to sign a little electronic clipboard-- something from Dr. Macklin, she'd thought. In the car, she'd opened the envelope and her guts had frozen. A lot of legal papers, with a lot of words she didn't understand. She got the gist of it, though, which was that she was being named in a lawsuit over a baby born with autism, whose father was named as John, and they wanted two hundred million dollars. She'd sat in the car, numb, unmoving, for some time. She recognized the word, of course. John had been diagnosed with it many years before, but she'd put it to the back of her mind and kept it there. He was special, and special because he was a Bearer--so she'd told herself a million times. She'd told herself that through his severe speech problems, his need for iron-bound routines for everything, his intolerance for the smallest changes--even refusing to be weaned--his desperate loneliness, his complete inability to make any real friends or relate to people in any normal way, and his emotional fits, which in his case came out sexually through his awesome Bearer's drive. Without her, the one woman in the world who could relieve his agony and who would never lay sexual assault charges against him, he would long ago have been lost, confined in a cage somewhere to be treated and studied like an animal. She was a big woman, she knew that, size twenty or twenty-two, but her weight was not just the unwanted result of overeating--it was also armor; soft, thick shielding, usually fortified with bulky wool and leather and padded undergarments against which he could vent his inner demons, battering her with his frail arms, throwing himself against her over and over and just bouncing off until he cried himself to sleep in grief and frustration. But she also had to take him, let him work off his raging, hormonal maleness, and her oft-remarked waddling walk was as much the result of a punished cervical and anal lesions as of her weight, and that along with her painful, mastitis-prone breasts. It had been far too long since her last biopsy, avoided out of fear because they had been slowly but surely getting worse; if she had tried to keep him all to herself he would have killed her by now. He was probably killing her anyway as she tried to take the brunt of his drive so that other women wouldn't have to: morning, noon--when she 'brought him his lunch' at school--afternoon, evening, and night, sometimes eight or ten times a day, helped by painkillers from a bottle. It wasn't love--it wasn't really sex even. It was sexual abuse, and she let it happen, fostered it, in hope of--of something. She had told herself that it wouldn't be forever-- something, God forbid, an early death, of her or even his own--would put an end to the agony ... but there was really no solid reason why either of them shouldn't live quite a while longer. But if she went, he would soon follow, she was sure of that. He would completely die mentally, even if his body maintained its vital functions, and he would become a laboratory specimen. She kept at it, for hope of cure of some kind that she couldn't clearly imagine. There was no cure for Bearer syndrome. A few attempts had been made, which had resulted in the unfortunate subjects entering permanent catalepsy, a state no better than death. The time had come when he had reached the age where he would surely kill her, or die, if confined at home; and so she had to let him go to school and do--on Alder Island--what Bearers did. But HIR Lab at school was not enough, so Father Craig had permitted his activities at church as well, with near-hopeless women pilgrims who came--the fact that most of them were probably sterile anyway would reduce the chances of him passing on the disease, though the thank-offerings showed there were plenty of pregnancies launched there, too. The chances of him passing it on are probably low, Rhys had told her, one in a thousand, and he cannot possibly pass on the combination of Bearer syndrome and autism both. But then, there was no guarantee that Rhys was right, and even if he was, John had, one way and another, already fathered--well, quite a few thousand. That meant quite a few autistic offspring. She had, on some level, always been afraid of this, and so she had resorted to the one avenue that seemed to offer any hope at all. She had prayed, and garnered prayer support. A whole circle of people at ICP prayed for John and his scattered offspring every day. There was a very real risk to the church, which was another reason for the prayer. And there were horrible possibilities beyond that. Sooner or later, she knew, he would go off on some woman, perhaps a student, losing his fragile self-control and lapsing into a seizure as he had done with her. To minimize the risk, his sex was always supervised, by her, or by Holly or one of Holly's trusted senior girls. There had been several near misses, always averted at the last moment, but one battered cervix would be all it took. And, too, so far, she had not become pregnant by him. Why was a mystery, since several times a day he flooded her with enough sperm to create ten thousand babies, and she wasn't a sterile. It was probably, as Dr. Macklin had said, her lactation, combined with uterine irritation due to the incessant traffic. But her lactation had been slowing down lately, the pain there had been less. That should have been cause for celebration. But she was only thirty-nine years old, having menses, after a fashion, though very irregular and--like everything else--painful. She was still young enough to bear him a child of his own. She had told herself, if it happened, it would be welcome--a good thing, a blessing. Like everything she told herself, the reverse would probably be true. The unavailability would drive John insane, or if he got what he would demand, it would doom the baby. And there was Kayleigh. She wasn't a sterile either. That she would become pregnant by him was not really a probability. It was certain, but like so much else, it hadn't happened. Yet. But this was not now. The envelope was now in the most brutal sense. That amount, if they lost, might or might not bankrupt them, but the loss would change their situation drastically, and she had not fully realized the extent to which she had relied on the money they had to make everything alright. Now was also the situation when she'd walked into the house. Kayleigh had been downstairs, watching something on the e-plex, moody. She'd been crying. Merilee said some kind words to her and hurried upstairs, feeling Kayleigh's glance shift from the screen onto her back. John was in her room--their room--the master suite, anyway, on the bed, a lump coiled up into the fetal position under the duvets and quilts, even so, shivering. First things first. Get him under control. Removing only her coat, she crawled up onto the bed, speaking the soft words he needed to hear, playing peek-a-boo. He responded slowly, opening his uncanny blue eyes wide, lips trembling, and reached out for her. With a few motions he did the minimum necessary to her clothes and then wrapped himself around her, gripping her with a convulsive strength in his long, slender limbs, and took her, and used her--used her like the passive, rounded, soft sex toy she resembled; and the pain, never far away, took her too. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Aug 18, 2010 9:24:47 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Aug 23, 2010 8:34:38 GMT -5
053[/b] Two of Leonard Chung's black-clad security people were on hand to escort Won Long Dong down the front steps of an imposing classical building, set back from a tree-lined uptown residential street. He wore not his long coat, but a padded body-suit resembling brown motorcycle leathers, cunningly constructed with vents and folds and gussets that gave him freedom of movement despite the intricate panelwork. His Bearer's maleness lay firmly packed against the stained thighs in a protected genital restraint, hardly moving as he descended. Complete with a visored helmet fitted with respirator ports, it seemed to have been designed for a much harsher environment than St. Salvius' Seminary, an elite boarding school for girls. He was guided out the gate, around the street corner, and toward the back of a hulking vehicle marked POLICE on each side which dwarfed the Hummer waiting behind it, black, all angles and super-heavy tires. Its rear hatch purred open to admit him, and as it closed his escorts went to the Hummer. The armored unit's engine roared, and the two began moving. Inside the command vehicle, through the hatch, Leonard Chung arose from a comfy-looking swivel chair mounted on the steel floor and greeted Dong with a handshake and an embrace. He was wearing a suit similar to Dong's in every way but for the helmet and gloves--his own were off and sitting on a bench seat beside the chair--and the groin appliance; his own suit had an ordinary panel secured with velcro. Leonard's suit also bore stains, more of them, more splattered, and darker, blackish-red. "Well!" said Leonard, after two more security men had removed Dong's helmet and gloves, and they had all sat and buckled in and the vehicle started to move. "Things seem to have gone on schedule with your, er, rendezvous." "Mostly." Dong took a lengthy swig from a proffered bottle. "There were twelve young ladies, not thirteen." "We had anticipated a no-show, so twelve was good. And all cooperative?" "Yes. They were all Chinese, I saw." "From twelve of the best families of the world, mostly from China but some from overseas. All here to receive the best Western-style education and finishing. And with their families' permission they received something else of the best," Leonard finished with a smile. Dong's own lips moved that way. "How did it go with the suit? I know the helmet com-unit worked." "A little awkward at points, but not nearly as bad as I had feared. It moved extremely well, really." "Good. Sex with the suit on is the best test of how freely it permits movement." "Very free, considering how much is in it. And it breathes excellently--I perspired hardly at all. I was a little surprised to see you have another one. And you seem to have been busy with yours. I presume your part went well, whatever it was?" "Police business that called for personal supervision. Taking care of some prostitution that has been fouling the moral tone of our city." "I trust you met with success." Leonard's smile broadened. "Our new method more than fulfilled its promise from the testing stages. I think it's fair to say we tore the case wide open." "Excellent." Dong lifted his bottle. "Here's to that." "Yes. Phase One is complete. You have how impregnated fifty fertile, cooperative females of Queen City's highest social and economic level. This level will, within a year, have expanded by at least fifty--given your record with multiples, perhaps as much as a hundred. And of proper Han Chinese bloodstock. Of course, many will be half-blooded, as there were of necessity non-Chinese females. But we are spreading good seed on the best soil." "Fifty fertiles?" asked Dong knowingly. "Well, a few who are not, but they are powerful and influential, swayable to our side, especially given a taste of a real man--a superman, not more of the tired, washed-out nonwomen that this environment has. Originally, you were to have prepared for the operation today, in which my own testes would have been transplanted to lay side by side with yours inside that capacious scrotum." Leonard eyed the leatherish mound hungrily. "The tissue sampling and culture was done already, the compatibility confirmed, and I had the three people who were to oversee matters. They were, by circumstances, relieved of having to work at Medagenix Corporation and were in custody, to be transferred to work for us. Unfortunately all three were murdered by this Cripps woman--why, we still don't know. She's holding out, very tough. We can't shake her from her story at all." "Give me an hour with her," said Dong, patting himself. "Mmmmmm ... tempting! Anyway, we will find other experts, but for the moment the plan must proceed, even if I must defer the pleasure of enlarging my own share of the gene pool with it, thanks to your activities." "Is there any news of the equipment hijacked from Fujian? That was meant to accompany the suit--suits--to provide remote enhancement, was it not?" "I have the best people on it. And of course, yes. To be run from this command vehicle, in fact." Leonard gestured toward an empty rack with coils of wire neatly taped and hung against the bulkhead, waiting for something to be installed. "Those capabilities are the real heart of the system. Without the links, it's basically a very good body armor--survival ensemble, similar to what the NAE and US militaries have, but nothing more. With them, the sensor points inside stimulate the glands and nerve centers that we know from traditional Chinese medicine. And not only that, but the system will be able to transmit energy so as to give the suit and the wearer some regeneration, and to fuel the body's capabilities to its full limits and beyond." "The goal of the humod engineers of the last century," observed Dong. "Yes. But humod is illegal, unthinkable. However, this technology ... " Leonard slapped his padded thigh and swung his legs up, propping his rubber bootsoles on the back of the bench. "... this is not illegal. You can take the suit off."Dong grinned. "I don't think our local humod developer would view that with good humor." "Macklin? H'm. We have yet to discover any connection between him and Cripps, but he seems to have the devil's own luck. He sold his stake of Medagenix the very day, only a few hours before the police action." "He must have known something." "Of course, and that troubles me. I don't like him. I'd like to do away with him, personally. But he may be essential to our plan, now that we don't have the other experts any more." "Could he have had them killed in order to make himself essential?" "Impossible. He doesn't know about our plan," declared Leonard. "But I like the way you think." He brought down his feet and leaned forward, touching Dong. "I like the way you fuck, too." The other laughed. Leonard went on: "Still, the plan must go ahead. In fact, this apparent drawback may actually be helpful. Phase Two now begins. Now that the most fertile and most elite females are carrying our offspring, the nonfertiles, the unemployed and unemployable, the poor and near-poor, the non-contributors, need to be pruned. Increasing society's fruitfulness is useless if rot in the trunk is allowed to keep pace. Tomorrow we begin." "You began tonight, did you not?" asked Dong flatteringly. "Yes, true," Leonard smiled. "I mean our teamwork. You and me, my son. Me and you. China's outcast Bearer, and Queen City's unsung, unappreciated Executive. Together, we two shall carry forward the conversion of the Eastern Pacific Rim into a new polity; buying, legislating, populating, and cleansing, sweeping out the trash. A new overseas Chinese homeland will take shape, established from the coast to the Rocky Mountains. There will be a new State in the world, one that marries Chinese wisdom and tradition to American drive and enterprise. Stupid emotionalism will be discouraged and sensible business promoted. It will take time, several generations. We shall not live to see the completion of it, but we shall be remembered as the founders." "Here's to that again--Father," toasted Dong. Leonard unstrapped himself and went forward onto his padded knees, leaning his head and one arm on one of Dong's thighs, while caressing the huge genital mound with the other. "Do you have anything left for me?" asked the politician softly, almost whisperingly, looking up at the younger man's hard face. "More than enough for you and twenty like you." His hands opened the support's straps, and the huge organ sprang out, dark and rank with female leavings as yet un-washed away. Leonard caressed it avidly, his open lips wet with saliva, and then he closed them around the massive head. >< >< >< "Call for you, Tee-Tee," said Sarah DeJong from her office, looking at the phonescreen. "A bit late, I think." "Who is it?" asked Tina from the living room. "Private number." By arrangement, Sarah's partner fielded all calls that came from numbers Sarah herself didn't know. It kept the City Manager's home phone traffic down. "I got it." The redhead reached over and picked up, feeling ready to make a smart crack to a wrong dialer. "Yes?" she said. "Noble?" said the voice on the other end. "This is Crown." Tina straightened with a jolt. "This is so not a good time to call," she said severely, craning her neck to look through to the study. Luckily, Sarah had put her headphones back on and would have some jazz music going. "You should be talking to Star anyway. Using channels. How did you even get this number?" "Someone gave it to me--anyway, that's not important--" "I say what's important. Call here again, for any reason, and you will be in serious trouble. But for now, whatever you want, get it out." "Star is playing her own game, with them, the Island people. She's with their breeders and she's reporting falsely to you and to the people in Olympia to make things seem better for them." Tina drew a breath. "You are making an extremely serious accusation." "Check it out. If I'm wrong, do to me what you would have done to her." "You may count on it. That's all. And forget this number. Someone else will contact you if what you say is true but you will not call here again." "Understood." Tina ended the call and sat back, thinking. "Who was that?" came Sarah's voice from the other room. "Just--someone from my old sorority," called Tina back. "Calling for a reference." "Oh, okay," the City Manager's voice drifted in. "Well, be a dear and try to get your friends to call earlier, will you please?" "I will." Tina's voice sounded light, but her face was dark as she went for her PDA. >< >< >< Janine Sandoval drew the com-unit's voicepiece away from Debi, put her cigarette between her lips and clapped her hands slowly, smiling. "Very good, daughter," she said coolly. "You see how those people really work? So many rules. So many ways to get grief. It's a pity, truly it is." "Now what?" Debi looked down at her hands. Her forearms and legs were bound to a chair. "Now we wait, and tomorrow we keep an eye on Ms. Stern," said the teacher. "Dollars to doughnuts says she'll be in conference pretty much all day." "How did you get Noble's number anyway?" "That's my business, dear. Yours is to do as you're told and what you are told and no more." "Can I go now?" "No." Janine's voice was very smooth, smooth as pond water on a still, misty morning. "In a little while, but not yet. I'm not hurting you, or even doing anything wrong. I'm simply teaching you. You're learning whose will rules between us." "Yours, of course," said Debi. "Your lips say it, and your brain may even think it agrees. But I don't hear it from your tissues yet. We have to bring them around, too." "Can't we bring them around tomorrow?" For an answer, Janine slapped her in the face, expertly; hard and stinging, but leaving no mark but a little redness. "No," she said. "Now is when we do it." "Yes, of course," said Debi. "Now." She sat, feeling dull and exhausted, as if her mental energies had been sapped by an invisible force. Janine had given her something to drink, and she wondered if there had been some drug in it. Part of her wanted to fight back, sass her, do anything but what the older woman wanted. On the other hand, Debi knew that would never happen. After all, what Janine wanted was really very reasonable, compared to what she could demand. All she wanted was obedience, that and nothing more. It was simple--easy, even. Her life, seemingly so complicated a few hours ago, would now be clear and focused. One rule: obey. That was all. Obey, and don't leave. No need to worry or even think. Simply obey, and life would be good. She would enjoy all the privileges of the Island, and those were many--protection, power, care, love, everything a person could want. Resist, and--and--no, it didn't process. There was no option for that. She was tied down, but the bonds were symbolic. She knew that, and Janine knew it, and each knew the other knew it. Janine could let her loose right now, and she would not walk away. She would stay until dismissed. She wanted to hate Janine, hate the Island. But she couldn't. They were quickly making themselves unhateable, irresistible. She would have to love them, and hate everything else. >< >< >< >< >< >< "I must say, by Allah," said the bearded man, stroking Holly's skin under the sheet, "you are well versed in all the womanly arts. If Risseffendi wanted to please me through you, he could not have picked better. To say truly, I was prepared to be disappointed." "Oh, never," she smiled, touching his hairy chin fondly. "And I didn't know how much man to expect." Which was true. The evening's sex had been like the after-dinner tira misu: not much in quantity, but exquisite in quality. The Queen had been charming, a graduate of Shoreline High School a few years back--and a volleyball player, who remembered Coach McPhee from Alder Island. The chat and the food and been wonderful, and the setting and style unsurpassable. "Risseffendi is clearly a good judge of people," said Mahmoud ibn Aziz al-Hazari, running his fingers down through her pubic hair. "Do you run, or assist to run, his campaign as well as you do--this?" She pulled herself slightly to one side so as to better reach the champagne bucket. "His PA does most of the work really. I help get out the votes, especially the younger people. I'm just a teacher." "Oh? Yes, please," said the man, taking a fluted glass. She poured, sitting up, naked. "So, you teach--what?" "Physical education--sport. Public school." "Really?" He raised a thick eyebrow. "An ordinary schoolteacher, then, you are? That seems a shameful waste of your talent." "I wouldn't call what I do ordinary. I teach sex, really. Sex for fertility and family." She took a sip. "Ah, that kind of sport--in school yet! By Allah, that is extraordinary in America. Your country seems set on going the other way. In our country, our part of the world, we know the ravages of severe depopulation. The wars of the last century killed three-quarters of our people. Your own country was not spared. And yet you seemed determined to let the damage fester and turn into poison which is slowly doing to you what happened to us in just a few years." "It doesn't help that we have breakaway regions--Aztlan, the local Islamic governments of the Midwest and Southwest--that the Federal government hasn't yet figured out how to handle." "I know them. Al-Dawtrut, Detroit; Sayyidabad, that is, Milwaukee, and Al-Burtuqiya, Orange County. They are ... well, they are Islamic polities of a sort ..." "But they're all run by home-grown American Muslims who will never be serious members of the 'ummah either culturally or economically," she supplied. "They're just looking for handouts and causing a lot of embarrassment with it." He made a sound like a sigh. "You have said what I cannot. You are not a bad judge yourself. What do you think of Risseffendi's plan?" "I think it's good," said Holly, thinking of Rhys' campaign platform. "He has spoken of your part in it--that is, how he hopes you can work with him--with confidence." "Good. And we would very much like to. Having him in office would pave the way for arrangements of great mutual advantage. We are well-organized, well-financed, and have plans, but our land has been stricken and it will not recover. A presence here, where your environment is clean and there is talent, would be excellent. There is business potential. There would be many jobs and investments." "That's good," she ventured. He coiled a hairy arm around her waist, feeling her abdomen appreciatively. "You're sexy--very sexy, and intelligent. You represent all the best of your people. I like that, and I like you, Holly. I like you a lot." "And I like you, Mahmoud," she said, looking into his eyes. "Really, I do." "Really? Then I have a proposition for you." She looked at him, smiling. He looked back, serious. "We leave here in two days. Come back with me. Leave here. Come where your talents and your gifts and your personality will be valued much more than just being a schoolteacher. Come back to Arabia with me, and be my wife." Holly's gaze didn't flicker at first, but after a moment her gaze shifted so that her eyes appeared to cross a little. Then she ran fingers through her blonde hair, just once. "Mahmoud ... I'm honored. I'm a little stunned." He reached over to his side of the bed and handed her a small box. "Whatever you say, whatever you decide, this is yours." She held it, looking at it, then to him, then back to the box, then at him again. "Open it," he urged. She opened it. Inside, on a silk bed, lay a ring that looked like it had more diamonds than metal on it, laying inside the coiled chain of a pendant with another diamond the size of a pistachio nut, set off with a few smaller ones, all gleaming like stars on a frosty night. "Oh, Mahmoud--they're--they'e beautiful!" She swallowed several times and tried to keep her voice even. "You really mean this." "I do. You please me very tremendously, Holly. You said during dinner that you were not married and had no family or children. So there is nothing to keep you here." "Only my students, and Dr. Macklin--but--are you not married?" He made a dismissive hand gesture. "Yes, and no. I have three political wives, married purely for the advantage of my master, the King. They live in my house but do not live with me, if you follow." She nodded. "There is no love, not really. Nothing like I feel for you, Holly, and I could feel forever." "I ... I ..." He put a finger to her lips. "I understand," he said quietly, "that you have commitments, of course. We all do. You have MAC-FORCE, the campaign committee of my friend Risseffendi to vice-chair, the votes to get out. You have your students. I would like you to come with us on Friday. I would take care of everything for you, and I mean everything. I have people here, and so does Her Majesty, who also favors you. I think she would like having another American--home-girl, you say?--close to hand. You would certainly be very high on her friends list, and she is my master's favorite wife. What she wants, he grants. And you would have her ear. I know you understand me, Holly. But I will not pressure you to say yes or no right now." "How long do I have to decide?" "I would like for you to make a commitment before we leave Friday evening, to say if you are coming, and when. If you wish to wait to come over until after the election, I understand. If you wish to wait until after the school term is over in January ... aiyah, I could stand it, if Allah strengthens me." "Speaking of Allah," she said, stretching out full length, toned and looking like she'd never worn a stitch in her life. "What about that?" "I understand that you are not, personally, a religious person," he said. "So I don't think you'd mind making some important people happy by saying a few words in front of a few witnesses, like Her Majesty did. Her lifestyle is not, I think, something you'd think was oppressed or undesirable." She looked at him deeply. "And if I, um, wanted to come back here?" "Why, as my wife, you could visit, of course," he smiled. "Even my master's wife can do that." "I will give it serious consideration," she promised. "It is very tempting, Mahmoud." "Good. That is all I ask." He put both arms around her. "Now, lay with me awhile longer, Holly. I love you." "I love you, too, Mahmoud," she said, closing the box and putting it aside. Then they rolled over and twined limbs again, taking pleasure slowly and gently. >< >< >< The only light on in Enrique Cabrera's house was in his office. It had not been a good evening. Neither Quinta nor Oscar would return his calls; unless he wanted to be out of the nick business with extreme prejudice, he had to make the payment and lose several hundred thousand dollars on the busted nick which was to have paid off the cop who could release Rhys Macklin's stuff from custody. He still had no idea who had tipped them off, but the move was starting to look like it had Bao Zhan's name on it. His only hope of getting himself right with Macklin was to deliver, and to hope that somehow the hit he'd ordered on the woman who turned out to be Macklin's PA would not come off. So he had ordered a hit on his own hitman. He'd spent all day--between this and that--trying to track down Jesus Melendez. Piggy had said he'd work on it, but that was only this morning, and he wasn't the only employer Piggy and Pancho had. He was staring, again, at his com-unit, trying to will it to ring, so it would drown out the ringing of Oscar's words in his head: If Macklin even finds out you tried this, you are toast--you know that, don't you?If only he could find some way to compromise this Ralna--but there had been no way yet. Her apartment on Harrison Street had been checked out. Searches, even in the County and City databases, had turned up nothing except a few false leads. No one knew her. No school, no previous jobs locally. She had no resume, nothing but the barest few background references tracing back to Colombia, which would be hard to verify. It was as if Ralna had dropped out of the sky and into Macklin's office ... as if she didn't come from anywhere, but that he'd built her to order. Suddenly, he sat back, an idea percolating. Macklin was Doctor Humod, after all, and running for office. He, Enrique, couldn't check Ralna Ochoa's antecedents easily, but there were people who could. Accusing her of being a humod was the stupidest possible stunt, but even the possibility would resonate with an election just around the corner. He'd said the tech in the shipment was important. It was certainly illegal. Maybe it was humod-related. Enrique knew Lalia Starbird slightly; she'd spoken at enough Latino community events. As Party chair, she had a line to Leonard Chung. That might be interesting, and keep him anonymous and himself and his family alive. He made a note to call Lalia's office in the morning. >< >< >< Merilee Brunett awoke in her room. It was deep night, very dark but for the glow from their outdoor pole light, broken by the back-and-forth of their big willow tree's branches between it and the bedroom window. She ached, as usual--as always. Her arm went around John, sleeping next to her on the damp sheets on top of the mattress pad. It didn't matter how often she changed them; they were always damp from leaking, squelching, squirting body fluids. The mattress itself, despite its layers of padding and sheathing, had to be replaced monthly because of the constant punishment dealt from her ample body going up and down and back and forth. It was a wonder, she thought, how she could work out so much, so often, and still be so heavy.John had spent himself on her at more length than usual, obviously frustrated at her long evening away and unhappy with what Kayleigh had done for him. That had gone a half-hour, after which she'd removed her drenched garments, toweled off, and let him have her again, and again, and again. Then, at long last, he'd needed to nurse. Unfortunately, her breasts, big as they were, gave him only a slow ooze. That had frustrated him even more, and he had gone into a full-fledged tantrum, hitting her with his fists, pounding blindly and crying. She let him. She lay there and took it; there was nothing else. She felt soreness from that, too. But no ache or pain like that had awoken her. She ran her hand along John's form; he murmured something in his sleep and half-rolled, snuggling closer, needing her again. She looked over at the glowing clock, and wondered: it said 6:13, by far the wrong time, but it was also flashing--there must have been a power interruption and it had reset itself and gone on. And--there it was--abdominal pain. Tightening. Painful tightening, like her belly was trying to turn itself into a huge hard-boiled egg, coming on slowly but building. She gasped, trying to get her lungs to work--it seemed as if all the air had been sucked out of them. She finally got enough oxygen in, but had to let it out in a stifled moan. It helped if she spread her legs ... she kicked and pulled the quilt off and spread her soft, thick thighs as wide as they would go, crooking her knees. As if ... as if this were a contraction of childbirth. But that was impossible. She had been pregnant before, with John and Kayleigh, and she would certainly know if she were pregnant again. False labor--Braxton-Hicks contractions? But those, still, came with a pregnancy, surely.The pain wave receded, and she tried to think of what else it could be. Phantom pregnancy? It could lead to false labor, she supposed. The world's worst bloating? Or constipation? She didn't want to call medical services, not yet, and disturb John and Kayleigh with all the fuss. But if it were that ... how to explain the sensation of--of something moving inside her? She wondered, biting her nails and stroking John by turns, wishing it were morning and light. Then the pain came on again, like a juggernaut, worse than before. She had nothing to do but spread out wide, wide like doing splits, and it would not stop, but filled her so she thought she must burst. And something moving ... Merilee's head moved as she writhed-- 6:16. Then the room went away as her vaginal area exploded, ripping sideways so her belly tore half-loose from her body in a heavy flap, like a patch of sod taken up from a lawn. And somehow, she could raise her head and see. She saw something emerging from her, headfirst--big head, wet, gleaming, coming up as its spine bent forward. Its shoulders came, and upper body--it looked like--like--John but not like him; twisted, weird. It bent up again, withdrawing its arms, and brought them up. They ended in hands, thin hands, whose fingers flexed--to show-- talons.The huge eyes opened, huge and semivacant and light, light blue--John's eyes, but not--in his face, but not--and its mouth opened in a ghastly gape that showed a hundred needlelike teeth as it wriggled itself out of her body, wet with her blood. She screamed. All she could do was scream again and again as something-- it--moved, easily, hopping off the bed and hitting the floor and going. And then she was rolling over, with John clutching her, awake and terrified, and mouthing his fear. Her stomach was whole, if achy. The clock said 3:09. It had been a dream-- a nightmare. She breathed, and wept, and held John tightly, and he held her. It should have been comforting, but it was also unsettling in a different way. She avoided looking at his face. He buried it in her neck and ran his hands up and down her. His hand stopped when it got to her inner thigh, hesitated; he brought it up--dark and wet. Her vagina was running red, spreading a dark stain. "Give me a towel," she told him, trying to keep calm. He did, and she bunched it up between her thighs. "Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh--?" he began, his eyes wide. "No." It was too much to bear; she put her face into her pillow and sobbed, muttering broken snatches of prayer when she could get breath, her flesh quivering with each heave. >< >< >< In the morning, a couple of hours later when the alarm went off, Merilee got up and moved out like a soldier, with a purpose. She cleaned herself, rousted the kids for breakfast, made up her room--to heck with theirs today--and dressed in what she thought of as her comfort clothes, like comfort food, only clothes; woolen stockings, a stout girdle and her most luxurious, protective bra; full slip, blouse, sweater, heavy wool skirts, and soft, thick, flat-soled boots, topped off with more wool, a shawl, and gloves, everything warm and surrounding--she felt safe, protected, like a human tank. John and Kayleigh acted surprised at her chivvying them to move, move, move, move, trading glances but saying nothing. She didn't say much either--no time. And, once loaded in the old Volvo, off they went in the frost-touched morning, with still hardly a word said. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Aug 23, 2010 8:35:40 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Sept 3, 2010 10:06:08 GMT -5
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Thursday, October 15Chief Lincoln Jefferson Jones' wife had handed him his coffee and his PDA. "You got a call whiles you was in the shower," she said, using the old-school name for many homes' ionizing body-cleaning cubicle. That had been just after five AM. It was getting to be the morning routine. So was the hover-ride to the latest scene, and the evi-dome with the latest body in it. This one was on the waterfront again, Pier 54, next to the ferry terminal, with barriers up and a dozen officers posted to keep the commuter traffic moving. "Don't tell me," Jones said to Detective Casarelli. "Let me guess." "Thought you were getting tired of the stale ones," said the New Yorker, overcoated and hatted against the cold mist. "So I says to myself, maybe we can rustle up a fresh one. Lo and behold, a ferry worker saw a floater at four-ten." He lifted the evi-dome's flap to admit the chief. The smell wasn't so bad this time, but Jones once again thanked himself he'd given up having breakfast. He was starting to lose weight, and coping with the morning bodies better. He looked over the remains. "Make?" he asked grimly. "Not yet. True to form, though. Hooker by the evidence, another undocumented foreigner. Same M.O., lower abdomen ripped apart by something with a lot of edges or teeth, while she was still alive. Which wasn't long ago. Five, six hours. Done and dumped right here. He's getting cocky. The other dome's over the scene itself, blood and tissue all over, like someone took a chainsaw to the poor bitch, then tossed her over." "The killer leave traces?" "Yep. Killers, three it looks like from prints. Only one left a good trace, though." Casarelli took an e-pad from an officer. "Some kind of soft rubber soles, size--I'll go with nine, so not a huge guy. They left traces heading to the sidewalk and around toward the terminal door." "No witnesses?" "Not yet. We're working on it. There were a couple of ferry personnel on duty, but all inside at the time. Size Nine did the doings, the other two probably kept a lookout. Especially strange because the new executive security vehicle was getting a test run down here." "The ESV? That new armored tank thing of Leonard's?" Casarelli nodded. "None of them pick up anything then?" "Negative. I'm pegging it between eleven and twelve, between the ESV--it parked awhile for surveillance testing, and they detected nothing. Twelve because after that there were once again ferry workers outside getting ready for the twelve-forty, the last departure for Alder Island. And, of course, while it was true that there were always pro-choice pickets at the terminal, that's no longer the case. It wasn't publicized, but several days ago the third shift was instructed to quit at eleven and the first shift to begin at four. No one's here between those times for safety reasons." "No possible tie-in to the Lucky McCullum case?" "Oh--the comatose hooker?" It was Jones' turn to nod. "Happened near here, but outside that I don't see it, not yet anyway. She still has all her guts inside her." "Well, keep at it. There's street people, doggs. Someone's bound to have seen or heard something." "Yeah. We have some evidence. Not much, but some. The CSI team may still turn up something--a hair, some skin cells under her nails, something." Casarelli motioned outside. "You gonna talk to the press again?" "I'll let you do the honors. I have to look in on that quadruple on South Ferdinand." "Yeah. Gang-related by the sound of it. Gangbangers. Four more done up off of Eighth Avenue in Westlake." "Yep. Ferdinand’s different, though. Those were all done by hands--and teeth. One had his head literally torn off." The detective shook his head. "Christ, Chief. What's up with this shit? Makes ya wish for a little good old-fashioned gunslaying." "Keep your fingers crossed, Harry. Day ain't over yet," said Jones, setting his cap square. >< >< >< In her Harrison Street apartment, Ralna had awakened, as usual, completed initialization and startup, and done her tai chi. Then she'd gone on to calisthenics--nothing strenuous: four hundred each of crunches and pushups, a half-hour of weights, and a half-hour on the stairmaster carrying two hundred on her shoulders. Then a change and clean, and a modest breakfast of yoghurt, toast, fruit, eggs, sausage, tofu, beans, mushrooms, and a fish protein shake, washed down with green tea and a quart of water. Finally had come time for her morning datasession with Sir. After the usual preliminaries, and the all-important download and upload via databurst, he had paused, not simply ending the communication. She waited. "Ralna ... I have a question for you. This will require some thought on your part." "Yes, sir. I exist to serve." "It is just that about which I wish you to think. Ralna, what did you do for your evening activity last night?" "I attended you covertly, sir, under biomorph and with a change of clothing." "True. Self-initiated, unknown to me, and unauthorized by me." "Yes, sir." She was aware that her physical signs were changing, cardio and oxygen intake up, but processing speed slowing. Something was consuming a lot of energy. "Why did you alter your approved schedule without clearance?" "I evaluated the possibility of danger to you personally, sir, but on the basis of nonspecific data. Informing you of nonspecifics might, I judged, cause alteration in your own actions which might impair collection of further data on the threat. My plan was to observe in order to gain specifics." "In other words, you acted on a hunch, as they say." She accessed her database for the unusual word, and had to agree. "Yes, sir. A hunch." "Did the person I met on the ferry profile as a threat?" "She profiled unusually, consistent with a PHE. Beta, alpha, and theta waves all different from human, different body temperatures and hotspots, irregular but strong cardio." "Were you aware that I invited her to my residence?" "Yes, sir." "And you followed us there." "Yes, sir." "And once there you engaged in covert observation." She agreed again. "At a certain point, I had to take a call. I left my visitor alive in the living room. I returned to find her ended on the deck. Please recount to me what transpired in the interval." "The person came outside, onto the deck, for the purpose of igniting and consuming a nicotine cigarette. From near cover, I ran another bio-sig scan on her." "And?" "Retinals rapid, and circulation high, thetas off the chart. Consistent with intent to initiate physical hostility against you. She was also wired with an electronic device, in the lapel of her coat. Electrical impulse was consistent with a mini-mic of standard government make. She boarded that ferry to spy on someone, sir, and the likelihood is that her target was you. Whether she feigned shock at her PDA communication or not, she did succeed in gaining your permission to enter your residence." "H'm. This is significant. Did you engage her socially?" "No, sir. My intent was to render her unconscious. The blow did not have the desired effect. She resisted and reacted vigorously at definitely above-human capacity. At that point I lacked data to adequately analyze. It could have been a case of simple political espionage. News of your impending election run has generated hostile reactions. Given the situation--someone, a possible PHE, above-human physical abilities, spying on you, isolating you--it could have been the preparatory phase for a deadly assault. Your call might have been a stratagem to lure you away to be taken captive--or arrested. Analysis of her PDA, which I confiscated, shows her to have been in contact with a Federal agent. I could not access you, or even PDA you since you were occupied. I judged that ending her on the spot was the surest method to guarantee your safety." "And yet you did not remain behind to warn me?" "No, sir. I was conscious of the fact that I had--as you say--altered my approved schedule without your clearance." "And you felt ... you felt something? Ashamed, perhaps?" "Yes, something like that, sir." "Did you feel anything else?" "I noticed that she did a dance for you, sir. A dance of a sexy character." "Aha! What do you know about sexy dancing, Ralna?" "If I might remind you, sir, before my arrival, I trained in advanced military camps for a year. With males. They bring in females. Willingly or not, by just being on the ground in that milieu, one learns something about sexy." "True. Did that make you feel something, Ralna?" She hesitated, thinking. "I had an unpleasant feeling, watching her do a sexy dance for you, sir. It--it clouded my processing to a degree. Perhaps without that feeling I should have judged better in that situation." "That is possible. Even with all that, I must remind you, Ralna, I am capable of taking care of myself. I had my own unpleasant feeling to find my guest ended on my deck, however dubious her motivations for being there might have been. I am reminded of the situation with Louise, Ralna, and that disturbs me slightly." "Yes, sir." Her heart rate zoomed again, to the point where her face felt very warm. "You were not to have ended Louise when you did, but we adapted to circumstances. In her case, you played a hunch instinctively, without thinking. Last night you not only played a hunch again, but did so deliberately, based on feelings which you knew were contrary to my own expectations. I do want you to feel, to learn to act on feelings--that is good. You must learn and practice these things, to sort out your feelings better, and learn which judgments you may trump in some situations, and others in which judgments may not be set aside even on the basis of strong feelings. In this case, your learning experience led to fatal results for a subject who may well have been a PHE and a Government agent. If either of those are true--and especially if both are true--that could have serious adverse consequences, and your description of your feelings shows me you sensed that. In such a situation you must notify me, or take no action, no matter what the unrealized risk may appear to be. On that basis, I must rate last night as unsatisfactory performance." Ralna's breath stopped for a moment, and her processing with it. "Now, that being said, acting on feelings will lead to occasional unsatisfactory results--it's inevitable. The denouement of the affair has had some fascinating and informative results, and what you did may turn out to have been a good thing. I will not issue any consequences for you; I know you have a loyal heart and the best intentions, and that if you deserve any discipline, receiving your first-ever unsatisfactory rating should prove a sharp reminder. I will content myself with reviewing this instruction: do not end anyone without the most immediate reasons for doing so, which you know, and I will have you repeat back to me now. Those are ... ?" Her answer was easily given: she thought of it many times a day. "To save your life, sir; to save my life; to safeguard my hidden abilities, and my virtue." "Yes. Did my guest last night represent an immediate threat under any of those criteria?" "No, sir." "Correct. You will report to the office as usual, and you will bring Taylor's PDA with you. If you are not finished analyzing it, you may finish doing so there, where you will have better tools for the job." "Yes, sir. There is one more thing, sir. There is another here in the city, a sex worker--an--escort. She has a variant bio-sig consistent with no normal human profile, but consistent with your guest's. So there may be others in the vicinity." "Another? H'm--this is excellent to know, Ralna. Very good. Thank you." "Thank you, sir. With respect, sir, the length of our conversation may have impaired my ability to catch my normal bus." "Very well. If you must be late, then be late. The occasional display of a harmless lapse may fortify your official identity at all events. Your irreproachable pursuit of your duties has not gone unnoticed by the building's other staff, who have generated certain jocular remarks on the subject." "The later bus it shall be, sir. I exist to serve." "Very good, Ralna. Do not forget Taylor's PDA." "No, sir. Thank you, sir." "That is all. Goodbye." He ended the call. And for the first time, Ralna found herself holding the com-unit for a moment after, and taking a moment to say, subvocally: Goodbye, sir.>< >< >< Holly had awakened in bed, in Aziz's hotel suite. It hadn't been a dream. He was gone, but she was more or less wafted out from the sheets and through a swift but complete morning toilette by three smiling servant women. She found herself dressed in her carried clothes, made up, hair done, and sitting in front of an elegant breakfast layout having hardly lifted a finger. Her diamond set--and her dress, handbag, and shoes from the evening, which had alone certainly cost about half a year's worth of her teacher's salary--were laid out with wrapping for her to take along. There was also a single red rose twined with a holly sprig laying on a note on gold-edged paper; real gold, she had no doubt. It said: I do love you, and I await you. If you are ever in need, inform a brother, and my help will be swift.Holly wasn't sure about that last. She had no brothers, so far as she knew. But no matter, she thought now, having been--true to Rhys' seemingly casual promise--been conveyed in style over the Sound in a helio, a thing similar to a wheel-less BMW sedan fitted with a turboprop, favored by the extremely wealthy. Even Rhys didn't have one, though she guessed he simply liked his ferries. The helio had landed her in the school parking lot, blessedly early--no witnesses to gossip--and she'd opened up the gym and the Staff Fitness Facility dead on time at seven. Her car, the helio pilot had assured her, would be brought, and would be waiting for her in its slot when her workday ended. Now, with the lights on, she was alone in her office. She should have been suited up already--sweats, supports, tape--but she was sitting back in her chair wearing only her socks and sports bra, looking at two pairs of things on her desk. One pair lay in a silk-lined box, Aziz's diamond set. The other pair was her battered, comfy old gym shoes, their leather worn paper-thin and skin-supple over thousands of hours of sweaty workouts and sex. Arabia, and Alder Island. One was her past, and one was her future. But which one? Holly had spent six years on the island, six very good years. She had gains to show for it, too: a nice little waterfront condo; good financial standing--her all-consuming pastime cost nothing--and a hard professional athlete's body. That, and her ladies. But training her ladies as she did depended on Bearers, and they were a limited edition: Zack Hutchings, and Tyreal Barnes, the one who hadn't lasted, both of them gone now. David Thomsen would follow them in the spring. There would still be Jason and John left, but David was the alpha whose pressure held the other two in line. Without him, Jason might well drift, and John by himself would be useless. This would be the last year running at full steam. Next year, if there was a next year, things would be very different. And Holly was thirty years old; she'd had that thought before. Physically, true, she was ripped, but thirty was thirty, and ripped at thirty was not the same as ripped at twenty or even twenty-five. From here on, peak fitness would be re-defined; the peaks would get lower, and harder to maintain. She looked at the diamonds again. Marriage. Not long ago the very word made her grin. Without it, she could always be a teacher, an ordinary one, which was far from bad. At the same time, she'd be an aging jock, which was bad, even for a man. With it, she'd be one of the most important women in Arabia--at least in theory. Practice might be different. The Queen was accepted--because she was a queen. Being Mrs. Aziz might be nice, but it wouldn't be the same as being a queen. And for a foreign woman who fell socially ... well, she knew Candee Macklin's story. Again, too, there was the whole cultural thing. Her body might maintain a few years longer, but her fiery libido would outlast it. She needed men, lots of men, and she was pretty sure Aziz would take a dim view of that; if he didn't, his master the King would. The last she'd heard, women over there who liked lots of men still wound up dying under a hail of rocks, and she had no trouble picturing Aziz standing by, wiping away a tear and composing a sad verse for the occasion. In short, she would have to change. She was going to change, like it or not, and she didn't. If only there were some way you could freeze your body, no matter what happened to the rest of you--like being a vampire ... the unbidden fantasy thought, straight from bad novels in her girls' backpacks, made her smile. She sat up and reached out. Today it would be the shoes. Tomorrow was another day. The supply of tomorrows was running low, but there were still a few left. She intended to waste none of them. >< >< >< >< >< >< Merilee had seen Kayleigh ready to catch her bus. She did not drive her to school any more, as she did with John; Kayleigh valued her time with her friends, and this also gave Merilee alone-time with John, which was sometimes necessary--though, thankfully, not today, sore and achy as she was from the night before. She was going to need the large-size bottle of pain pills and all the pads and tampons her capacious bag could hold. She dropped John at precisely the usual spot so he wouldn't get lost finding the Staff Fitness Facility entrance, then turned the Saab toward the middle school to begin her day. She wasn't looking forward to it. Thursday meant five sections to teach, one prep period, and one period which was quickly becoming her indispensable time with her angel Sean, the only human being she knew who gave to her, asking nothing in return but acceptance. Only he seemed to really know her, intuitively, simply, with no complications--indeed, with hardly a word said sometimes. He felt, she was certain, the same about her. She went to her classroom and unlocked it, looking forward to a few minutes to collect herself and have another couple of pills washed down with a drinking yogurt. But when she opened it, she saw someone--a girl, not a student, not a middle-school student anyway--already inside, sitting at a table, who looked up at her. "Um, excuse me," said Merilee, taken aback. "Can I help you? How--?" "--did I get into a locked room?" asked the girl, small and brown-haired. "Someone wasn't too good with the window latches, fortunately. 'Cause that means we can meet undisturbed." Merilee made a mental note, setting down her bag and case. The girl seemed tired, drawn, with circles under her eyes. Her clothing was unfresh, as if she'd been out all night. "Okay. Is there something I can help you with, Miss ... ?" "Debi," supplied the other. "High school." She pointed in that direction. "Debi ... Debi. I don't remember you from my classes, Debi." "Transfer, this year, junior. I know you, Mrs. Brunett, by reputation, and of course I also know John." Merilee nodded; lots of young women knew John. "I came to see you specifically, nothing to do with John, but about something else. I picked on you because I feel I can trust you. That's not a feeling I pick up about many people around here." She looked at the teacher intensely, seriously. "So, can I? Trust you?" "Well, sure," said Merilee. "But I do have homeroom in about twenty minutes." She reached over to turn her computer on. "Then I'll get to the point. Mrs. Brunett, do you know Janine Sandoval?" "Well--sure," repeated Merilee. "Everybody knows Janine. She's one of our best, most respected staff. Awesome credentials. We're lucky to have her." "Really?" said Debi with a strange smile. "Do you know the nature of her relations with Father O'Hanlon?" "Relations?" faltered Merilee, the memory of her visit to Father Craig returning--his tired, grey look, his cryptic talk, and his finger to his lips at her question, refusing to reply aloud. "Is this something that's, um, appropriate--?" "No, it's not appropriate, and no, it's none of your business. But I'm making it your business, Mrs. B, because I know something about them, something weird, and I don't know her socially and him not at all, and you know both of them and I can trust you. Last night he was at her house, Mrs. B. Very late. In a basement apartment. Can you guess what she was doing to him there, Mrs. B? I'll bet you can't." Merilee said nothing, steeling herself for--she knew not what. "She was drinking his blood, Mrs. B. She took it out of his arm with a big syringe and put it into a wineglass and sipped it like you'd sip a Chardonnay, and he sat there, Mrs. B, and he was okay with it. He seemed kind a' scared, he kept saying that no one should get hurt, but he was getting hurt, just sitting there and letting her do it. He even practically defended her." "Are you sure? How do you know this?" The girl's lips twisted. "I was there, Mrs. B. Don't ask me how, let's not get into right and wrong--let's say I wasn't invited. But that doesn't change what they were doing, Mrs. B. What the hell--and why?"Merilee said nothing again. "If you can guess why, then don't tell me. I don't want to know. I don't care what you do with the information. But someone's got to know, and do something. Not me, maybe not you either. But I think you'd know who to tell better than I would." "Your parents?" asked Merilee vaguely, her head developing a pounding pain. She reached into her bag. "Excuse me." "I can't tell them, Mrs. B. If I did, I would put them in danger. I would have to also tell them that Janine made me spend all night at her house. She--she did things to me." Merilee nearly choked as she swallowed her pills with water from her bottle, but she got them down. She also saw a student walking by through the little window in the classroom door. "Not sexual things, Mrs. B, well, not exactly. But she was cruel to me. She hit me. And I know, time is running out, but I have to say all this right now because soon I'll have to go to sleep, and by the time I wake up I won't have any choice but to do everything she wants me to do, and to think everything she wants me to think. And don't tell me to go to the police. I don't trust them not to be on her side, and even if they weren't what would happen? She'd know, Mrs. B. And things would get very ugly indeed." "Yes." A pair of students passed along the walkway outside the window. "You'd really better go, Debi," said Merilee. "I know." The young woman got up and went to the door. "Are you going to school?" "If you're going to do something with that information, it's best if you don't know where I'm going to be." She gave a little strange smile again, brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and was gone. With a guilty start, Merilee realized she had never looked up the passage that Father Craig had given her, even told her to memorize. She dove into her bag for her little psalm-book, flipping rapidly ... there it was, Psalm 10. It was disappointingly long; she wasn't a fast reader. But one part leaped off the page: The wicked lurk in the streets, in dark alleys they murder the innocent; their eyes are ever watching for the helpless. They lie in wait, like a lion in its den, they lie in wait to seize the poor; they devour them when they get them into their net. The innocent are broken and humbled before them; the helpless fall beneath their power.That certainly sounded like Debi's story. The door opened, and the first students came in. Merilee nodded to them, taking a few moments to get off a quick text message to Father O'Hanlon. Got 2 C U ASAP grave danger 1130 lunch brk MB.Then she put away the PDA and got up, wearily, but wearing her battle face--smiling, pleasant, ready for the students, clicking her start programs and setting her books straight. >< >< ><
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