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Post by Aedh on Dec 29, 2011 15:59:54 GMT -5
063[/b] The large man in the long coat had a key to the back door of a nondescript brick building on South Lane Street illuminated by a single overhead alley light. He set it to the stained metal; the lock turned easily, despite its crusty appearance, and he let himself in carefully and quietly and went down a shadowy hallway toward a front office. It was small, dingy, decorated with a couple of cheap plastic plants and a cobwebby Chinese banner which--to anyone who could read it--proclaimed the necessity and virtue of regular personal hygiene, having been designed for a Shantung transit camp. But it had bold, cheery characters and pictures of forests and meadows, and that was enough to make it look alright to casual visitors, most of whom were not Chinese. Behind a desk sat Bao Zhan, who in his neat suit matched the place like a silver fork on a McRonald's burger tray. Intent on a desktop micropanel screen, he acknowledged the visitor with a nod and a gesture. He sat down in a metal-and-plastic chair and waited, not for long. "Thank you, Mister Burt," said Bao at last, in English. "Do you know why I called you here?" Burt didn't--he never did--but that was Bao's way of starting a conversation with anyone who worked for him. Burt shrugged. "We have makes on both people known to have hijacked Xue Guangyong's shipment yesterday morning. You know one man's body was found in a shipping container near Pier Twenty-Five today. Who he was isn't important--a hired hand. His confederate has been located." Bao motioned Burn up and around to see the screen. "A woman?" Burt murmured. "So it seems. Connected with--not a cop exactly, but high in law enforcement, and a wealthy and powerful man. They certainly did the job for him." "Who's that?" "No matter. We have clearance to move, and insurance. Time is pressing. This picture was taken earlier tonight, at the Seattle Center, just before she killed a man. She's downtown now, last seen a few moments ago near the intersection of Terry and James, dressed the same, probably on her way to meet someone. In three minutes there will be four men and a van out back for you. Here's a scanner and a map," said Bao, laying down some things, lastly a hard plastic case. "And an MEU. Load up. Here is the key. Arm them and yourself. Bring everything you can carry. If this person pulled off the job we're talking about, she is well-trained--military, intelligence services, maybe black ops. Assume she's armed. You will get over there, find her, and take care of her. Quietly if possible. If not, just do it." "Cops?" "Every cop on duty is working the transit tunnel. Now is the time to do our job." "Do we find out who she's meeting? Do we let it happen?" "The meeting is irrelevant. Just find her and kill her. I want her head on my desk tonight. That is all." Bao checked his PDA. "The van has arrived in back. Understood?" "Yes," said Burt, standing up. "I'll do it. But I don't like it." "Can't stand killing a woman?" asked Bao, looking up at him. "It's not that. It's ... " Burt shrugged. "I dunno." "Deal with it on your way," Bao told him, with another gesture, looking down again. Burt left and went to the arms room, of which he was the keeper, and let in four men, Chinese, all of them, in somber-colored clothing. Two of them were ex-tong hatchet men who would kill their own parents without a blink, and probably had. Burt handed out four military carbines, two with launchers, four semiauto pistols, one Steyr PDW and one Uzi, and, for a change, was fairly generous with ammo. Apes like these, he thought sourly, couldn't grasp the idea of controlled auto-fire; all they could do was empty the whole clip at a go. He evaluated the chance of success as less than certain if the target really was the pro Bao thought. Fortunately the picture he had seen was a poor one and if she got away--likely given these helpers--some other victim might supply. >< >< >< KLSM was picking up some business from other clubs which had elected to close on this night of civic disaster. The woman in the black leather swing coat was a little early, and decided to let her mark find her. It wasn't goth night, but her somber-hued look went unremarked as she moved through the crowd, her hips and heels swinging a little with the beat. It sounded like danger, and she was ready for some danger, to try what she could do. After mixing for a while, and a word with the lion-haired DJ, she moved to the bar, and, hooking a heel over the rail, ordered a drink. It had just arrived when a voice spoke in her ear. "A mocktail? Hardly your style, I think, Taylor." She turned; the tall, thin man with the thin but strong synthetic bandage on his neck smiled, grimly it seemed to her. "I'm glad you came," she smiled back. "Where's your friend?" "Friend?" She blinked. "Oh, you mean Liam?" "Yeah. He seems to have kind a' ... lost you. Called Abdul looking for you. Abdul told me and I called him back." "What'd you tell him?" She took a sip of her drink. It was good. "That we were getting together tonight." She gave him a half-smile. "Good answer. He's not my friend. He could have been, but he wanted to be my keeper instead. I don't need that." "Comes in handy for the money, though, doesn't he?" Margoth asked sardonically. "I am so past that," she answered with a gesture. He looked at her closely. "There's something different about you, Tay. You've changed. A lot." She tossed off the drink. "Yeah, well, being dead for a while does mess with your head some." "Dead?" She nodded, and his eyes widened. "How long?" "Long enough to put me off being dead again, even if I wanted to." "How does a vampire ... die? I mean, your head's still on and I don't see any evidence of stake-holes." "I'm not a capital-V vampire. There's, like, probation first." "How?" She shrugged. "I dunno how exactly. It's called being a Minion." "No, I mean, how'd you die and come back?" She looked up at him appraisingly. "You know, big guy, I didn't come to stand here and talk all night about me.""What'd you come for?" The music died out on a long synth swish, and a new track started, one with a moderate beat backed by a familiar-sounding arpeggio. "This," she said, taking his hand and leading him onto the floor, near by the DJ stand, shedding her coat, and beginning to dance, swaying sensuously on her heels, lips moving to 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 ... She danced very well, and he clearly appreciated it, moving along with her, never taking his eyes away. After another track had started, they walked, and she told him: "I'm here to be your fantasy. To finish what we started the other night." He touched his bandage. "Does that mean finishing this?" She looked at him again, serious, and he looked her over again. There really was something different about her, something he couldn't put his finger on. She said: "Whose fault is it if you've got some fucked-up fantasies? That was then, and this is now. My job is to be your fantasy, not to judge it. Why don't we get out of here and go somewhere a little less crowded?" He smiled. "I'm all for finishing what we started, Tay. Lead on." >< >< >< Shaz was more used to waiting in police stations as the subject of official inquiries rather than to offer assistance with them. So, after an hour in one queue, he was told to move to another one, and spent another hour there before being called to a desk, behind which sat a frazzled-looking officer surrounded by synth-mat file folders, ink-pens with gnawed ends, and greenpaper cups of 'bux in various stages of consumption but all stone cold, and a large, lidless jar of paracetamol tablets. They talked. "Okay, Mister Garcia," said the cop, after a few minutes' conversation, three more tablets, and a fresh and promptly forgotten 'bux. "To recap. You wish to state that certain persons known to you--to wit, one Jael Schlick, alias Taylor Light; one Saydi Kowalchuk; one Mandiy Tallon; one Laquaan Leboeuf; one Jesykaah Canada; one Shequean Baylor; and one Nie Duc Tranh--all considered persons of interest in murder investigations--have undergone certain physical and mental alterations which bear on their alleged crimes, and have transformed them into psychotics with, ah, cannibalistic habits." "I know, I know, officer, soun' all zeke as fuck, man, Ah get it--but. Ah am a businessman. Nah yo Chamber of Commerce suit-wearin' han'shake-an'address PDA type-a' mofo, but a businessman none th' less. It is not th' kind a' business that brings me ta th' cop shop in th' line a' duty, ya get? But. There is. Some. Weird. Shit, goin' down aht deh an' dis is not nah one a' two hoes queered ta fuck on B-29 or Staymis. This is all over, it's big, an' gettin' bigger. 'F ya doah-nass, check it out wi' Detective Crowley. He's th' man." "Yes. Someone will get back to you," said the officer, in the planate tone of a migraine sufferer in the clutches. "Have a good night, Mr. Garcia." When Shaz had gone, he pulled a blue folder from the back of his vertical rack, slipped the notes in, and remembered his 'bux now that it was going cold. The he looked at the wall clock with a sigh and realized he'd have to interview at least one more wingnut before punching out. "Next," he said. A bearded man in an old army jacket came in, carrying a book under one arm, which he set down on the desk before the officer, opening it by pulling a ribbon set under a certain page, and leaned forward, breathing rankly through yellowed teeth. He said: "This tunnel massacre, you know, is a visitation upon us for our sins." He put a long, bony finger at a place on the page. "It is, as I have discovered, mentioned in Bible prophecy ... " >< >< >< >< >< >< Debi lay on her bed in her shadow-washed room, propped up on her elbows, a pillow under her chest, having caught up via PDA on some business back east. A stuffed teddy bear near her right hand almost--but not quite--concealed the butt of her automatic pistol. A callwindow popped up. It took her a moment to think of who the number belonged to, and another moment to think about rejecting it before deciding not to; it might be one of her colleagues. She pressed Accept. "Hello." "Ah, Debi," said the low, cool voice on the other end. "I was afraid just for a moment that you'd decided to ignore me." "I couldn't ignore you if I wanted to, Janine. My neck, my soles, my shoulders, and my butt wouldn't let me." "Yes. A pity, but learning is never easy, and the older you get the harder it gets." "What do you want?" "I want you to come to me now," said Janine quietly. "After what you did to me? Are you insane?" "Coming from a cave-dweller to one who's been outside the cave--who in fact is not from the cave to start with--I'd have to answer yes. I'll expect you in twenty minutes." The Platonic allusion was lost on Debi. "No," she said. "You can expect the police, though. You're evil." "'Evil?' What a quaint word!" Janine chuckled. "Human nature isn't basically evil, as some people say. It's not basically good, as other people say. Do you know what it really is? It's corrupt, that's what it is--part good and part evil. All of us have certain things we want to do, but we never find ourselves doing them. Instead, we find ourselves doing things we don't want to do, things we hate. You, me, everybody. All I'm doing is offering you the best choice out of a very bad lot." "What I want to do is see you in prison, and I'll do that," said Debi. "Even if I have to go in with you." "Not on this island you won't. I, however, might see your remains in a container on the way to the biomass plant, less your ovaries and any other useful organs, of course. Yours and those of your so-called 'parents.' Then who you all work for would come out--yes, I know--and I'd probably be voted Woman Of The Year by the Civic League." Debi touched her automatic. "I suppose I'd better come, then." "Good choice, darling. See you soon, then." "Alright," agreed Debi wearily. Something about exposure to Janine seemed to sap her, to drain all her resistance, all her vital energy. "Ta-ta," said Janine. "Twenty minutes. Don't be late." Debi ended the call. >< >< >< Ashley banged open the door of her little conversion apartment, loaded with several bags of shopping--well, she called it 'shopping' although it was really just what the food bank gave her. Her jaw was working on a wad of chewing gum. The main room was lit only by two candles, as power didn't come cheap and with Stosh's job gone they had to delay shutoff and eviction for as long as possible. He was laying on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Hey," she said lightly around her gum, stepping carefully in the shadows; the place was surely cluttered if he'd been in all day. "Sorry umm wate--it's been hell trying to get around ow there fanks to the tunnel blowup, an' half the places in town 'r' closed. Wittle help here?" "Okay." He arose, listlessly, took a bag from her, and led the way around the corner to the kitchenette, where he turned on the light and silently assisted her to put a few things away. Still depressed, she thought. No surprise there.When they had finished, she took off her overcoat--she still had another coat on, habitually, as the place was kept cool, heat being even more expensive than light. "Don' you wanna know whaffs for dinner?" He shrugged. "Whatever." "Well, I gorra few fings done," she said, leading him back over to the couch. "The shopping. I dropped by WorkForce, but no jobs in th' offing--I know, but you have to check--one does come up evewy so often. It was on the way out of there I found something weally intewwesting." She removed her gum--always a sign of a forthcoming important announcement--and fumbled in a pocket for a scrap of paper. "What's that?" asked Stosh, running a bony hand through his lank hair. "Someone's back buying kidneys again. If you got a good medical within the last six months, or else you can get one, bang, you're in. It's a hundred thou for a whole one. These guys will even take a half for fifty. Paid with a third-party Weeza cash card. That would keep us going a while." He sat up. "You're kidding, right?" She could see his eyes glinting. She took his hand. "Baby, we've got to do something, or we'll be doggfood by New Year's. After we're evicted--well, zit, babe, no public housing for us, the wait list is about seven years, and six months just for a bed in a shelter--they'll get our kidneys and everything else free of charge before they ship what's left to City Light. So why not, for zitssakes?" "Because ..." She waited. "I'll get another job," he said dully. "I know you will, baby, but when?" she asked patiently. "I dunno. You know how unpredictable it is." "Yes. And there are predictable things going on, like losing our power in December because we haven't paid this month and won't pay next month either. Same with the 'net and rent, and the 'phone time is going fast, and the food bank is cutting back. It's only one visit a month now unless you're senior, disabled, or have kids." "I'll think of something," he said automatically. She heard it ten times a day, and that meant time to change gears. She picked up the remote. "Let's watch some vid while we still can." "That'll boost ya," he said dryly. "Did you get any weed?" She shook her head. "Can't, not now. Saturday I'll get some at the market." His head dropped, listless again. The vids were all about the tunnel. They watched for some minutes, flicking back and forth. "... thousands trapped in apparent coordinated hacking assault on emergency doors ... official death toll stands at 1,682 and is expected to rise ... review safety standards ... Bayview Medical Center overwhelmed ... QCFD deputy chief Bronson Chew live with us now ... tent shelters set up as triage points ... who is responsible? Unconfirmed reports indicate a terror strike by right-wing, pro-life UPF militia--""Ya know, why th' zit do they call themselves 'pro-life' if all dey do is kill people?" wondered Ashley aloud, her gum back in action. The lanky young man shrugged slightly. "Lies, like everything else. Why should they be any different?" "... communications with FEMA in Washington, DC. Federal help has been pledged ..." droned the vidscreen. "So if they say they're pro-life and they're really pro-death, if we say we're pro-choice, does that mean ... we're ... ? " The young woman's jaw stopped chewing as her brain confronted the syntactic challenge. "... witnesses ... sophisticated attack ... go live to Convention Place recovery command center ... Chief Lincoln Jefferson Jones with us now ...""Stop," said Stosh, holding up a hand. "We have surveillance cam video of the disaster as it unfolded," Jones said on the screen, looking grey and tired, his slicker wet although he was inside a building at the moment. "Of course, we cannot show the video itself publicly due to its extreme brutality and violence. But we do have stills which show one or more of the suspects at work." "Have any suspects' bodies been recovered, Chief?" asked a reporter. "Not yet. We don't have any confirmation that any suspects were killed at all, though we know that seventy-three police officers died at Westlake Station." "Could the suspects have--actually--escaped?" "We can't rule anything out in view of the fact that we have no bodies yet." "Coming off Monday's City Hall bombing, do you believe this crime is linked to the same right-wing militia?" "Evidence collected from video and CSI does not contradict a connection there," replied Jones carefully. "As mentioned, we do have some still pictures taken from video--even these may prove disturbing, so viewer discretion is advised. Can we go to those now, Clar--? okay, I'm told we can. First view of the video stills from the Transit Tunnel today ... " The camera cut to a somewhat blurry shot of a figure in a sort of all-over panelled suit and helmet, with two menacing-looking guns, at which Ashley looked intently; but Stosh shot bolt upright. After three or four frames had been shown, with question and answer, Ashley looked at him and saw that he had gone white in the face and his lips were moving soundlessly. "Stosh, you alright?" She extracted her gum again. "Stoshie ... babe, what's up?" she asked gently, tugging at his shirt a little. "Jesus Christ, no," he muttered. "No ... no .... no ..." "No what?" she persisted. "Stoshie, what is it? Tell me." He fell back into the couch, turning his face away but stabbing a finger at the screen through the air. "That suit he's wearing--that battlesuit. That is the one I wore every day when I was testing that VR game." Her eyes widened. "It is?" "The exact same," he said weakly. "And the weapons, too. Except for ... for one mod he doesn't have." "What are you saying?" He looked at her, agonized. "I was doing what he's doing ... not so much, one or two opponents at a time--but what if I wasn't just testing a suit and a game?" She put a hand to her mouth. "What if I was testing that very suit for him?""What was the mod you talked about?" she whispered. "I can't ... oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO!" "What?" "The Harbor Killer," he mouthed. "You were testing that suit--which was the Harbor Killer's? With the mod??" "Quiet!" he commanded suddenly. "Not so LOUD for zitssakes!" he added sotto voce.
"Well?""I could have been ... it was a completely sealed, controlled environment. All very realistic, to the extreme." "Are you saying--?" "Maybe I wasn't just testing the Harbor Killer's suit," he said flatly. "It might not have been just testing." "Maybe ... ?" He put his own hand to her mouth. "Don't say it, Ash," he pleaded. "Don't even go there." He leaned over, curling up into a fetal ball on the cushions as she looked down at him, and broke into great, racking sobs as she stroked him, looking into the darkness, wondering. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Dec 29, 2011 21:43:33 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Oct 3, 2012 8:06:41 GMT -5
064[/b] Holly had some time between her first and second men of the evening—the first, a visiting stockbroker who hadn’t gone the distance, and Bernd Behrens, who wasn’t due to show up for another hour—so she checked her messages. There was one from Rhys Macklin. Wrapped up in a terry robe over her boyshorts, she reclined on her white leather sofa, one leg hooked up over the back and the other extended, bobbing to tap the floor occasionally, and called him back. “Ah, hello, Holly,” came the familiar voice. “I wanted to check in. How’d things go?” “Okay,” said Holly. Tap. “Your friend Aziz showed me a nice time. I think he liked me.” “Did you like him?” “Yeah, he seemed like an okay guy. I do like his taste in going-away presents,” she added, reaching over to lift the lid on the box Aziz had given her. “Does he offer to marry all the girls?” “No, not at all. He’s got only three wives and he married none of them for love.” “So I gathered.” Tap. Her dark eyes gazed at the jewels, her cheek against the leather. “So he’s not in the habit of marrying for love. So, was he just being polite, or what? I told him I’d think about it, and he took that alright. What would be a polite way to turn him down?” “Turn him down? He’s chief vizier to the king of Arabia. That’s a pretty good gig, you know. It makes him one of the world’s most eligible men. Considering he’s far from old and has only one berth for a wife left, you would want to think hard about that.” “He asked me how I’d feel about taking on his religion. I don’t know, Rhys.” Tap. “I don’t know him. I don’t know anything about his customs or politics. I don’t know much about how they do business over there, but the last time I looked, marriage was all about taking modern women and stoning them to death. Or do you think he’d be enough for me?” “H’m. You have thought about this.” “Of course I’ve thought about it. If I were some other women I’d have not thought about it—“ “--but he loves you for the woman you are.” “Maybe. But things have a way of changing after the wedding. You know that, Rhys.” Tap. There was a pause. “Yes,” he said. “They do. I take it he gave you time to give an official reply?” “Not much. I have about twenty-four hours, but if I accepted I wouldn’t have to come away immediately. So is there any way I can not offend him and keep my options somewhat open?” “Well, marriage is all about commitment. So if you want to retain options you’d have to say no. I’m sure he would respect that and even continue to like you. But remember, you won’t always have options. Life always outruns us eventually.” “We’ll see about that,” replied Holly. “So, was that it?” “Not quite. I wanted to ask you a favor.” “Another one?” Holly sat upright. “Jesus! It’s nice to be wanted, Rhys, but a girl does have limits.” There was a humorous noise from the other end. “Slowing down, are you, Holly?” She spread her knees, feet arched, heels together. “Once more unto the breach, dear pussy,” she said with mock resignation. “Run it by me.” “How’d you like to temp with Insta-Bang for awhile?” “Finally starting a location on-island, are you? Would I be the only shift worker, or were you planning on getting me some help?” she asked dryly. “It’s just a matter of having a little talk with an old friend of yours and mine, sex entirely optional. However, he’s in a situation where discretion is called for.” “Who is it, and what’s up?” “Nels Anderson.” She made a noise of mild surprise. He went on: “I have it on very good authority that he’s fallen out of favor with Leonard and the machine. He’s probably under surveillance privately. And I need to get something from him.” “Why not send your PA—Ralna?” “Nels is nervous and he’s more or less confined himself to his house. He’s not going out, so someone has to go to him. He’s not going to trust anyone he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know Ralna. And, if she or I went, and someone took a photo, well, it could be spun.” “I’m vice-chair of your election committee,” Holly pointed out. “Ralna and I are in the news cycle. We’re both visible in a way you’re not. And if someone did recognize you, that’s where the red tracksuit comes in. You might well be moonlighting for Insta-Bang off your own bat.” “Thank you—I think,” said Holly. “What would I be getting from him?” “A little flash drive, about half the size of your thumb. Easily concealed just about anywhere. I don’t think he’ll take much persuading to give it to you. I’ve been in touch with him. If you want to make your disguise extra convincing by giving him a Bang, that’s up to you.” “What’s on this drive?” “I’m not sure myself,” came the reply. “Nels just said it’s things I should know if I win the election. Obviously he thinks that might well happen.” Holly thought. “I don’t like the idea of going up against Leonard Chung.” “You’re not. Leonard and I are on good terms. You’ll be a real—temporary--employee, on the job, answering a real call, and—if you like—doing real business. No cops, nothing illegal. You’re just taking care of something for me discreetly.” “When would this be?” “Tomorrow evening. You’d go over after school, report to Insta-Bang HQ to pick up your suit and badge and keys, and wait for the call and go. Once you have the drive, you turn in your stuff, bring the drive back to me, and you’re done.” Holly thought again. Something didn’t add up. If Nels was too frightened to leave his house, there was more to this than Rhys was letting on. If the drive was innocent, Nels could have it couriered, or get it to Rhys in a dozen other ways. Still, she had to admit, she liked the intrigue. It was definitely sexy being useful to Rhys as a secret agent; last night, dinner with royalty and jet-set sex, and tomorrow night, covert operations. It made her feel like a teenager again, and that was delicious. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Attagirl. You know, don’t you, that I trust you more than anyone? That’s why I like you to help me.” Rhys laid out a few details, and they ended the call. On his end, the big man sat back and took stock. Holly was right. He could, of course, have sent Ralna on the errand in biomorph, but given Nels’ state of mind, if she had to reveal herself, or if he insisted on sex, that would be bad. Besides, as a scientist, he liked testing things, and Holly was passing one test after another. That was good; reliable people were worth their weight in gold. He poured himself a whisky from a rock-crystal decanter, and then picked up the PDA again. He had to get in touch with Destiny. >< >< >< It wasn’t a very long walk to 635 Terrace Street, and the tall, thin goth man and the woman in the swing coat traded no conversation on the way. They turned and descended the stairwell. She turned a key in the lock, which seemed to stick a little, and preceded him in. “Um … lights?” he asked, after a few moments. “Us humans find them handy at night.” “Oh, yeah.” She felt around for a moment and then flicked on the ceiling light. The place, he thought, looked like a hooker’s pad; cheap, gaudy, untidy. And cold--cold and dank. He wasn’t going to take off his clothes in here, and he’d no intention of getting in bed with her anyway. He wasn’t starved for female entertainment, and despite his height he had no illusions about being able to handle her physically if she turned hostile. She took off her coat, tossing it across a chair, revealing a little black dress covering a definitely strong-looking body. “Want a drink?” she asked. “Whatta ya got?” he asked. She opened the fridge and looked. “Rose wine, beer, and diet cola.” “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” He eased his pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at her. He thumbed the hammer back and the clicking noise made her look. “That would be blood, I think. But not mine--this time.” She stood up, turning slowly. “What?” A look of surprise came over her face, also slowly. “What is this? Are you that mad about the other night?” “Yes,” he said. “No sudden moves, Taylor—“ “It was an accident!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to do it really—“ “Bullshit!” He touched his bandage again. “This ain’t no love bite--you cut me! With that little knife a’ yours, and you drank it!—or started to, before your playmate tackled you--don’t you remember?” “I wasn’t going to kill you! Guns are different! Liam wouldn’t have had to tackle anyone if you hadn’t overreacted--just like you’re doing now! You’re the one that wanted to meet a vampire! I didn’t have to come, but I did, because Liam asked me to. It was a favor for Liam! And now you’re going to kill me for that?” “Why shouldn’t I?” asked the tall man. “And Liam, who set both of us up, gets off scot-free, I suppose?” she retorted acidly. “Not necessarily. But we digress. If you tell me enough about your boss—Nick--I may let you live.” “I don’t know anything about Nick. He’s a full-fledged Vampire. He made me. He must not have liked what he saw because he decided to unmake me. Unfortunately, I’ve always been— unpredictable!” With that she dropped suddenly, twisting into a rolling motion. The man swung the gun down and fired once—twice—her arm moved like a blur, darting back and forth, and Margoth felt an impact on his chest. He looked down to see the hilt of a slim throwing knife protruding from it. “Oh, shit, he said, almost wonderingly. Then his gun arm was in her grip, and twisted around so they came together, her face staring up at his. “Idiot,” she said quietly. “Whoever kills me, it’s not gonna be your lame ass.” His brain whirling, his pulse pounding, his shirt and jacket getting warm and wet inside, he was about to try to reply when there was a sound from the doorway. The door had burst open and several dark-clad men were piling in, with combat weapons. They looked Oriental. “There she is—and her friend, too,” said a man in a long coat, a Westerner. “Hello, darling.” “What do we do?” asked one man, his eyes unmoving. “Kill them,” replied Long Coat. Four men opened up. She twisted again, turning Margoth so that his body took the rounds meant for both of them, and, extending his hand with the pistol, fired four times, dropping all four shooters. Then the pistol’s hammer clicked, and the Westerner, never fully in the room, vanished. She ran to the door, scooping up a PDW, and was up the stairwell in two bounds, but the man was already disappearing around a corner. She thought about going after him, but then decided not to. Let him go, and spread the news. Taylor was back--she looked down at herself, and thought of an old song-- back in black. She stepped back in just long enough to get her coat and bag and collect two still-loaded nine-millimeter automatics. Then she was gone. >< >< >< In the room draped with Arabic banners, some of the tables had been cleared of their electronics and weapons, and the man code-named Watiq stood, looking at his audience. Not all were robed as he was. Some wore Western-style clothes, favoring pieces of brown desert-camo and black tee-shirts or scarves. All eyes were upon him as he began to speak, in Arabic: “Brother warriors, I have news! Our emir hath charged us with a new mission, and given us a new operational plan, for the confusion of the infidel and the glory of Islam! It is my great privilege to inform you that the day for which we have prepared is to dawn, and soon; as of this time, Operation Khalifa is in effect!” There was a shout of “Subhanallah!” even from the ragged, filthy man shackled to a ring bolted into the wall. “Yes!” Watiq drove on, “our work at City Hall hath prevailed, and was not lost on the unbeliever, although we failed to receive media recognition for it, and credit was instead given to the nonexistent herd of jackal-swine called UPF.” There were some hisses. “Our emir reporteth the favor of Khan Qlirmys, and, in recognition of the day, hath authorized myself to reveal the next phase. Now, all of you are true warrior brothers, devoted to the cause over life itself, so that we may be free to choose any one of you for a mission for Allah which shall require the ultimate sacrifice. Is that not so?” He was met with another unanimous acclamation. “The working details shall be revealed to the brother who is to carry out the mission. Howbeit, I can tell you all that the strike shall be at the very heart of Queen City’s Crusader citadel! And it shall be soon!” “Allahu akbar! Subhanallah!” “Send me, oh Commander!” cried out one man. “No more shall the sons of the synagogue and the children of Jacob oppress Queen City’s poor!” A storm of shouting broke out. Watiq’s own voice was lost, and his gestures seemed to have little effect. The excitement died—suddenly—when a man entered from a side door, toward whom Watiq extended his arms in a welcome. Not all of the men recognized him, but clearly, a few did. “Command us, oh emir,” entreated Watiq. “Allah’s servants of the December Third Brigade await you.” The new arrival—neatly-trimmed, in a well-tailored Western suit and keffiyeh—was Muad Aziz. “Brothers,” he began mildly, “I have come to visit you for the first time, and perhaps the last. My immediate purpose is to personally select—with Watiq’s approval—the brother who will strike at the center of Queen City’s and King County’s Zionist web. I have also come to clarify certain facts for the greater mission which all of you will support.” This time, the group listened to the speaker silently, stilly. “As you know, Queen City is in an election cycle. Usually their candidates are people who make no difference to the cause of Islam. This time, there is one. He is not a Muslim, but his program will be favorable to us if he is elected. I speak of the challenger for the Fourth District Council seat.” “Macklin?” asked Watiq. “With respect, oh emir, hast thou not seen his campaign publicity--?” “I have, brother,” replied Muad. “Some of it—not all, but some—features, shall we say, adult themes, designed by consultants to appeal to the lower classes of infidel. Unfortunately, in this world, the votes of only the righteous do not win elections. The Doctor fights not against the ’din and opposes nothing and no one Islamic; therefore it is permitted to cooperate with him, within limits. He supports certain policy positions consistent with Islamic teaching, while his opponent is a doctrinaire Zionist jackal. A Macklin win could be spun as a victory for Islam. This is vital for Islamic polities in America. Therefore, at this time he is to be regarded as an ally of Islam. His person, and those of his family, employees, and close associates, are not to be touched, nor any of his property. It is forbidden.” The men looked slowly at each other, taking in the new edict, while Watiq made a small bow and said: “Thou hast commanded thy fighters, oh emir, and we shall obey.” “I have made arrangements,” replied Muad. “All the materials and support you shall need are available, and await your request. I will take tea, and then speak with each of your fighters individually.” With a salutation, Muad Aziz moved out toward the room’s rear door, as Watiq pondered the deep and often inscrutable ways of God. >< >< >< Debi had arrived at Janine’s house with her mind carefully blank, expecting nothing and anything—anything except being met graciously, conducted upstairs to be delectably massaged and perfumed, and subjected to bed-wrecking sex that lit her up like a supernova. Now, lying exhausted and rapturous among the remains, she looked around at Janine’s bedroom. Earlier, Debi had been swept along, but now with her hostess gone to the bath for a minute or two, she had some time to drink in the décor, and again, she had expected anything but this. From among the shadows, various items were visible. Some were framed pictures, but there were other things. Scrapbooks full of clippings and stuff, trophies, knives and rifles on mounts, plaques, a pinned-up athletic jersey with some other male clothing items. So far as Debi could see, every thing was related to the same person. Janine’s bedroom was a museum dedicated to David Thomsen. Debi had about two seconds to think about that before Janine came out, smoking a cigarette, wearing a satisfied smile and a robe falling open loosely, exposing as much of her ripe, mature body as it covered. Debi smiled back; the young woman was still feeling an intense glow. Janine stubbed out her smoke, then sat down on the side of the bed, taking one of Debi’s hands in both hers with their indigo polish. “Thank you,” Debi said. “That was … mind-blowing.” “You’re welcome,” replied the teacher. “If you don’t mind my saying,” began Debi, “you seem to be … um, quite a fan of David’s.” “You’ve found out my secret,” said Janine, still smiling. “He’s quite a man, you know.” “I know,” said Debi with feeling. “But why— collect? Do you fantasize about him?” “You have to admit, there is something fantastic about a man who can father a hundred children a day, seven days a week, without breaking a sweat.” “Yes.” Debi gently raised her hand, still in Janine’s hands. Janine let her, and Debi kissed one of Janine’s hands, then turned the clasp over and kissed her other hand. “So it’s not David himself, but his fertility, that fascinates you?” “Both,” said Janine, rolling over onto the bed against Debi; her breasts were not only good-sized and mature, but firm. “Fertility is sexy.” “Do you say that because you’re a clear?” asked Debi, using the acceptable word for sterile. “Enough. Even David bores me when I’m with you,” said Janine, grinding her hips back and forth on top of Debi, looking down at her face-to-face with dark, nearly black, intense eyes, her breath tinged with cigarette and something else. Then she reached for a tissue and daubed at Debi’s lip. “What?” asked Debi. Janine showed her the tissue. It had a dark red smear. “Blood?” Janine nodded. “How’d I do that?” “Eating me,” came the reply. “I think you bit your lip. That’s why I went to the bathroom.” Janine pushed back on her haunches and parted her pubic area with two fingers, showing a plaster. “I—I bit you?” “Yes. Sort of,” said Janine. “I made it easy for you. I kind of nicked myself so my blood flowed. You lapped it up with my love juice.” “Is that sexy for you?” “Very. When that happens it’s the sexiest thing ever.” “Ahh … is that the time?” asked Debi suddenly, catching sight of a clock. “Damn, gone one and then some—thanks for the moon shot, but I need to get back.” She tried to rise, but Janine stayed on top and put her finger on Debi’s chin. “Why?” Janine asked. “I have to get to class in the morning, don’t I? It’s not Saturday yet.” “Why?” repeated Janine, her smile growing. “’Why?’ What’s that about? You know I’m not a student really, but I do have to go to school.” “Not any more you can’t,” said Janine. “You just dropped out.” “Whattayamean, I dropped out?” demanded Debi. “School’s in my profile. I have to. Departing from the profile means breaking cover. My employers would hunt me down.” “As of now, you have much, much more important things to think of than your employers—“ “Such as?” “Such as your life. It’s not that you can’t go to school because I say so. It’s that as of now, you can’t. It’s not physically possible.” “Why not?” demanded Debi, giving Janine another push. This time Janine got off and stood up, her robe still open. “We’ve had blood concourse. I could have tasted yours, but I thought I’d let you do me—it’s faster and more effective. You’re now a vampire.” Debi goggled. “A—a—a vampire?” “Well, not a Vampire strictly, but a Minion. A sort of probationary vampire.” The young woman rolled to her feet, shaking her head, and pulling on one of Janine’s dressing gowns that lay handy. “Wait—wait. Way-way-way- wait. I’ve read the books. It takes a vampire to make a vampire.” Janine inclined her head yes. “Wait—no. No—you’re not a vampire. You can’t be. You go to school. You go to class. If you’re a real vampire, and I’m a—a minim—“ “Minion.” “—Minion--anyway, not a real vampire yet, but a probationer--how can you go out in the daylight and I can’t??” Janine lowered her eyes, looking at Debi sexily. “I’m not an ordinary Vampire,” she said in a confidential tone. “You’re not an ordinary nutcase, that’s for sure,” said Debi. “That explains everything about what you were doing with Father Craig and all the rest of it. No mystery after all. Once again, thanks, Janine. I’ll never forget the fuck you gave me tonight. Gotta go now,” she concluded warily, preparing for some sudden physical move. But Janine made no motion to stop her. She didn’t say anything as Debi found her clothes and dressed. All she did was belt up her robe, and keep looking at her, with that same knowing smile that Debi was starting to find irritating and smirk-like. She followed Debi downstairs, and saw her out the door. Finally, on the doorstep she said simply: “I’ll be seeing you.” “Yeah, see you, at school,” agreed Debi, and took up her scooter handlebars. Janine stood long in the open door, watching the hole in the night where Debi had gone, as it closed and swallowed her up. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Oct 3, 2012 8:25:09 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Oct 19, 2012 7:46:54 GMT -5
065a[/b] You’re doing alright, Taylor, she told herself. The streets were very quiet; most citizens who couldn’t sleep were in, watching the newsfeeds about the tunnel slaughter—‘10-15’ it was already being called, in the American tradition of bestowing neutral-sounding number names upon terror commemorations. The few people about were either opportunity-seeking criminals, or truly lost souls who didn’t give a fuck about anything at all. She was with those. Since the basement incident with Margoth and Long Coat, she had left four more dead in doorways and loading docks. Their blood shone patchily on her black leather swing coat when she passed by light, and their spilt semen had coagulated on her pubes, jelling the hairs together and oozing out of her stickily, seeping down her thighs. There was blood, too, a little, under her coat where one of Margoth’s bullets had hit her in the back, but it didn’t bother her much. She had had a roll with death once already and beaten it. The music came to her: Breathing shallow I’m slipping away Hanging in your gallows I’m starting to pray How carefully you planned to do away with me So kill me if you can but words won’t make me bleed
So what if I survive and live to tell the truth Imagine my surprise to find me living and so very much alive!
I’ll find a new life and hide if I survive I’ll find my own place in time if I survive I’ll learn to forget the crime if I survive But I swear you’re going down if I survive! Not exactly anthem material, but it worked for her. But the night was old; dawn was on the way, and the chill was already rising. She turned a corner on Harrison Street. Even for her, some rest would be necessary. Collection could wait. The debt would accumulate with interest. >< >< >< If the city’s streets were emptier than usual at this hour, the same could not be said of Bayshore Hospital. Victims of the tunnel incident filled every room, even some of the common areas such as rehab and lounges, at the insistence of top management and to the frustration of Admin Feggins. His early calls for total divert had been countermanded for several hours, implemented in the late afternoon, and then countermanded again when it was reported that local clinics and hospitals were starting to do triage in breezeways and parking lots. Patients were even being airlifted to Alder Island’s community clinic, where the wealthy community’s ‘pro-life’ stance was finding another meaning, and no one wanted video of that getting about. So all leave had been cancelled, all staff recalled, and many had worked through the night. On 3-C, Nurse Madisun was into her fourteenth hour of work on three hours’ sleep the previous morning and was struggling to keep her eyes open amid the near-constant beeping and bonging and blatting of communications, the stream of Code Blues and Code Browns. A headache was coming and going, and her feet and back were killing her. Only the calm presence of her senior, Nurse Nita, was keeping her going. Nita remained cool and capable to a degree that commanded what little amazement Madisun had left; not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle or spot on her scrubs and lab coat, moving back and forth as smoothly and only a little more quickly than if it were a normal night on the floor. At one point, when Nita was done entering some information, Madisun asked her: “How do you do it?” Nita spared her a sideways one-eyebrow-elevated glance. “Answer me,” appealed Madisun. “I mean it. How do you do—all this?” Nita swiveled her chair around. “You and me, Madisun.” “What does that mean, ‘you and me?’” demanded the other. “Please, it’s too late for—well, it’s too late for that,” she tacked. “I want to know how you keep going at full tilt. Is it some kind of drug you take to keep you up?” she asked with faint hope. Nita replied with a look that shriveled that thought, and said: “You and me, Madisun. What are we?” “We’re—um—nurses?” “We are nurses. This is what we do. This is what we are.” “I get that,” said Madisun. “But I also get tired.” “People with jobs get tired,” returned Nita, “because they weary of work and want to get on with the rest of their lives. We are not people with jobs. We are professionals. We have no lives so that others can have theirs. We ensure that doctors’ orders are carried out always and everywhere. This is what we do. If you don’t want to do it, you can get a job. Go to work in the laundry, or deliver pizzas or make ‘bux. But then you would have no place on this floor or on my team.” “Yes, but this,” said Madisun, gesturing. “All these casualties … I’m not—not used to it.” “I am,” said Nita. “This would be an unremarkable day where I came from.” Madisun was about to ask her where that might be when there was a tone and another code blue announcement, for three twenty-six. By the time Madisun got to three-twenty-six with the crash cart, the alert light in the hallway was already out. Leaving the cart in the hall, she went in. There was a second bed squeezed into the tiny room, and it was occupied. Dr. Ochuko and another doctor and Nita were conferring. “ … amiodarone-induced,” the other doctor was saying, “complete paralysis. The mistake was discovered too late.” “I took corrective measures and charted them as soon as I learned of it,” said Nita. “Yes, Nurse. You did everything humanly possible, as always,” said the other doctor. Madisun saw Nita look up at her and make a motion—no need for you now. “Will you notify the, er. contact, Doctor Ochuko?” Papers were shuffled. “Oscar Espinoza? The uncle?” “Yes,” said the African, as Madisun turned to go. “Them and City Light.” >< >< >< Friday, 16 October[/b] Debi’s eyes popped open to blinding sunlight, so the screwed them shut again and turned over, pulling the quilt over her head. Then she turned over convulsively and sat up—damn the light—and looked at the clock. It had gone nine and she would be very late for school, if she went, which she wasn’t sure she wanted to, as little aches and pains started to crackle all over her body, and the slanting autumn sun shot straight through her window at an unaccustomed angle and hit her square in the face. She let herself plop back on the bed and put one hand out, groping for her bottle of paracetamols, expertly popping off the cap and tipping two out. Then, still flat on her back, she put the pills in her mouth, put her hand out again for her glass of water, found it, and sat up just enough to drink it. Sitting up for a moment in the light-flooded room made its carefully-concocted teenage décor more noticeable: the boldly-colored posters of pop stars, vidgames, netgames, and the odd book or comic chara; the stuffed animals; the Sindy doll and her stuff; the rack of gaudy costume jewelry and hairpieces sitting on the vanity with its oversized mirrors; the computer on its stand, distastefully festooned with trendy stickers; and the artfully thrown-around clothing, shoes, and bags, which offended her native almost-military sense of tidiness, but which no real teenager’s room would lack. Even as an actual teenager, Debi hadn’t suffered her room to look like this, but—all for the cause. She had signed up for it and all that came with it, no matter how repellent. She lay back flat, overcome again by the light. Then her PDA buzzed. Once again, her hand crept out. This time, however, her fingers fumbled, bumping it off the nightstand, whence it fell to the floor—behind the bedpost, no doubt. She rolled over, reached way down, and groped, and found it, by which time it had stopped. The number was that of her new comrade ‘Nurse’—Jenna, ‘Doktor’s’ girl friend, no doubt calling on her new daily check-in to report that she had arranged a termination and would be keeping her appointment to come over with him tonight. There was a message tone, so she checked. Call me ASAP when you’re alone.
Good a time as any, thought Debi, and rang back. On her end, Jenna was sitting slumped up against a colorless, dirty, peeling wall in an abandoned commercial building, with light showing dimly through filthy, painted-over windows except where a few broken panes let in rays of stronger sunlight. She was cold—shivering cold—her hair flopping, lank, and still in her bedraggled clothes from yesterday. She’d had only the briefest chilly dozes during the night as she’d tried to think, and was very tired, though something kept her eyes open and her brain going, willy-nilly. Next to her were her gun bags. She had expected ‘Crown’ to be at work, whatever her work was—people like her always had jobs somehow. The immediate call back surprised her, but not unpleasantly. “Yeah,” Jenna greeted. “Nurse?” came Debi’s voice. “How’s things? Did you think about a termination like we talked about?” “Yes,” answered Jenna. “In fact, I carried the termination out. About two dozen of them.” There was no response. “Have you seen the news?” “I heard about the tunnel. For the rest, I was, uh, kind of busy last night,” said Debi. “So was I. Check the news tag ‘Belltown.’” There was more silence on the other end, about a minute’s worth. At last, Debi asked: “So, what is this to do with you?” “What the fuck, bitch? Didn’t you read the story?” demanded Jenna. “Didn’t you see who they’re after?” “Yes, surveillance tapes show a female, aged twenty to--oh. Oh … that was … you?”“Damn straight,” replied Jenna. “My list isn’t done. There’s more, if I live long enough.” “Who else?” What the fuck, thought Jenna. “Jas—um, Doktor.” “Doktor?” Debi squawked. “Uh—no. That would be really bad.” “I know. That’s why I’m gonna do it—it would be really bad. And if you wanna stop me, you’d better have more bullets than I’ve got. That would be a shitload.” “Why are you telling me this?” “Didn’t you tell me, keep in touch? I’m just following orders, sergeant.” “Yes—well—I’m gonna have to pass this up the line, you know,” Debi said defensively. “To Star.” “Do what you gotta do,” said Jenna. “Well, I’m hungry. I’m off to cap some mofoes for their bagels and coffee. Bye.” And back on the island, Debi found herself looking at a Call Ended screen. All told, she thought, best to call Star, stay here and await orders. She just hoped that whatever they were, they could wait until after dark. >< >< >< >< >< >< Norman Boulanger had, like everyone but Debi, checked the news. In view of the Transit Tunnel’s closure, blocking or slowing much of the city’s commuter traffic, and other considerations, most City and County offices had been ordered closed, except for the most vital functions; the County Executive’s office, however, remained open. Therefore, at ten minutes to nine, Norman Boulanger had passed the revolving doors in the uncannily quiet County Administration Building, passed a more-than-usually thorough security check, and, after an interview, wanding, and patdown, allowed to pick up his briefcase from the conveyor. He walked by the general information desk to the lifts and lifted to the thirty-seventh floor to the Executive Branch’s reception area. He peered at his hazy reflection in the stainless steel control panel on the way up, brushing what might have been a bit of fluff off his lapel, and when the doors opened, stepped through, ready to wheel and deal with Leonard Chung for the prosecutor’s position. At the desk, a large Danish-looking assemblage of maple, glass, and bronze, flanked by two armed, black-clad security guards, he met a neatly-suited, Asian-pretty staffer with an earpiece, who did not rise, or even look up. “May I help you?” she asked with all the interest of a cloud floating over a foam speck on the ocean. “Norman Boulanger,” he said. “Mr. Chung’s expecting me.” The staffer’s face stayed still while her fingers tapped a few times, and moments hovered. At last, she said: “I’m sorry, Mr. Bullinger—“ “—Boulanger--” he corrected. “--Mr. Boolanjay, this was in regards to … ?” “Confidential,” Norman said. “He and I arranged it personally last night.” “Ah.” She touched something, eyes never moving, and spoke into the zone in front of her mouth. “Ms. Liang, I have a Mr. Boolanjay here, to see Mr. Chung—confidential, he says, personally arranged—he says … Yes … yes. Thank you.” She looked up at him for the first time, completely neutrally. “If you have something for Mr. Chung, you may leave it here. We’ll make sure he gets it.” “No, I can’t. It’s a hard drive with—“ he lowered his voice, bending down, “—confidential information. Which he wanted to meet with me personally to discuss.” “H’m. As I’m sure you understand, Mr. Boolanjay, Mr. Chung is very busy. If you have something for him, you may leave it here. If you wish to have a seat, you may have one there.” She gave a blink which effectively added: So which is it, yangwei?Norman had already been thinking. If he turned around and went, he would feel good—for about one minute—but he’d look a fool or worse to Leonard, who had vices, but not forgetfulness, and was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat from last time. Compliance, while less satisfying, would be well-advised. So he reached into his satchel for the drive and a small clear plastic tamper-proof evi-lope, used for sealing bits of evidence, dropped the drive into it, and wrote his name and the date and time on the little white space used for notations, and swiped it shut. Then, not letting go of it, he said: “You may put this in an internal business envelope, and I will take a receipt.” The girl did so, concluding with a couple of polite, meaningless words, and Norman left, conscious of having secured at least an atom of cooperation from one of Leonard’s people. Not everyone who came through fared so well. >< >< >< Leonard Chung, and Norman Boulanger too, could the little attorney have known it, were at that moment the objects of attention just a few blocks away; Rhys and Ralna, both inured to doing business in Third World conditions, were at work. The Alder Island ferry, while on elevated security and reduced schedule, was still running; the building was closed, but Rhys Macklin had arranged for her and himself to be let in. In the absence of public transit, he had instructed her not to come to work on her new bike—as healthful and efficient as that might be—but to take a taxi, and to wear her snappiest slacks-suit, as she would be attending him in his afternoon press conference, along with Merilee Brunett and Vonda Hoffman, who had taken the day off, and with Destiny Brigid as well. All of them, together, would symbolize the spearhead alliance of working-class character and executive energy which his candidacy meant to represent. Before then, however, there was the gift of a precious half-day at the office with no official interruptions, and Ralna, deeply into it with both hands and feet playing the pedals and keys of her workstation, slowed her pace suddenly, peering, with thought asserting itself. A ‘bot had dredged up some information from a cache file in the County Executive’s office intranet, forwarded in a risky fashion using an anonymous but poorly-secured route. The outdated encryption had lasted only a few moments against Ralna’s techniques, and the names of Rhys Macklin, his ex-wife, and their children and relatives were popping up all over like mushrooms on a rain-soaked lawn. She touched a button. “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have something you need to see.” >< >< >< Mona Stern put down her PDA and looked around her office, her eyes lighting for a moment, as usual, on her wall display of certificates and diplomas, last of all, as usual, on Harvard. At ‘Crown’s’ nervous call about ‘Nurse,’ she had been able to sound calm, controlled, and unsurprised. The only real news was Jenna’s phone number and the fact that she was still at large. The question was what, exactly, to tell the fugitive when she called, which must be as soon as possible. For a brief, luscious, fantastic moment, Mona imagined a few targets of opportunity to send her new pet homicidal maniac after. But, of course, she had a job to do for the greater good. This would require some … psychology. She dialed. Someone answered. “Jen--Nurse? This is Star. Listen. I know about you. I know what you want. I know who you want. I can get him to do what I want. Interested?” >< >< >< “So,” said Chief Lincoln Jefferson Jones, leaning forward in his desk chair, holding up fingers and looking around at the others. “In the past twenty-four hours we have, so far, one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three dead in the Tunnel event; twenty-seven dead in the Belltown penthouse massacre; seven dead at the County Annex building; five dead in the Terrace Street basement, and thirteen assorted dead in the streets. Oh, and another Harbor Killer body. Anybody got a calculator?” “Nineteen hundred and six,” said Justin Earle. “So far.” “That’s a pretty good day for murder,” said Harry Casarelli. “Worldwide.” “Problem is,” said Jones, “it’s citywide. The latest is from Ms. DeJong’s office. Mr. Huxley?” Deward Huxley adjusted his glasses. “A joint task force is being formed. We’re getting Federal and NAE help. We even have a commitment from Washington State.” “Federal, you mean FBI, I take it?” asked Sheriff Maldonado, the only one standing, leaning against a window divider. “Yes. You’re all being sent a memo, around now. There will be a meeting at City Hall this afternoon at four. Cams will be there for the live-at-five ‘casts. The FBI’s acting field director—Sanchez—will be there, and the NAE regional legal officer.” “Speaking of the FBI, any more on MacLennon, Justin?” asked Jones. “Briefly, we know that she was tied to Latino gangs in town and both the Consul and Councilor Espinoza deny knowing anything. We’re re-interviewed the neighbor, who’s not so sure of what she saw, but she’s sure her dogs acted up. So as far as I know it’s only the dogs who stand in the way of ‘case closed.’” “We’ll hand it off to Sanchez,” said Jones. “We got other things to do, and Liliane Perez isn’t loose on the street looking for more victims.” “Why is Councilor Anderson not here?” asked Huxley, “or did I miss something?” “Sick leave,” said Sheriff Mal. “We know where he is.” “Keep it that way,” Jones advised. “For his own safety. Now, back to Belltown. Harry?” “Um—Tunnel?” put in Deward. Jones spread his palms. “This is my meeting, Mr. Huxley. You have an office and you are free to call your own if you wish.” The City aide stiffened his lip, and the detective turned to a large electronic display board and began: “Twenty-seven dead. Two survivors, both critical, one who can’t speak because her jaw’s been shot off, the other in and out of consciousness. Forensics will be there a while yet, but the main picture is clear enough.” He reached, moving fingers over the board, and a map of Cindy’s flat appeared, with colored designators and lines and popups coming and going. “One shooter, heavily armed. We’ve recovered well over a hundred casings from a TEC-9. Someone known to the group, probably—certainly—invited in. Surprise, because the first burst went off while most of the victims were standing in a circle, all facing each other. Grudge, because she used excessive fire and gave some of her targets a dozen rounds, and used half a clip just to shoot up the apartment itself.” “Wait a minute,” said Mal. “’She?’” “Yes. Perp was female. It was a women-only event by invitation. Was known to mine hostess, Ms. Shanley, who had to have conducted her in because they passed by two security guards who didn’t check her two bags. Video shows all the other guests entered by the front, but not perp, who entered by the service door, apparently met Ms. Shanley by mixing with the caterers, spoke to her, and she came up with her. Perp had a heavy carryall, probably full of weapons, and a large shoulder tote with the TEC-9 in it. Further, the carpet inside was a mess, as you can imagine, and one set of footprints walking around that don’t match any of the victims, a flat rubber sole, women’s size eight. And they left out the door and tracked blood down the hall and out the service way she came up.” “Who were the security people, and where were they when the shooting started?” asked Earle. “Good question. We’re looking into it. The pair of them arrived about three and were positioned outside the apartment door until after the perp was admitted. No response from them when the shooting started, so they were gone by then. No video of them leaving by any exit, but there are gaps in the video at the service doors. We did get video of the perp leaving that way, taking two bags like she brought. The carryall was kept in the coat closet in the apartment while she was there.” “Description of the suspect?” asked Mal, as Jones picked up his handset in response to a flash. Casarelli brushed and tapped the screen, and several popups appeared in succession. “One of the survivors has given us the name ‘Jenna.’ We have a match to a Jenna Cavanas, UW student, twenty-one, Caucasian, five-seven, one hundred thirty pounds, last seen with medium-length straight brown hair in a ponytail, half-length coat, older style, faux suede and fleece, skirt or dress, casual flat boots, with heavy carryall and shoulder bag. She may well change clothes but I doubt she’ll leave the bags anywhere she can’t see them. She’s not anything like the class of her victims. There was a half-million dollars’ worth of designer wear on the bodies and several million dollars’ worth of jewelry, all untouched. Nothing was taken. This was not robbery. This was personal from start to finish, and there is a connection between perp and Cindy Shanley. We just need to find out what.” “And about the security people,” said Earle. “I take it they didn’t belong to the building.” “No, nor wore any uniform we recognize, just black fatigue-style. A lot like the County Executive’s people, in fact. We’re going over Ms. Shanley’s call records and activities, and we have their faces on video, so we’ll get photofits soon enough. That’s where we are now.” “Not quite,” said Jones, replacing his hand unit. “We have another witness. Not to the actual shooting, but someone who was at the event, saw the perp, and had to step out to make a private call. Saved her life.” Everyone looked at Jones, and Casarelli asked: “Who?” “It’s complicated,” said Jones. “Foreign national, very high-ranking. That was the consulate on the line.” “This is an investigation of twenty-seven murders,” said Earle. “Can the jet-set shit. Get a subpoena.” There were rumbles of agreement, but Jones motioned. “I said, very high-ranking—as in executive immunity. The call was informational only. We will be getting a statement, which--I know, I know--will be useless in court, but her people are offering it and when these people offer something you might file and forget it but you thank them and you do not turn it down. Now, Mr. Huxley, for the Tunnel wrap-up. Forensics are, as you may guess, still busy down there. The general details are well known. One shooter that we know of, tooled up with some kind of classified technology that is way beyond anything even the military has. Managed to hijack a prototype police command vehicle with military armaments. He knew the layout and workings of the tunnel as well as most of its engineers. Even so, he couldn’t have trapped and killed nearly two thousand people and still gotten out alive without a lot of logistical and communications support from others.” “Wait,” said Huxley. “The killer got out alive? That wasn’t on the ‘casts.” “And if it does get on we’ll know who to smoke, because until this moment you were the only one here who didn’t know it, and besides us it’s only the City Manager and County Executive themselves. With the bombing, the spree killings on the street, and now this, imagine if people thought that killer was still roaming around out there, getting ready to strike again.” Huxley paled, but rallied. “Is he?” “We haven’t found his body yet, and believe me, we would know if we had,” Jones answered. “Until we do, we have to assume he’s alive.” “So, who were his accomplices?” asked Huxley. “That is what’s very strange.” Jones stood up and paced over to the display board, and himself began touching it, making graphics flash. “From analysis we know that he relied on communications both inside and outside the vehicle. The vehicle uses police channels. His own battle armor obviously had built-in communications, on some frequency we don’t know. There may have been some serious encryption going on but we haven’t been able to trace anything in the area that didn’t use official channels. We haven’t been able to trace any unusual activity devoted to scouting out and setting up the attack. The only access was by police and security personnel and Transit workers. We have nothing to do on about the perp himself except that he wasn’t a giant or a dwarf. But we do know one thing about him.” Jones brought up one section of video from the University Street station. “God almighty,” breathed Huxley. “He’s … he’s--one of— them?? I thought they were just an urban myth.” “And, officially, they are,” responded Casarelli. “And you will be officially disavowed if you say otherwise to anyone.” “What we have to do,” said Jones, wiping the board clean with a gesture, “is find out if there is anything connecting all this. The bombing, the Harbor Killer, the street killings, Belltown, the County Annex, the Tunnel, maybe even MacLennon, which led it off. Terrorist activities often occur in clusters, with a single high-profile killing signaling to widely-spread cells that it is time to strike. And the rest of it, even ones we’d deemed simply gang-related. You. Mr. Huxley, are now part of the working group we have here, and will be part of the task force, and nothing—I mean nothing—you hear inside my office will be repeated to anyone, including Ms. DeJong, without my personal say-so. We are not covering anything up. We are, however, managing the timing of information. You have been brought in as a witness to that. As far as the Tunnel incident goes, we are collecting and securing data, but despite what Ms. DeJong may say, you can believe that no one will trust QCPD for a full investigation. The Feds will be on this, and on Belltown too, given the deaths of twenty-seven people of VIP status from all over the NAE and a dozen countries outside. For those who didn’t bother to watch that news, the financial markets are giving every sign of packing up. Our role at this level is clear, and I’m not going to waste valuable work-hours in areas that the Feds are going to take away anyway. So. Sheriff, you know your job, I won’t tell you. Justin, you will continue to be point man on the Tunnel. Harry, you are my man on the ground for Belltown. Mr. Huxley, you are my designated channel to City Hall. You will do for me what you already do for Ms. DeJong, which is to report whatever you are instructed to report and nothing else. You’re good at that, that’s why I want you to do it for me.” “What about Rhys Macklin?” asked Huxley. “What about him?” asked Sheriff Mal. “He’s a world-class scientist and expert, and he works for us,” replied the young man. “Shouldn’t he be in on this?” “He’s a candidate for County Council,” said Earle. “He’s got other things to do for a few weeks. We have a County liaison in the person of Sheriff Mal. If Macklin replaces Chair Anderson, we will visit the idea of bringing him in. Until then we will proceed without him.” “Let’s get to work, people,” said Jones. “Harry, a word with you.” >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Oct 19, 2012 7:55:27 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Oct 27, 2012 6:24:51 GMT -5
065b[/b] In Rhys’ inner office, Ralna stood in her semi-military ‘at ease’ position, feet shoulder-width, arms behind her back, while Rhys wheeled his chair away and looked out the window for a moment. He had speed-read a few hundred megabytes of text devoted to him, Jane, Jason, Zoey, and his work at Subhuti Technologies, including many of his own journals; the latter he had skipped over in large chunks, since he knew them already. There were also legal documents and the proceedings of the government hearings attendant on the fall of Subhuti and the humod revival scandals. Those, too, were not new to him, but they might be new to many people a decade down the line. “You read and processed all this data, of course, did you not, Ralna?” “Yes, sir,” she replied. He wheeled around again. “Assessment, please, Ralna. Projections of possible voting patterns given the release of this data, allowing for the default variables, within two standard deviations.” Her eyelids twitched, were still a moment, and fluttered again briefly, as there were many variables. After nearly five seconds, she said: “Dependent upon timing, release of this information is calculated to cost you ten to twelve percentage points in the election.” “Bad, but not disastrous, as I’m up by … “ “Fifteen point six percent among likely voters, sir.” “With a bounce to come out of the official announcement this afternoon. Of course, only we know that. Anyone else might believe, with reason, that it would prove decisive.” “If I may offer, sir, the optimal time for an adversary to release that information would be this evening.” “Good, Ralna. Now, think with me. Who would most probably be that adversary?” “QCFPAC. QCWHA. Act Up Now. The Blue Party, or some elements.” “Nels Anderson?” She thought. It was becoming effortless, fascinating, almost seductive, like some people’s passions for chess or golf she had read about; like a martial art discipline. “I think not, sir. He might wish to win, but not at the cost of destroying you personally.” “Leonard Chung?” “No,” she said suddenly, impulsively. “No. I have Leonard’s, ah, toleration. If he had been really opposed to me, we would know by now. True, he is a famous collector of information. But he has this sort of Confucian thing going--communication by means of silence, acting by means of staying at rest, and all that. It’s mostly quaint, but in an information age where bytes are atoms, it can be an irritating way to do business. Irritating, but sometimes effective—I commend it to your study, Ralna.” “Yes, sir.” China’s Five Classics, with all their commentaries, would be downloaded and processed, and a brief digest in translation for executive review made ready by Monday morning. “Now, consider. Much of this information is very personal and, or, very technical—either way, difficult for ordinary voters to, mm, process. What do you think?” “It sounds sir, as if the source would be someone with a personal grudge, rather than a political motive. As if it were evidence. Legal evidence,” she concluded. “And--?” “Jane, sir,” she finished. “Your ex-wife.” “Excellent. Given the personal nature; that much of it was abstracted from discs in my personal possession only, and that very little dates from after my divorce, I believe that you have correctly identified the source. Jane originated it, and she, or rather her attorney, given that ordinary citizens do not have access to Mr. Chung’s people inside, passed it on to him.” “But then why not give it to the press or the Blue Party, sir? Why give it to Mr. Chung, who is not disposed against you?” “That would depend on who was responsible. Jane herself has no reason to. She doesn’t lift a finger unless she gets something tangible in exchange: money, nick or booze. She wouldn’t know what to do a favor from Leonard even if he gave her one. An attorney, on the other hand, might well someday want a word in season from the County Executive.” “It makes sense, sir. Given her talent for pungent phraseology, she may well have conveyed the impression that this information was more politically valuable than it actually is.” “And her lawyer, conceivably still thinking that Leonard and the Party are behind Nels, decided to try to trade it to Leonard for a quid pro quo. Or else the lawyer’s secretary saw it and sold it out from under him.” He looked at Ralna directly. “He wouldn’t be the first boss whose PA had something going on the side.” “No, sir. Which it was my privilege to assist you in dealing with.” “Quite. Ralna, code eight-eight-nine-nine-eight epsilon,” said the big man; she instantly snapped-to. “These are your instructions. I want you to locate Norman Boulanger, and to learn from him whether he or his PA sent on the information, and why, using any means necessary. End him, and also his PA, and if there is anyone else who has access to his records, end them too. The usual mission parameters.” “Data disposal?” He sat back, considering. “No, don’t touch any data,” he said at last. “That would provide a clue. Those who know Mr. Boulanger’s role in this won’t need a clue, and we don’t need to leave one for anyone else snooping around, and there is someone, at least one, and a few, I think.” “Yes, sir. Intercept, interface, download, terminate.” “Yes. But not yet. If it were to be released tonight, even now would be too late, but I do not believe that will happen tonight or anytime soon. And I shall require your assistance over the weekend. Your security analysis was faultless. We should be in a more secure office environment, and I have chosen one of the premises you scouted and I have gone ahead and inked the deal. You will assist with moving tomorrow, and I will comp you Monday—no, it must be done. That is normal practice, and it is imperative above all things that we appear normal. You may take care of the errand late Sunday or early Monday; at all events, so that it makes the Monday night news cycle. Understood?” “Perfectly, sir. I exist to serve.” “And your work shows in everything that I do myself,” he said. “Ralna, code one-three-two-four-eight gamma.” She relaxed slightly. “Thank you, sir. I … “ “Yes, Ralna? Did you have a question?” “No, sir. I just wish to say … I … I like it when you give me work to do, sir.” He smiled. “I like giving you work, Ralna. Therefore, I see a long and mutually satisfactory relationship in the offing. You may go, Ralna.” She went, but not, it seemed to him, without a very slight hesitation. He looked at his screen, and sat back, arms crossed, for some time. It was a call that finally broke his meditation. “Sir? It’s your son Jason on Line Two.” “Thank you, Ralna. Yes … Jason? Thanks for calling back. I take it you got my em, and you thought over what we talked about last night at home.” “Yeah, Dad,” came Jason’s reply. “School’s full of the news. I understand what you want. You want the best for me. I guess you always have.” “Yes. So, what do you say?” “Do I really have a choice?” “Jason, you’re not leaving town forever. It’s for ten days or so, maybe two weeks. You’ll be back very soon. And what have you got going that can’t wait two weeks?” Rhys asked pointedly. “Now? Nothing much, I guess. I told Holly I might have to go. She wasn’t happy with that.” “Did you tell her it’s for maybe two weeks?” “Yes. Have you told Candee?” “Not yet, but I will today. She’ll be okay with it. You and she don’t see much of each other anyway.” “Can’t I go somewhere nearer? Like Vancouver or Portland? Why does it have to be Los Angeles?” “I thought you liked the idea of LA. Anyway, Vancouver means crossing the border, and that’s out. Portland is out for certain reasons, and so is San Francisco. Around Los Angeles we’re networked. We have associates. It’s safe, which is the whole reason for you going anywhere to start with.” There was a pause. “Okay,” Jason said at last. “I’ll go, under two conditions.” “Okay.” “One, I go Sunday, not tomorrow. Sunday night. I have a couple of bits of business to settle. Two, I come back in two weeks, max, unless there is a very good reason that I agree to. We can put it out that I’m going for some reason that doesn’t make me look like a zit-head.” “Like?” “Like to attend a music symposium or something. I dunno. Have Ralna find out what’s gonna be cool by the end of the year.” “Okay. I’ll text you the time of your flight and what time the air taxi will be there to pick you up, and be ready.” “Okay, Dad. Gotta go. See ya.” Rhys said a farewell to end an already-ended conversation, and went straight on to a few other calls. In the outer office, Ralna was working. One of her tasks was monitoring the Mednet at Bayshore and other hospitals for medical information of significance. Buried in the morning buzz at Bayshore was mention of the case of a fifty-three-year-old female patient who was pregnant, despite having undergone surgical sterilization a quarter-century before. At the moment Sir had dismissed her, she had thought of that case and of asking him if he wanted her to flag it for further research, but she realized that the fact had, for some reason, sorted itself into the mental folder where she filed matters relating to Candee, perhaps through keyword association with ‘sterility.’ She had decided that with so many priority tasks, that question could be allotted to the day-end review and tasking session, but the file association was unusual. Perhaps running a quick diagnostic on her hard drive would be in order. >< >< >< >< >< >< After the others had gone, Jones gave a look through the glass door of his office, then beckoned Harry Casarelli over to his desk, and brought up something on his own transparent workscreen. “I want you to look at this,” he said. “What is it?” asked the New Yorker. “It’s the most classified document in Queen City, the statement from the Belltown witness. You are the fourth or fifth person to even know it exists yet.” “Who is it, Lin?” “It’s Queen Zoraida of Saudi Arabia.” Casarelli exhaled silently. “You did not hear this from me or anyone else; you don’t even know it outside this office or in anyone’s company but mine alone. Clear? Good. She was there unofficially. Not even her husband knows, and he’s not going to know. Only the Vizier, Mahmoud al-Aziz, knows, and he supplied this to me personally. I will from now on refer to her as Z, and you will do the same.” “Why did you mention it at all in the meeting, then?” “Deniability insurance,” said Jones frankly. “And so someone else will go down with you if it leaks,” said Harry cynically. “I’m touched, Lin, really. Makes sense for her, I suppose. I’ve heard of her—who hasn’t? She’s a local originally, I gather. Probably a friend of Cindy Shanley’s. Everyone else was. Okay, whatta we got?” “The key point is about the gathering there. There is a link with the Tunnel. The guest of honor, who did not show up, was to be a young man named Scott. A Bearer, they call them.” “Like the Tunnel perp.” “Exactly. The gathering was a show of support for a ring Cindy ran from the penthouse, shopping out this Scott for the pleasure of well-heeled ladies, sold as a sort of pregnancy club. He didn’t show. But Z confirms that the female who did was named Jenna, matches the other descriptions, and was introduced by Cindy as this Scott’s fiancée.” “Fiancée? So where was Scott? Busy escaping from the Tunnel?” “You tell me, Harry. Modern day Bonnie and Clyde in the terror racket? He kills a mass of ordinary citizens, she takes out a gathering of the crème de la crème? They both have help, or at least, security people stand out of their way. They both escape after committing mass murders. Coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidence. I don’t believe in conspiracy, either, but sometimes it’s tempting.” “If this Scott was someone we could ID readily via photofit, that suit the perp wore would have been an ideal disguise.” “Yes. We need to find Jenna Cavanas, and we also need to find Scott. But we can’t touch Scott until we have other evidence than only Z.” Jones’ desk unit flashed again. He answered. “Yes?” Then he turned to the detective, making a hand motion, Get this call traced. Casarelli nodded and put his head out the door, and Jones asked, “What can I do for you, Ms … ?” “Concerned Citizen,” came the voice smoothly. “You can call me Connie. You are looking for a woman named Jenna. I can help with that.” “You have information about her?” “I know where she is right now. I talked with her about two minutes ago.” “Why don’t you give us her number, Connie?” asked Jones. “Then we can give her a call.” “Her name is Jenna Cavanas, she’s a UW student and Act Up Now worker. She got the guns Wednesday night from four dead gangbangers near South Main and Second. And she went to Cindy Shanley’s intending to kill someone who, ironically, didn’t show. Do I have your full attention now?” “Yes—Connie. Where is she and what is her number?” “I think she may be induced to give herself up, properly approached. She is very touchy right now. But she won’t be fleeing the area, or killing anyone else except in defense of her life. You people would only fuck it up.” Jones looked over at Casarelli, who signed: prepaid phone. Anonymous. But the detective also quietly brought up a map on the display board, zoomed in on Alder Island, and tapped the high school. Jones said: “Connie, I’ll be honest. If you know where Jenna is and don’t tell us, you’re committing an offense. We’ve traced your call. We know where you are. Please don’t make it necessary for us to come look for you.” “You know where I am, but not who I am, and there’s over a thousand people around me here,” came the reply. “And by that time someone might have called Jenna and said something to make her very upset.” Casarelli got to see Jones’ face convulse and silently mouth the word Bitch! while his voice continued, fatherly and calm. “I sense a deal in the offing, Connie. What is it?” “Nothing sinister, just a woman’s way of doing things. I am a concerned citizen. I want to see Jenna turn herself in, or at least cooperate, rather than die in another police shootout. I want to talk her down. Bring her around. I realize that you will be looking for her yourself. Fair enough--you are the police, and have to be seen doing something. In twenty-four hours, however, if you haven’t caught up with her already, I will have done my best with her, and I’ll set things up then.” “If you still can,” said Jones. “Oh, yes, I think so,” replied the caller. “So, say, ten tomorrow. Expect a call from Connie if you don’t have Jenna yet, and I will know if you have. And in return for assisting you, I will expect to hear no more blarney about offenses. Tata, Chief.” The call ended. Jones tore off his earpiece and hurled it against the wall, where it hit with an unsatisfying twap and fell to the floor, still whole. “You okay, Lin?” asked Casarelli. “I’ll let you know,” said Jones. >< >< >< On her end, Mona Stern pursed her lips briefly, then took off her glasses and gave them a polish, slowly and carefully. It was a pity, kind of, to have to keep the poor bitch on a string for a day and a night, but there was no help for it. She, Mona, had to deliver for Rhys Macklin, and, as always, every time he took delivery, someone else had to pay. A tap at the door reminded her that she was supposed to be available for counseling for people affected by the Tunnel event. She got up, replacing her glasses, smoothed her skirt, and went over and opened it, her cool, professional face appearing. “Ah, Kirsten. What can I do for you?” The blonde girl looked at her a moment, then down. “I have a free period. I guess I just wanted to check in with somebody. I remembered you from the CDF event the other day.” “Of course. I have time. Come in, have a seat.” Mona closed the door, showed Kirsten a chair, and sat down in another chair facing her. “What’s on your mind, Kirsten?” “I dunno,” came the reply, to which Mona was well-accustomed. “I’m new here, you know.” “Yes, it was your first CDF meeting, I think. And mine, too,” Mona said, allowing a whiff of banter in her voice. “Some new things for both of us there. Did you come out feeling like you might belong?” “I dunno,” said Kirsten, staring at her sneakers. “It’s—it’s all very strange, Doc—“ “Call me Mona,” supplied Mona. “—Mona, it’s all strange. Our family—my folks and me--we’ve moved before. But this is totally different from anything else. I feel like we’ve moved to another planet, not just another town.” Mona trotted out her stock question at this point. “What’s different about it?” “What isn’t different? All the sex stuff--guys who screw like machines, everyone screwing everybody else everywhere, all the time! Little convenience booths for quickies! And girls who enable it and pop out babies like mice—babies everywhere! DF’s and DM’s and V-Moms and I don’t know what all--and sex classes in school, and … and an armed militia … Total strangers who buy you new cars … And, yeah, cars, everywhere, nice new ones, really nice—too nice, way too nice. The—the distance from the city, I mean the mental distance, like it was some other country—the whole, bad is good and good is bad—like, everything you know is wrong! Nothing is like it is anywhere else! But it’s weird, because it’s like some kind of—of Stepford or something. It’s all too nice, like the cars, way too nice. I mean, you get all the power and water you want, no blackouts, full store shelves, beautiful new houses all over—and—and no crime, no weirdos, except for the sex but it’s all so nice--being able to walk around the neighborhood any time you like, even the middle of the night—and people have jobs! We can buy—stuff, all sorts of stuff! My parents are happy! I’m seventeen and pregnant, my stepmom’s thirty-four and pregnant, both by the same guy that we hardly know, and my stepmom and my dad are both okay with it! They’re happy! Do you know how weird it is that my parents walk around smiling? April’s even going to church for zitssakes! And my dad might start going with her! What the fuck is going on here? What’s in the fucking Kool-Aid, and why does it seem to work on everyone but me?” Mona pulled a tissue from a box and handed it to Kirsten, who dabbed at her cheek, then at both eyes. There was silence for a moment, while someone pushed some kind of cart by in the hallway outside. “That’s a good question,” said Mona at last. “You know, I was new here, once, like you. It was hard for me at first. I had questions--questions like yours. I still don’t know everything, but I know a few things.” “Like what?” asked Kirsten, looking down and picking through her bag. “I know why your parents are happy. I’m old enough so that I kind of get it.” “Why?” asked Kirsten. “How could they just change like that?” “Moving here was their choice. Not yours, not anyone else’s, just theirs. Right?” Kirsten nodded. “They’re here because they want to be. They never changed. They were always the same. They just found a place where they could be themselves. And they care about you, so they brought you along.” “Yeah, well, I don’t want to be here.” “You’re seventeen. You won’t have to put in much time here if you want to leave.” “Don’t bet on it. They’re already on about college, but I dunno how that’s supposed to work if I have a baby like they want.” “They want it? Maybe they would raise it for you—adopt it. That’s part of the DF-DM thing you mentioned. That’s often done here.” “But that’s weird—isn’t it? Brothers who are nephews, cousins who are sisters, all that crap. Don’t you start getting babies with no chins, and six fingers, and shit like that?” “As a matter of biology, not really, not right off. It takes a generation or two or three. But people have to stick around for inbreeding to happen. You don’t see it here because people come and go. Practically everyone born or raised here leaves, something like ninety-odd percent of them, and they almost never come back.” “Count me in with them,” said Kirsten bitterly. “Absolutely. Let me tell you how the people who run this place see it. They bank on the near-certainty that you will leave and go somewhere else to live your life, somewhere where there’s no one else close to you that you’ll get involved with. That if you’re a fertile, you’ll outbreed where you go. And they bank on more adults from elsewhere like your parents to come in. It’s turnaround.” “Turnaround?” “Turnaround. It’s a natural thing. It’s like—let me give some examples of what it’s like,” said Mona carefully. “It’s like a party, where if it’s just some people who come and stay the whole time. It gets old real fast. A better party is where people are dropping in and taking off all the time, except for the hosts and a few others who feel like saying around because they’re really into it. Or ‘net channels, where ‘vids come and go. Or a business, where commodities cross the shelf, the faster, the better for business.” “Yes, but—we’re talking people’s lives here! My life! We’re not talking about commodities!” “I know, Kirsten. But scientifically, from Mother Nature’s view point, lives are like that, even human lives. She goes on her way, caring only for the species and not for individuals. She wants human beings to travel a lot. The problems of inbreeding are her way of punishing people who stay around home to have babies.” “But I don’t want to have a baby, not now—maybe not ever! I’m seventeen for zitssakes! I’ve got time! I want a life! Sure, maybe I’ll want to start a family someday, but not now! And anyway, not with him--that’s not starting a family. That’s getting knocked up!” “Yes, it is. That’s true. Don’t mistake me, Kirsten. I’m not on his side. I’m not arguing for them. I’m here to help you. No one’s going to force you to do something you don’t want to do. You asked me what’s going on with the island, and I’m just starting to answer your question—“ “Well, it sucks!” exclaimed the girl, springing up. “Kirsten, help is on the way. You are not trapped. You have options. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But please, let me help you. Let me finish—let me lay everything out for you—just listen for three minutes, okay?” “Okay, I guess.” Kirsten lowered herself to perch on the edge of the chair. “Okay. This place is run in a certain way, with rules, and if you learn them and go with them, you can get away with anything—like David does. You can get away with murder around here if you play by the rules— their rules. That way it’s like anywhere else—go along and you’re good. Run the wrong way and things get hard for you. But the rules are different here, very different. You’ve discovered that. So learn them, play along, manage. Make happy for a year, and then you’re out if you want to be. So can I help you do that, or not?” Kirsten looked at her. “Do I have to have the baby, or not?” Mona touched her lips, then held her finger up straight, and said slowly, “It’s early days yet. You have options. For everything. Understood?” A thoughtful look stole across Kirsten’s fine-featured face. She nodded. “I am not a health care professional. But I know them, a lot of them. I know a lot of people. I can send you places. You may have questions—issues—only they can deal with. Yes?” Kirsten nodded again. “I can help you sort things out. That’s my job. I can give you information. But deciding what to do with it, and getting it done, that’s up to you. You. Not your parents, not anyone else, just you. Okay?” “Okay,” said the girl. Just then, the bell went off, together with the inside-building buzzers, that signaled a break. “Gotta go,” said Kirsten, rising. “Come see me again. Soon,” said Mona. “Sooner the better.” “Okay, I will,” replied Kirsten, shouldering her bag. Mona stood, and they traded a single handshake. “See ya, Do--Mona.” Mona watched her go, murmuring a farewell, then spread her feet a little and stretched, arching her back and keeping her elbows close. Replacements would be needed and there, she thought, were the makings of an intelligent and useful recruit. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Oct 27, 2012 6:50:42 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 1, 2012 16:19:59 GMT -5
066a[/b] After an earlier call to inform Rhys and Ralna that she would be arriving betimes, and a notification by building security that she was being escorted up, Merilee Brunett appeared at the office door. Ralna welcomed her, and asked her to wait while Rhys wrapped up a live-time e-meeting. Merilee had, Ralna noted, dressed appropriately for the press conference, comfortable-looking but neat dark blue with red accents, her hair freshly done, but also carrying a large and well-packed brown leather tote which would, Ralna calculated, add approximately one minute’s delay at any security checkpoints. Ralna did not neglect, while she had Merilee, to run a discreet bio-sig evaluation using quick-scan parameters. Rhys was soon done, and Ralna showed her in. He rose to meet the guest, but, Ralna noticed, did not close the door, a sign that he was inviting her to monitor the conversation in case evaluation and input should be required. Ralna was running several tasks but could still monitor. “Thanks for coming up, Merilee. I hope you didn’t run into too many delays?” Rhys asked, after seating her. “No, thanks. The ferry was running as usual. I guess we have you to thank for that, as with so many other things on the Island.” “It’s thanks to Captain Sigurdsson and the crews really,” he replied. “Are John and Kayleigh all right? Who will pick them up from school?” The sound of Merilee shifting her ample figure uncomfortably in the chair came through the doorway. “Kayleigh has a club meeting after school, and Holly will look after John until four. If I’m not back by then, I fixed it up with Jodenne Witonski to come by and get them. She’s young but she’s been visiting the house to help take care of John. They get on very well—really well. Jodenne’s a godsend, really. Very mature for her age.” “Yes. It takes a lot of patriotic commitment to deliver for US-DADS. Contributors get lump-sum payouts but they lose the subsidy income. She’s really serving her country. So, Merilee, what can I do for you?” Merilee shifted again. “I don’t know how to say it, Rhys, so I won’t try. I’ll just show you.” There were sounds of paper handling, and then quiet, but for the occasional scrape of page on page for a few minutes. At last, Rhys said: “Do you have a lawyer yet, Merilee?” “No, but I was hoping you might recommend one, or some other course of action.” Ralna quietly began another task, which involved a search in the LawNet—to which Rhys, as a consultant to the City Prosecutor’s office, had full access--for the term Merilee Brunett among recent Superior Court filings. It didn’t take long to get a hit, which came up together with Immaculate Conception Parish and Archdiocese of Queen City. She opened a new mindwindow, began a download, and kept listening. “If you were counting on standing with the Archdiocese, don’t,” said Rhys. “They’ll throw Father Craig under the bus and wash their hands of the parish, and you with it.” “They’re looking for two hundred million dollars, Rhys!” said Merilee nervously. “That’s a lot of money even by your standards, and we just don’t have it. The Trust might. Can’t you settle out of court on these things?” “If we did, it would be a de facto admission of guilt. It’d immediately turn into a class action and a thousand sets of parents would jump on board. Believe me, I know. I’ve been down this road before.” “With hu—with Subhuti,” said Merilee. “With Subhuti. And they could easily use it to set up a case against AICT and everyone on the Island, and the Island itself. These Roselli people, the plaintiffs … their child is two years old, right?” “Yes.” “One of the first of John’s natural-born offspring, then. And there have been—how many since? A couple of dozen thousand, I imagine.” “Maybe. I don’t know. But you said— you said,” Merilee reiterated, “that it’s hard to tell with autism. That it’s not necessarily genetic. That birth conditions and environment have a lot to do with it. That the chances of passing it on might be one in a thousand.” The doctor sighed. “Do we know if John even has an autism gene to pass on?” There was a pause. “No. No, we don’t.” “Why not? He’s had lots of tests, hasn’t he?” “Yes, hundreds. So why don’t we know?” “Because there is no single autism gene that we know of. Without getting too technical, there are a myriad of genetic things that factor in to autism, but no one determining thing. Does autism run in families? Yes, it does. Do you have any autism in your family?” There was another brief silence. “No, not that I know. I had an uncle who was a little funny, but it wasn’t autism.” “What about Kayleigh?” “Heavens, no!” “That’s interesting, because in families with genetic predisposition to autism, it shows up, in different forms, in siblings and in the mother’s family. If the Roselli child has autism spectrum disorder at all, and has it with genetic predisposition, it’s more likely to have come from its mother. The one in a thousand I referenced is ASD just showing up spontaneously in one child among several, with no genetic predisposition.” “So what does that mean for us?” “It means that in a suit dealing with ASD, which is notoriously hard to pin down, they’re going to have a damn hard time in a court of law--which deals with solid facts backed up with proof--that John and no one else is to blame. It’s a hundred times more likely to have to do with Mrs. Roselli and their own doctors must know that. It means that they are probably being put up to this and backed by someone else.” “Well, that’s a little upsetting right there. I’m—I’m concerned. You have to understand—I’m concerned and upset. Yes, I’m upset—who wouldn’t be? It’s upsetting to be sued, and over your child, and for this amount of money!” “I know,” he said. “I know all about it, Merilee.” “Yes, I guess—I guess you do. But it’s not all about us. I’m concerned for you, too. You’re running for office. I’ll help you with that. I believe you are a good man for the job. But it’s not just the facts, it’s the publicity—the spin. Aren’t you worried about what this might do to your public career?” “I’m concerned, too, Merilee. This hits all of us. We have to do something. We,” he repeated, “have to do something.” “What?” “First thing first; we have to keep calm. Realize, Merilee, that we have time. At the rate the courts move these days, this won’t even get a hearing until next year, and it could be another year or two before an actual trial. I’ll have to put some attorneys on it. You will also have to hire someone. I can pass you some names if you’re not comfortable with anyone on the island. Then we will have to collect information. You’ll have to read and sign a lot of stuff. I am pretty confident they’re not going to win, and in the remote event they did, they wouldn’t get two hundred mil or anything like it. No one made them any guarantees—did they?” “No.” “No. So, don’t worry. I know you will worry, Merilee, but this shouldn’t be high on your list.” “What about Father Craig? Rhys’ chair squeaked slightly; he was sitting back. “What about him?” “Even if it is as you say, he’s surely going to be removed from ICP. Who knows what they’ll do with him?” “Whatever they do with priests who fall from grace,” answered Rhys. “Don’t allow yourself to be too involved with him. He doesn’t allow himself to be too involved with you, whatever you might think.” “That’s where you’re wrong, for once,” came Merilee’s voice, subdued. “We are involved. He’s involved with me, and with Janine Sandoval as well. She’s been visiting him--a lot.” “So? You visit him a lot. Nothing wrong with that—I hope.” “Rhys, she’s doing things to him. There’s something going on. She has some kind of hold on him.” “Maybe they’re having an affair. If they are, at least it’s between consenting adults. That’s worth something anyway.” There was silence, and then one odd, muffled sound, and then another. “Merilee!” he exclaimed softly. “What on earth--?” “I’m—sorry, Rhys,” she mumbled, blowing her nose in a tissue. “I—I’m not feeling well lately. I feel like I’m losing John, and Kayleigh too. They’re growing up, I guess. And I’ll be losing Father Craig, too. I lost Gerry Hoffman, who was a good friend, and I’m losing Vonda, even. She’s taken up with David Thomsen, everyone knows it. Everyone who’s been important to me. Losing everyone but you. I don’t want to lose Father Craig. He’s—he’s special.”There were faint metallic sounds—a moving chair. “I know you, Merilee. I know how you use that word. Now, out with it. Tell me. Tell me.” There was a very faint mumble that even Ralna couldn’t catch. “What?” Soft again, genuinely surprised. “I said I’m pregnant. I—I think—it might be him.” “I—um—I don’t know what to say, Merilee. Are you sure?” “Yes—no. Maybe.” “You have been—um, you know. John.” “No, I don’t think so.” “God knows why not,” Rhys muttered. “Don’t be cruel, Rhys. I don’t have anyone else to lean on. At my age, in my condition … I’ve got to have someone I can trust. Up ‘til now that’s been Father Craig, but now he could disappear any day. Vonda—her mind’s elsewhere. I need you. You can trust me, Rhys. I’m weak. I’m not good for much, I admit it. But you can trust me, and you can’t say that of many people. I need to know I can trust you.” At this point, Ralna finished running a task and had to get up to check one of the servers. As she crossed the room, she noticed sidewise that Rhys and Merilee were both standing, holding each other, her head buried in his chest. “Look—yes, Merilee, you can trust me. That doesn’t mean I can come through with everything you want. Sometimes you may have to trust my silence. You may even have to trust me when I say no. But you can trust me. Understood?” “Yes. Thank you, Rhys.” As Ralna crossed back, Rhys looked at her over Merilee’s head and then made an eye-gesture down and back again. Ralna gave a single little nod, and returned to her workstation. “All right. Look, Merilee, um, thank you for confiding in me. But we’ve got to get ready to go meet Vonda and then go to the press conference. Take some time to freshen up, okay?” “Okay.” “Ladies’ room is down the hall on the left.” Merilee gathered herself up, evidently dabbing at her eyes and cheeks, and then came out of Rhys’ office, sparing a flickered smile for Ralna as she went out the door. He followed her into the main office. “Ralna,” he said, “I presume you scanned her.” “Yes, sir. Minimal dataset on Mrs. Brunett and nonstandard deviation due to health issues, but blood pressure, alpha and theta waves and other biosignature data do not exclude the possibility of pregnancy, although if that is so, she is early in the first phase.” “That is something I ought to put you on to, Ralna. She’s had daily coitus with a Bearer for something like three years now, and never a pregnancy. And now this. It defies science.” “If I may say so, sir, your own biodata show some elevation. You speak figuratively.” “Of course, Ralna. Nothing defies science. You are proof of that. I mean, it defies scientific understanding—at this point. Are you nearly done with the morning assignments?” “Yes, sir. There are still some audits running, which I can check via remote uplink at any time, but no task which requires my continued presence.” “Very good, Ralna, thank you. I think we can go, then.” “Very good, sir.” He went back into his office to close down and rejoined her to get his coat. During the interval, while shutting down her own workstation and collecting her things, she slipped, unbidden, into thought. She had found, through routine monitoring, that Vonda Hoffman, long not considered a candidate for further motherhood, was pregnant. Merilee Brunett, once a fertile but presumed to have become sterile, was now pregnant. Candee Macklin, a natural sterile, had undergone a successful medical procedure to give her fertility; and an unnamed fifty-three-year old Bayshore patient had become pregnant despite a long-ago medical sterilization. Ralna had, only the day before yesterday, received Sir’s directive to have his babies. She was sterile, whether from before, or whether he had made her so, and he, of course, knew it. Why this, then? Had he changed his mind? He was testing her in selected tasks--he had tested her ability with other tasks under the very much harder conditions of savage Central Asian battlefields. Was he now testing her ability to overcome inbuilt limitations? He was encouraging her to think. He had provided her with no supplementary information or subdirectives. Logically, his intention must be for her to self-direct until further notice. Her progress was surely being monitored and assessed. She could only trust— trust, that word evidently so important to Merilee Brunett—that it was satisfactory thus far. Among the lessons Ralna had brought away from combat survival were the value of adaptability and improvisation, and of gauging environmental support vectors. In conditions where so many unlikely candidates were, by one means or another, achieving pregnancy, there had to be a time-sensitive combination of favorable factors which, if properly engaged, would favor success for her as well. It would not last indefinitely. “Are you ready, Ralna?” asked Rhys, shrugging on his raincoat. “Yes, sir,” she replied, hand bag in hand. “Good. Let’s go collect Merilee and meet Vonda. It’s nearly showtime.” She preceded him out. >< >< >< >< >< >< Not far away, the unnamed subject who had drawn Ralna’s attention was sitting up in bed, sipping orange juice through a straw and looking at Chantal Inouye with a gaze that had momentarily gone blank. “I’m sorry, hon,” said Lucky at last, refocusing with an effort. “It’s weird enough losing an entire week, so you gotta forgive me. I went to sleep in a doorway last Friday night and I just woke up a few hours ago. I don’t think I’m all better yet. I could have sworn you just said I’m pregnant.” “You are,” said Chantal with a smile. “You-all got something mixed up, I’m afraid, hon. I’m fifty-three years old. They took my ovaries out twenty-six years ago. Somebody in the lab was sleepin’ at the switch.” “There’s no mistake, Ms. Mc—“ “Lucky, hon. Don’t Ms. me, please, I can’t stand it.” “There’s no mistake, Lucky. We’ve run the results a half-dozen times. You are with child.” “Oh, god,” said Lucky. “Pregnancy at your age is rare, I admit, but not unheard-of.” “I been sterilized, hon. They took my she-nads out.” “Not all of them. They missed a bit. A partial ovary can produce. Again, it’s rare, but it can happen.” “In that twenty-six years I’ve had sex more times than you’ve probably sat down to eat in your whole life, hon. It never happened before—not since that. So why now?” “That is what we would like to find out.” “Well, way I see it, hon, if it’s true, either I was implanted by a mad doctor with a thing for older women, or divine intervention. Either way, there’s one sick sonofabitch out there, pardon my French.” “Somebody, sick or not, did things to you. What do you remember about last Friday night?” Lucky’s look sharpened. “Are you a doctor, or a cop?” “I’m a doctor, Lucky. Your doctor. You’ve been hurt. You were found in an alley, unconscious, nearly freezing to death. You’d been sexually assaulted.” “So? I’m alive, ain’t I?” “Yes, you are. And you’re lucky to be alive.” The patient gave a faint snort. “It’s s crime. The police want to know.” “It ain’t SA unless I say it is,” said Lucky firmly. “And I ain’t sayin’ it. The cops can fuck off.” “There were two funny things, Lucky. One, it looked like you were assaulted by fifteen or twenty men. But all the DNA we collected traced back to one individual. How does that work?” Lucky said nothing. “Two,” said Chantal, “we found a hundred thousand dollars in cash stuffed in your coat pockets.” “Must a’ been somebody rich and well-hung, then,” opined Lucky. “Lucky,” said Chantal softly, “I’ve had calls about you. From a young man named Jason. Do you know anyone by that name?” “No.” Chantal looked into the patient’s eyes. “I’m from Alder Island, Lucky. I know a young man named Jason there. He is—he’s physically capable of having done this to you. And he’s probably capable of having given you all that money, too.” Lucky looked straight back. “Well, I guess you know everything, then, hon, don’t you? You don’t need me.” “If you say so. But it’s a police matter. The way you were found--it had to be reported. I haven’t told them about Jason. But they want to know a couple of things. A hundred grand is a lot of money. They will want to know where you got it.” Lucky held out the juice cup, which Chantal took and set aside. “It’s my savings. I carry it around with me.” “It’s been reported routinely as an assault. You may not want to press charges, but they still want an answer.” “It was some well-hung guy in a hoody,” replied Lucky. “Never saw his face clear. And I let him have it free. What did this Jason want?” “He wanted to know how you were. If you were awake or not. It sounded like he wanted to talk with you.” “He’s made some mistake,” said Lucky shortly. “I don’t know any Jason.” “Lucky, someone of his description is wanted for another crime. A very serious crime. Killing a lot of people.” “That’s no business of mine. Now, I’m getting tired, hon.” Her eyelids began to drift together. “I know, Lucky. But the police won’t buy your story. You’re an unregistered sex worker. A hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money. If you can’t prove how you came by it, they may say the money was stolen, and take it away from you as evidence.” Lucky’s eyes popped open. “They can’t do that! He earned it fair and square!” “Doing what?” “He—he … “ Lucky faltered. “God damn you--that’s not nice!” Chantal took the patient’s blue-veined hand in hers, but Lucky pulled away. “Lucky, I am not the villain here,” urged the doctor in a low voice. “Jason isn’t either. Both of us want to help you, and—I know what you’re going to say, but leaving you alone won’t help you. People will come after you.” Lucky closed her eyes. “Goddammit,” she muttered. “I’m your doctor. I have a lot of say over what happens to you right now. I don’t want anyone coming after you. I will try to fix things so that doesn’t happen. But you have to trust me. I’m a friend of Jason’s. And you have to tell me everything.”Lucky lay back and closed her eyes. She lay for some time, silent, unmoving, her short, colorless hair resting brushed against the pillowcase, and Chantal thought she had gone back to sleep. But at last she said: “Give me my phone.” Chantal looked for a moment, found Lucky’s personal-effects tray, and held up the device. “Battery’s low, I’m afraid.” “Give me any damn phone. I want to make a call. Prisoners can do that.” “You can use my PDA.” Chantal proffered it. “Do you mind using mine?” “No.” Lucky was pushing some buttons on it; her eyes moved up and down—obviously reading a running list, like recent calls. “Is the number you want on there, by any chance?” Chantal asked gently. “Maybe,” said Lucky. “Now, give me five minutes, will ya?” >< >< >< Not long after, Chantal saw Titlow Feggins approaching in the hall, about something else, but he altered course to meet her. “Dr. Inouye,” he said. “I hear there’s developments with Ms. McCullum in four-eighteen B.” “Yes, thank you.” “Now that she is out of critical condition and is conscious and talking, you will recall our decision on disposition.” “Yes. I’m working on finding her a place now.” Feggins allowed himself a smile. “Good luck with that, Doctor.” He passed on, turning to speak to someone else. Chantal drew up short with a sudden thought. She hadn’t filed her latest report yet. How did he know Lucky was talking? She would have asked, but the administrator was already moving down the hall, engaged in conversation. As it happened, Feggins had had all medical monitor stands bugged by hospital security, and, having caught up on latest intake figures, went into his office, past his PA to the inside, and punched up the latest info from 418B on his dedicated link. Lucky’s call was on it. Dr. Inouye had given Lucky her personal PDA, so that the whole call had not been audited, but hearing Lucky’s own end of the conversation was interesting enough. “Jason? … No, hon. I hear you been calling her about me, though. This is Lucky … That makes you and Dr. Inouye the only people I ever remember givin’ a shit about me since I was old enough to hold liquor … don’t be, hon. I’ve been done worse to than that. You didn’t really do it to me anyway. I did it to myself, really. Like I’ve always done. Ain’t nobody but me … get better, then, I guess … I dunno. I got money now, thanks to you … I got somethin’ else, too, thanks to you, big boy … I’m pregnant--uh huh. Fifty-three, surgically sterilized—so they said—I’ve prob’ly had twenty-five thousand men and none of ‘em ever got me pregnant but you. Something’s up with that, I guess. They want to do a lot of tests on me, but I can’t stay here either, I hear … I dunno … I’d rather go down south where I came from. It’s warmer. But I got time now, I guess … maybe. I wouldn’t want to impinge on you, though, hon … Yeah, I know, she’s from there. She told me. I’d have you and her around, I guess … yes, but the battery’s low. I’ll have to go swing by home and get the charger, assuming my stuff hasn’t been all heaved out into the dumpster by now … I’m okay now, hon. I’m still a little foggy but that’s probably the meds they had me on. Physically I don’t feel any worse than the morning after a busy night, as it used to be, anyway … Damn, sounds tempting … No, thank you, sir, I’m up to speed on my rent, which is real low, if you get me … Roger dodger. You, um, got a last name, Jason … ? You any related to Rhys Macklin? … Okay, bye, then--big boy.” Getting his most independent-minded doctor under his thumb, and being of assistance to the police with their enquiries, sounded good to Admin Feggins. He made the call. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 1, 2012 16:21:25 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 9, 2012 6:32:12 GMT -5
066b[/b] It had been a confusing couple of days for Brionne. She remembered being with Rayvyn at Aaamiie’s, and Kamiko had stopped by lately with a couple a’ packs of some kind of Japanese alcohol-free herbal drinks that were supposed to be good for pregnant women to get a toot on. They’d worked, but she’d had eight or nine instead of the recommended one, and she’d woken up on Aaamiie’s couch at noon the next day with a head that felt like it had been hit with a bolt from Marcus’ favorite blaster in Whalo XX. She remembered, too, vaguely, getting a call from Fawnie in which the poor woman had mumbled something about Nazis and salted snacks and her parents. She’d called the folks after she woke up and her dad had answered. No, he didn’t know anything about Nazis, but three nights ago they’d let a couple of passing travelers sleep on the hide-a-bed. Then in the middle the night he and mom had woke up to the sound of the downstairs being trashed. He’d gone down with the shotgun and given them a few blasts, a van outside had fired up and pulled away, and the travelers were gone, scared off, or maybe part of the gang to start with, he didn’t know. The plants in the barn had been untouched. Brionne remembered a number of similar incidents from her childhood; life on a ‘weed ranch in Montana was like that, but usually they went after the plants first. She commiserated, luvyabyeee! and rang off. Then she’d called Fawnie back. Daniella had answered. No, Fawn wasn’t there. Fawn was in a meeting. She was going to leave right after the meeting. Daniella didn’t know when Fawn would be back, but she would be very busy with meetings and going out for, well, for weeks. Months. Years, maybe. Brionne was no idiot. She knew better than to wait to make an appointment with such a busy woman, so she considered somewhere else to get some family planning. That was when her eye lighted on the Island Family Health Center flyer from Alder Island. What th’ heck, it looked like they offered family planning, and the pictures were very nice, and they’d even text her a voucher code for a free westbound ferry ride. All she had to do, she reflected, was get to the ferry dock, and that was going to be a job with no buses running. Fortunately, as it turned out, Kamiko knew someone with a scooter who could take her over to Aurora Avenue tomorrow, where she could wait by a light to truck-surf down to the waterfront. Fabbyluvyabyeee!Now, finally, at the ferry dock, Brionne was waiting on a bench. As a common citizen, Brionne was used to having to wait on benches, for hours sometimes, all day if necessary. She had plenty of media to keep her occupied. It was about one PM when someone in a uniform came up. She took her ‘phones off. “Hello,” said the young man. “Waiting for a ferry?” “Yeah,” replied Brionne. “We’re checking passengers now. The things going on, you know—“ “Oh, yeah! No buses, what’s up with that? I heard something about a terrible strike, and if you ask me, a strike on the buses is about as terrible as you can get! That’s so retarded! Don’t these people get paid enough already??”“’Terror strike,’ I think you mean.” “Whatever. Enny-way, so if you’re checking passengers, that’s my opinion.” “If you want to get on the ferry, miss, I’ll need some ID,” said the guy quickly. Brionne proffered her bracelet wordlessly, as by reflex action. The security person ran it by a mini-scanner. “Brionne Stewart,” he said. “You live in Queen City, and you’re not in our passenger database. What’s the reason for your trip today?” “Family planning. I heard the island is a screamo place for family planning.” “Um … not so much,” said the guy. “People usually come here from there for that.” Brionne put on her surprise face with the googly eyes. “”Really? OMG are you sure? What about this?” She rummaged in her tote and brought out the health center flyer. “Oh!” It was his turn to act surprised. “I’m preggo,” she said in a confidential tone. “I want to plan the family that me and Marcus—that’s my boyfriend—and he’s so cool with it by the way--are going to have, you know, how to feed it, when to change it, what school to send it to, all that parent stuff.” “Oh, I see,” said the guy. “That kind of family planning—“ “Well duh! What other kind is there?” asked Brionne. “Whatever,” said the guy, lapsing into Brionne’s language. “Oh, yeah, we’re zeft with that. You’re going there, then?” “Well duh mister! I’m not going to the supermarket for family planning for zitssakes!” She giggled. He was kinda cute, slim, with sandy hair. “They even texted me a voucher for the ferry.” She showed it to him on her PDA. “So there you go—Brandon,” she finished, reading his name tag. “What are you doing after work, anyway? Wanna hang awhile?” “Um, sure,” he said. He produced his PDA and in a common gesture they aligned their devices and scanned each other’s numbers. “Unless something happens,” he added. “You never know.” “Okay, cool then. Thanks, Brandon.” She went back to her listening, closing her eyes, and smiling a little. >< >< >< >< >< >< Rhys Macklin had—but for a few executive decisions—left the press-conference organization to Destiny Brigid, Ralna, and the consultants, and the outcome was, of course, flawless. The Conference Center’s Kaleetan Auditorium would look good for the cameras, filled with media, small business people and a few big ones, minority group reps, college students, firefighters, veterans, Native American tribal committeepersons, underemployed service workers, and high-tech professionals. Apart from police officers on security detail there was less law-enforcement and health-care sector presence than hoped for, but there were no empty seats; in fact, standing attendees lined the back and sides. They were probably teachers and local government employees, taking advantage of the unexpected day off. This was also the rollout of the moonlighting Insta-Bangs on loan from Destiny, who were working the crowd, with impromptu couples keeping the doors swinging as they passed in and out, no doubt to and from rooms in the adjoining Byatt Hotel. Scheduled to share the dais with the candidate were Merilee Brunett, Vonda Hoffman, Destiny Brigid, Tyee Roderick from the Skookumish Tribal Council, and Michaldo Ortega from the Hispanic Law Center. With Ralna at his elbow, he chatted and shook hands with all of them, and with all of them got himself wired and thereafter kept an eye and ear on the stage manager. Destiny had, it seemed, arrogated to herself the role of emcee and keynote speaker, and at the time appointed strode out onstage, looking razor-sharp as always in her trademark crimson, black, and heels; accustomed to selling dubious projects to hard-nosed investors, she soon had the crowd eating out of her well-manicured hand while staying focused on the product—in this case, Rhys. She introduced Michaldo and then Tyee, each taking one of the row of seats onstage after their remarks, while Merilee sat backstage, bit her fingers nervously, and shuffled PDA, compact, and mirror back and forth. Vonda, in her customary tailored knee-skirt-and-vest combo, just sat, apparently channeling her own nerves by holding Merilee’s hand. Then it was Vonda’s own turn, and at the mention of her name by Destiny turned on her Texas cheer smile and went out. Merilee watched her colleague take the podium and nearly lost her composure altogether. “I can’t do this, Rhys!” she wailed, grabbing his hand. “Of course you can, Merilee,” he said, putting his other hand on hers. “You’re the chairwoman of all this, don’t you remember?” “I don’t know why, I’m sure,” she sniffed, pulling a handful of tissues out of her tote. “Who’s gonna listen to me after all that, Rhys? I’m out of my depth! I’m plain, I’m ordinary, I look like a blue whale with lipstick on. I’m—well—not young, and I’ve got nothing to say nobody else hasn’t already said better than I could. You’ve got your teacher. You’ve got Vonda,” she said as Vonda raised a laugh. “See? I can’t do this, Rhys.” “Yes, you can, Merilee—“ “What about the—the—“she looked around—“what we talked about? I’ll be on video! It’ll be used—it … it might not be so good for you,” she added lamely. “You know.” He looked down into her eyes. “I trust you, Merilee. I picked you to chair my campaign because I trust you. You’re one of about three people I completely trust in the world. Do you understand how much that means to me?” “I guess.” She used some more tissues. “Do you trust me?” he asked. “Yes, of course, Rhys, I do.” “And I believe in you. So you can trust that.” Merilee looked doubtful. “There are a lot of important people out there,” she replied. Ralna put her hand on theirs. “Merilee,” Ralna said softly, “everyone out there is ready to think well of you. That’s why they came. They want to hear you. They don’t care if you forget the script. They want to hear how you feel. You feel that Dr. Macklin would make a good councilor, don’t you?” “Yes.” “Why?” “He has a good heart. He’s intelligent, wise, and principled. He’s not going into it for the money. He could retire to the Riviera today if he wanted, but he doesn’t. He stays here, where he’s from, and he wants to work for us, for Queen City, for all the people. He’s proven that. He’s dedicated. He works for us, at his own cost. He’s just the best man for the job.” “Just say that, then,” counseled Ralna. “It’s only an endorsement, which is telling people what you think about something, not a grand policy speech. And as for important people, well, every day you speak to the most important people out there, don’t you? Young people. Students. Your students. Isn’t that right?” Merilee nodded. “That’s all it is. Very good,” murmured Rhys. “And,” he added, looking over at the stage manager, “it’s time to go tell them.” As applause followed Vonda’s final words a look of panic flashed across Merilee’s rounded features, but she stood up, set her face with some thought or other, and at Destiny’s mention of her name and with a final hand to her hair, she went out. Quiet greeted Merilee at first, and her first few words halted, but then they started to flow, and Rhys, watching her, leaned his head toward Ralna. “Very good.” “Thank you, sir. I have been studying psychology on my off-time.” “Really? It shows. You know, I believe you could speak out there, if you had to.” She inclined her head slightly. “I exist to serve, sir,” Merilee’s remarks were brief, and in only a minute she had taken her seat, and after some polite applause for her, Destiny took the lead one more time and introduced Rhys. The big man squared his shoulders, and, with Ralna alongside him upstage, bodyguard-style, went out and into the lights. He had expected the crowd to like him, and greet him with some noise; there was a rhythmic chant of “Rhys! Rhys! Rhys! Rhys! Rhys!” He had not expected another chant to start circulating underneath it, gradually swelling: “Rall-Na! Rall-Na! Rall-Na! Rall-Na!” Already at the podium, he looked around, appearing at first smiling, then slightly puzzled, as if debating within himself what to do. Then he allowed a look of realization to cross his face, and, breaking into a broad smile, stepped back and motioned his PA to the mic. She came forward slowly, and he spoke into her ear: “They seem to like you. Give them a minute’s worth, why don’t you, Ralna?” She nodded and took her position. It grew quiet, very quiet. Ralna looked around the audience for several seconds. Then she leaned forward a little and said: “What do you think? Would this be a good time to ask for a raise?” A cheer went up, an extended cheer which seemed to shake the roof, and went on, and on, evolving with whoops, chants, and a rumble of foot-stomping. About a third of the audience stood, which better explained the standing-room crowd. Ralna looked at Rhys, holding one arm out, acknowledging him, trading smiles and nods. He reached into his back pocket and produced his wallet, holding it up and pretending to look inside and making a worried little face, as the cheering went on. At length, repositioning, still smiling but less broadly, and saying a few thank yous, Ralna waited as the commotion lessened, then subsided. “Seriously,” she said, “Dr. Macklin and I aren’t cops, but we work in law enforcement. Law enforcement is a high-profile task in this city right now. Officers are working overtime, and need the help, cooperation, and support of everyone now more than ever. If any of you are, ah, fans, then I ask you personally, on behalf of Dr. Macklin, to support your local law enforcement.” More applause greeted this, politer than before. She let it go for a few seconds and then raised her voice over the tail end: “Dr. Macklin’s opponent, when he goes, will leave open not only his council seat, but the chair of the county council’s Law Enforcement Committee. Serving in that position will be something that Dr. Macklin takes very seriously, and you can bet I will assist him every step of the way.” More applause, longer now. “I have the honor and privilege of supporting his work every day. Your workday as citizens is coming up, I mean Election Day. I hope that you will all join me in supporting my boss, the man for the job, Dr. Rhys Macklin.” Robust applause, with sporadic chanting, greeted this, as Rhys made his way to the podium. Ralna checked the lapel and shoulders of his jacket in good PA style, appeared to flick off a speck of dust, and they stood together for a few moments as the applause died down. Ralna was just turning to go when a voice shouted out from the audience: “She’s a humod!”Things quieted down. Ralna bent toward the mike. “Excuse me?” she asked. There were some scattered cheers and whistles, and some commotion down near the front as a ripple of talk ran around. “No—no—you—it’s okay. Let him stand up. Let’s hear.” Rhys threw her a sharp look, to which she replied with a look of her own. He backed off a step. “And you are, sir?” she asked, as a man stood up in the sixth row. “Miller, Stephen Miller, citizen,” he said loudly. “Your boss is Doctor Humod—everyone knows it--and you— who are you, Ralna Ochoa? People have tried to check up on you. You’re supposed to be from South America but you don’t look or sound like it. Where did you go to school? Where have you worked before? Where have you lived? Where are your friends? Do you have any life other than what he’s scripted for you?” yelled the man, pointing at Rhys. “I say he built you and programmed you. You’re a humod.” For an answer, Ralna undid her jacket and hung it on the corner of the podium. Then she took a few steps to one side, in full-length view of everyone in the house, and slowly started undoing buttons: one, two, three, four, so that her blouse fell partly open to reveal her upper chest, the gore of her brassiere, and some of the cups. There were shouts, applause, and scattered wolf whistles as she turned around like a runway model. Then she went back to the podium and said: “Do I look humod?” The applause rose solidly, studded with whistles, and the chanting and stomping broke out briefly. Ralna waved it down, waiting, and at last said: “Okay, well, Mr. Miller?” “Answer me!” the man shouted. “Who are your friends? What was your school? What was your last job?” Shouts rose, sounding hostile toward the man. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Miller,” said Ralna calmly, redoing buttons. “Let’s do science. I propose that we adjourn to Shaughnessy’s Bar across the street after this for beer bongs. Whoever passes out first will be stripped to their skivvies and be subject to a medical examination done by an impartial panel of experts, I mean, anyone who’s in Shaughnessy’s. Deal?”The crowd stood up and roared and chanted for three solid minutes, while Ralna put her jacket back on and waited quietly, and the rumbling made some of the lights flicker for a moment. At length, at last, she made herself heard: “And now, please, without further ado, the next Third District Councilor. I give you Dr. Rhys Macklin.” The big man stepped up, waiting for the crowd to settle while he adjusted the mic for his height and Ralna went to a seat. Finally, he began: “I’ll make it brief. I want to get over to Shaughnessy’s before they lock the doors.” He paused for a laugh and some cheers, and went on: “Everyone knows I’m here to announce for Position Three on the County Council, so consider me announced. I’m not going to say anything against the incumbent, who’s a fine man. He’s done a fine job for many years. I’m not going to promise to reform the Council, because I think it works pretty well, despite what you see in the papers and ‘casts. I’m not going to work directly to free Tibet or save rainforests or stop climate change. Not on company time, anyway. Let’s face it—that’s not a Councilor’s job. A Councilor’s job is to deal with taxes, roads, and property development, and that’s about it. Though I’m grateful for the support of educators, the Council doesn’t have much to do with education. You’ll have to send me to Olympia if you want to hear me deal with that topic. So bear with me for three minutes and let me lay it out just as it is, no pussyfooting. “One thing everyone loves to complain about is taxes. Let’s admit it. Our District subsidizes most of the others. We work hard, we invest wisely, we practice self-discipline, and with it we enhance the value of our property. As we all know, however, the money we make is not ours to keep. That would be capitalistic and selfish. So every four years we surrender an amount equal to the value of our property to the County, who in turn use it to demolish dangerous, unsightly drug houses, and in their places build well-designed, shiny new drug houses, at prices which guarantee a comfortable income for contractors and suppliers all over the State. Fair is fair. Addicts are people, too. They’re just misunderstood. They can’t help stealing and killing to support their habits. They’re good folks who’d be just like us if they’d had our neurochemical heritage and moral sense to work with. “It’s true that property values don’t allow new businesses to start up in our District unless they get special exemptions in return for being ideologically or financially supportive of our Party. Again, fair is fair. You’re either with us or against us. We’re tolerant and inclusive in our attitude, as long as you’re not some fascist or bigot or religious zealot—in a word, someone who disagrees with us. That’s our system, and I don’t plan to do a thing to change it. In fact, I think we should pay even more. That way we’ll be showing indisputable proof of our progressivism. Of course, it will mean having to invest outside the District, but that advances our credibility as good citizens of the County, State, and world. Carbon offsets are a great way to go. There’s nothing to make your big house feel cozy like the knowledge you’re paying Asian bureaucrats to make sure that two thousand Indonesians and Thais have to live in tin huts and eat grass to compensate for you. They’re having entirely too many children anyway. And without lifestyle responsibilities like ours, they might even have time to make some of those neat little bead thingies that sell in boutiques at the six thousand percent markups you’ll want in order to keep your business running. “I’m not going to promise to improve public works in the District. As we all know, public works do nothing but rape and kill the spirit of the earth in the cause of our own greedy desires. Besides, poor roads are a great reason to support local dealers by owning giant four-wheeled sport-utility vehicles, and leaky water mains are only a way of returning a portion of our water to the planet from which it came. And who needs water filtration when just and fair economic redistribution in the form of European bottled water is just sitting on the shelves, waiting for your co-operation? As for supporting law enforcement, I’m all for it. I’d support making our County police uniforms and gear animal-product-free within three years. We can start by getting rid of all those leather holsters. It’s well-known that all firearms do is encourage criminal violence by setting a bad example. Study after study has shown that the moment police officers are disarmed, police brutality will drop quickly. And if police brutality stops, then how can offenders fear them anymore? The cycle of fear and violence will be broken. “I do promise to co-operate with other Councilors in maintaining the conditions necessary to import as many guest workers as we can. We don’t yet have enough citizens living in the otiose relaxation that was once stigmatized as ‘unemployment.’ It’s thanks mostly to these worthies that sexual tourism and recreational chemistry have become economic mainstays of our area. Traditional white-male dominated industries that ravish the environment can go elsewhere, and I say let them. I’m all for letting individuals to destroy themselves if they want to, and I’m willing to open my wallet to support it--if by doing so they can help attract the paying customers we need to support our lifestyle of progressivism and social justice. And it helps make the healthcare system that has to sort out the wreckage among the best in the world in its specialties. “So there you have it, folks. I’m going to work hard to raise your taxes, make sure your services become more and more Third World, and your infrastructure deteriorates to match, and leverage everything I can to make sure we become the next Bangkok. Which we all know is one of the world’s most colorful and adventuresome cities. I know. I make business trips there every year. And I’ll keep letting you all know how cool you are for going along and paying the bills for it. Thank you all for your support. That concludes my statement. I’ll take a few questions now. Yes, you there.” A man stood up. “Will you be buying over at Shaughnessy’s?” Laughter. Rhys answered: “That depends on how big a raise Ralna asks for.” More laughter. “You, in the brown there.” A woman: “You’re married. Where’s your partner?” He replied: “My PA has known me for a week and a half, and she’s having to answer for herself, so you can guess what they’d put my wife through, whom I love and who supports me a hundred percent. Next—you there in the back.” A man: “That guy raised an issue—what about your past?” Rhys paused for a fraction of a second. “It’s a fair question, even though it has nothing to do with being Councilor, so I’ll answer. I still think I was basically right. I invented, and hold the patents on, medical technologies that have saved or improved very many lives, including some of you in this room. Along the way, I had some ideas to help children with birth defects, and I still don’t believe there’s anything wrong with that--but, as often happens, lawyers got into it, accusations flew, and scandals dating from before I was born were thrown at me. I took my stand on facts, scientific facts which are proven, which are out there to be used by anyone, and my point—made, maybe, a little too passionately--was that you can’t put the genie back in the bottle. If science isn’t used responsibly, you can bet someone will use it irresponsibly. Now my job is providing expert testimony to the prosecution of those who do use it irresponsibly. However, being your Councilor would have nothing to do with that. I might or might not be nominated for my predecessor’s chair of law enforcement, but if I am, and I get the post, I’ll carry it out like I do my forensic consulting now, which, I’ve been told, reflects creditably on the public good. One more. Yes, you down there.” A woman stood. “Speaking of law enforcement, what about the violence that’s been hitting the city--the Tunnel strike, the bombing, and the may-be-related crimes? What would you do about them as Councilor?” “As Councilor, I would debate and vote on funding for law enforcement, emergency services, and related support measures at the County level.” “No,” the woman came back, “I mean, what would your position be?” “I think that we ought to do everything we can to catch the perpetrators and bring them to justice, and I’d support any reasonable means within the law to do that, realizing that this investigation is certainly going up to the Federal and NAE levels as a major terror incident. If you are asking what I would do if I were in charge, well, once again, a good question, but that one would go way over my level as Councilor.” “Okay, so, what about it?” asked the woman. “What would you do if you were in charge?” ‘I’d co-ordinate the efforts, make sure the best people were on them, and fund them, and let the specialists do their job and follow the facts, the evidence, and, if and when warranted, make apprehensions, get indictments, and prosecute. At this time I won’t offer the authorities advice, because I don’t know what they know and I don’t want to make comments that might be used as flak one way or another in the middle of huge investigations. That may be a boring answer, but you’re talking to a scientist. Boring is what we do. That’s why I like to keep interesting people around,” he smiled, indicating Ralna and the others onstage with a gesture. “Thanks, everyone. If you’ve got time, reception in the main foyer.” To a wave of applause, everyone stood and, one by one, left the stage. Offstage, after he had engaged in some chat and direction, Destiny Brigid got Rhys’ elbow. “Hope you like the new recruits,” she said lightly into his ear. “Hope you like my prototype,” replied the big man, nodding toward Ralna, who was speaking with the event security manager. “Prototype?” “The iBabe you asked about,” he said. He was rewarded with the rare sight of Destiny Brigid’s jaw dropping. “You’re shittin’ me,” she said. “Nope. Serious beta. Ralna has test features that would not appear in the production model due to cost factors, but all the features that would are there.” “She’s—she’s not anything like a humod.” “She’s no more a humod than a diamond is a lump of coal. Evolutions are new things from old. The theory that still explains all machines was set out by Galileo in 1600; since then, people have simply applied it. Humod theory had some sound principles. I applied them.” “Who knows about this?” “You and me. If word gets out, I know who’s responsible.” “But—Ralna—“ “Later,” he said. Ralna had finished and was turning to approach them. “So, sir,” she said. “To the reception, then?” “Yes, in a moment. Go on,” he said to Destiny. “Keep things rolling. We’ll be there in a minute.” “Okay,” said the tall woman with a smooth of her skirt, and she moved off. Rhys led Ralna out the side door, down a hall, and then aside into an empty conference room, where he shut the door quietly behind them. Then he turned to his PA. “Ralna,” he said, “code one-eight-eight-nine-zero-nine pi.” She snapped to parade rest as he paced, back and forth, short turns, like a caged tiger. “You will find out everything about this Stephen Miller who spoke out. Use security video or whatever else is necessary to get a fit and ID. You will compile a file on him. You will locate him at his residence or at any other suitable place and interrogate him. Find out who he really is, his affiliations, his employment if any, and who put him up to this. Then you will end him and recycle all bioremains with Level Five precautions. I want him vanished. To complete at optimal timing, but at all events by Wednesday midnight. Understood?” “Yes, sir. Intercept, interface, download, terminate. No body.” “Very good. Ralna, code three-nine-four-six-five-seven omega.” She relaxed, and he opened the door and followed her out. >< >< >< The big man had a mild surprise of his own waiting at the meet-and-greet, in the person of Detective Jack Crowley. The cop mixed with the crowd as Rhys shook hands, chatted with supporters, and posed for pictures with sundry people, some with Ralna. That last he would once have preferred to avoid, but the cat was out of the bag; her default face was in the media and there was no escaping it. However, by design, it was an ordinary sort of face with regular features, not unpleasant to look at, but at all events, not very memorable, and, hopefully, would drop out of coverage by Election Day. Crowley waited, he noted, until a good time, after the first press but before things had thinned out too much. Then he approached for a handshake. “Doctor Macklin,” he said. “Good to see you. Congrats and good luck.” “Thanks, Detective. I assume you’re here in an unofficial capacity?” “You might say. I wanted a word with you about—“ he nodded toward Vonda—“her mister.” Rhys made a nod of his own. “Wait around the corner there.” He sent Ralna on an errand to the concierge’s office. Crowley went, and, a few moments later, Rhys let drop a remark about needing a restroom break. Within a minute or two, the pair of them were in the executive men’s washroom. “What’s up?” Rhys asked. “You know what cases they give me,” said the detective. “Gary Hoffman’s one of them. He wasn’t killed by any hooker—or—not just a hooker.” Rhys’s mouth firmed as he remembered Vonda’s complaint to him. “Well?” the big man asked. “Someone—something—didn’t just slash him and that driver. Their blood was drained fast, and completely, and without benefit of medical equipment except a very sharp knife, probably a scalpel. About six liters of blood just vanished from the scene and I’m thinking it went with, maybe inside, the perp.” “Another vampire killing, so-called, then?” “Fits the pattern. I thought we were out of this, but who or whatever it is, it’s back. And there’s been others.” “How many?” “Lots. Fifteen or twenty that we’ve found. South Plum Street, Sixth Avenue, White Center Way, Alaska Street, all over. Method’s the same but not all the same parameters.” “Vampires. Plural.” “Looks like it. And a lot of missing persons. Who knows how many of them were victims as well?” “Damn. Any connection to the Harbor Killer?” “I don’t think so. Different MO altogether.” “Who are you working with?” “A Fed, name of Kirin. NSA, I think, or maybe DNI. Strange puppy he is. Comes out with me sometimes. Always at night. Says he has office duty during the day. Makes calls based on smell. Helluva honker he must have because he’s always right, so far anyway. Oh, and we got a downtown killer, too. Men, all men, all had sex just before they died, neat cuts to the throat, vampire-style.” “Copycat?” Rhys asked. Crowley shrugged. “Hard to tell yet. I’d be careful if I were you. Tell you what, here’s something to start on. The Hoffman case was the first of the wave we’ve got rolling now. We have ID on the suspect, who’s still at large and has killed who knows who else. I carry faces around.” Crowley pulled out his PDA, punched a couple of buttons, and showed Rhys a picture of his dancing acquaintance, Taylor. “Seen her, by chance?” “Not that I remember,” he said. “I see a lot of people. I’ll review it all when you send me the package.” “Okay. Watch yourself, though. She killed again last night, with a gun. We got a witness who ID’d her off a street cam picture. Be careful, that’s all I’m sayin’.” “I am. I’m moving my office tomorrow.” “Good idea. Somewhere very secure. Things out there were already weird and they’re gettin’ weirder real fast. Two, three—four, hell, five or six serial killers out there, maybe not all human as we know it. Public buildings, schools, hospitals, all starting to yell for police protection. We’re doing what we can, starting with Bayshore, but you know how it is. Anyway, I thought I’d tell you. This shit’s real, so there’s science lurking behind it somewhere. I can forward you files for review if you want.” “Do that,” said Rhys thoughtfully. They went out the rejoin the reception, now definitely winding down, with staff starting to pack things in. Ralna gave him a glance. “Don’t worry,” he reassured her. “I had a police escort.” >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 9, 2012 6:40:20 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 17, 2012 10:29:08 GMT -5
067[/i] Rhys Macklin’s press conference was not carried on TV, but it was streamed live on QC-NET’s local politics channel. Among its viewers was Candee Macklin, watching from the armchair in her UPH Montlake hostel room. Seated on a stool next to her was Jo Dunbar, who since her successful procedure here had started volunteering on alternate Fridays. “I’ve gotta give it to him,” said the nurse during the concluding applause. “That’s gotta be the shortest and most honest campaign speech I’ve ever heard. If only you could have been there with him, dear.” She squeezed Candee’s hand and looked at her pretty face, which was still fixed toward the screen, a tear rolling down her cheek. “That was my doing,” she said in a low voice. “Maybe my undoing. I bugged him into running for Council. He kept putting me off, but he finally agreed, just to indulge me, I don’t doubt. Just like he’s always indulged me. And I wasn’t there for him.” Jo touched her face. “You weren’t to know how things would shake out.” “And it was brilliant,” Candee went on. “It was brilliant, without me. Without me—and—and with those other women. Who were there for him.” “He mentioned you, Candee.” “Only in the Q and A,” she replied, unmoving. “He had Vonda Hoffman with him, and Merilee Brunett, and that Destiny Brigid, who was brilliant. She’s a match for him. So is—so is—Ralna. Did you see them together?” Another tear, a big one, joined the first; then she lowered her face into her hands and sobbed. Jo stroked Candee’s chestnut hair. “It’s show biz, dear. It’s all for the pictures. Everyone knows that.” “Pictures—pictures stick around,” Candee heaved. “Pictures mean something—pictures are real!”“He doesn’t come home to them every night,” Jo assured her. “He comes home to you.” “Not lately!” Candee cried. “Not while I’m here! He goes home to an empty house—at least, at best, it’s empty! Empty … just like me! This—this is—the worst decision I ever made! This sucks!!” She broke down and cried full-out, sob after sob, gulping, tears trickling through her fingers and down her forearms. Jo let her cry, dabbing at her with tissues, being there for her, murmuring soft words, and finally shifting her stool so as to put her arms around her while Candee leaned on her bosom and let it out. At last the storm began to subside, and Jo supplied more tissues. Candee gave her nose a vigorous blow, thbbbphffphtthtt-phwonnnnk-whthpbbhphtt, and Jo said: “He loves you. He cares—he calls you every day, doesn’t he? You’ll be back in a day or two. You’ll see. He’ll be happy to have you back.” “How happy? As happy as he was that I was gone? He doesn’t need me, Jo! If he needed me, he would have put off the press conference!” “Everyone needs you, Candee,” Jo said, looking into her red-rimmed eyes, and put her hand on her shoulder. “You’re the beauty in his life. In a lot of our lives.” “Beauty,” Candee repeated bitterly. “If only I had something else besides! If I was plain, then people would notice what I could do and not what I look like.” “That’s what it’s about, isn’t it?” Jo asked softly. “Not about the press conference, or whoever was with him. It’s about you thinking you’ve failed him.” “I have failed him!” “No,” Jo told her. “The day you give up, then you will have failed him. That you’re here shows you haven’t given up. When you go home, that will show you haven’t given up. You haven’t given up, and you won’t.” “I might as well,” Candee mumped. “Look, Candee. You’re twenty-five years old-- twenty-five! You’re too young to give up—you’ve hardly gotten started! At twenty-five I had no idea what I could do. I hadn’t even started nursing school yet. Do you know what I was doing then?” Candee shook her head. “I was a crew chief at a McRonald’s. I was on top of the world, my world, nine hundred square feet of tile and stainless steel and blinking lights and squawking speakers and hissing fryers, bossing around nine part-timers, and the smell of grease never quite came off me, and my only contact with people like you was through the pages of magazines that customers left on seats. And I thought that was it for me, nothing left in life but maybe getting to wear a tie and boss the front end too. And I looked down on everyone in that little world, everyone but the managers who strutted around like they owned it all. And you … you are so far above all that. That is you on those magazine pages. You’re a goddess to those people. They look up to you--everyone looks up to you. You are on top of the world for real, the whole world, so from where you are everywhere looks like down. It’s no wonder you feel you have nowhere to go.” “Alright, Jo … so what do I do? Where do I go?” “I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you what I did. It happened after I got fired over a spat. I realized that the more everything was about me all the time, the more I looked down on my crew and the worse I treated them. I had to do something, so I went to nursing school--why that? I don’t know. Because it was there, I suppose. But in nursing school you find out right away, nursing is not at all about you and it is all about other people. You’re not alone. You have a place among others. You may not love those other people, or even like them, but it’s a great way to get outside yourself. If I were you I would look around and find something else— someone else—to live for.” Jo touched Candee’s still-tender tummy, making her wince a little. “There’s one place to start. There’s plenty of others. But don’t give up,” Jo finished, seeing a light near the door go on. “As high as you are, if you give up, if you fall, you’ll take others down with you, and trust me, you do not want to do that. Keep at it, girl. One day at a time. Keep looking, and things will show themselves to you. Okay, Candee?” “Okay.” “I gotta go,” Jo said, rising. “They want me downstairs. But just ring for me if you want to, today anyway. Alright?” Candee nodded. “Thanks, Jo.” “Sure. And—“ Jo pushed a button—“watch some other channel awhile maybe. See you around.” “All right. Thanks.” After Jo left, Candee reached into the pocket beside her, which contained various things of hers, and brought out her purse, and, in the purse, the PDA she’d gotten from Carlos Jenkins. Thinking about that got her thoughts away from herself. What was up with that? Why had Rhys not said anything about it? Surely someone—Carlos at least—was in trouble as long as she had it. She would have to remember to ask Rhys the next time he called. >< >< >< >< >< >< Enrique Cabrera, too, had watched Rhys’ press conference on live stream, from his office at AltaCal Import & Export in the converted mall. At about twenty-two minutes into it his fist tightened on the remote control; then he raised his arm back and winged it at the screen. It missed the screen but hit the wall with the corner of the battery end, landing on the formica-top utility table below with a scattering of wallboard dust and leaving a nasty dig above at the impact point. “Puta! Bitch! Slut-cunt!” he yelled, rising, the veins in his neck standing out. “Boss?” An attendant stuck his head in the door, and got a stapler hurled at it. The head disappeared. After a few more moments destroying office equipment, Enrique sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he pulled a bottle out of a drawer and had a slug of vodka straight from the neck, and another for insurance. Then he bawled: “Miguel!” The head from before appeared again. “Yes, boss?” “Get me a cup a’ coffee.” “Right away, boss.” The head disappeared again. With his duty dogsbody gone for a good five minutes, Enrique reached into another drawer, brought out the necessaries, and had a couple of lines of cocaine. He had just put them away when the coffee arrived, which would complete the cure for the moment. The rest wasn’t so simple. Business was going south because of the Tunnel disaster and the transit shutdown, which affected his heavily lower-class customers at his stores, and he would end the month upside-down. That would probably mean having to float a loan, and his credit wasn’t exactly triple-A. But that was only the beginning. He had a maddening problem, and her name was Ralna Ochoa. Rhys Macklin’s PA had beaten his cousin Juan comatose, so he’d hired a hit, over his uncle Oscar’s objections. She had foiled the hit, become a minor media star, severing his connection with Oscar, on whom he relied for legal assistance. Then, through a third party, he’d hired someone else to blacken her name in public, before cameras. And today, not only had Juan died, but she had foiled the accusation, in public, before the cameras, and gone from being a minor star to a sensation. Every time he tried to take her down, she only rose higher, and he was paying for it, and he still had her boss, Macklin, to deal with, whose patience wouldn’t last forever. Unfortunately he couldn’t tell Macklin about the favors he, Enrique, had been doing him, willy-nilly. Any day now Macklin was going to call in his chips, and Enrique now had no Oscar and no Juan to go to. His nick suppliers wouldn’t be lifting a finger for him after Wednesday’s disaster. Even that bastard Anderson was ignoring his calls. It had all started with Ralna. As the coke and alcohol coiled around his brain, the solution seemed to present itself. He’d have to start by liquidating assets, then organizing—hit the streets and spread cash around-- network. There were a lot of gang-bangers who would still listen to him if he talked la Raza, and if they weren’t professionals, what they lacked in training they made up for in numbers and attitude. They were a militia waiting to happen, really. He could take down Ralna, hell, maybe take down Macklin, too. Then he’d be a boss, a real boss. He wouldn’t have to worry about paying bills any more. He’d collect them. It sounded good. It was time to make some calls. >< >< >< After the conclusion of the campaign activities, Rhys did not return to the office, but went to the ferry dock with Merilee and Vonda. There were tasks left for Ralna, including preparing the computers for tomorrow’s move; so she picked up some take-out on the way, had security bring her up--warning them that she would be working late--and then changed into something more comfortable out of the spare garment bag she had hanging in the office’s little closet. Each computer in the office, and there were eleven, not counting her, had to have security and function scans run before it was backed up and shut down, ending with the server. Some would need repartitioning and other reconfiguration. The tasks were simple enough; they just took time. And while she was here, she could begin researching Stephen Miller, and continue with other ongoing jobs. Among those jobs, set before she left for the press conference, was a wide-ranging scan to locate local matches for her own tissue types, genetic material, and DNA. While the entire task was not yet complete, it had found DNA samples consistent with her own in the registry at Bayshore Hospital, registered to an anonymous number, as they all were. That it should be found there was unsurprising, as Bayshore’s registry was a consolidation and acted as the legal repository for all DNA collected in the city and points north and west; but that it should be found at all was a matter of concern. She had not turned in any DNA samples. She had not consulted with any doctors or medical personnel in or near the City; Sir was her doctor. She was careful at her gyms and studios. All her outside tasks had been clean. She had left not a drop or shred of anything, except perhaps a stray hair or two, but that would contain no DNA, only keratin. That meant, logically, that the only source for the DNA could be Sir. So, it was time to think, an activity she was starting to find excuses for, like humans with their chemical dependencies and sexual pastimes. Why would Sir deposit samples of her DNA into the database while instructing her never to leave a trace? He had, she knew, searched long and hard for her before-person, the human predecessor whose flesh she wore. He had searched long and hard because he needed a certain rare type of human to work with, one who met many difficult criteria. Perhaps he had banked her DNA purely for research purposes. But what was he researching? The thought of Taylor came back to her. Fact: Taylor was a PHE, a posthuman evolution, like Ralna herself. Fact: Taylor had met Sir and was going to his residence, where Ralna herself had visited, and once there had done a sexy dance for him. Another fact: Ralna’s unimod was designed and tested before she had ever been activated. Therefore, fact, there was at least one other unimod-supporting entity out there, which would be a PHE configured as she, Ralna, was. Had Taylor been that PHE? Sir was aware that she might have been a PHE and a government agent as well, having been wired for sound and having gained access to his residence. And yet … Taylor had not been a PHE of Ralna’s own sort. Her biodata were quite variant from Ralna’s and her fighting style showed a physicality less enhanced than Ralna’s, but still enhanced—as if--as if she were a civilian sporting model rather than military-spec. While her biodata were not consistent with Ralna’s own, they were, according to the Chisinau study, consistent with those of the legendary PHEs called vampires. If the study was sound, Taylor might then be a vampire. But was it sound? If she was a vampire, had Sir known that? He would certainly know it by now, as he would have collected Taylor’s body from his deck and taken it in for analysis. There were at present no answers possible for those questions. Return to fact: Sir had quite suddenly decided to move office; tomorrow, in fact. Was he aware, or afraid, of some exterior threat, and might it be connected to PHE? Fact: Adela, Ralna’s acquaintance from the dance club, had biodata consistent both with Taylor and with PHE configuration. Adela was what Taylor had been, and that was not human. Was it vampire, or something else? With Sir retaining Taylor’s in close custody, there was one way to answer that question: to find Adela. To intercept, interface, download, and, perhaps, to terminate. Thought was now over, and it was time to search, process, and execute. She took the seat at her workstation and powered it back up. Nothing would stand between her and this task, or her other tasks. She had never failed to complete, and would not fail now. >< >< >< >< >< >< Leonard Chung, vested with civil emergency powers since yesterday, had indeed—as his receptionist had told Norman Boulanger—been a busy man. At the moment, he was in a holomeeting with Sheriff Maldonado and his own security chief, Erlinda Hochstein. Erlinda was in his office; the proceedings had begun with a call from Mal. “I have something for you, sir,” the cop was saying. “There’s a case in which a potential political twist has come up and I wanted to run it by you for some advice.” “Thank you, Sheriff, I appreciate it,” Leonard replied. “What do we have?” “With regard to the McCullum case, the unregistered sex worker who was found comatose in an alley off Western Avenue with a hundred thousand dollars in her pockets that couldn’t possibly be hers. We’ve had a tip about Jason Macklin.” “Is he a suspect?” “He’s been ID’d as the perpetrator and the source of the money by the victim herself. It came off a security tape at Bayshore so it wouldn’t be admissible as evidence even if Lucky McCullum was willing to testify against him, which we don’t know yet. She’s awake and could have contacted us to file charges, but hasn’t.” “Until she does, you can’t do much, then, can you?” “He’s a—he’s one of them. What they call a Bearer.” “That’s no crime in itself, unless and until you can get someone to file sexual assault charges against him. Until then he’s an unfortunate young man with a rare medical condition.” “We believe he may also be linked to the Belltown massacre. Cindy Shanley’s driver has also ID’d a Bearer who went by the name of Scott, who –“ “—attended her soirees,” finished Leonard smoothly. “Of which I had heard some rumors. And Jason Macklin is this Scott?” “The driver has picked Jason Mackin out of a photo gallery.” “Let’s say we tried to make an SA case out of that, then. Could you locate any of Cindy’s former customers and get any of them to lay charges?” “We have her computer and business records. There was certainly a lot of money involved—suspicious amounts. But, more to the point, we believe he had a relationship with Jenna Cavanas, who’s the prime suspect.” “Was he there last night?” “No.” “What was the nature of the gathering?” “Just a party of friends, as far as we know. Nothing illicit going on.” “H’m. Not much legally, but, as you say, politically … “ “Exactly.” “Mmm. We have no evidence, at this time, that he has actually committed any crime, do we?” “No, sir.” Leonard scratched his chin. Erlinda’s eyes focused on him, recognizing a mannerism that might betoken a security matter. “Let’s do this,” he said. “We can’t move on him yet. We can’t send any deputies to Alder Island for him, not now anyway. However, if he comes over here and sets foot in Queen City, we can discreetly— discreetly, mind you--take him into custody for his own protection, as a so-called Bearer is a suspect in the Tunnel events. It’s not him, I’m sure, unless he was skipping school that day, but who knows what members of the public would take upon themselves to do if they discovered a Bearer—any Bearer—among them? If he shows up here, do that, and notify me immediately. Does that pass the smell test?” “Yes, sir.” “To avoid contaminating anything with politics, anything to do with him—I want to handle him personally. All right? Also, you will impound Cindy Shanley’s computer and all her records, every word of writing, and seal it until further notice. Talking about politics, there is a Pandora’s box—literally. You will investigate last night’s murders at the party, but any question about Cindy Shanley’s other activities will not be addressed until I authorize it. Anyone who goes there will answer to me personally, with their department head, and you. You are responsible, and you will relay that information to Chief Jones and his people as well. ” “Yes, sir. Understood. Thank you, sir.” “Thank you, Sheriff.” Leonard pressed end. “Sir? If I may … ?” Erlinda asked. The County Executive gestured her to a seat in front of his desk. “What’s on your mind, Fraulein?” The ex-Olympic weightlifter sat, perch-style, on the edge of one of the chairs, the posture of a much smaller woman, but she had balance as well as muscle. “As a security matter, sir, shouldn’t we inform Rhys and Candee Macklin of this? If Jason is still a minor, his parents are responsible for him still.” “When you speak of his parents, that would include his natural mother, Jane. She’s party to a lawsuit against Dr. Macklin and is seeking full custody, for what it’s worth. We don’t have to inform Dr. Macklin or Jane unless and until we actually do something.” “But, if I may, the potential scandal—“ “Is something I would prefer to avoid until after the election.” “Dr. Macklin is not of your party.” “He’s not of any party, which means there’s hope for him yet. There would be worse candidates to get elected. Anderson is finished, and Macklin is, potentially, a very useful man to have around since the untimely demise of my son,” he said, which those in Leonard’s security circle already knew meant the Tunnel strike and its aftermath. “He is an expert--indeed, he is the father of Bearers and is to be honored for that. A desire to deprive him of his son simply because I have lost mine would be short-sighted and foolish. My plans have been set back, but not, perhaps, confounded utterly. He is the man whom we will have to co-opt if we are to proceed. I would like to have him as near me as possible, and, if his son Jason might be guilty of some illicit activities, well—deferred prosecution can be a wonderful persuader.” “I see,” said Erlinda slowly. “It is a good strategy, sir.” “Naturally.” Leonard permitted himself a thin smile. “That is all, Ms. Hochstein—oh, except for one more thing.” He backed his chair away and spread his legs. Her eyes widened. “Again?” she muttered incredulously. He gave a single nod, and she rose, walking around the end of his desk. “If I didn’t know better, sir, I’d swear you had some Bearer in you yourself.” “Now there,” said Leonard, “is an intriguing notion.” >< >< >< In his house, once such a home-y little Scandinavian home, Nels Anderson now felt like a caged animal. Tomorrow, Oscar Espinoza had said. Well, it was tomorrow and no courier yet. Someone was watching him, he knew—Leonard. He’d had a sleepless night and a nervous day, with the blinds drawn, ignoring his PDA and studiously avoiding his email inbox, just waiting to see what Leonard might do. He didn’t dare call any of his friends, not even Rhys Macklin— especially not Rhys Macklin. His packing was mostly done but for a few last-minute items and a couple of keepsakes he was trying to decide on. He wondered, nervously, if the Tunnel strike had caused any delay, though he couldn’t imagine why it might. He should have asked Oscar more questions. What would the courier look like? Someone in an official vehicle with a uniform, like FedAxe, or just someone in street clothes? How would he know, if a stranger knocked at his door? He had booked a flight out of town for tonight, but with the disruptions due to the Tunnel strike, flights had been delayed and it would be tomorrow—tomorrow night, most likely. He didn’t want to spend another night here but he might not have a choice. He reached for the whiskey bottle automatically; it was long empty. Not that it did him any good anyway, and he didn’t dare go out for any more. Why didn’t Leonard just put him out of his misery? The answer was, he knew, that Leonard enjoyed misery—other people’s. In this, he, Nels, was Leonard’s toy, just as he had always been. His one hope of revenge on Leonard was escape. He would have to duck the radar, and it was the thought of Mexican maidens—lovely, dark-brown girls who knew too little English to ensnare him with guile and promises—that kept him going. He turned on the TV monitor, and then turned if off again, as he’d done a hundred times today. He wanted to see something, but was afraid of what he might see. He put his head down on the table in front of him and endured. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 17, 2012 10:30:01 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Jan 9, 2013 7:02:17 GMT -5
068In Sarah DeJong and Tina Clearwater’s West Seattle home, Tina had the e-plex on as Sarah came in the door. “Honey, I’m home,” Sarah sang out as usual. “I’m in here,” Tina called back as usual. Sarah dropped her satchel and tote, hung up her coat, and came into the living room, running her hands through her hair. “You—oh! You’re watching tube?” she asked, their word for broadcast TV news, with a slight grimace. “Sure. Why not?” The City Manager sat down on the couch next to her partner and they traded a kiss. “Watching that stuff is for the rubes, dear. We don’t follow the news. We make it.” “Sure,” replied the redhead. “But when you own a factory, it’s a good idea to inspect the end product now and then.” “ … fire and emergency crews have been continuing their work in the Transit Tunnel around the clock. With several more deaths due to injuries, the number of casualties has now risen to one thousand eight hundred and sixty-two, easily the highest toll ever recorded by a single shooter in a mass incident. Federal and NAE investigators are already arriving to assist in the investigation, and to answer the question: who did this, and why? We have Queen City Police Chief Lincoln Jefferson Jones with us live from the scene with Boyd Cortez. Boyd?” The video, which had shown a montage of selected pictures of the Tunnel, and then a few seconds of selected CCTV stills showing the shadowy perpetrator, went to Jones, standing near the Columbia Street entrance. “Thanks, Natalie. Chief Jones, you know the questions,” asked the reporter. “We all know the questions. Who did this, and why, and how were they able to create such conditions? Closed emergency doors, which prevented any escape; the ability to steal and use a police armored vehicle, and the assistance of a lot of very high technology, employed in the name of mass slaughter. What can you tell us?”
“Let me make it clear that investigations are still at an early stage,” said Jones. “I can confirm that we have the body of a male who, we believe, could be the perpetrator based on video evidence and statements of some of the survivors—“
“Do we know who he is?”
“Not yet. The state of the body means it will take some time to identify.”
“And what about the reason for the attack? Do we know anything? Have there been any claims for credit?
“No. Whoever it was, whoever was behind it, the object of the attack was pretty clearly to spread terror, and it has been an unprecedented week for it.”
“Are there any links between this and the City Hall bombing on Monday?”
“We’re not ruling it out. The City Hall bombing, the attack on the County Annex building on Wednesday, and the tunnel and Belltown strikes yesterday are all ongoing investigations. I can’t say much more than that.”
“Thank you for giving us some of your time, Chief Jones. Back to you, Natalie!”The video cut back to the studio. “Thanks, Boyd. In the wake of the attack, there has been a lot of speculation about involvement by the UPF and radicalized pro-life terror organizations. With us is Victoria Johnson of the Queen City Civil Action Taskforce …”“Victoria Johnson?” Sarah looked at Tina. “Wasn’t she the Party worker who was arrested the other day for hosting in-home sex and alcohol parties for teenagers?” “Charges were dropped,” replied Tina, watching the screen. “Leonard’s office put her on the list when we formed QC-CAT this morning. You told me to just get it done, so I didn’t object—not that objections carry any weight with him anyway.” “Indeed not,” said Sarah thoughtfully. “ … seems very clear,” the guest was saying. “This appears to be a coordinated effort. UPF supplies the ex-military know-how and the pro-lies supply the foot soldiers to carry it out. With the election two and a half weeks away this wave of attacks is obviously an attempt to influence it, to make us feel that only some right-wing strongman can stave off the chaos. I think it’s no accident that we had a very late-breaking campaign announcement today—“
“ThankyouVictoria!” said the anchor suddenly, “and speaking of campaign announcements, we had one this afternoon from long-rumored but now-official Third District candidate Dr. Rhys Macklin … ““My!” Sarah looked at Tina, cocking her head slightly. “Was that crash I just heard someone going off script?” Elsewhere, Ralna’s PDA buzzed. “Yes, sir?” “Ralna, are you still in the office?” “Yes, sir. Just completing.” “Good. Ralna, code one-eight-eight-two-two-seven sigma.” She snapped to a fully-erect sitting position in her office chair. “I have a task for you … “>< >< >< “ … suspect in the Belltown condominium shooting, in which there were twenty-seven casualties, believed to have connection with right-wing militia groups.” A picture of a young woman appeared on the screen, with writing crawling underneath it. “Jenna Cavanas, university student, age twenty-one, Caucasian, five feet seven inches tall, one hundred thirty pounds, has medium-length straight brown hair in a ponytail, last seen wearing a suede and fleece coat. Believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. If you see her, do not approach. Call nine-one-one immediately, citing Operation Gribble.”Vartan switched off the news, hearing, at this point, a buzz from the lobby of his First and Broad dwelling, or rather, from the lobby of the building in which his main entrance lay. He put down the coffee—real old-fashioned coffee, not ‘bux—which was a feature of his getting ready for a new day, which would be a busy one devoted to the arcane protocols of calling a Gathering, and touched the comlink button. “Yes?” The voice of the concierge came over the speaker. His picture also appeared on the cam, but he didn’t know that. “Sorry, Mister Vee. Someone wants to see you. Claims you know him and I can’t get rid of him without making a scene. Says his name’s Shaz.” “Hmm … yes, it’s all right. Send him on, Charlie.” Vartan clicked off, and within a minute or two was letting the man in the front door. “Hey, boss man, thanks,” said Shaz. He ventured in, taking an edgy look around and then quickly doffed his snap-brim hat. His nose also took in the peculiar odor of the place, at once metallic and slightly fragrant, like the scent of day-old runners’ sweat socks mixed with gardenia. “Shasvaputram Inarritu Garcia y Cong,” Vartan greeted him solemnly. “I’m impressed that you found my home. You are a persistent little tick, aren’t you?” “I know I’m not s’pose ta look you up, but gaw damn boss, you di’n’t answer my calls and I gotta tell you there’s some stupit’ sick shit goin’ down out there which is affecting my bottom line, which is also yo’ bottom line, dig?” Vartan turned and walked a pace or two, extending an arm toward a leather-upholstered armchair. “Sit down, Mr. Garcia. Would you like some coffee?” “No thanks, boss, I—“ Vartan turned again, quickly, his coattails whirling. “This is not the street, where business is conducted in a standing position. Sit, Mr. Garcia,” he repeated, meeting the little pimp’s gaze with his own. Shaz sat down in the indicated chair, looking around at the exposed Victorian brickwork and old-world furnishings and oriental carpets. “Um, I like what ya done with the place, boss,” he muttered, turning his hat over in his hands. “Thank you. You see? Even in your brain, an atom or two of civilized mind has found a disused cranny to lodge in. Now, to what do I owe the, ah, pleasure of your visit, Mr. Garcia?” “’S about what’s goin’ down, boss. Taylor. Kecia. Ricky’s gal Saydi. Jesykaah, Shequean, Mandiy, a lot a’ the hoes—and runnas too, Tranh the Man, Alcee Duke, and a ton a’ others. They’re turnin’ fuckin’ weird, boss. Killin’ customers, killin’ each other, and Ah don’ mean with guns but teeth an’ nails, rippin’ each other ta pieces. What is it? Some kinda new drug? What’s goin’ down? What do I tell ma peeps? You gotta gimme sumthin’ boss.” “What is the theory currently making the rounds amongst the peeps?” enquired Vartan solemnly, settling down in a chair facing the other. “New drugs, some as say, but ain’t nobody can find none. Some as say they turnin’ inta vampiyas.” “Vampires? Fascinating. Well, Mr. Garcia, let me put your mind at ease. That idea is absolutely …” the agent’s finger moved, and two hidden metal wrist collars popped out of Shaz’s chair arms to encircle his wrists-- “true.”“Hey!” squawked Shaz. “What th’ fuck, man?? Lemme go!” “I’d rather not risk you beating an untimely and most uncivilized retreat before we’re done,” said Vartan. “You see, Mr. Garcia, I’ve had my suspicions about you for a while. I recruited Taylor in order to help me confirm or allay them. And they were, I grieved to discover, confirmed.” “What th’ fuck?” repeated Shaz. “What s’spicions?” “Taylor, acting for me, passed you marked money, which I was able to trace after you spent it. Imagine my surprise at discovering where so much of it went! Not on rents of various sorts, or payola to local cops; not on pharma, legal or illegal—that’s legitimate overhead—and so is a certain amount of bling. That’s marketing budget, of a sort. All legitimate enough. But paying off Leonard Chung for protection? You disappoint—nay, you shame me, Mr. Garcia. I am your protection. I fix things with Mr. Chung’s people, not you. As it is, it turns out I was paying him twice, once myself and once through you. Double-dipping is just wrong. And to have Mr. Chung think that I acquiesce in it makes me look like a fool, a weakling, or both. And that, I assure you, I am not.” “’Course not, nah nevah dawg,” Shaz mumbled. Immediately, Vartan rose, his face draining to a sickly white, his eyes glowing like lit nick sticks. He circled around and came to a crouch beside Shaz’s chair with his face stuck close to the pimp’s. “’Dog … ?’” he asked, very quietly. “Are you— implying something??” “No, boss, Ah di’n’t mean nuthin’! Jus’ sayin’!” Shaz moaned. “I thought I had a use for you,” Vartan whispered. “Then I didn’t. Now I think I do.” “What?”
“Breakfast.” Shaz saw Vartan’s face appear in front of him, ghastly white with drumhead-tight skin stretched over sharp bones, deep, hell-pit eyes, and mouth opening, gaping wide, needle-sharp teeth seeking his life-channel. Then motion, and pain, and screaming for it to go away. And it did, slowly, slowly, into the void, and vanished as if it had never been. >< >< >< Having incised precisely, carotid artery severed, teeth meeting nearly together in the flesh so as not to make a mess, Vartan had a good old-fashioned suck—not just a little one but a complete drain such as he hadn’t had in … in months, anyway. He had become used to retail, sustenance from a glass or bottle or plastic pack, rather than pumped straight into his mouth by a still-beating heart in sticky-salty gouts, one after another. It was definitely more satisfying in a visceral and uncivilized way—an emotional way. It tasted fresher, if it had a slight tang due to Shaz’s consumption habits. He finished feeling a little bloated but not at all bad. Soon the feeling would change to mild euphoria, and he would face his night’s work in better spirits than before. All work and no play … Yes, he would definitely have to do this a little more often. With victims a little, well, sweeter. >< >< >< >< >< >< Debi had got the inevitable call from Janine during the day and, inevitably, she was on Janine’s doorstep now. It was becoming all too familiar. Janine Sandoval was obviously suffering from some deep paranoid psychosis with a vampire fixation. The only thing she could do was string Janine along quietly, waiting for an opportunity to—to— what? Report her to the police? What was she doing that she would be arrested for? She was—or thought she was—dining on the priest’s blood, but that was consensual; Father Craig was agreeing to it. She had questioned Debi at gunpoint the first time they had met, but Debi had been trespassing, legally speaking. She was treating Debi herself cruelly and threatening her, but they were also having sex, and Debi was coming here herself, and wasn’t even the minor that her ID said she was. It could all be written off as rough play by cops sympathetic to Janine, which they would be once it was revealed that Debi was in school under false pretences. It was all very well set up, and Debi saw nothing she could do about it, so here she was again. The door opened; Janine was dressed in clingy black and red that showed off her ripe figure, and made-up to match. “Hello, Debi,” she smiled. “I’m so glad you could make the time.” “Charmed, I’m sure,” muttered Debi, stepping up as her hostess held the door open. Might as well play along, say along—at least you don’t have to look happy with it. “I hope you brought your appetite,” said Janine, closing the door and escorting Debi in. Debi didn’t stop Janine taking her coat. “I have something delicious laid on for you, afterwards.” Debi looked around, and sniffed the air. She didn’t smell any food. “Okay,” she said cautiously. Janine noticed her. “Oh, I didn’t prepare it myself,” she told Debi. “I had it delivered, if you don’t mind. I’m actually terrible at cooking. No instinct for it, you see.” “What’s on the menu?” For an answer, Janine opened the door down to the basement. “Afterwards,” she said. Debi hesitated, but the older woman gently but firmly propelled her to the top of the stairs. Once again, Debi had no choice, so she started down, as Janine closed the door and locked it behind them— a two-way key lock, Debi noticed. Down they went, and in the lounge area Debi stopped cold. In front of them, in the middle of the basement, lay a futon-like mat on a platform, to which a naked young man was securely but not tightly bound, arms and legs spread-eagled, his mouth taped shut. Something slid around one of Debi’s wrists, but before she could yank away it went around the other and was pulled snug, zizizzzip. The man’s eyes rolled toward them strangely, as if he’d been drugged somehow. “Sorry,” Janine said, “but I just want to make sure you’re not going to be overtaken by any, ah, scruples from your old life. In beginning vampirism, as in illness and pain, the body leads while the mind follows behind. But I’m a good-- teacher.” Debi tried to break away but Janine put out a high-heeled shoe and shoved her back, tripping her and making her fall, luckily, onto a mat. Something was made fast around one of her ankles—one only—and Janine, suddenly gentle again, helped her sit upright. One of Debi’s feet was now leashed to a leg of the bed by about a five-foot vinylon rope with a braided eye, through which another plastic zip-tie bound her ankle. “Shall we begin?” Janine asked. She rose in one motion and walked around to the head of the platform. “Wait,” said Debi. “You’re not going to—“ she mouthed the words, eat him-- “are you?” “No, of course not,” replied Janine, caressing his head, running his fingers through his hair. Then she bent down to give him a small kiss, then another, here and there. “I’m going to show him a good time. You’re going to watch.” Debi felt some tension leave her. So, this was going to be a little fantasy playtime for Janine, with some B&D while Debi played the young nymph made to watch the wicked queen at work. Again with the fantasy—all deniable, all plausible, all—strictly—legal, or not illegal anyway. It fit Janine’s profile: kinky, pushing the envelope to the very edge of legality without actually going over. They’d have some Chinese or something afterward, Janine would then have sex with her, and she’d be back home again after midnight so as to be up in time for CDF drill on the morrow. She could play along for tonight. Janine made love to the bound man slowly, kissing and stroking him all over, touching him in ways that made him quiver occasionally. She stripped off some of her own clothes where he could see it, and touched herself, pushing aside her knickers to stir her honey pot and tasting it, and holding it under his nose. She massaged her breasts. She used some massage oil on him, kissing him more, all over except on his taped mouth. She was very good at it and brought him to a big, hard erection, and Debi felt herself getting a little wet, too. Janine knelt over him, fondling the erection, and then put it in her, moving slowly up and down and around and around him as he moaned softly beneath the tape. She teased him, pulling off before he could ejaculate, showing Debi his dark, stiff, glistening cock. “Get ‘em close, but don’t let ‘em come,” she told Debi. “Now, c’mere.” Debi obeyed, moving in. “Hold his tool,” instructed Janine. “Squeeze it, my pet. Good. Now suck it a little—just the tip. Don’t worry, he’s clean.” Debi obeyed, teasing it with her tongue, letting her lips close around it. “Now, hold on with one hand—move your head down—kiss his face.” Debi did, feeling the man’s rough face and smelling a little perspiration despite the cool basement air. She could feel Janine also doing something to his maleness; his breath quickened, air rushing in and out through his nostrils, quickening—he was about to come—and in a quick motion Debi felt her hair seized and her head yanked back while Janine’s other hand moved—a splash of something—and Debi’s open mouth was rammed against the man’s neck. “Drink!” the order rang in her ear. Debi tasted hot, thick, sweet-sour fluid—blood was in her mouth, flowing fast. Her throat heaved, but Janine’s hands on her head were like iron stanchions. “Drink! Swallow! Breathe through your nose—swallow, or you’ll choke!” And she did—she had to. And while her throat—her middle part—resisted, gagging, her brain and her loins felt a rush, like some strange and terrible power coming into her from both ends, settling into her nicely, insinuating itself into her veins and creeping down toward her heart and stomach where the resistance lay. You can do this, came an insidious whisper. You have the power. Take it. Use it. Live. Evolve. Fear nothing. Live!!
“Suck!” came Janine’s voice, added to the other. “Swallow! Again!” Debi obeyed, then choked. She felt dizzy, nauseous, weak, but somehow, oddly, triumphant, too, as if she had just escaped some potentially fatal ordeal with her life; as if opening her eyes to realize she had just survived a crash which should have killed her. She felt the power. She collapsed. There was no counterforce. A little time went by. Debi felt hot and cold by turns, a head rush. She worked herself up to elbows and knees, then put down her head and retched. She put her head up, and looked at the man, unmoving and slack and pale, his neck opened jaggedly and blood everywhere but inside where it belonged. On his skin, on the platform bed, on the mat—she looked at her hands, now unbound—on her, too. All over her. Debi yanked herself away— whoa, her leg tie was still on. She grasped at it but her hands were helpless against the tough plastic. It would take a sharp tool to get through that, and that she did not have. She turned again, to see Janine squatting a few feet away. “Welcome to the world, baby girl,” Janine said, smiling coldly. “I—you—he— he’s dead!!” sputtered Debi. “You killed him!” “Little old me?” asked Janine. “The spinster schoolteacher? I don’t think so. I’m not the one who sucked his blood out. You are. I saw you.” “You made me! You cut his neck and shoved my face against it!” accused Debi hotly. “And you’re keeping me prisoner here!” She gave her leg a shake. “Just between you and me and boyfriend there, what you say is true. To anyone else, what happened is that you walked right in on me and boyfriend having a little B&D fun. We let you play vampire with us. Then you lost it—you just freaked and started believing you really were one. I tried to pull you off his neck, but, alas, to no avail—the deed was done.” Janine put a forearm to her brow, melodrama-style. “That you’re delusional is credible. After all, you’re representing yourself as a seventeen-year-old high-school student. The people you say are your parents will deny even knowing who you are. I know—I’ve had a chat with them.” “You crazy bitch!” Debi shot. “The minute you let me go, I’m outta here and off this fucking island!” “With the police right on your tail. After all, you’ll be wanted for a rather sensational home invasion and murder, not to mention criminal impersonation and fraud.” Debi said nothing. “I’ve got you, lovie. I have, you know,” Janine said. “But you see, I really mean you well. I like you. I even love you, in my own way. But I’m a goddess, and you have to understand how being with gods and goddesses works. You roll with them. You do what they say, when they say it, and you reap the rewards—but if you depart from it, you’re lost. I don’t want that to happen to you, Debi. Stick with me, and you will leave here, in time, with your mission far more successful than you ever dreamed it could. Leave me now, and hell will take you. It is that simple.” “I didn’t choose you,” said Debi resentfully. “Ah, but you did, the first time you walked through that gate out there. You did it. You chose me, I accepted you, and it was done. Now I’m doing my job. I’ve made you mine, and you’re my baby girl. Now I’m bringing you up to be like me.” “How long will that take?” “With your talent, not long,” replied Janine. “It’s like getting fit and healthy. Speed and quality of result depend on how well you stay with the program.” Debi considered. She had no idea how much blood had actually gone down her gullet, but it a couple of swallows, surely enough to have made her ill—to have made any normal person ill. But she felt queasy no more. In fact, she felt pretty good physically. “Okay,” she said. “Where to, then? You let me go, then what? We have some dinner and romance?” “You’ve already eaten,” said Janine, taking a pace toward her. “You’re not hungry now.” This was true. “And you won’t be hungry for quite a while, maybe noon tomorrow depending on how much you had.” The woman squatted down again, reached out for Debi’s face, and guided it to her own with a hand on her cheek. It felt so right … so strong, so good … and Janine leaned in and kissed Debi on the lips, tenderly, sensuously, passionately, the kiss, the one from the fairytales she’d dreamed of as a little girl, only now made real and a hundred times more powerful. Janine was a disturbed woman, a monster even … but this felt so good … “Come upstairs,” Janine smiled, warmly this time, and cut the zip-tie with a little pocket blade. Debi decided to roll along, this once-more time. The monster could be dealt with tomorrow. >< >< >< >< >< >< Rhys’ office was small; Ralna had not had to stay very late to finish the moving preparations. She had loaded all her extra clothes and gear into a duffle bag with shoulder straps, gone down to the street, cinched up, checked the lacing on her trainers, and then simply taken off at a jog. The distance home was a little less than two miles; with streetlights, at an easy trot with a pack of only thirty-odd pounds, done in sixteen minutes. She went up the steps two at a time, then descended and did them again the same way, and finally let herself in, having achieved optimum heartrate and oxygenation as prescribed for workouts of that length. She would really have to go to Sir and revisit the question of being allowed to jog to work, quickly and healthfully, rather than inefficiently spending time and money on the bus. Then it was a quick strip-off, clothes in the cleaning basket and shoes in the e-stat, body into the shower, cool and healthful, and then to the kitchen, with the bed and bath the only really furnished room in the place, and, like them, devoid of decoration, which did not interest her. She herself was a work of art, Sir’s work, his masterpiece, and that sufficed. Dinner preparation took a while as it had to consist of two thousand calories’ worth of fresh ingredients—the equivalent of one hundred and fifty carrots, for example--with kind and amount of animal product strictly limited. Dinner, but not its cleanup, was behind her when her com-unit’s bar flashed. She said: “Accept.” No holo appeared; she had disabled the function as unnecessary. It was, as she knew, Sir. “Good evening, Ralna. I trust this is a good time?” It was—any time would have been good. “You are home? Excellent. Before the datasession, I’d like to discuss the press conference today.” “Yes, sir.” “At the press conference, we confronted an unexpected factor—your fandom. I decided to let you say a few words. And, as I should have realized, where there are fans, there are also detractors, and I made the decision, despite initial misgivings, to let you address your detractor as well. Those two situations both called for self-directed thought, but the second one also called for independent evaluation and judgment, similar to the situation with Taylor.” “Yes, sir.” “Your evaluation and judgment were quite different from any parameters or even any model I would have set; they originated quite outside the box. They resulted in rather more media focus on your person than I would have preferred. That said, your performance was breathtaking. I must rate it as superior.” “Thank you, sir.” “And, that said, the need for discretion and modesty is now paramount. You are, I believe, physically and mentally more than equal to any individual. But you have, perforce, appeared in the public arena, where rules are quite different, and anyone, including you, can be ruined in different ways. There will be consequences from this that we cannot foresee or predict under any model. Therefore, I must restrict you from any independent action of a public character. You will not post on any social media or grant any interviews with media representatives. You will not comment on any of your public words or actions, and you will refer any personal questions to me for disposition. You will adopt enhanced measures to prevent any possible outside surveillance of yourself or your premises. These measures are temporary, in place until further notice.” “Yes, sir. Understood—and,” she added, “entirely agreeable to me.” “Good. Any questions?” “If you wish me to lower my profile, sir, would you still desire me to commute to work using the public transit system, or would it be more discreet to travel individually, on foot or by bicycle? It would be conducive to fitness as well.” “H’m. You would have to take care to proceed defensively. We wouldn’t want you crossing an intersection and getting hit by a Flybo, and then have to explain why you were alright while the car was totaled.” “No, sir. Understood.” “Then so long as you take care to go safely, arrive punctually, and vary your route at random, no less than twice a week, that is an excellent idea. Implement, beginning with your overtime day tomorrow.” “Thank you, sir. No further questions.” She then prepared for upload, conveying the records of her activities since the morning, which would be followed by download, receiving data necessary for support of scheduled tasks, and then an evening on her own. She would not be idle. >< >< >< In a dark little bedroom on Alder Island, there was a sound of someone shifting among the covers, then again; then two people at once, and then one again. Then a low-set night light was switched on, revealing a nightstand, the side of a duvet-and-quilt-piled bed, and John Brunett’s wide-eyed face and long, thin, white arm, which he withdrew quickly into the covers. He moved his head to stare up at the ceiling. “Thanks,” said another voice, a girl’s—Kayleigh’s. “I like it when you turn the light off.” His mouth opened; his protuberant lips worked for a moment, and he said: “Sa-sa-sa-sawahright.” There was a long silence, broken by a movement in the covers now and then. Eventually, Kayleigh’s voice spoke again. “You’re worried, aren’t you? I can tell.” “N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n—“ “Yes, I know you are, John. You’re worried … about Mom, is that it? Something’s up with her, isn’t it? I can tell it is.” After a short silence, he admitted: “Yuh.” “Yeah.” There was another long silence. John rolled over and his face disappeared from the light. “She’s gonna leave us, you know.” He grunted. She went on: “I don’t mean go away. But she’s—she’s with some guy—sometimes—I’m sure of it. She acts different. She’s got things on her mind.” Silence. “Wu-wu-wu-wu-wu-wu-wuh-wuh--?” he began. “I don’t know,” she replied. “How are you—I mean—you like Jodenne Witonski, don’t you? She’s alright, isn’t she?” “Yuth.” “I know she likes you a lot.” Silence, several minutes’ worth, with several cover moments coming nearly together toward the end. Then Kayleigh said: “I—I’m pregnant. I think.” “Uh-huh-huh-huh-wuh-wuth—?” “I don’t know,” she said again. “Maybe you, maybe not.” “Nnn-nnnnnnn—not?” John asked, his voice rising in apparent surprise. “Yuh-huh-huh-huh-huh—?“ “Yes, I have. I told you.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mom is gonna freak.” “Yuh-huh-yuh-yuh-yuh think?” “Oh, yeah. That I know. She might even … make me leave.” “N-n-n-nu-nu-nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-huh,” replied John firmly. “Or even worse, make me wish I was gone—yes,” she said, putting a finger on his lip. “If she wasn’t seeing a man, it wouldn’t be that way. But she is, and it would.” John lay back, his huge, pale eyes glowing, staring at the ceiling. Kayleigh, on her side, rested a forearm on his narrow, bony chest, while he stroked her, haltingly, with a hairless arm. “Know one thing,” she said at last. “I have a boyfriend, too. But I won’t leave you until you are set with someone else who won’t leave you.” “Okay,” he said. Outside, the night wind rose, rushing through the trees and making a wind chime jangle out by the porch. The faint tinkle came up the stairwell and mingled with the sound of Merilee snoring two rooms away. Far away, a dog barked. They both stayed awake, wordless, for a very long time. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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