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Benders
SINCERE WARNING:
I promise the story that follows will deeply offend some
people. Think of the "more" prompt as a lottery of
filth; if you don't want
to win, don't play. (Better yet, unsubscribe.) If you're a member
of the
target audience, however, you might recognize these characters
as The People
in Your Neighborhood, whom you meet each day. They're all figments
of my
imagination, though. Not meant to resemble any persons living
or dead, in any
way. Aaaaaall made up. Yessiree.
I'm posting this in a.s.s because I can't think of any other
place where
it would be tolerated as a matter of course. The actual sex comes
late in the
story and is hopelessly consensual, nonviolent and character-oriented,
hardly
standard fuck-book issue, so I expect a few flames from disappointed
masturbators. Feel free to re-post it somewhere else, or even
to print out
copies and show it to your non-net friends, keeping the authorship
and leader
intact, of course. Feedback is appreciated.
_benders_ is a sort of pre-quel sequel to a much longer
story of the
same name. The action here takes place about two months after
the original
book ends. I'm posting this because I've lost my voice on chapter
three and
I'd like to see if I'm even headed in the right direction. Yes,
it's rough,
yes, it's a little cryptic...but can you dig it?
Thanks to Rabbit, who was there; to Marisa, for familiarizing
me with
Susan's condition; and to the Lady Herself, for making all this
necessary.
Hope you enjoy the fairy tale.
mduncan@sugar.neosoft.com
22 May 1993
.............................................................................
But ah! what good to mortal mind is sense,
What good to hearts is kindness, hands benevolence,
When through the state a fever runs and revels,
And evil hatches more and more of evils?
Who views the wide realm from this height supreme,
To him all seems like an oppressive dream,
Where in confusion is confusion reigning,
And lawlessness by law itself maintaining,
A world of error forever obtaining.
-- Johan Wolfgang von Goethe
benders.
by Mike Duncan. Copyright 1993.
In the barren
front room of a Houston office they'd rented under a false
name, three sixteen-year-old boys sat huddled around a computer
terminal,
busy stealing ten thousand dollars a day, the full limit of what
Mentat
Security had authorized. Their plan, also approved and certified
by the
Foundation as a potentially dangerous extracurricular activity,
involved
shuffling borrowed money from one account to another in large
amounts and in
a way that took advantage of the timing of electronic bank transfers.
The
actual mechanics of the operation were terrifyingly complex;
Tran navigated
the stealer with his left hand on the mouse and his right over
the numeric
keypad, the advert_id=impact on the screen flowing directly into his consciousness,
his
face sharply wrenched with the pain of a mental trance.
Ruben ate from a bag of Doritos and shook his head in time
to
Metallica's _Ride the Lightning_, while Josh occasionally glanced
up from his
Terrible Ted's laptop interface to rub his eyes and yawn. It
had cost a
pretty penny to rent a Ted from the Foundation, but as long as
Josh watched
it, he knew there were no police around and no one in the outside
world knew
or cared who the three thieves were.
Looking up again, Josh said, "Wash your hands, man.
You're next."
"Patience, neat freak," Ruben said. "The
time has not yet come."
Tran made no outward sign he'd heard the exchange; in the
thin gray
strip that represented external reality, his mind logged the
activity, found
it insignificant, and disregarded it. Meanwhile, in his main
field of
thought, the mental images of two separate computer networks
superimposed and
flashed as he manipulated the harmonics of the systems' links,
wringing a
tiny fraction of error from each transaction as funds sloshed
from one bank
to another across the country. _Enough with North Carolina for
now,_ he
thought. _Let's scrape out Manhattan._
"Those are revolting," Josh said, gesturing to
the Doritos, then,
speaking to his computer: "It's illogical to poison yourself
with empty
calories." This last carried a hint of accusation; in the
Foundation's
slippery rank classification, Josh scored somewhat above, and
thus was
considered more powerful than, Ruben.
"True enough. But to each his own poison, huh, Josh?"
Josh flinched.
"Besides, it's good food for the munchies." Ruben stood
and went to wash his
hands.
"I don't know how you two can work on that shit."
"Same way you work wired."
The doorbell buzzed briefly. Before it stopped, Josh plucked
his
silenced HK-93 from the floor and stepped out of the door's direct
line of
sight, shouldering the weapon and preparing to flick the safety
off. Ruben
glided from the bathroom to a position left of the door, his
arms crossed
under his jacket, one hand on his P226, also silenced, in its
special
shoulder holster. Tran didn't look up.
Without taking the time to spin up, Josh concentrated on
the space
beyond the closed suite door. Though blind to living tissue,
his mentat's
talent revealed a lone figure standing in the hallway...probably
a man,
judging by what the hang of his clothing revealed of his skeletal
structure.
Changing focus, Josh picked up the compact metal mass of a loaded
gun in a
belt holster. He tightened his finger on the safety and jerked
his head twice
at Ruben, who bared his teeth in understanding and nodded back.
"Who _is_ it?" Ruben called sweetly.
Muffled by the door: "Harlan Jackson, Mentat Security.
Put that thing
away before you kill somebody, for Christ's sake."
Josh returned to Terrible Ted, again laying his rifle on
the carpet
beside him.
Ruben opened the door, and Harlan walked in, a tall, intense
black man
in his early twenties. Stepping into the room, he pulled off
his scarf to
reveal the silver scores and insignia pinned to his black jacket,
identifying
himself, and scanned the room -- the setup, the young mutants
and their
physical attitudes. He sniffed the air and added that to his
observation.
Satisfied, his eyes returned to Ruben.
By now Ruben had read and interpreted Harlan's scores, and
he stood up
a little straighter and ran a hand through his hair. "Dude,"
he said by way
of salute.
"Friendly neighborhood secret police, makin' a house
call," Harlan said,
surveying the room again more closely. "We have to keep
an eye on you
assholes to make sure your activities don't threaten the safety
and security
of the Foundation and the blah, blah, blah." Again his eyes
fell on Ruben.
"Nice decor."
"Everything's been approved," Ruben said quickly.
"Where's your Sally?" Harlan asked. It was common
practice for mentat
crime cabals to retain a telepath or two for additional protection
when
pitching their tent for an extended period. Depending on the
crime, a Sweet
Sally could command quite a fee. Josh glanced up at the question,
then
knotted his brows and returned to his screen.
"We don't have one."
"You don't _have_ one! What are you going to do if
some lowlife
Flatlander kicks in your door, blow him away in front of God
and everybody?
This isn't Foundation soil, man, you can't just sweep that shit
under the rug
so easily out here."
"It was approved," Ruben said, gaining confidence.
"There shouldn't be
any local law trouble, and if things go RCF" -- randomly,
catastrophically
fuckola, as in a robbery attempt or demon attack -- "we
can defend ourselves
with small arms, yes."
"And they approved that." Harlan tilted his head
back.
"They did."
"Aw, I don't fuckin' believe this." Harlan shook
his head, then examined
Tran's screen.
"Speaking of our friends in MS, a courier dropped off
an eight-ball of
mighty fine powder this morning," Josh said without looking
at Harlan. "Want
some?"
"No thanks," said Harlan, also without making
eye contact.
"Oops, okay, sorry. 'Master of Puppets' and all that."
"Nah, I don't give a shit." Harlan squinted. "Bank
wank, huh? First time
out?"
"Second," Ruben admitted.
Harlan stared at Tran. "Gets into his work, doesn't
he?"
Now Josh did look at Harlan. "Hey, man, you're in the
short lance with
Pelcher and Guile the Antichrist, aren't you?"
"Indeed I am," Harlan replied. "He's not
much of an antichrist off-duty,
though. And I wouldn't call him that around Goblin. We all call
him 'A.C.'"
"I thought you weren't supposed to like your code name."
"He's not the one who gets pissed."
"Is he really as good as everybody says?"
Harlan snorted. "Better, if we're hearing the same
stories."
"What's he like?" the boy asked.
"He sleeps with my ex-girlfriend," Harlan said
resentfully, meaning
Susan Pelcher. With his face turned away from Jackson, Ruben
pursed his lips
with desire. Though only nineteen, Goblin had already distinguished
herself
in Foundation North America's Q5 program, racking up a hundred
and fifty-
seven flags against the demons, helping to keep the world somewhat
safe for
mutantkind, and in MS, where her skill at brain-raping Senators
and captains
of industry had earned her the grudging but well-deserved admiration
of
operatives twice her age. And she was fine, too.
"That sucks," said Josh without much conviction.
"Yeah. Well, I can see you guys are running a tiptop
Boy Scout operation
here, and although it pains me somewhat to say it, I don't think
I can cite
you on any Code violations, except perhaps being cheap bastards...and
denying
some indolent girl a little pocket money. Provided you get this
fucking rifle
off the floor, that is." Harlan nudged Josh's Heckler &
Koch with his foot.
"They let you carry field arms around on the street. Inside
of the barrel
looks filthy, too. What's the world coming to. Okay, well, have
fun."
Ruben showed Harlan the door. The older mentat draped his
scarf over his
jacket again, scanned the hallway, and left.
"I wonder what's like to work with Guile Edwards,"
Josh said
wonderingly.
Or to ride his woman like a wild stallion, Ruben thought.
"I hear he's
real normal."
"What the fuck is normal?" Tran said, making the
others jump.
Recovering, Ruben said, "Not like Custer Triumphant
or something, like
so many snappers. Imposing. You know."
Josh did know. All mentats knew. It was tough, in certain
ways, not to
have direct mental influence over the outside world. Bad enough
that some
women could read minds and imprint their bad trips on others
at will; worse
that the rest of the mutant men and women, the snappers, enjoyed
a sort of
exoskeletal telekinesis, allowing them to behave like cartoons
in the face of
physical danger. If you were Chosen, all you could do was rely
on the Great
Curve and try to aim for their fillings.
So he said, with a little bitterness, "What does he
have to feel
threatened by? Susan the Felcher sleeps on the end of his bed,
it is rumored,
ready to spring to awakening and murder with buckshot any who
would _dare_
to --"
"Better shut up. She can probably hear you from wherever
she is."
"So?"
"Hey, fat boy," Tran said, still scowling. "You
wanna come give me a
break?"
"Yeah, balance it."
Soon Ruben was angry, Tran messaged his temples and tweezed
one of Ted's
controls, and Josh knelt over a low table, carefully scooping
sifted cocaine
onto a polished mirror, anticipating the crispness of it.
"You got the easy job," Tran said.
"I think my cut reflects that fact, thank you. I've
worked with Pelcher,
by the way. How anyone can stay so stoned and still be such a
bitch is beyond
me." Still, that petite body, that auburn hair, those reddish-brown
eyes...just thinking of what she could do to your pleasure centers
in five
_minutes_ if she were really trying...the thought turned Josh's
dork into
cement. He pushed the fantasy away, saving it for later, when
he was alone.
Tran mimicked their Criminal Science instructor. "'Based
on your
temperament and past experiences, sir, logic suggests you're
speaking out of
jealousy.' You friggin' breeder."
"Perhaps. Excuse me a second." With two strong
sniffs, Josh improved his
world. "Does it matter?" He sat back to wait for the
ride.
"Been back to Mendel recently?"
"No, I try to stay away. Until -- ah." It had
begun. "Until next
quarter, when I join Q5 and become a bender like whiny boy out
there, there's
no reason to leave the Security safehouse." He felt the
rising urge to grow
expansive on Harlan's shortcomings as one-time concubine to the
Mentat Ideal,
but squashed it.
"Pelcher's trying to kick."
"Really?" Josh grinned evilly. "What fun."
Sobriety was
coming hard for the Goblin Queen. It had been six days --
well, okay, five and a very long half -- since Susan's last joint,
and word
had already gotten around the compound that she wasn't losing
her mind or
having an early mid-life crisis, she was merely kicking her trademark
monkey
off her back. Mendel being what it was, nobody harassed her,
and she even
received offers of support from some unexpected places, but none
of it helped
very much; no more so than, say, gritting her teeth, which she
was getting
good at.
It also didn't help that she had to walk past the drug dispensary
every
afternoon on the way to work. It was located in the Mentat Security
building,
and because the dickheads were touchy about people wandering
around in there,
they'd placed the long glass Soma Counter just inside the east
entrance,
where long rays of evening sun could filter through the East
Texas pines and
caress the panoply of mind-warping delights displayed there.
If you elbowed
your way through the perpetual scum of window-shopping Family
members with
their beads and tie-dye saying DUDE and DIG IT and handed the
dickhead on
duty your ID and credit chip, he'd smirk at you and then bring
you whatever
you wanted: Foundation Gold Bud, Byrd's Best Red, Smash Hash...ahh.
Or
ecstasy, PK25, CN8, coke, even horse tranquilizers, if that's
what you really
wanted. For Susan, for the past two years, it had always been
grass. But not
any more.
A couple of glasses of wine before bed, wrapped up in Guile's
arms while
they watched the sun rise, weren't the same as getting really
baked. Neither
were the long walks in the woods, the hours spent meditating
and wandering
the Frontier under the faceless onyx benediction of the Black
Goddess, or the
time spent screwing the pants off Edwards when they could both
find a hole in
their schedules. Together, though, these things formed a sort
of composite
crutch, and by day five-and-a-half she began to think she might
actually make
it.
That afternoon, two U.S. Marshals met her across from the
Soma Counter,
beneath the huge Mentat Security emblem, a silver skeletal winged
serpent on
a field of black. They were both low-power snappers; the younger
one wore a
government suit with a faux-boring tie, and the other wore cowboy
clothes,
boots, and the wrinkled-in perpetual frown of a hardass. They
seemed to be
representatives of different contingents, and when they had to
be in the same
room together they stayed at opposite ends.
The suit, whose name was Wagner, briefed her at the back
of the upstairs
teaching theater. Down front, on the podium, a naked man helped
a woman with
blue hair dissect the guidance system from a thousand-pound laser
bomb.
Wagner tried not to appear disoriented and failed.
"Is that everything you need?" Wagner asked at
last.
"I think so," Susan said. "You've been pretty
thorough. Assuming your op
in Kansas City places her marker properly, and assuming Michaud
stays put
until morning, it shouldn't be any trouble finding him."
"She'll be fifty miles away, though."
Susan shrugged. "And I'm a thousand miles away. It
doesn't matter."
"I don't understand how this shit works, to be honest
with you. What
does 'screed 24B' mean?"
In this case, it meant that Michaud, her target, could be
identified in
part by his sexual preference for violence with young children,
which left a
musty, stinking cloud in the Frontier if you were looking for
it. The
question itself also meant that Wagner was new at this, and if
she mentioned
it to Molly, he wouldn't be returning to Mendel. The Goblin Queen
smiled and
shrugged again.
Wagner closed his leather folder. "Don't you want to
know what this guy
did?"
Susan stopped smiling. "I really don't."
You learned not to ask. They came to you with a mandate
-- a spec-sheet,
they called it in the Temple -- and you knew better than to probe,
no matter
what they paid you by the minute. A spec-sheet, a time line,
and they asked
you no questions and usually expected the same courtesy in return.
Professionalism. When her pager lit up BLACK STAR Q2 -- REPORT,
it meant that
the Foundation brass had collectively decided someone out there
was better
off dead, and the Foundation's say-so was good enough for Susan.
It kept her
sane, anyway, and watching Uma coo and sing to her bomb while
she picked
little bits of it apart and handed them to Jerry made Susan appreciate
little
things like her sanity. What was left of it, anyway.
An hour later, she was sitting Indian-style on the floor
of an isolation
room in the Temple of Darkness, robed in gray wool, her human
senses
extinguished, surrounded by deadspace and the Frontier. During
preliminary
calisthenics, she was amazed at how much more fluid her astral
body had
become since the last black star -- maybe this sobriety thing
actually had
benefits. One could hope. She shredded the intruding throught
and launched
herself straight up until the unimaginable enormity of WorldWatch
swayed
beneath her like billions of angry, passionate diamonds.
She cued in on Myung's signal in Kansas and followed it
down. Squinting
at the screed-marks she'd pressed into the Frontier, Susan took
flight again
and queried WorldWatch more specifically. Michaud's signal flared
in response
at the corner of her astral vision; with a thought, she locked
on, appeared
beside him...inside him.
Goblin ripped through her target's superego, looking for
his Primary
Motivator, trying to hold her breath against the sickness and
perversion that
threatened to overwhelm her. The two times she'd disobeyed orders
and combed
out her targets before dispatching them, Susan had immediately
wished she
hadn't. It wasn't necessary to high-comb Michaud to understand
what kind of
person he was. The man's followers burned incense and chanted
in the next
room, but they wouldn't be able to help him escape tonight.
She perforated his PM and separated it from the rest of
his central
cluster, hitting her retros quickly and digging in as the feedback
agony
washed over her. For a timeless instant (the coin of the realm
in deadspace)
she chanted her own mantra and wondered if this one would be
it, if Edwards
would be sleeping alone tonight. When the tide broke, she actually
smiled --
not at the pain, but at her mastery over it. Just like back home.
As Michaud's spark of humanity began its long slide downward
into the
Well of Souls, Goblin was dimly surprised at how much more smoothly
than
normal things had gone. She hung back until Michaud
(gary -- that was his name. the first one, there in the
park, under the
sodium lamp. what purity and potential, a shame to lose it forever
to the
random forces of an uncaring world. children must be saved from
the sullying
power of the world. they must experience the magnificence of
purity of
essence and then be extinguished before their inner beauty could
be
contaminated. michaud kept them all safe, every one that he touched,
all
serve michaud the messiah)
gave up his Animal Mother and disintegrated into nothingness.
Then she
retreated homeward with Myung's _day-o_ confirmation ringing
in her ears.
Susan found herself flat on her back in the Temple once
more, surrounded
by the familiar muted smells of incense, marijuana, and sex.
Someone was in
the room with her, but she couldn't tell who, not immediately.
She'd been in
deadspace for seven minutes, and it felt as if every cell of
her body had
been scrubbed with a ton of ashes, half of which she'd then swallowed.
She
tried to stretch, vaguely aware of the fresh tears on her cheeks.
"Goblin? Hey, take it easy," a young girl said.
Susan felt the presence
bending over her. "It's Beaker, Goblin. Are you okay? Are
you all right?"
Still blind, Susan gasped, "...give me a level, would
you...."
Beaker held up her left index finger, flaring hard. The
isolation room
lit up from the younger girl's perspective, and Susan felt the
coarseness of
her purple Acolyte's robe, the sign of a holy Temple prostitute.
She was only
fifteen, Susan realized; all this must be so foreign to her.
She caught the
echoes of confusion, a cacophony of dissenting voices within
Beaker. She was
uncertain and afraid, unsure of what came next. So was Susan,
but you had to
be careful around the low-powers. Couldn't let them think you
weren't in
control.
Before she knew what was happening, Susan felt Beaker's
arms around her,
clutching for her warmth. Goblin, not Susan, responded, and she
wiped her
tears against the girl's blonde hair, grateful for human warmth
in this
moment of weakness.
"Perfect, Beaker," she whispered. Trina liked
women as well as men, but
Susan didn't care at the moment. "Thank you."
"They left me in here by myself," Beaker murmured
against Susan's neck.
"What am I supposed to do? Seriously?"
"Do you have any juice? My blood sugar...."
"Oh, yeah," Beaker said, and held the tumbler
for Susan.
"Thanks," Susan said again. Her Flat senses were
beginning to reassert
themselves.
"This is your first star sober, isn't it?" Beaker
said.
"Dark Lady bless the rumor mill."
"Jessica said that when you were growing up, you couldn't
even drink.
She said you weren't even allowed to drink tea or coffee. Is
that true?"
Susan tried to laugh. "That's probably all Jessica
knows about how I was
raised, but at least she got that right. Yes, it's true."
"Did you do it?"
"I followed the rules, just like I do here."
"God, if I had to spend a week not drinking or jerking
off or even
swearing, I would kill myself."
"Hmm, done some research on your own, I see. Cool."
"So what happened?"
"What ever happens? I joined the Foundation, shed innocent
blood and
turned my back on the Holy Ghost. I saved lives. I followed the
rules. I lost
my worthiness. So what?"
"I got real depressed when my dad ran off," Beaker
said quickly. "I took
Benedyct every day. Sometimes I'd drink a bunch of TranQuil,
too. It helps."
Susan pulled herself together, pressing her knees against
her breasts.
"You're _way_ too young to have a history like that, you
know it, Beaker?"
"Yeah, well, so are you."
They grinned at each other.
"Are you okay?" Beaker asked again.
"Getting better. Is that fed still hanging around out
front?"
Beaker covered her mouth. "He's trying to quit smoking
cigarettes, you
know. Every time the guards light up, he cringes. Poor guy. Keeps
pacing."
"I have good news for him. That should cheer him up."
Beaker's eyes grew wide. "You did it?"
"Yes, I did. Get used to it."
"I thought --" Beaker shut up, which cemented
Susan's good opinion of
her more than anything she could have said. "I'll go post
it on the Wet
Board. Your clothes are -- you know."
"I know."
Susan dressed and reapplied her makeup before leaving the
isolation
room. Her hundred-dollar sundress struck her as banal and malevolent;
she
held her hand under the room's sole lamp and checked her nail
beds, squinting
for the faces of dead friends, hoping she hadn't become smacked
out there,
but she was okay. Just a little twitchy. She shrugged. She snagged
one nude
stocking pulling it back on, producing a run near the top, but
Guile wouldn't
mind. With a few deep breaths, she opened the door and made her
way back out
of the Temple, down the corridors of closed doors and dimly lit
group
consciousnesses, to the Celestial Room, a score of hairstyles
apparent
through the gloom of either nave. She knelt for the required
period before
the statue of the Black Goddess, blew out her prayer candle and
progressed to
the antechamber, where she surrendered her robe and blessing.
After a little
obligatory kibitzing with the Acolytes, she pushed open the outside
doors,
squinting against the last of the evening sun. She'd left her
Wayfarers in
Guile's room that morning. Mistake.
Wagner stood facing away from the Temple, surreptitiously
checking out
the tide of weirdness as Mendel's population drifted to evening
duties. Not
all were benders or full-time Foundation employees, and Wagner's
attention
lingered on the visitors, looking for a touch of familiarity.
Bracing her
rifle against her hip with one hand, Horowitz blew a lungful
of smoke in
Susan's direction, then pointed at Wagner's back and made a circular
motion
at her temple. Susan nodded and cleared her throat.
"Mr. Wagner?"
He'd clipped his shield to his suit pocket, she saw. Now
he brushed his
thumb against the strip of green tape that covered its face --
regulations --
and said, "How'd it go?"
"Day-o." When his that's-very-nice expression
failed to change, she
remembered and said, "I got him. Brain hemorrhage. Happens
all the time, no
one knows why."
"Untraceable?"
Crap, he asked a lot of questions. She pointed at his badge.
"We green-
tape people hold all the guns. As far as the Flat world knows,
he just
dropped dead."
"Thanks."
"You don't have to thank me. I'll file my report this
evening. I just
wanted you to know. You don't happen to know where Guile Edwards
is, do you?"
"They said you'd ask." He fumbled in his pocket
for a yellow sheet of
paper. "He's in Sheol, room fourteen. Makes sense?"
"It does." Susan shook hands. "Take it easy."
Susan stepped into the crowd and dissolved into welcome
anonymity,
heading for the MS Clubhouse. This would traditionally be stay-in-the-
abattoir-and-get-wasted time, and though the cravings had indeed
tapered off,
Susan was a creature of habit. It was no coincidence that Guile
was the first
thing she'd asked for, and if he was goofing off in Sheol, he
was probably
interruptible. With a little persuasion, of course.
Crossing the Commons, she passed by Speaker's Corner and
saw a dickhead
in uniform, including the ubiquitous utility belt but minus insignia,
standing on a stepladder marked with an inverted crucifix. He'd
gathered a
small crowd beneath the cluster of green and Flat flags, and
was haranguing
them in a surprisingly well-modulated voice: "What is the
answer to Suchuk's
Dilemma, sisters and brothers? I say God hasn't turned his back
on our kind;
He never existed for humanity at all! Satan is our spiritual
Father! Examine
the world as it exists, logically, and you will realize that
the most single
most destructive force, even before the demons came, has always
been...."
_What_an_idiot,_ Susan thought, and tuned him out. She peered
into the
crowd, looking for Harlan, then remembered he was in Houston
today, playing
Gestapo with his new scores. Well, good for him. It beat his
sulking around,
and it was about time he got a little respect from the people
he grew up
with.
The guard at the Clubhouse door waved Susan in. "If
you're looking for
the Antichrist, I think he's melting his brain in the virtual
reality room."
"Thank you, Brad," she said evenly.
"That is his name, right?" Brad called as she
walked away. "Creepies,"
he told his boyfriend with a shrug, when she was out of earshot.
"Can you --
Hey, hold it there, pardner. I need to see your I.D."
Susan's flats clicked against the tile as she passed by
rows of gung-ho
dickhead posters, culminating in a recognizable watercolor of
Damon Suchuk
himself. She entered Sheol's hushed computer room, nodded to
a man dressed as
a clown when he pointed at chamber fourteen and mimed dilating
pupils, and
quietly let herself in.
Guile lay motionless in the chamber's deep sofa, a VR helmet
completely
covering his head. A color-cycling Mandelbrot set slowly changed
shape on the
console's monitor -- This is Your Brain on Drugs, with a little
help from
modern computer technology. Newbies loved this kind of stuff,
especially on
psychedelics. Susan smiled affectionately.
A young guy in college clothes stood before Guile, partially
blocking
Susan's view. As she closed the door, he half-turned, startled.
He was
stirring something in a glass bowl, and he moved it away from
his body,
flaring guilt and embarrassment. He knew he was caught. He was
planning to
_do_ something to Guile.
Susan had been working herself up to a general love-the-world
feeling,
trying to combat her own guilt for having performed the black
star, but all
that fell away in an instant. Her reflexes took over and she
churned the deep
waters within her, raising her left hand, palm out. She locked
on to the
intruder and targeted as he opened his mouth to speak. Grimacing,
she planted
her feet and fired a single inhibitor bolt, just enough to let
him feel the
roots of all his teeth.
Her target
dropped the bowl as his whole body convulsed, and he fell to
the floor in a semisolid heap, cracking his head against the
tile, his signal
diminishing as he passed out. Screw him. If he was in Mendel,
he was a
mutant, which meant he'd heal. Depending on what she found in
the bowl, that
is.
Shaking off the feedback pain, Susan spat on his body and
took a closer
look at Guile, making sure he was okay. He'd fallen in love with
expensive
Italian suits and silk ties from hanging around Susan at work,
a taste she'd
encouraged, initially by gently reminding him he could afford
it. Lying there
as he was, head covered, hands folded on his suited chest, he
looked like he
was waiting in state, and _more_ death thoughts were not the
dressing for
Susan's salad at that moment. She wanted to rush to him and put
her hands on
him, to prove to herself that he was alive, to wake him up and
sink herself
into the reassuring warmth of his presence.
Because, of course, the Foundation didn't give out code
names like
Antichrist without good reason. Lying there, lost in his acid-warped
inner
landscape, Guile was making that damned "little humming
noise" that caused
his shadow to vanish from Frontier space. No one in the world
could lock on
to him or even see him, not even the mighty Trees in their underground
bunkers. To Susan, mildly telepathic since birth, he completely
failed to
register on the most important sense in her existence, and reclined
on the
couch in a straight, taut mass like a puppet of meat, like a
dream.
Worst of all, if he slammed the door while you were in his
mind, it hurt
in proportion to the strength of your lock. His talent was absolute
and
unique. Guile was to other telepaths what Susan was to mentats;
she'd had to
fight to keep him to herself.
He was switched off, though, so he must be okay. She ran
her play-by
back and reassured herself she'd caught this asshole _before_
the act. Waking
her baby right now would only confuse him at an already confusing
time.
Her target had "beanie" written all over him:
a student working his way
through college on a Foundation scholarship, which entitled MS
to burn him
like cordwood on their local operations. He'd one day be a moneyman
or a
paper-face, from the look of his casual wear, but at the moment
he was a pain
in the ass. Susan pitoned her way into his skull and, staring
at the bowl of
muck on the floor, remembered the beanie mixing its reagents
in the lab
upstairs. It was itchy paste.
She pulled up a chair and rested one hand on Guile's knee,
pretending
she was a little girl, the way she sometimes did when they were
alone.
Gradually, the frat-boy stirred and pushed himself to a sitting
position.
"The fuck, man...my head...."
"What's your name?" Susan said briskly, sitting
up as well.
"My name's Matt, and you're a bitch. I can't --"
"Matt, I want you to imagine feeling even worse than
you do right now.
...Can't do it? Too bad, I love a challenge. Now listen carefully.
What kind
of idiot stunt did you have planned, exactly, with that itchy
paste? Has
anyone explained the rules of this place to you?"
"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but --"
The door slammed open and a soldier leaped into the room,
a dark-skinned
snapper in full MS uniform...minus flak armor, of course. She
held a
beautiful double-edged Norse battle ax at the ready, and her
submachine gun
bounced off her hip as she fell into a crouch.
"All right, goddamn it...." She trailed off, taking
the situation in,
and dejectedly dropped her spirit weapon. It flashed blue and
disintegrated
in sections as it touched the floor. Touching her headset, the
soldier said,
"Twenty-five fourteen to Dad. -- Forget it, guys, it's just
Pelcher going
into withdrawal again. I'll clean up here."
"Pelcher?" the beanie said, recognition dawning.
He craned his neck to
look at Guile. "You're -- so he must be --" Color drained
from his face and
he assumed an expression of horror, much like a newbie after
his first flag.
Perfect, really; just the effect Susan was hoping for. She checked;
Guile was
still in la-la land.
"Poonam," she began.
"Don't Poonam me, I'm working. What's the problem here,
Pelcher?"
"Prankster," Susan said simply.
Poonam's whole manner changed. "Oh really."
"Itchy paste."
"Well." Poonam crossed the room and hauled the
beanie to his feet with
one hand. "Where's your visitor's tag, bud?"
"What about her fucking I.D.?"
"One, she doesn't need I.D.; she lives here. Two, she
has access to
places I don't know about, so it's kinda useless checking it
anyway. Here's
yours, tucked in your little condom pocket. Hold still for the
scanner. You
taken any brain-killing chemicals I should know about?"
"What -- Of _course_ not! Who --"
"Three, I'm starting to see why she hit you with her
magic club, and I'm
gonna do the same with my own if you don't stand still and shut
your
dickheaded beanie ass _up._"
"Why do these assholes call us that?" Sure enough,
Poonam tapped him on
the head with her hardpointed palm. She missed the bruise Susan
gave him, but
started a pretty good one of her own.
Poonam peered at her clipboard. "Because these assholes,
and I used to
be one, are a little resentful of your, oh, _mainstream_ glory
and success in
Flatland, while we combatants have to do a dirty job and spend
all the time
hiding. Also, we don't fuck with each other, and whenever someone
does
something like _that_ --" She turned his head toward the
smashed bowl. "It's
always some snotty outsider like you, Matthew A. Reed. Aren't
you supposed to
be somewhere else, like down the hall with your group?"
"Thanks, Poonam," Susan said.
"Thanks? I should probably write you up for poleaxing
him, but it would
take too long. You can go."
The beanie started for the door, but Poonam jerked him back.
"Did I say, 'You can go, asshole?' No. You're under
arrest." She cuffed
him. "Jeez, you know...I _think_ somebody named Reed is
in trouble up at the
desk. Can't quite remember; you know hammerheads aren't too bright.
No
offense to Edwards," she told Susan with a wink. "Better
march you up there
myself."
Poonam glanced at the Mandelbrot design on Guile's screen
while she
squared her gear away. She considered hanging around on some
pretext --
Guile's time on the VR machine was almost up, and it was still
considered
high humor in the Foundation ranks to watch Pelcher act all gooshy
over her
pet snapper. She decided against it; she'd just given this propeller-head
a
lecture on privacy, after all. "Up and at 'em, buttsmack.
You can come back
and clean up later."
As the door clicked shut, the VR monitor flashed and filled
with
lowercase text. Guile's trip was over -- at least, the computer-generated
portion of it. His breathing changed, and he shifted on his couch.
At last he
bounced into view, and his WorldWatch tag reappeared between
frames. He sat
up and pulled off his helmet.
He was huge and gorgeous. He was built tall and broad-shouldered,
on
paper the ideal killing size, but when he wasn't actually fighting
he carried
himself with the self-conscious gravity of the protagonist in
a child's
picture book. If he kept wrinkling his face in the same places
when he was
confused, he would one day look exactly like Harrison Ford. He
had brown-and-
green eyes, a common secondary mutation and one that gave Susan
impure
thoughts, and platinum-brown hair, which didn't make sense until
you saw it.
He was scrumptious, and he even thought she was attractive, which
she decided
was probably fortunate, considering.
When he _was_ pushed into a fight, his presence became compelling,
even
overpowering, and naturally he never lost. He never picked fights
and
suffered a sort of Jeckyl-and-Hyde relationship with himself
when he was
among Foundation society. He destroyed every challenger from
above and
beneath him when he was sucked into the Arena, but refused to
advance his
score by initiating combat. Snapper society polarized around
the issue of
whether he was brilliant or an idiot for doing this; whichever,
Susan (with
help from Guile's other admirers) had made it graphically clear
that multiple
ambushes would not be the sporting way to go about things.
Mutant eyes didn't actually dilate, but when he turned to
her and
smiled, his echo made it clear that he was indeed twisted.
"Susie! What a surprise."
Without answering, she leaned down and pressed herself into
his arms,
the way Beaker had tried to do to her earlier. He responded,
threading his
fingers into her hair and cradling her against him, and she was
grateful.
"Are you okay?" he asked as she straightened.
"Unpleasantness at the Temple. It's over now."
"I'm sorry, honey. " He stood up and straightened
out his clothes. "My
coping mechanisms are a little scattered at the moment."
"That's okay. I can cope. I just wanted to go someplace
and be alone,
and you're the best person to be alone with. What do you say?"
"Ooh, I say 'neat line.' Let's go."
"The biggest asshole I ever met used that on me when
I was at Bacon,"
Susan said, taking his arm. "I almost went for it. How'd
you get in here?
You're not technically cleared for it."
"There was a creepy on duty earlier." Guile grinned,
remembering.
"Don't say 'creepy,' Edwards."
"Well, except for you, most of them _are_ creepy."
"I know. It's still impolite."
Leaving the Clubhouse, they were the cute couple walking
arm in arm.
Guile tried to keep a straight face while Susan threw brightly
colored
elephants and bell towers in his eyes.
He burst out laughing outside, then sucked in a good lungful
of the
sweet April air, that final brisk snap that precedes six months
of Dante's
Inferno in Houston.
"Nirvana," he said, and slipped his arm around
her waist. "God, you're
beautiful. Just so you won't think I've been goofing off all
day, I spent the
afternoon giving a the old-timers a demonstration on how to smash
Plexiglas."
He laughed again. "I was straight then. See, you have to
use your esper to
feel out the area, and then you section it off and give each
part a different
nerve channel to follow...."
She waved at a lance of mounted guards headed for the outer
perimeter,
and patiently tried to keep up with his incomprehensible telekinetic
gibberish. She'd tried to read their textbooks, and some of the
theory made
sense, but the advanced stuff sounded like a P.E. coach wired
and trying to
sell a Unified Theory of physics. Guile's life wasn't the Arena,
though.
"...and then give it a whack with the blunt end of
the old teardrop, and
kee-rash!" He flipped up his free arm without warning, firing
a long blue
bullet that streaked across the path and through a section of
trees, dimpling
the side of a nearby metal building with a profound bang. "Hey!"
an
inhabitant yelled, irritated.
"Shit," Guile said. "Hey, isn't that the
Family warren? Let's stop in."
"I'm not comfortable going in there, baby," Susan
said, and mimed toking
a roach.
"Of course." A wash of self-pity and remorse.
"What a good influence
I --"
"That's right, you are. That's why I came looking for
you when I was
upset."
"But I --"
"Only for the fifth time in two months, and the first
one didn't count.
That's not what I'm craving, anyway. Calm down."
Guile grinned a stupid acid grin and pulled Susan closer,
reveling in
the sweet fragrance of her hair. He was happy. Back home in White
Plains, the
most he'd had to look forward to was an increasingly serious
involvement with
low-level Mafia types, stealing Porches and setting warehouse
fires for a cut
of the insurance money, relying on his green blood to keep him
just out of
harm's way, thinking he was going crazy as the power grew stronger.
Now, here in Houston (and every place the Global Research
Foundation
discreetly stamped its silver rings on a field of black), he
was respected
and appreciated for what he was. True, he had to fly all over
the country
"clearing" those poor random Flat bastards who woke
up one morning with a
little extra brain tissue they didn't have the night before,
but he was
directly saving others' lives by doing so. Besides, Goblin and
Zulu were
there to help him, and, to be honest, even the demons were better
than
feeling as alone as he did before he joined the Foundation.
"Do me a favor," he said.
"Name it."
"If you grok somebody sneaking up behind me, sing out,
would you? I
don't want to get sneak-attacked; I'm still pretty scattered.
Just give me a
little warning, you know?"
"Always, Edwards."
They emerged onto a circular plain before the extravagant,
misnamed
Barracks. You could only stack psychotics, adolescents and drug
addicts three
or four high, especially if you were located somewhere near the
airport and
had to do a hell of a lot of greasing to keep people looking
somewhere else
anyway. Three high it was; the Barracks sprawled, and they advised
you to
stay out of the building altogether when they handed you your
visitor's pass
at Mendel's front desk.
"The Presidents are doing the Lord's work in Schenectady
tonight," Susan
said, checking her watch in the elevator. Someone had painted
I'M PSYCHIC on
the back wall. "Connors, Lee and Zapata are up next, and
then it's us. Say,
eighteen hours. You ready?"
Clouds covered Edwards' face. "Jesus, I'm never ready."
"You've never let me down, either." She pecked
his cheek, sorry she'd
brought it up. "Next week we get a cycle free. What do you
say to Paris?"
"'Give Athena the apple.'"
"What -- Very funny. Really, it's old and historic
and dirtier than
Chicago and they don't pick up the garbage as often. Plus I can
guarantee you
won't like the French people. Want to go?"
"How can I say no?"
Arriving at her quarters, Susan checked her mailbox and
then turned to
examine the note on her door. The main body of it was a piece
of a poem by
Yeats:
Never shall a young man
Thrown into despair
By those honey-colored
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.
A second admirer
had crossed out "honey" and "yellow" and
written
"reddish-brown, like a smoldering fire viewed through amber,
idiot"; the
first had returned, crossed out all references to hair and drawn
arrows to
three characters of Syllabus, the non-mathematical script used
for recording
screeds.
Susan squinted at the bad mentat calligraphy, then snatched
the note off
her door and made a great show of crumpling it up.
"That looked cool," Guile said. "What did
it say?"
"It said that some scammers don't know when a lady's
out of the market.
And most of them are a little too disgustingly direct, anyway.
Don't feel
threatened." Susan pressed her I.D. chip into the doorknob,
and it turned
freely.
"Why feel threatened?" Guile said, entering.
Susan's quarters looked like the inside of her head. Someone
had
originally filled it with elegant, feminine furniture and fixtures,
all of it
functional and quite sturdy, and then they'd gone back around
spreading
weapons and evidence of worldliness and iniquity throughout.
Guile's eye
immediately went for the H&K Model Z on its wall pegs, longing
to switch the
laser sight to visible red and pretend he was a mentat on Mendel's
outer
perimeter, waiting for another sea-tide of demons to try to break
through the
line. He was in a game-playing mood.
Instead, Susan turned and pushed the door closed over Guile's
shoulder,
then backed him up against it, urging him to silence with her
eyes. She
stepped out of her shoes and raised her dress far enough to press
the inside
of her thigh against his hip, then stood on her toes and pulled
his face down
to hers. Susan kissed him deeply, drinking him in at last. Suddenly
remembering that they were home, Guile responded, both emotionally
and
physically.
She broke the kiss and lowered her body somewhat, raising
the front of
her dress so she could press herself against the growing bulge
in his
trousers. "Lucky thing you're not threatened, or this might
come as a big
surprise, huh, baby. Mmhh, that feels good."
He dropped his hands to her buttocks and pulled her hips
forward at a
familiar angle, and Susan remembered. Damn it. "Sweetheart,
I don't think we
should make love right now."
Immediately he took a half-step backwards, confused. "What's
wrong?"
"I performed a black star an hour ago, so I'm likely
to be dead in bed.
Sorry, baby, I was recovering so fast that I almost forgot."
"Well why didn't you say --"
"Oh come on, Edwards, I'm not crippled, I just won't
be having any
orgasms for a while. That doesn't mean I can't be nice to you
in the
meantime." She dropped her voice a major third and stroked
the firm pouch
between his legs with her fingertips. "What do you say to
Susan?"
"If you're having a hard time with sex, we could just
--"
"I think you're hungry, darling. I can feel your hunger,
you know. It
feels hot, and hard, and very powerful." She stroked him
more insistently,
tilting her head up toward him. She stepped inside his Shield
radius again,
pressing his back against the door. "I could satisfy your
hunger for you, if
you'd like. Would you like that?"
"Yes, I would." Guile fumbled with his belt and
zipper, releasing
himself from the prison of his shorts. Susan's fingers played
over his bare
skin, and he arched his back and closed his eyes. Susan dropped
to her knees
and kissed the head of Guile's cock. "Susan...."
"Yes, Guile?" she said, turning her face to him.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"You don't have to do this."
"Of course not. Like this morning, when I woke up out
of the Nightmare,
screaming and crying. You didn't have to sit up with me and hold
me until I
went back to sleep, but you did."
He furrowed his brow. "But I wanted to do that."
"And I want to do this." Susan gently tickled
the hair on his balls, and
slipped his head into her mouth, rubbing it with her tongue.
"Do you need
this, Guile?"
"Oh God, yes, I do." Locking his fingers into
her thick hair, Guile
pressed himself upwards into her mouth. After a few clicking
noises, she
accepted him into her throat, and Guile passed beyond the cares
of this
world. All he could feel was warmth and softness, an unbearable
moist
pressure sliding along his length, and the lubrication of his
lover's saliva
as it leaked out of her mouth and covered his testicles. She
toyed with him
with both hands, bringing a low shudder of animalistic passion
to Guile's
lips, which Susan loved. She tried harder.
"Wait, honey, wait," he said, letting go of her
hair. She got to her
feet, still sliding her palms and fingers up and down his manhood,
and gave
him a smeared-lipstick kiss. He kissed her back with feeling,
but grabbed her
wrists and pulled her away. "I'm about to come."
"Good, sweetheart. Make me all messy. That's right,
just let go."
He tried to speak, but she kissed him again and cheated
just a little,
stroking him long and slow while victimizing him with a sensuous
expression
from Guile's subconscious. Suddenly Guile stiffened and flared
his fourth and
fifth registers, and Susan, realizing that multiple false starts
were not
Guile's strong suit, leaned in close to her man, pressed her
lips against the
side of his neck, and wrapped her hands around his genitals while
the
pleasure wracked his body.
She couldn't tell if he whispered her name or just thought
it really
loud, but she gave his penis a final squeeze and said, "I
love you, Edwards,
and I'm glad I did that."
"Oh, Susan. I can't believe you'd take advantage of
your poor, drugged
boyfriend like that," he said, kissing her forehead.
"I think acid is your _force_majeure,_ baby,"
Susan said, handing him a
towel. "I always thought it would be the Arena, but there
are worse things
than genuinely peaceful men. Mind if I --?"
Guile shrugged. Susan hit the bathroom, cleaned the debris
off her
hands, unloaded a bunch of herbal tea and diluted CN5, and repaired
her face.
Deciding that the role of seductress was over, she took off her
sundress; she
liked this one, and it was just a matter of time before it got
ruined at work
anyway.
Reentering the main room in flesh-colored bra, panties and
garter belt,
she saw Guile lying naked on the bed, trying not to look too
pleased with
himself.
"Peaking?" she asked.
"I think so."
"As long as you don't go all timid and paranoid like
last time,
everything should work out," Susan said, turning on the
sound system.
Pressing RANDOM produced "Body and Soul" by Billie
Holliday. "It isn't
logical to be afraid of me, not for any reason."
"I can feel my skin crawling," he said, scratching
his chest.
Susan faced him and struck a pose to let him know she wasn't
through
with him yet, then said, "That's your healing factor. It
means you're
healthy...very, very healthy. It's a good sign."
"Feels weird. Hey, would you hand me your HK-Z?"
"It's loaded with boltcutters, and it's not a toy,"
she said, lying down
on the bed beside him. "If you want to play with something,
how about my
body?"
She closed her eyes and stretched out languorously, crossing
one ankle
over the other, pleased that Guile was already becoming aroused
again. She
felt his strong hands brushing lightly against her stomach, and
her muscles
quivered in response. He dropped lower, caressing the soft skin
of her thighs
with the back of his fingers, amusing himself. He really couldn't
help
himself when he was in an altered state like this. Well, why
not; he had a
right to use her flesh for whatever he wanted.
She wondered if he'd explore her legs next, and her calves,
and feet. He
had a thing about nylon stockings, an obsession she indulged
whenever
possible. Growing up, she'd been expected to look and act the
feminine part
when she wasn't actually sick in bed, and it was easier to stick
with
something that worked than to look for a new gender-role definition.
Along
came Guile, and suddenly she was Betty Page. Again, why not?
It beat
dickheads thinking she was quaint because she didn't say "fuck"
every other
sentence and getting all hot and bothered because her Disneyland
screed was
crosslinked.
Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow and gently kissed
her lips,
then rested his palm against her cheek and traced the line of
her nose with
his thumb. With the greatest fighter in the world lying beside
her, exploring
the curves of her face with his fingertips, Susan sighed in contentment
and
completely relaxed for the first time all day.
"That feels good, honey." She wrinkled her brow,
making Guile try to
straighten it out again. "At this rate, I'll be good for
something before
evening duties after all. I've never recovered from deadburn
this quickly
before. That does it: no more dope."
"Now that you're sure, can I ask why?"
"I haven't said, have I? Because of you. No, don't
frown, I'm not trying
to guilt-trip you. Remember that time I went off on a long spiel
about how
the only time I could ever scrape all the fog away, could really
feel my
emotions and the world around me, was when I was stoned?"
Guile unhooked her bra with one hand and kissed her breast.
"I
remember."
"Mmm. You made this really horrible face when I said
that, baby. I blew
it off at the time, but last week, before the Marble Falls run,
it was all I
could think about." She shifted. "In retrospect, I
think grass was impairing
my effectiveness, on the job and everywhere else."
"Does the CN5 help?"
"Unfortunately. Vanderhoff says I'll probably always
have to take it to
keep my head in balance. Another reason I can never leave the
Foundation."
Guile's mouth dropped open. "I mean, my womb is already
screwed up, why not
throw my brain onto the fire. Hurray for Mr. Green Genes."
"Susan?"
Her entire face suddenly froze, then smoothed out. She didn't
relax;
rather, the muscles around her eyes and mouth settled into a
low idle.
"You're right, it's not healthy to dwell on that."
She squeezed his hand
between her thighs.
"Instead of Paris, how about Atlanta?" Guile said
brightly. "I met this
guy today, some mentat who watched me do my thing from the observation
deck,
and we really hit it off afterwards. We ended up having a couple
of beers in
Valhalla while I waited for the acid to come on, and he invited
both of us to
his place in Georgia. Nice guy, Blaise something -- Blaise Mapplethorpe."
"You had a _beer_ with Blaise Mapplethorpe?" Susan
said, sitting
straight up and opening her eyes.
"Yeah. So what?"
"Do you know who he is, sweetheart?"
"No, but I figure anyone who complains that much about
Mentat Security
can't be all bad."
"Mapplethorpe is the heir apparent to Atlanta."
"You mean his dad is the mayor?"
"Not the city itself, the banking industry. His family
owns -- oh,
forget it. I'll show you his dossier later. Wow, beer with Douse.
He's a good
guy to chuck on the arm, baby."
"So you want to go?"
"I want to feel you inside me," Susan said.
"Are you sure?" Guile said, pressing her down
on the bed with one hand.
"Positive. If worse comes to worst, I'll fake it, but
I don't think I'll
have to. Fill me up, darling, make me a woman. Ohh, yes. Yes,
that's just
right."
As Guile labored to bring Susan to pleasure, Bruce Madison
lost the
fight in Schenectady. As his Navigator mourned, Bruce lay dead
on the empty
Little League diamond, his spirit joining the infinite multitude
as the demon
fled into the night.
..............................................................................
You think that Helena is summoned here
As quickly as the paper spectres were.
With witches' witchery and ghostly ghost,
With changeling dwarfs I'm ready at my post;
But devils' darlings, though one may not flout
them,
As heroines no one goes mad about them.
-- Goethe (again) |