by Steve Perry
Juete sat on the bunk in the cell, staring at the wall. What she felt was called eremophobia; that was the name the doctors gave it. It was common among certain populations, notably the albinos on Rim, also called the Darkworld, in the Beta System. Eremophobia: the fear of being alone. Among her people such a fear was inbred, as much a part of their genetic makeup as pheromonic attractiveness and white skin. The warped genius who had stirred the chromosomal stew that resulted in albino Exotics had certainly known how to get what he wanted.
She stared at the wall, ignoring all the toys Stark had installed for her comfort. The holoproj sat next to the laser ball recorder; the special com link she could use to call Stark anytime rested atop a carton of recording spheres holding a thousand hours of entertainment vids. The games computer that could transform the 3-D playing field into any one of a hundred arenas of sport had yet to be activated. The automated food and drink processor hummed to itself, waiting patiently for her first request.
Juete reached for the comset for the tenth time, then pulled her hand back. No. It had only been a few hours— she knew that, even though she had turned off the holoproj's clock. If he knew how much she wanted to talk to someone, to anyone, then sooner or later he would use it against her. It had been a mistake to lose control and tell him about her fears. Most norms didn't know about that. Some did—she had no doubt that Karnaaj knew—but it was not something Exotics let slip very often. That knowledge simply gave their masters another weapon to use, and they had too many already.
Control yourself, Juete. There are hundreds of people within a few dozen meters. You can't see them, but they are there, just down the hall, in cells all around you. You aren't alone, not really.
It did not help. She could feel the walls around her, solid and impassable. It was hard to breathe; she had to strain to keep the air flowing. If she didn't concentrate, she knew she would suffocate. And the terror that rode her whispered to her: What if something happened to Stark? What if he had an accident, or was attacked by an inmate? Nobody else knew she was here. If something happened to him, she would stay here forever. She would die here, alone, alone, alone…
Stop it!
She moved from the bed, itself padded with thrice the normal mattress material, and walked to the processor. He had included wine as one of the selections, a local product produced in small quantities for offworld export. It was not bad, so she punched in the code for it.
A soft plastic cup dropped into the loading slot, and a thin stream of dark red began to pour into it. When it was full, Juete removed the cup and drank the cool liquid in three large swallows. She hesitated a moment, then repeated the request code for more.
By the fourth cup, she felt somewhat better. The fear had not left, but it had lost some of its sharp focus. As she sipped at the fifth cup of wine, she came to realize that there was nothing else she could do to maintain her sanity at this point. As long as the wine held out, she would be all right. The processor had to contain at least four or five liters, didn't it? At least that.
At least that.
* * *
When he arrived at Juete's cell, Stark was amazed to find her drunk. He had never seen her that way before. She had told him that sex was the opiate of the Exotics, and that most rec-chem held little pleasure for them. There was no denying her inebriated state, however.
"Well, hello there!" she said brightly.
Stark stared at her. She was naked, gloriously so, and practically threw herself on him when he entered the cell. She began to kiss him and thrust her pelvis against him, touching him expertly with her magic hands. He could smell the wine on her breath, but he nevertheless found himself responding to her passion. She tugged his clothes from him so quickly that he later had trouble believing he could strip so fast. They fell on the floor.
He came fast, the first time, as she pounded him from above, riding with a frenzy he had never seen. It was her show; she was in command, and it was all he could do to keep up, even as excited as he was. Juete timed her motions so that her climax matched his, and she screamed when they spasmed together.
When it was done, Stark lay listening to his heart thumping, feeling the surge of his pulse all over his body. He was dazed; she had never unleashed herself like this before. It was at once exciting and somehow frightening. This was how he wanted her to be with him; he wanted her passion and her love, and this was at least half of his desire.
He stroked her back as she lay on him, her face pressed against his shoulder, her lips gently nibbling his skin. Other than her ebullient greeting she had not spoken, save for the wordless scream at her orgasm, and neither had he said anything. Her skin felt cool on his, and he slid his hands down to cup her buttocks before softly dragging his fingers up over her back.
She shuddered, and he felt a wetness on his shoulder and chest then. After a moment, he realized that it wasn't sweat but tears. She was crying.
For the briefest of moments, he wondered if her tears might be from sadness. Then, she began to move on him again, sliding up and down with delicious friction, and he knew that the tears had to be from happiness. It was happening, as he had always hoped it would: she was learning to want and love him. It had to be.
Her eyes were closed as she sat up and rode him again. To his disbelief, he found himself able to respond, leaning back so he could reach deeper into her. Her tears still trickled down her pale and beautiful face, but now his passion ruled him again, and he thought no more about them.
Chapter Ten
The demons were subtle now. At first they had thrown themselves against the power of his mindshield like insects against the windscreen of a fast aircar. They could not force themselves inside, but they could send their thoughts through, as sound passes through a solid metal wall.
Holdstrong never to be one…
listenlistenlisten hear not…
Pretends. Then lies of fear…
Nay, lies of truth, more fear…
Maro "heard" the alien thoughts, though he was not sure if they were in fact truly alien, or his own thoughts somehow twisted by the surrounding aura of the Zonn construct. For the strange walls and floor surely gave out some form of energy—he could sense it, could almost taste it far back in his throat. The question was an intellectual exercise for which he did not have the time to consider, however; he was too busy fighting for his mind.
And there came truth: always more painful than the most horrendous lie when used properly. He saw:
—The ten-year-old Dain Maro running with his best friend, fleeing the farmer whose sugarfruit tree they had just raided. His friend stumbled and sprawled on the soft ground of the orchard, his sack of booty spilling like giant green marbles. "Dain!" he yelled. "Help me!" But Maro kept running, afraid of the swearing man behind them, his bowels knotted in fear, wanting to help his friend, but afraid, afraid…
—Dain Maro at sixteen, lying to the girl he wanted to make love to, telling her he loved her when all he wanted was her body: "No, Melin, really, I do love you, I want to prove it to you…"
—Maro the student, wanting to learn the mysteries and realizing that he had neither the patience nor the stamina to slog through ten more years of training in the priesthood: "You're afraid to teach me; I'm ready, I know it, and you know it too! Show me…"
—Maro in a barroom fight, facing a bigger, stronger man, pounding on the man past the point of stopping the fight, but enjoying the feel of beating the miserable son-of-a-bitch…
—Maro locked in the Zonn chamber, his mind dribbling away, losing control, becoming little more than a mindless hulk, doomed to a life of gray, empty thoughts…
"No!" he shouted. And with that single denial he wrenched himself away from the demonic chatter, retreating, running down never-used corridors within his own mind, slamming massive doors behind him. And eventually he came to a place of peace within himself, a chamber lit with a white glow by a crackling globe of energy that floated at chest height in the center of the small room. From
the ceiling, a lance of electrical fire fed the globe, a beam of universal energy that had many names: ki, life force, kundalini, mana, the Christ, the Buddha, and ka, the soul.
The construct that was Maro took a deep breath, drawing in the energy and filling himself with it. He knew this place. It was his Center, his very essence, and as long as he could stay here he was safe. He might die, but he would do so with his mind inviolate.
The voices still filtered through, but so faintly that they posed no threat. He was safe for now, but he knew he could not stay here forever. As long as he could maintain this vision, this sanctuary within himself that he had created, he could passively defend himself—but eventually he would grow tired, his concentration would wane, and he would lose the construct. So he knew he had to do something more active.
Within his mind, the visualization that Maro had of himself sat down on the cool floor of his sanctuary. He locked his legs in the lotus knot, closed his eyes and concentrated. After a moment he rose from the floor and began to float; a few centimeters at first, then he began moving upward faster. He drifted up past the glowing globe, until he was facing the bolt of constantly flowing energy that fed the globe that was his essence. He willed himself forward, and after a heartbeat, he entered the coruscating stream. It splashed over his face and shoulders, running down and into the body of his image, continuing on to the globe below. He could feel it revitalizing him: he was filled with raw power, a new-born star, a fount of cosmic force. He extended his arms to the sides and the lightning flowed out into his hands. Discharges bled from his fingers, dancing lines of white, particle streams rising from their own heat.
After a moment he sent his thoughts rocketing up to his control center, and with the speed of those thoughts he followed. In an instant, his mental image of himself was standing "behind" the thick mindshield, his body alive with the forces with which he had filled himself.
His visualization of the mindshield was that of an immensely thick wall of densecris. Outside, dimly visible through the milky barrier, the alien demons hammered against it, trying to get inside.
Maro grinned. His visualization of the room behind the mindshield—his control center—included an angled panel studded with buttons, rheostats and blinking lights. He pressed a button, and, with a sound of powerful servomotors groaning, the mindshield split in two, each side retracting slightly. For a moment, the alien presences were taken aback, and they hesitated. Then they swarmed into Maro, intent on whatever drove them.
But Maro was ready now. He raised his hands and felt the power begin to flow.
"Damn!"
Stark turned as the tech backed away from the com. The unit was smoking; electrical sparks danced across the keyboard and holoproj screen.
"What happened?"
"Damned if I know! It just blew up!"
That was impossible, but Stark did not waste time denying what he saw before him. "What about Maro?"
"He hadn't moved."
"I want somebody in there, now!"'
Juete lay sprawled on the bed, her head aching from the wine, her mouth tasting like she just mopped the floor with her tongue. She pushed herself into a sitting position, noticing the wine stains on her chest and stomach. After Stark had left, she had drunk herself into a stupor. She had begged him to stay, to take her out, she would do anything if he wouldn't leave her alone! But he had left.
She slid from the bed. She felt disgusted with herself. Her binge hadn't done any good; neither had her begging. He was gone and she was alone again.
Juete moved to the drink dispenser, nearly losing her balance, bumping into the com unit as she took the few steps needed. She punched the wine selector. More wine would take away the nasty taste in her mouth and maybe it would blunt the self-loathing she felt.
The machine whined, a sound she hadn't heard it make before, and it took a few seconds for her to realize what the mechanical drone meant: the wine container was empty.
She bent and examined the readout. Sure enough, the listing for wine showed a null next to it.
Juete hobbled back to the bed and collapsed onto it. There was nothing else alcoholic in the machine; she had checked that. Until Stark came back she had no choice but to remain sober. Damn him! Damn all of them in this filthy, stinking cage!
After a minute, she realized she had another option. She could call him; he had left her a com link. The sudden surge of hope crested like a sub-orbital shuttle, then fell back, drawn by the gravity of self-disgust she'd felt before. No. She wasn't going to beg again. She would die and rot before she called that bastard for help!
Juete lasted almost ten minutes before she reached for the com link. She hated herself, but the need for companionship—even Stark's companionship—was too great. She triggered it and drew in a breath to speak.
The aliens boiled in, gibbering, and Maro saw that they were not demons at all. They were not even real, in any physical sense. No, they were patterns of energy held within the walls, memories more than anything else. What they had been half a million years past he could not have said; what they were now were revenants, focused and kept in a kind of illusionary life by the Zonn energies that appeared to human senses as citylike constructs. He knew what they were now, and he knew what to do.
It was not that they were evil—it was just that they were so completely, totally different from anything a human mind could deal with that their touch brought madness. There was no reference point, no common ground on which they could commune. But, evil or not, their touch was dangerous to him—whether they knew it or not, they could destroy his mind if he let them.
There was only one way to save himself. In an instant he considered the implications and made his decision. The Zonn revenants were not truly alive—they were, as far as he could tell, patterns of memory force bound in the walls' interstices—recordings. They were not capable of generating new concepts, of being self-aware. Whether their corporeal ancestors had preserved them for the same reasons that humans preserved their dead, in hopes of somehow living again, or for some other, unfathomable reason, Maro did not know or care. It was enough to know that they were not truly alive, and that there was no other way to deal with them. The discipline he had learned from the Soul Melders allowed him to defend himself.
The image of Maro raised his hands and let the cosmic lightning flow, basting the Zonn revenants with forces they had never been designed to withstand. Their jubilation turned to terror and they would have fled, but the fire, the Relampago, followed them, dancing upon them as flames dance upon a stick of wood, using their substance for fuel.
It was all over in a moment. The stored memory patterns were crisped into near nothingness, and their astral ashes were reabsorbed by the Zonn fields, leaving not a trace behind.
On the floor of the cell, Maro opened his eyes. The room was empty, save for himself, and he knew he would not be bothered by the alien thoughts again. Once more he had survived the Demon Graveyard.
"Stark?" came a tiny voice from the patch over his ear.
"Who is it?" Maro subvocalized, keeping his lips still.
"Stark, it's Juete—please, I—I need to see you!" Her voice bordered on hysteria, Maro realized. Juete. The Exotic.
Was this another trick of some sort, instigated by the Zonn patterns? No. He had destroyed them, of that there was no doubt. Some subtle psychological trick by Stark, then? Perhaps—but the desperation in the woman's voice was so real that he could not help replying.
"Juete—this is Dain Maro. I saw you outside the warden's office."
A moment of silence; then, "Where is Stark? How did you get on this line?"
"I don't know. I'm in a special cell. There are some strange energies in here; maybe they've screwed up normal radio transmission."
"I need Stark! I'm alone in here!"
"I'm alone, too. In solitary."
There was a long pause. "Are you afraid?"
He no longer was, but he still heard the fear in her voice. "Yes. I'm afraid.
Maybe we can help each other fight the fear."
"Oh, yes. Thank you. Thank you."
The ceiling.door swung open, and Stark and a guard leaned into the room, staring down at Maro, who still sat in the center of the cell. "Maro!" Stark called.
Maro looked up at the warden. "I'm here."
"Are you ready to tell us what we want to know?"
"No."
"Fine. Then stay down there with the monsters!"
The door slammed shut, and Maro grinned. The warden didn't know that his chamber of horrors no longer worked. Good. Maybe the next man stuck in here would have sense enough to keep his mouth shut, too. It might go on a long time before Stark figured it out. Maro hoped so.
"Juete?"
"Here."
"Tell me about yourself. I need to hear your voice."
* * *
In her cell, Juete took a deep breath and allowed it to escape slowly. She could feel Maro almost as if he were here in the room with her; a warm presence on the other end of the link, somebody who cared about her. Somebody who was isolated and trapped, as she was. She felt a sense of solidarity, of common purpose. Maro hadn't put her here. Maro was a pawn, just as she was, and so she could talk to him as she had not talked to anyone since she had left the Dark world, so many years before.
"I had two brothers," she said. "Both died before they were twenty, killed in fights. My mother was murdered, and I never knew my father. And now I'm here, for killing the son of a powerful man. He used me, and when I could, I killed him. I used a pruning laser on him, cut him in half. I would do it again."
"It's all right," Maro said. "I understand.
"Do you? Do you really?"
"Yes."
And she believed him, that was the surprise of it for her. There was something in the tone of his words, something in his voice that convinced her. Some kind of… calmness permeated his speech. He had nothing to gain from her, he couldn't touch her, and yet he was willing to talk to her. And so she believed him. And she could help him as well; he was alone, just as she was. That was important, to be needed, as well as wanted. Nobody had ever needed her before, not since her family had died. Everybody had wanted her, many had had her, but nobody needed her.
