The Book of Wanda, Volume Two of the Seventeen Trilogy

by Mark D. Diehl

  “Oh, yes, sir,” she said breathlessly.

  Their conditioned automatic obedience to superiors meant that these young Accepted workers were themselves the greatest perk available to management in any corporation. By pushing the boundaries of her reconditioning the way he had been, Kessler was able to stretch her definition of obedience, pushing ever closer to perfect submission, when she would unquestioningly obey his commands even to think and feel whatever he directed. But for now the charade of spying on Basali was still important: This one wasn’t completely under control yet, and she’d proven she was dangerous before he’d begun working with her.

  “I have a surprise for you, Keiko,” Kessler said, looking into her eyes. Her EI loaded the page he’d flagged, full of Eric Basali’s notebook entries, in Basali’s handwriting, suspended one after another for her to read. “I had an intern use office security cameras to piece together and catalog every single entry he wrote in that little book. You saw only a tiny fraction of them. We have lots of work ahead of us tonight.”

  “I’m so happy, sir.”

  “Of course you are. It’s what I want.” He sat down in his chair, patting his thigh. She took a cushion from her bag, placed it on the floor beside him and knelt down, placing her cheek where he had patted, facing him. He stroked her hair. “Here we are, working. Notice how pleasurable it is to be working with me, now, Keiko. Let pathway amplification take it and build on it, always better and better and better. I am your superior and it is for me to judge what you deserve.” As he spoke, Kessler made his voice deeper and softer. He stroked back from her forehead, over the top of her head, and all the way down, letting his whole palm gently smooth her hair and spread warmth and relaxation down her neck, over and over. “Right now I have decided that you should experience very, very good sensations, because you want to serve me —and Amelix Integrations—so well. Are you experiencing those good, good feelings, all through your body and all through your mind, those wonderful tickles you feel in your fingers and toes, your limbs, your eyes, ears and lips? Do you understand that I decide what you deserve, and that I have decided you deserve the ecstasy starting to build in you now?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. Her breathing was slower and much heavier. Already her lowered eyelids revealed only white.

  “Good. Let it keep feeling better and better and better, and relax for me. Good. Now let’s work, because this is a working relationship, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s look at the first one,” he said. He pulled it up and into focus through his own EI.

  The gods of the powerful serve only those who worship power.

  “Do your thing, sweetie,” he said. “Translate. Open up that brand-new Accepted mind and claim this one for Amelix.”

  “Yes, sir.” There was a brief silence. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened slightly, forming a blissful expression. “There is only one God, sir. Amelix is the entity with legitimate power here on Earth, and we worship God because we acknowledge He is all-powerful in the universe. This is a fundamental truth, sir. Amelix serves the Lord’s will.”

  “Excellent,” he said. He ran his fingertips lightly along the bare skin of her neck and shoulder, back and forth. “Can you feel that you’re serving the Lord’s will, yourself, Keiko, right now?”

  She shuffled a little closer up his thigh. He considered rebuking her, putting her back where he had patted, but that was probably too strict at this point. Instead, he lowered his chair a bit more.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” she said.

  Bridges Clubhouse

  “Naw, man, you do whatever,” Rus said. “I guess I’m just too sad about Murph right now, you know. Magic catchin’ that fuckin’ whore brought it all back for me. I was right next to Murph when the Garbageman offed him.” He rubbed one eye. “Could’ve been me. Now Murph’s gone, and I’m here. It fucks with your head.”

  “Rus,” Duke Q said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re feelin’ bad, but you got to join the action, man. This is the way we make it right. Every cut you make in this whore, every load you dump in her, you’re takin’ cash right out of the fuckin’ Garbageman’s fuckin’ pocket. I know Murph was your boy an’ all that, but you gotta step up, now.”

  Murph had been a twitchy, hand-wringing little creep, so afraid of power that he would do absolutely anything to please his superiors. Because of this, other Bridges with more power than Rus had given Murph some rank, which he’d lorded over everyone he could. Rus was not too sad about Murph.

  Duke Q was right. The Bridges had to build a reputation to make every thug in the whole Zone piss himself at the thought of crossing them. It was just the way things worked. Unless you made yourself totally fucking terrifying, you’d be wiped out by something that was.

  He took a long drink from his sodje bottle. Maybe he could drink himself unconscious.

  What the Bridges were doing to that girl was totally fucking terrifying. The sounds she made were turning his stomach and making his whole body shake.

  Duke Q forcibly lowered the bottle again. “The Bridges are makin’ a statement, here, brother,” he said. “Are you in, or are you out?”

  Out. Rus knew what it meant to be out, with nobody to watch his back, night after night on the Zone streets, exposed and helpless against whatever might come along. He had thought that nothing could be as frightening as living like that. Now he saw there was something far worse, and he was about to be face to face with it. Duke Q stood and offered his hand, helping Rus to his feet. Together they walked into the other room, to discover how far Rus was willing to go to prove his loyalty.

  46th Street, the Zone

  Wanda had found her way to another entertainment area, disconcertingly close to where she’d had the incident at 6th and G. This district looked rougher than where she’d started out, but hopefully it would be cheaper. She’d found herself a relatively secluded spot on the front steps of some building and had been watching the hookers, pimps, and johns.

  There was a rhythm here, a dance of danger and protection, of cost and benefit. Pimps beat hookers to keep them in control. In exchange for that control over them and their incomes, pimps scared and often severely injured johns who got violent. They did this not out of altruism or respect for the girls, but as a means of ensuring their property would continue turning a profit. The girls weren’t happy or secure, and they had no say in what happened to them, but they were alive. Whatever modicum of safety they managed here came from surrender to their psychotic guardians.

  The last time Wanda had experienced a feeling of relative safety had been as an Amelix employee. She realized now that it was the same deal: Amelix had demanded complete surrender in exchange for protection from the life these Zone people lived, the way she lived now. When even the slightest reason for suspicion arose, the company had discarded her, the way she supposed these pimps might drop girls who gave them trouble. Obedience was paramount because her only value had been as property.

  After her single Pulsarin meal this morning, her supply of casino chips was severely depleted. If she could brave the night outside, she would have enough for another serving tomorrow.

  And then what?

  She looked again at the whores and their pimps. How long would she last here, outside, with no income and no raging psychopath to own her and keep her alive? Was “life” here, like that, better than death?

  Some deaths are probably better, some are undoubtedly worse.

  She shuddered. That was all the Zone was, really, a collection of ways to die.

  A man approached. Not a Zone man. He wore Corporate Green with a logo from one of the smaller data firms, and at first she felt the momentary rush of superiority she’d always felt in the CBD when brought into contact with those from lesser organizations.

  He grabbed her breast without saying anything. His hand made two rough circles and then traced down her body to her crotch. “How much for your ass?” he asked.

  She was
alone. She had no company, no family, no pimp. There could never be any lesser organization than just one person alone.

  But Wanda was so old. Why would she be approached in this way, when she guessed the average prostitute around here was maybe fourteen? Glancing quickly around, she realized why. Compared to these people, she was still quite attractive. For one thing, she had all her teeth. She also had no bruises or scars, no open wounds or scabs, and no bald patches where hair had been ripped out.

  If she reacted to this man like the person she had been, he would see she wasn’t a streetwalker. He would know she was fresh meat, newly Departed. The whole street would know, if they didn’t already.

  You’re already a whore. Why not start walking the street? Isn’t bleakness better than terror?

  She gently guided the hand from between her legs and kissed it passionately, twice. “Sorry, baby,” she made herself say, lowering her eyelids halfway as if lost in ecstasy. “My man’s got me sidelined today. But you see that guy there, bald with the gold crown tattoo? He got two girls who love to give you the ass, an’ you won’t believe how good they are. She ran her tongue between two of his fingers, rolling her eyes up to find his. “But you look for me next time, okay, baby?”

  “Why not you?” he asked as she released his hand.

  “My manager says no, sugar,” Wanda said. “I don’t wanna cross him. Do you?”

  The man’s face went blank. No. Clearly he did not want trouble from her imaginary pimp. He turned away from her without a word and went to contact the bald pimp she’d pointed out. Wanda stood and walked the opposite direction as fast as she could.

  It was scary how quickly she’d figured out how things worked here. She spat, scraped her tongue against her teeth, and spat again. At least she’d been able to fool him.

  Did you fool him, really? How long until you’re licking more than fingers?

  Wanda wrapped her arms around herself and doubled her pace.

  Two blocks further down 46th was the nastiest, cheapest hotel she had ever seen. It had once been a home, but now the front door was held on by hinges made of old car tires, and where its window had once been was a piece of decayed plywood with “HOTEL” written across it in drippy red paint. She pushed it open, fighting the hinges, and approached the front desk across the rough, dusty particleboard floor that shifted and creaked like it might drop her. The desk was a narrow door that had probably once closed a broom closet or pantry, balanced on columns of cinderblocks. The cadaverous man behind it had painful-looking red eyes with bushy gray eyebrows.

  “How much for a room?” Wanda asked, careful to avoid the extra pleasantries like “excuse me” and “please,” which would have tipped him off that she was new here. He flicked a thumb at the wall behind his head, where rates were written in charcoal for one hour, three hours, and all night. She could afford the all-night rate, but it would take all her chips.

  These people haggled, didn’t they? Would she seem out of place for not trying it, or would her inexperience be more pronounced?

  “I… I think the three-hour rate should be good enough for all night at this point,” she said. “It’s pretty late already. All night wouldn’t be that much longer.”

  The ghoulish man stared at the floor somewhere behind her. “If it’s not that much longer, you can get your ass back out after three hours.”

  Wanda pursed her lips. What now?

  After a moment of silence, the man spoke. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a room all night for the three-hour price, but you gotta clean it yerself. There’s garbage in it that needs to be hauled downstairs and out the back. The other desk clerk disappeared an’ I gotta watch the desk. You clean it, you can stay ‘till sunrise. Deal?”

  She smiled openly, gladly showing him her gratitude as she counted out the chips. He walked her upstairs and unlocked the door for her. “I don’t get a key?” she asked.

  “Metal in the key’s worth more than you got,” he said, pushing open the door. He flicked on the light switch, which illuminated the room in a sickly yellowish brown glow. On the windowsill was a kit for injecting drugs. On the bed was a man: skeleton thin, shirtless, and dead.

  “Just get him down the back stairs,” the clerk said. “Someone’ll drag his ass off to turn in for carbon recycling, make some scratch off him.”

  Wanda stared, dumbstruck. She took a deep breath.

  Ugh.

  She nodded. At least the corpse wouldn’t ask anything of her for his non-Corporate Green pants.

  “Get out first thing in the morning,” he said, snatching up the drug kit. “You’ll be lookin’ for the corner of 6th and G.”

  Amelix Integrations Secure Research Memo

  Engineered Organism Division

  Dr. Reni Donova, H.S., DCS, Vice President

  AAA CLEARANCE LEVEL OR ABOVE ONLY

  Re: Projects RT1117 and RT1118: Communication by Unknown Means

  Dr. Donova, ma’am:

  Following is a summary of the most recent developments with the animals in Projects RT1117 and RT1118.

  Both G1 and G2 animals were monitored with sensors capable of detecting visible and invisible waves ranging from 10-1 nm (x-ray range), through the visible light spectrum, as far as 1 cm (microwave range), as well as sound waves from 10 Hz to 1 MHz (including all known animal audible ranges from 100 Hz to 100 kHz). Evidence of communication was observed in that a response by one generation to a perceived stimulus (abrupt standing at attention when a researcher entered the space surrounding the cage) was mirrored by the other generation who had no exposure to the stimulus. Response mirroring was observed in 100% of trials, but no communication through visible or audible signals, even at ranges far outside ordinary rat or human sensory perception, has been observed.

  Detailed laboratory notes are available for your review in the EOD archives.

  Zabeth B.D. Chelsea, DCS

  One of the Zone’s entertainment areas

  Furius had now done ten drug deals, moving maybe enough for thirty doses. He had pockets full of casino chips, and there were at least ten more people out there dosing themselves with Pink Shit, about to turn into useful Roman legionaries. Two of the buyers had been women. Whores would be helpful in forming a legion, certainly.

  He watched this latest little punk scurry away from the doorway where they’d done the deal. It was Mr. B’s word, punk, but it fit. Furius had seen many little punks, here and back in ancient Rome. It didn’t matter; training and fear could keep any legionary in line. The point of concern now was how to find all these soldiers once they turned. None of them had appeared before him yet, even though the time that had passed should have been more than adequate.

  Furius was about to step from the doorway when he stopped dead, staring across Tsingtao Street. It was Alfred, the man who had pissed in Mr. B’s face and dosed him with Pink Shit. There were two men with him, pushing people out of the way. Furius turned his face toward the wall as they passed and then slipped across the street to follow them.

  Alfred disappeared into an alley, leaving one man behind as a guard. Furius stayed back, behind the guard, watching.

  If they’d left a man here, they weren’t simply passing through the alley. They’d be coming back out. He just had to wait.

  And do what, then?

  He mapped it out in his head. He’d follow them, and, after letting them open the warehouse, he would kill them. He would take the means for producing Pink Shit, and proceed in building the new Roman legions. It was what he was meant to do.

  Gunshots sounded in the alley. The man stationed as guard fell over, dead or nearly so. Someone came running out, stumbling and disoriented: Mr. B’s memories said it was his friend Brian the Spook. Nobody followed him. Furius ran in, locating Alfred’s slumped body, which still held a gun and a machine for weighing gold coins, possibly with one inside. In a pocket there were keys! The other one also had a gun and a plastic bag full of what was possibly Pink Shit, but Furius decided to leave that for some
one else to find.

  5

  Amelix Building, CBD

  Dr. Zabeth Chelsea stood frozen, watching the rats dance. These were the G-2 rats in her office rather than Dr. Synd’s G-1s. The action was just as Wanda had described: Both rats put down the same foot, at the same time, moving in a rhythmic circle, counter-clockwise.

  Her experience watching them, however, was nothing like Wanda’s. There was no nausea, no desperate fight-or-flight response. Being present as these perfect unions of heavenly inspiration and corporate flesh performed this elegant display was the most rapturous experience of Chelsea’s entire life. The rats did seem to connect with her mind, but the sensation was one of pleasure and relaxation. The longer she watched them the more open she became to the feeling, which was like floating downward in an endless spiral of warmth and enjoyment. Something in their motion made her feel like the yoke of management responsibility was being lifted away, leaving her with the peace that came from knowing she was doing exactly what she was supposed to do.

  She suddenly became aware that the rats were again going about their business in the cage, no longer dancing or paying any attention to her. Checking her EI’s clock, she realized she’d been standing in front of their cage for more than twenty minutes. She had a vague recollection of having just fed them, but that wasn’t possible, surely. Their next ration wasn’t due for hours. There had been something different about the rats today, something she had thought worthy of reporting to Dr. Donova, but she couldn’t remember it now.

  Outside Alfred’s Warehouse

  Furius had been watching most of the night. Alfred wouldn’t have left his building unguarded if he had any henchmen left at all. At no point had he seen any light coming from inside, but this place was short of resources and even powerful criminals would conserve what they could. It was also possible that there were lamps lit in an interior room.