by Barry Kirwan
He’d almost forgotten about Kane. He felt disoriented. He had to take the doctor’s advice, think before talking. Act naturally…
"Listen, sorry Rudi, you’re right, I – er – took something this morning, left me kind of heady. Anyway, what did security want?"
Rudi took a sip of black, steaming Alaskan mocha. "Actually they were asking me about you."
Micah froze. Then Rudi slapped him on the back, laughing, "Just messing with you man! Hey, your face was a picture." He laughed some more. "And on that subject, what the hell did happen to your face?"
Micah made up a story about falling asleep on the sofa and smacking his head on the coffee table when he woke up in the morning; it had enough grains of truth to carry it off.
Rudi mentioned a hot Chorazin agent called Louise. Micah managed not to react, so Rudi gave it up. They chatted about nothing for a while, and just as Micah realized Rudi hadn’t actually told him why security had interviewed him, Antonia strolled in, impeccable as always: two-tone blonde-brown short hair, no make-up that Micah could detect, a stylish white blouse, open deep at the neck, revealing a platinum-colored necklace with a single fire jewel, blouse tucked into a navy, knee-length pencil skirt. Micah was mesmerized.
"… and he said, no man, you keep the money! Hey, Micah, are you even listening to me? Oh, I get it." Rudi nodded in Antonia’s direction.
"Sorry Rudi, I, er, got distracted."
"Yeah man, join the line!"
He was encouraged that Antonia wasn’t part of Rudi’s harem.
"Anyway," Rudi said, "I need to head back. You coming?"
"Er, I’ll be up in a minute."
Rudi left, muttering something like, "in your dreams, buddy", while Micah gazed openly at Antonia from behind as she selected her drink. He needed to say something – anything. She was actually on her own, without her usual entourage of equally attractive girls, or worse, male model look-alikes. Downing his coffee too fast, so he swallowed the bitter granules at the bottom, he squeezed the nearly-disappeared lump on his arm for one last spurt of confidence. He strode towards her purposefully, just as she turned without looking, towards him. Her arm hit his, causing a fountain of coffee to rise up between them, her zappucino showering over both of them.
"Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry!" she said quickly, in an Eastern European accent.
"No, no, it was my fault. Really." He stood there, arms opened wide, not moving lest he spread it more. He hardly noticed the hot, stinging coffee. He’d never been this close to her. Before he knew what he was doing, he said "There’s some on you." In slow motion he watched his own right hand as he brushed a splash of coffee from her left breast. But his fingers lingered on the slope, and stroked her nipple. In an instant her eyes transformed from doe-like and apologetic, to razor-blade angry. He retracted his hand and froze, staring at it like it wasn’t his. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. He looked at her and was about to say he was really sorry when the slap hit him, hard. She whirled around and disappeared out of the room. One or two stifled giggles from the others in the coffee lounge cut through Micah’s frozen moment, as he stood there, a large brown stain down his shirt, and a red handprint smarting across his cheek. He heard a crisp, female voice behind him.
"Mr Sanderson, if you’re not too busy, I’d like a word, please."
Louise. She had obviously seen the last few moments, and was wearing a school-teacher expression.
‘Please put your arms down and follow me." Without another look she pirouetted and headed off.
He did as asked, wondering if things could get any worse.
He followed her into the lift, where neither of them said a word. They alighted on one of the uppermost floors, and Micah figured where they were headed. They left the elevator, and she walked ahead of him. He tried not to notice the way her pert buttocks salsa’d before him inside her tight black skirt, pony tail swinging from side to side. When they arrived, Louise told the two security men guarding the crime scene to leave for an hour. They departed without a word, sealing the door behind them.
She sat in Kane’s leather executive chair, Micah opposite across the antique desk, where he’d been sitting less than ten conscious hours ago, though it had now been nearly two days. She lit up a cigarette, one of those long filter-less ones. So few people smoked these days, it surprised him. She didn’t speak for a while, just watched him through the coils of smoke. Booster or not, he couldn’t return her stare. His eyes roved around the room instead. There was a chalk outline between the desk and another door that was ajar. From Micah’s vantage point, it seemed to be a bathroom. He could see some kind of cubicle, and part of a large mirror behind the bath.
"Booster trouble, Micah?" Louise said, high heels on the desk. She puffed a smoke ring.
He was jolted back to the situation, and also began to wonder whether she operated outside of normal Chorazin dress code regulations. "Er, no! Well, yes, maybe a little. My hand just –"
"Well, don’t let it, or any other part of your anatomy, just do anything. Or else, if you are going to do something, don’t apologize for it afterwards. Life is unbelievably short."
There was that cold but open gaze again, daring. He tried to ignore it. "Right. Sor –." He was in foreign territory. His track record with women was laughable. She got up and glided around to his side of the desk, perching on its edge. He tried not to look at her, especially her legs. He didn’t trust her, but he was definitely having booster-related issues with her this close. Is she doing this on purpose?
"We interviewed Rudi this morning to give you time to search unimpeded. Did you get anywhere?"
Of course. He kept acting as if he was on his own, but he wasn’t. There were others working to help him: Louise and Vince. Like it or not, he was on their team. He tried to look straight into her emerald eyes, gave up, glanced down to her hips, then away.
"No. I mean I used the time to make some overt searches, but nothing yet. This is going to take time, maybe days rather than hours. If Rudi wasn’t around…"
"You mean you want him out of the way?" She raised an eyebrow.
He recalled he was dealing with Chorazin. "No! No, I mean, well, not like that. But if there was a work reason, maybe he could be reassigned for a day or so?"
She leant very close toward him, almost whispering, "Don’t worry, Micah, we’re not the cold-blooded killers you think we are." She remained close to him. Her eyes had that same look he’d seen in the Chorazin med facility – no warmth at all – someone, or something – had done a real number on her, screwed her up, he was sure of it. The bitterness had cemented-in a long time ago.
His hormones, however, had an agenda of their own, circumnavigating his rational mind. Despite himself, he began to move towards her mouth. She was wearing velvet crush lipstick – he’d read about it in an e-zine – some crap story about a femme fatale actress. Yet its darkness teased him, enticing him to explore her mouth. She straightened up before he arrived, and strode toward a closet. Shit – what’s going on with me? He felt dizzy. He needed a glass of water. Cold water. His heart pounded a deep bass rhythm. "I think I should head back to the Optron."
She opened the closet and pulled out a pressed shirt. "Here, this should fit you more or less. Let’s clean you up first." She turned toward the bathroom. He couldn’t help but trace her curves as she moved away from him. Then he caught her checking that he was watching her via a mirror next to the closet. He flushed, his pulse racing. She opened the bathroom door wide.
"I need you focused on the task, Micah, not distracted by young girls."
He swallowed. Antonia flashed into his mind. He considered bolting for the other door, the exit to Kane’s office, but it seemed ludicrous.
"Micah, we don’t have all day. Take off your shirt and clean yourself up."
It sounded so reasonable, but so not innocent. Seduction is the lie that allows us to do what we really want to do, he’d heard on some vid somewhere. Still he hesitated. He rememb
ered something a professor at school had once asked his class. Does a moth know what a flame is? Micah wondered, and extended the aphorism: would it fly there anyway, even if it did? He made up his mind. He reached for the shirt, snatched it from her and stepped into the bathroom and tried to close the door. But she was too fast and strong for him, slipping inside too, locking the door behind her. Her skirt fell to the floor, and she removed her top in one deft movement. He backed away as she approached him in stockings and heels. He looked away only to see her reflection in the mirror.
"As I said, Micah, I need you focused on the task." She pushed him against the bathroom wall. "Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you." She smiled, for the first time, cleaving in two his resolve not to sleep with her. His mouth collided with hers with a vengeance.
He sat cross-legged, propped against the bathroom wall, naked except for a hand towel draped over his groin, and watched her dress. His eyes were drawn to the tattoo of a red dragon that climbed her sinewy back, its ruby eyes level with her shoulder blades. He detected fine diagonal lines scratched underneath the tattoo. With a shock he recognized the scar pattern from some old vid about the darker hours of the War, something to do with rape camps in demobbed China. Female soldiers caught by the gangs were tortured with a neural whip until they submitted and performed. Micah counted a lot of scars.
She caught his eye in the mirror, her lips a thin line. "They’ll be back in about twenty minutes. I’ll see to it that Rudi is busy elsewhere this afternoon and all day tomorrow."
The way she talked was so matter-of-fact. Like they were in a meeting – a fucking meeting. It sounded funny, but it wasn’t. It had all happened so fast. He felt blown away by it all. It was either the best sex he’d ever had, or the emptiest, or both at the same time.
"Leave everything just as it was before, Micah. Take a shower elsewhere. They’ll notice otherwise." She smoothed down her skirt.
He wondered if it was part of her job, some pre-planned event to bond him to her, or just to regulate the booster. He had to admit he had no idea what motivated her.
"I’ll come by and see you at 6pm, to see if you’ve found anything." She checked herself in the mirror. "Are you okay?" she asked, tying her hair back into the pony tail. He’d been surprised by her hair – when it was down, it transformed her – softening her. But now she was Chorazin again. Again? Who am I kidding!
"Yep, fine. 6pm. No problem." Like this happens all the time. Like never.
There was a question he felt he had to ask. "Louise… you and Vince… Is there anything –"
Her head turned on him quickly. "Don’t go there," she said. She came over to him, bent down close, as if she was going to kiss him, but her eyes blazed. "Ever." She waited till he nodded.
And she walked out. No kiss. He saw his reflection. Is that me? He heard her close Kane’s office door and then the outer door, behind her. He was alone again. He remembered Antonia, wondering where she was now. The coffee event had only been forty minutes ago; the very idea staggered him. If she saw him now…
He stared out into Kane’s office at the chalk line on the pile carpet. "This is one truly weird day," he said out loud. He heard a click. It seemed to come from the next room. Another click, closer this time, coming from the horizontal mirror next to the bath. He backed away. With a gentle swish, the mirror slid aside, revealing a darkened recess behind. Out stepped a bedraggled, half-naked Sandy, straight into the dry bath, her clothes crumpled, a furious expression clouding her face.
"Tell me about it," she seethed, "please tell me how much fucking weirder it can get!"
Chapter 14
Nebula
Pierre faced Blake in the cockpit. Blake aimed the pulse pistol at Pierre’s chest, his arm as steady as his gaze. Physically Pierre knew he was no match for Blake, so everything would depend on what he said in the next few moments. His mind flashed through the last fifteen minutes which had led them both to this point…
Pierre sat in a semi-lotus position in his narrow tube-bed, his back to the hull. He glanced at the cots occupied by Kat and Zack, the rotating glass entrances misted up as always with stasis, though their hearts only beat twice a minute.
He’d been running a series of complex calculations. Most of the computer systems were still down or couldn’t be trusted since the virus, but after working on it for twelve hours straight, he had come to the cot to rest. But that wasn’t happening. He could have turned on the delta band sleep inducer, but there was something else on his mind.
He unfolded his legs and lay down, sealing himself inside the cot. The routine sounds of the ship, the humming, the little clicks and knocks, evaporated. They were replaced by the type of hush that arrives with its own reverberation, an echo of former unheard, unlistened-to sounds, when all external noise is switched off, and the ears anxiously search for the slightest tinkle. That too faded, and he was in total silence. The lighting automatically dimmed to a twilight setting inside, but his eyes remained open. The holopic he’d stuck on the ceiling of the cot showed a smiling middle-aged couple, him as a late teenager, standing almost to attention between them. It had been taken nine years earlier, the summer before his father died – was killed, he reminded himself. His mother had followed a year later, one of the so-called first-wavers of a virulent form of skin cancer.
"Well, maman, papa, not quite the trip I was expecting." He’d thought he would never need a photo to remember them, but he’d been surprised to find that after all, it helped to see their picture. He couldn’t recall all the lines of their faces.
"Dad, I need some advice. The calcs, the technical aspects of the job, well, you know they’re not a problem. Challenging, sure, but I’m comfortable with that part of the mission. Even the ghoster. I found I could function, somehow, even if I was pretty shook up. But it’s the team. That’s it. The team. We’re no longer a team, if we ever truly were one. Kat… well, she’s not the issue." Not this one, anyway. "And Zack, well, he pokes fun at me, but it’s not serious. But the Captain – Blake – he never gives me a millimeter; always on my case. And if I do a really good job, then it’s just about adequate. Papa, you taught me not to be emotive about these things, because that leads to bias, but… Well, truth is…" He drew in a breath; he needed to say this out loud. "I think he dislikes me, and I have no idea why."
Pierre knew what he had to do. For three days since Zack and Kat went into stasis, he and Blake had been avoiding each other. There is no "right" time, he heard the echo of his father’s voice inside his head, there is only now. Pierre abruptly opened the cot and clambered out, heading for the cockpit. As he left the second compartment, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and noticed his face looked thinner, more angular, more set than in that holopic. His parents, even during the War, had aged gracefully over their years, always looking younger than their true age. He wasn’t sure he would have that luxury.
"How are their vitals?" Blake barked the question as soon as Pierre entered, without turning his command chair around to face him. Pierre noticed Blake change the screen image just as he entered – something he didn’t want Pierre to see. And he thought Blake quickly slipped something into his right hand pocket.
"They’re fine, Sir. I compensated for the stasis effects on Zack’s leg. It will continue to heal, albeit at a slower rate than normal." He paused. Blake continued staring at the one remaining cockpit console that worked, occasionally tapping at a key. Pierre automatically half-turned, ready to leave, then stopped himself.
It had been four days since the ghoster event and loss of communications with Earth. Three days since Kat and Zack went into stasis, after a heated debate. Kat was the junior officer and saw herself as the least contentious candidate. But Zack had been furious. Pierre had laid out the logical arguments: Zack’s broken leg, the need for a scientist to try and retrieve the comms and other computer functions. Eventually, after some thirty minutes of discussion, during which time Blake hadn’t said a word, he had suddenly turned to Zack and s
aid simply, "Pierre’s right." Zack had flared, but said nothing. He’d just turned and stormed off, limp and all, to prepare for stasis.
In the three days since, there had been minimal communication. Of course there was some logic to it given the oxygen situation, but it was pretence rather than sense, and they both knew it. Somebody had to make the first move.
"Sir, I was wondering if we could talk."
Blake’s index finger paused above the touchpad. He cocked his head, though not enough to see Pierre. He sighed as he turned back to the screen, and carried on tapping at several more keys. "What’s on your mind, Pierre?"
This was the farthest Pierre had got in three days. He didn’t want to blow it. He needed something of mutual interest. In a moment he had it.
"Sir, your implant theory that it’s a likely third Alician option; I’d like to know more about it."
Blake swiveled his seat around to face Pierre, looking haggard, blackness ringing his eyes; he’d hardly slept since the others went into stasis. No, Pierre corrected himself: since Zack went into stasis.
"Take a seat; you’ll use less oxygen sitting down."
Pierre sat at his post, leaned forward, and waited.
"Well, Pierre, you’re our mission scientist, you know about implants. You studied terrorist psychogenic methods. What is it exactly you think I know more about?"
"I know the theory. Implants were originally piloted in the last century in the so-called cold war – they called it brainwashing – and for sure also in the Korean and Vietnam wars, and the Sumatra episode in 2028. But in the last war they got more technical. More advanced psychological techniques, particularly acute traumatization to prevent the memories from surfacing, even under deep counter-intelligence probing. The implant must be triggered by a very specific event, usually visual, best if a composite or superimposed image with depth, one that would only be encountered in the desired circumstances. Once triggered, the trauma overwhelms more recent memory since the implanting process happened, so the subject doesn’t second guess the original programming based on more recent experience."
