Damage Time

by Colin Harvey

  "That look in your eyes then, that was too reminiscent of one of Sunny's rages," Aurora said in a tremulous voice. "He'd been moaning about Tasha for weeks, though I don't know what about. Just before we met, I heard him say he was going to take care of her." Shah said nothing. Aurora continued, "I heard he beat the girl to death – he just lost control."

  "I'm sorry about losing it," Shah said, as if she hadn't spoken. "I think it was seeing John lying there, and then that little bastard walking around mouthing off."

  "Just – just don't let me see that look in your eyes again."

  They reached a tall building with an actual doorman waiting under an honest-to-God awning from which a burgundy carpet led to the street. "Come up, yes? I have tea, or coffee."

  Shah said at last, "Tea would be good. Please."

  In the elevator Aurora took Shah's arm. "You know, if you were any more tense, you'd shatter." She ran her hand down his sleeve. "How much did you pay for this suit?"

  Shah's brow wrinkled. "Can't remember. About four kilocalories, I think."

  "Hmm, yes. It feels like it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's like handling barbed wire."

  "Hmph. Not all of us can afford bespoke tailoring, you know."

  "I know a tailor uptown. His roof-garden is given over to silkworms. He only sells to recommended clients, because if he didn't – the prices he charges – the queue for customers would be around the block. Let me give you his address, and I'll copy him, so he knows you're recommended by me. Now, tea," she said, as they left the elevator.

  While she made it Aurora called, "I'm uploading a burn." Moments later his eyepiece chimed its arrival. You see again the chaos in the reception room. You recognize Hampson, the duty officer, then you hang round for twenty minutes, until Hampson signals Shah's approach. You see the hunger for you in his eyes and it warms you. For all that he's old, he's sort of cute.

  That evening you journey through the rain to the bar, checking that you're showing just the right amount of cleavage. In the bar you doctor Shah's drinks, but still the stubborn bastard won't come back to your place. Your frustration's nothing compared to your fear of Sunny's rage. Maybe I'll stay here. You kiss, and you feel Pete's hands slide over you.

  Then comes the moment; he feels the three-inch clitoris emerging from your labia like a penis from its sheath. He shrieks. His fist slams into your nose and you feel blood spurt –

  Shah cut the recording, looked down at his feet. "I'm sorry."

  She sat beside him, stroked his shoulder. "I'm not the first, you know?"

  "First I've ever met."

  "Maybe. Maybe not. There are more of us than you realize, perhaps fifteen thousand in the US before the Dieback." She took a deep breath, then resting her head on his shoulder indicated a small painting on the wall. "See her? Levi Suydam, a Turkish intersexual who lived in the 1840s. She had both male and female genitals, even masturbated like a man." She felt him gingerly put his arm around her. "That was two centuries ago," she said. "But things haven't changed much, for all our supposed enlightenment."

  "What about Kotian?" Shah said. "He's really not bothered?"

  "Indian society even has a caste for us. The hijras: The unclean." She added, "I'm sure he's not the only rich Indian guy who's queer for freaks."

  "And your parents?" Shah said. "Didn't they…"

  "Consider cutting me?" Aurora said. "No. Their parents'd had gender reassignment and knew how it fucks you up. I was my parents' pride and joy." She sighed. "Sometime I'll tell you about it. But right now I've got to get ready to visit a patrone."

  XL

  You shiver. Although you know it's late on a balmy spring evening, your senses are adamant it's winter and your breath is streaming on the night air. Scramble does that. You're aware enough to know the symptoms, but not so far gone you no longer care. When you're high all the good times you've ever had come flooding back, but better, more intense. You don't want to think about the downer and the accompanying bad memories.

  Typical fucking CIA, developing something like that.

  You wipe your nose, and as a car crawls toward you, adjust your tiny skirt and paste on the biggest smile you can manage. The car slows and a window winds down. You lean forward so that the john can see your tits. They're your best feature. "Hey handsome. Want some company?"

  You can't see the guy's face, but he motions toward the passenger side, and you hear a clunk. Central locking, you think, nudging your price up. You can't charge as much as the legit whores, but they don't allow Scrambleheads in the Companions Guild, so you charge what the johns will bear. From the smell of his cologne, it'll be a lot.

  You jump in, and the car pulls away.

  "It'll be–" his gesture cuts you off. A hand passes you a wad of notes, enough to keep you in Scramble for weeks. You count it, and there are mega-calories there in yuan and new rupees and yen, some worthless dollars – even a prepaid debit card. You should be happy, but you're starting to get a bad feeling. Good thing the guy didn't have the sense to take off the huge ring on the little finger of his right hand. You'll remember that antique coin at its center.

  It tells you that maybe you won't survive tonight.

  You force a laugh, "You want me to stroke you while you drive? Let that power steering take care of the road?" You reach for him, but he slaps your hand away.

  He's driving you deeper into the industrial estate running parallel to I-128, and you can see the occasional car headlight speeding north around Boston toward Canada. He parks up and reaches behind you. "Put this on." He passes you a harness with leads running from it. A neuro-probe. He wants to burn your memory of him fucking you. A lot of Johns like to know how it feels from both sides.

  "When do you want me to set it from?"

  "A half-hour ago."

  He's fitting another probe, and while he's finishing up you scoot into the back through the gap in the front seats, and lifting your skirt pull your tights off. By the time he clambers through you're already spreading your legs to take him in, condom in your hand. He's a little soft, but the rest of him is as stiff as a board with tension. You stroke his shoulder as he slides into you, his cock hardening with each thrust, his bulk weighing on you.

  It's all entirely usual, and you switch your mind into neutral, wondering how long it'll be before you can score some Scramble.

  Until his hands lock around your windpipe.

  You dig your nails into them, but aside from a hiss he doesn't react, so you go for his eyes, but he jerks his head away. Each breath is a fiery battle, your throat hurts and too fast, too fast the world is fading away. Unlike cliché, life doesn't flash before your eyes, there's just the feel of his hands–

  He hisses, "If I time this right and rip it before–"

  XLI

  Shah returned to the office and worked until late that afternoon, when he headed uptown.

  He worried that he would be late for his meeting with Perveza's social worker, Helen Mendoza, but he still reached her office before her return.

  "Sorry, sorry," she gasped, dropping a handbag that could have held most of New York City onto her desk. It made a loud thud. "Last meeting ran late – in fact, I been running late since the first one –and I missed my connection."

  Shah had the distinct impression that Helen Mendoza was rarely on time for anything. But as soon as she sat down and took out a thick A5 file, she was businesslike and brisk.

  "I got your call, Officer, and I appreciate your wanting to help. But to be honest, it's probably too little too late." Seeing him about to protest, she held up a heavily ringed hand. "That's not a criticism. Perveza is an addict, which means that she will suck you dry of every last drop of time, money, attention and kindness. And still want more."

  "So what does this mean, Ms Mendoza?"

  "Helen," Mendoza said.

  "Then call me Pete."

  Helen smiled. "Pete, Perveza is legally an adult. New York State is geared toward helping childr
en before adults, who are considered to be able to look after themselves. That's debatable, but once you enter the adult system, you only get a few chances." She gazed at Shah. "I offered her the option of attending this meeting, but she declined."

  Shah's eyepiece chimed. Perveza said, "Another bit of token love from Daddy Dearest. Huh. Why bother? It's just an attempt to convince himself that he cares about me."

  Shah looked away. There seemed little point in saying anything.

  Mendoza sighed. "I'm sorry. I can't help Perveza because she has a DNR order on her file."

  "I assume that we're not talking Do Not Resuscitate?"

  Mendoza seemed to understand the black humor. She smiled dutifully. "DNR is Do Not Resettle, in this instance." She placed her hand on the file. "I agree getting Perveza away from living with other addicts would be better for her. But she's got to make that move. I can't help. She's blown all her chances."

  "There must be something you can do?"

  Mendoza shook her head. "The Federal Government's tough love policies insist that any addicts who want welfare must sign a pledge to give up drug use. Perveza's broken that agreement three times, which is why she has a Do Not Resettle order on her file, putting her off-limits to any further Federal Aid." She added, "I understand your position, Pete, but this one's beyond my help."

  Shah thought, I know what Perveza will say. Knowing it wouldn't make it any easier when she accused him of turning his back on her – again. But at least he'd tried.

  When he got home Doug and Leslyn sat out on the twilit balcony, sipping drinks amid the night-flowering lilies. Shah felt, as he often did now, that he was intruding.

  "Homemade mint juleps," Doug said to Shah's unspoken question.

  "Want one?" Leslyn said. "We have alcohol-free Bourbon."

  "Which is as nasty as it sounds," Doug slurred slightly. He'd clearly been drinking the "proper" stuff.

  "Thanks. I'll fix it."

  "Let me," Leslyn said. "You've been working."

  "Sort of." Following her into the kitchen, Shah told her of visiting Marietetski and the encounter with the punk.

  "You should be careful," Leslyn said. "He could have been carrying a weapon. Just as well she pulled you away." She passed him a glass. "Are you going to see her again?"

  Shah knew who "she" was. "I have to meet her again. It's work. We need her to testify."

  Leslyn followed him back out to the balcony. "You know that's not what I meant."

  "Would it be a problem if I did?" Leslyn couldn't physically stop him, of course, but if she couldn't cope with it, it could strain their already faltering marriage beyond repair.

  "I don't know."

  Doug spoke for the first time, "Maybe you should look for a new partner."

  Shah looked up in time to see Leslyn's warning nudge. "Something you two want to tell me?"

  Leslyn looked embarrassed. "It's nothing. I'd rather have waited until there's something definite to tell you."

  "Tell me anyway." Shah sipped his drink, watching them carefully.

  "There's a Sino-Californian research project on telepresencing." Leslyn lifted her chin defiantly. She knew Shah's opinion of the secretive, sometimes sinister Californians, who rarely emerged from behind their wall. "They're looking for volunteers to test new projects. Initially Montana, then China or even California for the successful applicants."

  "And why aren't they looking for volunteers among their own people?" Shah said.

  McCoy waggled his head in a gesture strangely reminiscent of Kotian. Shah wondered whether it was the latest fashion among retired academics, a new social meme – or whether the two of them knew one another, and McCoy had picked up the gesture. "Of course there's an element of risk, there is with any experiment."

  "Yeah, but it's usually a risk of failure," Shah said. "This sounds to me like failure will be more risky to the volunteer than the project." Shah hadn't read much about Californian research – he hadn't had the time, and it didn't seem relevant to his own situation – but enough to know that rumors swirled around the Californians and their obsession with anything that might bring them closer to cybernetic perfection.

  Leslyn talked over McCoy's snort, "I don't know that anything's going to come of this, so let's not ruin a nice evening."

  Doug interrupted, "No, Leslyn, Pete should know the whole story."

  "Which is?" Shah said.

  Leslyn sipped at her drink, perhaps summoning courage, Shah decided. "If it happens – and it's a big if – I'll need certain augments to already be fitted."

  "Which no doubt they'll pay for," Shah said sarcastically.

  Leslyn shook her head. "I have to pay for the initial ones. I'll have to save up in case it does happen. If it doesn't, then obviously we can use the calories elsewhere."

  "On what?" Shah said.

  For the first time Leslyn looked irritated but quickly hid it. "Dunno. We'll worry when it happens. But meantime I'll need you to pay your share of the housekeeping up to date. I know things have been hard, so I've let it slide the last few weeks, but that can't go on."

  "If you'd said you could've had it before." That wasn't quite true. Shah's sick pay had only been half his shift basic, and had excluded the payment for the overtime that he worked almost every day.

  He thought that they'd exhausted the idea years before. Leslyn would become a prisoner in the apartment as soon as she returned from visiting one of the Westchester County clinics. Tech companies sited clinics in isolated communities desperate for old-fashioned jobs and spin-offs like imported food, despite their fear of the Other. Most people in these little towns felt the worst ayatollahs were kindred compared to The Augmented. The Augmented won't 'help' an ordinary human become like them; instead it's up to ordinary humans to make the first moves, until they reach the point of no return to ordinary humanity, at which point the post-humans will consider them committed enough that they will complete the changes.

  Leslyn seemed to know what he was thinking. "Let's face it," she said, "Most of what people hear about The Augmented are scare stories put about by Fundies."

  "Not all of them. There were enough instances of people going into feedback loops and autism to convince Congress to outlaw it. Half the reason California built the Wall when they seceded was over that."

  "Only in the early days. When was the last time one of the stories was confirmed?"

  "That's because they keep 'em all behind the wall."

  Doug interrupted, "California's wall was to keep out economic migrants."

  Leslyn got up and went indoors. She returned after a few minutes, wiping her temple clear of the glaze of anesthetic gel with a cloth.

  Moments later Shah's eyepiece chimed, and he took a downloaded message with a time-stamp of about a minute before. It was strange staring at Leslyn in person, while her avatar said in his screen, "I guess this must be baffling to you – but trust me, we've had this discussion before. So I've burned a copy of the relevant memory. Here you are."

  You know that Shah's not going to take this well, but the look on his face is still scary.

  "Why?" His look of bewilderment is painful, but not so painful as the hurt look. You hadn't expected that, if you're honest. Anger, revulsion, but not hurt.

  You say, "Because telepresencing is the only viable way of properly exploring the outer solar system. Robot probes aren't responsive enough once they're out past Mars. By the time the signal's gone to the asteroid belt and it's responded, we've lost at least five minutes of response time that we could get back by having someone do the job. Even basic mining needs that capability."

  "I still don't get it," he says. He clenches, then opens, then re-clenches his fists. Does he know how frightening he looks when he does that? You let him work it out. You deliberately picked a moment when Doug would be out. His inability to shut up when Shah needs time to process something new is a big reason why you haven't been able to convince him before.

  Shah still doesn't answer, though, so you
try to explain. "Even a five-minute gain on a response time out of – say – a half-hour is a big deal. Asteroid miners are hugely expensive, even for Chinese and Californian and Japanese and Indian consortia."

  "No, no." Shah waves his hand in dismissal. "I get that, telepresencing helping on the ocean floor, and exploring the mantle and stuff. I know why those countries are so interested. They want to get ahead, they don't share the results except as they need to, as and when it suits their purposes." He stares at you. "What I don't get is, why you? Why are you doing it?"

  "Because I want to make a difference," you say, but it's a lie. The truth is that your life is empty. There has to be more to life than working long hours to earn enough to live.