by Chris Hepler
"I thought you didn't drink," I say.
"That was a present, about seven or eight years old. I was going to re-gift it."
"You know it's the time spent in the barrel before bottling that counts, right?"
Roland adds oil to the stir-fry. It roars back at him. "I won't tell if you won't."
"Were you saving it?"
"Not consciously," he says. "Just did a little house cleaning before you came over. Do you want any?"
"I'll make you a deal," I say. "You tell me why you don't drink, and I'll tell you why I do. Then, we either have some of that whiskey together, or we don't touch the stuff all night."
Roland gives me a look. He knows my game—I wouldn't have challenged him if I didn't think I could win—but he seems amused. "Who's first?"
"You," I say.
"I initially stayed off it because I heard it killed brain cells, but that's really vanity. There isn't measurable loss of function. Then, I stayed away because you never know when you're going to live or die by a mistake. When I was stationed abroad, one of our more alcoholic agents got rolled for his wallet, which was then used to get access to his passwords and get into our system. So, my superiors broke out the polygraphs and interrogated us to see if I'd ever done the same. I was selected as a risk."
By the time he's done, the stir-fry is as well. He serves it up. I don't need prompting to grab a seat. Roland doesn't seem amiable. More lost in thought.
"You got scars?"
"Nerve damage in my feet."
"Did they break you?"
"Excuse me?"
"The interrogation. Did they break you?"
Roland looks down. "They break everyone. Otherwise, they don't let you go." He doesn't sit down. Maybe he wants to run. "The worst part is when you tell the truth, and they don't believe it. That's when they hurt you just to be sure, and you… you wonder how stupid you were to salute the same flag they do."
I nod.
"It's also a bit of a scene when you're trying to explain to them that the drones could be targeting the building at any time, and they are obsessed with their dominance game. That's when you have to admit you will do anything, say anything, because you want to live."
Roland pauses, and for once, I question all the alarms he's set off in my brain. Sure, he's dangerous, but hostility is born of fear. A python can bite, but if you're not food or a threat, you can get along fine.
"So, why do you drink?" he says, and I come back to Earth.
"Because life should be celebrated."
"We can do that without alcohol."
I'm prepared. "But at one point in our life, we couldn't. When we were young, we didn't have that freedom."
"Sounds as though it's freedom that should be celebrated, not life."
"Sure, but..." I seize on it, and the words tumble out. "I don't know anything about what you were like when you were twelve or fourteen or whatever or if anyone ever made you appreciate how good we've got it now, but I kind of keep those moments in the back of my mind all the time, all right? It's freedom, but not screw-what-you-think-I-have-free-speech freedom. I don't drink to escape. I drink because I know I went through the fire and came out the other side, and I'm glad about it. Does that make sense?"
Roland looks down. Is that twice now? I can mess up even a cool customer like him.
"Because you mentioned a young age," he says gently, "I'm going to assume this has something to do with your father. Is that all right?"
"Yeah," I say. "It has everything to do with him."
Did he break you? It's written on his face. Instead he says, "How bad was it?"
Don't screw this up. Don't screw this up.
"You want the version with the pain or without it?"
He considers for a second. I like that. "Well," he says, "I understand we get points for honesty."
The room gets brighter: my pupils have dilated. There isn't anyone around to make a bet, really, which is unfortunate because I'm completely sure he'll lose his shit when I drop the truth on him. I'm a walking emotional baggage carousel, and Roland is the kind of guy who only brings carry-on.
"There's a part in Leviticus 18 he used to quote," I say, "and it goes like this. Bear with me 'cause it's long."
"Long is fine," he says, and his green eyes seem worried for me, as if things are going to get worse just because of talking about it, and what the hell. Maybe they are. I begin.
"You shall not uncover the nakedness of your son's daughter or of your daughter's daughter, for their nakedness is your own nakedness. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father's wife's daughter, begotten by your father since she is your sister.
"You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father's sister; she is your father's flesh. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your mother's sister, for she is your mother's flesh. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your father's brother, that is, you shall not approach his wife; she is your aunt. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your daughter-in-law: she is your son's wife; you shall not uncover her nakedness. You shall not uncover the nakedness of your brother's wife; it is your brother's nakedness."
He's staring at me like I've grown a second head. "I'm not sure what that means."
"Did you notice the one that was missing?" He thinks for a moment. I give him a hint. "It's the obvious one."
"Daughters," he says at last. "It leaves out just plain daughters."
"Yeah," I say. It's faint, though. "It, uh… I later learned that there are other parts of the book that say no daughters, but for the longest time…" I shake my head. "You get the picture."
"I'm sorry." It comes out of him automatically. "I don't think I've known anyone before who was… violated, if that's the right word."
"Not to make assumptions about your life," I say, "but you probably have. They just didn't decide to tell you."
He stands up, and for a second, I think I've hit a nerve. But in a moment, he returns to the table and puts a shot glass down in front of each of us. He pours the whiskey.
"Freedom," he says, and we drink. He looks as if he's holding back a cough as it goes down, but overall, he handles it pretty well.
I start in on the stir-fry, and the conversation turns to how he made it. I pour myself a second shot when he starts talking about his parents, whom he stopped speaking to when he changed his name. The third shot brings out the story of my friend Rachel, who gave me a place to stay and helped me press charges when I finally fled from the house.
I hold off on a fourth shot and have a little water instead when he reveals he never had friends that close. By that time, I've decided there's a better-than-even chance I'm going to stay the night and resolve to be open for a fourth shot as soon as I come back from the bathroom.
"Which way?" I ask.
"There's two. One's on this level. One's downstairs."
"I totally want to see this place. Stairs it is," I say.
"There's a railing if you have to use it."
"Watch me, you tease." I go down the stairs with balance to spare. I'm socially stirred but also sharp, coordinated. The bathroom is deliciously cold, and I catch a look at myself in the mirror. I'm not staring at a hot mess anymore. I see a girl, yes, but one re-forged into a woman by my friends, by therapeutic sex, by endless struggles on the mat in jiujutsu. An available, confident survivor.
When I emerge and am about to go upstairs, a smell gets my attention: wood and something musty. I'd never have noticed it before my infection, which makes it curious. The door to the room has a stiff handle, like it's locked, but a little nudge, and it comes open—it's only ninety percent closed. The latch didn't catch right. Opening the door, I’m hit with a wave of heat and humidity, a jungle in comparison to the cool night outside or the cold sink I just touched.
The room is a spotless white. I don't know why the chairs are up off the floor—something to do with cleaning before company came over, I guess. Slowly, I close in on the room's main attraction—the enormous wood and
glass terrarium fogged up with water vapor. Its occupant is large enough to need a lot of room. I don't recognize the gray snake inside. It has big, attractive eyes and a mouth line that curves up like a grin. Its head isn't triangular, so it's not a viper. It's lean, probably one of those harmless racers from the southern U.S. It lies very still. Asleep?
I lean down with my face close to the enclosure and am rewarded by the snake flicking a dark tongue out. I examine the latches on the terrarium door and flick them open.
"You're a cute one," I say. "Do you like petting?"
27 - RANATH
I'm busy putting away dishes when something tells me I'd better check on Infinity. I heard the faint sound of a toilet flushing before I drowned it out by running the kitchen sink. But when I'm done, there are no footsteps coming back to me. I dry my hands and look down the stairs. Infinity isn't far from Ena, and even though I locked the door, it never hurts to be careful.
"Hey!" bursts out from downstairs, and instantly, I know what has happened. I fly down the steps to find the door open and the rooms lit by the pale glow of Ena's ultraviolet lamp. Infinity has her by the head and is trying to force back her long, writhing body into the vivarium.
I snatch up a snake stick and use the spring-loaded jaws to firmly push Ena back. Infinity is smart and backs off as I go in, and I slam the door closed. The latch goes on.
"Did she get you?" I bark. "Are you bitten?"
"Yeah, it's fine," Infinity says. "Just a nip. Didn't really hurt—"
"Infinity," I say, staring directly in her eyes, "meet Ena. She is one of the most venomous snakes on the planet. Do what I say, when I say. I've got to save your life."
I can see the pale blue of her eyes go thin, swallowed by the black. She looks incredulously at the vivarium. "Why the hell do you have a pet you can't pet?"
"She's not a pet. She's a wild animal in captivity. Show me all the bites."
Infinity extends a hand. "Just once before I grabbed her." One red dot is a clean puncture; the other fang skated along the skin. That's good. Maybe it didn't deliver a full load. "Do you know how to suck the poison out or—"
"You don't want that. I'm going to have to inject you with antivenin. A lot." Nearly everything I need is within reach. I open the freezer and start pulling out fistfuls of tiny bottles. I slide a package of syringes over to her. "Open one of these. No, better make it two."
"How long do I have?"
"Time is tissue." I look over at her. "Brain, nerves, heart. Mostly nerves, but it's not good for any of it."
"You didn't answer the question."
"You have alcohol in your system. It makes things worse."
"How much worse?"
"I'm going to try to heal you to slow the damage." Explanations will have to come later. "I need to grab my stimweb."
"What do I do—think calming thoughts?"
"Actually, yes." I dash up the stairs, two at a time and trip near the top. I swear under my breath about alcohol. I soon have the kettle on and am running back down with the web and a handful of tacks. I take off my shirt to wire up and put tacks in my chest, my hands, my scalp.
It isn't long before the kettle boils, and I mix in cool water to put the bottles in a warm bath. Then, I take Infinity by the hand and kneel down with her.
"Stay still."
I grasp her arm with one hand and use the other to adjust the stim. In moments, I am generating yang qi and seeking her meridians to establish the connection.
Liver. Heart. Lung. I can't find them.
Something is out of balance. Yang roils and flows through her with every triphammer heartbeat, and when I grasp it to attempt to strengthen it, it overcomes me. It is powerful and young.
Young? She isn't old, but she doesn't match up with what I know. I see energy like this in twenty-year-old men, and more to the point, I did not feel it back when I healed her neck. It is wrong, like finding fire in a snowbank, but it is far from harming her. I feel for her abundance of yin-within-yin and find it pulsing at her core. She is using her energies instinctively to block the venom's spread, and she has two separate, distinct signatures: one on the inside, one out. It is exactly the sort of thing that can throw off my locator beacon. Infinity has someone else's aura on, and there is only one way she could have taken it.
"Any good news?" she asks.
I wish. "Well, your chances of dying just went down a great deal."
"Any bad news?" she says, and I know at once that she knows. I size up the situation and find nothing good. If she gets hostile, the chances that I can reach my pistol are low. I'm in close quarters with a vipe who specializes in a grappling martial art. My own martial arts teacher, when posed with complex questions like this, gave me a simple rule to follow: do not commit until they commit. So, I don't.
As politely as possible, I say "I'm pretty sure you're aware you're a vipe."
I'm not sure what to expect when I say it. Maybe a denial. Maybe she'll get dangerous. But she does neither. She lets out a breath—not a sigh but a conscious attempt to stay calm as things go from bad to worse.
"Right," she says quietly. "Is that likely to save me?"
Slightly fogged by the drinks, I'm not sure in what sense she means it. I go with the medical opinion. "Well, you've had a blood meal very recently, I'd say within the last forty-eight hours. It makes it harder to lock on to your signal, but your ability to recuperate will be at its peak." Keep clinical. "Do you feel tingling or numbness?"
"I did for a minute there, but it's off and on."
"That's you fighting off the neurotoxin. Had this happened a few days later, it would be a lot worse."
"So, what's the plan?" she asks.
I have none. Am I within my rights to explode in anger? To make her beg, let her suffer for her betrayal or at least for her drunken, suicidal, and downright stupid move? She has done more than lie. When my hands were on her neck, bathed in her blood, a scratch on my skin could have exposed me.
"First," I say, taking a deep breath and forcing a smile, "I give you antivenin."
"I wasn't sure about that," she admits.
"You're my patient," I say gently, and I get up to make more preparations. I put on a rubber glove, take a second syringe and dilute a dose in saline. I must ensure she isn't allergic to the antibodies before I give her anything larger. "Here we go. Test case first."
She holds still as I prep her unbitten hand with an alcohol wipe. Needle stick. In moments, I have the catheter and IV going and take closer note of her wound. I clean it and find the tiny holes clotting over. The wound site hasn't even swelled. Vipe healing at its finest.
"I need to watch for symptoms, but they'll take minutes to appear," I explain. She is not smiling now. "When did it happen?"
"When I was taking my hand away," Infinity says. "At first, I stayed still not to scare him—uh, her—but then I figured she wasn't interested—"
"I mean the infection."
"A few weeks back. Still getting used to it."
The bigger question looms, so I say it. "Have you had to kill?"
"I don't really know," she confesses. "Maybe I did. The first time was sloppy." As she looks down, a strand of hair covers one eye, and I am somewhere else. Lovers, parents, psychiatrists all saying that normal people don't feel those things. Normal people see life as sacred. They don't want to be the ones deciding who has the right to live. Normal people need to be petted and cajoled and given orders, so it's a we rather than an I that pulls the trigger. She shows all the signs I never have.
I am not normal. Infinity knew it, but she came here tonight anyway. She didn't shrink back at any point tonight, and I need to do the same.
"Whoa," she says, bringing her head up after a minute. "Drowsy."
"But no itching?" I ask.
"Not really. Still some tingles. Hot, too."
"Itching would be an allergic reaction. Fatigue is the venom. We'd better fix it." I swap out the syringe load and start putting the antivenin into her in ea
rnest.
"I feel terrible…" she says.
"That's normal."
"I mean, you saving my dumb ass twice now. Morgan, I… I let him escape."
"We'll sort through your guilt in the morning. Right now, roll up your shirt."
She does so. I put the crook of my web arm around her waist. We are ab to ab.
"Oh," she says. "Don't mind the sweat. They say it helps you get rid of toxins."
"If you live, we can go to the spa. I'm just maximizing the contact area."
Infinity grimaces. I adjust the web. The inverse square is practically at zero; I am free to build a reservoir of power. Then, I feel out the roiling energies in Infinity, two auras fighting for their lives, bound together by blood and qi. The blood is now compromised, carrying its lethal load throughout her body. It clenches like a fist around her nerves, her meridians, her brain. I can feel the venom sliding into her on pathways slick with alcohol, see it trying to choke out the light. I coax her liver into absorbing water and whiskey from her system, replaced by saline and antivenin. But the energy I'm creating is unstable. Like a sniper waiting for a shot, I'll need steady nerves, timing, and a little math. I have one of three.
"Infinity," I say, "I'm going to adjust your central nervous system."
"You gonna jam a hypo in my heart?"
I shake my head. "I don't trust my precision right now. I'm drunker than I've been in my life. I need to stick to my strength, and that's affecting minds."
"Uh… how does that help?"
"I want to access the portion of your brain that handles immune response," I say. "If the poison and the alcohol depress that system, you're in trouble."
"Well, stop talking about it, and do it."
"With no precision, it involves me controlling all of your mind for a short time."
She pauses. I start to explain. "That's why I'm asking permission—"
"But you said the poison was going to my brain."
"Well, to be precise, neurotoxic venoms only—"
"I don't want to hear any more. Just get it over with."
I take a calming breath. I pull off my glove, bring up my left palm and cradle her face. Then, I start the function.
