Streetlethal

by Steven Barnes

  There was no call for her services: too many desperate amateurs stalked the same streets, giving anything for food, water, and shelter. Maxine stumbled in darkness, alone with her pain, a growing hollowness inside her...

  ... Maxine wandered along the Alvarado Street barricade, where barbed wire marked off what was left of south-central Los Angeles. There was nothing for her there, no customers, no shelter—just the twisted, blackened remnants of the Firestorm, rising from the wreckage beyond the fence like the shadows of a demon forest.

  Emaciated, nerve-dead in the left side of her body, her vision obscured by burst blood vessels, she was unable to attract even the grimiest fungus farmer. Men walked around her, looking the other way as she hissed her siren call, desperately gyrating her once generous hips.

  By lowering her price to virtually nothing, she finally managed to attract a customer, a piecework bodyguard with filthy teeth and a great chunk carved out of his nose. After he left her she realized that she hadn't demanded a blood spectrograph.

  She fled screaming to the nearest machine and thrust her hand into it, fumbling in her purse for her charge card. She punched it in—and nothing happened. Sobbing, she punched it in again, watching the "insufficient funds" light flash in monotonous rhythm.

  She sagged to the sidewalk, hearing only her own breathing and not the firm, soft footsteps that approached the corner where she lay propped against the machine. But she noticed when the footsteps stopped.

  She looked up and saw a tall slender figure, its face lost in darkness. Maxine curled her body tighter against the spectrograph vender, and whimpered.

  The stranger bent down. Within the shadow Maxine caught sparkles of light, a dancing crackle of rainbow electricity, then nothing. Reflections. Or the beginning of grub withdrawal. A slender hand reached out and cupped Maxine's chin, raising her face with gentle strength. Focusing her eyes, Maxine could see that the shadows were created by a dark brown cowl.

  The hand released her, and she sagged back to the ground.

  A cool, carefully modulated voice said: "Grubs?"

  Maxine looked up hopefully, stretching out a hand.

  "I owe someone a favor," the voice, a woman's voice, said. "You and I can make a trade. Do you want to live?"

  It sounded as if the voice was calling from the depths of a swirling wind, all but lost in the roar. But Maxine, groping for life, for any understanding or hope, nodded with the last strength in her body.

  "Then you'll do." The woman bent down and slipped an arm under Maxine's, wrapped it around her back, and helped her to her feet. The cowl slipped a centimeter or two, and Maxine saw the outline of an oval, full-lipped face. Then the woman sighed, a sound that contrasted with the almost metallic tones of her voice, and the left side of her face glowed like a rainbow reflected in shattered ice. Maxine collapsed again as her already numb mind overloaded.

  She felt herself pulled to the curb, and heard the woman punch a Mark card into a cab box. Within moments an armored taxi-drone hovered in for a landing. The door opened automatically and sealed behind them. The readout screen flickered-its query: DESTINATION? in crawling yellow dots of light, simultaneously speaking the word in politely androgynous tones.

  "Emergency Detox." The readout was silent and dark for an instant, then simultaneously read and said, "TWO POINT SEVEN-EIGHT MARKS. FORTY-SEVEN DOLLARS." While they watched, the display faded, then brightened again. "EXCUSE ME. ADJUSTMENT IN EXCHANGE RATE. FORTY-NINE DOLLARS."

  "Are you sure you're finished?" The taxi was silent. The readout remained the same, and the woman chuckled darkly. "Fine. I'll pay in Marks, thank you." The taxi rose, coasting them to their destination.

  The woman pulled back her cowl. In Maxine's wavering vision it seemed that she had never seen a woman so beautiful and yet so distant. Her eyes were almond-shaped and shifted colors from brown to gold as she turned her head. Her hair was a spray of dark brown, only slightly ruffled by the cowl, and came down on her forehead in a very slight widow's peak.

  Her forehead was high and smooth. Her skin was a darker chocolate than Maxine's own, and seemed somehow unreal.

  "Who ... are you?"

  The woman looked at her, a brief flash of hostility giving way to a smile. "Santa Claus." Then she leaned back into the seat and watched the crumbled, patchwork buildings of the Maze whip by, the few denizens who traveled by night looking up to wonder who had business here in the crumbled core of Los Angeles.

  Maxine awoke with a start, aware only of being carried from the taxi pod, of voices buzzing softly around her. She lost consciousness again and awoke stretched out on a couch in a clean, almost sterile room. There were a few flat-frame pictures decorating the plain yellow walls, and several sprays of flowers. There were three other couches in the room, but they were empty.

  The woman in the cowl was standing to one side, talking to a tall, moon-faced oriental man with slender fingers.

  "She'll stick," the woman was saying. "She's got nowhere else to go."

  The man's mouth curled in a tolerant smile. "Promise, how can you be sure of that? How long have you known her?"

  "Half an hour, Cecil. Trust me, all right?"

  "Trust you? A piranha maybe, but not you."

  Maxine expected a flash of anger, but instead there was laughter; the woman laid her hand on his shoulder. They seemed about the same height. "Look. I know that if she doesn't stick you're just going to bug me until I bring you someone who will. Believe me—I know her type." For the first time, there was genuine softness in her voice. "I was there, remember?"

  "Never that far, Promise." Cecil sighed and looked at Maxine casually. He scratched an ear and looked back at the tall woman. "Will you come and see her? We've got some new techniques— some grub antagonists that I've been asked to try out. Catacholamine drugs, very experimental and very powerful. Pretty wild stuff, Promise. She's going to need a friend."

  She glared at him, then at Maxine. There was a flash of light in her face, one swiftly dimmed. "If she'll have me—" Her voice grew fierce. "But this is it, all right, Cecil? Debts paid. In full?"

  "Sometimes I forget—you have more important things to do with your time, don't you?" She stiffened at that, but Cecil's bare trace of a smile softened the words.

  "All right." Promise walked slowly over to the couch on which Maxine lay curled. She knelt down. "All right, mouse. We don't know who you are and we don't care. This is Dr. Kato, and he's a crazy man. He got some of the federal emergency funds coming into L. A., and he's got this psychotic need to do good deeds. He'll get you out of the woods, if you let him." Maxine tried to speak, to protest or complain, but could find no strength. "Give it a chance, mouse. It's better than the Farms."

  Maxine closed her eyes, knowing the words to be true, no matter what she was headed for. Promise ruffled her hair affectionately, then stood and slapped Cecil lightly on the cheek. "She'll do."

  "I think maybe you're right. Check back next week, would you?"

  "Doctor's orders?"

  "Friend's request."

  She patted his cheek again, nodding. "Oh, one more thing. Better give her a blood spectrograph. She might have a spider."

  "Have you brought me some more trouble, Promise?"

  "I do my level best." Promise turned and walked to the door and the waiting taxi pod.

  Maxine found her voice finally, raising it above the level of a whisper. "Promise?"

  The tall woman turned. "That's it."

  "Maxine. My name is Maxine." She paused, gulped air. Then: "Thank you."

  Promise smiled then, and the left side of her face exploded into light, as if every nerve and muscle were connected to a tiny Christmas bulb. "I'll be back." Then the lights were gone. A moment later, so was Promise.

  2. Aubry

  He waited for the clearance light to flash an acceptance. "Come on," He sighed heavily. "You know something, I've flown just about everything in my time. Explosives, nuclear waste, toxic gas Hell, I ferried food right into th
e middle of L.A. after last year's little shakedown." Rollins raised one hand from the controls, watching it tremble. "This gets to me worse than anything else. I gotta get out of this work, Jacks. The old nerves just can't handle it."

  With a beep, the clearance light popped on, and Rollins throttled the skimmer ahead into the security zone surrounding the prison.

  "Nerves my ass, Rollins," Jackson said, feeding their landing coordinates into the guidance system. "Nerve gas doesn't try to get out and poison somebody. Radioactive waste doesn't want to fry you, for Chrissakes. These poor bastards we run out here got nothing to lose."

  Rollins clouded the cabin air with smoke. "Forget the rest of them. Did you hear what this bastard did to those two guards at New Q? Right through their armor." He shook his head. "Damned nullboxers are freaks, man. Sport ought to be outlawed."

  "I'll write my congressman tomorrow." Jackson took the controls. They glided in to the concrete landing square a hundred meters north of the greenhouse bubble. The bubble was the only section of Death Valley Maximum Security Penitentiary that lay above ground. "Right now, let's just get shed of this package, then we can go someplace and get drunk."

  "Sounds too good to be true. All right, Jacks. Two degrees left—"

  Charteris, the assistant warden of D.V.M.S.P., ran a finger under his collar. Plastic fibers don't absorb worth a damn, he cursed silently. It was cool in his office, but he perspired heavily. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the sun outside would burn the moisture from an unprotected man in hours.

  On the other hand, maybe it was the man who sat quietly in a calculatedly uncomfortable chair opposite. The metal tape around his wrists held him securely to the magnetic pads of the chair arms.

  With an effort, Charteris pulled his mind back to the routine speech he was trying to make. "You can do two kinds of time here, Knight," he continued. "Hard, or killer. You gave up your other options when you attacked those two guards at New Quentin."

  He waited for words, anything from denial to explanations to threats, and got silence. Aubry Knight's body was a statue carved in obsidian. His black prison fatigues stretched tight across his chest and thighs. His huge hands were relaxed, loosely curled on the chair arms. His black eyes watched Charteris casually. "I've heard about you," the assistant warden went on. "You think you're a real tough guy. A hard case. Professional nullboxer? Well, even if four years at New Quentin didn't knock the spunk out of you, things are different here at Death. Tough guys don't last here. Just do your time, shut up, and listen when you're talked to. And don't... don't make the mistake of touching one of our guards. Even if they do decide to discipline you. This isn't New Quentin—this is the end of the line, and we let our guards deal with problems like you in whatever way they see fit. There isn't anywhere lower than this to send you. In a manner of speaking, the Buck stops here." Charteris smirked. "I didn't expect you to understand that, Knight. That's all right. I'm not here to entertain you— in fact, I'm not here to reform you, either." Charteris overcame his discomfort and came closer to Aubry, stooping to look in his face. "I'm just here to keep you off the street for twelve more years. If you reform, so much the better for you."

  He backed up again, startled to discover that his breathing stopped when he came close to Knight. There was no mistaking the silent message in those eyes. I could kill you, they said, even now, bound as I am. You can talk and play the big man, but we both know the truth.

  "This is an experimental facility. The security apparatus necessary to keep the prisoners under control is expensive. We cannot force you to work, but we can key your diet to your caloric output. If you don't work, you will receive a subsistence diet, enough to keep an inactive man of your height and bone structure alive. The harder you work, the more you eat. You can also earn other privileges, but the main point to remember is that a decent diet is a privilege here—not a right. I hope you understand." Aubry didn't move. "Good. Security!" The office door clicked open and a burly guard entered. He wore five-mil flexarmor, and carried a slender shock prod. "Take Mr. Knight to his caseworker." The guard unlocked Aubry and escorted him out.

  Charteris pulled a bottle of Scotch from his bottom desk drawer and poured himself a splash.

  Aubry Knight. Professional fighter. Former enforcer for the Ortegas. The Ortegas, for Christ's sake. There was little question but that he had been set up, but there was nothing anyone could do about it. A man like Aubry Knight needed to be locked up anyway.

  Charteris took a sip and closed his eyes as the heat spread down his throat. "Screen on," he called. "Transplant requests."

  A shallow holo window appeared over his desk, and a quick list of kidneys, eyes, and legs rolled past. Legs and arms. Knight looked good for an arm and a leg. He was tough, though. Give him a year down in Hell. Let him see what twelve of them would be like. Then offer him a reduction in sentence if he would repay society for his misdeeds.

  Yes, maybe a year. And then—at least a kidney.

  Aubry lay on his bunk, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The transparent plate that sealed his cell was open for the first time since his arrival six weeks before. Each cell was soundproofed and formed an effective solitary confinement. The only noise was a steady whisper from the arm-size ventilation hole as it pumped dry, lukewarm air into his cell. Three levels beneath the surface of the sand, the ventilation system was life itself.

  Rumor had it that during the riots of '08 the ventilation ducts had been shut off. Twenty-eight prisoners had died of suffocation.

  Today Aubry would be allowed to take his meals communally, to use the showers rather than merely wipe his body with a wet towel. Then he would be assigned a job—digging out a new level in the bedrock beneath the prison, perhaps. There were six underground levels now, but overcrowding was always a problem. With a job he could earn money tokens, exchangeable for candy, cigarettes, or time in the gym.

  The first two were of no interest, but the thought of a gym made his muscles twitch hungrily.

  He was still lost in thought when he heard the sound of crepe soles stopping in his doorway. Aubry looked at their owner with idle curiosity.

  The man was large, almost as big as Aubry. His face was a flattened moon, his skin color some indistinguishable blend of Black and Hispanic. The two men behind him were smaller, but carried themselves as if all the death in the world were at their disposal. Weapons. Without thinking about it, he knew that they carried weapons: homemade knives, sand-filled socks, wire garrotes, perhaps an acid bag. Something. One of them was blind in his right eye, a dull plastic replica staring from the emptied socket.

  "The name's Jo Jo. I'm from Denim." The big man's voice was ragged, gravelly. Aubry wondered how many times he had been hit in the throat. "Denim's the power here. He gets what he wants, understand? You're good to him, play straight, you get what you need, understand?" Jo Jo took a step into Aubry's cell, looking around. "This is home for you now. Maybe the rest of your life. Forget about what outside was like, and this won't seem too bad."

  His manner changed, became tighter. "I hear talk. I hear you're a real tough boy; Well, in here, ain't nobody tough but me. You work for Denim, or you play with me, understand?"

  "Get out."

  Jo Jo snorted. "You know something? I don't think you're really all that tough. You're big, all right, but I'll bet you're a pussy, ready to put out for the first stud who flashes a stick of gum at you. What do you ..." As the words left his mouth Aubry's gaze locked on him. The eyes were insanely black and seemed to peel away his skin to drill into the back of his skull. He backed up, startled.

  "Mister," Aubry said coldly, "I think that you're about to find out more than you want to know." Then he closed his eyes.

  For a moment there was silence. "Big man," Jo Jo said finally, forcing a laugh into his voice. Aubry heard the three pairs of feet retreat. Listening carefully, he could hear that one walked with poor balance. One bad leg, one bad eye. Weird.

  Aubry lay still and list
ened to his breathing, trying to relax.

  For a moment there was peace. Then there was a quick thought, a flash of a pretty brown face, a lying voice, and Aubry thought: Maxine. Then the face became a name, a printed name stenciled on a plain granite tombstone. As an afterthought he added a second stone, labelled Luis.

  Aubry relaxed again, a contemplative smile on his face.

  Three echoing tones sounded in the cell before Aubry opened his eyes. He could hear footsteps down the hall: only a few minutes until roll call.

  The guard on the morning shift appeared as the door became translucent. He said, "Knight," into a handheld transmitter, then moved on.

  Aubry slipped on shirt and pants and walked to the door, waiting for the mess line to form. He felt numb, only vaguely curious as to what the day might bring. There was nothing to be excited about—today would be all too similar to thousands of days to come. Best relax.

  He took his place, feeling the eyes on him, noting with satisfaction that he was the largest man in the line. Less likely that some idiot would start something, try to rank him.

  They moved along the narrow corridor, down a slanting concrete tunnel and into the mess hall. It was large enough for two hundred men, tables and serving stations arranged economically. He guessed that there had to be twenty small mess halls serving food on three shifts to feed the prison population. More separation meant greater control and security. There was an upper tier to the cafeteria, walled with the same unbreakable ceramic that formed the cell doors. The surface was dark, but he knew that behind it guards watched and waited.

  His line moved up to the food counter. He took a tray, allowing a trustee to add a dollop of fruit mush, some eggs, grits, and a chunk of some kind of textured soy. He sniffed: it smelled vaguely like ham.

  The thin, quick-eyed man who dropped a tin of black coffee on Aubry's tray avoided looking into his face. Aubry suddenly realized that no one in his immediate vicinity was speaking, although an undercurrent of whispers rippled through the air. He took his tray and sat at one of the long, plain tables that filled the room.