Streetlethal

by Steven Barnes

  "I know." His hands, those monstrously thick hands, stroked her hair, and his lips warmed the base of her neck.

  They stayed like that for a time, then she felt his hands peel the robe back from her torso, her breasts falling into his hands like twin children begging to be loved. He nuzzled each of them, the warm undersides and the textured, stiffening tips, then raised his face to her, and they kissed.

  That kiss was like two drowning people feeding each other air. Her fingernails, broken and untended for weeks now, raked his chest slowly. She arched her back, stifling the hysterical laughter that welled in her throat as his lips and tongue and teeth glided over her skin with absolute strength and softness.

  She laughed, holding him, finding in that laughter something positive, knowing that her very ticklishness, the way her skin jumped at the touch of his bristles was a change, a small triumph over her own barriers.

  She pulled back from him and stood up, shedding the robe, listening to it settle to die ground in a slow-motion flutter. And for the first time in her memory, die sight of his eyes on her body, the knowledge that she was stirring him carried no added feeling of power. She felt unsure, insecure, wondering, hoping that everything would work, that this man, with his incredible, disorienting meld of strength and softness, this drug for which many had died and more would suffer...that somehow these tilings would combine to set her free of her prison.

  She felt a queasy sensation in her stomach, a touch of something that bordered on nausea. He reached out to her and pulled her to him, burrowing hi$ face into her stomach, kissing bar navel, scratching her gently along the belly and inner thigh. She gasped, tangling her fingers in his hair as he played with her, turned her ticklish tremors into spirals of sensation that built and built, finally hammering savagely at the wall of her reserve. She felt the wall shudder, stretch—but not give way. The wave receded, leaving her covered in a light sheen of sweat.

  He was breathing heavily now, his eyes even blacker than they had been, and his speech was slurred as he spoke. "There's something—it feels warm... and like someone is stroking die inside of my stomach with a feather,"

  "Hush," she said, her hand caressing the fasteners to his pants, feeling his excitement. She leaned forward to kiss him as she worked the buttons free of their loops, tasting her own saltiness on his lips. The room seemed to be tinted orange, and when she closed her eyes, his image was burned into the interior of her lids.

  She pulled his pants off and lay next to him on the cot, running her hands over his body, trailing her fingernails down his stomach until she felt the blood rushing in him, felt him tremble as she left a trail of kisses down his chest and stomach.

  The world was beginning to strobe, each individual act seeming to persist, each feeling, taste, or sensation lingering after its natural termination. She teased him artfully, losing herself in the moment, and for the first time in memory there was no separation between her thoughts and her actions.

  And when he pulled her away, she found herself reluctant to let him go, that she wanted to continue giving. She clutched at him, crying again, knowing only that her skin felt hot, so very hot, that every touch burned, that her body was responding to him as it never had to any man, not even Jamie.

  He laid her down on the couch. She thrust her hips up to meet him, pressing against him so tightly that her sense of identity ran like fluid, that she could no longer tell where her body stopped and his began.

  She dug her hands into his back, trying desperately to pull him deeper into her, feeling as if she were a bottomless pit.

  And, incredibly, he filled her, locked her in his arms so tightly that there was a flash of panic, a resurfacing of old fears. She pushed at him, wiggled, for a bare moment trying to escape, but he merely held her tighter and brought his lips down on hers. His tongue slid into her mouth like a rivulet of lava, burning away her fears. One at a time, she felt the muscles in her body relax as she gave in completely.

  His face melted away as she looked at him, and she knew that she was totally in the grip of the mushroom, and there was no way off the ride except to see it to its end.

  And as his flesh melted, hers did as well—melted until it seemed that their nervous systems mingled, that she could see herself through his eyes, feel herself through his fingers.

  Then there was no Aubry Knight; there was only herself and herself, and a crazy funhouse of mirror-Promises, faces aglow with pleasure, stretching backward and forward into infinity. Then even that image vanished and there was nothing at all, just a darkness clouded with stars that pulsed and jumped rhythmically.

  And from that darkness came a face, a younger face, the face of a small boy; and the face was hard and cold. She watched it harden, age, watched the hair grow wiry as he became a man, Aubry Knight. Then the face wasn't Aubry's, it was hers—then it was Aubry's—and then . . .

  With each change, the feelings remained the same—the same sense of betrayal, alienation, the same protective mechanisms. But then those too were stripped away, and Promise— or what had been Promise—felt terror, naked and more starkly barren than she could ever imagine. She tried to think of her own name, but couldn't find it. She tried to find a face, but there was none, not even Aubry's. She opened her eyes—or thought she opened them, and fell deeper into the void.

  No, wait. There was a flash in the darkness, a glowing pinpoint that grew as she watched it, watched the face that was half light and half death approach, watched it open its mouth to swallow her, heard her own scream of despair. . . .

  She reached out with everything that there was in her, reached out to whatever comfort there might be in the darkness. Dropped all of the shields and barriers and stepped out over the edge in a mad attempt to escape the grinning jaws.

  And something caught her. Something strong and soft...Someone calm and yet as terrified as she. And together, they waited, and the jaws circled, snapping, not grinning any longer, frustrated, finally howling off into die darkness.

  And all was dark, and calm. And she said, "Aubry! There was no audible reply, no spoken words. Yet somehow she could see images, feel emotions, and knew what he was saying to her.

  I'M HERE. I'LL ALWAYS BE HERE FOR YOU.

  "Aubry—? I've waited so long to say it—"

  HUSH. THERE'S NOTHING TO SAY.

  But the light was boiling in her now, boiling up out of die locked box, consuming their world, consuming them both, and she knew that she had but a moment of sanity left.

  "Aubry, God knows I don't deserve you—"

  HUSH.

  "But I love you."

  And then the light was total, and neither of them knew anything but its warmth.

  14. The Hollow Woman

  "Come, lie down here. Give me a chance to work at the muscles in that back."

  He sighed and rolled over onto his stomach. She worked her fingers in, and felt him exhale harshly. "What is it? I know that there's something wrong. Can I help?"

  He shook his head. "It's not really something wrong. It's just going to be more expensive to synthesize the drug than we thought."

  "Well..." He was beginning to work up a bit of a sweat now, and his shoulders were loosening. "I would think that you'd pass the cost difference along to your customers."

  "It's not just that." His eyes were distant. "It's something that Steinbrenner said. At first we thought that the drug was a synthetic. It wasn't—it was composed of the spores of some kind of psychoactive mushroom we can't identify."

  "Can't you grow them?"

  He groaned. "A little lower. No. The spores are dead, deactivated. Whatever. We can't grow them. Analysis says that there are maybe twenty, twenty-five separate tryptamine derivatives in the drug. We don't know which are the vital factors. We're trying to duplicate it, but..." He reached back for her, fingers grazing a leg. "It's a mess. Ah, well, I'll let Klause work it out. What else am I paying him for?"

  She kissed him gently at the back of the neck. 'That's what I like to hear. I mean
—I would hate to think that I've grown so old and ugly that I can't get your mind off business any more. That would be terrible."

  "Disgraceful."

  "Shameful."

  He rolled over, and she sat astride him, unbuttoning his shirt to run her fingers along the smooth skin underneath.

  He was watching her closely. "Well look at this. I put away my business face, and the first thing that you do is put yours on. Where are you now, Miss Orozco? What are you thinking about?"

  "Us. Tomaso... let's have a drink, and end the day together."

  "Sounds good. A little brandy, perhaps."

  Not good. He wouldn't want much of the brandy, just barely enough to wet his mouth and fill his lungs with heat. 'Tomaso—I have a special bottle I bought three days ago, after the last time that we made love."

  "My lovemaking drives you to drink?" There wasn't even a trace of honest disappointment in his voice.

  She knelt by his head and bent over, her skin glistening orange in the firelight, and kissed him moistly. "No. It makes me want to do something good for you. This is very good."

  He groped up to kiss her, but she was gone, gone to the small refrigerator by the bedside, scooping out the bottle and rushing to the crystal wetbar in the corner of the room. She took out two chilled glasses and set them on the counter, humming to herself.

  The winecork popped loudly, followed by the sound of gurgling liquid. Nadine spun around, her robe flowing out in a spiral, carrying a glass of dark fluid in each hand. Her eyes were twin mirrors that reflected die dying firelight as she walked to him.

  The glasses, though brimming, never spilled a drop.

  She knelt, crossing one golden leg over another, and ran her tongue around the inside edge of one of the glasses. She smiled and held it out to him.

  He took it and saluted her gratefully, taking a sip. "There are potentials for Cyloxibin that no one has touched yet," he said. He took another sip and rolled it around on his tongue, savoring. "Steinbrenner glows when she talks about it. "Enhanced sensitivity to physical stimuli/ she says. Increased alertness to body language; eye movement, heat, and pressure changes." He laughed. "It lowers the threshold of perception for all sensory input, especially pleasurable input. Apparently, it's that reduced threshold that accounts for the incidents of psi phenomenon. Steinbrenner has isolated twenty-four mild varieties of extrasensory activity, most of which have to do with what she calls a 'dissolution of ego foundries.' God, what an experience it must be."

  Nadine was watching the fireplace, watching the flames chew at the logs. With a puffball of sparks, the pile collapsed. Glowing ashes bounced off the transparent firescreen. "Tomaso," she said carefully, "more than half of your men are already addicted "

  "It hasn't impaired their intelligence or physical health. Don't worry about it."

  "If it's so wonderful... why haven't you ever thought of...?" the words evaded her. She took another sip of wine. "Have you ever tried the drug yourself?"

  His body shook with laughter. "Of course not. As good as it is, there are drawbacks to everything, my dear. We have determined several personality types that would respond ... shall we say, unfavorably?"

  She watched him drain the rest of the glass. "You're talking about really sick people, aren't you?"

  "Psychopaths and sociopaths, of course." He grinned at her. "The person with the dark, killing secret in his soul. And, like myself, the person who needs to maintain control. Even this glass of wine was a mistake."

  She froze. He laughed again, leaning up to kiss her. "It has lowered my defenses. I'm afraid that once again you're going to have your way with me."

  They laughed, and she wondered if he noted her relief. His laugh seemed to her like the product of a musical instrument, something antique, carved from aged wood. She shivered, a ripple of sensation that felt almost like the stomach-knotting precursor of the dry heaves.

  "What I want—" He paused, and she looked down into his eyes, suddenly alarmed at the size of his pupils. My God! So quickly? Can it work as quickly as this? He paused, confused by the lack of cohesion in his thoughts. "What I want..." He trailed off again. Puzzlement creased his features.

  For an instant his face was calm, then he frowned. His muscles locked. With deliberate slowness he reached up and grasped her hands. "Something..."

  "Relax, darling. I'll take care of everything." She stroked his head and kissed his browline tenderly, tactile fantasies twisting and twirling in her mind like a fall of autumn leaves.

  At first he relaxed again, then he gripped at her. "Your pupils—" he muttered, his voice thick and slurry. "My God. What's happening? What have...?" His arm tipped over the cut crystal wine glass, and it tumbled in slow motion, shattering on the fireplace, shards of glass and drops of liquid spraying the air.

  Color draining from his face in shock, Tomaso struggled to his feet. "You drugged the wine!" There was nothing of a question in his voice, only sadness, and...

  And what?

  Enhanced sensitivity to physical stimuli. It lowers the threshold of perception for .. .pleasurable input.

  What about the threshold of resistance?

  Tomaso struggled up, face a battlefield of warring emotions. She grabbed his wrist. His skin was fever-hot. "Tomaso. I love you. Please."

  "You don't understand—" His words were thick, slurred, but he had paused to speak them. She hitched up, pressed her head against his stomach, heard it rumbling with tension. Desperate, she stroked him, kissed him, afraid of what might happen if she let him go.

  He took another step towards the door. "Tomaso," she gasped, "listen to me, just listen. You're strong. Stronger than any of the others. You have nothing to fear—it was for me, just for me. I wanted to be closer to you, to belong to you, to feel you more than I ever have before."

  What does he want to hear?

  "Please, Tomaso. I've never given you all of me. Now I can. Take it. Throw me away after, if you want; but please, just once "

  She wasn't even sure she was making sense, but when he looked down at her, his eyes were vast and dark. He was trembling, sweating, out of control.

  He sank down to his knees. Her hands were everywhere on him at once, coaxing, plying, laying him back on the floor, and finally mounting him with a vast rending sigh of relief.

  She seemed to Tomaso a hollow woman, a bottomless pit. His body swelled in a frantic effort to fill her.

  She gripped him on the rug in the firelight, moaning out her love, begging for forgiveness, the words soon giving way to inarticulate cries and the silent language of touch and taste and smell.

  Her mouth was a boiling whirlpool. It seemed that he was being sucked into her from both ends, as if there was no end to her need, no way that anything or anyone human could give enough.

  He tried to pull back, but when he did, she gripped him tighter, and he gave in to her embrace. He felt the ripple of her stomach muscles, the interplay of the sinews in her legs as they coiled around him, felt his skin melt away, until their flesh melded together, until gazing into her eyes was like looking into a mirror. He saw nothing but himself, being sucked deeper and deeper. The things that were Tomaso and the things that were Nadine rose bubbling to the surface of consciousness and intertwined.

  Tomaso made little gasping sounds, trying again to twist away, to free her hands from their grip, but could not.

  And he went mad. It was just a fragmented fear at first, then a torrent as he realized that every glimpse into her mind was being mirrored by a glance into his own. Every secret...

  He gathered the last of his strength and pushed—at her throat. He felt the pain, the agony as his fingers closed on her; he saw his own face turning purple, felt his fingernails tearing at his hands, raking his arms, searching for his eyes. He heard himself scream, the scream becoming a cry chopped off before its peak. He saw something that might have been Nadine roll her eyes back into her head, felt the last desperately dragged breath of air burning in his lungs, the red-tinged darkne
ss swirling in from the peripheries of consciousness, the final, stifled scream of pain and betrayal, and love.

  "Mirabal," Tomaso said. His voice wavered before he managed to regain control. "I don't care how much it costs. I want him. I want them. This is a matter of family honor, and money doesn't enter into it at all. Do you understand me, or will it be necessary to find someone more tractable to fill your job?"

  Mirabal watched his employer's holographic image warily, wondering how many of the small black tablets Tomaso had taken so far this week. "No, that won't be necessary. I hope you realize that we are attempting to follow up on old leads. You know how difficult—"

  "Difficult! You want to talk to me about difficulty? See how you like running your section when the supply of cyloxibin runs out. That will give you a totally different perspective on the word difficult, I think."

  Tomaso looked down the table at Wu—who turned away; at Sims; and finally at Margarete. His eyes were fierce, but Mirabal had no trouble deciphering the message in them.

  You're screwing up, Tomaso, and you know it. A little grandstanding for the Grande Dame?

  "Yes, sir." Mirabal didn't say, And who asked you to addict them to that damned drug you miserable weakling?

  There was one new face at the table: Steinbrenner, the woman from Tomaso's technical section. She sat looking straight ahead, as if the slightest unplanned thought or movement might be disastrous.

  "One tenth, Wu. Every month from now on, you will distribute ten percent of the remaining Cyloxibin, and that will be divided among the various dependencies."

  Wu was silent, weighing die implications. "A tenth. ...Tomaso, surely you realize that that amount will not cover the addicts that you... that already exist. May I remind you that some of these people are quite powerful and influential. If we attempt to cut back on their supply, they can retaliate."

  Tomaso cut him off. "Bullshit! None of them would dare do a thing. Look at yourself, Wu "