Streetlethal

by Steven Barnes

  "No, not many of them do, except for the ones I got with the Scavengers last week. Or the week before—" The whole thing seemed so misty and far away. "Whenever that was."

  "Good, I'm glad."

  She lay her head down on his hip.

  "Couple of them itch a little. Not much, though."

  "Let me scratch it for you. Where?"

  "Over my ribs for one. About three cim from the end of your nose."

  "Where?"

  "There. Right where you have your hand."

  She looked closer, almost giving up before she saw a very faint line etched into his skin, along the grain of the muscle. "That? It doesn't look like much."

  "No, it doesn't. But it itches sometimes."

  She put her fingers to either side of it and tugged gently. "It certainly seems to be completely healed. When did you get it?"

  "In prison. I don't know what happened. It was one of the times they used the sound on me." He winced at the memory. "I went under, puking up my guts. When I woke up I was sore all over, and I had that scar." He shrugged. "Must have cut myself."

  She nodded, fingering it. As she did, the lights went out. She felt it again, something nagging at the back of her mind. Finally she gave up trying to remember, and settled her head down against the warmth of his hip. "I guess so," she said, closing her eyes. "I guess that's what you did."

  20. The Tribunal

  The drug. It only releases what's inside you If that was true, then she owned the power, if she could only tap it.

  Where did she find the greatest peace, the greatest harmony? She retreated back and back into herself, to the times when she danced, her emotions and movements one being. She remembered her teacher back in Oregon, Sister Teresa, one of the Sisters of Mary, the parthenogenic sect which produced a third of the children in the communes.

  Sister Teresa was balding and lame. She walked with a cane, or, more frequently, with the help of one of her students. Yet she taught them to dance.

  "Dance is like improvisational jazz, Promise," she had said in her surprisingly strong and clear voice. "It's alive. It's now. There's no time for a retake. You blow the note, and it's gone. You make the move, and it's made. No regrets. No past or future. Just now "

  Peace was there. And where else? In the Plastiskin. The damnable, beautiful plastiskin. Her prison, custom-made to order. Sign of her utter foolishness and her total control. Relax. Feel the heat dancing in your skin. Isolate it, tickle the thermoelectric sensors. Watch the colors form.

  And she was at peace again, and Aubry was in her mind.

  The skimmer bounced as it settled down against the waves and rocked as it was guided in to the shore. She could hear the movement in the front cabins. She spoke silently to Aubry.

  THIS IS THE ISLAND?

  HOME OF THE ORTEGAS. MARGARETE. BE STILL.

  The compartment door clicked open, and Tomaso entered. Mirabal had a hand discreetly under Tomaso's arm, helping him to stand.

  Tomaso carried a small green box which he aimed like a gun at Aubry. Tomaso wasn't bluffing—of that Aubry was sure. But exactly what was the box? What would it trigger?

  "You don't look too good, Tomaso."

  "You'll look a lot worse if you try something, Knight. And your woman, too." He seemed shrunken, withered, as if he had swallowed something alive and hungry.

  It's not just the drug, Promise and Aubry thought.

  Guards untied Aubry's feet and put on his pants. His feet were rebound and his hands untied to allow him to put on a shirt. Then his hands went behind his back again and his feet were released.

  Tomaso's forehead was damp. His voice quavered. "One wrong move. Just one, and the woman dies."

  Promise was unhooked from the wall and her hands bound in front of her. She contrived to stumble against Mirabal as they were escorted out. He caught her with effortless strength and set her forward again. "Watch your step."

  She caught a flash of something, but what was it? It was too quick, and she wasn't relaxed enough.

  What could she say for sure? He was incredibly powerful— perhaps as strong as Aubry. Professional. No interest in her as a woman. Probably no interest in women at all. But there was something else that eluded her. She had to sink deeper.

  Something...

  The two of them were moved out into the front of the skimmer, past empty rows of double seats. Promise looked at the controls hopeftilly, finally shaking her head in disappointment. The maze of switches and dials was far beyond anything she could hope to master.

  Tomaso waited in the cabin as Mirabal escorted them out to the gangplank and down to the dock. He looked out of the side window. On a calm, silver-blue sea floated two other skimmers, a hydrofoil, a seaplane, and a helicopter. He slipped the transmitter into his pocket and followed the others down the gangplank.

  No time to waste.

  The Family was waiting.

  They traveled in two jeeps, Mirabal in the front with Promise and Tomaso, Aubry in the back with four of Tomaso's bodyguards and the diminutive Wu. It was almost a kilometer from the dock to the house.

  It had been so long since she had smelled the wind or perspired cleanly in the sun. Promise felt everything more keenly. The sunshine, the sight of small drab birds picking through the rocks, the lizards scurrying for shade.

  "Beautiful," Promise breathed wistfully, gazing at the elaborate cactus garden growing to either side of the road. It was a maze of thorns and spiny leaves and incongruously delicate red and white flowers. Some of the desert had been reclaimed, irrigation and soil-enhancement nurturing stands of trees and rows of flowers beyond the cactus. The tang of citrus blossoms wafted on the morning breeze, and she savored it.

  "Margarete loves plants." Mirabal grinned. "Anything that grows. Isn't that right, Tomaso?" Tomaso said nothing, staring up along the road. Mirabal laughed quietly. "Lemon and orange groves are on the other side of the island. Along the road here, and spreading around the house, we have a natural defensive barrier, her cactus garden. Cereus, strawberry hedgehog,there ... prickly pear, agave." He pointed out a cactus that was nearly a tree, great serrated leaves surrounding a main stem twenty feet high, crested with flowers. "You might like the agave. I suspect that Margarete has a special attachment to it. It takes fifty to sixty years to mature, then sends up its flowers—but in flowering, it dies, restarting the cycle of birth and life."

  "The mother giving her life for her children. I can understand that," Promise said in a very still voice. "I would."

  "So would Margarete, if she could."

  Tomaso turned around and glared. "That's enough, Diego."

  There was a house up ahead. It was a single-story dwelling, but covered more ground space than Casa Ortega. It looked old, repatched and rebuilt many times over the years. The flat roof was curved red tile, the walls white clay, or cement textured to look like clay. There were two enormous windows facing the road. The glass was tinted blue with sunshield, and its frilled white curtains rustled as the caravan approached.

  The gravel road gave way to concrete, a huge red circle of cleared ground before the front door. There were already three jeeps parked on the circle, and their driver pulled up next to the last in the row.

  Promise smiled at Mirabal and extended her bound hands to him in an exaggeratedly formal gesture.

  He took them, helping her from the jeep with a grin. "You almost seem to be enjoying yourself," he said.

  Her smile remained stable, but she was deep within. Her plastiskin began to sparkle, and he held her hand a moment longer before drawing it away and wiping his palm on his trousers. "No wonder Aubry likes you." He left her to speak to one of the guards at the front of the house. Tomaso joined him, and stayed behind when Mirabal returned a moment later.

  She closed her eyes. Wu. Who is Wu? Luis. Explosive tracer. Tomaso. Security setup. What is on his mind?

  Aubry was standing next to her, and brushed her arm.

  WHAT IS IT?

  NOT SURE. NOT YET.
THINGS AREN'T QUITE AS THEY SEEM....

  The muzzle of a rifle prodded her back, hard. "Move along."

  Mirabal's enormous hand snapped out, catching the guard around the neck, pulling him close. "Let's be polite, shall we?" Face purpling, the guard bobbed his head. When he finally wrenched himself away, there were dark red bruises on his throat.

  They were taken to a side door which opened directly into an elevator. The guard with the rifle remained outside, and one with a shock prod took his place. The elevator began to drop.

  "Where are we going?"

  "The shelter." Mirabal glanced from Promise to Aubry, as if trying to answer a silently posed question. "Bomb shelter, really. Food, water, and filtered air. The Ortega clan could fall back here and keep forty people alive for three months. Reinforced concrete and steel walls—strong enough to keep just about anything out... or in." The door slid open. "End of the line, Aubry."

  There were four holding cells. Promise was pushed into the first one. Aubry looked in after her, his broad, dark face neutral. His mind called to her so loudly that it pierced the growing distance.

  IT'S NOT OVER YET—

  The sound of the door slamming behind her was an awful, hollow ring, and she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She looked at her bound wrists, trying not to cry.

  Aubry was taken to the next cell. It was metal on the outside, the inside coated with shock-absorbing plastic. He battered his clenched fists against it a few times in simulated anger, then gave up.

  He settled down to the floor and crossed his legs, closing his eyes. He frowned and moved against the wall, looking within himself for the space that Warrick had given him.

  PROMISE?

  There was no answer, but he knew she was nearby by the way he tingled. He scooted around until he found the spot that felt warmest. They were still too far apart for words, but soft images came to him, and he sighed, slipping deeper into his trance, and waited.

  Aubry was roused from his meditation by a voice. It was a woman's voice, old beyond reason, and amplified electronically. "On your feet, Mr. Knight."

  He stood slowly. "Margarete. I'm honored."

  There was silence for a long moment, then: "You killed my grandson, Mr. Knight?"

  "Yes."

  "For reasons of revenge?"

  "You should understand that. Isn't that what this is all about?"

  "No questions, Mr. Knight. Was this your idea and yours alone?"

  Surely they knew everything he did. It would be pointless to lie. "My idea. Promise helped, but she had no choice."

  "For revenge. And protection. And this is all?"

  "What else is there?"

  "Profit, Mr. Knight." Her voice was sad and thoughtful. "There is always profit."

  "Not this time. I hope it makes a difference."

  "Not for you, but perhaps for the woman." The heaviness of her breathing said that she needed rest between sentences. "It is your child she carries?"

  "Yes."

  "You will cooperate fully with us. I can offer you a painless death, and the opportunity for your woman to give birth. The child is blameless and will not be harmed."

  "I understand."

  "You surprise me, Mr. Knight. You are not the animal I was led to expect."

  "We all change."

  "Yes " There was something in the invisible voice that he couldn't identify. "All of us do, in time." There was a clicking sound, and the speaker went dead.

  Aubry thought for a moment, then said: "Margarete—may I see your face? A condemned man should know the face of his judge."

  After a few seconds there was another click, and the entire wall wavered and turned transparent. Tomaso stood there with a pair of quietly erect, graying men with leathery skin. Between them was a wheeled vehicle that hugged the ground, a vaguely egg-shaped plastic bubble. It was equipped with oxygen filters and a blood recycler. Within was a water mattress, and upon it was what had once been a woman.

  There couldn't have been much of her left: certainly not legs; the egg was too short for that. Aubry could see one feeble arm, the skin as pale and soft as cotton. The other arm seemed a stump. The chest was sunken to the point where Aubry could detect no breathing. A voice box nestled against her throat supplied her words, and a tongue sensor gave her control of her environment. The face was a withered mask, her eyes clouded and dead.

  Aubry held his breath and walked slowly up to the front wall of the cell, looking down at her. His face betrayed no emotion. "Your sons?"

  "Grandsons, Mr. Knight. My sons are both dead. Tomaso is actually my great-grandson." Her breath hissed and whistled with each intake, and she was visibly in pain.

  "They need yon badly, don't they?"

  "Someone must be Law. Without law, there would be war between the families. Someone must be Justice, regardless of the cost."

  "Aren't you... tired?"

  "You don't know what tired is, young man. I should have died twenty years ago, but still I live. I have no kidneys, no liver, and still I live. My heart has been replaced twice, my eyes once." She paused. A sucking, whistling sound came through the walls. "And still I live."

  Aubry shook his head in wonderment. "Why?"

  "Honor, Knight. My husband and I started the Family, over seventy years ago. We created it—but now my husband is gone, and I am Law. There must be Law, do you not see?"

  "I... think I can understand that." He paused. "What now?"

  "Now, you wait. Until tonight." The wall began to cloud.

  "And then?"

  "Goodbye, Mr. Knight."

  The wall went blank.

  Tomaso Ortega smiled vastly, walking alongside Margarete's bubble as it wheeled down the main corridor of the security block. She paused as one of her grandsons opened the two-centimeter-thick steel door. "I trust you are pleased, Grandmother. You and the Family are all that I live for."

  She managed to twist her neck a little to peer up at him. "I know that that is true, Tomasito. That is why I gave you your chance."

  Beyond the door was an elevator. She purred into it. As soon as they stepped on, it began to rise.

  "What of your organization, Tomasito? There has been much disruption. War. You are on the edge of bankruptcy. Much of this can be traced to your actions. Yours, Tomaso. What do you think of this?"

  He shook his head impatiently. "Confusion, Grandmother. After Luis's death there were many things to be decided, worked through. The drug."

  "Yes, the drug. The last of Luis's projects."

  His eyes tightened. "My project, Grandmother. Luis never saw what I see. We are heading into a new age. Bribery, blackmail—such devices are things of the past. Why control minds, when you can control hearts?"

  "You have lost many employees. There have been deaths. This had nothing directly to do with the drug?"

  "No," he said easily. "Nothing at all."

  She looked at him until the doors opened, then dropped her chin back onto her withered chest, closing her eyes.

  Promise was awake and on her feet before the wall cleared to transparency. The guard outside looked at her coldly and said: "Stand clear of the door," then unsealed it. He stood back from the door and gestured her out.

  "I haven't eaten anything in almost a day—"

  "You won't need it."

  She waited in the hall as they let Aubry out of his cell, his hands still shackled tightly behind his back. Two guards watched him at all times, and two more waited at the end of the corridor, shock prods humming at the ready.

  Aubry shook his head as he emerged from the cell. His hair was matted and tangled, and his skin was sticky with four days of unwashed sweat. He was covered with cuts and scratches. Promise thought that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. She leaned against him, cupping his chin in her cuffed hands.

  WHO IS WU?

  HEAD OF THE NARCOTICS ARM. RELATIVE OF MARGARETE. WHY?

  THE IMPLANT. WAS IT TOO EASY FOR YOU TO—?


  Guards pushed the two of them apart and through the door. Escorted, they walked through a hall lined with doors with dark labels stenciled in Spanish and English. "Food," "Recycling," "Danger: Power Room." Aubry filed all of the separate labels under "bomb shelter" in his mind and tried to sort through his jumbled impressions.

  Wu. Mirabal. The itch in his side. Tomaso. Too easy? Death Valley.

  Death Valley?

  What was too easy about Death Valley?

  A gleaming metal hall lay in front of him, and for all of its polish, it seemed like another corridor in Death Valley. God. So long ago.

  Too easy?

  The door at the opposite end opened, and they were in an enormous, high-ceilinged room shaped like an isosceles triangle. Temporary bleachers had been set up along each of the equal walls. A three-meter restraining fence marked off a cleared space in the center of the room.

  The seats were empty. Most of the room was darkened, but in the cleared floor space a single spotlight cast a circle of illumination. They were pushed into it at prod-point.

  The doors at the sides opened, and rows of men and women filed in: the Ortegas. The grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, cousins and blood relatives of Margarete, brought together from their homes and empires the world over to make a life-and-death decision, a decision too important to be made over the ordinary communications lines. They ranged in skin tone and racial features from African to European.

  From the anonymity of darkness they examined Promise and Aubry, judged them, prepared to pass sentence. A low murmur of conversation ran through the room, interrupted only when the last seat was filled.

  A door opened to the side, and Margarete's party entered. There was absolute silence as the egg wheeled in, followed by a medical attendant, Tomaso, and a short, slender figure Aubry recognized as Wu.

  They waited until the low conversational buzz in the room died down, waited until Aubry could feel the thread of nervous perspiration trickle from his armpit and feel the weight of almost certain death pressing at his mind, clouding his reason, separating his desperately maintained calm into fragments of fear, hatred, and anger. Promise leaned against him, and in her touch he found strength and centering.