Then don't try.
He smashed Mirabal's forehead with his palms and grabbed a handful of hair. Then he went down and rolled back, thrusting up with his feet into Mirabal's stomach, releasing the hair as he pushed. Mirabal's body flew up and back over Aubry's head, landing with a rustle.
Aubry heaved for breath. Ohmigod. He landed on his feet. On his feet. I have to get up —
Fear, and anger, and the sickness returned. His gut spasmed, and he rolled to his knees, all of his carefully conditioned responses lost in a flood of nausea.
All Mirabal had to do was take him. There was nothing-left.
From the corner of his eye he saw Promise, lying horribly still on the ground. Fear jolted through the dizziness, through the pain, and he forced himself to rise on rubbery legs.
Then he just stared.
Mirabal was hanging upside down, suspended on the arms and barrels of the cactus patch. He had smashed through several plants, covering himself in needles, his body finally coming I to rest on the leaves of an agave. In the darkness, the spines rose up from his torso like quills. His body heaved, trying to work its way free.
There was still some light in his eyes. His expression mingled pain with a strange, almost childlike sense of wonder. "I knew ..." he managed to whisper before the words choked in his mouth. His eyes slid closed, and he was still.
It had been a minute and ten seconds since the flash.
Aubry hobbled over to Promise. She was bleeding from her t side and unconscious, but still breathing. He pulled her gently toward the medic skimmer, gasping every step of the way.
"D-don't move, Knight." The voice was painfully weak, A j desperately tinny. Tomaso emerged from the shadows, looking at Mirabal's body in amazement, eyes wide. He pointed the green box at Aubry, and every instinct screamed that it was something to fear.
"I'd k-kill you now, but they'd hear and come. Not much t-time." His clothes were ragged, his skin scarred where the cactus spines had torn him.
The voices were closer now, and Aubry could hear the elevator thrumming in its shaft. No more time. No one was leaving the island. Best to just finish his business with Tomaso and end life complete. "Been hiding in the cactus patch, Tomaso?"
There was fear in the air, and Aubry could feel it more strongly than from any of the others. Why? Because Tomaso was a Cyloxibin addict. His sickness vibrated in every word, every movement. His nerves were open to the air, burning with need, with fear, his body devouring him with adrenaline. He's near the edge. If only —
Aubry let his feelings penetrate into Promise, to a place where time slowed and stopped, past the pain and the stupor, to the tiny glowing place that was her essence.
TWICE, DARLING. TWICE YOU'VE SAVED US BY FOCUSING EVERYTHING THAT YOU ARE INTO A MOMENT SO INTENSE IT DROVE YOU FROM CONSCIOUSNESS. SHOW ME. LET ME FEEL IT. I CAN DO IT, I KNOW, IF ONLY YOU CAN SHOW ME.
Pictures and voices flooded into his mind.
Audience and artist. One. Promise and Aubry. One. Mirabal and Aubry. One. Life and death, pain and pleasure....
Tomaso and Aubry.
Tomaso watched Aubry stand, and his finger trembled on the button. There was no anger, nothing fearsome, not even pity on Aubry's face. It seemed to balloon, floating across the ground towards him with killing slowness. Tomaso's finger strove to push the button, but couldn't.
With each approaching step, the sense of connection grew clearer, the sense of oneness. Something in Tomaso broke, and he began to sob. He fell to his knees, the transmitter tumbling from a limp hand.
"It's all wrong. Everything's gone wrong. Please. I'm so sorry. Please..."
Gently, lovingly, Aubry gathered Tomaso in his arms and stood, turning to face the elevator as the doors opened and Margarete wheeled out with her guards.
Tomaso cringed, his arms wrapped around Aubry's neck. Aubry shushed him and looked at Margarete with eyes that accepted everything.
"Margarete," he said softly. "I think that we should talk."
Epilogue
"She lost the baby."
Aubry watched Promise through the glass observation window. He leaned against it, fogging it with his breath. The need to touch her was almost more than he could bear. Finally he straightened, leaning on the jointed support rods within his bandage. His side still itched from the removal of the transmitter. "But she's alive."
"Yes," Margarete said, her face pale beneath the curve of the plastic bubble. "And still fertile."
"And Tomaso?"
"His body is alive." She steered the bubble to the end of the corridor. A door opened into a laboratory gleaming with chrome and crystal. Beside her, her attendant paced slowly.
"What are you, Knight? You bleed. You hurt. You kill more efficiently than anything human. And yet—"
She swiveled the egg around until it faced a rack of glass plates. In two of them were budding mushrooms, just the bare beginnings of growth. "These. These can create men such as you?"
"I don't know," Aubry said softly. He reached out and touched one of them, stroking the cap. "There's nothing in me that isn't human. Maybe I'm just luckier than most."
"After what you've been through, you can say that?" She looked up at him wonderingly, a terribly ancient woman whose eyes searched the darkness for answers. Her tongue probed the controls by her mouth, and there was a hiss as the seal on her egg broke.
Her attendant leaped forward, horrified. "Margarete! The air—"
"Get away," she snapped. "Back. There is something "
Aubry crouched by the egg.
"Touch me," she said.
He reached out, fingers brushing the aged skin as gently as a puff of air. He felt her weakness, and she tapped his strength as the spark leaped between them.
His knees sagged as the depth of her pain flooded through him. He bottomed out, no strength or reserves at all to sustain him, and let go.
And suddenly there was power. Not his, but his to use, not a part of him, but washing through him like a river of warmth and comfort. Its embrace was more than ecstasy, but less than completion.
When he opened his eyes a long time later, Margarete was crying. She raised her head from the pillow. "My God," she said. She was trembling but found the strength to grasp his hand tightly.
They stayed together for a time. When Aubry moved away from her, she smiled.
"Once," she said, voice shaken. "I could see what was good. What was good was the survival of my family at any cost. Any cost. I had my dream, and you can see the price that they have paid. They are bound together by greed and hatred, Mr. Knight. Not love. I've been so very afraid to admit that I was wrong, that I didn't know the truth any more. But now I see my way out, and for that I thank you. You are a good man, Aubry Knight."
She was crying again, and there was a spot of color in her cheeks. The attendant started forward. "No. It's over now. Nothing in the world could stop my children from growing this drug. And distributing it. Because they don't know what it will do to them. They will make the same mistake that Tomaso did, and see only the profit in such a drug." Her eyes met his directly, and for the first time he felt her power. Although she was blind, it seemed that she could see through him, through any lies or artifice. "They do not know that you will distribute the drug, will see that it is available free of charge to those who want love in their lives. You will see that the spores are distributed, that my children cannot hoard this wealth. The mushrooms belong to mankind, Mr. Knight. Love is the only thing that can destroy my family without bloodshed. It is then-only hope to begin again."
"I think I understand," Aubry said, glad that she knew it was the truth.
"Good. It is good." She sighed deeply, and seemed to shrink back against her sheets. "My attendants are faithful to me, and will give you safe passage from the island." Margarete paused, panting for air. "You have given me my death. It is a fair trade to give you your life."
"A fair trade," he murmured.
"Leave me now," she said, even the electronic
amplification of her voice insufficient to mask the fatigue. "I must rest. Good luck to you, Mr. Knight."
Aubry stood watching her for another second, then turned and left, returning to his own bed.
Promise lay back in her seat, her head turned so that she could see the island recede beneath her. There was still pain, and she knew that her body would take time to heal. She squeezed Aubry's hand as tightly as she could and felt his warmth spreading through her. He leaned over to kiss her.
"Is it really over, Aubry?" Her voice was softer than he had ever heard it.
"Nothing's over. There are the Scavengers. They need us. And we have to start growing the mushrooms."
"You're sure?" she whispered.
He nodded.
She took his hand and laid it on her stomach. "I feel empty," she said.
"I know." He tried to say more but the words choked and he held her tightly, feeling her shake.
She pulled his head around until he looked into her eyes. As clearly as she could, Promise said: "Aubry, I'm empty but I'm alive. And I'm not alone."
He nodded, closed his eyes, and held her. He could feel the steady purring of the skimmer engines in his bones, warming him towards sleep.
At least they had each other, and hope, and time. Or, if need be, timelessness.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people who participated in the production of this book that it may not be possible to thank them all. Be that as it may, the author feels obligated to try.
First of all, Toni Young, who believed in the project and never let me forget my obligations.
Steve Sanders, Danny Inosanto, Rex Kimball, and Hawkins Cheung, my primary sources of information and inspiration concerning the martial arts. And Gordon Lewis and Jim Green, my training partners, who have helped me accept my gifts and limitations.
Larry Niven, who understands quite keenly the distinction between a handout and a hand up. I owe him a debt that can only be paid in excellence.
Pam Reuben and Mary Mason, who provided criticism, technical information, and concerned feedback.
Eleanor Wood, my agent, a charming and ruthless lady. Glad you're on my side.
Susan Allison, who saw the potential, and Beth Meacham, who went above and beyond, and trusted a young writer enough to give him the space to breathe and grow.
Peter O'Donnell, creator of Modesty Blaise, who writes the best action sequences in the world.
Otis Allred, Pat Connell, Arthur Cover, Harlan Ellison, Frank Gasperik, Elizabeth Oaks, Karen Willson, Patric Young, and the Los Angeles Department of Public Works.
Gordon R. Dickson, who told me to go for it.
And to all of the family, friends, fans, pros, and others who believed in me or, conversely, didn't believe in me, and thereby motivated me to excel...
Bless you all.
—Steven Barnes
Streetlethal Page 34
