Shining Steel

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Monday, April twenty-second,” John replied.

  “It's been nearly three weeks, then, sir. I arrived on the second or third, I'm not sure which."

  “Have you investigated that headquarters building?"

  “Ah… no, sir. I felt my first duty at this point was to return to Marshside with what I knew, not to risk getting myself killed."

  “I can't fault you for that,” John agreed. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread-and you're no fool, Matt."

  “Thank you, Captain."

  “Somebody has to get in there, though. I won't ask you to go-after three weeks here you've done enough. I'll go myself."

  “Do you think that's wise, sir?"

  “It may not be. Look, I'll give you the fare back to Little St. Peter; if I'm not back by noon tomorrow you use it. I have a prisoner from Marshside, a woman, at the inn here-the Righteous House. She's locked in an upstairs room. Take her back with you. We left three horses in the stable at St. Peter's Inn, under the name Joel Meek-Before-Christ. You talk to a man there named James Redeemed-from-Sin, and he should let you have them. You ride back to Marshside and report to Lieutenant Habakkuk. Understand?"

  “Yes, sir."

  “Good.” He counted out the money, then passed over his trade goods as well. “Here, take these darn woolens and see if you can sell any, and I'll go take a look at that fortress."

  “Yes, sir.” Matthew looked at the bundle. “What should I do with them?"

  “Sell them-here in the market. You should get at least fifteen Heavener credits for them."

  “Yes, sir.” He accepted the woolens unhappily.

  “I should see you back at the inn around sundown, I think."

  “Yes, sir."

  John stepped back, then turned and strolled off in the direction of the headquarters building, leaving Matthew standing in the market looking confused and dismayed.

  To his surprise, there were no guards. The strange glass doors were not only not locked, they stood open invitingly. He wondered if he had been misled by the building's massive appearance; perhaps this was not actually a fortress at all, despite the thick walls of smooth concrete. He ambled in, trying to look casual, as if he belonged where he was; nobody seemed to notice.

  He found himself in a brightly-lit chamber-too brightly lit, and in an oddly yellow-greenish light that seemed to come from the entire ceiling. Three passages led off in various directions, and half a dozen closed doors were located in the various walls. The floor was covered by thick golden carpet, more luxurious than anything he had ever imagined; the walls were tawny plastic, the doors a darker shade of the same color. There was no furniture, and no people were anywhere in sight.

  Puzzled, he chose a corridor at random and walked on into the depths of the building.

  The corridor led past dozens upon dozens of doors, across intersecting corridors, endlessly; whenever he thought he saw the end of the passage through the harsh glare of the yellow-green lighting it turned out to be merely a corner.

  His eyes adjusted to the odd illumination after a time, and he was able to notice details. None of the doors had handles, and there were no signs to indicate what might lie behind any of them; instead, a small red square of what appeared to be glass was set into the wall beside each one. The corners, he realized, were mostly to the left, so that he was actually following a large rectangle around and around; he had come in on one of the intersecting passages, but he could not identify which one. If he continued to turn only at the ends of the corridors, he would retrace his steps over and over forever.

  He had just reached this conclusion after almost fifteen minutes’ walk, and was about to pick a crossing passage at random, when a door a few paces ahead of him slid open and a woman stepped out.

  He stopped, prepared to salute a lady, but did not nod his courtesy after all; this woman was obviously no lady. She wore a garment of rusty orange that accorded well with the yellow-brown walls, and with her sallow skin as well; it covered one shoulder, but dipped down on the other side well onto the curve of her breast. The skirt was a respectable near-ankle-length, but slit up either side, and the entire dress flowed as she moved, shifting about her so that John had occasional glimpses of far more of her anatomy than he felt he had any right to see.

  “Hlo,” she said, “My name's Tuesday; what's yours?"

  “Joel Meek-Before-Christ,” he answered shortly, cutting off his natural tendency to add, “At your service.” He was not ready to serve harlots. She had used that odd greeting he had first heard at the airport; he guessed it was a Heavener peculiarity. She had also given a blatantly false name-John knew of no one in the Bible, not even in the Apocrypha, named Tuesday or anything that resembled Tuesday. He looked her in the eye, refusing either to gawk at her body or turn his gaze away in embarrassment, and noticed that her eyes, like her greeting, had a peculiarity of their own, a very strange one indeed; each had a fold of skin at the inner corner that made them seem unnaturally far apart and somehow crooked. Her hair was very black and straight, and her skin an odd color. Distracted by her outrageous garb, he had not seen at first that she was apparently a freak.

  “Joel,” she said. “Nice. Come here."

  “I'm busy,” he said, and turned away, intending to retreat back to the last intersection he had passed.

  “Sure you are,” she said, “wandering around like a lost satellite. You've gone past my door four times now.” She had the Heavener accent even more strongly than most, in addition to her other quirks.

  “I have?” He turned back.

  “Yes, you have. Come on in, and I'll tell you about it.” She motioned at the open doorway.

  John considered quickly. He had no idea who this woman was-though her occupation was certainly obvious, probably something she had been forced into as a result of her physical peculiarities, which would have precluded a respectable marriage-but he also had no idea of where he would find any useful information. He had expected to find the building full of people he could follow, signs he could read, and other indications of where things were; these empty, featureless corridors had thrown him badly off-stride. This whore might well be able to tell him something of what was going on. He had never had much contact with whores, but his impression was that most were not particularly bright, and could be manipulated readily.

  “All right,” he said. He followed her through the door; it slid silently shut behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  “But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword."-Proverbs 5:4

  ****

  The room was furnished in a degree of luxury John had never before imagined. The floor was broken into curving sections at various levels one step up or down from one another, all covered with thick red carpeting so soft and lush it seemed more like a low fog wafting about their ankles. The walls and ceiling were opalescent and softly glowing, and there were no windows. Velvet cushions in a hundred shades of red and gold were scattered about, ranging in size from puffs the size of his hand to pillows big enough for two to sleep on. Some were gathered together into couches, and John could not tell whether they were mounted on a frame of some sort, or merely arranged.

  Pearly tables of various sizes and shapes-all curved-floated at various altitudes; John looked for the wires that supported them, but could not detect them. Several held bottles, glasses, or platters of multicolored crystal that contained strange food and drink.

  There was not a single hard corner or rough feature anywhere in the entire chamber, no surface that was not either gleaming smooth or upholstered in rich fabrics. The woman, sleek and smooth in her flowing dress, fit in well with her surroundings; John, in his rough leather jacket and worn jeans, did not. It was all appallingly decadent.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  “A little water, maybe,” he replied, to be polite.

  “Oh, no, you must try this!” She handed him a stemmed glass of something a very pale blue in color.
>
  Reluctantly, he accepted it and took a sip. He choked, gasped, and spat it out immediately.

  The woman giggled.

  He glared at her; when he had recovered his breath he asked, “What is that?"

  “Just a liqueur.” She saw his anger and forced herself to stop smiling.

  He stared at the glass in his hand. “Liquor? You mean distilled spirits?"

  “That's right."

  “I can't drink that! Strong drink is sinful!” He started to fling the glass away, then caught himself and placed it gently on a nearby table.

  “You drink wine, don't you?"

  “That's different."

  “It's still alcohol."

  “Only a little. That stuff-it burns!"

  “You're not used to it, that's all. It's only about eighty proof.” She sipped deeply at her own glass, then smiled.

  He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I can't drink that.” He was more certain than ever that the Heaveners were not native to Godsworld; he had never heard of anyone on Godsworld, not even the most radical of heretics, who condoned strong drink. God had given mankind the gift of fermentation, so that alcohol might ease the strains of life, but it was Satan who invented distillation, to turn the blessing into a curse.

  Not that distillation didn't have its uses-alcohol made a good fuel for lamps or even some machines, but not for men.

  “Oh, I'm so sorry,” Tuesday said. “Against your religion?” The phrase seemed almost mocking, somehow. “Try this, then.” The new beverage she offered was richly red.

  John sipped it warily; it had a tangy, fruity taste and no alcoholic content that he could detect. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Just a fruit punch.” She smiled enigmatically.

  “Thank you,” John said, sipping again.

  His hostess raised her own glass, still half full of the blue liqueur, then sank back onto a pile of cushions. John had not noticed them there behind her; it was as if they had slipped into place as she descended.

  He found a large cushion of his own and seated himself gingerly. The thing seemed to shift about to accommodate him more comfortably, but he convinced himself that was merely overwrought imagination, brought on by the tension of being in the enemy's headquarters and being confronted by these strange events and this strange, freakish woman. “Now,” he said when he was settled, “you said you'd tell me all about this place."

  “Well, no,” she answered, “I said I'd tell you about being lost and going in circles.” She shifted, leaning to one side; her dress slipped back to reveal most of one thigh.

  “Tell me, then."

  “You're not from the Citadel, are you? No, I can see you aren't. You came here from one of the other villages, probably one well outside Dawes’ little protectorate. You wanted to find out what was going on here-so you walked into this building, which is conveniently left open and unguarded, and then wandered about until I found you. Am I right?"

  “Yes,” John admitted.

  “Well, it's not surprising. But there isn't anything of any importance on this level, you know. You need to know which door leads up or down, to where everything important is."

  “What is on this floor, then?” He sipped his drink.

  “Oh, a lot of storage rooms and meeting rooms and machinery, I suppose. Mostly it's just corridors for people like you to get lost in, and a lot of hidden machines watching."

  “Then what are you doing here? And all this?” He gestured at the room around them.

  “Oh, I had this whipped up for my amusement. I don't really belong here, you know-I just came to see if there was anything entertaining on this world of yours. Dawes would have preferred to keep me out, but I'm a stockholder-she can't."

  John wondered what sort of a “stockholder” she might be; this woman did not look as if she had ever handled sheep or cattle. Another question came first, though. “Who's Dawes? That's the second time you've mentioned that name.” Dawes was not a real name, any more than Tuesday was, but he guessed it to be a nickname of some sort.

  “Don't you even know that? Ricky Dawes-America Dawes, that is-is the executive officer of the entire operation on Godsworld."

  “What does that mean?” He ignored the weird name for the moment; it was obviously pagan, but that was hardly surprising under the circumstances.

  “She's in charge-she controls the People of Heaven."

  “She does? She?” John, without really intending to, made his true question very clear with his emphasis on the feminine pronoun. He regretted it immediately; some women, he knew, were discontented with Godsworld's recognition of the natural superiority of the male.

  “Yes, ‘she’ does.” Tuesday seemed more amused than angry, but John decided not to pursue that; arguing with women about the proper roles of the sexes was likely to get nowhere and provoke animosity that he would do better without. He drank the rest of his fruit punch as he groped for another question.

  “You know,” Tuesday said, “I'd rather talk about you-if we have to talk at all."

  John shrugged.

  “Have you had many women?"

  Shocked at the bluntness of the question, even from a whore, John replied, “I don't talk about that."

  “You don't?” She smiled.

  John was beginning to dislike her smiles. “No,” he said.

  “Do you do anything about it?"

  He said nothing, simply sat and frowned at his empty glass. He refused to say anything in reply to such direct obscenity.

  “No?” She grinned, openly mocking now. “Are you a virgin, then? Or do you prefer men?"

  This was the second woman to question his manhood within the past few days; he had dealt calmly with the first, but that was before the strains of his scouting expedition. He forced himself to put his empty glass down gently, then stood up. “I did not come here so that you might insult me."

  Her grin broadened. “Oh? Where do you go to be insulted, then?” She stood up in turn, and reached up to the single shoulder of her gown.

  “I'll go now,” he said. He turned, but the door was closed.

  She twisted something, and the dress fell away completely, leaving her naked. “I guess there's no harm in this,” she said, still smiling, “since you don't know what to do with a woman."

  He turned back to face her, rage mounting within him. He tried to remind himself that anger and lust were mortal sins, but the woman stood mocking him with her stance, hips thrust forward, her hands out in a displaying gesture. He growled wordlessly.

  “Take it or leave it,” she said.

  He lunged at her; she fell back onto the cushions, laughing, and her hands groped for his belt, unbuttoned his pants. He no longer cared whether she was cooperating or not; he intended to prove his mastery over her. As he pushed himself between her legs she wrapped her arms around him, one hand on his back and the other on his neck; he felt a sharp prick where fingers brushed his neck, but ignored it.

  Only when he was finished did the possibility of poison occur to him. He pushed himself up and rolled off her, then felt at the back of his neck.

  There was a small stinging as he touched one spot; he drew back his hand and found a small smear of blood on his fingers.

  “What did you do to me?” he bellowed.

  “What?"

  “My neck-what did you do to my neck?"

  “Oh, stop shouting, it's just a little prick."

  “It's not poisoned?” He calmed somewhat, and his voice dropped.

  “No, it's not poisoned; why would I want to poison you?"

  “I don't know; why did you prick me? What did you do it with?” He was genuinely puzzled.

  She held up one hand languidly and showed him the tip of her index finger; a thin metal wire, the tip sharpened like a needle, projected from it at a peculiar angle. He could not see what held it in place.

  “What's that?"

  Her satisfied smile broadened. “It's called an empathy spike. It's wired into my nervous system-into my
brain. When I used it to hook into your nervous system, I felt everything that you felt."

  “You read my mind?"

  “No, stupid-it only picks up your physical sensations. I felt what your body felt, not your mind."

  “Oh!” Once again, John was shocked-horrified, in fact. The concept was strange, but once he grasped it he loathed it immediately. It was the most obscene thing he had ever heard of. This woman had violated his privacy in a way he had never imagined, could never have imagined. It was bad enough that he had copulated so thoughtlessly with a freak, but it was infinitely worse, somehow, that she had felt his own sensations as it happened. He pulled away from her, instinctively curling himself into a semi-foetal position. “That's disgusting!” he spat.

  “Oh, it's fun!” She giggled, then rolled over onto one elbow. “It's so much more fun with the spike!"

  “It's disgusting!” he repeated.

  “You think so?” She grinned. “I'll have to introduce you to Isao some time-if he lives long enough."

  “Who is this Esau?” That was a name he could understand.

  “Not Esau, Isao-it's Japanese, I think. He's painwired. He has his pain nerves hooked into the pleasure center of his brain; he feels every injury as pure pleasure. One of these days he'll get carried away and kill himself; he's already had to replace all his fingers and toes-and a few other things."

  “Oh, Jesus!” John was suddenly unable to accept his situation. This was not possible; God could not permit such things to exist. This impossibly luxurious room, this woman who spoke so casually of the unspeakable, this entire building and all the People of Heaven, were abominations. It all had to be a nightmare. He fought down nausea and willed himself to wake up somewhere else.

  “Hey, don't take it so badly!” Tuesday said. “I just thought it would be interesting to try it with a Godsworlder, someone different-and don't feel badly that you did it, because I put aphrodisiac in your drink; you couldn't help yourself.” Her almost apologetic tone suddenly gave way to another giggle. “You were pretty good, too-awfully quick, but you put your heart into it, you know what I mean? And with the spike I don't mind if it's quick."