Intermusings

by David Niall Wilson

  "Havoc?" It was a question, but he knew no answer was required. A formality. She took his hand and rose elegantly from her chair.

  "And you are?" he asked, hoping his voice wasn't too hurried, too insistent.

  "Melissa. I love your music."

  "Thank you." Pulling her closer, he steered her toward the door, breathing the perfumed air that flowed around her exquisite body. With every breathe, he thought, writing lyrics with which he'd remember this night forever, we take in the air and subtly make it our own. Would that I was the air that she breathed. What contact, what intimacy!

  "Have you ever thought," he asked her, "about the brief moments in which we live?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "We live in moments," he said, "cherished seconds that stay with us through time. Think about this: there are sixty seconds in a minute; thirty-six hundred in an hour; eighty-six thousand seconds in a day. Over thirty-one million seconds in a year! I can't even imagine how many seconds in a lifetime. Yet how many of them do we remember? How many of them take up residence in our hearts and minds? I know of one." He squeezed her hand. "I will forever remember the moment when our eyes first met."

  In her smile and the wet-bright glow of her eyes, he could tell that she heard the truth and the music in his words. "You are the romantic, aren't you, Havoc?"

  "The last of a dying breed," he acknowledged as they slipped out the door.

  What he didn't expect was that it could be so . . . personal.

  This act, this coupling, this coming together as one, it was beyond any experience he knew. There was no VR equivalent to the wet intimacy of entering a woman for the first time. No mechanical, mental, or self-stimulated masturbation could equal her hands on him. This interaction . . . this sharing . . . this thing so blatantly and simplistically labeled "sex" was beyond dreams. This was of the physical, of the salacious and deliciously mundane. It was an overwhelming tsunami of the senses.

  He'd never felt anything as tactile as the intimacy of Melissa's naked body against his own, the feel of her along the entire length of his body, her teeth on his neck and her nails across his buttocks. His skin had never felt so alive, so warm and comfortable and welcome.

  He'd never tasted anything like the hundred different tastes that waited at every bend of her body, never experienced any quest so engrossing as finding them all.

  He'd never smelled sex, the heady aroma of female musk, of fluids, of sweat and passion and expended desires. He'd never known the intimacy of inhaling the panting breaths of another.

  He'd never been blinded by the red vision of lust, of flesh so close that he could see the pounding of blood through veins beneath the translucent surface of skin so perfect it could have been manufactured. He'd never looked so deeply into the eyes of another.

  He'd never been near enough to hear all the tiny whimpers and moans a woman makes when she comes, to hear her laughter, to hear the whisper of her thighs, the sighing of her breath. He'd never heard the sound of female feet across his bedroom floor.

  All of it left him wanting more. Even the exhaustion. He wanted to collapse like this every night for the rest of his life.

  "I think I'm in love with you," he whispered.

  She placed her finger against his lips. "Don't say that."

  "Why?"

  "Because tomorrow I'll belong to someone else. Tomorrow you must forget me."

  "I could never forget you, Melissa. Not in a million years."

  She shook her head, her blond tresses in lovely disarray. "There's no such thing as a million years, Havoc. There's only now. Let's enjoy that and let tomorrow work itself out." She pulled him close beneath the cool, damp sheets. "Make love to me again."

  When it was over, when morning's mauve painted stripes across the tussled sheets and their tangled limbs, Havoc knew he could never let her go back to Mister C. He knew he couldn't live another day without her.

  That was just before the men whose money he'd spent broke down his door.

  The door exploded inward, rendering hundreds of credits of security-grade II steel as worthless as a pile of beer cans. There was motion everywhere, grunts and flashing eyes, stun-billies and far deadlier hardware. Havoc rolled to the side, tumbling from the bed and groping for something—anything—that he could use as a weapon. Too late, far too late.

  There were at least four of them, maybe more out front. They wore the dull blue of businessmen, but the eyes behind those suits were those of sharks, not salesmen. There was no humor, no compassion—only ice.

  They had him hauled up against the headboard before he could protest. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Melissa, her leather miraculously back in place, flitting out the door like a frightened butterfly. The men watched her go dispassionately, two of them stationing themselves at his door while the others flanked him where he lay naked and vulnerable.

  "You just live for trouble, don't you Havoc?" one of them said flatly. It wasn't until he spoke again that Havoc was certain which one it was. "You want to die that bad, we're here for you. No need to waste yourself poking some whore's got diseases ain't even been cataloged yet."

  Trembling, Havoc sat up slowly, pulling the sheets around him in a futile attempt to regain some shred of dignity. "I know why you're here," he said, forcing a weak grin and meeting the man's eyes with a great effort of will. "I know how this looks, too, but believe me, there's nothing to worry about."

  "Oh? I think you might have a few concerns, smartass. Maybe, if you think about it, you could come up with something we could tell Mr. Denton that would save your ass. I doubt it, but maybe. Who knows, he might be in a charitable mood."

  Havoc's mind was a blur of desperate concentration. He had no idea how they'd caught him, doubted that they'd be inclined to tell him. He could only hope that they hadn't traced Nancy. Whatever else he did to weasel out of this, he had to make sure they didn't know about her. Her existence was much too fragile. He needed time to think, but it was hard to concentrate with Melissa's scent in the air, the lingering memory of her imprinted on his flesh.

  "Listen," he stalled, "we can work something out."

  "Nothing to work out. You owe Mr. Denton a million plus interest." The suit leaned closer. "I make it a million and a half. You got it, we leave. You don't, we do a little slice and dice for inspiration's sake and come back tomorrow." A wicked smile that revealed two missing teeth. "Tomorrow it's two mil."

  "What if I got something better?"

  "The only thing better is you give us the connection you used."

  "The connection?"

  The suit hit him with a backhand. "You think we're stupid? You think we don't know it was an inside job?" The suit frowned at the blood on the back of his hand, looked over at his companion. "No telling what this cunt-licker's got. You hit him with the billy next time he smarts off so's I don't gotta worry about his teeth coming through my gloves."

  The second suit slapped the heavy club against the palm of his hand. "Glad to."

  Havoc wiped blood from his lips. "I give you this connection and I walk?"

  "You fly, little brother," replied the suit, "like a fucking bird."

  "And we forget the mil?"

  The suit shrugged. "Water under the bridge. Mr. Denton's paid more than that to get a mole outta his net."

  "I'll have to do some checking," Havoc lied.

  "Whatever it takes."

  "It was all arranged anonymously, but I can make contact again. Slip this guy a tracer and tell you where to sniff."

  "You sniff. We just want a name."

  "Give me a couple days and—"

  "What you got," said the suit as they turned for the door, "is twelve hours. You be at Fantasy's playing your heart out tonight. Afterwards, we'll wanna talk. You don't show up, I'll know you lied, and I'll hunt you down. I'll kill you slow. Real slow."

  When they were gone, he logged on the net and queried her account. Nothing.

  Nancy? He typed frantically, knowing she could pick up his
call from anywhere, any terminal. She was a ghost, capable of monitoring a million data streams as they raced across the city, scanning each for that unique byte sequence that was her name. Nancy, I need you!

  Nothing.

  Had they already located her? Had the suits been toying with him, knowing all along that they'd already eliminated their mole? He was about to turn away when the terminal signaled an incoming call.

  "Thank God," he muttered, triggering the pickup. But it wasn't Nancy. The side screen opened a window on a well-dressed man he’d never seen before. "Yes?" Havoc asked cautiously.

  "Willard Busby here, Mr. Havoc. I represent Omega Records. Perhaps you've heard of us?"

  This, on top of everything else? Havoc pulled out a chair and sat down. "I know Omega Records, Mr. Busby."

  "Willard, please. Listen, I caught your act last night at Fantasy's. I was particularly impressed with that last piece you did—what's it called?"

  "'Virtue's Mask?'"

  "That's the one. Love the twist. You think it's suicide rock, but then it's not. I think we've got something really important here, Havoc. Maybe even the next pop movement. Do you have other cuts like that one?"

  "Sure." Some of their early stuff qualified, and he could certainly write more.

  "Splendid! I'd like to talk to you about a record deal tonight."

  "Me? Or the band?"

  "I'm primarily interested in signing you, Havoc, but—"

  "We're a band. I can't just leave the guys like that."

  Willard Busby held up a hand. "Not a problem, Havoc. If Dead at Dawn is the package, then that's how we'll scope the deal. How 'bout I come by and talk to you guys after your last set tonight?"

  It figured. "Tonight's going to be pretty busy."

  Busby looked taken aback. Havoc understood his confusion, most bands would kill for a contract appointment with Omega. Before he'd blown most of the money on Melissa, Havoc had been willing to buy such an appointment. Problem was, there were some goons planning to kill him after he played Fantasy's tonight. Havoc wondered if they'd let him sign a record deal first. He wondered how he'd explain it to Busby when the suits wanted to join the negotiations.

  "Look," Busby said, "I've got to fly back to L.A. tomorrow. If tonight's not good, we can hook up next time I'm in town and—"

  "That's alright, Mr. Busby. Tonight will be just fine."

  The nurse looked up when he entered the room and gave him a cautious smile, her hospital whites clean and neatly pressed. "There's been no change since you called earlier, Mr. Havochek." She indicated the data terminal where her most recent queries had gone unanswered:

  Nancy, this is Nurse Benson, please talk to me.

  "Will she be alright?"

  "Let's hope it's temporary. Sometimes coma patients lose interest in the net and shut down for awhile." She shrugged apologetically. "They almost always come back," she added as she left them alone.

  Havoc pulled a chair to his sister's bedside. The entire thing was draped in a plastic "bubble." It always gave him the creeps to see her this way, inanimate, wires criss-crossing her frame, all viewed through the twisted, wrinkled surface of plastic. Behind that plastic she was safe, sealed off from the airborne viral intruders which her decimated immune system couldn't handle.

  "Nancy? I really need to talk to you, Baby Sister." Nothing. He repeated it on the neurally linked terminal's keyboard, but got no better response. He touched her cheek through the plastic, running his finger down the delicate line of her jaw, watching carefully for the slightest indication that she was aware of the contact. He'd been watching for three years. As always, there was nothing. Her eyes were vacant, her breathing shallow and insouciant. She'd been this way since the night a maniac had taken her away—taken her away by infecting her. The man had simply killed his parents, but Nancy he'd punished much more deeply.

  Now he'd lost her on the nets.

  Had Denton traced her? It had seemed so foolproof when she'd presented the idea to him. I can raise the money you need to get a big L.A. record company interested, she'd said. It was simple. There were men like Denton using the foreign exchange system to launder their drug money. Nancy would simply manipulate the exchange database and skim a bit off the top. She was a ghost, a non-entity. Beyond the confines of the hospital, nobody even knew she existed. She had access to all but the most carefully guarded national defense systems—and even those she could crack if she wasn't worried about getting caught. The foreign currency exchange base was a piece of cake. Nobody would be the wiser.

  But they'd caught him. And if they'd caught him, there was the chance that they'd traced the manipulations back to her. Denton would have competent tracers on the nets. Once he knew he was being ripped off, it would only be a matter of sniffing out the culprit. They might have caught her. They might this very minute have her neurally confined.

  Or worse. They could shut her down.

  "It's going to be okay, Baby Sister."

  If Denton had her, Havoc would have to buy or steal her back somehow. Trade her for something Denton wanted even more. But the crime lord was unreachable without the original mil as a bargaining chip. And Mister C had the mil.

  Mister C also had Melissa.

  "I don't usually get much in the way of return business," Mister C acknowledged as Havoc was ushered into the lavish front room of his office building. "In fact, I discourage it."

  "Why's that?" Havoc asked, waiting behind the chairs that fronted the oversize mahogany desk while the first of C's goons pulled the door closed behind him. One down, Havoc thought, but the largest of the muscle boys remained inside, positioning himself just behind C's right shoulder.

  "It's what I call the broken-hearted lover syndrome. You see one of my girls more than once and you fall helplessly in love. Next thing I know, I got you on my doorstep wanting to sell your grandmother's gall bladder for another go. I do some brokerage for the black market organ boys, but I ain't looking to go into it full time, you see."

  "I don't have a grandmother."

  "Yeah, but I see it in your eyes, kid. What you've done is you've gone all mooney-eyed over Mel. I can't have it. Bad for business."

  "Bad for business is you turning down another mil," Havoc countered. "And this time let's both assume from the start that I'm good for it." He nodded toward the muscle boy. "He staying?"

  "Yeah. That a problem?"

  Havoc shrugged. "It's just kinda' personal is all."

  "Personal we ain't got around here, kid. You got business, you make it, otherwise—"

  Havoc shot the bodyguard in the chest with the tranquilizer gun he'd bought just an hour before. The big man looked down at the tiny red dart embedded in his chest, seemed as if he might laugh at it, then crumbled to the floor. C punched frantically at a red switch on the desk. Havoc leaped quickly to the door and threw the deadbolt just before the pounding started on the opposite side. The door was solid. Like his own, it would take explosives to bring it down.

  C studied his collapsed employee. "I really wish you hadn't done that, kid."

  "I asked you to quit calling me kid."

  C regained his composure, set his hands carefully on the desktop in front of him and scowled. "Yeah, seems I recall that now. You got any other requests before my security breaks down that door and kills you?"

  "I want my money back."

  "Excuse me? Didn't you just offer me another mil?"

  "Changed my mind."

  "What, you didn't have a good time with Mel? You like little boys or something, Havochek? You want I should give you a freebie on account of the mistake and all?"

  "I want the mil I gave you. I'll give you an account number. You make a transfer. When I see it's there, I'll be on my way."

  "Sounds easy enough."

  "One more thing. I want to see Melissa."

  "We can do that too, kid." The intercom on the desk began buzzing like a starving insect. C keyed the pickup and told them to leave him the hell alone. Then he leaned
forward, resting his chin on steepled fingers. "Have you figured out yet what's going to keep me from selling you to the underground a piece at a time? You're seriously making me consider that organ business stuff."

  "You're not going to kill me because I'm going to give you fifty percent interest in my record contract with Omega."

  C laughed. "You? A record contract with Omega?"

  "I'll be cutting the deal tonight at Fantasy's. You can show up and make sure it's all on the up and up. You'll need to sign the papers as my agent."

  "You shoulda' took another day and worked on your story, kid. This one's weak. Mel deserved a better try than this."

  "If I'm telling the truth, you'll triple your investment the first year alone. If I'm lying, you look me up when your goon there's awake. He'll probably be wanting a piece of me anyway." He can get in line.

  "You're forgetting the fact that I'll be out the mil."

  Havoc shrugged. "Petty cash to a man like you. Call it an investment. A chance to get out of prostitution and into the record business."

  "And I'll always have organs to fall back on." He pointed a fat finger across the desk. "With you as my initial stock."

  "There is one other option," Havoc replied. He pulled out the second weapon he'd bought and aimed it nonchalantly. "I think they used to call this a sawed-off shotgun. I'm told it makes a hell of a mess."

  C reached for his keyboard. "I like your style, Havochek—"

  "Havoc."

  "Whatever. Give me that account number."

  Havoc gave it to him. A moment later, C turned the monitor around and passed him the keyboard. Havoc verified that the transaction had taken place.

  "Pleasure doing business with you," C said in an almost sincere tone. "When's our record deal going down?"

  "Tonight, after the last set. Where's Melissa?"

  "You're serious?"

  Havoc pointed the shotgun again. "Afraid so."