The room looked more like a refugee center than a boudoir for million credit a night prostitutes. As his eyes went from cot to cot—there must have been thirty of them running the length of each wall—Havoc found himself at a complete loss for words. More than half of the bunks were occupied. Some of the girls were reading, others were painting their nails or rubbing their long legs with oil, but the majority of them were staring vacantly at the ceiling, waiting, perhaps, for business to pick up this evening.
"Happy now?" Mister C smirked. "This is Mel's room."
"I don't understand."
"Clones, kid. They're clones."
Havoc looked from one to the next, every one identical to the woman with whom he'd been up all night. "Clones?"
"Breeders."
"Which one . . . ?"
"Hell, I dunno. They probably don't either. Engineered for sex appeal, you see, not brains. She's already forgotten you."
"But I . . ." He trailed off there. What? He'd fallen in love with her? A cloned sex toy?
That's when C hit him just behind the left ear. There was a flash of red and Havoc went down. The concrete floor hit him on the right side of his head. A boot stomped the hand that held the shotgun and a second later it was pried out of his bleeding fingers. C kicked him in the side, rolling him over. Then he knelt and pressed the barrel of the shotgun under his chin.
"You are one dumb son of a bitch, kid. You shoulda' seen your face." C laughed hysterically. "What we're gonna do now is we're gonna go back to my data terminal and you'll give me the password for that account so I can transfer back my mil. When we're done with that, we'll discuss whether you walk out of here alive. Understand?"
"Melissa?"
"Oh hell, kid. Wake up and smell the pussy. They're nothing more than semen samplers. It's a government program, and if I tell you anymore than that I gotta kill you for sure. Truth is, I'm starting to like you."
"You're going to kill me anyway," Havoc replied, wiping away blood that was running into his eye.
"Now you don't know that."
"Yes I do."
Mister C shrugged. "Okay, so maybe you're right." His voice lost all its previous mirth. "But I want my mil first. I need that password. I can make it real unpleasant for you if necessary."
"You explain this and I'll give you the password."
C leaned back, scratched his cheek with the shotgun. "Deal. I'll tell you everything I know about old Mel there." He rapped Havoc sharply across the bridge of the nose with the shotgun. "You sit back and behave though.
"It has something to do with prairie voles—these little rodent-looking things, kinda' like a mouse or something. These voles, they mate for life. The males like nothing better than snuggling up in their burrows for the rest of their life with one lady vole. If another vole so much as looks at their woman, there's one hell of a scuffle. Some government scientists see this, and being the looking out for our welfare types that they are, they realize they got something here that can maybe halt the spread of sexually transmitted diseases."
The Melissas gathered around like children, listening as if C were telling a bed time story. Havoc studied each of them in turn, hoping for some sign of recognition in the depths of one pair of sky-blue eyes. But there was nothing.
"As early as the mid nineties they'd isolated a hormone in the vole's brain that induced monogamy. It's some combination of vasopressin and oxytocin. We produce these too, but in humans vasopressin merely regulates water absorption in your kidneys and oxytocin has something to do with uterine contractions—boring! The prairie voles have a different distribution of brain receptors than we do; that's what lets these hormones work the way they do."
"You know an awful lot for a pimp," Havoc interjected.
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm one of those over-educated government scientists." C rapped him again with the shotgun. "Then again, maybe I just read a lot more than two-bit nightclub performers." He looked up at the women gathered around them. "Hey! Go on now; get back to your beds." The Melissas scattered.
"Stupid whores," C growled. "They're damn nice to look at though, aren't they? Even better to poke, eh? I know," he winked, "company benefits and all. Anyway, around the turn of the century, we discovered the gene sequence for the prairie vole hormone receptors. Ten years after that, we got good at genetic engineering. You know anything about genetic engineering, kid?"
"No."
"Well, the only important thing to this story is that we still can't engineer living specimens. It's a next generation kinda' thing. We can monkey with your reproductive system so that your offspring have specific genetic traits, but we can't do a damn thing for you. About this time, HIV and all its derivatives got the government really worried. All their abstinence campaigns had failed. People still fucked like rabbits. Tell you a secret, kid: people will always fuck like rabbits. Keeps guys like me in business.
"So the government starts a monogamy program. Nobody buys into the soft sell, so they go one step further. They start engineering the next generation. Our children will still fuck like rabbits, but they'll only fuck one rabbit. Bingo, you've stopped the diseases cold." C indicated the Melissas in the room. "These are breeders, engineered for sex appeal and the proclivity for a monogamous gene sequence. I send 'em out for semen. They come back and we run some tests. With any luck they're carrying disease free seed. In nine months we got a monogamous baby. Hey, you could be a father, Havochek!"
"Wonderful."
"This is just the pilot program. Give 'em a year or two to prove the concept and there'll be Melissas in every major city. An enterprising fellow could set himself for life." C extended his free hand. "Come on; let's go transfer my money; then I want to talk to you about a job. I really hate to kill you, kid."
Havoc knew he had as much chance of walking out of there as he did of getting back his semen. C had told him too much to let him live. He reached out as if to take C's hand, pulling back his wrist and clenching his fist. The miniature cannon strapped to the inside of his forearm belched flame and thunder. C flew back across the room, his chest spewing red across the walls.
The Melissas screamed.
Havoc thought fast. He'd always been one to play off the cuff, but this was carrying it to the extremes. There were about a hundred goons on the far side of the door waiting to tear him limb from limb. That he knew. What he didn't know for sure, but hoped, was that it wasn't the only door. C had brought him here, confident in his ability to control the situation. This room was not as secure as the office they'd left.
That was when he spotted the computer against the far wall. The screen was blinking a diagram. Yellow. Blue. Red. Green. On and Off. As he dashed across the room, the diagram came into focus. It was a floor plan. It was the floor plan for C's office complex.
Nancy.
There was no other explanation. She was still in trouble, still lying low, but she obviously knew from the funds transfer where he was and what he must be doing. She'd guessed—or maybe just run every possible scenario through the wealth of memory and processing capacity available to her—and knew he would have more trouble getting out of C's than he'd had getting in. She couldn't call to him, couldn't send anything as obvious as an audio or text message, but she'd sent him the map to freedom. He imagined it blinking on every computer screen in the building (there was no way she could know what room he was in) and he knew he had only minutes before C's goons also figured out what it meant.
Scanning the floor plan, he quickly found the back way out. There was only one problem: two words highlighted in neon blue. Fingerprint coded.
The locks were coded to C's own prints.
Smiling, Havoc turned back to the Melissas. "No problem," he muttered.
He scanned the Melissas, trying to pierce their veil of anonymity. Damn it, they might be cloned, but life never left the same print twice—check that against the door locks. Snatches of music invaded his thoughts and he found himself humming "Virtue's Mask."
What he'd h
oped was that one of them would pick up the tune and join in, maybe even add vocals to his music. The unexpected happened. Not one, but a dozen Melissas took up the tune, their voices as sweet and as sad as rain. He realized that she had indeed remembered his music, but she'd brought it back to the room with her and had shared it with the others. The effect had been universal. There was not a one of them that would not leave with him if he asked.
The band was already warming up when Havoc cut a swath through the crowd at Fantasy's. The place was packed. When they saw him enter, fans began chanting his name. He rode the swell of that emotional wave to the stage and was greeted by the only three friends he'd ever had. Thumbs up all around. Tonight they became stars.
He'd left Devon, Nikki, and Ron email to be in top form tonight, filling them in on Busby's offer. He'd included a list of some of their earlier material which he wanted them to play. He'd even found an hour or so to change a few of the lyrics. He had no idea if this was the musical revolution Busby thought he was buying; he'd merely poured his heart into it again. There was even one new tune called "Melissa." It was still rough and the music was synthetic and simple, but the emotions were there.
Departing C's complex, he'd deposited the severed hand and the discharged wrist cannon in the nearest recycling bin. The shotgun he kept strapped beneath his leather duster. He was beginning to like the reassuring weight of it hanging there. There was always the chance that C's goons would hunt him down, but it was a small one. They weren't the type for revenge. Their present energies were probably devoted to vying for C's job. They'd only have one problem: he'd left the Melissas' door open. C might think the Melissas stupid, but Havoc thought they'd have enough sense to take freedom when it was offered.
If C's goons did come after him, they'd need to make it quick; he'd soon be a lot less accessible. Not only would Dead at Dawn require some heavy security of their own, but Busby would probably want the band to relocate to L.A., a move that was fine by Havoc. There were better hospitals for Nancy. Better research facilities. A cure perhaps.
The crowd loved the new music. During the last set, while the band took a breather, Havoc sang "Melissa," accompanied by the synthetics. He saw tears glittering like stars throughout the club. When he felt them on his own cheeks, he was surprised, but unswayed. He poured all their wet fury into the song, at one point letting his sobs become a part of the tune.
Near the bar, Havoc spotted Fantasy's owner, shaking his head and cursing under his breath. The man knew he was watching money walk out the door. This would be the last night Dead at Dawn played his club.
At a table to the right, he spotted Busby. Seemingly immune to the tide of emotions washing around him, the refined music exec was watching the audience, nodding his head thoughtfully, pleased with what he was seeing. On the table before him was a stack of papers and a pen. Havoc suspected that Busby had already signed the bottom line for Omega.
And to the left, there were three suits whose immunity to the rhythm and message of "Melissa" did nothing to lessen the attention they focused on the stage. There was a portable computer on their table, no doubt sat-linked into the net. Denton's henchmen were looking for his money.
When the set was over and he was able to make his way through the crowd, he signaled to Busby that he'd be there in a moment and went to deal with Denton's lackeys first. The other members of Dead at Dawn were already swarming the Omega exec, shaking hands and ordering drinks. They knew only that Havoc had other business to take care of first.
Havoc pulled out the only vacant chair at the table and sat down.
"It's going to be a shame killing you, the way these buggers love your music and all."
He couldn't be sure, but Havoc believed it was the same one he'd spoken with earlier. He offered his best smile, casually flipping his hair back over his shoulder. "You don't really think you could kill me here with all these fans around, do you? Right now, if I screamed, they'd rip you blowhards limb from limb." The suit's hand slipped under his jacket and he opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal, perhaps to order Havoc outside where whatever was under his suit could be used to persuade the young singer otherwise, but Havoc held up a hand. "Save it. I know you'd only kill me later when it was more convenient."
"That much you've got right."
Havoc pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and passed it across the table. "Account number and password for Denton's mil."
The suit passed the paper to the guy with the computer. "Run it. If the money's there, pull it out." A second later, the second suit confirmed that he'd retrieved the million credits.
"Be sure and tell Denton I appreciate the loan."
"Problem is, you forgot about the interest," the suit replied. "The bill's a mil and a half."
"Actually, you said a mil and a half or the name of the connection I used. Because I want to make sure there are no hard feelings with Mr. Denton, I'm giving you the original mil and the connection." Havoc leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles. "You trace that transfer. It'll lead you to a government program funded by skimming money from guys like Denton." There'd been no way to clear all this with Nancy—she was still lying low and any net call Havoc made until this was cleared up would be closely monitored. But Nancy'd always been one step ahead of him. The floor plans at C's were a prime example. He knew she'd already have all the audit trails laid out in the system indicating C as the culprit.
The suit didn't look happy. "Told you we weren't interested in running things down, Havochek. Told you we wanted a name."
"I know. I went one step further. I'm delivering a body. There's also an address on the back side of that paper I gave you. Guy calls himself C—well, called is a better choice of words. You check the address, you'll find what's left of his operation. Interrogate his boys and you should be able to find what's left of him."
Havoc kicked back his chair and got to his feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got another deal to attend to. Give Mr. Denton my regards."
You should have told me what you were planning to use the money for.
"Would it have made a difference?" Havoc asked. Morning was less than an hour away, but after all he'd been through, sleep could wait. It was good to know that Nancy was safe. "Denton's sentries are obviously better than you thought. They'd have caught you regardless of how I spent the money."
That's not the point. You should have told me what you wanted it for.
"Yeah, I know," Havoc replied uncomfortably. The air in his apartment had taken on a sudden chill. He couldn't recall arguing with Nancy since she'd been placed in her coma. Their connection was far too fragile and precious to jeopardize it with petty disagreements. "I'd honestly planned on using the money to get the band set up in L.A. It wasn't until the last moment that I decided to . . . you know. I didn't think you'd understand."
Wouldn't understand!?! You think because I'm locked in the goddamn net, I'm not human?
"God, no, Nancy. That's not what I meant. It's just . . . well, what do you expect when all I see of you is words on a screen?"
The screen remained blank for what seemed like hours. Havoc stared at the blinking cursor, certain that he'd run her off, terrified she might actually be mad at him for being honest. Finally, his sound system turned on of its own accord and her voice came sweet and clear from the speakers.
"Is this better?"
"Much."
"Doesn't sound like me at all."
It sounded exactly like her. "You'll get better with practice," Havoc reassured her. "Maybe I could invest some of Omega's advance on a holo generator and we could have dinner together."
"Don't you dare! You spend that money on some new equipment. Start with some decent speakers, ones that won't make me sound like an old woman."
"You sound just great, Sis."
"Yeah, that's cause I'm doing just great, but we were talking about you. What exactly did you think you were buying from that pimp?"
"Love, I guess." It was strange having a bodil
ess confessor. There was no where to look when he came upon those moments where one traditionally looked away.
"You can't buy love, Henry."
"No." He knew that now. "But obviously you can engineer it. Leastwise, the government can."
"If it can be engineered, then it's not real."
"Oh, hell, Nance, what is real these days? We live in a sanitized, virtualized, don't-talk-to-me-just-drop-me-email social experiment gone awry. I went to C for something different. Something I could touch. Someone I could hold. Someone whose shoulder I could cry on. Melissa might have been manufactured, but at least, for one night, she was all that." And more.
"Then you should have taken her with you when you left C's."
"I didn't even know which one she was."
"Did it make a difference?"
"Maybe." He pushed away from the console and paced the floor. "No." He sat on the edge of the bed where they'd made love, the sheets and comforter still a tangled mess. "I don't know. It doesn't matter. If love has to be engineered, if biology has to be manipulated to mimic some kind of natural order . . . then fuck it. I'm better off alone."
"Then maybe I should leave the front door locked."
"What?"
"The door. You have a visitor."
Havoc looked to the newly hung door just as the locks clicked off. The door swung open and she stepped uncertainly across the threshold. Rising awkwardly to his feet, Havoc struggled to find his voice. "Melissa?"
She nodded and gave him a tentative smile. "It took me awhile to remember how to find your apartment."
And then she was in his arms and he was holding her close, feeling the warmth and softness of her against him, breathing her perfume. Havoc opened his mouth to ask Nancy to give them some time alone, but before he could speak he spotted the words blinking on the computer screen.
I'll check back later, Henry. Love you.
"I love you," he whispered. Melissa, thinking he'd spoken to her, began to cry. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"I didn't think you'd want me after you knew what I was."
Intermusings Page 30
