by Tal Turing
The woman turned from the audience, her ample hips swaying as she moved, slowly, back toward the waiting Red. The pool on the video display was rippling now in response to a light rain piercing its smooth surface with increasing frequency. Grieg watched the size of the drops increase and the waves build as he listened to her song.
Oooooooh ooooooh oo oo oooo
Your love, oh your love moves me,
Like a tumble down a hill.
Oooooooh ooooooh oo oo oooo
Your love, oh your love engulfs me,
Like a kitten left in the rain.
Oooooooh ooooooh oo oo oooo
Your love, oh your love thrills me
Tilts me...
As he listened, Grieg was vaguely aware that the light rain displayed on the back wall had become a torrent, a pelting, punishing storm. As she approached the still-standing Red, her hand traced a path along the center of her body, rising, lifting up into the air as the tempo and volume of the song grew and multiplied, with the sure power of an approaching hugger train. Both monitor, stage and Red's chair quivered, trembled and finally shook with anticipation.
Splits me,
Hits me,
Thrills me
Kills me like a thunder
a thunder
STRIKE
He saw Red's white eyes widen to full moons, the monitor behind him flashed, a streak of blinding, white light traveled its diagonal as the very room seemed to shake.
Grieg clapped his hands to his face, his eyes closing against his will. And when he opened them again, everything had changed. Red was gone, the crowd silenced, the animation stopped, replaced with a smoking, black screen, a large gash running through it, sputtering with electronic flashes. The air smelled of ozone, filled with a bitter, cloud of crimson that slowly began to settle onto a glass strewn stage, the shards glittering like diamonds on a beach.
The next song rose out of the shocked silence, and through the dissipating smoke, Grieg could see the woman take careful, graceful, steps among the glass fragments, moving toward them, her lips parted in chant, the words and music filling his ears.
I can't speak, can't move,
can't speak, can't breathe.
Knowing his mending,
will leave me more broken than before.
Her voice quickly rose in power and intensity, pressing against his brain, muffling even his heartbeat.
Oooooo
And I flinch where he lingers
Then the song pulled back, forte-piano, suddenly soft, the words escaping like a dream on wakening, leaving a vacuum his mind struggled to fill.
Cause those wounds are still tender
Then, as he mourned what he had lost, the song waxed again, cycling.
Oooooo
He can leave when he chooses,
I 'll stay with the bruises
Her voice was so beautiful, the words so clear when she was walking toward him, but they became a whisper, a memory when she turned away. He wanted to hear it all, the full verse, but he could not. He pushed forward, to get closer.
Oooooo
And I'll count the days since you left me
And hope they'll be plenty.
Count the days since you left me.
And pray they'll be many.
Count the days since you left me.
And wish they'll be many.
Hope they'll be many.
Grieg felt her eyes meet his, briefly, as she walked the stage, moving toward a place where a dozen corpers had pressed close to the edge of the platform. The song filled their very pores, leaving some transfixed and others shaking, quivering...with rage.
Hope they'll be plenty.
Think they'll protect me.
Know you'll protect me.
Protect me.
Protect me.
She reached the stage exit, taking a single step down as she finished her song. Her beautiful, chocolate brown, eyes, sparkled with gold as they swept the room, the crowd, her hand reaching high above her.
Hurt me. Like a thunder...like a thunder,
Keep me like a thunder..like a thunder,
Like a thunder...
As the song ended, Grieg saw a man confront her, blocking her exit, his hand like a hook on her bare knee, clutching it, the other moving to encircle her hip.
Thunder strike
Her hand blurred, dropping from overhead, slicing across her assailant's face and nose. The crack filled the room, waking the audience like a slap to the face. She retreated back onto the stage, the man falling back, his face streaked with bright red.
Grieg was already rushing forward, his brain a storm, his heart pumping. He never touched the person she had struck, that man had tried to rise again only be pulled back and off his feet...by someone else.
But another figure took his stead, moving after the olive skinned dancer. Grieg saw her brace to meet that man, her eyes flashing. But Grieg arrived then, his body slamming into the attacker, sweeping him off his feet and onto the hard floor with Grieg's body on top. He saw his victim's head hit the ground and bounce back, the eyes open but without intent behind them.
Grieg scrambled to his feet and searched for another opponent. He heard the girl singing still but he could not take the time to turn and look at her. Strangely unafraid, Grieg spied the large bouncer, and moved toward him. He was aware that the crowd had turned on itself, pushing itself forward and then back among a flurry of fists.
Curiously, the bouncer turned away and shoved another back..hard...in the direction that Grieg wanted them all to move, away from the dancer. He chose a new target, made eye contact and saw the look of an enemy. The man moved forward and Grieg felt the beat of the music, it focused his motion into a single, powerful, strike where the two collided.
It was on an the next cycle that Grieg, his face bloody, came within sight of the back of the room and the two, large, closed, metal doors which stood their. Some stood barring the way, others scrambled to open them, to escape, their faces full of fear. Grieg decided he would help them as he pushed into the air, felt his body rise and sail toward the portal, knowing he was not the only one doing so.
Cyn
Cynnamon watched coldly as the man fell back, his nose exploding in blood. He stumbled and then caught himself, trying to regain his balance, but an arm snaked around his neck and yanked him down.
She nodded, her mouth open, the song continuing. The entire crowd had morphed into a confused, disorganized mob. Even she could not tell at first which would move toward her, to attack and those that would push them back.
Another man stepped over the body of the one she had struck. His eyes and nostrils flaring, his mouth screaming an expletive, his intentions clear. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the sharp pains of the glass fragments breaking the skin of her soles; she raised her arm as the man began to climb onto the stage but another man bowled him over.
Thunder – STRIKE
Standing now, surveying the chaos, Cyn tried to formulate a plan. Perhaps this was a hasty choice, but she had been caught unprepared and the die was cast. Perhaps this was the time to run, to flee first this room and then keep going. Maybe Ann was right after all. Or Cyn could take the gamble that Mother's unhappiness with the asset might be less than her anger at these people whom she referred to as animals.
She spied a large piece of glass, lying on the floor, the fragment bathed by the river of blood that still ran from the tall man's body, hanging like a scarecrow from the sharp edge of the damaged monitor.
Cynnamon grasped the jagged, bloody object and used it to slice through the stun collar which wrapped her neck; it fell to the floor.
She returned to the stage edge, watching the skirmish line move first toward her and then quiver. She raised her hand back into the air again in time with the song and brought it down again right on beat.
Thunder – STRIKE
The bad news was that the song was in its final cycle. But the opposers had been pushed almost to the
doors and she could see that fear now gripped some of them. And she herself had hardly been touched.
“It looks like I don't need your help. Not this time,” she said grimly, to no one present.
She moved forward, slipping off the stage and landing on the smooth floor below, but her bare feet slipped on the blood slickened surface and she came down hard, on her hip, glass cutting into her thigh as she landed. Hearing the music, she scrambled to raise her hand as high as she could and brought it down one final time.
Thunder STRIKE
She saw the mob surge and the doors explode open, men pushed out as new light streamed in from beyond. She scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. She reached its threshold when she saw the invading guards, heard the crack of a paralyzer and consciousness was whisked away from her blood-stained, punctured and damaged body.
Realizations
Cyn
Cyn awoke from a restless, drug-induced sleep, made more harrowing by the fact that she could hear movements and noises nearby but was unable to awaken to investigate. Each time she was sure that some one or some thing was coming for her. But nothing had.
When she finally awoke, it was morning and she found herself in a small but sterile recovery room. She examined her wounds and found that the glass had been removed from her feet, from her hip, from her arms; the areas scrubbed and filled in with tiny gel bandages. She poked gently at them but felt no significant pain.
She eased out of the bed and walked, with only a tiny limp. She found her bag in a small closet, it had been moved to this room. Did that mean that she was confined here? She washed up as best she could and changed into a standard Transom Operations uniform; she wouldn't make the mistake of going too casual again. She found her AI as well and placed the spectacles on her face and powered them up. Strangely she had no new notifications.
She poked her head out the door, into a short hallway. Standing on the other side was an armored guard, his head bare. He didn't seem concerned or surprised at her appearance.
“Good morning,” Cyn tried, smiling.
The man nodded and looked away.
“Is it okay if I walk around?” she asked sweetly.
“Be my guest,” the man began and then he added, “are you leaving?”
The question surprised her.
“I'm not sure, can I? Or is someone coming to speak with me?”
“No clue. But I was told that, in the morning, you could go back to wherever you came from. And it's morning, so...”
“Oh, then I'll just pack up my belongings,” she waited to gauge his reaction.
“Sure.”
Cyn quickly threw everything into her bag and strapped it to an available hand cart. She walked out of the room, rolling the cart behind her, stopping again to speak with the guard.
“Excuse me, exactly who said I could leave in the morning?”
“The Deputy. You are leaving now? Then I can leave too. I've been here all night.”
The guard walked off, without a further word, leaving Cyn alone and confused. The Deputy of Security? Harilla? She was in the security wing, then.
She followed the guard out, into a large room of offices and cubicles, the ambient noise becoming louder and chattier as she walked. She spied the exit to the area and started in that direction when she remembered plan B. Fortunately, her AI worked within Transom House and it quickly found the office which she needed. She took a deep breath, turned and followed the directions offered by her AI.
The Complaint
“We already discussed this,” Edwyrd spoke into the air, his AI transmitting his voice as well as the dark look on his face. “It's already taken care of. An interrogator should be assigned shortly so make sure you stay out of his way. He'll find something, now don't bother me again.”
That conversation had been enough to loosen the drowsiness from his mind. He had not slept well but now, only 30 minutes later, he caught his eyes closing again.
Desperately, he checked his monitors for something wrong, something that would surprise him, shock him into alertness. He was becoming annoyed with himself, so much so that he didn't see it coming, he felt that he was losing control or worse, realizing how little he had. Something else now? His AI was practically screaming at him to look up. He did and there she was.
There were no bright summer fabrics or sparkling sequins today, the woman wore black like him, Transom jumpsuit, boots, her dark hair tied up behind her head, eyes still striking behind the black-rimmed, AI spectacles. She stood straight, almost at attention, several yards from his desk, barely inside the door.
“I would like to submit a cross-divisional complaint, as, given the circumstances, I am required to do. Would you please accept it for me? It won't take long and then I can return to my duties.”
He did not know what to say, so he said the first thing his brain demanded.
“And what exactly are your duties? Why are you even here?”
She did not hesitate in her reply.
“I am assigned to Hospitality Services this week. If I could just submit this complaint before I return to that?”
“As you just happened to spend the night in our brig,” Ed added hastily.
“That's what it was? They said I could leave,” Cyn added carefully.
“Yes,” he couldn't help the smile, “we are a little short-staffed this morning. My people are working over-time charging and processing angry non-Transom corpers who were involved in some brawl from last night. You are officially designated as a victim though you look a lot better than most of them...” He cringed. He didn't mean to phrase it quite that way. The woman before him had certainly caused some of the trouble, but in the end Patron was delighted to be handed some easy leverage on many of the important participants, and Steve was furious about the whole thing. That made it a good outcome for Ed.
He looked at her, expecting a comment, but she said nothing and he did not want to talk more about it. He seized on her prior words to provide a new topic, something else to say.
“A cross-divisional complaint?” He began. “I've heard of it but I can't say that I know what to do with it.” Someone walked by and Ed realized he shouldn't be seen speaking with this asset. He needed to get rid of her.
But she had already launched into an explanation. “It is a part of an internal affairs procedure - if two departments can be construed, even weakly, as colluding in the violation of a Transom regulation, the issue must be immediately reported to the highest non-executive Security officer available. It is their job then to...”
“Just stop,” he moaned. He wanted to ask her if she really talked like this all the time but he held his tongue. Even in school, she had this uncanny ability to recall the smallest detail of corporate procedures and repeat them, word for word. He closed his eyes but could hear her voice through the darkness.
“It would take just a few minutes...” he could hear a touch of pleading in her voice. Was this really so important?
How could she walk in here and screw everything up? She must have a six-sense when it came to ruining plans. Ed wasn't sure exactly what she was talking about but if he listened to her petition...he would have to file it. And that would be construed as supporting her. It would change things. His eyes opened again. But her voice told him she was worried about something. Or it might be an act.
“We are completely swamped after last night. Make a formal appointment with someone and come back,” he said, as his fingers moved in the glove even as he nodded her away. He sent her the communication link request. He hoped she was smart enough not to protest and just accept it.
She stared at him blankly, her lower lip quivering and then, suddenly, she turned and walked away, her bag rolling behind her. He watched her walk down the corridor for only a few seconds before he turned away to open the secure link. It was another minute before she joined. He spoke quickly.
“Tell me the basics, I have my reasons.” he instructed, finally relaxing now that she had left his pres
ence.
To her credit, she seemed to already understand his intent and began talking casually though he could hear her quick steps. She was hurrying to find privacy.
Her story confused him initially because he had expected some sort of grievance. Instead she spoke of some corper she had met on the train from Techview, who said he was in the business of repackaging asset debts, the way a normal citizen might refinance a mortgage or a large loan.
When she insisted that she only pretended to go along with the scheme, Ed doubted her. Sponsorship appealed to those who were looking for a 'quick' way to get ahead, so assets were exactly the type to pursue a shortcut into paying off their own debt. He decided it was more likely she had jumped at the chance and was unhappy with the outcome. If it were true, she might soon be another company's problem.
Then, finally, she made her first outlandish claim. That the man on the train was an impostor, posing as a Transom official. Impersonation of a corporate officer was a serious matter, if she were telling the truth.
“Wait,” he insisted, happy to have a respite from her streaming information dump. “Maybe he is a Transom employee. Why are you so sure he was not?”
“Two reasons,” she replied, her voice was soft and quickly articulate, like a human typewriter. He was already sure he would have to endure both reasons, separately. “First, he did not know anything about the department for whom he claimed he worked. He belonged to C.H.A.A.P but didn't even know what it meant, didn't know anyone in the department, he didn't..”
“I don't know it either. What the hell is CHAP?”
“Corporate Human Asset Acquisition and Placement,” she responded immediately, patiently and then added, “have you ever heard of a corper who doesn't know his own division or division head...how would he...”
“Okay, okay,” Ed replied. He got it. But it wasn't strong, perhaps the guy had recently transferred, there could be explanations. “What else?”
“He had laboratory equipment which he was using to pre-screen the candidates, a sophisticated, state-of-the-art medical scanner, but it wasn't Transom equipment and it wasn't being shipped even to Transom Dome, I have a copy of the shipping manifest. And he had an entire transport car for his use, the whole car, and that means he couldn't have been acting on his own...”
