Spiked

by Mychael Black, Jourdan Lane, Willa Okati

  "Train station is there,” Quint said, pointing at the opening to an underpass, amongst the shacks and houses. “I'm heading further up the hill. Have a nice life."

  "I might see you again,” Bailey said. He rested his hands on Quint's shoulders and gently kissed his forehead, then the bump of each of his horns.

  When Bailey had disappeared into the train station, Quint strolled up the hill, past struggling veggie gardens and wilting fruit trees. It was going to be another hot day, and Quint needed to be under shelter before the sun was up in the sky. The thought of another day dozing through the heat, in the cellar of the pub, waiting for the cool night, didn't worry Quint. He would sleep well.

  He whistled to himself, pushing his hands into his pockets. It wasn't every night he met a punter with a wetarse.

  Chapter 2

  Tilly's stall was in its morning position, where the SirenCare tower would provide shade for some hours, when Bailey clambered up the stairs from the rail station. Steam belched out of the vats of coffee, and Tilly yawned and stretched in the first light.

  "Early, Bailey,” Tilly said.

  "Yep,” Bailey said. “Gotta make a start on some work. Can I have a flat white with two shots and a serve of spike?"

  Tilly nodded and reached for a paper cup, holding it under the espresso machine jet. “Big night?” Tilly asked, as he handed the cup over to Bailey.

  "Been up a while,” Bailey said, taking the tiny vial of clear liquid Tilly passed to him, then downing the contents in a rush, avoiding the bitterness of the spike.

  He handed coins over to Tilly, who nodded then turned to serve the woman who had followed Bailey up out of the train station. “Morning, Hilda,” Tilly said. “What's your poison?"

  Bailey walked up the hill, sipping his coffee. All the windows and doors of the houses stood ajar, catching the last of the cool air before the sun rose fully, and Bailey could see people sharing meals and starting their days.

  He was early, but he had some things to do at work before his shift started. His security card slid through the reader at the main doors, and he paused while the SirenCare system checked his retina scan and activated his tracker.

  The elevator doors opened as he approached them, and he emptied his coffee cup, letting the coffee wash away the taste of the spike. Shower first, before someone noticed he'd both been fucking and swimming in the harbor, based on his body odor.

  All staff who lived outside of the SirenCare residential facilities were entitled to use both bathroom and laundry facilities in the tower. Technically, as theatre staff, Bailey could shower whenever he damned well wanted at the company's expense, but he was aware that the company kept close track of each employee's water usage, so he restricted himself to one brief shower a day.

  The staff showers were on the fourteenth floor. Bailey used his card to let himself into the locker room, then to open his storage locker. He had a change of clothes there, trousers and a tunic, so he retrieved them and his toiletries.

  Into a cubicle, and Bailey peeled his soiled clothing off and tossed it into the chute. His card went into his skin pouch, and then he stepped into the shower and turned the water on.

  The shower hissed and spat, the water mixed with so much air that it didn't really flow, but it was enough to dampen Bailey's skin. He rubbed gel over himself, then rinsed off.

  Out of the shower, all in twenty seconds. Of course, if he lived in a SirenCare residence, they'd let him have fifty liters a day for bathing, and he'd probably only used five. But if he lived in a SirenCare residence, he wouldn't be able to be fucked by lovely people like Quint.

  Bailey shaved quickly, his head and face, and then wiped the shaving oil off his skin. He brushed his teeth and smeared on sweat-suppressor. He put on clean clothes, and back on with shoes. He took the shoes off, wiped them over with a paper towel to remove the last of the harbor sludge, and put them on again.

  Bailey rode the elevator up another four floors, to the R and D floor. Two security checks, one of them a human paid to be suspicious, and SirenCare's system allowed Bailey into the secure area.

  In theory, he was allowed there because the engineers needed to consult with the cutters about projects, as there was no point in developing an implant or mod that a cutter couldn't insert.

  In practice, Bailey was there because his best mate, Flynn, worked in the bio lab.

  Bailey rapped on the lab door, and nodded to one of the other researchers who walked past.

  "Morning, Flynn,” Bailey said, and the speaker beside the door crackled. “It's me. You busy?"

  "Always fucking busy,” Flynn grumbled. “The gauss is on."

  The lock on the door clicked, and Bailey pushed the door open and stepped through the gauss field that secured the lab. If Bailey had been carrying anything electronic, it would just have been fried. The SirenCare tracker was a passive system, so was untouched, but if Bailey had been trying to smuggle a camera or handheld into the lab, he would have been wasting his time.

  However, all of Bailey's mods were biological, because he didn't trust a corporation enough to let them bug his brain.

  Flynn was hunched over his scope using the fine manipulators, with the room in darkness, so Bailey dragged a spare stool over and studied the display screen above the workbench.

  The lab was small, no more than a walk-in closet, but the bank of diagnostic equipment behind Flynn made Bailey's arse wet.

  He smiled to himself, remembering Quint, and settled down to watch Flynn juggle slabs of cells.

  Skeleton of blocky double cells, identifiable as cartilage. A cluster of double-spined electrogenic microbial fuel cells, as an energy source. Bulging carbon masses. The microwires used in the colorburst units.

  It was a jumble, involving a battery, the lines to connect to both afferent and efferent nerves, and a great deal of inert carbon, and Bailey had no clue about its purpose.

  Flynn sighed, lifted his eyes from his scope and took his hands out of the fine manipulators, wriggling his fingers.

  "Like it?” he asked.

  "I have no idea what it is,” Bailey said.

  Flynn pushed a Petri dish across the bench to Bailey, and looked at him for the first time.

  "Well, well,” Flynn said, crossing his arms and grinning at Bailey. “Someone got to use their Auerbachian last night, you smug bastard."

  Bailey glanced at Flynn and grinned. “Worked a treat, and he was so fucking hot. You would not believe this bloke..."

  Flynn grimaced, and Bailey knew Flynn didn't want any details, not matter how relaxed and mellow Bailey was, so he shook the dish, rolling the round objects across the glass. “Carbon shells,” Bailey said. “I have no idea what's inside them. Is this work or pleasure?"

  "Pleasure,” Flynn said. “Yours in particular. They're beads, with a battery and a tumbling centre weight."

  Bailey looked at the balls, and his memory dropped him right back into hanging onto that tree, being fucked by Quint while dodging a security team.

  Flynn grabbed the Petri dish off Bailey, before he could drop it.

  "You're fucking joking?” Bailey croaked. “With afferent and efferent connections?"

  "Standard hook-ups,” Flynn said. “You may kiss my arse now."

  "You're straight,” Bailey said. “But if these work, I will anyway."

  Vibrating beads, designed to be controlled by the user.

  "How many hertz?” Bailey asked.

  "Between one and a hundred,” Flynn said, rocking the Petri dish slightly, to move the beads. “Take your pick."

  Bailey closed his eyes and tried to imagine the feeling of Quint sliding into him, easing each bead in, and the beads vibrating...

  "Stop it,” Flynn said. “I can see what you're thinking."

  "When am I putting them in you?” Bailey asked. Flynn's lab was secure, no need to whisper. Bailey also suspected that SirenCare knew that the researchers all experimented on themselves, but a good researcher who didn't want to work for the mi
litary was a valuable commodity.

  "Not me, you weirdo, you'll just want me to fuck you. We'll have to find a volunteer."

  "I'm doing the insert?” Bailey asked.

  "Course,” Flynn said. “Now take your spike jitters out of here, and let me do some real work."

  "Anything exciting?"

  "Depends how you feel about flabby thighs,” Flynn said. “How do you feel about flabby thighs?"

  Bailey considered, aware that his hands were thrumming slightly now the spike was in his circulation. He'd have to eat something before he could do any cutting.

  "I have no opinion,” he said.

  "Me either,” Flynn said. “Yet here I am, trying to build bots that eat the stuff."

  "Yuck,” Bailey said. “I need a high calorie breakfast, after that."

  * * * *

  Early evening, with the last of the daylight leaking out of the sky, and Bailey thought he could even make out the glimmer of forgotten stars through the murk in the sky. Beer cold in his hand, city spread out before him, it was the end of another day.

  Below his roof, the streets were seething with people selling and buying food and water, and the shouts of children playing were loud. Someone nearby was burning something, the rising smoke pungent. The security forces would venture into the district eventually, if the locals didn't put the fire out first. The security services didn't give a damn about crime or death in the kind of district Bailey lived in, but threats to air quality drew their attention. They'd turn up with tanks and a foam truck, grossly over-reacting.

  Sydney was the one remaining economic pore that Australia had to sweat through. The last city not owned entirely by corporations and the military, the last place where illegal immigrants were left alone to scratch a living out of the city. If it was illegal or unprofitable, Sydney was the only place left to buy or sell it. If you wanted drugs, art or sex, you had to live there.

  SirenCare housed its research division in Sydney for those reasons. Research required a supply of experimental subjects who were hungry enough to sign the consent forms, and an environment that people like Flynn would live in. Flynn, with his flights of imagination, had not thrived in his previous job with the military.

  Neither had Bailey, but that had been more about his personal life than his work.

  Bailey drank the last of his beer, the cellulose bottle crumpling in on itself. The sky was completely dark, and he must have been imagining the stars earlier, because a thick gloom had settled over the sky. He was going to go to bed, get some sleep, because the spike had worn off hours before, and he felt like he'd been out fucking and drinking the night before then spent the day crouched over some stupid rich bitch's face, wiring in colorbursts. He'd be glad when that fad was over, it was tedious work.

  Chapter 3

  The bar was lit only by a petrol lamp swinging from the roof, but Quint could see just fine now the flare Frood had given him had kicked in, making the lamp painfully bright to look at.

  Frood was in the basement, had been there all day, trying to make the generator run. Until such time as it ran, the bar would be in shadow and Quint would be working the bar, pulling beers and using a hand pump to keep the kegs in the basement pressurized.

  Much better than washing glasses and tossing the drunks out.

  The face that loomed out of the gloom made Quint jump, twitchy with the flare.

  "Take it easy,” Bailey said, his voice low and mellow, settling Quint's ragged reflexes.

  "Hey there,” Quint said. “Want a beer?"

  "Yeah,” Bailey said, pushing coins across the bar. “Quiet in here tonight."

  Quint looked around the mostly empty room. “They've all gone somewhere with some light, where the refrigeration for the beer works."

  He took the coin from Bailey and pulled him a beer, making sure the smeary glass was filled to the brim, then pushed the glass across to him.

  "Thanks,” Bailey said.

  Quint wasn't sure if it was the flare, or the fact he'd not fucked since he'd met Bailey, the week before, but Bailey was looking very tasty. He had a fuzz of hair on his scalp and face, but he still looked deliciously clean and cool.

  Bailey drank the beer down in luscious, long swallows, and Quint couldn't keep his eyes off Bailey's throat, the way the muscles moved as he gulped.

  Flare made him stare, made him feel like his eyes were soaking up every photon, like every color was lit by the noon sun.

  Bailey put the empty glass down on the bar, and pushed another coin across. “Same again,” he said. “If you can manage it."

  Quint ducked his head, concentrating on refilling the glass. Corporate types didn't know about flare, so Bailey would think Quint was some kind of freak.

  "You can't have the same again,” Quint said, glad to discover his mouth was working still. “So here's something similar."

  Bailey drank that beer more slowly, his eyes smiling at Quint over the rim of his glass.

  "You're in early tonight,” Quint said. “You're not planning on kicking on until dawn this time?"

  Bailey rested the glass down, the foam from the head on the beer sliding slowly down the inside. “Not this time. I was hoping to find you, see if you wanted to grab a meal sometime, when you're not working."

  Quint stared at Bailey, trying to get his head around the words he'd heard, wishing the flare wasn't getting in the way right at that moment.

  "I can come back when you're not pinned, if you'd prefer,” Bailey said.

  Quint colored, for first time in many years.

  "Rain, I'm stupid,” Quint said. “Um, yeah, I'd love to share a meal with you."

  Bailey leaned across the bar and grabbed the front of Quint's shirt, pulling their faces together, his mouth across Quint's.

  A glass toppled off the bar, shattering on the dirt floor, and Quint closed his eyes and let Bailey kiss the fuck out of him.

  "Not on my time,” Frood's voice behind Quint said. “Not on my bar, either."

  "Gotta work,” Quint murmured, ignoring Frood as much as possible, under the circumstances.

  "No you don't,” Frood said. “I can't get the generator going, and the punters won't drink beer that's gone warm. You can nick off, go and kiss people somewhere else."

  Bailey's fingers let go of Quint's shirt. “Dinner?” he asked.

  "Dinner,” Quint agreed.

  They left Frood muttering as he cleared up the broken glass. Quint would hear about the breakage later, and would lose pay for it, but he didn't care.

  The night was still oppressively hot, the cooler air from the harbor hadn't worked its way across the suburbs yet to take the suffocating heat away. Quint could do with a beer.

  "Where we going?” Quint asked, letting Bailey lead him through the busy night streets, past food stalls and kids brawling, across bitumen still so warm it clung to Quint's sandals.

  "Food first,” Bailey said. “At a café I know. Then out to a club. Have you heard of Jack's?"

  Quint looked sideways at Bailey, whose face was lit orange by the glow from a meat vendor's cooking fire. “Are you kidding? Jack's is where the rich people..."

  He trailed off, and Bailey slid his hand under Quint's elbow, moving him forward and out of the way of a horse and dray, the horse's hooves wrapped in hessian to protect them from the roadway.

  "Not just corporate types,” Bailey said.

  "You can get me in?” Quint had no identification of any kind, and never had had.

  "Friend of mine, called Flynn, knows the management. We're meeting him there."

  Quint grinned, his smile lifting the weight of his lip stretcher. Jack's was, well, Jack's was rumored to be the wildest club in Sydney, where people from all over Australia came to party and fuck. Frood knew someone who had once been to Jack's, and who said that the flare was so pure that he could see through the crystals, and the music was so hot that he'd danced until his feet bled.

  Quint had heard from his piercer that more than dancing happened there
, too.

  "Fuck,” Quint said suddenly. “They're not going to let me in, not in these clothes. I look like I work in a street bar, and sleep next to a generator."

  "No worries,” Bailey said. “We'll sort something out."

  The café was on the edge of the Bellevue Hill secure community, on the ocean side, and the air coming in from Bondi Beach was fresh and moisture laden. Quint paused, lifting his nose to the air and sniffing, his senses heightened from the flare, so that the combined smell of ozone and sound of seagulls wheeling overhead in the darkness was almost too much.

  Bailey's hands steadied Quint, and Bailey said, “Come and eat."

  If the seagulls’ cries had made Quint stumble, then the smell as they walked into the café made Quint's eyes tear up. Rolling waves of spices and meat charring mixed with sharp vegetables and sweet fruit, combining to take Quint's breath away.

  Bailey sat Quint down at a table that wobbled, with chairs that Quint's memory insisted the one and only school he'd gone to had used.

  Food appeared before Quint, a plate that wafted steam into his face, and Bailey pressed a set of wooden chopsticks into his hand.

  "Rain,” Quint said. “Bailey, thank you."

  "You're welcome.” Bailey's eyes crinkled, and in the hard light, Quint could see he had stubble for eyebrows.

  Quint weighed up asking Bailey why against eating, and the food won, so Quint began to shovel food into his mouth. Bottles of beer were clanked down on the table, so cold that condensation trickled down the outsides of the bottles, pooling on the table.

  When Quint had cleared his plate and licked it clean, he leaned back in his chair, beer in his hand, and looked at the other people eating. Corporate types, of course, with clean clothes and hair oiled back, picking daintily at the food. He could see company logos on some of the clothes: Rio Tinto, Broken Hill Petroleum, Singapore and Woodside.

  Bailey's foot brushed against Quint's under the table, and Bailey put his licked bowl down on top of Quint's.

  "Did you like the beef curry?” Bailey asked.

  Quint wriggled his foot against Bailey's. “That was beef? Actual cow?"