Nerves of Steel

by Lee Hayton

  Whatever signals my stomach was sending out were confused with the anxiety ratcheting up throughout my body. If it carried on this way, I guess I had an untreatable ulcer on my list of “things to look forward to.”

  Not untreatable because of its impossible health ramifications, but because I couldn’t go to a regular doctor. Glory be to staying a free enemy of the empire.

  I sloped off to bed about two o’clock. With Norman shut in his room, there was little else to stay up for. Any news of import, I could catch up on the following day. Or later this day, to be precise.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep when I heard the snick of the latch on the door closing. I sat upright in bed, my head cocked to listen for any more noises, my heartbeat hammering so quickly that my pulse was one long, solid thump.

  I keep a knife under my pillow. Not for killing—though, obviously, it could do that, too—but for threatening in situations where I couldn’t overcome the impression my voice and body makes. A home invasion fitted that scenario perfectly. I grabbed it, holding its blade sleek against my wrist, and moved on stealthy feet to the door.

  We’ve lived in this apartment long enough for me to know the sounds its capable of making. The creak of the kitchen door, the squeak of the fourth floorboard in from the front door. Along with ensuring that I didn’t trigger any alerting sounds myself, I kept my ear peeled for those. If the floorboard alarm triggered, then whoever had disturbed the entrance was now inside.

  With my head pressed close, I released the bedroom door off the latch and inched it toward me. Once there was a gap large enough to slip through, I used the door as a shield while waiting for the room to come into focus.

  Having a small apartment really helped in these situations. I could see the doorway, dining table and kitchenette with my left eye, while my right kept a lookout on the lounge, the bathroom, and Norman’s shut bedroom door.

  Hadn’t he heard the front door? The kid stayed up all night because… Well, because that was what his kind did. Even if playing with Miss Tiddles occupied his attention, surely, his superior hearing would have been triggered.

  After checking twice that the rooms were empty, I slid through the gap in my bedroom door and slipped across to the front door. Mounted in it was a spyhole with a fish-eye view of the corridor outside. With the knife at the ready in case someone sprang up behind me, I pressed my eye up to the door.

  The forty-watt bulb that barely lit the hallways wasn’t enough to show much detail, but it did allow me to see the space was empty. I tilted my head, examining to the very edge in each direction. No motion, no noise, nobody.

  I carefully released my breath, blowing it out in one long stream. There could still be someone inside the apartment, but chances were slimming down, close to none.

  The kitchenette had a blind spot in-between the fridge and the corner cupboards. One peek of my head around the door, and I could check that one off the list. While sliding my body close to the wall, I made my way to the bathroom door. The handle was sticky, something I gritted my teeth against and tried not to let my imagination loose on. One push, knife hand raised, and that room was knocked off my list.

  There was just Norman’s room to go.

  I tapped on the door, thinking that I must have been the queen of stealth for him not to hear me move about the apartment. The boy had ears on him like a bat. Okay, haha. Course he did.

  When he didn’t answer, I twisted the door handle and left it for a second, thinking that he’d catch the movement. By the time I counted out three seconds, I’d realized that something was very wrong.

  I pushed open the door, half-expecting to see a bloodbath with my only true friend dead in the middle of it. The empty room was a relief until my anger ignited in a fierce display.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Where the hell had the kid snuck out to at this time of night? Stupid question. I knew exactly where he’d gone.

  The disinterested grunt in response to my additional information made sense now. I thought that as usual Norman just didn’t give a shit, but that was stupid. Whatever was going down out on the streets involved his species—a bid for freedom from the empire was the most significant thing that had ever happened in our lifetimes. Apart from their enslavement, but who wanted to dwell on that?

  Miss Tiddles came sauntering out from behind the bed, tail stuck straight up in the air.

  “What?” I said, staring at her with a frown. When she wriggled her behind, I could suddenly guess. Norman may have organized her food, but he’d forgotten the other end. The corner store was fine for ciggies and beer but cat litter? No chance.

  “Fine.” I picked her up, unceremoniously carrying her under one arm, while I kept the knife in my other. Even if we didn’t have a home intruder this time, our part of town wasn’t the safest. Not during the day. Not at night.

  While waiting for the cat to do her business, I stared up at the growing sliver of moon above my head. How would Norman feel if he returned home only to find my room empty?

  Stupid question. He wouldn’t even bother to look until it came time for his next feed.

  I suddenly felt like every victim of a troubled relationship. The failed-at-life ones who parade their shame and inept life choices for public consumption on reality TV. Sure, there wasn’t a baby that I didn’t know the father of, but for everything else, me and Norman were dysfunctional with a capital D.

  Miss Tiddles returned from her brief odyssey, twisting her lithe body in a figure eight around my legs. Cute. Unless I happened to be trying to use them for anything, whereupon the movement would become injurious.

  I scooped her up around the middle and stomped back inside, taking my new-found self-disgust out on the hallway carpet. The industrial grade shit they’d used indoors hadn’t withstood the degradation successive inhabitants had dealt out to it. What was left of the threadbare strands didn’t care how heavily my boots tramped down.

  Back inside the apartment, sleep felt like an abstract thought, impossible to attain. I made myself a hot cup of coffee and jumped up to sit on the bench.

  The kitchen window looked straight down onto the street beneath our apartment. Unless Norman snuck in the back, I’d see him arrive home from here.

  After a few moments spent meowing for attention and not receiving any, Miss Tiddles jumped up beside me and curled into my lap. The motion jolted my arm so that hot coffee spilled onto my leg. I wiped it away, barely acknowledging the burning pain.

  As I sat there, my forehead pressed against the cold glass, I stroked the cat and was foolishly glad of her company.

  Chapter Six

  I didn’t see Norman again that morning. Or rather, I saw him outside on the street, returning home alone. The moment he approached, I jumped down from the counter, shooed the cat in the direction of his room, and scurried to bed.

  By the time he sneaked in through the door, I had my eyes tightly closed, pretending I was asleep. Not that he checked on me. After a short period, I changed from acting to actually sleeping. When my pager rang, it woke me up from a dark dream.

  The pager was a genius idea. Before I happened upon its retro magnificence, I went through burner phones like they were going out of style. A costly exercise—by the time the cheap mobile phones ended up in my hands, sans the passport number, driver’s license ID, or official resident number I’d need to buy it over the counter, the cost had gone from a few bucks to something approaching a week’s rent.

  The pager, though? Brilliant. The bloody marvelous little thing barely ever requires a battery change. It’s a one purpose device—since I’m only ever contracted out on one job at a time, there’s not much guesswork involved in who might be contacting me. Even if there were, I change the code for each new client. No track. No trace. No GPS devices keeping hidden tabs or towers recording each ping.

  Mrs. Pennyworth had apparently reviewed the evidence and wanted to progress to the next step. The constant clench in my stomach eased a little. If I
got on with the mind-controlling bit today, then I might be cycling home tonight with my pockets bulging full of cash.

  A sweet relief. Earnest, the landlord, was a casual guy—letting out a destitute apartment building you didn’t own wasn’t a job for your Alpha OCD types. However, if he let one of his tenants slide on the rent due, then he’d never be taken seriously again.

  Some of the tenants had permanent limps before they learned that lesson. Some were just never seen again.

  It was the first time that my arrears had gotten to the point where I was worried. To be able to drop by Earnest’s office tonight and settle the score would be a load off my mind.

  The Pennyworths lived on the other side of town. The rich side. I hadn’t visited the place yet—previous meetings had been held in public areas while Mrs. Pennyworth sounded me out.

  The ride took a long time, and the sun soon managed to melt me into a puddle of sweat. I parked my bike outside a neighborhood convenience store two blocks away from their house and broke into the bathroom for a quick whore’s wash.

  After splashing some water into my pits and drying it with the cheapest paper known to man, I leaned against the outside wall. Partly to let my body cool—otherwise, I’d just cycle myself back into a lather—mostly to think things through and get my mind into the right place.

  To muck about inside someone’s head takes a lot of precision and a modest helping of patience. First, I had to become acclimated to the state they were already in, then I had to sense my way into the cells that needed adjusting. Finally, I had to trigger the sensors of the brain to release just the right amount of the chemicals I required.

  If I did it wrong, then there could be worse consequences than a couple who’d long fallen out of love. Tap the wrong thing with too much force, and deep thought might be beyond the capability of that brain ever again.

  By my last count, I’d been performing variations on this theme for well over one hundred years. Most of that period had been spent as a cyborg, but once upon a very long time ago, I was just an ugly little girl.

  My granddad had convinced me I was magic. He had trained me with his limited knowledge once he worked out the skills I had. When my weak ability to move physical objects failed, he encouraged me to practice the finesse of altering minuscule things.

  Without his training, I’d never have done anything with my talent. With the reinforced disapproval of my mother, I would have let the gift fade away.

  Granddad not only saw my potential, but he also grew it. He ensured that I didn’t throw anything away. Like another man might force his smartest grandchild to go to college, my grampy made sure I tested the limits of what I could become.

  A car pulling into the station snapped me out of my reverie. The concrete siding of the bathroom may have been cleaner than what decorated my neighborhood, but it was still nowhere to be resting for a long time. I unlocked my bike and wheeled it along, hoping that the walk wouldn’t raise as much sweat.

  A new message on my pager showed me I was right on time. A promptness that wasted away into being late by the time I convinced the gatehouse guard to let me through.

  Holy moly, it was a different world up there.

  Back home, we’d installed a blue light in our ground floor entrance just to keep the drug addicts and their needles away. Here, two guards manned the entry point, requiring owner confirmation before I could get through.

  If this is how the other half lives, I thought, I wouldn’t mind trying it out sometime.

  Once through the sentries on duty, I got back on my bike to try to make up the time. From the waved directions of the guard, the house was still some distance away. Manicured lawns and landscaped gardens made my journey there pleasant, apart from the few nibbles of gnawing guilt.

  At the Pennyworth’s house, another man—this time, their private employee—guarded their front door with openly suspicious eyes. No wonder the burglars stuck to my side of town. Over here there was no hope of a successful break-in, let alone adding stealing and a break-out to the list.

  While the guard strode off to announce my arrival, I looked around the decadence of the entry hall. The opulence was so far above the standard of living I was used to that it didn’t even register on the scale of envy. I couldn’t be jealous of something that resided in another stratosphere.

  “Asha.”

  I looked up to see Mrs. Pennyworth paused halfway down the stairs. She cast a worried glance over her shoulder, the frown evident to see from where I was standing. After hurrying down the remaining steps, she lowered her voice to say, “I haven’t told Andrew that you’re coming.”

  I held onto my professionalism and stopped the eye-roll before it could get going. “That’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine what the woman thought that I could do with her alone.

  “If you come along here, I’ve asked Graham to lay out the parlor for you. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just put out a bit of everything.”

  I successfully subdued another exasperated gesture, this time, I also had to bite my tongue. This was a job, a task that needed doing, feeding me wasn’t part of the plan.

  However, my mood lifted when I saw the spread in front of me. Pots of tea, coffee, and a jug of hot lemon and honey was nestled among a selection of sweet cookies and savory scones.

  “Sit down,” Mrs. Pennyworth said, wringing her hands together like she was washing them in the dry air. “Help yourself to anything you want. If something is missing, let Graham know what you need.”

  Surprised, I turned and saw the guard standing at the side of the door. Not a guard then, my mistake. A butler? A manservant? A valet? If only my family had bothered to engage servants, I’m sure the correct term would have sprung to mind.

  While my client stood and looked worried, I dug in with gusto. Even when my stomach protested, I kept going, unsure when I’d encounter another feast like it. My mother’s voice started to harp on about manners and company, but I tuned it out. I’d been feeling weak since replenishing Norman earlier in the week, and if I didn’t gain my strength back soon, I’d be useless after the next drainage.

  “Do you need Andrew here for the first bit?” Mrs. Pennyworth asked.

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. In truth, I wasn’t considering the answer, but was hiding the realization that I didn’t know her first name. It was hardly something I could ask her now—my mouth was stuffed full for a start.

  After taking the time to swallow, I nodded. “There’s nothing I can do to repair your marriage unless you’re both in the room at the same time. This isn’t counseling or talk therapy—it’s a physical activity that requires participants to be present and open to receiving help.”

  Mrs. Pennyworth chewed her lower lip, tilting her head forward, so her blonde hair fell in a shield. It was a color that wouldn’t come naturally to any person over the age of five. A vibrant, golden hue that must have taken hours to perfect. Given the time that the woman devoted to her work, to spend that long in a hairdresser’s chair spoke of desperation.

  Still, that didn’t necessarily reflect upon her husband. Goodness knows, most woman dress, apply makeup, and style their hair to impress other females, not their ignorant spouses.

  “I’ll go and see him,” she said, raising her head again and meeting my eye. Her chin jutted out in defiance as though an internal voice was contradicting her. I knew how that went.

  “Great. I’ll expect you back down in a few minutes. I’ll make sure I’m prepared so that I don’t keep either of you longer than necessary.”

  Mrs. Pennyworth nodded and stood to go, hesitating by the door, earning a concerned glance from Graham. “What are the consequences if this doesn’t work?” she asked. “I’ve heard some stories…”

  I frowned. It was far too late in the day to be raising this point. Most men or women contracting my services got through this spiel in the first few minutes. They set it up, so I could knock it down straight away and get to the meat of what they
wanted.

  I’d been discussing this job with Mrs. Pennyworth for three weeks now, had gotten the green light to take the photographs and prove that what she thought was happening, really was. The only reason to bring up the possible side effects was if she now had cold feet.

  “If you’ve heard the stories, then you’ll know the risks already,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. All of a sudden, the pockets bulging with cash that I’d envisioned earlier were being emptied out, leaving me as destitute as when I arrived.

  “Nothing in this world is risk-free, but I’ve never had a client end up with worse than a headache.”

  “I can’t risk Andrew being anything less than okay when this is finished.” Mrs. Pennyworth’s face appeared almost as pale as Norman’s in the thin sunlight. “The work he’s undertaking right now is desperately important. Nobody in our company can afford for him to get a step wrong.”

  There was an undercurrent to her words, but I couldn’t connect it up to anything she’d said before. I rubbed my forehead, tapping the rivet in the corner while I thought through my possible strategies. I’m not a psychologist, I didn’t have the knack of sympathy or empathy or whatever the rage was these days. What I did have in my arsenal was the blunt truth, so that would have to do.

  “It’s okay if you want me to leave,” I said. For once, my baby voice was an advantage. Mrs. Pennyworth’s shoulder relaxed—understanding I wasn’t a threat. “The cost will be the same, and I’ll need settlement before I go. I’ve already put in a lot of hours, so that’s only fair.”

  She nodded, but still didn’t move: either to step forward and fetch her husband or back toward me in the admission that her search for a cure was at an end. I tried again.

  “Whatever the reason you sought me out, I can help you and your husband achieve a better balance in your marriage. I won’t hurt either of you. There won’t be any lasting effects, aside from the emotional change, that is.”