by Terry Brooks
The names of everyone directly involved in development and production of Sparx to be used for this purpose.
The list is surprisingly small. It appears Cyrus kept his secret from all but a handful of men and women working under his direction, most of them connected with BioGen. Those whose work involves packaging, distribution, and sales appear to have remained blissfully unaware of what was going on. But those names don’t matter. What matters is exposing Cyrus and those who were his close accomplices. That alone will put a stop to what is happening.
Cay scrolls down. There is more. Ash’s father has provided a list of the street kids whose lives were terminated after failed experiments. In some cases, there is only a first name. In some, there is no name at all, only a gender designation. In each case, the nature of the experiment is listed.
The list is hundreds of names long.
She dispatches the information by vidview relay to Jenny. Once Jenny has it, she will know what to do. Cay sends a second copy to a blind storage within the Street Freaks database as a precaution. Then she closes the thumb drive, extracts it from its slot, and hands it to Ash.
She takes his hands. “Come with me.”
Ash pulls up. “Wait. What about my uncle?”
She gives him a funny look. “What about him?”
“Do we just leave him?”
“He’ll keep.”
“But what if he wakes up? What if he comes looking for us?”
“Well, he won’t have to look very far.”
She continues moving toward her bedroom door. Ash pulls up again. “We’re staying here?”
“What are we supposed to do? You should see yourself. You need patching up and serious rest. I can help you with both.” She sees his eyes wander back to his uncle’s body. “Stop worrying. He won’t be waking up anytime soon.”
When he continues to hesitate, she throws up her hands. “Fine. Let’s make sure.”
She goes over to a drawer in the kitchen and pulls out a bundle of lock ties. She carries them over to Cyrus Collins, kneels down, and binds him at the ankles and wrists, snugging the two together with additional ties so that his legs are drawn up behind his back.
“Happy?” she asks, cocking her head in a way that suggests there is only one acceptable response.
This time when she takes his hands, Ash follows without comment. “You heard him talking about his plans?” he asks her.
“Most of it. Those stun weapons don’t have quite the same effect on synths. Safety precaution. Come on, I want to get started on you.”
“I just want to be sure he sounded as crazy to you as he did to me.”
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look at him. She is all but dragging him. He picks up his pace in response. What does it matter about Cyrus Collins and his plans anyhow? Why worry about someone whose career will be over in twenty-four hours, who will end up in prison and probably lose everything? His uncle intended to kill him just as he killed his father. As he killed the Shoe and maybe others he doesn’t even know about. Who cares now about a man foolishly seduced by his vision for a better world, a man who lacked the common sense needed to recognize its flaws?
“I’m pretty tired,” he admits.
“Don’t go to sleep just yet,” she says quietly. “I need to work on patching you up first, and then you can sleep for as long as you need to.”
“I can’t believe it’s over. It doesn’t even feel like it’s over.”
She squeezes his hand. “It isn’t over. Not quite.”
He doesn’t know what she means, and he doesn’t care. Perhaps it is the weariness and pain. Perhaps he just needs rest.
He is barely conscious of walking through her bedroom door and hearing the locks slide into place.
“I’m going to take off your clothes now,” she says. His eyes open at that. “Relax. I want to have a look at your injuries. I need to see how bad they are. You took a pretty good beating. You need me to bathe you and clean you up. Don’t be shy. I’ve seen naked men before. I doubt you look all that much different than they did.”
“Men like my father?” he says softly.
He shouldn’t have said this. He knows he shouldn’t. But it is eating at him. He has tried to dismiss it from his mind, but it won’t go away. He cannot make himself look at her. So she takes his face in her hands and holds it steady in front of her.
“You have to decide the answer to that for yourself, Ash. No matter what I tell you, it still comes down to what you think. So make up your mind. I heard what he said. Was he telling you the truth about your father and me or not?”
She is looking directly into his eyes. What he finds there provides the answer he seeks. His doubt fades. “He was lying.”
“Your father was a good and decent man,” she whispers, drawing him close, touching her forehead to his. “He gave me back my life. He never asked for anything. Especially that.” She pauses. “But you should know that if he had, I would have given it to him.”
She has him sit on the edge of the bed as she removes his shoes and clothes. She does so slowly and carefully, aware of the pain he is in and the possible damage he has incurred.
“You have either bruised or fractured your ribs,” she tells him. He looks down and is surprised to find his entire left side is a vivid purple. He is aware of it aching, but so much else hurts—his nose especially—that he hasn’t noticed it.
She produces salves and rubs them over the injured areas. To his surprise, the pain lessens. She bandages his nose and the worst of the cuts on his face, closing the wounds. She uses more of the salves while doing so. She gives him a small white pill. Again, the pain lessens.
“Stand,” she says, and she takes off the last of his clothing. “Wow, look at you. A real-life boy. Wait here.”
She rummages through her closet and produces a soft robe that she slips over him. Then she sits him down again and goes into the bathroom. He can hear water running. He thinks of the night he caught a glimpse of her through the door, completely exposed, incredibly beautiful. His thoughts drift to other times and places when he was with her, all tinged with the memory of how she made him feel.
She returns, helps him to his feet, and takes him into the bathroom. The bathtub is a huge round shell recessed into the floor. Its tiles sparkle in pale, soft light; she has lowered the overheads to almost nothing. He can find his way easily enough to his bath but cannot see what lies within the shadows beyond.
“Had it installed myself,” she says, motioning at the tub. “A bit of self-indulgence.”
She helps him step down into the shell and settle into the bath waters. He sighs audibly at the feel of their warmth on his skin, even though parts of his battered body sting at their touch. But the stinging only lasts a moment, and then a soothing comfort eases the pain.
“Feels good,” he says.
“I added oils and balms to your bath,” she tells him. “The longer you soak, the more they will help with your healing. Lie back. The shell wall is curved to support you. Close your eyes.”
He does so, grateful for the relief. She is right. The bath wall supports him. There is music playing, a soft melody he had missed hearing before. He relaxes, content. He wishes he could stay here forever.
He opens his eyes when he feels movement in the waters. Cay is stepping into the bath with him. She has taken off her clothes. She is completely naked, her body gleaming and flawless, the realization of a dream he had dared not even consider. He stares in shock.
“I’m going to wash you,” she tells him, settling into the water next to him. “I’ll be careful.”
“You don’t have to do this,” he says.
“I want to. Let me.”
Why does he try to dissuade her? He loves her. He wants this more than he has ever wanted anything. She is giving him a gift. She is giving him herself. His breath catches in his throat, and tears leak from his eyes as she begins to run a cloth over his arms and shoulders. It is not so much the pain of his injuries
that makes him cry. It is something much more profound and at the same time primal.
“How does that feel?” she asks.
“Good.”
“Only good?”
“No. Wonderful.”
The cloth is travels slowly over his body, carrying with it the healing oils and balms, reaching the damaged areas—the bruises, cuts, and abrasions, the sources of pain and discomfort. He adjusts his position however she tells him to so she can reach him everywhere. She takes her time, moving in and out of his field of vision, smiling as she does, leaning down now and then to kiss his damaged face.
“I love baths,” she says at one point, a wistful sigh infusing her admission.
He nods in blissful agreement. He still cannot believe this is happening. “I haven’t had a bath in years. Not since I was a child. And never like this.”
“You’ve been missing out.”
“I should have met you sooner, I guess.”
She smiles but says nothing.
They stay in the bath until the water begins to cool, and when they climb out Ash stands in place while Cay dries first him and then herself. She is cautious with the places where he is injured and quickly pulls back when she sees him wince.
When they are dry, she takes his hand and leads him to her bed. “Climb in,” she says.
He can’t help himself. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.
“Get into the bed, Mr. Clueless, and I’ll explain it to you. Where did you come from, anyway?”
He works himself beneath the covers, never taking his eyes off her, drinking her in, wanting to remember her as he sees her now, never wanting to forget. When he is settled, she says, “I need to get you something that will help you sleep. Wait here.”
She is gone only a short time, and when she returns she carries a small glass with a greenish-tinged liquid. At her beckoning, he drinks it down. He doesn’t ask what it is, doesn’t hesitate. He trusts her, believes in her, adores her. He would do anything for her.
When he is finished, she takes the glass from him, sets it aside, and joins him in bed, sliding beneath the covers, pressing up against him, letting him feel her warmth and softness. He gasps in spite of himself as her arms reach around his neck and hips to pull him close.
“I am doing this because of what you did for me,” she says, her face inches away from his own, the rest of her closer still. “You were willing to give your life for me. Can you understand what that means?”
He shakes his head doubtfully. “I didn’t stop to think about it. I just did what anyone else would have done.”
“You’re wrong. No one else would have done what you did. Men tell me they love me. They tell me all the time. But it is a chemical reaction they are responding to. It is not emotional. It is not love. When they have time to step back from the experience and think about it, they find they do not love me. I am not real to them. I am a pleasure synth, created for their personal use. What they feel is only momentary. They could never love me, not for more than the time that it takes them to enjoy me physically. That is not so with you. I can tell the difference.”
She kisses him gently on the lips, holding the kiss a long time. He feels something of her pass into him with that kiss, a kind of infusion. She moves away again without comment.
“When you first met me, I knew you were attracted. Afterward, when we talked? You were kind and you demanded nothing. You were shy, and that was sweet. But you were a boy, Ash, and I didn’t think your attraction was anything more than a boy’s response. Worse, it was a typical male response. I liked you; I was even sort of interested in you. Didn’t matter. I still believed your interest in me did not go beyond the obvious.
“But out there,” she motions toward the living room, “with your uncle threatening to kill both of us, you put yourself at risk for me. You attacked Cyrus to stop him from shooting me. You did this for a pleasure synth. None of those rich and powerful men who used me as their plaything would have done that. But you did. I cannot tell you how that made me feel. I can never explain it with words. Only like this.”
She kisses him then, another kiss, this one a little firmer and more demanding. He does not have a lot of experience with girls and kissing, but he knows enough to respond. He sinks against her, falls into the feelings the kiss generates. He gives himself over to the feelings and stirrings and passion.
Even as he does so, he feels a deep drowsiness seeping through him, a sort of creeping lethargy that infuses his limbs and body. He is having trouble focusing on what is happening. Cay is taking the lead, doing what she wants, and he cannot seem to act independently of her.
“Do you like this?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Her hands move. “And this?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like me to continue?”
“Please.”
She touches him everywhere. She strokes and pets and soothes him. He is drifting by now.
“I love you, Ash Collins,” she says at one point. “I want you to remember that.”
“I will,” he mumbles, lost in another kiss. “I love you too.”
Then everything tumbles and spins, and what is happening feels wonderful but the particulars are difficult to grasp. He floats rather than lies in the bed. He catches glimpses of her blond hair and her startling blue eyes. Parts of her body swirl and fade. She whispers things to him, but he is not sure what these things are. He whispers back to her, but his words are lost in the haze that enfolds him. He cannot make himself think; his responses are inarticulate and somehow separate from his thoughts. He seems to be breaking apart, separating out—his body, his senses, his words, and his thoughts—all of them fragmenting, all of them flying off into space.
At some point, everything falls away and he is gone entirely.
When he wakes, he is alone. He lies in Cay’s bed in the cottage shadows, lethargic and sleepy-eyed, waiting for his head to clear and his body to strengthen. Daylight streams through the curtained windows. The night is gone. He looks around.
“Cay?” he calls.
No response.
He makes himself leave the comfort of the bed, his legs shaky as he walks from room to room, searching for her. She is nowhere to be found. Nor is there any sign of his uncle. His body has disappeared and the cottage has been straightened up. He looks out front. The Onyx is gone as well. He decides she must have driven out for food. He goes into the bathroom to examine himself, makes a face at what he sees, and steps into the shower.
As he stands beneath the cascading water, he tries to remember what happened last night. The early parts are clear enough. Everything up to when they were in bed together and she was kissing him. What happened after that? He wants to think he knows, but he can’t be sure. He searches his memory for hints, for some little piece of reassurance that he is not mistaken. But everything is a jumble and the answers won’t come.
He is dressed and sitting at the tiny kitchen table when he turns on the big vidview and news of Cyrus Collins floods the airwaves. He listens intently as the newscaster reports the details on his uncle’s planned infusion of behavioral chemicals into Sparx in an effort to control the U.T.’s general population. Comments from experts and ordinary people alike regarding experiments performed on street kids are replayed. BioGen, implicated in these efforts, has been shut down pending further investigation. A number of alleged coconspirators have been arrested. Sparx are being pulled from the market, and people are being urged not to consume any more of them but to dispose of what they have stockpiled at designated sites.
Then the newscaster says something unexpected:
To recap briefly: The full extent of the involvement of Cyrus Collins and BioGen in an unauthorized dissemination of chemically altered Sparx remains to be determined. Much of this uncertainly is due to the mysterious death of Commander Collins during the night. The commander’s body was discovered early this morning, following receipt of an anonymous tip, behind a well-known pleasure pala
ce in the Red Zone. The cause of his death has not been released. Vidcams that might have recorded the events leading to his demise were not functioning. According to authorities, the investigation is ongoing.
Ash sits back. His uncle is dead? How did this happen? He stares into space. His uncle was alive when Cay trussed him up.
Wasn’t he?
He remembers Cay’s lack of interest in the possibility of his uncle waking up. He sees her again in his mind, walking up to Cyrus after he was down and shooting him twice in the head. Making sure. A wasp sting carries a massive charge. At full strength, a single blast can kill a man easily. Two would certainly do the job.
Almost without thinking, he turns on his personal vidview and calls up his messages. Only one blinks bright red with the word “URGENT.” He goes to it right away.
There is Cay.
She is projected on an air screen in front of him, but he realizes she is only an image from an earlier recording.
Then she is speaking.
I wish things could be different. I came close to believing it was possible. But last night I crossed a line. Your uncle would never have stopped coming after us. Giving him a chance to do so was unthinkable. Now we are safe from him. Look on the side table in the kitchen. You’ll understand.
I spoke the truth when I said I loved you. I always will. Last night—that’s what I wanted to give you.
Ash closes the vidview and walks over to the table. He missed it before, but now he sees the stun gun lying there. He picks it up and checks it over. Nothing.
Then he notices the charge setting is at maximum. He remembers her snatching the weapon away from him and going over to his uncle. He remembers her placing the barrel against his uncle’s head. His mind spins, the words come unbidden.
She executed him.
He sits slowly, staring at nothing.
“Cay Dumont,” he says softly.
Just to hear her name.
- 31 -
He remains at the cottage for the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon, unwilling to leave. In part, it is because he feels at home here. The memories of last night keep him tethered; the feelings they arouse when he walks the various rooms, always pausing by the shell bath and the bed, a comfort. In part, it is because he keeps hoping she will return—that she will change her mind or some quirk in her thinking will persuade her she has made a mistake in leaving him.