Dead Easy

by Mark William Simmons

  It was still The Hunger—capital-T, capital-H. But it wasn't just me, now. It was tens of millions of tiny machines, all ravenous, all looking around their immediate vicinity for something to eat. If I didn't throw them some kind of bone, the phrase "dining in" was going to take on a whole new dimension.

  Besides, what was the flip side of the risk?

  If the Sidhe Sisters were trying to get me to ingest something harmful, the nanites were programmed to neutralize threats and adapt to preserve my life. Right?

  I took a sip.

  It tasted strange . . .

  And wonderful!

  And that was about the time I remembered the time lag the nanobots had evidenced in past adaptations. They needed a certain amount of ramp-up time as their programming sampled, analyzed, and constructed adaptive measures. Even if these things were foolproof—and there was insufficient data to assume that they were—a fast-acting poison could prove fatal before they could adapt to the threat.

  But, too late now: I'd had my first taste and I couldn't stop!

  I gulped at the soup in the bowl like a starving man. Not just because I was hungry and not just because Mengele's Nazi nanos were about to go all Teensy Terminator on my innards. I gulped because it was so damn good I couldn't stop myself!

  Imagine the oldest and finest distillery in Tulach Mhóh converting over to produce honeydew nectarized soup instead of Tullamore Dew whiskey. At the very first taste it exploded in my mouth like meat stock boiled down to a demiglace—in terms of taste, that is—while retaining the clarity and consistency of consommé. Even cooled to tepid room temperature it thrummed across the taste buds, lively and quick! I could feel my entire body beginning to revive even before a third swallow had delivered its plasma-injected payload to my stomach. Whatever this stuff was, I could feel it doing double duty: rebooting all biological systems, kicking my cellular regeneration back up to optimum levels, and refueling all the micro gas guzzlers that were running on fumes at this point.

  It should have been enough. In terms of biofuel, a little of this stuff went a long way. I was slamming on all cylinders before the bowl was half gone.

  But the taste! And the way it made me feel!

  I finished the bowl and then held it out to Liban, Oliver-style. "Please, sir; may I have some more?"

  "More?" She had been watching me all along with a look of concern. A tincture of alarm now filtered in. "Do you require more to preserve your life?"

  Then I saw the sleeve of her wetsuit had been unzipped and folded back to her elbow. There was a fresh bandage on her forearm.

  Oh shit . . .

  Chapter Twelve

  I got dressed feeling great!

  My body had never felt so alive, so healthy, so powerful, so . . . so . . . tumescent? I looked down again and marveled: "Smilin' Bob" had nothing on me.

  I got dressed feeling like crap!

  Once again I'd fed off of another living creature. And this time I was spending wayyy too much time imagining what Liban would taste like with a pair of stainless steel soda straws in her neck!

  I was crossing some sort of threshold here where needing the blood was taking a backseat to wanting the blood.

  And what was the deal with the tightening trousers? Maybe I could make a case for the narcotic effects of elven blood or the hormonal link to seeing the sea goddess of health and beauty as something indescribably yummy.

  But that didn't explain the near trip down mammary lane with Volpea.

  Or the inordinate amount of distraction that Irena had packed into such a short amount of time.

  True, Lupé had pretty much told me to take a long walk off of a short pier these past eight months—but lovers have fights. Grownups disagree. You get bruised, you get bloody, but you don't throw in the towel—at least not in the fourth round of a championship fight. You go the distance. You stay on your feet until you fall on your face. And then you get back up again. Doesn't matter how many times circumstances knock you down. What matters is how many times you get back up.

  And was this the anti-depressants talking?

  Or were the nanobots running IM downloads into my prefrontal cortex from Hallmark.com?

  Ultimately, I was asking whether I was really this big of a cad? Obviously, I wasn't the human being I was two years previously. But how much can one invoke the "monster" excuse before it, too, ceases to excuse?

  I shook my head: too much thinking, not enough doing. I had to get down to New Orleans and extract my people. We could sort out the emotional crap later.

  My cell phone was humming on my dresser. I picked it up, disconnected it from the charger, and noticed that it was still set to vibrate. Opening it I saw that I had twenty-seven missed calls.

  "Cséjthe?" The voice on the other end belonged to Dr. Mooncloud.

  "Speaking."

  "Thank God! I need to ask you a rather personal question."

  "Personal?"

  "Well, medical. Just remember that I am your doctor."

  The last time someone had reminded me of the doctor/patient relationship I had been wearing a straightjacket. "Go on . . ."

  "Have you been feeling a bit horny of late?"

  * * *

  I asked her to explain it to me again—this time in the Reader's Digest condensed version.

  "Your blood work is showing abnormally high levels of dehydroepiandrosterone—"

  "Yeah. DHEA," I interrupted. "Previous tests have turned this up."

  "But it's even higher now. Along with DHEA-Sulfate. You're also showing abnormally high levels of androstenedione—banned by the International Olympic Committee—"

  "There go my gold medals."

  "—as well as androstenediol, androsterone, and DHT!"

  "The bug killer?"

  "Not DDT! DHT: Dihydrotestosterone. It's a metabolite of testosterone and a more potent androgen when it comes to binding with androgen receptors. Stop making fun of this."

  It was hard (no pun intended) not to. "So you're calling me up to tell me that my nanites have decided to ramp up my sex drive? Great. Two questions. Why? And what can I do about it? Cold showers? Saltpeter in my mashed potatoes?"

  "As to the 'why'? I think your nanites are hungry. Knowing you, you've been keeping your sustenance levels at bare minimums."

  "Hey," I protested. "Not exactly skin and bones, here. I'm far from anorexic."

  "I'm not talking about people food," she snapped. "I'm talking about people as food. Blood. The high octane fuel that your converted physiology is increasingly demanding. Now that you've got millions of micro-machines working overtime, the energy demand has got to be excessive. My guess is they're amping up your adrenal and apocrine glands to enhance you as a predator—not as a sex fiend. Though there may be inevitable side-effects."

  "Uh huh. Back up a moment. You mentioned two different glands . . ."

  "The adrenal and the apocrine."

  "Not familiar with the second one."

  "Apocrine? Sweat glands."

  "Sweat glands?"

  "Actually, body perspiration is produced by two different sets of glands. The eccrine glands which are distributed all over the body's surface, but more densely arranged on the forehead, palms, and soles of the feet; and the apocrine which are mainly concentrated in the armpits and around the genital area."

  "And since you're only mentioning the apocrine glands, I must assume there's some kind of significant difference?"

  "That's my boy. You actually can be quite perceptive when you're not trying to be such a smartass."

  "Maybe. But take into consideration that the hive-mind programming of my nanite network extends throughout the entirety of my body, including the tissues of my gluteus maximus. So, my ass is, quite literally, smarter than anyone else's at this time."

  The other end of the line went silent.

  "Sorry," I said finally.

  Mooncloud cleared her throat. "Yes. Well. To get back to your question, perspiration from the eccrine glands is mostly wat
er with various salts mixed in. It's all about body temperature regulation. Sweat from the apocrine glands, however, contains fatty materials. As bacteria break these compounds down, certain odors are released. The apocrines are also known as the scent glands."

  "So . . . what? In addition to being transformed into an oversexed horndog, I'm going to develop super B.O., as well?"

  I could practically hear Mooncloud nodding on the other end of the connection. "Well, yes. But not in the way you might think. The samples I brought back have tested abnormally high for pheromones."

  "Pheromones?"

  "Sex pheromones."

  "I thought we were talking about sex hormones."

  "We were. Now we're talking about sex pheromones."

  "So, we're not talking about—"

  "—the effect on you, any more. We're talking about the potential effect on others."

  "Others?"

  "Potentially receptive species that come within the area of effect. Look, published research on the role of human sex pheromones on social and sexual patterns of behavior is minimal, somewhat contradictory, and largely theoretical to date. But you are no longer human-normal for comparative purposes. And the levels of hormones and pheromones that your body is secreting is well above normal and apparently climbing."

  "And, again: why? Are the nanites doing this on purpose or is it the back-end side-effect of the hormonal build-up?"

  "It could be the latter. But if, as I suspect, your teensy troublemakers are reprogramming you to target and home-in on potential prey more efficiently, they would logically utilize those hormonal by-products to lure said prey and make them more tractable."

  "This is monstrous."

  "But hardly unique. Master vampires in particular are able to sexually dominate a large number of victims, thralls, and subordinates. It was generally theorized that this was a form of mental domination. I suspect that it may be owed to a significant boost of biochemical changes in the undead physiology, as well. It's not something that my boss has encouraged me to research, you understand."

  "So these machines are giving me the love-mojo of a master vampire?"

  "I can't say because I have insufficient comparative data . . ."

  "Your best guess, Doc."

  "Then I'd have to say no. Based on the concentration levels in your samples—and that the evidence points to catching you in the early stages of the enhancement process—the analogy is a mismatch. I would guess that master vampires exude pheromones at levels ten to twelve times the human norm."

  "And in my case?"

  "It's not just a question of volume produced but also the issue of biochemical refinement. The concentrations in your bloodstream and apocrine glands are approaching, what we call in certain laboratory settings, weaponized grades of disbursements."

  I thought for a moment. "Would these enhanced pheromones affect anyone coming within range or would they be . . . selective?"

  "Again, we're dealing in theoreticals for the moment. In mammalian biology there is evidence for cross-species sensitivities to conditions of estrous. I rather imagine you'll see varying degrees of sensitivities among the preternatural variants to humankind."

  "What about gender?"

  "Well, naturally, sex pheromones are gender responsive . . ."

  "Orientation?"

  "Swedish researchers demonstrated that homosexual and heterosexual responses to odors involved in sexual arousal differ significantly. I'd say that orientation would be just as much a factor as gender. Perhaps more so."

  Which meant Volpea was still an Oscar nominee rather than a true believer.

  "So back to my second question: how do I turn it off?"

  "Short of shutting down or reprogramming the hive-mind neural-net for your nanites, I can only work on defensive measures."

  "Like what? Some kind of antidote?"

  "In a sense. Something to regulate the hypothalamus or the release of hormones from the pituitary gland. Another approach would be to block the receptive capabilities of the VNOs—the vomeronnasal organs located in the nasal septum."

  "How long?" I asked.

  "In the short term I could probably come up with an aerosol blocker. Like a nasal spray. Something temporary. I don't know how long it would last or the effective dosage but I could send you some different strength solutions and you could try them in various settings. I'll work up a chart and checklist/questionnaire to measure the results."

  "So. In the meantime, it's cold showers and pushups?"

  "I'm sorry, you don't understand. The antidote we're discussing would be for the people you come in contact with. There's nothing I can do for you as long as your symbiotic hitchhikers are running their defensive wetware programming.

  "So, I'm screwed."

  "Over and over, if you play your cards right."

  * * *

  I asked about Mama Samm and Marie Laveau. Dr. Mooncloud had heard nothing.

  I asked about the weather. A tropical storm watch all along the Gulf, she said, and some media-fueled debates about evacuation scenarios. But not to worry. She and her patients had been reassured that they were completely safe in their billion year-old bomb shelter. Snug as bugs in a rug. Nothing going to get to them down deep where they were. Let everyone else fight the traffic and the chaos should it come to that. And, if a storm actually did hit in the next few days, they'd just ride it out, safe and sound and underground. Yeah.

  Anywhere else it would have been a good plan.

  But not in New Orleans where Marie Laveau was planning a reception for monsters from deep black space, monsters from the deep blue sea, and a major werewolf revolt was brewing while no one was paying attention. And the Crescent City had a bad history when it came to hurricanes and low level flooding. Right about now I couldn't see any up side to being in New Orleans.

  "Turn on the TV," I ordered as I walked out of my cabin and into the salon.

  Fand was ahead of me: a special weather bulletin was on the flat screen and she was studying it like it held the key to all of our futures.

  Come to think of it, it probably did.

  The meteorologist was using the words "tropical depression" but a glance at the map laid out the story to come. Mama Samm had succeeded in knocking Laveau's supernatural storm apart and smacked the remains way out into the Gulf of Mexico.

  It was a respite rather than a victory. The remnants were reforming rather than dispersing.

  And if the arrows indicating high and low pressure fronts meant anything—and Marie Laveau had her way—it was going to come spinning back around and head straight towards its artificial point of origin.

  Time to shoot over to the other side of the river, jump in my other car, and burn rubber for The Big Easy.

  Getting there would be easy. Nobody in their right mind would head toward a hurricane landfall zone. And Laveau's minions should be majorly distracted by the chaos of a coastal evacuation.

  The downside would be hitting that same chaos once I arrived. And getting back out would be a nightmare. But, first things first: I needed to get to my car—

  —which screeched to a halt at the other end of the dock outside. The windshield was smashed, the hood ripped off the engine compartment, and the front grill caved in to the point that what was left of the headlights were practically cross-eyed. There was enough steam from the radiator and smoke from the tailpipe that it took me an extra moment to recognize my own automobile!

  With a start, I realized that the New Moon had crossed the river and was now moored on the east bank of the Ouachita. Before the change in perspective had time to settle, my newly wrecked vehicle disgorged three familiar figures: Camazotz, Setanta, and third man I had never officially met.

  The New York Demesne called him Silas.

  Lupé had called him "Grandfather".

  I had witnessed their confrontation, long distance, during my temporarily dead, out-of-the-body excursions back last January. Gramps had some hardcore attitudes about family planning that in
cluded the concept of post-birth abortions.

  He was tall for a man and even more hirsute than the average untransformed were. The shock of brown hair that swept back from the widow's peak was streaked with even more grey than I remembered. He looked as if he were leading the other two even though each had one arm firmly grasped and the old pack leader's feet were barely touching the ground.

  That's when I noticed all three were liberally splashed with blood. Zotz had a couple of boxes of blood packs from the bank under his other arm and The Mullet was carrying a sword in his free hand.

  I turned and saw the empty wall above the plasma screen. Yep. Mikey's sword.

  "Incoming," I said. But Liban was there before me, opening the door.

  Nobody let go. With Zotz and The Mullet still holding fast to the old man, they turned and entered sideways.

  Camazotz gave me a look. "Feeling much better are we?"

  "Got a quick fix." I nodded at the two boxes under his free arm. "We're gonna need more."

  "Well, you're out of luck," he snapped. "Snoop-wolf, here, and his posse went and torched the blood bank. This is all we could salvage." He dropped the boxes on the nearest chair.

  "What?" I rounded on the old man. "What is it with you guys? Is everyone bound and determined to make me go all fangy and start ripping out throats?"

  "Mr. Cséjthe, my name—"

  "I know who you are, Hairball."

  His eyes widened, then narrowed. "What did you say?"

  I stepped in real close. "I said," I answered very slowly and distinctly, "I know. Who. You are. Hairball. More importantly, I've got a pretty good idea what you are."

  "I am Pack Master for the Eastern Enclaves: Tribes and Confederations. I am the—"

  "You're the guy," I interrupted, "who laid siege to my house while I was away and threatened the woman I love and our unborn son! And now you're the guy who's not only destroyed one of my business investments but either condemned me to a slow, painful death or to turning into a monster in order to take what I need by violence! I ought to stick a spigot in your neck and chain you to the fridge!"

  Apparently the nanites were fast learners. Once they had created an initial template, they could replicate it ten times faster: fangs were filling my mouth even as I spoke.