The boy’s lucky, he thought. A new addiction was relatively easy to break.
Gillian kept his voice casual. “If you had been a scuddie for several months, you would really be in trouble. After a time, the body begins to store the drug in the tissues. It becomes more and more painful to stop.”
“I don’t care!”
“A real scudclown loses all control over his bodily functions. After a while, he has to start wearing a diaper. He dribbles. He grows allergic to several essential food groups. His fits increase, both in intensity and duration, and eventually he reaches the point where he spends more time laughing than he does sleeping. Coronary pressure increases drastically and a heart attack is the inevitable result. Most scudclowns die within six years of beginning their addiction.”
This time, Jerem’s painful frown did not vanish so quickly. He sat down again.
Gillian pressed. “Do you think your mother’s been worried about you?”
There was effort in his words. “She’s ... just ... a ... damn...”
Abruptly, Jerem clamped his mouth shut. “You’re trying to trick me!” Another fit of laughter overwhelmed him. He fell to the floor in hysterics.
Gillian switched on the wall-mounted monitor and accessed the internal files. He needed to find something for the boy to concentrate on.
The instant Gillian turned his back, Jerem leaped to his feet and made a dash for the door. The boy fumbled with the bolt for several seconds, then raised his foot and angrily kicked at the heavy portal. Fuming, he pounded his fists against the wall.
Gillian continued scanning the files. “I modified the lock,” he said quietly. “Only I can open it.” That was not quite true, but he had changed the mechanism enough to prevent an enraged scuddie from figuring it out.
“Open it!” the boy demanded.
The only internal programs contained in the monitor’s processor dealt with utilizing the room’s temperature control system and bathroom-kitchen cubicle. The management of the Hotel Costello was too stingy to have included even a basic gaming system.
Jerem wrenched at the door handle. “Open it!” he screamed. “I wanna go out! I gotta get out!”
Gillian remembered the computer slab Miss Vitchy had given him as a receipt for the boy. He pulled it from his pocket and inserted it in the slot beneath the volume control.
keeping our beautiful parks clean, by miss vitchy, appeared on the screen—silhouetted golden letters on a lush background of pine forests, with an ice-capped mountain range in the distance.
“If you don’t let me out,” Jerem warned, “I’m going to get you in trouble. Real trouble!”
Like most computer programs. Miss Vitchy’s was multifunctional, offering the viewer a choice of formats for displaying essentially the same information. Gillian touched the control setting for read mode. The colorful title was superseded by a page of standard text.
“Come here,” said Gillian.
“Let me out, you bastard!”
He allowed menace to underscore his tone. “Come here.”
The boy sneered and gave the door a sharp kick.
Gillian did not want to scare Jerem too badly, but the boy had to be wrenched from his behavior pattern of anger and laughter. “Last chance,” he warned. “Come here!”
“Ox-le-me-noi-quid-lo!” the boy said sharply.
Gillian had no idea what the words meant, nor did he care. In a flash, he crossed the room, grabbed Jerem by the elbow and the seat of the pants, and swiftly carried him over to the monitor.
“Put me down!”
Gillian obliged. He set the boy down facing the screen and stood behind him. “Start reading.”
“No!”
He gripped Jerem under the chin and directed his head toward the monitor. “Read.”
Jerem stomped his foot against the floor. “Let me go!”
Gillian laid his other hand on the back of Jerem’s neck and used two fingers to give the skin a sharp pinch.
“Oww!”
“I said, read.”
“I don’t feel like...”
Gillian pinched harder. The boy tried to pull away. Gillian tightened his grip on Jerem’s chin and pinched him a third time.
“Oww! Let me go!”
He dug two fingernails into the soft flesh and twisted sharply. This time, tears came to Jerem’s eyes.
“Oww! All right, I’ll read.”
“Do it.”
The boy rubbed a palm across his eyes and stared at the screen. “Keeping Our Beautiful Parks Clean, by Miss Vitchy...”
He paused and began to giggle. Gillian applied two quick painful pinches. Jerem cried out.
“Stop it! I’m trying!”
“Read.”
“I can’t when you keep pinching me!”
Slowly, Gillian pressed his thumb and forefinger against another hunk of skin. Jerem did not wait for the pinch.
“The Teddy Carrera Memorial Park was established shortly after the founding of this colony. The park is the largest within Sirak-Brath. There are some wild animals in the park, but most of them are tame.”
Gillian smiled grimly. He wondered if Miss Vitchy intended her tract to be humorous or whether she was simply unaware of its connotations.
The boy continued, “The park was named after Doctor Teddy Carrera, an Earthman who lived prior to the Apocalypse. Teddy Carrera was a great scientist and engineer who was the guiding light behind Star-Edge, the massive project that sent twenty-six huge spaceships deep into space in order to colonize distant planets. Teddy Carrera himself went on one of the spaceships. He was never heard from again.”
Jerem sighed, “This is dumb. I learned all this stuff in school. Why do I have to do this?”
“I like stories. Keep reading.”
Jerem paused, then, with a slight smile, continued, “In memory of Teddy Carrera and all of the lost star voyagers, the people of Sirak-Brath dedicated this grand park. Teddy Carrera also was a great humanitarian ... and he also said that everyone should take scud whenever they could!”
This time, Gillian made the pinch long and painful. The boy wailed and tried to twist his chin away from Gillian’s unyielding grip.
“I was just making a joke,” he whined.
“Not funny. Continue reading—and only what’s on the screen.”
“Why don’t you just beat me like my mom does?” He started to cry. “Everybody is always hurting me. It’s not fair.”
The feeling was real. Gillian rubbed the back of the boy’s neck. “I don’t want to hurt you, Jerem. But I won’t allow you to be a scuddie.”
“What do you care?”
“Let’s just say that I have an interest in you and your mother.” He eased his grip and Jerem turned quizzically toward him. The boy wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
“How do you know my mom?”
Gillian hesitated. It would be best to stay as close to the truth as possible. “I’m with E-Tech. We’ve been looking for you and your mother. We’d like to ask you some more questions about what happened to Bob Max.”
Jerem’s eyes widened. He sniffled. “Are you going to take me back to Lamalan?”
“I’d like to. As soon as we find your mother.”
Jerem licked his lips. A fierce grin distorted his features. Gillian wagged a finger in warning.
“If you let out another scud laugh, you’ll be pinched!”
The boy’s face exposed his turmoil. He wanted to laugh and he knew he dared not. His shoulders began to quiver.
It’s coming, Gillian observed. Scud withdrawal, especially for a new addict like Jerem, displayed clear parameters. The boy was on the edge right now—half free of the drug’s emotional repression. Jerem’s real feelings would serve as a catalyst, to bring him the final step away from the scud’s influence.
Better methods supposedly existed for addicts to withdraw from the drug. Even in Gillian’s era, hospitals had offered sophisticated programs and had boasted of quick and relatively pai
nless paths to scud freedom. But painless ways were not always the best. Gillian knew that to be true even while recognizing his own shortcomings—his fear of descending too deeply into that unremitting sewer of agonies, the memories of his relationship with Catharine. It was unhealthy to repress pain. Inner turmoil should be unleashed, assuming it was possible for one to do so.
And there lies the difference between Jerem Marth and myself.
The boy clutched his sides and bent over. “It hurts.”
“Lie down.”
Gillian helped him to the bed. Jerem began screaming before his face touched the pillow.
The withdrawal did not take long, perhaps ten minutes, though Gillian knew the boy was experiencing a distorted sense of time and that the agony seemed much longer. Jerem’s body curled into the fetal position. Tensed muscles fought the waves of pain that made him flop across the bed like a fish out of water. Several times the boy’s screams were of such intensity that Gillian felt certain the manager would arrive to pound on the door. No one came, though. Presumably it would take something more direct, like blowing up the hotel lobby, to arouse anyone’s interest.
Gillian went to the kitchen and divided the steaming pot of vegetables into two unequal portions. He put the larger plate back on the thermal top; Jerem would likely have a ravenous appetite when he emerged from the pain.
Two clogged plastic shakers reluctantly provided Gillian’s steaming plate with a dash of pepper and thyme. He returned to the side of the bed and forked a mouthful. The beans and sprouts were excellent, but the carrots were a bit underdone. Next time, he would remember to precook them longer.
He stood silently by the bed; eating, hearing the boy’s screams but tuning out the emotional intensity that would overwhelm his own psyche if he listened too closely.
Pain triggers pain. The perpetual agony of his own loss lay just a shout away.
Jerem’s uncontrollable thrashing peaked. Gradually, his screams lessened, then stopped completely. A long moment of calm brought an almost unnatural silence to the room. Gillian could hear the soft scraping of his own fork across the bottom of the plate.
Jerem sat up. He stared at Gillian for a moment and then turned away in embarrassment.
Gillian threw his plate in the disposer and sat down next to the boy.
“You did well. I’m sure your mother would be proud of you.”
“She’ll be mad at me.” He winced and hugged his arms to his chest.
“Maybe. But it took a fair amount of courage for you to fight through the pain.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t give me any choice.”
“I said ‘be brave,’ then I gave you a push—nothing more. You did all the work. Don’t demean your accomplishments.”
Jerem frowned, then without warning, threw himself onto Gillian. The boy buried his face against the dark fabric of Gillian’s pullover and began to sob.
Four Paratwa killings, Gillian thought. I must renew my efforts at recruiting. I’ve been lax. I should have been training a combat team by now. Sirak-Brath certainly has the raw material. Somewhere in this colony there must be pirates whom I can communicate with—break down that cultural wall.
Jerem hugged him desperately; without fear, without any sense of shame. For the good of the boy, Gillian knew he had to respond. He laid his arms on Jerem’s back and patted him gently.
Tomorrow I’ll arrange for Jerem’s mother to come and retrieve her son. With any luck, Paula Marth and her boy should be willing to relate everything they can remember about the Bob Max killing. I may be able to form a clearer gestalt of this creature I hunt. And then I will put all my efforts into finding a team.
He did not want a rehash of tonight’s trouble. No more cryptic advertisements and clandestine meetings. I’ll use a more direct approach. Sirak-Brath’s numerous shuttle ports offered potential opportunities. A place where people are in transit should produce a wide range of suitable individuals. He felt surprised that he had not thought of it earlier.
Jerem stopped crying and released Gillian from his grip. The boy stood up and cleared his throat. Gillian sensed effort in the boy’s words.
“I know you really helped me ... and I know that ... you didn’t really have to and all ... and I know that you’re from E-Tech and that you’re doing it because it’s part of your job.” Jerem amended himself hastily. “Not that you don’t care and all ’cause I know that you do and...” He paused, took a deep breath. “Well, I just wanna say that I wish someone like you had been my father.” He blushed and turned away.
Gillian felt his guts beginning to churn. He wanted to say: Don’t throw your feelings at me, boy! Don’t try and make me into something I’m not!
Instead, he got up and crossed to the stove, “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
Jerem brightened. “Yeah, I’m starving. And before, I wasn’t hungry at all. It’s really strange.”
He presented Jerem with the steaming plate. The boy sat down on the floor and began wolfing down the vegetables. Gillian turned away. His hands were shaking.
I move—I am. I want—I take. I see—I learn. I grow—I make.
Gillian closed his eyes. A vision of Catharine filled the blackness. He opened his eyes, gripped the sides of the dresser, and concentrated on the monitor screen.
keeping our beautiful parks clean, by miss vitchy. Silently, and without any real interest, Gillian read through the entire tract.
Later, after the boy had fallen asleep on the bed, Gillian lay on the floor. He wanted drowsiness to overtake him. It refused.
Do you remember, Catharine, when we used to talk about having children?
Gillian hopped to his feet. He had no idea why his mind had phrased such a question. He only knew that he had to escape such thoughts. She’s dead. Dead and gone. I must forget her.
With shaking hands, he switched on the monitor. He read through Miss Vitchy’s inane dissertation again.
He read it three more times. Then he tried reading it backward. Somewhere, beyond the middle, close to the beginning, he fell asleep.
O}o{O
Urikov looked around and saw nothing that he liked. Foolish men, he thought, drinking, arguing, dreaming of the circle score—the royal path to riches. They think enough talk will catapult them to luxury.
He raised a beaker of diluted brandy to his lips and poured the mild liquor over his tongue. They are nothing but stupid animals, guided by their fears and the whining beat of the music.
Urikov swallowed the brandy. He listened to the sax-drum duo for a moment. He did not like this tavern’s drowsy excuse for entertainment. The music, however, was appropriate for the losers scattered at tables on the dimly lit main floor or perched solemnly at the bar. If Urikov had owned this tavern, he would have had the musicians forcibly removed from the small stage and thrown out into the middle of Sirak-Brath’s widest boulevard. He grinned, imagining the fat sax player crushed under a hundred wheels.
Losers, one and all. The circle score required intelligence and action.
The main door opened. A tall figure pushed through the beaded curtain of the inner vestibule. Urikov took one look at him and knew that this was the man he was waiting for.
The stranger moved with a casual grace that was far too sleek for a crowd like this. A gray jumpsuit with loose sleeves cloaked the man’s frame. Blond hair edged out from beneath a green satin fisherman’s cap. He was clean-shaven. Forty, forty-five, Urikov guessed. The stranger scanned the tavern like a robot-insecticizer searching for flies.
Urikov licked his lips and grinned. The man’s clothes were plain, but his haughty demeanor suggested wealth, prestige.
A rich smuggler from off-colony? Urikov knew all the prime black marketers on Sirak-Brath, and this man was definitely not local. Then again, he did not look like a smuggler. A corporate trader? Or a retired bureaucrat with enough savings to indulge his darkest fantasies? Urikov took another sip of brandy and wondered if the man had brought the rest of the money with him as
promised.
The stranger sauntered past the bar and sat down at Urikov’s table. Smiling, the man held out his hand.
“Hello. It is good that we can meet.”
Christ, thought Urikov. The bastard talks like a sitpissy.
The stranger was not the same man who had contacted Urikov by phone several days ago. That voice had been high-pitched but sounded mean. Urikov did not really care what a pervert sounded like, of course. The man on the phone had agreed to Urikov’s price. The first payment had been delivered promptly via courier. That was all that mattered.
The stranger withdrew his hand when it became obvious Urikov was not going to shake it. The smile expanded. “Allow me to buy you another drink?”
Urikov nodded. The stranger pointed his finger at the main ceiling sensor. A small cylindrical robot emerged from behind the bar and waddled over to their table. Speedtreads stopped rotating. The robot waited obediently for its next command.
“My,” said the man, eyeing Urikov’s drink, “that looks good. Peach brandy?”
Urikov gave a sharp nod. The stranger grinned like an idiot as he typed his order into the robot’s terminal. He popped a wad of cash cards from his vest pocket and inserted the required amount.
A few seconds later, the robot opened its front panel. The stranger grabbed the two beakers of brandy from the robot’s serving tray. He patted the robot’s dome head as if it were a child.
“You like sex machinery?” Urikov asked. It was usually easy to sell perverts more than they wanted.
The man grinned and handed Urikov his brandy. “No.”
The stranger looked like he traveled a lot. “I can get you a small terminal briefcase with good data-storage capabilities. You put it on your lap when you’re traveling by shuttle and it looks like you’re a businessman at work. But a panel underneath opens up and a cock-grabber snakes into your pants and charges your meat. The machine has seven different settings.”
“How fascinating.” The stranger peeled open his brandy and sniffed. “Robots are nice, aren’t they? So obedient. I wonder why E-Tech has made them illegal?”
Urikov sneered. Because E-Tech is made up of sitpissies like you.
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