Promise felt a little sickened. “He is? Somehow I would have thought …”
“Yeah, well think again. Our wonderful government doesn’t throw anything, or anybody, away. Anyway, I told them about the work I did in saving this great nation of ours, and several of the young ladies expressed … shall we say strong earthy desires?”
“Let’s just leave it at that. It will save me having to eat dinner twice tonight.”
“You wound me. At any rate, I talked to a number of the ladies, and it turned out that they made money running virtsex operations. Tied in statewide. It turns out that ladies who weigh three hundred pounds, and burn victims, and amputees are very popular for virtsex operations, because they can empathize with the needs of the clients. They understand a man who would rather stay home hooked into a sexsuit, phoning in their thrills, than go out and risk a relationship with a real woman.”
Promise shook her head. With the blood-spectrograph equipment available openly, it was virtually impossible to contract a venereal disease without being suicidal or lethally stupid. Birth control was 99.99 percent absolute, with both abortions and fetal transplantation easily available. With the risks and downside of sex having been removed, the sexual revolution had actually begun in earnest
With the explosion of virtual technology, or the easy availability of all services and experiences pumped directly into the home, there were a growing number of people who simply chose not to interact with other human beings. Who stayed sealed into their homes, completely separate. And there they remained. They worked there, ate there, they pumped in their lovers over the fiber optics. And in that womb of apartness, of what others called terrible loneliness, they remained, encapsulated but safe.
“Interesting,” Promise said. “In a straight psychological profile, they are as healthy as any average person. The shrinks are having a fit about it. They don’t hurt anyone … they just don’t interact.”
Moonman looked at her. “And the question is—throughout human history, how many people would rather have had virtsex than the real thing? Less muss, no fuss, and nobody sleeps on the wet spot.”
She smiled wanly. “There was a time I would have thought about it. Hard.”
Moonman squinted at her. “Want to give it a try?”
Promise had a minor plug at the base of her hairline. She didn’t have natural talent, and hadn’t undergone the expensive, invasive neural educations and implantation procedures. But as an Exotic, she had had extensive cosmetic restructuring. It made little sense not to add a tiny input device. “Preset or live?”
“Oh, nothing but the best for you, babe. Preset. You control intensity.” He brushed up her hair and felt around for the little socket, then clipped in a wire.
She dialed two on a scale of ten, and sat back into the chair behind her—
And fell through the leather, onto a bed. Hands were on her, spreading what felt and smelled like honeyed dust, smoothing it warm and soothing across and over her body, evenly and penetratingly. Lips touched her, not sexually, but enough to make her body arch, and one pair of them nipped at her lips, and she—
Punched the button to jump out of that damned thing as fast as possible, and popped back into the office, with Jeffrey laughing at her.
“Well,” she said primly.
“Well, indeed.”
“I … uh … I think we had better get on to business. I need to know about a covert operation mounted against Phillipe Swarna. Involving Aubry.”
“Time frame?”
“Maybe sometime in the next eight weeks?”
“Search strings?”
Promise counted off on her fingers. “Assassination. Close range. Aubry’s past, and his physical capacities. Past efforts. Gorgon. President Harris.”
“That’s a good start.”
“I’m going to try to go direct. Kanagawa, PanAfrican director of public works, once asked the Scavengers to put in a bid on a construction project. We were underbid, but I think I know someone who can get me another appointment. I’m going to Hong Kong. If you need to contact me …”
“We’ll use a triple-X virtsex line. Government snoopers tend to be bluenoses. Blush easy.”
Promise allowed herself a smile, the first real one she had had in days. “I like that.” She leaned down and kissed him, holding his eyes with hers. “I like you. I owe you.”
“Family doesn’t owe,” Jeffry said.
21
AUGUST 5. NEW MEXICO. 5:07 a.m.
The stars were bright and clear above the NewMan Nations.
Miles Bloodeagle lay on his back against a blanket, smelling the breeze. He was a huge man, almost five inches above six feet tall, and weighed close to 260 pounds. At the moment, his flat, heavy features were at ease, and he was as contented as he ever allowed himself to feel.
Things looked much better. The NewMan Nations were now a genuine political entity, and that meant that the persecutions of the past were over.
But, while one whole species of problem had faded, there would always be new troubles. At the moment, his trouble had four legs.
In the past month, six of his sheep had been killed. After careful tracking he had picked up tracks, and was prepared to take the mountain lion in its own lair.
The lair was a crevasse in the blackness of the hills, tufted with grass and almost hidden with shadow. Bloodeagle lay hidden as well, watching the cave entrance, his Enfield rifle at his cheek.
He had no night scope, no thermal tracer or any of the other accessories that would have simplified the hunt. He had his eyes and his instincts. He would give himself one shot. If he missed, he would allow the cat to go free.
Another sheep—another bullet. He had to respect an animal that killed just enough to feed its young and keep itself alive.
There was something cleansing about this. It was so much better than the jobs he was occasionally asked to perform for Gorgon. The slaughter at Death Valley Maximum Security Prison a few years back, NewMan against NewMan, had covered him with blood enough for a lifetime.
But he still loved the hunt.
A hundred yards out, the grass fluttered. The moon was bright enough for him to make out the disturbance, even if he could see nothing beyond.
Bloodeagle raised the rifle to his shoulder and took long, slow aim.
The big cat’s black-dappled muzzle poked through a moment later. It tested the wind, seeking danger, finding nothing. Bloodeagle had left no scent, no spoor. Just another couple of inches, and he would place one right in the cat’s ear, and turn her out like a light.
Then … there was a buzzing in his pocket. The priority pager? Damn.
The cross hairs sat right on the cat’s ear, and he exhaled harshly. You live. Today, cat, you live at my whim. Go, go to your cubs. Feed them this last time. Tomorrow, you die.
Bloodeagle rolled silently off the blanket protecting him from the stone and the barbs, reflecting wryly that there had been a time, not so long before, when he hadn’t needed or wanted such comforts. In those days, he seemed one with the sand and the sky and the very insects crawling over his flesh. He had been another man then. Perhaps not a man, perhaps a boy. That had been long ago, in another life, before he had learned too many dangerous things about himself, and about his world.
Bloodeagle trotted down to his jeep, carefully wrapped his blanket around his rifle, and pressed the top button on his heavy cotton shirt. He pulled it out and thumbed it into his ear.
“Bloodeagle,” he said.
Who would this be? Department of Defense? Or … he hoped that it wasn’t anything back at the Nations. He felt no panic, only a quiet anticipation.
It was a child’s voice that came to him, distorted by some sort of scrambler, but still recognizable as a child’s. For a moment Bloodeagle was taken aback.
“How, Big Chief. Tadpole here.”
Bloodeagle’s flat heavy lips curled up into a smile. “Well. It’s the Sprout. Is this line secure?”
“They’d have
more luck deciphering a bowl of Alpha-Bits.”
“How are things in Greenland?”
A pause. Leslie’s natural exuberance subsided. “We need a favor. There may be a big problem.”
A second, feminine voice came on line. “Has something to do with the little desert party you threw a couple of years ago.”
He recognized that voice. Jenna. Leslie was one of Bloodeagle’s clan, a NewMan. Jenna was Leslie’s aunt, Promise’s sister.
Jenna. Mistress of a martial art called durga, originating in India. A good art, from what Bloodeagle had seen. But she had mostly practiced it against women or emasculated men. Making the requisite combative equations of mass and momentum work against a real man posed an entirely different problem, as she had learned in Death Valley. Still, she had taken out two Gorgons hand-to-hand, which made her very, very good indeed. And if she had been working with Aubry Knight …
“Does this concern the black Knight?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need information or personal assistance?”
“Hopefully just the first.”
Miles sat on the edge of the jeep. He pulled his hat down over his head, shading his eyes against the rising sun, and closed his eyes. “Tell me what you need.”
22
AUGUST 21
Only half-awake, Aubry Knight laced up his shoes. Within his mind, reality seemed to shift and slide, as if holes were opening and closing again, trapdoors to a consciousness that he had never explored before. He wasn’t completely himself—he was possessed, controlled, by those who would use him.
They thought.
But he sat back in his cave, and watched as they gave him gifts.
Language: He had learned a thousand basic words in Swahili, Ibandi, and Japanese.
Flight craft: He could pilot planes, heliplanes, and skimmers. He could drive ninety-six percent of the ground vehicles known to operate in the PanAfrican Republic.
Tactics. He had eidetic recall of the street plans of six major PanAfrican cities. Recall was triggered by structured visualization. Implants improved the operation of neurotransmitters in his brain, creating an optimal environment for deep hypnosis to take root. All information was available at a moment’s notice.
In two more days, he would be on his way. In some odd manner, he felt simultaneously half-awake and totally alive. A paradox, indeed.
He walked down the narrow stone steps leading to the combat-simulation corridor called the Pit. It reeked of gunpowder and high explosives.
Aubry had spent dozens of hours there, practicing until the flash of explosives and the roar of the exploding targets clouded his senses. Here in the Pit, he received refreshers in all of the old skills. Lock picking, explosives, the hundred deadly paths he had abandoned after discovering the potential of his naked hands and feet.
But here, they were reawakened.
He knew that he would be photographed here. He sensed that there was an air of finality to it, that there was something about what was about to happen that would spell an end to the previous period of training.
Still within a cocoon of dreams, he walked into the corridor. There was a flash of light, just a whisper of movement. Aubry spun and fired, his weapon braced against the inside of his elbow, its snout spitting flame. The target disintegrated. A wall of steel slid into place. He turned, firing without sight, and felt the grinding flash before he saw or heard it. In an ethereal slow motion, the plate ripped away, winging in pieces down the corridor.
The gun felt good in his hand, felt right. The child within Aubry liked the toy, liked its flash and glitter, laughed and clapped his hands as the targets disintegrated.
The chamber was empty. Young Aubry hesitated. A queasy fear-feeling rose in his belly.
Men will come. They will try to hurt me. Father …
The warning light flashed. Feet vibrated against the floor.
Father—
Aubry quietly laid the gun down and drew a knife from his belt.
He heard the child screaming within him, felt it scream. And laid the flat of the blade against his heart. Felt that inner child begin to calm.
“Shhh,” he whispered. He felt the rage building within him. Rage that ate away fear. Doubt. Rage that was a circle of flame surrounding his heart. “Shhh. Daddy’s here. And no one is going to hurt you.”
The knife gleamed in his hand.
23
The mood in the conference room was ugly. Almost as ugly as the images they had just witnessed in the holofield.
Major Gagnon looked pale. Although she had seen the images twice before, she still hadn’t come to grips with their reality. She was still afraid that she was going to lose her institutional lunch.
Kramer stood just behind Koskotas, one steadying hand on the general’s shoulder. Koskotas was still trembling with rage.
“This is where we went wrong, General,” Gagnon said. “We sent in six men. We felt that the shock armor would protect them. That the mesh webbing would protect them. We were wrong. Look at this …”
In slow motion, one of the armored men came around the corner. Aubry was braced above him, limbs braced against walls and ceiling like a spider.
“Jesus Christ,” the general murmured.
Aubry dropped to the attack.
The armored man went down. The knife—
“This is where we made our mistake. Because the shock armor will repel a forty-four-grain slug, we felt that knives would be no real danger. We were wrong. The edge of that knife is as fine as the edge of a samurai sword. It is used in the art of durga. Where he learned it, we don’t know. Combined with the focus and incredible strength and speed of this man, it went right through the armor.”
“Dead,” Koskotas said. An ugly sound. “One of my men.”
Another image flashed on the screen. A man with eyes opened wide in terrible fear.
“Dead.”
And another image—a leg bent at an unnatural angle, as if the shock armor had broken at a joint. The next picture showed a raw wound in the neck joint of the shock armor. Blood oozed.
Gagnon’s voice was soft, brutal. “Three men dead. They tried to hurt him, General. I suspect on your orders. He defended himself.”
“This man is out of control,” Koskotas said. “I don’t want him as part of this operation.”
Gagnon froze the image. “And just why not? What do you have against him?”
“YOU HEARD HIM IN THE BRIEFING!” Koskotas screamed. “He admires Swarna, that black bastard!”
“To which black bastard,” Major Gagnon asked softly, “do you refer?”
Koskotas glared at her. “This is my operation,” he said.
“Knight’s training is almost complete. Once he is inserted into the pipeline, it will be beyond your control.”
The little man stood abruptly. “Well, he isn’t there yet.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, right about now, he should be making his final error.”
“And what would that be?” she asked.
“Kim. They should be meeting just about now.”
Gagnon looked at Koskotas, disbelieving. “After all you’ve seen, you still believe that Kim can take Aubry Knight?”
Koskotas smiled. “You just don’t get it, do you?” he said, and left the room.
Gagnon brooded. What did he mean by that? “Guerrero?” she asked. The air clouded, and the little man appeared. “What do you think?” she asked. “You know Koskotas. You know Aubry. Aubry will kill Kim. What in the hell is this about?”
Guerrero’s voice took on a tone of genuine regret. The simulacrum shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who wins, or who loses,” he said. “A brawl with an officer will give Koskotas the excuse he needs to cashier Knight out of the program.”
“Will it work?”
Guerrero shook his head sadly. “I don’t know,” he said. “But look.”
He played back the last seconds of the confrontation, after the three were dead, and the other flown.
Then Aubry sat cross-legged, backs of hands against his knees, and waited. The sweat gleamed on his face. His eyes were closed. His lips moved without making sound.
Gagnon backed up the program, watching the lip movement again. “What did he say?” she asked Guerrero.
Guerrero smiled. “He said: ‘I love you.’”
“Who was he talking to?”
“Himself. His younger self, I think.”
Gagnon felt herself relax. “This isn’t the man who came here, my friend. This is something different.”
“Koskotas doesn’t understand that,” Guerrero said.
“I don’t think he can.” She turned the image off, allowing it to dissolve. “I think,” she said, “that we’ve done our work.” She looked at the hologram of the squat little man, and was overcome with a wave of affection. “You know—I wish that you were real.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to buy you a drink.”
24
Aubry sat in the garden dome, near an artificial waterfall, meditating. Meditation was something that had become a part of his life in the past few years. Often the journey took him into pain. Occasionally, into bliss. But however difficult the path became, he was committed to the journey.
The dome overhead reflected light, seemed to contain it, and the soft sounds of water flowing made it a special place for him, a place so very unlike the city streets that had birthed him.
He heard Kim coming. He knew it was Kim. The footsteps were those of a man in complete control of his body. Almost flat-footed. The whisper of a step, sliding from ball of foot back to heel, always in perfect balance. No meaty athleticism here. No macho posturing. Kim’s excellence was less a strength of muscle than a perfect alignment of bone and sinew. Aubry understood this, deeply.
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