Streetlethal

by Steven Barnes

  After the first three minutes the two men broke and went to opposite sides of the bubble, rinsing their mouths out from nipples in the sides of the sphere. Tiny mechanized arms sprang to life, tending their cuts by remote control, while whispering speakers laid out strategy for the next round. The camera cut to a view outside the shuttle tank. The statistics of the two athletes: so many kilos, so many centimeters of reach, so many wins and losses, paraded across the blue curve of Earth.

  Aubry didn't watch the stats. His eyes were riveted on the motionless clouds, the unwinking stars. He heard his voice as a faraway roar, murmuring, "Oh my God..." as he looked down on a patch of impossibly blue ocean edged with a gauzy haze.

  He blinked, but was unable to keep his vision from blurring. There was a hot, salty taste in his mouth, and his breath was coming in gasps as he fought to retain control. He finally stood, pushing his way out of the aisle as the other prisoners glared silently at him. One of the guards laid the tip of a shock prod against his chest, a nervous finger on the switch. "Where do you think you're going?"

  Aubry managed to strangle out his reply. "The can, man." The guard, uncertain, let him pass. Behind Aubry, the crowd burst into cheers as the combat resumed.

  By the time he reached the little enclosed urinal at the back of the theater, tears were hot on his face. He rubbed them away in shame.

  There was a sound behind him. He half-turned, and saw that it was Mother. He hardly recognized his own voice. "Get out of here."

  Mother stood, quietly.

  Aubry turned now, too angry to care about the tears streaming down his face. "Get out, you faggot son of a bitch!" Then he turned back to the wall, fighting his way back to control.

  A hand touched him on the shoulder, and there was a handkerchief in it. "I'm sorry, Aubry. I really am. I didn't realize." There was infinite regret in the voice, and somehow Aubry overcame his impulse to strike out, to nullify his shame by destroying its witness.

  He wiped his face with the handkerchief, his breathing finally returning to normal. He swallowed salt and wiped his eyes again, handing the handkerchief back to Mother without looking at him.

  "Man, I thought I told you to get out."

  "It was my fault. I did it to you. I just wanted you to know... I'm sorry. I care."

  Aubry still couldn't look at him. "All right, man, all right. I hear you. Now go on, get out." Mother started to leave, and Knight added: "Mother, if it had been anybody but you—"

  "I know."

  Aubry turned again. "And if you tell anyone ..."

  Mother crossed his heart and left.

  Aubry washed his face, staring into the mirror at a stranger. The stranger had the same square-boned face, the same flattened nose, but Aubry saw something that hadn't been there for a long time: vulnerability. And that could be fatal.

  "Aubry, I can't help you if you won't cooperate."

  "I didn't ask for your help," Knight said calmly. He stared across the desk at Cotter, the overloaded caseworker who, once a month, attempted to establish a "meaningful dialogue" with him.

  "Tell me," Cotter said, drumming his fat, sunburned fingers on the desk, "why did you refuse Denim's offer?" Cotter's face was neutral, as clear as glass. Aubry felt a millipede of disgust inching up his spine. He leaned forward.

  "Just what the hell is this? Are you shilling for him too?"

  The plump caseworker shook his head in an emphatic no. "Right now all I care about is you. Your rehabilitation. Your emotional health. You had an opportunity to make things easier on yourself and didn't take it. I would like to know why."

  "Because it sucked. What kind of a monster do you think I am?"

  "Aubry, Aubry. You have a long and colorful record. Theft, manslaughter, drugs..."

  Aubry's teeth gleamed deadly white against the darkness of his face. "That was a frame. I never dealt. Never. Never took drugs, never sold them."

  Cotter's fleshy lips curled into a stifled frown. "No drugs? Might I ask why that one enterprise offends your moral sense?"

  Aubry was silent.

  "All right. But we'll talk again. You'll talk to me. If not this month, next. Or the next. You're going to need someone to talk to "

  Aubry's voice was sudden and harsh as the crack of a whip. "I don't need anybody, do you understand me?" His shoulder muscles had bunched with tension under the black prison fatigues, and one tape-bounded hand tensed to point an accusing finger. Although sitting halfway across the room, the caseworker felt as though something were constricting his breathing. His mouth suddenly went dry. Aubry almost shimmered with anger. "I don't need anybody."

  Cotter jabbed twice before he found the intercom button on his desk. "Remove Mr. Knight, please. We've finished our talk."

  In the months that followed, Mother tried again and again to start conversations with Aubry, receiving only grunts in reply. He took the magazines that the librarian left and read them in the solitude of his cell.

  He worked. The digging in the lower level was finished, and he had been transferred to the shop, where he made furniture for government buildings. The work was less physical; he no longer felt worn out by the end of the day.

  From a distance, Aubry listened to Denim's shoes click as he strutted the halls in his tailored fatigues, flanked by Sugar and Jo Jo. Aubry smelled the fear hanging in the air like coils of smoke. He saw himself mirrored in the glassy, staring eyes of the other prisoners. When the pills and grubs changed hands he turned away, tempted by their promise of relief for the first time in his life.

  He compensated in the gym, seeking in exhaustion the peace he could not find in sleep or drugs. But here, for the first time, his body betrayed him, revealing only further stores of vitality. The harder he pushed, the more of his humanity sloughed away to reveal a tireless machine that mocked his greatest efforts.

  The other prisoners grew to fear him, especially when he stood in the showers, the enormous musculature of his buttocks and legs a fact for all to see. Eyes closed, lost in a world of sensation, he rubbed the coarse soap harshly into his body, as if trying to remove the skin. Lather ran in rivulets along the corded stomach muscles, down along ridges of thigh and calf, to the strong, thick-nailed toes.

  As the months passed and the black eyes grew more and more remote, retreating behind a film of hatred and despair, it became clear to all who cared to notice that what humanity remained to Aubry Knight was being flensed from him day by day. Until, someone said, there was nothing alive within that incredible body. No soul, no feelings. That a ghost named Aubry Knight walked the corridors of Death Valley Maximum Security Penitentiary.

  Mother slid his cart by Aubry's cubicle and fiddled with the top of the stack. Aubry lay on his back in the cell, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable quip or joke or harmless innuendo. He would snarl, or remain silent, and Mother would laugh, ignoring him, and trundle off down the hall, hawking his wares.

  But today there was no conversation, just the sound of two magazines slapping down on the edge of the basin, one after the other. Then the cart moved on, its wheels squeaking. That in itself was off; Mother usually greased them before every day's work.

  Aubry looked up, sitting up slightly, and started to say something, then saw Mother's face. The thin blond hair hung lifelessly. The boy's mouth was closed, lips stretched hysterically thin. He stared straight ahead, and his skin, always pale, was pasty white. He walked stiffly.

  At first Aubry thought he would remain silent, but the words forced their way out as if they had a life of their own. "Hey, Mother—no talk today?" His tone was gruff.

  Mother turned to look at him, and there was nothing in the blue eyes, no life at all. His mouth opened and he tried to say something. Aubry could tell by the intensity of the battle that the words were important. So important that Mother couldn't make his mouth work to get them out. He turned back to his cart and pushed it along its daily path to the next cell.

  Aubry swung his feet down to the floor and stuck his head
out the door, watching Mother retreat down the hall. Mother's body moved like a puppet's, as if no longer guided by an organic consciousness.

  Well, if you don't want to talk about it. ..

  On the other hand, why should Mother have thought that Aubry would give a damn?

  Knight shook his head. No, that was right. He didn't care. He couldn't. All that mattered was surviving his time in this place, and getting out to kill Luis and Maxine. That was all that mattered. He focused on the thought of the two of them broken and dead at his feet, and mentally kicked their bodies until ribs shattered and blood came to the lips of corpses.

  He struggled to keep that image, even as the dust-pale face of Mother came back to him, again and again.

  Just before lockup, Aubry had a visitor. It was Carl—big, gentle, slow-moving Carl—who stood outside the cell like a commoner paying court. "Aubry? Can I come in?"

  Aubry's eyes opened slowly and fixed on him. Carl's lantern jaw worked nervously, and his face was almost as pale as Mother's. Aubry nodded and sat up on the bed, making a place for him.

  "All right. What is it?" Aubry was disgusted with the ice in his voice. It had no place there. This man and Mother had been the only inmates to extend anything even remotely resembling the hand of friendship. But Carl, like everybody else, probably wanted something.

  "It's Mother," he said, his voice dropped so low it was barely decipherable.

  "What about him?"

  "Spare parts, Aubry. He's going to be spare parts."

  Aubry thought of the limping, one-eyed, flesh-stripped damned roaming Death Valley, and barely kept the revulsion from his face.

  "Senator's kid. High on grubs—some kind of accident on the National City CompWay. He's in critical condition; they did a quick match-scan for donors, and came up with Mother." He laughed bitterly. "A hundred thousand to one, but those are the kind of odds Mother beats."

  "So what happens now?"

  "So the assistant warden gets an order from on high, and he passes it on to Denim. Denim puts the squeeze on Mother. Mother can either volunteer for the surgery, or there'll be an 'accident,' and they'll take what's needed from his corpse."

  There was a sick, sour taste building up in Aubry's mouth, but he fought it back. "What do they need?"

  "A kidney, a retina, an eardrum, and a few feet of skin."

  Aubry heard the blood rushing in his ears. The room began to slew sideways. "Why are you telling me this?"

  Carl licked his dry lips. There was stark desperation in his face. "You're the only one who might be able to stop it."

  "Me?"

  "Denim wants you. He'd lay off Mother if you asked him to."

  Aubry's nostrils flared. He stood up, grabbed Carl by the collar, and whirled him into the wall, pinning him brutally. "So that's what you want. You'd have me sell my soul to that Spider? I should burn your ass, do you know that? I should pull your head clean off."

  Carl swallowed two gasping breaths and tried to struggle against Aubry's arms, to absolutely no avail. Then the fight went out of him and he lowered his head, sobbing.

  Disgusted and embarrassed, Aubry let him go.

  "I shouldn'ta—couldn'ta asked you for myself. Only for Mother, only for him. It'll kill him, I know it, but.. .1 should have known there wasn't any way out. I love him." Carl looked up, the tears streaming freely. "I love him, and he's the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. This will just ... kill him." His voice was dull now, no fire at all left in it. "I shouldn't have expected you to be any stronger than the rest of us. I'm sorry."

  Carl wiped his face and left the cell.

  Feeling tired and old beyond his years, Aubry walked slowly back to his bed, staring at the wall as he sat. The warning bell chimed and, some three minutes later, chimed again. The cell door slid shut. The night guard walked the aisle checking faces, and after he was finished the door clouded into darkness.

  Silently, Aubry slipped off his shoes and lay back on his bed, back in the warm hollow his body had worn in the blanket and mattress, and he stared at the light. When it went off, he stared unblinking into the gloom, desperate to find a single thread of sanity in a tangled web of doubt and fear.

  3. Spare Parts

  Stitch shrugged. "The hospital, man. Like the rest of us been."

  "You?"

  Stitch hitched up his left pantleg. The limb beneath was much too thin. Suddenly Aubry remembered where he had seen Stitch before: working the uneven parallel bars in the gym. "Muscle tissue." Stitch laughed hollowly. "Part of me is playing in the Super Bowl this year. Ain't it a bitch? Come on, now. Ain't got all day. Magazines?"

  A shake of the head was the only answer Aubry could muster.

  Carl came by the cell later, saying nothing, merely peering in with a face as emotionless as a bare skull. His hands tensed and relaxed in hypnotic rhythm, almost as if they had lives of their own. He stared not so much at Aubry as at Aubry's body, as if it belonged to another man; dark visions danced in his eyes.

  Then, wordlessly, he turned and left.

  Aubry slept uneasily that night, waking up every few minutes to stare into the darkness. Staring into the ceiling, his imagination painted the Earth, its clouds and seas, its untouchable beauties all coming to life in his mind. Dreams were fragments of memories and fantasies woven together into a nightmare tapestry, a maze of past and future where every decision was fatal.

  Three days later Mother was brought back to the prison. Aubry waited until recreation hours and walked down two levels. He rapped knuckles against the frame of the cell door before looking in. "Hello?" There was no answer. Mother sat on the edge of his bunk, head down in crossed arms. There was a bandage over his left eye, and one across the left ear. He wore a plain white shirt, and it looked to Aubry as if there were dressings of some kind under it. Mother turned and looked at him dully, his one remaining eye unfocused.

  Aubry's world grew a little darker.

  Mother didn't come down for dinner. Carl came in late, escorted by a guard. His face said everything. He walked stiff-legged up to the food line, got his plate of slop, and came back to the tables. His eyes were wide and staring, his mouth tightly pursed. As Carl approached Denim's table, there was silence for a moment.

  Denim took a sip of his coffee, meeting Carl's eyes without a tremor. "Tastes like spit." Carl's mouth worked without producing words. "Do you want something?"

  "He killed himself," Carl said quietly.

  Denim's expression never changed, but there was a tangible aura of tension in the air as his bodyguards hunched forward. "That's too bad. Who are we discussing?"

  Carl dropped his tray. "You son of a bitch—"

  "Strong words, little man." Denim said it in a whisper of a voice, his eyes straying to his fingernails. Sugar and Jo Jo began to rise from their seats.

  A huge hand gripped Carl's shoulder firmly. Carl swung around, fists balled.

  Aubry shook his head, black eyes hooded in silent warning. Carl coiled to throw the punch. In that instant there was no sound in the room, not even breathing.

  A spotlight hit them as the ceiling lights dimmed. A metallic voice rasped through the mess hall speaker. "Prisoners. You will return to your seats immediately!"

  Carl's eyes blazed, and he tried to turn, but Aubry's hand tightened implacably. A growl broke in Carl's throat, threatening to become a sob. He picked his tray up and left to sit by himself on the far side of the room.

  Slowly, sound returned to the room, and the lights began to come back up. Denim looked at Aubry with faint curiosity. Aubry returned the look without comment, then went back to his seat with a movement somehow reminiscent of water swirling down a drain.

  Denim lifted a forkful of algae steak to his mouth, eyes resting on Carl's back casually. His two bodyguards had gone off point, but were not yet eating. They sat patiently, thick fingers folded before them on the table.

  At last Denim turned to Jo Jo, and his eyes flickered toward Carl. Jo Jo's eyebrows lifted questio
ningly. Denim nodded. Jo Jo smiled and went back to his meal.

  Aubry's stomach was tying itself into knots of acid. He retired before lockup, trying to sleep. He tried slowing his breathing until his head buzzed. He tried chanting "Coca Cola" a hundred times a minute while consciously relaxing every muscle in his body. Still, Carl's straining face danced before his eyes.

  At last he swung his feet down to the floor and stepped into his shoes. He slipped on his shirt and wiped his fingers on the rough fabric, leaving damp blotches.

  He walked down the hall, down the two spiral staircases to Carl's level. He wasn't sure what he would say or do, didn't even totally understand the impulse that drove him out of his cell and down the corridor. He just knew that he ought to say something, anything at all.

  He had reached the sixth level when he heard the pattering echo of running feet and saw two men, heads covered in plastic garbage bags, running the other way.

  There was a sound, a low, grating bubble of a moan that swelled into a crescendo of agony, then burst wetly at the top of the note. A scratching, scrabbling sound came from halfway down the cell block.

  Without conscious volition, Aubry broke into a run. The faster he moved, the slower things seemed to happen, until he felt as if he were running through a sea of jelly.

  A human shape appeared at one of the cell doors and staggered into the hall. Aubry came to a stop, his eyes widening.

  What stood there had once been Carl. There were stab wounds in his face and neck, spurting blood as he clamped his hands to them. More slashes scored his chest and abdomen.

  Carl took a staggering step. Then, as if he had lost his way or forgotten where he wanted to go, he spun around. His trousers were down around his knees; with a blood-smeared hand he fought to keep them up. His face held a bewildered, childish expression. Carl saw Aubry and took a step toward him, a scarecrow of wet red straw.