Noir

by K. W. Jeter

  Like there is for your coming around here. The act wasn’t fooling November. She could see inside Harrisch’s skull with the same abstract X rays she used to turn on the men in the trains, the ones who’d wanted to press themselves on and into her previous skin. They always want something, she thought. Harrisch was no different in his wanting, his lust for connection, even if his eventual orgasm was wired into something other than his fleshy genitals, some part whose up-and-down movements were more accurately charted on a stockbroker’s report.

  “Like I said.” November wasn’t scared of the exec any longer; the twinge of fear had been rooted in some vestigial organ of her own body, childish and irrational; it would probably be a long time before a lit match wouldn’t make her bladder tremble. “I don’t know why he did it. Maybe McNihil thought he was responsible for what happened to me-”

  “I doubt it,” said Harrisch. “Asp-heads don’t feel guilt. Everything’s justified to them.”

  “Then he really should’ve gone to work for you. Without being pushed.” She regarded the exec without flinching. “But I don’t know the why of that, either. If the guy’s got his reasons, he keeps them to himself. After all-” She tilted her head and looked at Harrisch from the corner of her eye. “He didn’t tell you why he was picking up my tab, did he? He just did it, that’s all.”

  “True.” Harrisch watched his own hand smoothing out a section of the bedsheet, then glanced back up at her. “But you’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  She felt as though she were looking down at the exec from some lofty mountaintop. “And somehow you’re going to make that possible, I take it.”

  “Perhaps.” Harrisch shrugged. “I just came to offer you a little… travel assistance. To go somewhere… interesting.”

  “With you?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Her eyes narrowed, as though sharpening her gaze enough to see into the DZ exec. “Is this a job offer? Because if it is, you’re wasting your time.” November had already made her decision, before this clown had shown up. “I’m not doing any kind of work you might be looking for. Not anymore.”

  “No-this is a freebie. Both ways.” Harrisch stood up from the bed. “Let’s just say that I’m the kind of person who likes to have things witnessed. Sometimes important things. Sometimes just…” He let his unpleasant smile show again. “Sometimes just personal things.”

  November’s skin had stopped prickling; the sharp-pointed needles had gathered into a ball near her heart. “Which is it this time?”

  The smile didn’t fade. “It’s both.” Harrisch stepped around to the side of the bed, closer to her than when he’d been sitting down. “Of course,” he said, “we can make it as personal as you want.” He leaned down toward her, before she could react. One arm encircled November’s shoulders, pulling her up from the stacked pillows; Harrisch brought his face right up against her, tight enough that she could feel his teeth through the thin lips pressing against hers. Harrisch drew back just a fraction of an inch. “Or it can be a job. You pick.”

  Her movement was one of instinct. She seized Harrisch’s skull, hands on either side above his ears. November pressed as hard as she could, her eyes squeezing tight with effort, but nothing happened. Except Harrisch’s laughter.

  “Come on.” He pushed himself away; standing beside the bed, brushing off his jacket lapels, he regarded her with amusement. “As long as that much work was being done on you, I didn’t mind paying for a little extra. A little something to be removed. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have those kinds of nasty toys wired into her.” Harrisch nodded slowly and judiciously. “Gives people the wrong impression about you.”

  Shit, thought November as she looked at her hands, with their now-ineffectual fingertips. “I spent a lot of money for those TMS implants-”

  “Well, then.” Harrisch shrugged. “Maybe you will be interested in a job. Or… some other arrangement.” His ugly smile was like a bad kiss, overly familiar and nauseating. He stepped toward the room’s door, pulled it open, then glanced back at her. “Soon as you’re out, give me a call. Even if you just want to do a little traveling. You know where to find me.”

  Not where you should be, jerk. She went on glaring at the closed door long after the man was gone.

  When November finally closed her eyes-it made more sense to get as much rest as she could, before they booted her out of the hospital-she saw again, without dreaming, the burning End Zone Hotel. This time, she realized something about it that she’d missed before.

  That’s where he is, thought November. One way or another-the burning hotel was where McNihil was at. Whether the hotel even existed or not; it didn’t matter. That was why she’d dreamed about the hotel, seen it burning as it had been long ago, caught in that fiery moment. Maybe, she thought, when he paid my bill, he bought my dreams as well…

  Not dreams, but visions. She knew that now. With her eyes closed, she could feel the distant heat on her face. And was afraid…

  But not for herself.

  EIGHTEEN

  TERRITORY THAT MOST PEOPLE ARE ABANDONING INSIDE THEIR HEADS OR THE GIRL ON THE BED OF FLAMES

  You pretty much expected I’d be here, didn’t you?”

  McNihil looked at the Adder clome. Then nodded. “Yeah,” admitted McNihil. “I pretty much did.” To himself he thought, There’s no getting rid of some things.

  The two of them stood in the shabby corridor of the End Zone Hotel lined with numbered doors. For a few moments, when he’d first found himself here, McNihil had thought he might’ve been back at the cubapt building where he’d gone to see a corpse, a long time ago, in another world. That world, that building, had been transformed by the black-and-white vision in his eyes into something more or less like this one: a place of numbered doors and deep shadows, the cobwebbed lights overhead barely able to cut through the optical gloom. Which was made even worse in this case by the black smoke leaking out from beneath the doors and rolling across the threadbare carpeting, then spilling down the stairs at the end of the hallway. Traces of the smoke rose into the dense air, stinging McNihil’s eyes and gathering at the back of his throat, thick enough to choke him. He could barely discern the image of the other man, the clome from the Snake Medicine™ clinic, standing in front of him; the clome’s voice, soft and insinuating, had identified him more than anything else.

  “But then…” The Adder clome spread his hands and looked about the smoke-filled corridor-“this is the kind of place that I’m always at. In some deep, fundamental sense.”

  “Big words.” The air in the building had been baked dry by the mounting flames; McNihil could feel his lungs shriveling as the heat seeped inside him.

  “They’re true, though.” The Adder clome tilted his head, studying McNihil’s reactions. “Do you remember the name of this place? From when you were here before-out in the other world, the world that isn’t just memories that’ve been kissed into your head.”

  “Sure.” That much was a real memory for him; it had actually happened. “The End Zone Hotel has always been a real charming place.” McNihil coughed and wiped his stinging eyes. “I had a lot of fun there. Believe me. So how could I forget?”

  “You should’ve learned to,” said the Adder clome. “It would’ve made it easier for you all along. And easier for us as well. Your head’s so packed with things-real things, plus all that stuff that those messed-up eyes of yours make you see-that it was hard for us to find room in there, to put the things that we wanted you to remember. That you need to remember. Even if they didn’t happen to you-” The Adder clome stopped and scratched his chin, as though momentarily confused. “Wait a minute. I’m not sure I’m getting that across right. Well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.” He brightened. “If you remember it happening-if you remember all this-” Both his hands gestured toward the narrowly spaced walls, barely visible behind the smoke. “Then it’s just the same as if it happened. Or is happening. Or will happen. You see, that’s one of
the big breakthroughs we’ve made on this side. We’ve eliminated the notion of sequence as it applies to experience. No past, no present, just the eternal now. As in the sexual act itself.” He sounded pleased with himself, as though personally responsible. “It’s like doing away with gravity. All kinds of things are possible here.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d be worried about.” McNihil’s throat felt raw from the smoke. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to let some people’s imaginations run free.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The Adder clome acknowledged the personal remark with a shrug. “There’s less to be concerned about than you might think. Even over on this side, there’s limits. Anarchy-even the anarchy of the senses-runs eventually into a certain wall.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’d know, if you were in the same business I am.” With a tilt of his head, the Adder clome regarded his visitor with amusement. “Come on.” One hand reached out and took McNihil’s arm. “I’ll show you around, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  McNihil shook his head. “I don’t have time for that. I came here to do a job.”

  “Au contraire. You have plenty of time. Or enough, at least. Since we don’t deal in real time here-memory never does-nobody has any more time than you do.” One of the Adder clome’s eyebrows raised. “So it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  McNihil let himself be tugged toward one of the hallway’s numbered doors. The brass digits couldn’t be read through the curtain of gray smoke that rose up from the doorsill, though the heat blistering the paint had turned the metal into dully glowing insignia. The Adder clome pushed the door open and stepped back, giving a partial, inviting bow. McNihil hesitated a moment-Relax, he told himself, it’s only memories, not even real ones (You’re sure? asked another part inside his head)-then stepped through the narrow doorway.

  “You see?” The Adder clome’s voice came from behind him. “Nothing to worry about. This could be anyplace. It doesn’t have to be the End Zone Hotel-that’s just a convenient metaphor we’ve decided to adopt. Just for you; a personal touch.”

  The ragged carpet was in flames beneath McNihil’s feet. Smoke billowed up along his legs, swathing his abdomen and chest, its subtle rising force collecting under his chin. The hotel room was small enough that he could have spread his arms and put his hands flat against wallpaper writhing as though with fiery salamanders. An old-fashioned wooden bureau sagged and buckled as the flames leapt from drawer to drawer; the mirror hinged at the top looked like a bevel-edged slice of the sun’s heart, but only for a moment. The glass’s silver backing darkened and cracked, then shattered bomblike, mixing brighter slivers with the bits of broken window already scattered across the floor.

  McNihil had raised one arm, the back of his hand shielding his eyes. Just as before, his flesh might as well have been altered to some redly translucent substance; he could see the room and its fire-lit, smoke-clotted contents as well or even better than if his eyes had been wide open. As an experiment, he took his forearm away from his face and reached out to the nearest wall, closing his fist upon the lapping flames. Rivulets of fire squeezed between his knuckles; McNihil felt the heat at the center of his palm, etching the lines written in the skin as though with a honed needle. The bloodless pain ran up his arm and burst inside his skull, the glare rendering him without sight for a moment. When he could see again, his hand was still clenched, undamaged and trembling, in the flames.

  “Burns,” said the Adder clome, “but is not consumed.” He nodded toward McNihil’s fist against the wall. “That’s the territory you’re in. That’s the territory you’re part of-or at least your memories, the ones we gave you. And besides…” His smile showed, Cheshire-cat-like, through the smoke and quick tongues of flame that moved between him and McNihil. “It’s such a good metaphor, isn’t it? All dreams and memories are metaphors at last, mere functions of language. Even without words-they still just exist in your head, in one of those little silent rooms you keep the key to.”

  “Metaphor…” McNihil drew his hand back from the burning wall and looked at it. The pain slowly ebbed from the soot-blackened flesh, as he let the intact fingers uncurl of their accord. “For what?” He pressed his hand flat against his shirt, leaving its dark imprint above his heart. He glanced over at the Adder clome. “What’s it supposed to stand for?”

  “Come on. You know.” This time, the Adder clome spread his arms out in cruciform posture. The flames and smoke billowed across him, like the tide of a red ocean turned vertical. “This world, the one that you always called the Wedge-but it’s so much bigger than that. Bigger and older. Older than anything. What you thought was just the Wedge-some crummy bars and the places behind them, the rooms and streets where the prowlers hang out-you couldn’t see those places for what they really are.” The Adder clome’s voice tightened fervently. “Temples and doorways. Doorways into another world, this world. But you couldn’t see that. Because of the dark that you saw instead.” Slowly lowering his arms, the Adder clome shook his head, as though struck with futile regret. “It wasn’t just the darkness in your eyes, McNihil. It’s in everyone’s eyes. Everyone human, that is.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Unimpressed by the other’s language, McNihil rubbed the rest of the fire’s soot off against his trousers. “If we keep it dark, it’s because we like it that way. We don’t need to see some of this shit. That’s what we have prowlers for.” He realized where his own words were putting him: I’m defending them, thought McNihil. All of them, Harrisch and Travelt and all the rest. He didn’t care. Some part of him supposed that he had more in common-still-with the humans than with the others, the ones whose masks just looked that way. “Let the prowlers walk around here,” said McNihil with sudden vehemence. “It’s their place, not mine.”

  “Not anymore.” A certain triumph sounded in the Adder clome’s voice. “You belong here now as much as they do. You’ve earned the right, pal. Enjoy it.”

  “I’m just visiting. And even that’s under false pretenses.” McNihil had managed to rub enough of the black from his hand, that he could see again the lined flesh of his palm. “Right now, I’m really just looking for the exit door.”

  “You don’t have that option,” the Adder clome sneered. “You came here to do a job-that’s what you said, remember?-and you can’t leave until it’s finished.” He reached out and gathered the lapel of McNihil’s jacket into his own tightly clenched fist. “There’s things you want to find out, aren’t there? Connect Harrisch and his connecting job. Let’s satisfy your curiosity, pal.” The Adder clome bent his arm, nearly pulling McNihil from his feet. “You might as well have the whole tour. Or at least as much of it as you can stand.”

  The other’s sudden force took McNihil by surprise; dizzied, he felt the Adder clome swing him about in the hotel room’s close space, away from the smoke-outlined door and farther inside. This is his turf, McNihil realized, as the Adder clome knocked him back against the doorway leading to a minuscule bathroom. And payback time as well; this was what came from his own violence back at the clinic, when he’d been pressuring answers out of the other man.

  “Take a look,” said the Adder clome, “and get an education.” He grasped both of McNihil’s lapels and yanked him away from the wall. The little dance inside the hotel room had brought the two of them up to the bed shoved into the corner by the broken window. “Tell me what you see, connector.”

  McNihil caught his balance as the Adder clome let go of him. On a little bedside table, an antique-looking plastic radio melted and sagged in the fierce heat. The room’s flames had engulfed the bed itself, the sagging mattress transformed into a rectangular inferno, as though a trapdoor had been opened down into the earth’s molten core. Smoke, black and viscous, rolled a choking thundercloud past McNihil’s face, obliterating the ceiling above him. The heat scalded his eyes as he tried to discern the figure silhouetted in fire on the bed.

  Something human, or close enough. And alive; the naked
limbs slowly moved, writhing not in agony but in dreaming bliss. McNihil could just make out the profile of a woman’s face, masked unrecognizable as his own. Her eyes were closed, the eyelids trembling with the sight of whatever moved inside her private dreams; her mouth parted as though to draw deep inside her throat the flames’ kiss from the burning pillow. Almost a child, the fire sculpting her, luminous and fragile; the fingertips of one hand rested between her negligible breasts, as if she had gathered the bed’s ashy smoke to herself like black-petaled flowers.

  Another piece of memory, a real one, linked up with the world in the hotel. He recognized the sleeping, dreaming figure on the bed. It’s her, thought McNihil. The cube bunny. She looked the way he’d seen in the wet reflection on the coffee percolator, back in the kitchen of his crummy apartment. That saddened him; for her to be here, something bad would’ve had to have happened to her in the world outside.

  “Dreams within dreams,” said the Adder clome. He reached past McNihil and stroked the sleeping girl’s hair, brushing what might have been softer flames away from her ear. “And metaphors that don’t end.” The Adder clome turned his head, looking up to see what effect the show was having on McNihil. “How do you like this one?”

  “Not really my style.” McNihil shook his head. “You should know that I’m a little more retro in my tastes.”

  “Really? She seemed to suit you well enough, at one time. Plus, there’s always certain… novelties, shall we say… that could be of interest.” The Adder clome ran his hand over the cube bunny’s bare shoulder, then lightly drifted across her slow-motion ribs. “Take a closer look.”

  “I’d rather not,” said McNihil. But did anyway. This time, he saw that what he’d assumed were shadows evoked by the flames and deposits of smoke carbon on the girl’s skin were more of the drifting black-ink tattoos, the kind that moved. He watched as the Adder clome left one fingertip on the soft area above the cube bunny’s evident hipbone, pressing just enough to indent the flesh. The images of lightly animated Asian tigers and weeping Latino prison madonnas clustered at that point, as though to suckle from his fingernail.