Damnable

by Hank Schwaeble

  “I hope you’re not foolish enough to try anything,” she said. “Or anything else, I should say.”

  “I still don’t see where I fit in,” Hatcher said.

  A blink of a smile creased her cheeks, then she stepped forward and disappeared. Hatcher moved closer, peered into the tarry divide, half expecting someone or something to reach out and grab him, seeing nothing. The scraping, shuffling sound of movement behind him grew louder. He resisted the urge to look. He was on his own. It stood to reason some of the creatures surrounding him now considered him fair game.

  He hesitated, then took a step and pierced the darkness, waiting for it to wash over him, and just as quickly found himself squinting and shading his eyes at the sudden light. An almost panoramic scene stretched before him, colorful images of glistening water and ornate foliage. Beautiful women in flowing garb. Mirthful conversation and laughter bubbled its way up in soft echoes and every breath carried the scent of spring water and wildflowers, spiked with the unmistakable tang of food and drink and sex. He knew immediately this place was like nowhere he’d been. An understanding quickly settled in. Only one word seemed to describe its organizing theme, its unifying purpose.

  Pleasure.

  CHAPTER 19

  WRIGHT HEARD THE SONG RING OUT, LIKE A CLOCK RADIO trying to wake her up. She knew that song. “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” She smiled. Who knew Mickey Mouse liked AC/DC?

  Did Hatcher? He had to. All men liked AC/DC. All real men, at least. And Hatcher was definitely a real man.

  The music ended abruptly, and Mickey said something. Was he speaking to her? No, she decided, though she wasn’t sure why. He was the only one she could hear. Maybe he was talking to Hatcher.

  Her panties were down around her knees. Mickey had been helping her get undressed. She reached down and pulled them up, unbunching them. Thong panties. Why had she worn them? Oh, that’s right. Because of him. She realized she was giggling. How naughty she had been. Was going to be.

  But, where was he? Hadn’t Hatcher been there a moment ago? Weren’t they about to get it on, just like before? He must have had to leave. Maybe Mickey knew where he went. Maybe he could tell her when he’d be back. After he got done talking to himself.

  Mickey said something, and she heard a beep. Phone call! Of course! The idea popped into her head, just like that. Mickey had been on the phone.

  “Looks like the fun is going to have to wait,” he said.

  Wait, she thought. Yes, wait. Another idea just popped in there. Wait, wait, wait. That’s not Mickey. It’s just Mickey’s voice.

  “That psycho son of a bitch has got some kind of ESP or something, I swear. But don’t worry, we’ll still be having that fun later.”

  Wright smiled and hummed, losing her train of thought for a moment. Fun. Fun was good. She and Hatcher were going to have so much fun. But Hatcher was gone, and she certainly wasn’t going to have fun with him. What was that thought that just flashed? This man, his name. Lucas?

  No, couldn’t be. She closed her eyes and rolled onto her side. Lucas was the name of a bad guy. This was a giant mouse named Mickey. She repeated that to herself as she drifted off. Trying to think was too tiring. She needed to rest now. Mickey must know where Hatcher went. He told her they were going to have fun later, that must have been what he meant.

  Then she’d be part of the club. She’d heard him say so.

  “WELCOME TO PLEASURE INCARNATE.”

  Hatcher rubbed his eyes, clenching them shut. He was standing on a ledge, high above an enormous open space. Above, he saw what looked like blue sky, with puffy white clouds punctuating the vista in bursts of floating cotton. The light was intense, tinged with that brilliance of late afternoon sunshine that artificial light can never seem to match. But he knew it couldn’t be real, any of it. It was the middle of the night, probably three or four a.m., and he was dozens, if not hundreds, of feet underground.

  But it sure as hell looked real.

  The area was gargantuan, a gaping expanse of circular space, with Doric columns rimming the perimeter, redolent of a Roman coliseum. Discrete points of activity were everywhere, tiny groupings of people, knots of women as far as he could see, standing in tight clusters or lounging in conversation, pairs and trios sampling trays of food and wine. A number were openly engaged in sexual activity of various sorts, seeming unabashed and casual about it.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” Soliya asked.

  To his left, a set of stairs descended from the ledge, carved from the wall of earth. Soliya was almost halfway down, turned partly back to face him, straddling two steps.

  He descended the stairs, taking in everything he could. The flattening angle caused his view to contract with each step.

  As he left the final step, he spied a pair of cream-skinned blondes a few yards away. Centerfold quality, nubile and lean, flicking their tongues over each other’s bodies, rubbing and penetrating each other’s vaginas, wearing the bunched remains of togas around their waists but nothing else as they kissed and writhed on a daybed surrounded by ferns and enormous flowers of blue and purple and yellow. They glanced over at him, one, then the other, and smiled. The one on top held out a finger toward him and curled it back.

  Soliya reached over and stroked his chin, gently turning his head. “Normally, I would suggest you take up any invitations to mingle and enjoy yourself. But I’m afraid we haven’t much time.”

  Hatcher started to respond, but then stopped himself. He raised his eyes and took in the sky. He knew it wasn’t real, that it couldn’t be. It didn’t even look real. Not because it looked fake, but because it looked more real than any sky he’d ever seen, or remembered ever seeing—more deeply hued, more halcyon, more perfectly clouded. The sky in a dream. A fairy-tale sky. An illusion of sky.

  “It’s amazing what you can buy,” Soliya said. “If you have enough money. I saw one of these in a mall in Las Vegas a decade ago. An almost perfect simulation. I decided we needed one. Only ten times better. Come.”

  Something about what she said didn’t seem right, but before he could form a thought around it, the blue glow of what he was starting to think of as his brother caught his eye. The effeminate boy, skin stretching and straining, was standing next to a woman who was hunched over a large bowl on a pedestal. The woman was an alabaster-skinned brunette. Like all the women he’d seen, she looked fit, somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties, and very, almost ridiculously, attractive. Soliya headed toward them.

  The woman raised her eyes from the bowl and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head before dropping her gaze.

  “You need to say your good-byes,” Soliya said, coming to a stop near the boy.

  Garrett’s face pressed through, a look of panic contorting its shape. “Already? I feel like I have a much better hold now, being close like this.”

  “I know how difficult this is, but you can’t stay any longer.”

  “But it’s . . . I’ve only been here . . .”

  “Why does he have to go back now?” Hatcher asked. As soon as he spoke the words, he felt as if he were being co-opted. Fooled into being an accomplice to his own deception.

  “Because Willow can’t last much longer.” She gestured to the brunette. The woman was staring into the bowl. She did not look up again. She seemed to sway slightly, a sapling in a breeze. “The connection can only be maintained for so long. One has already made the ultimate sacrifice for you to have this chance. I won’t allow for another.”

  No one said anything else for a long moment. The silence became awkward.

  “Can you bring him back later?” Hatcher asked.

  “No. I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”

  Hatcher’s gaze darted to Garrett. He still wasn’t sure what to believe, but the panic in those eyes was real. That much he knew.

  “I guess I should be grateful I had a chance to meet you,” Garrett said. His voice was strained, someone putting up a front.

  Hatcher
nodded grimly, unable to find words. What do you say to the damned? Take care? Good luck?

  He finally settled on, “I’m sorry.”

  Garrett managed a weak smile. Through the bulging and undulating skin, it looked like a clown’s grimace.

  “Me, too.”

  Hatcher felt like he needed to extend a hand, maybe give a hug, something—but Soliya stuck an arm out across his chest.

  The woman at the bowl twitched, jerking her head back, gasping a breath.

  And then the boy’s skin snapped back into place. The glow disappeared instantly. The air was filled with an abrupt sense of change, like a room having its power cut off, or a car stalling. Something Hatcher hadn’t realized was even present, a feeling of energy, a hum in his spine, was suddenly missing.

  The boy flopped forward onto the ground without so much as an arm out to break his fall. That kind of collapse only meant one thing. Soliya’s words now struck him. The ultimate sacrifice.

  Jesus.

  He’d been wrong, and he knew it. A flood of questions raced through his mind, questions he wanted to ask his putative brother, starting with how and why he had grabbed him from his casket, if that even was him doing it. Questions that now would never be answered.

  Garrett was gone, and though he wasn’t certain why, Hatcher suddenly felt very alone.

  “Now, Mr. Hatcher,” Soliya said. “Before anyone else is sent to their final reward, let me tell you about Deborah.”

  VALENTINE SET THE HANDSET OF HIS PHONE DOWN INTO its cradle, relishing his good fortune. Despite Sherman making an occasional mistake, and despite having to get harsh with his well-paid cop for going off script, things were falling into place perfectly. Truly, this was fate unfolding, coming to a head. The feeling was beyond exhilarating. It was pure adrenaline.

  So much planning, time measured in years, money measured in small-nation GDPs. So much energy, so much focus. It seemed like every waking moment of his adult life, and a good number of sleeping ones, had been consumed by this goal. Fueled by it. And what a goal it was. He knew few could even conceive of the scale on which he was plotting. Even fewer would believe anything like it was remotely possible.

  And no one—no one—could possibly hope to achieve such a thing. It was beyond rational thought.

  But he was about to pull it off. He could sense it in his bones, taste it in the air. Momentum was with him. Events seemed driven by the inertia of inevitability, like he was riding a wave of destiny.

  And, of course, there was the book—the book knew. The book didn’t lie.

  His biggest enemy now, he realized, was complacency. Destiny was will manifested through effort. People could be controlled, manipulated, but someone had to be pulling the strings, making the right decisions, keeping the object in mind, relentlessly working toward a vision. If there was one thing the book had taught him, it was that destiny was a blueprint, not a preordainment. Mistakes could still be made. Outcomes could still change. Keeping his eye on the prize was critical, as was not letting up. Not even a little. He would not fall prey to traps laid by fate’s fickle fingers. He would redouble his efforts in light of his success. Nothing would be left to chance.

  He left his study and took his private elevator to the subfloor of his penthouse. The Clinic. This was where the real work took place, where the tools of his obsession were put to use. His laboratory equipment, including some of the finest gene-splicing technology available, was set up in a clean room more sterile than any Silicon Valley production line. His computer array, rivaling the processing power of a NASA control station, took up almost half the floor. His surgical lab was suitable for performing everything from exploratory operations to heart transplants.

  Almost nine figures invested in this floor. Two PhDs imported on temporary work visas from India at a cost of several more million. Finding them was almost as expensive. They had to be the kind that no one would miss. Staff without knowledge had been pink-slipped almost a year ago. People more intimately involved in the work had been silenced permanently by Lucas. He was never one to place stock in faith. Two men could keep a secret if one of them was dead.

  And now it was all paying off.

  The process was simple in concept, but incredibly complex in execution. Human DNA, extracted from bone marrow, was injected into the pineal gland of the subject fetus. A form of gene therapy was applied as the fetus developed, and specific DNA markers were incorporated into the chromosomes. Such genetic recombination was crucial, as this unprecedented achievement—a true interspe cies chimera—had to have specific traits. Foremost among them was the ability to reproduce.

  And to be a male. That was key.

  Daunting as the challenge was, the problem was further complicated by the fact human DNA did not recombine with the particular host species as it needed to. It was as if a defense mechanism was encoded in the genetic material, preventing the very thing he was trying to accomplish. He had come to think of it as Heaven’s firewall, and modeled himself a determined hacker. He attacked the problem assiduously, refusing to be deterred. The answer came gradually, through trial and error, facilitated by some intuitive guesswork, and refined through large-scale bio-testing in Asia. The key was in isolating the problem codes. Different coding produced different results, derailing at different points in the process. It was only when he utilized swine and simian strings at certain markers that he was able to smash the barrier. He realized afterward that he hadn’t actually believed he could accomplish it, not until he finally did. A true chimera. Part human, part animal, part Sedim.

  Mostly Sedim. The spawn of a demon, unlike any other. A sexually functional male. A male capable of reproduction with a human female.

  Valentine walked the hall with purposeful strides. Each floor of the building was large enough to house a good-size law firm, but Valentine had designed this one with the functionality of a research facility. He passed various special-purpose rooms on his left, the computer room on his right, traveling the wide hallway that bisected the floor in each direction. The corridor ended at a stainless-steel, double-wide door. It sported an external set of dual, offset actuating rods with corresponding bores. Few banks had vaults guarded by a locking mechanism as advanced.

  A retina scanner protruded from the wall next to the door. Valentine leaned into it, staring as a beam passed over his right eye. A light above the console flashed green, coinciding with a soft beep. A deep hum rose, followed by the heavy groan of metal disengaging.

  The area beyond the door was like a small prison day-room, with small cells on each end. The wall opposite the entrance was solid Plexiglas. Valentine liked this room. It was so corporate, so functional, like an executive lounge. A very comfortable place to observe test subjects. Or captives.

  On the other side of the Plexiglas wall, in a bare room, bodies of Sedim lay on the floor.

  “Are they all dead?” Valentine asked. He circled the large conference table in the middle of the room, peering through the partition, hunting for movement.

  Deborah did not look up. She was sitting on the table, more or less in the middle of it, wearing only a lacy set of bra and panties, propped up on one arm behind her. One of her legs had a creamy lather on it, and she was pulling a razor up her shin, over her bent knee.

  “All but three,” she said. “And they won’t last another few hours.”

  Valentine nodded. He watched the bodies, studying their inanimate faces. Bony, ridged brows, exposed nostrils in the manner of bats, primate musculature. It was hard to believe they were genetically almost the same creature as the one sitting on his table a few feet away, tending to her buttery skin.

  “It’s happening tonight,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Deborah dipped the razor in a small bowl of water next to her, shook it until it stopped dripping. She eyed Valentine for a long moment. “Are you ready?”

  “Oh, yes. Just make sure you are. We will need a substantial show of force.
He’s no idiot. Speaking of idiots, how’s our friendly detective?”

  “Smitten, of course.” She lowered her eyes back to her leg. “You’d think he’d never had sex in his life.”

  “Just make sure he sticks with the game plan.”

  “I wouldn’t worry.”

  “That’s why you’re not me.”

  Deborah ignored the remark, stroking the razor along the inside of her calf.

  “He’s down there now,” Valentine said, leaning against the glass. “Learning all about you. Just as I said he’d be.”

  “Such a waste. He’s a man I might actually have enjoyed bedding.”

  “Pity for you.” Valentine gestured toward one of the cells with his chin. “How’s our young lady of the cloth?”

  “Quiet as a church mouse.”

  “Let’s hope she stays that way.” He turned his attention to the Sedim, watching for signs of life. “Only hours to go.”

  Deborah crossed her wrists over her knee, rested her chin on the back of her hand. “You’re awfully confident about Hatcher. How do you know he’ll show?”

  Valentine drummed his fingertips against the glass, staring at the bodies. Two of them were moving now, one twitching occasionally, the other clawing pointlessly, as if trying to drag itself somewhere.

  “Do you recall the parable about the scorpion and the frog?”

  Deborah took in a breath, exhaled with a sigh. “Vaguely.”

  Seven generations, Valentine thought, smiling. Carnates were highly intelligent, and learned quickly, but invariably lacked intellectual curiosity. Few in his experience ever read anything more substantial than a billboard. They mimicked refinement, erudition, but internalized little. For centuries, people have wondered what immortality would be like, but Valentine figured he had a good idea, acquainted now with a race that lived seven times longer than normal humans. Seven generations was close enough for him to know what that kind of longevity breeds. Laziness. When every one of you has seven lifetimes to accomplish everything, no one accomplishes anything.