Sara had stopped eating. Was staring down at her food. Then he noticed the white knuckles of the hand holding her knife.
She's blocking me! The revelation staggered him. Not only did she have a secret from him; not only had she noticed the invasion of her thoughts; but she had successfully held him off! No wonder progress has stalled. How many other times had she held a secret from him?
Despite his shock he gave no outward sign of noticing anything unusual. The rest of the meal passed in silence.
He waited for some time before preparing to try again, shifting his senses to the Imaginal to monitor her emotions before recasting the spell. But he'd made no more than the first gesture to anchor himself in the pattern before her whole tone shifted to one of anger and defense. Instantly he aborted the attempt, and spoke to distract her. 'What do you do, Sara, to challenge yourself these days?'
She sat tensely, expecting some other comment, he saw. He watched her defenses shift to counter the assumed new threat.
'I work on stuff,' she said.
'Good,' he smiled, carefully concealing his growing concern. 'Good.'
Sara stared down into her cereal bowl and took another spoonful, her whole attention really focused on her peripheral vision. Watching his fingers was best, she had learned. There was a special kind of dance of fingers that went with the spell he used to slide into her; before his spying presence crowded inside her head.
Sara took care to slump casually in her chair so he wouldn't know she was ready for him. She saw she'd clenched her fists, and relaxed them. Then, lightly alert, she waited with the memories of her swim, the day before, suppressing a smile. Those kinds of images worked best to distract him, to keep her true self private.
She couldn't keep him out, but she could control her own thoughts enough to ensure he mainly saw what she let him. It had been hard, learning how to “plan out” thoughts in advance, lightly holding them ready to think when the need arose. She wondered if this was a test, some kind of training.
Whatever it was, Sara didn't like it. She found it creepy.
Harmon saw little of her the rest of the day. Was she actively avoiding him, or merely spending a lot of time outdoors? The former, he suspected, after monitoring her in the gym. He headed down there, only to find it empty, a climbing rope still gently swaying.
He didn't want to attempt the spell again as they ate together – he hardly wanted to condition her to be alert for such things at every mealtime – so instead, he requested a search for a list of music videos that had played between twelve and one the day before, and which were black and white. The list had about a hundred entries, but one stood out as being by far the most likely choice. A broadcast of a pre-Unfolding recording from some group called The Troggs, with a title that gave it away. He called up the lyrics and studied them. Some of the words were quite archaic.
Later that day, when Sara asked casually if he knew what the word “groovy” meant, he was certain. He, equally casually, explained it was a very old word meaning something was “right” – “on track” or “in the groove.” She had nodded and looked pleased.
A small victory for him, too, although he was unsure precisely how to use it.
He spent the next two days discovering it was remarkably difficult to sneak up on Sara. In growing desperation, he dug into the little published research on invisibility spell constructs. For the next two weeks he worked on the problem, exploring and creating the pattern for an appropriate and believable certainty he could use for such a spell. He soon came to realize it was an intrinsically difficult task, but pushed doggedly on. At the end of the period, though, when he tried the spell for the first time, his fears had been justified – the spell required so much concentration to maintain, that performing a simultaneous mindmeld of any worth would be impossible. Sara, meanwhile, had acquired a decidedly smug air.
Two weeks wasted.
And now, with those weeks passed, she had grown relaxed in his presence. Bordering on insolent, really. He chose an evening meal when she was tired from her physical activity of the day, clearly exhausted. Once more, he watched her without seeming to, slowly and carefully casting the mindmeld. With a rigidly controlled joy he completed the spell without her noticing it, and slipped into her thoughts. It had been so long, it was like rejoining an old friend, and he probed deeper. But suddenly the mental terrain shifted, altering in an instant from a warm autumn sunset to a glaring summer's day. He found himself trapped in canyons of inconsequence, stupid repetitive patterns of pointless activity and foolish thought. She's blocking me again!
Worse, her blocking was not the deceptive and fragile technique she'd used before, it was a confrontational and stubborn resistance. He could break through that resistance, he knew – but also knew without question that such a show of force would likely provoke her to respond with a direct confrontation.
He broke off, and without a word, stalked from the room. The Imaginal reverberations of her triumph felt like invisible lashes against his back.
Sitting on the edge of his bed one night soon after, he mused darkly. He'd been careless. Treating her almost with contempt, making little attempt to conceal what he did. He'd let her see too much, and now he was paying the price. Now, all his work teetered on the brink.
Not only had she become able to recognize the subtle physical signs of his spellcasting, not only had she taught herself to parry his mental examinations, but the longer this situation remained unresolved, the more it eroded his position of authority. He had to find a solution. Think! He had realized something was happening to her, something he hadn't planned, the day he'd seen her wild dancing when she thought herself alone in the gym. Rock and roll. That thought triggered another. What was the old saying? Sex and drugs and rock and roll.
Psychotropics!
At his desk, he paged through the information the net so readily offered up. He needed something that would improve her suggestibility. It took hours of research to find the ideal candidate: di-hydro lysergic scopolamine. “Scope.” Discovered only recently, but apparently already being used illicitly.
Illicitly. Hmm. Certainly, obtaining it that way would avoid awkward questions; and he could analyze it here easily enough, to ensure its purity.
Browsing around those areas turned up mentions of other street drugs, too: notably, “beep” – a contraction of BP, from beta-phrodisia, presumably. Harmon remembered the excitement at the time, when Gunter Kerr published her breakthrough work on the chemical intermediaries of the sexual drive.
That would certainly distract Sara. He put the idea aside, however. “Scope” was his main need.
So, in what sort of dives did one hunt this sort of thing? The rhythm of his tapping finger sped up. Yes, this could be quite educational.
He called a cab and an hour later was headed into the city with an annoyingly-chatty driver. A real pity that the Institute was considered a “use-caution” destination.
The talkative driver was especially unwelcome tonight. How strange to be visiting clubs and bars at his age. The very thought made him uncomfortable. He had little idea what to expect.
Three bars later, he had found and mind-read a sleazy and very likely CID-less character by the ridiculous name of “Quicksilver” to find, finally, a lead to obtaining the illicit substance he needed.
By the first bar, it had become clear he could not simply ask any of the denizens. For some reason, they assumed he was some kind of ham-fisted agent of the law.
By his fifth bar, he still could not help being somewhat fazed by the erotic gyrations of the girls on stage. He kept picturing his wild little Sara using her athletic talents the same way…. With an effort, he tore his gaze away and hunted for the man he'd been advised to seek out. From deeper in the gloom he caught the mirror glint he'd been searching for, and headed in that direction.
He forced himself to saunter over in a semi-slouch, trying not to look too out of place, yet he still had the uncomfortable feeling that half the patrons w
atched him with amusement.
The fellow was dressed in crushed black velvet, a barely-dressed woman draped against each side. Both women seemed entirely rapt by the man, who looked quite accustomed to such attention.
Harmon eyed the dark-haired girl on the left appreciatively, before looking back at his contact. Eyes chromed from some ocular modification gleamed steadily back at him. This was the one, certainly.
'Maestro?'
The head inclined slightly, and Harmon took it as an invitation to sit.
'I believe you can help me: “Quicksilver” recommended you.' Which was a small lie. However, Quicksilver's mind had been surprisingly easy to scan, and adjust, and the fellow would, if now asked, confirm Harmon's trustworthiness. A most useful spell, Suggestion. It would not be a wise move to try on this fellow, though, something told him.
'Speak.'
Bristling at the terse air of command the man assumed, Harmon swallowed his natural response and answered instead with equal brevity.
'Scope.'
The man nodded. 'Quantity?'
He had determined his requirements. Had taken into account Sara's lower-than-adult mass, and the advisability of minimizing such forays as this one, as well as the desirability of a slow buildup. Fifty doses, he'd decided, to be on the safe side.
'Ten milligrams.'
The man blinked. 'Planning an Event, are we?'
Harmon only smiled.
'I can do that. And for a bulk order I guess I can give you a discount. Ten thousand creds.'
Harmon avoided gulping – but only just.
'Meet me here, then, midnight.'
Harmon nodded.
Later that night, carefully nursing a drink, Harmon followed the stage show as he waited. He pulled at his collar. The little vixen serving drinks winked at him before bending well forward as she served another patron his order, the deep cleavage of her formidable breasts outlined and lit by carefully-placed golden glow-cords.
She looked up, caught him staring, then saucily strutted past his table on her way to the bar, a heart-shaped glowing outline highlighting her swaying rear end as she smiled back at him.
As graceful as Sara, but using it for such a different purpose. Then he spotted Maestro approaching, this time with only a single woman. But the woman was naked, he belatedly realized. And desperate, too, for something. As they arrived at his table, Harmon noticed another thing: the woman was on a leash. Maestro sat, tugging the leash down.
'Heel.'
Hardly believing his eyes, Harmon watched as the woman clutched at herself, obviously humiliated. But a feverish hunger seemed to underline her every gesture. Maestro reached out a finger and ran it up the inside of one bare thigh. The woman shuddered all over; her head arched back. When it ended, she slowly straightened up again; then sank to her knees on the floor.
'A demo for you: scope and beep. Two hundred of scope: one hundred beep. A good combo,' Maestro gestured at the woman, noting Harmon's disbelieving stare.
'Micrograms? And… this is the result?' Harmon wrenched his eyes from the woman's display. His earlier idea returned. The two in combination… 'How much?' he asked.
Maestro smiled.
Chapter 36
At breakfast, although Sara complained about the taste of the Orange-o-TangTM, she drank it all the same. He had decided to start with a sub-therapeutic dose and build up. With only tens of micrograms, he expected to see no change.
However, about lunchtime, he glanced at the gym monitor and noticed her straddling the narrow beam, rocking gently forward and back.
'Well, well, well.' He watched as the scene continued for a full fifteen minutes. 'Who would have guessed you could be so responsive, little one.' His rational, clinical side was pleased by the prospect of the smooth introduction of this new tool. On the other side, in a sort of pre-conscious mental maneuvering, a coil of desire wound itself one degree tighter, choking back the beginnings of shame.
But as the days passed and he gradually increased her dosage, he found himself being slowly gripped by the trap he had devised for her. It felt as if his own body was being gradually infiltrated by strands of sexual energies. She had long been proud of her body: aware of it. But under the influence of the drug, she had become actively interested in it – even fascinated by it. More and more, she touched herself – sometimes just lightly, gliding her fingers over her cheeks, then down her neck, appearing to revel in the feel of her own soft skin and the delicate touch of her fingertips. Sometimes she ran her hands down her sides, or clenched her legs… and he watched. He could not resist watching, as those fingers slid over that taut skin, dragging his eyes along with them.
Each touch seemed to reach inside him, winding his own tension tighter; each sensual gesture another weight piled on top of some invisible mass pressing in on him, so that at times he found himself physically straining, every muscle taut, and had to force himself to relax. It was almost as though he had been taking the drug too.
It was a good thing that most of the Institute's workforce was robotic, these days. Humans would have commented on the change in her behavior.
By the time he had increased her dose to a combined eighty micrograms, he knew neither of them could contain the building pressure. His work lay forgotten: as she spent more time “exercising,” he became less able to concentrate on anything but her. Her dancing in the gym had become very like what he'd seen in the strobing lights of those dark dives where his eyes had been opened. Anticipation gripped him as each of her unconscious sexual signals dragged him deeper into the web of his own desires.
She had become his drug.
In a rare moment of lucidity he recalled with near-astonishment his original plan. The weapon. Blood. The ceremony. He'd been tidying the files in his private pocket of the net when he discovered he had even written himself a script. As he read his own notes from just ten days before, the enormity of the change struck him with a clarity so intense it was painful. These cool, detached words, this clinical air – only faint echoes remained.
He entertained the fancy that he had, in fact, been drugged; even ran exhaustive blood tests on himself. But no. Sara lay at its heart. He realized this the day he emerged from his lab to find her slinking down the corridor toward him. A hot wave flooded his mind and thought ceased. She wore only the briefest white bikini, startling against her sun-darkened skin. No time seemed to pass; she was simply there, pressed against him, hugging him, stroking his face….
Desperately, with a shudder, he drew the tattered remnants of his will together. Remembered his earlier plan. He disengaged from her arms, shakily.
'Come Sara, I have something for you. A present. For hunting.'
This, in turn, awoke a spark of her old self.
'Hunting?'
'Yes. Come, I'll get it for you.'
He walked ahead. He didn't think he could cope with the view if he walked behind her.
Neither spoke as they made their way to his office. As he opened the door and crossed the room, Sara followed silently behind. The door closed with a soft “snick” behind them.
He crossed the room, and while his face and hands were shielded from her view, he prepared a mindmeld spell. As he moved behind his desk and caught sight of her again he subtly released it, and for the first time in months, she appeared not to notice as it settled over her. He kept an especially light touch.
«She watched him closely as he bent down, his fingertip unlocking the drawer. She herself scarcely knew how she felt. The burning emptiness seemed to grow by the moment. She bit gently at her lip as he slid the drawer open and placed the brown paper parcel in the middle of his desk.
«She approached slowly, the feel of her heated skin tight against her skull. She was confused: more than aroused. Like she was being stroked, all over.
«The edge of the desk bumped her thighs. She stopped moving, raising her eyes slowly from the parcel to his face. Slowly, she closed her eyes again, savoring the strange tight heat that twisted thro
ugh her almost painfully.»
Her feelings were so intense that he himself felt an echo of them. It was such a peculiarly uncomfortable sensation he dropped the mindmeld. Yet, as if her reaction had spread to him somehow, he felt a surge of that same compelling heat. It was only with an enormous effort that he managed to drag his attention from her. Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was doing. Soon, he promised himself. Soon.
She still stood facing him across his desk, eyes shut. He had the distinct impression that despite her enormous curiosity, the mystery of his gift was barely holding her attention. He noticed she was not standing still: slowly, subtly, she was shifting her limbs; gently rotating her hips, constantly bringing parts of her body in and out of contact with one another. A dreamy look came over her face, her eyes half-closed.
'Unwrap your parcel, Sara,' he ordered, breathing hard.
She opened her eyes and reached for the parcel. With an ease that surprised him, she tore away the wrapping and cardboard to reveal the gleaming chrome and black slingshot. It had a pistol grip; a long steel spring. It looked sure and deadly, blunt power sketched in every line.
'It's called a “PowerShot”,' he told her.
The weapon snapped her out of her auto-erotic daze.
'Ohh,' she breathed in wonder. 'It's beautiful.'
He watched her fingers tighten convulsively around the sculpted black hand-grip. With her other hand, she pulled the spring back – with less effort than he himself had needed when he'd tried it earlier. He suppressed a shiver. She gently released the tension, her expression now dramatically different. Practically carnivorous.
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