by Sahara Kelly
The screen went blank, and Martine felt her mind assume pretty much the same state. She’d gotten a bonus and a difficult case in one fell swoop.
Curious, she tapped the attachment and opened the single folder she’d been sent. One page was inside. The heading was in red.
“Subject UAM. Please alert facilitator.”
She winced. UAM meant unable to accept mortality, and defined those poor folks who refused to admit they were at the end of their existence. They clung to life with tooth and nail, fighting the inevitable.
Martine disliked facilitating them. It was difficult to ease their concerns, sometimes painful for them both, and drained her resources, both physical and mental. Thus far she’d had several of them and eventually succeeded in helping them leave in peace.
She’d surrendered her own peace for several days afterward. And she really wasn’t looking forward to it again. Thankfully not a lot of them came to Eternal Tranquility, since the whole point of the place was to bid farewell to their lives. If people refused to accept the endgame, odds were pretty good they weren’t going to show up to be facilitated. Those who did had been sent there by their relatives or whoever had power of attorney over their estate. She was of two minds when it came to this issue.
Death was inevitable. But Eternal Tranquility offered the chance to deal with it in the most pleasant way possible under the circumstances. The operative word being offered. It was a choice. One a recalcitrant client refused to even consider, and that made creating a final illusion extremely challenging.
There was an image included on the data sheet—surprisingly, a holoshot. Something usually reserved for sports stars or other infamous celebrities. Martine opened it and got her first look at the man who would soon connect with her and surrender what was left of his life energies.
He didn’t look sick. He looked…savage.
Chapter Two
No click of high heels accompanied Martine’s steps as she walked to the facilitation station at 0930 as requested in her log.
She’d set her bedroom to deep-sleep mode last night, knowing her mind was troubled and she’d have difficulty getting the rest she needed. Fortunately the white noise—a softly flowing stream—and the minute adjustment in the O2 levels of her environment had worked wonders and she’d slept dreamlessly.
She wasn’t happy about what she had to do this morning, but she was rested enough to accomplish it and to do whatever it took to send this client on his way with a smile on his face.
She’d selected comfortable clothes for some reason, a soft uni-suit tucked into her favorite style of slouched ankle boots. No high-style, sex-flaunting crap today. She was all business.
Something told her she was going to need comfort when she was done here, not decadence in latex.
Going up in the elevator, she’d toyed with requesting a few days off. The bonus she’d found in her bank account had made her jaw drop. She could certainly afford the luxury of a first-class hotel stay near Old Vegas, somewhere she’d fancied for a while. Visitors couldn’t gamble there anymore, of course, since the massive earthquake of a century ago, but she’d love to see those old palaces and just wander through what was left of them. There were holo repros of shows, stars and music. There were even actual artifacts, slot machines and so on.
It was fascinating stuff and Martine knew she’d enjoy the trip. Maybe she should look into it…
“Hey, Martine.” The day nurse nodded her usual greeting. “Here’s the status report. Looks like this one’s gonna be a doozy. You want coffee or anything?”
Martine scrolled through the chart, finding nothing she didn’t already know or expect. The patient was heavily sedated. That would make her task easier in some ways and harder in others. The neural connections would be sluggish and more complex. She sighed. “Pass on the coffee, but thanks.”
She tapped a fingertip on the pad, the resulting print confirming that she’d read and understood the contents. This case was all about formalities, apparently. A few extra layers of security and busy work which would translate into a nice folder full of cover my ass if anything went awry.
“He ready?” She glanced over the desk to meet a worried gaze.
“Yes.” The nurse hesitated. “You watch yourself, Martine. This one’s very strong. He’s one big guy—and sick as he is, he’s still got more strength than you and I put together. And he’s a UAM.”
Martine nodded. “Says he’s got level four Antin’s Syndrome. No surprises about what that’ll do.”
“Yeah. Rapid progression, brain affected first, very little physical deterioration and terminal onset within six weeks or less. Organ failure total and catastrophic.” She wrinkled her nose. “Real hard way to go. Not that there’s an easy one, but I reckon you’re just the person to handle this.”
“Let’s hope.” Martine raised a hand in a mock salute and walked to the door, unsealing it and entering the patient’s room. The click and hiss as it closed behind her was reassuring, as was the routine hum and hushed chatter of the monitoring equipment surrounding the bed. The lights were low, as usual, the smell of the room unchanged.
But something was sending skitters of apprehension over Martine’s skin. If she’d had hair, it might well be standing on end right about now. As she approached the bed, she realized where the problem lay.
It was right in front of her, beneath the institutional blue blanket and sterile white sheet. Plugged in to a dozen different pieces of equipment and receiving doses of sedative on a strictly monitored schedule. She blinked when she caught sight of the amounts he was absorbing.
He had to be absolutely out of it, buzzed beyond his eyebrows. And yet his brain activity wasn’t flat or even mildly wavy. It was sharp—frantic even. His body twitched every now and again, a tremor shaking the well-cut biceps and forcing veins sharply to the surface as his fists clenched and released.
If he was like this with a gut full of sedatives, Martine had no freakin’ clue what he was like when fully conscious, and she was extremely glad she didn’t have to find out. But a job was a job and hers was to connect with him on a neural level and let his fantasy take shape. Once she’d done that, perhaps he could relax a bit and let go.
She settled herself on the bed, her butt snuggled up against a tree trunk of a thigh. The equipment sensed her presence and unspooled the interconnecting cable, activating the wires from her brain and beginning the quiet murmur she associated with the onset of a facilitation.
Gently she reached out and took his hand, folding his fingers around hers, letting skin touch skin. He was warm, not cool as they usually were at this point. He was hard too, his palm and fingers rough. This was a man who’d worked at something, not a man who had ministered to himself very much.
Finally, the visual shimmer alerted Martine that she was on her way, heading to meet this patient in a mental place pulled from his nucleus accumbens—the small group of cells within his brain that held the reins on his pleasures.
Blinking, she staggered a bit, looking down to find she’d grown a pair of what were probably 42DD breasts. Most of which were on show since the tiny structured top was at least three sizes too small.
The G-string that went with it hid even less of her assets, and a pair of very high-heeled silver shoes completed the ensemble. Fantasy Stripper-girl was obviously among this man’s pleasures, since he was looking at her with all the eagerness of a coyote who hadn’t eaten for a week and had just stumbled across fresh kill.
Oh shit.
“Um, hi.” She smiled at him.
He frowned and rubbed his head. “What the fuck… Where am I?”
He was as massive as she’d feared, at least three or four inches over six feet. His body was honed to muscular perfection, but he didn’t have the look of a man with a personal trainer.
He looked a lot more like a man who’d wrestle a camel to the ground and then kill it for a workout. His eyes were dark and expressionless, his face rough with a day or so’s growth of
beard. His uniform consisted of a sandy-grey tank top and matching cargo pants.
He could have been a soldier, a mercenary or—a few hundred years ago—a pirate. None of whom Martine would care to face in a dark alley. Which just happened to be where they were.
“You’re with me. It’s okay.” She kept her voice soothing. “Your name’s Taber, isn’t it?”
He nodded, his gaze darting over her body. “Yeah. Can’t remember how I got here, and you’re classier than the ones I usually pick up.”
“Thanks.” She paused. “I think.”
“Come here.” He unfastened his pants to reveal a massive erection. “We’ve got time for a quick fuck, right?”
Martine moved toward him. This wasn’t an unusual request, she knew. Imminent death, especially for men, often resulted in sexual arousal. It had been noted way back when humans hung each other from trees, and nothing had changed over the millennia.
“If you want, Taber. Sure. I’m here to do whatever you want.”
He grabbed her arm and pulled her against him, stripping away the G-string and stroking her pussy with large fingers that knew their way around a woman’s sex. Even in this fantasy her body could—and did—respond.
He lifted her with one arm, easily leaning her up against the wall of the alley. And with a powerful thrust he entered her, stretching her and making her grunt with discomfort. “Fuck. Wait a minute. You’re big.” She pushed at his shoulder, a futile gesture since he was more along the lines of rock than human.
“Suck it up, girlie. We don’t have much time.” He moved his hips and ground himself into her clitoris. “That motherfucking Carson’s gonna be lookin’ for me if he isn’t already.”
She bit down on a surge of pleasure as her arousal grew. “Who’s Carson?”
“Someone you don’t wanna meet.” He adjusted his stance and grunted in approval. “Syndicate honcho.”
“He’s looking for you?”
He didn’t answer, his movements fast and slick. Obviously, he’d done this before.
Martine’s back was being rubbed against a brick wall, which was somewhat uncomfortable. Her front was being rubbed against another brick wall, only this one was warmer. She was six inches off the ground with one leg wrapped around the guy who was fucking her, thanks to brute force and strength that could have made steel blush with envy.
In spite of all these inconveniences, she had to give Taber his due. He was making her come. Part of her brain was yelling out things like whoa, and this ain’t supposed to be part of the job, baby.
The other part was simply doing the whole porn-whimper thing and getting ready to orgasm. Looked like this facilitation was going to leave both parties with contented nucleus accumbenses. Or whatever. One of them would be dead, but at least he’d die after his orgasm, not before.
Once again, Martine was surprised. She climaxed, rolling through the spasms, locking him against her, vaguely hearing his groan as he thrust hard and spurted deep. “Fuck, baby. Fuck.” He squashed against her. “That’s fucking good.”
A man of few, but pithy, words, apparently. In spite of that, he sure knew how to fuck a woman. She found herself unsteady on her high heels for a moment or two as he slid her down the wall.
“Er, thanks, Taber. You’re pretty damn good yourself.” She recovered the little G-string, for what good it would do her.
He grinned then, a smile that lightened his expression significantly. “Ain’t had no complaints up to now.”
Something clattered at the end of the alley, and Martine found herself slammed back into the wall by an arm that had turned into granite. He was holding her behind him, and crooked in his other arm was one of the latest electromagnetic pulse lasers. And it wasn’t a handgun. It was truly enormous.
Shit. What the fuck was going on? This wasn’t a peaceful let’s-say-goodbye type fantasy.
Her scalp tingled as the buzz-scream of shots rang out and a bit of brick whizzed past her neck. Taber jerked, cried out and stumbled, falling to his knees. She dropped down beside him as he pulled on her, still trying to shield her with his body.
“Fucking Carson. He set me up.” His head turned toward her even as he fired off more shots at whatever moved in the alley. “You set me up, you bitch.”
“No, I…” She stuttered. This was so out of her realm of experiences she had no freakin’ clue how to respond.
“Yes you did. You’re just how he works, underhanded and digging out weakness. I like a good quick fuck and a hefty pair of tits—and here you are. Coincidence, my ass.”
“I didn’t… I wouldn’t…”
He was past listening to her, the side of his body where he’d taken a hit growing red as his blood spewed out. “You did. And fuck you, bitch, if I’ve gotta go out, you’re coming with me.”
A massive paw grabbed her throat and she tumbled down beside him. “No…” She could barely choke out the word.
This was way too real. Wrong on all the levels she’d come to understand as a facilitator. This wasn’t just a man who was UAM, this was a man who lived with death, and who’d fight it every step of the way. Even up to taking her as well.
She closed her eyes and focused on her neural interface, searching now, seeking something she knew was there but had seldom needed to access directly. It was his life force, his energies—some might even call it his soul.
And she’d damn well better find it before his grip tightened any more. She wasn’t worried about him actually killing her, but she did want to finish this job before she passed out. There was no way she’d repeat this experience if he didn’t let go the first time around.
Her pulse pounded, laser shots buzzed and the metallic stench of blood filled the air. Shutting it all out, Martine delved deep into the interface and finally found what she was looking for. A ribbon, a Mobius strip of energy, throbbing violently amidst the river of color and vibrancy that was their connection.
There was nothing weak or fading about it. It seemed, to Martine, about as healthy as it should be. But then again, he had Antin’s Syndrome. One minute fine, the next—poof. Rest in peace.
She felt the process of facilitation begin, a slow drain at first, her neural network sorting itself out to accommodate his life energies. Then it came faster, cascading fiercely, making her dizzy instead of warm, nauseous instead of comforted.
Other emotions—pain, anger, passion—poured over the interface as she attempted to complete her job and help him pass on.
It was working, but it was all wrong. He was angry, fighting against the energy drain, still gripping her throat but no longer squeezing. Darkness flowed through her now, a cold darkness that didn’t ease her tension, but added to it.
He didn’t want to die and there was no way she could change that. She could only do her job. With a last, huge effort, Martine overwhelmed his savage desire to cling to his energies and drained him, feeling his fingers finally relax around her throat.
“Why?” He breathed the word softly into the silence that had fallen around them.
“I’m sorry.” She answered him, but it wasn’t really an answer.
Then she blacked out.
“Hey. Hey, Martine. Open your eyes, honey. Look at me. C’mon, Martine…”
The voice percolated the fog that comprised ninety percent of her brain, and in response she bravely raised her eyelids.
A flare of brilliant light pierced through, and she lurched upright to find herself vomiting violently.
“Easy there. It’s okay.”
Somebody was holding a pan for her, rubbing her back, letting her empty her system. And when the spasm ended, a glass of blissfully cold water was held to her lips and she drank thirstily.
The nurse raised the bed a little, and Martine leaned back with a sigh. “God, that was bad.”
“Yeah, you aren’t kidding.” Efficiently, the nurse tucked in blankets. “Just rest now, okay?”
“Wait.” Martine grabbed the white tunic, staying the nurse. “Did I do
it? Is he…you know…facilitated?”
“You did it, honey. He passed away.” She patted Martine’s hand in a motherly fashion, soothing her anxieties. “Nobody else could have handled it like you did, I’m sure. We all felt he was trouble when he came in last night, even though he was doped to the eyeballs.”
“Yeah, he was trouble all right.” Martine closed her eyes. “Never been through anything quite like that.”
“Tell me about it.” The nurse tidied up. “You damn near threw up your spleen.”
“Sorry.” Martine chuckled. “That’s something I can’t help. But it’s never been that bad. Never had that level of nausea, even with the difficult ones.”
“Guess he was bad news all around.” The nurse pulled Martine’s wire interface out from behind her back and arranged it comfortably on the pillow. “You just rest now, okay? Orders are you stay here until you feel like you can get back on your feet. Then no cases for you for several days.” She smiled. “You just bought yourself some downtime, Martine. Use it, okay?”
“Thanks.” Martine smiled tiredly. “I will.”
The nurse left and Martine realized she was in a recovery room, more like a patient of Eternal Tranquility than an employee. Certainly nobody would mistake her for a facilitator right now. She was as weak as the proverbial kitten.
Eternal Tranquility. The name of the clinic was supposed to convey the softly comforting notion that eternal rest could be ensured to be pleasant. That infinity was not a problem if you embraced it and moved into it in the right frame of mind.
Taber hadn’t been in that frame of mind at all. He’d gone into it kicking and screaming, metaphorically speaking. She’d been responsible for dragging him to his demise. That wasn’t facilitation, not the way she’d come to understand it.
She didn’t know what it was, but she did know one thing. She didn’t like it nor did she like the pain it had brought with it. It hurt.
For one of the few times she could ever remember, Martine TwoSeven closed her eyes and cried.