Auto Mate is a LGBTQIA novella about a guy looking for love and his car's navigation system which guides him there - to the very guy he found that he wanted, but never realized he could have. Chapter 1
In the end it was a start.
Finally the car was ready and "Tigo" Garcia was beyond ready to pick it up after they'd had it in the shop for three days for what should have been a routine 30k mile maintenance.
"So what exactly was the delay?" Tigo asked the harried-looking greeter when she finally drove the vehicle up for him to take away.
"I spoke to the mechanic and he said there was a problem with the software update."
"The software update," said Tigo skeptically. He was a software engineer himself, so this sounded a bit odd.
"Yeah," the woman said, misunderstanding. She blew a stand of escaped hair from her rather lined face which boasted a slight smudge of dirt from somewhere in the depths of the garage, and she explained, "The software controls all the functions in the modern car,"
"Yeah, I know what software is. I'm a software engineer."
"Oh!" This seemed to trip her up, but she recovered quickly and said, " Well, um, so, for some reason the update wouldn't take,"
"Wouldn't take?"
"Yeah, it wouldn't install, so the mechanic had to purge the system and reinstall the whole thing from scratch."
"That really shouldn't take four days!"
"No, but we had to do this like, three times before it uploaded properly. We had to get the manufacturer online twice about it because it was such a problem, and then we had to go ahead and do the maintenance. So because it took so long, there's no charge for this maintenance. We're sorry for the delay."
That mollified Tigo a little, but he wasn't about to be sidetracked. He asked, "And everything's working fine now?"
"Yeah. We ran diagnostic and a thorough test of the entire system and everything tested out fine. It's working to specs now."
Tigo thought that a rather ambiguous way of putting it, so he asked, "So my car isn't going to start driving me somewhere of its own accord, or stopping dead in traffic or anything like that is it? Brake failure, unexpected acceleration, and stuff?"
"That wasn't our cars that did that! But no, none of that. This isn't a self-drive car! It's not going to take control out of your hands, so no problems there."
"Good to know!"
"We hadn't had any problems at all with the update until your car, and it's been done on hundreds of vehicles without problems. The mechanic says he left the smart diagnostic software installed too, so if there is an unlikely issue, we can remotely figure it out and probably even fix it on the fly, so while we don't expect problems, we got you covered, and like I said, there's absolutely no charge."
On the basis of 'you get what you pay for' Tigo wasn't quite sure how to feel about that, but if it was a win, he guessed he'd take it and hope for the best. He said, "Okay, I guess."
The truth was that he'd relented because he was running late for work and though it was only a short easy drive from here to there, he was required to attend an update meeting and now it was cutting it very close to the embarrassment of showing up late for that, and without any prep. The proximity of this place was why he'd bought his car from these guys, and why he brought it back here regularly for maintenance. Normally they did a great job, so what could go wrong?
Hoping that was a rhetorical question, he drove off, and as it happened, nothing did go wrong, because he arrived at work just fine.
When he came to his parking spot, he discovered that he couldn't park there because Maizie had taken it, knowing it would annoy him. He found another space and he entered the building safely and in one piece, so the update was all good, it seemed, and he was feeling good himself about then. That is until he arrived in the meeting right as it was starting and discovered there were problems of which he'd not been informed. Because he arrived at work late. Well that's just great.
Chapter 2
The business was small, so the meeting was really small, and the usual crowd was already there.
The owner, CEO, CFO, COO and everything else, was Sanjay Rajdeep whose roots went back to the Raj of old India - so he told everyone. Now he was king of his own successful company, as he was just topping put his thirties, and although he wasn't a bad guy, he had a habit of riding people hard and not being overly sentimental if it cost them something in their personal lives.
He was saved, Tigo considered, by his sense of humor and his good looks. On top of that he had an accent that was a bizarre if admittedly mellifluous blend of American and British english with an underlying hint of Hindi. It got him a lot of passes, so he never seemed to generate the kind of resentment that his aggressive behavior felt like it ought to be steadily stacking-up against him, and which certainly would have weighed heavily against Tigo had he tried to get away with it. But there was definitely something disarming about Sanjay.
Tigo had known his friend for a long time and had often wished he had that sort of a Teflon coating, but if he had, knowing his luck, it wouldn't serve to let issues slide off him; instead, he'd probably get testicular cancer from it.
Sanjay sat at the head of the table of course, and next to him on his right naturally, was his able assistant, the pretty much fresh-out-of-college Mollie Carnes, who wasn't even in her mid-twenties. Whereas Sanjay had the dark, Indian subcontinent, refined good looks, Mollie was the polar opposite: white, and pale to the extent that she was almost Gothic, and for all Tigo knew, with that confident swagger she projected so effortlessly, she could have been a cage fighter. But one who'd kept her stellar good looks.
There were those who resented Mollie because it was like she had graduated and walked right into this plum job as an exec assistant to a rising star of home-device AI, and there was a lot of speculation about what, exactly, she'd done to earn it. Tigo didn't engage in such idle prognostication, because he didn't care, and he knew Sanjay had zero interest in an affair with his assistant. It was so cliché for one thing, and Sanjay was anything but a cliché.
Although Mollie carried this svelte aura about her like she ought to be competing in Miss California USA or something like that, and might have been dismissed by any average guy out there as a stereotypical dumb blonde, she was in truth smart, efficient, and very effective. When she wasn't being an officious pain, Tigo liked her because of her competence, and he knew that Sanjay would be in serious trouble without her.
If there was something else going on, it was none of his business, and he had no issues with her except that she tended to get somewhat uppity at times due to her close connection with Sanjay. Because of that, she sometimes was annoying, but Tigo understood that her focus was always on the company bottom line, and getting crap done, and he was all about that himself having been onboard from the start.
That didn't stop there being a 'code-behind' betting pool as to when Sanjay would do a Bill Gates and marry his right-hand woman. In order to do that, of course, he'd probably have to give up being seen about town with a hot model on his arm. Tigo had doubts about whether Sanjay would ever close that 'if' loop, and he'd known the guy longer than anyone else at Saraswatic.
It was a name Sanjay had coined, based on some Hindu god, and while it was slowly becoming well-known inside the industry, it was completely unknown outside.
Comfortably occupying the seat on his other side, in the place normally taken by Tigo himself, sat none other than Maizie Lum, the other lead software engineer. She was as far eastern in her looks as one could get. Though she was third generation Chinese-American, her family seemed to be steeped in tradition and evidently had never considered married outside their race, because she looked amazingly exotic, with long silky black hair, and bangs right above her eyebrows like her forehead was off-limits. She was always coiffed to perfection, and her dark, epic canthic eyes were shielded behind eyeglasses which Tigo sometimes speculated were plain lenses, although he'd never been able to test his suspicion. In her late twenties, she wore minimal makeup to devastating effect because she could get away with it. She had come onboard after Tigo and had seemingly been trying to unthrone him ever since. Now he saw her in her seat - the one he normally occupied - he felt that she could well be fomenting a coup to usurp his seniority especially since she was coolly eying him with - what was that, a smirk?
Let her try!
Finally there was Jamal Tierra, an African-American to complete Sanjay's amazing, if wholly accidental diversity pool, Jamal was about the same age as Maizie and he was the hardware interface specialist. Unlike Maizie, who tended to be quiet and introspective, Jamal was as outgoing and boisterous as it was possible to get without actually being an improv or stand-up performer.
"Glad you could make it, Tigo!" Sanjay said with a white-teeth smile as Tigo entered the conference room. Apart from a couple of interns, this was the entire company present. The janitorial staff didn't work for Saraswatic, so this was it.
"Sorry, had to pick up my car."
"You can actually lift your car?" Jamal asked with a smirk.
"Only after I ate my Wheaties!" Tigo quipped.
"Okay, let's get started," Mollie said, heading off any possibility of this small talk getting out of hand. "Sanjay?" she said, handing off to her boss.
"Yeah, we have some serious issues we need to get on top of. Who's doing the Deja-Pot build now?'
"That would be Tigo," Maizie said flatly, as if it ought to be axiomatic that if there was a problem, it was one of Tigo's jobs, not hers.
"Yeah that's me," Tigo jumped in quickly, not wanting her information to sound like an accusation. "What's up?"
Sanjay glanced at him and said, "Jamal says it's failing at the interface. We need it to work. Obviously."
"Yeah we do, but this is because Deja-Pot is being a turd about letting us interface their proprietary software. I mentioned this to you on Friday."
"You did?"
"Yeah."
"I don't recall it. Are you sure you had my attention when you brought it up?" Sanjay asked skeptically.
"I was. Not so much now though."
Sanjay eyed him for a second and smiled softly before glancing back down at his agenda. He had that unnerving look on his face again, and Tigo had no idea of what it meant or where it had come from. This was something new from the last month or so, and he was wondering what had started it up.
"So what are we doing about it?" Sanjay asked without looking up.
"What I'd like to do is ditch Deja altogether, and go with some other cooking pot manufacturer that's not being such an overly-protective tightwad with information, but we're stuck with them, apparently, at least for now, so all I can do is call Larkin again and see if we can kickstart them. I mean they agreed to this, right?"
"They did. That's why we went with them."
"Then they need to come through for us!" Tigo said resignedly.
"They do. Do try them again, and let me know if it's a problem."
"Okay," Tigo said, holding back a sigh..
"And make sure you have my attention when you tell me."
"Okay." It was that look again and Tigo did not know how to categorize it.
Fortunately the rest of the meeting was on other issues, and when it was over, which wasn't that long in coming, he was glad to get out of the room and head back to his cube. Well, half-cube. Not that it was so small he couldn't swing a cat in it (he knew because Jamal had tried it - with a plush toy cat).
By half-cube what was meant was that it came only up to desk height, so everyone in the place could see everyone else. The only two people who had enclosed office spaces were Sanjay and Mollie.
He checked in with his intern who was busily coding away, which was exactly what she was supposed to be doing. "Everything peachy-keen?" he asked.
Tiana looked up at him from her wheelchair and smiled. She said, "No, I'm stuck in a wheelchair How are you doing?"
Tigo shook his head resignedly. "Tiana, it's Monday and mine's already off to an epically lame start. Can we please dispense with your signature quips and focus just until I'm up to speed?
"Yeah. Sorry! But don't you think that Monday needs an extra punch?"
"I think some people might need an extra punch if they don't get to it!" he said with a smile.
Tiana laughed.
Tigo asked, "So what's up with the project?"
"It's going good," Tiana said, switching to a much more businesslike mode. "But I may need your help later with this other bit I'm struggling with. I'm good so far on this one part we discussed on Friday. The only real issue is the interface."
"Okay, I'm on that. Let me know when you need something, but otherwise, you're doing a great job! Keep it up!"
"Will do!"
Tigo had not wanted Tiana. She was African American like Jamal, but that wasn't the problem. And he had no qualms at all about her capability. She was undoubtedly the better of the two interns they had, truth be told, but she was in a wheelchair and he hadn't known how to react around someone like that. This is exactly why Sanjay had forced Tiana on him, he'd later learned, when Sanjay had assigned the other intern - named, of all things, Dustin Hung - to Maizie, who of course snapped him up and privately claimed she had the best one.
In the end, it had turned out to be perfectly fine. Tigo's fear, or squeamishness, or whatever it had been, had dissolved, and he'd had a great working relationship with Tiana who had proven perfectly adept.
She was motivated ("It's the wheelchair" Jamal had joked, when Tigo had made the mistake of saying those words to him), smart, skilled, and required very little supervision. But even though things were going 'swimmingly' as Sanjay had put it one time, he still felt really bad about his negative reaction to her. It was awful to have felt like that, but fortunately he'd never voiced his insecurities to anyone else, so at least there was that, yet she had evidently picked up on them, because she was even quicker than Jamal with a quip or a self-deprecating remark. Tigo had initially felt bad about that too, but he'd quickly realized that it had nothing to do with him being a jerk. This was the natural way she was. It had nothing to do with his original piss-poor and unprofessional attitude, which now, happily, had gone the way of the Gizmondo. At least he had that going for him.
Dustin, it had turned out, was very much like Maizie in personality, so those two had evidenced the occasional minor spat, but she seemed to thrive on tension. Tigo had decided, "Good luck to her with that!" and left her to it, happy to have the better intern with whom he now got along like machine language.
Having checked his emails and talked with Larkin about the Deja interface, even as he wondered why this had become his baby rather than Jamal's (it's not a hardware issue, he'd claimed), he went down to the gym in the basement to get some exercise. Sanjay had bought a corporate a membership, and they all took advantage of it; even Tiana and even more surprisingly, Jamal went there.
Typically, there was virtually no one there at that time in the morning Tigo had discovered, which was why it was his favorite time to visit. Unlike a lot of the guys at the gym, he did not go there to girl watch; he actually went there to work out, so he was in the habit of heading down there when he could get away at this time of the morning. He'd seen it argued that exercising later in the day was better for a body, but not for his, and this escape had become easier with the reliable Tiana being around now.
They had a Smith Machine multi-functional cable crossover trainer that he liked to get on if he could, and as usual it was free, so he started on it right away. He'd worked his usual stint on there, and then moved to an exercise bike to get his legs running a steady routine for thirty minutes when Sanjay unexpectedly showed up and took the bike next to his.
At first he'd thought there was a problem, but Sanjay assured him all was well. As a joke, Tigo asked, "Do I have your attention?"
Sanjay said, "Sure. What's up?"
"I just want you to know that I talked with Larkin and he's going to fix it....so he said."
"Oh!" Sanjay said, realizing what he was referring to. He added, "Okay, that's good! Let me know of you need my muscle to get it moving."
Tigo laughed at that, thinking of something highly inappropriate, but when Sanjay asked him what was so funny, he dismissed it.
Sanjay bent his arm to show a nice biceps bulge and said, "Hey, I may not spend as much time down here as you do, but I have muscles!"
Tigo nodded and agreed. "I know you do! That's very nice!" he said. "I'm sure your dates appreciate it."
Sanjay gave him a look and Tigo suddenly had a sour feeling. He asked, "Or are you trying to suggest I spend too much time down here?"
"What? No! Why would I think that? You can spend all day here as long as you get your work done. I don't care."
"Okay. Good."
The two cycled for a few minutes in silence and then Tigo offered, "It helps me sort my thoughts down here, you know?"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, it really does. You get your body working out, and your mind just eases right into place. At least mine does."
"Good. We need your mind."
"I appreciate that."
"You're looking in great shape by the way, Ti! I remember how you used to be in college and I'm glad to see you out of it. You've come a long way since then."
"Thanks to you, Sanjay!"
"You're doing the work! Thank yourself! You look great. I'm surprised I don't see a model or two hanging off your arms.
"That's not my scene."
"I know. Sometimes I wonder what is."
Tigo shrugged and said nothing. The compliment had made him feel good, because he had let himself go in college, especially that senior year, when he and Sanjay used to keep late nights hacking. They had been fortunate in that they had never got up to anything truly bad, and even better, they had never been caught. They'd also both sworn off that sort of thing since they'd gone into business together.
There was another comfortable silence before Sanjay, out of the blue said, "You know we should hang out more. We used to a lot."
"Yeah, but things get in the way. We can't all be playing pick-up basketball all the time."
"Not at my age!" Sanjay laughed.
"Seriously? You're two years older than me."
That was how they'd really reconnected and ultimately how Tigo had come to be employed at Saraswatic. It had been Sanjay's idea to name it after the Hindu female god of knowledge. Tigo had thought it an odd name, but he wasn't the corporate owner, so it was dealer's choice. They'd stayed in touch after Sanjay graduated, but it was through the basketball that they'd really got to spend time together and one day, after the game, Sanjay had laid out his business plan to Tigo. It had been almost like he was seeking his friend's advice and even stamp of approval. Technically he was a partner, but it was Sanjay's business, and that was fine with Tigo.
Sanjay said, "So what was up with your car? I thought you took it in just for a service."
"I did. 30K. Evidently you were paying attention when I mentioned that!"
Sanjay smiled softly and said, "I'm always paying attention to you I don't always hear you!"
Tigo dismissed that as one of his mystic Hindu quips and continued, "But they had a software upgrade and something went wrong with it. it took them three days to fix it."
"Seriously? A software update?"
"Yep."
"That has to be some kind of a joke."
"I wish! But they let me have the 30K service for free because of the issue."
"There is that." Sanjay stopped peddling and got off the bike. "So it's fine and safe now? I'm not going to read that my lead programmer drove off the edge of the Permanente because of a glitch am I?"
"I hope not!" The Permanente was a huge limestone quarry just west of Cupertino.
"Better not!"
"So you feel safe with this upgrade?"
"They said they left their analysis software installed so they can remote in if there are issues."
"That sounds a bit creepy. Have you hacked it to see what it does? Maybe they're tracking your every move?!"
Tigo laughed, "I doubt that, My life isn't that interesting. And my hacking days were over when I signed on to work for you, my friend."
"Good to know. I should hate for the men in black to bust into the office one day and escort you out! Anyway gotta book. Let me know if you need anything. Later, Amigo!"
"Later Dost!" Tigo said, completing their old exchange. 'Dost' was Hindi for 'friend' and Tigo had never forgotten it.
Balletwood is the story of a young American woman of indian ancestry who aspires to be a ballerina, but whose audition is cruelly taken from her. In steps a woman who offers her an alternate future fighting terrorism. But Jandra Khatri has her own ideas about justice. Chapter 1
Unlike her fictional peers in your typical dance movie, Jandra Khatri didn't arrive late for her audition, running in at the last minute and winning her place by the skin of her teeth through a spectacular performance. In fact, she did just the opposite.
She was very comfortably early for her appointment at the New York Arts Academy. She strolled in casually, feeling calm and relaxed, and she was excited at this opportunity to show off what she could do and in the doing, gain a place for herself in a respected and progressive ballet school. She felt confident she could have got in at either the Joffrey or the New York City Ballet had she wished, but she was equally confident that this was a much better fit for her progressive and unique style.
She smiled as the familiar smell of wood polish teased her nose as she glanced around at the people waiting and said "hi" to a couple of them she knew from an earlier face-to-face interview with the faculty. She'd sailed through that. Today was the final hurdle, and she exåpected to sail through it, too.
The lone, but serious ripple in her placidity was that her dance partner - who was not up for a place, but with whom she had trained to show her routine to her best advantage, was nowhere to be found. He'd said he would be here, and that was yesterday afternoon. Now he was nowhere to be seen, and consulting her phone again she found nothing - neither call nor text.
She texted him right then to find out where he was as she walked down to the changing rooms and found a locker. There came no response. This was the first real sign that something was wrong. She had a solo routine she could perform in a pinch, but it was nowhere near the spectacle she could put on with a competent and studied partner. Where was he? Why didn't he answer?
As she entered the warm-up dance room, happy to be free of the smells of the changing room, one odor of which she was sure was blood, she tried to calm herself with the knowledge that she had an hour before her performance. It was plenty of time, but disturbingly, she was hailed quickly by one of the support staff.
"Jandra?" the voice asked, unsure if it addressed the correct person, although how many danseuses there could possibly be who were testing today who looked so obviously of Indian ethnicity and shared her name, Jandra could only guess at derisively.
"That's me!" she said, waving in a dramatic gesture. She was already in performance mode and could not help herself.
"We received a message from your partner early this morning. He's very sick. He must have picked-up something yesterday and he's gone to the ER this morning. He apologized."
"This is a problem. Did he say why he'd not contacted me?"
"He said he'd forgotten his phone in the hurry to get to the hospital, and could not remember your number. He called us because he was able to look us up online."
"So why didn't you let me know before now? We could have rescheduled!"
"I'm sorry, but it’s not our responsibility to problem-solve on behalf of prospective candidates. That's something you should have taken care of."
"You know, it's kinda hard to take care of something when I'm unaware it needs attention?"
"I'm sorry. Your partner should have contacted you. Now it’s too late to reschedule. Do you wish to cancel?"
"I have another routine I can perform - a solo one."
"That's not what we agreed to at your interview. We were expecting a duet and that has influenced our selection of judges for your performance."
"Well clearly I can’t do a duet that by myself."
"Maybe I can help?" The voice sounded both ominous and familiar.
Jandra twisted her head elegantly to see Kale Carealoe; her ex.
"Kale. What a thrill. What are you doing here?"
"I attend here in case you forgot. Third year? I helped you learn your stuff when I was a first year and you said you were interested in this school? Or have you done so many of your high-speed Cecchetti Fouettés that you lost your mind in the process?"
"What a wit you are Kale," said Jandra with sub-zero feeling. "But I fail to see how your wit can help me when it dances so flat-footedly." She turned away to avoid having to inhale his nauseatingly familiar cologne.
"Cleary you forgot how much we partnered. You said you needed one, and here I am. I know your routines. I can work with you. It’s the only way you're gonna get through this interview."
"And why would you do this for me?" she asked, the skepticism in her voice as genuine as her desire for an honest answer. "We haven't spoken in two years and even then it wasn't politely."
"That's not through my doing. Besides, I feel it's time to let bad blood go and reacquaint, especially if you're going to be a student here. We can reconnect."
"That was hardly my plan in attending NYAA."
"Do you wish a partner, Miss Khatri, or would you rather forfeit this year and try again next?"
Jandra had no choice but to accept. Yes, she could do a solo routine, but no, they apparently were so inflexible that they wouldn't let her. Yes, she could forfeit, but that meant finding something to do for another year, and she was peaking now.
No, she didn't want to dance with Kale...ever, but he was offering and he could learn new moves quickly. He'd proven that in more ways than one. He was a really good dancer; he was just a truly disingenuous person. One piece of advice freely, yet thoughtlessly offered people was to love yourself, but Kale took that to an extreme. He loved himself more than ever he would love another person. Even given that, Jandra might have stayed as his partner, both on and off the dance floor, but in hindsight, there were two serious impediments to it.
The first was that she'd learned a great deal of self-respect and integrity since she'd last seen him. The second was a much more decisive factor in this modern era of rampant disease transmission: he couldn't keep his bitte in his dance belt. He'd gone out on her at least three times that she had learned of, the last one with a guy, which is what had finally unraveled his whole abusive charade.
After two rounds of embarrassing testing for STDs before she felt safe from his unprotected forays with both genders, there was no way in hell she was ever 'reconnecting' with Kale. But as for partnering...this one time...maybe this was her only option, she admitted to herself angrily.
With a hefty sigh she said, "Fine, let's get practicing. I'm doing this only because I have no choice."
"You've made the right choice. Let's get you through this and we'll have all the time in the world for me to show you how much I've changed, when you attend NYAA!"
Jandra didn't buy that, but she made nice and they began to practice. She lead him through her new moves twice, slowly, and then speeding-up. He picked it up fast, and soon she was feeling reasonably confident she could still put on her best display - or a reasonable facsimile. Maybe Kale wasn't so bad after all.
That didn't mean she was ready to forgive him and make up. If there was another valuable lesson he'd effectively if unintentionally taught her, it was that her love affair with ballet was far more important than any relationship with a guy could ever be. Her entire focus these days was on dance, and dance alone, and that was where she firmly intended to keep it.
They were called to show her dance, and she walked in feeling a bit unnerved, but still confident that she could pull this off.
Chapter 2
Their last practice had gone flawlessly. They'd worked out all the kinks, and it had been beautiful. It had looked good and felt divine. She was never happier. She was even on the verge of changing her mind about him; then came the actual performance in front of the evaluation committee, and Kale had literally done everything he could to sabotage her work.
When he was supposed to be there, he was, but fractionally late, or marginally out of position. It was a matter of milliseconds, of millimeters, but just enough to throw off her timing and drain her confidence so that after a few moves, things had gone to hell. Unable to rely on him, she'd begun to second guess him and her coordination had suffered. In no time at all, he wasn't having to do very much to make her look bad; she was doing it all herself.
He'd done it so expertly that he looked flawless and effortless and she looked like she was the most uncoordinated, inept, and unpracticed candidate ever to step onto a dance floor. One time he'd be there perfectly, the next marginally off. Sometimes he would put in an extra, unrehearsed move prior to the one she expected, and it would throw her off and ruin the timing.
The last straw was the fall, when he'd deliberately moved the wrong way, but done it so that it looked like she'd screwed-up. She not only hit her knee, she twisted it as well. Maybe something was torn. Before she could even contemplate the immensity of what had happened to her, he was there, his back to the committee, leaning close to her as though concerned, but hissing, "Now we’re even, bitch!"
Aloud he said dramatically, "Are you okay? Should we call an ambulance? This feels like it’s all my fault!"
"It’s not your fault at all, Mr. Carealoe," said the Admissions Chair, who was now walking quickly over to them. She went on, "Clearly this candidate is not ready for this academy…or any academy!" To Jandra, she said, "Why you thought you were an appropriate candidate is beyond me. Please leave!"
Jandra was incapable of standing right then, let alone leaving, much less storming out like she felt she ought to. She lay still, trying to feel her body using her mind only. She was digging back into some early training that at the time she had felt was a waste of her time. Increasingly afterwards though, she had employed this technique, and right then was focused only on mentally feeling out her body bone by bone, muscle by muscle. It came quite naturally now, this mind-body connection. Shamefully, she had failed to employ it before she had begun this interview because of the no-show of her partner, but it came flooding over her now.
She tuned out everyone around her and she'd barely heard the brutal words Mlle. Peuplibre had spewed. Instead, she focused her mind solely on her body and specifically on her left leg, pushing her consciousness down into her knee and examining every sinew. Soon she knew she had damage there, in her knee; the worst nightmare of all for a ballet performer.
The only young, non-white person on the committee knelt beside her and touched her knee gingerly with warm, soft fingers. She called to one of the aimless assistants standing around and now cringing because they knew what the price of that fall must be, and ordered "Bring an ice pack at once!"
"Help me lift her to the couch," the woman requested of Kale.
"He doesn't touch me ever again!" Jandra screeched. It was louder and more forceful than she'd intended, but her anger toward him was now measurable only on cosmic scales.
"She doesn't know what she's saying," Kale laughed and reached toward her, but the other woman stopped him.
She said, "No means no, Mr. Carealoe. You may leave."
Jandra turned her head to make sure he was leaving. The woman, meanwhile, nodded to another minion and she instructed him on how to lift. He was to place his arms under Jandra's and lift the upper half of her body while she lifted Jandra's legs from the side, careful to support her knee and keep it unmoving.
The two of them raised Jandra and awkwardly carried her the short distance to the couch, laying her carefully on it. The woman nodded to the minion and said, "Thank you. You may leave."
She addressed the other members of the selection committee and suggested they repair to the adjoining room to continue the interviews, as this with Jandra might take a while.
One of them asked, "Crystal? Can she not be moved to an adjoining room herself?"
Patiently, the woman said, "I don't want her moving this leg until we have a medical opinion, so the less we move her the better. We don't want a lawsuit do we?"
"No certainly not!" said the man decisively, but then he headed out quickly as though someone in here was diseased, leaving only Jandra and this woman whose identity, other than a first name now, Jandra did not know. Crystal did seem to know what she was doing, which was encouraging.
As Jandra tried to relax, the woman took out her cell phone and made a call. While she was occupied with that, the other minion returned with a poor excuse for an ice pack and was about to slap it on Jandra's knee when a high-pitched screech from Crystal halted him in his tracks and acts.
"Aiee! No, no, no! I'll take care of that. You may leave. Please close the door behind you and put a sign on it indicating the room is out of service. Thank you!"
The minion left in hurried relief.
The 'pack' was literally ice in a plastic Ziplock bag. The woman who was now in charge twisted her lips oddly, evidently at its bedraggled and naked condition. After a second, she took off her cardigan and wrapped it once around the ice before gently resting the pack against the inside of Jandra's knee, where the fibular collateral ligament lay just under the skin.
"Hold this there for me please," she instructed Jandra. "I'm Crystal Baker, by the way. In case you forgot."
Jandra was sure she'd never seen Crystal Baker before, much less formally met her, but she nodded and said, "Thank you!" She was neither expecting, nor knowing what to make of, this kindness after the harsh reception she'd had so far that morning.
She looked Crystal over and she seemed very much an authority figure. She was well-dressed and a bit severe -looking, and she had this clean scent to her which rather reminded Jandra of bathrooms, but not the chlorinated kind. Crystal leaned more toward the boudoir kind, but not improperly so.
"Keep your leg as still as you can. I have a medical professional coming to take a look at it."
"Will this be covered under student insurance?" Jandra asked. She'd heard horror stories of students who'd been bankrupted by medical bills. Whether they were true was another matter.
"It won't cost you a thing, don't worry!"
Jandra found that curious, but focused on repositioning the pack as the woman walked away from her, talking into the phone. Why people did that when the call was clearly not a private one, Jandra had no idea. She saw it often in the movies and always thought it looked stupid and posed; even rude. It’s not like Jandra was sitting at a noisy table in a restaurant or anything. It was deathly quiet in studio C right then.
After a few short minutes, the woman returned and smiled at Jandra. "Won’t be long!" she said brightly.
"I'm sorry, but who are you?" she asked gently. "I honestly don't recall seeing you here before. I apologize if I've forgotten you."
"That's perfectly all right. I'm not on the staff here. I represent one of the investors, so I get to sit in and enjoy the dances. You may call me Crystal. I used to dance ballet myself many years ago, but I'm retired from that. We performers have a tragically short shelf-life, don't you think? It’s always good to have something to fall back on…sorry, poor choice of phrase there, but you may want to consider having something in reserve yourself. I'm not a medical professional by any means, so please do not take my word as gospel, but I think your knee injury is severe. There was twisting. The guy you chose to dance with was a lousy partner. If I were a meaner person, I'd swear he was subtly trying to sabotage you."
"He wasn't my choice. I mean not initially. My choice called in sick. I knew Kale from before; we used to date, and this morning he volunteered to partner me at the last minute. They wouldn't let me perform my solo routine, so I had no choice. It turns out he was holding a grudge from when we knew each other before, and he really got his revenge today."
"I see." Crystal's voice was completely neutral, which made it sound cold.
"I know that sounds like sour grapes, but it’s what happened, and I think you're right about the twisting. I felt it when I went down, and when I think about how my leg feels, I can sense internal damage - like one of the cruciate ligaments has torn."
"That would be my assessment also."
Jandra unexpectedly burst into tears. This was too much.
Crystal was immediately at her side, hugging her.
"I'm sorry!" Jandra said. "This whole morning has been way more than I was prepared for."
"It’s fine. But it’s not the end of the world. My guy will be here soon and we’ll get you fixed up.
"It’s not that I don't appreciate your kindness, but why are you doing this?"
"I'm not on the admissions committee, Jandra. I have no interest in who gets in or who's kept out. My interest is in the performers themselves, and after your performance today, I know you deserve a lot better than you got."
"My disastrous debut?" said Jandra, still trying and failing to keep her tears in check.
"It wasn't disastrous unless you decide to let it be."
"Crystal, my knee's gone. This is over for me."
"No, it isn't. Your knee can be fixed. People have come back from this. Jennie Somogyi did it twice a decade apart - the same injury!"
"To her foot. This is my knee we're talking about!"
"Wendy Whelan conquered scoliosis and became a ballerina; and then she overcame a labral tear."
Jandra appreciated Crystal's correct use of terminology. Too many people thought a female ballet dancer was automatically a ballerina, but strictly-speaking that term applied only to a principal dancer, an appellation Whelan had definitely earned.
Here at the NYAA, your every-day dancer was referred to rather pretentiously, Jandra thought, as a danseuse or a danseur for a male. Very few knew that the male term for a principal was ballerino. Jandra didn't think much of the sexism in prescribing different terminology based on gender, but it was the way it was in an art form where the women, for once, were the alphas. She was a fan of both Somogyi and Whelan. She admired them, but Crystal seemed like she was set on drawing her attention away from the knee no matter in which direction she had to drag her. Jandra corrected her course by saying, "Again, not a knee injury."
"Pamela Swaney came back from cruciate surgery."
Jandra had never heard of her. Maybe this was true, maybe not. Right then she no longer wanted to think about it, much less have a conversation with a stranger about her future. She said, "Look, I appreciate the pep talk, but I really don't want to examine futures; not right now. I'm not in the mood."
"I understand. I'm just saying there's still a life ahead of you. Especially you."
"What does that mean?" Jandra asked, trying not to think about her knee or the pain, which was probably the wrong thing to do, but she could hardly go into any kind of mind trip aimed at trying to ease her pain, not with this woman talking to her nonstop.
"I know you. I read your history. You've fought to be where you are. You’re strong, determined, and not just mentally, but also physically. You’re not one of these stereotypical borderline anorexic danseuses, Jandra. You're robust. You're practical, and you're mature. You have all the qualities for success…."
"Except for the success. And robust? Is that your way of telling me I'm borderline obese?"
"Jandra for god sakes why are you punishing yourself? You have done nothing wrong. Everything that happened here today was done to you and without your permission. Doesn't that make you angry at the injustice?"
"I guess."
"Look, success will come in time. It doesn't happen overnight. Not in the cutthroat world of ballet."
Jandra glanced at Crystal who had suddenly stopped speaking as though she were preventing herself from spilling a vital secret. She was looking at Jandra, and examining her for a few seconds almost like she was making some sort of a calculation.
Jandra raised her eyebrows as though this alone would induce this woman to continue spilling whatever it was she'd wanted to avoid, but Crystal had an air about her that was neither secretive nor conflicted. She seemed like she was decidedly resolved. She looked Jandra in the eye and said, "But ballet isn't your only option, you know. There are other paths to fulfillment; the next steps you take upon whatever floor you choose to dance are those of your own feet - no one else's."
Jandra frowned at that. It was like Crystal was trying to tell her something without actually saying the words, but Jandra had never been good at word puzzles, so she let it slide and turned her attention to more practical issues. She asked, "How is this…whatever your friend is going to do for me not going to cost anything? This is the USA. The richest country in the world doesn't believe in taking care of its citizens. It’s everyone for themselves. Medicine costs and arm and a leg. Sometimes literally and the outcomes are no better guaranteed than those countries with socialized medicine. Is this man even a doctor? I'm not about to let some quack new-age herbalist start giving me bleach baths and oxygenated herbs like they'll magically cure me."
Crystal looked at Jandra while she said this, and when she finished speaking, she spontaneously burst out laughing.
"What?" Jandra asked.
"I'll tell Robert you think he's a new-age snake oil salesman!"
"What? That's not what I said!"
"You definitely implied it. The question is, shall I tell him before he treats you and see how he does with your treatment or wait until afterwards?"
"Wait, no!"
Crystal smiled at Jandra and said, "Maybe we should withhold our judgment until he's done what he's coming to do?"
Jandra pursed her lips and took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, "I'm sorry. I'm just…"
"Hurt and upset, and confused, and depressed. I get it. It’s fine."
Crystal's phone rang and she answered it sitting right there by Jandra's side. "Yes, come to in studio C. We're the only ones in here," she finished and shut off the call. To Jandra she said, "He's here."
Shortly after, a tall guy reminiscent of Denzel Washington came strolling in actually carrying a bag like a traditional doctor, except that his was larger than one would expect. He introduced himself to Jandra with, "Hi! I'm Doctor Caraway. I'm going to run an ultrasound on your knee so we can see what’s going on in there, if you don't mind?"
"Why would I mind?" Jandra asked.
Doctor Caraway smiled and pulled out a blue plastic case, which he opened and began prepping for the procedure.
He eyed Jandra's leg for a few seconds and she felt mildly uncomfortable, but the doctor turned to Crystal and said, "It's probably better if the tights come off."
"Ah!" she said and looked at Jandra. "Do you mind taking off your tights? I guess he can do it with them on, but it might be messy. He has to use some conduction gel and it’s going get all over your tights. Do you mind?"
"Um…yeah, I guess."
"You guess you mind, or you don't mind?"
"I don't mind, but I'm not sure I can do this by myself. I can’t exactly peel them down from under the 'tard."
"Of course not, I’ll think we should just cut the leg off."
"What?" said Jandra, her voice edging into strident.
"Of your tights."
"Oh!"
"We can cut the leg off and then we don't have to fiddle with removing them. Some dancers don’t wear underwear so…."
"Of course I have on underwear!"
"Not judging! I just want to be sure. So if you don't mind, Doctor Caraway can cut the tights off on this leg?"
"Um, yeah, sure. Whatever you need to do."
Jandra ran that phraseology through her brain trying to perceive potential misunderstandings and decided, the hell with it. This guy was a doctor. They were in a semi-public place. This was fine.
She nudged away these paranoiac, vague ideas of predatory schemes to undress her; this was studio C for goodness sakes, not some back alley or some perverse private doctor's office.
The doctor deliberately turned away from them, continuing his preparations as Crystal took the scissors he'd handed to her and snipped carefully around Jandra's upper thigh. Jandra wasn't in the habit of removing body hair like so many people were in the USA, but she'd taken the precaution of having a bikini line wax for the audition, despite not even being able to recall the last time she'd been in anything remotely like a bikini.
She was quite surprised at the other woman's strength. Jandra was by no means a large person, but neither was she petite. She had several times been told over her budding career that she was lucky she wasn't any larger, because that would really put a crimp in her ballet ambitions. Fuck them! She thought bitterly.
Ballerinos liked their women petite so they could lift and throw them, and Jandra had always been uncomfortable with that sort of attitude, and underlying assumptions that the woman was the plaything to be used as the man saw fit. So the women were skinny and often anorexic-looking and the men muscular and strong. It had long seemed another disparity between the sexes, and once again a deplorable situation where the woman was too often held accountable, while the man remained blameless.
How much of our shared history, she had thought more than once, was in that same sexist boat? It wasn’t that the man should control his impulse and simply not rape the woman, it was the woman's fault for wearing provocative clothing; for drinking too much; for behaving in a sexual manner; for being a woman?
She shook all that from her brain as Crystal rested her leg down gently onto the couch after peeling the tights leg down. She was remarkably gentle despite her strength, and for the first time Jandra noticed the definition in Crystal's upper arms.
In ballet, it was the men who had the upper arm strength. A woman's power tended to be all in her legs: thigh, ankle. This was what made Crystal seem unusual, but of course there was absolutely no reason at all why a ballet dancer could not work out and develop strength in other parts of her body.
But with regard to Crystal, Jandra could not help but wonder why she had done so.
Chapter 3
Doctor Caraway had been able to fit her into his surgery schedule that same morning. This suggested it was disturbingly light, but since she was home with her leg fixed in what had seemed a miraculously short time, she could not complain.
It was only fixed, though, in terms of the surgery being completed. It was nowhere near fixed in terms of her mobility. That cross awaited her shoulders since her leg was immobilized in the very near term, but over time, her activity was opened-up until she was quite quickly progressing from simple range-of-motion exercises through actual exercise.
Crystal called her every single day to check on her. The first day she had grilled Jandra about her diet, and the day right after that, had called her to announce that a therapist would be dropping shortly by with some food. The therapist visited her several times, but this seemed to be far more than a simple therapist.
That first day she'd put away groceries and then showed Jandra how to cook quick and simple, but nutritious and protein enriched meals so that she would spend little time on her leg, but would be eating healthily so that her leg would heal as quickly as possible.
After that, the therapist came twice a week and began working with Jandra's leg, bringing her from an initial and complete immobility into limited use and then full use.
"You'd better not be trying any dance moves on that leg, Jandra!" Crystal had admonished her as she began to get back on her feet more regularly. Jandra had been eating a delicious meal and was slightly annoyed at the interruption, but crystal had done so much for her and been so kind that she could hardly object.
"I'm not. Believe me, I realize how much damage I did," she confessed truthfully.
"How much damage your irresponsible jerk of a partner did to you, you mean?" Crystal scolded her.
"Um…yeah. But whatever! I'm not about to get ahead of myself and make things worse before they get better."
"Good to know!" There was a short silence and then Crystal asked, "So how are you doing apart from that? It’s been a while since this happened, and your usual life must have been put on hold, huh?"
Jandra sighed. "It was. I lost my job."
"What?" What job?"
"Nothing major. I was working this part time gig to help meet bills my grant doesn't cover, but even my grant is threatened now because I can’t meet my obligations."
"This is starting to sound dire."
"I guess. I'm not sure what to do. Are you sure none of this you're doing for me is going to run my budget into the ground or anything? Because all of this, with the home therapist and everything has to be costing a fortune. She wouldn't even let me pay for the groceries she's buying. If there's going to be a bill coming due for this, I can’t pay it right now."
"Jandra! Quit worrying about this. It’s not on you, and no, you're not going to get any bills. It’s all taken care of."
"That kinda bothers me because there's always a bill. There'd better not be some sugar daddy type out there expecting me to offer something in return for his kindness!"
"It wouldn't be a kindness if there was, would it? But no! There's no sugar daddy. You honestly don't think I would have set you up for something like that, do you?"
"You've been really kind. I don't want to sound ungrateful."
"You sound rational. And you're smart to wonder what’s behind the curtain, but you're not going to have to pay for this in any way. Don't worry about it. But let me ask you, if you don't mind, do your parents not contribute anything to your living expenses?"
"My parents? No. No, they won't pay anything. They kind of disowned me when I told them I wasn't going to be a lawyer and I was going to pursue ballet instead."
"That seems mean."
"It's how they are. Not mean, but in my culture daughters are always problematical. My parents feel they have an investment in me, and I ought to be repaying it in my career choice. I've felt that pressure all my life. I don't want to be a lawyer. I have no interest in it. There's nothing wrong with justice, but I don't think my being a lawyer is going to make any material difference, and the whole idea of it makes me miserable. It’s not for me."
"I can understand that. Look, let me see what I can do about finding some work for you. You're at the point now where you can handle a job as long as it’s not one that involves too much time on your feet, right?"
"Right."
"Let me see what I can do."
Chapter 4
Crystal called back very early the next morning, waking Jandra. In response to Jandra's sleepy and muffled 'Yeah?" she said, "Hey! It’s Crystal! Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, but it’s okay. I'm usually up before now. I've been sleeping more lately."
"Yeah. That's the med you're on; remember Doctor Caraway said you'd been sleepier?"
"Yeah," said Jandra, waking up a bit more. A Starbucks would sure help right about now, she thought idly.
"Look, I have good news. I found a job for you if you're interested."
"That's awesome! You're amazing, Crystal! What's the job?"
"It's a government job, so it has good job security.'
"And they don't care that I have an injury?"
"The injury isn’t a problem, Jandra! You're going to have a complete recovery. Isn’t that what the doctor ordered?"
"I guess." She still did not believe she'd ever get back to the Jandra she once was.
"You will. But about the job. It pays really well, and they will provide physical therapy and strength-training to get you back to where you were before the injury."
"Wow! Really?"
"Yeah."
"That's amazing! How did you find this?"
"I've met a lot of people in my career, and it never hurts to stay in touch with the important ones," Crystal explained without a sign of pride in her voice. This one group I have a contact with is always looking for good recruits."
"Recruits? Wait! You didn't sign me up for the army did you?"
"No! Silly! It’s not the military."
"O-kay, but this is starting to sound too good to be true. What’s the catch? What's the job?"
"There is a small downside, but look, you're going to be out of action for several months, agreed? And this seems to me like a good way to get you back into your life, all while earning money, and doing something useful with your time."
"Crystal, just tell me the downside."
"There's a contract you would need to sign, and an NDA. That's a non-disclosure agreement."
"A contract?"
"Yeah. It’s for one year. It will pay you $127,000."
"A hundred twenty-seven thousand dollars?!" Jandra was ecstatic. This would solve all her financial woes.
"Yes. So after taxes and all, you'll still have six figures in your bank. That's how they sell it. But you'll have to earn that. They're not just going to give it to you for nothing."
"But wow!"
"And it’s a year, remember? I know that sounds like a long time, but that's how long it’s going to be before you can apply again to NYAA anyway, right?"
"That's not true. I can apply for the next semester."
"I'm not sure you're going to be recovered properly by then."
Jandra was thoughtful. She said slowly, "Maybe not…okay so, a year contract for $127,000? Then I'm done?"
"Yeah. It'll fly by, and your knee will be getting better and better and you can take up your ballet where you left off."
"Okay, so what do I do for all that money?"
"I can't tell you much about that because of the NDA. Once you sign that, you'll get all the inside information."
"So who would I be working for? Can you tell me that?"
"The NSA. Or at least an offshoot of it."
Jandra frowned. "The NSA?"
"The National Security Agency."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No, seriously."
"So I’ll be a spy?"
"No, Jandra, you won't be James Bond."
"James Bond is a woman now!"
"Not really. 007 is a woman. James Bond is still a guy!"
"Whatever."
There was silence for a few moments as Crystal let Jandra have a time for contemplation.
She finally said, "This is a lot to think about."
"It is; but you don’t need to decide today. If you want my two cents, this will be good for you. You can handle it mentally and physically. You'll get the physical therapy you need and you'll be earning money instead of paying it out. You'll also be doing something good for your country. You are a US citizen you know. It wouldn't hurt to give a little something back."
Jandra laughed. She said, "You sound like you're channeling John Kennedy: 'Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country'."
"I don't want to channel anything from that sleaze. But he had a point."
There was a thoughtful silence and Jandra had a disturbing idea. "Is the NSA paying my bills? Am I under obligation to them?"
"No!" said Crystal, laughing. Your bills are being paid by a private fund."
"And that's for real?"
"Yes, trust me."
"It's not going to come back and bite me or pressure me?'
"No. You're fine."
There was another silence, and this time Crystal broke it. She said, "Jandra, let me tell you something that I probably shouldn't, but I don't see what harm it can do now, and this is just you and me, okay? Just between us."
"Okay."
"In my younger days, I took the same contract you're being offered, and in the end, I renewed it several times. To be honest, there was pressure to renew it. They don't want to pay you a six figure salary and spend resources training you up for nothing; they like a lot in return, and like you, I had some real doubts about it, but in the end, I was happy I did, and I don't regret my time working there."
"You were a spy?"
"I wasn't a spy, Jandra! Neither would you be. I was just gathering information."
"Isn't that another way of saying spying'?!"
Crystal sighed heavily and said, "Whatever."
"So wouldn't I need to have a background check or something for this shit?'
"We already ran one, and you're fine."
"I'm squeaky clean, huh?"
"I wouldn't go that far, but you didn't raise any flags," Crystal said, with a knowing smirk.
"Wait, what do you know about me?'
"More than you feel comfortable with, I’ll bet!"
Chapter 5
Jandra signed the contract and the NDA. She had no money coming in, and this was a really good offer. If she worked a year at this and saved hard, then she could resume her ballet career afterward with a nice financial cushion that she hadn’t had before. It would be especially valuable if they continued her therapy and trained her as they'd undertaken to do.
Crystal was apparently some sort of a recruiter, which was how she'd become attached to the ballet school, which seemed strange to Jandra. The last person she would have expected to be recruited as a CIRE (a Critical Information Retrieval Executive or a CE for short) was a ballet performer, but when Crystal had talked about some of the things she'd done, it made more sense.
"Listen, Jandra," she'd explained after Jandra had signed the NDA, "I've been authorized to share some things to get you clued-in. A ballet company can pretty much go anywhere and no one pays any attention to the performers when they're not on stage. It’s not like they're movie celebrities or well-known musicians. For the most part, no one even knows who they are. Even the big stars of ballet are anonymous to most people. I've been to China and to Russia on more than one occasion and met my objectives, without risk or even much effort."
"How does that work exactly?"
"Most of what I needed to find out, I could discover just by talking with people. If you meet the right people, befriend them, and ask the right questions, they'll blab things without a second thought, especially if they've had some drink."
"I guess."
"You know that's how hackers work, right? Most of what they do isn't like in the movies. They don't miraculously hack into systems and bypass firewalls and all that shit. They usually do what they pretentiously call 'social engineering'. It’s the opposite of social distancing. They get close to someone not in a physical sense, but emotionally and intellectually. They make friends with them, and once they know them inside out - their likes and dislikes, their hobbies, their family, their pets, their birthday, it makes it quite easy to discover their passwords."
"You're trying to steal people's passwords?"
"No! With all that information, you can guess their password. I But that isn't the point. We don't usually care about that as such. We're trying to learn about their affiliations, interests, and stuff, especially if those are contrary to the security of the USA. Most people love to talk about themselves, and if they start to trust you, they’ll tell you anything, including, on more than one occasion in my case, their passcode to their phone, or their locker combo or something like that. This is how I used to learn stuff."
"So you weren't breaking into offices or sneaking around in people's homes at parties, trying to find secret papers and stuff?"
"Hell no. It was a lot easier than that! It was a matter of…well, kind of vetting people to determine how loyal and patriotic they were, and whether or not they had any tendencies to condone or support violent acts, or outright terrorism, or if they were giving money or other support for causes like that."
"That doesn't sound so hard. Why do they pay us so much?"
"So we’re hard to bribe. And the work requires serious training to do it right. For me it was fun, because I was already pretty gregarious, so I had no problem insinuating myself into people's lives, especially after the basic training. Obviously many of these people weren't ones I’d become friends with if it was up to me, but I had an outgoing personality. a sense of empathy, humor, and I'm pretty decent-looking so it made it super-easy to pick up guys."
"Did you have sleep with them and stuff, to get your information?"
"I didn't have to, but once or twice I chose to, and it made it a bit easier to get what I wanted to know. It’s not like James Bond where he leaps into bed with every decent-looking woman he meets and has unprotected sex on the first date with no discussion of sexual history! Any agent who gets larded up with sexual diseases isn’t much use to us."
"Yuk! TMI, Crystal!"
"STIs suck! But I didn't have to deal with that. They trusted me to get what they needed. Most of the time these people would just tell me stuff once I got to know them. People are too full of themselves and like to brag about things they have and stuff they do, especially if it’s a bit naughty or unusual. If you find someone who is truly close-mouthed about their business, then those people are probably the ones who have something to hide - who could be terrorists, or at least up to no good. In those cases we have technical staff who can tap phones and all that, to dig deeper. You'll usually be assigned one when you go on a mission."
"I have a mission?"
"Hell no! Not until you've had some serious training. We fit people to their mission. We don't randomly send the wrong person into a situation. We find someone who fits so well that no one even begins to suspect they're not who they say they are."
"That's reassuring. So I'll be in a ballet company?"
"I don't think they run one any more, but it wouldn't make much sense to send someone like you to work in a car repair garage right? Or send a coal miner into a knitting circle. We pick the person for the job. Over time you'll learn more skills and you'll become more widely-used, but your first mission is likely to be tied to something you already do or already know enough about to be convincing. But you need to be trained-up first, okay?"
That training came soon enough. After she left for northern Virginia, she never saw Crystal again. She regretted that because she'd begun to really like her and more importantly, to trust her. Her next contact was Mark Coin who was a right-wing military jackass who made her miss Crystal even more.
Jandra had no problem with the military except that she wished they were not sent into silly and thankless situations by idiot politicians as often as they were. One of her friends had a brother in the military who she'd never met, but who she'd heard plenty of stories about. He loved his job and he was very close to his sister. They shared a lot, and he evidently had a few disturbing tales to tell about some of the ill-conceived missions he'd been sent on, in the course of doing his job. The impression Jandra got was that he always tried to be professional and get it done no matter what.
Mark Coin wasn't like that at all. He was evidently the professional soldier sent into a sort of child care situation that Crystal had said wouldn't happen. He was responsible for new recruits, i.e. Jandra, and he treated them like they were children who had been paradoxically sent to boot camp.
He seemed clueless that none of the recruits had had any sort of military training, nor were they expecting it, nor were they actually in any sort of military. None of that mattered to him. From what Jandra could see, he apparently resented the fact that there were even female recruits. This was never actually put into words such that she might lodge a complaint, but this man came across far too brutally for her and she began to really miss Crystal then.
Working in her favor was the fact that Jandra was exceptionally fit, but working against that was the fact that she was still nursing a severe injury and subsequent surgery and Coin seemed to take none of this into account. Instead, he preferred to treat Jandra like she was this limp waif who was no Earthly use to anyone, and who couldn’t take the hard life because she was a spoiled brat.
He was also racist, although he hid it well. He evidently had a low opinion of people who hailed from her part of the world. Jandra was as American as they come, born in the USA as the song said, but her parents were from India, and Coin clearly thought such people were dirty and primitive.
He never said anything that would make him culpable of an outright offense, but he certainly had no problem injecting subtle insinuation into the things he said to her. He never used the word 'dirty' or any such disparaging description directly, but he made frequent observations within her earshot that left her in no doubt, when he used abusive words like those, that he referred to what he evidently considered to be 'her part of the world' despite the fact that she was as American as he was and hadn't visited India since she was a little kid.
There was a black guy in the intake class with her and three white people, and Coin was also abusive to that guy to an extent, but it seemed to Jandra that he was a lot less derogatory of him than he was of her. He abused the white people too, but it seemed more like he was joking when he did it with them. Maybe he just didn't like women and the racism was simply a bonus for him. Maybe she was just unused to this kind of treatment. She suspected it was a little of both.
Crystal had warned Jandra, not about Coin specifically, but about certain personnel on the training team who seemed like they relished the job because it allowed them to be professionally mean to people. She'd assured Jandra that she was strong enough, not just physically by then, but also emotionally, and she'd advised her not to let those guys push her to the point where she was at risk of injuring herself again or of conducting herself in any way that might result in her being rejected from the program. "Work hard," Crystal had advised, "but you be sure to leave a little cushion for yourself; just until you have your full confidence back."
Jandra did just that, and she discovered that she could keep up with the training without pushing herself as she'd frequently done when practicing ballet. Much of what she was being asked to do physically was the same sort of thing she'd already been doing for ballet, or had been nudged into doing under her therapist, who probably had done that for the very reason that Crystal had probably had this occupation in mind for Jandra all along.
That particular idea, once it got into her head, was difficult for her to let go. She began to think tht Crystal had seen her as a potential recruit to this program right from the start.
The more she thought about it, the more she found herself believing it. That didn’t make it true, but it sure did explain very well why Crystal had latched onto her so rapidly and unhesitatingly after Jandra's injury. Was this why Crystal had babied her so much, turning down all offers of payment, and deflecting all her questions about who was covering her expenses? Was Crystal recruiting her even then? Had she aimed to make Jandra to feel obligated?
It felt odd, because Jandra never had. She'd felt grateful and had been intrigued and interested in Crystal's job offer, but the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like this was a real possibility. Crystal had outright admitted that she'd been professionally trained to befriend people and secure their trust. Had she been managing Jandra all along, grooming her with this ultimate aim in mind?
Once that train of thought had started in motion it was hard to stop, and it was soon at the point where Jandra began to wonder if crystal had even arranged for her injury: somehow causing her regular partner to cancel, and then somehow fixing it with that jerk of an ex of hers to cause her an injury so she could be recruited by Crystal?
Jandra almost slapped herself in the face when she realized where her speculation was taking her. Yes, it was a really, really outside chance that all of this might be true, but looking at it skeptically, Jandra didn't believe it, and even it if had been true, the only important question now, was whether she felt trapped. Did she feel lured and tricked, or did she feel she was better off now than she had been?
Her leg was healing, she was being paid what was, to her, a small fortune, and she was being taken care of. Her training was going ahead successfully. She was even getting some ballet practice time, although not as much as she'd hoped she would. Yes, she did have to put up with Coin's abusive remarks about her training, her career choice, her skin color, but even so….
If she hadn't been injured, where would she be? She'd already lost all chance of getting into NYAA that semester. She was contracted only for a year in her present gig, and she could try again next year for a high level ballet school.
What startled her was this new idea she had in her head that maybe she didn't want to go back and try at NYAA again. She had by no means forgot how callous Peuplibre had been to her, right after her injury, nor would she. She could do better than that. Maybe her present situation in an important government job would give her some leverage to get into some other, better school? Maybe not, but who knew where her future might lie now? She found her ignorance on that score strangely exciting.
No-one's checking in right now, but the pandemic never was the problem at The Cloverluck.
It's February 2021 and Texas is in a deep freeze. The ill-preparedness for coping with an extended cold snap is starkly laid bare as millions are without power for hours on end.
For some of the millions affected, the results are catastrophic. For most, it's a serious irritation, but the incompetence that led to this will soon be forgotten once power is restored.
For the skeleton staff working at the Covid-closed Cloverluck Hotel, the nightmare is just beginning.
Built from Irish mob money in the 1920s on the site once occupied by the old electric chair in Austin, Texas, The Cloverluck Hotel seemed live up to its name with its Southern charm and the patronage of some well-rewarded local politicians, but none of these people ever understood that it was a consistently powered electric grid that kept at bay the dark secrets that lay beneath this hotel.
Lise Mantell, the new under manager, desperate to have any job after her last humiliation, thinks she's turned a corner, but around that corner is the horror of death and duplicity, and it's all about to come to a shocking conclusion.
The original work upon which this is based is Carmilla by Irish author Sheridan le Fanu. His work is now in the public domain and mine is much changed from his original, but it would be wrong not to acknowledge the outstanding creation of his, for it had such a modern tone and, it has to be said, a slightly risqué approach to a vampire novella a quarter century before Bram Stoker's Dracula appeared on the scene. His is not the first vampire story by any means, but it is a remarkable one and you can find a free copy of the original online in various places. I urge you to read that one, as well. 
What's a man to do when his wife dies of Covid? It's too late to get the vaccine once you've got the virus, and Cynthia Carrington died while her husband Theo, made it through. For Father's day, when Theo, now 55 and retired, wasn't showing any sign of bouncing back after eighteen long months, his two married sons get him a subscription to a social media app named Land Line, which is aimed at an older demographic. There he finds several women who he'd known and even dated way back before his marriage. Slowly he begins to hook up with them, but the more he explores, the less he seems to be able to find anyone who might work for him a lifetime later. Could it be that the least likely suspect is the one he needs? Land Line is an honest and explicit look at mature dating, relationships, sex, regrets, happiness, loves and memories 
The companion novel to Shiftless in Galveston, but can be read as a standalone. Neither Jade nor Jason had expected to run into the other on the last night of a poorly-reviewed and curtain-dropping play in some out-of-the-way community theater. And especially not in such embarrassing circumstances when Jade, driving a wheelchair, needed help in the handicapped non-friendly bathroom - and like, right now! Jade had sworn-off men, perhaps forever after her bad marriage was finally over several years ago. Jason had no interest in women, not after that really bad relationship a half-dozen years before. They were simply too much trouble for him to cope with. How a relationship started from such mortifying circumstances was a wonder to both of them, but how it lasted and grew ever stronger when the obstacles began to mount, starting with an ill-fated Gulf cruise, was an honest-to-goodness miracle. Chapter 1When Jason heard the cry for help, he'd been heading toward the back of the so-called playhouse so he could, in theory, exit close to where he'd parked his car, having come to the building from the wrong direction. He was thinking that he really ought to have 'wrong direction' as his coat of arms. 'Iniuriam directionem' as his motto, and ' irrumabo, ubi ego sum iens' as his battle cry. Not that he had any Latin worth the speaking of. He was an English professor who just liked to take bizarre insults in the undead language that he found online and mash them up into even more bizarre curses.
He wasn't much for navigation devices in his car, which was why he'd evidently parked in the most inaccessible location for the building. Neither was he much for navigating obscure hallways in what once had been a small and old apartment block, but was now an arts center. Supposedly.
The corridors were long and seemed to have no sense of direction either, and they were poorly-lit and smelled rather unhealthy.
On top of that, he wasn't remotely sure he was heading in the right direction to get out of here, let alone approaching an exit. The signage in the building wasn't quite as bad as the play had been, but that wasn't saying much. He had tried to think charitably about what was obviously a well-intentioned, but struggling enterprise in artistic expression, but he was having little success with it.
He had no good idea what had prompted him to come to this particular show. Maybe he'd taken pity on it because it was so pathetic that it was closing early due to poor reviews. Someone at work had, within his earshot, suggested it was a really interesting play featuring this one voluptuous and largely nude actress, which had been a half-truth at best.
He had been in the act of morosely contemplating that this person may well have deliberately set him up for wasting an evening. He would not have put that past the more moronic of his colleagues who seemed to think that misleading or otherwise disorienting people was somehow funny.
And now some faint female voice was calling for help. At least, he thought that's what it was. Here there be dragons! he thought, and took upon himself the mantle of George, and not even saintly, much less daintily.
He looked around and there was nowhere the voice could have originated except inside the women's rest room that was to his right. He knocked on the dark-brown, varnished, and solid-looking door, hoping he would not have to batter it down, and he called softly, "Is someone in there? Are you all right?"
He had thought he'd heard some muffled noises right before he called, but now there seemed to be a deathly silence. He called once more, "Hello?" He was about to turn away and resume his forlorn crusade to find an exit when a small voice called back.
"I need some help," it said, and it didn't seem remotely like it was looking forward to capitalizing on the request.
"What’s the problem? Are you lost?" Jason asked, and immediately wanted to punch himself in the face. Are you lost? WTF? What kind of dumb-ass question was that? He was the only one who was lost in this scenario. He rapidly corrected, "I mean are you stuck or something?"
There was another pause and Jason thought he might have heard a stifled laugh. After a further brief pause, the voice came back and said, "I've fallen and I can't get up." This was hastily corrected with an "I mean….," before it tailed off into silence.
Jason asked, "You fell down? Are you injured?"
"Only my pride," said a voice which now sounded resentfully resigned to the inevitable. "And that's only going to get worse now, apparently."
"Shall I get someone to help?"
"I don’t think I can wait that long. I really need to use the can."
"Okay. What can I do?"
"There's no one else around?"
"I don't think so. I haven't seen anyone else in about ten minutes of trying to find my way out of here. I mean, there must be someone around to close up the building, I guess, but I haven't seen anyone. Or heard anyone for that matter. Until you. What do you need?"
"A plate of cheese fries would be nice."
"What?"
"Sorry, I shouldn't be joking. Especially not in my condition."
"Are you pregnant?"
"What? Good God no! Why would you even ask that?"
"You said 'in my condition'. That's a phrase that's usually bandied around when a woman is pregnant."
"Bandied around? Look, I'm not pregnant! Chance would be a fine thing!"
"What?"
"I mean, no, I'm not pregnant. Not remotely. But I really need to use the bathroom."
There was a loud pause. At least that's how it seemed to Jason. He broke it by saying, "Do you need me to come in there and help you?"
There was another pause. Not so loud this time. The voice said, "There's really no one else out there?"
"Not that I'm aware of. I can try and find someone if you need a woman?" he offered hesitantly.
"God no! Don't go! Please!"
Jason was not about to leave her after that. "I'm not going anywhere. How can I help you?"
She seemed to sigh and finally she added, "Okay, then I guess it'll have to be you. I can't wait."
"Okay. I'm coming in. Are you decent?"
"Of course I'm decent! What? Do you think I stripped down to the buff to go to the bathroom? My question is are you decent? I don't want some jackass of a dick coming in here."
"Well...I guess you'll have to trust me if you need help. I'm not a dick...I'm more of a nerd."
"A nerd I can use. Come in."
The bathroom was tiny. There was no bath, of course which begs the question as to why it was so typically referred to as a bathroom. There were two stalls and a stained and seedy-looking washbasin, of the kind that makes a person feel their hands would be dirtier after washing, no matter what those hands had been doing before.
But this was peripherally taken in. Jason's attention was almost entirely dominated by the sight of a petite Asian woman lying on the floor between a wheelchair and a stall. She was missing both her lower legs below the knee, but Jason felt his breath taken away by how attracted he was to her.
He immediately lost that feeling though when he saw how pained and pathetic she looked. "Oh my God! Are you okay?" he asked, hurrying toward her.
The woman looked relieved at his display of concern, like she'd finally made a judgment about him and it was a positive one. "I'm fine. But I really need to get seated on that can right there before a real disaster happens, if you know what I mean."
"How can I best help you?"
"Well, as you can see, I'm missing my legs, most of them anyway. Normally I can get around, but this is hardly a handicapped-friendly bathroom, and I hurt my arm yesterday, so I don't have the strength I have normally. I thought I could manage this, but I calculated wrong. Now I'm stuck. Fuck! This is embarrassing, but I can't wait any longer. Can you lift me onto the toilet? Please?"
"Sure. Is it okay if I just pick you up?"
"I don't see how you’re going to get me there otherwise," she said and Jason thought he detected a sense of humor in there somewhere.
He moved to put his arms around her. "Is this okay?" he asked rather apologetically, adding, "I know some people in your condition don't like to be...manhandled."
"My condition?"
"Yeah."
"You mean my handicap?"
"I was trying not to use that term."
"Why the fuck not? I am handicapped. You're not going to make me feel any better about losing legs and feet by pussy-footing around it. I'm not handicapable, or differently-abled, or any of those other bullshit words that are used to try and avoid the obvious, and spare feelings. I'm legless in Seabrook, and that's all there is to it. Just grab me and lift me. Not inappropriately, but soon! This is becoming important now."
Jason took hold of her as sensitively as he could and lifted her up. She was surprisingly light. Though her lower legs were amputated she still had her knees and a knob of flesh below each one like a token leg, but she had heaviest part of her legs still attached so she was hardly legless. Maybe she was bitter about her loss, but fortunately for him, she just happened to be a relatively lightweight person. He was a volunteer firefighter in Seabrook, which meant he had little to do in that regard, and he was therefore nowhere near as fit as a professional firefighter was required to be.
"Now what do you want?" Jason asked, and realized he was physically closer to this woman than he'd been to any woman in the better part of a decade. This was intimately close, and he blushed. Fortunately the woman didn't seem to notice. He guessed she was more concerned about her own situation right then. Which was understandable.
"Just sit me down there, please."
He sat her down on the toilet.
"Now if you could close the door?"
"Oh, sure. Sorry!" said Jason. He'd been rather standing around wondering what to do next when it ought to have been obvious. He just was not used to dealing with circumstances like this. Definitely not like this.
As he started to close it though, she said, "Sorry, I'm gonna need something more. She sighed heavily. "This is so fucking awkward."
"It's okay. Anything you need! I'm here."
She eyed him for a painful second. "Then…" she began, as if this was painful for her to say. Her face colored so much he could see it despite her relatively dark skin. She sighed again. Heavily. "Look, I'm gonna need you to pull down my panties. I can't get them with my arm the way it is. I'm sorry. Please? Quickly?"
Jason felt this was getting weird. Obviously her plight was real, but it somehow felt off, like maybe there was a hidden camera somewhere, or perhaps she had even less in her head than she did below her knees? He was beginning to feel really nervous about this, but she seemed like she needed his help. His heart in his mouth, he turned and reached toward her. Understanding he was about to pick her up, she reached toward him, too. In any other circumstance, and particularly in any other location, this could well have been a romantic interaction, but here it was nothing but a hugely embarrassing one for both of them, and especially for her. Jason tried to be sensitive about it, but his own embarrassment was tripping him up badly.
He held her firmly, but gently in one arm and with his other, he reached under her dress and delicately pulled that side of her panties down. It was awkward trying to do as she asked without making any more contact with her body that he was forced to; uncomfortable to say the least. She reached her good hand down to the other side to help and, he felt, to hurry things along and spare them both. She said quickly, "That's good, please sit me back down, right now!"
As he did so, she farted and couldn't hold it any longer. She took a dump right in the can as he felt the seat take her weight.
He let go of her, startled, but no more than she was. "I am so sorry!" she said, her face an obvious fiery red now.
Jason turned away and closed the door quickly. "It's okay," he said. "It’s perfectly fine. You gotta do what you gotta do. Don't sweat it."
"Sweating is hardly what that was!" She laughed oddly.
"Look, I’ll go wait outside if you like – give your some space?"
"No!" she said, and sounded quite desperate about it. "Look, this is already about as bad as it could ever get for me, so if you’d wait in here…that would be fine. Or you can wait outside if you'd prefer. I probably don't exactly smell my best right now."
"It's okay. I’ll wait here. It’s fine. I've eaten Vietnamese food," Jason said spastically and immediately regretted it.
"What?" came the sharp response.
"Oh god!' said Jason. "I mean…."
"Are you saying Vietnamese food smells...like shit? Or Vietnamese people smell like shit?"
"No! No! No-no! That's not what I meant. I meant I've eaten the food and been to the bathroom, so it’s not like this is an entirely alien smell to me."
"Really?"
"Fuck don't listen to me. I have no idea what I'm saying."
He was relieved to hear her laugh, but the sound was accompanied by other, less prepossessing noises and so that put a damper on things. After a few long minutes of silence, that is, no speaking, but other noises which sounded hugely loud in the silence, she announced, "Okay, I'm done. If you could help me back into the wheelchair I'd be grateful."
Jason gingerly re-entered the stall, looking like he feared that something might leap out of the shadows at him.
She pursed her lips at his expression and eventually she said, "You'll need to help me with my panties again. Sorry."
Hesitantly, he asked quietly, "do you need to be...wiped?'
She stared at him and then rapidly colored up and said, "Oh God, no! I did that. I still have one good arm. But that was sweet of you to offer. No, just the panties and into the chair, please. You're such a gentleman. And I am so mortified now, that for better or for worse, I shall never ever forget this, trust me."
There was an awkward refitting of her panties where Jason tried hard not to see things he shouldn’t, and pretty much succeeded, although that was more female thigh than he had seen in a decade and it was disturbingly appealing: dark, warm, with a silky frosting of very fine hairs; then she was covered up and back in her chair.
Next she wheeled herself awkwardly to the sink to wash-up, and she struggled with that, but managed. The sinks were too high to be completely convenient for someone in a chair.
Jason offered to wheel her out to her car.
"You think I can't manage?"
"You said your arm was injured; I thought it might help."
The woman was silent for a minute and then it seemed like she came to a private resolution, and she agreed. "Yeah, okay. I could use your help. Plus you won't be ever able to find your way out of here without my sterling navigational skills."
"Agreed."
So that's how they ended-up in an uncomfortably deserted parking lot together. Their cars were, curiously enough, parked side-by side, she in a handicapped space, he in the next space over which hadn't been reserved for anyone special, which was about where he felt he was at in his life.
He wheeled her as she directed to the appropriate door of the car and she busied herself getting in while he stood by in case he was needed. He was, but only a little. It was her arm again.
"What on Earth did you do to your arm that's made it so problematical?"
"Problematical?' she asked, but she was smiling now. "That's not a word I hear every day."
"You should get out more!" Jason joked and then blushed thinking he might have upset her with his ham-fisted comment. How the hell was he to know how he should behave around a woman, especially one as feisty and attractive as this one ?
She regarded him evenly for a moment and then smiled. "I don't even know your name," she observed. "My white knight, and I haven't been courteous enough to ask!"
"Yep, I'm about as white as you can get, I guess."
"That's not what I meant and I think you know it! So what is your name?"
"I'm Jason; Jason Tan."
"Tan? That sounds Asian, but you don't look Asian. You don’t even look tan!"
"It’s not Asian, it's Welsh. I tracked it down once just out of curiosity. I don't even know how far back I’d have to go to find a Welsh ancestor. I always thought my family was Dutch on one side and English on the other."
"You’re not American?"
Jason stared for a second, becoming flustered. "Um, yes, I'm American. I'm talking about ancestry."
"I'm just messing with you. I don't give a damn about ancestry. I'm American and that's it. You don't get people from other countries obsessing over what fraction of which country they can be divided up into. It's bullshit. I'm American and that's it."
"So where’s your MAGA cap?" Jason joked. Almost at once he began thinking he had blundered into yet another bad and potentially trouble-causing joke. He should just shut the hell up.
The woman almost spat onto the ground laughing. "I don't buy into those divisive politics. America's always been great as far as I'm concerned."
Jason was relieved to hear it. He felt the same way, with a few exceptions.
There was a slightly awkward silence for a minute and then when she looked like maybe she was starting to leave, he blurted out, "Sooo, you know my name but I don't know yours. Or do you wish to remain anonymous after this evening? I’ll completely understand if you do."
She laughed and it was a laugh that made a person smile. At least it did Jason. He said, completely unselfconsciously and without any affectation, "You have an adorable laugh. I could listen to that forever."
Then he blushed again.
She turned and eyed him appreciatively now, which made him blush more. There was a distinct burning in his ear lobes.
She observed, "So now you're trying to hit on the crippled girl, huh? You saved me from shitting in my pants and now you want to take me on a date or something? That sounds a bit weird to say the least."
Jason blushed even harder. He stuttered three different attempts at a response, but got no further than the first syllable in each of them. Finally, as she watched him like he was some sort of microbe under a scope, he said, "Well, yeah, um, I thought...um...maybe…but no...it's fine. I mean…I understand. Er…um…I'd better get going. It's probably going to take me the rest of the night to find my way back home through these twisted streets." He turned.
"Hey? Where are you going?"
Jason half-turned back toward her. He said, "I was going to let you get going. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable. You don't owe me a thing. Really. We don't know each other and it is dark and deserted out here. I didn't want you to feel threatened."
"Why would I feel threatened? Are you dangerous?"
"Me?" Jason asked as though there were fifty people around and he wasn't sure who she was addressing. He turned fully toward her which she saw as a sign of honesty. Or of someone who knew body language well enough to fake a sign of honesty.
He said, "Hell no. I'm about as limp as they come…um...I mean, you know, as not dangerous as…oh fuck!' He sighed heavily like he was ready to give up on everything, maybe including his sorry life. "Look, I'm just going to go home and shoot myself." He hesitated, realizing what he'd said was stupid at best. He tried, "I'm kidding. Really, I'm not a threat, not even to myself. Honest. Unless I get lost on the way home and get really pissed off."
The woman bit her lower lip, endearingly making her mouth crooked. Jason was entranced. She said, "You know, I truly believe you. I think I feel safe telling you everything about me now!" Her tone indicated sarcasm, but not in a mean way.
"Oh! Sorry!" said Jason, and he stood looking lost, if not completely forlorn by now.
She eyed him with amusement and said, "Don't you use your phone to navigate?"
"I've never bothered with that. I'm not sure I'd know how to set it up to do that."
Hand me your phone. I can set it up for you."
"Oh! Okay," said Jason, blithely handing over his seven-hundred dollar phone to a stranger.
The woman took it and started the car. She said, "Thanks! See you!" and began to back out of the parking lot.
Jason freaked. "Hey!" he yelled.
The woman stopped the car mostly because she was laughing so hard she was struggling to safely control it. "You should have seen your face! Did you really think I’d run off with your phone after you helped me in there? Okay, seriously let me set this up for you. What's your destination?"
Jason, having learned his lesson, did not give her his home address. Instead, he gave her his office address because he knew perfectly well how to get home from that area.
She spent a couple of minutes tinkering with the phone. She was far more adept with it than he was. She quickly handed it back to him with his route marked on a map. She said, "If you plug that into your car, and assuming it’s not an antique car, then it should be able to pick up the route and tell you where to turn and that. You good now?"
"Yeah! I guess. Thanks."
"No, thank you!" she said, and meant it. Then she backed out of the parking space and drove off.
"Any time you need help in the can let me know! I'm free!" Jason called in a poor and belated attempt at humor, but he couldn’t tell if she'd heard him.
Chapter 2
Two weeks later, as he was walking out of the University of Houston to his car in yet another in the endless series of parking lots his life sometimes seemed to have become, Jason's phone rang.
He'd spent every waking hour of every day of those two weeks thinking about The Asian as he thought of her, always in initial caps and italics. There was no other way available to him to think of her. He had never stopped kicking himself for screwing-up in his failure to find the courage to ask her out properly. She was the most exciting and interesting woman he'd met in years, the first he'd been interested in, and now she was gone and he had no way to contact her.
He had considered all manner of increasingly bizarre schemes, so many so that he began to feel dirty and stalker-ish. He had considered even going so far as to call the playhouse to see if he could contact her through them, but he was stopped by two things: first, his inability to cook up any sort of story that didn't sound threatening, and second by his sure knowledge that even if he thought up a watertight plan, he would never have the confidence to carry it off successfully. Maybe, he'd thought at one point, he could get a volunteer job there and see if she might be on a mailing list or something? In the end, he'd decided that he should just give up on any hope of her, and resolve not to be such a loser if he ever again met anyone who intrigued and motivated him like she had.
So he fished it out of his jacket pocket, hit the accept button and put it to his ear, convinced that the call was someone from the University calling him with some issue. He'd not gone anywhere but straight out of the door after his last class, so he hadn't looked in on the staff room, and now he didn't look who was calling, but halted with the phone to his ear, ready to turn around and head back into the building. He just answered with his customary "English Department, Jason Tan speaking."
"I thought you said you were American?" said a rather familiar voice. Jason enjoyed the voice, but had no real idea who it could be, yet it seemed so much like someone he knew.
"I am American!" he said rather indignantly. Hadn’t someone else challenged him on this recently? Then he had it. He added, "This isn't an Asian woman who needs help in the bathroom again, is it?"
She laughed and he knew it was her. "Yes, it is, but I'm American, not Asian! And I don't need help in the bathroom. That's only on Wednesday evenings."
"Aren't you also Asian?"
There was a pause and then a reluctant, "I guess."
"I still don't know your name. Do you like your anonymity so much that you pursue it always?"
Jade warmed at the way he spoke. She said, "It serves its purpose, but coincidentally, that's exactly why I was calling."
"About your anonymity?"
"Exactly! Would you really like to find out what my name is?"
"I confess I now have no other purpose in life."
He had said it so matter-of-factly that she laughed, a real belly laugh and it sounded sexy as hell.
He smiled at it and said, "Seriously, I can’t keep thinking of you as that reluctant Asian woman. It’s driving me nuts."
"I'm driving you nuts? That's very interesting."
She sounded flirtatious and Jason blushed hugely. "Let’s just say our evening together was unforgettable, he managed, and was pleasantly surprised by his resourcefulness and lack of bungling.
"Oh!" she said, in what sounded like a pleasantly surprised tone, like his comment had, for once, hit straight home and not taken any detours on the way.
There was a laugh in her voice still, and after it, there was a pause before she said, "Well look, and this is a one-time offer: you can find out my name if you come to dinner with me tonight. Assuming you want to. And you're free to. I'm buying. If that helps."
He thought that she sounded vaguely desperate, and Jason was not about to let her suffer alone. "I'd be honored," he said gallantly. "I'm already looking forward to you. It."
When Zayn Stone, a budding author having some success with his work, is invited by his two closest friends, married swingers Donna and Chris, to take a trip to Hawaii as a plus one on the superyacht of the millionaire number two in a very successful Chinese robotics corporation, he thinks it will be an interesting experience. He has no idea.
Both Chris and Donna have designs on him, and then there's a murder in a locked cabin and a host of suspects. There's the spoiled actress, the MVP basketball player, the reclusive supermodel, the two power-lifting German crew members, and others. Can he even survive the trip, let alone figure out whodunit? The answer will surprise you.
This story is very loosely linked with Two, if by Machine which takes place after this one does.
Sample text to come
The only collection of poetry and short stories from Ian Wood. Day Night Clouds like broken ice shelves thrust into the sky, Skies like blue birds into the dusk indigo, Birds like dead leaves drifting in the trees, Barren trees like cold spiders climbing into the Sun, The Sun like an inflamed navel belly up into the earth, The Earth's whirled globe's fears spun into a daze, The day's worn raiment falls into the night.
For Jury
When I found you'd forged my name upon your heart
I fell apart.
Keep Sake
I pawned my life for you before the bishop. A queen and king we were enjoying nights en amour. Now alone in my embattled castle I keep your memory.
Lace of Ice
Splendid, thy frail, chill life and oft squandered, Thou com'st upon us rare and delicate, Yet, ere mortal eye or thought hath wandered, Thou hast away to keep thy tryst with fate. Thy figure so composed, of filigree White lace deft formed by nature's surest hand, Thy beauty lieth in thy symmetry Which man ne'er canst begin to understand. Thy work is clear; thou com'st in thy day, Since none hath given thought to furnish wreath, With sage respect to settle down and lay, In wintertime, a shroud o'er nature's death.Thy substance clear, thy principle opaque, How impotent the name we give snowflake.
Manuscript Found in a Lead Casket
Metropolitan Police Service
New Scotland Yard
8-10 Broadway, Westminster
London, SW1H 0BG
From: :Sgt. Russell Edmonds
To: Chief Superintendent James Maxwell
Date: May 14
Subject:: MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A LEAD CASKET
Attached is a transcription of the manuscript you were informed of by Inspector Desmond.
It was untitled, undated except by the text itself, and written in an educated hand (apparently in some haste; the handwriting deteriorates towards the end) by someone who evidently knows something about the medical profession.
Enclosed with it was a mummified half-kidney taken from a mature human female who suffered chronic interstitial nephritis, also known as Bright's Disease.
The true identity of the author is still unknown. If it is indeed who it is claimed to be in the manuscript, we have been able to confirm the graduation mentioned. We were about to shelve the file when Inspector Desmond suggested you might like to see it. Any comments you may have should be forwarded to his office.
The Manuscript follows.
To whom it may concern (and God grant they be a compassionate soul),
My signature below testifies that this is an authentic record of certain events with which I propose to acquaint you, pertaining to my conduct during the last four months. Soon, I will take 125 grains of potassium cyanide which is more than enough to assure my death in minutes, no matter who is in control of me.
It may seem easy to write brave words knowing they shall be read only after I am gone, but I assure you, sir, that my death is no cowardly thing. I know I must face my maker and justice more solemn than any Earthly court can mete. It is no journey for the meek, but it is the only course I have, for my crime would be infinitely worse should I not, or should blame for my sins fall upon an other.
Forgive me, I ramble. I must tell my story while there is yet time, but I must digress briefly once more to acquaint you with sundry personal details. I am Thomas Henry Jekyll, a Doctor of Medicine, having obtained my doctorate from Canterbury in 1867. I live and work from my home near Whitechapel, the address of which you must know if you are in possession of this. I am approaching my 42nd year; God grant that I see it not.
In living so close to Whitechapel, one cannot remain unaware of the life style of the poor and homeless; the wretched beggars, the chronically ill and handicapped, unwed mothers, destitute families and other detritus of haughty society, cast from sight into the hovels and gutters of proud London Town. In the East End alone there is in excess of a million souls forced to live their appalling lives in conditions of which a rat would be ashamed, and where more than half of all children die ere their fifth year.
I write of this not to plead social causes, for their plight is plainly visible to anyone who wishes to disturb his self from his comfort and walk Corn Hill to the disgraceful streets and alleys of Aldgate. I made this same journey as a young man, and felt I was in a foreign land, for familiarity was nowhere to be my guide. Were I less stout-hearted, I would have left the area never to return, but a physician must live with his work and these people are my work.
The humourless irony of it is that if I were not of wealthy origin myself, they would have no health care. They cannot pay, and no man can earn his keep by means of the meagre fruits or vegetables which some do, on occasion, offer in return for their health. Make no mistake, sir, their health is their life, for it is all that they have.
As a young man I vowed that I would rid London of its worst horrors or die in the attempt. How foolish of me to imagine that even a lifetime of devotion could change by one iota the conditions around me. Yet how true has my solemn oath become? Yes, I could cure them, but what then remained save for them to return to the very pit of pestilence from which they had contracted their ills to begin with? It was merely a treadmill, and I was achieving nothing.
I became angry with myself, but more so with a society where pharisaical Christians, so eager to indulge in their catechetical claptrap in church, mouth their hollow pieties and then ignore aught but their selves for the rest of the week. Were Jesus, as He has promised so by the end of this century, to return today and see what I see daily, His anger would exceed even that unleashed upon the money changers in the temple. Yet I cannot forget His words when he said, "The poor ye shall have with ye always." Perhaps He knew of the plight in which I was to find myself.
I confess it was religious thought which led to my downfall, for the more I considered the atrocity of Christian indifference to fellow man, the more my thoughts lingered on the problem of Original Sin. It is that spark of Lucifer within each of us which has lighted our path to these woes and which keeps man in the position he suffers today.
I ruminated frequently upon the problem, and one day there came upon me a revelation: could I not, using my profound medical skills honed in Satan's own blacksmith shop in the East End, place a barrier between man's good nature and his evil one? Could I not make it so strong that it could never be breached and in effect, turn back the clock five thousand years to those wonderful days when the Garden of Eden stood resplendent, its gates open to all?
Like a madman, I began at once to pursue my goal. I spent many years researching man's brain, both from the voluminous literature available and from my own visits with physicians and patients. I began experimenting upon animals with various formulae, the nature of which I dare not now reveal for the knowledge of tools of my failure must die with me. My animal research was a failure of course, for animals have no soul; however, I learned enough from them to know I would not be poisoned by the concoctions I brewed, for upon whom should I test them if not myself?
The first time I tried the final solution was upon a Friday, the third day of August. Having seen the rapid effect this drug had upon animals, I foolishly expected the same, but in five hours I perceived nothing and a repeated dose was equally ineffective.
It had been an exceedingly long day for me. I had become tired, to venture nothing of frustration, and I decided to adjourn for the day. This tiredness, I now know, is one of the most insidious effects of the potion, a sign that it was working its wickedness unbeknownst to me. Another vile subtlety inherent in the evil concoction is its power to accumulate in the body until it overwhelms, as do those inexorably marching ants of the Dark Continent, or so I have heard at the royal Society.
That evening, I was in bed by the unearthly hour of six o'clock and was asleep in an instant. I slept like a new baby until late the following morning.
I recalled neither dream nor disturbance to my sleep, but upon awaking I felt, to put it in common parlance, that I was not my self. I spent the rest of that day examining my notes and recalculating my formulae, but I found no error and as the day wore on, I felt increasingly morose and frustrated. My temper became tarnished to the extent that I had no patience with my work at all. By dusk, I felt so claustrophobic in my cloistered environment and my mouth was so dry, that I could stand it no longer. Incensed with my failure, I cast my chair roughly across the room and rushed out without even taking my top coat, desperate to find a drink somewhere.
This is startling to me now because, apart from an occasional cup of cheer in which I indulge myself with friends at Christmastide, I am teetotal. It was, however, a greater perplexity to me to learn that the place I sought out was the very opposite of the kind of publick house I might have visited were I of that propensity. It was a most sordid and exceedingly bawdy place, full of foul odours, tobacco smoke and persons of a most disreputable nature. I remember ordering two drinks, but beyond that I can recall nothing.
The next morning I felt positively wretched. I also had the disturbingly vague recollection of a dream in which I had, God forgive me, trampled upon a child!
So far from my nature is such an act that I endeavoured to recall the dream in order to attempt an interpretation after the manner of Mr. Freud, but despite the stunning verisimilitude of the act itself, the rest is a haze. I knew not to whom the child belonged, nor why I should have treated her thus (it was a small girl). In the dream, I had knocked her to the ground for no greater transgression on her part than happening accidentally in my way. I believe I kicked her and stepped on her as I walked away. "Thank God," I thought, "It is only a dream."
As time passed and the disturbing memories of my wild night receded I began to feel better. I discovered a renewed vigor for my experiment, and once again set about trying to resolve the problems with my calculations. Returning to the beginning, I went over every note and figure, keenly observing details of every experiment and every refinement. I was both relieved and distressed to find no flaw in my work. My only recourse was to assume that the materials I had used to mix the first batch of elixir were impure, and this was why it would not work as expected.
My next task, then, was to secure a small stock of the purest forms of the chemicals upon which I could lay my hands. Once done, I personally filtered and refined them myself until I was certain that what remained was an elixir as pure as my intentions were in engaging in this pursuit. It was with an uplifted heart that I consumed my next dose on a Thursday, the sixteenth day of August. Again, I was both surprised and depressed by the lack of any perceptible effect. Were my calculations correct, as I expected them to be, I should have begun to feel purified in the first hour, but in twice that time, nothing had transpired.
Wearying of my work I lay down in the afternoon for a short rest, thinking to resume my experimentation that evening. Imagine my utter astonishment then, upon waking to find that it was already the morning of the next day! What had I created here, naught but a sleeping draught? Again I had a thunderous hangover, but worse, I had suffered a nightmare so appalling that it brings upon me a cold sweat to recall it even now.
In this dream I had visited a despicable hostelry that I am sure I have never seen before, and I drunk a considerable quantity of ale. I dreamed that I had somehow become involved in the most ferocious altercation with a fellow patron of the establishment. So contentious were we that we resorted to fisticuffs, and I was knocked to the ground. It was the most ungentlemanly and loutish brawl I with which was ever acquainted. So incensed was I by my ignominious defeat that I awaited my foe in the street and followed him as he left.
Even the most gracious streets of London are ill lit at night. In the location I found myself, one felt one could almost grasp the darkness physically, and wring secrets from it, so palpable was it.
I followed my quarry until I had him cornered, whereupon I set about him with my cane, thrashing him until he fell to the ground and beating him into insensibility. My rage was so furious that I did not stop even then. I am quite sure I killed him. My conscious mind insisted that it was only a nightmare; nevertheless it was so real to me and so singular in its apparition that I became convinced that something in my elixir must be causing it.
In consequence, I used only a half measure when I took my next dose on Thursday, the thirtieth day of August. In this way I hoped to defeat both the tiredness and the bad dreams, but fatigue immediately overtook me and I fell asleep where I sat. It was late the next morning when I awoke to find that I was in my bed. I had only a mild hangover, but this was considerably overshadowed by the new dream I had had. Was my obsession driving me insane?
In the dream, I had been drinking again and was stalking the streets of Whitechapel to slake another thirst. I happened upon a woman who, though she looked older with grayness frosting her dark hair, could not have progressed much into her fourth decade. She was drunk, and asked me what I thought of her 'jolly bonnet'. She appeared inordinately proud of her tattered black straw hat. Her claim that a 'gentleman' had given it to her implied that she was neither new to persons of my circumstance, nor to those of my disposition.
I was later to discover that her name was Mary Nichols; at the time she called herself 'Polly'. I gave my name as Edward Hyde, although I confess I know not from whence it came. The only Edward I am familiar with (though not on personal terms) is the Queen's son; perhaps 'Hyde' is a perversion of 'hide'.
'Polly' said she sought four pence 'doss money' (to rent a bed for the night) and left me not unacquainted with what she was prepared to surrender in return. We halted in a gateway leading to a stable and she came close to me. I was not tired from walking, yet my breath was heavy, and despite Polly's appalling lowness and commonality, I felt desire for her which I had, until then, never felt for any woman.
The exigencies of the medical profession provide for a lonely life. Those few good ladies for whom I have felt romantic stirrings and who have not displayed an adverse disposition toward me in return, were not inclined to pursue their interest once they learned that I devoted my practice to the great unwashed of London. This proclivity on my part has not sat well in genteel company. Conversely, the inamorata with whom I liaised in my dream was anything but genteel, yet paradoxically, my passion for her was unbounded.
Aware that she had so bestirred me, Polly offered to 'take me inside' for the full four pence. I thought she meant to take me into the stables for some 'love play,' but upon receipt of the money, she immediately lifted her linsey frock and petticoats. It was by this act that she engendered in me the most grotesque feelings of abhorrence and revulsion I have ever experienced. My disgust for the woman was staggering. I began to detest the waif so profoundly that, God forgive me, I wanted her dead.
It was as though my wish had been granted by some ghastly Grimmsian goblin, for a large post mortem knife which, until then, I had been unaware I had with me, suddenly appeared in my hand. Swiftly, I slit the girl's throat with two massive slashes and laid her upon the ground.
I retrieved my money and was sickened to see her lying there, a look of utter surprise frozen forever on her prematurely aged physiognomy. Once, she had been a cheerful and harmless woman; now she was a cadaver, her life blood spreading amongst the cobbles as though it were beginning its own hue and cry for her murderer. Twisted and warped as I was, I became further enraged; not only had she attempted to take money from me, she was, even in death, seeking to have me tried for murder! In a blaze of purest hatred, I slashed at her like a man possessed.
Though I held it as a dream, I shudder at the horrific memory of that night; a memory which is not only complete, but indelible. It is the most vivid dream I have ever had, and I lay in my bed for many minutes in all but stark terror before I felt satisfied that it was a dream and nothing more. It was at this point that I decided to cease taking the potion I had created until I determined what could cause such a horrifying reaction from it.
A week went by without my sampling the elixir; instead, I fond myself turning more attention to my work as a physician (which I had not neglected, but which had inevitably suffered). Time passed quickly, and I dreamed no more dreams.
The work I engaged myself in was tedious. These days it seemed more so than usual and I am ashamed to confess that my forbearance with the shortcomings of my patients was limited. It was heart-warming to find that every 'infraction' they perpetrated seemed trifling in comparison with the birth of a delightful and healthy baby to a child of fifteen years, named Marie, whom I had delivered at her own birth and been close to since. My joy was complete when she told me she would name the child Henrietta in my honour! I shall see no more of her or her child, but I take some satisfaction in knowing that she will receive comfort from my estate.
If anyone can use my worldly goods to help the poor, Marie can, for she is the most canny female I have ever met. Although limited in skills as a secretary, she has been of inestimable assistance to me on many occasions because of her knowledge of the area and the conditions of its people, and we have shared many a high adventure together in pursuit of my calling. Sad thought it may seem, Marie is indeed, the closest I can come to calling a friend.
My oasis of calm was not to last. Upon the seventh day of September, when nothing could have been further from my mind than my troublesome experiment, I happened into the laboratory for an ingredient for a medication, and my eyes immediately alighted on the small green bottle which contained my elixir. I tell you it was a shock to see that bottle sitting there when my mind had been so happily engaged elsewhere. It seemed to glint evilly in the light as though it were a living thing taunting and mocking me. I have found myself wondering oftentimes since if Eve had felt this selfsame way when she had first espied the serpent in Eden.
Naturally, my inclination was to wonder what would happen if I should take a drink. If I had indeed succeeded in developing the very drug I was seeking, would there not be a struggle before I became used to it? The more I dwelt on the subject, the more logical it seemed to me. Must I not expect the sin I had so long embraced as part of my character to fight like the very Devil before it would relinquish its hold upon my soul? Were my dreams not a sign that, as one of my patients might say, "The badness was coming out of me?"
God forgive me; I thought I had hit upon the truth at last! I know not what possessed me, for without even a pause to consider, I consumed the remainder of the foul potion. It approximated to a double measure. No sooner was my vessel emptied than the profoundest of fatigues overcame me. I passed out, and a most awful dream whelmed me completely.
I was again in the hostelry aforementioned, swilling ale as though my stomach were afire. After a time, during which I drunk the slimy brew far beyond my capacity and yet seemed unaffected, I left the establishment intent upon alternative diversion. My feet led me to Hanbury Street when I met Annie.
In truth, she gave me quite a turn, for I thought it was Polly come back to haunt me, so alike were they. Having arranged the terms of our assignation, she led me to a narrow alley between rows of houses. Turning her back, she lifted her skirts as was the custom of prostitutes wishing to avoid pregnancy. I grabbed her and turned her toward me, but she cried 'No!' rather loudly and I was assailed by an immensely overpowering desire to shut her up for good.
I can no longer see the colours red and silver as noble after that night of horror, for I wielded my knife as a conductor does his baton and these two colours mixed freely. Such was the presence of this dream that when I awoke, that I began a search of my clothing, seeking traces of the night before, but I discovered nothing untoward and my heart was eventually quieted. You must understand, then, how absolute was my dumbfoundedness when I read in the day's newspaper of the exact crime I dreamed I had committed!
The body of 'Dark Annie' Siffey was found in the same place I had left it in my dream. The gory details of her disembowelment permitted no doubt that I had indeed witnessed this murder! My loss for an explanation was complete. If I had committed the crime, why did it seem as a dream? Why was there no evidence upon me? If I had not, how could I be so intimately acquainted with its details?
What intrigued me, as my initial fear subsided, was the thought that there may be some property of my elixir which permitted a view through the eyes of the murderer as he went about his evil trade. Perhaps by draining evil from my body, removing the plank from my eye, as it were, I was acutely able to perceive the motes in the eyes of others! This revelation astounded me. I confess I became intoxicated with its implications. I had not paid great attention to the newspapers of late, but noting that there was recorded an earlier murder of this nature which seemed to coincide with the date of my previous dose of elixir, I investigated more thoroughly at the newspaper offices.
Of a certainty, the very day after my dream there was an account of the discovery of the murdered Ann Nichols, the details of which I already knew from 'memory'. A wonderful thought now taunted me: could I possibly, by pursuing my experiment, bring the murderer to book? I resolved to continue, but my elixir was depleted and I was short of vital ingredients. Since it took some small time to procure and refine more, it was not until the twenty-ninth day of September that I consumed my next draught.
I had the foresight this time to consume it as a nightcap in bed, but no sooner had my head hit the pillow than it seemed that I arose to go out again. As I passed through the hall I had the presence of mind to look into the mirror, thinking to see who the murderer was, but all I saw was myself. This sight was shocking enough, believe me. My appearance was that of a considerably younger man! I have oft times been complimented on the way I carry my age, but even in my youth I had never looked so well. I appeared to be slimmer, healthier, and more vigorous than I have ever been, but it was nonetheless my own face which gazed curiously back at me. Its shiny black hair, seemingly shorter at the back than at the front (it is necessary to keep hair short, I am ashamed to say, in this district because of the omnipresence of lice), fell in unruly commas across my forehead, and my 'toothbrush' moustache was, as always, immaculately groomed.
It was a strange feeling to be looking over the shoulder of Mister Hyde. I could feel his thoughts sucking on me like so many medicinal leeches, but few of them made much sense. Although my physician's credentials gave access to some of the most exclusive clubs in London, Hyde made directly for his dowdy hostelry in Whitechapel where he began to drink apace, as if to make up for lost time.
'We' stayed drinking until well beyond midnight, before taking a stroll along Berner Street where we met 'Long Liz' Stride. After the now familiar transaction, Hyde took her into an alley, but disturbed by the sound of voices close by, he had time to do no more than slit her throat and leave her. I could feel how happy he was with his achievement, yet he was still unsatisfied. It would appear that unless the gore is greater each time, he is displeased with his grisly work. Someone would have to pay for this interruption.
Her name turned out to be Kate Kelly.
We, Hyde and I, met her just off Mitre square, and walked into one of the adjoining alleys following behind a policeman who was unaware of our presence. This proximity favoured Hyde's ghastly work, for I later learned that the square is patrolled every fifteen minutes and he would most assuredly have been caught had he not the fortune to be following that officer so closely.
Miss Kelly breathed heavy fumes of liquor over us as she explained that she walked thus in the footsteps of the law for the very purpose of avoiding attack. I could tell that Hyde derived perverse pleasure from this discovery and from the shock he knew the policeman would have when he would find the body shortly after. Hyde slashed at the girl with a madman's glee until he was almost on the verge of being caught, whereupon he fled home like a startled cat.
When I awoke the next day, dry of mouth and fearful, I prayed against hope that I would espy nothing in the newspaper, but I was to be disappointed.
GRISLY DOUBLE MURDER! the newspaper called with seeming shrill voice, and the tragic details were all too familiar.
That selfsame day, in a fit of uncontrollable anguish, I destroyed every evidence of my potion; all my notes and calculations, all the apparatus used in the experiment, and the ingredients; even the elixir itself. I could no longer bear what was happening or where it would lead. Shamefully, I confess, I cared at that moment not whether the murderer was I or an other; all I wished for was to be at peace and to forget.
When my work of destruction was done I felt better, foolishly believing it was all behind me now. I swore that I would never again delve into these things.
It took many days to recover from the awful shock of that night. I was numbed by fear and racked by cramps, convulsions, night sweating, and shivers which I believe were due to my complete abandonment of the potion. I bore this with a stoicism of which Zeno himself would have been proud, knowing that even torment such as this was better than the horror I experienced with each damnable dose of that Satan's concoction.
On the seventeenth day of October, I learned that the police had received a letter enclosing a piece of kidney and claiming it was Kate Kelly's. The kidney had come from someone suffering Bright's disease (a wasting of the kidney due to excessive consumption of alcohol and so named after Doctor Richard Bright, an eminent physician who died some thirty years ago).
I mention this gruesome fact only because today I discovered the other half of that kidney in my laboratory. It was in the same condition as the one sent to the police. I have no idea how it came to be here, but Hyde now knows where I do my work.
It was at this time that I began to wonder if I had done permanent damage with my experiment; I was experiencing increasing spells of nausea, faintness, dizziness and extreme fatigue. A thorough physical examination conducted by myself revealed no explanation save the putative after-effect of my elixir.
As October progressed, so did my symptoms and I believe I took to walking in my sleep. Occasionally I would find myself in some room in my home without any recollection of how I had arrived there. At one point, I 'awoke' to find myself about to step out of my front door. Again, I knew not where I was going, nor why. This activity brought a new torture: what if I had been walking in my sleep when those murders took place? What if I had, in this damnable somnambulent state, perpetrated them all?
That same day I hastened back to the newspaper offices with the dates of every dose of elixir I had taken. It did not take long to find an account of the murder of the man I had fought with in my 'dream'. It was exactly as I have described it. The fact that I could not locate a story about the child I trampled did not surprise me: child abuse is so prevalent in this parish, it is hardly likely to make newspaper copy.
Next, I hailed a cab and bade the driver take me to the district which my counterpart, the abominable Mister Hyde, had made his haunt. Having left the cab and walked only two streets, I was in familiar territory. Mouth agape, I stared at this place to which I had never been, but which looked like a home. I noticed that my clothing was attracting attention since it was not the attire of an habitual visitor to the district (at least not in daylight hours). I entered the nearest inn so that I could sit and gather my thoughts for a few minutes before I going on.
If I had been aghast outside, then I was stupefied within. The infernal place was the very image of my nightmares! As I stood there unable to comprehend my circumstances, the man who tended the crude and rough bar turned to me and suddenly said, "Good gracious! It's Mister Hyde! My, you do look like you've taken a turn, sir. Would you like a drink? A pint of your usual, is it?" I confess I turned upon my heel and ran from the place like a frightened child.
My stomach turned cartwheel somersaults at the foul realisation that I had indeed been sleep walking and visited this place. Did this mean that I perpetrated the other horrors, the recounting of which, even in this feeble narrative, has given me tremours? I had no recourse other than to believe it so. There is no escaping the facts: whenever I had taken the potion, some horror had occurred, of which I had intimate knowledge. When I had not partaken of it, and particularly in the last few weeks, nothing untoward had happened. I am the murderer!
My last remaining hold on sanity was that I had ceased imbibing of the drug and the horror had ceased. In one cowardly sense, I am innocent, for it was the drug which must bear the blame. It was not I who had done these things, but my other self. If I confessed to the police (and even if they believed me!), I would be of use to no one, for I would be hanged, and none would remain to carry on my practice and help the poor of this parish. It seemed clear: I must go on. As long as the past remained there, I could learn to live with the horror of it.
My guilt and torment would be a greater penalty than the hangman could offer and I could at least attempt to expiate my deeds by devoting the rest of my life to my work with the poor. Beside this, if I ceased taking my drug it would in effect kill Hyde, who was the real villain, and justice would thereby be served.
Thus pacifying my guilt, I struggled on, trying to continue with my work and live with my self, but the memories would not recede and my health deteriorated. By early November I could not leave the house. My periods of consciousness were becoming less and less. I was subject to frequent blackouts, sleep walking, and extreme disorientation. In the end, I reached the point where I could no longer rise from my bed, so ghastly did I feel. It was as though there was something tearing away at my insides, trying to split me in two.
I knew it must be the drug. God curse the day I ever invented that foul substance, and curse me for being the hand by which it came to be concocted, but I was indeed paying handsomely for my crimes.
The macabre climax to my story came last night, or rather in the early hours of this morning. I had lain in bed all day yesterday, feeling as though I were dying, and even begging that it be soon. I was weak, for I had not strength to eat anything in two days, but last night I dragged myself to the kitchen to make tea and suddenly I felt something burst inside of me.
I immediately feared for my appendix, but instead of growing weaker as I ought to have done if such were the case, I felt stronger by the minute, and more resilient than ever! I was younger, more virile and more vital than I have been in many a year. The very next thing which happened was even more curious; as my strength seemed to grow, so my fatigue seemed to increase. The oppressive tiredness I had experienced after imbibing my elixir crept over me like a familiar cat into a familiar lap. It was a most rare phenomenon I assure you, and it perturbed me greatly for it had been over a month since I had last partaken of that Devil's drink.
I did grow exceedingly weary, but I managed to remain awake this time, hoping I could perhaps influence events in some way. I was so very wrong; without warning, my whole personality changed to that base and brutish abomination I had come to know as Hyde. All remorse and fear were gone, and his mind flitted from one disgusting pleasure to another, from one unmentionable scheme to many. It was a fearful feeling, riding on the back of this base beast, and there was not a thing in creation I could do.
I knew at last that the battle I had fought for the good of my soul had been lost. Brute evil had won.
Was I then condemned to quite literal incarceration with this beast for the rest of my natural life? Was there to be no respite? I know of no antidote to the potion, and in this condition I would not be able to concoct one if I knew its ingredients.
The disgusting degenerate who had become my unwitting chauffeur donned my topcoat and hat and hailed a cab. I knew where we were going before even he did. When the landlord at the inn commented upon my behaviour earlier, Hyde ignored him. What awareness he carried of me I knew not, but I could surmise that he was as ignorant of me as he was of manners and good sense though we exist as one, and I, for my part, am party to his innermost perverse thoughts.
He treated the landlord as though he were the lowest thing in creation, and consumed pint after pint of his rancid brew, spending my good money into the bargain. It seemed to me that he could only carry one thought at a time, for he considered nothing other than beer while he consumed his fill. Perhaps it was this limited ability which kept him unaware of me.
Occasionally he would cast an eye disdainfully about the place and I was treated to a bumbling, animal thought regarding one patron or another. His brain is incredibly dull-witted and slow, and it was with this realisation that I felt I might be able to make some advantage of his slothful mind and gain the upper hand.
Were he a separate soul, I would never have dreamed of acting against such a monster, but he could scarcely beat himself to death, could he? Bolstered by this thought, I was perforce condemned to bide my time while he finished his swilling. It was very late before he arose to leave. His action awoke me I confess, since I had been sleeping; now, even awake, my mind was sluggish and swimming from the overwhelming amount of alcohol circulating in our blood.
It was a strange feeling to be dizzy to the very point of unconsciousness, yet unable to fall down or sleep because someone else was in control. The ale barely touched Hyde's mind at all. I knew full well what the plan was for his next pursuit and it was not long before he found a victim; London was teeming with them at this time of night.
She was a pretty young waif, who cannot have been above twenty-three. I could not help but feel sorry for her; a charming child thrown to the dogs by some misfortune of birth or circumstance, but my pity was curiously distorted by Hyde's abysmal cesspool of a mind, the thoughts from which assailed me constantly like breakers in the Thames estuary at high tide.
For the first time in my life, I looked upon a woman with naught save pure lust in my heart and began to contemplate the endless joys to be derived from a young, willing, and if not exactly favoured, then a not thoroughly spoiled woman such as poor Ann Kelly. It took all of my remaining strength to fight his mind and keep my own alert for an opportunity to thwart him, but I was hampered by my weakness, my drunkenness, and perversely, by his lack of evil intent toward her.
I had not yet caught even a hint of murder in his mind, only carnal lust and a desire to see it sated. I began to wonder if alone my conscious presence in his mind might prevent a tragedy. I dared to hope grimly that the worst I should suffer this night would be the shocking knowledge that I had stooped, how ever vicariously, to taking a harlot to pleasure. How tragically wrong I was!
Miss Kelly (I think she was not a relative of Kate Kelly) told Hyde that she wanted to talk to him that night about an important matter and if he wanted 'the pleasure', then he must discuss the business first. Hyde, I knew, had no clue as to what she referred, but he went with her anyway for reasons of his own. I was in no position to prevent him. Indeed, I was hard pressed merely to observe, let alone intervene, and I confess I was also driven by a certain morbid curiosity: I wished to study further my other self; as a scientist, some of my fear and revulsion was giving way to a compelling desire to examine this specimen as Mister Darwin might study a finch. I was also Miss Kelly's only protection from a fiend whom the Devil himself controlled.
She led Hyde to her room (which had the unfortunate number thirteen) located at a lodging house in Dorset Street. It was impossibly small, with the bed pushed up against the window, and a table lodged behind the door. The girl sat on the bed and bade Hyde sit by the table. When he complied, she calmly informed him that she was carrying his child and enquired as to what he proposed to do about it. This revelation struck me as a blow from John Sullivan, the professional pugilist.
Was this the result of some tryst between her and Hyde of which I was unaware? I had been somewhat non compos mentis for several weeks, but I felt I should remember such an event if it had indeed taken place. Besides, if it were such a short time ago, it was not likely that she could be so assured that she was with child by this early date.
A more likely explanation leapt to mind; suppose that young Ann Kelly was a good deal more clever than one was willing to credit her? Suppose she was less a prostitute than she was an extortionist and knowing Hyde to be rich and sluggish of mind, thought to make an easy penny out of him? She must have thought that Hyde's slow wit made him the perfect foil for such a scheme; before Hyde had been able to offer any reply at all, she revealed that she had been ill of late and was several weeks in arrears with her rent. She suggested that he could help her with that, too. I shivered in fear of Hyde's reaction. Ann Kelly did not know with whom she was treating.
I thought Hyde would instantly flare into an animal rage, but he said nothing. Though I could not understand his thought processes with a sufficient degree of clarity, I could feel them swimming around me like fat and lazy fish at feeding time. After a brief silence, he told the girl authoritatively that he would 'see her right' if she lay with him that night. To say that I was surprised by his attitude was to make an understatement of my feelings. In my ignorance, I could only ascribe his philanthropy to my presence in his conscience. Little did I know how wrong I was: Hyde was at his most cunning; despite his apparent slothfulness of mind, already he had hatched a plan to deal with this upstart, and it led to the most appalling consequences it has ever been my lot to witness. God grant that there never be another like it.
Miss Kelly was so convinced by Hyde's ploy that she at once arose and began to undress. As she did so, she laid her dingy clothes neatly folded upon a wicker basket. She gave lively discourse on all she had done that day, but her conversation was among the dullest I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Hyde was hardly aware of her; his thoughts were so subdued that I could catch few, but I knew he was not listening to a word she spoke; let me just confine myself to saying that such thoughts as his are born neither of this world nor the one above it.
Miss Kelly was soon undressed and stood coyly, but unashamedly naked by the fire. Had she bathed that week, she would have been very pretty; prettier by far than many an actress I have seen, but too thin for the stage. She was apparently waiting for some money before she would indulge Hyde any further.
He obliged her by laying on the table a five pound bank note. More than she would see in twice her years, it was obviously enough, for with a girlish giggle, she scampered into bed. When Hyde did not move to join her, she lowered the cover to reveal more of what she thought was her allure (in fact her allure was not her physical assets, but the charm of her youth).
With a playful giggle, she said, "Come now! You have paid in full for me. Do not do me the dishonour of being slow to take advantage, Sir!" It was the last laugh she would ever enjoy on this Earth, God rest her mortal soul. Hyde moved to the bed and looked at her for a few seconds, his thoughts so lewd as to exceed my ability to relate, but suddenly it was as if the door of an iron-smelting furnace had been opened in his brain. All I could perceive was a burning hatred beyond description and compare.
No magician ever produced a knife more deftly than he did then, nor with such drama and flourish.
Poor Miss Kelly held up both her hands as if that puny shield could stay Hyde's ferocity. She called out, "Murder!" but the cry was nothing more than the croak of a frog since her throat was so dry from talking.
Hyde wet it for her with my knife. The rest I cannot relate. God knows it is clear enough in my mind, but I cannot bring myself to commit such horror to the page in good conscience.
Some newspapers (which have not reported one half of the true horror) have tried to claim that this work must be that of a crazed surgeon, but a medical degree is the last necessity for such horror. The only requisite qualification is madness. Two hours had passed before Hyde was done with his grisly enterprise. In the end, God help me, there seemed to be far more of Ann Kelly on the walls than ever remained in bed.
Hyde slept like a dog last night; metaphorically, I could not even close my eyes. Instead I made this record. I have sought to blame Hyde for the murders, but the most anguishing discovery of all came to me last night. Hyde did indeed wish only to consort with his victims for carnal pleasure and if I had not shared his mind, none of these murders would have taken place. I am to blame for them.
I have reasoned that my morality would not countenance his consorting with prostitutes. If my conscience, outraged by his depravity, had not rebelled and deflected him from his purpose, he would not have flown into such twisted rages, torn between, on the one hand, his lust, and on the other, my disgust.
It seems that the only recourse I had left him with my piety, was to savagely destroy the object he so desired, but which my church upbringing would not let him possess. Separately, we each were innocent; together we were Satan personified.
He stirs now! I have my poison ready and must take it all before he can control my actions again. I am taking far more than I ever would think to kill me, for I have to think of Hyde. I fear a reasonable amount may not be enough for him; he is a demon. I shall hide this confession where he cannot find it by accident.
I must apologise sincerely for the gruesome nature of my narrative (perhaps Hyde controls me even in his sleep), but it is all the proof I have to offer. My only other is in the secure knowledge that the world will forever be free of this horror when I am at last gone from it. He comes. Forgive me God, for what I have brought upon this Earth. Now I take my poison and go before the highest court to face my accuser.
This is a true confession I so swear by God above and all that is good in the earth.
Thomas Henry Jekyll
Chief Superintendent Maxwell laid the manuscript down and swivelled in his chair to look out of his third floor window in the New Scotland Yard Building.
There was something about those details.
The style appeared too authentic to fake convincingly, even ignoring the circumstances under which it was found. Although such a fraud could be perpetrated, why would anyone go to this much trouble for so old a 'revelation'?
Maxwell knew that the small, lead box had been discovered in unarguably Victorian remains during demolition work in Whitechapel. The circumstances of its discovery would seem to forbid (although not completely rule out) a hoax, unless it was a rather elaborate one.
The mention of Dr. Richard Bright, who died in 1858, dated the manuscript to around 1888. Forensics had said that such a date was not impossible as judged by their testing.
If it were a crank letter, why would anyone go to so much trouble? If they were not telling the truth, where would they get their hands on a human kidney? This seemed so very authentic, but was it the authentic ramblings of a madman, or the confession of a turn of the century serial killer?
Perhaps it was both. Maxwell thought all this between sips from a cup of tea which was already growing cold and forming a white sheen on its surface.
Suddenly, he thought had it.
He swung back to his desk and pressed the second button on the left of his intercom. "Yes, Sir?" a young male voice responded after a few seconds. "Bradley, do we still have those old, old case files from last century hanging around in the basement?"
"Yes sir," Bradley replied, his voice robotic in the tiny speaker, "But only the most outstanding ones. You know, the major unsolveds, and those of public interest. Did you want me to get one for you?"
Maxwell licked his lips slowly; he didn't know if he really wanted to know, but he did know that he had to know.
After many seconds he said, slowly, "Yes." His mind was moving with lethargic pace, and he nibbled briefly at his lower lip before continuing. When he did, his voice quavered only slightly. He said, "Bring me whatever we have on Jack The Ripper."
Powers That Be is set in the near future. After two meteor fragments struck Earth, some people developed strange skills, though there was nothing unusual about the meteor. In the USA, these unexplained powers quickly divided those who had them into two groups.
The Top Tier heroes, known in social media the Fab Four, were employed by the military in a fight against a super-villain known only as Wokon. Those endowed with lesser powers were nowhere near as revered until a determined woman who went by the handle of Ayurveda C'Dabra organized a diverse group of them into a brave and successful crew.
Financed secretly by the owner of an up-and-coming comic book company, they took on some serious villains and paid a heavy price, and in the process, they embarrassed the Top Tier people, who were increasingly seen as asleep at the wheel.
This growing rivalry was to result in dire consequences for the Tier Two Team. The question was: could they ever survive this and recover their good name? Or would it kill them trying?
A monster of a fantasy with a twist in the tale! Joanne Ross saw the chance of a summer cruise on the Caledonian Canal in Scotland as a great 'get away from it all' after a demanding year on a teaching exchange in England, so why does she find herself inviting Loz Garet along with her? has she learned nothing from sharing a house with him for the last year? On Loch Ness, night falls and tension rises. Odd events seem to multiply around her, and Joanne finds herself with two more people on her boat: the obsessed Jim, searching for answers in the cold, dark water, and the teasing, buoyant young Cora, who has an answer for everything. As she observes the complex web of shallow interactions between her guests with some distaste, Joanne finds herself ever more drawn to the deeply beautiful loch. It’s not long before she’s forced into contemplating who the real monster is here. Is it really in the water, or is it right there on the boat with her? Stranger, In the NightThe Caledonian Canal, conjoining Loch Lochy, Loch Oich, and Loch Ness, offers the eye some of the most beautiful scenery in the British Isles. The earthy waters shimmer coolly under the impassive gaze of mountainous hills tinged purple, gray and brown in a way few artists can capture. The hills are cloven by huge glens rendered in lush, variegated green. Such riches endow destitute poets; such a scale spawns boisterous highland songs.
That first morning on the canal, Joanne woke with rainbows in her eyes. She'd forgotten to close the curtains last night and the sun teased water droplets on the windows, making them blush a different hue for every hour she'd slept. Bare-assed, but unembarrassed, she idly wondered how many early morning strollers had seen the scandalous schoolmistress sprawled across her bed.
Hastily, she decided to get dressed.
She was anxious to be on her way, but when the boat was in motion, she wanted to stop at every new sight and take pictures. She changed the batteries in her camera and the mem-chip several times.
In preparing what Loz had called 'the highland game plan', they decided it was wisest to shoot for the far end of the canal right away and spend the rest of their vacation returning. They would always be heading home then and could gauge their time better. They were supposed to have 'set sail' (or whatever it was one set in a mechanically powered boat) after coffee, but Loz had extra cream and Joanne, rendered defenseless by the empty vessel she held, indulged him.
He slid himself down her body and her shorts down to her ankles, hesitantly tonguing her into submission before she even thought of protesting his molesting (somehow, she didn't seem so sore when so moist). Loz told her to put the mug down, and as she laid it in the sink, he laid her from behind well before she expected it, canted forward, eyes closed, mouth open.
Afterward, he volunteered first watch yet again, and the journey commenced. Loz treated the boat like he would a woman, which is to say that he handled her cautiously to begin with. When he mastered her, he took it for granted that she was his to do with as he pleased. Joanne watched for a while and after she made breakfast, she tried her hand whilst Loz ate.
This is fun! she thought.
After feeling so low and pessimistic the night before, she now found herself in excellent spirits. They were here at last on the canal!
The boat was a dream, they were moving, the weather was perfect and this was a lifestyle she could get cosy with. Now all she had to resolve was how to continue her teaching profession and combine it with being a boat person.
There was no one more endearing than Joanne in this mood. Consequently Loz was up, too; no good for her! Joanne's mute submission to his sweet roll after coffee had excited him big time. Halting for a condom each time was a nuisance, but she would erotically roll it on, and Loz almost felt that it was worth it.
Watching her now, her supple form ill-disguised by that skimpy outfit, he felt she looked like an ideal partner to dance the sailor's hornpipe. Even tiny breasts looked terrific, bra-less and shrink-wrapped, and Joanne wasn't tiny; in fact, she was just swell. Her breasts were brazen, shameless in their effrontery, and her scanty panties frequently threw him a curve as they stretched and swayed.
She'd forgotten to put on shorts after their early morning enter-lewd and Loz just couldn't get the encounter of out his head. Joanne's ass muscles had flexed and moved and he'd convinced himself that his knead was satisfying her breasts. He hurriedly finished his scrambled eggs so he could take the plate below and grab a condom. In the cockpit again, he maneuvered close behind her, ready to dock.
Joanne laughed sexily at his antics, but kept her eyes on the water. "And what might you be up to, Loz? I had crème de men right after breakfast! You want to get fresh again already?" she asked without turning, adding ambiguously, "Frankly, you're wanton too soon for me!"
"You don't think I can talk you into it?" he said, snuggling up close. The sight of her unfettered bosoms swaying beneath flimsy fabric was more than he could stand, but it was just what he could handle. The cockpit was partially enclosed and looking around, Loz could see no judging jury to make him lose her appeal. He pressed his case and loosed velvet breasts, making her nipples, now free to witness, stand.
"You're hardening up nicely." he said.
"I was just thinking the same!" Joanne replied, and turned her head for the kiss she felt she'd earned. She could feel his firm flesh pressing against her and it was hard to concentrate on steering the boat. Fortunately they'd already left the first leg of the canal proper and entered Loch Lochy. The shore was far enough away not to be a serious hazard and she pushed back against him, swaying her hips like a lazy hula dancer.
Exploring, her lover was pleased to discover her ample lubrication. She started and stopped, sucking in a small, sharp breath when he explored further. He thought she was loving it, and he slid down her panties just enough to expose the twin cupolas of her tight rear.
Joanne's hand quickly checked for a condom as he entered, though she knew this manifest lack of trust irritated him. Sensitive to his, she turned her feeling into fondle, exciting him more. This was what a good relationship was all about, he thought; his wish in her well....
Joanne was trying to aim the boat's prow and simultaneously accommodate Loz at her stern. She wasn't exactly into this as passionately as he to begin with, but as he penetrated her body it also entered her mind that right then, that sex right now was less soar and more sore.
Until Edinburgh, she hadn't been intimate since before the abortion; not with a partner, that is. Now she actually felt ready and she hadn't thrown precaution to the wind, why was she forced to accept that simultaneously giving in and putting out made her smart in places where she'd rather be numb?
Moving like a snake, enjoying the sensation of his hot breath brushing her hair, she tried to let the thrill overcome the discomfort, but Loz was to harsh what plain is to marsh. Most girls enjoy a little sexual surliness now and then, just like guys do, but there's a significant difference between rapture and rupture, and Loz was thrusting Joanne too far over the line.
More than anything, she enjoyed a lethargic approach to lovemaking. She wanted to hunt like a wolf, but when she found her lover, she didn't want to wolf him down; she wanted to savor him like a formal meal, leisurely embarking upon each course with sensual anticipation. The climax to such a feast was unpredictable; it might immerse her comfortably like a warm, soapy bath, or it might fill her like water quenches a parched victim of the Sahara. She longed for a guy who could offer all the options, and she hadn't ever doubted that she would never meet him.
In her present condition, a delicate approach was crucial. When Loz pulled her hair, twisting her head to reach the warmth of her mouth, she groaned, "Gently, Loz; gently, lover!"
Her soft, wet lips were pulpy and responded lustily to his kisses. She seemed drugged, as though addicted to shooting him up. Her body seemed limp and weak. She rolled her head lazily as stifled moans began to escape her, some even from pleasure. She twisted awkwardly so she could repeatedly taste his panting mouth and watch him through heavy, half closed eyes. She could feel his hot breath inside her, filling her chest. There was unchaste passion in her shadow-like motions though she chased him, trying to stretch every kiss to eternity.
In her mind, she welcomed each impassioned lunge, but somewhere, lost in her pants, he began to feel like a snagging zipper. Loz was so into his own need that he was oblivious of hers; the pleasure she'd thought she'd begun to feel was eroded until intercourse became, in her, coarse. She knew she couldn't continue; she also knew her generous lubrication meant that Loz, enjoying seconds, would take minutes on end. She had to dissolve this union abruptly.
She let her free hand drop to the loose sack of his testicles. Tenderly, cruelly, she began to tickle and stroke them with three of her fingers whilst her thumb and forefinger squeezed gently and rhythmically at the base of his penis.
In about ten seconds, Loz was gasping hotly in her ear. Joanne continued to fondle him carefully until he finished, then she circled a thumb and forefinger snugly around the root of his penis and scrotum. There was no way she was going to let him pull out suddenly. Only when she figured he'd shriveled sufficiently, did she let him loose. With a sigh of relief, of release, she made him take the helm so she could 'clean up' and she hastened below to dispose of the condom.
Cleaning up involved delicately mopping her damn spillway and gently smearing some medicinal lotion on the most tender parts. She figured she may as well crack a beer, too, and she lay supine on the bunk sipping as she continued her smear campaign, resting a little until she felt easier.
"This has got to stop," she swore softly, "at least for a little while!" She resolved to make deft use of her hands and mouth until her natural receptacle could recover. She'd only drunk a third of the beer and had just finished doctoring herself when she heard Loz calling,
"Joanne? Hey, Joanne!"
With a slight groan, she dressed properly and climbed gingerly to the cockpit, to see what it was he evidently wanted to show her.
He wanted to show her how angry he was. "Where the hell have you been? It doesn't take this long to clean up, I know that!"
Joanne smiled. "Just taking care of ladies' business, Sweets, that' all!"
"Right!" Loz said. He snatched the beer can out of her hand and drunk half its contents in one pull. "You're supposed to be at the helm so I can take a nap, and where are you? In back, swilling beer! It's your turn here, or did you conveniently forget that part of the arrangement?"
Joanne frowned. She had the horrible feeling he wasn't faking annoyance. In fact, she sensed impending friction which would make her internal problems seem like a sleigh ride; even one ill-contoured word would have a ratio of one too many. This was her vacation and she was damned if she was going to have it spoiled with a fight. To forestall any possible argument, she leaned over and kissed him, trying to give him one square on his lips, but he wouldn't turn, and when she stretched further, he pulled away.
"Jo, not while I'm trying to drive this thing. Do you want us to hit the bank?"
Joanne snatched the beer back from him and walked away. "No, I have plenty of money," she said sarcastically. Silence poured over them and began to set.
After a few seconds, Loz turned and said, "Well, are you going to pilot this thing, or not?"
"Yeah, I'll take my turn of the wheel." They traded and Loz disappeared inside.
"I'll take my turn of the wheel, all right as long as you remember what comes around when you're next ready to go a round!" she said quietly.
Joanne heard him use the toilet. A smile snuck out of her as she thought of him waiting desperately at the wheel, his bladder the size of a football, whilst she reclined downstairs with her beer.
She'd forgotten how often guys have to go after sex. They're like dogs; their minds get so much into their rut when they smell a bitch in heat that they completely forget about other bodily functions like urinating, sleeping, breathing..... She stopped there, having satisfactorily accounted for all male post-orgasmic behavior (eating is part of the foreplay, she'd decided), and she giggled delightedly. She took another sip from her beer.
Loz returned, beer in hand. "What the hell is up your ass this morning?" he said.
Joanne glanced at him, a half smile askew on her lips. "You might be, if I stay this sore!" she joked. She hoped it would break some ice.
Loz had an obscure look on his face, but he sidestepped with a pugnacious, "Is that why you were so unresponsive? You're sore at me? What'd I do?"
Joanne laughed from the belly. "No, Loz, I'm not sore at you, I'm sore from you! It's been a long time for me, and you're very demanding; you've gotta take it easy, okay? And I was not unresponsive for Christ's sake! I was trying to steer the boat, remember?"
She turned and looked at him sharply. "Do you remember, Loz? Do you remember how I accommodated you and you didn't return the favor when our positions were reversed? I'm not trying to start an argument, all I'm saying is that I can't handle so much of you!"
Loz looked at her, trying to figure her out. She was so damn frustrating! Eventually his mind caught up. With a conceited grin, he said, "I'm that big, huh?"
"No, you're not that big! It's not the size, it's the frequency!"
For a second she froze; that was probably entirely the wrong thing to say to Loz. Quickly, she went on, "Loz, I'm not saying I want to stop doing it! My God! But we're gonna have to put the brakes on until my linings repair!"
She paused, realizing she wasn't getting her point across. She tried to spell it out. "It's been a long time, Loz; you have to go easy until I get used to it again, until we can both really get into it, huh? You know what I'm saying?" Loz was mute. "Well say something, please!"
"I thought I'd been easy on you. I've been restraining myself because you keep saying you want it gentle. Lovey-dovey isn't my style, but I've been doing it for you, putting my own pleasure second, and now you're trying to say I'm too rough? If I get any gentler, we won't be fucking at all."
That was too much. Joanne couldn't navigate the loch and carry on an emotional conversation like this at the same time. She turned the boat into shore and dropped anchor a few yards out. Loz watched her wordlessly. She fixed him with a long-suffering look that contained half a smile. When he didn't react, she turned to look across the beautifully uncomplicated loch.
After a minute or so, when she'd collected some thoughts, she turned to face him again. "Okay, let's sort this out without turning it into a fight, 'cos I'm on vacation and the last person I want to fight with is you, all right? All I'm saying is I'm sore. It's been a long time; I'm not used to screwing like this and until I get used to it, you're gonna have to take it easy on me, or at least on my insides! That's the bottom line."
She crossed the deck and sat next to him. He looked like he was in school, being chewed out for having dirty shoes or something. She put an arm around him and leaned her head on his shoulder.
She realized she was coming off even more forcefully than he had just now, and continued gently, "When I'm back to par, then we can get big time passionate if it trips your trigger! I'm willing, believe me, but I'm physically incapable right now. I don't want is to quit sex! That's why I'm suggesting we explore alternatives. It might even be fun!" She paused lengthily. "Am I making any impression on you at all?"
Loz nodded. He looked like a whipped puppy. Joanne eyed him with high hopes and a low heart. She'd never wanted this, but damn it, if you can't talk straight in a relationship, you're in the wrong relationship. She had no time for lies, deceit, and bullshit artists. Loz was staring across the loch and Joanne followed his gaze. After a few seconds she sighed and said without looking at him, "I love ya, Loz; let's not fight, huh, especially not on my vacation?"
She went inside quickly for another beer. Damn, maybe she had screwed up. She felt better that she'd been able to speak her mind, but worse at what it might cost. Conflict just really gnawed on Joanne's nerves. And what kind of love was 'I love ya'? How was he going to react now she'd used those particular words? Or would he not even notice it? Was her rapid exit her way of avoiding finding out?
Maybe she should take the beer for an omen: it wasn't so cool anymore. She grabbed a can anyway and cracked it; it tasted spectacular. She turned and Loz was right behind her. He grabbed her and pulled her close. In a mock French accent he said, "And which disgusting perversion does madame wish to indulge in tonight?"
The old Joanne was back at once. She said, "We'll talk about that later! Right now, we got some sailing to do!" She pecked him on the nose and climbed up into the cockpit.
Loz called, "Hey, why don't we take a break and sunbathe for a while? The weather is awesome. I know we said we should make waves, but it won't do any harm if we break the outward trip into two days, will it?
Joanne called back, "You're right! If this weather is going to be unpredictable, we should take it as it comes, I guess."
They needed no persuading to sunbathe right where they were. Later, they moved up the canal far enough to buy some supplies, including pizza and ice cream, and Loz stocked up on, believe it or not, Tartan beer! Sadly, the beer itself wasn't tartan, just brown as usual. They spent the next few hours eating, drinking, and soaking up the sunshine which had spilled all over the deck.
Inevitably, the sun started down like a potato chip into avocado dip and the air cooled. It was early evening and finally, they decided they'd better find a good mooring for the night. They motored past Killanin and Lagan, and were into Loch Oich, which seemed tiny after Loch Lochy.
Joanne kept on cruising, idly contrasting what she was doing now with what she'd done as a teenager in Boston. The two activities had the same name, but they were (almost literally) a world apart. Mildly chastising herself for daydreaming, she tried to quit reminiscing and concentrate on the present because the headway they'd made that day was pathetic. She felt obliged to pick up some mileage. They had selected a spot just south of Loch Ness to overnight, but she figured they wouldn't be close even by nightfall at this rate.
As the evening aged, the sky began to cloud over just as it had the day before. Joanne couldn't get used to it being so light for as late as it was. She kept reminding herself that she was farther north than she'd ever been in her life, and it was misguided to 'expect' things.
Further support for this theory came from the weather; she was sure it would rain and since Loz was taking a nap, she wondered if she could get the cockpit cover up by herself, but the rain didn't come. A wet, clingy mist stopped by instead. It looked like it could use a good meal, thin as it was, but it sharply curtailed her horizons. She felt like the captain of the Flying Dutchman, suspended in time and space in a surreal world where anything might happen.
When darkness came, Loz was sleeping his orgy off below and, unaware she'd missed the mooring, Joanne was still navigating half blindly when it was almost too dark to see the towpath. Shades of last night! She knew how foolish it was to keep moving, and wanted to stop dead where they were, rather than risk hitting something in the dark. On the other hand, she wanted to moor properly so they weren't a hazard to themselves or to others.
Uncomfortably aware that it might be illegal even to run the boat after dark, she pressed on, but she was hardly in a position right then to read up on it. Perversely, she found an old Gloria Gaynor song running through her mind with the words changed appropriately. Freddie Perren and Dino Fekaris would probably kick her pilfering ass had they known:
I should have changed that stupid loch
I should have made you leave the quay
If I'd've known for just one second
That you'd fog around with me!
Go on now, I find you boring
Just turn around now
'Cos you really mist my mooring...
Fort Augustus, built close to an old monastery at the southern tip of the Great Loch, is not exactly a metropolis; in the night, in the mist, with her insignificant boat lights reflecting off the fog, a tired and nervous Joanne, focused tightly on the water, was oblivious of the few faint and twinkling lights passing her by. By the time she realized she was no longer in the canal, she was in the dark, adrift on Loch Ness over two hundred metres of ice-cold, pitch-black water.
Loz would go ballistic if he found out! Trying not to panic, she turned the boat to port intending to find the loch shore and tie up to a tree or something. It would be insane to try to re-enter the canal. The question was how to get inshore safely when she couldn't even see it. By alternately engaging the engine and letting the boat drift, she nudged the Spume northwards, ready to slip into reverse in a second.
Alerted by the altering rhythm of the engine, Loz woke up. He was completely disoriented. He was alone, it was dark, and the boat was moving. He shivered. Piece by piece, it fell into place and he charged out of the cabin angrily. When he first saw Joanne, his heart jumped. She looked like she'd suddenly turned gray, and it scared the hell out of him until he realized her hair was coated with mist. This false alarm made him angrier still.
"What the fuck is going on?" he shouted.
Joanne, already nervous, jumped in her skin at the sound of his voice. She became so pissed off with his supercilious tone, that she bawled right back at him. "Don't you fucking shout at me! You've been in a god-damned drunken stupor all evening, so don't start with that tone when I'm up here alone, doing all the god-damned work!" She dropped the engine into neutral.
Loz's response came back disturbingly gently until the last half-dozen words, which he bellowed. "Would you mind telling me just exactly what the fuck it is you're doing?"
"In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a loch. I'm taking the boat in so we can moor for the night and get some sleep. Now this is hard enough without your contribution. Can you understand that?"
"I can't believe you've done this!"
Joanne turned on him. "And where for Piss-Christ's sake have you been for half a day?" she shouted.
Loz was angry enough to ignore that. "I suppose the fact that we can't see the shore, don't know how far it is or even exactly where it is, and have no idea what's underneath us has no bearing at all, does it?"
"That was more than one fact," Joanne observed, engaging the engine again.
Loz was on the verge of the edge. "Do you know what kind of fucking predicament we're in?" he shouted.
Joanne, deliberately sounding like his mother might, said, "Yes, but someone will soon hear your voice and shout directions, don't worry!"
"Jesus Christ!"
"I doubt it will be him!"
"We could fucking drown out here!" "I wish you would!"
Loz gave vent to an exasperated, "My God!"
Joanne was ready to bust him in the mouth. If she were a guy, she would have literally decked him long before then. She slipped the engine into neutral and trying to control her considerable temper said, "Look, insincere appeals to the deities of our forefathers will do me less good right now than keeping your fucking eyes open and watching for the shore. We'll see where it is when we get closer. As far as depth is concerned, we'll just have to be careful, that's all. This is not the fucking Glass Bottomed Boat!"
Loz had just about lost it now. He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, his voice jumped from tenor to alto, and he shouted, "We'll just have to be careful? I suppose when a fucking tree comes up through the hull, we'll know we've gone too far, huh? We may write off a fifteen fucking thousand dollar boat, but that's life on the waves! That's fabulous! That's really fucking sound thinking! Well I'll just go back to sleep and hope I float safely into shore when we go down!"
"Yeah, hitting something submerged would be a real drag!" Joanne laughed. It was the safest option when the alternative was murder.
"Have you lost your fucking marbles?" "Worse things happen at sea, Loz!"
She had just engaged the engine again when she noted that he was about to launch into her, so she cut it and turned on him so quickly that he stopped dead without even closing his mouth. "That's it, Loz! That's fucking it! You can stop right there, because I am not going to take any more shit from you. Do you understand me?
She half turned away and then spun back on him, her voice low with threat. "Frankly, I'm beginning to care very little if I do sink this fucking boat so long as you're on it, because I'm pretty fucking tired of you sleeping away and letting me take the responsibility. You did it last night and you've done it again tonight, and that's the last fucking time. Are you with me on this? We're supposed to be fifty-fifty on this trip and you need to pull your weight. Now I have a very viable option for you; either back off, or you leave this god-damned fucking boat for good. I came here to get away from hassle, not bring it along with me. Okay? Okay, Loz? Have you got that straight?"
Loz said nothing. Their faces were a metre apart, jaundiced by the yellow light of the cockpit as well as by each other. The silence dragged on.
Eventually it was Joanne who broke and turned away. Her voice seemed to have broken, too. "Loz, I'm sorry, but that's the way I feel. My nerves are bad enough as it is, and I don't need you, of all people, making things worse. I'm in a mess, I know, and I'm trying to sort it out; a little help would be appreciated. If you can't offer that, then please go below and leave me alone."
Loz turned away. Joanne waited, but when it looked like he was going to do nothing, she engaged the engine and resumed her original plan. After a minute, Loz spoke. "If you're going to do this, then go in backwards. At least the propeller will give some protection to the hull. Just turn the boat while I get the broom from below. You go in backwards, but slow, and I'll try to feel for depth with the broom. We may as well make the best of a bad job."
Joanne forced her lips into a smile and with dedicated effort, managed to squeeze a thoroughly resentful "Thank you," from them.
Loz went below without a smile or another word. He signaled her from aft when he was ready, and she reversed as slowly as the boat would go. They hadn't been at this for a minute when Joanne switched off the engine and stood listening intently.
"Now what?" Loz called, still simmering.
"Ssh!" she said softly, "I think I hear a boat!" In the stillness, she thought she could feel faint tendrils of rain on her face, but she wasn't sure if it was that or the mist pooling. It may have been sweat.
Loz secured the broom and edged around the side of the rear saloon housing to reach the cockpit. "What?" he asked.
Joanne shushed him again. "There's a boat! Listen!"
"Well, whoop-te-doo!" Loz said sarcastically. "Let's river dance!" Joanne shushed him harshly, and he refrained from further comment. They both strained their ears and in the darkness, they could hear the firm, regular stroke of someone rowing a boat toward them. It was moving fast, and they both pictured some brawny Scot at the oars, racing home through the night with contraband whiskey in his lap. Perhaps that's why neither of them even considered calling out. It was already eerie enough and getting worse by the minute.
They strained their inefficient eyes into the deep blackness that was night on the loch. They could hear the sounds distinctly, but they could see nothing save the mist and its reflection in the water; they couldn't even fix exactly where the noise was coming from. It simply started faintly and grew louder, and though the rapid paddling of water seemed disturbingly close, nothing appeared in the grayness.
It's no secret that sounds carry a long way across open water and in the dead of night aural perception is further enhanced, but even so, this experience was becoming distinctly odd. There was something chilling in being out there in total darkness and almost, but not quite, perfect silence; the ethereal sounds of a rowboat were raising the sensation to a new height. Whatever it was that was disturbing the water seemed to be almost on top of them, but there was still nothing to see. They were spooked.
Suddenly, a wild commotion in the water made their skins crawl, and a wave kicked hard against the side of the Spume. They grabbed each other in panic at first, but more practically sought the boat rails as the vessel vigorously rolled away from the wave. It rocked back and forth for minutes before friction with the water, in support of Newton's First Law of Motion, brought it to rest.
"Jesus Christ what the fuck was that? Did we hit something?" Loz said, his voice shaking.
"I think something hit us, but God knows what it was. Jesus, that was scary!" Joanne said, glancing at him. She didn't want to take her eyes from the water, but she was intrigued by his tone. He was frightened! "What the hell was that? Are there 'gators in here or something?" she asked. Joanne had seen 'gators in the wild Florida. They were not her favorite beasts. There was something primitive about them that made her feel like she was very far from the twenty-first century, where humans dominated. It was a very uncomfortable feeling: that of being prey. It made her feel like praying.
Loz laughed at her fear, but it was a laugh born of and borne by fear itself. "No, stupid, this is Scotland. Gators would freeze to death the first winter they were here. It must be a seal or a fish, or something pretty big. I don't know!"
Joanne took that and ran with it. "Oh sure, that was a fucking fish, sure it was. A giant fish! Peter Benchley is probably out here taking notes too, right?"
"Well maybe it was Jacques fucking Cousteau then! I don't know! I'm not particularly in a mood for discussing the relative dimensions of freshwater fauna; all I want to do is get to bed, but because of you, we're stuck out here on the biggest god-damned loch in Scotland and something nearly tips the boat over! Now do you see the point I was trying to make earlier, Joanne? Now do you think you might get us into shore, before we fucking die?"
"Don't start again!" Joanne warned, but before she could say more, Loz had returned to the stern.
He almost slipped as he negotiated the narrow walkway round the side of the cabin. Joanne found that so funny, but thought it politic to keep her amusement tightly to herself right then.
She engaged the engine one more time and reversed the boat with a little more gusto than she'd employed hitherto. Before two more minutes had passed they thought they were coming into sight of the shore and Loz began probing more enthusiastically with his broom.
With no warning, there came the most sinister hiss rushing at him from his right, and he looked up as something hit the boat and scraped under it. He almost lost the broom, but managed to hold onto both it and his balance. Joanne cut the engine at once. Neither of them saw a thing.
"Goddamn-it we grounded!" Loz cursed, but both of them were fully aware that the shore, apparent in the mist now that they were looking for it with the acuity of panic, was still some way off. The boat was still rocking and drifting freely towards it.
Loz was confused. "Are we drifting?" he asked.
"Yes!" Joanne called, her voice shrill with annoyance, but not panicked.
"Jesus fucking H. Christ!" Loz exclaimed, and dropped down again on his belly to poke the water ineffectually with his broom handle. "We sure as hell hit something out there! Now do you see the kind of trouble we could have been in? That could have holed us, and then you know where we'd be?"
"At least we'd be fucking moored to something! Will you stow it, for Christ's sake?"
Loz jumped, startled to discover that he'd been brushed by an overhanging branch, and he cursed vilely.
Joanne laughed, but stopped abruptly when she remembered how angry he was. She took the mooring rope from the front of the boat and tied it to a stout tree branch which conveniently reached out to her like a helping hand. Loz did the same at the rear; then he came forward and adjusted Joanne's rope because he felt she hadn't allowed enough slack. He was lucky she didn't hang him with it.
"Thank God-almighty for that!" he said, fixing Joanne with a malevolent stare.
Joanne ignored his observation. With a cynical smile on her face, she took the rope he'd tied and held it up. "Since when has Ness been tidal, Loz? We need all this slack?" Loz ignored her now, and she let it go, both her point and the rope; it wouldn't do any harm. She switched off and secured the control panel before going below.
As she brushed past him, he shook his head at her. "I don't fucking know about you anymore!"
"Maybe you never did fucking know about me, Loz," she snapped angrily, and in her mind added, 'How 'bout that, you son'bitch'!
In the stern, she stripped quickly and wrapped a warm, dry towel around her hair before flopping into the bunk. She covered herself well and rolled to one edge, keeping her back to the side where Loz would lay. Just try any shenanigans tonight, lover boy! she thought vindictively, and I'll introduce you to a lock you won't forget!
Loz wasn't about to. Joanne learned how pissed off he was when she heard him getting into one of the bunks up front. She sat up and switched off the light; for a minute she stared into darkness which was total, feeling angry and humiliated, and very much alone. She settled down with difficulty. It was a long time before she could sleep.
Outside, everything was silent again. An owl hooted somewhere across the loch, but that was all the noise there was, save for the cold water familiarly lapping at the hull of the boat as if tasting it before dining.
The companion novel to Legless in Seabrook, but can be read as a standalone. It was supposed to be a nice cruise in the Gulf: 4 ports in 3 countries, all relaxation and fun, but not everyone saw it the same way. Kevin Willis had it in mind to trade in his wife for something younger and more compliant. Tiana and Brandon Washmore had a chance to renew their fraying marriage, but it was Brandon who got stitched up. British bobby Andrew and his new bride Sarah, wanted only that southern sun. Housemates Crystina Brandon and Denée Turner wanted to explore warm and inviting places; neither expected to find them in each other. Andrés Flores and his his wife Lareina wanted only a quiet vacation away from running their convenience store. Zach Jackson enjoyed the privileges he got on Carousel Carribean Cruise Liners and getting away from business concerns while showing off his Russian trophy bride, Yelena. He never imagined she had plans of her own. Kyrone and LaShawn Brown were there for a fun time with the kids, and paid no attention to odd looks they sometimes got when people saw a black couple with a white child. Elderly couple, Mochizuki and Hiromichi Shinohara survived internment as children in the USA after Pearl Harbor; now they saw that same abuse of immigrant children. Could they really get-away from that? No one expected a dead body to show up, but security officer Gina Nirapatta was expected to find out who dunnit before the FBI came aboard and took over everything. She would fail. The gulf between murder and motive was greater than the water this huge ship displaced. Chapter 1
Kevin Jay Willis glanced briefly at his wife and then pointedly turned away from her and looked up and down the line of people three and four abreast, especially at breasts and legs, and hair. For reasons which escaped him, his mindlessly chatting wife had cut hers short without even asking him. Her hair had never looked great, but it had been a decent length. She had looked like a woman. Now she looked like a boy. It wouldn't do.
They'd been standing in this slowly shuffling line for the better part, or rather worst part, given the heat, of an hour and it seemed, like their marriage, it was barely going anywhere, but speaking of barely, at least there were many semi-bare babes in view to take his mind off whatever it was his wife was telling him. Clearly they had decided the vacation had already started long before they ever were going to board this cruise liner.
People were wearing Hawaiian shirts and women were sporting bikini tops and skimpy shorts or flimsy wrap-around skirts. There were bare midriffs and bare legs and it was far too much of a distracting this early in the proceedings, especially when he hadn’t even had a drink and no refreshment was in sight. Except for the sight of these refreshing young women.
He glanced at his wife again. She was asking if he was listening. No, he wasn't, but he said he was. To deflect her inevitable confirmation question he had added, "How long are we going to be stuck in line here?" to which her predictable response was "As long as it takes; how would I know?" and then she went on about something else which was of even less interest to him than the previous topic had been – and one he'd already forgotten, if he'd ever registered it.
It was only once the boys had left home and he felt he had no one left to talk to, that he'd really begun to realize that this marriage was not only finished, but that it had long been over. They had nothing in common and didn’t even speak any more except to exchange the necessary and routine garbage that inevitably comes with cohabiting.
He found himself eying her out of the corner of his eye wondering what it had been that had attracted him to her to begin with. Logic dictated that there had to have been something, but try as he might, he couldn’t now envision what it had been. She'd clearly lost the bloom of her youth, which he supposed had been what had attracted him to her back then.
Gone was her long, lush hair. Gone was her taut, smooth girls' skin. Gone was the sparkle in her eye. Gone was the willowy figure, which had rounded out from two pregnancies and two decades of aging. Gone also was her easy acceptance of him. How and why, he did not know.
She had been born Courtney Amber Stiel and steel was a far more apt description of her attitude these days than his own name which she'd taken when they'd become legally wed twenty years before. He didn’t want steel. He wanted the fluff she had been all those years ago, when she became pregnant and he'd decided since she'd done him the favor, he do her the favor of marrying her.
But she'd not remained the subservient woman he'd wanted. After the first child had arrived and she had him situated, she'd gone on to finish her schooling and got herself a good job in which she'd risen through the ranks faster than he had in his own work. Now two children had grown and gone off to college and there the parents were, having hardly moved. Like this frigging line.
She earned more than he did, for doing less work, and suffering less stress, eh was sure, and she seemed to come through everything smelling of roses. He didn't know how she did it, but he was tired of it, and he'd decided, when she'd suggested a cruise to reconnect, that he would connect all right. This would be the perfect opportunity to connect very closely with someone younger and more suitable for him. It was time to trade up.
Chapter 2
The newlyweds were completely unheeding of everyone but themselves.
Andrew and Sarah Tyler were twenty-two years old but looked like they were sixteen. They'd been married just the week before in Nottingham, England, the legendary environs of Robin Hood, Maid Marion, and the evil Sheriff, supposedly. Not that this couple were expending or indeed had ever expended any thought on those legends. They were each far too lost in the other, laughing and joking, muttering to each other sweet endearments, and making endless plans for the cruise which was a part of their honeymoon, to think long on anything else.
They were blissfully unaware of their surroundings or of the length of the line they were a part of, or of how long the line was taking to move forward by inches, or in their case, by centimeters since they were a part of the rest of the world where the metric system rules, and not isolated in American world which happily went along with its own cutely antiquated provincial standards in complete ignorance of the rest of the planet.
"Do you really want to ride an upside-down bicycle that hangs over the ocean?" Andrew asked at one point.
Sarah giggled. "It’s not upside-down and it doesn’t go out over the ocean, but I’ll bet the view is amazing from up there. It’s right at the top of the ship. So what? Are you too scared to go up there with me?"
"I'm not scared. I just don't find it as essential as you seem to!"
"Well, I'm going on it. You can do it or not. It doesn't matter as long as you wait for me like a patient husband!"
"Yes, I’ll wait faithfully at home, crying into my hanky while you’re away at the front...."
"Battling the terrorizing bike!"
"Battling the terrorizing bike!" Andrew repeated the joke and they laughed again.
This kind of mindless prattle went on for several more minutes before the subject became exhausted and finally, finally they took a pause and realized they were almost at the mysterious corner around the building. They'd already run the gamut of jokes about that corner, and where it led and what horrors awaited them once they disappeared around it never to be seen again.
Finally, they began to survey the 'queue' and became happy that they weren't at the back end of it. They hadn't actually realized yet that they were only in the middle of it.
"Look at the poor woman in the wheelchair. She lost her legs," said Sarah, nodding toward a darker-skinned woman who sat a little way behind them in the line and who glanced her way as though she could hear them, although she plainly could not; she wasn't that close and their voices were lowered.
"She still has some fine thighs, looks like!" Andrew joked, and Sarah gave him a look which made him laugh. "Not as fine as yours!" he quickly added, saving grace somewhat.
Sarah was still looking at her with a sad, if not slightly horrified expression on her face.
"Don't stare at her, poor thing!" Andrew urged. "She must get that a lot. It’s not what she needs."
"I don't know what I'd do if that happened to me. Would you still want me if I lost my legs, A.T.?"
Andrew smiled at the endearment. She was the only one who had ever called him A.T. and at first it had seemed a bit odd, but he had grown to love it as he loved everything else about her. He said, "I think it would be very irresponsible of you to lose both your legs. One would be bad enough!"
Sarah slapped him on his shoulder. "Get serious! Would you?"
"Would I what?"
"Still love me if I lost my legs, you daft twat!"
"Of course I would! For better or for worse, right?"
"That's what you promised."
"Then it’s all good, innit?"
"It had better be!"
The truth was that Andrew had no idea how he'd feel if his wife lost her legs. The whole idea of people being less than whole creeped him out to put it into an amusing American idiom. It wasn't that he hated such people or felt they deserved their situation, or that there was any question about his helping someone in those straits if they needed his help. He'd given his fair share to charities for the 'needy' as it used to be known, when he could afford it.
It was just the idea of missing body parts that made him feel a bit queasy, to be frank, and he couldn’t help it. Not that he'd show it. It wasn't like he would run the other way if he encountered that woman and she said "Hi" to him, but he wouldn't know what to do, other than to say "Hi!" in return and quickly move along his way.
"Where is your brain at now?" Sarah asked him, bringing him right back to happy familial familiarity.
"On your thighs!" was his magnificent well-played comeback, and they laughed and kissed warmly.
Chapter 3
Brandon and Tiana Washmore were far from a newly-wed couple, and far from happy familial familiarity. This cruise was to be their final one together unless they found a way to fix their marriage and frankly it seemed neither of them had any positive ideas for that.
Unlike the Willises, they hadn't been married for twenty years, but ten had somehow danced right by them before they'd realized it. They had no children to show for it, although it wasn't for want of trying and now, their high school romance that had made Tiana Washmore's girlfriends so jealous a decade before, as she became the most eligible receiver for a pass from the dreamy high-school first string quarterback was now far less idyllic than it was acidic. Somewhere, there had been a fumble and while it wasn't yet a turnover, there seemed little left to do now but punt.
Tiana was worried as she looked around the long line of people standing in the heat, each little party in its own way trying to make light of what was really a poorly-organized and tedious waiting period to board the cruise ship.
But it felt appropriate: a waiting period was what she was in - waiting to see if this cruise would fix anything, although if she were honest, she knew that there was no way the cruise by itself could fix a thing. It was going to take a lot more than that. Maybe they could recreate the circumstances of their honeymoon, which had also been a cruise, but how that would work any magic when the feelings they had then seemed to have been submerged under the weight of these ten years of neglect since, she couldn't begin to imagine.
She looked down the line ahead of them, and noticed a Japanese couple who had to be in their eighties if not older, although sometimes it was hard to tell with Asians, who often seemed timeless to her.
Where it had gone wrong, Tiana had no idea. The problem was that there wasn't a single thing she could put her finger on and label it as the problem.
She had worked her way up to become the office manager of a modestly-sized, but very successful engineering firm that had not long ago been bought up by an automobile manufacturer which had brought some truly-appreciated job security for her, along with a small promotion. Over the years she had worked there, she'd picked up some of the lingo.
Whenever there was trouble or the possibility of trouble in a design, the engineers were always looking for points of weakness - for something that could cause a catastrophic structural failure, and this marriage had no such major flaw to point an accusing finger at, otherwise it would likely have been over long before now.
No. This was more like dry rot, something her husband would know all about from his work in the housing business - on the construction and repair side, not the office managing side.
Dry rot is when spores of a certain type of fungus get into the woodwork, and they find enough moisture to thrive and spread and fruit and they literally eat the wood from the inside, weakening it to a crumbling mess.
That's what this marriage had growing inside it without a doubt, and neither of them knew how to fix it. This vacation was...what would Brandon call it? A Hail-Mary pass, tossed out in a sort of desperate hope that something good would come of it.
Would the two of them ever see their marriage last as long as that Japanese couple's evidently had? Would they ever look that serene and contented? And if so, how could they get there from here?
Tiana's lips tightened in frustration at the seemingly hopeless task ahead of her. Things had changed without question, and right at the point she seemed to be getting everything she wanted, it seemed like the core of her life: her marriage to Brandon, was what was slipping away most irretrievably.
Chapter 4
Cristina Brandon was standing patiently in the long line with her housemate and friend Denée Turner. They were so preoccupied with chatting back and forth, and updating their online presence, and catching up on others' updates, and sharing the gossip they were constantly picking up, that they were really oblivious to how slowly they were moving or even of their surroundings at all, which is never a good place to be. They may as well have been sprawled on the couch at home, but fortunately for them, this was a safe location.
They had between them posted about twelve updates already to their various social sites, with pictures, starting with the beautiful day that greeted them as they began their vacation, and added to with the old and elaborate cemetery they went past on the way to the dock, and then with the first glimpse of the huge cruise ship from the Lyft they'd taken from Houston, and on and on.
Now they were snickering with each other over something amusing that one of their evidently equally giddy friends had posted on some site or other. It seemed like their enthusiasm-stirring vacation was rubbing-off on their friends too.
After another fifteen minutes, Denée yawned and stretched and took a quick glance down the line to see how far they still had to go. There was a guy looking back at them - or rather at Cristina, who was, she was only-too-often reminded by the attention her best friend drew, a striking beauty.
"I guess your shipboard romance is already lined up, Christa!" Denée declared, without a trace of jealousy. She had never been jealous of Cristina. Not in that way.
Cristina was oblivious. Denée nudged her surreptitiously to make her pay attention and then said, "I said your shipboard romance awaits you! Don’t turn around right now, but it’s an older guy who's way down the line just about to go around the corner there with what looks like his wife."
Cristina very casually looked up from her phone, stretched a little and in doing so, half turned to get a look at the guy. "Oh god! Seriously? She laughed, having had the integrity at least, to turn her head away from the guy before she did so. Her throaty laugh was unaffectedly sexy.
She added with disinterest, "He has to be twice my age and he's with his wife, as you so assiduously point out!" She posted about it.
"Guys can't help looking, C! Especially not when you look as good as you do."
"Yeah, you'd do me! Go on! Say it!"
"It wouldn't be the first time!"
"If only you meant it, babe!" Cristina said with an affectation of deep longing, but returning her attention to her phone instead of to Denée, so it was hard to tell if she meant it.
Denée eyed her for a sec and then said, "And if only it wouldn't ruin our relationship!"
Having thus been twitted, they both tittered and tweeted on. After a second or two, Cristina said, as though her friend would never have considered such a possibility, "You know a guy like that is a total dick, right? He doesn't even have anything to offer and he's fucking over his wife of two decades or whatevs because he thinks he can trade up like he's getting a new car!"
Cristina's voice was low so she didn't even have to reduce the volume when she dropped the F-bomb because no one nearby could hear her distinctly enough to tell what she'd said.
"He's a complete whine-stone. Midlife crisis type. Yeah, he needs to be taught a lesson," Denée mumbled idly, her attention absently returning to her own phone, and expending little thought on what she was saying.
Cristina glanced in the direction of the guy and he was still looking. He smiled at her. She coyly looked away and said, "Maybe I'll do that this trip!"
"No-one is better...equipped...than you to do that, girlfriend!" Denée said, and they both laughed, Cristina playfully nudging Denée's arm with her own. Maybe she would do that this trip.
Chapter 5
Some-one had observed this non interaction; someone who knew Cristina better than most of her contemporaries did. He had been watching them closely, paradoxically from some distance away, and he hadn't missed the distraction caused by the man down by the corner. The small, almost opera-glass binoculars he had used to observe the guy and memorize his appearance were not really intended by him for use in sight-seeing, although that activity offered the perfect cover for having them.
No, he wasn't about to focus his attention anywhere other than on Cristina Brandon, someone who had already cost him his marriage, and who now seemed interested in taking down someone else's wedded bliss. Well, not on his watch.
What if your stalker could travel in time? Time Bank
So Einstein was wrong after all: God does play dice with the universe; an evil god. Or someone does, because there are tears in time.
I’m standing in line at the bank, a farce I detest, which is why I never used this bank when I lived here. I can’t abide wasting time, but that’s what I’m being forced to do as I experience that particular revelation dilating through my mind with relative ease.
The thought was unbidden, but like a firefly at dusk, there’s a reason for its presence and it easily attracts others. Time is unhinged; the sand is out of the hourglass.
I smile bitterly as that thought drifts by, and as if that isn’t bad enough, my stomach suddenly feels like I’m hosting a whole flotilla of fireflies. Large ones. Like something from the Permian period of prehistory.
Has this been ushered in by the time-bomb I discovered at ‘home’ yesterday? Or has it arrived courtesy of the fact that the Customer Service Associate, who’s been the unwitting subject of my open gaze for several minutes, is returning the look in kind?
She’s as sweet as August rain. My libido keeps chiming in with ever more custom services I could associate with her. I'm thinking, "Mira would clean my clock with a big sweep of her little hand if she knew I’d been even this unfaithful."
On the other hand, we did leave each other pretty ticked-off after the in-your-face fight last Friday. Her alarm was all because I feel forced to make this trip and attend on the minutiae of domestic affairs now that the last of the rest of my family has been snuffed off this awful coil.
How could she not understand that? It’s not like I have a choice.Someone had to identify my father’s belatedly if not prematurely dead body, and I was it.
Now the customer service associate walks out from behind her desk. Towards me. The professional cut of her suit only makes me want to press my own. I’m possessed by an almost irresistible need to slide several curious fingers teasingly along such demurely appointed thighs and make an appointment of my own. Her legs are at once sinfully sheathed in fine hosiery and scandalously exposed to a tantalizing degree.
They’re not particularly long, but they are exquisitely proportioned and they deserved to be aired and graced with attention. I’ll bet the further you travel, the sweeter the fragrance, too. I find myself playfully imagining 5th Avenue there, inviting a rewarding exploratory saunter followed by a lot of traffic.
The hem of her skirt is as taut as it is taunt. It’s so suitably long when she sidles, but distractingly short when she sits, I’ll bet.
Of course, anyone would notice that first, I chide myself for being so cheap. For the truly discerning, which I do try to be, the real reward is her face. Her easy good looks and what’s turning into an unnervingly genuine smile is what stimulates a real trickle of a tickle in my body, sloppily clad in old denim as it is. It’s an itch I wish I could scratch since it isn’t going to be eased any time soon.
Will she really come my way? One can only hope. She’s looking directly at me as she sways casually closer. Suddenly, and in a voice as soft and silky as kitten fur, she says, “Are you here for the Sands box?”
I stare at her in disbelief. My mouth moves, but nothing comes out. I cough and now my whole body feels stiff. Sand box? My mind is completely adrift, but suddenly the anchor catches and I laugh with too much relief. “Yes!” I answer, “Yes, I’m here to use the ‘Sand box’!”
The Customer Service Associate eventually sees the humor and almost giggles, but without a trace of embarrassment. Her bright, clear eyes seem imbued with the wet sparkle and the rich blue-green tint of coral shallows. There’s nothing warmer than such waters unless it’s a woman like this who knows how to laugh.
“I’m sorry, I mean Mr. Sands’s security box, of course! The recent heavy attention it’s had has created an unfortunate shorthand, I’m afraid!” she explains, and then adds somewhat goofily, “I apologize”.
“Oh, don’t worry about it! How did you know it was me?”
There’s a brief hesitation. “You’re startlingly like your twin,” says the customer service associate, before coloring slightly as though she said entirely the wrong thing. She back-tracked. “I mean,” she continues, awkwardly at first, “I know everyone else in line. They’re here for general counter business, so I can’t be of service there. But you, I don’t know. I took a gamble on you being the one who called yesterday. I’m Cas O’Neil? In charge of customer service?” She hesitates at my befuddlement, but extends a hand. “You do need to access to the Sands security box, right?”
I smile awkwardly. I take her hand and we shake. It’s cool and very soft. “I do. Is there going to be any problem with that?”
“Not now there isn’t,” she declares enigmatically. Still holding my hand, Cas O’Neil looks briefly at the bright pink Band-Aid which covers a cut on it. I look at it too, then back at her. She’s looking directly into my eyes now and her smile is so warm that my remaining discomfort completely melts. She engenders feelings very much like an old friend I haven’t seen in years. But she isn’t. We move to her desk.
There’s another rather odd pause. She smiles warmly. The smile seems like she borrowed it from someone else, but now she’s made it wholly her own even though it’s a half-size too big. “We’ve been in touch with the lawyer representing your family estate for some time. Actually, I’d been hoping to meet you. All we’ll need from you is two forms of ID, including a picture. Your driver’s license would be perfect. The other ought to be a major credit card, and we’ll need the introductory letter from your lawyer. I presume you have that and your co-key?” She paused self-consciously. “I guess that’s quite a lot really!”
She grows such a self-aware expression on her face that I laugh again. It seems so easy with her. I reach into my pocket. “Yes, I have it all.”
Cas O’Neil raises an eyebrow at that, but completes the paperwork. Obviously she was prepared for me. Or at least I wishfully entertain that hopefully optimistic thought. Her business etiquette seems of the same quality as her loosely curled, shoulder-length hair - beautifully styled, but worn without a trace of fuss. And it’s the warmest, darkest honey-brown you can imagine. Her hair that is.
I’m taking a real interest in what’s behind this impressive façade when guilt nudges me and I quietly ask myself, Mira, why do you make it so easy to think unfaithful thoughts, but so hard to act on them ? She doesn’t answer, of course. Does she wonder if such an action is perhaps not so hard to initiate after her outburst four short days ago, as untimely as it was unseemly? I don’t know.
“This way, please!” Cas O’Neil invites.
Her perkiness appears oddly subdued now, but I follow her endearing shape, as cool and modest as the rest rooms we pass, but much more indispensable, along a short hallway and down some narrow steps. At the bottom is a grill gate, rather like one you might imagine securing a jail cell. Behind it is a large safe door, daringly hanging open.
The guard initially appears oddly diminutive, like the desk he occupies. He logs our visit and opens the grill gate for us. Cas O’Neil’s rather petite figure leads me in. Is she as seductive as she seems, or am I so out of sorts lately with all that’s happened that I’m unable to render a competent judgment ?
We key the locks in sweet unison and the security box pops out. With an interesting twitch of her lips (warm, full, soft and moist, with dark, matt lipstick, sparingly applied, and outlined with something a shade darker), she suggests I call her if I need anything. “Anything at all,” she adds.
She steps away from me, and smiling softly, I take the box into the booth that isn’t taped off for ‘refurbishing’. Refurbishing? Really? What wear and tear does this place get, exactly ?!
I’ve never been down here before, much less looked into ‘the Sand Box’, which has turned out to be quite large. It’s a bit like a shoe box that’s been stretched on its long side. I open it, peering rather hesitantly inside. It’s stuffed with papers that are organized into sharply squared bundles like a set of typescripts; which is what they are. I’m surprised. I’d thought it would be all but barren, the lawyer having emptied it of anything of interest.
Well, I’m not about to sit in this Spartan, stony-faced and slightly chill basement plowing through this tuff. “Ms. O’Neil, May I take this home with me to look through?”
Another hesitation. “Please call me Cas! And indeed you may. All of this is yours, now. Do you wish to close out the security box or hold onto it for a while? We can go either way, as you prefer,” she offers ambiguously, causing me to swallow rather harder than I’d planned.
“I’ll close it out. I can always re-rent one.”
“You certainly can! Let me procure an envelope for you for all of that. It looks rather heavy!”
“It is! I’m a bit surprised the lawyers haven’t scraped all this bare.”
Cas almost frowns before announcing, “Oh, there were two boxes. I guess you didn’t know that. The legal materials were all in the other box, which was stripped bare, rest assured. This one was apparently set aside just for you.”
I frown. For me?What was my deceased deadbeat dad trying on now?
Cas disappears up the stairs with startling speed leaving me essentially alone. I notice several CCTV monitors on the wall facing the desk, which the guard peruses with almost military timing. In one of them, I can see Cas’s rhythmic legs climbing the steps confidently.
I feel lessened, deprived of her company. I glance through the papers and at once perk up. The typescripts are documentation of what my father, so-called, was up to before he turned up looking so inappropriately old and so appropriately dead, with an inexplicably broken leg and a broken toe on the opposite foot. No one knows what happened, but I'm glad it did. I owe someone.
His cadaver had been so haggard that I’d had goose-bumps just seeing his face, and not of the pleasant kind; neither his face nor the goose-bumps. The face was grotesquely purpled on one side and almost whiter than his hair on the other. It didn’t seem like so many years had passed, but bad memories will do that. It was as though all of his evil had condensed into corrupted flesh via some Einsteinian conversion. E=mc2 feels cubed in this confined space.
After my untimely experiences this weekend, these papers turn out to be precisely what I’m looking for, but how could my father have anticipated that? I’ve only moments to flip through them before Cas returns with - was that a refresh of her scent? No! This is a different perfume entirely. She’s now wearing... Passion?
I feel my heart beat up on my chest. I can’t help but look at her directly. Her face is so easy on the eyes, even on weary, street-wise, overly cautious ones like mine. As though I’ve never encountered her before, I gush, “Hi!”
She smiles a second and then reciprocates with a slight... goofiness... in her manner? She honestly seems pleased to see me. Together, we shoe-horn the typescripts into the enormous anonymous envelope. I’m getting ready to close it when Cas lightly brushes my hand to stay my action.
Her fingers are beautifully manicured and enticingly long for someone of her stature. With them, she delicately lifts something out of the ‘Sand box’ which I’d missed in my focus on the typescripts. She's very careful to shield it from the guard.
I look at it with complete surprise. It’s a small hypodermic needle, containing a very small amount of clear fluid. Believe me, I haven’t the first clue what it is or what its purpose might be.
Cas clearly thinks she does. Softly, so the guard cannot hear, and without a trace of hesitation she says, “I don’t want to know what this is. In fact, I didn’t see it, but you certainly don’t want to leave it in a box you’re closing out.”
I look expectantly at her face, hoping for a conspiratorial wink; I don’t think she has the first idea how much it weakens my knees to be this close to her, but instead of flutters again, I feel flushed. She has such a look of disapproval on her face that my jaw drops like mercury when a cold front swoops in.
“I’ve no idea what this is,” I blurt like a child. It’s suddenly too important that she doesn’t think ill of me.
Cas avoids conveying whatever thought she’s currently hosting by glancing once more into the box to check that it’s truly empty. It is. She closes it and looks pointedly at the hypo, and then at me.
“Then it might be a wise precaution to find out. It might have some importance to someone,” she advises, and she cruelly steps away from me. Seeing the envelope safely closed, she rather peremptorily heads back up the stairs. The a priori assumption is that I’ll be right behind her, a posteriori I’m delighted to follow. I guess the guard takes care of cleaning up the boxes of the disappeared.
The air feels very cold down here suddenly and I hurry after Cas, but I can’t help my responses. I’m so utterly captivated by the intriguing glimpse of thigh, and the apple cheeks ascending each stair before me with such measured elegance that I almost trip at the top.
I follow her down the short hallway separated from the main banking area. A belated thought disturbs my guilty reverie. “Ms O’Neil.... Cas? Earlier you mentioned recognizing me from my twin. Did you know Harry?”
Cas stops so precipitously that I almost walk into her. She turns with the poise of a veteran catwalk model, but looks heart-rendingly pained. I step back. Her demeanor has changed as rapidly as mine did in the basement. Now she seems like she wants to hug me. I’m sure I won’t so much as even feign resistance if she does.
But she doesn’t. Instead, after a moment, she says softly, “Yes, I did, and I sincerely apologize for dredging-up what may be painful memories.”
She hesitates for what seems like several seconds, as though wrestling with a discomfiting decision. When she continues, it’s with a determination which is clearly uncomfortable.
“If I can be completely open, I don’t think anyone outside the family felt Harry’s loss as acutely...as I did.” She pauses for a second or two and then rushes out a sentence as though she’s some guy having sex as fast as he can, fearful he’ll never get there if he doesn’t ejaculate it rapidly, right here and now. She goes on softly, “No one was ever dearer to me.”
She gets very close and touches my arm. Though I’m looking down at her, she seems every inch my stature. Intimately, in a voice so fragile, it seems it will crack if it suffers even a feather’s weight more, she says “It would be appalling of me to usurp your grief, and presumptuous to pretend I can share it, but please know that I deeply empathize with you. And trust me, when I say that if there’s anything at all I can do to help you through the next few days, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the bank’s business. Please allow me to offer that?”
For a moment, I don’t know what to say, but she seems like she’ll break down completely if I refuse her, so I nod mutely and then fumble in my jacket for a business card. I find some words to accompany it. “Cas, I’m grateful for your honesty. Please, call me sometime soon and we’ll talk more. It seems we both have something to share.”
This goes in like a shot of adrenaline, and she lights up a smile that almost transfigures her, even as embryonic tears sway dangerously in her bottom eyelids like some little kid enjoying her first venture into a hammock. What's going on here?
Cas takes my hand and opens it, and I feel her place into it something hard, metallic, and slightly sharp at the edges, and now I’m looking down at a remarkable neck pendant. It’s silver, and studded and sparkling and heavy. It’s filigree and slightly tarnished with sheer age. It has a dark jewel of some sort in the center, something nigrescent and pearly, like an animal's eye. It’s beautiful. Cas says, “Harry bought that for me right before....”
I stare at her, paradoxically open-mouthed and silent. She swallows and waits, then continues with some obvious difficulty, “...and it’s been full of bittersweet joy ever since. It would truly give me closure if I could complete the circle and return it to you. Perhaps you can share something of what I’ve obtained from it.”
I’m breathless. This is not a trinket. It looks like something that someone overwhelmingly in love buys for someone who loves them equally deeply in return. I start to protest, but Cas places insistent, tender, almost loving fingertips to my lips.
I want to suck on them.
“Please don’t refuse me,” she says. “I don’t think I could take that.” She touches her breasts. “Everything is in here, in me, and that’s the memory I truly treasure. This gift,” she softly whispers, motioning toward the pendant, “is very special to me, but it will have infinitely more value if you will please accept it.”
I’m still unable to articulate a response, but I see from her eyes how important this is. From her beautiful mouth, so soft and inviting, but set in a way that is distantly, painfully familiar and which brooks no argument, I understand completely that I need to just shut my own mouth and do as she asks even though I’d rather paint her lips in electric colors using my own as a brush.
There’s something unnervingly familiar about her, about her looking like this. I wonder if she picked up that look from Harry, perhaps, and that’s why it resonates so powerfully. God, do I long to kiss her, but as needful as I am for that, I’m more needful of her good graces.
“May I place it on you?” Cas asks, indicating the pendant. “Truly, I’m curious to see how it looks!”
I nod hastily, willing to do pretty much anything to perpetuate the encounter; to prolong this intimacy.
Cas takes it so delicately from my hands and comes very close. She’s far closer than she actually needs to be, which is still not close enough for me. I sip from her like she’s an Otard Cognac.
She places the chain almost erotically over my head (I know I’m exaggerating, but that’s how it feels), and she flounces my hair playfully. “Wow!” she exclaims rather loudly in that hot chocolate, slightly breathless voice. “It looks better on you, I’m ashamed to say. Far better. There’s something about you that it adores!”
I don’t know what to say, but Cas isn’t worried. “You must never take it off. It lights you up! This can be your eye on the world, your charm, your good luck, and your good looks. Not that you need ornamentation!” she finishes almost guiltily.
My lips curve and stretch upwards so easily and Cas mirrors it instantaneously, as though she expects me to acquiesce, which makes me brighten even more. I don’t know what else to do or say. I thank her almost breathlessly for her attention and compliments and offer to find my own way out. I was day-dreaming her accompanying me to the door, but as emotional as she is, she seems more grateful to have the opportunity to visit the women’s room before facing the public again.
She says, “You’re welcome,” and it’s such a deliciously open invitation that my smile breaks out again. It’s brief, but so warm and promising that I’m thinking how easy it is with her as I start walking away.
Cas calls to me and I turn willingly, expectantly, hopefully.
“Is this your cell phone number?” she asks softly, indicating the card, her smile not having shrunk a millimeter.
“Yes it is, and please call me...” I say invitingly, pausing almost imperceptibly, “...Kala.”
A brutal look at a lost future in the UK, and one twisted cop's misguided attempts to maintain law and order. 1
Out across the dark Thames River, the red sun appeared tiredly, struggling to get going on its morose hill-climb to noon. Daylight, on its ambivalent way to work, was attacked in the back streets and mugged, robbed of its valuables.
The mud-water in the river lightened grudgingly until it achieved a characteristic greasy shade of dirty olive. It looked like an ancient oil painting of Wimbledon center court after a long, wet summer. Not that Wimbledon had a center court any more. Not that there were any wet summers. The River was typically low at this time of year, but this spring had been dry and the water level was lower than usual and bigger vessels could not slide up it as easily as they had been used to.
Cans and bottles, plastic and cardboard, discarded food containers of assorted non-biodegradable du jour materials floated idly in the dead swell. The drowning refuse bobbed against the rotting wood of an abandoned pier as though it wanted rescuing. The stagnant water wouldn't let it free, crowding in filthy, frothy, oily eddies, hungrily lapping at the slime-green steps which crumbled and grumbled their way into the evil broth.
Across the river, across the accumulated dross of the years, the harsh cough of a streaked and rusty boat engine kicking into what substituted for life, grated on the ears of the drab and sickly seabirds hunkering down by the water. A spew of pretty rainbow oil sliced into the froth. Some adventurous seagulls flew low across the tiredly jogging wavelets before giving up all hopes of food and heading out to sea. They rarely spent daytime inland.
The boatswain threw a boxful of garbage overboard before returning to the cockpit and setting the tub in motion. A mass of empty, non-rusting, non-deteriorating, non-rotting, never-ending bottles splashed into the water like so many calls for help, but were mercifully buried under a din of tin-cans, spastic plastic, a cancer of cigarette butts, and a mish-mash of trash, churning freely in the boat's wake. An old newspaper managed to shout its headline before it drowned; all the news that's fit to sink.
Rising clouds of thick and pure white smoke from distant factories were joined by tiny vapors of thin blue haze, the first vanguard of the nude day waiting to be clothed in the miasma supplied by millions of humans farting up their day. The noises they made began to drift out over the city like a plague.
Inspector Marshall Harland (SDD5) was suddenly woken by his wrist alarm, which stopped automatically as he sat up in bed. He was alone: it just wasn't safe to go to sleep next to anyone these days.
He couldn't see the Thames from his apartment and wouldn't have wanted to anyway; he drove across it to work nearly every day, and hated the sight of the effluent-filled trough. It never had looked that great anyway, and the stench of it never left his nostrils no matter how far away from it he was. It was impossible to believe that just a few hundred years ago it was so pure one could drink from it. Now he wouldn't drink any water that originated in Great Britain.
He checked the time and then relaxed for a minute, letting his aches ease and stiffness work out, until he felt able to pull himself out of bed and face yet another day. He ate a meager breakfast in the kitchen. His two-roomed place wasn't much, but it was comfortable, and a lot better than some. Besides, he didn't need anything bigger or better. He was fine with what he had.
He picked up his Rolls-Canardly Roadster from the garage in the basement, where it had been secured for the night. It growled throatily down the road towards the Bridge. As ever, heads turned at the sound, but Harland ignored them. He knew that they would never believe such a vehicle could have been bought honestly on a cop's salary, but then he'd never claimed that it was.
He rolled across the bridge and coasted noisily past the filthy black wrecks of government buildings which insulted him every day as he drove towards his destination. Tough it was hard to believe when looking at them from the outside, most of these buildings were still in daily use. His own building, next to PHQ, seemed quite clean and new by comparison, but it was still bordering on derelict.
Parking in the fortress that was the basement garage facility, he rode a well-worn and creaking elevator to the fifth floor, three from the top, and strolled into the office he shared with eight other officers. The familiar odour of the area: trash, stale cigarettes, sweat, ancient farts, old food and even a faint whiff of vomit, was almost overwhelming, but he swallowed it down. He was so used to it by now that he didn’t even see how ugly and messed-up the office space was. He barely registered the stench any more.
"Harland! I thought you'd cried off for today. I was just about to tell Wilson you were retiring because of old age, but then I remembered you keep your own hours."
Harland smiled icily at Cooper, five years his junior, who shared the room even though he had nothing to do with the SDD, let alone SDD5, Harland's Division in Special Detection. Harland was pretty damned sure Cooper was a spy from upstairs, but he didn't give a fuck. He had nothing to hide. Nothing that was illegal, that is. He ignored the rest of Cooper's inane drivel and went to his battered and over-filled desk in the best corner by the window.
His personal phone recognised that he was inside the building so when he spoke an internal number it put him right through without having to try and figure out who, exactly, he was trying to reach. He'd learned that it was hopeless speaking the name of the person he wanted to reach because the phone service wasn't that smart.
While he waited for an answer, his sour gaze drifted over the other three officers in the room and his mouth turned down even more. They were all professional upholders of the law, but Harland would not trust one of them with his breakfast order, much less his life, as he was supposed to be able.
Cooper didn't count since he was with the IAD, and nobody gave a flying fuck about them, except those who were actually having internal affairs, but Decaine and Houseman were both sergeants, and he should have been able to trust them. Harland almost laughed out loud. Sergeants? Insurgents, more like, he thought.
Three other officers who also shared this space, two in the SDD and one in the IAD, and Cooper's superior were out already because today was a big day. Another two who shared the compound were still in the Police Hospital after that caper last month. That specific hospital was the only safe place for an injured officer any more, and their predicament in the first place was all because of prime shits like Cooper.
"Hey, Harland, what bonuses did you earn last month, anyway?" Cooper asked slyly.
Harland stuffed the phone back into its holster and said "It's Inspector Harland to you, Cooper, and if you ever forget it again, I'll inspect your ass with my boot."
Cooper said nothing. Harland knew what he was thinking, but there was no way either of them could do anything about it. Thoughts were free. Often too free, but there it was, until some white-coated moron in the Science Policing Attachment came up with a mind-reading machine.
Harland spat into his trash bin, still unemptied from last week because of the ancillary staff shortage. Fortunately, he had little left to throw away. He stood up to leave the room, but was halted by one of his constables, Adeen, sporting the darkly sharp good looks of a Sikh, complete with obligatory turban, who was returning to his desk from wherever he'd been.
"Wassup Marsh! Wilson says it's on for this afternoon, and we know where it is. He wants the group mobilized right away, and the whole outfit shipping to locus by ten-thirty."
Thank god somebody is on the ball this morning, Harland thought as he acknowledged the communication with an impolite nod, which was all he could usually bring himself to muster for his staff these days.
"I was just calling Wilson's office; there was no answer."
"That's Chief Inspector Wilson to you, Harland, and don't you forget it!" Cooper interjected with a cruel smile.
Harland ignored him completely as he turned back to his desk and set about deciding who he wanted on today's caper. If he ended up this time with two seriously fucked-up cops this time like he had last, he would look a bigger turd than his fellow officers often were.
He first had to figure out who wasn't injured or just plain not available for whatever suspect reason, and then select from that short list the few who he could trust not to fuck him over too irremediably.
2
Hardly more than thirty kloms away in an upper room in a nondescript house, three men were meeting to firm-up the final disposition of a robbery to be conducted by themselves, and eleven others. The others had been invited to meetings at various locations close to the scene of the crime-to-be. None of them knew they were involved in a robbery per se.
The robbery was set for eleven-thirty that same day, in an hour's time, and would result in an armored convoy being relieved of the insignificant weight of five score of GSIC diamonds which were more valuable, in total, than the sum total of what most respectable banks had in their vaults that morning.
Their crucial inside knowledge lay in that the valuables were not in the twin armored cars which were escorted by eight motorcycle cops and a small military detachment, but in the frames of the motorcycles themselves. Even those in the convoy did not have this knowledge. Very few did. Those in the convoy had no clue as to what it was that they even were supposed to be carrying. Most of them had 'inside information' that it was diamonds, but this was an impression fostered by the loading of pure space-cultured quartz crystals - the valuables which actually were being transported in the armored cars.
Nothing could go wrong. Even the usual last-minute change of details by the authorities was not going to be made this time, because no one who should not know did know that the shipment would be made that day while the distraction of the hate march was in full swing, rather than the next day, when it had been scheduled for. Nothing could go wrong. By six-thirty that same day, every one of those fourteen men was dead. Except one, and he knew everything.
3
Harland could hear simultaneously the aging clock striking eleven and the chanting of a massive crowd of demonstrators strolling by not far away. The crowd was late - as far as intelligence had been able to determine (and the intelligence of SDD5 was second to none - but still pathetic, apparently).
The original intention, insofar as they could tell, was to arrive at the locus by eleven and see what trouble might accidentally arise. They wanted it to make a political statement.
There was no chance of that happening. The campus was pervaded by the TANG of the UK Army Reserve. No-one got past those bastards. Consequently, downtown was secure. Given that, what was there for SDD5 to do?
The answer, as these answers do, had filtered down from the upper echelons of the rag-tag Socialist Alliance government, if government were the word for it, through the tight, slow filter of the civil service, such as it was, into the ears of the Metro Commissioner, and then passed on to the SDD and TANG.
Those two divisions had worked out a loose plan between them. It was all they could do. They had insufficient personnel to stop the march, and since a ban would be ignored anyway, and they had no reliable way of knowing exactly what the demonstrators were likely to do to begin with, there was little point in making definite plans.
They had begun, and continued, efforts to infiltrate these organizations, but with limited personnel and constant betrayals from inside the police force (Harland suspected), it was hard to plant moles with any sort of longevity. The protestors’ grass roots infonet was sufficient that they virtually always had warning well ahead of time, and could easily craft a resistance scheme.
If the authorities tried to stop it dead, it would be impossible and impractical. There was no way they could stop the marchers from wrecking Oxford Street and other places on the route, but that was not so important since most of the march route was wrecked anyway.
What they could do was to stop the flow from damaging the properties owned by wealthy citizens away from the river, and divert them into the poorer areas where they could be concentrated and mopped up readily with little risk to police reputation and little care for whatever damage they did there.
Harland stood with Wilson and other senior officers in a corner room high in the building where they could just now see the beginning of the hoard, heads bobbing up and down among ragged ranks of large white banners which stood out brightly in the glaring sunshine. The foremost one read:
ETHNIC LEAGUE MARCH – 9TH JULY Harland could not yet make out any others. He had no need to; he knew that they would be full of the same racist slogans he'd read so many times before. They were epigraphs and epithets which could be seen filling the walls of every exposed space along the London orbital road.
Since the National Front and a mob of other fronts had been left behind, the Ethnic League had slowly filled that vacuum. It was not so much an organization as a league of organizations, pulling deadbeats from the moronic to the embryonic including the KKK and the White Right. Most of these groups were fairly open about their aims and intentions if not their plans, but one deadly newcomer, still climbing in numbers, was so secretive that even the SDD hadn't penetrated them yet. They were called NazoFest, and the SDD thought that they, rather than the Ethnic League as such, were really the pustules underlying the present eruption.
Any number of these forties throwbacks could be down there marching right now, but it was more likely that they were planting a bomb somewhere else. The Ethnic League was a danger not only from their outspoken hatred of everything un-English (they didn’t even pretend to be British!), but also because of their massive rallies, which became more violent, more destructive and more forceful every time they marched. Members of NazoFest were just plain murderers, and that was all there was to it.
It was impossible to plain stop any of this because no amount of banning could prevent five thousand marchers from doing what they wanted. What could they do? Arrest them? Where would they put them? The only effective way of treating this open wound was to monitor it as closely as possible, try to contain the worst of it, and try to identify and delete the leaders. That was SDD5's interest in this little party.
Harland had a fine set of Canon Command photographic binoculars trained on the advancing throng, and his expert eye was already noting faces and clothing. Whenever he saw anything of interest, he would mutter "SnapIt!" into his mike, and he had a picture of the offending character stored and transmitted to HQ for ID.
"Seen your men?" Wilson asked, moving a little closer to Harland.
The other moved imperceptibly away. He did not like Wilson; Wilson was a 'yes' man, not a cop, and Harland would never like him. The sooner he realised his political ambitions, overthrew the liberal Labrats, returned the Torthugs to power and joined them, the better, Harland thought, not because he actually liked any of the political parties; they were all the same to him, but because he wanted to be shot of Wilson.
Harland had no political leanings. All governments were fucked-up rip-off artists to him. As far as he was concerned, one party did just as much damage as the next. Each one reversed everything the previous one had done, and there wasn't a goddamned one of them, or any unholy alliance of them, which gave a flying shit about Mr and Ms Average.
As long as he was left alone and paid regularly, he was happy. He didn't even mind paying taxes, since part of that came back to him as his own salary, and the perks were good. At least, he was as happy as a person could be, living in this shit hole of a society.
"There are some friendly faces," Harland said, meaning just the opposite, of course. Into his mic he said, "ComIt! Decaine, Decaine, looking at long, black hair, thick mustache, large nose, white coveralls carrying the left pole of the banner reading, Whites right, Ragheads Bite, do you see, over?"
Evidently the dickhead with the banner didn’t realize that Arabs were Caucasian too; the Caucasus are just north of Iran for god-sakes! A faint and crackling voice returned to his ear "Yeah, got you, is he a marker? Over," and Harland confirmed. The white coverall was supposedly a secret symbol of the members of the inner group of NazoFest, but it was hardly a well-kept secret, and even the police had got on to it almost immediately.
Unfortunately, every other jackass had taken to wearing them, so now the inner core began to sport various cryptic symbols on theirs, and SDD5 knew many of those. They also knew many of the faces by now and readily identified previous offenders.
Harland recognised the black-haired guy as someone he had intended to get from the last march, but had lost track of. He would have him this time.
"Harland, Harland, we have a second group, either Brown-Out or Family of Freedom, running edge of street heading this way, do you hear?” Hanson over."
Harland smiled. Hanson was in one of the buildings further along the road and he could obviously see pretty well from there. Well, if the Family of Freedom or the Brown-Outs were marching today, then his job would be a breeze. All he had to do was let opposing sides fight it out, and pick up the spoils.
He began to relax a little, and he loosened his collar. The heat was already bordering on the nightmarish. Even in Harland’s youth, thirty-five to forty degree days had been a rarity in Britain. Now they were becoming very common in the middle of the year.
The police had been issued a new official uniform several years before which incorporated what was then the fashion - a miniature tie. The thing came prefabricated and attached to a collar. It was the most ridiculous thing ever invented, and subject to endless genital jokes. Harland had made it his practice to slice these off each uniform he got possession of, and had not really noticed that this shirt still had one until he began driving into work that morning, and then had not had chance to fuss with it. Now it irritated the hell out of him along with the rest of the suit, which was sweet in winter, but far too hot for summer wear.
He resolved to hunker down and suck up yet another sweltering day, just like the one before, just like tomorrow would be, until the inevitable radical thunderstorm two or three weeks from now would herald the arrival of cooler air. That thought made him sweat more than he liked. He liked to be in some air-conditioned building with a swimming pool, but he was stuck here, watching these assholes strut their stuff, and for what purpose?
The police, even the elite groups like the SP's and SDD5 had long given up trying to contain these marches. To do so was not only dangerous for those officers concerned, but also was a fruitless exercise, because they had neither the officers, nor the matériel to really do the job. Their policy was perforce to let the marchers do what they liked within reason, but to try and divert them onto the old familiar march routes where they could do little additional damage, and just let the march peter out in the heat.
Occasionally, there came exciting times when two opposing groups decided, either by accident or design, to march on the same day, at the same time. In these circumstances, the police simply let the groups meet, as they inevitably would, and fight it out, saving the force a lot of trouble.
That was now the plan for the day, and the only thing which troubled Harland was why he had not known about this second march until now. He could only assume that it was another case of the word being quickly passed around that the first march was under way, and the second march forming spontaneously to oppose it: a flash mob, for the not-so-flash.
"Let them mix, everyone, and then put the gas on them", Wilson said, into his mike.
"A little D-Notice will sort them out, eh, Marsh? A bit of gas will take their heels from under them", he added, and then laughed his slow, rolling laugh. Harland gave him the standard cold smile, and returned to his binos. Why Wilson liked to pretend he was his best buddy, Harland had no fucking idea.
He watched the crowd closely for a short while, men and women, boys and girls. One couple even had a baby with them. Morons. Maybe it wasn't theirs. Baby-Borrowing had become a fad of late and the baby often never made it back to the parents; some couples considered them disposable in these troubled times.
He registered two more people and passed on their descriptions to Decaine. By then, the two groups had met and Harland gave up trying to spot individuals in the crowd at all. A massive and brutal fight broke out at the junction of the two streets, which began to spill towards locus.
"Fun's over, gas now!" Wilson ordered, way too soon, and Harland spat down into the street as he watched the heavy canisters drop from assorted locations, hitting several people and probably killing at least one of them. Last time this had happened, one small girl had been flattened by canisters which did some unscheduled brain surgery on her. Fortunately it had been worked that she was firing on police officers, so no one cared about her disability.
The invisible gas spread quickly and seemed to have no effect, but for those who expected it, as most of those present did, it became quite obvious that the fun had gone out of the mêlée.
The gas, DBB2 did not show itself visibly; it did not smell and it didn't even cause tears in those who inhaled it, but as soon as they had taken more than one or two breaths of the air it infested, they found that they began to suffer a noticeable loss of self-control, not only of their movements, but also of their bodily functions. Eventually - hopefully after they had had time to get home or at least indoors - they would fall asleep, and in the morning would wake up with the headache to end all headaches. People suffering from DBB2 hangover had been known to kill themselves to get away from the pain.
Those in the know had brought masks, the same masks that the police were issued, and they donned them quickly as they saw the canisters fall. Others put cloths over their mouth and nose, which did help, if they were wet, but hardly much. The first consequence of the gas was that the fights broke up sooner, but more fights broke out in the short term as people fought to get away, and fought to steal masks and face cloths from other people.
The main benefit was that less damage was done, although some of the medical profession argued that inhaling large quantities of DBB2 caused irreparable brain impairment in animals and convicts, which was why it was only used in the open air, where its effects would last for only an hour or so as it dispersed and decomposed.
Another consequence was that after the gas had dispersed, the mob was easy to pick over and detainees were in no condition to resist. Most of them would be taken through the police lines to a convoy of waiting vans which would shuttle them out of town to be cattlecar’d out to the countryside, where they were dumped and left to fend for themselves as they tried to figure out where they were and make their way home.
Serious offenders and senior organizers were shipped over to Buckingham palace, which had been a full time prison for many years since the Royal Family had moved to an island home in Saint Helena. It was not necessary to hold a trial for march offenders, who could he detained for up to three years for inciting trouble in an urban area.
"Harland, detained eleven markers, going Palace side, Rabett over."
"Roger, Rabett," Harland said, picking him up in the binos, and following him to the nearest transport before returning to see what was happening with the mob. A good many of them, and from which side it was impossible to tell, had drifted from the brawl at the Oxford-Baker junction and were clashing with the STAMP line at the head of Park Lane.
They were breathing easier there, where the gassing was all but non-existent. They began throwing massive stones and brandishing empty gas canisters at those on the barricade. Most of them were lively because they wore gas masks. Some of them had moved along the Bayswater Road and then crossed the Ring with a view to getting around the lines by means of Hyde Park, but as yet, there was no problem there. Harland transferred his attention back to the head of Park Lane.
If much more pressure were applied even the STAMP line might get stressed. They had not been authorised to go artillery yet.
"Where the devil are they getting those masks and stones from?" asked Wilson of no one in particular. It seems he was of the impression that everything would magically stop once the gas was thrown. Wake up Wilson!
"They get the masks off us, or buy them on the black market," someone said, as though Wilson couldn't figure it for himself.
"And the stones come from the black market too, I suppose?" Wilson sniped in response to this helpful answer.
"Fuck knows where the stones come from. Maybe their granny had a bladder operation," Harland supplied, not dreaming of withholding his contempt. Wilson never seemed to notice.
Down near the Arch, the fighting went on. A constable, obviously a new recruit to this squad, had let someone get hold of him, and despite the protective blows from the long truncheons of his colleagues, he was pulled over the barrier and set upon by the mob. He have died right then and there if it had not been for a sharp-eyed chlorine cannon operator who turned his jet on the mad cows and forced them back.
A group of mean mother-flankers jumped the barrier and fought off the stragglers while the injured officer was hauled over the barrier and dragged to an ambulance. Harland breathed a sigh of relief that it was not one of his people. He would have given him a rapid mouthful and no sympathy followed by an even faster transfer out of his division if it had been, but that would not have prevented Harland's record from showing one man injured.
Suddenly a shot rang out, and Harland shouted into his mic, "Who's shooting?"
It wasn't possible to tell if the shot had come from his side or from the marchers. A second shot rang out and one of the constables fell decidedly dead. That clarified things somewhat. Harland had now pinned the sniper to a building, but he couldn't figure the floor. The building was enough.
"I'm gonna fuck that cunt," he yelled angrily, and charged down the stairs. Picking half-a-dozen officers who were guarding the entrances, he clued them in and set off. He had to get into the building directly opposite him across Edgeware and find that killer before he could shoot anyone else; if he was still there.
Snipers with any brains at all, took one shot and left the area to set up somewhere else, but they were becoming all too common at these marches, and Harland wanted them smashed down viciously. He was not going to let his patch become a duck shoot.
He helped himself to a rubber bullet gun - a quaint antique obviously dragged out by some officer with a cute notion of crowd control, but as it happens, it was very effective at short range on an individual you wanted to question afterwards, as long as you fired it directly into the perp and didn’t bounce it off a hard surface as it was supposed to be fired.
He surveyed the scene from a doorway. Most of the mob were attacking the police line and hadn't realised that there was a group of police officers in the building he was in. It was better they didn't. Harland wouldn't have cared if Wilson were gouged, but there were others up there he did not wish that fate on.
Waiting until the time seemed good, he said, "Now!" and softly but sharply, they charged across the road and into the doorway opposite. As he did so, another shot rang out, and another officer in the line across Park Lane fell down. This time, Harland saw where the window was. He had to make his way down to the corner entrance, but that was where the mob was.
"If we hit any trouble, it's every man for himself, right?" he told those with him.
"Kill first before you ask questions. Anyone who doesn't survive this is out of my division!" Harland joked, before turning off his com.
They ran to that entrance and inevitably a portion of the crowd saw them. Harland began firing rubber bullets straight at the faces of those coming to them, and his support group began taking out the kneecaps of others with a spray of .22s. A lot of the charging mob changed their minds damned fast.
They reached the doorway breathless, and about twenty metres in front of a much-thinned, but much-angered mob. Harland didn't dare stop. He was inside and up the stairs before the cops below began to tackle the crowd. They followed standard police routine, took the high ground and laid down a withering cover fire, as another round of gas canisters dropped on the heads of those in the mob still outside.
All of those officers on the ground had been sporting masks, of course, and had taken antidote pills, which were very hard to come by for the crowd, but issued to every officer on this duty.
Harland never found out how the encounter turned out. He knew from information received later, that there were no police casualties, and he believed it; the sounds he heard behind him were not pleasant: a mixture of ripe language police catcalls and pained mobsters.
Upstairs, he was on his own, in the heart of the warm building; just him and the sniper. He wouldn't have wished it any other way, and he kept stepping silently up the stairs on soft-soled shoes until he reached the right floor.
Quietly, he accessed the hall and began to head towards the rooms in which he suspected the sniper was hanging out, staying close by the near wall, treading as lightly as he knew how, tensed and ready for anything.
Except, that is, for the killer appearing behind him, loudly cocking his gun. Harland heard the cold voice say "Hey copper-" and he was bursting through the nearest door as the gun banged incredibly loudly behind him, and a hot bullet whistled into the room faster than ever he could make it. Fortunately, it was wide and high. If the door he had chosen had been locked or blocked, he was dead anyway.
He was lucky.
Through that door, he found himself back in the hallway, and he rolled and turned, pumping the trigger of his Magnum Matador once, and holding it for automatic fire. A fine piece of precision machinery, the Matador could put an entire twenty-shot magazine through six millimeters of steel at fifty yards, in just three seconds.
The sniper was unprotected by steel of any sort, and Harland released the trigger after only half a magazine had loosed. There was no point in wasting an expensive metal like mercury on a corpse. The ten mercury filled slugs had ripped up the sniper and spread him all over that room. Harland was glad he wasn't still in it.
The next thing to surprise him after the attack was that the sniper was a police officer. Something smelled seriously bad here. This would need a special report. Harland traced his way back to the window from where the shooting had been done which, fortunately for him, was not the one where the blood was. He noted that the rifle was still lying by the window. There was a box of eight cartridges sitting there and it seemed a pity to waste them. He went to the window, taking out a thin, but tough pair of gloves from a pants patch pocket.
He slipped them on with some difficulty and then loaded a cartridge into the rifle’s chamber. Standing to one side of the window so he could not be seen from any police vantage point, he took careful aim at the crowd. His trained eye drifted along the row of police on Park Lane, picking out ones he liked and hated, then it drifted into the crowd. He saw, through those deadly sights, one of the white coveralls, and his finger automatically squeezed without him having to consciously think about it.
The rifle cracked, and the anonymous marcher fell dead. Still keeping out of sight, Harland reloaded and re-sighted on someone who was throwing stones at the officers who were helping their injured colleagues back to the ambulances; another squeeze, another crack, another corpse.
It was too easy, but ease had never discouraged Harland; he kept right on until the last cartridge had killed someone. Eight shots, eight corpses. By then, the crowd was beginning to disperse for fear of being shot up completely, and the worst of the danger from the marchers was over.
Harland smashed the rifle up against the wall until it was useless. The sight had pulled a little to the left anyway.
He took off his gloves and set fire to them with his lighter, ensuring that they were burned completely and powdered into obscurity out of the window into the breeze. He walked back into the corridor, wiping his hands on his pale blue coverall - the police color for the day. It was necessary that his and other branches' people were distinguishable, or they were likely to get shot up. Only a policeman would be wearing pale blue today, because no-one else could know what the color was; it had only been chosen only a couple of hours earlier, and quite at random.
The sniper's body lay huddled against the wall at the far end of the corridor, the whites stained bright red, where it wasn't obscured by a thick swarm of black flies.
It made a sick picture of mangled and torn flesh, but Harland was immune. He'd seen it too often to even look twice as he walked casually past and descended the stairs. He did smile slightly. He had done a good job, quickly, if not exactly efficiently, and there were no witnesses. There was not even a way for his enemies in the PD to get him for this, even if it had been a pure case of murder.
Just as no crime under theft value of ten thousand pounds was investigated these days, so too, no murder which had not been witnessed was investigated. Harland had made yet another Novel, and a vicious one, too.
What if the legends and myths of Titans and gods were real - of a titanic battle at the dawn of humanity? Of space travelers who would be gods? Chapter -3
"The first thing people need to get straight is that this is not a Quantum Drive. It never was. There's no such thing. It's a SotA Gravitach and that's all there is to it. The fact that it can take us outside the solar system in two days and to the nearest star in four months has nothing to do with quanta at all."
"There you heard it! Coming to you directly from one of the pilots via RacecaR, the lucky winner of the Sequoia interview! We now learn that this new technology is not a Quantum Drive as has been mis-broadcast by the mainstream media, but is simply a Gravitach; however, it's a State of the Art Gravitach, one that's been pushed further than anyone ever thought possible by two remarkable engineers and frankly, in this reporter's humble opinion, it's bordering on the miraculous. It's...well, I was going to say 'streets ahead', but it's really star systems ahead, of anything else humanity has dreamed up so far.
"So let's meet the crew. It won't take long. There are only two of them. The one I'm talking to right now is Eve Mada. Eve, you plan on leaving tomorrow morning, correct?"
"That's right Dennel, we leave mid-morning tomorrow via conventional rocket launch provided by Huaxing, of course, and rendezvous with the Sequoia shortly after. As soon as we've booted up and had a thorough systems check, we'll be on our way."
"We're so used, these days, to seeing nine or ten astronauts up there at once that it seems a bit odd that there are only two of you. Is that going to be enough?"
Laughing, Mada replied, "Well, you've seen these pictures of the Sequoia, you've seen the logo on the side, haven't you? What does it say there?"
"Well it says, 'Vee-Mada Space System'!"
"That's right, Dennel. There are only two names on there, mine and Adam's, and we made a space system! We made it only for two. Everything that can be automated has been so. We have several AIs working here and there's no need for any other crew. It's plenty roomy for us, but it would get rather crowded with more. It's only a small ship after all. That way, there's less mass to move and the fuel lasts longer."
"It is small, but it's a beautiful piece of engineering. Don't you feel though, sometimes, that putting all your faith in technology leaves you feeling like a passenger?"
"Not in the slightest. You can't trust this kind of operation to human frailty. This isn't Star Trek. This is real space exploration and humans are not at home there. We didn't evolve to live in space and our brains aren't up to the speed and complexity required to function optimally in a highly technological world. That's why we have machines and computers, self-drive vehicles, and intelligent operating systems; however, we humans did build these systems and what we have in them is not faith, but trust in our workmanship. We've done a first-class job and now we're going to prove it."
"I'm confident you will. Well let me turn to Adam and let him get a word in here. Adam Vee, the other half of the engineering team which designed and built the sequoia, and who, along with Eve, will pilot it sometime tomorrow. So, Adam, I know you two don't talk about your backgrounds, preferring to melt into the mystery you have created around yourselves, but I have to ask where you got the engineering skills to come up with the technology you have on display here!"
"We've been working on this kind of thing all our lives; nothing beats self-taught and a history of devoting all your resources towards a reachable goal."
"Reachable? It wasn't at one point...but you got there, so I'll leave it at that! Tell me, where will you be heading on this inaugural trip?"
Smiling, Adam said, "We're going out as far as Planet X. It may only be a distant and only recently discovered member of our venerable system, but it's untouched, and it's so long been a mystery that it seems almost disrespectful to travel like this and not stop by!"
"Especially since it's in a great position right now to visit!" said Eve.
"Exactly!" Adam agreed.
Dennel said, "Can I ask why you're heading that way rather than the other way - towards Venus and Mercury?"
"That's an easy one. There's no life - not any we'd want to meet at least! - sunward of Earth, and there's nothing we can really see anyway in the Sequoia. Mercury's barren and Venus is masked. The Sequoia isn't designed to land anywhere at this point, and even if it were, those two planets are certainly not places you'd want to get out and stretch your legs. We don't have any extra-heavy radiation shielding this trip, and we'd need that, the closer we got to the sun, but there really isn't anything to see that interests us on that side, right now."
"You've mentioned life, or rather the lack of it on the sunward side, but there isn't any on the outward side either so far as we know, so what's the attraction?"
"There's more to see. Admittedly it's far colder going that way, but it's proven easier for us to protect Sequoia from the cold than it is from heat and radiation, and we have a choice of five major planets plus the dwarves, and Snow White, which is what we think the new planet should be named!"
Dennel laughed.
Adam continued, "There are assorted other bodies as well, and as you mention, there's no good evidence of any life out there, but there's far more chance of seeing evidence for life sun-out than there is sun-in, we believe. Besides, who wouldn't want to see Jupiter close up? Who would want to miss the Saturnine rings and the amazing luminosity of Uranus and Neptune? And there are so many moons sun-out that I'd be rather surprised if we failed to find some evidence of something growing somewhere out that way."
"Can I chime in, Dennel? I'm in complete agreement with Adam, but one thing he hasn't stressed is that this really isn't a journey of exploration. It's actually a shake-down trip to test the Sequoia and make sure it really is what we think it is and can really do what theory - and much testing! - have suggested it can do. Can a team of AI robots build and fly reliable spacecraft? I think we'll find the answer is 'yes'."
Adam quickly agreed. "Yes, a trial run is exactly what this is, so let's not mislead anyone into thinking we're something we're not. We're not likely to make any Earth-shattering discoveries this trip, but having said that, as long as we're going sun-out, there's no reason not to stop and smell the roses."
I'm glad you mentioned stopping! There have been some concerns raised, since word of your achievement got loose, about how well you can control this new engine of yours. Others who have dabbled in this, not anywhere near to the depths you two obviously have of course, but who have been there, have thrown up their hands in despair because the Gravitach engine is not known for its ultra-reliability. What are you going to do if it fails?"
Eve laughed again. "We'll put the back-up engine online and use that one!" she said confidently.
Adam laughed.
"It's that simple?" Dennel asked.
Adam laughed again. "Well, we do have a complete back-up propulsion system of the Gravitach type, and we also have a third system of a completely different type, so if two fail, we still have a third option."
"However," Eve chimed in again, smiling brightly, "Let's not give support to the doom-sayers. We do have three engines, but I'd trust any single one of them. The designs have been tested exhaustively."
"Quite literally!" Adam added.
Eve shook her head and laughed. "Yes, indeed. But we know these engines. We've tested them to extremes. We've taken care of the problems earlier versions had, and we can find no problems at all with what we've built. We're not worried about failure. Besides, Sequoia 1 is already out there; if Sequoia 2 isn't up to scratch, we'll simply transfer to Seq 1 and tow Seq 2 back with us!"
Adam smiled. "The only thing we're worried about," he added, "Is making sure we turn off the gas before we leave the house!"
Chapter -2
The launch was suddenly, almost shockingly there and they were boosting up to 600 kilometers in what seemed like an amazingly rapid ascent.
The shuttle crew were to bring their passengers to the Sequoia and then descend to their own international space station and monitor the flight from there.
The passengers were rather lost as the commander, Qi Yirong, who had been China's very first female shuttle commander, communicated with Jiuquan mission control and interacted with pilot Huang Caohai all, of course, in Chinese. The other two crew were Liao Xiao who apart from the occasional exchange with her other crew mate, Deng Taepyung, had been largely silent. Taepyung had the task of communicating with the passengers since he was the only one who had sufficient grasp of English to do so.
Soon the Shenfeng was approaching the Sequoia. The docking was smooth and easy. This kind of thing wasn't new and the Chinese were very skilled at it. Adam moved over first, having shook hands with each of the Chinese crew. He took the handful of items they had brought with them as they were handed to him. When they were both aboard, they exchanged best wishes, and sealed the hatch.
The Shenfeng softly undocked and moved away. Once the initial power-up had been confirmed, Huang Caohai fired the Shenfeng's braking thrusters in order to lower their orbit. The Sequoia's crew watched them drop silently away before setting to work on the hour-long systems check.
They looked at each other silently for a minute, checking each other's status, but neither could keep their face straight for long, and soon they were all smiles.
Eve said, "Let's kick it!" and they voice commanded the control deck for their outbound journey. For a moment or two, there was nothing to see, or for that matter, detect with any of their senses or sensors; then they felt the deep hum of an engine, and the Sequoia began to move out of orbit.
Ever increasing speed kicked in rapidly and they were soon almost literally rocketing outwards, Earth diminishing noticeably in their rear view.
They settled into a routine of regular systems checks, long conversations, movies, love-making, and silently watching the endless blackness of space go by even though they couldn't physically see a lot of evidence of motion. Their speed was apparent only in the feeling of their backs firmly pressed to their seats.
Until, of course, they crossed the asteroid field. Though they were high above it, it clarified just how rapidly they were moving.
They got a boost from Jupiter as they passed by closer than any robot ship had ever done, transmitting a huge amount of data back to Earth, and then they were slung out in an almost nightmarish hurtle toward Saturn, transmitting endless telemetry back to a ground station on Earth using the same basic Gravitach technology they had built into the Sequoia. It was real time, even from this far out, because it wasn't exactly the same system which they used to power the ship. It was an advanced version that seemed to work with photons, but not, unfortunately, with matter.
Their trip progressed not only rapidly and flawlessly, but completely uneventfully. Until, that is, they were speeding by Saturn, with roughly 25% of their purported outbound journey completed. Their sensors were on high alert, and it was when they began surveying Saturn's beautiful rings that their specially-designed detection devices went hyper.
Saturn is rather an arresting sight to begin with, but it wasn't the view which brought the Sequoia to an ironically muted, unscheduled, 'screeching' halt; it was the telemetry coming up out of the Saturn ring survey they were running as they approached the spectacular gas giant.
The telemetry was so what they sought, but paradoxically so unexpected that Mada pulled the plug on their outbound ride and brought them into a polar orbit so they could re-check their results.
The ring survey was being conducted using a laser to read every particle in the rings and make a once-and-for-all detailed map of them as well as provide a better idea of exactly what composed the rings which have fascinated humanity for almost half a millennium.
The laser was reading the rings in expanding concentric circles starting from the D ring closest to the planet and working outwards as it went in a way somewhat analogous to how a laser might digitally have read one of those old-style disks. It seemed to be this technique which gave the unexpected results - results which were so surprisingly regular that both Mada and Vee were almost ready to conclude that the incoming telemetry had to be in error.
"This isn't going to Earth is it?" Vee asked.
Mada shook her head. "Not this!" she said.
Vee reset the system and started the survey again, this time at the maximum sampling rate that they could boost their system to achieve. They examined the results as they were accumulated and rendered. And there was no mistake.
Chapter -1
"Are we sure this is reading accurately?" was Mada's immediate question when the two of them finally realized that there was no simple error in play here. The data were good as far as they could tell, but Mada and Vee were not only superb engineers, which gave them confidence in their laser telemetry, they were also trained scientists who knew that 'too good to be true' usually was.
As more and more data came in and seemed to hint, suggest, announce, and finally shout out that there was an unnatural pattern to the ring organization, they put their heads together to see if they could somehow increase the resolution of the scan even beyond what they had designed and now tweaked it to do. This was too important.
They found a way to double-up on the sampling, so they could get not only a reading from the particles in the rings, but also an additional reading as to the depth of the particle layer.
The rings are nearly entirely composed of ice, and not the exotic breeds of ice we've become accustomed to expect in the outer planets and moons, but the same kind of ice you'd get out of your refrigerator. The rest was rocks and dust.
They were knife-edge thin when viewed from Earth in comparison with the bulk of the planet, but at this close range, in orbit, their true nature was revealed in stark clarity. The wafer-thin rings appeared so because while they were over 100,000 kilometers across, all told (dwarfing the radius of the planet they surrounded), they're only some ten metres thick. All of it had data.
Chapter 0
Eve turned off all external communication apart from some minor telemetry. They did not want anyone on Earth to think they had disappeared or been destroyed. But essentially, it was just herself and Adam as it had been for so many years now. Her face expressionless, she looked at him and said quietly, almost as though she still felt someone might hear her out here in deep space, "This data set looks coherent. Is this it?"
Adam was already eying her, evidently having formed the same conclusion independently. He said, "I think it could be. It does look manufactured. Is this what we were looking for? And if it is, do we tell anyone?"
Eve looked dubious. "I don't know if anyone down there can handle this kind of information," she said, tipping her head back towards Earth.
They looked at each other in silence. Adam asked, "Is it information?"
Eve smiled evilly and Adam mimicked her. She said, "let's see if we can decode it!"
The two worked in silence, running various algorithms on the computer - the very powerful computer they had built and installed and not mentioned to anyone.
The information enciphered on the rings of Saturn was some two thousand years old, and it had degraded due to the natural activity of the rings over that time, but it had been encoded on several levels and with much redundancy. Applying a sustained and educated effort, the two of them were able to reconstitute the audio message which had been so carefully encoded into those venerable rings.
Chapter 1 Bereshith
Blackness it is and blankness; The Space. Deepest and coldest, furthest and widest it runs. Darkest, harshest, empty and hostile. It is infinite.
The Space is endless and matter can only bespeckle it futilely. Its incalculably massive expanse means that light from one side can never reach the other. Forever searching, it must travel endlessly throughout all eternity, long beyond the time when its source is no longer in existence.
To talk of conquering such immensity, such vastness, is absurd; unutterably ludicrous. The most gargantuan creation which pretends to claim fragile hold in any tiny quarter of this nihilistic extravaganza is thoroughly insignificant. No one, no thing, can conquer, and nothing can win. No one can own it or beat it. No one can understand it or explain it. No one will ever know where it came from or where it went.
In the infinite, the most colossal and the tiniest fraction are absolutely equal: specks that can only speculate.
In ring 100001, 300 section, 2428 zone, one such speck hung, observing other specs which were approaching so rapidly that their arrival was imminent. The first speck waited for them. That speck was paradYCE.
The Chinese have created an assassin android designed to infiltrate American society and start a civil war. What they expected was that killing the leading presidential candidate for the opposition party, would bring his fanatical fanbase to a boiling point.
They did not anticipate that the very programming aimed at making the android so human that it could infiltrate anywhere, would be the thing that caused it to question its mission.
Yulana, adopting the name of the sex-bot skin she used to get herself shipped to the US, found herself with Josh, a news reporter writing a feature on sex-bots. He had no idea that literally, hiding under her beautifully realistic skin was a deadly assassin. She had no idea that she could so efficiently learn to be human, that she'd develop a conscience about her mission and feelings for her mentor. Can an android fall in love? And can her owner love her in return?
This story is very loosely linked with Open Ocean, Closed Coffin which takes place earlier than this one does.
Sample text to come
Alternate history - a submarine tunnel newly opening. Terrorists. People trapped under the English Channel? Rains of Bombs and 'Planes
On the night of June twenty second, 1941, even before the new moon had cleared the horizon, bombs were dropped which would echo into the 1990’s. It was shortly before Hitler made his disastrous decision to reverse the Nazi war machine and target the communists rather than the monarchy, at the beginning of perhaps the last serious raid on London before his Luftwaffe was press-ganged into the Russian campaign.
The Heinkel 111's of Kampfgeschwader 55 were hit heavily over the Strait of Dover by the Spitfires and Hurricanes of Eleven Group, Fighter Command, but such was the force of numbers of both bombers and fighter escort, a hoard of the bombers got through the initial onslaught. Most of the British pilots regrouped and turned their attention to these, but some who had more heart than smarts chose to ignore the twin threats of German firepower and the English Channel's chill waters, and began to chase some of the half-crippled night birds which had turned back.
Heinkel 813, though losing power rapidly, would probably have made it to France if it wasn't for this angry wasps' nest of Britain's not-so-few. The bombardier entered the first round of the `Let's Get Home' lottery by ditching his bombs. The plane almost bounced up from its empty belly. The few extra metres it gained nicely avoided an attacking Spit which was then aerated by a gunner in the Heinkel. The pilot of the Spit was picked up the next morning, having learned his lesson moist assuredly. No one seems to know what became of the Heinkel.
As for the bombs, several hundred kilogrammes of them, they fell into the Channel and sunk, en masse, to the bottom, where the combined action of wave and sand aggregated and covered them as the years surged by. Eventually, they lay undisturbed, masked by mud and crud until they were invisible. The initial corrosion on their casing effectively barricaded their innards from the salt-water. All were live; not one exploded, though the mechanisms were very sensitive. Some bombs rested precariously on their trigger.
They lay quietly, like good neighbors in a campsite, happy to keep to their selves. The digging of a tunnel underneath was insufficient to justify a complaint on their part; it was when another bomb started showing off that they took exception. And violently so.
