I have spent my life sleeping--or least it seems that way. Eating, studying, and thinking, yes, but mainly sleeping. I seem to have logged hundreds of hours beyond normal, hundreds of extra hours saved up for a day of need . . . I wake at 12:30 again, after having spent most of the afternoon in a shallow, troubled slumber. My mind has been at work, piecing together the threads, and the tentative outline of a much greater tapestry is presented to me at waking. Stumbling into the shower, I realize that Kaleta obviously wants to be on good terms with me. The exact reasons why I do not know; but considering that I've skipped out on work two days in a row and have intoxicated myself at said place of employment, he's overlooking a great deal of unbecoming behavior. Add that to the expansive office and Lara Beecroft and it's plain as day that he's trying to garner favor. I say garner favor simply because Ken Kaleta is no paternal figure. Rather than nurture my career and discipline my excesses, he's playing to my senses of avarice and lust. And it's working; he is building his way up to some critical juncture, where he will either have me won over or cornered via blackmail. Blackmail! Ben was right. Kaleta was obviously monitoring me--though it is possible that the psi disruption field triggers an alert somewhere, and that the Vice President came running . . . or perhaps he was watching my progress via remote video, and saw my wild ranting for what it really was. I must act appropriately from now on, in regards to both Lara and Ben. The VP will monitor my every move; I nearly fell yesterday but now I see the tightrope for what it is. But I will hear Kaleta out, though his intentions cannot be for the better. He is a slimeball, but that office is nice, and perhaps I shall find some way to Beecroft. I dry myself off. So if Kaleta is one side, then what is the other? Vice President Hageny? Ben? Some other variable? Most likely Hageny and his psis--the Vice President of Security was certainly digging around for dirt on me during that computer search, and Ben could have churned up untold amounts of sludge. But my conscience is fairly clean. And Ben seems to be more of an ally than a thug, a mere extension of Hageny's power . . . I slurp down a cup of ramen and cool my throat with bottled water. This night seems relatively calm; I never bothered to find out what happen yesterday and the day before that. I throw my lapcomputer's trackball around, disengaging its standby mode. I have mail, but I delay reading it, instead hand-typing in the URL of the current SELF news site. It is constantly on the move, as Megapol's hacks enjoy demolishing its code and compromising its member database. THE THIRD ARRIVAL OR MERE ATMOSPHERIC DISTURBANCE? asks the site's headline. Holy shit. "The government says they're just strangely persistent weather anomalies, created by subatomic particles trapped in a low level of Earth's magnetic field. The Church of Sirius says they're dimension gates--portals to another world. We here at the Sentient Engine Liberation Front decided to take a closer look at both stories-- and at the actual phenomena." I skim down through the ten paragraphs of text, staring for a long time short film clips. Rotating reddish pyramids, a thin halo of bluish fuzz surrounding them, hover above various sections of the city. The map confirms it, one is fairly near Petrograd Block--it's over the Northtown Shopping District, a large, spread out complex of small to medium shops pandering to those who want to avoid the risk of Intranet transactions. Apparently, these 'weather anomalies' are the transit points for--oh, God--vessels of an alien nature. 'Chariots of God' or some other ludicrous expression to the rabble of the Church, the government has been less-than-quietly engaging these craft in full-fledged air battles over the last two nights. That would explain those weird thump-thump-thump noises I've been hearing. Anti-armor rounds, most likely low-caliber autocannon mounted on airborne craft. I smile wryly. That much I did learn from my mom. I muse over a rendition of one of these 'alien' vessels. Blurry, and tinged with purple haze, I can't help but think that at least the last two waves of bugs came in some wicked looking ships. This looks more like a cowpie than a planet-ravaging, beauty-queen abducting deathship of grey might. I exit out of my web browser, though I am constantly connected to the Intranet. Aliens have become such a mundanity that what would be earth-shattering news--such as the final, hellish days of the First Alien War--is reduced to an odd bit of trivia. "The bugs are coming!" "Oh, again?" Well, so much the better for Marsec. Heavy war fliers aren't exactly the most in-demand of vehicles. Marsec. Follow in my parents' footsteps? Build an interplanetary empire? Send out swarms of fighters to rip apart other corporation's bulk transports? Unlimited wealth and power and sex? God, didn't I learn anything in college? Marsec is shit, though it pays well. I take a look at my mail. Besides the usual deluge of spam and spam-related products, I find a few interesting tidbits. Gaudin is opening a site for the Purple Lotus--real-time chat with barflies! He has a fairly powerful server, and may be offering private accounts on an individual basis. He doesn't say as much, but I assume he will be running a few less-than-legit services: remailing and encryption. Good for him. He's starting to live up to the name 'Lotus Services'. One other item: "Hey civilian boy! I meant what I said! Howabout I invite myself up to your corporate suite after I get off my beat on Friday afternoon? Level 105, 6025 East Executive Offices, Personnel Department? Am I right or am I right? So, whatdaya say?" I am at a loss for words--in fact, my mouth goes dry and I make small choking noises. It is that cop. Grocke, I think her name was Grocke. I don't even know her first name. And she's going to come to my office and beat the shit out of me--how did she find my office number? I hate Popo intelligence! They've got hacks everywhere--even Marsec? Or maybe I'm overestimating her . . . there is probably a corporate directory or something on the net. But, the details aside, I'm genuinely afraid! But I go to work none the less. Lara greets me at her desk, located in an alcove outside my office door. He smiles evilly at me and then hands me a stack of magnetic disks--at least a quarter meter thick. I start to protest, but she hoists up a big portable file just crammed with the things. We enter my office, somewhat awkwardly. We sit down across from each other at the coffee table; I plug in my computer and we set to work, trading long, loving looks and playing 'Justify Your Existence Via Paperwork', an old corporate game dating back to the 1800's. She sits in a most unladylike fashion, inviting me to try something, but I heed Ben's warning and follow Museum policy--Look, but don't touch. We work this way for a long, long hour, finishing off my stack of disks and a third of those in the lead case. She seems quite comfortable with the fairly taut level of sexual tension, and I get to wondering just how she came to her job. "Ms. Beecroft, how did a pretty face like you get involved with Marsec?" She laughs and answers, "Recruitment out of Lifetree last spring." "Four year program?" "No, just two in Business Administration. What did you study there--you seem to have quite the reputation around the Vice President." I chuckle. "Just about everything. Chemical Engineering, Civil Engineering, Physics, even some War Strategy. I was in for six and a half years before I got my major in History." "History?" she replies. "They still teach that?" I laugh again. "Not really. They just lock you in the library a semester at a time. But where were you from before college?" She looks up to her left. "Oh, I didn't go to college here; I graduated from Melbourne. I'm originally from Darwin, Australia." "A bloody kiwi?" "No, that's New Zealanders, silly!" "Hmm . . . Australia. That's in the neighborhood of my parents' island." "Which one did they buy?" "I think it's called Guam." "Wow! Even I know where Guam is." "Yeah, it was the closest place to Japan that wasn't contaminated as hell, and it was kinda devalued since the collapse of the United States, so they bought up pretty much everything. A little island paradise now, like some sort of resort for bigshots." Damn it, did it again. "So, what do you make of these dimension gates?" I ask, attempting to get her talking again. "Dimension gates? Oh, the weather disturbances--I don't know, just another weird thing about this city." "Weird? Isn't that a bit of an understatement?" Lara smirks and rolls her eyes. "I've been here in MegaPrime maybe two and a half weeks and I've seen more disasters--fires, explosions, air crashes--than Melbourne has in a decade!" "Well, that's life in the big big city," I cautiously reply. "And on Wednesday night, an entire apartment building collapsed! Collapsed! There must have been two hundred people killed! But nobody seems to care!" I think back to the Church of Sirius and Psyke and SELF. "Oh, I think there are people who care." "Sure. Around here?" She gestures at the walls and floor and ceiling and I do believe I have touched a nerve with her. "Everything you're referring to has occurred outside the atmosphere regulation wall. If it's on the other side of the wall . . . I think most of the corporations turn a blind eye to it." She becomes pouty and turns back to our work. "My sister lives 'on the other side' of your damn wall." Hmm. I consider the possibility that there is more to Beecroft than the subservient personal assistant that Kaleta and I and everybody else here at Marsec. A lot more? Maybe. Life outside the wall . . . what is it about that wall which stirs such passions? We work in silence for another half hour. I surmise that the forms, mainly requisition for workpasses, a private groundcar, and computer storage space, are all quite standard fare that Lara could handle alone. However, I get the impression that this mundanity is merely a front for something else entirely. She is subtle about it, but Lara quietly buries whatever surliness she has, slowly resuming her previous occupations of winks and elfish smiles. She crosses her legs and lightly kicks outward with her upper leg, the tip of her patent leather high heel aimed at my crotch. I set down a completed disk on the coffee table, a dull metallic click. "Is that," and I point at her latest behavior, "supposed to mean anything?" She stops immediately and grins at me, her face contorted by mock affrontery. "No. My parents raised me to be a lady, that's all." "Well, they certainly failed at that," I mutter. "You're not exactly a gentleman, either," she retorts. I roll my eyes. "I resolved a long, long time ago that while being withdrawn and introverted as hell was a good public face, friends deserve better. So I just say anything that comes to my mind. Simple honesty-" "Friends?" she asks, her face quizzical--or a mockery? I smirk slightly. "Anybody that I give a damn about." She reaches across the table and touches my hand. The feeling is electric. "Thank you," she says, her eyes on mine, inviting. Lara clasps my hand: a tug on a fishing line. I don't know what to make of her. Is she sent by Kaleta--well, obviously she was--but was she sent on a specific mission? Ben's warning . . . does that hold true here and everywhere? Or is she just another pawn--a piece of little value except when in a strategic position or as a sacrifice? (God, I love the Intranet! Information on anything!) Yes, a pawn. Unknowing . . . but still a trap. I turn away from her, my insides shredded by a bag of glass shards. "Let's . . . finish this," I reply to her overtures, shedding her hand and returning to the work. Kaleta enters my office, without so much a knock. He hops up on my desk and sits there. Beecroft is silently dismissed. She rises and discreetly departs with the file. A thin bead of something other than sweat dampens her cheek. As soon as she is gone, the Vice President emits a low, long whistle. "I'm no psi," he mutters, somewhat amused, "but I think you just broke a heart." I want to hurt him badly, to crush his tanned neck with my hands and throw his lifeless corpse out the window, down the seven stories to the bamboo below. "What . . . do you want?" I manage not to. He looks back at me with his two grey eyes, maybe looking to see if it's the real Karl Williams. "To offer you the chance of a lifetime," he replies, and not in his usual PR-man-with-too-much-Kay-in-his-system way. I stare back at him. He is a bastard, I repeat to myself. He is a slimeball stock gene bastard, and he is about to give you the big lie. He is a bastard. He pops open the middle drawer of my desk and hits the button within. He also taps his watch. The disruption field and the video camera, I presume. "I'm going to ask you a favor that should go without saying, Karl. There are factions within this organization that not only do not agree with my views but actively resist them. They are capable of violence, so I ask of you, Karl, please," and the word lingers long in my ear, "do not discuss what I am about to offer you with anyone. Do you understand?" "Yes." Kaleta stands and strides over to me. "I intend to become the Corporate Executive Officer of Mars Security. I'll say it again, in case you missed it--I intend to become the CEO of Marsec." The Vice President sits down across from me, his elbows on his knees, his hands steepled. "Now if you know anything about the history of Marsec, you'll realize something special about the position--a dead man holds it." "Huh?" I reply, falling back upon my usual vocabulary of indecipherable grunts. Kaleta's grey eyes are staring at me again. "The last CEO--and the first--of this company was Jack Rawlings. He merged his company, Rawlings Securities, with Mars, Inc. in the early thirties, just when the Elerium deposits were being uncovered. What was humorous at the time was that he sold off most of the new company's 'mineral' rights, instead consolidating a fleet of heavily armed transport craft capable of making the Mars Run. He left the actual mining to smaller entities, most of which gradually coalesced into Solmine. "The critics stopped laughing, though, when the mining companies started shipping everything through Mars Security. Pirates, were becoming too pervasive for every little guy to rely upon their little fleets of mass drivers. Marsec was the sure bet, and the security was worth the price. "That was before all hell broke loose." I nod. In 2041 the bugs came again, this time from the oceans. We were more prepared, having some old Elerium weapons and ships. But to beat them in their own element, the sea, the United States once again formed XCOM, a division of its military staffed with its very best soldiers, research scientists, and engineers. XCOM held the bugs in check for two long years; but then the bugs resurrected an ancient space vessel named T' Eleth . . . "Rawlings was inbound on one of his bulk transports . . ." and even Kaleta, the slimeball stock gene bastard, pauses a moment out of deference. XCOM held the bugs in check for two long years . . . Out of frustration, they nuked half the planet. "' . . . a vet of the first war, and a born warrior in his bones, Jack Rawlings ordered his ship's crew to the sole escape capsule. Forcing them aboard the small launch, he cast them off--and then took the helm of his freighter. He threw the ship into full throttle and flung the twenty-thousand ton vessel into Earth's atmosphere, aimed at the rising monstrosity off the coast of the Yucatan.'" Kaleta looks at me. His gray eyes shine. "Those are your words--straight from your paper." 'The blast was like another sun rising out of the Caribbean Sea,' my history professor had said. 'Without that hit, T' Eleth's defenses would've hacked us to ribbons. As it was, we still had an ugly time of it inside. But never forget that Jack Rawlings built us a front door with five tons of refined Elerium.' I don't know how I really feel about 'Jack Rawlings'. At some point of my life, I desperately wanted to emulate his path, that from the Chicago ghettos up through the ranks of the military, to Delta Force, to XCOM. But I soon grew disillusioned by the constant harping of 'Jack Rawlings did this', 'Jack Rawlings did that', 'eat your peas like Jack Rawlings'. My mom practically worshipped the man, so he must have been a real fascist . . . I came to hate him, and the feeling was augmented in college. His company, Marsec, had intentionally killed untold numbers of spacefarerers in battles in the void--some rather one-sided, too, as even my mom would attest to. He'd also overseen the rape of Mars, the violent suppression of several revolts by workers in the Cydonia mines, and the gradual ecological apocalypse which had necessitated MegaPrime's wall. But somewhere, in the back of my mind was a ten year old who wanted to see the stars, all million trillion of them plus one, a blue-white light . . . So I respect the man. He pulled the trigger--twice--and we won both times because of that. Somebody had to be a Nazi, somebody had to spill a lot of alien blood to insure survival of the species. Jack Rawlings was the type of man who could do that without thinking. So I still respect him . . . "I intend to fill his shoes," states Kaleta, his salesman's face as innocent as a baby's. I snort. "You couldn't do that if you lived to ten times Rawlings' age," I say, nearly whisper--but it sounds loud, like a knife against bone, a nasty, chilling scratching noise. Kaleta blinks. He licks his lips, but his predator's teeth don't hunger for my jugular. He is thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose you are right about that," he starts. "But hear me out before you abandon me." He stands, and paces, his hands behind his back. "Marsec is dying. Oh, I don't suppose it looks that way, but the process has begun. Our core source of revenue, a tithe of the Elerium harvest, is going to dry up very abruptly . . . in maybe ten, fifteen years, Solmine is going to come to us and say, 'Sorry, guys. No more.' And that'll be it for Mars. "Oh, there's plenty more raw materials to be had on Mars--the planet is a cornucopia of metals. But none of them are Elerium, and anyway, pirates are a thing of the past. The Wild West is dead, as dead as it has ever been. Who needs security when robot ships are making the Mars Run every two weeks? It's only our contract with Solmine that keeps us afloat. "The Oort Cloud has always been too far out, too irregular for sustained development. At fourty-five thousand AU out, you either strike it rich with twenty million tons of nickel or you find a half- dozen balls of dirty ice and lose your shirt from your investment in Elerium fuel. You know this--your mother was a real pro at it." I blush slightly. Kaleta continues with his off-the-cuff manifest of Marsec's assets. "Manufacturing is useless. We might move two billion dollars in a very good year, with lots of squabbling between India and China. But that's small potatoes. Just like ground security. What are we? A bunch of Popo thugs, moonlighting to cover our Kay addictions? Marsec doesn't hire out bodyguards, mercenaries, or bouncers!" The last possibility nearly makes me laugh. Marsec enforcers at the door to the Purple Lotus? That would be the day . . . Kaleta looks me in the eyes again. "So we're at a critical juncture in the history of this corporation. Two paths: one, we explore alternative revenue generating sources--and I have more than a few excellent ideas--or two, we blindly follow our predetermined course to extinction. We either diversify or die, and I, for one, will not stand about idly . . ." I meet the Vice President's eyes. There is much to this man, much more than a greasy film on his skin. After all, even swords and machine guns must be protected in the same manner . . . "Where do I come in?" The words are natural, I form them without thinking. Is this the great opportunity I have been waiting, dormant, my entire life for? A golden ring, and perhaps I only get one chance at it. Grab that sucker with both hands and hang on! Kaleta smiles, and I realize that it is the first time he has done so this entire interview. It is not his predator's smile, the big extinct cat closing in on its equally unaware and extinct prey; it is actually . . . kindly! "Karl, you're a young man of immense potential. For a college grad, you've taken a wealth of courses in diverse topics, and that's given you a perspective few have. Engineering and history, linguistics and war strategy. You have the world view, the big picture. You, and the few others like you, will form a brain trust for this company--the navigators on our new journey. Stick by my side, and there's a good chance that one day you'll run Marsec." Wow. My gut tightens and my pulse rises. The ring . . . "Elections for the board of directors is coming up within the year. With your help, I can sweep out the status quo and hopefully instill some vigor into this old company. "And that, Karl, is how I intend to fill Jack Rawlings' boots." Kaleta leaves without asking me for an answer; truly unbecoming of him. He could press me on the topic, and I would most certainly answer yes, but he doesn't, and I . . . respect him for it. I have much to think about. Do I ally myself with Kaleta? What other possibility is there? Is the Vice President using me--no, how is he using me? Can I keep myself out of trouble and independent of his snares? Or am I already in the yoke? Too much to think about. Somewhat rashly, I stride over to my desk and disengage the disruption field. Ben? I think, and the grey is instantly in my mind. Ben? I repeat, for I feel his presence, but he does not reply. Puzzled, I move to touch the switch again. He responds quickly. "Hold on, Karl. You're not the only one thinking here; and you are right, there is much to think about." I stay my hand and sit in the leather chair behind my desk. Turning it away from my posh office, I stare out across the green expanse of Marsec's indoor forest. A low hill rises in the mists--I realize that I cannot even see all the way across! Atop that hill, amongst the foliage, is a small building . . . What do you make of it? I ask. "It's a shrine of some sort . . . a memorial to a fallen general," replies Ben, absentmindedly. Not that, you joker! About Kaleta's offer. "Very tempting. I think it falls under the 'power' category in the money, power, and sex trilogy. Kaleta, of course, is correct in his assumption--with the right resources, yourself included--he could become the CEO of Mars Security without undue effort. He could, of course, take the throne without your help, but the task would be magnitudes more difficult." What do you mean by help? Ben laughs, a low croaking noise. "Help? You ask me, a genetic construct weighing less than five kilos and dependent upon your kind's machines for second-to- second survival, what help is? Karl, I may give off the impression of being all-knowing, but that is totally incorrect. I am all-present. I am everywhere in this building, everywhere there is a brother or sister of mine. So it could be said that I lack focus; I just see the general concept of things. Example: Kaleta needs your help; yesterday, he tempted you with sex. Oh, I'm sure that whoever he sent had a pretty face and a full load of pheromones, but I can't define her as anything more specific than an embodiment of sex." Then how come you seem to know me so well? "True, very true . . . let me just say that when it serves my purposes, I can delve deeply into subjects and extract volumes of pertinent material. I saw the makings of a massive conflict; I followed the tangled trail of thoughts and emotions to you, the focus of this storm. Mind you, if you're valuable to Kaleta, you are just as valuable to the opposing side." Opposing side? "They too will have their time at your ear." What's that supposed to mean, and who the hell are they? Hageny? Violence--it's the Security Division, isn't it? "Yes. Vice President Hageny--and those truly in power--will speak to you, and offer you another choice." You seem to be intent upon separating me from Kaleta. Do you speak for Hageny? The psionic network is a branch of Security, right? So you must speak for him? Do you report to him, too? "My brothers and sisters, bipedal or not, could loosely fall under the Security Division's jurisdiction. But that is besides the point. My mind is privy to only those I see fit to reveal portions of it to. Portions, mind you--if I displayed the full breadth of my experiences, my knowledge, you would most certainly go insane from sensory overload." Floating in nutrient fluid? Experiences . . . sure. Ben ignores my mental sneer. "Hageny is neither my master . . . nor am I his mouthpiece. If anything, you are my master, as I seem to dally in the court of your mind more than anyone else's." Gee, thanks. Any advice, prime minister, on Kaleta's offer? "You are right in suspecting that Kaleta is using you. But you are a very special tool of his; your foul habits and urges will not throw you into disfavor. He intends to use you for a long, long time, and not just in this bid for power. You are part of the foundation of his dynasty in the making." So how do I protect myself from being used? "Karl, there is only slight shame in being his tool; after all, the benefits are many for such a little cost. You may be better off to simply follow his commands; eventually, you too may fill his shoes as CEO. But if you do feel the need to protect yourself, which is undoubtedly wise, you must connect. The only way to become truly strong in your strange, crushed microcosm of your kind's former glory is to pick alliances with other sources of money, power, and sex. I may be your . . . friend within this corporation, but true strength comes from without." My computer screen flashes. VISITOR FOR SPECIAL ASSISTANT WILLIAMS, it reads. Who is this? I ask. "What I just spoke about," answers Ben, and he is gone from the space between my ears. She crashes through the twin swinging doors of my office, a slim, brown-haired, green-eyed bullet--aimed right at me. Grocke, the female Popo, tosses aside her rounded officer's dress cap and her short brown hair falls loose. A wicked, evil smile is on those full rounded lips of hers, as twisted and vicious as the lawpistol that would normally ride her hip. The weapon is gone now, most likely checked in someplace downstairs, but the danger is still present--the danger is five meters from me--the danger leaps up on my desk, her tight dusty black pants strained. "Hi, civilian boy!" she chirps, and she slides the tips of her black synth-leather boots under my armrests, locking my chair and myself in place. She grins like the predator--the big cat--that she is, and I'm not at all sure if she's going to seduce me or break my nose. Or both. A white, too-delicate hand swings out, and I feel two fingers down my collar, right over my Adam's apple. "It's been a long patrol--how 'bout a kiss, sweetie?" She jerks on my neck and I feel like a dog on a leash, even though it's not me doing the slobbering. She plants a less than delicate kiss on my lips, her tongue darting into my mouth and playing xylophone down my two rows of clenched teeth. I pull away at last, my blood up more than I'd like it. "They teach you that shit in the Academy?" I mutter, wiping off my mouth, half-furious, half-aroused. "That and a lot more," she smiles, and a foot flips out of its moorings to land on my neck and jaw, forcing my head back onto the back of my chair. In contrast to the sharp pain of her boot on my throat is the feathery touch of her hands going for the buttons on my corporate uniform. "Can you lay off the kinky stuff? We're on candid camera," I rasp, just barely. The boot disappears, but only long enough for Grocke to shed it. She thrusts her foot into my left armpit; she repeats the same process with her left foot and my right armpit. And, with a sudden lurch, he legs go wide and she hops down onto my lap. "Oh shit, do you report in to your lieutenant like this?" She licks the long red boot print on my neck, stopping just briefly enough at my mouth to whisper "on Fridays" and kiss me again. I suddenly laugh, and she halts her hip gyrations long enough to stare at me. "Let me guess--you learned how to grind like this working the Vice Squad?" Anger flashes in her eyes, and she slaps me with sugar-coated malice across my right cheek. "That's so like you fuckin' civies! You see a pretty woman and the first thing that pops into your fat head is 'Vice Squad'! Anyways, I transferred out yesterday; I'm in Special Weapons now." She pulls my arms around her back. I can feel her bra strap. "Congratulations," I mutter. "Break a leg." But she doesn't revert to foreplay. "Break a leg--huh, I'm more likely to lose one with the squad I'm in. Fuckin' morons, just fuckin' green. Not ten hours of slum diving between the three of 'em. I mean, yeah, I've been in Vice for a a few years--but what the fuck? I've got more weapons experience than the fuckin' captain in charge of training. A fuckin' moron! Autoguns, M-guns, sniper lasers, fuck, even a mortar! I fuckin' blew up a 'Blo truck with a mortar! They don't teach that kinda shit in the Academy!" Grocke is muscular, angular, all straight lines and sharp corners, her body built just like her words. She is no bombshell, but there is a certain honesty to her looks--no bleachy bleachy blond hair, no overinflated silicone breasts. She's not stock genes unless they blended a bullwhip with one very thorny rose--oh, to hell with the flower, a bullwhip and a raspberry vine. Or something like that. And she's working her hips over me, and I hope Kaleta's getting some good footage, because I'm enjoying this more than I want to admit. "So, what's with this conjugal visit? Get tired of beating the shit out of poor proles?" I snarl at her. She's in my shirt, working over my poor body, but at my comment, she pinches the fat over my ribs and I wince. "Poor fucking proletariat? I've heard of you communists and your bullshit, and you're fuckin' wrong with every Marxist word. Mao--Mao, on the other hand, he was my kinda commie. 'Power grows from the barrel of a gun.' A fuckin' gun! That's shit that I can understand! And believe me, I've grown a lot of power with guns-- beating up prole fucks? What's wrong with you? The law doesn't apply to the poor? Fuckheads are fuckheads--rich or poor. Lock 'em all up--no, use 'em for target practice! My squad could use a little of that." God, she's beautiful when she's stark raving nuts! I'm not exactly sure what my role is in this case of rampant corporate molestation, but I, for one, am not going to get caught with my pants down for Kaleta's viewing pleasure. "I'm serious about the camera--Grocke? What the hell is your first name?" The Popo laughs, a jagged, evil laugh, and replies, "Might as well be 'Bitch', that's what they call me down at the beat station until I Jack Coostoe the fuckers in the bathroom stalls." "No, seriously. I mean, you bust in here, jump on my lap, and expect me to screw you and you don't even give me your first name?" "'Expect me to screw you'?" she shouts. "Hold on, frat boy, you're not in Kansas anymore." She kisses me on the forehead and resumes her rocking motion. "The lazy fuckers down at the beat station just sent me up here to tell you in big capital fuckin' letters to STAY AWAY from that wetback fuck in Petrograd Block. He is BAD BUSINESS, some sort of Cult of Sirius fucker." "It's the Church of Sirius," I reply. "Cult, Church, same difference. Bad news, either way." Her frankness is appalling, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize that this is what I must appear like to Lara . . . an unrestrained sex freak, outside the boundaries of social law. Lara. The thought of my secretary disturbs me, perhaps even to the point where Grocke notices. "Some kinda problem down there? You aren't sterile, are you?" I gently push the woman away. "The cameras--maybe another time, another place. I don't like seeing my white butt on Sensovision." Grocke backs off. "Fuckin' men. It's only when you want it, never when we want it. Shit, I wish there was some way to rape you fuckheads, to make up for the last fuckin' millennia." She grinds herself against me a few more times, but she's just winding down. "I suppose you just wanna 'talk' or something." "Nypho," I mutter. "Neuter," she replies. We rest in each other's arms for a long moment, she somewhat disappointed, me somewhat wishing that I knew where the damn cameras were, so I could tape them over. Ben's warning holds. Grocke practically breathes in my mouth. I don't recognize the smell, so I whisper to her, "What did you eat for lunch? A kilo of Kay?" She licks the tip of my nose. "A bagel, you moron. I'm orthodox Jew, can't you tell?" I roll my eyes. "You Race of Man, or what?" I taunt, referring to the old paramilitary aryan supremacy group that killed hundreds of bankers, investors, and government officials in the chaos following the First Alien War. "Fuck no, we'll beat the shit out of any color of fuckhead, black, white or yellow like you, Japan-man." I kiss her ear. It tastes vaguely of wax. "You have some sort of preoccupation with that word, don't you? 'Fuck this', 'Fuck that', 'he's a fuckin' moron'. They say that a limited vocabulary is a sign of a limited intellect-" "Fuck you, you pointy-headed shit." I laugh at her, and in retaliation, she scissors me with her thighs. The width of my chair stops her, though, and I chuckle a little more. "So, what's your hidden agenda? Seems like everybody I talk to has one." "What the fuck? You civies are so fuckin' paranoid-" "And Popo aren't. Yeah right." Grocke laughs, and smiles at me like she's got my balls in her hands. "Fuckin' prick. You're right, I learned all this shit in Vice. The slums teach us real fast to be pretty fuckin' paranoid--jumping on you like this, you probably fuckin' thought I was a little hussy, gonna lap dance you to seventh heaven or something. Fuckin' moron! I've frisked you down to your skin, and aside from the stick up your ass, you don't have a sharp tack on you." I kiss her neck, even though my blood is running cold. Wow. Honest to beat hell. Absentmindedly working her hips over me, she gazes around my office for the first time since she smashed through the door. "Nice digs. You runnin' Kay or something? For a fuckhead who lives in a dirty hole like Petrograd Block, you sure have a nice office. Who did the decorating--the corporate homosexual? The sense of fuckin' space is cute, but it's complete shit, tactical-wise. I coulda stepped through your front door with a shotgun and painted this window with your pretty commie guts. You fuckers bleed redder red than the rest of us?" I unbutton her patrol blouse down to her breasts. Her bra, a strictly utilitarian sports-thing, is less than dramatic. I rest my head on her heart. She rants on. "And that window--Jesus Fucking Christ, that's not ten millimeters thick! I could put a lawpistol round through that! And I doubt it's polarized; a half-assed sniper could drill the back of your head from that little shack out there! Not to mention all that plant shit. Fuck, you've got yourselves a little piece of Vietnam here, don't you?" Violence and sex, and impulsive as hell in both. "Jesus, Grocke, you should be on Sensovision." "Aw, fuck those reporters. They don't know their asses from a manhole. Hell, they're probably the same diameter--you corporates really fuck them over, don't you." Grocke kisses me on the forehead, mashing herself against me one last time. She lithely pulls herself back up onto my desk, glancing around for her boots. "Well, if I'm not going to get any here, you puritan prick, I'll just have to bust down your door sometime. Conduct a private search of your apartment, maybe bring along some of my girlfriends; wear you out like the sorry three inches or whatever you are." "I don't think busting down my door would be a good idea," I reply. "My landlord would have an aneurysm." She hops off my desk and pulls on her boots. Her sharp face and soft brown hair brush past me. I catch her shoulder and kiss her on the neck. "Hmm, you're a strange fucker. Just a big tease," she answers, buttoning up her shirt. "Someday I have to see whether your dick is as big as your swagger." I pat her on the arm and smile crookedly as she vaults over my desk, the image of her muscular behind ingrained into my memory. Grocke retrieves her hat and heads for the door. "Just one question," I yell after her. She halts and turns. "What?" "Why me?" She smiles evilly. "It's spring and love is in the air. Or something like that. Bye, fuckhead." And she disappears through the double doors. Ben sighs in my mind. "Idiot," he says. What? What the hell did I do wrong now? I yell back, restraining myself from verbally answering. "You ask my advice and then completely disregard it!" responds Ben, evidently quite disturbed. "You warned me about Kaleta's cameras, didn't you?" "Yes, but that was another situation! He can only use the footage if you take his bait!" "Lara?" "Yes, you incompetent . . . human! Your kind excels at only a few things, one of which is sex--AND YOU CAN'T EVEN GET THAT RIGHT!" Ben's shout is louder than a heavy flyer going supersonic over Petrograd Block. I suspect that he has been functionally whispering to me the rest of the time. Oh, so I was supposed to not fuck Lara and fuck that racist whore instead? The bad girl over the good girl? "Karl, you wanted allies against Kaleta, people to watch out for you. That Megapol officer--be aware of that, she was an officer-- came here wanting sex. That free sex would've earned you a favor later on. You didn't give it to her, no favor. One less card in your hand." "I get it! I'm supposed to bend over and take it up the ass, saving up for future favors?" I suddenly realize that I've been shouting. Grinding my teeth and furtively looking towards the door, my face goes red. "No," replies Ben, much less perturbed. "Not all who come to you will be like the Megapol officer. Some will want money, information, or a bit of your power. Some will be easy allies, some more difficult to gain the trust of, some loyal, and some backstabbers. The important point is to not pass over your chances to gain another soldier in your army; of course, I'm not advising you to pander to slum dwellers--just collect quality allies. That is how you protect yourself." I am silent for a moment, meditating. I turn and stare out across the bamboo forest. Now I know why Marsec felt the need for it; the slow rustle of the thousands of individual trees, each with hundreds of leaves, is a relaxing, calming sight. An ocean of green, lit from sunlight funnelled down long mirror-tubes. What else do you know about Lara and this Grocke? I think. "Kaleta's toy . . . possess a very insulated mind. Many layers, complicated like Kaleta. Easy to mishandle; you learned this yourself. She is a puzzle, and you are the only one who could figure her out. But don't bother; she is bait for your hormones. "The Megapol officer is very lonely." I wait for more. Um, I'm waiting for more. "That is all. She is very lonely; no more, no less." What, was she abandoned or put up for adoption when she was young? She lose a lover to gang bullets? What the hell? "I am not one to delve into the failures of your cultural systems," proclaims Ben. Oh, don't give me that shit. You're generalized and specialized, you know me inside out but can't remember Lara's name, you want me away from Kaleta but won't speak a word about Hageny: You're a fucking contradiction! I pull open my desk drawer and hit the disruptor button. Thinking better of it, I disengage it. Ben? The grey is gone. So much the better. I will hold counsel with a more reliable advisor. I slink out of my office and try to dodge Beecroft's sight, but she spots me as I am running my workpass through the double door's lock. "Who was that . . . woman?" she asks. "Megapol officer inquiring about a robbery in my apartment block," I rattle off. "Complete formality--I didn't know anything about it and she didn't care." But she knows I'm lying, and all the way to the grav lift her eyes burn cigarette holes in the back of my suit. Nothing, nothing in this world like a woman spurned. Back at my apartment, I am much better; that same old feeling of freedom I get every time I strip off my corporate uniform. I lounge around in just my boxers for a while, enjoying it. Lara, Kaleta, Ben, Grocke, Ben, Lara--that's what I call a really heavy day. And I didn't even eat lunch! Damn, I'm famished. I guess the stress level was just too high for me to really notice. Lara. I like her, but I do get the sense that she's an inherently good girl trying to act bad. More likely put up to the task. A trap. Fuck if I'm going to get caught. It's strictly business between us from now on. Do I have to work tomorrow? I open a mashed soy bar and much on it while I plug in my lapcomputer and check my contract. Damn, I guess I do. All day, too. But for the wages, it's well worth it. Marsec is simply paying me via my account. My bankcard has complete access to the little money I have in there, though for amounts over a thousand dollars I must call in and leave a finger print. Hmm, Kaleta's office has sent me a message--my wages are up to eight hundred dollars a day! Jesus Mary and Joseph! Well, that takes the cake; he's tempted me with all three of the old money, power, and sex. I think I shall side with Kaleta. Yes, Lara is a trap, I must act very chaste around her . . . but she is a trap that can be defused--I hope. I shall bide my time, and then I'll ask Kaleta . . . Kaleta. The man repels me at some base level, but his charisma is a light, and I am a moth. Will I get fried? If I find the right allies, no, or at least Ben says so. And there's so much to be gained and so little for a poor ex-student like me to lose! But I've got to run this by Gaudin, my confessor. Every decision made while sober should be reconsidered while severely hammered. And vice versa, of course. So I dress up again, this time in the fashion of the street, for I am going to the Juventus Building tonight, in search of some answers. It is nine o'clock. I have delayed severely, and now the crush of the Friday night crowd threatens my chances of speaking to Gaudin for very long. Perhaps I shall return Saturday; perhaps I will be lucky tonight. I stop in at an AutoBanker machine and promptly withdraw two hundred dollars. No reason to let anyone at Marsec know about my habits. The money goes in my pockets. My bankcard goes into my pants. I pull the front door, and step around a sleeping drunk. I open the second door; some college kids are drinking out here, a few perched atop the six foot metal data stores, the rest on the floor. This is a bad sign. The Lotus is as crowded as Hell must be. But they don't serve drinks in Hell. I pull open the purple, final doorway. I am immediately sucked into a tremendous throng of people. Frats, suits, even industrial techs in all levels of undress crush together in this too-small tavern. A fast bass beat bludgeons my ears, and a million conversations flood the other frequencies of my aural spectrum. Purple, blue, white, green, yellow and red lights pulsate and sweep out over the mash. The air stinks of ozone and nicotine and the multitude of human smells: sweat, urine, vomit. And always the constant odor of a hundred varieties of alcohol. A cannabis cigarette nearly lodges itself in my eye. I dodge out of the way and slowly, slowly squeeze and push my way to the bar. I take an elbow in the ribs. I squeeze a fist, stuffed with a fifty dollar bill, between two suits. The familiar feel of a glass wine bottle, its cold-smooth surface in my hand--I pull my arm back, eliciting a few grunts from the two. It is like pulling a baby into the world. I clutch my beverage to my chest and continue beating my way inwards, towards the lights, the amps, and the dance floor. The roar shakes my bones and renders my brain dumb. I move by instinct, having traveled this path before. The dance area is only that by name; the people under the awkward framework of lights, speakers, cables, and assorted reflective material may move a little more in time to the rhythm, but it's just as crowded. I brush someone's breasts--accidentally--and somebody steps on my foot. This is my gauntlet. I round the bar and shove my way to the doorway there. Busting through the double doors, I breathe a sigh of relief. I am not very fond Gaudin's Friday night raves, and if I do spend any time in these maelstroms of light, sound, and bodies, I avoid intoxication. Death by trampling is not good. So I always retreat to the back hall to drink. A few other lushes sit against the off-white walls of this badly lit rear entrance to the Purple Lotus; far away to the left are the bar's bathrooms and an exit to the Juventus Building's parking garage. To the right and close at hand are two doors; one to the back of the bar, the other to a small pantry or closet. Popping the plastic stopper from the bottle, I sniff it and sit down. This seems to be fairly quality stuff--perhaps acquired from an impeached Senator's private stock. The label is in Chinese. I take a drink and signal my approval by taking another. Money, power, sex. Kaleta serves up an appetizing meal. I am tempted to take a seat . . . " . . . where's the bathrooms? Though, by the smell of it, I might as well go in this stinkhole . . . " My head jerks up and I wince as I dent the sheetrock wall with the back of my head. "WOLF?" I blurt, looking around. The man in the doorway pulls a cigarette from his lips and stares down at me. His chiseled Roman features typically are framed by blond hair and whiskers; his eyes normally a deep, deep blue. But the rave lights go on the blitz again, and a rainbow of colors flashes across his face--surprise, disbelief, anger, sadness, and finally joy. I too am overwhelmed with emotions, but my mind simply screams "HE IS ALIVE! HE IS ALIVE!" "PEACE!" he shouts. He leaps at me, helping me up; my legs are unsteady but I have not consumed all that much wine. We hug, and a bit of the grape juice sloshes onto his back and the floor. His breath reeks of nicotine. Mine must surely be rich with the scent of wine. His face is more haggard than I remember it. Thinned, his cheeks are hollowed out, his features more distinctive; gone is the baby fat of his youth. He smiles, and everything falls into place--this is the Wolf, my friend from so long ago . . . he wears a silk shirt and wide-leg khakis, his hair is much shorter, and gone is a bit of the flash in his profoundly blue eyes. Maybe he is tired. But the smile is the same, and that's all that matters to me. "Warren Opal hyphen Learner fucking Fangman," I stammer, as if naming the specter before me will render his appearance any less spectacular, "you're still alive!" He grins again, a gold tooth showing. "Yup, still am," He crosses his legs and hops around. " . . . But if I don't get to a bathroom quick, I'm done for." They called him War. And because I was his best friend, they called me Peace. He was War because he was the ladykiller. He got all the girls, from cheerleaders to intelligencia to Lifetree prep-school candidates. Blond hair, blue eyes, an easy laugh and that crooked 'well, ya caught me' smile. He was static fucking electricity, jumping everywhere, constantly in motion. He was the man. I was Peace because I was the quiet one. I did all the work behind the scenes which let him get away with all his shit. I did two loads of homework--I'm not saying he wasn't smart, he just had better things to be doing. Brown hair, brown eyes, and oriental skin; an embarrassed posture and a constant air of awkwardness. I was the distinct sense of non-motion. I didn't get laid 'till college. Wolf never went to college. He didn't graduate from high school. He ran away with an older girl; they were living in sin someplace in Sao Paulo the day I took the shuttle to MegaPrime. After all the disgusted looks from my parents and all the apologetic, frustrated silences from his, I relegated him to my mental list of the dead. But I was wrong! Here he is, as alive as the last time I saw him! "Filthy fucking place--don't forget your wine," he reminds me, stepping out of the bathroom. Wolf has always possessed those traits which took me twelve years of mandatory education and six and a half of university to learn. He is, and always has been, brutally frank, a quirk which somehow endears him to those he insults. I snatch up my bottle as we reenter the tavern proper. "Follow me!" he shouts above the roar of the crowd. I am still too stunned to speak. We fight our way through the throng, across the dance floor and down the bar, towards the door. Wolf finally disappears into a high-backed booth. I tag along behind him; this is in the row of private eating, drinking, and screwing areas parallel the bar. I slide in across from Wolf, a narrow table, bolted to both wall and floor, separating us. I am still grinning madly. I notice that seated next to Wolf is a third occupant of the booth. She slim and thin and small, and I almost see Grocke sitting in that corner. But this girl's hair is long and blonde, pulled back into a wild ponytail. Her eyes are large and black and her mouth and nose small. Her face has the look of a Saturday morning anime character-- striking, unnaturally beautiful. She wears a tight white tee shirt, quite stretched over various portions of her anatomy. A thin band circles her right ring finger. "Who's this?" she asks in a most whispery voice, her hands darting under the table. "Old friend of mine--from high school in Buenos Aires," Wolf replies quickly. She relaxes and smiles, slightly. "A friend of Mike is a friend of mine," she whispers, but her hands go to work on Wolf instead. Mike? "You have a name?" she asks. "Uh, Peace, I think," I stutter. "You think? You don't seem very sure of yourself," she comments. Wolf flinches out of pleasure. I am getting very freaked out by all of this, and not all from the way my old school pal is being handled. This . . . girl . . . is fucking scary. "If I'm interrupting something-" I start, almost standing to leave. She reaches across the narrow table. A sharpened fingernail touches the base of my neck, just above my clavicle. "Oh, don't be so quick to depart," she whispers. One good jab from her, and my airpipe is punctured. I sit down, again, and she removes her hand. Remembering the bottle in my hand, I take a long pull, spilling some purple liquid down my shirt. "Um, you want any?" I ask, trying to be friendly and avoid getting my throat cut. The girl smiles and shakes her head. "Nat doesn't drink," Wolf manages through an ecstatic smile. 'Nat' stops whatever she's doing under the table to Wolf and frowns at him. "This some kinda bondage shit?" I ask, loosened up by the alcohol. 'Nat' sends a sharp glance the way of Wolf. He straightens up and rests his elbows on the table, somewhat dejectedly. "Peace, what have you been doing since we last met?" he asks, avoiding the word 'college'. "Switching majors, mainly. I got a job Tuesday, though," I answer. Wolf doesn't bother asking details, though. "Me--I've been volunteering for SELF." "Wow." First time I've actually met a SELF worker. "And pimping myself." What? "What?" I ask, my brain slowed by the jungle beat of the bass line, the sensory overload, and my rising blood alcohol content. "I'm a fuckin' whore. But a pretty damn good one at that. So I suppose you could say I enjoy it. Pays the bills, anyway." "What?" I repeat like the moron I am. "Whore?" "Yes, do you need it spelled out? W-H-O-R-E. Prostitute. Streetwalker. Man meat. I lay the ladies, and get paid for it." My brain is reeling. I mumble to myself, and then ask, "But I thought she," and I point at 'Nat', "was the whore? You?" 'Nat' stares at me coldly. Aside from her arctic presence, she really is very cute. Wolf grinds his teeth, a sign of stress. "Peace, never call Nat that. That's not what she does. Natalie doesn't enjoy that. If you weren't a good . . . old . . . friend of mine, a good old friend whose rich parents would certainly have Megapol hunt down your kill-" Wolf winces--I think that Natalie has pinched him. I get the feeling that he wasn't speaking to me as much as he was to her. "No, that's not what she does," he repeats, staring at something up to my left. I get the feeling that I have overstayed my welcome. I pat Wolf on the shoulder, feeling two pincers of ice on my side at all times. "Take it easy," I mumble into his ear, rising and leaving. The crowd immediately tugs me away. "That was him?" I hear Nat speak, just barely. "Yes," answers Wolf. "That was him." I don't know how I made it home. I did, though, and I stumble up the stairs to my floor. It is a path I have traveled before. My apartment door is the fourth on the right. I stagger up to it, pad myself down, and find my keycard. With one swipe through the old, rusted reader, the lock disengages and I am in. Inside I close the door before me. I scatter my cards and what cash I have left across my workbench. I strip off my shirt, stagger into the bathroom and take a leak. I stagger out, the floor unsteady. Before I have a chance to mumble "what the fuck," I'm thrown into my futon bed. She is already on me. The last thing I see before the lights fade is a pair of smiling green eyes staring me through. 1/7/98
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