Gorgon Child Page 5

  Hopefully one day soon.

  The Blue Room had been planned as a luxury restaurant before the firestorm, and its refurbishing had been a special pet project by Promise and the others. They had actually kept Aubry at a distance.

  But now . . .

  The usual glowing plastic lightsquares weren't in evidence. The lighting was supplied totally by candles, and the whole room had a soft glow that warmed him in places so numb he hadn't felt the cold.

  The candlelight reflected back from the walls and ceiling. Promise had wrought a miracle. There were busts in the lobby, and bas relief copper sculpture, paintings with a dominant thread of gold running through them. The room was gilded, and Aubry caught his breath. The tables were arranged in an isosceles triangle clearly pointing to a seat of honor. He turned to them. "What . . . ?"

  "Three years," Leo said warmly. "Three years since you came back to us. Since you came to carry on and push forward what Kevin started. This is just our way of saying 'thank you.' "

  He turned to Promise. "You knew?"

  "I planned, love."

  Sheepishly, Aubry took his place at the head table. As he stood there, four hundred and twelve Scavengers came to their feet and faced him.

  Aubry looked out at them, and tried to find words. "I never thought ..." The doubts, the fears, receded. They still spoke, not so urgently now, their flames cooled for the moment.

  Promise kissed him with embarrassing thoroughness, and his people . . .

  His people!

  . . . applauded roundly, and the feast began.

  "Are you coming to bed soon?"

  "Soon," Aubry said. "I'm working out some drills for tomorrow's class." He sat in full lotus, knees flat on the tiled floor. He answered Promise without disturbing the meditative state that had taken him only a moment to swim into. That was how it felt. Swimming into an infinitely deep and dark black eye.

  And in there, the water was the same temperature as his skin. His sense of identity began to drift away. And there, in a room that was dark and private, he met once again with his friend and teacher Kevin Warrick.

  Thin, almost unhealthily gaunt, with piercing eyes and jutting cheekbones. Warrick looked much as he had on the last day of his life. A man old but utterly unbowed by life. Circumstances be damned: Warrick was the only human being in this life who had ever beaten Aubry in fair combat.

  "Warrick . . ."

  And as always, he was there.

  Perhaps, as Promise maintained, there was truly a psychic connection between Aubry and the dead man. Or perhaps, as Aubry believed, the answers lay in the same mind that framed the questions. Either might have been true. All that he knew for certain was that there was comfort in the quiet conversations he conducted with the old man. Comfort, and peace.

  For now, phantasm or delusion or mirage, the image of Warrick floated before him.

  "Should I have helped the NewMen?" Aubry's brow furrowed. "I don't know. I don't know why I did it. I'm . . . confused." Even to himself, his voice was as plaintive as that of a child. "Did I do the right thing?" Aubry waited in the dark, and the cold. A very faint tickle of moving air played against his skin.

  You did what you had to do, Warrick answered finally. Whatever the motivations, the actions were correct. Don't ask so many questions of yourself. You don't have the answers. There are no answers. Only actions.

  Aubry thought quietly. Actions. If action helped him forget, then action was good.

  He opened his eyes, flickered his gaze sideways to see Promise in the doorway of his workout room, watching him silently.

  Aubry put his palms flat on the floor. He lifted his crossed legs from the ground, uncrossed them and slid down into a complete split. The rusty tug in his hamstrings reminded him that he had not done his exercises for forty-eight hours. Other than that, he was able to circle his body around almost effortlessly. The thick muscles in his legs and midsection flowed like oiled cables, gave no resistance at all. This feeling, and the ones that would follow shortly, he treasured above all others in his life.

  He spun to his feet, and leapt into the air. His entire body flattened into a kick that was so fast and precise that the air popped. He landed lightly, spun and kicked, spun—

  And Warrick was there with him, slashing at him with the bo staff. Striking and slashing, goading Aubry on and on. Ever reminding him that he must breathe smoothly. That he must release tension into the movement, not hold it in his muscles. And continuously, unceasingly challenging him to channel his emotions into an undifferentiated white light, a pure essence. That essence and that alone enabled his movement to be an expression of Self, and not merely a reaction to external stimulus.

  Somewhere during that time, Aubry the man and Aubry the movement lost their distinctions. He stopped, pivoting. Promise was gone from the doorway. He listened carefully, sweat drooling down his forehead, his beard, his chest, pooling at his feet.

  She was asleep.

  Aubry folded back to the lotus position, and listened to his heartbeat. Five minutes later it was calm, had regained its customary rhythm of thirty-five beats per minute.

  Promise was still asleep, and there was no sound from the world around him. Silently Aubry lifted one of the rectangular floor tiles. The floor was hollowed beneath, and in the hollow lay a package wrapped in oilskin. When he unfolded and emptied it, it yielded an ancient book.

  Aubry hitched himself over closer to the lightsquare and opened the volume to the halfway point, where he had stopped the night before.

  Slowly, laboriously, he ran his heavy finger under the words, shaping them, sounding them as carefully as possible. It hurt his head. His damp finger made marks along the page as he read.

  There were pictures, and that made it easier to keep interested. And there were funny parts that made him smile, sometimes. But it was so hard. For three years he had struggled, reclaiming what little he knew of reading, pushing on. It would have been easier if he had been able to ask for help, but he couldn't do that. Just couldn't.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, warding off a headache. Here was a part that he liked. He raised his voice a little, speaking nervously at first, then with greater confidence:

  "The sun was shining on the sea,

  Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make

  The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was

  The middle of the night …"

  Promise awoke, and rolled over.

  Aubry was shaking, eyelids closed but fluttering. She ran her hand over his forehead, wiping away warm, sticky sweat. His hand reached out for hers, and gripped with feverish strength.

  He muttered something unintelligible, then rolled over and settled in.

  Finally his body relaxed as tension seemed to leave him in a great sigh.

  She lay there, watching the rise and fall of his great shoulders, and heard him mutter something under his breath. For a moment she considered shaking him, finding out exactly what he meant, then decided against it. It had to be nonsense. Weird, though.

  It had sounded like "O oysters come and walk with us—"

  Nutty. Promise lay back and closed her eyes. Within a few minutes she was asleep again.

  Chapter Five

  Free Market

  Thursday, May 18

  To Promise, the sights and smells of Free Market day made the rest of the week worthwhile. The rich, heavy aroma of fresh cooked meat and breads was intoxicating. It was good to smell pork and beef again. For a while, strange dishes with Spanish and Korean names had been Maze staples. And for that same while, for some strange reason, dogs and stray cats had shunned the Maze. Curious.

  Hundreds of colored pennants vied for attention. Makeshift wooden and plastic booths titillated the senses.

  A tiny half-naked Chinese infant ran past, bare bottom shining. Its mother, a bird of paradise Exotic, ran close behind, her rainbow scalp feathers ruffling in the wind. Promise spun to avoid them, laughter bubbling from her throat.


  On Market day, the Maze was no longer a limping invalid of a community. Today it was a vibrant, living organism, with a rhythm and power all its own.

  The Market spread over a four-city-block area in the devastated Pershing Square district. The Scavenger booth was the largest in the Market, neatly bracketed by two billboards. The one at the left encouraging all to vote for smiling, bespectacled President Harris. At left, a woman in the kind of indeterminate uniform that suggested nurse or nun with equal facility encouraged unwed or reluctant mothers to freeze their unborn children for future adoption at Xenon cryonurseries.

  At Free Market one could find food and drink, repaired clocks and mechanical parts, antiques, and handicrafts and endless bric-a-brac. Amid the endless heaps of goods were odds and ends crafted by a million agile minds.

  Promise moved among the booths, calling the vendors by name as they greeted her in kind. She spun as something hard and square-cornered bumped her backside.

  "I'm sorry, Promise ..." An old woman draped in rags pulled back a cart bearing her entire stock of worldly possessions. The woman resembled a withered, skinned apple: deep wrinkles, and dry, cracked skin bleached by exposure. She had no teeth left, but a skewed sort of humor still glinted in her hazel eyes.

  "Good morning, Hilda." Promise gave herself two points for plucking the elusive name from her memory. Hilda's shopping cart brimmed with twists of wire and broken metal parts. The entire mess was worthless, but almost certainly the fruit of an honest day's labor. The old woman had tried.

  "I have . . . things. Here for you." The woman cackled to herself and dug into the cart. She fiddled among the objects until she found something about the size of a human head. Glass tubes and coiled springs popped out of it in bizarre configurations. Promise couldn't tell the difference between design eccentricities and sheer metal fatigue.

  "See? See? I told you."

  "Yes, Hilda. So you did." Promise held it up. What had the old woman said? And when had she said it? Damned if Promise could remember. She had to be careful here. Hilda would be terribly hurt if Promise didn't remember every detail of their last conversation.

  "Why . . . it's . . . just what you said. I'm speechless." What the hell was it? A clock? A potato-juice-powered radio? She really couldn't say. "It's . . . you really don't see one of these every day, that's for sure. And it's in . . . wonderful shape." She tilted it onto its side, wincing as grit streamed out of a crack.

  "Well. Why don't you go over to our booth and tell Mira 'Blue twelve.' She'll take care of you." She gave the object a final rattle and handed it back. "And give her this. I'm sure she'll love it."

  She laughed to herself as the old woman doddered off to the Scavenger booth.

  At the east end of the Free Market were a row of employment shells. The busy prefab boxes were sponsored by companies dedicated to developing the Maze's labor pool. It was doubtful if General Electric and Consolidated Fusion would recruit, but Human Services people would be plentiful.

  At the moment, the line was a sea of faces, some desperate, some optimistic. The booths listed opportunities in massage and interactive therapy, legal prostitution, domestic assistance and all of the other high-touch services that machines could not provide. Human Services specialized in listing and accommodating those areas where untrained adults could find employment.

  She scanned the lines, feeling satisfaction. She had helped make this possible. As her gaze continued to move, she saw the play area on the far side of the employment booths. In it children dangled pendulously from swings, chittering like monkeys. Their joyful screams filled the air as they yo-yo'd about.

  There were many, many children about two years old. An explosion.

  Suddenly Promise was oppressively aware of the vast number of couples. They held hands, wound their arms around each other, carried their children. Men and women in endless pairs, and more than half of them wore the tiny gold Cyloxibin mushroom pendants, openly proclaiming themselves bonded " 'shroomheads." The spores were available free on folded squares of blotter paper, passed out by the tens of thousands. The mushrooms were distributed fresh and dried. They grew wild all over California.

  It was too late to stamp them out. The risks to unborn children discouraged millions. Millions more ignored those risks, eager to indulge in the most powerful and bizarre hallucinogen yet discovered or created by man.

  Even now, three years after her last dose, Promise still experienced flashbacks. Moments when making love was so explosively powerful that it singed a hole through her reality. Those moments left her tumbling in a void, falling and falling, alone yet enfolded by the love of her life.

  She wrenched herself from her reverie, and searched the faces of their tiny children. How many of them would be victims of the mushroom's dark gift? One percent? Three? It depended on who you listened to.

  Promise closed her eyes, shutting out the young faces. The sounds of their high, sweet voices still fluttered at her ears. Unconsciously, her fingers pressed against her flat dancer's stomach.

  The doctors swore there was nothing wrong. That the miscarriage she had suffered in Terra Buena three years before had not damaged her womb. She laughed bitterly. A woman in harmony with her body understood herself as no doctor could, to a depth that machines and chemical tests cannot reach. She knew there would be no more children for her.

  Perhaps it was the long years of chemical birth control. Or the abortions. Sometimes, alone in her room, Promise suffered bloody visions. A mountain of torn fetuses weighed on her conscience. How many had there been? If she counted the menstrual extractions, there was literally no way to know. The fetuses were the unwanted children of men whose names had long since faded from memory. Perhaps her body had finally revolted. Three years before, ravaged by Cyloxibin fever, Promise had ripped the birth control implant from her arm. Her body made one final, herculean effort to give her a child.

  A healthy girl child. Or a boy. A healthy, happy child, who would laugh when she coddled it, would need her with all of its heart and spirit. Someone who would know nothing of her past, would care only that she was Momma.

  And through that caring, ease her painful memories.

  Your past is stained. But here is new life, and through it, what has occurred may be undone. A life ill-lived might begin anew.

  That was the dream, the thing that might have been. A bullet intended for Aubry had shaken her from that dream, and simultaneously terminated the life within her.

  It left an unending emptiness, an eternal lack of deep connection when she made love to Aubry. Physical release she could have, but something was missing, would always be missing. At times like this the pain surged through her undiluted.

  A hand touched her on the shoulder, and Promise turned, hoping that it wasn't Hilda again.

  It wasn't. It was one of the Mazies, the barely post-pubescent youngsters who found employment outside in the straight world, doing everything, anything. Prostitution had been legal in California since the turn of the century, another concession to the state's endless hunger for revenue. Promise had lived in that world for seven years. Those years had brought her teetering to the very edge of sanity. She had never quite tipped over.

  The girl's face was still young, and fresh, still innocent with youth. Her hair was a dusty blond, clipped short. The hollows beneath her eyes were the only traces of fatigue. Her ready smile was purest vinyl. Promise wanted to reach out and shake her.

  Get out of the trap. I know what you're doing, and I know what it's going to cost you. Believe me. You can't afford to pay.

  "My name is Rose. I need to talk with you."

  "What about?"

  "Your man."

  "Warrick?" Promise's eyes narrowed.

  "Warrick is dead," the girl said. "I heard them say it. And Aubry Knight is about to be."

  Promise frowned. She and Aubry knew that the charade wouldn't hold up forever. She could only hope there was still time to repair the damage. If not . . .

&n
bsp; "All right," Promise said reluctantly. "Come with me."

  Aubry sat at the council table, flanked by Leo and Quarry. His enormous chest moved slowly with the rhythm of his breathing, hands folded placidly in front of him. Impassive, he watched and listened as Rose told her story.

  "I provide . . .body services for McMartin."

  "Who's he?" Aubry's voice was neutral. Promise stood just behind him, hating the sound of it. It irked her when he made his normally deep, mellifluous voice hollow and flat. She couldn't read anything in its timbre. His eyes had darkened almost to black.

  "McMartin Cryogenics," Rose whispered nervously.

  "And there's another man who works for him, named Marcel Killinger. He's supposed to be head of an independent Merc unit, but he really works for McMartin."

  Only now did Aubry's face show emotion: wariness. "Killinger again," he said quietly. "I should have known we weren't through with each other."

  Rose clinched her hands into little fists, her voice urgent. "You hurt Killinger. They were pretty amazed at that, 'cause he was wearing armor. He has a real hard-on for you."

  Promise looked at Aubry questioningly.

  "Years back," Aubry said. "Right after I joined the Ortegas. Killinger had a real problem with me coming up so fast. Switched Families, went to work for Wu. I didn't know he'd gone indie."

  "They have a federal bounty, Mr. Knight."

  "Bastards," Leo said. "That gives Killinger a free hand."

  "That's what they want," Rose said. "They don't want you back in jail. They want you dead, as a warning to anyone else who might want to help NewMen."

  "Is that right." Aubry closed his eyes for a few moments, thinking. "Why are you getting in the middle of this?"