Fade To Midnight (14 page)

Her lungs froze, her thigh muscles clenched.
Her.
That was what he was thinking and feeling. That was all he was thinking or feeling. It flooded through her, each wave higher, deeper. Her. Just Edie.

His face did not change. His mouth was flat. He did not look at her. She had a feeling he did not dare. He rested his hands on his knees, clenching his hands into fists, unclenching them. Each pulse made the taut, sinewy muscles in his arms and shoulders contract.

Desire. The burning ache of it. The awareness created a feedback loop. She was aware of herself through his eyes. Her smell, her body, her hair, her eyes, her hands, perceived through the lens of his perceptions and feelings. His hunger to touch her, seize her. Take her.

She could hardly fathom it. He wanted her. Shy, invisible Edie. She'd never seen herself as desirable. She could pass, on a good day, if somebody else dressed her. But she seldom tried to attract attention. She'd cultivated invisibility for most of her life. She had no experience navigating wild desire. His hunger triggered an answering ache, so sharp it made her want to whimper.

She tried to breathe. Her lungs were locked.

The tendons in his neck stood out. The air was cooling as the sun sank. Dusk deepened, leaching the gold glow out of the room.

His chest had goosebumps. His nipples were taut, dark. She pictured herself running her hands over his chest. Feeling those tight nubs against her palms. Bending to feel them with her lips, her tongue.

He felt it. She saw his throat bob, his fists clench. His response sharpened hers, making the loop hum, sing, surge sharply in volume.

Another shock. He sensed her feelings, too. Her eyes flicked down, to check if he was…oh, my goodness, yes. Most definitely.

He caught her peeking. He'd been resting his forearms discreetly over his thighs, but when he caught that furtive glance, he let his hands flop outwards, palms up, so she could see that long, thick club trapped in denim against his thigh. There could be no secrets in that field of pure, naked emotion and sensation that shimmered between them.

Well. At least there was no question about his sincerity. No faking that. The force of his desire battered against her. In a way, it was nice. Not to have to wonder if the guy was just being, well, polite.

She licked her lips. “You can, ah, go ahead and put on your shirt,” she ventured, her voice breathless and thin. “You must be cold.”

“I'm not cold.”

She forced out air in a jerky sigh. “OK, let me try that one again. You should put on your shirt because
I'm
the one who's getting hot.”

He just looked at her, his throat working.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't pick up any clues about your past, or future, or anything. All I could hear was…ah…”

“Yes,” he said. “I know what you heard.”

Her face was bright red. “It was, um, loud.”

“I couldn't control it,” he said. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't.” Her voice came out savagely loud. She might be flustered, staggered, blown over backwards by him—but not afraid.

He leaned over, picked up the sweater that was pooled on the ground beside him. “I should go,” he muttered.
Before I do something stupid
was the corollary thought. She heared it as if he'd voiced it.

“No, don't!” she pleaded, panicked. She dropped the sketchbook, put one leg in front of the other until she stood in front of him. She put her hand on his hot shoulder, and did not permit it to skitter off. His hot life force pulsed into her palm. Making the hunger sharper.

“Don't go,” she whispered.

D
esmond congratulated himself once again as the shiny black late-model BMW with tinted windows pulled into the lot. Probably armored, knowing that paranoid son-of-a-bitch. He was fucking brilliant. Dr. O would be proud. With one stroke, he solved all his logistical problems. He just wished he'd come up with it before he'd run through his own personal fortune to feed Ava's ravenous world domination machine. But it was all right. He'd come out way ahead.

Four people got out of the car. His old Haven pal, Tom Bixby, had gained weight. He'd always been burly, but he'd packed some fat onto an already big body. His face was thicker, broader, redder. Des stood straight, feeling very good about his own fit, trim, muscular form.

Tom was accompanied by two men, whose taut, watchful faces betrayed their status as bodyguards. A whippet-slender Asian man with a gleaming black ponytail, and a huge, lantern-jawed man with a bushy mustache. The fourth was a slender girl with dreadlocks, tight jeans, a silver studded belt, multiple tattoos, and many facial piercings.

So Tom had brought his own disposable test subject upon whom the effects of X-Cog could be independently verified. Des hoped that Tom had chosen her according to Ava's criteria. Intelligent, creative, unconventional thinker. Statistically, those qualities produced the best interfaces. And being without significant friends or family helped, too.

He approached Tom, and did the requisite manly hand shaking, half-hugging and backslapping. “Great to see you, man.”

“Yeah, likewise. Looking good, buddy,” Tom responded.

Des realized, as they sized each other up, that it genuinely was good to see him. Certain things only Club O could understand. The survivors. The weak ones were already dead. Drug ODs, alcoholism, suicide, even some brain tumors. Dr O's training wasn't for pussies.

Nope, just winners, bound for the very top. You had to be tough to have fun. It was a relief, to be with someone who got it. That was one of the many things that drew him to Ava. Aside from her brilliance, her beauty, and the endlessly inventive sex games. The fact that she was out of her gourd, well, it was a small price to pay. And in any case, sanity as society defined it just meant being mentally hog-tied. Ava was free. Like himself, like Tom. An elite, free brotherhood of winners.

“So. How's life in the mercenary army business?” he asked.

“We prefer to think of ourselves as a private military company.”

Right. Whatever Tom called it, it was worth hundreds of millions. Private, apolitical, and utterly confidental, it offered VIP protection, air transport, super high-tech intelligence gathering, state of the art weaponry, the power to quietly influence world events, if the price was right. All apparently legal and aboveboard. Tom kept his ass rigorously covered. No consequences. It was another of Dr. O's mottos.

“I brought a couple colleagues along,” Tom said. “This is Ken Wanatabe, ex-Navy Seal, and Richard Fabian, ex Ranger, my private security team. They are absolutely discreet. And this…” He gestured at the girl. “This is Keira. She's my inspiration, I guess you could say.”

“Really?” Des shook the girl's cool, slender hand. “How's that?”

“I've recently become a patron of the arts,” Tom confided. “Keira blew my mind with her Web site. I've been trying to persuade her to sign on to be my assistant, but I haven't had much luck. I need creative people, but she's so damn independent, you know? What's a guy to do?”

“I can't,” Keira said sternly. “I'm an artist, not a gofer girl.” She fixed Des with a challenging glare, dreadlocks flipping. “I'm helping Tom out to make money I can plow back into my own project.”

Des put on a fascinated face. “Really? And what project is that?”

“Performance art,” Keira announced. “I'm doing a multimedia art installation that explores female auto-eroticism, and how it's changing in today's world of superfast communication. My project's named ‘Weird New World.' I get tons of hits a day on my Web site. It's, like, taking off. And, ah, so.” She shrugged. “I'm, like, busy.”

“That's amazing,” Des said, in admiring tones. “So is that how Tom found you? Through your Web site?”

“I'm telling you, I'm a convert,” Tom said solemnly. “You should see some of the crazy shit in Keira's Web site. I'm hooked.”

Des chuckled as he led the group into the the big, bland warehouse building that camoflauged Ava's secret lair. He led them through the underground tunnels, opened the door of the lab he'd run through tens of millions of dollars building and operating for Ava.

The secret room was a traditional enough looking lab, filled with X-Cog and related equipment. But one angle had a plushy chaise longue, a screen shade artfully angled against the bright glare of the lights, a stereo, a well-stocked bar. Ava liked her comforts.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is Ava Cheung,” he announced.

Ava burst out right on cue, smiling brilliantly. Her hair swung loose, her eyes were mysteriously shadowed, her lips gleamed. Her silk blouse was too tight, riding up to show off her taut belly. No bra. Her nipples poked pertly through the shiny fabric. Dirty slut. No shame.

God, how he loved that about her.

Des turned to watch the reaction. The men stared, mouths slack. Ava had rendered herself particularly stunning. In fact, he was getting a tingle in his own crotch. He shot a glance at Keira, expecting the lemony mouthed, door-slammed-shut vibe that Ava tended to bring out in women, but Keira's eyes were fully as dazzled as the three mens'.

Ava's eyes flicked to his as she gave Tom an apparently welcoming hug and the necessary it's-been-so-long chitchat. She jerked her chin in Keira's direction, asking the question with her eyes.

He answered with a nod. A new toy. Time to play.

Ava's delighted smile got even more brilliant. She shook hands with everyone, saving Keira's for last, and then hung onto the girl's, holding it with both of hers. Keira gazed back, enthralled.

“Des, why don't you show your old friend around the lab?” Ava said, without breaking eye contact with the girl. “I'll just go have some girl talk with Keira. Can I get you something to drink? Coke, Diet Coke, mineral water? Or I could brew you some coffee, or tea.”

Keira allowed herself to be towed toward the cushy bar corner. Des led Tom around, explaining X-Cog while simultaneously listening to the women's conversation. Mental multitasking was one of Dr. O's many gifts to him. He tracked Ava's questions, Keira's babbling answers, Ava's admiring interjections. Hot water gurgled as a pot of tea was prepared. He heard the delicate clink of the Japanese ceramic tea service.

The moment of truth was at hand. Ava was about to administer the preliminary drug. She slanted him a questioning smile.

He turned to Tom. “I assume we're going for independent verification with your own hand-selected test subject?” he asked quietly, just to be dead sure they were all on the same page.

“As you suggested,” Tom said. “I'm still wondering what happens to her after, though. You weren't real clear about that.”

Here came the tricky part. “Well, I specified that you not be overly attached to the subject, didn't I?”

“You didn't explain why.” Tom's voice was flat. “So, why shouldn't I be attached? What happens to her?”

“It's a problem we have, with the side effects,” Des explained. “In order to make it possible to give you, a beginner, a chance to personally effect an X-Cog interface, we have to give the subject an extremely concentrated dose of the drug. To lower her resistance to the max.”

“Which means?”

“It means there isn't going to be any ‘after' for her,” Des said, regretfully. “Too bad, about Weird New World. The world really needs a more aggressive exploration of female auto-eroticism.”

“Too bad.” Tom processed that with equanimity. “Tell me more.”

“Another thing,” Des said. “We don't have any procedure in place for, ah…disposal.”

“We'll handle the disposal issue today.” Tom waved a dismissive hand. “And if we should end up doing business, I can get something in place for you with continuity. If I conclude the project has potential.”

“Of course,” Des murmured. He looked forward intensely to watching Tom's jaw drop when he saw the floor show. He glanced at the two men pacing behind him. “And them?”

“They're up for anything I find necessary or convenient,” Tom said. “It's in their interests to be discreet.”

Des didn't enjoy letting strangers witness the X-Cog demo, but Tom knew how to cover his ass. Tom had been one of Dr. O's protégé's. Des trusted the guy, insofar as he trusted anyone.

That was why they'd hung out back in their Harvard days. They both understood the power that their augmented mental faculties and their freedom from moral and ethical limitations had bestowed upon them. Dr. O had taken away their limitations, making them…well, godlike, in a way. It sounded overblown, but it was literally true.

And they were always so careful, when they played their little games. Consequences were for dickheads, idiots, and losers.

But as with any great gift, this one, too, came with its burden of solitude. It was good, to be with someone who understood.

“Keira? Are you all right?” Ava's voice cut through his reverie.

He spun, to see Keira swaying on her feet, her hand to her throat. “I feel…I feel…” She choked, coughed. “I feel…ah…”

Her voice trailed off. The teacup she held dropped, shattered. Her eyes were wide and glassy.

“Oh, no! You're feeling sick? Come over here, let me see what I can do for you,” Ava crooned, grabbing her arm. “You feel faint? Here, sit down on this chair.” Ava plunked the girl down into one of the wheeled office chairs. “Put your head down between your knees.”

Over the girl's head, Ava pulled out a syringe, flourished it for their benefit, and drove the needle into Keira's arm. The young woman squawked, her body arched. Ava accompanied her body down into the chair, forcing her to bend at the waist.
Thud,
she landed heavily.

“It will take ten minutes for me to set up the electrical contacts,” Ava said. “A little longer than usual, with those dreadlocks. Des, could you get these gentlemen drinks from the bar in the meantime?”

A tap to the brake lever on the wheels of Keira's chair, and Ava pushed the chair, rattling over the white tiles, into the viewing room.

When the door shut behind her, Des pushed the buttons to open the viewing screen, and got the men set up in comfortable chairs, frosty beers in hand. Tom watched Ava apply her master crown and don double-view goggles. On her, they looked almost stylish. She attended to Keira's crown, glancing up at the video camera from time to time to give them sunny smiles, finger fluttering waves.

“I'm ready,” she called. “Did you pick out a text, Tom?” Her sweet, husky voice issued from the speakers, loaded with sexual promise.

“Sure did,” Tom said. “Does Ava speak German?”

Des snorted. “Ava has lost count of the languages she speaks. Dr. O got heavy into language acquisition in the early nineties.”

“Good.” Tom pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, and handed it to Des. “Because I know Keira doesn't speak it.”

Des ran the paper into the viewing room, walking behind Keira, who was swallowing convulsively. A sign that she was conscious, aware, and fighting with every muscle that would still move. Paradoxically, that made the interface more profound. Sometimes it was clenched fists, or drumming feet, or a taut grimace. Those were the good ones. The ones that went limp right off the bat were no sport.

Keira was a winner. Too bad she'd be dead of intracranial bleeding by nightfall, if she wasn't euthanized first. Ava usually gave the girls an injection that ended it all before they started bleeding out their noses and ears. Less cleanup.

But Keira would put on a nice show before it came to that.

Des sat down and lifted his own beer to his lips, comfortably conscious of having done his part and earned his just reward.

Ava unfolded the scrap of paper and scanned it. She looked up at the camera, eyes bright with amusement. “Interesting choice.”

“Get on with it, please,” Tom called out impatiently.

Ava turned to face Keira. She composed herself, her beautiful face freezing into a mask of concentration.

Keira lifted her head. Her eyes were darting frantically to the right, the left, up, down, as if she were following the flight path of a crazed housefly. She began to speak. Her voice was hoarse, and pitched slightly lower than Keira's own voice had been, but the words came out smoothly. Des started to chuckle when he recognized the text of
Mein Kampf.
An odd, twisted choice. But strangely appropriate.

They quietly listened while Keira recited the first couple of pages of Hitler's manifesto in flawless German, without a pause or a hitch. There was a moment of silence after she stopped.

“Impressive,” Tom murmured.

Tom was playing it cool, but Des knew the guy was hooked. Now it was just a matter of reeling him in, hammering out terms. He took a swallow of beer. “Just you wait. You haven't seen anything yet.”

Ava turned to the camera. “I need a volunteer for the next phase,” she said. “To demonstrate the combat possibilities of X-Cog. Is one of you three gentlemen man enough to face me? Or, that is to say, us?”

Tom frowned, startled. “Combat? What? You mean, with her?”

“Ava is trained in several martial arts disciplines,” Des said.

Tom shot a glance at his men. “Richard? Ken? Any takers?”

“I'm not attacking a girl,” Fabian said. “Keira can't weigh more than one fifteen. I'm two seventy. Forget it.”

Tom looked at Ken, who shook his head. “Fucking ridiculous.”