Fade To Midnight (15 page)

“Such gallant gentlemen!” Ava's voice sang out of the speakers. “How about if whoever challenges us accepts a handicap? Give Keira a weapon. Would that preserve your masculine dignity?”

Ken still looked dubious, but Tom pulled a long-bladed knife out of an ankle sheath, and handed it to Ken. “Go do it, Ken. It's an order.”

Ken took the knife, shooting a final, eye-rolling glance as he jerked the viewing room door shut behind himself. Keira rose to her feet and took the blade, though her eyes still darted frantically.

Then she sank gracefully into a crouch, and lifted her arms into guard, awaiting Ken's offensive.

Ken lunged, making a half-hearted jab towards Keira's face, and grunted at her whip-quick parry. She lunged with the knife, and Ken reeled back with a shout of outrage, countering with desperate kicks and parries as Ava/Keira pressed him back, slashing and jabbing, driving him around the room.

Ken finally got in a lucky grab, and seized Keira's slender arm in a kotegaishi hold, sending her flying. She smashed into the wall and fell to the ground like a puppet with cut strings, gasping and twitching.

“Truce!” Ava called out. “You knocked the contact sensors loose and compromised the interface! Time out while I fix it.”

“That fucking bitch
cut
me!” Ken bellowed, holding up his forearm. An angry gash dripped blood down his forearm.

“Sorry,” Ava said solicitously. “But I had to push, or you wouldn't have gotten a meaningful sense of the possibilities. I did have the element of surprise. And if you're using another person's body for your fight, you cancel out the element of mortal danger to one's own person. It's an amazing paradigm shift. It makes you immortal, in a sense. Because the body doing the actual combat is essentially disposable.”

“Take your paradigm shift and stick it up your ass,” Ken growled.

“Aw. Don't be that way.” Ava pulled a handful of gauze squares off a shelf, and unrolled some surgical tape. She moved closer to Ken than she needed to be to wind the tape around his forearm, and smiled at him through the X-Cog glasses. “I promise the next part of the demo will be much easier on your nerves.”

“Next part?” Ken looked alarmed. “No fucking way.”

“A nicer part,” she said smokily. “I promise. Just let me adjust Keira's crown, and reestablish the interface. You'll see. Wait.”

And Ken Wanatabe waited, docile as any well-trained dog told to sit and stay. Most men responded to Ava that way.

Des and Tom looked at each other. “So?” Des prompted, though he knew the answer. He could see from the hungry gleam in Tom's eyes.

“What's the catch?” Tom demanded.

Des chose his words carefully. “Our problem is cerebral damage due to the side effects. Keira got a maximum dose because I wanted you to try crowning yourself. She'll have a narrow window. Maybe an hour, maybe more. If Ava was the only one crowning, we could have gotten away with a lower dose, and Ava could have played her for hours. Ava says it's like riding a bronco in your mind. Difficult, but exhilarating.”

Tom's eyelids crinkled, liking it. “Hmm. An hour? Long enough to do a job, if it was planned well.”

“More than long enough,” Des agreed.

“We'll want an exclusive contract,” Tom said.

“Oh, let's work out all the gritty details later,” Des said, expansively. “I just wanted to, you know. Unleash your imagination.”

Tom's mouth twisted. “It's running wild and free, buddy.”

Des exulted inwardly. “Ava's been experimenting with nonpharmacological techniques, too, to lower the test subject's natural resistance, both surgically and with electrical stimulation,” he said. “In the hopes of making the interface less lethal. Making them reusable.”

“Brain wiping?”

“Essentially,” Des said. “But the results aren't promising. It seems like the better the overall function of the brain, the better the interface.”

“One-time deal,” Tom said. “Crown 'em, use 'em, toss 'em.”

Tom did not seem overly distressed with that scenario, Des was relieved to note. “Exactly. If one should end up in the emergency room or the morgue, the results look like pinpoint cerebral aneurisms. It's the brain bleed and swelling that gets them.”

Tom pondered. “Expensive. But not insurmountable.”

“I'm glad you feel that way. But Tom. You're missing the good part. Ava is amazing when it comes to fine motor control, even of vestigial muscles. Take a look.”

Tom glanced at the screen, and did a double take. “Holy fuck!”

Des drained his beer. “Behold, a miracle of science. Do you know how hard it is for Ava to make her do that? It never occurs to us how compex a process it is to unfasten a belt and unbutton pants, though we do it every day. And look. She's added another ball to the juggling act. Or two balls, I should say.” Desmond chuckled at his own wit.

Richard Fabian was fingering his crotch, face flushed, clutching his beer bottle with a white-knuckled hand as he stared at the screen.

“Go join them,” Des urged the man, benevolently. “Ava won't mind accommodating you. She's a great multitasker.”

Fabian didn't have to be asked twice. He was already wrenching his belt loose as he slapped the door to the inner room open.

“And the sex show? Is it to show me the X-Cog possibilities for high-end recreation?” Tom asked.

Des laughed as the twosome reconfigured itself into a threesome. “No, Tommy, this is just for fun. The look on your face, pal. Priceless. Oh, and by the way. I need a favor. Ava and I have a project planned this evening, to streamline our lives and liberate some funding. Nothing complicated. We need a little tactical support. Could we use your personnel?”

“What's the project?” Tom didn't look away from the screen.

“The CEO of Helix is bugging us,” Des said softly. “Charles Parrish. Tonight is his retirement banquet. His daughter Edie is going to be there. She's mentally imbalanced, disinherited, disgruntled. She'll be bringing a vial of Tamlix 12, apparently, to get rid of old Daddums. We need someone who can impersonate catering staff to administer it. Your man Ken would look convincing in a catering uniform. He'd pass, as an out-of-work actor.”

“Um, sure. Brief us after.” Tom dragged his eyes away from the spectacle on the screen with visible effort. “Clarify one thing for me. You mentioned that you needed a supply of research subjects. What for?”

Des was taken aback. “Uh…well, to make the technique more cost effective. Making the subjects reusable would reduce loss of life.”

“But not necessarily costs,” Tom said. “I can get girls cheap, in bulk, from ex-Soviet Bloc countries. In fact, I've got a contact who has fresh meat to sell right here, locally. We'll pay more when there's a middleman, but further down the line, when we work out the kinks, we can trim that expense way down. What's the point of more research? You've got a finished product right here. All you need is a supply of disposable final executors. Just a little mind-set shift, you know?”

“Great,” Des said enthusiastically, watching Tom's eyes dart back to the screen. “I knew I could count on you for a fresh take on all this.” He reached down, discreetly, and turned up the volume of the amplifier connected to the mikes in the inner room.

The soundtrack swelled. Male snorts, growls. Pleading feminine gasps and squeals. A backdrop of wet, rhythmic slapping sounds.

Tom cleared his throat, swallowing hard. “Transport is the tricky part,” he said. “It would be easier to set up a clearing center directly abroad. No transport hassles, no overhead. We'd deliver the girls on a case by case basis, to wherever they're needed. More streamlined.”

“You can't just pick up any whore off the street,” Des reminded him. “Remember the critiera. They have to be highly intelligent. And artistic ability of any kind helps, too. Artists have a statistical edge.”

Tom's eyes were caught again by the frenzied, rhythmic movements on the screen. “Uh, fine,” he said, distracted. “So we post some American symphony jobs in a conservatory in Minsk, or Kiev. They'll come running. You can take your pick.”

“Can we?” Des's smile grew broader. “Then pick the pretty ones, Tommy. By all means, pick the pretty ones.”

Tom shifted uncomfortably on his chair. The noise level in the other room swelled, in a howling crescendo. Then, silence. Amplified panting. Tom wiped sweat off his forehead. Licked his lips.

Here it was. The perfect moment.

“Why don't you go in there yourself? Try an interface?” Des offered. “Ava's only been working her for about twenty minutes. Keira's got a solid half hour left before her brain blows out. It's the best way to get a real hands-on sense of how it works. Go on, man. Give it a whirl.”

Professional caution fought with hot lust, and in less than five seconds, lust won. “Uh, yeah,” Tom said. “I'll, uh, give it a try.”

Des lifted the communicating mike to his mouth. “Av, could you come out and set up Tom with a crown? He wants a test drive.”

Ava doffed her mesh crown and goggles, popping off the sensors from her head and walking past the panting, trembling knot of humanity as if she didn't even see it. She came out of the room, eyes sparkling, color high. Excitement buzzed in Desmond's balls. She'd be wild for it. A very enjoyable byproduct of today's business.

Ava stood a little too close to Tom while she adjusted his crown, letting him look down her blouse, brushing his chest with her taut nipples while she set the sensors. Tom stared down at Ava's chest. Her rib cage was tilted so that her tits strained against the thin silk.

Tom's hands shook by the time she was done adjusting. She led Tom into the inner room, giving useful pointers in her husky, please-fuck-me-now voice. Ignoring Keira, slumped on the floor, the two men sprawled beside her, pants gaping.

After what seemed like an inappropriately long time, Ava came out, shutting the door with a sharp click. They stared at each other.

“I'm surprised you didn't just pull up your skirt and spread for him right here and now,” he said.

“Jealous, Des?” she cooed. “Or did you want me to?”

“Whore,” he said.

She approached him, plucking open the buttons of her blouse until one last button strained fabric across her perfect tits. “Is that what you want me to be?”

He jerked his chin towards the scene on the viewing screen. “The cameras are running, I trust?”

“Of course,” she replied. “As if, Dessie. I don't miss a trick.”

He licked his lips. “No, baby. You sure don't.”

He traced the curve of her half exposed breast with his finger. “Happy now?” he asked. “A steady supply of fresh meat, hand picked to your exact specs. Pretty, artistically talented. And a disposal system. Was that everything on your wish list?”

She began to circle him. “Oh, yes. I'm so happy, Des. Tom Bixby is still a big prick. But hey. Big pricks sometimes have their uses.”

“I'm glad you think so.” He wound his fingers into the thick, glossy skeins of her hair, and pulled. “So it was a good interface, then?”

“The best,” she purred. “One of the best ever. Shame, to waste such an amazing interface on a sales demo.”

“You say the good ones feed sensory data back to you. Was she that good, Av? Did you feel them, inside you? Fucking you?”

“Would it turn you on, if it had?”

Her coy maneuvering made him want to hit that perfect, mocking face. His hand tightened on her hair. “Just answer me, you mouthy bitch.” He jerked her closer, and put his hand between her legs.

Ava gasped. “Yes,” she whispered. “But not like I feel…this.”

He thrust his hand up into her tightly furled, narrow pussy lips. Smooth, hot, and slick. “Good.” He worked her, pressing deep.

She sighed, her slender body writhing against him, around him. “You want to know what I was thinking while I did that interface?”

“Go ahead.” He fingered her clit. “You'll tell me whether I want to know or not.”

“I was thinking about her.” She threw her head back, closed her eyes. “The Parrish girl. How it'll be when we do her.”

“How do you think it'll be? Like that one?” He wrenched the last button of her blouse loose. The button skittered across the floor.

“No. Better. A hundred times better,” she said dreamily. “I checked her out. She has a crazy interactive Web site. I liked it.”

“Yeah?” He fingered her nipples, not even trying to follow her train of thought. All he wanted was to fuck.

“There were photos,” Ava continued. “She's not bad, you know? And she'd look a lot better if she gave a shit. Which she clearly doesn't.”

“I see.” He leaned down, sucked her tit into his mouth.

She moaned, whimpering. “If she's like me, we'll be able to crown her again and again without blowing her mind,” she said breathlessly. “We can do anything we want, for as long as we want.”

“Great,” he mumbled. “That'll be just great.” He sucked, nibbled.

“We'll play with her tonight, OK? Here, after the banquet. Parrish croaks, in front of flashing cameras. Wanatabe and Fabian will be ready to nab Edie when she runs away in the confusion. We amuse ourselves with her at our leisure, while the evidence comes out showing that it was Edie who poisoned him. When the manhunt is underway, we bring her out of the woodwork, have her murder the sister and commit suicide. The money goes to the Foundation. The Foundation board will be yours to command. Have I forgotten anything?”

“Nothing. You're brilliant. You evil, filthy, calculating slut.” His voice shook as he slid his fingers deeper inside her.

“It's a waste,” Ava said, clenching her pussy around his delving hand. “She'd be a knockout, if I pulled her strings. It's all in the attitude. And that's the missing bit that I will provide. The attitude.”