|
On the verge of whistling, he gingerly gathered
all the disks and placed them in a shirt pocket. He leaned back and smiled,
his hand pressed to them in near disbelief. Reassured, he laced his fingers
behind his head and studied the subject.
“Hey, Spot.” Benny hammered on the door.
The agent slapped on the com. “What do you want,
kid?”
“Where's the can in this place?”
“Hang on.” The agent looked at the charts and
punched in the appropriate code. From the rear wall a toilet slid out.
Benny went to the can and urinated in it as
noisily as he could, just to let Cindy’s dogs know they were dealing with
a man. He glanced around the dimly lit room. The cameras were well hidden,
and it would take time, but he'd find them. There were always cameras. Every
fed born was a dyed in the wool and licensed peeping tom. They loved this
kind of stuff. Maybe he should drop his drawers and let them really go
nutsoid.
There was a faint splash of light, gone almost
before it showed, and he smiled.
“Like what you see?”
“I ain't that way, kid.” The man scowled into
the monitors.
“Yeah. You say so.” He buttoned his jeans and
the toilet slid into the wall. The panel hissed back down over that. “Nice
throne, but what happens if I need it again?”
“Ask.” Annoyed at Benny's remark, he snapped,
“Like when you were in prison.”
Benny waved a hand at the room. “I am in prison,
man. And Cindy the bitch is the warden. When do I get the first babe?” He
winked at the door.
“What do you mean?”
“Come off it, man. When do I start with the baby
maker?” He grabbed his crotch. “The Project, dude. You do know why I'm
here, right? Like up at the Manse.”
Unwilling to admit he knew only the very basics,
the man said, “How am I supposed to know.”
Benny shrugged and returned to the center of the
room. The cigarette dangled from the right corner of his mouth. He squinted
through the lazy flow of smoke.
He squirmed, the silence pounded at him. The agent
muttered to himself. What about the Manse?
“Hey. Hey, kid?”
“Mm?” Benny took a drag and glanced at the
door. “What?”
“You . . . you really Ivanovitch's stepson?”
Hands thrust into his back pockets, Benny rose to
his full height of five feet and six inches. He spat out the cigarette and
shrugged, his eye closed, head down.
The agent frowned. Ivanovitch used to stand like
that.
“We got a couple of vids with him in them.” He
knew the type. If he asked, Benny would refuse out of pride. Make it sound
like he didn't care, and yes, he was beginning to care about the sullen
brat. “Want to watch them with me?”
Benny took a deep breath, then gave a slow nod.
Another panel slid back to reveal a blue 60-inch screen. It flickered. And
then there was Carl. Overawed and hurting at the sudden, fiery death of his
stepfather, Benny slipped to the floor and squatted on his heels.
“Got any noise?”
Carl's brassy rumble filled the room.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
|
