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Mike lay atop the covers in Cindy’s bed. The
headboard was three feet away, and the foot board too far even for his
six-foot-two frame to reach.
“Lady,” he said, nuzzling her neck, “You could
train thoroughbreds in this thing.”
She gave Mike a sleepy, satiated smile, murmuring,
“I do.”
She reached for him, but at her touch he drew back,
staring at her. Mike gave a small laugh, then shrugged. He let her draw him down
over her but his responses were more automatic, action on demand, than what they
shared a short time ago.
A warning light on the computer flashed, then a
childlike, whispered voice wishing them a good-morning.
“A new message for you, Ms VanTur.” It hesitated
before in a very subdued tone, said, “You are late for the meeting.”
“Meeting?” Cindy sat up, and the sheets slid away
from her breasts. Her eyes widened. “The Party. I was to meet with the
generals today.” Jumping from the bed, she dashed to the bathroom shouting for
her maids.
Four women slipped into the room. Lying naked on top
of the sheets, Mike saw them give him covetous looks. One woman shot him a look
of hate. Her skin grayed, and she shivered, one hand creeping up as the collar on
her neck sent pain deep into her spine.
Mike looked away. There were no carpetbaggers in his
ancestry, but this was too close to something his family hated.
He rolled out of bed to gather his things, but a man
appeared.
“I takes them, sir.” The butler held out his
hands. “The mistress, she wanting you now.” Smiling, he folded Mike’s
clothes. “Be cleaned and hung fo’ you, you comes back here. Else we sends
them to you apartment in DC. The mistress, she gots duds in plenty here for man
you size.”
Before Mike could thank him, the butler bowed and
left. A valet rushed in with clean clothes, and then a maid began sorting
through shelves of shoes.
Cindy called. Mike followed the sound of her anger
into the bathroom.
Even in Safe Side there was crime, though not a lot.
This was too close to Politician Row, where the mayor had his residence. Even
the blockhouses where the cops lived wasn’t this safe.
A drone snooper car slid passed the block of houses in
the complex. The gun pointed at various apartments. None were empty, but one
held two extra people: a sleeping man and a woman resting beside him. The only
legal resident of the apartment was working at his computer, and the snoop
ignored him.
The wind was in the right direction and coming from
the blockhouse. The snooper detected burning drugs, living plants, and, very
faintly, beef being cooked. Each person was noted, along with whatever
information it could find. In the apartment that held the two extras, it noted
the woman was a nurse, but could find no reference to the sleeping male. The
male’s pheromones indicated a lingering illness and several physical ailments.
It reported each detail to the station house. The information was sent directly
to the Office of the Harvesters, Inc., and the computer there redirected it to
the sergeant seeking this person.
Pheromones of the sleeping man held a match with one
sought by spec-opts on a federal level. The police computer noted this, making a
second sending to the right department in the District of Columbia. Duly
notified, it rerouted the information and a special operative in Harrisburg
received a call on the matter.
The snooper drone moved away through the barricades
and armed guards to the next blockhouse.
By that time the operative in Harrisburg was on line
with a local man, Don Creel.
In Harvester headquarters, Sergeant Tiger Monte’s
computer whispered the proper hypnotic combination to rouse the man, and he
bolted off the bunk next to the desk.
He glanced over the holograph, noting symbols but
unable to read the Janissary notes, ignored what was written.
“It’s the kid.” He shouted it, banging a fist on
the desk, earning him angry mutters from others stationed in the barracks.
“Sidir, Carlisle, get the truck.” He whooped, pounding the desk again and
the computer blanked. Cursing it, he thumped it and the monitor flickered, then
died.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Sidir shouted. He raced to
the computer and groaned as he sank into the chair. “Damn it, Sarge, how many
times must I tell you to not beat on it.”
“Piss ‘pon it. I got the address. Let’s go.”
Grabbing black armor and helmets, they raced to the
jump tubes and shot down to the parking garage.
Monte screamed for a truck. A drone roared to life, and
he leaped in it, taking the controls from the computer. The other two piled in.
Siren screaming, the truck roared out of the garage and onto River Street, then
north, towards the outer rim of blockhouses.
The computer on the desk sputtered to life. A warning
from the War Department in Washington and the Department of Defense in the UN
flashed in red over the screen, demanding local units stand down.
A sleepy Harvester yawned as he turned off the monitor,
and the warning died.
Mike stifled his third yawn in less than two minutes.
Generals dressed in black leather pants stuffed into knee-high boots and cold
eyes sat around a polished table sipping drinks or stuffing their faces with
meat dishes and pastries.
He lounged in a comfortable chair with a cup of black
coffee at his elbow and a stale donut near that. Cindy turned and flashed him a
wan smile. He returned it, but like everything else, it was too automatic, too
mechanical to be more than a showing of teeth.
A maid offered to refresh his coffee. Starting to
shake his head, Mike saw no collar and no marks on her arm. Something sparked in
him.
“Wait a
minute.” Raising the tiny cup, Mike gave a small nod. After thanking her for
the coffee, he went back to ignoring her.
He took the cup, raised it and sniffed, smiling over
the fresh-ground flavor. When the maid wandered away, he sat the cup back on its
saucer. Minutes past with the cup in still, steady hands. From the corner of his
eyes he saw the maid glance at him. So did several others. The general called
out, and with all attention on the man, Mike managed to dump it along the wall.
Coffee soaked into the rug.
To the man sitting next to him, Mike said, “Always
something of interest at these meetings, isn’t there?”
“Only if you’re like him.” The man nodded at one
general. The general held two plates, each piled with stuffed croissants and
pastries, though there was little chance of the food running out. The officer
moved by them, leaving a dark, unpleasant odor in his wake.
Mike grunted to cover a laugh. “He isn’t too much
for bathing, either.”
“Fanatics.” The man was lean, too lean for the
sake of health, his eyes calm but alert. He raised his cup. “Many are, here.
They see bathing as a waste of clean water and polluting the earth despite the
fact even gray water is valuable for the greenhouses.”
“By the bye, I’m Greg Roteman, attaché to him.”
He nodded at an iron haired body builder in uniform. “Baron Veronia.”
Mike glanced into his cup and frowned. A small louse
was crawling in circles before dying. A scowl touching the lean face, Mike
glanced at him, then the general.
“Not mine, old boy.” Uncrossing his legs, the man
winked. “May I suggest that you take a bath with an insecticide posthaste
after the meeting?”
“Don’t tell me . . .”
“They want everything protected.”
“Except us.”
The man grinned. One long, strong hand slid over
Mike’s knee.
“Uh . . . No.”
The hand moved away and the man shrugged. Another man,
a body builder in uniform sidled up. He glanced at the lean man, then walked on.
With a grimace, the lean man drained his cup and
stood.
“Duty calls, I fear.”
He took the cup to the door, handing it to a maid.
Even in the best of homes insects could be a problem.
As the coffee seeped through the fibers and into the wood, insects crawled out
on the carpet only to die. Even Cindy had her enemies.
Mike stared into the cup. Among the few was his
sister, Terry Jo. His hand tightened and the ear snapped free of the cup,
earning him cool looks from many in the crowd. Mike smiled back.
Damn Benny. Damn that little bastard for getting Terry
Jo pregnant.
Monte shot through the gate flashing his badge at the
block guards. One or two scowled, but all let him pass. He opened the snoop
tracer unit and parked the truck outside of Jim’s part of the block.
In the apartment, Two Swords watched the three men in
black press a universal key card into the palm unit of the door. He spun and
there was the Owl, smirking at Benny.
With a scream of rage, Two Swords swung
a-Heart-o’-Fire at the Owl, and the demon shrieked, countering with his
Gray-Eater-of-Men’s-Souls. The swords shrilled battle cries and clashed in a
shower of sparks.
Two Swords spun, hacked down, and the Owl dodged away.
The Owl came back, cutting at Two Swords, but the guardian stepped though and
slammed the sapphire haft of the sword in the Owl’s face, then kneed the demon
in the groin. Nothing manly hung there, but the thin blade of a knee-knife slit
up through their robes and for a moment the Owl was definitely female.
Screaming, the Owl leaped away. Slapping at the fire
from the knife eating at him, he stumbled and fell. The floor opened up and the
black fires of Hell roared towards the demon. Shrieking in terror now, the Owl
dived away through the walls and was gone.
Two Swords blinked. The hole thumped shut, and there
was a smile on their kid’s mud-fence ugly face. Hm. Maybe there was hope, yet.
Not much. Teenage boys barely made human, let alone spirit master. No, Benny was
most definitely yet in the warrior class, a real hard-nose berserker.
“Got brains he ain’t never used yet, hain’a,
‘Heart?”
Sapphire balanced a round blue flame, the double
blades a glowing blue, the sword trilled a giggle, and she was dropped back into
the harness on Two Sword’s back.
“Now what?”
‘Heart made a small coughing noise. Taking this as a
hint, Two Swords aimed a hard kick, the massive foot moving through the
steel-reinforced bombproof concrete floor, but thumping on the kid’s butt.
Benny sighed a faint groan, and the eye slid open.
Leaning over the boy, in a tornado bellow, Two Swords
said, “Move it jerk.” In answer,
thunder rumbled in the distance. Even ‘Heart shuddered at this reminder from
the Boss Lady, Ma Eagle.
In the next room a warning bell rattled. Kat raced
into the room tugging on clothes and trying to put on her shoes. She cried out
in alarm.
“Jim, Harvesters.”
She slid to her knees and gasped, trying to pull Benny
up. Jim dived in naked. He threw Benny over one shoulder.
“The recycler,” he said. “The garbage. They
won’t check there –”
The door burst in. Marching in, Monte glanced
over at an unarmed Kat, then at the guns his men had.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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