The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (12 page)

"Easy,” he said. “All right, take it easy. Keep breathing, Les. Remember to breathe."

She gasped, gulped at the gelled air around her, and the black thinned, just a little. Pain eased and she fell to her back on the cushions, wondering if she could take another convulsion. She clutched at Tom, catching his wrist—"Hold me—” and pulled at him until he moved up over her, over her belly, and kissed her lips. The flesh of her lips felt alive. Burning. She clamped her arms around him, she dug into his back. “Just hold me.” She felt as if she were exploding through her loose, swollen cunt. As if her vagina were bursting with the whole world, writhing with fleshy life. And as it opened and opened and opened, that bright, molten doorway had two sides. And as life burst out over the oily threshold of her perineum, she could see to the other side, the side that was death. As if life would explode and she would implode, to the other side. She squeezed Tom and that lasted forever, for a moment.

But he was straining against her. “Come on, baby. I'm at the wrong end, you know? I've got to be ... down there.” He pried himself loose and knelt between her knees again. The urge was returning.

To push....

"Breathe, Les, breathe."

"I ca—"

"Easy, slow."

"I can't. I'm pushing."

She heard the bones in her groin moving to accommodate the head. Heard the wet cracking as the baby fought to...

Crown....

She panted wildly as the rush receded. Everything was a haze. She barely heard Tom's nervous laughter. “All right. He's sliding down. Water bag's bulging right out but it didn't break.” Then she took another deep breath and the whole world rushed into her, bright, powerful, and moved down to her womb, contracting. She felt the hot spurt. Or gushing.

All Tom said was: “Oh,” and rocked backward, soaked down his front. The smell rose to Leslie, thick, sweet and acrid, like cum only much stronger. Tom made no twisted remark. He only said, “Guess the water broke.” The lips of her cunt were inflamed, and her body was inflamed, and Tom had his hand down, pressing on her perineum as it went white, tightening. She strained. Her skin tightened more, as if she would tear open....

And the darkness tore open to dull morning light that came from a strange window, filled a strange room.

Leslie rolled to her side and propped herself on an elbow. “Tom?” Beneath her clothing her crotch was slick. Sweat soaked the back of her shirt. She lay on the floor of someone's vision room, on a pile of wrinkled blankets—had she fallen from the couch in her sleep? Beside Gun's holster on the arm of the couch, there was a device that looked like an old-fashioned radio attached to a wide belt. That was the scrambler. Leslie had never actually seen one before, but she knew what it was. It was designed to confuse directional signals. She could probably still receive—and possibly send—data with Gun or the head mem, but this device blurred specific locations from global satellite tracking. She had no doubt Security could sort out the scramble given enough time, and either track her through the head mem or Gun, but for now she knew it was saving their lives. As long as she kept it on, or at least within fifteen feet of her.

She had stood under a street light, while Roger cringed his way into the shadows of a dark alley to meet the SOM member who gave him the belt. The man explained she would have to wear it until the head mem was removed, and then Gun would have to be destroyed too.

Everybody's out to get Gun from me.

A sardonic thought, Leslie decided, but she knew it was true.

That had been somewhere in Connecticut. Hartford. They'd taken trains all the way to Baltimore. Leslie was terrified she'd be recognized, or they would run into a mechanical eye. She stayed in her seat and kept her head down. She leaned in low against Roger's trembling shoulder, her hand at her temple, above her throbbing cheek. Roger was drenched in sweat most of the time, and she could smell the fear on him. Leslie almost laughed when she thought how their postures should be reversed. She should have her arm around his shoulders, his head to
her
bosom. She could whisper to him to be quiet, things would be all right. Instead she was pressed against his rancid armpit, her eyes wide with rage. She tried to talk to him a few times, but he would only glance down at her, pale and haunted looking. It was all he could do to martial his self-control.

In Baltimore they ascended from the subway to the streets by Curtis Bay, and found a vision stall so Roger could call a contact from the Sons of Man. They climbed into the dim cubicle and Leslie shut the door behind them. There were three vision panels, all showing the same commercial for the latest hard-on drug. It was funny to her, now, she remembered that ad so clearly. A successful-looking man in a pin striped suit walked through a busy office waving to his colleagues, while various beautiful secretaries fell over in their chairs as they caught sight of the enormous bulge in his immaculately-pressed trousers. Something about him had reminded Leslie of Father Washington. She could recall the arrogant look on his face more clearly than the face of the bald Sons of Man leader Roger called, who gave them directions to pick up the scrambler in Hartford, and to get to the safe house, and then insisted he speak with Roger alone.

Now they were in the safe house in the Boston Fun Park and Museum—what had once been Downtown Boston. A year ago the automated Freedom Trail Ride crashed at the site of the Boston Tea Party and killed over two dozen people, only two months after the Shot That Was Heard Around the World Thrill Show ended with a bullet in a six-year-old boy's forehead. The entire city-sized park closed indefinitely for ‘renovations'. There were some construction crews around Paul Revere's house, the site of the Tea Party Tragedy, and Beacon Hill, but other than that the park was all but abandoned.

Leslie looked around the room. This apartment was twice the size of her own, and brighter. The wall opposite the vision panels was almost entirely glass. Pale curtains, half drawn, filtered the noonday sun glinting off the edges of the distant high-rises of a spacious street. Roger wasn't in the room. Her right cheek
was
swollen. It throbbed now, and she touched it gingerly. “Hello,” she called.

"I'm in the kitchen; I'll be right there."

Leslie wondered if he always appeared in doorways with two steaming mugs of coffee. His hair stuck out in disarray and the stubble on his chin was noticeably longer. His eyes were sunken and his focus darted about, uncertain. He knelt beside her on the floor and handed her one of the mugs. “Taste this.” He tried to smile but it seemed sour. “This place is wonderful. It's got everything. I even found books in the den. Books!"

Leslie's laugh was no more than a puff through her nose. She sipped the coffee. “It tastes odd."

"That's because it's real, not the crap you're used to. Smuggled in from South America, probably. And fresh. It must cost a fortune."

"I guess you have friends in high places."

"Yeah. Well, actually, I was never much involved with the Sons of Man. As you should know by now. But they certainly do come through, don't they?” Roger slurped from his mug, then leaned forward. Letting out a long breath, he looked carefully at Leslie and shook his head. Gently reaching toward her cheek he said, “Hey, that really is swollen.” She jerked away from him and stood. “All right.” He held up his hand then let it fall into his lap. “Sorry.” He took his coffee with him to the couch.

Leslie stood there glaring as he sat, but her anger cooled and she tried to read his expression. If nothing else, she saw confusion in his dark eyes. He was a jumbled mixture of rash action and paralyzing fear. He seemed intelligent enough—likely smarter than she was. He had to resent her. He hadn't asked to be thrust into this situation, made a fugitive. But he was apparently trying to make the best of it. Leslie supposed he wasn't a bad man. And she had set him up....

Anger burned the line of her throat again, but this time it wasn't for Roger. She closed her eyes, opened them again when she heard him rise. “Breakfast will be ready in about a minute,” he told her. “I'm going to clean up and shave.” She watched him retreat to the bathroom.

Leslie un-holstered Gun and walked to the window. The panes looked bulletproof. About two dozen levels below her was a narrow, cobbled street, with restored brick buildings along the opposite side. She listened to the hiss of water in the bathroom, Roger knocking through cabinets. “Hello, Gun,” she said softly.

"Ready, Leslie."

"Gun. It looks like we are somewhere in the Boston Museum and Fun Park. Can you help me locate us?"

"Sorry, Leslie. There's displacement around me. I can't locate us right now. Would you like me to keep trying?"

"That's the scrambler for your head mem. I could have told you that,” Roger said from the doorway.

Leslie turned to him coolly. “I'm just checking. No, Gun, you can cancel."

Roger's eyes narrowed and he wiped at a spot of aftershave along the line of his jaw. Then he turned and retreated once again into the bathroom. Leslie listened to him slamming things around, slapping cabinets shut. When he appeared again he kicked at the door frame and said, “Look. What reason do you have to distrust me? We're in this together now. I've been pretty honest with you. I've got the Sons of Man helping you. And my whole life has been fucked in an instant because of you."

She felt a new surge of anger, but forced it down. “You're right. I suppose the least we can do is be civil to one another.” She moved to the couch and slipped Gun back into its holster. Roger nodded and walked toward her. He smelled of cinnamon and musk now.

The odor wasn't strong, but Leslie was flooded with an immediate, visceral recognition beyond conscious memory. It made her sick to her stomach. She gasped. And then the familiar internal sense of motion that meant the head mem was overwriting her reaction filled her. It settled her nerves and her stomach, clouded her recognition to a vague perception of déja vu. Still, she remained shaken.

"What's that smell?” she asked.

"The coffee?” He looked confused. He stuck a thumb in the direction of the bathroom behind him. “Oh. You just saw me go clean up.... You mean the aftershave that was in there? You don't like it?"

"No. You stink."

He wound his arms across his chest. “Well, thank you very much. Very civil of you,” he said. “You know what? Just forget it. Come on. I'll finish getting breakfast ready.” Leslie watched his back as he walked into the kitchen.

She closed her eyes and slowly rubbed her temples. That smell was like a familiar word on the tip of her tongue. But as hard as she tried now to place it, she couldn't reach beyond the moving inner tentacles of the head mem. Finally she gave up and followed Roger.

The kitchen was a bright room with red cabinets and a tile floor. Already, eggs and strips of bacon waited on the table. And they looked real.

Once they were seated, Roger said, “Go back to them, if you want."

"To Security? It won't work just like that. I've crossed a very well-defined line.”
Even if they forced me to
. She remembered Tom's voice through Calvin's door:
Don't worry about him. He'll get a fair trial.
Her eyes stung. Now she was responsible for Roger.

Roger swallowed half a fried egg. “So you can't go back ‘just like that'. So what are you going to do?” He paused, his expression turning to something like humor, though the lines around his eyes remained creased in concentration.

"What?” He didn't answer at first, only looked down at her abdomen. “What?” she repeated.

"You're rubbing your belly."

She realized he was right, and stopped.

"Do you still think you want to have a baby? Because you could still get the abortion—"

"Where would I have it done? Security would find me."

"Does that relieve you? To think they'll find you?"

Leslie looked away, letting her gaze lose focus against the auto-kitchen unit in the counter.

"Holy Desert Justice, Leslie, I'm not going to condemn you for wanting something you can't have. I do that all the time. But I can't help you if I don't know your mind."

Her eyes refocused on his gaunt face. “Why is it you want to help me all of a sudden?"

"Yeah, that's a good question."

Leslie turned to her breakfast. Chewing reminded her cheek it was sore.

"It seems pretty clear to me what has to happen. If you aren't going back to them, your head mem has to be taken out. You must realize what they can do to you with that thing in your skull. I mean, I don't know much about it, but the way it was explained to me, they could access your voluntary nervous system through it if they wanted to. And given time, they're going to find you through the scrambler. The head mem has to go and you know it.” One hand knuckled the table; he pushed himself to his feet. “When I talked to the Sons of Man alone we discussed all this. He said if you want to leave the country you have their support. All I have to do is get to a communication point and set it up. We can go to the Atheist cell in Vermont, and they'll provide a surgeon.” He speared his last bite of egg. Then, still chewing, he raised his coffee. “Just say so, Leslie, and I'm gone to set it up. We can be out of Boston Museum before the morning is over."

Leslie watched him swing his empty mug to the table. The thought of not having the head mem inside her was terrifying. She'd come to rely on its help. The blur of motion in her inner world grew familiar, and when she felt it, she knew the head mem would help her through any situation. But the fear wasn't just at the loss of that reassurance. She knew the head mem was a dam in her head. It held back the lake of her past, and only let the smallest stream through. If that damn broke, she'd be lost in a flood. All the half memories and sensations that already plagued her would wash over her freely, there would be no escape any more.

At the same time, she saw Tom in her dream from last night. He was over her and she felt her desperate gasps, her gravid, constricting body. The Tom she'd pictured gently helping her, she knew, didn't exist. This knowledge sank through her whole body, and her throat ached.