Avenging Angel Page 10

  "You scum-sucking pansy wimp!" the voice boxes screamed in stereo. "It's been six days, eleven hours, twenty-four minutes since your last workout!"

  "You missed me," I said, doing some stretches.

  "I'll kill you, you bastard!" Dr. Abuso roared back. "You owe me, scum wad! You goddamn owe me."

  When I'd first moved in and laid eyes on Dr. Abuso, I'd thought it was some sort of elaborate torture device. Experience has proved me right. "Standard workout, please," I said. I lay under the bench-press bar and got a wide grip. I pysched myself up and shoved. The bar didn't budge. "I said standard workout, damn it! Two hundred fifty pounds!"

  "No pain, no gain," Dr. Abuso quoted.

  "Two-fifty," I repeated.

  "That is two-fifty, you weak wimp bastard! You've been slacking!"

  The computer was sealed in a steel box and couldn't be got at. I'd found that out after countless attempts on its life.

  "You reduce to two-fifty or I turn you off," I threatened.

  Following a silence came a hiss of hydraulic adjustment. I shoved and the bar went up. I did three sets of fifteen while the doctor brooded. I moved to the military press, and he started up again. I ignored him. By the time I reached the lat pull, I was working up a sweat and the machinations of my mind were beginning to whir.

  Britt had sent the death squad. The fact they had the vault's combination made it obvious. I was disappointed she didn't care enough to stop by herself, but maybe she was busy. It was tempting to try to give the money back to her, but that might mean we'd never see each other again. The money was the tie that bonded us, and I was reluctant to sever it. Besides, I figured I had as much right to it as anyone else.

  I went into the kitchen and whipped up a pitcher of beef-flavored drink. I drained a tall glass and carried the rest out with me.

  "Mount the rowing apparatus!" the doctor demanded. I went to the preacher bench instead. "You're screwing around with me!" it yelled, but counted my reps anyway.

  Britt struck me as the type who would keep trying until she got what she wanted. Which meant we'd have to come to terms before she succeeded. I had no desire to kill her — quite the opposite — but if it came down to my life or hers, I wasn't positive I'd sacrifice myself in the name of romantic love. If only we could put our knives and guns away and sit down and talk. Maybe a little picnic in the park, with wine and cheese and a can of Mace to ward off the wild dogs. It didn't seem so much to ask.

  I moved to the curl bar, but the doctor refused to feed me out the proper length of cable unless I did the rowing machine. I succumbed, knowing he was only trying to help me.

  "That's right," it said, "follow the program and we'll get along just fine."

  "Lighten up. I'm the one in charge here." "The fuck you are! Say that again, and you'll get a ten percent weight jump all around! Honker!"

  I threw the glass of beef water at a voice box. The doctor didn't notice. I finished the rows and curls and went to the punching dummy. It was payback time. The doctor's program bade it whine and howl with each punch and kick, a clue to the psychological makeup of the original owner. I started with slow combinations, working out the stiffness in my muscles, then moved into kicks and more complex combos. I went through my entire bag of martial tricks and death blows, then warmed down with some inside work. By the time I finished, the doctor was groveling for mercy and I was exhausted. I finished the pitcher and did some stretches while the doctor reviewed my performance.

  "You're up four percent in overall reps," it choked out, then quickly added, "but you took longer breaks than usual."

  "Not bad for a week's layoff," I observed.

  "Not bad for a week's layoff," it mimicked. "When can I expect you again? Christmas?"

  "Good night, Doctor."

  "I'm not done yet!"

  "Oh, yes, you are." I cut the power and went to the fridge to celebrate my athletic prowess with a vitabeer.

  I jogged down to my car and lugged my entertainment system up the stairs. The blood on the steps was getting tacky and my feet made sticky sounds on the way up, but I reckoned it was better than taking the elevator.

  I drank vitabeer in the dark and watched wilderness video chips until the wee hours. I never got tired of them. A documentary about the Colorado desert was my favorite, and I saved it for last. It began with the camera panning across a seemingly endless desert plain, and my heartbeat quickened. I turned up the scent generator and muted the narration with the remote and stared at the humming screen. The earthy smell of sagebrush and sand crept into the room and I breathed it in. There was something soothing yet exciting about the barren stretches of rock, sand and sagebrush. A sterile, haunting beauty. With a jolt of insight I realized why I was so drawn to Britt: she reminded me of the desert.

  The camera trailed a long skinny jackrabbit until it stopped hopping around, then zoomed in on him chewing some kind of dry weed. How I envied the bastard! His existence was so simple; he knew exactly what to expect out of life. He knew his niche, knew who his natural enemies were, and he did his thing.

  I wanted to live in the desert. I wanted to get into a serious one-on-one experience with the land. Run around naked beneath the hot sun, leaping from rock to rock, chasing rabbits, shouting gibberish at the lizards.

  "And you!" I shouted at the rabbit munching weeds on the screen. "You I'd have for breakfast!" I'd claw my way into the ecosystem and just survive. No people, no Party, no dates with switchblades.

  The camera jumped to a pack of coyotes who had scented the jackrabbit, descending like skinny hounds from hell. I'd watched the episode countless times before, but the life-and-death drama of the chase always entranced me. They eventually caught the rabbit, of course, and ran with him, passing him from mouth to mouth until he was in ragged pieces. In some ways the desert wasn't so different from the City.

  I eventually fell asleep on the sofa.

  13

  In the morning the bodies were gone. The carpets were shampooed and the walls scrubbed, though you could see faint stains if you knew where to look. A faint clinical odor lingered, but that would be gone before the arrival of night.

  Some disdained the reclamation service as institutional vultures, but I recognized them for what they were: an invaluable public service. They picked up the bodies the City constantly churned out and turned them into protein fertilizer, or other things if you chose to believe those irresponsible rumors floating around. They moved through the worst ghettos and most turbulent no-go areas without fear of attack. The rewards they paid wouldn't make anyone rich, but they did bring money into the poorest neighborhoods. Kids could go body hunting after school and earn spending money, like having a paper route. And even the reclamation service's most vehement critics had to recognize its worth when the flies found the body at the bus stop, or the corpse in the flat downstairs started getting gamey.

  Other idle minds tried to make reclamation into something mysterious; some even liked to whisper it was a corporation separate from the Party. But that was like those stories of eight-thousand-pound genetically altered cattle living in tanks of salt water in secret underground ranches in Kansas. Personally I didn't care if the reclamation service was in secret liege with the Devil. They did a good job of keeping the City from becoming an open grave.

  I spent ten minutes installing another high-explosive doorknob from a box in the closet. I went through about two a month and had to order a new box every year. When I finished I went for a forty-five-minute run on the treadmill. The doctor played with the speed settings but otherwise didn't emit a sound, giving me the cold shoulder. My muscles were sore from last night's workout but it was a good pain, and by the time I finished the run I had sweat most of the soreness out. I bombarded the kabobs with microwaves and ate them for breakfast. After a quick shower I began getting into character for my disguise.

  I put on a chip by Products of Modern Society to get me in the proper frame of mind. P.M.S. was one of the more violent and nihilistic bands of
the new wave of revolution rock; they hated everything. I cranked up the volume to full distortion. The wild guitars screamed with anger and angst, the bass and drums pounded out doom, and the lead singer howled deliriously, invoking everyone to rise up and tear everything down.

  I jumped out of my sweats and danced around naked in my big closet, looking for hip things to wear. I leaped into a pair of black rogue trousers and bloused them into black jump boots. I strapped on a spiked belt and howled along with the chorus. I pogoed into the kitchen, grabbed what was left of the six-pack and pogoed back. I chugged a vitabeer and put on a black sleevless T-shirt and some spiked wristbands and five pounds worth of chains. I slammed another vitabeer and skanked my way to the dresser, where I dug out a skull-and-cross-bones earring. I skanked to the bathroom and spiked up my sweaty hair with power gel. I shotgunned a vitabeer, pogoed into the living room and skanked around in front the stereo speakers, yelling and shaking my fist at the entrenched bourgeoisie. I grabbed my spiked black leather jacket from the sofa and swung it over my head. I dug around under the bathroom sink until I found a can of white house paint and painted I Am the Antihero on the back of the jacket in big crude letters. I added Son of Quixote down one sleeve and Wasted Again down the other. I swung it over my head until it dried, then put it on. I slipped on a pair of dark wraparound slats, hammered down another vitabeer and went to the hall mirror to check the effect. Toby and I could have been roommates.

  I parked four blocks from the Close Court Apartments. I walked to the lobby door and inserted one of the hit squad's matching trio of keycards. There was a click and the door unlocked.

  I jogged the stairs to the fourth floor. Putting one hand on my pistol, I knocked on Crawley's door.

  "He's gone, man."

  I turned around and looked at the speaker. A tough-looking woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips leaned against her doorjamb.

  "A bogeyboy got him," she said around the cigarette.

  I tried to look shocked and surprised. "What about his homegirl?"

  "Who?"

  "You know — Britt."

  "Don't let Britt hear you call her his homegirl. She'll cut your balls off."

  "You don't have to tell me, baby. Do you know where she's at?"

  She shrugged. "Who's askin'?"

  "Me," I said.

  "Who's you?"

  "Joan's new beau."

  She laughed and lit another cigarette. "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "I'm Joan."

  I stared at her and the silence hissed. Her mascara was smeared and her hair was a mess, but there was a certain aura of attractiveness about her. She gestured with the pack of real tar and nicotine cigarettes, and I took one. She lit it for me and I inhaled shallowly, careful not to take the unwholesome smoke into my lungs. I exhaled and said, "So when are we going out?"

  She laughed again, and the door opened wider to reveal a friend. Joan's new beau was bigger but not nearly as handsome as me.

  "Sorry I couldn't help you, mister," Joan said.

  "Who's that?" her beau asked as she closed the door, and I felt like I'd missed another boat. I took the stairs down to the lobby and went outside. I walked across the street to what they called a beach park in some parts of the City. It was a fashionable way of describing a sandlot with furniture.

  I sprawled out on one of the wrought-iron benches, just another neopunk doing his best to recover after a hard night of hard drinking and slam dancing. An hour passed. It was a very alternative neighborhood. Neopunks, doomrockers, goths, Rastas, revrockers, jazzcrimers, TVs and undefinables strolled past. A fair number of them went into the Close Court Apartments, and I was beginning to think it was a culture club for nonconformists. Some of the punks nodded at me, and I nodded back, showing fine clique camaraderie. Another hour toiled by. The denizens of the subculture were starting to come out in force, and by noon the building was a bustle of alternative activity. Groups came and went with purpose in their motion, some carrying packages in and out of the building.

  A punk with a green mohawk shoved his way out the lobby door and stomped down the sidewalk. By the look on his face, life was dealing him some bad cards.

  A second-story window banged open, and a girl with orange dreadlocks screeched down at him, "Don't forget your shitty stuff!" She disappeared back inside, and piles of clothes began floating down.

  "Hey! Hey!" the male punk shouted, and tried to catch what he could. "There's no need for this. I don't want to move out." He finally stopped trying to keep up with the rain of apparel and looked to me for support. All I could do was shrug.

  "I want you out!" came the verdict from above.

  "Oh, baby, you're just upset about last night. Take me back."

  "I want to be free!" she screamed, and out came a stereo. It crunched on the sidewalk, barely missing the spurned Romeo.

  'Tell her the heart is never so free as when enslaved by the tyranny of love," I advised from the bench.

  He looked over at me. "What?"

  "Cervantes."

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  He frowned, dodged a hail of CDs, then shouted, "I thought you said you loved me!"

  The head popped out again. "That was before we started dating!" A toaster took the fatal plunge.

  "That doesn't make any sense," he muttered to himself.

  "Possession of one's desire is the death of romantic love," I explained.

  He eyed me again and I shrugged. He gathered up what he could carry and trudged back inside for round two. I envied him. That old bully love was giving him a good beating, but at least he was in the ring.

  Another hour dragged its ass by, and still no Britt. I wanted to take my jacket and shirt off to work on my tan but I didn't want to expose my pistol. The black leather jacket acted as a heat collector in the sweltering midday sun, and I sweated like a nervous junky. Two restless hours later, heat, hunger and dehydration waylaid me. I strangled the foolish romantic hope that begged I stay and shagged my broken heart back home.

  I washed down a bag of kelp chips with vitabeer while watching Taxi Driver on the video chip player. It was on the banned list, like most twentieth-century movies, because it espoused politically and socially counterproductive themes. I could almost feel DeNiro's sociopathic behavior corrupting my socialist soul. I sank into my chair and sighed. Ah, yes.

  When six o'clock crept around I showered, shaved and climbed into my best jumpsuit. It was a midnight black number with chrome buttons and tailored to fit snug. I plastered my hair back with power gel and put on a small anarchy-symbol earring and black eyeliner, both de rigueur with image-conscious artists. I thought about a beret and penciled-on mustache, but that seemed too cliché. I practiced speaking French in the mirror while admiring my clean-shaven good looks. After fifteen minutes I reminded myself that God's reward for vanity was loneliness, put on a bulky charcoal jump jacket to hide my iron and went out.

  I arrived at Joe's office ten minutes early. He smiled when I walked in. "I was expecting a red beret and pencil mustache."

  "What sort of unsophisticated bumpkin do you think you're dealing with?" I said. "I am a goddamn professional, after all."

  Joe was sportily attired in a brick red pantsuit with huge lime green lapels and collar. The top was undone to the navel, displaying a nude female figurine dangling from a thick gold chain. His pant legs started flaring at the knees and finished up ballooned over silver platform soles. His hair was parted down the middle and feathered back over his ears. Immense pink-tinted tortoiseshell glasses covered half his face, and a little Stardust glittered under each eye. He caught me staring.

  "Something wrong?" he asked defensively.

  "I didn't realize we were going through another disco resurgence."

  "I've seen the way you dress sometimes, Jake. You've got no right to insult the fashion conscious."

  "Right you are," I said. "Got my invite?"

  Joe passed over an embossed, impressive-looking
six-by-nine-inch card. The front of it spoke in flowery script, inviting the presence of Dr. Jacob Strait to the premier showing of impressionist works by the surprising new talent Robert Egbert Peterson III, Esq. The back of the invitation had a more official bent. A serial number and red-ink stamp shared space with a box containing a list of all the Do's and Don't's while visiting Hillsdale and the penalties if you brazenly went ahead and did a Don't. At the very bottom it said, "Keep Hillsdale beautiful, please don't litter!" Below that in small print it said the penalty for unlawful littering was twenty-five hundred credits.

  "Doctor?" I said.

  "Why not? You need some prestige." His smile showed up for the wad of creds I handed him then took a walk. "Say there, Jake, you're not going to shoot up the place, are you?"

  "You reckon his paintings are that bad?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "Everything will be fine," I promised. "I won't be spending much time at the party anyway."

  Joe tried to give me a serious look, but it got derailed by the pink tint and Stardust. Finally his face screwed up into a crooked smile. "Okeydokey," he said, standing up. "You ready, Ranger?"

  "Let's hit it, flyboy."

  "Yeah, just like old times."

  "Just like 'em," I said.

  * * *

  The hour-long drive to the Hill was a lesson in geoeconomics. We started in the City, all industrial zones, ghettos and red-light districts. A ring of newer factories built during the corporate era surrounded the City, and they gave way to the old suburbs where most of the factory workers lived. We slipped onto the freeway, and Joe pushed his Chevy up to two hundred in the free speed lane.

  We rocketed through the new suburbs, home to businessmen, midlevel Party officials and factory managers. Most of the exits were restricted, and you needed a resident pass to enter the housing districts. The foothills rose before us, and up in the distance was the Hill itself, a green nub framed by the sunset, its enormous estates glittering in the waning light like wet jewels displayed on green velvet. High fences surrounded the Hill's base, and SPF troopers guarded every entrance.