Elizabeth Bear - Hammered

His hands are gentle on my shoulders as he bends me away and coaxes me to settle back between his knees again. I have no idea why I’m doing as he’s urging me, but it feels good. He smoothes my hair again and I lean on his knee, hiding the scarred side of my face against his jeans. I’m starting to shiver, dammit, and I can’t stand it. Can’t stand his pity, and can’t make myself pull away from the careful pressure of his hands.

“You didn’t. Who to?”

I close my eyes. “I was nineteen. Carlos Conseca, his name was. I gave him his ring back when they shipped me out to South Africa. He’s still alive, as far as I know.”

“You ever think of looking him up?”

My spine crackles when I roll my shoulders back. “I’d rather let him keep his illusions.”

“Jenny,” he says. He disentangles himself and slides down onto the floor beside my sofa cushion, letting his right arm fall around my shoulders. Despite myself, I lean into the caress. “Look, I know why you never said anything when we were in the service, and I appreciate it. Or when I was married. What about afterward?”

The speechlessness stretches, elastic, images flickering over the holopad across the room. I watch the little winged red horse leap boldly off a cliff, rising into flight over our heads, the hologram filling the room. I reach for the remote and mute the sound of wingbeats.

“I couldn’t handle the rejection, Gabe.”

“And you were sure you’d be rejected?”

I shrug, an attempt at callousness wasted on Gabe’s warm, massive presence. “I know what I look like.”

“Idiot.” He kisses the top of my head. He smells of coffee and sugar; it catches in my throat like a hook. His hand is under my chin, and he lifts my mouth to his…

That’s something else about the enhancements I carry. Feedback.

His lips brush mine, petal-soft, contrast to the roughness of his beard, and a wave of euphoria starts to rise. I suck on a long, rattling breath, flush-heat racing through me. God, how long has it been since I kissed anybody? My body tautens, one hand and then the other coming up to braid in his curls, and he leans into me as subtle fire quickens in my belly and tingles through the whole of my body, pooling here and there. Just a kiss, a little kiss, lips barely parted and his breath riding mine, and I’m shivering, weak with desire. The tension in him, the whisper of a purr tells me my response surprises and excites him. But as he moves to pull me closer, I turn into him, drawing my knees up, then bury my face in his shoulder.

“Mon ange,” I mumble, sick with old, clotted terror. “I can’t.”

“Oh?”

The words come out in little hitching phrases. It takes me a long while to get them organized. “Not right now. Not when — I could be dying.” Not when I don’t know what I’m being manipulated into. Not when you could be used against me. Again. “I can’t do that to you.” Or the girls. Not after Geniveve. “Because I’m not going to be happy with just a roll in the hay, you know.”

“Je sais.” Dead serious around a smile.

“And what about — Elspeth?”

A smile that widens and warms. “Nous sommes tous adultes, Genevieve. Les antiquités fichues, en fait. Je pense qu’elle ne soignera pas.”

“Je ne sais pas. Tu sait que je t’aime.” The look in my eyes has to tell him everything.

“Oui. Je sais cela aussi.”

“Gabe.” So many things I could say, and I can’t bear to lie to him. Not again. Not tonight. “I’m too scared.”

And he scrubs my hair forward, into my eyes, before leaning forward to pick up the remote still lying by my hand and turn the sound on the animation back on. “Nous parlerons de ceci encore quelque temps, Jenny Casey.” We’ll talk about this again sometime. Wry tone, softening, and mon Dieu, I love this man. “Ball’s in your court now.”

If I live that long . Sometimes, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut.

Sometimes.

But there is joy in Mudville, as he sits up with me most of the night. We watch children’s programming, where the world is wholesome and bright and the good guys win in the end.

Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.

— Henry Louis Mencken

0900 hours, Wednesday 13 September, 2062

Allen-Shipman Research Facility

St. George Street

Toronto, Ontario

Valens’s gloved hands brush my hair forward, gentle and sure as a lover’s. And I am not thinking about Gabe. Not. Thinking about Gabe. “Will you put me in touch with the doc who’s been doing your follow-up, Casey?”

“If you insist. What are we doing today, Fred?” He’s much more fastidious than Simon. I lie near-naked under the sterile drape, facedown on a table, and the room is a cold, antiseptic operating theater. Observers range in the gallery above, but I try not to let it bother me. It’s not like it’s the first time. “Nice facilities you have here.”

“Thanks. Today we’re just introducing you to the VR setup with your current equipment. We’re going to run some tests, see what the functionality is, see how comfortable we can get you with operating in a VR environment. We’re not even going to use a real vehicle today, or the drugs. You’ll be flying the HMCSS Indefatigable. ”

Since when do aircraft have names? “What’s that?”

Amusement colors his voice. “A virtual spaceship. Supposed to be very challenging to fly. It’s got a tendency to smack into planets — or any sufficiently massive object nearby. As if attracted to them, actually.”

“Whose lame-ass idea was that?”

“I believe it’s intended to be a game.”

“Teenagers. Got to make everything harder than it needs to be.”

“I’ve got kids of my own, and yes, I think that probably covers it.” There’s a hesitance in his voice. I wonder what he isn’t telling me. “We’ll sedate you once you’re hooked in, paralyze the voluntary muscles. Like REM sleep.”

“I’ve done some work in VR, actually.”

“I know. That’s one of the ways we tracked you to Connecticut.”

“ What? ” There’s a jolt, sharp and sudden, as the adrenaline of fury dumps into my body.

In the jump into combat time, I hear my heartbeat slowing. To Valens, it accelerates — and he murmurs to the anesthesiologist, who makes a minor adjustment. Increasing the sedative drip, no doubt. It works. “Calm down, Jenny.”

Simon, you son of a bitch… no, wait. If he’d been talking to Valens behind my back, Valens wouldn’t need me to release my medical records. If he were that unethical, Simon would just do it.

“I’m calm,” and it’s grit between my teeth, but I get it spat out. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh, the researcher you were working with published some papers on you. Name changed, of course, and some of the personal details. But I knew who it had to be. He wouldn’t talk to me when I tried to contact him about it.”

“Ah.” I see. And the shit of it is, Simon probably thought he was protecting confidentiality. Not really unethical. Really. And it explained why he had been so rabbity during that last discussion.

Just exactly not what I asked him to do. The temptation must have been unbearable. But we’re going to have a long, stern discussion after I get back to Hartford.

If I get back to Hartford.

My mind is alert, but my body feels numb, tingling. I cannot feel my right hand, now, either, or the pinch of the IV site. My lips prickle and panic sings at the bottom of my belly, but I force myself to stillness.