

Girl in the Golden Tower

A Novel

By James Peters

Here is no water but only rock

Rock and no water and the sandy road

The road winding above among the mountains

Which are mountains of rock without water

If there were water we should stop and drink

Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think

Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand

If there were only water amongst the rock

Dead mountain mouths of carious teeth that cannot spit

T. S. Eliot - The Wasteland

Chapter 1

Dirtyrain dropped in gobs spattering filth across the Pleasure Zone. The latest pelting switched the hunt for edible food and potable water onto a far more desperate course. Outback of Club Abattoir, a drooping chain link fence, busted through and gaping, rusted into dust. Beyond this ancient ruin stretched the rail line. No more trains trundled by like in the golden days of Empire. Between the burned-out boxcars and dilapidated chain mail fence sprouted a healthy plot of leafy greens my fellow denizens dismissed as weeds. Only, I knew better. From a book on botany discovered in the ancient library I learned these plants were in fact called mustard greens, edible as well as nutritious. For a while I carried that oversized book around the zone where I tried comparing the once glossy photos to various other weeds straggling through the cracks. The mustard greens remained the only positive match I ever identified. At the time reports were circulating through the zone concerning the threat of famine and crazy rumors about starving people resorting to cannibalism. Personally, if it were at all possible, I determined not to eat human flesh.

One of the crones squatting in the abandoned library suggested I carry out a search for local food sources employing a similar book she pulled from the shelves, On Mushrooms. Considering the demented fungus I'd seen thriving everywhere I felt wary about undertaking her experiment. Brooding dark blue caps. Florescent green gills. Bright orange pinwheels. Climbing out of drainpipes. Clinging upside down from the eaves of abandoned buildings. Rising from smoldering dung heaps. The creepiest growth I ever saw emerged in sparkling red hues from an abandoned toxic barrel. I could never trust a reference book as out of date as hers to illustrate mutations caused by industrial poisoning.

Depending on the Powers That Be for food abandoned you to the rule of feast or famine. When the powerful Grandfathers were in the mood they would spring for sumptuous delicacies varied enough to satisfy any appetite. From one weekend celebration to the next you could live off the hors d'oeuvres. After a few days I found too much of that rich food sickening. Nobody ever fretted over health but me, and no one but me understood the nutritional value of eating greens. At the rate people were dying, most denizens questioned - what did it matter? With the hot days of decline upon us pollution and starvation put the human race on the fast track to extinction. Until then most people figured, might as well enjoy.

Chapter 2

Whenever possible I snuck out the Club Abattoir's back entrance, cinder blocked the door open, and climbed through the dilapidated fence to pick a nettle bouquet. To rinse away the filth I carried the greens with me into the showers, spending my water allotment rinsing them, and myself, which drew no end of derogatory remarks from the other strippers, whom I stonily ignored.

On special occasions I might cajole Cook to boil up a batch in one of her brass kettles squatting on the stove. She must have liked me because she never demanded so much as a pinch of my flesh in return, an exchange of services I would've readily agreed to for the sake of steam-cleaned vegetables. I didn't mind she was a fluffy. The dominas taught me to search for something beautiful in every body type. In this regard I'm very egalitarian. On the other hand, cook had been raised outside the zone, and like others of her denomination she remained conflicted about vices like physical pleasure. So to the vagaries of her mood I remained a culinary slave.

Most often she would flatly refuse to cook for me, then all I could do was rinse my greens in the shower and sneak them into my room and sit on the edge of the bed there munching them raw. Barely warmed that way they tasted bitter, with just a hint of grit. I much preferred them cooked. Sometimes by watching and waiting I might catch Cook in a better mood. On those occasions she donated some of her own precious water allotment to boil and strain them, and once, on my assigned birthday, she even sautéed them with butter, a commodity in our zone parceled out like gold. Usually she sprinkled them with vinegar and a pinch of salt and pepper. One time, while enjoying my favorite repast, Cook stood next to me where I sat at the table and draped her arm around me as I ate. Mistaking this motherly appreciation of my healthy appetite for the other kind of affection, I chewed, swallowed, daintily patted my lips with a clean rag, and stuck her fingers into my mouth for a suck.

Cook whipped her fingers out of my mouth and said, "For Goodness' sakes, Child," as she moved to the sink, where she washed away my saliva.

I felt bad I could never supply her pleasure in return. She tasted lovely. Clean skin, light soap, with a hint of beef broth over the top.

Chapter 3

The other stripper's complaints about my special food requests eroded my privileged position inside the club. Cornered behind the bar I rarely encountered any of the more powerful patrons who could be nasty customers once they pounded their fill of bourbon. I never had to perform in the burlesque either. If management coerced me into performing I felt like that whole process took control of my life, draining my genial spirits. I needed free time to ponder and work out my own personal paradigms. I was turning away from a language really used by denizens towards a syntax known only to me.

For a while The Body exempted me from exhibitionism because of the documents I brought back from my first grand adventure. I fooled him into thinking Powersby had assigned me my own personal government guardian. Eventually, he called my bluff by violating the contract. Not badly, no permanent damage, a little rough stuff, a few rag doll slaps, and when I failed to produce an avenging angel from on high to protect me, The Body knew I'd been lying. In retaliation he strung me up and applied the whip, in a professional manner, let it be said; he never allowed his anger to get the better of him, lash in hand. Yet his abusive posturing could not have been more impotent.

You see, in my case, the blue wire got crossed with the red wire; perversely, the sensations he created were not wholly unpleasant. I myself have a hard time explaining masochism to most people. They don't want to hear about it anyway. Afraid a few hot licks later they too might come to know how pain can be construed as pleasure.

From top to bottom my flesh glowed hot, pink and red. Pleasure that intense feels like a freight train running through your veins. Using me, he created quite a spectacle for everyone else in The Club to enjoy. I always hated the pealing golden décor, the red walls and ceiling like it was supposed to be the underworld or the bottom of a volcano, and the weak lighting dulled my brain. My corporal example edified the other denizens and set the record straight about my status. He declared I was a slave same as the other girls. Allow me to assure you, in this particular estimation of my social standing, he was wholly mistaken.

The next day The Body forced me on stage by myself, during the matinee. Totally unprepared, blurry and bumbling, I stumbled onto the main platform. Typical light bruising still showed, life's shadowy vicissitudes. I gripped the pole, never letting go the entire time. The hoary Powersby crew at the private table frowned or looked away. A couple of other old puffers getting tanked in the middle of the afternoon took the opportunity to hit the head. The up and coming slavers in the front row were more voluble in their disappointment. Hollering rude comments. Urging me on. Not producing any results. The few bills they scattered across the stage I left untouched. Collecting my discarded clothing and padding off stage to the accompaniment of actual booing the last remark I heard said something about how far she's sunk. How at one time, not too long ago, I'd been smoking hot.

You know you're near the end when you wind up feeling down about a situation you never cared about in the first place, when nobody recognizes your passive resistance as such. The crowd just assumed my performance sucked. I did a poor job of stripping because I didn't want to be on stage in the first place, in the bright lights, mooning about without rehearsal. Having to run the gauntlet of the other girls backstage, and their bitch bites, really left me dispirited, even knowing better than to care about what other people think. With a little prep time I could have been so much better at the dance I didn't want to do. Pain elicits pleasure. Humiliation piques my pride. No wonder my gears were grinding in that place. The whole Club Abattoir scene confused my thinking, warping me out of my proper trajectory.

Chapter 4

My only source of solace lay in the occasional pilgrimage to the library. For the most part the thugs on crowd control duty at the main entrance never allowed any of the girls to leave the club, the idiotic exception being if you simply stepped through the back door instead of the front. Half a dozen goons loitered around the front door; nobody guarded the back. Why would they? The rear entrance door had been constructed of massive steel, locking from the inside. Getting out required no effort. Reentry the same way wasn't possible. Whenever I blocked the monolithic back door open with a plastic crate and disappeared for too long someone always kicked the crate away and let the big boy swing shut. What I really wanted amounted to a breath of outside air. Maybe walk around some. Visit the library. Enjoy some peace and quiet. Engage in the ultimate sin. Read a book.

Illiterates populated the Pleasure Zone almost entirely. Some of the older whores who hoarded homespun words of wisdom would sometimes share them. Mostly they cultivated a kind of seedy common sense rather than actual philosophy. My only hope for a decent conversation lay in communing with the great minds of the past. I don't mean to sound snobbish. I'm the first to admit I suffer from a defect of personality. More than a merely poetic misanthropist I seriously do not like people. None of them. Every time I turn away from a conversation with a fellow human being I feel degraded and depressed. Whereas after I finish reading a book and set it down I feel a certain warmth glowing in my mind as though I've gained a sense of the sublime. Conversing with illustrious dead people from the past ennobles me in ways rubbing against the bodies of mundane live ones rarely equals.

As I finished my interior monologue the library loomed into view, two storied and gorgeous in the ancient Victorian style, her secure interior shelves crowded with all kinds of bright ideas.

Confessions of a bibliophile: I love a book's feel when I hold one in my hands, the heft and sharp corners outside, smooth white parchment and swirling black pigment within. The musty odors warm my soul and turn me on a little. To be surrounded by her solid presence fills me with a sense of security, imposes upon my random and chaotic existence some semblance of order. The books I love I treasure. Even the stories with disagreeable endings are counted just as fair in my estimation. In my sleep I dream about oversized folios, mostly brown leather or deep maroon, shelved on grandiose bookshelves stretching to an impossibly high ceiling. In my dreams I'm climbing toward a weighty and archaic tome seated majestically on the tallest shelf just beyond my yearning reach.

Chapter 5

If I didn't come back down to Earth in time, if I didn't return to tedious reality before sundown, the goons from the club would search for me until they found me, and grabbing hold of my wrist, drag me bodily back to the caverns, coercing my return. To avoid their same old conclusion of my own volition I always bid farewell to the stacks in a timely fashion, ensuring the pleasurable feeling persisted on the long walk back to The Club.

Each time after a visit to the Library I approached The Club through the grey and black atmosphere growing ever dingier and bleak, and the nearer I approached the more my supernal voices diminished, muted by the presence of the bulls controlling the line of degenerates queued up at the main entrance and impatient for admittance to the infamous Club Abattoir.

"Been for a nice little stroll, have we, Princess?"

For the nonce I mimicked the Supreme Court, rejecting Greyback's sarcasm as not within my purview, thus sending him back to the lower courts. He always sided with the plutocrats anyway, revealing a total lack of wisdom.

The Ape unclicked the Velvet VIP Rope and held up the bronze end like a pirate's prosthetic hook. My body passed into subjugation but neither my spirit nor my will.

From an area behind me I heard one of the goons say, "How does she keep coming in when we never seen her go out?"

With the guiding question formulated it was only a matter of time before one of them evolved frontal lobes acute enough to remember the back entrance to the club.

Inside, the club remained dimly lit, as always, lending an otherworldly atmosphere to what was essentially an over-priced brothel. The interior design eluded my ability to fix upon a particular color scheme because the carpeting and wallpaper were so gaudy as soon as my eyes accustomed themselves to the reds and browns riotous greens and blues shot through changing the whole emphasis of warp and woof. Since the Abattoir operated as a private club they permitted the smoking of fine carcinogens and a hazy pall hung in the air the same as a polluted big city skyline or the smoggy rings of Saturn.

Concealed off to one side the VIP Room furnished overstuffed couches and large round love bumpers. Either that or straight-backed chairs stood stiffly opposite each other with a dainty mahogany table in between, each decorated with an electric lamp in the shape of a bowing glass tulip. The debonair gentleman might thus cast his gaze downward to see his own illuminated hand clasped by the slender fingers belonging to the courtesan while their eyes remained aloof above the light. Veiled in a conspiratorial penumbra where it never paid to have every last lineament revealed too distinctly.

Across the hall in the room they called The Main Event water in the girls-only aquarium glowed and sparkled. No little mermaids swished about that time of day. A few devotees, a white-haired granddad and five young blades, agglomerated along the bar. I guessed them to be some random sampling of brothers and cousins. I always knew when the clientele were related because they jostled and cajoled one another like these young louts were doing, preening to overcome their insecurity and posturing to conceal their shame.

A real man, I suppose one would have to say, a gentleman, engaged several of the women in simple conversation until he made up his mind which one he desired. Paying parting compliments to the other two thereby insuring no unpleasantness. Taking his preference by the hand he led her into a quieter corner.

In contrast these other types, these bumpkins, shouted and boasted, made ribald comments as though blocking each other's chances for success with the ladies. Apparently, they stood oblivious to their chances of scoring in a brothel. Their overtures faced no possibility of rejection, ours being the sole establishment where boorishness of such a crude and insipid nature would ever be tolerated, let alone gratified.

To avoid contact I quickened my pace, darting around the end of the counter. I could feel the gazes tracking me, the insatiable and insensate appetites. A long time ago I learned the surest means of escaping a grasp on the wrist involved making as many convoluted turns through as many doorways in rapid succession as possible. Knowing if some paramour tried to stalk after my sprinting frame he would inevitably collide with some other girl of his dreams instead and in her arms instantly forget all about me.

In evasive mode I made my way to my private room where most of the time I kept to myself. Against my own usual policy I snuck in a couple of books. If The Body got his mangy hands on them he would surely toss them on the fire. These illegal immigrants were Russians: Akhmatova, Mandelstam, and Bulgakov. With these authors I had to read their words painstakingly otherwise I would never recreate their vision. Sometimes I thought I understood them. Other times I felt sadness, or just savored the translated expressions even though their meaning oftentimes remained a mystery. So with whom would I rather commune, my Russian masters, or those pukes at the bar? As a non-anxious introvert the correct answer lay somewhere between these well-fondled pages.

Chapter 6

Barely had I performed the ritual of running my fingertips over each smooth cover, rifling the pages and plunging my nose deeply into each musty crack to inhale their dusky odor when Jezebel Lee, my least favorite stripper, burst into my room without knocking first. Clad in one layer of see through nighty and rouged to the maximum she was supposed to approximate a porcelain doll. I thought she looked more like a ventriloquist's dummy. Either way she gave me the creeps.

"O my God," she exclaimed, "what are you doing?"

"Sniffing my books. What does it look like?" I said, flatly ignoring her incredulity.

"You are bat-shit crazy."

"No offense, but I don't appreciate your potty mouth, and before you enter my room, you need to knock, and then wait for my permission to enter."

"No offense, but you are weird in ways nobody likes."

"No offense, but you are stupid in ways nobody can respect."

"No offense, but Body wants to see you, like, right now."

"Okay, stop saying 'no offense' at the beginning of every sentence. That last one didn't even make sense, and I regret encouraging you."

I could tell my words were having no effect, blinded as she was by the dawn of a different idea blazing forth from her eyes. She crooked her finger and pointed it my way, wriggling the tip a few times:

"You're not 'upposed to have books in your room. I'm gonna tell!"

In the time required for my muscles to coil her eyes grew wide and she shrieked and bolted. I leapt after her, my claws distended in mad pursuit, hot for the hunt. To throw me off the scent she discharged a viscous green fluid in her wake coating the floor walls and ceiling in her slimy goo. She disappeared around the corner at the far end of the hall and was on her way to The Body's private office while I tiptoed through that sticky oozy mess. Trying not to slip and slide. As soon as I stepped onto dry carpet again I sprinted after that snitching little bitch.

Jezebel Lee reached the office door and opened it well ahead of me. She had enough time to play act as though she was oh-so-scared of me. In her mind we were playing a game together. She had no idea what I stood to lose, the value of my books to me, because I knew like most women she was illiterate.

I strode into Body's office and pursued her screaming form to where she sought asylum behind the man himself sitting in his brown leather and copper buttoned swivel chair. Body reared back.

Just before I reached her, she screeched, "Nika has books in her room!"

I grabbed her by the wrist with one hand to steady my aim before using my free flat palm to whack her across the mouth. I smacked her hard. The impact smarted my palm; I know it must have seriously stung her cheek and lips. The impact goggled her eyes. They brimmed with tears and her lips turned oval as she warmed up to an air raid siren's howl.

At first thrown off balance by our roughhousing The Body quickly recovered and scrambled to his feet as he planted himself between us and grabbed us each by the throat. For a split second the fear flashed through my mind he was going to crack our skulls together. I'd had a mortal fear of that maneuver ever since I saw a pimp kill two women at once by dashing their brains out in that type of collision. Jezebel must have experienced a similar fear. At the exact same time I did she went limp as a rag doll. The Body settled for dragging us both over to a bare section of his office wall and standing us up shoving our bodies backward. I anticipated what was coming and positioned my hands behind me, elbows arched, shoulder blades out, bowed my neck as stiffly as I could, tensing my whole frame to absorb the blow. Not Jezzy, though. Man, I thought I was a victim. She was far weaker. She continued to hang limply from The Body's grip so when he slammed her against the wall, full on, he clocked her brain cage something fierce. The hollow cranium bone thok her head emitted drew his attention long enough for me to loll my head as though my brain too had been knocked loose from its netting. My pantomime turned out so convincing Body panicked, loosing his grip on both of us. A semi-conscious Jezebel folded to the floor and wallowed about, unable to find her bearing, blindly tapping the hardwood floor with her expensive colorful nails. I slid down the wall and sat cradling my head on my arms. Body stood above us, shouting.

"How many times I gotta' tell you whores I don't want you coming in here with your petty nonsense!"

I glanced upwards in case he had it in mind to start kicking. His eyes met my undisguised intelligence. In his burst of temper something had been lost. A thread lay neglected somewhere amid the violence and commotion. His gaze recoiled and turned inward and I watched as he searched his memory.

When he finally remembered his neck muscles and jugular stiffened and his vision shot forth searching as though with x-ray vision boring a path directly through the surrounding walls. To arrive at that point in my room though in reality he would have to turn around and exit through the doorway and follow the corridors the long way around.

I pulled myself up and chased after him. Leaving Jezebel still dazed trembling and teetering on her four bones. I wondered if she still fancied we were playing a game. Rachel would have kicked her in the ribs for good measure. When I thought of my ill-fated friend I let that petty impulse for vicious violence die.

On The Body's way down the corridor I threw after him this curse: "Inflicting physical harm violates the contract!"

In response to my accusation his shoulders hunched as though my words were a snowball pasting him on the back of his head. For a step or two his pace slackened until with grim determination he mastered himself and he regathered his momentum toward the fulfillment of his hate filled intentions. I didn't bother following him as far as my bedchamber because I knew how the discovery of the contraband items stuffed under my bed sheets would spark in him a renewed fury, and it would be best for the safety of my mind and body not to be standing nearby when his violent temper erupted.

So I posted myself at the intersection of the several hallways and waited with arms crossed and head bowed, leaning against a wall to support my dejected spirit. Soon enough The Body reappeared clutching all four tomes clumsily in his arms. He paused before me long enough to demand if those forbidden books constituted the lot.

From beneath my lashes I turned informer, glanced dully and murmured, "Those are it."

When I looked up at him I saw the rage in his eyes honed to a red-hot purpose. In a shot he was off towards The Inferno Room. Jet flames burned there eternally in a real working fireplace fed with wood scavenged from a never-ending supply of abandoned and dilapidated hovels. Quick march I stalked after him all the way to the pit.

Several couples had arranged themselves around the cozy fire, and amid their various amorous postures lifted a face of mild curiosity at our precipitous entrance before quickly losing interest and plunging once again face first into carnal delights. In the dreary flickering darkness, The Body proceeded around to the backside of the four-sided fireplace where he added new chunks of wood stoking the flames. The crunch and swirl of sparks elicited a startled coo from one of the maidens getting busy among the overstuffed couches on the other side of the pyre. In the same motion he dropped my martyrs on the shag carpeting. Uncrossing my arms, I stooped towards a rescue. In response Body pulled the blazing iron from the fire and brandished the glowing red-hot tip back and forth before my wavering eyes.

"This won't change how I feel," I said, retreating, resuming a defensive posture.

"Nobody cares how you feel," Body said, his attention consumed by adding fuel to the fire and stirring the embers to produce the occasional crackle. Leaning the iron poker on the bricks he picked up Bulgakov by the front boards so the pages flipped open. The book wouldn't take. Gripping both boards he tried ripping him apart along his spine. Body didn't have the hand strength to succeed. The binding resisted, held firm.

"You should start with something smaller, try an easier one, Mother Goose maybe, and work your way up to larger volumes," I said.

I'm sure he had no idea what I meant, and my impertinent tone only emboldened him to chuck all three authors directly into the flames. For several moments they endured the raw licking heat and the last glimmer of literal hope that manuscripts do not burn, for prior to their destruction I'd only managed to read a few hundred pages. Impatient of the slow browning around the edges and the ink black smoke curling amid the boards The Body picked up the poker again and shoved the tip in, flipping the pages and stirring the flames until each page of genius blossomed red, fading just as quickly into ashen grey leaves. The Body became mesmerized by the destruction like a prepubescent boy does who plays with fire before the onset of his first full erection. I became a helpless bystander to the burning of books. Aghast at the emptiness of his heart and spirit, the petty jealousy of a man who had failed to capture my heart or enslave my spirit doing his utmost to immolate my imagination, I retreated a few steps and fell backwards into one of the overstuffed chairs. Body sat down on the brick laid skirt of the fireplace and with his back to me, taking his time, he turned each page and destroyed my hopes and visions one by one. Issuing from the darkness I heard murmurings and exotic squeals of the oblivious lovers coiling and uncoiling in the shadows and darkness of The Inferno Room.

I was startled to realize tears were coursing down my cheeks and had been flowing for some time. I swiped them away lest he see me and gain a scintilla of satisfaction from my despair. I sniffed, and the sound reverberated around the room. Somewhere in the darkness one of the working girls mimicked my sniffing and giggled, and a man's deep voice spoke in undertones, and the whore giggled again.

A while later The Body pressed his hands against the tops of his thighs and stood up and left the room without giving any indication he knew I still sat there in the darkness. Eventually my martyrdom turned cold. I stood up and moved toward the fire to warm up and look at the destruction. His painstaking had been thorough. Blackened bits of the boards remained, and bits of diction charred out of context forever. I finished the job by maneuvering each remnant I could find toward contact with the flames. Rather in the same spirit of respect one would pull down the dress of a rape victim or drag a wool blanket over a dead girl's eyes. I didn't want strangers ogling their desecration. No more tears now. My spirit had been wrung until nothing remained but the dry and bitter taste of ashes.

As I walked down the hallway I hugged myself because it really did make me feel better and kept my emotions under control. The dull lights in the hallway lost their struggle to provide proper illumination for the wanderer. The shadows obscured the crevices on either side where the walls met the flooring. Only a brothel could be carpeted with a pattern so hideous. A Byzantine pattern, intersecting squares of red faded to brown, blue worn down to a smooth green. My perceptions became sharper for other details as well. For the first time I noticed the carpeting was rutted down the middle. I never realized management had allowed the place to run down so badly.

I rounded the corner and approached the girl's dormitory. The hallway for this stretch sank into haziness and the stale stench of second hand smoke. Depending on the time of year draughts pulled the air from one part of the club to another. For whatever reason smoke from cigars and cigarettes puffed in the Main Room and VIP Lounge drew together into the back hallway where they lingered like urban smog and either seeped into the walls or died mid-air and sank into the spleen yellow carpeting.

My bedroom door stood open a crack, and for a moment I dreaded The Body might be lurking inside my room. Waiting in ambush. Pushing the door at the ends of my fingertips I hesitated until the door swung open and I recognized not him but her, the traitorous Jezzy, sitting on the edge of my bed. Her bottle blond hair tousled forward obscuring parts of her face. She appeared lost in a dullard's reverie. In the club girls like this one who had never known a family could become a nuisance. Without any encouragement they would bond to you and assume a level of unconditional love that didn't exist.

I was just the opposite. Growing up as an orphan in The Zone rendered me incapable of loving anyone. Singly or in pairs, I had driven from my room every girl in the club. Slapping, scratching, punching if I had to. Systematically I had rid my digs of unwanted pests. Except for this one. I think she persisted because Jezebel did not process information properly. Judging by her retarded development she hadn't been abused so much as neglected. In her mind she probably thought we had been quarrelling like sisters and she was waiting for some heartfelt rapprochement. What she received instead was me clutching a fistful of those black roots growing at the base of her floozy blonde hair and flinging her off my bed and onto her feet. Her fingernails clawed the air blindly, viciously, but the little bitch had presence of mind enough to reach up and search out my wrist and sink her claws in just as I whipped her head first into the hall and kicked her in the ass to keep her moving as she flew by and I slammed the door shut behind her.

Chapter 7

After the excitement of my giving Jezebel the bum's rush quieted down a cold and queasy ache sank into my tummy. I didn't know how often other slaves grappled with their master's power towering over them. I curled up inside myself and the only thing I could rely on was a series of juicy rationalizations followed by a rejuvenating daydream in which a powerful napalm strike annihilated the Club Abattoir and obliterated the inhabitants by means of a spectacular blaze of cleansing gasoline fire.

Curling into the fetal position purged some of the anguish over my present circumstances. Sometimes holding yourself together becomes easier if you literally hold on and closely coil your extremities. The danger lies in the desire to stay that way. Surcease of sorrow. The ultimate boon.

Later, a cold chill permeated the air, the only presentment of the waning day. Enough to rouse me into a sitting position with legs dangling off the bedside and palms pressed to the mattress, hanging my head, waiting for some modicum of resolve towards continued living. The desire for drugs and alcohol shuddered through my system, and so I had to endure a moment of recognizing that pang of jangled nerves and remind myself, if my intention was to kill myself, then I needed to make that choice and do it quickly and cleanly because I had recently promised myself no more creeping suicide. No more death by drug induced humiliation. In the absence of any real volition I stood up to efface those self-recriminations. Without a real plan I stumbled towards whatever natural disasters lay in wait. Mostly I struggled to shove other people's nonsense out of my brain.

My feet carried me as far as the water closet and the washbasin where several palms full of water from my ration splashed my thoughts clean away and created a painful twinge in my forehead. The tingling and twanging from the cold splash of water supplied a few seconds of relief as I patted a dry cotton rag against my face and I was once again reduced to me only. Oh how much I longed to opt out of life.

Even though ennui and claustrophobia were closing in I remained reluctant to venture outside my room. As far as I knew I wasn't scheduled to work behind the bar, and nothing good would come from wandering the club. Out there somewhere The Body lurked, spoiling to scold me. Drunken patrons might start bidding for my company, and in his present foul mood The Body might just oblige them.

I'd always been such a standoffish bitch none of the other girl's would even talk to me. A predicament I myself had created so I left off cultivating self-pity and returned to bed where chance and my own tired brain bequeathed a bit of unexpected good fortune: I fell asleep.

When I awoke I felt refreshed, had no idea of time, and I vowed to escape from the stifling club at any cost and get out into the air where I could walk around for a while to clear my mind.

In the hallway I immediately noticed the stench of carcinogens had leeched from pungent to stale. As I padded across the threadbare carpeting, attempting the impossible, to ignore the wallpaper adopted from a pattern adorning the inside of a Byzantine brothel, my senses tuned to a faint whiff of outside air.

Rather than making myself conspicuous traversing the length of the Great Hall I dodged to the left and crept through the VIP Lounge whose far exit led onto the vestibule near the entrance. I noticed many doors propped open and the foreign outside light invaded areas usually preserved for perpetual darkness, throwing a ghastly grey pallor illuminating gigantic round Ottomans large enough to accommodate six girls at a time and elongated sofas, broad and spacious, for supporting all manner of rambunctious debauchery. In the area where I slunk by three devotees of the oral arts slumped against each other for moral support in their wilted feather finery. Pancake powder and rouge, the spider legs glued to their lashes, bee-stung lips painted over, a general underlying puffiness, betrayed in the dull glare of the outside light, revealing the haunts on the divan in their true shades, older and more time-worn than the usual gloom of the club belied.

One eye peaks around a corner more surreptitiously than two. No sooner had the goons milling about in the doorway seen me than the lead Silver Back ordered them all to clear the area and follow his lead outside. For most of them the flash suit they wore amounted to their most valuable asset. Noses poised in the air, their awkward gaits propelled them outside, allowing me as they passed to ponder their violently misshapen profiles. Unnatural smiles creased thin lips. The majority pretending not to notice my stealth unsettled me less than the one or two untrained punks who broke character, shooting sidelong glances my direction. One young buck caught a smack upside his head for the indiscretion of noticing me. Paranoia is a level of heightened awareness.

The last cretin passed outside and I snuck to the open threshold myself, placing my fingertips against one of the open doors for balance. At the bottom of the stairs the rude boys formed a horseshoe for throwing dice. Historically their preoccupation with this pastime diverted their attention so completely I had been able to slip past them without any interference. That day they acted as though, by means of their indifference, they were daring me to make a run for it.

Not until I trotted down the steps and dashed several steps away from them and down the block did the sound of two different voices reach my hearing. The first I heard belonged to Silver Back, who said, "Enjoy your little stroll, Duchess." He spoke no louder than a normal conversational tone, not exclamatory, simply declarative, so the meaning landed like a cue ball rolling lazily end over end for the entire length of the green felt, kissing the eight ball with a click, nudging it over the lip and into the pocket of my understanding.

The second comment I didn't quite manage to pocket. I heard the words, yet I wasn't sure they were meant for me and so they didn't quite land with the same force as the first.

They had all seen me leaving but done nothing to stop my escape. An interesting weakness existed in that gang of thugs. If I ran into them head on they bounced me right back or at the very least if I tried to vault past them they would grab me by the wrist, swing me off my feet, and sling me back the way I'd come. Once passed them however and safely beyond their reach thugs like those will not give chase. I don't know if they thought running appeared undignified, or they were just plain lazy, or what. But having slipped by them I knew they would not chase after me. More cool, I guess, from their standpoint, to hurl idiomatic threats about the bruises they would inflict the next time they saw me.

I would pay a fine long overdue? Is that the crack one of those meatheads slung after me? The phrase printed itself on my memory too slightly. My mind couldn't contextualize the words well enough for me to understand their import.

Overall I felt elated at having evaded the pickets, and so I dropped my concern for their disparagements and resolved to focus instead on the wings sprouting from my heels flying along the sidewalk in the Pleasure Zone.

Chapter 8

One sound has always pushed my cookies -- hilarity from a woman. The laugh pitched horribly high maniacally twisting out of all proportion. As I passed open doorways one club after another I realized what a jarring and ubiquitous presence hysteria poses in The Zone. Man or woman, somebody was always tripping, I mean in the drug induced sense. Some of the rival clubs on the strip, the Marquise Club, Neon Nudes, All Girl Rearview, The Venus Lounge, I'd often pondered as greener pastures when in reality they represented only more of the same degradation. Passing by one of the more conventional strip clubs I marveled at the sonic blast emanating from the sound system. A flat, broad Asian woman, bikini low slung, stepped forth in her high heels and accosted two debonair young aristocrats dressed in top hats and tails.

"You boys want good time?"

She shouted with earsplitting volume, as though screaming into a megaphone; her shrill come hither fairly stunned the swanky gents off their drunken feet. I realized the poor barker must have been rendered nearly deaf by the constant exposure to the barrage of loud techno music blaring in her ears night and day. As the swells leaned against each other for balance she plucked at their tuxedo sleeves to take advantage of their inebriated equilibrium enough to cause them to stumble once twice and into the deluge of sound the two easy marks disappeared. Passing opposite the open door I caught sight of a dancer with robust thighs and unnatural dome-like breast performing the splits on the middle stage in what I considered a theatrical and stilted manner, one hand aloft, pinky extended, ta-da!

She disappeared from view while I continued walking and I dismissed the lewd loud strip to enter the ramshackle bar district where the older clientele brooded over cheaper mixed drinks consumed with a deflated air caring nothing for temptation or desire anymore.

Avoiding eye contact with these skid row denizens usually ensured a safe enough passage. They didn't need my bedroom gaze boring home the facticity of their failed lives. I careered around one corner to discover a pitiable bum with both his palms flat against the noble skyscraper's base in position as though he were about to be searched for contraband. I swerved around him as he splattered his yellow belly sauce of dribble and chunks against the wall and onto the sidewalk. And so I kept on walking through the thinning throng who were all very busy scurrying nowhere.

Eventually a realization burbled to the surface. My escape from the club had not been fortuitous. Having consigned my Masters to the flames The Body must have recoiled afterwards from regret over delivering a blow potentially too devastating for my gentle psyche to endure. Perhaps he had finally discovered his prohibition against my reading material had become untenable. What a worn-out symbol of oppression anyway, book burning. In his ignorance he blatantly declared, through a stupid and barbarous gesture, his own insecurity, his shallowness and fear. In my reading lay an imaginative land well secure beyond any incursion. Unable to cope with the feast of reason he imposed a blockade meant to incite famine, effectively starving my imagination. The cruelty, the stupidity of his actions, must have finally dawned on him and prompted this loosening of his own restrictions. For such a horrendous person maybe he could also find the odd occasion to squeak out some humane decency and generosity.

A gray snow fell as I made my way toward the library. In the light of this opportunity I would redouble my resolve to pursue the learning and inspiration found in books. Flakes began to fall. Early in the nuclear winter for snowfall. I despised dirty, sooty snow. The burnt, baked smell.

This stuff wasn't snowfall I swept from my sleeve. Actual ash stained my fingertips. Hot ash spuming from an unseen volcano and falling from the sky.

The insult hit me first like a sucker punch, more so than the fact of the burning. My library was on fire. I would pay a fine long overdue. I hadn't slipped past anyone, not an act of kindness at all. The jackals had let me pass, on orders from The Body, so I might witness firsthand the destruction now audibly in process. The crackle and boom of the grand structure spurting flames. The heat radiated so intensely I couldn't approach any closer than the opposite side of the street.

Most of the elderly squatters appeared to have escaped the conflagration and stood huddled at a distance marveling in terror and awe at the spectacle of a thousand and a thousand souls screaming with arms waving from every flaming window. Sheaves and leaves encircled in diminishing red rings flittered about in front of my eyes and dissolved into anti-matter. My eyes absorbed the vision of disaster, my mind comprehended how complete the devastation, my viscera registered the personal hatred for me behind this heinous act. On my poor account the Library of Alexandria burned.

I fled from the destruction through the adjacent park area covered in tousled green patches growing straight up and flopping over interspersed with dead grass where the hardpan showed. Giant pine trees, overgrown and fat, choked on their own debris. Sparks freckled one and it exploded foomph in crackling ecstasy.

In the course of my flight I passed a purrball, its eyes opened wide with opaque terror. The animal turned toward me abruptly, and its blank mirror eyes reflected the flaming fury. The creature turned its blind gaze back to the fire without ever having seen me, as though I didn't exist. I coerced myself onward like Pliny escaping Vesuvius as the wind shifted and hot gray ash floated about me coating my head and shoulders and covering the earth in level swaths all around where I trudged towards escape of the bitter flaming firestorm.

By the time I cleared the park the burning building moaned dully in its death agony. I forced myself to turn around and view the spectacle because I wanted to face the very worst in life. I never averted my eyes from horror so I could write it down later in the vague hope a gentler race might view my sketches and during some far-flung and more enlightened age commiserate with me in my plight. I am witness. Remember me.

The timbers crashed inwards and an enormous spume of flame leapt above the treetops. Black smoke poured steadily into the air as though the lid had blown off a New Year's Eve top hat pouring forth grey and red sparkling confetti. The physical destruction touched me. Warmth registered across my skin. My eyes glowed with the spectacle. The personal affront, one human being to another, forced the air from my lungs, which faltered when drawing my next breath. I had been allowed to escape my gilded cage in the cruel hope I might witness this desecration first hand.

There in the gathering gloom I resolved to weep and get it over with so long as none of my enemies could see me. An evil man once said perception is reality. I never gave them the satisfaction of seeing my anguish. I thought to get it out of my system in isolation while I had the chance.

When I tried to let my emotions go I discovered my tear ducts were empty, and I wheezed dryly and mechanically in a way neither comforting nor cathartic. So I left off feeling sorry for myself and spit a barely moist glob into the dirt. Possessing nothing more than my hard-baked cynicism and the clothes on my back I swiveled away from the scene of my spirit's annihilation and trod with firm steps through the Deadland of burned over suburbia until I reached the twenty-foot iron and concrete zone wall and followed it all the way around to the main entrance.

Only the most callous elite could still procure gasoline. The usual parade of dark windowed limousines trolled the roundabout for bait like me. I unzipped my jacket and removed it so the lean and spare leather vest underneath revealed just the right angles and worked its allure. I performed my catwalk and executed my pirouette in no uncertain terms, and when the first wealthy plutocrat halted his commodious fly, I climbed in, greeted by a general murmur of approbation from among the sportive spectators and revelers collected for the night's festivities.

The hefty limousine door slammed behind me and the vehicle accelerated towards the gate where the brake lights barely blinked as the troopers saluted the passing license plate insignia. On the Night of a Thousand Sparks no one in The Club Abattoir ever knew how easily I flew through a window in the chaos without even scraping my knees to become a missing person on purpose, a goner, as they say, gone for good.

Chapter 9

Submerged in the pleasures of the pile I lost all track of time. Who can say how long I succumbed to that writhing deliciousness. Afloat on a sea of soft bodies I drifted without a course, fallen even lower into a new kind of slavery. The scions, the Masters of the Manor, and their exalted friends, both male and female, took their turns. Worked their way through me. Turning quickly away, predictably, as those do whose senses are dulled by pleasure, whose sense of sympathy and empathy are permanently retarded by power and hence restlessly grasping after the next scintillating sensation wealth has the power to purchase.

In my last lucid moment I crawled across the floor, sumptuous foreign carpets cushioning my advance, until boney knees struck native hardwood. Along the way gathering up my leather gear and clasping it to my belly while crawling on three bones and looking for a place to hide my clothes I discovered a row of cupboards along the baseboard behind an overstuffed chair in a corner where I popped open the last door in the row and found the cubbyhole inside filled with children's board games stacked in thin boxes. Shoving the games aside I stashed my clothes in behind and repositioned the boxes in front to act as a blind.

The rattletrap of spent orgy snoring gurgled in the dark heart of this opulent mansion where four sets of double doors four pairs of white-gloved hands had drawn closed with quiet, bowing discretion at the start of the evening's soiree. Closing in the sweat and smoke, the bodily fluids, the smoldering hookah, filled by turns with pungent tobacco, tingling ganga, lid drooping opium, and the frozen blizzard of pure white as snow cocaine.

At first I felt bad for having sunk so low. Then when they tired of me I felt even worse. Bad enough to be shamed and degraded; even worse afterwards to be judged not very adept. Reminded me of the girls back at The Club who gave it their all in front of the cameras only to be relegated to the final vignette when everybody knows the hottest scene always appears first.

With the arrival of the full moon menstruation blossomed as well, and I was hustled out of doors by a maid who appeared unbidden and clapped a clean grey rag between my thighs. Outside I was corralled into a sandbox with an ever-growing sisterhood of misery, and the rag removed and chucked into a pail like some work in progress sponsored by the National Endowment. Left there seeping I grew numb in my mind, fitting for the type of brute beast to which I'd been reduced.
Chapter 10

The Dominatrix who emerged from between the evergreen spires appeared terrible for the tail she sported woven of human hair and the richly feathered plumage flowing from her leather helm. She gripped a wooden whip handle sprouting leather strands, and by way of introduction she swished the air in front of us. Instinctively our forlorn group cowered, perhaps for different reasons. As usual I remained oblivious as to my companion's identities.

"Assume the position!" the Dominatrix ordered.

In my experience, that injunction included such an exhaustive list that for a moment I had no clue as to which specific pose she might have in mind. Her whip of many tongues would have licked my naked flesh had not the other slaves formed a simple queue and in the process guided me by the elbows into my special place in line. Two subalterns who had earned the distinction of translucent, cream-colored togas appeared carrying what looked like a large hatbox. They removed the lid and from inside drew the longest rope of pearls I had ever seen. Later I would count there were seven of us. At the time I was only aware of the two in front of me, and an uncertain number behind. Before they reached me I heard the pearl's clickity-clack, and then they wound them snugly around my throat before moving on to the next slave posterior to me and securing her in the same manner, and so on, until we formed a humbled pearl gang.

I heard the whip slap on one exposed and tender bottom after another as the Domina worked her way up the row expertly and as a team we lurched into motion with heads lowered. We trundled along a soft white sand path. My bottom stung on one side, and as though intuiting my unease, Domina smacked the one opposite just as smartly, restoring my sense of equilibrium. Recognizing I was a newbie her whip hungered to taste my flesh. In my utter servility I somehow mustered the temerity to cast a furtive glance at my surroundings.

We were marching in close order file into the basin of a small valley. On all sides hills gently undulated. Venerable old grape vines covered terraces rising up the sides of the gently sloping terrain. The sky in this part of the world revealed actual tinges of blue between the hot pink, and without a hint of purple or black.

Peons in white cotton pajamas tended the precious fruit vines. Clipping, pruning, shaping the gnarled, fecund stumps. Pendulous grapes hung swollen in bulbous bunches. I thought the field hands showed remarkable restraint in not looking up once from their work to feast their eyes on the spectacle we seven presented. Except for one younger man whose flaming red cheeks clearly indicated he intuited our presence as we passed. Other than that guy not one other field hand betrayed an awareness of our shapely proximity.

The idea we were being lead to our deaths had already occurred to me and summarily been dismissed. The tone set by the pearl rope was wrong for butchery. Whatever lay in store for us promised to be of a decidedly bucolic nature. My intuition told me a religious ceremony, which could often be more frightening in its implications than straight up murder. Not that it mattered to me anymore. With the rope of pearls constricting my windpipe I had already lapsed into nihilism and ascended my private mental tree house and hauled up the rope ladder behind me.

The melancholy suppression of my spirit continued unabated until we halted at the bottom of the ziggurat wreathed with grape vines like laborers linked arm in arm about to toil towards the apex. The morning air turned sultry and parching. Before we commenced ceremonial fertilizing our domina commanded the pearl chain uncoiled from around our necks as she removed the lid from a rotund clay jug and plunged her hand inside and withdrew a ladle shaped from a long curving gourd. Meekly we stood with hands clasped and waited for Domina to fetch us each a few precious drops of water. Eventually she stood next to me and breathed on my neck until, before my parted lips and parched tongue, she poised the gourd spilling cool sweet water in teasing trickles onto my extended tongue and her rejuvenating liquid slid down my throat.

She watered us well that day. Throughout the afternoon each time she held the ladle to my mouth I noticed her own soft lips parting and pulsing in sympathy with mine. To better guide her aim in this ritual watering she did not confine her hydration to my mouth, splashing each breast, my belly, and the small of my back, the water slipping deliciously south to cool my naked flesh warmed by the heat of the sun.

Like a drill instructor who secretly comes to love his recruits even while barking at them the live long day our Domina swung her whip warming our bare bottoms if we failed to respond with the utmost alacrity to her commands: "Address the post!" We placed both hands on the wooden post staked between each gnarled grape vine; "Rotate!" Which meant moving one at a time up the line; or "Gyrate!" which required spreading the feet and swiveling the hips to create an oscillating effect. Whether or not any measurable improvements in yield were produced by our husbandry or whether our ministrations amounted to little more than a pagan superstition I never could decide to my own satisfaction. Those raised in captivity applied themselves with enough assiduity to convince me they themselves believed in the efficacy of this ritual. In the spirit of rational skepticism I continued to entertain my doubts.

Sometime around midday we curtailed our labors so we might rest and enjoy a nourishing meal. In preparation naked slaves humped bucketful's of the finest silk sand halfway up the hill and deposited them into growing piles for each votive to sit upon as a kind of throne, both soft and absorbent, while house slaves wrapped in swaddling wound their way up to us and from silver trays served us a delicious repast consisting of freshly baked black bread providing for a calm stomach and soothed nerves along with sharp white cheese and crisp, juicy apples, and let me not forget ladle after ladle of pure, clean drinking water, all you could drink. We were not allowed to return to our holy labors until the food weighing in our bellies precipitated a proper bowl movement and thus utilizing the sand-thrones in their last pragmatic function. My dirty bottom was freshened for me, and then a smart slap-slap of the whip signaled a return to work as we continued toiling up the escarpments.

Our slavery was rewarded with pleasure at every turn. In my mellow acquiescence I mused how angry and ashamed Mr. Hater would be for me on this account. For he always upbraided me with the specter of losing my clothes only to be rendered naked in this very manner. But I had to put aside the pain of reverie and breathe a sigh of relief at the amazing beauty of nature in the view increasingly available the higher we climbed. I may have been reduced to slavery even more abject than the one I had escaped; yet I had also derailed any triumph The Body might have enjoyed as a result of his cruelty. I had succeeded in denying him my company and relegated him to the cruelest revenge I could think of in return, condemning him to suffer the rest of life's stinking vicissitudes without me, while at the same time vowing to enjoy the rest of my time somehow, come what may. A promise the afternoon sun bestowed with the blessing of a warm pink glow.

By the end of the day we stood at the summit where the brotherhood of vines terminated in a curly cue attached to the solitary zenith post. I had surmounted the highest hill, and I lowered my gaze against the glare of the setting sun to where the sky sank, caressing the countryside, and the golden ground raised up in turn to be caressed. As I finished gazing across the rows of reclining hilltop haunches undulating in soft female folds I vowed with every subsequent step taken from that visionary height to find Rachel Cozy and redeem my lost lover out of whatever hateful captivity enchained her.

Chapter 11

Before such a quest could begin I would have to break out of my own imprisonment, and next, track down Mr. Hater in order to enlist his expertise with technology.

Yet so much servility of the type I had endured produced a ponderous lethargy difficult to shake off all at once. Several days later, near the bottom of the pyramid, the swaddled field support slaves restrung our necks with the elaborate pearl shackles. Single file we plunged through the shadows of an early dusk already descendent upon the valley. We tramped in unequal steps but instinctively we each maintained a proper distance from the other, never allowing our pearl tether to grow taut.

We approached the main compound behind the mansion, and the frequency of slaves scurrying about their allotted toil decreased as the daylight faded. As a reward for consistent usefulness some had managed to earn a scrap of clothing. One pixy tiptoed by with a rectangle of transparent silk thrown over one shoulder, tied at the waist with a gold colored chord, a shift barely long enough to cover half her juicy round bottom. Concealing nothing. The see-through silk mocked the naked wearer with the pretense of modesty. She wore it with pride however hoping in the duration of her service to add other scraps and by bits and pieces someday maybe compile complete and adequate covering. Not a mere slave, a valued one, fed treats and scraps directly from the Master's table plate.

Our Domina led us to a secondary building serving as a combination sleeping quarters and shower area. A rectangular stone structure featuring small windows high up, what must have totaled twenty feet of wall. Not allowing for eyesight's ingress or egress, only sunlight or the moonlight coalescing its muted beam. At the door of the slave quarters we were handed over to the three eunuchs in charge.

They didn't step out to greet us nor did our Domina step inside as though a tense truce between the handlers had been struck a long time ago concerning spheres of influence and territoriality. Generally speaking, a domina handles bodies in motion whereas the eunuch handles bodies at rest. Although if you are tied spread eagle and a domina is whipping your naked flesh for the pleasure of the Master and his exalted guests you are not going anywhere in a hurry, and likewise, if you are entangled in an orgy pile you certainly engage in all kinds of motion under the scrutinizing gaze of the sluggish eunuch. Nevertheless the basic distinction between action and repose holds true.

Given my druthers I preferred the direct and honest snap of the domina's whip to the simpering prodding, wheedling fingers of a eunuch. The members of the latter class were such terrible drama queens full of all kinds of two-faced mischief. They were constantly informing on the supposed recalcitrance of one girl or another. Usually out of petty jealousy or worse a delight in cruelty. If they could have stuck to their main job, which was strictly supervisorial, then there would have been no problems. With one eunuch per ten naked females, how difficult could it possibly have been to feed shower and tuck into bed the thirty of us? Perhaps the very dullness of their employ drove them to create drama enlivening the situation. Others have said these notmen never adjust emotionally or psychologically to their mutilated spouts. Leaving them in a nether world between males and females, neither group supplying them with any real satisfaction. The Master of a sprawling country estate like this one would have to number among his countless other responsibilities the burden of constant vigilance over these particular members of his household staff, a task at least nominally delegated to a Chief Eunuch.

I suppose similar criticisms might have been leveled at us, the harem concubines. One simple command, for us to wrap ourselves in muslin and take a seat at the long table and eat our supper, should have been sufficient. The reality of the situation proved otherwise. I felt famished so I did as I was told and sat down to table on time. I would say half of the remaining girls and women did the same. The rest scattered in every direction. Very selfishly, I might add, to comb their hair, lie down for a moment on their bunks first, and visit the chamber pot. Quite a sight really to see these harem girls in petty rebellion. Their only power leveraged with the sure knowledge eunuchs are strictly denied the right of inflicting corporal punishment. For the wielding of a whip or cane they had to summon a domina, but to call in one of them to restore order was tantamount to admitting they weren't equal to the task of controlling their own charges. As a result the game playing continued endlessly. Those chubby eunuchs waddled from one end of the harem to the other, yelling, screaming, whining, cajoling, sometimes spitting out the most hateful language imaginable, without ever crossing the line into contact. Because if there is one sensation a eunuch cannot tolerate in retaliation is the sting of the rod across his own chubby backside.

I know nothing can be gained from comparing miseries. Each shock records itself differently depending on the psyche of the recipient. But I believe a difference exists for the eunuch based on his castration rendering his flesh puffy and therefore tenderer under domina's lacerations, who ironically is empowered to deliver the punishment given a majority show of hands from the harem. A vote of no confidence in this manner constituted a very serious matter and ultimately led to the temporary increase of cane wielding domina's in and around the harem. I've only heard that such a rule exists. I've never actually seen a roomful of concubines vote by a show of hands against a particular eunuch. The flat paddle slaps with little consequence, almost playfully. The crack of a cane across the back and buttocks represents another level of severity altogether. In this way a system of checks and balances existed in the harem with a tendency among certain members of each realm to overstep their bounds every once in a while.

We were already ensconced at the dinner table when the most headstrong troublemakers, twin brunettes, (it's always the brunettes; I don't know why) came scampering into the room and clambered onto the table bench post haste. Hard on their heels strode an uber dominatrix dressed in full-feathered regalia and swishing a painfully thin bamboo cane. I would have expected a chastiser more along the line of a birch rod for such tomfoolery.

Later I learned these two strumpets had been foreshadowing trouble for some time, hence the eunuchs bringing in the heavy hitters. A domina of her supreme class would rarely have condescended to enter so far into the eunuch's morass because once committed to such a depth she came under the power of their direction. Round and round the power play went to no real purpose or gain other than to keep our minds from contemplating freedom. In the end the system always restored order, and if anyone took a beating the slave lying in the dregs of the fleshpot would surely get hers first. Which is why a harem girl with any sense kept her gaze lowered and did as she was told whenever a bamboo cane sliced through the air whereas acquiescence led invariably to pampering and pleasure. The choice was yours.

With the two daffy twins seated, and the domina, whose mere presence in the room bowed all our heads, having retreated as swiftly as she appeared, the eunuchs served a mush of warm legumes along with hearty black bread and various specimens of fruit and raw vegetables. The nurse's office monitored the diet of harem girls very closely and consisted of the finest victuals available on the estate. The three eunuchs stood watch over the entire meal as they monitored each girl's intake.

We were seated in the middle of the great hall. At one end were located the showers and dirty cisterns. At the other end the beds for partners to share. No covers were provided. We remained naked and exposed for many of our functions, parading, sleeping, performing, comforting, day and night. At some point in the meal I felt myself reaching satiety and so I paused for a moment to catch my breath and allow for the contents of my stomach to settle. In the midst of my somewhat blurry satisfaction I registered a eunuch's discerning eye singling me out. It circled the table and the next moment I felt those spongy fingers and long nails on my shoulder the wormy sensation sending me shrinking inside my shell. The other claw reached over me and plucked a banana from the opulent cornucopia overflowing on the table in front of me. I heard the slight snap and intuited the eunuch was pealing the fruit he thrust into my hand a moment later.

"You too skinny. You ribs poke through," and it trailed a finger over my flesh to indicate which ribs he meant. I think it was disappointed I didn't jerk and writhe in ticklish delight. So I tried to smooth over the awkwardness by immediately biting into the meat of the proffered fruit. It was mollified enough to try the same finger trick on my other side. Given a second chance to please I flinched and simulated a small squeak.

"I almost choked", I lied.

"We don' wan' you do dat. Just fatten up little bit. Be nice round healthy girl."

I ducked my head, hid beneath my bangs, stooped my shoulders, and chomped another bite. I couldn't tell what kind of an accent this thing had. It may have been plain ignorance, unfamiliarity with how words combine to form complete thoughts.

After supper the neuters corralled us into the communal shower area and the water released smelled clean and fresh unlike the reconstituted water back in The Zone. Before long a gorgeous young devote slinking along the shower scene paused to inquire whether or not I would wash her back.

"Do the eunuchs mind?" I asked, indicating the three loitering and gossiping near the entrance to the entrance. Up three gradations, very broad stone steps, terminated at the porticos, each furnished with a golden showerhead. Marble informed the walls, integrated by a stone of rougher hue providing surer footing.

"My name Nadezhda," my new friend offered. Now her accent I recognized.

Her eyes reminded me of a picture taken through a telescope depicting twin stars, exotic and remote, suspended tandem in the cosmos and burning a brilliant and alien green. She projected an assurance proclaiming all who beheld her would fall madly in love, and if they didn't then what did she care. On coltish legs she stood racktacular. From her air of perfect affability I recognized I ought to feel grateful for her condescending to turn upon me her bright attention. I also surmised how her arrogance had alienated every other female in the harem, and so she had glommed onto me, the new girl, as a prospective galpal for uniting against the collective jealously aligned against her.

For as much fun as it may have been for her to be a harridan at first, even to the point of slapping an impudent cheek, the ensuing ostracism by the entire naked tribe proved more lonely and dull than she ever could have deigned to admit. How quickly she attached herself to me in the hope of molding me into her own image. Why else would she have importuned me to wash her back without offering to reciprocate in kind? By the end of our allotted shower time I earned the honorary title of pretty girl's faithful friend, although in their attempts to lure me away from Nastya several of the girls in the dormitory assured me that between the two of us, I was much prettier.

After consuming the water ration we were ushered past the dining hall where by now the serving bowls and crockery had been removed. Above the exposed beams the slanted ceiling halves sloped upward to the zenith. On the flooring far below nude girls sauntered towards their beds. Others trotted. Haunches bathed in grey moondust. Bare feet padding across cool marble. Bodies supine. Two on a cozy bed. No covers. A hard mattress covered with tight white sheets. They positioned our beds under moonlight shafts in the hopes of driving us insane. The smell of masonry commingled with the dust motes spiraling from the wooden beams. Cooing and sighing rose from various beds, and meeting no resistance, dissipated into thin air. As I flipped my new-found friend my hands strove for her pleasure without a thought for my own. No moral judge observed as I subjected sweet Nadezhda to the old scissorbill. In the background I could hear certain denizens of the harem out there talking smack, caught behind the bars of shadow and light, but they were hypocrites, not to mention obviously jealous. To them I paid no mind, and soon my ministrations silenced their hypocrisy. I could feel their eyes desirous to discover what the new girl knew and how her fingers might explore and once penetrated what they might reveal.

Nadezhda closed her eyes and turned her head straining to escape pleasure unendurable, especially laying with one of her own kind. With a few deft strokes I made her forget about men, or were her eyeballs, clicking and rocking beneath her lids, desperately searching for an image of her prince, pretending my lean fingers magically belonged to him.

Dishonest little slave girl. I bit her lip forcing her pupils to dilate. Rivulets of pleasure spilled from the corners of her eyes. I didn't force her to reciprocate. Instead I rolled her over onto her side, and with my arms I enveloped her. In the daylight hours it was she who pushed and pulled me about, a slave to her every caprice. Mostly I followed her lead, mute and tacitly supportive. At night, stretched full length on the taut white sheets bathed in moon madness, her body I pleasured for my own amusement, despotic and unrelenting.

Chapter 12

Eventually, during the day as well, Nadezhda's behavior grew to resemble the kind of best friend an ancient surfer might have owned (before the oceans turned black and died), the kind of loyal creature never in need of a leash, always maintaining a magnetic proximity, happily trotting alongside through sheer loyalty, always nearby without the need to be called.

We wandered in paradise where at every turn the gravel paths revealed sculpted hedges, stonewalls, wondrous gardens, flowers in profusion. Enough courtyards, marble fountains, discreet arbors, secretive porticos to sequester one and a thousand assignations. The rumors reached my ears concerning the Master of this impossible opulence. Supposedly he held mortal contract over fifteen hundred souls, and he also bore a reputation for cruelty and caprice in his dealings with slaves. From the educated, elegant seneschal to the lowliest slave, each he accorded a warm refuge from the elements, fine and hearty victuals, and so much fresh water I marveled such a quantity existed in our parched and dying world, but in return for his largesse, he extracted his liter of flesh.

One day, engaging with a gardener in one of those undertone conversations slaves engage in when they're supposed to be working, I marveled at the size of the juicer, or fleet of juicers, required to produce such an abundance of potable water. The gardener stooped over his rake while scooting a few fig leaves into a pile, and then scraping them apart again in the course of his underemployment. A group of us girls had been herded to a large rectangular fountain for a certain amount of predetermined lounging. Living statues cultivated and arranged for your viewing pleasure whether The Master would deign to indulge in the voluptuousness of looking or not. So when I padded away from the group and reclined upon a marble bench to soak up a little sun, the Gardener it was, his loins wrapped in white cloth, who told me the abundance of clean water on the estate didn't fall from the sky and percolate through a juicer at all but miraculous to hear burbled to the surface from an underground spring. Knowing how fracking had destroyed practically every natural spring known to science I expressed incredulity but the knave persisted and said it was so, saying also this natural well represented one of the very last known to exist in our dry and parched existence. One of the few resources not yet contaminated by the encroaching darkness.

I confided to him I was lately come from The City where the darkness had already dropped, and he marveled much to hear it, saying it was only a matter of time until the darkness descended upon the Master's estate as well though the Master himself would hear no word of it banishing the least utterance of the impending doom. Then the villain pressed his advantage saying he would sneak me into the edifice they'd built over the spring source to preserve its liquid foment. In return he wished me to perform a maneuver so vile and vulgar I shall not tire your patience gentle reader by repeating his revolting importunities here before your eyes.

As I rose from the bench and moved away from the offending gardener I heard him mutter by way of apology, "My bad."

I forbore an answer. Not every insult in life is answerable. Sometimes the best choice is simply to walk away.

Darling Nadezhda reclined along the lip of the long rectangular fountain. The rest of the girls were soaking or cavorting on the other side of the center divider demarcated by two marble spouts representing either Cupid in two different attitudes, or a pair of unaffiliated cherubim. I couldn't quite tell. While I'd been sunning and talking to the Gardener a drama had erupted between Nadezhda and the rest of the girls. Even from a distance I understood how several of those nimble water sprites carried away by their horseplay had splashed too closely to princes and thus incited her ire. The only intelligible sound was the shriek she loosed shrill enough to curdle honey badger milk.

The source of her outburst remained unintelligible at that distance except I could well imagine a simple annoyance like splashing as its source. Whenever fury consumed her Nadezhda lapsed into her native tongue, a wicked instrument of castigation, which had the power to freak the homegrowns and naturals into tears. In their limited experience they were unaware of any language other than their own. Hearing Nadezhda screeching at them about the ill repute of their mothers, referring none too gently to certain unnatural practices of theirs, and damning their illegitimate birthrights in a vitriolic mixture of Russian and Ukrainian created in the other girl's startled and impressionable minds a fear as though some evangelical had just let loose the holy spirit and jabbered at them in tongues.

As a tremendous lover of humanity I decided to assay a friendly overture toward the living dolls romping in the fountain of youth. Perhaps the expenditure of so much pure water in such a frivolous fashion rendered everyone giddy. Maybe I wanted to needle the temperamental Nastya as well. At a safe distance from Herself the water nymphs splashed one another. Reacting to my approach they opened up like paintings on a triptych featuring three naked graces. I pointed my elbows skyward, squeezed my eyes shut in a stoic grimace, and shrieked as if to say, 'do with me what you will, you gorgeous water nymphs. Do your silly worst'. In response, my invitation elicited squeals of ecstasy and they went absolutely bananas splashing me and each other growing more spastic in their ministrations. They exhausted themselves quickly, and in the ensuing lull, with their eyes they implored me for further inspiration. Standing on my mark I spun an about face, placed hands on knees, and wiggled at them my cheeky derrière. Oh, Christmas and birthday rolled into one. What a love-in of hilarity. Peals of laughter paid back my raw bawdiness as they pelted without restraint my proffered and unprotected bottom.

The conceit having been spent I tired of our game and kissing each of the three graces in turn went wading between the two angelic spigots and left the disappointed girls behind and emerged on the other side of the fountain where Nadezhda, whose eyes had followed me the entire time, snapped away her gaze. Her attitude reminded me of a purrball I once knew, a lean, muscular creature who, when I clicked my tongue, in response rapidly tiptoed a few steps toward me, obviously obeying the initial inclination of her heart. Halfway she recovered herself, stopping to rub her whiskers against the rough edge of a cardboard box that happened to be sitting on the floor, as if to say, "I would come to you, but as you can see, I'm terribly distracted, what with having to scratch my cheek against this cardboard edge. Perhaps if you implored me a second time, I might come the rest of the way to you. Mind you, I'm not making any promises." I have always loved purrballs for their capriciousness and aloofness, and I've always distrusted any man who would ever stoop to harm those angelic creatures.

The chin and triangular mandibles jutted and lifted toward the sun. Her abdomen crunched into perfect geometric segments. Long legs tapered to dainty feet. What was one to do with the likes of Nadezhda and the shock she had not pulled away from my embrace but on the contrary focused on me and me alone as her fingertips stroked me into an awareness of the rose-colored dawn. At the first awakening glance to those orbs I knew my heart was stolen and lost, festooned by a golden arrow. I thought her such a pain when we first met. Now I couldn't function without her. Nor she me, which explained why she was so out of sorts reclined on the marble lip of the Master's fountain. Situated in a courtyard surrounded on all sides by porticos engraved with arabesque patterns and infiltrated and intertwined by hoary ivy. A place designed to obfuscate the image. The image of what? The body, no less. An inspired choice for both displaying and hiding the bountiful nudity of the Master's harem.

I caught sight of Potty Mouth the Gardener in the distance blanching and lowering his head and retreating, dragging his rake and then clutching it reverentially in both hands as he bowed repeatedly while backing his way through an arbor and disappearing from sight.

Intuiting danger I scanned the walkways and sure enough The Master approached followed by an entourage of thanes who would follow their leader anywhere so long as there was the promise of money and power. He sauntered at his own pace like a man accustomed to setting deadlines for others while never facing any himself. He was in his métier, with his thick, oily black hair he kept slicked back off his face. Bold, Teutonic blue eyes radiated from a face barely aged. A patrician in his prime. I wondered how many dead bodies he had stepped over to arrive at our Fountain of Youth.

On the covered walkway opposite a corpulent eunuch awoke with a start from his upright slumbers on a marble bench and leapt to his feet with surprising agility when he realized the boss had arrived. I slunk under the water up to my neck, for in that moment I realized I was naked, and motioned Nadezhda to join me who did so in the spirit of naughtiness for she had known the Master in his many guises and pleasured him on several occasions and therefore did not fear him. The crowed of girls brought their antics to a halt, curtailing their conversations and arresting their play. Waiting patiently in poses like ancient statuary they longed to be chosen for whatever passion play was about to ensue.

Personally I never met the man in charge. When I first arrived I was ushered in through more of a side door than a front entrance. I'd heard the stories. The Master powered the concubine's universe. He played head games, pitting one favorite against another, a constant corporate styled game of penthouse elevators and garbage chutes, driving the harem girls insane with jealousy-fueled desire.

He emerged from the covered walkway into the sunlight. Feeling its heat he regressed once more into the protective shadows. His entourage of lookalike male mannequins wearing expensive black suits and silk ties kept to the shade, including one snow born blonde female wearing a power leather mini with a glacier white see through blouse, and perched on the bridge of her nose, reading spectacles, a prop, no doubt, to remind the boy's club she possessed a brain.

In awe of her bearing and presence I lifted my gaze in search of some sign whereby I might learn how a woman becomes so powerful. In return she sliced through me with a gaze so hostile and contemptuous I blanched in shame. Submerged in the cleanest water on the planet I felt degraded and dirty. She was a femcon, an older female conservative who seeks to restrict the rights of younger women, a woman who thinks like a man, a woman with the voices of patriarchal guilt and shame ringing in her brain and dementing her decisions.

Without comprehending the words I heard their voices. The eunuch had scuttled up meanwhile wringing his hands in a way defining meanly servile. For as much as I detested their behavior a eunuch was a victim like the rest of us.

"Yes, these will do," I heard the Master pronounce. "They will do nicely. Prepare them. Scrubbed clean, both inside and out. Lightly oiled. Sweetly scented. Have them ready by tomorrow night."

The eunuch cowered in obeisance and the Master turned and strode away neither fast nor slow. I despised slave culture, all that bowing and scraping.

Chapter 13

For whatever reason The Powers That Be always demanded slave girls trot everywhere they went. We might have walked just as easily. It wasn't as though the orgy would start without us. A flail of dominas rode herd slapping their paddles across random buttocks the moment we stepped out the dormitory door and a sparse gauntlet kept the thirty of us at a trot across the yard and onto the level smooth dirt path running around the corner of the mansion and through double doors into a side hallway. In the interim I was only vaguely aware off to the left of well-manicured grass terminating in a pine forest.

They couldn't very well slap all of us across the bottom yet I could always tell when a particular domina chose my rump to enflame as an example to others. Fluctuations in the eyelids. A practice swish through the air. Then the smart sting of leather biting my flesh. I rather liked it. The clever creature caught both cheeks in one well-aimed whop! Personally I couldn't stand it when they only whipped one buttock. For the longest time afterwards such a halfhearted stroke left me feeling uneven. If you're going to make the effort you might as well do it right. Often I could hear girls yipping and yapping from the encouragement. I never felt the urge to cry out, although at times such noises sprung from my throat, if I were completely caught off guard, in which case I might utter an O of astonishment. That ejaculation resulted from surprise not the piquant stinging. Inevitably some silly wench would spill her tears when really there was no need. No permanent damage remained the hard-fast rule.

In preparation for the Masque the dominas began by escorting us into the Villa through a side entrance leading onto a service hallway with a stone floor worn smooth by generations of barefoot servants and the walls retaining their original roughhewn texture. The scullery must have been operating nearby because the smell of robust roast beef permeated the air just above a whiff of wet concrete. Then those smells dissipated, drowned by the overwhelming fragrances the beeves had doused themselves with before leaving the dormitory, scents like cherry and strawberry, confections sickly sweet.

Upon our arrival within the interior hallway we shuffled and bustled until we all squeezed in through the door and huddled together as a group, lightly perspiring, nipples firm and erect after exposure to the streaming cold outside air. A lotus blossom opened here and there, among them, along with, I must admit, my own, and somewhere in the middle of this bevy some simple-minded twist quietly wept as though she hadn't been whipped into a trot a hundred times before. In order to enjoy life as a sex slave you must simply accept the world of the harem as wholly symbolic.

During my tenure at the Villa in service of the Master I never once saw a woman truly abused. They understood. The administration of a single vigorous stroke will produce a stripe. I never saw anyone persist beyond three. You could undergo a dozen and still not incur permanent damage if administered by a skilled hand. Under the ministrations of a pro your skin might not split until after the thirtieth blow. By then the blood is sure to flow. Like I said, though, I'm vanilla, a total wimp. On the third stroke I'll drop on my knees and lick your shiny leather boots, say please and thank you. Pronounce your name. Do whatever you want. A little fun time spankies are one thing. Flogging is quite another. Not a big fan of the latter.

These thoughts registered more like feelings as we stood panting for breath. We were next ushered into a fitting room built with an enormously tall ceiling supported by a huge main support beam. Two leather couches placed end to end along the inner wall faced room length mirrors along the outer wall. Naked fun-bunching mannequins had been shoved into a corner at the far end. Closets stuffed to overflowing with every manner of costume and several armoires cocked at odd angles crowded the end of the room where we stood huddled together like new shorn sheep. A metropolitan opera house could not have sported a finer or more elaborate wardrobe archive. In a way the room reminded me of periwigged aristocrats, harlequins, masques, and sweet-scented dandies. I never could have foreseen our assigned costumes.

We were each fitted with a masque of our own, a finely crafted animal likeness, encompassing the entire cranium. Each headdress was constructed of leather and formed a resemblance to a specific creature by reproducing an expression uncanny, comical, and yet wholly representative of the intended species. Of course the girls who donned their headgear and found themselves transformed into felines could not have been more pleased, crooking their fingers like claws, pretending to lick their paws and prancing about, wagging their saucy tails. Girls who found themselves transformed into canines were considerably less delighted and vented their dissatisfaction in true doggy fashion by harassing the cats who hissed and clawed and threatened to scratch before retreating onto the leather couches as their most expedient defense. I watched as one by one each girl assumed her role in the menagerie. The eunuchs intervened between the dogs and cats while the next girl metamorphosed into a reindeer or gazelle. I wondered with impatience what my physiognomy might reveal, and I felt devastated when they pulled out a horse's head, by far the largest mask, and the only one of its kind, which meant I would stick out of the crowed. I became the only animal without a direct counterpart unless you count the women who were turned into swine. I didn't envy the role planned for them in the evening's performance.

My horses head fit beautifully, pliant leather, delicate stitching. I could see out and maneuver with ease. My heart wasn't committed to the upcoming performance. I didn't think much of being compared to a clunky old horse. Amid the tumult and hilarity of bestial pantomime I felt isolated and uninspired. I guess my lack of enthusiasm transmitted itself to the general company because as if on cue a slow cessation of antics ensued until the crowded dressing room grew quiet and the whole group turned towards me in expectation. In acute self-consciousness my right arm slunk across my belly as I grabbed the elbow opposite. I stood there in that closed posture as they grew quieter and the scrutiny intensified until I realized they would never leave me alone unless I did something stupid to amuse them. I could see the consternation hardening on the face of the chief eunuch, his eyes narrowing and his lips compressing. Reluctantly I lifted my hoof and stamped the floor three times. That absurd burlesque motion broke the bad vibe causing the whole group to erupt in raucous laughter and the animal kingdom leapt into their lively antics once more.

We formed a bizarre procession as we marched out of the wardrobe and up the hallway to where the powerful orgy goers awaited our arrival. A eunuch on either side of me grabbed me by the elbows and tilted my forearms so my hands dangled at the wrists. One of them coached me to pick my knees up, higher, higher! I felt a right fool; I can tell you that. More a Tyrannosaurus Rex than an Arabian horse. A Clydesdale at best. The eunuchs and I brought up the rear of the parade. I really envied the entire cat family. They all pranced about on nimble feet, striking ferocious poses, twitching their wanton tales. The various birds, the swans especially, floated with gracefully flowing and waving arms. In my getup I felt as though if I weren't careful someone might hitch me to a wagon. Completing several turns down long stony hallways we arrived before the ceiling-high double doors leading into the main arena.

We paraded in in a brazen line, and as we did so I had to readjust my appraisal of this saucy fable including my role in it because before our grand entrance I had felt slighted by the guise chosen for me. The headgear upset my equilibrium rendering me awkward and clunky in my limbs; a crested horsetail swished stormily across my backside, as though even in this humble sphere I was denigrated and not highly prized. Once we entered the grand room and I saw with my imperfect vision through the blinders of my horse head masque the wealthy aristocrats assembled by my Lord my gaze was drawn immediately to the most distasteful of the crew in their pig masks and their sex smothered beneath their naked protuberant bellies, round, fat and pink. Other Senators, conservatives, and business scions were intermixed besides. Tall lean figures lurking behind cat masks; squat, stolid bodies disguised as dogs; in their disguises they were freed from moral obligation. As my mind sought to sort them out I discerned a lion with a flaccid phallus longer than most men's when erect. The most visually stunning appearance sprung from the peacock, black headdress and feathers spread shaped within their armorial backdrop.

Bringing up the rear I felt a shudder run through my frail body the moment I finally recognized my own opposite number, no other than the Master himself. How could I tell with his lineaments covered in that proud stallion's head? Who else on Earth could it possibly be? His body was finely honed, businesslike and hard. The parade of masques dispersed, each searching for his or her mate, and the floor emptied, leaving me center stage. Finding myself thus promoted of a sudden from least to most a shudder of a different sort wracked my frame. Being the center of attention completely unnerved me.

Holding my forelocks before me I pranced a sidestep drawing closer towards the master. Much to my surprise and relief he held out his forelegs in like manner and remaining on his stage pranced left then right, displaying profiles, pure masculinity, an athlete and an actor both. A general gasp uncorked a murmur of delight and approval. My arrival before him and my dropping upon my knees at his feet, my abject servility, proved a potent symbol to ignite the orgy.

The Master took me in the pony position, as would any proper young stallion. The sensations he produced were not wholly unpleasant. I scanned the room and witnessed the entire masquerade merrily coupling and humping. For as odd an assemblage as they presented I approved of their bestiality so long as the couples remained within their own species. As the evening prolonged and couples fell asunder and then rejoined with a member of a different species I found myself disconcerted by the spectacle because watching a man in a dog masque copulating with a woman in a dog masque is all well and good, but watching a cat climb aboard a dog runs contrary to the rules of nature. In the moment I must admit these bizarre new alliances struck me as most disturbing. I'd never imagined a peacock making love to a pig, or a cougar with a sea otter.

Not until a rodent with a remarkable package laid me open on one of the couches did my own prejudice reveal itself to me as both mean spirited and hypocritical. While this rather well-hung mouse pleasured himself upon me I reflected on my own somewhat refined predilections, and I realized I had crossed party lines, so to speak, more than once in my life, having had sex with liberals and conservatives alike, though never both at the same time. I'd also crossed socio-economic lines, leaping past class barriers into bed indiscriminately with rich and poor, scion and day laborer alike. So who was I to kick if an elephant was caught in flagrante with a donkey? To deny a human their sexuality is to deny them the very heart's core of their being. To deny a person their very identity is hardly in keeping with life, liberty and pursuit of the ultimate orgasm.

Eventually the men were spent, only natural in these types of proceedings, the women paired up for a second round of more gentle kisses and caresses. To prove my newfound open mindedness and acceptance about matters of sexual identity I crawled between feline and canine to prove myself a horse of a different color. Beneath our masques we are all human after all, no matter how we measure our pleasure.

Chapter 14

After such prolonged moral meditation I must have been too exhausted to copulate for I fell fast asleep. I have no idea how long I'd been under when I was awakened by someone removing my mask, which I suffered them to do, though the operation temporarily blinded me as the neck portion slid across eyes. I do love the aroma of leather. With the masque removed I breathed in a grateful breath of unrestricted air, there to behold the Master dressed in a redolent purple housecoat, another draped across his forearm meant for me. He clasped my hand, hoisted me to me feet, and ensconced me in that regal robe. I must admit for all my misgivings about the aristocracy as a class I appreciated the way their gentleman sometimes treat a sex slave the same as a princess. I have a lust for luxury and take it anytime I can as an experience not rightly belonging to a poor and humble servant like me. I embrace good fortune with a pauper's greed. Tomorrow I could be rotting in a cage backstage at a live show so tonight I allowed the Master to lead me by the hand into his private study and seat me upon his lap while he fed me fine comestibles like sturgeon eggs washed down with generous gulps of sparkling sweet champagne.

This intimate interlude reinforced in my mind the importance of extending tax breaks for the powerful because how else can they otherwise afford to buy champagne for hookers? After all you can hardly subsidize a garden of Earthly delights on good intentions. People idolize the rich in the same way they play the lottery. Dragging themselves back to work on Monday the working classes need a better future to dream about, how they're going to strike it rich too someday and then they'll enjoy the benefits of total tax exemption as well.

At the time, as the Master spoon-fed me caviar, I felt guilty for my ingratitude. I wanted to make it up to him somehow. So when he asked me about my life I told him a story about my days as a nun.

"You were a nun once? I find that hard to believe."

He was such a gentleman, a gentle man, and his tone so very mild; his questioning my veracity engendered no feelings of resentment on my part. On the contrary, he carded me so sweetly about it I actually felt encouraged.

"Oh yes, I used to believe in a supreme being and to that end I wanted to dedicate myself to a life of celibacy."

The Master appeared to mentally weigh the possibility.

"You know," he said, "Dr. Townsend said you were remarkably intact and disease free."

"Yes, I'm very healthy. You see, I volunteered to be walled into the side of a church in order to deny worldly pleasure. Even though I sequestered myself I had to be on my guard all the time. The aperture in the wall posed the greatest danger facing me. It was only large enough for the food pot to be handed in and the chamber pot to be passed out, but every once in a while a pair of lips appeared whispering the most vile and tempting expressions."

Master raised his eyebrows in alarm without exactly endorsing the truth of what I was saying. With a distracted air he began fingering the keypad of his desk computer and manipulating the images. His other hand caressed me as I took over the chore of feeding myself.

"What did you do while you were locked away all that time?" He asked.

"Masturbate, mostly."

At this absurdity Master pitched back his head and laughed noiselessly in a manner emboldening me to even more outrageous foolishness.

"The wicked lips at the aperture insisted I do this thing. I used to be a good girl. I was raised a simple young country girl from a peasant village in Ukraine. I didn't know anything about the world at large. My parents were both killed in a nuclear accident when I was very young. An international Religious Society offered to take me in and raise me in the light of the one great Truth, and so the courts granted them custody, the usual cash payments were made for a healthy girl child, and I was handed over in a fully legal manner. Those nasty old priests had such a taste for buggery I quickly decided I'd be better off with a brick wall erected between them and me. Especially after the Pope himself decided he'd rather small children be sodomized than admit mistakes were made, which if you ask me is a mistake in itself. Chips away a bit at the whole infallibility claim. So they figured the only way they could prevent themselves from exercising their burning lust upon my fragile frame was to wall me into the side of the church. The whole temptation bit was my fault. I'd always believed it took two to propagate the species. Apparently, I was wrong. With my troubling beauty bricked away from sight the boners beneath the cassocks would all deflate, and the priests were free to resume their wholesome flagellation.

"I was willing to go along with the entombment as a welcome alternative to burning at the stake, a penalty also bandied about at the time as a possibility. Do you know they held me down and went feeling about for a pair of teeth located in a place on my person you wouldn't believe? I could have told them they wouldn't find anything of that sort down there. To my surprise those priests acted as though they didn't know the first thing about female anatomy.

"I would have been okay with the loneliness and isolation. The truth is I don't get lonely. I know that must sound strange, but it's true. I can spend ever so much time by myself, you know, and never feel the need for company. Normal people aren't like me in this respect.

"Being locked up like that gave me a lot of time to think about the nature of the universe and stuff like that, and my place in the grand design, and do you know what I realized?"

"No, what?" Though his words denoted interest, I could tell he was scarcely listening.

"I realized the universe does not require an architect."

"You don't say."

"I do! You see, molecules will attract and rebuff other molecules all by themselves. And given the enormity of endless time and space, it really shouldn't be the least bit surprising that after millions and millions of years the primordial ooze might produce all types of strange and wondrous creatures. When that realization hit me, I can tell you, I felt a right twat walled into the side of that church.

"The next time one of the holey fathers thrust his clean white crucifix through the aperture in my cell wall, with greedy lips and tongue I accepted his unholy communion. Until word spread of my pious fervor and everyday along the south wall of the church a queue formed stretching around the block. Eventually word of my pious hunger for salvation reached the ear of the Cardinal, a man wholly shut off emotionally from the pleasures of this world and hence boiling with misogyny. In fact he specialized in writing about the wantonness and filth of women, as detailed in the big book. It was a fair cop. I mean he had me dead to rights. There I was by my very existence enticing all those infallible men to all types of debauchery.

"They took a sledge hammer to the bricks. Tink-tink. Chunk chunk a chunk. Crash tinkle-inkle. And they knocked a hole large enough to extract me bodily through my cell wall.

"The Holy Fathers put me to the question for casting a spell over the whole confessional. Being a coward to real pain I confessed to everything I had ever done and signed my name to much I hadn't done when they'd only proceeded so far as to strip me naked. For a few tense moments they poked and prodded me, attempting to establish ontologically if I were some kind of witch or demon. Again the Holy Fathers bandied about the possibility of burning me at the stake. A supercilious expression on my part, pointedly directed at several of my intimate acquaintances on the judge's panel, proved an eloquent enough defense, and in light of my total confession they decided rather to banish me from the zone entirely and excommunicate me from the love and salvation of Mother Church. I found their verdict very fair and agreeable. Any more salvation from that particular quarter and I would have been in danger of putting on pounds difficult to take off again between June and January.

"In light of my tender years and to curb the possibility of any future loose lipped loquacity on my part they outfitted me with a fine array of dresses, a nice fruit basket, and a thousand credits as parting gifts to show there were no hard feelings about my inherently sinful nature. Having been a spectator at more than one Auto da Fay spectacle their decision satisfied me in terms of its pious wisdom and held my tongue in tacit agreement to the charade as I skulked away, doing my level best to appear contrite.

"After that experience I never sought the kind of solace proffered by organized religion as an antidote to this veil of tears. I figured why try to replace one mythology with another. Why not accept the fact you're human. You're born, you live, you die: end of story. What meaning you choose in order to give your life purpose is up to you. In the end death is a total release. I don't see anything the least bit frightening in that reality. I am far more daunted by the prospect of eternal existence. Who in their right mind would hope for eternal sentience? Anyone who has felt the need for a nap can understand how I feel. Life is a free ride and should be fully appreciated, but what feeble egotism to wish for it to go on forever.

"Everything science tells us establishes the age of the universe in the billions of years, not seven days. That book of Genesis cannot be reconciled to fact. If you choose to believe what you find in the Bible you must first disconnect your mind from reality. The universe is obviously billions of years old. The Bible is wrong. Not only are those words not infallible, they're simply not true.

"You've been educated," The Master said, narrowing his eyes.

The suddenness of the accusation caught me unprepared with neither mask nor subterfuge and so I parried with something approaching the truth.

"I do know things," I said, "but it's not my fault. A madwoman schooled me in letters. She died a long time ago, bless her heart, so she can't be punished for her transgression. And although I've had the statutes quoted at me enough times about how it's a crime to teach a girl to read I've never heard of any law expressly forbidding a woman to learn on her own."

At my words the Master tipped his head back in what looked like a yawn at first but turned out instead to be more silent mirth in reaction to the obvious flaws in my logic. A foot soldier in the war against literacy will enforce the law upon the occasion of every infraction he confronts because all of his training and experience demands he do so. A middle manager type will always enforce the law because of the powerful forces he feels looming above him who might either grant preferment or destroy his career and so he too follows the letter of the law and not the spirit. Only a man above the law has the capacity for leniency. In fact he sometimes delights in breaking the rules as a demonstration of the extent he possesses that very power. While publicly endorsing how he maintains the status quo privately he might revel in the giddy pleasure of feeling unencumbered by any and all restraints.

The power to pardon is my interpretation explaining why the Master used his index finger to tap me on the nose ever so gently and raise my chin to meet fully his impending admonition when he said, "It is illegal for you to read."

"Oops," I said, and shrugged off the Western Tradition as an entity of no consequence. "It's not like it's done me any good. I haven't exactly advanced up the ladder of society as a result of my learning."

"You're place here is safe and secure. You get plenty of everything you need, don't you? In the way of food and care? There are a lot of women who are dying to enter my garden."

"And a great many who are dying after they are denied entrance."

Rather than being offended by my impertinence the Master responded with a rousing endorsement of my point:

"Yes! Exactly! You could do a lot worse. Life could be so much harder for a pretty young thing like you. Out there, on your own. I don't think you'd last long."

"No, I suppose not," I said, hoping my acquiescence might cement the keeping of our little secret about my intellectual prowess. I could read from his expression the Master contemplating the singularity of my case. Finally he produced what for him must have been the most curious point:

"It's got to be strange for you sometimes. Knowing the difference. Knowing better, I mean. Not like these homegrown girls. These 'naturals' as they call them. Raised in ignorance."

I could tell the idea aroused his prurient interest so I resolved to give him the goods.

"You cannot imagine the shame and guilt I experience, especially when a crowd is watching."

He leaned forward and asked, "You have experience performing in front of crowds?"

In reaction I immediately felt a pang of fear at his curiosity. To hide my identity I had to avoid any concrete details. If he discovered how I had broken my contract and escaped the Pleasure Zone his liberality would surely have evaporated.

"No, not really. I meant on a night like tonight. At the gathering we both attended. At your party, I should say the spectacle you produced. It really was quite a show."

"It really was, wasn't it?" He asked, with evident self-satisfaction.

I thought I had sufficiently distracted him until he reverted to issues about my past.

"I know you showed up at the gate one day, and they let you in. But where were you before that?"

"Actually, you picked me up in your limousine."

"I did? Right, right. Of course. I remember. But what where you doing before that?"

"Standing on the corner and waiting for some incredibly rich and handsome guy to pick me up in a limousine."

"I meant before that, what was your life like?" The humor drained out of his expression, replaced by an archness putting me under the gun.

"I had a master, in a household. Not as nice as this one, though."

I could tell he spotted my compliment for what it was and dismissed it.

"Were you under legal contract?"

"Yes."

"What was your Master's name?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't know your Master's name?"

"I don't know your name."

"My name is Felix."

"That's a Latin name. It means 'lucky'."

"I know," he said, and he smiled his hedge fund gambler's smile, one radiating pride and pleasure in the good fortune of his birth.

"I was there in that house for a long time. I don't know how long. Years, though.

"Then one day Master met with bad fortune. His luck ran out on a big business deal and he was smashed, a total fall from grace, and a total disgrace. And The Powers That Be liquidated his possessions, nullified our contracts, and kicked us into the street."

In relief I watched the Master's filter close in recoil from my painting to him a nightmarish scenario.

"Your master must have really pissed off the wrong boss. Somebody powerful. It happens sometimes." After a pause, he whispered, "to get kicked out of the house, it must have been a full crash."

"The really sad part for me came when I was separated from my brother and sister. Because, you see, their contracts were sold off to new masters, and we were separated, ripped apart more like it. I had been earmarked to accompany my Mistress and the children into destitution. The Master disappeared who knows where. After a couple of days in the homeless shelter the Mistress ditched me. She sent me out to forage for food, but by the time I returned, she and the children had vanished. An old busybody told me my mistress had contacted her people and they had taken pity on her and come to gather up her and the children, they being grandchildren and all. I guess she must have felt bringing me along counted as one imposition too many. So taking my siblings to continue as slaves she abandoned me to fend for myself."

"You've really been through the wars."

"The worst part is being separated from my brother and sister that way. Being torn apart as a family. I know I'll never see them again. It's not that so much. If I simply knew they were all right in their new positions I could rest so much easier. I could stop worrying and become the fairest flower in your garden."

"You've already achieved that."

"I know, but if I only knew they were safe and settled then I could feel safer and settled too and really turn my full attention to my duty to you."

As an act of good faith I slid off his lap and onto my knees, neck muscles straining, lips and tongue only, making Felix the luckiest fellow in the mansion. I paused and looked up, poised, mouth open in expectation.

"That would be an easy enough thing to check," The Master gasped. "What were their names again?"

"Rachael Cozy and Hater Glasscock."

"What's your name, by the way?"

"Nika Savage, but I know where I am."

He placed his hand on the screen and peered at the choices, then his concentration broke and he peered down at me. "How is it you've all got different last names?"

This time with my teeth I took ahold of him and dragged him in his office chair on rollers until on my knees I had backed up beneath his desk and he was sitting squarely scrunched up against his keyboard and monitor.

I repeated their names and said, "Check it out for me. I only need to know they're alright." I heard all ten fingers hit the keys clickity-clack with alacrity unusual in a boss.

Before too long he said, "Here's your brother."

Immediately I let go of old faithful, scrambled out from beneath the desk, and jumped around behind the Master where he sat in his chair as through his computer he wielded maximum power. If you could get passed how he had robbed widows and orphans, thrown workers into the gutter, stolen their pensions, raided the treasury, bankrupted the nation, used the Constitution to wipe himself clean, crippled democracy, and reduced untold millions to abject slavery, the smartest guy in the room wasn't such a bad guy.

Standing behind him I leaned over his shoulder and wrapped my arms around his neck and snuggled cheek to cheek in order to share the vision he saw flickering from the screen.

"It looks like your brother was sent to a field research center."

In response to the information my fingers curled into fists I gently rapped against Master's chest. His skin smelled like musky leather and overnight his face had grown course with pesky stubble.

"He's still alive," I whispered, doing my best to squeeze back tears and then failing.

"He's a smart guy, your brother. Who did he piss off to get transferred to that kind of outpost?"

I swallowed my tears, breathed out a laugh, hiccoughed in some air, replied, "He has a problem with authority."

In the dim gloom of the Master's study I watched with bleary vision the best I could as Hater's information disappeared and a new search screen opened.

"Let's find out what your sister's status is," he said, and with a flick of his finger he rolled the bones again.

Forcing my fists open through force of will I messaged his pectorals enough to encourage him in his fact-finding mission without distracting him from it. I was not so foolish and naïve to believe he acted out of any sense of altruism. He'd taken a fancy to me, for this evening at least. Then too he was still a little high. Mostly he seemed to be enjoying the hunt as he navigated from screen to screen, each time ascending to a new security level and passing through portal after portal of restricted access. I'd never seen a man penetrate so many security points. Red to green. Red to green. Access granted. Access granted. Ultimately he was confidant I'd return to giving him satisfaction. As a power monger he coveted a secret wish he thought I didn't know about, when I knew all about power as an aphrodisiac.

For a man who could order up satisfaction five times a day and never see the same pair of lips twice well he knew all oral sex is not created equally. I heard this conversation late at night in The Club often enough I ought to remember the logic. To the average wage slave who never gets satisfaction oral sex of any kind feels like a minor miracle, and he's so busy thanking his lucky stars it never occurs to him there could be such a thing as bad head. Whereas your high-level power broker is a man of thorough experience, a fellatio connoisseur, who over time begins to take mental notes on all the subtleties and nuances possible. Until issues of technique become mundane and of secondary importance to the real turn on: psychological motivation. What level of enthusiasm can one realistically expect from a fluffer? Money, payment for services, yields only a perfunctory measure of esprit de corps. The introduction of drugs and alcohol immediately bar the performance from serious consideration. These powerful men are purists, after all. Not surprisingly love fails to garner the gold cup because it creates a dreamy eyed romanticism these patricians abhor as overly sentimental and entirely too personal. No, the mental state producing the highest-grade oral sex is gratitude. To have a woman perform the deed while her eyes plead 'thank you' is the ultimate thrill, rather like a modern-day version of kissing the rod. In a properly run harem the girls do in fact compete to pleasure the Master and often times are grateful for the privilege. I didn't invent the world we live in. I just survive.

My prurient musings were interrupted when a mug shot of Rachel flashed onto the screen. The attitude of a soaking-wet kitty cat drew her lineaments down into a terrible scowl. I knew what mood this expression portended well enough to run at the sight of it. I felt sorry for the photographer behind the camera taking that picture. I wondered how he might have fared.

"Apparently, your sister was arrested and deported."

"On what charge?" I gasped.

"Termination of pregnancy. She had an abortion. So they shoved her outside the wall."

"Is she still alive?"

As if in symbolic answer to my question the Master abruptly closed the window, popping the screen to black.

"I can't say for sure. They don't keep records on the other side. She was alive six months ago. Since then who knows? Can't tell you any more. Don't worry. People exaggerate the dangers on the other side of the wall for propaganda purposes. I mean, don't get me wrong, it can be very violent and lawless over there. But it's been that way forever. They must like it that way if they've allowed it to go on this long. So getting pushed to the outside isn't a death sentence, necessarily. Powerful men on the other side value a beautiful woman as much as we do. But hey, didn't someone promise to put on a happy face from now on if I found some information?"

He poured the last of the bottle of champagne into his glass.

"I don't understand how such a thing could have happened to her. She became the mistress of a very powerful man, a Senator."

"Oh really? Which one? I wonder if he's in my stable; if he is, he's been a very dirty boy."

The Master stood up and taking me by the hand led me in my puzzled state across the room to an orgy sofa covered with a gorgeous mink blanket exhilarating as it contacted and caressed my naked flesh.

"I wonder what went wrong," I said, staring at the ceiling.

The Master lay on his side next to me and stroked my arm.

"If the old buzzard made her pregnant, he probably ditched her. A man with a high-power ranking can hardly be blamed if a woman of low morals seduced him. How do you think that makes a man feel? A woman is either wife and mother, or a whore. You know there's no in-between. If a whore gets pregnant you can hardly blame the man. In these cases it's always the woman's fault. In every case they turn out to be gold diggers. If she'd been a proper lady she would have kept her knees together. Producing a bastard is bad enough. Having an abortion is unthinkable. Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot it was your sister."

The Master had apparently abandoned any hope of gratitude because he forced me onto my stomach face down and then took me as though I were a boy.
Chapter 15

When I regained consciousness sometime later the once crackling fire had subsided into murmuring coals. Shadows veiled the bookcases lined with many fine crystal appointments and the leather chairs and couches surrounding the place where we lay. Breathing deeply Master lay unconscious splayed on his back. In his right hand he held himself in a protective grip. Even a captain of industry must sometime cradle his pud. Had he been awake I'm sure he would have felt chagrined and let go his grip immediately.

For a brief moment I was disconcerted because the room suddenly felt very familiar whereas a moment before it had all seemed so strange. Jolted into focus I rolled onto panther paws without waking the sleeper beside me and I crept on all fours off the mink rug and onto the hardwood floor passing stealthily between a couch and a chair both deep burgundy in color and did not stop until I reached a bottom cupboard door with a bronze handle I deftly took hold of and pulled with one determined tug sharp enough to pop the door wide open. My Attention toggled between holding my every atom perfectly still in the silence and contemplating the edges of my leather gear neatly folded and tucked away behind a stack of children's games.

I scooted onto my knees, sat back on my hams, and reached in with both hands to deliver from their confines my long ago sequestered togs. In no time at all I had slipped silently into my gear, up to and including my designer bootlaces.

On my hands and knees I crept forward keeping to the perimeter of the room submerged in shadows. Reaching the office doorway I rose to my feet and slipped out undetected, and escaped. My leather pants felt tight around the waist and I realize in my time at Casa Contente I had developed a sexy girlie belly, the result of too much rich food and lounging. I searched my own pockets and discovered Hater's all-purpose laser torch. Yet as I traversed the length of soundless carpeted hallways under the watchful eyes of countless family portraits I flicked the go switch repeatedly without any success in igniting the beam. When I opened the battery compartment to inspect the charge the battery felt corroded and slick wetting my fingertips giving me pause. How long had I sojourned in this pleasure garden? How much time had elapsed while we frolicked in our masquerade?

Pointing the laser down I let the batteries slide out and bounce on the carpeting. On a nearby drape I wiped the mild acid from my fingers. The pointer I slid into a side pocket.

Stumbling by chance onto a landing I took the adjacent stairs down a flight and exploring a connecting hallway located the main ballroom.

Most of the revelers had crawled off to their appointed guest rooms for the night. Some still lay where they fell, including the object of my desire, Sweet Nadezhda. By sliding the dog masque from her head I woke her by slow degrees.

She sat up, her hair as badly tousled as her sleepy perceptions.

"I tink you know, Nika, sometime I very sleepy." With the back of her hand she scratched her scalp and smart as a whip slapped the dog visor out of my hand. "And I not happy for stupid dog face neither."

I did my best to shush her while she continued pouting. As I lifted and guided her to her feet she groaned and whimpered exhibiting the greatest reluctance to follow my lead. I grabbed her hand in the passion clasp and steadfastly dragged her along behind me. As soon as she followed willingly I dropped her hand.

"Where you get nice clothes, Nika? You dominatrix now?"

"No", I whispered fiercely, "and keep your voice down."

"Shh! Sorry. You look so fancy I can tell."

Taking her by the hand again I drew her after me through the predawn silence. The hallways were empty, devoid even of security personnel who had been banished to form a perimeter outside for blocking prying eyes, including their own security soldiers, from witnessing firsthand the evening's debauchery. In their absence Nadezhda and I proceeded unchallenged through the cavernous old mansion and arrived finally in the high-ceilinged costume staging area. Rifling through several armoires I found not only costumes for Nastya but also a hand tote bag to carry them in (only later did I realize I had actually swiped a very versatile and valuable voluminous bag). For the time being I chose to keep her naked, a slave's attire more becoming and hopefully more distracting.

For the sake of expediency and to preclude any noisome protestations on her part I did slip a leather thong binding her wrists and drew them to fasten her arms behind her. I was going to shackle her ankles as well stopping short of linking them with either chain or spanner since mobility might become a major issue in making our escape. So I stowed those items in our travel bag for later. Between her pristine white teeth I stuffed a ball gag small enough to allow for free breathing while also effectively silencing her, and lastly affixed a diamond studded dog collar clipped to the attendant leash, eliciting a low groan of chagrin over a repeat of her assigned role in the previous night's menagerie. To assuage her fears I popped open a can of black face paint and deftly swiped four straight lines radiating from her nose, the tip of which I blacked with a circular dot.

"Look in the mirror. You're not a doggy anymore; you're a pretty kitty. Now stop whimpering."

Taking up a yard-long riding croup with a flat six-inch tongue I applied it smartly to her impudent backside, patty-wack, driving her shuffling forward as far as an oval mirror hanging on the wall wherein she could reflect upon her newly whiskered visage. Nadezhda guffawed from pleasure, sending a tendril of clear sweet drool sluicing from a corner of her insolent mouth, splashing over her nipples and covering them with slick adornment. She affected to swallow with difficulty, though the ball-gag plugging her delectable maw lodged there neither too large for her to breath easily nor drawn too tightly to depress her tongue from wiggling. Another slip-slap of my long leather tongue and her backside glowed pink, propelling her forward once more.

Driving an amenable slave before you is always preferable to dragging her reluctantly behind. Beneath the ministrations of the leather croup Nadezhda proved a pliant companion, and in tandem we reached the grand foyer where in one of the porticoes on a table placed near a large bay window flaming candles burned as a signal warning the security forces outside to maintain their distance. Nadezhda looked on in fascinated horror as my whip nudged the candelabra closer and closer still into forced contact with the sheer silk curtains. Kisses ensued, the guttering flames licking the underside of the hem liberating the flames from the bondage of the candles and drunk with freedom scampering up the length of the sheer white fabric clear to the inflammable ceiling.

Nastya whimpered in feral fear at the burgeoning conflagration. I responded with two light taps, not a proper remonstrance compared to the four sporty red whiskers imprinted on her dimpled bottom matching the stripes I had previously painted on her face. In this fashion a kind of Janus cat presented her many whiskers to the early morning chill as we stepped outside.

Once beyond the massive entryway doors I eyeballed the first pair of security guards standing on the gravel roundabout some twenty yards distant from where we stood poised in opposition on the massive marble porch. Whatever threat they were expecting, they weren't expecting us. Instinctively, Nadezhda cast down her gaze. A couple of taps from me absolved her of all responsibility. If security had thought to remove her ball gag and question her directly I have no doubt she would have turned state's evidence against me on the spot.

As events unfolded their bulging eyes were very quickly diverted from the spectacle of Miss Nasty's naked body to the large bay window behind us imploding and unleashing flames up the outer wall of the manor.

The younger of the two troopers, packed tightly into his dungarees, ejaculated a metaphysical cry of disbelief and despair, rushing toward the burning mansion. The older guard recovered his wits quickly and responded with more savvy. His look of disbelief transformed into hostile suspicion as he swung his fate face towards the two of us. Phony tears sprouted from Nadezhda's eyes, and although her muffled words remained unintelligible her tone conveyed an unmistakable protest of innocence. For the sake of contrast, I mimicked the younger guard:

"Oh my! How utterly random!" I cried, batting my eyes in astonishment.

Not the least bit convinced the mean older guy stabbed his puffy white finger at my nose and commanded, "You stay put, right here!"

"Of course," I replied. Then I looked toward the fire. "How terrible. How could that have happened?" I shook my head in dejection at the chaotic nature of the universe wherein we find ourselves trapped, a feeling which I may not have been experiencing in the moment but had felt often enough in the past to present to him as a passable counterfeit. Perhaps in this one instance I was a marauding agent of random destruction myself. Hello universe.

In response the guard glared at me and then he stalked towards the flames. I waited, not at all sure of my timing. Sure enough, the cad, the bounder, he flipped about once more to make sure we hadn't tried to escape.

The very likeness of a damsel in distress I pressed my palms to my cheeks and squealed in horror as though a mouse had run under my chair. In answer to my melodramatic charade another explosion blew the glass from the next window over and the flames burst forth, now grown and expanded into a massive beast. The security guard flinched into a defensive posture, rounding his shoulders as though to stopper his ears.

"Do something!" I yelled at him, and his whole countenance towards me changed. Suddenly we were on the same team, and he took my terror at face value, turning and charging into the burning building. My hero.

I popped the ball gag from Nadezhda's mouth and said, "Giddy-up, Horsey," slapping her several times on the dimples punctuating her haunches.

Forgetting the raging fire in a trice she yelped with hilarity, but then said with perfect seriousness, "I not horsey, I kitty cat."

"Get a move on, Kitty-Nastya. Time for us to create a sphere of deniability."

"Oh! I don't know about it."

"Luckily for us both, I do. Now move it, kitty-cat. Move forward."

Obediently, she sauntered beside me and I grasped her by the scruff of the neck as we perambulated down the long driveway leading to the entrance.

We trod a path constructed of fine marble, a modern day Appian Way. Behind our fleeing figures the flames brightened into full luminosity. More security troops clad in their Black Death battle armor emerged from their secret lairs ensconced in the surrounding woods. Jogging, trotting, their facial expressions draped limply over their cheek bones in despair at the unmistakable failure of their vigilance symbolized by the fiery inferno that used to be their Master's mansion.

Where the sumptuous marble ended under our feet thick white gravel continued, with Nature trimmed and waxed and kept at bay several yards on either side. A long time ago someone hacked this well-manicured corridor through an evergreen forest growing just the right height and creating walks on either side leaving only a claustrophobic view of the pink and purple sky. Nadezhda and I were beyond the ornamental gates, now unmanned. The guard huts were abandoned. I didn't know if anyone still kept their post at the other end of the remote cameras.

The corridor carved through the forest continued a long way before disappearing around a curve to the right. From this direction three sinister black vehicles barreled into view: two with machine gun turrets and the third a sedan I knew carried a passenger with a license for torturing people to death.

In reaction I took hold of Nadezhda and spun us both around facing the direction of the fire. Applying pressure with my hand I forced her head upon my shoulder. She squirmed and resisted until I whispered, "Relax! Pretend like your sad."

Why I thought it necessary to whisper fiercely I really cannot say in retrospect. Trying to be sly, I suppose. The security detail dispatched from the outer gate scarcely could have heard me nor taken the time to appreciate our pantomime so headlong they hurtled passed us, scattering other inmates wandering about on the marble drive in such a way the scene resembled a break from a mental institution. Which I think also explains why we went unnoticed. We looked like the one pair of crazies scattered the farthest. Plus the mansion burned like the rising sun, rosy palm and her five sisters blazing forth from the dewy East.

Running would have been foolish. We walked. Lazily I employed the whip. Anyone seeing us would have assumed a domina training her recalcitrant slave. To quell my fear and apprehension I indulged in a daydream about the famous Stoics, denying the importance of circumstance. Then I imagined myself as a Cynic living naked in a wooden barrel. That pose felt a little too austere and unsatisfying. So I imagined Nadezhda naked in the barrel with me, and transformed the barrel from wood to unbreakable glass, and filed to the plashy brim with bubbling champagne and a riot of fresh strawberries. Bringing me round to our escape from the Epicurean garden, for I pledged someday to cultivate a garden of my own. Fueled by these lewd imaginings one foot plodded beyond the other as we rounded the curve where immediately we caught sight of the main entrance guardhouse, manned by two guards degraded in spirit from having missed all the action underway at the main house. A drum and fife corps played in my head helping my knees to cease quaking and march in time.

"Hail, Comrades," I cried.

"What's good about it?" A wizened and petulant old sod retorted. Beside him his companion was but a pup in comparison. Before we arrived their attention fixated on the orange glow writhing above the treetops. Now the youth's attention lay rapt upon the wiggling form of Nadezhda; while the older man's attention dare not stray from the fire lest his gaze alight on my delicious companion. Most the guards knew what hijinx Master organized without ever catching a privileged glimpse themselves or snapping a pixel as proof positive.

In order to avoid the uncertainty of Nadezhda ad-libbing, I'd replaced the ball gag and tightened the strap. Maybe the tired old man kept a wife wearing dilapidated slippers, slacks and a white blouse with a floral print waiting for him back at the flat, or maybe he was a disintegrating old bachelor. The kid's acne covered face turned purple around the edges. Clearly the boy was still a virgin. Even with Nastya standing naked before him he would not have known how to begin, scanning every inch of her world-class body and storing the images for whacking off later that night before bedtime. These two clowns would have been low on any clan's totem pole.

The geezer finally squeezed his eyes shut and turned away with such evident inner tension he looked like he was struggling against gale force winds. He stood with his back to us, hands on hips, head bowed, as he spoke:

"Any idea how things are going up near the Main House?"

"Great huge fire," I said. "The Main House is going up in flames."

"How'd it start?"

"Faulty wiring."

"Figures."

"Yes," I intoned, as though casting a spell, "it does figure. It's quite a mess. By the way, I don't suppose you have any spare batteries, do you? For a gadget like this one?"

I produced Mr. Hater's laser from my jacket pocket and rolled it back and forth across my open palm.

The old man turned around, trying not to catch sight of Nadezhda in her blinding glory. Poor old pillar of salt saw her in spite of himself and winced.

"Let me see that thing," he said, desperate for an object upon which to fix his attention. Normally even an old guy would sneak a peek. Not this honorable old codger. He wanted no part of Venus on the half shell strapped to the end of my leather tether. If he thought we were trouble then he possessed a remarkable wisdom. The OG spoke with a gust of breath formerly trapped behind his sternum. "Sure, we got batteries. All kinds."

Relieved by the opportunity to do something constructive because he couldn't wait to escape proximity to Nastya the old guy had taken several steps towards the guardhouse before he paused. I waited, watching him, expecting it might occur to him to ask a few questions about us first. He stood still for so long I became puzzled and couldn't divine what arrested his progress. He lolled his head around as a means of popping the vertebrae in his neck. The poor guy could neither speak nor make eye contact. Without the words how could he articulate his need for me to leave the naked slave behind?

I passed the leash and whip to dim boy and said, "If she strains on the leash, tap her a couple of times on her bottom. Not hard, mind you," and I thrust a warning finger into his beaming face to get his attention and lowered my voice, as I repeated, "not hard."

To Nastya I said, "You'll be fine. Just don't move. I'll be back before you know it," and I left her tethered to a mannish boy with a boner clearly rising inside his Dark Matter uniform.

Meanwhile the Gatekeeper and I entered the guardhouse, which turned out to be more spacious than it appeared from outside. A command platform raised two steps from the entranceway where we stood. A bulletproof window wrapped around the front of the pillbox providing a panoramic view encompassing the connecting road in both directions. Along the base of the window stretched a broad control panel equipped with buttons, dials, and monitors, enough for a transmitting station. Hater would have known what to make of that fancy electronic gear. I had scarce time to notice any other details because the Gatekeeper spoke:

"C'mon this way," as he removed his bludgeon and slapped it into a clasp on the wall.

My shoulders drooped as I followed this old dude to a storage room located down a hallway in back where he proceeded to do me a solid. He had obviously mistaken me for someone important. With expert ease he yanked a large jangle of keys fastened by a retractable safety wire to his utility belt. He thumbed through the bunch of keys until he located the right one and slid it into the lock. The door swung wide and as he let go the key the whole bunch zipped sharply tight against his belt.

I followed the old security guard into a storage room lighted by a glowing plastic circle above our heads. Shelves, fastened to the walls, were laden with all types of cans, canisters and boxes.

"Here, let me see your device for a jiffy," the old man said, extending his palm without looking at me. I noticed the gray hair curling from his ears, his round swollen face and purple mottled nose. He was one of those guys who had a knack for focusing on a minute problem and sticking with it until he furnished a workable solution. If it had been me in his place I would have stood there for far too long tripping on the bounty crowding the shelves in that claustrophobic little room.

I retrieved the laser from my coat pocket again and handed it over to him, saying, "Here you go."

He brought the torch round till it was underneath his nose where he peered at it through his bifocals. Then he extended it to nearly arm's length before pulling it near again. Finally settling on the proper viewing distance he inspected the gadget, rolling and turning it between his fingers.

"This here's a nice one, fancy kind," he pronounced. "A real dandy."

"A friend gave it to me," I said, and a thrill ran through me, I realized, because for the first time in a long time I'd actually spoken the truth.

"Your friend handed you a quality item." He peered at me sideways before asking, "Boyfriend, I suppose?"

"Yes, he's my boyfriend. I'm pretty sure he's going to propose marriage any day now. At least, if he knows what is good for him he will." And I was right back to lying.

"He'd be a damn fool not to, pretty young thing like you."

I didn't acknowledge the compliment. You never know where that kind of comment might lead, and so the words hung in mid-air and fell to the floor. Without any further remarks he raised one hand towards the shelves as if in benediction and trailed his fingertips, caressing several rows of boxes until alighting on the special one he was looking for. Watching him fumble forth two brand new Silver Fish caught my lungs at the top and for a startled instant pinched off my airflow. To a denizen like me we were standing in a cave brimming with pirate's treasure.

No sooner had he loaded my device and tested it successfully then a wounded wail arose from a siren, distant but rapidly approaching.

When the old boy handed me my torch he became momentarily mesmerized, peering, the way old people do sometimes, perplexed with uncertainty, over the rims of his bifocals. We stood frozen for a few moments while I stared into his pendulous blue eyes.

I broke the spell, saying, "Better go see what the ruckus is about."

How it suddenly became my job to nudge him into action I don't know. He surprised me by shoving the box of batteries into my hands and exiting the room without waiting for me to follow him. Left alone I safely stowed my torch and filled my pockets with batteries, carefully replacing the empty box. I couldn't help pilfering several medical kits as well, full of all kinds of goodies. I also grabbed several meal packets, and a can of petrolean. I didn't see any of the kind of oil burning lamps to go with it, but I did see lighters with cool eagle icons on them so I did help myself to one of those. Considering the solid the old man had done me I limited myself to pilfering only what I really might need. Given the opportunity I stole as many supplies as I could. On the way out I grabbed a handgun off the wall, really pushing it. Writing this down I feel better about my dishonesty.

By the time I caught up with him the approaching fire truck had caught its breath and cut loose with another deafening wail.

Poor Nadezhda stood at the end of her tether right where I had left her. Her temporary guardian gripped the leash with white knuckled sincerity, gently brushing her hip with the crop's stiff leather tongue.

Retrieving the leash and the whip required certain hand strength and a wrenching movement on my part. Most young men, faced with Nadezhda's beauty, would have been willing to sacrifice the sun and the moon, let alone their crummy minimum wage job, for the sake of basking in her smile.

"Duty calls," I said, as though the piercing decibels weren't reminder enough. Guarding the entrance to an estate no one would dare attack, assuming they even knew where to find it, had lost its value for poor Timmy.

I had to take the lust struck lad forcibly by the shoulders, spin him around, and shove him toward the entrance side of the guardhouse. His whole body stiffened in surprise and shock. I believe he remained unaware of the fire engine despite its squall, Nadezhda's beauty had entranced him so. In real life I'd never seen one of those fire truck contraptions. If a building caught fire in the zone the structure burned to the ground. People gathered to watch without some fancy machine rolling to the rescue. I guess it's true what they say: you get what you pay for.

Then I remembered the library, and attempting to suppress that bad memory I put my arm around Nadezhda, for the wailing red dragon making the wide turn towards the entrance shook her, visibly. I escorted her away from the excitement, and we exited through the open and unguarded gateway.

Chapter 16

Beneath the nauseous pink sky the road unrolled in a dirty gray and black swath bordered on either side by solid swales of manicured green grass. Trees of immense stature brooded with the wisdom of a thousand seasonal rings, groaning and creaking as their pointy tops weaved in stately time.

I still had my hand on Nadezhda's shoulder when I figured we had put enough distance between ourselves and the guard shack to cross the road and plunge for cover into the forest primeval. Luscious ferns and bright-eyed wild flowers greeted our arrival. Leaving behind the claustrophobia in the slave's quarters and the violence of the fire we penetrated deep into the heart of nature and found ourselves immersed up to our ears in sultry silence. I must admit I felt a certain throb to be free in the out of doors and yet sequestered with my darling love slave safe from prying eyes. No playground for earthly delights exists more conducive to love than privacy and freedom.

After hiking for most of the day eventually we had to stop for the night to get some rest. We happened across a small clearing and I unpacked several of the blankets I had stolen from the mansion and laid them out on the forest floor. Crushing the natural spearmint growing there perfumed the air. Hater's torch, fueled by fresh batteries, stood on end and provided a perfect hologram of a campfire.

Nadezhda lay on her side with her feet tucked away behind her and propped on one stiff arm. She glared at me in silent reproach; I'm sure not because I lit the house on fire with everyone asleep inside. Her unhappiness with me stemmed more from our discommodious surroundings, the strangeness, the novelty itself of bedding down outside and the swap she had unwittingly chosen for the high-class luxury life of a harem girl to a homeless vagabond possibly hunted by the law.

To forestall the tears gathering pendulous in her downcast eyes I conducted a quick search of the medical kits and located therein two ampules containing generous doses of Euphoria. Next to the crackling campfire I joined my naked slave girl side by side and popped the safety cap and jabbed the spike into the meat of her thigh. After all, how much suffering could a pleasure model be expected to endure? I popped the cap on the second phial and took the plunge as well. Nadezhda's protestations subsided into coos and sighs of soft pleasure as she surrendered onto her back. As I sank into the spell along with her the thought flitted through my mind I should have undressed first because the syrup quickly incapacitated me. In retrospect a whole one was probably too much. We would have done much better to share one between us. Nature, who always buggers the one who loves her, interceded, and with lovely green tentacles descending from the limbs above undressed us both and proceeded to have their way with Nadezhda and me. Those probing tubers searched and located our most private places, encircling, squeezing, jabbing, penetrating, and at one point lifting us wholly off the ground. Suspended by ankles and wrists, free from the constraints imposed by gravity, we locked into that lusty oh yes hush. Shame and guilt washed away and, in its place, vibrated a rush of pure pleasure. We watched each other ravished by those long hard tentacles. The trees were pink and purple spires and the stars so many countless approving celestial eyes flashing like a crowd of cameras recording intensely personal emotions in a very public way.

Chapter 17

In the morning Rosy Palm and her five sisters ascended the heavens igniting the poisonous paisley dawn. Flat slats of sunlight thrust through the evergreens and shoan in geometric prisms glinting golden above our heads. The amorous vines from the night before had shrunk until their tubers hung limply, barely discernable. As I too lay limply I pondered whether the unutterable pleasure from the night before lay more in the realm of fact or fiction.

My thoughts turned to Nadezhda asleep beside me and how wantonly I had plucked her from safe and comfortable servitude. Raised an illiterate within the harem she had no way of knowing in advance how one fatal day in the future her services would no longer be required. For now, in the flower of youth, she flourished as the supreme object of desire. The Powers That Be had cultivated her beauty as a symbol of their material power, proof the law did not apply to them. At the first indications Time was taking its toll they would just as powerfully and callously extirpate her from the garden of delights and grind her bones to make their bread. Princess herself awakening interrupted these morbid reflections.

With peevishness she stirred and stretched against all sensations unpleasant. The dull flat green of her morning eyes stirred forth a sparkling sentience, and a giddy residual from the previous night's pleasure curled her opulent lips into a smile. Inches away from her though I was, she held no thoughts for me, and yet happy for the chance I observed the play of fancy upon fancy as she took notice of the natural splendor surrounding here. Her childlike wonder caused my heart to ache. Mostly in joy but also with a pang of loss, of my freedom, I suppose, and the ensuing drag of an awful responsibility weighing upon my spirit.

She appeared to speak to the treetops when she said, "You drag me to trees, but no think you gots feed me. In morning time, you know, some people they likes food they eat."

In silent response I licked the salt from her neck and peppered her lips with kisses. Knowing better than to delve my tongue into her morning mouth I plucked a nearby mint sprig and we nibbled like shorn lambs at the refreshing herb and then our tongues did penetrate and comingle, allow me to assure you, and only a despairing whisper escaped her lips as she accommodated my pelvic weight between her legs and the ensuing pushing rubbing and humping elicited sighs and moans of pleasure. Never before had two earthly creatures subsided more earnestly into feeling and flesh.

Afterwards a feeling akin to 'we ought to be on the move' rose into my chest in the form persistent worry always takes when building towards anxiety. My previous rationales had sprung from the belief that if we were going to be hunted as arsonists then the posse commitatus would have caught up to us by now. Wax candles left unattended catching the curtains on fire must not have suggested deliberation to investigators. Carelessness and accident. No definite number how many were immolated. Several missing. Tight lid on security. What does a burned corpse wearing a pig mask look like? I hoped nobody was seriously hurt. Usually in a revolution the peasants take it in the belly first. Here the plutocrats paid for it up front. I've done stuff in my life I'm not proud of. You be the judge.

So considering the empty choir quietness surrounding us we had no immediate need to panic. Rather than completely succumbing to my usual fatalism I obeyed the biological urge to preserve the species at all costs. I had no demonstrable reason to stay alive other than the thin wisdom living beats dying.

Preserving Nadezhda gave me a reason to be. Whatever she was going to do next would be worth sticking around for. Maybe some penis out there in the Deadland came attached to a man not entirely repulsive, and maybe he would allow me to borrow his junk long enough to inject a baby inside her. Everyone says the human race is on the downhill turn. On the other hand, what with nuclear meltdown, the legacy of gas and oil pollution, lack of clean drinking water, mercury poisoning, global warming, the rise in infant mortality, crop failure, pestilence, rising oceans, sexually transmitted diseases, brain tumors from holding a compod against your ear, mutating strains of viruses resistant to drugs, medications in the water supply, drugs and addiction, the war on said drugs, gang violence, escalating violence, war, genocide, pornography, masturbation, abortion, loss of reproductive rights, the violent deportation of millions, melting ice caps, a continent of floating plastic despumating in the ocean, and Corporate usurpation of Democracy, I remained hopeful.

Chapter 18

Into my voluminous bag I packed our few belongings and removed the clothing I had commandeered for Nastya. I didn't ask her if there had ever been a time in her short sweet slave hood when she had been allowed to wear clothing. If my guess was correct they had brought her up 'a natural' as they say. Sequestered since birth from any shame and guilt culture, she experienced no qualms about sexuality, not hers nor anybody else's, and accepted as a given the nutritious food, choreographed exercise, and oils and unguent pampering her exquisite body.

By the time my concern finally emerged the moment had passed for worrying about whether or not Nastya could adapt or not to life on the road. Now me, I'm a slave, same as her, but not a natural. They contracted me later in life. So I don't put on any airs about anything. I made the choice for freedom. A penurious freedom is better than the most opulent slavery. Someday I'll have that tattooed on my ass. For now let it stand in swirls of black pigment on the white parchment you hold in your hands.

Her celestial green eyes noticed the costume stacked on top of the voluminous bag. Indulging my urge towards giving an Ovidian makeover session I sculpted her with gentle hands to stand up straight. She understood the importance of good posture, one of the few... what you might call... concepts included in her education. Poise. Body language. The aesthetic of positioning your naked body for maximal enjoyment, I'm sure they didn't call it that in so many words. What I'm trying to say is whenever she moved she moved gracefully.

As I knelt at her feet the first article of leather clothing bequeathed on the Master's behalf slid smoothly upward growing ever more taught and snug right up to the final tuck and roll. Startled to see herself thus arrayed and ashamed to be no longer naked she tried to peel off her new panties. Staying those modest hands, I next shook the shorts, a smart snap, the signal for her to step into the leg holes. To steady herself she pressed her hand upon my head and toed her way in as I pulled them up over her calves and thighs and shimmied them around her hips. In support of her heaving bosoms I slipped a couple of sports bras up her arms and over her head, not a moment too soon. Intercepting her hands once again I spun her about purely as a precautionary measure. As I slowly spun her back around again Nadezhda protested:

"I girl good am. You not make bad girl me with nice clothes. I good girl. I no wear clothes."

Grabbing her by the shoulders I gave her one loving shake, and said, "Listen to me, Nastya. You're no longer a slave. Yesterday, I freed you. The Master may be dead now. So you're coming with me."

"You kill heem," Nastya said, with the awful reproach of a tattletale child. "You big fire make and whoosh!"

"We don't know that for sure," I countered, averting my eyes. "Maybe he woke up in time. Maybe they all woke up and got out, and no one was hurt. Who knows? The point is, you're not a slave anymore. From now on, you wear clothes."

"And I get caught? What ah-huh?

"Blame it all on me."

"You bet your bottom I say who dose a ting."

"I have no problem with that. If we get caught, I'll take full responsibility for the fire, the clothes, everything."

"Cuz we no get caught. You know dis. Other kind, you not make promise."

"How'd you get so smart all of a sudden? You're just a kid."

"I no little girl. I grown woman."

I didn't contest her newfound sense of identity. Instead I slipped pure white lace socks over her painted nails and smooth heel and finely turned ankle and shod her with a pair of clodhopper men's leather boots. Obsession. Fetish. I felt on the verge of fainting. After standing up she spent a moment admiring herself and flexing her limbs within those strange new constraints.

"I'm sorry I tore you into freedom," I said.

She stopped admiring herself and replied, "Eez okay. Quick time I be sad and lonely, like all free peoples."

My powers of intuition failed me in regards to the machinations evidently at work behind her glazed eyes. Then the vision sank from sight and she resurfaced, approaching quite close and pressed her thumbs against my inner elbows, bussed my cheek, and whispered, "Nobody never gives to me bery nice clothes. I be the real lady now."

"Better than that," I said, "You're a real women."

She countered, "Lady is fine woman."

An argument ensued until we finished packing and were Oscar Mike. We moved with economy, and the forest terminated much sooner than I expected.

Chapter 19

Having been denuded everywhere else those old growth trees represented the last of their kind, and deceptively few of them remained, only enough to create the illusion for the Master all was well in the darkening world. Standing on his balcony he could see nothing but trees for seemingly miles in every direction. What he did not want to see, just beyond the borders of his domain, lay environmental catastrophe, the result of unregulated clear cutting.

An undulating sea of stumps and straggling foliage rotted in the sun. I didn't feel safe crossing a Deadland morass of that magnitude. These devastated acres appealed to every nasty form of mutant creature, not to mention irradiated insects. Before the evolution of Man, Nature consisted primarily of larger organisms devouring smaller ones, or a swarm of smaller ones desiccating a larger one, and although the mayhem was random and chaotic a system of checks and balances emerged and anomalies were quickly extinguished. Whereas in this so-called apocalyptic age developmental aberrations were the rule rather than the exception, and I saw the most hideous sights emerging in the animal kingdom. Some poor mammal so distorted by birth defects evolution was effectively short-circuited.

Honestly I cannot tell you what kind of a creature bellowed as it hobbled towards us. Two heads, one bulgy eyed, the other with blind coffee creamer eyes; one foreleg shriveled, a hindquarter swollen, the healthier two limbs burdened with dragging the mass of living carcass along. On the uneven surface of the chewed up Deadland the shriveled forelock would sometimes find purchase on a mound of dirt or a pile of debris and then the hoof instinctively scrabbled to pull its own weight.

At the first sight of this grotesque aberration Nadezhda sidestepped behind me for protection, closed her eyes to shield her sight from such a monstrosity, and leaned her cheek against my nape for emotional sustenance. Neither one of us stood in any immediate danger, but that poor creature was hideous.

The sufferer bellowed horribly and was in obvious distress. The cause of the mutant's fear appeared a few steps behind. I suppose one would have to say, in pursuit, hobbling along on bowled rickety legs, tongue lolling, rib cage pressing through a moth eaten hide, and tail a sleek pink whip.

The two headed beast exhausted its last resource of energy and collapsed onto its side. The shriveled forelock waved helplessly in the air before the pathetic creature, following a few sharp convulsions, subsided into death. The ostensible predator tippy-toed toward its prey, now deceased, and gave a few rueful sniffs. I didn't expect a carnivore would eat something even freshly dead. Apparently some kind of natural five second rule was in effect because the hunter took ahold of the quarry by one of its fully formed limbs and attempted to drag it an inch or two. It was at this time I realized the beast had no teeth. All it could manage to do was ineffectually gum its prey before collapsing into the dirt itself and raise a ring of dust. I would have to search my memory for a natural display more pathetic.

Under the impetus of their instinctual pantomime both animals had blindly rushed into the environs of a fire ant mound. For the already dead mutant the horror had ended. For the live one, age crippled and immobile, the swarming of mandible nightmares would ensue soon enough. A spectacle I recoiled from, and Nastya followed, dutifully.

In skirting the ruined clear cut area we followed the edge of the tree line to where it intersected with what must have been a river once but was now more like an open sewer full of black and orange drainage from some toxic enterprise up stream. Orange slime coated the whole bed of the former river, the stench smelled like sucking on a well-travelled copper penny. We followed the effluence downstream, staying close enough to keep our bearings while maintaining a safe distance from that stench which could not be healthy for the lungs and brain. Taking Nastya by the hand in a passion clasp I plodded forward along a precarious seam running through the toxic Wasteland. At a certain advance we reached some dead natural gas wells. Here I very nearly fell into despair knowing the poisons rampant in our immediate surroundings.

Reaching into my voluminous bag I retrieved two respirators, the quality kind with face shields. After strapping one to Nastya's head and the other to my own and cinching them tight we proceeded downstream in search of our little slice of the dream. My breathing apparatus collapsed and puffed for each breath I drew sustaining each daring step.

The toxic stream, the fracked earth, abandoned drills, empty storage units, presented equal and unknown dangers. These wells usually connected to main roads and I judged that possibility more expedient towards our survival than floundering about in a toxic metal forest. Nevertheless we circumvented the wells as best we could, knowing they packed a toxic wallop. Sure enough, dirt roads appeared scratched into the hardscrabble surface at the far end of the natural gas death zone. We chose one, and path lead unto path until we reached a dilapidated chain link fence and rusted 'death immanent' warning signs.

From there we followed a sunken asphalt road crumbling in slow decay. When we were far enough away, well removed by several bald hillocks, I removed our respirators and returned them to my voluminous bag.

Not really complaining, more like a simple statement of fact, Nastya said, "I don' like dis ting on face."

"No, Sweet pea, I know you don't. I don't either. But those were some bad areas we were passing through back there."

"I don' like no bad areas."

"No, I know you don't. Let's keep moving and leave them far behind us."

Nastya tacitly nodded and we set ourselves in motion once again.

To my surprise, she said, "I like dis walking around."

"You like the walking around?"

"Of course. Is what I say. The walk I like. These places: some ugly, some pretty. But is freedom, yes?"

"Yes, it is. It's freedom. I didn't think you were noticing the landscape. You've been walking with your head bowed the entire time."

"I like watch dis pretty new boots do der walking."

Something stirred for me as well at the sight of those black leather boots enhancing her finely turned ankles.

Usually Nastya deplored silences. Poor soul feared being trapped by her own thoughts. I remarked the setting sun, and she told me the story about how a magic man once died and came back to life and then ascended those heavens, space shuttle style, long ago in the days of yore. I remarked it must have been a long time ago because no one had possessed that kind of working technology for decades or more. During her mythological recitation she continued to march along like a regular trooper happy for the freedom. In a way I envied her because she didn't know enough to be afraid.

We reached a rail line where Nadezhda gaped and wondered at the graffiti colorfully adorning the concrete walls of the people mover. For the longest while trains were descried as creeping socialism, until the time of The Great Deportation. Then The Powers That Be deemed them models of expediency. They systematically ripped people of color from their homes and herded them towards boarding areas. Barbed wire fences. Yelping German Shepherds. Ultra bright white searchlights. Jack Boots. Para military. Lorries with heavy, inhumane tires. The intermittent screams. Angry voices shouting commands. A persistent muttering. Feet shuffling. Swarthy faces bobbing along in a constant stream. First names and last names and birth dates on pink or blue ID bracelets. Very well organized. Antiseptic. The holocaust with bottled water and portapotties.

We reached the base of the elevated rail line and with our gazes measured the hourglass concrete support structure rising to at least twice our height. Nadezhda marveled at how taggers had spray painted over every inch of surface. I'd never been a big fan of bombing. In my opinion a loss of respect for private ownership contributed to The Great Demise. This idea wasn't original to me by any means. Most graffiti art amounted to some fool spray-painting his own name over and over again on public surfaces. Tags reminded me of those handprints creating a mural on the cave walls in Lascaux.

"I am here. I am here. I am here. I am here. I am here," the slapping handprints plead.

If it weren't so intrusive and ineluctable, rather like a poet holding you at gunpoint and forcing you to listen to his boring poetry when really you would rather not.

Having said all that, out of a hundred thousand a small handful displayed certain cleverness with their designs, and one or two reached the sublime. The rest perpetrated ugly vandalism and nothing more.

In pursuit of our feeble dreams we followed the speckled snake winding lazily across the dead land. Coming at us from behind a rattle-trap ghost train bustled passed above our heads. Like animals in a state of fright on trembling sticks we stood frozen, Rickity-clickity clickity -clackity rockity-clickity rockity-rackity.

Visually transfixed in the shadows of an intermittent eclipse: light shown down - flicker flicker flicker – shadows and light.

After the creature passed we continued standing and panting, palms pressing downwards at the gravity threatening to give way as though the zipper of reality had slid undone in very close proximity. Though the only tangible, the train was not the only lingering fear. What few deep breaths I could I drew while taking stock of my extremities. About half way through the experience a voice spoke to me saying 'so this is a train' much louder than I expected. For Nastya the heavy metal cacophony unnerved her senses where she stood clasping and grasping at the threads of reality. Stepping to her wide-eyed uncomprehending panic my arms encircled her and collapsed her to me.

"That was a train," I said.

"Train?" She asked, puzzled more than shell-shocked. "What train is?"

"The noisy thing made of steel. Just a thing for carrying people. Like a car."

"What car is?"

"A people mover."

"Yes. Very loud car is."

"No, that was a train. I was just saying."

"Of course. A car. Very loud."

"The train, overhead just now. Very loud."

"Yes, I don't know. Too much scared with him."

"It's gone now. No need to be scared. They're not dangerous."

"You see this t'ing before nowadays?"

"No, I'd never seen one before today."

"Cuz you shaking."

"No I'm not," I said, and by a concentration of effort I made myself stop. "I knew they used to exist. In the olden days. I didn't know they still had one. It was loud."

And we both laughed, and cried a little, and laughed again because it was over and passed and we were unharmed.

Our nervous laughter I took as a positive sign we would recover from the shock. Even knowing beforehand, in an abstract way, what a train was, the contraption still rattled me by its sudden appearance. I could only imagine the panic poor Nastya must have felt never having known such a conveyance existed. Her reaction resembled a small child's first experience with thunder and lightning, and while stopping short of producing a creation myth to explain the phenomenon, she meekly pondered a force so much stronger than herself.

Once the flash and rumble subsided revealing no imminent danger a single finger extended toward the sky followed by several solemn pronouncements: "Train, train, train," as her new understanding met my gentle reassurance that while I did not know why trains happened to good people, the noise and shock had far outstripped the danger. She giggled in relief and we commiserated together as equals in embarrassment at the phony crisis and just like that we were over it and moving forward again.

The novelty of new boots wore thin the longer we plodded along side by side in silence. Following the viaduct we descended from the hill country to a gradually flatter plain, a truly barren trail where no person had set foot since the original workers filled the concrete molds. The work of the bombers was another thing, hit and run. Then nothing for two epochs. We represented the first witnesses to their art in who knows how many decades. I read pretty well, had a lot of practice reading. Whatever alphabet they had employed warped irregularly and to me remained a garbled hieroglyphic.

The farther we descended from the ruined forest the drier and harder the ground compacted beneath our feet. Along the base of the elevated tracks rocks and dirt clods were strewn, remnants of the intensive drilling and upheaval of earth necessary to drive the pylons deep enough into the earth to provide stability. Sparse yellow wild grass lay incapacitated, wanting rain, which no longer fell with any regularity. Terrible thistles grew defiantly around the concrete base blocks, no doubt sliding their roots deep into the ground and finding some precious drop of moisture. They were armored in prickles and thorns, rising in bulbous stages of hostility, offering nourishment to nothing and no one save themselves. A thin sand covering sprinkled over hardpan crackled like broken glass crunching beneath our boot heels.

We reached a prospect overlooking what once must have been a thriving suburb surrounding a ruined city. Not a single structure remained intact, most having been made of wood. Plywood and plasterboard flamed too easily; they succumbed to pyromaniac sickness, fever and trance. Bequeathing a vast graveyard, burned out and skeletal, stretching to the hulking downtown area. Fire gutted the big boys there too yet they endured, built from sterner stuff, apparently, brick and mortar. Their blackened windows gaped like a crowd of blind bankers, eye sockets hollow-eyed and blackened, as though crowding elbowing stumbling towards the last spinning coin emitting a pealing golden ring.

A destitute world was now populated by ragamuffins, desperate beggars, whores of both sexes who would do anything for a copper, a crust of bread, starving in a marketplace glutted with desperate sexuality. Thieves, pimps, murderers. Decent people cowering in caves. Furtive by day. The Powers That Be high above the swarming populace, aloof and sniffing, aghast at the dirty peasantry. Only I understood their desires well enough to write it all down. I knew how they boiled with lust. The only difference being they rutted between clean sheets.

Cut off the clean water supply and these cities and towns burned and crumbled into dust reclaimed by the desert. We stuck close to the train line and as dusk settled sunlight filtered through the broken business buildings casting lurid shadows. My discernment already picked over the unpleasant prospect of selecting a spot among the ruins where we might bed down safely for the night.

Somewhere along the line an alternative appeared in the appearance of a train station with the same ghost train that startled us earlier in the day now in the twilight idling with a noisome hum.

Chapter 20

Nastya saw it as well, and to her quizzical expression I replied, "Let's go near it and take a closer look."

I wanted to hold her hand for comfort. Doing so wasn't practicable. I felt awkward, unused to being the brave one. We were both runaway slaves, the difference in our slave's mentality one of degree only. The gun I carried wasn't really much comfort. Violent confrontation was the last thing I wanted, but I also didn't want to spend the night exposed in those burned out environs. The thought of speeding away from that place felt like the preferable choice.

The rust rotting the chain link fence rendered the razor wire drooping along the top even more diabolical. Every sharp angle a poisonous infection. The closer we approached the better I discerned several layers of fencing. Within the compound itself a brutal maze of ever shifting channels coerced a crowd of thoughts toward the main building. Soft on the balls of our feet we circumambulated the outermost fence in search of an entrance. By the time we located the front gate I'd completely lost sight of the train. Though a steady metallic hum and iron bumping and scraping belied its hulking presence the entire time.

Not only was the front gate missing but also all subsequent gates had been removed. Rendering superfluous the intricate channels for sorting deportees. The truncheons, the fire hoses, snarling snapping dogs, automatic weapons had vanished a long time ago and a straight path left open through this maze of misery the general public would never wholeheartedly embrace again for any civilian purpose.

Behind me Nadezhda took up position and we advanced between the fencing thicket in the outer courtyard and entered the main building, constructed of impervious material not even abandoned doors left wide open to the elements had afforded purchase to any living seed. For whatever reason the humming machinery assuaged my fears and emboldened my stepping closer.

Granted at one time these trains had been employed mass evicting millions of souls. Since then they represented an infamous and hence unpopular form of public conveyance. Occasionally dissidents and other undesirables were still belly chained to their seats for their journey to the dumping off point at the badland's edge. A shudder passed through me when I thought of Rachel's pregnant belly chained to one of those benches.

We emerged onto the platform, and I could tell by the rusted, empty iron sockets embedded in the concrete where the final fencing, demanding all aboard, had been rooted but ultimately removed.

Nadezhda pressed one of her high cheekbones against the nape of my neck. Somehow I knew she had closed her eyes. I scanned the train's length, its airtight windows at human height no more expansive than a square frame around a suffocating expression. The sliding doors had been torn out a long time ago. The entire silver surface both inside and out was studded with round steel rivet heads. Each car looked to have been originally furnished with both molded and bolted seats. Only the molded seats remained whole, just the moorings of the other kind. Strange discoloration suggested in the past the seats may have been padded. That too was a long time ago. I reached back and patted herself on the haunches partly because I wished I too might close my eyes against this monster now tamed.

Before boarding we waited for permission from someone, who stepped down from the train and onto the platform up the line next to where the engine fulminated.

At a considerable distance I watched his neck stiffen as he was, as they say, taken aback. He quickly regained his composure and plodded towards us buoyed upon a cushioned stride. I knew he was The Conductor because he dressed like one. Black pants. White shirt stretched by a well-fed belly protruding from a black cloth vest. Skinny black tie. A face square in its sincerity. A blockhead securely squeezed within the confines of a banded cap.

He had advanced nearly half way to us when he extended his middle finger and scratched his forehead beneath his visor. With a jolt I realized I'd been staring and so I looked away until he arrived before us. Considering the finger gesture I figured he might be peevish. As it turned out he was very civil.

"Would you like tickets?" He enquired, at the ready fingering a ticket dispenser clipped to his belt.

"I'm not sure we can afford it," I said. "How much do they cost?

"Public conveyance, Ma'am. No cost. Ride for free as long as you like. Hop on, hop off. Keep these tickets in your possession at all times," he said, snapping off a pair and handing them to me. For a moment he busied himself making notations in a little black book. Without looking up he said, "She going to be okay?" Gesturing with his yellow stub toward Nadezhda.

"Yes, she'll be fine. She's just a little travel weary. Wake up, you. Be polite. Say hello."

Nadezhda lifted her head and piped, "Hello", with enough bright alacrity to satisfy the conductor's professional nose for trouble posed by a steady deluge of strangers. He also colored like most men did under her bright-eyed gaze. Sometimes her charm flashed like a camera bulb snapping, leaving the subject momentarily dazed by the bright white intensity.

"The further inside the conveyance you remain the safer and less windy your ride will be."

"I'm surprised enough petrol still exists to run one of these things."

With a hint of pride, The Conductor said, "Oh, we run on solar power, Miss. There used to be a dozen running on the circuit at any given time. Day or night. Now just this one, and one other, sometimes. We cannibalize the rest for spare parts."

I pressed this amiable nerd on what might have been a sore spot:

"I thought The Powers That Be outlawed solar power as a Socialist conspiracy."

"Oh, they did Miss, but well before our time. They changed their tune when they realized the benefits to be gained."

"Round the clock deportation of undesirables."

The Conductor retreated behind the pale of his lashes, in case this civil conversation should suddenly turn barbarous:

"All that was a long time ago, Miss. I'm sure. I wasn't even born then. I climbed aboard long after it had turned into a public trust."

"I'm surprised they allowed for that, too."

"Well Miss, the whole show had fallen apart by then. Nobody had no mind for... stiff beliefs by then. Take me, for example. I'm not political."

"I'm not political either."

From beyond the pale Nadezhda sounded her barbaric yawp.

"I favor women's right to choose!"

"Do you now?" The conductor lifted his gaze, and his whole countenance brightened when he regarded her. Years of working with the public had forged a suit of armor protecting him from the likes of my companion, Miss Universe.

"How so?" I prompted, curious to hear more about this sudden declaration.

Faced with her first confrontation, she quickly conceded, "Oh yes. I no know. I no political neither. I like dis freedom."

I put my arm around her to bolster her flagging spirit. The conductor pointed his bulbous nose in the air and laughed good-naturedly. "Sounds like you're in favor of freedom, Miss, a politics we can all agree on, I'm sure."

Under the sincere warmth of The Conductor's reassurance we were all the same party, Nastya's spirit revived, and for a moment it felt as though we formed a new unit: The Truth and Beauty Party. Then it was back to reality.

We both thanked him. Before taking the fateful step I hesitated about which coach we should enter. "Does it matter which one we choose?"

"No, take your pick," The Conductor said, with an expansive wave of his hand, in the process turning away from us. "Enjoy the ride," he said over shoulder in parting.

"C'mon you," I said. "Exercise that new-found freedom of yours again and choose a door, any door."

"I never be on choo-choo."

"This isn't a choo-choo, Honeycomb, it's a Solar Bullet."

"It no says, 'choo-choo'?"

"No. No choo-choo. Woosh! It goes woosh! We heard it earlier today. It scared us half to death. Remember?" Nadezhda made a harrumph of disdain, and I turned to card her on the attitude. "Where did you hear about a choo-choo anyway? That's an ancient bit of knowledge.

"I know some t'ings. Maybe I you wit tings I know surprise."

She chose the door meant for us, pushing and steering me towards it, and aboard we stepped to the forward end as furnishing the less windblown area once this bullet picked up speed. We settled on a molded bench with our backs to the future and waited for the wild ride. I was surprised and I must say a little disappointed when the clank-clank-clank of the train dragging into motion was followed by an interminable speed build up nowhere near the velocity I had anticipated. Clearly the glory days of this machine were long gone. Even so she rattled along at a steady clip. A cool evening breeze collected at the far end from us and wafted to our end in gentle puffs. Riding beat walking.

Each car came equipped with its own restroom so we had a clean place to settle our affairs. After rosy palm and her five sisters withdrew below the horizon we cleansed our bodies with wet packs and aired out our leathers. Donning clean underpretties we laid out our mats and bags and settled down to slurp nutrients out of silver packets and drink a full bottle of reclaimed water each. We lay down together and spooned in silence pondering through the doorless gap stars rotating in the night sky. In their archaic language the ancients spoke of the sublime. I'm sure they never had in mind the likes of us huddled together for warmth and reassurance inside a body bag.

Sleep never enveloped me fully. Sometime in the night as though they had never been closed my eyes opened and their vision raced about gathering images to reconstruct the noise waking me as though I was trying to remember a troubling dream. My palm slid silently beneath the inflatable headrest where I had positioned the stolen pistol in case of emergency. The safety eased, emitting a minor click. Nastya didn't stir. Something else did. Very nearly at our heads stood The Conductor. No doubt the devil snuck upon us to test the boundaries of personal freedom. I'd seen that angry and lecherous face, the dull hungry expression, a thousand times before. A man driven insane by loneliness and lust.

In the lurking darkness I raised the pistol high enough for him to see the starlight glitter off the cool metal barrel. I never pointed it at him. I merely held it for him to see nothing was going to happen on my watch. His expression never changed as he turned and existed the car. Just like that the show ended. Nothing more to see. Keep it moving. The train undulated down the tracks and across the Wasteland into the benign darkness. My eyes were still wide-open hours later when the rose of morning bloomed.

Chapter 21

Nadezhda stirred and I ministered to her body's needs. Gently my hands caressed the sleep from her limbs and helped to restore circulation. She turned her head and kissed me with breath that was toxic. Afterwards I climbed out of the sack and gave her space to formulate her own attitude towards our present quadrant spinning round the sun.

By the time Nastya emerged from the body bag I was munching on an energy bar. While searching for the underclothes I'd stripped her of during the night she flashed her pink hibiscus. The spectacle paused my munching and inflamed within me hunger of a different sort. She swept the inside of the bag with both hands and very resourcefully found both bra and panties, one in each hand. I swung my gaze out the car door two beats before she swung her head about to check my status. Since she didn't catch me in the act of sizing her up her only thought involved dressing and catching up to me at the start of what was sure to be a big day. As she modestly asked for help with her clothing I realized I had acted the part of the forbidden fruit; the poor innocent now crouched naked and ashamed. My own recurrent shame imagined the razor's edge slicing into a pulsing vein. Everybody has a thought they're ashamed of and keep hidden.

As she was digging in the voluminous, I said to her, "Wear the long pair."

She extracted the leathers and held them up for my inspection. I nodded and said, "Those are them. We need to keep you covered up today. Avoid any nicks or scratches." I didn't mention our midnight caller.

Pulling on full-length trousers stymied Nadezhda for a few awkward moments. I hesitated to interfere because I felt like I bossed her around too much already. Stepping into them caught her standing on them. The combination of tugging and shuffling became a contest of inches.

"Here, come sit over here," I invited, patting the space on the bench next to me.

Obediently she did as she was told stepping out of her leathers and joining me on the bench. Her chin lowered, eyes abashed, Nadezhda tilted her head toward me submissively lest the rod of my instruction lash too severely. In that moment I tacitly vowed to abolish the rod entirely.

"When you're standing up, you can only pull them on one leg at a time. Actually, one leg at a time is the conventional wisdom, standing up or sitting down. So. Put your right leg through first. Your other right leg. There you go. Wiggle your toes. Now put the other leg through, all the way until I can see you wiggle your toes. Such pretty toes. Perfection.

"Now what?"

"Now stand up, and pull them on. Lovely. Steady my dear. Just lovely."

"They tight on my butt."

"Indeed."

I stood up and gave her a reach around to sip her up tight and snap her pants button. Mission accomplished we resumed our seats together on the bench. Nadezhda squirmed a bit trying to make herself comfortable.

"Try standing up again and walking around." I stood up with her and slid my finger around the inside of her waistband. "They're loose enough. They fit wonderfully, really. Walk down to the end of the car and back." She wiggled when she walked. By the time she turned around and headed back she was all smiles.

For a while we sat in silence watching the ruined world slide by until Nadezhda asked, "How long till we get there?"

I answered, "I'm not really sure. Probably at least all day again. Not until night, maybe."

In resignation Nadezhda sighed and leaned her head on my shoulder. She reached across and cupped my breast.

"Nika?"

"Yes, Nastya?"

"Can I look a picture on compod?"

"Yes, Dear. You needn't feel me up just for that."

"You don' like you I touch?"

"No, I like it. I'm just saying. Oh forget it. It's in the voluminous."

"I know," she piped, bouncing off the bench and removing it from its special compartment and landing recklessly back on the bench in a trice. She held the device in both hands while her hair fell forward obscuring her face as she studied its buttons. Without saying a word she turned and shoved the device into my hands without ever lifting her gaze from the screen. She mimicked poking the buttons as an indication I should turn the device on and find something for her to watch.

"What would you like to see? A nice old movie? It's too bad the PTB closed down the cinemas. They haven't made anything new in ages. These old bootlegs are fading fast.

"No boring old stuff," Nadezhda pouted.

"What then? What do you want to see instead?"

"Cartoons! Wit' de little animals and dey singing is."

"Singing cartoon animals. Say the magic words. Bim. Bam. Boom. And there you go, Kiddo."

Nadezhda snatched the glowing device from my hands and settled her back against my shoulder and drew up her knees as a backdrop for the comport. With her back to me, she said, "I not kid. I grown woman. I like a cartoons. You mind?"

"No, I don't mind. 'Kid' doesn't have to mean child. It can mean young friend."

She shushed me, rather abruptly, I felt. The denizens of the cartoon forest had commenced their merry song, and I didn't want to ruin the show for her. A couple of question puzzled uncomfortably. What had I done releasing her into this chaotic environment? And how did she know I carried a compod?

Up the line we heard the door on the leading end of our carriage platform open and bang shut and then a knock on the inner security door, scuffling feet, and the door banging shut again.

Nadezhda remained deeply submerged in her cartoon, and although she sat up clearing the way for me to stand up she was happy enough to resettle and leave it up to me to investigate this visitation by myself.

On the floor of the enclosed platform area I discovered two small cardboard lunch boxes brimming with foodstuffs. When I tried to pick them up the cardboard felt flimsy and awkward so I resigned myself to the extra labor of employing both hands to carry them one at a time back to the benches. Nadezhda showed no interest. I lifted my box into my lap and then popped the plastic lid on the Styrofoam cup and could hardly believe my good fortune.

"Oh my Goodness – coffee! I can't believe it." My surprise went from spastic to a whisper.

I lifted the cup to my nose and breathed in the aroma to the very bottom of my lungs, the piping hot steam wafting from the black liquid. From pure delight I moaned and said, "I can't believe this: I haven't tasted coffee in ages."

Nadezhda darted her gaze over and back again, refocusing on the screen.

"No something special. Master every morning he drinks."

"No one ever offered me any."

"Of course, no. You sex slave. Who treat you such drink? Nobody."

"Well somebody's treating me to it now." I took a sip and scalded my tongue. Ground coffee bean bliss scorched my throat and warmth flowed into my stomach. I said, "I wonder who brought it."

Without peeling her eyeballs away from the screen, Nastya said, "Conductor brings this. Of course. Who else you see on dis train?"

"He's trying to make peace after last night's shenanigans."

"What last night you talk about?"

"I woke up in the dark to find that guy hovering over us in our sleep. I didn't tell you before because I didn't want to frighten you."

"I tink he jus want to check on his only two peoples."

"It was creepy."

"You too not trusting. I say he nice man is. Look, he bring you coffee and... dose bars. Hmm... yummy. I take one please. Tank you. You alway look bad side to peoples. I don drink no coffee. You take mine."

Balancing a box of breakfast treats on my lap and hoarding two cups of high octane to myself I wasn't in the mood to argue about the true motivation for The Conductor's largesse. I ate everything in the box and was just gulping down the last of the second cup as Nadezhda's cartoon ended with a resounding fanfare. Conscientiously she powered down the Compod and stowed it securely before nibbling at her breakfast.

"How'd you learn to operate a compod?"

"Master, he let me play wit his toys."

In the afternoon The Conductor appeared on his appointed rounds intent on collecting our tickets. As far as I could see we were the only two passengers. Considering he himself had issued us the free tickets, punching holes in them with his clicker and handing them back to us appeared a thin dillusion. Lots of people were like that though. Stuck in the past. Clinging to their duties while society crumbled around them. I heard a story once about a policeman who tried to give a looter a ticket for jaywalking. In the end no one respected law and order anymore. A certain type of person hoped they could mend society if they just kept showing up for work. Most big city skyscrapers were littered with their scattered corpses.

"How far you two traveling with us this time around?"

"We're going as far as New Hope. We're meeting a friend there."

"Not quite sure, are ye?"

"You know how it is these days."

The conductor bowed his head. "Times like these, Miss. Indeed. Times like these."

"You'll let us know, won't you, when we've arrived?"

"Oh yes, Miss. I'll make the announcement. You can't miss it. Truth is, we haven't made that stop for quite some time now. Bit of a rundown area. Picked clean by undesirables."

"I'll be interested to see how our friend has managed to survive amid the squalor."

"Most citizens, these days, Miss, either provide a useful service, or prove themselves very clever and resourceful otherwise."

"I think our friend falls into the 'otherwise' category. I shouldn't say that. Hader Glascock possesses mad skills and can make himself useful in any number of ways."

"He sounds like a fine gentleman, Miss."

I quivered on the verge of undercutting that value judgment because I knew Hater so well and formed a picture of him as he was and no better nor worse when I chided my tongue be silent and simply accept the compliment.

Before leaving us Ticket Scalper inquired whether or not we would be joining some of the other guests for dinner in the dining car. At this point I was really tempted to test this guy on his grasp of reality. I was about to card him when he did that thing again, extending his middle finger, only this time instead of scratching his forehead he pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. Perhaps I was reading too much into his body language. The words themselves were a clear enough invitation, so I did the opposite of what I was feeling, accepting the invite and thereby joining the fantasy.

After he left I said to Nadezhda, "Did you see the way he flipped me off?"

She laughed and said, "You crazy. He do no 'ting.

"He did, I tell you. You just didn't see it."

"Why he make nice hello, and then... you know... do the finger 'ting?"

"I know! That's just it. Why would he do two such contradictory things? Why make the offer with one hand and rescind it with the other? Unless he's just messing with my head."

"You crazy person. Your head messed up by itself. It not need help by no other person."

"I prefer to think of it as a heightened sense of awareness. I can't filter out all the negatives like you can."

Nadezhda crossed her arms and cradled her bosoms. "Maybe you a better off people to be more like me. More happy. No crazy alla time."

For a while after that exchange we sat in silence and watched the smoldering ruins of a once great empire. In such moments I often wished I had a counter for measuring how many radicals per second were piercing our flesh and bones. Nadezhda often chided me for worrying too much within the shell of my silent introspection. Maybe Nadezhda was right. What good did it do me, my muzzled puzzling?

To break the morose spell I'd fallen under I leapt to my feet and paced the length of the cattle car. Pausing before the open door I reflected on the killing field we were just then passing. How many thousands of rusting old junky vehicles had been abandoned in this panic slough? What catastrophe was the populace running from? Ultimately, how did they die? And what did it matter. Radiation poisoning. Toxic drinking water. Dirty bomb. Violence. Mayhem. Heat. Drought. Starvation.

Along with the burned-out conveyances and shells of building bonfires dotted the landscape. I don't know exactly how or why they burned incessantly. Setting fires had become something of a national pastime, perhaps a deeply satisfying cleansing of our former sins. The empty materialism of the past consumed in flames. Or something far more fundamental, our bare assess exposed to the elements. Whimpering like vulnerable beasts. An archaic desire for light against the dark, warmth in the shivering black oppression of nocturnal dangers on the prowl. Nadezhda interrupted my thoughts.

Somewhere behind me she spoke loudly to make herself heard over the mesmerizing clackity-clack of steel wheels on iron rails.

"I tink nice man say you no stand by doorway so you no fall out."

My footing was firm, a healthy two feet from the edge, but because of the plaintive worry in her voice I didn't argue. Instead I returned to her and wrapped my arms around her and drew her into my embrace. I nuzzled her nape and stroked her arms until she exhaled the impatience and annoyance built up inside her. For a moment amorous, she then pushed me away, not so easily seduced. I grabbed her hands. She withdrew them. As if testing whether her presence beside me were real I poked her thigh. She slapped my finger. For most of the dolorous afternoon we played pinch-me-poke-you when I really would have preferred to watch the scenery like I'd been enjoying before she interrupted my reverie.

Eventually I suggested the time had arrived for investigating the dining car. We negotiated our way from one carriage to another balancing our steps across the shifting interlocking flooring shifting the guard booths at either end at every cupola. Security bars and door locks had been dismantled and removed in the conversion to civilian use leaving behind gaping holes in the framework. In the guard chambers lurked the phantoms of black clad security forces armed with Tasers and truncheons, unhinged from their humanity behind opaque battle masks; in contrast to the car's interior, jammed sweaty suffering, a pack of human beings. Black skin and brown. Sad, sullen faces. Dispossessed, deprived of due process. Deportation the first act of government disconnected from the people courtesy of the Powers Who Are. Each rent in the fabric of society an affront to freedom until Lady Liberty stood naked and bruised, fat lip bleeding, a trembling victim gang raped by industrialists with not a single champion to defend her.

My intuition told me we would be the only patrons in the dining car, more a rolling mess hall where in the past guards had taken their meals. Once we were fairly ensconced at our table The Conductor turned Maître de. He recommended the specialty, and I acquiesced to his more experienced taste and judgment. He departed to prepare our order. During the interim of his absence Nadezhda and I found no words to fill the silence. When Train Guy returned with our plates she did a poor job of masking her astonishment at the three food packets arranged in lieu of what you might call food. Until that moment she had eaten out of packets without protest. A surprise considering how at the Master's estate they cultivated only healthy foods for service at table. For breakfast we often drank real cocoa and scooped poached egg steaming from the shell.

"Enjoy your meal," the Maître de said, keeping his gaze directed at me while setting out his tin plates and plastic spoons. I was a denizen at heart. I never flinched at the poverty of his presentation. Similar styled packaging lined the bottom of my voluminous bag.

No sooner had I thanked him then he ran his appraisal over Nadezhda's cleavage. She had recovered her demeanor and contemplating the chow packs with a more philosophical air didn't notice his appreciative gaze. He also provided wet naps and low-grade recycled water. Bowing out he left us to our meal.

Deftly I ripped open the three packages and dumped the contents onto my plate so I had three puddles, green, brown and orange. Never having eaten from pouches as a norm Nadezhda struggled to tear open a packet. Swapping plates solved one problem yet left us staring down the straw at our newly established poverty.

"It's rather clever, if you think about it, combining imitation chicken parts with Scurvy-Not, and calling the result Duck al 'Orange."

Nadezhda poked each of the three food groups and asked, "Which of dis mess eez duck?"

"The brown stuff," I said, scooping some up by way of example and taking a bite.

"Duck is bird with wings, feet. Feathers. It has head and is long and has head and, what you call... de' lips... I know. I see dis ting on Master's table. Dis no bird."

I picked up the packet and studied the picture before reiterating how a fowl had been mixed up in the process at some time in the past.

"Mistress?"

"Yes, Little Pullet?"

"Food in freedom always dis bad?"

"This meal isn't all that bad. So long as you don't think too hard about what's in it. At least take a few bites. It'll fill your belly until we get where we're going. Hater might have access to fresh food. In fact I'll be really surprised if he doesn't."

Obediently Nadezhda plied her spoon and slicked her plate. Through the entire meal her countenance remained dejected, and I had to wonder yet again whether I had served her cruelly by dragging her into freedom's dreary light. I noticed her eyeing the bottled water provided with the meal, I said, "Don't drink that. Slide it into your jacket pocket for later. Maybe we can wash our feet with it sometime. We brought better water than that with us."

When the waiter returned we thanked him for the meal bestowed upon us by the Powers That Be. He accepted our gratitude with another bow as he cleared away the dirty dishes. Feeling somewhat woozy from the food we threaded our way back to our car and had a lie down while we allowed for the synthetics to settle in our bellies.

On our journey to New Hope I regained some of the sleep I'd lost the night before awakening just in time to see the flames of day stretching fingerlike up from the horizon.

The train lumbered alongside a civilian loading-platform with half its metal awning missing, and I realized by the remaining serrated edge the rest had been ripped asunder and blown away, evidence of some terrific blow. Most of the city presented a dismally similar ruined aspect. The tall buildings looked as though one fell cataclysm had knocked them collectively askew creating row upon row of legless torsos leaning blindly toward the setting sun, mute memorials to the crazed superstitions of a cave dwelling race long since extinct. Brick and shattered glass littered the streets between these broken idols. A mob had moved through looting and gleaning a living environment like this one; sheer barrenness afterwards excluded any further settlement by anyone humane. I swallowed my unease contemplating Hater surviving who knows how out there somewhere in that blighted landscape.

Chapter 22

Under Nadezhda's strict insistence we waited for the train to come to a complete halt before we swung our feet and legs across the narrow chasm separating us from the platform. No sooner had we taken a few steps along the platform then The Conductor backed down the ladder of his engine and churned his hips towards us.

When he reached us, The Conductor said, "I can wait here for you over night. After the sun comes up, I can't promise you anything."

"I'm hoping to have us back in a couple of hours. If we're not back by full sunrise, we won't be back at all. Are you sure you can afford to wait here for us?"

"It's not the coziest of locales. But it's my train. As long as I know you're determined to make it back, Miss, we'll stay put till you arrive."

"Maybe I wait for you, here at train," Nadezhda said to me.

I've never drawn any big moral distinction between cowardice and self-preservation, surviving as something of a personal coward myself. One of the best ways for a little fish to avoid being eaten by a bigger fish is to dart out of the way of its gaping maw. An even better means towards self-preservation is to avoid the area where the big fish are swimming, entirely. In all my adventures in the void I've only been able to take a deep breath and plunge in hoping to avoid impact with any unforeseen free radicals. Head up. Eyes open.

"You're coming with me, Nasty. It's not a good idea to separate. Runs rather counter to the whole plan of rounding up old friends and new. Don't give me that face. We'll be fine. The place we're looking for isn't more than about four clicks from here."

"How far means four clicks?"

"I have no idea. I always wanted to say it that way because it sounds cool. It's about a mile that way," I said, Karate chopping the air in a westerly direction.

"How far mile is?"

"Oh, for pity's sake. Come along now. Here we go. You're coming with me and we're going together to find Mr. Hater, the man I told you about last night.

"We'll be back by dawn," I said, tossing the words over my shoulder.

The stairs had been constructed of concrete and had mostly withstood whatever gale force had torn through the place breaking every solid piece of matter. I could see holes where there used to be a handrail. One aspect of the Deadland I could never get used to was the uneven walking surfaces. Everywhere you tried to walk brick bits and broken concrete chunks and twisted lengths of metal sprinkled with shards of broken glass littered the stairwells the sidewalks and the streets. Sturdy boots were essential if you wanted to avoid a sprained ankle. About a city block later I realized I'd been holding my breath, and exhaled, followed by convulsive gasping for air. I hadn't suffered a panic attack in ages. The looming buildings. Claustrophobia in that weird environment. The uncertainty of late afternoon. I removed my jacket and tied it around my waist.

"Why you breath funny?"

Nadezhda looped her arm through mine as though we were taking a stroll down a shady boulevard.

"I'm not breathing funny," I rasped.

"You are tired or some ting? We not walk too far for 'dat"

Her concerned note eased the constriction blocking my air.

"No, Nasty, I'm fine." I breathed deeply a few times.

"You shaky. You... what is word... you tremble."

"No I'm not." Making the assertion stopped the quaking.

"Don you tink nice man for us wait train?"

"If it turns out he actually does wait for us, I think it'll be marvelous. Just great."

"I call it 'Dead Train' cuz whole ting look dead."

"That's amazing," I replied, "because in my mind I was calling it a 'Ghost Train' for the same reason."

"No, I tink dat I say Dead Train. Is more better."

Because we were slowly loosing daylight I wished we had departed the Ghost Train earlier. With every step I could feel we were getting closer to finding my man Hater. I really didn't want to be outside after dark. I could not make out human voices exactly. Some unintelligible tribal-like vibration undulated through the gloom. On random street corners the ubiquitous metal trash barrels flamed either to illuminate our path or if the opportunity arose for an unsavory group of mutants to better light a crime scene. Like a single drop on a plantain leaf fortune might slide either way.

My main fear up to this point had been if we ended up wandering around lost in the dark and missing the place entirely. Considering who Hater was as a person I should have known better than to trust him entirely. We rounded a corner and a giant iron structure completely at odds with the surrounding architecture confronted us. It looked like some lava leviathan had risen from the magma and breached the Earth's crust. Judging in relation to the surrounding building, this landlocked beast raised at least three stories tall, curving near the top. I couldn't guess its function. Airplane hangar? I couldn't tell.

"Your friend lives dere?"

"Apparently. Do you see a way in?"

"I no see no nothing. How he breaths, you tink?"

"I dunno, Sweetheart. That's a good question. It's huge. There must be some kind of ventilating system. Let's walk to the other end. Maybe there's an opening down there."

"Kind of pretty color, I tink. Nice rust red."

"It does look rusty. Let's get a little closer and have a look."

Just like every time you approach an enormous object to test its reality the closer we approached the larger its walls loomed, sloping gently up up and away, the top out of sight. This spectacular iron sepulcher crushed the earth in a field of dead yellow straw growing tallest around the structure's base. I had to stomp crunch over its growth to approach near enough to test the outer shell with a rap from my knuckles. The surface gave nothing. My knuckles were the worse for the experiment. A thin film of oxidation sporadically covered the iron, the wear neither deep nor significant. This oblong hunk of iron and lead could have squatted under the direct glare of the blazing sun for another thousand years and remained impervious to wear.

"This is quite an object, Nastya. I don't know what to make of it," I said as I returned to her standing there with her arms crossed, waiting semi-patiently for me to figure it out.

"No, I don' know," she said in her sweet sparrow's modulation. Brushing away the nettles clinging to my leathers, her only thoughts were of me, and her ministrations emboldened me to persevere investigating the mystery of the iron formation.

After trooping the length of a cornfield we reached the far end sloping steeply just like the near end we first discovered. For the sake of thoroughness we continued around the corner to investigate the fourth side. Nothing giving, not a single aperture.

"How do you enter into this construct?"

"Maybe you knock again, harder dis time."

Knowing it would do no good but wanting to keep Nadezhda involved in the process in case she did pop loose a random insight I approached Hater House and tapped again.

"I don't know, Nasty. It feels solid through and through."

Even though my experiment had yielded no positive results Nadezhda unfolded her arms obviously pleased I had acted on her advice. She then approached me where I stood and took hold of my arm.

She removed the volume from my shoulders and said, "You smarty. You find way."

She left me and went by herself over to a chunk of damaged concrete and made a seat for herself and digging through the bag and extracting a water canister, unscrewing the lid and gulp gulping, smacking her bee-stung lips with exaggerated satisfaction. Then bless her heart she rummaged around again and this time pulled out a tube of sunscreen and began applying it liberally to her forearms as though we were still lounging poolside on the Master's estate.

"Come here, pale girl. Black hair. Green eyes. White skin. You burn to crisp."

"Not now, Baby. I'm trying to figure out this puzzle."

"Yes, now, tough girl. Look at you already," Nadezhda said, poking at my exposed shoulders, "Already you burn. I put some on you."

"Honey, we're post-apocalyptic, nuclear meltdown here. It's a little late for sunscreen."

"Never too late for proper skin care. You end up old woman wit skin like leather."

I suffered her to squirt a splotch of protective goo onto my forearms and slop it around, resolving to solve this conundrum before the gathering shadows starkened into darkness and we were stuck either having to take shelter for the night or for safety's sake return to the train.

In search of any kind of clue I cast my gaze wider than before trying to figure out the logic of the place. I'd done a reasonable inspection along the two lengthier side walls and around the short side ends but found nothing. On three sides high-rise office buildings surrounded this iron tomb. Near the end where we stood it looked as though the buildings had been ripped off their bases like a child grasping handfuls of a sand castle and chucking them aside.

Nadezhda resumed her seat, satisfied to watch me pace about while she herself enjoyed the late afternoon sun. I didn't know what I was looking for walking over to what remained of the concrete bases and exposed basements of the missing buildings other than perhaps a secret entrance.

No matter how far away I strode or what angle I took I couldn't see the top to this structure. Since my only other choice lay in retreating empty handed to the train I kept on looking over the scene and pondering. With hardly more than half an hour of sunlight left I trotted over to Nadezhda:

"See that building over there? I'm going to climb up a few stories and see what the roof of this iron monstrosity looks like from up there."

Exposure to the late afternoon sun had rendered her somewhat sulky. She spoke to me from behind her bangs:

"Is bery warm sit here, and nighty night comes, I tink."

"Yes, the light will be gone soon. So I think I'd better go now while there's still enough light to see by."

"I don't tink dat ting look too very safe. It maybe fall over wit you in it."

"It's definitely tilting, but it's been that way for a lot of years and hasn't fallen over yet, and my few stone won't upset it. You stay put right where you are, and I'll be back, pronto."

Nadezhda began to whimper. Between little gulping sobs she managed to say, "I don't know what is – pronto. I never hear dis word before in my life. You leave me here and not come back for long pronto?"

"Please don't cry, Nastya. I know there's been a lot of excitement for you the last few days, a lot more than you're used to. I would never leave you here alone for any length of time. You've got to understand that. I would never abandon you. You've been such a little trooper; if you can just hang in there a little while longer...."

"I jus need for it to tell it me what is pronto. It get dark, you leaf me here. How long? How long!"

When she burst into water works I postponed the idea of using the time remaining in finding Hater and instead put my arms around poor Nastya to mollify her fears.

"Pronto is just slang. It means quickly, fast."

"Den go!" She suddenly yelled, shoving me away.

"I'll be right back! Quickly, soon, fast," and I turned and jogged off while she was still acting phony brave.

"Jus don spect I'll be here, Miss Sexy Pronto. Maybe I no wait and go back to train myself."

"Don't do that," I yelled back, fairly sure she wouldn't anyway. "I'll be back in a jiffy, which means fast. I'll be back soon!"

The front of the building had been severely damaged at the entrance level, flooded and clogged with bricks, glass, twisted iron, and concrete chunks from the upper levels. I followed a side alleyway around to the back where I discovered the devastation about the same. A fire escape ladder dangled, extended. Slamming the lid on a dumpster I hoisted myself onto it and slid my soles onto the first rung. Climbing the fire escape challenged my equilibrium because the building listed to one side. With every rung the cold fear shot through me: my weight might prove the last ounce toppling this pile of concrete after all.

Climbing to the third floor I suffered a really bad fit of sowing machine knee because of the rickety vibrations up and down the ladder. At the fourth floor the metal landing had torn loose from its concrete moorings in several places; the rest clung tenuously at best. My hands turned clammy and my knees felt weak. It was all I could do to kick at the remaining shards of glass in the nearest window and like a cat burglar daintily slink through the opening one paw at a time.

Inside the tilting building the world careened to one side and I struggled to maintain my balance at a pitch. I positioned myself at the low end of the corridor with the floor slanting sideways upward to the right. At the entrance to the main hallway I discovered random office trash, a metal desk, a chair with castors, and several filing cabinets, resting on a bed of paper and other trash sodden beyond recognition. The incline was not so steep as to cause me to loose traction. I managed to circumvent the trash pile and ascend into a hallway stretching the length of the building front to back.

The door to each office threatened to swallow me if I wasn't careful. One story higher would have suited my needs much better and required climbing up to the stairwell where I experienced a kind of M.C. Escher vertigo.

In a hallway on the fourth floor I sidled along like a tightrope walker only with my left hand extended, my fingertips brushing the very floor I traversed and finally reaching a front office, a more spacious one, front corner, probably belonging to a boss. Nice view. Of course now the windows were blown out, and the once beautiful city lay in wreck and ruin. Entering through a left-hand door I saw the right side of the floor had caved in, a calamity that may have been perpetuated all the way to ground level. I don't know. I didn't want to approach anywhere near the edge to peep over and find out. What I really needed was a glimpse through the window of the iron monstrosity across the street.

About halfway across this funhouse room with its gaping pit hungry for me to fall at the far end a groan from steel taxed up to its stress level erupted from deep within the building and reverberated throughout its hollow hallways and offices. From various other locations several groans echoed the first. At that moment my intrepidity felt more like insanity. In a crouch I froze and held perfectly still. If the building collapsed with me in it my short but illustrious career would be finished. Crushed beneath a humongous pile of concrete and steel I would die quickly and this mound would become my Cheops. No matter how philosophical I might have been about the pointless nature of my existence my body independently reverted to the default setting of fight or flee, expressing itself in my right knee spazzing up and down like the bobbin on a sewing machine again forcing me to sit down with my feet dangling downhill while I watched helplessly as my knee jerked spastically out of control. The other knee felt weak and unsubstantial. Although unlike the left knee it wasn't freaking out.

The adrenaline rush and the weakness in my knees, the scare, the shock, rendered me light headed for a moment. The conflict in my nerves almost left me immobile. I needed to move. To get out of that death trap, but my body, my knees specifically, were refusing to cooperate. Mustering my resolve I scooted on my butt in order to reach a window and leveraging myself up on wobbly sticks took a look outside.

Sure enough I could see some kind of entrance on the roof of that submarine. I couldn't tell exactly but in the middle of a flat iron expanse a knob arose and stairs led down underneath it and out of sight. In a glance I understood how to climb up and reach the entrance on the top of the iron and lead structure, and off to one side, down on the ground, a beautiful little speck, sat Nadezhda, as though waiting for a glass of champagne and caviar with crème cheese on a bit of French bread. She was all fortitude. She didn't know enough to be frightened. Maybe too much thinking provided the key to the weakness in my body. I knew too well how horrible people and situations can turn out. Hater once said my trembling symbolized my sincerity. I never viewed it as anything other than a bloody nuisance and damned embarrassing.

Taking quick stock of my rotted nerve endings I resumed a sitting position and scooted my way towards the exit. Leaving the main office behind I regained my footing, and although my knees still felt weak and wobbly the apex of the crisis had passed so that I gained confidence the more solid steps I took. How could such an intrepid soul have been born into such a wretched vessel? Bad luck, I suppose.

Down the staircase along the hall across the back office out the window and onto the fire escape ladder. Once perched and clinging to the rungs my knee gave out again. They shook in a way rattling my whole frame. Interlacing my arms I held on, the verge of bitter tears born from total frustration. Eventually I had to employ my legs whether they were going to cooperate or not. They trembled and felt weak. So what. I forced them to function, flexing every muscle in my thighs to compensate. In this manner I reached solid ground again, elated at the triumph of solving the puzzle and feeling a right coward and a fool, glad nobody had seen me.

Even though I was safely clear of the tilting building I lost no time in creating more distance between it and me, hurrying up the side alley on my return to Nadezhda. The groan the building emitted probably had nothing to do with my minuscule weight. In fact it occurred to me that I had been hearing similar distress tones throughout the afternoon from the standing wreckage of several other buildings.

In quiet relief at my return Nastya fussed over me and asked if my adventure had been scary, and I had to admit it had been and burst out crying. Nadezhda smiled as though satisfied somehow. From the volume she extracted a small clean rag to wipe my face and brow covered in grime and sweat. My hands were especially dirty. In maintaining my balance I had touched every filthy surface in that wreck. Nadezhda then sat me down and uncorked a water flask and handed it to me and fed me a protein bar. Drinking greedily I gulped down half the contents on the first pull, afterward exhaling a deep sigh. The whole time Nadezhda studied me intently. Her whole life she had been waited upon as a valued slave. Now in freedom she discovered the joy of caring for someone you love.

"There's a way in, on the top," I said, "and you get there by going up this wall, here. I know it looks too steep, but it's an optical illusion. In other words, it only looks too steep."

Nadezhda's fingers gently worked my trapezes. She stopped after I spoke.

"You see all dat from up dere?

"When you're standing here right in front of it, it looks like a wall, straight up and down. In reality, though it curves about half way up. I mean it really curves. We can scale this thing. It's do-able. Very do-able.

"I don' tink we out here in dark and climb up dis ting."

"Look! The sun is just now setting. I'll go first to see how it's done. Listen, Nastya, if we can climb to the top then we can get inside. I know my friend Hater is in there, and I'm positive he'll fix us up with some hot food and a shower."

"A real shower?"

"I'm talking hot running water."

"How many minutes? What my ration?

"I don't know exactly, Nasty, but listen, I've known this guy for a long time, and he always ends up in some totally cushy situation because he talks his way in with his golden tongue and then he shows off his mad skills for everybody, and he doesn't stay in places that aren't fully stocked and wired for sound. One more big push, girl, and we're finished for the day. I promise."

"I tole you before; I am woman, not some little girl."

"Okay, woman, here we go. Watch me!" I stretched the volume to my back and approached the iron mountain. Shadows and light extended from every fractured surface behind me.

I whispered, "This has to be it," and I ran right at the wall and up its side until I plunged onto my hands and knees and I was a story and a half up the side when my momentum vanished before reversing when the weight of the volume threatened to pull me over backward. I flattened my body against the iron and held on. So much adrenaline had already surged through my body that day I think my pituitary gland shriveled up and surrendered to stress and fatigue. I crept up the wall an arm's length reach or two more and dragged myself over the hump. The falling feeling diminished. I shouted down to Nastya:

"I made it! I knew I could."

Her voice floated up to me:

"You not dare yet. You on'y half dee way up."

"I know, but the slant increases right here. You can't see it from down there. Listen Nadezhda, sweetheart, you have to climb up here now. I'll wait right here for you and we'll go the rest of the way together."

"No tank you, please. I tink I stay down here. Or Maybe I go back to train now. You come adown and so we go to-get-her.

"No sweetness, you have to climb up here. There's no going back to the train now. I'm going to the top and dump the bag, and then I'll come back and help you."

In a perfect sing-song tone I heard her say, "No, I don tink so."

In no time I was up and over the top. Standing on the edge of an iron field. Loosening the straps I slid the voluminous pack off my back and laid it down on the surface. Returning to the edge of the incline I sat down in order to slid on my butt to the bulge point.

Nadezhda, poor soul, was pacing back and forth with her hands on her hips. I felt miserable about her anxiety.

"Okay Nasty. Stay on your hands and knees. Slap your palms on the surface and you'll stick like a little tree toad."

She groaned and whined, but I'll be darned if she didn't make a start. She crawled slowly and steadily up the steepest part, occasionally saying things like "Oh I no know" and "Dis no feel good"; to which I offered encouragement like "Your doing fine. Keep on coming the way you are."

She acted so bravely and was climbing so well I was very proud of her. As she reached that weird bulge part, gravity pulled at her shoulder blades. Her nails tried to dig into the iron surface and failed to purchase. She screamed out my name in such a hysterical screech she about gave me apoplexy. I perched only a few feet above her when I should have been smarter about it and been poised right at the bulge to coach her over it and help her.

By the time I grasped her wrist she was whimpering and crying in real fright. If she lost her head she was tumbling over backwards. None too gently I grabbed her by both wrists and yanked her elbows out from under her so she'd lay flat against the surface, and then we lay there for a moment collecting our thoughts and catching our breath.

"You're safe now, Nadezhda. You've made it. You did it. I've got a hold of you. Slide up here next to me. Stop looking down at your feet. Stay flat, and slid yourself up here next to me. Atta... grown woman." We lay next to each o there on the side of that iron hill and thanked our lucky protons. "Come on, you. Let's climb to the top and get off this wicked incline."

On hands and knees we resumed our climb, and I didn't coax her to her feet until we reached the level summit. In emotional relief we stood holding onto each other in silence and in that moment the sun disappeared and darkness enveloped us, and taking its cue, a yellow night-light flickered on in the distance at the entrance where the stairwell descended into the vault. No sooner had we turned around then four blue lights came on as well, in that same location about two city block away over a field of iron.

"C'mon," I said, sliding my arm around her waist, "the lights are on. Somebody's bound to be home."

Chapter 23

How strange it felt treading across that iron surface, like traversing the surface of a man-made planetoid. We followed the lights and reached the stairs where an iron plug poised above the declivity. I thought maybe in case of emergency it rotated over and down to seal off the staircase. Although it looked like what it might be for, I couldn't be sure. Taking Nadezhda in hand we descended the stairs. I was tripping out on the sheer number of rivets employed in piecing together this unit. Someone must have hoisted a riveter for weeks and months in a row to get the job done. Our heads descended below surface level before the stairs bottomed out into a runway leading through a chamber ending with an air-locked hatch, the kind of apparatus you might expect to encounter on a submarine.

The chamber served as an observation check point for incoming personnel and came equipped with all kinds of surveillance cameras I didn't realize were there until I banged my posterior fist against the door and in response the cameras sprang to life. They distended like eyes come loose from their sockets and ogled us in a wanton fashion. One eyeball lens extended so far it poked Nasty in the butt cheek, and she squeaked and batted away the lewd fellow, who nevertheless persisted to prod her erratically, as though malfunctioning. Another frisky fellow extended itself towards my bosom and I delivered a well-deserved slap. Finally, in frustration, I cried out:

"Hello? Is there anybody in there?"  
Prior to this experience I never gave intercoms much thought; afterwards, I decided that I did not like them at all.

crackle

"Yes?"

"Yes, hello. We're looking for a friend of ours. Hater Glascock. Is he there by any chance?"

crackle

"No. He's not here."

"Oh," I interjected, not attempting to hide my disappointment. "Well, do you know where we can find him?"

crackle

"At this time of day, I'd say his quarters or the commissary."

I looked at Nadezhda questioningly and then back at the universal eyeball.

"I thought you said he wasn't there."

"He's not here, I mean, not in the sense that he's standing right here beside me."

"So he is in there, then? This is where he resides?"

"Well of course he's in here somewhere. I mean, he's not very likely to be out there, is he? Especially not after dark."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize Hater's situation in there was so complicated."

"I thought you said you were friends of his."

"We are."

"Let's have just one of you stand in front of the cameras. Not you, the pretty one. You step back out of the way."

"He means me," Nadezhda said, elbowing me off to one side behind her. She flipped her hair and readied a smile.

Okay, hold on a sec. There. Got it. You can relax now."

"Are you sure?" Nadezhda demanded, "Maybe you take two. Be sure get my good side."

"Okay Love, we have a bit of a problem on our end. We sent your picture down to Mr. H., and he says he doesn't recognize you, that he's never seen you before. He says he doesn't know you."

"Is true. He not seen me."

"I thought you said you were friends."

"I never say no such ting. I never met such and such a man."

"Nadezhda, stand back. You're not helping.

"Say, what are you two trying to pull, anyway?"

"I'm not trying to pull anything. Listen, I'm an old friend of Hater's. From a long time ago. This is my new friend. Her name is Nadezhda. And we want for you to let us in so that we can talk to Hater."

"Just a minute ago, the first time, you said you were both friends of his. Now you're changing your story. What about that, ay?"

"I misspoke," I said. "I over generalized."

"I should say you did."

A long silence ensued before I lost patience and demanded, "So can I see Hater?"

"Not from where you're standing you can't. I'd say it's downright impossible."

"Oh, for a cup 'a clean water. Now you're just being silly."

The intercom crackled open and I could hear a whole group of voices laughing. Anger stirred in me and I demanded to know what was so funny. I looked over at Nastya for support, but she was laughing at me, too.

"Calm down, Nika. Deez boys jus' make wit little joke." Then she addressed the intercom herself. "You boys in der you open dis door now and we come in. No more foolish talk. Open up, I say."

In response the wheel handle spun round loosening the dead bolts until the air lock decompressed, the portal opening with a gasp.

From the antechamber we entered into the decontamination room where for security purposes you could be observed from a control unit housed well above our heads behind opaque glass. They flooded the room with white light temporarily blinding our eyes. A voice transmitting through a speaker said, "Sorry about the bright lights. We have to take a really close look at everyone before we let them in." The hotter lamps extinguished. The softer bulbs continued to glow.

Still trying to blink the supernovas out of my retinas, I said, "I understand. I'm sure you can't be too careful."

"Well that's just the thing, you see. You really can't. One simply never knows."

A pregnant pause followed, which ended by my asking, "Any chance you'll let us in, then?"

"Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to leave you in limbo. We're just waiting for Hader to arrive and provide a positive ID. He should be here any moment."

Silence filled the room once more, and I stepped closer to Nadezhda and plied her with some light contact. Her face wore a startled expression, thrilled in its aspect.

What I had taken as a solid wall facing us revealed itself to be another entranceway when heavy metal whirred and clanked as two ponderous iron gates parted revealing a young man of medium height, his dark hair with streaks of blond buzzed close on either side of his head and left longer on top with a tousled wave along the front. As I approached his brown eyes sparkled as though freshly washed with tears. He wore an engineer's white jump suit zippered up the front and painter's brown boots. I went to put my arms around him. In surprise he flinched and stepped backward a pace. Never outgoing with women in the first place Hater no doubt had gone for a long time without any human contact. He wasn't rejecting me; my motions had been too abrupt and startled him; that was all. I threw my arms around him anyway and gave him a squeeze.

"Hug me back, Hater. Put your arms around me and pretend like you're glad to see me."

He did as he was told, and then he said, "'Happy' doesn't do it justice. Blown away, surprised, dumbfounded. I thought you were zombified or dead a long time ago."

"I thought the same of you," I said, foolishly slapping and squeezing his upper arm as though to verify the fact of his standing there before me. "I tried to warn you about the violence going on there that day."

Hater smiled but shook his head, saying, "I never received the message. I could tell something was up, though. I knew the situation wasn't right. I guess there were about five or six people in that changing room when they ordered us to undress and change into a pair of pajamas they provided. I waited until the others were busy with undoing their buttons before I approached one of the guards and whispered to him I had a work order to fix the discombobulator. He jerked his weapon to indicate I should proceed into the next room. As I entered I skipped to the side, looked around on the floor, and found a power bar to switch off. Everybody in the room, doctors, nurses, the political officer, a guard, everyone, were thrown into darkness and they yelled and complained. I switched it back on and said, "Ah, here's the problem. I found it," and as I went around touching buttons and rebooting their equipment I made them all happy again. My little trick fooled everyone except for this one nurse who stood there glaring at me.

"I said to her that we'd been getting a lot of complaints about these power surges. I've fixed it for now, but if they persisted to give maintenance a call and I'd come right away to check it. Then I blew past her into the next room where I swiped a clipboard. Nobody questions a guy holding a clipboard. They assume he's somebody important. I wandered straight through that slaughterhouse, nodding as I went, this way and that, saying 'Looks good. Looks good' over and over again. People's heads turned for a second, then they went back to work with little smiles on their faces. By the time I stepped out the back there wasn't a trooper in sight, just a big crowd of zombies milling around."

"By that time the troopers were probably chasing me. Nobody was even in the tent I went through. When I got outside and saw what they were doing to those poor protestors, I freaked. I tried to warn you. I started screaming and stuff. I really lost it. Apparently you couldn't hear me. The only thing I really managed to do was attract the attention of security. They fired a few shots at me. I took off running but eventually they caught up with me, or someone did. It might actually have been a different group. Anyway, I got caught and they jailed me, and Powersby questioned me. He ordered me back to the Pleasure Zone."

"What was that like? Your interrogation, I mean." Now Hater actually reached out and rubbed my arm in solicitude.

"Not as bad as you might think. It was all talk. I played dumb."

"You know, in a way, you probably did save my life that day, because like I said, when I came out, there was nobody checking for papers, and I moseyed up the street and around the corner and that was that. A couple of days later I returned to barracks and turned myself in. They reprimanded me for being AWOL. It was harsh. They gave me 30 days. When I got out they sent me here, as a kind of continued punishment, or a demotion, depending how you look at it. Both, I suppose. But what about you? Back to The Zone and that was it? Punishment enough."

"I escaped from there in the back of a government limo trolling for sweets and ended up contracting with a different Powersby. A Master, actually. More powerful, and more severe, a slave owner. And when I escaped from there I brought Nadezhda here along with me."

"Hello," she cooed, taking her signal to jump into the conversation. I stood paralyzed for a moment by the tension of two new people meeting. I don't know why I felt nervous. I didn't need to be. Nadezhda had a gentle nature towards men. Other women were another story, but she was good with guys, and Hater was a gentleman of the old school and really good with people.

Hater took a step or two away from her then he turned and beaconed to her. Classic Hater. Establishing intimacy and trust right away by taking her situation in hand.

"Come this way," he said, "I'll show you more of our secret laboratory."

"Isn't it pronounced laboratory?"

"Did you know what I meant when I said it? Then what difference does it make?"

Someone once told me that I worry more about other people's feelings than they do. He was posturing in reaction to Nastya. I let him get away with it for now. He led us along several iron passageways, around blind corners. Way led unto way until we exited the shell and crossed a gangplank onto a rooftop. The roofing material, some kind of tarpaper, had been worn through by our kind of foot traffic. Since the entire building resided beneath the protective shell, which Hater explained consisted mostly of lead, not iron, the buildings housed inside remained without the usual wear and damage from the elements. The atmosphere remained dark and close, with sporadic bulbs of light strung cheaply along a plotted course in the distance. Over several decades makeshift builders had grafted different styles of architectural additions onto various structures within the cramped confines of the enormous lead container. Grown and overgrown, built up and torn down and built up again for various purposes, giving the whole scene a jumbled, ramshackle, confused appearance stretching into the darkness. These environs suddenly reminded me of a ship in a bottle only with way too much junk stuffed inside.

Descending a spiral staircase we emerged onto a large landing area decorated with the sparsest furniture and bare walls, then more stairs, square and descending like a magic cube. I gave up hope of ever finding my own way out again. From this point forward I would have to rely on Hater.

We bottomed out into a corridor illuminated by regressed lighting where the ancient tiles were rutted with wear or completely missing in patches of musty wood rot. Then hot shower mist, moist and suffocating. As we passed by open doors heads poked forth to monitor our arrival. A pair of enormous ears attached to a scrawny male body so pale his white skin shone translucent pink around the edges. A different dormy held a tin cup full of water in one hand and a toothbrush in the other and never stopped scrubbing his foaming mouth the entire time we walked by. So there was clean water here, and hot showers; I could make good on my pledge to Nadezhda after all.

In front of a particular door Hater removed a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock so the door opened and he ushered us into his room followed by a loud whooping. Good naturedly he addressed his compeers, "Later, guys later," and closed the door barring their curiosity.

Hater's assigned quarters reminded me of a monk's cell from the First Dark Ages. In the new Digital Dark Age we scrambled for the elementals of life as well: pure food and clean drinking water, warmth, clothing, safety. Securing these essentials empowered Hater to root around in the Deadland for knowledge and skills buried in the rubble.

Nadezhda and I sat side by side on Hater's bed he had shoved against the wall while he spun around his desk chair and sat down facing us.

"What is this place?" I asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Light in the Wilderness is a research and recovery center," Hater said, draping one leg over the other and folding his hands neatly in his lap. "Our purpose here is knowledge reclamation. It's complicated. Involving not only the useful things we used to know but have forgotten, but also establishing how important that knowledge or skill continues to be to us now, to the overall human project."

"How do you decide what's important and whatsnot?"

"That is the ongoing question," Hater said, unclasping his hands and scratching his jaw line. "We speculate over which types of knowledge matter the most, and What Matters changes, depending on which branch of knowledge your recovering, and who's watching over you at any given moment. I work with the Science and Technology team. We're the most prestigious. Anyone who is anyone works for S&T. We have a Literature and History group, too. You might be interested in them. They've a right to take part, but what everybody is doing here remains under scrutiny by the Party Theology Board all the time. Things can be tight."

"Of course," I said, wanting to deflect that possibility, "but I'm just an autodidact. I couldn't tell your experts anything," I lied. He wasn't being honest with me somehow either, and so in self-defense I too dissembled.

"You never know," Hater said. "They have formal education. It's true. But it's education of a limited variety. What with your free reading you may have tapped a view of knowledge they don't even know exists. Your input might prevent them from destroying something worthwhile. The people in charge of sorting books don't know how to read. You do."

"They're destroying books here? I thought you said that you were acting to preserve knowledge."

"For the most part we are preserving knowledge. I know. I find it objectionable, too. The idea is to sift and decipher. Whatever we judge useful is preserved. The rest we swipe or burn, depending on the medium."

"You're working in a Knowledge Grinder? Oh Hater, how could you?"

Hater squirmed in his chair: "You cannot imagine the amounts of data and information preserved by the ancients. When it came to recording stuff, they showed no discrimination or taste at all. They preserved every thought and feeling imaginable, no matter how nonsensical. Plus, it's all so disconnected. Sometimes we recover whole pieces of information, but most of what we find turns out to be garbage. Useless trash. At other times we find snippets of brilliance, but it's a fragment at best, a crumb. So we take that speck of evidence and we try to collate it with other fragments of its kind. The rest we erase or burn to clear space."

"So in your extensive perusing of the past have you been able to determine why everything fell apart the way it did? If the ancients were so smart, then why did it all go crash?" Before Hater could answer Nadezhda lay down and drew up her feet and curled into the fetal position.

I patted her thigh. "Going to sleep now?" Nodding her head, she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. "Anyway," I said, in a quiet voice so as not to disturb the beautiful dreamer.

"Anyway," Hater echoed. "What was I going to say? Oh right. The Big Crash. The Powers That Be had a hand in preserving that story." He hunched his shoulders a bit and ducked his head, talking in a softer voice as well, although I had the feeling his conspiratorial tone wasn't for Nadezhda's sake alone.

"According to the official party line the ancients insistence on freedom of speech destroyed the old Empire. In the olden days, everybody had the right to voice their opinion, even if it was critical of the regime. Waiting for everybody to have their say, and arguing all the time, and then having to wait and argue some more until everybody had a turn, or at least a majority, wasted so much time, nothing ever got done. So the Powers took control, putting the government on a business model so only one man called the shots, and they called him The Boss, and whatever he said, you had to do, because he was The Boss. A reaction set in after freedom of expression destroyed everything. You have your compod still? Tens of thousands of channels, right? Back then there were only a few hundred, and people knew something specific about what they wanted to watch. So the story goes one channel came up with a new program and let everybody know when it would be on and when people should tune in to watch. At this epoch in time they'd invented a show they called "Naked Teenage Beer Party". Everyone seemed to agree the show was a bad idea and shouldn't be allowed. But when the first episode broadcast every worker in the Empire called in sick so they could stay home and watch it. By today's standards, like the programs we streamed from Club Abattoir, their stumbling around and awkward groping about looks pretty tame. Back in those days nudity and sex were new to the airwaves, and so everybody stayed home to watch. Meanwhile, the whole society ground to a halt. Three days later the paramilitary forces stormed the seaside villa where they were taping the show. The Powers That Be ordered the population back to work, but by then it was too late. The whole system jammed up and froze solid, and they couldn't get it rolling again. Every place they tried to fix it stuff blew up instead. Rioting, looting, fires. That's when they made the decision to put the Empire on a business model with one Big Boss to call the shots. He didn't have to waste time asking other people's opinion or debating or taking votes. Sure, he had the board, and the stakeholders. But they took orders from the Boss. He doesn't really answer to them, or anybody else for that matter, which is why he's Boss. So in a nutshell, sex and freedom of expression destroyed the ancient regime. Sex has made something of a comeback. I don't have to tell you that. Freedom of speech? Not so much."

In the brief space of a thought or two I reflected on what Mr. H. had been telling me and wondered how much of it was true. I wasn't able to formulate a response so I changed the course of the conversation by asking a question.

"And this place? The big, long structure?

Hater smiled and shifted about in his chair as though repositioning himself for a new task at hand.

"About a hundred miles east of here," Hater raised a brow, "legend has it, a nuclear reactor was hitting critical mass and melting down. The actual building we're in now was one of several with either scientific or bureaucratic functions. The local Powers pooled their resources and built this iron and led sarcophagus. The original idea had been to seal in the reactor, but by the time they got it built and were transporting it piecemeal to the sight where the reactor had grown so hot the engineers knew they were being called upon to sacrifice their own lives to place it over the meltdown. In a moment of genius, or cowardice, or both, call it what you will, the scientists decided rather than try to contain the meltdown to shut themselves up inside here instead and seal the radioactivity out. The Powers all died. The sacrificial lambs lived. What would call that? You have a name for that?"

"Poetic justice?"

"Right, poetic justice. I've missed those phrases of yours."

"Is this place self-sufficient?"

"For the most part. There may have been a clean water source here at one time. The Natural Gas Combine fractured the water table supplying this city like they did everyplace else. Nobody understood what that meant until flames shot out of their water spigots. They must have done that damage before the Reactor incident. Maybe after. I'm not sure."

"Where do you get your water from?"

"We juice what little falls from the sky. For the rest we trade with the local mutants. They bring us potable water and we mix their chemicals for them. It's an unsavory business."

"How do mutants get ahold of fresh water?"

"Good question. Nobody knows. Trailing them in order to find out has ended in several fatalities. The water they peddle is reconstituted. It isn't fresh. Not the highest quality. We have an industrial juicer, too, if it ever decides to rain again. We grow some food ourselves. We trade. We barter. We practice medicine on the locals. Powersby sends us random shipments when he remembers we're out here.

"I'm amazed by the hit or miss quality of life across the landscape. Some places have everything you could possibly need, including clean drinking water. Most places, though, are either broken down or completely destroyed, or lapsed into disrepair. It's like a small handful of people own all the good stuff, and the great mass of humanity owns nothing. Most people don't even have a power source anymore.

"Since fossil fuels have all but run dry lack of power has become a major issue. Here we are, for example, a colony of scientists, and we burn whatever we can find for heat the same as the lowest feral mutant. Everybody knows solar power is available. What can you do, though, when the Plutocracy is built on dirty energy and will allow for nothing else, right down to the last drop of oil, the last chunk of coal, the last fart of natural gas?"

"They should allow for solar power."

"You don't want to say that too loud. Besides, you know what their response will be: solar power is weak and defenseless like a woman, lying on her back, legs spread to the sky, waiting to be penetrated by a beam of light; whereas oil is like the male, always on top, poking, penetrating, drilling, pumping. Plus, solar power is free, and so greed is left out, which is against God's teaching in the Bible. Greed is Godliness."

"You're awfully good at repeating their slogans."

"I should be. I've heard them often enough. Every time we have a meeting about our energy needs the priests start off by repeating what is allowed by the good book and what is not. Everybody used to love nuclear until it dawned on people they had amassed radioactive materials that are going to stay hot for thousands of years and yet housed them in concrete shells good for about a hundred years. Nuclear was fine until accidents happened. The existence of this place is all the proof you need of that calamity. People used to live into their seventies, even their eighties. Now people don't live to half that. You get cancers, toxic poisoning, other illnesses. Not to mention the world is populated by women, and the few males who exist are sterile."

"Sounds like the end of the world."

"Oh no, the world will still be here in the future, but it won't have human beings on it anymore. The Earth itself will be fine. It'll keep orbiting the Sun for billions of years, as long as the sun keeps burning. It's human beings who will become extinct. They will cease to exist. That's all. A minor blip in a history of eons."

"I'm in denial about all that," I said. Then I added, "Of course, I'd never admit it."

"Wicked. What about your friend there? What's her story?"

"Former sex slave. I stole her from The Master."

"Sweet."

"Yeah, she is sweet, and really smart. She just doesn't know anything."

"Contract girls aren't encouraged towards education. You represent something of an anomaly."

"Speaking of contract girls, I have a surprise for you."

Without the least hint of interest in his voice, Hater said, "Oh yes? And what's that?"

"It seems our favorite contract girl is still alive."

"Rachael Cozy?"

"Star of stage and screen."

"I heard she became a goner."

"That's what I thought, too, but when I talked The Master into looking you up in the data base I had him look her up, too. She's living down in the Badlands, right near the border, but they never shoved her over, or if they did, she found a way back."

"She's like a purball, that one."

"A delicious meal?"

"No, she lands on her feet. She's a survivor."

"Oh, I get it; anyway, she got pregnant, and tried to arrange for an abortion. I read it in her file."

"I heard she landed herself a Senator there for a while. At least she thought she did. Turned out he was renting her on a long-term basis." Hater paused to rub his chin. "Trying to block sperm, and a Senator's sperm at that, represents a double-whammy."

"Any possibility it was one of your own minions who swam his way upstream?"

"I'd say it's unlikely. The timing wasn't right. You look disappointed."

"I thought if there was a possibility the child was yours you might be interested in coming with us."

"Where, to find Rachael?"

"I think she's in trouble, Hater. It's obvious she's in trouble; I mean that I want to go make sure she's alright. You know, be a friend to her, help her out. I've got to be honest, Hater: I've got nothing to lose. Except Miss Sunshine, here, and she's a lot, I'm realizing, but she happened right as I was hatching my little plan. So now it's the two of us who have no place to go, nowhere to live, no visible means of support. I'm not interested in hooking up with Rachael again, believe me. It's over and dead between us. It's more like I need the closure, you know? And helping her will give me a purpose, even if only for a little while, which buys me some time to think. To figure out what I'm going to do next to survive."

"I wouldn't be interested in hooking up with her again either. I wouldn't go with you for that reason."

"Then you're saying you will go?"

"I'm saying I'll think about it. A probability of yes. This place, I have to say, is a brain-dead institution. It's government funded so you have to pretend you believe every word in the Bible is literally true and evolution does not exist and miracles happen and the world is 6,000 years old and talking snakes and Jesus achieved lift-off space shuttle style and you can despoil the environment as much as you want because He is going to come back and take us all away on his spaceship."

"Not all of us," I interjected.

Hater laughed: "No, not all of us. I sit corrected on that one, but forever onward the nonsense goes. When I first arrived here they told me this station was engaged in scientific research, and you can't say that because it isn't true. Like everything else they say, it's the exact opposite of reality."

With pliant fingers Hater messaged his eyes the way a man does who seeks to efface an unpleasant fact from his memory.

"I was lying before," he confessed, "not about everything, but I omitted the worst parts. They are, as you intuited, destroying knowledge, and 'useful' is a euphemism for doesn't contradict The Bible. Astronomy and Geology, the Natural Sciences, that sort of thing, suffer the most. We offer addictive chemical substances to anyone who will bring us books for evaluation. Large tribes of drug-addicted mutants are canvassing the landscape for hundreds of miles around. The largest government push since Just Say Yes. The process developed here has been so successful at eradicating knowledge they're thinking of expanding the program East and West. Wherever the catechism continues to flourish."

Relived that the barrier erected as a result of our prolonged absence had begun to break apart I uncrossed my legs, saying, "I'm surprised the big pill-popping corporations are willing to trade for free."

Unconsciously following my lead Hater uncrossed his legs as well and said, "Allow me to assure you, we don't give anything away here. Doing anything for free would be unconstitutional. They have to buy the chems themselves, here at the dispensary. For the price of any contraband knowledge they submit, we perform the crucial task of mixing it for them in the proper proportions. It may sound like a convoluted approach but it works like a charm. Without a proper mix they either don't get high or they overdose. There doesn't seem to be any in between. Whereas they know with certainty that for the price of handing over some musty old book they'll get their dust returned to them in perfect pill form. To an addict who measures happiness by the granule, only a damn fool tries to mix his own dust. What do they know about chemistry? They can't even read. So the plutocrats make a profit, the theocrats wage war on knowledge, and the poor, pathetic citizen stays numb on chems and godtalk."

"If they're so pathetic, how do they come by the money part of the deal?"

"The usual means: theft, violence, prostitution, slavery. If you're a hype you can turn a crank handle in a factory for days on end. The Boss knows that if you're working hundred hour shifts inevitably you're going to crash and burn, but then they just dispose of the worker because they know there are ten more just like him milling about in desperation outside the factory. What's a worker? Nothing. He's expendable, and the factories around here will grind you down and spit you out and that's the way things are and there's no changing things."

"If only people could join together somehow."

"You might disappear some night talking like that."

"I know. It was just a thought."

We chatted throughout the evening, and in the process became thoroughly reacquainted. Whatever the bond comprises holding two people together we shared it. Love and forgiveness forged in the hot fires of adversity. Love and forgiveness evolved in the murky quagmire of our existence in The Pleasure Zone.

I confronted Hater concerning the likelihood of our enjoying some luxury. The supreme experience for any vagabond wanderer became a hot shower. He assured me he would be able to scrounge together some ration minutes for us. To make good on his pledge he left Nadezhda and me alone in his room and went out into the hallway to put pressure on his dorm buddies to take up a collection on our account.

As soon as Hater departed, finding herself reclining in an unaccustomed place, she sat up to survey with sleep filled eyes Hater's cell while at the same time touching my arm shoulder neck without searching for any eye to eye contact right away. Gently rubbing her back I soothed the pangs of lethargy she dispelled with a gaping yawn and a squeak-yielding arm stretch. Then she demanded bubble-gum or a mint, having to settle for a sprig I'd plucked from the forest. Even though I wasn't in the mood for mint she forced me to ruminate on some as well. Allowing for the breath freshener to have its affect her dirty fingers plied the leaf from between my teeth and forced her tongue into my mouth and rounched rounched rounched and when she withdrew at last with a slurp drew my tongue as far as it would stretch. Using that Slavic tongue of hers she battered my lips apart again with jaw dropping urgency as I countered her assault with my own wicked tongue. Girls snogging.

Hater walked in on us. Someone in the hallway cried out "Whoa!" as though his Horsey was heading towards a cliff and the door closed shutting him out.

"Gorgeous, you two," Hater said. "Listen, I took up a collection of fifteen whole minutes. It will be a quality mixture. Mostly reclaimed, some juiced, some fresh, even. Heated, too, so it should make for a quality experience. There's only one catch."

"What catch is?" Nadezhda asked. At first we weren't sure she was asking what the word 'catch' meant or asking to hear the proposition. Hater hesitated, looking at me for clarification.

I shrugged and said, "What's the catch, dude."

"I not say it right?" Nadezhed turned to me and whispered.

"No, you're fine. You said it right. Let's hear what he has to say."

Hater plowed ahead with his business offer:

"The catch is the boys want to watch, and shoot some footage."

"Listen, Hater," I said, "We're not taking on the whole boy's dormitory for the sake of a few minutes of reconstituted."

"No no no," Hater hastened to reassure me, "nothing of the sort. They only want to watch. All look, no touch. A strictly hands-off affair. They need some fresh imagery for their simulator's database. They'd never actually touch a female; they're too afraid of disease, real or imagined, and, well, let's face it. They're nerds."

"Oh! I know simulator what is," Nadezhda said. "Master he runs one," and she patted my thigh to elicit corroboration. I could only shake my head. I'd never seen it. "No? You never play simulator? You wear goggles and gloves and whole suit and for a boy suction hose go right here!"

When she tried to attach the imaginary hose to Hater's crotch he flinched and bent double the same way a man does when an overly affection canine punches with his snout right in the sack.

"That would be the mechanism," Hater said, straightening his posture and smoothing his composure.

"I don't mind they want picture only. I want shower, Ninochka," and she turned to me desirous of the go ahead green.

"As long as they understand, no touching," I said to Hater. "There have to be ground rules, and you standing there at all times to enforce the rules, in case somebody gets a saucy notion."

"Like I said," Hater rejoined, "they themselves stipulated that point. Their experiences, such as they are, have not been positive. They prefer virtual over reality every time."

"Alright, Sweet Pea," I said to Nadezhda, "let's have some good, clean fun."

To Hater she said, "I don' know why she call me the little green pea. One time I eat the one Nika she gives me. Is green vegetable. Little green ball. I think not berry sweet. Ice cream, maybe. Cake! Mmm. Delicious cake. Cookie is sweet. Not tiny green ball. I no like too much. Tooie! I spit out. Not try no more of dat!"

"They're good for you. You eat vegetables. You ate them all the time at the Master's table. You love vegetables."

"But not sweet, I am say-ink. Dey not a sweet food. Why you not call me Nastya. I have a name."

"Okay, okay, Nastya, let's do this thing," I said, trying to put an end to her flirtation with Hater.

"Oh yes, Mr. Hater, you come, too. First time, you see me naked. Is berry nice. You see."

"Yes, Nasty, he's coming, too. He's the bouncer."

"He is bouncer? No, he too skinny is. Bouncer big muscle man. He nice though. I like skinny man better, I like Mr. Hater."

Poor Hater, bless his heart. He didn't know what to say amid the barrage of backhanded compliments. He fell for Nastya the same way all men did. Hater was a thinker, a scientist, a nice guy, even at his young age though well on his way to permanent bachelorhood. I surmised he was as much a devotee of the satisfaction simulator as anybody else in the boy's dorm.

Hater led the way out into the hallway and down past several doorways to the shower room. Without any sort of announcement a crowd of virginal young men materialized in our wake. Squeaky clean. Polite. Deferential. One by one they introduced themselves floating into view and then bouncing off to one side to avoid contact. They turned out to be rather cute in their thralldom.

Along one wall a row of shower nozzles drooped their heads. We waited for each young genius to swipe his shower card, and when the meter read 15 minutes Nadezhda and I undressed each other, a very awkward process making us giggle, very unprofessional. The fellas didn't mind. They were transfixed, forming a crescent of attention pinching at our nether ends. From the very first drop the water fell warm. Every boy manned his own recording device, some large and lethargic, others small and intense. Rather than wash ourselves we washed each other, a process both smooth and pleasurable. The soapy suds slid softly the entire length of our limbs. The dirt and grime of the Deadland washed away and underneath we became fresh and clean. Get the picture? We were just getting to the good part when our time ran out.

Naked and wet I came back to the reality of our degradation. What we were doing was wrong, so very wrong. Several of the blades leapt to the meter and lost no time in swiping their cards so we could continue. I felt guilty using up all their rations. In response to their largesse I prompted Nadezhda to really show them. She knew what I meant. You can go through the motions, or you can really show them. I performed the most personal acts in front of them, showing them what feels good, what I like, my pleasure, my pleasure in front of their admiring, silent, and desirous eyes. The hot water mixed pleasure and shame together and then in one ecstatic flood washed them clean away.

At the conclusion the spigot ran dry and we were showered instead with a smattering of applause growing to a modest ovation. In our abject exposure they handed several clean fresh white cotton towels, soft and absorbent, and promptly abandoned us as the entire grateful audience departed to edit and upload our performance into their satisfaction simulators. I never did see the final cut. Not like I wanted to anyway. I never felt comfortable with how I looked on film. The imagery resembled me more than I did myself in person.

Once again ensconced in Hater's cell we brushed the tangles from our hair and applied sweet scented oils and smooth unguents to our gentle flesh and afterwards searched though the voluminous bag for fresh leather skins we squeezed our bodies into while Hater scrutinized our ablutions approvingly. I could tell he had already taken a liking to our mutual friend, and although a meeting of the minds between them was inevitable I had a positive feeling neither one would hit critical mass the way Hater had done the night he first encountered Rachael.

In the same way Hater would never hit on a drunk girl, he wouldn't take advantage of Nadezhda either, not in a way that was ungallant. Her Master bred her from innocence to the most unabashed licentiousness, yet in spite of her unlucky birth she was neither dim nor stupid. Living a life of the mind and a born teacher Hater would want to kindle new lights in her imagination. The only thing he wished to propagate was knowledge. During intimate moments like those I can admit to loving Hater for his simple humanity. He was very smart and caring about people, for a scientist.

"We need to get out of here," I said. "If we're going to go find Rachael then we need to get. Creepy Guy won't hold the train forever."

"Leaving this facility might prove problematic," Hater said. "It's not a prison, but I am accounted for; I'm in the system. If I disappear this time, there won't be any coming back. I will have burned my final bridge."

"You want burn something down? You tell Nika, yes? She set fire for you."

Hater smiled as he lost no time rummaging through a desk drawer and retrieving a box of tinder matches, sure fire lightening sticks, and dropped the packet with a brittle clatter into the flat palm of my outstretched hand. Despite the misunderstanding all around the gesture sparked Hater's resolve to join us on the grand adventure. We were leaving. Time to go.

Chapter 24

When we left the room I lead the way out into the hallway and to the left with the intrepid bugle of destiny sounding in my imagination.

"You're going the wrong way," Hater called after me. "We need to go this way."

He and Nadezhda were standing together in front of his dorm room door, still. They hadn't followed me a step. Given a fifty-fifty chance I will always choose the wrong way. Nadezhda was no fool. She'd already bonded with Hater, a sexy satellite bobbing in his masculine orbit. I brought up the rear as he led us in the proper direction. The longer we navigated those impossible hallways and stairs the more I realized how utterly lost I was and lapsed into silence. We were descending farther, which I would not have guessed. I had assumed we'd be retracing our steps to the top. With Hater leading the way I felt the relief of no longer having to be in charge anymore. I also despised the way Nadezhda trotted along at his flank and regarded his profile from time to time taking its measure. I realized I'd better keep up or they'd turn a corner and forget all about me.

The ground floor rose up to meet our feet propelling us across a parquet lobby and through front doors the same as in any other government building enclosed by an overarching iron and lead radiation proof sarcophagus. We emerged outside so to speak and I strained my neck to observe the protective dome rising like a rusted tidal wave frozen in time swooping up and over our heads. At some prior epoch somebody had poured cement and created a smooth cool flat warehouse workspace. In certain spots through the cracks I could see remnants of an asphalt street underneath paved even longer ago, if you can imagine.

The rest of the area led onto a sorting area covering the remaining smooth cement surface with every type of container suitable for storing books. Books in wooden crates, books in cardboard boxes, books in great solid stacks leaving barely space between for squeezing through in single file. From that point on I knew that an acre of books looked like an ocean rising and falling in swells and plumes breaking against my heart.

Beneath jerry-rigged lamplights two workers of a special unit moved listlessly among commodious rolling wooden hampers. Nudging the containers aside as they considered the surface textures and gauged the weight a pear-shaped man stood I want to say twice as tall as the little rotund man who was his workmate. I'm sure I must be exaggerating; big boy was the one in charge. The round fellow gave it away when he paused in his sorting and stacking to appraise our arrival and curtly bent back to his task. Hater and Nadezhda plowed through the sea of books and paid no attention to either villain. I stopped of my own accord and my gaze bore into the larger man, whose averted gaze froze in concentration, fastened on his work.

I bid the beast good morrow, sharpening my gleam towards the bristly bearded goliath.

With a seismic shift he swiveled his girth and spoke to me through thick, officious lips, saying, "It is evening. And there is nothing good about it."

"Nothing at all?" I queried, the shock of his rudeness slicing through me for some reason. I forgot to put on my flak jacket before engaging the enemy. If he was rude again I was going to curse a blue streak, and then run. I crooked my pinky finger in my mouth and batted my eyes, an affectation in other girls I loath whenever I see it. I have really dumb stress reactions sometimes though, like a ham actor. I had meant my insipid gesture to be ironic, but the irony deserted me half way through and I realized I was just tripping.

"It's the night shift," Procrustes declared, "It can't possibly be good."

When people complain about their jobs it somehow grants them a certain level of dignity. I don't know why I expected a book destroyer to be a man of letters. Proximity, I suppose. Rumor had it, prolonged exposure to literature often liberalized an otherwise conservative temperament. Obviously no such transformation had occurred through osmosis in regards to my gargantuan friend. He hated his job, the second thing out of his mouth. The drudges lament. Let us say then perversely I sought to hear more of his song.

"They keep you busy, do they?"

Unfurling his arms to the very tips of his elongated fingers he swept the flat pink palms of his hands encompassing north by south and east by west to indicate the condemned thoughts belonging to a forgotten empire falling to his apprentice and him to sort for destruction.

"These books won't burn themselves, ya' know."

"No, I rather expect they wouldn't." I said. "By what yardstick do you prepare them for the flames. I mean, what are the rules for who lives and who dies?"

"They don't all go into the furnace," he informed me. "In fact, we won't burn most of these. They've already been sorted."

"How do you decide, then, which will be destroyed and which will not?"

The furtive glance he shot Hater's direction sent a hump rolling the length of his own bushy unibrow and back again. In this circumscribed environment he might have mistaken him for some kind of Powersby leading a tour of quality control inspectors. Plus, given the monastic atmosphere he probably hadn't talked to an actual women in ages. His embarrassed smile frowned into a serious consideration of the rules for selecting and destroying certain reading material.

"Basically, they evaluate new arrivals based on the code. If one of these books contains information contradictory to the One Book, then it isn't going to be much use to anyone," he said, thumbing a random, anonymous book stacked higher than the top edge of the wooden bin.

"Mostly it's the science type book we look for. One of them's a no brainer."

"No brainer," his little companion echoed. He had slunk up to my elbow and joined the in-service although I'm sure he must have heard the lecture a thousand times before.

"How do you decide in the case of literature? For instance, what makes a novel useful?"

Procrustes cast his gaze about in search of a proper example.

"Here's one," he said, holding up a tattered old paperback with a once glossy cover featuring a wrinkled image of a woman in a pink bodice fighting off the unwanted advances of an aristocrat. "This here type book is useful 'cuz it tells a nice story about a man and a woman who fall in love and live happily ever after. Looks like he gotta force her some at first, but later on she wants it. Listen, that's useful. It takes people's minds off their problems so they don't have to worry, and they can be happy. Maybe one day they can fall in love, too. One man and one woman, the only way it's supposed to be. Understand?"

"No brainer!" Prometheus called out triumphantly.

Picking up another book Crusty said, "This one here is a cowboy story. The cowboy in the white hat shoots a bunch of bad guys, and then the cowboy saves the pretty young lady schoolteacher, a nice girl, who ain't never done nothing wrong, and off they go into the sunset. Carrying his gun careful like so he don't shoot her by mistake. Makes you want to carry a gun and be a cowboy yourself, someday, maybe."

"No brainer!"

"Or here, a clever detective solves a mystery. He takes out a gun and shoots somebody. Problem solved. How great is that? A man with a gun who shoots people. Really takes your mind off things. Better than drugs and alcohol because there's no hangover. And this type of thing here: a scary monster story. People like them, so long as there ain't no vampires or wizards, or, well, so long as evil's the bad guy, put it that way. They scare you, but evil is destroyed and goodness wins and they don't make you think about really bad stuff. Important thing you learn is ghosts are real, and just cuz you can't see it doesn't mean it ain't real, cause it says spirits are real, in the One Book."

"No brainer!"

"A nice book like Horatio Alger, here. Maybe someday you get to be a rich guy, too. As opposed to, say, well... hmm... let me find... a good example... here." His hand alighted upon a monumental tome he hoisted for my consideration. "This kind of book ain't no use to nobody. Look how big it is, for one thing. Who in the world's ever gonna take the time to read a book this size, full of words nobody ain't never heard of, and long assed sentences running on forever. We judge books by the pound around here, and nobody has any use for no..." he craned his neck and eyes, and twisted the book around in his big paw until he could read the title embossed along the spine, "no use for no weighs a ton Charles Dickens book, full of bad people and unhappy endings, and no guns at all. What it does is makes people think, so they get all depressed. Better take your mind off things and not think so much. Take me. I don't read this crap."

"You never read at all? Surrounded by all this reading material?"

"Nah," he waved off my scrutiny. "Maybe I look at one of them old timer motorcycle magazines or car magazines. Makes me wish I had some petrol. Otherwise I don't waste my time reading books. I only watch stuff on my Compod, important stuff, like sports."

"No brain! No brain!" His compatriot cried out with such zeal I thought he might be on the verge of a nervous fit.

"That's enough out of you," Procrustes growled, "Get back to work. There ain't no free lunch hand out for standing around doing nothing."

Chastened and apologetic, his roly-poly colleague scampered off with surprising rapidity and busied himself stacking and restacking books.

To smooth the giant's pique, I said, "Thank you for explaining all this to me. It was very edifying."

"My pleasure, Miss –- it's my break time now, though, so... excuse me, I do get 15 minutes, ya know!" the Book Giant said, and strode off through the stacks.

I watched him go, and then it occurred to me to look for my friends. I espied them enjoying a leisurely stroll as though surrounded by roses and other foliage in an erstwhile English garden. He might have been a Lord, and she an exotic Countess visiting from the far and frozen East. They were getting acquainted through one of those meandering conversations whose chief pleasure derives from its amiability. Among the pungent aroma of ink and parchment I felt lightheaded.

Shaking off that Romantic vision I refocused my attention on Prometheus, who apparently was un-desirous of a break, or unaware he was deserving of one. Maybe not all workers received breaks. I lacked the insight to adequately intuit the temperament of my newfound friend. His lack of vocabulary he more than made up for with a true and simple heart. He sensed my presence within his proximity. That much intelligence I could read at the corners of his shy and shifty eyes.

"So many books," I ventured to say by way of broaching a conversation.

"Books, books, books," Prometheus replied with a sigh, raising his shoulders and letting them fall, as if to say, "What can one do?" His air benefitted from a philosophical resignation unlike the negative consternation springing from his partner's sore feet.

"Yes, indeed," I said, "books and more books. Can you recommend any good ones?"

In answer he scratched behind his ear as though to say 'not really'. I gained a hint he might be feigning ignorance.

"The reason why I ask is because I'm interested in which books the Powers That Be disapprove of the most. I could tell instantly I'd confused him so I broke it down: "The bad books. I want to see the bad books."

At this he brightened and said, "Bad books. Books bad. Yeah-yeah, books bad."

"Yes, my dear man, but I want to see the really bad books. The worst!"

His chuckles diminished into mischievous giggles at the same time his cheeks turned pink. He squeezed his eyelids until only conspiratorial slits remained. Furtively surveying the landscape and satisfying himself the coast was clear he looked directly at me with a penetrating gaze of remarkable clarity and motioned with his finger for me to follow him. Without hesitation I obeyed his command to where a mere few steps away he lifted an old crate covering three hardbacks neatly stacked. For safety's sake he reconnoitered once again before picking them up from the concrete floor and handing them to me.

Their titles were as follows: Civilization and it's Discontents by Sigmund Freud, A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, and The Origen of Species by Charles Darwin. If I was going to start over and build my own Utopia from the ground up then these three books would form the basis of my new beginning, relying upon the pure light of reason, or the joy of transformational perception, unlike societies based on the pernicious One Book, so noxious and cruel, filled with nothing but superstition and hatred.

I tried to signal my intent to keep the books for my own. Prometheus exhibited definite reluctance. My toting banned books around might get us both into trouble. In a flash of insight I pulled the box of utility matches from my coat pocket and offered them in trade. At first he refused to accept my offer as sincere; who in their right mind stands on a beach and barters for sand? I watched a look of devilment cross his sly face. He snatched the matches from my outstretched palm and pushed the books securely into my cradling arms.

Only after we sealed the deal did it occur to me to include a work of fiction. Upon request Prometheus darted off in search of Charles Dickens. For a box of matchsticks he would have filled a large cart for me on request. He located the very tome his master had handled and brought it straight back to me. "Hard Times" the title read. I almost requested "Moby Dick." I love the part where all those sexy sailor boys strip off their jerseys to enjoy a hot oil party but I wasn't sure how a modern Utopia might respond to a story about a creature extinct for so many epochs.

With our transaction now fully complete Prometheus pulled out his coveted box and prepared to play with fire on the spot. I cautioned him against such an indiscretion lest someone catch him in the act. He was having trouble lighting it off the side of the box anyway. Against my own advice I took the match from him, bent over and scraped the sulfur tip across the floor. With a satisfying snap, flame spit to life from the match head, and by the way his eyes mirrored the flickering image I knew I had discovered a kindred spirit. Pinching the dry end of the match, the dry end mind you, between thumb and forefinger, I brushed the flame up and down licking a nearby stack of literary works until the match burned down and licked my finger flesh. I held on until skyrockets exploded in my brain and I flicked the lit stick into a crate full of books where it disappeared down between the stacks. Oh the paroxysms, the rapture, seizing young Prometheus, who witnessed and learned from my brazen disregard for propriety.

"Go way down there to play," I said, "hide way in the back where no one can see you."

As I watched him go he reminded me of a child on Christmas morning who trundles off in expectation of a tinseled tree, colored baubles dangling from its branches, oversized socks stuffed to overflowing with morsels good to eat, colorfully wrapped packages crowding around its base, which my cherub then magically transforms with a fiery whoosh into a glorious burning bush spreading red hot roots across the ceiling. In this spirit I gave him a gift he would cherish forever. For the rest of his life, tucked into bed, he would grin while visions of fireballs danced in his dreams. Regarding his health and safety, I never had any qualms about supplying a simpleton with a pack of matches to set a warehouse on fire. No matter how deranged Prometheus may have been, a true pyromaniac like that one would never engulf himself in his own mischief.

Chapter 25

Somewhere a gigantic horn blasted as though signaling the seventh seal had shattered. Stunned by the noise I moved away from the rippling flames rifling the printed matter I'd set afire. Trying not to stagger I braced myself and the horn sounded again like a battleship signaling its immanent departure. The shock and my obvious guilt shook me to the souls of my feet. I crossed the garden path between the books Hater and Nastya had followed to where it entered more of a forest with several zigzagging footpaths between the towering book stacks. Emerging on the other side I saw my two friends smiling and laughing unaware of the impending disaster I had brought down on us.

Emerging from a deeply satisfying slumber the mammoth enclosure emitted a terrific groan stretching the rust out of its limbs and led lined joints. A slit of blinding light cut swiftly through the wall we'd been advancing toward as one whole end of the protective structure lifted and retracted at the same time.

I rejoined my friends. Hater shouted above the scraping clanking rattling iron din, "Awfully loud, isn't it? It'll be open in a minute. Then we can go."

"I think we should go now."

"It'll only be a moment."

"Now," I emphasized, placing a palm against each of their persons and applying a shove propelling them into motion. As we advanced I yelled, "What's going on, Hater? What's the commotion?"

"It's trading time. Like I told you. Money and contraband in exchange for pharm grade chems and a proper mix. The market is opening. That's all. Well be out in no time."

"Nothing else? Nothing more drastic?"

"No, it's just trading time. The pharmacy is open, but with a population of addicts, maintaining control becomes an issue. First thing in the morning everybody is withdrawing and ready to make a deal at lower prices, more edgy, so they make it a big deal, a ritual of sorts. This time of day junkies are desperate."

The jaws at this end of the protective covering continued to draw upward revealing on the other side a crowd of rattletrap junkies confronting us. I grabbed Miss Thing and firmly drew her to me. I'm ashamed to say I may have even given her a jerk. Sensing the potential for the impatience in the crowd outside developing into mayhem Nadezhda took no offence at my proprietary imposture. She intuited my apprehension and so it filled her as well. She voluntarily drew closer to me and held on in preparation for facing the outside environment. We faced the warm wind blowing against us and braced ourselves for yet another day.

Sure, I'd seen bartering stations before but nothing quite like this one. The queue formed to the left from where I was standing. Considering the bedraggled state of the crowed I was surprised by how orderly and patiently they waited, gripping their pittance for purchasing their chems. Given the horrific state of affairs in the world The Powers That Be had long ago abandoned the pretense of a doctor's prescription. As the giant chem companies turned citizens into junkies squeezed them for cash and doped their souls in an effort to maximize profits they downsized doctors as an unnecessary bottle neck in the process of credits changing hands in exchange for the goods provided. Eventually even the insurance companies fell a victim to the chem companies, one giant parasite eating another. Self-medication became the law of the land under the rational of who better than you yourself to gauge how depressed you are or how much pain you're feeling. Sign away your right to sue and you can have as much of whatever chem you feel you need, for a price.

Many in the crowd visibly vibrated. Their faces drooped in sullen despair. Underneath it all crackled an edgy impatience to get on with it already, enough with the formalities. In exchange for credits they received a pamphlet on proper chem management, along with their synthetic happiness.

Troopers in full riot armor conducted this operation, their fingers in the safety position aslant the trigger of a fully automatic machine gun. Two stood guard on a raised platform where they could watch over the transactions.

While we were waiting a jangle of junkies arrived grew impatient and elbowed their way butting into line. A shoving match ensued until to restore order a burst of gunfire spurt forth and squirting blood erupted from a cratered chest. Given the potential for massacre I must say the troopers exercised remarkable accuracy and restraint. The whole mob bent at the knees, frozen in that posture, bowed and submissive, and yet most didn't even bother to hit the deck. Pausing for a moment to ensure the shooting was over the crowd then rose to a standing position slowly, hesitantly at best. Nobody said a word. The barter boys and chemists who had ducked under the iron counter when the shooting broke out waited for the all clear sign from the senior trooper in charge before resuming business as usual. Nobody pushed or shoved anymore. The junkies were mannerly like before. I couldn't see what was done about the dead body. People must have stepped over or around the perforated corpse where it lay.

Other troopers stood at ground level inside, like the one guarding the exit door. The thought of the loaded pistol I carried in the voluminous bag on my back did not fill me with confidence in the face of this governmental firepower. On the contrary possession of a firearm amounted to nothing better than incriminating contraband. Of course, I'd never dream of pointing a loaded weapon at one of those licensed killers. Once upon a time The Powers That Be supported the idea of everybody owning a gun. Why they favored a heavily armed populace in the first place poses a real historical mystery in light of the ensuing all out slaughter, including across every gated community. I mean, what's the point of a gate without a wall? The mob just poured around the edges. You'd think it would have been more obvious to those wealthy and powerful minions how precariously their position stood. During the Corporate Wars conservative puppeteers realized the error in their calculation and quickly changed their minds. By then it was mostly too late.

A well-armed peasantry ultimately threatened The Powers That Be so they merged cops and soldiers into something called a trooper and waged a bloody campaign to wrest personal firearms from anybody who owned one. The most shocked and surprised huddled in their hovels clinging to their guns and The One Book obediently waiting on the trickledown effect. It took a healthful shock for that group of sycophants to finally realize the Powers That Be whom they had always adored and supported did not in fact care about them or their safety in the least.

Under his breath Hater exchanged a few words with one of the guards who shoved open a vault door and stepping through the portal into the outside sunshine took up a defensive stance, weapon in hand, readying himself for killing anyone stupid enough who might try to rush the entrance. In the interim thus provided our little group filed outside, first Hater followed by Nadezhda with me bringing up the rear, and once we each emerged through the portal and stood in the light of day our trooper retreated inside the enclosure and disappeared from sight, yanking the handle after him as he drew closed the door.

A poppy field of addicts, their heads nodding and bobbing in the breeze, snorted, injected, or otherwise numbed their gums. Some were wandering off; others tumbled into the weeds and decided to take a nap. In comparison our little group walked between them with more determination and purpose. A wealthy white-haired man somewhere was making a killing on the free flow of so many narcotics. Shooting chems first thing in the morning though man: that had to be rough.

For a reason unstated between us, as soon as we reached the rubble-strewn street before proceeding farther, we all three did an about face to survey the scene of human misery and sorrow. Maybe Hater needed a moment to reassure himself he was making the right choice.

Nadezhda interrupted our reverie to exclaim, "Oh look! It look like bullhead, no? See? Horns, two eyes, nose, big mouth?"

Hater and I both laughed because with the wall drawn up for business the iron and led sarcophagus did resembled a bull's head, sort of like the ancient sphinx or some other rough beast, its hour come round at last.

While we stood admiring Nadezhda's cleverness a man in a purple dress sidled up next to me, a total stranger of course, and interposed with an observation of his own:

"They're truly doing God's work," he said.

His remark's incongruity forced me to look at him directly because at the sound of his voice a big crowd of junkies turned to confront us. His eyes were black, hard and flat, narrowed to prevent access of my curious gaze. He appeared too old to sport such a full head of greying brown hair.

"How do you figure it's god's work?" I asked in a soft tone, undercutting my frank challenge to his observation.

"They scour the land for those evil books, thus cleansing us forever of that Godless ancient humanism."

"Yes," I said, obliquely looking once again at that collection of misery, "You really cannot trust a human being."

"Indeed, you cannot," he concurred, as though annoyed at such an obvious truth. "You can only trust the word of God!" From inside his voluminous cassock he produced a copy of the One Book, the cartoon picture version, almost as though pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "Here, my daughter, take this, flip through it, study the pictures it contains, accept every last illustration as the utmost and literal truth. Only then shall you recognize your own iniquity; only through the true word shall ye be reborn."

"Really? Every word as literal? Even the bit about the talking snake?"

"Take it! And be warned about homosexuality, the single sin, the one and only abomination God demands we reject."

"Actually, I don't need a copy. I already... well... no... I guess... I don't..." I said, finally accepting the book he repeatedly shoved at me. His remark about homosexuals didn't really phase me that much because I never really thought about myself in so many words. Lesbian. Bisexual, a time or two. Bottom. Vanilla. Dyke. Top. Juicy. Vagiliscious. Mostly, I just thought of myself as the single 'I am', or 'just me'. In the Zone my sexuality made me a star. Outside those walls my true identity reduced me to fearing the auto–da-fey. As the good father admired Hater and not Nadezhda I instantly knew him to be the most dangerous type of true believer. Although, I didn't feel like this little perv had that much juice in him. Hater and Nadezhda meanwhile had turned to stone effigies, in fear, I suppose, of what I night say next.

"You know, it's interesting you should mention homosexuality," I said, holding that book in one hand and indicating it with the index finger of my other, "because I actually know these stories, though and through, and it only mentions gay people one time, in the really old part, along with a lot of other really ancient weird stuff. If I didn't know better, I'd say people were misusing this book to reinforce their own personal prejudices, and if you asked me what this book is about, I would answer two things: one, the danger of greed; and two, you can't trust women. Those are the two messages, over and over again. Yet I never see anyone carrying signs protesting against greed. And while I'll have to admit I haven't been to church in, well, ever, I'd be willing to bet there's not a preacher in the land who dares to whisper even one word against greed."

"The Lord wants you to be prosperous. The Lord wants heaven on Earth. There's nothing wrong with amassing great wealth. Jesus loved the rich man and gave to him all the material blessings of this Earth." Then he quoted some lines from the written edition of the One Book, the version only priests are allowed to read. I forget which lines. It doesn't matter. I mean, let's face it, that book has a quote for every occasion.

"But why don't preachers preach against the Sin of Greed?"

"If they did that, my daughter, they wouldn't have much of a congregation left, and when the donation tray passed around, people wouldn't want to donate as much."

For a moment I was confused because he had spoken the truth. Then I tried a different line of reasoning.

"What about this fellow Jesus?"

"What about him?" The priest bowed slightly and clasped his hands, solicitous, fully prepared to answer any questions or clear up any misunderstandings plaguing my poor female mind. You see, God doesn't speak to women. Only men.

"He didn't like money. If Jesus is the hero in those testaments, money has to be the antagonist. The moneylenders in the temple, the twenty pieces of silver. Money recurs again and again as the evil working against his will."

"The antagonist in the New Testament is Satan, not greed," he said, smirking at me.

"Okay, I stand corrected. But greed is still a recurring theme. People brought money into church, and Jesus got angry."

"Those are parables my dear and need to be interpreted properly by the priesthood before a peasant can be made to understand, let alone a simple girl like you. The real problem we are about to have is that none of those stories to which you are referring are illustrated in the picture book edition. In order to know so many details you would have to have read the original, and as a female, not only do you not know how to read, you certainly never presumed to cast your gaze upon wholly writ, which is strictly forbidden, and in punishment of which, I would be spiritually justified in having you blinded. To cleanse your eyes of the forbidden text." He simpered before adding, "For your own good, of course."

"What about love and acceptance?"

"What about it."

By the lust in his expression I could tell the priest hovered on the verge of kicking down with some major consequences when all around us a gasp escaped the crowd interrupting our conversation and restoring Nadezhda and Hater to their human forms.

Smoke poured forth from the nostrils of the iron beast, and a diabolical red glow illuminated its eyes. Shrieks, alarums, and groans of deep woe echoed in the bull's gaping maw before everybody, troopers included, fled from the fire and clambered from the jaws of the terrible idol. The only spectator in the crowd moving toward the calamity was the priest, who yanked at his own hair in despair and wrung his hands and gesticulated wildly, as though imploring someone, or something, to intercede on his behalf. Though nothing happened. No divine intervention. Only silence.

"Mammon! Mammon!" He cried. I was surprised he knew the beast on a first name basis. His lamenting sounded awfully sad. He had developed a way to destroy knowledge and turn a profit at the same time, a win-win for any High Priest of Empire.

Faced with an undeniable assessment regarding the wholesale destruction of their stronghold the troopers banded together in counting off their number, and with all present and accounted for they promptly marched off in some kind of tactical redeployment. Out of side entrances poured small groups of students and scientists chased by fire blowing from the nostrils of an unseen dragon. The absence of law and order emboldened several of the more intrepid junkies to brave the flames and loot the pharmacy for all the dust and pills they could carry. Most of the noncombatants, the chemists and that lot, removed their smocks and discarded them before straggling off in the same general direction the troopers had fled.

Meanwhile the priest evolved into a different kind of creature, waving his arms about and spouting fire and brimstone, galvanizing the crowd, most of them just now coming onto their rush. Watching the witch doctor at work, speaking in tongues, working the faithful into a lather, and drawing their negative energy into his diabolical grasp struck the three of us at the same time as our cue to execute our own tactical redeployment.

Chapter 26

We hadn't retreated more than a couple of paces before the priest's inflamed magic arrested our momentum. Very clearly he was pointing in our direction and again casting spells through electromagnetic balls of ill will fired directly from his outstretched palms. Although we couldn't hear his words we saw the poisonous influence registering in a thousand glazed and hate filled eyes turning upon us their vibrating junky resentment.

"Don't run," Hater said, "walk."

"I want to hear no more of dat bad man," Nadezhda said.

Hater and I responded to her plea simultaneously positioning ourselves on either side of her as we expedited the mission. We were Oscar Mike. In the early morning the street littered with broken bricks and all manner of twisted debris created an obstacle course we stumbled across in our haste. Just before we rounded a corner putting us on the straightaway to the train station I caught a glimpse of the mob fomenting under the priest's instigation. A few of the younger, fleeter chemheads were already sprinting after us.

"You two run... Run!" I shrieked, pulling off the voluminous bag and retrieving the pistol. Gun in hand I looped the volume over one shoulder and galloped to catch up to Nadezhda, who was wisely monitoring where her steps were landing, and Hater, who was half running between steadying Nastya and turning to look over his shoulder to check on my progress.

Behind me I smelled the stink of angry voices and the scrabbling of a hundred footsteps rounding the corner in mad pursuit. I spun to face the monomaniacal herd. Seeing their number and the drug crazed look in their eyes I screamed at the same time several pistol shots popped off. The whole crowd staggered to a halt.

I hadn't hit anyone, not a single soul. They simply couldn't believe the ringing in their ears. A private citizen in possession of a firearm actually loaded with live ammunition. Without warning an enormous brick wall fell over, sending sizeable jagged chunks shooting across the street, resulting in spastic can-can dancing and some rather nasty shin barking. A few of the unluckier religious junkies the brick avalanche took out at the knees. So apparently, I had managed to hit something.

For a moment the falling wall distracted the crowd from murdering us. Then their eyes rotated back to the loaded gun I was holding too aloft for it to be really accurate. I felt as though I were holding a fistful of bloody chum in the middle of a shark tank. To no good purpose I screamed again dropped the gun and ran. Frantically I waved at Hater and Nastya, urging them to renew their flight.

Behind me I heard a roar of voices swell until the pistol popped. Another swell of angry voices. Pop pop. Only they weren't firing at us. Amid the mad frenzy for ownership of a loaded weapon the majority had forgotten about us, their prey. No sooner had one hand gripped the handle and squeezed another shot killing one of their number then a dozen claws descended punching grabbing tearing at the new owner until a new hand gripped the butt and squeezed off a shot before disappearing beneath the frantic swell of mob violence. While that pathetic power trip unfolded my comrades and I ran for our lives and put several blocks of separation between them and us in our frantic dash for the platform. We clambered up the clattering staircase and I looked back to take measure of our status and spotted about a dozen zealots still in active pursuit.

Being junkies however they were obviously not in peak physical condition. Since the beginning of the race their pace had slacked considerably. At the top of the stairs we advanced onto the platform.

The track was bare. The train was gone, left without us.

We didn't waste much time staring at the empty space where the train should have been waiting. Nadezhda's and Hater's troubled expressions oscillating between concern and disappointment considering events were turning against us before we even started met my own gaze filled I'm sure with fear and shame over having promised so much and delivered thus far a flat nothing. I couldn't confront the gazes belonging to either one of my companions so I looked down the track to where it curved and disappeared beyond the shell-shocked buildings.

"Maybe we should move out anyway," I speculated. "I know I promised a train. But obviously it left without us. So we might as well hoof it. With that mob back there we don't have much choice. C'mon."

I leapt from the platform onto the track, barking my ankle bone in the process. With arms outstretched I eased Nadezhda down and Hater wisely sat down before sliding the rest of the way. Together the three of us picked our footing down the tracks. Clearing the station I could see the standoff over the handgun continuing. One man had managed to clear a circle at the center of the crowd. With arms extended, elbows locked, he gripped the pistol with both hands and in crazy brandishing motions whipping it around in semi-circles at the crowd. For their part the mob rolled back, biding its time, waiting to see whom among them would be the first to rush the lonely gunman. Several corpses lay strewn about already. In passing that scene I wondered how many rounds might be left in that special extended clip. In their fixation over a loaded weapon nobody seemed to notice three wise mice scampering across the overpass towards safety.

A few zealots who were climbing the stairs of the station took turns noticing us. Upon seeing our elevated status most of our pursuers became discouraged, quitting the chase and hanging their heads as they reversed direction and commenced plodding down the stairs. The final religious nut took inspiration at a confirmed visual, redoubling his efforts, pounding up the staircase and disappearing around the corner on his way to the platform. Any moment now his feet would land in dogged pursuit on the tracks directly behind us.

So as not to trip up we'd been watching our feet as we ran. A shrill human whistle brought all three of our heads up in unison. There stood Tubby the Conductor, standing on the curve of the track, waving us forward in a manner most encouraging.

"Where's the bloody train!" I yelled.

He pointed to that area of track hidden out of sight around the bend. Like a good relay sprinter he turned and began his run before we reached him.

As we caught up to him he said, "I had to move the train away from the station. At first light this morning undesirables showed up and started nosing around the platform. So I pulled the whole rig forward, around the corner, out of site.

"Good thinking," I said, having to swallow the bitter acrimony towards him which had turned out to be groundless.

"You brought company with you," Casey Jones said, puffing for air by the time we reached the train.

Nadezhda and he climbed aboard while Hater and I squared off against this last overly persistent chupacabra. Having come this far our assailant looked pretty determined to finish the business. Puffing out our chests, which in my case was fairly ridiculous, we tried to bluff him. Clearly the zealot was not impressed. In response to our posturing he whipped out an oversized broad blade.

"Okay, Nika, what else do you have?"

"Now I want my handgun."

"I only have this," Hater said, pulling out a

Shock-a-block and producing a crackle of lightening, "But I'd rather not have to get close enough to use it."

The chem-ridden ideologue brandished his weapon and plodded hunched over in attack mode. His ears had pricked up at the sound of Hater's shocker. He smiled in anticipation of the violence. It didn't slow him down any.

In a desperate gesture I pulled out my laser and directed its most piercing beam straight into the eye of this fallen angel. His left eyeball, to be exact. In response he emitted a weird shriek, doubling over, pressing his palm to his eye. Both Hater and I could tell I may have only succeeded in making him really angry. Mr. H. plucked at my sleeve and I took the hint. We turned and ran, scrambling up the ladder onto the observation deck of the caboose to once again face our assailant. The train lurched beneath our feet. The enraged zealot plodded forward, knife in hand. He was trying to shake that bright green dot from his vision.

"Hit him in the other eye," Hater advised.

I directed the beam until it found its mark, and the desperate creature yowled again. He let loose a stream of invective so foul and loathsome I disdain from reproducing it here, lest the morals of any young gentle ladies seeking entertainment and edification from this romance novel should find their morals corrupted instead.

If the Demon of Mad Pursuit had made one more desperate run for it he would have undoubtedly caught up with the train and slaughtered everyone aboard. The blinding flash disconcerted him just enough. The train picked up speed and we left him stranded there on the tracks, bent at the waist, hands on knees, knife dropped on the tracks at his feet, blinking in distress, waiting for his sight to return. I had cooked his eyeballs. He was done.

Chapter 27

Hater slipped his shocker into one of his pockets, and I flicked the switch on my laser and tucked it away as well. Turning our backs on the recent danger we stepped against the swaying motion of the train, working our way up the long linkage towards rejoining Nastya. I led the way until we found Casey Jones and her waiting in the same middle car where we had spent a night. She was sitting bent forward slightly with her ankles together, hands clasped around her knees. The conductor sat opposite. One of his palms pressed the top of his thigh, his elbow turned outward, locked, supporting his stocky upper body. With the fingers of his free hand he pinched at his lower lip and whatever thoughts he may have been visualizing his eyes stared bleakly at the prospect.

Nadezhda sensed our arrival first. Wringing her hands she rose to her feet. The commotion of her standing broke the Conductor's reverie and he too awoke to our arrival.

"No worries," I said to Nadezhda, seeking to alleviate her fears at once. "The dangers over. We're safe enough. No one's chasing us anymore. We're safe enough. For the time being, anyway."

"How did you discourage that awful man?" The Conductor inquired, removing his black cap and swiping his forearm over his baldhead. He wiped away the sweat droplets beading on the surface of his scalp.

"Nika zapped him with her laser," Hater said, dropping his bashful gaze as the trainman did the same. I suppose they felt abashed at having been saved by a woman, or equally thankful to have been saved at all. Hugging Nadezhda to me I cleft her heaving bosom.

As our nerves began to uncoil the four of us shared a nervous giggle, which for Nastya transformed into exhausted tears rendering the fellows once more bashful.

"It's been a long night," I said, "and an eventful morning. A little too much excitement for both of us. So we're going to have a little lie down, take a nap. You gentlemen do what you have to do, and we'll see you later."

Stroking Nadezhda's hair I sprinkled gentle kisses on her lips, and I didn't care who was staring. She nodded her head with the agreement I was seeking for my plan. I wiped away the tears on my side; she took over and finished the job for herself. I slid the voluminous bag from my shoulder and let it plop to the floor.

I could sense Hater, who knew my remarks didn't really apply to him, staring at the Conductor, who didn't take the hint. What did he expect, for us to slip into our nighties with him sitting there staring?

"I wonder, sir, if I might have a word with you," Hater finally said to him, clearly startling the dude out of his reveries.

"Yes, of course."

"In private," Hater insisted, indicating with a gentle underhand ushering motion for them both to exit the car.

"Oh yes! Of course, of course," the impossible man mumbled, hobbling sideways.

Briefly I caught Hater by the sleeve as he passed and whispered for him to come back and join us. I had been right before: in his inimical way he understood everything already.

Our mats felt soft and embracing. I lay on my back and Nadezhda on her side. She threw a leg over mine and we intertwined, snuggled, and fell asleep that way.

Feeling drugged and dreary I awoke from a long and dreamless sleep after contact with Hater's bony butt jabbing into mine. I felt in my sternum before I understood in my mind we had slept the whole day away and night approached again. For a few moments, the space of a yawn and a stretch, I languished in that empty feeling of time lost without hope of recovery. With so much sleep I felt dismayed by the prospect of being awake and out of synch for the oncoming moon and sun rotation.

The ghost train rumbled through the country as the evening congealed. The dirty fuel falling with the rain had painted the landscape purple and black. If Hater had been awake he could have explained the technical reason why the sun appeared shocking pink whereas before it shined bright yellow. Pink to burnt sienna and then the sky black as the landscape. The whole world inundated by floods steadily evaporating and not returning.

Maybe I was selfish to bump both my compadres awake when I arose but I wanted us stirring about in the sane hours of the day. Ever the pragmatist Hater rolled onto his back and blinked the sleep from his blurry vision, resolved the time to get up had arrived. Nastya, on the other hand, grimaced and squeaked, squeezing shut her eyes to block out the harsh intrusion into her soft somnolence.

"Get up, Nasty!" I commanded. "Face it, our sleep is out and we're going to be up for a while." Of Hater I asked, "You get much sleep?"

"Yes, I came back, after Charlie gave me a tour of the engine room and lay down. Fell to sleep. Like you said: too much excitement."

"Charlie?" I exclaimed. "Is that his name?"

"You didn't know?"

"I had no idea. Why would I?"

"He held an entire train for your sake."

"I don't like him. He's squirmy somehow. Choo-choo Charlie!" I cried in delight.

"Oh please, do you must to talk so much."

"Good day to you, too."

Nadezhda dragged herself up next to me on the bench and lay her head on my shoulder, snuffled, and just as quickly sat up straight. In deference to her semi-conscious state I slid my arm around her and suppressed the urge to tease her.

"How are we set for rations?" Hater asked, nudging his own volume to indicate he had plenty to share.

"They offer a complementary dinner," I said. "You've got to check it out."

"Let's do that then. Let's check it out now. I'm hungry."

"What say you, kid, ready for some food?"

Nadezhda rubbed her nose and from behind the gesture nodded. Even in the most opportune moments she was reluctant about eating.

On our way to the dining car Hater took the lead for the first car length. Then he hesitated, pointing ahead of us as though to verify we were headed in the right direction.

"Yes, straight ahead. You can't get lost," I said, laughing at his indecision. "Only I could lose my sense of direction on a train. You'll do fine. Straight ahead."

In silence we traversed several cars, partly because of the constant clickity-clack din, but also because we weren't vacuous types who are driven to fill every waking moment of their empty lives with chatter. Suddenly I realized Nastya wasn't behind me anymore. After grabbing Hater's attention I doubled back and found her standing on the other side of the transom connecting the last car we passed, apparently unable to move.

"What's the hold-up, Nasty?"

"You door shut my face. I no feet on tis. Scary part."

"Scary part?"

"Floor moves here, between da ting and da ting."

"You mean here? Over the cupola? Between the cars?"

"Da. Between cars no good. Floor moves like tis and like tat. I not like do."

For several days already she had been traversing the length of the train without any issue about the unsteady footing between the cars. Now, for whatever reason, she had developed a problem. I stepped across the transom to stand next to her and put my arm around her shoulder and caress her cheek as a silent inquiry into the holdup. She was having no part of it. Her eyes sparkled with tears and refusing to look at me folded her arms.

"Why don't you come on, now, and I'll help you across the threshold."

"You don' have to no worry about me. Go on. Go wit your man Hater dere and leave me."

"Aw, Nasty, you know it's not like that. Hater's just an old friend is all. I don't have a thing for him. I only have a thing for you. You know that."

"Maybe I not know," she said, her pride stiffening in anticipation of an emotional blow.

"Why else do you think I brought you with me?"

"I no more know. Why you me steal. Dis freedom dreadful."

"Where'd you get that word?"

"You tink I not smart. I know lots words."

In response to her openness I moved around in front of her and draped my arms around her neck. She tried to bow her head, her eyes darting about in their sockets, doing their utmost to avert visual contact. I pressed my forehead to hers to make her stop. Those trembling lips I kissed. The hurt and anger vanished. Her mouth meshed with mine and her darting hot tongue sought soulful solace.

"You're my girl," I intoned, after our lips had parted. "Nothing is going to change that. My heart belongs to you."

"You don' run off an' leave me behind no more. I trust you evertink. My life. My love. Evertink. Have big long talk wit big words nobody know. You tink I dumb slave girl. You drop me roadside. You go wid dis man."

"Listen here: I'm not leaving you anywhere. I'm taking you with me. You are with me, at all times."

"Not just right now you not."

"An accident. A mistake. Won't happen again. Did Mr. H. say something to you? Something you didn't like?

With a flip of her hair Nadezhda dismissed the notion as absurd, not the point.

"No. He fine. Nice man. Whatever."

"He is a nice man, and it looked to me as though you two were hitting it off."

"Yes, you say already," she said, breathing a deep sigh. Because it was not Hater per se, the cut was Hater and I as old friends. A shared history. Mysteries transforming her into a third and useless nipple.

"I want for you to be happy. I want for the three of us to be friends. You have to understand, though; Hater does not possess my heart. You do. You and you alone."

"I know," Nadezhda said cheerily. "I jus' wan' make you say it."

"You little brat," I said, rocking her about until she cried for mercy, and then our laugh lines were straightened by desire and we munched and munched and munched.

Okay fine. I played the scene her way. I was whipped.

As we made our way together to rejoin Hater we had to cross the shifting floor of recent fable and pretend like it really did present an obstacle. Nadezhda had to lose her balance and shriek in dismay and so from behind I was obliged to leap to the rescue. Damsel in distress was never one of my freaks. With my arms around her for support we staggered back and forth, Nadezhda pealing with sweet laughter, wanting everything to be okay. You know you're truly in love when your partner's phony nonsense rather than annoying the wits out of you fills you with laughter.

Poor Hater. He was stationary, right where I left him. By the look on his face I could tell he had born the time alone with patient suffering. A man of intellect is never truly alone. He always has his thoughts to keep him company. And here we came bouncing along like a pair of truant hookers.

"Sorry we took so late," Nadezhda crooned, jutting her chin and breasts impudently at Hater and collapsing backwards into my arms with such force I had no choice but to throw my arms around her.

Unsure what her capering signified Hater laughed good-naturedly in self-defense.

"Everything okay?" He asked, as though Nastya wasn't standing there."

"We're fine," I said, winking at him to suggest we'd talk later.

"Let's go eat, then," he said, sounding somewhat annoyed. "I'm hungry."

"I'm so hungry, too!" Nadezhda squealed with such inappropriate glee I felt inclined to rein her in and bring her to heel. She was spazzing in embarrassment over having to be nice to Hater's face after having recently talked smack about him behind his back. Outside her peripherals Hater pantomimed concern. I pursed my lips and shook my head as if to say no worries. We managed to wend our way to the dining car and take our seats without further incident.

Nadezhda sat next to me. Hater sat opposite us both.

"You try orange duck. Is bery good here."

Without blinking Hater looked at me for clarification.

"Duck la'orange."

Nadezhda swung her lowered gaze around and repeated at me, "Is bery good here."

"It's true," I said, caving under Nastya's threatening glare. "It's very good here."

"You have a lot of experience for comparison?" Hater asked, in the face of her girlish fencing, plodding forward with objective certainty, pushing back some against her.

"Oh jess," Nadezhda said, without hesitation. At first I thought she wanted to snooker us, until she elaborated. "I like many fine meals. I Master's favorite all time. He me take. I on his arm, people say."

"You ever act as an escort for a Powersby at a fancy restaurant?" Hater asked, grinning, knowing full well I had not.

"No, I only... entertained... never escorted." Turning to Nadezhda, I asked, "You find the food here as good as a fine restaurant?" I'd never been near such a place and was genuinely curious.

"No," Nadezhda said. "Food here garbage is. I try to be polite."

Judging by Hater's robust laughter and Nastya's catty smirk my expression must have fallen straight off the bone. Spurred on by my deflation Hater launched into one of his charming monologues leaving me even more wretched. The thin skin covering my non-existent self-confidence had been punctured and my hot air was escaping.

I knew enough about society to understand how laws were written to allow the rich and powerful to exploit the poor and weak. Poor people proliferated quickly and were expendable. Power owned the courts, the council, and the leadership. I was weak, sold into slavery, contracted, whatever you want to call it. So starting at that low point, to realize not only was I a sex slave, I was not a very good or highly valued one. This realization time and time again stopped me in my tracks with a vicious jolt. I'd danced naked, performed live, had sex in front of a camera while a small crowd watched. Nobody had ever thought enough of me to dress me in a fancy gown, adorn me with jewels, escort me as a trophy, proudly displayed, treated to a fine meal at a fancy restaurant. Not only was I consigned to the lowest rung of society, I was the lowest whore on that rung.

I remembered Rachel telling me about how she was featured on a video whose theme was three on one. She had been one of six starlets contributing a scene. When the reviews came out she wasn't even mentioned. Forget about being voted 'Hottest Scene'. Imagine exerting yourself to that degree and being judged dead last.

Knowing they had successfully hurt my feelings, my so-called friends ignored me all the more the better to rub it in. I hated them both, and at the first opportunity I was going to hurt them back. Maybe I didn't need them on this quest. Maybe I would ditch Nasty on the side of a dirt road somewhere. Why did I think bringing Hater along was so important? I thought of emotionally wounding my friends cheered me considerably. The waiter arrived to take our order.

We hadn't seen this guy before. A wizened and emaciated figure, he stood all of about five feet tall. He most closely resembled the kind of holy man who spends decades holding a vow of silence sitting cross-legged beneath a jujube tree. Without breaking his vow he took our order.

When Nadezhda pertly ordered the chicken and oranges, he nodded and scribbled a notation on his note pad. I could feel the hot expectation of her gaze burning for a response from me. Too bad for her I was already over it. I told the guru I would have the same. I disappointed Hater, too. His look of expectation subsided into embarrassment. He ordered the same. I would make sure of one thing. For hurting my feelings, they would pay dearly, the pair of them.

The silent old waiter returned with our food packets, and the meal I'd been looking forward to now tasted like poverty. Feeling degraded I ate my meal in silence while my two erstwhile friends prattled on ignoring my downcast state.

"How's food?" Nadezhda asked, leering at me.

"It'll keep body and soul together," I said between bites.

"I thought you didn't believe in the soul," Hater said, trying to be nice, I suppose, by supplying me with philosophical conversation.

"It's just an old saying," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Here is for you," said Nadezhda, reaching past me and removing from the cafeteria tray a small wet nap packet. She tore the pouch open and tried to wipe my mouth with it. In real irritation I jerked my head back and pushed her hand away, shooting her an angry glance from the corner of my eye.

I doubt whether she realized how badly she'd hurt my feelings. Hater sensed it and stopped throwing elbows. Not high-on-life Miss Nasty. She was still bouncing around in her seat and having a gay old time. Until I put a stop to it. No fun allowed. I hadn't done anything to deserve a cut low. On the contrary, I'd just professed my love for her, and as a result I was feeling very exposed and vulnerable, and she reached right in and clipped me to the quick. Now very obviously dejected in return she sat staring at her plate. Grown silent in the face of my rejection of her playfulness. I always ended up hating the people I loved.

To give himself something to do other than contemplating the two of us not talking to each other Hater collected our dinner plates and stacked them on the delivery tray.

"I don't feel like being here anymore," I said, sliding out of my seat and standing up in the aisle and reaching for the ceiling in order to stretch apart the gloom gathering between my joints and nerves. "Come on, you two. We're heading back. This is going to be a long night. I can tell."

Hater cast a glance Nadezhda's way that said I don't know about you, but I don't intend to make her anymore angry.

"C'mon, Nadezhda. You don't want to be left behind, do you?"

I'm such a god-awful bitch sometimes. I don't know what foul brew bubbles up inside me. Some bitter choler. Nastya's mouth fell open for a moment. She closed her jaw and the muscles rippled. Her lips parted, her lips hung loose, and her pallor betrayed a grayish hue.

Nothing was developing between the three of us like I had planned. I had envisioned the three of us forming a new triad. We would form the perfect triangle, each of us supporting the other. Pure. Resilient. Strong. Instead everything turned sour. My stupid egotism ruined everything.

In passing over the shifting floor in the cupola Nadezhda lost her footing and would have fallen if I hadn't caught her.

"C'mon kid," I said, "You gotta stand on your own two feet."

The mirth, the joy, drained away. In the next car I stopped the parade. I felt so lousy I couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm sorry for ruining everybody's fun," I blurted. "I should not have gotten mad." A bitter sob convulsed my diaphragm, causing me to burst into tears and totally waste face. "I didn't want to be a contract girl. Nobody asked me. They said sign your name, so I did. I didn't know what I was doing. They made me do those things. I was so young I didn't know better. I didn't want to. Those sticky things. I didn't want it. They beat me if I said no. They whipped me like a dog. I didn't want to do those things. I didn't want to. I didn't."

The violence burst unexpected and raw, sobbing and trembling. Hater rubbed my back helping me to breath and kissed my forehead. Nadezhda enveloped me in a full love embrace, committed to holding onto me until the full storm surge passed.

"I never nude you feel such bad," Nadezhda said, caressing my hair and gently rocking me in her arms. "I borned in it. I never know no udder way."

"Come along now, young lady," Hater said, condescending wonderfully. "You're the backbone of this organization. We can't have you falling apart on us now. Considering we just got started."

Their gentle, consoling words burped me like a baby, the last air bubble popped loose in the form of a guffaw. They laughed in sympathy, which made me hiccough in sadness before finally catching my breath and getting ahold of myself.

"If I'm supposed to be the backbone of this team, I think we're in trouble," I said, my lame attempt at levity at least reassuring them my fit of catharsis was drawing to a close. "Let's move. I'm alright," and I started to lead the way before remembering the pledge I had made to keep track of Nastya. "Wait a second. You, up front, where I can keep an eye on you." How little it takes to please a body sometimes. "And you, bring up the rear, and keep an eye on us both."

"Keep an eye on your rears. Got it."

Nadezhda tossed a 'hah!' over her shoulder."

"See? I told you he was a okay."

"Da-ya. He one funny guy."

What a fine group of fellows who traversed the next transom. Nadezhda finally lived up to her greatest ambition by losing her footing and falling backward into me, causing me to fall backwards into Hater, who grabbed hold of us both and dragged us to the floor. Our behavior was absurd, and it was making me annoyed. The train trundled around a bend at that moment and the floor expanded to its full extent sending the three of us on our butts vibrating apart in spinning circles like teacups on a carnival ride.

Nadezhda let loose with peals of ecstatic laughter. For some reason I was spinning off the farthest. Hater kept content spinning in one spot. He looked like a low energy break-dancer. The sight of him made me laugh. I rolled over onto my hands and knees and crawled I was laughing so hard. My spinning friends collided with me, successfully intercepting my attempt to stand up. A flash of annoyance came and went, and I surrendered to the corny attempt by my friends to cheer me up. The train straightened its course and we came to rest, head to tummy, in a perfect triangle.

"Are we through lying on the floor?"

They agreed we were done and so we roused ourselves onto hands and knees and I took the lead as we crept towards the door and I reared up enough to reach the handle and yank it open and wedge the door aside and hold it there while my two goofball friends crawled by. I stood then, watching them crawl all the way over and up onto a couple of seats.

"You hurt her feelings," Hater whispered.

"I did no know," Nadezhda whispered back.

I went over and squeezed between them forcing a separation.

"Stop conspiring against me," I said.

"I have something to cheer you up," Hater said.

"I don't need cheering up. I'm fine. I'm over it."

"I didn't know you felt so bad about it."

I didn't either," I said. "I guess I kept it to myself because nobody cared."

"Rachel didn't care?" Hater asked, down on one knee, rummaging through his volume.

"She wouldn't listen to me. I think in some ways she suffered more than I did. They broke me. There was no two ways about my case. I'm not sure they ever did break Rachael. Enhanced interrogation techniques rendered her tough. Torture left me defensive and meek."

As a lifer brought up the natural way Nadezhda didn't have any painful memories of a break from a previous life. So what I saw on her face, the look of contemplation, had nothing to do with my pain. She was weighing the information about an unknown woman from my past, a ghost girl named Rachel Cozy.

"I've got something here I think will improve all of our moods," Hater said, flourishing a large paper bindle.

"Oh for goodness' sake, Hater," I said, my head lolling forward until my chin brushed my bosom.

Immediately Nadezhda became curious, demanding to know what had thrown me into despond.

I told her, "He's got powdered chems."

Her eyes grew wide with expectation as Hater carefully undid the bindle to display his junk.

"One eighth of an ounce of Yellow Cake," Hater announced.

"Oo-oh, de bestest kind," Nadezhda crooned.

"How do you know?" I asked, astounded by her admiration.

"Master lets me tasting his, sometimes. He not give to harem girls. But he give parties, and it there for girls, too."

"That's true," I conceded. "I forgot about him and his snack table."

"I guess this makes me the Master tonight," Hater said, using a pinky nail to shovel a snoot-full up each nostril. He could have been King of the World if he'd never started on narcotics. His preternatural intellect latched onto controlled substances with the same obsessive attention he once paid to mathematical formulae. After the first taste it was downhill all the way for his career.

"Better shield it from the wind or your cake will go flying." I leaned over. "Do me some, Hater. Do me."

Scooping with his pinky nail, Hater obliged, and my brain and body, dull and phlegmatic a moment ago, filled with pleasing light and energy. Clash of cymbals in the pleasure centers of my brain.

"Now me! Now me!" Nadezhda urged, applying pressure with her finger to collapse first one nostril and then the other.

A few hours later, traveling at high speeds, the crown of my cranium came loose and flew off, revealing beneath a brain field covered in cold snow.

The first bright idea stripped Nadezhda down to her bare skin. I positioned her over my knees, English style. A globule of my spit splattered on her crater, and I spread it around the outside, coaxing the rest to pass through her tight string. Hater pinched a bolt of yellow cake and sprinkled it like pixie dust mixing with the spit and liquefying. He worked it just inside the rim, numbing the string, while I struck my middle finger into her mouth to make it wet and slippery with saliva. I rolled my finger back and forth until it was coated yellow. Nadezhda's neck muscles tensed and bunched. Then her whole body chillaxed. As I worked my finger clean inside of her her head bobbed rhythmically in time as I wore a yellowish santorum ring around my finger like the salt around a margarita glass. I plunged my finger into my mouth so I could suck the residue off. The pungent musty funk brought tears to my eyes, and as my mouth went numb I drooled. Hater jumped all over that. In my mouth. With his tongue. Sucking up the drool and ripping open my leather bodice releasing my heaving bosoms and slathering my areolas. More pixie dust. Working into soft flesh until my girls stood at attention.

I lost consciousness for a moment. When I revived I realized I had become the naughty schoolgirl and those two degenerates were administering the Turkish finger to me. Every moist orifice received a good dusting. Together we took flight like a trio of acrobatic skydivers. The wind deafened us as we plummeted. Falling with death defying velocity buffeting our hair. We swooped together forming a triangle. Mouth fastened onto Nadezhda. Nadezhda's mouth fastened onto Hater. Hater's mouth fastened onto me. A ring-ding. Circle of perfection. Then we flew apart, each one of us spinning and plummeting solo, the rush of the wind terrific. Arching our bodies to gain the proper trajectory for swooping in and rejoining in the opposite order. From him to me to her to him again.

You lose your inhibitions. At one point I remember giving myself a wanton Turkish finger right in front of them while they watched. Each freakish pose a snapshot in our collective memory. In the last stance I was whipping Nasty's bottom pink as she thrust a strap-on deflowering sissy boy Hater. He was on his elbows and knees. Nastya had her wrists restrained behind her back. She thrust wildly to escape the hot licks of my lash.

The major drawback with yellow cake is that eventually you run out, and you're left wanting more. More always more. Comedown commencing in five four three two ouch. I felt like puking or slitting my wrists. Huddling inside of one communal sleeping bag we lay together like an entrée of warmed over death. I kept one comrade under each arm and thought, commence teeth rattling. Nadezhda whimpered naively whether we couldn't find some more, and her denial lingered in our minds for a few miserable moments. Going back now was impossible. They'd hang us for sure. Come-down crazy thoughts. We might have felt better if the sun hadn't come up so soon.

Hater came up with an idea to ease our withdrawal symptoms. Considering how the ghost train served food and reconstituted water, then maybe they served strong tonic as well. At dinner the other night we hadn't thought to ask about other beverage choices since water formed the dominant passion. Cheekily those two naked bums decided I should be the one to investigate the situation. Obviously Nastya couldn't negotiate a deal, but why not Hater? He was supposed to be a man, or at least a simulacrum. Paranoia peeping around the edges of his sunken eyeballs provided the answer. Worthless.

I did my best to turn off my mind. Reluctantly I crawled out of the bag and crept to the other end of the car and trembling all the while gave myself a sponge bath. The veins in my arms looked abnormally colorful, almost florescent, under the skin. After drying off I pulled my gear on and sat there on a bench watching the dead landscape and feeling the chill morning breeze buffeting my hair.

"I need shades to cover my eyes," I said. "I can't go talk to people with my pupils locked and loaded."

Without saying anything Hater wiggled out of the sleeper, crawled naked over to his volume and retracted a pair of reflector lenses he handed over to me before sliding shivering into the false security of the bag.

"Why do I always have to be the man?" I wondered, setting the shades on the bridge of my nose.

Beleaguered and trembling, illuminated by the early morning light, I wobbled on shaky sticks towards the dining car. My trepidation turned out to be groundless. Nobody wanted to arrest me for being high. Not in that day and age. The comedown would still make human interaction nearly impossible. Presenting myself to that conductor guy was going to be really difficult. If not for the comedown I wouldn't give a damn about his opinion. But that's drugs for you. You end up disrespected by folks you normally wouldn't grant the time of day. Stupid Hater and his stupid chems.

The so-called dining car was empty with no conductor in site. I trespassed and found him puttering around in the kitchen prep area, his nose pointing into the pantry. I scuffed my soles and slapped the metal walls and cleared my throat so as not to scare him.

"Oh, hello," he said, "Good morning. Ready for breakfast?"

"Actually, my friends and I are more thirsty."  
"What will you have?"

"We were hoping you might serve tonic."

"We do, but not until 11:00 o'clock."

"What time is it now?"

"6:30."

To his credit he remained very factual and businesslike in the face of my sociopathic inquiry, emboldening me to drive a bargain.

"We were hoping for three apiece, nine in all."

"I'm sorry. The limit is two per customer."

"Two big boys."

"We don't carry the little boys."

"Bless your heart." For an interlude we stood regarding each other. "I just remembered I left my script back in the compartment. I don't suppose you'd be willing to trade?"

"What have you got?"

"Whatever you want."

By this time our negotiations were proceeding rather rapidly, and The Guardian of the Tonic dropped the retail suavity and stated his terms:

"You naked. I bend you over, and take you from behind."

"I keep my clothes on, stand behind you, and give you a reach around."

"Naked in front of me, blowjob."

"Clothes on in front of you, handjob."

"I get to see your breasts, handjob."

"Done," and then I added, "in exchange for nine cans, now, not at bloody 11:00 o'clock later on."

He hesitated a moment before dismissing the regulations with a shrug.

"And one up front beforehand. I've got to take the edge off before my skull cracks."

Turning to fetch me a can from the refrigerated unit The Conductor said, "We wouldn't want such a pretty head to do that, now would we?"

His doofuss gallantry of expectation beat the rough stuff such negotiations sometimes involved.

"I can't believe it's cold."

"We offer many quality amenities."

While he busied himself with dropping his trousers I popped the top and sucked for all I was worth. He waited patiently in his black socks and garters and hairy white thighs as I drank. I felt the tonic hit my empty stomach and spread out through my veins. At first I felt sick and dizzy. A kind of equilibrium set in, and I finished the can and tossed it on the floor. Arranging myself in front of him I was about to search for his spigot when he pointed at each of my breasts in turn, saying "Tit and tit."

Under the influence of tonic the spirit of generosity lead me to remove my jacket entirely. He reached for my girls like a papa bear. I thrust my forefinger into his face and laid down the law: "No pinching, slapping or biting. Rest your palms on them. No more."

Like a true gentleman he stayed in bounds. I fished around under his protruding belly and found his spirited little rocket already firm and throbbing with delight. The entire time I was stroking him he kept his eyes pointed toward the ceiling. I lifted his shirttails so they wouldn't get stained and pointed him off to one side when the moment arrived. I continued to milk him until he deflated. Swiveling at the hips he grabbed a hand towel off the counter and handed it to me. A little bit dripped from my thumb. Not a lot. After he pulled up his trousers and restored his dignity, as they say, I offered him the towel. He pointed to the tapioca puddle on the floor. Draping the towel over it I left it at that.

He packed up the tonics in two plastic bags and fingered them over without hesitation. I was on my way out when he said, "I could tell that you were a whore. I could tell by the degenerate look in your eyes.

"Yeah, it was special for me, too, dude."

I waited until I had traversed the length of the dining car and escaped his view into the next car before I sat down on a bench to inspect my guerdon. I counted nine cans in all. He forgot about the one on credit. I popped another one and slammed the contents, trying to figure out how best to cheat my friends out of an equal share.

Dishonesty walks hand in hand with addiction. That time I managed to shake off the urge to steal, for the most part. I went back to my friends without stealing anymore, be cool about it, and share. When I got back they were still naked in the kip. Back to back they were suffering through his and her separate and private nightmares. When their eyes grew wide with surprise at the sight of the bags their amazement told me they hadn't really believed in the possible success of the mission. Not even rising from the floor they cracked the cans and sucked the juice down in a desperate attempt to ease their mental anguish. Drinking to cure a yellow cake comedown was like throwing daisies at a runaway freight train. You didn't get high off the tonic. Mostly it slowed the free fall, or best-case scenario, you passed out and slept through it. I finished my third, keeping in mind two on that train counted as the regulation limit. Under normal conditions three would make you either run amuck or pass out. My heart was pounding, though. A suicidal junky. Drunk and wide awake.

Enough chems were brewed into most tonics my pleasure receptors brightened for a few minutes feeling a dispiriting tease. Not even reaching the lowest level of the previous high. Under the tonic influence you cared less about the horrors. Vomiting remained a real threat. You had to keep that go juice in your system otherwise you didn't absorb the full effect. Throwing up was counterproductive in a lot of ways.

After three cans full I felt numb enough to drag those two out of the kit and drive their naked bodies, pale, clammy, bruised, to the far end of the car and help them both with a sponge bath. On closer inspection I was relieved to see only slight bruising on Nastya's bottom. So while delivering a proper flogging I hadn't lost control. Then again, I had only applied the soft whip. No permanent damage. That's my motto.

Once they were clean and dressed I supplied them each with a second can. I tried to sit still and allow the contents of my stomach to settle . . . lurching out of a light doze I realized with tremendous relief I could probably fall asleep. Smoothing out the kit I lay down fully clothed on top of it. I was asleep when Nadezhda's voice woke me up; I was so mad at her.

"What do you want?"

"We can have more?"

"Why don't you two share one?"

I could hear Hater whispering and the plastic sacs rustling, and then push-snap gasp as one of them opened the can. Right away I could feel in my brain that I wasn't going back to sleep. Anger was pointless. I dragged myself onto the bench and grabbed a can and joined my friends and we shared the two cans, passing them back and forth and sipping carefully.

The train passed into a desert area where unnatural hues stained the rocks and sand. The tonic did such a good job numbing my senses I escaped suicidal thoughts whole minutes at a time. We shared out the remaining can and they were gone and I wanted more of them before I slipped into unconscious tranquility.

Chapter 28

We all awoke about the same time. The tonics were gone. The empty cans smelled nauseating. I rose and staggered into the water closet. Before I could sit down to pee I vomited a little in my mouth and spit. As I sat there I reflected how my body was telling me, North or South, something had to move. I was full up. A modest poo and a burp escaped at the same time, representing progress. I wasn't going to projectile vomit, and I wasn't going to die right away. Soon after I exited the loo.

Dirty gray air obscured the sun, making it difficult to determine the time of day. Impact craters pitted the desert floor filled with shadows gathering in their depths indicating we were traveling late in the day. Wanly I questioned whether we would ever regain normal sleep patterns again. Taking her trip and returning from the WC Nadezhda sank onto the bench between Hater and me.

"My butt hurts," she declared.

"Your but hurts!" Hater retorted.

"My head hurts," I said, and since I wasn't trying to be funny nobody laughed. "I need some food." My companions groaned in protest at the mere thought. "You're going to have to eat sooner or later. If you do nothing but drink tonic all the time you'll die of dehydration."

"I'm sorry," Hater apologized, "but neither food nor alcohol sound appetizing at the moment."

Nadezhda didn't say anything right away because she was busy spacing. Probably deciding whether she could keep food down yet or not.

"How about you, Nasty, a little bit of food?"

From her reverie she slowly awoke. "Mmm, no, I don' tink so."

"We need to eat something. Just a bite or two."

Without committing to anything she shrugged and shook her head and commenced gazing at the scenery in order to preclude any more discussion on the topic.

A while later, when by the loss of the color in the sky it became evident the sun was setting somewhere, I insisted my partners get up and follow me to the dining car. Thankfully the old Brahmin served us so I didn't have to endure the Conductor's presence, bad attitude and cutting remarks.

We ate a powdered egg concoction served with cardboard potatoes and a meat substitute. When I ordered a tonic Nadezhda groaned. Hater thought twice about it and ordered one, too. We nursed the first one. With food on our stomachs the second one tasted better and slide down more easily. For the most part we ate and drank in silence.

On the way back to our car Hater asked how I was managing to pay for all this. For a heartbeat I thought he was insinuating the dry job I'd given the Conductor.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean, they haven't asked for any credits."

"Not for all those tonics we drank? Maybe they're running a tab," Hater speculated.

"Maybe so," I said. "I can cover it. In the volume I have a big stack of script.

"So do I," Hater volunteered. "I just wondered. This operation is a strange conveyance."

"I'd say so. It's like they're oblivious to the Empire's collapse."

"It's a common enough delusion."

Back in our car we tried to sleep again. Our rest proved at best fitful. Another day dawned. Bleary eyed and sweated thin I couldn't find anything to say. Nadezhda had crawled inside of herself and gone silent as well. I think we could have used another day to recuperate. We never had that much chance.

For most of the morning we had been sitting on that portion of the bench situated directly opposite the opening in the side of the car where the sliding doors used to operate. We were traveling through a desert where the air prickled our skin, and outside drizzle coated the sand with a sparkle of frost. Momentarily, as we were crossing an arroyo spanned by a bridge, I thought I saw human remains scattered in an alluvial pattern, skulls and rib cages and femur fragments picked clean by animals and insects and burnished by the sun and shifting sands. Just a glimpse. The train rolled on and the riverbed became obscured from sight.

Hater saw them first. He'd been slouching comfortably for some time. Catching that vision his whole body jerked into an upright sitting position. In the next second I saw them, too. Rangers of the Dark Matter Corporation. These killers wore black and tan camouflage. Their headgear included battle masks obscuring their faces. Bulky in the chest. Cinched tight at the waist. Trousers blousing over tall black combat boots. At first I caught sight of maybe a squad. Dozens more emerged out of the brush. Then the brunt of the main force. The squeal of hot metal on metal shrieked through the air as the train began breaking and slowing down.

Hater and I leapt to our feet and began rolling up our kits and packing the voluminous bag. Nadezhda stood beside me gripping my arm and huddling so close she interfered with me strapping the volume onto my back. By this time the train had slowed to a walking pace as wolf packs of black and tans trotted alongside looking for the first opportunity to climb aboard. Most carried the pointed Empire Mark II machine gun in the ready position on a strap slung over the shoulder. Some brandished submachine guns. They must have sighted us although they gave no indication.

Huddled with our backs to the corner we awaited our fate.

"What do we do?" Hater asked.

"Stay still till they come aboard. Let them have a look at us. They'll see we're unarmed. Then we look for an opening and jump."

The train hissed and gasped to a clank-clanking halt, and the moment it stopped hands grappled at both sides of the opening and troopers hoisted themselves aboard. An eerie moment of silence ensued as they looked first to the opposite end of the car. I looked down at the urine puddle forming between Nadezhda's feet. By the time I looked up again we were confronting four troopers training their weapons on us and more climbing aboard behind them.

In a meek and desperate gesture I reached inside my coat pocket and pulled out the tickets issued to us by the conductor.

Holding them up for the troopers to see, I said, "We have tickets. We're paying customers." Finally, the type of civilians we were sank in for them.

"Civilians must disembark," one of the troopers shouted through his battle mask. "This train is hereby commandeered by the Dark Matter Corporation."

These four troopers twitched their machine guns, forcing us at gunpoint to move it. For some dumb reason I handed Hater and Nadezhda their tickets and we held them up in front of us as though a magic talisman might prevent them from executing us on the spot. The car had filled up fast with bodies and we jostled our way towards the exit. I led the way, leaping to the ground and landing unevenly on the gravel. Turning around I reached up for Nadezhda who did not hesitate to crouch, lean forward, and with a leap of faith commit herself into my arms. A loud chorus of wolf whistles and "Hey baby" erupted from the soldiers now deployed on the train. Only the presence of their officers prevented them from en masse sexually assaulting us.

I approached one of the leaders whose insignia denoted maybe a captain or more and said, "Excuse me, sir, but we're ticket holders; you see here? We're riding this train to the next town."

I wanted to establish our humanity, give the impression we were quality types worthy of mercy; I didn't really expect him to do anything for us other than spare our lives.

The Commander stood with his hands on his hips, merrily surveying his troops and obviously pleased at having captured such an impressive trophy. He barely glanced at me sideways as he spoke. "We've commandeered this train in the name of Dark Matter. You can walk. It isn't far. Just follow the tracks. It's only a few miles."

A group of officers clustered nearby, their battle masks doffed and their eyes rolled up and down in their sockets as they appraised Nadezhda and me. An uproarious cheer of laughter interrupted their scheme for gang raping us as they heaved Hater bodily off the train. His feet and knees skidded on the dirt. His upper torso pitched over the embankment. He threw his hands out in front of him as he careened down the hillside. He had so much momentum going he couldn't stop himself and slid several yards before plowing head first into scrub brush.

Nadezhda followed close behind and we slid down the hill to where Hater struggled to extricate himself from the brambles. When I asked whether he was badly hurt he displayed the palms of his hands. Ribbons of skin fluttered loosely revealing the pink and red underneath.

"I seem to have torn holes in the knees of my jumpsuit," he said. The shock of the violence had locked his mind into analytical mode. "I didn't mean to annoy anyone. I bumped into one of those men on accident, and he took exception to it."

Through tears, as I dusted him off and hoisted him onto his feet, I tried to console him, saying, "They had no right to do that to you, Sweetheart. It was stupid and mean and cruel. You didn't deserve to be treated that way." The soldiers bristled from the car's entrance, cat calling me and impugning Hater's masculinity. "Mr. H., don't listen to them. Can you walk? We need to take cover somewhere. These scumbags are in the mood for mischief. We need to hide."

The longer we walked, parallel with the train toward town, the more the cat calling diminished. Each time I looked back over my shoulder a head or two took notice of our progress so I stopped looking as we paralleled the engine. That's when the conductor himself tried climbing down the steps. Not quickly enough for the trooper who appeared above him and planted a jackboot on the Conductor's chest and shoved his grip loose. He hit the dust and against the laws of physics kept his feet, spun around and went backwards over the embankment, which landed him on his stomach sliding feet first down the slant.

"Get up!" I ordered, and much to my surprise he responded, spryly, commencing a churning run-walk towards town. I realized with ambivalence his course and ours were bound to intersect. Not exactly a foe, our fight for survival against a common threat made us natural allies. Hopped up for maneuvers in the desert these troopers were capable of anything. Supporting Hater with my arm around his waist and Nadezhda clinging to my other arm we bumbled along catatonic with fear.

In the distance ahead I noticed a trestle and steered our course towards that makeshift cave. We needed to be completely out of the line of fire when this trainload of gun wielding maniacs rolled down the line. Running off through the brush wasn't really an option. Hiding directly underneath them where they couldn't fix us in their sights felt like the only alternative.

As we toiled somewhat ahead of the train the soldiers began chanting a war song of some sort. Simultaneously the train clap-banged into motion.

We stooped and climbed into the concrete alcove beneath the tracks. The air cooled. I situated Nasty the furthest in then Hater on my outside nearest the opening and the Conductor slid in next to him. The train was picking up momentum by the time it passed overhead. I thought we were safe until above the din I heard a soldier's voice yell, "Fire in the hole!"

Plinkity-plink, a red and white concussion grenade landed just outside the alcove. Turning my back on it I threw a leg across Nadezhda and grabbed both their necks and hauled them down. The shock wave shot through my torso. A wave of sound like a wave of water plugging my ears, deafening, blinking, non-comprehension, silence. Emerging from the blast of silence a high-pitched ringing. Nadezhda lifted her eyes and pleaded to make it go away, unable to rationalize such horror. I tried to reassure her everything was going to be okay because that was my job. Far away I heard the muted sound of my own voice. Hater rocked back and forth, holding his hands over his ears. His face had turned red with apoplexy, lips and mouth gasping for air.

As I scrambled around to sit beside him I could tell he was in real trouble. I couldn't do anything for him except worry. What else could I do? I embraced him firmly, gently. Imploring him to breath deeply. Advising him to relax. I supported his head and tried to keep it perfectly still. Nadezhda's eyes were still blank.

"I want my Master," she said. "I go home now. I want go home my Master."

I had to lay Hater back as gently as I could. Despite my tender efforts he grimaced and squeezed his eyes tight when his head contacted the pavement. I scrambled to my feet and chased after Nadezhda who was following the conductor who staggered towards the exit. Grabbing her around the waist I yanked her away from stepping into daylight. I grabbed the Conductor by the sleeve and spun him around as well. I dragged them back to where Hater lay. He was trying to open his eyes. The lids fluttered open and shut again.

My hearing was slowly returning and, so I assumed, was everybody else's. I wrapped my arms around Nastya, smoothed the hair out of her face. Planted little kisses, reassuring her best I could. Whispering quiet words. I wasn't sure she was with me or not when she said, "I no want to be here." I had to lie down for a moment. When I did Nadezhda leaned over and swept the hair out of my face as I had done for her. She said, "I go back to Master now. I belong him. He protect me. Feed me. Water. I go him now." She tried standing to go again and I grabbed her and pulled her back down.

"You can't go back to the Master, Nasty. They'll kill you if you do. They'd kill us both."

She struggled and cried, clearly tripping. I sat up. My head felt like it was full of lead weights.

Standing up unsteadily, the Conductor stumbled toward the mouth of the alcove again. Cradling Nadezhda I couldn't very well yell for the man to come back.

The detonation lit him up like a super nova. Rays of red light radiated through him in every direction. What was left of his body flopped into a sloppy pile of guts and white jutting bone.

The caboose crossed overhead and then the train was gone and the desert quiet.

We spent a dreary time regaining our faculties. We couldn't very well remain there amid the smoldering remains of the Conductor. Hater definitely looked concussed. Not glassy eyed, thank goodness, though he appeared muddled and sleepy. I helped him to his feet and I directed Nadezhda to stand up as well. Arms linked we braved our way into the sunlight and turned our minds and uncertain steps towards reaching Bosanova City before nightfall.

Chapter 29

Once we were a certain distance from the kill zone I dressed Hater's hand wounds and we drank from our precious water supply. I coerced both of them into taking a few bites of food. My ears felt plugged like when I'd climb out of the Mermaid Tank back at the Club Abattoir.

For a while I thought Hater looked downcast because his head hurt him, but when he spoke I realized he had a different issue on his mind:

"I wish I could be one of those men who go through life pushing other people out of the way."

"No you don't, Hater. Are you thinking about those animals back there? You are so much better than they are. I swear."

"Be that as it may, it doesn't feel good to be disrespected in that fashion. I'm always having to use words to navigate my way through life. Just once I'd like to grab a guy by the collar and tell him what for."

"You might get beaten up just for using an expression like 'give him what for'. Please, Hater, really. You are such a smart man. You were meant for better things than this. You know so much, and you can fix any kind of a thing, mechanical, electronic, digital, and more than that, you're a nice person, a good person. Morally sound. Those guys are empty-headed jerks. Not my kind of guys.

"So maybe you're not physically stronger than they are. Like I care, because I don't. You're my kind of man. You do more than just take all the time. You give back, with precious gifts, parts of yourself. You share and you help. You have real moral courage, the strength to care about others. Those selfish bastards don't care about anybody but themselves and their next meal, and because of their greed and selfishness, their weakness, they're going to end up cold and lonely. Not you, buddy boy, you will always be loved," I said, halting our procession and kissing Hater on the cheek. "You'll always have people who care about you, a life full of good works to warm your heart. Doing for others, that takes real backbone and courage."

"Okay, Ghost of Christmas past. I get it."

"Oh hush. You're so silly sometimes."

Mirage wiggling at a distance, Bossa Nova City rose from the desert allowing us time to abandon the tracks and march across the wild sand to the main road leading up to the thick and towering iron gates. Other ragged travelers bent their backs on the sand swept road. Some refugees from an empire at war with itself dragged handcarts loaded with their sad worldly possessions. More than one young woman carried a baby in her arms. Men and women alike carried volumes or rucksacks. The biggest difference between them and us appeared in our clothing. Apparently the local costume dictated the wearing of brown denim. Brown boots, shoes, trousers. Dresses of brown calico. White blouses, men and women both. Somewhere a factory had cornered the market on a shipment of brown dye.

Our leathers advertised Nadezhda and me as outsiders. Hater looked dirty, bloody and ragged, really beat. Holes torn over both knees. Dirt smeared up his front. At some point he must have suffered a bloody nose because copper flecks speckled his bib. His rear end looked dirty as though when he hit the dirt the contact jarred loose something unpleasant in his pants.

My mind began to search with inventive eagerness for the type of place where I could arrange for a couple of minutes under the nozzle for my man Mr. H., maybe even a cold chem pack for his bruises. So far I hadn't spent any of the Master's money; I really wanted for us to sleep inside for the night. At the thought of script, guilt tugged at my guts because I'd never be able to settle the tab I ran up with the Conductor. Granted, I bartered for some of the food and drink. The drinks. Not the food. Let alone the train ride. I wondered whether he ever had the intention of making us pay anything. Along the line there somewhere I got the feeling he and his minions kept that train rolling purely as a labor of love, waiting for the world to make a comeback. His murder left me with a hollow feeling of not just trauma, but obligation, an unpaid debt.

We approached the gate where the various pedestrians coalesced into a tighter stream. On either side ran a gauntlet of peddlers and beggars. Without being told they remained conscientious in maintaining a proper distance, what with troopers stationed at the threshold, and more troopers patrolling the medieval walls, the denizens stayed on their best manners. We'd already been drawn along to the point of no return, sucked into the vortex. If we turned and ran, which my instinct wanted to do, machine gun bursts would follow. The longhaired man looked expectant.

To gain some time and formulate a plan I paused in front of the fellow selling glass beads. I invited Nadezhda to pick out something pretty. Dear soul, she put a finger over her lips, glanced at the wares hanging over his arms, and quick as that declared, "No, I don' like any of dis."

"We have nicer selection over here," said the Peddler, indicating a stall a few yards away where behind displays loaded with sparkly gewgaws perched a women on a stool whose leather skin the dessert and hard times had creased prematurely.

"Hater, go over there with her, would you, and keep an eye on her. Help her pick out something nice." Nadezhda crossed her arms but did as I asked. I could tell she was going to be difficult to please out here in the world.

To the peddler I said, "We're not from around here."

"Welcome to Bossa Nova," he said, and as he bowed he took a step backward, evasive action, turning away and returning to hawk his wares by the roadside. His obvious mistrust of strangers told me fear held sway in this place. I was right to feel tense. At the entrance troopers were randomly checking for ID's.

I joined my friends at the jewelry stall and pretended to inspect the trash on display. I asked the tired woman behind the counter, "What does it take to please the guards at the gate?"

"It don't take nothing."

"It looks like they're checking for ID."

The woman shrugged and stared with sullen reticence from beneath her heavy eyelids.

Nadezhda was modeling a faux pearl bracelet. Hater indicated the piece and asked, "How much?"

"A thousand," the woman snapped. Hater didn't flinch.

I did. I laughed. "Why so much?"

"Buy it or don't," the woman said, reaching over the counter and snatching the bauble off Nadezhda's wrist. Poor thing pulled her wrist away and lodged it between her breasts for safekeeping. I put my arm around her. She turned her back on the rude lady so she wouldn't have to look at her anymore.

"Why so much?" I insisted.

"They're real."

"Real paste?"

"Store is closed."

Nadezhda whispered, "I no like dis place."

"Me neither. Let's go."

The mean lady called after us, "I'd hate to have to call the guard."

I spun around and glared at her. "Yeah, you wouldn't want to do that."

Her snippy demeanor fell at once into petulant disappointment. We were almost to the road when the husband waylaid us. He held out the same piece of costume jewelry and said, "Ten is acceptable."

Hater produced a ten note from his picket and said, "Tell me something good."

They made the exchange and the Peddler said, "If you don't have ID, credits will do."

Gripping the tenner he scurried back to his termagant wife.

When Hater tried to hand the bracelet to Nasty, she turned up her nose and said, "I tink I no want a cheap ting."

For a second I think Hater's feelings were actually hurt.

"Here, I'll wear it," I said, taking the jewelry from him and sliding it onto my wrist. I burnished his shoulders and said, "I'll pay you back," I rubbed his back, "It was a nice gesture."

The moment the pearls adorned my wrist second thoughts beset Miss Thing. She kept glancing at it until I thought she might gnaw through my wrist to claim it for herself.

"No good on you it looks, I tink. You me give."

She used both hands and gently stripped it into her grasp. Hater and I both had a laugh over her rapaciousness. She slid it onto her wrist and admired it and said, "Very nice from you, Mr. H.," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "Very nice, you too, pretty girl," and she kissed me, too.

"What are friends for?"

Her merry eyes sparkled in a way saying, "I don't care what they're for. I'm keeping the bracelet for myself." Selfish, cruel, narcissistic little imp. You could tell she'd been home schooled.

As we approached the gate we gravitated to the middle in the stream of people to no avail. Troopers on both sides of the gauntlet began pointing at us, to the extent the crowd parted and left us exposed, Moses in reverse.

"Step onto the sidewalk," the Battle Mask crackled. They were always ordering you on the sidewalk or off the sidewalk. In truth they were never happy no matter where you were standing. "Place your belongings on the table. Open your bags. Has anyone else touched your bags or had access to them? Are you carrying any weapons, concealed or otherwise? Step over here, one at a time. Spread your arms and legs. Feet apart. Wider."

"What the hell is this?"

We three turned around along with everyone in our immediate area to see a security clerk pulling the big black strap-on out of my volume, dildo first. He gripped that wibble-wobble like a pro until he realized what he was brandishing. Suffering a jerk of revulsion he unhanded the beast so it dropped landing upright and erect on the table where the head bobbled about, as though demanding, "Take me to your leader."

"That's mine," I declared, my hands and arms still spread. A judgmental silence fell. "What can I say? I'm a freak!"

Laughter erupting from all sides broke the spell of silence just as fast, as if on cue everybody returned to the business at hand. They resumed searching us. Welcome to Bossa Nova City.

An officer appeared. At least I think he was an officer. He wore the same combat vests as the others. Without the helmet or battle mask his scrawny neck and peanut head looked shrunken peeping out of his oversized battle gear. In the moment, whether or not we were in some kind of trouble, remained unclear. When he escorted the three of us into the same room together I relaxed because I knew we would not be facing an interrogation. This room was crushingly nondescript, white walls, a long fake wood-folding table, and beige folding chairs. No windows. A bare utility room.

The interviewing officer demanded to know our names, and we complied. Since the Empire had broken into pieces I had hoped law enforcement no longer had the technology to run background checks over vast distance of time and space. He seemed content enough to write down our name on his clipboard.

"Reason for entering Bossa Nova?"

"Looking for work," Hater said.

"The three of you? Skilled workers?"

The officer, having slipped on a pair of bifocals, peered at us over the rims and waved his pen back and forth, indicating Nadezhda and me.

"We're dependent on him," I said.

"Married?"

"Common law."

"Which one of you?"

"Both of us."

"We don't allow polygamy."

"Then it's difficult to explain," I said. "The three of us travel together. With his awesome scientific skills he supports us both."

"You have science?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which kind?" the officer looked interested.

"Any kind you like," Hater said.

"I asked which kind."

"Engineering: mechanical, electrical, digital."

"Not civil?" The officer asked, smirking.

"No civil," Hater said, ignoring the trooper's attitude.

"If you really have even a small part of what your claiming, you can make yourself useful," the officer said, jotting down more notes. "You look the worse for wear. Are you fit for work? Not damaged, are you?"

"No, sir," Hater said. "I had an accident earlier today. We were crossing the Deadland and I tripped and fell down an embankment."

"But you're fit for duty," the officer demanded as a point of clarification.

"Yes, sir. Minor cuts and bruises. Nothing a shower and a hot meal wouldn't cure."

"Can't help you there. We believe in personal responsibility in this city. So if you're looking for a handout you've come to the wrong place," the officer said, drawing his turtlehead back into his shell and then poking it forth again. Nobody challenged his orthodoxy so he relented a little and said, "Lazy people can find charity downtown."

Hater silently nodded his head, his expression frozen, not a muscle twitched. The officer turned back to me:

"Are you sure you've got no skills? Your teeth alone tell me you're a cut above, and your wandering out of the Deadland is a piece of good fortune I'm not going to question too closely. You're obviously not terrorists, but I need you to tell me again who you are. I mean, why should I let you into my city? There's no free lunch inside the walls. Everybody works for bread. Or you get the boot. I need to be convinced you're not intent on doing nothing more than mooching off our charity. Because we aren't offering giveaways. Beggars sleep outside the walls."

"I've done some waitressing," I offered, "some bartending." I left out stripper, porn star and revolutionary.

"Well, why didn't you say so?"

"Compared to him it's not much of a resume."

"But you intend to look for work? You want to find a job?"

"Oh, absolutely."

"That's more like it. Now we're getting somewhere," the officer said, scribbling as he wrote. "Waitress, slash, bartender. And what about you?"

"I singer," Nadezhda said, only narrowly escaping forming it as a question while she looked at me for clarification. I wished she had half of Hater's poker face.

"You're pretty enough to be one," the Officer said. "Sciences are good. Service is what it is. Entertainment amounts to nothing more than a pipe dream, more often than not. You're really going to have to hustle to get ahead in that racket." He tapped his pencil against his fact sheet. "Let's hear a few notes".

Nadezhda warbled a few notes: "Meet the new Bossa Nova, same as the old Bossa Nova."

Where she picked that up I have no idea. Does it really matter how good or bad a beautiful woman is at anything?

"Okay, so we're back to... only one of you can be this man's common law husband."

"That would be me," I said. I was getting the impression he just needed to fill in the blank with something acceptable. Anything within the lines would do. Check the box. Move on.

"So what's her status?"

"She's my sister."

"Why didn't you say so before!"

"I'm... sorry."

"One last thing," the Duty Officer said, fixing us with his glare. "You're not in any trouble, are you? Not running from the law?"

"Oh no, sir," we lied in impeccable unison.

"Good. Glad to hear it," he said. "Not that it matters. You have money. That automatically makes you a good person." The officer picked up a sleek looking bag from the floor beside him and dumped the contents onto the table. I recognized the pile as constituting our prized possessions. Nadezhda's bracelet, my wad, and Hater's, too. "You can claim your valuables now."

Nadezhda bolted out of her chair and snatched her bauble off the table. Hater tried to get up but hung up on a hitch from one of his wounds. Waving him back into his seat I stood up and swiped both our rolls and handed him his.

A young woman with a pretty face but body on its way to obesity crammed into a blue uniform waddled into the room and without any desire for eye contact with the likes of us handed some documents over to her boss. If she could have lost a few dozen pounds she would have been really pretty. Nadezhda pretended to touch up her hair when really she wanted to model her trinket, showing off for the rack in blue. Just for fun I tried to win her attention, too. She continued to ignore us all the way to the door. Then she flipped a look from a pair of naughty blue eyes as she disappeared from sight. Nadezhda and I exchanged knowing glances. Sweet.

The officer finished filling out his paperwork and slid the booklets forward across the table.

"These are your temporary ID's good for one month. In that time, find gainful employment or face possible arrest and deportation from The City. The same punishment goes for causing trouble of any kind. If you work hard and stay out of trouble, God will like you better. Any questions?"

"No sir," I said, speaking for the group.

"Be good citizens. Alright, you have your ID's so you're all set. Clear out of my station," the Officer said, pointing with his pencil toward the door and avoiding further eye contact by studying the papers on the table in front of him.

Standing up I proffered my two hands to Hater for ballast while he creaked to his feet. We quickly quitted the interview room and were almost back to the baggage check area when a loud female voice belonging to a dumpy middle-aged lady also squeezed into a blue uniform accosted us:

"Would you like to pay for your temporary ID's with cash or credit?"

"We have to pay for these ourselves?"

"Of course you have to pay! What did you expect? There's no free lunch here in Bossa Nova City."

When she told me the price I gawked, realizing bureaucratic grifters were taking advantage of us. What choice did we have? I peeled off a few notes to pay for Nadezhda and me, Hater paid for his own.

The Cashier Cop rang up the charges and handed us our receipts, which I tucked into my ID and taking Nadezhda's ID too stowed them both in my inside jacket pocket.

"You'll find your bags over there on that table against the wall," she said, not looking at us but aware of our location the whole time. We moved with purpose to grab our gear and escape into the Free Zone.

Chapter 30

During the general disintegration of society and the Digital Dark Ages following people forgot the art of glassmaking as a skill. Tall buildings resembled sheer mountainsides with hovels hollowed out for cliff dwelling tribes. A cloth scrap might hang as a blind or a flat panel of wood propped up to provide some privacy from the prying eyes of neighbors. Some women strung beads for a front door. Others made no attempt at all, living with a gaping hole, a cave mouth, primitive and dark. I wondered how many mothers kept a tight grip on their children with such wide openings so very high up.

The denizens all dressed the same, or nearly the same, carefully rearranged versions of one other. Brown the dominant color. Various colored scarves around their necks. Swarming anthill of people. City dwellers. Tired. Shabby. Avoiding eye contact. Scanning the crowd I didn't see any independent warrior types. I didn't mark any troopers, either. Peasants as far as I could see. I did witness some friction between people. With everyone determined to go about their own business collisions in a big throng became inevitable. Flare ups here and there, ending as soon as they began. In the absence of the rule of law nobody wanted trouble. Bringing undo attention upon yourself in this environ would not play as a smart move. Anonymity, passivity, became a successful strategy for survival.

In that place they bought and sold human beings openly in the market despite their pretentions to civilized life. The street we were navigating opened onto a public square. On a raised platform stood three naked, hairless little boys for the entire world to see. A crowd had gathered to appraise the merchandise. Having no interest in such business we skirted the edge of the crowd. In passing I overheard the comment of one priest to several of his brethren who had stopped to admire the little boys. Breathless with admiration he was saying, "What perfect little angels, flown to Earth straight from Heaven." The brotherhood nodded their heads in solemn agreement, sad, I'm sure, their impecunious vocation prevented them from procuring the boys for their own ends.

A kind of vibrant squalor animated these denizens, acting out their personal dramas in loud voices, a big change from the previous few blocks. Here taverns operated serving tonic, wine and ale. Earthy, bawdy harlots harangued passing strangers. Desperate sexual scenarios played out in the dark alleyways.

"Look there," I said to Hater, pointing out a large sign offering hot showers and a clean bed. "Let's try them out."

"I don't think much of this neighborhood," Hater said.

"No, I don't either, but I'd like to get off the street before nightfall. If we can get clean and rested, let your wounds heal up, then we can look for better lodgings tomorrow. Whataya say? It looks slightly better than any of these other places. Boarded up it looks more secure."

"I don't feel like walking anymore," Hater said.

At the entrance to the hostel stood a giant of a man wearing a sleeveless shirt, his pale red arms fat and hairy.

"Is there a place for us inside to bed down for the night?"

With cold blue eyes he looked us up and down. He made a jerking motion with his thumb and stepped aside allowing a space for us to pass by and enter. Once passed the mute one at the door I felt better about him guarding the entrance behind us.

Blotches of the ancient tile still covered the reception area floor. A dilapidated armchair decayed in one corner; otherwise, the room languished bare of any superfluous decorations. Behind rudely affixed iron bars glowered the Night Porter, as burly and taciturn as his cousin guarding the entrance.

"Hello," I said, to which he did not respond. "Room enough for three to lie down."

"Four to a room, no more," he said sternly enough to suggest that somehow three was the larger number.

"There's only us you see here," I said, reaching into my coat pocket and covertly peeling off a few bills without exposing the wad. When he saw my currency the Night Porter's attitude improved.

"The three of you are fine. There's plenty of room," he said, reaching behind him and pulling a key out of a cubbyhole and slapping it on the counter and sliding it towards me under the bars. "You want a shower with that?"

Stepping back I perused the prices posted over the bars. "We'll take six minutes total for the three of us."

"You can run your minutes however you want," he said. "The green button starts the flow. The red button stops it. Time it however you want."

I slid more notes under the bars to him and he made change out of a rusty metal box and slid the coins back at me.

"The room is upstairs. Shower inside the room. Gotta be out by noon tomorrow."

Nodding to the man my acceptance of his rules I led my merry band up a creaky staircase to a long stale corridor barely lit by a couple of bare hanging glow bulbs.

Inserting the card into the lock I opened the door and we entered yet another dreary and empty room the passage of years had not improved any. The wallpaper had started out brown and was now faded to yellow. A burgundy carpet worn down to pink, stained dark brown where someone bled out, woman or man, impossible to say. The ceiling stains told a story all their own about a history of hijinx in the room on the floor above our heads. Windows boarded over. No lamps. No electricity. No air.

On the floor in the wet room Hater found an empty candleholder and showed it to me, asking, "What are we supposed to do with this, provide our own candles?"

"He's selling them downstairs. I saw a sign."

"I didn't notice," Hater said.

"We don't need candles," I said. "I have this, still." I pulled the laser from my jacket compartment.

"Good show," Hater said.

"Alright, you two. Strip naked and under the nozzle you go."

My two lovers found my command so congenial they complied without hesitation. As they positioned themselves under the showerhead Nadezhda whispered to Hater, wanting to know what the word nozzle meant. He indicated with his eyes for her to follow his gaze and look up. Before commencing I fetched a sliver of red soap I'd been saving, and two whole sponge baths, and set the laser light in a dry, safe corner to provide some much needed illumination. I stripped off my clothes. I became naked, you see.

As master of ceremonies I stood off to one side, ready to press the go button.

"Are you sure you guys want to stand directly underneath the shower head on start up? You're going to take it on faith the water is clean?"

Nadezhda didn't care. She understood we were on the verge of a shower. Nothing else mattered. Hater heard me and understood. He gently pressed a single finger against her arm to direct her to take a step back like he had done.

"Ready, set, go!" I said, slapping the green button and hurrying over so as not to miss a drop.

Water spurted from the shower head, gurgled and spurted again, forming a strong healthy uninterrupted stream. Standing in a circle six hands plunged underneath the water drops falling like liquid diamonds.

"No smell."

"Soft, not oily."

"Good for me."

We each took a step forward and met in the middle, letting the luxuriance cascade onto our upturned faces. Clean, pure water. A hot shower. Cleansing the pores, opening them up. Washing away the dirt and grime. I handed the red soap to Hater, who right away tended to clean his wounds. Tossing aside one of the sponges I crushed the other one against Nadezhda's breastbone and lathered her well. To smear some of the oily sweet stuff onto me I smashed my body against hers and we both lost control rubbing off on each other right there in front of Hater. He didn't mind. I figured he was banged up and worn out and not in the mood. I abandoned Nadezhda to the glorious flow while I grabbed the second sponge and cracked it above his tailbone so the first cleansing squirt ran down the crack of his dirty bottom. I shared the rest with Nadezhda and we plied our neither worlds until we were born again fresh and clean.

I trotted away and pressed the red button, pausing the flow. Then I grabbed the first sponge and squeezed some soap into Nadezhda's hair and an equal portion on mine and we reveled in washing our hair. Fingers massaging down to the scalp.

Working up lather Hater transferred it to his crew cut, face and neck. He slid his hands over his chest and belly, soaping the rope.

I padded back to the green button and said, "Okay, guys, here we go."

A certain joy exists in clean. I loved water. Pure clean potable water. Too soon our shower time ended like how in the middle of really good sex your partner climaxes before you do. Grabbing Nadezhda by the hand I lead her into the next room.

"We're going to lie down now. I'm not through with you."

"I tink good shower make you happy," she said, laughing in surrender.

"You come lie down here, too, Hater. I want you both."

Hater was hung like a drummer in some rock band. His standing there wiping the moisture from his eyes allowed me to see everything, including the horrible scrapes and bruises he'd incurred.

"I'm too tired, Nika. I'm not in the mood. I can't do it," he said.

"I don't care about that. Come lie down with us anyway. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. But I want you here. Your body close to mine. I don't want you to feel alone right now. Come here, boy."

Quickly I spread our kit, and the moment we hit the floor Nastya and I were rocking and rolling with full freedom of expression. During our antics Hater came in carrying the laser and placed it in a corner and set the level to provide a subtle red glow.

My good little green boy came and lay down next to me just as he was told. I tied up with Nasty, too much to harass him, especially when he wasn't feeling well. Banging buttons without skipping a beat I did reach over and give his chest the rub-a-dub. He took my hand and kissed the top of it as though to express how much he appreciated the gesture. By the time Nasty and I finished rubber bumping and loving Mr. Hater had long since fallen asleep, breathing deeply and unperturbed.

Lying on my back I gasped for wakefulness between waves of rolling dreams. Submerge. Emerge. Whose walls are these? My memory flipped through the years and yet I could not place my surroundings.

Chapter 31

We had slept late. Considering what we'd been through, granted a fair amount of it self-inflicted, catching up on our sleep had to be the prudent choice.

I arose so as not to awaken my partners, dressed, and went downstairs, paid for another full day and shower, and crept back into the room, pulling the door to with a quiet click. Regardless of my best efforts Hater awoke and rose from the mats. He was so long in the water room I went in to check on him and found him applying antiseptics and bandages to his cuts and scrapes. I looked back to where Nadezhda lay, face down, naked and abandoned. I draped a blanked across her behind for modesty's sake and let her sleep.

Searching around inside the volume I retrieved a book about the fall of an ancient empire, which I found fascinating for its modern equivalency transpiring around my ears. Curling up in a corner I gave myself over to reading until I sensed Hater enter the room.

"What are you reading?"

"Gibbon."

Hater harrumphed. "You're a gibbon."

I have to admit he skinned me a little. I wondered why suddenly he was in such a mood, and I thought it must have to do with yesterday's humiliation at the hands of those troopers. Maybe I had overdone it with the positive reinforcement and at that moment he was struggling to reassert his machismo. Someone once told me I worry more about other people's feelings than they do. I should have disparaged his penis. Instead, I went back to my reading, secretly resenting Hater for being a jerk. His comment rankled me so I couldn't focus anymore. I went over and sat down next to him and asked him how he was doing.

"Not too badly," He replied. "Most of my wounds are superficial. I think they'll heal. My jump suit is trashed, unless we can get it cleaned and mended."

"Washed I think we can handle. Mended is another matter. It might not be a bad idea for us all to get new clothes. I'm feeling the need to blend with the crowd."

"No doubt," Hater said, applying a daub of antiseptic to his knee and blowing on the wound to alleviate the sting. "I'd like to reconnoiter this place, find out where we are in relations to where we want to be. We don't have any reason for being here, other than to rest up, resupply, get our bearings, and move on. Sounds like a lot now that I say it."

"We can stay here for a while," I offered, "It won't hurt us any. But eventually, sure, the quest to rescue Rachael. If she's even in the mood to be rescued. You never really know with her, what she'll be in the mood for. Maybe we could kidnap her and drag her back here, wherever here is."

"Like I said, I'll go find out where we are. Where we are in relation to where Rachael is. She must be located somewhere south of here."

"Basically," I echoed. "It would be nice to have a map."

"A paper map? What are the odds of that, do you suppose?"

"Not good," I admitted, "I would turn on my Compod but who knows who might be monitoring for signals. What red flag it might trigger."

"You're right about that," Hater said. "They can track you to a pinpoint location. If anyone's looking."

"They might be. They just might be."

"If I'm going to gather information, and some credits as well, I'm going to have to gravitate towards the castle, which means I'm going to need new clothes. I can't very well go shopping like this, in my underclothes."

"Gee, Hater, I guess I could go for you."

Hater leaned over and filched a few notes he'd tucked away in his bag and handed them over to me. "You walked into that one."

"You're starting to piss me off a little this morning."

"There has to be an outlet nearby. The people here all dress the same."

"What about breakfast?"

"Eat our own rations. Stay out of sight."

"I went down early this morning and paid up for another day and another shower. That water last night felt deep."

"Indeed it was. They must be sitting on a natural spring here. One of the last pure ones, probably. Otherwise they couldn't support a population this size."

"I wonder should I wake Nasty and take her with me or let her sleep."

"She should stay here, out of sight, like you just said."

"No, I go with," came a voice from the dead.

"Then get up and get yourself dressed."

"No, you dress me."

"I still have to do that for you?"

The month of winter was almost spent. Soon the rest of the year round heat would return. According to the man behind the bars a clothes shop operated some five blocks thataways, so thataways we embarked. Amid the grey early morning shadows we stood out even more as two leather babes in a field of brown cotton, some white cotton, a genteel color requiring the means to keep it clean. We had to assume our bodies, our lady parts, our sexuality, were both illegal. Thus holding hands to prevent our separation might incriminate us. I told Nadezhda to grip my jacket and not let go, and we wound our way through a bustling morning crowd in search of new outfits allowing us to blend in more. The rush of faces in the oncoming crowd put me into a trance. If it hadn't been for Nadezhda tugging at my sleeve I would have walked right past the clothes shop. She spied it because she wasn't looking where she was going. Inside stacks of neatly piled clothing covered every flat surface. A shop girl with hair yellow and brittle like a scarecrow's asked if she could help us. I supplied her with Hater's dimensions and she returned with brown denim trousers. I had planned on outfitting Nadezhda and me as well until I saw how much Hater's gear cost.

"I think this is all we can afford right now," I said, as we followed the girl to the register.

Intuiting our entire situation at a glance, she asked, "You haven't found work yet?"

"No, not yet. My man will start looking today."

"Once your husband gets hired his employer might reimburse you for the first set of clothes. Not all of it, of course, but they'll give you a voucher good towards your next purchase, actually."

"A voucher for everything. Never pays for it all."

"That's what they say. Just bring the slip and I can enter the credits for you. What does your man do for work?"

"Maintenance," I said, lowballing the girl. "He fixes stuff."

"He should have no problem finding work around here then. Seems like everything is broke and needs fixing." The girl's eyes grew wide, and her fingertips flew to her lips.

"No worries," I said. "It's not the fault of Powersby that stuff breaks. Too many shirkers and moochers. They're the ones to blame."

The girl shook her head in rapid agreement. She'd gone cold and hard and she didn't say another word, avoiding eye contact.

Having paid for my merchandise I grabbed the parcel and thanked the girl. We had no more exited the shop when a greasy haired ball and chain of a man stepped boldly into my path and blocked us from proceeding.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation in the shop just then. Allow me to introduce myself: Clive Pimpernel. At your service. If you two lovelies are in need of gainful employment, I can sort you a couple of jobs in the entertainment industry. No experience required."

Nadezhda whispered, "I like to sing."

"No you don't," I said. "No thank you, sir," grabbing Nastya by the elbow and steering her around this dreadful little man. "My husband will find work, for himself and us."

"Husband? And yet I notice, no ring."

We were walking fast and he was keeping pace behind us.

"That's none of your business," I snapped.

"It is if I decide to make it my difference," Clive Pimples said, snatch clasping a flick knife.

"Walk faster," I said to Nadezhda, and we churned our hips and outpaced him.

We created a space of several blocks between the sharper and us, and we passed by a tavern where the glass in the doors and large front window had been destroyed and never replaced. Patrons jam-packed the joint and an inviting aroma of seared animal flesh rich spices and cooking oil filling my sinuses and panging in my belly starved for fresh food as opposed to calories stored in pouches.

I scanned the street behind us, and feeling confidant no one followed us, I said to my companion, "Let's go in here and see if we can't barter for a hot meal. We'll take it back and surprise Hater."

"Hmm, smell is good."

We entered the cookery and made straight for the counter. I perused the menu and asked for one order each of dog, cat, and rat, all three with noodles. I felt rather proud of myself. The old Nika would have played it safe by ordering three orders of cat. Dog and mice would make for a nicer variety.

A healthy hum of conversation reverberating around the tables when we first walked in died out completely. I turned around to face the room and realized we were the only women present besides the beer wench. A continuation of that awkward silence would have been preferable to the noises the chauvinists uttered once they made dirty remarks under their breaths to break the silence into laughter and drive their effrontery. I put my back to them in an attempt to shield Nadezhda.

"I thought I knew what I was doing," I said to Nadezhda, apologetically.

"Hey, you there! Girl! What ya' call them clothes yer wearing?"

A general chuckle rippled across the skulking pack of lustful faces.

Another anonymous voice hiding in the crowd demanded, "Don't pretend you didn't hear. Answer the question. What ya' call them getups?"

In order to confront them I turned around, but the whole pack of them whistled and cheered. The volume of their jeering struck me dumb. Out of the corner of my eye I tried to gauge the distance to the exit.

A mullethead, the chief coward, demanded that I speak.

"What you call dem den? Dem black clothes?"

"Leather gear," I said, not to loud, not too soft.

"Whore's gear, more like," an ancient curmudgeon growled over his tankard. A hostile murmur of approval rippled across the room.

"It's military issue," I said, once the anger subsided, knowing my words would have no impact yet having no choice other than to keep talking.

"You a general, then, luv?" Mullethead wanted to know. Oh the hilarity. He leered at the mob to gain courage. "You taking us on maneuvers then?" Jocularity. Jocularity.

"She don't look like no general I ever seen. Not with big bosoms like those."

"What about your friend? Don't she speak? What's she supposed to be?"

"The little drummer girl!"

The matron behind the counter, whom a steady diet of ale and beef had fortified against all male deviltry, pressed the two plastic sacks into our hands and admonished, "You two better had take your food and go. Go now."

We each took a bag and headed for the exit and first one man and then a second stood up. I grabbed Nadezhda's hand in the power clasp and dragged her in close behind me for protection. Mullethead was striding toward the doorway to block our escape. I broke into a run and beat him out the door. Nadezhda he caught ahold of by the arm.

"Not so fast, little doll. Is this any way to treat your new master? You'd fetch a fair price at The Castle, no wonder."

I snatched the food bag out of her hand and tossed both a ways up the sidewalk. No way could I have beaten Mullet in terms of sheer physical strength. Recognizing a slap across my face quivered in his bicep I nevertheless tore at the fingers gripping Nadezhda's wrist and managed to pry them off. Poor Nadezhda had gone into limp slave mode. I grabbed her other arm and yanked her out of his reach.

"Grab the food and run!" I yelled at her, and she responded better than I expected. As he lunged for her again I two palm shivered him in the chest. He grabbed me and held me up by both wrists. Even kicking and scratching for what I was worth I couldn't wrench myself free.

"Let go of that girl, Angus," The Matron demanded, putting her prodigious bulk into motion and advancing outside. "Let her go now. Stop this nonsense, this rough handling of women. I won't have it."

Mullet Head Angus turned his head to accost The Matron: "Won't what? Won't have it, is it!"

With his attention diverted I wriggled one hand free and punched his solar plexus as hard as I could, which didn't faze him, but he did release my other wrist. He cocked his arm to backhand me across the face. Forgetting he held a tankard in that hand it flew out of his grasp, sloshing beer in an arc and clattering on the pavement. I leapt away. Clutching our parcels Nadezhda stood up the block a ways. She had backed into the middle of the street. The Matron fussed around our assailant, slapping at him with a dirty dishrag.

"Come back inside now, and I'll pour you a free one if you do. Leave them poor orphans alone. Leave 'em to their own fate and come back inside to yours."

We were to the other side of the street when someone heaved an empty beer bottle that clipped my arm, spun wildly and when hit the wall and smashed into a dozen tinkling splinters. We didn't stop running until we reached the room upstairs in the Hostel.

There we huffed and puffed, cried, hugged each other. Tried to explain to Hater our run in with the drunks. Only then did I realize I'd lost his parcel of clothes in the scuffle. Being Hater he vowed to get it back. Dressed in only boots and skivvies he left the room. In a few minutes he returned with the parcel. He said he found it right where I'd said it would be: lying on the sidewalk outside the eatery. Strange looks had followed him there and back. Nobody attempted a citizen's arrest, obviously. Not in that kind of a neighborhood. I could just picture him moving expeditiously along the sidewalk in his boxers and boots.

Hater took the parcel with him into the shower area for some reason and emerged a few moments later dressed as a yokel. He was impatient to begin his job search, having no other immediate purpose and I walked him to the door where we embraced and exchanged chaste kisses. Nadezhda petted his arm a few times.

"See you when I see you," he said, smiling.

"Be careful out there. Find out what you can. What do we do if the gauge narrows? Where do we meet?"

"How about that public square at midnight?"

"Midnight for several nights running. You know how it is sometimes."

Considering the hostility from the natives we'd encountered earlier in the day Nadezhda and I resolved to stay camouflaged in the room as long as Hater continued on his mission. At that time we expected to see him again in a day or two. He'd been in such a hurry before he left he didn't eat any of the food we risked our necks procuring. In the aftermath of what happened we didn't have much of an appetite for it either. We nibbled a few bites and wrapped the rest for later.

In the evening we indulged in another sweet water shower and dressed for protection by sleeping in our clothes.

Chapter 32

In the middle of the night the heavy tromping of approaching footsteps woke me up and I wasn't too startled by the angry fist banging on the door and rattling the hinges. The intruders shouted something unintelligible as a key slid into the lock and the door burst open. Security forces stormed the room. Dressed in black, brandishing their automatic weapons they yelled at us to roll over, face down. They searched and cuffed us and then dragged us to our feet. They had brought with them their own light source throwing its beam upwards covering most of the ceiling. An intrepid trooper advanced into the shower room, and having pointed his weapon at all four empty corners, shouted the all clear. The ostensible leader responded by calling all clear on both rooms. Men outside the room called all clear down the hall, down the stairs, into the lobby, and out the front door to the radio relay.

A few moments later the real shot caller, a bald and shiny dome in a skintight shiny latex body suit, strode into the room. He surveyed the place in a macho manner that might have been amusing were it not for his potential for violence. His eyes glowered, black and opaque, and his teeth were sharp points as though the gums in his mouth had produced incisors only. At first glance I had noticed how he wasn't very tall before I realized his leather boots clearly added three more inches. He wasn't even five feet six inches. At the most he stood five foot three. In the Zone I would have mistaken him for a dungeon creep. Circumventing us for the moment he ambulated in a circle making a special stop at the doorway to the shower room without actually entering.

He came back over and asked the Gunny, "Is this their bag? Dump it and search."

The troopers followed orders. Our belongings grew into a pile on the floor. The strap-on they confiscated of course placing it in a black plastic bag of their own. They goose-stepped through our clothing, scattering our panties about the place. Flipping through the pages in my books and finding nothing they then dashed them to the floor. They confiscated my diaries they never gave back, this new memoir composed from memory. Once he finished sifting through our stuff the Inquisitor began asking us questions. He demanded our identity papers, and even after looking them over he still asked us our names.

"You!" he demanded, jabbing his finger at me.

"Nika Savage."

"Nadezhda Nightingale."

He handed our papers over to one of his minions, and our identities disappeared into the evidence bag.

"Occupation?"

"Bartender."

"Employer?"

"I don't have one yet. We've only been here a day."

"Then you're not a bartender, are you? Technically, you're unemployed."

"What about you?"

"Singer – unemployed."

His general expression remained uncanny. Only that eel's mouth of his betrayed his emotions. His mouth frowned mostly, as it did when he asked, "Is Nightingale your stage name? A little song-bird, are we?"

"Is name Master gives to me."

"You're a slave girl?"  
"She steals me. Not my fault. I no wanna go. She force me."

"It's true," I said. "I did steal her out of slavery. I've brought her here against her will."

"She can be vetted easily enough on those points, can't she? But you're the one we've been looking for. You're a person of interest."

He looked Nadezhda up and down before turning his blank gaze to me.

"What did I do?"

"We have received certain information in relation to you. The honest citizens of Bossa Nova have pointed you out as being a dangerous terrorist threat."

"I'm neither a terrorist nor a threat."

"You'll be given a chance to explain yourself, won't you. And for that purpose, you're coming with me."

A trooper grabbed my arm and thrust me towards the door. They took Nadezhda in hand and escorted her along as well.

"No, not that one," the Inquisitor said. "We're not interested in her. This one we're arresting."

They hadn't done a proper job of searching me. Clumsily, raising an elbow out to the side, I reached into my pocket and took ahold of my wad and dropped in on the floor in the hopes it would stay behind for Nastya. The Inquisitor saw me, of course, and duty bound he knelt down and picked it up. Holding it before his eyes as though near sighted he inspected the object. Satisfied it was a roll of bills, the sharp teeth grinned and he handed the script over to Nadezhda. When he did that I knew I was in real trouble.

They hustled me down the staircase and through the empty lobby and outside where the Black Mariah stood parked, idling. At a safe distance a crowd of ill-wishers had gathered. They witnessed me loaded into the van and whooped in celebration at my misfortune. Inquisitor, the troopers and I took a seat on the bench, himself next to me. Slamming the door muted the outside commotion entirely.

On the way to the prison we road in silence as the van jostled along and his latex creaked beside me both skintight gloves balled into fists.

We arrived and the truck stopped out in the street and they escorted me into a concrete building whose windows had been bolted over with sheets of pig iron. Once inside the building we immediately descended a steep flight of stairs bottoming out into a dungeon area. As we passed through a series of clanging iron gates I couldn't stop thinking about poor Nadezhda left alone. I rationalized she had food and money enough to wait for Hater's return. Knowing the accusations were false I tried to distance myself from this elaborate arrest. I would waste a lot of time conjecturing as to who had pointed a finger at me.

They managed to log me in without too many questions. The troopers headed back to the surface and were replaced by two portly prison matrons. The four of us entered a bare concrete room where I was forced to strip naked. A female guard wearing powered latex gloves swept her hands over every inch of my body. Spread my toes. Checked my ears. My mouth. Under my tongue. Saving the best for last. She bent me over. Slathering her fingers with lube she penetrated my Fanny Mae. After a vigorous reaming she declared mission accomplished, satisfied no WMD's were forthcoming. She wiped my bottom with a tissue and ordered me to get dressed, indicating a pair of dull grey cotton prisoner's pajamas. The pants fit too loosely, threatening to slide down. Everywhere I went I had to gather up the waistband and hold it scrunched with one hand while I shuffled along on a pair of flat plastic shower shoes.

They sequestered me in a room and left me to my own thoughts mistakenly thinking solitude a punishment somehow. A thin, spongy mat covered a concrete ledge. What I thought might be a blanket turned out to be only a chemwrap, a piece of technology with a bad history. In one corner squatted a chamber pot, and next to it a soup bowl and a spoon. At the bottom of the big door opened a smaller one. No windows. No fresh air. Really not too terribly bad. The cell reminded me of the dungeon I slept in when they first contracted me to the Club Abattoir.

They kept me waiting over a week for my first interrogation. Being alone like that gave me plenty of time to think my own thoughts and develop a personal philosophy and plan my blue-print for the future. I really like being alone. Don't get me wrong. I like people, but when it comes to others, with me, it isn't a matter of need. I don't need other people the way sane people do. Except maybe for my close people.

Finally, the Political Officer scheduled a meeting so that he and I could sit down for a chat. The main thrust of his warrant claimed that I was a terrorist. I demurred. What I needed to do, according to my good friend the Inquisitor, was to confess my guilt and duplicity in a plot to blow up the government. I could only admit ignorance. I didn't know who or what the government was these days. I needed to confess, and implicate five of my friends, who apparently were also deadly terrorists. I was on the verge of confessing five was three more friends than I could point to, but I held my tongue, and held it again when I was on the verge of reminding him he had my best friend in custody and let her go without a word of protest from me. My silence and general lack of cooperation dismayed the Inquisitor. He felt perhaps more time in isolation would have a salubrious effect upon my memory. With all due respect I submitted more time alone would not help me to produce information I did not possess. Inquisitor insisted we try anyway, and so back to my cell I shambled.

Another glorious week of silence slide past before the Inquisitor once again summoned me into his presence. We enjoyed much the same conversation, with much the same results. In order to produce what he called more positive outcomes he made clear his attention to implement what he called enhanced interrogation techniques, since the regular kind had failed to produce any results. What he really needed, what he was really after in all of this, amounted to a signed confession. In point of fact he had already created such a document. Having adopted literary license he had ghost written a confession for me. My signature was the only piece missing. I resisted the impulse to affix my Hader Glascock to such a spurious document. With a sigh of dismay he declared he had no other choice than to employ techniques of enhanced interrogation, and so with leather straps he affixed my neck, waist, wrists, and ankles to an iron chair.

The first step involved yelling. I heard everything he said the first time. I don't know why he thought repeating himself louder would somehow increase the efficacy of his remarks. Unfortunately for him I have never been one to mistake volume for logic. In response I pretended he was my former pimp and I did what I always used to do anytime The Body raised his voice: I climbed into my private tree-house and reeled up the rope ladder after me.

The second conversation starter turned out to be not that big of a deal either. The inquisitor grabbed me by the shoulders and gave me a good shake. A sort of fatalism took over anytime I found myself treated this way. I managed to make a single mental note about the difference between truth and lies for sharing with Nadezhda in case I ever happened to see her again.

In between each session the Inquisitor harassed me with the same tedious, misguided questions over and over again. "What was the terrorist's plan of attack?" "Who are your accomplices?" In honesty I didn't have a plan of attack, and whenever he yelled or snarled about my supposed accomplices I intuited he didn't mean Nadezhda or Hater. He had in mind figments of his own imagination, and not being a mind reader I couldn't tell him what he wanted to hear.

Next the Inquisitor tried slapping my face. I hadn't participated in this rough trick since Rachael and I appeared in "Rough Sex, Vol. 17". Not really my thing, but it paid well. I could tolerate it as long as the guy I worked with knew what he was doing. I had worked with Pyle Hardrive. He told me the trick was not to have any real anger. The whole bit was just for show, a fantasy. Behind the acting you had to be in total control the whole time. Tony landed the perfect palm slaps against the flat of my cheek every time. You got a big popping sound, a tingle of sting, but no permanent damage. Certain denizens got hooked on performing the rough stuff because of the adrenaline rush. Once they got a taste for the grab and slap nothing else registered. I only did it the one time, and afterwards I felt like 'been there – done that'. Strike it off the list. Pyle Hardrive was a sweetheart, though. I always wondered what became of him. Quite frankly, the Inquisitor couldn't hold a candle to the professionals I worked with in the past. My confidence level in his anger management skills was not high. Not that he ever lost control completely. Let me say this much. He got into character too much and his aim got sloppy. The final slap he delivered caught the edge of my mouth and the bridge of my nose. My hemorrhaging calmed him down some. Profusely he apologized as from my nose and mouth blood ran profusely. He didn't really want to go through all of this. If only I would tell him one true piece of information. I blew a pink mist before speaking, endeavoring to explain how I too felt remorse, and wished I did know something I could tell him, which, as he had said, would make life easier for both of us.

The last technique of the day finished with his giving me a pink belly. I don't know what it is about boys and pink bellies. I had learned this one from the bullies who used to play in the alley and back yards behind the whorehouse where I grew up. Those boys would chase me all over creation until inevitably they would corner and capture me, dragging me wriggling and resisting with all my tiny might over to the soft grass where they would pin me down on my back and raise my shirt and play the bongo drums on the taut skin covering my tummy until it turned bright pink. Then they'd let me up, point their fingers at their handy work and chant, "Pink belly! Pink belly!" I have no clue why. Because boys are stupid and cruel, that's why, and so was the Inquisitor, among the worst I've ever known.

Day after day we continued in this cruel manner. Sometimes the Inquisitor would talk to me while he tied me up naked and spread eagle. He would go on and on about the sanctity of Empire. How important for us to keep the Empire safe from barbarian incursions. How in order to safeguard law and order certain citizens had to relinquish certain liberties and rights. How every man woman and child must bow down and place their safety with blind trust into the hands of The Powers That Be. He blathered so much I became annoyed and mentally tuned him out. I had never given much thought to the Powers beyond serving their needs as clients. My experience with the Inquisitor drove me to hate them as a class.

Normally, whipping and flogging makes people uncomfortable. The thought of pain eliciting pleasure causes nervous giggles or a gasp of disgust and people automatically shut their minds. In my own defense I can only say it's like the difference between a room temperature glass of plain cola, and a rum and coke on the rocks. Sex can be sweet and pleasing. Sado play takes those same feelings and spikes them to a whole new level. Relax, I'm not trying to make any converts. I'm just saying in my experience pain and pleasure mixed in the proper proportions can create a sensation not the least bit unpleasant. Not, break a bone kind of pain, happy slappies. That's it. What is an orgasm, after all? Blood and various other assorted bodily fluids Oscar Mike. As blood rushes and tissue swells and deflates the brain resisters pleasure. Spank a creamy white bottom. Blood releases and rises to the surface. That same creamy bottom turns a very bright pink. Tingly. Slap every contour of the body and you're tingly all over. Added to the first tingle it's the difference between a single pleasure bell tingalinging in your head versus the entire racoletage clanging to life in your belfry. My former partner Rachel would tie me up spread eagle, and with her whips transform my white flesh into a modern art masterpiece, Study in Red.

Add to that all those feelings you might have about domination and submission. As a bottom I can speak to the overwhelming intimacy of simply letting go.

The Inquisitor didn't know how to do anything. His flaggelation concentrated almost exclusively on my back, barely touching my bottom, and not a single lash across my front. Also, he didn't vary his strokes very well, and he only owned two whips, a vanilla cat-o-nine tails and a cane. No riding crop at all. He didn't even establish a safe word and considering his bad attitude I wasn't about to share with him my personal one. Quite frankly, I'd experienced better.

In spite of each new innovation on his part I came no closer to conjuring the type of confession the Inquisitor desired. Keeping me awake for hours on end turned out to be one of the more dreary and pointless techniques he employed. I kept thinking about the time Hater and I found those quality meds in the vest pocket of that dead guy and popped them like candy morning noon and night for about a month straight. When our supply suddenly ran out we both developed insomnia for weeks. We met with the same punishment after snorting meth. Almost two weeks straight, wide awake. The Inquisitor gave up on the third day.

I'm not sure what the point he was trying to make by having the troopers visit me in my cell. They were such sweet, accommodating young stud muffins. Afterwards I would oftentimes hold one of them in my arms while he bitched about how his girlfriend or his wife didn't understand him. Or wouldn't do the tricks I knew how to do to please a man. Mostly I thought most of their confessions sounded like a lot of self-serving nonsense. As they confessed I tended not to listen until they finally reached the part about hating their fathers and loving their mothers constituting the one true story of the world. At that stage they would shudder and weep. Whenever one of those big boys got himself into a state like that I would always give him a hug, a great big squeeze, and an aperture opened up between us and the bad mojo they were feeling transferred into me. Later on, out of a sense of gratitude, I suppose, they started furnishing me with little gifts. A toothbrush. An extra blanket. An actual pillow. Knowing how much I like greens they had salads made for my dinners and served them to me in my cell. One even supplied me with pajama bottoms more my size so I didn't have to clutch the waistband all the time to prevent them from falling down. One especially sweet young lad (he admitted with rosy cheeks aglow how I had been his first) brought me the cutest fuzzy bunny slippers, and fresh anemones for decorating my cell. I hope this won't sound conceited but the overall dour mood of that dungeon softened considerably under my influence.

The strength and generosity of my spirit created a paradoxical effect on the Inquisitor by darkening his heart. Discovering the several gentle kindnesses his own men bestowed on me maddened him into a frenzy of retribution. He ordered my cell stripped of all amenities, and he ordered me bound and gagged. My hands plunged into triangle mittens, a soundproof fabric cone pulled down over my ears until it rested on my shoulders as my senses descended into darkness and they condemned me to whatever demons lurked in the deepest recesses of my mind. The effect can only be compared to the hallucinations brought on by consuming yellow cake. In other words, I felt high. Under the influence of sensory deprivation I experienced a vision. I don't even believe in visions, yet I had one. I followed a path of cruelty leading from the Inquisitor far back into the history of time and place before the Empire when the people enjoyed a Republic. Greed killed the Republic, greed, plain and simple. At the height of its power I saw the Republic savagely attacked without warning. Like a sleeping giant the Republic arose to wage war, but not against an enemy they could identify. Instead, the waged war against its own citizens.

At great cost in life the Republic fought a manifestation of evil, and defeating the awful foe discovered genocide based on the business model. Factories of death. In the face of such unspeakable filth however those warriors presented to posterity a most remarkable example. Instead of embarking upon a blood-letting retribution they proved themselves human beings whose characters had been forged in fires of courage and integrity too hot to imagine. In that terrible moment they laid down their weapons and exalted the rule of law. When vengeance was theirs for the taking they rejected that base instinct and drew a line in the sand while the whole of humanity watched and pondered and they appointed judges who gestured with the left hand and said these atrocities are evil and beneath the stature of mankind and they gestured with the right hand and said this is the wisdom of love and truth, honesty and decency, freedom and fair-play.

For generations the power of those admonitions prospered in people's minds as the highest standard of human decency. Then came a time when a sickness called greed infested the heart of the Republic and wars were fought not waged from dire necessity but for profit. Leaders who themselves had wriggled out of military service and hid from duty grew soft in their sense of entitlement and luxuriance, and later when the Republic was again attacked without warning these chicken hawks exploited the bloody nose as a pretext for reaping obscene profit from the death of their young warriors and sank into quagmires of one shameful behavior after another belying their weakness, these fearful cowards.

The inquisitor removed the hood covering my head and the light of dungeon as dull as it was felt brighter than the rays of the sun. Blinking while my eyes adjusted I remembered the span of history when the Republic changed from a democracy to plutocracy, and the growth of Empire.

The Inquisitor told me how he had tried everything, and now he was out of patience. He alluded to fighting in the shadows. How the enemies you face there can be monstrous, and you must lower yourself to horrible means in order to fight and defeat them. They weren't us. We were justified in eliminating them like so many vermin. I warned him that doing so you become the very thing you despised. Dirty. Sick. Sadistic. Cowardly. Shameful.

He made no reply. Perhaps I had only managed to think the words without actually speaking them aloud. My mind had become destabilized and I floated in and out of reality. As they dragged me along the corridors to the final chamber I tried to gather some hard core of selfishness inside my mind because I expected they would inflict permanent damage on my body and I had to let go of that now. They would cripple me somehow for crimes I'd never committed, knowledge I did not possess, conspirators I never knew.

They strapped me on a table, on my back, and they commenced drowning me. They poured water into my face. Sweet, life-sustaining water I'd always loved. At first the sheer waste outraged me. Quickly I realized they were trying to kill me. I couldn't breathe. Water shot into my mouth and up my nose into my sinuses. I coughed and gagged, struggling desperately for breath. My nerves shot panic to my brain never heard before. You're dying. Death. This is death. This pain signals death. My muscles seized up and contracted, my body contorted. Death fear took hold of my soul and flattened me like a penny on railroad track.

"Tell us what we want to know, and we'll stop. We've been at this for hours, my dear, most prisoners don't last ten minutes."

"I'll tell you anything you want to know. Please stop. Please. Please. I'll settle down and marry. Barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen. It's where I belong. God loves me. Jesus is my friend. Everything happens for a reason. Please stop. Please, and I'll tell you everything."

"What's she talking about?"

"She's delirious. Death fear. Let her breath for a minute."

"Please don't hurt me anymore. Please stop. I'll tell you. I'll name names. Let me tell you about my friends. It's them you want. Not me."

"We'd like to stop. Believe me, my dear. But you haven't told us anything we want to hear."

"I'll tell you. I'll tell you. Just give me a second. To catch my breath. Please let me breath."

Hacking and coughing, I turned my head and projectile vomited a geyser. Afterwards water leaked from every orifice.

"Leave off this foolish bravery and tell us what we want to know."

"Alright. I'll tell you. And then you'll stop, yes? No more. No more."

"Yes, yes, but you have to tell us, first."

"Alright then. Here is what I know. There is a conspiracy afoot. A plot against Empire, against The Boss himself."

"Finally, my dear, you are showing good sense. But why couldn't you tell us sooner and save yourself the pain? Go on. Tell me more. You're doing fine. You're doing the right thing."

"It's a conspiracy."

"Yes, you said that. Go on. I need details."

"The priests. The priests. They... like little boys."

Incredulity stretched the inquisitor's next syllable to the breaking point: "What?"

"They want to discredit the Boss, make him look bad, undermine his authority. They've made a devil's bargain with the eunuchs. I don't know what it is exactly, but it has to do with the handling of small boys. Members of the Boss' own retinue. A sex scandal, do you see? They're looking to humiliate him and bring him down."

"Tilt her up so she can catch her breath, and let's take a break. Clear the room, please. I need some time alone with our young friend here."

Once the last trooper closed the door after himself the Inquisitor moved closer until he and I were face to face. His vagina dentate smiled. He smoothed the wet hair out of my face and with his delicate hands gently cupped my face. "You're doing very well. Relax now, and breathe normally. You're not in danger for the moment. In fact, you're almost home. All I need from you now is the names of five co-conspirators. Give me their names, and the pain will stop.

He moved away and returned in a moment carrying a folding chair. When he sat down the metal creaked under his weight although he was not a large man. Tapping at a compod on his lap, he crossed his legs, wiggled himself comfortable, and looked up at me.

"George W. is the first one. He's a key leader of the insurgency. He's fanatical and will stop at nothing to bring down Empire. He's crazy. He once crossed a frozen river and murdered his enemies in their sleep on a religious holiday.

"Ibrahim L. He wants an end to sex slavery, even though it's sanctified in The One Book! He's a danger, a real danger. He favors big government over state's rights. Need I say more?

"Johnny A. is another terrorist. He opposes war. He's against perpetual and everlasting conflict for the sake of profit. You can imagine how the Powers That Be feel about that one. Good way to catch a bad case of lead poisoning to the brain.

"Tommy the J. I know for a fact he keeps a woman of color for his mistress. He thinks the right to rule originates from the people, not top down by the richest and most powerful like in the sacred business model. He even put his heresies in writing.

"Teddy Boy Rose. The most dangerous of them all. He doesn't believe in too big to fail. He thinks if a bank is too big then you should bust it down into smaller concerns. He's an aristocrat but a traitor to his class. He values people more than money, if you can believe that. I hear he's a socialist."

The Inquisitor tapped at the glass of his compod for a few minutes as he finished recording every word I said.

Finally, he asked, "Have you anything else to add?"

"Your enhanced interrogation techniques feel a lot like torture."

Chapter 33

After my confession The Inquisitor ceased interrogating me since I'd given him what he wanted. As positive reinforcement he returned to me my fuzzy bunny slippers. They also moved me to a new cell, above ground, the second story, one already inhabited by three other women. The youngest of the women they were holding on a morals charge. Her round face glowed with health and her broad smile revealed healthy wide teeth. She spoke her words in fast staccato sentences. She'd been arrested for sodomy with her boyfriend. It had been his idea, but afterwards he felt such feelings of disgust and shame, to cleanse his own conscience, he turned her in to the authorities. She was actually facing two counts, one for the deviant sex, and the other for sex before marriage, technically fornication. Her lover, being male, wasn't charged with anything since in these types of situations temptation is always the fault of the female.

The woman in the bunk above her was a political like me, only middle-aged, blousy and floppy. Apparently, she'd been gossiping over the back fence about the Boss and his poor handling of municipal affairs. Her husband worked in that office so she ought to know. One of her neighbors informed on her and under torture she implicated her husband, dragging him down as well.

The woman on the bunk above mine went by the name of Rosie. Out in the world you might easily have mistaken her for a man. Raven haired, dark eyed, dark skinned. She gave me the once over. I demurred, for the moment. Not wanting to commit myself too rashly to any entanglements or loyalties, besides feeling too waterlogged and bewildered to make any big decisions. In the course of our getting to know you conversation she revealed she was a thief, and hence the only actual criminal on the block. During the night Rosie climbed down off her top bunk and joined me on the lower bunk and stripped me naked and did the rub and bump I lacked the strength to resist. Before the sun rose she returned to the top bunk, no one the wiser.

Or so I thought. The next day an icy demarcation line separated our tiny cell into two distinct camps. Neither the rat nor the sodomite would speak to me, throwing furtive, hard looks before turning away for good. Sometime around noon I fell into a slumber and awoke to their whisperings.

"It's disgusting, if you ask me."

"I don't understand. She's such a gorgeous thing. You could have any man she wanted."

Unlike the isolation chamber this cell had a window high up. At one point I developed the distinct feeling I was drowning in that cell. By standing on the water tank of the commode I could just manage to peer outside. Getting up there was easier than climbing down. I hadn't realized how unstable I really felt standing up, as though the concrete was shifting under my feet.

The next night Rosie seduced me into forming a 69 drawing outright protests from the opposite side of the cell. Short of calling for the guards they had no way of stopping us. The next morning Rosie bullied those two in retribution for the slurs they had cast in their indignation the previous evening. A few hard slaps later a grim silence descended over our little group. Although I stayed out of it I have to admit I admired the aggressive way Rosie threw her elbows. If those two Puritans didn't fully comprehend they were in prison before they understood it well enough after the likes of Rosie dealt a blow. The young sodomite should have been more grateful. Without my presence to distract her Rosie would have eventually invaded her bottom bunk.

Events transpiring outside the prison walls freed us from punishing each other. Only fragments of the commotion squeezed through the tiny aperture connecting us to the outside world. I stood wobbling on the commode with Rosie holding onto my legs to steady me and craning my neck for several minutes at a time, taking breaks in between. I was the only cellmate tall enough to see out, but I was thoroughly wasted. Rosie showed no interest other than ensuring I didn't fall and hurt myself. In or out prison remained the locus of her life. The other two were citizens of the state and they were desperate to understand the shouts and screams, a smoky aroma floating on the air, the pungent, acrid stench of tear gas, the chatter of small arms fire. A thaw took place in our heretofore icy relationship and they pestered me with questions about what I could see, amounting to precious little. That is, until I saw a swelling mob converging from several different directions and heading toward the prison.

I uttered some inane expletive and hopped down from my observation post, falling to my knees in weakness. Now even Rosie demanded to know what. Before I could explain, the sounds of a violent clash erupted as the Citizen's Army attacked the prison, the building itself, its walls, windows and doors, as well as the bodies of the troopers inside. The clamor entering through the open window from the outside, the alarums, yelling, crashing, and gunfire, reverberated from inside the building next, in the rooms beneath us. We sat together on the lower bunks clinging to whatever we could grab the way you do when an earthquake hits and the rolling shaking tumbling is beyond your power; so all you can do is wait for it to be over, ride it out, and hope you're still alive when the floor stops shaking.

We remained gathered on the lower bunks, Rosie included, and waited for the advancing violence to reach us there where we sat in our cell. On the edge of the bunks we listened with our eyes peering towards every thud and yell as the initial onslaught passed us and our eyes turned toward the roof and the sounds of bumping thumping pump-pump of muted gunfire caused us to squeeze the blood from our knuckles. Then from the other side of the cell door the keys jangled. The door swung open and a young man, blond and pale with blue eyes blazing, gripped his burp gun, and the revolution had found us.

"Come out of the cell, you women. This prison has been liberated. Regardless of your crimes you are hereby pardoned. Go home, if you have one. You're free to go by order of The People's more or less United Front."

Rather recklessly, I thought, the young sodomite leapt from her seat and crowded past the revolutionary, who was standing in the doorway. The wife moved to follow. Finding herself face to face with the man holding his weapon, she hesitated before him, disinclined to squeeze by. They stood at odds regarding each other, the soldier firm and obdurate, the wife shifting her weight from foot to foot and biting her thumbnail. I half expected him to crack her across the face, but despite his fierce demeanor he was there to liberate. He was just young and coiled too tightly to realize he was blocking the way and needed to step aside. Loud shouting and shots fired downstairs broke the trance they had fallen into and he spun about on his heel and stomped off to liberate the inmates of the next cell. I wondered what his reaction would be when he discovered the remaining humans, or human remains, in the basement.

The wife scurried out the door and never looked back. Rosie sauntered and I shuffled through the door and entered the mayhem of strewn papers and overturned desks and the bodies of dead troopers clogging the floors. I had no desire to identify any of those corpses. I avoided looking at their faces and headed for the front doors by now propped wide open.

As we emerged from the building the mob gathered outside erupted into a resounding "Huzzah!" in our honor. Caught so unexpectedly in the spotlight I waved to the crowd like a hammy aristocrat. Rosie's hot breath whispered in my ear, "See ya, kid," and before I could turn to respond she plunged into the crowd and was swallowed in the surge. At first I didn't think the crowd would let me regain my anonymity until I stepped into their midst. They slapped me on the back and gave me unwanted hugs. Soon enough other liberated prisoners emerged from the police station doors and a new wave of cheers swept through the crowd.

I didn't command a grand gesture of freedom to offer. In my prison pajamas and bunny slippers I shuffled my way upstream against the flow of the mob. Someone was yelling at me, gripping me by my arms. I recoiled from him. For some reason I didn't want to be congratulated by anyone for anything. I averted my gaze. I pulled away, not wanting to be gripped and held.

"It's me! Don't you know me?"

My eyes fluttered, and through the murk of night Hater's visage swam into focus. I slipped my arms around his neck for support and lay my head against his chest, and for the first time in a long time, I cried. In my own defense, when you skin your knee as a child, the tears don't come until the party arrives who will fully feel sorry for you and assuage your pain.

Draped around his neck I collapsed, whispering, "They hurt me, Mr. Hater, they hurt me bad. And I don't know what to do."

Amid the riotous populace running wild Hater gathered me up in his arms and carried me through the night all the way to the same hotel we stayed in when first we arrived. In the room he stripped me down and tried to carry me into the shower. I didn't want that. I revolted in panic. I didn't want water cascading into my face ever again. Hater was perplexed by my refusal of a hot shower. I found myself unable to explain. He carried me back into the other room and applied a gentle sponge bath instead. Even then I groaned and writhed in feverish protest, passing out before he finished. I didn't awaken until the next day, clean and sweet scented, bundled in blankets.

After coffee and energy bars Hater and I held a high level meeting about the state of our affairs. The first question on my mind concerned Nadezhda and her whereabouts. Hater knew for a fact slavers had kidnapped her from this very room shortly after my arrest because he recognized her in the Palace Harem after he was enrolled to fix their electrical wiring, an expertise no one else in the whole city possessed. Palace Security's trust bestowed with the completion of the first project they next tasked him to set up a closed circuit camera system to monitor all movements to and from the Harem. While standing on a ladder and installing one of those cameras he happened to look over his shoulder. He caught sight of Nasty reclining on a large round bed with several other of the Boss' favorites. Only then did he learn of my arrest and her subsequent bad experiences. Stripped and oiled, stood up on a platform, subjected to public auction, she became an object for the highest bidder, in this case Chief Purchasing Eunuch for the Palace.

Physically unharmed she remained emotionally distraught. Somewhat to her own surprise she found a return to slavery and luxury overwhelming and unbearable after breathing the sweet air of emancipation and starvation for so long. Access to clean drinking water, proper food, medicine, safety, comfort, not to mention sex and a totally carefree existence could no longer compare favorably to the hot, dirty, stinking, dangerous world of unfettered freedom. I'm paraphrasing Hater, of course, not Nadezhda, who nevertheless did manage to convey her love of autonomy, and her deep sadness at the loss of it, losing her partner, whom Hater took great pains to make clear, meant me. I was her partner of choice, and even though unwanted attention had been pressed upon her in that wretched palace, the evil Powersby had failed to seduce her heart.

Despite my semi-lucid state I was able to drink in the bitter gall contained in Hater's intelligence report, and learning Nadezhda was basically safe and well cared for filled me with a tremendous sense of relief followed immediately by a spasm of despair over her being taken against her will into captivity. No matter how luxurious prison stultifies the spirit. She yearned to be free together with me, not caged like some animal.

In my state of ill repair I could feel a strong surge of purpose rising in my soul. To a catalytic extent her need of rescue rescued me from the deadening preoccupation of my own misery. This instance did not constitute the only time in my life when I found a cure for depression in turning my psyche outward towards the goal of helping my friends. I needed to put the whole prison experience behind me, although a pungent reminder ached within my stinging sinuses. I thought it a laudable goal, redeeming the princess from her captivity, in reality, not so easy to accomplish.

I contemplated my prison pajamas crumpled on the floor, and the bunny slippers, and remarked to Hater, "They took my clothes. I don't have anything durable to wear."

"I have some script saved up. Not a lot. I'm assuming your credits were stolen. When I came back after finding Nadezhda in the harem I found your stuff scattered all over the place in here. I gathered your stuff up and packed it back in the voluminous bag the best I could, but I didn't find any credits.

"I left them with Nadezhda," I said, the water-logged feeling of drowsiness sweeping over me from nothing more than the exertion of those few words.

"Then it's gone for sure," Hater said. "She didn't say anything about it, but they confiscated everything of value she had on her. So we'll have to think about clothes for her, too. They're keeping her natural."

"What's The Boss like?"

"A monster."

"Is he mistreating her?"

Hater's eyes roamed around the room. Avoiding eye contact with me, he said, "According to Nadezhda, 'he not nice man'."

I groaned as I pulled the blankest tighter under my chin. "We've got to get her out of there," I murmured.

"I'm ready," Hater said, his eyes smiling but his lips set and grim. "But if you want to find her we've got to move now. As you may have noticed, all hell was breaking loose around here last night. For some reason the Secret Police made a move against the Clergy. Major power play of some sort. A whole slew of arrests, which caused some major rioting.

"After the clergy were arrested, the eunuchs caught wind of a rumor they were next on the hit list. So being eunuchs they panicked and set fire to the Palace Store House. Since then they've been running all over the city waving their genitalia in the air. Shouting out every dirty Palace secret they know, as a way of inciting the mob against the Secret Police.

"And the mob's reaction?" My brain was really not fully functioning.

"Well, they attacked the Police Station last night. Today, they're working up to storming the palace. This isn't the first time this city has suffered a major purge. Somebody told me how last year they swept up all the intellectuals, explaining why they needed my services so much: they slaughtered their engineers."

"The mob is storming the palace?"

"Yes, right now. We're missing the excitement as we sit here talking."

"Why didn't you say so sooner?" Even in my washed out state I found the strength for irritation, though in reality Hater had done nothing wrong. It's just that certain conversations go a certain way, and then, there you are.

"Because I didn't know how well you felt. Do you feel like heading up there? No offense, but you don't look so good."

"No, I don't feel like doing anything. Curling into a ball and lying on this floor for the next eternity or so, but I don't feel like I have a choice," I said, throwing the blankets aside and groping for my prison pajamas and feebly pulling them on once more. "If Nadezhda is trapped up there then we have to go get her. She's our friend, Hater."

"I concur," Hater said, shaking his cropped head against any possible doubt. "I couldn't agree more. Nadezhda, well, she's one of us. Your buddy, and mine, too. So let's move. Let's go get her, in the grand tradition rescue her from the evil wazir's harem. I know right where she is and how to get to her. Hell, I ought to, I installed the security system myself."

"I've never heard you swear before, Hater."

"Did I swear? What did I say?

"You said H-E double toothpicks."

"I did? I'm sorry."

"It's okay. The situation is tense right now. That kind of language can slip out. Just don't make it a habit. You're my guy. You know that, but you also know that anyone who's going to be my guy cannot have a potty mouth."

"Understood. Like I said, I'm sorry. It slipped. It won't happen again."

"Okay, let's put it behind us now and move on. First thing, I need new clothes. I can't storm the castle and free the princess in these prison pajamas."

"I have a plan for that, but you're not going to like it."

He was right. I didn't like it. His plan was to return to the Police Station and forage for clothes there. No looting was taking place anywhere in the city. It was a real People's Revolution. So we couldn't very well bust in on a private store owner and take what we needed by force, and the law of the Deadland clearly states that you don't buy stuff when you can scrounge it for free.

Conceding the point, I said, "Okay Hater, but you have to go in there for me. Don't make me go in there again. Not so soon. Not ever."

"I think I can handle the situation for you. Are you ready to roll? Can you walk, or what?"

"No, but I'm going to anyway. It's weird. I was standing well enough and walking around without help before the mob busted us out, but then it sort of hit me all at once, and I felt feeble."

"You want me to carry you again?"

"Piggy back?"

"No problem."

"Let's get down to the street, first. I can manage it that far."

Once we were in sight of the station Hater let me slide to my feet. I shuffled the rest of the way under my own power but on shaky sticks.

The double doors to the station remained wide open. Random scraps of paper from vandalized file cabinets were strewn from the entrance. A slight breeze seemed to be sucking them outside, or maybe a back entrance stood propped open as well and a cross breeze was scattering the files. When the time came I couldn't bring myself to go back in there. Amid the fluttering files and papers I sat on the steps and waited for Hater while he went inside on my account. Perusing any of those papers would have been too much like strolling through a graveyard where only strangers lay buried under row upon row of bright white tombstones.

By the time Hater returned my mood had sunk to a new low. Bless his heart cradled in his extended arms he carried a stack of clothing tucked under his chin. In the looting frenzy of the night before the mob had focused on firearms and ammunition and otherwise contenting themselves with trashing the place. According to Hater digging around in several desk drawers produced a pass key for the lockers in the men's locker room. Several contained freshly pressed uniforms and everyone he opened contained some amount of personal cash.

Between the paramilitary pants, dress trousers with a stripe down the side, I chose the former and saved the latter for Nadezhda. She would look great in tight flares. The pants I donned were too big. Hater provided a black leather belt I cinched tight, solving the problem. The black leather trooper boots fits perfectly over thick socks. With the military shirt on I looked way too official. In the middle of a revolution we reasoned there was no point in getting shot for resembling a tool of oppression so I removed the shirt and dropped it on the sidewalk. The sports bra would do for now. We packed Nadezhda's new threads into the volume and set a course for the palace. I found walking easier in a firm pair of quality boots, and I felt my equilibrium somewhat restored by the rough cloth.

Chapter 34

On our way we passed through deserted and silent streets. By the time we arrived at the entrance gate to the Palace people were saying that the revolution was already over. We had missed it. A kangaroo court had formed, and every member of the ruling household from the lowest chambermaid to the Boss himself stood accused before the revolutionary tribunal passing death sentences mostly based on the crowd's reaction to the accused's physical appearance, and what, if anything, they had to say in their own defense. We watched a couple of lowly footmen mistaken for sweet scented dandies stood up against a wall and shot, the vitriol of the mob preventing their pleas for understanding from being heard.

On a stage among the accused, and soon to be condemned, stood Nadezhda, scantily clad in a man's white dress shirt. She looked like a sexy pirate without any pants. Her vexed expression clearly communicated her anger and frustration at having to stand trial along with a household wherein she had been held a prisoner. Discerning our girl I nudged Hater to direct his attention, and his aspect brightened. As we gently elbowed our way through the crowd Nadezhda eventually recognized us in return. She smiled brightly for a moment before trembling into tears, taking a few steps towards us, only to be shoved back again by one of the revolutionaries guarding the prisoners. In her precipitant rush Nadezhda had unwittingly pushed her way to the front of the line. The only person ahead of her stood a woman obviously a member of the quality. She wore a plain white evening gown I doubt she had on when the mob captured her. Unless they interrupted a royal ball in progress. Her attire and jewelry must have been the mob's handiwork. They had caked her face with white powder, her lips and cheeks reddened to a clownish degree, and weighted down by every piece of jewelry she owned. Underneath it all I could see she remained quite beautiful. Try as she might to remain haughty, her fear of the crowd and their judgment her eyes revealed.

Several judges sat along a table over to one side of the stage. They held fancy quill pens with extravagant feather plumes and scratched notes on official scrolls of parchment. I wondered if they hadn't raided the boss's office itself for those silly items.

The lead judge, at least the one doing all the talking, ordered the prisoner to step forward. A whoop of derisive laughter rushed forward from the crowd, staggering the formerly aristocratic wife. Their collective bad breath almost caused the poor Queen to swoon. As the merriment over the spectacle she embodied subsided individual members of the crowd shouted execrations and the air shimmered with their rage and resentment.

Waving the crowd silent with a pistol he held by the barrel like a gavel the chief judge addressed the accused in a very public voice:

"Princess Trickledown, you stand accused of robbing these good citizens of all their self-respect and dignity, rendering them an impoverished peasantry. Through your extreme greed and callousness you ruined an otherwise honest and productive city. You corrupted the government for the sake of your own rapaciousness. You lied and cheated your way out of providing for your fair share of the taxes and heaped the burdens of your personal wars of vengeance upon the elderly and the poor while robbing the city treasury and blaming the noble professions. Your greed and sadistic selfishness has ruined us morally, ethically, and financially. Therefore, before the citizens and this revolutionary committee I charge you with high crimes and fiscal treason. How do you plead?"

Mustering as much dignity as she could the plutocrat's wife stepped forward and announced to the crowd, "We only did it to create jobs for all of you!"

Howls of execrations rained down upon her head.

"In the name of health, education and welfare you are hereby condemned to death. Take her away!"

As they dragged her across the stage and down the steps I bumped into her climbing my way up. In a state of bewilderment the Princess looked at me said, "I didn't know a peasant could feel pain the same way we do. It never really occurred to me."

"They're not peasants," I said to her. "They're citizens, and they are just as good if not better than you are."

Tracking my progress to center stage, the same guard who had thwarted Nadezhda's advanced eyed me critically and looked to the Chief Judge for orders, who looked me in the eye with a challenge I steadfastly returned. He switched his gaze back to the guard and was about to sign him instructions of some kind when a volley of machine gun fire riveted everyone's attention to the spot against the wall where the bullet riddled and bloodstained gown of the princess lay crumpled in a heap. The volume of the crowd's cheering deafened my hearing like Marshall stacks.

The Chief Judge glared at me all the while the crowd swilled alcohol in satisfaction over the death of the whole body of lies. The celebration ebbed, and once again the Chief Judge signaled for silence.

"What business do you claim before this court?"

"I come here today to speak in defense of this good woman," I cried, extending my arm to indicate Nadezhda. "She is innocent of all charges and deserves to be set free."

At my bold words and melodramatic gestures the mob quieted down and fixed their interest on a spectacle sure to prove a novelty. Everybody took a big drink.

"She hasn't been charged with anything yet," the Judge said with a supercilious grin, and the mob obliged him with the laughter he sought.

I strode to the edge of the stage and hooked my thumbs in my belt, addressing the crowd, who were the jury. "She stands before you, ladies and gentlemen, on this dais, among these others, as a clear case of mistaken identity. She and I arrived in your fair city together as a pair of kinswomen, free citizens, and through calumnious and meretricious shenanigans perpetrated by the Boss and his minions I was arrested on false charges, and she was dragged against her will into the slavery of the Harem." I paced to one end of the stage and back again to draw all eyes because some people weren't paying attention yet. When I was sure that all eyes were on teacher I continued. "Last night in your mighty and righteous justice you freed me from the torture pit of the City Prison where I lay entombed alive, you in your justice and strength freed me, you people. You did that. Now I ask you to act out of the same impulse for justice, and restore my dear friend, my dear dear sister in the cause, who never robbed anyone of life or liberty, and never asked for more than her fair share. On the contrary, she has given and given and given of herself, freely and with compassion, for the betterment of our society.

A voice from the crowd shouted out, demanding to know, "What's the charge?"

"She's been giving of herself alright!" A heckler called out.

Ripples of laughter traversed the crowd.

Nadezhda, whose eyes had started with a loving hopeful expression during the whole of my speech now turned with a tart expression towards her heckler. I could see the mischief swimming in her eyes and I dreaded lest she open her mouth and say something, but I was wrong to underestimate her:

"Listen to me, smarty-pants man. I am free woman. I own my body. Me! Alone! And no man can tell me what do do with it. I'm no answer for nobody. And the bad mens, they come and drag me from my room, and they make me harem girl, they force me, cuz I no want. And the Boss Man, he dirty, and he smell stinky! And he have tiny little penis only tis big...."

Wiggling her little finger she wrought from the crowd the first genuine laughter of the afternoon.

"No, tis true. Hung like little boy. And alla time dirty buggery like he no like female parts."

Fingers from the crowd began pointing at the object of Nadezhda's ridicule whose drooping countenance suggested he would rather proceed straight to the wall and be spared any more eviscerating public revelations.

"Oh yeah! Dat heem!" Nadezhda said, now working the crowd in her own defense. "He men dragged me from my bed and force me into the sex slavery. I no want go with him never. I good girl. Who... come to dis city... to follow my dream to open my own nail and hair shop. I manicure specialist. Hair, too. You ask me. I do for you. You see. I de best! Makeup, too."

I turned to Hater standing at the bottom of the steps and used my shoulders to express, "Who knew?" and his shoulders responded, "Not me."

"So you no keep me on dis stage wit deese bad peoples," Nadezhda said, dismissing them with a wicked flick of the wrist, "It be time for dis Empire girl to get busy!"

She pulled up the Master's shirt to expose an outrageous pair of pink panties, swung her derriere around, and stuck it out at the crowd. I wished she could have persuaded the mob with the gravitas of her logic. In defense of her actions all I can say is that she was a free agent in charge of her own sexuality running a trajectory athwart a random and chaotic universe. Emblazoned across the seat of her drawers appeared the word: "Greed".

She shook her juicy behind jangling the spectator's molecules. She danced around the stage not lewdly but in a really cute manner to a music playing in her head only. I don't know what it is about a really beautiful woman who dances with no sense of rhythm. The crowd clapped in unison and cheered when she suddenly waved bye-bye to her adoring audience and headed off stage and towards me. We grabbed hands and headed for the stairs while the crowd was still cheering. Just to ensure we would not be shot down during our mad dash for freedom I waved bye-bye to the Judge. In reply he motioned good riddance.

On our way out the three of us fell behind the cart transporting the corps of Princess Trickledown, among others. I worked my way up beside it and used both hands to swipe a genuine pearl bracelet off her dead wrist. Witnessing my redistribution plan in progress others in the crowd, toothless, palsied, sick, stripped away her ill-gotten blood diamonds.

Before we left town Hater and I dressed Nadezhda in the striped dress uniform trousers. Once they were on she immediately expressed her pleasure over the fancy stripe down the sides. They hugged her curves and wrapped around her thighs beautifully, flaring over her boots. She was so gorgeous in her white ruffled top. I slid the pearls onto her wrist and whispered to her, "This time, real ones."

She kissed me and I kissed her. Then we took turns kissing Hater. Then we either had to stop kissing or strip down and do it in the road. The rattle of gunfire from the firing squad brought us back to our senses. We decided to get a move on instead and leave that troubled city behind. Nobody is ever safe in a revolution. I deplore violence myself.

Chapter 34

On our way out nobody tried to stop us. A group of sullen young men had been pressed into service to guard the Southern gate. We stocked up on tubes of drinking water and loaded more into skins we purchased from a local merchant and we went clothes shopping because I really liked Nadezhda's white silk shirt and felt jealous and wanted one just like it. In a posh shop I found one resembling hers closely enough. We also bought hats and undies and bless his predictable little heart Hater found a white jumpsuit he liked and we filled the voluminous bag with the kind of foodstuffs and canister liquids prudent to bring with you when you're crossing the Deadland.

The road we followed away from the city had fallen into disrepair ages ago. The Powers That Be had decided a long time ago also there was no point in their contributing to the upkeep for an infrastructure they themselves would never use. So we were not too surprised to discover the first bridge we came to had collapsed in the middle. Toxic sludge smothered the wadi underneath. We pulled on our rebreathers, an expedient we hadn't had to utilize in a while. Then we searched up and down the bank for a place where the rust red muck and pitch-black sludge stood less then knee deep. It remained as a real monument to state's rights, this polluted bog.

We returned to the bridge and reconnoitered the area and rusting in the weeds we found one of those old metal signs proclaiming how many more kilometers to the next big city. Working together the three of us dragged the sign to the bank of the open sewer where we intended to give the metal a heave in hopes of creating a foot bridge, and if we'd had three more just like it that plan might have worked. Instead we took a breather, and then we dragged the sign onto the bridge and pitched it down the crevasse to cover the area between where the two ends of the bridge that had collapsed at the center slanted down and disappeared into the muck.

"I don't think you can trust your weight on that thing, if that's what your plan is," Hater said, looking down and evaluating our handiwork.

"We can at least give it a try," I suggested. "Maybe not put your whole weight on it, but test it first, see if it will hold."

"One end is sure to slip into the sewage, or it will buckle in the middle and sink anyway."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"I think we should go down stream, so to speak, farther, and see if there isn't some place to cross. Go farther this time. There must be some point where the sludge thins out. Because that rusty metal isn't going to support your weight, and if it bends or slips into the muck you're not going to be happy with the outcome, and I know you can't broad jump that far." Hater patted my back and rubbed my shoulder a little in an attempt to message me to my senses. "It just wouldn't be safe, Nika. It was a good try, though. It's the wrong answer, but I like your thinking."

Hater had paid me the biggest compliment he knew how to bestow so I knew he was serious and heeded his warnings. We headed west along the bank and about an hour later found a spot where the toxic sludge lay in a thin sheet over a fan of bleached pebbles. At that point we held hands and tip-toed across. Arrived on the other side we spent a few minutes scraping our boots in the dust to clean them. We backtracked to the bridge to ensure we picked up the right road again. We never cut across the desert to save time. We always stayed on the road.

A concern struck me when we arrived at the bridge.

I said to Hater, "You know, if somebody comes along and sees that road sign poised perfectly there like that, they might mistake it for a safe crossing and fall into a kind of booby trap."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we not leave it there like that for some poor wanderer to come along and find and mistake for a safe crossing."

"You're worried about the safety of a hypothetical stranger you will never meet." Hater pondered. I swear, sometimes he was a real conservative.

"I'm going to climb down there and shove one end into the muck so nobody comes along and tries to put their weight on it."

"Be careful," Nadezhda said, grabbing my arm and then shoving me away. She was so weird sometimes. We'd been walking around under the sun all day and I think the heat was wearing her out.

They both followed me onto the bridge and watched as I let myself down onto the slant. My traction held really well. I managed to slide down next to the sign and grab it by the edge and draw it towards me until gravity took over and the far end flopped into the muck. I crawled back up the incline and maneuvered over the snapped part in the road and when I was again standing next to my friends and brushing the specks of asphalt off my reddened palms I said to Hater, "You were definitely right. That slim metal never would have supported anybody's weight."

For the rest of that afternoon we traversed the Deadland. Picking 'em up and putting 'em down. By itself the desert existed as a marvel of nothingness. In the midst of the natural void burned out relics of ancient transport gave the impression an entire civilization had shed its skin like some kind of wounded snake. Bones bleached white. Ruined automobiles, most burned out, rusting at the sun's leisure. The road, built for a thousand-year rain, already cracked and crumbling around the edges. I wouldn't be there when the thousand years were expired. Yet I couldn't wait for the desert to swallow up these artifacts for which it had no use. Out of a sense of decency I kept my late afternoon fatalism to myself.

Before nightfall we moved well off the road so no one could roll up on us unexpectedly in the night, and we made a small encampment between a bunch of gnarly bushes. I'm sorry I don't know the names for things, but I grew up a city girl. What do you call tumbleweed when it still has its roots in the ground? We spread a tarp and our bags on top of that and ate our supper out of tin foil bags. As we lay on our backs we abjured a fire because we didn't need the heat or the light and thus allowing the night to envelop us with the darkness of the known universe and the brilliance of the stars.

In the morning we tried the coffee instapacks we had purchased in the city. The dark liquid turned from scalding your tongue to ice cold without any in between. We drank it anyway for the sake of the caffeine boost. Nadezhda woke up grumpy, and I think all our backs were a little sore from sleeping on the ground, even though we had our pads. We ate the contents of more packets, some green, some blue. The blue stuff wasn't bad. Kind of sweet. My favorite flavor is brown. Don't even talk to me about yellow. It's so disgusting.

We broke camp and packed our gear and headed back to the road and spent the morning trudging over hot asphalt. Around midday the heat became an issue. To prevent sunstroke we wore our brimmed hats. Hater's was an explorer's hat. Nadezhda and I wore straw sunhats with broad, floppy brims whose dark stained color matched what we were wearing in kind of a cool way. It's too bad nobody stood there to see us crossing the desert because we looked really good doing it. Nadezhda was a veritable desert flower.

We ascended the tops of ridges and descended into valleys. Instinctively we refrained from unnecessary speech to conserve energy until nightfall. At night we made love beneath the canopy of the heavens, so that part was nice. Must have been all that fresh air and exercise making us randy.

The day we arrived at the Great Wall we were actually still in pretty good shape. Still plenty of food and water. We turned west along the human barrier. Knowing we would find Rachel in the very next outpost ahead we paused for a few moments to freshen up and prepare ourselves to act respectable.

Chapter 35

As we approached the last outpost on the edge of the known world members of the local militia confronted us. They maintained a permanent road block, taking turns at occupying the post. Two young guys and a middle-aged woman who may have been their mother stepped out from behind sandbags and cradled their shotguns. During the interview the boys looked shyly at us, the ground, and the old broad who did the talking.

Shot Gun Mamma accosted us: "You can stop right there, please."

She spoke with the kind of politeness that only asks one time. "Where all do you think you're going?"

I answered for our side, saying "We're looking for a friend of ours named Rachael Cozy. You wouldn't happen to know where we can find her."

You could tell by her cocky attitude this woman enjoyed being powerful and in charge. She liked the heft of the shotgun, locked and loaded, resting in her arms.

"Maybe I know someone like that, maybe I don't. Question in my mind is whether or not she's expecting company. She don't strike me as the type looking to be found. You all from the gov'ment?" Ain't you people hurt that poor girl enough already?"

"Do we look like we're from the government?"

Her face broadened into a spiteful smile: "You got on trooper pants and boots!"

We all three of us looked down and inspected what Nadezhda and I were wearing.

The two youths took a step forward each and used the moment as a good excuse to run their gazes up and down our frames, blushing in appreciation.

Hater looked down at himself for some reason, and then over at us again. The matron ruffled her feathers and smiled with satisfaction at her own powers of observation.

"We stole these clothes. Well, the pants and boots anyway. We bought the blouses, at this really cute little boutique in the city, and they weren't really that expensive. We shopped around and got a pretty good deal," I said, feeling as though I'd been caught in a lie even though every word I'd spoken had been the truth.

"We bought de' nice jacket, too. Dey in bag, dough, because too hot for leather is," Nadezhda offered.

"How'd you manage to steal trooper gear?" Matron asked, her countenance brightening and her eyes softening at the sound of Nastya's voice. Pretty people really do have it easier.

"Oh, I no steal no gear. Dis one," she said, implicating me, "arrested was, for knowing terrorist well..."

"... well known terrorist."

"Is what I say already. She not terrorist for true, but she cause mischief a lot. Dat one dere, dat boy, he technology genius. Dey two, dey steal clothes, den dey steal me out of slavery. Twice. First time, I not sure I go. Next time, I go cuz I t'ink I like dis dirty hot freedom."

"You all runaway slaves?"

"We are," I said, then I corrected myself. "Not him."

"What's your excuse for living?" She demanded. Being a character is one thing, I thought. Being rude is quite another. But I bit my tongue.

"I'm a tech geek in disgrace," Hater said, repeating the phrase I had used more than once to describe him. I wasn't sure I liked it anymore when I heard him say it about himself.

"Tech Geek?" The Matron readjusted her ample frame as well as her grip on the shotgun she was cradling.

"I like fixing things."

"We already got a handyman."

"Oh, not like heem," Nastya started to say, contradicting the Matron, who with one iron glance shut her down.

I tagged up and leapt into the ring again, "He really is a genius," I said, "but I understand you already have a guy. We're not looking for work. We're really not even looking to stay. Like I said, we're just looking to touch bases with our friend."

"Touch bases? What does that mean?"

"Touch bases? Um... I don't know, actually. I just heard people say it. It means get in touch with them to make sure they're alright."

"She's a runaway slave, too, ain't she?"

I was encouraged by the fact that this woman had completely dropped the pretense of not knowing Rachael.

"Yes, Ma'am," I said. "That she is alright." I didn't mean to mimic the woman's accent, but that kind of thing is infectious sometimes. "Well, that is to say, she was kicked out of the city and made a goner. After that, I don't know what happened to her, exactly."

"She landed here is what happened," Matron said. "They never give her the final push over the fence. Figured she was out of the way enough in this dirt bag outpost." The Matron looked me up and down again. "And you're wearing trooper britches how come?"

"Like Nastya said, I was being held as a political prisoner when a revolution broke out. Rioters broke into the police station and set everybody free and wrecked the place. We went back the next day to salvage some free clothing."

"Don't know nothing about no revolution," said the Matron, taking a step back, as though 'city' was a disease she would rather not catch. "You really a terrorist against the Empire?"

"Not really, no. They threw me into a dungeon so they could get at her. We repaid the favor by stealing her back. There's no love lost between us and the Empire."

"Lucky for you we like runaways better than Empire, cuz we don't Empire at all. Their hand don't reach this far no more." Turning to the boy with brown hair and a spray of freckles across his nose she said, "Eustace, you go along with these folks and help them find Miss Cozy. More 'n likely she's in the saloon this time of day."

Eustace blushed and scowled under the burden of responsibility but never hesitated to do as he was told.

"If'n ya'll come this way, I'll show where the saloon's at," he said, not getting much eye contact. In turn we each thanked Matron as we filed past. A kind of jocularity had come into her eyes concerning us.

"Stay on your toes, Eustace. Christian, you follow along and shoot these strangers if they try anything funny."

Christian blushed too but gripped his rifle with more bravado, and you could see in his eyes how we didn't amount to much more than squirrels in his consideration, whom he would gladly shoot given the right provocation. He fell in step at the rear of our procession and from then on lead from behind.

Our guard and guide marched us down the middle of Main Street. Except for the boarded up windows the buildings looked well preserved. The street itself had reverted to dirt a long time ago. A shop keeper with a broom in his hand wearily swept the desert from encroaching on his door. He stared at us a good long time before returning to his sweeping.

We reached the end of the main drag populated by several saloons. Our guide trotted over and stuck his head into the door of one of them. Not finding her he trotted down to the next saloon, a place called "Trail's End." This time, after searching the clientele, he waved us over toward the entrance.

"I no go," Nadezhda said. "You go see your girlfriend. I wait here."

"You should come along and meet her," I said. "Come be a part of this. We've come so far and been through so much. You can't stop now that we've found her."

"Why I want meet you old girl friend?" She crossed her arms and tears of consternation welled in her eyes.

"Look, it's not like that. That's not why we're here," I protested. "I'm not looking to hook up with her again, at all! You're my lover now, sweet Nastya, you know that, now and forever. But I have this overwhelming feeling like this is really something that I need to do. And I think it would be good for us, for you, to meet her and see who she is, so you're not always battling some ghost for my affection. I think once you meet her you'll see the way things are and realize she's totally over for me, but you've got to come along. I'm partly to blame for her being here, and I have to come to terms with my guilt somehow."

"How do you figure you're to blame?" Hater asked, crossing his incredulous arms.

"I don't know, Hater. I just do. Maybe if I hadn't been so mean to her she wouldn't have run off and gotten herself into this jam. I want to help her out if I can."

"So you tink dis have big life meaning," Nadezhda queried rhetorically.

"I don't believe life has any meaning, other than the one you choose to assign. And you can't rely on people to give your life meaning. I mean, let's face it: I can't stand people. They do nothing but piss me off all the time. I can't stand her, especially," I said, gesturing towards the saloon door.

"Den why we come all dis way!" Nadezhda fairly screamed at me.

"Because it was a gesture I chose, thinking for the time being it would give my life meaning. To test whether or not I had the moral strength to be a good person when there was nothing in it for me, no reward of any kind. Not because I thought ultimately any good might come of it, but because I was going to make the choice, and follow through on it regardless. It sounds stupid when I try to explain."

"And so you dis person talk to her. You make you self feel better. You no care what happen her."

"If I can help her, I will. If I can't, at least I tried, and then our quest will have created meaning."

"How if quest fail it have meaning?"

"Because no one will ever know we tried."

Nadezhda shook her head in dismay. She appealed to Hater, who told her science couldn't help in this situation.

"You crazy. You don do it for her sake. You don do it for youse own sake. You do big grand gesture for nobody and no ting."

"That's about as clear as I can make it. But here's the best part: when it comes to doing the no-thing, there's no one I'd rather do it with than you."

Nadezhda laughed at my absurdity and wiped away her tears. "What about heem?"

"Hater, too, of course. We'll need him to make a baby someday."

"You want baby?"

"Propagation of the species is the only verifiable purpose human beings have for their existence. Everything else is chamber music." Nadezhda hung her head and sniffled, wiped more tears from her eyes. "Come with me while I commit this pointless act of decency. Be there with me, by my side, my one and only girl. I need you. I need you to back me up on this."

"I not go unless Mr. Hater go, too."

"Our one and only guy, absolutely," I said, embracing Nadezhda. "It's not about hooking up with her again. It's about putting it all to rest so we can move on with our lives."

Hater spoke up and said, "Actually, I was thinking about staying out here. I mean, ultimately, it doesn't have anything to do with me. I just came along for the ride... or walk, or whatever."

"Damn it, Hater, not you, too."

Then they both ganged up on me, carding me for being a potty mouth. To which I admitted mea culpa and apologized.

"Listen Nika," Hater said, "she's not an easy person to be around. I didn't come because of her. I came because of you, for us."

"Come on you guys. Come with me, please! I don't want to go in there by myself. I need for you guys to witness the situation so you can tell me afterwards what it all meant. I don't want to face her alone. Besides, I hate going into bars alone. You know how that goes. We'll go in, ask 'how are you?' and 'is there anything we can do to help?' if so, great, if not, fine, and we'll be done. Then the three of us can sit down and figure out what we're going to do next. C'mon now. The pair of you. You don't have to say anything. Just back me up. Now c'mon and stop fooling around," and with that, I took them both by the hand and led them to the saloon door.

"You smart man, Mr. Hater. Dis plan. It make good sense to you?"

"No, not really. I mean, come now, Nika, going back to what you said: how can you postulate the existence of a no-thing?" He avoided my pretend slap at the side of his head (I would never hit another human being in the head, the brain being a very sensitive organ, and Hater's being nothing less than exceptional). "How can you pursue a 'no-thing'? There's no such thing as a nothing. There has to be a something."

"Hater, hold that thought, and follow me."

Chapter 36

Inside the Trail's End we were greeted by four blank walls and a long bar where a herd of buffaloes kept their noses poised above mixed drinks and their backs to us. No matter how horrible the experience, in a room like that you could forget almost anything. The paint would continue peeling with or without your breathalizing.

At one table a pair of old cowboys were staring at their shot glasses. In a corner, at the only other occupied table, sat Rachel Cozy.

Her lineaments were instantly recognizable. The blonde hair and green eyes hadn't changed. On the table in front of her sat a square metal canister bearing the imprimatur of a rainbow and the brand name inscription of Earthly Delights. What changes I could discern in my former friend and lover I surmised were directly attributable to the contents of that can. Her jowls rounder and more pronounced. Breasts less perky, more pendulous. Slattern around the periphery. Essentially, still her.

We made eye contact, and as her countenance brightened I realized the old animosity between us mattered less than the affection binding us, and the confluence of our natures would mix swell and rise again without the clash of egos polluting our past.

"Hey you," I said. "You don't need to get up." And I moved around the table to bend down and exchange hugs.

"There wouldn't be much to gain from me trying to stand up right now," Rachael said. "I'm done with my first can. This is my second. You should join me for a drink. Your friends, too. Hello, Hater. You look fit. You, I don't know."

For a moment I froze, and so did Nadezhda. Having juked her so easily Rachael relented, and in a more friendly tone offered, "Hi, my name's Rachael."

Same woman. Always putting the world on notice. No quarter asked and none given.

"I'll get us some drinks," I said.

"I never say no to a free one," Rachael said, and I could tell by the way she said it she understood Nastya's relationship to me.

The bartender was a burly man with a white beard who was willing to take my order.

"Poor gal," he said. "Good people."

"Salt of the earth," one of the other citizens mumbled.

"Somebody ought to help her out."

I paid for the canister and bowed to the jury seated along the bar who felt the same as I did about the forlorn Rachael Cozy.

Returning to the table I read in an instance how Hater was annoying Rachael with the backstory of our adventures. She stared straight ahead the whole time, never turning her head for eye contact, except her fingers drumming on the table kept time to the rhythm of his speech. Nadezhda managed to appraise Rachael without staring directly at her. Taking her all in. Yet ready to dart away in shyness at the slightest provocation. In turn Rachael understood Nastya. Knew the younger girl was studying her, analyzing. Admiring her. No longer afraid Rachael posed any threat. Upon my return to the table Rachael flinched away from the weight of Nasty's gaze and the deluge of Hater's narrative, holding her hands out to receive the can of Rainbow Juice from me. I set three shot glasses down and Rachael poured. She filled her glass from her own canister. Knowing we weren't likely to kill a whole can even between the three of us she was cagey enough to wait for us to leave it behind and claim it for herself then.

"Here's to old friends," I said, raising my glass.

"I'll drink to that," Rachael said, making sure to click each glass separately. "Then again, these days, I'll drink to just about anything."

Her barroom clichés were not meant to belittle my sentiment. Not entirely, anyway. I couldn't expect her to open up right away. She had always been a guarded character and considering the extent to which she was already fortified, and the shock of our sudden appearance, she was holding up rather well.

We continued to regale her with the highlights of our adventures until in return we gradually coaxed the story of her escape from the zone, her subsequent rise to a place of preeminence on the arm of a ruling Senator, and her eventual arrest, conviction, and banishment to her present lowly circumstances. To hear her tell it Rachael had the whole situation wired for sound from the get go. She didn't find her powerful paramour by limo creeping the way I escaped. Their rendezvous had been arranged by invitation. Her Powersby turned out to be a big fan of her work, had plenty of time to study her various porno performances while at the same time he was working as a member of a special task force investigating the threat pornography posed to the public morals. In his capacity as chairman he had the power to subpoena any materials he deemed necessary for the task, be they photographs, videos, drawings, or rubberized accessories.

After viewing a fair amount of the fair Miss Rachael Cozy immortalized across these various mediums the good Senator decided to get the facts directly from her brightly painted lips. Through total selflessness, an act of noblesse oblige, he decided to spare her the publicity and ignominy a public subpoena would cause. Inviting her instead to a private interview in his penthouse above the smog where over a candle lit dinner he might gently pump her for details about the ins and outs of her professional dreams and aspirations.

Observers might scoff with scorn, but over the course of the interview an affinity began to develop between the two participants. Over the aperitifs Rachael appeared shy, reluctant to talk over her business. After the application of cocktails her tongue proved more pliant. By the time the fish and meat courses had been served with glass after glass of rare fine wine Rachael fed her appetite for luxury and pleasure while only whetting that of the honorable Senator. The desert tray arrived, the servants were dismissed, and the sweet, delectable cakes and creams, washed down with superior brandy, melted the Senator's heart, as Rachael pretended he melted her non-existent modesty and restraint, and she was able to perform upon him the moist delights he longed for with all his being, acts his wife of 29 years would slap his face for suggesting. Rachael made short work of calming the Senator's shuddering urge to procreate, his tightly bound Christian morality converted to boiling lust.

Over the course of the weekend, his nerves smoothed considerably, the Senator's mind cleared, his high blood pressure dropped, and his fitful sleeplessness transformed into a deep and nourishing slumber. His normally taciturn and tight-fisted demeanor also relaxed. The dour twist to his lips unwound, and an actual smile appeared, especially whenever he contemplated Rachael. He was enjoying her particular brand of distraction to such an extent he even missed a vote to levy heavier taxes on widows, orphans, and other poor people, weak and defenseless members of society he usually enjoyed persecuting for their lack of moral integrity.

To secure a steady source of good loving the good Senator arranged for Rachael to move into a luxury apartment of her own, paid for month to month by the man himself. Not exactly above the clouds. Definitely above the squalor. Rachael found herself ensconced in rooms well befitting the concubine of a rich and powerful man. All she had to do was ask and rare, beautiful objects materialized. One might almost be justified in saying they decorated the apartment together, through catalogues, of course, since they couldn't very well be seen together in the shopping district during daylight hours.

Their relationship thrived as a clandestine affair. Rachael accompanied the Senator to the nightclubs and discotheques to which the wives of the rich and powerful were never invited and would never set foot in even if they had been asked. Rachael had no more chance of confronting the Senator's Wife in one of these gilded palaces than the Wife did of encountering Rachael at a state dinner, an arrangement of mutually exclusive social engagements suiting the Senator, perfectly.

It may be true, as the poet averred, the Senator might have loved Rachael truly, if he had not loved power and the semblance of respectability more. The desire for power springs from a desire either to help people or hurt them. Either a chief wishes to lead his people to a higher ground, or subjugate his people into slavery. Ultimately, a king either defends or penetrates the weakest of his people. Between these dichotomies runs the spectrum of history, our leaders, and our lives.

Of the peasants the Senator lorded over, Rachael emerged as the one he most wanted to penetrate. She was a slave to begin with, elevated to a concubine. The Senator never had any intention of freeing her, let along marrying her. Respectability for her lay beyond even his considerable power.

Without a proper education Rachael entered into this predictable mess as though she were the first woman in human history to negotiate for a husband while dangling from a stripper's pole. Not otherwise given over to delusional behavior, her pursuit of a bona fide sugar daddy remained the central self-deception of her life. For all of her harlotry, she maintained the basic decency of her dreams. Against someone as black hearted as a Christian Conservative she never had a chance.

Loving her, leaving his wife, marrying Rachael: within the confines of the make-believe world he had bought and paid for his blatant lies took on a giddy credibility. For a while Rachael flounced to the front door to greet him. She ate the dinners. Drank champagne. In the dark, under the covers, embraced him. In the middle of the day satisfied his perversions. Never understanding her willingness to do so was both her greatest strength and the most obvious disqualifying factor. She might have gone on living this way, supporting herself in this manner, for a decade at least. Becoming pregnant was a desperation play even she didn't believe in, but it was the only path left, even though it was a dead end.

When the sex dried up so did the Senator's interest and attention. He'd been down this road several times before, once even with a family he claimed as his own. He wasn't interested in more of the same. Realizing the error she had made, Rachael sought the services of an abortionist, a midwife, actually, whom The Powers That Be had been running surveillance on for months. Over a cup of chamomile tea she had been counseling Rachael on her options, and by the dictates of her own conscience had to go ahead with the pregnancy for her reasons, when the troopers stormed the back alley apartment and arrested them both for conspiracy to commit abortion.

The midwife they found guilty and burned at the stake for a harlot and a witch. Through quiet behind closed doors intercession of some powerful and highly placed figures Rachael was declared a goner and escaped the death penalty. She was remanded into the custody of the state and sent to an institution run by an order of nuns called the Sisters Sans Merci at St. _____. Located near enough The Wall to give anyone pause, Rachael came to term, delivered her child whom she was never allowed to see, and as soon as the sister's decided she was recovered enough to leave, evicted her from the bed.

The baby the kind sisters remanded to the orphanage. Rachael they turned over to the troopers for expulsion. Discipline among these far-flung troopers of the Empire did not prove equal to the old standards. Rachael bought off these mercenaries with a better deal. In this area the Deadland was crawling with rejects. One more whore on this side or that side of The Wall, who would know or care? They'd made the same deal before and nobody cared. Sex was one of the perks of employment by the Empire.

Chapter 37

Quite a lively group we formed sitting around the table and staring down the straw of reality.

Eventually, Nadezhda stirred and spoke: "Maybe we go talk to sisters. We say we take baby."

Upon hearing these words of kindness Rachael squeezed out a few tears and shook her head. I could tell she was both pleased and annoyed. Rachael never relied on kindness from anyone.

"It might be worth a try," I suggested. "Hater and I could pose as a married couple and try to adopt, and if that doesn't work, we'll bust the little dude out of prison the old-fashioned way."

Rachael laid her head down upon her arms upon the table.

"Yes, we could play the part of perspective parents," Hater offered, "looking to adopt."

We chimed together corroborating what a great idea it was to go reclaim the child.

"It's no use. No use," Rachael muttered. I realized we would have to leave her in the bar while we executed our new quest.

I motioned silently to my companions, and we rose from our seats and filed out of the saloon.

On the sidewalk our guide still stood there leaning against the wall. With effortless patience he had been contemplating the day and accepting everything as he found it. Perhaps because he had never known anything different. Nothing fresh or new. Dilapidation only.

We asked for directions to the orphanage and without hesitation he chopped at the air indicating that way, his broad, flat, calloused hand pointed out of town.

"You can't miss it. It's straight that a' way. A bunch a' buildings on the main road. Maybe two, three mile outta' town, at the most."

Daunted by the bleak horizon we didn't move at once but stood there considering the distance. Blinking in the bright sunlight I thanked him, and again he silently indicated the direction of the path we had chosen. My will unstuck my feet, and we headed out of town.

In the distance the sand appeared brown; up close, under my feet, it appeared almost pure white. Scrub and cactus hoarded water in secret abeyance. My friends and I shared the contents of a metallic water canister we passed back and forth between us. Along the way we formulated our plan for stealing Rachael's baby out of captivity. I would play the wife and Hater would pose as husband and Nadezhda would be my virginal sister. To locate our specific baby about all we could do was be very specific about the age in months expressed as our preference. No doubt we possessed more information than we could safely reveal, yet identifying the correct kid was crucial.

The cross atop the church rose out of the Deadland and floated in midair. The mirage evaporated and the structure propping up the cross appeared. Avoiding the sanctuary we investigated the other buildings first as looking more promising. We found the nursery and plodded up the concrete steps in front of the adobe building and clasped the bronze door handle and squeezed and pulled the door ajar and I led the way myself.

Standing on the checkered parquet floor in the hot, stuffy indoor air we were immediately confronted by three nurses dressed in full habit. I felt as though we had intruded upon a spell of quiet meditation.

"Hello. I'm sorry to disturb you." I said, "but my husband and I are looking to adopt a child. And so we've come here for that purpose."

The eldest nun glared at me without speaking. The middle aged nun averted her gaze and began fiddling with her rosary. The youngest nun gazed with eyes tired beyond prayer. Finally, the eldest spoke:

"They'll be no more adoptions from this place. You're too late."

"We can come back tomorrow," I countered, "or any time convenient for you."

The old nun bristled with impatience, as though she were exerting every ounce of self-control in the face of my apparent impudence. Uncomprehending, I passed over the middle gal as unpromising and turned my appeal to the youngest nun.

"You don't understand," she said. "They cut our funding. The Senators voted to cut us out of the budget. They passed a law. No more milk for indigent babies. No more feeding bastard children. Rugged individualism is the law of the land now. How can a baby be rugged? I don't understand. We prayed to God for guidance, but he finds us unworthy, and our prayers have gone unanswered. He remains silent."

"Nobody's answering you because nobody's there, you fool. You're talking to yourself, alone and in the dark."

While the sister resumed her brainless pontificating, I spun away and stalked deeper into the ward by crashing the panic bars and shoving aside those brass-handled doors. I heard the shouts of the nuns behind me and the clip clop of their cobbled shoes echoing on the stone floor and my startled friends calling after me to wait for them as I strode forward to the end of the line where I stood surrounded by a nursery full of bassinet babies their silent mouths gaping and marbled eyes gazing blindly at futurity.

