Sailor on the Sea of Tranquility

Mike O’Driscoll

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

BOUNTY

So he made the call and all it cost was two dead kids. And could he live with that? Some people he knew were offering encouragement. They were there with him in the booth, listening while he made the call.

“Gerald Harper-Jones,” Danny said into the mouthpiece. “The Minister for Redevelopment. The big name is Norman P. Logrum of BioHavoc Teknik. His techs have developed their own monoclonals. Logrum’s also major shareholder in Capital Network, and,” he put his hand over his mouth and coughed violently, doubling over in the booth as his body weathered the viral storm. Just a little more, then it would be over.

“So, with his own MCA programme,” he continued, “Logrum has all the angles covered. He can offer his business associates the whole hospitality trip, but unlike the competition, he can guarantee 100% protection. Harper-Jones passes zoning laws giving Logrum first option to exploit an area. Guy called Roger Conapse does the field-work. I’d guess there’s Ministry of Media involvement in this, check Capital Network’s franchise. That’s it, ‘cept there’s two dead kids in there, no way to avoid it. Now get the R Squad here, fast. I’m across the road in a booth. Ten minutes? Fine.” He hung up, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction.

Now he was in pain and afraid. It’s okay, MeatHawk said, you think they’re gonna abandon their very best boy? SugarCube and BarrowBoy agreed but their presence did nothing to reassure him. He felt alienated, unable to trust them.

And still no sign of the R Squad, which meant he had to think about what sort of man he was. He didn’t want to. It hurt to think, thinking about the killings. And was it worth it? The others grumbled, said fuck guilt and introspection. But what did they know about it? He was the one who was there, the one who could’ve saved them, if it hadn’t been for duty. Was duty all there was? Yeah, BarrowBoy says, but Danny ignored the jibe,

MeatHawk nudged him, pointing up the road where a silver vehicle had turned into Brewer Street. The R Squad. Fear gushed out of him. He collapsed on the floor of the booth. The crew made no effort to help. Then the RS were all over him, easing him on to a stretcher, inserting needles in his veins, quietly, efficiently going about the business of saving him once more.

He felt excruciating pain, and behind it, the anticipatory bliss of detoxification. He should stay conscious but that meant extending thought. And they knew what he was thinking, because they were still part of him; the metastasis was not complete. He was thinking of the kids and, of Duty. No such guilt touched MeatHawk, no regret.

HALCYON DAZE

Even as a child, Danny Butcher knew he was going to be an astronaut. Neither his parents nor his teachers took the matter seriously. The European Space Agency intake was low; NASA was bankrupt and the Soviets were not far behind. Only the Sino-Indian programme seemed viable and that was limited to putting satellites in orbit. Despite its low-profile, Danny still associated with Space, all the glamour of the Apollo expeditions and the Russian Volstock programme which had culminated with the Mars landing.

It was hard for him to stay earthbound.

“You’re wasting my time again, Butcher,” Mr Osborne, his French teacher, said. “I don’t think I want you in my class anymore.”

This pleased Danny; he didn’t particularly want to be there. What use was French on the moon? Parlez-vous Lunerais? His parents failed to grasp the strength of his vision. His mother insisted that he aim for Law or Medicine, while his father, on those rare occasions when he talked to Danny, laughed at this, telling him he should get a job in the media, if fame and glamour were what he was after.

He tried so hard to make them understand, but now he had made his own decision. He would start with Mr Osborne. He gathered his books and left the classroom. From now on, he would tell them nothing. If he remained fit, got good grades in physics and engineering, he stood a chance of getting into the European Programme. But he had to be patient.

He went to the gym to practice free-fall on the ropes.

SANCTUARY (i): CURED MEAT

Beyond the bars a gibbous moon hung, silver and cold with quiet portent. His flesh tingled as he watched it, his fists clenching the bars. He wondered why they were taking so long and why this place seemed so unfamiliar. The bloated, sulphurous disc was the only fixed, recognizable point in his universe. He caressed his cheeks, his neck, feeling the sharp, prickly hairs, satisfying himself that he was still human.

Were they blaming him? If they just let him explain, he knew they would understand. They would classify it as an acceptable risk. Rooting out the core of truth demanded risks. There were no such things as innocent bystanders, only those who lived and those who died.

Glancing downwards, he saw the city’s spires and towers, its glittering neon, an alien sight. Its proximity oppressed him. He wished he was higher up, closer to the moon.

There was a problem. He was unable to connect with all its intricacies, but it had to do with detoxification. Where was the magic bullet man? They couldn’t expect him to give a full report first. Procedure said debriefing came after detox, it was written into his contract.

His isolation intensified as he became aware of the absence of MeatHawk and the crew. Had they abandoned him? He subverted his fear by recalling Neil, Buzz, Yuri and all the other spacemen; those were the best memories, they were all that remained of the dream. Somewhere below his knees, he sensed the beginnings of a new, more savage pain. It didn’t scare him, not really.

“Hey Butcher!” a voice called from beyond the door. It was familiar and brutal.

“Hey Butcher!” it came again, intruding on his memories. With an effort of will, he managed to shut it out completely. Nobody listened. Sometimes they never listened at all. But he told them anyway.

THE DEAD

When his father died, Danny did not go to the funeral. Even when the truth about the old man surfaced like scum on a pond - all those years of lies, whores, hypocrisy and the virus-ridden body - he could still not find it within himself to go home. He remembered with bitterness his father’s refusal to fund his first year at the Stuttgart College of Astronautics. Even then, he’d clung to his ambition. He’d done a year at Law School, working nights as a V Special. It was his first job and the money he put aside got him through one year in Stuttgart.

Before the start of his second year, he got a form letter from ESA announcing the suspension of all training programmes. They expressed regret. He did another year at law school, the ashes of his dream lying dormant inside him, like a disease.

When the Sino-Indian agency announced a moratorium on their European intake, Danny’s despair had given way to guilt. He saw that he had isolated himself from the real world. He received a letter from an uncle. His mother was dying. He reconciled with her before his father’s disease sucked away the last dregs of her beauty and her life. He watched her die and unknown to himself, his priorities went through a process of realignment. He found he no longer wanted to be a spaceman. It was no longer enough.

SEER

Danny quit law school at the end of his second year and signed up for the police force. His eighteen months as a V Special meant he got exemptions and was through basic in less than two months. After two years as a regular, he felt he was ready for something more.

When Danny infiltrated the Islington Kid-ring and came out with names, the Media got hold of the story and made him a hero. He used it to his advantage and got the transfer he’d been requesting - to the Department of Special Police, or, as they were known, the Department sans Portfolio.

After three months, he was considered at best an oddball, at worst a sicko. He ignored the jibes; he did the job better than anybody else.

In the locker room, Danny was meeting his team.

“Word is, Butcher,” a female cop called Rusoe said, “you’re hot for guys.”

“Officer Butcher,” Spengler, a black agent said, “he’ll fuck anything in the line of duty.”

They laughed. Danny ignored them. Nothing they said could phase him. To them, this was only a job. They planned strategy according to the latest statistics. Prostitution, porn, rape - all were static. But he saw through the graphs; he sensed the approach of a new enemy, a new corruption. He knew that fresh guidelines, an original strategy, would have to be laid down for the coming war. They would create a new force. Soon, others would see what was coming, then they would act.

Out on the streets, the new diseases were already tightening their grip. Child AIDS cases were increasing by 100% per annum and HSV 3 was becoming HSV 4. They were in a constant state of mutation, which meant the police and medical authorities would have to mutate right along with them. Danny Butcher would be there, waiting.

They left the station. It was their first assignment together. Danny wondered whether Rusoe and Spengler would make the cut.

SANCTUARY (ii): TRANQUILITY

His confusion was caused by an inability to differentiate between SugarCube and Danny, between syphilitic reality and deprogramming. Under or not? He didn’t feel straight, he hadn’t seen SugarCube come in, nor Danny go. He shivered violently; the air vibrating against him, an unfamiliar pain.

He tried to call out for help, but all that escaped his lips was, “Wad… wuh… wuh … wuh…” No real words.

Some part of him had been through this before, but not the part that was Danny. Was that why he’d gone? Were they witholding antibodies, or had he ODed on cytotoxins? That was always a risk especially with a totally alien antigen. But this was not his antigen, not his pain. If it scares you, he told himself, give it up. He was scared but this was duty: purification was only one small part of it, no greater than any of the other risks.

His limbs hummed in communion with the moon, as if they shared with it a secret understanding. SugarCube sat, staring at him from the corner.

LADDERS

The Kronstadt Sperm Bank snatch was a big break for Danny. Prime quality genetic material, guaranteed viral-free, donated by the political and social elite, the rip-off caused a senior Network executive’s wife (as yet, childless), to have a heart attack and the financial ruin of a little known, but extremely profitable holding company. The ransom, when it arrived, was enormous.

There was the question of ownership. Who was the ransom demand aimed at? Finally, after three days, Danny persuaded a leading geneticist to admit publicly to being one of the donors. He was speaking up because, he said, this heinous crime posed a threat to the future genetic wealth of the nation. And because the Kronstadt Sperm Bank provided over 60% of his research funds.

Following this act of public-spiritedness, other donors came forward, and between their admissions and Network interest, the story went out prime time.

Danny, along with Rusoe and Spengler, probed deeper.

At a state brothel down in Funville, Rusoe used her charm on an intern who worked at the New Central Hospital. He’d heard rumours about some organ runner breaking into the big time as a result of his latest move.

Danny followed the rumours to source, a skin man operating out of Harley Street. The surgeon said he didn’t know who had the stuff, but he knew the prospective purchasers. They were a left-wing brains trust linked with numerous insurgent groups throughout the region. They had instigated the snatch but the middle man had double-crossed them. If the bank came up with a better offer, the stuff was theirs.

In forty-eight hours, Danny had infiltrated the group via a Hampstead bordello. They saw the snatch as an insurance policy that guaranteed their success into the next generation.

Under DSP instructions, Kronstadf s refused to pay the ransom. Danny was there at the brothel as Angel, when Angel was only a name. He took delivery of the stuff and called in the team. It was his first deep infiltration and he came out of it with only a mild dose of gonorrhoea, and a big name.

Half the batch was destroyed in the operation, but of course Kronstadf s were insured. DSP got a fat cheque from a Network for exclusive coverage of the raid. Ratings were high, and Danny was a star. He received a commendation from the Chief of Police.

Then someone tried to take him out while he was working on a rogue AIDS case. Two bullets passed through his body but failed to connect with anything vital. When he recovered, his superiors told him about the new drug the techs had developed, a synthetic derivative of psilocybin. It was an undercover aid, they said. From now on, when he went deep, he would be more than a name, he would be someone else, someone untraceable.

SNAKES

Danny was working bait along with Rusoe and Keno, an eager young cop recently recruited from vice. Spengler was dead. AIDS. They were working on that side of things. They were working fast; Danny and Rusoe were both production lines for HIV 7.

“This new department everyone’s talking about,” Keno said as their unmarked Ford turned off Palladin Avenue and headed west along Shaftsbury Avenue. “What sort of brief they considering?”

Behind the wheel, Rusoe threw him a contemptuous glance and said,” What’re you concerning yourself with that for? We have a job to do now, concentrate on that.”

“Whadda you say, Butcher?” Keno said, glancing at Danny in the back.

“I say listen to Rusoe if you want to stay alive,” Danny said. “She knows more than you.”

So Keno shut his mouth and listened to Rusoe, only he didn’t listen hard enough. They sent him in as a client to the ‘Northern Lights’ - a gay bordello with a sideline in underage continentals - and when Danny, as MeatHawk, got inside three days later, he found what was left of Officer Keno in the basement, stuffed in a vat of beerslops.

MeatHawk, like a method actor, became what he appeared to be. Rusoe was his connection to reality - waiting for the call. Everybody sucked up to MeatHawk, wanting a piece of him, like he was next year’s thing come six months early. To see him operate was to appreciate his technique. There was no artifice; he became a master of masochism, which was rare in the days of the disease.

After three nights the grapevine was buzzing with word of his head, but that was for the amateurs. The real connoisseurs wanted something more and knew he’d give it. They paid top money to see him cut into himself, to take them on three or more at a time. When he came, he came; when he bled, it was real blood.

For a week Rusoe heard nothing, no word at all. Danny might have been dead, she had no way of knowing. The contact was one way only. Danny’s method was trust. Get that, 100%. Prove to them he was who he said he was, no matter what it took. Then they d give what he needed. When he had that, he’d fade quietly from the scene and make the call. Rusoe would extract him before the raid and get him to the lab. This time, when she got him out, he was dying and they both knew it. The medtechs subjected him to a new treatment, using experimental monoclonal antibodies. It was the only thing that could have saved him.

When the announcement came through on Network Direct, Danny was being purified. MeatHawk was gone and his body was being cleansed of all its viral demons. This time, they did not mention Danny’s name, just the collars: the President of a hotel chain and two judges from the inner zone circuit.

When Danny came out of the coma after three weeks, the new department had come into existence. It was called the Health Force and its brief was high-level corruption and disease. Danny was number one agent. When a Scotland Yard detective christened them the Fuck Squad as an insult, he started using it himself and pretty soon it stuck

SANCTUARY (iii): THE WILD COLONIAL

What shit was in his veins that made the moonlight sear his eyes? Had he fucked up after all?

He closed them and stumbled from the window, white-hot needle pains firing up his legs, each step taking forever. When he reached the bunk, he collapsed in tears. He was so weary, so unimaginably weak

What was wrong with him? The not knowing fed his terror. He had to open his eyes, if only to strangle it and reorient his mind. His eyelids flickered but the light still burned.

He had to know exactly what was inside him, he decided, as he chewed frenetically at his lips. He ignored the blood dripping on to his white shirt, wondering for a second where Danny and the rest were. Then he unzipped his pants, pulled them down and examined his genitals. The suppurating ulcers on his penis told him all he needed to know. He lifted his shirt and examined the blisters that pockmarked his stomach. His heart thrummed to the tune of the damned.

He calmed himself with an old mantra BarrowBoy had taught him. An MCA-8 or 9 would eradicate them and his body would purify itself once more. He had to have patience. Danny wouldn’t let him down. Danny was a big man on the force.

And what about this Logrum bust? They might even make Danny Commander. He thought about this, then dismissed it. Where was the attraction? Why make the Commander? Arctor was too old, too gone to flab.

He saw then, that the others had finally come home. Except Angel. He still mourned him, even after all this time; he’d been the first. It was that woman’s fault, the perp. He didn’t remember her name. It didn’t matter what she was, they were all only receptacles, fermentation vats for the new diseases. He would wipe them all out.

The metastases, SugarCube and BarrowBoy beneath the window, leered at the moon, scented blood on the wind; only the parent cell was absent. MeatHawk lurched to the door and pounded on it. What about all those perps he’d sent down? Their faces came back rats bleating threats, mentioning his superiors by name and talking in undertones about loss of pension and revocation of viral-status. Had they really thought they could get to him that way? He was fucking incorruptible - had no one told them?

He was savage with disease yet knew it was so much wasted tissue to be blown away at the next touch of the needle. But didn’t they have it in their blood too? Yes, but they had their own detox programmes now. He squared up to the pain and felt relieved when he remembered the Logrum job. Somewhere beneath the crippling torment, there was pride.

He went back to the window and gripped the bars, trying to stare down the moon. It didn’t move - it just hung paralysed in the sky, defying him. He trembled as sweat trickled into his eyes. Space seemed to be shrinking.

The knots in his stomach tightened abruptly. He wanted to lie down but it hurt. He sprawled to the floor, writhing, and heaved fist-sized clots of dark blood up on to the pristine surface. He felt a crushing sense of guilt and wondered if they’d understand. Throughout the room, the ulceration of the distant colonies continued unabated.

INAMORATA

“But do you love me, Angel?” Juno wanted to know. Her voice was more than a plea - it cut into his endocarditic heart, made him want to weep.

If he had been Angel, he could’ve understood, but he was Danny now, a cop who hated corruption and disease, wherever they manifested themselves. Angel could love, even MeatHawk could love, but not Officer Butcher. He was already regretting coming up for Juno. She was riddled.

“Jesus Angel, I really need to know,” she said, crying bitter tears on the sofa in her apartment. The room was small and windowless and stank of dirt and whiskey.

He looked at her, recalling who he was, and why. And what did she mean to him? And realised the truth that she wasn’t his girl anyway. She was Angel’s and he was submerged and unreachable for… a little while?

She was oriental and her scent was a mystery. So strange she might be from some other planet or moon. One he had walked on? Her pale skin had a translucent quality, a purity that illuminated her, giving her more life than she really had. It roused his suspicion. He leaned across the sofa, close up to her and let his eyes pierce her flesh and was intoxicated with her potential, but only for a second because when the drunken mist cleared he saw the slimy carcinoma creeping through her, decalcifying her bones.

And felt it inside himself, gorging. He was saddened, but it didn’t matter.

“So?” she pleaded, planting urgent kisses on his sunken cheeks.

“In a way,” he said, “I suppose I do.” She lay on his lap and he cradled her in his arms where she cried with blissful pain. When an hour had passed and she was calm, he left the apartment and called her name and viral-status through to base.

He never mentioned that he’d broken cover so when they deprogrammed him, he took a monoclonal dose designed for Angel - who had been the one who loved, really loved Juno.

It was Danny’s only encounter with love. Recovering after Detox, he decided to leave it to MeatHawk, Angel and the rest. Only the dose did something to him, something bad and afterwards, he could never be Angel again. The accusation in Angel’s eyes was more than he could bear.

Juno’s post-mortem revealed that they could have saved her. Chronic salpingitis with complications and antigens for hepatitis B. Small fry, an unregistered whore working outside the system. No upline connections as he had suspected, a loner. Yet the memory of her was strong and painful and would take some suppressing.

He succeeded, but the loss of Angel stayed with him.

SANCTUARY (iv): SPACE

The world was closing in on him. Someone had turned out the lights. On the bunk the four whoresons of the apocalypse took turns with Juno. Beneath the window, he foamed with impotent rage, watching, helpless, infected with their evil. It had never been this bad before. He tore his eyes from the bunk, afraid, yet drawn to the madness. It would never do to succumb. He knew, knew for certain, that this was nothing more than a pre-detox hallucination.

But that didn’t help; the pain was still present.

He wished Danny was too, but there was so little room in the over-crowded universe.

DESSERT

“You’ve done a splendid job, Butcher,” the Health Force Chief declared.

Danny said nothing, just sat waiting for the real purpose of the meeting.

“And now I want you to take a break,” the Chief said, glancing at the papers on his desk, avoiding Danny’s eyes.

“Break?” said Danny.

“According to your file you’ve taken eight days in two years.”

“Commander Arctor has said nothing to me. I don’t need leave at present.”

“You’re not a superman, Butcher, you’re a cop.”

“I want to finish this case I’m working on.”

“Oh come on Butcher, that’s as good as wrapped up according to Arctor. Leave the loose ends to us. “

“I started the case, I want to call it in,” Danny said, rising.

“Sit down, Officer Butcher, we’re not finished,” the Chief said. He waited till Danny sat down, then went on. “Look son, you’re one of our best agents, we need you healthy.”

“Bullshit. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on. I been treading on DSP toes or something? Vice think they’d like a collar for a change? This fucking departmental politics has got nothing to do with me. I have to finish it, I gotta get the names.”

“Who’s working deep?”

“MeatHawk”

“Again? Look Butcher. You’re going to burn yourself out, you’ll erupt. You’re becoming obsessive. We want dedication, not suicide.”

“Someone at Central HQ is pissed off about the direction this one is headed? Is that it, Chief?”

“Don’t make stupid speculations, Butcher.”

“Then why do you want me off this case?”

“Fred Arctor wants you on it, but I won’t needlessly waste your life. I’ve examined your medical reports. Sixteen different MC As this year already. You’re producing antibodies for gonococcus, prostatitis, spirochaeta pallida, hepatitis B, HSV 2 and HIV 1 through to 17. You’re a biochemical production unit. We need to pull you off field status and see how this is affecting your operational capability.”

“We both know that if I’m pulled off this, the big fish will swim. And the collar is worthless without them. Put someone else in and you’ll fuck the whole thing up.”

“Okay Butcher, I’m tired of arguing with you,” the Chief said as he stood up. “I tried to tell you.”

“Sure you did,” Danny said, walking to the door.

“Finish it then, Butcher.”

“I always do, you know that.”

SANCTUARY (v): JUNK

MeatHawk howled at the lonesome moon that waited patiently for the lycanthropic metamorphosis. The blood in his veins followed a lunar flux that washed up on shores of pain.

He watched, sensing he could not afford to miss a single thing; none of those he’d ever been would slip through without his knowing. He went over those names he could still recall, counting them on brittle fingers, wondering if he’d ever been Lon Chaney. Somewhere in the city of the past, there was a place that housed all the ones he’d ever been; all the diseases, the parasites and viruses. Everyone of them.

Still no trace of Danny. Perhaps he was hurting somewhere? The pain after all, was simply intolerable. He deserved better, they all did; Christ, hadn’t he called in the names?

Sudden light penetrated his cornea; a pure, uncut, white light that seared his retina. And then voices.

“Med … med … med … sin?” he said.

SAILOR

Warm mist gusted over silk dampening MeatHawk’s naked thigh. A tall man crawled out of the haze towards him, his eyes wet with need.

“It’s best to leave them afterwards,” the man said.

“I understand, Gerald,” MeatHawk said without regret.

A third man sat near the two bodies, cradling a lifeless head, caressing the cooling flesh while his own body tremored with pleasure’s remnants. He turned to the other two and said, “Some more?”

“Not for me,” MeatHawk said, smiling as he felt Gerald’s fingers stroke his scaly back. His eyes shone with desire; his mottled flesh was the texture of boiling marble. “I’m sated.”

“My wife told me some of the things you did for her,” Gerald said. “She said you had a stunning technical repertoire.”

“Oh he has,” the third man said, leaving the young corpses and sliding over the silk cushions towards his companions. “But you see,” he went on, “Meat is a rare treasure. Meat is decay personified, slow, elongated death. One can truly savour the performance. Not that we want him to go just yet, of course.”

“Indubitably, Roger, indubitably,” Gerald said.

MeatHawk shut out their words. Compassion bled from him, a cold, useless compassion - his participation had been necessary. He had the names now, yet there remained the closing moves.

“No problem there,” Roger was saying as he drew vapour from a crystal pipe, deep into his lungs. For awhile, he said nothing. Then, as the high receded, he said, “An arrangement exists.”

“Yes?” Gerry asked.

“We import from the north, utilising government approved rigs. Inexhaustible source. Makes economic sense for our contacts there and helps alleviate the food shortage problems they’re always having. What kind of life is it for kids up there anyway? Poverty, disease, starvation? At least here, some of them have the chance to graduate, to become someone like our boy here.”

“Good old Meat,” Gerry laughed, slapping Meathawk on the shoulders. “You’re simply the creme de la creme.”

“Not everyone ends up like our two little poppets over there,” Roger said.

“And the anti-virals?” Gerry said.

“Norman’s R&D people report one hundred per cent efficacy.”

“And Meat?” Gerry said, his gaze sweeping over the quiescent MeatHawk

“Oh, he’s beyond all that. He transcends the need for rehabilitation, hahahaha.”

MeatHawk smiled as the mists swirled about them.

SANCTUARY (vi): BEACHED

He was a dry and empty husk with nothing left to bring up. Except the disease.

“Come on Butcher, easy now.” Voices whispering in his ear, hands gripping him, adding to the torment. Opening his eyes he discovered blindness. He panicked. The virus was accelerating, mutating too fast.

“Take it fucking easy,” a second voice said. “God, he bloody stinks.”

“Liver’s most likely gone,” the first man said.

“Did we get them?” MeatHawk asked the unseen figures.

“Course we did, Danny,” a third voice, Commander Arctor, said. MeatHawk relaxed.

“Put him on the bunk” Arctor said, then to MeatHawk: “We made a clean sweep Danny, all loose ends being wrapped up right at this moment.”

“If I don’t get outta here soon, I think I’m gonna puke,” the second man said.

“Shut up,” Arctor snapped. “We’re starring treatment now Danny. There wasn’t time to get you back to Detox ward, so we’ll do it here.”

Here? MeatHawk didn’t understand. Why had they taken so long if there was so little time? Or did time pass more slowly for him than it did for them? Where were Danny and Angel, BarrowBoy and SugarCube? “Tell me what the moon says?” he whispered, pointing to where he thought it should be.

“What’s he on about now,” the first man moaned.

Should he be Danny? He didn’t know. He wanted to close his eyes but he was afraid of the dark, afraid Danny had abandoned him.

“Right,” Arctor said. “Relax now Danny, you won’t feel a thing.” A needle slid neatly into one of MeatHawk’s still-functioning veins and a stream of immuno-suppressant flowed into his blood. He marvelled silently at the Commander’s deft touch. So expert, so caring, he could’ve been a medtech.

“Good,” MeatHawk muttered as pain receded.

“Bye bye Danny,” Arctor said.

“Sweet dreams,” the first man said.

“Thank fuck” the second man said. “He’s just shit himself.”

He was alone. He saw things clearly.

He stood up and walked with huge, ungainly steps to the window, lunar driven. He felt the drug inside his veins, but his euphoria was muted. Even so, he was acutely aware of the strange things it was doing to his body. He detected the subtle changes in his physiological functions, even the automatic ones.

A spike of pain shot through him, forced him rigid and snapped his teeth shut, severing part of his tongue, the part that had been trying to put some moisture on his cracked lips. He swallowed it instinctively and experienced the exquisite pleasure that comes with the slowing of the blood’s flow. He wished Danny and the others were around to share the feeling. He missed them.

And stilled missed them when the flow ceased.

“Come back,” MeatHawk said.

In an outer colony, Danny hid, afraid of the pain.#

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