I HATE it when he smiles, as if we share a secret. As if, when he puts his hands on me, we’ll both think it’s fun.
His body’s squat, genetically designed for the tidal forces near the singularity’s rim. I could never take him on. There’s enough muscle in those shoulders to subdue me if I struggle. Enough power to bludgeon me to death.
“We’re pleased to have you aboard, Major Holloway. Our ETA for Tennyson is eleven days, seven hours, RES time. My name is Lawson, and I’ll be your steward.”
I hate that he knows my name. I resent him giving me his. Lawson My Steward has a voice that could be used as a lubricant. Or an emetic.
Planning escape routes is habit. I look for possibilities now. To my right rows of bubbles sit open, the nude men waiting in them like passengers on the half shell. Down the long row to my left the bubbles are closed and pearly with emollient.
“We’re ready for the mask,” Lawson says. “Hold your breath for a count of twenty. If the airway fails to open, let me know.”
In one swift move, he smothers me.
“Just relax.”
Blind, cold panic. I try to tear off the mask. Lawson looks astonished. He seizes my wrists. Must have never imagined that I’d fight him.
“It’s all right. I’m here. I’m right here.” His tone is soothing. His grip hurts. “Come on. You’ve been through this before.”
They must have given him my dossier. The government is clever like that. A policeman, Lawson’s thinking. Why isn’t he more professional? Eight trips. Why isn’t he used to this?
Never been so afraid. But I can’t help it. This time something’s wrong.
I forgot to count. That’s what it is. How many seconds has it been? More than twenty. Has to be more than twenty.
Twin pops in my frontal sinuses. A welcome rush of air. Ashamed now, I go limp. Lawson’s fingers have left red cuffs on my wrists. Tomorrow they’ll be bruises.
“We’re ready for the tube, Major Holloway.”
He’s no longer smiling. The urinary tube’s in his hand.
I turn my head away to let him know that I won’t resist. Lawson rolls the condom over my penis. The Smart Plastic is hot, its grip tight. I dig my fingernails into my palm. Count backwards from one hundred. Think of the victims on Tennyson. Nothing helps.
Lawson says quietly, “It’s all right, Major. I see it all the time. Erections happen sometimes with tubal coupling. The sedation will take effect in a minute or two and it’ll all be over.”
I look around to see if anyone’s watching. The other passengers stare straight ahead, blank-faced, made self-absorbed by fear.
Lawson’s so quick that I don’t see him do it. The whoosh of the closing bubble catches me utterly by surprise. The world fogs. Trapped. Something thick, warm, and wet spills over my ankles. The emollient.
Damn it! Wait!
Lawson didn’t warn me it was coming. Didn’t want a scene. I thrash. My back spasms from hip to shoulder blade so painfully it feels like I’ve been shot.
I batter my fists against the walls of the bubble. Loud, so the other stewards can hear. They’ll get me out. They’ll realize I’m still awake. They’ll get me out.
No, I’ll drown—Pale bloated corpse. Bruises on knuckles like defensive wounds.
No! Please!
The screaming in my brain lowers to a whisper.
Please.
My eyelids twitch.
In the closet-sized kitchen of our apartment, Lila turns. Her smile is dying. Dying.
“Tell me about the murders, Dyle.”
I don’t know if she means the victims on Tennyson or if she’s talking about another case. The acts of violence, a lifetime career of them, run together like thick red ink on a bone-white page.
I try to touch her, but my arm is tired from eighteen months of reaching.
“The murders are horrible,” I tell her, and then I wonder if I’ve misspoken and my clumsy mind, my clumsy mouth have said, “Your murder was horrible.” I must not have, though, because her smile doesn’t change.
Something thick, warm, and wet licks at my chin. When it reaches my lips I’m afraid it will taste of salt and tarnished metal. And suddenly there I am, standing in the narrow corridors of M-4 SubLevel T Chicago, not far from home. Everything here is silent.
The floor is striped with the dot-dash-dot reflection from ceiling light tiles. At the end of the hall, where the tiles have failed, something patient waits in a pool of shadow.
Darkness pulls me. I bolt, but it tugs at my back. If I turn I’ll see shadows at my heels. I run, trapped like a lab rat among the maze of tight corridors and the blink-blink-blink of the lights.