Landau took Cazie’s place against the wall. Cazie flopped down in the mud on her belly and used her inhaler. Jackson watched the green-eyed redhead select a knife, with much dramatic deliberation, and hurl it at Landau’s genitals. It hit and bounced off into the mud.
“Uuummmmmmmm,” Landau said. “Nice.”
Cazie said, “You know you can’t feel it through your shield, Landau. Irina, three points.” She lifted the inhaler again. Her eyes were shiny.
Irina threw a second knife. It missed.
“Oh, don’t hiccup now,” Landau said. “Hit me, lover.”
She did. The third knife struck right above Landau’s erect cock. Everyone laughed and cheered. “Six points!” Terry called. “Irina, what do you choose?”
Irina gazed, smiling, at Landau. He looked back expectantly. Jackson felt the subtle shift in the room: a different kind of tension, tauter and hotter.
Irina said, “I choose to take the knife myself.”
Landau looked disappointed. But there was something else in the disappointment, Jackson thought, something incongruous. Relief? He looked again at the stand of knives, encased in their shimmering shields. Why shields?
“Wait,” Cazie said. “Don’t choose yet, Irina. Terry, help me, you slug.”
Cazie and Terry gathered the six thrown knives from the mud. As they squished through the thick sludge, Terry smeared a quick, proprietary glob across Cazie’s back. Suddenly Jackson knew that Terry had already had sex with Cazie, earlier. As part of the general mud-rolling foreplay to the knife game. Jackson’s chest constricted and burned.
“Okay, that’s all of them,” Terry said. “Irina, choose.”
Twelve knives, six gleaming and six muddy, stood phallic in their stand. Irina knelt before them in the mud, lips pursed, drawing out her moment of choice. The others watched, mud frosting their beautiful genemod bodies, faces keen and hot-eyed. Landau rubbed his fingers across his clavicle. One of the women caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
“This one,” Irina said.
She drew a clean knife, its hilt carved with a crude mammoth head. Irina’s thumb did something to the hilt. The shimmer of Y-shield disappeared.
“Pleasure or pain, pain or pleasure,” Landau chanted softly. “Pleasure or pain…”
Irina smiled at each face in turn. Then she drew the knife across the soft, mud-smeared flesh of her upper arm. Blood spurted out. A woman winced. Landau bared his teeth.
For a long moment no one moved. Then Irina collapsed onto the mud, facedown, writhing. Cazie grabbed her and pulled her to a sitting position.
“Pleasure!” Landau crowed.
Irina’s face transformed. Her head tilted back; her back arched; her whole body shuddered. Then she collapsed against Cazie, trembling. Her eyes closed.
“A strong dose,” Terry said. “Lucky Irina.”
Cazie laughed. Jackson couldn’t watch her. He half turned away, standing ankle-deep in mud.
It must be a selective nerve stimulator, going right to the pleasure center. Addictive, degenerative, illegal. Blood still dripped from Irina’s soft arm. The Cell Cleaner would take care of it: repair the cut faster than could the unaided body, destroy any infectious bacteria, consume the mud in the wound. No risk.
He said, “What’s on the ‘pain’ knives?”
Terry said, “Just that. The stimulator works directly on the brain.”
Landau said, “Very unpleasant. And it seems to last an eon.”
“You’re all sick,” Jackson said. “Every one of you.”
“Oh, dear,” Landau said. “More morality.”
“Jackson, it’s a party,” Cazie said. “Don’t be so grim.”
He gazed bleakly at her. Smiling back at him, tenderly cradling Irina. These people were biologically underaroused. Underarousal produced thrill-seeking behavior. He could recite the neurochemistry: deficient levels of monoamine oxidase, serotonin, and cortisol. Slow heart rate, low skin conductance, high threshold for nerve triggering. Excess of dopamine, imbalance of norepinephrine and alintylomase. Plus, of course, whatever imbalances they were creating with the inhalers.
Knowing the biochemistry didn’t modify his disgust.
“Come on, Cazie. We’re leaving. You and me. Now.”
She went on smiling at him, naked and covered with mud, the dreamily comatose Irina in her arms. She would refuse to go with him, of course. She had always refused anything he demanded. His mood shifted suddenly, to a fearful elation. She would refuse. And then, after seeing her like this, with these underaroused diseases… after this, he would be free of her. Finally. It would be over. He would be free.
“All right, Jackson,” Cazie said. “I’m coming.”
She laid Irina carefully on the mud and stood up, wiping a thick glob of mud off her wrist.
“Hey, Caz, you can’t go now!” Terry said. “The party’s just starting!”
“And I’m up next,” a woman said. “Who wants to throw?”
“Loser’s prerogative,” Landau said. “Since Irina didn’t choose me for the knife.”
“Cazie! Don’t go!”
“Good night,” Cazie said. “Tell Irina I’ll call her tomorrow.” She took Jackson’s hand. He dropped hers: bleakly, angrily, with trapped love.
She followed him meekly to the elevator, down the hall—they met no one, it was 3:00 A.M.—into the apartment. Into the shower. Jackson saw that she’d left her inhaler behind.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Cazie said when they were both clean. “I didn’t think well. Of course you wouldn’t like such a party. It’s just that… I missed you.”
He stared at her, trying to maintain his disgust, knowing he failed. “You didn’t miss me. You just wanted more thrills. The only experiences you’ve ever thought worth having were intense thrills.”
“I know.”
“That’s not normal, Cazie. Normal people don’t need constant dangerous excitement to feel happy!”
“Then there are a hell of a lot of donkeys who aren’t normal. Not anymore. Hold me, Jack.”
He stood stiffly, not moving. She put her arms around him and pressed against him. His naked cock rose into her belly. Her soft breasts breathed gently into his chest.
“Oh, Cazie…” It was a groan, half desire and half defeat. “No…”
“I’ll be sweet,” she mumbled against his neck. “You’re so good to watch out for me…”
She did stay sweet. And tender, and gentle—a vulnerable Cazie, holding back nothing, giving everything. Afterward she fell asleep against his shoulder, curled into him like a child. The sheets were wet from the bodies they hadn’t dried after their shower, from the sweet juices of lovemaking.
Jackson lay awake in the dark, holding her, wishing that she hadn’t come with him from the party, wishing that she would never leave his bedroom, wishing that he were a different kind of person from what he was. More resolute. More able to sustain anger. More able to write her off.
There were neuropharms that would do that. Modify his neurochemistry, rebalance transmitters and hormones and enzymes. Less CRF. More testosterone. Less serotonin. Fewer dopamine reuptake inhibitors. More ADL.
Like the people at the party. Terry and Irina and Landau.
No.
He couldn’t sleep. After thrashing and turning for half an hour, he eased himself out of bed. He kissed Cazie’s cheek, put on a robe, and padded to the library.
“Caroline, messages, please.”
“Yes, Jackson,” said his personal system in the slightly formal voice he preferred. “You have four messages. Shall I list them in the order received?”
“Why not.” He poured himself a whiskey from the sideboard.
“Message from Kenneth Bishop, from Wichita. Subject: Willoughby plant.” The TenTech chief engineer. He had finally checked on the deranged factory. A week late. Maybe TenTech needed another chief. Christ, Jackson hated dealing with this shit.