The Transmigration of Souls (52 page)

Kincaid thumbed him in the throat, heard him gag. Then, “OK, bitches, have your fun. You’ll be in civvies for this. After you do time.”

Silence.

“Tell you what. Let me go and maybe we can come to an accommodation.” Silence. “Tell you what. Untie me, then the six of you hold down Kincaid here long enough for me to get in a compensating fuck, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

Silence.

Then Kincaid slid the icepick out of her boot, held it up to the sky, where the starlight could show it to him.

“What the
fuck
...” Heartbeat speeding up a little.

She lowered the icepick, slid it across the front of his pants, played a raspy little tune on his cheap GI zipper. Heart starting to thump nicely now, breath quickening in his chest.

“You try anything like that, bitch, and I
promise
you ten years at hard labor. Ten years
minimum
.”

She put the point of the ice pick in his right nostril, nice, nice cold metal, felt him stiffen in her arms. Right now, his balls were probably snugged up tight to his pelvis, pecker hardly more than a nubbin.

Whispered, “God
damn
you, Kincaid. Enough.”

She said, “Your call, Mandy.”

Long wait, Bergeron’s heart pounding against her chest, felt through the structure of his muscular back. Tiny thought trickling through her, What a waste. In another circumstance, I might like to be snuggled against a back like this.

Mandy Richardson’s fist outlined against the starry sky. Thumbs down.

A moment of sharp regret. Are you sure this is right? But, then: “OK.”

One little squeak from the man as the icepick started to slide up his nose, a frantic little
No
... She felt him start to buck and struggle as it went in, a hard, gargling outcry.

Crunch
. Bones thin up there, offering hardly any resistance at all. Man stiffening hard in her arms, rocking back against her, back of his head smacking against her cheekbone. Well. I’ll have a nice little shiner in the morning.

Then rocking her hand back and forth, giving him a nice little prefrontal lobotomy.

Then angling backward into the main structure of his midbrain, twisting, twisting, remembering that leopard frog from high school, remembering how it screamed, horrid little hiss as it struggled in her hand.

Bergeron not struggling now. Curiously relaxed, weight growing heavier in her arms. Silence. Then a soft, liquid farting sound from inside his pants.

One of the other women, she didn’t know which one, said, “Jesus. Let’s get the Hell out of here.”

o0o

Fading echoes, like a gunshot in the distance, Ling Erhshan stopping in his tracks, looking around uneasily at the darkness. You could get into a lot of trouble, walking alone, down by the quays of Shanghai late at night. Stars up above, like diamond dust in the sky, hardly blotted out at all by the lights of the harbor. Filthy water lapping at the concrete pier, little slopping sound of the wavelets giving the night an ambience all its own.

Nothing.

Lovely night.

Ling Erhshan walking along, headed for the university library all by himself, deep satisfaction centered at the root of his belly.

Lovely night. Most excellent night.

Lovely little Chen taken out for a late-night snack, once they’d finished studying. She was coming along well, finally getting caught up on her calculus, his long evenings of patient tutoring paying off at last.

Paying off at last. It made him smile.

Well, she’ll pass tomorrow’s exam. Of course she will. She’ll get a good night’s sleep now. Be fresh in the morning, bright-eyed and... is fuzzy-tailed the English expression? Well, lovely little Chen had turned out to be fuzzy-tailed indeed, once he’d gotten her cornered behind the bed, gotten her down on the floor, gotten her out of those sexy black bicycling shorts.

All her little protests, whining that she didn’t want... didn’t want... But then there was the promise of her vulva, outlined against the shorts she’d worn. No one wears something like that by accident. I’ve worn bicycle shorts. They feel awful.

 Lovely little Chen, lying on the floor, sprawled open for him like that, made all the sexier because she still had on her blouse, that oddly stunned look in her eyes.

Lovely little Chen, holding so still when he crouched down between her legs. Holding so still while he rubbed his cheeks against the soft skin of her smooth, pale thighs. Holding so still while he nuzzled her here and there. Holding so still while he put his tongue where it belonged, where he knew it belonged, where he knew she knew it belonged. Holding so still while he felt her grow wet under his mouth, felt her tissues expand just so...

Ah, little Chen, the lips of your mouth can lie, but the lips of your vulva...

Lovely little Chen, holding so still as he crawled up her belly, holding so still as he nuzzled her cheeks with his wet face, holding so still as he kissed her, opening her mouth for him, letting him put his tongue inside, holding so still as she tasted herself on him...

Lovely little Chen, holding so still as he fumbled around her wet crotch with his hand, as he found the opening, right where it belonged, used his thumb to guide himself inside. Some women help you do that. Some women do not. Maybe lovely little Chen has only been with men who need no assistance...

Then, lovely little Chen holding ever so still as he thrust away into her splendid, smooth, oily inner warmth, breath puffing into his ear in time to his strokes, growing quicker and quicker, just as he grew quicker and quicker...

Lovely little Chen holding ever so still as he went pulse, pulse, pulse within her, warm semen flooding out, carrying away his soul, like a butterfly in the wind. Lovely image. Lovely, lovely image...

Little Chen getting up off the floor, sitting on the edge of her bed. A little smile on her face, perhaps. Odd little smile. Some women so very quiet during lovemaking, while others thrash and moan and scream. So much pleasanter with the quiet women, so much less... distraction. Though, at least with the noisy ones, you didn’t have to ask if they enjoyed it...

Little Chen sitting quietly on the edge of her bed, sitting on a fresh wet spot, still in her blouse, no pants, sitting there staring into space. He said, “Are you all right?”

She just looked at him, eyes expressionless.

After a while he shrugged. Some women were like that. He said, “Well. I’ve got to go. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Still staring.

He said, “I’ll wait for you after the calculus test. We’ll talk about the questions. Try to see how you made out.”

Silence.

“All right?”

She said, “All right. It’s all right, Erhshan.”

Gone away then, down by the dark Shanghai harbor, a warm spring night in the warm, humid south of China, walking along to the university library. Going to do a little more studying, not that easy stuff about calculus and physics. Doing a little more work, another iteration on the long literature search for his honors course. Looking up the technical specs for those old American rocket ships. Advisor said it was a waste of time. No corporation will pay to develop something as expensive as this, not with its own money.

And the government... well, the government will spend as much of the people’s money as it wishes to spend. Look at what a lovely Navy we have now, battleships and aircraft carriers. Frigates, cruisers, destroyers, nuclear submarines...

But not this.

No reason for this.

No reason at all.

Never got to it. Distracted, walking along, looking into the reading room where the trash literature was kept, stopping to look over the small collection of “futuristic speculations,” books by Chinese authors, mostly about a world where Green China was king, a few fantasies set in the dark depths of Fortress America, objectionist allegories focused on the power of the almighty
yüan
...

And then, that box, sitting on the floor, full of books waiting to be shelved. Opening the flap, looking in out of bored curiosity. Picking up the topmost book, book printed in modern literary
Putonghua
characters. Not so hard to follow, now that he was used to following modern Chinese technical literature...

A retrospective anthology of American science fiction stories, covering the first half of the Twentieth-Century, freshly translated from Japanese. Starting with a story that had the unlikely name of
Ralph
...

Sat right there, reading, on the floor, all night long, submerged in happy splendor, suddenly finding himself in a pool of yellow sunlight, pink-eyed, realizing it was dawn, that his first exam was only ninety minutes away...

Cursing himself for a fool, rushing away for a quick shower, quick coffee, quick breakfast and...

In the morning, then, the news that lovely little Chen, having had a few drinks by herself evidently, had gone for a walk in the night, had gone down by the harbor, following him perhaps? Had stumbled evidently, and fallen into the dirty water and drowned.

He’d spent the next night in the library as well, reading, reading, and the next one after that, soul soaking away into the imaginary worlds with all their immortal, invulnerable, imaginary people, worlds where only the nameless spear carriers died, where the real heroes and heroines only died for... for reasons you could at least understand.

o0o

Astrid Kincaid, running through the featureless darkness, six strong women at her side, running from the site of vengeance, dead Bergeron sprawled in the weeds, sprawled bonelessly, blood running from his nostrils, stink of shit rising from his pants. Got what he deserved. Got what he deserved. Women running and running, comrades all, running together.

Mandy Richardson’s small hand warm in mine, hand in mine as we ran together, out of the darkness and back into the light. Sneaking back onto the base together, noncoms eying each other in the darkness, eyes wide, faces drawn, withdrawn. No one, the faces said, no one will say a word... Then going our separate ways, back to barracks, all save Mandy, who was in my charge, back to our own barracks, crawling in through the window of my room.

Sitting there, first in the darkness, then by the light of my single low-wattage lamp. Mandy sitting on the edge of my bed. Waiting? Waiting for what? Me, waiting now for her to gather her courage, waiting for her to slink back out to her little bunk in the common room. “Mandy...”

Dark eyes on me. “Sergeant, if I go now, someone will see.”

So? At worst, they’ll think you’ve come in to... a little smile. More than one way to gain favor, more than one way to kiss ass in this woman’s Marine Corps. Kincaid said, “No one will bother you about it, Mandy.”

More dark eyes, then, “Sergeant, if I go out now, someone will remember the time. The medical examiner’s office will be able to tell roughly when Captain Bergeron died.”

Oh. Memory of fear. And, though I’d been careful, the coroner, alerted, would have them take my clothes, have them check... Even if they found no bloodstains, they might find other little bits of Captain Bergeron.

Richardson said, “It’d be better if I spent the night in here, Sergeant. I don’t care what people think.”

Reluctance. I care what people think. Let them see me spending the night with one of my troopers, especially one of my female troopers, and I’d have to put up with all sorts of bullshit. Real dykes putting the make on me. Men hitting on me just to see if I really went both ways...

Kincaid said, “Well.” I see your point.

Turning down the bed then. Getting out of dirty fatigues, hesitating, deciding to leave her underwear on, bra and panties a sort of psychic armor, crawling into bed, sliding over, leaving room for Mandy. Who got out of her fatigues, stood there so slim and strong, looking down at her, white figure made whiter by pale, pale linen.

Clicked out the light. Stood looking down in the darkness. A whisper of cloth, Kincaid realizing she’d slipped out of her own armor, was coming naked to bed. Don’t be so damned foolish! She probably hasn’t give it a thought. Just likes to sleep that way, though army regs said...

Military regs say you sleep by yourself, in pajamas, nice green GI pajamas, that you dressed and undressed in your own latrine area, but... Regs never work. They put men and women together, young men and young women, and got what they deserved.

Richardson slid in beside her, head not quite on the edge of the pillow, squirming uncomfortably a bit, while Kincaid tried to lay still. “Good night, Sergeant.” No more than a whisper. A friendly whisper.

Kincaid lay there, thinking about the women. Six of us, acting in concert, enacting the vengeance of a seventh. People will remember this. Every time some bastard thinks he can do what he wants, he’ll... think, perhaps, before he acts. Warm feeling then, not thinking about dead Bergeron, just thinking about her six friends, comrades in arms...

Awakening some time later, darkness still there, lit only by the base light coming in through the blinds. Mandy holding her, arms and legs around her, Mandy crying softly, almost silent, tears like hot water spilled on her shoulder.

Arms on her back then, shushing softly. My God, if anyone hears this, they’ll think I forced her into my bed...

She could feel the other woman’s vulva pressing gently on her hip, soft hair tickling down there. An odd feeling, half revolting, half... Memories of childhood, of lying in bed alone in the dark, thinking about my parents. Thinking about the noises from their bedroom, the occasional kitchen tableaux, as if they imagined me blind, or absent altogether. Father holding Mother in his arms, caressing her back, so nice, so nice, reaching down, sliding his hand between her legs, caressing there as well, Mother arching her back, angling her pelvis just so...

As if she wants him to do it.

But, sometimes, you saw that displeasure on her face, face pressed against the side of his neck, face he could never see. Face resigned. Face saying, Let’s just get this over with...

Little Kincaid lying in the darkness, lying in her bed, thinking about the sounds, the set-piece vignettes, feeling herself down below. Nice, hair here, hair that had annoyed her for a while after it started to grow, damp places that were hard to keep clean. Places that...