Title : Benders
Author: Mike Duncan
E-mail: mduncan@sugar.neosoft.com

SINCERE WARNING: I promise the story that follows will deeply offend some
people. Think of the "more" prompt as a lottery of filth; if you don't want
to win, don't play. (Better yet, unsubscribe.) If you're a member of the
target audience, however, you might recognize these characters as The People
in Your Neighborhood, whom you meet each day. They're all figments of my
imagination, though. Not meant to resemble any persons living or dead, in any
way. Aaaaaall made up. Yessiree.
     I'm posting this in a.s.s because I can't think of any other place where
it would be tolerated as a matter of course. The actual sex comes late in the
story and is hopelessly consensual, nonviolent and character-oriented, hardly
standard fuck-book issue, so I expect a few flames from disappointed
masturbators. Feel free to re-post it somewhere else, or even to print out
copies and show it to your non-net friends, keeping the authorship and leader
intact, of course. Feedback is appreciated.
     _benders_ is a sort of pre-quel sequel to a much longer story of the
same name. The action here takes place about two months after the original
book ends. I'm posting this because I've lost my voice on chapter three and
I'd like to see if I'm even headed in the right direction. Yes, it's rough,
yes, it's a little cryptic...but can you dig it?
     Thanks to Rabbit, who was there; to Marisa, for familiarizing me with
Susan's condition; and to the Lady Herself, for making all this necessary.
Hope you enjoy the fairy tale.

     mduncan@sugar.neosoft.com          22 May 1993


                 But ah! what good to mortal mind is sense,
                 What good to hearts is kindness, hands benevolence,
                 When through the state a fever runs and revels,
                 And evil hatches more and more of evils?
                 Who views the wide realm from this height supreme,
                 To him all seems like an oppressive dream,
                 Where in confusion is confusion reigning,
                 And lawlessness by law itself maintaining,
                 A world of error forever obtaining.

                                -- Johan Wolfgang von Goethe

benders.                    by Mike Duncan.                    Copyright 1993.

     In the barren front room of a Houston office they'd rented under a false
name, three sixteen-year-old boys sat huddled around a computer terminal,
busy stealing ten thousand dollars a day, the full limit of what Mentat
Security had authorized. Their plan, also approved and certified by the
Foundation as a potentially dangerous extracurricular activity, involved
shuffling borrowed money from one account to another in large amounts and in
a way that took advantage of the timing of electronic bank transfers. The
actual mechanics of the operation were terrifyingly complex; Tran navigated
the stealer with his left hand on the mouse and his right over the numeric
keypad, the data on the screen flowing directly into his consciousness, his
face sharply wrenched with the pain of a mentat trance.
     Ruben ate from a bag of Doritos and shook his head in time to
Metallica's _Ride the Lightning_, while Josh occasionally glanced up from his
Terrible Ted's laptop interface to rub his eyes and yawn. It had cost a
pretty penny to rent a Ted from the Foundation, but as long as Josh watched
it, he knew there were no police around and no one in the outside world knew
or cared who the three thieves were.
     Looking up again, Josh said, "Wash your hands, man. You're next."
     "Patience, neat freak," Ruben said. "The time has not yet come."
     Tran made no outward sign he'd heard the exchange; in the thin gray
strip that represented external reality, his mind logged the activity, found
it insignificant, and disregarded it. Meanwhile, in his main field of
thought, the mental images of two separate computer networks superimposed and
flashed as he manipulated the harmonics of the systems' links, wringing a
tiny fraction of error from each transaction as funds sloshed from one bank
to another across the country. _Enough with North Carolina for now,_ he
thought. _Let's scrape out Manhattan._
     "Those are revolting," Josh said, gesturing to the Doritos, then,
speaking to his computer: "It's illogical to poison yourself with empty
calories." This last carried a hint of accusation; in the Foundation's
slippery rank classification, Josh scored somewhat above, and thus was
considered more powerful than, Ruben.
     "True enough. But to each his own poison, huh, Josh?" Josh flinched.
"Besides, it's good food for the munchies." Ruben stood and went to wash his
hands.
     "I don't know how you two can work on that shit."
     "Same way you work wired."
     The doorbell buzzed briefly. Before it stopped, Josh plucked his
silenced HK-93 from the floor and stepped out of the door's direct line of
sight, shouldering the weapon and preparing to flick the safety off. Ruben
glided from the bathroom to a position left of the door, his arms crossed
under his jacket, one hand on his P226, also silenced, in its special
shoulder holster. Tran didn't look up.
     Without taking the time to spin up, Josh concentrated on the space
beyond the closed suite door. Though blind to living tissue, his mentat's
talent revealed a lone figure standing in the hallway...probably a man,
judging by what the hang of his clothing revealed of his skeletal structure.
Changing focus, Josh picked up the compact metal mass of a loaded gun in a
belt holster. He tightened his finger on the safety and jerked his head twice
at Ruben, who bared his teeth in understanding and nodded back.
     "Who _is_ it?" Ruben called sweetly.
     Muffled by the door: "Harlan Jackson, Mentat Security. Put that thing
away before you kill somebody, for Christ's sake."
     Josh returned to Terrible Ted, again laying his rifle on the carpet
beside him.
     Ruben opened the door, and Harlan walked in, a tall, intense black man
in his early twenties. Stepping into the room, he pulled off his scarf to
reveal the silver scores and insignia pinned to his black jacket, identifying
himself, and scanned the room -- the setup, the young mutants and their
physical attitudes. He sniffed the air and added that to his observation.
Satisfied, his eyes returned to Ruben.
     By now Ruben had read and interpreted Harlan's scores, and he stood up
a little straighter and ran a hand through his hair. "Dude," he said by way
of salute.
     "Friendly neighborhood secret police, makin' a house call," Harlan said,
surveying the room again more closely. "We have to keep an eye on you
assholes to make sure your activities don't threaten the safety and security
of the Foundation and the blah, blah, blah." Again his eyes fell on Ruben.
"Nice decor."
     "Everything's been approved," Ruben said quickly.
     "Where's your Sally?" Harlan asked. It was common practice for mentat
crime cabals to retain a telepath or two for additional protection when
pitching their tent for an extended period. Depending on the crime, a Sweet
Sally could command quite a fee. Josh glanced up at the question, then
knotted his brows and returned to his screen.
     "We don't have one."
     "You don't _have_ one! What are you going to do if some lowlife
Flatlander kicks in your door, blow him away in front of God and everybody?
This isn't Foundation soil, man, you can't just sweep that shit under the rug
so easily out here."
     "It was approved," Ruben said, gaining confidence. "There shouldn't be
any local law trouble, and if things go RCF" -- randomly, catastrophically
fuckola, as in a robbery attempt or demon attack -- "we can defend ourselves
with small arms, yes."
     "And they approved that." Harlan tilted his head back.
     "They did."
     "Aw, I don't fuckin' believe this." Harlan shook his head, then examined
Tran's screen.
     "Speaking of our friends in MS, a courier dropped off an eight-ball of
mighty fine powder this morning," Josh said without looking at Harlan. "Want
some?"
     "No thanks," said Harlan, also without making eye contact.
     "Oops, okay, sorry. 'Master of Puppets' and all that."
     "Nah, I don't give a shit." Harlan squinted. "Bank wank, huh? First time
out?"
     "Second," Ruben admitted.
     Harlan stared at Tran. "Gets into his work, doesn't he?"
     Now Josh did look at Harlan. "Hey, man, you're in the short lance with
Pelcher and Guile the Antichrist, aren't you?"
     "Indeed I am," Harlan replied. "He's not much of an antichrist off-duty,
though. And I wouldn't call him that around Goblin. We all call him 'A.C.'"
     "I thought you weren't supposed to like your code name."
     "He's not the one who gets pissed."
     "Is he really as good as everybody says?"
     Harlan snorted. "Better, if we're hearing the same stories."
     "What's he like?" the boy asked.
     "He sleeps with my ex-girlfriend," Harlan said resentfully, meaning
Susan Pelcher. With his face turned away from Jackson, Ruben pursed his lips
with desire. Though only nineteen, Goblin had already distinguished herself
in Foundation North America's Q5 program, racking up a hundred and fifty-
seven flags against the demons, helping to keep the world somewhat safe for
mutantkind, and in MS, where her skill at brain-raping Senators and captains
of industry had earned her the grudging but well-deserved admiration of
operatives twice her age. And she was fine, too.
     "That sucks," said Josh without much conviction.
     "Yeah. Well, I can see you guys are running a tiptop Boy Scout operation
here, and although it pains me somewhat to say it, I don't think I can cite
you on any Code violations, except perhaps being cheap bastards...and denying
some indolent girl a little pocket money. Provided you get this fucking rifle
off the floor, that is." Harlan nudged Josh's Heckler & Koch with his foot.
"They let you carry field arms around on the street. Inside of the barrel
looks filthy, too. What's the world coming to. Okay, well, have fun."
     Ruben showed Harlan the door. The older mentat draped his scarf over his
jacket again, scanned the hallway, and left.
     "I wonder what's like to work with Guile Edwards," Josh said
wonderingly.
     Or to ride his woman like a wild stallion, Ruben thought. "I hear he's
real normal." 
     "What the fuck is normal?" Tran said, making the others jump.
     Recovering, Ruben said, "Not like Custer Triumphant or something, like
so many snappers. Imposing. You know."
     Josh did know. All mentats knew. It was tough, in certain ways, not to
have direct mental influence over the outside world. Bad enough that some
women could read minds and imprint their bad trips on others at will; worse
that the rest of the mutant men and women, the snappers, enjoyed a sort of
exoskeletal telekinesis, allowing them to behave like cartoons in the face of
physical danger. If you were Chosen, all you could do was rely on the Great
Curve and try to aim for their fillings.
     So he said, with a little bitterness, "What does he have to feel
threatened by? Susan the Felcher sleeps on the end of his bed, it is rumored,
ready to spring to awakening and murder with buckshot any who would _dare_
to --"
     "Better shut up. She can probably hear you from wherever she is."
     "So?"
     "Hey, fat boy," Tran said, still scowling. "You wanna come give me a
break?"
     "Yeah, balance it."
     Soon Ruben was angry, Tran messaged his temples and tweezed one of Ted's
controls, and Josh knelt over a low table, carefully scooping sifted cocaine
onto a polished mirror, anticipating the crispness of it.
     "You got the easy job," Tran said.
     "I think my cut reflects that fact, thank you. I've worked with Pelcher,
by the way. How anyone can stay so stoned and still be such a bitch is beyond
me." Still, that petite body, that auburn hair, those reddish-brown
eyes...just thinking of what she could do to your pleasure centers in five
_minutes_ if she were really trying...the thought turned Josh's dork into
cement. He pushed the fantasy away, saving it for later, when he was alone.
     Tran mimicked their Criminal Science instructor. "'Based on your
temperament and past experiences, sir, logic suggests you're speaking out of
jealousy.' You friggin' breeder."
     "Perhaps. Excuse me a second." With two strong sniffs, Josh improved his
world. "Does it matter?" He sat back to wait for the ride.
     "Been back to Mendel recently?"
     "No, I try to stay away. Until -- ah." It had begun. "Until next
quarter, when I join Q5 and become a bender like whiny boy out there, there's
no reason to leave the Security safehouse." He felt the rising urge to grow
expansive on Harlan's shortcomings as one-time concubine to the Mentat Ideal,
but squashed it.
     "Pelcher's trying to kick."
     "Really?" Josh grinned evilly. "What fun."


     Sobriety was coming hard for the Goblin Queen. It had been six days --
well, okay, five and a very long half -- since Susan's last joint, and word
had already gotten around the compound that she wasn't losing her mind or
having an early mid-life crisis, she was merely kicking her trademark monkey
off her back. Mendel being what it was, nobody harassed her, and she even
received offers of support from some unexpected places, but none of it helped
very much; no more so than, say, gritting her teeth, which she was getting
good at.
     It also didn't help that she had to walk past the drug dispensary every
afternoon on the way to work. It was located in the Mentat Security building,
and because the dickheads were touchy about people wandering around in there,
they'd placed the long glass Soma Counter just inside the east entrance,
where long rays of evening sun could filter through the East Texas pines and
caress the panoply of mind-warping delights displayed there. If you elbowed
your way through the perpetual scum of window-shopping Family members with
their beads and tie-dye saying DUDE and DIG IT and handed the dickhead on
duty your ID and credit chip, he'd smirk at you and then bring you whatever
you wanted: Foundation Gold Bud, Byrd's Best Red, Smash Hash...ahh. Or
ecstasy, PK25, CN8, coke, even horse tranquilizers, if that's what you really
wanted. For Susan, for the past two years, it had always been grass. But not
any more.
     A couple of glasses of wine before bed, wrapped up in Guile's arms while
they watched the sun rise, weren't the same as getting really baked. Neither
were the long walks in the woods, the hours spent meditating and wandering
the Frontier under the faceless onyx benediction of the Black Goddess, or the
time spent screwing the pants off Edwards when they could both find a hole in
their schedules. Together, though, these things formed a sort of composite
crutch, and by day five-and-a-half she began to think she might actually make
it.
     That afternoon, two U.S. Marshals met her across from the Soma Counter,
beneath the huge Mentat Security emblem, a silver skeletal winged serpent on
a field of black. They were both low-power snappers; the younger one wore a
government suit with a faux-boring tie, and the other wore cowboy clothes,
boots, and the wrinkled-in perpetual frown of a hardass. They seemed to be
representatives of different contingents, and when they had to be in the same
room together they stayed at opposite ends.
     The suit, whose name was Wagner, briefed her at the back of the upstairs
teaching theater. Down front, on the podium, a naked man helped a woman with
blue hair dissect the guidance system from a thousand-pound laser bomb.
Wagner tried not to appear disoriented and failed.
     "Is that everything you need?" Wagner asked at last.
     "I think so," Susan said. "You've been pretty thorough. Assuming your op
in Kansas City places her marker properly, and assuming Michaud stays put
until morning, it shouldn't be any trouble finding him."
     "She'll be fifty miles away, though."
     Susan shrugged. "And I'm a thousand miles away. It doesn't matter."
     "I don't understand how this shit works, to be honest with you. What
does 'screed 24B' mean?"
     In this case, it meant that Michaud, her target, could be identified in
part by his sexual preference for violence with young children, which left a
musty, stinking cloud in the Frontier if you were looking for it. The
question itself also meant that Wagner was new at this, and if she mentioned
it to Molly, he wouldn't be returning to Mendel. The Goblin Queen smiled and
shrugged again.
     Wagner closed his leather folder. "Don't you want to know what this guy
did?"
     Susan stopped smiling. "I really don't."
     You learned not to ask. They came to you with a mandate -- a spec-sheet,
they called it in the Temple -- and you knew better than to probe, no matter
what they paid you by the minute. A spec-sheet, a time line, and they asked
you no questions and usually expected the same courtesy in return.
Professionalism. When her pager lit up BLACK STAR Q2 -- REPORT, it meant that
the Foundation brass had collectively decided someone out there was better
off dead, and the Foundation's say-so was good enough for Susan. It kept her
sane, anyway, and watching Uma coo and sing to her bomb while she picked
little bits of it apart and handed them to Jerry made Susan appreciate little
things like her sanity. What was left of it, anyway.
     An hour later, she was sitting Indian-style on the floor of an isolation
room in the Temple of Darkness, robed in gray wool, her human senses
extinguished, surrounded by deadspace and the Frontier. During preliminary
calisthenics, she was amazed at how much more fluid her astral body had
become since the last black star -- maybe this sobriety thing actually had
benefits. One could hope. She shredded the intruding throught and launched
herself straight up until the unimaginable enormity of WorldWatch swayed
beneath her like billions of angry, passionate diamonds.
     She cued in on Myung's signal in Kansas and followed it down. Squinting
at the screed-marks she'd pressed into the Frontier, Susan took flight again
and queried WorldWatch more specifically. Michaud's signal flared in response
at the corner of her astral vision; with a thought, she locked on, appeared
beside him...inside him.
     Goblin ripped through her target's superego, looking for his Primary
Motivator, trying to hold her breath against the sickness and perversion that
threatened to overwhelm her. The two times she'd disobeyed orders and combed
out her targets before dispatching them, Susan had immediately wished she
hadn't. It wasn't necessary to high-comb Michaud to understand what kind of
person he was. The man's followers burned incense and chanted in the next
room, but they wouldn't be able to help him escape tonight.
     She perforated his PM and separated it from the rest of his central
cluster, hitting her retros quickly and digging in as the feedback agony
washed over her. For a timeless instant (the coin of the realm in deadspace)
she chanted her own mantra and wondered if this one would be it, if Edwards
would be sleeping alone tonight. When the tide broke, she actually smiled --
not at the pain, but at her mastery over it. Just like back home. 
     As Michaud's spark of humanity began its long slide downward into the
Well of Souls, Goblin was dimly surprised at how much more smoothly than
normal things had gone. She hung back until Michaud
     (gary -- that was his name. the first one, there in the park, under the
sodium lamp. what purity and potential, a shame to lose it forever to the
random forces of an uncaring world. children must be saved from the sullying
power of the world. they must experience the magnificence of purity of
essence and then be extinguished before their inner beauty could be
contaminated. michaud kept them all safe, every one that he touched, all
serve michaud the messiah)
     gave up his Animal Mother and disintegrated into nothingness. Then she
retreated homeward with Myung's _day-o_ confirmation ringing in her ears.
     Susan found herself flat on her back in the Temple once more, surrounded
by the familiar muted smells of incense, marijuana, and sex. Someone was in
the room with her, but she couldn't tell who, not immediately. She'd been in
deadspace for seven minutes, and it felt as if every cell of her body had
been scrubbed with a ton of ashes, half of which she'd then swallowed. She
tried to stretch, vaguely aware of the fresh tears on her cheeks.
     "Goblin? Hey, take it easy," a young girl said. Susan felt the presence
bending over her. "It's Beaker, Goblin. Are you okay? Are you all right?"
     Still blind, Susan gasped, "...give me a level, would you...."
     Beaker held up her left index finger, flaring hard. The isolation room
lit up from the younger girl's perspective, and Susan felt the coarseness of
her purple Acolyte's robe, the sign of a holy Temple prostitute. She was only
fifteen, Susan realized; all this must be so foreign to her. She caught the
echoes of confusion, a cacophony of dissenting voices within Beaker. She was
uncertain and afraid, unsure of what came next. So was Susan, but you had to
be careful around the low-powers. Couldn't let them think you weren't in
control.
     Before she knew what was happening, Susan felt Beaker's arms around her,
clutching for her warmth. Goblin, not Susan, responded, and she wiped her
tears against the girl's blonde hair, grateful for human warmth in this
moment of weakness.
     "Perfect, Beaker," she whispered. Trina liked women as well as men, but
Susan didn't care at the moment. "Thank you."
     "They left me in here by myself," Beaker murmured against Susan's neck.
"What am I supposed to do? Seriously?"
     "Do you have any juice? My blood sugar...."
     "Oh, yeah," Beaker said, and held the tumbler for Susan.    
     "Thanks," Susan said again. Her Flat senses were beginning to reassert
themselves.
     "This is your first star sober, isn't it?" Beaker said.
     "Dark Lady bless the rumor mill."
     "Jessica said that when you were growing up, you couldn't even drink.
She said you weren't even allowed to drink tea or coffee. Is that true?"
     Susan tried to laugh. "That's probably all Jessica knows about how I was
raised, but at least she got that right. Yes, it's true."
     "Did you do it?"
     "I followed the rules, just like I do here."
     "God, if I had to spend a week not drinking or jerking off or even
swearing, I would kill myself."
     "Hmm, done some research on your own, I see. Cool."
     "So what happened?"
     "What ever happens? I joined the Foundation, shed innocent blood and
turned my back on the Holy Ghost. I saved lives. I followed the rules. I lost
my worthiness. So what?"
     "I got real depressed when my dad ran off," Beaker said quickly. "I took
Benedyct every day. Sometimes I'd drink a bunch of TranQuil, too. It helps."
     Susan pulled herself together, pressing her knees against her breasts.
"You're _way_ too young to have a history like that, you know it, Beaker?"
     "Yeah, well, so are you."
     They grinned at each other.
     "Are you okay?" Beaker asked again.
     "Getting better. Is that fed still hanging around out front?"
     Beaker covered her mouth. "He's trying to quit smoking cigarettes, you
know. Every time the guards light up, he cringes. Poor guy. Keeps pacing."
     "I have good news for him. That should cheer him up."
     Beaker's eyes grew wide. "You did it?"
     "Yes, I did. Get used to it."
     "I thought --" Beaker shut up, which cemented Susan's good opinion of
her more than anything she could have said. "I'll go post it on the Wet
Board. Your clothes are -- you know."
     "I know."
     Susan dressed and reapplied her makeup before leaving the isolation
room. Her hundred-dollar sundress struck her as banal and malevolent; she
held her hand under the room's sole lamp and checked her nail beds, squinting
for the faces of dead friends, hoping she hadn't become smacked out there,
but she was okay. Just a little twitchy. She shrugged. She snagged one nude
stocking pulling it back on, producing a run near the top, but Guile wouldn't
mind. With a few deep breaths, she opened the door and made her way back out
of the Temple, down the corridors of closed doors and dimly lit group
consciousnesses, to the Celestial Room, a score of hairstyles apparent
through the gloom of either nave. She knelt for the required period before
the statue of the Black Goddess, blew out her prayer candle and progressed to
the antechamber, where she surrendered her robe and blessing. After a little
obligatory kibitzing with the Acolytes, she pushed open the outside doors,
squinting against the last of the evening sun. She'd left her Wayfarers in
Guile's room that morning. Mistake. 
     Wagner stood facing away from the Temple, surreptitiously checking out
the tide of weirdness as Mendel's population drifted to evening duties. Not
all were benders or full-time Foundation employees, and Wagner's attention
lingered on the visitors, looking for a touch of familiarity. Bracing her
rifle against her hip with one hand, Horowitz blew a lungful of smoke in
Susan's direction, then pointed at Wagner's back and made a circular motion
at her temple. Susan nodded and cleared her throat.
     "Mr. Wagner?"
     He'd clipped his shield to his suit pocket, she saw. Now he brushed his
thumb against the strip of green tape that covered its face -- regulations --
and said, "How'd it go?"
     "Day-o." When his that's-very-nice expression failed to change, she
remembered and said, "I got him. Brain hemorrhage. Happens all the time, no
one knows why."
     "Untraceable?"
     Crap, he asked a lot of questions. She pointed at his badge. "We green-
tape people hold all the guns. As far as the Flat world knows, he just
dropped dead."
     "Thanks."
     "You don't have to thank me. I'll file my report this evening. I just
wanted you to know. You don't happen to know where Guile Edwards is, do you?"
     "They said you'd ask." He fumbled in his pocket for a yellow sheet of
paper. "He's in Sheol, room fourteen. Makes sense?"
     "It does." Susan shook hands. "Take it easy."
     Susan stepped into the crowd and dissolved into welcome anonymity,
heading for the MS Clubhouse. This would traditionally be stay-in-the-
abattoir-and-get-wasted time, and though the cravings had indeed tapered off,
Susan was a creature of habit. It was no coincidence that Guile was the first
thing she'd asked for, and if he was goofing off in Sheol, he was probably
interruptible. With a little persuasion, of course.
     Crossing the Commons, she passed by Speaker's Corner and saw a dickhead
in uniform, including the ubiquitous utility belt but minus insignia,
standing on a stepladder marked with an inverted crucifix. He'd gathered a
small crowd beneath the cluster of green and Flat flags, and was haranguing
them in a surprisingly well-modulated voice: "What is the answer to Suchuk's
Dilemma, sisters and brothers? I say God hasn't turned his back on our kind;
He never existed for humanity at all! Satan is our spiritual Father! Examine
the world as it exists, logically, and you will realize that the most single
most destructive force, even before the demons came, has always been...."
     _What_an_idiot,_ Susan thought, and tuned him out. She peered into the
crowd, looking for Harlan, then remembered he was in Houston today, playing
Gestapo with his new scores. Well, good for him. It beat his sulking around,
and it was about time he got a little respect from the people he grew up
with. 
     The guard at the Clubhouse door waved Susan in. "If you're looking for
the Antichrist, I think he's melting his brain in the virtual reality room."
     "Thank you, Brad," she said evenly.
     "That is his name, right?" Brad called as she walked away. "Creepies,"
he told his boyfriend with a shrug, when she was out of earshot. "Can you --
Hey, hold it there, pardner. I need to see your I.D."
     Susan's flats clicked against the tile as she passed by rows of gung-ho
dickhead posters, culminating in a recognizable watercolor of Damon Suchuk
himself. She entered Sheol's hushed computer room, nodded to a man dressed as
a clown when he pointed at chamber fourteen and mimed dilating pupils, and
quietly let herself in.
     Guile lay motionless in the chamber's deep sofa, a VR helmet completely
covering his head. A color-cycling Mandelbrot set slowly changed shape on the
console's monitor -- This is Your Brain on Drugs, with a little help from
modern computer technology. Newbies loved this kind of stuff, especially on
psychedelics. Susan smiled affectionately.
     A young guy in college clothes stood before Guile, partially blocking
Susan's view. As she closed the door, he half-turned, startled. He was
stirring something in a glass bowl, and he moved it away from his body,
flaring guilt and embarrassment. He knew he was caught. He was planning to
_do_ something to Guile. 
     Susan had been working herself up to a general love-the-world feeling,
trying to combat her own guilt for having performed the black star, but all
that fell away in an instant. Her reflexes took over and she churned the deep
waters within her, raising her left hand, palm out. She locked on to the
intruder and targeted as he opened his mouth to speak. Grimacing, she planted
her feet and fired a single inhibitor bolt, just enough to let him feel the
roots of all his teeth.


     Her target dropped the bowl as his whole body convulsed, and he fell to
the floor in a semisolid heap, cracking his head against the tile, his signal
diminishing as he passed out. Screw him. If he was in Mendel, he was a
mutant, which meant he'd heal. Depending on what she found in the bowl, that
is.
     Shaking off the feedback pain, Susan spat on his body and took a closer
look at Guile, making sure he was okay. He'd fallen in love with expensive
Italian suits and silk ties from hanging around Susan at work, a taste she'd
encouraged, initially by gently reminding him he could afford it. Lying there
as he was, head covered, hands folded on his suited chest, he looked like he
was waiting in state, and _more_ death thoughts were not the dressing for
Susan's salad at that moment. She wanted to rush to him and put her hands on
him, to prove to herself that he was alive, to wake him up and sink herself
into the reassuring warmth of his presence.
     Because, of course, the Foundation didn't give out code names like
Antichrist without good reason. Lying there, lost in his acid-warped inner
landscape, Guile was making that damned "little humming noise" that caused
his shadow to vanish from Frontier space. No one in the world could lock on
to him or even see him, not even the mighty Trees in their underground
bunkers. To Susan, mildly telepathic since birth, he completely failed to
register on the most important sense in her existence, and reclined on the
couch in a straight, taut mass like a puppet of meat, like a dream.
     Worst of all, if he slammed the door while you were in his mind, it hurt
in proportion to the strength of your lock. His talent was absolute and
unique. Guile was to other telepaths what Susan was to mentats; she'd had to
fight to keep him to herself.
     He was switched off, though, so he must be okay. She ran her play-by
back and reassured herself she'd caught this asshole _before_ the act. Waking
her baby right now would only confuse him at an already confusing time.
     Her target had "beanie" written all over him: a student working his way
through college on a Foundation scholarship, which entitled MS to burn him
like cordwood on their local operations. He'd one day be a moneyman or a
paper-face, from the look of his casual wear, but at the moment he was a pain
in the ass. Susan pitoned her way into his skull and, staring at the bowl of
muck on the floor, remembered the beanie mixing its reagents in the lab
upstairs. It was itchy paste.
     She pulled up a chair and rested one hand on Guile's knee, pretending
she was a little girl, the way she sometimes did when they were alone.
Gradually, the frat-boy stirred and pushed himself to a sitting position.
     "The fuck, man...my head...."
     "What's your name?" Susan said briskly, sitting up as well.
     "My name's Matt, and you're a bitch. I can't --"  
     "Matt, I want you to imagine feeling even worse than you do right now...
Can't do it? Too bad, I love a challenge. Now listen carefully. What kind
of idiot stunt did you have planned, exactly, with that itchy paste? Has
anyone explained the rules of this place to you?" 
     "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but --"
     The door slammed open and a soldier leaped into the room, a dark-skinned
snapper in full MS uniform...minus flak armor, of course. She held a
beautiful double-edged Norse battle ax at the ready, and her submachine gun
bounced off her hip as she fell into a crouch.
     "All right, goddamn it...." She trailed off, taking the situation in,
and dejectedly dropped her spirit weapon. It flashed blue and disintegrated
in sections as it touched the floor. Touching her headset, the soldier said,
"Twenty-five fourteen to Dad. -- Forget it, guys, it's just Pelcher going
into withdrawal again. I'll clean up here."
     "Pelcher?" the beanie said, recognition dawning. He craned his neck to
look at Guile. "You're -- so he must be --" Color drained from his face and
he assumed an expression of horror, much like a newbie after his first flag.
Perfect, really; just the effect Susan was hoping for. She checked; Guile was
still in la-la land.
     "Poonam," she began.
     "Don't Poonam me, I'm working. What's the problem here, Pelcher?"
     "Prankster," Susan said simply.
     Poonam's whole manner changed. "Oh really."
     "Itchy paste."
     "Well." Poonam crossed the room and hauled the beanie to his feet with
one hand. "Where's your visitor's tag, bud?"
     "What about her fucking I.D.?"
     "One, she doesn't need I.D.; she lives here. Two, she has access to
places I don't know about, so it's kinda useless checking it anyway. Here's
yours, tucked in your little condom pocket. Hold still for the scanner. You
taken any brain-killing chemicals I should know about?"
     "What -- Of _course_ not! Who --"
     "Three, I'm starting to see why she hit you with her magic club, and I'm
gonna do the same with my own if you don't stand still and shut your
dickheaded beanie ass _up._"
     "Why do these assholes call us that?" Sure enough, Poonam tapped him on
the head with her hardpointed palm. She missed the bruise Susan gave him, but
started a pretty good one of her own.
     Poonam peered at her clipboard. "Because these assholes, and I used to
be one, are a little resentful of your, oh, _mainstream_ glory and success in
Flatland, while we combatants have to do a dirty job and spend all the time
hiding. Also, we don't fuck with each other, and whenever someone does
something like _that_ --" She turned his head toward the smashed bowl. "It's
always some snotty outsider like you, Matthew A. Reed. Aren't you supposed to
be somewhere else, like down the hall with your group?"
     "Thanks, Poonam," Susan said.
     "Thanks? I should probably write you up for poleaxing him, but it would
take too long. You can go."
     The beanie started for the door, but Poonam jerked him back.
     "Did I say, 'You can go, asshole?' No. You're under arrest." She cuffed
him. "Jeez, you know...I _think_ somebody named Reed is in trouble up at the
desk. Can't quite remember; you know hammerheads aren't too bright. No
offense to Edwards," she told Susan with a wink. "Better march you up there
myself."
     Poonam glanced at the Mandelbrot design on Guile's screen while she
squared her gear away. She considered hanging around on some pretext --
Guile's time on the VR machine was almost up, and it was still considered
high humor in the Foundation ranks to watch Pelcher act all gooshy over her
pet snapper. She decided against it; she'd just given this propeller-head a
lecture on privacy, after all. "Up and at 'em, buttsmack. You can come back
and clean up later."
     As the door clicked shut, the VR monitor flashed and filled with
lowercase text. Guile's trip was over -- at least, the computer-generated
portion of it. His breathing changed, and he shifted on his couch. At last he
bounced into view, and his WorldWatch tag reappeared between frames. He sat
up and pulled off his helmet.
     He was huge and gorgeous. He was built tall and broad-shouldered, on
paper the ideal killing size, but when he wasn't actually fighting he carried
himself with the self-conscious gravity of the protagonist in a child's
picture book. If he kept wrinkling his face in the same places when he was
confused, he would one day look exactly like Harrison Ford. He had brown-and-
green eyes, a common secondary mutation and one that gave Susan impure
thoughts, and platinum-brown hair, which didn't make sense until you saw it.
He was scrumptious, and he even thought she was attractive, which she decided
was probably fortunate, considering.
     When he _was_ pushed into a fight, his presence became compelling, even
overpowering, and naturally he never lost. He never picked fights and
suffered a sort of Jeckyl-and-Hyde relationship with himself when he was
among Foundation society. He destroyed every challenger from above and
beneath him when he was sucked into the Arena, but refused to advance his
score by initiating combat. Snapper society polarized around the issue of
whether he was brilliant or an idiot for doing this; whichever, Susan (with
help from Guile's other admirers) had made it graphically clear that multiple
ambushes would not be the sporting way to go about things.
     Mutant eyes didn't actually dilate, but when he turned to her and
smiled, his echo made it clear that he was indeed twisted.
     "Susie! What a surprise."
     Without answering, she leaned down and pressed herself into his arms,
the way Beaker had tried to do to her earlier. He responded, threading his
fingers into her hair and cradling her against him, and she was grateful.
     "Are you okay?" he asked as she straightened.
     "Unpleasantness at the Temple. It's over now."
     "I'm sorry, honey. " He stood up and straightened out his clothes. "My
coping mechanisms are a little scattered at the moment."
     "That's okay. I can cope. I just wanted to go someplace and be alone,
and you're the best person to be alone with. What do you say?"
     "Ooh, I say 'neat line.' Let's go."
     "The biggest asshole I ever met used that on me when I was at Bacon,"
Susan said, taking his arm. "I almost went for it. How'd you get in here?
You're not technically cleared for it."
     "There was a creepy on duty earlier." Guile grinned, remembering.
     "Don't say 'creepy,' Edwards."
     "Well, except for you, most of them _are_ creepy."
     "I know. It's still impolite."
     Leaving the Clubhouse, they were the cute couple walking arm in arm.
Guile tried to keep a straight face while Susan threw brightly colored
elephants and bell towers in his eyes.
     He burst out laughing outside, then sucked in a good lungful of the
sweet April air, that final brisk snap that precedes six months of Dante's
Inferno in Houston.
     "Nirvana," he said, and slipped his arm around her waist. "God, you're
beautiful. Just so you won't think I've been goofing off all day, I spent the
afternoon giving a the old-timers a demonstration on how to smash Plexiglas."
He laughed again. "I was straight then. See, you have to use your esper to
feel out the area, and then you section it off and give each part a different
nerve channel to follow...."
     She waved at a lance of mounted guards headed for the outer perimeter,
and patiently tried to keep up with his incomprehensible telekinetic
gibberish. She'd tried to read their textbooks, and some of the theory made
sense, but the advanced stuff sounded like a P.E. coach wired and trying to
sell a Unified Theory of physics. Guile's life wasn't the Arena, though.
     "...and then give it a whack with the blunt end of the old teardrop, and
kee-rash!" He flipped up his free arm without warning, firing a long blue
bullet that streaked across the path and through a section of trees, dimpling
the side of a nearby metal building with a profound bang. "Hey!" an
inhabitant yelled, irritated.
     "Shit," Guile said. "Hey, isn't that the Family warren? Let's stop in."
     "I'm not comfortable going in there, baby," Susan said, and mimed toking
a roach.
     "Of course." A wash of self-pity and remorse. "What a good influence