Flora nodded.
“Come on, Mac, you can’t be serious …” Rahim was struggling with his former colleagues. Flora reached around the other woman’s grip and pulled Rahim’s arms back into the plastic wrist and elbow cuff strips.
“That’s what you thought,” said the grey man. “Now you know different. Live and learn.”
He stood in the door of his office watching until they managed Rahim into the security elevator. Shaking his head, he walked back to his desk.
Kowalski knocked on the open door a few moments later.
“Mac?”
The grey man raised his head from his fingertips, with which he had been massaging his tense forehead. He left his elbows planted on the desk, and steepled his fingers reflectively. “Ko. You are a very lucky man.”
Kowalski slid into the office. “I’m sorry, Mac. I …”
“Let’s skip all that,” said the grey man. “You still have a job. Enjoy it. And don’t ever piss me off that much again.”
Ko relaxed slightly. “Thanks, Mac. I …” He stopped, at a loss.
“The end of that sentence is, ‘I owe you big-time’. Don’t relax. Don’t mistake my calmness for approval. I
will
be watching you. I
am
counting misdemeanors. That’s two. One more, and you’re history too. Ask Flora what happened to Rahim.” And he returned his forehead to the cradle of his fingertips.
At the door Kowalski paused. “About May Murphy …”
Mr. Grey looked up. “Don’t send her to Back-of-Beyond. She obeyed orders. Do what I’m doing with you. Give her a chance to redeem herself.”
“Right. Um … why?”
“Why? Because I limit myself to one evisceration per day. So far. Because nothing you did was illegal. Because I need at least one lieutenant who has been around since the beginning and knows what the hell is going on. Because you’ll work harder and better and smarter under probation, and so will she. Because I’m an old-fashioned cop. Don’t push it.”
“Um, thanks, Mac.”
“It’s not because I like you. Don’t ever make that mistake. Now get out of here.”
“So, you’re collecting het guys now that they won’t let you go play with women?” Jakob drawled.
“Collecting what?”
“That Sal. Russ, now.”
“I didn’t
collect
Russ. And I didn’t do that policeman, remember?”
“Oh, sure. That cop would have done any of us. He almost had
me
up against the fridge.”
“He made out like he hated queers.”
“Come on. Of course he did. But he was a starfucker.”
“Well, I guess you’re a star, on the net, but why come on to me?”
“He knew shit about netdance. People who hang out with the
alien
are stars. He would have fucked
Blue
if Blue were available.”
“Who says Blue isn’t? We’re teaching Blue to be a person; people have sex.”
“Blue’s yours. Everybody knows that.”
“Jakob! Blue is not!”
“Anybody you want is yours, it seems.”
“Hey, Azalea Trailmaiden, I thought we-all wuz free-ends! What’s the bitchiness about?”
Jakob shook his head, abashed. “Sorry, honey. Ain’t been laid in a long time now. Warps my mind.”
“What about Aziz?”
“Aziz is one of the new breed of dry sex addicts. He doesn’t actually put out. Saving himself for marriage, or something.”
“I don’t get it. I thought …”
“I don’t get it either. That’s the point. But I’m not sure that Aziz would slake my thirst anyway. I have more substantial desires.”
“Are
you
interested in
Blue?”
Morgan said, surprised.
“That’s not what I meant, exactly, but you have to admit, he’s the sweetest thing in a long time, chile. And this is a houseful of sweet things. Kinda gets my sweet tooth going, know what I mean?”
“Maybe I don’t. Are you mad at me for spending that time with Russ?”
Jakob looked away, and licked his lips. He opened his hands and stared at the palms, shook his head, and then snapped his hands away from himself as if shaking off water—or fire ants. “I’m not mad at you, honeychile. I thought I was, but I just figured it out. I’m mad at him.”
Jakob walked out of the kitchen, leaving Morgan standing, surprised, staring after him.
Hmm,
she thought.
Curiouser and curiouser.
She raised her own hands but there was nothing to see in her palms except spidery lines of life, patterns of use, which, unlike what other people were constantly doing, told her nothing new.
Blue came into the kitchen while she was still looking after Jakob.
“Have you thought about sex? I mean, with other people?” Morgan asked Blue.
“Isn’t that the only way to have sex?” Blue countered.
“You know perfectly well that there’s auto-eroticism—”
Blue interrupted. “Masturbation. But that’s not sex, is it?”
“Many people think it is.”
“You don’t.”
“Well, no, but that’s my opinion. You don’t have to believe the same things I do.”
“I heard Jakob talking to you. I know I belong to myself. But I like the way you think. It seems worthwhile to follow some of your thinkings and opinions.”
“Sex … ?”
“I have been thinking I should try it. Do you suppose I need to use all the proper protections?”
“I would if I were you. No telling what infections you could catch.”
“Will you teach me?” Blue took her hands.
Ignoring the short, sharp shock that contact with Blue always gave her, Morgan said gently, “No, dear, I won’t. I wouldn’t be a good teacher right now.”
“You taught Russ.”
“What is it with everybody?” she said, irritably. “Are Russ and I public property? It was just something that happened. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that thing you did to us wasn’t part of why it happened.”
“Things like that don’t just happen,” said Blue. “They have to be wanted.”
Morgan, surprised, said, “How wise you are becoming.”
Blue looked pleased. “Thank you!”
“It’s not a compliment.”
“I mean thank you for making me wise.”
“I didn’t make you wise. You got wise like all people do: by learning and applying your learning to experience.”
“I told you before. You made me entirely. There was no Blue without you.”
Disquieted, Morgan pulled her hands from Blue’s feverish grip. “You need to get some sleep time,” she said. “You’re getting obsessive again.”
Russ caught her looking at TravelNet Asean destinations on the house computer.
“Planning a trip?” he said.
“No, just wishing I could,” she said. “What’s it like there?”
He looked at the screen. “It’s peacefully autocratic,” he said. “No guns. They enforce conformity through bad vid. Just like the stuff I make at work. It’s warm and orchids grow all over the city. There are seven beautiful fountains, and at night we used to sit by the canal at sidewalk tables while touts from the hawker stalls brought us fruit and skewers of satay. Cats with short curly tails would brush by our legs and jump on the tables for their dinners. You could get the most beautiful textiles in the market there the first time I went, but by last year, it was all under government control: prices up, quality down. There was a beautiful amusement park for the tourists, though.”
“Oh, did you like it?”
“No, I hated it,” he said shortly, and moved to leave.
“Russ … ,” she said quickly.
He turned to look at her. His face was hard, but at her expression, softened into a smile.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I made some good vid. I’m helping bring down the government there, even as we speak. It was fine.”
She shook her head. “Are you all right with what happened with us?”
“Are you worried? I’m sorry,” he said quickly, and sat down by the desk. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m fine, kiddo. I just don’t expect anything more from you, if you know what I mean.”
“I like you a lot, Russ.”
“Likewise. But—”
“But?”
He was silent, looking at his hands.
There’s a lot of that going around,
thought Morgan. He glanced up and caught her smile.
“It’s been a long time since I trusted anyone much,” he said. “You are the most consistent person I know—and don’t immediately start gathering evidence to disprove me. I mean it. Letting me touch you was one of the best of the gifts you have given me, and I know that it wasn’t a promise of anything except who you already are with me, if that makes sense. But—”
“That word again.”
“You don’t know me, Morgan. You don’t know what I do. My hands aren’t clean.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m not ready for relationships. I don’t really want any friends.”
She smiled at the echo. “It’s too late,” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, and laughed his infectious laugh.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Take it from me. It doesn’t hurt that much.”
Dancing lessons
Morgan was sitting on the steps looking at the moths inside the porch flying wishfully against the light, the wall, the door. She tested out a few metaphysical conceits—I am the moth, etc.—but she only felt like a fool in the eyes of the universe. Not to speak of the eyes of the world. Looking at the aimless, solitary, kamikaze autumn moths, hiding from the outside chill in a suicidal cul-de-sac, she decided, instead of angst she would have a social life again. It had been stupid to flirt with despair when she could have been dancing. She got up and went inside.
In the kitchen, Jakob was leaning into the refrigerator—look—ing for beer, he said to her complainingly.
“Beer? What the hell for?”
“To wash my hair.”
“Good gracious. May as well try mayonnaise.”
“Really?”
“Chill, chile. What’s this nervous thing?”
“I’m the guest of honor at this damn festival. Loads of lissome boys just dying to rub some of the star quality off onto their buff little butts. I have to look the part!”
“Star quality. Is
that
what you call it?”
He arranged his draperies a little. “Look at this rag …”
“You’ll be
fine!”
said Morgan. “Just go. Just be. It’s about time you were lionized. And Aziz gave you some practice. Will he be there?”
“Probably. The little shit.”
“I thought you forgave him.”
“I forgave him for being blackmailed by his cousin. I didn’t forgive him for being a cocktease.”
“All the more reason to have some groupies show him how he was supposed to properly adore you!”
“Grrr,” said Jakob, slammed the fridge, and sailed out, golden and silver veils trailing. He had managed to evoke the
Slow Glass
vid effects with clothing and carriage alone. She expected that the young dancers would indeed want to get personal. Her momentary envy crystallized her intention, and she dressed for maximum effect herself, then pulled on her warm wrap and, avoiding the press and surveillance by going out the small hidden wrought-iron side gate in the depths of the caragana hedge while Jakob was drawing their attention to the front door, she walked downtown.
Although outside the air was crisply autumnal, in the club the air was heavy with humidity and humanity—and even traces of cigarette smoke, from the clothing of the older dykes who still smoked at home and in their 4×4s. The floor of the old converted warehouse was rough, unfinished, with ground-in dirt and oil, so the smell of old wood was strong. Morgan left her coat in the crowded vestibule and pushed through the double doors, surprised at the hesitation she felt. Inside, as she looked around, she felt only familiar, thinking how all the private gay clubs she’d ever seen looked the same as this, the first one she’d ever seen, almost two decades ago now. Bar. Dance floor. Steel entrance door. Washrooms with the door hinges broken, so the doors had to be propped open, so the fluorescent light outlined the people going in or returning to the general dimness. Bad murals painted on the corridor to the washrooms.
And the people, staying the same as we all get older, she thought. The oldest dykes in their plaid going-out-to-dance shirts, the middle-aged in their black leather, some in the harnesses which showed off their pierced nipples, and the ones Morgan’s age in shiny black, as she was. The young, trendy babyqueers of several genders wore loose white silk shirts with the leather vests underneath, and the white headdresses like a silent-movie sheik: until you started to strip them down, thought Morgan, you’d think you were fucking Mother Teresa.
If any of them remembered who that was—she’d been a heroine of Morgan’s impressionable early years, and her death had hit the young Morgan hard, sending her out to rave clubs to overcompensate with E, and GHB for the morning sketchiness, until third- and fourth-year university became more interesting than all-night dancing. Around then, too, the breakup with Scott had made embodiment at queer clubs more interesting than mindlessness. Now, who were their heroes, and what drugs did these young people do to forget that they did not live up to those heroes?
“Hey!” said a voice in Morgan’s ear. “A face from the past!” Morgan turned. It was Kyla, one of the friends from the old days, whom Morgan had seen on the street once or twice since returning to this city.
“How are you?” said Morgan.
“Hungry!” growled Kyla jokingly, and Morgan laughed. “Me too. But hey, it’s a moveable feast, right?” Kyla smiled ferally and plunged into the crowd. Bemused, Morgan looked after her, and as she did, Morgan’s long hair was snagged by the metal rings on the shoulder of a passing woman whose shaved head was growing in grey, and after the obligatory flirtatious apology, Morgan impatiently pulled her hair together and tied it back. She felt the knot bounce against her vertebrae like the touch of a phantom hand to her back above the low-cut back of her top, and she shivered. Her body was waking up to the world. She turned rapidly and bumped into someone who had been following the same channel through the crowd.
“Sorry,” she said automatically, then saw that it was the two young women from the CSIS patrol. The one she had thought was certainly a dyke, Ace, and the other one, whose name she didn’t know, whom she would have said was straight, but here she was, hand in hand with Ace, and blushing. “Hey, hi,” Morgan said. “Nice to see you here.”
“Sure,” said Ace, “hey.”
She had already pushed past them, smiling, when it occurred to her to wonder if they were here because they were working, were following her. She turned around and saw the younger one pull her hand from Ace’s and turn away, her face unhappy. Inconclusive.
The crowded dance floor was full. Morgan pushed past the bar and leaned against the counter at the back, where the drag queens were dishing to each other in shrill voices. She grinned. When she had been in university, different drag queens at this same club had been her best friends. Long time ago, it felt like, though it was only fifteen years since she’d graduated. She had been so young, she thought.
“Hey, wanna dance?” The voice was loud in her ear. She turned to see a zaftig young blonde in a less extreme version of the billowy uniform leaning toward her. A woman, she saw, though the wild hair and smooth face were delightfully ambiguous. They threaded back through the crowd to the dance floor. Just as they got there the music shifted to a slow tune and Morgan slowed momentarily, but the young woman drew her into an embrace.
“You are, you are gorgeous,” she said breathlessly, in that strange popular cadence in which so many younger people seemed to speak these days, which Morgan found a little edgy at best. She wouldn’t let Blue imitate it from vid. But the girl was flushed and attractive, the music hot antique and familiar, and Morgan was intrigued.
“I’m Nancy. Hey, do you like it here? Hey—”
“Shhh,” said Morgan, and put her fingers over the girl’s mouth. Girl. Young woman, okay, thought Morgan, but so young. “Are you legal?” said Morgan abruptly. Despite all the human rights challenges, last year’s “law reform” had succeeded: twenty-five was now legal age for same-sex sex, though for heteros it was still sixteen.
Nancy laughed. “Sure! They make you show ID here, anyway. But ask, ask anybody!”
Morgan smiled at Nancy, keeping secret her self consciousness, almost amazed, as well as amused, by the realization that she felt rusty at this.
I used to be able to rope and hog-tie
’
em with the best
, she thought, and laughed at the thought of this apparition trussed like a rodeo calf. Nancy had begun to smile at Morgan’s laughter, and Morgan made the smile wider when she said, “I haven’t been here for a while. What’s new in dancing styles?”
“We-ell,” said Nancy, “we like, like to get real close”—she demonstrated—“and dance, dance real slow, and put a leg in between your legs like this” and she ground her thigh against Morgan’s groin. Morgan felt the familiar ache of arousal, knew this baby dyke was no babe in the woods. “Mmmmm, and … ?” and Nancy’s hand pressed the small of her back, so that Morgan was held against the taller woman as they danced slowly.
Morgan felt the ache rise, transpose into another key, and the heat flow through her face. She leaned into Nancy languidly.
This young one is almost as fast a mover as I used to be, way back when
, Morgan thought, remembering how many times she, halfclad and panting, had leaned back against some corridor wall of some bar or community hall while the conquest of the moment knelt in front of her or leaned into her, as they hurried through the night’s flirtation to a sweaty, abandoned orgasm. Now she was the one feeling shy and this youth was moving her through the same, pun inevitable, dance. Somewhere behind the heat, the defiance too was the same, but before Morgan could bring this uncomfortable insight to the front of her mind, the music stopped and they drew apart. Glimpsing their reflection in the mirror-tiled wall, Morgan saw how little and yet how much the heat showed in their faces. “Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said. The side door was near the dance floor. She and Nancy, hands joined, pushed through the couples coming untangled the same way, and Morgan popped open the exit door.
They tumbled out into a crowd. Photographers, reporters. Who immediately turned from their concentration on the main hall door, to converge on her.
“There she is! Hey, Ms. Shelby!” one of them yelled, and they crowded around her.
“Hey, Constance, over here. How does it feel to have an alien living with you?”
“Hell, how does it feel to have an alien,” one of the men said, heavy with innuendo, and the reporters laughed.
The door had clicked shut behind them, and they were pinned up against the building. Nancy was turned away from the lights, her arm up over her face. The loose white sleeve was as good as a curtain. Morgan, wearing tight-fitting, low-cut black, was not so easily able to protect herself.
“Are you teaching the alien to be a pervert?”
“How many lovers have you had?”
“Who did you sleep with to get your assignment?”
“Did you bring the alien with you? Is that her in disguise?”
They began to pluck at Morgan and Nancy’s clothing. Neither had said a word, and now they were pushed too hard to speak.
“Okay, that’s enough,” said the unmistakable voice of authority. It was the CSIS cops, Ace and the other woman. They had their badges out and were pushing the crowd aside. The photographers pulled back to photograph the cops too.
“Break it up,” said the other cop, her voice rough and authoritative.
“You,” said Ace to the nearest camera operator, “do you have a media permit? Let’s see it.”
“I left it in the van,” said the photographer. Ace grabbed the camera and pressed the Delete Images key.
“
No!
” he shouted. The reporters were fumbling in their pockets now for their permits. It was a new law; lots of the media people weren’t used to it yet; Morgan had already noticed that at media scrums outside the house. Some of the reporters were trying to fade away quickly before they were noticed. The print photographers were gone first. The videorazzi kept filming, their permits clamped in the hands holding the camera grips.
“Do they assign lesbian cops to follow lesbians?” said one of the tabloid reporters, waving her permit for attention. Ace, angry, grabbed Morgan and Nancy by the elbows, hustled them back through the vestibule door the other cop was holding open. “No comment,” said the other cop breathlessly, and slammed the door on the media. Ace at the same time slammed the inside door, the one that opened into the hall where the curious queers were starting to crowd. The double impact made a sudden pressure flash in Morgan’s ears, and she shook her head involuntarily. Alone in the bleak vestibule, the four squared off like square dancers, or maybe more like pro wrestlers, each at their corner.
“Are you out of your
mind?
” Ace quietly grated to Morgan. “Coming here without security? Didn’t you think something like this would happen? You’re not a fucking civilian any more. Thank heavens you forgot to take off your chip.”
“Well, you rose to the occasion,” Morgan said, still shivering from being coatless in the near-zero outside. “Or were you just here on a date, like that queer-basher from the
Sun
said?”
“I wish,” said Ace. “I don’t have time for a private life since I got this fucking assignment, and if I did, would I have brought the straight-arrow Ice Queen here?”
The other woman blushed, with what this time? Anger? Embarrassment? Humiliation? “I’ll get the squad car,” she said, and she slipped out the door into the uproar outside.
“Well, that’s that partnership out the window,” said Ace as she held the door shut.
“Don’t be so paranoid,” said Morgan, rummaging for her coat on the overcrowded coatrack. “It’s pretty obvious you’re queer.”
“You shouldn’t have said that, about her,” Nancy said unexpectedly. “You did it to shock
us
.
And
you hurt your friend.” She had found her coat, a voluminous old duster with several wool sweaters underneath, and was struggling into the layers. “And besides, who are we?” she continued. “We don’t know you. You don’t have to justify yourself for us. I’m just a one-night stand for Morgan, she’s just an assignment for you.”