Dreamslave

DreamslaveStory Illustrations by Paul MooreA Pink Flamingo Ebook PublicationCopyright © 2007, All rights reservedNo part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior written permission from the publisher.For information contact:Pink Flamingo Publicationswww.pinkflamingo.comP.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083 USA Email Comments: comments@pinkflamingo.com Part One Sweet Dreams The main foyer in the Governor’s mansion was covered with mirrors, floor to ceiling, wall to wall. When the butler took her coat, Alice checked her reflection in the smoky glass, running impatient fingers through the stray locks that spilled out of her carefully styled hair. Usually, she saw her own eyes through the thick lenses of her own spectacles, staring back at her, magnified and distorted, like a startled owl. Seeing them unaided for the first time in her life was a bit of a shock, yet she recognized them. And below that? She turned sideways and ran an exploratory hand down the black silk of her dress. This was a stranger she somehow acknowledged to be Alice, a girl who was petite where she had always been gross. The chin was less sunken, the breasts higher and prouder, the hair glossier, the stance more graceful. Of course, she had almost forgotten. She had once been an Olympic gymnast until that tragedy in Munich had forced her early retirement. The muscular shoulder that her gown left bare still carried the faint traces of a surgical scar. She had recovered completely, but a gymnast sidelined for even a year was effectively prevented from ever returning to serious competition. Gymnastics is a sport for the very young. Most women her age were thinking about starting a career. She had already been forced to abandon one. The Governor’s wife bustled into the foyer, letting in laughter and a susurrus of conversation from the room beyond. “Alice! I’m so glad you could make it!” She gathered Alice into her arms and planted a social kiss on the girl’s cheek. “There are some friends here that you simply must meet!” She gushed. “They wouldn’t believe me when I told them that I knew you!” Alice sighed. Fame is a cheap bauble that tarnishes quickly. She would gladly have traded it for a single true friend. She composed her smile and allowed the Governor’s wife to lead her into the party. Heads turned and small talk ceased as Alice appeared. Many raised their eyebrows or lifted a glass to greet her as they caught her eye. It was the usual pack of party hounds—rock stars, sports heroes, super models, and Hollywood icons. Alice had wearied of their company long ago. “You know the President and First Lady, of course,” said the Governor’s wife. “How good to see you again!” said Alice, shaking the President’s hand. She had never been able to understand why some women found him attractive. The First Lady threw decorum to the winds and hugged Alice warmly. “Alice, dear!” she cried. “We never had a chance to thank you properly for resolving that crises in East Patania last year!” A waiter appeared and brought drinks to the President and First Lady. He offered one to Alice as well. “No, thank you,” she said. Then she noticed that the waiter continued to hold the drink out to her, cupping the glass from below to support a cardboard coaster under it, and his eyes were frantic with silent message. “Perhaps I’ll have just one,” she murmured. She took the drink with both hands, cradling the coaster. “Thank you.” The waiter nodded. Relief was evident in his eyes. Someone had offered him a serious reward to deliver this drink, she thought, or threatened him with serious harm if he failed. As the waiter turned and hurried away, Alice tipped the glass to drink, holding the coaster tight against the bottom of the tumbler and reading the message that a familiar hand had hastily printed on it. “Meet me on the terrace—urgent!” Excusing herself, Alice moved across the crowded room toward the French doors, which were open to the night air. The terrace was deserted, but Alice saw two fleeting shadows running hand in hand toward the shrubbery. She might have assumed that they were lovers, seeking privacy in the moonlight, but years of training made her alert to the possibility that they might have a more sinister purpose. Heart pounding, Alice moved away from the lights that spilled across the terrace and sought the protection of the shadows. “Are you alone?” The voice spoke softly from the gloom. She smiled, recognizing the weary baritone that addressed her. “Not anymore,” she said. He stepped out of concealment, suddenly very near. She had forgotten that he was so tall. He was only a slouched silhouette in a trench coat and fedora, but she could imagine the sad eyes in that rugged, mournful face, the tic that pulled at the corner of his mouth in times of stress. “It’s been a long time, shweetheart,” he said. “Too long.” She was trembling. “Too long,” she breathed, raising her chin for his kiss. Then she was swept up in one powerful arm, gasping as his mouth sealed hers, feeling the light stubble of his chin, savoring the memories conjured by the scent of his hair oil. She could feel the hard erection swelling against her thigh and remembered her surprise that night in Paris when she finally saw him naked and rampant in the soft glow of neon from the sign outside the hotel window. She had been apprehensive then, fearing that she would be unable to bear the thrust of that monster, but his gentleness and skill had aroused her. The strong scent of his cologne had barely concealed the lingering odor of gun oil as he held her close. His scarred hands had played over the tight muscle of her belly, seeking the pink buttons of her n*****s and teasing them until she was wet, and open for him, and welcomed him unafraid. She had been so much younger then, so naive, and flattered that such a powerful and dangerous man found her attractive. She hadn’t realized until later that he had been recruiting her. Youth and beauty were an alluring bait, and the aura of celebrity allowed her to move unsuspected in the highest circles of power. She was merely useful. Yet, she had forgiven his deception, such was the power of desire. When the kiss ended, she rested her head against his chest, and it was only then that she noticed the dark stain on his sleeve. One arm dangled uselessly at his side. “Rick! You’re hurt!” “S’nothing,” he said. “You have more important things to conshider right now. We both have to get out of town pronto! We can’t travel together, but I’ll be in touch. Go to Boston. Don’t take a plane. They will be watching the airports. You will be given a disk. Give the disk to an agent known as ‘Webber’. Then your job will be finished. Whatever you do, don’t let THEM get their hands on it.” She didn’t ask what was on the disk. She knew that Rick wouldn’t ask her to risk leaving deep cover to run a simple errand. The future of the world, she suspected, probably depended on the files it contained. “Will I see you in Boston?” “Maybe—but I’ll be near. I won’t let anything happen to you while I’m alive.” He flashed one of his rare smiles. She saw the gleam of his teeth in the dim light. “If you have any trouble, just whishtle.” He was trying to ease her mind. Neither of them ever spoke of danger, considering it bad luck. She squeezed his hand. He didn’t have to remind her that haste was necessary, but she never knew if she was seeing him for the last time and wanted every moment to linger. “Don’t worry,” he said, addressing her unspoken fear. “What we have is shpecial—the shtuff dreams are made of.” He threw a quick glance around the darkened garden and turned away, fading silently into the foliage. Alice knew that she had probably been followed to the party. Even now, someone was watching the French doors and waiting for her to return from the terrace. Her only hope of evading surveillance was taking a shortcut across the lawn and avoiding the house altogether. It was starting to rain, an icy sleet that chilled her bare shoulder. Alice had abandoned her coat in her haste. Now she couldn’t risk going back for it. She slipped into a cab that was idling by the gate. “Where to, lady?” asked the cabby. “Boston,” she clipped. He turned around and glared at her. The windshield wipers tocked softly. “Whaddaya drunk? Geddadahere!” She reached into her secret pocket and produced a roll of hundreds, holding it aloft so that he could see it. “Breakfast in Boston it is!” said the cabbie. He put the car in gear and roared away. Alice risked a furtive glance through the rear window of the cab and was reassured when no car followed them. She slouched in the seat, hoping that no one had noticed her leaving. Just then, the cell phone on the seat beside her began to ring. She wondered how the phone came to be there, and if the call was for her. It might be THEM seeking her, or Rick. The ringing was too insistent to ignore. She reached for the phone-and knocked the alarm clock from her nightstand. Alice lived deep inside of herself. She had no husband or lover. Her father was dead. Her mother stared at the wallpaper in a nursing home night and day, talking endlessly to the ghosts of departed loved ones but deaf to the living. It didn’t help that Alice was unattractive. Her hair was the color and texture of baling twine. She was thirty pounds overweight in a culture where obesity was considered a sin at the very least, and at worst, a contagious disease. She wore glasses, not pert and stylish ones, but heavy lenses like industrial safety goggles. She shuffled through a gray world with her eyes on the ground, wearing dresses that were as colorless and unflattering as shrouds. Alice was twenty eight years old. Autographed posters covered the walls of her apartment. She had been unable to bring herself to take any of them down. When she had used all of the available wall space, she had climbed on a chair and used the ceiling then overlaid the posters with newer ones, a chronological strata of alluring celebrity portraits wishing the best of luck to a woman they had never met. There were trails through her apartment, maze-like paths winding among mounds of old comics, discarded pizza boxes, scale models of spaceships, action figures, fiction paperbacks, fan magazines, CDs, DVDs, phonograph records, and magnetic tape. This wilderness was inhabited by electronic devices that chirped and clicked and hummed, tiny indicator lights blinking shyly through the coaxial thickets. Shining above it all was the glowing oval of her computer screen, a moon that never set. Like spinsters of old who sat in dark rooms and watched the passing throng through a window, Alice was fascinated by the lives of others. The computer put her in touch with an otherwise indifferent world. Here were blogs and chatlines, fan sites, and newsgroups—the amazing uproar of the web. It was a realm where even lonely shut-ins could speak to billions, and total strangers revealed their most intimate selves. She knew that there were predators out there, scam artists, deviates, even serial killers, but they were easily avoided by the wary; even though they appeared in the friendliest of disguises. So she was untroubled by the clutter she lived in. No one ever came to call, and her rich interior life made her real environs irrelevant. The only window in her apartment offered a panoramic view of a vacant lot. The city beyond was only lovely at night when the old w***e painted her face with neon and dimmed the lights. By day, Alice hid herself in a cubicle where she was just one more worker in the vast hive. No one noticed her as she scuttled in and seated herself behind her screen. She was a trucker on the information super highway, moving her freight with nimble fingers. The people she dealt with had no faces, and often, no names. Her paycheck was logged directly into her account. She had never spoken to her boss. Her only friend was Rick. She had never seen him. “Rick” was only a username on the Film Noir Chatline, a pseudonym, of course. She suspected that he had taken the name because he had seen “Casablanca” forty seven times. Such excess seemed obsessive. She had watched the film no more than a dozen times—at most.