Beyond the Horizon

Chapter 6-1

Jack looked longingly out the glass storefront.

No matter where he went, there they were. And if it weren"t a smokeshop, it was a shoot shop, or a snort shop, or a slug shop. They were all over the place.

I"d swear they"re stalking me, Jack thought.

Cherise and Misty were in the back of the boutique, trying on something or other. They"d been at it for hours, prancing out on occasion to preen themselves in front of him, demanding his opinion, generally miffed that he wasn"t effusively delighted, and then sailing back to the dressing room for the next outfit.

He didn"t know how long they could keep it up. All he knew was that he"d long since had his fill, and absolute utter boredom had set in.

Then he"d spotted the smokeshop.

Quit lying to yourself, he thought.

He"d seen it when the taxi had brought him past the boutique yesterday. Every single smokeshop in the city had been calling his name for days, since he and Misty had returned to Alpha Tuscana. Five million galacti worth of smoke danced through his dreams like sugar plum fairies (whatever those were).

His interrupted smoke session on Denebi III and the few brief puffs he"d had after seeing his old mentor, Ig, had done nothing more than whet his appetite. All he wanted now was to plunge himself into a smoke-induced oblivion.

Which he"d been plotting since leaving Canis Dogma Five.

Jack looked over his shoulder toward the dressing rooms.

Neither had come out to preen in front of him for the last few minutes. Probably trying on some undergarments, he thought, or other such unmentionables. He could hear them twittering to each other, a clerk nearby twittering happily back.

They"d forgotten completely about him.

His plan had been—yes, he"d planned his obliteration by smoke to the last detail—to leave the Southern Birds in the morning, telling the other two he was going shopping, and spend the day in a cloud of smoke, and return to the evening, no one the wiser. What was he going shopping for … something, it didn"t matter, anything would suffice. Why did he reek of smoke … well, er, uh, you know …

Almost to the last detail.

The difficulty, when he was thinking things through, was the girl, Misty. How could he tell her he just needed a little release? A little break from the constant pressure? After all, it was quite a shock to find himself suddenly burdened with the responsibility of keeping the girl safe and fed and clothed and housed. It wasn"t as if she were his actual child, whose care had been his responsibility since she was born. He wasn"t accustomed to this, and he needed time to adjust. A day of smoke-induced oblivion was the perfect way to make such adjustments.

Jack was convinced she wouldn"t understand.

In his experience, few people did. None of his wives had understood.

He tried to recount how many divorces he"d had. Got them confused with his bankruptcies. Was it three divorces and four bankruptcies, or four divorces and three bankruptcies? Maybe three bankruptcies and four divorces. No, it was definitely four bankruptcies and three divorces.

He shook his head, all of it a blur.

Any wonder why it was a blur? he asked himself, gazing out the boutique window at the smokeshop across the street. Throughout it all, he"d either been intoxicated, coming down, or crawling with craving. No one understood the craving.

The door to the boutique was opening before he knew it, and Jack nimbly dodged a flitter as he crossed the street, flipping an obscene gesture that general direction when the horn bleated.

The interior was dark. “A table in back, please,” he said.

A fancy, “please wait to be seated” sign declared how formal the establishment was.

Maybe they"ll have some quality smoke to match, he thought, the aromas wafting through the air already hinting at the palette of fine varietals available.

Himself, Jack wouldn"t have come to such a place. For Misty to find the couture she needed for her arrival at the palace, they"d had to find the finest boutique on Alpha Tuscana.

When they"d arrived at the shop, Misty had planted a hand on her hip, shoved her nose in the air, and stomped her foot. “I can"t believe this is the best available.”

Colonnaded faux-marble framed glasma so thick that the models behind it looked smaller from distortion. The one man and three women donning and shedding the finest clothing on the planet seemed oblivious to their near nudity. Their finely-sculpted bodies, eidolons of the human physique, seemed inadequate frames for the finely-crafted clothing they displayed.

At her comment, Jack had almost turned into the smokeshop. Strategically placed right across the street, of course. While the spouse was in one establishment being immersed in a forest of fine fabric and chic design, the distinguished patron might indulge himself in an analogous immersion into seas of exotic exhaust and voluptuous vapors.

Jack browsed the smokeshop menu, the booth"s low lamp outshone by the handheld pad showing the shop"s array of fine smoke. He swiped through the long list of choices, from Aldebaran delight to Zosma Zoom, then reorganized it by price, most expensive on top.

He whistled in disbelief at the top one, Torcularis Titillation, supposedly the best available.

Putting a thousand-galacti chit on the table, Jack signaled the waiter. “That one,” he said, pointing.

“If you"ll note, Sir, the menu clearly specifies that the Torcularis requires a deposit.”

“What"s that on the table, emu excrement?”

The waiter sniffed indignantly and found a spot on his sleeve that merited more attention.

Jack put another chit on the table.

The waiter brightened. “Right away, Sir.”

The bowl arrived, an elaborate fleur-de-lis wrought in Vulpecula Salacia ceramic, a material that was both unbreakable and impervious to heat. At the base of the fleur-de-lis was a reservoir. “And what liqueur would the monsieur prefer?”

Jack found it amusing that the pronunciation of “liqueur,” “monsieur,” and “prefer,” all ended the same as the word “sewer.” In the finer establishments, one"s choice of liqueur for the reservoir was what separated the wheat from the chaff. “Anise is de rigueur,” Jack said, pronouncing it the same, “but I prefer water with a slice of lemon.”

“The titillation is best experienced with the least of accents, Monsieur. Good choice.” The waiter soon returned with the condiment, filled the reservoir, then poised himself, a dainty tongue just reaching the corner of the mouth, his hand holding the striker above the bowl.

Jack wondered what perverse individual had instituted the custom whereby the waiter was required to apply the first flame to a bowl of smoke. But only in the finer establishments.

Jack gave the waiter a nod, and a flame kindled to life at the end of the striker. Jack drew and half-filled his lungs. The waiter capped the bowl and set down the striker, then bowed to Jack.

Euphoria filled him, and his corporeal existence fell away.

* * *

Disembodied voices intruded upon his euphoric obliteration.

“What should we do with him?” A girl"s voice.

Jack knew he"d had too much, and he couldn"t understand how he heard anything.

“What we do,” said the waiter"s voice, “is put people like this out in the alley, with the rest of the trash.”

we“Certainly is tempting, isn"t it?” A woman"s voice. Cherise?

His brain was so saturated with d**g that he wasn"t able to walk.

“I can"t believe he just left us there.”

Or talk.

“What was he thinking?”

Or think.

“Only of himself, clearly.”

It was heaven.

“Why would he put himself through such hell?”

It"s not hell, he wanted to say.

“Why would he put us through such hell?”

Put who through what? he wondered.

“You"re nine, you can"t say that.”

“You did.”

“I"m an adult. Stars above, I felt like such a fool, standing there with thousands in purchases, looking around for Jack. If the clerk hadn"t mentioned it, I wouldn"t have thought to look here.”

“Did you see her face? If we hadn"t been right in front of her, she"d have been laughing herself silly.”

“Happens all the time,” she said, “but not to us! The scoundrel! What a complete waste of time! What a complete waste of space!”

“I wonder if he can hear us.”

“He"s so thoroughly intoxicated, he probably thinks we"re aliens come to do biological experiments on him.”

“Can that stuff hurt someone?”

“You mean if they smoke too much? Eventually, but I"ve never heard of someone overdosing on it, not by smoking it, anyway. Oh, Jack, what are we going to do with you?”

“We"re closing, ma"am. He"ll need to leave.” The waiter again.

“Could you get us a taxi, please? Is that the back door? Have it pull up into the alley.”

“Yes, ma"am.” Steps receding.

“Here, help me. I want to make sure they didn"t filch everything from his pockets.”

“Would they do that here? A place like this?”

Silence. He didn"t even feel them tugging on his clothes, although by the sounds of their efforts, his pockets were difficult to get to.

“You know, what we"re not finding is the cube.” Cherise voice was low and secretive.

“If it doesn"t want to be found, we wouldn"t find it anyway.”

“Huh?”

“Here comes the waiter.”

“The taxi will be here momentarily, ma"am.”

Sounds faded and Jack sensed little else but the cosmic rays of d**g-exaggerated neural activity. He felt some sensations of motion but assumed it was the momentum of his blissful flight across the galaxy.

“Southern Birds?” A man"s voice. “First time I"ve taken someone there in his state. Picked up quite a few. Quite the reversal. You"re Madam Mariposa, aren"t you? The trip is on the dash. Huh? I mean it"s free. No, no, least I could do. Thank you for all your business. No, don"t worry about him. I get regular calls from that place, happens…”

his“All the time,” the two women chimed in.

* * *

The sensation of rolling, and then the floor struck his face hard enough to hurt. He tried to squint, but the light was too bright so he kept his eyes closed. He tried to talk but the dirty rags in his mouth stopped him from talking.

Was I kidnapped? he wondered, his thoughts sluggish.

No, not rags in his mouth, just a dry, swollen tongue. Might as well be a rag for all it obeyed him. His brain wouldn"t either, and he wondered what he"d been doing.

And where he was.

More than once, he"d awakened in an alley, his pockets emptied, along with his bowel and bladder, plunged so deep into an abyss of withdrawal that he"d lost track of where he was or how he"d got there.

He recognized enough of the feeling now to know he"d been severely intoxicated to the point of being insensate.

Cold water doused him, cold enough to elicit a gasp. He spasmed in shock. The light still too bright, he turned again to speak, a hand out and up as though to ward off more dousing, which did nothing to stop the next bucket.

It filled his open mouth, set off a fit of coughing, washed the gum from his eyes, dissolved some of the resin coating his brain cells, and got his tongue working.