He dragged the body sheath off finally and tossed it aside.
“Such a pity,” murmured Strasser. “All things considered. Tie her down.”
The sec man turned her and shoved her facedown toward the block, then pulled her
forward along it so that her breasts were squashed under her weight against the
rusty wood, her wrists thrust forward and shackled by the straps, her pelvis
jammed down just above the end of the table, on the lip, so that her legs
dangled over the side. Or at least would have dangled if she had only been
quiet. But she was kicking wildly, violently, the heel of one foot clubbing up
into the jaw of the guard who was trying to grab it. He yelled, clutched at his
mouth, tears of pain suddenly running down his face, blood spraying out from
between his lips. It looked as if he’d sunk his teeth into his tongue. Strasser
angrily gestured at the rear straps and the two guards sprang forward from the
front and controlled her, yanking her legs apart so that her buttocks
involuntarily arched, rising into the air, exposing the cleft between the legs.
The guards finished strapping her into position, and the guy who had been kicked
breathed hard, sniffing explosively, glaring at the twitching figure of the
young woman.
Okay, Ryan thought, whatever is going to happen I can’t let happen. Who she is,
what she is, none of this matters, none of it applies. It’s no good saying so
fucking what if she gets it, because I don’t mean it, and I wouldn’t mean it
even if it was someone else strapped to that bloody altar.
He took a step forward and instantly the guard beside the doorway swung his M-16
up, his finger tight on the trigger.
Strasser said, “Ah, Ryan,” as though meeting him casually on the street. “Yes?”
“Look, I dunno what all the fuss is about, Strasser. Sure I know her. She was on
the train. We picked her up: she was having trouble with some muties. Other than
that…” He shrugged.
Strasser said, “How interesting,” and turned away.
Ryan turned to glance at J.B. It seemed to him that J.B.’s face was blanker than
he’d ever seen it. He turned back. Only Strasser and Kelber were near the block
now. The guards, including the one with the blood-smeared mouth, were fanned out
around the room, rifle-ready. He could not have reached any of them before; now
it was the same situation in spades.
Pay your debts, said the Trader. Always pay your debts.
To repay the vast, the immense, debt he owed the Trader, Ryan often thought that
he would have to be in a position to give the Trader his life back, would have
needed to say to him, “You’re dying, for God’s sake. Probably some kind of rad
cancer that’s eating away your gut, your bones, everything. But something can be
done, and something’s gotta be done.” The Trader would have said, “Fuck it, I
ain’t going to no quack, Ryan,” and that would have been that. And now he was
spark-out in War Wag One, maybe slumped in a chair, maybe sprawled out on the
metal floor, and wholly at the mercy, whichever way you cut it, of Cort
Strasser.
And what did Ryan owe Krysty? He owed her his life. Simple as that. He could
suddenly feel the sticky’s slimy pads on his face, the immense sucking power
causing his cheeks to expand away from his own bones. Could actually feel it, a
tactile rerun, as though hundreds of tiny needles were stabbing and slashing
around inside his cheeks, his mouth, his jaw, a fierce agony that would not
cease until the flesh was ripped off of his skull leaving a scarlet ruin of
dripping bloody pulp.
He felt himself trembling. He leaned back against the wall. Sweat was oozing out
of his pores.
Strasser snapped his fingers. Kelber patted a breast pocket of his black jacket,
inserted a hand, fished out a small box. At the same time the guard by the upper
doorway turned and disappeared the steps to the floor above.
“Now pay attention, Ryan.”
Strasser took the box from Kelber and held it to his ear, shook it gently. What