Systemic Shock

Mr. Q. They did some microsurgery on me, too, but as soon as I quit biting my cheeks I got used to it. You look pretty damn' good to me. Were you even better before?'

His glass was empty, his patience draining away as well. “I was me before,' he said, heading for the bourbon already a bit light-headed. 'How the fuck, 'scuse me, I'm fresh from basic training, how'd they do it so fast? And I'm not 'Mr. Q', I'm Private Ted Quantrill and I wonder when the training starts.'

'You're not a private, Ted.' The voice was still musical, but low and earnest. 'Your pay is a three-striper's, same as mine, and you'll have your fill of training before you leave this lotus-land.'

'But there must be somebody I report to.'

'You mean Control? Take it from me,' she smiled, “Control doesn't impose any hut-hut stuff unless you need it. You'll find out about that in a class we call 'Cover'; the Army more or less took us apart and rebuilt us before we got here. It's a departure from other intelligence schools, but one of the things they know about you is that you don't need saluting or motivating. Gunsels just don't, I guess. None of us do.'

Quantrill poured himself a generous slug of bourbon. “What if I motivated myself down the mountain and hitched a ride somewhere?'

'I imagine Control would disappear you — but as far as I know, that's never happened. They know what you want, Ted.' For a moment the brown eyes lit with an odd intensity, the nostrils flared above an aggressive grin. 'You have the right stuff to take direct action; personal action. Once they weed out the crazies — the ones who just get their jollies from icing people in general — they come down to us. We have the natural equipment to face an enemy one-on-one, and we're willing to flog like hell for the chance. I don't think you'd be here if you wanted anything more than you want that.'

Studying the girl, Quantrill sensed her zeal to destroy the destroyers, to hunt the hunters. Evidently he had joined the right club. He smiled and tried to sip without choking.

She watched him drink. 'They say bourbon affects people's sex drive. D'you think it interferes or helps?'

He spilled a little, gulped a little. 'I'm not sure.'

She uncoiled, kicked off her wedgies, a smile of bogus innocence transfixing him as she stepped nearer. Her free hand went under his arm, her cheek nuzzling his. “We could find out. Actually I have a little coke; they didn't search me for my stash — and guess where I keep mine,' she giggled.

Too kittenishly. He felt lithe muscle in her casual embrace; sensed a tension, a spring-loaded trigger, in her willingness.

His erection died at birth, and he knew she was crowded near enough to notice. “Maybe later, 'he murmured, patting her shoulder. Jeezus but she was tempting; and so was the free alcohol, and for that matter the offer of a free body-search to find forbidden drugs within other delights.

Which made it all clearly a setup. He strode to the cabinet again, filled his glass with mixer. Some small imp made him sway his hips as he moved to the bed and sat down, kicking off his shoes in bald imitation of her, patting the rumpled coverlet. He was uncertain about the twitches on the lovely face, but she sat with him and sipped again. “Now,' he said with as much nasal sensuality as he could muster, 'tell me about T Section.'

Her smile was dazzling this time, her body shaking with repressed mirth. 'Don't you like me?'

He stared at her breasts, her high-arched insteps, her mouth. 'You are without question a Nobel Prize pussy, Sanger, and I promise to think about you later tonight,' he said in open insolence.

Her smile faltered under his scrutiny. There was something of relief and of genuine wistfulness in her, “I 'll accept that, Quantrill. It's costing me, but I'll accept it.'

'Now about T Section,' he prodded.

It was a zero-sum world, she sighed. Every move you made in T Section was a step forward or backward for somebody. If you had minor weaknesses they would be found and expunged. Major weaknesses got you bounced. You were issued recorders, keyboard cassettes, anything within reason for the classes which were held in upper rooms of the big house, far from the tourist route. You could spend as little time as you liked studying. You were smart to study a lot, because Control was anxious to use only the very best candidates. T Section would give you every tool to succeed, every opportunity to fail — and cardinal sin number one was the failure of common sense.

Quantrill stared at his drink. Common sense told him he'd gulped that first glass too quickly; anything that impaired your control had to be an error. “I can't read your mind,' he said. 'When do I get a list of do's and don'ts?'

'Tomorrow's Saturday,' she said as if she thought she were answering his question. 'Your carrel will wake you early and someone will come for you. We'll be doing covert weapons work on the range — there's half a county for us to use here — so wear jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and sneakers.' She took a deliberate sip of her drink, eyed him. 'Are we going to let this nice big bed go to waste?'

Instantly: 'Is sex a failure of common sense?'

'Sometimes yes, sometimes no,' she shrugged, and used a finger to trace the seam on his pullover. “Mm; nice shoulders.'

He stared into her eyes, smiled sadly. 'I think I'd like a rain check,' he husked.

'It'll be a long time before the rain stops,' she said with nonchalance, slipping to the floor, scuffing into her shoes. 'I live on the floor below, and I have some cramming to do. See you in class.'

He walked with her to the door, suffused with a mixture of relief, desire, and uncertainty. 'I'll tell you something, Marbrye Sanger, this has been the damnedest welcome I ever got, I need to sort things out.'

'Don't worry about it,' she said with the barest hint of pique. 'You haven't flunked yet.' Her departing footfalls were almost noiseless in the evening gloom.

Quantrill was still standing in the doorway when the carrel chimed for attention. He found that his name was now an input code and the terminal would answer certain queries from typed input; no voice input accepted.

When and where would he find supper? He wouldn't, that night.

What was the status of Marbrie Sanger? Marbrye — the correction was underlined — Sanger was an advanced trainee in T Section; 'Q¹ clearance, no on-site restriction.

Why had Sanger visited Quantrill? A multiplex enticement-frustration test.

'Shit,' he muttered, and typed another question: had he passed? No comment.

The terminal verified Sanger's instructions for the next day, adding that meals would be provided. As afterthought, he asked what courses he would take. He found the list daunting:

COVER, Unofficial, and Control

CRYPTANALYSIS

INTELLIGENCE, Theory

INVESTIGATION, Methods

LINGUISTICS

PSYCHOLOGY, Criminal

PSYCHOLOGY, Social

SCIENCE, Military, unconventional

SCIENCE, Political, and Indoctrination

SURVEILLANCE, Use and Nullification

TERMINATIONS, Covert, and Pursuit

WEAPONS, Covert and Overt

The terminal would give no coursework details. Quantrill suspected that the Sanger hotsy had already reported the results of her welcome; dimly perceived that T Section might have monitored their brief meeting. It did not yet occur to him that San Simeon might be instrumented in such a way that Marbrye Sanger had no need to report; nor that Control, while testing his responses to uncertainty, had already begun the process of instilling in him a mild and necessary paranoia.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Within a few days Quantrill learned to accept the bizarre setting in which he might jog five klicks with a