The Facilitator (2 page)

Paranoia wasn’t really part of who she was, but neither was utter idiocy. She liked her privacy and did whatever she could to ensure it. But today, with a successful facilitation behind her, she was simply tired and not interested in polite chatter.

The sensation of thick carpet beneath her feet made her sigh with pleasure as she stripped off her boots and wiggled her toes blissfully in the dark blue pile. Her clothing followed, all tossed into the molecular detachment chute. She’d call up a new outfit tomorrow, deciding on cut, color and style, and then waiting for the molecules to reassemble themselves into her wardrobe. It was an efficient system even though it had completely devastated the fashion industry and several top French designers had committed suicide when it came on the market. Given what they’d come up with prior to that time, Martine figured it was no great loss.

Nude, she walked into the kitchen area, scanned the food-prep screen and opted for her favorite, a thick vegetable soup and some fresh bread. While it was preparing itself, she keyed in a glass of wine and took it to the granite-topped counter separating her living area from the kitchen.

It was routine, the kind of thing she did each evening. Along with checking her messages. The comm light was blinking so she perched on a stool and touched the screen set in to the countertop.

“Hey, doll. We’re going to Club Midnite. Wanna throw on your vampire gear and come get crazy?”

That was Dana, one of the nurses at Eternal Tranquility. She was a good friend and fun to hang with. Martine moved on to the next message. No point in making any decisions until she’d run through them all.

“Hi, Martine. Just figured I’d call and see if you’re free to get together sometime soon?”

Hmm. Jared. He’d been hell on wheels in bed and they’d had one hot night together. But overall, sexual skills aside, his personality had rated a seven on the yes-but-let’s-talk-about-me-shall-we? scale. And he wasn’t really very interesting even when she did.

Delete
.

“Cute tits on you, baby. Wanna fuck me like a…”

Delete
. Damn techs. Always pulling shit like that. Porn messages were the latest fad at Eternal Tranquility. The dirtier the better.

“Ms. TwoSeven, this message is to confirm deposit of credits to your account from your employer of record…”

Yeah yeah. Martine nodded as she listened to her paycheck being evaluated, cross-checked, cataloged and finally deposited, missing a large lump as she did her bit to support the rest of the country. Fucking taxes.

She saved that one too, since she’d go back and take a look at her account after she’d eaten.

On that thought, her food-prep unit chimed and the scent of fresh bread and vegetable soup filled the room. It only took a few moments for her to set her wine and her food on the counter and grab a robe. Nobody liked a splash of hot vegetable soup on bare skin.

There were a couple of messages left, so she tore off some bread and munched as she continued to scroll.

“Ms. TwoSeven. Message from the director. Please key in security-activation code to view message.”

“Wow,” she mumbled around a mouthful of bread, swallowed and took a quick sip of wine. She didn’t often get anything from anyone high up on the food chain. This was unexpected, since the director wasn’t even
on
the food chain. He was top dog. Head honcho of Eternal Tranquility.

The dude probably even had
windows
. Not that there was much to see, given the environmental disasters of a century or so ago, but still.
Windows
. All she had were holopaintings. Good ones, though.

Taking a breath, she keyed in the appropriate codes and waited to be addressed by the next thing to God in her world.

“Good evening, Ms. TwoSeven.”

His voice was smooth, his appearance more like that of an avuncular academician, complete with the tweedy jacket and studded leather chair. The round tortoiseshell glasses, in an age of eye transplants, were a nice touch.

“First, let me say how pleased we are with your work as a facilitator. You are a credit to Eternal Tranquility, and I’m happy to be able to tell you there’s a bonus on the way to your account as a mark of our appreciation.”

Well, that was a nice surprise. Martine blinked, caught off-guard by the compliment and the money. She almost missed his next words.

“…coming in tonight. He’s a special case and we’d like you to handle his facilitation in the morning. All the arrangements have been made. Unfortunately, this is one of those patients who will require every ounce of your skills, Ms. TwoSeven. However, I’m confident you won’t let us down.” He glanced off camera as if checking on something. “The files will be attached to this message. Please contact my assistant if you have questions. Good night, Ms. TwoSeven.”

The screen went blank, and Martine felt her mind assume pretty much the same state. She’d gotten a bonus and a difficult case in one fell swoop.

Curious, she tapped the attachment and opened the single folder she’d been sent. One page was inside. The heading was in red.

“
Subject UAM. Please alert facilitator.”

She winced. UAM meant unable to accept mortality, and defined those poor folks who refused to admit they were at the end of their existence. They clung to life with tooth and nail, fighting the inevitable.

Martine disliked facilitating them. It was difficult to ease their concerns, sometimes painful for them both, and drained her resources, both physical and mental. Thus far she’d had several of them and eventually succeeded in helping them leave in peace.

She’d surrendered her own peace for several days afterward. And she really wasn’t looking forward to it again. Thankfully not a lot of them came to Eternal Tranquility, since the whole point of the place was to bid farewell to their lives. If people refused to accept the endgame, odds were pretty good they weren’t going to show up to be facilitated. Those who did had been sent there by their relatives or whoever had power of attorney over their estate. She was of two minds when it came to this issue.

Death was inevitable. But Eternal Tranquility offered the chance to deal with it in the most pleasant way possible under the circumstances. The operative word being
offered
. It was a choice. One a recalcitrant client refused to even consider, and that made creating a final illusion extremely challenging.

There was an image included on the data sheet—surprisingly, a holoshot. Something usually reserved for sports stars or other infamous celebrities. Martine opened it and got her first look at the man who would soon connect with her and surrender what was left of his life energies.

He didn’t look sick. He looked…
savage
.

Chapter Two

No click of high heels accompanied Martine’s steps as she walked to the facilitation station at 0930 as requested in her log.

She’d set her bedroom to deep-sleep mode last night, knowing her mind was troubled and she’d have difficulty getting the rest she needed. Fortunately the white noise—a softly flowing stream—and the minute adjustment in the O2 levels of her environment had worked wonders and she’d slept dreamlessly.

She wasn’t happy about what she had to do this morning, but she was rested enough to accomplish it and to do whatever it took to send this client on his way with a smile on his face.

She’d selected comfortable clothes for some reason, a soft uni-suit tucked into her favorite style of slouched ankle boots. No high-style, sex-flaunting crap today. She was all business.

Something told her she was going to need comfort when she was done here, not decadence in latex.

Going up in the elevator, she’d toyed with requesting a few days off. The bonus she’d found in her bank account had made her jaw drop. She could certainly afford the luxury of a first-class hotel stay near Old Vegas, somewhere she’d fancied for a while. Visitors couldn’t gamble there anymore, of course, since the massive earthquake of a century ago, but she’d love to see those old palaces and just wander through what was left of them. There were holo repros of shows, stars and music. There were even actual artifacts, slot machines and so on.

It was fascinating stuff and Martine knew she’d enjoy the trip. Maybe she should look into it…

“Hey, Martine.” The day nurse nodded her usual greeting. “Here’s the status report. Looks like this one’s gonna be a doozy. You want coffee or anything?”

Martine scrolled through the chart, finding nothing she didn’t already know or expect. The patient was heavily sedated. That would make her task easier in some ways and harder in others. The neural connections would be sluggish and more complex. She sighed. “Pass on the coffee, but thanks.”

She tapped a fingertip on the pad, the resulting print confirming that she’d read and understood the contents. This case was all about formalities, apparently. A few extra layers of security and busy work which would translate into a nice folder full of
cover my ass
if anything went awry.

“He ready?” She glanced over the desk to meet a worried gaze.

“Yes.” The nurse hesitated. “You watch yourself, Martine. This one’s very strong. He’s one big guy—and sick as he is, he’s still got more strength than you and I put together. And he’s a UAM.”

Martine nodded. “Says he’s got level four Antin’s Syndrome. No surprises about what that’ll do.”

“Yeah. Rapid progression, brain affected first, very little physical deterioration and terminal onset within six weeks or less. Organ failure total and catastrophic.” She wrinkled her nose. “Real hard way to go. Not that there’s an easy one, but I reckon you’re just the person to handle this.”

“Let’s hope.” Martine raised a hand in a mock salute and walked to the door, unsealing it and entering the patient’s room. The click and hiss as it closed behind her was reassuring, as was the routine hum and hushed chatter of the monitoring equipment surrounding the bed. The lights were low, as usual, the smell of the room unchanged.

But something was sending skitters of apprehension over Martine’s skin. If she’d had hair, it might well be standing on end right about now. As she approached the bed, she realized where the problem lay.

It was right in front of her, beneath the institutional blue blanket and sterile white sheet. Plugged in to a dozen different pieces of equipment and receiving doses of sedative on a strictly monitored schedule. She blinked when she caught sight of the amounts he was absorbing.

He had to be absolutely out of it, buzzed beyond his eyebrows. And yet his brain activity wasn’t flat or even mildly wavy. It was sharp—frantic even. His body twitched every now and again, a tremor shaking the well-cut biceps and forcing veins sharply to the surface as his fists clenched and released.

If he was like this with a gut full of sedatives, Martine had no freakin’ clue what he was like when fully conscious, and she was extremely glad she didn’t have to find out. But a job was a job and hers was to connect with him on a neural level and let his fantasy take shape. Once she’d done that, perhaps he could relax a bit and let go.

She settled herself on the bed, her butt snuggled up against a tree trunk of a thigh. The equipment sensed her presence and unspooled the interconnecting cable, activating the wires from her brain and beginning the quiet murmur she associated with the onset of a facilitation.

Gently she reached out and took his hand, folding his fingers around hers, letting skin touch skin. He was warm, not cool as they usually were at this point. He was hard too, his palm and fingers rough. This was a man who’d worked at something, not a man who had ministered to himself very much.

Finally, the visual shimmer alerted Martine that she was on her way, heading to meet this patient in a mental place pulled from his
nucleus accumbens
—the small group of cells within his brain that held the reins on his pleasures.

Blinking, she staggered a bit, looking down to find she’d grown a pair of what were probably 42DD breasts. Most of which were on show since the tiny structured top was at least three sizes too small.

The G-string that went with it hid even less of her assets, and a pair of very high-heeled silver shoes completed the ensemble. Fantasy Stripper-girl was obviously among this man’s pleasures, since he was looking at her with all the eagerness of a coyote who hadn’t eaten for a week and had just stumbled across fresh kill.

Oh shit
.

“Um, hi.” She smiled at him.

He frowned and rubbed his head. “What the fuck… Where am I?”

He was as massive as she’d feared, at least three or four inches over six feet. His body was honed to muscular perfection, but he didn’t have the look of a man with a personal trainer.

He looked a lot more like a man who’d wrestle a camel to the ground and then kill it for a workout. His eyes were dark and expressionless, his face rough with a day or so’s growth of beard. His uniform consisted of a sandy-grey tank top and matching cargo pants.

He could have been a soldier, a mercenary or—a few hundred years ago—a pirate. None of whom Martine would care to face in a dark alley. Which just happened to be where they were.

“You’re with me. It’s okay.” She kept her voice soothing. “Your name’s Taber, isn’t it?”

He nodded, his gaze darting over her body. “Yeah. Can’t remember how I got here, and you’re classier than the ones I usually pick up.”

“Thanks.” She paused. “I think.”

“Come here.” He unfastened his pants to reveal a massive erection. “We’ve got time for a quick fuck, right?”

Martine moved toward him. This wasn’t an unusual request, she knew. Imminent death, especially for men, often resulted in sexual arousal. It had been noted way back when humans hung each other from trees, and nothing had changed over the millennia.

“If you want, Taber. Sure. I’m here to do whatever you want.”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her against him, stripping away the G-string and stroking her pussy with large fingers that knew their way around a woman’s sex. Even in this fantasy her body could—and did—respond.

He lifted her with one arm, easily leaning her up against the wall of the alley. And with a powerful thrust he entered her, stretching her and making her grunt with discomfort. “Fuck. Wait a minute. You’re big.” She pushed at his shoulder, a futile gesture since he was more along the lines of rock than human.