But to let go meant that he would lose her, lose the sudden promise in her eyes. Gregg held on.
The interior voice howled at him: Stop this! This isn't right, and this isn't real. It's a middle-aged man's fantasy with no substance. Greggie, this is rape. You're forcing her reactions. Stop before you ruin this like you ruined all the rest of your relationships....
"I ..." he began. Stopped. The power crackled in his head; the voice screamed. For a moment, guilt threatened to make him let go. "Hannah, I should be leaving. It's late."
She held his gaze. "You don't need to."
"I was in my twenties when you were born."
"And now I'm in my thirties and all grown up, Gregg. I'm a big girl. I can make my own decisions. Unless its not what you want - "
"No!" he said quickly. The power was blinding. It pounded, it surged, it filled him with heat and light and burned away the guilt. So you've learned nothing from all the pain you've inflicted, Greggie. It's still Greggie and his power and fuck everyone else. You've been given your chance and a Gift and you're proving only that you're no different now than you were. What happened to all the shame, the nightmares, the prayers for release?
"Gregg, you look so sad. If I've embarrassed you or if I'm presuming too much ..."
"No," he said again, and shut his mind to the voice, the nagging voice, the lecturing voice. "Oh God, no."
Hannah reached up with both hands and pulled Gregg's head slowly down to her, her gaze always on his until the last moment. As her eyes closed, their lips touched, hers impossibly warm and soft and yielding. The power was a storm around them, its thunder drowning out everything else. He opened his mouth, tasting her sweetness; his hand cupped her breast, feeling the nipple rise and harden beneath the cloth of her thin blouse and bra. He could feel her body pressing against his, her arms around him, and he responded, growling under his breath. You see! And she's not a joker ... He started to bear her down to the floor, but her mouth came away from his, gasping.
"Not here," she said huskily, glancing back at the silent form of Quasiman. "I can't ..." She pulled away from Gregg and took his hand. "My room," she said.
Hannah led him away into darkness as the voice yammered at him: No! This is the old pattern, don't you see! You're sick and you'll be punished, Greggie. I guarantee it.
He didn't listen.
As he moved on top of Hannah, as he entered her, Gregg thought of Sarah Morgenstern, of Ellen, of Succubus, of Andrea, of all his lovers' ruined lives.
He groaned in delight.
Feeding Frenzy
by Walter Jon Williams
1
Puppetman.
The word sang through Shad's mind as he paced his cell, a rhythmic accompaniment to the old Dexter Gordon tune that floated somewhere in his backbrain. In George Divivier's thudding bass he heard the refrain:
Puppetman.
Gregg Hartmann's secret ace, the one that had driven Shad into a frenzy, made him kill. That had led him, eventually, to this place, to this cold concrete cavern carved out of Governor's Island.
Puppetman.
Shad was planning to meet Puppetman some day. And then, after him, some other people. George Battle, for one - who lied to him about the promise of a pardon, then let him get slammed away on Governor's Island.
He didn't feel anything any more. No compassion, no fear, no love. His own personality seemed very far away, buried somewhere, latent. None of that could help him survive.
Thoughts of Puppetman filled his mind. They were the kind of thoughts that would keep him alive.
It was good, in a place like this, to have a reason to live. Because someday he'd figure a way out of here, past the concrete-and-rebar walls, past the titanium bars and bulletproof glass, past the armed sentries of the Governor's Island Maximum Security Psychiatric Unit, the Coast Guard sentries on the rest of the island, the cold waters of New York Harbor and back to the city itself, to its mirrored fortresses of glass where his enemies danced their dance of power, and then it would be Shad up on the bandstand, voice a low whisper telling everyone, Hey, motherfuckers, last waltz ...
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Philip Baron von Herzenhagen adjusted his pearl-gray fedora and walked expressionlessly through the media vermin swarming on the stoop of his townhouse. He opened the door of his Jaguar sedan and stooped to enter.
"What about the latest revelations of the Card Sharks?" A booming baritone voice, chiseled features, razor-cut hair. Some local television news personality, tired of covering back-alley murders and city council elections, here trying to make the big time.
Herzenhagen rose from his crouch and put on his world-weary face. "Really," he said, "what evidence exists for these 'Card Sharks'?" Putting the quotes in his voice. "As I understand it, the chief witness against me is a talking hat." He pulled off his own hat and held it up for the camera. "Shall I call my own hat as a rebuttal witness?"
This got a laugh. Herzenhagen figured he'd made the news.
He gave them a brittle grin. "Again for the record, the last time I drew a government paycheck was 1945." He looked at the reporter again. "You can look it up, if you're so inclined."
He got in his car and headed for his club.
What he was really afraid of was that one of those media lice actually would start to do his own research, instead of just parroting the Hartmann allegations or each other. Because, though it was true he hadn't drawn a government paycheck since 1945, that was only because in the CIA, founded in large part by gentlemen with independent incomes, one could still check off a box on the application form whereby one could return one's salary to the government. And if the little media weasels got really lucky, they'd discover that, though Herzenhagen had left the Agency in the fifties, he'd been a member of one covert organization or another ever since.
Biological Research Unit. Unit Omega. Special Control Group. The Vice-President's Special Executive Task Unit.
The Sharks. All the Sharks.
Herzenhagen took off his hat, smoothed the brim, and was heartily glad it couldn't talk.
The allegations had to end, he thought.
Something had to happen to Gregg Hartmann. Something bad>.
And soon.
Herzenhagen rather thought he knew what it was going to be.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Shad wondered why Chalktalk hadn't walked through the walls and helped him escape. Maybe she hadn't heard he was in trouble. Maybe she didn't like him any more.
Names went through his head like a mantra. Puppetman. George Gordon Battle. Crypt Kicker. Pan Rudo.
He hoped they would all live long enough for Shad to catch up with them.
Your-mentality defines Pan Rudo=enemy?
The question rang in Shad's mind with a voice of thunder. Shad's heart thundered.
"Who the fuck ... ?" And before he could stop himself he was looking around, head jumping on his shoulders like a thing out of a jack-in-the box.
This-unit is known to you as Croyd Crenson.
Croyd? Shad had been scoped by telepaths before and hadn't liked it one little bit. Cautiously he beamed out little thought-particles. That really you, man?
This-unit is known to you as Croyd Crenson. Your-mentality is defined= Home/Black Shadow/Neil Carton Langford=ally. You define Pan Rudo=enemy?
He's the shrink who put me in here. A two-hour interview, man, and me full of anaesthetic: next thing I know, I'm declared insane and slammed in the jug.