headed, but also curiously lucid. Not that it mattered how he felt. Not now. Campbell's "decree" had come two hours back, announcing that tomorrow was to be a day of rest for all SimFic employees. In celebration of that evening's momentous events.
Kim smiled, staring out through his reflection at the great web of walkways that linked the outer hexagon of walls to the spirelike inner tower, their graceful arcs beaded with lights, then turned fractionally, sensing a movement just behind him. In the glass a face appeared beside his own, the head overlarge, the eyes slightly too big. A Claybom face. A moment later he felt a warmth against his back and, closing his eyes, breathed in the scent of jasmine.
"Becky. . ."
"I wondered where you'd got to," she said, her mouth close against his ear. "Don't you want to dance?"
"I'm tired," he said, turning his head so that she could hear him above the music, her face only a hand's length from his own. "I thought I might go soon."
"Tired? You tired?" She smiled, her eyes searching his own. "It's early yet. Besides, you heard what Campbell said."
"I know, but..."
"Here." She took his left hand, then pressed something small into his palm.
"What's this?"
"Something to help you loosen up. Go on. Just pop it in your mouth."
He stared at the tiny blue tablet a moment, then shook his head. "Thanks, but..."
She hesitated, then took it back from him. "Okay. But stay a little longer, neh? Another hour. I mean, what's the harm?"
"No harm," he said, mirroring her smile. "But no drugs, eh? I like to be in control."
"I know." She leaned close, kissing his cheek, then reached down and took his hand. "I remember well."
They danced. For a while he lost himself in the music and the rhythm, the flashing play of lights. Bodies crowded the center of the floor, moving in a strange abandonment on every side, like particles in violent motion.
Later, in a moment of lucidity, of sudden silence, he looked about him and found that Rebecca had gone. He was about to go and look for her, when she reappeared, two small, porcelain ch'a bowls held out before her.
"What's this?" Kim asked, sniffing at the faintly opalescent liquid.
"It's ch'a," she said, laughing. "What did you think it was? I thought you needed something to sober you up a bit before you went."
"Ah. . ." He let himself be turned about and led toward a small table in the far corner of the room. But even as they made their way across, the music began again, the people all about them erupting in a frenzy of sudden activity.
He squeezed through, holding the bowl up above his head, then sat unsteadily. Setting the bowl down, he leaned toward her. "I think IVe spilled some."
"Never mind," she said, moving around until she sat beside him on the heavily padded sofa. "Here, have some of mine."
He watched her pour some of the sweet-scented ch'a into his bowl, then, encouraged by her, lifted the bowl and drained it at a go.
"Good," she said. "You'll feel better for that."
"It's good," he said, looking past her, his voice raised to combat the assault of the music, the squeals and shouts of the celebrants. "I don't think I've ever . . ."
He stopped, sitting back, then put his hand up to his throat.
"What's the matter?" she asked, concerned.
"I. . ." He felt the bile rise in his throat and swallowed hard. For a moment he had felt nauseous, as if he'd eaten well and then someone had gone and punched him in the stomach.
"Are you all right?" she said, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. "Maybe you shouldn't have drained the bowl like that."
"Maybe," he said, but the nausea was passing, a strange feeling of euphoria washing over him. "I. . ." He laughed. "You know, Becky, I think I'm drunk. I think . . ."
She put a finger to his lips, silencing him, then leaned close, speaking to his ear once more. "I think I should get you home, that's what I think."
He nodded. Home. Yes, but where was that?
"Come on," she said, pulling him to his feet, then turning him to face her, her smile strange, enigmatic. "Now. While you can still walk."
he woke, feeling strange, disoriented, a bitter taste in his mouth, the scent of jasmine in his nostrils. It was dark where he lay. Whatever light there was came from a doorway at the far end of the room, to his right, while from beyond it came the sound of running water, the hiss of steam.
He turned his head; too fast, it seemed, for the pain that shot from the surface of his eyes to the back of his skull was fierce, as if a spike had been driven through his head. He groaned and closed his eyes, wondering what in the gods' names he had done to himself.
Not my room, he thought. This isn't my room. He made to grasp the thought and push at it, but his mind refused to push. The thought slipped from him and was gone. Dead, came the thought. It feels like I've died and gone to hell.
"Kim?"
He opened his eyes, slowly this time, turning his head a fraction at a time, until he could see where the voice had come from.
Rebecca was standing in the open doorway, the light behind her. A towel was draped loosely about her shoulders, but otherwise she was naked. In the half-light he could see a thousand tiny beads of water covering her flank, her breasts, the soft curve of her upper thigh.
"Are you awake?"
He made to answer, but his mouth was dry, his lips strangely numb. He groaned and closed his eyes, but he could still see her, standing there, her breasts small but prominent in the half-light, the nipples stiff.
For a while there was nothing, only silence; a silence that before had been filled with the sound of running water, the hiss of steam. Then, suddenly, he sensed a presence beside him on the bed, felt a small, cool hand brush his cheek. Gently, solicitously. The voice, when it came, was soft, like the touch of the hand. It lulled him.
"I didn't realize you'd drunk so much, my love. I'd have not given you it if I'd known."
The words passed him by. He felt himself gathered up, focused, in the touch of her hand against his cheek, the sweetly perfianed scent of her.
"Here," she said, lifting his head gently.
He felt something small and hard being pressed between his lips. A moment later, he felt the smooth edge of a glass against his lips. He swallowed reflexively, letting the cold, clear water wash the tablet down.
"There," she said, letting his head fall back. "You'll be all right in a while."
He lay there for a time, thoughtless almost, the warmth of her hand against his chest comforting, reassuring him. And then, slowly, very slowly, like waves lapping gently against the sand, thought returned to him.
The tablet. She had given him the tablet.
He opened his eyes, looking up at her, yet even as he did, the nausea returned, stronger than before, making him retch.
He turned his head, leaning out, away from the bed, as the spasms came, unable to help himself, the bile filling his throat, choking him almost.
Rebecca moved back sharply, turning from him, hiding her anger, her momentary disgust, listening to him retch. Then she turned back. "I'm sorry," she said, collecting herself, one hand combing through her short dark hair. "It's all my fault. I should have known."
"Known?" He stared at her, not understanding.
There was the strong, tart smell of sickness in the room.
She stood, looking back at him from the foot of the bed, then forced herself to smile. But it was a faint, halfhearted smile. "It doesn't matter. Look. Let's get you cleaned up. You can shower if you want. I'll sort this out."
Kim sat up, wiping at his mouth. "I'd better go. I. . ."
He stopped, staring at her, mesmerized, it seemed, by her naked form, as if he had not noticed it before that moment.