ANK Red Cat – Last Dream

Fandom: Ai No Kusabi
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine. This story is not for profit.
Rating: M
Warnings: Male/male affection
Characters: Katze, Iason
Summary: Iason and Katze; how they might have met. Flashbacks clashing with the present. Set before Katze is crippled, this is weaving in and out of the timeline of my other ANK Red Cat stories.

Note: Warnings/disclaimer valid for all chapters of this story.

This story is for all of you: KhalaniK, you've been a star throughout, I am indebted to you for all your support. Hespera Nova, thanks for all your lovely feedback, it was great. barrie18, I still feel a bit guilty about chapter 9; I hope you'll enjoy. celeste. g.r., Odgir, thanks for your notes and for the work you've put into the translation.

xxx

Chapter 1

"It's raining." The words are drifting, deep and cool, in the darkness of the large room. "It hasn't been raining in a long time."
A mattress creaks. The flick of a lighter, a golden flame licking over pale features, glittering in narrow eyes, then darkness again. It is softer now, warmed by the glow of a cigarette and the smell of smoke, the sound of a deep breath, in and out. "I can't remember the last time." A man's voice, a little hoarse, taut like a bowstring.
"I can." A small silence, then, "Come, lie down again. It's too early to get up."
"I need to work."
"It can wait."
"I have to-"
"Let me tell you what I remember."
"Man, Iason, quit the crap. "
"Katze... I knew it from the day we met."
"Huh?"
"Huh. You sound like Riki now." Silence, and then the deep voice weaves into the darkness again. "It was raining, like now."

xxx

A dirty autumn afternoon, rain freezing into sleet, keeping the stink of the clogged gutters down. It doesn't get much more depressing, Iason thinks, than this time of the year in the slums of Tanagura. He dislikes being here. He cannot stand Ceres with its filthy, hopeless streets, condemned tenement blocks and vermin slinking among heaps of garbage. And even though he knows, it surprises him every time to see amid the scrawny inhabitants of those streets men that dress well, drive expensive cars, and carry themselves with confidence. Those men, in their smart suits and sleek rides, have business in Ceres. They belong here, like the junk whores and flea-ridden dogs the homeless cling to when the nights get cold, like the broken drains and human waste bubbling from the canalisation with every rain.

Iason burns with the desire to clean the place up, to flatten it, scour it until it is nothing but a shiny new slate on which he can paint his dream. A new city, an extension of beautiful, glamorous Eos, home of perfection, his home. This is where Tanagura's Elite live: flawless people, designed long before their conception by the computer they call Jupiter. Each created from perfectly screened and assembled genes, condensed into a single precious seed, implanted into a woman grown for this purpose only. These wonders of biotechnology and genetic engineering are taught from the earliest awakening of consciousness the wisdom of Iason's world. It is congealed in the minds of those select few, and they have cast their glory into the soaring lines of their cities and the refinement of their pleasures.

Iason feels impatient. The base instincts of the dark masses of Ceres repulse him – their greed, their hunger, the relentless, rapacious cycle of destruction that has the slums digest their children to feed even more misery. A hothouse of dirt. And yet they thrive, he thinks, in wry disgust, as if stuffed with the best food and living in the cleanest places. Because the people of Ceres possess something the Elite don't have – they can sleep with each other, and they can bear offspring. They have few daughters now, after generations of weeding out those prone to procreate to quickly, but they still grow. Like fungus, he thinks, that spreads on rotting soil, and there aren't enough machines yet to replace all those working hands.

Iason, if he could, would hate the slums, but he has been taught that Elite do not have such passions – that kind of dissolution, the lack of control, is for lesser people. He is left without a name for what knots in his belly every time he dives into the darkness of Ceres. Yet he is clearheaded enough to understand that the Elite still need Ceres, that Eos has its roots deep in the churning guts of the slums from where it draws its lifeblood, that the pulse of money beats hard here and drives the gleaming heart of Amoi.

He would like to trim the messy seams of Ceres though, do away with those he deems unnecessary, but he knows it cannot be done yet. It irks him that his control over Amoi, over Tanagura, is not yet absolute. Time, he thinks crossly, everything takes so much time. If this was Jupiter's perfect model, what went wrong? He clamps down on this thought as quickly as it slipped into his mind. Perhaps, he reasons with himself, it was meant to happen in stages, and it was the calling of the Elite to keep building, perfecting, honing it, until Amoi was perfect. Yes, that had to be it.

xxx

"Is that what you were thinking?" Katze's smoky voice cuts in.
"It is so dark in here... I can't see your face." A non-answer.
Katze lets it go. Bedsprings sigh and the mattress dips under the weight of his body settling next to Iason. The cigarette brightens, casting a golden glow over pale, sharp features, thin lips drawn into a cool smile. "You sound like an old woman."
"And how would you know that? There are no old women in Ceres."
A shrug, a rustling of sheets, the shifting of limbs.
"Put that fag out, you're singing my hair," Iason demands softly.
A long breath of smoke, then Katze reaches over to where he knows his ashtray sits on the nightstand. Iason puts his palm on Katze's chest. "I missed you."
Katze stills, awkward in his half-turned pose. Iason's touch is warm and heavy, and he feels his heart thud against Iason's splayed fingers. "I missed you too," he says quietly.
Iason leans over to touch his lips to Katze's nipple, then up to his cheek that bears a deep scar, cutting from his temple to his chin. "You know that most Elite avoid Ceres. Most of us never set foot outside of Eos."

xxx

The Elite know Apathia, where they keep expensive penthouses for their favourite toys, and the pleasure quarters of Midas to the south of the shiny city. They use the casinos and amusements in Areas 1 and 2, clustered around Orange Road, the broad, tree-lined avenue that leads into the heart of Eos. They don't care much for the rest.

But Iason, head of the Council that governs the world of Amoi, has analysed his world enough to conclude that it would be unwise to ignore the slums, or the centres of heavy industry in HerBay and Mistral.

He understands that the key to Eos lies here, and he indulges his scientific interest in the survival of the slums.

Iason also has business here, and some deals he prefers to close in person. He is a collector of curiosities – colours, sounds, smells, scenes lodged in his memory that never forgets anything. He has gathered enough moments to know that he is missing something crucial – something he cannot grasp, that has been eluding him for as long as he has become aware of it. Iason cannot sense moods. He can read the signs, the physiological reactions and body language, but – like all Elite – he cannot feel them.

And as countless times before he wonders whether he is alone in missing something.

xxx

The Elite keep servants – toys – made the oldfashioned way, the way the scum in Ceres multiply, although couples are carefully selected to produce the desired offspring, and they spend their reproductive lives in places called academies. It has been like this for generations, and no-one in the living memory of Amoi has known things to be different. The children so produced are reared and educated to the liking of their future owners who will place orders sometimes before a coupling is completed. Some Elite, such as Prof Dr Raoul Am, most eminent geneticist on Amoi and Iason's business partner, have developed several genetic lines to perfection. There are patents for the most successful combinations of genes, or imprints; there are limited lines using only couples in their prime reproductive stage; and there are waiting lists of Elite who have ordered such toys. The much-coveted reservations are traded among well-off Elite, and prices for the most desirable imprints are astronomical.

There is little detail in Jupiter's laws about this, although most of Amoi's inhabitants believe that their lives are regulated completely by the computer's Code. History is taught only to the select few, the ones who need to know and understand that Jupiter's control has brought order to the chaos that once threatened to destroy their world, and from their circle the rulers of Amoi are chosen by the Council, and their appointment confirmed by Jupiter after vigorous vetting. Jupiter, Iason knows, is a repository of all their thoughts, their memories, their minds. Jupiter is as close to one of the old-fashioned gods as a machine can be.

Yet it is the shows that give it away, thinks Iason, that not all is as perfect as Jupiter computed it to be. Shows where Elite gather to watch their live property stage erotic performances, the events dressed up in various guises – an elegant dance, or a rough-and-tumble, a mock struggle, very rarely a real fight which is always classed as an accident, something aberrant that is quickly rectified by selling the offending toys off to the next best trader. Rough toys have no value for Eos Elite. These things happen mostly with toys of doubtful descent, fake imprints, or with those that have been sourced from outside the adacemies. Officially, they are an embarrassment to their owners. There is much at stake – reputation, money, and sometimes even a few exclusive imprints. But Iason knows that there are underground events too, and those resemble dogfights where people get hurt, sometimes badly, and Elite have been known to attend. He is still not sure what to make of that, but to him it's a flaw in Jupiter's design that has him wonder what else is amiss.

The trade in live toys is a booming industry on Amoi. At the shows, bets are placed and deals negotiated. Iason has read in old archive records that in times before records began on Amoi, people kept animals like that. He finds the idea offputting. He thinks that there is refinement in keeping beings that are human after all, and Elite compete to produce the finest specimen using what they term the natural way. Sometimes it amazes him what the best breeders can achieve. A frequent visitor to the regular trade fairs where contracts for new toys change hands, Iason never tires to admire the beauty of new, perfect issues, and the emptiness of their minds. He never doubts that toys need their owners to survive on Amoi.

xxx

"You wish," Katze says under his breath.
Iason kisses his lips. "You are different. I always knew."
"I really need to go now."
"I don't like to be kept waiting."
"Aren't you happy with Riki in your bed?"
"Don't push me."
A grunt, then, "If you think I'm flattered, you're wrong."
"Your thoughts are your own." Light suffuses the darkness like golden mist. Iason rises and wraps into a dark blue silk gown that sheathes him from neck to toe, outlining the contours of his muscular body. "I expect you to call. Soon."

xxx

On to Chapter 2.