CHAPTER EIGHT
An air raid siren was going off in his ear. Al moaned feebly and pulled himself into a knot. Damn, his head hurt. Damn, damn, damn…
He slapped his alarm clock and the siren stopped. Then he rolled towards Sharon's warm body, wrapping his arm around the soft flesh of her abdomen. She moaned softly and buried her face in her pillow. Damn, his head…
Clumsily, Al tried to sit up. The vertigo hit him like a brick wall and he fell back with a groan of sheer agony. There was a large brass band of the junior high school variety playing "The Anvil Chorus" between his ears. He tried to remember what kind of wild bender had landed him with a hangover like this. It came back in a rush that caused almost as much pain as the alarm had. He raised a shaky hand to his forehead. God damn it. God damn it.
He had to get up, though. He had to go to work. Al rolled out of bed, landing on the carpet with a jolt of nausea. He choked back the bile rising in his throat, and started to crawl towards the door. You just had to get moving. Get the blood pumping. Then soon you would be able to get to your feet and find some aspirin.
From the burning in his stomach he knew he'd be needing antacids, too, but he didn't think there were any around. Have to stop by the clinic once he got to the Project…
Al shuddered convulsively. The last thing he wanted to do was suffer through another day like yesterday. One thing after another, Doctor Gushman eating up most of his afternoon, Doctor Eleese's snide comment about his daydreaming. Ugh. He should never have left NASA.
He'd had to leave NASA, he reflected fuzzily. He couldn't remember why, though. Something to do with his second wife? Or his health… under minimum weight? No, that was before, the early months… wasn't it?
A rough pink tongue caressed his face. Al groaned and tried to turn away from it. Didn't the damn dog know that he was hung over?
Chester batted his shoulder with one paw and nudged him with his nose. Al raised an unsteady hand to pet the dog. "Be alright in a minute, boy," he rasped thickly. The words heightened the headache, but he wasn't going to give in to it. Grabbing the doorpost, he dragged himself onto his knees, and then managed, painstakingly, to stand. His legs shook under him and the nausea wasn't abating. He choked down the urge to vomit. God, he hated that feeling, like a clammy hand constricting his throat. He knew he'd feel better once he ralphed, but it just wasn't worth the misery of the act itself. He had tossed his cookies way more often than any man should have to, and he resisted whenever he could. It reminded him of things he wanted desperately to forget.
The headache, now, he could do something for the headache, if only he could resist the urge to chunder. Al staggered to the kitchen and rooted around for a glass, which he filled from the sink. The aspirin was in the cutlery drawer. He shook out two tablets and forced his teeth to unclench long enough to place them on his tongue. Cautiously he washed them down with the minimum amount of water. When this didn't bring instant gastric rebellion, he took another wary sip. Then another. The third sent his stomach roiling afresh, and so he stood there clutching his abdomen with one arm, the other hand clamped over his mouth, as he told himself, over and over again, that he wasn't going to throw up.
Eventually the feeling abated, and Al switched on the light. The clock told him he was going to have to get his act together if he planned to make it up to the Project by eight. He moved unsteadily towards the bathroom, arrested mid-step by a yelping bark from Chester. Annoyed, Al turned slowly, raising a hand to his thrumming temple. Chester wagged his tail eagerly.
"What?" Al grunted. Chester's tail was now working so furiously that his hindquarters were shaking with the force of its motion. He seemed happy enough, so Al turned around and resumed his journey towards the head.
Chester howled piteously. Al bit his lip. All this spinning around was making him dizzy. "What?" he repeated heavily.
He could hear Chester panting eagerly. Another anxious bark tore the air.
"All right, all right," Al muttered. He stumped back into the kitchen. Chester pranced eagerly around his heels, almost tripping him. Al caught himself on the counter, grunting a little as his head sent up a fresh throb of protest. He made it through the narrow entryway to the door and held it open. Chester scampered out into the predawn grayness.
Al tried to remember what else had to be done for the dog. Water… sure enough; Chester's metal bowl was bone dry. A horrific wave of contrition washed over Al, bringing him to his knees as surely as the light-headedness that wouldn't allow him to bend. Poor little guy. Al knew what it was like to be helpless, desperately thirsty but unable to do anything to obtain water. Anything but stare up at the stark jungle sky and beg it, frantically and feebly, for the blessing of rain.
Trying to shake off the association, he ran the tap as cold as he could and filled the dish, setting it on the floor. He hadn't even checked last night to see if Chester needed more…
He realized that he hadn't fed him, either. At least, he didn't think he'd fed him. Things were a bit blurry… He decided he probably hadn't, selfish hedonistic creature that he was. He rummaged in the cutlery drawer again, this time coming away with a can opener. As he was opening the tin of dog food he heard movement in the bedroom, followed by a heavy moan and a gagging cough. As quickly as he could Al deposited the brown mass into Chester's dish. Simultaneously he could hear Sharon running for the bathroom. The combination of the sharp smell of the meat-like product and the sounds of Sharon's retching proved too much for his stomach, and Al dove over the sink, his whole body shaking with the force of the emetic heaves. So much for the aspirin.
When he was done he ran the water to wash away the mess, and splashed some on his sweat-coated face. With a moan of despair he sank to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest and burying his head in his knees. It was all flooding back. Interrogation session under Major Quon's personal supervision. Hanged by his ankles from the rafters of the bunker, beaten by that cruel black-eyed bitch and the members of her unit. Quon sitting there, smirking, with his little whore on his knee. Head thick and heavy with pooling blood. Pain in every quarter. Finally Al couldn't help it anymore. He vomited up everything that was in him, the scant contents of his shrunken stomach spilling from his mouth and his nose without discrimination: the remains of the rancid rice he'd been allowed last night, the foul water he had sucked back in desperation this morning, the sodium amytal syrup he had fought so hard not to swallow half an hour ago. That made them angry. It hadn't stayed down long enough to start working. The Bitch gave a sharp order, and the blows began to rain down in earnest. Bamboo rod against his naked back. Rubber whip with sundering force over one kneecap. Her boot, his face, now intimately acquainted. It wasn't long after that that, still conscious enough to feel shame, he lost control over every voluntary muscle in his body.
A whimper of misery escaped his throat.
"Me too," a female voice said, thickened and slurring dully. Al looked up with a gasp. Sharon. She got down next to him and cuddled close, resting her sore temple on his shoulder. "That was some party, though," she added with a rueful chuckle.
"Yeah," Al mumbled. "Yeah. Party."
The feel of her skin against his was taking the edge off of the memory. He uncurled a little and drew her closer, stroking the soft curve of her hip and smelling the fragrance of her hair. He let his aching head fall forward onto hers. His lips caressed her forehead.
A yelp from outside made Sharon sigh in exasperation. "Stupid dog," she muttered.
"I let him out," Al grunted.
"Well, I can't let him in."
"It's oh-five-thirty. Who's gonna see you?" Al asked, hauling his leaden skull off her shoulder.
"Chivalry is dead," Sharon mumbled, but she climbed painstakingly to her feet and moved slowly towards the door.
The reminder of the time forced Al to his feet. His hands were shaking and his head throbbed. On the table was the empty whiskey bottle. Its mate, still almost half full, lay nearby. A little pick-me-up would take the edge off of the pounding headache. Al poured himself a good three ounces in the lipstick-smeared tumbler and sipped gingerly at it. His stomach gurgled for a moment, then quieted. Carefully, he drained the glass, by which time Sharon had come shuffling back into the room, rubbing her eyes. Chester scampered towards his water and lapped eagerly at it.
Warm arms twined around Al's waist, and Sharon's chin rested on his shoulder. "Let's get back to bed," she whispered. "It's too early."
Al shook his head. "I gotta go to work," he said.
"So take a sick day," she said. "If you've got a headache like mine, you can't work anyways."
"Project Administrator can't call in sick," Al muttered, but the tender hand working its way up and down his abdomen was weakening his resolve with each pass. It would be delightful to spend the whole day in bed with his beautiful bride, instead of living from antacid to antacid in a drab office, trying to quiet the pounding in his skull so that he could focus on external headaches.
"Who says?" Sharon asked. She rocked, navigating them both towards the phone. She put the receiver in his hand. "Go ahead. Call in sick."
The seductive voice of the temptress in his ear and the firm hand guiding his finger towards the dial won him over. His wrist twitched five, six, seven times. Eight, nine, ten. Eleven. Then again, entering the code that would put him through.
The phone on the other end rang. Sharon lifted the receiver to his ear and helped him hold it there, her mouth working on the crest of his shoulder blade, caressing it with slow, hungover kisses.
"How may I direct your call?" a very neutral voice said.
"It's… uh…" Al licked his lips and coughed a little to clear his throat. "It's Captain Calavicci, Norma. Put me through to H.R., please."
The tone changed drastically. "Al! Good morning!"
"Mornin' to you, too, sugar," Al said. Sharon tightened her grip on his chest, possessively but fondly, and started to kiss the back of his neck.
"Password?" she said.
"Angel eyes," Al delivered. The password function had been his idea. Though the location was never announced over the phone, operators had been wont to put people through to internal departments with only the most cursory proofs of identity. For the more professionally minded there was a six-figure combination of letters and numbers. For those who couldn't remember such sequences (or who, like Al, enjoyed a little harmless flirtation with the support staff) there was the more suggestive version.
Norma giggled. "Why, thank you! Human Resources, right away."
There was a beep, and then another ring. And another.
"Human Resources, Penvenen speaking," said a cool, clinical voice.
"It's Captain Calavicci," Al said. "I'm… I'm under the weather today and won't be able to make it in."
Sharon rewarded his fib with a nibble on the ear.
"Under the weather, sir?" Penvenen asked. Al tried to call to mind his face, but without success. Mind you, if the man usually worked the night watch that wasn't surprising.
"Yeah," Al said, now glad of the thickness in his voice that gave credence to the story. "Must be some kind of flu bug or something. I'm puking my guts out."
"I'm sure," Penvenen said inscrutably. "I'm sorry, sir, but who should I inform?"
Al thought about that. The effort started up the pounding in his head again. "Ugh—tell Prysock, and… and my secretary. Anyone else can hear it from them. Oh. And Wendell. Tony Wendell from Aboveground Development. I'm s'posta meet him for breakfast."
"Very good, sir. May I ask when you expect to be ambulatory again?"
Al cast his eyes heavenwards. This was the kind of guy his buddy in Washington thought was perfect for keeping the staff happy? "Soon's I can. I'll call again if I can't make it in tomorrow, either."
"Thank you, sir. Get some rest." The voice was still dispassionate, despite the personable sentiment.
"Yeah, thanks, Penvenen. You have a first name?"
"Yes."
The line went dead. Al whistled softly, the high-pitched sound starting up only the slightest discomfort in his head. "What a stiff," he muttered.
Sharon laughed a little, then flinched. "Damn," she said. "That was one hell of a party."
Al chuckled. "You want some whiskey? It helps."
Sharon pulled away from him, holding her stomach. "Ugh. No way, José. Bed. Bed."
Al nodded. "Bed," he agreed, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. Leaning on one another, they made their way to the bedroom and lay down. Out of deference to their mutually headsore condition they settled for a little medium-to-light petting before drifting back to sleep.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAt his desk in the Human Resources office on Sub-Level One, Dan Penvenen scribbled himself a reminder to call Prysock, Wendell and Calavicci's secretary. Then from his bottom drawer he removed a black archivist's notebook and turned to the end of several pages of detailed notes. He added another ten lines detailing the time and circumstances of the call, and sketching out his personal feelings about the situation. If there was one thing they taught you it was how to follow, but not be led by, your gut.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAl laughed as Sharon dipped his hand into the dish of blue paint.
"Feel the color," she urged, raising his hand to the board bearing the heavy paper. "Don't think it, feel it."
"Feel it," he echoed. She released his wrist and he drew it in a broad arc, his fingers smearing the pigment across the blank expanse, staining it forever with the mark of his gesture.
"There!" Sharon exclaimed. "Again!"
Al complied, drawing his hand upwards and creating a bold line perpendicular to the first and far straighter. The effect was that of an empty crucifix with a drooping crossbar. Not pleased with this association, Al dipped his fingers again and brought a series of loops from the top left corner to the bottom right.
"Yes, yes!" Sharon cried. "Good! Passion, emotion!"
Al paused, torn between laughing at her reaction and planning his next move.
"Don't think!" Sharon cried. "Do! Be!"
Al translated his laugh into a sharp parabola. "When can I change colors?" he asked.
"You're thinking too hard!" wailed Sharon. "Just feel it! Loosen up and go with your emotions! Emotion is art!"
"Emotion is art," Al echoed, frowning in concentration. Her playful smack caught him off guard, and he tried to retain his balance by thrusting out his arm. The result was a large blue-and-white handprint in the midst of the paper.
"See!" Sharon cried triumphantly. "You see what you can do when you just stop thinking?"
Al regarded the paper, and had to admit that there was something very appealing about the collision of fantasy and reality. He extended his pinkie finger and made seven quick, feathered strokes in a vacant corner, each fainter than the last.
"Yes! Beautiful!" Sharon cheered.
"Didn't realize painting was a spectator sport," Al commented fondly, leaning back into her arms.
"Art is all about the relationship between Creator and Observer," she said.
"Well, Observer, I think the coffee's ready," Al said. "I like mine black with two teaspoons of Sweet 'N Low."
"I know you do, and that's disgusting," Sharon informed him. "I'll bring you your mug full of toxic chemicals, but if I get back here and see that you've been thinking…"
"Beheaded at dawn," Al said. "Yeah, I know."
Sharon moved off. It was the strangest sick day he'd ever had, Al reflected, absently tracing a spiral into one of the thicker patches of blue. Headache gone, stomach almost normalized, and now he was sitting in the afternoon sunlight—painting. He imagined Colonel Smythe would blow a gasket if he found out what his Naval counterpart was up to. Not to mention Prysock. Al chuckled at the thought of his deputy, his hand roaming over the canvas of its own accord. His hand was running low on paint, so he dipped it again, just the fingers this time, and bunched them together. Once on the paper he sprung his hand open. The result was a five-pronged starburst with a dense blue nexus and fading extremities. Very pleasing. With his left hand he scraped away some of the paint at the base of his ascending column, leaving pale marks.
"Perfect!" Sharon cried. "Enough! Stop!"
Al spun on the stool. "Stop? But I was just starting to enjoy myself."
"It's perfect! Stop!"
"Hey, it's my picture."
Sharon's eyes narrowed. "A picture is taken by an idiot with a camera. That is a painting."
Al chuckled. "Okay, okay. I forgot I was living with the Art Nazi. C'mere with that coffee, gorgeous."
She hesitated. "You'll get paint on the mug," she warned, nodding at his blue hands.
"It's my mug," Al said blithely. "Now c'mere!"
She approached, sitting down on his lap. She had an old paintshirt on, so he didn't hesitate to wrap an arm around her waist as he took the beverage, spinning back to face his work.
"That was fun," he conceded. "If you'd told me yesterday that finger-painting was for grownups, I would've called you crazy."
"I am crazy," Sharon said, giving him his coffee and sipping at hers.
"Now there's a frank admission," Al said.
She tossed back her head. "I'm crazy, you're crazy, we're all crazy!"
"You bet," Al said, kissing her neck.
There was a fond silence.
"You know what I would kill for?" Sharon asked.
"No. What would you kill for?" Al queried. "And more importantly, who would you kill for it?"
"Not you," Sharon promised. She sighed dreamily. "Something fat-filled and deep-fried and sugary."
Al laughed. "I'm for that," he said.
She twisted in his arms, trying to get a better look at him. "Really?"
"Yup," he said, kissing her neck.
"You trying to fatten me up so you can cook me into gingerbread?" she asked suspiciously.
Al favored her with a throaty chuckle. "No." He hugged her closer to him, caressing her hip. "What I've got here is so good that I could do with a bit more of it to cuddle."
"Hah! Well, aren't you the perfect husband?" Sharon exclaimed.
"How perfect?"
Before she could show him, the doorbell rang.