Once We Were Human (The Commander Book 1) (16 page)

“So you drew the short straw and get to deal with me,” the Focus said.  “Why don’t you emulate Focus Schrum and just send me the information through the mail?”

Tonya tensed, angry.  “This is an emergency, Lori.”

“Yelling at me isn’t going to get it done any faster,” Focus Lori Rizzari said.  “You’re not my mother, you know.”

“You’re the Focus responsible for hunting down Monsters in the Northeast Region,” Tonya said.  “The target is a problem Monster.  This is your job.”

Chomp, chomp.  “My household and I bag ten times as many Monsters as any of the other Focuses with the same job in the other regions.” Chew, chew.  “Don’t give me any grief about my performance.  It’s not warranted.”

Tonya sighed.  Rizzari, according to her reports, killed eleven times as many Monsters as the Focuses in the other regions
combined
.  What was worse, Rizzari was the only Focus Tonya knew who would underestimate her success instead of exaggerating.

Twisting Rizzari’s arm wouldn’t work, either.  Several years ago, Rizzari pointed out some information about the Focuses’ formally non-existent male Major Transform counterparts, eliciting an official reprimand.  After the senior Focuses drove Rizzari to near insanity by Focus juice-powered mind games, she still gave them the finger.  The senior Focuses had to threaten to ruin Rizzari’s household before she did what they wanted. 

Tonya had to admit she didn’t understand Rizzari at all.  Focus Schrum was one of the Focuses involved in the reprimand, but as far as Tonya could tell, Rizzari didn’t hold a grudge against Suzie.

“Lori, I have ‘Monsters Die’ protesters outside my household.  They don’t like the idea our people are trying to save a new Arm when there’s this killer dog Monster we’re ignoring.” Truth be told, Tonya didn’t mind the ‘Monsters Die’ group’s anti-Monster work.  What bothered her was just their disturbing tendency to label
any
Transforms who got in their way as ‘Monsters’. 

The problem with hate was that hate was contagious.

Tonya didn’t like Monsters one bit.  She had killed more than a few in her day.  She quit for two reasons: first because Monster hunting cost her too many members of her Transform household, and second, because she had grown to enjoy the killing.  She didn’t think it healthy for a Focus to enjoy killing.

“Go outside and use your charisma to convince one of them to throw a brick through one of your windows, then call the cops and get him arrested,” Lori said, amid the mildly disgusting gurgle-gurgle-gurgle sound that announced she was drinking something.  Tonya winced.  Lori had gone off into what Tonya called Lori-land, where the unreal and unrealistic ruled.  Lori had no respect for authority, Transform or otherwise, and her view of political reality was just as skewed.  “If you weren’t a Transform celebrity, they wouldn’t even know where you lived.”

Tonya wanted to throw something.  Preferably at Lori.  It wouldn’t do any good.  “This dog-Monster’s taken up residence on the south side of the Pepacton reservoir in the Catskills of New York.  It’s killed five people and dozens of cattle.”

“In how long?”

“In what ‘how long’, Lori?”

“How many head of cattle is this Monster going through in a month?” Rizzari asked.  No more sounds of eating; instead came the sound of paper rustling and Lori taking notes.

Tonya didn’t bother asking Lori why she cared.  The answer to that would certainly involve Lori-land.  Lori, as an academic, these days an actual Professor, almost by definition was interested in nonsense.  “Thirty-seven cattle kills in seven weeks.”

“Dead, or dead and eaten?”

“Dead and mostly eaten.”

“Itch-bay!  That’s not typical Monster behavior,” Rizzari said.

“You’re right,” Tonya said, remembering her and her household’s Monster hunting days.  At least
she
was flexible enough to admit her mistakes and flights of fancy, unlike Lori.  If only Tonya could convince Lori to move far away, life would be so much better.  “That’s a lot of food for a Monster, especially for a pony-sized dog.  What do you think is going on?”

“I don’t know but I’m going to find out,” Rizzari said.  “I’ll get right on it.” Tonya sighed.  Rizzari had refused a direct order, and then changed her mind for no good reason at all.  Simply because of her curiosity.  “Send me all the information you have on it and direct the police working the case to my household.  You know the phone number.”

Click.

There were times when Tonya thought Rizzari was annoying on purpose.  Most of the time, actually.

Carol Hancock: September 27, 1966 – October 4, 1966

The craving for juice gnawed demonically on my nerves from the inside.  Dr. Zielinski had implied the craving wouldn’t be as bad once I knew what was going on.  He was wrong.  Knowing made the craving worse. 

On Tuesday morning, I went down to
Dr. Zielinski’s office and pleaded for juice.  I forgot every promise I made to myself about control and used all my
feminine wiles
to try to convince him to come up with something.  I tried logical argument.  I begged, I screamed, I cried.  I didn’t care what I looked like, or what he thought of me.  I needed juice.  He ignored me and sent me off to exercise.

On Wednesday I tried again, with the same result.  I offered him money.  I begged.  I sat in the chair in his office, shook with need, cried, and pleaded with everything I had, if only he would get me juice.  Nothing!

The only thing that kept me sane on Wednesday was my time in the gymnasium.  Larry seemed to understand and pushed me harder than ever.  I didn’t care what I did to my body or what muscles I grew.  The pain of the excessive exercise kept me from stewing about my low juice.

On Thursday, they wouldn’t even let me visit
Dr. Zielinski, or go exercise.  I screamed and clawed at my skin until I drew blood. 

They strapped me down into my bed to keep me from hurting myself.

On Saturday, nine long days after my first conscious draw, they finally brought me another Transform. 

This time, the Transform came at dawn.  They had me in the same room I had been in the first time, strapped into the same chair.  Once again, my metasense felt the tingle, saw,
heard
that glorious energy coming to me.  I focused on it, tensed…

“Wait.”

The Transform still came toward me.  I could wait, if the Transform kept coming.  If he stopped, if he made one move in the wrong direction, I was going to go berserk and rip the chair apart.  This was
my
juice. 
Mine! 
It was too late for anyone to take him away from me. 

Closer and closer the Transform came, minute by agonizing minute.

He stopped in the room right next to mine.  So close, so very close.  I wanted it all.  I needed it all.  I pulled at the straps.  They resisted me yet again. 

That was my juice! 
I pulled harder.  Again, harder still.  Something gave around my left wrist.  Success!  I pulled again, as hard as possible.

The strap came loose.  I pulled against the other straps as I stood.  They too began to give.  I yanked, and they gave.  I ran for the door.  People called to me, upset at what I had done.  I didn’t care.  I brushed past them and through the door into the next room.

This time he wasn’t drugged.  The man lay on a cot, curled up into a fetal position.  He was absorbed in his own misery, but he opened his eyes when the door slammed open and I appeared.

I suspected the man had made a rational decision to sacrifice his life, based on reasoning, sense and the information he had available.  It’s a lot harder to be rational, though, when your death is walking toward you.  Survival instincts can be a powerful thing.  Seeing me, my draw screamed and practically levitated to the far corner of the room. 

“No.  No!” he said.  “I didn’t mean it.  No, no, no!”

A cacophony of voices pummeled me.  “Stop her.  Somebody stop her.” “What do we do?” “Carol, come back here.  You can’t kill that man.” “Get more orderlies.  Where’s Cook?” “
Stop
her.”

I ignored the voices and ran past the people before they had time to do more than shout.  My victim tried to run past me, so I stepped in front of him and hugged him to me.  My right arm crossed over his upper arm, my chin rested against his neck, my bare legs rubbed against his and I pulled.

I thought drawing juice couldn’t possibly be as good as I remembered.  Nothing could be so pleasurable, so intense, so perfect.  I was wrong.  The juice was better than the first time.  Just as pain can be too intense to remember, so too can pleasure.  I learned ecstasy again and let the tide of juice take me beyond the realm of thought.

This time they strapped me to the bed until my post draw lusts naturally wore off.  The only human being who visited during the next two days was Mrs. Calhoun, who fed me and cleaned me up. 

I was a joke, something for the techs to laugh over.  I was sure they were.  Some woman so horny they had to tie her down to keep her from throwing herself at them?  What an excellent story to tell. 

Betrayed and humiliated, furious and frustrated, yet unable to do a single thing about it.  Strapped to a bed in this condition was the next worst thing to hell.

No.  It
was
hell.

---

By Monday morning, I mostly come back into my right mind. 

I burned with embarrassment over the fact I’d been tied down. 

I hurt.  My muscles screamed at me.  I had a stabbing pain in my left shoulder and the pain in my abdomen had returned, worse than ever.

The highs and lows of the juice cycle, the terrible cravings, were too much.  I was angry.  I was lonely.

Every day, I found myself doing things that made no sense, saying things I didn’t mean to say.  I made promises to myself and then the intense needs of the moment would overwhelm me and my promises would disappear as if they had never been.  My sanity slipped from my grasp like water through my fingers.  I was a child again.

Dr.
Zielinski came personally to release me.  I cried when he came through the door.  He unbuckled the straps that held me to the bed.  I curled into a fetal position.  Even my muscles ached.

“What are we going to do with you, Carol?” he asked me.

“Please, don’t make me go through that again.” I pleaded through my tears. 

He sighed and shook his head, as if he had never seen an Arm overcome by her body’s needs before.  Some Arm expert he was.

“We’re supplying you with people’s lives because you need juice to live.  We can’t supply you with sexual partners.  You’re married.  I’m sorry, Carol, but you don’t need sex to live.”

I curled up tighter and cried.

After breakfast, the orderlies led me to the gymnasium.  Larry wasn’t present so I did my stretches and started working on the rowing machine.  I hurt.  I had trouble with even the simplest exercises.

Ten minutes after I gave up on the rowing machine, Larry stormed in.  “Finally,” he said.  “Up.  Let’s take a look at you, see how much damage these idiots have done to you.”

I couldn’t figure out why Larry was so angry until he detailed the muscle problems that had accumulated in the four (and only four) days without my exercise sessions.  “We had the hypertrophy licked, dammit,” he said.  “Now we’re going to have to start over from scratch.”  I cooperated, and the more I worked, the less I ached.  The orderlies had to practically drag me away from the gymnasium after two and a half hours of exercise.

They let me take a shower after my morning exercise session, a mistake if they wanted to keep my libido under control.  My lust had not worn out, it had only taken a short vacation. 

The shower was long and enjoyable.

The rest of the day I was frisky.  Flirtatious, not wanton, but making my desires clear.  I remembered the time after my last draw I’d tried to fight this, but I couldn’t remember why.  In any case, I got a good response from the tech, Mike Artusy, again, but nothing from anyone else.

That night, my efforts paid off.  I had no idea how he got into my room past the around-the-clock armed orderlies guarding my door.  But he did.

About the only sensible thing I remembered to do was to stick the diaphragm in and require him to wear condoms.  My first sex as an Arm, with a random lab tech with roaming hands, was wonderful.  Unbelievable.  Stupendous.  My body responded in ways I never knew it could respond.  I also made Mike’s body respond in ways he never imagined, or at least not since he was sixteen.

I should have stopped once he was exhausted but I was lost in my own needs.  I found I could make him respond again and again.  I used him until he scrabbled away in terror, grabbed his clothes, and fled naked from my room.  Even then, I was not satisfied.

No one said anything about it the following day, though someone had to know.  To my relief, the lust had finally faded.  Tuesday was the third day after my last draw and my mind and body had finally settled back down.