lifeunit, totally lost in one another’s flesh, they made love into the dawn. Then, sated, they slept, skin to skin, as the morning sun tinted the sky over Angeles Complex in soft pastels.
Logan woke first, slipped quietly from the flowbed, dressed, and exited the unit.
On a pillow next to the sleeping woman he left a note:
Jessica:
I won’t see you again. Don’t
try to contact me. This is over.
L.
And in the mazecar, heading back to his sector, he did not regret the harshness of the note. He knew that what he had done was perverted—making love to this woman while his own Jess, waiting with child, was lost to him across space on another world.
He would end this madness here and now. He should never have given in to his initial compulsion, should never have gone to see this second Jessica. Their lovemaking, however passionate, was a distortion of his love for Jess, and he was disgusted with his self-weakness.
Over. Done.
Ended.
When Logan walked into his lifeunit, three tall police officers were waiting for him, their bright lemon colored tunics contrasting with the dark solemnity of their faces.
“I’m Bracker—Federal Branch,” said the tallest of them. His eyes were slate-colored, his thin lips unsmiling. “Are you Logan 3—1639?”
“You know I am.” Logan met his measured gaze. “What do you want with me?”
“We have reason to believe that you are in violation of a prime citystate law,” said the policeman.
“What law?”
“Possession and dissemination of a highly toxic and illegal substance.”
“You’d better leave,” said Logan tightly. “I’m with DS. We have immunity against this sort of harassment.”
“DS immunity does not apply in this case,” said Bracker.
“Who sent you here?”
“Never mind that. We’re here.”
Logan expelled angry breath. “I’d like to know the nature of this ‘highly toxic’ substance.”
Bracker raised a finger—and one of his men dipped a hand into the upper pocket of Logan’s zipjacket, extracting a small, wafer-thin white disc.
“DD-15,” said Bracker, holding up the disc. “Unofficially known as Death Dust.”
Logan was quite familiar with this drug. DD-15 was used exclusively in Medlab control work and was strictly forbidden to citizens, including DS operatives. It was potent and deadly.
“That’s not mine,” said Logan calmly. “It does not belong to me, and I have absolutely no idea where it came from.”
“Naturally,” said Bracker, smiling faintly. He nodded to the others. “Take him.”
Logan did not resist. His hands were tapewired behind him, and he was led from the unit directly to a waiting police paravane outside the building.
The ride to Federal Headquarters was swift and silent.
The interrogation room smelled of fear. The air was hot and close. No vents or windows. The sour fearsweat of numberless accused citizens lingered here; it permeated the pores of the room, creating an oppressive atmosphere designed to inspire breakdown and confession.
Logan, in a holdchair, faced Bracker and his men—just as he had faced the aliens in the giant mothership. And with the same sense of helplessness. How could he prove his innocence? Someone had planted the Dust on him. Someone who wanted to hurt him, to place him in severe jeopardy. Someone.
Phedra 12.
She stood in the room’s open doorway, wearing a loose dun-brown monksrobe that obscured the extravagant curves of her body. Her face was scrubbed of makeup; she looked much younger, almost childlike. And there was mock sadness in her usually sensual eyes.
“I hate doing this to you, Logan, really I do,” she said in a small, apologetic voice. “But I’m a good citizen. I’ve always been loyal to the system. I just couldn’t let you do it.”
“And what did I do, Phedra?” Logan asked.
“That stuff you were using…passing around…that awful stuff!” She
Logan woke first, slipped quietly from the flowbed, dressed, and exited the unit.
On a pillow next to the sleeping woman he left a note:
Jessica:
I won’t see you again. Don’t
try to contact me. This is over.
L.
And in the mazecar, heading back to his sector, he did not regret the harshness of the note. He knew that what he had done was perverted—making love to this woman while his own Jess, waiting with child, was lost to him across space on another world.
He would end this madness here and now. He should never have given in to his initial compulsion, should never have gone to see this second Jessica. Their lovemaking, however passionate, was a distortion of his love for Jess, and he was disgusted with his self-weakness.
Over. Done.
Ended.
When Logan walked into his lifeunit, three tall police officers were waiting for him, their bright lemon colored tunics contrasting with the dark solemnity of their faces.
“I’m Bracker—Federal Branch,” said the tallest of them. His eyes were slate-colored, his thin lips unsmiling. “Are you Logan 3—1639?”
“You know I am.” Logan met his measured gaze. “What do you want with me?”
“We have reason to believe that you are in violation of a prime citystate law,” said the policeman.
“What law?”
“Possession and dissemination of a highly toxic and illegal substance.”
“You’d better leave,” said Logan tightly. “I’m with DS. We have immunity against this sort of harassment.”
“DS immunity does not apply in this case,” said Bracker.
“Who sent you here?”
“Never mind that. We’re here.”
Logan expelled angry breath. “I’d like to know the nature of this ‘highly toxic’ substance.”
Bracker raised a finger—and one of his men dipped a hand into the upper pocket of Logan’s zipjacket, extracting a small, wafer-thin white disc.
“DD-15,” said Bracker, holding up the disc. “Unofficially known as Death Dust.”
Logan was quite familiar with this drug. DD-15 was used exclusively in Medlab control work and was strictly forbidden to citizens, including DS operatives. It was potent and deadly.
“That’s not mine,” said Logan calmly. “It does not belong to me, and I have absolutely no idea where it came from.”
“Naturally,” said Bracker, smiling faintly. He nodded to the others. “Take him.”
Logan did not resist. His hands were tapewired behind him, and he was led from the unit directly to a waiting police paravane outside the building.
The ride to Federal Headquarters was swift and silent.
The interrogation room smelled of fear. The air was hot and close. No vents or windows. The sour fearsweat of numberless accused citizens lingered here; it permeated the pores of the room, creating an oppressive atmosphere designed to inspire breakdown and confession.
Logan, in a holdchair, faced Bracker and his men—just as he had faced the aliens in the giant mothership. And with the same sense of helplessness. How could he prove his innocence? Someone had planted the Dust on him. Someone who wanted to hurt him, to place him in severe jeopardy. Someone.
Phedra 12.
She stood in the room’s open doorway, wearing a loose dun-brown monksrobe that obscured the extravagant curves of her body. Her face was scrubbed of makeup; she looked much younger, almost childlike. And there was mock sadness in her usually sensual eyes.
“I hate doing this to you, Logan, really I do,” she said in a small, apologetic voice. “But I’m a good citizen. I’ve always been loyal to the system. I just couldn’t let you do it.”
“And what did I do, Phedra?” Logan asked.
“That stuff you were using…passing around…that awful stuff!” She
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