BLISSED

Copyright ©2004 Barbara Davies

The strobes were dazzling after the dimness of the Ladies Room. I had to squint to see Cal, but eventually located his yellow T-shirt and shorts. He was on the platform near the far wall with a man whose long trunk and short legs reminded me of a weasel. The man was shouting above the deafening music, gesticulating to emphasize each point. The flickering lights made his limbs jerk like a marionette.

I was already nauseous from the pall of body odour and tobacco which hung over the packed dance floor, and my stomach lurched. I couldn't leave Cal for five minutes without him getting into trouble. When would he wise up? The weasel with the pale, straggly hair was Hans Volker - and he was pure poison.

Cal and I had been together for the last two years, and he was always ankle deep in shit of one kind or another. He had what's known as 'an addictive personality' - started out glue sniffing and ended up on crack. I was forever cleaning up his act, and sometimes I wondered why I still hung out with him.

I was near enough now to see the carnivorous smile on Volker's face, and Cal's outstretched hand. It looked like my boyfriend was just about to take the bait.

I barged through The Waterfront's Saturday night crowd towards the platform, determined to stop whatever deal Cal was making. A broad shouldered man in a blue suit was standing with his back to me, directly in my path. I tried to avoid him, but just then an overexuberant dancer elbowed me in the ribs and I found myself off balance. We ended up on the floor in a heap of arms and legs, my fingers smarting where someone had trodden on them. I disentangled myself and helped the man up. He seemed more annoyed than the collision deserved, his eyes darting wildly around as though looking for someone. He ignored my apology and rushed for the exit. I shrugged and turned my attention back to Cal, taking the platform steps three at a time. It was too late. The black marketeer had gone; Cal was alone.

He flashed me a wide, welcoming smile, and stubbed out his cigarette. Then, unprompted, he held out a tiny silver object still sealed inside its bubble wrapper. It was a microdisc, factory fresh.

"Look, doll!" he bellowed over the din of the dance music.

I took the thing and examined it. One side of the 3-cm diameter disc bore the familiar Borchert Industries label, but beneath the red-and-black logo, instead of a description of the contents there was only an uninformative serial number.

"For God's sake! You know we can't afford this." Cal had never been able to hold down a job for more than a week, and my courier's pay was already stretched to breaking point, what with the deductions for the jet bike and uniform. "How much was it?"

He looked hurt. "Nothing. It's on approval. Only have to pay if I like it."

Volker's MO was to take the money and run, and if the goods - sex aids, drugs, even guns - later proved faulty, it was tough shit; 'Caveat emptor' with a vengeance. He must be pretty sure Cal would like the disc. And looking at Cal, I realized Volker had him pegged exactly right. His eyes shone, the whites prominent against his brown skin, and the pulse at the base of his throat was beating rapidly. Borchert Industries' virtual reality catalogue was varied, but there was nothing in it to merit such excitement.

"What the hell's on it, Cal?"

He put his mouth close to my ear. "It's a pleasure disc, doll. Let's go home and get blissed."

I'd heard rumours about the VR manufacturers' Holy Grail - a way to stimulate the pleasure centres of the brain - but to my knowledge nobody had been able to achieve it. So far. Cal was waiting for my reply, but I stalled. What if the disc really was what it claimed to be and he got hooked on it? The approval terms Volker had offered made me uneasy.

I was wondering what to do next when a plump hand reached round me and snatched the bubble pack. Cal's mouth dropped open with dismay.

"What's this, Gillian? You and Calvin holding out on me?"

I recognized the soft lisping voice, and turned. Zak Raphael, owner of The Waterfront and himself a prominent black marketeer, was fingering the plastic of the bubble pack. He was waiting for a reply, a dangerous smile lifting one corner of his mouth. "Well?"

I cleared my suddenly dry throat. "No way, Mr Raphael. We wouldn't do that."

The little man in the expensive clothes nodded at the disc. "So what's this? It's not one of mine."

I knew that Raphael didn't like his clients to go elsewhere; he took it personally. And just last week, the mangled remains of a man who'd insulted him had been fished out of the canal behind the Club. The truth seemed the best response.

"It's supposed to be a pleasure disc, Mr Raphael. From Hans Volker ... on approval. We haven't even had time to try it. See? The seal's unbroken."

Raphael frowned at the mention of Volker, then flipped the disc to the tall woman in the red dress standing silently at his shoulder. "What d'you make of it, Cass?"

His deputy examined it carefully, a crease furrowing her smooth, dark forehead, her large silver earrings jiggling. "The serial number's a new one on me. I've heard rumours BI are working on something revolutionary, but nothing's been released. It must be a bootleg."

"Well now," said Raphael softly, interest seeping into his voice. He looked at me through heavily lidded eyes. "Sounds way out of your range, Gillian. I'd better take it off your hands."

"Hey," protested Cal, before my warning squeeze could shut him up.

"Yes, Calvin?" The nightclub owner's eyes had turned a flinty green. He looked like a jungle cat waiting to pounce. "You were saying?"

Cal lowered his head and mumbled something.

A smile transformed Raphael's features into those of a kindly uncle. "Thank you for your present, Calvin. Most thoughtful."

Then he turned and went down the steps to the dance floor, followed by his permanent escort of goons and hangers-on. I watched Raphael cross the floor towards his office, the crowd of sweating dancers parting effortlessly ahead of him like the Red Sea had for Moses, and breathed deeply until my pulse was back to normal.

I was secretly relieved to be rid of the pleasure disc, but even as I soothed the seriously disappointed Cal I was beginning to worry. Raphael had left us with a major problem: we couldn't possibly pay Volker for the disc, nor could we now return it.

#

"He did what?" screamed Volker, his face so close that his nose was almost brushing Cal's.

We had moored my jet bike, and were half way up the fire escape to our first floor squat, when Volker's speedboat had droned to the bottom of the ladder. It had taken less than an hour for word to reach him. Now the black marketeer and his two thugs had Cal and me backed up against the fire escape's rusty railing.

Cal's adam's apple bobbed up and down twice as he tried to moisten his throat. "Zak Raphael took it."

"And you let him. Just like that?" Flecks of spittle spattered Cal's cheeks.

The stench rising from the flooded street was sickening, and I wondered whether we were going to end up on its muddy bottom before the night was over. There was something not quite sane about Volker's bulging, bloodshot eyes, and I wished he would wear the shades he used during daylight hours.

Could we make it to the bike? Or swim for it? Even the few working street lamps couldn't make the stagnant, black water look inviting. I searched feverishly for a way out. One of the thugs followed my glance and crushed me even harder against the railing. It dug into my spine and I drew in my breath sharply. Scratch that idea.

"D'you love your girlfriend, Calvin?" asked Volker, his voice suddenly low and dripping with venom. The conversation was becoming unnervingly personal.

"Wh ... what?" Cal looked anxiously at me.

Volker's lips drew back, revealing yellow, needle-like teeth from which the gums were rapidly receding. "D'you like the way she looks?" He took a step towards me and grabbed my chin. My skin crawled at the touch of his dead fingers. "Shall I change her pretty face for you?"

I heard the slight but unmistakable click of a flick-knife, and felt a surge of dizziness. One of the thugs handed Volker a blade, its edge worn thin by much honing. He held the razor sharp point an inch from my left eye, and I froze, terrified.

"Leave her alone," whispered Cal.

Volker stared at me for what seemed like eternity, then suddenly withdrew the point and let me go. He turned back towards Cal, and I heard the soft click as the blade was resheathed. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

"Listen good, Calvin. At one stroke you've damaged my reputation and my potential profits. Those pleasure discs are mine and worth a lot of ecus. Now, thanks to you, Raphael's probably making copies. Think very carefully. I can either kill you and your girlfriend -," he sneered at me, "- after we've had a little fun -"

Cal was staring as though mesmerized by a cobra.

"- or you can get back the disc and all the copies Raphael's had made."

Even as Cal agreed to do what the black marketeer asked, I wondered how we were going to manage it. But at that moment, there didn't seem to be any alternative.

#

I'd heard the story about Raphael's HQ many times. When the tidal barrier finally failed, the massive bore surged upriver, flooding the Underground and inundating basements and ground floors. The Georgian mansion's owners thought it would be permanently flooded and abandoned it, saving their skins and a few valuables. But though the districts near the river still looked like another Venice, the waters around the mansion had long ago subsided, and Raphael had commandeered the house and its contents. Salt had killed the extensive gardens, but once the dried mud had been brushed off the carpets and walls the house was habitable again - if you didn't mind the lingering smell of the river. It certainly put our ratty squat to shame.

Volker had given us two days. Cal and I had talked it over until our voices were hoarse, but the black marketeer had connections everywhere; running would have been pointless.

The journey took only ten minutes. The dank waterways were empty, apart from a sleek looking speedboat which at first seemed to be following us but veered off when I zipped the jet bike down a narrow creek between two derelict warehouses. At last the slight incline leading to Raphael's mansion came into view, and I moored the bike at the high tide mark.

"We'll never get in, doll. It's a fortress." Cal gazed at me, in despair. He was wearing his black T-shirt and shorts, and I'd tried to tone down my white face with smears of mud, but we still didn't look like professional burglars - or feel like them. My stomach was full of butterflies.

We slowly circled the perimeter wall with which Raphael had replaced the Georgian railings, looking for weak spots. The bricks were in good repair, and perched on top of them every ten feet or so was a video camera panning slowly over the floodlit surroundings. It was beginning to look hopeless when I spotted a vidcam with a dead activity light and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Give me a leg up, Cal."

He took a last drag on his cigarette and ground the butt under one heel. Then he cupped his large hands together, and I stepped onto them. Compared to Cal, I'm a lightweight, and he easily boosted me until my eyes were level with the top of the wall. I scrambled up, made myself secure, then reached down for him. Soon he was sitting beside me on the rough bricks, staring inside the grounds. There were lights on in the mansion, which meant someone was home and awake. I cursed under my breath; I had hoped Raphael and his sidekicks would be at The Waterfront at this hour.

I leaped into space and skidded on the dead grass, landing so hard I jarred my whole body. Cal made a more controlled landing, and we ran the remaining twenty metres to the back of the house.

In spite of the lights, there was no sign of movement, and no guard patrol. Raphael would never be so lax; something must be wrong. On the ground floor, a sash window was open, and I crept awkwardly along the stone wall, then sneaked a glance through the gap.

It was obviously the guardroom. Banks of flickering screens showed various black-and-white views of the grounds; one of the monitors was blank, presumably linked to the defunct security camera we had found. At first sight the room seemed empty. Were the guards all on their coffee break? And then I saw a boot poking out from under one of the swivel chairs.

"Something's wrong," I hissed.

Cal grabbed my arm. "Let's get out of here."

"We can't go without the disc, Cal. Volker wouldn't stand for it."

He growled softly. "I wish I'd never set eyes on the bloody thing."

The opening in the sash window was large enough for us to squeeze through. I eased my way over the sill, and Cal followed.

There were three guards lying motionless behind the banks of equipment - each with a laser burn in the centre of the forehead. Judging by the coldness of their skin, they must have been dead for quite a while. I began to shiver. What on earth had Cal and I walked in on? There was an eerie silence, broken only by the ticking of a clock and the hum of electricity. I took a deep breath and went through the guard room door.

I found myself in a hallway with five doors. Cal joined me. There were two more dead guards lying on the floor. I stepped over the bodies and carefully tried the handle of the first door. It opened on a store cupboard full of mops and bottles of cleaning fluid. I shut the door hastily against the smell of ammonia and tried the next one along.

A blast of warm air, smelling strongly of hot wiring and singed dust, struck me in the face. The room was large, lined with shelves full of humming hi-tech machinery. A spaghetti like mess of wires linked the machines to a console on a table in the centre. I crossed to the console and inspected it; according to its flickering dials and indicators, something was being copied. We had found what we were looking for.

We started at opposite corners of the room and moved methodically along the shelves, pressing EJECT buttons and watching the little drawers slide smoothly out. As each silvered disc appeared, we popped it into the rucksacks on our backs. Finally, I ejected the console's master disc and put it with the others.

Cal was eager to leave, but I remembered the look on Volker's face and didn't want to risk missing even one copy of the disc. We'd have to search the mansion thoroughly before we could call it a night. But anxiety was gnawing at me, giving me fierce indigestion. Who had killed the guards, and were the killers still on the premises? And where were Raphael and his buddies?

It was the last door off the hallway that led us to Raphael. It opened onto a huge lounge, comfortably and tastefully furnished, with a magnificent, marble fireplace and high ceiling. The black-and-silver BI Entertainment Centres stacked against one wall clashed violently with the Georgian decor. Wires trailed from the machines, and my eyes followed them to the inevitable headsets. People lay sprawled on the couches. One of them was Zak Raphael.

At first I thought the couch occupants were dead. Their eyes were sunken, their faces gaunt and darkly shadowed. Then I noticed that each body was gently quivering, as if plugged into the mains. I touched the throat of one of the men, feeling for a pulse. His skin was fiery, as though he had a fever, and his pulse was racing. A faint sheen of sweat covered his entire body, and his clothes were sopping wet.

Cal joined me and peered down. He smiled knowledgeably. "He's blissed, doll. Tripping." He gestured at the others. "They all are."

Once Cal had pointed it out, it was obvious. Some of the men even had semen stains on their shorts or trousers. There was only one woman present, and she looked very different from last time I had seen her. A trickle of drool was coming from Cass's mouth, and the whites of her eyes were showing.

I walked across to one of the entertainment centres, and peered at it. The disc inside seemed to be continuously looping. I pressed the EJECT button. Nothing happened. It was only after I had pressed the button three times in succession that the little drawer finally whirred out.

Behind me, the man whose headset was attached to the centre suddenly relaxed. I wasn't taking any chances. "Watch him, Cal."

"Nothing to watch." Cal sounded puzzled. "He seems to have slipped straight into a coma."

It looked like Raphael had let his people sample the first few copied pleasure discs with him. But someone must have sabotaged the entertainment centres. The same someone who had killed the guards? From the look of the headset wearers, the discs had been playing for several hours; their nervous systems must be near to overload. If the dehydration didn't get them first, a heart attack would. Still, there must be worse ways to go than dying of pleasure.

Cal was ejecting all the discs and putting them in his rucksack with the others. One by one the room's occupants became comatose.

"Finished?" I asked, as he velcroed the rucksack flap shut.

He nodded.

We searched the rest of the mansion but it was deserted. Upstairs lay three more guards, but whoever had killed them was long gone. There was one thing left to do, for humanitarian reasons if nothing else: I called an ambulance. Then Cal and I went home.

#

Hans Volker was playing it safe, and, after what had happened to his rival, I couldn't blame him. Raphael's fate had been splashed all over the morning news. The authorities were putting the incident down to 'gang warfare', but I remembered the precision of those laser burns, and the knowledge needed to reprogram the BI entertainment centres, and wondered.

The rendezvous was well out of the city. It took us over an hour on the bike, and as we neared the estuary and the swell became more pronounced, Cal and I got thoroughly soaked. I envied the owner of the sleek powerboat I'd glimpsed a couple of minutes before not far behind us.

The route led us directly over the spot where the barrier used to be - it was still just visible a foot or so below the murky surface. Then I steered the bike towards the dilapidated building Volker had specified. It smelt of mildew and decay. The black marketeer was waiting for us with two of his goons.

I upended the heavy rucksack over an old table in what had once been a draughtsman's office, and watched the silver discs cascade metallically into a heap. Cal stood close to me, his muscles tight with tension; he looked desperate for a cigarette.

"Is this everything?" asked Volker, licking his lips.

I nodded tiredly and gave Cal a sideways glance. I'd searched his room thoroughly twice. I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to keep a disc for himself, but it was best to be sure.

"Good." Volker seemed surprised.

"We're all square then," I said, and turned to leave. Cal started to follow, then bumped into me as one of Volker's men blocked my way. "Tell your goon to let us through," I said impatiently.

There was a long silence, and my heart plummeted as I suddenly realized Volker wasn't going to stick to his side of the bargain. I turned my head, and he looked more like a weasel than ever.

He shrugged a mock apology. "You and Cal know too much, Gillian."

I realized then what I should have known all along. There was no way Borchert Industries would have released the pleasure disc in its current form. It didn't make sense to sell a reusable trip when its addictive nature would ensure the customer came back for more. So Volker must have stolen a prototype and made his own copies. And he knew I could shop him to Borchert Industries for a fat reward. As the penny dropped and my expression changed, he nodded slowly.

And that's when the door burst open and two men and a woman in black uniforms breezed in. I recognized the leader immediately; last time he was wearing a smart blue suit and we were in a tangle of arms and legs on the dance floor at The Waterfront. It was a small world.

The newcomers wasted no time. A burn mark appeared in the centre of Volker's forehead and he collapsed like a rag doll, his eyes wide with surprise. His two goons quickly joined him.

Cal and I froze, afraid any movement would draw the same response. But the black uniforms holstered their laser weapons, and, ignoring us, began to scoop the pile of discs into a hefty attaché case. The economy and precision of their movements made me sure they were professionals.

They were preparing to leave, when I finally found my voice. "Just who are you?"

The man from the Club pulled a card from his breast pocket and tossed it at my feet. "Thanks for your help," he said, his lip curling slightly. Then they were gone.

I picked up the card and studied the red-and-black logo: Borchert Industries - Security Division, then handed it to Cal. His lips formed a silent whistle. A noise from outside drew us to the window, and we watched the sleek speedboat I had noticed earlier purr away.

"That was close," said Cal, fumbling with relief for a cigarette. "And what the hell did he mean: our help?"

My brain had been working overtime, and I had finally sorted it all out.

"Borchert Industries were watching Volker at the Club, but they lost him." I didn't mention that I had been the cause of the surveillance glitch. "It wouldn't have been a problem - they knew where he lived, after all - but he went into hiding."

"So they started following us instead?" asked Cal.

"Yes. I thought there was something strange about the set up at Raphael's. Those entertainment centres were brand new, Cal - they must've been sabotaged at the factory. And BI had no need to kill the guards; they were just making it easy for us. And sure enough, we led them straight to Volker."

Cal inhaled a lungful of smoke. "Is that it then?"

I nodded. There was just one small matter to be taken care of - to report the murder of Volker and his henchmen to the police. No doubt they would blame it on 'gang warfare' again.

We walked slowly back to the bike, and climbed on. Cal clasped my waist firmly from behind, and we set off upriver, over the barrier, towards home. I was bone weary and felt like I could sleep for a week.

"About that pleasure disc," said Cal, gently nibbling my right ear, "D'you think when the official version is released ...?"

Sometimes he had the tenacity of a bulldog. "Maybe. Better start saving your ecus now, though, cos you can bet it won't come as cheap as Volker's disc." I steered the bike round some floating wreckage and the spray on my face woke me up a bit. "But when are you going to learn, Cal? These addictions of yours are going to get us into serious trouble one of these days."

He got a better grip round my waist and snuggled up closer. "But you'll always be around to get us out of it, won't you, doll?"

I sighed. He was probably right.