Rx: A Tale of Electronegativity by Robert Brockway Read Free Book Online Page B

least track the thing’s progress, no matter how imprecisely. Now, with the static wave of the turbines drowning out all other noise, he was at a loss. Was he still making faster progress? Had it been slowly gaining on him all this time? Reggie could be there right now, for all he knew, silently staring at him from just inches away, and reaching….
    He stubbed his fingers against a raised metal bump, more solid and compact to the touch than the concrete and graphene mesh of the Post’s walls. The bump ran vertically, bordering a smooth, level plane. A door, and its frame. It was huge. Way too wide an opening for any ordinary room.
    The stairwell , he thought desperately, it had to be .
    The colossal stairwell doors had been designed for a dozen commuters pass through, shoulder to shoulder. But the stairwells haven’t functioned as “stairs” for many years: With space at a premium, any usable, livable area was bound to be claimed eventually. Every descending and ascending flight could fit ten men abreast, and the open plateaus of each landing were larger than the average housing project. It wasn’t long before enterprising homeless realized the value of the wasted real estate. Their transition from footpath to neighborhood was piecemeal, at first. Just cardboard shanties tucked away in the corners, and mobile sleeping kits hastily set up for the off hours.  Most commuters took the lifts anyway, so not much fuss was raised at the temporary settlements. But temporary always becomes permanent, if you let it: Soon makeshift platforms were slung from the underbellies of every flight. At first, they were only accessible by rope ladders, and weren’t much more than places to sleep without getting arrested, assaulted, or trampled. But they were so unobtrusive -- webbed into disused corners of the ceilings like eggsacs -- that even these permanent structures remained unnoticed. Inevitably, they grew outward. Platforms were strung together, others slung below them, and still others below those, until the “unobtrusive” structures ran all the way to the floor below them, and the ‘Wells were stairs no more. Unlike the primarily abandoned floors he found himself stumbling through, where roving, psychotic janitors and tube collapse were looming threats, the ‘Wells were sound. They had doorways that were easily secured, clear, delineated borders that could be maintained, and free, unmonitored access to every floor above and below.
    This ‘Well would not be vacant. There would be a guard on the other side of the door.
    …
    A guard meant to keep intruders out, not admit and protect them.
    A guard that would likely either ignore his rapping, kill him for the disturbance, or just enjoy the evening show while the janitor’s monster tore him apart. Nowhere in the list of foreseeable options did “help the bleeding stranger with his dick in the breeze” appear. But Red was out of choices. He knocked timidly, like a neighbor there to complain about the noise, and awaited a response.
    “What can I do for you, mate?” The voice came back instantly.
     “My name is Red,” Red screamed in reply, all self consciousness lost upon hearing another human voice, “and I need help.”
    “Fuck you,” the guard replied plainly. There was no malice in it. Just a statement of fact: Fuck you.
    “Please, there’s something out here. The janitor on this floor, he’s got these uh…man-bots, I guess?  One of them is after me. I don’t know if it….I think it’s very close.”
    “What part of ‘fuck you’ did you not comprehend, friend? Was it the ‘fuck’ part? If so, I’d be happy to explain in detail. Draw you some pictures, yeah?”
    “Please! I’ve got connections. I can get you authorization for any chemical ‘feed you want. I can print open Rx Cards. I can build the craziest mixes you’ve ever ingested. Ever wondered what blue tastes like? Want to punch a hole in steel with your cock? I’m your man. Just please, open