Read Online Voice of the Whirlwind by Walter Jon Williams - Free Book Online

narrowing his eyes against the brightness. A contrail from a suborbital shuttle was scarring the blue, marking a path between fixed orbital stars. “Why are you working as a traveling salesman if you can pick up this kind of money just flying to LA?”
    Griffith scowled. “Because of who I’d have to fucking deal with, that’s why. If I keep it small, no one’s interested in taking over my action. But the big leagues play by different rules. If I did this full-time, I’d have every hotshot juvecrime scumbag in the world after my ass. And, shit, they’re faster than I am. These days.”
    “I want to know what’s in the package.”
    Griffith looked at him sidelong, then nodded. “You have the right. It’s Thunder.”
    Steward shook his head. “I remember reading something about it. But I’ve been out of touch for a while.”
    Griffith began to walk across the grass. He flipped cigarette ash onto the deep green. “Okay,” he said. “It’s a neurohormone developed by Pink Blossom a couple years ago. The trademark name is Genesios Three, and it’s also called vitamin B-44. On the streets it’s called Thunder, or Black Thunder. It stimulates the nerves to repair damage—it can grow a severed spine together, man. The cripples are skipping in the streets.”
    “So why’s there an underground trade in it?”
    “Because it gets you high. A nice buzz. Also raises your IQ by twenty points if you take it long enough. But after that, Thunder begins to repress vasopressin and oxytocin levels in the brain, which suppresses brain function, so you need more of the vitamin to restore it, which suppresses brain function even more, so . . .”
    “Negative feedback loop. Addiction.”
    “ Join the great adventure .” An amplified voice, from the carnival.
    “Yeah,” Griffith replied. “What I said. Not physically addicting, not in the classical sense, but bad enough. Anyway, Pink Blossom’s being cagey about making the stuff and distributing it. And Thunder is so complicated and expensive to make that the underground hasn’t been able to produce it in quantity at a price people can afford. But I have a friend who works on the Orlando shuttle. And he’s got a system.”
    “And you get a packet every so often.”
    Griffith nodded. “That’s the idea. You want the job?”
    “It sounds inviting. Who am I supposed to give this to?”
    Griffith wiped his forehead with his handkerchief again. “A faceback named Spassky. Little guy, about fifteen. Runs an unaffiliated mob and wears Urban Surgery.” He looked at Steward. “You seen those?”
    “On vid.” The new style, bizarre facial surgery mixed with elaborate, abstract tattooing. A cool style. Deliberately repulsive.
    “You can’t tell those little pricks apart,” Griffith said. “That’s why they do it to themselves. It’s city camouflage.”
    “Whatever works.’’
    “Shit. I can’t look at it. On Sheol I saw what real mutilation was like.”
    Steward hesitated for a moment, feeling a wave of coolness moving through his nerves. He looked at the carnival, the flags. The colors and the sky seemed different, as if a cloud had passed across the sun. There was a sense of motion inside himself, a movement like a thrown switch, that suddenly he was on a different side of things, as if he’d crossed a bridge without knowing it.
    “I’ll carry your package,” he said.
    Griffith dropped his cigarette, stepped on it. “Good,” he said.
    “I want something else, Griffith.”
    The other man didn’t look at him. Just stood with his hands in his jeans, watching the glass urban horizon, the mirrors that reflected the scarred sky. He was making Steward say it.
    “Sheol. I want Sheol.”
    A shudder moved through Griffith at Steward’s words. As if they hurt him, somehow.
    “Yeah,” Griffith said. “I knew you’d say that.”
    Steward’s mouth was suddenly dry. He tried to summon saliva, failed, spoke thickly. “What’s your answer?”
    Griffith was