From the Street to the Stars (Andy Nebula: Interstellar Rock Star, Book 1)

Chapter 15: Withdrawal

The pain grew until I couldn't stand it—and then grew more. It flayed the skin from my body and the flesh from my bones, poured acid through my veins, drove slivers of ice into my eyes, filled my throat with ground glass. And all the time I knew exactly what I needed to end the agony: one little wafer, one insignificant, unimportant wafer, one tiny dose of flash.

I writhed and screamed, spittle dribbling down my chin. I begged Meta until I was hoarse, "Please, let me up! I've got to find—I have to have—" But Meta buried her face in the pillow, her hands over her ears.

After what seemed days, but was probably less than an hour, Fat Sloan opened the door. Adrenalin surged through me. "Sloan, you can get me flash, I know you can, Sloan, please, please!"

Meta's head jerked up. "No!"

Sloan ignored her and came over to me. "Well," he said. "So little Kit, always so afraid of flashmen, is a flashman himself."

"Sloan... " I moaned. "Help me... "

"Of course, gladeye." Sloan drew a glass tube out of his shirt pocket and shook a little green wafer into his palm.

I trembled and drooled like a starving mutt. "Thank you, Sloan," I whispered, like a prayer. "Thank you, thank you—"

"Don't mention it." Sloan delicately took the wafer between his grimy thumb and forefinger and leaned forward. "Open wide—"

I opened my mouth, tongue extended, panting in short little gasps, waiting for the blessed touch of the wafer—

And Meta screamed "Stop!" and threw herself between us. The wafer spun away, smashing to green dust against the wall.

Sloan's smile turned to snarl. "I'm just giving him what he wants—what they all want!" he spat. "You can't stop me."

"Meta, get out of his way!"

She ignored me. "I won't let you do it!"

Sloan laughed, a nasty sound. "I don't think you can stop me." He stepped forward again, a moving mountain of flesh.

But Meta held her ground. "I won't let you," she repeated—and held up the knife I'd put in my bag. She handled it clumsily, but it was very long and very sharp, and Sloan stopped. The sight of it filled me with rage. How dare she use my knife to stop Sloan from giving me what I needed? Who'd asked her to interfere?

Sloan snorted. "Have it your way, little girl. But don't expect him to thank you for it." He went out, slamming the door.

Meta turned toward me with a grin—and I spat at her and called her every obscene name I had learned on the street. "I'll kill you!" I screamed. "You're biowaste, you filthy little witch! I'll take that knife and—" I went into graphic detail, punctuated by my own moans and gasps when pain crashed over me.

My words drove Meta back against the wall, her knees pulled up tight, but she didn't hide her face this time—she just stared at me, rocking back and forth, tears running down her cheeks.

A century later, the pain ebbed, and consciousness with it.

* * *

I woke in darkness. Every bone and muscle ached, sandpaper lined my throat, and I stank. But I could think clearly again.

Meta slept, curled up on the bed like a cat, a faint glitter of reflected light from the tavern holosign across the road showing the knife still lying by her outstretched hand. I shook my head. Little Meta, standing up to Fat Sloan on my account. Now that's what I call a fan. I opened my mouth and croaked, "Meta." She didn't stir. "Meta, wake up!"