Johnathon

"You can't keep me here, Jordan, not forever. Even you can't do that." Maggie reached to the coffee table, sharply placing a crystal champagne glass on hard black onyx.

"Wrong, Maggie my love. I can do anything. What you don't understand is that I own you...every single inch of you." Jordan was sprawled in the Rayden Recliner, one hand hazing over controls, the other holding a brandy. He was looking straight at her while slowly swirling the brandy in its glass. With the drink to his lips he stopped, looked over the rim of the glass, and smoothly stated: "Maggie, you are exactly what I wanted. A showpiece 'bout the same as my Norwegian elk hounds. I don't let them out and I don't let you out." He returned to the brandy.

"You arrogant, self-righteous— " She was off the couch; heading for him.

"Watch it," he smiled. "It will be room time, little one—maybe three of four days, maybe years."

Maggie withdrew. Instinctively her head went down; her body language changed.

"Good girl." Jordan's eyes flashed. "Good girl...but not good enough." In that split-second his hand passed over a sensitive control and Maggie was in the holding room.

"Damn you, Jordan! Stop this — do your hear me? Stop this!" Her plea turned to sobs as she dropped to the cold marble floor and it would be hours before sobs gave way to sleep. The smell of coffee woke her. Jordan had released a serving panel in the wall and provided a tray of breakfast. Maggie raised herself from the floor and picked up the steaming beverage. With mug in hand she walked to the room's small bed.

I need the coffee, she thought. Please someone, help me think. Such a savior could not exist. There was no way anyone could get into the room unless Jordan put him there. With no doors or windows, just floor, ceiling, and walls; equipped with narrow air vents, plumbing, and basic furnishings: it was a neat little cell—a holding closet for Rayden deposits.

Only a man of Jordan Quade's stature had the connections and financial clout to develop such a thing as the Rayden Recliner. While it looked like a big comfortable easy chair, it housed a powerful touch-sensitive computer programmed to transmit matter. It was the rich man's ultimate toy. Zap things for diversion—make guests go away. When he'd first shown her the chair he'd spent time explaining how it functioned and Maggie's self-educated awareness of science allowed her to grasp some of the more abstract concepts. She'd managed to understand his concern for stray molecules and free radicals—some lack of control—a bug that still existed. It seemed the chair left out a molecule or two when it reassembled whatever it was transporting. Nothing—and no one—seemed to miss a molecule, yet Jordan showed great interest in the possibilities of this imperfection. Be that as it may, Maggie only wanted to know how to destroy the technological demon and Jordan along with it.

In the solitude of the holding room she wondered how she had arrived in this living hell. Had there been no hints; no warnings to the dark side of Jordan? Dark side? It was his total being. She went back in an attempt to understand.

Maggie Bryce had been blessed—or cursed—by a kind of beauty that men found sexually hypnotic. It came not from the green-eyed golden-blonde looks, or the tall leggy figure, or even the sultry voice with its slight English accent. She had a sensuality born in to her that transmitted freely, above and beyond any conscious control. At the age of seventeen she escaped an overly possessive father by walking under age and under skilled into a job as a high-payed Las Vegas showgirl. By the time she was twenty-four she learned what was expected of her and became the consummate fantasy female. The rules were simple: she was to keep her mouth shut and always look perfect. In exchange for this she had financial security and the sort of glamorous life that harried housewives submerged in domestic drudgery envy.

As the years progressed a profound frustration grew. Maggie loved learning. With a schedule that denied formal education, she read as much as she could and tried to engage her dates in stimulating conversation. The only stimulation they wanted from Maggie was in bed so she stopped trying to talk, instead she waited for her free time, for her own fantasy world of science fiction—the books, the television shows, the movies—and when a high-tech convention came to town she would contact her agent and immediately get booked for hostess. Here she would spend hours skillfully blending in as part of the decor while she listened to phrases like "estimating doppler shifts", "bi statically scattered energy", or "pulse-position modulation"—words she found very sexy. It was at such a convention she met Jordan Quade.

Normally the conventions were filled with highly disciplined minds that ignored her presence but on this particular occasion, someone was watching her. Angered by what she considered an intrusion she turned to face her watcher and met the eyes of a darkly handsome man leaning arrogantly against a back wall with his arms crossed at his chest. He kept a steady gaze on her until she turned back around. The next few minutes were spent trying to concentrate on the lecture but Maggie could feel his gaze. Finally she strode cross the room toward him. He did not smile as she approached; instead he made a subtle formal nod that had more effect than anything else he could have done. In a low persuasive voice he said:

"Thank you for responding. I'm Jordan Quade and I would very much like you to join me for dinner. Is this possible?"

She froze before him almost visibly shaken. He was the Jordan Quade, of Quade Industries. She'd heard reference to him at a number of conventions; always accompanied by terms like innovator, progressive, and genius. To Maggie Bryce knowledge was power and power the only aphrodisiac.

"I would be honored, Mr. Quade." She answered him by lowering her eyes and executing a smooth semi-curtsy. The moment was poetic, proper, and electric.

Quade's eyes glittered as he handed her the key to his suite. "Eight o'clock."

Dinner was perfect. Instead of the fast-paced seduction rituals Maggie knew, Jordan Quade had the dinner leisurely catered, one course at a time. Throughout the meal he showed interest and he let her talk. His responses revealed little of himself but answered to anything she discussed in the realm of science, philosophy; whatever her interests. They parted in the early morning hours without so much as a good night kiss but the bond was set.

By the fourth date she found herself sitting at his feet listening with rapture to his dissertations like an adoring disciple. Never once did he change from his unspoken role of teacher and friend. He rarely touched her, except maybe to help her out of the car or through a door and then only with impeccable propriety. Jordan Quade's mental seduction technique worked magic on Maggie Bryce. She became the aggressor while he remained in control and after three weeks of Jordan's well-planned attentions, she was in love, in lust, and totally possessed. When he asked her to stay with him, go with him to the Quade Estate, she notified her agent, broke contract, liquidated some holdings, closed up her apartment and was packed, ready to go, in one day. It was a fantasy come true. Here was a man who allowed and seemed to relish her mind instead of her looks. That was it of course, he was her fantasy and because of this she refused to catch the warnings. Poetic justice? Bitterly she remembered one of her own lines, so often delivered to placate ardent fans: The best way to destroy a fantasy is by making it reality.

In Jordan's case the words were true. His pathology showed from the first day at the estate. She noticed the change and thought he had work on his mind. At first he just seemed irritated with her, bored with her questions, and tired of the teacher role. She changed tactics, started showering him with attention, and this angered him. He started dismissing her, asking her to leave him alone—then the fights started. One night she yelled, "Why did you bring me here?"

His answer was brutally honest: "Because other men wanted you."

That wound never healed. She saw Jordan as he really was. His was not the power of wisdom but power for power's sake felt in the sweet success of acquisition and control—acquisition without purpose, control without reason, and absolutely no compassion. When she tried leaving him he secured the mansion and started using the chair. Their relationship became a challenge again, Maggie's will against his—and the game was deadly.

She shook herself from the memories. Along with bed and toilet in the holding room, there was an oversized old desk fully stocked with papers and pen. She'd wondered about that, about Jordan's purpose. Why give her any diversion at all? Most likely to keep her sane. She'd be no challenge insane. Maggie sighed and walked to the desk, taking a moment to run her hand over the warm, smooth mahogany. She slid into the desk's matching chair, picked up a piece of paper, and started writing. At first the words didn't come, then they flowed, words of pain and frustration, deception and abuse, transferred from her heart to the page. It was then the serving panel slid open.

"Keep the food," she said softly. "I don't want it."

The room promptly filled with food: sizzling steak, baked potato, beef stew, coffee, spaghetti, cake, pie, steaming hot bread—it was a sensory overload of aroma and Jordan kept it coming. He must have cleaned out the kitchen in his rage. "It doesn't matter, Jordan. As of this moment I stop eating." She also stopped writing and left the desk. It took her a minute to sweep barbecue chicken wings and lemon meringue pie off her bed and then she lay down to cry. The crying was a physical tradeoff for the hunger and it worked. What also worked was sleep.

When she opened her eyes the food was gone. There was a gnawing sensation in her stomach so she moved to the desk. She planned a psychological revenge against Jordan. From now on she would write a fantasy, a love story. Maggie would create a rival Jordan couldn't touch because the rival didn't exist. A lover, a dream fantasy world, and an escape all in one.

His name is Johnathon. He's as tall as Jordan with dark hair reaching to the collar of his shirt. He has intense dark eyes and the kind of build that wears clothes well, not too muscular and not too thin. He dresses in an almost Victorian style: French-cuffed white laced shirt, black pants, longcoat, and he wears his masculinity like an aura, a masculinity you can feel. He is sensitive, compassionate, yet detached—in control.

For Maggie Bryce living became a steady ritual of writing Johnathon and crying herself to sleep. The crying became such an art she could cry at will until she slept. By the fifth day physiological symptoms of hunger began to appear. She was light-headed and dizzy when she moved. By the ninth day the designer gowns she so loved did nothing but hang from her frame: the weight loss had been rapid and extreme. Still she wrote, with Johnathon becoming more and more real.

What should we do today, Johnathon? Know what I'd like? I'd like to lay with you in front of a fireplace. Crackling logs, dancing flames, colors of yellow and orange. I'd like a glass of wine, maybe a back rub...

There was a change in the room—a change in the air, subtle. She stopped writing and looked at the metal vent near the ceiling. What is it now, Jordan? Gas? No, she couldn't smell any form of gas. The air filtration unit must be acting up. Fascinating. If the air stopped she'd be dead. Would Jordan kill her this way? Not likely. He'd be more dramatic. She returned to writing but became flushed; unsteady. The pen fell from her fingers and she picked it up to write one more line.

Good bye, Johnathon. She returned to the bed. With a shrug of her shoulders her gown dropped to the floor and she slid nude into cold satin sheets. The food panel opened and she could smell maple syrup. Jordan must have sent pancakes. Maybe it was morning. How interesting that it no longer mattered.

She lay in the bed for twenty-four hours, now too weak to write. Drifting in and out of sleep she thought she felt a breeze playing at the nape of her neck. The breeze started to make tiny spirals, methodic consistent little swirls against her skin, urging her, drawing her back to life. Maggie concentrated on the breeze, following its weave down the side of her neck, to the base of her throat and over her shoulder, like a tender caress. It traveled down over her breasts, down to her stomach, down with so delicate a touch the fine hairs on her skin lifted. She shifted, responded, and unconsciously mumbled, "Johnathon." The air immediately became stronger, more intense; increasing in density. Suddenly there was weight, real weight against her. The force flowed, undulated, all rhythm and sinuous movement, and Maggie couldn't breathe. She gasped for air with little strength left for struggle, but struggle she did. The energy stopped.

Her struggle switched to mental. There was something she desperately needed to remember. She struggled in vain for several minutes. What was it...some scientist, some lecture, some theory...molecular consciousness. The theory that electromagnetic energy flowing from one molecule to another could produce consciousness. Nothing becoming something. The more molecules the more complex the process. What was it Jordan had said? What happens to the stray molecules? Maggie didn't hesitate. From deep within her, from her very soul she cried, "I command you, I will you, I need you to be real—"

At that very moment Jordan flicked the scanner switch, adjusted readings, and materialized Maggie on the couch before him. "Oh I'm real, baby girl. Welcome back. Talking to the walls now are we?"

She tried sitting up to face him but all she could manage was a lean on the armrest from where she could see Jordan and the chair. At the same time she felt a pressure from behind her, an air pressure. She raised her eyes to meet Jordan's, "There's nothing real about you, Jordan Quade. The only thing real are your machines." She looked past him to the Reyden Recliner and said, "Thank you."

"You've lost it, Maggie," he laughed.

"Wrong, Jordan, I found it."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Power."

This time he laughed so hard it brought tears to his eyes then he straightened and the same eyes grew cold. His hands moved to the control panel of the Reyden Recliner. A blue light started pulsing, another began to glow...he paused; his hand suspended over a final control. "This is power," he whispered. Then he grinned.

Maggie screamed, "He's going to kill me!"

Sound like a high-pitched whine filled the room. A newspaper laid on the end table near the recliner lifted up, caught in a swirl that was growing. Jordan's grin became a glazed look of disbelief as the wind became a maelstrom of violent force. The chair was surrounded by a whirling dervish of power—an energy vortex of extraordinary magnitude. Maggie saw Jordan's distorted image; the face was contorted, mouth open, in one continuous scream that blended with the sound of the force as every atom in his body exploded. The energy ceased then returned to a light breeze at Maggie's shoulder. She gazed at the empty recliner then whispered, "You're the one that lost hope, Jordan...not me."