Analog Time, Part Five free porn video

Analog Time, Part Five "9512" by Sandy Man "Yes," said Gruff, as he snuffled the air in Kelly's direction. "This one is seasoning well." "Goodie," said Fizzel, as he pressed the long, flat knife against me. He started at my tits and slowly slid the blade down along my zipper, his dark eyes never leaving mine, his smile getting wider as the blade slipped lower and lower. By the time it reached my crotch, he was grinning, ear to ear. "Better," he whispered to me. "Now squeal, pretty pretty. Squeal and perhaps I let you live." My back was against the work table. I slid my good hand along the hard, wood-but-not-wood surface until my fingers touched something smooth. Glass? "I don't hear a scream, pretty pretty," said Tock. "We must have a scream," said Guff, and flicked his knife across Kelly's shin. She cried out in pain and tried to claw at his face, but the little fucker weaved its head away from her, too fast for human reflexes to catch. Fizzel, meanwhile, turned his head to look at the show. His head only looked away for a moment, but it was enough. I wrapped my fingers around the beaker and launched it at his head. He turned back in time to catch broken glass directly between his eyes. Steam erupted from those eyes and he howled in pain, dropping his blade as he clutched at his face as he stumbled away from me. Guff turned to look at me and Kelly took the opportunity to launch herself at him. She crashed into his legs, taking them out from underneath him. He didn't let go of the blade, but by now I had scooped up Fizzel's machete and lopped off Guff's hand at the wrist as soon as he hit the floor. He snarled as black blood splashed onto the equally dark floor. Kelly snatched up Guff's knife and began chopping at his face, shrieking, "Die! Die, you fucker!" Fizzel was still blinded by the shards of glass and whatever corrosive liquid was in his eyes, but he still had a little fight left in him. When he came toward me, I sidestepped his clumsy attempt to grapple me and split his skull in two with his own blade. He collapsed to the ground. There was a slow hissing sound as the life drained out of him. "Kelly," I said. She couldn't hear me, still slashing at the little beast under her, over and over again. "Kelly, he's dead. You can stop now." This seemed to get through to her, and when she looked at me she seemed to come to her senses. She stood up and the knife dropped with a clatter. She started to wipe off the black blood that coated her arms and legs. "Is there a towel anywhere?" she said. "We have to get out of here," I said, watching the thick shadows that were spilling out of the broken distributor and along the floor. All of the vegetation, meanwhile, was glowing brighter and brighter. I tore a piece of cloth from a dry spot on my pant legs, and used it to wrap my bloody hand. At some point it would need stitches, but the sooner we got out of here, the better. A quick search of the workshop yielded a heavy work glove; the Nollocks had abnormally long fingers for their small stature, and my small hand slid easily into it. I pulled the drained power core from my pocket and let it soak in the dark light. In a few moments, a little green bulb on one end blinked to life and held steady. Kelly borrowed a leathery satchel - made from the skin of a tunnel worm, I suspected - and I carefully placed the power core inside. "How's that cut?" I asked Kelly. "It's not deep, she said. "But it's visible," I said. "That's not good." "What do you mean?" "I mean, you have to be the new Boss when we walk out of here," I said quietly, hoping that the Nollocks outside hadn't heard the conflict that had transpired in the workshop. "We'll have to swap clothes, and you'll have to act like you're me. We look and smell the same, so this should confuse them." Kelly looked at my filthy outfit that was now soaked with patches of black blood, on top of the junkyard dust and jungle dirt. She would definitely be getting the short end of the stick. "Why don't you just wear the gloves?" she said. "I could only find one, and it's the left hand. The cut is on my right. Besides, I'd still be favoring it, and that might give them just enough excuse to look closer at the hand. These savages pounce when they see a wounded leader." "So you're making me the target," said Kelly. "I'm sorry. Do you have a better idea?" She didn't. We stripped down. "Why don't you have underwear?" she asked me when the jumpsuit came off. I shrugged. "Didn't have any." "You drive from Allentown to Brooklyn. There wasn't any place you could stop for underwear? While you were on your period?" I didn't answer, but I felt my face getting hot as I slipped into her shorts and blouse. "You're not lying, are you? You really were a boy," said Kelly as she stepped over a Nollock corpse and zipped up the jumpsuit with a look of disgust on her face. "Too busy chasing after your damn Time Machine to stop for clean underwear." I put on Kelly's jacket and checked out the flashlight that she had dropped. It still worked. "You going to be able to climb with that?" said Kelly, pointing at the wounded hand that I was favoring. "I'll figure something out," I said. I didn't want to think about. "Going down is tougher, you know," she said. "It's gonna be pretty tough to do it blind, without the light to show you the way." "Got it," I answered. "Well?" she said. "Well, what?" "How do you plan on getting down that wall?" "I don't know," I snapped. "I just know I don't want to sit in this room and wait for death." **** "Fine," she said. She pointed at the flashlight. "But give me that. They stared at that more than they looked at your face." I reluctantly turned over the light, and she snaked a hand into the jacket I was wearing to get a pair of hair ties. Then she gave us both a pony tail, and started opening the heavy door. "You coming?" she asked before stepping through. I followed. "What are you all staring at?" barked Kelly, trying to mimic the commanding tone I had affected earlier. She did pretty well. I scanned the faces of the Nollocks, looking for recognition. "Take us to the Down side." "Up side," I whispered. "Up side!" she howled. The Nollocks looked confused, but a few of them broke off and started back down the hallway towards the ampitheatre. A few others were tentatively sniffing at my hand and at Kelly's leg. "Stop that," said Kelly, threatening with the flashlight. They cowered and fled, trying to avoid the ray of death that might erupt from the black tube at any moment. She pointed at the sniffers. "You three, scout ahead. Tell any Nollocks you find to come see me. And not to attack." They disappeared up the hallway. We slowly progressed up the hall. Kelly was a lot more cautious than I had been, but my strategy had been to get through as quickly as possible to give potential assassins hiding in the shadows as little a window as possible in which to strike. I wasn't comfortable with this slow pace, but I knew better than to question the orders of the apparent Boss in front of a bunch of bloodthirsty cannibals who were itching to chop us up. Tock Lockery stepped into the hall in front of us. Mister Zip was at his side, quill gun at the ready. "You called for us, Boss Man," said Tock, a wide grin on his face. "Yes," said Kelly, glancing at me for a moment. "Come here." I wanted to scream at her, to tell her ANYTHING BUT THAT, but out of self- preservation, I held my tongue. Tock came and knelt before her, while behind I saw Mister Zip fingering his weapon, ready to strike. "You are hereby relieved from trash duty," said Kelly. "I want you to - to go ahead and find any lurking in the shadows that might want to harm us." "So generous, Pretty Pretty Boss," said Tock as he inhaled her fragrance deeply. "Go now!" said Kelly, backing away from him. "All of you!" A few of the gathered Nollocks scuttled away, but most of them were intent on Tock Lockery. "Howsabout your hair, Pretty Pretty?" said Tock. "You still owes me a piece, yeah?" "Burn him," I whispered. "Do it now." Kelly stiffened at my words, and hesitated. Tock Lockery took the opportunity and leapt onto her, biting the arm that held the flashlight. She dropped it while the other Nollocks whooped and cheered. They surrounded the struggling pair in a circle. I scooped up the flashlight and sizzled the back of Tock's head. He howled in pain and bounded away, vanishing in the shadows. I brought the beam around in a wide arc, nicking a few of the other Nollocks. Within a few moments they had all vanished. "You okay?" I asked Kelly, keeping my eyes sharp for more challengers to the throne. "No," she said as she staggered to her feet. "Now neither of us can climb." I pulled her back into the workshop and shut the door. I began scanning the shelves for something to make fire, but I couldn't make any sense of the labels. I was more likely to asphyxiate us with Mustard gas than I was to create a working grenade. Worse, the room was now flooded with black shadow from the broken pipes, and the plants feeding on their energy were glowing so brightly they looked ready to burst. The light didn't hurt our eyes. The door had a heavy bar, which I set with Kelly's help. We tucked ourselves back into a corner, as far as we could get from the door and the shadows, waiting for the inevitable. I tied a makeshift bandage around the wound on her arm, but it was bleeding pretty badly. "What now?" said Kelly. "I don't know," I said. "Maybe this is it." "What do you think is through there?" she said, pointing to a little door behind a shelf full of empty barrels. "Son of a bitch," I said, and pulled the shelf away from the wall. It wasn't hard, because the shelf was on wheels. It looked like even a Nollock would have to crouch to fit through the little opening. We would have to crawl on hands and knees. Also, it was locked. I found the key in Fizzel's pocket as the pounding outside began. "Come out, Pretty Pretties," called Tock Lockery. "It won't be so bad in my belly. We promise to makes it quick, yeah?" I opened the little door and we crawled through. The room we came into was pitch black; no light bearing vegetation of any kind. I looked around while Kelly shut the door behind us. "What is this place?" she asked. "Storage area." "What are they storing?" "Us." Crate after crate full of Earth artifacts: children's toys, magazines, canned vegetables, odd pieces of furniture, old tires. "August, 2053," said Kelly, reading off a magazine cover. "And here's one from 2106. It looks a lot older." "Because it's been here longer," I said. "Time going the other way, remember? The stuff from our past hasn't gotten here yet." "How did this stuff get here?" she asked. "I don't know. Maybe we'll start using black holes as garbage dumps in the future." My light found something under a large tarp. Something with a familiar shape. "No," I said. I pulled off the tarp. There sat The Machine. "What the fuck?" said Kelly. "We left that way down-" "It's not ours. We must have been here before, from their point of view." I touched the smooth plastic and the hatch slid open. I was prepared to find somebody inside, but there was no one. Sitting on the seat, though, was a small piece of jewelry on a chain. I picked it up and saw that it was a round locket. Inside was a picture of an infant. On the other side was a picture of a young man. I couldn't be sure, but it looked like Dawson. The pounding outside grew louder, and I heard a snap and a loud snarling sound. They had broken in. Any second now they'd find the little door. "Let's go," I said. Kelly hopped into the seat and I got in beside her. I shut the hatch and pulled the parking brake, but nothing seemed to change. "Battery must be drained," I said. "But you've got the power core, right?" "Yes." **** We worked quickly to get the control panel open; I noticed that the instruction manual was missing. I carefully installed the power core while the howling outside got louder. By the time I had it hooked up, the Nollocks had discovered the secret door and were pounding on the plastic shell. Kelly screamed. I spun the aft dial and initiated a jump. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then the world began to spin. We were tossed around the capsule, slowly. Like two coins inside a jar that was inside a washing machine. Then the Machine seemed to hit something solid, and I cried out as my spine was smacked against the wall. The capsule stopped spinning, but now there was an amplified scraping sound that made us both clap our hands over our ears. "We have to get out of here," I shouted over the ear-splitting noise. "We must be underwater." She shook her head in confusion; she hadn't made out a single word. So I reached up and pulled open the hatch. Water flooded in, and we rose toward a white light overhead. As I pushed off, I felt the Machine fall off whatever jagged bit of rock had momentarily propped it up, and now it tumbled down into the darkness. When we broke the surface, I saw that we were in the pool of a deep quarry. I had never been so happy to see the sun. "We're alive," said Kelly. "Are we alive?" "Yeah, but we've seen better days. Help!" I called out, hoping that there would be workers or at least passersby up above. I knew it was a longshot. "What are you doing?" asked Kelly. "We need help. These walls are too steep to climb with your arm and my hand." "There's a ladder, you dope." She swam to the ladder in question, which looked like it was made of rust. When, by necessity, you have to climb a rusty ladder, you learn quick to keep a tight grip on the rails at all times. It wasn't a hard climb, but twice a rusted rung gave out under Kelly's weight as she made the climb above me. Each time I was certain she was about to come crashing down on me, and my heart was pounding for most of the ascent. When we finally pulled ourselves over the edge of the quarry and onto the soft grass above, Kelly spent ten minutes sobbing. I guess she had never experienced a mob of gremlins from a negative time universe try to eat her before. She even let me hug her for most of it, until she came to her senses and realized she was supposed to hate and fear me, weird doppelganger that I was. After calming down some, she said, "What did the clock say?" "You didn't see?" "No. What was it?" "I didn't see either." "Great," she said, getting up to pace on the grass. "We don't know where we are, and our Time Machine is at the bottom of a quarry. That's who knows how deep." "Where is probably pretty close to Upper Darby," I said. "I don't know where that is," she said. "It's Philly." "Oh." "As to when - we're obviously somewhere well past the industrial revolution. I'd say mid-twentieth century, at least. And from the weather-" I slapped a mosquito on the back of my neck, "- and the wildlife, I'd say it's probably August. Possibly early September. Unless global warming." "Yeah," said Kelly. "Unless global warming." We were in the middle of some kind of large park or nature preserve. In the distance was the Philadelphia skyline, somewhat more dense now, and a lot less pretty. "What's with the buildings?" said Kelly. "They look, I don't know, boring." "It's mostly the volume," I pointed out. "Skyscrapers look more impressive when they're the tallest thing. This is more like a bookshelf." "How tall do think they are?" she said. "Pretty tall," I said. "If that's Liberty Place, it should be about sixty stories. That means that that pair of buildings next to it are taller than the Sears Tower in Chicago." "Really? I thought that was the tallest building in the world." "Not anymore, I guess." "Hey, Josie," said Kelly, cradling her bitten arm. "I think I should see a Doctor." I was about to say something, but there was a cracking sound, and the back of her head exploded. There was a moment of shock as her body teetered and collapsed in front of me. My left eye was blind, splashed by her blood. I was already sitting, so I went flat, and her head flopped down next to mine. Her eyes were wide, lifeless. Crosseyed. I didn't want to leave her, but it was difficult to ignore the fact that someone or something was out there, shooting. We were out in the open, and I didn't like my chances to get to the trees. There was a giant hole next to me, but I was more than likely to break something if I rolled over and into it. Even if I got lucky, the shooter could stroll over to the edge and take his time while I held my breath under the surface. I should dive in, I thought to myself. If I try real hard, I can make it down to wherever the Machine is. And then maybe I can fix it, and go back to before she was shot. Maybe I can take her place. I remained frozen and did my best to look dead. Presently I heard footfalls, rustling in the branches. I held my breath, tried to look as dead and/or non-threatening as possible. The breezy silence of the clearing was suddenly cut by a song. Flight of the Bumblebee. Two seconds into it, I heard a woman's voice softly swearing. Then the song cut out. "Yes, Mother?" I kept my eyes closed, but I could hear her crouching down to get a closer look at Kelly. "What? Mom, slow down. What's wrong with Barney?" Mother buzzed louder as the woman leaned over me, and faded as she stood up straight. From what I could make out, Mother sounded quite upset. "The whole box? What about the wrappers? What? Mom! Why are you calling me? Just hang up and call the vet. No, now!" She sighed as she turned and started walking back into the brush. "No, I'm not going to call. He's your dog, Mom! Yeah, I can meet you." *** The forest ate the rest of her conversation. I waited a full minute before I allowed myself to breathe again, and another five frozen in terror, staring into Kelly's eyes, not allowing myself to move. When I finally did begin to move, I scanned the forest for signs of life. Nothing. Judging by the sun, it was early evening. "I'm sorry," I said to Kelly's still form as I closed her eyes. "I'll make it right." I kissed her on the cheek. I entered the forest. I went slow, picking my way carefully through the trees, keeping a sharp eye out for snipers. Truthfully, though, I had no idea what to look for, and I knew that at any given moment, I could die. Still, I couldn't simply dash through the woods, willy-nilly. I had to at least try to survive. But nobody shot me, and at length the trees began to thin out. There was a sign: Death Zone No Unauthorized Personnel Hunters: Set Link to Priority Level 4 Legalized human hunting. Great. I continued east, towards the distant Philadelphia skyline. My first impression of Darbyshire (the service sector built on the ruins of Upper Darby): No roads. The big, wide lanes of my time had been replaced by footpaths that snaked in and out of the marketplace that I wandered into. The snarling gears and belching exhaust of fossil fuel vehicles at ground level had been replaced by the low bass rumble of metallic forms of all shapes and sizes floating overhead. Everybody I saw was completely clean. Like, immaculate. No dirty people, no trash on the street, no dirt apart from the potted tropical plants that ran alongside every footpath. And that dirt stayed where it belonged, under penalty of broom. You don't realize how much filth you've been putting up with until you visit a place without it. Nobody had logos on their clothing, and clothing was, on the whole, pretty conservative compared to what I was used to. By and large, people didn't speak. By and large, people were browner than I was used to. People were a lot taller than I was used to. I put the average height for a female somewhere close to five seven. Everybody wore glasses. Sometimes they were sunglasses, but mostly not. Everbody wiggled and waved their hands as they walked, like a culture full of mimes. There was no advertising signage anywhere, not even in the windows of the shops. No big bank clocks displaying date and time, no newspaper kiosks. No phone booths. And everywhere I went, people gave my short, dirty ass two things: a hairy eyeball and a wide berth. Before long I found a quiet spot to sit against a wall, and tucked into a ball, with my chin on my knees. The adrenaline that had pushed me through Nix and the forest was gone, and exhaustion overcame me. I closed my eyes. Time passed. The next thing I knew, somebody was asking me questions. I opened my eyes. Only a few minutes had gone by, I was sure. The questions were coming from a tall man in a shirt and tie, and the question he had asked, which I was just beginning to register, was, "Is your Link broken, Miss?" I looked up at him with bedraggled eyes. "What?" "Let me see your Link, please." "I don't -" "Stand up, please." I started getting up, but it evidently wasn't fast enough to suit him, because he put an iron grip around my arm and pulled me most of the way. My legs were rubber. "Look here, please." He shined a light in my eye, and then looked at the little pad in his hand. "Shit," he said, and pushed a button on his belt. "This is Williams. I've got an unregistered Sim, no Link, on the Promenade. Center on my signal and send a Hummer." "Did I... what did I do?" I asked, my voice coming out in a breathless rasp. "Quiet," he said, irritated, as if silencing a noisy dog. His eyes were focused on the touchpad in his hands, which displayed the tiny image of a soccer game. He caught me peeking at it and shoved me into the wall. "Sit down, and stay there," he said forcefully. "You told me to stand," I said quietly. But like a good dog, I obeyed. That shove hurt. In two minutes a car-sized vehicle hummed down and landed gently on the path next to us. "What do we got?" barked the kevlar-armored, plastic-helmed knight that emerged from the car. His outfit reminded me of the uniforms from Robocop. Except, you know, moreso. "Unregistered Sim," said Williams. "No Link, no code." "Hooking?" said the cop. "Don't know. It was sitting here sleeping when I got here." "Rough trick, maybe. What happened to the hand?" "Got me." "What do you think, Gobs?" "She don't look like a Sim to me," answered the cop's partner, leaning out the window of the hummer. He was the first person here I'd seen without glasses. Also, he was the first one over fifty. "She ain't got the Sim stare. How you test her?" "Eyescan," said Williams. "So maybe it's just the eyes that are Sim," said Gobs. "Try a blood test." Williams grabbed one of my hands and poked it with the wand of the police scanner, the same one he'd used to check my eyes. I saw a progress bar slowly growing on his touchpad as the blood was analyzed. "Gobs, you crazy," said the younger cop. "You can't use Sim eyes." "Maybe they changed that. You don't know," said Gobs. "I'm looking at the latest research right now," said Williams. "There's no way a human brain can hook up to Sim CNS or eyes. Mostly Sim parts are just used for internal organs." The younger cop chuckled. "What's the score?" he asked Williams. "Three to two," said Williams. "Us. Rodriguez just scored." "How's that test coming?" asked Gobs, uncharacteristically impatient for his age. "See for yourself," said Williams, showing the older man the display. "There's a hunting ground near here," said the younger cop. "Maybe it escaped." "Hunters like big fuckers. Look at her. Arms like twigs," said Gobs. There was a tightness in my chest. I gritted my teeth, feeling my face get hot. "So maybe it's hooking," offered Williams. "Who would bother? She ain't got the tits for it. And why's she so short?" said Gobs. "Some guys like that," said the younger cop. "Some girls, too." "Custom job, more likely. Somebody fucktoy got loose, looking for grub." "You're in PDB?" asked the younger cop. "Yeah," said Williams. "Upload her scans and do a search. Then check CL for ads for... I don't know, missing persons." "She ain't gonna be on no CL ad," said Gobs. "You don't post a want ad for your contraband sex toy." "Nothing," said Williams as he pawed at the air. "Nil on scans, nil on want ads." "This ain't our job," said the younger man. "We should dump her at Bini." "Hang on, Doug. What's your name, kid?" Gobs asked the beat cop. "Williams, sir." "Williams, did you interview the subject?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, did you ask the girl why she's here?" Williams made an impatient noise in his throat and turned to me. "IDS," he said. "Wh-what?" I asked. "Your ID number. Do you know it?" "No," I said carefully. "Okay, how did you get here? What's your function?" I cleared my throat. Ahem, well you see, officer, I happen to be a time traveller from the twentieth century. I have no idea why that scanner is telling you I'm a "Sim"; perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I seem to be a clone of my friend - hmm? Oh, her head was casually blown off about an hour ago. Where did I come from? Oh, just a parallel reality that runs backwards in relation to this one, populated by cannibalistic gremlins. They're made of shadows and they melt when you shine a flashlight on them. What's that? My brain is deficient and I should be euthanized? You don't say! "I don't remember," I said. "Rotten processor," said Doug. "Or she's a sleeper," said Gobs. He made an awful gurgling sound, leaned out of the car window, and spat on the path below. A little vinyl brush on metallic spider legs popped out of the sidwalk and inhaled the spit, then brushed the spot clean. None of them seemed to notice. "Maybe you're right," said Gobs. "We did our part. Toss her in the box and we'll let Bini handle it." Williams moved toward me. "Wait," I said. "Let's not get crazy here. I'm a reasonable... person. Can we talk about this? What crime did I commit here?" Gobs and Doug ignored me completely. When I held up my hands in a peaceful, surrendering gesture, Williams pulled a metal pistol from his belt and pointed it at me. I felt the familiar sting of a neural whip, and my legs turned to jelly beneath me. Williams and Doug easily lifted me into the back of the police cruiser. *** We lifted off as the sun set. I wish I could say there was a nice view, but all I saw was the inside of a police cruiser and a slice of orange sky with ribbons of purple. The cops talked about soccer, and about the "new" food they were eating. I didn't smell anything. Maybe it was candy. After a short flight the cruiser touched down in the middle of a huge factory complex. I was pulled out of the cruiser and onto a large gurney by Doug and what was either factory workers or doctors; they seemed to be both. "Officer Bester," said one of the workers, referring to Doug. "Would you mind holding the subject's arm out? We need to affix a SimLink." "Doc, is that necessary?" asked Gobs, once again not bothering to get out of the car. Maybe he didn't exist below the chest. "My impression from your message was that she'd be recycled right away. Why waste a perfectly good, brand new Link?" "Oh, there will be no waste at all, I assure you," said the man. The name on his ID badge was Kazan. "For one thing, the subjects are completely stripped of both clothing and vital organs before they're recycled. Even the hair is shaved to donate to wigmakers. "But more importantly, I'd like the opportunity to show Brian here a typical admittance procedure." He gestured to a young man. The name on his ID badge was TRAINEE. "Besides," added Kazan, "We never let a Sim walk free without a Link. Not even for a minute. No, that wouldn't do at all. It's a matter of protocol." Doug Bester held up my left arm while Brian fumbled around with a large, cobalt blue bracelet onto my left arm. Actually, it went most of the way down to my elbow, more bracer than bracelet. Kazan then walked Brian through the process of assigning me an ID number - N-2817-9973703 - and making sure the plastic bonded with my skin. To say nothing of the probes that were supposedly attaching themselves to the bones of my forearm. I was, for a moment, grateful for the paralysis; from the way Kazan was talking, that last part was supposed to hurt like hell. It was clear that I wasn't actually a person in their eyes. It seemed better to keep my mouth shut unless spoken to. "If you'll sign here, Doc, we'll be on our way," said Doug Bester. "You look like you got a handle on this." "Oh, I'm not a Doctor," said Kazan, and pointed his finger at the pad that Bester was holding. This seemed to satisfy Bester, who got back in his police cruiser and lifted off. "Now the Link will read the genetic structure of the subject and give us the specifications," said Kazan, referring to a matching cobalt blue controller pad. This one he actually touched, instead of miming gestures at the air above it. "Height 156, weight 44, measurements 81-62-89. Eyes brown, hair brown. Hmm. She dyes her hair blond. Perhaps it's a disguise. Here you can see the subject's approximate age. Undernourished, I'd say - look at the protein levels. That's to be expected with a rogue like this. Her age is 53 days. That's about seven weeks." I was seven weeks old? Or just this body? Was I part of the body? Why didn't they scan my brain? Surely they'd see that I was a human being in a Sim body. "So as you can see, there are no genetic markers showing trademark. That makes this unit an off-brand custom job, most likely for someone with a fetish for exceptionally short women." "Do you think maybe whoever grew her botched the job?" said Brian. "Maybe that's why she was on her own. Maybe she was just turned out." Kazan smiled. "You know, it's a distinct possibility. Check the Police Database for reports of any illegal vats seized in the last eight weeks. Forty points, my boy." "Look at the brain scan," said Brian. "Why is it like that? Is she seizing or something?" "Brian, please. You mustn't assign gender to the subjects. Believe me when I tell you that it will be beneficial in the long run for you not to form attachments with the Sims. Now, as to the brain scan-" Kazan examined the readout on the cobalt blue Link on my arm and then looked at me, snapped his fingers in my face a few times. **** "That shouldn't be. It hardly even registers," he muttered. Louder, he said, "Well, the CNS scanner on this Link obviously isn't calibrated right. Now," he said, turning to Brian, "how do you suppose we go about running a full diagnostic?" Brian struggled for the answer while Kazan strapped my lifeless limbs to the gurney. "Well, I don't want to use my Link, because there might be a virus," said Brian, hesitantly. "But if there is a virus, I don't want to trust her - sorry, it's - SimLink with a full diagnostic." A light bulb went on. "Use a CL?" "Twenty points, my boy." Brian smiled. "But, uh, do we have a CL?" "We do. But I'm not going to waste a CleanLink on this one. As Officer Bester pointed out, she'll most likely be recycled within the hour." Next, Kazan got Brian familiar with the controls for the gurney, which was self-propelled. They wheeled me into the factory like an RC car, and I was crashed into more than one wall as Brian got the hang of it. Kazan stopped us in the hallway. "Alright, let's process her," said Kazan. He loosened my restraints. "Let's see how far you can get by yourself." Brian cleared his throat and looked at me, trying not to make eye contact. "Stand up, please." "No need for courtesy, Brian," corrected Kazan, gently. "Deliver the commands plainly, with neither aggression nor empathy. You wouldn't apologize to a light switch, would you?" "No sir," said Brian. To me he said, "Stand up." "I can't move," I answered with a distinct lack of a shrug. Brian was confused. Kazan consulted the touchpad on his wrist. "Police must have utilized a paralyzing beam. That's alright; the SimLink can administer a nerve stimulant that will counteract its effect. Er, you don't have clearance for that, just a moment." I felt life and feeling returning to my limbs. Brian, seeing me flexing my fingers and toes, reissued his command to stand. I stood up, cradling my injured hand. "She - it's injured," Brian pointed out. "My my," said Kazan, examining the wound. "Whatever do you get into?" "It's a bite," I said, but Kazan obviously wasn't interested in a response. He produced a stainless steel wand from a pocket on his apron. The wand grew a little needle and he jabbed me on the thumb. "Ouch," I said, but before I could even get the words out, the pain from the bite was starting to subside. Kazan produced a tiny spray bottle and gave the wound two squirts. I watched as the torn skin closed itself; in under ten seconds the bite was fully healed. "Sir." "Yes, Brian?" "There's a warning." "Hmm? What does it say?" "It says RAD-7." "RAD-7... ah, that's a radiation warning." Kazan looked at me. "Curiouser and curiouser. Well, I can repair the biological damage remotely, but we'll have to destroy the clothing. Instruct the subject, please." "Strip," said Brian. I looked around for a bathroom, or at least a screen. I didn't see any. "Strip," repeated Brian. "I don't-" "Don't argue with the subject, Brian. And don't repeat any commands. It's obvious that this one hasn't experienced restraint before, so it falls to you to introduce some. Do so now." "Yes, sir." Brian looked at me. "I'm going to start at R-4." He touched his control pad. You know how it hurts to chew on foil if you have metal fillings in your mouth? It's called the Battery Effect. What's happening is that there are two dissimilar metals coming into contact with each other, the aluminum from the foil and the mercury or gold in your fillings. These two metals have an electrochemical potential between them. In other words, voltage. Electrons flow from the foil into your tooth, and then down into the nerve at the base. Your brain interprets this electrical activity as pain. That's what SimLink restraint feels like. Only, imagine it happening in every cell of your body that's capable of pain, simultaneously. Muscle, skin, bone, cartilage. Also, it's about five thousand times more intense. I found myself on the floor, unable to breathe. I tried to scream in pain, but the muscles of my throat seized up and tapered it into a little squeak. "No, no," said Kazan. "You've misplaced the decimal point. That's Level 40." "Oh, snap," said Brian. "Sorry, sir." He tapped his control Link and the pain instantly ceased. But the effect lingered on. I felt like vomiting, but there was nothing in my stomach to fuel the endeavor. I gasped and coughed instead. "You," I grunted, as I tried to stand, "You fuckin' motherfuckers." "What did it say?" said Brian. "Archaic profanity," said Kazan. "This unit is obviously tailored to select prurient interests. Try again. This time at level six." "No, please-" I shouted, but it was too late. The pain resumed, but this time it was nowhere near as overwhelming. This time it was more like an uncomfortable migraine, but everywhere. I could stand up. I tried reaching for Brian's control pad, but knives of electric pain coursed through my hand. I couldn't get anywhere near it. "The safeguards are in place," said Kazan. "Turn the restraint up to level 8, and repeat the instruction." "Strip," said Brian, and reached for the pad again. "No, wait," I said, and began frantically pulling off my shorts. Too late. Level 8 had started. "Alright, that's enough. I think the message has been received," said Kazan. Brian nodded and touched the control pad again. The pain subsided, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Then shorts, jacket, and blouse came off and went into a pile on the floor. "What is that?" said Brian, pointing at my crotch. I looked down and saw the string dangling between my thighs. "It's a tampon," I said. I could feel my ears turning red. Brian was dumfounded. "An archaic device for absorbing the discharge from menses," explained Kazan. "I've never actually seen one." "You mean she's-" Brian caught himself, cleared his throat. "You mean it's fertile?" Kazan nodded. "Yes, a very serious crime. But easily and automatically remedied by the SimLink." He fiddled with his pad, and a pair of spiders emerged from the ceiling, larger than the vinyl brush spider on the street had been. They gobbled up my clothing in steel mandibles, then sprayed the floor where the clothes had been. It reeked of disinfectant. "How are the RAD levels now?" asked Kazan. "Uh, RAD-5," said Brian. "Fine. Let's have her scrubbed." "This way," said Brian, pointing down the hall. I started walking. Along the way we passed a group of identical dead-eyed blonde hulks marching down the hall, led by a worker wearing an apron like Kazan's. "Evening, Joe," said the man. I turned, surprised to hear my real name, but the man was talking to Kazan. "Carter," said Kazan. He pointed at the workers. "Excavation?" "No, SEPTA's putting them on Mag-train duty." Carter rolled his eyes, then turned to the young trainee. "How's Brian working out?" "Brian is working out splendidly," said Kazan, as Brian put on his best Aw, shucks, face. Carter glanced at me, and I self-consciously covered my nipples and crotch. "What's this, a modesty model?" said Carter with a grin. "Contraband," said Kazan. "We're taking it down to recycling now." Carter looked me up and down with a clinical detachment, and he circled me like a panther. Or like a man looking at a used car he might be interested in buying. "Where did they find it?" "Darbyshire. Wandering aimlessly on the streets." "With no Link," said Brian. "Really? So you don't even know who it belongs to?" said Carter, still eyeing me up. Something was on his mind. "Correct," said Kazan. "Well, if you'll excuse us-" "You know what would be interesting?" said Carter, as he slapped one of the Aryan behemoths on the shoulder. "Why don't you take these puppies down to the garage and put them through some formations for Brian, here. Brian, did you ever see fresh L-9's strip a Hummer and then reassemble it?" "Uh, no, sir," said Brian, looking from Kazan to Carter, and back again, trying to get a sense of what the unspoken element was. Kazan grumbled and gritted his jaw. "This one's a little unorthodox," he said quietly, gesturing at me. "Unstable, certainly." "Oh, I'll take this one off your hands, Joe. I just think it would be topper for Brian to see those tanks in action." "What do you say, Brian?" said Kazan. "Would you rather see the L-9s go through some calibration exercises?" Brian opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, and Carter stepped in. "Beats that stinky old recycling plant any day, you ask me," said Carter. "I'd jump at the chance if it was my first day. Sure would be a good story to tell your Aunt and Uncle." "Oh, very well," said Kazan. "Come on, Brian." Carter and Kazan clicked their control pads together for a moment, and just like that I was Carter's responsibility. "You watch yourself," said Kazan, and then he and Brian departed with the gang of dead-eyed Austrian weightlifters. "Your lucky day, baby," said Carter. "Let's go. What's your name?" "N-2817-9973703," I said as I followed him. We entered an elevator. There were no buttons or readouts. Carter controlled it from his Link. We went up. Recycling didn't sound too appealing. I eyed Carter carefully as he fiddled with the Link around his own wrist, alternating between sports scores and jokes. I envisioned myself snatching the control pad out of his hand as soon as the door of the elevator opened. After that would be running while I figured out how to get this fucking SimLink off my fucking arm. But until the doors opened, I was stone. When the doors finally did open, I moved to grab the pad, but as soon as I moved toward him, searing wires seized the muscles and tendons of my hands once again, and this time it was accompanied by a sudden bout of dizziness. Carter giggled at me. "You ought to come with a warning label, baby." I glared at him and didn't respond. I thought about leaving the pad and making a break for it, but I knew I wouldn't get very far before remote restraint would have me on the floor. "Relax, baby," said Carter, running his fingers through my hair. "We're not hitting the killbox today. Daddy's gonna get you some new threads, and then and he's gonna put you on the block. Won't that be nice? Better than a killbox, for sure. Nobody likes the killbox, am I right?" I didn't answer, but he didn't seem to need one. He led me to a utility closet, where he opened up some cheap plastic drawers and rifled through the clothing in them. "Here we go," he said, tossing a shiny plastic black and yellow dress my way. I held it up. "I don't want to wear this." Carter rolled his eyes and reached for the control pad. "Okay," I said, eager not to have any more restraint. "I'll put it on." I fumbled with the clothes for a few minutes while Carter played with his Link. It turned out to be a dress with a short skirt, but it was all covered in transparent plastic, like it was laminated. I thought it made me look like a bumblebee. At least it wasn't too tight. But then - surprise! - Carter pressed a button on the belt and it all cinched in until it was skin tight. The top acted like a pushup bra, squishing my tits up towards my neck. "Alright, baby, let's see your best smile," said Carter as he strapped a pair of goggles on his face. He stood me up against the closet door and hit a button on his Link, and I winced as the goggles lit up like a searchlight. "Let's see that smile baby," said Carter. I cracked a smile and Carter said, "Wave to the people." "Are you recording this?" I said. "No way, baby. We're broadcasting." "What?" "Okay, we got some live ones. Uh, raise your arms up and turn around." I did as he asked. Anything to avoid more restraint. "Come on, baby, look like you're having fun. Okay, now bend over." "What?" "Bend over. New Brunswick wants to see what your ass looks like." "You - are you selling me on the black market?" "Baby, you got to bend over. Don't make Daddy turn on the hurt box." **** I gritted my teeth, exhaled, and bent over, hands on my knees, giving Carter and all of cyberspace a view of my bottom. Man, did I feel stupid. "That's good baby. Knees together. Good. Good, wiggle it back and forth a little." I did as he asked. "Baby that is bee-yootiful." He gave my ass a slap, which made me straighten up. Carter said, "Alright, boys and girls. We're gonna have sixty seconds. Let the games begin!" To me he said, "Blow the nice people a kiss, baby." I gave my hand a smack and spit it at him. He had me twist and jiggle a little bit, but after a minute the bidding was over, and he shut off his light and appraised his winnings. "Five thousand points," he said, with a disappointed look on his face. "You beat, baby. Guess I should have cleaned you up. Well, what you gonna do. Daddy's lunch break is almost over. Take off the duds and we'll get you to your new home." "Where?" I asked as he hit the button on my waist that expanded the dress back into it's baggier, removable state. "Boston," he said as I stripped off the dress. He put it back in the plastic drawer and we went to a locker room where I received a brand new pair of coveralls. This one was dark green and it fit me. Also, shoes. Much as I hated pretty much everything about my situation, I was grateful for footwear. When I was dressed, Carter hurried me down to a loading dock, where I was put in the back of a large truck - a flying one, of course - with some other Sims. There was a massive, one-eyed worker unit with a face scarred by what looked like acid burns, a lithe marathon-runner type who couldn't stop an involuntary twitch that happened every 2.5 seconds, and a female with long strands of red and gold hair, erupting from her head like flames. All of them had a completely vacant stare except for the woman, who had entirely too much enthusiasm for a slave. "Hi!" she said as I sat down. "My name is Trixie, what's your name? I am a custom unit, made for the pleasure of Mister J. Edward Hayes, who I absolutely positively cannot wait to meet!" She gasped. "Oh, are you also going to be delivered to Mister J. Edward Hayes? I do so hope you are! Then we can be sisters! Do you think you'll be delivered to Mister J. Edward Hayes? Do you? Huh?" "I really hope not," I said. She was a shrill knife twisting in my temples. "Oh, but think of it! We could have slumber parties, and we could braid each other's hair, and we could tell each other secrets late at night! Oh, it will be so much fun!" she squeaked, and clapped her hands together. "Can't wait," I said. I examined the SimLink on my arm, the same cobalt blue as the others. It sure looked pretty tamper proof. I wondered what I could do to it that the other Sims hadn't thought of. Christ, why was I thinking of myself as a Sim? I was a real person, dammit! Even if my memories were somehow implanted, nobody, human being or otherwise, deserved this shit. I looked around the truck, scanning for a way out of this. But hours of exhaustion took their toll, and my head drooped down into my hands like a heavy bowling ball. Beside me, Trixie clapped her hands again. "Oh, it will be so much fun to spend time with you, because you're so little! Just like a doll. Did anyone ever tell you that? You're pretty like a doll. Oh, it will be so much fun doing your makeup every morning!" "Trixie," I snarled. "Shut it." Just then the massive door of the truck slammed shut, and I heard an engine spinning up. A moment after it reached a steady pace, the door opened up again, and the driver called out, "HL-4595-7218!" The massive worker brute stood up and walked out. I noticed it was raining outside. No. It couldn't be. The door slammed shut again, and immediately opened. "N-2817-9973695!" shouted the driver. "Oh, boy, that's me!" squealed Trixie as she bolted out of her seat. "That means I finally get to meet Mister J. Edward Hayes, who I've been waiting to meet all my life!" I looked outside. The rain had stopped, but the streets were glistening wet. The entire cargo bed of the truck was one big stasis box. Had Dawson managed to patent it? What about the Time Police? The door slammed shut again, and when it opened, the rain had resumed. The driver looked tired. "N-2817-9973703," said the driver. I froze, fearful of what awaited me outside. "N-2817-9973703!" the driver repeated. I slowly stood up and exited the truck. We were on a rooftop in the middle of a large city. I didn't recognize it. The driver slammed the door shut. "Where are we?" I asked the driver. He ignored the question and ordered me down a staircase next to the landing pad. In a few minutes we arrived at Room 9512, and the driver knocked on the door. "Who is it?" said a man's voice from inside. "Delivery," said the driver. "I didn't order anything." The driver rolled his eyes, checked his Link again. He knocked on the door a second time. "What do you want?" said the voice. "Delivery," said the driver. "I told you, I didn't order anything." "Fine," said the driver. He looked at me. "Stay here," he said. The Link around his wrist spit out a little piece of paper, which he slipped under the door. "Come all this way and not even a goddamn tip," he grumbled as he walked away. I looked up and down the hallway. There was no one. I started walking swiftly down the hall, heading for the stairs, wondering what the range of a SimLink was. Hopefully not infinite. Before I got to the stairs, my left arm was nearly yanked out of its socket as the SimLink sailed across the hall and stuck to the wall. I put my full weight into moving the thing, but the Link wouldn't budge an inch. I was pinned. "Report to Room 9512," said a man's voice, speaking through the SimLink, which then detached itself from the wall. I bolted for the stairs again, but a lightning bolt of restraint pain drove me to my knees, and then the Link pinned me to the wall again. This time something popped in my shoulder, and I squealed in pain. When the Link hit the wall, the pain of the restraint ceased, but the fire in my shoulder lingered. "Report to Room 9512, now," said the voice. "Next time I'll up the level of restraint, and leave you pinned until morning." The Link released its magnetic grip on the wall, and I cradled my arm. For the moment, I was beaten. I hung my weary head and trudged back to room 9512. When I arrived, the door opened. Inside was a well-furnished apartment, decorated mostly with sterile white. Here and there were splashes of black. There was no one inside. "Come in," said a voice. I walked into the room and the door closed. I turned around to look at my host. "Stand still," he said sharply. I froze in place, my neck stiff from the tone in his voice. "Why are you holding your arm?" he said. "My shoulder," I said. "I think it's dislocated." "Do you have any recording devices on you?" "No." "Are you in the employ of any law enforcement agencies?" I considered lying. Then I considered that there was probably instrumentation in the SimLink that acted as a lie detector. I doubted my ability to fool one in the state of exhaustion I was in. "No," I said. There was a large, cylindrical booth in one corner of the room, extending from floor to ceiling. It slid open like a revolving darkroom door. "Remove your clothes." I cleared my throat. "Can I-" "Remove your clothes. Now." There was a sharp sting of restraint. It only lasted three seconds. I disrobed. "Step inside." I stepped into the booth and it slid shut. Inside was a white light, emanating from the floor. Everything was sterile. I heard something spinning above me. "Why are your RAD levels so high?" asked the voice through an unseen speaker. "I don't know," I said. I didn't care if he knew I was lying; I wasn't about to start babbling about parallel planes made from negative energy. Whoever this guy was, he was definitely the paranoid type. His finger was probably poised over a button that could incinerate me at any moment. "Close your eyes," he said. I shut them and started to ask why, but jets of soapy water came shooting out of the walls all around me. The pressure was so high that I grunted in agony when they hit my shoulder. Even the non-injured parts of me felt battered. Thankfully, it only lasted about a minute, at which point I was blasted dry by hot air in a matter of seconds. The booth slid open, and the voice said, "Come on out." I stepped out and met my new owner. He was at least a foot taller than me, thin, with hunched shoulders, glasses, and long, unkempt hair. "Hello," he said, leaning against his dining room table. "My name is Donald Heck. You can call me Don. Do you have a name?" "N-2817-9973703," I said. "Doesn't roll trippingly off the tongue, does it?" he said. He thought for a moment. "Let's call you... Gertrude. After the poet, Gertrude Stein. Have you ever heard of her?" "No," I said. Which was a lie. "Gertrude seems to suit you. Gertie for short." "Great," I said. "May I put my clothes back on now?" He raised an eyebrow. "Modesty?" "I guess so." "Where did you learn that?" I gave a half-shrug with my good shoulder. "Well, you're not putting that thing back on," he said, pointing at the green heap on the floor. "Come with me." I followed him into the bedroom, where he had a few outfits laid out on the bed for me, not one of which looked dignified. "I ran these off after I got your dimensions," he said. "That guy didn't let on how short you are up front, you know. Although I should have guessed from the angle that he was recording you. Which one do you like?" I glanced at a selection that ranged from bikini to skirt to short shorts. "Got any jeans?" I asked. "Jeans?" He made a face, then pointed at an outfit. "Wear this." What he selected was a colorful little bare midriff low cut tee with a thick collar, and a little yellow bikini bottom. Ugh. And the number 99 was on the shirt in bright pink letters, which made it look like some kind of sexified football jersey. Double ugh. "The 99 is an old pop culture reference," he explained as I slipped on the underwear. "From a television show called Get Smart. Ever heard of it?" "No," I said, which was a lie. I made a grimace of agony as I pushed my dislocated shoulder through the top. He saw the pain and said, "Okay, let's get that shoulder looked at." He consulted the little pad in his hand, the same cobalt blue as my SimLink, while I stood there, examining his room. "Sit down on the bed," he said, and set the pad down where he could see it. "Check that out," he said, pointing to the wall. I looked and saw a poster for a movie called TR2N. It starred Jeff Bridges and Bruce Boxleitner. It looked like a sequel to the movie Tron. Which kind of blew my mind. **** His hands, meanwhile, were taking hold of my arm and shoulder while I was distracted by the poster. I couldn't see what he was doing, but in a few moments there was a burst of pain in the shoulder, followed by relief. He must have administered some kind of painkiller through the SimLink, because it started to feel a lot better almost immediately. "Now," he said. "Let's get you settled." He led me to a walk-in closet, and pulled a small Murphy bed down from the wall of the closet. "This will be where you sleep," he said. He showed me a small kitchen, with a large oven, smaller toaster oven, and a small refigerator. "This is the refrigerator," he said. "Can't afford a home stasis unit, I'm afraid." He chuckled to himself. Later I realized that his was because he felt like he was explaining to one appliance why he couldn't afford another. "Do you know how a refrigerator works?" I nodded. He pointed a mysterious device on the floor. To me it looked like, I don't know, a small washing machine without a lid. Or like a scale with a really big base. "This is the maker," he said. "Do you know how this works?" "No," I said, which was the truth. He looked slightly frustrated by this. "We'll worry about that tomorrow," he said. "How's the shoulder?" I extended my arm through its full motion. Even the numbness had gone. "It's okay," I said. "Thank you." "Good," he said, and led me back to the bedroom. He sat on the bed and had me stand at the foot of it. "Do a little dance for me," he said. I folded my arms, self-conscious. "There's no music," I said. He tapped his Link and there was a noise like Yoko Ono stuck in a trash compactor, accompanied by some kind of weird, non-rhythmical jazz drum solo. "What's wrong?" I heard him say, faintly, under the oppressive wall of noise. He turned down the ear-splitting screech so that he could hear me answer him. "I can't dance to that," I said. Who could? "Jesus, what are you, picky?" He took off his pants to reveal the bright orange boxer briefs underneath. Thank god he stuck to black and white for the interior decorating. "Do you have anything from the twentieth century?" He looked at me, surprised, as if a slug had just crawled out of my ear and asked him for coffee. "You have taste in music?" I shrugged. He tapped his Link again, and a softer, rhythmic sound replaced the shrieking banshee song. Gentle, reverb-laden guitar chords and the low throb of bass guitar. A single tone held by a organlike synthesizer. An effect like water to usher these sounds in. And then lyrics, from a deep, slightly throaty foreign woman. "The strange setting of our story Re-presented nothing but a super falling star The landscape was no mystery The idea of a mind so vain, at the point of infinity..." "What is this?" I asked, while I looked around the room. The music was definitely an improvement, but I was dreading what was supposed to come after the washing machine and the underwear dance. "This is Stereolab," he said, glancing at his Link. "It's good," I said, and started moving to the music, brainstorming escape plans. The SimLink was controlled by the blue pad on the bed beside him, but I wasn't allowed to touch it; automatic restraint seized my limbs if I tried. It probably wouldn't let me rush him, or attack any person, for that matter. SimLinks probably enforced something close to Asimov's Laws of Robotics with pain. A physical assault was out, so that left something mental. Could I talk him out of raping a human fuckbot? What did I know about him? I hadn't seen any windows in his entire apartment; a room with a view must add significantly to the rent. Then there was that business of not being able to afford a home stasis unit. On the other hand, he seemed to take a lot of pride in the appearance of this place; it was clean, and there weren't signs of excess that pointed to him pissing his money away on drugs, women, gambling. Still this seemed like a nice place. It certainly didn't look like a ghetto or even a middle-class type of joint, although it's admittedly hard to gauge wealth at a glance in a world where one could spit on the ground and the mess was instantly cleaned up by little street sweeper droids. Why was I the only Sim slave around here, and why was I bought relatively cheap at an auction? I was probably damaged goods compared to that fruit loop Trixie back in the truck. She was a custom order, and I obviously was not. So he was well off, but not that well off, and relatively new to his means. A new promotion? The song ended, and a new one started up; same group, but higher tempo. My brain was working slower than usual. Was this wholly from exhaustion, or was the SimLink doing something to my brain chemistry? Was it turning my brain into mush, making me more subservient? I felt like Charly Gordon after the halfway point of Flowers for Algernon, dreading the inevitable slide back into mediocrity. It must have showed on my face, because Donald Heck's expression went from bored to uncomfortable. He tapped some command into the blue control pad and I immediately felt warm all over. There was a tingling in my nipples and a throbbing down below, and I knew that blood was rushing to both areas. I started running my hands over my skin, and thoughts of rebellion began to fade. Before I closed my eyes, I saw his interest starting to perk up. He switched the music to a different track that featured the same French singer. Her taut, ivy voice hypnotic as she danced with the trebly bite of a rhythm guitar, the pulsating star sounds of a Mooglike keyboard. When I opened my eyes again, I realized that I had been on the floor, touching myself, and Don Heck was scooping me up and laying me softly on the bed. *** Whatever he had doped me with was powerful stuff. The world had liquified into a glistening, euphoric haze. All of my attention was focused on the itching in my nipples, the ache in my vagina, and the blanket of music that covered me in a wave. I giggled when he removed my shirt. I moaned in delight when he played with my tits. And I didn't protest when he peeled off my panties. "What is that?" I opened my eyes. He was staring at my crotch. Specifically, he was staring at the little string hanging out of my vulva. "That's a tampon," I said, and snorted. "Why do you have that?" he said. "To soak up the blood, ya dumb shit," I said, still giggling. "Don't you know how girls work?" He got up, pissed, and started frantically searching for something on his Link. "Aw, whatsamatter?" I said, a totally high, shit-eating grin on my face. "Afraid of a little period blood?" "Go to your room," he said. "And don't come out." "Yes sir." I saluted him and went into the little closet, scooping up my new coveralls and laughing the entire way. In fact, I was still laughing when I pulled the murphy bed down from the wall, and when the closet door slammed and locked itself. I laid on the bed and laughed some more. A used tampon had kept me from getting date raped on my first night as a slave. Donald Heck popped into my room at seven o'clock the next morning. "I have to go away on business," he said. "But I'll be checking in on you remotely. I uploaded an itinerary into your SimLink. Follow it. The Link will instruct you on whatever you need to know to complete your chores." And then he turned and walked out, without so much as a goodbye. I rolled over to sleep some more, but an hour later, the SimLink started chirping at me. "Eight o'clock," said the feminine voice of the Link, in soothing, even tones. "Time to get up. You are permitted an allotment of forty-three grams of NuFood to start your day. You may also utilize the shower. Be ready for chores at eight thirty sharp." I banged at the blue plastic, looking for a snooze button or a power supply. It seemed to work, because the Link quieted down. Until exactly ten seconds later, that is, when the message repeated itself. "Eight o'clock," said the Link, in soothing, even tones. "Time to get up. You are permitted an allotment of forty-three grams of NuFood to start your day. You will also utilize the shower. Be ready for chores at eight thirty sharp." "God, shut up," I said, trying to bury the Link under a pillow. I kept it there and tried to get a little more rest. After five minutes, though, the Link added something to the end of the message. "Be ready for chores at eight thirty sharp. Rise now, or restraint will be required. In five, four, three-" "I'm up," I snarled, hopping out of bed. I put away the murphy bed, then asked the Link, "What's New Food?" "NuFood is a protein and vitamin rich artificial food substitute," offered the Link. "Patented by Oswald Hollingsworth in the year 2117, NuFood was adopted by the U.N. as-" "Yeah, yeah," I said. "Where can I get some?" "There is a NuFood processor in the kitchen." "Which one is it?" I said, after I had entered the kitchen and spent nearly a minute scanning the appliances. "Follow the arrow," said the Link. "What arrow?" "Follow the display arrow," said the Link. "I don't see anything." "Utilize a Visual Interface Monitor. A spare VIM can be found in the wall cabinet to your right." I opened the little cabinet and found a pair of eyeglasses with thick black rims. "This?" I said. "Correct," the Link said. "Put them on now." I put on the glasses and saw a giant red arrow floating in the air, pointing at a cube-shaped appliance that looked a little bit like a cross between a toaster and an ez-bake oven. "Okay, how do I use it." "Press the button located here," the arrow shrank and pointed at the button, "and indicate verbally first the flavor of the NuFood, and then the desired shape." "The desired shape?" "Correct." I hit the button and said, "Gimme a Pop-Tart. Shaped like a Pop-Tart." The processor lit up a little red light that said "Flavor unavailable." I sighed. No Pop Tarts in the future, huh? I tried the button again. "Banana. Um, surfboard." The machine made a quiet whirring sound and then what looked like a little wooden surfboard rolled out of it's slot. "No way," I said, picking up the surfboard. It was completely solid. I could even bang it on the counter. It felt almost tough enough to hammer nails with. "It's wooden," I said. "Or maybe plastic. It doesn't even have an odor. How is this food?" "NuFood is covered by an impermeable shell made from patented space age materials that repel dirt and bacteria. Saliva instantaneously dissolves the shell, which leaves no harmful after-effects for the consumer," said the SimLink. I tentatively poked a tongue at it. I couldn't even taste the coating, I coul