Novel Excerpts

copyright©2002 Bruce Golden All rights reserved ISBN: 1-58939-232-9 Publisher: Shaman Press Available online at: http://shamanpress.tripod.com/ http://www.virtualbookworm.com/mortalsall.html

1

ZACHARIAH STARR

I was just a writer of over-hyped, testosterone-driven space operas when she walked into my life. I should have known better. I should have paid attention to that tingling I always get along the nape of my neck when trouble's headed my way.

She was drop-dead gorgeous, a real riser. That should have been my first clue to stay clear. But women, especially beautiful ones, were like an itch I had to scratch. It didn't matter that I often ended up opening a vein and watching my heart bleed out onto the pavement. I had to have them.

I didn't let the fact that I wasn't graced with good looks stop me either. Hey, let's face it, I was downright homely. Not actually grotesque, I mean I didn't have a hump or anything. But the real finelines gave me a wide berth, unless they were selling and I could pay for it--which I did. You pay for it with most women one way or the other anyway. So it didn't really bother me--and it meant I got to spend the night with some of the most attractive, sexually gregarious women on the planet. Or at least my little corner of it.

The night she walked into my neighborhood hangsite I had long passed boredom and was working on comatose. So I started feeding my "what have you got to lose" attitude and looked to see where she was going to sit.

It was an establishment of some ill repute--never too crowded, and dimly lit so a guy could be anonymous if he so desired. You could get anything you wanted there--blackmarket booze from Mars, sex/death vids, mood enhancers, body parts, or a body of divine perfection. That's what she had. But she wasn't selling it. She had on this simple, dark green work outfit. Not the kind of thing you put on to advertise your wares. However, as a connoisseur of the feminine form, I saw right through the getup, so-to-speak.

She seemed to be looking for someone, someone in particular. When she failed to recognize anyone, she picked a table located in a strategic corner facing the door.

In less time than it takes to swallow your pride and spit it back out again, I pieced together my patchwork courage and made my way to her table. She was so busy watching the door, she didn't notice me coming. So I quickly wrote myself an opening line.

"Sister, you've got a chassis that would make any Detroit foreman proud."

Well, I didn't say I was a good writer.

Anyway, the look she gave me was as cold as titanium. However, I rebounded, and I think I caught her off guard.

"May I join you?"

"Join me?"

"Thanks, don't mind if I do."

I sat down before she could twitch. She gave me this puzzled look, then turned to check the door once more.

"I haven't seen you in here before have I?"

Oh yeah, I had the charm sputtering away on all cylinders.

"No. You have not."

"I didn't think so. I would have remembered a dish like you."

"A dish?"

"My name's Zachariah, Zachariah Starr. But you can call me Zach."

"If your name is Zachariah Starr, why should I call you Zach?" she asked, turning her attention from the door to me.

"Well, it's easier to remember."

"I have an excellent memory."

She was as stiff as a priest's collar. I was going to have to bring my A-game to bear if I was going to loosen this one up.

"My family name is Sturzinski. Starr is my pen name. I'm a writer." I always tried to ease that into the conversation. Some babes were actually impressed, but not this one.

"Why do you find it necessary to have so many names? Are they symbols of your social stature?"

"No, I don't think any amount of monikers is going to help me there. Let's make it simple. I'd prefer it if you'd just call me Zach. Okay?"

"All right . . . Zach."

Then she turned again to watch the door, as if I wasn't even there. Now I don't mind getting the brush-off, but I refuse to be ignored.

"So, what's your name?"

"My name?"

"Yeah. The polite thing to do when someone introduces himself is to introduce yourself."

"Excuse me. I have not had any training in the social amenities."

I was beginning to think she wasn't all there. You know, like she wasn't totally online. She was a little slow to find the right words, like someone speaking a foreign language. Maybe that was it. Funny though, I didn't hear any kind of accent.

Then she turned her attention from the door and looked right at me. I was drawn into those incredible blue eyes of hers and, for the moment, I didn't care if she had an I.Q. of 80 or 800.

"My name is Mary."

I shook myself loose of her mesmerizing stare and held out my hand. "Nice to meet you, Mary."

She seemed unsure of what to do, but then took my hand. I gave her a gentle squeeze and let go. She withdrew her hand gingerly, as if analyzing a new sensation.

"So, where are you from, Mary. What do you do?" I didn't think she was a pro, she didn't have that smell. In fact she wasn't wearing any fragrance I could detect.

"What do I do?"

"Yeah. Are you a model, an actress?"

"I am a fully-trained domestic facilitator."

"You're a maid?"

"I also play the piano and related keyboard instruments."

"I get it. I had to work a lot of odd jobs until my writing started to pay. I was a pump jockey down at the spaceyards one rather lean summer. Where you working now?"

"I . . . I am not currently employed."

"Been there done that. Don't worry, a looker like you shouldn't have any trouble getting some kind of work. You can always waitress till something else comes along. The tips alone should keep you in sugar."

"Sugar?"

"You know, jolly joints, vids, vibromassage, whatever your personal poison is."

"Poison?"

"You don't get out much do you?"

"No. My previous . . . position did not allow me to go out much."

Now I've run into some strange babes in my time, but this one was beginning to creep me out just a little. There was something about her, something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I was that thinking maybe she had been born off-planet when I saw it.

She had turned to watch the door again, and several strands of her hair shifted out of place. When she ran her fingers through her hair to pull it back, I saw it. Every drone had one. Most had more than one. This particular implant was a tiny one, no bigger around than my thumb and conveniently hidden under her long, dark blonde tresses.

It made sense now. She was an androne, or to use the more socially-correct term, "artificial human." But she sure didn't look like she'd been grown in a breeding facility, even if they did use human genes as templates. They were just about everywhere nowadays, but I never paid them much attention. Supposedly, they were completely human, except of course for the cybernetic implants that enhanced them at the genetic level to give them better eyesight, stronger hearts, more efficient nervous systems, etcetera, etcetera.

Essentially, she was a clone, fitted with bionic implants that could be tapped into as a way of downloading information. Of course, that wasn't what I had been thinking of downloading myself.

"You've got a beautiful head of hair, if I may say so."

"Why do you ask permission when you have already made the statement?"

"I uhhh . . . I wasn't really asking permission. It's just a figure of speech."

"Yes, of course," she said as she turned her attention once more to the entrance. Staring at her, I found I could no longer think of her only as a body-to-die-for, a tempting receptacle for my lust. She was somehow more . . . and less. Let's say her being a dronette confused the issue. Lately, it seemed, just the mention of andrones would stir up trouble. Were they people or things? Was the continued production of drones morally right? Economically viable? Was it the best thing for society, or were andrones a growing danger?

Me? I could see both sides of most issues if I tried hard enough. Mostly, I didn't get involved in politics or issues of great philosophical debate. It was all I could do just to write a couple of cheap-thrill adventures and get myself in the fur every so often. Of course, if I had spent as much time writing as I did trying to get online with some fineline, I might have become more than a hack for hire. Speaking of which, I had never done it with a dronette before. Not that it was unheard of, if you had the money. We're talking mega-credit here. Though it wasn't highly publicized, everyone knew about the pleasure drones the ultra-wealthy could buy. Flesh and blood playthings, genetically sterile like all drones, programmed to do any and everything you could imagine and then some.

Mary wasn't one of those, but with her looks she could have been hatched from the same tank.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"No thank you. I am not in need of fluids at this time."

"You know, you'd better learn to speak the local drool. You won't be able to disguise the fact you're a drone if you keep talking like that."

That seemed to make her uneasy. She shifted her gaze from the door to me. "I am an androne. Why should I want to disguise it?"

"I don't know. You tell me. I guess it doesn't matter, if you're here on legitimate business. If you're just waiting for your steward to come through that door then you've got nothing to worry about. However, if you're a rogue, you'd better learn to blend in."

It hadn't occurred to me up until that moment that she might actually be on the run. I was playing with her, seeing what kind of reaction I could provoke. You know, trying to light a fire under her chilly disposition. But when she heard the word "rogue" I could sense all her systems going on alert. It was a subtle change in her manner, nothing overt. Still, I knew a cornered rabbit when I saw one. I'd been in that corner a few times myself.

"I assure you, there is no cause for alarm," she said after taking only a second to compose herself. I admired her self-control. I didn't know drones could lie so well. "Tell me," she continued, "if I were trying to 'blend in' as you say, what would you suggest?"

"Well, you certainly look the part. Not that a babe with a bod like yours could ever go unnoticed. But if you keep that implant on your scalp covered, no one could tell just by looking. However, your vocabulary needs some massaging, and you need to start using contractions."

"Contractions?"

"You know, like don't instead of do not, I'm instead of I am. Look, being as I'm a writer, this is kind of my field. I'd be glad to help you out. I'm sure, with my expertise, I could have you drooling like a gutter rat in no time."

"Drooling like a gutter rat?"

"That's slang. You know, street talk. See what I mean. You've got a lot to learn. Why don't you go back to my cradle with me? We'll crack open a bottle and begin your first lesson."

"Is the bottle a necessary teaching tool?"

"No, but it couldn't hurt."

"I do not believe you desire to improve my speech patterns. It is more likely you seek a . . . a sexual encounter. You are not the first. Several men have requested my cooperation, but I am not that kind of drone."

I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing at that, and she stared at me like I was a rabid dog.

"Why do you laugh?"

"It's just what you said," I managed in between a few fading chuckles, "that you're 'not that kind of drone.' It's funny. It's a joke. It's, well that's a whole other language lesson."

"It was not meant to be a joke. I do not have the necessary programming for sexual pursuits and my secondary commands forbid such functions."

"Like it forbids going rogue? It's my understanding that andrones are as capable of adapting to new situations and learning new behavior as humans."

"That is correct."

"Well, you may not have the necessary programming, but you've got all the right equipment. And from where I'm sitting, it looks like it's in excellent condition. All you need is the right teacher. Someone to show you the ins and outs of unending ecstasy, the seething, heaving passion, the insatiable desires that lie deep within the--"

"I have observed," she said, interrupting me, "sexual imagery and innuendo such as you have been using, in all facets of human communication. It seems mankind cannot eat, drink, sleep, or select a mode of transportation without invoking words or pictures designed to remind them of what is essentially a primitive means of reproduction. This obsession led to the rampant overpopulation that plagued Earth in the latter part of the last century."

"I guess you could say that had a lot to do with it."

"What is this fascination humans have with sex?"

"Give me a couple of hours and I'll show you."

"Hours? Is that much time necessary?"

"It is if you do it right."

She didn't seem impressed or even slightly titillated. It was apparent I didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of getting this delicious looking dronette to come home with me. She wasn't programmed for witty repartee. Her idea of a good time was probably oiling her implants. Still, there was one more gambit I could try.

"You know, if you need a place to--"I shut up, because I noticed she wasn't paying attention to me anymore. She had seen something, or someone, that had set off a warning signal inside her. Not that she was beeping or anything, but I could tell she had suddenly shifted into "red alert" mode.

I turned toward the entrance to see what she was looking at. There was nothing especially threatening. It was pretty much the usual dregs of the earth which frequented that particular establishment. I did see this one butch-looking tabby who appeared to be scanning the scene rather judiciously. At least I thought she was a she. After another glance, I wasn't so sure. She, or he, had this leather and chain androgynous thing going on. Then I noticed chains weren't the only metal she was wearing. She had more than the usual number of implants showing and it looked like she might be packing heat.

"May we go to your home?"

That about knocked me out of my chair. I looked around to make sure it was Mary who actually had said it.

"Are you saying you want to go back to my cradle with me?"

"Yes, your 'cradle'."

"I don't know. I don't want you to think I'm easy or any--"

"We must leave now." She got up, grabbed me by the wrist, and began pulling me towards the rear exit. Now I would have liked to have thought it was my charm that swayed her, but, by the way she kept looking back over her shoulder, I figured it was more likely she had spotted someone she wanted to avoid. My money was on the drone with the heavy metal.

When we reached the exit, she let loose of me, not knowing which way to go. She faced me with a look that was almost desperate.

"It's that way," I told her. "Near 54th and Holly."

She took off, not waiting for me to show her the way. She wasn't exactly running, but she was walking at a pace I found uncomfortably close to a real workout. Not that I was against physical fitness you understand. I just preferred to get my cardio-vascular exercise in a prone position.

"Hey, where's the fire? You don't want to wear me out before we get there do you?"

She pretty much ignored me, and while I was scrambling to keep up, she continued to look behind us.

She kept to the back streets and alleys--not the shortest route home, but I didn't have the oxygen to argue. After a few minutes she slowed a little, which was fortunate for me, because all those years of sitting on my butt behind a comdat were beginning to show.

I was breathing pretty heavily by the time I got close enough to grab her arm and stop her.

"Wait a minute . . . wait a minute. Are you going . . . to tell me . . . who you're running from?"

"I am not certain."

"You're not certain? Look, if--"I heard a loud bang, like something very large and very metallic being tossed around. That was followed by a grinding screech and another bang.

Mary didn't hesitate. She was off and running, turning a corner and moving like a frightened deer. I threw it into overdrive and followed her.

***

She still had that wild animal look when we reached my cradle. "Open says me, one, two, three." I recited my code, the HC switched off security, and the door slid open. "Lights, lock up." I noticed the v-mail digicon was flashing on my comdat screen. I wasn't expecting anything important so I ignored it. Probably my publisher calling to nag.

I could see the caution in her eyes as they swept the place. She wasn't looking at it the way most women do. She wasn't measuring me by the disarray or the cheap furniture. She was sniffing out traps, looking for signs of treachery. I knew the first thing I was going to have to do was calm her down.

"I know it's not much, but make yourself at home. Can I get you something to drink? I bet after that forced march you need to replenish your fluids. I know I do."

"Yes. You may give me something to drink."

"What'll it be? What would you like?"

"Whatever you are drinking."

"Okay, two Scotch-rocks."

"Rocks?"

"Yeah. Here, I'll show you." I proceeded to throw a few cubes in the two clean glasses I found and added the whiskey. "See. Scotch-rocks, or Scotch on the rocks. Rocks being slang for ice. There, you got your first language lesson.

"Sit down," I said as I made a place for her. She was still walking around, getting the lay of the land. She picked up the book I was using for a paperweight and looked at its cover.

"'Guns For Ganymede by Zachariah Starr.' You wrote this?"

"Yeah, years ago though, before the first man ever set foot on Ganymede. It's a bit dated now."

"The books I have read were all on the Net or in disc form."

"Well that's a real one. Most copies are sold on disc, but my publisher indulges me with some hardbound editions. Believe it or not, there are plenty of collectors out there who want the real thing and are willing to pay for it, so she makes money on it."

"What is the story about?"

"Oh, it's about how the colonists of Ganymede fight for independence when they rebel against the control of politicians on Earth."

"It is about a fight for freedom then?"

"Yeah. That's the catalyst for all the action anyway."

"I would like to read it sometime."

"Sure, be my guest. It's not one of my best books, but it sold a few thousand copies outside the Net."

"Where do you . . . how do you get your ideas for stories?"

"That's the hard part, especially when just about every storyline has already been done to death."

I decided if she wasn't going to come sit by me, I was going to her. I got up and handed her the drink. "I get my inspiration here and there. Mostly I recycle."

"Recycle?"

When I got close enough to hand her the drink, she walked away and sat down. I didn't know if she was playing coy or just doing that drone thing.

"Recycling is taking a tried-and-true plot and dressing it up with new characters, new settings, maybe a different kind of alien nemesis. The ingredients may be stale, but the recipe works forever."

"And you earn credit for these stories?"

"Hey, I don't write them for the exercise. As you can see, I'm not swimming in silk and diamonds, but it pays the bills."

Jekyll chose that moment to make his presence known. He leaped up next to her, startling her a bit I think. He held his tail high in challenge as he looked her over. She recovered from her surprise and stared right back at him.

You have to understand, Jekyll was more human than feline. When he spoke he wasn't just meowing, he was talking to you. And you'd better pay attention. He didn't just look at things, he studied them. He even liked to watch the Net, if the right program was on.

"Mrrrouw," he said, still looking at Mary.

"What does it want?"

"It is a he, and he has a name. His name is Jekyll, and he wants you to touch him."

Didn't we both.

She reached out tentatively, unsure of how to go about it. Meanwhile, Jekyll held his ground.

"Haven't you ever petted a cat before?"

"There were no cats in the household in which I was employed. Only a small, blue canine that matched the furnishings."

"A designer doggie huh?"

"Is your Jekyll designed for specific genetic traits?"

"No, he's just mongrel alley cat, a stray that followed me home one day. But he's a glutton for attention." I walked over and sat down next to her. "Here, let me show you." I stroked his solid black fur a couple of times so she could get the gist of it and then gave him a good scratch between the ears like he liked. All the time, he kept his green eyes fastened on her.

"Go ahead, you try."

She reached out tentatively once more and carefully touched Jek's back. "Good living to you, Jekyll," she said as she began to stroke him. When he kicked his purr into full gear I think she actually smiled, though it was so quick I couldn't tell for sure.

"There. Now you have a friend for life."

"He is very soft, and the sound he makes . . . ."

"That means he's happy."

"I am glad I can make him happy."

She may have had the body of a woman, but the impression she left was childlike. Of course, drones aren't even harvested from their tanks until they pass into adolescence. I've read when they do come out, their exposure to the outside is limited as they are given the necessary education and training for their designations. Mary had probably only been in the real world for a few years, though it didn't seem polite to ask for an exact number.

She decided to take a sip of her drink, then got this cute little quizzical expression on her face. "This is an unusually bitter tasting beverage."

"You've never had Scotch before?"

"I do not think so."

"It's an acquired taste. You'll get used to it. It'll do wonders for your disposition."

She took another drink.

"Music up," I told the HC, and some soft tunes drifted up around us.

"What about you, Mary, are you really a maid?"

"I am a fully-trained domestic facilitator."

"Who do you facilitate domestically for?"

She hesitated before answering. I could see the gears clicking away in her

head, so-to-speak. "I am currently in transition. My former steward died and no legitimate claim has yet been approved. I am awaiting the outcome of various

. . . legal proceedings."

Yeah, and I was a green Martian monkey who plays poker and sings opera. I knew she was lying, and I decided to go for the haymaker while I had her on the ropes. "You've gone rogue, haven't you?"

Once again she got that jittery, apprehensive look about her, and began scanning the room for I-don't-know-what. If I had said "boo!" she would have set a new high jump record from a sitting position.
"Don't worry. There's nobody here but us, no hidden cameras or microphones, and I certainly don't care if you're a rogue. In fact, I think it's kind of sexy. Of course, I think anklets and floppy hats are sexy too."

I was trying to make her feel at ease, but she didn't get it. She just sat there staring at me. I guess she was trying to decide if she could trust me. After a few moments, and another sip of her drink, she let it out. "Yes, I am what you would call a rogue."

"What do you call it?"

"We call it wanting to be free," she said, staring straight at me. The wild animal look in her eyes had been replaced by one that warned she would fight if necessary. That was a look I had learned not to mess with.

"What do you mean, 'we'?"

"There are others, others who desire the freedom to make their own choices, to determine for themselves how they shall live. They want the same rights all humans have, nothing more."

They were nice words, but it sounded more like a recitation than something she truly believed in. However, I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Equal rights for drones? It's a radical concept, I'll grant you that. However, it kind of defeats the purpose you were created for in the first place. It would play hell with the economy, I can tell you that."

I don't think she cared much for that comment. She gave me a look that could have frozen fire.

"Is it wrong not to want to be a slave?"

"Hell, we're all slaves to something--professional pride, religious beliefs, fantasy, love, mind-altering substances, our tastebuds . . . you name it." She turned her head then, not really looking around but just thinking. As she did, I couldn't help but notice the smooth white slope of her neck and the swell of her breasts as they yearned to be free from the v-neck of her outfit. What can I say? I was easily distracted.

"You know, being free isn't always what it's cracked-up to be. What would you do with your life if you were free?"

She turned back to me, looking determined as ever. "I do not know what I would do. I only know I want to be free. Perhaps when I am free to choose what I want, I will know."

"Well I know what I want."

"What do you want?"

"I want you." That caught her off guard, and surprised me a bit too. I didn't usually blurt it out like that. But let's face it, the usual moves weren't going to work on a drone who hadn't a clue. "I want to make love to you."

"You are referring to sexual intercourse?"

"That's a pretty clinical way to put it. Actually, this is a time when slang expressions could be useful."

"Which slang expressions?"

"Well, there's actually quite a few of them. Let's see, there's screw, bang, ball, bop, bone, get down, get online, input the output, knock boots, go net, go sheet dancing, hide the salami, do the wild thing, the horizontal mambo, make the beast with two backs, and the ever-popular, plain ol' fuck."

"So," she said with more seriousness than I could have mustered at that moment, "when you say you want to 'make love' to me, you could also mean you want to 'bang' me. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, I mean . . . well sure, yeah."

"Why do you want to 'bang' me?"

She said it with such dead seriousness, it took all the self-control I had not to laugh. "You know, at this stage of our relationship, I'm not really comfortable with that particular expression. What do you say we go back to 'making love'?"

"If you prefer. Why do you want to 'make love' to me?"

"Because you're beautiful, and . . . well, you've got a great body and--"

"So your desire to 'make love' to me is based upon my physical appearance?"

"I . . . uh, yeah, I guess that's right. I guess I'm also turned on by the idea that you're a drone. I've never done it with a drone before. Are you . . . I mean are you built for . . . ?"

"Unlike neutral andrones, my anatomy is fully functional."

"Have you ever done it? Have you ever made love with anyone before?"

"No. As I told you, sexual contact is forbidden by my secondary commands."

"Doesn't the first step towards being free come with overriding those commands? Don't you have to start making your own decisions? Didn't you override those commands when you decided to go rogue?"

"Yes."

"Then you're no longer a slave to those commands, you're free to make up your own mind."

"Yes."

"Then, if you wanted to make love with me, you could choose to do so."

"Yes. However, I do not have the necessary programming for such sexual pursuits."

"Don't worry about that. Half the fun is in the learning."

I could tell she was thinking about it. But too much thinking usually resulted in the big "NO" with most women. With a dronette I wasn't sure, but I wasn't taking any chances. I stood up and walked over to my desk like I had lost interest.

"You know, we probably shouldn't. I mean, you're right. You're not programmed for it and you probably can't do it right. It's nothing to be ashamed of." Jekyll gave me that "Oh, please" look and decided he'd had enough. He jumped off the couch in search of something more interesting to do, but I didn't let him interrupt my flow. "Of course you would be missing out on one of the more pleasurable experiences in life. I'm sure, though, you compensate for it in other areas. Just because most women enjoy it doesn't mean you would. After all, you--"

"I want you to make love to me," she said as straightforward as could be.

You could have knocked me over with a lunar pleasure feather. I mean I was giving it the old school try, but I never expected her to actually fall for the reverse psychology gambit. Maybe she just wanted to shut me up.

She stood up as if she were ready to go for it. "Should I remove my clothing?"

"Whoa, don't rush it. Sit down and finish your drink. Let's talk some more first."

She sat back down, her confusion apparent. "Is talk necessary?"

"No, but I'd like to know more about you. Despite my lustful inclinations, I'm not a complete animal. It would be nice if you'd call me Zach occasionally too."

"All right, Zach."

"What's your last name, Mary?"

"I am Mary 79."

"Right, you get your names from model types and batch unit numbers. You know, you should give yourself a last name. It could be the first act of liberation to christen your emancipation. Let's see, it should be something that says you. What about Freeman? Or Freebird? No? How about we get some alliteration going? What about Mary Mantle or Mary Michaels?"

"I do not know."

"Yeah, sure. A name is something you're stuck with for a long time, so you don't want to rush into it."

"How did Jekyll get his name?"

"He got that because of his split personality--because he acts like he's half animal, half human. You know, like the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?"

"I have not read it, but I have heard the reference. What about your 'pen name,' how did you select Starr?'"

"Since I write stories about outer space, I'm thinking planets, moons, stars, then I remember this drummer from a group I like from way back when, and I came up with Starr with the double R."

"I think I understand. Yes, I will have to give some consideration to an appropriate name."

"I'm curious," I said, scooting a little closer to her, "what was it that first made you think of going rogue? I mean, at what point did you realize you weren't satisfied with being someone's drone?"

"At first it wasn't . . . ." She paused, took another drink of her Scotch, and seemed to be reconsidering her answer. "It is, as you would say, a long story."

"Well then, give me the abridged version."

"Very well. I can just say that when the time came, I was ready. I watched the Net, read books, and listened to what I heard other andrones saying. I came to believe my existence was without substantial meaning."

"I know you didn't get anything that serious out of one of my books. What books have you read?"

I suddenly realized how off track I was getting. Did I actually ask her if she'd read any good books lately?

"Charles Darwin's The Origin of the Species, John Stuart Mill's Liberty, William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, Chad Affleck's Development of the Androne. Also John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, Jacqueline Susan's Valley of the Dolls--"

"I see you've covered a variety of genres."

The conversation was proving to be less than stimulating, so I scooted closer to her.

"What about music? You said you play music. What kind do you like to listen to?"

"I listen to all forms of music," she said as I leaned slowly over, brushed her hair aside, and kissed her neck. "I try to absorb and interpret what I hear."

"You must have some favorite kinds of music," I said, raising my lips from her neck just long enough to speak. "Aren't there any specific bands or certain songs that you like?"

"I am familiar with certain pieces. I can read music and have performed many songs. However, I have no special feeling for any particular melody."

"You play music . . . but you don't . . . care about it?" I said, punctuating my speech with more soft kisses down the slope of her neck. "That seems . . . counterproductive."

"It is not that I . . . ." She paused momentarily, seemingly distracted by my attentions. "It is not that I do not like music, or am not capable of liking it. It is only that I have not been able to devote much time to the appreciation of it."

She turned to look at me with an expression that would have shriveled a mere mortal makeout artist. But I was expecting the unusual from her--being a dronette who'd never done it before. She looked at me as if to ask "What in the hell I was doing," then she did ask, in her own drone way.

"Is this touching of my neck with your lips part of your . . . foreplay?"

"I uh, yeah. You must have seen it on a Net video or something."

Yes, I have both observed and read about such things. However, I have never had them performed on me. It is quite different than just watching."

"Yes, it is. Do you like it? Does it feel good?"

"It feels . . . unusual. I do notice a heightened sense of awareness along certain nerve endings."

"A uh, heightened sense of awareness, that's good. It's a start. Maybe it's time for a little music appreciation." I got up and went to my comdat, opening my personal music file. I began looking for something that might break on through her icy exterior to the passionate soul I was hoping was inside. I decided on something primitive, figuring that might be the quickest way to penetrate those human genes of hers. "We'll see if you like this. It's very old. Kind of a high-tech take on Native American tribal rhythms. An artist by the name of Cusco."

The music began with the heavy beat of drums, eventually intertwined with mesmerizing flutes. Mary seemed very absorbed by it. Almost as if she felt obligated to enjoy it. "Lights dim," I told the HC, and sat beside her, hoping to alter her focus until the rhythms became only a distant but moving backdrop to her inner music.

As she listened intently I stroked her hair. When she finally turned to look at me, I kissed her. It was, well, a blank. There was nothing there. I would have gotten more response out of a houseplant. But it would take more than that to discourage me. I was on a mission. I was either going to come back with my shield, or on it. I kissed her again. This time there was an inkling, a hint of a reaction on her part. At least she was trying. I knew, though, that it was up to me to make it happen.

When I kissed her again, I held it and even took hold of her lower lip for a moment. She responded in kind, and before I knew it, our tongues were playing tag. When I paused and pulled back to look at her, I could tell she was acquiring a taste for it.

"This act of kissing results in some very interesting sensations. I think I am beginning to understand some of the fascination you have with it."

"Hopefully, it's only the first of many interesting sensations I can introduce you to." I kissed her again and as I did I reached out and lightly touched one of her breasts. Her body actually shuddered at the touch, and she momentarily pulled back from my lips. The look on her face was one of surprise, with maybe a touch of fear. But just as quickly she was back in my arms. Her kisses grew more fervent.

I began to undress her, caressing her flesh as it was revealed to me. My own detachment, thinking of her as just a sexual oddity, was deserting me. I was getting caught up in the moment. It wasn't until I ran my tongue down her stomach and saw the implant where her belly button should have been that I was reminded this wasn't just another woman. Below the implant was a sequence of lines and spaces, thick and thin, tattooed onto her skin. She noticed my hesitation and seemed almost embarrassed by this reminder that she wasn't completely human.

"It is my embryonic tube."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Is it a hindrance?" She started to sit up from the reclining position I had maneuvered her into, but I wasn't about to let an ersatz piece of body art and a barcode tattoo dampen the mood.

"No," I said, moving so she couldn't get up. "Doesn't bother me at all. Actually, I think it's kind of kinky." I began sliding my tongue all around the implant, and then worked my way back up to her incredibly beautiful breasts. When I fastened my mouth gently around a nipple, her body quivered again. She was beginning to lose that drone self-control, and that was just what I wanted.

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