(( 1 ))
Anaiis Blondin swallowed a B12, her favourite
vitamin, in a dangerously strong version, and
playfully entered the cool metal building. Her
spaceship, a modern Lucretia ORG with a number of
expensive improvements, most of which were legal,
was parked in the 'For Directors Only' area. Any
parking official going near her ship would at once
cause the ship to display Anaiis's face on all the
monitors. They would see that picture-perfect blonde
high-cheekboned face with the pouting lips and a
message written underneath: "This ORG belongs to
me and any parking agent who dares touching it
in the least won't touch anything else for a long
time."
In most places, of course, such a message would not
make great impression on an parking official -- and
one can imagine, especially not when the officials are
really imperial agents in disguise. But these imperial
agents, in the ordinary-looking place outside the
ordinary-looking building knew their Anaiis, with
her shameless triple-o signature. A secret police
agent is of course not on the news channels, but
within the elite circles of imperial agents, none
was more respected. She was considered to be noble of
heart, but, when need be, ruthless and with perfect
skill in the sometimes deadly job of being an agent
protecting the empire from decaying elements from
within or the outside.
She mounted the transit-car inside the building after
checking in. The building, also on the immediate inside
of it, had all the appearances of any off-interest
information bureau. The fact it hid the Secret Service
would not be disclosed to anyone who happened to go
inside. Nor would they know of the exquisite
surveillance, which monitored all activities for
miles around the building.
Even the internal car-transit was ordinary-looking.
And when Anaiis got out of it, it still looked like
any office building in the empire on any planet --
robots, girls, an occasional chat group here and
there, the clicking on computers, the checkings of
displays, the archiving of various forms of disks
and the exchanging of occasional bits of data. But
none of those working in there were anything but
actors, playing roles, as an extra security
area covering the real activity. Of course they,
too, were imperial agents.
Anaiis went through some doors and stood in
front of a copper/black opening. There was a hiss
in the doors, but nothing happened. Then a monitor
appeared on it.
'Put your hand on the left of the monitor, please'
said a voice, which came through a computer
loadspeaker with a buzz and without bass. It was
a cheery voice though, belonging, Anaiis imagined,
to perhaps a very pretty girl. She wondered whether
it was a recording or whether it was live. As far as
she could tell, it was different each time, but that
might reflect a set of recordings. If it was live,
where was the person evaluating her, signalling her
that she was recognised as Anaiis Blondin, agent 0004,
in such a flirtatous voice?
Anaiis, clad in an uncommonly attractive blue-black
velvet spacesuit, with openings to indicate the flaw-
lessness of her legs, and with, as is the fashion these
days, a strip of red fur as a knit loosely and openly
around her neck -- fur coming from machines, of course,
as this was a post-animal age -- "fake fur" they would
have called it when furs still came from slaughtered
mammals on certain planets -- felt a certain heat,
also in between her legs, even in her feet, as she
stood in front of that entrance, the entrance to the
Secret Service, guarded by the owner of the flirtatous
telephone voice.
For fun, she clicked with her high heels as the
voice said, 'Identified. You may proceed', and the
door raised topwards to admit her.
There was a hallway with a creaking floor, as if
it were of wood, and a door on the other side.
On opening it, there was an entirely different
world. This was the world which saved the empire,
again and again, the world of secret service
agents. Machines of which the very existence was
a vast state secret were lined up here and used
in a causal manner by able-looking teens.
Anaiis, the famous triple-o agent, -- triple-o
deriving from Ian Fleming's fictious "double-o"
millenia earlier, indicating that the girl had
sufficient nobility, precision, skill, and
previous successes to be awarded with the
'licence to kill' on behalf of the empire, --
received nods of recognition as she moved towards
the office of G.
She was called G just as the head of anti-gun
surveillance was called W, for no particular reason
at all except that they needed some kind of reference
that would not entail a name even if subjected to
sadistic pains.
In front of G there was a secretary, Miss
Moneypenny -- a fictious name, Blondin now knew,
deriving from the same Fleming source, because
this secretary always had that name even though
she was regularly changed. Fleming had it that
she was not so beautiful; that was not so,
Anaiis reflected, as for the empire's version
of her. She was young, and shifted before she
showed any trace of weariness; a light girl
with a cute little nose, big rosebud lips,
and beautiful large blue eyes this time. Her
smooth hair dangled all the way down to her
miniskirt.
Anaiis leaned on her desk.
'Hi, Penny,' Anaiis said, using her own
nickname for the girl.
'Anaiis, you are more attractive than ever.'
'You too, Penny. G has got anything for me?'
'You bet.' Penny stood up, feeling the
presence of this gorgeous young and dangerous
girl, the famous 0004.
She went to the archive section beside the
desk, strutting with her butt in her miniskirt
looking for something. As she had hoped, Anaiis
went after her and slapped her butt. She kept on
looking, strutting her butt even more. Anaiis
slapped her butt harder this time.
'You know, Anaiis,' Penny said, still looking
for the chip which had information for Anaiis,
'we should eat dinner sometime.'
Anaiis allowed her fingers to caress the rump,
admiring the legs of this relatively new Penny.
'And spend a little time together,' Anaiis
said.
'Yes, ah,' Penny said. Anaiis had pulled up
her skirt, and taken down her underwear. From
one of her pockets, Anaiis had picked up a
portable, replacable dildo; she now shoved it
into Miss Moneypenny's butt, with settings for
it to autoexpand just enough to be painfully
pleasant for a pretty girl's firm, smooth,
round, spotless behind, and vibrate.
'A gosh!' Penny said. 'A gosh! A gosh!'
Anaiis laughed as she saw the effect on
the girl. She also liked the expression.
'It will contract again in a minute,' she
said to Penny.
Penny threw the chip to Anaiis.
'Pity,' she said with forced ease. 'Only a
minute?'
She flung herself in Anaiis's arms and they
tongue-kissed. Anaiis fingered the girl's clit.
'You are such a slave, Penny. Totally
addicted to me, are you?'
Penny nodded, dildo working inside her.
'Play with your dildo. It's a gift. On state
budget. I will get a new one from section T.
Signal G that I go in now, please, if you can.'
She chuckled.
Blondin left the moaning girl at the desk and
knocked on G's door, and somewhat cautiously
opened it. What, she thought to herself, does G
have for me this time? Or will she merely tell
me to take a holiday? Is it something big, or
one of those boring assignments to protect
an imperial citizen at risk? G directed several
of agents, but loved Anaiis Blondin, her 0004
more than all the others, even more than 0003,
who sometimes worked with Anaiis or sometimes,
rarely, was assigned a task which was such that
it would normally require Anaiis's suave command
over situations -- when Anaiis was assigned to
something even more complicated.
But much as G loved 0004 Anaiis, G could not
show this. G's cool blue eyes, her important
job and the fact that she reported directly to the
interior minister -- sometimes even the prime
minister, who reported to the emperor -- her always
monotonous way of dressing, the lack of unnecessary
words and lack of easy garantees -- all this added
up to a certain type of charisma which was not lost
on Anaiis. A meeting with G was a relatively rare
thing for a field agent such as Anaiis Blondin, and
the few words exchanged in that big, quiet office
would, as likely as not, swing state matters for
the galactic empire for many standard months,
causing changes in people's lives and hopefully
saving many innocent lives.
There was no denying, as seen from the perspective
of G, that Anaiis was a sweet thing G was desperately
in love with. Yet this is a feeling G denied herself
from expressing -- entirely. There was a dance in
the air on having sent the 'come at once' signal to
whatever sector of the galaxy Anaiis was spending
with her exceptionally long legs and husky voice and
blonde hair and dangerous outfits, but G restrained
herself from calling unless it was of rather clear
importance. Much as she dreamt about Anaiis, she
also knew that the empire more than once would not
have survived unless Anaiis was doing her thing.
And Anaiis's action depended, G knew and felt,
entirely on there being absolute clarity in the
foundation of the mandate that the state gives
Anaiis. And that mandate was served Anaiis by G.
Personal feelings had to be kept outside of it.
A smile by G to Anaiis was the state smiling to
Anaiis, and that had to be because the state
wishes to enforce a certain point of state
security importance, not because G had stealed
a look on the curves of Anaiis's long well-trained
thighs or seen a black-dilation in Anaiis's
blue iris which could indicate that Anaiis was
thinking of G in somewhat sexual terms (for G
was, after all, relatively young herself, and
had a background in which she had spent much
time being photographed in the nude; something
she had managed to keep quite secret, she hoped,
relative to the work in the department). One
would have to have x-ray scanners to detect the
lissom figure of young G behind the somewhat
baggy state clothes G had chosen for herself.
But then, Anaiis's eyes were extraordinarily
sensitive and used to looking through things --
also through clothes.
So the conclusion Anaiis had reached was that
a meeting with G involved the meeting of two very
pretty girls, who, for state reasons, had to
suspend their sexuality between them -- for the
time being, at least.
This conclusion made Miss Moneypenny such an
important buffer for Anaiis; somehow G had
sensed this and, for all Anaiis knew, Penny
might have got a state order not to resist any
actions Anaiis takes with her.
(( 2 ))
G was browsing the wall-computer when Anaiis Blondin
stepped into her office. G, seated behind a very large,
very clean, and completely orderly desk with few things
on it, did not turn in her chair.
'Sit down, triple-o-four,' she said, still
operating the computer.
There was a steaming hot cup of coffee in front of
the empty chair. The scent told Anaiis it was probably
Lisan Hearth, one of her chili-flavoured favourites.
'I think it is your style of coffee,' G added, knowing
Blondin wouldn't participate in any meeting not based
on tasteful caffeine. Most got rather nervous by Lisan
Hearth fierce coffee; Anaiis became utterly poised by it.
In this partly vegetarian galaxy, soy milk was inevitably
used in the coffee. Nonetheless, it burned on Anaiis's
fleshy lips, causing them, of course, to swell to even
more than their natural, budding size.
As G rapidly keyed the computer, the information which
appeared on the display in front of G flashed up
in fresh green on the several monitors in her office.
Anaiis glanced at the boxes on G's table. They looked
like gift boxes of candy, except for the labels
'POISON' and 'CONFID' on the two nearest.
G swivelled in her chair and faced Anaiis, and gazed
on her rather as a medical doctor examines a little girl
complaining of sore throat.
'How do you feel, 0004?'
'I feel very well, thanks, G.'
It was not proper to address a boss as 'miss' and
Anaiis was not comfortable with addressing a youthful
stylish girl as 'madam' -- thereby the 'G'.
'I ask,' said G, 'of course not because of politeness,
which is not what we meet for here. You know that, of
course, 0004.'
'I appreciate that, yes, G.'
'The reason I ask is that compared to perhaps by far
most of your earlier missions, the present one is a
delicate and very dangerous one, also because it goes so
near what we might call an area of your excellence --
to use your young beauty for reckless seduction.'
Anaiis raised her eyebrows. 'With all respect, G...'
'I am not intending criticism, 0004, not in the
slightest. What do you know of furs?'
'I know of two types -- the so-called pink fur,
preferred by girls all across the galaxy because
of its posh smoothness and availability. The brown
fur based on metal strips is used by pop stars on
scenes for extra shine, but it is not considered
comfortable and can give rise to allergic reactions.
That's about it, G.'
'What do you know of blue furs?'
'Blue furs are really pink furs...'
'I am not talking of colorising applied to normal
furs of the pink production type. Galactic blue furs.
Does it ring a bell?'
'I am afraid not, G.'
'Let me ask you a question. If you were not who you
are -- a secret agent, a spy if you like, with strong
fierce values, a faith in the foundation of our galactic
city, but, looking the way you do -- obviously
attractive... I am not trying to flatter in the least. I
am merely stating facts, cold, flat facts, if you like.
Well, if you are as immensely attractive as you are,
put simply, but lacked values, and a very beautiful
female suggested that you and she should experience
your and her beauty together -- the choice of
words is not coincidental -- what would you say?'
'I would not understand it as a request for anything
but ordinary sex.' She eyed G with lazy eyelids and
a hint of a smile. 'I would of course say, yes, in
many cases, at least. As far as I can tell, it is
the right thing to do.' There was a bead of
perspiration at G's forehead. Anaiis registered it
as success. 'Beauty is attracted to beauty,' she
said, noticing her young boss was blushing.
But G ignored the possible implications.
'Well, when you hear this language, it may of
course mean nothing except what it is supposed to
mean. It may also be part of the code language which
touches on what is going on now, a few places only
in the galaxy -- it is a war, but a secret one --
still. We want to to remain that way, and we want
to win it before it changes into an official war,
if possible.'
'I am not sure I understand, G.'
'Chemical clothing. Galactic clothing. They call
it the galactic fur, the galactic blue, perhaps also
because of the inner blue orgasm visions when they
quote unquote share their beauty, as a fur covering
the skies. They get poetical for a while.'
'Orgasm visions? Is this based on trustworthy
information?'
'It is not only trustworthy, you have it right in
front of you. In two of the boxes, those marked
'POISON'. They are the only samples on this planet,
I think and hope. If we are not able to destroy this,
soon we'll all be wading in the stuff. And that will be
the end of the empire as we know it.'
Anaiis looked at the boxes with a tingling surge of
interest. She wondered if she didn't even feel passion.
'Go on, open them,' said G. 'But, by the way, if you
touch anyone of them, even slightly -- the galactic blue
furs inside them -- you have lost your job. That is, at
least, unless we can develop an immunization method.'
'Why?'
'For if you touch them, you will not be able to put
them back into the box. You will get tremendously
possessive, except to share it with another young nude
body but not for a moment let go of it. It will be an
orgasmic addiction. You will, unless you are superhuman,
do nothing and want nothing but more of the fur -- rub
it around you, sleep with it, even eat it. After some
months, if there is anything left of you, you will have
turned all and everything you can get your hold on
upside down in order to pay the dealers to get more of
the stuff. And you'll feel like introducing others to
it. It is a very social type of drug-effect. You will
want to market it, even if there is no money in it for
you, for the orgasm get better that way -- that's why
the prettiest girls are the initial target market group
for this drug, for they create the wildest orgasms in
the addicts when combined with the galactic blue shit.
After a while, the addiction to fur also becomes an
addiction to eat the fur-addicts, and get the fur
melted with the body.'
Anaiis tore the lid of a box. She was insulted that
any such item existed, an item which could sway a sex
power over her. A fur with an extraordinary blue was
there, not unlike the red she had around her neck, but
it looked supremely cozy. It oozed of attraction, as
if it telepathically voiced, 'Touch me! Be with me!'
She tore the lid of the other. This one had some red
marks on it. Yet the flowing wavelike blue appealed
immensely to her. For a moment she visualized
Moneypenny, nude, in her bed, screaming with these
soft, blue waves between her long legs, then suddenly
she had an image of a whole group of fur-lovers eating
of fur and girl -- the images of sex at a vampyric,
dangerous, deadly scale. She pushed the image away.
If she had been at a dance hall like Posh Dance Fuge
with music blasting, she would have jumped up and
danced wildly, shamelessly, right now. What was
going on? Then she looked again at the dark-red
patches -- stains, she realized.
'Blood?'
'Yes,' G said. 'That's what happens after a while.
They want to put the fur into their body, they can't
get near enough, they have to open. The only thing
they want as bad as more fur is more beauty.' G
watched her 0004 calmly, surprised at her elation
over telling her agent about these things. 'They
want a fresh, young body, thin, longlegged, they
want to see that body when it screams from rubbing
with their own fur.'
'It is that bad, huh?' Anaiis said, feeling both
calm and hot at watching them. She tore her eyes away,
and watched G, but thought only sex. 'On what range do
they act? Can one be as near as one centimeter? Will
orgasm come if I have it on top of other clothes, or
if you have it on you, and I sit near you?' Her pulse
was racing and, much as it was a state security matter
to spell things out, she wondered if she -- or G,
possibly, -- was not playing on boundaries now.
G, fighting the heat of her own blood, spoke with
a calm her job commanded her to have. Her cool
reasoning proceeded. Anaiis had been spurred into
engagement in the job before she had even spelt it
fully out -- that was, anyway, she thought, her
purpose in talking direct sex -- direct, hot sex.
She suddenly wanted to go with Anaiis on this mission,
instead of just delivering the data from behind a desk.
But Anaiis was the girl of action; with an empire at
risk, one had to stick to the code or quit the job.
'As far as we can tell, only direct touching will
cause the addiction. There are unconfirmed reports
that a few enormously healthy individuals have been
able to put it down after touching a few of its hairs.'
'But what is it all?' Anaiis said, glancing at a
monitor. It showed, among other things, a long chemical
formula which said nothing to her.
'According to conventional chemistry, -- but
scientists have long known that it is a bag of tricks --
this molecule cannot exist. This wavish blueness is not
a result of colorizing, by the way -- it is how it looks.
Each hair of the blue fur is composed of a molecule
which should not exist, but it does, and it interacts at
once with the body but in most cases so that it
reconstitutes itself, while the body must have more of
it. Apparently, it bears within it a q-resonance with the
dopamin molecule. But it may be something else also.'
'Amphetamin on an magnified scale, perhaps?'
'Except that amphetamin doesn't normally produce
orgasm, and the effect tends to wear off. Vaguely,
the effect seems to get stronger with each rubbing.'
Anais put her thumb and index finger together. With
care, her long lean fingers picked up a fur by some
hairs. G sat breathless, with lips parted, watching.
Anaiis noticed that her own whole body tingled with an
immense satisfaction, and she forced herself to push
the fur's energy back to the fur, with all her mind.
She felt the field communicating with her clit, her
vulva, trying to convince her to give in. She felt an
impulse to drop everything and just roll around with
the fur, as if the meaning of life was precisely that.
But she fought the impulse off, threw the fur down
into its box, and lifted the other drugfur in a
similar manner. 0004 was amazed to find that it had
as if a voice of its own, a different voice. It, too,
had to be told to keep off; it too, tried to reach her
genitals. But Anaiis fought the voice. Yet the effect
or energy seemed tougher the second time. The two furs
had a different tonality to them, yet the way she
fought them was the same; drugs, thank God, are not
endlessly creative. But, for most people, less creative
than Anaiis, that's exactly why they are so addictive.
G nodded. She could not bring herself to say anything
to Anaiis which could sound as mere comforting praise
for taking a risk nobody in her department had taken.
But her eyes had a warm good glow as they eyed Anaiis.
'How can there be an economy in drug-wear which kills
people off as quickly as matters of months?' Anaiis
asked, looking at the computer again for time data.
'Good,' G said appraisingly. 'The question is
appropriate. Only the worst type of gangs can put
something like this into circulation. It eats up
societies, they have to travel from a planet to another.
They are biting in on or eating up our whole
galactic city.'
'How long has this stuff been in circulation?'
'After it finished off two planets in the periphery of
the galaxy, the 380 sector if you know anything about
it, it has been more carefully introduced now for the
length of one week to a new place.'
'Which planet?'
'Serendip. Which is where you go this evening.
Since it is a popular holiday resort, it is likely that
it will spread from Serendip to all our empire, even
to here, within a fortnight. You must track down who
delivers it, where they come from, who is making it,
while enacting the role of a billionaire spoiled
party-girl crazy for anything dopelike. We have, in
third box, manufactured a blue fur which to almost all
sensors look exactly the same. You will have it and
mimick the responses -- essentially it means rubbing it
to various parts of your body several times an hour,
with suspended moans, and rushing off to toilet often,
presumably to copulate with it. That is to say, in the
initial, mild stage of addiction.'
Anaiis looked calmly and directly into the serene
cool blue eyes of G. G returned the gaze. Never had it
been necessary to talk sex so directly. Anaiis felt a
sweetness, a tremendous attraction for G at that moment.
She wanted to lick her own very full lips, but knew that
her lips were by many seen as a kind of sexual animal
in their own right, and that it could be read as a
direct invitation to indulge.
Instead she opened the third box, the one without
labels on it, and carelessly pulled up the strip of blue
fur. She bared her navel, and moved it there, swaying
with her head.
'Like that?'
'Not bad, 0004. We have some pictures. I don't usually
show this type of pictures here, but it's important you
do not in the least look like a poser.'
G made some rapid clicks on the keyboard and a
sequence of images began unrolling. Two, three, or
more girls, all of them acutely pretty girls
in expensive surroundings, were seen dancing in the
same type of wavish fur, ecstatic, their motions
trancelike, their nipples erect, apparently with
nothing but fur and sex on their mind. Then the images
got gradually more spectacular, the amount of fur grew,
the girls were eating of fur and each other, yet were
thinning away; then there were girls in the latter
stage, where mere surface contact with skin and
genitals was not enough. These were not alive.
It struck Anaiis that that there was a
complicity to those exposed to the vampyric roast.
The images were dated; it was a matter of months
from the initial stage to the finale.
'Most extraordinary,' Anaiis said.
'Yes. These stem from journalist work on one of the
deceased planets; journalists who themselves were
swept away by this tsunami of galactic furs. The
ensuing atomic fires and biological breakdown
of the planets left little useful info. Apparently,
every atomic site security guard, every biologist,
and so on, started trading planetary security
materials to get fur, or ignored their work,
alongside the police, the nannies, populations
going bananas. Before they knew what struck
them, the technology had crushed all life on
those planets, and eliminated the evidence
material, by and large, except for the photo-
sequence we intercepted by repeat weak radio
transmissions before it all collapsed, on one
of them. A peculiar fact is that these planets
must have collapsed all of a sudden, yet the
photo-dates, if accurate, indicate months. This
could mean that those less into sex accentuated
the process, so that, after very slow development
there was a kind of transition hour, after which
there were but minutes left for the planet. Had
our communications been more intense with that
region of the galactic city, we would have done
something, naturally.'
Anaiis nodded.
'Perhaps the distribution suddenly changed
nature. Anyway, if the fur reconstitutes itself
and as such does not appear to loose its power,
or even intensifies, why the need for more?'
'It appears to be psychological. The intensity
of effect is physically rising with each contact,
yet the feeling generated by artificial means
dullens certain aspects of it. This is my
interpretation. We are examining it; we may get
more info and we are investigating whether we
can trust a certain section of a polis security
department enough to ask them to assist. In any
case, the fact is that the addicts quickly get
quantity-obsessed, so that even a truckload of the
stuff feels scarce and bare to them. When they
talk of the need to see the blue fur in or
through the sky, it indicates they are reaching
the quantity-stage; they are beyond the mere "sharing
of beauty" and are compelled to fly as a fugitive
straight into it as with a gravitational black hole.
Looking up, they don't see the blue of the sky, but
the fur of the sky, and it is calling for them to
yield, give in, give up, and be willing. Some of
this is my interpretation, as the information is
scarce.'
'At this point, anyway, the ideal economic item.'
'Exactly. Ideal for someone so eager to gain money
that it doesn't matter if the empire crashes.'
'What role does money have then, G?'
'None. Which is why we are investigating the
possibility of extra-galactical interference. That could
explain the unusual molecular structure. However, some
of us, and me inclusive, find it to be a too easy way
out. This stinks of plain human cunning. Highly
intra-galactic. Besides we're not impressed by what we
have seen of nonhuman skill so far. The emperor agrees.'
'But cunning with what end?'
'Does cunning need to have an end? Its end may simply
be to make maximum number of conflicts, deaths. So that
I don't forget it, let me throw in here that you will
receive travelling instructions and hotel booking from
Moneypenny. It's a hotel you shouldn't count on for your
privacy, though. Act carefully. And you cannot travel
with your Lucretia this time.'
'Why not?' Anaiis looked disappointed. Her spaceship
was part of her outfit, or easily got that way, when she
had been with it for a while.
'Because I want you to have a minimum number of
elements of hi-tech with you. Anything that can be
tracked. If these people are into re-arrangement of
molecular structures they might have reading devices of
types we haven't even got ourselves. I want you to look
as touristy as possible, and billionaires, for the sake
of protection, anonymity and unusualness do often
choose cruise liners nowadays. The bigger ships tend
to, for them, be safer than the small ones. Alright?'
'Yes, all right.'
'Take with you triple-X security settings on an
updated nonlocal watch-transmitter jewel from T
section. We got to have some ways of connecting. As
long as you pick up the technology at Serendip, and pay
mostly with the new cross-virtual gold visa account we
have provided you, I see no reason why you cannot utilize
an occasional glamorous hi-tech gadget if you like. And
your name can still be Anaiis Blondin, it appears to be
well protected. You have seen to that and we've helped
it by a little register-fixing. If anything, you presently
show up as extremely rich. The account will prove it --
this money is real. Still, it's on our budget, I am not
asking you to convert it all to hard cash and throw it
out in the streets for the sake of fun riot. But you
have to mingle. I think you know what the billionaires
-- the teens -- already wear and say and do and such.'
'Yes, I think so. It sounds good, I'll be fine.'
'Send me a line whenever you got anything. I have some
other activities going on in parallel about which you
need to know nothing -- except that some of them
research the extra-galactic idea, as well as various
nonhuman intra-galactic possibilities, just in case. After
all, just a cross-section of the galaxy is polis-enabled.
But the whole DeMare fleet is available if you locate
something like an enemy base, perhaps away from Serendip.'
'You mean to say, you are willing to ignite an entire
planet with DeMare rocket fusion just to get them away?'
'With luck, it is just these molecular-modifying
gangsters on that planet, and the rest is ice and
rocks. But we cannot save few if all the empire is at
risk. Maybe all of Serendip may have to go.'
'So if they are located in a warehouse inside a
polis at Serendip, that's it for Serendip?'
'If it is that precise the DeMare fleet can scan
each cubic inch of that warehouse and provide an RD
readout for you, to assist your spying. Or touch it
with zett-plastics. Did I say that on Moneypenny's
chip for you there's address of a dance-hall or two
in which at least some addicts found a dealer.'
'Which ones? I know several at Serendip, if we're
talking of Kinshire Polis. Three, four seasons ago
I spent a fantastic holiday there. Kins' is a lovely
place.'
'Kinshire is it, practical love-capital these
days. One of the halls are called Posh Dance Fuge.'
'I remember that one. I got acquainted with the owner
girl trio. There's a lot of criterions to get in there.
Are they possibly involved, G?'
'From my desk I detect nothing that links the owners
of the Posh nor of the Shishi Ki Hall, another one,
to the blue transfers. There's a lot of money in the
halls, of course, but Kinshire is swimming in money; Kins'
has an elite of thirty thousand empire euro billionaires
who boasts several holiday planets pr person, as you
perhaps know. There's plenty of opportunity for girls
with that grand wealth to hide factories for blue fur.
But what does such a factory look like? Nobody has
ever seen any. And we don't even know what raw
materials they use, except that the back of the fur
has some of the same chemical structure as the pink
production type -- like the fashionable red one you
have around your neck. I'll communicate if anything
turns up based on plain database searches or from our
further surveillance of the private planets of the
Hall owners and various gang groups. The makers
and dealers are however no fools and, as far as
I can tell, a dancing individual with her eyes and
ears open might find out a lot more than a whole fleet
of surveillance drones, if that individual has the
type of mind as you have, 0004. Take your time and
think a little, you're soon onwards. I'll bell Miss
Moneypenny for a new cup of coffee.'
They always had a couple of meditative pauses
in these rare meetings which needed such high
quality. For G, it was also a moment of rather
unlimited, if concealed, watching of this beauty
girl. She felt it fed her intelligence.
Miss Moneypenny, smiling, somewhat flustered
but with recovered poise, came in with a new cup
of Lisan Hearth, and the typical cups of hot water
on the side -- a standard among beauty girls
cross-galaxy, to drink hot water to protect the
whiteness of their teeth after their sips of
the favorite hearth. For inscrutable reasons, tea
(and not just weapons) had been banned by the emperor,
who preferred the formal title "king" but typically
was called "emperor" by others. Few people reacted
to the constant policing, by police girls not having
weapons themselves, which ensured that weapons were
neither produced nor carried by anyone. Walking
around with a stick was considered a severe crime.
People were eating with spoons; glass had been
outlawed; the computers had a "mirror mode" so as
to avoid the crushable glass of ancient mirrors.
Gratefully, 0004 drunk her coffee. She slung her
long legs over a small chair, realizing how much
she loved her job and G. G relaxed in her concealment
of baggy clothes, sipping of her cup of bare water
with both hands. Stealing glances also of the legs
of 0004 through the generous openings in the velvet
spacesuit, she archived the images as photo objects
in her mind, to be retrieved later in bed privacy.
This glancing she did without a smile on her smooth,
intelligent-looking face. She had a mystery-mind,
she hoped, revealing nothing. Anaiis unbuttoned and
removed the upper portion of her space-suit, baring
her shoulders and a cut blue t-shirt with paint stains
which showed her straight, strong torso, her feminine
but well-developed shoulder-muscles, and her rather
flat chest with severely pretty nipples, nipples she
used for seduction, and which spoke frankly of the
almost constant horny state of her body, part of her
warrior stamash training. Without thinking, she rubbed
a little of the copy fur over her breasts.
Catching herself, she looked at her young boss, and
realized how good her flower-like lips are, how smooth
the skin of her face is. Her boss, G, was calm,
intelligently calm, allowing the pause, secretly
hoping it would lead to a development between
herself and her young employee on more intimate
terms.
'I am sorry, it is very hot in here for a
all parts of Lucretia ORG style spacesuit, even if
there are openings in it. I have a shorts underneath.
Fine with you, G?'
'Go ahead, make yourself comfortable, 0004.'
It got a lot hotter for G, seeing those legs in full,
with Anaiis Blondin having on but the tiny t-shirt and
the short, fashionable shorts, which clung to her firm
rump and showed the shape of her camel-shaped vulva as
she danced around in G's office.
'I think I want to see those pictures again. I want to
see how they move, how they react, even if they are not
all that high resolution.'
'Samadhi, I'll put'em on again.' Samadhi was the human
word, "okay" reserved more for the interaction with
robots and computers. It was an ancient term meaning
something like wholeness, or joy.
Perhaps unconsciously calculating that this would
bring 0004 closer to her, G put the picture stream on
only on her own display.
G said nothing, but had a strong heat-wave between
her legs, rolling up in her body, as she both watched
the monitor and glanced sidelength on the supermodel
beside her.
'Good, I've seen enough,' Anaiis said after a while,
and went back to her chair.
'This thing,' -- Anaiis held up the harmless copy
fur -- 'I take it with me, right?'
'Do so. But hide it, use smooth T section ways,
I don't want any over-eager toll officials to see it on
you and we cannot, for obvious security reasons, inform
them all of your visit. We have tried to mimick most of
the overt features of the real thing with it. We
don't have any more of the copy-fur at the moment,
so be careful with it. Don't stain it with your
incessant coffee nor with anything else, for it costs more
than your Lucretia ORG. We are making more, I will
have to find a way to get it sent to Serendip in
case you'll need it.'
Anaiis couldn't at first understand why it would
be so expensive, but ignored it for the moment.
'Do toll guys know about these galactic furs?'
'They do. There is a bakery near your hotel, on the
other side of the road. There is a certain Peggy Smith
there, who is one of our people. She'll provide you
with gang gossip, hard extra cash, whatever, but you
must you give her a day to get it. She hasn't got
a clue why you are there. This is a big galaxy and,
perhaps in the eyes of these smugglers, this drug
mafia, these molecule bandits, Serendip is a long
way from us, the empire's centre. They may think that
we yet don't know. We prefer to keep it that way, so
they keep showing their hand. It might be a
glamorous hand, that's a hunch. Nobody who
doesn't need to know will know of the true purpose
of your visit -- even our people. Good if you keep
that in mind.'
Anaiis walked about, dance-like, allowing M
to watch her anatomical grace as a dancer, but
Anaiis was also thinking. The Secret Service trains
their spies well, in perceptive think-movement, too.
To catch the tacit factor, and pluck it like a berry.
Slim hips, acutely long straight legs, feline powerful
shoulder muscles. Our beloved king does his breeding
well, thought G.
'A question, G,' Anaiis said after a minute, and
sat down.
'Come with it, 0004.'
'If the furs are addictive by mere touching -- for
most, anyway,' Anaiis added, playing with the thought
that she might be able to resist more than a little
bit touching of it, but not wanting to spell her
idea out before she was in her own privacy, '-- why
don't the smugglers or whatever we call them --
our enemy -- just drop it from the skies, allowing
people to go nuts as they stumble on the furs?
Wouldn't that create a market just as effectively
as smuggling it into high-fashion dance halls?'
The state, G, smiled at Anaiis. They had
successfully bred a smart agent. Anaiis could
not help feeling the glow of approval in that
flash of a smile. Then G continued, sternly as
before.
'They could and maybe they will and maybe they
have -- we're still researching what they did
earlier on, and the data are few and messy.
Unconfirmed rumours indicate that they may have
vast capacities for all-galactic massive
distribution. That unknown factor determines how
urgent it is to do this fast. They may also have
reasons of their own, money-making or more, why a
particular group is targeted. What we know is that
they do it this way and that the users initially
are too possessive to go push them on guys in the
street -- users introduce heat-inducing sex partners
to it, and at first only in deliberately intimate
and rich settings, assuming, perhaps, that their
partner can buy up their commy fur-mass and increase
their sense of come, this sharing of beauty. With
our limited experience, for all we know, it may
be that those who are not into sex react
differently. Rumours suggest such individuals
may react much worse, not able to conceptualize
the orgasm events. If so it can be a chain-
reaction, once the fur escapes the elite sex
circles.'
Anaiis nodded. She assumed a causal tone,
precisely because she was nervous. It added to
her poise, a typical feature of her as warrior;
the sense that she possesses so much she has
nothing to fear is radiated.
'Well, if that is what we have got to start
with, then we'll work from there. And win this
war. How much for one full sweater of this new
stylish fun and must-have for a real galactic
party experience?'
G was not amused.
'I'd appreciate if you avoid careless positive
language about these enemy weapons, 0004. Prices
seem to be on the rise but that's because of the
demand. The supply is huge. The scarf would
go for about two hundred thousand empire euro.
Wholewear I estimate at perhaps two million euro.
Bigger are available, for the inside of a whole
house. These are however stolen from victims
and they are covering their tracks at expert
rate. As you know, the emperor is not accepting
DNA scans and fixes for their misuse potential in
a galactic civilisation, the tendency for it to
allow false group empowerment; also, he's stopped
most nano and pico-tech-make for same reason, ever
since it became clear it is much like throwing
loaded weapons into a kindergarten. Yet, the service
could right now do with a little more sub-molecular
capacities including body-id recog from dust
and such. But we have to do without. I made a
written request to the emperor, but he was not
impressed; he seemed confident we can handle
it if we just act fast enough. I trust that, of
course. His overview has proven infallible in
the past.'
Anaiis looked thoughtful.
'There has got to be a new huge pond of money
somewhere now. Doesn't that show something of
them?'
'Possibly,' sighed G, 'if they do it for money.
We are researching many pathways in parallel,
but remember that existing forms of expensive
petty crimes are going on alongside and we cannot
easily filter drugfur income away from, let's
say, fake gold bullions or antique petty cocaine,
with its income thrown into off-galaxy-centre
banks and transferred through hundreds of
name-only companies gradually to more central
banks before offered as giant quote-unquote loans
to innocent-looking empty new companies,
owned by the bosses behind the operation,
at completely respectable addresses. Financial
tracking itself got, as you know, out of hand
in terms of complexity with the growth of
the stellar craftnet, so the emperor considers
turning it off, too. Compared to conventional
crimes, however, this new one can finish us
in a matter of seasons. The former irritates,
but this new is war, a secret war, which possibly
could wipe out all life on the galaxy if we look
at the burned remains of the planets in 380 sector.'
Anaiis let her gaze rest at the molecule shown
again at a computer display near her. She felt
G had more to say, but Anaiis had to deserve it,
bring in a properly mindful new question, give a
lead. It was the same game each time with G. The
agents don't deserve information unless they
elicit, was a known motto of G. It was why G
had so few agents left, and why those few who
remained were outperforming all other spy-teams
known to the emperor, and he knew the principle;
he was a wise emperor and approved of it. It was
one of the reasons why the galactic city was a
relatively peaceful unity. It is also why G's
department remained the one least open to gang
counter-surveillance -- one doesn't loose the
information one hasn't given, G also liked to say.
In the exclusive corridors of the Secret
Service, one could see this as their elite
local form of poker, although some, with less
mind than Anaiis, thought the parallel to
ancient russian roulette was more appropriate.
Anaiis sensed there was one info item
remaining. One without which the task, and
0004 Blondin, would be erased from the map of
the service. The item wouldn't be given her
freely. Its abstract existence wouldn't be
admitted.
Anaiis had to employ body-think to spell
it out. Then, as if nothing had happened,
in the damnable cool manner of G, G would
respond by giving 0004 an avalanche of crucial
information to the task, rewarding the
vista of her mind. Some suspected all this
was G's way of avoiding to dismiss spies who
had been in the game for too long. She let
them dismiss themselves. Each successfully
completed task was a proof. Of the
nonsuccessful ones, there would but be one,
usually, and that would be the final one,
as far as the life of that agent went.
Anaiis brought her stamina into aware-flow.
In her mind, she was dancing on Serendip. She
sensed her muscles, her grace, her sex. She was
connecting to the fact that empire or no
empire, spy service or no spy service, her work
for the galactic city could only be done if she
survived the meetings with these secret warriors.
She would have to eliminate some, perhaps all of
the key players personally. There was no room for
mistake. She had to feel the wholeness of it.
And there is no such thing as sleeping on it,
there's action now; hence, her well-shaped
drugless subconscious had to whisper what it
surely had already seen. It is what made
Anaiis always survive. She sipped Lisan-Hearth,
then water.
What was it she hadn't got out of G?
In her mind, she was dancing wildly,
addicts and nonaddicts blending in, kissing,
pushing...
She felt it now. 'In at a dance-hall,' she
said, 'full of scant-clothed, young models --
who can stop anyone from rubbing a little fur
at another's flesh? I mean, it is the type of
thing which occurs all the time. But earlier on,
it didn't mean anything other than plain erotic
stimuli, or it could happen for many are pressed
together, there's lack of space, there's dancing
and someone is rushing to get to another drink,
a trio is going to the enticement rooms together
for bondage, cunnilingus, plastic vibration,
rooms with heated metal-dildoes protuding...
They have fur on, they rub it on maybe fifty
others on the way. So, in the dark at least,
and fur appears eternally teen-popular, can
this addiction not spread by what appears to
be innocence? And nobody can stop fur from
going into a dance hall just because it is
blue; all colors are used on the pink-production
type, as you know. Samadhi, that's a question.'
G seemed relieved and happy. It was it,
Anaiis thought. I'm on my way to the job. G
replied in her conventional intellectual manner,
though, her voice serene.
'True,' G said, 'and it has happened, but it
glows, so it is easy to outlaw.'
'I beg your pardon, G, but I don't
understand.'
'Turn off the light. Switch is at the door.
Just for ten seconds, and look at the boxes.'
Anaiis went to the door, flicked the black,
heavy switch. Roomlight went all off, except
for the sensual comfort of the light green
of the computers, making the blonde girls
even more blonde and pink in their skin.
At the desk Anaiis was astonished to see two
giant eyes watching her, calling on her. They
were not merely blue phosphoric-glowing, but
the blue changed smoothly in each moment,
as if it were alive. Anaiis reflected that
that is perhaps exactly what they are. She
shivered a little, but almost gave in to
them. She had the odd feeling that they
were completely benign and benevolent, but
that this benign power was by some moulded
to fit a temporary, shadowy, ungodly purpose.
She had the silly temptation to run to the
"eyes" and say, "I understand! It's not your
fault at all!"
She took the copy-fur out of her pocket.
It was nearly as good. The copy-fur flickered,
it didn't have the wave-like grace; it was
also more muddy, and not as bright. Still,
with a little luck, it looked like nothing
else ever seen in the market of furs, except
this new fashionable way of committing
orgasmic suicide, the galactic blue.
She felt oddly stimulated again, and
hit the light-switch again and sat down.
'This glow,' G continued, 'intensifies
slightly in the presence of music, sounds which
activate the q-resonance of these molecules
appear to enliven them. It may have to do with
their orgasmic effect. In a dance hall, with its
dim, scarce lights, made to encourage a sense of
glamorous privacy and freedom to mess about
with each other, these things are impossible to
move around openly without causing a
tremendous stir. They are completely outlawed,
now, and any dance hall which does not
at once strike down on an addict wearing it
carelessly is closed; these laws have been
put in effect on a temporary commission by
the Kins' mayor on our request, at the
same time as we have exerted pressure on
the media to delay reports on it before
we have got a little further in dealing
with it. The emperor doesn't like hysteria.'
'Our wise, sexy emperor,' Anaiis said.
Without thinking, feeling a need to touch her
navel, her flat stomach, she pulled her
t-shirt much up, and massaged there; she
arched her now-bare feet, leaning back in the
chair. If anyone had done a study of the
black-dilation of the cool blue eyes of G
in that moment, they would have got a solid
reading of much black, as they read the curves
of that smooth, elongated body.
Anaiis was thinking of how lovely she had
had it earlier that day. The emperor's "babe-
stream", as it was called, was still within
her. Her secret meeting with this always young
emperor had happened in an off-galaxy center
motel. The empire, as far as 0004 Anaiis Blondin
was concerned, was the emperor. Most imperial
girl-sex had a focus, him; it kept the city
together, it gave meaning to its vast nannying,
and to the erotic water-births methods as first
developed in the 20th century -- millenia
ago, in other words, when bisexuality began
to be appreciated for what it is, healthy
and good. There were no overt wars anymore,
for men and their over-muscled ego-instincts
had long ago been replaced by robots under
direct control by the emperor, who bred
harmony, peace and beauty, in a warp-knit
society without family definitions,
spread across the galaxy after some
awkward black holes had been towed away.
In the new understanding, scientists had
renamed them to "blue/black gravi-finitons",
but the popular term "black hole" prevailed.
Empirical investigations had indicated that
even the most powerful were finite, not
infinitesimal in size, and blue-black from
slow-motion lightening on some sides of their
dangerous rims. Of course, exploration had
been very limited as any travel near them
involved the risk of being chucked into the
finiton. The empire had no genetic manipulation,
but its reincarnation stations were used
much, voluntarely, garanteeing orgasmic
transition -- and sometimes by police coercion.
Their presence, and the faith in a sex-liberal
kind of karma directing synchronicities and
the extent to which next body will have popular
beauty, did much to take away such violence
and misbehaviour which comes from having
gotten bored with life and messing up things
by cunning sown in plain, serious boredom.
To Anaiis, the emperor was not merely the
the young face they all knew second-hand
through NYT news and such. G knew most things,
it seemed, but Anaiis wasn't sure she knew this
bit. And G was not free from misperceptions,
though in a way, exceptionally enlightened.
For all Anaiis knew, it may be
be that G feared giving misinformation
so much that much of the real motivation
behind her no-free-information game
was to save others from her own
deceptions. "Action in conscious
ignorance is greater than action
based on unconscious, shared deception.
You know you don't know and so you're
aware." Anaiis recalled her martial
arts dance, her stamash lessons,
her young, glamorous teachers,
testing her, teasing her, monitoring
her progress, recording the hits of
paperballs in motion while she danced
-- for tough, long seasons before she
was admitted to the service. They said,
she had to learn battle by "sensing
goodness". They said, they value her body
too much to simulate battles; besides,
simulations can undo the sense for reality.
The body may not know as quickly as it
should that the mind tells it that it is
facing someone else than a teasing teacher,
or a friendly companion combattant.
"The energy teaching is best", they said.
"Being aware, you can sense the contrast
energy of falseness, mistakes; you must learn
to play on the falseness of your enemy,
because you know the goodness force
so well." And it had proved remarkably
efficient. In the wake of Anaiis's
battling on behalf of the service, there
was a string of dead enemies and, of course,
even more, other causalities -- people who
unfortunately were too close to the
bad guys at the moment when Blondin
showed what she was made of, on behalf
of the emperor, the state, its ministers,
and, most directly, on behalf of G.
'Yes, peace to him,' G said, and
her brow furrowed. 'Despite all such
legalities: the laws may not reach the
backrooms. Think of it. There may
be few things a stunning super-rich
girl of a certain type want more than
wild, mind-blowing orgasms -- especially
if, in her g-spot, she's never even had
a weak one before. The high price is itself
an incentment for many. Add to that a
luxurious backroom, all VIP, kinky guards,
garanteed privacy, the best of drinks,
the plush futons, the orgies of types their
nannies told them to stay lightyears away
from, with girls they thought too good-looking
to even think such things; who smile and scream
and spread their legs for the newcomer, the
schoolgirl model with the inherited fortune
who's never thought twice about what it
means to deserve all that teen beauty,
to keep it going. So they switch off their
far-ranging perspectives, start murmuring
memento mori, and want a season of what
they call "expansion of consciousness".
Which more aptly is a farma-expansion of
their vaginas, until they are as snakes
engaged in eating themselves up; with a hard,
final gulp, the eater goes with the eaten,
the animal sort of nihilism.'
Anaiis nodded. G drew her breath and
went on:
'At first glance, it seems even healthy,
but this particular case of initial glam
is but a stage towards sick massive opting out
for girls. That's the way to make the empire
rot. You can handle this also because you
look like them, as innocent and acutely
pretty as the stellar newcomers. And,
of course -- again this is not flattering,
but cold facts -- there is none more risky
for them to encounter than you. I don't
recall that you have had any lack of
success, ever. You hit before you ask much,
but you hit right, although extremely broad
sometimes, and more than hard enough
to purge our galactic city from influences
which could undermine its stability.
And people get inspired by your face and
wants to talk to you, confess to you,
even if they are your opposite number.
But remember it's the backpeople we want.
We must have the utter, permanent if
possible, destruction of all production
of galactic blue furs in the empire, alongside
those who produce it. This is police work, but
we cannot risk an official length investigation
in which this knowledge spreads -- assuming it
is human knowledge, fo course. Whatever we find
out as to how to make it we'll stack in an
archive of the most severe CONFID kind,
hoping that the knowlegde didn't get out of
hand -- we have no reasons to believe it has
spread at all beyond those possibly few who
presumably are making this. Whatever you find
out, 0004, as to the production methods, you
write in your report, and store in that
compartment of your mind marked 'seriously
secret'. Is that understood, 0004?
'I understand that, G, perfectly well.'
'So, Blondin, you have all the cards now,
and you have your triple-o license. You'll
need it, for sure. If you have been
broad-hitting before, be broader now,
if need be, as long as it is right.'
Anaiis felt emboldened by G's admission
of "all cards". G can withhold, but G
doesn't lie -- unless it is part of a
clear-cut strategy to protect a much
greater truth; a justifiable, honest
strategy which could be explained
afterwards, if there were anyone left
to explain anything to.
Anaiis smiled. G's mind and her own
mind had what the martial arts teacher
would have called "high quality touch".
The mission statement needed that, too.
It was the sum of much hard and apparently
trivial work which G destilled and
intelligently summarized to 0004, work
by thousands, synthesized by computers
and by G's own brain and gut. But for
young Blondin to benefit from it, she
had to be spared all but essence. Her
favourite vitamins, B12, her stamina,
her fight-pretty dancer feet, her
acute interest in beauty, all of it had
to be satisified even as the information
flowed from G to Anaiis, from the state to
0004, or else there would not be that "theos
en" to bring the fight up to its right
limit.
Anaiis could already feel what G called
"her opposite number". She saw the hiearchy
in her mind, felt it move, carefully,
plotting, fiesting. It was a self-satisifed
hierarchy of dealers, she felt; and she also
felt that she, the service, G, were ahead of
them in a way, just as G said. Perhaps they
thought they hadn't attracted attention in
this warp-linked metropolis of all the enabled
solar systems by their scratching away
of a mere couple of planets, and their licking
of a third. They might be so cunning and
tech-smart, but Anaiis felt that there was a
factor of unawareness to them; her mind,
harnessed by all the teaching, suggested to
her the possibility that they themselves, or
some of them, had been too near the stuff;
had perhaps thought they were invincible --
or, to use the word of G, immune. Were any?
'I will have success,' Anaiis said,
knowing it sounded like an affirmation,
but it was part of the rules of the job
to leave out silly statements like 'break
a leg' for this was the real thing. One
needed the aura of willingness to win.
One needed the courage to be able to say so.
There was another meditative minute.
The mild sum of noises from outside G's
office, the hint of music, perhaps from
Miss Moneypenny's office, was meditative.
'Yes,' said G, arms folded, again struck
by the beauty of her agent. She needed her
agent to win this fast, both for the empire
and for her own satisfaction, for her urge to
see Blondin soon again and command her,
impress her; make her meditative, challenged,
and be stirred by her, but not really admit
to it. G called the meeting to an end
by clicking on a key on the computer,
withdrawing the multiplicity of her monitor
image, rendering all but her own display
black. The presence of 0004 in her working-
room made her think of high-class bi-sex,
of glamorous youth zones, and for a moment
forget her fear about the empire -- 0004 would
ensure that they win. G felt very grateful
for the existence of 0004, all of a sudden.
Her space agent, 0004, was putting on her
space suit again.
'I think you will win,' she affirmed. 'So,
Peggy Smith, bakers across the street;
DeMare there, hovering around the corner,
so to speak, meaning next solar system,
in case you need them. Use the watch
from T. I'll be wearing mine 24 standard
hours throughout. I myself alert the
DeMare, I have a similar arrangement,
unbroken, operative each second, with them.
Even now. Affirmation of graceful journey to
you.'
Anaiis closed the door after her, the harmless
type of blue fur in one of her pockets. She felt
oddly stirred, and calmed herself quickly, got
her relaxed flirtatous mood going as she
approached Miss Moneypenny again.
And a little later that day, after consulting
section T, in the Nazar 14/19, she sipped coffee,
waiting for the warp-pinch to bring them neatly
into sector 24, the Serendip sector. She rehearsed
her role: a glamorous girl, all for fun free sex
intensified, travelling in a fairly anonomous
way as billionaires sometimes do. Her jewel-
studded watch from section T was, along the
recommendation of galaxy fashion advisors,
fastened at her left ankle, glittering above her
blue high-heeled shoes. In miniskirt, shining legs
resting on the little table in front of her
seat, t-shirt knit above her navel, she looked
just like any other model-sweet billionaire
ready for seriously immoral sex with perfect
strangers at Serendip. She giggled. After all,
that was part of her role. Maybe they were
already watching her, whoever they were.
Better play it full-time. She looked around,
glancing at her fellow hundred thousand
passengers, a sea of young female faces
embraced by the feel and look of ninety thousand
years of unbroken progress in the form of
a whacking great light-transcending space
yacht. Perhaps ten thousand squarish robots were
serving them; abstract mountain-like sculptures
adorned the inside. The stadion-like elevation
suggested a performance, but the performance
was themselves, about to move unthinkably faster
than the 300,000 kilometers pr second of light.
Anyone here for her to hook up with?
She reflected that, typically, chicks don't
like to dive into a polis alone, rich chicks
inclusive, even as they seek the unknown.
They don't want to bring friends with them
for they want to go beyond the familiar;
still they want to be with someone, for the
sense of absence of loneliness as they
adventure into intimacy with new teen skin.
Anaiis, of course, could do this all
alone but, as they said in her department,
they also had to "act normal". Which also
meant faking fears where there was no fear.
Perhaps the girl at her immediate right
would do, she thought. Anaiis smiled to the
girl as the warp begun; the curly-blonde
girl in miniskirt smiled back. The whining
of the liner; the minuscle tremble; the
muted sense of thunder and lightening --
to watch another's eyes just as the
warp-pinch takes place is considered an
intimate act; tourist brochures typically
warn against this -- it can give ideas.
It could give a stranger a reason feel
that a deeply personal state of flux
has been shared, that it links them, now.
Their contact led to pleasantly superficial
talking about this and that, this "they girl"
was full of charm and Anaiis found her intensely
beautiful, with her blonde curls dangling around
her doll-like eyes and well-sculpted lips,
her cute little nose and the perfect complexion
of youth at its best. A "they girl" -- an
important concept in the galaxy -- was a girl
who relished in being focussed on as an object
in gatherings, giving joy to people, to "they",
by her excellent good looks and fun manners.
They girls were specially welcome to cafees
with names such as Cafe Nudism, Cafe Erect
Robot, Cafe Deep Sex, and a Kinshire speciality
was vegetarian servings of carrots, squashes and
cucumbers by the young genitals of they girl
waitresses. It was a custom, also, for most
dance places not just to measure for
skinniness and do a quick check-up on health
characteristic such as teeth and healthy
pink glow of skin, but also to check --
rapidly but in approved, sterile ways --
that no virgin was admitted to the premises.
A virgin, it was said, was not "innocent",
but regarded as suspect, as someone who
has something to hide, who is not in on the
galactic dance. Since health can quickly
change, these places did not use club cards;
their Very Important Person concept was based
on budget and haughty beauty observation
ideals, -- VIP they girls were super-popular.
With strong official approval of the
approach across the galactic city, diseases
had been eradicated, and the passion to be
allotted to the most interesting places
induced many to exercise and eat right.
This they girl had on a tight, wet-
looking t-shirt, revealing the pure anatomy
of a natural-born skinny model with slim
hips, giant protuding nipples, and long
white legs with firm smoothness and that
element of inner fluidity or moist which made
them have the glam lustre that called for
touches, kisses, and fun narcisissm. Anaiis
seriously hoped this was not her opposite
number, her signed integer, but that they
could be on the same side. It would be a
problem to fight against stunning beauty
if it had not been for Anaiis stern morals
and deadly training, but it was never
likable, especially in a galactic city
dedicated to noble ideas of beauty and harmony.
As they talked, the conventional rockets
began drumming with a pleasant bass and ushered
the huge space copper-alloyed ship toward
Serendip, now that they were in Sector 24, already
near enough it would take it a mere seven hours
to get there. Ninety thousand years ago,
newspapers liked to say, the same journey
would have taken incredible seventy
trillion trillion years; in antique times,
they claimed, even intra-solar-system journeys
would take several years, and the
galaxy was but some uninhabited specks
of light speculated on through lenses,
or admired for their artistic features
in the nightsky.
(( 3 ))
'What's your name, honey?' Anaiis asked
her passenger-turned-friend on her right,
after initial chatting. 'Mine is Anaiis.'
'Anaiis, that's a great name. Mine is
Trillian. That's also rhymes with the
number of the sexual encounters I expect
right now, to get at mysterious dance
places next couple of weeks.'
Anaiis laughed. 'Me, too, I hope. So
you'll stay fiesting there?'
'Yesch! I don't know where to go, though.
This is first time since I was here as a
small kid on a schoolclass-trip, to watch
RD images of fossiled things with four
legs and no arms, breasts all over, can you
imagine? Rediculous!'
'Crazy!' Anaiis agreed.
'Still perhaps it's a metaphor of the
sexual positions I hope to get into quickly,'
Trillian said.
Anaiis laughed, and kicked the shining long
thighs of the girl playfully. 0004 also quietly
registered that this girl, all for fun, had
muscles which could indicate some elite
fighting skills. And fuck-shapely feet
like her own. She had to admit to herself it
would be a pleasure to see this girl all
taking it out. Her naturally lively mind,
stimulated further by much art sketching,
made an internal room/depth, RD, motion
picture of this girl and five others,
herself inclusive, showing what life is all
about.
'If you keep talking like that, Trillian,
we won't even have time to look at their
faces before we begin. We'll just fall
over them with spread legs and moan.'
'My plans exactly,' she replied.
They giggled.
'Let's go together,' Trillian suggested.
'I'd love that,' Anaiis replied. 'But let's
at least show some discernment in what
places we go to, let's go to places they only
let in beauty types like us. By the way, got
robust cash? I handle myself but I prefer
to go with those who can manage own costs
if we're in an preponderous place. Don't
answer if you don't want to,' Anaiis said.
'Oh, samadhi,' the girl said. 'I have
no objection to telling you that my friends
are all envious for I pretty much roll in
the stuff. I have it in heaps. I could
fill this boat and make it too heavy for
lift-off, practically speaking. Don't say
that to anyone, though. My gut says I trust
you and that's different. See this card?'
The girl held up a cross-virtual gold
visa, not unlike the type Anaiis had
herself. 'From rich relatives,' she added.
'Then we're two of a kind,' Anaiss said,
flashing her own card briefly.
'God, I have a rich friend already, and I'm
not even there. Life is good,' said Trillian.
'Oh thank you God, bring me super-orgies also,
Amen,' she added, without a trace of irony.
Their coffee cups met and they drunk of the
cheap, lukewarm ship coffee inside the surreal
ship.
'Amen to healthy ones -- ecstatically
healthy ones,' said Anaiis, who wondered if
a trillian can make it for more than a week or
so on her own, before she's tricked into
becoming a head-over-heels galactic fur
addict. Perhaps Trillian has good instincts
though, despite her free-talk, Anaiis
reflected.
'So,' said Anaiis, realizing it wasn't a
bad thing to have a silly beautiful good
friend as long as she told her nothing,
'Want a hot advice? For you're talking to
a formidable Kins' night-life expert here
-- at least I've never wasted time on
studying fossils! I can get us into
the most gold-yellow of galactic dance-places.
Are your shapely feet tingling or what?'
'My shapely feet are tingling, babe. Where?'
'I'll tell you.' Better not take any
chances. Better be mysterious when it is not
downright impolite. 'Have you booked a hotel
at all?' Anaiis asked.
'Yepp. The Sharmaker Round. Kinda strange
name but my lawyer warmly recommended it, and
told me of Kins' hotel names jargon. He
said that any hotel called "Luxury Rich Palace"
and such could be a neon motel. He said that it
was high class yet didn't offer much privacy,
whatever that meant.'
'I've heard that, too. Knocking luck, know
what, Sharm's my hotel, too!' Anaiis cried.
Trillian looked at 0004 meditatively.
'Anaiis, I find you to be the type that the
guards melt for, the type that sways the queues
with long eyelashes and legs as if queues were
but hot air.'
'You kind'a poet or something, Trillian?'
They chuckled together. 'Tell you what, Thrill,
the bar next to the reception disk. We meet
there ten sharp p.m. for a chili-aryanic
juice, vindaloo, and then we get straight to
it.'
'Straight to it! To our, what can we say,..'
'..cosmic work!' Anaiis bit her tongue, and
hoped didn't say anything wrong, but she had
to gauge the reaction of this apparently
blessedly innocent hot dame.
'That's great, An! Cosmic work!' Trillian
laughed heartily and slapped Anaiis's thighs.
Anaiis reflected that if Trillian is
some kind of counter-spy, she's pretty
good at it. But why the fight-beautiful shape
of the girl's thighs, why had she trained?
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