Slant (2 page)

Alice pretends languid boredom, then shifts suddenly into seductive speed.

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"Still not convincing," Minstrel teases. "Fuck me with your.., penis," Alice says. They both laugh. Minstrel's face crosses from saint to ascetic cherub. "Utterly, desperately limp. Only a doctor or a therapist would call it that, to make you feel inferior. Most men prefer cock." "Crows only in the morning," Alice says. All conversations with Minstrel, even in the down time between plugs, are contagious. "Penis sounds like a planet or a country." "Vagina. Labia. Clitoris," he prompts. "Like characters in a Renaissance vid," Alice says. She muses. "They are all royalty in the land of Penis. Vagina never touches another person without wearing gloves. She is cool and dresses in black lace." Minstrel's face lights up. "Labia is a dangerous woman, sister to Vagina and Clitoris," he says. "A vampire and poisoner." "Clitoris is the youngest, virginal sister," Alice says. She loves games. "They are all daughters of..." Tongue tipping through her lips, catlike, while she thinks. "Lucrezia Menarchia." "Bravo!" Minstrel says. He applauds. Alice bows and continues. "Clitoris is the only one with any decency. She blushes with shame at how her family carries on." Minstrel reddens with subdued laughter. They should not be too loud up here; it might upset Francis, who can be very testy while preparing for a plug. "All right. Cunt," he suggests. Alice pauses, scowling. "That's a tough one." "Not yours, my dear." Alice gives him a beneath-me face and taps her finger on her nose, thinking. "Cunt is a barbarian princess from the outer reaches. She is raised by the outland tribes of the province of Puberty." Minstrel squints. "Not Puberty. Not quite right." He works at it and substitutes, "Pudenda." Alice grins. "Pudenda it is. Cuntia is her name when she travels in the civilized realms." Minstrel snaps his slender fingers. "We're on to something. Maybe Francis will make us writers. Listen: Cunt is swapped in a hostage exchange between Lucrezia Menarchia and Cunt's father, King Hetero. Lucrezia sends her daughter-her hopelessly moral daughter Clitoris to learn the barbarian ways and loosen up a bit. Clitoris finally lets her hair down and finds fulfillment in the arms of Cunt's heroic brother, Glans. Cunt, however, must preserve her honor in Menarchia rather than submit to temptation, for Lucrezia rules a corrupt land." Alice takes a deep breath, pretending to be stunned by this burst of genius, then laughs out loud, the hell with Francis, who shouldn't keep them waiting so long. She seldom laughs this way, it sounds so much like an ass's bray to

/ SLANT 15

her, but she is easy and open with Minstrel. "So who or what is your precious Fuck, then?" she asks.

Minstrel holds his hands as if in prayer and pretends great gravity. "Not to be spoken lightly, or profaned. The tetragrammaton... Fuck... is the most powerful god of all, two-faced progenitor of the world. He prefers we see just his benign face, the baby-making, world-renewing side. But we all know his opposite: Trickster, the devil that rides us and whips us until we bleed."

At this profundity, Alice stands on long legs, yawns, and stretches. "As always, you are uselessly instructive," she tells him. Minstrel gives her his slow prankboy's smile and stretches his arms higher than she can reach. She subdues a little shiver. Their chemistry is working, and holding back does her performance no good.

Alice turns to the low horizontal slit window overlooking the black stage. Something twinkles down there but they are off angle and cannot see the projection. Francis is tediously careful with his plugs and backmind details, but he could have laid in all of Chinese sexual psychology by now. "Francis

should be done. He'll want to hook us." Back in the real. Her forehead creases. "Are you up, dear?" Minstrel asks.

Alice shows him her moon face. "Never less," she says. "Are you?" Minstrel's muscles flex at the back of his jaw. He is hiding something behind the cheer. He can hide from almost anyone but her; she knows him better than most wives know their husbands. To Alice it seems they have come far and survived much and against the odds, but at some cost. Minstrel hides his minuses poorly in front of her.

A pity, she thinks, that his body is so seldom seen in the vids they make

now. Preferences of the blessed audience for the psynthe exotic.

"You look negged," she says.

Minstrel turns away as if unfairly poked. "Let me keep. my mood," he tells

her.

Alice moves in, swaying her shoulders, clucking her tongue. "I'll need all of you in five minutes, and you can't make me work harder to get it," she says. "What's down?"

"Not my libido," he shoots back.

"You've cheered me the last hour instead of leaving me to brood over twisted thumbs." She wraps her arms around him. He pushes her off with what begins

as real and angry strength, and ends gentleness and restraint.

"Is it Todd?" she asks.

"Todd was a year ago," Minstrel says.

Alice nods sympathetically, lips pursed. "I should have known. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I hide, you hide," Minstrel says, and tries to force more brave wit over what is now a sad and lost face.

"Poor Minstrel," she says. "They do not deserve you."

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"No, they fapping well do not." "So what's his name?" "The little fap's name is Giorgio and you, dear Alice, will never meet him. He doesn't deserve to meet you." The wound is seldom far beneath Minstrel's armor when she is doing the probing; he comes to her, at long intervals, like a dog with a boil, knowing she will hurt him with her lancet; also knowing it will do him good. It is now that Francis chooses to blat his awful airhorn. Minstrel closes up his cares and assumes a heavy-lidded rouCs smile. "It is never duty with you," he says, "but whatever it is, it calls." Alice loops her arm through his and they step down the broad railless stairs to the stage, like royalty or Astaire and Rogers making a grand entrance. Francis awaits them in the plug room beside the main stage. Here as well as on the stage all is flat gritty black, no reflection allowed as the camera mixes its own glittering fairy-light dreams with the quantized lux of the real. Francis has named this camera Leni. Leni has become much more than an optical device. She scatters over the stage, feeding images and projections at one end, combining them with backmind layers at the other, a smooth silver and bronze balled and coiled snake. Francis is irritated. His AD, scrawny and unkempt--Ahmed, Alice remembers vaguely; Francis goes through four or five ADs each production--hurries to arrange the bottles of nano and their small shiny plastic conduits and dams, to be applied to the occiput of Alice's skull and to Minstrel's temple. "Alice, fabled Alice, what would you do?" Francis asks as they reach the bottom of the stairs. "I'm two weeks behind, two mill over, I have general fibe and sat release dates in four days--and I'm still layering!" Francis shakes his head. He always appears a little sad and irritated. Alice accepts this in Francis, as well as his fits of temper, only because what he does is unique and, she thinks, good; though Francis is not extraordinarily commercial, working on a Francis vid, even as backmind, can never hurt one's reputation. "You've kept us waiting. Plug us and get your layers," Alice says matter-offactly. "Echo that," Minstrel says. Francis wags his finger. "Fuck artists shouldn't bitch." Alice cringes dramatically, pushes his finger back with her own. Tiny black and silver machines with tactile fuzzy wheels and bug-jewel eyes crawl around the plug stage. They are little versions of Leni. Alice feels their bright little eyes sucking in her offline words. She hates them. Francis allows these recording arbeiters to roam with absolute freedom, examining whatever they choose; there are many in the audience who lose themselves in the life of the production. Francis makes as much on live behind-the-scenes docs as on the vids themselves. "Fuck artist," Alice croons to the nearest bug. "Francis, the nano's a little old," Ahmed says. "It isn't perking."

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"You aren't going to hook us with stale nano, are you, Francis?" Minstrel asks.

"No fear. Alice, have you read the text?"

"Only from the prep you sent. It's a long book, Francis." In fact, antique and long and dull.

Francis is preparing a deep-layered vid of The Faerie Queene. He smiles proudly. "A real challenge, to fade the wonderful Spenserian stanzas into a Yox." His face glows with the subject. "The Red Cross Knight is subject to such temptations, Alice. He is traveling with an Eastern queen named Una. A dragon has ravaged her land, and she hopes the Red Cross Knight will--"

"It's set, Francis." Ahmed shows him the bottles of translucent nano, now fully charged with nutrients. The liquid within is turbid and finally perks; it appears restless. Alice regards it with misgivings. She has plugged over a hundred times, on various jobs, and she has never trusted the process--but she has never been seriously injured even when, as now, the hook is administered by a nonmedical.

"The knight will rid her land of the dragon. So far, the Red Cross Knight has vanquished the hideous monster Error and all her progeny. A truly horrible scene, and I've layered it brilliantly. Now they are in a place of great temp-tations--Una and the knight. You've read the cues."

"We're all primed with ghostly passions," Minstrel says.

"Alice, my pride, you give me the most haunted libido I've ever recorded, when you're on point."

"I hope that's a compliment," Alice says.

"It is. Una and the Red Cross Knight have strayed into the workshop of the evil Archimago, who appears as a godly and kindly Hermit. It is a place of terrible temptations. You are a haunted spright, a succubus created by Archimago to torment and delude. You feel the deepest need for this young, handsome, and virtuous knight, but if you have him, you destroy him--and you know he will never fall for your illusion. However, by appearing in the form of the chaste Una, and engaging in lewd revels with fellow phantoms, you will mislead him into thinking this Eastern Lady has succumbed and is wallowing in lust. You must feel the False Una's passions as if she were actual souled flesh, not a demonic illusion. Many curious eyes and fingers are sure to want to plug into that layer."

"Specks like you're going for broad appeal, this time," Minstrel says, picking at something between his teeth. He inspects his finger.

"I'd like to pay some bills, yes," Francis barks back. "You'll go direct into Leni while we run the set piece on stage. You'll be layering over seven emotional records from other fiuffers, so I need everything clean and clear."

Fluffers. Alice hates that word even more than fuck artist, though it is commonly used. It was once applied to women who kept actors erect or lubricious in old erotic movies. The comparison is inapt, at best; what Alice and Minstrel

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into the camera. Leni is only little less than a large set of eyes with a brain behind them. Francis guides Leni, cajoles her; theirs is not the relation of artisan to tool, they are more like partners.

Ahmed brings up the little dams and shapes them to Alice's head first, then Minstrel's. He syringes a dollop of warm nano into the dams as they sit still. Alice is used to this method of creating a broadband plug; it's common in the cheaper Yox.

A few minutes pass. A microscopic lead of conducting material has passed through the interstices of her skin, bone, and brain, into her deep amygdala, hippocampus, and hypothalamus; into the seats of her judgment engine, the Grand Central Terminal of her self. She feels nothing.

Ahmed applies transponders to the little silver nipples of nano, no larger than a thumbnail. He takes readings for several minutes from the camera. Lights flash agreeably. "Hooked," he tells Francis.

Alice removes her robe. Minstrel is already naked. Francis makes a butterfly gesture with his hands, then clasps his fingers.

"Here come the Sprights and Archimago. Taking," he says. "Click one." Ahmed labels the backmind layer. The camera hums. Francis quotes from memory:

"Thus well instructed, to their worke they hast, And comming where the knight in slomber lay, The one upon his hardy head him plast,

And made him dream of loves and lustfull play, That nigh his manly heart did melt away, Bathed in wanton bliss and wicked joy..." ."

Francis beams. "How like your own career, sweet Alice. How many men have you haunted?"

Alice ignores this.

On the stage behind them, in translucent and sketchy 3D workprint, the evil sorcerer Archimago leads the Red Cross Knight through dreams of dark chambers filled with writhing bodies in silken robes. Hanging tapestries are pulled aside by the incredulous Knight, who sees false Una's flesh revealed in intimate posture with an equally false Spright made a Squire. Alice ignores most of this. What she and Minstrel will provide has little to do with the plot.

Alice looks directly at Minstrel. As always, the angle of Minstrel's dark brown eyes and the sharpness of his nose, the assurance of his professional smile, impresses her. They have real and reliable chemistry.

"You will always be the most beautiful woman on Earth," Minstrel murmurs to her, and she knows he means it. He prefers men, but Alice affects him as much as he affects her, reliably, predictably. If they lived together, their contradictions would burn them out in a year; but in this professional capacity,

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Francis is watching the camera, his Leni. She seems happy.

What Alice feels first is the yearning warmth, not dissimilar to what a baby feels for its mother; she wishes to be closer. Minstrel touches her face with the back of his hand, stroking her cheek, holding this off. He responds as nearly all men respond to her, given a chance: she notes the flush on his chest, the close focus of his eyes, the beginning rise. Often, the rise amuses her; men seem off-balance when aroused, would topple like cranes without her support. But Minstrel's rise is a delightful shock.

The delicious pain of expectation meeting an inner self-doubt drops her back in the first sopping yet dry-mouthed experiments of youth ("Love for sale, appetizing young love for sale--" Billie Holiday singing Cole Porter), amazed at success and delighted by it.