Timecaster: Supersymmetry (7 page)

No problem. Alter-Talon enjoyed extortion almost as much as rape.

He spent some time on UFSE, searching for experienced surgeons who lived nearby and had a lot to lose, like a spouse and kids. He found one only a few blocks away.

Time to get to work.

Alter-Talon walked by Vicki—peacefully unconscious on the hotel bed—and gave her breast a squeeze. The real thing was okay, but augmentation was so much better. Perhaps the doctor he brought over could do a cup increase and an LLVV on her before the transplant. It was such a shame to see a beautiful woman with nothing more than what she was born with.

Then it was out the door and into the hallway. Like most metropolitan buildings, plants were everywhere. Ivy clung to the walls. Moss hung from the ceiling on organic lighting fixtures. This hotel even applause.

&Bci became I pu took green to the next level, and the carpeting underfoot was a lush grass lawn, so dense and soft it cushioned every step. Alter-Talon passed a maintenance worker, trimming the floor with a laser mower and collecting the clippings. He gave the man a little bump with his hip, knocking him sideways, glancing backward as the utopeon ran the mower over his own foot and bisected the front of his shoe.

“The guests have right of way, asshat,” Alter-Talon warned.

The man bowed a pale, subservient apology. Then he dropped to all fours, whimpering while collecting his severed toes.

Alter-Talon took the stairs. The overhead grow lights were almost blinding, and louversills lined the stairwell walls. Khat plants grew out of the fertilizerboard at forty-five degree angles, brushing against Alter-Talon’s face. He tore a few leaves from the walls as he trudged past, chewing the bitter green, storing the masticated pulp in his cheek. Once he exited the street, he checked his DT to get his bearings, then headed east toward Prospect Avenue. His shoes had compression insoles, formfitting to his decaying feet and evenly distributing his weight for the least amount of impact. He’d also taken some nerve blockers, to help with the pain. Even so, each step was akin to walking barefoot over sea urchins. A few synthetic heroin pills would hit the spot, but he needed to stay mentally sharp.

The sun outside was predictably bright, and all the traffic lights blinked
UV WARNING
, so Alter-Talon put on a tinted face shield and turned on the air conditioning fan. Now darker and cooler, he picked up the pace, weaving past smiling, happy pedestrians, all of whom he wanted to kill.

He walked through several 3D holographs, projected by many of the building storefronts, showing in slow-motion the disappearance of Boise, Idaho. On the other Talon’s earth, he’d sent Boise to a dinosaur planet and framed him for it. On this one, he’d sent Boise someplace worse. The entire world was panicked, wondering how an entire metropolitan area could simply vanish. Some of the lunatic fringe had even gone the medieval route and brought up long-dead beliefs in God. This amused Alter-Talon. Kill half a million people, and some folks immediately embraced superstition.

The apartment where Dr. Susan Patel resided was a security building that required chip entry. Unusual to have security measures these days, when timecasting practically eliminated crime. But this wasn’t too far from Milwaukee’s Dissytown, so it was probably a preventative measure to keep the dissys from coming in and swiping hemp. The landlord probably paid a fortune in foliage tax, and didn’t want to waste it on non-taxpayers.

Alter-Talon approached the door, frowning at the lock because it would require a painful kick. But on closer inspection he
found the lock to already be broken.

He smiled at the lucky happenstance, his mood further enhanced by the khat he chewed. Similar to the drug
ecstasy
, the khat induced a mild feeling of euphoria, as well as a compulsion to dance with complete strangers. Alter-Talon was able to keep on top of the dancing impulse, but he embraced the temporary reprieve from his sour mood.

Like his hotel, the apartment building was green, with bamboo growing along the walls and kudzu carpeting. The requisite hemp bushes were in cement pots, overflowing with buds, and Alter-Talon wEbooks by J.A. KonrathE" face="ZrnicRg-Regular"> seaved through them and took a green elevator to the fifth floor, listening to an insipid muzak version of some Run-DMC oldie. His mood angered by hip-hop, Alter-Talon stormed down the hallway, pulled out his Glock 1MV taser, and got ready to kick Dr. Patel’s door in.

Except that it was already kicked in.

Cop training taking over, Alter-Talon went in fast and low, rushing through the short entryway, raising his weapon as he rounded the corner, and coming face to face with—

Me. That’s me.

Alter-Talon faced another version of himself. At first, he thought that Talon had somehow gotten away from Vicki and the SS Wisconsin. But he quickly realized that this man wore the same outfit, the same rubber gloves, the same form-fitting shoes.

This Talon also held a taser, but in his left hand, rather than his right one. They pointed them at one another, so synchronous it was like looking into a mirror.

“Don’t shoot,” they both said, simultaneously.

Dr. Patel, a good-looking Indian woman in her mid-forties, stared at both of them and let out a short yelp. She wore a terrified expression, and a supplication collar.

“Shut up!” said both Talons at the same time.

Then they shot each other.

I raised up
my hands, eyeing the gun Alter-Vicki pointed at me. Guns had been outlawed since Civil War Two, replaced by non-lethal weapons and a sharp increase in name-calling. But Vicki’s weapon was the real deal. From my cop training, I recognized it as a Walther PPK, made famous by that legendary movie spy, Schlomo Leibowitz.

“Look,” I said, trying to look as meek and honest as possible, “I’m not the Talon you know. He’s a scumbag and a mass-murderer, and he obviously doesn’t treat you nicely. I’m from another earth in a parallel universe. I’m married to a different Vicki.”

“I know.”

Shit. She was loyal to the bastard.

“Lie on the bed,” she ordered. “Keep your hands behind your head.”

“You don’t have to do this,” I told her, doing as she said. “I’m not your enemy.”

“Under the pillow are some handcuffs. Put them on.”

The cuffs were the old-fashioned kind, made of metal. They were soldered to the stainless steel headboard, so I assumed they were used for a purpose other than just keeping me prisoner.

After I slipped the bracelets on, I learned what that other purpose was.

Setting the gun onto the nightstand, Anti-Vicki opened up a drawer and took out an envelope. Inside were two flesh-colored obfuscation disks. She placed one over applause.

&Bci
I puher chip, then one over mine, making us invisible to GPS tracking. Then she reached back into the drawer and pulled out a black stick. I recognized the object to be a riding crop.

“My husband enjoys chaining me to the bed and beating me with this,” Alter-Vicki said. “Not enough to cause injury. It would be wrong to damage the merchandise. Clients don’t want an SLP covered in welts. He hits just hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her. And I was. The thought of anyone hurting Vicki, even though she wasn’t my Vicki, made me very angry.

“Don’t be,” she said, flexing the crop in her hands, making it bend. “I like it.”

She ran the flat part of the crop up my naked thigh, uncomfortably close to my penis.

“I’m not really into that,” I said. “It doesn’t turn me on.”

At the word
on
, Alter-Vicki let out a yelp and doubled over.

The LLVV.

The VV stood for Vibrating Vagina, a procedure where a small yet powerful vibrator was surgically implanted inside a woman’s body, underneath the clitoris. Originally invented to cure hypoactive sexual desire disorder, it quickly caught on in the general population for its recreational uses. State Licensed Prostitutes were among the major buyers, and my own Vicki had considered getting the implant on several different occasions, only demurring because she realized she’d probably leave it on all the time, which would drastically reduce her productivity.

Alter-Vicki’s eyelids fluttered, and she threw herself onto me, nibbling her way down my stomach.

“Off,” I said. The buzzing instantly stopped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to use that word. I forgot there was an auditory switch.”

“Turn me on again,” she breathed.

“I don’t cheat on my wife,” I told her. It was absurd, I know, considering my wife was an SLP and slept with scores of men. But I viewed my fidelity as a form of strength. By saving myself for my wife, I underscored our love while also exercising self-control.

“Do it,” she said, cupping my testicles. “Please, sir. It only works with your voice imprint.”

“I will if you uncuff me.”

She didn’t uncuff me. Instead, she used her mouth and lips on me in a way that made me shudder.

Part of me wanted to go along with it. A big part of me. She was, after all, my wife. Sort of.

But I was never one to give in to my baser instincts, so I shut my eyes and tried to think of something other than her gently stroking and licking my…

“On,” I said.

I did it as a form of self-preservation. Perhaps if she were occupied with that, she’d leave me alon the antidote for the nanopoison to get ,” Phin said.ete.

Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect. She pulled out her false teeth and took me in her mouth, all of me, and I gasped at the overwhelming sensation, straining even harder against my bonds.

The other part of the LLVV procedure was known as the
Linda Lovelace
. It involved the surgical implantation of a second clitoris in the throat. My Vicki had also considered getting that done, only opting out because she thought it would make eating more stimulating than it should be, which might result in weight gain.

Apparently, LLVV enhancement had improved since we’d looked into it, because Alter-Vicki’s throat buzzed in the same way her nether regions did.

I groaned, my arousal reaching peaks that were almost painful. The sadness I felt for Alter-Vicki, no doubt forced to endure this by her cruel husband, was tempered by an honest sense of wonder and heartfelt appreciation at the technological advances of science and medicine. Also, slave as she might be to her body, Alter-Vicki didn’t exactly sound like she was having a bad time. In fact, she seemed to be screaming deep in her throat, and as her head bobbed up and down with increasing speed she clamped her thighs around me with a grip that would make any bronco buster envious.

I felt myself getting close, and managed to croak, “Off.”

The buzzing in her throat stopped, but Alter-Vicki didn’t. It was all I could do to not buck my hips.

I thought back to the many discussions I’d had with my wife, about how sex was a normal, biological need, no more personal than getting a massage, or dancing. I found both massages and dancing to be intimate acts, though I had no qualms about doing either with other people.

Alter-Vicki released me, her breathing ragged and throaty. I thought I’d been given a reprieve, but she scooted up along my body, straddled my hips, and impaled herself upon me with such force that it felt like I was the one being penetrated.

Then she did the unthinkable. After putting her teeth back in, she lowered her mouth to kiss me.

Vicki, and most SLPs, had a long standing rule: No kissing. That was something meant for people in love, not people involved in a business transaction. My wife was so serious about the rule that the first time I ever kissed her was on the day we were married.

When Alter-Vicki pressed her mouth to mine, I tried to pull away, keeping my lips tight together.

She was insistent, capturing my face in her hands, forced her tongue into my mouth.

It was confusing as heck, because she felt, smelled, and tasted just like my wife.

That made me think of Vicki, of where she was, and what Alter-Talon was doing to her.

“Your husband has my wife,” I said, getting the words out between kisses.

“Please…turn me on, sir…please…”

“I need to save her,” I said. talking aboutEsho s

“Please…” she panted.

She was so much like my wife.

In many ways, she
was
my wife.

“On,” I said.

Alter-Vicki cried out, and her body shook in orgasm. I summoned up some hidden reserve of superhuman strength and bucked her off. She flopped onto the bed next to me.

“Off,” I commanded.

She twitched for a moment, then was still. We both lay there, panting, staring at the ceiling, which was really the hull of a rusting ship.

After a minute, I said, “I love her. Please help me find her.”

She stared at me, eyes wide, sweat on her neck, her red hair beginning to frizz.

“My husband doesn’t kiss me anymore,” Alter-Vicki said.

“I’m sorry.”

“He’s falling apart. His body. And his mind. He’s not the man I married.”

“Maybe we can get him help,” I said. I was still uncomfortably aroused.

“You want to kill him.”

“I just want my wife back, and to go back to my earth.”

She reached her hand out and seized me.

“Kill him for me, sir,” she said.

“Be tough for me to do, chained to this bed.”

She began to pump her hand. “Your wife is like me, right? An SLP?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You can take me back to your world. We could all live together. I don’t mind sharing, so I know she wouldn’t.”

A thought flashed in my head, of living with two Vickis. It wasn’t at all unpleasant. But I was a traditionalist. One woman, one man.

“You need to let me go.”

She brought her other hand in on the action, using a grip that my wife didn’t know. I fought to stay still, squeezing my eyes closed, but I found myself thrusting my hips.

“I’ll let you go if you promise to kill my husband and take me with you.”

“Unnnngh,” I groaned. It was an noncommittal groan, but Alter-Vicki must have taken it for an affirmative, because she whispered, “Thank you.”