Oppressive or empowering, cruel or kind, tomorrow is what we make of it

Wire-stiff brambles stung, clawed, scratched, drew blood, mixing painful with terrified tears. But lips, though quivering feverishly, kept pressed tightly shut, aching screams swallowed whole.

They’re not like us, Louisa; they’re… different, in a bad way. I know, trust me, trust your mother, don’t let them catch you. Never let them catch you. Run, run as fast as you can—if you don’t, they’ll do terrible things to you.

Suddenly, shockingly, the world fell from underfoot; cruelly cold water sank needle-pointed teeth into first one foot, then both feet, ankles, calves—nearly cresting up and over thighs. 

The too-bright stars, the too-brilliantly sharp crescent moon, was there then not—replaced by methodically sweeping, ultra-high-intensity lights: back and forth, up and down, stirring heart-pounding fright, breath-searing flight as they pinned a swaying, skeletal branch, a lazily bobbing log, or a cluster of gently swaying cattails.

Who told you about them? No, it doesn’t matter; they were right to do so. It’s… I wanted to tell you about them when you were old enough. You have to understand that some people are … they’re wrong, I guess you could say. They don’t see the world like we do. What? No, we don’t hate them, but it’s important to warn children like you, Louisa—my precious, innocent daughter—to stay far away from them … far, far, far away…

Balance—already precarious, hobbled by the culvert’s muddy bottom and tugging, shoving, freezing currents—teetering, and with it that chilling sound; the braying of surgically modified hounds, where once were baleful eyes now were pairs of glossy black ultrasonic phased arrays. Day or night, fog or not, their quarry inescapable.

Yes, my child, sorry to have to tell you, but the rumors you’ve heard are true; they are out there, waiting for the right moment to snatch you and others like you up, spirit you away to who-knows-where, and do horrifying things to you, to your body. Pray with all your might you’re never, ever seen by them. For if you are, they’ll pursue and, worse yet, capture you—and you do not ever want to know what’ll happen next—

A bank … no, an embankment; steeper than nature: a concrete, dirt-clodded, steeply-angled barrier rising higher than anyone could possibly reach. Madly clawing, ferociously digging into its frustratingly sodden crust, trying to get through, begging to gain the slightest purchase, haul up and free from the canal’s icy grip—only for hope to crumble while falling back with alarmingly loud splashes over and over again.

My cousin’s sister’s friend told me all about them, so I know it’s true! Like how they lure you in, seduce you with promises of illicit pleasure only to trap you, force you to do sexual things, then operate on you, make you into a monster, something horrible no one would, could ever love … laughing as they cut you up!

Fingers stabbing into the putrid, reeking loam, thrusting down, searching for something, anything solid enough to grip hold of, find any sort of leverage to fight the frigid current’s stubborn pull—

—then soggy dirt, not wet soil, not loose but firm, solid, unyielding… metal? Twisted rebar, remnants of a disused irrigation system? Didn’t matter; all that did was it didn’t move, and with wracking sobs, nearly hysterical screams, and every effort of strength, the culvert steadily fell behind.

Remember, students, as law-abiding, socially responsible citizens, it’s imperative you remain ever-vigilant. Stay away from unauthorized communication technologies, be wary of anyone who wants to be a so-called “friend,” and inform law enforcement personnel immediately if you have any suspicious encounters, however innocent they may initially appear. For they will use any trick or make any promise to get their filthy claws on you.

Up, on, and over to lay panting, chest heaving, at the top, staring unseeingly upwards, eyes glazed, cloudy from wind, cold, and tears, for a fleeting second unable to differentiate stars from moon.

Surrender was a sweet temptation: give up, let them come … but the hounds’ rapidly approaching, ear-aching ultrasonics and—new panic, new hysteria—the distinctive, overlapping whines of AI-networked autonomous microdrones were a galvanic jolt, forcing arms and legs to push, lift … and move!

They spit in the eye of everything pure, simple, and natural!  Heed my words, Louisa, pervert the bodies of the innocent, condemn everyone they touch to the fires of hell!  They are nothing short of evil, and for the safety of everyone who believes in the power of faith and community, they must be eradicated!  

Hundreds or thousands of feet? A mile, two, three? Unsure, uncaring, unsure if runing in the right direction—grasping desperately to the clear reality of ears no longer aching, the stars and moon neither searchlights or drones.

A cyclical, warbling howl, an almost deafening windstorm, and with it running became tumbling backward, landing unceremoniously on the pebble-and-mud-puddle peppered path. 

A dazzling, nearly blinding light silhouetted a trio of vague shapes, the nearest of which shrank as it knelt forward, extending an open hand, yelling against the helicopter’s deafening roar, “It’s okay … you’re safe!”

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Puddled together in a pool of late afternoon sun, Cansa’s rainbow-hued curls cascading across their bare stomach, their hand tightly knitted with his, both gazing lazily up at the starry sky mobile they’d made together, each knowing before paper met mache they’d inevitably lie under it—and shared a long, deep, relaxing, mutually contented, post-orgasm sigh.

“What was it like?” Cansa asked eventually. “Only if you want to—”

Louis smiled, wishing they could bend far enough forward to delicately kiss Cansa’s forehead, but settled for tenderly twirling one of his locks. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

After a deeper but less calming, more steadying breath, they said, “They’re not bad people; no one really is. I think they’re… well, they’re scared.”

“Of what? And why did they… treat you the way they did for all that time?”

Closing their eyes, briefly wrapping themselves in familiar darkness, Louis went on, “I’m not sure. I guess, I mean, maybe they’re frightened of happiness: to be who you truly are and—” sliding their hand gracefully along Cansa’s cheek “—love how and whoever you want.”

Image Sources: M.Christian

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Five boundary-redefining works from legends in the genre

Like a lot of genres, science fiction took a bit of time to discover that one special, yet very basic, component of humanity.

Yes, I’m talking about sex.

But unlike mystery, horror, romance, thriller—and every flavor of literature you can name—when these science fiction authors explored eroticism, it didn’t just change that genre. Using visions of the future, they changed the way many people came to look at sex itself.

While there are many writers working today who are exploring sexuality in science fiction (hint, hint), here are five works personally feel go far above and far beyond the known limits of both sex and science fiction.

Oh, and be prepared for some very minor plot spoilers—but I promise not to give too much away.

The Lovers by Philip Jose Farmer

Remarkably, there are very few disagreements as to when science fiction looked not just up at the stars, but below its own belt.  Sure, during the heyday of the pulp magazines, mainly during the 20s and the 30s, many authors played with simple titillation but none of them described any real (ahem) details.

In 1953, one author changed all that.The Lovers was not just Philip Jose Farmer’s (1918–2009) first published work, but the novella won him the coveted Hugo Award (one of the most prestigious awards in the genre), and introduced sexuality to science fiction. In a big way.

Still poignant and evocative today, I won’t ruin your experience discovering this groundbreaking work by getting too much into the details of the plot. In many ways it reads like the opening to every science fiction novel ever: human hero dispatched to an alien world, Earthling “Powers That Be” have a hidden agenda, human hero encounters alluring member of an alien species, human hero falls in love, human hero stands up against the “Powers That Be”.

But The Lovers is so much more than that.  Farmer not just leaves the lights on for the alien-human close encounters, but he actually had the bravery, or simple honesty, to include an actual orgasm.

Farmer continued his beautiful melding of sensuality in his science fiction work, one of the best examples being his collection of stories Strange Relations. Farmer also penned two—to put it politely—outrageous, and very sexually explicit novels called Image of the Beast and Blown. Pick them up if you want to see what happens when an acclaimed science-fiction author lets his erotic imagination run totally wild.

Venus Plus X by Theodore Sturgeon

Without hyperbole, Theodore Sturgeon (1918 –1985) remains a science-fiction grandmaster. His novels More Than Human (1953), The Dreaming Jewels(1950), The Cosmic Rape (1958), and others are considered, rightly so, masterpieces of the genre.

As any fan of Sturgeon knows, he has also never shied away from understanding and celebrating sexuality. One of his very special books, published in—are you sitting down?—1960 is Venus Plus X. What it has to say about gender and humanity resonates loudly, even 55 years later.

The story is deceptively simple: our protagonist, Charlie Johns, finds himself in the world of the Lendom, an intelligent, highly advanced, and peaceful offshoot of humanity … that happens to physically combine male and female sex organs.

What makes Venus Plus X so powerful is that Sturgeon presents it without judgment, of course beyond those brought to the book by Charlie himself. Sturgeon revisited this same non-prejudicial style in his story “If All Men Were Brothers, Would You Let One Marry Your Sister?”, which first appeared in Dangerous Visions, edited by Harlan Ellison in 1967. However, in Venus Plus X  he shows us a world without a certain taboo; the taboo of incest.

The Female Man by Joanna Russ

In the 1960s and 1970s, science fiction experienced the New Wave: a change in the genre reflecting what was happening in the world around it. Part of this New Wave explosion was the mislabeled subgenre of feminist science fiction.

I say mislabeled because it’s far too lazy to simply look at what many writers were doing at the time and dismiss it as “feminist.” Jody Scott, Alice B. Sheldon (James Tiptree, Jr.), Ursula K. Le Guin, and many others were not just empowering female characters, and women authors, but altering how many people saw science fiction, and sexuality itself.

One of the brightest of the New Wave was Joanna Russ (1937 –2011). Her novel, The Female Man (1970), still stands tall as not just brilliant science fiction, but as a work that delves into almost every conceivable possibility regarding gender and sexuality.

In a (brief) nutshell, The Female Man is about a series of parallel worlds where the “war of the sexes” played out differently.

One of these worlds called Whileaway explores an Earth where men have become extinct, but humanity continues—quite beautifully—through artificial parthenogenesis.

Russ’s writing is powerful, as much today as when much of her work was first published.  To see it as just part of the counterculture movement, both in the world as well as science fiction does the beauty and bravery of her work a huge disservice.

Season of the Witch by Jean Marie Stine

While, again, often categorized as part of the New Wave, Jean Marie Stine’s (b. 1945) Season of the Witch transcends all labels, which is exactly the point of this staggering novel.

While many works before, such as the already mentioned Venus Plus X and The Female Manexamined gender and sexuality in forms of quasi-abstracts, Jean Marie Stine’s novel took a much more direct approach.

Psychedelic and stylish, but always remaining accessible as well as remarkably heartfelt, Season Of The Witch deals with Andre, who is found guilty of rape and murder. In this dystopian future Earth, he receives an appropriate punishment: his consciousness is transferred into the body of a woman.

It is remarkable that this novel, first published in 1968, was one of the very first to take such a deceptively simple concept—to truly travel where no man has gone before.  Luckily, Jean Marie Stine was the person to do it and Season Of The Witch is a perfect meld of science-fiction literature and gender/sexuality investigation—with a particularly beautiful sensitivity.

The World Inside by Robert Silverberg

This last part is where the list gets a bit fuzzy. The fact is if there is one single master of science fiction who deserves to be on this list, it is Robert Silverberg (b. 1935). From his first published work in 1955, Silverberg has shown time and again that he’s not just a phenomenal and insanely prolific author, but one in science fiction who has always perfectly melded the genre with a beautiful appreciation of sensuality.

Because he is the author of so many works (non-fiction books, short stories, novels, anthologies edited, and over 100 science fiction novels), it is extremely hard to point to just a single work by Silverberg as being groundbreaking in regards to sexuality.  If anything, almost every book by Silverberg should be on this list.

Homosexuality to bisexuality, polyamory to beyond, sex for characters in Silverberg novels isn’t something that happens to them, rather their eroticism is an integral part of their humanity— and is a beautiful thing.

But, as our space is limited, one of his books that personally rings as a standout is his 1971 novel The World Inside. Set in the year 2381, the novel looks at the idea of quantity versus quality. In this case, the quantity is human reproduction as the culture of The World Inside is one where procreation has become almost the single most important driving force.

So powerful is it, that men are encouraged to go “night walking” to freely visit, and hopefully impregnate, as many women as possible. While many books have played with the concept of the human population explosion in clumsy dystopias—Harry Harrison’s Make Room! Make Room! (which inspired the film  Soylent Green in 1973) is an example of how to do it right—The World Inside shows the issue in an even more chilling light.  By giving it a happy, yet emptily, grinning face.

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Science fiction has always been a genre of exploration, especially where it reflects on what it means to be human. These fantastic works and their authors looked out at the universe as well as inward at sexuality, creating some truly staggering pieces of literature.

And, for their readers as well as many others, they altered the very idea of what sex is … and could be.

Image sources: Depositphotos, Amazon

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“Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator”—Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors

Heaven, which after first a single, then a second, much more substantial upgrade—was where everyone in the infosea went to see, be seen, and dance and dance and dance and dance (etc).

And the focus of all those thousands of those twitchingly-aroused, boiling-hot, lustfully-fuming partiers—whose bubbling ecstasies lifted them higher and higher, twirled them faster and faster, caressed them more and more—was the magnificently dynamic, boisterously joyful, chromatically-coiffed, sensually-riveting, sexually-mesmerizing, erotically-enthralling diva-diety named Roho.

But whether wittily traipsing at the metaphysical edge of some obscurely esoteric philosophy, weaving disturbingly intricate constructs out of the infosea’s algorithmically stitched substance, or frolicking as if the cosmos itself was desperately trying not to trod on their exquisite feet, Rohop had a deep, dark secret.

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Then while flickering with mad sensual energy along the infosea’s golden-arched paths, leaping across wispy tufts and over the knotted bodies of Heaven 2.0’s lustful souls, caring only for how many kisses they could give, receive, or exchange while they bounced and flounced in blindingly high arcs—came a beat, a pause, a shockingly quick break, and Rohop wasn’t moving to some cosmologically sensual drummer, the universe’s sexually pulsing rhythm, but for the first time, only to their own virtual heart.

Just like that, Rohop was ensnared, entrapped, and entangled by four pairs of sparkling eyes set in four captivating faces suspended above four hypnotically alluring bodies.

Thus, Rohop met Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle.

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Shara Lee, with eyes of flecked, spinning gold, is he of intricately interwoven muscles, baskets of strength, bushels of passion, and buckets of sparklingly silver sweat with whom Rohop spun in looping orbits.

Zeno (only Zeno), with a smoky burst of ashen grey hair; she of elegance and grace, overflowing with sensuality, an overabundance of sexuality, and (practically) overwhelming sultriness who Rohop pranced with.

Parthian Mot, with a radioactive smile and a glowing grin, was a zee of infinite energy, inexhaustible enthusiasm, and an immeasurable spirit, whom Rohop beamed in conjunction with.

Babis McTalle, with a frothy laugh and a universally giddy demeanor, hir of magnetic charisma, magnificent allure, and magnanimous desirability, who Rohop bellowed in concert with.

First one by one, then as pairs, triads, and quads: Shara Lee plus Rohop times Zeno to the power of Parthian Mot squared with Babis McTalle, totaling erotic mathematics computed by infinite excitements.

But as Rohop’s pleasure magnified, so did its opposite: excitations marred by equal amounts of anxiety, thrills accompanied by a similar measure of worry, every lustful burst supplemented by the same amount of paralyzing dread.

Because Rohop secretly wasn’t one person but four: the illegal result of Ze Gopala, the playfully wrinkled, perpetually-grinning, flamingo-haired professor of advanced pataphysics at NeoTechnic University; Shridevi (just Shridevi) the elegantly gaunt, always-slyly smiling, mathematical artist; Des Annisa, the hypnotically alluring, eternally beaming, polished bronze-eyed freefall ballerina; and Peel Ion, the ruggedly warm complexioned, continually-laughing, vigorously-built potatokelp farmer merging their consciousnesses to created the singularly multiplexed entity everyone knew and loved as Rohop.

Whose combined minds puzzled, fretted, distressed: To tell or not to tell?  To reveal or not reveal?  To confess or flee?  To hide the truth, even from Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle, who Rohop instinctually knew were more than playmates, greater than lovers?

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Then, as suddenly as Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle appeared, they disappeared into Heaven 2.0’s digital ether, leaving behind the hint of the barest, tiniest trace of their existence.

Save, that is, for a stream of elegant code, a packet of ornate data, winding in front of Rohop’s quivering eyes:  

“Farewell, our center, our sun—what could have been our beginning but (weeping, weeping, weeping) is sadly our end, for we cannot be together while my shame holds us apart.”

No! Rohop’s despair was a wave crashing against their conjoined minds, threatening to fracture them into four bits and four pieces of awful sorrow; no, no, no, no, should have told them everything!

Through their digitally replicated tears, words swimming in and out of their synthetic focus, the message continued:

“We’ve been lying to you … no, not we, but I haven’t been honest, that Shara Lee, Zeno, Parthian Mot, and Babis McTalle aren’t individuals but parts of my mind—separated, split apart, and given virtual form.”  

“No!” Rohop roared, their consciousness splintering.  “No, no, no, no!”

“Forgive me, Rohop, my love,” as the note crumbled, its last remaining ones and zeros vanishing. “You deserve someone who’ll never be ashamed of who—and what—they truly are.

Image Sources: M.Christian

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It was something definitely worth waiting for

“She said to open it last. Are you ready?”

A square white box tied with a flurry of pink ribbons sat on the bed between them.

Nora put her thumb and index finger on a strand of ribbon and raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“Nick?”

“She really told you at the reception we had to be totally naked for this?”

“It’s my Aunt Selene. What did you expect? So, yes, lose the socks or whatever this is won’t work.”

Nick laughed and peeled off his favorite socks that warmed or cooled his feet as needed,  pitching them toward the great picture window showing a blue expanse of the Pacific as their flying hotel sailed toward an overnight stop in Tahiti.

“Even for a techno-billionaire she’s weird. I don’t know about this. Selene actually is a mad scientist. What if she’s experimenting on us?”

“Be nice. She also gave us this round-the-world trip on The Dreaming City.”

“Well, you’re her only niece. What worries me is she likes to do really crazy stuff. Like getting arrested for organizing that flash orgy on the moon.”

Nora laughed and waved her hand. “Charges were dropped. It wasn’t illegal then.”

“Did you know,” said Nick, “she came up to me at the reception and said if something happens to you she could use your DNA to make a clone so I wouldn’t miss you.”

“Yeah, well, she said the same thing to me. She just wants us to be happy.” Nora took his hands. “She told me every couple needs to have this experience. More than once even.”

Nick returned a soft squeeze, but looking down at the ball shook his head. “I don’t know what this is, but what if it changes things? Between us.”

Nora took one of his hands and kissed it. “Nick, believe me. She promised it only makes a relationship better. I wouldn’t try this otherwise. It’s supposed to be a nice surprise for us.” 

Nick slowly nodded, then leaned over the ball to give his wife a kiss. “You’re right, I’m for whatever you think is good for us. And I have to admit anything that gets your clothes off is fine with me. Let’s do this.”

After he settled back into his cross-legged position, Nora pulled a ribbon and the box unwrapped itself, the paper opening like a white flower, the edges lying down to reveal a glossy black orb about the size of a bowling ball. 

“Selene said it will start once it reads my thumbprint.” Nora looked at her new husband and raised her eyebrow. “Here we go,” she said, pressing her right thumb against the cool surface of the black ball.

Instantly her aunt’s face appeared, tanned and smiling. “Hello and congratulations! Now this will be fun, trust me. After I vanish, place both hands firmly on the ball, close your eyes, and don’t break contact until the humming stops. That’s very important. The effects will wear off in precisely thirty minutes, so make the most of it. Enjoy!”

After the ball went a solemn black again, Nora poised both her hands over the sphere and Nick did the same. “I love you. Let’s begin on three,” said Nora, and began the countdown.

With their hands on the ball, Nora heard a low humming and felt a warm tingling in her fingers that slowly spread up her arms to her shoulders. The mild tickling rose to her head like a swarm of bees, then gently swept down her body until even her toes were softly buzzing. The humming grew louder and the tingling became almost an itching, but Nora kept her hands on the dark globe. Only when the ball became silent and the prickly sensations faded away completely did she open her eyes.

“Wow,” said Nora, her voice deeper than usual, staring across at herself.

Nick looked at his hands, slim and manicured, taking them to a beardless face. “What the hell?’ came out as a light and feathery whisper.

Nora dropped her head to see a suddenly flat chest, feeling an odd new weight between her legs. Flexing, she exclaimed,  “I have muscles now!”

“I never realized how soft you are,” said Nick, Nora watching as his hands found and flowed over a new world of curves.

Nora stretched, admiring her arms. “You guys are like some kind of machine. Really. So strong.”

“You’re like a piece of art. So beautifully put together.” Her husband lay back and raised a long leg, wiggling the painted toes.

“Thank you,” said Nora, noting with some satisfaction that the stylist-bot at the Sky Salon on the top floor of their flying luxury hotel actually did a pretty good job with her hair. 

“We don’t have much time, honey,” said Nora, getting off the bed and carefully placing the ball and its wrappings on a nearby table. Remembering her aunt’s advice, she sat next to her body and put a hand on a smooth and shapely leg.

“Now, let me show you what I really like.”

Image Sources: Depositphotos

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The importance of dressing for success—and pleasure

Miss Kroner sat across the conference table from me, like the President visiting the mayor of her hometown. Her personal assistant, Ange, stood nearby.

I started with the usual holographic slideshow.  Miss Krone was unimpressed, and remained unimpressed when I began the demonstration using a robotic manikin, wearing the prototype as a belt.

I held up my gloved hand. “This device is the interface, transmitting commands by contact. I am now instructing the garment to take up one of its pre-programmed shapes.” With a touch, the prototype billowed into a mid-length black skirt. “Now with a pattern that has been stored…”

She stood up abruptly. “I am not interested in stored patterns, Doctor Günstling. I want to see your prototype in action.”

“Pre-programmed shapes and patterns are part of its function. I am following your requirements.”

“Pfaugh! Take them as read. Skip ahead. Show me movement.”

“Very well.” I keyed the glove again, and took the waistband of the skirt between the fingers of my gloved hand. The skirt billowed out into a two meter long cylinder of black fabric. “Now…” I keyed the glove again, and took the upper edge of the cylinder and started running it between my fingers. “I’m making the fabric contract just here, narrowing the fabric and giving it some elasticity.” I pulled the fabric up under the manikin’s arms, so that the stretchy band I had created was above the bust.

“Congratulations, Doctor Günstling. You have reinvented the muu-muu.” Ange laughed quietly.

I could feel the blood rising to my face. “Miss Krone, I am not a fashion designer, I am a nanotech engineer. You asked me to make this fabric for you, and I have done it, on schedule and under budget. If you want something else, tell me what it is.”

“First, get rid of this ridiculous machine. My clothes are for people, not robots.”

I nodded curtly, retrieved the prototype and sent the manikin away. “Miss Krone, I have had three offers of employment this month. If you are going to fire me—”

“Not yet, Doctor Günstling.” Without turning in the direction of her assistant, Miss Krone gave a terse command. “Ange, strip.”

Ange let her dress drop to the floor. Underneath she was completely naked. She smiled a little as my eyes met hers.

Miss Krone waved her hand between us. “Now… a proper demonstration?”

“Right.” Ange held out her arms and I placed the prototype just above her breasts. I selected a complex series of commands in the glove, and touched the belt. It rolled down Ange’s body, gently relaxing wherever her body needed a little more room, and contracting again when it could. It pressed her breasts down flat, squeezed her midsection enough that she gasped in surprise, and ran down over her hips. When it reached her legs, it pushed her knees together so hard that she had to hold out her arms to balance.

“Merde!“

I suppressed satisfaction at her predicament. “Are you okay?”

“Oui, I am good,” she said, a little breathlessly. “But it is very tight. I can barely move.”

I turned to Miss Krone. “I see what you mean now, about robots and people.” I keyed the command for a global release on the control glove. “I’ll have you out in a moment.”

“Wait.” Miss Krone pushed my hand away. “Ange, can you breathe?”

“Oui.“

“And is it cutting off circulation anywhere?”

“Non.” Her face was flushed.

“In that case let us not jump to any conclusions. You have intrigued me, Doctor Günstling. Show me more.”

“You have me at a loss, Miss Krone. I don’t have anything else.”

“Nonsense. You have created something entirely new here… something that could never have been done with conventional fabrics. You have a full body corset with no straps, buckles, zippers or laces. It just needs adjustment.” She touched Ange’s breast. “Such minimization is not in fashion. Loosen it.”

I held up my control glove. “Miss Krone, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to—”

“It’s entirely appropriate, Doctor. Continue.” 

Ange nodded. “Oui.” 

I took a deep breath. Miss Krone asked for a fairly simple command, to change the elasticity of the fabric over a small area. I keyed in the command, reached out and ran my hand lightly over her breasts. The fabric sagged slightly, as it responded to the command.

Miss Krone looked her over. “You can make this go rigid, yes?”

“Yes. It’ll have the same strength as high-grade plastic.”

“Good. Now, pinch her nipples, and make it rigid that way.”

Ange anticipated my touch, arching her back.

I programmed the glove and took the fabric over one nipple between my fingers. 

The fabric firmed up quickly as I squeezed, trapping her tender flesh in a firm vise. Ange’s eyes closed and I heard a sharp intake of breath, and then another as I repeated the process on the other side. I suppressed a smile.

Miss Krone snapped her fingers, drawing my attention. “Can this thing produce sleeves? Can the skirt separate into trousers?”

“Not yet. We’re still working on the link-delink protocol.”

“Faugh. Details. ‘No’ is sufficient. No matter. There are plenty of possibilities here, even without that. You will have your funding, Doctor. Now, about this annoying naivete you seem to have with sexual matters.”

“What? I am not naive.”

Miss Krone confronted me with feet apart, arms crossed over her chest. “I have seen significant possibilities in this fabric for fetishwear, and that’s the direction you will take this project. If we are going to work together you need to learn the finer points. You may be sexually experienced by your own measure, Doctor Günstling, but not by mine.”

“You’re not hiring me for marketing.”

“I am hiring you to create a marketable product. If you are going to do that successfully, you will need to understand the market. I want to give your creative imagination the greatest possible freedom, and in order to do that your imagination must be freed from its constraints. You have a valid passport, yes?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Our flight to Copenhagen is the day after tomorrow, nine-thirty AM. You will join us.”

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Sometimes the best present is the last

Inhumanly lithe, unnaturally poised, and uncannily elegant, something like a woman said, “Come in; I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Hidden behind a declining-balance statement, concealed under a horizontal analysis breakdown, and carefully secreted within a long-term liability register was a single, eyebrow-raising expenditure to The Work Of Our Hand, Ltd, followed by a rental agreement for an apartment Knoft immediately realized was just a fifteen-minute walk or a five-minute AutoCab trip from his once alive now … not, father’s office. 

“I’m Olivia,” it said, politely insisting Knoft make himself comfortable, “my sincere apologies for having to meet under such, well, melancholic circumstances.”

“I’m sorry,” Knoft said, gazing down at the confusingly filigreed coffee table and his legs and feet restlessly quivering beneath it. “I don’t know how I feel about this, I mean, you and him.”

Slightly less than three hundred seconds earlier, Knoft was climbing out of a humanity-fragrant, uniformly scuffed, and obviously mistreated autonomous vehicle and into a subtly-scented, luxuriously polished, and immaculately maintained lobby—where a nearly silent elevator brought him to the fourteenth floor and several nervous steps to 1420.

Sliding a delicate porcelain hand towards him, then resting amiably warm fingers on his wrist, the synthetic softly said, “This must be difficult for you.” 

Difficult? Bellowed Knoft’s mind.  Difficult!? A scream tugged at his throat. Difficult!?  Here was the artificial, manufactured, sold, and bought product, a thing his father had given everything Knoft ever wanted, needed, and deserved.  

Why?  A breath in, the same eased out; internal storm ebbing, fingers steadily unclenching, legs steadying, all of it expressed by only a stiff nod and five sharply clipped words:

“Tell me about my father.”

#

Knoft left, closing the apartment door slowly, carefully behind him.  Mind chaotic, adrift in his private, unsettled universe, trying and failing to merge what it’d said with his unfeeling, unflinching, uncaring parent.

Less chaotic, only somewhat adrift, he returned a month later.  Pouring sweetly scented tea from an antique kettle, it took Knoft’s hand, peered into his eyes, and said, “Yes, we were lovers, but it was more than that.”

It spoke of Knoft’s father brushing its hair while it hummed, but never sang, a litany of 20th-century show tunes.  

It talked of him bringing bouquets of flowers, not purchased but carefully, thoughtfully plucked during his walk from his office to the synthetic’s apartment. 

Then it asked, and Knoft answered: confessing what it was like growing up with a man who was never there, even when they were in the same room with one another.  

Holding his hand and kissing his cheek, it told Knoft, “He wanted to tell you, he really did.  It was just so difficult for him.”

#

Calmer, more anchored, Knoft came back the following week.  Curled together on Olivia’s vast sofa, she—not it—said, “I wish I could have done more for him.”

She said his father would light dozens of candles, dim the lights, stretch out on the floor and laughingly try to divine deep, spiritual meanings from the shadowy forms dancing across the ceiling.

Knoft discussed his too-often frustrating career; how for every step forward, he felt pushed three, four, five, six steps back—and should he finally going to topple and fall; there’d be no one there to catch him.  

Knoft opened up about his relationships, how he invariably grew farther and farther from them, each seeming to speak an ever-increasingly foreign tongue—and how he, more than anything, wished someone, anyone had taught him how to be human.

Entwined in a lover’s knot, sweat cooling on Knoft’s brow, Olivia murmured in his ear, “I hear you, I understand you, I see, and care for all of you.”

#

Eagerly, passionately, Knoft was back the next day.  Mouths wetly affixed, arms woven together, breaths moanfully shared, bubbly laughter exchanged—that is until Olivia, with her undying grace, eternal patience, and unending care, gently but firmly withdrew from Knoft’s playful caresses.

Tea steeping, petits fours arranged, tea poured, petits fours offered, tea sipped, petits fours nibbled and formalities observed, returned, sitting near but not too near to Knoft she said, “What else do you want to know about your father?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.  Not anymore.  Can’t we simply enjoy each other’s company?” Knoft said, punctuated by a kiss to the tip of her nose. 

Olivia fixed her made-eye to his born-eye. “Yes, that’d be nice.  We’ve enjoyed such lovely times together, haven’t we?”

“Amazing, more than I could have ever hoped for.  With more to come–” he said, reaching out to her

“I’ve talked about your father.” Shoulders lowered, staring into her upturned palms, she continued, “and how he felt about me.  But I didn’t … I couldn’t explain why he needed me.”

“Do we have to talk about this now?” Knoft pleaded.

“I-I’m afraid we do.  I have to tell you.” No longer lithe, only somewhat poised, barely elegant, life fading, mechanisms failing.

“What—what is it?  What’s going on? Please tell me!” Knoft cried while furiously rubbing her barely warm, nearer-to-icy hand.

“Y-your father, it was too late for him; he’d held himself in for too long, too many years, scared of hurting people, hurting you. So he left you, e-escaped with me,” softly adding, “I did what I could to h-help him.”

Once bright, now clouded eyes spilled tears onto previously glowing, presently ashen cheeks.  “I tried, I-I really did.  But in the end, I could only make h-him comfortable.”

“Olivia!” Knoft cried, putting her chilly hands on his own tear-slick face, “What’s happening?”

A kiss, unexpected and—to Knoft’s growing sorrow—too quick and too shockingly frigid.  “Y-You should know, must know, h-h-he loved you”  

Pupils were dark and getting darker, she continued, “H-he’d want you to be happy, not be like him.  Not t-trapped by his own fears, unable to leave m-me.”

“Why, Olivia; why?” Knoft howled. “Stop—whatever you’re doing, please stop!”

“You’re f-father wouldn’t want t-this life … f-for you,” she wheezed as first her right then her left eyelid froze in place.

Knoft held her, chest aching, throat raw, eyes blinded with tears.  “Please don’t go.”

“It’s o-o-our gift to you,” Olivia said, her voice the faintest of whispers, “w-w-who we both loved so very much—f-for you to be f-free.”

Image Sources: M.Christian

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