Tandem Unit

by Evangeline Anderson

  “But…” Sadie sat up straighter and struggled to drag her mind onto less X-rated subjects. “But if Xavier is out of the picture…”

  “But his double-crossin' partner Red Mike is still out there,” Blakely pointed out. “And about a hundred other pirates that'd be more than willing to mind rape any innocent colonists they could lay hands on for the prices I'm sure Van Heusen's payin' out for black market brains.”

  “Blake's right,” Holt said, grimly. “Van Heusen's got the only illegal flesh tank operation big enough for mass production in the System, I'd bet my badge on it. We put him out of business, we put the mind rapers out of business. Van Heusen's the key. We've got back up on the way but we've got to catch him red-handed. The question is how to make the sting.”

  Sadie began to feel interested. Suddenly, the Solar Pulitzer seemed like a distinct possibility again. “Listen, boys.” She looked from Holt to Blakely. “Remember how I told you I'd be willing to do some undercover work when I signed on to this gig? Well, I think I've got an idea…”

  Chapter 15

  Roald Van Heusen was the most notorious drug lord and prostie-pimp in the Solar System and somehow he always managed to stay one step ahead of the law. Prosecuted but never convicted he had credit to spare and his base of operations showed it, Blakely thought. Van Heusen had built himself a pleasure palace on the dark side of Iapetus complete with its own atmosphere dome and mercury flare lighting to keep the daemons at bay. As the landing craft touched down beside it and the modular flexi seal hugged the dome's entrance, Blakely whistled.

  “Hey, Holt, looks like crime does pay.” He admired the gaudy structure made entirely of costly Old Earth marble imported at unimaginable expense. It sat in the middle of the atmosphere dome looking like a wedding cake lit up from within. The illegal flesh tanks were probably well hidden somewhere under the lavish structure, Blakely speculated. Even on the dark side of Iapetus, Van Heusen wouldn't be bold enough to have them right out in the open.

  “Wonder how many colonists he had to mind rape to build this place,” Holt said darkly. “Back-up's standing by?”

  “Got a crawler over the ridge,” Blakely reassured him, nodding at the large, stony outcropping about half a mile to their left. Very faintly, he could see the wink of the vehicle's lights but the intense glow of the mercury flares around Van Heusen's dome ought to drown them out until the crawler was right on top of the compound. “All we gotta do is make the bust,” he assured Holt.

  “So…” Sadie unbuckled her harness and scooted to the front of the craft. “All we've got to do is to get Van Heusen to show us the flesh tanks and admit they're his?”

  “Got it in one, sweetheart,” Blakely told her, patting his chest where the tiny voice activated recording device was secreted. “We just have to get it all on the listen chip and see the tanks. The minute we do that we'll signal the back-up and he's fried.”

  He was trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes off her but it was damn hard to do. Sadie was 'undercover' posing as a prostie-borg and the outfit she had on certainly showed off her considerable assets to the best advantage. A bright red dress made of some soft, gauzy material clung to her full breasts and floated around her softly rounded thighs. The dress scooped low in the front, showing the creamy inside curve of her cleavage and parted alluringly in front to reveal a pair of tiny black satin panties that barely covered the golden strip of hair that decorated her honeyed sex. Blakely, remembering the delicious salty-sweet flavor of her cunt, longed to drop to his knees and bury his face between her thighs. To make her moan and beg for more as he had the other night while Holt tended to her breasts.

  But it was not to be, no matter how much he wanted it. Sadie just wasn't into it and Blakely could hardly blame her. Holt was right, nice girls didn't want what they had to offer. He supposed the idea of a three-way commitment was just a little too strange for most women to handle. He just wished he hadn't fallen so hard for her and encouraged his partner to do the same. Still, they had gotten over failed romances before and they would again. It just might take longer this time because of the bond.

  Sighing, he popped the latch on the landing craft and said, “Well, everybody out.”

  Thanks to a vid-call, from a friend of Snuggly's who owed the big Garon a favor, they were expected. An armed squadron of identical male flesh-bots, all bald and with a gold hoop through the right nostril, led by a mechanical captain was waiting to escort them to Van Heusen. After a quick but thorough pat down to be sure they were unarmed, Blakely and Holt walked behind the squad, heads up, alert for anything and Sadie, a carefully blank look on her face, trailed behind them. They were supposed to be wealthy research scientists in the field of cyber-biology and they had dressed the part in synthisilk clothes and real jizard skin boots. Holt even had on a cape. Blakely always admired how well his partner played rich and disdainful but he supposed it came naturally to the blond man considering his background.

  They walked through an echoing marble foyer and down a long hall carpeted in real wool, another expensive import, before they came to a real wood door that was twice as high and three times as wide as Blakely was tall. Mmm, he thought, Van Heusen really likes puttin' on the dog. The cost of importing this door alone was probably more than he saw in a year as a detective on Old Earth.

  The mechanical captain pushed a recessed switch and, with a low rumble, the immense door began to slide into the wall, revealing a cavernous room. Blakely half expected to see a golden throne sitting at the end of the huge room but instead, there was an old fashioned fire place with some plush, antique-looking couches and chairs scattered in front of it. Blakely wouldn't have been surprised to find out the furniture was imported directly from some fancy French court on Old Earth. There was a bear-skin rug on the floor that Blakely hoped was antique; all species of bear had long been on the endangered list. Apparently, Van Heusen had spared no expense to make himself at home here on Iapetus.

  The mechanical captain escorted them across the vast expanse of marble floor to the fireplace and when they got a little nearer Blakely could see a lean shape sitting in one of the high-backed antique chairs.

  Roald Van Heusen, an elderly man thin to the point of emaciation sat beside a fireplace big enough to roast a bull in, sipping a snifter of aged brand y and looking like an ad for the good life. The firelight played across his lean features and his quiet, conservative clothing and finely molded features marked him as a man of good breeding—a man of taste. Only the diamond ring on the thumb of his left ha nd that was too large and vulgar to be anything but real spoke of his wealth. Has to be at least six and a half carats. Maybe seven. Blakely eyed the diamond and wondered how much debilitatingly addictive Syntho-narc you had to sell to be able to afford such a nice bauble. How many innocent colonists you had to sell into a life of sexual bondage.

  “Mister Van Heusen, these are Mr. Night and Mr. Day, the investors you were expecting, sir.” The mechanical captain had a surprisingly smooth voice, like an English butler on one of the old culture vids Blakely had watched as a kid.

  “Thank you, Parkins. You may go.” Van Heusen waved a dismissive hand and the mechanical captain made a well-oiled bow and hovered away. “So,” he turned to Blakely and Holt, a sardonic little grin on his thin lips. “Mister 'Night' and Mister 'Day', eh?” Using such obvious pseudonyms was guaranteed to get Van Heusen's attention and let him know they were as anxious as he was to keep their business dealings quiet.

  “I'm Night, he's Day,” Blakely said, giving a quick half-nod to Holt. Van Heusen took in Holt's blond good looks to Blakely's dark intensity with an amused glance.

  “But of course you are; the names suit you. And who is this lovely creature that I see with you?” he asked courteously, nodding at Sadie who stood perfectly silent and still behind them.

  “This, or rather she, is the reason we're here, Mr. Van Heusen.” Holt nodded stiffly and gestured for Sadie to come closer. Moving so smoothly it looked like she was gliding on air s
he came to stand before Van Heusen's chair, a coquettish smile on her full pink lips. Van Heusen looked from Blakely to Holt with raised eyebrows.

  “She's a prostie,” Blakely said helpfully. “A prototype from our labs on Venus. Look.” He turned Sadie around and lifted the silky red gown to show her softly rounded ass. On the left cheek was a small tattoo (removable of course although Van Heusen didn't need to know that) of a red capital C in a small blue circle. “Our logo—Century labs,” he explained, turning her back to face them.

  “Surely not,” Van Heusen muttered, standing to circle Sadie with an interested air. He ran one lean hand over her bare arm. “Her skin is so smooth and pliable, not a bit plastic. And the texture of her hair is terribly real.” He rubbed one of Sadie's honey-brown curls between his fingers and turned back to Blakely and Holt. “I must say, gentlemen, this is really quite something. How is it achieved?”

  “We use a special epidural conditioner in the tank during a critical stage in growth. The formula, of course, is something of a trade secret although we wouldn't mind divulging it if our goals appear to be compatible,” Holt said smoothly. “You see, we at Century Labs are working to perfect the perfect prostie. One that looks and acts like a real woman. We want to expand into the homes of the wealthy and influential of every inhabited planet and moon in the System.”

  “You have my interest,” Van Heusen said, sitting back down in his high-backed chair and steepling his cadaverous fingers beneath his chin. “Go on.”

  “You see,” Holt continued. “The prosties on the market today are good enough to service men who haven't seen a real woman in a while—Ring miners and the like. But to appeal to a rich man's palate, you must present perfection.” He gestured at Sadie who smiled vacantly back. “Using chemical processes and drugs I have specially developed at Century Labs, it is possible to make a prostie that is so life-like it can fool anyone.”

  “It seems you have achieved your goal,” Van Heusen said, giving Sadie another admiring glance. “But why come to me?”

  Holt shrugged. “I have just a few flesh tanks at my disposal—for research purposes only, you understand. Mr. Night here,” he nodded at Blakely who nodded back. “Is interested in buying a much larger number of my specialized prosties than I have the means to manufacture. Rumor has it, Mr. Van Heusen, that you have the means to mass produce prostie-borgs at a reduced rate. Even incorporating my new drugs and processes, the profit would still be astronomical. You could sell a specialized prostie at ten times what you're charging for a regular one now.”

  “The scenario you present is most appealing but I fear the wild rumors of mass-production are greatly overstated.” Van Heusen smiled a thin-lipped, insincere smile. “Why, I would have to have thousands of flesh tanks at my disposal and you know that would be completely illegal if I did not also have a government sanctioned synthetic brain manufacturing plant on my property. Because what use is a tank grown body without a brain to operate it?”

  “Some people think synthetic brains are overrated,” Blakely said, carefully keeping a bland look on his face. They had Van Heusen hooked; now to reel him in.

  “My friend Mr. Night is correct,” Holt put in smoothly. “In fact, the latest trend in laboratory work is to implant the brain of a human subject into the tank grown body. Naturally we use only donated brains from organ harvestings,” he added.

  “Naturally.” A small smile playing around his thin lips.

  “There are problems with such transfers, of course,” Holt continued, stepping forward to put his arm around Sadie's shoulders. “The most notable one being that the personality of the brain donor still remains in the temporal lobes of the donated brain. It is this lingering trace of the organ's original owner that causes difficulties and resists the sexual subjugation so absolutely necessary in the perfect prostie-borg.”

  “That is an important element,” Van Heusen acknowledged, cautiously.

  “It's a problem to which I have devoted a great deal of research,” Holt said. “In past studies, the transplant prostie-borg was simply kept quiet with constant doses of Synthonarcotics. Effective? Certainly, but also expensive and unreliable. If the Syntho-narc injections are allowed to lapse, you have an angry, peevish prostie-borg in chemical withdrawal that refuses to service your clients.”

  “And you have a better way?” Van Heusen took an old fashioned tobacco burning pipe from one pocket of his black satin smoking jacket, filled it, lit it with a flare, and began to puff. Blakely thought he looked ridiculous—why not just use a nicotine popper like everyone else? Probably because it didn't look ostentatious enough.

  “I have developed a drug release mechanism implanted in the abdomen that is good for the life of the prostie-borg,” Holt told the puffing Van Heusen.

  “So that you never run out of Syntho-narcs.” Van Heusen nodded. “The only problem I see with that is how prohibitively expensive Syntho-narcs can be. What if your prostie is rendered non-functional before the supply runs out? Terrible waste of drugs, you know.”

  “I said I had developed a release mechanism that never failed. I didn't say I filled it with Syntho-narc,” Holt corrected him. He pulled Sadie closer, his fingertips caressing her bare shoulder possessively. “I filled it with a drug cocktail of my own concoction—a mild sedative mixed with a powerful aphrodisiac. It's cheap, legal and the results are more than satisfactory.” He leaned over and gave Sadie a lingering, probing kiss and, on cue, she moaned and melted against him. Blakely had to stop himself from joining them, forcibly. All an act, it's all an act, he reminded himself, ignoring the persistent erection that insisted he should step up behind Sadie and begin nuzzling the soft back of her neck, bracketing her sweet body between himself and Holt. Instead, he turned his attention back to their target audience.

  “Imagine coming home tired after a long day at the corporate free-zone and finding a beauty like this ready, willing and eager,” he said to Van Heusen while Holt and Sadie continued to kiss passionately. “She's gorgeous and she's got just enough personality not to act plastic. She's always ready for action. All the fun of a real live beautiful woman without the hassles. What wealthy CEO wouldn't want one? Mr. Day and I feel the new, specialized prosties will become status symbols—must have items in a very short period of time. And because we'll be selling exclusively to the obscenely wealthy we'll have a cushion of credit between us and the law that isn't there when you're selling to Ring brothels.”

  Holt broke the embrace with Sadie and pointed sternly at the couch. “Sit down,” he commanded.

  “My pleasure, Master,” Sadie replied in a low, husky tone and sat primly on the edge of the antique sofa to their right.

  “Well?” Holt and Blakely looked at Van Heusen expectantly. Personally, Blakely thought they had made an excellent pitch; he almost believed it himself.

  Van Heusen puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a moment. Finally he said, “You make a convincing argument, gentlemen, I must say. But, speaking purely hypothetically, how could I be sure your processes would work with my equipment? Assuming I have equipment, of course.”

  “Nothing could be easier,” Holt said and Blakely felt his partner's cautious elation through the T-link. It was the opportunity they had been waiting for. “It would only take me a minute to ascertain the suitability of any equipment you might happen to have. I would, of course, have to see it to make the assessme nt.”

  “We'd have to ask for a tour anyway,” Blakely pointed out when Van Heusen seemed to be wavering. “Mr. Day and I don't do business with anyone until we're sure they have the means to back up their end of the agreement. No offense intended to you, Mr. Van Heusen.”

  “None taken,” Van Heusen said, setting down the pipe. “So, you want a tour of the tanks, eh?” He smiled the thin-lipped smile again. “I think it can be arranged. On one condition, of course.”

  “Name it,” Holt said confidently and Blakely knew his tall blond partner was thinking that they had this bust in the bag. Van Heusen had
just admitted to having illegal flesh tanks; now all they had to do was see them and they were home free.

  “Well, your prototype there,” Van Heusen gestured with a long, thin finger at Sadie who was still sitting quietly on the couch. “The hair, the wonderfully touchable skin—she seems perfect in every respect but forgive me if I'm cautious. I'm just wondering how your conditioning process affects the life span and durability of the prostie. It wouldn't do to sell a million credit toy and have it break on the first, ah, usage … Not if you expected to do your advertising through word of mouth.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Van Heusen,” Holt began but Van Heusen cut him off.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Day but I don't want reassurances. I haven't gotten to where I am today by listening to reassurances. No—what I want is a demonstration.” The firelight glinted in his gray eyes which had suddenly gone steely in the webbing of fine wrinkles surrounding them.

  “You mean you want to…” Blakely felt a surge of jealous protectiveness climb up his spine and prickle the hair on the back of his neck. How dare this old bastard even think of Sadie that way? She belonged to him and Holt! It was a stupid, possessive thought and Blakely knew it wasn't true but he couldn't shake it all the same.

  “Me? Oh no, my dear boy.” Van Heusen was laughing pleasantly as though Blakely had made a very fine joke. “No, I'm quite beyond that, I'm afraid. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, as they say. Sadly, the infirmity of old age has turned me into something of a voyeur. I'd much prefer to watch you and Mr. Day demonstrate your very fine product.”

  “Is that right,” Holt said blandly. Blakely struggled to make his face as blank as his partner's. Van Heusen didn't look that frail and sickly to him. Old pervert has probably always gotten off on watching, he thought.

  “We came here to discuss business, not put on a show for you, Van Heusen,” he said darkly.