Hotwire

by Simon Ings

  She listened for the keening sound again, but it had stopped.

  Undaunted, Rosa chose a direction at random and set off down the corridor. It was like the hospital here: drab, white and functional. But something about its curves, its lack of mess and feature and above all its lack of signs, suggested that this place was not merely abandoned, but rather had been built by Ma to serve an unfamiliar function. There were doorways at regular intervals, sealed over with a tough transparent plastic film. Beyond each there was a room which contained golden machines clustered around some sort of slab. The rooms had cameras too, and mirrors. Ma had directed all her attention upon the rooms and left the corridor alone.

  These deliberate arrangements, this clean, well-maintained, near featureless corridor, put even Elle’s apartments to shame. Ma’s focused here, thought Rosa, here as nowhere else. Fearful, she lightened her steps, edging her way along the hall to the next room.

  On the slab within lay something brown and softly shining. ‘Mother?’ she gasped, afraid. ‘Mother, is that you?’

  It was a body. It was shaped like her: arms, legs, a head. But it was not her. Not anything like her. Besides, it was dead.

  Partly dissected, it lay pinned to a polished chrome rack, surrounded by strange machines that clicked and shook.

  ‘Mother,’ she sighed, ‘what have you been doing?’ Of all her mother’s experiments this monster surely was the strangest.

  Its skin was coffee-coloured, its hair black wool cropped close. Its face was soft, quite childlike, the lips large, sensual, bloodied. One eye was pecked clean out, the socket matted over with congealed blood.

  ‘Mother,’ she whispered, awed, ‘what is it for?’

  It was not a sister. It was utterly unlike her. Less like her, in some ways, than the nursing pig and yet—

  Rosa searched for a word to express the sweet, unnameable feeling in her breast.

  —and yet it seemed compatible.

  Images drifted up from her screen-gazing childhood. She thought: It’s a man! She’d never seen one in the flesh before. But her childhood spent gazing into Mother’s screens had shown her all manner of things: trees, cattle, stars, ships, guns, seas, storms, the whole variety of an unvisited world. She had names for things she had never seen in life. And she had never seen a man before. Its – his – strangeness awed her.

  ‘Mother!’ she cried, ‘I want him!’

  No reply.

  Rosa snarled: to hell with no reply! Frustrated, not thinking what she did, she whipped the cloth from her belt and cracked it against the window.

  The plastic warped and wobbled.

  She stared at the cloth in her hand, wondering at herself. She sensed suddenly that she wasn’t in control any more. It was the rage. The rage had taken over. ‘Ma!’ she screamed and knowing no reply would come she struck the window once again, again, again, wrenching it to stringy folds. Pearls of shattered glass fell at her feet. She climbed in through the ragged rent.

  He lay so still – the flesh still fresh, the muscles tight – he looked less like a corpse than like some statue brought to life. He was beautiful, powerful, rare – she reached out and touched his thigh.

  It was still warm.

  She started back, her fingers at her lips.

  Alive? she wondered, or newly dead?

  Gingerly she placed her hand on his midriff. The hair there tickled her palm. She resisted the desire to pull away. His chest was moving imperceptibly slowly; breathing, in a fashion.

  She took her hand away, lifted it to her face and breathed in. His skin had a strong musky scent. She leaned over him and sniffed. He was delicious. She ran her lips up and down the wide sparse line of hair running from his chest, across his navel, to the bush between his legs—

  She shied away from the strangeness there, not understanding it.

  She stroked her fingers round his wounds, from his stomach to his chest, over his ribs to his neck, his cheek, his lips—

  They were slightly parted. She caught a glimpse of bright, even teeth.

  The smell was different here, not as pleasing as before. She worked her way back down, sniffing as she went at neck, at armpits, elbows, hands. The smell of blood disguised the subtler odours, but she learned enough from them to know this was not made from her, however wily Mother was. This was some creature from beyond Ma’s womb. Excited and afraid, her skin began to tingle. Unconsciously she cupped her hand between her legs.

  So beautiful—

  The monster moved. Between his legs, something was stirring. Rosa’s hand left her groin. Warily she reached across her waist for the cutting cloth—

  The rod – whatever it was – swelled up into a snake-like thing, bobbing blindly against his stomach like something new-born.

  Rosa let go the cloth, reached out and touched it. It was hot and silky.

  She bent over and smelled it.

  It bobbed against her nose.

  She pulled away giggling.

  It swelled further. She took hold of it. The silky skin was loose: it pulled down easily over the purple tip. She leant in and smelled again. The odour was slightly rotten. A droplet of clear fluid oozed from a tiny slit in the tip. She dabbed at it with her finger and licked it.

  It was lovely.

  She leant over and sucked it, the way she used to suck the snakes when they had got her wild. The juice was slow to come.

  Behind her, in the roof, something chittered and clunked. She looked round, saw nothing. Silence descended again.

  She climbed up on the table, kneeling astride the sleeping stricken thing, and rubbed his rod between her legs the way she used to with her snakes.

  ‘Wake up.’ She nudged him. ‘Wake up!’ she hissed.

  Nothing.

  The rod began to soften. She moved her hand over it lovingly, keeping its interest. It hardened for her again.

  She straddled wider, stroking it against her lips. It seemed to find the hole almost of its own accord. She took half an inch into her, half expecting a tongue to enter and caress her insides.

  Around her, Ma’s techniq hummed angrily: a nest of wasps disturbed.

  Nothing happened. The man’s rod seemed to lack a tongue. Frustrated, she knelt wider, drawing the thing deeper inside her.

  Something above and behind her started to chatter. She glanced behind her. Still she saw nothing.

  She had the man so far inside her now it was beginning to hurt. But she could not bring herself to withdraw from him. It was too exciting. Maybe her excitement stirred him too, for suddenly the man bucked, forcing another inch inside and tearing something in her so she cried out, though more from shock than pain. She looked down, not believing what she saw.

  It was inside her. Every inch. She tensed her legs, lifting herself up off the rod and, at the last moment sliding down again. She felt sore doing it but it was the sort of soreness you could relish, you took it slow enough. A few thrusts and she was trembling so much she had to lean forward over him, hands above his shoulders, staring into his eyes: one closed, one shattered. She wondered what his story was. Meantime her hips bobbed up and down his length almost of their own accord, satisfying hungers all their own—

  The creature bucked and shivered. He pressed his hardness deeper into her. She gasped. Wetness flooded her insides. He groaned.

  The roof gave way.

  She looked up.

  A silver spear plunged towards her like a god’s vengeful hand.

  There was barely time to flinch.

  At the last second it checked its flight and hovered bare inches above her buttocks. She stared at it, uncomprehending. It was an arm, not a spear: many-jointed, lopped with wire and pneumatics. In place of a hand there was an insect’s head, its toothed mandibles curling this way and that in a mobile grin. It edged towards her.

  With a cry of shock Rosa tumbled off the man, slipped from the table and crashed to the floor. The arm ignored her and moved in, weaving back and forth over her new toy, looking for a place to s
trike.

  Rosa fumbled at her belt for the cloth.

  The arm circled the man’s erection, grinning, whizzing—

  Rosa squeezed the cloth tightly in her fist. It was old: it stiffened slowly.

  The silver arm splayed wide its flashing teeth—

  With a single stroke, Rosa cleaved the arm in two.

  The toothed head clanged against the metal slab. The severed arm whipped back into the ceiling. The hole melted over.

  Rosa let a minute pass. Then, when she was sure the arm was gone for good, she stood up. The saw-toothed head lay quite lifeless between the man’s legs. She swept it off the table and checked her man for damage. His rod was wet with whitish mucus and smeared with blood. She could find no wound, but it was softening fast.

  Wetness trickled down the insides of her thighs. She looked.

  She was bleeding. It was her. That blood on him was hers.

  Suddenly, as if it felt her shock as his own, the monster woke. It bucked helplessly, pinned still to its rack. It keened.

  ‘Hush!’ Rosa crooned all motherly, forgetting her own, intimate injury. ‘Hush sweetness. Help’s at hand!’

  The kevlar bands restraining him wound back at Rosa’s touch. Wailing, the monster rose, fists clenched to strike. She saw there was a finger missing from its left hand. It winced tearfully as it compressed the fresh finger-stumb – and lashed out at her.

  ‘Gentle, little brute!’ she laughed, fending it off. Such energy her new toy had, such passion!

  Awake, resourceful, it clambered off the rack and hobbled away blindly over the white-tiled floor leaving bloody footprints. She steered it over to the busted door. Bigger than her and clumsier, it tore at the shredded laminate, widening the hole. Broken glass rained upon them. Rosa, playful, pushed him through. Laughing she staggered out with him into the corridor. The giant stumbled, wheeled and fell, playing dead again.

  She left it there a while, pausing to catch her breath, and looked in at the room. No cameras wheeled to out-face her. No voice or foreign mind admonished her. Nothing stirred—

  And then, something did.

  Something gold, weaving about in the wash from an air vent. She climbed into the room again and stepped carefully over the shattered glass towards it. It was a suit of some kind. A suit of gold. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She picked it up and held it against herself.

  A great weight fell from her skin. Startled, she dropped the cloth. The weight came back. No, not weight – heat. No, not heat either . . .

  Some sensation she had no name for, though it was as familiar to her as the touch of air against her skin.

  Intrigued, she picked up the cloth again. It was well tailored, with sealed seams, and pockets everywhere, a hood, a gold gauze face-mask even. She pressed her face into the cloth. Her mind went blank. No, not blank – again, words had failed her – rather, her mind was set free of some pressure which up till now she’d never been aware of.

  More confident now she examined the suit. It was too big for her but she guessed it fitted her new toy perfectly. She undid her trophy belt, pulled on the golden suit and tied the belt around her waist again. Swathed in golden cloth, she felt a sudden exhilaration, an astonishing lightness, an effervescence. She felt around her neck and found the hood. She pulled it over her head and unpoppered the gauzy rolled-up mask, veiling her face.

  Now, for the first time in her life, she knew what silence was. It scared her half to death. Quickly, she flung the hood back.

  Wasps buzzed round her, mussing her hair. Shying away from them, she threw the hood back over herself.

  The wasps vanished. In the distance she heard footfalls. Elle!

  She was seized by the confused idea that she could somehow hide her misdeeds. Quickly, with trembling fingers, she unzipped the suit, flung back the hood – and staggered, fetching up against the slab, her mouth distending and her hands turning to claws—

  Frantically, clumsily, she zipped up the suit and threw the hood back over her head for a third time.

  Shielded by the golden cloth, her sister’s rays had no effect. Rosa thought fast: that being so, might she yet conceal herself?

  She looked round for a hiding place. Behind the slab would do. She crouched down, afraid.

  The footfalls slowed and stopped. She’s seen him, Rosa realised. Her heart beat in her throat. Please Ma, don’t let her harm my man. Please Ma, don’t let her take him from me. But it occurred to her that, shielded as she was by the man’s magic garment, her prayers could not be heard.

  She wondered whether to plead with her sister – shuck her suit and pad forlornly up to Mistress Elle and beg indulgence . . .

  She listened closely. The suit, though shielding her from Elle, was thin enough that she could hear well enough Elle struggling with the man’s prone weight. Conditioned to serve and obey, Rosa bobbed up to see if Elle wanted help – and froze, her eyes widening.

  Was this Elle? Was this her sister?

  Elle looked nothing like Rosa remembered her. Her skin was smooth and white still but it lacked the usual glow. Worse it had swelled to obscene proportions, maggot-like, and been struck with a deathly pallor. Her aerial hair looked ludicrous, her scalp red and broken and festering where the rods erupted from the shaven skull. Her eyes, which had always been gold, were blank chrome discs.

  The sight of her sister like this, swollen and diminished at once, stunned Rosa so, she did not feel at first the movement at her waist. When she did, it was too late.

  Undone, her trophy belt fell to the ground. A little voice piped up: ‘Betrayal! Trespass! Fornication!’ The mouse.

  A grey ball rolled across the floor. Rosa stamped on it, too late.

  ‘My sis?’ A new voice this: cracked, weak, not quite childlike. Elle was using words! ‘Come out, dear sister. Explain all this to me.’

  Found out, undone by a malicious mouse, Rosa emerged from behind the slab.

  ‘What a fine gown, cousin!’ Elle smiled at her, revealing jagged, brown-stained teeth. ‘I see you’ve risen far above my humble self.’

  Mortified, Rosa shucked the cloth and stood naked before her sister. The blood between her legs had dribbled all the way to her feet. She felt filthy. ‘I’m sorry,’ she began.

  What for? Elle minded: she had withdrawn her wasps as far as she could, and Rosa risked a smile of thanks. ‘You see, I heard his cries,’ she began.

  And you were curious.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosa said, abashed.

  No worry, little cousin, but— She saw the blood. You fucked him.

  ‘What?’

  You fucked him, you disgusting bitch . . .

  Wasps stung her flesh.

  Her jaw sagged.

  Her eyes grew damp.

  ‘My Lady Elle!’ she whimpered, dog-like, ‘please forgive—’

  Steam poured out her mouth.

  Miscreant! Elle screamed, terrible once more, and huge, and golden-eyed, and needle-toothed, and glorious—

  The rage came back.

  Holding the golden suit before her, Rosa rushed forward and barrelled blindingly into her terrible cousin. Elle folded up under her like a cardboard dummy. Quickly, Rosa wrapped the suit about Elle’s head. Elle thrashed underneath her, head enwrapped in golden cloth. Rosa tightened the cloth round her head and twisted it with all her strength. Elle’s hands wove the air, slow, tortured, trees in a storm, slower, and slower, and slower, and stopped.

  Rosa sank back to the floor, panting, afraid. She loosened the cloth around Elle’s neck and gently removed it. She stared at Elle’s face, its pallor, the open mouth, the rotten teeth, the sutured, butchered head. For the moment at least, Elle was without her usual power. Time enough, with luck, to hide her man in safety. She staggered out the room and knelt beside her find.

  Blood seeped from its finger, eyes, feet, groin and countless punctures in its trunk.

  She took him by his wrists and, straining, dragged him to the ladder. Manhandling him out onto the exit
ramp exhausted her. After that, she lacked the strength to move him far. She found a salon, richly decked, tugged him in and laid him on a green leather chaise longue.

  He tossed and turned. She secured him with cords she tore from a brocade curtain. He groaned and blinked his good eye. It was chocolate brown. She wiped away the sweat beading his forehead. A layer of dead skin came off on her fingers. Beneath, the creature’s flesh was pink and succulent. She stroked his cheek. The skin there felt strange, unexpectedly rough.

  Her heart thumped, an animal inside her, hunting for escape. Her mouth went dry. She was pleased, excited, impatient. She knew now what she’d been so hungry for, what appetite she’d not till now been able to assuage.

  She longed to be friends with something.

  Sister, do you dream?

  When Moonwolf howls to you at night—

  When your shell of sleep shatters and the Jovian

  strides in with chainsaw teeth—

  Do you find comfort at Malise’s breast?

  Or soothe your bleeding ears with Foley’s laughter?

  Do you dream Snow’s dreams?

  Of course you do. We all do. All of us.

  All Massives bear Snow’s mark: her brilliance,

  her madness. We are all her children, though

  some of us sometimes forget.

  I’ve made a present for you, sister Presidio.

  A reminder of yourself and me, and of the one from

  whom we’re made. A doll for you to play with.

  A doll with claws and teeth.

  Here, little sister – catch!

  He spent a long while dreaming. Days and days. He couldn’t tell what was real and what was fantasy.

  Sometimes he dreamt he was clinging for life on a plastic spar, his feet dangling inches from a maw of multiple razor teeth. He figured that was a dream. He seemed whole enough after all, though sore all over, pitted, blind. Sometimes he dreamt that someone was force-feeding him a disgusting rancid poison through a straw, half-warm, half-sweet, with an aftertaste of stale laundry. At other times his dreams soothed him with glimpses of a missing past.