Periphery

by Lynne Jamneck

  “Good,” Jamila murmured, stepping closer.

  They were almost the same height, Edie being only a few inches taller. Edie could smell the other woman’s scent—lavender and musky.

  Jamila slowly ran a finger down the length of Edie’s tie. Twirling her long-boned fingers around the silk, she gripped it firmly. With a tug, she led Edie up the stairs.

  *

  Edie got the sense of a bedroom with the usual furniture and piles of clothes scattered around, but the instant they stopped moving, Jamila wrapped her in an embrace. Jamila pressed her body against Edie’s crotch.

  “Mmm, nice,” Jamila said, feeling the hardness there. Then, Jamila kissed her.

  This is not how this is supposed to start, Edie thought to herself, even as her lips sought Jamila’s slightly parted mouth. I’m supposed to say the ritual words. But Edie forgot all about that, for the moment lost in the sensation of soft, wet lips. Jamila’s lipstick tasted of wax and cinnamon.

  Jamila’s fingertips brushed the short, sharp hairs at the back of Edie’s neck. Edie’s arms encircled Jamila’s generous waist; then explored the broad expanse of hips and buttocks.

  They continued to kiss, tongues probing deeper.

  Jamila pressed her body harder against Edie’s package. The pressure sent a quiver along Edie’s thighs. She allowed a groan to escape between her lips.

  Edie slipped her hand under Jamila’s sweater. Her skin was warm and dry against Edie’s palms. She moved upwards, stroking spine and softly cupping shoulder blades. On her way back down, Edie paused when she felt scar tissue under Jamila’s armpits. Jamila pulled away from the kiss, her eyes dared Edie to comment. Is this why the others cancelled? Edie wondered. Edie continued to stroke the scars, which ran all the way to Jamila’s breastbone.

  “Can I see?” Edie asked.

  Jamila shrugged and lifted the sweater over her head.

  A holographic tattoo of the Goddess Kali danced along two angry, pink scars. The miniature goddess was only three inches tall. Her skin was blue and she wore a skirt of skulls. As she danced, she waved her multiple arms menacingly. Edie smiled as it hopped from one scar to the next to continue the dance.

  Edie ran her hands down Jamila’s sides, feeling the feminine curves. So she’d lost her breasts to cancer, Edie thought. There’s so much more to a woman.

  Edie leaned in for another deep, probing kiss.

  Jamila worked open Edie’s fly. Her hand closed around the hard plastic and gave it a little tug. “I love a girl with a dick,” she said. “I want to see the whole look. Take your shirt off.”

  There was something about the command that made Edie hesitate. She was used to this sort of talk from clients, and perhaps that’s what stopped her. She’d forgotten for a moment that this was just another job. As an ishtartu the client’s pleasure was her duty, but….

  An unfamiliar heat blushed her cheeks.

  Jamila released Edie’s dildo and stepped out of their embrace, clearly expecting her order to be obeyed. “I like to see what I’m buying,” she said with a smile. “All of it.”

  That’s right. This is for money. Give the client what she paid for, girl, Edie reminded herself. She unknotted her tie and let it slip to the floor. Edie found her eyes unable to meet Jamila’s as she began unbuttoning. Her fingers shook, but somehow she undid them all.

  Edie looked up, the shirt undone. Jamila waited, watching.

  Cold air met her flesh, as Edie let the shirt slide to the floor. She shivered, feeling exposed under Jamila’s unwavering gaze. Edie fought the urge to cover her breasts with her arms. She felt like a whore, and a tear formed in the corner of her eyes.

  Then, Jamila spoke: “My vulva, the horn

  The boat of Heaven

  Is full of eagerness like the young moon

  My untilled land lies fallow

  Who will plow my vulva?

  Who will plow my wet ground?”

  Jamila said the ritual words with such conviction, such passion that Edie looked up into Jamila’s face.

  Jamila’s eyes glowed red, like molten rock. For a moment, they stood in the center of a ruined temple, dark and thick with vines. Above, the ceiling had crumbled and was open to the air. Kudzu crisscrossed the circular space like a spider web. Edie could see Venus, sacred to Ishtar, shining brightly next to a full moon. Mourning doves flitted from perch to perch, calling out their sad songs to each other. The air was warm and rife with mildew.

  Edie blinked, and the illusion was gone.

  Jamila’s arms were open, welcoming, and Edie knew the Goddess had not abandoned her after all.

  “I will,” Edie whispered the ritual response, and felt warmth flood between her legs. No longer feeling ashamed of her nakedness, Edie straightened her shoulders. More firmly, she repeated: “I will.”

  Jamila’s smile was as bright as the evening star.

  *

  LM: Even though my AngeLINK series ended, I still find myself wanting to play around in that universe. Ishtartu was inspired by the question: How do you suppose prostitutes would work—because you know they’d find a way!—in a restrictive theocracy? Plus, I’ve always found the idea of sacred prostitutes hot.

  Mind Games

  By Tracey Shellito

  “Come to me…”

  Of course I went. Legislation has made telepaths little better than slaves. Branded invisibly. Every child tested. A subcutaneous chip, fitted while the skull is soft, buried so deep within the brain-matter that nothing can remove it. Hard wired to the nervous system. The Mark of Cain. Proof that you can download someone’s thoughts. I can’t go within fifty feet of a secure room without alarms blaring. That doesn’t leave many places. Death might be preferable.

  I made the mistake of expressing those sympathies. I was already under lock and key. Now I’m on suicide watch. If my vitals fall below a given point someone comes to intervene. I’m allowed outside only for the job. Freedom through service. If you call that freedom.

  I lagged. Yes, I wanted out. Who doesn’t? I haven’t breathed fresh air for two months. But when they want you, a cell’s better.

  Eventually the headache from the chip drove me to my knees, then the door. I pounded wood till my fists bled, my head exploding with pain. When the warden opened up it was all I could do to raise my battered hands, show him the teleprinter in my wrist flashing its demands.

  I dragged myself out, started down the corridor. With simple acquiescence, moving in the right direction, the pain lessened. I wiped blood from my nose. Once you’re got you stayed got.

  I cleaned up in a windowless bathroom while they confirmed receipt of the message. She sent a car and clothes. When I saw what they’d laid out in the windowless adjoining office I almost wept. A man’s suit, shirt, underwear, carefully tailored to hide curves. Even a tie. She’d sent a barber too. I sat on a stool, observed from three sides, while they washed and trimmed me. To prevent me catching up one of the glittering objects that might have ended my pain, set me free.

  There is no privacy or allowance for modesty once they’d decided you’ll kill yourself. They watched me strip out of the age-softened denim shirt and jeans, wash, apply the lotions and potions polite society expects, then climb into street clothes.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you was a bloke,” an officer said, unlocking the door to release me to my handlers.

  The warden, who’d never so much as glanced at me, frowned and checked the room. Looking for the woman he’d let in. Wondering who this tall, pale skinned, crop haired, sharp dressed man was.

  No one touched me as we walked through the echoing corridors.

  The air outside was damp and chill; redolent of burning leaves. Autumn. I stood, just breathing, remembering the smell of freedom. Buildings clawed the heavens, a narrow strip of blue between. Part of me wanted to run back inside, where it was safe. Part of me exulted in the crisp, cold weather.

  The car was beautiful. A Mercedes Air. Pre-programmed. They ushered me i
nside, sealed the door and stood back. Job done.

  Custom fitted jets cut in, lifting to the permitted height in line with air traffic regs. Flight path confirmed, GPS took over, speeding me to my destination.

  I was barely out of sight of my prison when, in the clear blister of the windows, panic gripped me. I averted my eyes from too much space, too much sky, searching instead for a way to prize open the control panel. If I could cross the right wires I’d be free. I couldn’t imagine where I’d go, but not to try was somehow a betrayal.

  “Don’t.”

  I ignored her. There must be a camera. I didn’t have time to find and blind it. The control panel looked molded. It couldn’t be. It was stainless steel. There had to be—an edge! If I wrenched the handle from the glove compartment, maybe I could…

  Fuck! The pain was a knife through my head. Don’t let me pass out before I finish. Don’t let them take me again. My hand spasmed. Against my will I released the handle I’d been yanking.

  “Killian, stop.”

  How could she sound so reasonable when she was murdering me? I ground my teeth and fought to stay conscious. My hand moved an inch. Another.

  I screamed in defiance.

  “Be reasonable.”

 

  “It’s the law, Killian.”

 

  She tsk’d like a mother saddened by her child’s tantrum. “I’ll have to take direct action. Forgive me.”

  The pain in my head increased. Then everything went black.

  *

  The bed was soft. It smelled of jasmine and ambergris. I shot upright—too quickly—and was pushed back with a soft admonition. My head throbbed and my stomach threatened to purge. Blue eyes met mine. A cool cloth mopped my brow. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, then smoothed down her uniform.

  My eyes tracked her hand helplessly, hypnotized by the motion. Impressions it conjured, the memories. Needs I’d hoped repressed.

  I snapped off that line of thought. I can’t be alone in my own head anymore. If I’d been seen…

  A slim cordless phone chirruped politely. My nurse set aside her cloth to answer it. Her brow creased then she handed the instrument to me.

  “I’ll give her to you for an hour if you play nice.”

  I held the headset away from my ear as if it was venomous.

 

  “Hold the phone back, Killian, there’s no need to frighten her.” Reluctantly I complied. Her dulcet tones caressed my tympanum. “Who said anything about forcing? She could be persuaded.”

  I shuddered. The woman is the thought police. She’s everything your parents warned you about when you were a child. The femme fatale of noir fiction. The monster under the bed. I sent her that image.

  “You wound me! I just do my job; help keep the country in line. Stop malingering. You’re ruining the lovely suit.”

 

  “Don’t, Killian. Come upstairs or I’ll have you fetched. I’m not sure how much more damage you can take. I’m authorized to use lethal force if you don’t comply.”

  Pressing aside my gentle nurse, I swung my feet to the ground and stood.

  The blonde took my arm until the room stopped spinning. Her perfume was forget-me-nots and violets. It spoke of summer days and sunshine. Her wide blue eyes held mine, sinking into what I was feeling, projecting.

  A soft breeze, running butterfly kisses over her skin, lifting her hair to caress her nape. Running water, the rustle of tree branches, golden light dusting her arms.

  I shook my head, stopping the shared daydream. I didn’t know if it was hers or mine. It was too real, too vital. I couldn’t afford such feelings. People I cared about disappeared. A tool with other interests than doing the job was an inconvenience.

  She blinked, seeing the room around us again. I braced myself for the inevitable slap, for invading her thoughts. Instead she stepped right into me, her warm breasts crushed against my bound chest. She feathered a hand through my newly cut hair, re-arranged my tie, brushed imaginary lint off my shoulders. Then she kissed me.

  My eyes closed and I kissed her back. I couldn’t help it. Even though I knew any cameras in the place would be trained on me. On her. Her effect on me. She stepped away with a smile to open the door. I hated myself. Whoever she was, whatever she’d been, she was their pawn now. They’d use her as a stick to beat me with if I didn’t comply, then make her disappear when the job was over. I wanted to howl at the unfairness of it all.

  I took the stairs three at a time, furious. What can you do when you know you’ve been played?

  The doors to the ante-room were open, but she took her time admitting me to the inner sanctum. To chastise me for delaying my response to her summons? Make me fret about what they would do to the girl? Other business?

  There were no chairs and I’d be damned if I’d pace. The wall art was too uncomfortable to look at and the floor length windows brought back my agoraphobia. I adopted a kind of parade rest and waited.

  Finally she relented. Steel vault doors swung open to a dimly lit interior. I walked up the three shallow steps and entered. The doors closed behind me with a hiss that set my heart racing. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons rattled invisible windows.

  She reclined on a burgundy velvet chaise in the middle of the room which, disconcertingly, appeared to have no end. She seemed relaxed. I wasn’t fooled. The apartment had a ceiling like the sky. Casual observers think it patchily painted but a closer look shows it’s moving. One glance at what was visible between the branches of the arbor she’d created around the couch showed storm clouds racing across the sky. A suggestion of dead leaves whirled around her. Lady Death personified.

  I held off looking at her as long as I could. Cassandra Sarian is a chameleon and an empath. Useful talents. She can assume the likeness of anyone she pleases. Usually someone you desire. After the little charade downstairs it didn’t take a genius to guess who she’d look like today.

  Being an empath isn’t a crime. Nor is being a chameleon. The government condones the ultimate in identity theft, but not the possibility someone might get inside your head and find out your grubby little secrets.

  Cassandra was blessed—or cursed—with three talents. As a chameleon she could change her face and form. As an empath she could receive feelings, thoughts and emotions. But unlike most other empaths, if she had a telepathic receiver, she could send back what she gleaned. Which was where I came in.

  Law enforcement authorities were quick to see the advantages of a controlled partnership between telepaths and this kind of empath. There are hundreds of empaths. They can turn off their abilities and live ordinary lives. Until someone nearby is in the grip of strong emotion, murderous emotion for instance, and it bleeds over onto them. Telepaths can’t turn it off. We’re receptive all the time. We learn to manage our abilities or go mad. If we’re fed the images, emotions and thoughts from a crime, we can track those thoughts to their source. Bring killers to justice. A mental sniffer dog for murderers.

  Telepaths make up less than 2% of the population. With forced sterilization we’re never likely to be much more. We have no voice, literally. To us, vocal chords are an anachronism. What need for something so cumbersome when you can “say” exactly what you mean direct to the speech centers in the brain, complete with smells, tastes, emotions? My vocal arrangement is no more complicated than a domestic cat. With the exception of the few “blanks” who can’t receive me, I’ve never had difficulty conveying my words. But no voice means no choice. From the moment we’re born we’re isolated. We’re well behaved kids because we can read our parents’ thoughts, know what they want. Can’t have a human teaching us—we might pick their brains. Cheat. And when we “show our true colors,” use our powers to be free, we’re incarcerated. For the good of society. You see intrusion, we see honesty.

&nbs
p; For being different, I’ve been locked away from “perfect society” for the better part of twenty years. Had my mind plunged into every kind of mental sewer. Had murderers and rapists hijack my senses with their own so completely I didn’t know whether the thoughts I had were mine or theirs. Another reason they lock us up. They’re afraid we’ll become our quarry. Once the empath’s released the mental time-bomb they’re free. It’s gone. Telepaths are haunted by echoes from the psychotic personalities we hunt. Even when they’re caught, there are the memories. I’ve lost count of the nights I wake up screaming. The days when all I want is the peace of death.

  She beckoned me forward and made room for me.

  Without touching me she put her face close to my neck and inhaled. “You smell wonderful. Arousal only improves that cologne on you.”

  Did she want me to thank her for the compliment? I knew what was coming next. No amount of flattery was going to put me at ease.

  If what they make me do for them is bad, the way I pluck out the thoughts is worse. All my life, I’ve only ever desired women. Making me another kind of minority. Since my death wish, they gave me to Cassandra. Who specializes in sex crimes against women. To feed me the memories, we have to re-live the crime.

  Her fingers reached up, brushed my temples and we were there.

  Red light district. Me feet hurt. The wind cuts like ice through the fake leather jacket zipped beneath me boobs. It’s late. I haven’t had a punter all night. Years o’ practice is the only thing that lets me keep the toothpaste-ad smile when the air car twirls down to stop on the curb next to me. Steamed up windows drop, warming me with a blast of heat and posh aftershave. I can’t see inside, but it don’t matter what he looks like. I need the money and he needs sex.

  “How much?”

  “Depends on what you want, lover.”

  “The works. A full hour.”

  “I don’t do kiddies or animals.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “A ton fifty, then.”

  Money comes through the window. Near a grand. I force meself not to snatch his hand off. Rent and food sorted for two weeks with enough to treat the babby!