An Other Place

by Darren Dash

  The nights are so dark, nobody to light the street candles. I hate when thoughts of the dead immobilise me after sunset. There’s nothing worse than crouching in the dark, crying, imagining ghosts brushing by on all sides. I’ve tried teaching the drones to light candles but they’re too clumsy. More often than not they set fire to themselves and end up as waxy, bubbling puddles of waste.

  I’ve started talking to the mannequins. They can’t answer, but the noise of my voice is preferable to silence. I outline my plans, my ideas, my hopes, my fears. I explain various theories to them and bounce questions off their unchanging faces, imagining responses, pretending their foreheads are crinkling thoughtfully, their lips lifting into a smile. I even give names to a few of them, though none learns to respond to the calls and I soon forget the names myself.

  It can’t be healthy, associating with the drones this way. The more I indulge in the madness, the greater the strain on my sanity. I can see how it will end, me surrounded by drones, treating them as real people, no longer able to tell the difference. Maybe I’ll fall in love with a female, adopt a few kiddies and come to think of them as my own. Invent brothers and sisters, maybe even a mother, old friends and neighbours, an entire community. And if real people turn up out of the blue one day, perhaps I’ll see them as a threat and kill them.

  Can a few meaningless exchanges with a pack of wax dummies lead to such potentially devastating consequences? Probably not in a normal person, but I’m not normal. I’ve been through every kind of wringer imaginable. I’ve been ripped from the fabric of my own world, cast into madness, seen people die, eaten the flesh of the woman I professed to love. I’m not walking on the knife-edge of insanity — I’m dancing naked through its fiery fields. Anything less than utter resistance on my part and lunacy won’t have to claim me for its own, as I’ll have already booked into the hotel. I mustn’t talk to the drones. I mustn’t.

  And yet, when my defences are low, I can’t help myself. As they used to say back in that other world, it’s good to talk.

  I still haven’t dressed. I enjoy gambolling naked through the streets. It’s not like I’m an exhibitionist — hell, there’s nobody to exhibit to, just the drones, and they don’t care one way or the other.

  I’ve tried reaching Operator Lewgan many times, but the lines in the public contact boxes are dead. Either nobody home or nobody answering.

  I’ve been all over the city, driving when I don’t feel like walking – the cars are easy to manage, simpler than their Earth counterparts – and I still haven’t run into anyone. Where are the damn sandmen and their associates? I’ve scoured basements and the roofs of buildings – I finally worked up the courage to scale a few of the taller edifices – all to no avail. There’s a small army of wolfers. They should be simple to track down. There should be traces that even Inspector Clouseau could find, but there aren’t, unless I’m denser than I think and lack the brains to make sense of what I’m looking at.

  More fires. (Wishing I had marshmallows to toast.) More walking. (The soles of my feet are leather.) More driving. (I prefer walking.) Chatting to the drones. (When I shouldn’t be.) Picking at my pubes. (Old habits die hard.) Drinking. (Sap — the choice of kings.) Eating. (I have to keep up my strength.) Excreting. (Not an issue any longer. I even shit in the middle of the streets, in front of the drones, without blinking.) The usual.

  Maybe I dreamt them all. If I died back in my world, and this city is a product of my decaying brain, the people were never real. Perhaps part of me simply tired of the pretence, changed the sun and moon and wiped out the insubstantial locals. If so, I should be able to bring them back to life again.

  I close my eyes and concentrate, willing the humans back into existence.

  It doesn’t work.

  I try again, this time focusing on bringing only one human into the world. Still no joy, but I don’t give up. It’s a new routine that I add to my days. In between the walking, driving, setting fires and not talking to drones, I relax every now and then and tinker with the mental dust of creation. I haven’t succeeded so far but I’ll keep trying.

  So lonely. Desperate for company. I never realised how well-off I was before. I try filling my days with quests and experiments and grand plans, but the hollowness of my endeavours is growing ever harder to ignore. Is this life of mine worth sticking with? Maybe I should try my luck on another world. Climb to the top of one of the tall buildings, jump and see where my crushing landing leads me.

  But what if it leads nowhere? If death is the timeless void that I experienced on my last return to the normal universe, and this world is a midway zone, and death here results in an irreversible return to the nothingness… what then? Time’s dragging at the moment but it isn’t suspended. My days are long but not indefinite. I might be the only person left but there are buildings, canals, cars, drones. There are hours and minutes and periods of sleep. There’s a chance that I’ll find someone or discover a way out.

  This life is nothing to envy, but it’s too soon to give up. I’m miserable and self-pitying at the moment but suicide should never be considered. If life is truly unbearable, ending it will be the only viable option and you won’t hesitate. Where there’s doubt, life should always be granted preference. I’m not going to kill myself just because I’m feeling pissed-off. That would be stupid.

  Got that, Newman?

  Yes, sir, Mr Riplan, sir.

  Good boy. Essay on my desk, summarising the main points of the lecture, nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Detention if you screw it up.

  I’ve had a horrible thought. It would have been funny any other time, but fills me with self-loathing here and now. I’ll push it from my mind if I can, though I’m sure I won’t be able, that I’ll act on it before this ordeal comes to an end. I feel it in my boner. My naked, lonely, desperate boner. My…

  Did I say boner? I meant to say bones. Dr Freud, where are you now?

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t…

  Oh, sod it. I’ve put it off for nine days – ten? more? – but no longer. I’ve come up with all sorts of excuses why I shouldn’t, but the truth is I’m just a chickenshit, afraid someone – God? – is going to tap me on the shoulder halfway through to jeer at me.

  I check around – I don’t know what part of the city I’m in, or if I’ve been here before, and I no longer keep tabs on such things – and spot a cluster of drones. I saunter across and give them a once-over. Nah, nothing here to interest the libido. I move on, eyes peeled, and dismiss six more groups before locating the type of model I’ve been looking for.

  She’s five-six or -seven, a cute, round face, full lips, may have been black in the real world – black or white originally, all drones share the same skin pigments here – carefully moulded pubic hair. “You,” I croak, and she follows obediently, padding softly along behind me.

  I unearth a clothes store and deck her out in the finest costumes I can find. Sift through several dresses – long, short, revealing, demure – before settling on a pink, frilly number, which best accentuates her curves. I wish I could purchase a wig for her but I’ve no idea how far I am from Barbersville. Never mind, I’ll just pretend she’s a fashion-able skinhead.

  As we’re leaving the store I notice the mechanical rhythm of her walk, the same as every other drone’s. “No,” I sigh, stopping. “We can’t have you parading about like a robot. Ruins the effect. Watch — like this.” I perform an atrocious mimic of a model’s catwalk stride, swaying my hips from side to side like a ship caught in a storm, arms writhing like horny snakes, lips puckering up, eyelids fluttering. The drone – I’ll come up with a name for her but can’t think of anything suitable at the moment – watches expressionlessly, then has a go.

  Oh dear. She looks worse than I did. I guess drones weren’t built to strut sexily. Her limbs refuse to contort gracefully. We spend an hour working on it, by the end of which she’s improved – or else I’ve grown accustomed to her clumsiness – but not consider
ably. Not that I’m overly bothered. It’s not how she looks walking that I’m interested in. It’s how she looks lying down. Woof-woof!

  I think of a name for her while searching for a nice boarding house. Savova. I like it. Sounds Russian. That’s why she’s cold and stiff, because she’s a Russian model, fresh from Siberia. All she needs is a bit of warming-up. Given my hot and feverish state, by the time I’m finished with her she’ll look like something out of Baywatch.

  I finally locate the ideal chateau de bonk and lead the way up to its finest room, one with a boudoir and its own tiny pantry. I tell Savova to make herself at home and she lowers herself into a chair and reclines – after a lot of unsubtle hinting on my part – in a vague approximation of sultriness.

  “Beautiful,” I grin, having told her to raise her right leg a little to display more thigh. “Perfect. Hold it there, my dove, and I’ll be with you shortly.”

  I flutter through the bedroom, making sure everything’s right, clean linen, carefully made bed, drapes closed – just in case God’s watching – candles lit. It takes a few minutes to get everything the way I want it but Savova’s in no rush.

  I pause, satisfied with the room, and glance down at my penis. It’s standing to attention, as it has been since I first set eyes on my Russian princess, waving from left to right with the general sway of my body. I’d feared it might be rusty after such a long period of inactivity – no wet-dreams in this city – but I needn’t have worried. I should have found some clothes for myself, to add to the illusion, but I was so busy concentrating on Savova’s body that I never paused to consider my own. I think about nipping out to dress up but discard the idea before it’s fully formed. I’ve waited long enough. I’m ready for action. I’ll dress up another time. There’ll be plenty of opportunities as long as this one passes smoothly.

  I call Savova and she emerges – obeying my voice, not the sound of her name – from behind the thin curtain that separates the boudoir from the bedroom.

  “Hello, beautiful lady,” I grin, wiping sweat from my flushed cheeks. “Doing anything tonight?” Savova stares at me blankly but I pretend her eyebrows rise tellingly in answer to my question. “Thought not,” I chuckle, striding like a disco love god towards her. “Well,” I murmur, taking her in my arms, “fear not, your evening has purpose and direction now.”

  I kiss her – “Yuck.” – and pull back. Waxy. Her lips didn’t move. Not in the least bit sensual. Oh well, who needs kissing? I’ve more interesting avenues of pursuit in mind. Humming a Beatles song, I lead Savova into an impromptu waltz round the room. She’s awkward on her feet but I was never a great dancer myself, so we’re evenly matched. After a couple of minutes of horseplay – in which I reel out a string of corny and coarse chat-up lines that I never would have used in a real situation, such as, “Do you come here often?” “My, that’s a nice dress you’re almost wearing.” “Did you pee your pants or are you just pleased to see me?” – we stage-fall onto the bed and I laugh throatily, pretending to be surprised by where we’ve ended up.

  “Well,” I growl, smiling wolfishly, “I wonder what’s going to happen now?” She says nothing. Stares up at me – or the ceiling – unperturbed by the sequence of events. I cup her covered left breast with a hand and watch her face for signs of passion. None. I nibble her ear — no reaction. Sighing, I shut my eyes and imagine her smiling wickedly, breasts heaving, lips parting to breathe that one intoxicating word, “Yes…”

  Operating in self-imposed darkness, I massage the folds of the material clear of her breast and lightly run my tongue over it. Again, the distasteful waxy residue. I guess oral sex is out of the question.

  Leaving the breast, I slide my hand down to her smooth, perfectly cast calves. My fingers knead the flesh, then creep up. This is more like it. Her legs could almost pass for a real woman’s, long and shapely. I whisper in her ear, “Part your thighs, honey, I’m coming through.”

  She practically does the banana splitz, destroying the moment.

  “Not so far apart,” I mutter, opening my eyes a slit so I can coax her into the right position. When I’m happy with the spacing arrangements, I close my eyes again, take a few seconds to recapture the exotic visions that I’d been entertaining myself with, and proceed.

  I meant to make a big deal of the foreplay – fingers slowly inching towards her panties, tenderly working them down, lots of huffing and puffing – but when push comes to shove it doesn’t seem worthwhile. Grabbing the lining of the knickers, I yank them off and fall on her. My penis shoots forward like a guided missile, only to be slickly repelled. I chuckle hoarsely – “Feisty little wench!” – and make a second lunge. Again my manoeuvres result in rebuttal.

  Frowning, I shuffle back and drop down for a closer examination. Savova’s vagina looks as if it was carved out of wax, but apart from that it seems no different to any normal woman’s, so why have my attempts at penetration proved futile?

  Parting the opening folds of her plastic-like labia, I discover it’s a facade. There’s no depth. A narrow, shallow slit in an otherwise sexless crescent of solid, penis-resistant flesh. Dismayed, I check her rear and it’s the same. It looks like there’s an opening but in reality there isn’t.

  I toy with the idea that she could be a dud, that the rest of the drone population might be different, but I don’t get far with that line of thought. They’re asexual, the lot of them, I’m sure they are. Carnally incompatible.

  I roll off Savova, groaning. For the first time in weeks I was actually excited about something. I’d been looking forward to this more than my first real female as a spotty-faced teenager. Back then I’d known it was only a matter of time before I got lucky. If it hadn’t been with Kia at her seventeenth birthday party, it would have been with one of her friends, maybe not that night, but before long, as we were all young, frisky and eager to experiment. I’d taken sex for granted. It held no secrets from me, not even when I was a virgin, since I’d seen so much of it online. But here, with a drone, after all this time on my own, it was something new and unknown.

  As disappointed as I am, there’s no point tormenting myself. Sex is a washout — so what? I wasn’t even thinking about it until a couple of weeks ago. Celibacy’s hardly the pits. I’ve survived far worse blows than that.

  I slide off the bed and cast my eyes over the drone – Savova is no more, I see only a mannequin now – which has held its position, legs apart, awaiting my instructions. I could always carve a hole…

  My face wrinkles. Bollocks to that. If I was a sex-starved pervert, maybe, but I’m not. I’ll settle for a hand-job, thanks very much.

  So I fall back on the devices and vices of my youth. It’s been years since I pumped myself manually. I feel embarrassed. I thought those days were behind me forever, that I’d never run out of women. Just goes to show you never can tell. It doesn’t take long to climax. Less than a minute and I’m spraying the floor with my sperm, a gift to the great god Onan.

  Sighing with a mixture of happiness and self-contempt, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare moodily at the sperm. I’ve got the post-ejaculation blues and the minutes tick slowly by. The thought of sprinkling the liquid – as Cheryl always had me do – crosses my mind, but what’s the point? With nobody to act as a receptacle for its evil, altering ways, it can’t do any harm. I’ll just leave it where it is and…

  The pool of sperm begins to pulsate.

  “Oh Christ,” I moan, more disgusted than alarmed. “What now?”

  I lean forward and watch as the thick, white liquid wheezes up into a milk-cloud bubble. It’s multiplying in size at a ferocious rate, double, treble, now ten times its original mass. I laugh at the surreality of it all, hop off the bed and step over the rising semi-sphere to view it from the other side. I drop to my knees and press up close to the expanding sperm bubble, careful not to touch it.

  Judging by the darkness at the heart of the sperm, I think there’s something inside, but I can’t tell what it is. I consider
popping the encasing bubble with a sharp object but I’ve a feeling I don’t need to. Whatever’s in there will be forcing its way out pretty soon.

  I return to the bed and hum tunelessly while the bubble levels out at about the half-metre high mark, a diameter of a metre or more. I’m enjoying this. I could be moments away from death – there could be a lykan in there – but the thought fails to stir me. I don’t even think about leaving. In fact my biggest worry is that the bubble will burst and I’ll end up splattered in my own spunk.

  To think I used to be normal once.

  The drone still hasn’t moved. I lie back against one of its knees and make myself comfortable. This is better than the cinema. A front-row seat at the theatre of the absurd. There are people in my world who’d pay a fortune for an encounter like this, and here’s grinning old me, catching the show for free.

  A few minutes of inactivity follow. I detect tiny grunting sounds, emanating from within the bubble. What on earth could it be? I’m tingling with anticipation. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be something mundane, some weird type of trapped air bubble. I’m in the mood for dramatical surprises. I want…

  Ah. Whatever’s inside is beginning to move. I can see a head – I assume it’s a head – twisting this way and that. Now its body, a slow rippling of indefinable muscles. A loud grunt. The thing backs up, then charges at the wall across from the bed, still encased in the bubble of sperm. It bounces off the wall and collapses, takes a few seconds to gather itself, rises, thrusts forward again. A tiny rip appears in the fabric of the bubble. Air rushes in and a happy sigh drifts out. Another charge. One more. The hole’s about the size of two fists stuck together by this stage. I could probably peer inside if I wanted but I’m content to wait. I don’t want to spoil the thing’s big entrance.