Djusky pointed to Toutbon. “Don't worry, Net Reps don't eat humans. Just give him what he wants and he'll leave without making any trouble."
"I feel like the trouble is only beginning."
Dr. Djusky snorted. “Being confined in this Center for twenty years has certainly done nothing for your intellectual capabilities. Why don't you take a trip to the surface once in a while? No, don't answer that. I can see why you don't want to leave."
Toutbon felt Dr. Djusky's gaze rake over him and he shivered. There was something sinister about Dr. Djusky. Then again, anyone who could take ten seven-year-old humanoid mutants and dissect them had to be twisted. Maybe that was why other employees rarely sat next to Dr. Djusky in the cafeteria.
"Well, if you're going to be down here printing for long, I'll come back later. I prefer to work alone.” Dr. Djusky flicked his fingernail against one of the mutant's cases and left the room.
Toutbon stood in front of the mutants’ cases chewing his nails. Then he sighed, printed the papers he needed, and left the room to its deep, underwater silence.
Chapter Four
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
~Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
* * * *
Jonathon wriggled his toes in the soft sand. When he arrived at work he'd been hustled into the sending room, attached to the monitors, and hooked up to the IV immediately. Digby hadn't answered a single question, shaking his head, muttering about Arthur's heart attack and nearly didn't find a vein on the first poke. It made Jonathon nervous to see Digby's hands shaking so much.
Before Jonathon dropped off to slip—what the programmers called slipping into the tour—Digby had frowned, looked straight at Jonathon, and said, “I want you to lock the door to your bedroom. No questions—just do it. I'll explain later."
Now, sitting on the beach in the shade cast by a large boulder, the sky a bright, blue bowl of porcelain cupped over his head, Jonathon thought about Arthur. He hadn't known him all that well, but he had seemed like a decent guy. He rubbed his arms, his nerves prickling. At any rate, when he got back to the hotel he'd lock the door. He picked up a handful of warm sand and let it slide through his fingers. The four women on the tour had asked about Arthur of course, and he'd answered evasively. He'd received no orders about what to say, but he preferred not to admit Arthur was dead. Poor Arthur—he was so young. Still, heart attacks could strike at any time.
One woman in particular seemed upset about Arthur's absence. She'd sulked all morning. Jonathon had arrived early, before anyone was awake, thanks to Digby's manipulation of time in the program, and he'd been able to cajole her into coming on the boat trip. He'd taken his tourist charges to a beautiful beach. They'd sailed in a large catamaran to another island, Virgin Gorda, and anchored in the famous bay known as The Baths.
It was a beautiful place. Huge granite boulders, some the size of houses, lay in a titanic jumble at the southern end of the island. A small beach nestled in between the boulders, and the gigantic rocks leaned against each other, forming a labyrinth of caves and grottos where the sun sent shafts of light into hidden, sandy caverns. Water reached into some of them, creating rivers of ethereal beauty. You could crawl through a narrow tunnel in massive stone and find yourself in an enchanted vault of granite, with a white sandy floor and a private pool of clear aquamarine water.
The Baths were practically inaccessible by land. A long, rutted, dirt road led to them, but it was so rugged that the best way to get there was by boat. The bay was small, so usually only one or two boats anchored there at a time. Today, the catamaran bobbed all by itself. On virtual tours, you weren't surrounded by hundreds of other tourists, one of the reasons they were so popular.
Jonathon loved The Baths and took his group whenever he was a guide. The tours were adaptable. You could decide what you wanted to do; you weren't restrained by any set schedule. It was nice to be able to do things on a whim.
Jonathon liked change. He loved travel and hated the idea of a nine-to-five job. A Virtual Tour Guide was the perfect vocation for him. It certainly helped that he was tall, dark, and had eyes that smoldered like live coals. His smile was devastating. To coax the women into a better mood, he'd packed a picnic and brought them here. When they saw the pristine beauty of the place, they had perked up considerably. They hadn't mentioned Arthur's name in an hour.
Jonathon watched as three of his charges spread their towels on the sand and started to unpack the picnic lunch. The other girl was missing, the sulky one who had pestered him about Arthur. He sat up straighter and scanned the beach. There was no sign of her. Where could she be? He hoped she wasn't lost in the maze beneath the rocks. Sometimes you had to climb topside to find your way back. He sighed and got to his feet.
"I'll be right back,” he called to the women. “Leave me a few crumbs, will you?"
They laughed at him, waving gaily. One popped the champagne bottle open and squealed as white bubbles frothed over her hands. “Come back quickly, or we'll drink it without you!"
He brushed the sand off his shorts. As usual, he was faintly amused to notice that he could hardly feel his groin. The numbing effect of the program caused your nether regions to feel like cardboard.
Not that the girls had anything to gain from flirting with him. He much preferred his own sex. He had a steady boyfriend, and they lived together in a tiny village in the countryside. The house they'd bought had been an old mill a hundred years before, and they'd renovated it. All Jonathon's wages went towards antiques he gleaned from country fairs. He'd been annoyed when he'd learned he had to go on another virtual tour because he and Alec were just heading to an antique show.
Now Alec was on his own, and he'd probably buy a stuffed moose head to hang over their stone fireplace. There was a blank space and the two men were at odds about how to fill it. Alec wanted something truly outrageous while Jonathon wanted to get a turn-of-the century, Grandma Moses type painting. The thought of a moose, a knit cap on its head and a briar pipe stuck in its mouth, made Jonathon smile in spite of his ire. Whatever Alec got, it would be a surprise.
The smile was still on his face as he ducked through the narrow passage leading to a small cave. It was empty, but he saw footprints leading off through a tunnel on his right. He had to crawl through the small opening on hands and knees in the dark for roughly twenty meters. Then the passage gave way to a huge vault, as three massive blocks of granite leaned against each other over a pool of clear water and a patch of pure sand.
Blue sky showed through a triangular opening formed by the rocks overhead, and a shaft of golden sunlight fell upon a woman floating on her back in the crystal-clear water. At first, he thought it was Rhonda, the missing woman. As he drew closer, her face and body shifted. She seemed to shrink, then stretch. No, it wasn't ... exactly ... Rhonda. He'd never seen this woman in his life. Jonathon stopped, startled. Several thoughts flitted through his head. Who was she? Where did she come from? Perhaps ten seconds elapsed while he stared. Then she opened her eyes and smiled at him.
A feeling he'd never experienced swept over him. It was as if there was a switch in his body that until then had been turned off. He found himself struggling for breath. At once, the air was too hot, too thick, and his limbs quivered.
The woman stood up and started to walk towards him. Water shed off her skin in shining beads of light. Her feet sank into the white sand, and it powdered her insteps and ankles. Her body was small, compact, and perfect.
She stopped barely six inches from him. The top of her head just reached his sternum. He could feel a sort of force field around her body, as if he were standing in front of an electrified fence. She raised her eyes. They were immense, the color of dark, frosty plums. There was something frightening and compelling in her regard.
"What is your name?” she asked, reaching out to touch his chest. Her finger traced a line from his collarb
one to his nipple.
"Jonathon,” he whispered. “Who are you?"
"I'm the smallest one in line. The smallest girl is Madeline,” she said softly, breathing into his ear.
"Madeline?” He was trembling all over, his skin shuddering like a nervous colt's. “Where did you come from?” The idea that she was a trick fluttered through his mind. Was Digby up to something? Was Virtual Tours trying an experiment? Why hadn't they warned him?
"Madeline, is this your real body?” His voice was breaking. He could hardly draw a full breath. His own body was acting in the most incredible fashion. Waves and waves of desire were rushing through him, engulfing him. He tried to fight it, but it was as if his head and his body were two different entities. Hot lust bloomed in his groin while his mind struggled in panic. He had never had the least bit of desire to make love to a woman; he'd tried it before, and it had been a mediocre experience. Nothing he'd ever wanted to renew. Until now.
"Alec!” he cried. He tried to push her away from him but his arms refused to obey.
"Stop resisting me.” A sigh escaped her. She leaned into him, pressing her body against his, and he realized that he was as naked as she was, although he had no recollection of taking his bathing suit off.
He fought the surge of passion, struggling against it as if he were drowning. He was caught up in the embrace of this strange woman and his body was betraying him with an eagerness that confounded him. The fight didn't last long. His mind became clouded with desire and his body took control. With a hoarse cry, he threw himself against the yielding woman, falling with her onto the sand.
They rolled in the soft powder, his feet scrabbling for purchase as he thrust madly into her. The feeling was indescribable; he forgot all else in his haste for release. When it came, it shook him to his very bones. He shuddered, spent, his breath coming in great gasps.
The woman reached down and touched him ever so lightly. An electric spark seemed to jump through his skull. A new wave of pleasure submerged him. Once more, his body strained towards the woman, demanding, giving. She laughed with delight and opened her legs wide.
Ecstasy, he was awash in ecstasy. Nothing he'd ever dreamed of compared to this. He couldn't stop, he couldn't even slow down. Between each orgasm, each shattering, bone-jarring orgasm, he had no respite. The woman never spoke. She only gave soft cries and arched her back, begging for more.
Their bodies slipped and slid together, as arms, legs and bellies grew slick with sweat. Skin glided against skin, slithery and hot. Fingers and tongues roamed and prodded, finding nooks and crannies that begged to be explored. Each touch shivered with electrical delight. The heat was overwhelming, choking Jonathon. He rolled over into the pool of water, and at first, the cool water was a blessing.
It closed over his head as they sank together to the sandy bottom.
The woman kept breathing underwater. So did Jonathon. Her hair floated around them in a swirling cloud, her mouth opened and shut as she moaned. Her legs encircled Jonathon's waist, her hips moved in an incessant rhythm older than time, and her arms held him tightly.
He could not breathe; perhaps she was holding him too tightly. He tried to escape but something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. Desire for the woman was growing stronger every minute but release eluded him. If anything, each time he reached orgasm, pleasure was magnified. He struggled vainly, only vaguely aware of what was happening. His body still strained towards fulfillment, but his heart gave out and he began to die. As oblivion spread over him, he was conscious of only one thing. Bliss, sheer bliss was gilding his body in light.
When he died, his virtual body vanished.
The woman was left alone, floating in the warm water, her eyes open and unseeing, an expression of wonder on her face. Her hands stroked her body, her breasts, and her thighs.
"He loved me,” she murmured, and she smiled.
* * * *
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit..."
Digby paced back and forth, his face a picture of misery, his arms crossed over his narrow chest. Every now and then, he broke off pacing and stared at the scene on the other side of the glass partition where the emergency medical team rushed about. The glass partition muffled their cries, but the body on the chair never moved. Then he started pacing again.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit..."
* * * *
The virtual tour was hastily brought to an end. The tourists were all awakened, and so was Mitch.
It was a strange experience, ending a virtual trip before the voyage was complete. The beach dissolved, sand and sky merging into a single gray entity. The women were sitting around, eating their picnic, when the food suddenly vanished in a shower of crumbs. The champagne evaporated and the scene around them wavered and shifted, colors bleeding into one another. The women's faces vacillated, and one suddenly grew old before their eyes, her brown hair turning gray, her face wrinkling, her mouth drooping downwards. All sound ceased, and a scream born in one throat was bitten off as a curious whooshing took its place. A steady thump, thump, thump grew louder and louder. As the light dimmed, the colors all turned gray, then dark. Then blinding light once more stabbed their eyes, and they found themselves staring at the faces of the medical team bending over them, their heartbeats loud in their helmets.
The nurses had strained expressions, and everyone's questions went unanswered. Hot tea was pressed into their hands, warm blankets went around their shoulders, and they sat in bemused silence.
"What happened?” asked one tourist, sipping her tea and plucking at her gray curls meditatively.
"I have no idea, but it is the first time that ever happened to me,” another woman said with a strong French accent.
"It's very curious. First one guide disappeared, then one member of our group went astray. Oh, there you are, I nearly didn't recognize you. Where did you go? You missed the picnic."
"I think virtual travel is one big rip-off,” she complained. “I have no recollection of going anywhere or doing anything."
The other women gaped at her until the psychologist entered the room. He smiled brightly. “Why don't we talk about it?"
"I don't want to talk, I just want my money back,” snapped Rhonda.
* * * *
The orders were formally written on thick, cream-colored paper. The Net Rep had handed them to Professor Toutbon as soon as he'd walked in the room, startling him so much he'd dropped his cup of coffee.
The message was short. “Prepare Mutant of your choice for transfer immediately."
Two people had signed the note: the first was Wilbur Megalot, president of the Net Government and king of the Virtual World. The other signature was that of Toutbon's direct superior, the director of the CIA. His hands clenched on the paper, but it was such fine quality that its satiny smoothness and creamy texture didn't change a bit.
* * * *
Professor Toutbon watched as M-18 lay in a storm cloud, dreaming peacefully. The mutants dreamed their lives away. Most of the time, they could be reached quickly, but sometimes they seemed to be so far away they wouldn't respond to the stimuli of their console. Then you had to shock them awake. It was for their own good, reasoned the scientists, so that they wouldn't get lost somewhere in Virtual Outer Space.
M-18 had a nickname. It was Monkey. It had nothing to do with his physical appearance, and Professor Toutbon didn't know where the nicknames came from. The sobriquet was written on a sticky tab and stuck to the side of his console. All the mutants had a tag, all starting with the letter ‘M'. Now Monkey was about to go on a journey into the real world, one he'd never seen before. Monkey had experienced games and the programs, strolled down virtual streets, driven virtual jets, and shot virtual hydras with virtual laser guns. Professor Toutbon doubted this made him capable of confronting real life, but he had no say in the matter at all. He could simply wait, his foot tapping nervously against the console, until Monkey came online.
"Hello, Professor.” The voice was rusty, as if he'd wok
en up from a deep sleep.
"How are you, Monkey?"
"Fine. What can I do for you today?"
"I have orders to take you out of your case."
There was a long silence. Behind him in the dark room, in the other cases, Professor Toutbon thought he caught a whisper of agitated tension. He had often wondered how closely the mutants were interconnected. They were remarkably evasive when questioned about this.
Finally, Monkey said, “The real world?"
"Yes. I wanted to prepare you. The Net Government wants to take you to their headquarters in Dallas. It will be temporary, never fear. But you will have to walk, and dress, and use the facilities."
A puzzled pause met this statement. “What are facilities?"
Professor Toutbon winced. This was going to be harder than he'd imagined.
* * * *
"Are you trying to tell me that they were both raped to death?” Andrea's voice rose despite her effort to stay calm.
"I believe we could put it that way, yes.” The doctor wiped his hands on his coat, leaving damp spots.
She stared at him. “What other way could you put it?"
The reception room door opened and a white-haired policeman entered, his hat in his hands.
"Here's Captain Walker.” Relief was evident in the doctor's voice.
Andrea nodded. “What's going on?"
"I have no idea what happened,” the policeman said, a frown creasing his face. “What I do know is that two men have died in the space of twelve hours here. Mr. Brims tells me that in their world more than three days elapsed between the two deaths."
Andrea glared at the doctor. “Don't you have something to do?"
"I'll go see if the other guide is awake now."
"His name is Mitch Palo,” Andrea snapped. The doctor gave a feeble nod and bolted out the door.
Andrea's gaze swept the reception room. A straight line of navy blue chairs sat primly in front of a long, low glass table. Neat piles of brochures dotted the table, and a bouquet of fresh white lilac sprouted from a polished silver vase. Sally always made sure the reception room was impeccable. At this hour, it should have been bustling. Instead, an eerie silence filled it. Except for a dry cough. The police officer shifted his weight and coughed again in a blatant attempt to catch her attention.
Virtual Murder Page 5