Miss Brandymoon's Device: a novel of sex, nanotech, and a sentient lava lamp (Divided Man Book 1)

by Skelley, Rune

  They both grew impatient with tender attentions at the same time.

  “Do you have any fun condoms?” Rook asked.

  “Men don’t buy the fun kind.”

  Rook slithered to her belongings and dug into her backpack. “So who’s supposed to buy the fun ones? I never do.”

  Later they lay exhausted on the bare mattress and compared tattoos in detail. Rook was the clear winner by every criterion Fin could think of, but she was nice about it. She complimented the linework on the Janus head in the center of his upper back, and was impressed by the precision of the four rows of Escher’s tessellating horsemen encircling his left biceps. She liked the Hokusai-style willow on his chest, but claimed her favorite was his self-inflicted eclipse. For Fin, the drove of black birds on her side was incredibly erotic. He kissed each one as he counted them, and lost track somewhere around 75. He rolled her onto her stomach and finally got to see the spread-winged raven spanning the small of her back, every fiber of every feather as clear as the intelligent glint in the bird’s eye. On her right shoulder blade was one final tower, easily eight inches tall, composed of dozens of interlocking black birds. A rook made of rooks.

  Fin did have a couple of boring condoms strategically yet casually mixed in among the unwashed mugs, overflowing ashtray, and other lifestyle artifacts atop his mini-fridge, a fact he was glad of now.

  ***

  “Will you pierce my nipple now?” Fin asked.

  “Not right now. My stuff’s at Talisman,” Rook said as she dabbed black nail polish on his left baby toe. “Hold still or you’ll make a mess.”

  “It tickles.”

  “You act like nobody’s ever painted your toenails before.”

  “Nobody has.”

  She smirked. “Some rebel you turned out to be.”

  After his toenails dried, Fin pulled on his jeans and went downstairs to order a pizza and try to bum a few condoms.

  Bishop wasn’t home.

  Booth said his girlfriend took care of that sort of thing.

  No one would ever want to sleep with Quent, so he wasn’t even worth asking.

  Max claimed to be fresh out.

  Which left Kyle.

  So, Fin asked Quent and got the anticipated result.

  Normally Fin would avoid asking a favor of Kyle, but the alternatives in this case were either no more sex with Rook tonight or going back upstairs, getting fully dressed and going to the store. He knocked on Kyle’s door.

  No answer, so Fin knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Even pounding brought no response.

  “Shit.”

  Fin debated with himself for almost a minute before trying the knob. He rationalized the trespass by blaming Kyle for not locking his door, and also reminded himself Kyle had invaded his space at the party. And he really needed some condoms.

  The door swung open under his push.

  Fin stepped through the doorway. A quick glance around confirmed his suspicions. The room was, by Fin’s standards, compulsively neat. Kyle apparently kept his clothes in the closet, because they weren’t all over the floor. “Freak.” The liquor cabinet was well stocked and unlocked. “Idiot.” Fin liberated a bottle of romantic-looking red wine, then continued toward the neatly made futon. He thought of Rook in the room directly above this one and hurried past the sports trophies. Feeling eyes following him, he looked around. The blonde nymphette sprawled across the hood of the Ferrari on the wall looked back at him. “Typical.”

  Beside the futon sat an end table where Fin intended to start his condom quest. He opened the top drawer and rooted through the Altoids, loose change and weird remotes. After staring for a moment in puzzlement at the electronics bits filling the middle drawer, he moved on quickly to minimize the chances of an altercation with Kyle. Fin didn’t think Rook would be too impressed if he ended up scuffling with a silver-spoon alterna-wannabe over condoms.

  Pay dirt. In the bottom drawer, Kyle had an impressive collection of prophylactics. Fin gleefully pilfered a handful of the more interesting ones.

  He returned to Rook triumphant, bearing pizza, wine and condoms.

  “Kyle buys the fun ones,” he explained. “Must be overcompensating. I took some regular ones and a couple others in case we feel adventurous.”

  “I sure do.”

  Chapter Five

  DINER

  Event Report W0011a:

  The outpost was breached today (09-25-2000). An individual calling himself a ventilation system repairman entered by a previously unknown access point. This security deficiency has been rectified and the individual has been identified. He is not a ventilation system repairman. Response protocol two was followed. There is therefore little danger that he saw the outpost for what it is. Consensus among outpost staff is that he was surprised to find the space occupied. We do not believe he was seeking us, nor do we think he was attempting to learn about the goings-on in the outpost. Since he could be expected to be curious after this encounter, and he lied to us, we will monitor him in accordance with Guidebook follow-up procedures, protocol two.

  Midmorning at The Shamrock Diner, Fin poured maple syrup on his second order of French toast. Rook, content with a single breakfast, carried the conversation while Fin’s mouth was full.

  “Technically, I belong to a nature cult.”

  Fin’s eyebrows lifted, causing a twinge in his piercing.

  Rook explained, “They’re called The Threshold. My mom was a member for ages, so I’m in. Kinda like citizenship.” This morning she’d pulled a change of clothes out of her backpack, and the icy blue color of her retro minidress accentuated her eyes to almost fever-dream status.

  Fin gave her a thumbs up and a smirk as he swallowed. “Speaking of cults, I saw something strange...” he looked at the ceiling while counting back on his fingers, “three days ago.” To rid his mouth of the syrup residue, Fin reached for his coffee mug. Empty. Where was the waitress? He turned and scanned the back of the restaurant.

  “Good for you,” Rook prompted.

  Trying to reboard his train of thought, Fin turned back toward her as a large man took a stool at the counter. Not enough tattoos to be Marcus, but it reminded Fin of the risk they were taking.

  “Rook. Is Marcus going to kill me?”

  She looked puzzled. “I don’t think so.”

  Good news, so why the plummeting sensation behind his solar plexus? He lit a cigarette. Even better than coffee for removing the taste of Vermont. “You’re going back to him.”

  “I live with him.” Taking the cigarette, she inhaled.

  They contemplated each other in silence.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m straitlaced or domineering or anything, but we won’t be able to have a relationship if you keep living with him.”

  She seemed surprised. “Is that what you want? A relationship?”

  Seductively strong and novel feelings neutralized Fin’s habitual detachment. The truth wouldn’t get him in trouble this time, would it? He didn’t even care. “Yes.”

  A warm, hesitant smile lit Rook’s azure eyes and Fin felt its twin spreading across his own face. A girlfriend. This was good. Right?

  Rook broke eye-contact and looked down at the greasy remains of her mushroom omelette. “There’s still Marcus.”

  Fin exhaled.

  “I can quit Talisman,” she hastened. “I’ll need to find something else to supplement my meager journalistic income, but my skills are marketable, right?”

  “I still want you to pierce my nipple,” Fin affirmed. “And you can poke other holes in me if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Thanks. But there are the sleeping arrangements to think of.”

  Several awkward moments passed, the two of them toying with their silverware.

  “Well, just leave him,” Fin said.

  “Are you offering me a place to live?”

  Fin didn’t even need to think about that one. “Yeah. If we’re loud enough, maybe Kyle will move out.”

/>   “Okay.” She smiled.

  He shoveled in the last of his French toast. A live-in girlfriend. His pulse raced as he rode the thin green line between giddiness and nausea. Bishop was right. He’d only just met her and already he felt different. Like he might not get the full customary use of his breakfast. He wiped his palms on his jeans.

  Too much maple syrup, he diagnosed.

  The waitress came over with a smirk and asked if they were still hungry. Fin, mouth stuffed full, picked up his mug and clunked it on the table several times. “I take it,” the waitress ventured, “he wants more coffee. How ‘bout you?” Rook nodded. The waitress departed.

  Fin swallowed. “She’s cute.”

  “She’s gay. Hits on me sometimes.”

  Fin didn’t have a reply for that. Should he be jealous?

  “I agree, by the way,” said Rook. “She’s cute.”

  Well, that was uncalled for. “Do you mean exclusively gay? Or bisexual?” Fin asked without inflection, leaving his options open.

  Rook laughed. “I don’t know. Women hit on me all the time,” she purred.

  Fin didn’t have a reply for that either, and knew he should. Something was definitely amiss.

  “You think I’m bi now, don’t you?” Rook asked.

  Fin grinned. “Hadn’t occurred to me ‘til now, but...”

  Coffee flowed into their mugs. Fin was still grinning. Time to be assertive. “So,” he directed to the waitress, “my girlfriend here tells me you’re gay.” Girlfriend.

  “And she’s a lousy tipper who smokes too much. What about it?” She put their checks on the table and left.

  Rook didn’t look amused anymore.

  “Did I just screw up my chances for a ménage à trois?” Fin ventured, hoping to milk a sort of class-clown vibe.

  Now she seemed downright hostile and her eyes were starting to freeze him. Fin realized he’d gone too far. Rook was waiting for him to say something. Something not stupid or sexist. Something boyfriendy.

  “Ah, sorry. That all sounded a lot funnier before I said any of it. Sleep deprivation.”

  “Are you apologizing, or making excuses?” she asked.

  “Making excuses,” he proclaimed with an impish grin, then knew he’d made another mistake. This was going to be the shortest relationship on record.

  “It’s not like we’re talking marriage here,” Rook muttered. “Relax.”

  “I’m sorry. I am.” The thought of her going back to Marcus because of his own rampant, knee-jerk isolationist tendencies gutted him.

  It must have shown on his face, because she looked ready to accept his apology. Her eyes were less flinty.

  However, he did feel entitled to an honest answer from his new live-in girlfriend. “I’m just asking this for informational purposes, not being opportunistic. Are you? Bi?”

  “NO!” Rook shouted. The whole place looked their way. Rook grimaced and waited for the crowd to lose interest before continuing. “I’m not gay, Fin.”

  “Well, okay. But you’re loud.”

  Rook narrowed her eyes and sat, rigid. “Sorry,” she intoned icily, “sleep deprivation.”

  “Actually,” Fin said, happy to change the topic, “I once went three days without REM sleep. I got really strange, or so I’m told.”

  He thought Rook was on the verge of forgiving him. She wore a small, bemused smile and relaxed her ramrod posture. “How exactly did you do that, and why?”

  “With help, and for money. Psych department experiment. They have a drug that blocks REM sleep,” Fin explained, glad she was allowing the conversational diversion.

  “They do? Of course!”

  Safe topic! “For a week or so after comedown, I would sometimes enter a REM cycle when I was awake, sort of. Major, astounding hallucinations.”

  “What lab was this in?” She began to clear a space on the table in front of herself, shoving her plate aside.

  “Fuller. What’s the weirdest dream you’ve had lately?”

  “I don’t remember my dreams.”

  Fin considered that. “Mine have gotten bizarre. There’s this one I’ve had a few times now, very odd. I don’t even know if I’m in it, really, and it’s very drab. But there’s this thing...” Fin trailed off because Rook was bending her spoon. She looked panicky.

  “Go on,” she said. She blinked brightly.

  “Well,” Fin hesitated. “It’s a thing I need, but I lose it. Like in sand or something. The only other part I remember is a big, bioluminescent green spaceship.”

  Fin thought the spoon would end up in a knot. “Are you all right?” He reached across the table and gently removed the utensil, enfolding her hands in his.

  “You aren’t the only one having that dream. We aren’t the only ones.”

  Fin started to feel some of the panic he’d seen on her face. Quite unlike his rush of syrup-and-commitment anxiety, this felt metallic and unnatural. Easier to fight. Whatever was going on, they were in it together, and she needed his help.

  He looked her in the eyes. “Tell me. Explain it. What’s going on?”

  “It has to be the University...” she said vaguely, looking at a micro-recorder she’d pulled from her pack and popping it open. It was empty.

  “C’mon, from the top. Explain it.”

  She took a weary breath. “I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since I had a dream I can remember, but that’s the last one I had. The one you described. I had it a bunch of times, then nothing.”

  “Since the first time, I don’t remember any different ones either. But it’s just this week.” And there was the whole secret office thing. “You know Dogstar, right?”

  She nodded absently and said, “It gets better. People love to chit-chat while I’m puncturing them, and they all keep droning on about the same fucking dream.”

  It was so far removed from reality, Fin loved it. One of the sweaterguys in the office must also be having the dream. “This is outstandingly strange.”

  “Well no shit,” she said. “I’m working up a piece on it for CTP right now. Pinning it on Buckminster. With government money funding it of course. Kind of combining therapy with journalism.”

  “Sounds like Pulitzer material.”

  “It’s utter crap. Or, it was. Now, with your direct experiences added to my irresponsible speculation it’s better than CTP deserves.” She still had a slightly unhinged look in her eye. “The photos and secret documents will put it into Pulitzer territory.”

  “You have this evidence?” Fin asked in surprise.

  “We will.”

  “We?” Fin’s lust for the paranormal was suddenly sated. “When exactly did this become ‘our’ exposé?”

  “When I found out about your involvement, Muffin.”

  Fin wrinkled his nose.

  Rook pulled out a silver flask, took a swig and handed it to Fin. He raised it in mock toast, sipped, and handed it back. Southern Comfort. Not his drink of choice, too sweet. If Rook liked it, though, he supposed he’d get used to it. After pouring the remainder into their mugs, she put the empty flask away. Fin took a slow sip of coffee. “What makes you suspect the University?”

  “What makes you not? They have a budget literally the size of Peru’s, but they don’t publish it. What are they hiding?”

  Fin was puzzled. “I heard they put the budget on the Internet now.”

  “It’s 400 pages without the supplements! But it tells you nothing. There are no specifics. There aren’t even page numbers. They put this enormous beast of a document on their web site, but it’s just lip service. They do this so they can say it’s an open budget, but it’s not. If you call them and ask them how much it costs to plant flowers outside the student union, or how much the football coach makes, even they can’t tell you! They say that’s not the purpose of a budget document!”

  Her passion for the subject and her knowledge of the details astonished Fin. He paid little attention to the news, and never got riled up by it. He’d always fan
cied himself cynical and jaded, but began to wonder if he wasn’t just apathetic. Rook’s enthusiasm was infectious and Fin suddenly needed to know how much it cost to plant those damn flowers every year.

  “Okay. Certainly, Buckminster’s fun to slag. And they have it coming...” he paused to sip his coffee, leaving an opening for her to continue.

  “But...”

  Shit! She thought he had opinions, or views, or something. Something more substantial than attitude. If he disappointed her now, they’d be back to glaring.

  “But why is the University doing this?”

  “Because they can,” she said.

  “You can do better than that.”

  She looked peeved. “They obviously have some huge government grant.”

  “Why’s the government want everyone dreaming about spaceships?”

  “They probably want to use it for propaganda. Here or overseas. It’s the first step toward mind control.”

  Fin sat back and regarded her. “I noticed you have 1984 in your pack. You don’t suppose you’ve got Big Brother on the brain do you?”

  “Like Cobain said, ‘Just because you’re paranoid don’t mean they’re not after you.’”

  “I can’t tell whether you believe all the stuff you’re saying.”

  “Neither can I. I get this way when I’m working on a story. I still half believe the government is using radioactive cobalt in blue M&Ms to track people through their dental fillings.”

  “Um... I must have missed that issue.”