Chapter #7A Test and Its Reward by: Seuzz   Patterning is in a small room two floors below the executive offices. As you open the door you find Knotts helping Cox out of the examination chair. She grips him by the hand and slaps a friendly hand on his ass; you can't hear what she murmurs in his ear.
So your colleague passed. That's a relief. Now you just have to get through this bullshit yourself.
Cox catches sight of you; his expression remains gnomic, and his eyes drop. After murmuring something to Knotts, he saunters over to you. He sticks out his hand, but his eyes dodge your face.
You back away and raise your hands. "Hey, hey!" you say. "You don't wanna touch me. I might be a boojum."
Concentric white and red circles show in his cheeks. "Asshole." That murmur you do catch, and you grin sourly at his back as he trudges down the hall.
"Siddown," Knotts calls, and points to the chair. With a shrug you walk in and plop into it.
It's a stiff, straight-backed thing, with vinyl armrests and back- and ass-pads. Dr. Plante steps over from the far corner, and he and Knotts tie your wrists and ankles down. "What if I turn myself into a snake?" you ask. "Or the anthrax bacillus? Sure you don't wanna seal me up in a glass jar and remove the oxygen?"
Knotts doesn't smile. As she steps back she gestures, and from another corner of the room step two guards in Spartacus uniforms. "Hey, go Huskies," you call to them, but they don't react.
Knotts takes out a semi-automatic and racks the first round. "Head shots, gentlemen," she says. "As before." She raises her pistol and aims it at your forehead. The Spartacists do likewise.
"Whoa, Knotts, this is—"
"You got nothing to worry about, Kips," she says. "If that's who you really are."
You swallow, and hope Spartacus firearms training is as good as when you were in the program. You go rigid as Dr. Plante straps a heavy belt around your head. For an ungodly long time, with nothing to amuse you but the cold, flinty look in Knotts's eye, you wait for the machinery to start.
And even after it does, and the hum of it fills the room, you remain awake, and do your best to stare down your superior. To your relief, and maybe hers, when you do finally blink, it's almost at the same that she does. After that, you relax and close your eyes.
* * * * *
"Only a handful of variations, all within parameters," Dr. Plante says twenty minutes later.
"How far within?" Paige asks.
"Far enough. How long has it been since—? Well, I guess I can look that up." You sigh and listen to the click of a computer keyboard behind you. The Spartacus guys still have their pieces trained on you. "A little more variation than I'd expect, but Mr. Kipper is a man with a very lively job."
"I try to keep my cool," you dryly call back.
"Nothing funky about where the variations are?" Knotts asks.
"They're exactly where they ought to be. I'd wonder if they weren't there."
"At ease," Knotts says, and the two guards drop their pistols. You discover that you'd not been breathing as deeply and easily as you'd thought you were.
Knotts undoes all your bonds herself, and helps you up with the same ass-slap as she'd given Cox. "If it wasn't you, I'd've shot myself too," she murmurs in your ear. Does she love all of us so much, you wonder.
But instead of immediately leaving, as Cox did, you turn to stare back at the computer monitor. It shows a complex of lines, loops and swirls so dense that it's almost a blur. It's blue, except for a few spots where the line work is red. Those would be the "variations" in your mental patterns. You wonder what kind of algorithms can reduce a man's mentality to that kind of design, and what it can tell the scientists about him. It's a pity it's not so detailed that you can use it to read a man's mind. Someone in your line of work would find that useful.
A chill skitters across your shoulders. Yes, and maybe some one in your line of work does find it useful.
Knotts rubs your back. Indeed, she slides her palm under your shirt to rub the skin. "We're having a farewell for Davenport tomorrow," she says. "Seven o'clock."
You look down at her. "Gonna be a low turnout," you warn her.
"No, it'll be all hands. Julian cancelled everything until further notice."
"No shit?"
"Everyone's in the lobby until Hermod returns a clean bill of health on the comms."
You snort. "And then what? I'm telling you, we got Crazy Ivan in our circuits the way a Belgrade bordello has bedbugs in its—"
"And when Hermod says it's all clear, we'll send out a single team. One team, only one. We'll circulate our plans internally like nothing's wrong, lots of chatter. But we'll pad that one team around with other teams, to watch and to lay out tripwires. And those teams will get briefed—" She raises up on tiptoes and whispers. "Mouth to ear only." She pats your ass again. "That's how we flush out the bedbugs. If there are any."
* * * * *
So there's a swagger in your stride as you leave Patterning. You have to stop by the locker room before heading to your flat anyway, so you stick your head into the handball and racquetball courts to see if there's anyone up for a game. There isn't. But you find a nicer discovery in the locker rooms when you pass back through.
She must have been in the bathroom, and that's why you didn't see her. Her back is to you as you enter, and she's standing at an open locker, and she's just dropped a white bathrobe from her ivory-like shoulders. You wait until it falls just to the top of her ass, exposing the clean, smooth curve of her back. Then, before she can take it off entirely, you speak. "Hello, bitch."
She tenses, and looks over her shoulder at you. Since she is at least a head and half shorter than you, she has to look up, showing dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her dark hair is done up, but one long tress trails over a strong cheekbone. "You on your way home, bitch?" you ask.
"Yes sir," she says, and doesn't lower her eyes.
"I think you have something to do first." She doesn't respond. "Come over here." She starts to put her robe back on. "No, let it go."
So she lets it fall to the floor, showing white panties that cling tightly to her buttocks. Those curve strongly in and slope up her torso to form something like an alabaster vase. "Turn around and come over," you say, and slowly she turns, showing ripe, apple-like breasts.
You have to swallow.
You gesture and lead her over to your locker, and you push the bench up close to it so you can sit with back against the door. You peel off your shirt and open your trousers and drop them and your underwear to your knees. Then you sit. Your member is already stiffening. "Come entertain me, bitch. Make me feel good." You close your eyes.
On demure feet, Chiyoko—for that is her name—comes forward, and sinks to her knees before you. Gently she slips her lips over the tip of your cock. You groan, and clamp one hand around the back of your neck while cradling her neck with your other.
Slowly, but without evident reluctance, she works on you. You sniff and grunt appreciatively. Damn, you wonder. Is it like racial memories? You're not sure a Chiyoko has ever been this good before.
A viscous heat rises, and the muscles in your back begin to twinge in anticipation. You rub her more intently. Your legs stiffen, and you thrust them out, and before you're even ready you're arcing, and have to drop your hands to steady yourself on the bench. You don't try to push it to the last drop, though, and let the motor fall back into idle—with the occasional twinge—once the hot, infinite moment has passed.
Then you open your eyes.
You'd forgotten the mirror on the opposite wall.
There you are, Terry Kipper, sprawled on a bench with a sixteen-year-old Japanese girl sucking you off. Your raw, ruddy, freckled face turns redder with sudden embarrassment, to almost the color of your fiery hair. You grimace. "Hold it," you say, for she's still working at you. "How long till you get your fifth card?"
"A week," she murmurs, then takes your cock in her mouth again.
"That's close enough," you say. "Back off a moment." As she slides backward on the tile floor, you kick off your boots and trousers, and peel off the fingerless glove on your right hand. You blink, trying to remember where— It's been so long. Then you remember, and put your right palm in the crook under your left knee.
You skin runs, and the world grows larger.
Chiyoko's eyes widen. "Who's my bitch?" you ask her.
"I am."
"And who am I?"
Her answer is extremely hesitant. "You're— Are you my bitch?"
"For now, yes." You take her in your arms, and push her hair back so you can watch in the mirror as one of the first Chiyokos kisses the newest one.
"Spoiler--1"  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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