quit now, the damage would go on. “What damage?” Shelley had wanted to know.
“The damage to your body.”
“What damage to my body?”
The doctor’s spiel had been an impressive one, a smattering of three-dollar words alongside the latest platitudes and mannerisms, but Shelley had seen the truth—perhaps the Psycho within him had seen the truth—which was that they didn’t fucking know. He told the doctor just how transparent he found him, but the fact was, the doctor was just doing what he thought best. Shelley was left wondering if this Self-replicating Psychedelic Chemical Organism and its effect on the human body mightn’t prove to be a microcosm of full automation on Orlando. They called the result Chaos, yet what was chaos?
The craving was chaotic, no doubt there. He envisioned sinking his teeth into Ian’s jugular, his own body twisting in agony as Ian’s choked scream flung to the end of every nerve in him. He’d have his hands on the dropper then, or be broken or dead, the same result that would come of delivering Ian to the Prince of Psycho. What would Ian do anyway? Put up your hands, Silver! Give it all up, Silver! Your labs, your warehouses, your army!
Yeah, same result either way.
Another thought occurred to him. Get out of the range of Ian’s voice, where the device, unless the officer had other means, could not be activated. But where would he go? To fucked-up Psycho clown boys with triple homicide notches, that was the mother of existential questions. Not the profound Where did I come from ? but the abyssal Where do I go ?
The dropper was in his face suddenly, the officer’s frowning countenance behind it.
Shelley seized the dropper, pulled back his eyelid and let two, four, five, six—was the jerk going to stop him?—seven teardrops of salvation into his eye. The blood vessels were right there, the nerve trailed the retina like a tentacle, then the brain itself, poised and hungry. Seven drops of sweet agony like homage to the psyche.
“Do you really enjoy it?” said Ian in a mercifully even tone.
Shelley considered. “I have a better understanding of what is going on around me when I’m Psycho.”
“Do you know what is so abhorrent about your Silver?”
“Not my Silver,” Shelley said.
“That he exploits chaos—the condition of chaos—itself.”
“Maybe chaos exploits him.”
Ian smirked. “Sure. And he systematically sends out his slaves to eliminate the inconveniences in his world.”
“Who said there’s no system to the circus?” As he spoke Shelley scanned his surroundings with some intensity.
“What are you looking for?” said Ian, put off.
“A terminal.”
A woman standing nearby turned to Shelley. “You are seeking a terminal?”
She was svelte and beautiful; flawless, he observed, recognizing at once the significance of that fact. As she turned her back to him, raising her blouse to reveal the perfect contour of her back, he remembered her model’s name: Ethereal .
“If you wish you may use mine,” she said, indicating a standard outlet in her flesh, “but be conscious of time.”
“I didn’t mean…that is, I wasn’t looking for…”
“Ah,” she said, dropping her blouse. “It’s the other you want.”
“No…No.” He looked back at Ian, embarrassed.
He had meant a wall terminal, thinking he might persuade Ian to let him borrow the unit the officer wore on his belt. Already scintillating, Shelley wanted that feeling, that knowledge of being hooked up to the whole crazy circus. A robot was too much though…at least at this early, extremely self-conscious stage…there were people…
As he scanned for others inspired by his recently attained lack of anonymity, the female hominoid remained tuned to him.
“Look at this,” she invited. “Behind each of my eyes are two electrodes and a capsule of sodium vapor. Watch.”
Shelley watched as her
“The damage to your body.”
“What damage to my body?”
The doctor’s spiel had been an impressive one, a smattering of three-dollar words alongside the latest platitudes and mannerisms, but Shelley had seen the truth—perhaps the Psycho within him had seen the truth—which was that they didn’t fucking know. He told the doctor just how transparent he found him, but the fact was, the doctor was just doing what he thought best. Shelley was left wondering if this Self-replicating Psychedelic Chemical Organism and its effect on the human body mightn’t prove to be a microcosm of full automation on Orlando. They called the result Chaos, yet what was chaos?
The craving was chaotic, no doubt there. He envisioned sinking his teeth into Ian’s jugular, his own body twisting in agony as Ian’s choked scream flung to the end of every nerve in him. He’d have his hands on the dropper then, or be broken or dead, the same result that would come of delivering Ian to the Prince of Psycho. What would Ian do anyway? Put up your hands, Silver! Give it all up, Silver! Your labs, your warehouses, your army!
Yeah, same result either way.
Another thought occurred to him. Get out of the range of Ian’s voice, where the device, unless the officer had other means, could not be activated. But where would he go? To fucked-up Psycho clown boys with triple homicide notches, that was the mother of existential questions. Not the profound Where did I come from ? but the abyssal Where do I go ?
The dropper was in his face suddenly, the officer’s frowning countenance behind it.
Shelley seized the dropper, pulled back his eyelid and let two, four, five, six—was the jerk going to stop him?—seven teardrops of salvation into his eye. The blood vessels were right there, the nerve trailed the retina like a tentacle, then the brain itself, poised and hungry. Seven drops of sweet agony like homage to the psyche.
“Do you really enjoy it?” said Ian in a mercifully even tone.
Shelley considered. “I have a better understanding of what is going on around me when I’m Psycho.”
“Do you know what is so abhorrent about your Silver?”
“Not my Silver,” Shelley said.
“That he exploits chaos—the condition of chaos—itself.”
“Maybe chaos exploits him.”
Ian smirked. “Sure. And he systematically sends out his slaves to eliminate the inconveniences in his world.”
“Who said there’s no system to the circus?” As he spoke Shelley scanned his surroundings with some intensity.
“What are you looking for?” said Ian, put off.
“A terminal.”
A woman standing nearby turned to Shelley. “You are seeking a terminal?”
She was svelte and beautiful; flawless, he observed, recognizing at once the significance of that fact. As she turned her back to him, raising her blouse to reveal the perfect contour of her back, he remembered her model’s name: Ethereal .
“If you wish you may use mine,” she said, indicating a standard outlet in her flesh, “but be conscious of time.”
“I didn’t mean…that is, I wasn’t looking for…”
“Ah,” she said, dropping her blouse. “It’s the other you want.”
“No…No.” He looked back at Ian, embarrassed.
He had meant a wall terminal, thinking he might persuade Ian to let him borrow the unit the officer wore on his belt. Already scintillating, Shelley wanted that feeling, that knowledge of being hooked up to the whole crazy circus. A robot was too much though…at least at this early, extremely self-conscious stage…there were people…
As he scanned for others inspired by his recently attained lack of anonymity, the female hominoid remained tuned to him.
“Look at this,” she invited. “Behind each of my eyes are two electrodes and a capsule of sodium vapor. Watch.”
Shelley watched as her
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