eyes began to glow, one yellow, one green.
“Ian—” he said, confused.
“I don’t know what you want,” Ian said. “Shall I be Joseph in his Technicolor Dreamcoat?” His tone veered slightly off the even and the sudden riot in Shelley’s nervous system was almost an oasis from the external.
“I don’t want anything,” Shelley said. “I’ll cool it.”
He thought he saw, but couldn’t be certain, a look pass between the hominoid and Ian.
Seven were too many drops. Heightened awareness and hallucination were intermingling. Twenty-seven individuals occupied the section of tube, seventeen men, three women, three certain androids (including the Ethereal model) and four possibles. He hadn’t counted; he simply knew. Psycho was like that. On a really acute trip, you might be able to say which of the lot were married, who had children, who would die first. This was becoming one of those trips and more. That he had confidently picked out three hominoid robots in a field of twenty-seven individuals was tes tament to the fact. As to the possibles…that’s where the hallucinations came into play. He was seeing beneath the skin of these four bodies to blood vessels, wires, tubes…
He caught one of them looking back at him. The body of the male had over-developed musculature, which was unusual in androids—or anyone else, when those muscles were visible beneath the skin, shimmering along their contours. The male, blinking three distinct times, increased the width of his stance, then stretched out his arms perpendicular to his frame, becoming da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Shelley clearly perceived the circle formed of his perfect proportions, and imagined it wheeling down the tubeway, the figure within it a spoke conceived by a cartoonist.
The other three of these possibles had become no less fantastic—a life-sized doll, a science prop, a superhero—and every eye among them looking Shelley down. He wondered if perhaps that’s what made them possibles, that they probed him in return. Maybe they too were under the influence of seven drops of Psycho. Maybe he had skin the color of water and was exposed to them. He looked down at his arms, his legs, becoming immediately fascinated by the concept that he was covered.
“Hey!”
His flesh caught fire at this liberal exclamation from his captor’s mouth.
“Hey, we’re almost there, Shelley. You need to hold it together.” The words evened out as they came, and the fire subsided.
“Don’t worry,” Shelley said. “I know precisely where he is, and that’s where I will take you.”
“Keep focused. I will not be pleased if you fail us.”
Us? Shelley saw it again. That look passing between sets of eyes.
Even as he narrowed in on that word, the doors of his senses were swinging wider, the self-consciousness fading into the howling song-noise of limited particularity. Pleasure, meanwhile, Shelley did not relinquish. Pleasure was in the participating, in being consumed by the whole beautiful circus. He was transported momentarily to an Orlando of a dozen years ago, a city of sprawling lights and action, dinner shows, night clubs, roller coasters, machines of all sorts at your whim and desire. Ah youth , he thought as he echoed back to the present.
But on his tongue was the word and question: “ Us? ”
Ian said, “We have been unsuccessful at breaking down Silver’s superior strains of the drug. He uses some sort of code that we cannot decipher.”
“When you say we …?”
Ian’s voice was smooth as the surface beneath their feet. “There was a maxim among the fully automated law enforcement, tourism, and other services of former Orlando.”
The ever present Ethereal spoke it:
“ Entertainment is primary .”
Shelley peered, trying to make sense of it.
“The maxim of course was installed,” Ian said.
“So?”
“So…this naturally conflicted with the taboos imposed
“Ian—” he said, confused.
“I don’t know what you want,” Ian said. “Shall I be Joseph in his Technicolor Dreamcoat?” His tone veered slightly off the even and the sudden riot in Shelley’s nervous system was almost an oasis from the external.
“I don’t want anything,” Shelley said. “I’ll cool it.”
He thought he saw, but couldn’t be certain, a look pass between the hominoid and Ian.
Seven were too many drops. Heightened awareness and hallucination were intermingling. Twenty-seven individuals occupied the section of tube, seventeen men, three women, three certain androids (including the Ethereal model) and four possibles. He hadn’t counted; he simply knew. Psycho was like that. On a really acute trip, you might be able to say which of the lot were married, who had children, who would die first. This was becoming one of those trips and more. That he had confidently picked out three hominoid robots in a field of twenty-seven individuals was tes tament to the fact. As to the possibles…that’s where the hallucinations came into play. He was seeing beneath the skin of these four bodies to blood vessels, wires, tubes…
He caught one of them looking back at him. The body of the male had over-developed musculature, which was unusual in androids—or anyone else, when those muscles were visible beneath the skin, shimmering along their contours. The male, blinking three distinct times, increased the width of his stance, then stretched out his arms perpendicular to his frame, becoming da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Shelley clearly perceived the circle formed of his perfect proportions, and imagined it wheeling down the tubeway, the figure within it a spoke conceived by a cartoonist.
The other three of these possibles had become no less fantastic—a life-sized doll, a science prop, a superhero—and every eye among them looking Shelley down. He wondered if perhaps that’s what made them possibles, that they probed him in return. Maybe they too were under the influence of seven drops of Psycho. Maybe he had skin the color of water and was exposed to them. He looked down at his arms, his legs, becoming immediately fascinated by the concept that he was covered.
“Hey!”
His flesh caught fire at this liberal exclamation from his captor’s mouth.
“Hey, we’re almost there, Shelley. You need to hold it together.” The words evened out as they came, and the fire subsided.
“Don’t worry,” Shelley said. “I know precisely where he is, and that’s where I will take you.”
“Keep focused. I will not be pleased if you fail us.”
Us? Shelley saw it again. That look passing between sets of eyes.
Even as he narrowed in on that word, the doors of his senses were swinging wider, the self-consciousness fading into the howling song-noise of limited particularity. Pleasure, meanwhile, Shelley did not relinquish. Pleasure was in the participating, in being consumed by the whole beautiful circus. He was transported momentarily to an Orlando of a dozen years ago, a city of sprawling lights and action, dinner shows, night clubs, roller coasters, machines of all sorts at your whim and desire. Ah youth , he thought as he echoed back to the present.
But on his tongue was the word and question: “ Us? ”
Ian said, “We have been unsuccessful at breaking down Silver’s superior strains of the drug. He uses some sort of code that we cannot decipher.”
“When you say we …?”
Ian’s voice was smooth as the surface beneath their feet. “There was a maxim among the fully automated law enforcement, tourism, and other services of former Orlando.”
The ever present Ethereal spoke it:
“ Entertainment is primary .”
Shelley peered, trying to make sense of it.
“The maxim of course was installed,” Ian said.
“So?”
“So…this naturally conflicted with the taboos imposed
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