Another chunk of  THE REASON

There are few dark corridors on the perpetually well lit huge orbital gigantic spinning pool ring floating in gravity that is Balance Station. Except deep in the structure are dimly illuminated plumbing access tunnels. Typically trashy often drippy. Balance stations poor/not-poor live here. Occasionally a hapless space traveler person gets stuck up here in orbit; Get too drunk, miss your flight, lose all your pay gambling, spend it all on strippers, maybe your marriage partner cashes you out and runs off with their exercise trainer leaving you credit-less ... you too could end up down here among the pipes velcroed into a No-G sack drugged into a thousand channel ENTprog stupor waiting for enough credits to accrue to buy a ticket down to Terra.

I sort of feel quite at home.

“He's not home.” stated plainly the womyn rinsing some grey fabric or garment in the wall trough below a dripping drain valve.

A No-G is a kind of resealable rectangular oversuit with rudimentary booty ended legs but no arms, a close-able hood full of vid screen surface as coms cone pop-ups are no good in a No-G, you can holo call but can't receive full holo and unless you use old fashioned full image skins only can send a face. While zipped in a person can survive any foul ship atmosphere. The No-G can be stuffed with more then a week of snacks and beverages. No-Gs are sometimes called the 'no god suit' because in the event of a full decompression blow out despite all it's systems no god can save you. The thing here is a No-G is easy to see as empty if empty and this No-G at my feet was not empty. There is someone in there. Someone fat and short. Space short. A shortened kind of short that marks a long fractional-g spacer like bow legs marks a cowboy. It's his bag; it says so in the message prompt. The status lami graph display is so dim and dirty I don't want to touch it, and... oof... Space has peed on it now!

“Come on Boosh wake up!” I gave the bag a tender nudge with my foot.

“He's not home I tell ya!” She growled between cigar puffs, the smoke swirling around the underwear? she's wringing enthusiastically.

“Who's in there then?”

“It's so long since it's got washed out it's stuck in his shape!”

Eww... I rub my shuttle slipper toe on the wall under a pipe.

One of the 'Stu's' at Stu's told me this guy could get me a oolala 3000. It's gotta be a oolala. The progmind of a pristine oolala has root code of the french smorm. Since the french zombots this model has been banned from orbit. No one wants zombots running, crawling, flying slime-ing amok on their space craft. But this is a dark economy of the banned within the bowls of the Balance Station. Boosh is a lot broker of contraband in the subculture of those stranded here.

Oolalas' are sought after not so much for their cleaning skills as their shapely well bio-flesh hung chassis. 'They' say duty interference overrides make the model very receptive to sexual bookie bookie.

I ask myself: Why must a maid bot be sexy? Why must there be anatomical correctness? I answer myself: Yes sexy is a must! I mean, they could make an ugly neuter model but who would buy one? And what good is sexy if there are no genitals! It's about the numbers! The bot designers know when they add realistic genitals they will sell many more units. There are niche cleaning bot makers that do ugly or 'ethnic' or plain robot looking robots that sport no sexy bio-flesh. Most of my family machines are of the ugly utilitarian type models. Like every boi though I dreamed of a genital bearing sexy maid bot of my very own even though I didn't exactly know what that looked like. Naturally my research requires I make a careful exhaustive study of oolala 3000 genital area... remaining a professional of course. There are recovery clinics for heartbroken owners of faulty oolalas'. They can also mix a mean marstini I’ve been told.

“When's he get back?”

Her dilapidated shuttle suit emanated a blue beam of light from the vicinity of her left breast that focused a glowing blue circle on the gray fabric as she turned it. The surface sparked and fizzed as trillions of gazillions of bacteria died. Visor closed I sipped suit marstini while the out-suit air gauges spiked towards 'filter overload'.

She turned her bare snag toothed grin over her left shoulder to tell me: “He won't come back to the G till he's good and drunk. Check the slot.”

Slot? Slut? Suit says it's the 'systems liquids overflow tunnel'. Ok then... the sewer.

You would think this future we live in, floating around as we do in futuristic space crafts that fluidic waste management would be engineered in elaborately complicated futuristic technologies, but it is still handled in very primitive ways somewhat much like the cumulative sewers of a satellitic ancient Paris France WE. Even space plumbers are secretive, guild guarding their ancient knowledge steeped in the affects of gravity or suction on semi-liquids. The SLOT is the huge curved large intestine tube at that part of the spinning toroid where the centrifugal gravitational forces makes all the crap run one way towards the giant sphincter-ed airlock where tankers await to take all the crap to the orbital farm sats.

It wasn't far though surprisingly 'up' the doughnut from here. Suit mapped a route to a red door marked '86' by a glowing wavering lami. Threatening my stupidity with various consequences. There could be serious danger beyond this door. I was considering giving up, taking the clipper down to New Vegas NA where you can pick from dozens of oolalas that though they have been reprogrammed away from cleaning could still have enuf root prog to make it a fun search. I take a step back as this red 86 magni-hatch door opens and out of my imaginary danger pours a group of children like they were on a school trip herded by a uniform clad elderly womyn backed by several EDU-aide bots.

The other side of the red door revealed a crowded swap meet, flea market, boot sale, Mercado bizarre, buy-it-fest, vend-a-thon, contraband outlet mart, discount-a-rama, fenced boodle blackest of markets that disappeared into the huge curved tunnel in both directions. I can't help but think that one too many flushes in a departures deck restroom and this could all get washed away.

Space loves it here. So many smells, so may places to mark his passing where no one would shout about it. I got to say he's not much help shopping for an oolala with all his tugging the tether.

There is other animals here besides the humyns: monkey's and bunnies and rats stolen from science, monkey's and bunnies and rats destined to be cooked for snacks; by the howls yaps and barks it's proved Space is not the only smuggled cur, or he's the only not for dinner. He perks up to seek them out but there are free range cats in our path which prove a distraction.

I have always wondered where the blanket vendors get all that chewing gum. Now I know. This is the hub of dark commerce that feeds the folks that line the walls of the departures decks hawking anything that could stack monets. Tremendous amounts of cargo originally destined for elsewhere is yours right here for some quick haggling.

Two dogs, one big one small run up to Space and he seems friendly enough. After the posturing and butt sniffing with them I loose the tether so he can frolic properly for awhile. His new friends IDs tell suit they are: 'Jane' and 'John Doe Dog', who are both stray criminals wanted by the police as stowaway quarantine scoffers. “Run free little Space!” His suit is tracked by my suit. It's not his shark suit but it has ETACs which I have override locked disabled. Anything could happen running in a pack of criminal canines with all the hibachi barbecuing going on, so best to leave the little missiles and group stun out of the fun. He does have fun sparking off a good stun. Gets us banned tho...

I am tempted to buy Boosh a fresh No-G as a service to public health but that is too personal. It was noticed in early Spaceflight eras that people can get quite attached to their suits, like a baby with a blankie, just washing without permission somebodies cherished safe place garment has ignited murderous space madness. “I didn't say that out loud did I?” No screams so I guess I did not.

Jane and John Doe Dog join our research pack. Space reinforced finds Boosh right away pushing a dead battery cart full of domestic bot parts.

“Hey dog! What the hell!” Space marked him like he had the husk of a No-G. The picture on my sleeve matched the angry face that frowned at my doggy though older by years from the entry boarding image of the fresh faced eager young Boosh clutching a tidy flight pack wearing a new bright crisp hot utility suit. I had the fat thing wrong, he was very thin, turn sideways he's gone kinda thinness. Face pale under the sunken eyed very dirtiness. Short stature proves me half right. “You Stu's friend Doorcrack? Dorkrack? Dvork?” Is he trying to read it from in between five ENT show streams?

“Paul. You can call me Paul.”

'Bink' off goes the pop screens. I'm ID'd for a custy. He reached out a very dirty hand sticking through a tattered cuff. I looked, I saw, I shook the filthy paw.

'Paul, you want the oolala 3000?… right... I can tell... I can always spot a oolala man...” he looked me up and down with a cheeky leer. It seemed to him this assessment of me was worthy another hearty handshake.

Space sniffed and sneezed and rubbed his snout across the floor. He made a sound that could have been a cough. The oli data his suit sent to my suit read 'unhealthy'. The smell repelled the Does who trotted away.

“Look. It's for research. I need an unwashed proged 3000 for comparative study.”

'You call it whatever you want.” He winked.

I intend to...

I'll call her 'Mandy'...

'Mobile Automated Nitra Domestic Yorbit' after the Korean industrial chaebol that built her.

She's delivered to my tiny cubicle room at the Balance Hilbert Hotel departures stack.

This was maybe not such a good place to unpack a huge crate. Space and I were quite trapped on the bed until I could push the empty boxing out the door when the pizza arrived. Fortunately this oolala is very flexible while deactivated.

There was a helpful vid manual lami tab adhered to the center of her forehead hidden beneath the sharply cut bangs style hair-do. Meanwhile suit hacked her operating system.

Not much there. Empty memory in an unopened boxed 'new' old vintage model. I could tell by the wrapper she's certainly never been turned on. System still on default general duty maid profile. Original owner paid for her to be shipped as baggage to space then abandoned her on Balance when a big fee got added on. Unclaimed baggage auctions are what keep guys like Boosh in business.

There she stood waiting in her black and white mini smock above the glitter go-go boots. Dressed nothing like the durable duty tutu of the Yvette that carried Space away from the zombots. I was lucky she had not been available for sale till my budget came through; but... best to keep Moody out of this so I paid with my Tanker Ships money through Uncle Klaus's office by my employee: Ms 'Don't Stare At Her Legs Paul'. Smooth as a direct solar trash barge trajectory. Everyone would have understood the cost of a Vegas sex bot. I didn't haggle with Boosh. I suppose I probably paid too much. A pristine maid bot is always valuable for it's lack of the 'eeww' factor. And this oolala 3000 is a collector piece in her unmodified virginity. Mandy is now my research exhibit number one.

The product start up interface is very basic. Of the various voice choices several could be considered sexy in most languages.

What else could I do? I turned her on.

After suit shared ingredients she made a great marstini in the launch tank I had stole from Stu's. As I sipped the misty nectar I watched her clean the room. The disinfectant tank is dry so she spritzed only air. She had no maid equipment so used an imaginary '?' rag to wipe at everything.

First research test: she does not resist being unwrapped from smock nor does this slow down the effort to clean. It must be her innate maid bot superior germ detection over the lackadaisical Hillbert room sani spray nozzles. It must look pretty dirty in here under hard UV. Course Space makes his little messes everywhere. Oh and the thousands of drunken travelers from thirty cultures shedding whole civilizations of bacteria... eww. I give her a pillow case for a rag and fill the tiny sink with water. She catches on quick scrubbing away at the glowing microbes with a disturbingly blank look on that gorgeous face.

It took all of fifteen minutes for me to fall completely in love. I didn't even get to the genitals!

On the way there I paused her sanitizing squarely in front of me to attempt to peel the little projector lami from her beautiful forehead. She went all cross-eyed looking up at my clumsy tugging. Permi-manicured fingers pushed my hand away so the lami could be lifted effortlessly for those fingers with a feint champagne cork pop, which I think had to have been mostly electronic sound effect, to pop it like a snack into her lovely perfectly shaped mouth past those excellent bright white artificial teeth with a delightful gulp. Yes... here is where it got weird.

There it is in the systems graphic: these bots have a tiny carbon furnace for burning up hazardous cleaning chemical waste thus cutting down on charge times. That could come in handy, giving her horrible things eat so she could cross charge a dimming suit. Disposing soiled sani-liners to make me marstini's is a feature I guess I could use.

The oolala's initial popularity lay in the artistry of the engineers that had sculpted her scantlings. The oolala/Yvette series held appeal with all sexes and age groups. Gorgeous: to make Dad willing to pay for her; always ready to cheerfully clean up children's messes; non threatening, guileless, innocence enough to keep Mom from pushing her off the balcony.

While her shape is very accurate the chassis under the bio-flesh is rather angular, mechanical, too obviously created by technology not biology. Sharp edged plasti skeli-structure is the apliantologist mechani-sex fancier's biggest complaint. That's the challenge: to build a marketable sex bot as close to humyn as possible. New models from numerous manufacturers attempt this constantly. Sex bots are one thing but a maid bot only has to be so sexy. It's a fine line between household appliance and jealous lover.

While this body I love is very interesting it's the triple cored mind I'm supposed to be interested in, I tell myself.

“We'll be at your door in two hours.”

Traci wants to infect my artificial fiance with the viral brain worm fungus and watch what happens. The gen-sci's want her to go mother-bot like the Yvette in Paris. They have promised to give her back to me if they don't have to destroy her with nukes. Maybe they can cure her before all the furniture goes smorm.

These two weeks we spent together in the hotel room has bonded me to her like an active warranty. Space has never been so well groomed.

 

 More of  THE REASON

“Paul!” Traci tugged at my face pulling her into my focus. Once I stopped blinking I started drooling so I went back to blinking. It was the light. She was shinning a pen light into my eyes. “Paul? You in there?” Pinch of the cheek!

“YOW!” That woke me up! Pinch me if I'm dreaming, no wait not again!

“I thought maybe you'd gone zombie.”

“Would a zombie...! ACHOO! ...sneeze?”

“Geez I hope not! Yuck! You couldn't turn your head?”

“Where'd everybody go?”

“The noises you were making cleared the place.” She seemed relieved I was not zombied. It would have helped if she lowered the blaster aimed at my head. She gave me a deep look and I could see her decide I was safe and she lowered the weapon and said in an oddly cheery tone: “Come on lets go to my quarters.” A beckoning in which I sleepily dreamed a cats meow.

“Ok.” I stood meow. It was not so far, about six scurrying cats away. A fat calico tabby was waiting at Traci's door to get in. I sneezed an entrance fanfare. Some kinda histamine overload. We sit upon her plush lounge among the gamboling kittens I greet with sniffles. Who doesn't love kittens! Wait! What's with all these felines? I've heard about this curved can! It's cat station! Legendary “Cat Station!”

Traci explains: “Yes this medi-sat is known to some as 'cat station' because we love them so much! But they are a necessary vital part of our crew, we have so many millions of mice and rats here... you know for testing and feeding the snakes that we need our cat crew mates to help control the escapees!”

“There's escapees?”

“Oh yes.” Meaningful frown. “Look at the cats... they must be eating well.” The thought makes her happy again.

“Wait. Snakes?”

“They help with the rats and mice too. The mongooses take care of the escaped snakes... well mostly... they're immune to the venom you know... get along well with the cats. Just don't make one feel cornered if you have an encounter... you know grrrwwl!” She made a claw slash gesture with a low groin level snap. As cute as much of this was I am unsettled by the venomous snake news. Still, no reason not to enjoy a drink, she hands me a well chilled launch tank of marstini, she has one herself. If I'm to be savaged by cornered mongooses I'll want to be well anesthetized.

“Paul, I've still got something special to show you.” She purrs as she strokes a pussy.

The CO2 ice mist has froze my draining sinuses... “I can't wait.”

She's up across the room then back with a garment bag she opens to reveal a dull gray anti-shark suit that she thrusts towards me. “Try it on. Go on.” It's meant for me? A gift? She cares about me so much she doesn't want me eaten by sharks or zombies! It's made to fit over my shuttle suit which it flattens into spandex skin tight when sealed.

“Wow! Thank you Traci! Let's test it! Bite Me! Yeah. Wait. Oof ouch not the nose!”

I feel much better about snakes now. I love it when people give me things, especially things I want but are too lazy or stupid to obtain on my own. Suit: send her some cases of recently ancestral scotch.

Mid nibble is when Traci's cabin door buzzer buzzed intruding-ly, startling the cats. She jumps up to accept a delivery.

“Hey Paul, it's for you!” She signs the delivery bots lami receipt. It hands her a shipping box the size of shoe packaging. What's this? For me? I accept her hand off and set the package on the table by the beverages.

“EDC Embryonic Decanter Corporation, Upper Chufington England. What the heck?” Never heard of them. Opening the box produces a shiny metal flask with a wide mouth spin-on cap. A lami on its side flashed a steady color red as metrics displays flowed. I tapped the INST tab; a display appeared in the air mirroring the tiny lami. A tutorial instructed to “unscrew cap remove membrane tear open along dotted line enjoy many years of puppy love!”

“What?” I unscrew the cap and remove the crinkly packet inside. I tear along the dotted line. The membrane packet holds a tiny dog asleep. A lami at the neck flashes 'press to begin new life' which I do for the little puppy to open it's eyes to see me surrounded by hungry cats.

Suit has linked to the puppies packaging. We read: “Hello my name is (SPACE) I'm your Pic-a-Puppy Genetic Best Friend for Life! All your specifications have been included in our most popular Jack Russel II Terrier Patented Genome, Extra Lifespan, Extra Intelligence, Extra strong bones, Dissuade Coprophagous Behavior, Extra Obedient, Extra Athletic Ability, Extra Anti-flea Coat, Extra Warranty Parts and Labor. Plus Bonus of at Least One Extra Special Ability such as Defensive Genital Pinch, Slobber Trail, Mind Reading.”

“Well you got all the extra's.”

“It says I ordered this?” Suit blames it on my other pants that got recalled, it, snubbed Tom Cavendish, assumed my chat with the pet scientist was the placing of an order.

The puppy, my puppy is cuddled by the cat lover. “Wow. How cute...what will you name him... or her?” She peeks.

“Um... it says 'him' here... male. It says his name is 'Space'.” Translation glitch, his name could very well have been 'blank' or 'your name here'.

“Welcome little Space! Hello Spacey Space.“ Playfully my new puppy ignores me for her. They are so cute together, add kittens, I want to change my name to Space and frolic with them. My attempt spills steaming CO2 ice and marstini all over Traci's carpet.

“What does he eat eh? Got any puppy chow?” Care and feeding instructions say: feed regularly, water frequently, bathe occasionally. That's my lifestyle too! Substitute marstini for water.

“No but I've got Kitten Kitchen Kanned Gourmet. We don't like to feed them often the pouched food as they will slack off hunting.”

While Traci went to plop something onto a dish, Space explored his new world of cats at the nearby water bowl by falling into it.

“My doggy can swim!”

I'm afraid what happened next might have negatively shaped the little dogs perception of cats for life. He was indeed interested in the Salmon Surprise Kitten Kitchen Kanned Gourmet shinning gelatinous-ly upon the saucer, he was drawn more to dip his face in the cup of milk next to it. I noticed here the local cat population had gone up, the sound of the pouch's zipper opening had signaled them like a Pavlov's bell. They crowded the saucer, they shoved at the milk cup. It all happened so fast. Tiny Space defended his salmon and milk, he yapped, he nipped, he scampered menacingly, growling, clawing. It became a catastrophe in the ancient sense of the word, cats went everywhere, wreckage and debris of the furnishings flew as if a floor level whirlwind struck, cats fought cats, cats fought the upholstery, a mongoose ran in from somewhere and kicked one particular cats ass, Space the smallest of all, even smaller then the smallest kittens, fought them all ferociously until I could grab him by his tiny puppy scruff. Ha! Thanks for the bite proof suit! He swung at my arms length squirming, growling with infrequent yaps. His arc across the crowd of cats drew snarls and hisses as I aimed him at them like a weapon.

Next thing I know Space and I are kicked off the platform. I am forced by brandished tranquilizer dart guns to stand at the taxi boarding gate with Space in a plastic cat transport crate which must smell like cat as he's attempting to tear it into small chunks. Apparently it's a crime to bring a loose canine to this SAT. Who knew? I wasn't fully entry briefed. Traci comforts a nice fluffy angora, waving between strokes safely from the other side of thick glass.

Takes Helen two hours to come pick me up... “Hey Paul. Who's that?” Space peeks out from the top of my suit.

“Helen meet Space. The newest member of our research team.”

“Only you would go to cat station and leave with a dog! They try to give everybody kittens!”

“Let's go.”

“Where to?”

“Ginzberg and Cohen Tailors we've got to get Space into a good suit.”

 A segment of THE REASON

A knockout! Drop dead gorgeous, killer good looks. She was that kind of beautiful described best by reference to death and violence. She was a punch in the gut. A jab in the eye, a jaw dropper, dazzlingly dangerously superstar pretty. I have to put on sunglasses just to think about her kind of bright. Her blinding beauty disconnected my brain from my feet...

This is where my new hobby of marstini's has led me: face to chest with stardom. Launch tank launched to hit squarely the chef's tunic clad Armando. Moon gravity accentuates my drunken slapstick to true stoogian proportions. Her laughter leads me to assume mine is not the first face that cleavage has cushioned.

Armando's on Luna makes by far the best Marstini in Solsys. Armando stands behind his formula or in this case stands wearing it. The toss out onto the promenade is gentle comparatively for a first toss from a new place.

She was next to me before I stopped rolling.

“Oh I'm so sorry! Are you OK? That Armando! His temper!” She reached down to help me up. The palisade lighting cast her face in a glowing halo of gossamer hair.

“Oof...” I did need her help. Our brief struggle with the weak gravity brought me closer then merely face to cleavage. She wore a fashionable outfit that left no systems to the imagination. She smelled deliciously of ambergris and electronic ozone.

“Here... let me buy you a drink? To make up for this.” She was taking the blame for my drunken stumblings like she knew what her beauty could do to foot traffic. “I'm such a klutz. Who'd believe I'm a dancer!” She laughed the laugh of someone who's never clearly heard themselves laugh. It was cute right to snorks that faded from her pneumatic chest. What could I say?

“Where? They just threw me outta there.”

Down a dingy service alley she leads me to a common utility door. A holo logo glows a subtle blue 'A.S.E.R.' Meaning: 'a small empty restaurant'. Go through the door into a vestibule to face another door whose simple sign says 'Guido's Italian'. We go through this door into an empty restaurant, very old style stereotypical decor of checked tablecloths topped with Chianti bottles dripping colored wax from the twinkling candles, Naples or Bologna peeking through painted stone windows. We are greeted as family with exuberant hugs by two old people on duty, somehow they know our names but still get them wrong calling us Romeo and Jullietta, the man: hairy eared mustachioed Guido, the womyn: dark and round equally hairy Maria. Guido and Maria argue and bicker constantly in dialect like two people who've been together for ages. It all is quite charming. The food superb. Very romantic. Other then us very empty.

I love Hillbert restaurants so much I've never eaten in the same one twice. You go back another time and the place is gone, replaced by 'Fifi's French' or 'Shaky Pizza' or any one of the thirty six that are in the stack. Where's Guido? It's a toss of the electron. Scroll through the list of available small empty restaurants till you might find 'Guido's Italian', beyond the vestibule and the Guido you get could be some other actor, that's cause that is what it is: performance; dinner theater for for hungry horny drunk people. There is vid out there of couples clearing the table for desert, so to speak, while Guido and Maria or Fifi and Jacques or Kieko and Soata-san quietly duck into the back to total the new bill.

“I'm Paul Dvorak.”

“My name is Sandalor.” She gave me a look like I was supposed to react.

Naturally we had slurp-y Felliniesque dinners of pasta. We saved desert for later while she told me her life story. She loved it here in the stack of restaurants. She liked to eat alone in public. The Hillberts were less stressful then having to deal with fans pestering her for autographs, DNA, pieces of clothing, hanks of hair. Not that she doesn't love them for making her fabulously wealthy, “It's just too much sometimes.”

I was trying hard to sympathize with her but frankly I'd never heard of her before. Suit played me some vid of her wowing crowds of rabid fans with her dub pop classical style EDM cover of the ancient 'Always look on the bright side of life'. She's famous! Which would be more fun if she didn't think she was a fraud. It was all her Svengali, a hyper wealthy ENT mogul. Gone to sacred Hollywood she had been reduced by lack of talent to being a model. She was sent by an agency to model for him.

“Well, he asked me to wear a billowy dress with no underwear and stand over him like this” she gets up to demonstrate, feet wide apart leaning forward looking downward, “and strum a guitar. I did it a few times for him and it was kinda kinky, I didn't mind, it was kinda fun. Then one day after I strummed he looked up at me and said 'You know this would be better if you could actually play the guitar. Here's some money so you can get lessons and learn a real song.' It was a lot of money. He said: 'Pick a good song you think I'd enjoy then come back stand over me in the dress and play it.' So I did. I took guitar lessons and had a trim and a wax and played him a song I wrote. He liked it very much and bought me a car so I could get to singing and dance lessons too. And so I wrote more songs and the rest is history!” This explains the art on her first album, her, the guitar, the dress. It sure looked like she wasn't wearing underwear in the photo.

Sandalor moved in with me at grandmothers domed crater in Earthrise Estates. Seclusion for artistic reasons announced. Grandmother is in California with Mother grafting vines. I became involved completely in the background of Sandalor's life, which she lived to a world audience. Was I in love? She was lovable, I could not resist. Was she in love with me? She said so often, sometimes in front of witnesses.

You know how it is with someone you love, with every caress you get to know all the features of their skin. It was like that. She had a mole, not a large one, a cute one actually, on her hip. My hand would always return to it like it was magnetic to me. It felt often beneath my hand and then once it was not. The mole was gone.

I asked: “Did you have your mole removed?”

She said: “What mole?” Of course she had to have seen it, no mirror required.

“The mole right there...” I touched the spot. She changed the subject.

I didn't think much more about it till I noticed the scar that wasn't on her finger, usually hidden by her topaz ring. She had removed the ring and the scar was gone. She had before explained that as a girl she had inserted that finger into the bathtubs spigot then slipped, the finger wrenched and cut by the metal edge.

It was the missing appendectomy scar that really started to freak me out. Laying under her while she strummed her hit songs got a bit creepy.

Truth was despite body swapping nightmares she was getting even more beautiful. A message woke me up. Hollywood beckoned with ever more money then she could spend. She could go from fabulously wealthy to unbelievably ultra wealthy. The audio only 'dear Paul' said she loved me but...

She loved me but... I believe it when I need a boost. When I hear she's become the greatest dramatic actress to appear in tasteful nude scenes I think that the disappearing mole and scars must have been all part of her career plan. Though that there is more then one of her is a thought that persists.

It got lonely at grandmothers dome. Her most attractive servant was not programmed properly for standing guitar. Soon I couldn't look at the furniture without seeing memories of her sprawled strumming. I called a taxi limo from grandmothers service to take me to Balance where I could bar hop till something else to do found me.

We weave the lunar orbital scenery to arrive just as the clipper shuttle was boarding at the next airlocks. I got off the Luna shuttle aimed for the Boom Room to try to wash my memories in close up images of table dancers. I had a clear shot at the ramp that twists when two people crashed into my local fraction of gravity. I spun into them to be confronted by a very ugly guy clutching the arm of Sandalor. She left me for this guy!? Only Sandalor received most of the impact. I helped her up into the vertical and there was no topaz ring to hide the scar on her finger. I gave her a pat to “just brush you off...” to touch the not today missing mole on her hip. “Sandalor...”

“Lets go.” Her escort was up, tugging her into the clipper boarding gate. She averted her eyes and went. ”Sandalor...what?...bye.”

Boom Room is no place to take a broken heart. It's a place to have your heart broken. Eagles Landing a little further away round the down of the doughnut, is my walk of shame through the people of thirty cultures crammed in here all going elsewhere. The Landing is it's usual half full of sad drunks. They keep it dark so you can't see the weeping. It's got a low ceiling as a damper of any enthusiasm. The walls and furnishings dark brown fake wood. The atmosphere of quietly conversing drunks, coms displays flickering, beverage containers clinking, comfortable wide broadband padded booth soft lounge muzak lulls me into the marstini numb confusion that is my best working state.

People lose moles all the time... scars fade... but... then come back? What's up with her? Does she have a twin? Am I being twin rolled somehow? Why? Points on the big list if I have been sleeping with twins. Marstini truth is cold and misty. Till the 'to do' holo calls into my com cone.

Junior the nose is smiling. He's completed his assignment. Many millions of barrels of three types of alcohols went into the swamp near a certain complex of bio labs. Warrants I file, open subpoenas I ready. The supposition is they are bootlegging rocket fuel to tax dodgers. I will visit the area as soon as I’m thrown out. Augg, I'm having a musical allergic reaction to muzaks twinkling xylophone loops. I get suit to crank up 'wrestler' with intent to offend.

Wrestler doesn't get through the first “FUCK YOU!” before I have to tune it down to hear what the smiling nose is trying to tell me, but, he's not smiling now, he's frowning... “zombies!” “Is that a good drink? I heard of that... do they go good after several marstini's?”

“No S.R. Dvorak! The site! The alcohol swamp! It's got zombies now! They just declared a quarantine. It's on the news. Brain eating zombies!” I dropped his call to hit the ENT channels.

What timing! I would’ve gone there yesterday, last week, instead I waited to hide Sandalor from paparazzo. Well, now I really have to go there, and it's got zombies. So that's it. Zombies again. It's always zombies. Easy for history to blame it all on the undead. Who're they gonna sue? Living lawyers won't work for brains yet, thank god for that, or better: thank chemistry. And what is it this time? alien parasitic spores once more? mass puffer fish venom poisoning? supernatural infectious suggestion? more brain worms? evil scientist slave army? bossy fungus’s? new apocalyptic bio war staggerers? Where does it end? I should'a guessed months ago any serious booze research would lead to zombies.

 

Paul Dvorak: King

“Now that you are King we have something wonderful to show you.”

Oh no...now what... “Oh?”

His graphic coalesces in the air between us. It sharpens into the image of an architectural monstrosity mash up of over stylistic gaudy features. I'm reminded of any tera desert casino complex.

“We going to Vegas?”

“Ha ha you are so funny! No this place is yours. It's being built for you.”

“For me?!” My own ghastly casino! Would I be 'house' then? Naturally the odds are always rigged. Do I get to keep the punters money?

“Who would you like to join you there your majesty? Your are the King now so anybody you ask for would have to go with you.”

“Oh! It's a party eh?” How many can I invite? What's the capacity of that place?

“Hundreds or thousands if you want. They will all be glad to go for the king.”

I love a huge party. “When is the party then? Has a date been set?”

“As soon as you are dead, my king.”

“Dead. This is the model of your tomb. Much room of course for the thousands who will die with you.”

“What! You're already building my tomb!?”

“Oh yes. No telling how long you'll last. We have to get started right away. In fact now even...could you please choose a color pallet for the entrance lobby and atrium? The artists have made a range of suggestions that won't clash with the sacrificial crypts of your family the ministers and close advisers.”

“Would that include you?” I gave him my special look of violent disapproval which after much mirror practice might kinda look more like I have abdominal pain. I just got be King only minutes ago and here they are planning my funeral!

“Oh yes! Here's the plan for my condo mausoleum with all my favorite stuff waiting for the afterlife.”

“What if I live another hundred years? All your furniture would be out of style, your domestic gadgets obsolete.”

This made him chuckle like he knew that wasn't going to happen. “Should you...” pause for eye contact, “survive long it would all be modernized. I would never enjoy an eternity of death without the latest appliance features and trendiest furnishings. Everyone buys new cloths when the King dies just in case they are asked to join you.”

How would it screw up their society to demand all the salesmen proceed me into death. These traditions have probably kept this economy going for centuries.New King gets to screw a few virgins, has a good meal, tombs done, everybody buys new stuff and on to the next king.

from the ANSWER

Funny. I don't see me here in the Rocket lounge. Real launch tanks of marstini don't lie.

What do you say when you get a call from yourself? The holo guy looked just like me. The ID said: 'Paul Dvorak unknown loc'. From the future? If this is me from the future why holocall? What are the charges like on a call I haven't made to myself yet? Since suit is paying I accept my crisper self image into the contact cone.

“Paul.”

“Paul.” Do I call myself 'Paul' like this thinking?

”You're me”

“I'm you?”

“From the future?”

“No.” “The past then?” “No.” “So...I've been cloned again?” Darn DNA scattered all over the place!

“Just shut up and listen to what I've got to say...”

“Who the hell are you? If you are me how come I don't know what I'm about to tell me?” Suit says the call comes from my sleeve holo company lami. How can I holo call myself? Does this cost me double? Looped up somehow? I would think me from the future would remember how drunk I am right now.

“Listen! There is no time! No time right now! “

“What time is it there? Here?” Suit says 14:25. Is this a call to someone else that's time lagged? Have I got a lagged line now? Pings me fat bandwidth...

“No! It's now everywhere! You are me now. I'm you and you're me. Now listen!”

“Why should I listen to me? I'm not a good judge of my character. I wouldn't believe anything I'd tell myself. I'm often right about being wrong. Like now cause I'm usually always right. If I'm me and so are you then you would know that I would never take any advice that I would give to anybody much less myself.”

“It's too late? Listen! Shut up and listen! It's too late now!”

“That's what I'm trying to tell me? That it's too late? Too late for what? Why didn't I tell me earlier?”

But I couldn't tell me anything more. I was gone with a sparkling 'blip'. Alone again in a bar full of drunks who weren't paying any attention.

“Paul.” Suit got something to say.

“Yes Carla?”

“What was that about?”

...so the smartest, richest pants in the whole solsys is asking me now for answers...