Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER 33

Martin Spencer looked around at the crowd. They had folding chairs, but many stood. Tiny recording drones hovered all over. He had an audience of a couple of hundred. As always among these people, he felt like a midget.

The amphitheater was a perfectly manicured bowl on the bank of a perfectly cut stream, which had grass to the bank and occasional gravel, and appeared to have its assigned place and how dare it disrupt the plants.

The weather was clear and bright. He’d never seen skies this deep a blue before. He figured part of it was geography, part of it a massive cleanup of the pollution of his era. It was actually too bright for what he had planned, but he’d make it work.

“Greetings. I’m Sergeant First Class Martin Alan Spencer of the US Army, but I’m here right now as an experimental archeologist. I assume you’ve all read a summary of our circumstances. We were short on resources and had only limited hand tools for fabrication, so I used the knowledge I had to make an iron reduction furnace and forge. It worked. After I got back, I did more reading and visited with some experts, so I have a better refined method, which I think is reasonably close to the historical way of doing it, in several parts of the world, including this area.”

He took a drink of water from a future equivalent of a CamelBak, and got to work.

“We made charcoal already, which was a two-day-long process. It’s going to take a bit longer to do this, and I’m actually making it quick and dirty for the demonstration. A slower, more refined process would make it more reliable. This is just a demonstration of technique.”

Everyone had agreed to assist, and it was still going to be a three-day process, he hoped. The area had been carefully prepared with all the “natural” things he needed—a flowing stream, some shade, a flat rock, lots of large river cobbles. They’d built crude shovels from wood and had ore and other items ready.

“First, we have to build the furnace. This is clay from the riverbank. This is horse manure. Regular straw also works, but can cut up your hands. It’s actually easier to use processed hay, through an animal.”

There were some mutters, some ews, some snickers, but mostly fascinated interest and conversation about how that would work. Most of these people were science oriented, after all.

Onto a real animal hide from one of the food growing labs, he used a flat split of wood to shovel manure and clay. He mixed it with another thinner split of wood, until it was evenly mixed.

He saw Maralina, but really didn’t want to acknowledge her in public, and certainly didn’t feel socially acceptable covered in dung and clay.

“This was also used as a building material you may see referenced as ‘wattle and daub.’ Wattle was woven twigs. This is the daub. Here, though, we make it into thick ropes and coil it up as a chimney. Rule one is, never touch your face during this process.”

There were laughs at that.

It took a couple hours to build the furnace, everyone mixing dung and clay, coiling up the tower. He made it about four feet tall, with an internal diameter just over a foot. He explained as he went, about the vent in the bottom to let the charge out, and any slag. The tuyere where the air went in, made from the same material around a large animal bone. He rinsed off in the stream several times, wondering exactly how close this was to the historical Amu Darya river that was now so much a part of his life. Periodically they drank water and grabbed a sealed bite of food on a skewer that didn’t require fingers on the food.

“Okay, we have the raw furnace. Doc and Dalton are now going to work on two different types of bellows, with Amalie and…Sean helping. Kate and I are going to cure the inside. Jenny is going to work on cracking charcoal.”

Caswell had a flat split of limb as an anvil, a mallet made from a tapered smaller branch. Along with her knife, she commenced splitting and cracking charcoaled sticks into pea-sized lumps. She was black with dust within seconds.

Doc and Dalton used two whole goat hides, open at the neck, to create bags with one-way valves. Two other more recognizable bellows were made of split planks, leather, and carved wooden muzzles.

He and Kate started a small fire inside the furnace, then began feeding sticks in steadily.

“You’ll see a couple of small cracks. I’m going to squeeze more mud in as mortar on those. We’re using the inside fire to harden the material into a concrete. It would be better to have more air-drying first. Again, this is just a demonstration.”

People had come and gone as this went on, but the drones hovered around. He learned to quickly ignore them. He did note the buzzing things never entered a private area, though they were all over everywhere outside and in the public atria.

He had ore, the bellows looked ready, there was plenty of charcoal—everyone had chipped in to help Jenny as soon as they finished the other tasks. They had a pile of charcoal.

“Okay, we’ll pick up tomorrow at oh seven hundred in our reckoning. It will be a long day.”

He needed a shower, and a beer.


Armand stepped into the shower and doused off, before asking for thick gel to scrub with. Ironworking was as filthy here as it had been in the past. Talk about getting down and dirty.

He was actually off duty for the rest of the day. The Byko had better medical care than he could provide if anyone got hurt, and all his Army gear was inventoried. He had nothing practical to do until they went back for the Germanics.

House announced, “Armand, you have a contact request from Alexian Twine.”

“Sure,” he agreed. What did she want?

“Armand, I gather you’re free for the rest of the day?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“I’d like to socialize.”

“Of course. Where should we meet?”

“We can meet at Heisenberg’s and go from there.”

“Sounds good. I’ll head that way now. House, I probably don’t actually need a marker, but please give me one anyway.”

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t find the place by now.

Twine was standing in the entrance when he arrived. It was now a double-width doorway, arched and with a fake portcullis. Part of why this place never got boring was the perpetual changing.

She was wearing something skintight that faded away instead of having defined edges. Under that were flat sandals and over it a cape that flowed out from her cleavage over her shoulders, and holy crap, did she have a rack. He’d always known that, but damn, now he could see it.

“Afternoon,” he offered.

“Good to see you,” she returned with a smile. She approached, hand on his arm, and then kiss on his cheek. He’d seen that here. It was a personal greeting. He tried to return it without hesitating, and felt a bit awkward.

She asked, “Shall we get a drink to go and I can show you more of the village?”

“Sure,” he agreed. They turned to the bar near the door, and he ordered a beer. She rapid-fired something that seemed to include “Wodka” and “Limo.” Whatever she was served seemed to match.

He wondered if this place ever closed. It wasn’t busy at present, but there were several people drinking and one man singing in the corner, with a deep baritone supported by music from somewhere.

She tilted her head to indicate direction. “This way.”

They took ramps, slideways, and broad stairs until they were at the top of the building. It had a transparent guard that he stood well back from, especially as there was a bit of a breeze.

“That will take some getting used to,” he said.

“That’s okay,” she said, leaning on the rail and bending over, and goddamn, what an ass. She shifted balance on her left foot and he exhaled.

“It’s a really great view,” she said, sounding relaxed and happy.

“Very much so,” he agreed. Both the scenery and the scenery.

From there, they went down one level and across a walkway to another building. This was an asymmetric pyramid, leaning back against itself, in what looked like black marble. Once inside, there was a lot of gold décor, and he was pretty sure it was real gold.

The club there had a sign that clearly read SARCOPHAGUS, and lots of marble in colors other than black, with green and yellow veins running through it. There was music and dancing, and the crowd seemed a bit younger. Possibly college age for here?

She confirmed that when she said, “The interns like this. Though I’m older and still come here at times.”

The barmaid, if that was an acceptable term, was topless, in a white Egyptian girdle and with a headdress. Nice curves. She served him an “Anubis” that was dark, sweet, and had a bit of licorice. He took a second sip to be sure.

“Interesting, but not really my taste,” he told her.

“What flavor would you prefer?” she asked via translator. She didn’t speak American English.

“Coconut or pineapple, maybe. I know it doesn’t match the presentation.”

“I can fix that,” she nodded, poured in something else. He took a taste, and the licorice was gone entirely, replaced by a tropical mix with coconut and pineapple.

“Awesome, thanks,” he agreed.

Alexian took him through the building, hand on his shoulder, then his arm, then his hand.

“The marble is from south of here, the black stone, east.”

“All by air?” he asked. “No roads.”

“Yes, we use whatever transport is available, often air or sea.”

“How far is the sea?”

“We’re in the middle of Asia, not far from where you were. The Aral Sea has been re-flooded, and there are canals from the Caspian to the Black Sea, but that’s still not close to here.”

That was interesting. He’d have to look at a map to refresh his memory of how those all connected.

She asked, “Can I take you to dinner later?”

“Sure,” he agreed. Anything she wanted to do was fine with him. “When?”

“We have a couple of hours until then. Want a snack?”

“Just a small sandwich or something.”

She gestured, he followed, they stopped at a stand in the corridor, more of a plaza, that had sandwiches of a sort, almost as if the bread had been baked around the fillings, and perhaps it had been. Ham, cheese, cucumber, mustard, tomato, and something like lettuce but not as bitter. It was half the size he was used to, but quite filling, and he used the rest of his cocktail to wash it down.

They were still walking past shops and offices, and it was fascinating that everyone walked here even when instant transport was available. They liked seeing one another and getting fresh air. Several people waved at Twine, and a couple greeted her. There was a short interlude where he felt out of place while she and a man jabbered away in what sounded like a dialect of Russian about some project or other. They waved and he moved on.

“Come on,” she said and led him through a door. They emerged in sunlight and she said, “We’ll get transport here.”

More than the flying carpets or the sled he’d seen so far, this was more of a trike. She swiped the controls and it started driving.

“I’d like to show you my place. It’s at the south edge of the village.”

“Sure.” Yes, he’d love to see local lodging, especially hers, and damn, was he having thoughts.

She was holding his hand and leaning against his shoulder, and that seemed a very solid hint, so he faced her, and she smiled, and their lips met…

She was an amazing kisser. His pulse hammered, he heard it rush and thunder inside his head, and he broke out in a sweat.

They separated and he said, “Thank you, that was amazing.”

“It’s a treat for me, too,” she said. “I’ve been managing a project for months with little downtime.”

They pulled up at a broad block of what could be European condos, with gardens in between. There was so much open space here, no one needed much personal yard.

There was an elevator, silent, covered, and quick, to a fourth floor. The walkway was perfectly flat paved to a door, apparently hers.

Once she opened it, he whistled.

It hit him in bits. Open floor plan, tiled, couches, geometric artwork, cool grays. Kitchen corner. Dining table. She led the way in and he followed.

It had to be a function of her height, but those hips were gloriously full without being saggy. She had great tone all over. She was amazing to look at, and phenomenal to talk to.

“I’m going to change, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” he agreed. He could look at the layout of this place.

“Want to help me choose an outfit?”

“Yes,” he replied. He was all out of clever remarks.

She waggled her head, walked toward the wall that opened for the private area, and as they stepped through she started peeling the leotard down.

Oh, shit.

In three seconds she was naked, and spectacular.

“Do you want to scrub my skin? I put a salve on earlier. It should be working now.”

“What type of salve?”

“It inhibits the skin. It’s getting inflamed, and you can treat it.” She smiled.

That was an odd fetish, but seemed harmless enough.

“Sure,” he agreed.

She turned back around.

He was momentarily taken aback. Her shoulders were covered in pimples and zits, with red, angry pinpoints of other irritated pores.

She stepped to the bed, lay down, and pointed.

“That’s an acetyl treatment that cleans and tightens, and there’s a scrubber.”

That was certainly an invitation to touch her.

He sat next to her, grabbed the textured cloth, and splashed some of the cleaner on it. Yeah, that was a distillate. A strong one. He rubbed carefully across her left shoulder, was rewarded by several of the welts breaking and oozing. She hissed slightly from the sting.

“Is there something less strong? That won’t hurt?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she said, and he could see a grin on the side of her face.

Very well.

He finally noticed the bed looked completely normal, because form followed function, but the mattress was hard to describe. Firm, yielding, padded, cool, supportive even while he sprawled. The frame was wood with a nice grain.

He rubbed in increasing pressure and motion, using the astringent as needed. It took a couple of minutes to rub the bumps smooth, and the gel cleaned out some clogged pores as well. He worked down a line of them near her spine, to a cluster above her buttocks.

“Do you like my skin, Armand?” she asked.

“Yes. Very much,” he replied. Those shoulders were gorgeous cream over healthy muscles, and her back was bare to the swell of her ass. Her butt was large but beautifully shaped and proportional to her legs. That was just perfect. He liked fit women. He also liked a round ass. It was hard to find both, but her height required a certain amount of pelvis and glute, and there it all was.

Damn.

He worked out another eruption. On the one hand, it was fascinating to see so much of her skin up close. It was certainly intimate. The fetish didn’t really bother him. He guessed it was a bit like bubble wrap for some people. But then, it was like being on duty.

That was the problem.

“This really isn’t working for me,” he said.

“I’m sorry. Unpleasant?”

“No, it feels like I’m being professional. I can’t get personal when I’m on task.”

“Ah. I see. Well, let me wipe a counteragent on this, and we’ll wait a bit. If that’s okay?”

“Sure,” he said.

“In fact, shall we bathe?”

That seemed like a very good idea.

She led him to her bathroom, and rattled off, “Temp norm, fade ep fyv fyv, mist all, face clear, thnks.”

The water started, and he could tell it was already hot, no waiting. The shower had a shallow bowl under it, with raised walls except on the entry side. The air was warm, the water contained, and there was no need for a curtain.

Well, the only thing to do was get naked and join her, and damn.

He felt a bit awkward pulling off his pants, and realized he should have already. She turned away, either conveniently or intentionally, and asked for something, which was a bottle. She splashed that over her shoulders and back.

“Armand, if you rub that all the way down, my skin will clear up in a few minutes.”

“Sure.” He flipped off his briefs and stepped in behind her.

He couldn’t help brushing against her, and she didn’t object. He felt her flesh, and warm water, and was ready for anything she might propose.

Her skin did clean up quickly. It wasn’t surprising that their tech was adapted to sex. That was a human standard. Once her skin was smooth again, she pulled her hair back over her shoulders and let it hang.

“Would you like to help me wash it?”

“Of course!” he said. “Shampoo?”

She pointed to a recess in the wall. It was empty, but at a guess, he put his hand in and was rewarded with a palmful of another gel.

He started at her scalp and worked it down her tresses, fingers running through the soapy lines of it, while she leaned against the wall.

He was trying to decide if he could fuck her right here, but she turned under the spray to rinse out her hair, leaning her head back, and he got another fantastic view of her amazing tits.

Shortly the two of them were blown dry, warm, and clean, and the mist disappeared. She stepped out and coaxed him with a nod of her head.

It was surreal. On the one hand, it was part of the rush to get a girl’s clothes off. However, one who just peeled and said, “Shall we?” was a different kind of rush.

The wall shifted and they were back in her bedroom. Though seeing it from this angle, it seemed more like a hotel room. That wall was for viewing. There were few things in sight. Was it a rec room for romance?

It also had a bar. She grabbed a bottle personally, rather than through the devices, poured two glasses, and handed him one.

He took it, and sat in a chair across from the one that appeared for her. The patrons were unobtrusive, but always present.

He felt a bit uncomfortable. He hadn’t sat around naked with others just making small talk. She and he had started intimately, now just sat romantically, sort of, and he was throbbingly aroused, but they were sitting and drinking.

She looked totally relaxed, and stunning.

The wine was good, too. He’d never been a wine drinker, but this was very nice without being either too sweet or too “dry,” which for him always tasted sour. It was certainly grape, lightly sweet, and with a bit of a kick.

She asked him, “What do you like of what you’ve seen here?”

He paused for a moment, ran through all of it, and replied, “The architecture is just wild. It doesn’t fit any of the rules I expect. People are great, but different. Friendly, almost all cheerful, innocent in a lot of ways, but so massively overexperienced in others. And…well, you’re fantastic, dressed or not. I think every guy in our element had the hots for you.”

She grinned, eyes aglow as they bored into him.

“That certainly pleases me,” she said in lush tones.

Her mouth was on his, and he didn’t recall her moving. It was another mind-blowing kiss, her tongue active without being intrusive. His brain thudded, he felt a buzz, and his body temperature and pulse rocketed. Her hands caressed and he tried to reciprocate, gently but attentively.

He wanted to go down on her, or get her lips on him, or something, but the touching turned to face-to-face to snug heat of being inside her. She was tall enough he probably wouldn’t go too deep, which meant in moments he was buried to the hilt, driving into her, feeling her flesh and her legs and her nipples on his chest…

It was delicious. She writhed, arched, convulsed. Her PC muscles were like a vise, and she could use them to hold and draw him in. Transcendental fucking, and then her eyes locked with his. It was intimate and almost intimidating to look into her as he and she ground and thrust. He found a rhythm that worked and gave him good control, because he was fucking a woman hotter than any supermodel back home, who was a real person with real intellect, and that was the most exciting combination he’d never dreamed of.

She reciprocated, meeting his driving thrusts, wrapping her long legs around his, and mashing his lips for another full kiss.

Then her body convulsed, her eyes rolled back, and he could watch her conscious brain shut down.

That did it. He felt his own muscles flex, tauten, and then a hot flood from him into her.

He would have felt bad about it being over so quickly, if she wasn’t still clenching around him, and panting.

They lay entwined for a while, skin cooling in the air, sweat still sheened between them. They kissed now and then, and he ran fingers and lips over her skin.

Eventually she coaxed him to roll off, and they cleaned up with a conveniently provided towel.

He felt uncomfortable again, at the presence of the patron, and tried to put that in context. They were servants, but he wasn’t sure how much personality was there. Was it automaton? AI? Actual humanlike intelligence? He didn’t ask because he really didn’t want to know.

Into his musing, she said, “We have time before dinner or other obligations.”

“Sounds good,” he agreed. What did she have in mind?

“What about wrestling?”

To clarify, he asked, “Us? For fun?”

“And play. Yes.”

“Sure!” he said, a moment before she sprang at him.

Damn, she was strong for a woman. He pried his arms from her grip and it wound up in a tangle on the floor-bed. He rubbed against her naked body. Breasts and ass against him, cock and chest against her. He shifted carefully a few times to make sure they didn’t pinch each other in bad places.

She squirmed and twisted and he wound up pinning her arms behind. She whipped her head and her hair slapped across his face. He twisted to dislodge it, and she did it again.

Pinning her right arm carefully, and grabbing her left, he freed up his left hand to clutch her hair and give it a yank.

She moaned.

Hmm.

He pulled again, and she writhed a bit, then uncoiled like a spring and broke his grip. He clutched and twisted and pushed, and got her face down across a cushion. He pushed her right arm up and secured a half nelson on her left.

“Well,” she said. “That leaves you with a couple of options.”

He realized he was breathing hard, very erect, and his shaft was laying on the crack of her ass.

Oh, damn.

She said, “Servs, slick, please.”

The tray next to him lifted up to reveal what was obviously a bottle of lube.

“Here, Alexi,” the house mechanism said.

There it was again. He was suddenly less aroused. He wanted to ask what the service mech saw, but of course, it saw everything, everywhere. Privacy here was a construct.

He thought, Armand, you’re seconds and inches away from drilling the hottest woman you’ve ever met. Ignore the robot butler. Just keep a good hold, and retrieve that bottle.

Ten minutes later, he was struggling again, because she orgasmed even harder than she wrestled. And damn, did she scream. And he’d never had a woman orgasm that way before.

It was an eye-opening experience. Among other openings.

That wasn’t a bad thing at all.

He collapsed across her, spent and sheened with sweat. Of the odd dozen women he’d been with, she was undoubtedly the most amazing in bed. And utterly uninhibited. Once in, all in, so to speak.

“Let’s just rest here for a bit,” she said.

“Agreed,” he replied. Yes, he was quite happy to lie here, and admire and fondle those fantastic tits, run his hand over her ass, and admire the artistry of her shape, the tone of her muscle and skin, and the fact she was brilliant as well.

He felt her breath on his wrist, warm and gentle.

She asked, “Would it be rude of me to ask when you’ll be rested enough for another round?”

“No. That’s fine.” Totally fine. He’d need a couple of hours, though. “I am hungry. Can we get that dinner?”

“Good idea. There’s a place here that hand cooks. I haven’t been in a while.”

“Shall we clean up and get dressed?”

Rolling to her feet, she replied, “Yes. May I offer a suggestion and an outfit?”

“I’ll consider it,” he agreed.

They did clean up briefly in the shower. Between fluids and sweat, it was obvious what they’d been doing. When he stepped out, she had an outfit waiting on a hook.

Softly and slowly, he muttered, “Damn.”

It was whiter than any outfit he’d ever seen. It was reminiscent of something from the Napoleonic Era, with a long coat, a ruffled shirt, a sash, and low boots.

“I like it a lot,” he said, finding the system had included fresh briefs. He dressed, piece by piece, and of course it fit him perfectly.

Once done, he looked in the provided mirror, and was impressed. The cut made his physique even more angular, and the white contrasted against his skin to make it almost a monochrome effect. He noticed the three visible buttons on the shirt were black opal or something similar. They were all the contrast the outfit needed, with his skin tone outside.

Alexian’s gown was black, and seemed to be all crushed ribbons. It wrapped around her neck and both shoulders, draped her breasts, then back around and over her hips, before arcing down and across her thighs. It bunched over her right hip and hung below her left knee.

“Amazing,” he said.

“Thank you. You fill that outfit perfectly,” she replied.

They contrasted and complemented each other. They only had a short time together, so he was eager to enjoy it to the fullest. She took his arm and the servant said, “Follow.”

The illuminated cursor moved ahead at a pace that encouraged him to stride stately and proudly, so he did.

People dressed in as much variety here as back home. The two of them were definitely among the flashier, and quite a few passersby nodded or acknowledged them, and three times people asked them to pause for photos. That was still a thing. People didn’t change in the fundamental ways.

They took a slideway through the center of town, sitting behind a windbreak. It was a clear, bright late afternoon and from the angle of the sun it felt like October. The buildings were stunning. Some were geometric and clean, very sci-fi. Delicate towers with balls on them or rings around them. The one that was almost a pyramid. Another had three spokes from a central hub. Four others were blobs that didn’t have a term for their shape, but long and ovoid. One tower was blazing turquoise with black accents. The three-lobed one was white. One of the blobs was a reflective charcoal gray with orange streaks.

They reached a roundabout and turned toward that one. It grew and he stared as they plunged into the side, which was well lit, but gradually dimmed to a comfortable indirect interior lighting.

It was fascinating how labs, offices, shops, and restaurants all intermixed, and apparently periodically relocated. Each was a little neighborhood, though the building with the Mad Lab and Heisenberg’s was what passed as the commercial center.

The restaurant appeared to be constructed of brick, inside the atrium. The smells were amazing, and Armand was sure real hardwood charcoal was in use, as well as cast-iron griddles. Herbs, spices, smoke, and meat scents drifted out. It was signed in their sort-of Latin alphabet, and he puzzled out it was The Roaster.

He almost felt at home here. The seats were straight-backed hewn and smoothed wood with leather, the table tiled inside a wooden frame. The light fixture looked like electric lights pretending to be oil lamps.

“Very twentieth century,” he commented.

“Thank you, I tried.” She almost beamed.

“Your work?” he asked.

“I told them what décor we’d like. They can do it for any of your people.”

“What does that cost?”

“It’s on your account, and I have a certain amount of courtesy here with my position.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, thank you.” She thought well enough of him, and it was neat to be treated to the date rather than paying.

They took chairs, and he could puzzle out the menu. His eyes noted “honey sage fire-roasted chicken,” and he could smell something similar on the grill in the middle.

The server was a machine, rolling on wheels and not anthropomorphic. Human service for that probably cost a lot extra. It announced in English, “Please order anything you like at any time.”

“I think I’ll have water to drink, the mixed salad with pickles, and then the honey sage chicken, please.”

“I have your order. How do you want your chicken cooked?”

“Honey sage,” he repeated.

The machine confirmed, “I understood. But how well cooked do you wish the meat?”

“Uh…cooked. Fully white. It’s chicken.”

It queried, “Well done, then?”

“Not burned, but all the way through. Isn’t that how you do chicken?”

Alexian said, “Most people like it warm and pink, some just cool.”

He was suddenly not comfortable and very disturbed. “Good God, no. That’s dangerous.”

“I just would have figured…didn’t they have proper infection control in your time?”

“Pork was getting better, but chicken? Ugh.”

“Well, if you like it well done, I guess, but I look at it and sigh. It’s so damned overcooked. All the flavor is gone.”

She turned to the machine and rattled off something. They spoke English, but slurred and softened, and there was definitely some Slavic intonation sneaking into it. He wondered how many actual working languages existed.

It couldn’t hurt to ask, so he did.

“I can discuss some of that,” she agreed. “English is a primary, but as you know, softened in inflection and simplified for nontechnical subjects. It’s a technical language, which is why everyone here speaks it to some degree. Mandarin and Hindi are common using languages, but less so in science and engineering, but common in business. Then there’s what we call ‘home languages’ that people speak for cultural integrity. There are lots, but Russian, Spanish, French, German still remain, and others.”

“What about Swahili? Yoruba? Shona?” he asked, naming three major African languages.

“They exist,” she agreed with a nod. “Though we’re in the middle of Asia, so they’re almost never heard here.”

Okay. He wasn’t sure how much evasion was there. The lack of anyone African was concerning, and the interest everyone took in him as some sort of exotic creature had its own disturbing vibe. It didn’t sound as if Africa was significant here.

“What about the Americas?”

“They’re still here.” She smiled. “They’re development oriented rather than research, and North America, as it was in your time, is a massive food producer, even more than before. South America has a lot of ranching and nature preserve—the rainforest. The Pacific forests are less prevalent.”

“Population issues?”

“Among others, yes, but we shouldn’t discuss that much, and here’s food.”

The machine laid out their plates. His steamed and was redolent with smoke and spices, with the tang of the honey cutting through. Wonderful. The rice alongside looked like American wild rice, with large grains that crunched. The salad was on the side, with beets and onions and other pickled items on a huge leaf of lettuce.

“This is good!” he allowed between bites, then slowed down out of politeness.

“It is. Would you try a bite?”

She held up a fork with a bit of pinkish chicken on it.

Armand couldn’t imagine raw chicken unless he were three weeks starved. He looked at the offered sliver and shook his head.

“Oh, well. Do enjoy it.”

“I am,” he said. “Very tender, almost too juicy. Very plump. It’s a huge piece.”

They talked and ate, and avoided any more discussion of the culture. He got the definite impression population was down, and that somewhere was an underclass. Not everyone could have advanced degrees and do research or technical development. And Central Asia had a huge European presence, some domestic presence, little from the east, and nothing from anywhere else.

They finished eating, and he wondered about a dessert but couldn’t. He was stuffed, and it was fantastic, and he didn’t want to be overfull. Anyway, he could order any food later and it would be there.

They rose and walked, holding hands and touching, then boarded the vehicle and returned.

He asked about the patrons. “That was a bit disconcerting, in the middle of sex,” he admitted.

She replied, “Yes, the patrons are with us from the moment we’re born. They can reassure us for a few moments while a parent responds. They remind us on schoolwork and tasks. Mine is my best friend.”

“On the one hand I think it’s awesome. On the other, it’s disturbing.”

They dismounted and took the invisible elevator up to her apartment again.

She noted, “Did you notice we use different forms of address for them?”

“How so?”

“If I call for ‘service’ it means I only need service. If I say ‘companion,’ then I’m asking for interaction.”

Different personae for different functions. “I get it.”

He did. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate even his best friend hanging out that much, but if he grew up that way, he’d likely insist on it.

It was neat having doors that knew you were coming, and closed at once.

“So let me get you out of that,” she said with a predatory grin.

She did. And he got her dress out of the way. Her mound was slick and lush and nicely textured. Her lips on him were warm and firm, and she apparently had no gag reflex.

Given they’d already had sex twice, it should have taken him longer to come, but the cascade of new sensations and her stunning looks had him convulsing in minutes.

Armand wondered if there’d be some sort of ambassadorial staff to the Bykos, and if he could be attached.

That was entirely apart from banging the superhot chick.


Back | Next
Framed