Periphery (27 page)

I cried out, not from physical pain but from the sudden memory of the shape of Glory’s hand stuffed into me. Basil’s technocock was nothing like that, conveniently shaped for pleasure but not the rock heart that her fist had been.

Calla moved then, letting Basil push my knees up, and straddled my face. I licked at her between gasps as she dug her fingers between our bodies to get at my clit. She soon had the loose skin of my labia and bush stretched up taut toward my belly with one hand while the other jabbed in double time over the hard nub. Basil’s thrusts mashed her hand even harder into me and I thrashed my head from side to side. “Harder,” I said through clenched teeth. My body wanted violence, needed it to break through the tense wall of pain that separated me from them. The wall that Glory’s death had erected.

No, I realized. The wall that Glory and I had built bit by bit over the last few years. Basil and Calla obliged, fucking me and frigging me as hard as they could, until I felt the edge of her finger claw over my clit. “Yes!” She crooked her finger more and I bucked hard against her, Basil now the one along for the ride. The orgasm seemed to radiate along my skin as well as through my insides, doubling back and cresting for a second time as they continued their motions until I went limp.

I was amazed that Basil had not come, but what did I know about how the technology worked? Maybe she had a way to turn it down. She pulled out of me, the tool glistening wet and now throbbing a deep purple, and Calla nearly leapt upon it. Baz obliged, falling onto her back and letting Calla seat herself with the cock deep inside. She moaned and fell forward for a moment, then sat up erect. Now I could again circle her with my arms and get my fingers onto her clit and nipples.

I don’t know how long it was before she succeeded in making Basil come. All sense of time had long since fled. The three of us were just in a groove, where she would peak, then I would, using my own fingers when I had to, until eventually she arched and cried out and gripped her by the hips for two last thrusts that set Basil finally into a spasm, while I thrust my own fingers into my empty vagina, trying to remember what Glory’s calluses had felt like.

The two of them were then on me again quickly, Calla burying her face in my muff while Basil hugged me from behind. Then, as Calla drew another orgasm out of me, as I beat my palms on the coverlet, I shouted “Enough, enough!”

They fell away from me as the sensation ebbed. There weren’t many cases, but there were a few, where people were fucked to death. The Spark can burn out a host, too. It was time to get it back under control.

I think it was some time later that I began to speak. I’m not sure if I blacked out or not, but when I came to, they were still there. The three of us were lying on top of the bed and I had no way of knowing if we’d been there for a minute or an hour. “We’re going to play tonight,” I said.

“What?” Basil sat up at the sound of my voice and rubbed her eyes.

“We’re going to play tonight. A tribute concert for her. Just like we did here. Improvisational, cooperative.” Not like anything we’d done before. As I described it to them, I could see the idea catching fire, the memory of the song I had played stirring faintly. “And there’s something else I have to tell you.” And I told them, about the Spark, about Saffron, about Glory, Rose and Nura, and all I knew. “I’m sorry,” I said as I finished. “I should have told you before. For some it becomes a curse.” I looked at Glory, still lying in state on the low table. “But it is a gift, too.”

In response, they came and kissed me, both together. I already had the sound in my head of the music we could make together.

*

CT:
The inspiration for “The Spark” came to me many years ago, over a decade ago, in fact. It was one of those idea stories, where the concept of “what if all those classic rock and roll deaths were related?” just sort of hit me. I don’t remember if I was watching MTV at the time or what. Why I took that idea and married it together with a rock band on a space station, I don’t know, that’s just the way my brain works. I wrote about half the story then and just didn’t know where it was going. I tried to take it in a non-erotic direction for a while and it simply did not work. Then as soon as I gave in to the erotic impulse, the sex pretty much wrote itself.

I’m bringing Coleman in from the backyard when the phone rings. I toss the slobber-covered ball into Coleman’s crate and hit “pickup” on the kitchen counter. Serena’s face pops into view. The clock shows it’s only 2:30. Why’s she calling mid-afternoon? She always checks in at the end of her day, on her way home. I see the car’s red vinyl interior and the road slipping away behind her in the rear window, so I know she’s driving, but this definitely isn’t her usual “Honey, I’m almost home” call. Her face is splotchy. One of her cheeks is smeared with mascara.

“…stole my cameras!… All my equipment!” Her voice is a high-pitched, raspy whisper. “…the Rev leering…perfect shot! And what am I gonna…”

I can’t understand a fucking thing. The TV’s on too loud. “Hold on, honey! Hold on!” I shout.

I’ve been feeding mindlessly on the primary results all day. It’s all pseudo-news—pureed and strained of any real content until it’s the informative equivalent of wood pulp. I’m zombified as hell. As I search for the remote, I feel a wave of relief that I can turn my attention to something other than the goddamn election. A trickle of guilt follows in its path—my first response to my lover seeking help in a crisis is relief? Even the boredom and anxiety that the primaries inspire can’t justify that. The only thing I’ve gleaned is that somebody stole Rena’s equipment—her passion, our livelihood, and our best chance at finding a chink in the armor of the CFR/Green party. I shiver.

Serena is still gasping incoherently when, next to my half-eaten breakfast omelet, I finally find the TV remote and click “off.” The glimmering eyes and teeth of CFR/Green winner Reverend Edward Barns disappear from the screen.

“What would you have done?” Rena is hyperventilating, which explains why I couldn’t hear her and why she sounds so unlike her usual klaxon self. I’ve gotta take charge.

“Honey, please, pull over. Just pull the car over onto the shoulder. We’ll talk when you can get the words out. I’m not going anywhere.” Oh, how true this last bit is.

“Oh-oh-kay-ay, oh-oh-kay-ay,” she gasps.

“Take a few deep breaths, sweetie. In and out, in and out.” I’m using my mellow, ultra-cool tone with her—the tone that, when we’re fighting, she hates, but when I’m fucking her, she loves. It’s my “I’m in control here, so relax” vibe. Right now it seems to be working. The cars behind her slip out of sight as she eases into the breakdown lane.

“That’s good, babe. We don’t need you splattered all over the highway just because some light-fingered asshole fucked up—” I almost say “your career” but instead slip into neutral and end with, “your, uh, day.”

“It’s not just my day, Sis! This is serious shit. I mean, you know better than anyone.” She snuffles and runs a pale hand across her nose.

“I know. I know,” I soothe. “Just turn off the engine.”

She does so, grumbling, “Yeah, yeah,” and slumps against the seat, eyes closed. Then she looks up at me in the screen and bursts into tears.

“I can’t—I can’t believe it!” Serena cries, rocking in and out of view. “I was right there. Right there, Sis, like, ten feet from the guy. With my zooms and overheads in place I could see every pubic hair, hear every whisper. He had the other guy’s dick in his hand—just about to open his mouth—he was even kneeling, for Chrissake. It was perfect, the CFR candidate about to suck off this—, this—” her voice slows and she purses her mouth. “Actually, hon, I don’t know who the blond schlong was. I’m gonna be googling all night. Boyfriend? Pool boy? Intern? For all I know the wife likes to watch.”

“So, what actually happened?” I am tapping my fingers on my armrest, keeping it cool. Serena is not big on getting right to the point.

“Oh yeah. So the light’s perfect, zooms, hovers, audio—I’m filling a chip and ready with more—when this asshole comes out of nowhere and grabs my bag off my shoulder and tries to run off with it!” Serena gropes around the passenger seat for a bag of mini candy bars. She tears each little wrapper open and eats them one right after the other, chewing savagely. “He musta thought it was my purse or some shit. Any bozo could tell there’s hundreds of thousands of dollars of cams and peripherals doing their thing, but he probably thought I was just some star-fucker trying to get in to see Mr. Next Elected and that’s why I’m crouching in the bushes. Who knows? Anyway, he grabs, I’ve got the strap around me, and I’m pulling back so I end up on the ground, rolling, if you can believe it—” She shakes her head ruefully, “Must be some great pics of me on that chip—in the grass, kicking. Ha.” She tries to gurgle out a laugh, but sobs instead. “I didn’t want to pull too hard because I still had an analog around my neck and I didn’t want to wreck that, too. But my strap broke and he ran. I was just in shock. I kept thinking, ‘How am I gonna get it back?’ I totally forgot why I was there. I was such a wuss, Sis.”

Rena presses her palms into her eyes, her slim arms shaking. I notice patches of green grass and brown mud stains on her cream silk shirt. “If I’d just acted like the professional I’m supposed to be I woulda let go of the strap and just shot what I had with the antique cam and the hell with the rest! But by the time I realize I’ve still got the analog and the better part of a roll, Barns or his ‘friend,’” Rena sneers the last word, caramel showing on her front teeth, “musta heard something because they decided to shut the drapes.”

“Was everything…?” I start, but Serena cuts me off.

“Yeah. All my cams and the chips I shot earlier, peripherals, slide-pods—all of it but the vintage cam—oh, and its tripod. That was in the car. I like to have the analog stuff along in case a story comes up where that grainy, old-timey look gives it an edge. Why didn’t I let him take the fucking bag, you know? If I’d shot the dinosaur instead I’d have made enough to replace it all three times over! Ow!” she yelps, jumping in her seat. “Fuckin’ Christ on a shit-wheel. I bit my goddamn cheek. Sis, I’m bleeding. Look.” She holds up her shutter finger, smeared with chocolate and caramel and blood.

“Hon, I am so sorry. This really, really sucks,” I croon. “But can’t you go back? Borrow some equipment? You know this can’t be the first time. I mean, shit—Ted Barns, fellatin’ for Christ. Your career, yeah, but also, the election. No way Christians for Fiscal Responsibility’s gonna get anyone else in shape to run by November, Green coalition or not.”

“I know, I know,” Rena groans, running her claw-like nails—now sucked clean—through her black hair. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? Do I need your extra pressure right now?” she glares. “I’m in just as deep with NDY as you are. I’ve got just as much riding on nixing ERTD as you.”

No, I think, you don’t. You’re not a “compostable.” It’s not you they want to “return to the Earth.” Not that I’d want her to be in my position; the idea gives me goose bumps. With the new powers afforded the Environmental and Medical Hygiene Agency and its “Medical Detention Act,” it certainly doesn’t take much these days for someone to get reclassified from “productive and normal” into potential compostable. Still, sometimes I think she believes we’re on the same page when actually she’s about two chapters back.

“Thanks for your support,” she adds acidly.

Fatigue washes over me at the idea of sucking up to one more able-body, even if this AB happens to be the love of my life. I’m so sick of the endless thank-yous. I have one of those random flashes of wishing that for just a week or a month, our roles were reversed: That she knew what it’s like to be cut off and confined, to be praying nobody with the power decides you’re too useless to continue consuming the overpopulated planet’s food and water and the taxpayers’ money. But I gotta push those thoughts aside. You love her, you ungrateful twat, I tell myself. She’s taking risks for you. Sound supportive.

“I know. I know,” I coo. “And I really appreciate it, Rena. We all do.”

Serena gropes around on the dashboard for some tissues, then blows her nose loudly. I turn the volume down for a sec. I hate it when she doesn’t mute the phone for stuff like that. I don’t need to get up close and personal with her nasal passages.

When I see her toss the soggy tissue into the back seat I tune back in. She’s already picked up the thread. “…God knows, I don’t want another eight years of CFR/Green any more than the next guy, and I guess this would give American Spirits/Tobacco a shot, finally, but I’m so tired of holding my nose and voting for the lesser of the evils. I mean, Celia Watkowski’s promised to veto any bills that strengthen or extend Environmental Right-To-Death, but libertarians are so freaky in almost every other arena. Do we really want to hand over the presidency to ATS?”

“Uh-uh, honey, please remember that we refer to them as the ‘General Foods’ party. Somebody hears you they might think the press isn’t impartial,” or that NDY is as two-faced as everyone else. But, I remind myself, the people who smoke or drink themselves into oblivion are at least choosing their deaths. It’s a hypocrite’s escape hatch, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“Yeah, well,” Serena gives a snort and straightens her spine, switching into her “pull yourself together, girl” mode. Thank God. It’s really not like her to go to pieces. “Let’s talk,” she blows her nose a final time, “—by which I mean drink heavily and rant—about it when I get home. One way or another I’m gonna blow the lid off Barns. No pun intended.”

“That’s my media whore,” I dig deep for a wicked grin. The truth is that I’m fucking tired of the whole ChemBank 2064 Presidential Election and even more tired of pretending that my life—and that of my friends—doesn’t ride on it.

Before Rena’s call I had been looking forward to some good ol’ fashioned crip dyke sex, with maybe some bourbon and fried chicken on the side. Now I was gonna have to spend the night comforting, strategizing, and trying not to make my lover feel personally responsible for my possible death sentence. I’d be lucky to get a hickey and a good grope out of the evening.