SASKIA'S PRIDE (MF rom cons Fsolo mutant)

by virgosun (c) 2004
**************************

"You don't know how lucky you are, miss," said the 
minder as he ushered me upstairs.

"Saskia, if you don't mind, Allen," I declared. I am 
over 21, after all, and in spite of some of the choices 
I have made, I've been around and seen a bit. "Miss" is 
for young girls still dwelling under their parents' 
roof. Sure he was being polite, but I believe in 
equality.

"My pardon." The agent was above all a diplomat, and he 
was more concerned with getting me to the appointed 
meeting on time. Our shoes squeaked on rich but worn 
woollen carpet, and ancient ceiling fans did nothing to 
dispel the heat that had risen through the hotel to this 
second floor. "Use the time he spares you well. He's 
normally too busy to talk to the press, and our comments 
for the media are more usually released through my 
office." His pale, fishy face wore a slight frown of 
puzzlement at his superior's actions, and irritation. 
Nobody likes being cut out of the circuit.

I smiled thinly, a little cocky. "Sometimes one-on-one 
interviews are necessary if someone wishes to raise the 
profile of their organisation. Perhaps he decided my 
publication was the best target audience for what he 
wants to achieve?"

"Indeed," Allen harrumphed, as though an upstart like me 
had a hide lecturing him on spin. A neat and dapper 
little man, he was wearing a trendy turquoise suit far 
too heavy for the middle-western heat. Dabbing his 
glistening brow with a silk kerchief, he consulted a 
slim gold watch. He paused theatrically before one of 
the doors, head tilted as though awaiting some divine 
prompt before knocking lightly. Someone inside 
acknowledged, so he opened the door a fraction, pressed 
his face to the gap, then announced, "Saskia Limarre as 
arranged, Chairman. Listol University Press."

A deep voice murmured assent. Allen offered me a 
patronising look and pushed the door open. I favoured 
him with no particular expression as I glided past; it 
was the Big Cheese I was here to talk to, not his 
mouthpiece.

The room was as comfortable as the richest hotel suite 
in a small agricultural town could be expected to be, 
kind of old-world and somewhat worn. It took a while to 
adapt to the lighting. The door faced the room's single 
window, where sizzling white daylight was framed by 
drapes, making a brilliant line that forced my pupils to 
contract. My eyes found it almost painful to adapt to 
the contrast, and the rest of the furnishings were 
thrown into darkness. 

A large man was getting up from behind a desk and 
heading my way. I am quite tall and match most men - it 
had been easy to look down on Allen - but this fellow 
towered over me like a granite skyscraper.

"Thank you, Allen. Ms. Limarre? Welcome. I am Martin 
Stone." Now that I heard his voice clearly, something in 
me couldn't help but sigh. It was deep and velvety, the 
kind of voice you could listen to for hours. Even if a 
man were ugly and wizened, with a voice like Mr. Stone's 
he would not want for lovers. It was little wonder Stone 
was a community leader. Given the hypnotic power of his 
speech and the thrill it sent through me, I resolved to 
keep objectivity at a maximum and not be seduced.

He had also given me the thoroughly modern title Ms. 
Some women hate that, but not me. I am tall - imposing - 
and my features are "striking" rather than "pretty", so 
I've always looked older than my years. Allen had read 
my age from my press card. Martin had looked at me, 
spotlighted by the light from the window, and already 
made assessments while I was still having trouble seeing 
him clearly. This was definitely a formidable character, 
someone to be reckoned with.

I wasn't about to yield up too much of my own power. 
I've interviewed authoritarian figures before: local 
politicians, university deans and the like. Young 
journos like me don't pick up the Ebardsen Award and 
scholarship for nothing!  I put my hand forward in the 
masculine manner, which rattles a lot of men, and at the 
same time I turned side-on to the light. My vision was 
adapting, and now I could see his immediate and stunning 
uniqueness amidst other human beings. His mutation.

I'd only seen a few blurred black and white photos of 
him before this. He was popularly called "The Muscle" 
because of his titanic physical strength, and the fact 
that you can see every muscle in his body. He looked 
like one of those illustrations you see in an anatomy 
book illustrating the muscles, because his skin is 
transparent, completely see-through.

In person he was absolutely astounding to behold. I was 
so determined not to show amazement that I thought my 
face would crack, and I locked my attention on his; 
tried to get my bearings on the features we normally 
look at when meeting a stranger, the eyes, mouth and 
nose. He was shovel-jawed, and his eyes were set deeply 
beneath heavy browbones, where they glittered like dark 
sapphires. There was no way to guess his age, for the 
transparency of his skin made blemishes and creases 
impossible to see. I knew from research he was in his 
mid-thirties.

"Pleased to meet you," I said smoothly. Locking onto 
those eyes was unsettling too, for they had a 
penetrating quality, a knowingness. That gaze said he 
read my professional cool for the mask it was, and could 
see me going, _ohh man will you look at that!_ 
underneath. I ended up watching his mouth. He gave a 
brief, reserved smile, and the hand that quickly and 
belatedly squeezed mine was very warm. The handshake had 
made him stop and think. "I appreciate you are a very 
busy man, and Allen has stressed to me the fact that you 
don't often do interviews. So thank you, very much, for 
your time."

"Well, there has always been curiosity about my 
organisation, and there is only so much we can impart 
with generalised media statements. Would you care for a 
cool drink while your interview goes along?" He did not 
indicate the mini-bar; rather, a large crystal ewer of 
iced water garnished with lemon and mint leaves. "Or 
would you prefer something more robust? Name your 
desire."

I nodded. "Thank you, water would be fine." He poured 
two long glasses, handing me one before gesturing to a 
couple of wicker chairs.

Time to start. How would this leader go at speaking on 
behalf of his community? Setting down the water on a 
coffee-table to one side, I pulled out my trusty 
notebook and pen. Shorthand's my natural second 
language, I can do it in my sleep. Make some light yet 
pertinent conversation beforehand to get a handle on 
some of his likes and dislikes; ask him what he had 
called me here to listen to and take notes, then pick 
over that again and flesh it out, and listen for the 
parts where the script stalled or turned sharply, the 
points of leverage to deeper meaning. I took my 
journalism seriously. As a student of foreign cultures 
and minority groups, viewpoints outside the mainstream 
of society fascinated me.

He made no comment of his own while I got ready, just 
lowered himself into his seat and crossed his ankles 
with leisurely grace, and sipped from his glass. "You're 
not a drinker, Mr. Stone?" I asked, "or is it simply too 
early in the day?"

"I have no objection to alcohol under the right 
circumstances, no grand moral opposition to it, but for 
reasons of health and fitness I am a non-drinker." He 
patted his stomach; it sounded as solid as a block of 
reinforced concrete. "Addles the mind, and far too 
dehydrating for a day like this. Now, where will I 
start?"

Straight down to business. He wasn't the chatty type, 
which was going to make adding human interest to the 
article difficult. He spoke for the whole hour on "his 
people", the Enabled; mutant and gifted progeny of four 
immigrant families who, by their extraordinary 
differences, stood apart from any nation-state and 
mainstream society. He spoke of the fear and hostility 
some of the more grotesque Enabled mutations provoked. 
He spoke of the emotional support that living with 
fellow Enabled gave, the strengthening and acceptance 
that counterbalanced public misgivings. He spoke of his 
desire to earn the respect of the "regular people" 
through the Enabled working as a team to improve the lot 
of regulars, through technology and innovation. He cited 
examples of Enabled making discoveries, or conducting 
themselves heroically during natural disaster rescues, 
or apprehending criminals that had formerly eluded 
capture. Not once did he mention himself, except in his 
role as co-ordinator of Enabled activities and authority 
within the group.

I wanted more than that. Rhetoric and dry facts need to 
be lubricated with something more personal if an article 
is to be readable. A grand view of utopia is fine, but a 
closeup gives contrast and thus much better interest. I 
ran my tongue over my front teeth - he was going to be a 
tough nut to crack, but I relished the challenge!

So I tried to draw him out on the topic of ugliness - 
had he himself attracted discriminatory comments with 
his bizarre looks? He blinked and tilted his head as 
though he didn't understand the question, then went on 
to describe some of the taunts other grotesque Enabled 
had endured, such as the shapeless Polymorph, and the 
Basilisk with his green-scaled hide. Either he was 
indeed supersensitive about his looks, or he genuinely 
didn't understand I was asking about him. Either way it 
was a first-class evasion.

It was the best kind of interview. On one level, two 
people sitting in composed, formal and attentive 
attitudes of discussion; on another, I was scything the 
air with my rapier-mind, seeking to pierce the thick and 
battlescarred armour of an old champion. His own blade 
was heavier, stronger, and turned my light and pointed 
one with ease - God help anyone if he used it in anger, 
it had a keen edge and would cleave stone in two.

I got nowhere near him.

Add to that, those parts of me that will not be ruled by 
reason were kicking up a fuss and making a distraction. 
_Look at his legs!_ they whispered. _Look at the 
definition in his shoulders! I'd pay good money to see 
his stomach and back!_ I have a dreadful weakness for 
toning and musculature, I'm sorry - it flies in the face 
of my idea that all men should be treated as equal, be 
they scrawny, Mr. Average or that most numerous kind, 
the slightly bulgy lost-my-waistline type. No, I care 
for my health and if a man wants to impress me, he's got 
to care for his body. Muscles get me, and boy there was 
a nice set sitting there, annoyingly covered by full-
length clothing!

Coupled with that piercing quality of his gaze, I found 
it hard to match his intensity, and even my trained eye 
began to falter. By the end of the interview he had worn 
me down, and I was gazing more at the way his thighs 
flared out from his knees, their relaxed bulk and smooth 
curves than meeting his eyes. The highlight on the 
slightly-clinging fabric of his trousers emphasised 
their grace. 

I took notes, tried for the scarce openings in dialogue, 
but failed. Before long, Allen was tapping at the door 
and harrumphing. My time with Martin Stone was up.

"Allen, if you will, five minutes more to wrap up," said 
Martin easily. His underling withdrew with a hassled 
frown. The Enabled leader then stood, counting off major 
points on long fingers as he recapped. His hands were 
extraordinary sculptures of iridescent tendons over deep 
rose flesh, laced by fine threads of veins.

"Do you have fingerprints?" was my last, impulsive 
question. He paused, and a half-smile curved his lips.

"As a matter of fact, I do. This is relevant?"

"Not at all," I demurred. "I was just curious. You'll 
have the draft of my article within two days." Rising, I 
snapped my briefcase shut. He nodded, appreciating my 
efficacy and businesslike manner, and made a gentlemanly 
gesture toward the door.

"Thank you, Ms Limarre. It has been a pleasure, and I 
look forward to seeing what you come up with." He nodded 
courteously as I left. 

Allen offered to show me back to the foyer, but I 
thanked him and assured him I could find my own way out. 
I headed briskly away, already planning the layout of my 
story, while he fussed covertly to his boss.

"Late? It's you who criticises _me_ when things get 
behind schedule!" I overheard Allen complain.

***

There was more legwork to do before I cranked up the 
portable typewriter. Kennarthen is a smallish country 
town, with plenty of anecdotal resources. Of course, the 
Enabled stories they could tell were manifold; my focus 
was on the leader, Martin.

I bought a coffee spiral from Crabtrees' Deli, and 
inquired about the price of smoked ham at Norrises 
Butchery. Collected a local paper from Schaffer's. There 
was plenty to know about many of the Enabled, and even a 
few threads of gold on The Muscle. Nobody knew him 
especially well. He was a quiet man who seldom ventured 
out. He worked hard at keeping the community running 
smoothly. Married young, divorced, one child; the ex 
left town, so I would not be able to catch her at this 
time.

In the afternoon, I went for a swim at the municipal 
pool and strung together twenty laps; then hit the 
keyboard. With the air-con roaring and keys clattering, 
I started assembling information hunched over the 
bedside table in my motel room, notes laid out across 
the bed in logical order, at least to my eye.

History - four families of inbreds, deformities, 
Enabled. Vilified for their differences, attacked. 
Bonding together, finding strength in numbers. Forming 
an ethos of using their Enabled skills to help society, 
so that society in return would learn to respect and 
value them for their contributions. Founded a commune 
with a high-technology workshop and laboratory so that 
they could push the limits of technical innovation. A 
centre for medical research as they continue to explore 
their unique genetics down through the generations. A 
compound where they can live as a community supportive 
of each other. Possession of the most potent 
supercomputer the world has ever known, an ongoing quest 
to create artificial intelligence.

They were a community within the greater community, 
similar to the hippy culture, the gypsies, the gays, the 
goths, or at the other end of the scale the niche 
religions. What was different was the level of 
organisation they had for such a small community. They 
had a clear vision statement and goal - the "continuing 
service of care for the greater public" and "to provide 
an environment in which young people with abnormalities 
may grow and develop in security, making the most of 
their Enabled skills" as Martin had put it. Their 
community now numbered in the region of four hundred 
individuals of all ages and constituted a suburb on the 
town's western side, centred around their surveillance 
tower.

There was a story lurking there for the engineering and 
architecture specialty magazines in itself. But mine was 
the human angle. I stopped writing only to sleep, and 
set my alarm for early; in the morning I swam as soon as 
the pool opened, then worked through the hottest hours 
of the day.

But there's only so much mental work that can be done in 
one stretch. In the afternoon I changed into trainers, 
snug shorts and a tank top and went for a run. With most 
of my notes now typed up, the bed was clear of paper. On 
my return from the hot asphalt outside, I flung myself 
on the mattress, catching my breath.

After a while I sat up, resting my elbows on parted 
knees, head drooping, breathing deeply and relaxing. I 
keep my hair tightly knotted in a bun most of the time, 
out of the way. It's long and thin and I seldom have 
time to do much else with it, especially when there's 
running and swimming to take up my leisure time. Pulling 
out the pins, I shook my hair free and scratched where 
the sweat crawled amidst the roots. I pried my footwear 
off and tossed it safely across the room. My socks 
seemed to emit steam. Time for a shower. But first...

As I pulled my top off over my head, the breeze from the 
air-conditioner chilled the sweat already cooling in my 
bra. My nipples jumped to attention. I felt good, 
invigorated, my work almost done; the door was locked 
and the blinds drawn against the heat. So, what the 
hell?

The body is a wonderful biological mechanism, especially 
when it's kept in tune. I knew long ago I was never 
going to be "pretty", so the best thing to do would be 
to make the most of what I had; to care for it, so that 
it would care for me. An automobile is a crude analogy, 
but illustrates how the body can be performance-tuned, 
controlled and guided, and be the source of a great deal 
of pride and pleasure.

I raided the closet for all the pillows the room could 
spare, then heaped them on the bed and pulled up a 
double-fistful of sheet. There are times when a girl on 
her own has to make her own fun. When I'd twisted, 
rolled and bunched the fabric into a firm-ish sausage I 
laid it on the top of the pillow-mound, then happily 
straddled it, peeling my sodden bra off and throwing it 
away.

Stimulus - response - pleasure. It's a simple mechanism, 
and I'd never understood what the great fuss was about 
when in my teens at school. So it was sex, big deal - if 
you experimented with it on your own time you pretty 
soon worked out what it felt like without having to go 
through the drama of dating. There were more important 
things to focus on, like finding a scene to belong to 
before looking at details like mating for life. It 
wasn't that I didn't like men; on the contrary, I love 
male companionship and camaraderie, and I admire their 
natural strength. It's all a question of priorities, and 
the mating game's one where every player has the right 
to be very, very careful in the selection process. Be 
friends first, that's what I say.

I rocked and bounced on my knees on the bedding, 
grinding my pelvis against that delightful lump. My 
breathing deepened as my body stretched out again, 
exulting in a different kind of workout. The bed began 
to creak rhythmically, and I didn't bother stopping to 
take off my shorts, sliding in my own juices. The next 
time I was in Aphraeos, I promised I would get myself 
one of those vibrators - in the moment before the shocks 
of pleasure came, leaving me panting as I slumped to the 
cushions. No expectations, no obligations. Nothing more 
to do but take a shower, then get on and type up the 
final draft for Martin's approval.

Resting awhile, I didn't get up right away. My crotch 
still tingled around a lump of cloth, as my mind strayed 
to the man I had interviewed. The way subtle curves in 
the shape of his clothing had hinted at a truly superb 
body beneath. If I were completely honest with myself, I 
would have to admit I'd not only looked at his thighs, 
but that smoothly-sculpted bump just above where they 
met. Nothing obtrusive, smooth and relaxed, distinctly 
masculine; everything in proportion. Only glimpsed on 
the periphery, of course. My clitoris pinged. This 
wasn't over yet.

This time I discarded the rest of my clothing before 
mounting the pillows a second time. Eyes shut, I added a 
welcome new image to my library of sexual fantasies as I 
wondered what lay beneath Martin Stone's clothing. If 
his skin was transparent, his genitals would look 
strange indeed - like what? The anatomical sketches of 
skinless men never showed genitals, just an ambiguous 
white space. What must he look like?

The very thought pulled my trigger. Orgasm zinged 
through me like a snapped tendon, pleasure wrenching a 
mew from my throat. I'd barely had to move, this second 
time, just think; now I dropped to the wet, tangled 
bedclothes, spent.

It was definitely time for that shower.

***

I was packing my few necessities, getting things in 
order and ready to leave, when the telephone rang. I 
hadn't expected any response to my article before 
arriving back in Listol. The caller could have been 
anyone, from my editor to my mother.

"Hello, Saskia? Martin Stone here."

My heart raced with surprise and pleasure. "Oh yes, yes, 
of course. I left the manuscript for the report with 
Allen this morning."

"I know," he cut me off warmly, "and I will say this, it 
was excellent. I was hoping to catch you before you left 
to discuss a few minor alterations, although on the 
whole you've done a tremendous job, and I thank you. 
Tell me, have you visited our tower yet?"

Allen had met me at the railway station and driven me 
through the streets of the Enabled people's suburb, then 
through the security wall and past the base of the high 
iron column without stopping. The tower was two hundred 
feet tall, the top of its Observation Deck bristling 
with antennae which could pick up signals from far 
beyond the horizon. It was whispered secret agencies 
within the government benefited from intelligence 
gathered by the Enabled, scratching them back in turn 
with quiet payments. "All in the name of our security - 
we have to watch our backs," Martin had said in the 
interview. "When people take a natural disliking to you, 
you cannot be too careful."

Allen made it clear I had no business being on Enabled 
ground. With polite but pointed words he had declared 
I'd better not indulge myself in any sensationalist 
media tricks such as snooping around. So I'd made sure 
the article mentioned how insular the Enabled folk were, 
due to a sense of vulnerability in spite of their 
superhuman capacities.

"Allen gave me a quick look around on the afternoon I 
arrived."

"Ah, of course, the Allen tour." A touch of laughter 
made Martin's velvet voice thrum. "Since I am pleased 
with your portrayal of us in this article, I'm prepared 
to give you a closer look at the Enabled in operation."

I needed no further encouragement. If necessary, my rail 
ticket could be postponed. "Thanks, that would be 
fantastic!"

Allen was sent to collect me, and cautioned me not to 
take photos even though I had no camera with me. "I'm a 
journalist, Allen, not a photographer; the pictures your 
office supplies will be more than adequate," I assured 
him. 

He drove us to the gate in the solid concrete wall that 
surrounded the Enabled's research buildings; a large 
blue and white sign pronounced the complex ENCOMM. "It 
stands for Enabled Communications," Allen explained. Of 
course they would have secrets; trade secrets, 
commercially-based research. Universities up and down 
the East Coast were already talking about ENCOMM; that 
was how the Enabled community had come to my attention.

Martin met us on the shallow, broad staircase that led 
to the basement structures of the tower. When I paused 
to crane my neck back, mouth open in awe at the might of 
the project, a smile warmed his exotic features. As 
before, he was dressed in long clothing, protecting 
vulnerable tissues from solar radiation. Allen was 
thanked and dismissed.

Martin Stone was set to impress me.

There were many things ENCOMM wanted to achieve. They 
wanted to send a rocket to the moon. They wanted to send 
a submarine to the deepest parts of the ocean. They 
wanted a world-wide network of wireless communication, 
and "smart" computers that could run entire cities, 
taking the guesswork out of economics. They would build 
robots that could take the drudgery out of hard manual 
labour, even make it a thing of the past; robots that 
could work in hazardous conditions such as near furnaces 
and deep underground in mines. When I beheld what had 
already been developed by ENCOMM, I was an instant 
convert.

Just beyond the vestibule of the building we entered was 
a circular chamber little more than five yards wide. 
This was the interior of the tower proper, with no 
ceiling overhead for almost two hundred feet. A wide 
staircase twined about the inside wall, but Martin had a 
different mode of transport in mind. He stepped onto a 
disc some three yards across in the very centre of the 
chamber, and raised a hand toward me in invitation. 
"Come! As this is your first time, you may feel the need 
to hold on to something."

My unflappability was being tested. When I stepped onto 
the disc beside him, I could feel a fine buzzing 
vibration through the soles of my sandals. His hand was 
hot to touch, smooth and strong as stone, and he 
presented his arm in a quite old-fashioned manner. At 
first I was a little taken aback, but recalled the 
custom and linked my arm over his, and he squeezed my 
hand firmly. "All right?" he asked, humour creasing his 
eyes; a knowingness, a challenge. I couldn't be sure 
what to prepare for, and nodded.

"Brain," Martin announced to the open air, "I believe we 
are ready."

With that, the disc we stood upon rose into the air. "We 
should put a handrail around this gadget," he mused, 
"but all the regular personnel here are used to it as 
is. One day."

My ears crackled as we flew up the tower. I did not  
smile or show any emotion; I was not supposed to be 
easily impressed. But it was hard not to be. My hand 
tightened its hold involuntarily; my cheek twitched. He 
steadied me by the pressure of his arm - and what a 
well-fleshed arm it was - against mine. But there was 
far more around me to notice than my host's physicality, 
at least for the moment. Two hundred feet straight up, 
on a tiny platform? If the Enabled rode this 
unperturbed, so should I.

We finally reached an aperture in the ceiling, and the 
disc docked smoothly. Martin let me go as soon as we 
arrived on the Observation Deck. Even the most mundane 
of agricultural plains country is transformed by 
altitude, becoming a panorama of patchwork in subtle 
earth shades softened by distance toward the horizon. 
The imposing lookout hills that flank the town were 
reduced to rumples; the more impressive range, to the 
north, a bluish border between land and sky. Who could 
not feel commanding from up here, master of their 
destiny?

There were cities in the world with futuristic towers 
already, architectural statements, boasts of wealth and 
status - and there was _this_ tower, in the middle of 
nowhere, daring the rest of society to look down on the 
misfits who had built it. "The idea was my 
grandfather's," said Martin grandly as he escorted me 
around the 360-degree view, past technicians working at 
consoles with dials, oscilloscopes and meters. "In his 
original view, though, it was a fortress rather than a 
research laboratory or communications hub. I think we 
have managed to evolve since then."

I ran my hand along one of the computer cabinets. It 
hummed minutely. The technical boys back at the 
Engineering faculty were going to have to hear about 
this! "Is that what it's about, Mr. Stone, the ongoing 
evolution of the human race?"

"Of course. The Enabled represent the cutting edge of 
evolution, and we should maximise the gains."

"You spoke to a 'brain' when we set off on the lift." I 
indicated another cabinet, with a glass face behind 
which banks of lights winked, and tape spools turned. 
"Is that what your computer is called?"

Before Martin could answer, a mild and pleasant voice 
lighter than his spoke, seemingly from thin air. 
"Indeed, that is the name people here have seen fit to 
give me, and I take it as my own."

I looked at Martin, raised brows a concession to my 
startlement. He was smiling thinly, a light crease 
visible over the cartilage of his forehead where his 
brows gathered in a frown. "And now the Brain is 
boasting, I think," the ENCOMM supremo rumbled. "Yes, 
the Brain oversees and correlates all the data we 
receive. He is the pinnacle of our computer science 
studies conducted over the past thirty years."

"My pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Limarre," 
said the Brain urbanely. "Or should I say, Saskia, as I 
am reliably informed you prefer. If it's first name 
terms one would prefer, then it would seem I should be 
known as The. Mr. T. Brain, T for The, as in The Brain." 
If it were possible for a voice to broadcast a cheeky 
grin, that was how the Brain came across.

"Computers," I said archly, concealing my shock behind 
arrogance, "are not supposed to have a sense of humour!"

"All for ease of human-machine interaction," the Brain 
explained mildly. I suspected rather cynically that 
there was a man sitting in an office somewhere far 
below, watching me on a cathode screen and speaking into 
a microphone. I could glimpse fat bunches of cords bound 
into plaited cable feeding from the backs of machine 
cabinets, whorled and disappearing into casings that fed 
conduits running into the tower's skin, and wanted to 
believe in the magic of high science. If the Brain truly 
was a machine, these people would reach the moon before 
I grew old.

"This," I breathed, "must be just the tip of the 
iceberg!"

Martin tilted his head, broad face neutral and 
unreadable. "Thank you, Brain.  Now that you have 
introduced yourself, you may resume your regular 
duties."

We returned to the ground-level buildings where I was 
granted a quick on-foot tour of some of the rest of the 
facilities. There was a small school populated by 
children, some of whom had obvious deformities, others 
who appeared normal but undoubtedly had secret abilities 
well beyond the human norm. There was an on-site canteen 
where ENCOMM staff, both nondescript and extraordinary, 
took snacks and meals. Martin was greeted with respect. 
It was I who attracted the outright stares; I who was 
the outsider. Finally, he showed me to his personal 
command centre, along a corridor faced with office 
doors.

The room was orderly, if busy with documents and folders 
laid out neatly. A narrow window looked out on shady 
greenery, and there was little in the way of personal 
decorations or adornments. There was a sturdy bar 
affixed across one corner where I suspected a restless 
man might perform a few chin-ups, and a weighty-looking 
set of dumbbells resting on the floor; a full-length 
mirror, and on his desk a monogrammed gold writing set. 
A wall of library shelves carried texts on politics, 
philosophy, medicine, and physical culture. On another 
wall was something else I had hoped to see - a poster 
photograph of him posing in dark blue trunks, his 
extraordinary body on display.

My article was at centre stage on the desk. Over paper 
cups of chilled water from an office-style cooler, we 
discussed some minor changes. He responded to a couple 
of phone calls during this time, relaxing in this, his 
natural environment. During one such interruption, I 
rose and stretched my back, then walked to the chinning 
bar and closed my hands around it experimentally. "This 
is how you unwind?" I asked when he hung up, tensing my 
arms.

Martin smiled and uncoiled himself from his chair, 
crossing the room to pick up one of the dumbbells as 
though it were as light as styrofoam. "My excess 
energies go into self-maintenance. Although strength is 
my natural gift, a certain level of discipline must be 
maintained to exact the most from my Enabled ability. 
Your article speaks in praise of our healthy lifestyles 
policy here at ENCOMM. I don't doubt you appreciate the 
importance of exercise."

"I couldn't agree more. For me, exercise and relaxation 
go hand in hand."

"You have a personal regime? You have the look of an 
endurance athlete to me." His eyes focused to a keen, 
discerning look that sent a thrill up my neck as he 
examined my body.

"Running, swimming and yoga, mainly," I shrugged. "And I 
like running hurdles. You would be much more into power 
work, I expect."

"Power?" He gave an enigmatic smile and spread his 
hands, then sobered. "My Enabled capacity means power 
isn't really an issue, I have all the power I need. My 
training is for aesthetics as much as fitness. Body 
sculpting is my main interest."

"Most impressive," I conceded, nodding at the poster.

"Thank you." He accepted the compliment with a gracious 
nod. "Since Nature has given me this rather unique 
showcase body, it would be scandalous for me not to 
flaunt it." There was something of a challenge in his 
eyes, as though he wished me to disagree. Like the rest 
of the world, I should have thought him grotesque, 
hideous, a sideshow freak. But I have never subscribed 
to the rest of the world's opinion. I like to form my 
own. And far from finding him gruesome, I was finding 
Martin increasingly attractive.

"Muscles on display, of course. What else do you do to 
unwind?"

"Exercise, especially in one's own company, is 
sufficient as a meditative experience," Martin shrugged, 
setting down the weight and turning to the table again.

"You mean you don't kick back and have a chat or a spa 
after a workout, nothing like that? Hang out with a few 
friends?"

He shuffled papers. "There's always work to do, and I'm 
glad of it. Running ENCOMM is a labour of love, and I 
enjoy my work - my work is play, really. I have no 
social life, it's irrelevant. This," and he tapped his 
desk lightly, "is what's most important to me."

Martin Stone had come from somewhere. He hadn't always 
been the manager. He'd found the time to get married, 
then divorced. "Has that always been the case?" I asked.

He paused in sliding my report into a folder, and placed 
his hands deliberately on the tabletop. When he raised 
his eyes to mine, I couldn't help but draw a breath at 
the intensity. Those hooded sapphires in a scarlet face 
could melt lead.

"Always," he said, very softly. "Not many people 
understand the true nature of devotion, of duty, of 
being true to one's heart. My heart is in the destiny of 
the Enabled, and everything else comes a very poor 
second. Everything."

I would not flinch, although my heart hammered. "It's a 
foolish person who allows emotional concerns to cloud 
their judgement," I said. "Especially when the destiny 
of a community is in his hands."

Martin's face relaxed, the fire in his eyes easing, and 
he gave a slight nod. "I see you understand."

Part of me, the professional within, cheered and crowed. 
_This is more like it!_ I had managed to slip a gimlet 
past his guard. Dare I risk his displeasure again? Of 
course! "You have a son, don't you?"

"He's in school, which is where he belongs. His mother 
is no longer around, that's no secret; I am well 
supported by my brother and sister and their families in 
his upbringing. I am fully conversant with the joys and 
frustrations of family life and of raising a child. I 
manage to combine these aspects of my life with my 
ENCOMM work adequately. This leaves me with little time 
to fritter on social pursuits beyond immediate family 
matters." He raised a fingertip pale with ligamentous 
tissue, and pointed at me. "You must have some 
experience of being in a long-term relationship, Saskia. 
You are attached? Unattached? Is it any of my business?"

I cocked my head curiously. Of course he would counter-
attack. It occurred to me then that he had overestimated 
my age. "I have been in a number of liaisons, but 
nothing lasting, no."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because, quite frankly, I walked away as soon as my 
lovers expected me to provide them with attention and 
gratification on demand. Once they started expecting 
food, sex and babies as their divine right, that was 
that. I have needs other than those. I'll not be one to 
define myself by who my husband is, what his job is, and 
how many children I have."

"Yet you would ask those questions of me, my social 
life, my marital status. Who do you write for, 
EveryWoman's Daily?" He raised a hairless eyebrow 
expectantly.

Touche. I told myself I wasn't fazed. "You are the one 
who desires publicity," I countered, although the 
disparaging remark about womens' gossip magazines stuck 
in my craw.

"How any man could mistake you for the maternal type is 
a mystery to me," Martin said, shaking his head as he 
looked down at my report. The smile spreading across his 
lips was genuine, no forced sociability smirk, and was 
surprisingly infectious. I was smiling too, even before 
I realised it.

I had reason to smile again, as we wrapped up our 
meeting. "Depending on how this article is received," 
said Martin thoughtfully, "would you consider writing 
for ENCOMM again?"

He caught me off-guard. I'd been taking a few notes in 
the margin, while that less reasonable fraction of my 
mind was noticing how his shoulders moved beneath the 
fabric of his shirt. "Why, yes, it would be a pleasure, 
thank you." He sat up and pushed his chair back, 
catching my eye as he rose to his full height. There had 
not been much eye contact as we studied the text, so 
when it happened it was breathtaking. Damn, he shouldn't 
be able to do that to me!

Worse, he said nothing, just reamed my eyes with his. 
Just as I was coming up with a few superficial words to 
break the intensity, a ghost of a smile tugged the 
corner of his mouth.

"I don't repel you at all, do I?"

I faced him squarely, although my heart was rattling. 
"On the contrary, you are quite an attractive man, and 
very distinctive."

"Distinctive," he nodded agreeably. "I like that."

"In fact," I pressed, "it's a shame you keep a 
masterpiece like that," and I nodded at the poster, 
"under wraps."

His smile broadened. "Thank you. Generally, while I'm 
indoors and working I don't cover up quite so much, and 
I find a leotard much more comfortable. These clothes 
are more for going outdoors, in public. They render me 
less noticeable, and they keep the sun off. Sunburn does 
dreadful things to my complexion and capillaries." His 
eyes lingered upon mine.

"I guess you have an entire portfolio? Allen would have 
those pictures available?" The word _leotard_ had sent a 
thrill through parts of me that should have been 
disconnected at a business meeting. I smoothed my vest.

"The best of them, yes. I'd hate to see your article 
choked with Muscle shots, though, it might detract from 
the main topic."

"Oh, of course," I agreed. "A small one could be used as 
an inset...that'd be down to the Layout people anyway." 
I gathered my case, glancing at an elegant, square-faced 
wall clock. Martin thanked me for my work, and summoned 
Allen. I would make my train with minutes to spare.

***

As weeks passed, I put the ENCOMM article behind me as 
another job done. It had been an intriguing place with 
fascinating people, but now the rest of the world 
awaited exploration. Yet somehow, as I researched my 
next assignment, my mind kept straying back to the 
tower, the Enabled, and to Martin Stone.

Although I hadn't asked Allen for any extra photos, a 
week after I returned, a heavy-duty mailer arrived on my 
desk. The glossy photos that spilled out were a private 
delight, in which Martin displayed his uniquely 
beautiful body. Wherever the muscles were thick and 
rounded, he was the deep scarlet of living blood, given 
shape and definition by sheaths of pearlescent sinew. 
His wrists and ankles were naturally taped with bands of 
silvery tendon. The bony surfaces that anchored his 
muscles - hands and feet, knees, elbows, skull - made 
ivory contrasts with his dark rose flesh.

No student of the body beautiful could argue with his 
tone and grace. He wasn't over-worked and grotesque but 
in perfect balance, from the wedges of his latissmus 
down to the neat gluteals hinted at beneath blue trunks 
that matched the colour of his eyes. His legs were 
sinuous sculptures, the thick quads I had admired 
revealed in taut glory. His transparent skin also showed 
there wasn't a scrap of fat to be found on him anywhere.

Each of the photos had been signed, and the signature 
wasn't part of the photograph but had been added later. 
The imprint in the surface was carven by a strong hand. 
Of course he would be proud of himself - he had a lot to 
be proud of. Where is the point in false modesty?

With the package had come a brief but sincere 
handwritten note.

_To Saskia, in appreciation of your sterling effort on 
your article about the Enabled. I have taken the liberty 
of including a personal gift, since you took an 
interest, an interest I appreciate deeply. These are for 
you, not your article, and I hope they serve as a 
memento of your ENCOMM visit. Regards, Martin Stone._ 

I couldn't help smiling every time I re-read that note. 
His gesture had, somehow, lit warm flutters inside, and 
came as a genuine surprise. Of course I responded, and 
before long we were exchanging letters regularly.

At first our letters were short and businesslike, but we 
always answered each other. He praised my work on the 
article, and averred the way was clear for me to do some 
followup work. I would be welcome to return to ENCOMM. 
He had an eye out for my latest reports and articles - 
and even apologised for the gossip magazine slur that I 
had almost - but not quite - forgotten. He inquired as 
to my latest travels, especially when I encountered 
minority groups - who were they, and how did they live? 
I took to sending him postcards from exotic locations.

In turn, I asked after the Enabled, and how the latest 
research projects were faring. I asked after his son. 
Often, I looked through the photos Martin had sent me. 
To see them was to evoke not only admiration of his 
physical beauty, but deeper impressions, for I had not 
actually seen him undressed. They brought back his 
voice, and those hypnotic, discerning eyes. In the 
photos, I could see the splendid arm that I had touched, 
the strength I had so briefly felt.

I prided myself on a certain honesty. However cynical I 
may be, there was no happier a sight than a new envelope 
mailed from Kennarthen on my desk. On one level, we were 
becoming friends. On another, he meant something else 
entirely. 

During subsequent travels, I had indeed passed through 
Aphraeos. In that land of complete sexual liberalism, I 
entered a store the size of a small supermarket. Down 
every aisle, there were boundless ways to enhance the 
human sexual experience, all for sale at competitive 
prices.

This was heady enough, even for someone as well-
travelled as I. Costumes of leather, rubber, vinyl 
glistening wetly; rack upon rack of books and magazines 
with one overriding theme in common; custom departments 
for everything from chromed steel manacles and nipple 
clamps, to the softest feather boas and sheerest 
underwear. Masks of iron, masks of velvet.

There was something droll about the title of the "Toy 
Section", and I made my way in with a smile. I had 
promised myself something special, and the more I 
considered my purchase, the better I knew what I wanted. 
Man-shaped, but a specific colour. Deep, vibrant claret. 
My friends from the Faculty of Medicine assured me that 
the rush of blood at arousal would render him an 
extraordinary shade, dark, even purplish.

Every shade of the dildo rainbow was here to be found, 
and I was able to make a purchase that went some way 
toward releasing my sexual tensions. Somehow, I needed 
to masturbate more often than before, and it was 
thinking of Martin that usually set things off.

My body and mind were locked in ceaseless, pointless 
combat. I had a pen-friend, and I wondered what it would 
be like to have sex with him. _Pointless speculation_, 
said my brain. _Who cares, if it feels good_, said my 
body. It was fun to wonder how he dealt with the sexual 
aspect of his life. Did he have a secret lover tucked 
away somewhere? Or did he truly exercise alone, toning 
and trimming that gorgeous body? I imagined him peeling 
off his leotard before the full-length mirror in the 
privacy of his office, and rubbing his body with oil in 
long, languid strokes until he glistened. Perhaps his 
caresses would waken deep pleasures and hungers, and 
with hands already soft and slippery he would stroke a 
neglected part of his body to throbbing, pulsing life. 
Would he remember my face as he did so?

We didn't phone each other. I had seen how busy his 
phone was at ENCOMM, and I doubted he had much use for 
it for socialising. He just didn't socialise. And me, I 
was everywhere, at lectures, on research, training, 
seldom near a regular phone point.

"In the near future," Martin wrote to me, "we will have 
instant, wireless communication with each other no 
matter where in the world we may be. We will have homes 
with miniature Brains that will be in constant 
communication. For the moment, the humble pen and paper 
must suffice.

"I only hope you don't hold me in contempt for 
vicariously travelling with you. The needs of ENCOMM and 
my people keep me, by necessity, here in this office. 
While this is the place I love to be, I appreciate the 
eyes and ears you lend me in the greater world." 

I smiled as I read. Our letters were becoming gradually 
longer, each of us having more to say, no longer 
interviewing as such but simply conversing. Then I 
looked around. I was stuck in a cab in gridlock in 
tropical Dicot, one of the most crowded and filthy 
cities in the world. People here thought nothing of 
wearing masks to filter the air. _You wouldn't want to 
be here, Martin - right now I don't want to be here!_

I had learned from his letters that his son's name was 
Simon, and his ex-wife was one Rachel Jarratt. The 
journalist in me wanted to go through city phonebooks 
and attempt to track her down. The rest of my collective 
impulses just wanted to get to the rail terminus as 
quickly as possible. Almost a year after my first 
article on ENCOMM, there was a follow-up article to 
write.

***

Alighting from the train, I expected to grab my single 
small case and wait for a cab. Dicot this was not - an 
unbroken sweep of sky, hot maybe but not humid. 
Depending on how much of ENCOMM I got to see this time, 
I was planning the new article as a much more intimate 
look at Enabled life, an insider's view of dwelling 
within the organisation.

I hadn't expected anyone to meet me, so I almost walked 
right past him with urban tunnel-vision as he uncrossed 
his legs and stood - it was his height that alerted me. 
I also have a slight visual problem and have difficulty 
seeing to the right. As I stopped short, my heart did 
this silly little explosion of girlish pleasure.

"Mart...Mr. Stone! What are you doing here? I thought 
you'd have sent Allen." I ironed the flash of 
startlement from my face and thrust out my hand.

"Saskia," he smiled, his voice sending a thrill down my 
spine. "You always called me Martin in our letters." He 
took my hand in both his. Now he had taken me completely 
off guard as, with a laugh, I answered the gesture so 
that we shared a generous double-handed handshake. 
Instantly, I was reminded of how vast a difference there 
was between friends-at-a-distance, and friendship close 
by. His nearness was doing things to my body that purely 
platonic affection shouldn't.

"Martin, sorry, Martin, excuse me!" Now I felt truly 
silly, and while he asked politely how the journey had 
been, I struggled to get my pulse, breathing and common 
sense back under control. He admitted he had been 
looking forward to my return, and offered to carry my 
bag, "if that doesn't offend any of your New Woman 
sensitivities?"

"And what's wrong with being a New Woman?"

He just looked at me, a small smirk tugging at the 
corner of his mouth. "Perhaps this time you will have 
the opportunity to meet my sister. Until now, she was 
the newest woman I knew of, and I assumed her mutation 
had everything to do with her attitude. You, however, 
may prove me wrong. Excuse me." With a negligent tug, he 
tweaked the bag from my hand - I would have needed both 
hands to hang on to it. "For all your eloquence with the 
written word, in person you have more thorns than a 
porcupine. This way."

_Oh, nice!_ But I held my tongue. I know I'm upfront, 
but that's gotten me where I am. Life isn't always kind 
to those who are soft.

_Always give good face, girl,_ said my stepfather. To 
this day I can hear his voice coming from the bedroom, 
echoing along the stark corridor of the apartment we'd 
moved into. He was distant, yet kind, and never 
mistreated me. He knew where Mum and I had come from. 
Mum was soft and passive and he was happy to care for 
us. He was decent, and wanted me to be able to go on 
defending myself. Mum had never been able to do that.

I was never allowed into the bedroom until he gave his 
permission. They wore those innocent faces that all 
parents wear as they finished dressing, lacing shoes or 
finding warm jackets, tucking hankies in pockets. I 
remember Mum offering me an insincere smile as she 
untied a silk scarf from around her wrist on one 
occasion. Which seemed a strange way to wear a scarf. 
They were often stored, a rainbow of silk, tied about 
the bars of the bedhead.

"How could you say that you know me in person?" I 
challenged Martin, as he unlocked the tailgate of a van 
painted in ENCOMM's blue and white livery. "Although we 
have exchanged letters, we haven't had the pleasure of 
much in-person company."

He eyed me with that measuring stare of his again. "I'm 
a keen judge of human nature. I work with it all the 
time. Isn't it part of the political profession?"

"Doesn't 'assume' run the risk of making an ass of u and 
me?"

Martin grinned wolfishly. "It doesn't if you verify 
everything you assume with raw facts."

"Facts? What facts do you have to back up your 
assessment that I'm a regular porcupine? Have you been 
through my luggage?" 

He did the gentlemanly thing in opening the passenger 
door for me. "Just listen to yourself, and note your own 
stiff-necked bearing. On your last visit to ENCOMM, I 
recall you making disparaging comments about men's 
expectations of women." As he eased into the driver's 
seat he smiled. "Would going through your luggage find 
cuddly dolls and gingham, or whips and leather?"

"Neither!" I protested, and he chuckled. "All right, I 
can be prickly, but at least I do circulate and have 
friends."

"Touche. I will contradict you by saying, however, that 
I also have friends, just not the time for them. As I 
sit in my boring little office while you gallivant 
around the world, no doubt you think yourself far 
worldlier than I in spite of your tender years." We 
turned onto a broad, leafy boulevard that pointed almost 
directly at ENCOMM's tower. I couldn't help but admire 
that spectacular iron column, so incongruous in a 
country town, soaring far above the silos.

"We're of a kind, Saskia. We're both very proud people, 
with prestige and high achievement to back us." He 
gestured through the windscreen. "There isn't a place 
within twenty miles where you can't see the tower. It 
represents those special people who are humanity's 
finest flowering. I am in charge there. By necessity, my 
eyes must watch inward to see that the organisation runs 
smoothly and to greatest effect. Your eyes are ever on 
the outside, greater world. Together, we could make a 
formidable team."

That ripped my attention from the tower. I turned and 
stared at him. Not looking my way, he maintained his 
enigmatic smile as he watched the road, and explained. 
"It's not often I admit to less than capability, but I 
am somewhat deficient in matters of the greater human 
society. In that sense, I need a specialist advisor. The 
object of your visit here remains the completion of your 
follow-up article, but I ask you also to consider 
working in my direct employ, for ENCOMM. Remuneration 
can be discussed, and this offer is yet unofficial, but 
I'm not making it lightheartedly either. Think it 
through over the coming days, and we can discuss it in 
greater depth before you leave, if you're at all 
interested."

"That is an intriguing offer, Martin, thank you - I'm 
flattered you regard my work so highly. I will keep that 
in mind. But I thought Allen was your media officer," I 
added carefully. There had been everything about Allen 
to suggest antagonising him would be a mistake.

Martin shook his head. "And so Allen shall remain. While 
you would still write articles about the Enabled, 
though, your main role would be as professional advisor 
to me on foreign matters. You would become my outward 
gaze. You would travel the world and gather intelligence 
for me and thus the Enabled. There are Enabled in other 
countries who would benefit from localised 
establishments like ENCOMM. My ultimate dream would be 
to preside over a worldwide network of Enabled."

"A refreshingly honest admission of megalomania," I 
noted. Martin threw back his head and laughed, a rich 
music that stirred my blood. His expressionless face lit 
up with a warmth that I guessed was rarely glimpsed by 
outsiders.

"Saskia, the precise application of power is natural to 
me."

I watched the tower as we navigated the streets. "I 
thought I'd be getting a cab to check in at the motel, 
rather than you finding the time to pick me up in 
person."

"I have arranged your visit to best suit my staff. As to 
my collecting you, I wished to mention my job offer. If 
you have any objections, please discuss them with the 
manager." He touched his chest.

"At least I have a direct line to him," I smiled. "What 
have you planned for me, then, Managing Director?"

"I've arranged for you to meet several of the Enabled, 
some with age and experience, others young, and some of 
the technicians that have married into the families. The 
Polymorph is inspirational to listen to, he's an elder 
held in great esteem."

"And your sister?"

"Yes," he sighed. "You do keep trying to bring this back 
to my private life all the time, don't you? She's 
available to talk to you this afternoon, and intriguing 
as one of our more mutated Enabled."

"If I'm to work with you on a permanent basis, I should 
get to know you," I said smugly. He favoured me a 
sidelong glance as we slowed to approach one of ENCOMM's 
high wire gates.

"That cuts both ways. I'll be frank with you, Saskia. 
You're the first woman beyond the Enabled that I've met 
with such spirit. I want to know why. What it is that 
drives you. You intrigue me."

I was speechless, caught by his eyes and the low vellum 
of his voice. He may as well have run his hand down my 
back for the thrill I felt. Was it safe to conclude our 
attraction was mutual, after all?

The wire gate rolled aside and Martin drove us into 
ENCOMM. 

***

It was Allen who kept me to Martin's schedule. The Boss 
returned to his own office. With him gone from immediacy 
I was able to concentrate on the fascinating characters 
I met that afternoon, in a plain office space Allen had 
set aside. There was the Polymorph, a charming and 
humorous fellow who had no solid skeleton beyond his 
skull - he moved and flowed like a vastly-magnified 
amoeba. I met an engineer who had co-designed the 
geothermal powerplant that ran ENCOMM, gaining a 
tantalising glimpse of the power of their industrial 
secrets. A doctor born to an Enabled family but not 
himself Enabled, whose primary duty was to assess the 
newborn for their degree of mutation, also spoke with 
me.

Last of the day was was Georgie Slater, and yes, an iron 
will would be required not to gape at her in sheer 
astonishment, even hostility for her remarkable looks. 
Her skin was pale and bluish, her eyes like nuggets of 
coal beneath hawkish brows. Her teeth were the sawteeth 
of a cannibal fish, small, serrated and wickedly sharp. 
She was known as the Venom, and all over her naked 
skull, small white tentacles the size of fingers rippled 
and shifted, their tips tinted with blue and mauve like 
a sea anemone.

Georgie laughed as we sat and talked about how she'd 
handled her Enabled ability through her growing years. 
Early on, she understood the only way she was going to 
find a husband would be by going on the hunt. She had 
every reason for her assertive nature. _Give good face_. 
Nature had not given Georgie a good face, so she had 
made her own arrangements.

So in spite of looks, Georgie was married, and mother of 
a baby son who looked normal, but was still being 
assessed for less obvious abnormalities. She was frank 
about the drawbacks and advantages of having body fluids 
with a paralytic quality. "Being my lover is stimulating 
in a way most men could only dream of," she said with a 
wicked wink. "Jeff would never stray, even if a beauty 
queen beckoned." Then she cast me a discerning, sidelong 
look. "Is there something wrong with your right eye?"

"My eye?" I echoed, feigning incomprehension.

She shrugged. "I have an eye for paralysis states, given 
what I can do with my Enabled skill. Anyway, as I was 
saying..."

I enjoyed Georgie's company immensely, finding her 
upfront manner refreshing. When Allen came to transfer 
me back to town, she batted her hands at him. Her long 
black fingernails were like claws. "Oh don't worry, 
Allen - I'm going to pop down the street after this 
anyway, so I'll take Saskia with me."

"She has an appointment at seven-thirty tonight - please 
do not forget that, Ms. Limarre."

"Relax, Allen, I've got it marked," I assured him. "And 
you really can call me Saskia, it's only fair."

He made a flustered face, rolled his eyes and walked 
off, Georgie barking laughter. She punched my shoulder 
lightly. "Come on. We'll go to the School and pick up 
the boys, I've got to do some shopping for them. I'm 
looking after Simon tonight while Martin goes out - oh 
yeah, you're going to that do as well, aren't you?"

Tonight on my schedule - dinner at a local club, an 
exclusive hangout for the Enabled, who would be 
celebrating a birthday. Martin had cleared me to attend 
so that I could observe the Enabled at play. "You're not 
going?"

She made a face, uncoiling her long black tongue in 
distaste. "Too many toadies for my liking. Since 
Martin's going he'll be surrounded by sycophants. 
Opportunities for them to schmooze with him are few and 
far between."

ENCOMM's School functioned also as a creche for the very 
young. Georgie's little boy was pretty, with his uncle's 
deep blue eyes and a ready grin. It was while we chatted 
with the family elder who ran the creche that Martin's 
son wandered in from his primary school tutelage in the 
room next door.

Simon, by definition, was not Enabled, although he was 
malformed. His arms ended in short stumps a few inches 
from his shoulders. In no way did his lack of arms cramp 
a considerable boyish confidence. He tossed tousled 
brown hair, a cocky roll to his gait.

"Well, Simon, aren't you going to kiss your Aunty 
Georgie?" Mrs Ingersoll chided.

"Why should I?" Simon grinned. I could only guess he 
looked more like his mother. "Dad don't dish out the 
mushy stuff." He looked me up and down frankly. "This 
must be Sa...um, Ms. Limarre, Dad said you were gonna 
visit. It's always good to get a letter here from you, 
it puts Dad in a good mood. So, Aunty George, we gonna 
do this stupid clothes shopping or what?"

_Give good face_. I liked this kid already.

***

From the department store it was a short distance to the 
motel, so I walked on from there although Georgie had 
offered to drive me over. In the cool solitude of the 
room, at last there was time to organise myself and my 
thoughts. A fat wad of notes awaited transcription. I 
dug out the foolscap notebook, ready to eke an outline 
out of my earliest impressions.

Somehow, my mind kept straying to Simon, then, beyond, 
to places I seldom cared to visit anymore.

_I'm gonna be Enabled soon enough,_ Simon had declared 
after I asked how he found living without arms. _I've 
got artificial arms, but they're nuthin' compared to the 
robot arms they're building for me in ENCOMM. I can't 
have them yet, not until I stop growing, but when I do 
I'll become the Cyborg Enabled. So it's really cool, 
when I think about that. It'll be great. My robot arms 
will be nearly as strong as Dad's._

And then, in my mind's eye, I saw my mother. She's 
healthy and able-bodied, clever with brush and pen. But 
she can't bring herself to leave the house. She won't 
take on a career because she would have to venture out. 
My stepfather cares for her. She doesn't give good face. 
She can't. In every other respect, she's a normal human 
being. Who are the disabled, and who are the Enabled?

I stabbed my pen down, frustrated, unable to 
concentrate. A burning line of light was spearing toward 
me, between thick curtains, the gold of late afternoon. 
A run would settle me. Running always helped. My 
nostrils flared as I dug out my training clothes, 
expecting the remembered stench that had haunted me for 
so long. But there was only fresh accommodation to 
smell. It was all right.

Footfalls on hot concrete and smooth lawn, striking a 
rhythm with pulse and breath. Bodily synergy. Safe and 
sane and full of life. I returned to the room refreshed.

When I had tugged my clothes out of the case, something 
else had toppled out, and I laughed. My faithful 
travelling companion, dark red and gleaming, ever ready 
to serve was lying on the guest towel on the bed. I even 
called him Plastic Martin.

I considered. After the run was often the time. But 
tonight, I would be in the company of the real thing. 
"I'll need you later," I murmured as I took him in hand. 
Still, it was nice...to close my eyes and nuzzle him 
into my crotch, even though I was still fully clothed. 
For a time I stood that way, breathing deeply, escaping 
in the simple pleasure of rubbing the dildo against my 
sex. 

***

I could not get back to writing, and the self-pleasuring 
did not last. By the time I showered and dressed, I was 
still early for the party. Nonetheless, I fronted up, 
exploring the establishment before entering the function 
room. Ordering a lemon squash, I sat at the bar, warning 
farm hicks away with my stare and watching for the 
Enabled to arrive. I noted where the tubs of faux 
greenery were placed, the booths, the jukebox, the 
kitchen. Casing the joint, if you will - there are 
places where conversations can be overheard and gems of 
information gleaned.

The Enabled and their kin arrived in small groups. As 
the elite of their kind, they carried themselves with 
arrogant elegance, attired in rich clothing and 
impeccable "face". They were safe in number, greeted 
respectfully by the staff. _Toadies_, said Georgie in my 
memory. Allen was in their midst, wearing a pale pink 
suit, ruffled shirt spilling from his sleeves and 
collar. He was all smiles and laughter, the portrait of 
genteel. No matter the community, be it biker gangs or 
theatrical companies, the jostling at the top is 
universal.

Those who can read the game, master it. Martin arrived 
alone, greeting everyone in turn, distributing his 
favour as each player required. He took my hand and 
touched it to his lips in gallant style, eyes playing 
with a smile even as he remained sober-faced. He did not 
give his smiles away to all and sundry. The irrational 
in me fluttered at his kiss, wondering how his lips 
would feel elsewhere; but it was a small voice in the 
background of the intrigue and internal politics spread 
before me.

I circulated, engaging in light chat, speaking with some 
that I had met earlier. It was preferable I faded into 
the background, to unobtrusively take mental notes. 
However, Martin introduced me formally, taking my hand 
in his.

"If you have all done your reading homework, you will be 
well aware of Saskia's contributions to the public 
profile of the Enabled. I encourage you all to make her 
welcome. Have no doubt we will see more of her in times 
to come."

There was polite applause, over which eyes gazed, from 
genuinely pleased to disinterested to hostile. It took 
some time for me to fade from view again.

An excursion to the ladies' room bought me a break. I 
made my way back to the action slowly, via the boltholes 
I'd identified earlier. While standing behind a screen 
of fake foliage I picked up on Allen's voice, in 
conversation with ENCOMM's security chief, Laing. 
Georgie had mentioned Laing's urbane mask rode uneasily 
over the amorality of a shark.

"...she's Aravlasi, you see, they're all like that. 
Certainly got Martin's eye, have to hand her that," said 
Laing.

"Women like that are too proud for their own good. What 
she needs is her knickers off and her ankles up around 
her ears..."

Icewater flooded my veins. I whipped the nylon herbage 
aside, able to glare straight into Allen's fishy eyes. 
"Get used to me, Allen," I said sweetly. "We may need to 
work together. Excuse me, Mr. Laing." As I stalked 
across the room, Laing gently chuckling behind me, I 
checked the women again. Allen's wife was a dumpy, 
orange-haired woman in a kaftan, her fingers encrusted 
in gemstone rings. Laing's wife was Enabled, a startling 
albino beauty with waist-length silver tresses and odd-
coloured eyes, red and blue, like a chinchilla cat. She 
carried herself like a movie star. Odds on, I wagered, 
Allen was porking her on the side.

"There you are." Martin's voice stopped me, and I turned 
to find him gesturing toward one of the more secluded 
booths. "Come on, let them perform for us. Can I get you 
something?"

"Time I joined the ringmaster rather than playing with 
the clowns," I sighed, releasing an unsteady breath. I 
needed time-out, time to calm down. Sometimes giving 
good face hurts like hell. A vague headache was 
gathering around my right eye socket.

Martin passed me a champagne flute, then poured himself 
a red. "Giving you a hard time, were they?"

"Nothing I can't handle," I replied, steady-eyed. I've 
had to deal with much worse in my life. "You've managed 
to escape attention at last?"

"They know when I've had my fill. So tell me - Dicot, 
eh? What possessed you to go there for your latest 
adventure?"

As we chatted, my anger ebbed. Martin's face relaxed, 
falling more easily into a smile as he lounged in his 
seat. His eyes, though, revealed a vigour his posture 
concealed, and kept touching and holding my attention. 
He was studying me, on every level. Our conversation 
eventually drifted back to Allen.

"Allen was born of Enabled blood, but he has no 
mutation, no special ability. He has to feel important. 
He is good at what he does, but jealousy is a harsh 
mistress," he observed, gazing into the ruby depths of 
his wineglass.

"You threw me in here tonight to see how I'd fare?"

"No," he mused, running his fingertip around the rim. 
Then his gaze flicked up to mine. "I wanted to see how 
they fared, not you. They are whispering about us 
already."

"Talk is cheap." I looked down, at the glass in my hand. 
The scarlet of his flesh made a long, deep red image. I 
realised I had been fidgeting, running my fingers up and 
down the hard surface. He had noticed, by the gleam in 
his eye and the faint smile that tugged one corner of 
his lips.

"Enough of talk, then." He sat up straight, then stood, 
a hand extended. "Shall we dance?"

"Now that will set tongues to wagging." His smooth, hot 
hand captured mine. The games of the earlier evening 
were swept away.

Up close, his physical power more than matched his 
political strength. He moved gracefully for a large man, 
with the very light touch of someone who understood his 
own strength. I kept looking at his open shirt, its deep 
blue fabric contrasting the rose of his chest. His 
cologne was understated musk. He swept me into a dip 
with no effort, and was amused by my startlement when he 
did so. He was scoring points off my unflappability - 
and I didn't mind at all.

The movement of his body beneath his suit coat was 
enchanting, and we drew closer by mutual, unspoken 
assent. I could feel the radiant heat of his thighs, and 
thought of Plastic Martin awaiting at the motel suite. 
My lips were burning, so close to his face, yet so far.

Enough of torment. As the music ended, I glanced around. 
The party was slowly breaking up, so I thanked my host. 
"I had better call it quits, there's a pile of work 
ahead of me tomorrow."

"I cannot tempt you to linger?" A flirtatious sparkle 
lit his eyes.

I wasn't about to admit that he could. "It's not exactly 
the Starlight Room at the Kastangha Palace."

"Hmm, all the glamorous places in the world she's seen, 
and she ends up here in Far Kennarthen. May I at least 
summon you a horse-drawn cab?" He offered his arm, a 
sardonic twist to his grin.

"You may." I said my goodnights while he called a taxe, 
then Martin escorted me out to the street.

"Truth be told," he conceded, "I will be making some 
excuse to leave shortly. I have an arrangement with the 
Brain whereby he phones me at eleven if I have not made 
good an escape by then. Urgent administrative matters, 
of course. Some of the party crowd will kick on until 
the wee hours."

I looked up at the heights of the tower. Small white 
lights dotted the circumference of the observation deck, 
and a red light pulsed at its tip. Martin followed my 
gaze.

"Could you learn to love it?" he asked softly. "Enough 
to keep coming back? I cannot leave, but you can."

He was standing close behind me, so that when I turned I 
had to look up into his eyes. "Maybe Allen was right," I 
whispered.

"Allen?" he asked, lowering his face toward mine. I 
lifted my arms around his neck as he gathered me up. His 
lips were a gentle flicker of flame, a taste of red wine 
dark as his flesh. We lingered even when the cab 
arrived, a flash of headlights little distraction. I did 
not want to let him go, nor did his powerful arms loosen 
to free me. We broke only so that I could take a 
shuddering breath.

"If you would know me," he breathed, "then I must know 
you, Saskia."

"There's...not much to tell," I said faintly. He shook 
his head, smiling, brushing the tip of my nose with his.

Far below, my loins were on fire, answering the hot 
hardness I had pressed myself against. I had never 
wanted anything so much, any man, any moment. The taxi 
was waiting to take me away.

Gently, but firmly, Martin set me back, stepping away, 
holding me with his eyes as he sidled toward the cab. He 
opened the back door. Speechless with need and the 
passion knotted in my chest, I lowered myself into the 
car, expecting him to shut the door in my face. Instead, 
he slithered in after me, never taking his eyes from 
mine.

"ENCOMM, please, 23 West Street."

***  

We kissed ferociously all the way there, uncaring what 
the cabbie saw in his rear-view mirror. At last I 
touched Martin's splendid form, feeling thick round 
muscles tightening his jacket, running my hand down his 
corded neck beneath his collar. There was no telling 
where one kiss ended and the next began. Hot hands 
caressed my shoulders and back, kneading as he stroked, 
a gorgeous sensation I could not have imagined. Our 
tongues wrestled between parted jaws. We were both 
starving hungry, our appetites voracious.

When the vehicle pulled up, Martin drew away only long 
enough to mutter to the driver to charge the fare to 
ENCOMM. His grip strong around my wrist, he drew me from 
the car and straight back into his mouth. Dim 
streetlight, chirp of crickets, scent of cut lawn; all 
were secondary to my desirable companion. Now that we 
were standing, I could hook my thigh around his hip, and 
rock my pelvis up against him. His hands closed around 
and beneath my rump, slowly squeezing, and he lifted me 
to meet that hot secret tantalising my belly.

I stiffened when my feet left the ground, utterly 
unprepared for his easy strength. Deep chuckles shook 
his chest. "I've got you," he murmured.

Something happened within me, some reflex that made my 
body relax. I lay suddenly limp, like a ragdoll cat, as 
we started moving. His footsteps scraped concrete, and 
we rose up a short flight of steps. He let me slip down, 
his groin teasing me. When my feet touched the ground I 
took my weight again, finding my strength while he found 
the door key. By the time he got the panel open, I had 
managed to push his jacket half-off.

Never had I wanted someone so much. We burst into the 
darkness of a living room. I glimpsed a few dim 
reflections from glassy surfaces. Martin filled the rest 
of my senses, his musky scent, the rustle of his 
clothing, taste of wine. As the door clicked shut, he 
bore me hard against the wall as I pulled at his shirt 
buttons. Between his mouth on my throat and my writhing 
for pleasure, my dress had worked its way down my 
shoulders, so far that it was trapping my arms by my 
sides.

His every kiss sent electric shocks through my body. My 
skirt rode up as I parted my thighs, inviting him in. He 
rocked his pelvis in a profound primal rhythm, making 
deep thrusting motions, rubbing his swollen crotch 
against mine. Hot hands felt beneath my hemline to the 
tops of my thighs, to my underwear and buttocks. His 
fiery erection seemed so large that he would pierce me 
there, through the remaining layers of fabric between 
us.

I could barely speak for excitement and exultation. 
"Martin," I gasped in delight, "this is...my...first..."

He stopped as though jolted, and pulled back. I threw my 
arms around his neck to keep him, wailing inwardly at 
having said what I'd said.

"What?" he whispered.

"No, don't stop!" I begged, utterly without pride.

"And I was going to screw you in the doorway," he 
muttered. "No, not like that. Not for the first time."

My plunging spirits soared when he swept me into his 
arms and carried me along a hallway. I was lowered onto 
a satin bedcover. Martin turned away and a bedside lamp 
clicked on. His gaze feasted upon me.

"Have you any idea how desirable you look?" He ran one 
hand, lightly, along the full length of my body - down 
my shoulder, lightly over the arc of my breast, trailing 
from my hip down my thigh. I felt like a pouting child, 
lipstick surely blurred by our passion, strands of hair 
unbound and wispy. "I cannot resist what I am being 
offered this night," he purred, unbuckling his belt.

With full-length mirrors on two walls, I could see him 
from every angle as he let the belt fall to the floor. 
He squared his shoulders as he deliberately unbuttoned 
his shirt the rest of the way, unveiling his beautiful 
body. To see him in photographs, static, was one thing - 
to see him moving, flexing, with his natural grace was 
another. Magnificent as his chest and torso were, the 
tent in his trousers was riveting.

He smiled a secret lovers' smile as he followed my gaze, 
and unzipped. My eyes must have been like saucers, for 
the pouch of his briefs was not containing him, and he 
whipped everything else off swiftly. His meat was dark, 
purplish-claret and engorged. 

His eyes were upon me, as he knelt upon the bed. My body 
arched into his grasp as he opened the back of my dress, 
and eased it from my body. His lips lingered as he held 
his torso back from mine, driving me crazy with need. He 
tongued my nipples, and just barely tapped my throbbing 
clit with something far hotter than Plastic Martin had 
ever been. I reached for him, stroking his shaft between 
both hands, and begging for him.

"Please, Martin. Please, you beautiful man!"

"You see," he murmured, running a fingertip lightly over 
my mouth, "because I am so strong, I have to be gentler 
than most."

"I don't care if you hurt me!" I hissed. Nothing could 
possibly hurt as much as... I lost that pain by focusing 
on the now, the weight of his body as he lowered himself 
upon me, and the tenderness in his eyes. On the heat of 
his skin, and that wondrous pressure opening me below. 
His tumescence entered, sliding deeper, and deeper. Long 
and slow, he was an irresistible force of love and 
wonder.

And when I didn't think it could get any better, he 
started to move, a slow beat to and fro, our skins 
sliding upon each other inside and out. With every 
thrust the pleasure increased, summing to stupendous 
joy. There was no pain, not in this. The pain was behind 
me. In his strong arms was the safest place in the 
world.

He took me to the breathless heights of orgasm, then did 
not let me down. Beyond the plateau, his thrusts picked 
up urgency, carrying me with him to a second, even 
higher peak. When he came his rod throbbed and jerked in 
a way that pushed me over the edge in unison. We lay, 
fused, for a long time afterward, limbs tangled in a 
loose knot as the velvet aftershocks faded.

"It's been too long, far too long," he sighed, lips upon 
the hollow of my shoulder as we drifted into sleep.

***

"I've got you," said the man kindly. He was big and 
strong, so much larger than me. He didn't tie my wrists 
with hard, numbing cord. He was wearing a uniform, a 
policeman's hat. There were others, and flashing lights, 
but I couldn't see properly. I could hear Mum sobbing, 
and my whole head was aching...

...aching...

_Give good face_...

I didn't flinch as the pretty point of light came 
closer, gold and orange and red, heat on my face. Then 
the sickening sound, the smell. And the pain.

My limbs jerked in dream freefall. I must have called 
out, for warm arms answered, gathering me close, a deep 
voice murmuring my name.

A bright spear of light falling across my face woke me, 
a ray of morning from between bedroom curtains. Someone 
had placed a sheer sheet over us in the depths of night.

Martin's eyelids were pale pink seashells in the moment 
before they blinked open, uncovering ocean-coloured 
eyes, their darkness startling in his scarlet face. He 
smiled, cupping my head in his big hand and drawing me 
into a good-morning kiss that dived deeper and deeper. 
His hot tongue and the hardness pressing along my thigh 
told of his desire, and stirred mine to wakefulness.

I traced his extraordinary features with a fingertip 
when we surfaced for air; the pearlescent sheen of his 
mutant skin, the pinkish-white where his bones shaped 
his face, his red mouth. "You gorgeous man," I breathed.

"We made love in the dark," he murmured. "Would you love 
me by daylight?"

My torso clenched with need, clitoris abuzz as I ran my 
hands down his body, feeling his curves and heat. "I 
want to see all of you," I vowed, trailing my fingers 
through his smooth, hairless groin, then along his rigid 
cock. His lids fluttered shut and he sighed, cheek 
twitching as he mastered himself with pure willpower. 
Then, drawing away from me, he pushed himself up from 
the bed.

Before the mirrored corner, he raised his arms and 
flexed, body coming alive, muscles swelling into shape. 
This was the private show I had long dreamed of, and so 
much the better for two things - his magnificent penis 
that almost stole the scene, and the smile that lit his 
face. It was not an enigmatic camera-smile, but a smile 
for me, intimate and knowing.

I rose up on my hands and knees, and he waved a finger. 
"No, no touching, not until I say!" In the mirror I 
glimpsed a laughing woman before him, rosy-cheeked, hair 
dishevelled, a stranger who lounged on her stomach to 
enjoy the performance and anticipate the finale.

And then, his expression changed. He glowered past me to 
the bedhead, lips pursing and thinning. Although naked 
and aroused, he became ENCOMM manager again. I looked 
around, at the time display on a futuristic digital 
clockface.

"Brain," he announced irritably, "why was I not woken at 
six-hundred as is customary?"

I wrapped myself in the sheet and glanced around the 
room looking for a camera.

A light, mischievous chuckle came from a speaker grille 
below the clockface. "Martin, when I established you had 
feminine company overnight I anticipated you may wish to 
spend a morning in leisure pursuits of a private nature. 
I apologise if I was in error. However my records state 
it is well in excess of five years since..."

"Yes, very well," Martin snapped, cutting him off. 
"Thank you Brain."

"Can he, er, it see us?" I whispered.

Face relaxing, Martin smiled, and sat on the bed beside 
me. "Not in here, no. He does keep a camera on my 
doorstep though, for security reasons, so he knows you 
are here and has deduced the rest." His face relaxed, 
and with a teasing smile he tugged the sheet away. 
"Which means you don't need this."

My nipples hardened from his gaze alone. I reached for 
his body, needing to feel his skin against mine, and we 
glided to the bedding, limbs entwined, kissing and 
stroking. 

Every part of him demanded exploration, from the taut 
and translucent waxy peaks of his nipples to the silvery 
vellum of his scrotum. As I touched him in wonder, so 
did he touch me, fondling my breasts as though 
rediscovering some treasure he had put out of sight and 
mind. His fingers strayed to my wet vulva, slipping 
around the bulb of my clit. I moaned and rocked against 
his touch, seeking to drive his fingers in more deeply. 
Chuckling deep in his chest, he took them away so that I 
groaned frustration.

Then he stood at the bedside, extending his hand. "Come, 
Saskia. Wrap yourself around me. Let me carry you."

As I rose he gathered me up, lifting me so that my legs 
wrapped around his waist, and his face was between my 
breasts. I cradled his silken skull in the circle of my 
arms. Beneath my rump I felt his thick thighs tensed and 
braced, taking my weight. He arched his back. The hot 
point of his cock tapped my clit. I shifted my weight 
willingly, emitting a deep groan of pleasure as I 
slipped fully onto his shaft.

His pelvis rocked, making deep, rolling motions, driven 
by superhuman strength. Even as climax stretched my 
back, thighs clamped aching-tight around him, he kept 
the motion going, lifting and thrusting. He only paused 
when his own orgasm gushed within, when his whole body 
shivered while his rod jerked inside me. I panted within 
his embrace, held securely as our bodies relaxed. Our 
mixed fluids made a hot flood when we finally, slowly 
disengaged, sliding to the bed again.

With our needs sated, we lay together wordlessly, 
touching, connecting. With locked gazes we explored each 
others' hearts and minds, while our hands mapped each 
others' bodies.

"I was supposed to be working today," I said at last.

"So was I," he agreed.

"May I borrow an office?"

"If we were to attempt to work together, no work would 
be accomplished today," he declared, caressing my inner 
thigh. "We will need to go our separate ways." His 
heavy-lidded gaze softened the sobriety of his words.

All the same, reality's cold breath chilled me. "I wish 
I were one of your kind. Then I could stay longer."

"Enabled, you mean?" A small, bittersweet smile quirked 
the corner of his mouth. "You could never be one of us, 
Saskia."

Was he rejecting me? Was this the moment when a one-
night stand ended? The pain in my heart echoed the cold 
ache in my eye socket. I bit my lip, trying to find 
something sassy to say, some fiery rejoinder, some form 
of denial.

It was the Brain who spoke. "That may not be entirely 
true, Martin."

His brow blackened. "For how long have you been 
listening to us?" he snarled at the machine.

"I have just now opened the comms link in order to 
report the results of the Class Four datasearch you 
requested."

"This is most definitely _not_ the time for the outcome 
of a low-priority request to be delivered!" Martin 
declared irritably.

"On the contrary, I believe it is most opportune," 
replied the Brain, unperturbed. Martin rolled his eyes. 
"I have turned up some archival material that you are 
certain to find very interesting in light of your 
present company."

Me? I was skewered, transfixed by the Brain's voice and 
Martin's gaze. His face smoothed to an emotionless mask. 
"Go ahead then," he said tonelessly.

"I located this article in the archives of the Listol 
City Times, dated some fifteen years ago," the Brain 
commenced in a conversational tone. "The police rounds 
included a report of a violent home invasion. A woman 
was bound and sexually assaulted. Her six year old 
daughter, although spared this treatment, showed 
extraordinary courage throughout the ordeal, even though 
the attackers put her eye out with a red-hot poker."

_This relates to me how?_ The lie died before reaching 
my lips. I faced Martin, unblinking. I wanted to put him 
on my blind side, but the mantra of my life kept me 
square.

"Always give... good face," I croaked at last.

His eyes searched mine, studying the lump of glass in my 
right socket. "And the child's name was Saskia Limarre," 
he murmured. It wasn't a question.

"So it could be said that Saskia has carried a 
difficulty for most of her life and adapted, becoming 
stronger for it," the Brain continued pleasantly. 
"Therefore your former statement, Martin, inferring she 
could never qualify as Enabled is not only misguided but 
patently in error..."

"Enough, Brain! Thank you."

My back was straight, my shoulders rigid. But, for the 
first time in fifteen years, I let my head droop, my 
arrogant gaze fall. "They didn't rape me," I mumbled.

"Did you see it happen?" Martin's voice was gentle.

"No. They had her in the bedroom. I heard." I spoke 
harshly, quickly, loudly to block out the muffled 
whimpers of memory. Martin's calm, grim face steadied 
me.

"So, now I know. Now I understand."

"Do you?" My voice was brittle. I felt like an empty 
shell of a person.

"I thought you were invulnerable," he mused. "It's 
little wonder you're so proud, given what you have 
endured. You keep people at a distance. I wondered if 
any man stood a chance with you."

We sat in a comfortable bedroom, warm with morning sun 
and light. The past was just that, past, a child's 
nightmare. I was naked before Martin, and afraid no 
more. "You're not just any man, Martin. Only you could 
carry me."

I said it like an admission. He smiled, tenderly, and we 
reached toward each other.

***

We spent a long time that morning simply cuddling. He 
was the first person I had allowed so close without 
stiffening or freezing. My body melded softly to his 
warmth and strength. We bathed together, kisses 
deepening as we caressed each other.

Breakfast sated our need for food. Making love was the 
merest appetizer for satisfying our hungers of the soul. 
He revelled in my genuine adoration of his appearance, 
unable to keep a dazzling grin from his face as he 
watched me watching him.

At last, we acceded to longstanding working habits, 
acknowledging that, if we put in several hours intense 
work, alone so that we would not be sidetracked, the 
evening could be ours. Martin drove me back to my motel 
room.

"Hey, keep your eyes on the road."

"I keep having to remind myself this is really 
happening," he smiled.

"You know," I admitted, "for the first time in my life, 
I'm reluctant to move on. Oh I will go on, but I'll want 
to come back. And keep coming back."

"If you wish to count yourself Enabled, you'll have to 
call ENCOMM your home base."

"And you boss?" We braked for an intersection, and I 
went willingly to his kiss. "I don't think I'm too proud 
to do that."

"Pack your things," he said. "And let me carry your 
goddamned bag."

Thus we were laughing as he parked at the motel, and he 
came with me to the room. I unlocked the door and he 
followed me in. What was the first thing we saw? Plastic 
Martin, laying in wait in the middle of the bed.

Of course I blushed, but I also faced up, turning to 
meet whatever Martin would say. One corner of his mouth 
turned up, and there was humour in his eyes as he strode 
silently past me. He picked up the dildo and eyed it 
critically. Then, his gaze challenging me to stop him, 
he bent the stiff plastic artefact cleanly in half, so 
that the polymer slowly split and peeled apart. My jaw 
sagged at the easy strength with which he destroyed my 
self-sufficiency.

"Too small, and too soft," he said dismissively, tossing 
the broken rubbish into a wastepaper basket.

"I, ah, couldn't agree more!" Then I sidled over to him, 
into the circle of his arms, linking mine around his 
neck. "But where," I sighed, "am I going to get a better 
one?"

"Hmm, indeed." He drew my body close against his, by way 
of demonstration. "Maybe Allen would have some idea. 
Perhaps it's him I should send away on errands, not 
you."

I kissed his mouth hard, and felt him chuckle 
appreciatively before responding. "Don't be too harsh 
with Allen," I paused to whisper, nipping his ear. We 
had slipped down to the bed, and Martin's hands now 
roved over my tingling breasts. "He knew what he was 
talking about."

Martin drew away far enough to be able to caress my 
brow. He scowled the question, and I explained.

"The first day I met you, do you know what he said to 
me?" I touched the handsome, unique face of the man I 
wasn't too proud to fall in love with. "'You don't know 
how lucky you are.'"

***

(end)




  
saskiaspride